by J. V. Jones
“Know this, though. If you become Sull we will protect you and honor you, and give our lives to spare you from harm. You are as precious to us as a newborn, and like a newborn you bring us new hope.”
Ash let the Far Rider’s words work upon her. Seven torches now flickered around the pool, turning the water orange and green like the Gods Lights in the northern sky. She could hear the torch resin crackling . . . and the measured breaths of the two men. Stirred, but unwilling to reveal it, she said, “So you offer me a choice?”
If the Sull warrior noticed the shakiness in her voice he did not show it, merely nodded.
“And if I refuse?”
“We shall escort you from this chamber.”
“And then?”
She’d asked the question the Far Rider had hoped not to answer; she saw it written clearly on his face. He and his hass exchanged a glance. The Naysayer moved from his place on the far side of the pool. The grace and size of him struck her anew, and as she looked into his ice-blue eyes she knew without a doubt that she was looking into the face of the man who would kill her.
He said softly, “I will take you without hurt.”
Ash believed him. It struck her that there were worse ways to die than at the hand of a master swordsman; a man whose blade was so sharp that not even a human hair could fall upon it without being cut. Strangely she found she was calm. “I am a danger if I live.”
Ark Veinsplitter nodded, though she had asked him no question. For the first time she saw the age of him, and realized that he was older than she had ever thought. “If the Naysayer did not take you now, and we walked away from this place and left you to find your way back to the Ice Trappers, others would come after. We are the first to find you but we shall not be the last. If you are not with us you are against us, and as such no living, breathing Sull will let you live.”
Ash let the chamber fall to silence rather than speak. If the Far Rider spoke the truth, then these two men before her were offering a mercy that future Sull would not. Something in the dark lines of Ark’s face and the way his fingers curled around the chain that connected his letting knife to his belt told her what his words would not: The Sull who came after him would tear her limb from limb.
Seconds passed and the mist rose, and then she said, “What is it to be Sull?”
“Sull is home,” said Mal Naysayer.
“Sull is heart and life and soul,” continued Ark. “The Heart Fires burn for us and all the ancestors who have gone before. We have traveled far across oceans and continents and places where time itself stretches thin. We are beyond family and country, life and death—as you know it—and all our histories and battles are carried within our blood. Our children are born with memories of the Far Shore, and it is our one desire to return there. We are more ancient than mankind, and have borne witness to the creation of mountains and the fall of empires and the extinction of many living things. Our ancestors knew the Old Ones who once walked this earth, and we can remember our own creation at the hands of the First Gods.”
The Far Rider watched Ash, his great dark gaze pulling something from her. Time passed, and then finally he added, “We are your brothers, Ash March, and we would have you for our sister. Join us and become a daughter to the Sull.”
Pain flared in the space behind Ash’s eyes. Am I that transparent, that he can see the desire within me? She said in a small voice, “You would have my soul?”
“You cannot become Sull through flesh alone.”
“And my life will not go unused?”
“Maer Horo lies ahead. Your life will be fulfilled.”
Ash nodded, understanding the grim promise of those words. She was a Reach and she had forced a rift in the Blindwall; become Sull and her life would be dedicated to battling whatever came forth. I do not go into this blindly. I just wish Raif were here.
The two Sull warriors waited. The Naysayer stood tall and unmoving, without so much as a hand upon a stone column to steady his great weight. A torch flared to his side, but even its warmth and golden light couldn’t reach the ice in his eyes. Ark Veinsplitter sat on a carpet of night-blue silk, his wolverine cloak draped over a rock, his sword and dagger and eating knife fanned out behind him like a steel tail. Strange that both men’s reflections glowed silver in the green pool.
Ash gathered the breath within her. I am Ash March, Foundling, left outside Vaingate to die. As always the words, her words, filled her with a stubborn kind of strength. She was unwanted and had no family, and so had exactly nothing to lose. Yet the two Sull warriors would change that. Sister, they called her. And not almost-daughter, but simply daughter.
She belonged with them. She had known it from the moment Mal Naysayer had prostrated himself in the snow in front of her, and spoke words for her ears alone. Welcome, sister, I have never seen a moon so bright as the one that brought you to us. Ash held herself still as she remembered his blessing. She was proud, like these men, and she would not cry. It was easy to stand then, easy to meet their eyes and say, “Make me Sull.” In many ways that counted she was already one of them.
The night changed then, grew smaller and darker as shadows surrounding the pool merged to form a wall. Suddenly there was nothing but seven torches and two men. Mist rose and fell, rose and fell, as she put the horn to her lips and drank. The liquid was cool and sharp, and there was a sweet aftertaste to it that reminded her of cloves. Her vision blurred for an instant and then restored itself, and then Mal Naysayer was beside her, reaching out a hand to take the horn. Ash stood and let the sharpness of the liquid move through her. Already things were falling away. Fear seemed some impossibly faraway object that she could see but was unable to grasp. Time seemed even farther beyond reach and Ark Veinsplitter and the Naysayer appeared to move great distances in the time it took to complete a blink.
Slowly, deliberately, Ash began to pull off her clothes; they were so much unwanted weight on her back. Naked she faced them, her chin high, her hair unpinned and brushing against her breasts. Mist coated her skin and collected in the dimples at her throat and lower back. The two Far Riders had stripped to their waists, revealing hard-used muscle and networks of scars. With an even, much-practiced motion the Naysayer was drawing his white-metal letting knife through his fist. At first Ash thought he was polishing it, and then she saw he held a slice of whetstone between finger and thumb. Honing the blade.
I’ll take you without hurt.
Ark Veinsplitter was speaking, but Ash’s mind had to labor to make sense of the words. “Nothing of worth can be won without peril. To be born Sull you must first know death.”
“I will guard you, Ash March,” murmured the Naysayer. “You will not walk alone to the world’s edge.”
The protectiveness in his voice reached her before his words, and she heard herself say, “What do I risk here?”
“Your blood is not Sull blood. It must be drained so new blood can be made.”
Ash nodded, comprehending at last what they meant to do. And I thought I’d taken the easier choice.
Pulling her hair back behind her neck, she turned and began to wade into the pool. The water was hot and she saw her feet and then her legs turn pink. Copper vapors sheathed her, spreading warmth and drowsiness as they curled around her arms and throat. When the water reached her waist she opened her arms wide and laid her hands on the green, still surface. Behind her she heard the Far Riders entering the water, swift movements that roused the mist. She saw the glint of silver sparking off the rocks, and felt a stab of fear. Knives were drawn. Then hands were on her arms, forcing them behind her, twisting her wrists toward the light of the torches. Fingers encircled scalded flesh, probing for veins.
When the cuts came they made her gasp. She was glad she couldn’t see the men who had made them, gladder still that she could not see the wounds. Watching the torches and the shadows beyond, she listened for the sound of the men withdrawing. Water moved, rising as high as her breasts, then all grew quiet. Dimming. Lifting her feet
from the pool bottom and tilting her spine, she allowed her body to float to the surface. Dark blood bloomed in the water, forming plumes like rare flowers. She smelled their sugary odor.
Dimming. The rock ceiling sparkling with hidden ores . . . red spreading to the edges of the pool, sliding across the bones of her hips and into the hollow of her navel, where it lapped in and out, in and out. So tired . . . so tired. The Naysayer was right. No hurt.
Darkness. Floating. Peace and warmth embraced her. This. This is what I want. No weight or worries, just peace.
Let me go.
The darkness shifted, thickened into shapes. Things moved within it, ghost-children bending to feed upon her soul. Someone laughed, a woman. A voice soft and tinkling said, Welcome, my daughter, I wondered how long it would take you to come. Ash felt a touch so cold it burned. Pain sharpened her awareness, and she knew with perfect clarity that she was not ready for this place. Not yet. Turning, she fled. Tinkling laughter followed her.
The landscape was gray now, but ahead lay the first glimmering of white. The Far Shore. And as soon as Ash said those words to herself, she felt the first pang of longing. It is our one desire to return there. She saw a sea so blue it was like a wholly new creation, breaking softly on a curving shore. Tall trees grew beside moss-covered rocks and glimmering pools, and beyond them a golden forest stretched to a horizon where something secret and everlasting shimmered just beyond her ken. Ash laughed with the sheer joy of seeing, watched as a yellow butterfly fed from a flower dripping with dew. This is why they fight the darkness, she thought, because one day they will return here and know perfect joy.
With that she turned again. She felt herself growing, filling up with a new kind of strength. Memories sparked, and the first seeds of knowledge were born within her. Overcome with a breathtaking sense of belonging, she cried out.
Becoming Sull.
SEVEN
An Arrow With a Name
The girl laid a hunk of bear meat in front of him. “Eat.” She giggled nervously, covering her teeth with both hands, and then tried another combination of the words he had taught her. “Good. Eat.”
Raif found himself smiling despite his mood. He was going to have to teach her more words; either that or she’d drive him half mad pointing to blankets, pots, lamps and strips of cured hide, saying either, “Good”, “Bad” or “Eat”. The blanket he was sitting on was “bad”. Something to do with flying birds and many feet; at least, that was the best he could tell from her sign language. Suddenly inspired, he tugged at the corner of the blanket and pulled it high against his face. “Warm.” Rubbing the blanket against his cheek, he repeated himself. “Warm.”
The girl darted forward, touched the blanket lightly, then darted back. “Warm.” He could see her thinking. A moment later she pulled a dark glossy fur from a storage chest and ran a hand down its silky nap. “Warm.”
Raif nodded. To please her he took a knife to the meat. It was purple and part-frozen, having been heated in a skin above the lamp for a time so short it barely counted as cooking at all. He chewed the fibrous morsel, attempted to swallow, then chewed again.
“Good,” the girl encouraged.
But not “warm”, he added gently to himself.
They were sitting in the Listener’s ground, the whale lamp between them casting the softest kind of light. As far as Raif could tell it was early evening. The Listener had been gone for two days, for the hunters were out upon the ice and they had spotted no seals in half a moon. Sadaluk had been needed to listen for them. The old man had seemed pleased at the opportunity to leave Raif alone, and had extracted a solemn promise that Raif would not leave until he returned. Raif hadn’t understood the sly twinkle in the Listener’s eye, but looking at the girl dressed in soft sealskins before him he thought he might now. Her name was Sila, and she was plump and beautiful with waist-long hair and black eyes.
Only a dead man cannot surprise you. Raif made a sound in his throat. It seemed the Listener made a habit of such surprises.
The girl had brought him food for the past two nights, and had visited many times to tend the lamp. The long wick needed to be carefully managed so it didn’t die out or smoke, and Raif noticed there were many opportunities for Sila to show off her plumpness, bending and crouching as she fed the little wick-seeds to the oil. She was as unlike Ash as it was possible to be: warm-skinned and warm-eyed, and ready with shy laughter. Ash is gone. Gone. So why couldn’t he smile at this girl and enjoy her simple attentions without feeling as if every act of companionship were a betrayal?
Sila took the tray of meat from him, observant of the fact that he had little appetite for it. “Bad?” she asked, making a question of her newly learned word. Dimples appeared like small blessings in her cheeks.
Raif tried to resent her, but could not. What was the Listener thinking, to send her to him? Did the old man seek to make amends over his part in stealing Ash? Or did he think that one girl could make Raif forget another?
Still waiting for an answer, Sila plucked at the golden fur around her collar, all the while frowning doubtfully at the meat. This small sign of her nervousness affected Raif and suddenly he wanted to be kind. Patting his stomach, he said, “Full.”
The girl was quick to mimic him, rubbing the swell of her belly with one hand whilst covering her teeth with the other. “Full,” she said proudly. “Full.”
They sat and looked at each other, shyly at first and then more boldly. Sila was dressed in a close-fitting coat decorated with fish-bone stitching and musk-ox fur, its neck-opening tied back to reveal a necklace of tattooed skin. Raif saw her gaze alight on his frost-scarred hands, and then rise to the lore at his throat. She surprised him by reaching out to touch it.
“Warm.”
He smelled her, and he could not speak. She smelled of seal oil and sea salt and sweet heather, and it made the blood rise in him. Suddenly it was hard to think. She leaned closer to inspect the lore, her breath condensing on the down-facing planes of his face. He could see the back of her neck, where soft baby-hairs had worked free from her braids. And then she was kissing him, gently, tentatively, her lips moist with seal oil. Raif thought he would lose himself. He wanted to crush her to him, to feel her forehead grind against his. Something desperate came alive within him, and with it the real fear that he would hurt her. Not gently, he pushed her away.
She was breathing hard, and there was hurt in her eyes. She touched her lips. “Good.”
Shame and need sent hot blood to Raif’s face. Seconds passed where he fought to regain self-control. He didn’t know what he was doing anymore. Ash, why did you have to leave me?
Sila waited, watching him. When he made no move to pull her back she unfastened the ties of her coat. Her gaze met his as she bared small brown breasts and laid her hand upon her heart. “Full.”
Ridiculously, Raif felt himself close to tears. He had struggled for so long for so little that he had forgotten what it was to receive a gift. He did not deserve her . . . but that knowledge did not stop him from wanting her. With swift movements he pulled off his own borrowed coat, rough bearded-seal hide that shed many hairs. Pushing the thing away he let her look at him; at the great white scars the Bludd swordsmen had raised outside Duff’s, and the weals and marks of torture he had received at the Dog Lord’s hand. Time and healing had done little to prettify his flesh. Angus Lok’s thick black stitches, that had been made with boiled horse-mane, had long since gone—winkled out by Angus’s diabolically sharp knife—yet their uneven tracks remained puckered in his flesh.
Sila studied him. If he had thought to repulse her he was mistaken, for she looked with curiosity and some knowledge of scarred flesh. When she reached out to touch him he moved back.
“Bad,” he said, laying her hand on the center of his chest. Watcher of the Dead. Close to losing himself, he stood. His head was light with confusion and he knew he couldn’t stay here any longer and not seize her. Stumbling, he snatched his coat off the floor and made
his way into the night.
The blinding cold could not cool him. He was too deeply roused and shamed. Unable to bear his thoughts, he headed out toward the sea ice, drawn by the terrible noise of it and the great glowing blueness of its mass. Starlight lit a path. Mountains lay quiet to the north, marking territory where no clansman had ever been. The Lake of Lost Men was out there, and beyond that the Breaking Grounds and the pale endless ice of Endsea. Raif thought of Tem. He had taught his sons and his daughter about the land, making maps in the dirt and the snow. His broad fingers would draw lines marking coasts and forests, and sometimes to please Effie he would raise little dirt mounds to represent mountains. Always he spoke of clan. This is the Milk River that runs into the Flow; when clansmen first arrived on its banks its waters ran milky with stone dust from the White Mines of the Sull . . . Here lie the Floating Isles; when Arlech Dregg, the Restless Chief, first laid eyes upon them he set his men to making boats so he could see the isles first-hand. Yet Dreggsmen are no watermen and the boats they built were green and flawed, and halfway across the channel they foundered and killed all hands . . . Beyond these hills lies the part of the badlands known as the Rift Valley; the Maimed Men make their home there, and send their dead, eyeless, into the Rift.
Raif stepped onto the hard plate of shore ice that rose like a stone pier from the beach. The great body of ice created its own weather, and currents spiraled around him, channeling up his legs with each step. For the first time since leaving the Listener’s ground he felt the cold. Shocked by its depth and fierceness, he hastily tied the fastenings on his coat. Part of the ice had been hacked here, smashed and then picked out for use in the village. All salt had long since drained from the topmost layers, leaving pure freshwater ice. Raif supposed the sea beneath to be saltier for it, its waters concentrating through the long winter to a stock of strongest brine.