by Kari Cordis
There were other reasons for her lightheartedness, but she hadn’t quite been able to articulate them yet. They had to do, somehow, with the Rach. It took about a minute and a half to understand Merranics. They had a constitutional monarchy, laws, rules, regulations, charters, infrastructure, and an economy. The Rach had nothing even remotely similar. The Merranics were comfortably familiar, their incompetence taken for granted—they were unorganized, easily distracted, often unreasonable, and loud. Not so the Rach. Merrani was viewed tolerantly from the other side of the Ethammers as a struggling, undisciplined child, but at least a human child.
The Rach…well, the Rach were something else altogether. Most of it incomprehensible.
A bloodthirsty, simple- and single-minded autocracy, they lived to fight. They had no discernible culture or societal structure, no government, not a lick of financial sense, and an unacknowledged trade deficit several centuries old. Their ways were so alien, they were almost considered blasphemous, and in the northern Empire, no one even spoke of them. As if they were some sort of hopelessly embarrassing blight on the Realms. Their centuries of protecting the North were not usually mentioned, and were treated to a sort of sniffing condescension when they were.
But Sable had grown up in the south, where the Rach wore the burnished glow of Legend. Closer to the oozing danger of the Sheel, southerners tended to have a better memory of their neighbors; what were tales and tidbits of insight to the rest of the Realms were day-to-day doings in the backyard of the Empire. The stories and songs of valiant Heroes and noble deeds were still trotted out at the fairs and fests, and Sable could well remember the flush of excitement when real Rach showed up to dance or enter the Northern contests. Even from her home, she had sometimes seen them far across the Daroe, riding so effortlessly they looked like part of their horses in the distant, hazy heat.
She was an adult now, of course, inured to handsome smiles and a comely physique...but perhaps there was a little nostalgia. And the bottom line was that even in the harsh and cynical light of maturity…they were impossible to simply dismiss.
As soon as they were across the Daroe, the huge honor guard—fully the size of her own Northern retinue without any of its self-important dignity—visibly and audibly relaxed. Laughter, uninhibited talk, voluble jesting began to punctuate the air, so unexpectedly that Sable turned in her saddle at the front to see what had happened. One thing that had happened was that most of the warriors had slipped out of their loose white blouses and were now riding along in their vests or naked to the waist. She quickly resumed face-front, glad her cheeks were already red from the heat.
Kore grinned next to her. “We always feel a little constrained north of the Daroe,” he admitted ruefully—with so much familiarity that Rorig, the Queensknight, bristled at him from the other side of his Queen. Kore, Shagreen of the Wing of the Hilt, cousin to the Rach, and the same impassioned Council that had sat at his elbow the last few days, was in charge. Sable had refused to be disappointed when Rach Kyr reluctantly said his goodbyes earlier. He, the Iryx and Ishtan Shagreens, and a small group of Hilt riders had galloped off over the horizon like Merranics late to a brawl, obviously fretting about the neglected Enemy.
It was good, she told herself. He would be a distraction and she was on business. She had weeks to pick the mind of the friendly Shagreen next to her; her knowledge of the Rach would be almost complete by the time they reached the Ramparts. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Kore slip out of his blouse, which were apparently a great burden to these people.
Well. Perhaps she’d start her interview later.
The commotion behind her was picking up alarmingly, the heat and dust apparently not dampening any of the pleasures of being out of Crossing. She had to stop herself from looking back so often in the next few moments that Kore (probably thinking himself perceptive) said, “You must forgive our wildness. I know it’s not your way.”
She smiled at him wordlessly, not wanting to open her mouth for the dust and not about to start a conversation that would entail eye-contact. She saw him beckon to someone behind him and a rider rode up with a square of soft cloth, which he hospitably held out to her.
“Once we reach the River Idon, the road will pack and the dust die down, but until then, this will help protect your nose and mouth,” he explained at her blank look, courteously showing her how to tie it around her lower face.
Rorig was positively glowering by the time he’d finished. No Northerner would ever have dared to approach her Royal personage so intimately, especially without a shirt on. Sable found it wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. It was a very well-formed torso, after all.
The Idon finally separated itself from the more energetic Daroe and came to join them in flaccid tranquility off to their right, bringing with it an occasional, slightly cool breeze and every once in a while a great cottonwood or clump of willows. Sable, lowering her kerchief in relief, saw that the land wasn’t really the featureless waste that it seemed when seen through a film of Imperial dust. On either side of them, stretching to the horizon, were the vast cotton fields that clothed the Realms. They were spent now, harvest greedily gathered in and only a few forlorn tufts of white left on all those leagues of stunty dark bushes.
Emboldened by her own newly naked face and feeling like she could handle what was apparently an innocent cultural immodesty, she finally turned around for a closer look at her escort. They were traveling in a troupe of what looked like entire moving households. Wives scolded, children shouted and played, dogs barked and chased the children, horses loaded down with heaps of cloth and cooking utensils trudged along, carefully avoiding tripping on either. In the now clear, searing air, she could see there was cheerful, clamorous activity and smiling brown faces everywhere she looked. Next to them, the few Northerners looked pasty, sour, and shriveled, their comparably taller, heftier horses making it seem like they were looking down on their traveling companions. Most of them were looking down on their traveling companions.
A child not more than three or four came up and passed them just then, carelessly bareback on a prancing stallion. Glancing at Kore, who didn’t seem to notice that the entire formation was frisking around doing whatever it wanted, she said, “He was awfully young to be riding alone, wasn’t he?”
Kore smiled, warm brown eyes looking disconcertingly right into hers. “Aerach children learn to ride almost before they learn to walk. By the time they’re adults,” he said drolly, “some are so bad that they’ll mount up to walk over to the next tent.”
This was a novel experience, to have conversation with no ulterior motive, like she was just your run-of-the-mill human off the street. Smiling faintly, she patted the glossy neck of her mare. “If we had horses like this in the North, we’d probably be more inclined to the saddle, too. Alas, they don’t fare so well in the snow.” Were all Rach so informal? Or were they just too primitive to really understand rank?
“Word is,” Kore said conspiratorially, eyes glowing as they rested on her face, “that the snow lies so thick in the northern Empire that it covers a man’s head, standing.”
“Depends on the man,” she said, feeling a little playful in her role as casual fellow Realmsman. “It usually doesn’t make it past King Kane’s shoulders.” He grinned artlessly at her and she grinned back. Rorig frowned suspiciously.
It wasn’t just Kore. All Rach seemed to come with this casual, rather endearing familiarity. There wasn’t an ounce of either disrespect or presumption in it—it was more like rulers were considered…part of the family. By the time they stopped for lunch, the Queensknight was almost apoplectic.
Several young warriors (they all seemed young to her—where were the grizzled veterans you saw in Northern units?) leapt off their mounts as the party drew up, rushing to the Idon and wading in with their daggers drawn. Immediately, they began spearing fish. Sable hadn’t even brought the mare to a complete halt, yet. She held off dismounting, watching them with a smile tugging at her lips. You
’d think you were surrounded by Drae, at a casual glance. Corded muscles rippled in the sun, black hair thatched lean, handsome, intent faces, and they were blindingly fast, agile as dancers. But then others joined the fishermen, and the vision vanished. You’d never see such rakish smiles on a Dra, never hear such gusts of jollity or such relentless teasing.
In fact, within moments, the two fishermen right in front of her seemed to have lost interest in their task and became more concerned with the sense of competition that had apparently been fueling it. Laughing, they lunged at each other, and almost immediately were hidden by a strongly supportive and steadily increasing crowd. A tremendous amount of noise began to emanate from the sparkling water, a sort of instant exhibition, jeers, cheers, raucous catcalls punctuating the air, and several side-dunkings going on, since everyone was in the spirit.
And Sable, dismounting on the almost deserted bank, paused, poised on the edge of her stirrup, held captive by a sudden cessation of time. The sun glinted off the bronzed bodies and white teeth of the Rach, haloing them in glowing radiance. The disturbed crests of the Idon flashed in blinding reflection and every drop of water turned into a brilliant diamond, making the air thick with sparkling light. The sound of pure, carefree enjoyment seemed to echo through her, fading as if she was standing a long, long way away, and the sense of camaraderie, of togetherness, of vibrant, vivid life washed over her like a physical wave. Something inside her gave a funny lurch.
They didn’t take long for lunch, the fish seemingly grilled before she’d finished washing her face, and before long, the road was in front of them again. The short break, however, was compensated for by the complimentary traveling entertainment.
Sable had never seen grown men with so much energy. After about the fifth pair of riders spurted away from the column, bent low and lithe over horses running like their tails were on fire, she realized that they were racing. They were magnificent riders, mounting and dismounting their horses with the ease most people climbed stairs. They sat and rode them as effortlessly as Northerners sat in chairs. She’d never seen such horsemanship. They clambered all over them, too, hanging halfway off their backs, standing up, leaping from one to another—a ceaseless and inexplicable buffoonery. They would unhook the horses from the great flat sledges hauling hay back to the desert and bind themselves in the traces, pulling against each other amidst a din of supportive shouts. There was endless jesting. And everything was a competition.
It was no surprise that the Rach made an, er, active camp come dusk. They rode long hours, probably not finding it particularly onerous to do so (the Royal entourage from Archemounte had to stop by late afternoon in order to get the elaborate travelling court in working order) and had the entire camp set up in thirty minutes. Tents were staked, livestock tethered, fires started, a steer butchered and steaks on the grill, and a loose guard posted.
While everyone trotted purposefully and efficiently around, Rorig escorted the Northern ladies down to the Idon to wash up a little. In a matter of minutes, Evara, taking the none-too-subtle hint from his smoldering eyes, moved obediently out of earshot. Which left her Majesty to bear the full brunt of his uninhibited conversation when she looked up from washing her face.
“They’re barbarians,” Rorig hissed hotly. “Riding bareback, naked, with no sense of discipline or control or courtesy to your Majesty. There’s no safety here—your security and well-being are a joke to them!”
Sable, casting about for some soothing reply, said irrelevantly, “They’re only half naked, and they don their shirts in the heat of the day—didn’t you hear Kore say it’s actually cooler to wear light fabric when the sun’s rays are directly on you?”
For a native of a Realm noted for its logic and tolerance, the Queensknight didn’t look like he was interested in either at the moment. He took a step closer to her, the outrage on his white, firm-chinned face changing into one of almost pleading.
“Sable,” he said softly, more daring than he’d ever been before, which made her inexplicably regret the familiarity she’d been trying to cultivate between them, “this is beneath you…and…and you are in danger here.” He added that last a little lamely, as if realizing the first part may have been a teensy bit forward.
She steeled herself at his closeness—he was developing quite a unique odor under his full armor—and said with finality, “Their culture is going to have differences that we will graciously accept while we are their guests. I don’t want to hear any more about this.” She turned briskly away, then paused. “You have my permission to go unarmored here. I’m sure it’s, um, uncomfortable in this heat.”
Back at camp, the energy of the Rach had only seemed to intensify. She was, of course, in the middle of the bivouac and could hear them from every direction. Ripples of laughter, outbursts of good-natured ribbing, cheers (they were vocally supportive of everything), surrounded her, and now from every direction the sound of guitars and of song began to drift across the night.
Kore, across the fire from her, watched her face turning reflexively with each burst of music and said laughingly, “Tonight, we will dance for you.”
Rorig, irremediably hostile by now at anything Aerach, muttered from behind her, “Your Majesty.”
He could have been a fly for all the attention they paid him. Once they’d finished dinner—an educational affair for Sable, as it turned out that Rach ate with their fingers, off beaten copper trenchers, using their delicious flat bread to sop up juices—Sable forgot him, too.
The Rach danced liked they did everything, with whole-hearted enjoyment. They leapt and spun and twirled, the horse warriors of the desert, the firelight making the tanned, lithe bodies seem to take flight as they circled it in an oddly disciplined abandon. It was a captivating, primal kind of night, the half-naked dancers, the wild music, the powerful stamping of strong legs and stirring shouts of young lungs, with overhead and all around nothing but silent, timeless space and stars.
She lay sleepless for hours afterward, despite her healthy weariness. The camp was completely quiet. Unlike the Northerners’, the Aerach encampment was spread out over acres. That had set Rorig off again when he noticed it and she had to listen to him grouse under his breath about poor military judgment and lack of leadership, amongst other things. Sable, privately, thought the Rach didn’t feel any particular threat. They certainly weren’t intimidated by the vast, dark, empty space that was their only companionship for leagues in any direction. It was very strange to her—no houses, no buildings of any type, no people, and no mountains to border the world, anywhere.
The tent flaps, simple, undyed linen with Kyr’s bright copper sun stitched into the cloth, wafted gently inwards with a blessed breeze that cooled her hot skin. How odd, she thought as the night settled in even warmer and closer after its passage, that she seemed to be so at ease—enjoying herself, almost—among such primitive people. Who, frankly, seen through the sharp lens of Northern glass, were utter failures. Most of them hadn’t a tirnal to their name, felt no sense of duty propelling them to correct this, and spent their lives in apparent light-hearted ease. It was as if all the rigid rules and regularly spaced grids of life proscribed by Marek didn’t exist here. And how could they be so…so…so HAPPY without a goal, without anything to strive for? Even she, Queen of the North and a raging success by any standard, felt the constant pressure to succeed, to be always in control, to make more tirna for the Realm.
Against her will, thoughts of her much-removed ancestress, Karmine (who, for love of Il immediately interjected her mind) drifted into her thoughts. Could that have been part of Karmine’s fall? Perhaps she, like the Rach, was raised without the confining strictures of Marek? Sable had sort of mentally cubby-holed her as a faintly silly sentimentalist, to be so swayed by irresponsible emotion…but what if the ways of the Empire were not, to her, the absolute and all-consuming bonds that they were to the average Northerner? That was somehow easier on the mind than the thought that she’d simply disregarded them
, or that she was a dismissible blot on the sacred list of Royal Line, or worse…that her god was somehow more important than Realm and Throne.
The next day, Kore introduced her to his family. In order of importance, apparently: Grimtread, his midnight stallion, the hunting falcon, Gynnan, the pack of dogs, who bulged with lean clumps of muscle, came in soft shades of fawn, red, blue and the odd brindle, and were called Porsha, Trian, Aranta, Neerak, Barava, Uristi, and Shika, and his wife and three children—whom he forgot to name.
Her Majesty watched with appropriate appreciation when the hawk was flown in search of lunch, murmured over the excellent coat of the horse, smiled warmly at the family…but her real interest was in the dogs. Sighthounds, fine-boned and with thin, satin-soft coats, they were famous in the southern Empire for their speed; they could outrun even the long-legged bear hounds of Merrani. She’d already made friends with Shika, a delicate beauty in the shade of dusty grey they called blue. Like all of them, she was sleek and narrow and gentle, with a soft, slender muzzle that kept finding its way into Sable’s hands.
By the afternoon of that second day, the Shimmering Downs came into view on the horizon, a series of low, brown hills almost obscured by heat waves. They’d been there quite a while before Sable recognized them for what they were, and then only because a couple of warriors shouted it out behind her and set off for them at a dead run. She was getting an earnest lesson in the intricacies of falconing from Kore’s oldest son Kenai when they came back. Except instead of flying past, they came straight to Kore, reining in so sharply that their horses almost sat down. Dirt and dust flew everywhere, and over the commotion, Sable clearly heard their excited voices.