Authors: Kay Kenyon
Anton felt as though he were retreating from the field in some shameful manner. He would gather together his people
and their botanical cargo and leave. Now that there was civil war, he owed it to his mission to leave sooner rather than later. Because of devotion. Behind him, he left a world in chaos.
And perhaps made so much worse by his having come to the Olagong in the first place.
On the ridge, by the light of a nearly full moon, Gilar could see the River Sodesh in the distance. Boats went up and down it, filled with fire.
Mim blacked out the biolume and stared with Gilar. The river bums, the older woman sang.
For hours, as they'd hidden in the forest, the acrid presence of smoke swelled and faded, according to the wind's direction. Here at the ridge, they finally saw where the fires leapt, in the fields along the Sodesh and in torches from the boats.
Something's happened, Mim ventured, stating the obvious.
Oh yes, much had happened. Maypong was dead in the varium, by her own hand. And in that moment, Gilar turned from the stone palace in horror that such things could be. Before leaving, in a parting act of defiance, she and Mim had slain the two uldia, the two that were twisting the knotted rope around the neck of Captain Anton's crew member, Nick. Gilar and Mim had stolen upon the uldia guards and killed them, freeing the human. They fled in a skiff, but realizing the river would be the first place Oleel would search, they abandoned the boat, making their way into the wild hills on the southern bank of the Sodesh.
Gilar coughed, fighting off the bitter smoke. It is the Voi, perhaps.
Mim looked hopefully at Gilar, expecting her to take advantage of this event. As though Gilar were a strategist. But she wasn't. Why did the sisters expect her to know something that generations of hoda didn't know? She had no
plan. But she couldn't admit that to Mim, not with that expression on the old hoda's face.
They continued to watch the fiery scene on the river. It was astonishing to see torches in boats, as though the great river were inhabited by fire beings, their long hair trailing orange in the night wind. Gilar's eyes blurred, and the river scene vanished, replaced by the red water of the varium.…
Mim placed her hand on Gilar's forearm in warning. Something moved below them, in the ravine. Shapes wound through the forest. Gilar and Mim lowered themselves to the ground. But no one rushed up the hillside or raised an alarm. This group was headed in the opposite direction from Gilar and Mim. Toward the Amalang.
After the band passed, Gilar signaled for Mim to follow her, and they crept along the ridge, keeping the group in sight. By their dress and aspect, these weren't Voi, nor the king's soldiers, but highborn Dassa.
Now, directly below them, the group had stopped to reconnoiter, their voices carrying up the hill.
I'm going down,< Gilar signed. Wait here.<
Mim acquiesced, and Gilar crept into the ravine toward the voices.
The Princess Joon stood in the clearing, her attendants bearing biolumes that iced the scene with greenish light. Despite the obvious stealth of her small force—heavily armed, Gilar noted—Joon herself wore the brightest blue. Her short jacket was shot through with silver threads, and at her neck was an inset of dazzling white. She wore heavy boots and a slit skirt made for hiking. Around her were gathered her chancellors, including Gitam, and a contingent of hoda bearing gear. At least forty palace soldiers milled about, wearing the colors of the princess now.
“… and we will come in from the south,” Joon was saying.
Her captain motioned for his people to form up. “We will move within sight of the river, with luminaries. That should draw them.”
Joon was looking past his shoulder, her face tense. “No, too obvious. Let Romang track you. It will be dawn soon, and easy to do. I will take Gitam on the southern path, with too few of us to notice.”
“Yes, Lady.”
“Hand off my standards to the slave.”
The captain did so, giving one of the hodas two long poles, with blue and silver pendants furled.
Gitam was shouldering a pack, an odd sight for a noblewoman. But Joon would be traveling with a small retinue now.
As the group divided in two, Joon bid farewell to the larger contingent of her force. In the smoke-hazed air, the biolumes created a nimbus of light. She spoke to her captain. “Kill Romang if he pursues you. In the new braid, I would not be troubled by his face. If you wish to please me.”
“I will please you, Lady.”
“Oh yes,” she said, “you have done so, many times. But now it is war, and you must see me with new eyes. As your queen.” Joon went on, “When we meet on the Amalang, Nirimol will be present, standing at my uldia's side. But neither one of these is your commander, neither one is the First Dassa. Remember that, Captain.”
The captain murmured, “I need no reminder to be loyal, rahi.”
Joon held his gaze. “This Nirimol has ruined Homish with medicinals. Who could trust him, if he is a poisoner? So then, Captain, he will not lead our combined forces. If you please me, you will.”
The hoda was unfurling the blue standard.
Joon swung around to stare at her. “Hmm. I wonder if I have employed a fool. You don't look like you have water for brains. But perhaps I am wrong. Do you think banners will keep us invisible?” She waited for an answer.
The hoda could not respond, her arms being full. Finally she managed to sign, No, rahi. Forgive me.< She hastily rewrapped the banner, and stood trembling.
But Joon was in an evident hurry, and gestured her chancellor and the hoda to follow her as she strode from the clearing into the deeper forest. The larger group set out as well, in a different direction. Gilar watched as the bright silks of Joon's garment wove into the forest and the last of their passage became inaudible.
Gilar knew where they would eventually meet, unless Romang prevailed: Oleel's pavilion. Joon had abandoned Vidori. She had abandoned the braid, the world of the Three that was led by the king.
So then, the Voi had not attacked. Oleel had.
Gilar lay on her stomach in the rich humus of the forest floor, trying to absorb this event. Oleel had ever been Vidori's enemy. But to openly contest the king, that was a new thing in the Olagong, never seen since times of legend. The Princess Joon, it seemed, could not wait to be queen.
The junction of events brought dangerous waters. Dassa fighting Dassa. And in this convergence was Gilar's opportunity. She could sense great things on the move, could almost see her own form moving among the shadows, in the tumult. But what
was
her opportunity? To fight for hoda freedom? How could this be?
From the ridge, she heard Mim sing, Gilar, my sister?
Yes, coming, Gilar sang back. As she stood, a bird flapped in the bush, rising past her and causing her to stagger. Her heart pounded, and she stopped, listening for what might have caused the bird to flush from cover. But the stand of trees remained empty of all but her and the bird. Calming herself, she thought of the bird of legend, the ashi, and how when the rivers fell, their nests were easy prey.
May the rivers swell
, the saying went.
She stood very still, waiting. The forest was silent, smoke-filled. She listened, waiting for something: for the smoke, moving like a gray ghost, to take its voice, or for the nearby river to speak. Something was emerging, the thing that she had been looking for: her true vision.
What would it mean, she wondered, to be free among the Dassa? To keep their tongues? Perhaps to own land, to have occupations as hunters or chemists or soldiers? Simply allowed this freedom or that one. But all the while the hoda would remain beholden to their mistresses and the Three, and so would never rise high. And what could be given could be taken again. She didn't dare move, lest the thought fly away:
It was not enough to be free. To rise high, they must be separate as well as free. Because they were the fourth river. There had always been four rivers, despite what everyone said. There were the Puldar, the Amalang, and the Nool— the three, plus the greatest river, the Sodesh. How strange that the braids were always called the Three, when there were manifestly four. If there were four rivers, there were four powers—if the hoda dared to claim what was theirs.
So freedom wasn't the song. Power was.
She scrambled back up the hillside, her heart pounding anew. Yet something nagged.
As she topped the ridge, she stopped, gazing at Mim, a hoda these forty years. What would old Mim think of getting children the way it must now be done in the fourth realm? Because that was the price of hoda power: to grow children of their own bodies. There was no other way.
So be it
, she thought. They would find men willing to try a different sarif This was no time to be squeamish.
Mim stared at her. What, Gilar?
Gilar looked east, in the direction the sun would rise, in the direction of what might be an empty stronghold right now, if Nirimol was away fighting. She and her sisters needed a gathering place, one that could be defended. One that had a radio.
We'll take the Nool, Gilar sang.
She would worry tomorrow about the growing of children.
Bailey watched the Dassa calligrapher write out the words. The king's secretary held the writing implement in his left hand, while with his right hand he regulated the flow of ink down the tube, tracing the flowing script of the Dassa onto the paper.
As Anton had requested, Bailey was reading out Zhen's notes relating to the eleven codas, so that when the ship left, the Dassa would possess a translation.
“That will do for now, Isda-rah.” Bailey rose, folding Zhen's coda printouts into a small shoulder pack she'd borrowed from Shim.
The king's secretary looked surprised. He expected eleven codas, and they weren't finished yet.
Bailey smiled. “Come back in an hour,” she said, implying they'd finish then. She wouldn't be here when he came back. The copying task was for appearances, because Anton had ordered it.
Reluctantly, the secretary left, leaving behind his ink and paper. But he needn't have worried. The Dassa would have the codas. They were staying on Neshar with Bailey.
Isda had just finished copying the coda on Messaging Satellites. This planet was the nexus point. What better place to end her days than here, at the center of the universe? Culturally speaking. Even without the grand vision of the Quadi, she would have stayed. But the codas lent an extra dimension to her decision, folding her into something vast and old—the custodial duty. Though she didn't know how she could foster higher life in the galaxy, she liked seeing herself as doing her best for the hoda, with whom her destiny seemed linked by song.
Reassured by these thoughts, Bailey stopped by the crew quarters to say good-bye to Zhen.
Botanical samples and disassembled equipment lay in scattered piles, ready for boxing up. Zhen was packing, cramming her few personal items into a stuff sack. The woman was in a frightful mood, grumbling to Bailey and to
herself that it was not time to go, with so much left to do. To Zhen, the war was highly inconvenient.
Bailey put a stop to Zhen's rant, saying mildly “I want you to know, Zhen, how steady and invaluable you've been on this mission. I see that I chose well.”
Zhen frowned at this interruption. “Talk to Anton, then. Tell him to delay”
“Zhen, my dear, the Olagong is on fire. It's time to leave. Earth can send more ships. You can come back.”
A rude stare answered this pronouncement. “It will take
years
to get back here. I'll be past
thirty.”
“Ah,” Bailey said. “Over the hill.”
Zhen saw her mistake, shrugged. Returning to her packing, she said, ‘Anton's out in the compound making one last search for Nick. In case he's drunk somewhere under a palm tree.”
It was Bailey's excuse to leave. “Good-bye, Zhen, my dear.” She turned back at the door screen. “My bet is that you've already made your scientific reputation. A formidable place in your field, the envy of your peers.” Bailey sighed. “I hope you find celebrity more enjoyable than I did.” She looked at the woman with a growing lump in her throat. Then she smiled brightly and hurried off.
She wouldn't miss Nick, but Zhen and Anton were different matters. Especially Anton. Oh yes, a son to her in all the ways that mattered. She would have been proud to have him as a son. He'd come into the captaincy and grown up all at once, and she did love him—as much for the ways he'd stumbled and gotten up again as for the ways he'd so wildly succeeded. She really wasn't looking forward to this next part.
Out in the palace corridors, she made her way among hurrying Dassa, nobles, chancellors, and soldiers, each intent on some purpose of the king's. As she exited onto a covered walkway overlooking the plaza, she saw the king's guard forming up, bristling with weapons and milling about in orderly chaos.
Bailey looked up to the king's veranda. It was empty. But above that, above the third story of the king's quarters, the great lightning rod still commanded the roof. Bailey wondered if any Dassa could ever look at it again without seeing a girl bound to it. Gilar had good instincts for drama. It was one reason Bailey thought they'd get on well, if Gilar would accept Bailey's planned offer of singing lessons.
Once in the courtyard, Bailey couldn't see over the soldiers’ heads. Nevertheless, she threaded her way toward the other side of the plaza and its covered walkway. From there, it was a short walk to the palace gardens, where Anton might be found.
The crowd parted for new arrivals to the plaza. By the topknots on their heads, these were judipon. Bailey felt a momentary alarm, seeing the group that betrayed the king, but the soldiers let them pass, casting them sidelong scowls.
One of the judipon was old and stooped over, his skin waxy gray and his hair pulled up onto his head in a futile effort to create a bun. On each side of him two judipon supported his faltering steps. He tottered by, then stopped, despite his attendants’ efforts to keep him moving.
“Leave off! Leave off, you excremental toadies!” He yanked himself free with surprising force and turned toward Bailey, staring hard at her.