"Over_9780307446138_oeb_c16_r1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jeffrey Overstreet - Cynderes Midnight)16 BEL’S REQUEST
Drumming his black claws against the metal of a broken fangbear trap, Jordam stared at the fragments of bloodied skin still stuck in its silver jaws. Jorn. So this is how the Bel Amicans had caught his youngest brother—not with those wire snares, which were stacked alongside it, but with a simple clamp. As much as he hated Jorn, the idea still enraged him. He wanted to slay those trappers. But his concealment in this Bel Amican wagon at the edge of the wood was his only chance of penetrating the bastion walls for a rescue. He would have to stay silent until they returned from their late, snowy work. The trappers still hoped to catch him out there. And since the wood was likely to be strewn with these deadly devices, the wagon was Jordam’s best chance to escape them. The tiny pinging of his claw tips against the metal provoked the horses outside to murmur uneasily. They had not seen him crawl down through the whitegrass, using their hoofprints as a guide through the traps, nor had they heard him creep up behind, stealthy as a gator, and slip beneath the wagon’s canvas cover. Taking a wire cutter from the floor, he severed the coils of unset traps, one by one, just to prevent any more from impeding his progress. Outside, icedust spilled in a rattling rain down from the keening boughs. Nevertheless, he heard footsteps crunching through frost. His appetite surged, but he resisted. “rrJorn,” he reminded himself. “Get Jorn.” His thirst for Essence outshouted all ordinary hungers now. A web of burning cords wrapped around his belly and coiled up his spine. He would follow Mordafey’s orders. He would bring Jorn back and go with his brothers to the Core for satisfaction. He could hear the trappers’ voices. He peered out from under the canvas. As if the storm had imagined them, three soldiers materialized. Hunched beneath the weather, they led a flustered, complaining vawn. Snow tumbled down their stormcloaks—cloaks like those folded beside him. They had, he suspected, been moiling about in the snow since sundown. They were rank with sweat. His frozen fingers stubborn and stiff, he fumbled with one of the folded cloaks. Better these hunters saw something familiar in this storm than something strange. From a distance he might just pass for a soldier. “Only one catch,” a guard sighed. “That’s all we need. Then Ryllion will have an offering for the ceremony, and he’ll stop driving us so hard. He’s half out of his mind.” “You talk like Ryllion’s a villain.” “What’s that? The silent Officer Falaroi speaks? Of course Ryllion’s a villain. In his vain imagination, he’s already promoted himself to captain. But Bauris is Tilianpurth’s senior officer. Why’s he letting Ryllion order us around?” “Because Bauris knows Ryllion deserves to be a captain. And we should help him, Myrion. Poor fellow, he fought to save Deuneroi from the beastmen, and he failed. Now he’s haunted. An event like that can light a fire in a man. He’s going to change things. And take care, because with his eyes and ears, he’s probably taking note of us right now.” “I don’t care. It’s about time he heard something better than ‘Yes, Officer Ryllion’ and ‘Whatever you want, Officer Ryllion’ and ‘Are you comfortable, Officer Ryllion?’ ” Shaking snow off his stormcloak, he grumbled, “There was a time we caught beastmen to protect ourselves. Now we catch them for sport or ceremonial sacrifice. Remember what Deuneroi always said? ‘They were people once.’ ” “Keep talking like that and people will think you’ve been stealing away to Cyndere’s room. Have you already forgotten what Deuneroi’s sympathy earned him, Myrion? There’s no cause more noble than wiping out the Cent Regus. Pity’s a weakness. Do you want to hand them another round in this game?” They sounded weary and careless. Calmed by O-raya’s colors, Jordam might have understood such rough speech. But tonight the animal within him roared with too much force, and the din disrupted his concentration. He lifted the fangbear trap, imagined clamping it over a trapper’s head. “The drink’s half gone, Myrion! I was taking it to the stable girl. She’s always thirsty for cider.” Jordam heard the scrape of snare wires. “Don’t you think she’s a little young?” “Too young, too old, already married—doesn’t matter. The spirits have given me a sacred longing, and I must fulfill it. I think I left another bottle in the wagon.” Jordam heard the word wagon, and he understood. He slipped out the back and dropped to crawl beneath, then took hold of the undercarriage and lifted himself off the ground. The trappers took no notice. He heard a cork pop free of a bottle as the horses moved forward. While the wagon wheels trundled, he held on as long as he could. The horses took a crooked route through the trees, the trappers steering them around concealed traps. But the rugged ground scraped against Jordam’s back. He let go, and the creaking of the cart and the crush of its wheels masked the sound of his tumble into the bushes. Walking in the wheel ruts to stay free of traps, he began to plot his escape. He would have to come back along this very trail. That would be easy enough for him. But Jorn—even in flight he meandered, despising any suggestion of direction. Only Mordafey frightened Jorn enough to restrain him. In a moan of wind, Jordam thought he heard a voice calling—“Boy. Boy.” He turned, caught the scent of a coil tree’s oily bark, and in the dark of his misery, memories of color and light dawned. He hesitated. The wagon moved off through the trees. There it goes, he thought. My only chance of getting in. He could not let them get out of sight. But the throb of thirst clouded his thoughts, and he veered off the path, stalking gingerly through the bushes. O-raya’s colors would not take away these turbulent waves of desire for Essence, but they would raise him up so he could keep his head afloat and breathe. Moving carefully up and over the ridge, he stood beneath the coil tree. Curtains of fog brushed his face and closed behind him. The soft light was stronger than the fear, and he let himself be drawn in. The colors had given him relief before. A dalliance here would not disrupt his mission, he decided. He crawled down the steep incline. The cloudgrasper tree hung heavy with more pieces from the woman’s strange collection. Fresh kindling circled the tree in bundles, a nest of dead brambles. She was here while I was gone. Did she look for me? He took a branch and tested the ground alongside the fallen apple tree. He reached the well, knelt on a patch of petals, breathed their pungent spice, and leaned in to bask in the flowers’ blue light. For the first time he wondered, Could I steal these painted stones? Could I put them back together somewhere safer, close to home? The hammers of appetite slowed their punishing blows. “You came back.” In the grass beside the Bel Amican woman, the tetherwing basket was silent, unopened. She held a strange, cloth-wrapped rod like a sword in its sheath. “I thought I would be ready to face you again,” she said. “I’m not.” Jordam leaned on the broken branch as if it were a walking stick. Worried he might frighten her away, he moved to the edge of the clearing. “Jordam,” she said, and his name in her voice surprised him. “That is your name, isn’t it? Jordam?” He nodded, amazed. “I need your help.” She lifted the tetherwing basket and walked behind the crumbling wall, testing the ground with the rod. Help. She was asking for help again. He watched her watching him. “Help?” “There’s a boy, alone. Out there somewhere. He ran away. If he steps in a trap, it’ll be my fault. Did you see him?” She held her hand flat under her chin. “This tall. In a green coat.” “rrBoy?” When Jordam stepped further, tapping snow-dusted grass, the woman did the same with the rod. Coming around the far end of the wall, she took two steps toward him. She waited. He took three cautious steps toward her. She laughed, a small bell in the quiet. Snowflakes drifted around them, melting into the mysterious, summer-green grass. He could almost reach her. But it was she who reached for him. She set down the basket and opened her tiny hand. It was empty. He grunted, confused. “I’m sorry. I’m in a fit. Too hasty,” she said, and she knelt down beside the basket. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about.” She reached inside, but instead of a tetherwing, she brought out a large bowl of cold stew. He smelled roast muskgrazer. “For you,” she said. He dropped hard to his knees and took the bowl, and her fingertips brushed his hand. He sniffed the stew suspiciously, then drank it all in one gulp. It was only a bite for him, but he savored the unexpected spices. “Thank you,” she said. “You saved my life from the snare.” Wind shook the boughs that covered the glen. A clod of falling snow smashed into Jordam’s head. He barked, shaking out his mane, and snow slid down his face, while more white bursts plummeted from the canopy above. Laughing again, the woman offered him the wooden handle of the rod with the strange canvas cloak. “A rain canopy,” she said softly. “It shelters you.” Grumbling, he accepted it. Unsure what this gesture was supposed to mean, he offered her the broken tree branch in return. She shook her head. “No no,” she said. “That won’t do me any good.” As she stepped forward to kneel alongside him, the animal within him shook, eager to seize her. But she closed her hands over the rain canopy and lifted it. “Look closer,” she said. She twisted the wooden handle. Jordam let it go, astonished, for the contraption transformed before him. Small branches expanded from the rod, stretching the cloth canvas to form a broad dome. As it unfurled, green light beamed out from beneath it, for the rod was bejeweled with tiny glowstones. She lifted the canopy over her head, shading herself from the drifting flakes. He took it back from her and examined its construction. “See?” she said. “It’s simple.” Reaching forward, she placed her hands over his, showing him just how to twist the handle to open and close the sheltering span, how to hold it over his head and escape the falling snow. Her small, cold hands warmed against his. “It’s a rain canopy,” she repeated. “If you go to find the boy, it might help you.” He held it over his head as she had demonstrated. “rrRaykapee.” Snowflakes gasped faintly as they settled on top of it. Fog from the well rose up and gathered under its span. The rain canopy was not broad enough to shield his shoulders, but he understood it now. “You learn quickly,” she said. And then she shrieked as a load of snow shaken loose from the high branches smashed across her head. Jordam gave her the rain canopy.
Such strange cargo the weakerfolk carry, he thought. Always making things. His brothers had only ever bothered to make weapons. Reaching into his woodscloak, he pulled out the golden vial of slumberseed oil. “rrLook,” he said, using her own word. “I left that behind, didn’t I? Did you open it? I’ll bet it knocked you flat.” She drew another empty bowl from the basket. “Look closely.” She took a small stick from her pocket and snapped it in two. It sparked into flame. She dropped the fiery halves into the bowl, picked a blue flower from the wellstones, and plucked its petals over the flames. A small coil of white smoke ascended in widening rings. “Breathe. Incense. You’ll like it. It’s not quite so powerful as the slumberseed oil.” The smoky aroma intrigued him. Like honey, he thought. Goreth would like this trick. “rrIn…sense.” Tension in his brow began to ease. Breathing in the incense, she closed her eyes. When she spoke again, the urgency in her voice had faded. “I played here when I was small.” She spun the canopy slowly like a wheel over her head. Its glowstones cast green light against one side of her face while the flowers shone blue against the other. “These wellstones—they were not so colorful then. Did you paint them?” She touched the purple, the gold, the blue. “These colors. Was it you?” Careful to arrange the words of the weakerfolk, he said, “O-raya. Paint. Colors.” “It’s true, then.” The Bel Amican woman looked out into the trees. “The ale boy told me about a girl,” she said. “Auralia. Some kind of artist. She had a visitor, he said. A Cent Regus stranger. Like you.” She then spoke many words in Common and so easily. She spoke of the boy, a vawn, a message, and something about Cal-raven of Abascar. Could she know what happened to O-raya? Struggling to collect her eager words, Jordam swayed, dizzy with hunger and exhaustion. The colors calmed him, but they did not erase the ache in his belly, and the fragrance of the burning flowers gave the ground a stronger pull. He growled, rose, and walked to the well. Seizing the rope within the well, he drew the bucket, tipped his head back, and gulped a bellyful of the warm water. As the dizziness subsided, he sat on the edge of the well. “O-raya,” he sighed. He wondered what would happen if his brothers tasted such water, breathed incense, absorbed O-raya’s colors. “Auralia charmed you.” She joined him at the well and let the bucket plunge back down. “How did she do it? Was it the colors? Was she some kind of witch?” “rrBlue. Caves.” He gazed into the darkness, eastward, thinking of Deep Lake, searching for words in Common. “O-raya, gone.” He looked up through the treetops toward the faint outline of Tilianpurth’s tower. “There?” “No.” The woman sounded worried. “Auralia is not with us at Tilianpurth.” “Who?” He gestured again to the tower. “Who?” “Do you see an owl?” she laughed, following his gaze. “No, the woman in the window is not Auralia. That’s…” She bit her lip, then said, “That’s Cyndere. Daughter of the queen of Bel Amica. Cyndere.” “rrSin-der?” “Yes.” She pulled up the bucket and propped it on the well’s edge, then cupped her hand and lifted a sip to her lips. “Cyndere is here because she is sad. Her husband…he died. Killed. By Cent Regus.” She gestured to the decorated tree. “It’s an old Bel Amican ceremony. I’m helping Cyndere. We’re saying good-bye. Good-bye to Cyndere’s man. And to Cyndere’s brother…and her father. All dead. You hang their belongings in a tree, you summon them, and you set it alight. The ghosts come. They gather back all the memories in those things. At least that’s what the old stories say.” “rrSin-der’s man,” he repeated. “Brother. Father.” “I also gather these blue flowers. When Cyndere eats them, they draw the trouble out of her. They bring her some comfort.” Jordam leaned forward, listening. “Cyndere and her husband slept here in the blue light. They sang, dreamt of children, talked about House Cent Regus.” She walked around behind the ruined wall and raised a thorny vine. “They ate these.” The berries were still red, even in winter. She pulled some free, ate one, and then she tossed them to his feet. Bright jewels against the snow-dusted grass. “It’s a strange place. Summer in the middle of winter.” He stuffed the berries into his mouth. They were tart and sweet. But they were not what his belly demanded, and they set it to rumbling. “Cyndere’s man was Deuneroi,” she murmured. Jordam choked, spitting out berry juice onto the snow. An image flared up, torchlit in memory—a severed hand and Mordafey’s gloating grin. He turned away from her, but she strolled around to face him again. “If Deuneroi could only see us here.” “rrDeuneroi.” Jordam lifted the name as if trying to pry his way out from under a heavy stone. When he looked up at her again, the sadness was gone from her small face. She spoke through clenched teeth, her voice low and quiet. “Do you know about Deuneroi, Jordam?” Fear prickled across his skin. Go get Jorn, he thought, slumping down to sit on the fallen tree. Get Jorn out. Otherwise…Mordafey. He dug his fingers into the tree moss. “Deuneroi’s gone. Cyndere hurts.” The woman gestured to the tower. “Cyndere hurts.” She touched her head, then folded her hands at her breast. He gazed into the blue glow. “O-raya gone. Jordam hurts.” He folded his fingers together and pressed them against his chest in the same way. “Jordam.” She smiled. “It’s a good name.” “Jordam,” he agreed, marveling. Gesturing to her, he asked, “You?” She narrowed her eyes. “Call me Bel.” “Bel.” “For Bel Amica. Bel means good. Amica, will. Good will. It was the name of the woman who started our house. A daughter of Tammos Raak.” “Bel,” he repeated. “Bel hurts too? Like Sin-der?” “When Cent Regus kill, yes. Just as you hurt because Auralia is gone. Maybe Auralia will come back. But Deuneroi, he is…” The woman looked down into the bowl of incense and stirred it slowly, breathing in deeply. “Deuneroi won’t be coming back.” A distant sound snapped Jordam’s head around, his ears pricking sharply. “The ale boy.” Bel sounded suddenly urgent. “The boy who told me about Auralia. Do you know the boy?” “O-raya’s boy?” He sniffed the air, then gestured toward the tower. “O-raya’s boy?” He stood up. The boy he had let go… Was he nearby after all? Would he know where O-raya had gone? She scowled. “Jordam, would you hurt Auralia’s boy?” He pounded his chest, filling with pride as he said, “rrJordam let O-raya’s boy go.” With each word he understood and used, he could think more clearly, as if stepping into brighter light. “Jordam, listen to me. If you hurt Auralia’s boy, you hurt me.” He scowled, trying to make sense of that. “No hurting O-raya’s boy.” She touched her lips. “Good words, Jordam. Now you can help Auralia’s boy again.” She spoke fiercely. Like merchant women instructing children. “He’s out in the woods, Jordam. You have to find him.” He gestured southward. “I…I go to Cent Regus House.” The words, the words. What could he say to explain the Essence to her? “Want. Strong blood. Strong food. Cent Regus strong.” “You won’t help the boy?” Her face fell. “Drink. Strong.” “No,” she said. “Do not go back to the curse, Jordam. That isn’t strength. If you go there, you cannot return to this place.” Her words confused him. “If you go back to Cent Regus, you hurt me. You hurt Cyndere. You hurt Auralia’s boy.” He did not want to hear these words. They clouded his intent, delayed his return to the chieftain’s lair. “Jordam, I have two hands.” She held them up, palms open to him. “I can take hold of this with my left hand.” She lifted the rain canopy. “With my right hand, I can hold this.” She raised the dagger from her belt. “But my heart—I have one heart.” She put the dagger and the canopy down and folded her hands over her breast. “Your heart can only hold one thing, Jordam. Your heart has one hand.” Imitating her, he pressed his fist to his chest, to the center of the thirst. “One hand,” he growled, struggling. “Cyndere’s heart…it holds to Deuneroi. Your heart holds to Cent Regus power.” Bel touched the well. “Hold to this instead, Jordam. This is better.” She lifted the bucket, offering it to him. “Light, color, water. The things that remind you of Auralia. Hold on to those, and good things will come to you. But reach for the Cent Regus, for power, and more good things will disappear. Like Deuneroi. Like O-raya. You’ll hurt yourself. You’ll hurt me.” She picked up the dagger and threw it aside. “Let go of the power, Jordam.” The dagger gleamed in the dirt. It frightened him to let it lie there. Jordam paced to the edge of the clearing. His nostrils flared, discerning a familiar scent on the frosty breeze. His lips drew back from his teeth. “Jordam, what is it?” “rrJorn.” He turned to the woman. “Jorn. Dangerous. Brother.” “Brother?” She glanced down at the dagger. “Ryllion’s beastman. He’s escaped. Is he your brother?” “Jorn.” She walked boldly to his side and grasped his arm. “Jordam, Auralia’s boy is lost. Lost in the trees. You must go and find him. Do you understand? Help him. Help O-raya’s boy. Don’t let your brother hurt him. Protect him while he goes to Cal-raven.” “Help.” O-raya’s boy was out there. Alone. In the trees. He needed to be found. Protected. Taken to Cal-raven. Might O-raya be there, where the people of Abascar hid? “Cyndere will be glad,” she continued, her voice soft and reassuring. “Cyndere will stop hurting if you help the boy. Protect him. Stop Jorn.” She held out the rain canopy. “Take this. For the boy.” He accepted it. “And this too. Something I forgot. Give this to Auralia’s boy so he knows I sent you.” She pressed a cloth into his hand. He held it up, let it unfurl like a flag. “rrO-raya!” “Yes. It belongs to O-raya’s boy. Tell him the colors are for Cal-raven. A gift, from Cyndere.” “Sin-der.” “Then come back. Come back to Auralia’s colors.” Unable to grasp such a large hand, she squeezed two of his fingers together. “Come back to me.” He stood quiet in the flurry, his gaze fastened to hers. Come back to Bel, like a tetherwing, he thought. 16 BEL’S REQUEST
Drumming his black claws against the metal of a broken fangbear trap, Jordam stared at the fragments of bloodied skin still stuck in its silver jaws. Jorn. So this is how the Bel Amicans had caught his youngest brother—not with those wire snares, which were stacked alongside it, but with a simple clamp. As much as he hated Jorn, the idea still enraged him. He wanted to slay those trappers. But his concealment in this Bel Amican wagon at the edge of the wood was his only chance of penetrating the bastion walls for a rescue. He would have to stay silent until they returned from their late, snowy work. The trappers still hoped to catch him out there. And since the wood was likely to be strewn with these deadly devices, the wagon was Jordam’s best chance to escape them. The tiny pinging of his claw tips against the metal provoked the horses outside to murmur uneasily. They had not seen him crawl down through the whitegrass, using their hoofprints as a guide through the traps, nor had they heard him creep up behind, stealthy as a gator, and slip beneath the wagon’s canvas cover. Taking a wire cutter from the floor, he severed the coils of unset traps, one by one, just to prevent any more from impeding his progress. Outside, icedust spilled in a rattling rain down from the keening boughs. Nevertheless, he heard footsteps crunching through frost. His appetite surged, but he resisted. “rrJorn,” he reminded himself. “Get Jorn.” His thirst for Essence outshouted all ordinary hungers now. A web of burning cords wrapped around his belly and coiled up his spine. He would follow Mordafey’s orders. He would bring Jorn back and go with his brothers to the Core for satisfaction. He could hear the trappers’ voices. He peered out from under the canvas. As if the storm had imagined them, three soldiers materialized. Hunched beneath the weather, they led a flustered, complaining vawn. Snow tumbled down their stormcloaks—cloaks like those folded beside him. They had, he suspected, been moiling about in the snow since sundown. They were rank with sweat. His frozen fingers stubborn and stiff, he fumbled with one of the folded cloaks. Better these hunters saw something familiar in this storm than something strange. From a distance he might just pass for a soldier. “Only one catch,” a guard sighed. “That’s all we need. Then Ryllion will have an offering for the ceremony, and he’ll stop driving us so hard. He’s half out of his mind.” “You talk like Ryllion’s a villain.” “What’s that? The silent Officer Falaroi speaks? Of course Ryllion’s a villain. In his vain imagination, he’s already promoted himself to captain. But Bauris is Tilianpurth’s senior officer. Why’s he letting Ryllion order us around?” “Because Bauris knows Ryllion deserves to be a captain. And we should help him, Myrion. Poor fellow, he fought to save Deuneroi from the beastmen, and he failed. Now he’s haunted. An event like that can light a fire in a man. He’s going to change things. And take care, because with his eyes and ears, he’s probably taking note of us right now.” “I don’t care. It’s about time he heard something better than ‘Yes, Officer Ryllion’ and ‘Whatever you want, Officer Ryllion’ and ‘Are you comfortable, Officer Ryllion?’ ” Shaking snow off his stormcloak, he grumbled, “There was a time we caught beastmen to protect ourselves. Now we catch them for sport or ceremonial sacrifice. Remember what Deuneroi always said? ‘They were people once.’ ” “Keep talking like that and people will think you’ve been stealing away to Cyndere’s room. Have you already forgotten what Deuneroi’s sympathy earned him, Myrion? There’s no cause more noble than wiping out the Cent Regus. Pity’s a weakness. Do you want to hand them another round in this game?” They sounded weary and careless. Calmed by O-raya’s colors, Jordam might have understood such rough speech. But tonight the animal within him roared with too much force, and the din disrupted his concentration. He lifted the fangbear trap, imagined clamping it over a trapper’s head. “The drink’s half gone, Myrion! I was taking it to the stable girl. She’s always thirsty for cider.” Jordam heard the scrape of snare wires. “Don’t you think she’s a little young?” “Too young, too old, already married—doesn’t matter. The spirits have given me a sacred longing, and I must fulfill it. I think I left another bottle in the wagon.” Jordam heard the word wagon, and he understood. He slipped out the back and dropped to crawl beneath, then took hold of the undercarriage and lifted himself off the ground. The trappers took no notice. He heard a cork pop free of a bottle as the horses moved forward. While the wagon wheels trundled, he held on as long as he could. The horses took a crooked route through the trees, the trappers steering them around concealed traps. But the rugged ground scraped against Jordam’s back. He let go, and the creaking of the cart and the crush of its wheels masked the sound of his tumble into the bushes. Walking in the wheel ruts to stay free of traps, he began to plot his escape. He would have to come back along this very trail. That would be easy enough for him. But Jorn—even in flight he meandered, despising any suggestion of direction. Only Mordafey frightened Jorn enough to restrain him. In a moan of wind, Jordam thought he heard a voice calling—“Boy. Boy.” He turned, caught the scent of a coil tree’s oily bark, and in the dark of his misery, memories of color and light dawned. He hesitated. The wagon moved off through the trees. There it goes, he thought. My only chance of getting in. He could not let them get out of sight. But the throb of thirst clouded his thoughts, and he veered off the path, stalking gingerly through the bushes. O-raya’s colors would not take away these turbulent waves of desire for Essence, but they would raise him up so he could keep his head afloat and breathe. Moving carefully up and over the ridge, he stood beneath the coil tree. Curtains of fog brushed his face and closed behind him. The soft light was stronger than the fear, and he let himself be drawn in. The colors had given him relief before. A dalliance here would not disrupt his mission, he decided. He crawled down the steep incline. The cloudgrasper tree hung heavy with more pieces from the woman’s strange collection. Fresh kindling circled the tree in bundles, a nest of dead brambles. She was here while I was gone. Did she look for me? He took a branch and tested the ground alongside the fallen apple tree. He reached the well, knelt on a patch of petals, breathed their pungent spice, and leaned in to bask in the flowers’ blue light. For the first time he wondered, Could I steal these painted stones? Could I put them back together somewhere safer, close to home? The hammers of appetite slowed their punishing blows. “You came back.” In the grass beside the Bel Amican woman, the tetherwing basket was silent, unopened. She held a strange, cloth-wrapped rod like a sword in its sheath. “I thought I would be ready to face you again,” she said. “I’m not.” Jordam leaned on the broken branch as if it were a walking stick. Worried he might frighten her away, he moved to the edge of the clearing. “Jordam,” she said, and his name in her voice surprised him. “That is your name, isn’t it? Jordam?” He nodded, amazed. “I need your help.” She lifted the tetherwing basket and walked behind the crumbling wall, testing the ground with the rod. Help. She was asking for help again. He watched her watching him. “Help?” “There’s a boy, alone. Out there somewhere. He ran away. If he steps in a trap, it’ll be my fault. Did you see him?” She held her hand flat under her chin. “This tall. In a green coat.” “rrBoy?” When Jordam stepped further, tapping snow-dusted grass, the woman did the same with the rod. Coming around the far end of the wall, she took two steps toward him. She waited. He took three cautious steps toward her. She laughed, a small bell in the quiet. Snowflakes drifted around them, melting into the mysterious, summer-green grass. He could almost reach her. But it was she who reached for him. She set down the basket and opened her tiny hand. It was empty. He grunted, confused. “I’m sorry. I’m in a fit. Too hasty,” she said, and she knelt down beside the basket. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about.” She reached inside, but instead of a tetherwing, she brought out a large bowl of cold stew. He smelled roast muskgrazer. “For you,” she said. He dropped hard to his knees and took the bowl, and her fingertips brushed his hand. He sniffed the stew suspiciously, then drank it all in one gulp. It was only a bite for him, but he savored the unexpected spices. “Thank you,” she said. “You saved my life from the snare.” Wind shook the boughs that covered the glen. A clod of falling snow smashed into Jordam’s head. He barked, shaking out his mane, and snow slid down his face, while more white bursts plummeted from the canopy above. Laughing again, the woman offered him the wooden handle of the rod with the strange canvas cloak. “A rain canopy,” she said softly. “It shelters you.” Grumbling, he accepted it. Unsure what this gesture was supposed to mean, he offered her the broken tree branch in return. She shook her head. “No no,” she said. “That won’t do me any good.” As she stepped forward to kneel alongside him, the animal within him shook, eager to seize her. But she closed her hands over the rain canopy and lifted it. “Look closer,” she said. She twisted the wooden handle. Jordam let it go, astonished, for the contraption transformed before him. Small branches expanded from the rod, stretching the cloth canvas to form a broad dome. As it unfurled, green light beamed out from beneath it, for the rod was bejeweled with tiny glowstones. She lifted the canopy over her head, shading herself from the drifting flakes. He took it back from her and examined its construction. “See?” she said. “It’s simple.” Reaching forward, she placed her hands over his, showing him just how to twist the handle to open and close the sheltering span, how to hold it over his head and escape the falling snow. Her small, cold hands warmed against his. “It’s a rain canopy,” she repeated. “If you go to find the boy, it might help you.” He held it over his head as she had demonstrated. “rrRaykapee.” Snowflakes gasped faintly as they settled on top of it. Fog from the well rose up and gathered under its span. The rain canopy was not broad enough to shield his shoulders, but he understood it now. “You learn quickly,” she said. And then she shrieked as a load of snow shaken loose from the high branches smashed across her head. Jordam gave her the rain canopy.
Such strange cargo the weakerfolk carry, he thought. Always making things. His brothers had only ever bothered to make weapons. Reaching into his woodscloak, he pulled out the golden vial of slumberseed oil. “rrLook,” he said, using her own word. “I left that behind, didn’t I? Did you open it? I’ll bet it knocked you flat.” She drew another empty bowl from the basket. “Look closely.” She took a small stick from her pocket and snapped it in two. It sparked into flame. She dropped the fiery halves into the bowl, picked a blue flower from the wellstones, and plucked its petals over the flames. A small coil of white smoke ascended in widening rings. “Breathe. Incense. You’ll like it. It’s not quite so powerful as the slumberseed oil.” The smoky aroma intrigued him. Like honey, he thought. Goreth would like this trick. “rrIn…sense.” Tension in his brow began to ease. Breathing in the incense, she closed her eyes. When she spoke again, the urgency in her voice had faded. “I played here when I was small.” She spun the canopy slowly like a wheel over her head. Its glowstones cast green light against one side of her face while the flowers shone blue against the other. “These wellstones—they were not so colorful then. Did you paint them?” She touched the purple, the gold, the blue. “These colors. Was it you?” Careful to arrange the words of the weakerfolk, he said, “O-raya. Paint. Colors.” “It’s true, then.” The Bel Amican woman looked out into the trees. “The ale boy told me about a girl,” she said. “Auralia. Some kind of artist. She had a visitor, he said. A Cent Regus stranger. Like you.” She then spoke many words in Common and so easily. She spoke of the boy, a vawn, a message, and something about Cal-raven of Abascar. Could she know what happened to O-raya? Struggling to collect her eager words, Jordam swayed, dizzy with hunger and exhaustion. The colors calmed him, but they did not erase the ache in his belly, and the fragrance of the burning flowers gave the ground a stronger pull. He growled, rose, and walked to the well. Seizing the rope within the well, he drew the bucket, tipped his head back, and gulped a bellyful of the warm water. As the dizziness subsided, he sat on the edge of the well. “O-raya,” he sighed. He wondered what would happen if his brothers tasted such water, breathed incense, absorbed O-raya’s colors. “Auralia charmed you.” She joined him at the well and let the bucket plunge back down. “How did she do it? Was it the colors? Was she some kind of witch?” “rrBlue. Caves.” He gazed into the darkness, eastward, thinking of Deep Lake, searching for words in Common. “O-raya, gone.” He looked up through the treetops toward the faint outline of Tilianpurth’s tower. “There?” “No.” The woman sounded worried. “Auralia is not with us at Tilianpurth.” “Who?” He gestured again to the tower. “Who?” “Do you see an owl?” she laughed, following his gaze. “No, the woman in the window is not Auralia. That’s…” She bit her lip, then said, “That’s Cyndere. Daughter of the queen of Bel Amica. Cyndere.” “rrSin-der?” “Yes.” She pulled up the bucket and propped it on the well’s edge, then cupped her hand and lifted a sip to her lips. “Cyndere is here because she is sad. Her husband…he died. Killed. By Cent Regus.” She gestured to the decorated tree. “It’s an old Bel Amican ceremony. I’m helping Cyndere. We’re saying good-bye. Good-bye to Cyndere’s man. And to Cyndere’s brother…and her father. All dead. You hang their belongings in a tree, you summon them, and you set it alight. The ghosts come. They gather back all the memories in those things. At least that’s what the old stories say.” “rrSin-der’s man,” he repeated. “Brother. Father.” “I also gather these blue flowers. When Cyndere eats them, they draw the trouble out of her. They bring her some comfort.” Jordam leaned forward, listening. “Cyndere and her husband slept here in the blue light. They sang, dreamt of children, talked about House Cent Regus.” She walked around behind the ruined wall and raised a thorny vine. “They ate these.” The berries were still red, even in winter. She pulled some free, ate one, and then she tossed them to his feet. Bright jewels against the snow-dusted grass. “It’s a strange place. Summer in the middle of winter.” He stuffed the berries into his mouth. They were tart and sweet. But they were not what his belly demanded, and they set it to rumbling. “Cyndere’s man was Deuneroi,” she murmured. Jordam choked, spitting out berry juice onto the snow. An image flared up, torchlit in memory—a severed hand and Mordafey’s gloating grin. He turned away from her, but she strolled around to face him again. “If Deuneroi could only see us here.” “rrDeuneroi.” Jordam lifted the name as if trying to pry his way out from under a heavy stone. When he looked up at her again, the sadness was gone from her small face. She spoke through clenched teeth, her voice low and quiet. “Do you know about Deuneroi, Jordam?” Fear prickled across his skin. Go get Jorn, he thought, slumping down to sit on the fallen tree. Get Jorn out. Otherwise…Mordafey. He dug his fingers into the tree moss. “Deuneroi’s gone. Cyndere hurts.” The woman gestured to the tower. “Cyndere hurts.” She touched her head, then folded her hands at her breast. He gazed into the blue glow. “O-raya gone. Jordam hurts.” He folded his fingers together and pressed them against his chest in the same way. “Jordam.” She smiled. “It’s a good name.” “Jordam,” he agreed, marveling. Gesturing to her, he asked, “You?” She narrowed her eyes. “Call me Bel.” “Bel.” “For Bel Amica. Bel means good. Amica, will. Good will. It was the name of the woman who started our house. A daughter of Tammos Raak.” “Bel,” he repeated. “Bel hurts too? Like Sin-der?” “When Cent Regus kill, yes. Just as you hurt because Auralia is gone. Maybe Auralia will come back. But Deuneroi, he is…” The woman looked down into the bowl of incense and stirred it slowly, breathing in deeply. “Deuneroi won’t be coming back.” A distant sound snapped Jordam’s head around, his ears pricking sharply. “The ale boy.” Bel sounded suddenly urgent. “The boy who told me about Auralia. Do you know the boy?” “O-raya’s boy?” He sniffed the air, then gestured toward the tower. “O-raya’s boy?” He stood up. The boy he had let go… Was he nearby after all? Would he know where O-raya had gone? She scowled. “Jordam, would you hurt Auralia’s boy?” He pounded his chest, filling with pride as he said, “rrJordam let O-raya’s boy go.” With each word he understood and used, he could think more clearly, as if stepping into brighter light. “Jordam, listen to me. If you hurt Auralia’s boy, you hurt me.” He scowled, trying to make sense of that. “No hurting O-raya’s boy.” She touched her lips. “Good words, Jordam. Now you can help Auralia’s boy again.” She spoke fiercely. Like merchant women instructing children. “He’s out in the woods, Jordam. You have to find him.” He gestured southward. “I…I go to Cent Regus House.” The words, the words. What could he say to explain the Essence to her? “Want. Strong blood. Strong food. Cent Regus strong.” “You won’t help the boy?” Her face fell. “Drink. Strong.” “No,” she said. “Do not go back to the curse, Jordam. That isn’t strength. If you go there, you cannot return to this place.” Her words confused him. “If you go back to Cent Regus, you hurt me. You hurt Cyndere. You hurt Auralia’s boy.” He did not want to hear these words. They clouded his intent, delayed his return to the chieftain’s lair. “Jordam, I have two hands.” She held them up, palms open to him. “I can take hold of this with my left hand.” She lifted the rain canopy. “With my right hand, I can hold this.” She raised the dagger from her belt. “But my heart—I have one heart.” She put the dagger and the canopy down and folded her hands over her breast. “Your heart can only hold one thing, Jordam. Your heart has one hand.” Imitating her, he pressed his fist to his chest, to the center of the thirst. “One hand,” he growled, struggling. “Cyndere’s heart…it holds to Deuneroi. Your heart holds to Cent Regus power.” Bel touched the well. “Hold to this instead, Jordam. This is better.” She lifted the bucket, offering it to him. “Light, color, water. The things that remind you of Auralia. Hold on to those, and good things will come to you. But reach for the Cent Regus, for power, and more good things will disappear. Like Deuneroi. Like O-raya. You’ll hurt yourself. You’ll hurt me.” She picked up the dagger and threw it aside. “Let go of the power, Jordam.” The dagger gleamed in the dirt. It frightened him to let it lie there. Jordam paced to the edge of the clearing. His nostrils flared, discerning a familiar scent on the frosty breeze. His lips drew back from his teeth. “Jordam, what is it?” “rrJorn.” He turned to the woman. “Jorn. Dangerous. Brother.” “Brother?” She glanced down at the dagger. “Ryllion’s beastman. He’s escaped. Is he your brother?” “Jorn.” She walked boldly to his side and grasped his arm. “Jordam, Auralia’s boy is lost. Lost in the trees. You must go and find him. Do you understand? Help him. Help O-raya’s boy. Don’t let your brother hurt him. Protect him while he goes to Cal-raven.” “Help.” O-raya’s boy was out there. Alone. In the trees. He needed to be found. Protected. Taken to Cal-raven. Might O-raya be there, where the people of Abascar hid? “Cyndere will be glad,” she continued, her voice soft and reassuring. “Cyndere will stop hurting if you help the boy. Protect him. Stop Jorn.” She held out the rain canopy. “Take this. For the boy.” He accepted it. “And this too. Something I forgot. Give this to Auralia’s boy so he knows I sent you.” She pressed a cloth into his hand. He held it up, let it unfurl like a flag. “rrO-raya!” “Yes. It belongs to O-raya’s boy. Tell him the colors are for Cal-raven. A gift, from Cyndere.” “Sin-der.” “Then come back. Come back to Auralia’s colors.” Unable to grasp such a large hand, she squeezed two of his fingers together. “Come back to me.” He stood quiet in the flurry, his gaze fastened to hers. Come back to Bel, like a tetherwing, he thought. |
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