“It was covered over in ice, then?” Ilek’Inari asked.
“It was. Blessings to the guardians for their talents. Arak’Uro made short work of it, with what help I could provide.”
Arak’Jur nodded approval. “A mighty thing, such a well-kept secret of the land.”
“Oh, we were not through to it yet. Tell me, Arak’Jur, have you heard of the sre’ghaus?” When he shook his head no, she went on. “Neither had Arak’Uro. And whatever shrouded the sacred site from the Yanarat shaman, it seemed had hidden the sre’ghaus as well.”
Now he listened with rapt interest. A new great beast, the third such reported in as many turnings of the seasons. Vital for the guardians to share and learn what they could, before the shamans saw a new beast approach the tribe’s lands.
“They are small creatures,” she continued. “Like beetles. But they move together, as if by a single mind. And when slain, they dissemble into mist, then re-form before your eyes.”
“How do you keep them dead?” Ilek’Inari asked.
She shrugged. “We never found the way. Arak’Uro fought them for a time while I completed the ritual, and we left.”
A fine story. He would have to send word to Arak’Uro and plead for wisdom on dealing with these sre’ghaus, spirits send they stayed far away from Sinari lands during his lifetime.
He motioned the other two to silence as they crested the hill. This was the place, a few hours’ walk from where the white rock forked the stream. Ilek’Inari had described his vision, and the cave up ahead—a simple recess into stone—matched it exactly. Inwardly he felt a wave of relief to be spared another long journey. This was not Ka’Ana’Tyat, the sacred place where Corenna and Ilek’Inari would make their communion with the spirits, but it was the first step toward that path. Each time he had visited a sacred place, the woman in his keeping had been tasked with slaying a beast as an offering to the spirits.
Corenna turned to him, expectant.
“Honored sister.” He bowed to her. “This is your task. I will safeguard you, should your magic fail.”
She nodded, striding toward the mouth of the cave, stopping to plant her feet as she faced the opening ahead. Her eyes glazed over, the deep blue of a winter storm, and when she raised her hands the wind began to stir. A breeze at first, then an icy gale. It swept into the cave, a torrent of frost that had no place beneath a clear blue sky. A low roar sounded from within.
She held her arms in place, and the storm continued.
A silhouette appeared, pacing side to side to shelter itself from the buffeting cold. It roared again as it stepped into the light, this time a thunderous echo ringing through the trees. The bear locked its eyes on Corenna, and Arak’Jur watched as the beast lowered its head and charged.
With a smooth motion, Corenna drew one hand back and snapped the other forward. A lance of ice sprang from her fingers, impaling the bear through the crown of its skull. It slumped to the ground, skidding toward her with a crunch as it rolled over the frost that had settled from the storm. The winds faded.
She made a formal bow to the bear, and another to him and Ilek’Inari. Her eyes returned to normal.
“A mighty gift indeed, honored sister,” he said.
“It was well worth the trouble. I hope Arak’Uro agrees. He was shivering for hours after his dip in the ice.”
She stepped back as he laughed, and Ilek’Inari went to his knees, unsheathing his bone knife to pry the bear’s teeth loose from its jaw.
A fine thing. He’d seen such displays before, but never so smoothly done. Arak’Doren spoke true when he said Corenna was precious to the Ranasi. A spirit-touched woman with her strength was a thing not seen in generations. The women’s spirits were generous, it seemed, even as their counterparts whispered to the shamans of dire omens.
When Ilek’Inari had gathered his final materials, they departed the hillside in search of Ka’Ana’Tyat.
Ka’Ana’Tyat. The Birthplace of Visions. Arak’Jur had made the journey three times and never found it in the same place, though it was always on Sinari lands. Each tribe had at least one such sacred site, where the women would go to forge their connections to the spirits of the land, and the shamans first spoke with the spirits of things-to-come. He understood little of the details—it was not his place as guardian to know more than was required. Only that the women and shamans found their power along different paths than the guardians did. What the beast spirits held in common with the women’s and shamans’ spirits was a mystery reserved for wiser men than he.
They traveled for three days.
Passing through the highlands, they made their way down into the thickest parts of the forest, where it covered Sinari land like a fertile blanket. He hunted for their food and Corenna prepared it. Ilek’Inari performed a minor ritual each time they stopped, divining their destination from the whispers of the shamans’ spirits. On they went, until the trees grew so thick they seemed to knot together, walls of wood and branch and vine.
This was the sign. It was always so, near Ka’Ana’Tyat. The land seemed to bend and warp itself into impossible scenes. If he came back this way on the next full moon, he would find it a forest like any other. But for now, they drew near a place of power.
A reverent glow settled on his charges’ faces, Corenna with a practiced grace and Ilek’Inari with nervous excitement. They journeyed inward, past twisted branches and trees seeming to grow through one another, until they came upon a wide clearing at the heart of the wood. A canopy of branches parted to reveal a passageway sculpted from the shadows cast by the long arms of the trees.
Ka’Ana’Tyat.
They stepped forward, and a great roar echoed on the wind.
If the bear they’d slain before had roared, it was a drop of rainwater to the torrential storm they heard now. This was a peal of mighty thunder, a blast of raw power that could shear trees in half from the force of its bellow alone. This was a sound that few had ever heard, and survived.
An una’re.
Somehow it had eluded the visions of Ka’Vos and Ka’Hinari both. The brown bear’s elder brother, una’re struck with a thunderous force that gave truth to the storms behind his roar. Arcing shocks blackened the ground where he ran, his claws dancing with streaks of lightning like fire from the skies. And now he came, crashing through the knotted wood, his keen senses alerted to intruders near this sacred place, a place he had claimed for his own. Few disputed una’re’s claims when he made them.
Eyes pained, Arak’Jur turned toward his charges. Ilek’Inari was frozen in fear. Even Corenna had paled.
“Run,” he said.
Arak’Jur leapt into the sky, coming down with the fury of the ipek’a, an ethereal blade forming around his hand like one of their scything claws. He scourged the una’re along its side as he landed, ripping the Great Bear’s flesh into a crevasse that soaked its legs in blood.
The beast roared as it reared up, its head twisting into a primal cry. Rage. Shock. This una’re had likely never met a beast that could wound him, let alone stay toe to toe in a running fight. Now the creature dripped from the pricks of a dozen minor wounds. Not enough to fell him, but enough to keep him moving in the direction Arak’Jur needed him to go: away from Corenna and Ilek’Inari.
Arak’Jur’s left hand was shattered and scored black, streaks of rotten flesh crawling up his arm where the bite of the una’re had found purchase. No time to worry over that now. With time even the direst of his wounds would heal, unless he was slain outright; another gift of the guardian, the first granted after communing with the beast spirits. Proof against lasting injury, though the pain he endured in full.
He raced around the beast toward the entrance to Ka’Ana’Tyat, channeling the gift of lakiri’in, cousin to the water-beasts of the far south. The scaled reptiles were deadly quick when they went for a kill but tended toward sloth when not pressed to exert themselves; their gift was similar—a short burst of speed, fading as quickly as it came.
> Another flurry of swipes from the una’re’s claws raked the air overhead as he dove to the side. Shocking energy coursed into the ground, sending leaves and grass into the air with a smoldering hiss. Twisting toward the beast, Arak’Jur rolled with the driving attack, landing another sequence of empowered strikes along its flanks.
The blows he’d landed might be enough to slow it, if he could extend the chase long enough. The una’re seemed to sense it, too, giving him a low growl. It snapped in his direction, forcing him to keep his distance as the una’re recovered its footing. The two circled each other, the Great Bear showing him a measure of respect as each awaited the other’s next move.
The wind began to blow cold.
“No,” he called, his voice cracking from the pain. “No, Corenna!”
Too late. She stood with Ilek’Inari at her side, her face determined, eyes iced over with a wintry haze. The una’re turned to consider her, and she sent a barrage of needlepoint icicles streaking through the air. The beast let out a bellowing roar as Corenna’s ice took it across the shoulders, peppering its hide with bloody wounds. And then it charged.
Arak’Jur had already spent the gift of the valak’ar, his deadliest by far, and failed to land a blow. But he had saved the blessing of mareh’et. He used it now, a nimbus of the Great Cat surrounding him, granting ethereal claws and a surge of strength and speed. The una’re seemed to slow as he closed the gap, a shrill scream from Corenna echoing through the dense wood. He dove, and took the beast in the hind legs as it leapt.
Ilek’Inari’s voice joined the chorus of war cries as the una’re sailed through the air toward Corenna. A second volley of ice sprayed into the creature’s roaring maw. Arak’Jur’s strikes tore at its unprotected hindquarters, ripping the beast’s tendons with the savage cuts of mareh’et.
But it was the simple cut of the bone knife in the hands of the apprentice shaman that scored the killing blow.
Corenna rolled away from the corpse of the una’re. Beside her, Ilek’Inari had gone to his knees, eyes filmed over with white, in communion with the spirits.
It appeared Arak’Jur had found his apprentice.
13
SARINE
Fontcadeu Green
The Royal Palace, Rasailles
She let her pack fall, a soft rustle as it landed behind the garden wall, and she followed it a moment later, dropping to hide under the brush. It was always easier to slip into the royal gardens past nightfall; the meager stores of Faith that accrued where the nobles lived went much further when she could rely on a cloak of darkness in addition to her gifts. This late in the season the evening air had lost most of its sting, but she still wore a slim coat to go along with the usual linen shirt, calf boots, and trousers. And of course her pack, with extra charcoals and sheaves of paper. Ordinarily she wouldn’t risk a return visit to the palace so soon—too dangerous, for the priests to find a pattern of errant bindings. But she’d spent the past days hovering close to the Sacre-Lin, fearful the man in the red coat might make good on his promise, that he could somehow track her down and expose her and her uncle to danger. She’d gotten nothing more than boredom for her concern. No invitation, no sign of the man who’d called himself Reyne d’Agarre. So, when rumors spread of a masquerade planned by the Duc-Governor, she’d resolved to quit her watch if nothing had come by the appointed date. Now the night had arrived, and so had she.
Staying low, she slid along the stone walls as she edged her way toward the green. It was slow going, weaving around the light cast by the ensconced lanterns along the wall. Worth every ounce of effort, though, if it meant prolonging the duration she could stay hidden. There was only so much Faith to be had in Rasailles, and she meant to bleed the wells dry before she left. Word was every seamstress, tailor, and papier-mâché mask maker in the city had been working long hours since the Duc announced his ball, each of them sworn to secrecy on behalf of their clientele.
Already some of the lowest-born made their entrances, callers announcing their names, ranks, and lineage to the accompaniment of long trumpets bearing the King’s arms. The attendees entered through the main gate, following the winding walkway at a slow pace to show off their plumage before they gained the palace grounds proper. And plumage it was. It seemed the theme of the evening would be feathers, great displays of color festooning their masks and elaborate garb, men and women alike. There, an unlanded chevalier and his lady played the part of falconer and bird of prey, the rich greens and whites of their costumes springing to life whenever they passed beneath the torches lining the walkway. Behind them, a baroness and her escorts reenacted a Sardian harem, or at least a harem as one might imagine it taking place in a rookery.
Cloaked in shadows, even without the benefit of her bindings, she at times drew near enough to hear conversation the attendees must have thought private, as they walked in stately procession through the royal park.
“—oh, Percy, you must remember not to slouch tonight, my dear. We must impress the comte if we’re to dispose him favorably to—”
“—a little bird told me the Vicomtesse d’Eilles would be ‘ill’ for tonight’s festivities, owing to a black eye bestowed by the vicomte’s own hand—”
“—I swear by the Exarch, if they serve those wretched little crevettes tonight, I’ve half a mind to belch on the serving dishes, you see if I don’t—”
Zi had taken to strolling down the walkway himself, his eyes darting back and forth as he drank in the passersby. As ever, she was thankful she was the only one who could see him. His scales had taken on a pale green hue, ripening to a light yellow when he drew near some of the conversations.
After an eternity making her way through the outer garden she reached a bend in the path, level with the grand stone steps leading up to the palace receiving grounds. The grounds would be where the majority of the festivities would take place, but the stairs served her immediate purpose. The whole exercise of a promenade through the park was meant to be observed, after all. What better vantage point from which to sketch? She took a deep breath, closing her eyes as she drew in Faith. Fading from view, she crossed the walkway at a run and found herself an unobtrusive spot along the wide stone stairs. Moving under Faith’s shroud would deplete her stores ten times as fast, but so long as she stayed still she would have time to work.
The criers continued calling out the guest list as they arrived, offering a thorough primer on New Sarresant society. One at a time the coaches pulled up to the gate, unloaded their cargo, then drove off to the area designated for the drivers and teams. The nobles flowed out in a steady stream, careful to allow each party a comfortable distance before they began to walk. First came the seigneurs, the écuyers, the chevaliers—the lowest rungs on the social ladder, those who couldn’t put on the airs of a fashionably late arrival. Some of these were not even noble, but who could deny New Sarresant’s wealthiest citizens when they bankrolled most of the nobles’ financial ventures? Too many favors owed to exclude them, and so they came, full of pride, knowing they pretended to a seat at better tables.
She sketched a few of these, confident most of her customers couldn’t tell the difference between the costumes of the highest-born and those of the early arrivals. The gap between marquis and écuyer may well be an insurmountable chasm here at Rasailles, but in the Harbor district or the Riverways, any in attendance tonight were impossibly far above the wildest aspirations of the commonfolk. Did it work the same way in reverse? Were the city’s merchants and financiers on a level with beggars and street thieves to the likes of the comtes and comtesses? A strange thought.
She continued to sketch as the titles rose progressively higher, chevaliers giving way to barons and vicomtes, interspersed with the odd comte and marquis. Zi lazed about the steps as she worked, draping himself across the stone tiers. His scales seemed pale, only a faint blue-green coloration reflecting the light cast by the lanterns behind them.
Her ears perked up as the caller announced the latest arrival.<
br />
“The Lance-Captain Donatien Revellion, graduating forthwith from the academy at New Sarresant, accompanied by the best wishes of his father the Marquis de Revellion, away serving the crown as diplomatic envoy to the Thellan colonies.”
She set aside her half-finished sketch and began a new one. Lord Revellion’s costume had a military theme, a blend of blue and gold feathers and silks to create an impression of the Sarresant officers’ uniform. Working quickly, she had her sketch of his entrance complete by the time he circled the green and approached the stairs. As soon as the drawing was fixed and dried she slid it into her pack, rising to her feet.
Done so soon?
“Just joining the party,” she whispered. “Come on.”
A Body binding and a few handholds on the rough-cut walls of the inner keep gave her an excellent vantage over the area cordoned off for dancing. The courante-steps favored by the youths among the nobles were lively and up-tempo, requiring room to maneuver. They twirled and pranced to one now, percussionists beating out a three-quarter-time meter accompanied by rhythmic claps among the onlookers. Each costume’s feathers came alive with the music, flares of color streaking past with every lift and turn of the steps.
The young Lady Cherrain, adorned in a wild costume meant to evoke the Oracle herself, seemed to be the star of the evening. Nothing less was expected from the daughter of the Duc-Governor, but she seemed to be shining particularly brightly, directing the courtiers as they moved from one dance to the next. Lord Revellion was a close second, his cavalry officer’s costume giving him a serious air. All of them moved brilliantly, with a practiced grace bred from a lifetime of preparing for their places in society. She worked to capture their movement, pausing from time to time to allow herself the pleasure of taking it in. She doubted whether she could ever move like they did. She’d forget a step, tumble instead of spring, fall when she was meant to twist. And to think they all did it in unison, as if moved by a single mind. She tethered Life as she watched, empowering her senses to sharpen the colors, the movements, the magic of the evening.
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