Osidian looked incredulous. ‘Trophies?’ His eyebrows rose. ‘I would not have believed a minion would dare such sacrilege.’
‘The Ichorian did not know who you were.’
‘You did not tell him?’
‘It did not seem to me he would have believed me.’
Osidian nodded, but his mind was already lost in calculation. To Carnelian, he seemed to have aged a dozen years. His skin had dulled, his carriage no longer seemed to hold his head among the clouds; even his neck had lost its graceful line. Seeing this, guilt churned Carnelian’s stomach and a question formed in his mind which was an agony to utter.
‘Do you blame me?’
Osidian’s gaze came back into focus, emotion softening his face. For a moment Carnelian recognized the boy in the Yden and almost let out a mingled cry of joy and grief, but as suddenly as it had come, the vision passed away, leaving a coldness in Osidian’s eyes as he smiled.
‘How like you, Carnelian, to crave absolution. Tell me, have your recent experiences not hardened your heart even a little?’
Osidian reached out and Carnelian allowed himself to be taken by the chin. Osidian shook his head indulgently. ‘Your beauty has weathered our adversity well.’
His hand fell. ‘Tell me how we came to be here. Leave nothing out.’
Carnelian would have clung to that discussion, but Osidian had become limestone and so Carnelian saw no other path but to tell the story from the beginning. He had barely taken them in their urns through the City at the Gates, when Osidian began to look morose and Carnelian fell silent. Osidian’s hand strayed up to the angry scar the rope had left around his neck. His voice was flat when he spoke.
‘Of what follows I have memories enough.’ He looked around in the gloom to where the Plainsmen sat away from them. ‘Recommence from the time when we were captured by these barbarians?’
Carnelian poured the story out and as he did, lived in that time again. When he reached the morning when the raiders were intending to let them be found by the legion, he ran dry.
‘I had to choose,’ he said.
Osidian seemed startled. ‘And you chose to come here?’
Carnelian gazed at him. ‘I could not bear that you should die.’
Osidian’s laughter wounded Carnelian.
‘One has to keep reminding oneself that you really are everything you appear to be. It is inconceivable any other of the Chosen could have made such a decision: to willingly consign oneself to this life of savagery for another … Incredible.’
Now Carnelian wanted to hurt him. ‘Perhaps, in truth, I was intent on saving myself. I cannot imagine your mother would welcome my return.’
‘You would have no call to fear her. It is beyond doubt that if I had returned, my blood would have anointed my brother’s Masks, but be sure I would have dragged my mother into the tomb after me.’
‘And your brother?’
‘Once a God Emperor is made, They cannot be unmade, but the revealing of Their plot would unite the Great against Them. Even They could not have harmed you then.’
Carnelian’s anger ebbed away.
Osidian reached out to touch him. ‘It was a kindness, Carnelian, I will do my best to repay.’
Carnelian burned up. ‘It was no kindness, but an act of love.’
It had grown so dark they could no longer see each other, but Carnelian sensed Osidian had become as ensnared as he in uncomfortable emotion.
‘And I had feared you would hate me for bringing you here,’ he said almost to himself.
‘I might have if it had not been revealed to be my manifest destiny.’
Carnelian felt the swamp smothering him.
‘But tell me, why did the barbarians accede to your request? Surely even they must be aware of how dangerous we are.’
Though it felt selfish, Carnelian did not wish to dwell on what danger his choice might have brought upon the Plainsmen.
‘I appealed to one of them. Fern.’
‘Fern,’ said Osidian.
‘I had shown consideration for his father when he was close to death.’
‘I can see how such condescension might be impressive to such as they.’
Osidian’s hauteur irritated Carnelian. ‘They have seen us as we are, my Lord. Do you really believe we still appear to them as angels?’
‘What we appear to be matters less than what we are,’ Osidian said in ominous tones. ‘But I sense there is something else that caused this Fern to take us with him.’
Something deep inside urged Carnelian to hide the truth, but he was certain Osidian would see through any lie.
‘You watched them blacken the bodies of their dead? Well, we appeared to them thus, clothed in bitumen.’
‘And my birthmark?’ Osidian asked in a strange voice Carnelian felt compelled to answer.
‘That played a part.’
‘If I read it right, then it must have been this Fern who found us among the sartlar.’
‘It was his brother who noticed the Ichorian,’ Carnelian said, feeling as if he were trying to deflect some attack.
‘An older brother?’
‘A younger, Ravan.’
‘I see.’
Carnelian had a feeling that the night was taking possession of Osidian. ‘The Empress must be aware we still live.’
‘Why should she?’ the darkness said.
Carnelian explained their ride past the watch-tower. ‘So you see –’
‘Most likely, the Wise will have seen us but as to whether they shall reveal this to my mother or my holy brother, that is another matter altogether; and one which will be determined by the balance of power in Osrakum.’
A harrowing thought occurred to Carnelian. ‘Will they search for us?’
‘The thought of the Wise is unfathomable,’ said Osidian in a tone which was intended to terminate any further speculation.
‘Please finish your account of how we came here.’
Carnelian did, sensing throughout how interested Osidian had become in Fern and Ravan. Carnelian concluded the tale with Osidian coming awake. He was reluctant to touch on the horror of the previous night.
‘Tell me what you have learned about these barbarians.’
Carnelian relayed what he knew, but after a while, Osidian interrupted.
‘You seem strangely privy to much which passes between them.’
Carnelian hesitated a moment before answering. ‘The tongue they speak is one I have known since I was a child.’
‘You are telling me you comprehend their barbarian speech?’
Carnelian could hear Osidian’s amazement. ‘It was the tongue my wet nurse, Ebeny, spoke.’
‘That any wide assemblage of barbarians should speak a single tongue stands in vivid contrast to the belief the Wise hold that their languages are legion.’
‘The Wise are not in error. These people have told me their language is only one of many.’
‘Which you just happen to have been taught by one of your household slaves?’
‘I have told you before she was much more than a slave.’
‘How can you explain such a singular coincidence?’
It was something Carnelian had been unable to resolve. He could see how this development only served to harden Osidian’s belief that some force was guiding their destiny. Dread welled up in him.
‘Do they know you speak their tongue?’
‘Please, Osidian. No more questions. I am tired. I cannot –’
‘Do they know?’
‘Fern does.’
‘And has not revealed this to any other or else they would all know.’
Carnelian thought this a rather patronizing assumption. He hoped Osidian would say nothing more.
‘Who leads them?’
Osidian’s voice seemed one with the night. Carnelian did not want to answer, but to seek the escape of sleep. Anticipation of Osidian repeating the question became almost painful until Carnelian felt compelled to say: ‘Look for the
man who has suffered almost as many mutilations as a Sapient.’
In the long, weary days that followed, they struggled through the swamp following Ranegale and Krow who had become his shadow. They tried to keep to the mounds and runs of higher ground but these were often so overgrown they were forced down into the quagmire where they sank up to their knees in the stinking mud. A leg had to be dragged out, swung forward, then allowed to be sucked back in again. Fatigue made each step seem their last. They had to make innumerable rest stops. If they were fortunate, they would find a knoll to climb: if they were not, they might have to clamber up into the branches of a tree. Talk was rare. People chewed djada and licked at a saltstone, staring with unfocused eyes. Osidian’s emaciated body was sheened with sweat as he struggled to breathe. His gaunt face betrayed his exhaustion but his eyes were green embers. Miserable, Carnelian tried to peer into his heart through those eyes, without success. Osidian seemed focused on some problem. Sometimes his lips moved as if he were holding a conversation.
As the darkness thickened round them, Ranegale would call a halt. Sometimes, Carnelian would be so grateful that tears would squeeze from his eyes even as his muscles went into their usual spasm. In the camps, only Osidian would not jump when an un-human cry came filtering through the dusk. When they heard crashings near them, they would wait almost without breathing until they had passed. Osidian would sit as calmly as if he were reposing in a garden. More and more, Ravan was to be seen beside him. Once, coming awake, Carnelian heard two voices rustling in the dark. Though he could make out no words he knew it was Osidian whispering to Ravan. Something made him fear for the youth. He felt something else which, eventually, he was unable to deny. He was jealous of the one person Osidian did not treat as a stranger.
Rain began to fall incessantly day and night. Nothing ever got a chance to dry. The djada became slimy. Before they ate, they had to scrape off a fur of purple-black mould. Disgust and the bitter taste made it hard to keep down. The blankets were transformed into a sodden burden which at last they had to reluctantly discard. The leather of the Plainsmen’s shoes swelled up and chafed their feet so that they were forced to take them off and walk barefoot with the two Standing Dead. Each morning brought an aching rise from unrestful sleep with nothing before them but another slogging, punishing day. As night approached they would drop into the mud not knowing whether they were closer to the Earthsky or even if they had been plodding around in circles.
‘We’re lost,’ said Ravan.
Ranegale lifted his head and cupped a hand to listen.
‘Lost,’ shouted Ravan.
Ranegale shrugged.
Osidian rose. Carnelian thought that, though still painfully thin, there was something in the way Osidian moved that made him look more like himself. As he watched him look round at the Plainsmen slumped here and there against the fern trunks, Carnelian wondered what he was up to.
‘I know the way if you’ll follow me.’
Carnelian came fully awake as Ravan translated Osidian’s words for those youths who did not have Vulgate.
Ranegale sneered at him. ‘Why are you bothering to spread his nonsense, boy?’
‘Which of you wish to get home alive?’ asked Osidian.
‘How could you possibly know the way?’ said Fern.
Osidian looked at him. ‘The sorcery of the Masters is beyond your understanding, barbarian.’
Irritated, Fern glanced at Carnelian. Osidian saw their exchange of looks and frowned. He addressed the youths.
‘Which of you will follow me?’
As Ravan relayed what Osidian had said, Carnelian saw hope perking them up.
Ranegale surged to his feet. ‘How do you believe one of the Standing Dead could possibly know a way through this swamp when even we do not?’
The youths looked crestfallen. Ravan stood to face Ranegale. Fern, now also on his feet, made to move to his brother’s side, but Loskai signed aggressively for him to stay where he was.
‘Why don’t you just face it, Ranegale,’ said Ravan. ‘Every decision you’ve made has been bad, and have you forgotten it was the Master who drove away the demon and not you? I say that’s worth respecting. If he now says he can get us home, I for one would like to let him try.’
Ranegale drew close enough to Ravan that his threats sprayed spittle on his face. The youth pulled back saying something. Ranegale put a hand up to hear. When the youth mocked the gesture Ranegale knocked him to the ground.
Fern leapt forward but Osidian stood in his way. For a moment it seemed the Plainsman would throw himself on the Master. In conflict, Carnelian hesitated to take Osidian’s part. Fern, unable to hold the Master’s gaze, looked away. Osidian turned, taking in Ravan who was nursing his shoulder; Loskai getting ready for violence and then the staring youths.
‘Does anyone here believe Ranegale will get you out of this mess?’
Fern looked uncertain and Carnelian could see even Loskai wavering.
Roaring, Ranegale flung himself on Osidian who fell backwards with the Plainsman on top of him. As Carnelian lunged forward to pull the man off, Fern grabbed hold of him. Carnelian struggled loose, snarling, and would have attacked his friend if it had not been for the expression of shock on his face.
‘We’ve no quarrel,’ said Fern.
Carnelian turned to see Osidian struggling to push Ranegale off him. The Plainsman butted him in the face and Osidian’s nose turned red.
‘His blood,’ Carnelian cried out, in outrage.
Fern grimaced apologetically. ‘You mustn’t interfere.’
‘But he’s still weak,’ moaned Carnelian.
Loskai leered. ‘If the Master wins, we’ll follow him wherever he leads.’
He lost his leer when at that moment Osidian managed to roll Ranegale off him.
Ravan bared his teeth. ‘Hurt him, Master, hurt him.’
Carnelian formed part of the ring of bodies shifting around the fight. He could not bear to see Osidian hurt more than he had been already. He looked round at Fern pleading with his eyes, but his friend shook his head.
‘They’ll have to sort this out some time.’
Carnelian saw the truth in that. A cry from Ravan made Carnelian turn back to the fight. Ranegale was holding a knife. Carnelian stared at its feint and stab. Another blade landed in the mud beside Osidian’s foot. He saw it, but ignored it. Lunging ferociously, he caught Ranegale, then with appalling strength lifted him clear of the ground, then hurled him down.
Carnelian saw Ranegale had lost his knife, then his uba was torn away to reveal the pit above his mouth; the crusted eye socket, the earless holes in the side of his head. The man’s hands trembled up to hide his disfigurements. Osidian stood over him. The Plainsman made to snatch the second blade but Osidian’s foot struck like a snake, crushing his wrist. Hanging his hand, whining, Ranegale stared, tearful panic in his eye. He shrieked as Osidian took hold of him. The Plainsman struggled but could not break free.
‘Let him go,’ wailed Loskai.
Osidian knelt, bending the man backwards over his knee.
Carnelian shuffled forward. ‘Osidian, you are victorious. Let him go.’
Loskai fell to his knees. ‘Please, Master …’
Osidian gave no response and like a machine continued inexorably to bend Ranegale’s back.
Carnelian threw himself on Osidian, trying to release his hold on Ranegale. Clawing blood from Osidian’s thigh, the Plainsman flung his head back, his disfigured face shaping a silent cry of agony. The crack as his back snapped made everyone jump. Carnelian let go of Osidian’s arms and stood back. Osidian rolled the man off his knee into the mud and rose. Gaping, Carnelian glanced at Ranegale splayed at his feet. Osidian was staring at the broken man as if he had come across him by surprise.
Ranegale begged his brother to kill him, but Loskai, staring, backed away. They all stood as if forced to watch the man’s agonized attempts to stand. He scrabbled with his arms but his legs seemed to have been turned to
stone. Loskai helped prop him up, but each time his brother collapsed back into the mud so that he began to look nothing like a man at all but rather some loathsome worm crawled up from the swamp.
‘Kill me, Loskai,’ shrilled Ranegale.
Loskai was doubled up, reaching out, stamping. ‘We can carry you home, Ranegale. Perhaps the Elders can fix you.’
‘I’m broken,’ Ranegale squealed.
‘Do it,’ Ravan screamed at Loskai.
Among the sobbing youths, Krow stood silently watching.
Fern turned snarling in the direction which Osidian had taken when he had disappeared into the gloom. ‘Were you possessed to do this?’
Though in shock, Carnelian knew it was guilt that made him speak. ‘Have you forgotten it was Ranegale who wanted to leave your kin to rot?’
Fern lowered his head and looked at Carnelian from under his brows. ‘And you believe that justifies this?’
Rage rose in Carnelian. Fearing he might unleash it on his friend, he turned and ran, hunting Osidian along the trail he had left in the mud. Slipping, he fell. The impact cleared his mind. Mercifully, he had come far enough that he could barely hear Ranegale’s cries. Should he have stopped the fight? What Osidian had done disgusted him, but would any other Master have acted differently? This Osidian was not the boy that he had loved in the Yden. What Carnelian feared most was that it was he who was responsible for the transformation.
The first thing Carnelian noticed when Osidian came into view was his bony spine pushing through the soaked cloth on his back. Coming closer, he could see the brown scar he wore around his neck. Pity mixed with dread as Carnelian moved round to try and look into his face.
‘It was necessary he should die,’ Osidian said, looking at his hands as if they were not his own.
‘He is not dead yet.’
‘They will kill him.’
Carnelian hoped this was true. ‘And now you will lead them?’
The face Osidian turned to him was one Carnelian recognized. Relief washed over him.
They embraced, clinging to each other.
‘Where have you been?’ he muttered into Osidian’s shoulder.
‘Where I would never wish to have you go, my blood.’
The Standing Dead (The Stone Dance Of The Chameleon) Page 12