Shards of History

by Rebecca Roland

  Kushtrim took a deep breath. The air carried a hint of acrid smoke, and stronger, the scent of thousands of men who had been toiling for days. It was the smell of hard work, of warriors.

  The two Jeguduns had not returned. They had failed him. He was loathe to poison the river, but he had promised to do so, to ensure that at least as many Jeguduns and Taakwa died as did Maddion. It would probably be the last action he would take against them before the illness consumed him. He had to tell Okpairo he was ill, prepare him to fight for his place as Most Worthy. In the morning, when the sun has risen, he promised himself. He would see this through first and let all consequences fall on his shoulders.

  “Do it,” he said.

  Okpairo turned and pumped his arm and the torch high in the air, once, twice, three times.

  Pounding footsteps and rapid breathing approached from the direction of the cliffs. Okpairo drew his dagger, and Kushtrim his short axe, to face the threat. Gerwyn slept in Kushtrim’s tent, getting some much needed rest. Or did he? Was Okpairo right about him? Did he approach, ready to fight for the position of Most Worthy? Or was it a man faithful to Okpairo, ready to join him for a fight? Okpairo concentrated on the approaching threat. His attention did not waver. No, this was a surprise to his son as well. Kushtrim’s hands tightened on the smooth, wooden handle of the axe.

  “Wait, Most Worthy, wait!” called a young voice. One of the apprentices. He emerged from the night’s darkness into the light of the torch. He fell to his knees, bringing his forehead to the ground as his words gushed. “The Jeguduns returned with a Taakwa boy!”

  “Stop them,” Kushtrim snapped to Okpairo.

  Okpairo raised the torch and waved it back and forth. “Hold,” he shouted.

  Hold, came the echoing reply from down the river where a cluster of torches marked the men with the poison.

  “Where are they?” Kushtrim said to the apprentice.

  “They are bringing him now.”

  Kushtrim sheathed the axe. To Okpairo, he said, “Bring two dragons. Hurry.”

  Okpairo handed him the torch and ran into the camp, weaving his way through the tents to where the dragons slumbered together on the camp’s outskirts.

  From the darkness, the two Jeguduns appeared, waddling along and dragging a Taakwa boy between them. The creatures’ mouths were open, tongues lolling, and they were breathing hard. To have lifted the boy up here must have taken quite an effort for the creatures.

  Though the boy stood a head taller than either one of the Jeguduns, they were stronger than him. He dragged his heels in the dirt. He yanked his arms, trying to free them. But the Jeguduns clamped down on his flesh with their talons. He cried out and ceased trying to free himself. They then pulled him easily along.

  The boy was lean and strong, and young. He wore his dark hair loose as all the boys of his people did before they reached manhood. In the torchlight, it shimmered like the surface of a still pond on a moonless night. His gaze fixed on Kushtrim and his eyes widened. He spoke rapidly in a lilting language. Kushtrim understood none of it. The boy was perfect.

  I did it. A thrill ran through him, dulling the pain momentarily. He imagined bringing his people to the valley so they could bathe in the healing waters. They would all write scrolls about him and what he had done. And he would live to write his own.

  Large wings beat the air, and a moment later, two dragons landed, one on either side of a Jegudun. The Taakwa boy cried out, wordlessly, over and over again, shrinking down as if he thought—or hoped—the ground would swallow him up. Then he fell silent and crumpled to the ground.

  Okpairo came running up. Kushtrim said to him, “Take them all to the prisoner’s tent and make sure they are well-guarded. And then begin rounding up the warriors. By sunrise, if not sooner, we’ll be in the valley.”

  * * *

  Malia insisted on walking beside Rasmus rather than in front of him in case he stumbled or fell. She wouldn’t be able to hold him up, but she could at least break his fall and make sure he didn’t hit his head. To her relief, he swayed less as they went.

  When she finished telling him what had happened to her after the bridge, leaving out Enuwal’s offer for her to stay with him—that was personal—Rasmus remained silent awhile. Then he said, “Your former husband seems to be a determined man. I think he’ll follow you.”

  “I don’t want to endanger the Jeguduns or you, and I don’t want anyone to have to fight him. Enough people have gotten hurt.” She hesitated, then said, “I can stay in the woods so I don’t lead him to you or the Jeguduns.”

  “We’ll be safe. And if he’s foolish enough to try to follow you all the way to the cliffs, he’ll be taken care of. Without anyone getting hurt.”

  An image of Dalibor plunging his dagger into Tuvin’s neck came to her. The white hot ball that had formed in her gut when she’d seen him in Posalo flared to life again. “You don’t know him.”

  “You’re not staying alone in the woods.” His tone brooked no argument.

  Malia’s hand rested on the hilt of her dagger for a moment. If Dalibor dared follow her all the way to the cliffs, she’d take care of him herself. She’d never allow him to hurt anyone she cared for again.

  How long had Enuwal delayed him? Dalibor wouldn’t dare hurt the healer. He’d never make it out of the village alive if he harmed the Enuwal. But what if he didn’t care? What if he was so angry with Malia that he would hurt Enuwal regardless of the consequences? Maybe she should have welcomed Enuwal along with her.

  “We’re almost there,” Rasmus said.

  Malia pushed her uneasy thoughts to the back of her mind. She could tackle only one problem at a time. Once she’d done what she needed to at the cliffs, she’d make sure Enuwal was safe.

  The trees began to thin so that twenty paces or so separated them. Giving off a muted silver glow, the cliffs towered in the near distance. Malia felt like a tiny bug scurrying among mature stalks of corn, and then felt even smaller as the enormity of what she was trying to accomplish overwhelmed her. She was one woman trying to stop a war. How could she ever hope to succeed?

  Vedran’s face came to mind, then Enuwal’s. They’d be in the midst of the war, one fighting, the other trying to save lives. For them and all the Taakwa, she had to try.

  They stepped out from the last of the forest and onto an open plain. A couple hundred paces away, the ground rose in a rock-covered slope. It looked like a gray, still river. Beyond the rocks, the ground rose gently to where the cliffs jutted from the ground, so high that Malia had to crane her neck to find the top. Flickering dots of light marked the cliff face randomly.

  Malia stopped and gaped. She’d never been this close to the cliffs, this close to so many Jeguduns. She knew they meant her no harm, but her legs trembled and her stomach knotted. She couldn’t just undo years of belief that the cliffs meant danger.

  The lantern flame flickered, strengthened, flickered, then died. Malia said, “The lantern’s done.”

  “It’s just as well. You’ll need both hands to climb through the rocks coming up.”

  Malia set the lantern down carefully beside the river of rock, hoping to come back for it later and return it to Enuwal. Then she scrabbled through the rocks, using her hands as well as her feet, careful not to slip. She didn’t want her injured knee banging on a rock. They were cool and rough beneath her hands. Rasmus expertly picked his way through them.

  “You’ve been through here often,” she said.

  “All the good hunting is south of here.”

  Past the river of rock, the terrain smoothed out again. Waist-high, thick grass covered the ground, pulling at Malia’s skirt.

  Nothing moved along the cliff face save for the torches. As they drew closer, dark shadows delineated outlines where caves opened into the cliff. The torches marked some of these. Ledges jutted from each opening, serving as a spot from which Jeguduns could land or take off. There had to be hundreds of caves in this area alone. How many were there altoget
her?

  Rasmus led them straight ahead. No discernable opening marked the granite.

  “Where is your home?” Malia asked.

  “Straight ahead and up, about the height of two fir trees. Do you see the torches?”

  They were high. “Yes. And just how do we get up there?”

  “Ladder.”

  “Oh.” Malia wiped her sweaty palms on the skirt. “It’s a sturdy ladder?”

  “It’s a rope ladder. And it’s very sturdy. I’ve used it for years.” Rasmus grimaced. “It’s sturdier than that bridge was.”

  The grass thinned and gave way to dirt near the base of the cliffs. A few bushes, mostly juniper and sage, grew along the base itself. No ladder hung down.

  Rasmus craned his head. He let out one long whistle, two short, then one long. A moment later, a Jegudun appeared on the ledge. He looked down, cocked his head to one side, then let out a series of whistles and chirps before disappearing.

  Rasmus pulled Malia back gently. “You’ll want to be out of the way.”

  Something round and dark plummeted over the ledge. A rope ladder unfurled, the end snapping free as it reached the cliff’s bottom. Then the Jegudun reappeared, and he waved them up.

  “You should go first,” Rasmus said. “That way if I fall, I don’t bring you down with me.”

  She froze in the midst of adjusting her travel bag. “What?”

  He gave her a half smile. “I’ll make it. I was only joking.” When she hesitated, he waved her on.

  Malia drew the back end of her skirt’s hem forward between her legs and tucked it in her waist. She adjusted the leather belt to hold it in place, made sure her travel bag was well secured, then lay a hand on the rope.

  The thick fibers scratched her palms. She pulled the rope, testing it. It held fast. With a deep breath to clear her mind, she began to climb.

  This wasn’t like climbing the ladder to her home in Selu where a few rungs brought her to the top. This ladder stretched into the darkness. She focused on the rock before her, trying not to think of how much space she put between herself and the ground. Occasional tufts of grass sprouted from the cracks in the rock. She passed a gnarled tree at one point. She couldn’t tell what kind it was, but admired its tenacity for growing in such a location.

  And then she reached the ledge. The Jegudun waited, his feathers the color of well-polished wood and gleaming in much the same way in the torch light. He crouched and held a hand out to help her.

  She took it, his palm leathery and supple like Tuvin’s, but also marred by a few calluses. Gray peppered the down around his wolfish snout, and his eyes crinkled more than Tuvin’s had. As she stood, his hand lingered in hers. Something tugged inquiringly at her mind.

  “Go ahead,” Malia said.

  Her memories whipped past her, so fast it made her dizzy. Then they slowed and centered in on Tuvin, how she had found him, brought him food, taken him to the hot springs. Then Dalibor found them. Malia moaned as she relived the fight between Dalibor and Tuvin and then Tuvin’s murder.

  The pull on her mind stopped. She swayed on her feet. The Jegudun quickly led her to the wall and sat her down. She put her back against it, the cold of the stone seeping through her tunic. Tears rimmed the bottom of the Jegudun’s eyes. He let out a mournful, low trill as he squeezed her hand. Then he returned to the ledge and waited for Rasmus.

  Heaviness filled Malia’s heart, and unshed tears burned behind her eyes and nose. She held Tuvin’s feather. One of his memories flashed before her, of flying beside the cliffs with the wind blowing past her face. The air smelled of the sun, the earth, and pine.

  She let go of the feather. Tears no longer threatened to spill. But she couldn’t help but think of Dalibor and the talon he wore around his neck. If she saw him again, she’d take it from him no matter the consequences. She would not let him dishonor Tuvin like that. Her hand curled into a fist.

  Rasmus’s head appeared over the ledge. He groaned as he struggled to pull himself over the edge. Malia scurried forward and took one arm as the Jegudun took the other. Together they helped him onto the ledge. He rolled onto his back, one arm thrown over his abdomen, which rose and fell quickly, and stared at the stars.

  “Are you all right?” Malia asked.

  “Give me … a minute.”

  “Do you have a hearth?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll get it started.”

  The Jegudun trilled.

  “Malia, this is Vacir. He’s been waiting for me to return, and he probably has the hearth going already.”

  “Oh. Then I’ll get some tea going. You do have tea?”

  “Yes, and willow bark. I’ll need some.”

  A blanket was pulled back from the door and hanging on a hook. Malia paused for a moment in the doorway.

  A fire crackled pleasantly in the hearth in the far wall. The walls were smooth, in striations of pinks and browns, with glittering lines of quartz sprinkled throughout. Small niches held lanterns made of material Malia had never seen before, like smooth, thin, polished stone. Figures had been cut into them, casting light through stars and moon in one, leaping stags in another, fish in a third. Her fingers itched to touch them and inspect them. Later.

  In the far corner, a wide swath of water trickled down stone into a pool that was just large enough for a person to soak in comfortably. A short raised stone lip, much like the one around the hot springs, lined the pool. Fresh water, delivered directly to one’s home. No hauling up buckets by rope, sloshing water everywhere. Malia sighed wistfully.

  Shelves along one wall had been carved from stone. Baskets sat in a row along one shelf. Malia peeked through them until she found one that held dried chamomile and mint leaves. She took a kettle from another shelf, filled it from the little waterfall, then set it to boil. She pulled down two heavy ceramic mugs, crudely made yet functional, and portioned out some chamomile and mint in each. She found willow bark in her travel bag and added some to a mug for Rasmus. After a moment’s hesitation, she added some to her own. Her knee throbbed surprisingly little after that long climb, but she had a feeling that after sitting for a while, it might stiffen and begin to hurt again.

  Rasmus staggered in, one hand on the Jegudun’s shoulder. The Jegudun took a rolled sleeping mat from one corner and set it on the floor. He then covered it with a blanket and set a second, folded blanket on it. Rasmus sank onto the mat with a sigh.

  “Malia, Vacir is sort of the equivalent of a Taakwa council member. They don’t have a single person, like a clan father or clan mother, who makes the final decisions. They have a small group of elders who make group decisions instead.”

  “I’m steeping tea,” she said to Vacir. “Would you like some?”

  He shook his head, then settled beside Rasmus.

  “The nice thing about communicating with Jeguduns is that you don’t need to speak,” Rasmus said.

  Vacir laid a hand on his shoulder. Silence fell, filled only by the snapping of the fire and the constant trickle of water. Malia poured hot water into both mugs, releasing the aroma of chamomile and mint into the air along with the willow’s bitterness. She sat back, wrapped her arms around her legs, and closed her eyes. The sounds and smells flowed around her. The fire warmed her, and she felt as though she melted into the floor.

  A hand fell on her shoulder, startling her. Vacir took a step back and trilled apologetically.

  “I must have fallen asleep,” Malia said. The mug she held had grown cold. As she’d suspected, her knee had stiffened. She quickly downed the tea, grimacing at the bitter taste, made worse by the tea having cooled.

  Rasmus sat on his pallet. “Thank you for the tea. The mint almost hides the taste of willow bark.” He cleared his throat. “Ah, I was hoping for a long bath. And Vacir wants to see things from your point of view. Do you mind—”

  “Going outside?” She stood. “Not at all.”

  She gave the pool of water a longing glance before leading Vacir to the l
edge. She appreciated being able to clean herself off at Enuwal’s and the clothes his neighbor had given her, but there was nothing like a long soak in warm water to wash away all the filth that had accumulated everywhere. And she wanted to wash the smoky stench from her hair.

  Once outside, she let the blanket fall over the doorway and then settled against the cool wall.

  Vacir settled beside her. He moved much the same way as Tuvin, with a rolling gait and some awkwardness getting down and up. Jeguduns weren’t meant to spend much time on the ground. They were much more graceful in the air.

  She said, “You’ll want to go back before Tuvin’s death. There’s something you and the Jeguduns need to know about the Taakwa, what they’re planning.”

  He nodded, then slipped one hand in hers. The tug came at her mind, then swept her back to the days before she found Tuvin. Malia found she could guide Vacir towards the memories he needed to see. And so he found out about the Taakwa men marching on the cliffs, all that she had discovered about the Jeguduns and the Maddion, and the two Jeguduns taking the Posalo boy. Then the pull on her mind let go.

  “Do you know what happened to that boy or why those Jeguduns took him?” she asked.

  Vacir pointed up and chirped.

  “They have something to do with the Maddion?”

  He nodded, his face drawn in sadness.

  “Was one of them the female that tried to take that other boy and attacked Tuvin?”

  He shook his head and took her hand again. This time, the pull on her mind led her into one of Vacir’s memories.

  He stood in a cave. The only light came from torches lining the walls. Pink and brown striations marked them, much as they did in Rasmus’s home. The air was cold and tinged with moisture. The ceiling was so close that had Malia been standing beside Vacir, she would have had to duck.

  Two Jeguduns led the tan female that had attacked Tuvin towards Vacir. Thick ropes bound her wings to her. A third Jegudun followed behind them. The female bared her teeth, laid her ears back, and snarled.

  Vacir spoke for several minutes in clipped chirps and whistles. The female responded angrily. Vacir spoke again, for just a moment this time. In response, she hung her head. Then he added something else that sounded sad and regretful.