CHAPTER 35
Phedam had shifted slightly, but his face and limbs were still swollen, bloody, and dripping venom. Butu sat in the sand near him and took a swollen, sweat-slick hand in his own. Amber knelt nearby.
Either he lives or he dies. There’s nothing I can do, he thought. The knowledge did not comfort him.
He’s like my parents, that way.
The idea came unbidden and unwelcome. First- and second-cyclers could survive the sandstorm that leveled a town and killed everyone else — toddling across a desert of tears and hunger until they reached a clan that would adopt them. With their magic, which couldn’t save anyone but themselves, no snake’s bite would poison them. The sun’s powerful heat would not parch them. The angry, windswept sands could not strip their skin from their bones.
Yet, if the legend of Urgaruna held any truth, children could die by the sword — even if it took a hundred mortal wounds to do it. And if they could die by the sword, why not by accident or exposure? The shanjin was full of things that could kill an adult, with not a town for several days of forced march. Who could doubt the shanjin could deal a traveler a hundred mortal blows before his escape?
Especially one as fearless and naive as a child.
“This, our beach at the sea of death,” Butu murmured, recalling the healing chant of the blood priests. “Endless motion til we rest. Cling and strive til our last breath. Mir’s mercy, grant our request.”
Butu stopped. He knew there was much more than that, but he couldn’t remember it. He looked at Phedam’s swollen face and quickly looked away.
Even if it doesn’t help, it cannot hurt.
He repeated what he could of the healing chant until the sun was high in the sky and the sands shimmered with false water.
Why a beach? He knew a beach was the place where the land met the sea, though he had never been to the sea, which was far to the south of the Ahjea’s holdings, nor even to the Riphil, which was the river that cut Turuna in half. We need water to live. If I’m standing on a beach, which is the sea of death — the water or the land?
He glanced at Phedam. The sordenu’s face and limbs were still swollen and bruised, but the wounds had closed. Butu wasn’t sure whether it was his magic or Phedam’s at work, but he kept chanting to be sure.
“This, our beach at the sea of death. Endless motion til we rest. Cling and strive til our last breath. Mir’s mercy, grant our request.” The faint echo was Amber. He had forgotten her again.
Both are seas of death. Turu cannot live without water, but nor can they live without the food they get from the land. Our beach is the place of the living, but it is surrounded by death. My body is a beach — a perfect mix of sand and water surrounded by the shanjin, which is as close to being a sea of death as anywhere.
Butu felt Phedam squeeze his hand. When he looked, the injured sordenu’s eyes were open and alert. His face remained slightly puffy, but his breathing was stronger.
“Water?”
Butu shook his head. “They’ll have some at the tent, if you feel strong enough to walk.”
Phedam lifted himself up shakily. “Help me up.”
Butu stood up and hoisted Phedam to his feet. Butu put one of Phedam’s arms around his shoulders, and then Amber was there, propping him up on the other side. Phedam looked at her as if he didn’t recognize her.
“Where’s everyone else?”
“Nolen was bitten, too, but not nearly as much as you.”
They walked for a long moment before Phedam spoke again. “They left me for dead.”
“Blay said there was nothing he could do to help you.”
“You used magic to heal me. I heard you chanting.”
Butu felt his face heat. “I tried. I’m not sure if you healed on your own or because of me, but Blay said even a blood priest wouldn’t have enough time to save you. The chant takes hours. I could only remember the beginning.”
“How’s Nolen doing?”
“He looked pretty bad, but you looked a whole lot worse.”
Phedam said nothing, but he walked faster. Retus waited outside the tent, prodding the remnants of a fire with a dagger. He looked up as they approached, and his eyes brightened when he saw Phedam.
“Phedam!” Retus cried.
“How’s Nolen?”
Retus took a deep breath. “I don’t know. Blay’s been with him, but he sent me out after I helped him.”
“I want to see him.”
Retus shuddered slightly. His voice dropped to little more than a hoarse whisper. “I’ve seen too much, today. I’ve seen death before. Every shepherd does. But this? Let me know if the swelling’s gone down.”
Butu looked at Amber, who turned her gaze away. Wordlessly, he handed the leash to Retus, who frowned at it. But she just sat down near the remains of the fire and stared at her bound hands.
Butu and Phedam slipped inside the tent. Even before their eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, the almost sweet stench of sickness assailed them.
Blay’s voice was a weary croak. “Phedam, you’re looking better.”
Butu couldn’t see either of them, yet, but he could feel Blay kneeling by Nolen’s still body. The younger sordenu’s breathing was quick and far too shallow. As Butu’s eyes adjusted, the sight made him want to turn his head, again, but he suppressed it.
Nolen lay undressed except for the wrapping around his wounded leg and a wet cloth on his forehead. The affected leg was swollen to twice the size of his other leg, and the skin from his knee to his chest looked like a huge, angry bruise. His lips and face were slightly blue, and his eyes tightly shut.
“There’s nothing more I can do,” Blay said sadly. “This was a sand adder’s bite. Only a blood priest could have healed it.”
“Nolen has magic, too,” Phedam objected.
He didn’t seem to have any trouble watching his shumi and had quickly taken up station across from Blay. He took Nolen’s hand, making Butu feel slightly embarrassed.
I can’t even look at him, and we’ve become so close.
“His chances are the same as yours, now,” Blay said. “Either his magic heals him and he lives, or it doesn’t and he dies. If the poison paralyzes his breathing, he loses this battle. I’m sorry.”
“But his magic is so much stronger than mine,” Phedam persisted. “He can actually still use it.”
Blay opened his mouth as if to refute this, but after a moment’s consideration, he thought better of it. He left the tent, touching Butu’s shoulder lightly as he did so.
Butu moved, then, taking up Blay’s place beside Nolen. He watched Phedam instead of their wounded friend. Neither of them spoke for several minutes.
“Will you chant with me?” Phedam asked timidly.
“Of course,” Butu said at once. “I only remember the first part of the healing chant, though.”
Phedam said nothing, so Butu took Nolen’s other hand and began the chant. After he had recited it a few times, Phedam joined in, weakly at first and then stronger. They chanted in low voices for a long time, and at some point, Butu noticed Nolen’s chest was still.
Just a little longer, he thought. For Phedam. Because for a while there, I was to Nolen what Phedam used to be.
Butu said nothing. He simply continued the chant. The sun was low in the sky, and their voices were hoarse before Phedam noticed Nolen’s hand had grown stiff and cool in his.
He stopped abruptly, and Butu did the same. Phedam threw himself on his dead friend and let out an agonizing wail. Butu looked on in numb silence, dumbfounded by his own lack of emotion.
Nolen was my friend, too. Why aren’t I crying?
He had no answer, so he laid a comforting hand on Phedam’s back. Blay and Retus joined them after several minutes. After a moment of silence and with great tenderness, Blay pulled Phedam away from his shumi long enough to cover Nolen’s face with a cloth.
Phedam leaned on Amber weakly as they used the swords-turned-shovels to dig the grave. Once they had lowered Nolen into the
pit they had dug, Blay asked Butu to transform Nolen’s makeshift shovel back. This was the way a sordenu ought to be buried, Blay explained. Butu obliged, but he felt wholly inadequate burying Nolen with such a plain-looking sword. Nolen had always created beautiful decorations on the blade of his sword — new designs a couple times each day.
The sorrowful duty done, the four sordenu and their prisoner returned to the camp. Phedam lay down in a tent in absolute misery. Nolen had been his shumi, as close to a brother as most orphans could have. Blay helped Retus practice his sword while Amber watched. Their sparring was silent except for the clang of sword on sword and the crunch of sand beneath their feet. Butu sat near the grave marker.
Long before the sun set, their valley had sunk into shadow. Butu offered to take the first watch, and Blay and Retus, tired from their relentless afternoon of swordwork, did not argue.
Butu watched the last of the light vanish from the top of the dune on the other side of their camp. He looked up the valley, toward Jasper and his home, and thought about Paka, Remi, Hatal, Zasbey, and Mak.
Feet crunched on the sand behind him. He knew it was Amber but turned anyway.
“Get some sleep,” he ordered. “It’ll be a long day tomorrow.”
She nodded but sat down near the fire. “Blay said if you’re on watch, I’m on watch.”
Butu snorted and walked down to face the direction Urgaruna would be in.
“My brother was bitten by a water thief,” she said. “We stayed up all night with him, just like you and Phedam did with Nolen. By the time the blood priest got there, though, my brother was sleeping peacefully.”
Butu stared at her. “How long ago was this?”
“Four? Five years ago? It didn’t make much sense to me. I had probably been bitten myself, and nothing like that had happened.” She shuddered. “Not that I like snakes.”
“Nolen and I had known each other for only a few weeks,” Butu said, guiltily. “We practiced, a lot, together. Magic,” he added hurriedly. “The idea was that if you keep using it, it won’t go away.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yeah, I guess we found that out.” He sat down across from her. “He and Phedam grew up together as shumi, in the mountains above Jasper. Phedam came because Nolen asked him to.” He moistened his lips. “Nolen and I, we got along a whole lot better than them at the end. Now my friend is dead, and his shumi is alone.”
She remained silent for a time before speaking. “You can be his friend.”
“Yeah,” he said and felt no relief. She was the only person I could talk to about that, though. It had to be her. He looked at her, puzzled. “You could’ve escaped today, several times.”
“Yeah.” She looked down at her still bound hands, and Butu watched the ropes untie themselves.
“All of your magic hasn’t gone yet. You’re younger than me. All this time you could’ve escaped and you didn’t. Now, when you go, you’ll tell them where we are.”
She gazed out over the desert. “Beker and I were lost — he thought we were east of the rock. If you and Nolen hadn’t shown up, we would’ve died.” She leaned toward him. “If I make the king, I’ll remember who helped me, and I won’t let him hurt you.”
Butu shook his head. “I don’t think it’ll work that way, Amber. I think if Jusep was made king, he’d destroy anyone who had opposed him. I can’t trust your king that much.”
“Then trust this,” she said, holding something out in her hand. It was a marble, crystal clear on the outside, and inside colored orange in the light. “Let this be my promise to you that I’ll find a way to help you if you ever need it.”
Butu took the marble. He remembered handing his amber to Paka, a token of friendship. He looked Amber in the eye. She didn’t turn her gaze this time.
I have to learn to see, he thought, and nodded mutely. They rose to their feet together. She didn’t set out to spy on us. She’ll keep her promise. He nodded again, and she ran off into the night, south, in the direction of Urgaruna.
“I’m learning to see,” he mumbled, staring after her. He felt Blay approach.
“You fought to keep her with us,” Blay said, “and then you let her go. She’ll tell them where we are.”
“I don’t think she will,” Butu said, clutching the marble. “She’ll have other things to worry about. But when she gets back, they’ll have their kingmaker again.”
“All the more reason we should’ve kept her.” Blay’s voice trembled.
Butu thought of Amber, who owed her life to Nolen, and of Phedam, whom he had died rescuing.
“Punish me if you want, corp, but this is what Nolen would have done.”
Nolen’s grave stared back at him. In a few days the shanjin would wipe it away, erasing the last traces of his brother-in-arms, his shumi, forever.
Whether I will fall in battle or by accident, one day, I’ll be buried with my sword.
Butu touched the hilt of his weapon.
I can’t choose how I die, but I can decide how to live.
CYCLE 3