by Gregory Ashe
Chapter 43
Abass ran through a maze of too-tall trees that shifted and blurred around him, leaves melting together against the blue sky, trunks threatening to dissolve into flat brown puddles. The taste of blood filled his mouth, and, with it, the desire for more. He hungered in a way he had never imagined possible—only blood could sate that hunger.
Something chased Abass, and even running on all fours—the way he was meant to run—Abass could not get away. Always it was closer, its breath hot on his neck, moist with slaughter. The thing that hunted him would kill him, would fill its mouth with his blood—it hungered the same way that Abass hungered. And it was faster and stronger.
Abass’s heart pounded against his ribs; he was familiar with that tattoo of maddened panic, but he had never felt it before himself. Always he had tasted that fear, sharp and sweet, in the pounding blood of his prey as it died while Abass slaked the impossible thirst. Now it was inside him, though, and he knew there was no escape.
Steps pounded behind him, his hunter’s great weight shaking the earth, dirt spraying into the air as its claws tore the loose soil that, like the trees and the leaves, threatened to slide away into an unintelligible blur. Closer and closer came the steps, and Abass tried to run faster. His heart pounded so that he thought it would burst.
Something caught him, a claw that raked open his chest and sent him tumbling through the air to strike one of the melting tree trunks. Abass hit the tree and slid to the ground, dazed. He felt no pain, only the incredible pressure in his heart.
It had him now. Even from the base of the tree, Abass could taste its breath on the air. He could taste its need. The creature’s shadow touched him—
Abass lurched upright, heart pounding. Sweat like ice covered him; something damp and heavy covered him. His eyes darted wildly, looking for the creature that hunted him, but they found nothing but darkness.
Light burst over him. He saw the table, the washstand, the blanket soaked in his sweat. Father take me, he thought, leaning against the wall. My room. Tair bless me, I’m in my room.
“You alright?”
Abass glanced over to the hallway, where the light poured into his room. Eyl stood there, a candle in one hand, his face unreadable in the shadows.
“Yeah,” Abass said. “Yeah, Father take me. I’m fine. Just a dream.”
“Ah,” Eyl said. “Dew dream. Your first one?”
Still leaning against the wall, Abass said, “I guess. What’s a dew dream?”
“Were you hunting or being hunted?”
“Being hunted,” Abass said. He shivered and hoped the other man would take it for nothing more than a chill.
“That’s a dew dream,” Eyl said. “One of the two kinds. In the other one, you’re the hunter.”
“Father take me,” Abass said, “I’d rather have that.”
“Just wait until you do,” Eyl said. “Until then, you might want to get dressed. Qatal is back.”
“What time is it?” Abass asked.
“An hour or so until dawn,” Eyl said. “Better hurry; he and Maq are at it again.”
Eyl set the candle on the dresser and shut the door behind him as he left. Abass pulled himself from bed, using the damp blanket to wipe the cold sweat from his chest and face. He dressed quickly, pulling on a linen shirt and a pair of dark blue trousers, then his boots. Tying the pouch of dew to his belt as he went, Abass hurried out of the room.
Candles lit his way downstairs, and the sound of raised voices led him to the same sitting room where Maq and Qatal had fought the last time. They stood in almost identical positions, Qatal near the window, his black clothing torn, hair matted with blood, and Maq cool and composed in a blue robe. Eyl leaned against the wall near the door, and Serhan, his missing eye covered with a cream-and-gold scarf, stood with one hand on the back of Maq’s chair.
“—that was the promise,” Maq said, his voice hard. “You broke it when you decided to go looking for your wife, Qatal, and you knew it then. Now that things haven’t worked out, you come back and ask for my help again.”
“She might be dead,” Qatal said. “Or dying. Please, Maq—help me find her, and I’ll do whatever you ask.”
“You’ve promised your help before,” Maq said. “I’ve no need of someone I can’t trust.”
“What’s going on?” Abass asked, moving to the center of the room. He looked at Qatal. “Where have you been? I was afraid you were killed.”
Qatal shifted and turned to look at the thick drapes covering the window. “I had to lead the Renewed away,” he said. “He would have followed me back here, and then they would have figured out everything.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Abass saw Serhan pull his hand from Maq’s chair to rest it on a long knife at his belt.
Maq raised one hand and said, “How long was he separated from you?”
“What does it matter?” Abass said. “He saved our lives.” Turning back to Qatal, he said, “What’s the problem? We’ll try another hold tomorrow.”
“The problem?” Qatal shook his head. “Did you see that place tonight? They’re not using the holds as prisons, Abass. That was . . . something else.”
“If you had not compromised yourself,” Maq said, “we would not have this problem. You would know the tair’s plans. Unless . . . perhaps Serhan’s concerns are not unfounded.”
“I’ve done what you asked, Maq,” Qatal said. He turned to face the old tun-esis, his cheeks red. “Everything. And now Isola is lost to me, you stupid, greedy old man. If I had never listened to you—”
“We would both be dead,” Maq said, cutting him off. “Balat and Ayde would not have waited for me to disappear; the tair already suspected my allegiance was fading. What would you have done differently, other than die with a salt-blade through your heart one night?”
Qatal shook his head and collapsed into one of the chairs.
“It’s time you told me what is going on,” Abass said.
“You,” Maq said, his mouth drawing into a tight line. “The only reason you agreed to help was because you thought you saw a chance for revenge, and now you make demands?”
“I want to find my sister,” Abass said. “How does that upset your plans?”
“Because, you fool, the High Harvest is less than a pair of weeks away, and killing a god is not a simple matter!”
Maq’s high-pitched shout echoed after his last words, stretching out into a tight silence.
“Killing a god? What, you think you’re the next Sikkim of Evirin?” Abass said. The folk hero bandit had tried to bring down the tair less than a dozen years before. “It didn’t work well for him or his daughter. They ended up screaming as they bled out on the tair’s altar.”
“Did you think the rebellion would never come here?” Maq asked. “The rebels in the other Paths may be too busy fighting with each other at the moment, but that will not last forever. Instead of being conquered, instead of waiting to be delivered, we will free ourselves.”
“It is time,” Serhan said, breaking his customary silence. “That bastard has taken enough lives; the people will call us saviors.”
“And how do you kill a god?” Abass asked.
Maq smiled. “The rebels found a way.”
Abass shook his head. “I want nothing to do with this. Once I find Isola, I’m out of here.”
“Think carefully,” Maq said. “No one who knows this plan will leave this room alive unless he is party to it. You want to save your fool sister? Save her. You have a day, perhaps two. Then we must finish our preparation for the rebellion. You agreed to help me when you took the brachal. Change your mind now, and it will be the last thing you do.”
With a quick glance at Eyl’s face—unfamiliar in its grim severity—Abass realized Maq spoke the truth. Swallowing to ease the dryness in his throat, Abass gave a quick nod. Father take me, he thought, what am I doing?
“And for you, Qatal,” Maq said. “The same. You knew the risks when we began. Do yo
u remember that child at the rain harvest? How old was she?”
Qatal buried his face in his hands.
“How old?” Maq’s voice struck harder than stone.
“Eight,” Qatal whispered from between his hands. “Eight years, Father take me.”
“And you held her arms as the tair opened her throat,” Maq said. “The spray of blood covered half your face. Would you return to that?”
Qatal, face still covered, shook his head slowly.
“Then find your wife,” Maq said. “And do it quickly. Because we must finish what we started, my friend.”
Qatal looked up and nodded. Then he vanished, only the burst of air marking his passage to Abass’s unenhanced vision.
Face calm and cold, Maq turned to Abass and said, “We’re done for the night. Remember what you’ve agreed to; I will not tolerate betrayal. Eyl, take him upstairs. I have things to discuss with Serhan.”
The stout, bearded man grabbed Abass by the arm and led him from the room and back upstairs. When they stood on the upper landing, Eyl frowned and said, “I’m sorry I brought you into this, Abass. You were dying, and it was the only way—”
“It’s alright,” Abass said. “It’s the only way to save Isola. Thank you for what you did for me, but Eyl, Father take me, what is Maq thinking? Killing our god? The sacrifices are what keep life in the land—they’re part of the cycle.”
Eyl shook his head. “I—” He stopped. “When Maq found me, I was an esis.”
Abass blinked in surprise.
With a chuckle, Eyl said, “I know, I don’t look the part anymore. But I was an esis, and I was a guard in the pits. Tair bless me, I hated that place more than anything. The misery—only someone who’s been there can understand.” He met Abass’s eye. “When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I was going to take my own life. I couldn’t even bring myself to be a sacrifice for the harvest—I was a coward; I just wanted it to be over. Maq found me that night, by chance. I didn’t care that he was the tun-esis; I told him everything. He listened. He understood. And then he gave me something worth living for.” Then, with a sad smile, he added, “I was the first one to join him.”
“And yet you still swear by the tair,” Abass said.
“A man’s got to believe in something,” Eyl said. “That was true even in the pits. Good night, Abass.” The stout man pulled a bench over to the stairs and stretched out on it.
Abass turned toward his room, then took a different hallway. Fadhra had not awoken by the time they had returned to Maq’s house. He wanted to see how she was doing. As quietly as he could, he eased open her door, cursing the band of light that fell across her face. He stepped inside, wishing he had taken some dew so he would not need the light, and knelt next to her bed.
Her breathing was even, her breasts rising and falling, half-visible under the white sheet. Abass tried to ignore the sudden pounding in his pulse. She was fine; she had dew to help her heal. He was being a fool.
Tearing his eyes from her barely concealed curves, Abass pushed himself to his feet. As he turned to leave the room, her voice stopped him.
“Like what you see?”
He turned back to her. “Tair fend, Fadhra,” he said. “I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re awake.”
“Your ogling sent a clear enough message,” Fadhra said. She opened her eyes and curled onto one side, the sheet slipping dangerously low. The brachal, white as bone, shone against her porcelain skin.
“Sorry,” Abass said, grateful for the darkness that hid the heat in his cheeks. “I was just checking on you. Maq and Qatal were fighting, and I found out Maq wants to kill a god.” He laughed nervously, then bit his cheek to force himself to stop. The conversation with Maq was bubbling back, and with it came a wave of hysteria. “Tair bless me, I’m not thinking straight. I’ll leave you to rest.”
Her hand reached out and grabbed his. It was surprisingly soft; she was so dangerous with the dew in her, so strong, but in the shadows, with only the heat of skin on skin to connect them, she felt small and fragile and beautiful.
“You’re upset,” she said, pulling him closer.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Abass said, the words tumbling out. “I just wanted to save Isola, but I always make things worse. Tair fend, it’s why they sent me away in the first place. I always put people in danger, and now Maq wants me to help him kill a god, and I’m going to get Isola hurt, or you, or Eyl, or someone else I care about.” Where the words had lain coiled inside him was now empty, revealing the wound in his heart.
“You saved me tonight,” Fadhra said. “No one has done anything like that for me in a long time.” A racking cough shook her so hard that for a moment Abass thought she would collapse, but then it passed. She looked up at him, tears in her deep, dark eyes, and said, “Thank you.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Abass whispered.
She sat up, letting the sheet fall, and pulled him closer. Abass’s pulse pounded in his ears. One of her hands tangled itself in his hair. “I think I have an idea for tonight,” she said.
Her kiss drove thought from his mind. His heart pounding in his chest, her skin against his, and through it all, as though the heat of their bodies would turn them both to cinders, as though they lay together in the midst of a blaze, the smell and taste of fire that clung to her.