“I was standing with the lady Esmar. You don’t know her, I suppose, but it doesn’t matter much. The story doesn’t have anything to do with her. I was standing with her, talking about the preparations for the next Blue Star, or rather the lack thereof, and Prince Vakara walked past us. In a hurry. He had a look like a child that’s done something he knows he’ll be punished for. His advisors and courtesans all come chasing after him, distraught. It’s strange enough that Esmar remarks about it. Wonder where they’re all going, she says. I winked and said, what do you say we follow them? Find out for ourselves? She’s the gossipy type, as most of those lords and ladies are, so of course she’s intrigued.
“We go chasing after Vakara and we’re not the only ones. Half the party follows us. It may not sound that strange but I promise you, in those circles where appearance and composure are everything, it was quite abnormal. Anyway, we get stopped at the doorway to the next ballroom by Vakara’s own bodyguards. All of us gather there, standing on our tiptoes to see over the crowd.
“Vakara’s in the ballroom with some man I’ve never seen before. Sinister looking fellow. Vakara is animated, shouting. Not quite so loud that I could make out every word but I heard a few. The other man, he just watches, arms crossed. He puts up with Vakara’s barrage, patient but readying to strike.”
Fiskahn paused for dramatic effect. “And strike he did!” Razhier’s eyes widened and Fiskahn laughed. “Vakara says her name. Theina. I swear I heard it. I didn’t hear the words surrounding it, but I heard that clear as starlight. The very next instant, this strange man strikes Vakara in the throat, silencing him, and then wraps him in a headlock. Lowers him to the ground. Vakara is blue in the face, mumbling. The Mourisiel Prince! Imagine it! The strange man whispered something in his ear, something tight-lipped and harsh, just before he released him. Then he called to the guards to get Vakara, to take him to his bed chambers, and he ordered the crowd to disband.”
“Who was he?” Razhier asked. “Why didn’t the guards kill him for attacking Vakara?”
“I’d never seen him before but listening to him shout commands, I got the sense he was very comfortable doing it. The guards knew him. Knew to obey him.”
Razhier sat back. “But we don’t know that Theina is alive.”
“Oh come on, boy. Don’t be dense. You think they’d still be talking about her, all this time after our attempted coup, if she wasn’t still alive? Vakara was upset about something and it had to do with her in some way.” Fiskahn popped another piece of fruit into his mouth. “She’s alive,” he said around it. “I’d bet my life she is.”
“Where are they keeping her then? How can we get her? We have to save her, Fiskahn. Don’t tell me you’re not thinking the same. We have to. She…”
“I know, boy. Calm down. I do agree.” Fiskahn paused. “Thing is, everyone we know with the gumption and the skills to go poking around the palace in search of her is dead. I’m too old. You’re too young.”
“I’m not too young. I’ll go. I wanted to go before but…”
“No, no,” Fiskahn said, shaking his head. “You’re not cut out for this. Think about it for a half a moment and you’ll decide the same. No, we’ll have to be patient. I’ll keep listening, hoping to learn more. I’ll ask around about the sinister man. Hopefully when Aris and the others get back, we’ll have something to tell them.”
“Aris?” Razhier furrowed his brow. “He won’t be back before the end of the cycle. Theina may be alive now but we can’t know for how long. We have to get to her before they do something to hurt her.”
“You’ll get killed if you try, boy. You have my word on that.” Fiskahn sighed. “It’s too bad we don’t know anyone who can move silent and unseen. A master hunter. Or huntress.”
Razhier snapped his fingers. “My mother. Why don’t we ask her? If she knew Theina was alive and in danger, she would have to help.”
Fiskahn nodded slowly. “Why yes, you might be on to something there. But no, perhaps not. We already asked her to join our little company and she said no.”
“She said she didn’t want to kill anyone but she’d help us save someone. I’m sure of it.”
“Well, if you think you could convince her, it wouldn’t hurt to try. Talk to her, at least.”
Razhier jumped up from the chair. “I’ll go now. She was at home when I left. I’ll convince her, Fiskahn. I promise I will.” He reached across the table and grabbed Fiskahn’s hand before the old man could pull it away. “Theina’s alive, Fiskahn. And we’re going to get her back.”
Camarei VIII
Qati
South and west from the forests and mountains surrounding Verden, the landscape turned desolate. Even the skies were empty and drab, the White Star bleaching them until the edges blended together into one shade. The life that made the desert home moved from shadow to shadow, dusty and red, only their blinking eyes and twitching limbs visible. The wind slept and the desert kept so quiet that Valkil and his companions could hear their skin drying and cracking, their tongues moving against the roofs of their mouths in fruitless attempts to draw out saliva. Only the varrucat seemed at home, bounding along in the distance and returning, all smiles, unable to understand why the others moved so slow and sighed so often.
They refilled their waterskins at an independent village formed around a well. The dozen residents, older and grayer than their cycles, bartered for arrowheads and pliable strips of leather and wood that Aioni grudgingly gave over, complaining out loud that Valkil with all his wealth had nothing the villagers wanted or needed, though in truth her act was only a charade. She knew the villagers, had traded with them before, and had brought the very goods they would ask for. When Aioni led the others away, she confided that the village had once numbered twice what they had seen. Nobody said that it might be the therill that had thinned the village but they shared glances and knew they were all thinking the same.
Warrior brought back a juvenile squeere and they roasted it over an impromptu fire. The taste was gamy and the texture tough but they tore into it ravenously.
Somewhere along the way, out of boredom, Malquin began teaching Erona swordplay. At first, she laughed and started when Malquin swung a blade toward her but after Malquin improved her grip and she overcame her fear of being struck, she showed an aptitude. Valkil encouraged Shavyn to join in the training and Malquin set the youths against each other in simple sparring.
Ahlaha, with Valkil translating, once offered to teach Erona other skills, more ladylike and courtly, but Erona’s raised eyebrow and disgusted frown said all that needed to be said.
Their waterskins were growing threateningly light when Aioni pointed out a shimmering lump in the otherwise flat horizon. “Qati,” she said to Erona with a smile.
Remembering tales told of the oasis people, Erona asked, “You’re sure they’ll welcome us?”
“Not with fanfare or children running at your feet, no. If they don’t kill us, that’s the friendliest welcome we can expect.”
The desert ended abruptly where tall, flexible acovet with broad orange leaves rose up from green and yellow grasses. Avi flittered among the acovet, crying and screeching and calling to one another, shaking the branches and scraping at the bark. Packs of lipunds snapped at each other and leapt at the avi playfully, rarely slowing, droplets of mossy water cast up in their wake.
Valkil touched a tree, felt the moist bark. He sniffed at the dew. “Smells clean.”
“Sure, you could drink it straight from the bark,” Aioni said. “Lap it up like the lipund do.”
“But I shouldn’t?”
“You never know if a pairu daza has been up in that tree, nor how recent. Even a tiny taste of the oil from its feathers…”
Valkil dried his hand on his tunic. “I can wait until we reach the oasis.”
“There’s risk in that too.” Aioni nodded, directing attention to a Qati warrior nearby. She wore tree bark and avi feathers, and carried a short bow, drawn back with an
arrow notched.
Aioni stepped toward the Qati, showing her palms. “Ak bak duruk. Kad ak.”
The warrior looked at each of them in turn, then relaxed the bowstring. “Sek moek.”
Aioni winked to her companions. “She’ll take us to the oasis. Follow just behind her. Don’t anyone go wandering off, no matter what you might see. There’s probably dozens of them watching us right now. One misstep could cost all of us our lives.”
“Huh,” Malquin grunted. “Friendly.”
They admired the multi-colored foliage and varieties of avi they passed. Once, they beheld a flash of red and black and white in the heights of the trees, one of the famed pairu daza. Their guide paused in her step until the avi was gone, then resumed walking after a brief, suspicious glance at the group.
When the trees opened and the vast oasis lake lay before them like a glittering cerulean gemstone, its white beaches crawling with small strange creatures, the simple stick-hut homes of the Qati all around, and the White Star overhead in a sky as empty as the desert, they sighed audibly, each of them together.
The Qati warrior gestured for them to stay, then made her way toward the nearest hut. Valkil turned to Ahlaha. “How are you liking our vacation now?”
“It's wonderful,” Ahlaha sang.
Something changed in the air and Valkil realized the nearby Qati had paused in their work, their eyes trained on the group. Valkil raised an eyebrow at Aioni. “What’s this about?” Aioni shrugged. “Don’t tell me you don’t know. You look nervous. Should we be concerned?”
“I don’t know,” Aioni said. “It’s not like I spend a lot of time among them.”
“But you speak their language,” Shavyn said.
“Last time I came, they taught me to say ‘I need water. I will pay’. That’s the extent of it.”
“You put on a good show back there,” Valkil said.
“Is that a compliment?” Aioni asked. “From the master of deception himself?”
“What is wrong with her?” Ahlaha sang to Valkil.
Aioni pointed at Ahlaha. “I don’t know what she just said but I don’t like it.”
“Hey,” Malquin said. “They’re looking at us again.”
Several Qati had gathered nearby, pointing and whispering. Others were coming from further down the beach, abandoning their posts, their fishing nets floating unheeded in the water.
“They look curious,” Valkil said. “Not angry.”
“It’s her voice,” Erona said. “Every time Ahlaha sings, they light up like they’ve never heard song.”
“Could be,” Valkil said. “Tell them a story, Ahlaha?”
“I get nervous in front of crowds,” she sang. Immediately, the Qati perked up. They stared, mesmerized.
“I’m not sure it matters,” Valkil said. “Just say whatever comes to mind.”
Ahlaha hesitated, then sang, “A very long time ago in the Camarein city of Mauveine, the first Ob Osa was born. Blind from birth, she was an embarrassment to her aristocratic family. They kept her locked away at home, hidden from others in the court. Driven by a desire to learn and grow, she developed her ability to listen for the echoes of walls and objects so she could walk freely through the house.”
As Ahlaha sang, the Qati came closer, eyes and jaws wide, enraptured. Even those of Ahlaha's group, among whom only Valkil and Malquin could understand most words, listened in awe to the majesty of her voice. “She made a friend of a servant child, a boy who would read to her from the many books in the library. He could only read so long, however, and would often grow bored, as young boys do. So the Ob Osa honed her talent until she could hear the echoes of the ink on the page and taught herself to read. She went through entire tomes in days, smaller books in hours. Over the years, she became wiser than any in her family and she left them behind. Her desire to learn drove her beyond the walls of her home. She was viewed as a mystic, a sorceress, because of her ability to see without seeing. People she met discovered that she had a brilliant mind and before long, they would gather to hear her speak. She took on students of her own and sought to teach them to see as she did, but none ever could until she had them cover their eyes with blindfolds in all hours of their lives. Only then, her best students began to learn to hear the echoes of things and to see without seeing.
“Further believing her to be a sorceress and a wielder of dangerous magics, those in power drove her out of the city. Many of her followers went with her. They wandered the eastern part of Camarei for seven cycles, making a living as best they could, until they discovered the islands that would become Moridah. They made their home there and the Ob Osa decreed that none should see there, that blindfolds should be given to every man, woman, and child, and worn at all times.
“So it was until the day the Ob Osa bore a child, a daughter. For reasons unknown, the Ob Osa would not allow her followers to cover her child’s eyes with a blindfold. Instead, she changed her law. Only the Ob, the leader of the Moridah, would be allowed to see. Her daughter was the first and there have been twenty seven since.”
As Ahlaha’s final notes faded, the dozens of Qati who had gathered to listen were suddenly unsure of what to do. Some whispered amongst themselves while others grinned and said nothing. One popped his tongue against the roof of his mouth, making a tsk sound, and then others followed suit until there was a smattering of tsks. Ahlaha smiled and sang, “Thank you.”
The young warrior returned with bark bowls of water. While watching Valkil and his companions drink, she asked, “Ak pek mo? Duruk bo?” She mimicked drinking from a bowl, then pouring from the invisible bowl into a waterskin. The visitors handed over their waterskins and a young Qati took them toward the oasis.
Valkil gestured to a cluster of green feathers on a nearby Qati’s shoulder. “We would like some of these. Pairu daza.”
The Qati warrior’s eyes narrowed. “Pairu daza kab mez’ek du.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Valkil said.
“Kad ak,” Aioni said.
The Qati warrior gestured for them to follow her. She led them along the beach to one of the stick-huts and, after a brief conversation with someone inside, held the shroud aside so Valkil and Aioni could enter.
Inside the hut, a naked old woman with a slack jaw and long black body hair sat cross-legged before a flat blanket of intricate design. Few slivers of light shone through the ceiling and walls. Something shifted in the corner darkness, something animal. Valkil shuffled away from it, then followed suit as Aioni knelt before the old woman.
“Pairu daza,” Aioni said.
The old woman held out her hands, palms up. Aioni looked sideways at Valkil. “She wants payment now.”
“What does she want?”
“How should I know, Val? Why don’t you ask her?”
“What did you give them for yours?”
“An entire cycle’s worth of barridur skins. You have that on you?
Valkil thought a moment, then offered his knife, a short blade made for cutting meat and gathering herbs. The old woman felt its edge, then pushed it away.
“She doesn’t want it,” Aioni said.
“Not yet, she doesn’t,” Valkil said. “But she doesn’t realize it’s magic.” Making sure he had the old woman's attention, he drew the blade across his open palm, leaving a long line of blood that welled up and ran through the creases of his hand. He showed the wound to the old woman, then turned the knife around and ran the rounded end back over it. He put the knife down, then wiped saliva into his palm. When he showed it to the old woman again, it was clean of blood and the wound had healed.
The old woman gasped and grabbed his hand, running her thumb over the disappeared wound. Her jawbone knocked against her skull as she shook her head.
Valkil offered the knife a second time. The old woman took it immediately and inspected it, muttering. She tested the edge with her thumb, then ran her hand across the blunt end of the handle. When she moved to cut her palm as Valkil had, he stoppe
d her. “I’ll teach you to use it, but first I need the feathers. Pairu daza.”
The old woman hesitated, then reached behind herself and took out a long soft bag from a number of similar ones. From it, she withdrew three feathers by their long white shafts: one red, one black, and one white. She fanned them out and waited.
“Which do we need again?” Valkil asked.
“To kill?” Aioni asked. “Red.”
Val pointed to the red feather. The old woman lay it down and returned the others to the bag. She pointed to the red feather and then held up a single finger.
“Do we only need the one?” Aioni asked.
“How many poisoned arrows can we make with just the one?” Valkil asked. Aioni didn’t answer. “Aioni?”
“Val, there’s something I should have told you.”
“What is it?”
The old woman grunted and shook her finger. Valkil held up three fingers. “We’d like three of them.”
Aioni grabbed Valkil’s wrist. “Val, they may make you poison yourself with one.”
“What? With the red one?”
“She put the others away.”
The old woman shook her finger again. Valkil took a breath, then held up one finger. “Just the one. For the knife.”
The old woman picked up the knife again and eyed the rounded end of the handle. Slowly, she pretended to cut herself as Valkil had, then ran the round end of the handle against her skin. She grunted a question. “Yes,” Valkil said. “Magic.”
She gestured for him to extend his hand again. He gave her the hand he hadn’t previously cut, which remained in his lap, balled into a fist. The old woman grabbed his wrist, soft at first, but then suddenly with all her strength. Before Valkil could pull away, she brushed the red feather against his palm.
Valkil shrieked. The old woman gestured for him to remain seated. “Val!” Aioni said. “Hold still!”
White Star Phase: Book One of the Ascendants Chronicle Page 12