“But what is this place?” He gestured to the vacant space around them.
“I told you. This is the cusp, the place between the Light and the Darkness.”
“Between?” Finyaka had not known the woman to be so elusive when she was alive. He remembered her as a different woman, direct and stern.
“Between life and death,” she replied without the slightest hint of the stringent woman she had been. Maybe there was something to be said about this Song she spoke of. “First time off the grazing lands and you nearly burned yourself out. You overextended yourself by flaunting your magic, Finyaka, and now you’re paying the price.”
He hardly felt that saving himself and Matasa from his father’s assault was flaunting anything.
“I come, Anuu,” Sinaya said as she began moving towards the distant horizon on his right. To Finyaka she said, “I wish there was more time for me to mentor you in the ways of the chosen.” She examined her fingertips. “Sadly, such is not my fate. The Great Light calls and I answer. But you, you still have a choice.”
“So, I’m still alive?” he asked hesitantly.
“Out there, in the real world, you are dehydrated and close to death. The person healing you has limited skills.”
“Matasa is a goatherd, not a healer,” Finyaka replied with a playful smile.
“I do not speak of your cousin.” Sinaya faced him, her ghostlike hands upon his shoulders. “Pay heed to what I say. Your gift is a precious one Finyaka. The Radiance draws its power from you, from your belief in Anuu. Use the power too quickly, or in flagrant abundance, and the Radiance will consume you.”
"How do I replenish what it takes from me? Can I stop it from happening? How do all mage-priests not die young if their Radiance eats away at them from the inside? Why would Anuu give me a gift that could kill me?” The faster Finyaka asked his questions, the faster Sinaya faded.
Anuu’s Song started as a single note, like the buzzing of flies that came in and out of earshot until it caught his attention, compelling him to find it.
“The Song is hard to resist, Finyaka, isn’t it?” Sinaya, what was left of her, danced apart from him. Much of her upper body had faded into a hazy form. She looked at him with eyes that were impossibly blue in their transparency. “The Great Song is Anuu’s gift to the Seven People. Our strength derives from it, makes us more than a loose confederacy of clans and tribes, it gives us purpose, a reason to strive for a better life. Those of us who hear it want to do nothing else but give ourselves to the Great Sun. To fulfill the vision of a unified people, brought together under the Light. Stronger in our unification, than as individuals scattered across the wadi. Without the Great Song, the Seven Peoples would be nothing more than warring tribes, eking out a miserable existence, waiting to die by blade, starvation or thirst.” She hummed something of the music in her head and her smile widened. “Such beauty. So powerful.”
Her statement dulled the enticing sound to Finyaka’s ears. He knew the teachings of the Seven People, of how Anuu selected the mage-priests from among those deemed worthy during the pilgrimage to the Golden City. Those who witnessed the Dance of Days. It was the dream of every child to make that journey and to be one of the few the Great Sun chose. How I, a mere goat herd beloved only by his mother, could be one of them is beyond me. I have never taken the pilgrimage. I have never witnessed the Dance of Days.
The single note found a partner. Their duet urged him to journey with them to the Light of Anuu.
“I am not ready to die yet,” Finyaka said to Anuu as much as to Sinaya. To be one of Anuu’s chosen was an honor, of that he had no doubt. But he had just become a man, a man with the Radiance no less. How could Anuu possibly want me dead now?
Finyaka wanted to learn the ways of a mage-priest, to prove to the Great Sun that he was worthy of this gift. A corpse couldn’t do that.
“So live,” Sinaya replied with a last, kindly shrug. “Turn your back on the lure of the Great Song, if you can. I cannot; I give myself unto it. Leave this place and live. When and how you die is your choice, as it was mine,” she added of her sacrifice. The landscape showed through her increasingly until she dissolved like a mirage.
“Sinaya!” Finyaka called out to the woman’s lingering memory. “Will I hear the Song again?” He ran to where she last stood as if he could catch a wisp of her in his arms. He found nothing except the echoes of her humming.
Hard-cracked dirt burned hot against Finyaka’s bare feet. When did I stop floating? He shaded his eyes against the brightening sky and squinted at the shimmering haze of the horizon. His body tingled and itched as every drop of perspiration made itself known. He ran coarse fingers along his clammy skin, relieved to see that he was no longer an apparition. However, the flat landscape around had not changed. It remained the foreign desolation of the Between.
Sinaya’s voice drifted to him. “You chose well, young mage-priest. Repair the rift that has been exploited. Defeat the Darkness before the three bands which bind the Golden City are destroyed.”
Shuddering jarred the landscape, as if Anuu dragged the very landscape out from underneath him. The air was dry. His tongue was swollen, and his lips were parched and bleeding.
“By the Light,” Finyaka said as the Great Sun flew past with speeds that rivaled a hunting cat. Day blurred into night and back again. In a panic, he searched in vain for shelter in this desolate land that was not land. The streaking effect in the sky made him dizzy. He succumbed before he realized that he was no longer wearing Sinaya’s gold armband.
Matasa awoke with a start. It was cool and the sun had disappeared. Night? Coarse fiber scratched his skin. Carpet? He willed himself to sit up, but his throbbing muscles refused to function. Labored breathing nearby. Finyaka? Matasa parted parched lips to speak but only broke into a cough. His mouth was dry, and his tongue felt swollen.
Something moved in the darkness. Matasa wasn’t alone. He held still and closed his eyes for fear of giving himself away. Barely audible above his thumping heart, he heard leather creaking, and the swish of fabric, as if someone stood up from a stool or mat. The heavy breather droned on. Soft footfalls, bare feet against the carpet, neared.
Just as he sensed this third presence looming by him, perfume-disguised sweat wafted into his nostrils. A firm hand slipped behind his head and tilted it up. Then came the glorious feel of warm water on his tongue and parched lips. He sputtered unexpectedly.
“Drink you fool.” The voice was hard, but not harsh. Matasa didn’t recognize the accent. He gulped down a few mouthfuls before the man lowered Matasa’s head to the carpet. The stranger moved on, presumably to the person with the labored breathing. More coughing and retching, then the man cursed in a language Matasa didn’t know. His soft footfalls shuffled away.
This wasn’t Nahrem or Tamika. Matasa licked his chapped lips. He tried to speak, producing nothing more than a croak.
“Shush yourself,” the stranger said with an annoyed sigh. Leather creaked again. Matasa imagined that the man sat down. “Sleep. Gain your strength, else you’ll be a vulture’s meal.”
“Where am I?” Matasa managed. He strained for any visual cue.
“What part of shush do you not understand?” A soft grunt at his own joke followed the man’s rumbling voice.
“I…” Matasa halted, and not because he felt hoarse. He wanted to ask for light, and for some measure of understanding of what was happening. But he was suddenly afraid. In the pitch blackness, he had no idea what lay before him. He was in a tent, that much he was sure. Muffled sounds of men talking came from the other side of the goat-haired fabric. A night bird cried as it hunted prey.
“Who are you running from, boy?” said the strange voice.
Matasa didn’t know if he could trust someone who wouldn’t acknowledge a full-grown man when he saw him. He was eighteen summers old, no longer a boy even though he didn’t have a stake in the village herd. Did he look like a child? How much had Anuu’s Great Light changed him on the m
esa?
“Oh, I see how this is. You want to talk and once I ask you a question, you go all quiet-like." Another soft chuckle and more movement in the dark.
Matasa was about to answer when shouts arose outside. Creaking leather announced the man’s actions as he stood up and opened the tent flap. His silhouette filled the doorway against the star-filled sky. The stranger was a big man, tall and solid. Not someone to be trifled with.
“What’s the commotion?” demanded the man of the people outside his tent. What feeble light came from the stars disappeared when the flap slapped shut. Someone answered in an unfamiliar clicking language.
Matasa implored his aching body to seek out the heavy sleeper. If it was his cousin, maybe they could escape this place. He rolled onto his arm, unable to move farther. The carpet, although scratchy, provided infinitely more comfort than the simplest movement.
“I see,” the stranger said from outside. The tent flap partially opened. By the feeble light, Matasa could see a single center pole holding up a small tent barely big enough for a small family, the sides turned down, trapping the heat of the day inside to help against the chill of the night.
Matasa found Finyaka on the floor, still lost in his Radiance-induced coma. He didn’t look any better, but something about his appearance bothered Matasa.
The big man’s shadow fell across what little light snuck into the tent. Matasa lay back before his strange host re-entered and settled himself on his stool. The man un-stoppered a waterskin. He gulped loudly. Matasa smelled alcohol.
“The man I was with…” Matasa began, seeking the right words. “Is he…” Matasa choked up. One look at Finyaka and a simple goat could tell he wasn’t well.
“In a bad way? Yes, but I have given him healing herbs. He’ll be better on the morrow.”
A weight lifted from Matasa’s chest, although he still felt odd.
“There was another. My guards found him crossing our perimeter uninvited. He’s after something.”
“I don’t know…”
“Perhaps he’s after your mage-priest.” The big man shifted his weight and stretched, his joints popping. He gulped his alcohol again, then stoppered the wineskin. “Or his gold.”
Gold! The armband! That’s why Finyaka looked different--wrong. He wasn’t wearing Sinaya’s golden armband. This brigand must have taken it for himself. Gold had value in the wadi, and not just as a mark of Anuu’s chosen mage-priests.
“It might be family.” Matasa felt uncomfortable saying anything but what choice did he have? “The mage-priest is my cousin, Finyaka. His father and brothers were chasing us.” It felt odd calling Finyaka a mage-priest, but if it kept them alive, it was worth the lie.
“Young for a mage-priest,” said the man. Something landed with a whump near Matasa’s head, startling him. “Drink, adherent,” said the stranger.
How did he see so well in the dark? Matasa fumbled in the blackness for the water skin. He uncorked it, smelling it first to ensure that it wasn’t his host’s alcohol. What Matasa needed most was water. He downed as much as he could before his stomach complained. His head pounded.
“What did you do to them that they are chasing you?”
“Spoke out against them.” Water eased Matasa’s pain enough for him to prop himself onto one elbow.
“They call me Old Sondha.” The man returned to his place by the tent flap but remained standing. “You are guests in my camp. I heal you.”
“I’m Ma…Mata…Matasa.” The word sounded odd as if he'd never said his own name before.
“Where were you going?” Sondha opened the flap just enough to peer through it before closing it again. Something glinted on his belt.
“Onubaki, to f-f-f-f-find Asho, the w-w-wise w-w-w-woman.” Matasa slurred his words. A tingling sensation danced across his tongue. Had there been something in the water and he missed it?
“Asho you say. Hmm. Keep your place now while I’m gone. No harm will come to you if I have my say. Or so Anuu wishes.” The tent flap opened, and the big man disappeared into the night.
Not far from the tent, Matasa overheard Sondha saying, “Where’s Nahbas? I’ve got some information for him. And a trinket to show him.”
A trinket? He must have the slain wise woman’s armband. Through his honey-thick thoughts, Matasa heard the groan of a camel, mumbled voices in the camp, and Finyaka’s somnolent breathing. How had he slept through all of this?
They were alive, but where? And who was this supposed healer, Old Sondha? Matasa’s mind grew foggy. He slipped onto his side, eyelids as heavy as his body. The pain was gone, replaced by a tingling sensation that made him giggle.
Think Matasa think! He heard himself scream although no sound came from his mouth. He snorted once, deeply, then slipped into dreams filled with the rich scents of baking baklava.
From his well-hidden vantage point at its peak, Nahrem surveyed the camp nestled in the hollow of a hill. Men passed at regular intervals dressed in a similar kit. These weren’t run of the mill brigands. Someone wealthy had outfitted them. Most likely a merchant looking to protect his valuables.
The main trade road that wound along the northern cusp of the wadi lay nearby. Camels bellowed and bleated in the darkness. Nahrem counted at least twenty of the black tents. No fires, no loud noises save the camels. He was certain that someone from this camp had rescued his goat-spawned cousin and naive little brother.
He waited for the next patrol to pass. With the grace of a hunting cat, he leaped from his perch and landed on the hard-packed stone in a soundless billow of dust. All he wanted to do was find Finyaka and destroy him.
Nahrem shook his head. He needed to hide and uncover the caravan’s destination. If the guards spoke his language, maybe he had a chance.
A growing Darkness in his mind propelled him forward. He shook his head again. Nahrem’s head spun. He took a deep breath and fought down the urge to throw open every tent flap in search of his prey. What is happening to me?
He deftly made his way along the cusp of the hill. The smell of dung and sweat filled his nostrils. He stayed low, blending in with the broken horizon, so watchful eyes wouldn’t easily discern him.
“Haraz, have you seen the two strays in the camp.” If the man hadn’t spoken, Nahrem would have walked into the clearing where the two pickets stood. The guard who spoke, with a voice not more than a whisper, had a strange accent. A shadow shifted until it became a second armed man visible against the star-filled sky. Nahrem crouched behind a natural pillar of stone. He pressed against it to make as little a profile as possible
“No,” the shadow replied. He stretched with a creak of leather and jingle of chainmail, then yawned unenthusiastically. “They’re Umu Salani tribesmen, so say the drovers.”
Two strays? Nahrem’s heart raced. Finyaka and Matasa were here! Nahrem was one step closer to making his father proud of him.
“We’re near Onubaki.” The first picket’s voice projected toward the camp since he had his back turned to Nahrem’s position. “Aren’t they Umu Salani?”
“No. They’re Umu Sonu in Onubaki. But both tribes are of the Aboki people.” Haraz shifted with a grunt. He stepped within a few feet of Nahrem, smelling of metal, sweat, leather, and camel. “Not that I care at this hour. Ahken and Nakhet will be here soon to take their turn. Then we rest.”
“Finally.” There was the creak of leather and the thud of a wooden haft against the stone. “Onubaki on the morrow, so says Nahbas.”
“It’s his coin,” chuckled Haraz. “He’s the boss. So, Onubaki a few days, then onto the Golden City and a chance to spend our own hard-earned coin?” He leaned on the wooden haft, a kind of spear, a mere hand's breadth away from Nahrem’s hiding spot.
Nahrem made out Haraz’s profile: broad, tall, and maybe a good three stone heavier. He struggled against a sudden urge to strike out at the guard. What am I thinking?
Footsteps, hardened boot against stone, approached from the camp.
“W
ho goes now?” Haraz grasped his haft and shifted into a protective stance.
Dust kicked up around the newcomers. Nahrem could just make out a shield being carried from the last row of tents.
“It’s Nakhet,” replied a low-pitched, feminine voice from the settling cloud.
“Have you been to camp?” Haraz maintained his defensive posture.
Presumably, the other picket did as well, because Nakhet replied, “Would the two of you stop acting like a couple of stray calves? We just came from the camp. Heard they’re holding two Aboki strays.”
Haraz relaxed, placing the spear butt against the ground.
“Umu Salani,” the first picket insisted, still sounding like he faced away from Nahrem. “So, say the drovers. Heard one wore a mage-priests armband.”
The other three guards were closer than Nahrem cared for. He opened and closed his hands, considering his options. If he backed away now, he would get away unseen, but he wouldn’t find out which tent held his brother and cousin.
“If he’s a mage-priest, he won’t need a gold band,” said Nakhet. “Boy’s in a bad way. The silly calf that was with him towed him across the wadi with no water. Both had passed out. Nahbas says if they die, it would be a waste.”
And a personal disappointment. Nahrem gritted his teeth together.
“And a cut to Nahbas’ purse,” replied the fourth guard. Everyone laughed.
“Old Sondha’s watching the strays,” said Nakhet, which prompted more guffaws from the others.
“He’s sobered up enough to see?” Haraz stepped towards the two newcomers. There was an appreciative slap of an open palm on leather from the unseen picket.
Haraz turned and called to his watch-companion, “Come Adin, let’s go—” He stopped, making out Nahrem for the first time.
The demanding Darkness instantly overpowered Nahrem’s mind. His knife was in his hand before he knew what he was doing. Instead of fleeing, he slashed the legs of the unsuspecting Adin standing between him and Haraz.
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