“You should be in bed.” Junari sat up on her sleeping mat, a thin white sheet wrapped around her torso.
“You should be asleep.” Taksati knelt beside Junari, placing the tray with the candle and cup on the rug. “Which is why I bring you tea.”
“You spoil me, Taksati.” Junari sighed at her old servant. “I need to be strong like a warrior, not pampered like a Tanshen tahneff.”
“Do you wish to leave the comfort of your mattress and sleep upon the hard ground with your followers, under the clouds, waiting for the rain to fall or the morning dew to soak your clothes?” Taksati held the tea in her cupped hands, feeling the warmth seep into the bones of her fingers, a pleasant sensation she always relished.
“Maybe I should.” Junari looked around the tent. “Disproportionate comforts can teach us to be callous to the concerns of our companions. I, too, am a pilgrim setting out to meet my goddess.”
“You are more than a pilgrim.” Taksati blew on the tea, seeing the steam carry the smell to Junari’s twitching nose. “You are a prophet with responsibilities far greater than anyone in this camp.”
“That is true.” Junari frowned. “To be two different things at the same time can lead one to confusion.”
“This is why you need to sleep.” Taksati extended her hands. “And this is why you need to drink your tea.”
Junari sighed again in resignation and accepted the cup from Taksati. She held it in her hands the way the elder woman had, tentatively sipping at the infused water.
“I have spoken with Raedalus.” Taksati settled her hands in her lap as she watched her mistress wince at her words.
“I am surprised, then, that you bring me tea and not a strap to beat me with.” Junari sipped her tea again, looking into its shallow depths.
“We do not beat our masters anymore.” Taksati kept her tone even. “It is considered uncivilized in this age.”
Junari laughed, spitting tea from her mouth as she coughed. Taksati smiled, handing Junari a cloth to wipe her lips.
“I am no longer your master,” Junari said. “I have told you this many times. When we left the temple, we left behind our old lives.”
“Yes,” Taksati said. “And in my new life, I serve you food and care for your needs. It seems much like the old life, but it is different because I choose it, not the temple clerics.”
“You are a good friend, Taksati.” Junari looked up, her eyes glistening in the candlelight. “Better than I warrant.”
“I will judge what you warrant from me.” Taksati leaned close as she lowered her voice. “Did you suspect the Goddess would bring you back after your sacrifice?”
Junari sat silent for a moment, staring down into her tea. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“No.”
“That is why I follow you, and why I fear for you.” Taksati reached out and took Junari’s face in her weathered hands. “I know you see yourself as unimportant, as a vessel to be replaced if broken or lost, but you are not. You are not. You think yourself a clay pot, when in truth you are the golden chalice. It may be true that any one of us could be the voice of the Goddess, that any of us could be the prophet, but that does not mean any of us could be the best prophet. Of all the dreamers, of all the believers, of all the pilgrims, the Goddess, in her infinite wisdom, chose you and you alone to embody her voice on Onaia. That is no mistake. You will call it blasphemy, but that is the wisest thing the Goddess may ever do.”
“You have too much faith in me.” Junari bit her lip.
“I am your servant.” Taksati’s own tears dampened her cheeks. “I shoulder all the burdens you cannot carry yourself. I hold all the faith in you that is possible until you are strong enough to accept it yourself.”
“I was so frightened.” Junari’s shoulders shuddered with the sobs of memory.
Taksati took the cup from Junari’s hands, placing it on the tray before pulling her prophet, her mistress, her friend into an embrace, stroking her hair as she shed the tears of uncertainty and doubt.
“All is well. All is well,” Taksati whispered in Junari’s ear. “You are a warrior, and you are righteous.”
Taksati held Junari in her arms as the woman wept for her death and resurrection. She believed all of the followers of the Goddess, all pilgrims had a purpose. Otherwise, why would Moaratana have chosen them? Some, like Jupterus and Kantula, became guards of the prophet. Raedalus chronicled the prophet’s words and deeds and offered counsel on important matters. She, Taksati, humble servant, provided what the others could not — a voice to question softly, ears to listen attentively, a mind to judge when needed, and arms to comfort when the life of the prophet became too much for a mere woman, for Junari, for the child she had never borne, to bear.
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THE CARNIVAL
YETH
“WOULD THAT I were a beast of burden, an ox hitched to a harvest cart bound for market, a horse pulling a plow to furrow a fallow field, a camel of the dry plains straddled with bundles of wild spices, unpronounceable to the civilized tongue. Rather I were any of these mindless animals than to be tethered throughout the entirety of my sorrowful life to the putrid imitation of manhood that is Tahn Gerig-Shan.”
Yeth watched Palla from the shadows of her hooded cloak. The young human woman stood at the edge of the narrow stage, her face torn with anguish, her voice trembling with fear, as she pointed to the actor playing the role of her suitor. Yeth admired the woman’s commitment to the role and suspected the emotion she always managed to express so articulately each time she performed the soliloquy of Tahneff Koru-Jan likely found its source in some personal experience.
Palla clearly hid the true nature of her past, but seemed to hide little else, being more forthright, if somewhat less tactful, than many of the humans Yeth encountered. The only time her countenance had been dishonest came when speaking about the disappearance of the men Grandal and Tellin. She did not blame her or the woman Ranna for that. The men’s absence did not lend itself to easy explanation. That they themselves did not know the true manner of the men’s disappearance made their silence and prevarication on the subject beneficial to all involved — particularly as it involved Yeth.
FIVE DAYS AGO
DRIED LEAVES crinkled softly beneath boot soles, the only dim sound in a sudden silence of birds and insects normally vocal in their communications. Yeth moved quietly through the woods, attendant to the change in the behavior of its inhabitants. Although these forests did not resemble those of her homeland, the stillness of woodland creatures tended to mean one thing — the presence of predators. She heard the voices, and while she could not discern the words they formed, she recognized the tone and the intention behind them, as well as the speakers.
She moved a little more quickly, forcing herself to be patient, not to rush and risk the snapping of a twig or the cracking of a branch in her passage. She had been sitting in the carnival campsite, mending a torn shirt as Palla headed off into the woods. She noted with interest that Ranna followed her not long after. Her curiosity transformed to concern as she saw the men Grandal and Tellin wander into the trees after the two young women. She doubted that either woman held any regard for the men. She also doubted that Grandal and Tellin would care.
Yeth did not like the men. A few days ago, Tellin, in a fit of drink-inspired ardor, had grabbed her breast and demanded that she mate with him. Only Tarak’s firm words had restrained her from breaking the man’s wrist or his neck. Her roagg companion had been correct. She did not want to risk attracting the wrong sort of attention by maiming malformed members of the lesser peoples in front of their companions.
She found her dislike of Grandal and Tellin growing as she knelt down and pushed a leaf-laden branch aside. The men, stripped naked, waded through the water from opposite sides of a small pond toward Palla and Ranna. The women, themselves naked
, floated close together, attempting to keep a distance from both men.
“Ya ain’t changed yer minds, has ya? If ya thinks yer wet now, just wait a bit, girl.”
Yeth watched Tellin and Grandal splash in the water and considered her options. She could show herself. Possibly intimidate the men into leaving. She had only a dagger at her waist, but they had seen her and Tarak in repeated performances. They might be bright enough to realize her martial skills were real rather than feigned. It might resolve the situation for a time. But how long before a similar event arose?
Yeth frowned as she ignored the bite of a mosquito. To smack it would draw attention to herself. She looked at the pond and the men and the women, unsettled by the scene. The men disturbed the balance of the cosmos.
Her family had always held to the ancient yutan faith of Keesho, the belief that the entire universe manifested from the will of a singular, unnamable divine being. To the Keesho faithful, this divine being was the cosmos and all things — rocks, plants, people — an expression of that divine nature. Although raised in the Keesho ways, Yeth converted in her youth to the Aasho path, with its belief in the triune aspects of this divine being — Onn the creator, Tam the sustainer, and Kiv the destroyer — an expression of the cycle of birth, life, and death. Yeth’s faith wavered and waned through the years, but her steadfast belief in the necessary balance of the cosmos never faltered.
“Goddess protect us.”
Yeth watched as Ranna traced the sign of a spiral across her chest.
The men upended the equilibrium of the cosmos. Creatures who had fallen into ever-present destruction when others rose to create and sustain. The universe required all three to function in harmony. Like so many humans, the men only understood the single expression of destruction rooted in the selfishness of their base natures.
“Yer not dreamin’, ya daft girl. There’s no goddess here.”
Yeth saw Grandal throw his arms wide as he shouted.
The Sight came over her without thought. She effortlessly saw the true nature of the reality she inhabited. The water of the pond came alive. The trees of the forest breathed with her inhalation, the sky sang with her exhalation. Palla and Ranna and Grandal and Tellin were all one expression of an inexpressible truth. The Keesho believers were not wrong in the universe being a single divine being, even if they mistook that being for possessing awareness. The hand did not truly know itself to be part of a body, nor did a brain. Only a mind could reach that conclusion. These men, these minor diseased organs who disturbed the balance of the greater whole, would never realize how they infected and corrupted that body.
Yeth reached out with The Will in the embrace of The Sight and asked the water of the pond to move, to churn, to whirl. The men cried out as the water spun faster around them, sucking them beneath the surface. Yeth asked the water to stop and to hold the bodies of the men down, the silt of the pond bottom covering them, burying them from sight.
She sighed quietly as she watched Palla and Ranna swim to the shore of the pond and retrieve their clothes. The women dressed and argued in low tones. Ranna wanted to tell the pilgrims of the miracle. Palla thought it best to keep it a secret. Eventually, Palla prevailed, explaining that the carnival folk might not react well to the idea that the pilgrims could pray to kill them. This thought left Ranna admonished, and she seemed to reconsider her position.
Yeth leaned against a nearby tree trunk. She felt mentally exhausted. She did not use The Sight often, and rarely with much great effect. Creating the whirlpool represented her most potent use of The Sight ever. While she readily obtained the way of seeing necessary for The Sight, she had never found it easy to impose her will upon reality and shape the world around her. Healing, the one aspect of The Sight she excelled in, proved the only exception.
She watched the women gather the men’s clothes and carry them into the woods. She looked to the pond again, wondering if she had been right in her actions. Had she restored balance, or had she merely created a different imbalance? Her choice arose without great thought, with little consideration of the consequences. The men would not be missed, but that did not mean their deaths would have no effect. She could not know what that effect might be. Sight Master Lamna would no doubt chide her for impetuousness, would likely claim that the consequences of her impulsive actions had led her to this Iron Realm of lesser and chaotic people.
The irony of her banishment on a pointless mission for her impulsive decision did not escape Yeth. However, Sight Master Lamna had never traveled outside the city of Gerhanach, much less sailed beyond the shores of the Sky Realm. She had no more faced difficult choices in the world than in her heart. To maintain balance in the yutan realm held no comparison to doing so in a land of lesser peoples with no notion of the necessity of order in the cosmos. Yeth could not follow the same path as her mentor. No, she would do as she had always done. She would trust her inner voice to guide her, even if her choices led to grave consequences. Even if it meant she would not see her son again until he reached his maturity. Even if she were never able to face her estranged mate and convince him to reunite their family.
She thought of the last time she had seen them, her mate holding her son’s hand as the two stood on the docks at the departure for her journey. Her son’s height matched nearly half that of her former mate’s stature. Both had refused to embrace her, a rejection that stung doubly strong in the case of her son. She had missed much of his childhood while scouting for the pod authorities. Too much. And now she would miss his years of passing from child to young adult and the ceremony that would mark his transition. Tears came to her eyes and a pain gripped her chest, but she ignored them. She could blame no one but herself. Her actions had resulted in her present circumstance, but she had always found that she could live with grave consequences if she did not regret her decisions.
THE PRESENT
YETH GLANCED at Tarak and Shifhuul standing beside her, both cloaked like her to conceal their true natures. Five days ago, the two other outlanders had helped her search for the missing men. She had ensured they found nothing, steering them away from the buried clothes. Both had noted her absence during the time the women and men left camp, but neither suggested any connection to the men’s disappearance. She suspected that Tarak remained silent because he would have likely done something similar with the men while she doubted Shifhuul cared at all what happened to the humans. For the wyrin, the hunt for the missing men represented yet another annoyance in what he constantly exclaimed to be a thoroughly annoying land.
They would perform after the conclusion of the play The Saga of the Fallen Lands. The drama had three long acts, really plays in and of themselves, but Leotin insisted the actors could only bear the strain of performing one act a day. The better to ensure continued purchase of tickets for the subsequent performances. Yeth found the play to be somewhat predictable, and clearly inferior to yutan drama, but interesting enough to make repeated viewings bearable. The crowd numbered fewer than she assumed Leotin preferred, but many of the human males were off fighting in the Daeshen army, while many of the remaining citizens had left for the pilgrim path.
As Leotin instructed, Yeth, Tarak, and Shifhuul remained where the audience could see them in their cloaks, so the people might wonder and speculate as to who and what lay beneath the black fabric. So they would more willingly pay to see the cloaks removed and the strange outland creatures battle each other in combat. Their mock mêlée included fake blood and the breaking of prop swords, but always concluded with Tarak claiming the title as victorious warrior.
They had tried alternate versions, but the crowds did not take kindly to a female succeeding in a fight, at least not the vocal and usually drunken men. They only laughed in amusement and called for their money the one time Shifhuul had won the contest. This had annoyed the wyrin greatly, leaving him caustic in his communications for days. For her part, she cared not at all for the humans’ opinions of her. She had met few of them she could not kill in s
ingle combat. They carried their pride as a mule carries a pack of turnips, never realizing the package contains nothing of real value.
“I like this part,” Tarak’s voice rumbled in her ear.
“This part no good. No enough fight.” Shifhuul shifted his feet in apparent boredom.
“We will provide the fighting.” Yeth tightened her gloved hand on the spear at her side.
“Should us put in play.” Shifhuul laughed, his voice pitching high. Yeth could not escape hearing the comparison to a wild animal caught in a trap.
“The time for our report draws near.” Tarak lowered his voice to the closest it ever came to a whisper.
“No report we have.” Shifhuul tugged the hood of his cloak tight as a passing boy of eight or nine tried to peek up into the shadows of the fabric. A growl from the wyrin sent the child scurrying away.
“We report what we have seen, even if we have seen little.” Yeth kept the tone of her voice even, betraying nothing of the anger she experienced at her predicament. “This is our purpose.”
“How long for?” Shifhuul did not hide the irritation in his voice.
“Until we have either…”
Tarak’s voice faded as a man’s shouts and the pounding of a horse’s hooves reached Yeth’s ears. She turned to see a man riding wild along the eastern road into the town, his horse foaming at the mouth from its efforts.
“Militia!” the rider shouted. “Militia comin’! Close the gate!”
The crowd of townspeople gathered around the stage turned with the performers to follow the rider’s voice. A moment passed in stillness as the man’s words sank into the minds of those present. Then, acting as one limb of a great discontinuous body, people began to scream and run, leaving the actors staring, blank faced, at the fleeing audience.
“It seems there will be more fighting for us than usual.” Yeth looked along the western road, wondering how far off the militia might be and how long they had to establish a defensive perimeter or escape. She did not have as long as she hoped to ponder that question.
The Dragon Star (Realms of Shadow and Grace: Volume 1) Page 44