Chosen of the Changeling

by Greg Keyes

  “Now, this god you call the River, we call the Changeling, but we also call him ‘Brother,’ for he is that to us. Indeed—” Her brow bunched and played as she considered her words. “—it may be that he was once a part of us, just as I am. If so, he escaped entirely. And now Balati is slow to understand peril; he is still reluctant to act against his brother. He is angry, yes, but he cannot see the danger. Until recently, I was of the same mind. Only Karak knew better; Karak has labored long and secretly against the Changeling.”

  “Why? Why secretly?”

  The Huntress grinned a sharp, malicious grin. “If Balati is so moved, he can extinguish any one of us. Karak as Karak could cease to be, and of all of us, Karak most loves being.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “It’s simple enough; the irony is delicious. Were it not for Karak, there would be no Changeling. That is the secret he has worked so long to keep hidden. That is why he strives so mightily and so stealthily to destroy the Brother.”

  “Karak’s fault? I don’t understand.”

  “It was a prank, at first, some joke of his that got out of hand. It is too long to tell, here and now. Suffice to say that once the Changeling was just a god like other gods, content and contained within the mountain. Karak tricked him into releasing himself, into becoming the River you know. That was long, long ages ago, but for Balati it was an eyeblink. He will not let us cut out the Changeling like the cancer he is. That is why we need you mortals. He does not notice you. When your enemies—” She waved a pawlike hand at the plain. “—when they invade Balat, the great forest, he will not object to my attacking them. When you enter into the mountain and find the River’s source, he will not be aware of you, for Karak and I will cloak you. There you can do what must be done.”

  “And what is that?” Hezhi demanded.

  The Huntress raised her hand to her face and ran a large, black tongue over her fur.

  “That I don’t know,” she admitted. “Karak knows; he is the trickster, the sorcerer, the bringer of newness. He knows, and he will tell you. Trust that.”

  “Do we have a choice in this?” Hezhi asked, not wanting to, but knowing she must.

  The Huntress considered that for only an instant. “Of course. You can choose to die. Little thing, the River made you to pour himself into. The Life-Stealer down there wishes to return you to him, and if he is successful, you will show him to be the shadow that he really is. You will be much like him, but if he is a blade of grass, you will be a forest. You will devour all of the world, including all of my children, and that I will not allow. I will kill you myself, if I can.”

  “If the danger is that great, I probably should die. When I come to his source, won’t he take me then?”

  “Not if you are strong; he can no more see himself at his source than you can see your own brain. And you have resisted him before.”

  “It was too hard,” she whispered. “I nearly failed. Perhaps I should die.”

  The Huntress crooned a long “noooo,” and to Hezhi’s vast surprise, she laid a now fully Human—if still furred—hand upon her shoulder. “He will only make another, in time. It may be a thousand years, but he will make another. And it is a paradox—at least this is what Karak says—that only one suited to hold him can destroy him. I don’t know that this is true, but if it is, then his opportunity is also ours. Karak has apparently had his eye on this situation for many years. I despise trusting him, but here even I have no choice.” She turned a slit-pupiled eye on Hezhi. “Nor do you. Now, look.”

  Hezhi felt the swan settle up higher on her head. She closed her own eyes and, when she saw again, it was through those of the bird. And in a single blink, she beheld blue sky and green grass, as those eyes slipped through the surface of the otherworld and into the more familiar colors and sounds of her own.

  On the plain, where the spider-thing sat beneath the lake, an army rode, an army of Mang. She glided over them, buoyed up by the heat rising in lazy spirals from the earth. Another bird flew with her, she saw, a keen-beaked falcon with the Huntress’ twinkle in her eye.

  She followed the falcon down, until she could easily pick out the weary faces of the men, see the perspiration on their brows.

  And so, at last, with a braided mixture of joy and horror, she saw Ghan. On a horse! He rode listlessly, but in his face she could see mirrored the blaze of thought that must burn behind his weariness.

  Near Ghan, she made out another familiar face—Moss. And now she could see what he had hidden from her before: the spirits crowded within him. No wonder the bull had found them so easily, no wonder Moss had ridden through the herd unscathed! He was the gaan, the great shaman.

  And with them rode another figure, one that even in mortal vision shimmered with such power and elicited such fear that she could not mistake him: he was the Life-Eater, the web of blackness.

  He was Yen.

  She came back to herself on the roof, her drum still held in nerveless fingers, her face salty and wet. All of her fear and horror bloomed when she pierced back through the drum into the living world, and nearly it was too much to bear. For a long time she shuddered, and each tear seemed to empty her heart, to hollow her, until soon enough she feared that her skin would collapse in upon nothing. Before that could happen, she clambered back into the damakuta, still weeping. She padded into its halls and into another room, until she found the sleeper she searched for. There she curled against him, until he woke, snuffled in confusion and then, without comment, wrapped the immense bands of his arms around her and rocked her gently. She slept the rest of the night in Tsem’s arms, as if she were five years old—desperately wishing she were.

  At breakfast, Perkar wondered at how drawn and weary Hezhi looked. Dark circles lay below her eyes, and her face seemed pinched. She only picked at the food they were served, though it was the best breakfast any of them had enjoyed in some time—wheatcakes, sausage, and fresh eggs. Of course, his own meal tasted like wood in his mouth, for he had not slept at all until the very break of day, then only dozing into nightmare images of the same waking dream he had suffered all night: the Stream Goddess, his love, devoured.

  He wondered, briefly, if Hezhi had been shown some similar vision, if she, too, were filled with a wintry resolve. He had cried as much as he would; now there would only be killing and dying. His death or that of the Tiskawa, he cared not which.

  The irony was that the goddess had spurned his love because she did not want to see him grow old and die. It was an irony that would drive his sword arm, he was certain.

  After the meal, he confronted Hezhi. He tried to find some warmth in his voice if only for her sake. Part of him wanted to ask what was troubling her, to comfort her with a hug, but it seemed like too much trouble, and in her mood she might reject him anyway. He added this to his coldness; whatever tender feelings had developed between the two of them were doomed, and he knew it. He had never been honest with her about all he knew, and now he never would be. The destruction of the Changeling was too important to rest on the whims of a thirteen-year-old girl, even one he cared for. In the end, he might have to use force to get her to the River source. He did not want to do that, but he would. Now he would.

  “We ride out by noon,” he told her. “Sheldu and his men will go with us.”

  “That’s good,” Hezhi murmured. “We may need more warriors.”

  “Why do you say that?” he asked, aware of the frost in his voice but unable to do anything about it.

  Hezhi’s face reflected his tone; hurt and then anger passed over it, ultimately replaced by weariness.

  “Never mind,” she whispered. “I’ll get ready to ride.” She turned away, and Perkar realized for the first time that she had traded her Mang clothing for the embroidered yellow riding skirt and woolen shirt of a woman of his own people. It looked wrong on her somehow; the Mang attire suited her better.

  “Yes,” he said to no one. “I’ll get ready to ride, too.”

  From
the corner of his eye, he caught Ngangata’s reproving and concerned gaze, but he shook it off, striding with purpose to the stables.

  In the stables, he eyed Sharp Tiger, wondering if the beast would yet accept him on his back. His last try at riding the fierce stallion had been two days after Moss escaped them, and that had ended with a nasty bite that Harka had taken three days in healing, “to teach him a lesson.” He decided there was no point in trying, and for the hundredth time he regretted his vow to the doomed Good Thief to watch after his mount. Still, Sharp Tiger did not object to packs, and a packhorse was valuable on journeys such as this one. It was just a shame for such a fine war-horse to go unridden, and his own mount, T’esh, was showing increasing signs of rebellion, perhaps having been exposed to one or two too many strange sights and smells. He packed Sharp Tiger and was cinching on T’esh’s saddle when Ngangata arrived. He nodded at his friend.

  “Two days’ hard riding and we’ll be in Balat again,” the halfling observed. “We’ll have come full circle.”

  “Not quite,” Perkar said.

  “No? This is how we met, equipping an expedition to ride into the realm of the Forest Lord. Now we are back to that point.”

  “I suppose. For you and me, this is full circle. Full circle for me will be when we reach the mountain. That’s where my mistakes began.”

  “Oh, no,” Ngangata said. “Your mistakes began here, too, listening to Apad and Eruka—allowing their prejudices and fears to become your own—and hiding your agenda. The Kapaka would never have taken you along had he known you were in love with a goddess.”

  “Is that what this is about? Are you here to dissuade me?”

  “Yes. Your last quest to slay the Changeling brought all to ruin. Surely you remember.”

  Perkar kneed T’esh roughly in the side; the stallion was blowing out so that the saddle would be loose, and today Perkar was having none of that.

  “As usual, Ngangata, you know best. I even agree with you. Deep down, I no longer even believe in this quest. I do not think the Changeling can be slain, and I do not think I can put all my mistakes back the way they were. But I no longer have any choice in the matter.”

  “You always have a choice.”

  “Remember your diatribe against heroes, Ngangata? About how they are merely fools who have been glorified in song, how they are death to their companions?”

  “I remember.”

  “Then for the last time, ride away, because I think that soon I will die. And if I am a hero, we both know what will happen to my companions.”

  Ngangata turned to his own mount. “I know this,” he said. “But does she?”

  “Hezhi? No. Truth to tell, I don’t think I am the hero this time at all, Ngangata. I think she is. Maybe she always was. And that means we are to die in her service. What point in telling her that? Perhaps she can slay the Changeling, as Karak says. Maybe I’ll live long enough to see that. Gods granting, I’ll take my revenge on his instrument, at least.”

  Ngangata shook his broad head and waved away a horsefly. “You are intimately familiar with several gods, Perkar. Do you think them likely to grant you anything?”

  “If it serves them, yes.”

  “Very well,” he conceded. “But listen to me.” He turned his dark, Alwa eyes upon Perkar, eyes Perkar had once found so intimidating. Time and friendship had taught him to see the deep expressiveness of them, the concern there—but they still gave him pause. “I will not leave you, Perkar. I will not allow you to throw your life from you like a worn bowstave. Whatever else you may be, you are my friend, and I can say that of very few. So when you ride to meet death, think of me by your side.”

  “I don’t want that responsibility,” Perkar sighed.

  “You don’t have it,” Ngangata grunted, in answer. “But if I force you to think of me—or anyone—before yourself, I’ve done a good thing.”

  Perkar watched as Ngangata finished saddling his mount and then led his horse from the stall. “Will we win, Ngangata? Can we defeat the Changeling?”

  Ngangata uttered an odd little laugh. “Of course,” he answered. “Why not?”

  Perkar smiled thinly in response. “Indeed,” he agreed. “Why not?”

  Together they rode out to join the company of warriors.

  Perkar wondered idly if “Sheldu’s” bondsmen knew who their lord really was, but decided that it did not matter. They were a brave company, well-armed, and they seemed fit for anything. Thirty men now, plus his original six. Would the Forest Lord notice them and stop them? Perkar understood from experience that against the Huntress and her host, they would be as nothing. Then again, Karak rode with them, though disguised. Perkar hated to admit it, but it was a huge relief; with a god riding at their fore, he no longer had to worry about whether he was making the right decisions, leading them down the correct path. As when he had been caught on the River, he had nothing to say about where he was going—only about what he did when he got there.

  “Why haven’t you traveled with us since the beginning?” he wondered to Karak aloud.

  “I had things to do and I would have been noticed,” was the reply—not explaining who would notice, of course, or what things he had to do. “Now—well, we are about to enter my home. Even now, however, I must remain disguised. Do not expect much overt help from me. I am your guide, not your protector, though the closer we get to Erikwer, the more help I can be.”

  “Erikwer?”

  “His source; the place in the mountain from which he flows,” Karak answered. After that, the Crow God rode up front to talk to one of his men.

  So Perkar allowed T’esh to lag back. The stallion’s coat gleamed, and Perkar himself had bathed, been dressed in fine new clothes, and a shining steel hauberk rode packed on Sharp Tiger. He should feel new and refreshed.

  But two days before, riding and laughing next to Hezhi, smiling at her wonder at the mountains, he had felt a hundred times better. He realized, with some astonishment, that he had actually been happy. Odd that happiness was something one only identified when it was entirely absent.

  The sun cast gold on bright new leaves and the upturned faces of wildflowers, but each moment only brought him closer to despair and doom.

  He tried to brighten when Hezhi rode up but failed utterly.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. For an instant he almost explained; it hung at his tongue. But the chill remained in him, and when he shrugged instead of answering her he could almost palpably feel her pulling back from him, retreating behind her own walls against hurt and closeness.

  “Well, then,” she said awkwardly. “I came over because I need to tell you some things.” Her eyes wandered from her skirt briefly to his face and back down before she went on. “I journeyed last night. I saw an army of Mang riding to meet us. An army much larger than this one.”

  “Oh?” he said. Karak had not shown him an army, though now that he thought of it, he had alluded to one.

  “Yes. They are led by Moss.”

  “Moss?”

  “Moss is the gaan—though I suppose we should have known that. I should have seen it.”

  “Brother Horse says that gaan can hide their natures, even from one another.”

  “Yes. Still; when he came to me, in that dream, he was attacked by something I never saw—something commanding lightning. The next day you found Moss, wounded. I never made the obvious connection.”

  Perkar held up one hand helplessly, not sure what to say. Moss was just a boy—who would expect him to be the leader of hosts of Mang warriors? But then, he was older than Hezhi, and not much younger than Perkar himself.

  “This army also has someone else with it,” Hezhi said. “Someone impossible.”

  “Impossible?”

  He listened intently as she outlined her vision, and when he understood that she had seen the destroyer who had murdered the Stream Goddess, his chest tightened until he thought it might rip itself apart. But then she explained who he was, and he rememb
ered.

  “I chopped his head off,” Perkar said incredulously. “Off.”

  “This is the River at work,” she replied dully. “I’ll fight you no more about going to She’leng, Perkar. I just want you to know that. You need not coax me any longer.”

  “I was never—”

  “Don’t lie,” she answered, and with chagrin he saw real anguish in her eyes. “Yen lied to me, and now … now he’s coming for me again. He may not have ever been human. All I understand is this: when one of you comes close to me, holds my hand, kisses me, it’s only because he wants something besides me. Maybe if I live long enough, I can learn whatever secret it is, whatever magic exists that will let me survive that, but for now I’ve had enough of it. You and I will see this through; we will slay the River or die trying. But I don’t trust you, Perkar, because I know you’ve lied to me. I am certain, at least, that there are things the Blackgod told you that you haven’t chosen to share. So I’m not doing this because I trust you, Perkar, but because it is the only thing I can see to do. And I don’t know that I like you very much, either.”