by Lesley Smith
Instead, they watched her drown and listened to the bubbling air leaking from her dying lungs. Knives were precious and arrows even more so. There was no mercy in the hearts of those convinced that a single act of compassion would doom them to death. It might have saved them but Nahris had still felt like they had plumbed depths deeper than even the swamp.
Covered in mud and sweat, Nahris spoke the prayer of passing and could not look away. She was watching even as the others turned away and pretended not to hear the life sucked from the poor girl as she sank out of sight. She hoped the gods had been too concerned with other worlds to notice. All life was precious, even more so now, and the girl had not deserved her death.
At that moment, Nahris felt more like a willing accomplice than a powerless pawn, too complicit to be innocent, her soul tainted by inaction. Her heart knew and Aia whispered that all those born must one day die. The manner of passing is seldom pleasant, but it is still an inevitable thing.
How long then, she wondered, until the Ferryman and his dear Lady came for the rest of them?
The boggy swamp seemed to go on forever. By day flies followed them like carrion and vermin sensing dead souls walking. They were covered in mud, in shit, and drenched by water too foul to drink that not even boiling could purify. The mud offered some protection from the unrelenting fire, and while those on the covered carts escaped, those who drove the two baelish soon found themselves burning as if they’d put their hand in a flame, their skin turning red and then splitting in a blistered mess which quickly took the life of first one, and then both men.
Night was no better. The temperature plummeted and the bog became even more dangerous. Spirit lights danced in the mists, and Nahris shivered in her drenched clothes that never quite had enough time to dry by the fire. That assumed, of course, they could scavenge enough dry kindling to set aflame. By the eighth night, she stopped feeling the cold physically and instead it moved to rest on her soul, never shifting, even in the heat of Thaeos’ zenith.
On the twelfth day, one of their two baelish died at the height of the morning. She was a formerly healthy cow who had sustained a mild scrape to her flank. Now that the drivers were dead, no one knew how to properly guide them, and though the death was an inconvenience, at least they could eat. The carts had been left, wheels broken, and now the caravan only had their feet. All were tired and the stew was a gift from the gods, the rich scent wafting across their makeshift campsite. The sickness that came after it was a curse that heralded a slow end to their misadventure.
Nahris was lucky, she was one of the last waves to get fed. By then the stew had been all but gone and she had seen a ration of salted varim and kaava grains fattened with water that wouldn’t even feed a child. Her stomach knotted with hunger, the jaava still chasing them across the countryside, but when the others began to complain of pain, she quickly realised it wasn’t the same kind.
Varen, who had received the largest share, was the first to greet Jaisenthia.
The other baelish died the following day, flank split by weeping sores and rotting infection. The smell summoned wildlife that looked like they’d not eaten in weeks, the same sores eating their skeletal figures. No one touched the creature, much less thought of putting the unspoiled parts in a cooking pot and even the wild, heat-mad and starving animals of the River Road gave the corpse a wide berth.
Nahris knew that people lived in this inhospitable place. Bes to the north and Kaan to the south with a dozen hamlets in between too minor to be included even on a High Oracle’s map. Before she was born, trade had been brisk, but then Erathi had fallen in the Great Quake and the River Road had become aptly named, a road you walk for death rather than life.
She knew where they were walking to and it was not Abbia, not the glorious Grasslands, or the peace of a pallet. She had no Riverclothes and no one to remember her name. That made Nahris sad and the tears came, too bitter and salted to be useful.
“It’s all right, Nahris-child. Dry your eyes and be at peace.”
The man in a hakashari had been with them from the beginning, she realised, even if she was only now aware of his presence. He had kind eyes the colour of sea foam and clouds before a storm, reminding her of an elder, a father, and a brother. She knew, in that moment, that she was safe and loved, and that there would be no more pain. They had spoken before, she understood, and would again. She knew him as she did an old and dear friend not seen for far too long, and the clarity of that moment chased away the fog which had clouded her mind and the cold that settled on her soul.
“Do you remember now, dearest daughter?” He spoke calmly, with infinite patience.
“Lord Ferryman, I don’t understand.”
He sat next to her, face to face and his voice was tinged with sadness. “You died in the bog, you drowned…”
“That wasn’t me, she was older than me,” she denied. “I’ve eaten…I’ve slept.”
“How you see yourself is never as you truly appear. The shock of that passing, it’s only now you’ve come to terms with it. You couldn’t bear that and so you kept walking, following the caravan like a shadow in the sunlight. I’ve come to take you home, to a place where you can rest for a little while.”
“I was expecting her. Jaisenthia, I mean. I don’t even know your name. I don’t think we ever gave you one and, for that, I’m sorry.”
He smiled at this. “My name is Azrael. It’s one of many I answer to and no need to be sorry. My companion Kalika, whom you call Jaisenthia, finally gave me one on your behalf. She calls me Ash and that, I think, is just as fitting.”
Nahris nodded in understanding. “Death comes to all.”
“And I like to think we are, sometimes, welcomed as old friends.” He stood and offered his hand, a simple silver bangle on his wrist that complimented his beautiful eyes, and the plait of hair bound with a thong. “Will you come with me, Nahris? I hate to leave you here any longer, surrounded by this. I fear for what this pain and misery might do to you. The others have their own roads to walk. Yours is done.”
She looked back at those still living, and wished them peace in their lives and their deaths. Varen was a shadow on the edge of the campsite, still lost in the shock of his passing. Of all of them he had been at the most at odds with death, despite his age. “I will. It’s better than wandering here.”
“He will come around in time, for some it just takes longer. It’s why I followed in your wake, taking each as they were ready.”
“I’m sorry for a wasted life.”
“Hush now,” he chided her. “There’s no such thing. Only mistakes made and lessons learned. Being in Saiara’s retinue does not confer immortality either, and she has lost more souls than those who walked in Varen’s company ten times over.”
“And the Lady of the River? Does she truly walk amongst us as the people said?”
“She does, though she will cross your River in time, and I will come to greet her as I did you,” Ash reflected, as if listening to voices she couldn’t hear, to the cries of the dying begging for release. She realised his burdens must be great and it saddened her. “Come, let me take you to a more pleasant place. More need my aid but I’ll see you safely off first.”
“Thank you for you kindness, Lord,” she said and reached out, taking his offered hand.
“Dearest Nahris,” he offered his hand and pulled her to her feet. “The thanks lie with you in accepting it. I wish all were so calm in the face of the inevitable. Varen swore at me for ten minutes before telling me to go away and promptly erasing the encounter from his memory.”
“Is there truly a River, Lord?”
“Some might see it that way. There are stars and they are beautiful. I could show you, if you liked?”
“Please,” she asked.
Then they walked into eternity together and Nahris knew her peace.
Alarim had suffered the same fate as Soik and smoke drifted from the craters when the caravan arrived near dawn of the following day. Once mo
re the refugees scavenged for hidden caches but came up with little, they were glad of their filled skins and the ripe fruit and dried meats taken from Pesh. And so, not in the least concerned or fearful, they stayed the day and at dusk moved on to Shimbar. The oasis’ tower glittered in the growing moonlight and it acted as a homing beacon to guide the tired travellers. They rolled through the makeshift walls thirsty and exhausted as Thaeos rose.
The trek across the desert was brutal. The old, the young, and even the healthy were not spared. Rations were scarce and it was hard to sleep even in the cool sand during the long, hot days. Yet it was also during this time of greatest trial that the first seeds of community were sown. No one asked anymore what clan you were from or what profession you called your own.
Vashi noticed it here and there, a young woman giving an elderly man the last gulp of water from her pouch, a little girl hopping down so a pregnant mother could half-sit on the edge of one of the carts while she walked beside them, a man hoisting a heat-tired child on to his shoulders.
Food was pooled and rationed out, water too, though everyone had a personal ration, the minimum needed to get through a day under the harsh desert sun. As she walked through the makeshift city of tents, woven pana leaf shades and carts, she noticed that people had stopped thinking of each other by their trades or their previous life. Yes, their skills still came in handy but they were no longer defined by them—Vashi herself was not known as the handmaid of the previous Oracle but as a child of the Edoi who knew her letters and willingly served Saiara, out of love and choice, not compulsion and fear.
Vashi was half asleep, her head resting against Kadian’s shoulder as the noise of the cart’s wheels changed. After Deneb, the ground became harder, no longer just sand but something more: great pieces of rock salt which occasionally cracked like leather as the weight made it split.
As Thaeos slowly split the sky in two and the first rays of warmth reached out to the caravan, Vashi stirred and realised she could see buildings shimmering in the distance, and the blue of water, of Lake Lurem. For a moment, she thought it was just desert-fever, the hallucinations caused by heat, rationed water, and long nights of endless travel.
“Sadrish sighted!” Taras’ cry was joyful. “Sadrish, brothers and sisters!”
People woke at that, stumbling from their fugue, or falling out of carts still half asleep, and landing on caked salt. The flats were like a desert of their own, great stretches of white which dazzled like lightstones, and in full daylight could blind just as quickly as a sandstorm.
Chelle stirred and gasped. “A sea of salt?”
“Calm yourself, Chelle. There’s a city here with fresh water and good food,” Taras said. “We’ll pass through the boundaries of Sadrish before Thaeos rises. Hopefully there will be soft pallets and tall glasses of iced water!”
The city was one of the smaller ones and was carefully positioned on the edge of the briny Lake Lurem. However, their knowledge of distillation and purification meant that water was seldom in short supply. Taras explained the technology as they rode through the main city gates and past walls made of great salt blocks.
“It’s an easy enough thing to do,” he explained. “The Sadrishi shared the concept with me long ago, it took me long enough to get them to trust me though! Just boil salt water, let the water turn to steam and then force it to condense into a container. The salt crystalises in the bottom and is then used in food or exported across Reshka.”
Sadrish was built from blocks of salt. The stuff was everywhere and so none of the travellers were too surprised when the food seemed extra salty. They were expected, thanks to the prior arrival of a group of Seaborn refugees who had travelled along the coast, risking life and limb and soul in the process.
Vashi found herself with a small room in one of the largest inns in the central district with a soft pallet, a huge jug of iced water, Kadian and a plate of seared fish with fried bejam and a tangy sauce. It seemed like a dream come true, a day to wash away the sand, to sleep in comfortable pallets and to share themselves, hidden by privacy.
Nothing could have been better.
The lovers lay together and Vashi’s cry of pleasure almost made the inn’s foundations shake. Afterwards, they held each other and Kadian wept for his brother. That was when Vashi told him of the vision she had listened to Saiara speak.
Kadian was startled. “She mentioned him?”
“An Edoi boy,” Vashi said, looking in her heart where Aia always had the answers. Her gut, her soul, said Jio lived and so she believed. “I believe it was him.”
“Hope, eh?” Kadian said doubtfully, but it gave him comfort. “That can sometimes be worse.”
“But surely belief is better, my beloved?”
“True,” Kadian agreed, and they lay together in the timelessness between sleep and dreaming. “Wherever my brother is, I hope he’s all right.”
Chelle was screaming in agony as the contractions ripped through her. Jeiana panicked, feeling the terror of the unknown. The pregnant woman had doubled over, blood trickling down her leg as she cried out. This wasn’t good, and even daughterless, Jeiana knew it.
“Chelle, I’ve got you,” Jeiana carefully helped her sister to the ground, supporting her back with a hastily grabbed sack of grain. “Easy now, easy.”
Jeiana wished the Kashinai had more curse words, she wished she had Arvan’s gift to see the path of souls, she wished she had Uryen’s gift to ease pain. In this terrifying scenario she had only one power, only one thing she could do and it scared her. Chelle’s labour was hard. Her screams echoed as the child ripped her in two and Jeiana felt her dying. It started slowly, like rain water dripping down a bowl leaf, but the tipping point would come, and then it would end quickly.
Jeiana had her hand inside Chelle, buried as far as her forearm and she could feel the child’s foot which meant the girl was breech. They needed to get the little one turned around or someone would have to cut open Chelle’s stomach; if the child didn’t die, her mother probably would and neither option was one she was prepared to accept.
Please, help me. Please.
The prayer slipped out of her brain before she had even realised it she said it. Jeiana swore again, taking back her arm as another contraction ripped through Chelle, tears rolling down her face as she screamed.
A part of her remembered that Uryen—not that that was his true name, of course—had never taught her how to do the manoeuvre to turn a baby. There had never been a need, and her own labour had been straightforward. Her son…what was his name…something beginning with C? He had been eager to get into the world. She hadn’t anticipated midwifery as being a skill she would need, but Jeiana knew in her gut it was too late.
“Get a healer!” She screamed. “Get Senna! Now!”
But her touch was too much and Chelle and the babe both died in the same moment.
Jeiana woke in a cold sweat, sucking in deep breaths of oxygen that burned like teirei on the way down as she was thrown back into consciousness soaked in sweat. Jeiana’s scream threatened to wake not just the inn, but most of Sadrish.
“Shh, it’s all right,” Senna soothed, holding the weeping woman close. “Now what caused this eh?”
“Chelle, she was in labour and the child was breech.”
“Ahh.” Senara understood. Pregnancy was a risk and Jeiana would not be the first woman or the last to dream of things gone wrong.
“I couldn’t turn the babe…I took both their lives.”
“Shhhh, hush now,” she said, but Senna was quietly worrying. Chelle was due and yet the babe showed no sign of coming. She didn’t want to consider the consequences if her labour didn’t start soon. She hadn’t anticipated that Chelle might have a babe too comfortable in her womb to want to live a Kashinai life, they had simply been to focused on survival.
Their pallet was comfortable, the sheets crisp and blissfully clean. Outside, the afternoon was cool compared to the relentless heat of the desert. They had several hou
rs before their caravan would move on, hopefully with more souls to replace the hundreds killed during their desert journey. The journey, both women knew, would be easier now. They would go through Trader’s Pass, named for another obscure Edoi saint who had pioneered the idea of wandering the land to his brethren.
Jeiana wept but she needn’t have worried. As dusk fell, Chelle’s waters broke and her labour began in earnest. Senna was there and that was more than enough to calm her fears. Senna had helped more than a dozen souls give birth; from easy labours that lasted an hour to those which had been hard won, of those she had only lost one mother and a single son.
“Calm, dearest,” Senna said. “Chelle’s body knows what to do, and second births are always faster and easier, the way has been mapped out and her instincts will kick in. All you need to do is support her. If something goes wrong, it will not because of god-touched gifts you cannot stop using.”
Chelle had already insisted Jeiana should be her birthing partner. Apparently Jeiana had helped her through Kei’a’s difficult birth and so she expected her indwelt sister to remember the experience. Jeiana didn’t, and was quite stunned when she realised Chelle’s screams were ones of pleasure and not pain. Only later did she learn why, and it made her laugh. If her sister had indeed created this race, (which both of them disputed, of course) then she had a weird sense of humour.
As Kaiene rose full and shining, the babe finally slipped from her mother’s birth canal and Jeiana instantly fell in love with her newest niece. Sui’a—‘Dusk’ in the tongue of Gehol—was beautiful. Jeiana watched in unabashed fascination as the umbilical cord, which would eventually become the child’s ieshiya, was clipped and carefully laid down her spine, beginning just above her tiny tail and ending where her spine met her head.