“Careful, asha. The bond is new. You will kill your pachna if you draw out too much of his life.” The okulu’tan held up the knife he’d used. He pressed the flat of the blade to his forearms, one at a time, one side on each. Their blood sank beneath the skin, absorbed as if the old okulu’tan were a sponge. He handed the knife, now clean, back to Scrape.
Nola looked down. She hadn’t felt the blade being removed or Scrape letting go. There was a cloud of blood in the water, but there was no wound upon her skin, only a faint white line on both the palm and back of her hand.
She could feel Scrape’s frustration, and underneath it, she could feel his memories. They were there for her to swim among as she desired. She saw his daughters and his wives. She saw the longhut where he lived. She knew his favorite meal of tiger liver and how it was prepared, knew his pride, knew the way he felt in battle, and to her embarrassment, knew the way it felt as he thrust into his wives. His thoughts and feelings threatened to crush her, but she did not want to stop. It was like living another’s life, and deep down, it fascinated her. She knew him for his true name, Ky’lem, and she heard the way his daughter said it with excitement whenever he returned from a hunt or a battle.
“Stop!” Ky’lem yelled at her, and his rebuff slapped at her mind. He didn’t want her inside his head. He wanted only to be free to fight the Draegorans who were attacking the camp.
“You may not go, Ky’lem,” the okulu’tan told him. “You are chae’lon. You have no tribe now. Besides, it will do no good. The gray demons have already surrounded the camp. You must escape with Ni’ola and make your way to the Najalii. She will not survive the journey without you, and the other okulu’tan will kill her if you are not there as her pachna even if she did. You must be with her. It is the only way they will train her. By Sollus and the lives of the people, I swear to you, if you or she dies, the tribes will never be united again.”
“I have served my tribe with honor my whole life. How can you do this to me? How can you make me her pachna? The shame is too much,” Ky’lem said.
It hit Nola. They were speaking the Esharii language, yet she could understand every word. What has the okulu’tan done to me?
“You see?” Ky’lem said. “Her thoughts are simple and foreign. They are the thoughts of a lamb. She is not of the people. They will never accept her.”
“The Najalii, Ky’lem, before Faen next swallows Sollus in the sky. I have placed a shield around her, but as time passes, it will fade, and Parron’s light will reach for her. You must be at the lake soon after—before the power consumes both of you. Your fate is bonded with hers. Do not fail her or our people.”
“I should never have listened to you.” Ky’lem snatched up his sword and tore away into the darkness. His presence inside her faded, yet it did not go away completely. He was running back toward the camp. She could feel his footsteps as he ran. She could feel his anger.
“Do not fear, Ni’ola, he will return for you. I have seen to this. His anger will fade, and he cannot return to his tribe.” The okulu’tan pointed at one of the plain-faced guards. “Bring my horse,” he commanded.
“Ni’ola?” she asked, but already knew the answer. It is the Esharii word for the purple flower that grows in the crevices of rocks and trees.
“It is the closest word to your name in our tongue. It is how you will be known among the people. It is a good name.”
The plain-faced warrior returned, leading the old man’s stallion. She’d viewed it from a distance. Up close, it was the most beautiful horse Nola had ever seen—sleek and black like the night except for a single white mark on its forehead. It was easily fifteen hands tall. A horse like that would be worth more than Father made on a journey to Arillia. The warrior led the stallion into the water.
The okulu’tan addressed the guards. “I must release the spell that hides us from the gray demons. You will hold them at bay until Ky’lem returns for Ni’ola. You may return to your tribes, redeemed as new men, your debt paid and no longer chae’lon after he returns if you survive. Do not attempt to use Weeping Pass as planned, but instead make for the High Sun Path and the Notch. Now, move away from the water lest you be drained.”
“Into the water,” he told Nola. “I must do all I can, or none will escape this night. Try and follow what I do with your mind. It is, unfortunately, the only lesson I will ever be able to share with you.”
Reluctantly, she stepped forward into the glowing water. The okulu’tan led her to the center of the waist-deep pool.
“Just a nick. The magic requires only a few drops, and we don’t want to spook him.” The okulu’tan spoke his intentions slowly, as if there was no hurry for the battle that would soon rage around him.
The okulu’tan rubbed the mount on the forehead and whispered to it, keeping it calm. He slid his hands to each side of the horse’s head. Gazing into the horse’s eyes, he mumbled something, and the horse froze. “Now,” he whispered.
With a quick slice, one of his pachna made a small cut on the horse’s shoulder. Not even its tail twitched. The warrior backed away quickly.
The old Esharii slid his hands along the horse’s neck and down to the wound that glistened in the dim light. Thunder rattled, and a gust of wind hit them when he touched the horse’s blood. The light from the pool grew brighter.
“It saddens me to take his spirit for this, but what I must do requires more strength than my pachna can provide.”
Nola could feel the power building in the air around them. The wind sped up, and for a moment, she thought she could see a faint glow emanate from beneath the horse’s hide.
“Before I begin, asha, you must promise me one thing,” the okulu’tan said.
Lightning smashed a hilltop nearby, blinding her, and the wind howled. “One day there will come a choice for you,” he shouted over the wind. “A gray demon will be lying near a pool much like this.” The wind whipped harder and harder as he spoke. “You must not kill him, no matter the cost, no matter the pain it will bring you. The lives of all hang in the balance.” The wind howled around them and lightning crashed with his final words.
Nola nodded.
The okulu’tan accepted her nod as agreement. “I will now take the horse’s spirit. It will be strong within me, and I will want more. You must always fight the desire for more than you need.” He turned back to the horse. Stroking the beast’s neck, he touched his lips to the blood of the wound.
The horse jerked its head up and whickered. Its whole body shivered. In flashes of lightning, she saw the horse wither before her until it was scrawny and feeble, like a starved animal near the end of its days.
The wind howled around them now, carrying dirt and debris that stung Nola’s face and arms. She huddled down, close to the water, trying to protect herself. Blood from the horse swirled in the water around her. The crazy old okulu’tan was going to kill them both.
He loomed over her, his red eyes burning into hers. “All waters are connected to each other. Water can shield you from the power or enhance it, depending on how it is used. Remember this.” He placed a hand on her head but paused in whatever he was about to do. “Do not forget, asha—you must make him yours, no matter the cost.”
Before she had time to nod or draw a breath, the okulu’tan pushed her down beneath the surface of the water.
Nola sucked in bloody water and panicked. Choking, she flailed and kicked to get away, but he was too strong. She had a moment of clarity, as if the water were suddenly clear as glass. She could see the okulu’tan standing over her, one hand in the water holding her under, the other reaching for the heavens.
Lightning struck his outstretched palm, turning the world into a blaze of light. The surface of the water above her sizzled with energy. For a bizarre instant, Nola saw Riam struggling in the water next to her. A moment later, he was gone, replaced by Ky’lem charging into camp, sword drawn. The okulu’tan
pulled her up, shattering the visions.
Power coursed through the okulu’tan. Nola could feel it writhing beneath his skin. While his outward appearance remained unchanged to her eyes, in her mind, he was a shell that was filled with liquid fire. Where his hand touched her, he overloaded the senses of her skin—burning, freezing, tingling, wet, soft—every sensation that existed all at once. Nola shrank away, attempting to cower back under the water, but the old man’s grasp would not release her.
Blackened glass surrounded the pool. The grass and shrubs beyond were charred lumps. She could smell smoke on the wind.
The okulu’tan let go of her arm and wound his hands in the air above his head. His forearms glowed in the night. The energy manifested itself there, in two blazing points that made Nola’s eyes tear when she looked at them.
His hands continued their mysterious weave. Nola could vaguely sense a pattern to the movement, but she could not follow it.
“Kalin Ani’emor!” the okulu’tan yelled and brought his hands down sharply. The night sky lit with a dozen bolts of lightning in the direction of the camp.
The thunder that followed was deafening. It shook Nola’s bones and rattled her teeth, and all she wanted to do was run. Run and get away from the madness and chaos the okulu’tan was creating with his magic. The storm spun around the pool. It tore the charred shrubs from the ground and shattered the few twisted trees that hung over the edge of the wadi, whipping them around the pool at lethal speed.
“Do you feel it, asha? Do you hear it call?” The okulu’tan yelled.
Nola didn’t know what she was supposed to feel or hear. The okulu’tan’s face held the smile of a madman, grinning from ear to ear. He terrified her.
“I will miss this world.” The okulu’tan swung his arms as if hurling a massive rock or bale of hay.
The storm around them followed his movement. No longer anchored to the pond, the swirling wind sped away. Nola could see the whole of it now, and her mouth dropped open. A great funnel of wind stretched from the ground to the heavens, and where it touched the earth, it tore the land apart. In moments, it faded away into the darkness in the direction of the camp.
Nothing could survive in the path of that storm. If I’d fled into that. . . .
Around Nola, the wind was eerily still and quiet. She swallowed hard and turned to face the man who would create something so deadly.
The water’s surface was flat and empty. Both the okulu’tan and the horse were gone. All that remained were two glowing lights at the bottom of the pool.
There was something important about them—something important for her and her alone. There was no danger. Her heart told her this while her mind screamed for her to run away as fast as her feet could carry her. The pull of the lights won out over her fear. Hesitantly, Nola waded toward them. She cocked her head this way and that, trying to puzzle out the source. Making up her mind at last, she ducked beneath the surface long enough to grasp the lights, one in each hand.
She felt the hardness of them, like stone, with sharp edges that dug into her palms. They were warm as well, but not hot. She brought them above the surface and gasped. On each of her palms lay a crystal that glowed softly with the power the okulu’tan had wielded. They were hers. A final gift from a madman.
These are what he’d used to call the magic—these and blood. She shivered and almost dropped them.
She tucked the crystals into her clothing and climbed from the water. The fired sand crunched beneath her feet.
Chapter 18
Ky’lem ran as fast as he could through the darkness of the night, following the twists and turns of the wadi. He ran hard, his blood pounding in his ears. He held his sword in one hand and his knife in the other, just as he trained each night, and he ran without regard for the danger of the crevices and rocks of the wash bed that waited to snap a bone and leave him broken and useless in enemy lands. At the very least, a misstep might turn an ankle or trip him, but even then, unless he was lucky, the rocks would be unforgiving when he fell. A broken arm or shoulder would be as fatal as a broken leg this side of the mountains. Fortunately, he had help.
The spirit paste improved his vision, but there had to be some light for it to work. In the deepest shadows of the wadi, there was none. This, however, did not slow him down. His kinsmen were dying, and even though he was now chae’lon and owed them nothing, he could not bring himself to abandon them. He’d been made a plain-faced pachna only moments earlier, but he’d fought as a Ti’yak his entire life.
“Stupid,” he mumbled, but he wasn’t talking about the dangers of running in the dark or helping his former kinsmen fight the gray demons. Stupid to make a deal with the crazy old spirit-walker. Look where it’d gotten him. Bonded to an asha. It was unheard of for a tribesman of his stature, second to the warleader and one day a member of the tribe’s council, to become one of the tribeless, plain-faced warriors. The thought of going without his paint, like an unproven boy or a slave, was shameful. It was for the young or the unwanted—those who had no honor—no other choice save death.
Worse, he would have to give up his two wives. Faen take all the okulu’tan! They were good women, and they’d given him fine children. They weren’t going to be happy when they found out, especially his firstwife, Tsi’shan, wedded to secure peace with the Arpatha tribe. He’d given both wives a good life, and they’d risen in status with him as he’d risen in the tribe. Now, they would need to wed other warriors, likely far below his rank, and many of the younger warriors were not as kind to their women as he was. There would also be consequences for the Ti’yak as a whole. If Tsi’shan did not take a new husband of sufficient rank in the tribe, the peace between Ti’yak and Arpatha would falter. No, it was not going to be easy for either of his wives, and he didn’t like abandoning them.
All because he’d been stupid enough to make a deal with an okulu’tan. The spirit-walkers never gave exactly as they promised, but after the failed battle at the outpost, Ky’lem had been angry with Pai’le—so angry that he’d been ready to challenge him for his position as warleader. He would have done so if the okulu’tan hadn’t brought him to his tent a second time and offered him something else, something Ky’lem wanted even more.
“Challenge Pai’le and you will die,” the okulu’tan told him in his cracked and wheezy voice, “but serve me and you’ll have a chance to unite the tribes as warleader of all the Esharii, not just a Ti’yak warband. You could become the Sko’dran, the Destroyer of the Night, the one who will lead our people to defeat the gray demons. If you accomplish this, the tribes will sing songs of you until the Esharii are no more.”
The okulu’tan hadn’t mentioned anything about being bonded to an asha when he’d made his glorious offer. How can I unite the tribes and defeat the Draegorans as pachna to a foreign asha? It was impossible. His desire for greatness had made him a fool, and he’d thrown everything away for an insane man’s vision.
The last was certainly true. The old okulu’tan really was crazy. Ky’lem had paid attention to the old stories when he was young. Few spirit-takers were strong enough to travel the ways and become a spirit-walker, less than one in a generation, and every one of them went insane. All knew it, and this okulu’tan had done it three times—three times!
What most seemed to forget, and what he’d foolishly paid attention to, was that behind every great leader who’d united the tribes, a powerful spirit-walker who’d traveled the ways guided him. This was why he’d listened, even when he knew better. In his desire to conquer the gray demons, he’d underestimated the spirit-walker’s madness.
And the last commands, the ones he’d shouted just before bonding him to the asha. I don’t even want to think of the consequences.
There has to be a way out of this. Think . . . use your head. Isn’t that what I always tell Pai’le?
He could pretend none of it ever happened. The okulu’tan would be
dead soon, his life used up fighting the gray demons. The asha would never make it to the Najalii alone. Even if, by the mercy of Sollus, she did reach the Najalii, the okulu’tan who guarded the lake of life would not train her, and they would kill her if she had no pachna. They might kill them both anyway, even if he did guide her.
Has the bond grown strong enough to consume us both if she dies now? Perhaps not, if she dies quickly with no warning before the bond is truly set.
A shiver of revulsion passed through him at the thought of the asha coming to harm. Already, the link would not let him hurt her. But someone else could. A spasm clenched his heart, and he almost fell. Even the thought of allowing her to die by another’s hand brought him pain. Soon the bond would grow until he protected her to his dying breath.
If only she died this night. He could remain with his tribe as if he’d never agreed to anything. His face was still painted. As long as none of the spirit-walker’s pachna survived, no one would ever know. That was easy enough to ensure with a blade if he reached Weeping Pass before they did. He felt no compulsion to protect them, and he was a far better swordsman than any of the plain-faced warriors. It isn’t as if I would need to kill them all. I need only make sure none of the survivors of this night make it back across the mountains.
Ky’lem was tempted to break his word, to find some way around the bond, but the spirit-walker’s impending sacrifice gave him something to cling to—a reason to hope—that somewhere in this foolishness lay a way to unite the tribes and destroy the gray demons. Would the old man really drain himself to save the asha if she were not important? The okulu’tan wouldn’t have bound me to her if she weren’t meant for something great.
A spirit-walker might mislead with half-truths and possibilities, but they rarely lied. Somehow, serving this asha would lead to a chance of uniting the tribes and defeating the Draegorans. That chance, no matter how small, stoked a burning ember in Ky’lem’s heart that he would never be able to smother. He had no choice. For a single chance in a thousand he would serve this asha to his death. The tribes were more important than his honor . . . more important than the truth of his life.
Lies of Descent Page 20