“ REYGAR! ”
Afranus jumped up and down on the back of the uks drawing his family’s wagon. He turned, still jumping on the animal’s broad back, and waved to Krushita, who was at the reins of her own wagon. “Didja seeit, Krush? It’s Reygar!”
His parents, Niede and Dor, waved him down with admonishing but indulgent gestures. The uks whose back he was standing on was the prima, and if he grew irritated, it would upset the entire team—and perhaps even other uks teams nearby.
Afranus stopped jumping and settled for waving his hands over his head instead, but on the bed of his wagon, his half dozen siblings danced and shouted as they matched his excitement. At least three of them had been born on the Red Trail during the eleven-year-long journey—four years more than the usual seven, due to the unprecedented challenges faced by the train—and to these three as well as their slightly older siblings, Reygar was akin to the mythic cities of the stone gods that the Vanjhani spoke of during the nightly campfire tales.
“DidjaseeitKrush?” Afranus repeated, running his words together as he always did when he was excited, which was more often than not.
“I seen it, Af,” Krushita replied, managing a grin which turned into an eye roll the minute Afranus turned his back to get another look at the barely visible dot on the horizon.
Aqreen gave her daughter a look.
“What?” Krushita said.
“Seen it?” her mother asked.
Krushita shrugged. “That’s how Afranus talks. You don’t correct him.”
“That’s because he’s not my kid. What is the point of all our lessons if you’re not going to speak grammatically?”
That earned Aqreen an eye roll. “I know the difference, Mother.” To prove her point, Krushita promptly recited “saw it” in Agrish, Vanjhani, Krushan, Aqronian, and then in High Ashcrit.
“Now you’re just showing off,” Aqreen said, secretly pleased. One of her constant worries—she seemed to have no shortage of them these days—was that her daughter lacked the proper formal education that she herself had enjoyed. She mourned the lack of the fine tutors she had had growing up in Aqron. Some of the circles had their own classes—Sixth Circle had a fairly decent one called Comparative Languages and Cultures of Our Arthaloka—but most were well below the level and standard that Krushita would have had easy access to as a princess of the White Kingdom. As it was, Aqreen was her primary tutor, and being a single mother and private tutor was not an easy task. It was so hard to draw a line between being too hard on her sole pupil and being a good mother.
The fact that Krushita was a brilliant pupil was no consolation: the child had had to see, experience, and survive things that most people might not in an entire lifetime. At least not in the peaceable White Kingdom of Aqreen’s youth, during the long and prosperous reign of King Aqron, one in a long line of familial rulers who had kept his realm free from the vicious territorialism, opportunistic wars, and feuds that ravaged their two nearest regalities, the numerous conflicted realms of the Red Desert to their west, and the fewer, but no less contentious grassland kingdoms to their north.
As it was, the seemingly endless eleven-year journey had taken its toll on both of them. The frequent attacks and constant stress of awaiting the next one had been hard enough, but the actual battles, skirmishes, and other acts of violence that Krushita had been exposed to in her most tender years were heartbreaking to a pacifist like Aqreen. Never would she have dreamed that she would have to bring up her daughter under such circumstances.
Krushita had grown up on the road, as it were. Even though only thirteen, she had come of age on the Red Trail. She had weathered all storms and survived. Thrived, even. But that was no cause for celebration. Even as her role as the resident protector and in-house wizard of the train—neither phrases Krushita’s words—had been accepted, then become cemented in the minds of all the travelers, so had her responsibility increased. It was one thing to raise a young girl on the Red Trail, surviving the usual hazards and deprivations of the Red Desert, but to expect her to watch over and protect thousands of lives that effectively depended on her for their very survival was a burden nobody should have to bear, let alone a thirteen-year-old girl.
And almost all the dangers that threatened us on this trip were her own father’s doing, Aqreen thought. Even a decade after she had left Jarsun’s house—really her ancestral home that he had usurped—she still felt the anger like a hot blade in her heart. Why won’t he leave us alone?
In a sense, Jarsun had done just that. It had been over a year since the last attack. After the worst of them all, the Battle Against the Deadwalkers, as it was now known in campfire tales, there had been only two sporadic attacks: by bandits and a band of eoch fanatics. Neither had required any supernatural agency to overcome: the Vanjhani alone were able to hold off the bandits, and the train’s fighters had dispatched the eochs with only minimal losses. Neither Aqreen nor Krushita was naive enough to think that Jarsun had given up his quest for vengeance—and the retrieval of his chief political asset, Krushita herself—but at least it had given them a season of respite.
Which was a mercy, because Krushita had been in no shape to do anything on the two most recent occasions.
After the Battle Against the Deadwalkers, Krushita had been ill for a very long time. Not in body and health, although her already thin frame had seemed skeletal to a concerned mother’s eyes, but in mind and spirit. Whatever she had done to save the train from the deadwalkers had taken a heavy toll on her inwardly. Even now, more than six years later, she had never really opened up about what had happened once she went through the portal. Aqreen had tried any number of ways, but finally she had given up, knowing the danger of pushing too hard. Krushita had inherited her mother’s obduracy, and when pressed too much too often, she dug in. To be fair, it was the only way one could survive out there.
But finally they were within sight of Reygar. And soon they would have a roof over their heads and a real bed to sleep in, not the hard bed of a wagon rolling and heaving constantly. And real food, she thought, without the damn incessant wind-driven sand that gets into everything.Yes, soon they would have something akin to permanence and could start building a new life for themselves.
“We’re not that close, you know,” Krushita said.
Aqreen looked at her daughter. Krushita’s pretty, heart-shaped face was still woefully thin, her cheekbones more prominent than her sunken eyes, and her heart went out to the child. She put her arm around her daughter, squeezing her gently. Krushita permitted it, but didn’t turn to her or bury her face in her mother’s side as she had once done instinctively. She was already at that age when a maternal hug was barely tolerable. Aqreen hoped she would outgrow that, but she worried that she might not.
“We’re within sight at least,” she said in response.
“Distances are deceptive in the desert,” Krushita said. “Reygar is built on a mountain that’s almost four thousand yards high. Its peak is visible from almost one hundred fifty miles away. And that’s if what we’re seeing is actually Reygar.”
Aqreen frowned at that. “What else would it be?”
“A mirage? Bulan says that the heat haze can mirror objects that are twice as far away.”
Aqreen thought about that. “So Reygar could actually be as much as three hundred miles away?”
Krushita nodded.
Aqreen smiled, brushing back a lock of hair that had fallen over Krushita’s brow. “When did you get so smart?”
“It’s nothing, Ma,” Krushita said, waving away Aqreen’s hand, which was now cradling her head.
“Not for Afranus,” Aqreen said, gesturing in the direction of their neighbor’s cart, where the boy in question was still jumping up and down in excitement with his siblings, some of whom were squealing.
That earned another eye roll. “Afranus is a kid,” she said matter-of-factly. “He thinks Reygar is a magical city, with the most wonderful things to see and do, and nothing bad ever happens there.”
There was a time you thought that too, Aqreen thought, feeling a pang of regret for the Krushita she had brought out of Aqron. That girl hadn’t shown herself for a long time, but Aqreen hoped she was still in there somewhere. “Well, do me a favor, my love. Don’t tell Afranus that he’s wrong. Or that what he’s seeing might not be Reygar. Look at him. He’s so happy now.”
She gestured around. “The whole train is happy, can’t you feel it? They’ve waited a very long time and traveled a long way to get here. Let them enjoy their relief at finally reaching their destination. Besides,” she added after a brief pause, “even three hundred miles is a whole lot closer than twenty thousand, don’t you think? Let Afranus have this moment.”
“Of course I won’t say anything,” Krushita said with a long-suffering air. “I know how to speak to children.”
Aqreen cocked an eyebrow at that. “You know, there’s some who might say you’re pretty much a child yourself.”
Krushita looked at her.
Aqreen was always surprised by her daughter’s clear-eyed look: it was the look of a much older, much more mature woman.
“Chronological age isn’t an accurate measure,” Krushita replied. “Look at the Vanjhani. Bulan is barely five hundred years old, but to us they don’t look that different from Agolon, who’s more than sixteen hundred. It’s how you’ve lived, and how much you’ve experienced, that matters, not just the number.”
Aqreen had no answer to that.
Sadly, almost tragically, her daughter was right.
Krushita was a young woman wise beyond her years.
And it’s all the fault of that vile Krushan.
Jarsun.
That evening by the campfire, Aqreen found her way to Bulan. The train master was sitting by themself for once, a rare occurrence in general but a common one when they were indulging in their favorite hobby.
Their only hobby, she thought as she approached. The Vanjhani was holding a block of wood in each pair of hands, turning it by minute degrees as they worked. They appeared to be whittling the wood with special knives meant for working sala wood. Sala was among the hardest woods, one of the heavier kinds of timber. It took a lot of strength to whittle it away in tiny chips and flakes as Bulan was doing right now. Too much strength for most mortals: most Aqronians, for instance, worked with the much softer soapwood or bulsewood.
They carved and whittled at astonishing speed, singing absently to themself all the while. Their voices were pitched low, in perfect harmony, but she could make out the tune as she came within a few yards. It was a very old tune, one even she recognized. Aqronians knew it as “The Ballad of the Lost Wanderer.” She stopped and listened. Even though she didn’t understand the Vanjhani lyrics, she knew the song well enough to feel the heart tug of its lament. It brought a lump to her throat and a dampness to her eyes.
Without pausing an instant in their whittling, Bulan said casually, “You mays be coming forward, missun. Never good idea standing for behind Vanjhani. Makes our skin creep, it is.”
She approached and bent low, kissing them on each of their four cheeks by way of greeting. “That was beautiful.”
One of their heads—the one she thought of as the masculine one because it had more facial hair than its companion—arched an eyebrow. “Aqronians is knowing old Vanjhani traveler’s song? How is such?”
She adjusted her garment and sat on one of the stumps nearby. “We have our own version. We call it ‘The Ballad of the Lost Wanderer.’ The melody is almost exactly the same, except we sing it in a higher pitch, and the chorus line goes . . . Laith harran akleef fown shaar instead.”
Now they paused in their whittling, both faces looking at her. “You singing? Why none singing at firetimes, lady? Youse having good fine voice.”
She smiled. “Thank you. I’m no singer. The only things I sang were lullabies to put my Krush to sleep, and those aren’t much in demand of late.”
They rested their elbows on their hairy thighs. “You are worried about Krush. Don’t be, lady. She will be fine.”
Aqreen laughed. “First of all, tell me how you do that? Switch to perfectly grammatical sentences at times but seem unable to fit grammar, gender, and idiom together correctly at other times. Or should I ask, why do you that?”
Bulan shrugged, setting the block of sala wood and the knives aside. They dusted the wood dust off themself and rubbed their palms together briskly over the fire. The flames sparked and glowed a little brighter, happy to be fed. The sweet fragrance of sala wood drifted to Aqreen, mingling with the usual odors of roast meat, uks, horses, shvan, and people of multiple races.
“You know what Vanjhani are called by some people, lady?”
“What else would they be called but Vanjhani?” she replied. “And don’t call me lady. I thought we were past that years ago. We’ve been through far too much together for formalities, don’t you think?”
Bulan smiled with both their faces, a friendly but sad smile. “Vanjhani do not call high people by their first name. It is most rude. I am not calling you queen, am I? Merely lady.”
At her startled reaction, they raised all four arms in a placating gesture. “You have no need to fear my telling anyone, my lady. Your secret is safe with us. Bulan knows what lies at stake for you and little Krush. It is only between you and us and the fire. Bulan is like this fire. Once we eat a secret, it is part of us forever.”
She had risen to her feet and remained standing, her heart racing. Her first instinct was to deny it hotly, to argue and stamp out angrily. But this was Bulan. What they said was true: Vanjhani were legendary secret keepers. Because of their long life spans, they were often relied on to settle old feuds, disputes, resolve debatable wills, or even settle arguments over some minor detail of an incident or event that had occurred decades or even centuries ago. Even her court used Vanjhani scribes because of their prodigious memories and ability to recall even the most insignificant-seeming minutiae of old pacts and deeds.
The train master lowered their four hands, gesturing for her to sit again.
Slowly, her heart still thudding in her chest, she forced herself to sit. Whatever Bulan knew, they knew already. Making a scene over it would only attract unwanted attention—and risk alienating the best friend she had gained on this otherwise accursed journey.
“How?” she asked.
Bulan picked up a water flagon and handed it to her. She took it gratefully and helped herself to a deep draw. Water was carefully rationed for obvious reasons, but they had hit a well only a few months ago, and the water in the flagon still tasted wonderfully fresh and sweet, compared to the years-old supply they had had to make do with for most of the journey.
She corked the flagon carefully and set it down, safely distant from the fire, then swiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve.
Bulan jerked one head back in the direction of her wagon. Krushita was visible to her, sitting with Afranus and his siblings and playing some kind of game of wits. Krushita could have easily won every single time if she wanted, but she was gracious enough to let Afranus win just often enough to make him believe he was getting better and would soon beat her.
“Krush,” Bulan said simply. They offered no further explanation.
Aqreen sighed and let her face drop into her palms. They still smelled of the wool she had been shearing from her uks team. Winter was coming soon, or so she assumed because all the uks in the train had begun growing thicker coats for the last few weeks. Winters in the Red Desert were much the same as other seasons, except that in winter it grew even colder by night, and it rained for a few minutes precisely at midday, every day. The first rain, when it came, would be a day of celebration for the train, as it was across the Red Desert.
Why had Krushita betrayed their secret?
She must not have considered it a betrayal. Bulan was as good as family now. Aqreen had seen the bond between them growing steadily over the years, particularly the last six years.
Since the Battle Against the Deadwalkers.
But she herself still wasn’t ready to trust anyone, no matter how trustworthy, so she had naturally assumed that Krushita wouldn’t do so either.
This was a reminder that, mother and daughter though they were, Krushita was her own person.
“She knew she could trust Bulan,” the Vanjhani said now, quietly. Nobody else was within hearing distance—the travelers respected the master’s privacy, especially during these precious post-campfire hours. Bulan spent every minute of every waking day seeing to their needs and their security; they deserved this little time to themself. Still, Aqreen couldn’t help glancing around. It was sheer instinct by now.
They tapped their heads. “She sees inside us. Inside everyone. She knows we can be trusted. She would like you to trust us too, but she knows you still have much fear in your heart. Perhaps too much to ever trust anyone again fully. This is a sad thing, but she understands this and accepts it. To protect you, she did not tell you. But she and I have talked of many things privately. As we said before, your secrets are safe inside us.”
Aqreen released a held breath. It blew away an errant spark drifting from the fire. The spark danced away upward like a firefly, then was lost in the night. There was no point critiquing Krushita’s decision: she knew what was at stake just as well as Aqreen did. All Aqreen could do was trust her judgment and accept that Bulan knew.
“You were saying,” she prompted, diverting them back to the earlier topic.
Bulan nodded one head. “I was saying people, some people, call Vanjhani two-faced.”
“I would never—” she began, but they raised a hand to forestall her explanation.
“Only some people,” they repeated. “And they are right. Vanjhani are two people in one body.” They indicated themself. “But of course, they mean something else entirely. In that, they are wrong. Even though Vanjhani have two heads and two faces, we are in perfect synchrony. There is a word for it in Vanjhani—”
“Avishki,” Aqreen said. “It means two heads, one mind. Or two hearts, one love. Depending on the context. It refers to the inherent biological synchronicity in the duality of Vanjhani physiology. It also has deeper spiritual implications, since avishki was a word first used to describe the seemingly contradictory singularity within the duality of the stone god twins.”
Both their faces raised a brow apiece. “Precisely. You are knowing Vanjhani, lady?”
“We always have—” She corrected her error. “We always had Vanjhani working with me in the royal palace. My head of palace security was Vanjhani, and I considered them my good friend.”
Bulan nodded both heads. “Yes, we have heard this of your family. You were not among those who discriminate against us.” They indicated the train. “Here in this train, there are many merchants who employ Vanjhani for security. But they would never think of permitting us to eat with them at their table or contemplate having any other relationship with our kind.”
“The world is full of bigots, but bigots are not the world.”
“Truly spoken. The House of Aqron has long been renowned as an enlightened, progressive one. We of the Vanjhani know full well how rare this is in our present time. Once, of course, Vanjhani were accepted in high society and treated as equals. But that was long ago, back in the time when we had a homeland, before the Krushan invaded and annexed our realm, then drove us out of our own homes.” They paused, gazing across the fire into the darkness of the desert night. “Those of us that survived the genocide.”
“I have read the histories,” Aqron said, sipping the drink Bulan had passed her. It was a mild mulled wine spiced with distinctive Vanjhani flavors. “It was in Ashalon’s time, Year 817 of Chakra 55.”
“The invasion, it was. But the genocide continued for much longer. Even to this day, Vanjhani are forbidden to enter Burnt Empire territory. It is reason why we fear stonefire even now.”
Aqreen sighed. “It senses when Vanjhani are near and tries to consume you if you come within range.”
“Us, and anyone else unfortunate enough to be between us and stonefire, or close enough to be harmed. Stonefire is not particular. It only seeks to feed.”
Aqreen shivered, despite the warmth of the fire and the wine. “It’s vile.”
“Vile is what a villain is, who commits crime for a purpose. Stonefire is pure evil. It destroys for love of destruction. Vanjhani believe that if stonefire were not controlled by the will of the emperor or empress, it would consume all living beings. As it once did in the Time of the Burning.”
At the end of the Age of Myth, said the histories, stonefire had arrived on Arthaloka from an unknown place of origin. Its first act was to wipe out all life on Arthaloka. That couldn’t literally be true, since most species had survived. But it was what the histories all claimed. They also claimed that stonefire had then spawned Kr’ush, and if they were to be believed, Kr’ush was nothing less than a god in mortal form. Some histories differed on this point, claiming that stonefire had wiped out even the stone gods, forcing most of their number to retreat to their celestial abodes, where they remained to this day. The few that remained, such as the Mother Goddess Jeel, hesitated to take mortal form again for fear of the dreaded living rock. But one stone god, the wily and avaricious Lankeshva, had made a bargain with stonefire. The alien substance had consumed his body and used the mortal form to create the being known as Kr’ush, the first Krushan. Kr’ush had then repopulated Arthaloka in his image. And thereafter, stonefire had been symbiotically linked to the Krushan, serving them as well as giving them powers and abilities. So long as a Krushan ruled on Arthaloka, stonefire would remain contained. But if the Krushan were ever to be wiped out, then stonefire would once again burn all living beings and end life on Arthaloka permanently. Or so the histories claimed.
“I’m aware of the myth,” Aqreen said, “But with the Burnt Empire dominant, there’s little danger of that happening.”
Bulan was silent for a spell. The train master seemed to be absorbed in their own thoughts, staring into the fire. The train quieted around them as travelers took to their beds and campfires dimmed. Shvan called out from far away, performing their nightly circuit of the camp. Somewhere, a baby cried briefly, then fell silent. The silence deepened. Aqreen felt the spiced wine pleasantly warming her blood and calming her nerves. It would not dispel the omnipresent sword of anxiety that hung over her, but it would help dull its edge.
“It has been long since the last assault,” Bulan said at last. “Krushita says it is because he has been busy battling the Burnt Empire.”
Aqreen stared at the head that had spoken. The other was looking over at the sentry patrolling the perimeter of the Perfect Circle. The sentry, an elderly but fit Aranyan, raised her spear in greeting to Bulan. The head nodded back, raising a hand.
“She knows this?” Aqreen said doubtfully. This was the first she had heard of Krushita being aware of Jarsun’s activities during the intervals between attacks.
“She watches him from a distance, through a secret window he does not know of,” Bulan said.
Aqreen frowned. “A secret window?”
“She says it is of the same kind that enabled him to bring the deadwalkers from the other world, or time, or wherever it is.” Bulan made a Vanjhani gesture that she recognized as one of surrender. “I do not wholly understand it, but I believe she may perhaps be speaking of what we Vanjhani know as a gufaondo, a tunnel between realms. Though Bulan has only heard it spoken of in campfire tales and old legends. No Vanjhani I know of has actually seen or been through such a one.”
That was close enough. “He calls it a portal. It is a tunnel of sorts between realms, or places, or times. It is real enough. I have traveled through portals on more than one occasion.”
Both heads looked at her as all four hands made a peculiar sign that she also recognized as the Vanjhani equivalent of the sign of the Staff in her culture. A religious warding sign, asking protection from the Savior—or, in the case of Vanjhani, their stone gods.
“Stone Father,” they both said. “You did not lose your souls?” They paused and considered briefly. “Soul.” They were referring, presumably, to the superstitious belief that anyone who dabbled with powerful magic sacrificed their soul.
She resisted the urge to laugh: Bulan looked too spooked and might feel offended. “As far as I know, my soul, and every other part of me, is still very much intact. It’s just a means of going from one place to another very quickly, almost instantly. For instance, when he took us from Aqron to Hastinaga for the Burning, nine years ago, we went through a portal. A journey that would have taken us at least a decade by land and would have involved many hazards. Instead, we arrived there only moments after we left Aqron. Of course, we exited the portal several miles outside the city, to avoid causing a panic, but that was only a few hours’ ride.”
Bulan made the sign again and shook both their heads. “It sounds like another of stonefire’s evil workings. Bulan would rather die fighting than go through one.”
She nodded. “I felt much the same. Such power is dangerous, even if used for seemingly good purpose. But to be honest, after the first several months on the Red Trail, I found myself secretly wishing I could have spirited Krush out through one. It would have gotten us to Reygar within days, instead of years. And after these past eleven years . . .” She shook her head, feeling her eyes prickle. “I never thought I would raise my daughter in this manner.”
She felt one of Bulan’s hands patting her shoulder gently. Like all Vanjhani she had known, they could be surprisingly gentle, despite their enormous size and strength—or perhaps because of it. “Is not your doing. ’tis his. Had he been a good father and husband, you would not have been forced to such actions.”
“Yes, but sometimes I think about what could have been . . . had I stayed, and I wonder if I made the right decision.”
They looked at her steadily until she felt their gaze and looked up.
“You did,” they said without an iota of doubt. “You did the only thing possible. And you saved her life and her soul.”
“You really think so?”
“I know so. Krush is wonderful girl, a beautiful person. You are the reason. You are great mother. Someday, your name will be written in tales of legends.”
She laughed at that unexpected compliment. “I hardly think so! But it’s kind of you to say it. Thank you, Bulan. For everything you’ve done for us. And most of all, for being you.”
She looked from one pair of eyes to the other, and both smiled back with warmth and respect.
“Now,” she said, getting up from the stump reluctantly, “I shall take myself to bed before I lapse into maudlin sentimentality.”
One of Bulan’s faces made a curious expression. “Vanjhani love sentimentality. Our drinking songs are all suchlike. I would be happy to wallow with you sometime. But perhaps not tonight. We are close to our destination and must be on the trail again early tomorrow. Be of good heart and mind tonight, my lady, and Bulan will see you on the morrow.”
She paused to kiss the master on each of their foreheads, then made her way back to her wagon. Krushita lay in her bed already, the covers half thrown off as usual. Aqreen pulled them over her daughter’s slight frame, bending to kiss Krushita on her head very gently to avoid waking her.
“Sleep well, my love,” she whispered.
Then she fell into her own pallet and descended into the first deep, dreamless sleep she had had in years.