“Celaise.” Gio spoke the word without inflection. He pinched Jerani's skin when turning the bracelet's scratched emblem face up. “Tachamwa said you know her.”
“No, I don't.” He said it to try to irritate the Bright Palm, but Jerani realized it was true. He knew little about her. He knew little about her. Only that she's brave, beautiful, and strong. I know enough.
“How does she appear?”
“What?”
“How does she appear?” the Bright Palm said again, in the same exact tone.
“I don't know,” Jerani said. “Her dress, it's…well, the Angry Mother must have made it.”
“Would you say she is of great beauty?”
The question was strange coming from someone who looked like his father, in that passionless voice. Jerani wanted to know why the Bight Palm cared. More than that, Jerani wanted to get away as soon as he could. He licked his lips, and they stung from dryness.
“Yes,” he said.
Gio let go of the bracer. “They will appear at night to the Innocent as creatures of great hideousness and great beauty. Twelfth tenet, stanza five.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Did any Greathearts die last night?”
“No,” Jerani said. “Are you saying—”
“Any hurt? Fallen ill?”
“Matau took a claw,” Jerani said, “defending the Lightfoot tribe. Now what was it about that twelfth something?”
“A woman, or maybe a child, then,” the Bright Palm said, though the words did not seem to answer Jerani's question. “I must find the body.”
The Bright Palm marched away without a goodbye or any other sign they had been speaking.
Jerani massaged the skin under the bracer. He felt chafed on the outside and raw on the inside. He's mad. My father is mad.
No, he's not my father. Jerani had to keep reminding himself that. The resemblance made the man's uncaring words even more painful. Jerani would rather swallow a swarm of termites than call that glowing creature his father. He glanced at the white bugs as they crawled and flew over their crushed mounds. He's not even a person.
Motion drew his eye, and the scraggly figure of the cowless woman ducked behind Moon Horns. Jerani did not like her creeping around the cows, and the last thing he wished to do was go closer. But he had promised Celaise.
“Were you watching us?” Jerani did not want to be seen with the Bright Palm. At least she would have been too far to overhear.
The crippled thing turned away from him, though not before he had seen her shattered teeth. An image ripped through his mind of Anza scarred, her torn eyelid never closing all the way, the eye itself yellow and cloudy. A foulness filled his mouth, and he wanted to spit.
The muscles in Jerani's neck tensed. He forced himself to swallow his nausea and speak. “Are you hungry?”
“Go away.” Black tangles of dusty hair wreathed the outlander.
“Do you want a comb? Er, I might find you some new clothes.”
A rip at the center of her dress exposed skin stretched over ribs. It did not look like a woman's chest so much as the flank of a starved rhino.
She tugged the frayed pieces closed to cover herself. “Leave me alone.”
“I promised…I mean, I'll leave if you want. Are you sure you don't need anything?”
“Get away!” She swung at him with her crutch. Her dress flopped open over her chest, and anger contorted her face, dry skin flaking and twisting around a mouth of black fangs.
Her hatred surprised Jerani too much for him to dodge her swing. Her attack was feeble. The crutch rolled from her grasp before it could hit him.
Confused, relieved, and disgusted, Jerani backed away. He could not imagine what he had done to anger the outlander, or why Celaise wanted him to help her. Must be because of Celaise's caring heart.
He wanted to take the scarred woman at her word and stay away, but Celaise might think he neglected her wish. Jerani decided he should check on the bony creature later. He did not look forward to it.
A thought nagged him. The outlander's face reminded him of someone else's, though he could not say whom or how.
Before leaving to graze the cows under his care, he glanced back to see the Bright Palm leaning down to touch the outlander. Good, Jerani thought, he'll be the one to help her.
Bitter ash and stinging sand mixed together within Celaise at the sight of Jerani walking away.
She had seen the two of them talking. Him and the Bright Palm. She thought of them scheming together the whole time, looking for clues of what she was, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
The sky's shroud of ash had begun to drift back, and in the daylight, Black Wine confined itself in her heart. She started to wonder if she was wrong to suspect Jerani.
She decided she would take her chances on the savanna. The prospect of dodging the Headless and sleeping in trees among ants and savage cats did not appeal to her, but better pinchers and fangs than the kind words of a betrayer.
Her crutch dug into the ground as she pulled herself up. Shoulders tilted. She walked between lumps of the dead Headless. Vultures circled.
The thought of killing all the predators saddened her. She admired their simplicity, their straightforwardness and honesty. They slept, they fed, or waited until they could sleep or feed. They did not lie. They did not entice their prey with smiles and promises of everlasting care.
Celaise's guts roiled with half-remembered pain.
A feeling of nearing pressure and light gave her only enough warning to watch in despair as the Bright Palm reached down to snatch her. She could have been no more scared if the Sun Dragon's burning, gold-scaled arm wrapped its talons around her.
She happened to know the nearest tree was close, and her life would end in moments. The Bright Palm lifted her with one hand, and his other held the bronze spike that—but, no, his fingers were empty. She waited for him to slide one of the nails out of his belt and ram it through her leg. She waited for the crunch of bones, the tearing pain.
“Are you afraid of me?” the Bright Palm said.
Terrifying hope gagged Celaise. He was asking her questions, meaning he still did not know, not for certain. Bright Palms expected Feasters to fear them. They also counted on Feasters to lie. Celaise knew she could not answer yes or no.
“You tore my poncho,” she said.
He stared. When he blinked, the light in his pupils shone through his eyelids.
Celaise was slung over his shoulder. Her belly hit him hard, and air rushed out of her. The crutch slid from her grasp, and when she tried to catch it with her left hand, the claw fingers could not close.
By the time she had her breath back, she had still not decided if she should scream. He would take that as a sign of fear. Any woman being carried away by a man would scream, but Celaise did not know if this soulless, marble heart would understand that.
She would scream. I have to. Last time, the Holy Woman had helped her.
Celaise opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Bars of fear clamped her throat shut.
Two children ran alongside the Bright Palm. They pointed at her.
“Cowless! Cowless!”
“No cows! No cows!”
No life, she thought. No living.
She glimpsed the girl Anza on the other side of a calf. She stared at Celaise with one eye. The girl did not try to stop the Bright Palm. No one did.
His sandals lifted up and down, each step like the last, like the next. The sounds of the tribesmen faded, and she could do no more than stare down, at the mounds of dry dirt and brown grasses flowing by.
“Put me down.” She kicked, tried to wriggle free. No good.
She had a knife, had used it to scare off many a drunken beggar looking to grope her in an alley. Bright Palms could die to swords. She had heard of Feaster Knights killing them. Her knife was hardly a sword and mostly dull, but she was in a good position to slash his neck.
No, I shouldn't, she thought.
If he doesn't die, he'll think me a Feaster for sure.
She asked, “Where you taking me?”
When he did not answer, she thought of Jerani. His betrayal hurt. He must have pointed her out to his Bright Palm father. She knew she should have expected it, but it still felt like thorn vines creeping through her chest.
Sun take 'em both! Her trembling hand reached for the knife tucked into her rope belt, but the arm clamping over her midsection blocked her. Pops and clicks sounded from her hand as she curled it around his elbow.
She touched the hilt of her knife. The Bright Palm gripped her hand. Fingers as strong as tongs stripped the knife from her.
Her body sagged in defeat, then she decided she had better say something. “Gimme that back! Only wanted to know it hadn't fallen out. Only thing I have.”
His boots thumped their measured pace.
The light dimmed. Shade. She was slung against a tree.
This'll be it, she thought, now for the nails.
The Bright Palm unwound a leather rope from his other shoulder, and he tied her to the tree. Her heart beat in her head, and she was dizzy with shocking relief and bursting fear. Being roped to a tree was a delight compared to being nailed to one.
Only one problem remained for Celaise. A sun-blasted Bright Ass is roping me to a tree!
He tightened the cords under her arms so she could only draw half-breaths. Her mind screamed when he slammed a nail into the trunk on either side of her face, twining the leather around them to hold her head in place.
“I never hurt you.” She could move nothing except her forearms. “Not you or your tribe.”
He placed a gourd within her short reach. “Did you fight the Rock-Backs last night?”
“I—I smacked a Skin-Back off the bull.” That had been a day or two ago, but close enough.
“Your tracks,” he said while sliding her knife into the dirt, blade first, “cover the battlefield.”
She tried to shake her head, but her temples smacked against the nails. “Maybe I walked around it this morning. I mean, that's what I did, to look. How could I fight?”
He plunged a bronze spike into the ground beside her knife. Then he walked away.
Her impulse to call him back to untie her was stifled by her sweltering thankfulness to see him leave.
Celaise stared at the knife and nail standing side by side in front of her. Some kind of a warning? To any who might free me?
She cried out for help as soon as she dared. Her throat was hoarse to begin with, and she could draw in only a little air. Not a chance the tribe will hear me. He carried me too far out.
Her fingers tipped the gourd toward her. It sloshed. The milk inside tasted like venom. She spat it out.
Celaise's hands wrung over the nails on either side of her head, and she squirmed. The spikes felt as sturdy as branches.
She thought he would come back for his nails. What she did not know was whether he would return soon or only after she had dried to crust and bones.
Jerani was at peace among the grazing cattle. Few things could match the pleasure of seeing cows content, munching, stalks of grass folding into their pink-lipped mouths. They sighed their moos, tails flicking.
A wind had pushed back the ash cloud, and the day was bright but cool. The grey 'land now let loose its full colors. Grasses of greens and yellows. Some with scraggly tips of red, other tufted with white. Orange grasshoppers bounded. Flocks of pink dragonflies thrummed by overhead. The dry red of the soil warmed him. The sky blasted him with blueness, and he reveled in it. The color reminded him of Celaise.
Two calves chased each other through grasses taller than themselves. Jerani could only see them when the strands of green parted, or when the calves paused the race to leap in circles. Jerani heard one calf trip, and he investigated to see Brown Whiskers beside a grass hummock. Feather Foot licked her neck until she rose back to her hooves.
Some cows cheered on the youngsters with throaty voices. Others scolded them with grass-muffled grunts.
Gem pattered after the older calves, though she could not keep up. She stood, rapt, to watch the two press stub-horned brows together for a shoving match. Feather Foot bowed first, white knee hitting the turf. The two calves bumped shoulders in companionship then started another race, kicking dust into Gem's face. She bawled.
Jerani patted her fuzzy hide. “You'll grow up to be a beauty, don't you worry.”
The calf gazed up at him with her dark-pool eyes. Her tail flopped against him.
He was proud to watch over such a fine calf, even more so knowing Celaise had given him guardianship. Jerani wished she could be with him now, to enjoy this day. She deserves to. Because of her, the Greathearts had survived the night. But he guessed the goddess would need her handmaidens to fan the flames during the day.
The sun reflected off the bracer. Jerani wondered if Celaise did watch him and the cows from afar. He liked to think so.
He took off the copper band to see if he could fix some dents. Why do they keep coming back? Between taps with the handle of his club, he glanced about, though he did not expect to see Rock-Backs during the day. Too hot for them.
Most of the dents flattened out. Though he could not fix the scrape marks, he rubbed the copper with the hem of his warrior robe until the metal sparkled. He bet Celaise would love to see her bracer now.
The day wore on in such quiet that Jerani had a hard time believing that in a few short hours he would face fanged boulders. With a giddy rush in his chest, he realized he was looking forward to it. Then he would see Celaise. He wondered what kind of dress she would wear tonight.
Obsidian shards? Dripping ribbons of lava? He shivered at the thought.
He was not the only man guarding the cows. Jerani strolled to a Greatheart with his warrior marks in a cat-whisker pattern spreading from his lips. He was carving his war club. The shaft curved at the end in a head of polished wood. The warrior was shaving bits off the knob, leaving a raised brown dimple. He lifted it to Jerani.
“Look, a woman's teat. Heh. Heh-heh.”
Jerani stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth in a grimace. He flipped his own war club in the air, caught it, then examined it. Not too scuffed. He had carved a crowned crane on its length as a sign for Anza and a hippo for Wedan. Hippos are strong and ferocious, and he will be, too, someday.
Warriors often cluttered their clubs with strings of beads. Jerani could not see himself doing that. It would skew his throw. His finger rubbed a smooth section of wood behind the head, and then he peered at the bracer. He could etch the winged-circle design on his club. Would Celaise like that?
He remembered what she would like, for him to check on the outlander. Celaise is so caring. Jerani would leave the unpleasant task for sometime before dusk. The late-afternoon sun simmered with a relaxing warmth.
Two boys played between the cows, thwacking the grasses with a straight stick. “Die, Rock-Back! Die!”
Jerani walked by them to a cow and patted her shoulder, felt her muscle. “Could be another fight tonight, Honey Horns, but you're not worrying about that, are you? Just taking the good grass as it comes.”
Honey Horns ground her jaw side to side and mooed in content. Jerani scratched around her brisket below her neck. He wondered if he would enjoy himself this much in the dark field with the sky cows, and Celaise. Perhaps even more.
The boys ran by, screaming, and Jerani's heart jumped. But they were still playing. He noticed that the stick the lead one carried looked familiar. Rags wrapped around one end to bind a wedge of wood to it.
Jerani asked, “Is that a crutch?
The boy swung the crutch at his friend, who ducked in time. “I am the strongest Greatheart. Rawrrr!”
“Nioki!” Jerani snatched the improvised club. “This is the outlander's crutch, isn't it?”
“Yeah,” the other boy said, “the crook legs'.”
Jerani took the crutch over their protests, and he jogged toward the camp, thinking how
he had found something he could do for the outlander. She could never walk without her crutch.
Celaise would Feast on Jerani first. Then on the rest of his tribe. If I ever get out of this.
Her sweat had dampened the ropes but not loosened them. The Sun Dragon sat burning on the horizon, glowering at eye level with angry judgment. The worst part for her was knowing that even after the dawn of night, she could not free herself. Her magic had no power to unbind the ropes, to lift so much as a pebble.
Celaise could do no more than shed the Dragon's curse and hope someone found her pleasing enough to the eye to rescue. She hated people for their shallowness, and she loved meeting such people, at night.
Flies had mapped every inch of her, and a few beetles had also gone on expeditions. Fewer than a dozen had bitten her.
“'Least this tree isn't an ant city,” she said to herself.
The Bright Palm stepped into view from behind the tree. The shock of seeing him so close—so soon—set off bursts of yellow and orange in her head. She jerked in her bonds, choking herself on the rope.
How long has Mister Mud-Heart been hiding behind me?
He leaned down to rest one glowing finger on her upper lip, pressing between her tooth shards. “Did they throw stones at you because you are a Feaster?”
“N-no.” Her heart beat so fast that she felt like her veins thrashed and twisted, but she forced herself to answer quickly. She tried to think if she should try to explain. She doubted a Bright Palm would care, and she did not care to tell him. “No, they didn't.”
Bright Palms could spot lies, so the rumor went. This one studied her face, but his own revealed nothing to Celaise, not a hint as to whether he believed her. A sinkhole opened in her guts when she realized she had not denied being a Feaster, and she did not trust her quaking throat to do so now.
“The Rock-Backs died without wounds,” the Bright Palm said, “so there must be a Feaster. But no person has been harmed by magic, so there cannot be a Feaster.”
Celaise held her breath, waiting to hear how he would resolve that contradiction. He never did. No Feaster stoops to dining on beasts when she can help it.
Gown of Shadow and Flame Page 17