Chosen of the Changeling

by Greg Keyes

  The Reader of Bones

  Ghe took himself down to the docks to think.

  Almost, he feared the sunlight. Tatters of stories remained in his mind, fantasies spun in the dark alleys of his youth by the poor and the fearful in Southtown. Creatures like himself stalked those tales, ghouls who fed on the lifeblood of the living, who shunned the bright eye of the sky lest it wither them away, reduce them to droplets of polluted and stained River water. In the daylight, such things remained in their deep crypts below the city, in the bottomless depths of the River …

  But the sunlight did him no harm. In fact, it cheered him, as did the brightly clothed merchants bustling about the quays, the pungent stink of fish, the sweet incense of fortune-tellers, the savory scent of meat grilling on the charcoal braziers of food vendors. He stopped at one of the last, paid a dark young girl with a pox-scarred face a copper soldier for two skewers of garlic lamb and a thick, spongy roll of tsag’ bread. He sat on a dock with his legs dangling out over the River, eating his meal and watching the gulls worry about the barges, the thick-armed men unloading cargo from the Swamp Kingdoms, from up-River and from far-off Lhe.

  Beneath him, he could feel the River, like a father, proud of his presence.

  “You are mighty,” he said, addressing the limitless waters wonderingly.

  Only reluctantly did he bend his mind to his worries.

  His time in Nhol was limited; that much was clear. He could not kill every man and woman who recognized him. Already the priesthood must be investigating the disappearances, especially of the slain Jik. And it was surely urgent, in any case, that he leave soon to find Hezhi.

  But the world was vast, and he knew not where to look. Only Ghan could tell him that, and Ghan had made it plain that he would say nothing. Given time, Ghe felt certain that he could win the old man’s confidence—he cared deeply for Hezhi, and that was a lever which could be worked until the man’s stone heart was prized up, lifted so that Ghe could make out what was underneath. But he needed time for that.

  Time, also, to learn a few things. Even with the powers of his rebirth, he would face enemies he only vaguely understood—the white-skinned barbarian who would not die, for instance. Was he like Ghe, some sort of ghoul? Was he more powerful? And in Ghe’s mind were vague shadows of other powers, out beyond where the River could reach. He must know something of them, as well.

  He let his gaze settle over the city, wondering where he might find the answers he sought. In the library, perhaps, where Hezhi had found her secrets. But Nhol had many dark places, where old knowledge slept.

  The foremost of these towered behind the dockside taverns and markets, as pristine and monumental as they were squalid and ordinary; the Great Water Temple. It was a stepped pyramid formed of white stone, water geysering from its sun-crowned summit, a fist of the River shaking aloft toward the heavens. He had been inside the building, seen the perfect column of water drawn up through the very core of the structure, and wondered, awestruck at the rush and power of it. From where he sat now, he could see two of the broken slopes where the water cascaded down, four streams for four directions rushing to rejoin their source in the canals that surrounded the priesthood’s most holy building. To him, also, it had once been holy, a symbol of the great power he served and of the order that had raised him from sleeping with dogs to a position of respect and honor.

  Now, with the River’s perspective, he saw it much differently. Within its white shell, he now sensed a heart of mystery, a labyrinth of falsehood and deceit. From its caverns the priesthood spun their spidery webs, shaped the bonds that held the River God in place. It held libraries, too, vast dusty rooms of forbidden knowledge, chants and formulae of terrific power. He had but glimpsed such things when he was initiated as a Jik, but now he had some sense of what was hidden there, beneath the falling water, the great hill of rock.

  He turned his gaze back to his feet, to the god flowing below them. “You want me to go there,” he whispered.

  That would be dangerous, even for him. The priesthood had the power to shackle a god—and what animated Ghe was less than a finger of the River’s power. But the priests had taught him, made him from a common thief and cutthroat into a finely wrought weapon. A weapon could be turned upon its smith as easily as upon anyone else.

  The food was not as good as he had anticipated. The smell had been wonderful, tantalizing—but in his mouth it had no flavor. As if, along with so many things, he had forgotten how to taste.

  Discouraged, he tossed what remained of his meal into the water. “Eat well, my lord,” he said, before rising and resuming his walk.

  He went next to Southtown, though he was in no way certain why. He knew that he had been born there, but the nets in that part of his mind were the most torn and tangled; they held the fewest clear images. Walking down Red Gar Street, the place he remembered best, was like hearing only snatches of a song. Here a shop sign was as well remembered as his name; but blocks would go by that seemed as alien as the depths of the palace. Still, it brought something of a return of his earlier good cheer; his nose and his skin seemed to recognize the street as his eyes did not. A sort of melancholy happiness walked with him, the ghost of recollection.

  And then, when he stopped on a corner to watch a boy pick a minor noble’s pocket, someone spoke his name.

  “Ghe!” An old woman’s voice, one he utterly failed to recognize.

  He turned in surprise, fingers knitting into deadly shapes. It was an old woman—an ancient woman—dressed as a fortuneteller. Her clothes were faded, shabby, but she wore a steepled hat with golden moons and stars embossed upon it that looked both new and expensive. Before her was spread a velvet mat for her fortune-bones. Her face was split in a half-toothless grin, and her eyes sparkled with an odd mixture of lights—happiness, wariness, and concern.

  He knew her face. Images of it lay about his mind like shards of a shattered pot. But no name was attached to it, no past conversations, nothing. Nothing save for a faint, pleasant sensation.

  “Ghe? Haven’t you come to sit with an old woman?” The old eyes had sharpened with suspicion. He hesitated, searching his mind, thinking desperately. He smiled and knelt by her mat.

  “Hello,” he said, managing to sound cheerful. “It has been a long while.”

  “And whose fault is that? Ah, little Duh, what has the priesthood made of you? I scarcely recognize you in that collar. You look tired, too.”

  She knew about the priesthood. Who was this woman?

  “It is a busy life,” he muttered, wishing he at least had a name to call her by. Was she some relative of his? Not his mother, surely. She was far too old for that.

  The puzzled, suspicious look was still clear on her face. He had to—do what? He should run, leave, that was what he should do.

  “Read the bones for me,” he said instead, gesturing at the inscribed, polished slats that lay on the mat.

  “You put store in that now? The priesthood teach you to respect old women properly?”

  “Yes.”

  She shrugged, picked the bones up, and rattled them around in her hands.

  “Whatever happened to that girl?” she asked casually. “The one you liked, that they set you after?”

  His dismay must have been as clear to her as the call of gulls above. Her own eyes widened. “What have you done, little one? What is this about?”

  Ghe felt a little tremor walk up his spine. He had to do something. He reached out for the little, fluttering knot of strands that made up her life. She knew it all, this old woman. That he was a Jik, about Hezhi, everything. Best to kill her now, quickly.

  But he could not. He knew not why. The moment passed, and he shrank back from the strands, though now he felt a bit of hunger—completely unabated by the bread and meat he consumed earlier.

  “Listen,” he hissed. “Listen to me.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t know who you are.”

  Her eyes widened and then flattened. “What do you mean by t
hat? Life in the palace made you too good to talk to old Li?”

  Li. He had heard that name in his vision, when he was reborn. Then it meant nothing, just a sound. Now …

  Now it still meant nothing, save that it was this old woman’s name.

  “No. No, that isn’t what I mean at all. You clearly know me, know my name, know much about me. But I do not know you.”

  Her face cleared then, blanked like a perfect, featureless mask: the inscrutable fortune-teller.

  “What do you remember?”

  “Bits of things. I know I grew up around here somewhere. I remember this street. I remember your face—but I didn’t know your name until just now.”

  Her face remained expressionless. “Perhaps some sort of Forbidding,” she muttered slowly. “But why would they cripple you so? This makes no sense, Ghe.”

  “Perhaps,” he began, “perhaps if you were to tell me, remind me. Perhaps the memories are only sleeping.”

  Li nodded slowly. “That could be. But again, why? You are still a Jik?”

  “Still,” he said. “Always.”

  “Last I heard from you, you had been set to watch one of the River Blessed. A young girl. Did something happen?”

  “I don’t remember,” he lied. “I don’t remember that, either.”

  The old woman pursed her lips.

  “I should read the bones, then,” she said. “Maybe the bones will show something. Sit with me here a bit.”

  She rummaged in a small cloth bag and began taking things out.

  “You gave me this, you know,” she said, as she laid a little cone of incense out on her velvet mat.

  “I did?”

  “Yes. When you were initiated. This cloth and this hat. Be a dear, little Duh, and go light this on the flame of old Shehwad over there.” She waved her hand at a man cooking skewered meats a few tens of paces away. He nodded, rose, and walked over to the stand.

  “Li asked me to light this here,” he told the person—who, despite the fact that Li referred to him as “old,” was certainly younger than she.

  The man’s sharp features began a scowl, but then suddenly transfigured. “Why, it’s little Ghe, isn’t it? We haven’t seen you about here in an age.”

  “No?”

  “No, not since … well, I can’t remember when. Since before the priests came asking about you.”

  “The priests came asking about me?” Ghe asked, straining to control his voice, to sound casual.

  “Months ago. There’s some flame for you.” He presented Ghe with a burning splinter of black willow from his cook fire.

  “Thank you.” He couldn’t ask more; it would seem too suspicious. Why would they have sent anyone here?

  Because, of course, his body had never been found. The Jik he had killed in the palace had indicated that someone had seen him dead—and then he had disappeared. They had looked for him.

  Did the priesthood suspect? Could they suspect? That was worrisome. He had been trained to kill, but his knowledge of priestly magic was not great. Was there some way of seeing what had happened to him? Some magical trail or signature?

  He turned back to the old woman. She must know that the priests had been here, but she hadn’t mentioned it.

  “Light the incense, silly boy,” Li said, when she glanced up from arranging the bones. He complied, touching the brand to the cone until it sputtered. A thick, pungent scent drifted up from the cone.

  “Now, just sit here. I’ll cast the bones, and we’ll read them, just like we used to.”

  Like we used to. Ghe grimaced. Who had she been to him? She was so familiar, in some ways. And he had confided in her, told her of the vast empty places in his mind. That had been stupid, but what other choice had there been?

  Watching the people moving up and down Red Gar Street, he knew the answer to that. He watched them; the wealthy and the poor, the noble and the mean—none of them saw an old woman and a man clad to his neck in rough silks. They were unnoticeable, invisible. Every person that passed had some pressing business, some private thought, some destination, known or unknown. If he were to reach into Li, take her life …

  He still didn’t want to do that. She had meant something to him once, that much was clear. The only person who meant anything to him now was Hezhi …

  That brought a frown. The priests might have been looking for him, but it must have been her they wanted to know about. To what lengths would the priesthood go to retrieve her? Had they already sent an expedition after her? Ghe knew that thought should have troubled him, stung him to action, but for the first time since his rebirth, he felt a heaviness, a pleasant weight across his forehead and eyes. The sun was warm, relaxing, and Li’s voice floated soothingly as from far away.

  “Now I cast the dice. Oh, see, they’ve fallen in the ‘telling’ pattern, the eye of the clouds …”

  There was more, but he lost it, his eyes fluttering shut just for an instant.

  When he opened them again blearily a moment later, the old woman was glaring at him, livid. He shook his head, uncomprehending. Why was he so tired? Why was the old woman so angry?

  “You are not Ghe,” she hissed flatly. “I knew that you were not. You are nothing more than some ghoul who has swallowed him.”

  No! Ghe wanted to say. No, see my neck? It is my body, my head, not some ghostly simulacrum. It is me … But he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t speak at all; his mouth and throat were numb, as were his extremities and his senses.

  The incense! He should have recognized it, should have known. He sharpened his sight, and everything changed. Li faded to her little bundle of life, as did those on the street, vibrant strands in a transparent world. The incense was a spot of nothingness, of black beyond darkness, a hole sucking his strength into it. Snarling, he swept at it clumsily.

  “No!” the old woman managed to choke out. She had clearly believed him weaker. She began muttering under her breath.

  This time Ghe did not hesitate. He reached out, around the vacuum of the smoke, took hold of her life, and ate it.

  It took only an instant; she writhed a moment, then was part of him. Gasping, he stumbled up, away from the burning cone, and the instant its fumes were no longer brushing him, feeling rushed back with a fierce, insistent tingling, as if his limbs had been momentarily deprived of blood.

  Around him, the street continued to bustle, people hurrying hither and back. He struggled into the pedestrian stream and let it sweep him along. He glanced back once, saw Li lying as if asleep, her hat with its moon and stars fallen and lying across her bones.

  “It’s beautiful,” he suddenly, sharply, remembered her saying once, long ago, of that hat. “The moons and stars seem to shimmer. Is the thread gold?”

  “I don’t know,” he had replied. “I only knew that you would like it.”

  And though he remembered nothing more than that, he began to weep.

  That night, he slept for the first time in seven days—since his rebirth. He slept and he dreamed.

  Dreams were not as he remembered them. They were not vague, strange reiterations of his little fears or of days gone by, not shadow plays with little sense or substance. They were strong, clear, and simple. The colors were not right; they were too sharp, too bright, and without shading. Everything that was green was the same hue of viridian; all red was sanguine. These dreams had meaning, however, meaning that blared like the din of a cracked horn, rattled the frames of his dream images. The messages were loud, but they were not clear. Ghe imagined they were the sorts of things insects might hear if a man stooped and spoke to them.

  He dreamed of being whole, knotted perfectly together, a vast and content serpent gnawing his own tail. It was an ancient feeling, barely remembered.

  He remembered the Bright God coming, taunting him, cajoling him. In his dream, the Bright God was like a little sun, golden-feathered, light incarnate. He dreamed shame then, and anger, as the Bright God tricked him into uncoiling, into stretching himself out. Shame at bein
g tricked, at being opened up. In revenge, he ate the Bright God’s light, nearly killed him, but his foe escaped, though without his brilliance and beauty.

  Now he rushed across the world, and his fear and shame began to fade; he coursed out for leagues, taking it all beneath him, cutting himself a bed, a comfortable place. And for a short time, he knew another kind of contentment, a wonderful hurtling joy. Time passed, and the earth changed, his bed shifting now and again, and he started to feel a hunger. At first it was merely discontent at no longer being whole. He was not a circle anymore, not a thing unto himself. The sky drank from him, plants took him up into their long, narrow bodies, and in the end he poured into a great emptiness, a gulf too vast for him to fill. He had become all motion, and nothing about him was still, nothing all his own. So the hunger began, a desire to take in the world about him, devour it, make it of himself until there was nothing without. Until, once again, he was within himself, a tightly coiled snake eating his tail. After a time, this hunger was all that mattered to him.

  As ages passed, he found the limits of his reach. The other gods could see what he was about. His brother, the Forest Lord, sent the Bright God and the Huntress about, and boundaries were made. He paid them no mind, but his reach faltered nevertheless. He had dug himself into the world, and it would not let him out again.

  Ages, again, and Ghe felt himself ache with need greater than he had ever known. He grew angrier with each decade.

  At the height of his anger, Human Beings came to his banks. They were like the gods, in certain respects, though without the same sort of fire within them. Still, they were inventive, and in some ways they had great strength. He realized that these people were like vessels he might fill, feet that he might walk within, to leave his channel and devour the enemy gods.

  So he set about filling them up. They were small, they could contain only a bit of him—but over time, he knew, the vessels of their bodies would be slowly perfected. That was another good thing about Humans; they were malleable rather than fixed, as gods were. All gods but himself, that is, for he could change. That was his chief strength, the thing that set him apart. It was also his agony.