by Martin Davey
“He did say that there had been more of them, others tied to trees with their arms and legs and throats cut open. He said it had been like a forest of blood, and he said there had been earthquakes strong enough to make him fall from his feet even though we had felt nothing as we climbed into the mountains,” Retaj’s voice was quiet under the unceasing beat of the drums. Why hadn’t he ever mentioned this to Marin?
The Mahrata’s eyes glimmered in the gloom, “And do you know what happened to this man?”
“I do as it happens,” Retaj said. He nodded in the direction of the Andalian mountains. “His bones are probably still up there now. One of the men, I think his name was Saural, killed him. Put a sword in his belly when we couldn’t get rid of him and his ravings.” His eyes were grey in the remembering, “He hardly had any blood left to bleed out of him when Saural cut him open.”
Silence in the tent once more. As silent as anything can be when drums loud enough to span a continent are shaking the very ground. “Which is all beside the point, whether these Servants of the Paramin are there or not, there might be a path into the mountains further east. Or do we face the Canaristi?” Even as Marin was saying this, he knew all he wanted to do was to shake the Mahrata and beg her to tell him what she had done to him. He might as well have hoped to pull the moon from the sky as to ever lay a finger on her smoothly pale arms.
“We’ll need all the followers we can when the Paramin is born, Shalih,” Areen said.
The Mahrata agreed, the slightest nod of her head. “There must be a path into the mountains, tales of these Servants can’t be a coincidence. We’ll look further east.”
Already Marin had to fight to turn and do the Mahrata’s bidding, his body, his entire being, wanting to begin packing camp, to readying the horses and the carts. He clenched his fists and remained still. Was that an amused glance the Mahrata cast his way?
Darl picked up his knife, the map rolling back into place. The wind was getting stronger, the canvas of the tent rippling under the breeze.
“Everybody get the camp ready,” the Mahrata said. “Remember we have to move quickly, the time is almost upon us.” Marin was already almost out of the tent before she had finished speaking. “Except for you, Marin. I would like to speak to you.”
Retaj was through the door quicker than a scalded cat, Areen and Darl falling to their knees before the Mahrata, not rising until she had laid a hand on each of their blonde heads and allowed them to take their leave.
Alone in the tent with the Mahrata, Marin was all too aware of the smell of her, kalaberry mixed with something more exotic, more primal than simple perfume or bath salts. The scent made his head light and his throat crave more ferris root. Every time he moved his head, he could feel the thread in his throat stretching and tightening, pulling at the flesh. He fell to his knees before the Mahrata, head bowed, and he saw his own sagging belly, his thick mat of white chest hair. “Shalih,” he said.
“Rise,” the Mahrata turned away, beckoning him with the lifting of one hand.
Marin remembered his farming days and calling a dog with the same motion. He rose to his feet, his knees aching and his legs feeling tired. He still had blood soaked into his breeches.
“So,” the Mahrata slid onto the table, one leg swinging loose, her dress rising to show a bare foot and a length of slender ankle, her other leg folded behind it. “You fought well up there in the mountains, Marin. You have lost none of your strength.”
How do you know? Marin wanted to scream. Instead he bowed, a nod of his head. “Thank you, Shalih,” he said.
“Yes, you fought well,” the Mahrata murmured absently. She reached behind her, her body arching in her dress, slender curves pressing against the shimmering fabric as she found a red cloth bag on the far side of the table. Somehow Marin knew what was in that bag. Ferris root. The Mahrata straightened again, the neckline of her dress showing a swelling of white breast. Marin felt weak at the knees, whether for the ferris root, or the glorious beauty of the woman before him, he couldn’t say.
The Mahrata weighed the bag in her hand. “You are a warrior Marin. The man was bigger and stronger than you and still you fought. Fought for the Paramin, the god who will save us all.” She bit a lip and looked away as though searching for more words, an expression of a young girl. Marin had never felt so old.
“I...” his throat felt constricted, tight and raw. “I had some help, Shalih. I, I heard a voice as I fought, a voice that came from within me. It told me to be my true self.”
The Mahrata nodded, her foot swinging lazily. “And did you?”
“Did I what. Shalih?” Marin bowed his head in apology for his failure to understand.
“Did you become your true self?” She weighed the bag in her hand again, soft and velvet and full of promise.
“I...I don’t know Shalih. Retaj killed the man a moment later, though he said that I looked...different somehow.” The old Marin, the Marin before he had met the Mahrata would never have told of this, he would have shrugged it off as some trickery of the light, some lightness in Retaj’s head, now he could keep nothing from this woman with the slender ankles and the bag of red velvet.
“Everybody is different, Marin. Always remember that. These, our faces,” she touched her own face, beautiful and smiling as she ran the tips of her fingers down a smooth cheek. “Are nothing but masks to hide our true selves. Your old gods, Marin, before you came to the fold of the Paramin, they wear masks to hide their true selves, do they not?”
Marin’s vision swam before him as he remembered a dark wood with a masked god whispering to him from the shadows, remembered a many-knuckled hand holding a sword of black light and a mask of green leering above as it cut and sliced his flesh.
“But who are we to judge your gods when we do the same? Look at the Servant we may soon be meeting in the mountains. A young woman when she left Ruritan, but with the face of an old crone, her mask against the world.” The Mahrata slid off the table and walked to Marin, touched a hand to his cheek. “We all wear masks, Marin, usually ours to use as we see fit.” She sighed and, moving her hand from his face, she slipped the bag of ferris root into his hand. “But most wear their masks to hide from others, you, you wear your mask to hide from yourself.” Her smile was sad, pitying almost, her brow creasing. “But none can hide from the Blood Lord, Marin. Always remember that.” She turned away so he could slip a chunk of ferris root into his mouth. He chewed greedily, relishing the brown ooze sliding down his throat.
The Mahrata turned away when he began chewing, her dress bright in the shadows of the tent. “Somebody once might have thought you could hide from me, do you remember that, Marin?”
Marin remembered a woman with short brown hair walking on a riverbank, “Who are you,” she had asked him. And then before that, he remembered a farmer, tall with dark eyes under a broad-brimmed hat. “Who are you,” the man had asked him. “I am Marin,” Marin had answered, looking up at the man, the sun shining behind him making him dark. “But Marin is dead,” the woman on the riverbank had said, a woman who Marin loved even though he didn’t know her name.
“Who would think I could hide from you, Shalih? Who would want me to hide from you?” Marin tried not to chew the ferris root as the Mahrata studied his face. He knew she would find it repulsive when there were already so many other things about him she would find repulsive.
The Mahrata waved a hand through the air, she wore a large ring of jade on the third finger of her right hand. “Perhaps one day, when you find how your mask is woven, then you will be able to answer your own questions. They are of little concern to me at the moment. You are with me, Marin. You are with the Blood Lord, the Paramin, the Promised One. Are you not?” She looked at him, her head tilted to one side, her eyes bright and brown and copper and gold.
Marin fell to his knees before her as though he had been struck, his head bowed to the ground. “My life is yours, Shalih. I live to do the bidding of the Blood Lord.”
&nbs
p; The Mahrata rested a hand on his head, “Of course it is. You took the blood oath, Marin.” She smiled down at him, still not giving permission to rise. Marin could feel the dry blood on his breeches stiff against his legs.
“Don’t fail me, Marin. We might be going to find Jermatoah up in those mountains, my old Karserr, the one who taught me the ways of the Paramin.” The Mahrata’s mouth twitched as though she had put a finger in something foul and stinking. “She will not love me, Marin. She will not love you and what you are. It is important we love each other and stand against her if needs be.”
Marin had never seen something so beautiful become so twisted as the Mahrata’s face did when she spoke of Jermatoah. “Shalih,” he said. “I won’t fail you.”
The Mahrata smiled, “Of course you won’t.” She patted his hand with the red bag in it. “And if we do survive what is to come, you might find something there that will tell you something of your own mask.” She rested her hand on his head and Marin closed his eyes and saw the woman with the short brown hair smiling at him, her arm through his. When he opened his eyes, the Mahrata had left the tent.
It was a long time before he was allowed to rise from his knees.
CHAPTER 25
The Watch was a six once more. A young, gangly youth who walked like a foal had been chosen to replace Feren, his dreams Visited by Keeper Martuk the night before.
“The Watch has always been a six,” Torra had said, and now they were a six again. Feren had died and been replaced by a young man who’s eyes shone with worshipful fervour when he had told Landros of his Dream; Clerk Lovelin had died and been replaced by Clerk Killian. People died and replacements were found and all was right again with the world of the gods.
Kerona stepped beneath him, eager to be off from the stableyard and on to the patrol. If only they were going on patrol. Landros leaned forward and stroked her ear, the reins loose in his other hand. He didn’t turn as he heard the hooves slowly approaching.
“What if Pascal can’t find him?” Torra asked. “You said we had to hurry.”
Hurry. Yes, they had to hurry. The thought of Elian with Clerk Killian in a dark room, the Clerk standing behind her, his long white hands pressed to either side of her face, ripping and tearing the memories from her mind, haunted his thoughts. But then every time he closed his eyes, he was reminded of a pain the like of which he had never known, searing and white and blinding, and the image of the woman with the wild hair and the windswept skirts staring out to sea. In taking Elian away from the Clerk, he would be leaving that woman with him. The thought of her eyes, sad and alone, her beautiful hair brushing her cheeks and flying behind her made him nervous about meeting her, made him hate himself for what he had to do.
“He’ll find him,” Landros said. Kerona murmured as she felt his hand tightening on the reins and Landros unclenched his fist. Torra looked smart as always. Landros had once thought he’d looked fine and well-dressed with his new coat and haircut, and then he had seen the way Torra wore his, the sleeves just the right length, the shoulders broad and the waist narrow. The way his hair looked so careless and yet so smart at the same time. Just looking at the man made Landros feel more tense. He turned in his saddle, “You alright, Wesmar?”
The young lad nodded. He sat still on his horse. The mare looked sad beneath him, almost as nervous as her rider. Had Landros been as nervous when he had first joined the Watch? But then, they had only been going on a patrol along the Sea as they had countless times before, and everybody knew there was nothing beyond the Sea. This poor young lad was going to help abduct a woman and bring her back to the Clerk against her will.
Kerona murmured again and Landros whirled her about to face Wesmar, Kerona snorting and stepping her feet. “Don’t worry, Wes.” He knew the boy from somewhere, though he couldn’t have said from where, just another familiar face in a town of familiar faces. “We’ll be home and in our beds tonight and back on the regular patrol tomorrow.” Where was Dorian? He was nearly an hour late, the sun already risen, fat and heavy and low in the sky. Landros had always thought to smarten up the Watch, have them more efficient, turning up on time and caring about their duties to the town. How could he punish Dorian for being late? He knew he would have no problems disciplining Pascal, Torra or Lykos, but how could he discipline the man who had been like a father to him? The man who had been his Captain? And how could Dorian put him in this position?
Kerona shook her head and puffed air out of her nose, sensing Landros’s tension.
Torra turned his own horse about, keeping close to Landros, looking down at his Captain. Landros began to think he might need to find a bigger horse; Kerona shook her head at the thought. “So how is Elian, Captain? Waiting for you at home? Must be nice to know you’ve got a beautiful woman waiting for you at your own house at the end of the day when not so long ago all you had to look forward to was Pascal’s stinking feet in your face.” Torra was smiling. He always smiled.
Landros looked at the man. Did he know what had happened and was mocking Landros for his failures? Torra’s face was impossible to read. “Elian is well, Torra.” Landros found it difficult to keep the dislike from his voice.
Torra nodded and smiled a handsome smile. “Fortunate for you that her client found himself incapable.” Blue eyes met Landros’s own, “Fortunate for Elian, too from what I saw of the man. Terrible to think what the Mother’s Children have to put up with on a night for a gold coin or two. Big fat men with sweaty palms, boys with skinny arms who don’t know how to please a woman.” Torra’s smile didn’t move an inch, but his eyes were pits of cold blue ice.
Not for the first time that morning, Landros’s hand tightened about Kerona’s reins. “We all have our parts to play in the world the Keepers have made for us,” he said, trying to sound as cool as he could and failing miserably. The strain of the past week had made him tense. His mother, Feren and Clerk Lovelin were dead. Elian was a prisoner of Clerk Killian and the Nameless One walked the world. He had no time for Torra’s games.
Torra straightened his back, using his stallion’s greater height to more effect. Even that cool, watchful beast was eager to be away, scratching at the straw on the ground outside the stables. “Yes, well, Dorian was rather angry when you dragged Elian away, I believe he’d been trying to talk to you?”
He had. He’d had the woman with him, the overeager woman with grey hair, both of them had been keen to talk to Landros, it looked like. He’d forgotten all about it. Landros ran a hand through his hair, it felt as though the world was conspiring to make him feel as guilty as possible and putting him constantly in impossible positions. How could he discipline Dorian? Especially after he’d ignored his oldest friend the night before.
“Here they are.” Torra sounded disappointed as he turned his horse about to watch the approaching riders.
Landros felt relief rising in his heart at the sound of hooves. Not hurrying exactly, more of a slow canter, but maybe he wouldn’t have to discipline Dorian after all. He turned Kerona about, and his relief sank like a sodden sheet of paper. Dorian’s jacket was flying loose in the breeze from the end of the world, his hair looked greasy and wild, his face was speckled with grey and white bristle. He looked like a man who’d been scooped from beneath a hedge rather than a member of the Town Watch. Had his loss of the Captaincy really done this to him, had it meant so much to him? At least Pascal had listened to Landros about being smart, though there was no brush in the world that could control that red hair of his.
Landros tried to keep the fury from his face as he watched them ride, sending a chicken scurrying across the yard with a flapping of wings and an outraged squawk. He tried desperately to think how he should talk to Dorian; all he wanted was to try and think about the Nameless One, Clerk Killian, Elian and the woman who stood on the cliff and sang her song of soaring beauty. Instead he had to deal with Dorian and his problems. Did the man really find it so hard to accept Landros as his Captain? Kerona snorted and shook her head and
Landros unclenched his fist again. He was grinding his teeth as well. He lifted a black-gloved hand as Dorian and Pascal reached them, still no idea what he was going to say.
Dorian and Pascal came to a halt, their horses’ breath steaming in the morning air, flanks already bright with sweat. Dorian even had some strange stains on the vest under his coat; his boots were muddied, too. Where had Pascal found him?
“You’re late,” Landros said.
Dorian nodded. “Time ran away from me in the night. The Sea is still there, though, I take it?” The older man tried to smile, but there was no humour in it. He just looked tired and old.
Landros looked to Pascal, “You haven’t told him?”
The town was beginning to fill with people hurrying to their places of work, the sun rising in the sky, the leaves on the trees green and the hay scattered about their feet bright yellow. Pascal’s freckles were even more stark than usual. “You’re the Captain,” he said. “I’m still not entirely sure what we’re supposed to be doing.”
Landros sighed. More than a few people were looking their way as they passed, he knew what they must look like to them; a group of men in red coats not knowing what they were supposed to be doing. He’d heard the jokes about the Town Watch; how they were nothing but old men and young boys paid to stand around and look out to the Sea where there was nothing but blue waves and white birds. He’d hoped to change all that, and Dorian wasn’t helping. And the longer they stayed here, the longer Elian had to remain with Clerk Killian..
“What’s this about?” Dorian slouched in his saddle, dark rings under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Was it really only a matter of days since Landros had told him of the Dream? Landros had never thought the Captaincy had meant so much to him.
Landros’s red coat didn’t feel so fine anymore, it felt tight and constricting as he looked at his old friend. “Clerk...” he began again, “The Clerk has asked that we go to Yerotan, to find a woman.”