by J. V. Jones
The party was quiet as they continued their journey south. Ash sensed a shift in the two warriors, an easing of tension. The Naysayer edged back in his saddle and his beautiful blue stallion began kicking out its heels. Mors Stormweilder’s chestnut fell in step, matching the blue’s movements so that both horses’ hoofs struck the ground at the same time. Ash felt the white getting jumpy and gave him the reins, and the gelding immediately synchronized its gait with the other horses so all three kicked their forelegs in time. Ash turned to the Naysayer, smiling and full of wonder.
“This they do for themselves,” he told her. “They dance for the Heart Fires.”
Ash’s heart swelled. The light from the sun was warm on her face. She heard running water in the distance and began to see glimpses of something silver-blue moving between the trees. The path climbed and turned, tilting itself toward the sky. It was so wide now ten horses could ride abreast. Ash saw other paths leading west and east through the cedars. She smelled sweet smoke and river water and something deeply and wonderfully strange. She smelled the night, its stillness and deepness. And the dark eternal space between stars.
The cedars fell away as the path climbed, and they rode through a cut in a rocky bluff. Banks of bluestone mined with jet formed the walls. Ash caught glimpses of carvings cut at the base, simple shapes, simply made: Moon. Raven. Stars.
And then the headland ended, fell away directly ahead of the path. Mal Naysayer and Mors Stormwielder reined their horses and dismounted. Ash watched and did the same. Water was roaring to her left, crashing so loudly she could not have heard the warriors speak. Ahead she saw sky colored a shade of blue she had not known existed. Somewhere close by water was taking to the air. She felt its fine droplets pebble her skin, and caught glimpses of the shimmering and ephemeral rainbows it created.
The two Sull warriors stood silent, heads level, nostrils flaring as they breathed in essential air. Ash sensed that they were waiting, wanting to allow her the privilege of being the first to walk to the ledge at the end of the path.
Releasing the reins, Ash moved forward. She felt the world was turning, revolving into place below her. To her left, beyond the ledge, a river was discharging down a sheer cliff face. It fell for half a league. The water formed a milk-white torrent that crashed into a plunge lake at the base of the cliff. Clouds grew there. Ash could see the mist gaining mass and roundness, separating itself into individual clouds.
Ahead she saw the Heart Fires of the Sull.
Icewoods towered in the valley below, their impossibly tall and slender forms shaped like flight-feathers. The great Night River snaked through them, blue-black and wide as a city, its surface alive with water birds, its meanders terraced with black shale. It was the night sky, and the icewoods were its stars. And the Heart Fires that burned on its shores and in the forest were pieces of the full moon.
Ash Mountain Born guessed that if she were to spend a lifetime traveling the continents of the world she would not view anything to match this sight. She stood, letting the mist soak the front of her dress, and rested her gaze on the reason why the Sull fought.
Here. The Heart Fires.
Some time later Ash turned into a remade world. The Sull warriors were still in their places. Mal Naysayer had opened a vein. He had been away for many months, she realized, and he returned without his hass, Ark Veinsplitter. Ash tore off the sleeve of her dress.
“Here,” she said. “Press this against the wound.”
The Naysayer’s ice blue eyes held hers, and she knew that in the only way that counted they were now equals.
He knew it too.
She would never hear the word Daughter from him again. Their relationship had passed beyond father and child.
If Mors Stormwielder hadn’t been there they would have spoken. Mal Naysayer would have promised her his life. Ash Mountain Born would have accepted the promise but offered nothing of her own in return. It was his misfortune to love her.
The Far Rider and the Reach looked at each other and understood each other, and then Mors Stormwielder called them forward to descend the cliff.
Large broad steps had been cut into the cliff face directly beneath the ledge and the path wound down, curving west away from the waterfall and descending onto the cleared ground west of the lake. The steps were slick, but thick ridges cut into their faces aided traction. The horses were alert but not afraid. Ash hiked up her skirt. She was surprised to discover the height made her feel a bit dizzy and possibly sick. She had been hungry earlier and had been planning to munch on trail bread, but now the thought of food made her queasy.
The light, sweet smoke from the Heart Fires seemed to help. Ash asked the Stormwielder what was being burned.
“You smell the dann of the icewood,” he told her. “The wood that is laid down in late spring and summer. We use it for two things: our sacred bows and the Heart Fires.”
As they drew closer to the valley floor, Ash saw there were buildings set between the trees, stone circles and domes and round towers. All were open in some way to the sky. Most did not possess roofs. Beautifully pieced tents colored in white and gray and pale blue occupied the stone circles, their skins and canvases ripping in the breeze. Guideropes formed shimmering silver webs between the icewoods.
Seeing the city laid out beneath her, Ash began to feel nervous. This was real. It was happening. She had been traveling for so long, running away for so long, she had hardly imagined the journey could end.
Home, she tried out the word. Perhaps it was the fact she was still feeling queasy that stopped it from sounding right.
Two people, a male and female, were waiting for them when they reached the plunge lake. The female was striking with black hair pulled back in a top notch and clay-colored skin. Ash still wasn’t good at working out the age of Sull, but the female appeared young. Ash envied her sureness. The male had the kind of metallic cast to his skin that she associated with the purest Sull. Both of his earlobes had been removed and his head was shaven clean except for a quarter moon of short growth in the center of his scalp. Two swords were harnessed to form an X against his back.
“Do not address him and do not look him in the eye,” warned the Stormwielder. “He is Mor Xana.”
The Walking Dead. Ash understood the words but not their meaning. She knew so little. The Sull were a mystery to the people of the north. How many non-Sull had stood at the Heart Fires? Had Angus been here? She did not know. One thing was for certain: every step she had taken since she’d crossed the Easterly Flow had been permitted expressly by the Sull. You could not arrive here without sanction.
Light prismed across the female’s face as she watched Ash descend the last of the steps. Fine droplets of water released by the waterfall did strange and beautiful things with the light. Ash felt giddy. Not trusting herself to avoid Mor Xana’s eyes, she averted her gaze from both him and the female, so at first she did not realize that the female was prostrating herself on the ground at the base of the stair. The female was dressed in fine doeskin pants and tunic and when she lay belly-down on the rocky shore, Ash could see the line of her spine.
“Rise,” Ash told her curtly, halting on the final step. She would not have this.
“Jal Rakhar,” the female said, quickly moving to her feet. “This Sull is glad you are here.”
“I am glad also,” Ash replied in Sull.
The female’s smile was lovely and brief. “I am Zaya Mistwalker, granddaughter of the Longwalker, daughter of He Who Leads and Daughter of the Sull. My father asked me to welcome you to our home and tent.”
Ash had to think about the information in this statement. After a moment she turned to Mors Stormwielder who stood above her on a separate step.
His keen gray-black eyes instantly registered her query. “Zaya is my niece.”
Ash understood from his manner that he would not greet the girl until the formal welcoming of the Reach was completed. There were protocols to be observed.
She turned ba
ck to face Zaya. “I am Ash Mountain Born, Daughter of the Sull, and I accept your father’s invitation.”
“It is good,” replied the girl, flashing her teeth.
She saved her real smile, a long and warm beam, for her uncle. Moving past Ash, she went to greet him. Ash descended to the lakeshore with the horses. While Zaya had been performing her greeting, Mor Xana had been standing at the break of the water, facing east. A single muscle in his neck was twitching. He was safeguarding someone and she did not think it was her.
When all the greetings were complete, the party headed south along the lakeshore. Sull had staked their tents in cleared and walled circles along the paths. Their horses and animals grazed on tender grass and their fires burned with fierce silver light. Some came out to view the Reach, their expressions serious and probing but not lacking in respect. The children were slender and quick. Icewood branches ticked like drawn bows.
Zaya led them along the plunge lake’s outlet, down toward the river. The sun was sinking and herons and geese were in flight above the water. Somewhere to the north a wolf howled for the moon.
The Night River created its own tow. Ash felt the wind change as she approached it. She could see the buildings now: a fastness deep within the trees, a tower set back from the black shale of the rivershore. As they approached a dome built from opalescent stone, a man came out to take the horses. The Naysayer greeted him with a touch to the arm, and dropped back from the party to speak with him. Ash felt a tremor of fear. In a land of strangers the Naysayer was her only friend.
She did not yet trust the Stormwielder or his niece, and she thought it quite possible that Mor Xana might kill her. He was a ghost along the path, always walking within blade’s reach of her heart. She tried not to show her relief when the Naysayer rejoined the party.
“Here,” Zaya said to Ash indicating a switch in the path. “My father awaits you in his tent.”
All in the party stopped. Ash glanced at the Naysayer, who nodded.
They meant her to go alone . . . except for Mor Xana, who moved forward when she did, and who walked in the grass while she took the path.
A moon one sliver short of full was rising as Ash Mountain Born entered He Who Leads’ rayskin tent. Outside a white-hot Heart Fire was roaring. Inside a single lamp shaded with amethyst marked the center of the circular space.
A Sull was standing in perfect alignment between the lamp and rising moon. He did not speak as Ash and Mor Xana entered, but waited until the tent flap they disturbed fell still.
“Welcome,” he said.
For a moment Ash struggled with the simple translation. Nothing in this man’s face or manner supported the courtesy of that word.
“I am Khal Blackdragon, son of the Longwalker and Son of the Sull.”
Instantly she realized the natural conclusion to her earlier thought: if every step of the way here had required sanction, every step back would require it as well.
Khal Blackdragon’s skin was so darkly metallic his face looked cast from iron. His black hair was pulled back and notched in three places. It was tied with lead clasps. He was dressed plainly, in dyed deerskin, and his only decoration was the torc around his neck formed from soldered arrowheads.
Ash saw no reason to return his welcome. “I am Ash Mountain Born, Daughter of the Sull.” As she spoke Mor Xana slipped into position behind her and against the tent wall.
He Who Leads did not acknowledge him in any way. Mor Xana did not exist.
“I have one question, Ash Mountain Born,” Blackdragon said to her in a hard and quiet voice that revealed age. “Do not reply until you are certain of the answer.”
Ash felt dead tired. She wanted to wrap herself in blankets and sleep. She did not want to face this man and his dangerous question.
Blackdragon waited. Beneath his feet, blue and silver silk carpets shone like old jewels.
“Ask,” she said.
The eyes were the surprising thing about Blackdragon’s face. The skin was gray iron but the eyes were amber, the color of low-burning flame.
“Can the Reach control herself?”
The three people in the tent were still. The only thing that moved was their shadows, kept in motion by the shifting glow of the amethyst lamp.
Did Blackdragon know she had reached at Fort Defeat as the two Sull assassins approached her with drawn swords? How was it possible? She had not spoken of it to anyone, not even the Naysayer. Looking into Blackdragon’s eyes she decided all things were conceivable with this Sull.
He had asked the only question that mattered.
If she could not control her Reach power she would reach again, tear down more of the wall, let in an army of Unmade and clear a path for the Endlords. This went beyond Lan Fallstar and what he had wanted from her body—its flesh. This went to what she was capable of if the Sull kept her alive. Ash had no answer.
“Leave now,” Blackdragon told her, removing the need for her reply. “Refresh yourself after the journey. We will speak again.”
Mor Xana rose like a spirit summoned by a sorcerer. As Ash moved so did he, floating to her side so that she would exit first.
She pushed back the tent flap and turned to look at He Who Leads. Khal Blackdragon had shifted his position to retain alignment with the moon.
Ash and the ghost left to join the Heart Fires.
CHAPTER 31
Watcher of the Dead
THEY CARVED A large circle in the last of the spring snow, trailing the scent that called the coven to order, soundlessly tracing and retracing the circle, laying down the old magic, waiting for the daughters to arrive.
“Up. Now.”
Watcher was instantly awake. He was in the chamber with the false stars. His body was aching. His shoulder muscles felt ripped to shreds.
“Up.”
Two Sull females stood above him. A third Sull, a male, stood sentry by the door. He had a blowgun ready at his lips. The younger, riper female held a sword to Watcher’s throat as he swung his feet onto the floor and rose to a sitting position. The second female held a bowl and a cloth and moved to tend an injury on the back of his shoulder.
Watcher allowed the tending. He kept himself still and did not wince when alcohol was poured into the open wound. He did not want a blow dart to the neck. The females were nervous, expecting a strike. Watcher wondered what had happened to Copper One. Could a Sull survive without a neck?
“Armor him,” said the male Sull to the older female.
The younger female took a step back while the older female clamped a backplate against Watcher’s spine. The metal was heavy and warm. A dent that had been improperly hammered bit his skin. Watcher raised his arms to aid the female as she fastened the backplate to the breastplate at his underarms and waist. Her face was right next to his as she cinched the shoulder joins.
Watcher restrained himself. As she moved away, the female looked him in the eyes. Her gaze did not lack penetration.
“We play with fire,” she said under her breath in Sull.
Watcher blinked at her. He thought about Moonsnake resting after a kill and allowed his body and expression to follow his thoughts.
The Sull female read the change. It was possible she was not convinced but she and the other female turned and left the room. The male followed a few seconds later and the door bolt was engaged.
Watcher continued to sit in the same position. He continued to blink. The Sull had not provided a helmet but part of him felt as if he were already wearing one. It was as if a hard layer of steel was encasing his face.
The light in the chamber shifted as sunset seesawed with moonrise. The walls blued. Watcher stood, crossed to the water bucket. As the moon broke the treeline it aligned with one of the moonholes in the ceiling, casting a perfect circle of light onto the floor. Watcher looked at it and saw a small brass pot on the ground near the wall. He set down the bucket and walked to the pot. It had been set beneath a slow drip and was full of water. Watcher thought about it. He glance
d at the door. It was possible the Sull entering the chamber had not noted it. Shadows this far from the door were deep.
Watcher squatted and drank. The water tasted flat and stony. As he stood, he realized he was waiting for something—a kind of blurring and redrawing of the space. It didn’t happen. Edges remained firm.
Watcher relieved himself and returned to the bed. Some time later the bolt was drawn.
“Out,” came the command. There were four of them now. One male had been added to the rank. The new male and older female were armed with spears.
Moving slowly so not to startle them, Watcher rose. They had no idea how vulnerable they were, the sheer volume of killing space surrounding them.
As he climbed the steps to the forest path, the moonlight found him. It felt like a warm meal. The forest was alive with three-chambered hearts. Strange cravings and old magic were loose among the cedars, conjured by a snake sidewinding a circle in the snow.
Watcher was placid during the walk to the fight circle. He let himself be led. The crisp air went deep into his lungs and he felt strong and clear-headed and ready to fight.
A special fire had been lit at the head of the circle. It was white-hot and fragrant. Sull glittered like an army made of metal in its light. Torches were barely needed. The full moon was as big as a world and the sky was clear. The lightest breeze pushed air against Watcher’s skin.
The queen was dressed in her finery. A blue gown cut in a V to her waist revealed the curves of her breasts. She was armed with a small recurve, slung from her neck like a jewel. Her consort stood at her side, armored and battle ready. Watcher met his cool gray gaze.
The consort did not blink.
Watcher reappraised, and entered the fight circle.
Sull were silent as he approached the center. Some did not appear to breathe. Watcher saw his weapon laid out on a cloth and understood why.
Loss waited in the darkness like a bear trap. It had been ground and filed, polished and remade. The rusticles had been chipped away, the grip wound with leather, the edges—for there were two of them—honed. It was not beautiful. It was big and its blade was sunk with whorls. The crosshilts were fashioned as raven wings, flight feathers partially spread. A raven head formed the pommel.