He stared, but the scarf made her inscrutable. “No, I… Is that the High Country tongue? I lived near the Low.”
“It was of all the Kirin Diuxi once, before Altaerai became the tongue of the north. Thought you would speak it. Hn.”
With that, she strode on toward the Brow, leaving him chilled. A part of him recognized the words—remembered his parents speaking to visitors in that tongue, and his mother singing old songs in both languages to teach him—but his understanding had degraded to nothing over the years of his enslavement. The Low Country spoke only Imperial; in the quarry, slaves were whipped for using anything else.
He'd spent half his life trying to be a good Imperial, and now it was too late to go back. He was a stranger here.
Deal with it, he told himself. Kina's definitely a spy, but until she turns on us, she's useful. Go to the village, call to Drakisa...
Fear twinged at him. No, it was too soon to stop. The enemy mage would have had plenty of time to scry for them—was probably watching them right now. He couldn't involve a village. They needed to get somewhere narrow and treacherous before he used the stakes, to make sure soldiers couldn't just portal in on them.
Pikery. I need shelter, rest… And we need to talk about the Blood Goddess, because that was her. Definitely her. If Erevard was really doing her bidding… If Fiora really was too...
He grimaced, snowshoes kicking up powder from the crust as he followed in Kina's tracks. He'd been too angry to talk about it earlier, but now it swarmed his thoughts: Fiora in Cantorin, on the caravan road, in the prison-spire, in Haaraka. On the hill at dusk, fireflies dancing, skin warm against his.
In the Palace, standing before the Throne.
He didn't know what to make of it. She hadn't betrayed him; she'd been clear in her intent to overthrow the Emperor and destroy Enkhaelen, and he'd been with her in that until the end. She had true, personal reasons for it, not just some goddess-drive.
As had Erevard. Possessed or not, manipulated or not, their grievances were real.
But what was the goddess's stake in this? Revenge? Love of bloodshed?
He had no way to tell, so he forced himself to pay attention to the trail. With the moon past its zenith, it was becoming dangerous, and Kina halted them regularly to have him check with his staff and senses. Here was a stream, still running under a delicate crust; there was a gouge in the earth, packed high enough with snow to swallow a man. Over that edge was no gentle slope but a cliff, the illusion of solidity just piled powder waiting to blow away.
She watched him without seeming to, and he tried not to look at her. They barely spoke except to discuss the conditions, the landmarks. Now and then, he caught her looking back at the sled, but whatever she was thinking, she didn't say.
It felt like an eternity before they rounded Old Man's Brow. In the shadows of the slopes beyond, the village lay snow-shrouded and silent, its oval roofs, faint terracing and trodden-down paths all that distinguished it from an empty valley. No lights glinted; even from afar Cob could tell there were few windows beneath those overhanging eaves, and none of glass.
Kina started down toward it, bracing herself with the snowshoe poles.
“No,” said Cob. “We avoid it.”
She turned her head, nothing visible through the eye-guard slits but darkness, then gave a heavy shrug and altered her course.
They found a cart-track just past Zo Lin Vaede, and plodded along for a while in the footsteps of innumerable goats and High Countryfolk. The trail narrowed sometimes to less than shoulder-width, with one side a slope and the other a cliff, but Cob hitched staff and sled across his back then slung Enkhaelen over his good shoulder, his phantom hand gripping into the essence of the rock wall for balance.
Kina looked at him like he was crazy for that, and a part of him agreed. He wasn't sure how much of a grip he really had with the phantom hand; he'd yet to try to hang by it and hadn't successfully lifted anything other than the staff. Even though he felt like he was locked onto the wall, he had no idea what force would dislodge him. An avalanche? A push?
But it was necessary. By her word, she was swinging them wide from Imperial outposts, and the narrower the path, the less likely a portal-driven ambush. Still, the more he used it, the more it drained him. It was a relief when the trail widened again.
They passed several villages that way, each clinging to the north wall of a valley with terraces faintly visible around them. More common were solitary homesteads built in narrower clefts, goat-pens nestled against the house. Here and there, lonely lights moved: villagers visiting or searching, or travelers taking advantage of the near-full moon, or mountain spiritists going about their strange rituals. From a distance, it was impossible to tell.
By the time the western peaks began to gnaw away at the moon, Cob's eyes were closing. Phantasms danced behind them: firelight, laughter, familiar faces. Every time he wrenched them open, he experienced a moment of disorientation—of confusion at being among lonely mountains instead of in the salt desert beside his friends.
It was only when he snapped awake to find himself practically atop a staring Kina that he realized he had to stop. “Cave,” he mumbled through wind-chapped lips. “House. Anything.”
She said nothing, just started up a slope so sharp he slid half-down it twice.
At the top, collared by rock walls and fences, was an oblong house of plastered stone with a thatch roof and rust-colored marks around the openings. Bleats arose from the attached goat-pen when Kina thumped on the door.
A harsh old voice answered, speaking Kiri Va—either that, or Cob was too tired to understand language. Kina responded, and after a moment the door scraped open, letting out a wash of warmth and goat-stink.
Kina said something, and Cob realized she was looking at him—realized he had no idea what she'd just asked. She grabbed his arm and he let her pull him forward, not thinking to duck even as the low lintel came at his face.
It hit him right above the nose. He had a brief impression of the door-frame against his shoulder, of hands grappling at his gear, and thrashed reflexively. This place wasn't safe, these people weren't his friends, he was lost, he was…
On his back, on a mat over a pad of straw, with a blanket flung over him. Boots off and steaming by a fire-pit, pack and bundle off, sled nearby, Enkhaelen laid out near him.
He blinked blearily, making out three shapes beyond the cook-fire: Kina and two bent figures, old women perhaps. Their words swirled right through his head, and when he tried to wedge himself up on his bad elbow, a wave of blackness took him and eased him back down.
Chapter 22 – Gate of Wood
A clattering noise brought him up through layers of dream, through mist and snow and circling birds, to a view of a domed ceiling with warm lamplight casting shadows from the rafters. Bunches of herbs hung there, along with strings of beads and tokens of bone and tin.
He tried to sit up, felt the world spin, and slumped back down on the mat-covered pallet. His good shoulder was pressed to a wall that seemed made up of cabinets, the woodwork detailed in abstract patterns and swirls; to the other side was the cook-space, a low stone platform with an indent for the fire and a blackened metal pot in a frame set above. An old woman hunched by the squat oven beside it, drawing out flatbread to add to a small stack. Beyond her, Kina and the other old woman sat on cushions that had been lain atop more low cabinets, talking quietly over their bowl-sized teacups.
Cob took a few deep breaths then tried again. This time his head didn't swim nearly as much, though his guts gave an unpleasant lurch. The women's attention all flicked to him. The one by the oven started toward him, tutting something in Kiri Va, but Kina intervened to wave her off and finish the approach herself.
“How d'you feel?” she murmured as she came close. She'd shed her pullover parka and wore her short robe open, allowing a glimpse of tunic and loose breeches in traditional tan and black patterns. Charms hung on cords from her neck and belt, and bead bracelets ch
attered faintly under her sleeves. Not at all what he'd expected from a bodythief.
He let her wait a moment as his gaze skimmed the rest of the little house. It was lined with those bedding-covered cabinet-seats, with Enkhaelen still bundled up and asleep on the one by his feet. The plastered walls were draped with woven hangings depicting deer and birds, the gaps painted with symbols that struck a chord but that he couldn't decipher. Every surface was covered with jars, bottles, figurines, combs, boxes and other little oddments, a comfortable sort of clutter that didn't spill into the foot-space.
His chest tightened in painful familiarity. The little cubbies, the mountain spirit shrines, the goat-hides... Just the scent of the place made his eyes prickle with nostalgia.
“'M fine,” he mumbled at last. “How long was I out?”
Her dusky face squinched in thought. “Hard to say anymore. A day, maybe? I think you've been mountain-sick; you were actin' disoriented there at the end. Though if you hadn't hit your head in the doorway, maybe you'd've been fine.”
Cob grimaced and rubbed at his brow. It didn't hurt, a testament to at least a few marks' rest. “Mountain-sick,” he echoed glumly. “Thought I wouldn't get that, since I was born up here.”
Kina shrugged and moved to sit by him, and he reluctantly pulled his legs in to allow it. Getting himself fully sat-up caused another wash of dizziness and let him know in no uncertain terms that he needed to step outside soon. “Have y'been gone a long time?” she asked, oblivious to his discomfort. “If you stay too long in the lowlands, you adapt to it.”
“I guess, but...”
“But what? Y'can't jus' start from plains-country and run right up the mountains.”
He grimaced. He'd thought he still retained some remnant of his ancestry—or if not, that the Guardian's lingering gifts would compensate—but evidently his tolerance for high places was gone. The change in altitude between Gejara and home must have been staggering. “Feel all right now,” he mumbled. “Dry though.”
“Of course you're dry. Don't worry, there's tea.” She nodded to her cup and its rich tan liquid, and the saliva sprang up in his mouth. He hadn't had butter tea since his conscription.
Just as quickly, his stomach turned. Cheese wasn't his friend anymore, so why would butter be?
Granted, I ate a whole wedge that time. A little might be fine.
If not, this stopover would be uncomfortable. Kerrindrixi cuisine was built around goat meat, milk, cheese and butter; the High Country's growing season was brief, and with venison off the menu, it was up to their goats to sustain them through the long cold winters.
Well, if I can't handle it, at least I have the dried squash in my pack. I won't starve yet. And these people… Maybe they'll understand my stupid deer guts.
“Have some in a bit. First I've gotta...” Bracing himself, he heaved to his feet and held onto a cabinet with his good hand as everything tilted. Once that passed, he moved for the door with a nod to the old women, trying to ignore the questions in their dark eyes.
Outside, the cold wind caught him a slap, dispelling his nausea. Kina pointed him to the latrine beyond the goat-shelter, and he spent some time there, then washed up with snow and took a few moments to stare out at the vista. The mother moon limned the peaks near her with a silvery glow and cast brilliance upon those that faced her, and as he turned westward, he thought he glimpsed Howling Spire—or at least the base of it. According to legends, the summit was eternally shrouded in clouds.
Miles and miles still to go, and a treacherous climb once he reached it.
He took a few deep breaths of the ice-thin air, then headed back in.
The old women were busy around the fire, ladling dumpling soup into big wooden bowls and pulling out the last of the flatbreads. Little folding tables had been set up by the pallet-seats, each with a spoon and a two-tined fork and a big teacup awaiting its fill. Small pots sat nearby, filled with goat butter and salt and dried spices to be added to taste, plus dishes of fermented greens wafting their pungency into the air.
Cob retook his place awkwardly, feeling like a looming bear even when sitting. The women didn't seem to mind; the one who delivered his bowl even patted his hand, murmuring something pleasant-sounding through a gap-toothed smile.
“She says you're quite the stag,” Kina commented as she settled on the seat to his left. “You are very big.”
“Not m'fault,” he mumbled, and broke apart a dumpling cautiously. It looked like vegetables inside, though he couldn't tell what. Still, it meant he could eat it.
The other old woman tutted at him, and he flushed and set his utensils down to wait. Finally, the hosts settled, then pressed their hands together over their bowls and mumbled something in Kiri Va that he couldn't begin to catch. Kina didn't speak, but went through the motions, and Cob hesitantly copied her. He didn't remember this from home, but there were many spirits of the mountains, many such little rituals native to one town or another. Perhaps his mother and father hadn't seen the need, having both borne the Guardian.
Prayer over, the old women clacked their spoons against their bowls, then immediately began chatting. Though too quick for him to follow, the cadence and the curt syllables made his ears sharpen as if he could somehow listen hard enough to understand. Kerrindrixi spoke Kiri Va differently than they did Imperial; those long foreign words mushed up in their mouths, while native words came out short and clear, almost punctuated. There was a singsong pattern to them too, rising and falling, that he dimly remembered in his father's voice before the Guardian had repurposed him as a mouthpiece.
Now and then, he thought he caught a familiar word, or a fragment of one, but it had been too long. He couldn't remember.
All at once, they looked at him, and he froze in mid-chew. At his confused expression, Kina said, “They want to know your name.”
He held up his hand and swallowed, a bit red under their stares. His soup was already half-gone, the flatbread just salt-sprinkled scraps, the tangy butter tea down to its dregs; so far, nothing was trying to come back up. A breath, and he said, “Co— Ko Vrin. Son of Dernyel.”
“Dir Niul?” one woman said, quite distinctly.
His heart clenched. He remembered his mother saying it that way, in the Guardian's memories, but he'd been called by the Imperialized version for so long that it was still a habit. “Dir Niul,” he echoed with a nod. “And I know this is Kina, and you are…?”
“Ki Nah,” the bodythief corrected, then gestured to the old women. “This is Nai Tan Kri and her sister Thei Kri. They've lived in these mountains all their lives. We're lucky we found them instead of seeking out a village; there's no love lost toward lowlanders around here.”
He bowed his head to them and they fluttered a little, making bright comments to each other without looking away. It put a flush on his cheeks again, and he directed his attention back to Kina for relief. “We're not lowlanders though. At least, we don't look like it.”
“I don't. You? You have to be Low Country, big as you are and not knowin' the language. And the Maker?” She gestured to the sleeping necromancer, just a stripe of his face showing above the blankets. “He's clearly an outlander. Mountain-sick too, even worse than you. He won't wake up.”
Cob bit back the truth despite the concern on Kina's face. That the Imperials hadn't descended upon them while he was unconscious spoke positively of her intent, but he couldn't be sure—and he didn't think he had the strength yet to contact Drakisa. “He'll recover,” he said instead. “He wore himself out with all that magic, so he needs to sleep for a while.”
Her dark eyes hooded, but after a moment she gave a nod. “The weather looks promisin'. We can move on whenever you're ready. The villages may be hostile but the Kris say this area is riddled with caves—not good enough to live in but fair for a night's shelter. Then it's on to Thul Rei Tenko and the Ratrangas Garta.”
“What and what…?”
She frowned at him. “The capital city and the sacred mountain.”
“Oh. Right.” He felt like kicking himself. “D'you think we could...go around the city somehow? People will be comin' after us sooner or later. I don't wanna drag them through a populated area.”
Kina smirked. “Thul Rei Tenko might do a good job of scraping them off your tail, since they're all lowlanders—and you'll need a proper rest and the proper rituals before you approach the Great Door anyway. The Muriae don't open up for just anyone.”
Glancing to Enkhaelen, Cob murmured, “We're not goin' in through the Door.”
“No?”
“We can't. It's…complicated.”
“Then...” Her eyes widened. “You plan to climb Ratrangas Garta? That's sacrilege!”
He made a shushing gesture, glancing to the Kri sisters. If they understood, they didn't show it, their wizened faces as pleasant as ever. “Funny, comin' from you. You're not even one of us. Where were you born?”
Glowering, she sat back against the cabinets. “That's not relevant. I'm Ki Nah now.”
“Y'don't feel any loyalty to the Empire?”
“They sent me here. Had me take over this body, these memories, and wipe out the real Ki Nah's existence. I owe her more than I owe them. She's got parents, a brother, and I...” She swallowed and visibly forced those thoughts away. “Anyway, the Light left us. Why should we be loyal to the men, the government, when our god is gone? I'd rather follow my Maker.”
Cob nodded slowly. He couldn't claim to understand it, but she seemed sincere. “This's what the Maker wants. Contact with the Muriae would be bad right now.”
She squinted at him, then gave a reluctant nod. “He's known to them as an agent of the Empire. He wouldn't be welcomed,” she reasoned.
He made a sound of agreement and bent back to his soup, not wanting to elaborate. She didn't pursue the point.
The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 63