The Legend of Broken

  “You have never in your life shown true respect for the tenets of the Moon, Veloc,” Keera snaps at her brother, her voice having grown hoarse. “Why, then, do you now show such sudden deference?”

  “I’ve told you twenty times, sister!” Veloc protests.

  “… closer to fifty …,” Heldo-Bah murmurs, quietly and uselessly, as his head slams into the trunk of the ash again.

  “It is one thing to question our faith among men and women,” Veloc declares, paying Heldo-Bah no mind. “I will grant you that I have sometimes done so, often for the pure and idiotic amusement of it. But by Kafra’s rotting bunghole, Keera, when you introduce the white panther herself into this discussion—”

  “Fool—you make my argument for me!” Keera shouts, her round face now blazing red. “If, in fact, we are contending with the animal who possesses the noblest and most powerful spirit in all the Wood, then she will not be fooled by your momentary airs of devotion and solemnity—indeed, she will only kill us all the more quickly, when you assume them! You may lie as you wish to the women in the towns and villages you visit, Veloc; you may even, on occasion, persuade the Groba to believe your tales; but if you think for an instant that this panther will not sense your untrue voice and words—I tell you, you must not even attempt it!”

  “What, then?” Veloc demands, his own voice exhausted.

  “… suicide…,” Heldo-Bah mutters, after which comes the dull thud of his head striking the tree once more.

  “But do you seriously propose that we allow you to go into that place alone, Keera?” Veloc presses once more. “It’s madness! We are faced with the greatest sorcerer ever known to the Tall—so great that he has created, in the worst part of this Wood, a garden that Heldo-Bah says has grown to rival, in beauty as well as bounty, any in the glades about Okot, or even in the Meloderna valley—”

  “… far superior, in fact …,” Heldo-Bah agrees, now clinging to consciousness, as well as to the ash trunk, by the barest of threads, yet unconcerned with his condition.

  “—and in this miraculous place,” continues Veloc, “this place that is plainly governed by sorcerous arts of a kind at which we cannot even guess, this master of black arts lives with this—this wild creature! All this, I might add, only after he survived the Halap-stahla—which neither man nor demon has ever done! How will you stand up to such a being, I should like to know?”

  “I will not, you idiot.” Keera bitterly pushes her face close to her brother’s. “I will have no need to. Both panther and sorcerer will sense my sincerity, and deal with me fairly: such great spirits do not demean themselves with the sort of petty viciousness you describe, Veloc. And later, after I have explained to them the—the peculiarities exhibited by you and our touched friend, over there, who—” Glancing at the last member of their party, Keera stops shouting for a moment. “Heldo-Bah—what in the Moon’s name are you doing to yourself?”

  “If death will free me from this squabble …,” Heldo-Bah says, through lips that are crushed into deep grooves of the ash tree’s bark, “Then I swear to you, I almost welcome it … Blood of the Moon, Veloc! When, tell me, please, when have you ever judged a predicament more wisely than Keera?” Seeing that Veloc has no answer, Heldo-Bah moves away from the tree at last and bellows, “And so why, in the name of all that is unholy, are we still talking about this?”

  “Quiet, fool!” Veloc whispers. “They may hear you—if they really are but two rises away, the sound will certainly—”

  “They will hear me, cuckolder?” Heldo-Bah interrupts. “Oh, that is a new depth of dishonesty and dim-wittedness, even for you—the pair of you have been shouting at each other throughout the night. There’s nary a creature in Davon Wood that hasn’t heard you! Hear me … I hope the sorcerer hears me, that he may come and put an end to all this idiocy—that is, if he’s not somewhere around us right now! In fact, he likely is—indeed, he’s probably been here the entire time—” Without turning, Heldo-Bah points accusingly at the tree beneath which the three made their camp the night before: a broad, sheltering oak that stands nearby, protected by the coming together of two relatively small but sharp ridges in the slope of the mountain. “Yes—probably right in that damned tree, having himself a fine old laugh at how petty and imbecilic the Bane can be—”

  Heldo-Bah stops suddenly, his arm still in the air. “Ahhh,” he noises, just as a man might release his final breath. “Your cursèd, endless talk, Veloc … Ficksel…” The word is less a curse, on this occasion, than a statement of submission, even a kind of obscene prayer; and, blood-speckled as the upper part of his face may be, it quickly loses all inner color, while his lower jaw falls open ever wider.

  “Heldo-Bah,” Keera says. “What is it—have you done yourself actual harm, you foolish—” She moves toward him, producing a small, clean kerchief, ready to mop the blood from his forehead and face. “You look as though you’ve seen a demon of some kind, come to kill us all—”

  “And I may well have,” Heldo-Bah says. “But—I was wrong concerning one detail. They are not in the oak.” Keeping his arm high, he points all the more urgently, now, just to the left of the oak, where, another ten feet along, stands a beautiful elm. Its delicately laced branches, like those of the oak, are markedly undamaged, for its being so high on the windswept mountain. “Death and his handmaiden—or is it the other way round? No matter, for there they are—in that elm …”

  Keera and Veloc turn to follow their friend’s indication, and when they catch sight of the cause of his gaping shock, their faces and jaws, too, droop open.

  Along the crotch of two long, low limbs of the elm lies a pale, glowing form, draped as one might a luxuriant white cloth upon a table, if one were expecting honored guests, or perhaps as one would bedeck an altar. But the folds of this drape are undulating: because, apparently, whatever is beneath it breathes, and the many lines of its surface are not, in fact, ripples of fabric, but the folds of powerful muscles. Toward the left extreme, two brilliant green orbs shine out, lit as if by the sun—despite the fact that the sun is momentarily obscured by a cloud. Finally, at each end, two long, lazy legs stretch and steady the apparition, while toward its rear, a tail flicks gently, very gently, its languorous movements speaking not of carelessness but of the near-effortless speed with which the creature itself could deliver death, if such a fancy should strike her.

  Above this sight, the three foragers can just make out another form; and, once the cloud that has been briefly blocking the sun passes, this figure is clarified. Two human arms rest casually on elm branches as if they were arms of a chair, while the half-legs lie atop the haunches of the lounging creature below. Greyed hair streaked by patches of snowy white is scarcely contained by a faded black skullcap, while the long, hanging beard would seem to have been washed and combed, recently—or perhaps, given its rich fullness, even groomed with a boar-bristle brush. But the eyes, like those of the beast, catch the light of the day in such a way that they seem not to do so at all, but rather to radiate their own inner fire: an effect that is increased by the seeming smiles that fill the features of both forms, in the rather disconcerting manner of hungry hunters toying with their next meal.

  “Let your arm drop, Bane,” the man says quietly, indicating Heldo-Bah with a nod of his chin. Then he pauses thoughtfully, contemplating his own words. “Well—that is odd. The first words I have spoken to another human in …” He quickly sharpens his wits and fastens his attention on the foragers once more. “Allow the wise young female among you to see to your head. You may indeed have done yourself some small injury, although I blame you not for it. It really was a most inscrutable conversation. Amusing, however …”

  Keera is the first to recover herself: she thrusts the kerchief into Veloc’s hands, and says, “Get him cleaned up.” She then begins to walk, slowly and deliberately, toward the elm tree, wanting to examine the visitors but forcing herself to turn her gaze respectfully toward the ground.

  “Health and long l
ife to you,” she murmurs quietly, angry that she cannot keep her voice from trembling. “Lord Caliphestros …”

  “I thank you, young Keera,” Caliphestros answers, in all sincerity and with a nod of appreciation. “Though the first of your wishes, regrettably, is no longer possible, while the second holds only limited interest for me. But why do you avert your eyes?”

  “Is it not done?” Keera asks with some concern. “Upon encountering such superior creatures as yourselves?”

  “Tetch,” noises Caliphestros. “I am no such thing. Although I cannot offer any similar assurance, so far as my companion is concerned. She cares precious little for humans, I know that much—but as for her being entirely of this world, well … Though a man of science, I have often had my doubts. But why do you all exhibit such surprise? Certainly, it was you yourselves who, some years ago, came upon our home, after you had received the packet of documents from my friend here.”

  Her body quivering with sudden realization, Keera turns to Veloc and Heldo-Bah quickly. “The letters …”

  “So it was him,” Veloc answers quietly. “Just as you suspected, Keera.”

  Heldo-Bah closes his eyes. “Thank Kafra’s golden stones and the Moon itself that we bothered to deliver the damned things …”

  “I don’t understand,” Caliphestros says. “Surely, when you saw who my messenger was, and then followed her to our dwelling—”

  “But we never did see her, my lord,” Keera replies. “We found the leather pouch in the center of our camp, when we awoke one morning. And, while it is true that we followed the tracks of a panther that we thought might be the white legend to what we supposed to be your camp, we never saw either of you. Indeed, Heldo-Bah, there—”

  Heldo-Bah looks at Keera as if identifying him with her mere finger has been little short of signing his death warrant; but he feebly raises a hand and bows his head. “My lord,” he mumbles, not knowing what else to say.

  “—he thought that the panther we tracked had likely killed and consumed you, and that such explained why, although your camp seemed perfectly tended, we did not see any signs of life.”

  Caliphestros laughs, plainly pleased by every aspect of this story. He looks down at the panther, who turns her head up to him and slowly closes and opens her eyes several times in deep affection, seemingly knowing that she is at least one of the causes of her companion’s merriment. The old man reaches down to scratch the top of the head that rises, atop the animal’s powerful neck, to meet his fingers. “There truly is no end to this one’s cleverness …”

  Bringing his hand back up, Caliphestros indicates the foragers once more. “When she returned so soon, I knew that you, or other Bane as capable as yourselves, were about, and that, being members of a curious and intrepid race, you would not be able to resist at least an attempt to find the lair of what you might well think to be the fabled white panther of Davon Wood, whose tracks would have been near the pouch when you discovered it. And so, we withdrew into our cave, and left you to wonder at all the mysterious circumstances you had encountered. And, let me only say that I owe you great gratitude, for had you not so decently taken the pouch to my acolytes, I could not have survived these many years.”

  Heldo-Bah thrusts an elbow into Veloc’s side. “There, you see? I told you, did I not, that delivering those things without informing the Groba would be both profitable and decent, just as he says?”

  Returning his friend’s sharp blow in kind, Veloc whispers, “Save that the word ‘decent’ never crossed your lying lips!”

  Caliphestros sees Keera lift her head for but an instant to steal a peek at the panther, then lower her eyes again in deference; and the old man nods in true appreciation, which is augmented when he hears that Stasi has begun to purr. “It would seem that my companion also recognizes her debt to you: she has remembered your scent, and particularly wishes you to feel at your ease, Keera. You should feel honored, for she not only does not trust humans, as a rule, but nearly always sets out to kill any with whom she crosses paths.”

  “Indeed I do feel honored, lord,” Keera says, still with great humility. “For she is famed among all our tribe as the most righteous and powerful of woodland spirits—a noble soul with a mighty heart. One of our fellow foragers claims to this day to have seen her kill nearly every member of a Broken hunting party, long ago.”

  Caliphestros studies the young Bane woman further. “Your homage is well stated, young lady. I have long known of the deference your people show the great cats of the Wood: but in you there is something else—something more than mere fear or deference.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Keera answers with a quick nod. “If my agreement is not unacceptably vain.”

  “It is not. You are a woman who exhibits graceful strength, integrity, deep knowledge, and compassion. Do not ever apologize for such qualities, Keera, for in the vicious, mendacious world of men, they are the finest and most powerful gifts that anyone can hope to possess.” Caliphestros leans forward, stroking his grey beard and suddenly realizing just how long the thing has become, and how much of that length is no longer grey, but white. “And so, please, bring your eyes up, if you can bear the sight of the deteriorating, mutilated man before you, that we may converse the easier. As for Stasi—if your friends do not hold her gaze for too long, until she has grown as tolerant of their scents as she is pleased by yours, she shall not strike at them. Not so long as you are present, at any rate.”

  Keera, eagerly but nonetheless slowly, turns upward, letting her eyes run the length of the panther and then settle on the green jewels that are set into her proud face; and for an instant, she feels a deep chill of mournful recognition. “I—it is said, in our village, that she is so fearsome because she sprang from the loins of the Moon itself, which gave her such color, brilliance, and almighty power …”

  “I have heard this tale.” Caliphestros lifts his head, ever more intrigued by this small woman of great wisdom. “But you think otherwise …”

  “I—with all respect, my lord, I believe I know otherwise.”

  “Indeed? And you may simply call me Caliphestros, Keera. It was my name, when there were other humans to use it, and so I suppose it must become such again.” A thought occurs to him. “Do you know the meaning of your own name, by any chance?”

  Keera quickly shakes her head. “No. Caliphestros.”

  Watching this extraordinary scene, Heldo-Bah begins to moan, his upper body rocking back and forth. “She has actually called him by his name alone—without his title. We are dead men, dead, dead, dead …”

  “Stop it,” Veloc hisses, cuffing his friend a quick blow to the head.

  “You two will be silent,” Caliphestros says, more forcefully than angrily—but his tone is nonetheless stern enough that the panther punctuates his remark by eyeing the two small men and letting out the short, low growl that such creatures employ as a warning call to those immediately about them. The old man reaches down to stroke her haunch as his gaze returns to Heldo-Bah and Veloc. “Do not suppose that my gratitude is infinite,” he says, “for I know that foraging, while vital to your people’s survival, is also employed as punishment, on occasion. And at first blush, the pair of you have the sort of habitually contrite expressions that would mark Bane who have undertaken their foraging under precisely such disgraced circumstances.” Caliphestros deliberately softens his aspect and voice, once more, as he looks again to Keera. “Yours is a name from far to the south,” he continues. “From the Sassanid Empire, which some call Persia. Do you know of it?”

  Keera shakes her head modestly. “No, Cali—” Her voice falters. “I beg your pardon, but may I not call you ‘my lord,’ for now? I find that I feel impertinent, doing otherwise. Perhaps, with time, this will change …”

  “Wiser and wiser,” replies Caliphestros, as he slowly nods once or twice. “Very well, Keera. It is a beautiful, indeed a fine name, intended for those who are gifted with sight: to see far and truly—in all ways. Which, I suspect, you
do.”

  “She does that, my lord,” Veloc says, putting one hand to his chest and holding the other arm out before him, assuming his best historian’s pose. He then declaims further, and just as clownishly: “There is no greater tracker in our tribe, nor a wiser head—”

  “If you wish to keep your head, boy,” Caliphestros interrupts, “and the throat beneath it, then mind your tongue until your opinion is requested.” He gives Keera a rather conspiratorial glance. “Your brother, eh? I heard you mention as much, during your argument—and it would more readily explain why one of your character keeps such questionable company as his.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Keera replies. “But he is not as great a fool as he sometimes sounds. A good man, in fact, but he has long had the ambition to be the historian of our tribe, which ofttimes causes him to take on airs.”

  “Historian, eh?” Caliphestros echoes. “Indeed? And to what school of history do you belong, Veloc?”