Then as he drew a breath, he inhaled a certain unforgettable smell. Just as, in the future, the scent of ginger would recall memories of this one horrible day, so this smell—one he had not encountered for the last eight years—swept over his brain like a deadly wave, destroying all in its path. It was a musty, dung-laden smell layered with a scent of broad spaces, keen winds, wildflowers, and blood. The heavy odor permeated every layer of clothing, every pore of the skin, and congealed there in an infesting funk that only years of washing in aromatic soaps might someday erase.
Only one creature in the world could produce such a stench: a Chhayan buffalo.
Sunan’s head shot up, and he stared out into the crowded street. Once more he heard the deep-bellied low, and this time he spotted the beast, nearly swallowed in the crowds of Suthinnakor. But nothing, nothing in all the known world, could swallow that smell.
Suddenly Sunan no longer stood half-frozen in the streets of a Pen-Chan city. He was on the wide plains of the Noorhitam hinterlands, his body dripping with sweat, his shirt open from throat to navel, a cloth tied about his forehead to keep more sweat from dripping into his eyes. And he rode astride a Chhayan buffalo, swatting it with a thorny stick every few paces to keep it moving, his body aching with every lurch of the great beast’s spine. Five more buffalo were yoked around him, pulling a great covered gurta, a moveable dwelling upon wheels, its walls made of buffalo hides that stank nearly as bad as the living beasts.
For that moment he was back in the life he had labored so hard these eight years to leave behind. That life which even now reached out from the past and marred him, as though he still reeked of buffalo.
The moment passed. He returned to the cold city. The beast moved on its way, leaving its smell in its wake, its protesting bellows echoing. Chhayan buffalo never approved of cramped cities, used as they were to the open hinterlands.
Sunan stood, one foot still clutched in his hands, scarcely daring to breathe. Then he cursed, “Anwar’s elbow!” and started running.
Chhayans rarely if ever came this far north. They were far too busy wreaking havoc upon their conquerors down south. Not since Sunan’s father led a raid into Nua-Pratut and stole Sunan’s mother away as a victory bride some twenty-five years ago had Chhayans bothered with any of the small northern kingdoms.
So Sunan knew, even before he turned at last up the incline leading to his uncle’s city home, what he would find when he reached it. He knew, even before he entered the heavy wooden gates, what he would see in the courtyard of his uncle’s house, standing there in all the audacity of its existence, stinking up this fine site as though it hadn’t a care in the world.
Sure enough, there stood the same Chhayan buffalo harnessed to a miniature of the very gurta in which Sunan had spent his boyhood years. Its side was even emblazoned with the same brilliant tiger in orange and black pigments.
“No,” Sunan whispered. “No, no, no. Not today. Not now.”
But the flap on the back of the gurta flew open, and a face, familiar even though it had aged from boyhood to manhood, gazed out at Sunan and burst into a wide grin.
“Sunan! I’ve come at last!”
And, just as Sunan knew must happen, out leaped his half-brother. Eight years ago, Jovann had been a scrawny lad, all bone and sinew and that same enormous grin. Now a young man grown, he was still little more than bone, sinew, and grin, but enlarged and toughened by years on the wild hinterlands.
Sunan, numb and frozen, found himself caught in a long-limbed embrace, and his nose was assaulted almost past bearing by the stink of buffalo. He tried to speak, to make some protest, but the smell seemed to have tangled up his vocal cords. He could only grunt as Jovann pounded his back with both hands then clutched him by the shoulders and stepped back to grin at him from arm’s length.
“You look a fright!” Jovann said. “Not what I expected of my wealthy, learned, Pen-Chan brother. Hulan’s heel, you haven’t even got a pair of shoes! What are you, Sunan, a slave?”
The one thing in all the worlds that could overwhelm the overwhelming stench of buffalo took hold of Sunan with a grip he had nearly forgotten to be possible. He shouldn’t have forgotten; after all, this had been as much a part of his life as his own beating heart since that day, all those years ago, when his mother had held him close in the darkness of their own small gurta and whispered: “You have a brother now, Sunan. Your father’s new bride gave birth this morning, and you have a brother. Try not to hate him. Though he takes everything from you, try not to hate him.”
But of course Sunan hated him. For his mother’s sake. For his own.
The flame of renewed hatred loosened his tongue, and he found himself suddenly both very warm and very controlled. He spoke in a measured voice and even forced a smile onto his lips.
“Jovann. You surprise me with this unexpected honor. What brings you to the house of my uncle this spring?”
Jovann blinked, perhaps taken aback at his brother’s formal tone. He released Sunan’s shoulders and stepped back, still grinning, but also bowing respectfully as a younger brother should to his elder. “I’ve come to see you, of course,” he said. “Father sent me at my request. It’s netherworld-cold out here, Sunan! Would your uncle let your poor relative inside, do you think?”
“Uncle Kasemsan is not home at present,” Sunan said, the overseer’s dark words flashing once more through his mind. He stifled these quickly, unable to face them just now. “And my aunt and cousins are at their winter house on the coast. You find me alone here in Suthinnakor.”
“All the better!” Jovann replied. “I didn’t relish the notion of bowing and scraping to a houseful of Pen-Chans, my Chhayan manners offending at every turn. This is much more to my liking. Will you have me inside?” This last was spoken with a slight hesitancy. Jovann was a dense one, Sunan always thought, but even he was not entirely unaware of his half-brother’s feelings toward him, no matter how he pretended otherwise.
Sunan inclined his head and swept an arm with great dignity, as though he were clothed in his regular robes and not the dreadful woolen garment of the Gruung. He led his brother to the front door. Other men climbed out of the gurta and swarmed around the buffalo’s head. Jovann called to them cheerfully, bidding them find shelter for the beast then join him inside. A whole host of stinky Chhayans ensconced in his uncle’s house. Thank Anwar the family was not in residence!
Jovann at least had the awareness to remove his boots at the threshold before stepping through. Old Kiut, Uncle Kasemsan’s servant, came rushing to the door, his mouth open to make loud protests. But one glimpse of Sunan—Sunan, who should not be there but should instead be in the Middle Court of the Center of Learning—and he shut his mouth. He bowed, saying nothing of either the Gruung or Sunan’s strange guest but instead merely asking, “Shall I have food laid out in the lower room, master?”
Sunan nodded. “And bring hot drinks,” he said. Nothing more. They would not speak of his failure. To speak of it would do it too much honor.
He shuddered inside but fixed his attention on his brother, thankful in that moment for a distraction, however hateful.
Jovann was grinning again. “He calls you ‘master,’ but you’re the barefoot one! Really, Sunan, what is this rig of yours? I expected to meet you in silks and satins, but you’re dressed worse than any Chhayan dog-boy I ever saw. Is this some part of your great studies of which I’ve heard rumor? Some practice of self-discipline necessary to sharpen the mind?”
Sunan refused to grace this with an answer. He nodded coldly and indicated for Jovann to follow him down the passage. As he led the way, he could almost feel Jovann’s eyes bugging as he took in the wealth and elegance of Lord Dok-Kasemsan’s dwelling, which far outmatched anything to be found among the nomadic Chhayan warlords. Nua-Pratut, though a small kingdom, led the world in arts, music, and refinements. Masterpieces of paint or silk adorned the walls, and stunning works of pottery—shaped, glazed, and fired in extraordinary designs—stood
upon carved pedestals in various corners and under windows. Jovann would only ever have seen their like amid the loot his father had stolen from Nua-Pratut more than twenty years ago, and all of that was long since damaged beyond any real value.
Sunan escorted his half-brother to the lower chamber where Old Kiut would soon lay out a meal. There Sunan excused himself and hurried to his own chambers to change out of the Gruung robe. Strange . . . he had somehow grown accustomed to its wretched itch in the last few hours, and it was with a sense of loss, not relief, that he removed it. Perhaps he had come to believe he and the robe deserved each other. Perhaps he merely hated to part with that last link to what he had believed his future would be.
Either way, he flung it aside and carefully washed and scented himself, knowing it would be many months before he would rid his body of the buffalo stink. But spicy perfumes helped, and his body shivered with chilled delight as he slid into a silk robe and secured it at his waist. He added a fur cloak and thick slippers, and slicked his hair into a tight braid down his back.
There was nothing for it then. He must return to his brother and find out what evil inspiration had led their father to send Jovann across many miles and mountains to plague Sunan just now, at his lowest ebb.
Sunan met Old Kiut on his way and ordered him to see to it that the other Chhayans in Jovann’s company were housed, fed, and not permitted to disturb him and his brother. Old Kiut nodded and bowed himself away, and Sunan continued to the lower chamber alone. He found Jovann reclining at the table, one elbow propped upon a cushion, the other hand scooping up herbed rice with a fold of flat bread. Jovann sat upright when Sunan entered.
“No, don’t stand,” Sunan said, taking a seat opposite his brother. He could not find the stomach for food, but he took up a steaming mug of honey-tea and held it, grateful for the warmth in his hands and the steam in his nostrils.
“It’s fine fare,” Jovann said between mouthfuls. “Better than what I’ve been eating these last five months! There’s little good hunting over the mountains, and I do get sick of dried buffalo jerk and withered dates.”
Sunan’s stomach churned again. He could still taste the dung-tang of buffalo jerk on his tongue. He took a gulp of the honey-tea, glad when it scalded his mouth. Maybe it would scald away the memory.
He set down his mug then and said, “Why are you here, Jovann?”
“To see you,” Jovann replied.
“Yes. But why? Father wouldn’t send his heir over treacherous mountain passes in the middle of winter without some cause.”
“Can’t a man be allowed to visit his brother, especially after eight years of separation?” Jovann asked, grinning again. Then his grin faded and his young face, reddened and toughened by sun and wind, became serious. “In truth, I wanted to come; and when Father first said he was going to send someone to you, I begged him for days to let it be me. I don’t think I would have persuaded him, but Mother took my side, and your mother too. He said he couldn’t fight the three of us and relented at last.”
Sunan’s cheek twitched at the mention of his mother. His mother who should be here in Suthinnakor with him but whom his father would not set free. He took another sip of tea and allowed it to burn away the sharp words he initially wished to speak. Instead he said, “Tell me first why Father wished to send someone at all. Then, if you must, tell me why it had to be you.”
Jovann looked embarrassed and dug around in his bowl of rice, stirring the vegetables and spices with his finger. Realizing what he was doing, he dipped his finger in a nearby cleanser bowl and wiped it on a soft towel. “Father is . . . He is himself, as you know he must be.”
“By that you mean he is still obsessed with driving the Kitar people from Noorhitam?” Sunan supplied.
Jovann nodded. “He carries the grudge of two hundred years heavily in his heart. And he still believes it possible for the Chhayans to reclaim their land. To reclaim the city of Lunthea Maly from the usurpers.”
Sunan smiled grimly and said in a voice laced with venom, “May Hulan shine upon his endeavors.”
“I don’t think Father looks to Hulan for aid anymore.” Jovann leaned across the table, his eyes suddenly alight and eager. “He says Hulan forsook us in favor of the Kitar. He speaks instead of new allegiances, powerful allies such as we Chhayans have never before known.”
“We Chhayans?”
“Oh come, Sunan. Don’t pretend your blood doesn’t flow with as much Chhayan pride as ever it did. I know they’ve dressed you up and filled your head with all sorts of northern notions, poetry and the like. But you didn’t grow up on the plains only to forget the world of sky and earth and long horizons!”
That was the strange thing about Jovann, Sunan remembered now with a sudden lurch. Illiterate little scrap of Chhayan dog-boy that he was, Jovann was full of passion, full of spirit! With a few words he could inspire a snake to give up its poison in favor of pious living. With a few more, he could almost make Sunan forget his Pen-Chan heritage and all the culture and learning and history, all the merit and prestige with which it shielded him, in favor of the wildness of the Chhayans. The Chhayans who claimed half his very soul, half his spirit.
For a moment the stench of buffalo gave way before the gusts of a rushing plains wind carrying rain and storm and violence on its shoulders. And Sunan’s ears rang with the throaty battle cries of his father’s warriors, the Tiger Men of Juong-Khla; men who had never heard of the arithmetic, music, rituals, ceremonies, and poetry of Nua-Pratut. And the wish of his childhood—of earning the impossible, the favor of his mighty father—struck him full in the heart.
Hated desire. He despised himself for ever cherishing it, and despised Jovann still more for recalling the wish to his mind.
“Who are these new allies?” Sunan asked, sipping again at his tea, which had cooled considerably and was now drinkable.
Jovann shrugged. “I’ve not met them myself. Father says I’m not yet ready. But I’ve seen the light of hope ignite once more in the eyes of our people. They know. They know the time is near. And you can help us, Sunan.”
“I? How can I help in this fool enterprise of our father? Does he seek a clan poet, or does he somehow believe Pen-Chan rituals will bring him that extra level of polished cunning he lacks?”
“I know your studies have not been confined to poetry,” Jovann persisted. “We hear rumors and tales, even out in the wilds. And remember, it’s not so long since our father made war on Nua-Pratut.”
Sunan smiled a grim smile that made Jovann blush, realizing his error. The lad bowed his head, saying nothing, his silence offering a swift apology. After all, even he had seen the tears of his father’s first wife, which she silently wept on a certain day every summer, though she never spoke of her sorrow.
But Jovann had traveled too far to forsake his purpose now. He sat back from the table, allowing his face to be hidden from the lantern light. But his eyes still shone with the passion of his words.
“Father needs the secret of the Long Fire,” he said.
Sunan did not speak for some time. He sipped his tea and regarded his brother and allowed the words to ring in their ears.
Jovann could not long bear it. “He needs it, Sunan,” he urged. “He needs it for this final great push. His allies have promised him victory, but to have this victory, he must fight with fire. With the Long Fire such as he witnessed all those years ago. Surely you have learned the secret of it by now?”
“Black powder,” Sunan whispered.
“If you know it, you must give it to us!” Jovann urged. “And if you don’t, you must find it. And you will write it out, and I will carry it back.”
“Write it out?” Sunan scoffed. “And what good would that do you? Neither you, nor my father, nor any man in the Khla tribe could read it. Or,” he added bitterly, “do you depend on the talents of my disfavored mother to fulfill your dreams?”
“Our new allies can interpret any writing. And they will teach us to control the Long Fi
re. Lunthea Maly does not hold the secret, and they will not be able to defend themselves against us.”
“And so you, a rabble of Chhayan nomads, will run the Emperor of Noorhitam from his own city. You will drive your conquerors out of the land, using . . .” Sunan shook his head, ready to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “Using explosions.”
Jovann studied him across the table. So intense. So confident. So assured of his place in the world. His father’s heir, his father’s favorite, the bright son of the Khla tribe. Even now Sunan could see the gleam of desired mastery in his eyes. The young man thought it possible, in his youthful madness, that he might someday rule his people from the Emperor of Noorhitam’s own throne.
“It is within our grasp,” Jovann insisted.
“And why do you say this, brother?” Sunan said, snarling through his smile. “Did you see it in one of your dreams?”
Jovann visibly paled, his reddened skin turning white under the lantern’s glow. But his eyes remained fervent, and his face took on the hard lines of his father’s. A warrior’s face, a master’s. His voice was deep when he spoke:
“I saw it all. I entered the Wood even as I have done before, and I received the vision. I saw myself standing before the Emperor of Noorhitam, and I knew it was he, though I have never seen his face. He sat weak before me, pleading. Begging me for something I could not hear. But I was strong, and I stood before him, ragged Chhayan that I am. I saw it, Sunan, as clearly as I see you now. More clearly even! And I know it will come to pass.”
“Have you told our father of this?” Sunan asked wryly, for he knew how their father felt about Jovann’s dreams. The weak wanderings of the mind were not fitting for a warlord’s son and heir. Juong-Khla had long ago forbidden Jovann from speaking of such things.
Jovann shook his head, frustrated but earnest. “You know I haven’t. But it doesn’t matter. It will be true even so.”