I introducted the Chabra surname in the Book of Jake, although Ridhi Chabra does not appear in the Book of Chabra itself. I wanted to expand the region around the Night Ocean, in the far east of the base map, and decided that a Chabra family would do nicely to bind that area together.

It became clear fairly quickly that I needed more room, so I added more territory to the eastern edge, and ended up changing Jason's map into a roughly rectangular world with no absolute edges. I'll discuss the map and world elsewhere.

Speaking of surnames, many (most?) inhabitants of the Dreamlands have only one name. A lot of people call themselves, for example, Ridhi Chabra or Britomartis of Celephaïs, but the second name usually indicates that person's allegiance, family, birthplace, current home, etc. For Ridhi Chabra the Chabra part is a surname, but also a marker that she's part of the enormous and powerful Chabra clan (which was the whole point of surnames in the first place). Commander Britomartis, on the other hand, is simply showing that she has pledged allegiance to the city.

The Book of Chabra consists of the following stories, which should be read in this order:

1. The Amulet
2. The Picnic
3. Journey to Karida
4. The Unpaid Ransom
5. Betrayals
6. The Falls of Kra
7. The Lone Tower
8. Vows
9. The Sculptor
10. Agdistis, Goddess of Love
11. Dawn in the Athraminaurians

I was born here, and yet I was not.

I know the streets of Shiroora Shan, the aromas and alleys of the Market, the sandalwood groves of Mount Krilara, the hidden passageways and chambers of the Great House of Chabra... I know them all, and yet they are not.

I know my name, Lajita, and the role I play, and yet not my own destiny, or reason.

 

The girl carefully closed the leather-bound book. It was over five centuries old, preserved as well as generations of Chabra women had been able to, but decaying slowly into illegibility and dust with the years. There were dozens of books on the shelf of various sizes, all rich in the history of House Chabra, but this was the very first, and the oldest of them all.

She stroked the leather cover carefully, as if to feel the spirit of the First Lajita seeping from it, then reverently replaced it back in its protective box.

They had copies of it all, of course, every word, but these were written by the First Lajita, the Founder, the seer who had created House Chabra, and birthed the sons who had established its great lineages.

She’d memorized every word, had sought every tiny bit of information about her, and could never learn enough. The First Lajita had chopped off the hand of a demon during the battle in the House of Grushak, going on to marry Karadi the Bear and give birth to the seven sons and four daughters who secured House Chabra’s position for centuries to come.

But who had she been?

And what did those opening words mean? She had written them centuries upon centuries earlier, before the city of Shiroora Shan was even a pipe dream of the tiny villages along the Night Ocean. She had named the glorious city that rose, the city she lived in even now, and had founded House Chabra. Prophecy after prophecy, detailed names, descriptions, explanations, of things destined to happen centuries after her own death. How?

Her prophecies had made House Chabra wealthy beyond belief, rulers of the city and the realm surrounding it, secure in their knowledge that she would guide them through dangers in the future as she had in the past.

But who was she?

Lajita sighed, and looked up at the bust of the First Lajita, standing in a place of honor, almost a little shrine to a little goddess. It was said to have been carved by her fourth son, Kostubh, in Olathoë marble, a soft, almost transparent cream with thin streaks of gold running through it like errant threads.

It was the face of a woman in her prime, perhaps her forties. A kind face, worn by responsibilities and duties, a stern face, yet beautiful. Many said she herself looked just like that First Lajita, and she had to admit there was a resemblance. After over five centuries, though, what matter?

A direct descendant of the First Lajita, she bore the same name, as did her mother. In every generation for centuries back to the founding of House Chabra, a woman somewhere in the Dreamlands would bear a daughter who would become the new Lajita. Identified by prophecy, House Chabra would seek her out and adopt her, preparing her to assume the responsibilities of her position. Sometimes the prophecy stated when she would assume her duties, sometimes it did not, but the prophecy was never wrong—none so selected refused the honor, or failed at the task, and every dishonest claim to the title was disproven by explicit prophecy.

When the title of Lajita passed to a new woman—usually a young woman—she received Lajita’s amulet to hold and protect.

She took it out of the velvet bag hanging around her neck and examined it once more.

The amulet looked like a coin, about three centimeters in diameter. The metal was a dull bronze in color, but no one had ever been able to identify what it was made of, or even scratch the surface with dagger points or diamonds. It remained as clean and shiny as the day it was forged.

One side had a raised image, ten arms outstretched from the central eye. Most people thought it was a stylized kraken, with eight arms and two tentacles, but she hadn’t made up her mind.

The other side was covered with tiny characters in no known language. Nobody could read it, of course, and there still wasn’t even a consensus on which side was up!

Like the First Lajita, its origin was a mystery.

And now it was her mystery, to protect until she bore her own daughter and passed it on to a new generation.

She looked at the table before her: on it lay only the blank diary she had made, new but perfectly identical to that very first book, yet untouched, awaiting her quill. As tradition dictated, when one book of prophecies was full, the new Lajita would have to make a new book, to receive prophecies for the coming year.

Now that she was no longer a girl, but a woman, it was her turn, in this most secret chamber of the Great House. Her “mother” and “grandmother,” the two previous generations of the Lajita, waited outside the door, protecting their successor and her sacred task.

Its pages were yet blank, but every year the Lajita would perform this ceremony, and new writing would appear on the seemingly blank pages. The handwriting was always the same—that of the First Lajita.

She had practiced for years to make her own handwriting identical, striving to mimic her in every way.

She held the amulet over the virgin book, feeling its cold weight in her hands, then with sudden determination, she clenched it tight and chanted the spell.

There was no noise, no burst of light, but suddenly there was a rolled-up piece of parchment on the table next to the diary, as if it had been there all along.

The book lay untouched.

A scroll? From the First Lajita?

Nothing like this had ever happened before!

The parchment was rolled up and tied with a simple cord. It still looked new, untouched by the years... the spell that kept it safe also kept it hidden from the passing of time.

Sometimes there was no prophecy for the coming year, leaving the Lajita in doubt. Did that mean it would be a good year, no enemies of calamities? Or that she was merely unworthy? There had been many times when House Chabra had faced difficulties without a prophecy, without a guiding hand, and had managed to make the right choices in spite of loss and personal sacrifice. And the next year, or the one after that, or a decade later, a new prophecy would come.

She breathed a sigh of relief. She was worthy: this year there was a prophecy, even if was a scroll rather than scribed directly into the book she had painstakingly made. She hung the amulet in its bag back around her neck, accepting the weight of her duty, then turned to the parchment.

Her fingers trembled as she untied the cord and let it drop to the tabletop. She slowly unrolled it, to find but a single line.

Be brave, Lajita, First and Last. I am so tired. It is done.

She stared at it in confusion.

There was no prophecy, no warning of imminent danger, or advice on expanding their realm. Only a... command? To her? What did “First and Last” mean? What is done?

She stared at it for some time before she slowly walked to the door to admit her “mother” and “grandmother”—neither related to her by blood, but sharing with her the honor and the duty of the Lajita.

>* * *

The three of them had not left that chamber for a full day, trying to ascertain what it might mean, wondering why this time, for the first time ever, the prophecy was so unclear, and so directly talking to the new Lajita. There were no warnings or guidance for the House at all.

The head of House Chabra knew of the prophecies, of course, and had himself studied the collected prophecies of the past, but he was not a Lajita. First, they needed to discuss it amongst themselves, the three living Lajitas.

Talk as they might, though, they couldn’t understand what it might mean.

Finally they sent a messenger to ask the head of the House to join them.

As head of the main line of the extended Chabra clan he resided in the centuries-old Great House, commanding not only his own extensive estate, but also controlling in large part the lives and doings of the six main Chabra families, and related branches.

In his late forties, his hair was already mostly white from the stress of his position, and while able of body he could not stop his fingers from drumming on the table, or rubbing one of his rings, or stroking his neatly trimmed, graying beard.

He had studied the prophecy, spoken with them about how to interpret it, and after much discussion agreed that they had no choice but to seek outside help. In this case, that meant Godsworn Tovari Beklamandalee of Nath-Horthath, in far Celephaïs. They decided to wait until they heard his counsel before transcribing the prophecy, if that’s what it was, into the blank book.

And so it was decided that Lajita would leave on a journey, first by ship to Eudoxia, then by carriage to Thace and on to Despina, where she and her escort would board a ship for Celephaïs.

She had never been so far beyond the boundaries of her own homeland, and couldn’t wait to see all the sights and sounds of new cities, new people, new cities, and oceans, and foods, and everything sounded so new and exciting!

Her escort, two dozen troopers, was less excited at the prospect, having been tasked with getting her safely to her destination in spite of her youthful exuberance and naivety.

Her only companions would be the few attendants that would accompany her, two women only a few years older than herself, under the stern eye of a fiftyish physician who had served House Chabra all her life, and gave not one millimeter in matters of propriety, tradition, or safety, to Lajita’s constant irritation.

They would leave in the morning, and in spite of the prohibition from her father—the head of House Chabra—she snuck from the Great House, through the gardens, and out the secret postern she had used so many times before.

She was a woman now, she thought as she climbed up the slope. The Great House of House Chabra was built atop a low mountain overlooking the whole city, and the bay and the Night Ocean stretching beyond. Behind the Great House rose the first peaks of the foreboding Ifdawn Marest, the mountain range that stretched north to distant Irem, and on to the dread Pool of Night.

The path wound up through the trees until she reached her destination, an outcrop of rock that offered the perfect view. From here she could look down upon the Great House, the streets and markets of Shiroora Shan, the ships plying the waves of the Night Ocean, and beyond. She thought she’d even sighted far Adelma once, unlikely as it was.

Tomorrow she would leave all this behind, she thought, a bit scared at the thought. But to see Celephaïs! The Palace of the Seventy Delights, the Pinnacle and the Minaret of the Stars, the Ten Noble Estates... she had heard tales of its beauty and glory since she was a babe, and now she would see them with her own eyes!

She sat on the cold stone, arms crossed over her knees and chin on arms, daydreaming until suddenly came a voice.

“I thought I was the only one who knew of this outlook,” someone said with a chuckle.

She leapt to her feet and spun around to see a young man, only several years older than she, dressed in fine silks and with a bejeweled rapier at his side.

“Who are you?”

“I am Shikhandi,” he replied in a soft voice. “Like you, I often climb here for the beauty of the view, and to think.”

“What House are you from? I don’t recall seeing you in Shiroora Shan...”

She knew she’d heard that name before but couldn’t place it. She thought it strange that she couldn’t recall, until he spoke again and his soothing voice wiped away her doubts.

“Oh, I am not from Shiroora Shan,” he smiled. “We live farther up in the mountains, and but rarely visit the city.”

“Strange that I have not heard of such.”

“We do not seek out strangers, or willingly visit Shiroora Shan,” he said. “May I join you, and enjoy together tea and cakes?”

He held up a small wicker basket.

She hadn’t noticed it before, but he must have been carrying it all along.

He was such a handsome man...

“Of course, Master Shikhandi, thank you. I would be delighted!” she said, nodding her head in an almost regal motion and taking a step back so he could join her on the widest, flattest portion of the rock.

He set the basket down, and reached in to withdraw a ground cloth of silk and gold thread, embroidered with the birds and flowers of paradise in every color of the rainbow. He snapped it wide, and gently fluttered it to the ground.

“Mistress? Please, join me.”

She daintily stepped onto the cloth and sat, legs to the side and completely hidden by her carefully adjusted saree.

He took out a silver- and gold-chased teapot, two delicate porcelain cups, and a small cedar box that turned out to hold tempting honey cakes, seemingly fresh-baked.

He poured her a cup and held it out properly to her, between his two hands like an offering.

She couldn’t help but notice how clean his hands were, how strong and masculine.

As she accepted the cup she caught the barest whiff of his scent, a heady combination of spice and musk.

He picked up the plate of honey cakes and held it toward her.

A plate...? Hadn’t that been a box, a cedar box...?

She felt dizzy.

How had he fit all that into such a tiny basket?

Why did he have two cups...?

She grasped the plate, and their fingers brushed together for the briefest moment. She swayed in the impact of his presence, her eyes closing for an instant in the sudden orgasm his touch had brought.

The plate dropped from her hand, smashing to shards, unnoticed as she screamed.

“No! I cannot! I am the Lajita!”

He pulled her hand closer, kissing the fingertips, the palm, the wrist, as she writhed in agony, torn between the waves of pleasure his kisses brought and the iron commandments she had sworn to obey as Lajita.

She moaned as his kisses reached her neck, her head turning upward toward the heavens, her mind a frenzied confusion of lust and horror. She couldn’t move a single finger, her body frozen by wave after wave of orgasm that swept through her, unstoppable, irresistible.

His fingertips danced down her neck, her collarbone, and slipped inside her saree, stroking her skin in patterns of delight until they reached the cord holding the amulet, and paused for a moment.

“What have we here?” he breathed. “No matter; nothing shall come between us.”

He pulled the cord, lifting the amulet in its bag from between her breasts. The bag caught on the edge of her saree, and slipped off, leaving the amulet exposed.

It caught the rays of the sun, collecting and reflecting them in a blinding explosion of light, incandescent brilliance that pierced Shikhandi, his flesh bubbling and steaming into smoke as he screamed and shielded his eyes from the assault.

“You...! Why...?”

Eyes wide, unable to tear her eyes away in spite of the radiance that brought tears to her cheeks, she watched him weaken and fade until there was nothing left but his eyes, staring into her own with sadness.

“I would have given you a lifetime of pleasure, a universe of sensation to explore, but now I give you only my curse!”

The fading outlines of his eyes vanished, the amulet fell dark, and Lajita collapsed senseless to the bare rock.

* * *

Her cheek hurt; this pillow was hard!

She reached up toward her face, and suddenly stopped.

Her eyes opened.

It was not a pillow.

She was not in her bed.

It all came rushing back... the forest, the outlook, Shikhandi...

She gasped in sudden fear, and sat up.

She was all alone on the rock, warm in the afternoon sun.

There was no sign of Shikhandi, no sign of his basket.

Her hand flew to her neck, and she sighed in relief.

The amulet was still there.

She brushed the grit off her face as she stood.

The sun was already dropping toward the horizon, she had to hurry back to the Great House!

She looked down from the outlook toward where the Great House should stand.

There was only forest.

And beyond it, where Shiroora Shan should stretch, its streets and marketplaces and wharfs along the seafront of the Night Ocean... only trees, rocks, and sand met her searching gaze.

“Why...? Where...?” she whispered.

What had Shikhandi done to her? What was this curse?

She had to get back to the Great House!

It must be there, hidden in the trees somewhere!

This was just some illusion, some glamour to frighten her!

She squared her shoulders, tightened her lips, raised her chin to face down her fear, and turned to take the path down the mountain.

There was no path.

There was the forest, underbrush, creeping grass and flowers encircling this bare rock.

No matter! She knew the way, and even without a path all she had to do was walk downhill to reach the sea.

She gathered up her saree, holding it higher so it didn’t catch on the underbrush. She had been able to climb the mountain easily using the path, but without the path... her saree was not designed for hiking the mountains.

The underbrush thinned out considerably in the forest, but she still had to contend with fallen trees and branches, shrubs, rocks, hidden gullies and streams of all sizes.

It was also much darker here, and the afternoon sun seemed to be sinking fast.

She hurried, making more noise than she liked in the suddenly threatening forest.

A flock of birds exploded into flight above her, startling her as she had startled them, and she tripped over a log, landing heavily on her left arm, hands up protecting her face.

She cursed, pulled herself up into a sitting position, rubbed her arm. No blood, but it would be black and blue.

Her saree, woven of the finest silk of Oriab, was torn and stained.

They would be furious with her, she knew, but now she was The Lajita. And it was only a saree; they could just buy another!

She clenched her teeth and clambered back up, determined to remain poised and proud even if they did talk about her behind her back.

There was a loud snuffling, almost a grunt, behind her, and the sound of leaves being brushed aside.

“Who’s there?” she snapped as she spun around and froze in terror.

It was an enormous bear, black and silver, as tall on four legs as she was on two.

It snuffled the air again, staring at her in her disarray, then bared its teeth and twisted its head in a snarl that rose to a roar.

Her terror shattered her stillness, and she turned to flee, flying over branches and bushes, saree lifted high to reveal her legs.

Behind her, the bear came snarling, the sound of its massive paws thudding into the ground pushing her to run even faster.

She heard a bowstring twang, and again and thrice faster than she could count, and the bear crashed to the ground with a howl of agony.

She risked a glance over her shoulder to see it on the ground, and even as she watched it rose to its feet again, roaring in pain and fury, and turned to face its attacker.

Another shaft flew toward the bear, narrowly missing an eye and slicing deep into the bear’s neck.

It broke into a run, heading straight toward a green-clad archer standing a few dozen of paces distant.

He ignored the bear and its fury, shooting another shaft, and another, each one sinking deep into the animal’s flesh until finally, only a few meters from its prey, it collapsed for the last time, and its furious breath gradually quieted, and stilled.

The archer stared at it, arrow set to taut bowstring, until all was quiet.

He let out a deep breath and lowered the bow.

“Glad that’s over... I’m down to my last arrow...”

He looked over toward Lajita.

“Are you hurt?”

Listening to her ragged breath and the pulse pounding through her ears, she slowly nodded.

“I’m... I’m fine, I think... thank you.”

The man laughed.

“Hey, it’s not every day I see a young girl chased by a bear! What are you doing in these woods anyway, and in that fancy get-up?”

“I am not a girl! I am The Lajita!” she snapped, standing stall and trying her best to look regal in spite of her torn clothes and the fact he was quite a bit taller and older than she.

He walked over to the bear and used his dagger to start digging out the arrows.

“Dunno know what a Lajita is, but if you keep running around in the forest and making all that noise you’re gonna attract more hungry animals.”

“You don’t know...!?” she sputtered. “I am The Lajita of House Chabra, and the soldiers of Shiroora Shan are searching for me even now! Name yourself, churl!”

“Churl?”

He turned around, a bloody dagger in one hand and a bloody arrow in the other. “Not very friendly, are you, considering I just saved your life.

“What’s Shiroora Shan?”

“You’ve never heard of Shiroora Shan? What hole did you crawl out of?”

“Hmm. Well, I’ve been in some places that would certainly count as holes, but I don’t think the First Lord would take kindly to anyone calling Eudoxia a hole.”

“Eudoxia? How can you say you’re from Eudoxia but yet claim to not know of Shiroora Shan? We are famous throughout the Night Ocean, and Ganzorig himself has visited House Chabra several times. He gave me this hairpin, in fact!”

She pulled the bejeweled pin from her hair and held it out in evidence.

The man walked over and looked at it.

“Yup, that’s a pretty one, all right. Who’s Ganzorig?”

“Ganzorig, First Lord of Eudoxia? You don’t know your own lord?”

“Hey, the First Lord of Eudoxia is Pleticent, and he’s been First Lord since before I was born. Never heard of anyone named Ganzorig before...”

“Obviously you are lying, or some malignant spirit sent to torment me.”

“Yeah, sure. That’s why I just saved your life, right?”

She hmphed, and brushed more dirt from her saree.

“Do you have a name, archer?”

“Uh...” He hesitated for a moment.

“Surely you have heard of your own name!”

“Uh, yeah. Um, Jo. Jo of Eudoxia.”

“Jo,” she sniffed. “You couldn’t come up with a more original name?”

He pursed his lips, looked up at the sky.

“You were heading down the mountain, before. If you want to reach the shore before it gets dark we had better get moving.”

“Why should I trust you? You are even ashamed to name yourself!”

“Yeah, well, maybe because I just saved your life, which sorta suggests I don’t want to kill you. And if we don’t get a move on, there are lots of things in these woods that do want to kill you, so can we go now?”

Unsure of how to respond to that, she merely nodded.

“This way, then,” he said, stepping past her. “You’re not wearing boots, either, I see... I can carry you, if you need.”

“I am quite capable of carrying myself, thank you very much.”

Her feet did hurt, though. She’d stepped on sharp, pointed twigs and stones fleeing from the bear, and thought they might be bleeding.

She brushed her cheek when some buzzing insect flew too close, and noticed her hand was stained with blood after... she must have run into some branch.

Now that she realized it, she noticed the pain. Must be a scratch, to sting like that.

Mother will be furious, she thought.

She refused to show her pain and kept up the pace, until her sandal caught on a tree root and the strap tore.

She hopped on one leg for a minute, trying to keep her balance, and managed to half-sit, half-fall onto a nearby rock.

“I thought that’d happen,” said Karadi. “Sorta surprised it took this long, actually. Those sandals are pretty useless out here.”

“These sandals cost more than your bow!”

“Yup, probably did, I imagine. My bow isn’t broken, though, and your sandals are.”

“Well? What are you going to do?”

“Me? What am I going to do?” he chuckled. “No, girl, I think the question is What are you going to do.

“It’s not that far to the shore from here. I’ll be happy to carry you, if you’ll let me, or we can just keep walking slowly and hope we don’t run into any thorns. I suppose we could even camp here for the night, but I’d really rather not spend the night here if I can help it.

“So, what are you going to do?”

“I’m perfectly capable of walking, thank you.”

She pulled off the other sandal, and carried both of them in her hand. She held her saree up with her other hand, picking out places to step that looked like they wouldn’t hurt too much.

Karadi just stood there, watching.

Something pricked her foot and she yanked it back, losing her balance and falling on her ass.

Karadi, laughing, scooped her up in his arms and started walking.

She hammered her fists into his chest, but he kept walking. She sputtered and complained for a while, but after being roundly ignored eventually fell into a sulking silence.

They reached the sandy shore a few minutes later.

He set her down on the sand gently, and she stood transfixed, staring at the seascape.

She couldn’t place where she was... that island out in the water was surely the Great Seawall, but it was covered in trees! No fortifications, no keep at the point, no guards... And over there, where the bustling wharfs of the port should be, was... nothing!

No port, no ships, no people, no Shiroora Shan!

That demon said he cursed her... had he destroyed the city and everyone in it?

She collapsed to her knees, heedless of the sand caking on her saree, eyes searching.

She glanced up the hills, to where the walls and towers of House Chabra should stand, but search as she might she could only find rocks and trees.

“You alright?”

“...It’s gone...” she whispered, almost unaware of his presence.

“Your Shiroora Shan?”

“Shiroora Shan, the Great Seawall, the port, House Chabra... it’s all gone!”

“You sure you’re in the right place?”

“Yes, positive,” she snapped, regaining her composure. “I see a village over there. I will ask them.”

“Uh, you mind if I tag along? You’re not exactly dressed to go walking into an unknown village.”

“I am The Lajita! It matters not how I am dressed!”

He held up both hands and took a step back.

“Yeah, sure, you’re The Lajita, I heard you. Maybe you could just humor me for a minute, though, and wrap your hair up nice in something... be a pity if that fancy jewelry fell off or something and got lost in the sand. Or just put them in your bag for now?

Anyway, maybe I’ll just tag along, though. Be nice to spend the night in an inn with real food for a change.”

She stalked down the beach toward the village, tying a scarf around her head as he had suggested.

It had only a few dozen buildings, and she couldn’t see very many people about. In the dusk no doubt they were already inside for the night.

If this were Shiroora Shan, that would be, um, the wharfs should be there, which meant that should be... Fishmongers’ Street, maybe? Or Ta-Rashahan-Bar, the Street of the Weavers, maybe?

She stalked into the village and walked directly up to what must be the inn, although it looked more like one room of a small dwelling. Still, it had a lantern out front, and a sign in common reading The Leaping Whale.

It was very dark inside, darker than the advancing night outside, but her eyes quickly adjusted to reveal two tables and a counter with a few stools.

Jo slid the door shut behind them, and a man appeared behind the counter, holding an oil lamp.

“Welcome, welcome! I was just getting ready! Let me get the lanterns lit for you!”

He bowed several times as he circled the room, lighting up several small lamps around the room.

Lajita stood close to the door, waiting for him to come serve her, but once he finished his preparations he returned to the counter and began wiping it down.

“What can I get you, Master?” he asked, looking at Jo.

Lajita looked shocked.

“I am The Lajita,” she stated proudly. “What happened to the city?”

The innkeeper blinked.

“What city?”

“Shiroora Shan, you dolt!”

He blinked again.

“Uh, girl? I’ve lived here all my life and never heard of no Shiroora Shan. Certainly no cities around here, ’cept maybe Adelma or Eudoxia, and they’re not ’round here at all.”

She stamped her foot in frustration.

“Why are you lying to me!? What have you done with House Chabra?”

The innkeeper took a step back from the counter and pulled a dagger out from underneath the counter.

“Never heard of it,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Master, maybe you oughta control your kid before she does something stupid? Or just leave.”

Jo stepped up to stand between the two.

“Sorry, she was almost killed by a bear. She’s a little confused and distraught,” he said, and led her to the closest table, pushing her down onto the bench.

“Let me speak! I am The La...”

“Yes, I know, and I am The Jo. Now be quiet for a moment. Please!” He gripped her arm, holding her down on the bench in spite of her protestations, and turned back to the innkeeper. “If we could have some dinner and two cups of ale, that would be great.”

“You have coin?”

Jo pulled out his wallet and flipped the innkeeper a silver coin. “That cover it?”

The innkeeper caught the coin in one hand, put his dagger down, and nodded.

“Fish or mutton?”

Jo turned to Lajita, eyebrow raised.

“Mutton?”

“I’m not hungry,” she snapped.

“Mutton, then, innkeeper, thank you. For both of us”

He brought out two cups of warm ale almost immediately, and set them down while keeping to the far side of the table from Lajita.

“What village is this?” asked Jo, taking a sip.

“Rashahan,” he said as he walked away. “Don’t even know where you are?”

“Sorry, our caravan started in Nurl, but we got hit by bandits. Just managed to walk here and got lost in the forest,” explained Jo. “Never been here before.”

“Not many people have,” said the innkeeper, then vanished into the kitchen.

“Why do you lie like that? I have never been to Nurl!”

“Would you relax a little bit? You’ll get us thrown out of here, and I, for one, would dearly like to eat something and sleep on a proper mat without mosquitoes sucking the blood out of me.”

Lajita dropped her voice.

“You’ve really never heard of Shiroora Shan?”

“Never.”

“But you mentioned Nurl, and Eudoxia... and that’s the Night Ocean out there, right?”

“Right.”

“My city—Shiroora Shan—it’s gone. It was right here, where this thrice-bedamned village stands!”

“Hard to move a whole city,” he commented. “Would you prefer tea to ale?”

“I can drink ale!” she snapped once again, and tried to prove it by slugging down half the cup, then coughing as she tried to catch her breath.

“Yes, I can see,” he chuckled. “Innkeeper! When you bring the food, a pot of tea, too, if you please!”

“Pot a’ tea, yessir,” same the muffled shout from the back.

“Just how old are you, girl?”

“I am not to be called girl! I am The Lajita!”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that several times. So how old are you?”

“Sixteen...”

“And you go wandering in the woods dressed in a silk saree, with gold and gems in your hair. And drink ale. Quite the sixteen-year old!

“Now, describe this Shiroora Shan to me.”

She told him of its beauty, the temples, the Dancing Elephant, and the Great Seawall, the merchant ships that called from Eudoxia, bringing the riches of the West, and the strange caravans from the farthest East, lands unknown.

The marketplace, the school of alchemists, the many districts boasting artisans in many disciplines, with their unique traditions and skills, the Pottery Guild, Fishmongers’ Street, the intermittent spouting of the Leaping Fountain, the Street of the Weavers Ta-Rashahan-Bar, so much more...

She clutched his arm in sudden panic.

“Here’s your roast mutton and rice,” said the innkeeper, suddenly approaching with a huge platter of meat and two bowls of rice. “I’ll go get your tea.”

“Well, whether it’s gone somewhere or not,” suggested Jo, “you need to eat something.”

He pried her off his arm and handed her a set of chopsticks.

“You have a dagger?”

“Of course!”

She pulled a small dagger from somewhere inside her saree.

It was of ivory, chased in gold and silver, and had several glittering gems that caught the lamplight.

Jo quickly grabbed her hand, hiding the small dagger, and pushed it back out of sight. He glanced around the room but they were still alone, except maybe for the innkeeper in the back.

“Keep that hidden!” he whispered. “You want to get us both killed? Your saree is bad enough, but if you flash something like that around it’ll attract all the wrong people right quickly.”

She was speechless, and let him guide her hand down until the dagger was back in its sheath behind her waist sash.

He handed her a small, simple dagger he took from his boot, and she took it, still frowning.

The meat was greasy, fatty, and overcooked, but she discovered she was hungry after all, and in a short while the platter was empty, along with the second helping of rice and several cups of ale.

She ended up not drinking the tea after all, and with a full stomach and a roof over her head, she nodded off.

Jo narrowly managed to pull the platter out of the way and catch her head with the other hand so she didn’t crack it on the table.

The innkeeper showed them to the tiny room with its tiny mat, and he gently laid her there, snoring away.

He stretched out in front of the door, his ruck for a pillow.

They slept.

* * *

When she opened her eyes she was alone, still wearing her bedraggled saree, with Master Jo’s blanket on top to keep her warm.

She sat up with a bolt, suddenly recalling everything that had happened.

It hadn’t been a dream... Shiroora Shan really was gone.

Everything she knew, everyone she loved, gone.

All she had was the amulet, the blank diary she had made so carefully, back in Shiroora Shan, back in that different world. And Jo. Jo who had saved her from the bear.

She heard his voice in the other room, talking to the innkeeper, then footsteps.

The door opened.

“You awake?”

She hurriedly pulled her saree tighter.

“Of course. You should knock before entering.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my room, too. I spent the night sleeping right here, on the floor, so maybe lighten up a bit, huh?”

She glanced at the floor where he’d pointed, and then hurriedly folded up the blanket and held it out to him.

“Thank you.”

“You looked cold; not a big deal.”

“Weren’t you cold, too?”

“I’m used to it,” he shrugged. “More to the point, though, you can’t keep running around in that saree. It’s too long, too pretty, and too torn.

“The innkeeper sold me one of his wife’s sarees. It’s clean, and doesn’t make you look like a runaway noble’s daughter. You are a runaway noble’s daughter, right?”

“I didn’t run away,” she said, staring at the brown, slightly frayed saree he held out. “I’m from Shiroora Shan... Shikhandi... Shikhandi sent me here!”

“Shikhandi?”

“A demon of the mountain!” She suddenly burst into tears. “I was to travel to Eudoxia, then on to Celephaïs, and climbed the mountain to see the Great House and the city one last time... and that demon lured me, did things to me, and only my amulet saved me! But he cursed me with his dying breath, and sent me here.”

The whole story spilled out in a torrent of tears and anger and fear, and she never even noticed when he knelt down next to her and put his arm around her, patting her back.

He smoothed her hair, listening but saying little.

“You feel OK now?” he asked after she’d relaxed and her tears stopped. “Get dressed, and then let’s get some breakfast. Better put all your jewelry away, too.”

He rose, and left the room, sliding the door shut softly behind him.

She hesitated, picked up the brown saree, sniffed it, sighed, and began changing her clothes.

Suddenly she heard the innkeeper shouting something, and the sound of men struggling, and then a body falling to the floor.

She froze as men ran past her door into the inn.

“Jahleel of Pungar Vees! At last we’ve got you!”

She crept to the door and slid it open a crack.

She could see the innkeeper lying behind the counter, head covered in blood, unconscious or dead. And to the left of the counter she could see Jo, sword drawn, facing two swordsmen. They were closing in on him from both sides, sword at the ready.

She slid the door open until she could slip out, and silently crept up to hide behind the counter.

“You came all this way just to kill me? For that fat fool?”

One of the men laughed.

“He may be fat and a fool, but he also promised a hundred gold pieces for your head, attached to your body or not, and we aim to collect.”

“I still need it, sorry. And I’ll charge a steep price for it if you insist.”

“Oh, looking forward to it,” the other said, and leapt forward, sword striking against Jo’s sword with a deafening clang.

The other man danced forward, attacking Jo from the side.

Lajita gasped, eyes wide.

Jo jumped to one side, suddenly shifting his attack to the second man as he hooked one foot into a stool and kicked it at the first attacker, throwing him off balance.

His sword cut into the second man’s arm, as he cried in pain and stepped back giving Jo the chance to swivel toward the first attacker again.

Knocked backward by the stool, the first attacker had fallen against the counter.

Lajita could hear him curse on the other side of the thin panel.

She reached out and lifted the cook’s cleaver from where it was lying, next to a half-chopped chicken.

She stood slowly, until she could just see over the top, and as she did the man reached up to pull himself up off the floor, his meaty hand slapping down on the countertop for support.

Without thinking she slammed the cleaver down with full force, cutting into the man’s hand and chopping most of it off.

He screamed in agony and collapsed again, his hand spurting blood in an arc through the air as he fell.

At his scream the second man turned his head to look, and Jo’s dagger struck neatly into his side, and up and into his vitals.

He collapsed, gurgling and trying to hold his side as Jo jumped to the counter and thrust down with his sword, once.

It slammed into the floor with a wet thump, and the inn fell silent.

She gradually became aware of the sound around her: her heartbeat hammering in her ears, Jo panting, leaves blowing in the wind somewhere, a bird singing on the roof.

“Well, that was fun,” said Jo, collapsing down onto a bench, bloody dagger still in his hand. “You OK?”

She couldn’t speak, and just nodded.

She stared at the cleaver in her hand, and slowly unclenched her fingers, one at a time, until it fell to the countertop next to the bloody fingers.

She heard a groan behind her and shrieked, running from the counter to grab Jo’s arm in fright.

It was the innkeeper.

He pulled himself up, head bloody, and looked slowly around.

“What...? Oh... They slipped in from the back and hit me. Just the two of them?”

“Just the two of them,” said Jo. “Can I trouble you for some water?”

The innkeeper nodded, and pulled a stone bottle out from the counter.

He lined up three cups, and splashed in a healthy helping of something.

“Cydathrian brandy. On the house.”

Jo didn’t even look at it, just slugged it down in a single gulp.

Lajita looked at the deep reddish liquid and took a sip.

It burned, and she spat it out in a sudden surge of nausea, running to the door to heave into the bushes until she was empty and her mouth was tight with acid.

Jo laid his hand on her shoulder, holding out a cup of tea.

She gulped it down, and collapsed into a ball, staring at the mountain, at the sky, at nothing.

“It OK, Lajita. They’re gone.”

“They... I...”

He just patted her shoulder in silence until she relaxed again.

As she recovered, she thought back to what they’d said.

Jahleel of Pungar Vees... of course!

“You are Jahleel!”

He hurriedly shushed her.

“Best not to say that name, Lajita. I’m Jo, remember?”

“And the innkeeper, he is Grushak! And I just chopped that man’s hand off!”

She was babbling.

“But he was no demon, just a hired killer. And this is just an inn, not the House of Grushak. And Rashahan will one day be Ta-Rashahan-Bar, the Street of the Weavers!”

He was just staring at her in shock.

“And you are Jahleel of Pungar Vees, son of Habib of Pungar Vees!”

“How did you...?”

“Because I am The Lajita,” she said, tears forgotten as she stood, tall and proud.

“We will marry at the time of the Spring Festival three years hence, and I will give you seven sons and four daughters. Together, we will found House Chabra right there on that hill overlooking the port and the city of Shiroora Shan.

“You will be known forever more as Karadi Chabra the Bear, the Founder of House Chabra, and our sons and their sons shall command the Night Ocean!”

“You... are you a seeress? Marry you...?”

She laughed.

“Hardly a seeress, dear Karadi. I know what happened, over five hundred and thirty-six years of House Chabra, because I am the First Lajita, and I am the Last Lajita, and this book,” she said, holding up her blank diary, “this book will reveal the history of the future to all of the Lajita’s who follow me, guiding us through danger.”

And it all came to pass as she had foretold.

And on the first day of the New Year, in their small, newly built house overlooking the village and bay below, the First Lajita, on a sudden whim, pressed her amulet against the cover of the diary she had crafted so carefully, now full of warnings for the future, and suddenly there was a single rolled-up parchment on the table.

She hesitated, then picked it up and unrolled it.

Dear Lajita,

Should I address you as You, or I? Or perhaps We?

You know now who we are, and why we are here. Where did the amulet come from, originally? Is there any such thing as free will? Can we escape the roles we are fated for? I still do not know...

I know that you will be surprised to receive this; I certainly was. But since I also know that I did receive it, I know that it will reach you safely even though neither of us has been born yet.

I am positive that I memorized every word of the First Lajita. Who is me, of course. Us. But when I wrote them down, I added additional explanations to certain vague prophecies, to help future Lajitas better guide House Chabra.

Is my memory mistaken? Were those additions really there in the first place, and then I forgot them, and thinking I had written anew actually only wrote what they said in the first place? Or have I changed the future? Perhaps every one of us, every Lajita, changes the future for the next.

Are we the only immutable fact of this world, cycling eternally from future to past, branching to a different reality as we write?

Are you me? Or a different Lajita, from a different future past?

Our history says that you will birth seven sons and four daughters, and that is true. You must know that this, too, is part of our fate that we cannot alter, cannot avoid. A mother loves her son, no matter what may come.

We already know the date of our death, of course, but take strength from the knowledge that we have built House Chabra, and saved it countless times over the centuries, through our so-called “prophecies.”

I wonder what will happen to House Chabra now that there is no new Lajita to succeed us...

END

 

---

 

The Chabra family tree

 

---

 

Floorplan of the first Chabra home

Lajita listened to the birdsong for a moment before she opened her eyes, luxuriating in the gentle melody, the sighing of the pre-dawn breeze in the trees, the coolth of the linen.

And the quiet breathing of her Karadi next to her on the bed.

She rolled over to look at Karadi’s bearded face, handsome even asleep with a little dribble from one corner of his mouth.

And this was the Lord of House Chabra!

She giggled, and giggled again when his eyes opened at the sound.

He lay still, one eye looking at her as he gathered his wits. He shut his mouth, grimaced as his cheek touched the wet spot, and rolled to face her while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You’re up early.”

“You’re drooling, Lord Karadi of Chabra.”

“Women should be seen and not heard, you know.”

“I’ve heard that before, now that you mention it,” she countered. “But I’ve also heard that many men, when discovering a beautiful woman in their bed, think of other things.”

“Perhaps I might as well, if one were in my bed...”

She snuggled closer, slipping under his arm.

“If...?”

Her hand slipped down across his chest, his belly, and lower.

“Oh, my... it seems you recognize the validity of my argument after all...”

Unable to restrain himself any longer, he surrendered to her superior logic.

---

Detail map of the Night Ocean region

* * *

Later, after breakfast, when Karadi had gone to attend to the fields, she walked out onto the balcony and sat on the divan, looking out over the thriving village and the waters of the Night Ocean, the leather-bound diary in her hand.

The book was still new, hardly worn or stained... it was, after all, only a few years old. In fact, she thought to herself, she wouldn’t even make it for more than five hundred years! She yet had to write all of the “prophecies” for the next centuries, but since she had personally confirmed that they arrived safely in the future, she had no doubt that she would get it done.

How she would get it done, how these missives from other Lajitas arrived in the future, what magic was involved, she had no idea, but obviously she would discover the secret one day.

Would there be one for her, here, this day of the Year’s Turning?

Gingerly, she removed the amulet from the small cloth bag hanging around her neck, and touched it to the cover of the diary.

There was no sound, no burst of light, but suddenly, as if it had been there all along, a sheet of paper appeared atop the leather-bound book.

Another missive! From that other Lajita!

She picked it up and began to read.

My dearest self,

We didn’t expect this conversation to continue, one-sided as it is, but yet another year has passed, and when I—and you—pressed the amulet to the diary, this missive appeared. The house is coming along nicely. I know because I distinctly remember you checked it yourself yesterday. Or I did.

I wonder if we checked it at the same time.

Or was it only checked once, and we remember it separately?

My head hurts sometimes.

This talk of me, and you, and us... let me be me, and you, you; it will be so much easier to pretend you are a different person.

There are some things you need to know, I think.

You suspect you might be with child—you are. I wish you’d (I’d?) waited a little longer.

It will be a painful birth, I’m afraid—Zlatka, the Eudoxian midwife, is a treasure. First will be fierce Dhruv and poor Atisha, his beautiful twin sister. A hard birth but all will end well, and they will thrive.

Fear not childbirth. Your other births will all be far easier, so rest easy.

I did write down when each child is born and what you name them, but destroyed that sheet. I had no memory of ever receiving it, but we both know them all by heart anyway. And, I fondly recall the talks beloved Jahleel and I had over names. Even the arguments remain with me now as dear memories. But I must turn to what I so urgently need to tell you.

We know so much, and indeed it is that knowledge that leads across the centuries to the beautiful city of Shiroora Shan and the Great House of Chabra we were born to. We know of where to find the secret lode of silver ore that has provided our wealth, and the pearl beds, or when a landslide will strike or dragon nest, and we can advise the people accordingly. They already are in awe of the Seeress Chabra.

We know knowledge sad, though, as well. Can we shape the future with our knowledge of what is to come?

If I could spare you the heartbreak of our fate...

I wish we could... with your help I would try.

We have excellent memories—good enough to memorize every word that The Lajita wrote. But something happened to me five days from now, five days after I received this missive I write to you, on the first day of the Week of the Blooming Cherry in the Month of the Year’s Turning. The first Lajita warned me that on that day of an accident in the waters off the island that will one day anchor the Great Seawall. She warned that four children would drown: Tasha and Radha, daughters of the fisherman named Ogan who lives close to where the largest mountain stream enters the Night Ocean—his home has a row of whitish stones around the base of the wood plank walls. Cadman, son of Hafez, a farmer living just outside the new Eastern Gate. And Haarith, almost a man, the only son of widowed Afreen, a weaver who lives in a back room at the “House of Grushak,” which is of course merely The Leaping Whale.

I knew them all: it is yet a small village, and I know everyone. Obviously, so do you.

That morning, after suitable preparations, I prepared sweetcakes and berries, and beautiful peach blossoms that Batauta had brought me, and invited the four children to join me at the House. We enjoyed a splendid morning together. Tasha and Radha were especially delighted, and later, while I was engaged with them, I realized the two boys had snuck away.

Cadman and Haarith set out together in a small boat, leaving us womenfolk with their sweets and laughing at their secret adventure, only to capsize as an unexpected wave took the boat broadside and flipped it over. In the cold waters of the New Year they quickly drowned.

The boys drowned, but not the girls.

I saved the girls, and that means (unless memory betrays me or I have gone entirely mad) we can sway the flow of history, we can change the future.

I saved the girls, and while I have no way of knowing if you succeed or fail, I am confident you, in turn, can save the boys.

Lajita pursed her lips and looked down into the streets of Rashahan—Shiroora Shan to be—below, the missive forgotten in her hand.

She thought back to her own memories, recalling mention of the two boys drowning. Try as she might, she could not recall ever reading of the two girls being drowned, or even of enjoying a picnic.

Was the first Lajita misremembering, or confused?

It seemed unlikely... her memory was fine, and she was confident she remembered the “prophecies” of the Lajita correctly... they had, after all, guided her thus far, revealing the location of the secret spring that would water the Great House of Chabra for centuries to come. The giant teak trees had been where she had read they would be, even though the villagers had doubted that teak could grow in the area, especially to that size.

She knew family details, names, origins, so much more information about the villagers before she ever met them.

Time and time again she had demonstrated, to her own satisfaction and the astonishment of the villagers, that she had secret knowledge.

Could that other Lajita have been mistaken? Even though she herself was, in a sense, that other Lajita?

She couldn’t believe it... but...

The alternative was that she had changed the course of fate itself, altered the future. And if the future could be altered, didn’t that mean the Lajita herself could vanish? Obviously, since she was here, now, she hadn’t vanished, but what if something she herself did affected the future of the Lajita, or House Chabra itself?

But wait... Why only think of the worst?

If she could affect the course of history, she could also guide House Chabra through the disasters and misfortunes that awaited it in years to come!

Her eyes widened, one hand flying to cover her mouth.

Every Lajita might have done this! Every one of us might have changed the future past, guiding House Chabra to safety and glory for centuries!

She frowned.

But there was no mention of it in any of the missives from The Lajita.

She scratched her head and laid the missive back down. Sighed.

She heard voices from the courtyard and rose from her cushion on the balcony.

“Karadi? Is that you?”

“Sun’s hot today!” came a grumble from downstairs.

She looked over the railing into the central courtyard to see Karadi fanning himself with his hat, looking up at her.

“You look ravishing today, Lajita.”

“Thank you. Is that a compliment or an invitation?”

“Again!? You’ll wear me out, woman! I’m too hot and tired to do more than admire the view, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll get you some tea,” she said, and quickly took the stairs down to the ground floor. Karadi had moved to the lower deck, just under the balcony where she had been reading only minutes earlier. Shaded and often with a cooler breeze, it was the ideal place to rest and cool off.

The big pot of tea in the kitchen was cool to the touch as she poured him a cup. It wasn’t fresh tea, of course, although it had been brewed just a few hours earlier, but it was still delicious, and the evaporation from its cloth covers had cooled it in spite of the heat of the day.

She sat on a cushion next to his divan and handed it to him.

“Aahh...”

Karadi savored a long drink.

“Thank you. That was delicious,” he said, then patted the divan. “I feel much revived... come, join me.”

She hesitated for a moment, then sat next to him, gathering her saree under her.

He pulled her closer to steal a kiss, one hand moving upward across her belly and upwards, seeking an opening.

She kissed him perfunctorily, turned her head away.

He pulled his head back in surprise.

“It’s not you, dear Karadi,” she said, turning back to face him. “It’s me. Actually, it’s the three of us,” she said with a mischievous grin.

He frowned, shook his head.

“I don’t... the three... You’re pregnant! From this morning! Already!”

He leapt to his feet, fatigue forgotten, and pulled her up off the divan to hug her tight.

“Put me down, you idiot!” she shouted, laughing. “I’m not a bear to wrestle!”

“With a son!”

“Yes, Karadi, with a son. And a daughter, too. I said the three of us, remember? One child for each of us,” she explained as he gently returned her to the divan.

He sat on her cushion and grasped her hand, looking up into her face, eyes glowing with excitement.

“A son! And a daughter!? You know?”

“Of course, you silly. I always know. I am The Lajita, remember?”

He grimaced.

“It is unseeming to boast in front of your husband, woman.”

“Perhaps it would be if you were my husband...”

He shot to his feet, adjusting his own clothing.

“We shall be married on the morrow!”

“Oh, sit down, Karadi. We shall be married on the summer solstice, three months from now, and the twins—Dhruv and Atisha—shall be born on the autumnal equinox.”

“It is a man’s job to name his son!”

“It is already decided, dear Karadi. One cannot deny fate.”

Even as she said it, though, she wondered... hadn’t the other Lajita done just that? And asked her to do the same?

“Ever the seeress!” he laughed, and hugged her tight once more. “Dhruv is a good name indeed.”

As is Atisha, thought Lajita to herself. Pitiful Atisha—I must save her!

“We must find you a physician,” said Karadi. “I will ride to Eudoxia and bring back the finest to serve you.”

“No need for that,” smiled Lajita. “I think you’ll find that Zlatka, who tends the kelp beds to the east, is a midwife of rare skill, and adequate for my needs.”

“Zlatka? That sounds Eudoxian...”

“It is, my dear, but no matter. When the time comes, fetch her, and she shall put your heart at ease.”

“Perhaps you should rest,” he said, “while I fetch her now.”

She placed her palms on his broad chest, looking up into his face.

“I’ll have no need of a midwife for months yet. Trust me.”

He raised one eyebrow.

“I do, but...”

“Back to your work, and leave me to mine! Now off with you!”

His laughter echoed in the corridor as he left.

* * *

The house had been largely completed the previous year.

Lajita had suggested certain features based on her knowledge of what was to come, but there had been no trace of this first house left by the time she was born, over five centuries in the future. She knew where it had been built, because the main house of House Chabra had stood in the same spot all those years, but few details of its original construction or design. She did, however, know how many children would be born, and when, and knew that their family would become steadily richer over the years, in children, in power, and of course in gold. Only reasonable when one considered how it had brought prosperity to the northern Night Ocean and beyond for over five hundred years, she thought.

The house was a two-story structure of mostly brick and wood, and this year Karadi had installed several decorative terra cotta pieces. It was quite large compared to most dwellings in the area, which was only now beginning to grow from a village into a town, but it was still vastly smaller and coarser than the enormous mansion she had grown up in: the main house of House Chabra.

She had insisted that it be built larger than anyone thought necessary or appropriate, and made sure that it could be expanded in the future. It included a number of features rarely found in rural communities, such as a master and three other bedrooms upstairs, in the private section of the house, and a drawing room on the ground floor, along with an unusually large kitchen and storage facilities.

She thought for a moment about what she needed to do. It was almost time for Karadi to travel to Karida, ostensibly to fetch some fine porcelain but actually to make the connections they needed to jump-start the glassware and crystal industry here. She decided it could wait until after she figured out what to do about the two drowned children. Or was it four?

The other Lajita said she had changed history, saving the two girls but still losing the boys to the sea. So history—the future—could be changed. Did she have to invite them to a picnic as the other Lajita had? Or should she try something else?

If the other Lajita could change history and invite the children to the house for sweets, she should be able to invite them elsewhere.

Or do something else entirely...

She realized that she didn’t have to invite them anywhere at all, she merely had to make sure they didn’t drown, and that might be even simpler.

She wrapped her shawl around her head and walked down the gentle, curving road to the village and The Leaping Whale.

The inn was open, as it always was, but the tables on the tavern side were empty. The master had washed the floor and was spreading fresh sawdust.

“Master Grushak, good day to you.”

“And to you, Mistress Lajita,” he replied, setting the straw basket of sawdust down and brushing his hands together, sawdust flying. “I see Master Karadi here on occasion, but you are a rare visitor.”

“As it should be, Master Grushak, for a woman who prefers a quiet tea.”

“What can I do for you today?”

“I would speak with Mistress Afreen. Is she here?”

“The weaver? Yeah, I think she’s in the back,” he said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “Go on through and see.”

“Thank you. I can hear the clatter of the shuttle.”

She nodded and cut across the room to the small door that led to the rear of the structure. The weaver rented a room here, and had a loom set up in a cleared section of Grushak’s storage area.

The corridor was quite dark, but the room was bright with indirect sunlight through the openings high on the wall. Even though the sun’s rays did not penetrate into the room directly, it was more than bright enough outside.

Afreen was seated at her loom, fingers adeptly adjusting threads as the shuttle flew back and forth and the frames clacked up and down. Originally from Zeenar, she had come here years ago and made a living weaving and sewing cotton and silk. Lajita suspected she supplemented her income by serving customers in Grushak’s establishment.

“Blessings of Nath-Horthath, Mistress.”

“Ah, Seeress Lajita. And blessings upon you,” replied Afreen without slowing her fingers. “I have not yet finished it, I’m afraid, but there is yet plenty of time.”

Lajita smiled and shook her head.

“No, I’m not here for the wedding saree. I wanted to ask where I could find your son.”

“Haarith?” Her fingers slowed. “What has he done now?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. I heard that he was looking for a job, and thought he might be interested in something I need done.”

The shuttle finally stopped, and Afreen stood, massaging her left hand.

“He’s probably down at the pier, I think. What sort of job?”

“The stairs through the woods to the house need repairs. It’s not difficult work—just repairing the holes from the rains with stones and wood. My Karadi will be happy to help him with the heavy ones.”

“He’s certainly strong enough, and goodness knows he’s searching for some way to make some money. He’s not one for farming and waiting months to see a few beans, that one.”

Lajita laughed politely.

“The farmers and fishermen don’t need any helpers?”

“Not for pay, I’m afraid... later, when the fish run or the harvest’s ready, they’ll come running, though.”

“Shiroora Shan is growing,” said Lajita. “He’ll have no trouble finding a job soon.”

“Shiroora Shan? Oh, you mean Rashahan. Why do you call it that?”

“Rashahan is merely a babe in arms, but it will grow into a mighty city, and that city is named Shiroora Shan. The name Rashahan will live on as Ta-Rashahan-Bar, the Street of the Weavers...”

Sha paused for a moment as she saw the city she had been born in once again, in her mind’s eye. Afreen gaped at her, committing the Seeress’ prophecy to memory.

“If you’ve no objection, then,” continued Lajita as if nothing had happened, “I’ll walk down the pier and ask him.”

“Thank you, Seeress! Thank you!” Afreen bobbed her head in thanks tinged with awe and a little fear. “He seems to like the sea, but it’ll be good for him to make a little coin.”

Lajita nodded, still a little distant, and took her leave.

It was a short stroll down the waterfront—Rashahan was, after all, but a small village. The ramshackle pier, weather-worn rough-cut planks supported by massive tree trunks sunken into the sea, was bustling with fishing boats unloading the morning’s catch, fish flopping, cats snatching up prizes to eat in their private places, gulls whirling overhead, nets and baskets and fishermen and merchants bargaining and arguing with shouts and laughter.

She spotted Haarith helping one of the fishermen transfer fish from his cast net to a straw basket.

“Not that one,” scolded the fisherman, pointing to a long, thin, yellowish fish. “Tastes terrible.”

Haarith grabbed it from the basket and threw it back into the sea.

“Thank you, lad,” said the fisherman. “Here’s a copper for your trouble.”

He flipped a coin to Haarith, who caught it neatly in his fist and dropped it into his wallet.

“Master Haarith!”

He turned to see who had called.

“Lajita of House Chabra, Master Haarith. Might we speak?”

He jumped down from the fishing boat and walked up to her, wiping his hands on his filthy dhoti.

He nodded his head in greeting.

“I asked your mother if you might be interested in doing a little labor for me, Master Haarith. For pay.”

“Sure! What do you need?”

“Just a few repairs to the stairs up to our house... the rain’s washed a few holes here and there and it’s difficult to use anymore. The holes all need to be filled in with stone, and the steps made solid. Karadi will help you with the heavy ones, of course.”

He straightened.

“I won’t need help moving stones, Mistress. Even the heavy ones.”

“You look very strong, Master Haarith!”

He preened.

“I expect it will take a week or so,” she continued. “You’ll have to find stones of the right shape and prepare the steps to mount them securely. It needs to be built so the next rain doesn’t cut new holes.”

“That’s easy... Me and Cadman know our way around the rock face.”

“Who is Cadman?”

“He’s my buddy; his pa’s a farmer over on the east side. Can he help?”

“And how old is this Master Cadman?”

“Uh, maybe eight or nine, I guess...”

“I don’t think he’d be much help, but if you want to work with him that’s fine, too,” said Lajita. “Now, about payment... I was thinking ten laurels a day, if that’s acceptable? You can pay Master Cadman out of that if you like.”

“Uh... how about an even twelve?”

“It had better be done properly, Master Haarith!” warned Lajita.

“I will be, I promise!”

“Very well then, twelve copper laurels. You may start tomorrow. Here is your first day’s wages in advance, in evidence of my good faith.”

She held out the twelve copper coins she had waiting in her hand, each stamped with the laurel emblem of Celephaïs.

Haarith, a huge grin on his face, picked them up eagerly.

“I’ll go get Cadman, and we’ll start right away!”

“Excellent! Thank you, Master Haarith,” said Lajita. “I knew you could handle it for me.”

“Thank you, Seeress!”

“No, no, thank you, Master Haarith,” she smiled. “Go on.”

He bobbed his head once more and jumped off the pier onto the sand, trotting along the shore eastward.

“Well, let’s see how that works out, shall we?” said Lajita to herself, watching the receding boy. “And now to invite some girls to a party.”

* * *

The first day of the Week of the Blooming Cherry came, and the house was noisy with the laughter and running feet of several young girls. Lajita had invited not only Tasha and Radha, but several dozen of the young girls of the village “to get to know everyone better.”

Many of them first said they had too many chores to do, but she shamelessly used the growing strength of her reputation to convince their parents—or whoever they were working for—to give them the afternoon off. In the end most of them were able to come at least for the sweet cake.

She asked Karadi to keep an eye on the boys, too, to make sure they were repairing the stairs properly. He knew something was up, used to her secret knowledge and sudden orders, but did as she asked, lending his strong arms to their labor.

And, in the process, making sure the boys didn’t slip off to sea, although she hadn’t mentioned that to him yet. She wanted to see what happened first, and if by some chance the boys did die, she wanted to avoid burdening him with the grief.

Later, if all went well, she planned to tell him the whole story and see what he thought. She was having trouble understanding how she (or some other Lajita) could change history now even through it had already happened by then. If the past were malleable then what good would her memorized history be?

With the sunset, after the last of the girls had left, Karadi brought the two boys up to the house.

She thanked them for a hard day’s work, paid Haarith his wage (from which he promptly paid Cadman) and gave them all chilled tea and the last of the sweets.

That evening, she showed Karadi the missive she’d received on New Year’s Day.

“All four of them live, Karadi. The missive says the other Lajita saved only the girls ‘last time,’ and the time before that all four died. But they live!”

Karadi shook his head.

“You sure this other woman isn’t just lying?”

She slammed her palm down on the table with a scowl.

“That ‘other woman’ is me, you idiot!”

“I guess,” he mused, sipping his ale. “I mean, I understand that you’re from the future Shiroora Shan, and all these prophecies you know are actually just notes that you write to yourself, but it’s tough to understand what’s really going on... If all four died, and then only two, and now none, then your history isn’t real anymore...”

He took another sip.

“And if your history isn’t real anymore, where did you come from?”

“Damn that Shikhandi!”

She crossed her arms and stared fiercely into the air, as if willing him to appear in front of her.

“He said he was from up in the mountains, right?”

“Yes... but there is nothing in those mountains except hideous beasts and death. Much farther north lies fearsome Irem, which has been dead for countless centuries even here.”

“I’ve never heard of anyone living in those mountains.”

“Nor have I,” she agreed. “Certainly no people.”

“I’ve mentioned that name a number of times, and nobody seems to have ever heard it before.”

“Well, that was over five hundred years from now, so that’s not too surprising.”

A distant clanging interrupted them: the village bell!

Karadi sprang to his feet and raced to the balcony, looking down over the village. The moon was about half-full, making it difficult to even discern the individual buildings, but he saw torches gathering in the village center.

To the east was a much brighter light.

“Looks like a big fire outside the Eastern Gate... I’ve got to go help.”

“Fire...? To the east...?”

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Cadman’s farm is just outside the Eastern Gate... I’m coming with you!”

Karadi lit two torches, and they ran down the path to the village, jumping over the few places that hadn’t been repaired yet.

A bucket brigade had already been set up, and Karadi took a place near the front of the line, using his taller height to throw each bucket a little deeper into the growing fire. Most of the village was there by now, with several bucket lines passing buckets of water from the irrigation channel, and passing the empties back.

Flaming embers shot up into the night sky as the terrified livestock—cows and goats—raced away into the darkness, freed from their wood barn. A sudden explosive crack, and another, as bamboo burst in the heat.

A fresh bloom of sparks flared, and faded in the wind.

“Cadman! Cadman, where are you?” shouted Hafez, the farmer, shielding his face from the inferno with his arm. “Cadman!”

He made as if to enter the house, but one of the crowd grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Hafez didn’t even seem to notice, just kept trying to pull forward into the flames.

The roof fell with an explosion of flame and sparks, and he stumbled back, tripping and falling.

A few hours later the fire had been reduced to a steaming, smoking pile of blackened lumber and debris. The animals were safe but the house was burned to the ground.

Nobody had seen the boy. Hafez braved the searing ruins, poking the ash and wood with a sturdy pole.

By the time the eastern sky began to pale and the torches had guttered out, Hafez was sitting on the ground staring blankly at what had been his home, still mumbling the boy’s name in a cracked voice, rocking back and forth in sorrow.

They found his half-burned body a little later, trapped under a massive tree trunk: the fallen ridge beam.

Karadi, body blackened by soot, sat next to Lajita, a bucket of water between them. He cupped another handful and sipped a little, then wiped the rest across his forehead.

He started to wipe it off with his saree, and hesitated for a second.

“Oh, go ahead,” laughed Lajita. “It’s already got holes burned in it, a little soot won’t hurt any.”

He looked down at his saree and saw it was covered in mud and ash, and had more than few charred holes and rips.

He shrugged, dipped the hem into the bucket, and proceeded to wipe his whole face.

“I’m off to the Night Ocean for a quick dip,” he said. “Join me?”

“No,” said Lajita quietly. “I’ve something I need to check first...”

He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“I need to see if Haarith is alright... have you seen him?”

“Haarith? Umm, yeah, I have. He was scooping buckets of water, over there.”

He pointed to the closest irrigation channel.

Lajita stood up, working her fingers to get the cramps out. She’d passed a lot of buckets that night, empty and full, her arms and back ached fiercely.

“I’ll go have a look, thanks. Let me know if you see him, OK?”

“OK. I’ll head back up after a quick swim to cool off, and wash off.”

She nodded, eyes searching the dwindling villagers.

She walked back through the Eastern Gate, the white stone still blindingly new, toward The Leaping Whale. She asked several people along the way if they’d seen the boy, but nobody had.

Was he dead now, too? Death delayed but never cheated?

Grushak was doing a booming business, serving cool ale and even a few meals to villagers returning from the fire. When there was a disaster the whole village turned out, and Grushak had been on the bucket brigade with everyone else. Once things were under control, though, well, a man’s gotta make a living.

Still, he had cut the prices on everything by a third.

He was much too busy to talk so she slipped past and into the back.

“Mistress Afreen? Master Haarith?”

Afreen’s head popped out of a doorway.

“Seeress Lajita!”

“Good morning to you, Mistress. I trust you’re uninjured in the fire?”

“Uninjured, but until I wash this smoke off I cannot approach my loom.”

“Karadi is swimming in the Night Ocean—I may join him, actually.”

“No jellies this time of year... a good idea!” laughed the weaver. “Is there something...?”

“I wanted to check that your son is OK?”

“Haarith? Of course, he’s fine. He’s already back in bed... a slab of meat, a little ale, and he’ll sleep until noon today.”

“Ah, good, good... by all means, please let him sleep. In fact, take the whole day off. The stairs can wait.”

Afreen nodded happily.

“I will, thank you. How’s he doing?”

“Oh, the stairs are coming along nicely. He and Cadma—”

She stopped.

“Cadman? Oh, no... they found him?”

Lajita nodded silently, eyes glistening.

“He was trapped under the ridge beam when it fell. Hafez is heartbroken.”

“Oh, poor child. And Haarith will be heartbroken, too... they were best friends, always together when they didn’t have work to do.”

“Tell Master Haarith how sorry I am, please.”

“I will, I will... poor Cadman.”

She took her leave and walked down to the sea, deep in thought.

Dozens of villagers were there, washing themselves off after the fire, or just getting ready for the day’s work. She nodded to several as she passed, finally spotting Karadi sitting on a rock.

She sat down next to him.

“Haarith, at least, is alive,” she said slowly. “And the girls.”

“Cadman’s death is not your fault, Lajita,” he said. “You cannot shoulder the blame for every death or disaster fate throws our way.”

“But I can! And I should!” she protested. “I knew Cadman would die this day, and I could have saved him had I but tried harder!”

“Most people cannot wrest even one victory from death,” he countered. “You have won three battles this day; no easy feat.

“You have some knowledge of what the future will bring, but you cannot know everything.”

“But I knew this!”

“Did you? You heard that some children drowned in the Night Ocean, but nobody drowned. The fates you foresaw for those four children did not come to pass. Three yet live, and the fourth died much later, on the morning of a different day, of a different cause.

“What you know did not happen, Lajita.”

“It didn’t happen because I stopped it from happening, as did the other Lajita before me,” she hissed, angry and sad at the same time but trying to keep her voice down.

He reached out and pulled her closer, his arm around her shoulders.

“It’s not your fault, love, and nobody thinks it is.”

He held her for a moment, then stood, shaking his sea-wet hair.

“I have to wash the salt off... Do you want to get in, too, or shall we just go home?”

She let out a deep sigh and pushed herself up, hands on her thighs.

“Let’s just go home, Karadi.”

END

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

“Mama! Dhruv and Varun won’t let me play!”

She looked up from her writing desk, bamboo pen in hand, where she had been writing down more of the prophecies, along with her own comments and observations. She’d tried bird quills, but over the years had come to prefer the feel of bamboo on paper, even if they did need replacing fairly often.

“Gitanshu, aren’t you supposed to be helping Batauta with the washing today?”

The seven-year old boy hung his head and pursed his lips.

“Yeah, but they’ve got bamboo swords!”

“You have a bamboo sword, too, I believe. Don’t you?”

“But theirs are bigger!”

“And they are bigger than you,” she sighed, and put down the pen. “Let’s go see these great big swords, shall we?”

She turned to the girl sitting quietly on the floor nearby.

“I’ll be back in a minute, Lajita. Call if you need me.”

The five-year-old girl, named after her mother, just nodded, absorbed in her reading. Next to her on the mat slept Habib, only one year old.

She gathered her saree and took Gitanshu’s hand as they walked from the study to the deck, and looked out into the garden. She nodded to Batauta as she passed, briefly interrupting her from scolding one of the kitchen maids.

Poor maid... she wondered what the girl had done to set Batauta off like that.

She could hear the clack-clack of swords striking each other before she could see her two oldest boys, Dhruv and Varun, hammering away at each other, as four-year-old Kostubh watched, one finger in his mouth. Atisha, Dhruv’s twin, was swinging her own sword at Varun, eerily synchronized with Dhruv’s own swings.

She had no idea where the younger children were, but the nanny would be with them.

“Dhruv!”

He looked over at her voice, his bamboo sword slowing enough that the other boy’s sword hit him on the shoulder.

“Ow! Stop it, Varun!”

“Who is fighting who today?” she asked.

“I’m Karadi the Bear! And Varun’s the Demon!”

“The House of Grushak, I gather?”

“And I’m you!” said Atisha proudly, waving her sword back and forth.

“So maybe Gitanshu can be Grushak, the innkeeper?”

“Yeah, I guess...” mumbled Dhruv.

“I don’ wanna be Grushak!” whined Gitanshu. “He doesn’t do anything!”

Lajita squatted down next to him and turned him to face her straight on.

“Gitanshu, the innkeeper fought the demon first, and wounded him. That was before Karadi or I even knew he was there, waiting for us. He could have been killed, but fought to protect us!”

“He did?” His expression brightened. “I’m Gitanshu, and I fought the demon first!”

Waving his own bamboo stick he ran toward his brothers.

Lajita sighed.

Even with the nannies, eight children was too many, she thought. All day, every day, they never stop... She comforted herself with the knowledge of what they would become, the way her children would establish House Chabra, and make Shiroora Shan a queen among cities.

Dhruv... as firstborn everyone expects him to inherit House Chabra, but my history says he will instead conquer Ademla to avenge poor Atisha, and Varun inherit the mantle. But if I can change the future, I can save Atisha. And if I save Atisha, then what of Varun? What of me, for that matter, five centuries from now? Any change could destroy the future I know...

...but I would risk it all to save my Atisha!

One more fight averted, she walked to the railing and looked down over the growing city.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the sleepy village was turning into Shiroora Shan. The Great Seawall was rising from the sea, and when complete would connect the city to The Spine—the mountain range running down the middle of the Night Ocean, where Cappadarnia would, in time, be born and rise to join Shiroora Shan to dominate sea trade in the region. Smugglers would wend their way over treacherous mountain tracks or paths through the ever-shifting Boorsh Fens and the treacherous morass south of the Low Isles, but merchants would have a choice of the land route through Shiroora Shan itself, the sea route through Shiroora Shan’s Great Seagate allowing ships to pass through the Seawall, or the Narrows cutting through The Spine, under the watchful eyes of Cappadarnia.

There would always be captains who braved those infested shallows to the south, but few had the requisite skill, or luck.

And, of course, Cappadarnia would be controlled by her sixth son, Arun, and his descendants. She chuckled to herself: Arun wouldn’t even be born for another year: her memory of the future suggested that Karadi would be quite affectionate at the next Harvest Festival.

The city wall had been expanded once again, at her suggestion, and the glassworks had expanded to occupy a large area near the docks, at the end of Fishmongers’ Street. At the other end of the docks stood Grushak’s inn, The Leaping Whale, marking the start of the Street of the Weavers: Ta-Rashahan-Bar.

The Leaping Fountain would not be built for another century, unfortunately. She wished she could see its sparkling beauty once again.

She looked to the southeast, toward the distant pirate stronghold of Astarma. Karadi was there now with three armed ships under his command. The pirates had to be brought under control, and while they would eventually be united and neutered by Fen One-Ear, centuries from now Astarma would emerge as a competitor to Shiroora Shan.

Fen One-Ear, of course, would be coaxed and guided by Asha, her third daughter, becoming a key ally of House Chabra. She would have to try to find a way to prevent them from splitting off to become a competitor in the distant future, but she would be dead by then. She would have to depend on future Lajitas to carry out her plans.

Fen One-Ear should have been born by now, since Asha was already three. He was a bit older than her, but she didn’t know by how much—probably, nobody did, including Fen himself.

Was he already one-eared, she wondered? And how did he lose it?

“Mistress Lajita?”

She turned toward the voice to see Batauta, the head housekeeper.

“Yes, what is it?”

“I’m sorry, Mistress, but I’ll have to let one of the kitchen girls go. Found her stuffing sausages into her pockets.”

“Who?”

“Coralynn, one of the new girls we hired in the spring.”

“I’ll see her in my study, Mistress Batauta.”

Batauta nodded and turned to walk back toward the kitchen.

“Who else knows about this?”

“Nobody, but the other kitchen girls may have heard me when I found her.”

“I see. Thank you. I’ll be waiting in the study, then.”

Batauta left and Lajita returned to the study.

She put on her formal black cloak, the one with the high collar, then settled down in her chair to wait.

Batauta ushered Coralynn in only a minute later.

She’d obviously been crying: eyes red, lower lip still trembling.

“Sit, Coralynn,” she directed, pointing at an empty chair. “Mistress Batauta, would you join us?”

She gestured at a second vacant chair.

She looked at the frightened girl in silence, watching her hands tying and untying a small bit of cloth. A handkerchief, perhaps.

The girl refused to meet her eyes.

“Mistress, I—”

Lajita held up a hand to silence Batauta, eyes still locked on Coralynn.

A minute passed, two, and suddenly the girl threw herself onto the floor, sobbing.

“I’m sorry, Seeress! Don’t curse me! Whip me, if you will, but please, please, let me stay. I’ll never do it again, I swear! Please, Seeress!”

“Hush, child,” she said. “Sit up and dry your tears.”

The girl controlled herself a little and sat up, sniffling, into a kneeling position on the floor.

“Now, then. Tell me, Mistress Coralynn, why did you steal that sausage?”

“It’s my pa,” she choked out, voice uneven. “He’s sick and cannot work. Medicine takes all my money, and he’s dying...”

“Mistress Batauta?”

“Yes, Mistress, her father is ill. He was in pain when he brought her here in the spring.”

“I see. Mistress Coralynn, what ails your father? You have no other family to help you?”

“It’s the crab, Mistress. His gut’s been getting worse and worse. My ma died when I was born; it’s always been just him and me.”

“Cancer,” mused Lajita. “Mistress Batauta, arrange for a fast ship to Adelma. Fetch me a Healer, post-haste.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“And, I feel hungry. Have one of the girls bring me a roast chicken, two loaves of bread, and a basket of fruit. Oh, and a jug of tea. I may want to have my lunch outside, so stopper the jug, please.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

After Batauta left in a trot, Lajita walked over to the terrified girl, and held out her hand to help her up.

“Come, Mistress Coralynn. We must get you looking decent for your father.”

“My father...?”

“Of course, dear. You can’t bring all that food to your father looking like you’ve been weeping, now can you?”

“Food...? You mean...?”

She collapsed to her knees once again and threw herself onto the floor at Lajita’s feet.

“Thank you, Seeress! My father and I are ever in your debt!”

Lajita chuckled.

“No need, Coralynn. House Chabra takes care of its own, and you are House Chabra.

“Now dry your tears and go freshen up a bit before the housekeeper gets back.”

“Yes, Seer—”

“Mistress, please.”

“I... my apologies, Mistress. Thank you!”

Flustered, the girl backed up toward the doorway, bowing as she went, and escaped into the dim coolth of the corridor leading to the bath, where she could wash her face.

Lajita’s smile faded quickly.

She wondered where Karadi was.

* * *

At the moment, Karadi had his back pressed against the mast of an old caravel, desperately trying to stop a Shang pirate from killing him.

They were locked hand-to-hand, each holding the other’s sword-arm, staring into each other’s eyes yet not seeing anything other than an enemy. They swayed back and forth, each seeking an opening, and trying to unbalance the other.

They were oblivious to the noise and mayhem around them as dozens of other battles played out, men and women screaming in anger, in fear, in death. Karadi’s forces had the upper hand, his own caravels roped to the pirate’s vessel on both sides. They came upon it stealthily in the pre-dawn darkness, and boarded from both sides at once even as the pirate crew surged to defend.

They had the upper hand, but in his own fight, Karadi didn’t.

One slip and I’m dead, he thought. But if I try anything, he’s got me....

Lajita said she knows the future, and we have more children to come. Do I believe her? She’s been right so many times. But she’s been wrong once or twice, too. Can I believe it this time?

He made his decision.

Karadi opened his clenched fingers, letting go of his sword. It dropped, tumbling, onto his opponent’s shoulder, throwing him off-balance and off-guard for a split-second. Reflexively, he flinched and twisted his arm in an effort to block what seemed to be, in that instant, an unexpected attack.

In that brief window of opportunity Karadi’s knee shot up hard, slamming into the pirates upper leg and knocking him farther off balance. Karadi grabbed the dagger from his side-sheath with his now-empty hand, and sank it into the other’s side, up and in, and twisting forward, all the while holding the enemy’s sword still.

His own sword clattered to the deck as he felt the strength seep out of the pirate’s sword arm.

The pirate slumped to the deck.

Karadi slid down the mast, panting, and reached out to recover his sword.

“That was the damn silliest thing I’ve ever seen, Karadi!”

It was Ruk, bare-chested and holding a bloody saber.

Karadi looked up at him, still waiting for his breath and heartbeat to settle down.

Ruk, a muscular red-haired man in his mid-twenties, reached out a hand to help him to his feet.

“The ship’s ours,” he said, waving around at the body-strewn deck. “They’re all dead or yielded.”

Still bent over with one arm on his leg for support, he looked around.

Bodies, his troopers herding captured pirates to the bow or binding up each other’s wounds, the pirate captain dead up top, pin-cushioned to the stern castle with arrows. Most of them were his arrows, in fact.

“How many troopers did we lose?”

“Four dead, two seriously injured. Lots of minor stuff,” answered Ruk. “Yours was the last fight.”

“And you were all watching me fight, right?”

Ruk grinned.

“Never seen anyone drop his sword in the middle of a fight before... he should’ve gutted you, you know, not the other way ’round.”

“I know,” he said, finally standing up straight. “But being married to a seeress has its advantages.”

“She told you to use that stupid trick?”

“No,” chuckled Karadi, “she told me I still have a couple children to father.”

Ruk shook his head in disbelief.

“In any case, let’s get inside,” said Karadi.

They descended into the ship carefully, checking for lurking pirates, following the shouting and banging noises to the hold.

Slaves.

Karadi spat in disgust.

“Get those chains off,” he ordered. “Fresh air and water all around. And open the damn cargo hatch, get some air down here!”

As other crew members got to work freeing the slaves and helping them up onto the main deck, Karadi and Ruk walked back toward the captain’s quarters, in the stern.

It was not as fancy as he’d been expecting, with a stained rug across the floor, clothes and things strewn over chairs and table, a couple of empty bottles, and a large bed.

The bed wasn’t empty.

The woman chained to the bedframe was almost certainly naked under the blanket she clutched to herself, and looked like she’d been through a lot. She was also stunningly beautiful, needed a hairbrush, and held a dagger ready to kill anyone who got too close.

“Easy, Mistress,” he said, holding up his empty hands. “Karadi of Shiroora Shan. The pirates are all dead or captured, the captain is dead. I shot him myself.

“We’re freeing the slaves now.”

The woman waved the dagger through a short arc.

“I’ll kill myself before I’ll be any man’s woman again!”

“Not here to make you my woman,” he said. “I’m quite happy with the one I’ve got. If you’ll lower your dagger, though, I’ll get those chains off you.

“I can see two locks on those chains... the captain has the keys?”

She hesitated, then pointed toward the starboard wall without taking her eyes off Karadi, or lowering the dagger.

“Over there. On that hook.”

Ruk strode over and picked them up, tossing them to Karadi.

“If you’ll lower your dagger a bit...”

He walked slowly toward her and knelt to open the first lock, freeing her left arm. The dagger tip was within centimeters of his face, but he ignored it and stood.

The woman moved her shoulder up and down, obviously trying to work out the cramps. The chain had prevented her from moving her upper arm much at all.

Karadi walked around the bed, and she switched the dagger from her yet-chained right to her newly freed left hand.

“You must have heard of us by now,” he said quietly. “We’ve been cleaning up the pirates for a few years now.”

She glared in silence as he opened the second armlock, and stepped back to safety.

She sat up.

“Ruk, why don’t you hand the Mistress one of the Captain’s tunics, there?”

“Master Karadi?” came a voice from the doorway. “Got a man here says he needs to see the woman.”

“He have a name?”

There was indistinct conversation for a moment, then “Lau Kun.”

“Let him in, please!” said the woman, abruptly lowering the dagger and picking up the tunic Ruk had handed her.

A gray-haired man with a slight limp, maybe in his fifties or so, Karadi estimated, stepped inside.

“Mistress? You’re alright?”

“Lau Kun! You’re free!”

“Yes, Mistress. They aren’t pirates; Pai Lung and his men are all gone.”

She spat at his name, and slowly lowered the dagger.

The man turned to Karadi.

“Lau Kun of Ukos,” he introduced himself. “And this is Mistress Li Wai of Ukos.

“We were taken captive by Pai Lung about two weeks ago. Mistress Li thanks you for freeing all of us.”

“Ukos? You are of Ukos?” questioned Karadi. “And who, exactly, is Mistress Li Wai to Ukos?”

“I am his daughter,” she said, breaking into their exchange. “And the ransom is already on its way, so you would do well to keep us all safe.”

Karadi held up his hands in reassurance.

“No ransom. You’re free. We will take you—all of you—to Astarma and let you off these, since it is the closest. Or we can just meet Ukos wherever the meeting place is.”

“You would do that for us?”

“I have no argument with you, Mistress. I am here to exterminate pirates, and make it safe for merchanters to cross the Night Ocean.

“Ukos is a pirate, and we will one day come to blows, but you are not pirates.

“So, where are we headed? Astarma?”

She motioned Lau Kun closer and they exchanged a few urgent whispers before he turned back.

“About halfway between the Narrows of Cappadarnia and the end of the Low Isles is Couple’s Rock. You familiar with it?”

“Yes, I know it. That’s where you’re to meet?”

“Yes. Sunset the day after tomorrow, she says.”

“I see. Thank you,” replied Karadi, nodding. “Master Ruk, I need a prize crew for this ship. We’ll anchor offshore here tonight. Get the wounded properly taken care of, and the ships back in shape—doesn’t seem to be much damage, though. We start south at dawn.”

“Who to captain her?”

He thought for a moment.

“How many of their crew yielded? And are fit?”

“About half a dozen left, I think, who can still work.”

“Have to get their oaths, but after the way we shattered them I don’t think there’ll be any problems.

“Hmm, bring another dozen on board, then, under Captain Lau Kun here. You are his second.

“Master Lau Kun, you are now captain, but I will have your oaths first not to harm me, my men, or these pirates who swear oaths to me.”

Lau Kun stood straighter.

“I have not captained a ship for some years, Master Karadi. Thank you.

“I give my oath, and I accept full responsibility for my people.”

“Mistress Li Wai?”

“I give my oath not to harm you, your crew, or any of the pirates who give bond,” she stated succinctly. “And I, too, thank you.”

“Master Ruk, see to it, please,” Karadi commanded.

Karadi turned his attention to the iron-bound chest lying against the wall.

“The Captain’s treasure-chest, I gather?”

“Yes,” answered Li Wai. “The key’s on a rope around his neck.”

Karadi looked through the keys he’d tossed onto the table, picking up one.

“This one, no doubt... let’s have a look, shall we?”

It was the right key and the chest opened smoothly. It was about half-full with a wide variety of coins and jewelry of every description. On one side was a small orichalc bear with ruby eyes.

He picked it up and admired it.

“This must be yours,” he said.

“It was. Take it, please, as a reward for rescuing us.”

Karadi laughed.

“I already took the ship and everything on it! You would give me what I already own?”

Her mouth snapped shut, recognizing that he did own the ship and everything on it—including herself—but her eyes glared.

Karadi laughed once again, more softly, and closed the chest.

“Ruk!”

A few seconds after his shout Ruk’s head popped through the doorway, one eyebrow raised.

“Master Ruk, please distribute this among the crew. Usual shares, and half-shares to any of the former crew who take oaths. Captain Lau Kun and Mistress Li Wai get officer’s shares.”

“Yessir,” snapped Ruk, and picked the chest up. It was heavier than it looked, and he shifted its weight a few times before he got it securely settled.

Karadi turned back to Li Wai.

“I accept your gift, Mistress, and assure you I will treasure it. As it happens I’ve been searching for this bear for about a decade.”

She frowned.

“My father had it made for me only six or seven years ago,...” she said slowly. “Searching for it? I don’t...”

“I am Karadi of Shiroora Shan, remember? And I am married to—”

“The Seeress of Shiroora Shan!” she gasped, eyes widening in sudden realization. “That’s how you were able to catch Pai Lung unaware!”

She was wrong, of course, but if they wanted to believe Lajita could scry every battle he saw no need to tell them differently. In a sense, he could: he’d known he’d survive the battle today because Lajita told him they had more children in the future.

At least he’d thought he’d survive... he glanced at the bear in his hand, ten years late and from a different person than she’d foretold. Not all of her prophecies were accurate, it seemed.

He left the two former captives in the captain’s quarters and went to take bond from the prisoners waiting at the bow.

* * *

The next morning was fair, with a light breeze to the east.

He had Li Wai and Lau Kun join him on his own caravel, the Salonitah, and took lead, with the other two—his own Night Terror, and the captured Redfang—following a good distance behind.

They sailed south along the Low Isles stretching south through the Night Ocean. Scrub, mudflats, and occasional twisted trees covered the Low Isles: frequently washed by the sea, with channels and sandy isles changing overnight, it was a deathtrap for ships, and uninhabited.

Here and there reminder of the peaks of The Spine to the north erupted through the sand, serving as landmarks amid the ever-changing scene, and it was toward one of these—Couple’s Rock—they were bound.

The sea was quiet today under the gentle breeze, and together with the almost-cloudless sky provided maximum visibility.

They saw the waiting ship before they even made out the shapes of Couple’s Rock, two huge rocks standing close to each other that were once husband and wife, or so the legend said.

He signaled the two following ships to set anchor, and continued on alone. As they got closer he could see that the other ship was armed for battle, flying the silver and blue standard of Ukos with its toothy flying fish.

He’d ordered the pirate’s own standard taken down, replaced with the black bear of Shiroora Shan. Ukos—Li Wai’s father—wouldn’t know what to make of it, but it should be enough to avoid outright battle.

He commanded the ship to drop anchor well out of range of scorpions or whatever else might be on the other ship, and clambered down to the longboat with Li Wai, Lau Kun, and six of his own men to pull the oars.

“Slowly, slowly... we want them to come meet us, not lure us into range,” he cautioned, and as their boat slowly crept toward the waiting ship, another longboat set forth to meet them.

Li Wai stood in the bow, standing straight and proud in the sunlight, with Lau Kun standing behind. Karadi stayed seated, for now, and let them show their faces.

“Li Wai! Are you unharmed?”

“Father! Lower your sword!” she shouted in return. “I am no longer a captive; these men freed me, and return me to you.”

“Where is Pai Lung?”

“Dead, by my hand,” said Karadi, standing up, hands empty. “Karadi of Shiroora Shan.”

There was a brief pause, then “Ukos of the Night Ocean,” came the response.

“I am here to return your daughter, and your troops who survive.”

“What of the ransom?”

“Keep it, or throw it to the fishes.”

The boats continued to approach one another until they were talking in almost normal voices.

Karadi noticed a very young boy on the boat, and wondered why.

“You and I will one day have a reckoning,” he predicted, “but not this day. Your daughter and Master Lau Kun are free to go, and with your consent I’ll have a second boat bring the rest of your people over. Some have given me their oaths, but you may have the others.”

“You are Karadi of Shiroora Shan, the Karadi who has been killing pirates across the night ocean.”

“I am.”

“Why have you not attacked me? I see your two caravels lying in wait.”

“Because we are here to return your daughter, whom I have no quarrel with,” said Karadi. “And I would have no quarrel with you if only for your piracy.”

The two boats touched, and Li Wai and Lau Kun stepped over into her father’s craft. The boy immediately ran to her, and she knelt to hug him. “I missed you, Fen! I’m back, don’t cry.”

The boy buried his face, a curious mixture of tears and anger, into his mother’s breast as Ukos looked on, nodding.

“Thank you for returning my daughter to me,” said Ukos. “I think we shall meet again.”

“I’m sure of it,” replied Karadi, motioning the rowers to break off. “Your grandson is named Fen, is he? A fine lad, it seems.

“Until we meet again, Master Ukos, safe voyaging to you.”

“And to you, Master Karadi.”

Karadi set and watched the other boat slip away, back to its own ship, as his crew rowed back to the Salonitah. He had quite a few things to talk to Lajita about when he got back to Shiroora Shan.

END

She was beginning to show a few grey hairs here and there, he thought to himself. After Arun was born, two years ago, she really looked her age. Thirty-three isn’t very old compared to some people—I’m forty-one, after all—but she’s got a pretty heavy load to pull here while I’m off running around Eudoxia or Karida.

Karadi reached out and brushed a wayward strand of hair from her sleeping cheek. Grey hairs or not, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d even met, he thought.

He leaned forward to kiss her forehead and as he did her face tilted upward to meet him.

“Well, good morning, sleepy head,” he greeted her after the kiss. “The sun’s already up, you know... I think everyone’s up except us. The children certainly are: just listen!”

The sounds of shouting children came from the garden.

“I’m glad Dhruv and Atisha are thirteen now, finally able to keep the young ones under control,” said Lajita.

“Unfortunately for the nannies, they have their own responsibilities now, too, though... If Dhruv is out there now his combat instructor will be furious. I’m not sure which tutor Atisha had today but I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re already here, tapping their foot impatiently.”

“Today is, um, mathematics in the morning, and geography in the afternoon,” she replied, stretching. “It does feel good to sleep late once in a while, doesn’t it?”

“Mmm,” he replied, voice muffled as he buried his face in the hollow of her neck.

“Stop that!”

“Spoilsport!”

“Isn’t ten children enough, you goat? Besides, I’m hungry.”

“Now that you mention it, so am I,” he admitted. “My mind was on other things...”

“Lecher.”

“Is it still leching if it’s between man and wife?”

The pillow hit him hard enough rip the seams with a spurt of downy feathers into the air.

* * *

The whole family came down to the waterfront to see him off.

The Salonitah was ready and waiting under Captain Ruk. It was actually the second of that name, after his original caravel had been torched by pirates down near the Boorsh Fens. It was also quite a bit bigger and nastier than the first ship had been, equipped with enough speed to catch most pirates and enough trained fighters to finish them off once they did.

There weren’t many major pirates left, mostly small-time operations that only picked on small, weak ships crossing the Night Ocean.

Ukos was one exception, of course... they’d crossed paths a few times since that memorable ransom a few years back, but somehow it had never ended up in battle. He’d even come to admire the man, in fact, after hearing how he only robbed the biggest ships and never took more than a third of their riches; shared his treasure with his men, earning their fierce loyalty; and had, on occasion, listened to the desperate entreaty of a ship’s crew and let them go untouched. He’d even saved the crew from one of Karadi’s own ships, caught on the rocks after a sudden squall... he could have left them there to die, but instead ferried them back to Cappadarnia under a flag of truce.

At the same time, he was a fierce and unforgiving enemy, and people that crossed him, whether merchants, pirates, innkeepers, or whores, almost invariably ended up either dead or fleeing to other lands.

They’d have to settle things one day—Karadi was determined to make the Night Ocean safe for merchanters, and Ukos was the last major obstacle. That was why he was on the way to Astarma now, in fact. He had set up a secret meeting with Ukos there, in hopes of finding a way to resolve the problem.

Only Lajita and Ruk knew why he was going to Astarma. He felt he could trust Ukos to respect the truce and meet with him, and assumed that he had only told one or two of his own trusted people about the meeting.

The Agnid Mountains ran along most of the eastern shore of the Night Ocean, with formidable cliffs in most places, leaving only three routes from the Three Cities of the Plains—Karida, Zeenar, and Ebnon—to Shiroora Shan, Eudoxia, and the rest of the Dreamlands to the west: through Shiroora Shan itself, by land or the Jasharra-Navi River from Karida; via the treacherous tracks over the Agnid Mountains from Zeenar to Istahn Village, perched at the edge of the glacier where the River Eidis was born, and thence down the river to Astarma by the sea; or through the deadly Boorsh Fens, where bottomless pools of scum and ravenous creatures lurked, to the desert of Cuppar-Nombo and on to Shang.

From Astarma, in turn, there were three sea routes: through the Great Seagate of Shiroora Shan to the western Night Ocean and then south to Adelma, through the Narrows of Cappadarnia, or around the south tip of the Low Isles, through the treacherous shallows and sea monsters of the water off the Boorsh Fens.

And, as it happened, Shiroora Shan controlled the Narrows from the growing town of Cappadarnia, which he had brought under his flag some years earlier.

If he could find a way to bring Astarma under his control as well, Shiroora Shan would have an effective monopoly on all trade across the Night Ocean, such as the enormously profitable indigo and silk of Ebnon, Zeenar cotton, and the prized paper, silk, and fragrant teas of unknown Gondara on the eastern side of the Athraminaurian Mountains, close to The Edge. There was a wide variety of traded goods, of course, but one shipload from Gondara would yield more profit than a dozen loads of common goods.

The problem was that much of the Night Ocean belonged to the pirates... ships could carry troopers for defense and usually bull through attacks by the smaller pirates, but troopers cost a lot of money and could easily turn a profitable trip into a loss. Plus, pirates like Ukos often attacked with two or three ships at a time, overwhelming defenses.

Over the years Karadi had built up his navy and whittled away at the pirates, but progress was painfully slow. Lajita assured him he would succeed, and Ukos would join them, but that didn’t make the work any easier or safer. He’d lost too many troopers and ships already and hated to think of losing more.

Lajita didn’t have much to say about this voyage to Astarma, strangely enough. She said the meeting with Ukos would go well, that he would accept Karadi’s invitation, and that they’d agree to wed their children—Fen and Asha—to each other, and Ukos would either absorb the other pirates or eliminate them. Later, he would assume the title of Lord of Astarma, and build a castle there.

She was vague on the details, though, and much as he respected Ukos he had difficulty believing the meeting would go as smoothly as her outline suggested.

He was sailing with two other ships, his old friend Redfang and the newer Hammerhead, and all three were ready for battle, with additional troopers on board just in case. The other two ships would anchor along the Low Isles, out of sight of Astarma, ready to sail at an instant’s notice, and the dinghy that would bring him to shore would wait there, ready to ferry him back again, or take messages to the waiting ships.

A filthy fishing boat had also called at Astarma a few days earlier, selling its catch and letting the crew relax for a few days before setting out again. It was well-known at the fishing port, selling its catch there often, but in fact it was Karadi’s ship and crew, keeping an eye on developments in Astarma. They’d be ready to move during the meeting, too, although, like everyone else, they hadn’t been told who was visiting Astarma, or why.

Even with those preparations he could still be killed very easily, and he knew it. He trusted Ukos not to kill him out of hand, though, and he had Lajita’s prophecies to lean on. He made sure his sword was sharp anyway.

The three ships followed The Spine south to the Narrows of Cappadarnia and anchored there for the night. The next morning they split up, Redfang and Hammerhead sailing farther south along the Low Isles coast, while Salonitah turned east, toward Astarma.

Astarma port appeared in the late afternoon: a small town of weather-beaten buildings surrounded by farmland. The Agnid Mountains running along most of the eastern shore of the Night Ocean curved east here, toward Zeenar, leaving a broad floodplain that could only be reached by ship, or through the narrow, twisting tracks over the mountains, beyond the headwaters of the River Eidis and Istahn Village.

“Ruk, take care of my ship,” he commanded as they lowered the dinghy. They clasped each other’s wrists in farewell. “I’ll be fine. But make sure you’re ready to go when I send word!”

“We’ll be ready; you just worry about yourself,” replied Ruk. “I still think this is a damn silly idea, and I’d be much, much happier if I went with you. Me and two dozen troopers.”

“When you’re married to a seeress you can do a lot of silly things in perfect safety, Ruk,” he laughed while hoping he was right.

“Safe voyaging, Master Karadi.”

“Safe voyaging, Captain Ruk.”

He clambered down the rope ladder and the dinghy pushed off toward the wharfs of Astarma.

* * *

He’d been here many times over the years, but always with a few troopers along. Merchants were happy to see him because he often bought their wares. The villagers didn’t care who visited as long as they paid in hard coin. The pirates who called Astarma home, however, felt quite a bit differently about Shiroora Shan, and especially about Karadi.

He was here in secret this time, but everyone would have recognized the Salonitah offshore, and might guess who the lone visitor was. He had to get to the designated tavern, the Blue Bottle Fly, quickly and rely on Ukos to keep his word.

Fortunately, the Blue Bottle Fly was one of the closest buildings to the waterfront, nestled between two enormous sheds where fishers sorted their catch and repaired their nets. The air stank of fish, both fresh and rotten, of sweaty fishermen, of sea-soaked timber and sodden nets, of well-fed cats padding silently in the shadows.

The hum of voices and the clatter of baskets and trays petered out as he walked toward the tavern, and faces began to turn toward him, hands falling still.

Whispers.

His right hand fell to his sword pommel, lightly touching it, ready to draw.

The tavern door was half-open.

He took a deep breath, wiped the sweat from his palm onto his tunic, and pushed it open, stepping into the relative darkness.

It took a second for his eyes to adjust, and in the dim light that came through the dingy windows and the scattered lanterns hanging, he saw half a dozen small tables and a dozen men waiting.

He scanned their faces.

No Ukos.

He stepped to the side, putting his back to the corner, and his hand dropped to his sword once again.

“Master?”

The voice came from the bar.

He turned to see the tavern master beckoning him.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “Through here.”

He gestured to the low door behind him, and Karadi stepped through into the back room.

A row of shelves covered one wall, and two enormous wood casks stood at the back: ale, no doubt.

In the middle of the room was a table, empty but for two tankards and a candle.

There was one vacant bench, and in the other one sat Ukos.

“The tavern master is an old friend,” said the pirate. “He’ll keep our secret, and warn us if need be.”

Ukos gestured at the casks.

“I’ve been waiting for you to get here, Master Karadi,” he smiled. “Plenty of ale to keep our tankards full.”

Karadi sat, and lifted his tankard, meeting the pirate’s midway over the table.

“To peace.”

“A good toast,” agreed Ukos. “To peace.”

The tankards touched softly, and the ale helped calm his nerves after the walk in.

“Culardi always has good ale,” said Ukos. “Not always the best, but always good.”

“You come here often, I hear.”

“And you were here last four months ago,” countered Ukos.

Karadi grinned.

“We both have our ways of keeping track of what’s happening on the Night Ocean,” he said. “You know I’ve got more ships standing by, and I know you’ve got more troops in the village.”

The pirate shrugged. “As you say, we both took precautions. I think it was a bit harder for me, though, because I had to make sure none of my men would kill you when you came ashore.”

“I appreciate the gesture,” nodded Karadi, lifting his tankard in thanks. “My wife would never forgive me if I got killed down here.”

“Ah, the Seeress of Shiroora Shan. I’ve heard much about her... is any of it true?”

“Probably doesn’t live up to the myths, but then again, who does?”

“And what did she say about our meeting today?”

Karadi examined the wet ring of ale left by his tankard for a moment, silent.

“Several things... she said you won’t kill me, which I found very comforting. You’re not going to kill me, are you?”

“Hadn’t planned on it, no,” admitted the pirate. “I may change my mind, though.”

“And she said I’d not kill you, which both of us will appreciate, I think.”

“Very kind of you, yes. And?”

“And she said that you will agree to work with me, that we will be successful in controlling the Night Ocean between us, and that our children will wed, in time.”

“That’s quite a prophecy!”

“It is.”

“For that to happen I’d have to go up against an awful lot of my friends, you know... you’ve killed off a number of them already, but it would take some convincing for me to want to kill off the rest.”

Karadi took another sip.

“I’m a merchant, as you know, and merchants like things to be quiet and predictable. When lots of exciting things happen there are certainly opportunities to make enormous profit, but they come with the risk of losing it all.

“Personally, I vastly prefer the quiet, because it lets everyone grow a bit instead of burning everything to the ground every so often. I have a family I want to protect, children I want to see grow up in a peaceful world. I know you have children, and grandchildren. Surely you’d rather see them safe?”

“Well, they are safe... nobody would dare bother them; I made that quite clear after one very foolish man kidnapped my daughter.”

“Yes, I was the one who rescued her, if you recall.”

“I do,” he admitted, nodding in thanks. “But it will not happen again.”

“While you’re alive.”

“Few people have threatened me and lived,” he said quietly.

“Not a threat,” denied Karadi. “An observation. Once you reach the top you always have to watch your back.”

“True enough,” said Ukos, relaxing. “And your proposal?”

“Let us join forces.”

“Me!? A merchant!?” He guffawed. “You must not know me at all!”

“No, not a merchant,” said Karadi. “My navy.”

His laughter stopped.

“Your... navy...”

“Ships, supplies, salaries, training, port facilities... the works.”

“And I do your bidding like a little servant boy?”

“Hardly. You do your bidding, keeping the Night Ocean safe.”

Ukos mulled that over for a bit.

“...It’s an interesting idea, I have to admit... I am getting a little old for this game.”

“If you’re willing to consider it, I’ll be more than—”

The door suddenly flew open with a bang and a dozen armed men burst in, spreading out quickly to face the pair.

“I trusted you, Ukos!” spat Karadi, springing to his feet and drawing his sword. He moved to put the wall at his back, trying to keep Ukos and all the newcomers in his field of view.

Ukos had also jumped up and drawn his sword, but it was pointed at the dozen who had forced their way in, not at Karadi.

“Not me, Karadi!”

“These aren’t your men?”

“Well, Captain Kanotic in the middle was my man up until this moment, but it seems he’s not any more,...” said Ukos. “And I see greedy old Chail standing outside the door.

“What is it, Kanotic? Finally decided to challenge me in public?”

“You’re finished, Ukos. And that triple-damned Karadi with you!” shouted Captain Kanotic, and leapt to the attack.

Ukos kicked his bench forward, narrowly missing Kanotic and forcing him to dodge to the side, off-balance.

“Your choice, Karadi!” called Ukos, focusing his attention and sword point on the approaching fighters. “We both die alone, or try Fate together!”

Buoyed once again by Lajita’s promise of a future life, Karadi made his decision instantly. He certainly couldn’t defeat this many enemies by himself, regardless of who they worked for. Partnering with Ukos gave him a better chance, however small it might be.

“Back to back, then,” he replied, stepping closer to Ukos and turning slightly to take the right half of the room, leaving Ukos to handle the left.

“We need to get to that corner,” whispered Ukos, using his chin to point at a corner of the room several meters away. “Trust me.”

Swords slashing, they slowly moved in the direction he’d indicated, using benches and tables as barriers to slow their attackers.

Karadi parried one sword stroke and sank his dagger into his attacker’s side. Her chain meant it wasn’t a fatal blow, but the tip penetrated and the force of his blow knocked her back.

He risked a quick glance at Ukos.

He was chest-to-chest with a half-naked black man, sword hilt pressed again the other’s axe handle. They strained for a moment, until Ukos’ leg snapped out to hook behind the other’s knee, pulling him off-balance for a split second.

Ukos twisted his sword-arm, mashing the fingers of the other’s axe hand.

His sword swung up and down again, and the axeman collapsed, his neck cut half-way through.

“To me, now!” shouted Ukos, and leapt straight at the back wall of the room where it met the side wall, right in the corner.

A section of wall popped out entirely, revealing the filthy alley running behind the tavern, and Ukos leapt through.

Karadi jumped, an instant ahead of a whistling sword blade, landing heavily on his shoulder and rolling to a crouch. Ukos was there, hand outstretched, to help him up, and pulled him down the alley. Right around the corner was a horse, saddled and ready.

“Up!” he shouted, pushing Karadi toward the horse as he toppled a pile of wood kegs into the alley to delay their pursuers.

Karadi used the stirrup to jump up into the saddle, yanked the reins, and extended one hand to lift Ukos up behind him as the horse broke into a gallop, down the alley and away from the ambush.

“Where are we going?” asked Karadi as they broke from the alley onto a wider street.

“Left at that willow up ahead,” replied Ukos. “They’ll be after us soon enough—wait, over there! That horse!”

Karadi understood what he meant, and twisted the reins to approach the other rider.

Ukos jumped onto the other man’s horse, knocking him off with a crunch and smoothly settling into the saddle. He yanked the reins to join Karadi, and they set off together for the willow, then left, galloping past street stalls and villagers about their daily business.

They could hear shouting behind them.

“Follow me!”

The two horses sped through the village, galloping down wider streets and cutting through alleys and markets without slowing.

They were heading away from the sea, up into the Agnid Mountains.

As the ground turned rougher there were fewer and fewer buildings until finally they were riding up a narrow trail. Karadi couldn’t see anyone else ahead or behind them.

Ukos slowed their pace, letting the horses cool off a bit, but kept them moving.

“As you said,” mused Ukos, “you always have to watch your back.”

Karadi grunted in agreement.

“And where to now? If we can get to the wharf, I can get us off to safety.”

“Your dinghy is gone, I’m sure,” said Ukos. “Dead, or fled back to your ship.”

“No matter. There is another way.”

“Well, if I didn’t know about it there’s a good chance they didn’t, either. Might still be there.”

“Wait until dark?”

“They’ll be thinking we only have two options: back there and get off to sea, or up the Agnids to Istahn, and over to Zeenar.”

“The trade route over the mountains? Pretty risky, isn’t it?”

“Yup. They could watch and ambush us easily,” agreed Ukos cheerfully. “There’s a third option, though.”

“You have a pet wyvern?”

“Hardly,” laughed Ukos. “I have a path back to the Night Ocean, and a boat waiting.”

“There aren’t any such paths!”

“Yeah, that’s what everyone says, and that’s why it’s so useful. Unfortunately, I’ll have to ask you to trust me once more, because I’m going to have to blindfold you for a while.

“It’s my secret, and I’d just as soon keep it that way.”

“Blindfolded. In the mountains.”

“If this was all some plan to kill you I could have done it much more easily back there,” pointed out Ukos. “I promise not to let you walk off a cliff.”

“I don’t seem to have much of a choice, do I? They’ll be waiting for me in Astarma, and on the Istahn road, too.”

“I’m in the same boat, you know. Except that once we get to sea we both have ships waiting, and troopers.”

“Hmm. All true, but still...”

Karadi ran over the possibilities. Going back to the village, or trying to make it over the mountains to Zeenar, were both very long shots. Longer if he had to try it alone. And Lajita said he’d be back.

“Do it,” he said finally. “Blindfold away!”

“It’ll only be for about twenty minutes, and most of that easy riding,” said Ukos as he began wrapping a turban cloth around Karadi’s head, top-down to the nose.

“I’m going to walk around in circles for a while, just to be sure you don’t know where we’re heading, and then up to the trail. Once we’re well in I’ll take off the blindfold again. Deal?”

“Deal,” sighed Karadi. “Let’s get it over with.”

Ukos led the horses around and round, back and forth, until Karadi was thoroughly confused. He gave up trying to keep track and just gritted his teeth.

“We’ll have to dismount and climb here,” said Ukos. “I’ll send the horses back on their way.”

He helped Karadi down, and led his to a nearby rock wall to wait while he took care of the horses.

There was a shout, the sounds of a hand smacking into the horse’s flank, and then hoofbeats fading off into the distance.

Karadi forced himself not to tear off his blindfold.

Ukos grabbed hold of his upper arm, pulling him to the left, then turning him to face the rock wall.

“I’ll guide you. A couple meters up, and then pretty flat walking. There’s a sheer drop on the right, so don’t lose your footing up there.”

“If I fall I’m taking you with me,” said Karadi.

“Yeah, fine. Left foot, up!”

Ukos guided his foot into a shallow toehold, then his hands, and they gradually climbed the rock wall.

“OK, you’re up. We can just walk most of it from here,” he finally said. “Just another ten meters or so, until the mountain hides our path, and I’ll take it off.”

Karadi grunted.

“Good breeze up here.”

“Keep your hand on that wall to your left,” warned Ukos. “That breeze is from the drop-off on your right.”

They walked slowly along the trail, Karadi feeling every step carefully with his booted foot before putting his weight on it. Ukos stayed beside him as much as possible, or behind when the trail was too narrow.

“Only a little further, Karadi. Sharp turn to the left here, and then we’re done.”

Karadi’s hand trailed over the rock face, and he slid his foot forward to feel where the corner was.

There.

His hand and foot located the corner at about the same time, and he shuffled forward, around the bend.

“Watch out!”

Just as heard the shout, a snake sank its fangs into Karadi’s hand, right behind the thumb. He yanked back in pain and surprise, and his feet slipped out from under him.

“Karadi!”

He slid and bounced down the cliff, unable to see because of the blindfold, screaming, and something hard hit him in the head.

Blackness.

* * *

Someone was shaking him, gripping his shoulder.

He groaned, realized he was lying on something hard and sharp, and opened his eyes.

Rocks.

A pair of straw sandals.

Dainty feet, slender legs... that wasn’t Ukos!

He sat up and grabbed his head at the splitting pain.

He looked up.

The woman, still in shadow against the sky, looked concerned.

“Are you alright? You fell and hit your head.”

“Yes, I... Who are you? Where is Ukos?”

“Ukos? There is no-one here named Ukos, just us, dear one.”

She was wearing a light, flowing gown that shimmered and rippled in the breeze. Behind her was a gentle slope covered in knee-high grass, dotted with grazing sheep.

Fluffy clouds overhead.

She had a garland of daisies on her head, yellow flowers almost the color of her blonde hair.

He stretched out a hand to leverage himself up off the ground, and his hand spasmed in agony.

He yanked it back—snakebite!

The twin punctures were beginning to swell and skin darken, blood oozing out.

“The snake... have to get the poison out...”

He pulled his dagger and moved to slash his own hand open, to suck out the venom, but she knelt next to him, and stilled his hand with her own.

“It is a minor matter, my dear, let me cleanse it for you.”

She leaned forward and kissed the wound, a brief touch of cool, soft lips, and the pain faded away like a dream.

He sat, somehow unable to think properly, bemused.

“Who... are you?” he finally managed to ask.

“You silly! You know who I am!”

He shook his head, unable to concentrate.

“I am Karadi of Shiroora Shan.”

“Why, of course you are, dear Karadi. Lucky thing your wife was here to help you!”

“My... wife?” He looked around. “Lajita is here?”

She leaned forward with the scent of lavender and cinnamon.

“The fall has addled your brains, dear Karadi. I am Lajita, of course!”

He shook his head again, rubbed his eyes.

Yes, of course she was Lajita. He recognized her now, familiar pitch-black hair framing deep brown eyes.

“But where are we? Why are you here?”

“Come, Karadi, let us go back home and rest a bit. The sheep will look after themselves.”

She took his arm, helping him up.

He looked at his hand: the snakebite was healed, only faint white scars marking where twin wounds had been mere seconds ago.

He shook his head again.

Something was strange. He felt like he had had a few too many ales.

His head didn’t hurt anymore, but it was hard to focus on anything except Lajita.

The sleeping mat was already laid out.

Had he forgotten walking to the hut? Suddenly he was there, and she was undressing him, wiping the dust off his body with a cloth.

She rubbed a fragrant oil into his skin, massaging his muscles deeply, working out kinks he hadn’t realized he had, her naked body sliding over his, legs entwining, lips caressing his neck, his ear, his lips.

He tried to concentrate, to throw off the inertia that gripped his mind... but not his body. Lajita. He tried to recall her face, her body, and his thoughts were shattered, blown away to dust by her kisses.

“Come to me, Karadi, my lusty Karadi,” she breathed as she straddled him, dragging him into her lavender and cinnamon scented paradise. He lost himself in her flesh, driving blindly until he reached release as she reared above him, riding him deep, head thrown back with an orgasmic scream, shuddered, shook, collapsed onto his chest panting.

“Man-seed, after all these years!”

He heard her words but couldn’t comprehend what they might mean, still drifting in a fog.

“Lajita?”

She began to dissolve into the air, tiny particles falling off like grains of sand, wafting away in the breeze, face melting in the sunlight. Sunlight. Where was the hut? Where was Lajita? What was...?

Her hands reached down to cup her belly, already swelling with new life, and she reached in and through herself to pull out a swirling cloud of glittering dust that clung to her hands like a living thing.

As the lingering traces of the phantom vanished into the air, Karadi heard the last whisper of a fading dream: “At last, a child! My long-awaited Shikhandi,” and she was gone.

Someone was shaking him, gripping his shoulder.

He groaned, realized he was lying on something hard and sharp, and opened his eyes.

Rocks.

A pair of leather boots.

“You alright, Karadi?”

Ukos!

He sat up, winced in anticipation, but there was no pain.

No pain in his head, or his hand.

He looked at it: the snakebite was healed, just those two faded white scars left behind.

“You’re a damn lucky man, Karadi,” continued Ukos. “If you hadn’t landed on this ledge, you’d be a couple hundred meters lower, and dead.”

Karadi sat up and looked around.

He was sitting on a narrow ledge jutting out from the steep cliff.

No grassy slope, no sheep, no beautiful woman, no Lajita.

A rope hung down from above; Ukos must have used it to descend.

“Let me see that snakebite, Karadi,” said Ukos, hand extended.

Karadi stood, held out his own hand.

“I think the snake missed me,” he said. “Just surprised me, that’s all.”

“Huh... no bite mark, but there’s blood on your sleeve there.”

“Must be from the fall, I guess,” said Karadi.

That woman—if she was a woman, and he doubted it—must have been real. The snakebit, healed. His head, his bumps and scratches, healed. His “seed,” as she had said... he couldn’t tell Lajita about this, not ever!

He stopped breathing as he recalled her final words. She had named the child Shikhandi!

“You OK? You’re awfully pale...”

“I’m... fine,...” he whispered. “The fall...”

“My pack’s up there,” said Ukos, pointing up the cliff. “Let’s get off this ledge, and get you some water.”

Had all that just been a dream?

He glanced at his hand... two little white scars stared back.

Karadi shook his head, dissipating the last traces of fog.

“Sorry,” he replied. “Let’s get going.”

He grabbed the rope, pulled two or three times to check that it was tight, and walked himself up the cliff, followed close behind by Ukos.

“You sure don’t climb like a man who just fell off a mountain,” chuckled Ukos. “Don’t look like it, either, except for your clothes.”

Karadi grunted.

“Just lucky, I guess. Thanks for coming to get me.”

“Well,” said Ukos, pulling himself up over the edge and coining up the rope, “You trusted me, and I didn’t see I had much choice in the matter.”

“Some people might have overlooked me on that ledge.”

“I’m not some people.”

He stowed the rope in his pack and brushed his hands off.

“Ready? We’ve about an hour’s walk, and then a short swim ahead of us.”

“And then?”

“And then we part ways, I think. You to the Salonitah, and me back to Astarma.”

“Astarma!? They’ll kill you!”

Ukos laughed.

“Oh, I won’t be going back alone. I’m afraid Kanotic and Chail won’t be with us much longer. You know any reliable lieutenants looking for a job?”

“Hardly,” smiled Karadi. “So are we still friends after we get home?”

“Well, perhaps not friends, but it seems we’re not enemies anymore, either.”

“So it seems.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way, and without a blindfold Karadi had no difficulty navigating the tricky places where the path diminished to almost nothing.

“Just up ahead,” said Ukos, breathing heavily. “Go slow.”

Karadi looked around the rock blocking their path to see the Night Ocean stretching out in front of them, blinding in the afternoon sunlight.

There wasn’t a sail in sight, and they could see quite a ways because the ocean was at least twenty meters below their feet.

Karadi leaned forward for a better look.

The cliff was almost sheer, with nothing to hold onto while climbing down. Below, the ocean was a deep sapphire blue: deep water.

“You mentioned the walk and the swim, but you didn’t tell me there was a little jump in the middle,” he complained.

“A minor oversight,” chuckled Ukos. “I’ve done this twice already, and I’m still alive, I assure you. Don’t think of it as a jump, rather consider it just one more step to reach the boat.”

“You sure there’s a boat down there?”

“Absolutely. Hidden, because I’d rather nobody steal it, but it’s there.”

Karadi frowned.

“I’ll go first, if you like, but I have to warn you that if you don’t join me, you’ll never find your way out of these mountains,” said Ukos. “When you jump, hit the water straight, feet-first if you can.

“And try not to land on top of me, if at all possible.”

Ukos dropped his pack over the edge, nodded, and stepped into thin air.

It seemed to take an awfully long time for him to hit the water, but once he did time sped up again, and he bobbed to the surface and waved.

“Water’s nice and cold, Karadi! Come on in!”

“Son of a bitch...” muttered Karadi, gritted his teeth, and jumped.

He started to flail instinctively, but immediately clamped down on his panic and brought his legs together, feet pointed down, arms at his side.

When he hit he was almost vertical, knifing down into the water with a shock that sent spikes of pain up his right leg. His impetus slowed rapidly in the water, and he swam upwards toward the air.

Ukos was waiting, his look of concern was replaced with a grin when Karadi’s head broke the surface, sputtering.

“See? Just one more step... nothing to it,” he said, and pointed toward the cliffside. “Behind that rock there. Help me get it out, and we’ll be on our way.”

There was indeed a tiny boat there, barely big enough for the two of them, but with both oars and sail.

“Where to? The Night Ocean is pretty big,” asked Karadi.

“South. My ship is waiting just a bit farther down the coast, out of sight.”

“And then?”

“And then we take you out to the Salonitah, and I make some preparations to go back to Astarma.”

“You could kill me once we reach you ship.”

“I could,” he admitted. “Or I could have just left you on that ledge.”

The wind was blowing from the west, and they were able to tack south very easily.

The pirate’s ship—the Wren—was waiting right where he’d said it would be, and Ukos scuttled up the rope ladder first to be sure none of his crew would raise their weapons when they saw who his guest was.

They didn’t.

They didn’t object when he commanded them to set sail for the Low Isles, either, or run up a white parley flag later as they approached the Salonitah.

And shortly after sunset the two ships parted ways again, the Salonitah turning north to head back to Shiroora Shan, and the Wren back toward Astarma.

* * *

Weeks later, a messenger came calling on Karadi at Shiroora Shan.

He carried a letter from Ukos, bound to hand it personally to Karadi.

Karadi snapped the seal and unrolled it.

 

Master Karadi,

My apologies for the difficulties we encountered in Astarma, and my thanks for the trust you showed me.

As you may have heard there have been a number of changes of late in Astarma, and in the pirate fleet. Captain Kanotic and several other pirates unfortunately passed away recently along with a number of respected merchants and other residents of Astarma. The village is being rebuilt now after some minor damage from fire.

Given the recent difficulties there and our mutual desire for peace in the Night Ocean, I felt that I had no choice but to assume the position of Lord of Astarma. We would be pleased to discuss further your proposal to hire the Astarma Fleet to patrol the Night Ocean.

Awaiting your favorable reply, I remain,

Yours faithfully,

Ukos, Lord of Astarma

END

It had been two years since they’d entered into a pact with Ukos, now Lord of Astarma and effective commander of the combined fleets of Shiroora Shan and Astarma. Piracy was almost unheard of in the western arm of the Night Ocean, and trade was flourishing through all three key routes: Shiroora Shan, which controlled both land and sea routes through the north end of the Night Ocean; Astarma, which commanded the route from Zeenar over the Agnid Mountains and then by sea west; and Cappadarnia, overlooking the Narrows allowing ships to pass between the southern end of The Spine and the Low Isles farther south.

There were always smugglers who wended their way through the shifting channels south of the Low Isles, or dared to travel even farther southward and brave the monsters of the Boorsh Fens, but those routes were slow and risky, for the most part, and presented little threat to the effective monopoly Karadi and Ukos commanded.

Ukos was also the father of Fen, who was betrothed to Lajita’s third daughter, Asha. She was only eight now, and Fen a few years older, so while they had exchanged gifts and promises for the future marriage, it was still very much in the future.

Fen had already visited Shiroora Shan several times, spending a month or two getting to know them better, and several of Karadi’s children—especially Asha—had spent time in Astarma. By now Shiroora Shan had evolved into a major trading city, while Astarma had only just completed its transformation from town to city.

Cappadarnia as well was growing steadily, with guard towers on both sides of the Narrows and chains of iron and wood across the channel to prevent free passage. It was managed by Ruk, now almost thirty and father of his own children. He was nominally an Admiral under Ukos, and captain of his own ship, but with the pirates largely under control he had less need to sail it.

Piracy was not unknown of in eastern stretch of the Night Ocean, but Ademla worked with them to keep the trade routes mostly safe. Eudoxia also did its part, although it was less likely to cooperate with Shiroora Shan, and pirates—and smugglers—could often take advantage of their mutual distrust.

Lajita was beginning to wonder just how the other Lajita had managed to send her messages through time.

It had been years now, and she had a considerable number of books and notes all ready to go, but no clue as to how to send them. As far as she knew she possessed no magic, except perhaps for the enigmatic amulet hanging around her neck.

Even after using the amulet, first when she became The Lajita and touched it to the book to reveal that strange note, and then to save herself from Shikhandi, she was no closer to understanding what it did, or how.

She wondered again where it had come from... she had brought it with her from the future, and it would pass again through over five centuries of Lajitas before returning once again to the past, to start the cycle over and over again. It was never made at all, it simply existed.

Her only guide was a strange, single line of Lajita’s that she had read in the book so long ago. At the top of a page had been written “You must go to the Falls of Kra,” but the remainder of the page had been torn out of the book, apparently by accident rather than by intent, leaving only that cryptic command.

The head housekeeper, old Batauta, had mentioned a magical being in a cave behind the Falls of Kra up in the Ifdawn Marest, the huge mountain range north of Shiroora Shan several times. An eerie spirit or creature that could wield magic for good or bad, she said, to help you or curse you, seemingly at whim. Some said that a gift of fruit, or meat, or jewels would win its favor; others said it depended on your speech and mien, or the weather. In short, nobody really knew.

Lajita had her doubts that the creature existed at all, but she recalled that Shikhandi had met her in those mountains. Could he be what they were talking about? It seemed unlikely because they had met over five hundred years in the future, and because he hadn’t recognized her: surely if he was the one who granted her a magical ability he would remember, even five centuries later!

Karadi and the twins—fifteen-year-old Dhruv and Atisha—were on a trading ship to Eudoxia, carrying a cargo of Gondara silk, porcelain from Karida, and glassware and crystal from the enormous glassworks here in Shiroora Shan.

The other children were busy at their studies, training, or playing, under the watchful eyes of their nannies or tutors, and the city was buzzing with its daily activity.

It was a good day to go see for herself if there really was a magical being up in the Ifdawn Marest, and if it could help her.

She decided to go alone, and already had her gift prepared. She had thought about what might be good. Anyone living in the mountains could get fruit, fresh meat, and fish pretty easily, and she didn’t think food would be anything special. Gold or jewels were a possibility, but they wouldn’t be of much use to someone living alone in the wilderness. Still, they were the traditional favorite.

She finally decided on Cydathrian brandy, and had a very special crystal bottle with matching goblets made by Kimjeon himself. They were covered with intricate designs of flowers and birds etched into the glass, and looked stunning when filled with the dark red brandy.

To protect them from breakage she had a special case made as well, of leather and wood with inlaid designs of mother-of-pearl, semi-precious stones, and silver. The case was lived with deep blue velvet.

“Thank you for the lunch, Mistress Batauta,” she said, accepting the bundle from the housekeeper. It was just bamboo boxes holding rice balls, spicy chicken with vegetables, and some fruit, wrapped up in a cloth for easy carrying (the cloth could be spread on the ground for sitting, too). “I have some things to think upon, and will be back in a few hours.”

“Yes, Seeress,” replied Batauta, nodding four or five times. “I’ll keep an eye on everything here.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” she said, and pulled the reins lightly. Her horse, a dappled gray mare, turned to face the path leading up into the Ifdawn Marest, and began a leisurely walk. She flicked the reins again, and the walk became a canter.

The morning was still young, the sun not yet high enough to reach into all the folds of the mountains, and the morning mist still hung low where the sunlight had not penetrated. Birdsong was everywhere, and several times she heard something large crashing through the brush to escape her—deer, no doubt.

She had never been to the Falls of Kra, but she knew that hunters from the city had. They fell from a great height into an almost-circular pool of crystal-clear water, feeding a mountain stream that raced down the mountains to the sea.

They had seen it but none had ventured closer, and no one had ever dared fish there. At least, none had tried and survived to tell the tale.

Clearly it was home to a powerful spirit or monster, or so the stories went, although no one claimed to have seen it with their own eyes. She wasn’t afraid because she knew from history that she still had many years to live.

This low on the mountain’s flanks there were still scattered trees, and even stretches of woods in places, but as she rode deeper into the Ifdawn Marest they gave way to low scrub and windblown rock. The path itself had vanished, leaving her with only the many stories to guide herself by, but the mountain stream was always easy to follow, even if she did have to ride around barriers every so often. And the stream led directly to the Falls.

Despite the terrible fates the stories foretold, the ride was beautiful: the air was brisk and clean, scattered wildflowers swayed in the breeze, birds soared and swooped, once she noticed a mountain lion watching her pass.

The stream gradually trended upwards, as streams tend to do, and it became more and more difficult to find a path for the horse until finally a low cliff and waterfall made it impossible. She could easily scale the cliff—she could almost reach the top just by stretching—but the horse could never surmount that obstacle.

She climbed up directly from horseback and left the horse there free to roam. It would wait for her, she knew, unless danger threatened. Her pack, carrying only the brandy and enough food and water for a day, was light.

The stream was faster here, cutting deep through rock, but potholes showed that it had once been far larger. Boulders blocked her path here and there, and one large rockslide that had pushed the stream far out of its usual path, creating a large pond upstream of it. She had no choice but to wade through the ankle-deep water to reach the far side: it was either that or risk clambering across the steep mountains on both sides, covered with treacherous scree. Footing in the pond was dangerous enough.

Above the pond was yet another small waterfall, perhaps two meters or so. She pulled herself up over the edge and saw that she had arrived: a few dozen meters ahead of her loomed a massive cliff, dozens of meters high, a single cascade of water pouring down from above in a stunning arc, sunlit as it crashed into the pool at its base with spray and mist.

The sun’s rays illuminated the waterfall only partially, blocked by the cliff stretching away on both sides.

She couldn’t tell if there was a cave behind the waterfall or not. The left side of the pool was formed by a sheer rock face but the right was lower. It might be the way to the back of the waterfall.

As she approached the pool the rocks became slippery with mist and moss, her feet sliding. She slipped her sandals off, dropping them into her pack, and advanced on bare feet.

The waterfall roared, and the rock beneath her feet vibrated with the impact.

Placing her feet very carefully, she proceeded around the edge of the pool, into the shadows behind the fall.

There was no cave.

The path, if that’s what it was, merely petered out into nothing.

No witch, no evil spirit, no loathsome creature waiting.

She cursed under her breath and pushed her sodden hair back up out of her eyes.

She turned to retrace her steps.

There was no path.

She spun around, looking behind her, then more slowly in a circle.

She was standing on a tiny rock shelf, only barely big enough to hold her, with a black stone wall behind her and the hammering waterfall in front.

She stood and stared at the falling water, trying to think of what to do next.

It would be a risky gamble to leap into that torrent: it could batter her to death against the rocks quite easily.

Suddenly she noticed that the tumult of the waterfall was fading, and as she watched a pair of huge yellow eyes appeared in the water, seemingly suspended in the air.

They were perfectly round, with enormous pitch-black pupils, but every few seconds one or the other would blink, and for a fraction of a second would reveal that they were split into three lobes, not two like a cat.

“I am Lajita of Shiroora Shan,” she said, head up, meeting that gaze directly. “I have come to ask a boon.”

“I know who you are, child,” came a soft voice with the faintest echo. “And I can see that you are not from this time.

“Interesting... centuries upon centuries... And that amulet! May I see it?”

Unsure of the situation but unwilling to offend the creature that apparently held the key to her escaping this prison, she carefully pulled it up from where it hung on her breast. She held it up for the eyes to inspect, and turned it to show the other side.

“I haven’t seen that script for aeons,” murmured the voice. “And what boon do you seek?”

“Before I came here, in the future centuries from now, I received a message from myself here and now. I need to know how to send those messages to those women who follow me in the future.”

“You came here from tomorrow but have forgotten how you did it?”

“I did not do it. A spirit named Shikhandi sent me here.”

“Shikhandi? Never heard of him. And he actually told you his name?”

“He said it was his name, yes. When he touched this amulet accidentally it frightened him, or hurt him, and he sent me here in rage.”

“The amulet, again.”

The eyes blinked again, this time in unison, and looked more closely at the amulet she held.

“Yes, I see...” came the voice. “Whoever worked that did a masterful job indeed.”

“I cannot think of how it as ever created,” she said. “I inherited from my mother, and she from hers, and back through the centuries to the First Lajita. And I am the First Lajita, and brought it here with me from the future. It has always been and will always be, it seems...”

“You humans, always thinking of time in such simplistic terms,” chuckled the voice. “Merely touch it to the message you need to send, and think of when you wish to send it. The message will be transferred to the amulet at the time you signify. There is no spell; the amulet is self-contained.”

She held the amulet up more closely, examining it once again as she had done so many times in the past.

“I never tried that... and there’s no mention of it in the books.”

“Surely you’ve noticed by now that the future is not as immutable as you think.”

Her mouth snapped shut as she recalled Haarith and Cadman.

“I... I thank you, Master... How shall I address you? Master of the Waterfall?”

“If you wish. Address me or not, I exist all the same.”

“Then I thank you for your explanation and assistance, Master of the Waterfall.”

“Quite simple, really, nothing you couldn’t have figured out yourself if you’d but bothered to try.”

She bit back her sharp response, and bowed in thanks instead.

“I have brought with me a small gift to express my appreciation,” she said, removing the ornate box from her pack. She carefully opened it to reveal the crystal bottle and goblets inside, and held it out to the yellow eyes.

There was a snort of disdain, and they blinked once again, the left eye slightly lagging the right.

“What in the world would I do with Cydathrian brandy, or crystal? I have no need for either.”

“What, then, must I do to receive this knowledge?”

“But you’ve already received it, child,” it admonished her quietly. “And I have received mine.”

“You... You have? But we haven’t agreed on—”

“Hush, child,” came the voice. “You entered my home, you accepted my knowledge, and I have received my due.”

“But we never reached an agreement!” she protested. “Surely—”

“There is no agreement. It is done.”

“There must always be an agreement! That is the law!”

“No law binds me, and you left the quaint laws of your reality behind when you entered my realm. Here, I am the law.”

It was right.

She had no idea how powerful this thing might be, but it had blocked her route to escape, and had given her the knowledge she sought. She had no choice.

“What did you take in return?”

“Nothing,” it replied as those eyes began to fade away. “I gave you something instead.”

“What? What did you do?”

“You shall know in due time, child.”

And it was gone, the path back to her world open before her.

* * *

She retraced her steps and returned home in the late afternoon, absent-mindedly responding to questions or comments. She pretended to listen to her children, she smiled at the staff and thanked them for a delicious meal, all the while thinking of what it might cost her, what she might suddenly lose.

A month later, after she missed her second period and was sure she was pregnant yet again—this would be her last child, Paramjit—it finally occurred to her to wonder if the Master of the Falls of Kra had done something to the unborn babe. It would have been two weeks old at that time, she calculated... The other Lajita had warned her about Paramjit, saying “A mother loves her son, no matter what may come.”

But what was to come?

END

It hurt no matter which way she turned.

She sighed; Karadi snored beside her.

She thought she’d be used to it by now. After all, this would be her eleventh child. According to the other Lajita, her last child. One every year or two, and as much as she loved them all, she still hated this part of it. In fact, she realized, Paramjit would be her seventh son... was that what the other Lajita had been trying to warn her about?

Why didn’t she just come out and say it, she wondered.

Knowing that he was the last one didn’t make it any easier to sleep, though, with a huge belly, a body that hurt in all sorts of places, and the constant need to pee. It didn’t help that he kept kicking at odd moments, either.

She sighed again and rolled a little more to her left, trying to find a more comfortable position.

Dawn was still hours away, but she could already feel the first twinges.

It wouldn’t be long now.

* * *

“A beautiful boy!” exclaimed Zlatka, handing the newborn baby to Lajita. “Came out smiling, he did, and he’s smiling yet!”

Zlatka had been her midwife for all of her children, starting with the twins sixteen years ago. She was very old now, unable to do many of the required tasks herself; instead, her own granddaughter performed them under her watchful eye. Soon Tuli—the granddaughter—would take over completely as midwife.

Lajita clasped the swaddled babe to her breast, looking down into his face.

It was terribly wrinkled and red still, and the eyes were unfocused, seeing nothing, but instead of screaming at the shock of birth he was smiling, flexing his fingers aimlessly, making the same cooing noises as any happy baby might.

As any baby two or three months old might, she thought. There was nothing sinister in making baby noises this early—and you couldn’t get any earlier than right after birth—but it was unusual, to say the least.

And he was indeed a beautiful baby in spite of the strangeness and the red, wrinkled face.

She smoothed back the few strands of hair on his head, still damp, and kissed his forehead.

“Hello, Paramjit,” she whispered as Tuli and Zlatka finished cleaning up. Tuli left the room with a basket of towels and sheets to be burned, and was stopped by Karadi just outside the door.

“How is she? Is she alright?”

“She’s fine,” laughed Tuli. “Not her first birth, after all. Mother and baby boy are both fine.

“You can go in now, Master Karadi,” she continued. “All of you can.”

Behind Karadi was a small flock of children, headed by twins Dhruv and Atisha and ending with five-year-old Arun and his stuffed turtle.

Behind them lurked the head housekeeper, Mistress Batauta, for once overlooking the fact that the housekeeping staff was standing and watching instead of working.

Karadi turned around and shouted “It’s a boy!”

There was a cheer and a stamping of feet, and suddenly everybody burst into motion again. Karadi led the charge into the room, kneeling next to Lajita to join her in admiring Paramjit, while the rest of the children gathered around the bed to stare at the new addition to their family.

The twins, being the oldest, had seen it all before many times, but it was a new discovery for little Arun, and even for Hansika and Habib, who had been too young when they saw Lajita give birth last.

“This is your brother, Paramjit,” said Lajita, holding him up for everyone to see.

“Why is he so red and winkled, Mother?” asked seven-year-old Hansika. “He looks like an old man!”

Gitanshu answered her with all the scorn and infinite knowledge of a twelve-year-old boy: “They always come that way. They dry out quick.”

“This is Kamera,” announced Arun, holding up his stuffed turtle to mimic the way Lajita was holding Paramjit. “She’s a turtle.”

“All you alright, Lajita?”

“I’m fine, Karadi, relax. Popped right out like a melon pip,” she answered, turning to the baby. “He’s going to be such a beautiful boy...”

Her comment, whether personal opinion or actual prophecy, came to pass, and Paramjit grew into a stunningly beautiful child.

* * *

At the age of three, Paramjit was already quite well-known throughout Shiroora Shan. Quiet, inquisitive, friendly, he was a common sight, little legs pumping madly as he hurried from one place to another, frequently with a harried nanny chasing after.

His looks always attracted attention among the adults, with pitch-black hair cut short above deep brown eyes and Aquiline nose, but the children were fascinated more by the way animals trusted him. Animals were common in Shiroora Shan, still a small city very much in the country. Farm animals such as cows, horses, pigs, goats, and sheep, as well as raptors and deinos, could be seen everywhere, their bellows and calls echoing in the alleys day and night.

Paramjit was especially drawn to the animals, and would often walk into a shop or home, ignoring the people there, to walk straight to an animal pen, and hold out his hand. Without fail, the animal, even wild beasts that had never known the touch of a human being, would approach, sniff, and rub their heads on his fingers as might a dog to its owner.

“I saw that boy walk right up to a fox we’d caught in the chicken coop,” said one farmer. “Vicious beast, jumping and snapping at us with one foot caught in the snare. I missed with my first arrow, and before I could draw the second, the boy was standing right next it!

“Damnedest thing. It just lay down and rolled over to have its belly scratched, paw still snared and bloody.”

“And then what?”

“The Chabra boy said he wanted it, so I just loosed it, and damn if it didn’t just walk away right next to him like a trained dog, on three legs.

“Damnedest thing I ever saw.&rdquo

Standing at the bar, Karadi took another sip of ale and held his tongue.

If they recognized him, which was likely if he lifted his head out of his glass, they’d change the subject, and he really wanted to hear what they had to say.

Paramjit seemed to be a hyperactive kid, precocious for his age, whom everyone liked. He was stunningly beautiful, some internal radiance that just charmed everyone off their feet, he was kind, he was quiet, speaking softly and gently, and he slept cuddled up next to Lajita like any boy that young might do.

But he also played with animals more than other children, even dangerous animals, and had never been bitten by a raptor or panther, kicked by a skittish horse, or even stung by a bee. Never.

Once when a viper was discovered in the bath and the maid was screaming in terror, Paramjit calmly picked it up like a scarf, holding the middle with the ends drooping down on both sides, and carried it outside.

“Kill it!” screamed the maid, but Paramjit merely shrugged and set it down at the edge of the woods and watched it slither into the darkness.

* * *

As Paramjit grew from a child to a young adult, he was drawn to the numinous: not only organized religion, but sacred places that instilled feelings of awe and reverence in the onlooker, such as the dark face of the Agnid Mountains where they met the Night Ocean as sheer cliffs, or the giant boles of the forbidden jungle stretching between Dothur and Eudoxia, even the sunrise as it set the sky afire in the east. He trekked the mountains to the north, some say as far as Irem, and the endless steppes to the east, and the deserts of Cuppar-Nombo, unafraid of the wild beasts and deadly monsters said to await the traveler.

There was an infinite array of gods and godlets to choose from in the Dreamlands, but after witnessing the fiery vortex of a funeral, Paramjit felt an indescribable presence from the resulting soulstone, an invisible pull on his awareness that he could not ignore.

That very day he called upon the Temple of Nath-Horthath in Shiroora Shan, and sought permission to join the Godsworn. The head of the temple, Godsworn Monterosi, was more than happy to accept a new acolyte, especially one with such a close relationship to powerful House Chabra, and so Paramjit in a very short time found himself entirely bald and dressed in a simple black robe.

As the newest of Monterosi’s acolytes he was naturally put in charge of caring for the temple’s animals, a chore which consisted primarily of feeding and brushing them, and cleaning the stables. He didn’t mind the work, especially as the normally obstinate and at times dangerous horses mildly obeyed his lightest touch or beckon, to the amazement of the other acolytes.

The acolytes learned to read and write, and mathematics, and history (such as it was, as history was subject to change without notice in the Dreamlands), and especially about the myriad gods and their magics. As a son of House Chabra Paramjit of course was well versed in reading, writing, history, literature, mathematics and so much more, to the extent that he soon found himself teaching mathematics and sometimes other courses.

He had little interest in those mundane subjects, instead turning his attention to the sacred texts of Nath-Horthath, and knowledge of the spiritual.

What was that transcendent feeling he received from the soulstones?

He attended numerous funerals as an acolyte of Godsworn Monterosi, and finally what he had been waiting for, happened: the Godsworn dropped a soulstone by accident, and asked him to pick it up.

Half in fear, half in wondrous anticipation, he grasped it between thumb and forefinger, and a surge of raw power ran though his body, his heart, and into the infinite. It was gone in an instant, leaving him stunned, motionless, until the Godsworn cleared his throat and brought him back again.

That night he thought of what he had felt, that power that had shocked him so.

It was the raw power of the soul, the spirit of the dead, still linked to the world of the living and the world of the dead, a bridge between two realms, a window into the other side.

It shattered the blinders he had worn all his life and never seen, opening up a new dimension of possibility. He was no longer entirely of the Dreamlands of the living, but now of both realms.

And, he realized in a sudden clarity, he was addicted to the feeling.

The next morning he had vanished, and with him vanished the four soulstones that had been in the temple.

Seeress Lajita wielded the full weight of the name of House Chabra to smother the scandal, and in time it was said that poor Paramjit had been killed by a wild animal, perhaps a mountain lion, or some said a venomous snake. Stories of his beauty and his animals faded, and merged with legend until only House Chabra itself could say for sure what was true.

And they never did.

* * *

Paramjit searched for the sacred, the touch of the “other” in lands near, and then increasingly far beyond the reach House Chabra.

Some time later he was found, close to death from thirst and the heat, in the Eastern Desert between Nurl and the forbidden city of Irem, by a small party of Ibizim who would have left him to die without a second thought had not their camels refused to leave his side.

Left with no choice, they gave him water and loaded him up onto a camel, taking him with them to one of their secret oases, and left him there.

Two days later, largely recovered although still burned red and black by the sun, he sat with the Ibizim trooper—a young woman named Geriel—who was the solitary guard there. She poured him a warm, sour ale.

“You would have died if they hadn’t found you,” he said. “You’re a very lucky man!”

“Who found me? I would like to thank them.”

He shrugged. “The Ibizim found you. They could as easily kill you next time, you know... we generally don’t rescue anyone silly enough to wander into the desert. They were Ibizim, and saved your life. That is enough.

“But who are you? A youth of such radiant beauty should be famous, yet I have never heard of such. Some godlet, lost in the desert, perhaps?”

Paramjit frowned, sipped, tilted his head in apparent confusion.

“I... I have no idea!”

He put the ale down and stared at the other.

“I said nothing in my fever?”

“Nothing in any language I could understand, I’m afraid.”

“...I do not know who I am...” said Paramjit slowly. “Where am I? Who am I?”

“Your memory may return, with time,” said Geriel. “Or perhaps you are a godlet after all, bringing beauty and love to this barren land.”

“Beauty? Godlet? Why do you mention such?”

“Look at yourself, then, and see,” urged the Ibizim, holding out a mirror.

Paramjit held the mirror up to his face, examining it as if he had never seen it before, turning his head, peering, touching his own cheek and nose.

“Is that... I mean, of course it’s me,” he whispered. “But I’ve never...”

He turned his head this way and that, looking.

“Looks like a perfectly normal face to me,” he said finally. “I mean, maybe better than average, on the whole, but I wouldn’t say beautiful.”

Geriel looked at Paramjit’s reflection in the mirror, frowned.

“That’s strange... you look the same in the mirror, but... just... not beautiful anymore. It’s the same face, but it’s just a face. In the mirror, I mean.”

She looked back at Paramjit’s face.

“When I look at you, it’s something special. Not just the face. Some radiance, warmth, I don’t know how to describe it. It’s beauty.”

They fell silent for a moment.

“So you’ve no memories, then?”

“I remember watching the waves break on the shore, a young girl’s face—my sister, perhaps. I remember carrying a viper outside from... from... from the bath, I think... and the maid... was it a maid? ...screaming to kill it.”

“Waves on the shore? An ocean, then. The Night Ocean?”

“I have no idea,” he said, handing back the mirror. “I can recall only tiny fragments of the whole.

“But I can clearly recall the thrill, the sense of presence, that I felt as I wandered the desert. I was searching for something, some god or spirit, and I felt it, then.”

“Before they found you.”

“Yes, somewhere.”

“You had these in your bag,” said Geriel, holding out four soulstones in a small dish.

“My soulstones!”

He took the dish and poured the soulstones into his hand, glittering like gems.

“Your family, or loved ones?”

“I don’t know... I can’t remember! But they are important to me,” he cried. “They... whisper to me.”

Geriel was silent for a moment.

“Stay until you are well,” she said finally. “You aren’t Ibizim, I think, judging from your hands and face—you’ve not spent years in the desert, that’s clear—but you are welcome, and would be good company.”

In about a week he was fully recovered, sharing the simple meals with Geriel: chicken, beans, and corn, for them most part. They sat and talked for hours and days.

He could recall no more of his past, but he did learn a bit about the Ibizim.

The Ibizim of the Desert, as they called themselves, were masters of the Eastern Desert, roaming its wastes on camelback or foot. They had secretive cities scattered throughout, usually in protected mountainous sites, but sometimes surrounding a major oasis, or even underground in the strange caverns left by the Children of the Night, the lizardfolk.

Each city was ruled by a matriarch in accordance with their laws and traditions, and the matriarchs, in turn, selected one of their own to be the Matriarch of the Ibizim of the Desert, commanding them all.

The tale told that the Ibizim came to the Dreamlands long, long ago, and lived mostly in peace for centuries here in the Eastern Desert, once a fair land of green forests and plains. Thuba Mleen, a sorcerer who may have been Ibizim or may have come from the distant East, was determined to conquer it all. Some of the Ibizim followed him, but others stayed true to the traditional matriarchal system, and resisted.

The war between Thuba Mleen and the Matriarchs turned the land into desert, and the Ibizim fled into hiding. The Ibizim who stayed in those lands, hiding in the depths of Xinaián, the Sunless Roads of the Children of the Night, became the Ibizim of the Desert. Others fled to distant mountains in greener lands, hiding in their crags and gorges, now known as the Ibizim of the Mountains.

The sorcerer vanished, nobody knew why, but the desert remained, and the Ibizim stayed hidden, and so the situation had remained, almost unchanged, for centuries. “Almost,” because after long years of hiding the Ibizim began to build a few cities above ground, in hidden valleys deep in the mountains of the northern Hills of Noor, cities secret from prying eyes on pain of death.

His body grew strong, his skin healthy and deep, dark brown, but his memory remained elusive.

And throughout it all he held those soulstones, feeling their warmth, their whispers, deep in his heart.

“You should release them, you know,” said Geriel one day.

“I don’t even know who they are,” replied Paramjit. “I must been keeping them for a reason, though.”

“If you can’t remember why, free their souls, boy,” advised the Ibizim. “You cannot give them whatever they were waiting for; let them go.”

Paramjit looked at the four milky-white soulstones in his hand.

“Perhaps you’re right...”

That night he lay on the sand looking up at the countless stars overhead, and held up one of the soulstones. He could almost see the starlight shining through its hidden depths.

On a sudden impulse he clenched his fist, crushing it.

There was a small pop, and a faint, whitish vapor drifted upward.

His body threw itself forward, of its own volition, and breathed it in.

Sacrilege! And of the vilest sort!

His mind recoiled at the thought of inhaling another’s soul, barring it from Release.

But his body savored the smell, the taste, like a rare drug that brought visions of Paradise.

He watched in shock as his hands poured out the other soulstones, crushing them all at once with the strength of the possessed and breathed in that pale white mist.

He could feel Geriel sleeping nearby, the sandsnake coiled at the corner of the hut, the individual fleas in the bedding... he turned his attention farther, sensing a group of camels some kilometers distant, Ibizim riders, and the wild sand lizards hunting, and he quailed under the cold cognizance of the stars.

He could not move, his mind frozen by the torrent of sensation and awareness that flooded in, his mind spreading out over the desert, scenes flashing by, until...

He was in front of a tower of rock, weathered by centuries of wind-borne sand. It stood some twenty meters high, or more, solitary in the starlight.

It pulled at him, a siren call he could not resist.

He smiled as he rose and walked into the desert night.

* * *

Geriel awoke, unsure of what had awakened her.

She listened, and heard nothing but the usual night sounds—scuttling insects and mice, an occasional hoofclop or muffled whoof from the horses, wind-blown sand skittering. Nothing unusual, she thought.

Then it hit her: she couldn’t hear the stranger’s breathing.

She quickly rose and looked through the hut, confirming that he was gone. A quick trip to the toilet confirmed he had left entirely.

She bit her lip.

She was only recently accepted as a trooper, and sent here as one of her first assignments.

He must be out in the desert again, she realized, possibly possessed.

She had no obligation to rescue him, but she’d enjoyed his company in this lonely posting, and thought she’d hate herself if she didn’t at least try to save him. At the same time, though, her duty was here at the guard post.

It was a boring, almost meaningless job, and she’d get little credit for doing it properly, but she knew she’d be in serious trouble for leaving her post unattended.

He couldn’t have gone far, she reasoned, and saddled up her camel. Just a quick walk around the area to find him, she thought to herself, and back by dawn.

Still, as any responsible Ibizim, she filled her pack with plenty of water and a few other things that might prove necessary in the desert.

The half-moon and the stars were bright enough for her to make out his tracks a few minutes later. He was walking straight east toward the Flats, making no effort to hide his sign at all.

The Flats. The hottest, driest, deadliest region of the entire Eastern Desert. No trees, no oases, no shade, no hope of crossing alive. And he was walking into it with, apparently, no water or gear at all!

She goaded her camel to a faster pace, hoping to catch up to the stranger before the sun rose and brought the heat.

Two hours later she still hadn’t caught a glimpse of him, and dawn was approaching fast, the peaks of the Ifdawn Marest ahead of her already limned in yellow.

He must have left hours before she got up, and been walking steadily since. Actually, she realized as she looked at the spacing of his footprints in the sand, it looks like he’s been on an easy run, not just walking.

Should she quit the pursuit now and return to her post? Or...

She decided to continue on until dawn, and then head back if she hadn’t found him.

Some time later, as the orange sky brightened and the sun was just about to peep over the top of the distant Ifdawn Marest, the mountain range to the east, beyond cursed Irem, she spotted a black dot loping over the bare white flat ahead.

She snapped the reins for a new burst of speed from the camel, and chased after, gradually drawing closer.

All of sudden, in the middle of the naked desert, with barely a pebble in sight to break the monotony, the figure dissolved like salt in water.

A shimmer!

Out here, in the middle of the Flats!?

She rode closer to where he had disappeared, and dismounted as the wavering outlines of the shimmer’s effect became visible. From a distance it was invisible, especially in the heat-dancers twisting up from the hot, packed sand, but up close the distortion was obvious.

She drew her sword and stepped through.

She was looking down into a huge pit, not unlike a sand-roach might create, an upside-down cone of sand. In the center, where the sand-roach would normally wait to knock prey down into its fanged jaws, stood a stone column.

The stranger was sliding down the slope, trying hard to keep his balance in the shifting sand.

She didn’t trust that loose sand, and stopped a little ways back from the edge to watch.

There was movement on the flat sand at the bottom, but it was hard to make out from here... she took out her looking glass for a better look, and gasped.

Red-bellied scorpions!

She could count at least a dozen from where she stood.

One sting and a grown man would writhe in agony for days, three and he’d be dead in minutes.

And the stranger was blithely strolling through them without a care in the world!

She couldn’t save him now, she could only watch in horror as he died a hideous death.

But...

He’d already walked past several of the creatures, without a single sting! They were ignoring him.

No, not ignoring, she realized... some of them were actually following him!

She continued to watch in amazement as he stood in front of the stone column, looking up at an obvious hole a little above his head.

She focused her looking glass on the hole, noticing tiny movements. Hornets.

That black hole, maybe large enough for a man to crawl into, was a massive hornet’s nest.

She switched back to the stranger.

Sure enough, he was climbing up the column, straight toward the hornet’s nest. As she watched in disbelief he squirmed inside, head first.

His feet waggled a little bit, as if he were moving about, but certainly not as if he’d been stung by hundreds of angry hornets.

A minute later he emerged, holding a small gold box under one arm, and scaled down the column. He casually brushed the waiting scorpions to the side with his hand and sat cross-legged on the ground, placing the box in front of him and opening the lid.

With the lid up she could clearly see the sigil it held.

Her breath caught in her throat as she recognized it.

He reached in and picked up something, something small, holding it up to the light in admiration.

It was a soulstone.

So he was dead all these long years. And his soulstone had been hidden here in the Flats all that time.

As she watched in horror he placed the soulstone in his mouth and crushed it between his teeth.

The stranger was deathly still for a moment, expression locked in a rictus that could be agony or ecstasy, eyes blank, unseeing, then took a long breath, and awareness returned to his eyes.

He turned to look directly at distant Geriel, and spoke.

“Geriel of Ripplesnake of the Ibizim of the Desert, you healed me, and I repay that debt by allowing you to live. Carry my message to the Matriarchs, to all the kings and queens and petty rulers of the Dreamlands.

“Thuba Mleen has returned. Go!”

He waved his hand at her, and she realized with horror that the hundreds of scorpions in the pit had started clambering up the slope toward her.

She fled to her camel, and together they raced the rising sun west.

END

Dhruv stared at the distant coastline blankly, seeing but not really noticing the tiny villages and fields as they swept past. He was still trying to figure out just how his life had changed.

He understood all the reasons why his twin sister Atisha married Prixadius, the brand new Lord of Adelma.

Adelma had been long squeezed between the old metropolis of Eudoxia and the rapidly growing power of Shiroora Shan, and with the ascension of Prixadius to Lord of Adelma following the sudden death of his father, the balance of power was ripe for change. A marriage between House Chabra and Prixadius would reduce the trade friction between them, providing more peaceful (and profitable) trade across the Night Ocean.

Shiroora Shan had already entered into a strong alliance with Lord Ukos of Astarma on the eastern shore, and controlled the Narrows through The Spine with the fort and sea chains at Cappadarnia. There was a large trade between the central regions of the Dreamlands and those to the east, with indigo, silk, cotton, paper, porcelain and more traveling westward toward Rinar, Celephaïs, and Dylath-Leen, while cargoes including wool, ivory, and jade traveled eastward toward the cities of the steppe and far Gondara.

The vast majority of that cargo had to pass through Adelma or Eudoxia, then to either Shiroora Shan or Cappadarnia. From Cappadarnia ships could unload at Astarma, but the road from there over the Agnid Mountains to Zeenar and east was dangerous and slow, so most ships proceeded on to Shiroora Shan, unloading cargo there for Karida and farther east. It was also possible to sail around the southern tip of the Low Isles from Eudoxia, risking the sand bars and deadly monsters of the southern reaches near the Boorsh Fens, but only small, shallow-draft boats with brave crews would take that chance.

Eudoxia was still the largest city on the Night Ocean and represented the greatest competitor to Adelma, as well as to Shiroora Shan’s rising mercantile power, but a blood alliance between Adelma and Shiroora Shan would reduce its strength.

It was never clear exactly who had suggested it first: Prixadius and Karadi both noticed the potential, and informal discussions started shortly thereafter. The betrothal was held by mutual consent in Cappadarnia, which constructed a new and ornate temple to Agdistis, the goddess of marriage (and sexuality) especially for the occasion.

The betrothal was a fairly private ceremony, in spite of being between two of the most powerful families on the Night Ocean. In addition to the two families—Lord Prixadius and entourage, and House Chabra with Karadi and Lajita at the head—Lord Ukos of Astarma was there, ostensibly ensuring the safety of the various ships involved, and curiously enough Lord Bikal of Ebnon at the invitation of Lord Prixadius.

The betrothal went smoothly, and after the two got to know each other over the period of about a year, the marriage followed without serious objection from anyone. Almost anyone, Dhruv thought. His mother, Lajita, had seemed quite cool to the idea at first, but warmed up after they’d met with Prixadius a couple times.

Karadi and Lajita were esteemed guests at the wedding, of course, along with Dhruv and the rest of their children, and, as one would expect from House Chabra, they brought along their own guards and maids and entourage, arriving on a small flotilla consisting of a massive merchanter and a half-dozen smaller boats and frigates. Lord Prixadius had welcomed them with full ceremony, both for the honor of his future in-laws and to vastly strengthen his city’s position in the relatively confined geopolitics of the Night Ocean. He also needed an heir, of course.

For three days, the city was buried in flower petals, drenched in liquor, and stuffed with sweets. Lord Prixadius of Adelma wed the beautiful Atisha Chabra—eldest daughter of the fabulously wealthy House Chabra—and the city’s entire population rejoiced. Most were more interested in the food and liquor, and the occasional coins tossed about by nobles and courtiers, than they were in the strategic marriage between two of the major powers in the Night Ocean, but they cheered and threw flower petals nonetheless.

After the three days of celebration were done the city returned to its usual bustle and clamor, with little change to the lives of the people.

The marriage, however, had an enormous impact on twenty-year old Dhruv, overturning his entire world.

He and his twin sister had always been close, far closer than most siblings. They played together, studied together, trained together, shared private thoughts and fears and laughter that others, even other siblings, were never a part of.

Atisha had come to respect and like, maybe even love, Prixadius and his city, and Dhruv wished her a long and happy marriage. He just wished it didn’t mean he had to be alone.

As future heir of House Chabra he knew he would also have to marry eventually, to carry on the bloodline, and he didn’t especially care one way or the other. He didn’t mind Atisha marrying, of course—Prixadius seemed a reasonable fellow, and the two of them certainly got along well.

No, there was no jealousy involved: he was merely lonely because he’d lost someone he’d always treated as a part of himself.

Who could he share his thoughts and fears with now?

His mother?

Seeress... that’s what everyone called her, unless formality demanded Lady. She was a wonderful mother, but also terrifying because she could prophesy the future. Some said she could shape the future, and it certainly seemed that way.

Had she known this marriage would happen, all along?

Had she arranged it even while he—and Atisha— were merely babies?

He was scared to ask, although as the future head of House Chabra he should know the truth, he thought.

Would she tell him if he did?

He wished once again that Atisha was here so he could share these doubts with her, seek her wisdom.

But she wasn’t. She was Lady Atisha of Ademla now.

They should reach Shiroora Shan late this afternoon, he thought, and he had no doubt his father—Karadi—would drag him off to one of the projects immediately.

Karadi was in constant motion, visiting a host of different projects and people every day. The Great Seawall of Shiroora Shan was complete, creating an almost impenetrable barrier between the east and west halves of the Night Ocean. The Seawall was fortified with battlements capable of raining death down on attacking ships, and the road on top was wide enough for two wagons abreast. The only way through was to use the Great Seagate through the Seawall, a network of massive chains and logs that could be raised to block passage, or lowered out of the way.

The shore leading up to the Seawall, both on the city side and along the northern edge of The Spine, had also been fortified with walls, observation towers, and several types of catapults and ballistae.

The road continued from there along the shore of The Spine until it reached the Narrows, where it ended in another fort overlooking that chokepoint. Karadi had suggested that they build a second seawall there to extend it to Cappadarnia, on the other side of the Narrows, but Lajita advised him that it had been tried multiple times over the centuries and ended in failure every time due to strong currents.

A number of small boats and ferries transported goods and people between there and Cappadarnia, but Cappadarnia obtained most of its necessities from the seaports on both sides of the Night Ocean.

He thought of the new temple to Agdistis that had been constructed there for the betrothal ceremony. House Chabra had donated a considerable amount to the construction, and more to support the temple, and as his father had explained, much of that money had flowed from the temple into Cappadarnia, which provided the temple with goods and services directly or indirectly. Cappadarnia was growing from a tiny fishing village into a city in its own right, collecting tolls from trade goods passing through the Narrows in one direction or the other.

As it became a richer city it would also have to be defended, and by providing defense, House Chabra would ensure that it remained firmly under their control.

He sighed.

Politics, politics, politics... wheels within wheels within wheels, grinding him into a fine powder.

“You look sad, Dhruv,” came Karadi’s voice as his arm wrapped around Dhruv’s shoulders. “Miss Atisha already?”

Dhruv was silent for a moment, watching the sunlight on the waves.

“Yes, I do,” he finally said quietly. “She understood me as no-one else has, even you. We talked all the time, about everything.

“I feel pretty alone right now.”

“I used to feel very alone, too,” replied Karadi. “It’s part of growing up, I guess... I was alone, and alone in a place where I knew nobody at all, until your mother came into my life.

“I’ve never felt alone since, even if we’re not together.”

“Do you share everything with her, and she with you?”

Karadi recalled his experience in the Agnid Mountains with Ukos. He’d never breathed a word of that to anyone.

“Of course,” he said. “She’s a seeress, so there’s not much point in hiding anything, right?”

“Right. I guess.”

The sunlight danced on the waves.

“When we get back we have to check the timbering in the silver mine,” said Karadi. “When I was up there last week I thought one of the beams looked a little askew.

“Might be late to dinner on the way back.”

He gave Dhruv another shoulder squeeze and left him to watch the scenery once again.

* * *

Much later that night, at the main house in Shiroora Shan, Dhruv couldn’t stand the pain in his heart any longer, and decided he had to talk to Karadi and Lajita about it. He didn’t know what he wanted, but he could think of nothing but her absence. He needed someone to share his feelings with, and with Atisha gone he really only had them to turn to.

Neither he nor Atisha had never been able to really open up to their siblings, but sometimes Lajita would understand. Their father—not so often.

He left his brothers sleeping, and walked along the corridor toward the master bedroom, overlooking the central courtyard of the house.

It was a cool evening, with a slight breeze, and on that breeze, barely audible over the night insects, he heard Karadi speak his name.

He slowed, and stood in the darkness, eavesdropping on their conversation.

“...ready to take over House Chabra, I think. He’s certainly as good as I am in keeping things running smoothly, but it’ll take time for him to learn how to handle people like Ukos and Prixadius,” continued Karadi. “Are you still sure about it?”

“No, of course not. But it seems to be happening no matter what I do,” said Lajita. “Goodness knows we tried to steer her in other directions but it just happened! It feels like fate took a hand, pushing its own story regardless... the inertia of future history, I suppose.”

“But you’ve already changed history, right? Cadman and Haarith, among other things.”

“Cadman still died!”

“But Haarith didn’t. You changed his fate,” countered Karadi. “I’m not convinced Cadman’s death has anything to do with you, you know... you saved them from drowning, and the fire was just that—a fire, nothing more.”

“Suppose, for some reason, Cadman had to die, but Haarith was irrelevant.”

“Cadman!? He was just a child! What God would want to kill a child such as he?”

“Maybe he grew up to offend some God, somewhere, in some reality.”

“That’s just silly... You had nothing to do with Cadman’s death, and you have saved countless people over the years with your knowledge. There’s no reason to think Atisha is fated to die.”

“Atisha!? Die!?”

Dhruv couldn’t help himself as he cried in disbelief.

Karadi was in the doorway in a second, Lajita close behind.

“Dhruv... you’ve been listening...”

Speechless, unable to talk or even move, Dhruv just looked up at his father, than at his mother’s face, seeking reassurance, praying he’d misheard.

“Come in, Dhruv,” said Karadi, holding out his hand. “I think we need to talk.”

The three of them sat down in Karadi’s bedroom, Dhruv and Karadi in the chairs and Lajita cross-legged on the bed.

“I’m afraid the tea’s cold and bitter,” apologized Karadi. He poured three cups.

Dhruv looked at them, flicking back and forth from one to the other.

“What do you mean, Atisha must die?”

Lajita sighed and shook her head.

“Karadi and I were talking about the future, Dhruv, and what I know of it.”

“What you think you know, you mean,” shot back Karadi. “Sometimes things happen differently.”

“Let me talk, Karadi, please,” she shushed, and turned back to Dhruv. “You know a little about my ‘prophecies’ but you’ve never heard the full story. I think it’s time.

“I know many things that will happen to House Chabra, in detail, and use that knowledge here, now, revealing the future. I know that’s hard to understand, but don’t think too deeply about it. I read a book that told me what happens next, that’s all.”

“A book... like the books you’re always writing in?”

“That’s right. And sometimes what was written in those books I read isn’t always the same as what happens, but it almost always is. That’s why House Chabra has been so successful in so many things over the years, because I read about what to do, and what will happen, and Karadi and I can plan for it.”

“And that book said Atisha dies?”

“Yes, it did. It said that Atisha married Prixadius, exactly as it happened. It also said that she will give birth to two children, a daughter next year, and a second daughter the year after. And Prixadius will be so furious with her for birthing another girl instead of a male heir, he will murder her in a fit of rage.”

“I... Murder?.... He wouldn’t...”

Dhruv caught his breath.

“I don’t believe it. We’ve spent months together over the last few years, and he doesn’t even like killing animals, let alone killing people.

“And he’s really in awe of the Seeress... I mean, you, mama.”

“It’s alright, Dhruv. I know what everyone calls me, and it doesn’t bother me.”

“Uh, yeah, um, sorry. Ah, he’s never talked about how papa should run things at all. In fact, he asked me if it was OK to marry Atisha because he thought she’d inherit House Chabra and run it all, and he was worried that by marrying her he’d force me to take over, and I wouldn’t like it!”

Karadi cleared his throat, obviously wanting to speak.

Lajita smiled, lifted an eyebrow and sat up straight again, giving him space.

“We know, Dhruv. We’ve been working on him since he was a little boy, exposing him to all sorts of new ideas. All those things you mention are wonderful, and maybe we helped make them happen. But we also took Atisha to Eudoxia in the hopes she’d marry someone there, and tried to find other ways to render the book incorrect.

“But somehow, in spite of our best efforts, the idea of a marriage between our two houses came up, and gained momentum, and there was no way of stopping it short of flat refusal, which might have ended up in a war.

“We tried, but we failed.”

“We don’t know that we failed, my bear,” said Lajita. “This conversation proves change is possible.”

“You never read about this talk, then?”

“Never,” she stated. “That doesn’t prove it didn’t happen, of course, but I will certainly note it in my book.”

Dhruv cocked his head.

“Note it in your book? What do you mean?”

“My diary, Dhruv. I keep a diary of everything important that happens, that’s all.”

Dhruv was unconvinced, but let it slide.

“So, what? You just let it be, and hope he doesn’t murder her?”

“We’ll visit her as oft—”

“I’m going back to Ademla,” said Dhruv, standing abruptly. “I’ll stay there and protect Atisha.”

“But you’re the heir to House Chabra!” protested Karadi. “You can’t!”

“I can. Let Varun run things; he’s better in math, and has read every book in the library at least twice.”

“And you can beat him in riding, or swordsmanship, or archery, with one hand tied behind your back,” countered Lajita. “Well, one-handed archery might be a bit difficult.”

Karadi cocked his head, looking at Dhruv. “Why do you suggest Varun?”

“Huh? Because he’s next in line, why else?” replied Dhruv in surprise. He glanced at Lajita. “Wait a minute... there’s something you’re not tell me.”

“I think he deserves the whole story, Lajita.”

She bit her lip, then nodded.

“I think so, yes,” she agreed. “Dhruv, there was more in that book. It says that you would raise an army, attack and siege Adelma, kill Prixadius, and become Lord of Ademla.”

“With Atisha at my side!?”

“No. Atisha would remain a widowed mother under your protection, and eventually a beloved aunt for your children. You would marry someone, of course, but not Atisha.”

“You want me to kill Prixadius...”

“No!” countered Karadi. “We do not want you to kill anyone. We have spent over a decade trying to make sure that never happens. We want Atisha to live a long and happy life with him.”

“And Varun?”

“Varun would become the head of House Chabra, exactly as you just suggested.”

Dhruv shook his head in exasperation.

“This is all far too complicated. What book? Why should I believe any of it? You already said it isn’t always the truth!”

“It is almost always true,” said Lajita quietly. “And those truths have guided the success of House Chabra since Karadi and I first met, here in Shiroora Shan.”

“In Rashahan, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“You two really believe it.”

“We do, yes. There is no doubt in our minds that it is true.”

“Even though it’s wrong sometimes.”

“It’s hard to explain, but yes,” said Lajita. “Sometimes we can... bend fate.”

He thought for a moment.

“Thank you for trusting me with this,” he finally said. “I will ride for Adelma nevertheless.”

“You can’t just traipse in the gate and demand to stay!”

“Hmm, maybe he can,” interjected Karadi. “Atisha already has two maids from Shiroora Shan with her, and it wouldn’t be unreasonable to ask that Dhruv be put in charge of her personal guard detail.

“Prixadius already knows you, right. Does he trust you?”

“Yes, I think so... we’ve been hunting alone, just the two of us, a number of times.”

Karadi and Lajita shared a glance.

“It’s decided, then,” said Karadi. “But there are two conditions I must insist on.”

“Condition?”

“You must swear not to murder Prixadius, or hire anyone to kill him. No matter what.”

“So I must let him kill Atisha!?”

“Your job will be to protect her. If that means fleeing, so be it, but it shall not mean killing Prixadius.”

Dhruv nodded slowly.

“And the second?”

“Do not ever be in a room with Atisha alone, ever.”

“I would never...!”

“You know that, and we know that, but Prixadius may not. Never give him reason to doubt you. Or her.”

“I accept your conditions, and do swear to abide by them.”

“I shall send the dragolet first thing in the morning, and you should plan on setting sail the following day.”

* * *

“It’s a girl, Lord Prixadius!”

The midwife proudly held up the newborn baby, already wiped clean and dry and bawling furiously in outrage at being shown to her father so unceremoniously.

He reached out tenderly and accepted the child, holding her in his left arm and he stroked her cheek with his finger.

She began to quiet, and her waving arm collided with his finger, hitting it, trying to grasp it with tiny fingers that didn’t know how to work yet.

“She’s beautiful...!”

“Yes, my Lord, she is,” said the midwife. “Come in, please, Lady Atisha is waiting.”

He shifted the baby to hold it more securely in two arms, and entered Atisha’s bedchamber with a silly grin still on his face.

She looked exhausted, sweaty, and proud.

He lay the baby down at her side and sat on the bed next to her.

He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

“Thank you, my love, for such a beautiful daughter.”

“What shall we name her? Our first.”

“What about Lelai, after the wondrous hanging flowers of Celephaïs?”

“I’ve never seen a lelai,” said Atisha. “Will you take us?”

“Of course, my love. As soon as Lelai can walk, to Celephaïs, the Cirque of the Moon, and the lelai trees in bloom.”

Prixadius turned toward the doorway.

“Sergeant Dhruv! Come in, man, see your new niece!”

Dhruv, who had been waiting outside, stepped in to see Atisha murmuring sweet nothings into the baby’s ear.

“We’ve named her Lelai,” said Prixadius proudly.

“A beautiful name, my Lord, and a beautiful daughter,” he said. “And an heir for Ademla.”

“My first-born child should have been a son,” said Prixadius, slight lines appearing on his forehead. “No matter, though... she’ll have a brother soon enough.”

“Of course, my Lord,” said Dhruv dutifully.

He’d accepted the duties of his position—officially a sergeant in the Lord’s guard, unofficially commander of Lady Atisha’s bodyguard—with full realization that he’d have to be a loyal retainer to Lord Prixadius. To be honest it wasn’t very hard, as Prixadius was not a difficult man to get along with. Over the last year they’d gotten to know each other even better, although their relationship was colored by their relative positions.

He'd actually gotten to like the guy even more, and had wondered if his mother’s prophecies were really true or not.

But she had just given birth to a daughter, as Lajita had predicted, and he had just been upset that his first-born hadn’t been a son.

Suppose the rest of her prophecy was correct, too? She gave birth to a second daughter, and he killed her for it?

No, he couldn’t believe that Prixadius could ever do such a thing.

He obviously loved his wife, and his newborn daughter. Didn’t he?

“Dhruv, come see!” called Atisha, beckoning him closer.

He glanced at Prixadius, who nodded and waved him over.

“Say hello to your Uncle Dhruv, Lelai!” laughed Atisha. “Oh, Dhruv, isn’t she beautiful?”

“She is, Atisha. And I promise to spoil her dreadfully.”

He gave the baby a peck on the cheek and quickly pulled back, away from Atisha, before Prixadius might even start to feel uneasy.

“I’ll be getting back to my post, my Lord.”

“Good man, Dhruv,” said Prixadius, already returning his attention to Lelai. “Let me know how many more troopers you need for Lelai, and I’ll set it up.”

“Yes sir,” replied Dhruv. That meant he’d be taking over bodyguard responsibilities for Lelai, too. That was fine with him, and it would be pretty simple as long as Atisha and Lelai were together, but once the baby started spending more time with the wetnurse or nannies things were going to get complicated.

Atisha looked so happy, he thought again, then turned his mind toward his work.

Two weeks later, Karadi and Lajita showed up to pay their respects and see their first grandchild. It was a much simpler affair this time, with only a handful of guards accompanying them on a single frigate.

While Lajita and Atisha—along with Atisha’s younger sister Lajita, now sixteen—gushed over the baby, Karadi, Dhruv was finally able to relax and act just like “one of the family” with Prixadius when Karadi was with them, although he made sure that the guards around Atisha were on the ball.

After a few ales and a few glasses of stronger drinks, Prixadius headed off to the toilet, and Karadi leaned over closer to Dhruv.

“You seem to be getting along nicely. No problems?”

“No problems,” said Dhruv. “But he did mention that he really wanted a male heir...”

“Hmm,” murmured Karadi, noncommittally. “He seems to dote on Lelai, though.”

“Yes, he does. But then again...”

Footsteps in the corridor.

“I think it’s time to go see what the womenfolk are up to, don’t you?” said Prixadius as he entered the room. “And maybe see if the kitchen can fix us up a little snack.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” laughed Karadi. “Drinking with friends is hard work!”

As they were walking back toward Atisha’s drawing room, Karadi spoke up again.

“You know, I was thinking... Perhaps next time Atisha could come stay with us, in Shiroora Shan. You too, of course.”

“In Shiroora Shan? It never occurred to me,” said Prixadius. “It would be a comfort to Atisha, I’m sure. Let me see what she thinks, later.”

“Just an idea. Certainly nothing we need to decide any time soon,” said Karadi, passing it off as an idle thought.

* * *

The hunting party wove between the trees, spreading out through the pine forest. Most of the underbrush was low, cut off from nourishing sunlight by the thick branches of the cedars high above, but was still more than enough to impede progress.

They directed their horses toward the thinnest sections, using game trails when they could, working their way slowly deeper into the Ifdawn Marest just north of Shiroora Shan.

Karadi was in the lead with one the local woodsmen who was guiding them. He’d been through this forest many times over the years, but the woodsmen who lived here year-long knew the trails even better.

Close behind him trailed Prixadius and Dhruv, with various guards and servants spread out to the flanks and behind. They were in Shiroora Shan territory, usually quite safe, and nobody was worried about brigands or monsters.

They were more concerned with finding deer and boar for dinner. Back home Lajita would be preparing the rest of the feast with heavily pregnant Atisha and the others.

Karadi held up his hand and everyone came to a silent halt as he slowly pulled an arrow from the quiver hanging from the saddle, and lifted his bow. He was using the composite bow that Salonitah had left him: his favorite.

Dhruv looked in the same direction, up ahead and off to the right, and could barely make out three deer—one buck and two does—on the other side of some underbrush. He had his bow in hand, too, and, just in case they ran into something unpleasant, a battleaxe hanging from the saddle.

Karadi pointed them out to Prixadius, who set an arrow to his own bow.

Dhruv himself didn’t have a clean shot and decided there was no point in wasting an arrow, but readied one just in case.

Karadi slowly drew, his aim slowly settling onto one of the deer, and the string snapped.

All three deer leapt in panic, one falling immediately to its knees with Karadi’s arrow in its side, two more deer suddenly appeared from where they’d been hidden. The herd tried to flee from Karadi, two of them heading straight for Dhruv and Prixadius.

Two more bowstrings snapped, one doe down and kicking, a second trying to walk with an arrow sunk deep in a rear haunch.

One of the guards dismounted to finish off the one of the ground as Prixadius shot a second arrow into the hobbling one, knocking it down.

Dhruv looked over to see Karadi already dismounted and walking toward his own deer.

“One for each of us,” he called. “A good start to the day’s hunt!”

“One buck and two does,” added Prixadius. “A good hunt, but I note that the two of you only needed one arrow. You really have to teach me how to shoot like that, Dhruv.”

“I just got lucky this time, my Lord. Yours was a good shot and would have brought the deer down shortly, I’ve no doubt.”

Prixadius and Dhruv dismounted, and walked toward their kills, which were quite close to each other. The rest of the party rode closer, some dismounting to begin setting up a rough camp to dress the deer.

Dropping his reins, Prixadius drew his knife and walked closer. The deer was dead now its eyes already beginning to glaze over, tongue hanging out.

He reached down and grasped the deer’s legs to flip it over, and as he did Dhruv saw something black and gold flash through the air, striking Prixadius in the back of his left hand.

A forest viper!

Before anyone even had a chance to scream, realization flashed through Dhruv’s head: This was his chance! Being bitten by a forest viper was sure death unless his hand was chopped off, toxin and all, within a few seconds. A bad blow that didn’t cut all the way through, or any delay longer than a second or two, would almost surely mean Prixadius would die.

If he merely pretended not to notice for another two or three seconds, Prixadius would die, and Atisha would be saved. Atisha, his beloved twin sister. Prixadius, his beloved companion.

Nobody else was close enough, even if they had seen the viper... Prixadius was his to save or let die.

He made his decision.

* * *

“You’re a lucky man, Lord Prixadius,” said Physician Jivin, wiping his hands. “If Master Dhruv hadn’t used that axe as swiftly and as surely as he did, you almost certainly would have died.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood, in spite of the torniquet, and it’ll take some time to recover, but I think you’ll be alright now.”

The drawing room, usually pristine and elegant, was a mess, with basins of hot water on the table and floor, bloody cloths and sheets scattered about, and Physician Jivin’s kit spread out.

Prixadius lay on the divan, pale, eyes closed. He was still dressed in his hunting clothes, his tunic sleeve rolled up roughly to reveal his well-muscled arm, now stained with blood.

Where his hand should have been was only a mass of bandages.

“Thank you, Physician,” he breathed. “Please... Where is Dhruv?”

Dhruv stepped forward from where he’d been waiting.

“I’m here, my Lord.”

Prixadius lifted his remaining hand hesitantly, and Dhruv clasped it.

“Thank you, Dhruv. You saved my life.”

“That’s my job, my Lord.”

“You are no longer Sergeant Dhruv of the Lady’s Guard. From this moment on you are Captain Dhruv, commander of my personal guard. And of hers.”

“Thank you, my Lor—”

“You are a friend, Dhruv, not a servant. No more ‘Lords,’ please.”

“Of course, my Lo... Master Prixadius.”

“Just Prixadius, please. Nobody’s watching.”

“Prixadius.”

“Thank you,” replied the wounded man. “Atisha?”

Dhruv coughed.

“Um... Atisha collapsed when she heard you’d been bitten, and I chopped your hand off... she’s, uh—”

The man’s eyes snapped open, and his hand gripped Dhruv’s arm.

“What happened? Is she alright?”

He began to struggle to sit up.

Dhruv pressed him back down gently.

“She’s fine, Lo... Prixadius. The midwife’s with her now.”

“The midwife!? Our baby is being born?”

“Just a few minutes more, Prixadius. Rest for now; she’ll be here soon to show you the babe.”

“My son,” mumbled Prixadius, relaxing and closing his eyes again.

I hope so, thought Dhruv to himself. I hope so.

He sat with Prixadius as the servants cleaned up the mess, wondering if he’d made the right decision. Prixadius was a friend, and he couldn’t just let him die, he thought.

But, Atisha...

A wail sounded from another room.

A baby!

And a healthy one at that, he thought as the infant’s screams echoed through the house before trailing off.

A few minutes later footsteps, and Atisha herself walked in, as flushed as Prixadius was pale, grinning like an idiot and with a newborn baby in her arms.

“Prixadius,” she called gently. “There’s a young man here to meet you.”

Dhruv felt the tension drain away as Prixadius reached out to greet his son.

END

Sixteen-year-old Kostubh jerked the rod again, making the float bounce and (he hoped) wiggling the worm enticingly. Gitanshu, three years his elder, stoically watched his own float as if willing it to move.

Nothing moved but the waves, the buzzing insects, and the distant bustle of the harbor.

The two boys had snuck out in the early morning, denied a place in the hunting party Karadi had arranged for visiting Lord Prixadius. Dhruv got to go, of course, but he was always with Prixadius. Or Atisha. And since Atisha was waddling around like a fat-assed duck, ready to give birth any day now, everyone was far too busy to worry about the two of them.

A nice day fishing off the rocks opposite Shiroora Shan harbor was much better than all that noise and energy, and constantly being told to do this or fetch that. Dhruv had planned on just going alone, but since Gitanshu’s boss was in Shiroora Shan, quite by accident, he’d arranged to get the day off as well, to “attend the family event.”

They weren’t really interested in catching anything, which was probably why they’d been so surprisingly successful—they’d caught over half a dozen good-sized fish already. They hadn’t brought a creel or net, though, and had just been letting them go again.

Kostubh noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye and glanced up at the top of the Seawall. Two guards were standing there, looking down at them from a dozen meters up.

He waved back, knowing the guards wouldn’t bother them... they came here often, and besides, they were House Chabra.

“You getting hungry?”

“Mmm. You?”

“Yup,” said Gitanshu, lifting the line and hook out of the water. “Let’s head back and get some food.”

“You got any money?”

“Yeah, a little. C’mon, I’ll treat you.”

“I was hoping you’d say that!” laughed Kostubh, standing to reel in his own line. “Curry?”

“Curry.”

They clambered back up the jumbled boulders along the shore to the base of the wall. About three meters high, the wall extended from the base of the Great Seawall for about a kilometer along the shore. In theory nobody was supposed to be down here, and certainly nobody was supposed to leave ropes hanging over the edge of the wall to help them climb back up, but... they were House Chabra.

From there it was a short hike up the flank of The Spine to reach the top of road, which ran from the Narrows at Cappadarnia, across the Great Seawall, and into Shiroora Shan.

“You boys pick up your rope?”

It was one of the guards.

“Yessir, we always do,” replied Gitanshu. “We wanted to inspect the defenses at the water’s edge.”

“No fish this time?”

“We just came to get away from all the excitement.”

“Ah. Lord Prixadius,” snorted the guard. “Yeah, visiting nobility always screws things up, especially when they’re married to a Chabr... Uh, my apologies, Master Gitanshu. When they’re married to someone from House Chabra, I mean.”

Gitanshu waved it away.

“Yeah, whatever. Don’t worry about it. When you’re the third son it’s not that big a deal.”

“Thank you, Master Gitanshu. Master Kostubh.”

He bobbed his head and hurried away, eager to escape before they could change their minds. House Chabra was a pretty good bunch of people, he thought but you never could be sure with nobility.

They took the short way down into Shiroora Shan instead of staying on the wagon road. The Great Seawall was built higher than the docks of the city, and continued into the high hills on the eastern side, the road gradually sloping down to street level. People who didn’t feel like taking the longer, easier way around could just use the stairs.

The Seawall had never been attacked, but the Seagate—the network of chains and logs that could be raised to block ships from passing under the Seawall, or lowered to allow passage—had been used a number of times.

Lajita said it would be needed one day, but she said a lot of things.

Gitanshu led the way to one of the little curry stalls along the wharf and waved a greeting.

“Yo, Hesta! How ya doin’?”

“Master Gitanshu! Hey, good, good,” replied the red-headed cook, probably about the same age as Gitanshu. “And Master Kostubh, haven’t seen you around for a while.”

“Hey, Hesta. Yeah, study study study, and now Prixadius with all his hangers-on. Everybody wants me to do stuff all the time.”

“Well, hungry customers are always welcome here! What’ll it be? The usual?”

“Yeah, two big ones, and hot.”

“Comin’ up!”

Hesta used a huge iron ladle to spoon dollops of thick, light-brown bean curry into two of the waiting bowls, and hand each of them one, then dropped four pieces of hot flatbread on the counter for them to take.

“The tea’s on the table; help yourself,” he added and grinned, revealing misaligned and badly stained teeth.

“Thanks, Hesta,” said Gitanshu, and tossed him a coin. The cook deftly caught it and, nodding his head in thanks, dropped it into his apron.

There were a number of small, rickety table facing the sea, with a scattering of stools and benches around. The boys picked one and got busy tearing bread and scooping up the rich curry.

“Hasta! More flatbread!”

“Yessir, Master Kostubh! Right away!”

True to his word, Hesta arrived very quickly with another four pieces.

“You have to go back tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sorry,” said Gitanshu. “Master Bulbuk’s not a bad guy, but he gets pretty angry when people don’t do what they’re supposed to.”

“You just asked for today off?”

“Hey, my sister’s about ready to pop!” laughed Gitanshu. “We’re already here; that’s the least he could do, right?”

“I guess,” said Kostubh, pouring more tea and waving the pot so Hesta could see they needed more. “I’m stuck here learning shit and you’re on a damn caravan to Despina!”

“And from there to Rinar by ship!” boasted Gitanshu. “Master Bulbuk says we’re going to Celephaïs next spring. Celephaïs!”

Kostubh scowled.

“Yeah, lucky you.”

“Papa sent me off to learn from Bulbuk two years ago, when I was seventeen... you’re almost that now. Ask him; maybe he’ll let you come, too.”

“Damn! You think so!?”

Gitashu shrugged.

“Can’t hurt to ask.”

“Wow, Despina and Rinar! I’ll ask him tonight.

“About two months, right?”

“Yeah, unless something unusual happens. Master Bulbuk says he doesn’t expect anything this trip. He says the weather’s been good, and piracy is down along the Cuppar-Nombo coast.

“If Master Bulbuk says it’s OK with him, I bet papa would go along.”

Kostubh used to last of the flatbread to wipe his bowl clean of curry and crammed it into his mouth. He sloshed another cup of tea and drank it down, then stood and stretched.

“You done yet?”

“What, you’re gonna run and ask him now? Can’t wait?”

“C’mon, Gitanshu! Let’s go!”

Gitanshu laughed and drank down the rest of his tea.

“Thanks, Hesta! Good as always!”

“Come back soon, Master Gitanshu, Master Kostubh!”

They ignored him and began walking toward the stairs up to the Chabra main house.

“You really think papa’ll let me?”

“You’re sixteen,” said Gitanshu. “He’s gonna let you go one of these days; might as well be today.”

They found Karadi looking out over the bustling port and the Night Ocean.

“Well, well... if it isn’t the two absent uncles!” he chuckled. “I hope you’ve already dropped by to see your new nephew and congratulate Prixadius and your sister?”

“Of course, papa, we were just on our way there now, but happened to see you standing here,” countered Gitanshu quickly. “Kostubh has something he wants to ask you.”

He pushed his younger brother forward and deliberately looked up at the clouds.

There was a moment of silence, broken by Karadi: “Yes?”

Kostubh inhaled, straightened his shoulders, and looked his father in the eye.

“If Master Bulbuk agrees, I would like to accompany Gitanshu on this trip. They’re going via Eudoxia, Thace, and Despina to Rinar. I promise to follow his orders, and I’ll work with the crew. I know I’m only—”

Karadi held up his hand, cutting off the torrent of words.

“Kostubh, once you’ve started on this venture you can’t suddenly change your mind, you know. You would have to stay with his caravan until he returns here, which will be at least six months from now, or until he releases you.

“And I can say with confidence that he will not release you without my permission.

“Are you prepared to follow Master Bulbuk’s orders for half a year, without complaint or any special treatment? You’d be an untrained recruit, at the bottom of the crew.”

“Yessir, I am,” he shot back without a moment’s hesitation.

Karadi grinned and stepped forward to hug the lad.

“I’d be happy to let you go if that’s what you want. And I’ll even ask Than Bulbuk to take you, but that’s all I can do.”

He turned to Gitanshu.

“Kostubh will make mistakes, just like you did. It’ll be your job as one of Than’s team to make sure he learns from them. But as Kostubh’s brother, try to make sure he doesn’t kill himself.”

“Yeah, I’d already realized what I’m getting myself into,” grumbled Gitanshu, face sour. “I’ll try, but Kostubh does some pretty damn stupid things at times.”

“It runs in the family,” snickered Kostubh. “We all take after papa.”

“If you only knew,” laughed Karadi, and gathered the two boys closer, an arm around each. “I think it’s time to introduce you to your nephew, and maybe we can tell your mother about all this a little later, what do you say?”

* * *

Than Bulbuk of Eudoxia had arranged for transport on one of the many ships plying the western reaches of the Night Ocean. Now that piracy was almost unheard of, especially in the northern waters closer to Shiroora Shan, more and more trade between Eudoxia, Adelma, and Shiroora Shan was moving by sea, and traffic along the older caravan routes along the coast had plunged dramatically.

He knew many of the ship captains, of course, as his route had passed through the Night Ocean for decades, and he had no difficulty finding one he knew and trusted for this part of the journey.

The ship’s crew took care of the ship, but Kostubh and the rest of Than Bulbuk’s people had to do most of the heavy labor involved in getting the cargo into the hold and secured properly. The crew was happy to offer advice and assist, but always seemed to have more pressing jobs when it came to hoisting or carrying crates.

Kostubh, of course, was expected to be helping.

“Kostubh! Quit gawpin’ and help get the goods movin’, boy!”

“Yessir!” he shouted to the caravan’s loadmaster, a middle-aged Shang man named Chang Wu. Kostubh didn’t know much about him yet... in fact, he didn’t know much about anyone in the caravan yet.

He ran down the deck to the cargo hatch, already open, and glanced around to see what he should be doing. The ship’s crew was operating an overhead pulley, moving various crates, bundles of textiles, and huge jars of wine from the wharf to the hold, while Than Bulbuk’s people were responsible for securing them there in good order.

Kostubh figured he could be of most use standing between the pulley operator and the open hold, relaying information and making sure everything went smoothly.

“Another thirty or forty centimeters up,” he ordered the pulley operator, gesturing with his hand. “The ropes are getting all tangled on the floor.”

“Get out of the way!” shouted the woman on the pulley. “Can’t see anything with you blocking me!”

“Hey, don’t tell me what to—”

“Kostubh! Get your ass down in that hold and get the damn cargo loaded!” came the shout from Chang Wu. “And shut your damn mouth!”

He spun around, on the verge of shouting back with all the anger of an insulted Chabra boy, but noticed Gitanshu standing on the wharf, helping unload the cargo as it was transferred over. His older brother didn’t say a word, but he caught Kostubh’s eye and shook his head “No.”

Kostubh clenched his jaw and glared at Chang Wu for a moment, then jumped down into the hold.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the new kid,” said Ran, an enormous, blond-haired youth who was the unspoken boss of the hired laborers. “Help get those crates over here.”

Kostubh froze for an instant, still angry at the tongue-lashing from Chang Wu a moment earlier, but even that momentary pause was too long for Ran.

His ham-sized fist shot out, slamming into Kostubh’s chest near his shoulder and knocking him backwards. He barely managed to catch himself on a bale of Zeenar cotton.

“You struck—”

Ran grabbed him by his tunic, yanking back onto his feet again.

“You get over there and start helping or I’ll break your head in,” he said, and pushed him toward the pile of crates.

Kostubh took a quick look around. Everybody was still moving cargo, but their eyes were all watching him. And none of them looked like they wanted to get involved.

He was pretty good at fighting—Karadi had made sure that all his children knew how to fight—but Ran was very big, and Gitanshu had just told him to shut up.

Kostubh shut up and turned to help.

Another man was slowly shifting a heavy-looking crate toward the stern, and Kostubh took the other side, working with him to nudge it forward.

As his eyes adjusted to the relative dimness of the hold he recognized the characters inked down the side.

“Hey, this is crystal from Shiroora Shan!”

“Yeah, it is,” said the other under his breath.

“And if you break it Ran’ll take it outta your hide,” he continued after an unusually long pause. “If there’s any left after Chang gets through with you.

“You’re new, right? From Shiroora Shan?”

“Yeah. Uh, Kostubh of Shiroora Shan.”

“Robert of Zeenar.”

“You’re a pretty quiet guy, Robert.”

“I... I don’t make friends easily.”

“Hey, I’ll be your friend. First person that’s talked to me since I climbed onboard!

“I’ve been to Zeenar a couple times,” said Kostubh. “Usually just to Karida with my father, sometimes to Zeenar, once as far as Ebnon.”

“All the way to Ebnon!? Never been down that way... I hear it’s all swamp and leeches.”

“Nah, the Boorsh Fens are a pretty long ways from there,” chuckled Kostubh. “Never been there myself, but there’s no swamp around Ebnon, except maybe in the spring when the Tlun floods.”

“Yeah, we get runoff from the mountains in the spring, but rarely any flooding... the larger rivers are some ways away.

“Love the way the streets turn into canals in Karida, though! You been there in the spring?”

“Only once,” said Kostubh, shaking his head. “Pretty neat, huh?”

Robert laughed.

An hour later they were all done, and joined the rest of the caravan on the deck.

The ship set sail shortly thereafter. Kostubh and the others had little to do until they reached port in two days except eat, sleep, and gamble. People who had joined the caravan in Shiroora Shan hadn’t been paid yet, but since they would be paid when they reached Eudoxia they were able to gamble with promises, usually written ones.

Gitanshu was busy with Than Bulbuk most of the time, leaving Kostubh to fend for himself, and he quickly became a fixture in the various gambling schemes under way. He didn’t actually cheat, at least not that anyone ever saw, but somehow he kept winning more than seemed reasonable.

Ran, the big blond man who had been running the gambling operation since the caravan left Karida, quickly recognized Kostubh as a threat to his own success, and often dice or cards ended up with the two of them in a face-off. It never came to blows—not quite—but it was pretty clear that it would someday. And Ran was taller and heavier than Kostubh, by a significant margin.

Kostubh was pretty good at gambling, and knew an opportunity when he saw one. He gradually built up a coterie, loaning them money, paying off their gambling debts, or just defending them from Ran. Robert in particular was deep in debt to Ran, and Kostubh went out of his way to help him recoup his losses and then some.

The morning of the second day they docked at Eudoxia.

The port was enormous, and far, far older than Shiroora Shan’s recent growth. Eudoxia had been a major trading city on the Night Ocean for centuries while Shiroora Shan was still a tiny fishing village, and it showed.

The wharves were much larger than those of Kostubh’s home city, and the walls and minarets of Eudoxia dwarfed Shiroora Shan’s. More than the bustling wharf and the towering defenses, though, Kostubh was astonished at the sheer number of people... he’d thought the streets of Shiroora Shan were crowded, but this...! He’d never imagined so many people in one place!

They all spent the afternoon unloading all the crates and barrels and other cargo from the hold, and getting it moved to the wharf safely.

Than Bulbuk had arranged teams from his own warehouse to handle transport. A line of deino-drawn wagons stood along the wharf next to the ship waiting patiently for cargo to be loaded up. They were all marked with Than Bulbuk’s yellow ox-head symbol.

They’d unloaded the ship’s cargo onto wood platforms standing along the wharf, built to about the same height as the wagon beds, and thanks to rollers on the platform and in the wagons, it was fairly quick and simple to move everything.

The last wagon rolled out in less than half an hour.

Kostubh walked, of course, with the rest of the workers.

Gitanshu and a few other managing the caravan had gone on ahead, so Kostubh just followed everyone else, listening and learning.

He already knew a few names and faces, but there were about a dozen workers, men and women, most a little older than he. Most of them had been hired for one portion of the trip, usually to the next city on the route but sometimes longer distances. They’d all be paid off here in Eudoxia. Workers who had done well would be offered the same job on the next portion, probably through Thace to Despina. Workers who did exceptionally well might even be offered an apprenticeship: the first step to a career, and what most of the workers were hoping for.

Kostubh had little interest in becoming an apprentice trader... he was a Chabra, after all, and House Chabra already controlled much of the lucrative trade around the Night Ocean.

Suddenly someone grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

Ran.

“Hey, new boy! I see you slacking off again and I’ll beat you even sillier.”

Kostubh yanked his arm free and took a step backwards, opening up a little space between them.

He flexed his fingers, tensed his shoulders, and then lifted his fists to the fighting position.

“I’m not good at taking orders,” he spat, and glared at the larger man.

“Don’t fuck with me, boy!” snarled Ran, striking forward with a massive fist that smashed through Kostubh’s defenses and into his abdomen.

He staggered backwards in agony, but before he even had time to fall a second blow shot home into the side of his head and he collapsed onto the nearby wall.

Ran picked him up by his tunic and dragged his face up close.

“You hear me, boy?”

Groggy, Kostubh just tried to stop his head from spinning.

“I said, You hear me, boy?” repeated Ran, shaking Kostubh like a terrier with a rat.

“Yeah... Got it,” he whispered.

The hand let go and he dropped to all fours on the cobblestones.

As he caught his breath he watched the rest of them walk on.

Robert stayed behind, and helped him to his feet.

“You OK?”

“Yeah, I guess... thanks.”

“Don’t get in his way. He’s pulped a few of us already.”

Kostubh started to chuckle, then winced.

“I won’t... not again.”

They walked after the others, Kostubh still a little wobbly on his feet.

“So how come you’re working for Bulbuk?”

Kostubh shrugged.

“The usual... got tired of living at home. Time to go see the world!”

“Yeah, me too. Got tired of getting beat on by my old man.”

“So now you get beat up by Ran? That’s an improvement?”

“I don’t think Ran’ll be with us after Eudoxia. He’s got the muscles of an ox, but also the brains.”

Kostubh snorted.

“You going on after Eudoxia, Robert?”

“I hope so! I’ve been here for two years now, shouldn’t be any problem... might even get apprenticeship!”

“That fast? Thought it took longer.”

“Usually does, yeah. Hey, I can dream, right?

“What’re you signed up for?”

Kostubh hesitated. If he revealed he wasn’t a hired worker he’d probably be ostracized, and that’d make life pretty miserable. But it’d be strange to say he’d already been hired through Rinar. He was a new worker, after all, and it’d be unheard of to hire an unknown worker that far.

“Despina,” he said, picking the end of the coming land route as a good end-point. “The voyage from Shiroora Shan to here doesn’t count, after all.”

“You’ll like Despina,” said Robert. “Bulbuk went there last year, too.”

“Never been there.”

“Most of the buildings are white-washed brick, real thick walls to keep the heat out. Beautiful when the morning sun hits it, all pink and orange.”

“So what’s there besides white-washed houses?”

Robert shrugged.

“Nothing except trade routes, as far as I know. Rinar’s a hell of lot bigger when it comes to trade, but almost everything moving between the Night Ocean and the rest of the Dreamlands goes through there. The Cuppar-Nombo route doesn’t have enough oases along the way, and nobody cuts through the jungles between Dothur and Eudoxia.”

“You been to Dothur?”

“Nah. You?”

“Nope. Never been west of Eudoxia.”

“I’m not much on jungles,” mused Robert. “The steppes are best, green everywhere. Deserts are OK, I guess, but not by choice. And jungles? Uh-uh, no way.”

“No jungles up around Shiroora-Shan, just mountains and the Night Ocean, with the city squeezed in between."

"Well, we'll see some of the jungle on the way to Thace,” said Robert. “Hopefully from a distance, though.”

Kostubh glanced ahead to see the rest of the work crew standing in front of a white-walled compound. The yellow ox-head standard was flying over the gate.

Than Bulbuk’s home base.

Just as they joined the rest of the group, Loadmaster Chang Wu came walking out of the gate.

“Follow me to the wagons. Items with a red circle on them are unloaded here, and need to be moved into the warehouse. The warehouse team will show you where they go.

“Everything else has to be transferred to desert wagons.

“And it all has to be done carefully, you clods!”

“Yessir,” came the chorus of grumbles, and they moved as a group toward the wagons and the waiting warehouse.

A few hours later they were done—nobody had dropped anything—and Chang Wu stepped on onto a wagon to speak.

“OK, you can use that barracks over there,” he pointed, “and you can get a meal there. I’ll be by later to settle up payments, and arrange for the next leg of the journey.

“It’ll take a day or two before we’re ready to go, but as you know we’ll be traveling on to Despina mostly on camelback, with at least two, possibly three horse-drawn wagons. We’ll be using the Trade Road, of course, so unless we run into a sandstorm or something it should be a pretty quiet trip.”

The Trade Road—a whole network of roads, actually—ran from Eudoxia to Thace, then on to Despina and Dothur. The ancient stone-paved roadways had been built in the unknown past, and marked with time-weathered statues every few kilometers. The sands had worn away the statues until it was impossible to tell exactly what they had been, but people said they were lizardfolk, and the stumps of tails still remaining suggested the rumors were right.

Desert storms shifting dunes often buried the roads themselves, but usually the statues were tall enough to serve as landmarks. Unfortunately, sometimes the shifting sands also revealed new, unknown statues marking roads that led to where no-one knew. Other rumors told of caravans that had mistakenly taken the wrong roads, trusting the silent statues to show the way, and vanished forever.

Kostubh was familiar with them, of course, as they also ran from Adelma north to Nurl, and forbidden Irem.

The Ibizim were masters of the desert road network, and often served as guides for travelers on the Trade Road.

They made their way to the barracks. Some of them just grabbed mats and settled down for a nap, but most dropped their gear and headed toward the mess hall.

They’d have to start paying for meals as soon as their term was over, and that would be just as soon as Chang Wu got around to paying them for this last leg. For most of them, it was the journey from Karida to Eudoxia.

“Damn, finally some crowns!” said Robert. “As soon as I get paid I’m outta here.”

“I know some places with pretty good ale,” suggested Kostubh. “Been through here a few times.”

“Nah, any old ale’s fine with me. Time to go find a woman.”

Kostubh hesitated.

He’d been drinking, little by little, for a few years now, but he was still a virgin. Karadi hadn’t actually forbidden him, but his parents seemed to know everything that happened in Shiroora Shan, and when they were on the road somewhere the guards always kept pretty close.

He was interested, sure, but... a little scared, too.

“Mind if I keep you company? Wouldn’t mind a little companionship myself,” he said, trying to sound smooth.

“Hey, sure! Might blow your coin, though.”

“That’s OK. It’s too heavy to lug around all the time anyway,” he chuckled.

They loaded up on deino stew and rough black bread at the cafeteria, washed down with lukewarm tea, then lounged about until Chang got around to them.

“How much you getting paid?” asked Robert. “Just the trip from Shiroora Shan.”

Kostubh didn’t have a clue... he had his own money from gambling, and it had never occurred to him that he might be getting paid like everyone else. Or was he?

He decided to play it safe.

“Nothing, yet. I don’t get paid until we reach Despina.”

“You sure you’ve got enough for the girls?”

“I saved up special,” he smiled. “No worries.”

“Hey, Robert! Get your ass over here!”

It was Ran, shouting from the other end of the hall.

“Master Chang wants to see you!”

Robert flashed a grin at Kostubh and stood. It was a short walk to where Chang Wu was sitting, and while Kostbh couldn’t hear what they were saying, he could see Chang handing Robert a bag of money.

Robert bowed and came walking back, tucking the bag into his wallet with a smile on his face.

“Got a bonus, too... Gonna have some fun tonight!”

Ran shouted for the next person, and eventually Kostubh heard his own name.

Chang Wu cocked his head and looked up at Kostubh standing in front of him.

“Master Bulbuk says I shouldn’t pay you. You OK with that?”

“Yeah, whatever... It’d look bad to pay me so soon anyway.”

“You’re right about that,” nodded the seated man. “Anyway, you’re with us to Despina. You work like everyone else, you’ll get paid like everyone else.”

“Yup.”

“You know why Master Bulbuk agreed to let you join us?”

“My father told me he once saved Master Bulbuk’s life.”

“That’s right. A long time ago, in Karida. This is partial payment on that debt.

“That doesn’t mean you can lounge about, though... He said to treat you just like one of the regulars, and that’s what I’m going to do. Screw up and I’ll leave you by the side of the road, debt or no debt.”

“Sure, no problem, Chang. I’ll be hap—"

“That’s Master Chang to you, Kostubh. And you won’t be anything, kid, except a good worker, or you’re out on your ass, that clear?”

Kostubh gritted his teeth and managed to stay silent.

He nodded, turned, and walked back to where Robert was waiting.

“Looks like you and Chang have a little problem there.”

“Ah, fuck Chang. Let’s get outta here,” he said, and spat on the ground. “Hang on for a sec, I gotta go bum some cash. Be right back!”

He left Robert waiting and walked into the office to find his brother, who was checking a cargo list with one of Than Bulbuk’s cargo handlers.

“Hey, Gitanshu. You gotta sec?”

Gitanshu slammed his hand on the tabletop and spun around, stepping toward Kostubh.

“That’s Master Gitanshu to you. And what are you doing wandering around in here anyway?”

“I... Wow, what’s the big deal?”

“Leave. Now,” said his brother, pointing at the door in fury. He turned to the other man. “I’ll be right back. Let me get rid of this insolent child.”

Kostubh started to protest, but Gitanshu grabbed him by the arm and manhandled him to the doorway. “Silence! Not one more word.”

He pushed Kostubh out of the door, and stepped out next to him.

“What the hell is wrong with you!? I told you you’d be treated like everyone else. People find out I’m your brother and we’ll both be in trouble. Now get out of here.”

“Gimme some cash and I won’t bug you again,” said Kostubh. “I don’t get paid until Despina.”

“You’d better grow up fast, Kostubh. House Chabra doesn’t mean shit out here,” warned Gitanshu, but handed him a handful of coins. “Next time, it’s Master Gitanshu, and don’t forget it!”

He gave Kostubh another shove toward the compound gate and turned back to his work.

Robert was still waiting.

It was already starting to get dark. They were both a little tired from moving all the cargo around—once off the boat, and then again off the wagons—and just having eaten, but the thrill of getting out for a night of fun was more important than a nap.

“Where to?”

“The sailors were gossiping about a place called Lili’s,” said Robert. “There’s some Zarite girl there that drives you wild. C’mon, let’s go!”

Awestruck by Robert’s familiarity with women, Kostubh nodded and followed.

Seen from the street, Lili’s was the usual white-washed, mud brick building, with a dimly lit tavern on the first floor and smaller rooms upstairs. It was about half full, and Kostubh noticed half a dozen women along the stairs wearing revealing clothing. In one case, very close to nothing at all.

A very large red-haired man stood at the bottom of the stairway, twin daggers at his belt.

“One crown,” he said, holding his hand out to Kostubh, who slapped the coin down without hesitation and pushed Robert up the stairway.

He stopped and looked back at Kostubh to see if he was coming up, too, but Kostubh just laughed.

A woman with long blond hair, maybe from Lomar, stood to greet Robert, and took his hand in hers. She didn’t have to guide him: he dropped his hand to her ass and practically pushed her up the stairs.

He glanced back one last time.

“You coming, Kostubh?”

“In a bit,” he called. “Ale first.”

Kostubh watched his friend vanish into the second floor, and stood for a moment, hand on his wallet, lost in thought. He started to pull a second crown out, then changed his mind and turned toward the counter.

He took a step forward, stopped for a moment and glanced upstairs, then stepped up to the counter.

“Got any Zeenar pale ale?”

The man behind the counter laughed.

“Well, well, well, the little prince, huh? We got ale, and we got wine, and we got some Shang jitsu about, but we ain’t got any Zeenar pale ale.”

“Uh, ale, then.”

A mug-full of warm ale slapped down on the counter.

“That’ll be a copper.”

Kostubh slid a laurel across the countertop, to be snapped up by the other.

He took a sip and frowned.

It wasn’t very good ale

Robert had already vanished upstairs, and he didn’t recognize anyone in the tavern.

“Buy me a drink, too, would ya?”

He turned at the woman’s voice to see a dark-eyed woman with reddish-brown hair, only a few years older than himself. She was dressed in a simple but very low-cut tunic, with a triple strand of blue beads around her neck.

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

He turned back to order another ale, but the barkeep was already there, slapping a second mug of something in front of her.

The barkeep held out his hand and Kostubh dropped another copper into it.

She took a sip and placed it back on the countertop.

“Where you from? Somewhere east, I bet.”

“Shiroora Shan,” he answered. “Came over on a caravan.”

“Oh, so you just got in!” she said, smiling and placing one hand lightly on his thigh. “First night, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“You all alone?”

“For now. My buddy’s upstairs.”

“Oh, you poor man,” she sympathized. “This is your first visit, isn’t it?”

He nodded, blushing.

“A handsome man like you! I’ll take good care of you, don’t worry—a night you’ll never forget. Why don’t we go upstairs and get more comfortable?”

She wrapped herself around him, practically dragged him toward the staircase, her breasts rubbing against his chest.

“It’ll cost you a crown,” she said, “but I’m worth it, you’ll see.”

He eagerly pulled a handful of coins from his wallet, picked one crown out and pressed it into her hand.

“There’s more ale upstairs,” she whispered, eyeing the heft of his wallet. “On the house.”

Her hand slipped a little on his thigh, touching him briefly.

“Oh, my, you just can’t wait, can you?”

The room was smaller than the bath he’d used at House Chabra, barely big enough for a sleeping mat and a low shelf with a bottle, some cups, and a wad of thagweed.

She broke off some of the thagweed, crumbling it in her fingers into the cup, then poured the liquid over it. Whatever it was, it was mostly alcohol, he thought. He could smell it from where he was sitting.

“Just drink it down like a good boy,” she smiled, “and let me get ready.”

He’d tried thagweed a couple times and absolutely hated the taste, but he loved the way his senses expanded... and the sight of her naked body excited him so much he didn’t even notice the taste.

Her hand moved up under his tunic and he froze as it grasped his cock and began to stroke it, then hesitantly reached out to touch her breast.

Already he could feel the thagweed taking effect, accelerated by the alcohol, his senses expanding. He could smell her body, her heat, hear her pulse even over the pounding of his own heart, feel the smoothness of her skin and the tiny bumps around her nipples.

He groaned at the sensory overload and leaned forward to take a nipple into his mouth. He tongued it, back and forth, feeling it slowly grow harder, and felt the soft, comforting darkness closing in. He was so sleepy...

* * *

“Get up, you drunken lout!”

The shout was accompanied by a painful whack to his ass with a broom.

He tried to open his eyes, blinded by the sunlight.

A second whack woke him up completely, and he got a better look at where he was—lying in a filthy alley surrounded by garbage, face flush against the slimy cobblestones.

A pair of large sandals was in front of his nose, connected to a pair of stocky, quite muscular legs.

“Up, boy!”

He scrambled to his feet before a third whack could find its target.

He had a splitting headache, and his mouth tasted like camel shit.

He swayed for a second, caught himself, looked at the woman holding the broom.

In her fifties, he guessed. Dumpy, tired, dressed in well-worn clothes, broom and bucket in hand.

“Where—?”

“So drunk you can’t remember where you are, young man? Not my problem,” she scolded, sweeping garbage to the side and dragging the broom over his bare feet in the process. “Off with you now, or I’ll throw you out with the rest of the trash.”

He tried to remember what had happened. Lili’s place, right. With Robert. He looked around, and spotted a leg sticking out from behind a nearby pile of stones.

He took a step and noticed he only had one sandal.... no sign of the other one.

He gave up and stumbled over to see who was lying there.

It was Robert, snoring like a baby.

He slapped him lightly a few times until finally one eye opened and he sat up, groaning.

“What the fu... where are we?”

“I think we’re in the back alley behind Lili’s,” said Kostubh.

Robert hurriedly checked his waist, then twisted to his knees to look around.

“Shit. My wallet’s gone. That’s all I had, until we get to Despina.”

Kostubh grabbed for his own wallet—it was gone.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” screamed Kostubh, kicking the innocent pile of stones. “I’ll fucking kill those bitches!”

“No swords, either,” pointed out Robert. “Let’s get back to Bulbuk’s place; I want to wash up.”

Kostubh picked up a handy length of wood and tested it against his hand.

“Don’t need a sword,” he snarled. “Which one of these is Lili’s?”

“Leave it, Kostubh,” warned Robert, one hand on the piece of wood and the other on Kostubh’s shoulder. “You don’t have a chance.”

Kostubh shook him off and stomped down the alley into one of the larger streets. He looked around to catch his bearings, then stalked toward the entrance to Lili’s, with Robert close behind.

The door was shut, of course, this early in the morning, but he hammered on it with his fist anyway.

“Open up, you bastards! I want my fucking money back!”

The door suddenly open, outwards, knocking him off balance for a minute, and as he staggered backwards a large man—the same redhead who’d been guarding the staircase last night—stepped out, his sword pointed at Kostubh’s throat.

“I dunno who you are, don’ care. Go away or I’ll spit you like a pig.”

“You rolled me—us—and stole our money, you thief!”

“I didn’ steal nothin’. Now git the fuck away from here, boy!”

He prodded Kostubh with his sword for emphasis.

Unarmed, Kotsubh let Robert pull him away.

“I told you to forget it, Kostubh! Leave it be!”

“Sons of bitches! I’ll be back to settle up with you later!”

He kicked out at a passing dog in anger, but missed and got a flash of bared teeth for his trouble.

In spite of looking and smelling like they crawled from some sewer, the guard at Than Bulbuk’s compound grudgingly let them back in.

* * *

Everyone else laughed at the whole thing; some of them had their own experiences to share. Robert and Kostubh—especially Kostubh—hated being needled about it.

Robert didn’t seem very upset at losing his money and his sword, but Kostubh seethed.

It was pretty much forgotten the next day, of course, as they were all busy getting the cargo packed and ready for the next leg of the trip. Most of the crystal from Shiroora Shan and the Gondaran paper and silk was destined for Rinar, where it would be split into shipments to the other three major sea-trade hubs of Dylath-Leen, Celephaïs, and Pungar-Vees, with some distributed to the cities that Rinar served directly. Than Bulbuk wouldn’t be involved in any of those transactions, selling the entirety of his wares to other traders—and a few merchants—in Rinar.

Chóng Lán of Penglai had been pressing him for years for an exclusive arrangement while simultaneously trying to set up his own parallel network, but so far Than Bulbuk had managed to preserve both his independence and his profits.

Once he’d sold his goods in Rinar he’d purchase goods heading in the other direction, eastward back toward Eudoxia, Shiroora Shan, and the cities of the steppes beyond the Night Ocean. He hoped to pick up some of the fragrant resins and perfumes of Oriab, fine porcelain from Baharna, hopefully some of the iridescent fabrics of Hatheg, and maybe even some spider-silk from Moung. He’d carry more common goods as well: Ulthar wool, copper ingot and worked brass from Aphorat, Kadatheron cork, apples from Sinara and Jaren.

Finally Chang Wu, the loadmaster, said everything was ready, and they’d be leaving at first light.

“I’ll need you awake and alert tomorrow, so if there’s anything you need to do in Eudoxia get it done and get rested up. Anyone sleeping on the road will be walking back.”

There was a rumble of conversation from the crowd, and they broke up into smaller groups, some people breaking off alone.

“Let’s go get our money back,” said Kostubh, grabbing Robert by the shoulder. “Bastards!”

“That guy at the door looks a lot stronger than me.”

“Yeah, well, fuck him. There’s two of us, right?”

Robert shook his head.

“Sorry, Kostubh, I’m out. It’s not worth getting killed over.”

“Well then fuck you too!” snarled Kostubh, shoving Robert away and stomping off toward the gate. “I’m going, with or without you.”

Robert hesitated as Kostubh stalked through the gate and started down the road, then cursed and ran after him.

“I still think it’s a stupid idea and it’ll get us killed, you asshole. Let it go!”

Kostubh was silent, fingering the newly borrowed sword hanging at his side.

“At least wait until it’s dark!”

Kostubh’s footsteps slowed.

“That’s not a bad idea, actually... Let’s grab some eats first; it’ll be dark soon enough.”

They headed toward the market, packed with people of all sorts buying and selling almost everything under the sun, and all of it at the top of their lungs.

Kostubh picked out a small stand selling po, the steamed buns of the Ibizim. They were stuffed with a variety of spicy meat and vegetables.

“That’ll be a copper apiece, lads,” said the cook as he put pulled a leaf from the pile and dropped two steaming po onto it.

“Here,” said Kostubh, handing over some coins. “Make it four; we’re hungry.”

The cook glanced at the coins.

“This is only three laurels...”

“Yeah, three coppers is enough. Or we can go somewhere else,” sniffed Kostubh, holding out a hand for the leaf. “Put the other two on another leaf for my friend here.”

The cook hesitated for a moment, then silently pulled out another leaf and dropped two more buns on it, handing it to Robert.

They walked through the market as they ate, eyeing the enormous variety of goods and food on display.

“It’s only another copper, Kostubh...” said Robert quietly. “Why not just pay the man?”

“Ah, fuck ’im,” said Kostubh around a mouthful of hot bun. “He’s just a peasant.”

He turned to look at Robert more closely.

“You’re not serious, are you? You can’t go around paying these people what they ask for! You can always drop the price. Or say you found a dead rat in it!”

He laughed at his own jest, missing the twitch of disgust that flashed across Robert’s face.

“No, of course not,...” he agreed. “Just peasants, after all.”

Kostubh nodded his head several times in agreement as he wiped his hands on his tunic.

“Go over there are shout you saw a snake,” he said, pointing to a nearby stall.

“A snake...? What...?”

“Just do it, Robert,” said Kostubh, giving him a shove. “Sound scared!”

The other man shrugged and walked over to where Kostubh had pointed, looking at the fresh turnips displayed by a farmer in passing.

“Pulled ’em this mornin’,” he said, waving a leafy bundle with clods of dirt falling off.

Robert shook his head, holding up one hand to stop the man’s spiel, and kept walking as directed toward a small wagon selling some sort of reddish pottery.

He bent forward a little as if to get a better look, and then leapt backwards to fall on his ass, screaming “A viper! There’s a viper! Right there!”

Everyone who could hear him jumped one way or another, some trying to run away and some hoping to kill the snake. The market was so noisy that his screams only carried a few meters, but it was enough to cause a sudden squall of excitement.

Robert quickly backpedaled from the pottery seller’s wagon, catching up to Kostubh as he was walking away from the scene.

“Hey, what was all that about?”

Kostubh pulled him around a stack of carpets, out of sight of the rapidly cooling viper scare, and handed him an apple.

“There you are,” he said proudly, and took a second one from his wallet. “Compliments of that fruit cart just now.”

“Wait, you had me scream ‘snake’ just to rip off a couple apples?”

“Yeah,” said Kostubh, taking another bite. “Good ones, too!”

“You’re gonna get the Guard after us,” moaned Robert.

“Nah, fuck ’em all. They should thank me for eating their crap.”

Robert stared at the beautiful, red apple in his hand for a moment, then took a bite.

“Good, huh?”

“Yeah, good,” he agreed, and took another.

They wandered through the marketplace for another hour or so, just wasting time until it was dark. Once, Robert said he wished he had more money, looking wistfully at an engraved steel dagger, Kostubh found a way to steal it out from under the eyes of the shopkeeper, and pulled it out of his tunic later to a flabbergasted Robert.

“Here, you said you really liked this.”

“You got it for... wait a minute. You stole it for me?”

“Nah,” said Kostubh with a wave of his hand. “The shopkeeper gave it to me because I’m a Chabra. Keep it!”

Robert hefted it a few times, and practiced a stab.

“Have to get a decent sheath for it, too,” he said, grinning. “Thanks!”

“Sure,” said Kostubh, looking up at the sky. “It’s pretty dark... let’s head over there and see, huh?”

They both remembered where Lili’s was, and a short time later stood in the shadows across the road, watching the entrance.

The same red-haired guard stood there, making sure that only paying customers got in. He was big, armed, and obviously quite capable of using that sword if he had to.

“So what’re you gonna do? Just walk over there and stab him?”

“Doesn’t look like much to me,” sniffed Kostubh. “I don’t want to get my tunic dirty, though.

“Nah, this is a whole lot easier.”

He reached up and removed two of the oil lanterns hanging from a nearby street stall, and shook them once or twice, listening to see how much oil was inside.

“Oh, yeah, this’ll do nicely,” he smiled, and looked across the road, judging the distance.

“Kostubh! No!”

He stretched his arm out and whipped it forward, launching the lantern across the road and through Lili’s window. There was the sound of breaking glass and then a muffled whump as the spilled oil ignited. The second lantern followed almost immediately.

“Fire! Fire!”

“Quick, get water!”

“It’s spreading to the curtain!”

The guard at the front door half-drew his sword and glared in their direction, but at the screams he stopped and slammed the sword back into its sheath. With a curse he grabbed a nearby bucket and raced toward the nearest well, some hundred meters down the road.

“Kostubh of Shiroora-Shan, you’re a dead man!” he shouted as he ran.

“What the hell, Kostubh? You out of your mind?”

“Fuckers stole my money, that’s what they get,” snarled Kostubh, turning away from the spreading conflagration behind him and walking back the way they’d come. “I hope the whole place burns down, and that bitch with it!”

Robert stared at him, aghast, then glanced back at the black silhouettes struggling to contain the flames. Kostubh kept walking, though, and Robert trotted after him, away from the blaze and into the darkness.

“Kostubh, they won’t let us back into the compound this late... and the city guard’ll be after us soon enough. What’re we gonna do?”

Kostubh halted and turned to face him, the whites of his eyes pale in the night.

“Of course they’ll let us in! I’m a Chabra!”

“You’re a fucking idiot! You just set fire to that place, maybe killed some people, and the whole guard’ll be looking for you, Kostubh of Shiroora-Shan. And me. And the first place they’ll look’ll be Bulbuk’s compound.

“You can’t go doing all this shit and expect to get away with it because you’re a fuckin’ Chabra! That doesn’t mean a damn thing here! They catch us, they’ll chop our damn heads off!”

“They’d never kill me, son of Karadi Chabra of Shiroora-Shan.”

Robert grabbed the other man by the shoulders and shook him, hard.

“Listen to me, you idiot! Chabra doesn’t mean shit here! They.Will.Kill.Us.”

Kostubh stilled, shuffled his feet, spat once, looked up at the few stars visible between the overhanging roofs.

“You’re serious...”

“Yeah I’m serious!” said Robert. “We can’t go back to Bulbuk—he’d turn us over to the guard himself. And if we stay here they’ll catch us sooner or later. Probably sooner, because they know the city and we don’t have anywhere to go. We’re fucking dead, Kostubh!”

There was silence for a moment, then the faint sound of a crying baby from somewhere nearby.

“C’mon, this way,” said Kostubh suddenly, tapping Robert on the shoulder and heading for the compound.

“We can’t...”

“Yeah, we can. Shut up.”

When they reached the compound, the guards refused to let them in, just as Robert had warned.

“Call Master Gitanshu,” asked Kostubh. “It’s urgent.”

“I’m not going to go bother Master Gitanshu for a couple drunks!”

“Maybe this’ll make it easier,” said Kostubh, handing over what was left of the money he got from his brother.

The guard weighed it, sniffed, hitched up his sword belt, and turned to hand some of the coins to the other guard.

“Keep an eye on these two, will ‘ya? And if they’re fuckin’ with us we can take it outta their hides.”

The other guard nodded, hand on the pommel of his sword.

Gitanshu showed up only a few minutes later.

“What is it now, Kostubh? I have better things to do than babysit you!”

“Sorry, but I’ve—we’ve—got a little problem,” explained Kostubh, leading his brother away from the ears of the waiting guard. “There’s been a misunderstanding and the city guard’ll probably be here looking for us later.”

“If you’ve done anything to hurt Master Than Bulbuk I’ll hand you over myself!”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. Strictly a misunderstanding, but one that would take time to clear up. Rather than getting into a complicated argument with the guard, possibly delaying departure tomorrow, it might be easier to just hide us until we’re out of Eudoxia.”

“And then what? They’ll figure it out, Kostubh, and come after you.”

“And then we’ll leave the caravan in Thace, or Despina, and it’ll be as if we were never there.”

“Everywhere we go I have to clean up after you!” raged Gitanshu. “This is the last time! Come with me and I’ll find a way to get you out of the city, but I want you out of this caravan in Thace! Got it?”

“Of course, brother, no problem at all,” smiled Kostubh, and winked at Robert. “We’ll leave long before the guard might cause any problem.”

Gitanshu spit and cursed under his breath.

“You two leave now. Make sure the guards see you leaving. Go around to the mill entrance, on the east side, and I’ll let you in there. And don’t screw it up!”

“Thanks, Gitanshu. I knew I could count on you.”

“Fuck you, Kostubh. And you—what’s your name?”

“Robert, Master Gitanshu. Thank you for helping us out.”

“I don’t know how he roped you into this, but you’re his now. And I want you gone with him.”

Gitanshu stomped back to the guard cursing, and then turned back to the two waiting men.

“No, I won’t let you in, you drunkards! Now get out of here before I call the city guard myself!”

He stopped next the guard and clapped him on the shoulder.

“They won’t be back, because they don’t work for Master Than Bulbuk anymore. If they try to get in you should spit them like any other thief.”

The guard grinned and nodded.

“Yessir, sorry to have bothered you, sir. They won’t be gettin’ in.”

“Good man,” said Gitanshu, nodding sharply and striding back into the compound.

The guard glared at Kostubh and Robert, who slunk back into the darkness.

* * *

Early that afternoon Kostubh woke up suddenly when the camel stopped. He’d been banging around in the wicker basket for hours, strapped to the side of one of the cargo camels, and had fallen into a sort of half-sleep, half-delirium state due to the heat.

“Kostubh!”

He recognized the whisper, of course. It was Gitanshu.

“Kostubh? You OK in there?”

He groaned and tried to force words out of his parched mouth.

“Awa..... wa... wa–ter...”

The basket hasp opened and his brother’s silhouette looked down at him through the blinding sunlight. Through the tears he saw a huge black hand descending, and instinctively shied away, holding up one hand in defense.

The waterskin hit his hand and he sighed at the incredible delight of the cool water inside.

He grabbed it from Gitanshu’s hand and drank ferociously, spilling a good bit in the process.

“Keep it,” said his brother. “Give me the old one and I’ll fill it up again for you.”

“Aahhhh...”

Kostubh finally pulled the waterskin from his mouth, sated.

He breathed for a moment, enjoying the freedom of the open basket, and licked his lips.

“I thought you were trying to kill me, Gitanshu! Locked up in there, banging about like a damned potato. A well-baked damned potato!”

Gitanshu shrugged.

“No other way to get you out of Eudoxia. You know that. They stopped and questioned us, you know, looking for you. You and Robert. Master Than Bulbuk is furious, but said he owed father that much.”

“How about some food, too?”

“I’ll see if I can sneak something to you. If you need to take a piss, better get it done now—I’ve blocked off the view from the caravan, so you can get out of there for a few minutes.”

Kostubh managed to drag himself out of the basket, collapsing onto the ground in a heap as his legs gave out from under him. Robert joined him momentarily.

Robert just sat on the sand massaging his legs with one hand and drinking with the other.

“Kostubh, we’ve had it with you. I begged Master Than Bulbuk to look the other way this time, but you’ve repaid his trust terribly, blackened your name forever. And his name, and my name, and even our father’s name.”

Kostubh shrugged and jumped up and down experimentally.

“Like I said just a misunderstanding. We’re out of the city and nobody saw us, right? So no harm done, I’d say.”

“It wasn’t a misunderstanding, you maniac! You burned down three buildings and they say one person died in the blaze! That’s not a misunderstanding, and if you ever go back to Eudoxia they’ll spike your head on the city wall.”

“So I won’t go back to Eudoxia. Plenty of other places to go.”

“It’ll take about another five or six days to reach Thace,” said Gitanshu, “but Master Than Bulbuk wants you gone tonight. I’ll give you two horses when we make camp.

“He’s already sent a dragolet to father with a complete explanation and refuses to reconsider.”

“Two horses, huh?” asked Kostubh, looking interested for the first time. “And supplies?”

“Yes, of course with supplies. If I wanted you dead all I had to do was hand you over to the guard,” said Gitanshu in exasperation. “We’re still in the foothills of the Hills of Noor, not the desert, so you shouldn’t have much difficulty.”

“I’ll be gone, then, assuming I survive this torture until nightfall,” said Kostubh, nodding.

“What about you, Master Robert?”

Robert looked up suddenly, not expecting to be addressed.

“Uh... I’ll go along with him, Master Gitanshu, thank you.”

“So both you, then. Two horses, supplies, arms... I’ll have it ready to go.”

“Thanks, Gitanshu,” smiled Kostubh. “I knew I could count on you.”

“I’m not helping you because I want to, Kostubh. You’re dangerous and I want you gone before you ruin Master Than Bulbuk and me with him!”

“Yeah, whatever. I love you too, Gitanshu.

“Just give us the word and we’ll be gone.”

As Gitanshu stomped off fuming, Kostubh looked around at the caravan.

They were stopped for lunch and a rest, heading north at the foot of the Hills of Noor.. The mountains shielded them from the morning sun, and runoff usually meant there was sparse groundcover for much of the way. A few days from now the trail would turn west, away from the Hills of Noor—a mountain range, in spite of the name—and toward Thace, into the desert proper.

Except for a few people tending to their animals—the caravan had both horses and camels, but of course no deinos on the desert road—and a group of three cursing men trying to repair a bent cartwheel, everyone was eating or lounging. Sunshades and a few shimmers were up, keeping the heat down to a reasonable level.

They stayed hidden, knowing that any of the caravan crew would betray them to the city guard without a moment’s hesitation. They were half a day’s ride from Eudoxia, but there was no way of telling where the guard might be.

They’d just have to suffer in silence until nightfall.

Gitanshu was back in a few minutes with a pot of warm, spicy beans and a stack of bread to eat it with.

“Can’t even bring us an ale to go with it?”

“Drink your water and be happy I got you this much,” said Gitanshu sourly. “And make sure you’re back in your baskets as soon as you hear everyone start to gear up for the afternoon ride.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” said Kostubh through a mouthful of bread. “Don’t worry, we won’t embarrass you.”

“You already did that quite adequately,” said Gitanshu.

They climbed back into their reed prisons about half an hour later as the caravan began preparing to set out once again, and a few minutes Gitanshu dropped by to make sure the baskets were securely fastened, and their hidden occupants invisible.

“Enjoy your ride!” he whispered gayly, rapping on Kostubh’s basket.

“Fuck you.”

* * *

That night they finally took their leave of Than Bulbuk’s caravan, thanks to Gitanshu. He’d wheedled the trader into providing two horses (not the finest steeds, true, but certainly an improvement over walking) and a modest amount of supplies.

Than Bulbuk refused to even meet them, so that he could continue to truthfully say that he had not seen them in his caravan.

Gitanshu was quietly furious and while he didn’t discuss what the whole situation had cost him in terms of Than Bulbuk’s trust or possibly even gold, there was little doubt that Kostubh had used up his welcome.

They slowly rode away from the caravan’s night camp, east deeper into the mountains, and by dawn should be well on their way.

Kostubh suddenly slowed his pace and guided the horse over to a stand of trees. He dismounted, and tethered the horse to a tree hidden in the darkness.

“Watch the horses,” he ordered to Robert. “One last thing to do before we leave.”

“You’re not going back are you?”

Kostubh grinned.

“Don’t you worry about it. I’ll be back before you know I’m gone,” and slipped off into the night.

True to his word he was back in a little over an hour.

He untied the rope and climbed back up into the saddle grinning widely.

“What are you so happy about? What did you do?”

Kostubh held a large handful of coins out for Robert to see, and dropped them into his surprised hand.

“Where’d you get the money? You didn’t rob Master Than Bulbuk did you!?”

“Of course not. I just paid a little visit to our own friend Ran, and relieved him of some excess baggage. He was sleeping like a baby; didn’t notice a thing.

“In fact, since his wallet is now full of gravel instead of coins, he may not notice anything until they reach Thace and he tries to pay for something!”

Robert laughed, delighted. That took care of his own debt to Ran, too, he realized.

“As far as anyone knows we left the caravan in Eudoxia, so he’ll no doubt make life difficult for everyone else, trying to figure out who stole his money. Poor fools.”

“He deserves it. Hell, he deserves a lot more than that, the way he treated me,” agreed Kostubh. “And you, of course.”

Without waiting for Robert’s response he kicked his horse lightly and began to trot again in the wan light of the half-moon.

Robert hurried to catch up, settling his horse into position just behind him.

“Where are we going?”

“Well, we can’t go back to Eudoxia, and we can’t go to Thrace, at least not until Bulbuk leaves,” replied Kostubh. “I’m heading for the Oasis of Noor. Ever been there?”

“Noor? Nope. What’s there?”

“Once we get to the Oasis, we can take the route through the mountains to Nurl, hook up with a caravan heading north on either side of the Hills, or even turn west and head for Mnar.”

“Mnar? That’s where Sarnath is, right?”

“Yeah, the lake and Ib and all that. I don’t know how much of that is true, but might be a good idea to stay well away.”

“Hell yeah!”

They continued north, paralleling the Hills. In spite of the name, the Hills of Noor were only hills well to the south, where they sank into the Night Ocean. They grew in height northward into a major range. They were still well to the south—the Oasis roughly marked the halfway point in the range—but the mountains were already high enough that the horses would have been largely useless.

It was much easier to ride at the base of the mountains, with the Liranian Desert stretching off to the west on one side and the mountains to the east. There was plenty of grass for the horses to eat, watered by mountain streams, and since they weren’t in any particular hurry they could relax and take the easy route.

The easy route also meant rabbits and deer, and they finally reached the outskirts of the Oasis days later well fed and rested.

The Oasis of Noor was actually a small lake, fed by several streams running down out of the mountains. It had no known outlet, but standing as it did on the edge of the Liranian Desert there was no doubt that the dry sands drank every drop.

There was a route threading through the Hills of Noor, east, to Nurl. Horses and camels could use it safely, but it had a number of narrow sections that few wagons could pass. There was also a trade road connecting it to Thace to the south, and northward. The road north ran though the western bulge of the Hills and then into the desert to Tsol and beyond.

From Tsol there were numerous possibilities: they could travel farther west, through the Mohagger Mountains encircling the Lake of Sarnath, or continue northwest towards Tsun.

There were always caravans on the ancient trade roads through the desert, guided through the waste by the wind-worn statues standing silently every few kilometers.

The scrub dotting the flanks of the mountains gradually gave way to greener leaves and taller trees as they approached the Oasis. The greenery was a pleasant sight for eyes tired of endless sand and rock, and the horses appreciated the change to fresh green grass.

Kostubh was even whistling once in a while, obviously far less affected by their situation that Robert, who seemed quite worried that someone might be pursuing them. He looked over this shoulder often, and half-drew his sword at the slightest noise.

There was never a sign of any pursuit, though, even though they doubled back once just to see if there were any other tracks.

As the Oasis of Noor grew closer, though, even Kostubh began to think about what might be waiting there.

“We came here along the fastest road from Eudoxia,” he said, “and nobody passed us on the way. I don’t see why anyone should be waiting for us.”

“They could have used dragolets.”

“Sure, they could, but why would they? Even assuming they actually have a dragolet pair for the Oasis,” he countered. “Besides, if they look for us at all, they’ve already checked the caravan and didn’t find us. They have no reason to think we’re heading to Noor, or the desert.

“I figure the Boorsh Fen is where they’re looking. If they’re even looking at all.”

“Maybe,” Robert agreed grudgingly. “But...”

“Relax, everything’s fine. Just leave it up to me.”

Kostubh reined his horses to a halt and slid off.

“I’m gonna slip up ahead and see what the Oasis looks like. Don’t know much about it.”

“Me neither,” agreed Robert. “Let me go with you.”

“Nah, keep an eye on the horses, will ya? I won’t be back for a few hours.”

Kostubh handed his reins to Robert and adjusted his sword belt, then melted into the underbrush.

The Oasis of Noor was just ahead of them, at the base of the mountain’s slope. The bushes and trees were getting higher, but it was possible to see quite a bit from their vantage point.

What they could see consisted of open water, palm trees surrounded by lower vegetation, and a handful of buildings built variously of stone or wood. It was early morning, the sun still low over the Hills of Noor behind him. Shadows were long and dark.

Kostubh had been taught well by his father, master hunter Karadi, and moved silently through the brush. He moved closer to the main road, running into the Oasis from Thace to the south. Most trade from Thace traveled west, heading for Despina, but there was also considerable traffic from Thace to the Oasis, then west along the desert’s edge, trending gradually northwest, and beyond.

Kostubh was pretty sure that nobody from Eudoxia could have gotten here before them, but it wouldn’t hurt to watch the road for a bit and try to get a better idea of how busy—and dangerous—things were.

He picked a nice thick tangle of brush to hide in, right next to the main road where a tiny footpath ran off deeper into the mountains. In the shadows under the brush, he was effectively invisible.

About half an hour later a horse-drawn wagon piled with bales of hay plodded by. Kostubh figured it must be from some pasture nearby, brought here to feed the animals. And probably sell to people passing through. The fresh grass around the oasis was great while they were here, but once they left and entered the desert, grain or dried hay lasted a lot longer than fresh leaves.

A wagonload of hay was not much of a threat, though.

He yawned and kept waiting.

A few other innocuous people passed by in one direction or the other: traders, farmers, one Godsworn with acolytes, a few traveling alone for no apparent reason. All in all, though, perfectly normal.

The sun was high, around noon.

Just as he was thinking that he might as well go get Robert and ride into the Oasis, he heard clashing swords and shouts.

He twisted to the side so he could see better.

He could just see a small covered wagon, gaily carved and painted in brilliant colors. Looked like an itinerant Rom family, he thought to himself.

The main man of the family was dying messily in the dirt, screaming in agony as his guts spilled out. Two of his two attackers were now ganging up on a boy standing between them and the wagon. He was trying, but he was too inexperienced, and too weak... even as Kostubh watched, one of the robbers knocked the sword out of the boy’s hand with his own sword. The other robber took advantage of the opening to thrust deep into the boy’s side. The boy screamed and staggered sideways until a sword in the back toppled him.

Behind them another robber already had a youngish girl on the ground, enthusiastically pumping away as she screamed, and tried to push him away. He laughed at her screams and weak fists.

Two more were already climbing up the wagon, battering its wooden door open with their weapons. They finally chopped it open and eagerly tore it out of the way, crowding in, weapons drawn.

The wagon shook, more screams, and suddenly a woman leapt out of the wagon through the front, onto the driver’s bench, then down to the road, carrying something in her arms.

The two robbers scrambled out of the wagon after her, joined by the two who had just killed the boy.

She was running right toward him!

Kostubh couldn’t squirm backwards without raising a commotion, and he couldn’t win against four or five well-armed men, especially lying down. He moved his head to hide behind the leaves more effectively.

She was carrying a baby.

The woman saw the path off into the mountains, and ran toward it, her pursuer growing closer.

Bad luck again as she stumbled and fell, barely catching herself on her free hand as she protected her baby with the other.

Their eyes met.

She froze for the merest fraction of a second, entreating him to save her child. She knew she was doomed to rape, possibly slavery or more probably death.

But he could save her baby; her pursuers would leave it to die, or kill it outright.

After what felt like a decade time started ticking again, and she thrust the baby into the underbrush right in front of his nose.

She whispered a single word—Peanna—and yanked a branch down to hide them.

She was up and running again instantly, as if she had merely stumbled and caught herself, but Kostubh could still see her brown eyes beseeching him as she ran.

A moment later he heard more shouting, and a woman screaming, and laughter.

They’d caught her.

While they were busy with their prey, he had a chance to get away to safety.

But what to do with the baby?

He looked down at the child for the first time, and it—she—looked up at him, silent and still, huge eyes transfixing him.

“... Hansika...?”

Peanna, her mother had called her. She looked exactly like his little sister. Hansika was only fourteen, and the baby was older than he’d thought. Two, maybe? He didn’t really know much about babies or young children, as he was one of the youngest of the Chabra children and had never really had to babysit anyone.

But in spite of the age difference, the child looked just like Hansika. The same eyes, the same nose...

He couldn’t just leave her here to die.

But he didn’t know how to take care of a kid!

Still holding the silent child in his arms, he wriggled backwards away from the road until he could rise to a crouch, then left the area as quickly as he could.

Robert was right where he’d left him.

“We’re leaving,” he said in a low voice. “Right now, and stay quiet, on your life.”

Robert nodded and unhobbled his horse. He glanced at Kostubh and raised an eyebrow.

“Robbers. Now, quietly.”

They led their horses back up the slope, deeper into the mountains, away from the Oasis.

Kostubh carried Peanna in his arms all the way

* * *

The small fire lit the walls of the cave in red and orange, black shadows dancing as the flames leaped.

Pursuers, if there were any, might be able to spot the fire if they were close enough, but they were well off the road and the entrance to the cave was shielded by a convenient boulder, hiding the light.

The smoke would give them away in the day, Kostubh thought, even for such a small fire.

“So they’re all dead?”

“Probably,” mused Kostubh. “Or enslaved. The man and his son are dead for sure. I don’t know about the woman and the girl. They didn’t look like slavers to me, though.”

“Should we go back and check? You might be able to get rid of that kid.”

Kostubh frowned, and glanced down at Peanna, who was sleeping next to him. She had spent most of the day in his arms or clinging onto an arm or leg like a burr.

She was old enough to walk around and eat most things, it seemed—at least, she had no trouble eating their dried meat and fruit once he’d chewed it a bit—but she’d not made a sound yet. He figured she must be three or so, just small for her age. She didn’t need diapers—thank goodness!—and should be able to talk.

Was she a mute?

Simply terrified?

She didn’t seem scared of him, at least. She had hung onto him like a leech throughout dinner, which was a thin stew of day-old rabbit, beans, and a few leftover potatoes. He’d chewed the rabbit for her to soften it, and she’d managed a few small pieces, but mostly ate beans and potatoes.

He’d rocked her back and forth until she finally fell asleep.

“No. The mother knew she’d never see her daughter again, and made her choice.”

“So you’re going to raise her!?”

“I have to...” he murmured, half to himself as she smiled in her sleep.

“You don’t know anything about raising a child! And neither do I!”

“True enough, but I can’t just throw her to the wolves, can I?”

He turned back to Robert.

“We can’t go back to Eudoxia, or to Thace, and it looks like the Oasis might not be a good idea if people are getting slaughtered on the road... north, I guess, for now.”

Robert prodded the fire with a stick, watching the sparks fly.

“I wonder if I should go back... to Zeenar, I mean...”

Kostubh shook his head.

“C’mon, Robert, you just got out of a lifetime of humping crates and picking up deino shit. We’re free, free to go where we like, do what we like. You’d be an idiot to throw it all away!”

“But they’re after us! Eudoxia, I mean.”

“Who cares? They’re not gonna chase us, and I don’t care if I never see Eudoxia again. Big world out there, Robert, just waiting for me. Us.”

Peanna stirred, and Kostubh patted her softly back to sleep.

“Stick with me, Robert. There’re some great things coming, you’ll see.”

Robert smiled and let the stick fall into the fire. He stood and brushed the dirt off his tunic.

“I’m with you, Kostubh, wherever you go.”

Kostubh, still seated, reached up to wrist-shake him.

They gradually drifted north along the western edge of the Hills, traveling generally parallel to the trade road but not on it. There was not much traffic, and what little there was showed no interest in a distant pair of riders.

Peanna was still silent but had been crying quietly more often.

She’d been sucking on her fingers more, too... whatever children needed to eat, she wasn’t getting enough of it, realized Kostubh, but what did they eat? They caught some sweetfish, and she obviously liked their soft, white flesh far more than tough rabbit meat.

A few days later they approached Andersweald, a large, isolated stretch of woods along the boundary between mountain and desert. The road cut sharply west here toward the Mohaggers, across the desert, and most travelers spent a day or two here resting up before making the crossing.

There was no clear marker, but gradually the trees thinned and there were scattered fields, sometimes small shacks here and there. The hard-packed dirt road was unchanged, until they turned a corner and saw what awaited.

It was a huge gate, tree trunks roughly hewn into two columns on either side and one across the top horizontally. No guards, no walls, just a tree trunk across the road... and on top of the tree trunk was a row of spikes about half a dozen of which had heads on them.

“I guess they don’t like trespassers,” said Robert.

“No, I heard about this... those are robbers, murderers, and people like them. The heads are up there to tell us to be careful.”

“What do you mean, be careful?”

“Don’t rob or kill anyone, I guess...”

Robert snorted, and they rode on under the row of heads.

There was no water along the nest stage of their planned route, and while it only took two days it was good to be well rested and hydrated before starting. There were a few small homes here in Andersweald, farming and selling food to passing travelers, clumped together around a public well of unknown antiquity.

Kostubh sat Peanna down and let the bucket drop, watching the pulley spin and rattle until the splash sounded. It was a fairly small bucket, and easy to crank back up again.

He spilled the first three buckets into a basin for the horses to drink, and then started filling up their own waterskins. Peanna sat next to him, one arm wrapped around his leg for security, happily splashing one hand in the puddles.

One of the horses swung its head over to investigate, blowing wet mist over her in a loud whuff; she giggled and wiped her face.

“And where’s your mammy, little one?”

Kostubh turned to see a middle-aged woman approaching with a good-sized water keg, obviously to fetch her own water. Dressed in rough-spun wool and leather, she had a square jaw, ice-blue eyes, and twin braids of orange hair hanging down to her massive chest. She set the keg down with a hollow thump and squatted to talk to Peanna up close.

“My, you’re a happy little tyke, aren’t ya?”

She held out her finger and Peanna quickly latched on, pumping it up and down and giggling again.

“This your little girl?”

“Yup. Her name’s Peanna.”

“Where’s her mammy?”

“Dead. I’m all she’s got now.”

“Peanna! What a pretty name! Doesn’t talk much, does she?”

“Nope. She had a big shock when her ma died; still getting over it, I think.”

He squatted down and held his arms open, and Peanna jumped up and into them.

“Seems to like you well enough.”

He stood, carrying her easily in one arm.

“Like I said, I’m all she’s got.”

“You look pretty young to take care of a young ’un,...” she continued.

“No, it’s fine, really, I’m fine...”

She stood up herself and picked up the bucket to draw her own water.

“You just wait right there, young man. This child is starving. You’re coming with me and I’m gonna feed you both, teach you a few things you need to know. This poor child needs a mother.”

Kostubh hesitated. He didn’t want to stay in one place very long if he could help it, not with Eudoxia still nearby, but he knew he was out of his depth.

“I’m Clara,” she said, hinting.

“Um...Kosta. Of Ebnon.”

“Well, Umkosta of Ebnon,” she said, pouring a bucketful into her keg, “you got any baggage other than what’s on them horses?”

“The other horse belongs to my friend, Robe... Robb. Robb of Ebnon.”

Robert was off buying some food and should be back shortly.

“Are you sure it’s alright?” he asked. “We’re fine in the woods.”

“You may be fine, young man, but did you happen to notice Peanna is a little girl? With filthy face, torn tunic, and broken sandal strap? You go get your friend Robb and come see me. That house right over there,” she commanded, pointing to a sod-roofed structure half hidden in the trees. “You get lost just ask for Clara.”

She poured another bucketful into her keg and dropped bucket back in again.

“Ebnon, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Never been there,” she continued. “Hear it’s all swamp and pirates.”

“Nah, the Boorsh Fens are way west of the city, and the pirates even farther.”

She poured one last bucket-full, then set it down next to the well and squatted. With a grunt she hefted the heavy keg up onto her shoulder, grunted again as she shifted it a bit, rose slowly, and walked off.

Kostubh noticed for the first time how thick her arms were, and her legs, and the way she had easily hefted that keg up—it must weigh at least forty kilos, he figured.

“You bring Peanna by once you find Robb, you hear? Umkosta of Ebnon.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he responded automatically, and then stopped in amazement. Why did he unconsciously call her that, and feel like he had to obey?

It never occurred to him not to... she was just the sort of person one doesn’t ignore.

Robert came back shortly with some meat, cheese, and bread, and a jug of fresh goat milk for Peanna.

They walked over to sit under a shady tree and ate together as Kostubh filled Robert in on what had happened.

“Umkosta?”

“I didn’t want to tell her my name and was thinking... and once she started calling me Umkosta I was stuck,” shrugged Kotubh. “I mean, it’s not really a bad name...”

“Robb is fine with me,” said Robert. “A couple people used to call me that back in Zeenar. I hope she doesn’t start asking a lot of questions about Ebnon, though. I’ve never been there!”

“Yeah, I don’t know much about it either... I was only there briefly, years ago, with my father.”

Robert took a bite and looked at Kostubh curiously.

“You always call him your father, not your pa or anything...”

“Habit, I guess,” grinned Kostubh. “He was pretty strict about how to act in public. Mother was too.”

“What are you, some kinda noble of something?”

“Nah, nothing like that,” laughed Kostubh, hoping to change the subject. “Just strict parents. That’s all.

“Pass me that water, would ya?”

“Here you go, Umkosta.”

“Thanks, Robb.”

Peanna, silent as always, ate a little bread and cheese, washing it down with goat milk, and watched them with enormous brown eyes, rarely blinking.

She was sitting close to Kostubh, not actually touching, but close enough that she could grab hold of arm or leg in a second. She never strayed very far if she could help it, awake or even asleep.

“So, you gonna go?”

“To Clara’s place? Yeah, I think I have to.”

“Got the hots for her?”

“Idiot! She’s like my mother’s age,” snorted Kostubh. “But I don’t know how to take care of Peanna right.”

“Why not give her to Clara?”

Kostubh was silent for a moment.

“I don’t think I can do that,” he said finally. “Her mother entrusted her to me, and I accepted the responsibility. I can’t just hand her off like a cabbage.”

It was Robert’s turn to shrug.

“Whatever. She’s your problem. And if we get dinner out of this, I’m happy.”

“She’s our problem, Robb, as long as we’re together.”

“Yeah, OK.”

Kostubh felt a tug on his tunic.

“What is it, Peanna?”

She tugged again, toward the nearby shrubbery.

“You have to go to the bathroom?”

She nodded and stood waiting for him to stand and take her hand.

“Back in a minute, Robert. Robb.”

He “stood watch” while she squatted, and then they walked back to rejoin the other man.

Peanna didn’t stop there, though, but kept pulling on Kostubh’s hand.

“Where are we... Oh, you want to go see Mistress Clara now?”

Kostubh looked back at Robert.

“I guess we’re going now,” he said. “Gimme my pack, will ya?”

Robert climbed to his feet and snagged Kostubh’s pack with one hand.

“Hope she’s a good cook,” he said, and they led their horses toward the sod-roofed house.

* * *

There were few windows in Clara’s house, which was built half into a slight hill. The hill covered the back of the house, with the turf extending quite naturally onto the roof. A soot-blackened stone chimney broke through the grasses in one spot. The exposed walls were of logs, with mud packed into the cracks, and the weathered door, of thick-hewn boards, looked quite heavy.

“Whadda we do? Knock?”

Kostubh shrugged with one shoulder; his other arm was holding Peanna.

“I guess...”

He tentatively reached out to knock when a woman’s voice called from inside.

“Well, don’t just stand there! Hitch your horses up to the rail there, and come on in!”

The door slammed open, knocking Kostubh’s hand back, and Clara was there with a smile on her face.

“And there’s Peanna, my sweetie!”

She reached out and smoothly snatched the child from Kostubh’s arm, nestling her in one arm. She let the door go to wrap the other around Peanna, squeezing her tight.

“How are you, my little pumpkin? You boys get those horses done, you come right in, sit yourselves down at the table.”

She walked deeper into the house, leaving the two of them to finish up.

When they entered the dim house they could make out a wood table and chairs backlit by a low fire. Clara, Peanna still nestled in one arm, was stirring a pot of something hanging over the fire.

“Be right with you!” she called, and ladled something that smelled delicious into two waiting bowls.

She carried the tray over to where the boys were sitting and set it down. Along with the two bowls of stew the tray held half a loaf of dark bread.

“You get started on that stew, and I’ll be back in a jiffy,” she said, and left again.

They looked at each other in surprise and confusion, but the fragrance won and they began spooning up the stew in huge bites.

Clara was back in a few minutes with a pot of tea and a stack of cups, along with a slab of some bright yellow cheese, all of which she unceremoniously plunked down on the table.

“Help yourselves,” she said, and sat down in an empty chair.

She shifted Peanna from her arm onto the table, sitting with her legs dangling over the edge, and pulled a blue cloth from somewhere which she proceeded to wring out and use to wipe the girl’s face and hands.

“There, that’s better,” she said, cocking her head for a better look at the unusually clean Peanna. “You’re a right beauty, you are.”

She handed the girl a cup.

“Warm milk to get you started, child. And here’s boiled chicken with sesame, and some peas and carrots, and for dessert some grapes and melon. You eat as much as you like, Peanna.”

Clara held out a spoon, but Peanna ignored it, immediately grabbing the chicken with her fingers and cramming it into her mouth.

“My, your ma never taught you to use a spoon!?”

“I think she’s Rom, Mistress,” said Kostubh.

Clara glared at him from under her bushy eyebrows.

“You think? You don’t know?”

“Um, it’s sorta complicated...”

“Maybe you can just tell me the whole story, then,” said the woman as she reached behind her and pulled a set of chopsticks from a nearby shelf.

When Peanna saw the chopsticks she grabbed them at once. Kostubh noticed she didn’t stop chewing while she did, though.

Once she had the chopsticks and a bowl, she really dug in, scraping chicken, rice, and everything else into her mouth as if she hadn’t eaten for days.

Maybe she hadn’t, he realized.

So he told Clara what had happened to Peanna’s family, and why he had her now.

Before he had even finished, Peanna had fallen asleep, her head on her empty plate.

“Is it okay if she rests here for a bit, Mistress?”

“Of course. Let me lay out a mat.”

Kostubh wiped her face clean and laid her down on the sleeping mat, covering her with a light blanket.

Once she was sleeping peacefully, Kostubh continued his story.

“Well, that was quite the story,” she said finally. “I think that calls for some khoormog.”

“What’s khoormog?” asked Robert, who had been largely silent during dinner.

“Same thing as chal,” said Kostubh. “Fermented camel milk.”

“You’ve had chal, Master Umkosta?”

“My father gave me some when an Ibizim trader passed by once.”

“You liked it?”

“Yeah, I thought it was great. Why?”

She grabbed a small wood keg from the floor, and three glasses from the shelf. She filled all three with the milky-white liquid, and handed each of them a glass.

“To safe journeys,” she said, and slugged it down.

“To safe journeys,” they echoed, and raised their glasses.

Kostubh tried to drink it all at once and hurriedly spat half of it back into the glass, puffing out his cheeks and blowing hard.

“That’s... that’s not...” he gasped, “what I drank!”

Robert suspiciously took a very small sip and set his glass back on the tabletop.

Clara laughed, a rich, deep laugh that echoed throughout the room.

“This is the real stuff, Master Umkosta. Drink up!”

He scowled at his own glass and gingerly took another sip, grimaced, and yet another.

“It’s not so bad once you get used to it,” he said to Robert.

“I’m drinking mine at my own pace, thanks.”

“No hurry, Master Robb,” smiled Clara, then turned back to Kostubh. “Master Umkosta, thank you for sharing that story with me. I hoped that you would, because I’ve already heard much of it. The rest of Peanna’s family were killed, including her mother, and if they’d noticed Peanna they’d’ve killed her too.

“You certainly couldn’t fight them, but you could have run away and left Peanna to die. You didn’t. Now that you know she’s Rom, though, what are your intentions?”

“Uh, I hadn’t really thought about it,” he said slowly, turning the glass on the table. “They’re the same. I don’t care what she is, I couldn’t just leave her to die! And besides, I was bound to care for her, and I will. Be good if we could talk, though... can she talk?”

“Good answer, Master Umkosta, good answer,” nodded Clara. “Yes, I think she’ll start talking again once she recovers a bit. She probably saw her family murdered, and even if she didn’t she’s been ripped from it and entrusted to a total stranger.

“You don’t speak Rom, she doesn’t speak common, but you’re the only thing she has left to hang on to. With time she’ll certainly pick up common. Or whatever you speak to her in. Is it common?”

“Yes,” he said simply, not wanting to reveal that he only knew a few words in Tlungi, the language of Ebnon and most of Tlun. “Too many languages I’d have to speak otherwise.”

“Hah,” she laughed. “You should hear the mix we get around here!”

She poured herself another shot of khoormog and lifted the keg in invitation. Kostubh hurriedly waved his hand to decline, and Robert just shook his head, his hand covering his barely touched glass.

“I’ve had enough, thanks,” said Kostubh. “We need to get off to an early start tomorrow, and I don’t want to drink too much.”

“You’re getting an early start tomorrow, to be sure, but you won’t be ‘off’ to anywhere,” said Clara. “You’re staying with me for a couple weeks until you know more about how to take care of a little girl. It’s obvious she needs you, but she needs a lot more than you know how to give yet.”

“No, we can’t...!”

“Yes, you can, and you will,” she stated firmly. “Your horses have already been stabled and fed, and the bath is waiting. We need to wash Peanna, and from the looks of you, you two could stand a good wash, too.”

“We don’t...”

“Don’t argue with me, Master Umkosta. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.”

She emptied her glass and set it down on the table again.

“Either drink up or not, but you, Master Kostubh, are coming with Peanna and me so I can show you how to bathe her properly.

“Master Robb, will you join us, or bathe later?”

Robb looked to Kostubh for help, surprised by the sudden turn of events, but he just shrugged.

“Uh, later, thanks,” Robb stammered.

“That’s settled, then,” said Clara, standing abruptly. “First thing, Master Umkosta, is how to wake Peanna. Can you do that without starting her crying?”

“Yes, I think so,” he said, and squatted down next to the child without trying to resist Clara’s orders anymore.

He began stroking her hair gently and murmuring to her. Before she even woke up, her hand stretched out, seeking his, and he grasped it to reassure her. It took a few minutes, but shortly Peanna was sitting on his lap back at the table, looking sleepy-eyed at Clara.

“Good job. Off we go, then!”

And Clara led the way to the bath, already steaming with hot water.

* * *

The next morning Clara woke Kostubh and Robert up at the Hour of the Tiger, before sunrise.

“You two, time to get moving! Can’t lie here all day when there’s work to do! Up! Up!”

She rousted them out of bed mercilessly, ignoring their queries and resistance, and dragged them out into the main room, lit by a single lantern on the table.

She stopped to stroke Peanna’s hair and whisper something in her ear, putting her back to sleep again.

“Master Robb, you go with Bincup to check on the swine and fetch clean water,” she said perfunctorily. She used her chin to point to a burly man drinking a cup of something by the front door. He was wearing ragged pants and a beard that almost reached them, and looked like he could lift trees with one hand.

“Master Umkosta, you are going to make breakfast. First thing is getting the fire started.”

Kostubh, still a little lost after his abrupt awakening, shook his head.

“Fire. Yeah, I can do that.”

“You have flint?”

“Yeah, of course,” he said, and pulled out his own flint and steel fire-starter. He knelt down in front of the fireplace and built up the dry grass and kindling before arranging a few of the larger logs on top. He sparked the tinder and blew it to life, watching it for a while to be sure it caught properly.

“Very good. You’ve got that much down right, at least.”

He stood and brushed the ash off his knees.

“Next is eggs. The basket’s over there,” she said, pointing. “Grab it and let’s go. After breakfast you have to mend her sandal and her tunic, and I’ll give you a few pieces of cloth to make a few more out of.”

“I don’t know how to sew!”

“You will,” she predicted, refusing to accept his excuses.

The sky outside was still dark enough to see the stars, but over the Hills of Noor it was already lightening, and the highest peaks were brilliant orange.

He was familiar with chickens and eggs, too, earning another grudging compliment, but then failed miserably when told to pick a variety of herbs for breakfast. Clara was behind him at every step, watching and correcting every move he made. He learned how to identify and use half a dozen herbs that morning.

He had no idea at all how to milk a cow, squirting far too much on the straw-covered dirt, and almost getting kicked for his trouble. Clara ended up finishing the job herself.

Later, as he was making breakfast for five people—the four of them plus the new man, Bincup—a man’s silhouette appeared in the doorway, now brighter on the cusp of dawn.

“Mistress?”

Clara turned to greet him at once, wiping her hands on her tunic.

“Oh, good morning to you, Master Gustaf.”

“We caught four of them last night, Mistress. No sign of the fifth one.”

“The four can’t tell us?”

The man chuckled quietly.

“Not anymore, I’m afraid.”

Clara stepped out of the house.

“Hmm, so I see,” she said. “The usual way, then.”

Kostubh moved the eggs off the fire and walked over to see the robbers.

They weren’t there.

At least, not all of them.

Four heads, one missing an ear and a chunk of skull with it, sat on a bloodstained cloth on the dirt.

“Yes, Mistress,” said the new man—Gustaf, she had called him—and picked up the corners of the cloth to hold the heads like a bag. He swung it up and over his shoulder and walked off down the road. “I’ll get it done right away.”

“Get what done, Mistress?”

“You didn’t notice the heads along the road when you came?”

“Oh,” said Kostubh. “Yeah, we noticed. Decided we wanted to avoid causing trouble here...”

“Good idea. A lot of scum seem to think they can get away with all sorts of things in Andersweald.”

“Why did he ask you?”

“You don’t know?” she asked, surprised. “I’m in charge here; have been for many years. Reeve, so to speak.”

Umkosta managed to get the eggs cooked without burning them, herbs and all, and at Clara’s suggestion set them aside.

It was time to wake Peanna.

He quietly walked up to the bed and squatted next to the pillow.

Her eyes were open, watching him.

He smiled and there was a sudden explosion as she burst out from under the covers and latched onto his chest like a burr, knocking him off-balance and onto his ass in the process.

He instinctively stretched one arm out to soften his fall, but the other one was wrapped around the girl to make sure she wasn’t hurt.

They lay on the floor for a moment, and he whispered good morning into her ear.

She gave him another hug and whispered back, “Dat.”

He finally managed to stand, still hugging her to his chest, and walked back toward the kitchen, where Clara was just pouring five cups of tea. The door banged open and Robert walked in, followed closely by Bincup.

He tried to set Peanna down on one of the benches but she refused to let go.

“Peanna, please, set and wait for a minute,” he pleaded, but she ignored him, face buried into this chest.

“Mistress Clara? Can you help?”

She laughed.

“Poor Master Umkosta! You wanted to be responsible for her, now you are! You’ll learn how to do everything with Peanna in your arms or underfoot; might as well start practicing.”

He grimaced, and set the pan full of bacon and eggs in the center of the table, where it joined a plate of bread and cheese and the ever-present pot of hot tea.

Peanna finally relented when he sat on a bench himself, and quite happily devoured an enormous helping of bacon and eggs, and huge slabs of bread and cheese. She sat on his lap, though, and Kostubh found that he didn’t mind it very much after all.

“Mistress? Peanna said something when she woke up just now. Sounded like ‘Dat,’ I think.”

Clara laughed again and reached over to scrunch up Peanna’s hair.

“Is this your dat, Peanna?”

The girl smiled and nodded her head almost imperceptibly.

“Good girl, Peanna!”

She sat back and poured herself another cup of tea.

“Congratulations, Master Umkosta. She just called you Father.”

* * *

A few months later, Kostubh and Peanna left on the next stage of their journey, on horseback.

Robert—now and forever Robb—didn’t accompany them, choosing instead to remain in Andersweald. He’d grown to love the village, nestled in the small patch of woods between mountains and desert, and got along so well with Bincup that he’d moved in with him.

Robb himself was surprised. He’d always wanted to be a trader, sailing the Middle Ocean and the Southern Sea to fabled lands, but it turned out that he just felt at home in Andersweald. And, surprisingly, it turned out that he was remarkably good with animals.

Kostubh understood his responsibilities much better now, and he was much better prepared to handle them. He’d never thought of being a father, but nevertheless he’d become one, and he found that it suited him.

Among other things he now knew how to sew, to fell trees and split them into firewood, to rock a child to sleep, to raise and slaughter swine, to smoke ham, to thatch a roof, to sing lullabies to little girls, to bake bread, to braid pigtails, to drink khoormog, to trim a horse’s hooves, and to kiss a skinned knee.

It turned out that Peanna was actually four, small for her age, and always celebrated her birthday in the summer. When summer came, they decided that they would celebrate her fifth birthday on the first day of Iris Bloom, in the month of Summer Solstice.

Peanna had opened up, and was learning common through some secret osmosis, absorbing words and phrases seemingly from the air, babbling throughout the day. Every so often she’d say something in Rom when she didn’t know the common word for it, but Kostubh suspected she’d forget her birth language completely within months.

He wished he knew Rom so he could talk to her in her own language, but he’d only managed to pick up a few random words here and there... a few of which he must be pronouncing wrong because she always laughed.

The journey from Andersweald across the narrow strip of desert to the shadows of the Mohaggers should take about a day and a half, which meant spending a night in the desert somewhere. They couldn’t move from mid-morning through the evening, when the desert was at its hottest, and would have to use a sunshade and a simmer to wait it out. They would take plenty of water, of course, but hopefully it would be a short, safe trip. He was taking a spare mount as well, to switch off during the ride, and just in case.

She had asked where they were headed, and Kostubh had no good answer. Robert had found a place that felt like home, but he was still searching. Now he had to think for two, not just for himself.

Robb, Clara, and Bincup saw them off.

Robb checked his water one more time, and double-checked the horse’s cinch.

“Water’s OK. Sunshade?”

“In my bag.”

“Shimmer?”

“All ready.”

“And incense?”

“Robb, I’m ready to go. We’ve checked it all already, remember? It’s starting to get dark, and I want to start the desert crossing as soon as it cools.”

Robb stretched out his arm to Kostubh, and they exchanged a wrist-shake.

“Take care. And send a message to let me know where you end up,” he said.

“I will, Robb, I will. You take care of yourself, hear?”

Robb stood back to let Clara approach.

She also stretched out her arm, but instead of grasping Kostubh’s arm in a wrist-shake pulled him sideways, almost off the horse.

She bent forward and spoke quietly so only he could hear.

“You take care of Peanna and raise her right. Anything goes wrong, come back here.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“And if I hear that you’ve mistreated her in any way, I will recall just how much you resemble Kostubh of Shiroora Shan, and I will find you. We clear?”

She knew who he was! Who they were!

Before he could compose himself she pushed him back up straight in the saddle and slapped him hard on the thigh.

“Safe journey, Master Umkosta of Ebnon! Safe journey, Peanna!”

“Safe journey!” echoed the other two, and then the horse broke into a trot as she smacked it on the haunch. Both mounts started trotting into the evening.

By the time he thought of something to say Clara and the others were already out of sight in the darkening evening.

He wondered for a moment if he should warn Robert, but decided that it didn’t really matter that much... he hadn’t done anything, and if Clara hadn’t outed them yet, she’d have no reason to suddenly out Robert.

He turned his attention to their journey.

The huge blocks of stone making up the road were clearly visible, kept clean of desert sand by men and animals crossing back and forth. Every so often one of the enigmatic statues rose to mark the route. Eroded by centuries of wind-borne sand it was impossible to tell what they might have been when they were first erected, but it was common knowledge that they were of the Lizard People, who had built the roads and the fabled underground tunnels in the ancient past.

“Snake man!” said Peanna, pointing at one of the statues as they passed.

He guessed she’d seen them before, traveling with her family in that wagon. He wondered again where she had come from, who her parents had been.

The road wasn’t as empty as he’d expected. A number of people were travelling from the Mohagger Mountains toward Andersweald, usually riding alone or a small group of two or three people. Ahead of him a small caravan of half a dozen horses was travelling in the same direction, visible in the silver moonlight over the desert.

He pulled Peanna closer and wrapped the blanket around them both, tying the ends up behind his neck like a sling to hold her tight. The desert was growing cold now that it was dark, but he wanted to ride as far as they could by morning.

Peanna fell asleep in his arms.

He stopped several times during the night to let the horse rest and stretch his legs.

Peanna opened her eyes far enough to make sure he was there, and fell back to sleep again, cozy in the blanket.

It was a long, quiet slog through the night. The wide river of stars was brilliant across the sky, hidden only by the moon and the distant mountain peaks. The dunes to the sides of the trade road were generally low, revealing immense vistas stretching to the horizon, sometimes with black shadows slinking low or racing in pursuit of some prey.

They had no encounters that night, human or otherwise, as Kostubh kept a fixed distance between himself and the caravan ahead of him.

As the dawn approached and the eastern sky over the Hills of Noor began to lighten, he began searching for any hill or tree that might offer the slightest shadow during the day to come.

There was nothing, as he’d been warned.

He kept riding slowly, preserving the horses’ strength, until the sun finally rose above the now-distant mountains, stretching his long shadow in front of him. The temperature would rise sharply, and he had to get the day camp set up soon.

He twitched the rains and guided the horse to the side of the road, next to one of the time-worn statues. It wasn’t big enough to offer much in the way of shadow, but at least it provided a good place to tie the sunshade to.

With the sunshade up and the shimmer working, the heat in the camp would be merely very hot as opposed to fatally hot. He could see that the mountains ahead—the Mohaggers—were considerably closer than the Hills of Noor behind, and he had no doubt they’d reach their safety the coming night. With safety that close he could afford to use water freely, and he left the horses drink their fill. They’d stopped for food and water during the night ride, too, of course, but the night had been cold.

Peanna awoke and looked around curiously.

“Where are we?”

“Right in the middle of nowhere at all. We came from Clara’s house, over that way,” he said, pointing, “and we’re almost to the Mohagger Mountains that way. There’s nothing to see and nothing to do until this evening.

“Hungry?”

She sat up with eyes wide open. “Yes!”

“OK, you get the fire started, and I’ll get the horses fed,” he suggested, and helped her get the firewood down off the horse. They’d only brought a little, for breakfast now and supper later, before they set out on the final leg of the journey.

He helped her dig a small firepit and buried the better half of their money under it as Clara had suggested, just for safety. He watched her arrange the kindling and firewood properly, then use her own flint and steel—his birthday present to her on her fifth birthday, just recently—to light the fire. He felt inanely proud of the way she was growing into a strong, able girl.

She might be small for her age, he thought, but she’s grown up inside fast.

The horses weren’t happy to be in the middle of a hot desert and didn’t seem to like the shade over their heads or the way the shimmer distorted the view, but that didn’t interfere with their appetite or their thirst any. They’d been over this route many times, Clara had said, so he didn’t expect any special problems.

By the time he was done, so was she. The fire was hot and ready, and she’d already put the water on to boil. He didn’t really feel much like hot tea right now, but he could drink it after it cooled a bit, too... if it cooled at all in the heat.

Their breakfast didn’t need fire at all, consisting of hard, thin slabs of oven-baked bread, smoked ham, bean curry, and some sort of spiced pumpkin mash that Bincup had made for them. They just warmed it up a bit and dug in.

As a surprise, Kostubh pulled an orange from his pack and handed it to Peanna, taking another for himself. The sweet, tangy taste was perfect after the spicy breakfast.

Then they settled down to snooze for the day.

Humans and horses alike rested fitfully throughout the day, the heat oppressive and inescapable. There was no wind, not even the tiniest breeze, but at least they had water. Warm water, but water.

At last the sun began to slide down from its seemingly eternal position directly overhead, toward the peaks of the Mohaggers, and the shadows began to grow a millimeter at a time.

Kostubh woke fully up when the air moved: the first breeze of the evening had come.

He struggled to his feet to give the horses more water, and when he turned Peanna was sitting up, stretching.

“Hi, sleepyhead!”

“I want a drink too” she answered, and held out her hands for the waterskin.

He handed it to her carefully, because it was still quite heavy and unwieldy, but she balanced it neatly on her crossed legs to pour out a cupful.

She stoppered the skin and lifted the cup to her lips, and suddenly stopped, eyes staring behind him.

He spun around to see men walking up, through the shimmer, swords drawn.

Robbers.

He dove for his sword, lying next to where he’d been sleeping, grabbing it and rolling back to his feet in the same lithe movement.

Three of them.

Robbers, brigands, maybe murderers... the same sort of scum that had killed Peanna’s family.

He snarled, crouched, sword rising to a defensive position... and froze as he felt a small hand atop his own on the hilt.

It was Peanna.

She looked up at him and shook her head: “Dat, no.”

She had seen all this before!

She had seen her father and brother killed, knew her mother had saved her at the cost of her own life.

And she knew they had no chance against three.

He turned back to the advancing trio.

“There are three of you,” he called. “And the three of you can surely kill me, but I will also take at least one of you with me.

“My daughter is more valuable than my money or my sword... take them, if you will, but leave us be.”

The leader, a man not much older than Kostubh himself, with blue eyes and black hair drawn into a single braid hanging at the side of his head, halted, and stood up straight, his sword dropping down.

“You surrender?”

“If you promise us our lives and freedom, yes. Take anything you like.”

The other man stood silent for a moment, then nodded.

“I do so promise.”

Kostubh grasped Peanna’s hand in his own and dropped his sword onto the sand.

The leader stepped forward, sword point first, until he was almost within reach.

“You are a brave man to trust us so.”

“No, I am a father. Take what you want and leave.”

“Your money.”

Kostubh handed the other his wallet without hesitation.

“We’ll take your sword and your horses, too,” said the robber as he took the wallet and picked up Kostubh’s sword.

“Please, leave us one horse and enough water to reach the Mohaggers,” he pleaded.

“This is not much,” said the other, opening the wallet to see how much money was inside.

“I am not a wealthy man,” Kostubh shrugged, “as you can see from my belongings.”

“But a brave one, I judge,” nodded the robber. “So be it. One horse and water.”

He turned to the other two and waved them into action.

They dumped Kostubh’s pack out on the ground, picked up one or two items that caught their fancy, and were gone again in minutes with one of the horses.

The leader was the last to leave.

“You may need this, too,” he said, and plunged Kostubh’s sword into the sand at his feet. “Good luck.”

And they were gone.

They reached the scraggly trees along the eastern flank of the Mohaggers close to dawn the next day. It had taken quite a bit longer than he had planned: with only one horse they’d walked much more slowly to avoid exhausting it. They stopped to rest in the first acceptable site they found, under a fallen tree well off the road.

Kostubh hadn’t spoken a word since their encounter, and he remained silent as he collected firewood and built the small fire to warm themselves at.

Peanna never left his side, and when he sat to prepare tea, she snuggled up at his side.

“You saved my life back there, Peanna,” he said finally. “Saved both our lives.”

She hugged him.

“I was ready to fight them, and I would have been killed. Sure, I might have killed one of them, maybe injured another, but small consolation. I’d still be dead.

“They just took half my horses and half my money. A cheap price to pay to protect you, Peanna!”

She squeezed harder.

They were both dead-tired after the trek across the desert, but their spirits rose as the sun lit the yet-sparse trees around them. The road continued west through the mountains toward the Lake of Sarnath, which most said would be well to avoid, and farther north toward Mondath and the other cities of the North Mohaggers. If they did cross the range to circle around the lake, the scattered trees would become dense forests.

Still, here between mountain and desert they had trees, and birds, and racing mountain streams to drink from, and birdsong.

They felt they had entered a fresh new world.

It would be another two days or so through the mountains and longer to go around them, even on the trade road, but Kostubh first wanted to find a safe place to rest and catch up on their sleep. They rested for a few hours, ate, and then set off at a leisurely pace north, taking the long way around the Mohaggers to stay well clear of the Lake of Sarnath. They walked, leading the horse behind them as they wended their way toward Tsol.

They continued to follow the trade road, meeting small parties now and again on their way to Andersweald, or farther south to Drinen or Despina. The road was unguarded but Kostubh figured they’d be safe enough—they had almost nothing to steal, and they looked it.

Clara said it would take about two days to reach Tsol, and since they weren’t in a hurry anyway he walked slow enough to enjoy the scenery, play with Peanna, and hunt good food along the way Their leisurely pace also meant they could take time to locate the best spots to spend the night, too. It was more of a vacation than a journey: Kostubh had almost forgotten his fear of being chased and captured by the guard of Eudoxia, and Peanna didn’t cry out in her sleep anymore.

Tsol was a tiny caravanserai built around a tinier oasis, with a dozen mortar-walled houses crowding into the scant shade offered by the palm trees. There were a few goats wandering around, and several small groups of travelers resting up before heading out on the next leg of their journeys.

It wasn’t at the edge of the mountains, but in the desert itself some distance away. The ancient Trade Road from the south, marked by those enigmatic, time-worn statues, passed through Tsol, avoiding the Mohaggers and split into two, one road toward turning eastward to Tsun, and the other due north to the City-not-well-to-enter.

A few veterans of the desert took that route to Tsun, but nobody ever traveled north and nobody ever came from the City-not-well-to-enter, leaving that fork of the Trade Road and its statues lost to the sands.

Kostubh hadn’t planned on spending the night there, preferring a quieter, hidden site deep in the woods somewhere, but once Peanna discovered dates there was no way around it. That night he had a lot of beans and a few dates, and the girl had a few beans and a lot of dates.

He figured they’d be eating dates until they finally reached the North Mohaggers and left the desert, and bought a big bag from one of the villagers to keep Peanna happy on the way.

They left the following morning, returning to the road around the Mohagger Mountains and following it westward. It took them about a week to reach the North Mohaggers, where the range encircling the Lake of Sarnath merged into the mountains surrounding the enormous valley where the cities of Arizim, Toldees, and Mondath stood.

Here as well the ring of mountains was thick, and he expected it would take two days to reach the wooded valley of the interior. The road began to rise from the desert’s edge up, up onto the flanks of the mountains, twisting and turning to allow carts and wagons to navigate the slopes.

Kostubh walked slowly up the foothills, Peanna usually walking at his side and only riding—often strapped to the saddle—when she got tired.

Toward noon—a cooler, enjoyable noon instead of the deadly sunlit noon of the desert crossing—they came upon a small deino-drawn cart. It was a large, sturdy cart, with several heavy rocks in the bed, but there was no sign of the driver.

“Peanna, you stay right there for a bit, and let me have a look around,” Kostubh ordered, leaving her on horseback as he dismounted and drew his sword to investigate.

He cautiously checked around the cart and the nearby trees, finding nothing, and was about to give up when he heard a weak cry for help.

Behind the trees, at the base of a small cliff, a man lay on the ground, his leg trapped by a rockfall. He had been collecting stones, some quite large, from the area, and a few of them showed signs of having been shaped.

Kostubh sheathed his sword and ran to him.

“Thank the Gods!” said the man, reaching up for Kostubh’s hand. “The damned face collapsed on me yesterday, and I can’t move. Can you help me out?”

“Of course... Let me have a look here...” he replied, studying the rock on the man’s leg. “Can you move your leg at all?”

“It hurts, but I can move it,” said the other. “I think it’s trapped but not broken.”

“Be nice if we can move this rock without crushing it, wouldn’t it?” said Kostubh, hand on one of the largest rocks. “Let me clear away some of the small stuff and get a better look.”

He cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, “Peanna! Ride toward my voice!”

As he was pulling off smaller rocks and brushing away gravel and dirt, the horse came riding up, Peanna holding the reins herself.

“You can get down, Peanna. Have to get.... what’s your name?”

“Anselm of Olathoë.”

“Sorry, forgot my manners. Umkosta of Ebnon,” said Kostubh. “Peanna, I have to get him free. Just sit for a few minutes.”

Peanna walked over.

“Can I help?”

“Hi, Peanna. Yes, please help!” said Anselm with a smile.

She started pushing pebbles and dirt away, too, and in a short time they could see Anselm’s leg more clearly. As he’d thought, the biggest rock was atop his leg, but prevented from crushing it directly by smaller rocks. If they could just move the large rock a little, without dropping it on his leg, it should be possible for him to pull it out.

“I think if I get a stiff pole right under here,” said Kostubh, pointing at the base of the largest rock, “I can lever it up a little bit... might be enough.”

“Sorry, I can’t see where you’re pointing,” said Anselm. “I don’t have a lot of options here; try it!”

“OK, let me try to find something. Don’t go anywhere!”

“Ha ha, very funny,” grimaced Anselm.

“You stay here, Sweet Pea. I’ll be right back.”

As Kostubh was searching for a suitable pole, Anselm and Peanna talked.

“Are you Peanna or Sweet Pea?”

“Peanna,” she giggled. “And Sweet Pea.”

“I’m Anselm, Sweet Pea. Can I call you Sweet Pea?”

She nodded.

“Sweet Pea, could you get me some water to drink?”

She nodded again, vigorously, and scampered back to the horse to fetch the canteen. The skin was too heavy for her to handle easily.

She handed the canteen to Anselm.

“Thank you, dear,” he said, pulling out the stopper and taking a long drink. “That was wonderful.”

He rammed the stopper in and handed it back.

“I hope you like old wine, Master Anselm,” said Kostubh was he walked out into the open. “I’ve got some water, too, if you’d prefer.”

“No, no, that was fine. Getting me out of here is more important.”

“Well, I found a pretty good tree, but I’ll need to fell it and lop some of the branches off. It’ll take awhile with the little hatchet I’ve got.”

“On my cart. Don’t have an axe,” said Anselm, “but you’ll find chisels and mallets, for cutting stone. Might be quicker.”

“Might be, might be at that. I’ll go see.”

He left, walking back toward the cart, and in a short while the distant sound of the mallet striking echoed, followed by a muffled curse, and then more mallet strikes.

Eventually Kostubh appeared dragging a long, fairly thin tree trunk behind him.

“It’s a little springy, but should be good enough for this short distance,” he said, and pushed the thick end into the hole under the large rock.

“Peanna, you see that bluish rock right there? By my right foot?”

She nodded and looked up.

“I’m going to lift this big rock up,” he explained, “and when I tell you I want you to push that rock into this hole. Can you do that?”

She smiled, nodded, and squatted down next to the rock, ready to push.

Kostubh moved a large rock into position right under the tree trunk to serve as a fulcrum, then walked a few meters down the trunk to grasp it.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

He pushed down with all his might, shifting most of his body weight onto the trunk. The tree quivered and bent, but the big rock moved upward a little bit.

“Now, Peanna!”

She pushed the rock into the hole as hard as she could, and sat there, her hands still in the hole.

“Get back! Get your hands out of there!” he shouted, and just as she pulled her hands back his strength failed and the trunk flew back up, out of his hands.

Peanna was safe, and the rock pinning Anselm had shifted upward a little bit.

“Can you move it now?”

Anselm pushed his hands against the ground, trying to pull himself out.

“It moved a little bit, but not yet,” he said. “My boot is caught on something, I think, and I can’t bend my foot far enough to pull it out of the boot.”

“I can see your boot...” said Kostubh. “Maybe I can cut it off?”

“More likely you’d cut my foot off!”

“Hmm. Yeah, let’s try that later, then.”

“Oil. Oil sticky things,” announced Peanna.

“Of course!” shouted Kostubh, and leapt to his feet. He ran to the horse and rummaged through his pack, pulling out a small stoppered flask and holding it up proudly. “Neatsfoot oil. Should do the trick.”

He poured the oil onto Anselm’s leg and boot as best he could, and finally Anselm managed to pull his foot out.

He was free. Barefoot on one leg, but free again.

His foot was purple and badly swollen, and he screamed in pain when Kostubh touched it.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” said Kostubh, “but you’d better ride in the cart.”

They helped him hobble over to the cart and clamber up.

“Where are you headed, Master Anselm?”

“Back to Mondath, of course,” replied the mason. “I live there.”

“We’re headed there, too. Perhaps we’ll tag along, keep an eye on the deino for you.”

“That’s wonderful! Thank you, thank you... I was wondering how I’d manage to get home with this foot.”

Kostubh stopped to pick up a chisel and mallet he’d been using and handed them to Anselm.

“That everything?”

“Uh... could you see if you can get my boot out? Good boots are damned expensive.”

Robert laughed and knelt down to look into the gap they’d pulled his foot out of.

He reached in his hand and scrabbled for the boot, fingers touching leather, but the boot was smeared with oil and he couldn’t get a solid grip. He tried wiggling it back and forth while pulling gently... with Anselm’s foot finally out, the boot should be easier to move, he thought.

He gave one last grunt, pulling against the weight of the rock with all his force, and collapsed in defeat.

“Sorry, Master Anselm... It’s jammed in there, and covered with oil, too. I don’t think it’s coming out unless we move that rock, and that’s a very big rock.”

“Damn fine boots, these were,” sighed Anselm. “Still, better to lose a boot than a foot, eh?”

Kostubh sat where he’d fallen, catching his breath for a minute.

Peanna, who’d been squatting next to him, watching intently as he struggled, walked over to the rock and curiously peered into the crevice hiding the boot.

She lay down and stuck her arm in, pulling out a small rock, and then a second. She reached in a third time.

Kostubh turned at the sound of her giggle to see her holding an oil-smeared trophy.

“You did it! Peanna!”

She giggled again and handed it to Kostubh before wiping her hands on her tunic.

“Master Anselm! Peanna got your boot after all!”

* * *

They camped at the side of the road that night, the deino and the horse munching grass together quite happily as the three of them shared a simple stew and the warmth of the campfire.

Anselm’s foot looked no better but he said the pain was ebbing. They’d tied a splint to his leg to help prevent it from moving, because every motion was agony.

Peanna wanted to spend more time with the deino than with them but proved unable to resist the enticement of hot food, even if it did have carrots in it. She ate three bowls and fell asleep at the fire.

Kostubh wrapped her up in the blanket and sat sipping tea with Anselm.

Anselm removed a long pipe and a cloth bag from his wallet, and proceeded to pack the pipe with tobacco, lighting it with an ember from the fire, puffing away until it caught properly.

“You smoke?”

“Uh, no,” said Kostubh, recalling the thagweed he’d had at Lili’s, where all this had started. “I’ve tried it, and thagweed too, but don’t really care for either.”

“You get used to it,” snorted Anselm, teeth clamped on his pipe as he massaged his foot. “And Mondath grows the best tobacco in the Dreamlands.”

“I thought that was Arizim?”

“Arizim? Don’t be ridiculous!” laughed the other. “Mondath Longleaf is better than anything you’d find in Arizim. Their thagweed isn’t bad, but I’m not much of a thagweed man.”

“Pretty foul stuff,” agreed Kostubh.

“Yup, it is that, it is that.”

Anselm puffed in silence for a bit, then “What’s in Mondath for you?”

Kostubh shrugged.

“Don’t know. I wanted to see other places, and Mondath is next, I guess. We’re not in a hurry to get anywhere, me and Peanna.”

“You’re pretty young to have a girl that old...”

“She’s not mine. Not by blood, anyway,” said Kostubh, and explained how she’d been thrust upon him.

“Changed everything for me,” he ended. “I didn’t have any idea what I wanted to do with my life, but I do now.”

“And that is?”

“Her,” he pointed at the sleeping girl. “That’s what I’m doing with my life, and don’t regret a second of it.”

Anselm puffed again.

“You need a place to stay in Mondath?”

Kostubh considered the offer.

“I hadn’t really considered it,” he answered finally. “I figured we’d just take what Fate gives us.”

“Well, I’m not Fate, but I do have plenty of room, and I’d love the company.”

“I... Thank you, Master Anselm, thank you very much! Just as soon as Peanna wakes up I need to check with her, but I think we’d be very happy to accept your kind offer.”

“The young mistress would prefer to sleep with the deinos, I suspect...”

Kostubh laughed.

“No doubt she would, but I think not. Not yet, anyway... perhaps when she’s bigger.”

“You take your responsibilities as a parent very seriously.”

“She has no-one else,” said Kostubh, shrugging.

“That would not be reason enough for many young men.”

The silence stretched for a few minutes until Kostubh stood.

“I’ll check the animals and sleep now, Master Anselm. Safe night.”

“And a safe night to you, Master Umkosta.”

The horse and deino were settled down for the night, so Kostubh pulled the blanket up over Peanna’s shoulders and lay down next to her.

He watched the tree branches gently swaying in the breeze, hiding and revealing the starry heavens, until he slipped away.

After a breakfast of beans, rice, and a few bird eggs that Peanna found around dawn, they set out once again, trudging next to the deino toward Mondath.

They began to encounter scattered farms every so often, and traffic on the road gradually increased as people headed to market, either taking goods to sell there or looking to buy something.

Anselm recognized one older couple and called out.

“Master Torask! Good morning to you!”

Torask turned and squinted at Anselm for a moment, apparently unable to make out who it was. The woman with him elbowed him in the side and whispered something in his ear.

“Oh, Master Anselm! I didn’t recognize you.”

“My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be either,” chuckled Anselm, “but I can still recognize an old friend. And a beautiful woman as well! How are you, Mistress?”

The woman smiled and bobbed her head.

“Much better than you seem to be, Master Anselm. More of your rocks, I see... and riding while this princess walks!?”

“She can outwalk me, I’m afraid,” said Anselm, pointing to his crude splint. “Hurt my foot.”

They guided their cart—a simple affair with two wood wheels and a donkey to pull it—over next to Anselm’s, and the woman insisted on taking a look at it right then and there.

Anselm winced when she touched it, but after a brief examination and a few grunts and murmurs she pronounced it unbroken and said it should heal just fine.

“Thank you, Mistress... I didn’t think it was broken but it’s good to hear you agree.”

“Keep it cold for now, and when the swelling goes down a bit more try warm massage,” she advised, then turned to Kostubh. “Karah of Mondath, and my husband Torask.”

“Torask of Monath,” said the older man.

“Umkosta of Ebnon, and this i—”

“Peanna! Of Kostubh!” she proclaimed proudly.

A frown flickered across Kostubh’s brow for a moment at his real name, but nobody seemed to notice it.

“A very good day to you, Mistress Peanna,” smiled Karah, and curtsied.

Peanna giggled.

The five of them continued toward Mondath together, with Peanna now happily riding atop the donkey and giving it bites of the carrots she shamelessly stole from Torask’s cartload.

At last the forest petered out, to be replaced by vast fields of crops. The farmhouses all had their vegetable fields clustered nearby, with spreads of tobacco, thagweed, and various grains spreading out farther.

Anselm’s home was outside the city ramparts— stone walls half way, earthen dykes topped with a wood palisade the rest —and after making sure Kostubh would be there to help Anselm, the two farmers continued on to the market to sell their produce.

Anselm lived and worked in an old millhouse, built long ago and vacant when he moved in decades earlier. The waterwheel still worked, although it had to be repaired constantly, but Anselm used it to drive grinders and polishers instead of millstones, working stone as he needed. He lived in the adjoining wood-and-mortar house, by himself, and the silo was pretty much unused except by a few friendly owls.

The house was quite small, but ample for a man living alone, and even with Kostubh and Peanna was more than large enough. Kostubh filled the bath, which was quite easy as all he had to do was open the pipe drawing the river water, and lit a fire beneath it to warm it up. Peanna explored the house, popping back every few minutes to be sure Kostubh was still there, and to announce some new and exciting discovery.

She was especially excited to discover a squirrel’s nest, and immediately demanded an apple so she could make friends.

Anselm apologized for the mess, and the lack of food.

“I live alone; hadn’t planned on visitors,” he explained. “There’s plenty of cornmeal—ground it myself—and beans, and there’s a little vegetable patch outside and to the left. The coop’s out there, too... should be eggs.”

“We’re used to roughing it, Master Anselm, don’t worry,” said Kostubh. “Just having a roof over our heads and a fire to warm our toes and tea at will be wonderful.

“I’ve got some of Mistress Clara’s honey ham left, too, which I’ll be happy to donate,” offered Kostubh, and started to rise from his chair when he was interrupted by a piercing scream.

Peanna!

He shot to his feet and raced into the hallway.

“Peanna! Where are you?”

There was another scream from the distance.

He heard her voice from inside one of the rooms adjoining the silo and burst through the doorway, sword in hand. She was standing just inside, eyes huge, mouth trembling, staring at a row of grotesque monsters illuminated by the rays of sunlight pouring in through the high windows, squatting on the floor around her, surrounding her with fanged jaws, bulbous eyes, and webbed feet.

He pulled her back behind himself and advanced, crouching, sword forward.

She grabbed hold of his leg, clutching tight in fear, face buried in his tunic but one eye still watching the horde of beasts in front of them.

Kostubh slowly rose from his crouch, sword point dropping, and patted Peanna on the back.

“They’re just statues, Peanna, look,” he grinned and tapped the closest one on the head with his sword. It rang dully, the sound of steel on stone, and Peanna’s grip loosened.

He grasped her hand and bounced his sword off a few more of the bizarre statues, clanging her fear away.

She slowly walked up to one and gingerly touched it, confirming it was indeed stone, and finally relaxed. She swatted it across the snout with a laugh.

“Sorry, I should have warned her,” came Anselm’s voice from behind. “These are my gargoyles. Lord Barsharva hired me to make all the gargoyles for the city walls, and I’ve been at it for a few years already.”

Kostubh looked around the room.

There were many blocks of stone, some still rough slabs, others showing signs of working and shaping, some almost complete and frightening in their realism. Against the right wall was a single taller statue, hidden in shadow.

Drawn by its height, Kostubh walked closer for a better look.

It was a woman, caught dancing forward gayly, flowers in hands and hair, her pure, delicate face smiling with godly love. Except for the face, the statue was still half-finished, the legs mere rough-cut chunks of rock.

He stopped in awe, mouth open at its beauty.

“The Goddess Agdistis,” explained Anselm.

“She’s beautiful...” breathed Kostubh. “It’s as if she’s alive, frozen in time.”

Anselm hobbled closer and stroked her face.

“I’ve been working on Agdistis for seven years now,” he said quietly. “I expect it’ll take me at least another seven to finish.”

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful...”

“Pretty lady, isn’t she, Dat?”

He knelt, bringing his head down to her level.

“This is Agdistis, the goddess of marriage. And other things,” he explained, leaving out that she was also the goddess of sexuality.

He turned toward Anselm.

“Can you teach me? To do this?”

Anselm laughed.

“Sure, all you need is a few decades of practice!”

He laughed again, then suddenly stopped and looked closer at Kostubh.

“You’re serious.”

“I am,” he replied. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful... even those gargoyles! The stones are alive!”

“You feel the stone calling you?”

“I... Yes, I do,” said Kostubh, running his fingertips over the roughness of the unfinished statue’s base. “It’s almost... I can’t explain it. Sensual? No, more than that... something deeper, in my soul.”

Anselm nodded.

“I can’t describe it either,” he said, “and I’ve been trying for many, many years.”

He sat down heavily on a gargoyle, taking the weight off his foot with a sigh.

“How long does it take to learn?”

“To capture life in stone? For those blessed with talent and determination, a lifetime.”

“And for those without?”

“Longer. You’re young, still a long life ahead of you… You really want to spend it chipping rocks?”

Kostubh stroked the stone once more, admiring its cool power.

“Yes, I think I do,” he said finally.

* * *

Lajita stepped into the drawing room, wondering who had asked to first see Varun—who had died several years earlier—or herself.

A woman of about her age awaited her, maybe fifty or sixty.

The tea and sweets the maid had served sat untouched on the table.

At her entrance both stood, bowing slightly.

“Peanna of Mondath.”

“Lajita Chabra of Shiroora Shan,” she responded, and gestured toward the chairs. “Please, sit.”

They sat back down again as she took her own seat closer to the door.

“How may I help you today?”

“My father—Umkosta of Mondath—charged me on his deathbed to bring you this gift, and a message.”

“Master Umkosta of Mondath...? I don’t believe I’ve ever...”

“He said you would not know him by that name, but that when you saw the sculpture you would understand.”

Lajita tilted her head slightly.

“What is the message?”

“He said that your brother Kostubh died in the desert west of Andersweald, and begs your forgiveness for his crime.”

“So my brother did die, then... we never knew what had happened to him,” said Lajita slowly. “My forgiveness...? What is there to forgive? The dead are dead, and Kostubh and his crime forgotten with them.

“I never stopped loving my brother and wondering what had happened... Gitanshu told us what he knew, little as it was, but we never thought that was the whole story.

“Forgive? No, I cannot forgive him, for I know not what he did. But I would willingly welcome him home again as my beloved brother were he yet alive.”

She straightened up and looked straight at Peanna.

“And where is this sculpture?”

“Right outside, on a cart, Mistress.”

“This is all very strange,...” she said, standing. “But you have tickled my curiosity. I would like to see this sculpture of yours.”

Two horses waited patiently in front of the Main House, under the watchful eyes of four guards, two Chabra and two who must have come with Peanna. The cart was empty but for a fairly small item covered by cloth and lashed in place on the load bed.

Peanna nodded to one of her guards, and he began to untie the ropes.

“Father was a mason by trade, but his love was sculpture, and of all the sculptures he worked on in his life this was his dearest. He never told me who she was.”

Lajita leaned forward to get a better look.

The cloth covering fell away, and the bust burst into golden glory as the sunlight touched the marble, a soft, almost transparent cream with thin streaks of gold running through it like errant threads.

“...Mother!” gasped Lajita, eyes huge, hand over mouth in astonishment. “How...?”

It was a head-and-shoulders bust of the First Lajita, the Seeress, as she looked half a century earlier, in her prime. It was perfect, every strand of hair, every line of her face, the faint dimple in her right cheek.

It was her in every way, in stony flesh.

“You said your father was Master Umkosta of Mondath,” she finally said. “Was he originally of Mondath?”

“No, Mistress. He always said he was from Ebnon, but he spoke of Shiroora Shan often.”

“Umkosta... Kosta... I wonder.... Did he ever mention my name, or House Chabra, to you?”

“House Chabra? I seem to have heard it before, but I cannot recall when or where,” replied Peanna. “Perhaps he passed through here long ago... Why is it so important?”

“It must be he,” whispered Lajita. “After all these years... the artist who carved that bust, the bust of the First Lajita... The First Lajita never said who the sculptor was!”

Lajita turned back to Peanna.

“And you are his daughter. You are a Chabra, my own blood!”

“No,” Peanna shook her head, “I was adopted. He saved me from the brigands who killed my parents and raised me as his own. I am the sculptor of Mondath now.”

“Chabra is more than mere blood; you are one of us,” murmured Lajita. “Come inside, dear Mistress Peanna. We have much to talk about.”

END

“Tomorrow we’re going to ride down to Cappadarnia, now that the temple to Agdistis is done. Karadi and Atisha are coming with us. Would you like to come, too?”

“Cappadarnia, Mama!? Yeah, let’s go!” nodded Arun enthusiastically. The nine-year old boy loved the sea and leapt at the chance to escape his tutors and ride down the Spine to the Narrows, taking the boats across to the village. They were building a temple to Agdistis, the goddess of family and marriage, in preparation for the big betrothal between his big sister Atisha and Prixadius, the Lord of Ademla.

His father had explained how the marriage would make Ademla an ally, strengthening their position with respect to Eudoxia as far as trade across the Night Ocean. They already controlled a big part of it, of course, with Cappadarnia holding the Narrows and Astarma under Ukos controlling the trade route from the east through the Agnid Mountains to the Ocean.

Once ships passed through the Narrows of Cappadarnia, though, they could head for either Ademla or Eudoxia. Lord Prixadius and Karadi hoped the alliance would help make Ademla the preferred route, to reap more of the profit from the growing trade across the Night Ocean.

They rode over the Seawall, and continued down The Spine toward Cappadarnia. The road was as level as they could make it, considering it had to weave around various mountains along the way, and of course it was patrolled by Shiroora Shan guards—The Spine, the central islands running south of Shiroora Shan down the middle of the Night Ocean, had been safe for years.

It was an easy journey but not a short one. A courier on horseback could make the ride in two hard days, but they were in no hurry and spent four, making camp along the way two nights and staying at the little inn located about halfway for one night.

The inn had no name, and most people just called it Jon’s Place, after the proprietor, a middle-aged man originally from Zaïs who had been running it for a decade or so. It was hardly luxury lodgings, but the food was edible and the room swept clean, at least.

Arun preferred sleeping outdoors, himself, but mother got what mother wanted. She was, after all, the Seeress.

They finally reached the wharf on the near side of the Narrows early in the afternoon on the fourth day. A small flotilla of boats vied for their business, but Karadi ignored them all and headed straight for the waiting Démonique, one of Admiral Ruk’s frigates.

The captain was a thin, nervous woman named Keshala-din.

“Welcome aboard, Lord Karadi, Lady Lajita. My crew will take care of your horses. Watch your step!”

They crossed the gangplank without difficulty, Karadi suppressing a smile at her warning—he’d been on more ships more times than she had, almost certainly, and Lajita had the balance of a mountain goat.

“The wind’s almost behind us today, so we’ll reach Cappadarnia very quickly,” she advised. “Or did you have some other destination?”

“No, Cappadarnia, please,” said Karadi. “But we want to see the new Temple of Agdistis from the sea. I’d appreciate it if you’d give us a chance once it comes into view.”

“Of course, Lord Karadi,” she nodded, and turned away. “Baltric! We’re in no hurry, and the Lord wants to see the temple properly. Furl up a bit.”

“Aye, Captain!” shouted the bare-chested bosun, and began shouting his own orders.

The ship pushed off from the wharf as soon as the horses were aboard, tethered on the deck rather than in the hold.

It was a beautiful day, the sun just beginning to dip down from zenith, and the wind from the northwest, pushing them gently toward Cappadarnia. They could see the far shore of the Narrows easily, although it was hard to make out much detail at this distance.

Arun stood at the prow, almost on the bowsprit itself, one hand on one of the forestays, the other above his eyes to shield them from the sun above. He stared fiercely ahead, tense, legs bending and body swaying in perfect rhythm with the movement of the ship.

Captain Keshala-din watched him nervously... she didn’t want to yell at one of Lord Karadi’s children, but at the same time she feared what would happen if the boy slipped.

“Relax, Captain,” came Lady Lajita’s voice. “The boy’s old enough to take care of himself, and I can assure you he has much left to accomplish before he returns to Nath-Horthath.”

The Captain quickly turned toward her, bowing to hide her unease of the Seeress and her hidden knowledge of the future.

“Are you sure...?”

“Yes, we’re sure, Captain. Leave him be,” came Karadi’s rumble.

“Yes, of course, my Lord,” she said, dipping her head and returning her eyes to scan the sea.

“Watch closely, Karadi,” whispered Lajita, clutching his arm. “Any time now...”

“You sure you want him to do this?”

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. “He has much to do in the coming years, and will bring peace to much discord.”

“But what about Arun?”

“What, exactly, might he lose? Surely he would not begrudge the sacrifice.”

“He is but nine!”

Lajita sighed.

They fell silent, watching Arun standing alone at the prow, the sunlight bright on his hair as it danced in the breeze.

“You should be able to see the Temp—”

“Hush!” commanded Lajita, interrupting the captain with an upraised hand.

The captain fell silent, astonished, and turned to see the two of them raptly watching Arun.

She looked at him standing at the prow, and just at that moment there a golden brilliance shone from the approaching shore: the golden dome of the Temple of Agdistis had captured the fire of the sun, flaring into incandescent beauty.

They watched silently as Arun’s stance gradually changed from rigid eagerness to a softer, yet somehow more powerful stance. He seemed taller, his shoulders broader, the locks blowing in the wind finer and of spun gold.

The prow slipped down a wave crest, and the blinding flare from that distant dome faded to mere sunlit gold. The boy, though, shone, limned in gold as if the rays of the sun still fell upon his form.

“Should we go...?”

“No, let him breathe, my Bear,” replied Lajita. “He’ll need time.”

“So, what, now he’s just Agdistis’s puppet?” asked Karadi, grimacing. “I don’t really understand what you said would happen. Maybe, has happened. I’m not sure I like it…”

“We have little choice when it comes to the Gods, Karadi.”

“Even with your powers?”

“Powers?” laughed Lajita. “I have no powers, only a good memory.”

“You always said you had nothing to do with it.”

“And I still say so. I have no idea why it happened, but in retrospect I’m quite glad I did. After all, I wouldn’t have met you otherwise!”

Karadi fell silent, watching his son with the face of a man who’d just discovered half a worm in the apple he was eating. Lajita, on the other hand, was watching intently, eagerly, eyes afire with curiosity and expectation.

Arun turned, lifted his face toward them, eyes were huge in astonishment, mouth gaping in awe. His skin seemed translucent, as if a tiny sun burned inside, its golden radiance seeping through flesh and bone.

He walked to them as if in a dream, ignoring the creak of the rigging and the sensual motion of the ship.

He walked past a group of sailors working on some crate of cargo on the deck, and one of them happened to stick out an elbow as Arun passed, touching him for the briefest, lightest instant.

The sailor gave a groan, twisted his body in a sudden spasmodic writhe, and staggered, hand outstretched to catch himself on the railing nearby.

He was breathing heavily, eyes closed with open mouth, waving back and forth slightly on wobbly legs.

“Feyon? You OK?”

One of the other sailors, worried, grasped his shoulder, steadying him.

“I’m… fine…” gasped Feyon, and finally opened his eyes, still breathing heavily. “I… I need to rest for a minute…”

He yanked himself free of the other man’s grasp, staggering to the companionway, and down into the hold.

The other sailors looked at each other in bewilderment and stopped when Lajita called to them.

“Master Feyon will be fine, don’t worry. He just had a surprise, that’s all.”

They looked at her and nodded before turning back to their work, but furtive glances made it clear they felt ill at ease around the Seeress of Shiroora Shan.

Lajita looked at Karadi and nodded.

“Well, that part’s come to pass, it seems,” she said.

“Mother… I… I…”

Lajita placed a hand on Arun’s shoulder, looking into his face. The tiny hairs on his cheeks were erect, glinting in the brilliance of some invisible sun.

“We know, Arun. The Goddess Agdistis is with you.”

“How...?”

“I’m the Seeress, remember?” she smiled. “Arun, you will learn to control your power, in time, but until then you must be very careful. Touching someone can release the full power of the Goddess, and that can be too much for many.”

“My power...?” Arun looked at his hands in wonder. “I don’t feel any... What!? Stop!”

He suddenly shouted, shaking his head like a wet dog, thumping his ears with his fists.

He fell to his knees, hands clapped flat over his ears as if to hide from the thunder.

“I am?”

He sat up suddenly, sitting cross-legged on the deck, eyes focused on nothing, talking to nobody.

“Just like that? That simple?”

He stared at his right hand, flexed, raised his index finger and examined it.

“...but why me?

“No! I don’t want it! Go away!” he screamed, hitting his ears with his clenched fists. “Stop it!”

The ship’s crew fell back apprehensively, watching and murmuring.

The golden light surrounding Arun flared, flickered, and Arun gave a short, sharp bleat of pain, then the light dimmed and vanished. His black hair and dark brown irises captured the fading golden radiance, absorbing it and changing to the same regal color.

Arun fell silent, then gave a long, deep sigh as a gentle smile appeared on his lips.

Lajita and Karadi stood watching as Arun swayed gently back and forth. After a moment he opened his golden eyes and looked up at them from under locks that were the color of spun gold.

“I will return to Cappadarnia when I am grown, to the Temple of Agdistis,” he announced, stating a matter of fact rather than asking permission. “The Goddess has directed me.”

He rose lithely to his feet and stood tall in front of them.

“Arun?”

“Yes, father, I’m still Arun. But I’m also Agdistis now.”

He turned to Lajita,

“Who made you, Lajita?” asked Arun, but in a stronger, feminine voice.

“Made me!?” gasped Lajita, eyebrows shooting up. “Made? I wasn’t made, Arun, I was just born, like you.”

Arun’s golden eyes transfixed her.

“You haven’t been born yet... A floating thread.”

“Arun? Is that you, Arun?”

“We are Agdistis,” came that voice again. “You are a float, not part of the pattern, separate from the weave. But you can be woven into the fabric as the shuttle flies.”

“The weave…” breathed Arun in his own voice. “I can’t understand what I’m seeing... a cloth of infinite lives and patterns, stretching as wide as all the peoples of all the races, from the infinite past to the infinite future. But it’s solid, somehow… I can see into it, like through ice, everyone extends deep into its thickness, too. I can see only a small part—I see father’s thread, and my brothers and sisters... I even see Paramjit, suddenly changing to a thread of a different color and pattern. Not dead, but perhaps not Paramjit any more...

“And I see you, a loose strand lying across the pattern as if dropped there, yet woven into place by Karadi’s thread, and my own, and many more.

“There is some greater pattern here, something I’m sure I have seen before, but I cannot pin it down. Like a smell that you know you know but cannot place... it is too huge, too complex, to grasp...”

“I think if the Goddess looks further ahead she will find my thread once again,” suggested Lajita. “I was a snag, torn out of my own pattern and woven back into this world, here and now.”

Suddenly Arun’s hand shot out and touched Lajita on the forehead, a simple tap with a fingertip, then withdrawn again. Suddenly he was merely a nine-year-old boy again.

Lajita shivered, her body twitching and stretching briefly before she dropped to her knees, panting, face flushing red, head hanging down.

Karadi leapt forward, falling to one knee next to Lajita, drawing her close inside the protective circle of his arms.

“Lajita! What happened?”

He turned to Arun.

“What did you do to her?”

Lajita’s hand grasped his arm.

“It’s alright, Karadi,” she said, softly. “It was just too intense to stand; I’m fine. Just hold me. Please.”

“What was too intense?” he demanded, frowning at Arun standing unconcerned nearby.

“Agdistis is the goddess of marriage, and of family. And also of sex. I’ve just had the most powerful orgasm of my life,” she chuckled. “Just like poor Master Feyon just now.

“I knew what was coming, although I didn’t know when. It came on Master Feyon without warning.”

“Arun did that?”

“He’s Arun, but he’s also Agdistis. They are entwined, and until Arun learns self-control he may trigger that in anyone he touches. Or love, he can also instill love.”

She held her arms open wide to reassure Arun, a child suddenly bereft of the golden glow of godhood and childhood innocence.

She gathered him to herself as he began to weep and held him tight against the future.

* * *

Arun groaned and clutched his belly.

It hurt, with a new kind of pain he’d never experienced before.

He could stand it, of course—he was a Chabra—but it hurt nonetheless, a dull ache with occasional spasms that shot through his abdomen.

He rolled over and tried to find a more comfortable position, and froze in shock.

Wet! The mattress was wet!

He’d wet the bed!?

Impossible! He was thirteen now, and hadn’t wet his bed for many, many years.

He touched the wetness, and sniffed his fingertips.

Blood!

Hurriedly he opened the ember box and relit the lantern.

The flickering light revealed several spots of blood and a long streak.

Fresh blood.

He pulled his nightshirt up to see where he was bleeding, and screamed with shock and fear.

It was gone!

His cock, his balls, they were gone!

He reached down, and his fingers found nothing but pubic hair.

His index finger touched something else, though, something that had no business being there… his labia!

His finger glowed golden, and he felt the comforting presence of the Goddess. She had come to him numerous times over the years, although he rarely knew why.

He smiled with relief.

Of course, this was only to be expected. He was still Arun, but he was now a woman. Why had he been so scared a moment ago?

He basked in the warmth of Agdistis’ love.

At the sound of footsteps, he hurriedly pulled his nightshirt down and the blanket up to hide the blood.

It was his sister Hansika, three years his elder.

“Arun? You OK?”

“I, um, yeah,” he stuttered. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you…”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing. Just stomach cramps,” he hurriedly explained. “Go on back to bed; I’m fine.”

“Something you ate?” she asked as she sat down next to him on the bed. “Want me to get you some tea or something?”

“No, really, I’m fine,” he protested. “Really.”

She stretched out a hand to pick up his oil lantern and hold it closer.

“What’s this, here?”

She touched the bloody fingerprint on the blanket.

“Blood! You’re bleeding!”

Hansika shot to her feet and was about to shout for Lajita when he grabbed her arm and pulled her down back to the bed.

“No! Shut up!” he whispered fiercely. “Don’t wake them.”

“But you’re bleeding!”

He turned away and she heard his teeth grinding together.

“Hansika… you know about Agdistis, right?”

“Yeah…”

“And that she’s androgynous?”

“Both male and female? Yeah.”

Arun pulled the blanket down and slowly lifted his nightshirt.

Hansika’s eyes widened, and she smothered a gasp with her hand.

“It’s gone! What happ… Oh my! You’re a girl!”

She shrank back suddenly.

“That’s disgusting! What are you, some sort of monster? You’re not a girl!”

Arun reached out and grabbed her hand gently.

His skin glowed, the tiny hairs on his wrist standing erect, a sheen of golden radiance barely visible in the lantern light.

Hansika tried to pull her arm free, once, then suddenly smiled and hugged Arun close.

“How wonderful, Arun! You’re a girl!

“Stop worrying. Or should I call you Aruna? You just had your first period!”

“But the cramps.”

Hansika shook her head dismissively.

“Not a big deal. Sometimes you get cramps, sometimes not. You get used to it.”

“And the blood!”

“Yeah, messy, sometimes. It lasts for a few days and then stops again.”

“I never thought of being a girl,” he complained, wondering why it didn’t bother him. “I’m still me, though…”

“The Gods rarely care about what we want, Aruna,” laughed Hansika. “I thought I was the youngest girl in the family, but now I’ve got a sister!

“You’re quite attractive, you know, with that golden hair and your dimples. If you only had breasts the boys would be knocking on the door.”

She stopped at a sudden thought.

“Do you have breasts?”

Aruna shook her head.

“Of course not! I’m a boy,” he snapped, but even as he said it his hand touched his chest to make sure.

They were small, but definitely breasts, larger and rounder than his frame had ever held.

He gingerly cupped one.

“…I guess I do…”

Hansika clapped her hands in joy, laughing as he bared his chest to stare at himself in wonder.

“Oh, Asha and I will be so happy! A new sister! Don’t worry, we’ll teach you everything you need to know!”

She jumped to her feet and trotted to the doorway.

“Let me get Asha!”

Asha and Hansika, both older than he was, slept in the next room. Usually, he shared this room with Paramjit, but he’d not been feeling well and was sleeping in mother’s room tonight.

“…a good reason for waking me up in the middle of the night!”

It was Asha’s voice, whispered low, and she didn’t sound at all happy.

Hansika came back into the room, pulling Asha after her by the hand. Arun swung to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.

“Oh, stop your whining, Asha,” said Hansika. “I want to introduce you to our new sister, Aruna.”

Asha pulled her hand free and halted, barely inside Arun’s bedroom.

“Keep your jokes for daytime, Hansika. I’m going back to bed.”

Arun rose and reached out to touch her shoulder as she turned to leave. A wave of golden luminescence flowed down his arm, his wrist, his fingertip into her flesh, and she turned.

“Arun! You’re a woman now! Like us! How wonderful!”

“Isn’t it, though?” echoed Hansika, eyes fixed on Arun with adoration.

“A new sister, and such a beautiful woman! Golden hair, golden eyes,” sighed Asha, moving closer. “I could fall in love with you myself.”

“Back off, Asha,” warned Arun, pushing her away. “I’m your brother, remember?”

“Not anymore, Aruna. You’re our sister now,” corrected Hansika. “Men always seem to have trouble saying they love someone, but women are different.”

Barely managing to escape between squeezed between his sisters, Arun changed the subject.

“So what do I do about this blood? Without getting mama and papa all excited?”

Hansika put her palm to her mouth, surprised at the sudden thought.

“Oh, yes… this’ll have to be secret between us. Papa would have a fit!”

“Do you think it’s permanent?”

Arun hesitated before answering.

“No, I don’t think so, not like my golden hair and eyes,” he said slowly. “It all feels, um, unsettled.”

The next day he dressed as always, in Arun’s boyish clothing, but once they were done with their morning chores and studies, he slipped out of the house with his sisters to learn how to walk and talk like a woman. Like a Chabra woman.

* * *

Aruna reined her horse to a halt and looked across the Narrows. The blues and greens of the channel ended at the busy wharves of Cappadarnia, the town half-hidden behind the sailing ships that ferried cargo across the Night Ocean. The hills rose beyond, scattered with homes and fields and a few estates, and behind them soared the mountains, the southern tail-end of the Spine before it sank into the mudflats and marshes of the Low Isles.

And there, halfway up the flank of Mount Pelalarossi, stood the Temple of Agdistis, its broad dome gold and twin minarets blinding white in the sunshine.

Her long reddish-blond hair rippled in the sunshine, as brilliant as if it was indeed crafted of gold. She was dressed in a simple linen tunic and leather harness, but later almost nobody remembered what she was wearing.

Passers-by were left stunned, breathless by her beauty, her grace, an aura that seemed to surround her, setting the very air afire with glory.

After she passed, most came to their senses again, resuming their work or their journeys while shaking their heads. A few wept.

And once in a while, one might abandon their daily life, their family, their friends, and follow her, drawn by a love that overcame all barriers, and all common sense.

They followed their heart, and felt no guilt about those they left behind.

The ferrymen watched her ride down to the wharf—they watched everyone that came, hoping that each traveler would choose their ferry to cross over to town—and laughed amongst themselves. Blond women, and especially women so beautiful, were not common in this part of the world, and even if they had been her shining hair and bearing would draw attention.

“Wouldn’t mind a piece of that,” mused one of the younger crewmen leaning on the ferry rail.

“Letraec, you wouldn’t know what to do with her if you had her in your arms!” laughed another, but sighed nonetheless.

“She’s out of our league… Must be a noble from somewhere, someone visiting Chabra, maybe.”

“But no entourage, no guards, not even a maid-in-waiting!”

“What about those people following her? Half a dozen or so? Don’t look much like guards, though. Or anything.”

“No uniforms, at least… and look, that girl over on the right, she’s got a babe at her breast!”

“Huh… she’s not dressed fancy enough to accompany a noble lady, that’s for sure.”

“That guy—the one in the back, with the red cap—I recognize him. He’s one of the woodcutters up on the Spine; comes through here every couple weeks. What’s he doing in that bunch?”

“Hey, they’re coming this way.”

Aruna rode up to the ferry landing and dismounted, holding the reins out until someone took them. She strode over without even looking back to see who it was.

“Ferry me across the Narrows to Cappadarnia.”

Letraec, a handsome, muscular crewman, stepped forward to block her way.

“The fare’s one laurel for you, another for your horse,” he said, and pointed at the half dozen people standing behind her. “Same for them.”

“I have no money,” she replied, holding her hands up empty. “And no need of it.”

Letraec laughed.

“Well, you can pay the fare with a copper, or in some other way, if you prefer,” he leered. “I’d be happy to pay on your behalf in return for some small favor…”

She smiled and reached out to touch his cheek softly.

“Why, thank you, that is so very sweet of you. As you wish.”

Letraec fell to his knees, head bowed, hands open and raised toward her.

“Forgive me, Mistress!” he pleaded. “I would be honored to pay your fare, and that of your companions, if only I may stay by your side!”

She nodded and waved him back, stepping onto the ferry. Her followers came after, leading her horse, as the other crewmen fell back, afraid at the sudden change in their fellow.

With only whispers to each other they set sail, stealing glances at the beautiful, fearsome stranger as they crossed the Narrows. They watched her mount her horse and ride into the town with her retinue and scratched their heads when they saw Letraec join them, walking with the rest—a smile on his face and no concern about getting his wages for the day.

The town had grown considerably since Arun—now Aruna—had first visited, over a decade earlier.

The docks were larger, there were more warehouses, more shops and inns, and far more people... Cappadarnia was turning into a city, fueled by the trading wealth that passed through the Narrows every day.

Admiral Ruk, now in charge of the Shiroora Shan fleet that dominated most of the Night Ocean, had installed his headquarters here, and the port welcomed his sailors and marines, rowdy but with coin to spend.

The townspeople watched Aruna ride down the street, gazing curiously at her followers. They were an odd selection of people, ranging from perhaps late teens through sixty or seventy years of age. Men, women, dressed as farmers or merchants or beggars, they shared one thing in common: their expressions.

Their eyes were fixed on Aruna, following her every motion with eager interest, walking after her with no notice of the various sweets or drinks offered by shops along the way. They rarely talked, with attention to spare only for Aruna.

Aruna stopped only once.

A group of Ruk’s marines, half a dozen in number, stood watching her pass, admiring her beauty, nudging each other and making lewd comments.

“Trooper Roberto of Despina!” she called out suddenly, and one of the marines straightened to face her. “Trooper Roberto, come here.”

“Why do you know my name?”

“Come to me.”

A bit taken aback but never one to pass up an invitation from a beautiful woman, he adjusted his sword belt, shrugged his shoulders to his friends, and approached with a broad grin on his face.

“You’ve an eye for quality, Mistress! You need a marine like me to ensure your safety, protecting you from unsavory characters like these,” he laughed, pointing back at his friends. They broke out in laughter and egged him on.

Aruna reached out daintily, and the marine—imagining she was some noble lady, no doubt—grasped it as if to help her down from the horse.

“As you wish,” she said.

He froze for a moment, hand outstretched, then his posture subtly changed. He was no longer reaching to help her down but seeking the merest touch of recognition. He fell to his knees, both arms outstretched to her, pleading.

A middle-aged baker, judging by the look of his apron, helped him up, and Roberto joined the group following in Aruna’s wake.

“Hey! Roberto! Where’re ya goin’?” called one of the other marines.

“Sorry, Tachi,” he replied, eyes fixed on Aruna, “Tell Sarge I quit.”

“Quit!? You can’t quit for some damn woman, you idiot!”

“She’s more important to me than Sarge. I cannot deny my love!”

“What the...!” gasped his friend, falling silent in disbelief as Roberto continued walking with the others. “Damned sorceress!”

He spat on the ground and slammed his sword up and down a few times in its sheath as the other marines shuffled nervously, muttering amongst themselves. Once Aruna and her retinue were out of sight they headed for the closest tavern by mutual consent.

The road left the south edge of the town and twisted up the gradually steepening slopes of Mount Pelalarossi toward the Temple of Agdistis.

The Temple had no wall around it, no gate or door to bar, merely an opening in the side of the building wide and tall enough for riders on horseback, four abreast, to pass through. Inside the doorway was the main hall, stretching into the shadows all around save where the windows let the sunlight in. One could see the stairways to the minarets, alabaster masterpieces soaring up hundreds of meters, one on either side of the Temple.

The center of the main hall the floor was of malachite, blue-green stone polished flat and smooth in a perfect circle directly under the center of the dome. The ceiling was a geometric pattern of blue and white tiles, repeating arcs and line that drew the eye toward the zenith, the center, fixing it there until the watcher suddenly realized minutes, or an hour, had passed.

Aruna rode to the central circle and dismounted, ignoring the robed acolytes and Godsworn that were gathering at her insolence of riding a horse inside the Temple. She stretched her arms out and leaned her head back, staring up into the dome, and stood stock-still in silence.

The horse whickered once, quietly.

Ever so slowly one of the sections of the dome began to lose its color, growing lighter bit, by bit, until it was transparent, and the full brilliance of the sun poured in, reflecting off the inside of the dome to bathe that circle of malachite in golden light.

Aruna flared with radiance, as if aflame with the sun itself, and gradually lowered her gaze until she faced the Abbot.

He inclined his head slightly.

“I am Abbot here. You are welcome here, all of you.”

She ignored his comment and spoke softly.

“Troperus de Carna of Tlun. Approach.”

The man, perhaps twice her age, was taken aback by her quiet command, surprised at the insolence of this new worshipper, but secure in his status as Abbot he walked toward her, holding his gold-threaded robes in one hand so he didn’t trip on them.

“Everyone is welcome here,” he said, then continued with the traditional greeting of Cappadarnia. “What is mine, is yours.”

She waited until he was close enough, then simply reached out and touched his cheek.

“As you wish,” she said. He staggered, groaned, and wobbled a bit before recovering and catching his breath.

“You will provide these people with food, proper clothing, and a place to sleep. They are acolytes, as are you, but you will guide and provide for them.”

“Yes, beloved Agdistis,” he replied.

“Remove those robes, de Carna. You are a mere Godsworn.”

“Of course, Agdistis. Thank you for allowing me to remain in your presence.”

He immediately stripped off the ornate robes and gold and orichalc trappings of office, and stood wearing only a simple tunic over his ample belly.

Aruna slowly looked around the gathered acolytes, and raised a hand, pointing.

“Glori of Shiroora Shan. Approach.”

A young woman, dressed in the white tunic and straw sandals of an acolyte, approached hesitantly.

Agdistis held out her hand, palm up, waiting for the other to take it.

Glori slowly reached out, index finger extended, and lightly touched the outstretched palm.

She gave a sharp cry of orgasmic pleasure and collapsed to kneel on the floor, head down, panting.

She slowly lifted her head and looked up at Aruna.

A small line of spittle trickled down her cheek.

“Thank you, beloved Agdistis.”

She struggled to her feet, still breathing heavily, legs trembling, and staggered away.

“Toomay of Nurl. Approach.”

A young man stepped forward, eyes wide in awe, and fell to his knees in turn, tunic suddenly dark as he climaxed again and again, even after she released him.

One after another she called them, and rewarded them for their love and devotion, until she called Framm of Adelma.

The heavy-set, portly man approached, bobbing his head with a grin of supplication.

“O Great Agdistis, I have worshipped you—”

“Framm of Adelma,” she said quietly as she touched him, “you have not worshipped me. You have stolen from the Temple.”

He fell to the floor and pressed his forehead against the malachite.

“My beloved Agdistis! Forgive me! Forgive me!”

He wept and begged for her forgiveness, sobbing with remorse.

“As you wish. And as a sign of my forgiveness I grant you a gift: the creation of new life.”

At her touch his eyes grew huge and he hurriedly reached into his own mouth to pull out a gray, wriggling maggot, writhing and coiling in his fingers. He gave a shriek, or tried to, and shook his hand but it refused to fall, sinking its head into the flesh of his palm and chewing a hole.

He choked, reached for his throat, eyes bulging, staggered and toppled, maggots bursting out of his throat, his nose, his eyes, devouring him until only soiled rags were left.

Within the pile of rags glittered gold coins and gemstones.

“de Carna, return the stolen items to the donation box.”

De Carna, frozen in horror at the scene he had witnessed, shook his head to clear it then leapt to obey, scrabbling through the clothing and maggots, sluggish after their feast, to pick up the coins and gems and carry them off toward the back of the hall.

“Wen Li of Shang. Approach.”

She continued as if nothing had happened, calling them one by one.

None refused her summons, although two more tried, sweating and struggling with themselves, weeping as their bodies walked toward Agdistis even as they turned their heads, pleading for succor.

And the maggots feasted.

At last it was done, and Agdistis waved her hand at the writhing maggots in a swirl. There was a glow of golden light, and a cloud of butterflies erupted, circling up, up into the depths of the ceiling until they vanished, golden wings in the golden sunlight.

“I am Agdistis, she who you call goddess of love and marriage. Let none defile my Temple.

“I am the God and Goddess of creation. I am Agdistis, and Freya, and Aphrodite, and Toci. I am Mawu-Lisa, and Matar Kubileya. I am Kristanotis of Atlantis, and Uluru of Hyperborea.

“I am all of my Aspects, and all of my Aspects are one: fragmentary reflections of the infinite creative force.”

She was afire with the brilliance of the sun, her voice booming and echoing in the vast hall of the Temple, and her worshippers shielded their eyes from her flaming glory.

“But here,” she continued, voice and fire suddenly quenched, a murmur of golden silk that reverberated in their bones, “here I am Agdistis, and this Temple is a place of love and peace.”

She smiled, and the dome began to solidify once more as her light faded.

The Abbess of the Temple of Agdistis had come to Cappadarnia.

* * *

“Another merchant up from Cappadarnia mentioned that the Temple answers prayers for good marriages,” said Karadi, tearing off a hunk of bread. “Health, lots of children, they love each other… everything.”

“But Arun doesn’t bless all marriages, right?”

“Apparently not. I’ve heard of a number of couples that he—or she, whatever—refused to bless. The rumor is that they always end in failure, too, but nobody seems to know if they fell apart because Aruna didn’t bless them, or if he refused to bless them because they were already failing.”

“We haven’t seen him for two—no, three—years, not since he visited us for summerdawn,” mused Lajita, setting her cup of tea down with a muffled clink. “The Temple must be busier than ever with that reputation… why would he invite us so suddenly now?”

“Was it an invitation? It was short and plain; I felt it was more like a summons,” said Karadi, wiping the plate clean with the last of his bread and popping it into his mouth. “Anyway, it’s a short voyage.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“I’ll tell the captain; mid-morning OK with you?”

“That should be fine,” nodded Lajita. “You know, there was no mention of this trip, or meeting Arun, in any of the books. I wonder why not...”

Karadi shrugged.

The next day they boarded the Lady’s Beard, together with one guard, and set sail for Cappadarnia. Cargo ships usually took a day and a half to sail from Shiroora Shan to Cappadarnia or Adelma, but they were sailing in a small, fast ship that served as a seaborne courier.

They reached the bustling town on the Narrows in the late afternoon, coasting up to the wharf to dock.

A trio of guards came jogging over almost at once, looking very officious.

“State your business in Cappadarnia,” ordered the man in front, sounding quite bored. “Your docking fee is one tiara; pay me now. It’ll cost you another tiara to pass through the Narrows.”

“Sergeant, I believe you’ll recognize this ship if you read the name on the bow,” suggested Karadi, making no effort to rise from his seat on the deck rail.

The sergeant glanced at the ship’s prow and stiffened, quickly taking a step back and standing taller.

“Master Karadi, my apologies! I’ll set up a guard on this ship immediately!”

“Thank you, Sergeant… What is your name?”

“Klarsh of Astarma, sir.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Klarsh.”

“Shall I call for a carriage?”

“Yes, that would be very helpful,” nodded Karadi, walking down the gangplank with Lajita.

There was a gasp from one of the sergeant’s men, and a whispered “The Seeress!”

The sergeant cuffed the offending man on the ear and gave him a push toward the town.

“Run and fetch a carriage for Master Karadi!”

Rubbing his ear, the guard trotted off, trying to adjust his sword belt with his other hand as he ran.

“My apologies, Lady Lajita,” began Sergeant Klarsh, but she waved it off.

“No matter, Sergeant. I am indeed the Seeress, and can hardly take offense at being recognized.”

Unsure how to respond, the sergeant gave an awkward bow and ordered the remaining man to stand guard while he fetched more troops to guard the ship.

Karadi and Lajita ignored him until their horse-drawn carriage arrived, then thanked him and climbed in.

“The Temple.”

“Yessir,” mumbled the driver, and snapped the reins.

The horse, a rather tired-looking dappled grey, started off at a trot, carrying them swiftly from the docks into the town proper. The town was constantly changing, with new shops, new buildings, new street stalls and hawkers on every corner.

“I don’t remember Cappadarnia being this busy,” mused Lajita as she looked at the crowds.

“It’s the Temple,” answered the driver as he carefully wheeled past a group of your women squealing in laughter at something. “They’re holding some sort of festival tomorrow, and visitors are pouring in.”

“Yeah, I heard about that,” said Karadi. “Something about good marriages, wasn’t it?”

“The Abbess will bless everyone. They say it promises a happy, fertile marriage.”

“What do you think?”

“Well, the Temple’s got quite a reputation in these parts… I know lots of people who were blessed there, and every one of them seems to still be in love like a newlywed. Lots of kids, too.”

“Every one? Really?”

“Yup,” nodded the driver, snapping his whip to warn people out of the way. “Not just me, either. Everyone says the same thing.”

Karadi and Lajita fell silent, absorbing the change in the town.

Karadi could remember when Cappadarnia was less than even a village, just a few fisherman’s shacks on a lonely shore. He had built this town, he and Shiroora Shan, thanks to Lajita’s prophecies. They dominated trade across the Night Ocean, and almost all of it had to pass through either here or his own city.

The town was not very wide or deep, though, built as it was on the bare tip of the island, between the Narrows to the north and Mount Pelalarossi to the south, and shortly the buildings fell away and the road climbed the slope toward the Temple of Agdistis.

The twin minarets of the Temple were bright with the setting sun, tinged orange, and the gold dome gleamed dully from their reflected light.

Two acolytes stood in the center of the gaping entrance, dressed in simple white tunics. They were both carrying poles with lanterns mounted on top.

“Welcome, Master Karadi, Mistress Lajita. The Abbess is awaiting your arrival in her quarters.”

The acolytes escorted Karadi, Lajita and the guard through the cavernous hall to a huge oak door set into the rear wall and pulled it open.

“Master, Mistress, please enter,” they invited, bowing. “The Abbess has instructed us that your guard should wait for you here.”

“Trooper Phontel, we’ll be back shortly,” said Karadi to the guard, who nodded. “Perhaps they can arrange for a chair and some tea?”

The acolytes nodded, and one scuttled off immediately.

The room was lit by the reddish light of the sun as it approached the horizon. It was a spacious room, even more so because it lacked almost all furniture: only a single bench standing near the entrance.

The rest of the room was a garden. Enormous ferns towered high, and the ground was carpeted with moss in a riot of colors and textures, dotted here and there with clumps of flowers. There was even a small pond, lily pads floating in the still water that reflected the lotus flowers.

The air was redolent with the perfume of the flowers, and filled with darting butterflies, small birds, tiny specks of brilliant light that darted back and forth faster than the eye could follow, or catch.

In the center of the room stood Aruna.

“Mother! Father! You’re here!” she smiled, and gestured them to join her. “How do you like my little garden here?”

“It’s beautiful,” said Lajita, stepping onto the moss. “You look older, Aruna.”

“I am older,” she laughed. “You look as beautiful as ever.”

The two women hugged, Karadi standing back a pace to give them room.

“This is a very strange garden to find inside a temple,” he mused.

“It’s more than just a garden,” smiled Aruna. “It’s where I stay.”

“You stay?” repeated Karadi, frowning. “You mean you sleep here?”

“I never leave this room anymore,” replied Aruna. “Even when I’m Arun.”

“Why don’t you leave? Surely you cannot perform your duties here!?”

“The Goddess Agdistis can perform her duties anywhere,” smiled the Abbess. “And She stays here for now.”

“For how long?”

“Oh, for the rest of my life, certainly, and perhaps the next.”

Lajita’s eyes widened.

“You cannot stay in this room for the rest of your life, Arun!”

“I am still Arun to you, aren’t I, mother?

“Of course you are! We raised Arun, not Aruna... We accept that the Goddess changed you and we love you both, but we always think of our son first.”

“I am Arun, and Aruna, and Agdistis. In fact, I am all three at once now. I am a woman, as capable as you were of birthing new life, mother, but also a man, as virile as you, father. I can be either, or both at once.”

“What shall we call you?”

“Arun, Aruna, Agdistis… it matters not,” she replied. “We are shortly to become one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mother, father, sit down, please,” invited Aruna, waving at the bench. “I called you here to explain a few things, and say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?” Lajita echoed, looking to Karadi for an explanation.

He grasped her arm and guided her toward the bench, sitting next to her.

“Explain yourself, Arun,” he demanded. “What do you mean, ‘goodbye’?”

“You know that the Goddess is in me. Agdistis, the Goddess of marriage, of love. I am a vessel for her here, a gateway she can work through.”

“Yes, we know,” nodded Karadi. “And apparently you’re doing a good job, too. We were told couples who come here—to you, to this Temple—enjoy almost perfect marriages, love, healthy children...”

“Of course. It is my Aspect. I could no more refuse my Aspect than you could refuse to let your heart beat.”

“Your Aspect?”

“I am but one Aspect of the creative impulse, my abilities limited to a narrow scope. Other Aspects include Aphrodite, Matar Kubileya, and Uluru of Hyperborea. All Aspects of the same creative force: Ubbo-Sathla.”

Lajita gasped, her hands flying to cover her face at that name. Karadi put his arm around her as if to protect her from danger, glaring at Aruna.

“Do not speak that name!”

Aruna smiled. “There is nothing to be afraid of, father. Ubbo-Sathla is a force beyond human comprehension; I myself can only grasp tiny fragments of the whole. It knows not who may call upon it, or pray to it, or even curse it, because it merely is, and that simple fact cannot be negated.

“And this is why you called us here?” asked Lajita, raising her face once again.

“No, mother, I called you here to say goodbye,” said Aruna. “Today is my last day in this Temple.”

“You said you would be here until the day you...” Lajita gasped. “Your death!?”

“I am becoming one with my Goddess, mother. Arun, Aruna, all that makes me human, will join Her, and through Her, Ubbo-Sathla.”

“No! I won’t let you do this!” cried Lajita, knocking Karadi’s arm away and springing to her feet to run to Aruna. “Come with us, now!”

She grabbed her child’s arms and shook her, as if trying to snap her out of a trance, and pulled her toward the doorway.

Aruna didn’t move.

“Mother, don’t.”

Lajita pulled again, harder.

“Mother I cannot,” said Aruna, placing one hand atop Lajita’s and lifting her robe with the other.

She had no feet.

Her legs grew thicker and greener toward the floor, finally merging with it in a mound of moss that rippled slightly in the reddish light.

Lajita screamed and shrank back, tripping to stumble into Karadi’s arms.

“Arun! Please, come with us!”

“I cannot, mother, and would not if I could.”

Lajita collapsed to the moss, kneeling, head down, sobbing into her hands.

“We can never breathe a word of this, never tell a soul,” whispered Karadi.”

Aruna reached out to lightly touch her, and Karadi.

“As you wish,” she said, and let go her robe, hiding her legs once again. “It is a beautiful garden, isn’t it?”

Karadi glared at her, horrified and furious, but unable to say a single thing. His mouth worked, lips trying to form words, and there was only silence.

“I love the energy and the beauty of these living things,” said Aruna. “Enough of the Temple and the Goddess, though.

“Sit, and let me have some refreshments brought. Tell me of your lives, and Shiroora Shan.”

Acolytes brought a variety of foods and drinks shortly, seemingly without being summoned. Neither of his parent touched any of them, sitting in silence as Aruna, seemingly oblivious to their discomfort, talked of his garden and their birds and butterflies.

A few minutes later Karadi and Lajita exchanged glances, rose, and departed, sparing not a single glance or word to their son. They left the Temple immediately, preferring the clean air and even the possibility of brigands to the foulness behind them.

After a time darkness came and the butterflies slept, replaced in the garden by huge beetles they flew about with a loud buzz, spreading metallic wings and glowing in phosphorescent green. The acolytes entered and waited silently.

Aruna pointed at once of the acolytes, a young man in his twenties.

His eyes wide, sweat dripping from his brow, arms and legs shaking with fear but unable to refuse the love he felt for his Goddess, he lay down on the moss and screamed as it covered him.

END

He finished the piece and waited for the last traces of the echo to fade away before lowering the flute and opening his eyes.

It was one of his favorites, something he’d written himself a few years earlier and continued to refine. He referred to it as his Ode to Ifdawn Marest.

He looked out over the city streets.

It was Spatemoon in Karida, and the streets that crisscrossed the city were now canals, swelled by the spring melt from the mountains.

He’d been here many times with the trade caravan, first under Than Bulbuk and more recently under his older brother, Gitanshu. Master Bulbuk had finally retired three or four years earlier, leaving his extensive trading business in the hands of Gitanshu, his son-in-law, who had been pretty much running it for years already by then.

Master Bulbuk was now enjoying the pleasures of his palatial estate in Eudoxia, and although his brother visited him regularly to report on developments and seek counsel, it was clear that he was no longer very interested.

How long had it been, he wondered. Nine? Ten years?

He enjoyed the work, the haggling, searching out new goods and new suppliers, finding ways to get them across half the Dreamlands to sell or trade. He’d made good money at it, too, paid a regular wage plus a range of bonuses for profits earned or new goods or customers developed,

Another boat passed below his balcony, probably a housewife back from the market, he guessed. For a few days, until the rivers subsided and the alleys emerged from the water, boats were the only way to get around. It didn’t happen every year, and it rarely lasted longer than two or three days, but when it did city life ground to a halt.

Karida was situated just upstream of the junction of the Piratta and Jasharra-Navi rivers, and when the spring rains and the snow melt from the Snarp Mountains peaked at the same time, they flooded. The city streets became canals, and the fields surrounding the city walls turned into broad lakes and marshes.

The water was good for the soil, but that didn’t make it any easier for people—or horses—to plod through the muck left behind after it finally drained off.

He lifted his eyes up, over the white-washed walls of the city, over the ramparts of The Citadel, to the ice-crowned peaks of the Greater Snarps to the north, and the Lesser to the east. It was yet morning, and the mountains were displayed in bold relief, patches of sunlit trees and raw stone accented by pitch-black shadow where the morning rays had yet to reach.

Wisps of cloud hovered in the folds and valleys, misty white curtains partially concealing their beauty. It’d all burn off soon enough today, he thought… not a raincloud in the sky, finally.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from their grandeur, and stood there, gazing upon their glory.

“I heard you playing and thought I’d join you,” came a voice from behind him. “What was that?”

“Just a little tune I’ve been playing with.”

“Oh. Well, it sounded pretty nice.”

He looked up at the mountains.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?”

“They are,” agreed Habib as Gitanshu joined him at the railing. “They call me every time I see them; I think stronger every year.”

Gitanshu laughed.

“I think you’re just getting older every year, little brother.”

“I’m still young!” he protested, “What are you now, thirty-one? Two? You should talk!”

“Thirty-two,” confirmed Gitanshu. “I’ve been coming here almost every year for twelve, maybe fifteen years now, first with Master Bulbuk, now with my own caravans.

“Yeah, the mountains are beautiful. But you know, I’d rather back in Shiroora Shan with Talla and the kids. Family is important to me now, not chasing after mountains.”

“You’re pretty much my only family now,” mused Habib. “Dhruv and Atisha are in Ademla, Varun and Lajita are busy running Chabra, Kostubh and Paramjit are gone, Asha, Hansika, and Arun have different lives… and I work for you, shepherding caravans between here and Rinar.”

“But we have new routes, new goods, new challenges every time! That’s what makes it all so interesting!”

“I guess.”

“For someone who’s as good a negotiator as you are, you don’t sound very motivated, Habib.”

Habib finally pulled himself away from the snow-capped peaks lining the horizon to look Gitanshu in the eyes.

“Do you need me on this caravan?”

His brother’s eyebrows rose a fraction, and he cocked his head.

“You mean…?”

“Yes, I’m thinking of journeying east… Some of the traders that come speak of the endless steppes eastward, and beyond them the Athraminaurian Mountains that hold up the sky.

“I can’t face another months-long trip, chivvying obstinate men and beasts over land and sea, through brigands or storm.”

“Habib, I will not stand in your way if that is what you want,” replied Gitanshu. “I would rather have you ride with me, and I will miss your advice and help, but I will not stop you.”

Habib nodded and held out his arm for a wrist shake that melted into a brotherly hug.

“Thanks, Gitanshu. I’m sorry to leave you so suddenly.”

His brother laughed.

“Not a surprise, actually… I knew it was coming, I just didn’t know when. You’ve been moping about for weeks now, your mind somewhere far, far away from the caravan.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Yeah, that obvious. You were going through all the motions but your heart wasn’t in it anymore.”

“Hard to hide from family, isn’t it.”

“Hmm. You know, if you’re heading east why don’t you go with Trader Phuntsho? I’m sure he’s in a very good mood after the price he bargained us down to on that glass and crystal.”

“Hey, I didn’t do too badly on the Gondaran paper and silk he brought!”

“No, you certainly didn’t,” laughed Gitanshu. “What we’ll make on the silk alone will pay for this entire venture twice over.”

“Hmm. Phuntsho has always been a polite, businesslike man. I can’t say I really know him that well, though.”

“I do. He was close friends to Master Bulbuk, and I got to know him when they were drinking together on trading trips years ago.

“He’s got some very strict beliefs and rules that he lives by, but he’s also generous, sympathetic, and believe it or not, family-centered. He’s got a wife and a whole herd of kids back in Lho Mon, you know.”

“Does he really? I mean, I’ve dealt with him for years now, and he’s never mentioned it, or them.”

“Oh, yeah. He keeps them very private, but once you get him to talk about them it’s almost impossible to get him to shut up again.”

“You really don’t mind me leaving?”

“Of course I mind! I need your help, and more importantly I’ll miss you, but if it’s something you’ve gotta do, do it.”

Habib looked at the mountains one more time.

“I think I’ll go have a word with Trader Phuntsho.”

* * *

The steppes stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction.

Habib squinted.

He knew the Snarps were days behind him, and the Athraminaurian mountains days ahead, but he could see nothing but the rolling hills of the steppes, covered with thick grass and dotted with gnarly trees every so often.

They’d left Beavertail, the last tiny village on the road before it entered the wilderness of the steppes. Many of the steppes tribes ventured only that far, bringing their furs and other goods with them to trade for weapons or pots or mirrors and baubles. Phuntsho didn’t even stop there except to refill his water; he considered most of the “traders” who did business there nothing better than thieves, charging exorbitant prices to the tribesmen who came. He believed that dealing fair was better for everyone in the long run, and far safer.

The trade road was one of several winding through the steppes, a hard-packed dirt track marked by countless ruts and old campfire ash. With few landmarks, straying far from the road would mean getting lost in the endless grass, unless you were wise enough to have a compass or lucky enough to wander back across a trade road. Even with a compass it could be hard to find your way back to Beavertail.

The guides said they knew the steppes and could find their way without difficulty even with no road, but Habib had his doubts. They certainly knew the road, its turns and dips and marshy spots, and they knew the diverse animals and plants of the region, but how could they possibly navigate kilometers upon kilometers of featureless grass?

They could walk on the road, and mounted on horseback they could usually see over the top of the grass. Standing up to two meters high the grass made it almost impossible to see anything on foot.

The same dense grass also made it very easy for bandits to lie in wait, which is why Trader Phuntsho not only had a dozen guards but had also hired three trusted guides who had been to the Athraminaurians and back countless times, and worked well with the local tribes.

“You said we’d reach a river ford today, right, Master Bidziil?”

“Another hour or so, I’d say,” nodded the guide, riding alongside. “It’s an old river, wide and relatively shallow, and should be easy to ford this time of year.”

“No crocodiles up this far north, are there.”

“Nope. Lots of bear, though, and they spend a lot of time near the river. When the fish come upstream to spawn and the bears are out there hip-deep in the water all day long.”

“That’s in the fall, though.”

“Another month or so before they start running.”

“How many times have you been over this route?”

“More than I’ve got fingers!” snorted Bidziil. “I’ve been doing this for, oh, about two dozen years now. Took a few years off for the family.”

“Family? You’re married?”

“Wife and five kids. Ohiyesa—my oldest son, he’s almost twenty now—sometimes comes with me. He’s learning the routes now. He’s probably right over there, in fact, heading the other direction.”

“Over there? You can tell where he is?”

“Well, not exactly, of course not, but I know this route and that route and about where he’d be… and it’d be right about that way,” he explained, pointing.

“Which way is home?”

Unerringly, he pointed off to the southeast.

“And Karida?”

He pointed back a little farther north than the way they’d come.

“Pretty handy,” said Habib, impressed. “So you don’t really need that compass after all.”

“Of course I need a compass! It’s not magic!” laughed Bidziil. “I’ve just been through these parts so many times I have a pretty good idea.

“You use your compass a lot?”

“Sure, if we’re in the desert and a sandstorm hides the road, and at sea sometimes, with a sextant.”

“What’s a sextant?”

“It measures the angle between the horizon and the sun or moon.”

“…The angle… why would you want to do such a thing?”

“When you’re at sea that’s the only way to figure out where you are, often. There aren’t any landmarks.”

“No landmarks… you can’t see the shore?”

“Heh, no,” chuckled Habib. “The shore might be a day or two distant. More, depending where you are and what direction you’re trying to go.”

“I can’t imagine that much water,” said Bidziil. “Even the lakes our here in the steppes, you can always see the shore. I mean, unless it’s raining or foggy or something.”

“Shiroora Shan is built on the Night Ocean, and when you’re in the middle of the Eastern Arm—say, between Cappadarnia and Astarma—there’s nothing but water all around.

“Now, it’s hard to get lost there, because all you have to do is head east to reach the coast somewhere near Astarma, or west to reach the Spine and Capadarnia. Or even north to Shiroora Shan, for that matter.

“Out on the Middle Ocean, though… well, that’s big. It makes the Night Ocean look like a little pond.”

“There’s something unnatural about that much water,” said Bidziil, shaking his head. “Endless steppes, endless desert, even the endless Athraminaurian Mountains, that I can understand, but.. water?”

Habib looked up at the eastern horizon again.

“When will be able to see the Athraminaurians?”

It was Bidziil’s turn to chuckle.

“Not for another few days yet, I’m afraid. You really can’t wait, can you?”

“Shiroora Shan stands between the Night Ocean and the Ifdawn Marest, the range stretching north toward Irem and the Pool of Night. I grew up seeing the mountains every day and I never grow tired of their soaring, ice-cold beauty. They’re so majestic, so… so… Godlike.

“I wonder how it must be to look down on the world from that height, down on the clouds.”

Bidziil muttered something unintelligible and made a motion as if to throw something over his shoulder.

“What? What did you…?”

Biziil looked up at the horizon, then, perhaps relieved that he couldn’t see the mountains, back to Habib.

“It wards off evil,” he explained. “I should throw salt over my shoulder, but the best I could do was make the motion.”

“Why? What happened?”

“You sounded like one of the Children,” he said, and leaned closer to Habib. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “The Children of Eitr.”

“The Children of Ei—”

“Quiet! Not so loud! Or better not at all… and certainly not in the mountains!”

Habib nodded, then continued “What are they?

“They live on the tallest peaks of the Athraminaurians, and sometimes, on the very coldest nights, come down to steal the warmth of living things. When the light’s just right you can sometimes see their cities way, way up in the clouds, on ice-crowned mountains.

“It’s not a good idea to call them, especially when you’re in the mountains.”

Habib digested that for a while as they rode on silently.

“So why the Athraminaurians, if you’ve got a mountain range right at home?”

Habib sighed.

“Because they are said to be the highest, coldest, supremely beautiful mountains in all of the Dreamlands.”

“I always thought that was Kadath.”

Habib laughed.

“Maybe it is, I don’t know. But Kadath is a long, long way from here, and you say the Athraminaurians are only a few days ahead of us.”

“That they are, Master Habib. You’ll see them soon enough.”

They continued their conversation as they rode, until Bidziil stood up in the saddle and looked ahead, shading his eyes and breathing deeply.

“We’re almost at the river,” he said as he sat down again. He raised his voice and continued. “Watch out, everyone. The ground might get soft suddenly, and there’ll be more animals around. Watch out for snakes in particular.”

Within a few minutes Habib noticed that the horse’s hoofprints were growing deeper, and the wagons were beginning to leave ruts behind instead of just rumbling along over hard-packed dirt.

The road topped a small hill and suddenly they were on the riverbank.

Bidziil had said it was wide, and it certainly was… Habib thought it must be well over a kilometer of pools and streams, and at least two wide channels that he could see. There was a lot of scrub but almost no trees. Probably because of flooding, he guessed.

“The river is usually shallow here because there’s a rock bottom in most places,” explained Bidziil. “You have to check the depth anyway, though, because the channels move around every year and there are sometimes surprises.

“Excuse me; I’ve got to talk to Trader Phuntsho.”

He twitched his reins and cantered toward the front of the caravan.

There were five horse-drawn wagons, each carrying two riders, while Phuntsho, a woman named Dechen who was his second in command, and himself rode their own horses. The three guides and the dozen guards were mounted, too.

Phuntsho and Bidziil halted on the riverbank, looking out over the expanse of water, mud, and low grasses. After a few minutes Bidziil nodded and rode ahead, signaling to the other two guides with his arm raised to join him.

They cautiously walked ahead, riding or leading their horses on foot as they scouted out a path, and as they worked their way across the river the wagons followed them in single file interspersed with guards.

Habib was in about the middle, behind one of the wagons with one of the guards. They’d hitched their horses to the wagon and were walking.

They walked through a number of streams and small ponds, all but one under waist-deep, but one stream got unexpectedly chest-deep for about a meter.

The sun was out and the weather warm, but the spring water felt freezing. Habib had thought it delightfully cool when he first stepped in, but after an hour of being exposed to the wind dripping wet it was just cold.

He trudged on, pushing the wagon as needed when it got stuck in the mud in spite of the two horses pulling it.

They finally reached a river island big enough to hold the whole caravan, and Phuntsho called a rest. There wasn’t much point in washing the mud off, but at least everyone could sit down out of the wind, light up a fire, maybe even eat a bite or two. The horses didn’t mind the cold wind, but they definitely appreciated the lush green grass covering the island.

Habib spent his time checking his body for leeches. He found only two, one on his ankle and one on his belly, and both came off easily when he held a hot ember close. He noticed a few of the guards doing the same thing, but none of the guides.

“Mistress Ghigau, can I ask you a question?”

Ghigau was one of the guides, a weather-worn white-haired woman who could have been anywhere between thirty and a hundred.

She looked up from where she was sitting, her back to one of the wagon wheels, and raised her eyebrow.

“You didn’t have any leeches. Neither did Master Bidziil, I looked,” he said. “You didn’t even look for leeches.”

She bared her teeth in a grin—several were missing—and pulled out a small skin bag.

“Rub this into your skin,” she urged, holding it out. “You don’t need much, just take a little dab and rub it over your hands or legs or somewhere until it’s gone. Your body will absorb it, and within an hour or so you’ll start smelling bad to the leeches.”

The bag was squishy, heavy.

He pulled out the wooden plug and gently squeezed out a dollop of dirty brown paste.

“That’s plenty,” she said, holding out her hand for the bag. “Just rub it in.”

He rubbed his hands together, smearing the paste about until it vanished. It felt gritty, and his skin tingled a little bit, but it didn’t hurt, and it didn’t smell.

“Huh… Pretty handy! How do you make it?”

“Only the shaman knows,” she said. “You’re welcome to ask her, though!”

“That would be a waste of everyone’s time,” snorted Habib. “Shamans don’t reveal their secrets.

“Thanks for letting me use it, though!”

“Sure. Nobody likes leeches.”

Phuntsho let the men and horses—especially the horses—rest for about an hour, then got everyone ready to finish the ford.

Habib was in the same place as before, alongside the same guard, a man about his age from Zeenar named Diraxus. They stood by waiting for the horses and wagons ahead of them to head off into the water and fell into place in line.

They both walked with one hand on the wagon so they’d have something to hang onto if they lost their balance.

It was the same slog as before, and they were both drenched chest-high in no time.

The sun was past zenith and beginning to slip down toward the horizon behind them when they began to cross one of the widest channels, almost wide enough to be a river in its own right. The riverbed was covered with small rocks and sand, and they walked carefully.

Suddenly the wagon slipped sideways, swinging off at a diagonal in the river current and knocking Diraxus off his feet. He was washed downstream, leaving Habib holding onto the rear of the wagon by himself.

The wagon was relatively watertight to protect the cargo from river fords for exactly that reason, but it wouldn’t be of any use if the whole thing tipped over. Once the wheels began slipping on the riverbed the current scooped up under the wagon and began to tilt it up.

Habib pulled himself hand-over-hand to the high side of the wagon, and shifted as much of his weight onto it as he could to stop it from rising. The current caught his legs, dragging them downstream and turning the wagon: they acted as a rudder, pulling the whole wagon parallel with the flow.

The horses bucked and snorted, frightened at the way the wagon suddenly yanked them backwards and to the side.

Habib heaved, trying to pull the side of the wagon down a little more, and then Bidziil and one of the mounted guards were there, steadying the wagon and helping the horses pull it back up to safety.

Habib dragged himself up onto the wagon, wheezing and coughing to get the river water out of his lungs.

By the time he caught his breath the wagon was on drier ground, and Phuntsho was checking the wagon’s cargo. He walked over to join Habib shortly.

“Thank you, Master Habib. Quick thinking. You saved the cargo from getting wet. There’s a lot of cloth in there, and while it’s packed in watertight bags, they don’t always work… especially if they go floating off downstream to gods know where!”

“I try to pay my way, Trader Phuntsho.” He looked around. “Is Diraxus alright?”

“He’s fine, fine. Just a little wet.”

Habib coughed once again and used his palm to wipe the hair back out of his eyes. He was about to jump down off the wagon when a sharp whistle sounded.

The alarm!

He looked up at the riverbank rising a few meters ahead of them.

It was lined with armed figures on horseback.

* * *

The Iraqono had an extensive camp set up about ten minutes away.

Phuntsho explained that he’d been friends with the tribe for many years, first with a few hunters he’d met by accident, and later with the chief and the shaman. He always bartered a variety of pelts from them, giving in return swords and daggers, pots, mirrors, and woven textiles from the west. He’d also brought some gifts especially for them.

“It’s a big deal to them,” he continued. “Having a caravan pass through, I mean… they relocate their camp every year or so and it can be hard to find them when they don’t want to be found. We’ve been coming through here for years now, though, and we hand out all sorts of presents to everyone. They love us.”

“No doubt that translates into better deals on the pelts, too,” suggested Habib.

“Oh, absolutely. It’s a long-term investment, and it’s more than repaid what it costs. In fact, I’ve heard that they actually trade with other tribes to get blue wolf pelts for us. And a few other exotic items.”

“Blue wolves?” I asked, confused. I hadn’t heard the term before.

“The steppes wolves with the blue eyes,” he explained. “Oh, right, you’ve never seen their eyes, have you? Only the pelts.”

“Blue eyes? Huh, never knew. Sorry.”

“They’re still pretty rare, so the pelts fetch high prices,” he commented, then looked away. “Excuse me; I see Chief Yawanta.”

Phuntsho kicked his steed and galloped off to meet a small group of horsemen riding up. The man in the center, probably in his forties or fifties, wore a gold circlet on his head.

Phuntsho rode up next to the chief, joined shortly by Bidziil. The three of them exchanged a wrist-shake and talked for a while. Suddenly the chief wheeled his horse and rode away again, and Phuntsho came trotting back to the caravan. Bidziil made a hand signal to the other guards, then returned to his usual position at the head of the caravan.

“It’s all set,” Phuntsho explained. “We’ll stay with the Iraqono tonight, and maybe spend another day or two here before heading on. Chief Yawanta says he has a stack of furs he’s been saving for us.”

There was a cheer from the caravaneers, and Habib broke into a grin. Staying in the Iraqono camp meant they wouldn’t have to worry about keeping watch, and there’d be a feast to boot.

The Iraqono generally moved camp twice a year, following the great bison herds. Consummate riders, everything they owned could be packed up and ready to move on horseback within a few hours. They would use wagons if necessary, but prioritized the mobility their horses brought.

The caravan moved up the riverbank to the steppe, but instead of returning to the trade road, turned the other direction to follow a mounted Iraqono boy who would lead them to the camp.

About two hours later they arrived at the Iraqono camp, dead tired. The horses didn’t have much difficulty with the tall steppes grass, but the wagons got stuck often. They swapped positions every so often because the lead wagon had the toughest job, forcing a way through virgin growth. The other wagons could follow in its tracks with far less effort.

The campsite had been largely cleared of grass, leaving either bare dirt or short-cut stubble. It was surrounded by a wall of thorn bush branches. It was not high enough or strong enough to defend against an attack, but very few wild animals would try to force their way through the wall of six-centimeter thorns.

Thorn bushes grew in scattered clumps throughout the steppes, and it was a simple matter to build a new barrier when they moved to a different location.

The gate—a strong vine festooned with thorn bush branches—was pulled open, and the caravan rode inside. The camp really wasn’t big enough to hold the tribe and the caravan both, but it’d do for a day or two. The Iraqono would take the horses out to graze during the day, freeing up considerable space.

For now, the wagons stood between the scattered round ger of the Iraqono. Made of leather on a wood frame, the ger were decorated in a multicolored designs of living things, including not only the bison and horses so essential to their lives, but also bears, wolves (especially the dire wolves found farther north), birds, fish, even insects. Each ger had been handed down for generations, repaired as needed, and new decorations added to new leather.

Six to eight meters in diameter, the ger were more than spacious enough for even large families, and the Iraqono quickly erected three more for the caravan to use.

The whole camp was bustling with excitement as people helped get the wagons moved to where they’d cause the least disturbance and get the horses tended to. The children were especially excited because they knew a feast was on the way.

A group of Iraqono returned to the camp shortly, driving about half a dozen sheep in front of them. That many sheep meant the feast would be for everyone, not just the caravan. They began preparations immediately, quickly slaughtering the sheep, skinning them, and then dismembering them on their own hides.

They saved every organ, even the blood, carefully cleaning the hooves, ears, colon, and a few other parts. Habib asked Dechen, Phuntsho’s second-in-command, about it, and she explained that they used every bit of the sheep, most of it as food.

That evening they feasted on sheep, roasted, broiled, boiled, and raw. It was Habib’s first time to eat some of these foods, and he was especially surprised when they brought out a sheep stomach, stretched taut, full of something quite firm and brown. They cut off a thick slice and handed it to him. He accepted it with thanks and took a big bite, prepared to find it disgusting but confident in his ability to eat and praise it nonetheless—a necessary ability built up through years as a trader.

It was the sheep’s blood, and although it hadn’t been seasoned or even salted, just cooked in the sheep’s natural juices, it struck him as surprisingly good. He had no difficulty finishing it and enjoyed almost all of the food they brought, although after the tenth or twentieth serving he began to slow down.

He pulled out his flute, blew a few quick notes to make sure his lips still worked properly in spite of the drink, and began to play. The Iraqono had their own instruments, of course, but of wood, not metal, and the clear sounds of his flute delighted them.

The hubbub quieted as they listened to his music, and suddenly a softer, earthier note joined in—the wooden flute of the Iraqono! It was followed shortly by the drumming of fingers on a taut buckskin drum, and the rattle of hollow gourds, and finally a growing roar of snapping fingers as everyone joined in, and the musicians took off in a liquor-fueled improvisation that went on until his lips were numb.

The tsegee being passed around was considerably stronger than the usual drink made from mare’s milk. Habib didn’t get drunk but he was thankful he wouldn’t have to walk far to reach the ger and sleep later that night.

The next morning everyone was up with the sun, the Iraqono busy with their daily chores as if nothing had happened. Habib had few chores, fortunately, because his head felt like a stonemason was working on it with hammer and chisel. Looking at the other caravaneers, though, he realized most of them were in even worse shape.

Apparently Iraqono tsegee was a heck of a lot stronger than it tasted.

Good thing he’d had lots of practice he chuckled, then winced.

With the greeting feast out of the way, Phuntsho and Chief Yawanta would sit down and dicker over terms. They had known each other for a long time and were close friends, but that wouldn’t get in the way of driving the hardest bargain possible.

Phuntsho had a variety of swords and daggers to offer, along with copper pots, Mondath tobacco, cotton cloth from Zeenar and Karida, even a few iridescent textiles of Hatheg. Chief Yawanta had the usual stack of buffalo hides, beaver, fox, a few bear, and half a dozen wolf pelts, and something that nobody had ever seen before

It was the pelt of a large cat, the size of a large leopard or lion, fangs almost identical and easily as long. The fur coat was decorated with broad stripes of red and white, running the length of the body, and along the spine ran a short, bristly mane.

Chief Yawanta explained that he’d traded it from another tribe, who’d called it a “tharban”.

Phuntsho agreed it was a rarity indeed but suggested it might only be worth a few tiaras because the fur was too stiff and the red-and-white coloring too bizarre.

The Chief immediately protested, well aware of the fact that its rarity meant it would command a high price from some noble or rich merchant who collected the unusual.

The argument went back and forth half a dozen times as they worked their way toward a mutually agreeable figure, and finally it was done. Dechen, sitting next to and slightly behind Phuntsho, never said a word, but followed the negotiation very closely indeed. Habib, listening in from a distance since he wasn’t involved in any way, nodded—she’d make a good trader one day.

Once the tharban pelt was taken care of everything else went quite rapidly. They had dealt in the same goods countless times over the years, everything was a known quantity. The whole thing was done well before the day had started to get hot, and the traded goods were moved around shortly thereafter.

Phuntsho’s caravan would split here. One of the wagons, now loaded with pelts, would head back to Karida with its two drivers and two guards, accompanied by three of Chief Yawanta’s men who had their own business in Beavertail. The other four wagons, with the remaining trade goods from the west plus the single tharban pelt, would continue on toward the Athraminaurian Mountains and Gondara.

Chief Yawanta invited them to go fishing.

Rivers and lakes were common throughout the steppes, teeming with fish and all the diverse wildlife that lived near or in the water.

It was a fairly small party, consisting of the Chief and three other Iraqonos, Trader Phuntsho, Bidziil, and Habib, who was curious about the “floating islands” they described.

They rode for about an hour and a half from camp, first through the steppes back to the river, and then upstream a bit to where the river meandered through the grassland in countless broad, leisurely loops.

Chief Yawanta dismounted at the river’s edge, handed the reins to one of the Iraqonos who had come with them, and led the way into the water. The others followed suit, leaving a lone warrior behind to keep watch on their horses.

They trudged through the shallows and over occasional grassy islands until they reached a wide expanse of water.

“Lake Odobeh,” said Bidziil. “It changes size depending on the rain and the melt from up north, but it’s usually here year-round. Mostly too shallow for anything very big, and the maze of channels and islands changes so often anyone who tried to navigate it would be lost in minutes.”

The Chief had stopped and was using his spear to prod a roundish island only a hop away from where he was standing.

Habib watched closely.

The Chief was using the blunt end of the spear, prodding and pushing. It looked like he was testing the strength of the island, thought Habib. But why?

Chief Yawanta suddenly stepped onto the island.

It shuddered, the grass and moss flashing in a ripple that spread slowly across the island and dissipated.

The Chief smiled and gave a little jump, creating an even bigger ripple, the ground rising and falling like a giant beast breathing, though silent but for the mild squelching noise his feet made when they landed.

“Come! This is one of our floating islands!” he called.

The rest of the party followed, stepping over the narrow gap of river water onto the island. It bounced slightly under Habib’s feet, and he could feel the vibrations of the others as they walked, rippling underneath.

“What is it?” he wondered aloud.

“It’s just moss, pretty much” explained Bidziil. “The same stuff all around you… it just builds up and eventually gets big enough to form a floating patch like this one.”

“Is it really safe?”

“Sure, sure,” chuckled Bidziil. “Your foot might break through into a little water but you’re not gonna get sucked underwater or anything.”

Habib tried a few little jumps, getting the feel of the island. It was soft to walk on, and even fun, actually, feeling it slowly rise and fall under his feet.

They walked toward the center of the island where the Chief was already cutting a hole with his sword with the two other Iraqonos who had come along. The moss was not very tough, but it was clumped together very thickly, and was heavy with water.

They cut moss free and scooped it out with their hands to make a relatively clear opening.

The Chief took little bits of sheep meat from a bag he carried and squatted down to sprinkle them into the water. He waited, peering deep until he gave a grunt of satisfaction and readied his spear.

He slowly lifted it, tense, attention focused on the opening, and suddenly thrust hard.

There was a furious splashing, and Habib caught a glimpse of something finned and scaled, a meter or two in length and as thick as his arm, struggling to escape the spear through its midsection.

“Master Habib! Help pull it ashore!” called the Chief, and Habib sprang to assist. It didn’t occur to him until later to wonder why the Chief had called only him, and nobody else helped…

Chief Yawanta dragged the eel, as it was revealed to be, halfway up out of the water, writhing and thrashing furiously.

Habib leapt on it, grabbing it around the body close to the head—he could see the fangs and didn’t want to let it bite him—and screamed with intense pain, falling to the ground.

He blacked out for a moment, and as he pulled himself back together in spite of the pain running up his arms and the spots dancing in front of his eyes, he saw the others killing the thing carefully until it was very, very dead.

Phuntsho helped him sit up and offered him a drink of water.

“You alright?” he asked concernedly. “The lightning eels pack quite a punch.”

“Wha…. What was that?”

“Just an eel,” explained Phuntsho. “They shock their prey to eat, or to escape danger.”

“My hands still ache,” said Habib, flexing his fingers. “My arms…”

“We all went through it, Master Habib. It’s the Iraqono initiation.”

Chief Yawanta walked over and stretched out his hand. When Habib took it, the Chief pulled him up and hugged him.

“Welcome, Habib, to the Iraqono. You are my cousin.”

“Uh… thank you, Chief Yawanta,” he replied, unsure of how to react.

“When he says cousin, he just means you’re a close friend, and under his protection,” explained Phuntsho. “You’re not really an Iraqono, but you’re no longer an outsider, either.

“I think he likes you.”

Habib, still shaken by the electrical shock, smiled and did his best to look happy in spite of the throbbing pain in his hands and arms. He noticed that his hangover had disappeared, though, which helped.

The group, without much help from Habib, picked up the dead eel, and they proceeded to the next floating island to repeat the process. At the third island Habib, feeling much better and eager to take revenge, delivered the killing blow himself.

When they made their way back to camp later they carried with them the carcasses of four enormous lightning eels.

As it turned out, eel was delicious. Habib hadn’t been looking forward to another dinner of sheep, sheep, and sheep.

They set forth on the next leg of their journey the following morning.

* * *

The steppes slowly began to change, sloping ever so gradually upwards toward the yet-distant mountains. The clumps of trees grew in size, becoming woods filled with deer rather than bison, and large cats instead of wolves.

At dawn they could make out a dark shadow on the horizon, black shapes blurred in front of the sun as it rose. The Athraminaurians, at last.

They encountered two more tribes along the way, both of whom already knew Phuntsho and welcomed his goods, although not with the same enthusiasm as the Iraqono had shown.

One of the guards was attacked by a bear he stumbled upon unexpectedly, and while they did what they could, he died a day later. The bear escaped unharmed.

One of the wagon drivers vanished one night. No trace was found, search as they might, and none of her tentmates reported hearing or seeing anything unusual… just an empty blanket in the morning.

The caravan no longer accepted bison hides, instead collecting fox, mink, beaver, and other valuable furs. These would travel with them as far as Lho Mon.

Habib was determined to travel with them, although Phuntsho’s caravan would end its journey in Lho Mon, his birthplace and home. The trader said he would arrange for Habib to accompany another trader on the difficult journey over the mountains, and while he trusted the other as an honest man, he advised against attempting to cross the Athraminaurians, warning that death was far too common a fate on that treacherous path.

Habib promised to consider his words carefully, but as the distant mountains grew higher and clearer with each passing day, his desire to finally reach them, scale their heights, feel their wonder first-hand, only grew more intense.

He bothered Phuntsho and Bidziil constantly, asking about the mountains, and about Gondara beyond. Bidziil was a man of the steppes, and vastly preferred the distant horizon to icy peaks, but Phuntsho was from Lho Mon, well up into the mountains, and he shared tales of steep mountain paths, of goats clambering up sheer walls that would try to most skillful climber, of hundreds of tiny fields laboriously cut into the slopes, of avalanches of ice and rock that swept people and homes away in an instant, and of the Children of Eitr.

“I’ve seen their cities glittering cold and blue on the highest peaks,” he said, eyes wistful. “Beautiful, and terrifying.

“They come to those lost in the mountains, seeking the warmth of man and beast, but unable to withstand the heat of the fire, or the warmth of the summer sun. Cursed, trapped in bodies of ice, forever cold, and warm only at death.

“I have never seen one,” he murmured, making that same gesture of throwing salt over his shoulder, “but I have seen the bodies of those who have. Ice to the core, with smiles and tears frozen on their faces.”

He shuddered at some memory.

“I urge you to stay with me in Lho Mon, Master Habib, and return with me to Karida,” he pled. “Please. It is far too dangerous.”

“Karida, Shiroora Shan, the Night Ocean… they hold me no longer. I hunger for the Athraminaurians that hold up the sky, to see the splendor of Gondara, to look over The Edge…”

The road left the steppes, winding upwards as fields and houses began to appear around them. Ahead soared the immensity of the Athraminaurian Mountains, grey and black against the bright sky, their apexes shining white, half-concealed by distance and wisps of cloud.

The horses struggled now, pulling their loads up ever-steeper roads, until finally they entered the domain of Lho Mon, a broad, shallow valley carved into the mountains by an ice-fed river that raced through the land and plunged to the steppes below.

Traditional Lho Mon houses were two or three stories tall, with the first level—generally used for storage and farm animals—of stone, and wood-and-mortar living areas above. The stone and mortar were whitewashed, presenting a striking contrast with the dark colors of the exposed wood, natural or stained a reddish-brown.

All the houses were extensively decorated inside and out, usually over the course of generations, and were handed down from mother to daughter, with new husbands welcomed into the home in each generation. Some of the oldest had stood for grand dozens of years, lovingly repaired and renovated as needed after disaster or to welcome new family.

Phuntsho walked at the head of the trade caravan, smiling and greeting people left and right. He seemed to know everyone, calling them by name, and always welcomed with smiles.

The caravan followed behind as he led them up the main street to a central plaza, then left up yet another slope. The houses here were considerably larger and the colors brighter. New, Habib figured, or at least newly painted.

He waved Dechen, his second-in-command, to guide the caravan into a clearing at the side of the house while he walked over to greet his family. They must have heard the ruckus earlier because they were all waiting in front of the house to welcome him.

It was quite a crowd. Habib found out later that it included his wife’s parents, his own mother, three of his wife’s siblings, his own six children, including the husband and two children of one of his daughters, and over a dozen neighbors and friends. There was also a small group of onlookers on the street itself, presumably passers-by.

“Trader Phuntsho should be back in an hour or so. He always brings little gifts for the children, and he has to give thanks at the family altar for his safe return,” said Bidziil. “We’ll be setting up camp here, but most of us will stay down in the city. More people, more booze, more, um, entertainment.”

Habib smiled and was about to make some snappy response when he heard a distant roar, a groaning of the earth that quivered up his bones and rattled his soul. The roar of the mountain.

Bidziil noticed his sudden introspection and chuckled.

“You felt it, too? A landslide somewhere… the sound echoes for kilometers through the mountains. Sometimes they get quakes up here, too, bring the whole mountain down on top of you.”

“A landslide…?” murmured Habib, shaken. “Is that all it was? It felt… I don’t know… like a God speaking. Or something...”

Bidziil shook his head.

“Just felt like a landslide to me. Can’t imagine why anyone would want to live in the shadow of these mountains, landslides and earthquakes and ice-spawn.

“Can’t get back to the steppes soon enough for me.”

“Ice-spawn? You mean the Children of—?”

“Don’t say it! Yeah, same thing,” he said, clapping his hand over Habib’s mouth. “Never seen one, never want to, but they’re evil, evil as death.”

Habib fell silent, eyes fixed on those fabled mountains that surely touched the stars, streamers of icy white blowing from their stern peaks in the wind.

The next day Phuntsho introduced him to Chophel of Kungmai, who would take the trade goods on the next leg of the perilous journey, across the Athraminaurians.

Chophel was a small, wiry man, face weathered by sun and ice until it was impossible to tell if he was fifty years old or five hundred. He spoke common poorly, but with Phuntsho it was possible to arrange things quickly.

“He’s not very happy taking you along, since you’re unfamiliar with travel on these icy mountain paths, but he’s done it before. Just listen to him before you do anything silly.”

Phuntsho explained that the horses could go as far as Kungmai, the village Chophel came from, but from there it would be yaks. Yaks, while somewhat smaller than horses, could carry almost as much cargo. They could tread the treacherous mountain paths and thin air of the mountains where horses could not survive.

“We leave the morning,” said Chopel. “When Matachamgoro is bright.”

“Matachamgoro?”

“That one, there,” explained Phuntsho, pointing at the tallest mountain visible. It had three peaks linked together by knife-thin ridges, ice and rock glinting silver and black. “Matachamgoro is the first to catch the rising sun, and the last the setting.”

He made that gesture again, of throwing salt over his shoulder.

“Is that where… they… live?”

“In their city of ice and death,” he whispered quietly. “And may they stay there!”

He shook his head, took a breath, and turned his eyes away from the soaring mountain.

“I’m off to the market; come with me, if you will.”

“With pleasure,” smiled Habib, and they walked toward the market in the lower part of town, where the wagons and many of the caravaneers were already waiting.

The marketplace was basically a muddy field, with half a dozen haphazard buildings scattered around to keep the snow off and block the wind. Today there was neither and the sun was delightfully warm.

Phuntsho sold or traded most of his good here, the furs, pots and pans, and various weapons going briskly. He unloaded about half of the Zeenar cotton cloth from Zeenar and Karida but kept almost all of the Mondath tobacco and the Hatheg iridescent textiles. A few close friends or important personages received special pouches of tobacco or some other special gift, of course, that he had kept separate from the trade goods.

Habib noticed that Phuntsho presented one impeccably dressed older man with a parcel obviously containing some sort of fabric. He couldn’t tell for sure, but from the careful way they handled it, he guessed it was Moung spider silk. If so, it would be worth its weight in silver… he wondered who it was for. Probably not the man, he thought, who must work for someone higher up. Some local lord? Phuntsho’s lover?

He shrugged. He'd probably never know, especially as he’d be leaving in the morning.

He wandered out of the market toward the edge of the village. Built in the river-carved valley there was no convenient overlook, but he was content to look up at the mountains surrounding him. He sat down on a nearby rock and took out his flute, playing quietly to himself, eyes and heart lost in the scene before him.

He lost track of how long he’d been playing or even what he’d been playing, until a voice snapped him out of it.

“Master Habib! There you are! I heard your music, and finally I’ve found you!”

It was Phuntsho.

He lowered the flute, noticing that the sun was already low on the horizon and turned.

“I was just admiring the view,” he said.

The trader glanced at the mountains and shrugged.

“I grew up with that view; it’s as cold and hard as it’s ever been.

“But what were you playing?”

“…I have no idea…,” said Habib. “It just happened.”

“Well, it was a beautiful piece, whatever it was.

“Will you take your supper with us tonight, Master Habib? We would welcome you, and I know my family would love your music as much as I do.”

“Thank you, Trader Phuntsho. I would be honored.”

They walked back to his home, and Phuntsho gestured to Habib to walk up the narrow stairs to the second floor. They were cut from a single tree trunk, worn smooth by years of use, but with no handrail.

The room looked like it occupied about half of the second floor; Habib could see a doorway on the far wall. To his left was a simple kitchen with adobe stove, while the rest of the room held a large table surrounded by cushions. The walls were mortared, the dark wood of the beams and columns left exposed, and the mortar had been painted in intricate designs that were difficult to make out clear in spite of the numerous oil lamps hanging throughout.

Habib noticed a few wall sections that had obviously been decorated by very young artists, featuring stick figures of people and cows. Or yaks?

Four or five women were bustling about in the kitchen part of the room, the noises of pots and knives and voices surprisingly loud after the silence of the mountains.

There was already a number of people around the table: Phuntsho’s mother and father-in-law, two of his sons and one son-in-law, a number of grandchildren always in motion and impossible to count accurately, Bidziil, and Dechen.

Bidziil waved him over and forced a cup into his hand, filling it with a steaming, whitish drink.

“It’s ara, you’ll love it,” he said, and pushed a dollop of butter off his knife into the cup. “They distill it from corn, usually. Got quite a kick!”

Habib watched the butter melt with a dubious expression, then gathered his courage—as a trader, this was not the first time he’d been handed something unknown to eat or drink—and took a slug.

It was pretty good, in fact, but his mouth burned from the alcohol.

He took another slug, then hurriedly set the cup down as a large plate of brilliant red chilis buried in orange and yellow cheese was set on the table in front of him.

It was quickly joined by huge wooden tubs of hot rice, and plates of potatoes (also with chilis), strips of some meat fried up with radishes (and chilis), pyramids of round dumplings spitting steam and bubbles, and more.

More people crowded into the room from somewhere; Habib figured they were probably more relatives because there seemed to be a lot more children running around. He never had the chance to ask, though, because new plates of food kept appearing, and people kept on asking to refill his cup.

He suddenly noticed that the latest person offering to refill his cup was Phuntsho, who looked like he’d had almost as much to drink as Habib himself.

Instead of holding out his cup in the customary gesture, he took the jug with one hand and pushed his cup into Phuntsho’s hand with the other.

“No, no, let me thank you, Trader! You have brought me safely across the steppes to Lho Mon, and I am eternally in your debt!”

They tussled over the jug for a moment, each trying to be the first to pour for the other, until finally Bidziil held up his own cup.

“Use this, you two, and both drink up! Stop hogging the jug!”

There was general laughter and the two of them clinked their cups together before slugging down their ara in unison.

“Play for us, Master Habib,” pressed Phuntsho. “If you’re not too drunk…”

“Drunk!? Nonsense!” snorted Habib, although he knew he was lying. He pushed back from the table a bit to make space and picked up his flute.

“My city, Shiroora Shan, stands between the Night Ocean and the mountains. They are tiny mountains compared to your soaring peaks, the Athraminaurians, but they are mountains nonetheless, and noble in their stern beauty.

“I have been trying to capture their essence in music for many years now, and fail every time. Poor as it is, here is my Ode to Ifdawn Marest.”

He closed his eyes and recalled, for a moment, the mountains of his childhood, rising up behind Shiroora Shan, their gentle foothills green with forests and alive with streams, teeming with wildlife. He lifted the flute to his lips and began to play.

He had no need of a score, he had composed and re-composed and discarded and made anew countless times. He knew it by heart and had listened to it in his dreams.

His eyes closed, he saw the mountains, Ifdawn Marest, verdant slopes that he knew so well. His fingers played, his lips breathing musical fire into his flute, tones that resonated, filling the room like moonlight.

He played on and on, past the end of his work, past his knowledge of the world, and spoke of the eternal Athraminaurians, soaring far, far above the puny peaks of his childhood, cloaked in ice and snow and mystery that never felt the spring breeze.

His music grew colder, higher, notes no longer full of the warmth of humanity. They were hard, sharp, unyielding, unknowing and uncaring of humanity, eternal in their immensity.

A hand slowly pulled the flute away from his lips, and the music stopped.

The room was silent, still, dozens of pairs of eyes fixed on the musician.

Habib realized his lips hurt terribly. He held the flute in one hand and raised his other to touch his mouth. His fingertips were red… with blood?

He let Phuntsho pry the flute away, and looked more closely at his hands. Bloody. Both of them.

How long had he been playing!?

“Enough, Habib,” said Phuntsho. “Your music has brought the mountains into my home. It is time for human warmth now, lest we turn to stone ourselves.”

All of a sudden the room was full of sound, as people breathed and moved and whispered, the sounds of life.

Most of the listeners left quietly, walking down the stairs to return to their own homes, or into the back room, or upstairs to the sleeping level. Phuntsho and Bidziil stayed sitting next to Habib.

The trader softly placed Habib’s flute on the table as Bidziil poured another cupful of ara.

“No, no more ara,” said Phuntsho. “Tea, I think. Strong tea.”

He looked around for someone to bring tea, but the room was empty save for the three of them.

He grunted, rose, and prepared the tea himself, with boiling water from the pot over the stove and black tea leaves from a small jar on one of the innumerable shelves. He filled the teapot, swirled the water, poured out three cups, carefully pouring a little at a time into each cup until all were full, and handed cups to Habib and Bidziil.

They drank and silence reigned until Phuntsho spoke again.

“I have never heard music so beautiful, or so terrifying.”

Bidziil nodded.

“That was not the music of the steppes, or of the Ifdawn Marest, I wager. That was the Athraminaurian Mountains themselves, speaking through your music.”

“I wonder if it was my music,” murmured Habib. “I can recall only fragments of what I played, and I never wrote, or even dreamt, those phrases…”

“Let me get some salve for your fingers,” said Phuntsho as Habib slowly brought the cup to his lips.

* * *

They left before dawn the next morning, the very top of Matachamgoro lit orange by the rays of the rising sun. The valley of Lho Mon was still heavy with shadow, but the grey pre-dawn light was enough to make their preparations by.

Chopel’s caravan was much different from Phuntsho’s. The amount of cargo was smaller, of course, as they’d disposed of the majority in Lho Mon to leave only goods that were relatively rare (and therefore expensive) in Gondara, on the other side of the Athraminaurians. Neither horses nor wagons could make it over the mountain paths, and so everything had been adjusted so it could be carried by the yaks.

Chopel was leading a caravan of a dozen and a half yaks, carrying goods not only for Phuntsho but for three other traders as well, including one Gondaran who had arrived in Lho Mon months earlier and had been waiting for the mountain snows to clear enough to return to his homeland.

Phuntsho and Dechen were there, of course, making sure their goods—including the rare red-and-white tharban pelt—were properly packed. Bidziil came as well, to bid Habib a safe journey, and hand him a jug of ara “to keep you warm in the mountains.”

The yaks grunted and complained as they set forth, wiggling their hindquarters every so often to settle the load. They were obviously unhappy to be loaded up and rousted out of their slumbers so early, but they sulkily complied.

The people walked.

Everyone was dressed in heavy furs, mostly open in the warmer air of the Lho Mon valley. As they climbed up into the mountains the temperature would drop rapidly, and they’d all button up. Everyone walked with a staff in one hand for balance and the occasional yak-thumping.

Habib had never seen a yak before. He was familiar with cows, of course, but unsure just how different their furrier cousins might be. Over the course of the day he had ample opportunity to get to know them very well, walking right next to a male yak named Dawa.

Dawa was absolutely filthy, but Habib thought he was probably a light brown. He stank, he had little flies zipping around all the time, and he loved radishes and getting scratched between the eyes. After walking next to each other for most of the day, they became good friends.

The path was clear of ice and snow, winding up out of the valley through a long series of switchbacks. It was possible to take a shorter path, cutting across most of the switchbacks, but the heavily loaded yaks might slip on scree and lose their balance, and Chopel decided they’d take the longer way up.

They reached the lip of the valley in the late afternoon.

From this lofty viewpoint the valley was a welcoming green, dotted with tiny houses that looked far warmer than the broken rock and sheer stone faces ahead of them.

They pressed on for another hour or so until Chopel finally stopped next to a sturdy lean-to standing next to the path. A massive wall of large rocks faced the constant wind, providing welcome shelter.

It had snowed recently, leaving a light dusting that covered everything in a slippery coat, and the cold wind kept it swirling about. They’d all closed their fur coats and pulled their hats and gloves tighter some time ago.

The lean-to was full of dry yak dung for use as fuel, along with dried meat and rice. Chopel explained in halting common that it was for emergencies, kept stocked by the villagers.

“Me too,” he said. “Me too.”

Habib was unsure of what he meant but smiled and nodded in agreement.

He slept poorly that night, everyone crowded together in the lean-to for warmth, with the wind whistling and yaks snorting. They rose at first light and, after a quick meal, set forth once again.

The snow was deeper in spite of the constant wind, and Chopel rubbed yak fat on Habib’s exposed cheeks to help protect them.

There were fewer switchbacks that day, as the path twisted around the flanks of the mountains and traversed steep slopes, both up and down. The snow continued to fall, making it harder to see the path, or the mountains around them.

Chopel, who had been over this route many times, said he could walk it safely even in a blizzard, but the caravaneers and even the yaks began to slow as the cold wind battered at them.

They finally reached the next lean-to after it was quite dark.

Habib had no choice but to trust Dawa to follow the yak in front of them, walking next to him with one hand on Dawa’s pack and the other holding his staff. Several times he slipped in the snow, barely managing to hold himself upright.

That night, exhausted, he slept in spite of the howls of the wind, the grumbling yaks, and the crush of the other men in the shelter.

They woke in the pre-dawn gloom once again, the highest peaks of Matachamgoro a pale pink, and began trudging their way toward distant Gondara.

One day blended into the next, and Habib could no longer recall how many days it had been, or when he had had his last bath. He and Dawa were old friends now, and he spoke more to the yak than to most of the other caravaneers—few of them could understand him, and they were rarely within easy speaking distance. During the day the ever-constant wind ripped speech away before it could reach anyone not standing next to you, and the night was for eating and sleeping.

He wore several layers of fur, making it difficult to move easily, but the only movement he had to make was to place one foot in front of the other, again and again and again, until Chopel called a rest after a particularly steep slope, or a stop for the night. It snowed often, but unless it was impossible to see the path or the ground was even more slippery than usual, he kept on going.

Habib walked with his hand on Dawa’s haunch, his mind mostly blank, random thoughts of Shiroora Shan or green trees flitting by every so often. His eyes, tired of rock and ice, studied the colors and textures of Dawa’s fur, or the various fabrics of the cargo; he could no longer see the soaring mountain peaks.

Suddenly the ground flexed and he lost his balance, almost falling.

Shouts, yaks hooting in alarm, a roar that he felt in his bones... the mountain!

He caught the barest glimpse of something immense and white coming down the mountain from the heights above, something ferocious that screamed with all the fury of ice and stone, and he was swept away into unconsciousness.

* * *

It was dark, and something furry smelled.

His head hurt, and as soon as he realized that, he realized everything hurt.

That fur... his head was lying against a yak!

He tried to see more clearly, but the stars above were too cold to shed much light, and it looked like both he and the yak were covered in a light dusting of snow anyway.

The yak—he thought it might be Dawa, but it was impossible to tell—wasn’t breathing, but when the avalanche swept them off the mountain, he ended up on top of the dead yak, and that much warm yak, even dead, had been enough to keep him alive this long.

Unless he could find shelter, though, it wouldn’t last much longer.

He gingerly tried moving his hands and feet. Everything seemed to work, but his body was battered and every movement brought pain.

He could live with pain, but he couldn’t live without shelter, and heat.

He struggled to his feet and looked about.

Too dark; he couldn’t see anything.

“Hello! Anyone!”

His voice echoed off into the night, leaving him more alone than before in the silence.

Shelter, and heat, and food... he pulled out his dagger and laboriously hacked out two huge slabs of yak meat. They steamed in the night air, beginning to frost over before his eyes.

His sword was gone, as was his staff. He still wore his pack, and it felt heavy enough that he doubted much, if anything, had been lost.

He put the meat in the pack and tried to make out his surroundings.

It was still too dark, but he could see black exposed rock scattered here and there, pitch black against the fractionally lighter snow and ice. With luck, he thought, he might find a cave.

He gingerly started out toward the nearest outcropping and grimaced in pain and almost falling as he lost his balance for a moment. His knee was badly twisted, maybe worse.

He could hop or he could crawl, but he couldn’t walk.

He tried hopping but the shock of jumping and landing made everything else hurt too much. He didn’t feel much like crawling through the snow either, even though he did have fur clothing and gloves.

Maybe it would be better to just sit down and keep poor Dawa company, and wait for dawn. The yak’s body was still slightly warmer than anywhere else.

Raw yak meat wasn’t his favorite meal, but he had few other choices right now… with dawn, maybe he could see some fallen cargo, maybe even locate another survivor.

He shouted into the darkness again, hearing only the gentle sighing of the wind and fading echoes chasing each other through the peaks and valleys.

He choked down some meat and ate a few handfuls of snow to wash it down with.

Alone. In the middle of what were probably the harshest, deadliest mountains in the Dreamlands.

He pulled out his flute to keep himself company. The music sounded thin and forlorn in the darkness, notes vanishing into the night as if swallowed whole.

He played on anyway, forgetting his predicament for a moment in the beauty of the music.

The Ode to Ifdawn Marest seemed more apt than ever, here in the icy depths of the Athraminaurian Mountains, and his fingers played on well beyond the notes he had composed, bring new depths and heights, capturing the delicate beauty of the stark black-and-white world around him.

Exhausted, he finally lowered the flute and listened to the last notes reverberate into the distance.

He waited in silence until the sky began to grow grey with dawn.

He could see a little more of his surroundings now. He seemed to have fallen into a fairly small valley, with very steep sides almost all around. It looked like there might be an exit at the lower end, though.

He examined the dead yak. It wasn’t Dawa after all, but one of the others. It was wearing its harness, of course, and parts of the wagon it had been pulling were still attached, but most of the wagon was gone. He looked but couldn’t see any of the cargo it had been carrying anywhere. It could be buried under the snow, he thought, but there was an awful lot of snow after the avalanche.

He could see where they’d slid down the mountainside… it was a long way up, and he was astonished he’d come through it with only a twisted knee.

He chuckled in grim realization that it might have better to have died in the fall rather than starve to death here.

He gradually worked his way down the valley toward the open end, hopping or sliding as necessary until he was close enough to see where it led.

It led to a sheer drop of at least a hundred meters, maybe two or three times that. With rope it would not be an obstacle, but for him it meant death to try.

So he was stuck here.

He shouted again, and again heard nothing but dying echoes in return.

It was much harder to move uphill, returning to the dead yak, but he’d need that meat.

Next was shelter.

He couldn’t see any caves, but scree and boulders lay along the foot of the wall. He checked them out, and there were a few nooks between boulders that would be better than nothing.

He picked one that was about right for a single man and sealed up any holes with hard-packed snow until it was snug.

Fire.

He collected all the pieces of the wagon he could find and carried them back to his fortress. There were not many. Plenty of meat but he’d have to think twice about cooking it, because he only had enough wood for a few fires. Small ones at that.

His furs would keep him warm enough, especially now that he could stay out of the wind, and he really didn’t have to worry about food—that yak wouldn’t spoil very quickly at these temperatures, and he’d probably die of boredom before he ran out of meat.

Or just jump off that cliff.

He spent that day watching the beams of sunlight shift across the icy mountain stone, or snow so white it hurt his eyes to look at. He could feel the mountains around him, feel the slow deep pulse of their majestic hearts. And as the mood took him he played his flute, sometimes from memory, sometimes improvisation as his fingers danced almost of their own volition.

And the next day.

And the next.

Once he saw an eagle soaring overhead, heard the scream of its passage echo in his prison, and stood, dumbstruck, at the sheer beauty of that flight.

When he woke one morning there was a small stack of wood in front of his makeshift home.

Pieces of the broken wagons!

But how…? Who?

He shouted, calling for someone, anyone, to answer.

Silence.

That afternoon, as the valley began to slip into darkness, he wept as his played his flute, and finally stopped.

“Do not stop, please,” came a voice from above.

He leapt to his feet, ignoring the pain from his knee, searching feverishly for whomever had spoken.

There! Sitting nonchalantly on the mountainside so steep a mountain goat would think twice about attempting it, was a woman of ice, diamond catching the dimming light in rainbow glints.

“Who…? You’re real! I haven’t gone crazy?”

She laughed, a crystalline chime that was as beautiful as it was cold.

“Quite real, I assure you,” she said. “I have never heard anything as beautiful as your music… it speaks to me of the winds whipping around the summit of Matachamgoro, ice cracking in the first light of dawn, the victorious roar of ice and snow loosed onto the smaller lands below, eagles soaring above, pitiless stars on high.

“Play, I beg of you!”

Awed by her voice her presence, he obeyed, and played.

His fingers were as possessed, coaxing notes from his flute that he had never heard before, filling the valley with a crescendo of music that captured the eternal majesty of the mountains, their terror and beauty.

He played until he could no more, and stopped, and looked up.

She was gone.

Had it merely been a dream, a hallucination?

He shivered as he recalled her beauty, her voice, frozen silver and crystal.

He slept fretfully that night, awakened countless times by his own dreams, wondering if he’d heard her voice once more.

She was back the next day, sitting on the mountainside, listening raptly to his music.

Her name was Drifa, she told him.

She came every day, sometimes bringing wood, once a rabbit—frozen solid, of course.

She was entranced by his descriptions of forests, the steppes, the sea... she had never dipped her hand into running water, or imagined the endless waters of the sea.

Like all of the Children of Eitr she craved warmth, and could suck the warmth from a traveler in seconds to assuage her hunger. At the same time, however, too much heat would kill her. A journey to the green steppes or the Night Ocean would be fatal.

She had seen frozen grass, and trees, and flowers, but never fresh, gently waving in the breeze.

Habib listened to her stories of the mountain heights, the delicate, wind-carved sculptures of ice and snow that graced the peaks; the soaring crystal towers of the Eitr high above; the way clouds would gather like a carpet of wool below, hiding all the world except a few peaks under billowing white; how the air itself was different, rarified and pure.

He longed to see those sights and more, even as she longed to feel a flower, or see the ocean.

Every day she came a little closer, until they were only meters apart, sitting facing each other like friends. Or lovers.

He reached out a hand to grasp her, slowly.

Drifa recoiled, leaping to her bare feet to dance away over the snow he would sink into.

“You cannot!” she cried. “I am a Child of Eitr, and I long for your warmth, for the fire of your life to warm my heart, but to touch you would be to kill you, and that I cannot do.”

“I would die happy if I but could embrace you, kiss your lips even once.”

“No!” she cried, and fled, racing up the wall of his valley and into the snowy darkness.

She was back the next day, standing like a statue of diamond before his home, waiting for him to wake.

“I cannot live without you, Habib,” she said. “But were I to embrace you as I wish I would suck the life from your body. I cannot.”

“I will die here anyway,” he countered. “At least that way I would die happy.”

She fell silent, and then spoke slowly.

“Legend says there is a way…”

“Tell me!”

“There is a legend that a man, such as yourself, once fell in love with a Child of Eitr. Unable to restrain themselves they made love, and as the flame of his manhood burned the woman, so did the cold of her embrace freeze the man. And he became a Child of Eitr himself, his flesh and blood transformed.

“But it is a mere legend…”

“I love you, Drifa,” said Habib, unlacing his furs. “Come to me.”

“But you will…”

“I will be reborn, to be with you forever! But it would be worth it even so, to be with you.”

She came to him then in the shadows, and took his fire into her as he writhed with the pain of the cold, and the pleasure of his love, until they collapsed, sated.

He slept, his arm around her in an embrace, until the lightening sky stirred him to wake.

She didn’t feel cold, he thought to himself.

He didn’t feel cold, either!

He lifted a hand and stared at the delicate tracery of veins running under his translucent skin, a wonder of silver and diamond that flexed and glinted in the sunlight.

It worked!

“Drifa! Drifa! It worked! Look!”

He shook her, and stopped in shock and realization.

As her cold had transformed him into a Child of Eitr, his fire had transformed her into a human woman.

And she had frozen to death.

END