MINK
Of course I’ll stay, elder.”
“Thank you, War Leader.” Hoodwink turns to give Lynx a worried appraisal where he lies beneath a mound of hides beside the central fire. “I know you wish to attend the burial, but your brother’s fever is bad this morning. He’s confused and raving. Someone must remain to care for him in case he tries to rise. Can’t afford to have those wounds break open again.”
“I understand.”
Hoodwink pats my shoulder. “I will explain to Quiller that you will not be able to help carry the burial litter today.”
“Thank you.”
Hoodwink props his walking stick and gingerly hobbles to where Quiller has crouched on the lip of the cave all night. When Hoodwink sits down beside her and slips an arm around her back, she gives him a vaguely disapproving look.
The cave is a flurry of activity. Five children quietly slip through the village with dogs trotting at their heels. My wife and two boys stand over the small fire outside our lodge. The cradleboard that carries our newest child leans against the cave wall a pace away. I can hear the baby gurgling as it watches Gray Dove stir the big bag of glypt stew that swings from the tripod. When the burial is over, everyone will return here to feast and tell stories about Jawbone.
“Mink?”
“I’m right here, brother.” I crouch at Lynx’s side.
He gazes up at me with dazed eyes. “Where’s Siskin? Tell her to come back, please.”
I pull the hides up beneath his chin and smile down at him. Siskin, his wife, died three summers ago. “I don’t know where she went,” I answer. “I’ll have someone find her.”
The words seem to ease him. Lynx swallows, and his head falls to the side to face the fire. He blinks lazily at the flames.
I feel his fiery forehead. “You’re very hot. Let me dip you another cup of willow-bark tea.”
As I reach for his cup and sink it into the tea bag, Lynx grimaces as though an unpleasant thought just occurred to him.
“She . . . Siskin is dead, isn’t she?”
“Yes, brother. She was killed by lions three summers ago.”
“But she was just here.”
I pull the cup out dripping. “That’s good. Did she tell you that you’re fevered and need to drink this cup of tea?”
“I miss her. It’s been . . . a long time.”
I slip an arm beneath his back and gently lift him while I push the cup against his lips. “Drink this.”
Lynx—obedient as one of my young sons—gulps noisily. Then, turning his head away, he says, “Bitter.”
“Very, but it will help your fever.” I tilt the cup again, and he draws a deep breath and drinks more. When he chokes and coughs, I pull it away. “Sorry, not trying to drown you.”
“Thank you. For helping me.”
“I’m your brother. I don’t have a choice.”
Lynx gives me a dazed smile. “Nonetheless.”
As I rest the cup beside the hearthstones, his eyes follow me, a vague stirring of concern in them.
“Quiller . . . She buries her son today, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, she does.”
A slow knife of grief cuts its way through my body, penetrating clean through even my death-hardened warrior’s soul. I’m not as tough as I think I am, though I work hard to give a good imitation of it.
“When?”
“Soon, I think. Don’t worry, I’m staying with you. You’re fever-stupid. I don’t want you to rise and think you can walk on air out beyond the cliff edge.”
His gaze wanders to the ocean. “Arakie told me . . .” He seems to lose his thread of thought. “He—he told me the Jemen thought zyme would be their salvation. It would feed people, be fuel, and cool the world.”
“Didn’t work out so well, did it?” I say with a hint of sarcasm. Zyme is an empty-hearted monster; it kills everything that gets within its reach. But there are ancient stories about the Jemen and the zyme. Our elders tell them around the winter fires . . .
“Mink? Quancee is dead, too, isn’t she?” He shifts uncomfortably as though easing the ache in his side. “I can’t . . . feel her presence.”
“You told me yesterday that she was gone.”
Tears well in his eyes. “Neither slayer nor slain. Just a tiny step to another coordinate. Why can’t I believe that?”
“I don’t know, brother. I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”
Lynx closes his eyes, and I ease his body back to the hides where he can rest. His long sweat-soaked black hair sticks to his flushed cheeks. “Try to sleep, all right?”
Incoherently, he murmurs, “. . . cold lap . . . alien stones . . . afraid. Afraid.”
“Don’t be. I’m right here. I’m not leaving you.”
When I see RabbitEar duck out of his lodge carrying a blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms, my heart turns to stone in my chest. Their three daughters follow behind him, along with Quiller’s black dog Crow. Crow keeps smelling the bundle and using her teeth to tug at the hides that wrap the dead boy as though intent upon unwrapping him. RabbitEar bats the dog’s nose away and tenderly lays the body on the litter I built last night, then he staggers back a step and searches for his wife.
Quiller rises, helps Elder Hoodwink to his feet, and stares at RabbitEar with blank, unfeeling eyes. She’s walled off the pain so she can do what must be done. As she stoically walks past me, I stand up and say, “Just a little while longer. It’ll be over soon.”
“I know.” She nods back—one warrior to another—and walks to pick up the top litter poles. RabbitEar lifts the back, and together they solemnly carry their precious son up the cliff trail. The elders follow, then the rest of the village falls into line behind them. The sacred songs ring out as they climb toward the burial scaffold.
I wait until they move beyond my sight before I exhale the breath I’ve been holding. I’ve been trying not to imagine what I would do if it was one of my sons on that litter, but it’s hard to keep the images out of my head. I keep seeing my eldest’s son’s face beneath the hides, his skin white and bloodless, his lips blue. Turns my blood to ice.
“Brother?” Lynx whispers. “They’re coming.”
“They just left. It’ll be at least one hand of time before they return. Sleep while they’re gone. The village will be loud with weeping and songs when they return.”
“No, not . . .” he says in a hushed voice. “Listen.”
I cock my head. “All I hear is a couple of bison bulls roaring and the rumbles of the Ice Giants, but . . .”
My voice trails away when I see five men, all Dog Soldiers, marching down the trail. Their silver capes sway around their tall willowy bodies. The old man in the lead has very dark skin and a bushy shock of white hair. “Blessed gods, is that the legendary Thanissara?”
Lynx suddenly blinks as though coming back to himself. He twists his head to look. “Yes.”
“How did you know they were coming?”
He weakly shakes his head.
I squint at the lead Dog Soldier. “I’ve never seen Thanissara up close. He carries himself with an odd dignity, doesn’t he?”
“I need to s-speak . . . with him.”
“Truly? After your words about being afraid of alien stones, I’m not sure you can speak with anyone and make sense.”
Lynx weakly tries to shove up on one elbow. “Can you help me sit up?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, but what if I rearrange the hides behind you to prop you up a bit?”
Lynx nods, and while I keep one eye on the Dog Soldiers, I move around to lift his shoulders so I can pile the hides up behind him. They’ve just entered the sea cave and are surveying the seven mammoth-hide lodges and numerous fires. After whispering to one another, four of the Dog Soldiers turn their backs to me and look up the trail, as though guarding the path. Only Thanissara walks forward.
I stand and bow respectfully to him. “Elder. Welcome. Please allow me to thank you for saving my brother’s life. How may I help you?”
“I must speak with the Blessed Teacher, if he is well enough.”
It’s always strange hearing my younger brother referred to in this manner, but I extend a hand to Lynx. “Go ahead, but he is fevered from the wounds your warriors gave him. I’m not sure he can carry on a—”
“Hopefully, I can help with that.” Thanissara shoves aside his long cape and unlaces his belt pouch to pull out four clear tubes filled with colorful powders. I’ve seen them many times on the rear shelf in Quancee’s chamber. As he kneels beside Lynx, he says, “I thought you might need these medicinal plants.” He places them on the ground at Lynx’s side.
Lynx manages a feeble smile. “Yes. They will help.”
I shift to brace my feet. “Elder, your people almost killed my brother. It was very risky coming here. Weren’t you afraid—”
“It was worth it,” he says curtly. “I had to see Lynx.”
Lynx blinks as though trying to focus his eyes. “What happened? At the end? Please, tell me.”
Thanissara reaches back into his belt pouch and draws out a silver eyeball-shaped object. “I found this. Though our order would like to protect it, I believe she would wish you to have it.”
He hands the object to Lynx and as my brother turns it in his hand, I see the thin black stripe that cuts across one side like a thin pupil. “What is it?” Lynx asks. “It’s very cold.”
“Ah,” Thanissara says with a nod. “You’ve never seen it before. That makes sense. I would not have known what it was if I hadn’t seen Jorgensen reaching for it through the crystal pane he’d broken out.”
“Jorgensen?” Lynx asks with a tremor in his voice. “Is he—”
“Dead.”
In astonishment, I glance between Lynx and Thanissara. “Did you kill him? You killed the last of the Jemen?”
“We did not, War Leader. He died from extreme old age. The last thing he wanted”—he points to the silver object—“was Quancee’s heart.”
Lynx suddenly seems to comprehend what he’s holding in his hand. As tears fill his eyes, he clutches it against his chest. “Thank you, elder. I will guard it with my life.”
Thanissara rises to his feet. “I know you will. If you ever need my assistance—”
“Yes. I—I do, elder.” Lynx lifts his fever-brilliant gaze to the old Dog Soldier. “When I am better . . . there’s something I would like to show you.”
“Very well.” The Dog Soldier graciously inclines his white head. “I’ll be waiting for you. Come find me when you are able.”
Thanissara bows to me again, a deep respectful bow, turns and walks away. When he nears the other Dog Soldiers, a pathway opens between them, allowing him to walk through, then they fall into line and march up the trail out of my sight.
I frown down at Lynx, who is holding the object like a rare gem. “What is that thing? He called it a heart.”
“Purpose,” he replies, barely audible. “I was so lost without her. I didn’t realize that it doesn’t matter if she is gone. I am still her caretaker.”
Lynx squeezes his eyes closed and holds the silver eyeball to his lips. His words are nonsense to me:
“Are you looking, Quancee? I am looking. I will always be looking.”