by Jane Baskin
“She should’ve killed you, you moron.”
Both laughing. “It must’ve been my good looks. She decided to show mercy.”
More ale. More laughter.
More pretending that what was about to happen, wasn’t going to.
Some hours passing. Both young men, getting fairly drunk. Dozing in front of the fire, which had been refueled several times. Their long legs stretched out before them. Che’s light snores waking Nayan. Looked over, blinked at Che. Had forgotten, for a moment, where he was. I’m more worried than I know.
His friend, very peaceful. Pale skin reddened in the firelight, blond hair falling onto his face. A tiny spot of drool at the corner of his mouth. Fast asleep indeed.
Nayan, kicking him awake. Listen to me. I have to tell you something.
Che, rousing; blinking. Okay. I’m awake. What is it?
This, how they usually talked. Without words. Their secret. Or so they thought.
Then Nayan, telling Che about the southern caper. The details, that is. About his bizarre escape.
Che, thinking about it for a while; no response. Then a sudden grin. You didn’t hurt the ganthas?
Of course not. I love ganthas.
Thank the gods. I’d have been really pissed at you if an animal had been hurt. The man you threw against the tree – his spine cracked, yes?
I’m pretty sure.
Che, laughing aloud suddenly. I wish I could have seen those assholes flying through the air.
Nayan, a chuckle.
But you didn’t kill them.
No. I choked them out, but no. I didn’t kill them.
Why not?
Nayan, suddenly staring at Che. Wide eyed. What are you saying?
They’d have killed you.
But that’s –
They’d have skinned you while you were still alive, Nayan. You know that’s what they do in the South. Then they’d have hung your skin in their great hall as a trophy, put your head on a pike, and fed your flesh to pigs.
That’s the southern way. Not our way.
I heard a sub lord once managed to dry and preserve an enemy’s genitals, then wore them as a necklace.
I heard that too. Sounds crazy to me.
Never underestimate the South.
Nayan, turning back to the fire. Feeling sorry for his friend, for a moment. Che and his brother Colwen, so indoctrinated by their parents. Even though their parents “didn’t want to talk about it.” Other ways to tell it, of course. Words: maybe not necessary.
Their parents: refugees from the South. Peasants, owned by the Lord of Vel himself. Their suffering: unimaginable. Their escape: unbelievable. Maybe because Che’s mother …
Even that, incredible. Mother had said it was a northern exceptionality. But Che … and his mother … Forget forget forget
Che, returning to spoken words, now. “I guess you could kill that girl in her sleep. Make it look like a heart attack or something.”
“I could. But I won’t. I don’t really want to kill her at all.”
“I thought you didn’t like her.”
“I don’t.”
“It was your idea to kill her.”
“Look, I hated her when I first found out about her; true. I had fantasies of choking her to death with her own hair. But at least I had the good sense to be ashamed of myself. Noar shouldn’t have taken her, or if he did, he should have let her go. Now we’re all stuck with cleaning up his mess. And I’m stuck with the dirty deed.”
“Well, it was your idea.”
“It made sense, at the time. But … maybe my mouth got ahead of my brain. I mean … what in every hell else can we do with her? She needs to disappear. Quietly. Like we never had her. She needs to not bring trouble down on us, on Noar. Doesn’t mean I want to do it.”
“I have an idea for you.”
“Tell me.”
“Don’t just murder her. You’re too soft hearted; I doubt you could do it anyway. She’s a trained fighter, or so they say. Fight her. You can take her.” That grin again. Irritating to Nayan, for a moment. That easy grin … more for the bedroom, than this discussion. (A small twinge of jealousy: Che had such an easy time with women.)
“I told you, the one time I fought a woman, she knocked me out.”
“That’s because you didn’t fight her. This time, you would. You’d have to. But at least the girl ‘d have a chance.”
“That’s crazy.”
“It’s not. It’s fair.”
“It’s not fair. I’m twice her size.”
“You’re the one who always says women are dangerous because they fight dirty. Don’t be so cocksure of yourself. She’ll give you a turn.”
Nayan, staring at the fire. Gulped the rest of his ale. Got more. Returned to staring. Waves of distress, pouring off him. Che, knowing, of course. Sat up straighter, waited for his friend.
Finally: “I don’t know how I’m going to do this, Che. I would never have let Noar take a woman if I’d been there. Especially Lord Vel’s daughter. But I wasn’t there. We had to split up. I didn’t know about it until I got home. Now everything’s all cocked up. I have to kill her, and it was my own goddamned idea.”
“Can you do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Murder’s tough, Nayan. Not our way. But we can fight women. From time to time, we do.”
“I guess you’re right.”
Silence, for quite a while. Then Nayan: Che. What do we do about this … I don’t even know what to call it.
I call it a “gift.”
My mother calls it a curse.
So does mine.
Are we the only ones?
Of course not, Nayan.
But your brother … and my brother …
Not everyone has the gift, Nayan. Not even people from the same family. But … we’re not the only ones.
How many others?
Thought transfer? Thousands, Nayan. Maybe hundreds of thousands.
You’re joking! That’s impossible!
Not. It’s all over the North. And even a few here and there in the South. My mother told me … and she’s from the South.
Che … all gods, Che.
What?
No one should have that kind of power.
But we do.
Not many witnesses allowed to watch the contest. Only the clan leaders, Noar, and the village leaders. The chapel priest.
A dirty business, this. Far too many people knowing about the hostage already.
Cha-Ning Castle: a village unto itself. Centuries before, lords had understood that the castle was a vampire of a house. Considered knocking it down, but figured it was a good fortress at raiding times. Invited villagers and outlying farmers to come live there. Split the place into apartments. Old Lord Agin, instigator of the plan: “Finally we’ll get some help heating this monstrosity.”
So: a village, really. Lots of gossip.
Almost made Nayan reconsider his idea. No such thing as killing the girl quietly, now. Only a few might know of the contest. But others would guess.
There, now. She comes.
The red hair, tied back in a braid. Heavy leather cap to ward off knife blows. Mail shirt under her leather tunic, heavy gloves. Thick leather chaps to protect the legs. A fearsome sword in one hand, an even more horrifying double edged knife in the other.
Nayan: the same. Traditional contest gear. Antique, really. But the honored way to hold a duel.
The contest: taking place in the small walled garden beneath Nayan’s rooms. A small piece of lush greenery that opened only by tunnel to the cliffs and sea beyond. Normally a pretty place. Romantic, even. The place, Nayan remembered dimly, where he had seduced his first girlfriend on a warm summer night.
Oh. Different now. The roses, dead and brown. The grass, covered by a light snow. The fuming winter sea, crashing against the cliffs. Almost as rueful as the storm inside Nayan’s head.
I don’t want to do this. I can’t do this. It isn’t
right. Not our way. How did this happen? Oh gods alive, send her home and take the consequences.
A sudden ice flash of metal near his cheek. Felt the sword’s kiss as it passed close enough to draw blood on his jaw. Had turned his head just in time.
Right. Women fight dirty.
Nayan, coming to battle consciousness. Instinct. Ingrained in him from earliest boyhood.
In her, too, apparently. Another swipe, forcing him to jump over the blade or lose a leg. She’s fast, I’ll give her that.
Now parrying and feinting, both of them. Nayan’s reach, so much longer. But the girl, moving toward him, not away. She’s well trained. Ducking under his reach, spinning away from it only to come up inside, close to his body. One pass, close enough to stab with the knife. Smart. Aiming for underneath his mail shirt. Only his quick jump backward saved him being disemboweled.
Nayan, understanding the girl might end him if he didn’t begin to respond properly.
Came at her with terrible force. Using his size and weight to shock her backward, then slashing and stabbing at her. Backed her into the garden wall.
Did he have even that microsecond to see his parents’ faces? The witnesses’ faces? The sorrow there? Did he even have that other part of the same second to see the girl’s face, flushed, beaded with sweat?
Don’t think. Just get it done.
To his surprise, the girl, rushing at his middle. Pushing off the wall, slamming into him, knocking him backwards. Ducking under his sword arm, whirling away from him.
He, spinning to face her, slashing downward, knife and sword together.
Did she just stumble?
She, falling to one knee. Then coming straight up, well inside his reach. Would have castrated him if he hadn’t jumped back in time.
Is she shaking?
Nayan, stepping back. Readying himself for a morbid assault. She’s fast as all hells, but just not big enough. If I really put myself into this –
The girl whirled … fell over. Tried once to rise, blacked out.
Screams coming from inside the castle.
Father’s voice: soft, sad. “Do it, son.”
Screams getting very close.
“Just cut her head off. It’ll be quick.”
Is Mother weeping?
“Do it, son.”
All gods. I can’t.
The girl, not moving. Nayan, raising his sword over his head, as if …. Am I shaking?Maybe I could just stop her heart …
Suddenly the maids, rushing the garden door, entering in a flock. The group of older women Nayan had asked to tend the hostage.
“Stop this madness!”
The oldest of the group, huffing and hauling her weight up to just in front of Nayan. Grabbing Nayan by both shoulders. Would have been suicide if anyone but this lady … but she, having known him since birth. Having helped to raise him. Having given him more than one motherly swat, herself.
“Put the weapons down, Nayan. She has the fever.”
Che, again drinking ale in Nayan’s rooms. The younger brothers there, too. Noar, for once not a single joke coming to mind. A somber bunch, this time.
“It sounds bad, Nayan.” Che, shaking his head.
Noar: “This is all my fault. I’m sorry, Nayan.”
Nayan: “I know.”
Silence. Then Che: “I’d hate to see what she could do if she weren’t sick.”
Nayan, a chuckle. Okay then.
Then all four, chugging their ale. Pouring more. Soon, feeling better.
Colwen: “She was fast, huh?”
Noar: “Hell, yes.” Lifted his shirt to show the still nasty bruise on his ribs. “She broke two of my ribs, the doctor confirmed it. And that was with her hands bound. She almost broke my nose when I was trying to hold her. I swear, she’s strong as a man.”
Okay, laughter.
Colwen: “Damned lucky you weren’t the one who had to fight her, Noar. She’d have cut your precious balls off.”
More laughter. Noar, taking on his fool’s cap. Let it all go.
Could not sleep. Even after all that ale (or because of it) Nayan: unable to stop stirring, tossing. Felt exhausted, in every cell of his body. But sleep: elusive.
Finally rose, pulled a heavy blanket over his underclothes. Went out into the hall. Thought he didn’t know where he was going. But he did. (where else?)
Not surprised when he wound up standing outside the girl’s room.
Sighed. Knocked softly.
The heavy door, opened a crack by a maid. Only had to meet his eyes for a moment. Opened the door.
Nayan, entering the room quietly. Crossing to the bed, where another maid wipes the girl’s face with a cloth soaked in cold water. Over and over.
Nayan, looking at her. Not so fearsome now. Not so beautiful. Hair plastered to her head with sweat. Cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.
But awake.
Nayan, looking down at her. Understanding … then knowing, yes. Had to say it out loud. Crouched down beside her head.
“I’m not going to kill you. I don’t care what they decide. I won’t fight you and I won’t cause harm to you in any way. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m sorry … any of this happened.”
Wondering if she even understood what he had said. Her fever: bad. Worse than most of his family and friends who had had the illness. But Northerners: hardy stock. Gell masters; consuming it daily practically from birth, reaping the benefits. She: suffering terribly.
Nayan, suddenly feeling sad. How sad to be stolen from your home, dragged away to a cold, foreign place by a beast of a man. Then condemned to death through no fault of your own, just for being inconvenient. Then escaping the executioner, only to die of fever far from home and loved ones. A fever your loved ones probably caused.
How sad to die alone, unknown, unmourned.
Nayan leaned close. Asked her: “What’s your name?”
Turned her bleary eyes toward him. Under different circumstances, would have been a lovely sea green. Now, clouded with sickness; maybe death. Managed a whisper. “Zoren. Zoren-te is my name.” Then the eyes: closed. A sigh. One of the scary ones; a sigh like saying goodbye to the act of breathing.
Nayan, rising. Nothing more to say, of course. The most important message: delivered.
A name for her grave marker.
To the maid as he left: “Will she die? What did the doctors say?”
“They don’t know. She’s pretty sick.”
4.Voices From Underground
Riders coming, from the South.
Northern riders, not unusual this time of year. Many spies, dispersed throughout the Southern territories. Anticipating the raiding season, gathering intelligence wherever possible. Helped a lot, knowing what was coming.
But this time, the news: different. Not so much about raiding strength: that, greatly impaired by the actions of the crazy Chani brothers. But … also impaired by something else.
“There’s unrest in the South. More than usual.” The lead rider, reporting to Dar-agan. A tall, handsome young man; fair, strongly built. Like most of the young men of the far North.
“What type of unrest?”
“Peasant revolt.”
Silence. Shock.
Then: “What are you talking about, son? There hasn’t been a peasant revolt in almost two hundred years. The last one was put down … savagely.”
“Understood, Dar-agan. But I and my team saw evidence of new stirrings, everywhere.”
“Be specific.”
“After the attack on Lord Vel’s keep, his peasants fired his other two weapons caches. Many got away; many were slaughtered like dogs. Lord Vel hung the dead on pikes all along the road, but it didn’t stop rebels raiding his winter stores two days later.”
The other northern lords, entering the hall. All: had had instincts to stay on for a while. These, bolstered by a request from the young lord, Nayan. A peculiar request. But. They, as a few others: having heard stealthy rumors of the young lord’s weir
d prophetic ability. Keep quiet about it, of course. But pay attention. Now, gathering close to Dar-agan, listening.
Lord Augan: “Can you tell us … what is Lord Vel’s status now? Can he come to war? Can he raid?”
The messenger, shaking his head. “Doubtful. Between Nayan and Noar, and now the rebels, Lord Vel is weakened. And … there’s word he lost his daughter when the first weapons dump exploded.”
“Do you know that for certain?”
“Pretty certain. The word is that she was killed in the explosion. And when we got close to the keep, there seemed to be great unrest. I personally saw a housemaid tossing garbage to pigs; she was dressed head to toe in black. One who came to help her, the same. And … there were black flags flying from the parapets. Sign of a death in the family.”
“Hmmn.”
“There’s more.”
“Go on, then.”
“This peasant revolt … it’s serious, this time. What happened at Lord Vel’s keep seems to be happening all over. Especially wherever Nayan and Noar struck. If a weapons cache was fired, rebels moved in and maximized the damage. Lord Vel wasn’t the only one who lost food stores, either. Packs of rebels strike at night, grab whatever they can. Ganthas, food, all the weapons they can carry, then burn the rest.”
“God Itself. And this is spreading, you say?”
“Yes. Not only the major six, but all over the South. Far South, where it’s almost summer. East and west, circling the lava fields.”
“What are the lords doing about it? Aren’t they hitting back?”
“Of course they are. As we all know, Southern lords have a low tolerance for … uh … disorder. But the major six were weakened by your sons’ raids. They’re working their forges and factories around the clock trying to restock weapons. Wherever they can, they capture and kill rebels. But … it’s sloppy stuff. We’ve seen them fire whole villages, take women and children. Torture, mutilation … ”
Lady Kir-ye of Rhymney: “The usual. The bastards.”
Her husband, Lord Augan, a hand on her arm. “Easy, love. We know Southern ways.”
“Does that mean we have to like Southern ways? They’re our sworn enemies, always have been, always will be. And not merely over the gell.”