by Gayle Greeno
Doyce pressed shaking arms against Bard’s chest, let her head tilt against his shoulder, relieved that he taken firm control of the lantern. In her hands it would have wavered like a drunken lightning bug. She blurted, “We’ve got to do something quickly. There’s a ghatten still alive, and Khar says it’s ready to ’Print.”
He cradled her with both arms, blocking out her sight, but her mind still saw the bodies, the blood. Had Oriel looked like that when Bard and Byrta had found him? “I’ll take care of it,” but his voice faltered. “Now come outside and sit down. I might as well tell you now: Asa’s wife and daughter are dead—inside the house. M’wa is still checking the grounds. Who are the old man and the ghatt outside? I feel as if I should know the ghatt, at least.”
Formless little muttering sounds fumbled themselves on her tongue, senseless except that they gave voice to her fear. Ready to babble, she could feel it, so she compressed her lips hard, pushed off from the safety of Bard’s chest and the familiar wool-scent of his tabard, and wove an unsteady path toward the door, now suffused with pale daylight. “I ... I don’t ... know. Didn’t ... take time for intro ... ductions.” She pushed harder at the words, made them break cover from where they lurked. “Khar said ... not to mind them.”
Bard chewed at his lip, struggled to sort through his thoughts and memories. Then he slammed fist into palm. “I’ve got it! That’s Ma‘ow. One of the oldest ghatti I’ve ever met. That old man isn’t his Bondmate, but I’d guess he’s the father of his Bond, Nathan Cummins. I think he rode circuit about the time Swan did with A’rah, before Koom. He used to visit our father and mother. That’s how Byrta and I knew we wanted to become Seekers. He was one of the few people who would stop and visit with us. Really visit, not just pass the time of day, ask the weather.” A hint of yesterday’s memories brightened his face, his teeth flashing in a fleeting but wide grin. “I thought Ma’ow looked familiar, but his whole mask has turned snowy now. He remembered. That’s why he winked at me, the old rascal. He knows my memory isn’t as good as his.”
Outside now, Doyce lowered herself to the ground, back against the barn wall, thankful to soak up the morning sun. The old man and the ghatt slept, or at least dozed fitfully. Sleep, to let us forget the terrors we have witnessed; sleep, to create greater terrors from the soul’s dark fears. A bane and a blessing, she decided as Bard walked to the house to heat water for the infusion.
“Wouldn’t have gone in there, was I you, but ye did anyway, didn’t ye?” the age-clouded voice boomed in her ear, matter-of-fact yet regretful. “No, ‘tis a terrible, terrible sight. Knew it was something bad when we set out, but not like this. Should have been Nathan’s duty by rights, but what with him laid up, side stove in and back kinked up after fallin’ through them rotted shingles, what could I say? He told me, ’Poppa, something bad is happening, Ma‘ow can feel it, and you’ve got to go in my place with him.’ Well, I tell you I didn’t know it’d be like this!” The rambling voice paused for breath, and Doyce heard the glugging sound of a bottle or jug. She rubbed at the scrape along her arm, fingers finding and smearing blood. That, at least, was real.
He sat cross-legged by the door, a hearty-looking but white-haired man, well into his seventies, supporting the ancient ghatt in his lap. Khar sniffed his face, and the ghatt turned his age-whitened muzzle toward Doyce, looking in her direction with eyes filmed by cataracts, milky-blue in the light.
“A drink? There’s little left, but I’ll share. You’ll need it after that sight.” He gestured with the tan stoneware bottle and Doyce reached forward, smelling the familiar scent of rum mixing with the warm, moist reek of blood emanating from the barn. Astonishingly, the thought of a drink made her swallow with an almost sacramental anticipation, and she stared back at the ghatt as she hefted the bottle.
A whorled tiger somewhat like Khar but with nowhere near the white on him, only a tiny chest patch, and thirty at least, an exceedingly venerable age. He wheezed, gave a cough, and mindwalked, his mindvoice still resonant and vital despite his years as he offered the traditional greeting and then continued.
“Welcome, younglings, though it’s little welcome we all find here. As Bard knows, I am Maow, and this is the father of my Bondmate, Nathan Cummins.” His grizzled head wavered with old-age tremors, and it was obvious he was forcing himself under control, dismayed at his body’s lack of resilience. “Too old for this, but when times are dire, we must all respond.”
The first swig of rum left her eyes tearing and her throat on fire, but the second slid silken-smooth. Doyce sat cross-legged in imitation of the old man in front of her, waiting for the return of his bottle, but too polite to ask for it back, anxious head cocked to count her sips. She passed it back.
“What happened? I don’t understand. That scream, like nothing I’ve ever heard, the terror inside, and now we sit here drinking rum and chatting. Khar, what happened? Who did this?”
The ghatt responded before Khar could. “You have seen for yourselves. It had to be done. And if you, so young, can explain such madness, I will listen, learn. If not, so be it, for I cannot explain such savagery.”
The early light set sun motes dancing and crazy-weaving in the near distance, the sun reflecting off clouds of dust. Travelers so early? Danger or help? Whoever they were, they rode hard and fast. The old man had drifted asleep again, mouth half-open, head lolling against the wall. With a wordless apology she retrieved his rum bottle, took another sip, set it down. She pushed herself upright, letting her legs slide her up the wall until she stood, sword in hand, thankful that Bard had brought it along with him. More trouble, perhaps, although in her heart she thought not, or one or more of the ghatti—Khar, still inside, M‘wa or Ma’ow—would have alerted her. Still, best not to be caught lacking again; the nagging memory of her unprofessionalism, the pathetic near-dive across the dirt floor a few moments earlier, made her burn with shame, adding its heat to the false warmth of the rum.
The separate cumuli of dust mingled as one and Doyce waited, chanting a calming sequence to herself. Strange that with the early morning sun, the freshness of the day, the sounds of a distant cicada just beginning to warm and saw away, the wheeling of doves leaving the barn cote, that everything could appear so normal, falsely secure. Yet in the house with Bard, two bodies; and in the barn watched over by Khar, more bodies, blood-drenched losers in an incredible battle. Appearance and reality. And worst of all, she had no idea what had befallen them. Something to do with Oriel’s death or, worst thought of all, something to do with her, her presence in the area? Her vision blackened, swamped with darkness; what had Swan called her? A catalyst? Had her bumbling search for the truth behind Oriel’s death unwittingly caused more death? The nervous perspiration collected under her arms, behind her knees, around her waist where the sash held the tabard tight. She knew the scent of her own fear. Coincidence, chance that she rode nearby. Not her fault. Not! Please, not again!
Balanced tall over its high-springed single axletree, a bright canary-yellow cart pulled by a dappled gray pacer wheeled into the yard, the driver judiciously flicking the whip to direct its course. And tight behind but to the left to avoid the dust, galloped a man dressed all in black, riding a lean-limbed black stallion and with an imperious coal-black ghatt thrusting forward on the pommel pad. The cart cut a tight semicircle, rocking as it went, and Doyce had no time to mark who drove it, but she knew full-well the black-garbed man’s identity: Jenret Wycherley.
Of all the would-be rescuers the Lady might provide, why him? Not to mention his ghatt, Rawn. Did Jenret dress to complement the ghatt or had the ghatt Chosen Jenret because of his attire? Lady only knew, but both of them annoyed her with their carousing ways, not to mention their studied arrogance, overbearing superiority, and, in all honesty, their impeccable professionalism.
Jenret paused in front of her now, soft-brimmed hat rolled loosely at his side, black trousers and tunic still showing a crease despite the hard ride, his black sheepskin tabard flecked wit
h the faintest trace of road dust. He was unconsciously rectifying that with his free hand even as he stood facing her, studying her, she decided, the same way a scholar views a particularly duplicitous piece of information. One lock of dark hair winged over his brow toward his deep blue eyes fringed with dark, curled lashes.
The voice, when he finally spoke, took her aback, always surprised her: a pure, clear tenor, nearly too soft and light for a man so obviously masculine yet downright pretty. She’d bet the voice had spurred him into fights to prove his manhood. “We set out as soon as we heard Khar’s danger cries in the night. No hope, we suspected, but we pressed on despite. I’m pleased to see it’s not you in danger, but what seems to be the trouble?” “In the barn.” She jerked her chin over her shoulder, acutely conscious that he made her feel a trifling child, rumpled, messy, with a bloodstained knee to her pantaloons, the dust and grime streaking down her tabard, a dribble of rum marking a sticky path down her chin. Fretful, she rubbed at the scrape on her forearm and winced. “Just don’t startle Khar.”
“Of course not. Thank you for informing me.” And he and the midnight-hued ghatt strolled into the barn. Doyce cocked an ear at the retching sound, suddenly choked off, and felt faintly ashamed, but not enough to cancel the tiny shard of pleasure that stabbed at her, a traitor to her better intentions.
Turning back she examined the trim two-wheeled rig as it swung around again, the patient driver subduing the gray’s desire to race. Some horses were born to run, and the excitement from the urgent, headlong pace made this one eager to continue, exulting in perfectly cadenced freedom, now checked short.
Still, the driver demonstrated persistence and obvious skill; the high two-wheelers were notoriously precarious to balance if road or weather proved rough or the horse untrained. Other than those who drove them on Fair Racing Days or the young, intent in equal measure on hell-raising and courting, only the traveling eumedicos consistently favored the high-wheelers.
A small shiver of anticipation iced the thin trail of sweat down her spine. “No, it couldn’t be Mahafny. There’s no way....”
But it was Mahafny who leaped down, followed, on the other side, by the Shepherd Harrap, face paler than his robe, teeth clenched hard enough to bulge his jaw muscles. She’d bet golden eights he’d never reached a destination with such lightning speed in his life, with or without the blessed Lady’s intercession. Parm followed after, misjudging the jolt and sway as the carriage springs rebounded with the abrupt release of Harrap’s considerable bulk. Parm collapsed in an ungainly tangle of limbs but ignored the embarrassment and hightailed it straight inside the barn, his orange and black motley blending sunlight and shadow as he disappeared.
“You’re all right?” Mahafny asked, slightly breathless, pale gray eyes raking over her. “What’s wrong? Parm went frantic, nearly unstrung. Harrap realized that something terrible was happening, but Parm’s explanation rushed gibberish fast, so nightmarish in Harrap’s mind that he couldn’t absorb it all. I don’t know how Parm managed to guide us here.”
Harrap’s broad face creased with a smile of relief. “And the little ghatta is fine, too?” Doyce nodded affirmation and he rushed ahead, barely waiting for her response. “But what was Parm so desperate to tell me? What’s wrong? And who is that old man smelling of rum? And the ancient ghatt so like Ma’ow, Nathan Cummins’s? That’s his father, isn’t it?” The barrage of questions ran down as Harrap waited for enlightenment. Mahafny stood still, her appraising expression having noted the blood on Doyce’s pantaloons, the ripped shirt-sleeve, her shaken appearance, and the drawn sword still clutched in her hand. Doyce caught the intent of her gaze and flinched, lowering the sword so that its point dragged in the dust.
She managed a succinct explanation, and Mahafny and Harrap exchanged shocked glances, then entered the barn, Mahafny drawing a small white square of gauze over her nose and mouth, securing it behind her head by its tie strings. Harrap, even paler than before, pulled forth the Lady’s octagon hanging around his neck and carried it in one large fist, holding it aloft as if to let the Lady’s love and benevolence shine forth, better late than not at all.
Harrap returned almost immediately, eyes clenched shut, tears seeping down his cheeks, chest heaving as if he’d run an endurance race. “I couldn’t ...” he gasped, “couldn’t even finish Our Lady’s benediction. Such savagery! Such smells! Have to try again. Must give them peace!” Spying the rum bottle, he grabbed it and shook it, draining it off in a giant gulp. Doyce raised her eyebrows but said nothing as he started to trot back and forth, gaining momentum to carry himself back inside. As he rushed the door he asked, “And who is that handsome young man inside with his head between his knees?”
The rest of the morning rippled with blurred images, but still, despite her wishing she could will it otherwise, certain scenes stayed in sharp focus, frozen forever into a separateness, framed by fears that forced her to peruse them again and again, no way to avoid watching them replay themselves in her mind:
Khar clutched the little yellow-striped ghatten by the scruff of the neck, rendering it immobile in the time-old grip of a mother ghatta. He squalled and kicked, frenetic with fear, then hung limp. Khar rolled her eyes in Doyce’s direction and she inserted the pipette, managed to drip some of the diluted milk and herbal infusion into the ghatten’s pink mouth while he choked and sputtered, then swallowed. A thin stream ran off his chin, soaked his ruff and belly. Khar at last deposited the ghatten into Bard’s cupped hands, and he carried him outside, nestling him beside the old ghatt asleep in a patch of sun. Ma’ow stirred, then pillowed his massive head across the ghatten’s back in protection and fell asleep again with a deep sigh.
Mahafny and Harrap had taken charge of preparing the bodies for burial, carrying Asa’s inside the house to join the bodies of his wife and daughter. Gently they sponged them, straightened their limbs, closed the gaping wounds, smoothed the tangled hair. A labor of love for strangers destined for a journey to join the Lady, with only strangers to see them on their way.
Mahafny had called Doyce into the room where Asa lay, his body naked and a sheet drawn up barely to his hips. “Take a look at the wounds, Doyce, and tell me what you see.”
Aware of herself, of her every reaction, Doyce viewed it all, examined, felt Mahafny’s strong, thin hand pinched tight around her wrist, forcing her to concentrate, to see the how, the why, the wonder of individual bones, muscles, sinews, ligaments, their connections and interactions, what disease or injury does or does not do to the human body, its ways of compensating and coping. The old lessons, so hard-learned, rang in her head, as did Mahafny’s new commands.
“Look. There. And there.” Mahafny gestured to gashes on the chest and stomach, lowered the sheet further to show the near-disembowelment. “What do you make of it, Doyce?” Patience in her words, patience but the expectation of the correct answer the first time. No fumbling or mumbling or guessing from a prize pupil.
Moving closer. Doyce narrowed her vision, changed her angle, checked from another direction. In several locations, four deep lacerations, gashes roughly parallel to each other. Deeper as they extended downward. The surrounding skin sometimes puckered, torn with puffy ragged edges, unlike the clean sweep of knife or sword that she identified elsewhere on the body. The marks lower on the belly, deeper from a powerful force, crisscrossing each other as if the attacker had sought a new vantage from which to rake. If Asa hadn’t been wearing a heavy leather belt, the claws would have touched his vitals almost immediately.
Claws? Doyce tilted her head back, willing her face blank, and met Mahafny’s challenge. “Claw marks. Like a giant cat’s, a wildcat or a lynx.”
“Or a ghatt.” Mahafny shook her unresisting arm in cadence with her words, her hand an icy band imprisoning Doyce’s wrist. “Or a ghatt!”
“Like a ghatt, but it couldn’t be a ghatt,” Doyce heard herself reply with a calmness that she forced. “A ghatt would never do a thing like that.” Not unless it foug
ht for its life, or ... fought to take someone else’s life. But Wwar’m would never have done that to Asa.
Mahafny swung her around, away from Asa’s body, and took her face in both smooth, cool hands, and Doyce savored the touch against her feverish cheeks. “Perhaps, perhaps not. And a ghatt never Bonds a second time with a person. So we all thought. Things are changing, Doyce, changing in strange ways. You made me see what was seemingly impossible. You must be open enough to do the same.”
With a backward toss of her head, Doyce broke free of the cool, restraining hands, but not from her thoughts, and left the room. Impossible? Possible? Or something beyond what any of them could imagine, but imagination must have some foundation in fact, somewhere from which to spring, just as nightmares feed on hidden fears.
She rested her head against the windowpane, wished her thoughts had the same clarity. She turned her head back and forth, not caring that she smudged the glass, taking a peculiar delight in clouding something else, and saw Jenret, shoulders slumped, walking down the roadside to flag the first passerby. The news would have to be carried into town to gather family and friends, to relinquish the burden of the dead to those who knew and loved them. Jenret, still impeccably garbed, lock of hair pushed ruthlessly back into place, but strangely silent all day, fighting within himself over the havoc he’d witnessed. Unwilling to look squarely at anyone yet. She hadn’t expected him to take it this hard. It should have been a small triumph for her, but it suddenly gave her no enjoyment, no gratification. Not this time, not now.