Shards of History

by Rebecca Roland

  Malia couldn’t wait any longer. She leapt onto Dalibor’s back and grabbed the hand holding the dagger with both of hers. She wrenched at his fingers, trying to free the weapon. Dalibor drove his arm back, hitting her square in the face with his elbow. Something crunched in her nose as pain erupted. Tears came unbidden to her eyes. Still she hung on, pulling at Dalibor’s hand.

  “You’ve got to trust me,” she gasped. “Stop and listen, please, just for a moment.”

  His elbow came back again and hit her jaw, snapping her head back. Her grip loosened enough that he could buck her off. She rolled onto the grass and sprang to her feet, reaching for her dagger as she did so. The cold, primitive hardness that filled her heart swelled. It drove her towards Dalibor with every intent of driving her dagger into him. But quick as she moved, Dalibor was quicker.

  He buried his dagger in Tuvin’s neck. Tuvin froze, his eyes wide as they fixed on Dalibor’s face. Then Dalibor ripped the dagger free. Blood flowed from Tuvin’s neck, soaking the ground beneath him.

  Malia felt as though she’d been punched in the gut. She doubled over, trying to catch her breath. She should have taken more care to make sure she hadn’t been followed. This was her fault. Her fault.

  She focused on a blade of grass. The tip had been burned brown by the sun. Rain, rain, they needed rain. The river, losing water. Tuvin, losing blood. Jeguduns, losing time. The thoughts swirled through her mind, faster and faster, until the ground began to spin before her eyes.

  She put a hand out to steady herself. The world slowly came back into focus. She caught her breath, then rose to her feet.

  Dalibor still hovered over Tuvin, the bloody dagger in hand. Tuvin still breathed. Only a second had passed. It felt like a lifetime.

  Malia ran forward. She shoved Dalibor aside and fell to her knees beside Tuvin, dropping her dagger on the ground. She grabbed the Jegudun’s hand. He rolled his dark eyes to look at her. So much blood. How could Tuvin spill so much blood?

  “What do I do?” Her hand fluttered around Tuvin’s neck like a bird unsure of where to land. She had to stop the bleeding. She pressed her hand against his wound. The warm blood sought to escape between her fingers. Its flow pulsed, each throb weaker than the one before.

  Tuvin’s throat bobbed. A gurgle escaped his mouth. Pain tightened the skin around his eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” Malia whispered. “Forgive me, please.”

  Tuvin’s right hand reached for his wing. He grabbed a dark gray feather and tugged it free, then pressed it into Malia’s hand, closing her fingers around it. He wrapped his hands tightly around hers. His eyes lost their focus. His hands loosened, then fell to his chest.

  Malia bowed her head. Tuvin was gone. Hot tears rimmed her eyes. They welled, then fell into the soft down around Tuvin’s face. Malia cupped a hand against his cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice catching. Her heart swelled and ached.

  Dalibor’s hand fell on her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  She slapped his hand away. “Leave me alone.”

  “That creature could be diseased. We need to get you cleaned up.”

  Malia grabbed her dagger and surged to her feet, the hilt slipping a little in her blood covered hand. Dalibor’s mouth opened at the sight of the blade, then snapped shut. Blood covered his leg and hand where Tuvin had clawed and bitten. The metallic tang of blood filled the air. Dalibor’s blood, Tuvin’s blood. Spilled, for nothing. Anger poured through Malia like flood waters, sweeping away her sorrow.

  “You killed him. He did nothing to you, and you killed him.”

  Dalibor shook his head. “That beast put some sort of spell on you, to get you to help it. You need to master your thoughts again.”

  “The only beast I see here is the one standing before me.” Her grip on the dagger tightened.

  “You know what happens to Jegudun sympathizers. When the council finds out you were hiding one of these creatures, you’ll be branded and exiled. You’ll die a slow death.”

  Dalibor limped towards her. Malia held the dagger before her. He stopped, putting his hands up placatingly.

  “But that doesn’t have to happen. If you come back with me, accept me fully as your husband without this ridiculous trial period, then I will forget about what I’ve seen here today. I’ll simply tell everyone that I found the Jegudun while hunting. I will not mention your part in this.”

  Malia slid the dagger into its sheath. Dalibor’s shoulders, tensed while she’d held it, relaxed. He started towards her.

  Malia grabbed her hip beads and yanked them off. Red and green beads rained on the ground. She threw what remained in her hand at Dalibor, pelting him with them.

  “You are not my husband. You are a murderer. Tell the council what I’ve done. And tell them I would do it again.” She backed away. Keeping her eyes on him, she picked up the bag of food she’d intended for Tuvin and slipped his feather in it.

  Dalibor took a few steps towards her. “Don’t do this.”

  “I would rather die in exile than spend another moment with you.” She turned her back on him and fled into the woods and towards the cliffs.

  Chapter 9

  Years had passed since Rasmus had last passed through the woods outside the village of Tanio. Some trees had grown large, others had fallen, and new ones had sprouted, but the lay of the land remained the same. Here was the dry gully which flooded when it rained. The top of the short, rounded hill to the south held a hollow where he had sheltered during his five-day fast when he’d become a man.

  He caught a glimpse of the village through the trees and stopped. He crouched, uncapped his leather pouch, and took a long drink of cool water. And there, in the plain between the woods and the walls of Tanio, his own people had cursed him as they drove him away, naked, the glory of his hair shaved. He had avoided that memory for years, but now that he was here, and with two Jegudun feathers hanging from his neck to strengthen his memories, it all came rushing back.

  The cool autumn air had raised gooseflesh along his skin. People who had been his friends—worse, the woman who was supposed to have been his wife—had spurred him away with hateful words. Murderer. Traitor. Exile. Tears had rolled down his cheeks, burning the fresh cut on his face.

  He raised a hand to his left cheek. The wound had healed and scarred a long time ago, but small knots of tissue remained just below it as if his body couldn’t quite let go of how he’d come by it. If he smiled, the skin along the scar pulled. But he hardly smiled.

  He slapped his cheek gently to draw himself out of the memory. Somewhere in Tanio’s walls, a new clan father saw to the men’s council. Rasmus had known him as a boy and had known him as a nephew. They had hunted and fished together. Rasmus hoped Slawell would be willing to listen to him, and more importantly, willing to see what the memories contained in the Jegudun feathers showed. It could save the Taakwa.

  Save the Taakwa. A cold hand gripped Rasmus’s heart. These were the same people who hadn’t believed him when he claimed he was innocent of murder. He stood abruptly and turned his back to the village.

  But different people were in charge then. And he owed the Jeguduns, well, everything. They had taken him in, as they had other exiles over the years. He would have died without their help. So for them he would risk much to show these Taakwa the truth about the river and the Outsiders. Yes, he would even risk death, which is what he faced if Slawell showed him no pity.

  Rasmus took a few deep breaths, trying to still his racing heart. Then, arms held out in supplication, he walked into the open and towards his fate.

  Chapter 10

  Fatigue settled over Malia as the sun began to dip below the horizon. She’d made good time, traveling due north all day as the terrain allowed, avoiding villages and thoroughfares. She’d given Braigo, Dalibor’s home village, a wide berth around mid-afternoon. Now, with night fast approaching, she had to decide where and when to stop. This would be her first night away from the shelter of a village. The weather wa
s pleasant, but soon the nights would hold a chill. And cougars, bears, and wolves all roamed the valley. She crossed her arms and rubbed at the gooseflesh. If she could just reach the cliffs, maybe the Jeguduns would help her.

  The image of Dalibor burying his dagger in Tuvin came unbidden as it had all day. Following it came the ifs: if she had fought Dalibor harder for the dagger, if she had drawn her own dagger when he first appeared, if she had said something different she might have talked him out of attacking Tuvin. The scenarios spun after one another, all of them ending with Tuvin still alive, and her sitting in her home right now.

  What would Vedran think of all this? He’d see through whatever story Dalibor told. For his sake, she had to reach the cliffs and tell the Jeguduns that Taakwa men were planning on marching to them. She had to do something to stop what would inevitably become a war, for Vedran’s sake, for her village, for all the Taakwa.

  She crested a hill and, between trees, spotted a small village, about half the size of Selu, at its base. A branch of the Big River flowed near it. The village’s mud-brick walls glowed a warm pink in the setting sun’s light. No doubt the people inside felt safe and were surrounded by family. A knot rose in Malia’s throat.

  Part of her wanted to just walk into that village, announce herself, and spend the night safe within its walls. As she’d traveled that afternoon, doubt had sprouted, and its roots permeated her thoughts now. What if Dalibor had been right about Tuvin? The Jegudun had been able to show her a memory. If he could send memories into her mind, he might be able to send other types of thoughts as well. He could have tricked her into helping him and thinking him harmless.

  Malia shrugged her bag off her shoulder and dug through it until her hand closed around Tuvin’s feather. She pulled it out and ran it over her palm. It tickled her. The dark gray feather had a sheen to it, making it look slick.

  Something tugged at her mind as it had when Tuvin had shown her his memories. Malia closed her eyes and followed the sensation.

  She saw herself beside the hot springs, wearing the deerskin clothes from yesterday. A comfortable warmth, much like what she felt whenever Vedran was around, flooded her. She realized this was what Tuvin had thought of her. He’d left this memory in the feather he’d given her.

  The tug at her mind let go. Tuvin had not tricked her. The memory he had shared with her had come from his heart. Clan mother curse Dalibor for planting doubt in her mind.

  Tuvin deserved a proper burial. She wanted to let his family know what happened to him and where they could find him. But Dalibor would never be able to pass up the trophy that Tuvin’s body represented. No man would. An ache as palpable as an arrow pierced her. She had only this feather to bring Tuvin’s family. She hoped it would be enough.

  She removed her necklace and carefully strung Tuvin’s feather to it. When she put it back on, it lay warm against the skin between her collar bones.

  The voices of men reached her. They came from somewhere behind her, and they were fast approaching. Malia’s heart quickened. She crawled behind a large juniper bush that butted up against a fir and pulled her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. Her bag rested in the crook below her folded legs. The juniper did not completely hide her. If the men happened to glance in her direction as they passed, they would spot her. She had to remain absolutely still. Her heart pounded loud in her ears, and she was sure they’d be able to hear it. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths, trying to calm herself.

  The voices grew louder. Two men were speaking. The first one said, “… and now this. These are signs.”

  “But what are we supposed to do?” The second man’s voice rose in a whine.

  “I’ll tell you what we do. We show them the Taakwa are strong. And we start with this exile that walked into our village.”

  Malia’s eyes flew open and widened at the mention of an exile. If a clan father felt lenient, he’d simply return an exile to the wilderness. But if he wanted to set an example, he had the power to execute the exile. Sometimes exiles returned to their village for that very reason. They wanted to commit suicide, but at the hands of someone else.

  The first man continued, “He tried to convince Slawell that Jeguduns are not our enemies.” He let out a bark of laughter. “Tried to convince Slawell that the Jegudun feather he carried showed what was really wrong with the river. And,” the man’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial tone, “my father recognized this exile. Said he’s Slawell’s uncle.”

  If this exile had a Jegudun feather and claimed it held a memory, then he knew the Jeguduns. And, he might be able to give Malia more information than Tuvin could. She had to talk to him.

  “I hope they don’t pass judgment on him before we get there.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get to watch him die.”

  Malia clenched her jaw. He couldn’t die. She had to do something. But what?

  “When are the men from the southern villages supposed to get here? They’ll be interested in knowing about this exile.”

  Their voices and footsteps faded.

  Malia crawled out of her hiding place, brushed bits of juniper and dirt from her, then headed down the slope towards the village. The men would hold their council in the village’s center. They would be the ones to pass judgment on the exile. Her mind flew back to the memory Tuvin had shown her. She didn’t think anybody in this village would know her. Perhaps she could claim a Jegudun had taken her child and she was looking for him. It might be enough for them to put off their judgment and get them out of the village. Then all she had to do was figure out a way to free the exile without all of those other people noticing. She shook her head. It was a horrible plan. But maybe something else would come to her along the way.

  Dusk had settled. Torches lit the village center like a giant lantern sitting in the narrow plain. Darkness pressed in all around as if wanting to smother the village.

  Malia paused just inside the shadow of the woods. A short stretch of a hundred paces or so would bring her to the village walls. The two men she’d overheard disappeared into the dark maw of an alley leading into the village center.

  None of the usual evening sounds echoed in the dawning night: no children laughed at their fathers’ stories, no women gossiped as they cleaned up after dinner. The men’s council and the exile would be in the village’s common area. Everybody else would be inside their homes, or, for those who wanted to witness the sentence and execution, they would be standing in doorways or on ledges, silently watching.

  Even the woods were muted as if the animals, too, waited for the exile’s sentence.

  Malia crept forward, leaving the trees’ protection. Even though the dark provided cover, her skin tingled all over as if she walked naked in front of a crowd. She expected someone to cry out at any moment, warning of her presence.

  She stepped through large swatches of brown, dried grass that crunched beneath her feet. This part of the valley had received even less rain than Selu. The smell of moisture had been growing all afternoon as clouds scudded in from the south, promising to end the dry spell some time tonight. A tiny bolt of lightning flickered in the distance. Malia hoped the lightning would bypass this dry area.

  She stepped into the dark alley the two men had used and pressed her back against the wall. It still held the day’s warmth. She waited, listening. Men’s voices came from inside the village, but she couldn’t make out the words as they were speaking low. They hadn’t begun the official sentencing, then. When they did, the clan father would speak loud enough for every villager to hear, even from inside their homes.

  She sidestepped along the packed dirt, moving closer to where the alley spilled into the common area. Malia tiptoed the last few steps and peered around the corner.

  In the clearing’s center, two dozen men formed a circle, torches interspersed among them. The torches rested in tall poles, the better to cast light over the men. Those who faced Malia wore grim expressions thrown into dark, dancing shadows by the
flames. They spoke in clipped tones.

  In their center was the exile. He stood taller than them by a head, his head shorn. A ragged scar etched his face from his left eye down his cheek to his neck.

  The crowd parted for a moment, revealing the man’s mud-covered tunic and loose pants. His arms were tied behind his back and his feet hobbled with rope. The harshness of his face suggested he was old enough to be Malia’s father, although living in exile could have aged his appearance.

  He stood straight, head raised, seemingly ignoring the men around him. He wore a scowl that deepened the lines of his face. Around his neck a thin strip of leather bore two black Jegudun feathers. Malia’s hand went absently to the two feathers hanging from her neck.

  All the gathered men wore deerskin robes, each decorated with beads and dyed thread. A picture on the back of each robe indicated which tribe the man belonged to. There were deer, falcons, wolves, squirrels, and others, the beads winking in the torchlight. The older men had more pictures sewn on their robes, each depicting some important event in his life, such as a particularly successful hunt or harvest, or the birth of a child.

  Their voices rose into shouts. A young man stepped into the circle. He held his arms up, and gradually the voices gave way to silence. He wore a tan deerskin robe covered with designs. A bear dominated the back of his robe. Given how the men deferred to him, he was probably the clan father, and given his youth, he must be newly appointed. The man in the woods had said something about the exile being the clan father’s uncle. Perhaps the young man would spare him, then.

  His voice loud enough to echo off the walls, he said, “Exile, explain why you are here.”

  “Nephew, I’m here to explain what’s happened to the Big River,” the exile said, his voice rumbling like rocks tumbling down a hill.

  The clan father’s hand sliced the air. “I am not your nephew. You have been dead to me since the day you were exiled.”

  Malia slumped against the wall. The young man might not spare the exile, then.