“The xelquiza scored many kills by the lake?” she asked the woman.
The scout nodded. “Yes, and drove the survivors out in their boats across the waters, and there gave chase.”
“Then that is the tale we will tell,” Tuolonatl said.
“We must not hide the dangers of the village on Tzatzini,” said Halfizzen.
“They wield magic as if they were blessed by Scathmizzane himself,” U’at stated, and his eyes widened at the looks that got him.
“Blasphemy!” Halfizzen cried.
“Calm. Calm,” Tuolonatl said sharply, interrupting the stream of curses the augur, the other scouts, even Ataquixt, began hurling the foolish U’at’s way. “Blasphemy, perhaps, but useful information as well,” she said. “Take care your words as you describe this, U’at, who has twice walked the slopes of Tzatzini. High Priest Pixquicauh would not forgive your poor choice. But we here shall. Just once.”
“Pixquicauh must be told of the event upon the Herald,” Halfizzen said.
“He is on his way to this tent,” Tuolonatl explained. “Until he arrives, you mundunugu will go with Ataquixt to the mud trays and work with the sculptors to fashion Tzatzini’s slopes and locate the villages of the humans. Go.”
The three saluted, palm to face, then scurried away. Halfizzen turned to follow.
“You will remain,” Tuolonatl bade him.
He turned to regard her curiously.
“If you please, good augur,” she said, sweeping her hand out to a pair of chairs that had been set up to the side, near a small firepit. “I will have food and drink brought to us while we discuss the path ahead.”
“I am honored, great Tuolonatl,” Halfizzen said with a bow.
The general could sense his unease, and marked his suspicion. She knew, too, though, that her reputation was thick with this one, and that her unexpected invitation had somewhat charmed him. He was just a young augur, an insignificant pawn, and she, the greatest living commander and mundunugu of Tonoloya, had invited him to her table, to dine alone with her.
Still, he was Pixquicauh’s man, she knew.
She had to correct that unfortunate circumstance.
* * *
Pixquicauh walked about the table, hands clasped behind his back, his skull face never leaving the strange model of mud and dirt that had been constructed.
“I am to believe that this is Tzatzini?” he asked after perhaps his fourth circuit of the muddy sculpture.
“It is a guess, re-created from the memories of those who went there,” Tuolonatl answered. “Some who were there at your command.”
The old augur just mumbled something she couldn’t make out. She did well to hide her smile, for she understood the source of the High Priest’s cantankerousness. Back at his humble temple, she had made him look foolish in front of his God-King. Had he been generous of spirit and honest in his love for Scathmizzane, such a confrontation would not have bothered him, or would not linger, at least. After all, Tuolonatl had been correct in the timing of the attack, in delaying, for they could not have marched to the peaks of Teotl Tenamitl before the winter with any hopes of surviving the journey, let alone the battles that might follow.
“And this water,” the High Priest went on. “Is it…?”
Tuolonatl shrugged. “We’ll not know until we drive the humans from the mountain and the lakeshore. When that is done, we will learn the secrets of the mountain lake.”
“The scouts spoke of lightning and fire magic,” Pixquicauh remarked.
Tuolonatl slid out her long dagger and tapped it to the high reaches of the sculpted mountain model on the northern face, overlooking the lake. “Up here,” she explained. “The one village up here.”
“They must die first. They are apostates. How dare they…”
“We will defeat them,” Tuolonatl interrupted. “But there are many more humans down at the lakeside, with at least five villages, each larger than the one on the mountain.”
“They will be dealt with in time.”
“They will be dealt with all together,” Tuolonatl corrected. “Yet before the assault on the mountain village.”
“Blasphemers first,” Pixquicauh declared.
The mundunugu leader shook her head. “That would not be wise.”
Around the perimeter of the tent room, the other augurs began shifting uncomfortably and whispering to each other. Tuolonatl regarded them with an amused expression, confident that none would speak openly against her, or even in support of the High Priest. Augurs, speaking with the surety of blessing, were unused to being challenged. While they might be quick to punish commoners who dared speak against them, Tuolonatl was no commoner, and had the ears of every sovereign of Tonoloya. These distant holy clerics had no skills at countering such blunt rebuke.
“The lake is more important,” she clarified. “We will be marching for long days with few rations. One of the villages down there is already destroyed, another sorely wounded. When we take the southern bank of the lake we will have all the food and water we need as we gather our forces.”
“You leave them the higher ground,” the High Priest argued. “You leave them the den of power.”
“They will have neither if they come down to fight us, and every day they delay, we will only grow stronger, our macana fed and rested. The mountain will prove little hindrance to us with so many mundunugu. Our cuetzpali will get our army into place quickly.”
“If we surprise them up high, the first strike, it will be easier,” Pixquicauh insisted, and it was clear that he was becoming quite agitated here.
“And if we do not?” She let the question hang there, locking the High Priest’s gaze as his eyes widened.
“You doubt?”
“I prefer caution when risk is not needed. Your way is risk.”
“Are you not the legendary Tuolonatl? It is said that you move your forces as if they were ghosts, and strike always where you are not expected.”
“Much is said,” she replied dismissively. “Much is wrong.”
“The blasphemers die first,” the High Priest decided. “This is the word of Scathmizzane.”
“You risk everything,” Tuolonatl replied before he had even finished. “You would strike their strongest hold and most powerful magic before we have fully recovered from the march, when an easier way rests before us. If this is the voice of Scathmizzane, then so be it, but the lake towns are the easier prey, and from them, we will grow stronger.”
“We march for the Glorious Gold,” Pixquicauh yelled at her. “We bear his symbols, we carry his mirror. No enemy is a threat. All will fall before us!”
“The minions of Glorious Gold are in our charge, High Priest. They are our responsibility.”
“They are in his hands,” Pixquicauh countered.
“Through us,” Tuolonatl insisted. “Scathmizzane trusts in you, which is why you are named as High Priest. Scathmizzane trusts in me, which is why I was summoned to lead this march to Otontotomi. What need of either of us if the army is undefeatable?”
“We … I am the conduit of his voice. You are the…” Pixquicauh paused and fumbled about for a few moments. “You are but an aspiration, a goal for young macana and mundunugu to achieve, to gain glory with the God-King.”
“Glory I have gained, because I am no fool and understand the dangers of the wider world. Dangers even to this great army of Tonoloya.”
“Do you suggest that Scathmizzane’s army could possibly fail?” The High Priest’s voice grew shriller still, and he rose to his feet. The general rose as well, but calmly.
“Scathmizzane placed me in command of his army because he is wise,” she said simply. “He knows that his warriors must be well managed, or they can indeed be defeated.”
“Blasphemy!” Pixquicauh cried, and several of the augurs around the room voiced their agreement.
But the general was not cowed. “Unless the God-King himself tells me, I will lead to the best solution. That solution is to take th
e villages in the shadow of the mountain, on the lakeshore, and from there, when we are rested and fed, the village high on the mountain.”
“I am Scathmizzane’s voice on this journey,” the High Priest retorted. “We attack the mountain village first. We attack the blasphemers first.”
“No,” came another voice, silky and deep and beautiful, echoing through the tent as if it were a great hall. All in the room turned to the source of the voice, the golden mirror atop the throne. In it, they saw not their reflections, but the image of Scathmizzane himself, shining golden.
“You both err, and both speak truly,” Scathmizzane said. “When the xelquiza attacked, did they not strike at the lake and mountain at the same time?”
“Close, God-King,” Tuolonatl replied. “Those at the lake struck first, but only because they arrived first. They were not disciplined in their movements. The half-bloods are too stupid to understand proper tac…”
“They performed their service well,” Scathmizzane interrupted.
“If we had sent them all against the mountain village, it would be ours,” Pixquicauh growled at Tuolonatl.
“If we had done that, then all would have been slaughtered, and there would remain two unwounded villages on the lakeshore,” Tuolonatl retorted.
“Are you quite finished?” Scathmizzane asked, in a tone that told them that they were indeed!
“She is impertinent,” the High Priest explained.
“In this great endeavor, she is your peer,” Scathmizzane corrected, his tone changing to something lower and more sinister, his words a threat. “You are the voice of Scathmizzane, Pixquicauh, by my decree. Speak not words that are not inspired by Scathmizzane.”
“Yes, God-King,” the High Priest replied, lowering his gaze.
“You will take the lakeshore,” Scathmizzane told Tuolonatl. “Spread wide from the shadows of Tzatzini. Chase the humans out onto the lake, that is your charge.”
“I understand,” she replied, and bowed.
“And you, my High Priest,” the God-King continued, “gather a smaller force from my general, one of swift mundunugu riders. They will strike at the mountain village, but lightly, to tease the humans from their defenses. And you, personally, will carry my mirror to the summit, above the human village.”
“Yes, God-King. Wherever you command.”
“You will know where to bring the mirror when you arrive, and where to cast it.”
That had many in the room glancing to those near, shrugging, unsure.
“Cast it?”
“You will understand,” Scathmizzane promised.
“Yes, God-King,” said the High Priest.
19
A GIFT OFFERED
The next few days came rainy and warm, with just enough of a chill at night to put an icy sheen on the wet snow. Spring was coming fast, but the trio in the cave, particularly Aoleyn, weren’t thrilled about it.
“The paths will clear and they will look for you,” said Aghmor, standing without support for the first time in months. He was still shaky, but his strength was slowly returning to his injured leg, though it was not yet nearly as solid as the other. “And when they look for you, they will find us.”
“We won’t be here,” Bahdlahn assured him.
“Or we’ll find them first,” Aoleyn added.
“You mean to get us killed,” Aghmor insisted.
“I might well get myself killed,” Aoleyn admitted, “but I’ll have you both far afield before that. Besides, I know I can win.”
“Win? What does that even mean? What do you think you’ll win, woman?”
“Woman?” Aoleyn replied with a wry grin, one completely comfortable with the intended, and therefore failed, attempt by Aghmor to put her in her place, meaning some place below him. “We will see, won’t we then?”
“I didn’t mean…” Aghmor stammered, and Aoleyn grinned all the wider.
“Might that we’ll be leaving Fireach Speuer,” she said. “Might that you’ll be leaving without me, or that you’ll promise me that you’ll get Bahdlahn back to his home on the lake before you go back to the Usgar and weave a story about your missing months—you can use my own name in that tale however you feel it best, since, well, if that’s to happen, I’ll be dead.”
Off to the side, Bahdlahn swallowed hard, and Aoleyn flashed him a comforting wink.
“Oh, but I’ve met Mairen and all the others, and I’ve beaten them, and they’re knowing it,” Aoleyn said.
“Then why do you run? Why didn’t you just claim the title of Usgar-righinn?” Aghmor asked.
“A title I’d not want, nay, not under the rules of Usgar.”
“What is your plan?” Bahdlahn interjected.
Aoleyn smiled again, but she had to add a bit of a shrug, because, honestly, she did not know. She had to find some way to defeat Tay Aillig, to get him away from the others and truly best him in combat, and in a manner that would keep him from doubting that she’d do it again, more severely, if he did not agree to her terms.
She really didn’t care if he remained the Usgar-laoch, or Usgar-triath, even. The titles meant nothing to her—Mairen could even retain the lead of the Coven, and certainly Aoleyn preferred that Mairen remain as Tay Aillig’s wife, for it was nothing she desired. One of Aoleyn’s biggest reliefs in these months of regrets and trials was that Tay Aillig had never consummated their marriage.
But she wasn’t quite sure of how to go about facilitating her designs just yet, and she knew, with more rain than snow falling now, that she didn’t have much time.
She remained determined, however. She could get down the mountain with Bahdlahn, even with Aghmor if he so chose, too quickly for the Usgar to catch them. Perhaps that way lay their best course.
But Aoleyn was Usgar. Her mother and father had been Usgar. Seonagh had been Usgar.
Aoleyn had to try to save her people.
The storm relented the very next day, with warm winds wrapping around the great mountain from the east, across the lower deserts, blowing the clouds aside. It would be a dangerous time out on the mountain, with the snowpack growing very unstable, but Aoleyn went out anyway, late in the day, as the sun began to sink over Loch Beag far below.
She had treated Aghmor’s wounds again, and he was feeling much stronger, insisting, even, that he could travel down the mountain if need be.
“Well, you might need to,” Aoleyn said, and she gave Bahdlahn a hug, because she saw that he needed it. “I won’t be going near them tonight,” she assured her dear friend. “Not in any way they could know, at least.” Her smile was sincere in this point, and Bahdlahn clearly got it, because his relief was clear to see.
Aoleyn started to leave, but paused and just stood there for a bit, staring into Bahdlahn’s eyes. He was such a good-hearted soul, she recognized so clearly, and it seemed to her that if all, or even some, of the folk living along the great lake were of similar weal then perhaps she would enjoy living down there and leaving the Usgar be.
She had to remind herself again of her duty to those she had loved, and who had loved her. She couldn’t give up on the Usgar just yet.
In looking at Bahdlahn, sweet Bahdlahn, she was surely tempted. She moved to the narrow natural corridor to the cave’s outer foyer considering the young man, and thinking of Brayth, and of what he had done to her. She didn’t like to think about that, not ever. It was something that should not have happened to her, should never have happened. Not to her, not to the uamhas, not to any Usgar woman … or man. Not to anyone. What Brayth had done to her, whatever the pretty trappings of marriage or ritual, was theft, nothing less, and theft of the highest order in a violation that could find its way into all of her musings, even the pleasant ones that she got in looking into Bahdlahn’s blue eyes.
Yes, it was more than theft—it was a theft in which the thief had left something behind, something enduring and dark.
“I’m glad you’re dead,” she whispered to Brayth’s memory as she left the cave, and sh
e was.
Gentle Aoleyn, who did not want to hurt anyone or anything, was truly glad that Brayth had died in the crushing bite of the demon fossa.
She wasn’t proud of that feeling, but neither would she deny it.
Off she went, to find an owl. She liked owls the best, liked the sounds of the mountain through their keen ears, and the sights of the mountain through their keen eyes. Inside the owl’s consciousness, Aoleyn felt incredibly alive, and alert.
This night, she would need to be alert.
She wanted to hear every conversation, every plan, every reaction.
Much later that night, Aoleyn returned to her body, which she had left settled high in a pine tree, then returned to the cave, weary, but satisfied. She had eavesdropped on Mairen and Connebragh, and knew that no searchers would be out until the snowpack settled, which would be several days, at least. She had learned as well that the Coven had no intention of magically searching beyond the camp and the sacred lea.
Her show of power had unnerved them. They were vulnerable. Now she had to plot her next assault.
She thought of Connebragh most of all. She was Mairen’s second in the Coven, it seemed, but she had been trained by Seonagh. And Sorcha had been Seonagh’s friend. Perhaps there lay a wedge or two that Aoleyn might exploit.
She entered the outer cave skipping lightly, then turned into the inner cave, where the fire burned steadily and Aghmor reclined on some furs, his repaired leg up and pressing hard against the wall as he tried to regain some strength.
“Where is he?” Aoleyn said, surprised, glancing around.
“The uamhas?”
“Don’t call him that.”
“He’s out.”
“What does that mean, out?” Aoleyn demanded. “The night is halfway through.”
“Our friend knows the mountain night as well as anyone alive,” Aghmor told her. “He did most of his work on th’Way under the stars, not the hot sun. He’s been going out on many nights—clear nights, like this one—whenever the weather allowed.”
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