“This is what my mother died for?” Kirii gazed at the parchment in her hands.
Put that way, it seemed a woefully inadequate thing: a single sheet of thin-scraped calfskin marked with the imperial seal of Cheliax in red and black at its head. It flapped violently in the wind, as though the desert itself were trying to tear the thing from Kirii’s hands.
But the treaty was much more than that. “It’s safety,” Isiem said.
“Truly?”
“If it holds.”
Kirii curled the parchment tightly in a white-clawed fist. She looked away, squinting into the sand-flecked wind toward the west, where the Chelaxians were tiny specks receding into the distance. There seemed to be a haziness to her golden eyes, as if the cataracts that had blinded her mother were somehow being passed down to her. “Will it hold?”
Isiem wondered that himself. It seemed such a fragile vessel for Windspire’s hopes of survival.
Fifteen paragraphs, four signatures: Paralictor Adarai on behalf of the Order of the Gate, Provisional Governor Parsellon Alterras on behalf of Cheliax’s civil authority, Velenne to represent its military authority and Asmodeus’s approval of their bargain … and Kirii’s mark, alone, for the strix. It took three signatories to bind Cheliax to the treaty, but only one to bind the other side.
The substance of the bargain was fair, however, even if its form reflected Cheliax’s habit of skewing every deal to the empire’s advantage. Isiem had made sure of that.
For a hundred years and a day, the Chelaxians would be free to take the silver in the hills of Devil’s Perch. But their numbers would be small, their settlements impermanent, their activities watched. Tokarai Springs was inviolate to them; the strix’s hunting grounds were forbidden.
It wasn’t a victory, exactly. Isiem knew that. The treaty would hold because the Chelaxians didn’t care about Tokarai Springs. They didn’t even really care about the strix, or Isiem himself, as long as their mines went undisturbed. It was the silver that interested them, and what that silver meant for their ambitions.
The rebels of Westcrown would suffer for the bargain he’d struck here. Pezzack. Sargava. No doubt there were other people in other places, beyond Isiem’s ken, who would soon feel the increased might of Imperial Cheliax.
And in that fact, he thought, there might be something the strix could use. “You guided that collaborator from Crackspike to Pezzack.”
Kirii turned back toward him and blinked sideways. The knotted tangle of charms and necklaces she wore, many of them taken directly from her mother’s body, jangled with the movement. “Yes.”
“You could guide rebels back.”
“Yes.” She blinked again, then flicked her tongue out between her sharp little teeth in annoyance. “That is not an answer to my question. There was much bargaining before they signed. It is different now than what we spoke of. Will the treaty hold?”
“As long as that seems to be in Cheliax’s interests,” Isiem said, taken aback by her intensity. “And as long as they have no reason to believe you’ve reneged on the bargain. It’s the same as we discussed before the battle.”
“It is not the same.” The parchment in Kirii’s hand trembled. With her other hand she rubbed a thumb over her right cheek, where the first of her rokoa tattoos had recently been inked. The flesh was still swollen under the blackened curlicues, giving the design an angry red shadow. “Now I am rokoa. Now the survival of our tribe is my burden. What we agreed … that was with my mother to guide the itarii. Now it is only me, and our numbers are small. Much of Windspire died at Tokarai Springs. What is left is the old, the hatchlings, and the wounded.”
“Will the tribe survive?”
“Only if we can compel more of the itarii to join us,” Kirii said bluntly. “We have not enough of our own. Even with a peace, we cannot lay eggs quickly enough to restore our numbers. If Windspire is to survive our losses, other itarii must leave their own tribes to join ours. This is not a thing done lightly. To give up one’s kin lines, the bones of one’s ancestors, the teachings of one’s own rokoa … as we did not wish to give up our traditions to join Ciricskree, so others will be reluctant to join us.”
“What would draw them to join you?” Isiem asked.
“Something they cannot obtain in their own tribes.”
“Such as the chance to strike at humans who cannot hit back?”
Opaque membranes veiled Kirii’s hawk-yellow eyes as she blinked. “Explain.”
“The treaty prevents you—not only the strix of Windspire, but all the strix in Devil’s Perch—from attacking the Chelaxians. Open aggression would break the bargain.”
“This I know. We have talked of it already.” Her small, slitted nostrils flared. “It will be difficult to keep the other tribes from taking up their spears. The rokoa of Ciricskree is a strong voice for killing the humans, and the itaraak of the Screeching Spire have many spears. They do not accept humans as true-people. Convincing them to change those views will be … difficult. Very so. My mother might have done it. But I…”
“… will have another choice to offer them,” Isiem finished for her. “One that allows you to harass the Chelaxians without risking the lives of your own people.”
“How?”
“Use the rebels.” The idea had ignited his imagination; the words spilled out almost faster than Isiem could utter them. “House Thrune has many enemies. Pezzack is rife with them. Show the rebels where and how to strike, and they’ll do the fighting for you. It will be humans who sabotage the mines and rob the silver wagons. Humans who die. Not strix. And as long as you take care to cover your tracks, so that the Chelaxians do not suspect you had a hand in their misfortunes, the treaty will hold. You’ll have to be careful—very careful—but it may be a useful strategy for Windspire. And for Ciricskree. Even if they don’t accept humans as ‘true-people,’ they surely understand how to make use of an enemy’s enemies.”
Kirii blinked twice in rapid succession. “This is acceptable to you?”
“Whether it’s acceptable to the rebels in Pezzack is the real question. I believe it will be. They understand what such an inflow of silver to the imperial treasury means for them. They’ll want to stop it. They may even be willing to pay you for information, if you let the rebels believe it’s their own idea and that you are but a reluctant partner in their schemes.”
“How am I to make them believe this?”
“Let me do it,” Isiem said. “They’ll listen to a human more readily than a strix.”
Slowly Kirii nodded. After considerable practice, her gesture looked almost human. “And so Windspire will become not the first tribe to surrender, but the vanguard of the battle against the humans.”
“A secret vanguard, in a secret battle. And not against all humans. Only the servants of Imperial Cheliax. The others will be your allies—necessary allies, and ones that I hope you will find worthy of respect.”
“Perhaps,” the young rokoa said. “The chance will be theirs to earn it.”
Isiem inclined his head in acceptance. It was all he could ask of them. “Will that draw the itarii?”
“Some. The restless and the vengeful.” Kirii gazed into the distance, then ruffled her wings in approximation of a shrug. “Not a solid foundation for a tribe, but perhaps they can be made one. My mother could have forged them into strength.”
“You can do the same.” He smiled slightly. “You taught me to eat snakes.”
“Yes.” She made several quick, huffed exhalations, imitating a human laugh. “A good skill for us both. So: you go to Pezzack. Recruit some rebels. And then?”
“I can’t say,” Isiem told her honestly. All his life he had focused on escaping Nidal, and then on escaping Cheliax. He had never spent much time considering what he would do with his freedom once he had it. Now he faced that choice full on, and found it confounding.
What could he do? What should he do? His talents were narrowly focused, and they did not lend themselves easily to a peaceful life. Dealing with Pezzacki rebels, Isiem suspected, was a delay rather than an answer; he had known many rebels in Westcrown, and had never been tempted to join their cause.
In the absence of an answer, however, a delay would suffice. Pezzack suited his needs: its people were less likely to hand him back to the Umbral Court than other Chelaxians might be. And the Umbral Court knew, or would soon learn, that Isiem had defected. He had stayed in the background while the treaty was negotiated, but too many of the Chelaxians had seen him at Tokarai Springs. While none had seen him closely—except Velenne, whom he still trusted not to betray him—it would not be difficult to piece together that particular puzzle. Not many shadowcallers had vanished in Devil’s Perch.
Best, then, to move and hide again … even if he wasn’t quite sure what he would do afterward.
“I’ve never been to Pezzack,” he said at last. “I’ll know when I get there.”
“But you will go?” Kirii pressed.
Isiem looked at her. Already she seemed older, weighed down by the rokoa’s burden. It would get no lighter, he knew. Hard choices lay ahead, and harder ones would follow.
But if anyone could guide the strix through treachery and hardship to safety, it would be the woman who had taught him to eat snakes. No doubt the old rokoa had known that when she left the tribe in her daughter’s care. Clear-eyed, courageous, and willing to walk new ways, Kirii was the leader that Windspire needed now.
And however he could help her, he would.
“Yes,” Isiem said. “I’ll go.”