Those last words sounded stupid in my ears. Those men didn’t know Malan as I did. The Tracker continued. “I say we get on boats and go up the river to the West, to find a way later, after the mountains.”
Boats. Another folly.
The Tracker stood with arms crossed, proud and confident for knowing so much more than all the rest, without even guessing that those would be his final words.
“So our best Tracker here says there is no path through the mountains,” said Druug, looking at me. “Where is your stupid path, Da-Ren?”
“Boats?” I replied. That single word was enough to save me.
Sah-Ouna whispered something to Malan, and before she even finished he continued with an angry, impatient voice: “Where the horses don’t follow, the Tribe doesn’t go. Never will I put the fate of our men upon the black water.” He nodded to the Rods. Two of them stepped forward and caught the Tracker by the arms. “Carve this useless dog and send him to the Fishermen,” Malan shouted for all to hear.
“You’ll get your little boat there,” the Rod said to the Tracker, laughing at his own half-brain joke.
“Someone has to stop this madness,” murmured the Reghen, shaking his head.
Malan looked at the old man, ready to carve him too. But he couldn’t punish a Reghen. There were things that even the One Leader couldn’t do.
“We are cursed. One among us is unworthy, and Enaka does not favor this campaign,” said Druug.
It was what I’d expect Sah-Ouna to say, but she wasn’t looking at me. All that was missing was for someone to bring up my ninestar mark. Then everything would suddenly be my fault. I took two steps back to hide. I didn’t offer any wisdom, let alone the truth. I had figured already that one shouldn’t say much in these councils. Their only use was for the weak and the old to shout their terror and their despair. And for a scapegoat to lose its head faster. Nobody ever decided anything in a council. A Khun knew better than that.
“Da-Ren, tomorrow you ride forward with the Rods and me,” Malan ordered. “You lead until we find the path, and if we don’t…”
I kept riding first for three more days, waiting for each one to be my last. In my sleep, I saw Zeria, her back turned to me, and heard Rouba’s voice behind my ear. “The Forest Witch. This is her wood. Fear not, Da-Ren, you are safe here.” Once more the old Guide was right.
On the fourth dawn, as I trotted next to Malan and Sah-Ouna, the First Witch raised her hand and stopped. She dismounted and approached a tree. I had seen this tree once before. Bunches of crystalline red berries like drops of clotted blood against the white forest.
You are the tree of my death. You had charred branches, and now they are frozen white. I have seen you in the caves of the dead; you were the one draining my blood. I remember you, tree.
At the sight of the red crystal tree, Sah-Ouna fell to one knee and covered her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Baaaaaaaack!” she screamed.
My horse, which had not complained for two tormenting moons, rose on its two hind legs.
Rarely did the Witch speak, and never before had she screamed in front of us, not even at the pyre of Khun-Taa, the one who had once named her First. The thousand-warrior horde quickly gathered everything, and we broke camp, running before anyone had a chance to wonder what had happened.
We turned eastward, stopped only for a brief sleep, and returned to Sirol without even paying much respect to the rituals required for each tree. Everyone marched back in silence for days. When one sets out for the unknown on a journey of hope, the road seems endless. When one returns home after defeat, the road shortens and ends quickly. It still took more than half a moon until we finally made it to Sirol. The Blades welcomed the frozen shithole that was our camp like a warm nest of rest and plenty. All things I loved had died in that winter but the cold was finally dying as well.
Eighty thousand, hungry and weak, waited for us to tell them what we had seen and when we would move out of Sirol for the West. None of my men said a word because no one knew what to say.
“What did you find? Do we move out?” asked the other Packs of the Blades.
“We found only curses and blood,” I answered. Only that.
Malan held another brief council from which Sah-Ouna was absent. Only a Reghen and three more of us, Tracker, Archer, and Blade, were there. And quite a few Rods, as there were already rumors of traitors wanting to assassinate the young Khun.
“We shall await the Truths of Enaka to guide us at the Great Feast of Spring,” said Malan. It was the briefest council we had ever had. Someone spoke out. It was the elder Reghen, from the previous council, the wise one with the calm voice, still trying to teach and guide the young Khun. This time he decided to point his finger to the Khun.
“It won’t be the best of Feasts, if—”
Before the Reghen finished his words, Malan took out his small blade and plunged it into the old man’s chest with a sudden move.
“You, a wise Reghen, most of all, should have more faith,” Malan said as he twisted the knife deeper. A big red circle, another one, expanded on his gray robe. I had never seen a Reghen fall. I bent over him. I touched his neck and then his shoulder.
“He’s gone,” I said to Malan, but he wasn’t listening. He was punching the air around him with both fists like a madman.
“Useless traitors, all of them!” he yelled.
The Rods ordered us to get out of the tent, and we left Malan alone with his skulls.
“That was a rowan tree,” one of the Rods said to me in confidence as I was walking out.
“What?”
“The oracle. Rowan, the bloodtree.”
I had never seen nor heard of rowan trees before in Sirol. But soon afterward, their fame spread. Without a doubt, we had to turn back. Everyone understood that, especially those who had no idea what a rowan bloodtree was. They agreed because Sah-Ouna screamed and that was enough. As for the endless fir forest and the mountain chains that pierced the sky, not a word was spoken. That was the end of Malan’s first campaign, where the only blood we saw was the prophecy of the red berries of the rowan.
We were days away from the Great Feast of Spring, the first of Khun-Malan’s reign. It would be a miserable and inglorious Feast. Instead of prophecies of tomorrow, Sah-Ouna had only Legends of yesterday. The wolves, our ancestors and brothers, had summoned her in the Forest’s night and had given her the omen. They told her to turn back if she ever reached the rowan trees that dripped blood in the middle of winter.
There had been no word of the rowan tree since ancient times back when the men of the Tribe dwelled in the tall mountains of the East, even before the steppe. Not even the very old Reghen could remember tales about them. Wherever the rowan took root was a mark of the end of the world and that the Tribe should go no farther. A new old Story sprang up for the occasion, a Legend of the Witch that she had been cooking up for some time. On the last night of the Great Feast, Sah-Ouna told us of the rowan.
Know this, men.
A long time ago, in the age of the First Leader, in the dead of winter, the proud eagles gathered—unheard of—in flocks for the first time and flew south, toward the Sun’s warmth.
Greedy and foolish were the first people of the Tribe, without the words of the Ouna-Mas to guide them. In their madness, they shot the eagles with their arrows and killed them. As the beloved birds of prey of the Goddess began to fall from high in the Sky, the blood flowed like rivers from inside of them. The red drops watered the soil and gave birth to the rowan, the bloodtrees. Cursed, they stand and bear fruit in the death of autumn to remind us of the wrongdoing of our Tribe. And of the rage of Enaka that awaits us if we take the forbidden path.
A path that is guarded by the rowan is one that we cannot ride upon.
I was watching all this next to the other Chiefs of the Blades. Not everyone was so impressed with this Story and I heard words of doubt repeating back at our camp.
“That’s a horseshit Legend if
I ever heard one.”
“I overheard the Reghen talk. They said there’s no such tale.”
“Worse, I heard that it is a Legend of the Southerner othertribers.”
The meat and the milk spirit were not abundant at the Feast and the men resorted to the worst of habits. Pondering. Questioning. Thinking.
“You know, Khun-Malan killed a Reghen. Khun-Taa ruled for thirty winters and he never—”
The Story of the rowan was the only armor Sah-Ouna could offer against Malan’s reckless decision to send us into the Forest in the dead of winter. Many winters later, I would find out that this was truly a Legend of the ancient southern tribes who worshiped the thirteen gods.
Sirol was boiling, angry and hungry once again.
“I heard that Druug called for a secret meeting. He summoned some of the Blades’ Chiefs,” said Leke.
“Any Reghen or Ouna-Mas?” I asked.
“Don’t know, I can find out.”
“Do.”
Leke came back the next day, and it was as I expected.
“No, none of them.”
They were all under Sah-Ouna’s claws and spells.
“Then Druug and those Chiefs are doomed. Stay away from them,” I said to Leke.
As I had guessed, the Ouna-Mas and the Reghen united again and on the same night they came to the camp with more Truths.
“It has been decided that we cannot go to the West now. We’ll need to get stronger first, get more weapons and gold.”
It was one of the rare times that I had heard the word “gold,” and it sounded important to be next to weapons. Spring and summer were coming, but they would not bring a great campaign, only limited raids to the South and to the East.
Not everyone blamed Malan. Most of the men slept easy on the night of the Great Feast when Sah-Ouna warned them of the bloodtrees. The cold began to weaken further in the next couple of days, and even more men praised Sah-Ouna for that. The fools were trampling on my mind.
“We must do something,” Leke said. “There will be a war here.”
A war where I would be either a servile dog on Malan’s side or a dead dog because everyone thought I was.
Yes, I must do something, Leke. It is about time. I have promised her. Seven nights after the full moon. I either leave tomorrow, or I betray her once again.
Spring was coming, with the carefree innocence of a child ignorant of the evils committed by its father, the black winter. There was still another path, a way out, to leave all this behind.
I was no longer in the Sieve. I was no longer with the Uncarved. Ouna-Mas had ridden me, I had taken others on all fours, some had fed me poison and others honey, some desired me and others were sent by the Khun. I had slaughtered armed and unarmed men, brave ones and cowards, othertribers and brothers. I had led men, blind and wise, faithful and jackals, to victory and to death. I had endured and cast off my armor. Before I entered my nineteenth spring, I had done it all.
I had seen so much death that I was dying to drink a little life.
My patience and curiosity about everything to do with my Tribe, which I had carried since childhood, had died.
My eyes had lost their light.
The stupidity and the false magic smothered me.
My mind traveled elsewhere.
I had to make a decision that night or suffer forever.
I asked Sani, “Did you say you’ve been here for nine winters?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And what?”
He didn’t understand what I was asking.
“What are you waiting for? What do you want?”
“A good Story. Because I’ll be up there for all the other winters. The countless,” he said, showing me the stars.
Maybe he was right. But I couldn’t live only to die.
Stars of my Goddess, you can wait, I’ll find some other way to you. My skin craves to bathe in her blue waters once more.
Kar-Tioo defeated the night. I had heard Sah-Ouna’s Stories of sacrifices, blood, and demons for one final time. I’d had enough. If I did not start at that moment, I would betray Zeria for the second time. I told her to be there. Seven nights after the full moon.
“I am going to be away for a while,” I said to Sani.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he answered. He thought I was going somewhere in Sirol. I mounted my horse before he had a chance to ask me anything more.
This time, the Rods didn’t stop me. They were busy looking out for traitors around Malan’s camp. I kissed the neck of my old horse, held its long mane gently, and it gathered its strength to carry me as fast as it could. I left it to graze in one of the new outposts Malan had established on the fresh spring meadows just outside of the Forest. The few Archers there welcomed me and looked with awe as I entered the wood alone on foot. They had heard the Legend of Er-Ren at least once. I was soon lost in the trees, running toward Kar-Tioo for three days. No one had ever made it faster.
I arrived at dusk, exactly on the night that I had asked Zeria to be there. She had told me she would not come, but we men hear what we want to hear when the women we love are talking. Kar-Tioo was deserted; the few huts of the Dasal lay ruined and burned. There were no bodies anywhere. The monsters couldn’t have found them. The water in the pond was crystal clear once more, and trees all around were turning green.
I waited for Zeria until dawn. I had made my decision. I would stay with her, far from Witches and Khuns. Even now, I want to believe that her eyes were watching me from somewhere, hidden behind the trees. Every freezing breath down my lungs made me more certain that she would come. She would slip away from Veker and run to me.
I had defied death and disgrace; I had left my heart at her pond. I had turned the world upside down to get to her. She would come. I had asked it of her. I had been fast, made it on time. I had taken off my only armor, the Chief’s skins, and untied the black ribbon from my arm. I had denounced my Tribe and Story, Goddess and Witch, Legend and Father, to be with her. I had run for days to steal only a few breaths.
She would be here any moment.
Everything would end. And everything would begin again this spring.
I was now a man, a warrior, but I would never become Khun of the Tribe. I would thrust my blade into the ground. Any moment now she would appear in front of me. I would live there forever with her.
She is still not here. Maybe they ventured far away. I have to wait for her.
I waited all the next day, dawn, noon, and evening until night came again. And then I waited for her, standing on two feet for a second night, like a cursed child of the Sieve.
She is trying to escape from her father. I can’t sleep, what if she doesn’t see me and turns and leaves? I have to stay awake.
That was all I could do: stand proud and tall and hope.
I count to one-hundred. I open my eyes and she’ll be standing in front of me.
I count to one-hundred. Her smile will be here.
I count to one-hundred…
That night passed without meat, just seeds and water, but that was the least of my torment. A tremor across my whole body. That was all. A tremor of nights without sleep, days without food, a tremor of love and betrayal.
I count. I can’t…
The sun had cleared the horizon for the second time and was rising high, a dancing, bright spring sun, when I started my way back to Sirol.
I hate the winter and its armors. Desperate love drowns in its embrace. Impossible love does not stand a chance in the snow. It cannot bloom in the ice, it cannot take its first steps in the frozen soil, it cannot leap numb, and it cannot dive where the water cannot flow. It will shrivel. It will sleep cold, with violet lips shut, and it will already be too late.
Before it awakens again, the careless feet of spring will trample upon it and crush it triumphantly.
XLII.
Brown
Island of the Holy Monastery, Thirty-fifth winter.
According to
the Monk Eusebius.
Da-Ren never changed his story. He had come here to the Castlemonastery to save the lives of his wife and daughter. The women in Da-Ren’s story were exactly what unsettled me the most. It was the part that stirred sinful thoughts within me and the one I understood the least of all.
During the first year, I insisted that we avoid the lustful parts of Dar-Ren’s stories, with the Ouna-Mas and his carnal encounters with Zeria. The salacious transcriptions of these acts would not be looked upon with mercy by the wise monks who would eventually read them. The second year, I changed my mind. I didn’t want to geld his true story. The tallow candle of my faith had started to die out by then. The third year, I made an honest effort to understand. But I wasn’t faring well.
It was a night that we had run out of firewood, and the hearth’s warmth was dying. We started talking again, faster, trying to find an answer to those questions.
“How many women have you been with, Eusebius?”
“None.”
“It is difficult to explain to you certain things. How many times have you fallen in love?”
What could I say to him?
“Never. We have been trained to defy these demons that torment the mind.”
Da-Ren filled both of our carved cedar cups with wine even though he knew I wasn’t going to drink that night.
“I thought that your god was the god of love.”
“That is a different kind of love, Da-Ren. It is the love of your neighbor, of someone weaker than you.”
He shook his head, wrinkled his chin, and bit his lip disdainfully.
“You and your neighbor hunt the same meat, Eusebius. If he eats, then you won’t.”
“But you gave meat to your men from Malan’s spit.”
“That was different.”
“How is that different?”
Da-Ren got up and filled two bowls with chickpea soup. I dipped my spoon into the pulp that was long cold. A cockroach slipped out the door to seek heat elsewhere and left us to our licentious quest.
“I shared it with them because I respected them. They were strong. That was different.”
Drakon Book II: Uncarved Page 28