67

ARAK’JUR

Street of the Royal Crown

Southgate District, New Sarresant

He covered the last stretch of stone in the glow of the spirits’ approval.

He knew it, by the speed with which his gifts had replenished. Mareh’et’s claws had no sooner faded than he found the spirit waiting on the edge of his sight, willing to grant his boon again. Una’re looked warmly on protecting his fellows, the bonds of brotherhood that had carried him into the unknown. Ipek’a answered the call of the hunt, proud to help him fell all who stood against him. Even the Mountain spirit answered his call again and again, in service to warding the tribes against the madness that brought them here. And now, at last, it was ended.

A hundred men had fallen to his gifts, and he bore the stain of their dying on his skin. But no few had been saved by their guardian’s prowess. A column walked behind him, following the fair-skins as they marched south, away from the madness on the green. Strange, and unnerving, to be so near the men they’d fought, so near the strangeness of the fair-skins and their city. The presence of the tribes—Sinari, Olessi, Ganherat, Vhurasi—gave pause to it, a reminder that he had a role to play as their protector. No more needed to die today, on a day when so many would be left behind. For that, he could stay the desire to exact revenge, to press the fight after the men in red had broken and fled the field. For succor, and peace.

A woman sat astride a horse half again as tall as any he’d seen, seeming to await him at the end of the street.

A short woman, as things were reckoned, though it was difficult to tell with her seated atop her animal. She wore the uniform of the soldiers in blue, and had status enough to be surveying the city around her as though she’d conquered it, though he knew the blue coats signified loyalty to the northern nation, those among the fair-skins who claimed the lands that had once belonged to the Tanari.

The woman nudged her mount forward, and came to meet him at the mouth of a wide square, where the street emptied into a park of sorts, festooned with monuments and statues and surrounded on all sides by men in blue or red.

“Arak’Jur,” the woman said, in a rolling accent that seemed to place her words too near the back of her throat. “Je m’appelle Erris d’Arrent. Haut-Commandant de l’armée de Nouvelle Sarresant.”

The High Commander. He’d suspected as much, though it still came as a surprise to see her in the flesh, without the strange golden light in her eyes.

He raised a hand in greeting.

“Erris d’Arrent,” he said, careful to pronounce it as clean as he could manage in the fair-skins’ tongue. “You spoke of peace. The fight is done. Will you honor your part?”

She frowned, offering no more than a slight shake of her head to indicate her lack of understanding.

“Honored guardian,” came a voice from behind, among the warriors. “Let me translate for you, spirits willing.” Valak’Anor, a Sinari hunter and trader, who had often dealt with the fair-skins at the openings of their barrier. Relief washed through him, for unburdening him of the struggle to understand, and for confirming the survival of one of his own.

Valak’Anor spoke quickly, drawing Commander d’Arrent’s attention as well as another man, an elder in wire-framed spectacles mounted on a chestnut mare beside her.

“She asks you to confirm what you said, before,” Valak’Anor translated. “That the tribes’ presence in the city was the fault of a strange magic, and that the woman responsible is dead, by your hand.”

The words passed among the survivors, who now gathered around, representatives from each of the four tribes Llanara had led into the city, and Corenna, who stood as the last remnant of the Ranasi, listening intently at his side.

“It is so,” he said. “And we bear no fault for what her power made us do, though our tribes will carry the shame of it until our last days.” Murmurs passed among the crowd, and he continued. “Llanara is dead, and we are free of it. We mean to return to our homes, and swear no reprisal or involvement in fair-skin wars that are none of our concern.”

The woman, d’Arrent, nodded as Valak’Anor translated, then met his eyes as she spoke.

“She asks what is to prevent this magic from taking hold of us again, what surety her people have that we will not be a thorn in their foot, should they turn their attention elsewhere.”

He stared back at her, seeking the measure of the woman before him. She had the advantage of height, seated atop her monstrous animal, and clearly was reckoned a high elder of her people, for all it was strange to see a woman claim to be a warleader. Yet she bore iron in her voice, the hardened steel of a woman who had faced loss, and seen it through. When they returned to Sinari land he would ask Ilek’Inari to divine the wisdom of the spirits of things-to-come—and spirits take the forbidden, with the shamans of the tribes dead, and only an apprentice left to carry that mantle—but for now, the spirits spoke to him through intuition. He could trust this woman, so long as he showed her strength.

“You would find us more than a thorn, were we to call each other enemies,” he said, still holding her eyes, speaking slow and firm. “But we are not enemies today. You ask what surety you have that our people will not again fall under sway of this evil. Only that I will fight it, with every breath, every magic given me by the grace of the spirits. If it will serve, then we go, and remain at peace.”

Silence fell as Valak’Anor relayed the words. Whispers carried what was said among his people, and echoed among the fair-skins in their tongue. High Commander d’Arrent looked askance at the old man mounted beside her, and they exchanged brief words Valak’Anor did not translate, until both nodded, and the old man spoke.

“You offer your strength, as surety,” the old man said through Valak’Anor’s translation. “I have the support of the assemblies of New Sarresant, alongside the strength of High Commander d’Arrent’s army. What standing do you have, to bind the actions of your people?”

He glanced over his shoulder to meet Corenna’s eyes. The import of their exchange hung over him like a shadow; a wrong word may well spark another wave of violence. They expected him to claim the mantle of chief, of Sa’Shem. With the tribes’ guardians and shamans slain he might well find them as welcoming to the idea as the fair-skins. But it was not his place, and had never been. He would not seize it now, when more than any time before his people needed wisdom, wisdom greater than he could provide alone.

“I am a guardian,” he said. “An elder, with a voice in our councils. I will speak of peace to all who will listen, but cannot promise more. Yet we are led by the will of our wisest members, and none among them will seek to revisit this day. In that you may trust, if you do not trust the strength of the blessings I carry, by will of the spirits.”

They conferred again after Valak’Anor translated the words, and this time the woman, High Commander d’Arrent, spoke.

“Go, then,” she said. “And, if not as friends and allies, leave as brothers and sisters in arms.”

He bowed his head, not realizing until she spoke it how much he’d dreaded a different pronouncement. A weight melted from his shoulders like new-thawed ice, and he saw the same in Corenna when he turned to share the moment with her. No more violence. Whatever madness still roiled in the green to the north was a matter for the fair-skins. His people would stay clear of it, and make their journey home.

He stood at the edge of the crumbled stone wall ringing the fair-skins’ city, watching burdened souls pass through ahead of him. The Great Barrier rose in the distance, with the promise of home. It would be a blessing to put the strangeness of the fair-skins’ city behind him, behind them all.

Corenna offered her arm as the last of the tribesfolk passed through ahead of her. A pair of Sinari warriors, strong young men who nonetheless averted their eyes in shame as they passed. So it would be. The burdens his people carried would not be washed away by words.

He took Corenna’s hand as they stepped through the ruined wall together.

For a time they walked in silence at the rear of the column, winding their way through the forests toward the barrier.

“It was well done, in the city,” she offered at last. “Wise of you to remind us of our traditions, of the wisdom of the councils.”

“You expected me to claim the mantle of Sa’Shem.”

She nodded, saying nothing.

“I would make a terrible chief,” he said, eliciting a surprised peal of laughter from Corenna. It was a welcome sound, cast against a backdrop of gloom and cold.

“It is only the truth,” he protested.

“I think you are less wise than you seem, Arak’Jur. Though spirits know we will have need of guardians in these times to come.”

“Perhaps it is time to consider allowing the spirit-touched among the women to join in our hunts.”

That earned an appraising look.

“You have shown me our traditions must be open to change,” he said. “And that our women are more capable than perhaps we men believed.”

She gave a satisfied nod. “There are some few among us who could lend aid to the guardians. I will speak of it at the women’s councils.”

They walked on, contemplating, before Corenna spoke again.

“I worry this is not over, Arak’Jur,” she said. “There are still corrupt spirits, demanding war. Other tribes may yet listen to their promptings. We are no closer to knowing the source, nor the reasons behind the barring of the sacred places.” He nodded as she continued. “And the fair-skins: Whatever surety they offered today, who can say how they will respond in time?”

Corenna shivered as a gust of sharp wind knifed through the trees. Even with the spirits’ blessing he could almost feel it cut into his own skin.

“I grieve for my people,” she continued. “And I fear for what is coming. The spirits abandon us, traditions break, the guardians are slain, the shamans are gone. Enemies stir around us. Even the darkest of our stories are not half so grim as this.”

“Perhaps that is always the way of it, as the stories unfold,” he said.

“Perhaps.”

“Corenna.”

She turned to look at him as they walked, her dark eyes seeming to glow in the fading light. He could see fear nested there, recognize it mirrored in his own thoughts as he weighed the truth of her words. Yet there was more; a fire that burned deep. If he could only grasp it, he knew it held the promise of solace and safety, a ward against the shadows at the edges of his vision. Warmth to see him through the chills of the cold season until the spirits of growth and sustenance could find purchase once more.

“I know, Arak’Jur.”

Words went dry in his throat.

“I am here, and we will face this together,” she said. “Either we are strong enough to meet it, or we are not.”

He came to a halt, causing her to turn back with a questioning look. He wanted to offer assurance, to promise his strength would not falter. Instead he stepped forward and drew her close, lowering his lips to hers.

She drew a breath when they separated, giving him a smile that could melt the cold spirits’ deepest snows.

They walked the rest of the way at each other’s side, determination taking root like seeds scattered by the fury of a storm.