'Or perhaps that's a thin excuse’ Julianne said bitterly, 'to justify theft and cruelty and murder, because it was these people who took these lands from your possessing, and you want your revenge.'
She expected a sharp rebuttal from her sister-wife, and didn't get it. Sherett only nodded slowly, and said, 'Perhaps so. But it is not only the Sharai who are making war in Surayon’
'No, I know. I heard that. There is an army led by Ransomers, come in from the north.'
'And more, a party from the east too, following the tribes. A small party, but I saw them. They saw me, too,' and that difficult smile was there again, more heard than seen. 'They are led by the man you were married to, before.'
Julianne stared, trying to make her face out through the veiling steam. 'I don't understand. How do you know that?'
'The djinni told me. The Baron Imber, is that right?'
That was right, it was absolutely right; but, 'There are two Barons Imber.'
'This is the man you married. Your husband, the djinni said. That is not correct, of course, the djinn can be mistaken; but they do not lie, Julianne. It is he.'
She sat with the steam and the sweat coursing off her in runnels, with the warmth and the heat of all her Imber memories coursing through her veins, and still she shivered in the chill of this news, still she couldn't believe that she had ever felt so cold before.
13
A Hollow Heart, An Empty Hand
It didn't feel like waking, but then what came before had never felt like sleep; his awareness of it had been nothing like a dream.
He'd felt rather as though he were caught, trapped in a grim despair - as though he could have opened his eyes at any moment, but that he could see no point in it. Just as a prisoner in a dungeon knows the crushing weight of the castle rock above his head, just as an exhausted traveller shoulders all the night's sky and drags its burden of stars along in his wake, so Marron had felt a world’s insupportable heaviness bear down upon him, cold and merciless and all-suffusing.
He'd also felt a lashing fire, a fierce vortex that surged and burned. He'd been slowly, dimly aware that there was a battle that raged between the two, and that he was not a simple spectator here, but a victim also; they fought each other, but their fighting injured him.
He'd been aware of that but only vaguely, distantly. He
was crushed and burned, and he could care about neither. There was a pointlessness to their passionate warring, as there was a pointlessness to his life. He didn't know where he was, and lacked the curiosity to open his eyes. Or try to. He didn't know if he had eyes, if he was still in his or any body. Perhaps heaven hurt, very likely there was pain in hell.
Certainly there was pain here, which didn't seem right, it was so very much not what he was used to; but there was that distancing also, as though he felt it acutely but a long way off. It didn't seem to matter.
And then the pain had gone, the fire had gone and there had been nothing to hold him any longer, nothing for him to do but fall. Which he had done, subsiding under the chill grey weight of the world and struggling not at all, having no sense that he could struggle. Where everything was distant, nothing could be further off than anything else; he'd remembered a boy from his childhood who had fallen through ice on a frozen winter river, who had been carried like a pale shadow beneath his own feet where he had stood terrified on the glassy, cracking surface. Or perhaps he was that boy, perhaps he always had been.
Except that that boy was dead, and he was not. He felt the heaviness disperse before it could entirely entomb him, he felt the cold recede. It seemed to him that there were currents of warmth that seeped slowly through his body and carried him with them, so that at last he reached all the way to his skin and all of it was his own again, more so than it had been for a long, long time.
It might have been soon after that or it might not, he had no way of telling, but a time came when he could reach out even beyond his skin and take note of the world around. He heard voices, though he felt still too far away to listen. He was aware of softness underneath him and warmth above, warmth that lay across him like a blanket. Not desert heat, which he regretted; this was something gentler, that felt to him like something hollow, a mockery-thing, far less than it ought to have been.
He felt much the same way about himself, though he had hopes of altering that. If he lay still long enough, he thought he might remember all his story, and its proper order; he might know where he was, and what had happened to him. He thought he'd have the patience to do that, he thought that patience might be his greatest gift. There seemed to be no urgency anywhere, in his body or his mind. There was a question that he thought he ought to ask, but he wasn't sure what it was, nor whether it really mattered in the least; it could wait.
So he lay and waited also, feeling as light and hollow as the sunlight, an egg sucked dry; or better would be a shell remade and ready to be filled with meat or matter. He had come through the fire and the chill, he had taken all the weight of the world on his shoulders, on his soul. Perhaps he was a saint, cast back into his martyred body for a miracle that should punish the unbelieving heathen. Something was missing, though, more than the story of his days: perhaps he had been a saint and made miracles, and now for his reward he was made again to be a normal man, to live without the holy fire in his blood and die at last and never live again.
He knew his name but little more except a lack of wholeness, something lacked, like the answer to a question not yet voiced. He waited, perhaps for the hand or spirit of the God to touch his mind with understanding as it had touched his body with warmth; but the only hand he felt was outside him, on his skin.
Perhaps that should be miracle enough, that he could feel, that he could be touched. Perhaps he should be content, live hollow and contented ...
He opened his eyes, because he thought he ought to.
There was a sky of pure pale blue, which was all wrong. There was a sun to dazzle, to make him blink and squint; it had burned the sky white all around the fierce beaten gold of its own face, and all of that was wrong.
Then there was a shadow, a silhouette between him and the light. It eased his eyes but left them seeing only darkness, so he let them close again. He had other senses, all his body was his own to use: he could feel the dry, warm touch of fingers on his brow, a palm against his cheek; he could smell the spicy desert tang of unwashed robes and a dust-washed body beneath .. .
'Jemel,' he said, recognising the shape of it in his mouth as he said the word, recognising the meaning of it in his head.
His own, 'Marron,' was given back to him in answer, in a cracked and broken whisper; and that might be the difference, the only difference, that he said the one name and was answered by the other. To anyone else they might be indistinguishable, might as well be one.
He opened his eyes again and this time saw a face in the shadow as it hung above him, now that he knew what to look for. A sharp nose, dark sunken eyes, black curls, skin the colour of an ageing bruise: it was the details he found rather than the face complete, just the proud curve of the nose or the gleam of light reflected in the intensity of an eye. They were enough to jolt him into memory of Jemel and therefore of himself, his recent self; that rush of memories was enough to teach him all the differences that lay between them, how easily they could be told apart.
Above all, the one great difference: he is Sand Dancer, of a sort; I am Ghost Walker, of a kind—
—And there, just there it all broke down, as he realised what it was that he had lost, what had been stripped from him, blood and brain. Eyes too, the red cast of it was gone from his eyes, so that his sight was both clearer and more blurred, both at once.
'Where is it?' he asked, and yes, that was the question.
'I do not know. The Princip took it from you, and healed your arm after he had healed your sickness, so that it could not go back. He sang a sodar to make it sleep, and then Lisan carried it when they went away. I do not know where they have gone. Do yo
u want it back, Marron?'
He wasn't sure. What am I, what are we when I am not the Ghost Walker?’ Was Jemel a Sand Dancer still, did his oaths count for anything? And what lay behind the oaths, what mattered so much more - would that endure, or would it be fractured or broken or abandoned altogether, another measurement of loss?
'Do you want me to take it back?' Do you need me to? Or do I... ? Jemel had only ever known him as the Walker, marked out by more than red eyes and an unhealing wound. If he was to be his simple self again, the boy he used to be — well, that boy had been Sieur Anton's entirely, and not Jemel's at all...
Jemel only shrugged in echo of Marron's own confusion and shifted his head a little, as if to break the contact of their eyes. The sun's glare was a sudden, unbearable dazzle; Marron turned his head to escape it, turned away from Jemel and couldn't bear that either.
He sat up with an effort that left him dizzy and weak, a stranger in his own body now that his strong companion was gone. He reached out for his friend's support - and checked the movement abruptly, drawing back his arm. His left arm...
There were all the scarred ridges of his wounding, nothing could heal those now; but the heart of it, where it had lain open all this time, was sealed over with fresh pink skin. He prodded at it experimentally. It was soft and smooth, untouched by sun or dirt, and the flesh was firm beneath. There was no pain, no matter how he worked it.
Black stars sparkled behind his eyes; his mind whirled. His arms were wooden suddenly, too heavy to hold or move. He felt himself sway, begin to fall, could do nothing to prevent it. Other hands gripped his shoulders, held him upright while a strained voice murmured urgently, 'You should lie down, you have been very sick ...'
Healed or not, he felt sick still; even his tongue tingled strangely, and it was hard to speak. There were more questions now, though, and these might win an answer, could at least do no more damage.
He did lie down, though not quite on the pallet. He wriggled sideways — against little resistance - until his head lay nested in Jemel's lap. Then he said, 'How did I get sick, Jemel - how could I, with the Daughter to protect me? And where are we now, why did you move me? We were in Selussin, I remember that...'
And that name, that memory brought others again, so that he could almost have answered one of his own questions. He remembered faces in a market, a silent threat; he remembered releasing the Daughter himself, and then a cold invasion.
"There was an 'ifrit,' Jemel said, or something of an 'ifrit, some little poison of itself. It found entrance through your hurt, and what you carry - what you carried then fought with it, until we brought you here. This is Surayon, the Princip's house. He has freed you from the 'ifrit's shadow, and from the other too; but Rudel is dead, and Hasan has been gravely hurt, and there is war all around us, you can smell it on the wind.'
Whether he meant that literally or not, Marron sniffed for the scent of it, for the direction and the distance; then closed his eyes for a moment, shook his head on the Sharai boy's knees and said, 'No, I can't. Not any more. I could have done, before.'
'You can now. I can. There is smoke in the air.'
'You have a desert nose, Jemel, to match your desert eyes.'
'Perhaps. The air is dry in the Sands, and scents carry, we learn to read the wind. But these fires are close, even this wet breeze will say so. You could smell them if you tried. Wet your nose with your finger, and stretch to catch the upper air where it moves ...'
‘I need not try, so long as I have you to do it for me. Besides, you told me to lie here and be still. If I sit up again, I will likely faint and you will be angry with me.' And then, losing his smile in a moment, before he could even see whether it was returned, 'Tell me, Jemel. How is Rudel dead, and Hasan hurt? How long have I been ill, for so much to happen? And how have we come to the Folded Land, and war followed us?'
He had to wait, while Jemel fetched a beaker of cool fruit-juice and propped his head up just far enough to enable him to drink; and then again for the time it took to persuade his friend that no, he was not hungry, the juice was enough for now, he couldn't possibly eat.
At last, though, with his head cushioned once more in the warm lap and Jemel's fingers playing lightly with his hair, all his questions were answered — or all except the one that he couldn't bring himself to ask again, for fear of hearing in his voice what his words would not say, ‘ want it back.
Jemel's husky voice spelled out the situation, all of it — or as much as he could tell - in a quiet, neutral tone, much like a messenger reporting to his lord. Like the King's Shadow reporting to the King, perhaps: if ever he did it so, if the King didn't simply pluck the information from his Shadow's mind. Marron almost smiled at the picture his mind made, of the elegant silver-haired Coren standing or kneeling beside a throne like a page-boy waiting to serve — but no, there was nothing funny about it. Coren had the pride of his station, to be sure, but that was all reflected, he had none of his own. He wouldn't balk at a page's duties, running errands and pouring wine; he would do that service or any other if he thought it right or needful.
Not funny, and not important now. Marron knew why his mind was drifting, why he was letting it drift. He still had half his mind on Jemel's voice, he was still listening, but he didn't want the images that came with it, neither the hushed and desperate flight of his friends nor the brutality of war that trailed them.
'—And that is all the news I have,' Jemel finished, having said too much already but nowhere near enough.
'Then we must find more. Is Hasan here still?'
The softest, briefest of chuckles, and, 'Marron, he is asleep on the pallet next to yours. Fling an arm out too far, and you would hit him on the nose.'
'Oh.' He didn't turn, didn't look, didn't move except to say, 'How long has he been sleeping, can we wake him yet?'
'We could, perhaps,' Jemel said doubtfully, 'but for what? He knows less than you. The women did not talk with him long, and told him nothing that mattered.'
'Women? What women?'
'His wives. Sherett and Julianne. Lisan sent the djinni for Sherett - I said that already, weren't you listening? But then they both left him, and he fell asleep. You should sleep too.'
No doubt he should, but it wasn't going to happen. He said, 'Well, if Hasan cannot give us the news we need, let's go and find someone who can. Julianne is with Sherett; very well. Where are Elisande and the Princip?'
'I don't know. I said—'
'—And you don't think I was listening. I remember, Jemel. They took my Daughter - no, the King's Daughter -away from me, and you don't know where they went. So we'll have to hunt them out. It shouldn't be too hard. I don't know the Princip, but his granddaughter makes enough noise for two. We'll just ask anyone we meet, where's the little loud one?They’ll know.'
'Marron, you must not move. They said it of Hasan, he was not even to turn his head . . .'
'Well, I've done that and more, I sat up straight, remember?'
'And fainted, when you did.'
'Nearly fainted. You held me up. We can do the same again. Slowly, this time. I promise, Jemel, if I feel giddy, I will say. If not, we can go exploring. You won't go alone, I know that.'
'No.'
'So we have to go together. Unless you're prepared to sit here quiedy and watch me sleep while the world burns all around us? Even the women are off doing something, Jemel. Do you want to be left behind?'
'No,' again, a fierce whisper.
'So help me up, and we'll see who we can find, and what we can learn.'
Standing took time and care, so much of each that he ached for the Daughter's fire in his thin blood and its strength in his weary bones. He felt as though something of himself, all his value had been stolen from him while he slept. He ought to be glad to have it gone, but without it, what was he? Just a boy, an insignificant blade unsure who to fight for and unwilling to kill, sworn to both sides and trusting neither.
Standing now, leaning heavily on Jemel, he
looked down on the sleeping Hasan and then out, over the parapet for his first sight of Surayon.
He saw a valley like a garden on a grand scale, green and growing - or rather it had been, and should have been yet. Whichever way he turned, though, west and north and east the air was smudged with smoke. He forgot almost that he had lost the Daughter's eyes; he seemed to see sharply at great distances despite that all-encompassing haze, and what he saw was death and fury.
This was what Hasan had yearned for, he thought bleakly, and Sieur Anton too - a bolt shot at the heart of the Kingdom, a purifying fire, a holy war for each of them although they followed different gods. Try as he might, stare though he did, he could see nothing holy: only men in armour, men in black, men in midnight blue, all blood-swathed and screaming. Three armies, he thought: one was Ransomer-led, one was Sharai and not led by anyone, its only hope for a leader here at his feet. The other must be from Ascariel.
Between them all the Surayonnaise, fighting like farmers for their lands and lives. Better if the armies fought each other; that must come, surely, as soon as Sharai tribes met knights of Outremer. However soon, though, it would be too late for Surayon. The land had been blighted already, in a morning's work; another day or two, and it would be destroyed.
Jemel was gazing at Hasan. 'I cannot believe that he sleeps in Outremer, while the tribes are fighting.'
'You haven't been where he was, Jemel. I can believe that he would sleep and sleep; I wish I could. Besides, better that for Hasan than to rise up and make a killing choice. This is Outremer, yes - but it is also Surayon. The Sharai have had an understanding with these people for many years. Elisande lived a year in Rhabat, do you remember? And was not the first to do so. The Princip saved Hasan's life this morning; should Hasan demand a mount and a weapon, to fight him this afternoon? Or should he betray the tribes who trust him, who followed him this far?'
Hand of the King's Evil - Outremer 04 Page 33