At times like this, Celaise thought of death. The pain and embarrassment built in her, hot and venomous until she was sure she would choke. Then she would think with longing of stuffing herself with hemlock or sinking into the blissful cold of the sea.
She never went further than daydreaming. A corner of peace remained deep inside her, and as long as she remembered it she would never give up. Night will come.
The Sun Dragon would set, and the curse would fade. The Winged Fire wanted her dead, wanted to grind her to a mindless corpse. Many had tried to kill her. Many thought she had died, but she would spite them all. To live was her revenge.
“Night will come,” she whispered.
The Holy Woman no longer stood nearby. Celaise's rags once again covered her, and the tribeswomen had turned back to their own worries. She found herself alone, except for the ants exploring her shoulders. Maybe they'll eat the lice, she thought.
Propping herself up on an elbow, she saw children still watching her from a distance. One girl was rolling a gourd toward her—the dried vegetable full of water by the sound of it. The gourd tipped on its side, but the girl propped it up and pushed it closer.
Fitting her hands around the cork, she worried it open then set down a bowl with the care of a high priestess in a sacred ritual. When she poured, every drop made it into the bowl.
The girl lifted the water to Celaise. “Walkers are always thirsty.”
Celaise began to smile but checked herself, not wanting her broken teeth to frighten the girl. Instead Celaise forced herself to drink all the water in thanks, though it tasted like dirt and caused bolts of pain to ricochet between her tooth stubs.
“Sorry about the taste.” The girl had large kind eyes, and her hair was adorable, scores of braids sticking out every which way. “Steam water always has a stink to it.”
Celaise's claw-like fingers scraped away her own tears. Covering her mouth with a hand, she said, “You'll be the one.” The one I spare. The one who lives through my Feast.
“No, I'm Anza.”
She might not survive alone, Celaise thought and wondered if she could control herself enough to leave her parents alive, too. Celaise needed a command from the Lord of the Feast to restrain herself. That is why he is fearsome. He has to be hard with us. Her magic tended to sweep her away. The Black Wine drowned all qualms, corroded all concern for others.
A cold sickness slimed its way through Celaise. Sitting under the judging sun and beside this girl with her life-brimming smile, Celaise did not like to think about Feasting. Her magic was not kind. She understood that. She also owed it her life.
The Black Wine took away her pain. It had given Celaise her wonderful dress. It protected her. Without it, she would have died three years ago at the bottom of the cliff.
The girl grinned up at her. “What's your name?”
Celaise shook her head, her neck clicking. “Don't have one.”
“Everyone has a name.”
“Lost it.”
The girl's eyes grew huge with worry. “How?”
Celaise had forgotten her birth name. It had been stolen from her along with her first life, the warm hearth and smiling family she should have had.
“Now I'm nothing,” Celaise said. Nothing, during the day.
She gazed to the west, as she so often did. Waiting for the rippling red glare of the Sun Dragon to inch closer to the horizon and its grave.
“Night will come.”
So would the Headless.
Jerani trusted the Holy Woman, but he could not stop glancing at the summit of the Angry Mother. White smoke slithered into red sky. The wrinkled mountain slopes darkened to black in the sunset. He had climbed them once to prove himself, when he was fourteen, before his marking ritual. He had leaned forward to grip the flaking dark stones to stop himself from sliding down the steep sides and causing an avalanche.
He would not dare climb the Angry Mother now. Not so close to her time.
She trembled underfoot, and the cows lowed in anxious voices to each other. The Holy Woman led Gorgeous. The rest of the herd picked its careful way behind her over the uneven ground. Jerani thought how he might calm the cows if the Angry Mother's time began. Stampeding over these rocks could break legs and shatter hooves.
Tall Tachamwa gripped Gorgeous around the neck, hugging her to keep her from turning aside. His hair had receded to the top of his head, and his chin jutted out of his narrow face as he strained to hold the cow. She rolled her horns at each puff of moisture from the ground.
He said, “Doesn't smell like fresh grass, does it?”
The mist of the vents reddened in the sunset. Jets of vapor hissed about Jerani and his sister, and Anza gripped his hand tighter with every burst.
“Eeew!” She pinched her nose. “The Mother drank bad milk?”
“Be respectful,” Jerani said. He glanced at Wedan, who walked apart from them. He had stolen back the spear when Jerani had set it down. His brother now stumbled forward with the weapon, his eyes drooping. Jerani also battled to keep his eyes open. He hoped to snatch a few hours of sleep before trekking back down the mountainside to the grassland. Jerani felt tired enough to sleep through tremors.
If her time comes, he thought, I'll wake. He worried it would be the last thing he did, if burning rocks began bursting from the summit.
The people and cows of the Greatheart tribe settled amid the steaming cracks in the rock. The Holy Woman walked among them, patting the cows' rumps, and she spoke in a low voice to Jerani. “You have nothing to fear. Ready yourself to leave at midnight. We join with the other tribes on the grassland.”
Between the Angry Mother who might explode at any moment and the Rock-Beasts scrabbling at the base of the mountainside, Jerani rather felt he had a right to fear. Still, he lowered his head to the Holy Woman. She rested a reassuring palm on his brow.
The dusk felt like a cold drink after parching labor. The delicious chill seeped through Celaise, washing away the aches in her hands and feet and traveling inward. The throbbing in her arms and legs faded into a lovely tingling.
Her heart beat faster, and she sucked in her breath. She felt alive, awake after sleepwalking through the day. The world came into focus, the violet twilight bleeding out of the western sky as stars glittered in the east. She breathed deeply through her nose, relishing the minty aroma of the tribesmen's anxiety. They had left a scent trail uphill. The mountain steamed, and tendrils of smoke rose from the sides of the volcano. Lights burned elsewhere on the slopes. Celaise guessed them cook fires from other villages.
It was well the Greathearts had fled their village. No sooner had Celaise gathered enough shadows to dress herself than a dozen Headless stalked into the place. The largest stood about six feet at the shoulder, and five wrinkly young clung to its leathery underside. Did the tribesmen call the bloodsuckers 'Skin-Backs?'
The beasts crept around, torsos close to the ground. The largest slammed down its forelegs, and the Headless all pounced forward and rammed into the huts. Twigs and powder sprayed upward. After rummaging through the wreckage, chewing on the odd gourd, the beasts charged into the next huts. Within minutes of sunset, the village was demolished.
With nothing living to be found, the Headless stomped and butted each other with their shoulders.
They disgusted Celaise. From her vantage point uphill she could see one scrawny Headless trembling, likely from hunger, but it still did not fear. Too stupid to worry it'll starve to death. The Headless had no scent, and she was expected to Feast on them. Only once did she catch any appealing odor, when a smaller one was knocked over, and a dominant Headless dragged its claws over the exposed belly without drawing blood. The sniff of fear was brief and unsatisfying, the flavor of undercooked pigeon.
The capsized Headless tipped back and forward until it gained the momentum to roll to its feet. It scrambled after its fellows, crouching, tracking back and forth over the ground. They climbed uphill, after the path taken by the villagers.
<
br /> Celaise wondered, Do they follow a scent? The Headless had no visible nostrils. They panted—air whistling between their teeth—but never snuffled. Or track footprints?
She trudged out of their path, dragging her train of shadows. Splinters of fear dug through her as two Headless branched off the pack to follow.
Burn their hides! Celaise scowled at the moving mounds of muscle and carapace. They knew she was there, would track her. Even in her True Dress, she could not outpace a Headless. And trying to defend herself with magic would only attract the notice of more predators.
Dusk-red water droplets erupted and sprinkled Jerani. He tried to catch his brother's eye, but Wedan pretended not to see him. Jerani told his sister to go get their brother.
“Can't start a story without the family,” Jerani said.
“Stories!” Anza skipped around a vent. She gripped Wedan by his arm and shook it. “Come on. Jerani wants to tell a story.”
Wedan followed the tugging of their sister. He still grumbled. “Jerani only wants our help with his hair.”
Jerani set down a few hides on the yellowish rock for them to sit on. “When father used to tell stories, I mixed the strength of the grassland into his hair.”
Grinning, Anza reached out for the bowls Jerani handed them. The older brother untied a pouch, and out poured the reddest dirt found in the grassland. In the fading light, the powder seemed to glow. It would dye Jerani's hair red, the color of warriors. Last night he had not had time to prepare, and he had feared to die without his hair honoring the Angry Mother's fire.
As soon as Wedan set down the spear to join them, Jerani snatched it. Wedan grunted, his fat cheeks sagging in a scowl, but he did not say anything in front of Anza. His fingers began twisting open a bone plug in a gourd.
Jerani sat with the spear lying over his lap. He tried not to think of his father while telling one of his stories.
“One year the Big Dry season was so long that toads dug themselves up from the sandy ground too early and shriveled to bones. The land yellowed, and there was nothing for the cows but spear grass.”
Anza shook her hands in excitement even though Jerani had told this story over and over. Wedan upended the gourd, and globs of cow fat slid into a bowl.
“Udders shriveled, and there wasn't enough milk to feed three brothers and their families. So the brothers gathered their spears and war clubs and went raiding. When did they leave, Wedan?”
“Not at night,” the brother said, “a Feaster might've been waiting.”
“When did they leave, Anza?”
“Not at noon! Or they'd have turned into dry toads.”
“The heat would've dried the brothers out, yes,” Jerani said. “They left in the morning, so they could catch the other tribe sleeping through the midday sun.”
The three of them knelt in a line. Wedan, Jerani, Anza. The sister squished the red dirt between her fingers, mixing it with the fat. Whenever it made a squelching noise she squealed in triumph. Wedan was retying a leather cord around a braid in Jerani's hair. Jerani mixed another bowl of ochre while he continued the story.
“But the three brothers were spotted by the children of the other tribe. Their warriors came. A fight broke out. The first brother threw his spear wide, grazing the cheek of a woman leading a cow to safety. The second brother threw his war club but missed, bruising a heifer's ribs. The third brother's aim was good, and his spear killed another warrior. Then all three brothers were surrounded and captured.”
Jerani combined his bowl of ochre with his sister's. The sun had sunk, and the steam faded from purple to grey.
“What happened to the first brother, Anza?”
“Dead!” She puffed out her right cheek and patted it. Her fingers left a smear.
“Yes, because his spear scarred a woman, and then no one would marry her. And what happened to the second brother?”
“Also dead,” Wedan said. “Only a Holy Woman can lay a weapon on a cow, without making the gods angry.”
“Yes, and the third brother? The one who had defeated the tribe's warrior in battle?”
“Let him go! Let him go!” Anza chanted.
“And gave him cows,” Wedan said.
“The cows needed a new warrior to protect them, and the third brother took them back to his own tribe. The dry season ended soon after, and the grass was green and the cows happy.”
Pleated waves of Jerani's dark mane draped over his shoulders. He relaxed, sitting on his heels, as his brother and sister cupped the ochre into his hair. They made fists to press the slick dirt into each braid, fattening the strands into clay snakes. Jerani thought how fortunate he was to have such a family. With a smile, he glanced around him, wanting his mother to see them together.
His chest clamped, and the vapor chilled his skin as he remembered their mother was gone. He winced, forcing himself not to think how she died. His fingernails scratched their way down his arms.
Jerani's chin dipped. The brittle feeling of loss and his nettling worries were no match for his fatigue, from working all day and fighting last night. He nodded off. Each time his eyes popped open, his hair felt heavier, more cool and damp.
“Lion's tail!” Anza tugged on one of his braids.
A cord bound the braided tress a finger's length from the end, leaving a frizzy shock of hair that did look something like the tuft of a lion's tail. Each plait ended like that.
“You don't have to worry about me, then,” Jerani said, “anything would run from this many lions.”
Wedan asked, “You think we'll fight again tonight?”
“You're not fighting.” Jerani's eyes closed as he spoke.
When his eyes flickered open again, Anza and Wedan were rubbing the last of the muddy paste into his hair. Jerani managed a half smile, enjoying the rusty scent of the ochre.
He suspected they would be coloring his hair every day for some time, if he lived past this night.
Celaise's dress rippled over rocks on the hillside. The Headless tracking her pushed the stones aside, gaining ground. She thought of leading these two to a tribe for help in a fight.
Won't have time, she thought. She would have to draw on her magic to distract her pursuers. Black Wine barely trickled through her, and she feared to run out. Collapsing into the Void would turn her into a snack.
Black Wine created truth, a truth of the mind. By controlling another's sensations, Celaise could change their world to one of her making. Throughout her travels she had heard of no greater power.
Her magic seeped out of her hands as shadows, which she sculpted then threw at the Headless. One of her spells turned into the image of a girl, running uphill noiselessly. The second shadow stayed dark but pattered downhill with the sound of running feet. Both truths were incomplete. The most she dared make.
The Headless split up and chased, but each slowed after a few yards. Smart enough to tell when they've been tricked. Instead of scrounging for her trail again, the beasts rejoined their fellows in crawling after the tribe.
The predators had climbed halfway to the steam vents when the lead one stopped. The others crowded around it, and they began tapping their feet as if in a dance. Celaise watched them with a hunter's focus. From her distance they looked like a family of armadillos, the father quick-stepping and the smaller ones adding a few counter rhythms, claws clicking off stone. Uphill, vapor leaked into the night, and the stars twinkled.
Something about climbing farther repulsed the Headless, Celaise could tell. Their wariness smelled of thin vegetable broth. Her nose crinkled.
What do you fear? If she could discover that, then she could slaughter the Headless and survive this trial.
Her gaze ascended to the star-jeweled summit. The Headless may have seen the volcano in past years in its full fury, and she wished she could too—at a safe distance. It might be the key to defeating the hunting packs.
The moon split the horizon and painted the volcano with light and shadow. It was a steep mountain, though
it lacked the cliffs and snowy peaks of her once homeland.
Celaise rolled a droplet of Black Wine over her palm. She hated to spend her magic, but she wanted to warn the tribe of the Headless while keeping an eye on them. The darkness smeared it into a glittering image of her copper bracelet. She blew the new jewelry uphill, to Jerani.
She hoped that would tell him to be wary, that she was ready to fight if she had to. If it meant tapping the last of her Black Wine and dropping into the Void, she would do it rather than face the Lord of the Feast again.
A scraping of rock started Jerani awake. Steam blasted. A deep groaning rumble sounded nearby. Rocks slid downslope, and the volcano belched two clouds of soot. The underside of the smoke pulsed red for a few seconds before drifting away from the summit.
Another tremor. Jerani knew the Angry Mother was warning the tribes to run.
The moon had risen. He felt rested. Beads of condensation glowed on the cows' backs.
Jerani's lap was bare. The spear was nowhere in sight. Wedan must've sneaked it again. Jerani rose to one knee, ready to begin searching for his brother and sister, when he saw the bracer.
The copper caught the light and rippled with metallic shine. Jerani brought it close to his face, uncertain of his own sight. Am I dreaming? Or going laughing-hyena mad? He ran his fingers over it, feeling a smooth coolness. Not a scratch. Not a dent.
The bracer was perfect once again.
“Greathearts!” The Holy Woman led Gorgeous between the vents by the nose. “Time to be meeting the other tribes on the grassland.”
“Past time.” Farule winced as he pushed himself upright with the help of his spear. He dangled one leg.
Tall Tachamwa fidgeted with one of the notch marks cut into his ears. He was the tribe's headman because of his height, but his lips quivered with fear.
“W-warriors, in front.” Gritting his teeth, Tachamwa wrapped one arm around Farule's shoulder. The headman helped the lamed Greatheart walk downslope. “Keep watch for boulders with legs.”
Gown of Shadow and Flame Page 6