She did not understand.
Her world had been tumbling out of control ever since she first came across Cahan Du-Nahere: the loss of her cowl, her troops being beaten by villagers, betrayal by Saradis, falling into a dark world that existed below and finding out the Osere were little more than villagers, living in their equivalent of mud roundhouses.
Then to find out that the gods were real. They existed and they were monstrous.
Everything she had ever thought had been a lie.
They had camped back at the original taffistone and she had pretended to sleep. In the complete darkness of this place sleep was hard to come by, or maybe she did not need it as much. More than once she had found herself walking, sure more time had passed than she could account for. Part of her thought it was simply a trick of this darkness, but she was beginning to believe that she also slept while she walked.
When she closed her eyes she saw the way the Osere had lit up in bright colours before the prison of the god, blots and patches of colour floating in her mind that stayed when she opened them again, becoming slowly fading phantoms in the night.
Were they even gods, these creatures that slept within the roots of cloudtrees? To her they looked less like gods and more like some kind of gasmaw. Though the one back in Anjiin had been like no gasmaw she knew, it was no animal working off instinct. It had possessed purpose and intelligence, it had searched for them. She could not get out of her mind how, when Cahan Du-Nahere had been filled with power, when he had been this great throbbing creature in the land above, destroying what he wished at a thought, that he had resembled that beast. That he had, tasted the same? Yes, taste was the right word. Strange as it was, his nearness to her was something she felt in all her senses. She had never noticed it in the world above. Too many draws on her attention, too much going on. But down here it was dark and quiet. Down here she had time. The Osere were in no hurry to get anywhere now Cahan and her had been shown their gods. She had heard Cahan ask the translator what they were going to do next and the man had shrugged.
“We will head back to the village, the Osere think you should be given time to think.”
She was not as sure that was the case. When they had passed through the taffistone, before returning to the camp, the Osere leader Frina had spent a long time talking with the other Osere. Laying hands on the stone and chattering back and forth. Ulan had looked worried but when she asked about it he said nothing.
They rested often on the way back.
It was not entirely dark down here, it had taken her a long time to see it though. The light of the cloudtree roots was obvious, but once they were away from them she began to see other lights. There were mushrooms everywhere that glowed with their own internal light, but it was so weak it was hard to even know if it was real. She had started marking off in her mind where she thought they were and then nodding to herself when she found actual fruiting bodies, pale and wormlike with no sign of light up close. But the light was there, it must be there or maybe some other sense hidden within her was working.
When they camped there was a lot of talk between the Osere, pointing back the way they had come, and Sorha sat closer to Cahan.
“Something bothers them,” she said softly. He nodded. “Something about the taffistone we passed through to come back. Something that was not there when we left.”
“It could be,” said Cahan. “But it could be something else, we know nothing about this place, or about them.” It was plain he did not want to talk, and not just to her. He was equally short with Ulan. Maybe he was also thinking, using the quiet and the dark to assess where he had been, how he had got here, who he was and what the truth of their gods meant. If it meant anything. Did it change the nature of their gods if they slept in the trees? If they sucked like bizarre littercrawlers on the cloudtrees while they dreamed?
She did not know.
But she thought a lot. She used the silence of their walks, of the rest time, to try and understand the world she had found herself in. To think about escape. How could she escape? She looked across at where she knew Cahan was. Where she could feel him. How odd it was. She could feel them all if they were within her influence. Though the Osere were different they were people, she was sure of that, but not the same as her. She did not think they had cowls the way she understood it, because they did not shrink from her. Though they could use the taffistone. Maybe something of their flesh was different. She was seized with a sudden desire to walk over and touch one of them, place her hand against their bare skin, see if they felt different to the people of Crua. Were they warm or were they cold to the touch?
She took a deep breath and turned over on the gritty earth.
Did any of it matter? She could see no way out of this place.
They set off again later and walked for a time indeterminate. Then the Osere leader held up her hand. Stopped them. Spoke a few words that part of her recognised in tone and action as worry. Something bothered the leader and Sorha was, again, sure it was related to the taffistone. A small group of Osere took up spears and left the camp. Cahan turned to the translator.
“What is happening?”
“Scouts are going ahead.” Sorha watched. Cahan was twitchy with obvious irritation.
“Unlike your friends I am not blind.” He looked over at the Osere, Frina, and Sorha had the distinct impression they were paying attention to him. Why? She wondered if it was because he did not keep his voice down. The translator did not answer Cahan, instead he looked to Frina.
“The taffistone,” said Sorha, standing. “They think something came through the taffistone don’t they?”
Silence. She knew she was right. Cahan must know she was right too, the way he reacted. The interpreter was staring at the leader of the Osere. She said something, no more than a click but Sorha had picked up enough around them to know that was assent of some kind, an affirmation. Ulan sighed.
“When the Osere betray themselves and leave the path, they lose the ability to use the taffistone.” Ulan looked over at Sorha. “What makes them Osere is killed by what binds them to the god.”
“But she,” Sorha looked over at Frina, “thinks they have used the taffistone?”
The Osere leader spoke, a long stream of unintelligible words and clicks.
“Something has,” said Ulan. “They are not sure what, or even if it was the Betrayers.”
“Was it not their own people?” said Cahan. Ulan shook his head.
“They would know if it was their own. It was not them.”
“Did I do this?” said Cahan. “I carry the beast’s corruption within me and…” The Osere interrupted, talking to Cahan in their own language, then Ulan started to translate.
“She says the creature escaped from a prison that should have held it for ever, corrupted a cloudtree. It was only a matter of time until they worked out a way to get into the stones. You may have helped, you may not have. What matters is it is done.” Cahan said nothing, not at first. Then when he spoke his voice was cracked like old stone.
“How can you forgive me when I have put you in danger?” No one spoke, not straight away. To Sorha, it seemed the best way forward, the way these people should have taken from the start, was to open Cahan’s throat. She should have done it. Then the Osere spoke again. This time she did not use Ulan.
“Long ago,” her voice was harsh, like cracking leaves. The words halting. “We choose wrong but forgiven. How can not also forgive?”
“No,” said Sorha, surprised by what rose up within her, an anger. “You were not forgiven, you were punished.” Frina, turned to her, angled her head up, then when she could not immediately find the words in Sorha’s language she spoke to Ulan in her own.
“She says,” Ulan cleared his throat, “that they were happy and at peace for generations once they accepted their new life. That to be changed is not to be dead, to be ended.” Something burned in Sorha, an anger, and these words fanned it in such a way she could not even bring herself to reply. It was like they spoke of her, talked of what had happened to her. Like they thought they were better for accepting what had been done to them. “And since the Betrayers came, and one of the gods has escaped, they know how blessed they were in their peace.”
“If they think I—” hissed Sorha but Ulan cut her off.
“There were over ten thousand Osere when I first came down here, now there are less than five hundred.” He stepped closer. “Those who are taken now, who become the Betrayers, they do not choose it like it is believed the first ones did. They have it forced upon them and most die.” Frina gently pushed Ulan out the way, opened her mouth as if to say something then stopped, sensing something Sorha could not. Her entire body froze.
“You fight?” she said. Sorha felt her face screw up, confusion, annoyance.
“I can fight.” Only now she noticed the Osere had a spear in her hand. Frina held it out. Sorha closed her hand around it. She did not know what had suddenly bothered the Osere, but she would never turn down a weapon.
Shouting carried through the air. Desperate, shouting. The Osere around her getting into battle array, spears ready, shields on their arms. Some held bows.
“Help fight,” said the Osere, and Sorha readied herself.
She wanted to fight.
Needed it.