Chabra: Journey to Karida

The village of Rashahan returned to normal, except for a few people: Hafez, heartbroken by the death of his only son so soon after the death of his wife, abandoned his farm. He sold his livestock and his farm, and was last seen walking east, toward Karida. Rumor had it he was journeying to far Gondara of silk and paper, and The Edge.

Godsworn Monterosi of Nath-Horthath had performed the funeral rite, reducing what was left of poor Cadman into fine, white ash that drifted up into the heavens and vanished on the wind. He handed the soulstone to Hafez, who had held it in his clenched fist, kneeling silently as tears slipped down his cheeks.

Finally he had wiped away his tears and accepted the orichalc hammer from the Godsworn. He looked at the soulstone once more, his expression softening as he perhaps saw a reflection of his son’s face in its milky white surface, then had brought the hammer down with a firm crack, shattering the soulstone into fragments illuminated by a flash of golden light.

The pieces of the shattered soulstone had gradually sublimed into nothingness, melting away before their eyes, and leaving no sign of the boy at all. His soul was free, freed of mundane bonds.

Lajita had attended the funeral, of course, along with much of the village.

Hafez had not been a popular man, or a famous man, or even well-known outside the circle of his neighboring farmers, but he had been a member of the community. As the people of the village turned out to help extinguish the fire, so they had turned out to pay their final respects to Cadman, and offer Hafez their condolences.

Haarith had changed, somehow now a young man instead of an older boy, quieter, his gaze more intense. He channeled his grief and loss into his work, finishing the entire set of stairs all by himself—huge boulders and tree trunks included—in only two days.

He accepted his payment for completing the work, and the bonus Lajita offered him as well, then joined a fishing boat crew, leaving his mother, the weaver Afreen, by herself. When he was paid, he gave her the majority of his wage, spending only the minimum to outfit himself for his work as a fisherman.

Lajita, once she got over the shock and the sadness, spent hours every day thinking about the history she had learned, and what she might be able to change. She wondered, too, why Cadman had had to die…

Karadi was less bothered by the implications, accepting that whether they could change the future or not, what mattered was the present. He fully believed Lajita and understood her convictions and her turmoil, but was himself a firm believer in a combination of fate and individual effort.

“I’m not especially religious,” he explained to Lajita once, “but I do believe that the Gods have their own plans for how they want things to turn out. And sometimes different Gods may have different plans, or may change their minds for whatever reason.”

“If you believe in fate, though, why try to accomplish anything?”

“The Gods may reward honest effort, but no God praises a man who does nothing.”

Karadi had respect for the sacred, she knew—she’d seen him stand in awe at unexpected glimpses of natural beauty in their lives, or pour a libation to thank a buck for giving up its life in the hunt. He appreciated the abilities of the Healers of Panakeia, and feared the fiery lightning of Nath-Horthath’s funeral rites, but he had little respect for the trappings of organized religion.

“You know,” he’d said, “it’s possible that Cadman died because some God fated him to die, whether by drowning or fire.”

“But then why could I save the other three?”

“Maybe they were irrelevant. They lived because the Gods didn’t care if they lived or died.”

She puffed up her cheeks, brow furrowed, thinking.

“So some of us are Fated, and other are, um, Unfated, would you say?”

“Your fate, destiny if you will, is obviously to build the House of Chabra.”

“I was sent here by Shikhandi, no god.”

Karadi laughed.

“Is there some distinct border between humanity and Godhood? You have come back in time centuries to create the House of Chabra from nothingness and manipulate fate; aren’t you a Goddess?”

“Perhaps,” she agreed, and changed the subject as she often did. “We will wed on the Summer Solstice, on the first day of the Week of the Withering Selfheal, and your gift to me will be a bear of orichalc, with ruby eye.”

“A bear? Orichalc and ruby?” he sputtered. “There’s no such thing in all of Rashahan, woman!”

“Of course not, dear Karadi, but there is in Karida.”

“Karida? That’s days upstream the River Marn.”

“Yes. You leave in three days, and you will need a second sword. And your bow, of course.”

“Two swords? Am I to steal this bear from someone?”

“Of course not! Trust me, my bear,” she soothed. “You will travel to Karida by horse, and spend the first night in an inn called The Pear Tree—a silly name for an inn, but there you are. The following morning, somehow, you will meet Kimjeon, and give him a sword.”

“Trade him a sword for the bear? Seems rather unfair to Kimjeon, doesn’t it?”

“That’s all I know, I’m sorry. Kimjeon is essential to the future of Shiroora Shan.”

Karadi raised his eyebrows.

“Essential, how? Because he has a orichalc bear?”

She giggled.

“No, silly, the bear’s for me. He is a master glass-blower, and knows all the secrets of making beautiful glass and crystal. Over centuries, Shiroora Shan will become a center of the industry, and our wares will be prized throughout the Dreamlands.”

“Detailed prophecies like that are pretty rare in the fortune-telling business, Lajita.”

“It isn’t a prophecy, but history… unless you rewrite it.”

“Other than meeting this Kimjeon and somehow convincing him to come and teach us all his secrets—and, of course, swapping his priceless orichalc bear for a sword—I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do, or how.”

“You’ll manage, Karadi, you always do.”

Three days later, as foretold, Karadi set out for Karida by horse, joining a small trading caravan heading upriver with goods from the west, primarily wool and woolen textiles from Ulthar destined for the secret valleys of the Athraminaurian Mountains between the known Dreamlands and unknown Gondara on The Edge.

It was a small caravan of only three deino-drawn wagons escorted by a dozen people, half of whom were the trader’s family. Porwaka, the trader, was well-known throughout Tlun, from Karida in the north to Ebnon in the south, and the countless villages and towns along the ways. He visited Rashahan usually twice a year to sell his goods, and the timing was perfect for Karadi’s plans.

He’d only met Porwaka a few times, being relatively new to the region himself, but his warmth and friendliness seemed to match his widespread reputation as an honest trader. Porwaka even offered him a wage as an additional guard, although Karadi instead suggested they just stay together for mutual safety as far as Karida.

Porwaka, who already had a number of guards for the caravan, seemed happy enough with that suggestion, although Karadi discovered later that people had been asking about his own reputation, checking to be sure he himself wasn’t a brigand.

Rashahan was built on the banks of the River Marn, where its waters flowed into the Night Ocean, and while the area behind the village was mountainous, the steppes became wider and wider as they rode upstream until the mountains were mere shadows on the horizon.

They travelled through a sea of grass, following the trail cut by travelers for centuries. There was even a tiny little inn along the way, a ramshackle building run by several generations of a family that seemed to have far more children than reasonable. Karadi preferred sleeping under the stars—or under a tent if it were raining—to sleeping at an inn, but he had to admit their roast mutton was deliciously spicy. Their ale, while expensive, was sour.

Half a day’s ride from the nameless inn, the guard on point, Ailani of Shang, suddenly held up her hand, motioning everyone to stop. She waved her hand again to signal that there was no danger, so Karadi rode up to see what the problem was.

Ailani and the other point guard, Salonitah of Karida, were sitting on their horses and looking down into a shallow valley cut by a tributary of the River Marn. Half the valley was black with animals, and the roar of thousands of hoofbeats was like distant thunder.

Bison.

An endless flood of the massive beasts passed in front of them, heading up the valley.

“Good eating,” said Salonitah. “Haven’t had a good bison steak for some time.”

“Let’s wait for the main herd to pass first,” suggested Ailani. “Get them angry at us and they’ll crush the wagons. We could probably outrun them, but not the deinos.”

“There are always some stragglers,” agreed Karadi. “A nice young calf would be perfect.”

“As long as its mother isn’t watching!”

“A ton of angry bison is awesome, but even better when you’re watching and not running for your life.”

They chuckled, eyes watching the seemingly endless bison churning past.

After a while, Karadi began taking the tackle off his horse.

“Your horse can’t be that tired, is it?” asked Salonitah.

“Nope. I’m gonna ride him in bareback and get a calf for dinner.”

“Bareback?” asked the guard, raising an eyebrow. “You suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

“You said you’re from Karida, but your name says you’re from one of the plains tribes east of there… am I wrong?”

Salonitah laughed. “No, you’re not wrong, and yes, I am coming with you!”

He began stripping the tackle off his own horse.

“Are you both crazy?” asked Ailani, watching in disbelief. “They’ll trample you to paste!”

“Not at all,” said Karadi. “At least, not most of the time. Never trampled me yet!

“The bison have nothing to fear from horses; they often graze together. It’s an old hunting trick: we stay as low on the horse as possible, and when we get close enough shoot an arrow. The bison usually can’t tell where the arrow came from, and if the arrows are true, the bison falls behind the herd.”

“Usually it works. Some bison are smarter than usual, though, or just luckier, and spot you,” added Salonitah. “In which case you better have a fast horse and a good grip.”

Karadi laughed as he unbuckled his swordbelt and checked his bow. He looked over to see Salonitah checking his.

“Oh, nice bow! Recurved composite… wood core?”

“Bamboo. Made it myself,” replied Salonitah proudly. “Yours isn’t too shabby, either.”

“I didn’t make it, but we’ve been together for a long, long time,” grinned Karadi patting his own bow. “Not as small as yours but I’d probably range you.”

“Could be, could be… Maybe we’ll find out today!

“Where’d you learn to do this, anyway?”

“Oh, I spent some time out there a long time ago,” replied Karadi, lithely twisting up and onto his horse’s back. “Let’s go.”

Salonitah followed suit, guiding his horse close to Karadi’s.

“I notice you didn’t really answer me,” he commented.

“Observant fellow, aren’t you?”

They dropped flat on their horse’s backs, making themselves as small as possible as the horses ambled slowly toward the torrent of bison. They approached at an angle, the horses in plain view all the time.

Karadi watched through the horse’s mane, making sure none of the scattered bison on “guard duty” seemed unduly interested in them. At the same time, he ran his eyes over the herd, searching for a suitable calf.

It had to be close to them, so they could hit it reliably and so it wouldn’t just be trampled down. They wanted one that seemed to be alone, even though its mother was probably nearby. If they were separated even a few meters, the mother would likely not notice for a while, giving them time before things got dangerous. And they needed to make sure the bison didn’t guess why the calf suddenly fell… if they connected the calf’s death with the horses—whether they saw the riders or not—they’d have to outrace at least a handful of very angry bison, and even on horses that was a risky business.

He heard a whistled warble from Salonitah, and looked where he was pointing.

Yes, that one would do nicely.

It already looked lost, its head twisting from side to side, probably looking for its mother. It was still moving with the others, of course, pushed from behind, but because of its unease it was trying to slow down, and moving toward the outside.

Which meant closer to them.

He nodded and lifted his bow up a fraction, clamping his legs tighter around the horse’s back. Nocked. Aimed.

He shot at almost the same time as Salonitah, the two muffled twangs running together into one, and both shafts flew true, both sinking deep into the calf’s chest just behind the shoulder. It stumbled, bleated, almost fell, but kept moving forward.

Blood spurted down its leg and its gait became irregular as it tried to hold its left front leg off the ground. A few dozen meters on it toppled, finally, kicking and trying to rise again, bleating in pain and terror.

Karadi and Salonitah kept their horses moving forward, in parallel with the herd but against the flow, leaving the mortally wounded calf behind them.

Karadi glanced back to see a few adults gathering around the calf, probably the mother and a few of the guards, but none showed any interest in them or their horses, and they ambled on. They’d circle back in an hour or two, when the herd had moved on and they could safely pick up the calf.

They guided their horses away from the bison to a low hill half a kilometer away, and dismounted.

“Two perfect shots,” said Salonitah. “Mine was the better, of course, right through the heart.”

“Quicker to cut open the main artery, no?” countered Karadi. “We shall see, won’t we, in a bit.”

“That we will. Care to place a wager on it?”

“A crown good enough?”

“Done,” nodded Salonitah and extended his arm for a wristshake to seal it.

“All my gear is back with the caravan,” said Karadi, “but I did happen to hang a small skin of wine around my horse’s neck to keep us company… I’d hate to have to carry it all the way back again.”

“Yes, wineskins can be quite heavy, can’t they? Let me help you lighten the load, then.”

They sat and sipped the warm wine, watching the thinning flood of bison.

“Damn. All gone,” said Karadi, squeezing the last drops from the wineskin into his upturned mouth. “Go back and pick up our gear, shall we?”

“Mmm,” agreed Salonitah. “By the time we get back here with the caravan the last bison should be gone, too.”

They trotted back to the caravan and resaddled their horses, then led the caravan back to the hunting ground. The last of the bison had vanished into the dust cloud upstream, leaving the carcass of the calf. Already an eagle was perched atop it, tearing at its belly.

Karadi nocked an arrow to shoot the bird, but Salonitah motioned him to stop. He jumped off and picked up a few stones, and threw them at the bird as he walked toward it, shouting.

The eagle screamed in anger, wings batting the air, and finally fled, leaving the calf to them.

They’d already had lunch and it was far too early to make camp for the night, but it would take hours to dress and cook the bison. Trader Porwaka suggested they set up camp here for the night, and the party wholeheartedly agreed: fresh meat, fresh water, good grazing, great visibility all around.

It should be a safe place to camp, and everyone looked forward to roast bison.

They skinned the bison and cooked most of the meat. Porwaka took the skin, scraped it clean, and rubbed it down with salt himself, saying he’d finish curing it after they reached Karida.

Salonitah made it a point to cut out a few choice pieces of offal and set them on a rock half a kilometer up the valley. He knew the eagle had been watching, and as he’d expected, as soon as he was far enough away the raptor came drifting down to see what presents he’d left.

He must have chosen right, because the eagle tore into it with delight.

“He can have the rest of the carcass, too, after we leave,” said Karadi. “If the other animals don’t get to it first.”

Salonitah glanced around.

“Wolves?”

“Could be. Something’s been watching us from across the river, over there,” he explained, pointing. “I don’t think it’s a big as a wolf, but it could be. Certainly not a bear.

“Have to keep an eye on the horses tonight.”

“Any wolf that tries sneaking up on my horse with be in for a surprise,” laughed Salonitah. “And probably a broken skull.”

They all slept peacefully that night, and at dawn the guard said it had been a quiet night.

Even so, the remnants of the bison carcass had vanished completely, with not even a pawprint to suggest who had taken it.

They broke camp and got under way shortly after daybreak.

* * *

As they approached Karida the trade road gradually became wider, and the surrounding grass and brush had been cut back farther. By the time they could see the brilliant white walls of Karida, it was covered with paving stones.

The Citadel was built on a highland between two rivers, the Piratta to the south and the Jasharra-Nevi to the north, which merged just downstream of the city before continuing down to Shiroora Shan and into the Night Ocean. The lower city, of course, had spilled out into the floodplain surrounding the highland.

When the mountain snows melted in the spring the waters rose, often turning the deep-cut streets and alleys into canals. Most buildings and a few key roadways were elevated and most homes were surrounded by walls as well, but every decade or so a disastrous flood would come and wash away most of the wood structures. The Citadel and the surrounding city’s stone foundations had survived for centuries through it all.

The walls of the Citadel and most of the buildings inside it and throughout the city were white-washed, a byproduct of the city’s famous kaolin mines. Located in the nearby mountains, the mines yielded the high-quality kaolin that made the city’s porcelain so valuable, and as a byproduct also provided the white paint for all the buildings.

The guard post on this route was quite small, and Porwaka’s caravan well-known. They passed through with a simple hand-wave, although of course the trader did pay the toll. He even paid Karadi’s toll, commenting it was only fair to repay him for the calf.

Most of the city’s guards were on the east side, in part preventing anyone from stealing the partially processed kaolin, but mostly to protect the city from raiders from the vast plains stretching east from there to the far-distant Athraminaurian Mountains, beyond which lay Gondara and The Edge.

The stone bridge across the Piratta River had stood for hundreds of years, repaired countless times after floods and other damage. They crossed it and into the city, looking up at the massive gates of the Citadel.

The Citadel had originally been built as the defensive refuge for the Lord of Karida and the people of his domain, but there had been no wars and few major attacks for centuries, and as a result the Citadel was now largely indistinguishable from the surrounding, lower city. There were shops, homes, markets, taverns and everything else jumbled together within the cramped walls, separated by narrow, twisty alleyways where the urchins ruled.

The guard kept the walls secure, but most of their effort was spent trying to keep the peace and making sure everything didn’t burn down one day.

The walled garden and palace in the center where the Lord and his family lived was separate, of course.

Karadi watched Porwaka lead his caravan off to the central market and looked up at the steel-and-ironwood gates. They were open as the guards lazily watched people coming and going, but they’d be shut at sunset.

At the gate one of the guards held up his palm.

“Where do you hail from, traveler?”

“Karadi Chabra of Shiroora Shan. I came with Trader Porwaka’s caravan.”

“You don’t look a trader,” said another guard, stepping closer on the other side.

“I have nothing to trade this time,” answered Karadi. “I’ve come to see what wares Karida can offer, rather than relying on what the traders show.”

“Stay out of trouble, Master Karadi,” warned the first guard, “and watch your wallet.”

“Always,” smiled Karadi. “I was told to look for an inn called The Pear Tree…”

“The Pear Tree? That’s down in the city, not up here,” said the guard, pointing at the city below with his chin.

“He’ll never find it down there,” said the other. “Master Karadi, one of those boys over there will guide you, but it’ll cost you a few coppers.”

He glanced over where the other was pointing to see a dozen half-naked boys—and a few girls—lounging in the shadow of the wall, obviously sizing up visitors. Several were clearly interested in him.

“You there!” he said to one of the larger lads, apparently a bit older. “You know where The Pear Tree is?”

“Of course. I’ll take you for only five coppers.”

“I’ll take you for three!” shouted another boy.

Karadi ignored the second boy and continued his conversation.

“How about four?”

The boy smiled and leapt to his feet, hand extended.

“Two now, two at the door,” said Karadi. “The guards are my witness.”

The boy’s fingers slammed shut on the two coppers, and they quickly vanished into his tunic.

“This way, Master. It’s a short walk.”

Karadi settled his ruck on his back and set out after the boy.

It was indeed a short walk, but the guards were right, too: he never would have found it by himself.

Close to the walls of the Citadel the buildings were packed together tightly, and the cobblestoned streets were often shadowed by overhangs. It didn’t help that most of the buildings were built up on stone foundations, a meter or two higher than the street itself.

The boy stopped in front of a flight of stairs and pointed at the sign at the top: The Pear Tree.

He held out his hand and Karadi dropped two more coppers into it.

“Why’d you give me four, Master? Timochon said he’d do it for three…”

“Yes, he did, but you spoke up first, and you’re going to help me with a few more things today, too, right? Call it a down payment.”

“Yessir!”

“Have a seat and wait for me,” said Karadi, and walked up the steep stairs to step inside the inn.

It was the usual inn, essentially the same as dozens of others he’d been to over the years. An enormous, bald-headed man with pug nose and no neck was sweeping sawdust and less attractive things toward the doorway, but stopped long enough for Karadi to step out of the way.

“One silver in advance’ll get you a room and dinner,” he said, then gave the pile another push with his broom to send it outside. “Ale’s extra.”

Karadi handed over a silver tiara.

“A Celephaïs tiara! Don’t see many of those out here…”

“Which room?”

“Upstairs, first on the right,” said the innkeeper as he leaned the broom back against the wall. “Dinner’s at sunset.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“Roast charr. Fresh.”

“Save me two, I’ll be back by sunset.”

The innkeeper grunted, and Karadi stepped back outside.

“Where to, Master?”

“Name’s Karadi. What do I call you?”

“Ruk, Master Karadi.”

“Not Master Karadi, just Karadi, Ruk. No need to be so formal.”

“Yessir. Where to?”

“Where’s the best porcelain? Plates, cups, all that sort of stuff.”

“That’d be Bembe’s place. He’s always got the best. Expensive, though!”

“Show me the way, Ruk.”

“OK,” said Ruk, and smiled as he held out his hand.

“How much until sunset?” asked Karadi, taking out his coin purse. “I don’t want to pay you every five minutes.”

“Uh, how about two silvers!”

“Hah! Cheaper to hire Timo-what’s-his-name.”

“OK, one silver.”

“Deal. Fifteen coppers now good?

Ruk didn’t hesitate: “Yes, please. And the other fifteen at sunset, right?”

“Right,” agreed Karadi as he handed it over. “Smart kid. Minimize your risk.”

Once again Ruk led the way along a winding path that paralleled the Citadel wall, slowly working toward the north side and the bounding Jasharra-Nevi River.

“Bembe’s shop—it’s a big place, where they make and sell stuff—is on the north side of the Citadel, up against the wall,” he explained. “He makes all the fancy stuff.”

Karadi suddenly stopped at the sound of shouting voices.

He thought he recognized Salonitah’s deep baritone.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered, and drew his sword as he ran toward the source.

He turned a corner to see Salonitah fighting off two men at once with his sword. A third was wounded and lay with his back against the stones, watching, but the other two were pressing Salonitah badly. It looked like he’d already taken several wounds: he was staggering.

Behind Salonitah was another wounded man, a merchant judging by his garb, one arm folded up against his body in pain while the other held a shaking dagger.

Robbery?

“Salonitah!”

He leapt forward and smashed his sword against the side of the head of the attacker standing in the rear with a dagger, knocking him off his feet to collapse in a heap.

The other man crossing swords with Salonitah tried to step back, but it was too late: he was surrounded, with the wounded Salonitah in front and Karadi behind.

He dropped his sword and fell to his knees.

“I yield! Mercy, have mercy!”

Unable to completely stop his sword, Karadi managed to at least turn it slightly so that instead of slicing into the man’s arm it merely smacked into his shoulder with a dull thud.

The kneeling man almost fell over, pleading for mercy yet again.

“I won’t kill you; stop your whining!”

He threw the men’s weapons to the other side of the alley, where the wounded merchant could easily reach them. Keeping an eye on the kneeling man—apparently only slightly wounded—and his two accomplices, he approached Salonitah.

Blood was bubbling from his lips, and in his throat.

“Karadi… you…”

“Sit, Salonitah, rest. I’ll fetch a physician,” replied Karadi, moving to help Salonitah.

“No time… promise me, Karadi… Nath-Horthath… release me.”

“I promise, Salonitah, but the physician!”

“Take my bow… it will serve… you… well…”

Bright red blood gushed from his mouth and his eyes looked up at the rooftops, then lost their focus.

“Salonitah!”

“He saved my life…” said the wounded merchant Salonitah had died defending. “These men were trying to rob me, and he saved me.”

Karadi sat still for a moment, his arm still around Salonitah’s shoulders, holding him upright. He gradually lowered the body to the ground and pulled a cloth from his wallet to wipe the man’s face.

“You must be Kimjeon,” he said to the merchant quietly, eyes still on Salonitah.

“Huh? No, I’m Than Bulbuk of Eudoxia. Who is—”

“I am Kimjeon,” came a small voice from the first robber Karadi had knocked down. “How do you…?”

“You are Kimjeon!?”

“Kimjeon of Lho Mon.”

“And you are a robber!?”

“We only wanted enough to live,” wept Kimjeon, head down.

Now that Karadi had time to take a better look, he could see that Kimjeon was emaciated, starving. So were the other two.

Karadi sighed.

“All three of you are from Lho Mon?”

“Tseng and I are; Tserzi from Gondara.”

“See to them.”

Kimjeon quickly ran to the man who was lying against the stone wall.

Hearing a scuffle behind him he turned quickly to see the merchant trying to slip away.

“No you don’t! You get back here and sit there until I sort this out!.”

He moved a bit so he could keep an eye on everyone.

“Kimjeon! How is the other man?”

Kimjeon shook his head.

“Master Tserzi has passed on,” said Kimjeon. “It is just Tseng and me now.”

“I will stand for him in front of Nath-Horthath, Master Kimjeon.”

“Thank you, Master… Master…?”

“I am Karadi of Shiroora Shan.”

“Shiroora Shan? Never heard of Shiroora Shan,” broke in the merchant. “But you have my thanks as well, Master Karadi.”

“Perhaps you know of it as Rashahan,” smiled Karadi. “It has grown.”

“Ah, Rashahan,” said Than Bulbuk. “A little fishing village, yes?”

“It was, before. But no more.

“Be that as it may…”

He turned back to Kimjeon.

“Explain all this, and why I shouldn’t execute you. Salonitah is dead!”

Both men fell to their knees and prostrated themselves, but before they could say anything a woman ran from the alley, throwing herself onto the ground in front of Karadi.

With a ragged shift that obviously hadn’t been washed in some time, long, bedraggled hair, and a baby clutched tightly to her breast, she was no threat.

“It is all my fault, Master Karadi! I pressed my Kimjeon to steal money for our baby! Kill me, if you must; I am to blame!”

Kimjeon jumped up, grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her backwards while stepping in front of her.

“No,” he stated clearly, head high and looking straight into Karadi’s eyes. “It is my responsibility to provide for my wife and child. It was my choice, and my punishment.”

His wife grabbed hold of his arm, but it was unclear if she was supporting herself or him. She was crying quietly; the baby was silent.

“Everyone just stop for a minute!” he snapped. “I’m not going to kill anyone. Not right now, at any rate, not until I find out what’s going on here.

“Ruk!” he called, motioning the boy closer. “is there a tavern or something close by?”

“Yessir, right up that alley, no more than a couple dozen meters, on the left.”

“Good. Go get a room if you can, or a table if not. We’ll want tea and enough food for three people.”

He handed over a few coins.

“And milk for the baby, too.”

Karadi called out again to Ruk as he scampered off on his errand: “And I’ll need a Godsworn of Nath-Horthath, too!”

“OK!” came the shouted reply, and Ruk was gone.

“Master Than Bulbuk, will you join us? I need to hear your story before I can properly release my friend, Salonitah.”

“Your friend? I’m sorry he’s dead… I’ve never met him before. When these robbers jumped me, he appeared all of a sudden out of that alley and defended me.”

“He held off all three of them!?”

“The first man—that man, the one who said his name was Kimjeon—just waved his dagger and demanded eight silver. When I refused and drew my sword, the other two attacked me… and that’s when your friend suddenly appeared.”

“Only eight? They didn’t just tell you to hand over everything?”

The merchant frowned as he recalled the incident.

“No… they didn’t. Kimjeon just said eight silver, I’m sure of it.”

“We only needed eight silver,” came Kimjeon’s voice. “Two for each of us, to buy enough to leave this cursed city and return to Lho Mon.”

“You came from there?”

“We came with a cart and a load of silk cloth from Gondara… and were robbed and beaten the first night in this hellhole.”

“You didn’t ask the Guard for help?”

“Of course we did!” broke in Tseng. “They laughed.”

Karadi looked around. No Guard.

“There was a swordfight, there are dead… surely someone must have told the Guard by now?”

“The Guard rarely comes unless paid,” said Than Bulbuk. “And personally, I’d much rather they never came at all, for all the good they are. At least these scoundrels are honest about it!”

The merchant rose to his feet and brushed off his clothing.

“I’m leaving. Master Karadi, thank you for your timely assistance; I hope you’ll look me up later, after things are less, uh, dramatic.”

“Wait, please. So Master Kimjeon didn’t attack you?”

“Why, no…. these other two pushed him aside, now that you mention it…”

“And when I came he was just standing there, watching,” said Karadi.

“Yes, he was. But he did threaten me, first,” said the merchant. “In any case, the Guards may come, and I do not wish to be here when they do. I will leave now.”

Than Bulbuk turned, bowed once to Salonitah’s fallen body, and walked away briskly.

Karadi turned back to Kimjeon.

“So you didn’t attack Than Bulbuk at all?”

Kimjeon had his arms around his wife and child now, a few tears cutting through the grime on his cheeks.

“We just wanted enough to go home, just threatening him, to scare him into giving us the coins, but then he stabbed Tserzi with his dagger.”

“So he defended himself, as any man might, and now my friend is dead. And Tserzi.”

Kimjeon looked at his dead companion, then Salonitah, then back to Karadi. In silence.

Footsteps sounded.

It was Ruk, leading a tall, quite old man, white beard brilliant against the dark red robe he wore. The Godsworn of Nath-Horthath. He carried a large reed basket in one hand.

“I am Godsworn Bilele of Nath-Horthath.”

“Karadi of Shiroora Shan. Thank you for coming so quickly, Godsworn.”

“The dead are in no hurry, but it is best to help them on their way quickly.”

“Can you Release him?” asked Karadi, pointing at Salonitah. “Master Kimjeon, what about your friend?”

Kimjeon and his two companions exchanged glances, shrugged, nodded.

“We cannot give him the rites he needs here, but the Release of Nath-Horthath will suffice,” said Kimjeon. “Please, Godsworn, if you could Release Master Tserzi as well.”

“As you wish,” said the Godsworn, and held out his hand.

Karadi raised an eyebrow but no objection, handing over a gold crown.

The Godsworn accepted the coin without a word, and it vanished into his robe.

He set his basket down and opened it, removing four small bronze incense stands that he placed in a rough square around Salonitah’s body.

“Bring the other dead man over here, too.”

Somewhat taken aback at the Godsworn’s tone, Karadi helped Kimjeon pick up the dead Gondaran and carry him over. They laid him down next to Salonitah.

Kimjeon pressed his hand against the dead man’s chest for a moment, muttering something under his breath, and then walked back to stand next to his wife once again.

At the same time, Karadi took Salonitah’s pack and bow, whispered his thanks for their friendship, and apologized for not coming soon enough to save him.

The Godsworn took a small ember box from his basket, and lit the incense in the four stands with the glowing ember. He knelt down between the two bodies, placing one hand on the chest of each, closed his eyes, and began to chant.

At his words the incense suddenly began to billow clouds of acrid black smoke.

Karadi fell back a step as ashes and grit filled the air.

The wind picked up, a breeze at first, but rising in intensity with the tempo of the chant until it was a thin vortex, a tornado that jumped and wove around the fallen as if seeking to escape from the rectangle defined by the four stands.

As the wind’s sound and fury reached its peak there was a sudden flash of brilliance, and when Karadi opened his eyes again the Godsworn was alone on the ground—the bodies were gone.

Tiny flakes of snow-white ash sifted through the air like the finest powder snow, so fragile that they shattered and vanished at a touch.

The Godsworn picked up the sparkling soulstones that were all that was left of the two men, handing one to Karadi, and the other to Kimjeon.

“Master Karadi, do you return Master Salonitah to Nath-Horthath?”

“I do.”

The Godsworn held out a small bronze bowl for Karadi to deposit the opalescent soulstone in. It made a hard, rattling sound as it hit the metal. Holding the bowl in his left hand, Godsworn Bilele drove the orichalc pestle in his right down, crushing the soulstone with the ring of metal on metal.

And the bowl was empty again.

He turned to Kimjeon and placed the second soulstone in the bowl, and Kimjeon also Released the spirit of his companion to the realm of the God of Life and Death.

The Godsworn picked up the closest incense stand and dumped the ash out on to the ground before storing it away in his basket.

“Looks like it might rain later,” he said cheerfully as he picked up the rest. “Nath-Horthath’s blessings upon you.”

Then he turned and walked away down one of the alleys, leaving an astonished Karadi behind.

“Are the Godsworn here all like that?” he asked Ruk, almost unable to believe what had just happened.

“Yeah, pretty much. Why?”

“Uh… no reason, I guess. I’m… I’m used to a little more formality and ritual,” he answered. He glanced over at Kimjeon, and saw he was just shaking his head in disgust.

“So that’s how it is here, huh?”

Ruk shrugged.

“Whatever. The Godsworn do pretty much whatever they like, as long as they don’t get in the way of the Guard.”

He pointed up one of the alleys.

“I’m hungry. Can we go now?”

* * *

A few minutes later they were all sitting at a table in a small, dingy tavern: Karadi, Kimjeon with his wife and child, Tseng, and of course Ruk.

The three Lho Mon—four counting the baby—had accompanied him at his insistence, terrified that he would turn them over to the Guard, or just kill them out of hand. Their weapons were on the bench next to him for now, and he debated returning them as he watched them shovel food into their mouths like they hadn’t eaten in days.

He figured maybe they hadn’t.

The woman—she was named Clyma, it turned out—was more worried about getting the baby to drink something than eating her own food.

It didn’t look well. Pale cheeks, red eyes, but not crying… she tried holding a cup for it to drink from, but obviously it only knew the nipple.

“Your finger… dip it in the milk and give it to the babe,” he said, guessing that this was her first child and she was at a loss. And presumably so starved her own milk wouldn’t flow.

She did as he suggested and the baby quickly slurped it clean. She did it again, and again, and the baby began to seize on the finger with more energy and interest.

Karadi sipped his tea and waited.

Poor Salonitah. He barely knew the man, but he’d been a good companion on the journey, and seemed a good man. He wondered if he should try to find his people and tell them, but abandoned the idea when he realized he had no idea just where he came from. The endless steppes stretching west from Karida and Zeenar to the foot of the Athraminaurian Mountains were indeed endless… he could easily spend years searching.

But that Godsworn…!

And Ruk said they’re all like that…

“Master! Bring me an ale, if you will!” He turned to the others. “Anyone else? Master Kimjeon? Master Tseng?”

Kimjeon shook his head, but Tseng looked interested.

“I have no money,” he warned.

“Fine, fine,” said Karadi, waving the worry away. “Master! Two ales!”

“Me, too, Master Karadi!”

He looked over at Ruk in surprise.

“How old are you, Ruk? Ten?”

“Fourteen next month, Master Karadi.”

“Drink ale, do you?”

“When I can get it, Master Karadi,” shrugged Ruk. “Nobody cares.”

“Your father?”

“No father. No mother, either. Just me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that Ruk,” said Karadi, and turned toward the counter. “Master Ruk, I should say if you’re drinking with us.

“Master! Make that three, but the third in a smaller mug.”

The ale arrived shortly, and with food, ale, and a now-quiet baby the group began to relax a bit. The three Lho Mon still looked starving, but their eyes weren’t feral anymore. They began to raise their glances to meet his.

“So, Master Kimjeon. A load of silk, you said?”

“Mostly silk. And a few other things…” answered Kimjeon.

“Like what, for example?”

“Just a few piece of glassware we made. We were hoping we could interest some of the merchants here in them.”

“Glassware. Teacups and stuff, you mean?”

“Well, yes, among other things. We had a number of blown glass teacups and pots, of course, but also some samples of cut crystal.”

“Blown glass and crystal,” he mused. “You sound like a master craftsman…”

“My father was a master craftsman,” said the other. “He taught Tseng and I everything.”

“How would you and Master Tseng like to come to Shiroora Shan with me, and work there? I can promise you a glassblowing workshop with furnaces, apprentices, whatever you need. And gold sufficient to support you and your family.”

Kimjeon and Tseng exchanged a glance.

“Are you serious? Workshop? Apprentices? Gold?”

“Who are you?”

Karadi laughed. “I already told you, Karadi Chabra of Shiroora Shan, and you two are my Master glassblowers!”

* * *

“You went ahead and had them build the glassblowing workshop before I even got back!?”

“Of course,” replied Lajita softly. “I knew you’d be back with Kimjeon, after all.”

“They love it, of course, but…”

Karadi shook his head and sighed.

“What about the others? Clyma, or Tseng? Ruk?”

“They were a surprise to me, too… but I knew where the workshop should be built, and what was in it. The hardest part was the furnace, because the supports and the clay had to be perfect.”

“They say it is perfect, you know… Kimjeon practically wept when he saw it. Tseng, too. I think they finally believe what I’ve been telling them.

“I never saw any orichalc bear, though, ruby eyes or not.”

“It is strange, yes… and I thought Kimjeon was the merchant being robbed, not the merchant-turned-robber. You sure he doesn’t have it hidden away or something, maybe intending to give it to you later?”

“Pretty sure… if they’d had anything worth any money they’d have sold it long ago, I think.”

“Another ‘prophecy’ that doesn’t seem to be true after all,” she mused. “Did you ever tell them how you knew his name?”

“Just that an oracle told me, and I didn’t mention the glass or crystal at all… I got him to bring it up.”

“He’ll guess soon enough,” she laughed. “Everyone calls me the Seeress.”

“The Seeress of Shiroora Shan… has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“What are you going to do with Ruk?”

“I don’t know yet… he’s smart, and had nothing there. We need more workers, and I thought I’d get him started there. Asked Tarjamon to take him under his wing now that he’s alone, and see how things go.”

“Tarjamon?” Lajita frowned slightly. “Oh, the forester. His own son died some years ago, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, that’s the man. Gruff, but a good man for Ruk, I think.”

“I leave it in your hands. I’m sorry, I know nothing of any boy named Ruk. I guess that means he doesn’t do anything bad, at least.”

She stopped for a moment, frowned.

“There is an Admiral Ruk, later… does this boy like the sea?”

“I don’t think he’s ever even seen it, let alone like it,” said Karadi. “Is it important?”

“No, not really, not now.”

“Hmm. OK. Well, what about Kimjeon’s wife and kid?”

“I know his two sons work toge—”

“Two? He only has one son,” broke in Karadi.

“Yes, now,” she continued. “But he’ll have two. Or rather, he’ll have at least two… two of his sons will work together to make Shiroora Shan famous for glass-blowing.”

“Not crystal?”

“Kimjeon’s granddaughter, a woman named Kirralestra, or maybe Kirralesti, will do that. Later.”

“Later… you mean…?”

“Yes, after we are dead and gone, I’m afraid, although we will meet her before we pass. Our daughter will be here then.”

“Atisha?”

“No, Atisha will be our first daughter, but our second daughter will be the second Lajita.”

“You said seven sons and four daughters.”

“Yes, and all will live to adulthood.”

“Dhruv, Varun, Gitanshu, Kostubh, Habib, Arun, and Paramjit, right?”

“Yes, and the girls are Atisha, Lajita, Asha, and Hansika.”

“That’s eleven. A good number.”

She fell silent, hugging herself and rocking back and forth on the sofa, face dark.

“What is it, Lajita? What is it?”

She took a deep breath, nostrils flaring, and listed her head to meet his gaze.

“I am blessed with knowledge of the future. And cursed. There is much I would not tell you, even you, Karadi.

“I only hope that we may together change the future, as I did with the children. Even if poor Cadman did die in the end…”

“But that was surely not your fault!”

“I saved one, but Cadman still died, died horribly. I could have saved him, and I didn’t!”

He pulled her closer, wrapped his arms around her.

“Promise me, Karadi,” she said, voice muffled in his chest. “Promise me that you will love all our children.”

“I promise, Lajita. With all my heart.”

A few moments of silence, then he loosened his arms, looked into her eyes once more.

“We were speaking of Ruk,” he said, noting the traces of tears on her cheeks.

“Yes, Ruk,” she said, voice a little too brittle. “I think he’ll be fine for now.”

She was obviously disinterested in Ruk or his problems.

“It’s good to be home again,” he said, changing the subject in hope of lifting her spirits. “Meeting Kimjeon and helping him build a new life here was good, too, in a different way.”

“I was so sorry to hear about your friend.”

“Salonitah? Not a friend, really, but I think he could have been. You had no knowledge of him?”

“I told you everything I know. I was as surprised as you to discover Kimjeon was a starving footpad!”

“Footpad-to-be, he says,” corrected Karadi. “They say they’d never done it before. Which explains why they failed so badly, I think.

“Before he died he left me his bow, you know. I didn’t show it to you yet, did I?”

He rose from the bed and retrieved the bow from the corner, where it was piled with other gear from his trip, not yet put away properly.

“It’s a beautifully made recurve,” he explained. “Bamboo core and—”

“Karadi’s Gift!” gasped Lajita. She stretched out a hand to touch it, trembling. “Of course! To actually see it…!”

“You know about this already?”

“I’d forgotten, but yes. It’s famous. When we talk… that is, where I came from, we called something ‘Karadi’s Gift’ if it was unique and valuable. My father always said I was Karadi’s Gift to him.”

“You’ve seen it, then?”

“Oh, no, it fell to pieces hundreds of years before I was even born. I’ve seen sketches of it, though.” She held out a hand. “May I touch it?”

“Of course,” he laughed. “Here, take it.”

She held it gingerly, as if it might bite, and pulled the string lightly. It hummed quietly.

She held it up to examine the grip closely and gave a gasp of surprise.

“It’s here! The sign!”

“Sign? What sign?”

She pointed just under the grip, to a tiny symbol incised into the bone lath on the belly of the bow.

“It’s the sign of Equus.”

“The horse god? That makes sense… he came from one of the horse tribes of the Eastern steppes.”

“Strange that I should know of his bow, but nothing of where it came from, or who owned it. We always thought Karadi bought it, or made it, and everyone wondered about that sign.”

“He said he made it himself,” explained Karadi. “It’s one of the finest bows I’ve ever used, and I’ve used quite a few over the years.”

“You do seem to have a thing for bows, now that you mention it,” she giggled, raising an eyebrow and tilting her head toward the dozen or so bows hanging on the wall.

“So now that you’ve welcomed me back properly,” he said, one hand on her almost-invisible belly bump and the other on her breast, “perhaps we can get dressed and go find something to eat? Food, I mean.”

She let him pull her up from bed with one hand, and they put on some clothes to go downstairs and wheedle Batauta for a midnight snack.

END