The Shaman (37 page)

“And
during all that time,” Lucoyo said, grinning, “the male Ulin fretted and fumed
for want of her favors, and cursed Lomallin?”

Manalo
smiled with him. “Indeed they did—and cursed harder when Rahani, having learned
her bitter lesson, ignored them still and turned to the human race to fill the
void in her, that needed something to care for and love. Indeed, she became the
most ardent of human-lovers, and Lomallin’s most staunch ally.”

Lucoyo
frowned. “Did her regard for him not rise when she saw him turn to fighting?”

“If
you mean, did she invite him to her bed, the answer is no. Perhaps she needed
him too much as a friend, perhaps his being her ally precluded his being her
lover—who can explain the minds and hearts of women?”

“Not
even female Ulin?”

“Them
even less.” Manalo glanced at Ohaern, who stood stiff and wide-eyed, drinking
in every word. Something changed in the sage’s eyes, and when he turned back to
Lucoyo, he spoke not of love and the goddess, but of war. “Because of their
efforts, humankind began to thrive and multiply—for Lomallin taught them to
hunt and fish, then learn the use of the bow and net, which brought them more
and larger game. Rahani taught them which roots and berries were good to eat,
so that they might gather them, and even taught them to plant seeds, so that
they would have more to eat in the next year. Moreover, she taught them
healing, so many of them were cured of diseases that would have slain them in
childhood. Marcoblin was not there to see, but his lieutenant Ulahane witnessed
humanity increasing in vast numbers and took this as a threat to the pleasures
and hegemony of the few Ulin who had survived the war. He hated Lomallin and
Rahani—since they were all that were left of the leaders of the
human-lovers—and blamed the whole war on him.”

Ohaern
came out of his trance. “Blamed him for the war? How?”

Manalo
shrugged. “In Ulahane’s eyes, it was not Marcoblin’s cruelty that had given
cause for fighting, but Lomallin’s sympathy for the Agrapaxians and humans.
Therefore did Ulahane beget a son upon a human woman—”

“One
who did not wish it?” Lucoyo guessed.

“One
who most definitely did not wish it—neither the son, nor Ulahane’s embraces!
But he hated humankind so deeply that any woman who
had
wished his
attentions would have given him no pleasure. No, it was rape, pure and simple.
Thereafter he kept the woman prisoner until her son was born, to ensure that
she would not seek to abort the child nor to slay herself in despair—which she
did, when Ulahane loosed her after the birth.”

“Did
he care?” asked the dwerg.

“Not
in the slightest,” Lucoyo said. “She had served her purpose—for him.”

Manalo
nodded. “Thus was born Kadura, reared with his father so that he should become
used to Ulahane’s service and accustomed to obedience, or to instant, dire
punishment for disobedience. Thus grew the first of Ulahane’s many Ulharl
children, reviled and taunted by the Ulin—”

Lucoyo
frowned. “Did not his father protect him from that?”

“Wherefore?
To Ulahane, Kadura was little more than a servant, and one who was tainted by
human blood besides. When he was grown, Ulahane sent him out among humankind to
teach them to worship Ulahane out of fear, a fear very like Kadura’s own. For
worship, they were to capture others of their kind for sacrifice to Ulahane—and
in the early days, when there were few, Ulahane came in person to torture those
given to him and delight in their agony.”

The
dwerg shuddered. “Why did they worship him if he did such things?”

“Because
if they gave him victims for his pleasure, he would spare them, his worshipers.”
Manalo looked down at the ground, frowning at the thought. “Thus was a religion
of fear born among humankind, and thus came war, as other nations banded
together, seeking the protection of Lomallin and Rahani and their allies, and
defending themselves against the assaults of Ulahane’s devotees.”

“But
did not Ulahane’s slaves realize there was escape for them if they fled to the
temples of the human-lovers?”

“They
did,” Manalo said, “so it was then that Ulahane had to begin blandishments and
bribes—sexual pleasure and wordly success—”

“Even
like these villagers from whom we have just escaped!” Lucoyo cried.

“Even
like them.” Manalo nodded. “Labina’s preaching was only Ulahane’s old cant,
dressed up with a make-believe nightmare goddess, to seduce away the folk who
worshiped Rahani. This is why I say Alique is a mockery of Rahani, a
perversion.” He looked up at Ohaern. “What troubles you?”

So
he had seen the turmoil in his breast! Ohaern thought. He asked, “Are there
other Ulin who would bind a man to their service by the promise of passion?”

“Many,”
said Manalo, giving him a penetrating look, “but only Rahani would do it
without some measure of cruelty. Indeed, only Rahani would enchant a man with
love—though not such love as she might feel for a man of the Ulin.”

“I
see,” said Ohaern with a sardonic smile. “Only such love as one might give a
favored dog, eh?” It helped, the awareness of his own absurdity.

“More
than that, far more than that,” Manalo assured him. “Beware your dreams,
Ohaern. You know what is right or wrong—do not follow any who would have you do
evil!”

“That
is not my case,” Ohaern assured him. “I only need beware those who bid me do
right.”

There
was relief in Manalo’s glance, and—could it have been envy? Or jealousy? Or
even both? Whatever it was, it was gone quickly, and his smile warmed as he
said. “Then you need not beware, O Hunter—any more than you would with any
quarry. But come, we linger too long! Let us go, before the villagers find our
trail!”

He
led them away, and Ohaern followed, reflecting that at least the sage had not
told him to beware as if he
were
the quarry. He decided that he would
exercise such caution anyway.

Not
that it would do him any good.

By
dawn they were far down the coastline, and Manalo had led them out along a
peninsula of stone that formed a natural harbor. They camped there among the
rocks, warmed by the sun and eating the fish the Klaja speared. They slept
through the day, all except Manalo, but when they woke at evening and Manalo
showed no sign of again taking up their march, Lucoyo became restless. “When
shall we go, O Sage?”

“Perhaps
tomorrow,” Manalo answered, “perhaps the next day, or the next.”

The
half-elf frowned. “What do we wait for?”

“A
ship.” Manalo turned to Ohaern. “We cannot find that sheep he wished for, but
you might seek a gazelle or such. Do not wander far, though.”

“I
shall not,” Ohaern promised. “Come, Lucoyo!”

They
were back within an hour, with wood for a bow and arrows, and a dozen rabbits.
Ohaern allowed them a small and smokeless fire of dry wood, to roast the catch;
then Lucoyo set to chewing the skins and sewing himself a fur kilt. He, at
least, found occupation.

But
just before nightfall, a ship appeared, coasting along near the horizon. Manalo
gave an exclamation of satisfaction and stepped up to the highest rock, where
he recited an incomprehensible verse—which Ohaern memorized, consonant for
consonant and vowel for vowel—as he waved his staff in some very strange
gyrations. The ship sailed closer, much closer, until it dropped anchor,
apparently having decided to pass the night in their little harbor. Manalo
waved and called, and after a while a small boat put out from the ship with
several men aboard. They shared the rabbit stew and bargained for the amber
Manalo pulled from his pouch, and the upshot was that when the ship put out to
sea at dawn, Manalo and his whole little company were aboard.

They
sailed along the seacoast for days. Lucoyo grew restive, for there was only so
much work he could do on his bow in a day. He eventually became so hard put as
to help the sailors in their endless washing of the ship. Ohaern, though, was
content to watch the waves and the passing coastline, letting his mind roam
free. The Klaja and the dwerg seemed to share his serenity, though their ease
might have simply reflected a massive patience in both. Manalo took advantage
of the time to teach Ohaern a few more spells, then a few more beyond that, and
perhaps another half-dozen. Ohaern felt as if he were nothing but a memory on
two legs by the time Manalo finally sought out the captain and told him to put
them ashore.

“Here?”
the captain cried in dismay. “It is nothing but a barren desert! You will die
of hunger and thirst!”

“Then
give us sour wine to carry with us, and water skins,” Manalo replied. “Fear
not—we shall find shelter. But it is here that we must land.”

So
the sailors rowed them ashore, with Ohaern wondering if Manalo were leading
them to their doom, but careful not to let it show in his face.

Lucoyo,
however, had no such inhibition. He let it show indeed, and when that did not
bring forth any explanations, he insisted on knowing. As the sailors rowed
away, he demanded,
“Now
how shall we live, O Sage?”

“Fear
not, Lucoyo; my knowledge will be your shield—also your coat and hat.” Manalo
beckoned with his staff. “Onward! for where we must go is a long and arduous
distance, and we must be there when the moon is full!”

He
turned away, and Ohaern followed, with Lucoyo behind him, grumbling, and the
dwerg and the Klaja bringing up the rear. Ohaern watched their guide and leader
with concern, though. It might have been his imagination, but he could have
sworn he had seen lines of care in Manalo’s face—care, and growing
apprehension. What could there be so mighty as to make Manalo fear?

They
wandered through an arid waste where only tough, sparse grass grew—perhaps
enough for a few goats, if they were not terribly discriminating in their diet.
What water they would have found for drinking, Ohaern could not see—but the
sage forged ahead with a steady, tireless gait and seemed never in doubt as to
where he was going.

The
Klaja was the first to grow weak with the heat. “Must rest,” he informed them,
and sat down right where he was.

It
still amazed the smith to hear so bestial a face utter words that were so
human. He turned back to urge the poor creature to its feet. “You cannot rest
here, friend! The sun will grow hotter, and you have no shelter.”

“Cannot,”
the Klaja lamented. “Too hot”

“Here,
cool yourself.” Feeling prodigal, Ohaern spilled a precious handful of water over
the Klaja’s head. The beast looked up in surprise, then licked the wet fur
about its mouth with a long pink tongue. “More!”

“Only
a few swallows.” Manalo had turned back to help. “Then you must fight your way
to your feet, O Klaja, so that we may journey onward to a bit of shade.”

“What
if there
is
no shade?” Lucoyo glanced at the sun fearfully; like most
northerners, he had never thought it could be a source of danger.

“I
know of a place,” Manalo assured him.

“Know?”
The half-elf pounced on the word. “You have been here before, then?”

“Only
a little farther,” Manalo urged the Klaja, and it pushed itself to its feet,
already panting and slobbering again. Lucoyo looked up in irritation and was
about to repeat his question when Ohaern’s slight shake of the head caught his
eye. He frowned with resentment—what right had Ohaern to tell him what not to
do?—but subsided. Still, he wondered how the sage could be so sure as he
followed Manalo deeper into the waste.

They
did indeed come to a rocky outcrop into which the wind had carved niches where
they could find shade, and even some coolness stored in the stone from the
night. They shared a meager meal of hard biscuit and dried meat, washed down
with carefully measured mouthfuls of water, then tried to sleep a little. As
the sun swung low, Manalo shooed them out and led them off toward the east
again.

They
marched till darkness fell, then lit a fire, for the heat of the day was
followed by an amazing chill. Ohaern went hunting and found nothing—but the
Klaja came back with two hares and refused to eat any, claiming to have already
devoured a third. At last they slept—deeply, due to exhaustion— but Manalo
rousted them out as the sky began to lighten, and set them on their way again.

That
was the pattern of their days, for a week. Manalo refused to tell them where
they were bound, or how he knew where to find shade and, every few days, a pool
welling from the rock, or a small rivulet. Not understanding why, the
companions nonetheless trudged through the dreary waste, their minds numbing
and emptying to nothing more than overcoming the dreariness and heat till the
next resting place. Around them the grass grew ever more scarce, and patches of
sand and bare rock grew more frequent. Then Manalo’s next spring turned out to
be only a powdery basin of dust, and the companions had to force themselves to
go on and on, with only occasional mouthfuls of brackish water as their water
skins grew lighter and flatter. Finally, the Klaja refused to rise when the sun
dipped, and his friends stood in consternation about him. They would not leave
him, but they no longer had the strength to carry him, either.

Then
the dwerg fainted.

Lucoyo
sat down on the ground with a cry of despair, clutching his head. “The heat
drives me mad, it makes the blood pound through my temples, awaking an ache
with every passage! Sage, make it stop!”

Manalo
laid a hand on his head, muttering an ancient formula. The half-elf sagged with
relief, then slumped back against the rock, and Manalo stepped aside, motioning
Ohaern to follow. “They can go no farther without water,” he told the smith in
a low voice. “Here, take my water skin. Guard them and measure out the liquid.
Give them mouthfuls of the sour wine as often as they will take it, for it
quenches thirst better than water.”