Shadow Gate (24 page)

Still, any Hundred-born-and-bred man must admit that the situation in the Sirniakan Empire was unpleasant, with lords and priests able to kill any man they wanted at their whim, with helpless folk born into slavery and never able to buy themselves free, with women trapped like animals behind high walls. When Kesh had hired a Sirniakan driver named Tebedir to cart his trade goods north from the empire on the very last trading
journey Kesh had taken as a slave, Tebedir had made all kinds of awful remarks that struck Kesh's ears as offensive or cruel. And yet, Tebedir stuck by his oath to stay with Kesh even when they'd been attacked by bandits in the village of Dast Korumbos. He could have run, but he'd said himself that honor was more important than death.

So who was the better man, Feden or Tebedir?

“Peace. Peace. Peace,” he whispered. A wind soughed up from the basin. Rain pattered through the stones. But he was not soothed.

When bandits had attacked, threatening to rob him of the precious treasure that would buy his and Bai's freedom, he had prayed to Beltak, Lord of Lords and King of Kings, the Shining One Who Rules Alone. And after that, the black wolves—Captain Anji's troops—had ridden as out of nowhere to save their caravan from the os-preys who sought to pillage it. So maybe Beltak had answered his prayer. Or maybe it had just fallen out that way. Maybe he'd just been lucky that the right people had come along at the right time. Maybe it was only that Master Feden had abused his power and gone against the law because he wanted to enrich himself and squeeze the throats of others more than he wanted to do what was right in the eyes of the gods.

On Law Rock in Toskala, the laws governing the Hundred were carved in stone.
When a person sells their body into servitude in payment for a debt, that person will serve eight years and in the ninth go free.

But laws mean nothing, not really. They only mean something if people agree they do, if people walk in obedience to the law, or are forced to comply. If your heart had turned away from the law, then your heart would not restrain you when you violated it. Long ago the Guardians had stood over the Hundred, to guard the law, while the reeves had enforced the law. But the Guardians vanished, and while some of the reeves were turning their back on their duty to enforce the law, the
others were losing their power to do so even if they wanted.

So who was a reeve to talk of justice? Who was anyone to do so? Anyone could be lying. Anyone could be speaking words out of the right side of her mouth and acting opposite them with her left hand.

Aui! His Air-touched mind could not quiet. He must turn and turn things, flit from one thought or memory to the next. He must wonder what was happening in Olossi. He must wonder what would happen to Nasia, who had been his fellow slave and lover for four years even though he had abandoned her the day he'd returned. He must wonder what would happen to the treasure he had obtained far to the south through simple good luck. He had handed off the ghost girl without a second's regret, trading her freedom and her life in exchange for Zubaidit's freedom.

He must wonder about the envoy of Ilu he had met on his last journey over the Kandaran Pass. That amiable man had conversed cheerfully with him, had laughed kindly at him:
“Goats are inconstant and unstable, prone to change their thinking, especially if they're Air-touched and liable to think too much. Still, they can survive anything!”

Kesh suspected now that the envoy had been looking for the ghost girl with the demon-blue eyes. It should no longer matter. The envoy was dead, murdered in the bandit attack, yet his face and voice haunted Keshad. How was it that you might meet a person and spend only a day with them, and yet have them imprinted so deeply on your heart and your mind that they could never be forgotten?

The rain eased. The wind stilled. He slipped into a state drifting between a waking dream and a restless doze.

He woke abruptly, but he wasn't sure what had broken his sleep. Listening, he heard nothing except the whisper of wind through the stones and the irregular
drip of water onto stone. Some night animal had been out on the prowl and wandered away, that was all. Yet the night's unease had returned, and along with it the memory of that last trip over the mountains out of the south. The envoy of Ilu was dead. He hadn't even known the man's name, but he could still remember vividly the look of his face and sound of his voice and the effortless way the man had negotiated the twisting paths of life.

A
FTER THE TWILIGHT
rains washed through, the waters of the wide Olo'o Sea calmed to become a mirror in whose depths burned those few stars visible between tattered clouds. The moisture soaking into the earth woke a sweet scent that permeated the air. Long ago, an unknown hand had planted a stand of thorn trees in a crude semicircle, with the open side facing the inland sea. A traveler's shelter, four poles and a low thatch roof, was tucked away within that protecting fence. A man uncovered the fire pit and blew on its coals until flame rose along fresh wood. By its light, he sat back on his heels and busied himself with raking stray embers into the center, where he'd built a frame of kindling. Light flared as the embers caught in the wood.

He was a slender man of mature years, no longer young and not yet elderly, and dressed in the gaudy manner of an envoy of Ilu: baggy pantaloons as dark as plums, a knee-length tunic woven of a cloth as pale as butter, and a voluminous cloak that in daylight would be seen to be the same color as the cloudless sky, a pure, heavenly blue.

He hummed softly, hoping the sound of this wordless melody, like the rains upon the parched earth, would soften the girl's hard shell.

She said nothing. Silence, like night, is a cloak that conceals.

She was young, no longer a girl and yet not entirely a woman, and startlingly, disturbingly, horribly pale with
a ghostly complexion and hair colorless as straw. She seemed to be staring at the ground, not even lifting her gaze to the lovely dance of fire. So be it. He was patient.

He tended the fire. Waves slapped the tumble of rocks in the shallows before hissing back into the sea. She sat on a large rock that some thoughtful soul had rolled into place untold years ago, a homely act to benefit strangers from whom the builder could never hope to gain thanks, or profit.

“It is hard to know whether we will meet with brutality or kindness in the world,” he mused aloud. The fire popped. A spark dazzled, spinning into the air, then flicked out. “Or indifference. I traced the tracks of your passage to the temple of the Merciless One by Olossi, and there indeed I did find you. I admit you were not what I expected. I thought you would speak your name and know at least something of where you came from. That's usually how we awaken. But, in truth, how is life ever what we expect? We are constantly surprised. I suppose it is those who wish never to be surprised who cause most of the trouble. I wonder . . .”

She did not rise to the bait. He rose, returned to the shelter, and picked up one of the torches that a passing traveler had bound and left for those who would come after. A small courtesy, one of many in the fabric that weaves society together. He thrust the knotted end into the fire. Flames licked up the torch to reveal their surroundings more clearly: The outline of thorn trees was softened with white flowers folded against the night. The grass in the clearing was cropped short. A red flag was tucked into a corner of the shelter, one flap loose, and bound by a rope that could be used to tie it atop the roof as a signal to any passing reeve if travelers found themselves in trouble.

He walked toward the shore but halted where the last thorn tree held its ground. A treasure was caught in the branches. Using his free hand, he eased it free, then walked back to the fire holding a huge feather mottled
brown and white. The feather was as long as his arm but so light it was like holding air in his hand.

“A tail feather. See how the quill runs right down the center. You'll learn to know the shape of any given type of feather, whether it is a tail feather, or the leading edge of the wing, or the rear edge, or a contour feather grown close to the bone . . .”

Even the precious eagle's feather did not attract her attention. She stared as into a void.

He sighed. In the days since he'd found her, he had not touched her in any manner, fearing that even a reassuring pat might be interpreted as violence. It was so hard to tell with this young thing, caught as she was in the whirlpool of awakening and trapped as well in a deeper stream whose currents he could not fathom. Some other trap was strangling her voice. She must emerge of her own will, by her own choosing, in her own time.

Yet leisure was the one thing they did not have. Now that he—and she—were back in the Hundred, those who wished to destroy them would seek them out swiftly and without mercy. Days and months and years they had in plenty, given what they had become, and yet a measure in which to pause and breathe, they had not at all.

“We can't stay here long,” he said.

Mindful that the molt feathers of the giant eagles were sacred to the gods, he anchored the feather within the bristling hedge of thorn trees. The gods must watch over that which they deemed sacred. Another traveler would come, and find it, or no one would.

He stood beside the shelter with the torch still blazing, his gaze turned toward the dark sea. He mused aloud, as had become his habit over the years. He was not a man who liked to be alone, but he had learned to endure solitude when he must and enjoy company when he could. Anyway, he supposed that the sound of his voice, kept low, might soothe her.

“After so many years and such an arduous journey, I
expected further trials of a very different sort.” He chuckled. “So I am paid in my own coin, being given what I had hoped to avoid. Yet it did seem to me that you recognized something, that there was a spark of knowledge, a moment of trust, when we first came face-to-face in the temple of the Devourer. You gave me a question, and a decision. You asked me, ‘Who are you?' You told me, ‘I will come with you.' And here you are, and here I am.” He smiled, amused by his own consternation. “Aui! Now it seems you cannot speak, or will not speak. I love conversation above all things. Shelter over my head, a dram of cordial, a well-laid table, and a few cheerful companions with whom to pass the evening! I like to think of myself as a man who makes few demands, and is easy to please, and content with little enough, but I see the gods have chosen to test me in the manner meant to make it hardest for me. So it goes.”

Her torso expanded and contracted as she took in and released breath, that was all.

“I remember my own awakening—a long time ago now, to be sure! It took the patient coaxing of a pair of cloaks—like you and me—to instruct me. Twilight was one. Strange that I can't now recall the other. Yet there is more to your silence, for it's not the usual way—not that there's anything wrong with it, mind you! What brought you here? Where did you come from? How—why—did the cloak of mist reach to you? What is your name? I have a name, too, although no person has called me by name for a very long time. I was born in the Year of the Blue Rat, which is what makes me what I am. We Rats are known for being acquisitive, but Blue Rats don't grasp after money but rather after company and conversation and secrets. Then I was dedicated to Ilu, the Herald, because I was always restless, seeking, wandering. And named by my mother in honor of the Water Mother, whose fluid nature thereby enhances those other qualities. It's a wonder I can keep silence at all! Nothing like
you. I suppose we're well matched in that way. I talk, and you—heya!—maybe you listen and maybe you're hearing some other voice entirely, one I can never hear. Maybe you're tired of voices.”

The wind has a voice, light and airy, full of promise, but sometimes cruel and rough. So does the rain have a voice, and the waters of the sea lapping the shore with their constant motion, never entirely quiet, able to choke and drown those the sea swallows. Fire has a voice, first crackling and impatient and later fading into a soft burn that may spark again when least expected. The earth's voice seems to slumber, but she, too, speaks in her slow, measured way and she may crack when none expect her temper.

Even demons and ghosts can speak, if one has the ears to hear.

She raised her head.

He smiled gently, to encourage her.

She was looking beyond him. He turned. The two horses had wandered back into view. They differed from ordinary horses in several ways, two of which were obvious now: they possessed uncanny night vision, and they had wings, at this moment folded tightly over their backs and flanks. She rose, walked past him, and went to the horses.

She didn't approach too quickly but held back, waiting for them to invite her. They let her know they'd allow her to approach. She stroked their ears and noses. She had a treat for each, shriveled pieces of fruit he'd not seen her hide in her sleeves.

He must coax her as one would a skittish, abused, anxious horse. Her scars ran deep, certainly, but she hadn't run away from him. Or maybe it was just that she hadn't run away from the horses. He must be patient. He had time in plenty, after all, as long as their enemies did not catch up to them before he had won her trust and taught her the terrible truth about what she had become.

The surviving militiamen from various villages and towns in the eastern Olo Plain had been hastily organized to patrol the roads and tracks and to guard safe havens. In these havens, folk who had fled their villages or lost their homes could gather, catch their breath, reassess their situation, and decide what to do next. That was the idea, anyway. In practice, it wasn't so easy.

After a day searching the Soha Hills, Joss and his eagle returned to the staging camp at the southwestern edge of the hills. In ancient days, a refuge had been constructed on a pair of hills joined by a narrow ridgeway path. Farmers still worked the terraced fields, but the walled fortifications had been uninhabited for as long as anyone could remember. Both hilltops had been stripped of trees and substantially leveled, although the taller hill retained a rocky protuberance on the northern edge of the steepest slope, a perfect landing and perch for the big eagles. Leaving Scar up in these rocks, he scrambled down to the open ground and walked straight into an assault of petitioners.