Storm Bride Page 11

  Get up. I should get up. But she couldn’t move. Her hands were like stone.

  The Power still trembled in her chest. Saotse clasped it with the last tatters of her strength.

  And like a mist rising over the water, darkness drowned her mind.

  Saotse floated in a pool of milk, with a warm and buttery sweetness on her tongue. A voice murmured above her like a mother’s cooing. But it was not her mother. Was it Uya? Nei? No, they were all dead. Was her mother dead? Most likely. And even if she lived, her mother certainly wasn’t the young woman she heard speaking above her.

  But then, it wasn’t a woman speaking at all, was it? The calm, maternal hands that cradled her neck were not a woman’s. They were not calm, and they were not maternal. Rough hands. A man’s hands.

  She was not floating, but lying on a bed of straw, and Tagoa spoke with fearful care above her. His voice gradually took on a shape, like a stone emerging from the fleeing tide. Only the last of his words were intelligible to her: “… go, now. She’s waking up.”

  Feet scraped the dirt floor of the hut, retreating. Tagoa breathed deeply and put his hand on Saotse’s forehead. “Can you hear me? Are you awake?”

  She worked her jaw to bring spittle to her tongue. Her lips pressed together soundlessly like strips of bark.

  “Wait,” Tagoa said. “Here’s some water.” He lifted her head and touched the tip of a leather pouch to her lips.

  She sipped at its contents. “Thank you.”

  His care, for once, did not seem like the rehearsal of a burdensome duty, but neither was there real empathy. What did she hear hiding in his voice?

  His voice quivered as he asked, “How do you feel?”

  He’s afraid of me. How curious. “Where are we?”

  “On the women’s side of the akan’s lodge.”

  “Where is everyone else?”

  “They’re waiting outside.”

  “Are they afraid of me, too?”

  He didn’t answer for a while. When he spoke again, he sounded even more afraid. “What happened? None of us understand. What did you do?”

  “Well, what did happen? Do I look like I know more about it than you do?”

  “You were… You were there in the middle of it. Don’t you know what happened?”

  “I don’t know that I do. Tell me.”

  “I don’t really know, either.”

  “Tell me what you know! How can I explain anything if you won’t tell me what you need explained?”

  “Yes, yes, of course, Grandmother.”

  Oh bother, now he’s starting with the honorifics. Whatever she had done under the Power’s influence, it had frightened them all badly.

  “Well, to start, two of the sentries found you buried up to your neck in soil in the middle of the forest. The other two were dead.”

  “So the Yakhat were here?” She wasn’t sure whether she had imagined that part, or if it were part of the vision that the Power had given her.

  Another hesitant pause. “They were here, yes. They killed one of the sentries. The other one was crushed by a tree that fell on him.”

  “A tree? Who was pushing over trees?”

  “Well, we don’t know— That is, we thought it was—but of course we shouldn’t assume—”

  “Oh, come out with it. Why do you think it was me?”

  He gave a short, nervous laugh. “Well, you know, the whole ground between the lodges and the perimeter is torn up like a giant’s plow went through it. The trees are all uprooted, fallen over and burst into splinters. There are stones that landed in pools of hot mud after flying through the air. Heaps of earth folded over corpses. We’ve pulled over a dozen dead Yakhat from the mud so far. And one of our sentries. There could be more. We don’t know. The two sentries who survived, though, said they saw you in the middle of it, screaming and swinging your arms and making the earth on every side of you ripple like the sea in a storm. So we assumed you were the cause of the… the earthquake. If that’s what it was.”

  Saotse fell silent. Not a vision after all, then.

  The Power had filled her—or she had taken hold of the Power, she couldn’t say which—and they had done something. She reached, just to see if she could, and found the Power of the earth. No part of her body touched the soil, but she could feel the Power as hot as a coal, burning through the few inches between herself and the ground. She offered a memory: the earth awake like a sheet torn by the wind, enemies crushed and vanquished. The Power’s response was a fierce cry of exultation, the mournful memory of slaughter sweetened by revenge. The earth began to tremble. For a moment, the vastness of the Power’s hatred and sorrow threatened to engulf her, shaking the room like a rattle, but Saotse resisted, kissed the Power’s hand, and withdrew.

  It was all true.

  A whimper sounded from the corner of the room. “What did you do?”

  “I merely sought the Power that had touched me before.”

  “The earth shook like a drum, and you call it nothing?”

  She assumed that tone of weary grace that Nei had used so often when speaking to the enna. “It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.” It was a change to apologize from a pose of superiority, for once.

  “You are in communion with the Powers,” Tagoa ventured. “Some of the others wanted to kill you for colluding with a demon.”

  “The demons are merely the Power of our enemies. Or so I’ve heard the Hiksilipsi teach.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “If I’ve befriended one of the Powers, does it matter who it is? She won’t harm us. She is our ally and my friend.”

  Tagoa’s nervous breathing filled the room. “You are Kept.”

  Saotse recoiled. That title had been dangled in front of her once before, when she was a young woman who had just crossed the ocean on a whale’s back. But had Oarsa ever given her the power to raise up the sea like a spear? Had he done anything at all when Prasa was ravaged? No, if any Power had the right to Keep her, it was this newcomer, the earthen mother who shared her heartbreak with everyone in the fallen city.

  “I am Kept,” she said.

  “Blessed woman.” His hand clasped hers. His lips pressed against her knuckles. “Will you tell me the name of the Power that Keeps you?”

  She had no name for the Power, and of course the Power could not tell her. Names were a mortal convenience, given by men to the eternal forces so they could remember and invoke them. But now Saotse needed a name, and if none already existed, she would have to invent one.

  “Sorrow,” she said. “Her name is Sorrow.”

  Chapter 13

  Keshlik

  “There are Khaatat warriors on the horizon,” Bhaalit said. “Juyut’s men.”

  “Sooner than I expected.” Keshlik scraped the spearhead across the spinning whetstone and tested its edge. “I hope this means good news.”

  Bhaalit didn’t answer. Keshlik stopped with the whetstone above the bronze and looked up. Bhaalit’s face was darkened with concern.

  “Tell me,” Keshlik said.

  “Not all of them are coming. And they approach slowly.”

  Keshlik stood. “Who saw them?”

  “One of the cow-maidens who was grazing her cattle in the west. She relayed the message in with her sisters.”

  “I’m going to meet them.” The spearhead gave a final ring as he stroked the whetstone along its claw, then he set it aside with the others. “Tell one of the young men to put these back in the stockpile. I have to ready my horse.”

  “They’re probably fine,” Bhaalit said softly, resting a hand on Keshlik’s shoulder. “You don’t need to hurry.”

  Keshlik brushed the hand away. “I want to see them. That’s all.”

  Anger and fear simmered together in his throat. It had been Juyut’s first raid entirely alone.
It should have been a simple thing. Had he been such an idiot as to split up his band? Had something happened to them?

  Maybe he was the idiot for letting Juyut go raiding by himself. Juyut was young, hotheaded, impulsive. Why had he let him go?

  He found Lashkat grazing with the other mares just outside the circle of yurts, readied her bridle and saddle, and mounted. He slapped her sides and started past the yurts, only to stop when Bhaalit appeared at the edge of the circle, waving his arms.

  “Let me come,” he shouted.

  “Hurry!” Keshlik turned Lashkat in a circle. He didn’t want to wait. Fortunately, Bhaalit appeared soon afterward, coming through the yurts. Keshlik simply pointed to the west and kicked Lashkat into a gallop.

  The cows did not raise their heads as he and Bhaalit rushed past. The cow-maiden tending the herd waved at them and gestured in the direction where she had spotted the warriors on their approach. At the top of the next rise, he glimpsed a line of slow-moving mounted men creeping forward. His mare’s feet whipped through the grass, beating the ground like hailstones. The leader of the formation raised his hand in greeting.

  It was not Juyut. It was a red-faced young man named Chuuri, one of Juyut’s friends and Juyut’s lieutenant for the raid. Keshlik pulled the reins to bring his horse to a stop, then hid his hands in the fabric of the saddle. The warriors should not see his hands trembling with rage and fear.

  “Where is Juyut?” he demanded.

  “I—He’s right here,” Chuuri stammered. “He’s right behind us, riding in a travois. We had no other way to carry him.”

  “A travois? A travois?” He was alive, at least. The fool, that Keshlik should even have to contemplate whether Juyut was alive. But he was alive, so now he had to consider what injury he had suffered, and how he had been idiot enough to get it.

  Two strides brought him to the travois, a quick lashing of pine branches between two knobby branches, dragged behind one of the other horses. Keshlik didn’t even stop to see who had carried it. He pushed past the dismal riders to see a man wrapped in a wool blanket. His face was darkened by congealed blood, his arm encumbered by a sling.

  “Juyut,” Keshlik said.

  The man stirred. One of his eyes was swollen shut, the lid bursting with purple and black. The other stared at him mirthlessly. “Keshlik,” he groaned.

  Keshlik knelt and took his brother’s free hand. “My brother. What are you doing here?”

  Juyut turned his face away. “I was injured.” Shame stuck in his small, quiet voice.

  “Injured? How? And where are the rest of your men?”

  “Their spears were broken. This is all that remains of us.”

  “You fool. You mindless fool. What happened? What are your injuries?”

  Juyut moaned and looked away.

  “His foot is broken,” Chuuri said, “as well as his arm. And, well, you can see his face.”

  “How?” Even if the city-dwellers had started to fight, the Yakhat could turn a retreat with a single word when necessary. Keshlik had never lost so many men in a raid. Juyut’s eyes were closed, his lips drawn taut with pain and shame.

  “You fool! What did you do? Did you charge headlong into a defended position? Did you forget everything I ever taught you about tactics? Were you too proud to turn back?” He screamed and spat at the ground. “What happened?”

  “I’m sorry.” Juyut’s voice was raspy and labored. “I’m sorry. I have failed the Khaatat and the Yakhat. The spears that were broken weigh on my soul.”

  “But what happened?”

  Juyut hesitated. The other men of the band had gathered around them and watched with quiet nervousness. Finally, he said weakly, “The earth devoured us.”

  “What?”

  “What else can I say? They have a witch. She made the ground quake and hurl itself at us.”

  Chuuri grabbed one of Keshlik’s hands and pressed it to his chest in a gesture of sincerity. “This is true. The ground split open and swallowed our riders. Stones rose out of the earth and hurled themselves at us. That’s what happened to Juyut. A boulder crushed his horse and stones battered him. He was the only one that we could pull out alive.”

  “A witch,” Keshlik said. “You saw this woman?”

  “I saw her,” Juyut said. “It was an old woman, hunched over and carrying a walking stick. In a village to the west of Prasa. We were going to charge past her, ignore her and plunge into the heart of the village. But then…”

  “An old woman,” Keshlik muttered. “So she was not in Prasa.”

  “Eh.” Juyut started to say more, but his words evaporated into a gasp of pain.

  “If she had been in Prasa, we wouldn’t have overrun the city. But if there is a witch among the Prasei, why is she hiding in a village rather than defending their city? No, don’t answer, Juyut.” He knelt and rested his hand on his brother’s chest. Juyut closed his remaining eye, took a deep breath, and let out a gentle moan.

  Keshlik turned to Chuuri. “Bring him into our yurt. Get one of the old women. Did you have enough of a mind about you to bind his wounds well?”

  “We bound them,” Chuuri said. “I won’t say whether it’s well. We were fleeing, and the witch could have—”

  “Shut up. If the answer is no, just say so rather than trying to excuse yourself like a wide-eyed girl.”

  Juyut stirred and croaked. “They did as well as they could.”

  “Quiet, Juyut.” The warriors all had tired, haggard faces, haunted by defeat. The shame of retreat hung off them like a stench. It was disgusting. It was filthy. These were not the warriors of the Yakhat that he knew.

  “What are you all afraid of?” he asked.

  They answered him with nervous shuffling and sidecast glances.

  “Do the Yakhat fear any enemy?”

  “We have never faced a witch,” Chuuri muttered.

  “‘We have never faced a witch!’ An old woman gives herself to one of the Powers and spits dirt in your faces, and you all turn into rabbits and flee. Is a witch any different than any of the other enemies that the Yakhat have vanquished?”

  “No,” Chuuri said with a little confidence, and a few of the other warriors joined him.

  “Does the warrior of the thundercloud fear a woman flinging mud?”

  “No,” the warriors said, now in unison.

  “Then we fear nothing! Do we fear a witch?”

  “No!”

  He raked his glare across them. “Then let the hag come. Let her find out that Golgoyat still has teeth. We know that she is there, and we will adapt. We will discover how to defeat her. Golgoyat himself still fights among us.”

  He delivered Juyut into the hands of the old women and chastened the warriors again in front of the elders. It was a necessary humiliation, which kindled the fury of defiance in their eyes. They would fight like wild boars the next time they went into battle, and they would eagerly learn what he could teach them about how to fight such a woman… once he had determined what to teach them.

  After the warriors left, he crossed his feet and settled on the ground next to Bhaalit, across from the elders of the Khaatat. It was early evening, and the fire in the middle of their circle was young and danced with yellow flame.

  Keshlik was silent, letting the fire crackle and hiss, and its smoke twirl up to Golgoyat. At last, he asked, “How do we fight a witch?”

  Lochat, one of the elders, sat next to Bhaalit. He was Bhaalit’s father-in-law, a grim old man, blind in one eye and missing three fingers—all from wounds gained when he had campaigned with Keshlik’s father. He speared Keshlik with the gaze of his good eye. “We hoped that you would tell us.”

  “How would I tell you? None of us have ever fought a witch before. We never even heard a rumor of a witch when we fought the plains tribes on the far side of the Gap.”

 
“Keishul was sometimes called a warlock,” Lochat said.

  “But his power was not like this.”

  Lochat coughed. “That’s true enough.”

  Keshlik made a noise of annoyance. His father, Keishul, had heard Golgoyat’s call, and when he spoke to the Yakhat, the thunder of the storm-lord was in his voice. It had been enough to stir the Yakhat from their despair, terrify their enemies, and turn the men who heard him into warriors. But he had never called thunderbolts from the sky or commanded the wind or performed any other feat similar to what this witch had done. And in any case, that gift had died with his father. “Then we’ll have to fall back on our own wits,” he said. “As we have since Keishul died.”

  Bhaalit tossed a piece of grass into the fire. “We understand what she does, at least from the report of Juyut’s men. She makes the earth shake in waves and hurls rocks from the soil. It’s a powerful spell, but she only has one.”

  An elder on the far side of the circle spat. “So what? We can’t ride against that sort of attack.”

  “Then maybe we don’t ride,” Bhaalit said with a shrug.

  “Bah,” Lochat said. “The Yakhat are nothing without their horses.”

  “Then perhaps there’s a different way for us to attack her.”

  The circle was quiet for a while.

  Keshlik’s thoughts kept spinning like a poorly balanced spear, and he couldn’t find a place to seize them. “We need to know more. What if that isn’t her only spell? Do we know anything about the Power that possesses her?”

  “Ask the Guza slaves,” Lochat said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “They know the Powers of this place.”

  “A good start. Bhaalit, will you do that for your father-in-law?” Bhaalit nodded. Keshlik continued, “And then I may put together a party of spies. No more charging into villages headfirst. At least not until we know where the witch is and what she does.”

  “Will you let the other tribes know?” someone called out.

  “I’ll send riders in the morning.” Keshlik stretched his legs and got up. “But now, I want to see my wife. The witch can wait until morning.”