Drinker of Souls dost-1

by Jo Clayton

  SHE WOKE with her head in Jaril’s lap, Yaril kneeling beside her, stroking her forehead. She tried to jerk away, but the boy’s arms were too strong even if she couldn’t quite believe in the reality of those arms. She lay stiff as a board waiting for them to do with her whatever they’d planned.

  “Hush,” Yaril said. “Hush, Bramble-all-thorns, don’t be afraid of us. We need you, but we can’t help that. We won’t hurt you. Please believe me.”

  Jaril patted her shoulder. “We need you, we won’t hurt you,” he said, his voice a twin of his sister’s, a shade deeper than hers as his hair was a shade darker. He grunted as the mountain rumbled and shifted beneath them, the third quake that day. “You ought to warn your folk, Bramble-all-thorns; this hill’s getting ready to blow… mmmmh, in your terms, Slya’s going to wake soon with a bellyache and spew her breakfast over everything around:”

  Brann wiggled loose, got shakily to her feet. She looked for the sun, but it was too low in the west to show over the trees. “Sheee, it’s late. Mama will snatch me bald.” She started downhill. Over her shoulder, Valley courtesy demanding it, she said, “Come on. It’s almost supper. You can eat with us. Mama won’t mind.”

  The children caught up with her as she reached the stream and started down along it. “About that supper,” Yaril said. “We don’t eat your kind of food. Maybe I should explain…” She broke off and looked at her brother. “Not time yet? I don’t agree. You know why. Oh all right, I suppose it is a big gulp to swallow all at once.” Yaril blinked as she met Brann’s eyes and realized she was listening with-considerable interest. “Pardon us,” she said, “we forget our manners, we’ll join you gladly, if not for supper. And warn your people about the mountain.”

  “You keep fussing about that. Slya’s waked other times, we know her moods, we’ve lived with her a thousand years and more.” She began hurrying through the lengthening shadows, taking care where she put her feet, jumping from rock to rock, flitting across grassy flats, sliding on slippery brown needles, keeping her balance by clutching at trees she scooted past, landing with running steps on the path that led from the high kilns down to the workshop.

  When she reached the workshop, she ran up the steps, pushed the door open. “Immer, suppertime.”

  No answer. Puzzled, she went inside, ran through the rooms. No one there. That was funny. She clattered down to the children, beginning to worry. Immer always worked until the light quit. Always.

  The way to the Valley was broad and beaten down from here on, passing out of the trees at Lookwide Point then through a double switchback to end at the landing on the River. A cold knot in her stomach, Brann hurried along the road, but slowed as she came out of the trees, walked to the edge and looked down into the Valley. She could see most of it spread out before her, the River running down the middle, the scattered houses and workshops, the fields with crops, cows, sheep or horses in them, even the broad patch of bluish stone that was the Dance Ground with the Galarad Oak growing on the western side, the one Brann thought must be the biggest and oldest tree in all the world. There should have been children, playing on the white sand road and in between the houses. There should have been workers coming in from the fields, others standing by the workshops. There should have been old folk sitting on benches by the river to catch the last of the day’s heat, the first of the evening’s cool, chatting and telling stories, hands busy at small tasks. But there was none of that.

  Soldiers were herding her folk onto the Dance Ground, where the Valley daughters were due to meet with the Yongala to dance the Mountain back to sleep. Brann ground her teeth together to stop her jaw from trembling, but the shake had gone deep into the bone. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear to see more. That’s why Slya’s restless, there’s no one to dance her pains away, she thought and felt a kind of relief. Easier to think of Slya than… Dance her pains away and ease her back to sleep. Yes.

  yes. That’s it. Slya dreamed this and sent her children. She turned her head, opening her eyes when she was looking away from the Valley, gazed at Yaril and jaril. They are the Mountain’s children. Slya sent them. She clenched her hands into fists, the shaking wouldn’t stop, jerked her head around to look into the Valley again. Can’t see… got to get closer. Away from the road. Harrag’s Leap. Yes. That’s it. Where the mountains squeezed the Valley wasp-waisted, not far from the Dance Ground, was a vertical wall of granite Arth Slya folk called Harrag’s Leap after the smith who went crazy one day a few hundred years ago, swore he could fly and jumped off the cliff to prove it, Brann plunged back into the trees, running as fast as she could without falling. It wouldn’t be so good to break a leg up here; who’d ever come looking for her? Finally, breathing in great sucking gasps, she flung herself down on the flat top of the cliff and looked over the rim.

  She was close enough to make out the faces of those crowding onto the Dance Ground, close enough to hear what was being said, but outside of a few orders from the soldiers, no one was saying much. They looked as bewildered as she felt. Why was this happening? Who would gain anything from bothering Arth Slya? Her mother was there, holding Ruan, looking angry and afraid. “Mama,” Brann breathed. Suddenly she wanted to be with her mother, she couldn’t bear being up here watching, she wanted to be down there with her uncles and cousins and aunts, kin by kind if not blood. Sobbing, she started to get up, but two pairs of hands held her where she was.

  “You can’t do her any good if you get caught.” One of the children was speaking, she couldn’t tell which. “Think, Bramble, your mother’s probably rejoicing because you’re out here on the mountain, at least she knows you’re safe. Look, Bramlet, look close. Where are the children? Do you see Gingy or Shara? Do you see anyone your age or younger except for little Ruan in your mother’s arms?”

  She shuddered, went limp. They let her go and she scanned the crowd below. Gunna, Barr, Amyra, Caith, a dozen other younglings, but they were all fifteen or more, past their Choice. Nobody younger. Except Ruan. And even as she watched, one of the tall black-haired invaders shoved his way to her mother, took Ruan from her, kicked her feet from under her when she fought to get her baby back, elbowed and slammed his way out of the crowd, drawing blood with the clawed back of his gauntlet.

  And as she watched, Yaril and Jaril crowding close to her, holding her, the soldier carried Ruan to the Galarad Oak and he took her by the heels, and dashed her against the broad trunk, held her up, shook her, slammed her once again against the tree, harder, then tossed her on a heap of something Brann had missed before, the bodies of the Valley’s children.

  She trembled. She couldn’t make a sound, she couldn’t cry, couldn’t anything, couldn’t even feel anger. She was numb. She kept looking for faces she knew. The old were gone like the children. The young and strong, they were all there, some with bandages on arms and legs, men and women alike, one or two sitting, heads on knees. None of the old ones. Yongala Cerdan wasn’t there. Ancient Uncle Gemar who made her sketchbooks wasn’t there. Eornis who shared her birthday, he wasn’t going to see his hundred after all. Lathan, Sindary, Fearlian, Frin, Tislish, Millo and on and on, a long litany of grief, a naming of the dead. She didn’t understand_ Why? What could they gain? Why? She watched soldiers going in and out of the houses, driving out anyone trying to hide, plundering the houses and workshops, destroying far more than they carried away. Why? What kind of men were these who could do such things? She watched a knot of them kicking and beating Uncle Cynoc who was Speaker this year, yelling to him about gold, where was Arth Slya’s gold. He tried to tell them they had it all, the bits Inar and Idadro and Migel had for inlaywork and decoration. They didn’t listen. When they got tired of beating him, one of the soldiers stuck a sword in him and left him bleeding, dying. She watched another knot of soldiers pulling some of the women, her mother among them, from the Dance Ground. The children tried to get her away, but she clutched at the rock and wouldn’t move, watched the things the invaders were doing to her mother and the others. Sh
e whimpered but wouldn’t look away from the devastation below, watched the deaths and worse, some of the acts so arbitrary and meaningless that they seemed unreal, so unreal she almost expected the bodies to stir and walk away when the play was over as they did in the magic battles at the equinoxes, battles that ended with all-night dances and cauldrons of mulled cider and a feast the next day. But these dead stayed dead, bloody dolls with all the life pressed out of them.

  Night settled over the valley, obscuring much of what was still happening down there, doing nothing to block the sounds that came up the cliff to Brann. She listened, shuddering, as she’d watched, shuddering. Again the children tried to get her away from the cliff edge, but she wouldn’t move, and they couldn’t move her. All night she lay there listening even when there was no more to listen to, only a heavy silence.

  Under her numbness resolve grew in her. There had to be a reason for what was happening. In her memory, a gilded, winged helmet, a blood-red cloak, a glittering figure moving through the drabber browns and blacks of the rest. He it was who by a nod had given consent to the use of her mother and the other women, who had supervised the looting of the houses and shops, who had stood by while her folk were roped together in groups of eight, then herded into the meeting hall to spend the night how they could. He knows, she thought, I have to make him tell me, somehow I have to make him tell me.

  As the night dragged on Yaril then Jaril went somewhere, came back after a short stretch of time. Brann was dully aware of those departures, but had no energy even to wonder where they went. She huddled where she was and waited-for what, she had no idea, she wasn’t thinking or feeling, just existing as a stone exists. She got very cold when the dew came down, but even that couldn’t penetrate the numbness that held her where she was.

  The night grayed, reddened. Some of the soldiers went into the meeting hall, brought out two ropes of women, her mother among them. Brann strained to see through the dawn haze. Her mother’s shirt and trousers were torn, tied about her anyhow. She moved stiffly, there were bruises on her face and arms, her face was frozen, but Brann could see the rage in her. She’d only seen her mother angry once, when a new apprentice who hadn’t learned Valley ways yet jumped Brann’s oldest brother Cathor over some silly thing, but that was nothing to the fury in her now. Once they were cut loose the women were put to fixing food for the soldiers and later for the captives.

  The morning brightened slowly. The smells of the food reached Brann and her stomach cramped. Yaril went off a few breaths and came back with food they’d stolen for her. For some minutes she stared at the bread and cheese, the jug of buttermilk. Hungry as she was, it felt horrible to be eating with the things that kept replaying in her head, things she knew she’d never forget no matter how long she lived.

  Yaril patted her shoulder. “Eat,” she said. “You need your strength, little Bramlet. Wouldn’t you like to get your mother and the others free of those murderers? How can you do that if you’re fainting on your feet? You’re a practical person, Bramble-all-thorns. There’s nothing wrong with eating to keep up your strength.”

  Brann looked from one pale pointed face to the other. You think I really could get them looser

  Yaril nodded. She fidgeted a moment, seemed to blur around the edges, but her nod was brisk and positive. “With our help. Well show you how.”

  Brann took a deep breath and picked up the jug. At first it was hard to swallow and her stomach threatened more than once to rebel, but the more she got down, the better she felt.

  As she finished the hasty meal the movements below began to acquire shape and order, the soldiers lining up the roped-together villagers, getting pack mules and ponies loaded and roped together. Yaril whispered to Brann, “You want to make them pay. You can. Let them go ahead. It’s five days out of the mountains. We’ll help you get ready. Let them go thinking they won. Listen to us, we’ll tell you how you can make them pay for what they’ve done.” Soft nuzzling whispers as Brann watched the soldiers take brands from the fires and toss them into the houses along the white sand road, as she watched them march away, the roped slaves forced to march with them, the laden packers ambling along behind.

  Brann huddled where she was, breathing hard, almost hyperventilating, while the leader mounted his horse and started off at an easy walk, and the soldier-pacemaker’s voice boomed through the crisp morning, all sounds magnified, the flames crackling, the scuffing thud of marching feet, the jangle clink of the soldier’s gear, the rattle of the small cadence drum that took over for the pacemaker’s voice. She wrapped her arms about her legs and sat listening until the sounds muted and were finally lost in the noises of river and wind. Then she lifted her head. “How?”

  Yaril and Jaril gazed at each other for a long breath. Finally Yaril nodded and turned to Brann. “There’s a lot for you to forgive. We said we wouldn’t hurt you, Bramble, but… well, you’ll have to decide how much harm we did out of ignorance and need.” She coughed and her edges shimmered as they had before. Brann clenched her hands until her ragged nails bit into her palms, bit her lip to keep from crying out at this dallying, in no mood to sympathize with Yaril’s embarrassment. “We changed you,”

  Yaril went on, keeping to her deliberate pace though she had to see Brands impatience. “We had to, we don’t say it was right or a good thing to do, but we thought it was the only thing to do. You were the first thinking being we saw in this reality. We didn’t mean to come here. We were borne into your reality-your world-by accident through fire. I know, I’m not making sense, just listen, there’s no hurry, we’ll catch up with them easily enough. Listen, Brann, you have to understand or you can’t… you can’t deal with what we made you. And we can’t change that now. We’re melded, Brann, a whole now, three making one. We came through the heart of fire changed, Brann. Among our own kind we’re children too, unfinished, malleable. Think how you’d feel, Brann, if you woke one morning without a mouth and could only suck up food and water through your nose, and your hands were gone. How would you feel with hunger cramping your stomach and food all around you that you couldn’t touch? How would you feel knowing you would fade and die because you couldn’t eat? And then if something inside you, something you knew to trust, said, ‘that person will feed you, but only if you change her in such and such a way,’ what would you do?” Yaril shimmered again, her crystal eyes glowing in the morning light, pleading for understanding.

  Brann moved her lips. No sound came at first, finally she said, “You’re demons?”

  “No. No. Just another kind of people. Think of us as what we said, the Mountain’s children. Truly we were born through her. Where we… oh, call it began, where we began we ate things like sunlight, umm, and the fires at the heart of things. We can’t do that anymore.”

  Brann pressed her hand against her stomach, licked her lips, swallowed. “You… you’re going to eat me?”

  “No, no! You didn’t listen. You have to know this. Maybe it’d be better to show you.” Once again she exchanged a long glance with her brother, once again she nodded, turned to Brann. “Wait here, Bramble. When we drive a beast from the trees, take it between your hands and drink.”

  Brann shuddered. “Its blood?”

  “No. Its life. Just will to take.” Yaril got to her feet. “You’ll know what I mean when you touch the beast, it’s coded into you now.” She flowed into the form of a large boarhound and trotted into the trees, Jaril shifting also and trotting after her.

  Brann sat, feeling cold and horrified at the thought of what she was going to have to do. She heard the hounds haying somewhere in the distance, then coming closer and closer, then they were on the stone driving a large young coyno toward her. In a blind panic it ran at her and if she hadn’t caught it, would have run off the lip of the cliff Without thinking, acting from new instinct, she mcved faster than she thought she could, trapped the lean vigorous body between her hands and did what Yaril told her, willed to take.

  A wire of warmth slid into her, he
ating her middle in a way she found deeply disturbing though she couldn’t have put into words why it was so. In seconds the coyno drooped empty between her hands. She looked at it, wanted to be sick, sent it wheeling over the edge of the cliff. Then she remembered the soldier tossing Ruan on the hill of dead children and was sorry. She put her hands over her face, but found no tears. The male boarhound picked his way over the rough stone and pushed his cold nose against her arm. By habit she stroked her hand along the brindle silk of his back, scratched absently behind his soft floppy ears. “That’s the way it’s giiing to be?” The hound whined. Brann scrubbed her fist across her eyes. “I’m all right, don’t worry. Worry? I s’pose you do or you wouldn’t explain, you’d just make me do things. What now? Was that enough or will you need more? Go ahead. I’m going to think about it like cleaning chickens for supper. Go chase some more beasts here, I’ll sing the Blessing while you’re gone.” She looked over her shoulder at the cliff edge and swallowed, tightened her hand into a fist again. “Slya says all life is sacred, all death must be celebrated and mourned.” She spoke gravely, feeling, the weight of custom falling on her thin shoulders. Jaril rubbed his head against her arm and trotted off after his sister.

  A DAY AND A NIGHT and a day passed, Brann and the children learning the rules of their new unity. A day, a night and a day, gathering the lives of small beasts and large, joining hands to share that feeding. Brann shunting aside grief, rage, impatience, fear-except in dreamtime when memory turned to nightmare. The children scavenging for gear and food, tending the stock when Brann remembered the need. “The cows will dry up,” she said. “Can’t you do something?”