A Solitary Journey (18 page)

Meg looked up at the tall man whose dark eyes watched her silently, wondering what he would do if he knew what she really was.

T
he ache in her heart lingered. In the evenings she cried herself to sleep, her body racked with deep sobs over which she had no control and her dreams were detailed, long memories of events that embraced her family. Always the dreams ended with her children being killed or vanishing, her husband a bloated corpse beside her brothers, her mother staring sadly as she clutched a boy—her boy—to her breast. In the mornings before sunrise she woke from the dreams, empty and drowning in sorrow, and her waking thoughts were overwhelmed with images of her children, her life—so overwhelmed that she struggled to concentrate on the work she was set to do. The food she cooked for Chi-hway and Magpie she couldn’t eat and her desire to live faded with her desire to eat. She worked slowly, sometimes incompetently, and Chi-hway was angry with her, though he wasn’t loud or violent. It didn’t matter to her what he thought. He was a dream. The world she’d lost was the only reality she wanted. Without her children there was no reason to live and her depression pressed down like the sacks of grain she carried into Chi-hway’s kitchen.

Sometimes her family dreams were interspersed with other dreams—familiar dreams—dreams of a voice that begged her to build a portal. Why don’t you come? the voice asked.

Because I can’t, she replied.

But you know how to.

I don’t want to.

Come and I will help you, the voice promised.

Help me with what?

I can save you from him.

I only want my children saved, she told the voice.

Then set me free, and I will save them too.

She knew how to build the portal. The memories flowed back—and with them she remembered stranger things. She remembered the Demon Horsemen and what she had done as Lady Amber. And she remembered why she ran from her magic—why she had a family—why she tried to forget so much.
Set me free and I can save you,
the voice promised, but she didn’t care for herself. Yet if the voice
could
save her children, there was a reason to set him free. There was a reason to make the portal. But every morning that she tried to remember the portal the darker sorrow overwhelmed her and she could do nothing for herself, only slavishly follow Chi-hway’s orders. She carried, she cooked, and she cleaned. Every evening she thought about opening the portal, but she saw the images of her children when she began to concentrate and wept instead.

Magpie was the only distraction that buoyed her spirits and drove out the darkness. The boy came to the breakfasts she prepared and told her what Chi-hway made him do. ‘He lets me use the axe, Meg. I cut the wood now,’ he told her on the third day in the village. ‘Today I think he’s showing me how to fish. I tried to tell him I can already do that, but he doesn’t seem to
understand me and I don’t get what he’s saying either. How long are we staying here?’

‘I don’t know,’ was her answer.

‘I like it,’ Magpie went on, ‘but I wish they weren’t so mean to Wombat.’

Meg put down her bowl. ‘How are they being mean?’

‘They keep him with chains around his ankles, like an animal, and make him pull carts. I saw it yesterday afternoon. He looked really unhappy. I saw Glitter too. She was washing clothes. She smiled when she saw me, but Chi-hway wouldn’t let me speak to her.’

‘Have you seen Ochre?’

‘No.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘No.’ Magpie finished his eggs and said as he rose, ‘Can we stay here?’

‘Yes,’ she said quietly. The boy grinned and left the kitchen. Meg guessed that he didn’t realise the truth—that he was a slave and that he didn’t have a choice about leaving—but he was happy in his ignorance and she lacked the strength or desire to tell him otherwise.

A deeper voice addressed Magpie outside before Chi-hway entered the kitchen and sat in expectation of his breakfast. His dark eyes watched Meg as she served the bread and eggs and sliced meat, but her mind was wandering through a kitchen in Summerbrook—until Chi-hway grabbed her wrist as she went to return to the hearth. He spoke and his words took form when she focussed. ‘I wish I knew why you were so troubled, woman-of-the-flame-hair.’ The last phrase took the form she recognised as a name with which he had christened her in his tongue—Sha-emen-sa-char. She met his gaze and read in his face the concern in his words. ‘What can I do to take away the pain?’ She
almost answered his question, but caught herself and looked down instead at his hand enfolding her wrist. He saw her gaze and kept his grip a moment before he let her hand fall away from his, his disappointment almost audible when he turned to his meal and ate in silence while she continued her work.

Ah-tee-wana-see visited on the fourth morning, after Chi-hway led Magpie to work and learn. The old woman entered, smiling, and inspected the kitchen, stopping to taste Meg’s breakfast leftovers. Then she addressed Meg with, ‘Good morning, Sha-emen-sa-char, ’ using Chi-hway’s name for her as if it was common knowledge, while she assessed Meg’s appearance. ‘You’re not eating.’

‘No,’ Meg replied sullenly.

‘Interesting,’ Ah-tee-wana-see mused. ‘And why are you not eating, child?’

Meg didn’t answer, but when she looked up she saw that Ah-tee-wana-see was staring at her with a mixture of curiosity and surprise. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Because I’m talking in my language and you answered in it.’

Meg caught her breath. What had she done? In her native language she said, ‘You’re trying to trick me.’

‘I’ve already tricked you,’ the old woman replied in her Shesskar tongue and chuckled. ‘My grandson said that he thought you understood more than he expected, so I came to find the truth. And you are definitely more than you pretend, Sha-emen-sa-char. How did you learn our tongue?’

What answer could she give? ‘I—there was a man who came to our village when I was small. He stayed and we learned from him,’ she improvised.

‘What was his name?’

‘I forget,’ she blustered, and added, ‘no—it was—it was Chi-raman. He called himself the Travelling Man.’

‘And he taught you how to speak his language?’

‘Yes.’

Ah-tee-wana-see shook her head, smiling wanly. ‘You must have much to hide to have so much sorrow and to tell such lies, child. I truly am sorry for you.’

Meg’s guilt blossomed.
Why did I lie to her
? She lowered her head and avoided the old woman’s eyes, her shame overwhelming her.

‘When you need to tell the truth, send for me,’ Ah- tee-wana-see said as she touched Meg’s shoulder kindly. Meg looked up. ‘Sorrow makes us hide things we should not hide,’ the old woman cautioned. ‘An open heart will always be listened to.’ She went to the door, stopped, and added, ‘Tomorrow I will visit and eat with you after my grandson and your son have eaten. I will listen if you want to talk.’ And she left. Meg felt hollow. She cried much of the morning, huddled in the kitchen corner against the firewood, wrapped in her own arms.

‘Chuuk—that means axe,’ explained Magpie excitedly, ‘and their word for fishing is nashah.’ He stuffed another spoonful of gruel into his mouth and chewed, trying to speak at the same time. ‘I can say “I am hunting wildcat” too. Listen.’ He swallowed a portion of the food and said, ‘Ke sar oofla rekar! How’s that?’

‘You’re learning quickly,’ Meg told the boy, with a quick glance at Chi-hway who was nodding approval. ‘But why learn that phrase?’

‘Because that’s what we’re going to do this afternoon,’ Magpie replied eagerly.

‘Hunting a wildcat?’

‘Yes!’

‘What’s a wildcat?’

Magpie bit a chunk of bread and chewed in the pocket of his cheek as he answered. ‘You know—that creature that attacked us in the mountains—the one with the weird yellow eyes.’

Meg’s eyes widened and she looked at Chi-hway as she said to Magpie, ‘You can’t do that. It’s too dangerous.’

‘No it’s not. It’ll be fun. Chi-hway is letting me carry his spears.’

‘He’s hunting on his own?’

‘No. There’ll be others.’

Meg glared at Chi-hway, who met her gaze with calm indifference. ‘He is a boy,’ she said in Shesskar and she saw his eyebrow rise slightly. ‘He is too young to hunt dangerous animals.’

Magpie’s jaw dropped at the sound of Meg speaking the strange tongue fluently, although he had no idea what she was saying.

‘The boy is ripe to become a man,’ Chi-hway replied quietly in his deep tone. ‘I will teach him how to face danger with courage.’

‘Courage isn’t enough,’ she protested.

‘No,’ said Chi-hway, a faint smile on his lips, ‘courage is not enough. He has many skills yet to learn before he can hunt a wildcat alone, but courage is essential before these skills. A man without courage has no heart desire, and without desire there is nothing.’

Meg wanted to argue, but Chi-hway rose from his chair, indicating Magpie should follow him and that the discussion was ended. Magpie stared at Meg as he swallowed his last mouthful and dutifully obeyed Chi- hway’s direction. She knew he wanted to ask her how she knew the language, but she dismissed him with a brief smile before she set to clearing the table, letting the man and boy leave the kitchen.

She was angry at Chi-hway. He had no right to take the boy on a dangerous hunting trip.
She
was the boy’s protector—he’d chosen her in the absence of his mother. Or was she jealous that Magpie was happy? The boy was learning—he was excited about his unexpected new life in a strange land, being made into a warrior and hunter by Chi-hway—and she envied his joy. Her brothers would have been the same—if they had been in Magpie’s place. She choked at the thought, and steeled herself against the impending grief the memories rekindled.
I will not cry,
she insisted.
I’m done with crying.

Feet scuffing the earthen floor heralded Ah-tee-wana- see’s entrance, carrying a small steaming tureen. ‘Now you will sit and eat,’ the old woman ordered in her Shesskar language as she placed the green pottery tureen on the wooden tabletop.

‘I have to clean up,’ Meg argued.

‘After you have eaten, child,’ Ah-tee-wana-see insisted as she rummaged among the implements for a bowl, a spoon and a ladle, ‘and no more pretence of not speaking Shesskar. No more lies.’

Although she had no desire to eat, Meg acquiesced and sat as Ah-tee-wana-see scooped the contents of the tureen into a chipped ochre-red bowl. The aroma assailed her immediately and she suddenly felt her stomach twinge as her mouth salivated. ‘We call this amcha. You would call it a stew, I think. It’s good for refortifying the body and the heart. Eat.’

I don’t want to eat,
Meg reasoned, but her body rebelled and she gave in to its demand, savouring the flavours and texture of the first food to pass her lips since the broth she’d scoffed in Ah-tee-wana-see’s care. She ate until the bowl was empty.

‘You can have more when that is settled,’ said Ah- tee-wana-see, a smile of satisfaction lighting her face. ‘It
seems we’ve been here before,’ she added and chuckled. Memories blinked in Meg’s head. Ah-tee-wana-see reminded her of someone else, someone who’d been important to her. A face and a name connected—Emma. ‘It is time to unburden your heart, child,’ Ah- tee-wana-see said compassionately. ‘Grief locked away grows like the dark death that eats from within.’

The old woman’s wisdom melded with Emma’s image and Meg found the tears rising against her will.
I’m tired of crying,
she protested,
I have nothing left to cry,
but the tears came and she gave in, Ah-tee-wana- see’s arms enveloping her as a mother would her child.

C
reating the portal sapped her energy, but she felt renewed when the blue haze shimmered between the poles. She listened to the night world beyond her room, heard a dog bark twice in the silence, and was satisfied the village was sleeping. The days since her first portal experiment had ebbed and flowed through emotional turmoil and periods of work, time measured in tears and depression as her memories of family sparked and faded, until she felt as if she had no more tears left within to cry ever again. Her world was dead—crushed under the brutal Kerwyn horde that had sacked and burned her home and slaughtered her husband, her brothers, her mother, her—she swallowed and her lip trembled—her children. The kitchen aromas had reawakened all of her family memories. She knew who she was—who she’d been—and Ah-tee-wana-see had given her permission with her kindness to weep freely and to talk through her losses—to at least be herself in her grief. She told the old woman what she remembered about her family, her life in Summerbrook, and the people to whom she knew she had been close. She told Ah-tee-wana-see, when the old woman pressed
for an explanation as to why she could understand Shesskar as well as her own Shessian language, that she was blessed with the ability to understand others and believed that it was a gift from Jarudha.

‘Whitedog Hunter told me about your god,’ said Ah- tee-wana-see, ‘but he said that only the ones in the cities follow the teachings and that the priests are mad.’

‘I don’t know the truth,’ Meg replied. ‘I just know that I have this ability and people told me that it was a Blessing.’

Ah-tee-wana-see smiled and nodded. ‘In Shesskar-sharel we would say that you have a talent. My people long ago rejected the notion of gods and a spiritual universe. We see the world as it is and we see ourselves in it as we are. Some are born with more talent than others, some develop their talents as they grow—all of us have different talents.’

What Meg did not share was that she could conjure magic. She didn’t know how Ah-tee-wana-see would respond to her if she admitted that her Blessing was stranger and greater than simply translating at will. She said nothing about her memories associated with her life as Lady Amber, much of which still eluded her, and the pieces that did come to mind were dark and bitter memories. She would deal with that another time, when she resolved the loss of her children.

Ironically, not Ah-tee-wana-see but Chi-hway rekindled her desire to construct the portal. His words to her when he justified taking Magpie hunting—‘A man without courage has no heart desire, and without desire there is nothing’—twisted into her mind until she believed that the only hope she had of retrieving her children was to have the courage to enter the portal and release the owner of the voice that came to her in her dreams. He said that he could help her save her children. He was her hope.

She flinched at faint rustling in the straw in the corner of her shelter. With a flick of her wrist a tiny glowing sphere appeared in her hand and she angled its light towards the corner. A black rat sat up, dark eyes glittering. ‘Shoo!’ she hissed. The rat slid through a gap in the wood, but a memory lingered in its place.
Whisper
? Meg wondered. She’d seen the rat before—at her village, at the river, in the forest. The rat’s presence invoked another relationship she’d forgotten. ‘Whisper,’ she said quietly, staring at the gap in the wall. A black nose appeared, twitching. ‘Whisper,’ she crooned. The nose was followed by the rest of the rat and the little creature sat on its haunches, staring at her. She held out a hand and said, ‘Come on.’ The rat scampered across the straw and climbed onto her palm. ‘You’re heavy,’ Meg complained as she raised the animal to eye level and studied the sleek fur. ‘Did you follow me all the way from Summerbrook?’ The idea was absurd, she decided, looking at the little animal’s healthy condition—but how else could her pet rat be here in The Valley of Kings? Holding the rat, memories flickered through her mind of an old man—Samuel; an old woman—Emma; a dingo—Sunfire; scattered fragments and faces. She saw her children playing with the rat. She saw her children. Her knees weakened and she sank into the straw, letting the little creature slip from her hand. There were no tears left to cry, but sorrow still racked her body, leaving her convulsing for a long time. As much as she tried, Ah-tee-wana-see could not lessen the pain.

When she regained her equilibrium, she remembered the portal. The blue light shone between the posts, unchanged, and Whisper was gazing into it. ‘Can you remember where it goes?’ Meg asked, crawling to sit beside the rat. ‘We used to be able to talk, didn’t we?’ she said, looking at Whisper. The rat cocked its head. ‘How
did we talk?’ The rat blinked and rubbed its nose with a paw. Then it jumped through the portal. ‘Wait!’ Meg cried. As before, in the blue haze she could see a flat landscape and the shadows of dead trees. The voice told her this was Se’Treya, but she had no comprehension of what that meant. In the haze she could see the tiny shape of the rat, half-submerged in the ground. That was strange. She drew her breath and stepped through the light.

Memories flooded in as she stood ankle-deep in grey dust on a flat plain that seemed to go on until it melted into the horizon of sharp blue cloudless sky. The grey plain was broken with twisted white skeletal trees. Her head was spinning and the nausea of vertigo made her squeeze her eyelids tight and suck in the air. She’d come here from the island through her first portal, escaping the Seers. She’d never made a portal before that and the first one came here. Somewhere there was a hole in the ground, with steps leading into a crypt or a chamber where the man who haunted her dreams was pinned cruelly with axes to a dragon sculpture. She shivered. The Demon Horsemen were here as well. How had she forgotten them? She searched the landscape in fear of seeing the riders and a moment passed before she felt the insistent pull on her smock. She looked down to see Whisper tug at the fabric and scamper through the dust, stop, and sit up to look at her. ‘You want me to follow?’ Meg asked. The rat dropped and headed further through the dust towards a stark dead tree.

Whisper led her to where the ground opened in a neat rectangle, revealing grey stone steps. Carefully she descended, and when it became too dark she created a small light sphere and continued, Whisper trotting at the edge, black tail in the circle of light.
Down here is a chamber and someone trapped in a green shaft of light,
she remembered.
Down here are also the Demon Horsemen.
She stopped and dimmed her light. What if they were in the chamber? What could she do? Another memory surfaced—a memory of searing pain as a blade sliced across her back. A Demon Horseman had cut her back last time as she escaped. She’d been lucky. Why had she come back?
Because he called me,
she reminded herself.
Because he can save my children.

Marshalling her courage, she went on cautiously until she stood in the green light bathing the tunnel and the doorway to a chamber. At the centre of the chamber, lashed to the sculpture of a sleeping black dragon, was a naked man, his legs cruelly bent under his body and his arms wide, the shoulders pinned by battle axes—one gold, one black. The vision was encased in a shaft of green light that ran from the ceiling to the floor.
Glyph,
she thought.
He called it a glyph.
And then she stopped, a chill rippling along her body, as another memory flashed into her consciousness.
Close the portals after you.

She turned and ran along the corridor, her tiny light glowing overhead, and sprinted up the steps, the light vanishing halfway up. She emerged on the grey plain, staring at the point where she thought she’d appeared and she checked around the point. No sign of her portal. Had it automatically closed? Satisfied that the portal wasn’t left open she retreated down the stairs into the dark at the edge of the green glow.

I know you’re here.

The voice in her head startled her. She spun, staring fearfully along the corridor.

I’ve been waiting for you to come back. They’re not here this time. It’s safe to come in.

She crept along the corridor to the chamber.

Why don’t you answer me?

‘Where are you?’ she whispered sharply, and her words echoed through the chamber, louder than she
intended. Whisper scampered out of a corridor and sat at her feet.

Speak to me, the voice ordered.

‘I am,’ she whispered.

Speak to me, the voice ordered again.

The memories flowed like a stream. Mindspeak—she had to think the words. I’d forgotten how, she projected.

Forgotten? the voice asked.

I don’t know why, she replied. I’ve forgotten everything.

Who are you? the voice asked.

I thought you knew, she replied. She glanced around the chamber nervously, checking the four corridor entrances for light and movement. Her memories were sharp now. Last time the Demon Horsemen surprised her. Are you sure they’re not here?

Mareg’s minions always go hunting at this time, the voice explained, and she thought she heard a soft chuckle.

What’s so funny? she asked.

Time, the voice answered. It has no meaning here.

Then how do you know they’re hunting?

I know, the voice replied flatly. Who are you?

Meg was uncertain what to tell a strange bodiless voice. Meg, she finally said.

I thought all the Dragonlords were male, the voice said. Strange. Are you from Targa?

She nearly asked what a Dragonlord was, but her instinct stopped her. Instead she replied, No. Western Shess.

Never heard of it. West or north of Andrakis?

Again she held back her answer as she stared at the pale figure on the black statue. The stranger’s tone was oddly demanding for a being so pitifully and cruelly pinned—out of character. Who are you? she asked instead.

Don’t mock me, the voice replied. Confused by the answer, Meg repeated her question. In a derisive tone the voice replied, A Ahmud Ki. Satisfied?

The name flickered in a page of her memory, but nothing more. Who put you here? she asked. When A Ahmud Ki didn’t answer, she repeated the question with greater authority.

You should know, he replied. Your brother—Mareg Dru’Artha Sutnavanistra. Clearly he didn’t complete his plan to kill the rest of you.

His answer added to her confusion. Why did you summon me here? she asked.

Because I can save you, he said.

From what?

From him.

You said you can help me to save my children. Release me and I can help you.

She walked around the statue, an arm-span from the green glyph, remembering that it was dangerous, and studied the twisted figure. Lithe limbs tormented by gold wire and the axes, brutal injuries across the chest and shoulders, long braided hair splayed across the statue, she struggled to believe that anyone could be alive in that condition.

Are you listening to me? A Ahmud Ki interrupted.

I’m thinking, she replied.

Just get me out of here and I’ll help you, he offered.

She had no idea who Mareg of the strange name was. This man—this odd-looking creature—was also an unknown. Perhaps Mareg put him here because he was dangerous. How could Mareg be a threat to her? Why did this stranger think that she was Mareg’s sister? There were too many unknowns.

Are you going to help me?

She stopped and looked up at the thin elongated face with its high cheekbones and handsome quality. It
didn’t look entirely human. How can I be sure you’re not meant to stay here?

The exasperation and anger and pain in the reply staggered her. I didn’t do anything to deserve this! Look at me! Would you do this to anyone—maul and mutilate them, then lash them to a statue and let them languish like this for eternity? Is this right? This is the act of a madman, someone who relishes the agony of others. It’s not an act of justice! In the name of whatever god you follow get me out of here! Please!

The final single word was delivered with anguish, whispered in desperation, and followed with what physically would have been a sob, and it touched her core. And he was right. Her eyes told her the truth. Whatever right or wrong this man—this being—had committed, he didn’t deserve enduring punishment like this. A sick mind had put him on display, not the mind of a person wanting justice. She stared at the pale figure, at the silent emotionless face, and imagined the torment of being trapped like that and felt an endless well of pity open. What can I do? she asked.

Break down the glyph.

She looked at the shaft of green light. Glyph. She recalled studying the word a long time ago, in a library. It was a word that lingered in her dreams—a word he had brought to her. How?

She felt the surprise in his tone, even before the words formed. I thought you would know.

I’ve never done it before, she replied. I don’t even think I’ve forgotten it. I don’t think I ever knew.

Who are you? he asked again.

I told you. Meg.

Your name—what relation to Mareg are you?

I’ve never heard of Mareg, she admitted.

She sensed a shift in the stranger’s mood, an edge of uncertainty more akin to her own. You must at least know the Ki to get here, he said tentatively.

What key? she asked.

Magic. You must have magic—strong magic to be here.

They called me the Conduit, she explained. I remember now. I had Jarudha’s Blessing, but it’s the amber that channels the magic. There’s more, but I don’t fully understand it.

You speak of things I’ve never heard of, A Ahmud Ki told her. If you are here in Se’Treya you must possess the Ki, whatever name your strange people call them. I will teach you how to break down the glyph. It’s not easy, and it takes patience and care, but if you do exactly as I say, step by step, you will dissolve it. The magic binding the light must be unravelled like pulling a thread from fabric.

What if I make a mistake?

You won’t if you do as I say.

Meg considered the request and glanced around the chamber again and spied Whisper scaling a section of wall. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked the rat. Mindspeak—she remembered. Focussing, she spoke to the rat as she had to A Ahmud Ki but using images rather than words.