by J. V. Jones
When she woke the sun was gone. The glow from the fire created a cave of light around the camp. Mal Naysayer was butchering a carcass, a huge bird-shaped thing, skinned and slick with blood. He used a broad cleaver to smash open the skull and hack off the feet. Ark Veinsplitter was a short distance from the camp, sitting upon the ledge that jutted out into the dark mountain night, a woven rug pulled like a cloak around his shoulders, his gaze directed northward to the great white star.
Ash rose cautiously, testing her legs before allowing them to bear her weight. She felt she had sponge for muscle, and it was really just as well she was light as a feather, since a feather seemed to be the limit of what they could lift. Mal Naysayer paused in his butchering to indicate a rocky depression screened by oilbushes to the rear of the camp. The jacks. Ash found she had no embarrassment within her, and calmly found a place to urinate. She wore no smallclothes, just a shift of coarse wool and the fox pelts, and it was easy to pull up her skirts and pee. When she was done she returned to Mal Naysayer, and received a beaker of water and a flatcake crusted with seeds. She ate in silence, watching Mal smash individual bird vertebrae to get at the pink marrow.
“Walk now,” he said, after a time. “Work your legs before we eat.”
She knew a dismissal when she heard one, and stood and looked around. There didn’t appear to be anywhere particular to walk to, since the camp was sited hard against the mountain face, and boulders and dark crevasses formed natural boundaries, limiting the number of paths a girl could take. Overhead, clouds sailed silently between the stars. The moon was somewhere, cloaked from view though close to full, judging by the diffused and silvery light that backlit the sky. Ash began walking a circuit of the camp, heading first for the corral to greet the horses. It occurred to her that she could now feel the cold when earlier she could not. Sull sorcery? she wondered, remembering how once she had seen Sarga Veys push back the mist on the Black Spill. Had Ark or the Naysayer pushed back the cold to keep her warm?
She decided she didn’t want to know, and let her mind fill instead with the warmth and companionship of the three Sull horses. They had woken from sleep to greet her, and now pushed their warm dark noses forward for her to touch. It was good to stand there, by the canvas-hung posts, and speak nonsense horsy stuff to three enormous beasts. It healed a little of the strangeness that had become her life.
When she was ready she made her way to Ark Veinsplitter. The ledge was a pointed spar of granite jutting out from the mountain, and when Ash stepped upon it she could see nothing else before her, only sky. A dizzying sense of displacement made her lean toward the edge.
“Sit,” warned Ark Veinsplitter, without looking around. “I do not think you are ready to lean into the wind just yet.”
Ash sat, a safe distance from the edge, her heart beating strongly. “What do you mean?”
“There are some I have known who consider it a rite of manhood to stand upon a ledge such as this and wait until the updrafts rise. When they feel the warm air upon their cheeks they lean into it, and let the wind push them back to standing.”
“That doesn’t sound like such a good idea.”
“We have lost some that way,” Ark conceded.
“So it’s a test of being Sull?”
Ark shook his head. “No. Of being alive.” She noticed for the first time there was gray in his sable hair. “The moon burns full this night. Soon it will show itself and we shall begin.”
A speck of fear moved in Ash’s chest. She wanted no more cutting.
The Far Rider must have sensed her fear for he said, “Tonight you begin learning the ways of the Sull.” For the first time he looked at her, his dark eyes appraising. “What? Did you think the dreams they sent you were all there is?”
How did he know about the dreams when she barely remembered them herself? The images were fleeting, blurred. A silver shore. A land lit by moonlight. Flashes of battles so strange and horrific they could not belong in this world. Chilled, Ash gathered the fox pelts close. The stars suddenly seemed cold and bright.
The two sat in silence, watching them, and after a time the scent of roasting game bird drifted across on threads of smoke. Ash swallowed. She had a sense that she was moving through the sky, that the clouds were static and she was passing beneath them. Dimly she became aware that the moon was revealing itself, its rays sliding like fingers across her face.
“Light the flame.”
Ash was drawn back by Ark’s words. It took her a moment to understand that he was speaking to Mal Naysayer, not to her, and that the Naysayer had joined them on the ledge and was crouching a short distance behind them. Ash felt a small thrill of unease. She had not heard him come.
Mal turned the key on a strangely shaped pewter lantern, releasing a hiss of what sounded like gas. He held an ember from the firepit above the lamp’s chimney, and a strong yellow flame burst into life. As she watched, Mal adjusted the valve at the chimney’s base and the nature of the flame changed. It blued, growing smaller and fiercer, sissing softly like the wind. Ash could see halos of color within it; pale lilacs and vivid blues. Only the outer corona was yellow now.
“Sull is the heart of the flame,” Ark Veinsplitter said softly. “The cold blue center that gives rise to light and heat.” As Ark spoke, the Naysayer settled the lamp upon the stone ledge and pushed up the sleeve of his silvery hornmail and the padded silk tunic beneath. “Fear is the enemy that will destroy us. It lessens and distracts us, clouding our judgment and losing our battles before the first blow is struck. To fight we must cleanse ourselves of fear, find the stillness that lives within us. The search for this stillness is called Saer Rahl, the Way of the Flame. Just as the flame blows hot and uncertain so do we. Yet every flame ever struck has blue in its heart, and it is this we strive to reach.
“Mas Rhal. The perfect state of fearlessness. The flame at the center of all things.”
As Ark said “Mas Rhal” Mal Naysayer raised his left hand to the flame. Slowly, steadily, he slid his living flesh into the pale blue radiance. Ash forced herself to watch as he held it there, unmoving, unblinking, the flame shimmering around his fingers for long seconds after Ark fell silent.
In his own time he took his hand away. Ash looked into his dark, ice-tanned face searching for signs of pain. He surprised her by offering his hand for her inspection. Ash almost feared to touch it, yet when she did the skin was cool and unmarked, the muscles and veins hard. Gingerly, she raised her own hand toward the flame, but even the air surrounding the lamp was searing and she quickly snatched it back.
The two Sull warriors watched her impassively. Ark said, “The air is hot, but the core of the flame will not burn you. Losing fear takes many things. Trust is one of them.”
“So am I to trust you? Thrust my hand through the hot air in the hope you’re right?”
“Not this day.”
Mal killed the flame.
Perversely, Ash felt disappointed. She knew herself well enough to realize how hungry she was to be included. Daughter, they had called her. She wanted to hear that word more.
Mal Naysayer was the one who read the disappointment on her face. “Nay, Ash March, we are not finished with you yet. Come. Stand.”
Ash did as she was bade, and the two Far Riders stood also, Mal collecting the lamp and stepping clear of the ledge and onto the safe ground of the camp, and Ark taking the few steps necessary to put himself at the very tip of the ledge. Ash joined Mal, eager to put a safe distance between herself and the sheer drop. The Naysayer handed her a strip of silk, three feet long and a hand-length wide. “Tie it over your eyes.”
Her hands shook as she laid the smooth black silk over her eyelids and secured it with a knot behind her head. She felt Mal’s hands come down upon her shoulders, turning and positioning her. Facing her out toward the ledge. A bubble of panic worked its way toward her heart. No. It can’t be . . .
“Walk toward Ark. He will guide you.”
Ash shook her head. “I can
’t.”
“Ash March, I have journeyed with you twice. I know what you can do.”
A gust of cool air brushed against her face. She could see nothing but blackness, utterly flat and without depth.
“Seek the flame. Trust yourself and trust Ark. He will not let you fall.” With that, Mal Naysayer stepped away from Ash, stripping her of her bearings. She listened, but was unable to tell the direction in which he left. An instant later she realized she had moved her head to track him, and now she was no longer sure if she had moved her body as well. Which way was she facing? She made what she thought was the correct adjustment, but her foot settled upon a raised lip of granite. That wasn’t there before, was it? Where’s Ark? Why doesn’t he say something? Again, she listened, but not even the wind was moving now. Without realizing it, her body had begun to sway, and it was only when the blackness before her eyes began to spin that she spread her arms wide to steady herself. Fright had made her rigid.
Calm. I need to be calm. She had to be facing in the general direction of the ledge—she hadn’t moved that much. If only the wind would come again. That way she would know for certain. Seek the flame, Mal had said. But it was too new a concept and she didn’t know where to look.
Taking a shallow breath, Ash stepped forward. Nothing bad happened—no roots tripped her, no previously unseen crevasse swallowed her up. Emboldened by this small success she took another step and then another. During the third step, she noticed the granite smoothing out beneath her. Did this mean she’d reached the ledge? What if she were off track by even a few feet? She was suddenly overcome with the fear that she’d veered dangerously far from her path, and was now headed for the shallowest part of the overhang, not the promontory where Ark now stood. One step and she could be over the edge.
Afraid to move, she tried to calm herself. The Naysayer had told her Ark would not let her fall. She had to believe that. He had called her daughter: what kind of father would risk his child?
One named Penthero Iss. Ash hardened herself against thoughts of her foster-father. He had not loved her. Oh, he’d said it and she’d believed it. But that made him a liar and her a fool. She had been nothing to him but a means to more power.
Anger and hurt made her take unplanned steps. And then she felt it: the updraft rising along her body, billowing her skirt and lifting her hair. I’m on the edge. Her heart froze. Muscles inside her body slackened, and she was suddenly glad she had emptied her bladder earlier. Where was Ark? Why didn’t he speak?
She couldn’t move. Her mind showed her the long drop down the mountain, the jagged edges of rock that would skin her legs as she fell, and the dark and quiet place where she would land. No man or Sull would ever find her. She shivered violently. I should have touched the flame. It would have been easier. You’d have thought I would have learned by now that when the Sull give you a second choice it’s always worse than the first.
Strangely, madly, she found herself smiling. She was Sull herself now; her own blood drained to nothing to make way for theirs.
Seek the flame.
How? They had not told her where to find it. The updraft swelled against her chest, rocking her back. The stars were out there, burning beyond the ledge, and she was taken with the idea she could feel them. They danced like blue raindrops upon her skin. She could imagine that blueness now, not on the silk pressed against her eyes, but deep within her, in the caverns where her Sull blood now pumped. It was a tiny flickering, a beacon lit to guide the way. Slowly, gradually, her heart relaxed, finding a rhythm close to sleep.
I have nothing to fear. Ark will save me if I fall.
And with that she took a step. For one brief instant the world fell away beneath her and she knew how it would be when she met her death—and then Ark’s strong hands were upon her, his arms fastening around her waist, catching her and pulling her back. She hugged him fiercely, joy and exhilaration coursing through her blood. He smelled good, like horses and wood smoke, and that faint alien pungency that meant Sull.
“Daughter,” he said. “I have never met a Sull warrior with a worse sense of direction than you.”
She laughed giddily, pulling the silk from her eyes to discover how true his words were. She had missed the ledge’s spur completely, and had come to stand upon the shallowest lip, as she’d feared. The speed with which Ark must have moved from his position to intercept her defied thought.
He smiled grimly as he carried her to the safety of the camp. “Hass,” he called to the Naysayer. “We must begin teaching this warrior the path lores, for I fear we’ll lose her if we do not.”
He settled Ash down upon a soft blue rug before the firepit, and Mal Naysayer, the great ice-eyed warrior with the face of stone, winked at her and said, “Nay. Ash March knew where she stepped. She had a mind to test the reflexes of an old man like you.”
Ark Veinsplitter chuckled softly. “You conspire against me, Naysayer. I’ll not forget it next time I draw steel in your defense.”
“Then I’ll be sure to fight with two blades. One for my enemy and one for you.”
The words had the cadence of old and much-repeated banter, and the two Far Riders contemplated each other with lively sternness. “So,” Ark said, conceding victory to Mal for outstaring him, “Do you propose to feed us some of that mountain duck you brought down? Or just torment us with the smell?”
“Golden eagle,” corrected the Naysayer with dignity. “This Sull has not heard of such a thing as mountain duck.”
Ash had to push her lips together to stop herself from grinning. She was shaking with relief. The death her mind had shown her was so real she wondered if the world hadn’t split in two, and one Ash had died while the other had lived. The Naysayer handed her a bowl of broth and bird meat, a mildly affronted look on his face. The broth was delicious, strong and dark and flavored with cardamom and seedpods. The leg meat was lean and gamy, with a sharpness that reminded Ash of wild boar. She ate all of it, and held her bowl out for more. As she ate her second helping, Ark spoke.
“Do you know why we made you do it?” Ash shook her head. “Walking blindfold on the edge is how the Sull make war. We battle in darkness, with the abyss beneath us, and every step we take is uncertain. War against the Endlords is a dance with doom. Battle men, and we risk our lives. Battle the Endlords, and we risk our souls.”
“And race,” added the Naysayer quietly.
“It is so.” Strong emotion weighed Ark’s face. He shifted his position near the firepit, rising to sit upright so that firelight and shadows flickered across his face. “Ash March, you are Sull now. Rules of men no longer apply. You must learn a new way of being: how to walk the farthest edge and not falter, and live within your Rhal. Forces are awakening within you, and it is our job as Mayji to guide and teach you.”
Ash traced a finger around the rim of the bowl. It was a thing of beauty, glaze layered over glaze until the color had such a depth and translucence to it that it was like looking at the night sky. “Mayji?” she asked, preferring to deal with this small detail rather than the greater truths he had told her.
“Men have no word for it. You may think of it as master or elder.”
“Why didn’t you help me on the ledge? The Naysayer said you would guide me.”
“Perhaps I did, and you did not hear.”
Ash closed her mouth, silenced. All her earlier triumph at stepping from the ledge and being caught drained from her, and she now feared that she had been reckless, not brave.
Ark Veinsplitter saw all in her face and spoke no words to deny it. He began placing logs in the firepit, banking the fire for the long winter night. “There is much to learn and little time. Tomorrow we resume our journey east. The wind is rising in the Want, and these lands are no longer safe. Sleep and gather your strength. We wake before dawn.”
Ash felt dismissed. She rolled one of the fox pelts into a pillow, and settled down to sleep. Through half-closed eyes she watched the two Far Riders rise and walk a short distance fr
om the camp. They spoke briefly, their voices low. Once, Ark turned to look at her, and she knew they spoke of her. After a time, the Naysayer returned to the firepit, settled himself into a crouching position facing out from the fire, and unsheathed his sword.
The blade shone with the purest light. Meteor steel, she recalled it was named, as the iron and trace metals it was forged from came from rocks that fell from the stars. When Mal noticed her sleepy gaze upon it, he brought out a squirrel skin and a pot of tung oil and began greasing the edge. Ash saw it for the deception it was. He guarded against an enemy so swift and invisible that he feared to lose even a moment to unsheathing his sword. He stood ready to fight, yet went through the motions of tending his blade.
Ash turned to see what had become of Ark Veinsplitter. It took a moment for her eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness beyond the firepit, and even longer to make out the figure of the Sull warrior, moving silently around the camp. He held something weighty in a cloth pouch, and every few seconds he halted his circuit, drew something small and pale from the bag and laid it on the ground. As he worked, Ash was struck with the sense that it was growing warmer and calmer in the camp, as when she’d first awakened that morning. Wards. Unease pricked the base of her spine. Two men, neither sleeping, both taking action to secure the camp.
Against what? Ash knew she could not think about it and sleep. Slowly, she let her mind drift. She wondered where Raif was that night. Was he on his way home to the clanholds? Did he hate her for what she had done? She tossed and turned in the fox pelts, sweating. When her dreams came they were murky and fleeting, and offered no peace.
Ark Veinsplitter woke her in the layered darkness of pre-dawn. Already, the camp had been dismantled and the spare horse loaded with supplies. It was bitterly cold once more, and tendrils of mist slid across the rocks. Mal Naysayer was nowhere to be seen. “He scouts ahead,” Ark said, handing her a bowl of steaming broth. “We’ll follow his trail and meet him at noon. He can move more swiftly in the mountains afoot.”