“Goblins.” Munayair pulled Khuson to a halt, hands straying towards the spells on her arms. Sayakhun legend described such spirits as crafty warriors with no love of humankind.
Ronyl raised a hand. “No violence is permitted here. These are my loyal friends and will do you no harm—provided you offer none.” She turned and gestured with one graceful, long-fingered hand. “Come, unburden yourself.”
Khuson stepped forward and set Anjita down gently. Munayair hoped she was imagining the slight hitch in his movement as he rose. Her eyes dropped to the stain on his side. It was definitely bigger. Blood dripped from the hem of his tunic and melted into the watery floor.
Expanding until they were the same height, Ronyl looked into Khuson’s blank eyes. “So, you got your wish,” she murmured. “Lord Thunderer foresaw this day.”
Worry stirred inside Munayair, stronger even than her fear. “The ulgeroi put his mind to sleep. They said—”
“The decision is not mine.” Ronyl’s fingers brushed Khuson’s cheek and the flow of blood stopped. “But he will not be turned away unheard this time.”
Turning away from him, she stooped to survey Anjita. Stillness came over her, ice crackling over her fluid form. Tightness grew in Munayair’s chest. Gently, Ronyl touched Anjita’s neck and forehead, a bright point of light pulsing in the center of her chest. A glow permeated the room and Anjita began to breathe deeper, color flushing her face. Munayair let out a grateful gasp.
But when Ronyl rose, her expression was grave. “In thousands of years,” she said, “I have never heard of backlash affecting a human so.”
Munayair stared down at Anjita. Av, what did I do? She tried to remember her own thoughts and feelings before the inescapable pressure overwhelmed her. All her shrinking mind could conjure was the stench of Shivne’s will pressing down on her, trapping her between his malice and her own terror. Finally, she managed to choke out: “Will she be all right?”
Ronyl shook her head. “The damage goes deep, but we will know better when she wakes. For now, let her rest.” She turned to Bast. “Come, son of ancients.”
Sputtering, Bast backed away. She gestured, and some of the water covering the floor flowed up his body, encased him in a transparent sheath, and dragged him across the room. He struggled to free himself, but the water simply adjusted its shape. Ronyl surveyed him as he kicked and cursed, then gave a short command to the goblins. Three of them trotted off and the watery prison followed with Bast inside. A door closed upon his laments.
The gokhai smiled. “They will take him to the three best healers in mortal lands: food, water, and a place to sleep.” She smiled at Munayair. “You are in need of these as well, child.”
Munayair shook her head. Words swelled in her throat, words she could not voice. It’s my fault. If only I had also died, all those years ago.
Ripples cascaded over Ronyl. “Child—child, do you not remember me? Munayair, of the Sarem-Ori clan? My waters tumble through the high mountains before roaming cold and clear through your lands. Once before, I met you on a day of fire and fear. Have you forgotten me, Moony?”
“Raise your hands,” a harsh, accented voice echoed in Munayair’s mind. She flinched away as the stench of smoke flooded her nostrils.
“I don’t remember you,” she said, breath coming hard and fast. I don’t want to remember you, she thought. I don’t want to remember any of it. “Please don’t call me that.”
The spirit’s hand dropped, and her face was sad. “Very well,” she said. “What name should I give you, child of the burning plains?”
Munayair jerked, twisting her hands together. “Any name but that, lady,” she murmured. Despite her rejection of them, memories poured thick and fast through her mind—
“Sit down, Moony,” Enebish complained. “You’re shaking the wagon.”
The horse ran flat out, nostrils flaring red and coat soaked with sweat. Just behind, the cackling voice of flames.
Tel’s arm was tight around her waist and she could smell his fear, but his soft voice poured encouraging words into her ear. “Almost there, kar-ler, hold on now, I can see the river—”
With a splash she sank into deep water, icy-cold and choking.
Most terrifying of all, Tel’s strong grip was gone.
She was alone.
Gasping, she tried to swim for shore, terrified by the eyes watching from the depths. Ronyl reached out and coolness spread over Munayair, silence lapping like waves. “Peace, child of horses,” she whispered. “Peace.”
Munayair struggled, clasping her pain close. “I can’t! What if I lose control again?”
The river spirit caressed her hair, a note of worry in her voice. “Fear cannot grant control, child—though understanding may.”
“How can I not fear?” Munayair’s voice cracked. “I see demons walking under the sun every day.”
“Demons? Pah!” a weak voice croaked.
Munayair’s breath halted and the gokhai’s peace fled. Her eyes turned to the floor beside her feet. Anjita gazed back groggily. “Just what I expected from a pagan.”
“Jita!” Munayair dropped to her knees. “Can you hear me?”
“Naya?” Trembling fingers trailed up and down Anjita’s wrist. “I have a terrible headache, but I can’t make this spell work.”
“Lie still.” Munayair looked up pleadingly. The gokhai watched without expression.
Anjita’s fingers had moved on, and panic edged her voice as it grew louder. “Naya, something’s wrong. None of my spells are working.”
The world tilted on its axis. Air rushed from Munayair’s lungs as if someone had punched her stomach.
What have I done?
Book Four: Liar
Chapter 36: Avlingai's Absence
The forest again, air thick and choking. Shadows lay red as blood. Specters lurched in the mist, shapes with oddly jointed limbs and rasping breaths. Panic constricting her throat, she darted through dappled shade, down and down. Terrible fear welled inside her. No matter how fast and far she ran, she could never escape the horror stalking behind.
A familiar grunting noise came from the side, and she veered. In the cool morning mist, a furry shape bent to his task—Avlingai digging in a hollow log. His shoulders churned, claws tearing long gouts in the rotten wood.
“Av?”
His head rose, swiveled. Her smile faded. Cold fear clenched her heart. His eyes, once so blue and friendly, now glinted like chips of obsidian. Serrated talons dripped scarlet, and she stumbled backwards. What she had taken for a log at his feet was Anjita, torn into ribbons, blood clotting among the loam. And everywhere the stench of death and disease, of corruption—
“No—Av—” she stammered.
He rose up, up on hind legs and swayed towards her, blowing through his nose. She spun to continue her blind flight, when her foot caught on a stone.
She fell—sickeningly—
Munayair jerked awake soaked in sweat. Chill tears ran down her cheeks and her throat ached. In a moment of panic, she did not know where she was. It was dark, and there was a heavy scent of earth. Then she remembered, and struggled to sit, wiping tears and hair from her face.
Their room was a small cavern with piles of sweet-smelling dried grass for beds. Khuson stood by the door, indistinguishable from a stalagmite. Dashjin was a spark of light on his shoulder. Anjita lay on another pile of grass, face calm and eyes closed. Munayair sat watching her, trying not to think. Failing.
The gokhai had been reticent about Anjita’s magic, but there had been concern in her silvery eyes. When Munayair had asked how long it would take to recover, the gokhai had only shaken her head and spread her graceful hands. “Who can say, child of horses? I have done what I can. She is in the gods’ hands now.”
What if Anjita’s magic was gone for good? Munayair pressed her forehead against her knees and tried to breathe evenly. The thought ate at her like hunger. At some point, Anjita would ask what had happened, and Munayair was going
to have to tell her.
She shrank away from the idea, shuddering. How to explain something she herself didn’t understand? The strange, blasphemous magic that didn’t come from glyphs. Bringing ruin and disaster whenever it seized Munayair in her most vulnerable moments? A half-remembered legend, passed through generations as both blessing and curse? For even as the legend of Geshuu warned against giving in to fear and rage, the invaders had been driven back that day. Without her sacrifice, the Sarem-Ori clan would never have survived.
But how to explain that to Anjita, raised to count spirits as obsolete and magic outside of glyphs blasphemy? How could a keeper, sworn to defend the Lady’s pure religion, even listen to such nonsense? And if Anjita did believe it, wouldn’t she be sworn to arrest Munayair? Worse, what if she thought Munayair had destroyed her magic on purpose?
Worse still, what if Munayair had done it on purpose?
Memories surfaced, like sulfurous air bubbling to the surface of a spring. Her own resentment and superiority. Her jealousy at Sachin and Falean’s attention—what a silly thing to become angry over. How she wished she could go back in time and kick herself in the teeth! Why did I think it mattered? she cried inside her heart. How could anything be more important than my friend?
“True heir of Geshuu,” the spirits chorused in her mind, soft and inescapable. “Doomed to destroy all who love her. She stood and the earth moved with her grief and anger …”
No, no, no! She rocked back and forth, hugging her knees. It’s not going to happen, you are an adept, not a child—you can control yourself …
“You will never be an adept of the Order of Words.”
But you will be something else, the voice of fear whispered.
Her mark ached like a bruise, bone-deep. A groan of panic and fear bubbled from her chest. The sound echoed in the small room, and to her horror there came stirring in the bed of grass in response. Holding her breath, Munayair froze and tried to blend into the shadows.
A hand touched her knee, then traveled up to her face to touch the tears there. “Another nightmare?” Anjita whispered, voice blurry with sleep.
“Nothing too bad.” Munayair took the cold hand. “I always sleep better when you’re nearby.”
Anjita’s hand twitched. “Who hurt you?” she murmured. “I’ll make them pay. I swear.”
Tears pricked Munayair’s eyes. She squeezed them away and said, “I’ll tell you. When you’re well again.”
“I already feel better.” Anjita closed her eyes and sighed. “I could sleep for a moon, at least.”
If I truly loved you, I would leave. Watching Anjita drift back into unconsciousness, Munayair cursed herself in silence. Fool. Khuttoch. You deserve a fiery death. Idiot!
She shot to her feet, desperate for a distraction. Automatically she slid into the first movement of her daily warmup routine. For an instant it worked—her worries faded away and energy flowed through her. The sense of purpose and focus she missed from the Marble Hall. She could forget the hissing voices of the spirits in the lake. The tribunal judging her and finding her unworthy. The pain and fear of losing everything she had worked for eight years to achieve.
But you still had Anjita, a voice spoke in her mind. And look what you did to her.
She lost concentration and came to a standstill, trembling in every limb. Thoughts swirled in her mind, no matter how hard she fought to beat them back.
You hurt her on purpose, the voice purred. It’s so obvious. You lost everything, and you wanted her to feel the same pain.
No! she protested weakly. It was an accident—an accident—I lost control—
Like you lost control all those years ago? the voice suggested. Fire on the plains … oh yes, I’m sure the river spirit remembers you …
With a choked-back cry, Munayair hurtled across the room until she ricocheted off something solid. Looking up, she saw Khuson’s blank face. He gazed straight ahead, even when she waved her hand in front of his eyes.
“Khuson? Khuson, look at me. Please!” His eyes shifted down towards her, but they were blank and expressionless. None of the twinkle, the warmth that had characterized him before.
He might as well be a chouloi, she thought miserably. And it’s all my fault. Again.
Dashjin stumbled as he leaned against Khuson’s ear. “It’s no use,” he muttered through a yawn. “Why does it bother you so? He’s not suffering.”
Holding out a hand, Munayair forced a smile. “I didn’t know spirits got tired.”
“I’ve never been so long away from Aïda’s breath.” He yawned again, hopping onto her palm, tiny feet tickling. “This underground air is stale and dull.”
“You can sleep here,” she said. “The grass smells sweet.”
He frowned. “But—I swore to keep an eye on the uneg.”
Uneg. Munayair recognized the Taellori word for fox. “Why do you call him that?” she asked, kneeling.
“Call him what? Oh, uneg?” he laughed. “It was Engge’s idea—my best friend. He said this one was as wily and tongue-tricky as a fox, and now that’s what everyone in the sanctuary calls him.”
“It suits him.” She laughed and laid the ulgeroi on the scented grass.
He relaxed, wings curling around his body. “Ahh, this is much better. The scent of grass brings to memory wind dancing through the fields. Windsinger, I am tired.”
“What mischief can the uneg do?” she said. “You’ll be a better guard if you’re rested.”
He frowned, eyelids already closing. “I suppose,” he mumbled. “This is the safest place he could be.”
“Exactly.” Munayair pulled her knees up and watched his light dim to a soft glow. She hummed, a lullaby her mother used to sing when she was a child. The words flowed through her mind like a stream of trickling water.
“... oi kholo kh rechel tuuli kavkaduul-udtai, kara kaij-aa ki ta ladt ...”
… howls the wolf in fear of the morning, when brightness returns he must flee. Even the wolf loves his cubs, as I, little one, love you ...
She trailed off. Tiny whistling snores filled the room. Holding her breath, she crept to her feet, but Dashjin remained dim and unmoving. Heart thudding, she took Khuson’s hand and breathed in his ear. “Come with me,” she said. “I know someone who might be able to help you.”
Without demur, he followed towards the door. Something glinted and she glanced around to see Tel following, face turned up to her.
“Stay here,” she whispered. “Guard Anjita. I’m counting on you.” He paused, then settled back, watching as they left.
Khuson strode beside her as they clambered down steep steps and up a long, curving corridor. Munayair lit her witchlight, turning to look at him every few steps. His eyes threw the light back at her, bright as a mirror.
She found herself talking softly. “So, you’re from above the river. Why should it matter?” Khuson didn’t answer. His fingers remained loose in her grip. “Father always said it was what a person did that mattered, not where they were born. Don’t worry, Bast doesn’t mean what he says. He feels guilty for his own mistakes, and so he tries to find fault in others to elevate himself by comparison.”
Unspeaking as a stone, he followed her through quiet hallways. Doors opened before them in silence, as obedient as they were for the gokhai. When Munayair hesitated, Khuson continued without pause. Somehow, he knew the way.
“You must have a magical compass in your head, if you remember all that. Or the maze-solving skills of a chelka.” She thought of Tel guarding Anjita’s sleep and smiled. “I made my first chelka when I was ten. What was his name?” She frowned, lagging a step behind as she tried to recall. “Oh, I remember—Gan. They used to call my father that before his naming ceremony, because he was so brave. He saved another child from a bull by standing straight against its charge. He locked eyes with it, Horsemaster Avad said, and never looked away. At the very last instant the bull swerved.”
Grey twilight was giving way to glowing gold when th
ey came out through the spring, soaked in icy water. Mist transformed the trees into phantoms, each leaf soft and unformed. Howler dipped below the horizon, snarling defiance at the brightening eastern sky. Here the air was still, no birdsong greeting the dawn. Munayair yearned for just one chirp, one bubbling warble. Thunderclouds loomed overhead.
As they walked through the sanctuary, they were not alone. Knee-high delj, spirits of earth, emerged from their tunnels to stare with bright eyes. Tembu raced overhead, breezes tossing the branches of trees.
Munayair led Khuson through the trees as Sorath clambered over the horizon, bending every so often for small rocks to stuff into her pockets. Uncertainty began to hollow out her belly, and she rubbed her arms. “Come on, Av. Of all the days to be late!”
Soon, the sun had risen, and she admitted reluctant defeat. She had become resigned to his absence in her mind, but she had never imagined he might also miss a morning visit. Even during her childhood, the terrible months after the fire, he had always been there before dawn. Constant as the sun himself.
They passed a pool and otter-shaped spirits rose from the water. They gazed at Munayair with eyes like mercury and beckoned with disturbingly human hands. She bowed and sipped the clear, icy water. Sorath shone in his strength now and sweat trickled down her back.
She looked over at Khuson. Sweat stood out on his forehead, his cheeks looked hollow and there were dark circles under his eyes. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since he ate, but she had a feeling it wasn’t sooner than two nights ago, when he had entered Upper Adasari carrying Tel. Whatever the ulger had done to his mind, it didn’t make his body immune to hunger and thirst.
She hesitated, cold water running down her arms, then brought her hands to his mouth. “Drink,” she commanded.
As before, he obeyed without question, although most of the water ran down his face and dripped on his tunic. Munayair got another handful, watching him swallow mechanically. The water sprites giggled behind their hands, like water rippling over a pebbled streambed. Their shape flowed into something more humanoid, hair rippling through the water.
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