“Are you telling me you are going to lead this?” he asked. “A lame woman who has never been to battle?”
“She has not been to war, but I have,” said Terraclon. “And our Laborers’ Army defeated the Hulkrites and ended their empire. Something the Slopeites failed to do.”
“The Slopeites did not have night wasps at their disposal,” said the king. “Nor do you Bee-Jorites at the present moment. And you have little of the potions your Dranverite commander used, which depleted our priests’ stores. We have barely enough kin-scent to last through the fall.”
“We will figure this out together,” said Polexima, looking fondly at Terraclon, who was warmed by her gaze and by the hand she placed on his arm. She looked at the roach-boy next to him, who had been mystified by the entire conversation; but something had changed which allowed him to relax, finally, and eat his meal.
“A warrior-queen and a warrior-priest are going to need new clothes,” said Terraclon. “I’ve no time to sew, so we’ll just borrow a few things from the barracks’ wardrobes and make some adjustments.”
“I’ve always envied men their clothing,” said Polexima. “Women’s clothing is a cage made of cloth.”
“I’ve always envied women their clothing,” said Terraclon. “You get to wear such vivid colors.”
“So can you . . . now that you’re a priest. You know, in Hulkren even the Termite clerics got to wear something like women’s dress. I wonder if the Seed Eaters’ priests wear something like a lady’s frock.”
Sahdrin kept his face down, but made a strange upward stare. He shook his head before he raised it, glaring at Terraclon with open hatred. “I’ll have more liquor now!” he bellowed to his servant, who smiled nervously, nodded his head, and rolled over the clay barrel.
“No,” said Polexima, rising up and staring at Sahdrin.
“I am having a drink!” he shouted, and used his crutch to push her back. “If I am going to tolerate the presence of such low and perverted company, I will be allowed my own comforts!”
“We are not finished speaking!” she shouted when the barrel came within Sahdrin’s reach. He dropped out of his chair, his false legs falling away from him, as he used his hand to scoop up a drop. Just as he was about to slurp, Polexima smashed his hand with the end of her staff and sent the liquor spraying. Sahdrin grabbed her staff and used it to climb towards her, his legless body swinging from it. “I’ll bite your fucking lips off, you flea-cunt!” he shouted when his weight pulled the staff out of her trembling hands. Sahdrin fell to the floor near the toppled barrel and stuck his head inside it to lick at the liquid that clung to its insides.
Terraclon stroked his chin as he looked at the tar-colored sauce coagulating on the fruit-fly roast, then poked at it with the little spear that royals used to eat with. He looked to the quartz-slice windows of the walls of the chamber and then up at the arching buttresses of wood that supported the ceiling. The servants ran over with a push broom and a pan to sweep up the broken shards. In his head, these elements fused into a clear and sudden vision.
“I can see it!” Terraclon said. “How we can stop them! But we’ve got to start digging. And building.”
“Creet-creet,” someone called from outside the portal. A messenger appeared and addressed Polexima after bowing. “The Plep clan of roach people have arrived per your request, Majesty, and await you on the riding course. They have their own urgent news.”
Polexima, Terraclon, and this young roach driver—whose name she had learned was Punshu—were staring at a frightened young woman convalescing on a cocoon mattress at the back of the Two Spirit’s sled. “Her people were already residing in the oak,” said Zedral through a two-tongued woman. The jewel-encrusted cabin was lit with a fungus torch held in the sixth hand of an idol of Madricanth.
“The oak?” asked Polexima.
“Oh, what you call a bortshu, after your tree god,” said the translator. “We call it an oak—the evergreen giver of acorns.”
Polexima looked back at the invalid who had fallen from the tree of New Bulkoko. The queen was fascinated by the woman’s tightly curly hair, which was like a yellowish globe that wrapped around her head. Polexima had never seen anyone who looked like this, not even in Hulkren. Terraclon was taken with the girl’s clothing, which was a fine bark cloth printed with dye stamps, as well as her neck and wrist adornments, fashioned from the black and red shell of the black-widow spider.
“She was attacked by the bee people?” Polexima asked.
“They were all attacked, then hurled,” said Zedral. “She is one of the few to survive. They must have been well hidden in the tree, a small number of them, at its top. We have seen others like her in the northern outland—but usually as old corpses, dropped to the ground in leaf wrappings in some funeral rite.”
The young woman pleaded faintly in her language, which had a resemblance to a rain shower, with soft plopping sounds as her tongue tapped at the roof of her mouth.
“And no one speaks her language?” asked Polexima.
“We have some words in common,” said the interpreter. “But few. Your Majesty. Chieftain Zedral invites you to the second supper.”
“We will join you, thank you.”
Outside the cabin, Polexima saw boys and men posting torches in the circular clearing between the sand-sleds, while girls and women unrolled human-hair rugs with their elaborate pictures and patterns. One of the boys posting torches had lighter skin and orange hair, and when he saw the queen, his jaw fell and he stared.
“Who is that?” Polexima asked the interpreter.
“Forgive Odwaznee for staring at you. We told him the Queen of Cajoria, the most famous captive of the Hulkrite’s prophet, might be among our guests tonight.”
“He’s a Seed Eater,” said Terraclon.
“He was,” said the interpreter, Zedral’s third and youngest wife, who wore a deep black roach cape that blended with the night. “When we found him he was a Hulkrite, guarding the Bulkokans. He’s just recovered from their attack on him.”
“Perhaps he could be of use to us,” said Polexima to Terraclon.
“Perhaps,” said Terraclon. “Majesty, I think it’s time you tell the Pleps.”
Polexima nodded gravely, and turned to Zedral as platters with the evening’s last meal arrived.
“Beautiful wanderers,” she said, using a little of the Britasyte that Anand had taught her. “I don’t come with good news. Your divided Entrevean clan has returned safely from the Barley Lands—all of them but our commander and his wife. They are lost to us at a time in which I must ask you, all of you, to help us in a coming battle.”
The Britasytes dropped their heads and mumbled prayers.
“We pledge our help,” said Zedral. “Bee-Jor is our nation too.”
Polexima tried to speak again, then stopped. She felt a wave of the deep and unmovable sadness that had plagued her for so many moons. So much carnage in these last years, she thought. And so much more to come. Her grave expression triggered silence and knit brows as the gathered considered the agonies of another war.
Terraclon looked just as worried, hanging his head to hide his watering eyes, but then he looked up to admire the gem-encrusted carvings of the Britasytes’ sleds. He looked around at the sad faces and began speaking in a quiet way. “I have to admit something,” he said. “Every time I’ve been in a roach camp, I feel like a Britasyte trapped in the body of a Slopeite.”
A quiet chuckling followed. Polexima laughed quietly as she wiped away a tear. Better days could be ahead, she thought. And I will fight for every one of them.
Chapter 38
Separate Travels
“You look rather excited,” Nuvao said as Trellana closed the lids, all by herself, on only three modest traveling trunks. Barhosa and the chambermaids stood nearby with very little to do.
“Of course I’m excited,” said Trellana, smiling in a way that was unfamiliar to him and which he found to be surprisingly pleasant. In al
l his own worries, he was strangely happy for his sister, and even envied her.
“I didn’t know you were so close to the nun-princess,” he said. “You are happy for her.”
“I am ecstatic for her! Once my children are raised and my widowhood is proven beyond all doubt, I just might want to become a bride to Grasshopper myself.”
“But not a sister to Cricket,” he said, and for the first time, the usual frown soured her face.
“No, not a Cricket sister, certainly not. That is an altogether noisy devotion, and I do like day better than night.”
“Well, that’s because you don’t have to work. Not very much anyway.”
She glared at him, all her sweetness vanished.
“But when you do work,” he said, struggling for words. “Well, it is very much appreciated by ants and Palzhanites alike.”
“Very kind of you to mention it,” she said, her good humor returning.
“Speaking of which, you have been . . .”
“Yes, yes, yes. Eating my wafers.”
“And you visited the ant queen today and left your essence? I have been distracted, I have to ask.”
“Most certainly,” she said while batting her eyes, looking at him as if she were flirting, something he knew that she knew made him very uncomfortable.
“I had to ask,” he said. “Since I am going away and you are going away.”
“Palzhad is quite safe from the Yellow Mold,” she said. “For at least a fortnight.”
“We have to be absolutely sure. There are still hundreds of thousands of refugees out there, and for the next half-moon our only defense against them will be our ants.”
“The ants will be well and healthy. And I have not forgotten the refugees,” she said with a precious little frown and a wrinkle of her nose. “I pray for them every day.”
“You know, Trellana,” he said, smiling, “you’ve made some stunning progress. If things go well it may be time to send for your sons—and have them raised here in Palzhad.”
“Oh,” she said, and looked startled.
“I thought that would make you happy.”
“The idea of reuniting with my sons makes me very happy. I cannot say I imagined them growing up here as Palzhanites.” She reset a garment in a trunk that was sticking through the lid, and then pushed it shut. Her eyes ran up and down Nuvao’s clothing, which was plain and tight and covered with random splotches of green. “I’ve forgotten, Nuvao. Just where is it that you are going?”
“To war!” he said. “We’re gathering in Cajoria. Remember?”
“Oh, yes, war,” she said through a snigger. “I’d almost forgotten. That’s why Mother was here at the stadium a few days ago. That was quite a long speech she gave, dressed in one of Father’s old uniforms and looking absolutely dreadful. Just what are you going to do in a war?”
“I suppose I might have to fight in it.”
“Well, isn’t that just adorable,” she finally said, and laughed. He searched his mind for a cutting insult, then decided against it.
“Blessings of Cricket for a safe journey,” he finally said.
“And the very same to you,” she responded. Her eyes squinted at him as he was joined by the company of some similarly dressed pilots. They were a mix of light and dark faces, some being defectors from the upper castes who had taken up the Dranverites’ cause. Nuvao put his arm around the shoulder of one of them, a tall and muscular youth with thick hair as pale as summer straw and a chin as strong as stone. Nuvao looked over his shoulder to see that Trellana was staring at them, her face tightening with envy. That girl just can’t conceal her emotions, he thought as he smiled all too broadly, then gave her just one more wave good-bye before he lowered his arm to the youth’s waist.
Trellana shrugged off her brother’s attempt to rile her. I’ve got my own fine soldier, she thought. The Palzhanite royal sand-sled arrived and though it was somewhat small and creaked when it moved, she was delighted with it, as well as with its modestly draped hauling ants. Even its old and slovenly drivers seemed charming in their worn-out uniforms. “What a lovely little sled,” she said as the maidservants loaded their queen’s trunks into its storage area, then added their own modest luggage. Barhosa, arriving with a provisions basket, looked at the queen with concern as she readied to take the stairs to the cabin.
“Blessings for a safe trip, Majesty.”
“Thank you, Barhosa. And I do thank you for all your excellent service.”
“My service?”
“Yes, just thought I should mention it now.”
“I look forward to continuing it . . . for many years to come,” said Barhosa, taken aback, as she handed the basket to the servants.
“For many years to come, yes.”
“Your Highness . . . forgive me for bringing it up, but I . . . I found these. Under your dining table.”
Barhosa reached into the pouch of her skirts and produced broken pieces of flower-shaped wafers, with dark flecks of fruit as their stigmas. Trellana frowned, then smiled.
“Oh, Barhosa, I’ve eaten all too many of those over the last moon, and they don’t always agree with me while I’m pregnant. You are quite welcome to them.”
“But these wafers have been consecrated by the priests. They are never permitted to any other than . . . ”
“I permit you to eat them. I am the queen here. The Dranverite has said this is the New Way—privileges for everyone and all of that.” She forced a smile she knew was not convincing. “Enjoy them.”
“Yes, then. Thank you, Majesty,” Barhosa said, and bowed before departing in the old way, not turning her back until she was ten paces away.
The trip’s beginning was a slow one. The route was thick with men and, strangely, a few women who were marching on foot in the same sand-colored clothes her brother was wearing. The marchers’ quivers were stuffed full of arrows and their blowguns swung left and right from their necks. Hanging over their backs were the crude shields of thickly bound straw they would interlock to make a moving wall. The hauling ants of the royal sled would not take to the route in the presence of these soldiers, and attempted to return to the mound. Trellana was not sure why until she identified the pungent, musty odor.
“Sorry, Your Majesty,” said the sled’s lead driver. “We’ll have to wait before we can proceed north. The ants don’t like the smell of these marchers.”
“Neither do I. That’s roach-scent splashed all over their shields. But it is a fine morning, driver, and we can enjoy it while we wait.”
“You are in a good mood,” said Bavakoof, and Trellana noticed a chain of smiles among her servants.
“I am indeed.”
“Aren’t you worried about the war, Majesty? We have heard the Seed Eaters greatly outnumber us.”
“We’ll be quite safe in Venaris—so very far from this little border conflict.”
When the route was cleared of marchers, the driver regained control of the ants. “It’s all going to go beautifully well,” Trellana said as the sled righted and turned north. Soon, it picked up speed. The runners’ scales slid over fine, well-traveled sand for a smooth and pleasant ride.
“What yummy delights has Barhosa packed for us?” Trellana asked as she opened the basket to find decorated dainties of honeyed barley wafers and pickled chunks of a blue death-feigning beetle.
Blind, thirsty, and hungry, Anand couldn’t guess how long he had been traveling. Lately, the air was not sweet and clean but dank and sour, and he never felt any warmth or sunshine. I must be traveling in a tunnel again, he thought. His head was aching less but his legs and back were a mass of rolling pains from the rattle and scrape of the crude sled. The worst of it was the tedium—nothing to look at, little to hear, and all too much time to imagine the worst. Panic and rage were his closest companions as he worried about Daveena. My wife is the pregnant prisoner of a diseased man inflicting his madness on the world. And then, there was Bee-Jor. My helpless infant of a country, recovering from one w
ar and poorly prepared for the next.
Traveling in darkness sent Anand’s mind back to his greatest suffering: the Living Death. At least in this cage he could move his limbs, sit a little, and toss and turn. He lusted for books—something to occupy his mind—and he remembered that ecstatic moment in which the little bits of ink on paper became words he realized he could read. What was that first book? It was a children’s story! Where the moon and sun were a brother and sister who argued over who would occupy the sky before their mother, the Sand, ordered them to share it. Anand was struggling to remember the rest of the narrative when he felt a shift upward, and the darkness turned into a soft gray light. The smell of a lakeshore filled his nose, and the lapping of its waves was sweet in his ears. His cage’s door was unlatched and then his captor yelled at him as he was yanked out and left on some slimy sand. He did not understand much of it, but he heard the word Dranveria and the words Volokop had used for ship—plabuchy dahm—that Daveena had translated to “floating house.”
Anand rubbed his eyes as his captor drove off. The diffuse gray light was filling with blurry sights. The warmth on his head signaled him to look up; the brightness of the indistinct sun hurt his eyes and filled his head with orbiting stars. He turned to the sounds of the lake, and saw a blurry stretch of what had to be water with foggy sparkles. Stepping to the left towards a broad object, he found the sides of a large container, and realized when he reached into it that it was a boat. He probed around its sides and found the bench he could sit on and then a pole. It was not a flimsy boat that rocked when he stepped into it, but something safer with a deep bottom and some ballast to keep it from capsizing. After seating himself, he dipped his fingers in the water to taste it, and it was fresh, not brackish, and he knew he was in the North. He sucked down some more of the water, which had a dirty aftertaste. He stood, picked up the pole, and stabbed down at the water’s bottom to push off in the direction he believed would take him north to Dranveria’s distant shores. As the boat went further into the lake, he saw the towering shadows of what might be punk weeds, and heard the splashes of what he hoped were boats or ships. “Hello! Help me!” he called in Dranverish. “I’m blind! I need your help!”
The Prophet of the Termite God Page 35