by Devin Madson
Many of them stopped what they were doing to stare at me and I realised too late I ought to have removed my imperial surcoat. To do so would have meant coming as myself rather than Gideon’s representative, and again I found myself torn between two ideas of myself. The Dishiva who served a Levanti future whatever the cost. And the Dishiva that Rah would have smiled at.
With many Levanti stopping to stare, it took all my pride to stand tall as I followed Tor to a small hut not far inside the camp. A Kisian child stood waiting and held out his hand for Itaghai’s reins with a sunny smile. I glanced at Tor, but when he said nothing, I handed the reins over, too glad to escape the whispering and the scrutiny. And the sight of Levanti of all herds living together. Building together.
“Who’s the child?” I whispered as we stepped inside. “Is Itaghai safe with him?”
“Ichiro? Just a boy some Bedjuti found on their way here. His family were gone and he had no one to look after him, so they brought him with them. Until I arrived they had no translator either, so he’s been picking up our language just by listening. It’s amazing.”
Someone in the shadows cleared their throat and I squinted.
“Oh, sorry, Ezma,” Tor said, and saluted to a figure little more than an outline in my still sparking vision. “This is Captain Dishiva e’Jaroven, Gideon’s head guard, but she says she just wants to talk.”
“Does she indeed.” Not a welcoming tone. The woman stepped forward, and her unusual outline slowly coalesced into something I had not expected to meet this side of the Eye Sea. Like Tor she was Levanti through and through, owning a strong jaw and high, delicate brows that expressed every emotion, yet unlike the saddleboy she wore no Kisian attire, dressed instead in traditional Levanti armour mended with strips of local wool, new leather, and even silk as though she had used whatever she could find. The pair of swords hanging upon her left hip were Levanti, but the knife upon her right was not—another replacement for something lost perhaps. Yet it was her head I could not stop staring at. Unlike a Made warrior her hair was long and loose from crown to belt, and crown it was for atop her head she wore a horse’s jawbone, cut and hollowed and strapped in leather to form a circlet, one-half of the curved joint rearing like horns on either side of her head.
My knees acted on their own, dropping to the dry rush floor as I saluted. “Whisperer.”
The woman didn’t smile, but her scowl softened at my proper show of respect. “At least you have not forgotten your heritage as easily as some,” she said, steel in her voice despite the softness of her appearance. “What do you want, thrall of Gideon?”
I got warily to my feet, parting my lips only to close them again. What did I want? I had told the others I had come to persuade the deserters to return with us and kneel before Gideon, and that if they did not, we would attack. Looking around now I could see how laughable either mission was. These people had no intention of recognising Gideon, and no wonder when they had a whisperer to guide them. And to attack… There were just too many of them and their camp was too well established. And they had a whisperer.
“Where did you come from?” I blurted rather than answer.
“The same place as you I imagine.”
“I mean… you weren’t with the Chiltaen army like the rest of us, were you? I think I would remember seeing a whisperer.”
“No, I wasn’t. The good thing about being exiled all but alone is that you attract less attention.”
My hand flew to my mouth. “An exiled horse whisperer? How? Why?” It took a unanimous vote from a full conclave of horse whisperers to exile one of their own, and I had never heard of it happening in my lifetime. Yet here she stood.
“You did not come to speak of me,” she said. “Perhaps you bring a message from your emperor? Is he offering us gifts? Or death?”
I did not wish to answer but my hesitation was enough.
“Ah, death then.”
Tor snorted from beside the door. “I would like to see you try.”
I did not wish to try and yet I could not find words to explain it all. Leo. The book. The city about to be burned. The empire Gideon was trying to build for us, the home—a home challenged by their very existence living here in this swamp and not saluting him. Had I been a horse, the whisperer would have understood it all at a glance, but despite my lack of equine features she lifted her hand to Tor and said, “Not so bloodthirsty, Tor. You are a fool if you think this Jaroven came here to declare war upon us, despite Gideon’s orders.”
“He thinks you’re dangerous,” I said.
Ezma smiled and shrugged, her hair falling from her shoulders. “He’s right. I’ve been collecting your deserters since you crossed the border with the Chiltaen army. Only a few at first, Swords who didn’t want to fight for Gideon but were too afraid to speak up. One here, another there, sneaking away into the night. Not enough that anyone would notice amongst the dead. The tide has grown steadier, which is why we have built a temporary camp here safe from him and yet close enough to take in any who leave and protect them.”
“He believes you’re preparing to attack him.”
Her brows went up. “Does he? But what business is it of mine what the First Sword of Torin chooses to do with his exile?”
“He isn’t exiled,” Tor said. The boy met our questioning stares with a slight lift of his chin. “We were one of the first to come here. We were exiled for a cycle, but when that cycle was up Gideon did not take us back. He already had allies then. Plans. And I had already been sold off to the Chiltaens as a translator.”
I had known Gideon had been here for at least three full cycles, but that he had chosen not to go back rather than having been captured surprised me. But it was the word translator that spilt words from my mouth.
“Translator. Yes! Of course, you’re Tor.”
“I did say that.”
“Yes, but Jass said you might be here.”
“Jass?” the whisperer said. “You have heard from Jass?”
“Yes,” I said, keeping my gaze pinned to Tor. “He said if you were here you might be able to help me with the book.”
Tor looked over my shoulder to Ezma, and both bewildered, they said, “What book?”
“The Chiltaen holy book. Oh, where is—” I darted back out into the sunlight to find little smiling Ichiro still holding Itaghai’s reins, seeming to be tilting his head side to side trying to get the horse to copy. The boy offered the reins to me, but I waved him away and dug my hand into the saddlebag until I found the linen-wrapped book. In a moment I was back inside the hut, sunlight flashing white in my vision. “This book.”
I held it out to Tor, but he did not immediately take it. Once again he looked to the whisperer. Her face was an expressionless mask. “What is so important about the Chiltaen holy book?”
“I think it holds the secret to what Dom Villius is doing. I think he is trying to use us to build a holy empire, and the truth is in this book.” I held it out to him again. “Please look at it. Please help me.”
“I…” He took the linen-wrapped book from my hand. “I… suppose I could try, but I don’t see what good it will do.”
“It might make the difference between losing only a few more Levanti lives and hundreds. Please try to translate the parts relating to a man called Veld. Oh, and wash your hands after you look at it. The cover was painted in boiled-down redcap. I’ve cleaned it as best I can.”
The book fell from its linen wrapping to land, pages splayed, upon the rushes. “Redcap poison? What—?”
“Dom Villius knew I was onto him. It was meant to kill me, but it killed Matsimelar instead.”
“Matsi?”
I paused in the act of picking up the book. “You knew him? Oh, of course, I’m sorry. You would have been saddleboys together. When I asked him to steal the book for me, I never imagined this would happen.”
I didn’t hold the book out a second time, but Tor took it from my hands. “Leo killed him?”
“Yes. If not
with his own hands he certainly ordered it done.”
“Then if you promise to end him, I will translate your book.” He gave a humourless little bark of laughter and added, “I’ll add protecting Leo to Rah’s list of poor decisions.”
“I understand your anger, young Tor,” Ezma said. “But Rah e’Torin is the only Levanti who stood up to Gideon. If for no other reason he deserves more respect.”
The young man bowed his head. Anger suffused his features and for a moment I thought he might retort, but he just gripped the book and said, “With your permission, Whisperer, I will leave you to talk.”
“By all means. And, Tor?” she added as he turned to leave. “Do be careful. While it would be important for Derk’s training to experience purging someone of redcap poison, let’s not risk it, all right?”
“Yes, Whisperer.”
He walked out, throwing us into darkness as he blocked the entrance, only for the light to return at his passing. “The boy had quite a falling out with Rah, I believe. He does not tell me so but I see. He seems to be watching the track in the hope his captain will return.”
The whole time she spoke Ezma did not take her eyes off me, and unnerved by her scrutiny, I changed the subject. “Who’s Derk?”
“Derkka en’Injit, my apprentice. I was not exiled entirely alone. His soul was deemed corrupted by mine so he was not allowed to stay and take my place. But enough pleasantries, I think; you did not come here to discuss what has come before. Come, sit with me, Dishiva e’Jaroven.”
What has come before. The phrase twanged thoughts of Leo and his rebirths in my mind, but I shook them away. The whisperer settled upon the loose rushes, and it was nice not to have to consider the order in which courtiers were allowed to sit as in Gideon’s presence. I didn’t have to think about who might be watching, or where Leo was at this moment, I just sat, rushes sticking to my damp boots. Ezma smiled encouragingly. It ought to have been patronising but it wasn’t. There was comfort in her presence. To a Kisian she might have looked fearsome with her heavy jawbone headpiece, but to any Levanti she was the epitome of our people, the perfect mix of warrior and priest with an affinity for horses few could best.
“Now I want you to listen very carefully, Dishiva e’Jaroven,” she said, leaning forward, elbows on her knees.
I braced for a threat, but when Ezma spoke again it was to utter something far worse. “Zesiro en’Injit,” she said, leaving a brief pause before going on. “Nefer e’Sheth. Amun e’Torin. Lok e’Bedjuti. Kamas en’Occha. Ptapha e’Jaroven. Isi e’Bedjuti. Tor e’Torin…”
She was gifting me the names of every deserter in the camp and putting their souls in my hands.
They offered me food and they offered me sanctuary, but my first responsibility was to my Swords so I refused both. In the mid-afternoon drizzle I travelled back the way I had come, lighter by a book yet weighed down with souls. To attack them would end so many lives, but even if they were not an active threat, if word got out a horse whisperer stood against Gideon, his support would fracture. Loyalty to Ezma had kept her secret so far, but all it took was one slip of the tongue. Or one man capable of reading minds.
The camp we had made the previous night looked small and inhospitable after the deserter camp, and the faces of my Swords even less welcoming. They looked to have fractured into the comfort of their herd groups: Tafa, Baln, and Kehta stripping meat by the fire; Loklan, Shenyah, and Esi by the horses, while Moshe, Jakan, and Yafeu kept to themselves, separate and silent as though they did not feel welcome in either group.
It was Kehta who saw me first, and setting aside the carcass she was cleaning, she rose. “Captain,” she said, the bloodied blade still in her hand. “Did you find them?”
“I did,” I said. And before she could challenge me further, I added, “And we’re not going to attack.”
They all stilled about their tasks, but no one joined Kehta on her feet. “Not going to attack? Do you mean they’ve agreed to bow to Gideon?”
It would look too aggressive to remain mounted, so I slid from Itaghai’s back into the mud, buying a few moments to think.
“Well, Captain? Have they?”
“No.” I met her stare. “They don’t want any part of this war. They are no threat and not worth our time.”
Tafa slowly got to her feet, leaving Baln the only Oht still kneeling. No one else had so much as blinked. “No threat?” Tafa said. “You said they had plans to attack us. So they have said they will not? How can we be sure? And even if we can be sure, leaving honourless deserters unchallenged is a threat to everything Emperor Gideon is trying to build. How many Swords could we lose to this foolish idealism over what it means to be Levanti? Show me a single herd that is the same as another. That has the same code and the same ways and lives off the same land. Some herds stay in the mountains, others on the plains or near the rivers or the sea. What is so wrong about a herd that conquers? That rules? How does that make us any less Levanti than those down there who prefer to stick to the old ways? I am still Levanti here”—she put her fist to her chest—“and I will fight to protect my herd as would any Levanti.”
“And the preservation of our herd relies on rooting out those deserters,” Baln said, finally joining his herd sisters in their stand before the carcasses. “Who threaten our new way of life.”
“But they are Levanti!” Shenyah cried, stepping forward. “And while we are all different there is one thing we share and that is we don’t kill other Levanti without challenge, not for food or horses. That is the very purpose of the Meeting.”
“How dare you lecture me about my own people, little girl,” Tafa snarled. “I have been a Sword of the Oht longer than you have even been alive.”
“Clearly long enough to forget what all children learn at the feet of their elders. That there is only one thing more precious than water or horses—Levanti.”
Kehta laughed. “Your naivety would be amusing if it wasn’t so poorly timed. Those are stories. Ideals. As impossible to reach as the stars themselves. You’re a Sword of the Jaroven, you cannot tell me you’ve never seen someone die in a challenge. Never seen someone struck down by their own blood, their own herd, their brothers and sisters in the saddle.”
Anyone else might have shrunk back. Almost I wished the girl would, but Shenyah drew herself all the taller and gave the Oht women back glare for glare. “Better the death of one to settle a disagreement than allowing a fight that could kill hundreds or fracture a herd. Ideals are only out of reach so long as we let them be.” She folded her arms. “If those Levanti have no intention of attacking us then I refuse to attack them. I will not forget where I came from.”
Kehta snarled and might have lunged at the girl, had Moshe not risen from his perch upon a fallen trunk. Everyone stilled as he started toward me, seeming to choose a side. “Whatever we might argue makes us Levanti,” he said, ambling at his ease, “the one thing that never changes, herd to herd, is that we obey our captain’s orders whether we like them or not. We choose the best person for the job, then follow their instructions. Yes?” He swung his gaze around my Swords as he stopped a step away. “Captain Dishiva has given orders. It is our job to obey them.” Moshe paused, perhaps expecting an outcry that never came. “But then you were given orders too, weren’t you, Captain?”
In one smooth movement, he drew his knife and slashed at me, and had I not already doubted his loyalty he might have slit my throat then and there. Instead I dodged back, tripping as the tip of his blade sliced my arm. I landed in the mud as overhead Shenyah cried, “Hey! You can’t do that, you made no challenge!”
Kehta laughed. “Let it be, little girl.”
Kicking up mud, I scrambled to my feet as Moshe drew his swords.
“There was no formal challenge!” Loklan said.
“Stay out of this, Horse Master.”
“The gods must see!”
They were all just voices whirling around me, trying to pluck my attention from Moshe, who leered now
as he hefted his blades. “I knew you wouldn’t do it,” he said. “Keka always said you were weak.” He slashed at my torso and almost slit my skin, so stunned had his words left me.
“Keka?”
Moshe laughed and slashed again, forcing me to give ground as he advanced. Behind me Shenyah’s furious tirade grew louder. “Oh yes,” Moshe said. “Good, quiet Keka. Can’t talk so he’s worthless now, right? Give him guard duty. Leave him behind to look after the poor little Kisian woman, more like a matriarch than a Sword.”
“Tradition is very clear. The gods cannot choose the most worthy—” Shenyah broke off in a pained cry as I backed toward the fire, conceding still more ground to Moshe while I tried to make sense of his words. Keka had been my second for a long time. We had fought together. Been exiled together. Suffered together. And I had thought we were building a new life together. When had I started walking my path alone?
My next backward step sank my boot into a pile of entrails discarded from the kills.
“Oh, look! Fresh meat!”
I spun at the creak of a bowstring. Baln stood behind me, an arrow nocked and drawn. Whether in defence or blind terror, my knees buckled. As I dropped, a sword spun toward Baln’s back, hitting him hilt first and pitching him into the mud. Yafeu had his second sword drawn and stalked toward the stunned Oht, but Jakan leapt at him like a tiger and the pair went down in a burst of fists and mud and flailing steel.
Moshe lunged at me and I threw a handful of entrails into his face as I rolled, gaining my feet only to find both he and Baln facing me across the pile of muddied meat. Without a word, Baln began circling behind me, making it difficult to keep both men in sight. On the other side of the camp, Tafa had Loklan pushed back to the treeline, and nearby Esi danced around Kehta. Shenyah continued to berate the Oht hunter through the blood leaking from her nose. The girl hadn’t even drawn her sword.
I lunged at Moshe. One of my blades caught his arm and the other almost sliced open his gut, but the man growled and edged back and our wary dance spun on around the makeshift camp.