“He was fighting another Jegudun and fell from the sky. I guess the other one thought he was dead, because she left. I thought he was dead. This feather and my—the clan mother’s feathers were old and worn, so I thought it would be nice to have new ones. And I wanted some of the talons and teeth for my brother.” Her hand dropped to her side. “I can’t believe I thought so little of the Jeguduns. To plunder one’s body like that would be like plundering a fallen member of my village.”
“And where is your friend now?”
“He died.”
“Did the other Jegudun—”
“Not by the other Jegudun.” Malia didn’t want to mention Dalibor. She didn’t want to explain her relationship to the man who had killed Tuvin. “By someone from my village.”
Rasmus hung his head. “That is … unfortunate.”
Dalibor, clan mother curse him, was a free man and would remain so despite having killed Tuvin. Worse, the villagers would consider him a hero. Malia clutched the strap of her bag with one hand and squeezed. That she had been married to such a person, even for a short while, made her sick.
They walked without speaking. An owl hooted in the distance. Cricket song slowly rose around them. A breeze carried away the stench of smoke, replacing it with sage and juniper and pine. Malia filled her lungs with the smells, and slowly the burning ache left behind by the smoke began to fade.
She gave Rasmus a sidelong glance. The scar on his face was jagged, and the edges puckered. There were ways to soften scars, but it seemed he’d left this one to do as it wished. She wondered how he got it but sensed this was the wrong time to ask that question. Instead she asked, “Who are the Maddion?”
The furrow of Rasmus’s brow told Malia he was considering an answer. Then he said, “They are a people who live in the mountains north and east of here. They are the ones who dammed this valley’s river.”
She nodded. “My Jegudun friend showed me a memory of his. I saw the dam and their camp. Why would they do that?”
“I can’t be certain, but my guess is that they want to get into this valley.”
“So why don’t they just come in? Why dam the river?”
“That requires a long explanation.”
They came upon a small stream. Rasmus helped Malia sit beside it. He removed the strip of cloth from her wound. She hissed as it took a bit of raw flesh with it. Blood soaked the cloth, but not as much as she feared she’d see.
In the stream Rasmus scrubbed dirt from his hands. Then he cupped his hands and poured water over the wound.
The pain sharpened. Malia dug one hand in the dirt and tried to think of anything but the pain. Pottery. She pictured a fluted water vase she’d wanted to make. In her mind she rolled out strips of wet clay and began to layer them. Her fingers smoothed the curves lovingly. She could almost smell the damp earth of the clay.
“It’s done,” Rasmus said.
Malia came out of her reverie to find the wound clean of debris. And best of all, the majority of the throbbing pain had gone with it.
“Are you going to cover it again?”
He shook his head. “I think I’d rather leave it open to the air for now.” He held a hand out. “Your water pouch.”
Malia gave it to him. He filled it from the stream and handed it back to her. She swirled some of the cool water in her mouth, loosening gunk from the fire, then spat out a wad. She didn’t look at it. She didn’t want to know what she had breathed in. Then she tilted her head back and let the cool water wash down her throat.
Only then did Rasmus dip his hands in the stream and bring some water to his lips. He spat out something dark also. Then he drank for a long while, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he was through.
He stood and held a hand to her. Malia took it and let him pull her to her feet, noting that his palm bore calluses. He kept hold of her hand as he stepped across the stream, then held her steady as she followed. He slid his hand free, and they kept walking.
He said, “There’s some history that you may not be aware of. Actually, I’m sure you’re not aware of it, unless your Jegudun friend had time to show you.” Some of the harshness was gone from his voice, soothed no doubt by the water. “The Jeguduns collect memories and pass them from one generation to the next.” He snorted. “It’s much more accurate than the clans’ ways of passing along their histories.”
Malia’s hand went to the old, worn feather on her necklace. She’d spent a good part of her life learning lineages. She could picture them all as a map, lines linking one clan to another. “The clan mothers’ way works just fine.”
“You’ll see for yourself at some point.”
Malia pursed her lips. What did he know of the clan mothers’ ways? He did have information to share, though, and so she pushed aside her argument and listened.
“At one time,” he continued, “Jeguduns were the Maddions’ slaves. They carved the Maddions’ homes into the mountain along a sheer granite face. They brought the Maddion their supplies, whether it was carrying up the meat from a hunt, or firewood, or gathered food. They made most of the goods the Maddion used, like eating utensils, bowls, lanterns, sleeping pallets, the leather saddles for their dragons—”
“Dragons? Are those the flying lizards they ride?”
“Yes. It’s how people get to and from their homes. They hunt from dragonback, they fight from dragonback.” He grimaced. “Some men would conceive their children from dragonback if they could.” He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Malia. I didn’t mean to be so crass. I’ve lived alone for a long while.”
She waved her hand. “I have a brother. I’m used to crassness. So the Maddion ride these dragons?”
Rasmus nodded.
“They must be huge. I’ve only seen them from a distance in the memory my friend showed me.” Malia tried to imagine the wingspread. If Tuvin, small as he was, could stretch each wing so much farther than Malia was tall, how large must the wings of dragons be? And how large must the creatures themselves be, to carry men? Stories of the great war told of dragons larger than elk, larger even than the occasional buffalo that wandered through the valley.
Rasmus continued, “The Maddion spent most of their time in competition, always honing their flying and fighting skills. Well, the men did at any rate. And then they would write scrolls filled with their deeds so their descendents could know them.”
“What did the women do?”
“They raised the children. They cooked. And those that weren’t considered suitable for bearing children were sterilized and made into concubines.”
“That’s horrible. Why don’t their women stand up to them?”
Rasmus cast her an amused glance. “They are not like Taakwa. Maddion women own nothing. In fact, they owe their husbands everything and defer to them in all matters.”
Malia tried to imagine a life in which her only contribution to her village was cooking and raising a child. What did they do without a women’s council, or without work for their hands? And then she tried to imagine living in the mountain itself, the only means to and from by riding a flying beast. There was no such thing as simply stepping outside to take a walk.
“So what happened to those Jeguduns?” she asked.
“Some of them eventually escaped and enlisted the help of our ancestors.”
Malia nodded encouragement for him to continue.
“Our ancestors helped the other Jeguduns to escape. The Jeguduns could have flown away then, out of reach of the Maddion, but our ancestors would not have been able to escape so easily, and so the Jeguduns stayed. The Maddion came down from the mountains, and they fought the Jeguduns and our ancestors on the plains outside this valley. A lot of people and Jeguduns died.”
“The great war.”
“Yes.”
“But why do the stories talk about the Jeguduns as enemies?”
“First, you should know that Taakwa and Jeguduns have a sort of magic bond.”
“Magic?” Malia th
ought of the stories her mother had told her when she was a little girl. “Like, waving your hand around and turning a piece of grass into a grasshopper?”
“Ah, no. Jeguduns have the ability to manipulate the world around them, but their power is very weak. A Jegudun by himself could possibly cause a tree branch to bend without touching it, but would not be able to break it with magic, or cause the entire tree to move. When a Jegudun is in contact with a Taakwa, however, that power is greatly boosted.”
Malia frowned. “I wonder why Tuvin didn’t use that power to fight Dalibor then. I was right there. I would’ve helped him.”
“Tuvin?”
“That’s what I called the Jegudun.”
Rasmus was quiet a moment, then said, “My guess is that he didn’t want to drain your memories, especially since you wouldn’t have known it was coming.”
“But, he shared one of his memories with me.”
“They can do that with whomever they choose. But magic is different. When a Jegudun takes power from a Taakwa, he takes that Taakwa’s memories also. That sharing is actually what caused things to change between Taakwa and Jeguduns about two hundred years ago. They needed a way to stop the Maddion, and they found it, but it cost them the fellowship they’d shared with the Taakwa. Together, Jeguduns and Taakwa erected a barrier around this entire valley that keeps the Maddion out. But every single Taakwa helped them, and the magic drained them of their most recent memories, including anything to do with Jeguduns. So imagine all these people suddenly finding themselves in the middle of a battlefield, surrounded by strange-looking creatures, with many of their people dead and no knowledge of how they got there or what led to it.”
“They were confused, frightened.”
“Right. And so the Jeguduns decided to use that fright and drive the surviving Taakwa into the valley where the barrier could protect them.”
Malia’s head ached. So much of what her people believed—what she had believed—was simply false. What was the full truth then? What was real? Their history went back further than two hundred years, which meant much of their history consisted of lies, stories, pure fabrication, all based on hazy, half-forgotten memories. Could she hold on to any of it, or did she need to discard everything she’d been taught? And if she discarded it all, what then? What could she believe in?
She knew Rasmus spoke the truth. The carvings around the hot springs had been done in her people’s style and showed a positive outlook of Jeguduns.
Malia rubbed her neck. Those muscles were tense and promised that a headache would blossom soon if she didn’t rest.
She found it difficult to focus on any one thing. Magic, memories, history, Maddion, Taakwa taking an army to the falls, Tuvin … it all swirled about in her head, unsettled, like leaves blown in a fierce wind. And how did this magic barrier work? Was it part of the sky? Did the stars and the sun and the moon hang from it, or were they separate? She needed time to let it all sink in, to mull it over, but time was something she had little of at the moment.
“So, Malia from Selu,” Rasmus interrupted her thoughts, “I could guess what you were doing alone in the woods at night far from your home, but perhaps you should tell me.”
She sighed deeply. “The person who killed Tuvin also threatened to tell my village I was helping a Jegudun. I decided it would be best to leave than wait for them to exile me.”
Rasmus grimaced as if tasting something bitter. “Yes, that first night alone is nothing I’d wish on my worst enemy.”
“Were you exiled because you were a Jegudun sympathizer?”
He let out a harsh laugh. “No.” He traced the scar on his cheek once, then set his face hard, as if he’d said all he would on the matter. Malia wondered if the scar had something to do with his exile.
“I also want to tell Tuvin’s family about his death,” she said. “It seems only right that they aren’t left wondering. And, the Taakwa are slowly gathering an army and heading to the falls.”
Rasmus ran a hand over his head, his palm rasping against his shorn hair. “That explains all the messengers. They slowed me down.” He shook his head. “A Taakwa army descending on the cliffs near the Maddion is not good.”
They reached the base of a wooded hill and paused. A narrow, open space stood before them, separating their hill from the next. Waist-high grass rippled in a slight breeze, filling the air with a gentle shushing. The space was about a hundred paces across.
Malia let out a jaw-cracking yawn.
“The moon’s going to set soon,” Rasmus said. “We should climb to the top of this next hill and spend the rest of the night there. Then we’ll have a good vantage point in the morning.”
Malia nodded, afraid that speaking would only trigger another yawn.
They walked through the grass quickly. The thin blades tugged at Malia’s skirt.
The smell of rain filled the air. Behind them and overhead, clouds blotted the stars. A thin snake of lightning struck somewhere south and, a few seconds later, thunder rumbled.
They climbed the wooded slope, Malia’s legs going numb with fatigue. She caught herself dozing even as she moved. Rasmus put an arm around her and helped her up the hill. No time seemed to pass, yet they suddenly stood at the hill’s crest.
On a steep part of the slope, a pine had recently fallen, leaving a hollow in the hill where its roots had been. Its roots formed a partial roof over the hollow.
“This looks good,” Rasmus said. “You take that spot, and I’ll stand watch.”
“Aren’t you tired?”
“I’ll wake you for your turn if I need to.”
Malia’s bleary thoughts couldn’t form an argument. She tucked herself into the hollow, using her travel bag to cushion her head against the dirt. The throbbing pain in her thigh picked up again. She hoped a night’s rest would alleviate it.
For a long moment, Rasmus stood as a dark shadow against the night. Then he disappeared around the hill’s curve. Malia came awake and sat up. Was he leaving her? Only the slight scrabble of bare feet against earth let her know he climbed to the hill’s crest. Then he stopped. The crest offered a better vantage point. She settled back into the hollow.
Despite the heavy blanket of fatigue that threatened to pull Malia under, her thoughts wouldn’t let her sleep. She couldn’t get Rasmus’s history of the Taakwa out of her mind. How could she get the truth to the rest of her people?
The smell of moisture grew stronger, and soon rain began to patter against the earth outside her little shelter. Malia hoped Rasmus had found a dry place to wait out the rain. The air cooled rapidly, and she tucked herself as far into the hollow as she could. The rainfall finally accomplished what nothing else could and lulled her to sleep.
Chapter 12
Kushtrim’s personal healer, Lankwis, looked up from the young warrior apprentice and shook his head. “He’s dead, Most Worthy.”
Torch light flickered over the dead man, the dancing shadows aging him. Sixteen-year-old Minkturo lay on a bedroll in the healer’s tent. He had volunteered, without hesitation, to drain some of his own blood and receive a small dose of Jegudun blood. Had he received the initial dose without harm, the healer would have prepared to drain the young man of all his blood, replacing it with the two captive Jeguduns’ blood. But things had gone wrong almost immediately.
As the last bit of Jegudun blood entered Minkturo’s veins, he’d started complaining of not feeling right. Then came the pain, mostly in his flanks. The healers had tried everything they could think of, but Minkturo had grown increasingly ill until he slipped into a deep sleep from which he never woke.
Lankwis shut the boy’s eyes, but pain still etched itself on Minkturo’s face, even in death. Kushtrim turned away, his stomach in knots. More death. He wanted it to stop.
Another coughing fit took him by surprise. Lankwis was at his side in a moment.
“Most Worthy, are you all right?”
He managed to gasp, “Dry throat. Water.”
Lankwis dipped a ladle into the water-filled drum in the corner of his tent and hurried to Kushtrim with it. Kushtrim gulped it down, a hint of blood mixed in with the cold water. He would not be able to hide the illness for much longer.
He needed to get through the barrier, and soon. If he died, so be it. He had Okpairo, and so his lineage would continue through him. Of course he wanted to save himself, too, if possible. But his people needed a cure. They came first, always.
Okpairo ducked through the tent’s opening and bowed his head in greeting. His gaze flickered over Minkturo. “The boy didn’t make it,” he said heavily.
“What he did was very brave. Before his body is returned home for last rites, I’m going to make him a full warrior.”
A fleeting expression passed over Okpario’s face, too quick for Kushtrim to read, but he thought he caught anger and hatred. No, Okpairo wouldn’t be jealous of this young man. He was Peerless, a member of the most elite group of warriors. But the nagging doubt that had embedded itself in Kushtrim’s mind had not budged. His quiet inquiries had still not brought any evidence his son plotted against him, which should have been a comfort, yet he couldn’t let the matter rest.
“His family will find much honor in that,” Okpairo said.
“Walk with me.”
They left the tent and Okpairo fell into step beside Kushtrim. Gerwyn, who had been waiting outside, followed a few paces behind.
Kushtrim chose a slow pace, hoping it would prevent another coughing fit. His heavy tunic and leggings kept the cool night air at bay. But in a few hours, the sun would rise, bringing heat to bear down upon them again. His hands fiddled with his sash, white in color, which denoted him as Most Worthy among the Maddion men. Gerwyn and Okpairo both wore purple sashes, as did all Peerless. Minkturo’s multi-colored sash would be replaced with the blood-red sash of a full warrior so that his family would know honor when their son was returned to them.
Shards of History Page 10
