“Maybe this is where Korhânun took the wound they say later killed him.”
Morik shook his head. “They say the battle was underground…”
“Stories say a lot of things. If there was water, what would your eyes see?”
“An impaled pool.” He tugged the rings in his beard. “Right, fine and well… Say you’re right. What the hells good does it do us?”
“We’re following the story of Hîmr to his prison… Sanzumôk? His story?
“ Tomb . Sanzumôk the Riven Flow. Korhânun was bleeding to death, but fought on, leading them to a river deep in the mountains, a river which split to go around a massive stalagmite pillar. The enemy gods arrived and Hîmr fled down the Dark Waters; the two gods battled their foes, Korhânun fell into the western current, and Sanzumôk into the eastern. Both dead.”
“Or alive to later be imprisoned. The cult is named for them Dark Waters?”
“Aye, it is.”
“Somehow, some way, this place is pointing us to the Riven Flow.”
Morik jumped to his feet and pointed. “It’s a sundial, it points all over the godsdamned place! Do you see a crooked godsdamned shadow?”
“No. No I don’t.” The Black Finger struck from the mountain’s stone with a lean to give a better shadow on the sundial. He stood and wandered to gaze at the obsidian.
Morik followed close. “What the hells you gawkin’ at?”
Solineus shook his head, eyes scanning the dial’s carvings, nothing unusual, Tanzarêu had said, and he took the woman’s word for it. His eyes wandered to the shadow it cast; how to make the shadow crooked? He rubbed his face, stopped with his knuckles pressing his eyes. We assumed the finger cast the shadow. He stepped back, then circled to stand straight behind the Black Finger’s lean, and his lip curled in a grin. “It points to Mount Hermin.”
The mountain angled from its sister mountain, the two leaning from each other, and Mount Gerfôld blocked the sun, turning the other’s peculiar shape to shadow. “A shadow pointing southwest.”
Morik tugged his beard. “That’s a fickle cast of the dice, my friend…”
“Tell me it don’t make sense. Get Tanzareu’s map.”
Within a wick they had the Huntresses map spread on the stone and several Helmveliners circled them. Morik poked a symbol next to an inked mountain: “Mount Hermin. By her drawing, the peak ridge kind of leads this way.”
And Solineus unrolled another map, this one of underground caverns and mines she’d explored. “Where’s the mountain on here?”
Morik searched, pointed, then drew a line. Stopped with a huff. “Half a dozen underground flows in the vicinity it points.”
“Any she shows split in twain?”
“No. And she’s got some of these here detailed.”
“After all these years, odds on the flow would’ve cut one side deeper… it might not split no more.” He pointed to a river with a scratch to its side. “That her way of marking a ravine?”
“Hells if I know, could’ve been a mistake she erased… or…” He looked up with a grin. “She named it the Barren Mirror.”
“That could mean dried ravine, a split.”
“It’s better than a shot at the eagle’s eye.”
“And if we’re wrong… we’re no worse than afore.” Solineus smiled and stood. “The Huntress might have her revenge, yet.”
Morik rolled both maps and tied them, spoke to his men: “We ride, and with the Storm Eye’s blessing, we will repay the enemy the pain they have wrought nine times fold!”
Kingdomers shouted “Nine times fold!” and banged their shields; Solineus savored the rhythm as it fell in beat with his pumping heart, a heart which now owned a certain and bloody destination.
10
Snow Fall
Scoured flower in the dour dowry,
hand in the sand let the fist fly,
world grains blinked to blindness.
Posit: the worlds beyond this world
are closer than the eye can see,
what then the notion that only the White Eyes
are the worlds’ witnesses?
—Tomes of the Touched
They were three weeks into their journey from the Sundial and on a path set higher in the mountains than Tanzareu’s maps had prepared him for. The Kingdom of Tûrûrôt lay behind them by four days; the peoples of these mountains were Ôshô Kingdomers, and to call them reclusive was an understatement. Half the villages closed their gates on seeing foreigners, and Solineus wasn’t convinced the other half wouldn’t have done the same if they’d seen them coming. Or if they had gates to close.
First, he’d waved to goatherders as he’d done in the past, but to a soul they looked away as if he and the Helmveliners were figments; he learned to ignore them in the same fashion. The Ôshô, Morik assured him, were outliers among the Kingdoms, skittish around everyone. According to tradition, the peoples of this Kingdom were brutalized by slavers during the God Wars, more so than the other Kingdoms, and their priests preached that their Kingdomer kin had some role in this persecution. Five hundred or a thousand years ago or yesterday, it didn’t matter: The Ôshô trusted no one. But at the same time, they were fewer in numbers, weaker, and poorer than the other Kingdoms, a condition for which they took no blame, despite limiting trade from outside their borders.
“Speak to any Kingdomer and to a soul they will tell you they hail from the greatest of the Eight Kingdoms! Not so, here in Ôshô. Even their king seems to take a perverse pleasure in their struggles and weakness. Ôshôins both able and courageous, flee these mountains to take home with their neighbors.” Morik’s opinion of Defin, King of Ôshô, and Thirteenth of his Name, was one of disgust, and it came clear as a whistle that they’d find no help in these mountains.
Solineus stood strides from a cave’s mouth as snow sailed over his head in torrents of wind-driven white. It was old snow blowing down from the peak above, but it’d blind them just the same if caught out in the wind’s furry. Still, fresh snow would’ve been worse. He turned and gazed to the back of the cavern where men sat dozing around a fire and horses stood tethered. The tunnel went deeper into the mountain, but Morik assured him there were no signs of Ôgrihîn living here.
He wandered back to the fire. “Reckon Seblêsu is badgered away like we are?” The notion of losing time aggravated him. They’d caught rumor of a band of priests leaving Shînvedorn the same day Tanzarêu died, and it was an easy assumption that the Waystone traveled with them.
“No way to know in the mountains, no way to know which route she even took.”
When the winds died the white world disappeared into a brilliant blue sky with a sun bright enough to send his eyes crawling into the back of his head. Morik unrolled a map and took a look before they headed out.
“We move down mountain from here, clipping the border with Barkush. This city here, Faldan, I’ve heard of. They’ve trade enough that we’ll get supplies before pushing to the caves and the Barren Mirror River.”
The route they took was riskier, but faster, than others they assumed a party of a hundred men would take. But what felt like a certainty at the Sundial of Teremhôst felt like extraordinary optimism when holed up in a mountain cave; their choices were fewer than the words he spoke. “We do what we can.”
There was a reason he said down mountain instead of downhill: the descent was so steep they were forced to walk their horses in a meandering row down the face of the mountain before reaching a ridge line pulling them due west. And still they walked, the snow deep and the drop on their left hand an unpleasant one.
They trudged through snow for a horizon before it cleared to ankle height, and ahead, he could see a bare-stone trail leading down the mountain. But the scout ahead stood still, scanning the snows. Solineus spoke to Morik: “What’s the trouble? Ôgrihîn?”
The scout turned, waving his arms in a series of poses. “Tracks leading up the face yonder. But—”he pointed a field of white above them“—
he’s more worried about an avalanche.”
“What the hells we do about that?”
Morik grunted. “We had time we’d backtrack… But we don’t. We press on, silent as we’re able. Them godsdamned snows come after us, run like the hells from its path, not down its path. Find a tree or boulder. The snow takes you, swim-like. I’ve been buried once and survived, so don’t panic if it happens.”
Solineus grunted as he watched the first Helmveliners make their way one by one across the stretch. “What about them prints?”
Morik shrugged, motioned for silence, and followed the man in front of him by a healthy twenty strides. Solineus stared at his back, then followed with similar spacing. The only noise was hooves on stone. It’s like any other piece of rock, just walk it. He glanced up the mountain; a patch of black moved. He strode on, uncertain whether to break the silence.
An explosion.
A puff of snow in the heights.
And the world shook.
First everyone froze, then they ran.
Solineus let loose his horse’s bridal and slapped the animals flank. “Get!” The gelding reared and bolted, and Solineus followed as lines of snow and ice shivered then broke in shifting waves down the mountain’s side.
He heard nothing but the roar of snow tumbling down the mountain as his feet raced over stone, two horses passing him from behind. The avalanche followed a swale which formed a chute down the mountain; best guess, he wasn’t going to make it from the path. Close, maybe.
He angled for a boulder, leaped atop; his drumming heart realized this boulder wouldn’t save him, and he leaped into the conifer’s branches as the snow struck, spraying high then swallowing the giant stone. He clung to branches and scrambled higher. Crack. He felt the tree snap as much as he heard it . His tree leaned and he dove into the flow of snow, and as stupid as it sounded, he swam.
But not for long.
The snow buried him, and he brought his hands to his face as he came to a stop, and he did his damnedest to clear space in front of his face. The good news: It wasn’t cave black, the snow above was shallow enough to show light.
He took a single deep breath, shoved his right hand high, and thought maybe his gloved fingers reached air.
Relax. The snow only got some of us. They’re coming for me. He willed every muscle to melt into calm and breathed shallow, eyes closed.
His eyes remained closed, but he knew the world of ice-white had turned to waves of blues and grays before he opened them. “Is there a reason you come to me when I’m near dead?”
The Lady’s sonorous laughter flowed over his skin with tingles, or was that his body dying? “Am I coming to you, or are you coming to me? Not easy to explain… But, the looser your consciousness' tether with your body, the easier we may converse. Near death, a deep dream state…”
“So, if I really need to talk, I should strangle myself?”
“I don’t recommend it, my love, but yes. Though it might not work as well as you hope.”
He’d hoped the answer to be a blunt no. “Am I dead?”
“How many times will you ask that?”
“Until I’m finally right.”
She giggled. “All things that will be have their time, my love.”
He sighed. “I’m failing again.”
Her beauty faded into existence, the curl of a perfect smile warming his soul. “How can you fail at what you didn’t set out to achieve?”
“You wanted me to find allies—”
“The Kingdom of Helmveline calls no foreign people friend except the Silone. Because you don’t yet understand how much you’ve achieved, doesn’t mean it’s any less significant.”
He wanted to grab and shake her, or at least to rub his own eyes, but as always, no part of him did more than twitch; if indeed that sensation was even real. “The Waystone’ll be lost—”
“The Waystone is of no consequence to you—”
“Then why the hells are people dying for it?”
“It is of consequence to the Eight Kingdoms and the Foundations, but not to you or me.”
“The hells you say! These people are my friends and I’ve seen what pursuing the gods has wrought upon a people!”
Her smile and vision faded, and she reappeared beside him, breath warm on his ear. Despite his angered tone, her voice was calm and soothing. “You see, my love? You see now how successful you will be and why? Loyalty begets loyalty. Friendship begets—”
“Friendship.” He relaxed as her warmth sifted through his being. “Tell me then, does Hîmr live?”
She sighed, and a chill washed through him, the only warmth her breath. She feared this answer, and so he knew to fear it as well. “Some things are best left undiscovered. Seek things you should discover. Go west. Always west until you find your future’s past in the city of red domes.”
Air moved around his hand, and someone tugged his fingers. “No! Where west, damn it? What city?”
She kissed the ridge of his nose and his eyes fluttered open to bright light and Morik’s big teeth staring down at him. “Pain in the ass friend! You live!”
Morik and two others pulled him from the snow’s grip, and Morik helped him stumble to the safety of rocks, before going out to find more survivors.
Solineus collapsed against a boulder, every muscle in his body weak, no more capable of holding him steady than pudding. Helpless to help, watching a desperate search. Seven in all were drug from the snow, two dead, and after a candle the search for the remaining four ended. Lost until some warm summer day.
They tended wounds, chased down horses until they had more mounts than riders, then took shelter in an outcropping of stone surrounded by cedars. The fire crackled as men mourned in their bowls and cups. A few sang to the mountains, and Solineus wished he could join them, but neither his spirit nor body were ready for even a sad song. Hard truths needed spoken.
Solineus looked to Morik. “A stonebreaker brought the snows on us.”
The Kingdomer didn’t look from his bowl of hot water as he nodded. “She anticipated our route.”
“She did.” Why did this surprise him so much? “She’s been ahead of us since we came down the mountain. Maybe… We should just take the Tracking-stone back to Molikîn, lock it away.”
Morik puffed steam from his cup. “The same notion has kicked around in my head, but no. Too many have died to see us stop now.”
“How many need to die before there’s not enough to get the stone to Helmveline safe? Maybe too many have died for it to be worthwhile already?”
“I refuse to believe that, just as you do.”
Solineus chuckled. “So long as we’re reading the same story.”
“Aye, we’ve come too far. We kill the witch, then I go home.”
Solineus nodded. “Ever seen a city of red domes?”
Morik cocked his head. “Can’t say I have. What the hells you asking for?”
“Just wonderin’.” Solineus sipped his hot brew.
“Tomorrow we’ll reach the city of Faldan, no red domes in sight, but we’ll have rest and a hot meal.”
Solineus’ body felt as if he’d fallen through every last hell when he awoke in the morning. Muscles ached from neck to toe, and more so than painful, they were weak; it was all he could do to get his foot into a stirrup and drag himself into the seat. The ride was slow and sullen, but not so steep, and not so treacherous, as they passed from the snow-line by high sun.
They reached the gates of Faldan as the sun touched the peaks on the western horizon; the city sat nestled in a valley with a sturdy but unimpressive wall and gates on the east-west sides. Unlike the towns and cities he’d seen before, the stone-work showed its age; mortar flaked and cracks from the freeze-thaw cycle went unpatched. Stranger still, not a single guard watched the gates. This flat-out felt unnatural.
And so, they strolled through Faldan without a soul to speak to, and true to the previous standard of hospitality, the Ôshô kept their eyes to the flagst
ones and paid them no mind unless spoken to. And even then, they tended to walk away fast rather than meet their eyes and answer.
After three salvos Morik got a woman to acknowledge him, and she pointed down the street, with a gesture south. This was the extent of her directions for finding an inn to sleep for the night, but damned if it wasn’t good enough. In the end, it was the smell of food which brought them to their destination, and thank the gods a stable stood attached to the inn, or they might’ve spent another candle looking for stalls and grain.
Whatever one might say about the Ôshô, you couldn’t say they didn’t know how to keep a room warm. The inn’s dining hall blazed with five fires, a fireplace set in each wall and a great round hearth in the middle where gray-haired men and women sat with feet propped close to the flames, sweat rolling down their foreheads and cheeks as they grumbled or laughed at some tale or another.
Their party claimed three tables, pulling them until their backs were to the walls and surrounding a fireplace. Their server was Ôshôin, easy to tell as he brought their ales and meals with fewer words than you might expect from a priest sworn to silence. The stew was antelope and onions instead of goat, and bits of chunky green floaters he couldn’t put a name to.
He sipped. Swallowed. Spicy, but not bad. Then the fire came, and he reached for his ale. “Shittin’ hells!” He gasped as he chugged, and folks had a good laugh at his expense. Even the Ôshôin elders sitting around the hearth smiled and slapped their knees; it was the closest thing to friendly he’d seen since setting foot in the city, or he might’ve been more peevish. “What the hells is in that? A demon?”
“Rôkôu peppers.” Morik ladled and sipped, blinking. “Strong peppers at that, must’ve been a good year.”
They finished dinner by the time the sky outside turned black, and he half-expected they’d turn in for the night, but one of the gray hairs at the hearth had other ideas. She was a stick of a woman missing half of her teeth, and she stepped to their table with the server in tow. The man held a glass bowl clutched to his chest, shaped like some sort of helm, and an ale so dark it might be black filled it damned near to the rim.
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