Crimson Valley

by Hausladen, Blake;

  “Master,” he said with a pained smile and trembling bow. “We were not expecting you until after the hunt. We felt something stir upon the mountain. Is all well?”

  They thought I was Aden. They’d not seen my face, and I had just walked through the herd unscathed. The eager crowd did not share his trepidation. They looked up at me with the same contented and confident expressions as Burhn and his acolytes. Verd knew Aden, and they wanted what he was offering.

  “I am not our master,” I said and opened my hood. “But, yes, plans have moved forward. Where is Master Burhn?”

  He balked and the crowd murmured as I worked to vent the heavy sealskin. The warmth of the air there confused me, but I did not have time to ponder it. I forced myself to relax and focused upon the man standing before me.

  The priest wrung his hands as he looked from me to my daughter. “And you are?”

  I didn’t know what Verd worked on for Aden, and had no good plan of my own, but I knew the look of a man who was hiding something.

  “You may call me Madam Vamindavida, I am our master’s first wife and this is his daughter. Show me to Burhn.”

  “Oh, madam. I’d not known Master Aden had taken a wife. My apologies.” He fumbled for what to do next and then motioned the three Sermod forward. “Please allow me to introduce my wives. Perhaps you would care to—”

  “You have not answered my question. Where is Burhn?”

  His response came hard. “He returned during the height of winter, took his rest beside our hot springs, and then vanished into the forests.”

  “He fled?”

  “I would not guess his business or motives, madam.”

  I growled to hide a cheer. Burhn’s conscience had caught up to him.

  I recalled the brief conversation I’d overheard the day Burhn returned with the prussic acid. “It is as our master feared. That is why I am here. Is everything ready?”

  “We are working to make it so, I assure you.”

  “Show me,” I said and handed my coat to the youngest of the Sermod—his third wife undoubtedly.

  The girl gasped as she recognized my swollen belly. Others noticed, and I left them to wonder at the strength of my magic for having climbed down the glacier and through the herd in my condition. The priest could not compose himself. The crowd waited on him.

  “Our master sent me to make sure all was as he requires. He will arrive here in a matter of days.”

  The crowd murmured darkly. I did not understand why until the dull rumbling behind me reminded me of the value of those days for Verd. We were interrupting the caribou harvest.

  The third wife took advantage of the silence. “Will we be as strong as you ... after?”

  This hushed the crowd and they moved closer. My blood went cold. Verd’s people stood ready to become Ashmari. Geart would do the same to them. I wished for words enough to convince them all to flee, but they would not hear me. They were thirsty for power, like so many others who had tasted it.

  “Who in Verd can make the blue?” I asked but got no response. “Come, all of you. Our master is moving down off the mountain, and I am to pick those who will receive his blessing.”

  Before the senior prelate could object, two of his juniors and several from the crowd stepped forward. Many eyed a stationary figure that stood with his arms folded around a large blood-stained club. His attention was upon the unoccupied pier.

  So, not everyone in Verd wished to be Ashmari.

  “You, sir,” I said to him. “I did not intend to interrupt your work. Please allow me to make it up to you. What is your name?”

  “Harmond, madam. I’ll stand by and watch if it is all the same to you.”

  “Aden’s daughter is injured, Harmond. Will you heal her?”

  I started toward him and the chief prelate hurried after me, he did not have the courage to interrupt. The caribou hunter looked down at Clea as though she were a snake. I pressed her bundle into the crux of his large arms and took hold of his club. His grip was strong, but so was mine. I pulled until my girl’s cooing won me the battle.

  “I am a poor healer, despite the stories you might have heard,” he said as he found her missing forearm. “This cannot be healed.”

  “With the right words it can, but that is not the song I want from you. Her injury is a simple one.”

  He found her bloody ear and his finger came away with a bit of blood. “Oh, that’s a shame. Got it caught on something did you, darling?”

  I touched his arm, and said, “I grant you the boon of our lord’s grace. Sing your song and feel the power coming down from the mountain.”

  He noticed the crowd’s attention and snarled at them to no effect. They were waiting on his song. He gave up his growl, cleared his throat, and began to mumble a broken verse.

  I was the only one ready for what came next. The bit of blood crackled and a savage blast of white light knocked the men and women of Verd to the ground. Harmond’s head went back and his teeth shown like polished pearls as he screamed the verse. On it rolled, bashing at our ears until I put one finger onto his bearded lips and brought his song to a shuddering halt.

  He was out of breath and smiling, but angry all the same. He seized me by the arm and pulled me close. “This is not the magic I have felt from those who walk the glacier. What are you?”

  I kissed his cheek and whispered back, “I serve another. Stay close and you may survive the demons moving off the mountain.”

  His eyes moved from mine to the glacier and back.

  Loud enough for the crowd to hear, I asked him, “Great healer, will you carry my daughter for me?”

  He looked at his hands once as if ashamed by things they had done. When he stood tall and nodded to me, I turned toward the priest.

  He was closer than I’d thought and reached out to take hold of me. “That is more than enough. I don’t—”

  “You would touch me?” I said and brought the blood-stained head of the heavy club around. It caught him on the jaw and he crumpled to the dry stones of the riverbank. I could not help but laugh out loud. It had not been that hard of a blow.

  The crowd did not know how to react. Some were just getting to their feet and the rest were more interested in examining their healed flesh. The prelate’s first wife whimpered once in protest but it sounded hollow. His third wife hid a smile, and the swordsman nearest to me was the only angry face. He reminded me of Leger—a Bessradi man who’d failed there and was left to make what life he could elsewhere. His sun-tortured skin was as battered as his dusty leather armor.

  I said to him, “You would be the Bessradi man my master has spoken so highly of.”

  He looked around at his men, as if trying to judge which of them had betrayed his past to Aden. When he set his eyes back upon me, I knew I’d gone too far. He had as little desire to be made into a Hessier as the caribou hunter, and with Aden on the way, these men were just as likely to cut my throat, rob Verd blind, and disappear into the tundra. I tried to be cheered by this.

  I choked down my first easy words and folded my arms across the top of my stomach to hide my nervousness. “I am to commission someone to go north and raise an army in the Lira Valley. The position is yours, if you wish it.”

  His hostility did not fade. He pointed at the prelate. “He owes us coin. I’m not going anywhere until our account is squared.”

  Mercenaries. Perfect.

  “Would his clothing be enough to compensate you? My master is finished with this man, so he no longer needs his vestments.”

  The bitter old soldier rubbed the top of his fist and eyed Harmond, as if deciding where to hit me and judging whether the caribou hunter would try to stop him.

  One of the would-be singers shouted, “I’ll raise an army for you if the captain won’t.”

  The old captain snarled at the man but this did not scare him back. The would-be singer stood in the center of the large group that had stepped forward. I stayed quiet while they eyed each other. I already kne
w the outcome. Verd’s day of reckoning had come, and the value of a mercenary sword was on the decline. Hessier and Ashmari were not known for how they compensated their soldiers.

  “His vestments will do,” the captain said, knelt down, and began to remove the prelate’s clothes. His men gather like vultures and the small priest was stripped faster than a caribou lost its hide. All of the prelate’s juniors and wives backed away, save the third wife who seemed more excited than scared. The mercenary captain went so far as to search the priest’s anus, and was reward when he found a pair of gems. His men laughed at his good fortune, and the crowd parted for them when they moved off. The captain said nothing in parting and I made no effort to extend the encounter.

  I found I was holding my breath and struggled to turn my attention to those that remained. The priest’s third wife stood near.

  “What is your name?” I asked.

  “Ghemma Setaj, Madam Vamindavida,” she said with a proper bow and practiced tone. Her brown eyes blazed with happiness. If no one had been there to see it, I am certain she would have slid a dagger between her unconscious husband’s ribs.

  “You studied by a well and a graveyard?” I asked.

  Her eyes flared at the mention of Dagoda, but she made no reply.

  “You may call me Priestess,” I said and rest of the priests gave each other uncertain looks. I did not wait for them to disagree with me. “Is there time enough to make everything ready for out master’s arrival, Ghemma?”

  She shook her head, and two of the priest began to claim otherwise. She said over them, “Can you not see that my husband’s fiction has already been uncovered?”

  “Show me,” I said. “The rest of you may follow or go about your work as you please.”

  Most of the crowd hesitated, but would-be singers hurried along after us. As we walked into the town, Ghemma’s happiness faded and her face went bright red. She tugged at the tight black braid that wrapped around her neck, and she found it difficult to match my easy pace.

  She wanted to run. She was free of the man who held her, but here I was with new shackles upon her. Her agitation stoked my own desire to flee.

  I took her arm in mine, pulled her close, and said, “Hush. Help me this day and you may go as you please. You belong to no one.”

  She did not believe me, but her pace evened.

  Our destination was a large wooden warehouse protected by a high wall of mud bricks. Its wooden gates faced a narrow courtyard surrounded by tall estates made of more brick and wood. They shared a road made of stout gray stone—

  The tithe road.

  My heart began to pound. The dark stones were from Enhedu and that road was my route home. My soul thrashed as I stepped upon the familiar stone. The longing for Enhedu caused nausea worse than any morning sickness, and I had to stop there. I closed my eyes and willed Clever to rise from his grave and bear us away.

  The dull clunk and squeak of a heavy lock summoned me back from my foolishness. Ghemma had opened the tall doors of a warehouse and motioned me inside. She was trembling as I entered, and the reason why was plain. The space was an armory and its contents were a rusted mess. Breastplates, gauntlets, and all the rest lined rack after rack. The metal was heavy and well-made, but in tatters. It was as if the collection had been scavenged from a battlefield and been left to rot. Some of it looked like Hemari gear but much of it was heavier and covered in etching I’d not seen before.

  I turned on the nearest priest. “What battlefield did you loot this from?”

  He took two steps back from me and collided with another.

  “Answer me,” I said and raised the club with both hands.

  “It belonged to the Hemari 5th and the Hurdu that fell in Havish, Priestess. We tried to buy the best of it, but were outbid by a collector in Bessradi. All we could get was what you see here.”

  I did not need Ghemma’s dark expression to tell me he was lying. They’d pocketed much of the gold for themselves and brought back garbage.

  I leaned into the advantage this gave me and said, “If this is the best you can do, we will all be burned to ash when our master arrives. Where are the nearest smithies that can fix this mess?” I asked.

  The priests were white-faced and useless. Ghemma had no answer for me either.

  Harmond begged forgiveness to speak. He still had Clea clutched to his breast as though she were a sack full of eggs.

  “Speak, sir. You are trusted.”

  He shifted Clea into one arm and tapped on a breastplate. Rust fell from it like crumbs from a dry pastry. He looked straight into my eyes. “The smiths in Pashwarmuth could fix these up easy enough—Bermish smiths that I trust.”

  He looked around to judge how many of them saw through his lie. None of the priests seemed to know that there was no such thing as a Bermish smithy or that the collection was far beyond repair.

  “But it’s supposed to be three hundred suits,” Ghemma said, “We are seventy short, and none of them—”

  “Hush,” I said and stroked her soft cheek. “We must do as we can with what we have. Can you make all of this ready to move by day’s end?”

  She aimed her eyes at the priests. One of them flinched and the rest turned toward the man. “Ahh ... I suppose, perhaps, your Grace—your Priestessness. I mean ... I’ll get the straight to it. We’ll have carts and horses assembled at once. Won’t we?”

  They began to squabble, and I turned to Harmond. “It would be best for everyone if your men took over here.”

  He nodded and motioned a dozen of his club-wielding brutes forward. The priests looked around as if expecting their mercenaries to save them. Alone, they fell silent.

  The rapid slapping of bare feet upon the cobblestones turned our attention. The naked prelate pushed his way into the warehouse and almost slipped as he came to a halt. His small cock was shriveled down to a nub as small as his frozen balls. He shivered and searched the warehouse for allies but found none.

  “You are just in time, sir,” I said. “We depart for Pashwarmuth in the morning. I will need a bath and a meal. Which estate was yours?”

  52

  Envoy Evand Grano

  Natan’s and half his men stood at attention along the foot of the Alsonelm visitor’s dock when Emilia and Liv led me and Ellyon toward the group assembled before the city’s gates. The trip upriver had been as fast as Rahan’s move against Alsonvale, but Alsonelm’s reception seemed less hospitable than the hornet’s nest of war galleys Admiral Sewin had battled.

  Like Alsonvale and Bessradi, the Kaaryon’s northern gateway city was split by the river. Its northern section was more of a giant barbican serving to protect the city from provincial threats and segregate its thralls. A wide harbor along the south bank kept up a constant flow of barge traffic but we were not welcome to put in there. A squadron of Corneth ships delivered us instead to the city’s eastern-most point and that thin dock. The collection of senior Corneth, Grano, and church men gathered before us were grim and disinterested, while above, several troops of 4th division Hemari and a gaggle of trumpeter had their backs to us as they chatted amongst themselves. Behind us, our fast galley had only two small craft as company. Alsonelm received few visitors via the river.

  “They dressed nice for us at least,” Emilia said as we strolled toward them. “They look ready for parade.”

  “Not at all,” Ellyon said. “Alsonelm is as rich as its families are proud. Those are everyday garments by their standards.”

  “We will fit right in then,” Liv said and winked at me as she saw my darkening expression, but she was not wrong. She and Emilia looked fit for a throne room. I was not sure where all the clothes had come from, but it was clear that Liv and Dame Franni had done more with the long winter than reading and cooking.

  Liv’s blouse and trousers were made of slate gray Ludoq linen sewn with their pattern of ferns and serpents, and she wore over it the exquisite leather armor and white sash that marked her as a royal Ludoq. She’d gone so far a
s to include a vest of fine mail and a dozen long daggers tucked into her boots and belt. Her only deviation from the Ludoq state dress, a black velvet cap adorned with white egret feathers that drew the eye as much as the sway of her hips.

  Emilia was a regal, her dress a sleek white wool sheath and a purple shawl scarf that tied at her waist that made her skin glow like the boulder opals inlaid in her necklace and bracelets. The heavy silver circlet that dived into her thick black curls would be described as a crown by any person who grew up in the Kaaryon, and it was by far the most daring of all our ostentations. She loved the jewelry Liv has found for her, though her favorite accessory was the Hemari scout’s map case doubled-belted around her waist.

  Ellyon and I were as plain as could be in uniform Hemari bluecoats. The only thing that marked us as fit to be in their company was the delicate embroidery of green mate leaves sew into our collars and cuffs—a nod to our Grano heritage. The insignia upon our sleeve would catch the eyes of some—a square of the same silvery-green covered by a new patch meant for a new division. It was a white triangle, edged black and sewn with ropes that combined into solid knot. The design was Liv’s and I was still unclear how she’d managed to have so many thousands of them made. When she’d sewed them on our shoulders, her cheeks blazed so red her freckled disappeared. I suspected that she had designed it all those days ago upon Ash Row while I’d mourned the loss of the 5th and had set the Natan’s idle men to work during the winter producing them, but did not questions her. Making clothes and such fit into her heart the most special of ways—a part of her history from before Dagoda that she shared with no one.

  She looked back at us as we walked, and I tapped the patch to tell her I loved her. She rolled her eyes at this, but could not keep a way a small twist of smile and a warming of her eyes.