Osere. The word echoing in her mind.
She was led through a strange village by an even stranger man. With her walked Cahan Du-Nahere and around them the blind soldiers of the Osere, bristling with weapons and barely hidden aggression. She thought about that name, Osere, one she had heard so many times but had never really believed. Cowls, Rai, even the Cowl-Rai who could wipe whole armies from the field, they were real but the rest? The Star Path? Broken Iftal? The Osere?
She had never considered them real, them or the gods. Just a way of control. Her secondfather may have been happy to give his life and burn for Chyi, but she had not been and there had been no punishment for it. Her life had been long and it had been one of luxury and pleasure. Though that pleasure was mostly found in other’s pain.
Strange, how her desire for that had ebbed as she had come to understand pain more. She had felt pain as Rai of course, everyone felt pain. But she had believed there was higher purpose in the pain of others, it was worth it to make her strong, and her strength was important for Crua. For herself.
But now she truly knew pain, and knew it was without purpose, something to be suffered. Something to be avoided.
She was changing in more ways than losing her cowl, becoming something and someone else. She had seen Anjiin, city of myth. She had been saved from death by the man she hated most in the world. She had witnessed something, vast and inimical, something that radiated hate, that she knew instinctively she should fear.
So it was not hard for her to believe these strange eyeless creatures, skin painted with shadows, were the Osere.
Their village was made of small round shelters gathered round flickering fires. In the distance she could see what looked like a larger building, a tall shrine before it. She wondered what dark rituals the Osere did here, and what could be important enough about her or Cahan that they would have gone up against the creature in Anjiin to retrieve them?
There was no wood or forests down here, or there had been no sign of them in Ancient Anjiin. Maybe it was different in this place but clearly there was something the Osere could build with. She wondered what secrets were hidden here, in the vast cave of the… the what? The beneath? The otherworld? Was she dead? Sound was strange here. She had told herself it was the warm still air and the huge empty space above that ate up all sound, but maybe it was more. Maybe it was the quiet of death.
The man walking before them, the one who was from above, had said there were people here they must meet, and now they walked through this strange place. She wondered what they ate, what animals lived down here, what grew down here? All these things must happen somewhere, hidden in the darkness, or the people could not live. In Anjiin she had not hungered, but when they had left the city she had begun to feel a gnawing in her belly and she was desperate for water, which she had been able to smell on the air ever since she had thought about thirst.
She saw children, dressed like the adults even down to the strange plumes growing from their headdresses. It was like any village in Crua, except the people here were cursed, and if legend was true then both her and the Forester were being escorted by them to unending suffering.
No, she refused to believe it. They were not dead, and the legends said the Osere only took the dead. The Osere had made no overtly violent moves towards them since the fight in their village, they had been threatening, but only wished to subdue. They could have wounded them, or killed them, or left them for the beast in Anjiin, and they had not. The translator began to fall back so he walked between them. There was something of the monk to him she thought, the gentleness of his voice, the quiet chiming of the porcelain threaded through his clothes.
“We go to meet the leaders,” he glanced across at Sorha, “you would call them a Leoric.” She saw Cahan nod, though he did not look at the man, only kept grimly walking over ground which crunched beneath his feet. “I tell you now,” the man said, “speak only the truth to them.”
“Why, Ulan?” said Sorha, and even to her ears the sarcasm bit deep and was unneeded. “Can they hear lies?”
“Yes.” He said it so simply she believed him, or at least she was sure he believed it. “I do not know if it is because they cannot see, but they can hear a lie. And they punish liars harshly.” He held up his left hand, showing two fingers were missing from it. “I did not learn that lesson quickly enough.”
“How long have you been here?” said Cahan. Ulan shrugged.
“I do not know, you cannot measure time down here. There are no seasons, the crops grow without sun. The animals breed when they will.” He looked away, some sadness crossing his face in the flickering firelight of his torch. “I have been here longer than I lived above, I think.” Cahan nodded then looked up. His brow furrowed in confusion.
“What is that light?” he said. “The glowing lines. What are they?” He pointed into the sky, or what passed for sky here. When she looked she saw it too, faint flashes as if light fell from above.
“That,” said Ulan, “is cloudtree roots, they do that and more sometimes. I think, but cannot be sure, it means the end of day above. Or the beginning.” He smiled, to himself, not them. “It is no forest lightshow, but it is what we have. There are other wonders here but—” He stopped speaking as the Osere warriors split into two groups. “Ready yourself,” said Ulan.
Two Osere sat on thrones in front of a larger hut than any Sorha had yet seen, and although she had thought there was no wood down here, now she was not as sure. The struts that held up the hut looked like wood, though different to what she was used to. Maybe they used the roots of the cloudtrees.
The thrones were of some material she had never seen before, shiny and hard. Sat on them were two Osere, one male one female. Behind them more figures, she could barely make them out in the firelight, but as her eyes got a little more used to the poor light she realised what they were, felt fear. Four people of Crua, dead, impaled on spikes behind the thrones. The sharp points of spears emerging as the final screams of eternally opened mouths.
“Should we bow?” said Cahan.
“The Osere bow to no one, and they would not see it anyway,” said Ulan. “Let me introduce you both.” He stepped forward. Spoke in the Osere language and it was again a strange thing to Sorha, like he almost spoke words she knew. She heard her name spoken, heard Cahan’s name spoken and felt like she could almost touch the meaning around them. The two Osere talked among themselves, pointing at Cahan, Sorha, Ulan, then above. Eventually the one on the right turned and spoke directly to Ulan. Then Ulan spoke for them.
“The leaders of Elmfarhad bid you welcome to their village. They have questions for the outsiders about the land above. If you lie you will suffer the fate of all liars.” One of the Osere said something sharp and their warriors brought forward the impaled bodies from behind the screen. They were very old, the bodies long ago dried out to remain in death as an eternal lesson.
“You said only our fingers were at risk,” growled Cahan.
“The Osere were not always as gentle as they are now.” The woman on the left throne said something, cutting across Ulan’s words and he stopped speaking. Turned back to her. There was another brief discussion among the Osere and then the woman spoke again. A long stream of almost understood language.
“They want to know,” said Ulan, “if you were involved in the freeing of the god.”
“What?” said Cahan, gruff as ever. She did not need the ears of the blind to hear his confusion – she shared it. “What god?”
“The creature that hunted you, it is a god freed from its prison of ages. The Osere,” he motioned at the gathered people with a hand, “once chose the wrong side in a war. They brought about the death of Iftal, and the fall of Anjiin. For that, they lost their eyes and were banished down here, to keep the gods imprisoned and stop them rising again.”
“Surely, if they were once their servants, they would be the ones most likely to free them?” said Sorha. Ulan bowed his head.
“Sometimes, it is only when the shackles are removed that you realise how heavy they were. The Osere will never bow to the old gods again.” She looked across at Cahan, he looked confused, lost.
“You are saying the gods are our enemies,” said Cahan.
“Many of them. Or that is what the Osere believe,” said Ulan, and once more, the woman on the throne cut across him, angry words. The warriors around them lowered spears. “Please, answer their question, they do not like us talking among ourselves.” Cahan turned to the two Osere.
“No,” he said. “We have freed no gods.”
She wondered if that was true; the monk, Udinny, had spoken of Ranya. Was that not a god? And one she had never heard of before. Should she speak up? Before she could, Ulan translated Cahan’s words and the two Osere once more discussed among themselves what had been said. The woman nodded, said something to the man. Pointed at them.
“They believe you,” said Ulan. Cahan grunted. The Osere talked more among themselves before once more the woman spoke to Ulan and he translated: “They wish to know what is happening above. If not you, who has freed the god from its prison? Will they free more?”
“The thing?” said Cahan. “That we ran from?” Ulan nodded. “I have never seen such a thing before. How was it imprisoned? Where? How can a god be—” One of the Osere barked something out.
“Please,” said Ulan, “give only answers to what is asked. Your questions may be addressed later.” You are leaving much out, Cahan, thought Sorha.
“Above, the old god – we called them Chyi – has been overthrown,” said Sorha, her throat hurting and her bones aching. “A new god rises, they are called Tarl-an-Gig and their Cowl-Rai has taken nearly all of Crua.” She stared at the Osere’s rulers as Ulan translated. More talk between the Osere, bouncing back and forth among them until eventually some consensus was reached.
“No,” said Ulan. “This is not what they mean. The above has warred over gods for almost as long as your people have ruled there. They say you waste what you have in war.”
“Are you trying to tell me these people are not warriors?” said Cahan.
“They are now,” said Ulan. “Part of the reason they kept me alive was I fought once. They had almost forgotten how.” Cahan made a dismissive noise, as if such a thing were impossible and Sorha shared his thoughts. Ulan smiled at them. “Down here where less power was gifted, where life is far harder than above, war was not an option for the Osere. They have always worked together to live.”
“But now they war,” said Sorha. Ulan nodded. “When did it start?” One of the Osere barked something from their throne. Ulan turned to them and a conversation was had, plainly about Sorha and Cahan. Eventually the Osere shrugged and turned away.
“They want answers, but I have told them the answers will be more useful if I can explain a little to you.”
“Explain then,” said Cahan, and Sorha thought it odd that although this place was almost entirely silent, his voice did not carry at all, it was as if the air sucked it up, devoured it.
“The Osere believe themselves the jailers of the gods, not servants.” He looked from Cahan to Sorha. “There have always been those who believed otherwise. That they should free the gods, take power back from those above. Small cults. Occasionally one such as me would come from above and tell tales of the light and plenty. The cults would grow afterwards, believing the gods would take them back above but they were peaceful. They had their own villages in the rootwood, and few followed them for long. Most would get bored or hungry and come back. Even those that did not would still trade with the villages.” He scratched at the side of his head. “Then things changed. The god talkers turned against the people.”
“God talkers?”
“Powerful Osere. Like Rai, I think, but I never met one and they do not like to talk of them so I cannot be sure,” said Ulan. “After the god talkers turned, raids began. Warriors appeared. They were Osere but not. Strong and fast, but wrong and twisted. The Osere call these warriors the Betrayers, as they have left the path. They found they had no choice but to learn to fight.”
“How long ago did this happen?” said Cahan. Ulan shrugged.
“Time is hard to tell down here, and I do not know why but I am sure I have lived far longer than I should. All this started maybe twenty or thirty lifetimes ago, as the people of Crua measure a life. I think, anyway; as I said, time is difficult here.”
“These Osere Betrayers… what do they mean when they say they are ‘wrong’?” said Sorha.
“The phrase the Osere use is that they ‘walk close to death’.”
“Hetton?” said Cahan, looking at Sorha.
“You know these creatures?” said Ulan.
“Do they look dead? Skin desiccated eyes white and…” His voice tailed off. “I do not know how they would look here, as these people have no eyes.”
“They taste of the dead,” said Sorha. “When you are around them, you can taste the dead.”
As she finished speaking the Osere began to talk among themselves and she realised they must understand more of what was said than she thought. The woman leaned forward, the man put a hand on her shoulder but she shrugged it off.
“When?” she said. “When these appear above?” Her eyeless face focused on Cahan.
“At most, sixteen years ago, maybe less. I first saw them twelve or thirteen years ago, as we measure it.” He looked over at Sorha but she had nothing to add. “They are a tool of the new Cowl-Rai.” The Osere turned and said something to the man on the throne opposite. He nodded and vanished into the hut behind them.
“What is this about?” said Sorha. Cahan shrugged and Ulan only stared at the empty throne. He looked worried. Then the Osere returned, leaned in close to the woman and they whispered, occasionally pointing towards Cahan, Sorha and Ulan. Eventually they sat back and the trion once more spoke to Ulan. He turned to them.
“What can you tell us about these Hetton, and this Cowl-Rai?”
“Not much,” said Cahan. “The Cowl-Rai rose in the north, the Hetton were rare at first. There are more now.” Ulan translated for Cahan as he spoke. “The Hetton were not there when the Cowl-Rai first rose, I do not think so anyway. I did not see them. Then I fought for money, it was years before I saw one. Well, not one. They move in groups. I was told that two guarded the Cowl-Rai from the start and…”
“Tell of Cowl-Rai,” said the woman on the throne. That she ignored what appeared to be the protocol of the meeting clearly annoyed the other Osere.
“Sorha would know more,” said Cahan, and he motioned towards her with a hand. She swallowed.
“I have never met the Cowl-Rai,” she said. “They rarely used their magic from what I have heard. Relying on overwhelming force or guile, attacking where it was not expected. I never heard of the Hetton until they had taken nearly all of the north.” Ulan translated for her.
“But you have met with her.”
“No,” said Sorha. “but I have met Saradis.” A look crossed Cahan’s face when she said that name, one of such horror as she had never seen. The blood drained from him, and she thought he would collapse, but he did not. He managed to hold on. To keep his composure.
“Saradis?” he said, the word barely even there. “The Skua-Rai of Tarl-an-Gig is Saradis?” Sorha watched him, he looked as if his entire world had imploded and she wondered why, wondered what Saradis was to him. Something terrible, from the look of it.
“Why do you ask that?” said Sorha.
“I knew her, she was not always Skua-Rai of Tarl-an-Gig.” His voice was hoarse and pain had tracked deep lines into his face, he looked like he had aged years in moments. “She made me, she raised me. Picked me out, took my sister and I from our home. Tortured me. Her devotion to her god was complete and it was utter. I cannot believe she worships another.”
“Who was her god?” said Sorha. How could she have known that such a simple question would change her world so profoundly?
“Zorir,” said Cahan, and all around them, the Osere either cried out in anger and fear, or brought their spears to bear.