Starless

by Jacqueline Carey

  “Father!” A young man—a boy, really—who couldn’t have been more than a year or so older than me burst into the tent. “The Wandering Moon is rising!” He was breathless with excitement, his eyes sparkling. “That means all three will be on high! Vahalan of Tall Grove Clan sent me to tell you the Matriarch of the Sanu says anyone who wishes to bathe in the waters of the Eye of Zar and seek the Three-Moon Blessing tonight may do so.”

  The old chieftain raised his brows. “Is that so?”

  The boy flung himself at his father’s feet, clasping his ankles in an exaggerated gesture of pleading. “Can we go, Father? Please?”

  Chieftain Saronesh chuckled. “So much passion to expend over a little splashing in the moonlight! Yes, I suppose so. Go tell your mother.”

  “Thank you, Father!” Leaping to his feet, the boy planted a resounding kiss on his father’s cheek, then dashed past the curtain.

  Within minutes, the entire lot of us were traipsing through the camp toward the lake, men and women separating into two streams; and it seemed nigh every single one of the clans was doing the same. In the sky above us, Nim the Bright Moon was full, bathing the oasis in silvery light. Shahal the waning Dark Moon shone red as a garnet, and there on the eastern horizon was Eshen the Wandering Moon, a pale blue crescent, speckled like an egg and surrounded by a faint nimbus. All three of their faces were reflected in the shimmering black expanse of the water, and it was a magical sight, as though the faces of Zar’s three divine lovers were reflected in the pupil of his vast eye.

  Following the lead of the others, I took off my scarf and sandals in the thick sedge grass around the edge of the lake and hiked my breeches to my knees before wading into the calf-deep water. The night air was cool, but the water retained the warmth of the day’s sun. It felt strange to be immersed in it, my feet and shins moving sluggishly against the resistance of so much liquid.

  All around, people were laughing and splashing, scooping up handfuls of water and pouring them over one another’s heads.

  “You’re the shadow, right?” The boy who’d brought the news addressed me. “Do me, and I’ll do you.”

  “Do what?” I asked in confusion.

  “Offer the Three-Moon Blessing!” He cupped his hands and filled them with water. “Bow your head.” I did, and he poured water over my head, repeating the gesture twice more. It ran down my neck and into my eyes, turning cool against my skin. “Now me!”

  I did the same.

  He laughed and shook his head when I’d finished, water spraying. “Ah, that’s good!” He thrust out one hand. “I’m Ahran.”

  I clasped his forearm. “Khai.”

  His eyes sparkled in the moonlight as he returned my clasp; he had a merry face. “Well met, Khai! Will you be staying with us for a time? There’s such fun to be had at the gathering!”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I said. “We’re here on a matter of honor.”

  Ahran’s face fell. “Oh, that’s right. Forgive me, I’d forgotten for a moment. Is it true you’re going to fight beside the Black Sands Clan tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  He glanced around and lowered his voice. “Are you scared?”

  A year ago, when Brother Yarit undertook the Trial of Pahrkun, I had been eager to prove myself a warrior capable of dealing death to an opponent; and a year ago, I had failed. Whatever I felt now, it wasn’t eagerness. With the three moons overhead in the starless sky shining down their blessing upon this gathering, all the tribesfolk laughing and chatting and splashing in this inconceivable abundance of water, it seemed impossible that come dawn, some of these very same people would be immersed in deadly combat, and I among them.

  Was I scared?

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Right now, it doesn’t seem real. But I imagine that will change tomorrow.”

  Ahran nodded sagely. “I imagine it will.”

  EIGHT

  “Khai.” Brother Merik’s lips were close to my ear as he shook me awake. “It’s time.”

  I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “Already?”

  “Yasif is waiting,” he said.

  It was not yet dawn and the floor of the tent was strewn with the sleeping bodies of men and boys and dogs. I picked my way among them.

  Outside in the low grey light, Yasif was awaiting me atop a tall camel, his left leg hooked over the pommel of its saddle. He had a second camel on a lead-line. “Are you ready?”

  I was not.

  My bladder felt full and my bowels felt loose, and there was a part of me that wished that this was not my destiny, that I was not the shadow of one of the Sun-Blessed, that I was still asleep among the warm and comforting sprawl of bodies inside the tent, and that I would awake with nothing more to do than discover what manner of fun and mischief a boy of the Hot Spring Clan might find during the gathering.

  I cleared my throat. “I need to use the privy.”

  “Hurry.”

  A yawning Brother Yarit accompanied me, while Brother Merik went to fetch their mounts.

  Afterward, I felt better, as though my body, purged, was prepared for the coming battle.

  We rode through the camp. Although most of the men and boys were yet sleeping, a number of women were already about the day’s chores, tending to their cooking fires and milking goats. They watched us pass silently, and I wondered if they were grateful or envious at being spared a warrior’s lot.

  The feuding clans were gathered in the empty desert a few hundred yards beyond the verge of the campsite, presided over by a black-robed figure seated atop a milk-white camel, a pair of men holding its reins. By the exceptionally tall embroidered black headdress she wore, I took her to be the Matriarch of the Ardu.

  Yasif tapped his camel on the shoulder and it knelt so he could dismount. I did the same. A young boy took charge of our camels, and we went to stand with the fighting members of the Black Sands Clan. Khisan gave me a grudging nod. Today, we were brothers.

  “Chieftain Jakhan of the Ardu, son of the Black Sands Clan, you have declared blood-feud against the Sweet Meadow Clan,” the Matriarch announced. “Do you recant your claim?”

  He squared his shoulders. “I do not.”

  The Matriarch turned to the chieftain of the opposing clan. “Chieftain Nahbin of the Sweet Meadow Clan, do you offer redress for his claim?”

  Chieftain Nahbin spat contemptuously into the sandy soil. “I deny his claim! He has no proof.”

  The Matriarch of the Ardu raised one hand. “Then I decree that this matter of honor will be settled with steel, for honor is more precious than gold, more valuable than rubies. Without honor, we are nothing.” Her veiled gaze turned in my direction. “Who is this who would stand with the Black Sands Clan?”

  I took a step forward. “Khai of the Fortress of the Winds. I fight in memory of Jawal of the Ardu, son of the Black Sands Clan, who perished in the service of Pahrkun. The weapons I bear were his.”

  Her gaze shifted toward Brother Merik. “And you have sanctioned this, brother?”

  “I have, lady,” he said in a reluctant tone. “Khai is not yet formally sworn into Pahrkun’s service.”

  “Very well.” The Matriarch glanced eastward. “When the sun breaches the horizon, the horn will sound and the battle will commence. Whosoever calls for surrender concedes the point of honor. Is this understood?”

  “It is,” Chieftain Jakhan said, and Chieftain Nahbin spat on the ground once more before agreeing.

  The Matriarch lowered her hand. “Then we will withdraw, and leave you to await the signal.”

  Brother Merik looked over his shoulder at me as they rode some distance away, mouthing some final piece of advice to me, touching the hilt of his kopar with exaggerated significance.

  The clans faced off in two loose rows, no more than ten yards separating us. Our numbers were evenly matched, which meant that the man I was facing would likely be my opponent. He looked like a seasoned warrior, his stance loose and relaxed, but his yakhan held in a grip
that suggested he wasn’t about to get careless and lower his guard, even against a much smaller opponent.

  Now I knew the answer to the question Ahran had asked me last night. I should have been scared, and yet I was not. I felt strangely calm. My mind was keen and clear, my body honed and ready. I held my yakhan in my right hand, my kopar in my left. My palms were dry and my grip was sure.

  The wind stirred and my spirits rose with it, rising, rising.

  Today was my day.

  Overhead, a hawk drifting on the dawn breeze angled its wings and let out a single piercing cry. The crown of Zar’s golden head appeared over the ridge of mountains in the distance.

  A horn sounded, echoed by battle-cries from both clans as we broke ranks and ran toward one another.

  My opponent aimed a great, slashing blow at me as we met in the middle, intending to take advantage of his greater height and reach to dispatch me at the outset. I held my ground, which he did not anticipate, and caught his blade in the tines of my kopar, trapping it with a deft twist that took a good deal of wrist strength to execute. He blinked in confusion. I brought the curved edge of my yakhan down hard on the meat of his left thigh and he cried out with pain, his leg crumpling beneath him, red blood soaking the cloth of his breeches.

  His blade slid free of my kopar. Braced on one knee, he bared his teeth and essayed a direct thrust. I turned my torso to evade it and slit his throat open with a back-handed blow.

  He died looking surprised.

  My blood was singing in my veins, and all around me was the sound of blades clashing. To my right, a pale-faced Yasif was retreating before the onslaught of a skilled and determined opponent.

  I could have struck the man from behind, but I did not. That would not have honored Brother Jawal’s memory.

  “Hey!” I shouted. “Here!”

  Yasif’s opponent turned to level a blow at me; I reversed my kopar so that it lay the length of my forearm and parried it, then thrust the point of my yakhan into his belly. He dropped his blade and sank to his knees, hands covering the wound, eyes wide with shock. I let Yasif deliver the killing blow. He gave me a quick, hard grin, and the two of us plunged back into the fray.

  Cut, slash, thrust; parry and trap. It was a terrible, deadly dance, and I reveled in my skill at it.

  Somewhere someone was shouting something, but I couldn’t make it out over the pounding blood beating against my eardrums. It wasn’t until the horn sounded again that I understood that the chieftain of the Sweet Meadow Clan was calling for surrender and the battle was over.

  I lowered my weapons.

  Four men of the Sweet Meadow Clan were dead or dying on the desert floor. There were injuries on the side of the Black Sands Clan, but no fatalities. As for me, I didn’t have a scratch on me.

  The Matriarch of the Ardu returned, along with the other witnesses. I wondered what expression she wore beneath the folds of her tall headdress as she surveyed the carnage.

  “Nahbin of the Ardu, you have brought death and dishonor upon your clan,” she said in a severe voice, and the chieftain bowed his head in shame. “It is my judgment that in pride and anger, you or your sons committed this crime of which your clan is accused. You thought to prevail today by dint of numbers, but Pahrkun the Scouring Wind saw fit to redress the balance. As a forfeit, I decree that you will give your finest camel to the Black Sands Clan. Is this understood?”

  He mumbled agreement.

  She turned to Chieftain Jakhan. “Is your honor satisfied?”

  He saluted her. “It is, lady.”

  The Matriarch swept her veiled gaze over the battlefield one last time, then dusted her hands together in a gesture of finality. “This matter is finished.” Escorted by her clansmen, she rode away, swaying atop her white camel and leaving the rest of us to attend to the casualties of our battle; one clan jubilant in victory, the other sullen and somber in defeat.

  Brother Merik jogged his horse over and tossed me a woolen rag. “Clean your weapons, young Khai.”

  I set about doing so. “Is that all you have to say, brother?”

  He eyed me. “Do you seek praise? I do not mean to begrudge it. You fought well, Khai. You brought honor to Brother Jawal’s memory. Today, you are a warrior blooded in the heat of battle. But tell me, what did you learn?”

  “I’d say we learned that our young Khai’s pretty damned good at killing,” Brother Yarit observed in a caustic tone.

  Ignoring his comment, I watched the members of the Sweet Meadow Clan gathering their dead. “I think this is not only about the merits of honor, brother. It is about the cost of dishonor, is it not?”

  Brother Merik nodded. “Even so.”

  There was a great feast that evening in the camp of the Black Sands Clan, one to which we were welcomed as honorary kin; even Brother Yarit. It seemed I had acquitted myself well enough on the battlefield that the chieftain and the majority of the clan had determined that all that had transpired, including Brother Jawal’s death, was in accordance with Pahrkun’s will.

  The mood was very different than it had been upon our arrival. It was not a joyous occasion—not with the news of Jawal’s death, not with the injuries that had been sustained—and yet there was a certain fierce merriment to the proceedings, born out of victory and the restoration of honor. There were flagons of date-palm wine, which Brother Merik cautioned me to sip sparingly. And the single greatest difference was that now that we had been declared honorary members of the clan, the girls and women mingled among the men and boys, and while they yet covered their heads with colorful scarves inside the tent, the scarves were unwrapped to bare their faces.

  I was a bit disappointed.

  The women of Zarkhoum veiled their faces in honor of Anamuht, who it was said showed her true face only to Pahrkun; somehow, I had imagined that women must be as different from men as the Sacred Twins were from each other. And yet it was not so. I suppose it was foolish to think so. After all, Anamuht and Pahrkun were gods, children of the heavens fallen to earth, fallen stars taken shapes that embodied the land unto which they had fallen.

  We, we were merely human.

  Still, I studied them, searching for differences. There were some, most pronounced among the young women and older girls. Women’s features were more delicately molded, their lips fuller. Beneath their robes, there was a suggestion of curves that men did not possess. Their interactions were different, with subtle glances and murmurs and gestures I could not interpret. They—

  “Hey!” Khisan’s belligerent voice broke my reverie. “That’s my sister you’re staring at.”

  “Forgive me,” I apologized. “It’s just—”

  He scowled at me. “If you’re old enough to fight beside men, you’re too old to ogle a man’s sister or wife.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” I said. “Only—”

  “Do I need to defend her honor and challenge you to another bout of thunder and lightning?” Khisan’s face was flushed and his voice loose and slurry; he had not drunk sparingly of the date-palm wine. “I warn you, I’ll not be caught unawares a second time, hopping toad.”

  I glanced around the tent, hoping someone, perhaps Chieftain Jakhan, would intervene, but it seemed that this, too, was a matter of honor. The tribesfolk watched with curiosity and the young woman at whom Khisan had caught me gazing drew her scarf over her lower face in reproach.

  I had given offense.

  “Come, little shadow, little brother.” Khisan got to his feet, wavering a bit. “A friendly bout to avenge the insult.”

  “You’re drunk,” Yasif murmured. “Sit. Khai meant no insult.”

  His brother paid him no heed. “A friendly bout to restore my honor, eh? You owe me that much.”

  I did not want to fight him again, not least of all because I was fairly sure I could best him in this condition with or without the element of surprise, and thus embarrass him further. “Can we not simply—”

  Khisan clapped twice, then stamped his left foot; but bef
ore he could complete the challenge, Brother Merik rose smoothly from the carpet on which he was seated, his hand closing on the younger man’s wrist.

  “A word outside, kinsman,” he said in an even tone that brooked no objection, steering Khisan toward the outdoors. “Indulge me.”

  They departed the tent, leaving an awkward silence in their wake.

  “Customs, how they do vary!” Brother Yarit said in a bright, cheerful voice. He refilled his cup with date-palm wine and downed a gulp. “Elsewhere in Zarkhoum, the king’s word is law. Tell me, how is it that among the desert tribes, a woman is the final arbiter of justice?”

  His query at once eased the tension and evoked a handful of ambiguous sounds in response.

  “The king!” an older woman said scornfully; I recognized her eyes and her time-worn hands, and thought she was the chieftain’s wife who had served us yesterday. “What does King Azarkal know of life and death?”

  Brother Yarit quaffed his wine. “Well, as to life, he’s led a long one; as to death, it hasn’t called his name yet. Do you disparage his rule?”

  “We do not hold the Sun-Blessed in light regard.” Chieftain Jakhan raised one hand to emphasize his point. “We do not forget that it is they who had the wisdom to worship the Sacred Twins and win their favor; favor that has resulted in the long-standing rule of the House of the Ageless. It is why we have always rallied to the banner of the Brotherhood of Pahrkun when you have called upon us to defend Zarkhoum.” He glanced at me. “And we do not forget that it is foretold that one day, there will arise a darkness in the west against which only one of the Sun-Blessed may stand.”

  The others murmured in agreement. Brother Saan had mentioned such a prophecy to me. I wondered if the desert folk might tell us more of it, but now was no time to interrupt.

  “I sense a ‘but’ coming,” Brother Yarit muttered into his cup before upending the dregs into his mouth.

  “But the law of the desert is survival,” the chieftain continued in a firm manner. “Women bring life into this world. They understand the value of it, the cost in blood and suffering. Who better to pass judgment in matters of life and death?”