Chapter 24
The horse whinnied, and for the hundredth time that day Ilahe cursed the veil that interfered with her vision. She grasped for the swords again, but Ticar whipped the reins down. The horse broke into a run, and Ilahe lurched back against the low seat, letting out a stream of curses in Cenarbasin.
Screams ricocheted from the buildings ahead of them. Ilahe reached for the swords again, but another jolt almost threw her from the cart as they hit a patch of stone paving—the only stone road she had seen so far in the Thirteen Paths—that ended a few paces later, and they were back on the dirt road, and racing for the screams.
“What are you doing?” Ilahe screamed. “By the black, what’s going on? I can’t see a blind thing.”
“Street harvest,” Ticar said. She could barely hear him over the screeching wheels and the screams. “Can’t stop and get caught up in it.” The crack of the reins rang in the air again. With each pace, the wagon shivered. Ilahe imagined the wheels flying loose, the boards splintering, launching her, blind and trapped by the dress, into the crowd. It took all her courage not to rip herself free of the clothing.
The screams swelled to a crescendo, and Ilahe glimpsed a mass of bodies, nothing more than dark shapes to her vision. Then they were past the screams, the noise dwindling as the horse carried Ilahe and Ticar further into the city. Ilahe’s heart pounded, and sweat beaded on her nose.
Ticar slowed the wagon to a more reasonable speed, but at every rotation of the wheels, the wagon dipped, limping along the street. Ilahe did not wait for another opportunity. She reached under the seat, fumbled at the ties, and caught the twin blades as they came loose. Not until they lay in her lap did Ilahe feel a trace of relief. With the swords in her hands, she was something again. Something more than a foolish creature swaddled like a babe and just as helpless.
“My girl,” Ticar said. “Now is not the time to have those blades in plain sight. Your disguise must serve for a bit longer.”
Ilahe shook her head, the veil rippling around her, and reached back under the covering to grab her bag with her belongings. She planted it on the seat next to her.
“Enough inconvenience,” she said. “Let them think what they will; by the black, they’ll all just assume it’s part of the mystery.”
The wagon continued its limp forward, but the blur of buildings—mostly small, although they passed a few of the massive ones that Ilahe had seen from a distance—remained unchanged.
“Where are we?”
“Leaving the Alders,” Ticar said. “And the tair help us to keep moving. If there’s one street harvest, there’s bound to be more.”
Ilahe shivered, remembering the screams, the feeling of being caught. “What was that? A harvest of what?”
Ticar’s voice was stiff when he answered. Almost defensive. “It is part of Axtamalak,” he said, giving the proper name of the religion of the Thirteen Paths. “Part of the worship of the tair. When the time of a High Harvest comes, some people feel the call to join their god in the harvesting. Offerings are chosen from the street.”
It took a moment for the meaning of his words to sink in.
“They are killing people?” Ilahe asked. “In the streets?”
“The blood is sacred,” Ticar said, his voice small, but still defensive. “It brings forth new life. The people chosen are honored.”
“They are cut down in the street,” Ilahe said—half-outraged, half still in shock. If she had begun to doubt the stories of the Khacen barbarism, this one fact alone proved it. These people were savages, all of them. “And you defend it.”
Ticar shrugged. “I do not like it,” he said. “And I pray that I am not ever so honored. And, in Dus su, I walked with guards, for me and my wife. But the tair—they are gods made flesh. Do you understand that? What it means to have a god among you? To be raised on stories of the gods, and to have them in your midst?”
“All gods are bastards,” Ilahe said. “It’s in their nature. Not sure that having them in the flesh makes them much difference.”
“We all need to believe in something,” Ticar said. “You can’t blame me for wanting to believe in something.”
“I haven’t blamed you for anything,” Ilahe said. “Your god asks for murder in the streets. You allow it to happen. Those are facts.”
“My girl, my dear girl,” Ticar said, but he just shook the reins and the wagon limped forward.
Ilahe glared through the veil, wishing they could move faster. His words made her angry; she believed in something, but it wasn’t in gods who made demands on their people. She believed in her swords, in the people who had once loved her, and in her own ability to do what was right. That was enough. Leave gods for fools and puppets.
The shadowy outlines of the buildings shifted as they drove. Rambling, single-story buildings were replaced by street after street of well laid out houses, and fences broke the sunlight and cast shadows along the dirt road. The scent of flowers—many of the smells unfamiliar, but rich and heady to Ilahe—reached her through the veil, and she drew in a deep breath. It was strange to think that such a violent place could bring forth something that smelled so wonderful. In Osmir, land was so valuable that there were few gardens, but Ilahe had always loved the pots of pink pansies that ran along her windowsill.
The wagon came to a halt in front of a larger building. Ilahe squinted up at the sign, but could not make out the lettering.
“The name?” she said.
“What?” Ticar asked.
“What’s the name?” Ilahe asked. “Hurry, before people see us together.”
“Bleeding Glories,” Ticar said.
Ilahe was grateful for the veil; it hid her anger. “My thanks,” she said, biting the words off. She jumped to the ground, bag in one hand, swords in the other.
“It’s one of the best inns,” Ticar said. “My girl, don’t be angry, it’s just a name.”
Stalking around the wagon, Ilahe shook her head, and stumbled as the burdensome cloth unbalanced her. A feather-light touch on her wrist made her raise her head, and she realized Ticar stood on the ground next to her.
“Go, fool,” she said. “People will see us together.”
He pressed something into her hand. A leather purse, although she could not tell much with all the padding between her fingers and the coins. Heat flooded her cheeks as Ilahe realized she had, again, underestimated the man.
“Thank you,” she said.
Ticar released her and disappeared from her limited vision. “Be careful with the dress,” he said, and the creak of wheels of clatter of hooves resumed. “I can still sell the cloth!” The last was a shout that grew more distant.
Ilahe shook his head; the man might as well have announced himself to the Istbyan ambassador, shouting like that, but the time for worrying about such things was past. She would lead the ambassador for a good chase, or, if she was truly lucky, throw him off her track completely. Either way, Ticar’s fate was in his own hands. Just like everyone else.
Pack heavy in one hand, swords awkward in the other, Ilahe made her way to the door and rapped on the wood. She bent forward, adopting what she hoped would look like the position of a woman worn beyond her means. Acting had not been among her preferred skills, but Ilahe had learned enough. She tried to relax, picturing herself as Lady Orodna Tseta Atiatla, a creature of beauty and pampering, weak and worn. Scorn rose within her, but Ilahe pushed it back, forcing herself to adopt something else. It came too easily; it had not been so long ago that Ilahe herself had been a woman of standing and beauty. All of the sudden her shoulders felt too wide for the beautiful dress, her hands too rough for the velvet.
The door swung open. “Tair protect us night and day,” a woman’s voice said. “What are you doing all bundled up in the heat like that?”
Ilahe snapped back from her self-pity, focusing on her role as an Istbyan highborn. In her best Istbyan accent, she said, “Please, help me. I’m a woman, alone and abandoned and in need of assi
stance.” The words were stilted, unnatural—perfectly Istbyan.
“Maysh,” the woman’s voice said, “get off your lazy arse and help this poor thing with her bag. She’s like to be baked alive from the sun, tair protect her addled mind. And those swords, Father take me, what are you doing with those?”
Someone took the bag from her hand, but Ilahe pulled the swords back, away from Maysh and the woman.
“A love of mine,” Ilahe said, “gave these to my keeping; I swore to seek him in distant lands once the moon had passed my heart a dozen times. I have been betrayed and abandoned, and I ask for your aid.”
Silence met her, and for the second time that day, Ilahe wondered if she had overplayed her role. Tales of Istbyan court romances were legendary; if they had reached Cenarbasi, they had most definitely reached the Paths. She hoped that this woman was as blind as the men in Cenarbasi; Ilahe’s father had once swooned upon finishing a Cenarbasi romance, and her mother had told Ilahe she had never seen him quite so touched by a thing of beauty. Ilahe’s lip curled; love was one thing, but romance was another.
“Tair and Father and the blood of the land,” the woman said, “come in, my lady. Maysh, take her belongings to the blue room. Nothing but the best for you, lady, the earth’s best. Come in and get out of that sun.”
Ilahe stepped inside, grateful that the woman offered her a hand to guide her forward. The inside of the inn was hotter than Ilahe had imagined, and the smell of stale wine bit off the trailing scent of the flowers. It was also as dark as the black itself. Fortunately, she did not have to stay long; the woman led her through the room, chattering all the way.
“Mind the stairs, lady. Tair fend, I never thought I’d meet anyone like you, my lady. The stories, that is, the news we hear, is that your men are frightfully jealous, and it makes my poor heart tremble to think of it.” The woman let out a nervous laugh, and her fingers tightened reflexively on Ilahe’s hand. “My own husband was a man of great passion, lady, and I think perhaps that you and I might be kindred spirits. ‘When roses bloomed in snowdrop cheeks, I knew spring had come again,’ and all that, you know.”
Ilahe struggled to understand the woman’s words; they sounded like the line from a poem, or perhaps one of the romance tales, but they were translated Istbyan, if not simply an inferior Khacen imitation. The silence grew into expectation, though, when the woman stopped, the outline of her head turning to face Ilahe. Waiting for an answer.
Scrambling, Ilahe said the first thing to come to her mind. “Among my people, I am known as the Frost Rose, and I fear I will never know spring again.”
The woman’s fingers tightened, vises around Ilahe’s hand, and her sudden intake of breath almost made Ilahe burst out laughing.
“Dear lady,” the woman said, “we are twin hearts indeed. My name is Daye. Please, if I can be of any aid in your quest, just say the word.”
“Your husband found a matchless prize in you, Daye,” Ilahe said. “In my rashness, I promised not to reveal my face to man or woman until I found my love again; will you grant me a time in my room to rest and recover, and then we will speak of the words of the Thousand Suffering Breaths?”
“Of course,” Daye said. “Dear lady, of course. Come, come, come!” She bustled up the stairs, her skirts rasping, and Ilahe trotted along behind her. Within a matter of heartbeats, Ilahe found herself stepping into a room.
“I will send food up immediately,” Daye said, “and drink, of course. Rest, Frost Rose, and ease your breaking heart.”
The door shut with a click. Ilahe leaned against it and, in spite of the sudden frenzied need to be free of the dress, took her time removing it. The cloth was indeed precious, and if she could return it to Ticar, she would do so. Tearing it now would simply be giving way to the self-pity afflicting her. Her heart felt heavy inside her; Daye seemed kind enough, although Khacens could turn at any moment. The lies about Istbya were bitter as almond-blossoms on Ilahe’s tongue; she had been fed enough sugared words of love that she did not like the taste even when giving them to someone else, but it was necessary.
She dropped the swords and purse, threw the veil to one side, and wiped sweat from her brow as she examined her room. The dress fell to her waist, and air—tepid, but blessedly cool against her bare skin—washed over her, prickling her flesh with goose bumps. Ilahe drew a deep breath and let the dress drop to the floor, feeling the thick, but free-moving, air against her, the rough grain of the wooden door against her bottom, the tickling trickle of a single drop of sweat tracing its way down her spine.
A dressing screen stood in one corner of the room, near a pair of thick-paned windows, and a bed sat opposite the screen. Three cushioned chairs surrounded a small table with an unused tea service and a delicate, blue-glass vase with white-petaled flowers. Ilahe stepped away from the door, running one hand over the rich fabric and thick padding of the chairs. It had been a long time since she had stood in such a fine place; the bed looked like a dream. It had been too long since she had slept in a bed.
A knock at the door interrupted her. Ilahe sprinted behind the dressing screen and shouted, “Just a moment.” A low, saddle-bench sat behind the screen, and Ilahe took a seat, grateful that the Khacens were quite a bit taller than her, and thus the screen rose well above her head when she was seated.
“Come,” she said, heart beating and suddenly aware of her nakedness.
The door opened, and Daye’s voice came, tinged with nervousness, “Lady, may I enter? I would not break your oath.”
“I am behind the screen, Daye,” Ilahe said, forcing her Istbyan accent. “You may enter.”
“Just a simple meal and some water, lady, until dinner is prepared,” Daye said. “Shall I take your beautiful dress and have it cleaned?”
“No,” Ilahe said. “That will not be necessary. Thank you, though.”
“Of course, lady. Perhaps we could talk later. When you’ve had a chance to rest? I do so love the stories of Istbya.”
“You honor me,” Ilahe said, grimacing at the aftertaste of the lies. “We will speak soon.”
“Of course, lady.” The sound of the door’s hinges started.
“Daye,” Ilahe called. She wanted to bite off her tongue, to stop the lies that would come next, but she spoke. She had to speak. “A favor.”
“Of course, lady,” Daye repeated.
“I will reveal to you a secret. I am pursued by a man I do not love, who has torn my beloved from me. Until I find my beloved, I am in danger. Those swords are a reminder of my weakness.” This brought a grim smile to her face; the last words were far too true for comfort. “If any come searching for me—”
Daye cut her off and said, “Why, lady, I’ll send them straight to the Father himself.”
The firmness in the woman’s voice surprised Ilahe and brought a genuine smile to her face.
“Thank you, Daye.” Those words were sweet as Silvercap wine.
“Rest now, lady,” Daye said. The door clicked shut.
Ilahe emerged from behind the screen hesitantly, but found herself alone. With a hunger that surprised her, she tore into the food that Daye had brought—rich, white bread and butter; a too-tart jam that Ilahe still ate; and mild white cheese that almost melted to the touch. The water tasted better than any wine, and drops of it fell from Ilahe’s lips to run down between her breasts.
When she had finished eating, she realized that, in addition to the food and water, a small, wood-bound book sat on the glazed tray, and next to the book, a few sheets of parchment, scraped so thin in some places that she could almost see through it. A small jar of ink and a quill completed the set. Everything a true Istbyan woman would need to conduct her romantic conquest; Ilahe half-grimaced, half-smiled, and stood to find clothes.
With quick, economical movements she wadded up the imitation Istbyan dress and tossed it under the bed. Ticar would have to take it back rumpled, if at all. Ilahe dumped her pack out on the bed. Necessities for traveling in the wilderness—
flint, a roll of clean linen for bandages, a pair of water skins, a single small pan, now dented and scratched, and a small knife she used for cooking. Aside from those few tools, Ilahe had little left to her name. Two pairs of brown trousers, both stiff with mud; a pair of grey shirts, in almost as bad a state, and her hiking boots, linen footwraps still jammed inside. Ilahe threw on a set of clothes, ignoring the stench, and strapped on her swords and belt knife. It had been nice to play dress-up, but she was no longer a doll, or even a woman. She had work to do.
Ilahe pulled out the footwraps and dumped out the boots onto the bed. Three cam-adeh tumbled out, silver frames chiming against each other as they landed. Although each was a different shape—one intended to look like a flower, a complicated web of silver lines holding the precious colored glass—red and orange ‘petals’ surrounding a blue center; another a simple circle of silver holding a disc of purple glass; and the third shaped like a star, the glass a burnt-orange. The flower was the most valuable of the three; she had gotten that much from the priest before he had died. Ilahe slipped the chain over her neck and tucked both chain and flower out of sight under the grey shirt. She eyed the other two and decided to leave them. The purple disc was also a necklace, and the star was intended to be worn as a bracelet. She had never seen anyone wear more than one before, and did not know how they might interact. Ilahe had not used a cam-ad before; they were rare treasures, held by the priests. The power of the solars, trapped in glass by secret rites. So different from the bloody, violent magic of this strange land.
She grabbed her belt knife and flipped over one of the chairs. With a trained eye, Ilahe examined the stitching. It was worn enough that she did not need to cut it. Instead, ever so carefully, she worked the stitches free, until she could lift a flap of the upholstery. She slid the remaining two cam-adeh into the padding. It should keep the cam-adeh safe; if someone sat and broke the glass, the cam-adeh would expend their power and be wasted. With a few quick tugs, Ilahe pulled the stitching tight.
As she righted the chair, the Istbyan book caught her eye. Ilahe perched on the arm of the chair and picked up the book. It bore no title, but many such books were simply identified by the name of the primary woman—the beloved. She flipped through the pages. The edges were worn and dark from use, and on more than one page Ilahe saw large, tear-drop stains.
Ilahe stopped at a page that was almost illegible, the ink smeared and the page spattered with long-dried tears. It told of an Istbyan lord completing the seduction of a married, virtuous peasant-woman. The last lines were too blurred to make out, and someone—Daye, most likely—had scribbled something into the margin. Names, it looked like, although those, too, were unrecognizable now. The book was heavy in Ilahe’s hands, and her stomach twisted at the story. Daye was a fool to enjoy such a work.
With a snap of her wrist, Ilahe shut the book. She tossed it on the table, surprised at her own anger. It was just a book; a story, meant for foolish women, and written by even more foolish men. Even in the Istbyan romances, men were always the same. Meddling in women’s lives, causing problems, ruining their happiness. The peasant-woman was trapped; either she served her husband, some ground-grubbing, blind-fool drunk, the kind Ilahe had seen all too often in the taverns of Osmir’s Beard—or she went with the lord in the story, ruining her reputation, letting another man climb on top of her. In a flash of insight, Ilahe realized that the gods were exactly the same—solars or tair, they were no different. Ruining the lives of others to get what they wanted, just like men. Ilahe grabbed a piece of parchment, inked the quill, and began to write.
In her anger, the first two attempts tore clean through the parchment. Ilahe clenched the quill more tightly, until her knuckles protested, and carefully began to write. A simple note, using the florid, Istbyan style that Daye loved, praising the examples of love in the book and asking her to clean the shirt and trousers—her ‘beloved’s.’ More lies, but then, it was too late for anything else. Ilahe let the note dry, stuck it in the pages of the book, and, after a quick listen at the door to make sure no one was near, stuck book, note, and clothes in the hallway.
Stomach still twisted with anger, Ilahe shut the door, bolted it, and moved to the window. The sun had almost disappeared below the horizon. She needed to hit something—or, preferably, stab something. Remind herself of who she was. Help herself to forget the bitter taste of Istbyan words and, even worse, of Osmir and Cenarbasi. Of the world, the self, she had left behind. Ilahe threw open the window and started looking for a way to climb down.