Regardless, even more dangerous than thieves were the inhabitants of the Cienbal itself.
Sandcats and dune scorpions were the worst, a real threat in any situation, but the wild pack dogs had been known to drag more than one traveler off into the night. All manner of venomous snakes and night-spiders hid out of sight in whatever bit of shade they could find, as did a few other species of poisonous insects whose bite could leave one feverish and vomiting for days before death. Even the atherian could be trouble, though the lizard-kind tended to stay away from men apart from what little trade the two people did. When food and water were scant, though, whole families had been known to go missing mysteriously.
Man, after all, was as edible as anything else among the dunes.
Agais shivered, then smiled. The Cienbal had rarely caused his little group any grief. They were at peace with the place, and the Twins had always blessed them. The desert was their home. It would take more than the threat of thieves and a few oversized arachnids to make the Arros change the way they’d been living for generations.
Grea sat beside her husband, watching him think. Agais was a tall man, his skin tanned and his long hair and beard bleached blonde by the Sun. Nomadic tribal rings pierced his lips and ears, strung together with leather cord. A single silver chain, the sign of his position as head of the Arro family, hung from ear to ear, cutting low then up across his cheeks to pierce the bridge of his nose between his gray eyes. To some the symbols of the desert lifestyle were ugly and overdone, but to Grea they were a connection to ancestry and heritage. The fact that her husband bore the silver chain made her pride swell every time she looked at him.
As did the small kick that made her bare, swollen belly twitch outward.
Agais caught the motion, smiling at his wife as he shifted the horses’ direction slightly.
“Eager to join us, isn’t he?” he laughed. The woman smiled in return, gently resting a hand on the man’s muscled arm.
“Or she,” she said, shifting so that her stomach rested more comfortably. “Don’t get too wrapped up in the idea of a son just yet.”
“If it were a daughter we were waiting for, the Grandmother would have said so.”
Grea sighed, nodding. “True enough. Still, it would be nice to give you a little girl…”
“There’s always time for more,” Agais murmured into her ear roguishly, and the woman laughed, accepting a happy kiss from the bearded man.
“Agais!”
A voice cut over the racket of the wheels, calling out from behind the moving cart. Looking around, Agais handed the reins to his wife and grabbed the top of his seat. With strong arms he leaned over the side, looking backwards at the line that trailed resolutely behind them, his braided hair twisting in the wind. Nine wagons in all, the Arros were amongst the largest of the clans to travel the desert trade-paths. Two-dozen people made up their family, young and old included, and at the moment Asahbet, one of Agais’ younger nephews, was skirting the dune edge parallel to the caravan path, hands cupped around his mouth as he yelled.
“Agais! Hold the carts! The Grandmother says hold the carts!”
Agais frowned. Waving back an acknowledgement, he had Grea pull the horses to a slow halt. The sand hills were treacherous, and a hasty stop was too often the cause of a lamed animal.
“What’s going on?” Grea asked him, concerned.
Agais hopped down and turned to help her off. “The Grandmother’s told us to stop.”
A raised brow was the only response he got, and he smiled. Grea had always been one to prefer action to pointless questioning.
Together the pair made their way across the shifting hill, the soles of their bare feet—roughened by the years—mocking the heat of the giving sand. The Grandmother’s wagon was at the end of the train, its front thickly quilted with leather and furs to block out the dust and grit kicked up by the dozens of axels ahead of it. Its roughened, bare presentation, though, deceived the wonder of the rolling hut’s interior.
Colorful trinkets and bits of dyed cloth hung from the timber ribs, suspended next to crystals and glass baubles the old woman had collected over long years. Jars of viscous liquids tinted all shades of color clinked in their shelves beside leather-bound books written in any of a dozen old languages. Sheets of woven animal bones clattered hollowly as they swayed from pegs on the back wall.
Taken together they gave the hut a certain mystical quality and, as Agais pulled back the leathers to let his wife into the wise-woman’s motile hut, the couple couldn’t help but feel it.
On the other hand, if the space itself was peculiar, the woman who sat at the small circular table at its center was utterly mundane. Grandmother Arro wore plain clothes of thin red cloth and sun-bleached hide like the rest of the clan, and her silver-black hair was pulled into a tight bun behind her head. The only symbols she wore on her face were the clan-chain, running from her right ear to her right nostril, and a small bronze ring that pierced her left eyebrow, denoting an elder, a position uniquely hers amongst the Arros. In any other situation she might have passed for an aged woman, fortunately youthful despite her years but possessing an ardor that spoke of a lifetime of amassed wisdom.
At the moment, though, Grandmother Arro looked very much like the Grandmother.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, the low table reaching the top of her knees, its stained surface littered with a queer selection of bird skulls, painted stones, and the dried legs of a tarantula. She was muttering under her breath, her gray eyes—so typical of the nomadic tribes—darting from one piece of the miscellany to another, tying together the signs as only the Grandmother could. Agais and Grea took a seat silently across from her, nodding to Agais’ younger brother Jarden, the clan champion, leaning against the wall in a back corner of the wheeled hut.
The Grandmother’s telling took several more minutes. All three waited patiently, knowing the act couldn’t be rushed. Sometimes the signs made no sense, and Grandmother would finish quickly, saying to trust in the Twins for guidance. Other times the signs were clear, but it took the old woman hours to collect them and put them together.
Time we have, Agais thought to himself, reaching out to squeeze his wife’s hand. Time is on our side.
Summer was here, and the burning season—the hottest part of the year—had started. For the next couple of months prolonged travel would be out of the question for anyone but the foolish or insane. The Arros were making for the Garin, the great desert oasis, where they and many other trading clans would stay for the next two turns or so, awaiting better climates. There was no such thing as winter in the Cienbal, nor autumn or spring. There were only the predominantly cooler months—when the heat was bearable—followed by the months of summer, when the Sun seared the eyes and practically burned flesh from bone. True seasons were a thing of the North, of the Arocklen Woods and the great mountain ranges before the tundra. Agais and Jarden’s father had often told them of the snows and winds that claimed those territories for much of the year, a time the Northerners called “the freeze.”
Neither brother had ever been keen on getting close enough to the border to experience it for themselves.
“Agais?”
Agais jerked out of his own thoughts, looking to the Grandmother. The telling was through, the trance broken. The woman sat, eyes clear and one finger running along the chain on the right side of her face as she pondered a moment more.
“Your son nears life under the Sun,” she said at last. “But again you are warned the child will not be as you expect.”
Beside him Grea blanched, drawing her hand from her husband’s to place it delicately on her swollen belly.
“You, my dear,” Grandmother said, looking at the woman with a smile, “have nothing to fear. Your life is safe.”
“And the child?” Grea breathed with only the barest note of begging in her voice.
“Your son,” Grandmother responded pointedly, looking back to Agais, “will survive, though his arrival to us will be filled with hardship for some time… Do you remember the words I spoke to you?”
Agais nodded, reciting:
Of blood will be born the next of score-and-four,
yet twice will be the cost.
The only of his kind, he will fall for a face of snow,
and follow and be followed to dark depths and icy summits.
Son of the Sun he is.
Son of the Sun he will be named.
Grandmother smiled in approval.
“And I’m assuming you’ve considered them. Carefully.”
Here, Agais hesitated. Beside him Grea tensed as well. They’d whispered into the long hours of many nights since the Grandmother had first spoken to them of their child, discussing the implications of what the words could mean.
… yet twice will be the cost.
What was it telling them? A price clearly, but “twice” what? Eventually they’d given up, deciding that only time would be able to tell what sacrifices would have to be made. Besides, it was the next line that had always frightened them most:
The only of his kind…
Did that mean their child would be birthed misshapen? Perhaps deformed or cursed with some unique disease? More than once Agais had been frightened to consciousness in the black of night by vivid nightmares, dreaming of a small, twisted form with blind eyes and bloody, toothless gums, reaching tiny white hands through the dark.
No, Agais thought. His son would be healthy. The rest of the telling made that clear. If a great man was to be born amongst the Arros, then his differences would matter little.
“He is our son, born yet or not,” Grea responded first. “He is our child. We will love him as any child should be loved by his parents.”
The Grandmother nodded again, seeing the agreement shine in Agais’ eyes.
“Then you accept what is to come, and the Twins charge you with upholding your vows. Now, Jarden, come sit.”
Jarden detached himself from the wall, coming to squat by the table. Agais smirked, watching his brother’s body language. The man hated sitting. It made him feel vulnerable, especially with his staff and dagger discarded at the entrance of the wagon. He looked oddly diminished with only his panpipes—ever with him—strapped to his belt.
“You will be the boy’s teacher,” Grandmother said, watching the man intently. “Your brother will be a great father, and will give his son much, but it is from you that the child must learn many other things.”
Jarden, usually so alert and quick, looked distinctly taken aback. “Me? Wha—? B-but I’ve no idea how to raise a boy.”
The old woman chuckled, leaning over to pinch the man’s stubbled cheek fondly.
“Well it’s a good thing you won’t be then, isn’t it?” she said with a laugh. “There are other things. Self-preservation. Survival. You’re damn good with that big stick of yours. He may come from a people accustomed to the desert and its harshness, but only so many things can one be born knowing.”
Jarden sighed, obviously relieved, before nodding. Agais, on the other hand, had heard something else in the old woman’s laughter, but even as he thought this the Grandmother’s eyes fell on his again. He was just about to voice his question when the hut flap was pulled away abruptly, filling the room with a blazing light. There was a cough, and Asahbet poked his head in.
“I’m sorry, Grandmother,” he whispered shrilly, “but Agais and Jarden are needed. My father claims to have seen something from the top of the sand ridge.”
“Ishmal claims to have seen something?” Jarden repeated, annoyed. Military efficiency wasn’t the strongest trait amongst the nomads. Asahbet merely nodded. Agais and his brother excused themselves to follow the boy, leaving Grea to speak with the Grandmother. Outside, Jarden retrieved his staff from the side of the wagon, tucking his long-dagger into his belt.
The winds had picked up again, lifting clouds of sand to spin through the air in stunted whirlwinds. Covering their eyes with lifted hands, the three men pulled the loose cloth around their necks up over their mouths, making for easier breathing. Slowly they made their way to the upper edge of the dune. Ishmal was waiting for them, facing southward, cupping his face to give himself a clearer view of the great expanse of sand that seemed to stretch on and on with no end.
“What is it?” Agais asked, coming to stand behind the man and raising his voice to beat the rush of the wind. Ishmal had been husband to Agais and Jarden’s older sister, Bryâ. Sickness had claimed her four years ago, leaving the man a widower, but not before the couple bore four sons to the world.
“There.” Ishmal pointed with a finger before covering his eyes again. “Just below the horizon. Something’s moving.”
The brothers squinted, trying to make out whatever it was the older man could see. After a time the shape manifested, fading in and out through the waves of heat that fractured their vision. A long thin line, most likely another caravan of some kind, heading south, away from the Arros.
“Well if they’re bandits we should be safe,” Jarden muttered. “Our wagons are hidden by the hill, and they’re not heading this way. Have Tolman roll the wagon line farther down just in case, but—”
“Wait,” Agais cut in before Asahbet could move to follow the order. The clanmaster continued to watch the horizon. He could have sworn he’d seen something else. It looked for a moment as though the line was moving away from another, smaller group. After a few seconds he saw them again. Two or three people, unmoving.
Corpses.
Agais cursed under his breath. Easy meat so close to the trade routes was a dangerous thing, especially when so many would be making their way toward the Garin. Sandcats would swarm within the day, taking whatever the vultures left behind.
And there were certainly vultures, Agais realized, glancing up at the sky above the distant forms.
“We stay,” he ordered, dropping his hands. “Set up camp along the bottom of the dune. Ishmal, mark a line of sight. I want to be able to find that place tonight. Jarden, have a watch set up. Tell them to keep an eye out for cats.”
As one the three nodded, knowing better than to question. After Asahbet and Ishmal had turned back to tell the wagons to move on, though, Jarden nudged his brother with an elbow in silent query.
“Bodies,” Agais told him quietly, eyes on the distant spot he knew the still forms lay. “Unburied. Either bandits too lazy to get the shovels out, or slavers in too much of a rush to bother. Tonight you and I will take care of it. No need to trouble the others.”
Jarden cursed too, then nodded.
II
Night was sudden in its coming, as was typical of a desert twilight. For less than an hour the sky—usually a solid canvas of pale blue arranged around a single splash of blinding light—turned into a painting of oranges and yellows and greens, arching in heavy strokes across the heavens. Then, like a black tide washing away the colors, darkness slunk out to chase the Sun over the western edge of the world.
After that there was nothing left but the Moon and Her Stars and the silent expanse of rolling sands in every direction.
The line of sight Ishmal had set up was a simple mechanism. Two rods about an arm’s length in height were pounded into the desert a body length apart, a leather string pulled tight across the top. The line acted as a measure for the eye, guiding one’s vision across the Cienbal expanse. It was a useful tool, especially when it came to navigating new watering holes or likely shelter. The Stars did the rest.
Wrapped in sewn fur coats to ward off the freezing twilight, Agais and Jarden slipped out of camp, dodging through the shadows cast by the large bonfire in the center of the wagon ring. Evening was the time of gathering and play, and the brothers hoped the festive noises and music from the rest of the clan would drown out their mo
mentary escape. Only the Grandmother, Grea, and Jarden’s wife Surah knew of their departure.
Agais shivered when they reached the horse enclosure. It wasn’t the cold that bothered him, but rather the look the Grandmother had given him as he’d left her wagon-hut. Again he’d felt as though she were trying to tell him something, fighting the bindings of some celestial decree not to voice it aloud.
Clicking his tongue, Agais called two of the horses to them. Gale and Sandrider, his and Jarden’s companions, trotted over without a moment’s hesitation. Gale nickered softly, and Agais hushed her, stroking her nose and whispering quiet words in her ear. The mare seemed to understand the need for silence. She calmed and dipped her head to munch on the handful of saltgrass he’d brought her.
The enclosure was a crude thing, little more than a circle of dropped stones the horses had been trained not to step over. The two men made quick work of freeing them, closing the ring again once their mounts were clear. Without a word they leapt atop the animals, gently grasping fistfuls of mane for reins before nudging them into a trot. It was only when they were a ways away from camp that the pair pressed the horses into a full gallop, heading for the southern star that would guide them directly over the dead.
The ride was longer than most might believe. In the Cienbal, where only dunes and dry mountains marred the endless sands, one could usually see for leagues in all directions. The heat could trick the eyes, bending the light so that oftentimes things that seemed so distant one moment looked close the next. More than once Agais had been fooled into believing a town or oasis was minutes away, only to arrive a half hour later.
At night, though, the Cienbal stilled, and the sensation was akin to sailing out of a storm into calm sea. The world became serene, hushed, glowing an evening-blue as the Moon lit the desert just enough to travel by. The only sound was a rare wind and the muffled pounding of hooves across the sand. Nothing moved. It was Agais’ favorite time, and he could often be found forgoing the evening celebrations to sit outside the light, taking in the landscape.
Child of the Daystar (The Wings of War Book 1) Page 2