by Jo Sparkes
Pinter was not surprised to find the Agben skin in the counsel room, admonishing Bowag, the High Priest. Bowag was bobbing his head in the way that seemed to satisfy her, though obviously paying no attention to her words.
Pinter bowed. “You sent for me, my Wisdom?”
“By Eutykia, I sought counsel again this morning, my Right Hand. It is possible now is the time to bring Agben into our vision.”
Mid-tirade, Rain fell silent.
“All of Agben…or one devotee?”
Bowag’s fangs lengthened in a smile. “The first step is one devotee. Her reaction will guide us to the next step.”
“You have more to tell me?” the foolish skin demanded.
“Return to your room,” Pinter growled. Her eyes flew from him to Bowag, seeking, studying. When she next spoke he had to acknowledge she was sharp when she applied her mind.
“Tinge?” she queried. “I should travel with you…I know her well.”
Pinter shook his head, warning Bowag not to reveal anything. But the High Priest had no concerns for what this skin learned.
“Travel is not necessary.”
“Tell me,” Rain demanded. And winced at the sharpness of her voice. Fortunately, Terrin seemed incapable of detecting emotional nuances.
“I have told you that Skullan will prevail. Your kind shall wipe out the lowly Trumen.”
Impatient, Rain nodded. This was obvious - any Skullan knew it.
“What I have not told you is the Agben Academy will come to serve the Tower.”
Rain gaped. Bowag’s face was impossible to read, but she guessed he actually believed that.
For years she had imagined herself the head of Agben, creating a whole new position in the world that none had held before. The High Woman of Agben, akin to the leader of Zaria.
Now he hoped for her subservience? He was a bigger fool than she’d guessed.
“It is foretold. You cannot avoid it.”
We will see, she promised herself.
“You, Rain, could be the first to swear fealty. You could lead your academy, show the way for the others.” He actually stepped forward, extending his hand. Expecting her to fall to her knees and kiss his stupid ring.
Well, she had no problem casting promises to the Tower, though keeping them was an entirely different matter. But there needed to be a worthy trade.
“Tell me,” she purred, “What other secrets lie in your scrolls?”
She had the satisfaction of seeing his hand drop.
In the pitch black that followed the acolyte’s retreat, Marra heard Kirth slowly circling the cell, her tread underscored with a sort of hollow echo. “Mistress?!” Her own voice bounced back at her, overloud and forlorn.
She counted four drops of water falling in the distance before the elder’s response.
“I’m right here. I suggest you seat yourself and get comfortable.” Her calm voice was soothing, as far as that was possible.
“The floor must be filthy,” Marra hugged herself, staring downward. To no avail - the darkness was absolute.
Kirth’s steps paused, hesitated. And finally moved close. “Where are you, child?”
“Here.” Marra held out a hand; the elder found it, holding it firmly as she lowered herself.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting comfortable,” Kirth huffed.
“But how do we….”
“At the moment we can do nothing. I rely on Tinge.”
The chill seeped through her skin, crept into her bones. Reluctant to touch even the floor in this awful place, only her own swaying convinced Marra to sit before she fell.
Her protective breeches insulated against the hard cold surface, but that wouldn’t last. “How will Tinge find us?”
“She is of Agben, and a powerful Terrin female. She would not abandon us. Whatever assurances they want, Tinge will gain our freedom.”
Even as Marra relaxed, another voice cut through the water drips.
“Indeed I would, my old friend,” the Terrin’s voice rasped. “If I were not a prisoner as well.”
Marra surfaced slowly from her sleep.
Vaguely disturbed, disoriented, she blinked to no avail. Whether her eyes were wide open or closed, the black void remained. She sat up too quickly, propping a hand on cold glass. No, not glass - poured black stone.
So it wasn’t a nightmare after all. They really were prisoners in a cell below the earth. Truth be told, the only thing that kept her from screaming her head off was Kirth and Tinge there to witness it. And, Marra told herself over and over, it could not possibly help.
This was the third day, if Tinge’s belief that they were being fed both a morning and evening meal was correct. In truth she had no appetite, and the grain balls stolen from their own rations just made her stomach clench. But Kirth kept admonishing her to eat.
The two elders had debated their situation as calmly as if debating which vinegars produced the best tinctures for snow juice. Tinge, apparently in a cell just across the tiny hall, believed they would have to be released. Terrin males were somewhat in awe of their women, and adding in Tinge’s standing as Agben, she doubted they would dare keep her long. Their arrival had startled the Tower, but as soon as the priests had some sort of plan, they would talk with her again. While Kirth had agreed this may be true, she pointed out that as their females lived alone without regular contact, Tinge herself could be missing for a long time before any alarm would be raised. And she and Marra would merit less consideration.
Yesterday, Marra had wondered wildly if she could kick the door down. She had practiced self-defense with Tryst, learning body physics to increase power. She’d even jumped to her feet to find the grid, rattling it with all her frustrated might.
The idea proved foolish. At her best she was nowhere near as strong as the smallest Trumen man, and the grid was forged to secure male Terrin. Her head had sagged to bump against the metal in defeat.
“What are you doing?” Tinge’s voice had cut through her frustration.
“Being stupid,” Marra whispered.
“Ahh. A male solution won’t work here, little skin-girl.”
And Kirth, unbelievably, had laughed.
Now, as Marra rubbed an awful kink out of her neck, Kirth spoke with a decided undercurrent.
“Marra, prove me right. Tell me that you wear your herb sash round your waist.”
“Mistress? Where else would I wear it?”
Tinge broke in impatiently. “But do you wear it now, herb-girl?”
Marra nodded, before remembering no one could see. “I do.”
“Then by Yute’s own luck, we have a chance.”
The plan, it seemed, was to make a potion. “If we cannot employ a male solution, we shall try a female one. Rather, an Agben one,” Tinge purred.
Water rations had been served in wide, shallow cups that could be used as bowls. With Tinge’s own herb vials dangling on her sash, she proposed mixing Reeder Potion with her fingers. “What shall I use as a base?” she mused.
“Spittle,” Kirth replied. “But how to administer?”
“Reeder potion?” Marra had never heard of it.
Silence, and then the elder beside her sighed. “Zaria Terrin use it.”
“To aid teaching,” Tinge said.
“To lull the student’s resistance,” Kirth corrected. “It helps them comply with instruction.”
“Comply?” Marra remembered gathering the Reeders from the goss. “Reeders make them obey?”
Kirth snorted. “That’s what we mean by influence. It perverts the will.”
“I think these wills need influencing,” Tinge rumbled. “Marra, did you collect any of the moss by my house?”
Catching herself nodding again, Marra swallowed to clear her throat. “I did, Mistress.”
“What an excellent student you are.”
The first challenge they faced was getting the moss across the gap between the cells. Tinge had observed the last feeding, not
ing the large doorways of the holds, the corridor between just wide enough for a Terrin to pass without prisoners reaching through the grids being able to touch him. Fortunately their cells were directly across, albeit slightly staggered. If Marra stood to the left side of the grid and lobbed her sash, it should reach Tinge.
Still, it was a nervous attempt. If she missed….
“Use the grid to orient yourself,” Kirth warned. “Toss it straight across - not down the length of the hall.”
Marra sagged at the metallic thud as the cloth struck home. Pouncing on the sound, Tinge easily located it, pulling it through the grid. “Which pocket, herb girl?”
Surprised, she had to think, imagining she’d just collected the moss. “Third one in from the right.” Kirth had said something about Terrin’s sense of smell, but Marra couldn’t fathom it being so poor as to miss the clear distinctions of ingredients held near the nostrils. At least they looked like nostrils.
“And bray dust?”
“Farthest right.”
Kirth laughed. “Excellent. But how….”
Sounds of movement, of the cloth sash opening, trickled through the dark. “Terrin,” Tinge said as she worked, “are very sensitive on the center palm.”
“Moss paste, bray dust, and Reeder,” Marra gasped. “You’re going to make them obey you.”
“Attempt. The potion is a mild inhibitor; I’m strengthening it as much as I can with the bray dust.”
“Does it have a cumulative effect?” Kirth prodded.
“It does. If they send the same acolyte, by Yute’s own luck we may yet win free.”
“Trevor seed,” Marra whispered.
“Do you have Trevor seed?” Tinge ceased her motions.
Kirth laughed again. “She has Britta’s Trevor seed. Will it add to, or detract from, the bray dust?”
“Add,” came the answer across the void. “Most definitely it will add.”
“First pocket,” Marra said.
6.
TWO THINGS to remember about Terrin, Tryst discovered. They travel quickly, and they travel light.
When he embarked on his epourney long ago, each day of stately travel befitted a Prince. They woke hours after dawn, dining on elegant breakfasts prepared by chefs as the Royal guide described the day’s schedule for his approval. The mid-day meal was leisurely, and oft times they stopped late afternoon to challenge each other in archery or swordplay. Servants erected large tents and cooking stations as they amused themselves.
Traveling in the desert, of course, had been an efficient process. Each man did for himself, and for others as he could. That had been hot, sweaty work with no room for playing the idle game.
The Terrin moved faster still. They carried very little - only grain balls and sleep-slings were deemed necessary. Not even weapons burdened their trek.
Did that mean they lacked weapons altogether? Or held no fear of enemies?
Camp had been rapidly settled. Small fires were laid, seemingly more for the light and comfort than any need of warmth. Although there were other types of warmth, he supposed.
The ‘skins’ - he was getting used to the label - shared a fire with Qwall and his comet team.
Tryst found his gaze returning to the Tower often. The silky black column dominated everything, even in the night. Strange fog seeped from it still, lit by odd, pale lights randomly set on the black cylinder.
“When do we play?” Drail broke the silence, leaning back against his pack. Looking relaxed, though Tryst knew he wasn’t. The gamesman emanated that nervous energy - a touch of fear at facing the Terrin again, mixed with an eagerness to exorcise it in play. Tryst doubted Drail much cared what was at stake - if he thought of it at all.
“You may not challenge the Terrin,” Qwall warned, and smiled at Drail’s frown. “You will not need to do so.”
As the night wore on, Qwall and the village Terrin came and went, mingling with the other Terrin clusters nearby. There was a comradeship Tryst hadn’t expected - genuine friends meeting again after time and distance apart. Somehow the separate villages led him to think they would not like each other.
Exchanging a glance with Jason, he realized he’d been counting on that separation - believing they’d be less willing to join together for a common cause. A cause such as fighting skins.
So much for that theory.
At midday came the sound Drail waited for.
It had been a jovial morning, with sunshine and Terrin laughter flavoring the grain ball breakfast. Somehow the buzz of conversation dimmed beneath the growing noise of fists pounding turf to the roar of approval. When Qwall came to get him, Drail had already leapt to his feet.
Set in a ring marked by a stone circle near the Black Tower, four Terrin teams raced around the darop teeth. Dodging, weaving. Less contact than a skin game. And stars, they were big. Their gamesmen always seemed far larger than other Terrin - unbelievably so.
Then two players collided.
A crack rang out, surely the sound of bone snapping in two. A Terrin lay howling on the moss, his lower leg now bent in a near right angle. The creatures’ limbs had always seemed slender to him, giving an agility unusual for the size. Perhaps fragility was the price.
In Drail’s experience, a serious comet match would continue. Even casual games barely stopped long enough to remove the injured player.
This one halted abruptly.
Beside him, Qwall stilled. “We do not allow Agben to the Gathering,” he told Drail. “All we can do is bind his leg and carry him to them.”
“Will he be all right?”
“If the binding is properly done, and the healer is reached soon enough.”
The fallen player was gently carried away. Drail sensed the hesitation that followed, the waiting.
“Bad, bad luck,” Adeena murmured.
Finally, another Terrin shuffled into the circle to take his place. The game cautiously resumed. So cautiously, in truth, that he started when Qwall clapped his shoulder.
“Still thirst to play, skin man?”
Standing on the edge of the field, Drail studied the opponents.
They faced just one team, the winner of the previous game. Their uncertain demeanor defied his understanding until the Prince spoke softly. “They see us as more fragile than themselves.”
He might be right, Drail realized. Perhaps Terrin felt awe at their courage to play after witnessing the broken bone. After all, if so grave an injury could happen to such big creatures - what might befall the skin men?
Stretching his legs, squatting low to feel the muscle ease gently, he caught Manten’s eyes widening and followed his stare.
The last game had drawn spectators - but nothing like the hoard now squeezing in from all sides, lining the field three and four deep.
Adeena drew up beside him, brows set. “The skins who play on the Dim Continent do so with each other,” she told him. “In my mother’s generation many more came, some very good indeed. None ever challenged Terrin.”
“We are honored,” Drail answered.
“You are foolish,” she shot back. “Why do you do this thing?”
It was the Prince, stretching his shoulders, who gave the reply she demanded. “What sort of shaka would we be to merely watch Terrin play?”
Smiling, Qwall held aloft his waterskin. “Drink this,” he insisted. “You cannot show well for Yute without its power.”
Show well. Qwall gave them no chance to win.
Drail snatched the offering and drank.
Standing beside Jason, Tryst waited.
The Terrin team had walked past, eying them up and down. Suspecting a trick, no doubt. Qwall and his cronies exchanged grins, eager to watch the game. Tryst could feel his defense master’s disapproval, but at least the man held his tongue.
Until Qwall produced his red-marked waterskin. “You cannot show well without its power.”
Nor with it, Tryst thought.
The Leader of the Hand of Victory drank and passed i
t on.
To his surprise, Tryst watched Manten, then Olver drink. Even if Drail had faked his swallow, he knew the others would not. They would not hesitate to follow his lead.
And knowing that, Drail would not have pretended.
The waterskin was placed in his hands. Raising it, he sniffed the brew, finding the aroma faintly familiar. Something of his royal training set in, for without hesitation he pretended to gulp.
Unlike Jason, Tryst suspected no foul play, no attempt at trickery. But sampling this potion held no advantage either. Just as winning this game held no advantage.
When they strode out to take their place, Manten suddenly smiled. “We can win this,” he burst out, as if surprised by the thought.
“We can,” Olver nodded.
The two marched with conviction, with confidence. “I feel bigger,” Olver flexed his muscles.
“You look bigger.” Manten swung his arms, loosening up.
Studying both men, Tryst detected no physical change. It would be interesting to see their play.
Watching his Prince take the field, seeing the man’s feet properly set, evenly balanced, filled Jason with pride. If only King Ganny could see the son of his son now - the old man could naught be anything but impressed.
Though Jason himself felt fury at his own impotence.
He should be the one facing these monsters. Damn Drail to hell for…
“Do not let them do this,” Adeena appeared beside him. Feeling his fingers curling into fists, Jason bit back a withering retort.
The smaller creature with the white cloth tied round its bulky arm placed the balls on the moss. The Terrin leader beckoned; Drail lifted one ball, and then another when gestured to do so.
A shout rang across the field; both leaders spun towards their team and flung the balls…no. Holding one back, the Terrin raced to the tusks circling the cone.
Drail chased it, moving a shade faster than the thing, which was something at least. But with those spindly knees flexing deeper than seemed natural the damned monster made wild cuts in direction that no Skullan could make. Facing them in battle would be difficult if their fighting skills were equally adept.