by Clayton, Jo;
“I don’t want to hear about him.” She heard the anger in that wonderful seductive voice. She was so tired, so empty, that she felt disarmed before the struggle began. He smiled at her. “Come home, Serroi.”
“No.…” She looked vaguely about, seeing nothing, feeling adrift. She stared helplessly at the janja, wondering if the old woman or the Dweller-within could—or would—help her. Reiki’s face was an eroded stone mask, her eyes clouded. Nothing there for her. She looked back at Ser Noris, her eyes fixing on the chalky, twisted hand she’d touched. She remembered the sense of wrongness that had triggered her healing impulse, but the great inflow that had salvaged Hern and healed the rest of the vuurvis victims seemed to have destroyed that reflex. Or had temporarily exhausted it. It was a mistake to come up here before I was rested. She shut her eyes. The waste, the terrible waste—all to feed his hunger for control. She groped blindly with hands and mind for something anything.…
And power flowed into her, earthfire strong and warm and oddly gentle, lapping up and up, washing away weariness and despair. She was Biserica, she was valley, she was mountain and plain, she was mijloc.…
Sadnaji lay quiet, empty; the shrine was cleansed, filled with power, power that flowed into her when she touched it.
Sel-ma-Carth itched with unrest. Carthise were slipping into the shrine to clean it, but there was no Keeper chosen yet, the power there was smothered, leashed—until she touched it. Outside, hidden from the walls in an icy gulley, Roveda Gesda looked up from the vach carcass he was bargaining over, eyes opening wide, at the sudden eerie touch, then shrugged and went on bargaining.
She dipped into a score of village shrines scattered across the Cimpia Plain, taking from them. They were empty, but humming with a new song, filled with the presence of the Keepers though they were all down below in the valley with their folk, helping to defend the Biserica in any way they could.
The Kulaan mourned their linas and gathered in their winter halls to sing their burning hatred of Floarin and her works, sending south their prayers that the hands of their men be quick and strong in vengeance. She touched them and flinched away from that corrosive rage.
The Kulaan raiders unfolded the clothing they’d taken from the Ogogehians they’d harvested from the army. Each kual had marked and stalked a mercenary approximately his size and coloring and used a strangling cord to kill him so there’d be no blood on his clothing or leathers, no cuts in them. Now they dressed in those tunics, buckled on the war leathers, and practiced walking until they were satisfied that they looked enough like the Ogogehians to fool any observers. Then they left their concealment and began winding through the brush, a small band indistinguishable from any other mercenary squad, walking with calm purpose toward the hill where Nekaz Kole waited for the gates to burn through.
The fisher villages waited, cleansed of Kapperim (some very bloodily, losing half their own folk, or more, in the savage battle to reclaim their homes), the dead mourned, the Kapra corpses cast out to feed the fish. The Intii Vann stood on the spear-walk of his village, gazing down into the tapata, his beard fresh-braided, slick with fine oil, contentment softening the hardwood of his face. A chunky, gray-haired woman shifted impatiently about on the planks. She looked up, startled, as she felt the touch; her face altered, flat nose pushing out, ears lifting, pointing. With an effort of will she stopped the change and scowled down at a line of boats beached on the mud below them. “It’s time I went back,” she said.
Vann shook his head. “Oras will be a rat-pit, healwoman.”
“Midwife.”
He ignored the acerbity in her voice. “Wait. It be time to move when we know who won there.” He jerked a long thumb south and east.
“My people need me. Who else gives a spit in a rainstorm for them.” She looked into the unyielding face. “I could always walk.”
“Snow shut the passes.”
She set her back against the wall and glared south. “You get busy and finish it,” she told Serroi. “I got work to do.”
“What?”
“Not you, Intii. Her.” That was all the explanation she would give though he questioned her several times before the boats arrived from the south.
In their palisaded winter camps the Bakuur gathered, drank the hot and heady brews, melded being to being, house to house, camp to camp, until the river bottom throbbed with their song, the clicking of the spirit sticks, the bumping of the drums, the beat of the dance, the wordless chant that gathered past and future, dead and unborn and all the living. When she touched the meld, it gave her its zo’hava’ta, gave without stint or question, a hot and heady flow of joy and generosity and endless endurance.
And all through the mijloc the Others—creasta shurin, shapechangers, wood sprites, the strangely gifted who hid in human form among the unseeing mijlockers—these gave what they could when she touched them. The despised and dispossessed, the poor and sick and deformed, beggar and thief and those who turned a hand to whatever would keep them alive, they felt her touch and melded with her, giving without stint and without exception what she asked of them.
She took a step toward Ser Noris.
“No.” He lifted his good hand. “No closer.”
“I’m going to stop you,” she said.
“Serroi.” He sounded desperate. “Don’t make me destroy you.” His breathing was harsh, and he lost his glacial beauty but gained a warmth and humanity that she found far harder to fight.
She trembled. “What can I do? Stop this. Please stop. There are so many … there’s so much … you can’t touch what’s down there—” a curve of her hand encompassed the valley—“you can only destroy it. Where’s the profit in that?” She paused. “Can’t you understand? You don’t need to destroy the Biserica. It doesn’t threaten you.”
“You’re the one who doesn’t understand. That—” he indicated the valley—“diminishes me because it denies me. I will not permit that.”
Anguish ran in Serroi’s veins. “All or nothing.” She thrust her greenglass hands toward him. “Sick. It’s sick.” She took another step toward him.
He spoke a WORD and wind buffetted at her, threatened to sweep her off her feet. The glow about her brightened and the wind split about her; it couldn’t touch her. She took another step.
He backed away, spoke another WORD. The stone cracked beneath her feet, a mouth opened to swallow her. She took a fourth step undisturbed, her bare feet treading air as easily as stone.
He began to circle around behind the janja, spoke a WORD. Fire hotter than vuurvis surged about her. And was quenched by her earthfire which was hotter still.
Reiki janja sat without moving, a carven figure, massive legs crossed, large shapely hands resting on her knees, fingers curled loosely about nothing, so still she seemed a part of the mountain, a boulder roughly shaped to human form.
The janja between them, he cried out, “Serroi, yield to me. You don’t know.…”
“I know what will happen if I don’t stop you.”
“Serroi.…” He gave it up, spoke a PHRASE, gathering to himself all his power, taking his combat form, the smoky giant as tall as the cliff, the form she’d seen when she was a child and witnessed the challenge duel with the last of the Nor who came close to matching his power, the duel she barely survived, caught like a bug in the fringe of those deadly exchanges. She matched him, calling to herself the earthfire, the aggregate strength of the little ones, the waiting shrines, rising with him until she faced him as a figure of light shimmering against his darkness.
He spoke a WORD, his huge voice booming out over the land.
Her form shivered and went vague about the edges, but solidified immediately as she absorbed his power and added it to her own.
The battle changed to a stately pavanne among the mountain peaks, a dance on a crumbling floor, the land churned by the WORDS flung at Serroi and shunted aside. Fire fell into the valley, scorched an orchard and half a set of vines, burned one pasture clean. Air buffeted the watchers inside
the wall and out, erratic winds that struck like hammers. The earth rumbled uneasily beneath their feet, its deep grumble rolling continually across the valley.
And the immense dance went on, Serroi advancing, the Nor retreating, circling, avoiding the touch of her fingers.
21
Julia watched the dragon until it curled away from the rock and rejoined the others. She took the cup Rane handed her, nodded at the rock. “What now?”
“Maiden knows. One thing sure, we wait.”
She sipped at the cha, glanced from the rock to the wall. The defenders still there were watching the cliff, their backs to what might be happening behind them. “Think Kole will try hitting us now?”
“Why? All he’s got to do is wait till the gate burns through, then he rolls over us.” Rane bit off a chunk of bread and went back to watching the maneuvering of the tiny figures on the rock.
Overhead, the dragons began to change the patterns they were weaving, moving from chords to a powerful unity. Julia put a crick in her neck watching them. For a while she didn’t understand what was happening, then she saw they were revving up to reinforce the little healer, magic dynamos resonating to a single beat. Magic merging with technology, power is power. She smiled, rubbed at her neck, nearly dropped the cup as the two figures were suddenly giants sharply limned against an apple-green sky. She squinted against grit-laden erratic winds, watching the figures circle about each other in a stately combat more like a dance than a battle to the death.
22
Nekaz Kole watched the circling giants and felt ice knotting under his ribs, failure sour in his mouth. He scanned the wall, seeing shadows in every embrasure he could look through; he suspected they were watching the drama on the mountain peaks and for a moment considered taking advantage. He twisted around, scowled at the Nor. The golden minark was staring transfixed at that deadly dance. “Ser Xaowan,” he said sharply. The minark showed no sign of hearing him. Kole scanned his face, cursed under his breath and abandoned any thought of an attack. Frustrated and furious he settled back to wait, glaring at the giant figures, wondering how to incorporate the battle into his own plans once the gates burned through.
23
Tuli saw Ildas fade, turn cool and hollow as the giant figures swelled into the sky and began that dance of restrained violence. She held him in her lap and felt a hollow growing inside herself, a weariness that seemed the sum of all the weary days and nights she’d spent since this travail began. At least he wasn’t lost completely this time, his ghost stayed with her, giving her a hope he’d be whole again as soon as … she didn’t know as soon as what. The army sat on the hillsides, their usual clamor muted, the men gaping at the show. Coperic stood beside her, his eyes fixed on the green glass figure, shocked and afraid. He knew her, Tuli saw that, and she was important to him. His hands were clenched into fists, his wiry body taut, as if by willing it he could add his strength to hers. Tuli cupped her hands about the sketchy outline of the fireborn and fought with a sudden jealous anger.
And the dance went on.
24
Nilis sat with the other Keepers, throbbing with the power flowing through and out of her, barely conscious, blending into a single being with those others, concentrating on endurance, on lasting until the need was over.
25
Serroi caught hold of his sound wrist, another quick step and she held the withered hand. Light closed about them, beginning to dissolve them.
Ser Noris changed.
His mouth gapes in a silent scream, his body writhes, his skin darkens, roughens, cracks, turns fibrous and coarse. Eyes, mouth, all features, dissolve into the skin, vanish. His head elongates, bifurcates, the portions spread apart and grow upward, dividing again and again. His arms strain up and out, stretching and thinning, his fingers split into his palms, grow out and out, whiplike branches in delicate fans, twigs grow from the branches, buds popping out from them, the buds unfolding into new green needle sprays.
Serroi changes, her body echoing everything happening in his.
The cliff cracks, shatters, great shards of stone rumbling into the valley, an unstable ramp bathed in dust that billows up and up, drawn to the glowing, changing giants, shrouding them.
When the dust settled, the giants were gone. Two trees grew at the edge of the broken cliff, a tall ancient conifer, a shorter, more delicate lacewood.
A hush spread across the valley, a hush that caught mercenaries, exiles, mijlockers, meien, everyone, and held them for a dozen breaths, long enough for them to become aware of that stillness, to notice that the glass dragons had vanished, the sky was empty.
26
Ignoring the hush, the Kulaan closed around Nekaz Kole; two tossed a third up behind him, another trio dealt with the Nor. Before Kole could react, a skinning knife slid into him, piercing his heart. The Kual pushed him from the saddle and jumped after him. The Nor was down also, dead before he could know he was dying, so tangled was he in the battle on the cliff.
Without breaking their silence, the Kulaan started briskly away, one Kual leading the gold rambut. They didn’t touch the demon macai.
The beast stood frozen, locked into place by the metamorphosis of its creator, Ser Noris. Locked into place and beginning to rot, the demon essence coming loose from the natural part. Before the Kulaan had vanished into the brush, the skin and bones collapsed out of the smoky black outlines. A breath later, the demon residue faded, vanished.
27
Warmth followed the hush across the valley, visible in eddies of golden light spilling over the walls, flooding over the army, waking the men from their daze, prodding them into movement, urging them away from the valley. The Ogogehians snapped into alertness, found Nekaz Kole dead, the norits dazed and helpless. They split into small groups, rifled the supply wagons and marched away, the Shawar shooing them on until they started down from the saddle of the pass.
They crossed the foot of the Plain, made their way through the Kotsila Pass and descended on Sankoy like a swarm of starving rats, looting and killing, working off their fury and shame at their defeat, paying themselves for the gold they’d never collect. They trickled into the several port cities, comandeered sufficient shipping and went home.
The Sankoise were slower to understand and react, but the unleashed Shawar nudged them from their lethargy and into movement. They began drifting away from their camps, abandoning much of their equipment, some of them even ignoring their mounts, moving slowly almost numbly at first, then faster and faster until they were running. They settled to a more conserving gait when they passed beyond the reach of the golden warmth, but they were a ragged, weary, starving remnant by the time they crossed Kotsila Pass and straggled down to a homeland in chaos with no time and less will to welcome them.
Few of the dedicated Followers were left on their feet, most were laid in the mud; those that survived huddled in dazed groups about the mindless norits. But the others, the tie-conscripts there because they had no choice, they needed no urging to leave. They followed the Ogogehians over the supply wagons, carrying off all they could stuff in improvised packs. They went home to starvation and raids from human wolves, young men roaming the Plain attacking anything that seemed vulnerable; they went home to a guarded welcome as chill as the winter winds sweeping the Plain, a welcome that warmed considerably when they joined the folk inside the walls, added the food they brought to the common store and helped fight off the raiders through the rest of the winter.
(Hern ranged the land with a motorized force of meien and exiles, gradually restoring order, bringing isolated settlements into the common fold, passing out the rescued grain.)
28
Tuli crowed with pleasure as Ildas plumped out and began vibrating with his contented coo. Cradling him against her ribs she got to her feet and moved to stand beside Coperic.
He was staring at the patch of green on the top of the ruined cliff, strain in his face and body as he fought to deal with the loss of a friend and perhaps more
than friend. Tuli watched, angry again, jealous, wanting to strike at him for the hurt he was giving her. She remembered how much she needed him and kept a hold on her temper and her mouth so she wouldn’t say or do anything she’d regret later.
Coperic sighed as he relaxed. He put his hand on Tuli’s shoulder. “Looks like it’s over.”
“Uh-huh. Kole’s dead.”
“I saw.” He lifted a hand, squinted against the gilded light pouring like water over the wall, washing over the army. “Rats are running for their holes. Time we was leaving too. Bella.”
She stepped away from him and stood watching as he talked rapidly with the others, sending them out to scavenge food, mounts and anything that seemed useful. After a frown at Tuli that told her to stay put, he left. For a while she stood watching the army break apart and wondering what was happening inside the wall, then she settled herself on a bit of withered grass and arranged Ildas comfortably in her lap, and began brooding over her future. Coperic probably expected her to come back to Oras with him, and she was probably going to go. It looked like the best choice—if she could make him keep her and not send her home to her father. She frowned at the wall, thinking about the swarm of girls inside. Maybe she could have grown used to all that if she’d stayed there. What had Tuli-then thought? She tried to remember. It was only what? two-three passages ago. To much had happened since. She couldn’t bring that girl back, she was just gone, that was all. And it didn’t matter anyway. She scratched absently along the fireborn’s elastic spine and thought about staying at the Biserica for weapon training. Rane wanted that. The ex-meie wanted Tuli to take over her run, and the idea appealed to her. Trouble was she couldn’t go out right away, she’d have to spend a bunch of years being trained. A great wave of resistance rose in her. All those girls, tie-girls, tar-girls, strangers from all over, she didn’t like them any better now than she had when she was growing up at Gradintar or forced to mix with them up in Haven. The thought of having to live in a herd of them churned her stomach and soured her mouth. She couldn’t do it. Giggling, stupid, supercilious girls. No! Maybe if she went back when she was older. She thought about what she didn’t want. She didn’t want to marry anyone; and she’d probably have to if she went back with her family. She didn’t want to go back and be shut behind house walls like most mijloc women, tar-women anyway, doing the women’s work she despised. She didn’t want to be shut behind Biserica walls either, living by Biserica rules. At least Coperic understood her and accepted her as she was. He could teach her how to support herself, and how to defend herself so no one could tell her what to do. Have to send Da word I’m not coming home. Wherever home is. He’s going to howl. Maybe. She was Tesc’s favorite, she’d known that as long as she’d known anything and had taken careless advantage of it. She scratched behind Ildas’s pointy ear and smiled as he groaned with pleasure. The smile faded as she remembered her father as he was up in Haven, busy, vigorous, happy, absorbed in the problems of governing that forced him to extend himself for the first time in his life. He might be too busy now to bother about her. Tears prickled in her eyes. Impatiently she brushed them away. Silly. Making herself feel bad. Over nothing maybe. If she’d learned anything during the past year, she’d found from painful experience that she wasn’t very good at understanding people or knowing what they were going to do. She shrugged. Didn’t matter. Coperic liked her. That was enough to go on with.