Authors: Daniel Hardman
Cordimancy (37 page)
Toril
sagged to a stop and looked up at last, hands and forearms trembling with fatigue. It felt like an eternity had passed since he’d lifted a knotted corner of blanket in the gloom, providing half the support for Paka’s makeshift stretcher. Oji and Malena had been shouldering the staff with the other end of the blanket tied at a midpoint between them. They, too, were stumbling with weariness; it was Oji who’d called a halt.
Relying on the small warrior’s sense of direction, they had reached the north rim of the Rift not long ago, and crossed into morning, fresh air, and safety in a flood of relief. Even if some pishachas had escaped the battle and alerted kindred, it seemed unlikely that they would leave their murky haunts in pursuit. The sense of freedom and light was palpable, and it had grown as they followed game trails and eroded gullies down the mountainside. Birds sang. He’d caught glimpses of the river, broad and welcoming.
The exit from the Rift was much lower than the entrance; soon after leaving the mist behind, they were passing from foothills to lowlands. The river was just a few bowshots away, now.
They’d done it.
He rested his elbows on his knees and allowed his head to drop.
As they’d marched, Toril’s mind had cycled endlessly over what had happened with the heartstone—and then later, his failures with the staff. He’d tried to use it to find Malena almost as soon as she disappeared, but the totem didn’t seem willing or able to grant him the vision he’d enjoyed on their earlier march. Not at first, anyway; how many hours had they crept through darkness, sweeping back and forth, looking for Malena, with the staff stubbornly inert?
He’d been so furious and wounded, at first, that he was barely rational. Had that made the staff useless? Had he somehow offended Gitám the same way he’d offended Malena?
How could his anger offend? It was no more than Malena deserved. That stone had been precious—a sincere gesture of trust and esteem, a proxy for his soul. Malena’s reaction hurt beyond words.
Yet he’d shuddered with relief when, finally, the rod had lit up the darkness again. He’d been standing, listening, wondering if he had room in his heart to reconcile, feeling helpless—and then, suddenly, the glow he’d prayed for had bled through his fingertips, and the rod came alive. He saw his wife, huddled in the distance—even caught a glimpse of the tear tracks in the dust on her cheeks.
And in that instant, he had seen what was stalking her, as well, and his doubts had fled.
They had reached Malena just in time.
Had she smiled, maybe even moved toward him in welcome, as he emerged from the haze?
In the aftermath of their fight with the pishachas, they’d assessed injuries as best they could without light or tools. Paka was wounded, but he’d been able to talk coherently, and he claimed the bleeding wasn’t bad—that the bones of the rib cage had taken the worst of the spear. “We have to go!” he’d urged, again and again. “We can’t stay here, or they’ll be back.” So they’d rigged the stretcher and set off, worrying mostly about speed and distance.
Paka had groaned from time to time as they bumped along, but he’d also cursed under his breath, and the curses had sounded irritable rather than desperate, so they’d pressed on. Now, Toril realized that sounds from the blanket had grown quieter and wider apart since their stop for water right after they hit sunlight. He sensed an ominous note in the silence, and straightened from his own fatigue to look up at the stretcher.
The old man’s face was drained of color—translucent and glassy. Toril noted enormous maroon stains as the blanket fell away from his side, and cried out in concern.
“He’s breathing,” Shivi said. She had been limping beside and slightly behind them, looking as numbed by exhaustion as the rest of the group—but she’d pressed forward and knelt by her husband as soon as they halted.
“Should have checked him sooner,” Oji muttered. “I smelled blood, now that I think about it. But I was so focused on getting down to the river...
Malena laid a hand on the warrior’s arm.
“Wake up!” Shivi urged, ignoring the rest of the group. Her voice had a pleading, fearful quality to it. She pushed at Paka’s cheeks, worked his head back and forth with the palms of her hands.
Paka’s eyelids fluttered. He mumbled something incoherent.
“Paka! Pak’ita!”
The old man did not respond.
Shivi closed her eyes and reached out to place her hand over her husband’s wound. Her expression matched what Toril had seen when she’d been trying to keep Malena alive back home, or later, when she’d been concentrating on sustaining the shimsal disguise.
A breeze touched Toril’s sweaty forehead, and he realized that the morning sunshine had dimmed. His lips were tingling. Oji, who was watching over Shivi’s shoulder, stiffened, then lifted his head and sniffed.
“I smelled blood,” he repeated. “But... maybe not just Paka’s.”
“What do you mean?” Malena asked.
“There’s death ahead,” Oji said, eyes focused on the riverbank. His voice, so steady before battle, so resilient in the face of hardship, quavered. “And magic. I think… I think… it’s children.”
They
found four slight figures, motionless and waxy, laid out like spokes around the center of a pit filled with remnants of fire. The ash radiated heat; the children, and the puddles of blood beneath their necks, were cold. The only color was a hint of blue petals in one girl’s hair; somehow, the adornment made her gaunt cheeks and staring eyes even more heartbreaking.
Horror bound their tongues. Toril felt tears fill the corner of his mouth. He swallowed, gagged, turned his head, blinked.
He recognized all of them. One was the daughter of a saddlemaker that he’d visited last summer. He’d held her on his lap, once, while her father repaired a harness. And there was a little boy that he’d often seen toddling near the mill at the edge of town, and the son of one of his father’s guards, and the granddaughter of the cook who’d worked in their kitchens for years...
Through a saline blur he saw Malena walk the circle, scanning faces. When she was done, she stumbled a few steps, buried her face in her hands, and fell to her knees, shoulders heaving.
Time passed—a hundred heartbeats, or maybe a thousand.
A pebble cascaded down the path that had brought them to the clearing, and he looked up to see Shivi reeling drunkenly, a hand over her mouth.
They’d left her caring for Paka while they rushed ahead to the children; she wouldn’t have left his side unless…
Oji reached her before Toril did. He eased her into a sitting position on a nearby log.
“Paka?” he said.
Shivi shook her head. Then she shook her head again, bowed it, and began to wail like a child.
They
built a pyre on a rise overlooking the river. The pit they’d found would have been an easier place to burn the dead, but repurposing a place that had served such foul ends was out of the question. Besides, the physical labor of carrying Paka and the children, fetching stones, and gathering firewood gave their minds somewhere to go.
Fire from the setting sun glinted off the water by the time they were done.
Paka lay in the center, propped by the wood beneath his shoulders. At Malena’s suggestion, they arranged the children across his lap and beneath his encircling arms. “Like a grandpa,” she whispered hoarsely.
Shivi, whose wails had faded into stony silence as they worked, nodded in mute approval.
As he watched flames rise, Toril considered singing what he’d heard from Paka on the mountainside above Noemi. The old man would be glad, he thought; how often in recent days had Toril heard him humming or warbling as they rode? Paka’s voice had distracted all of them from their sorrows, at least a little; it had helped pass the hours as they rode. It was conspicuous by its absence, now—and that brought fresh tears to Toril’s eyes. But Toril hadn’t had much success with the hymn at the last singing, and he didn’t think he could keep his composure now, either. He doubted Shivi would join him.
They kept silent vigil for an hour, maybe. Except for Malena, weary legs enticed them to sit—but nobody wanted to break away.
At last, Oji cleared his throat.
“What do we do now?” he said.
For a long, long time, nobody spoke.
“I will keep going,” Toril eventually replied, sighing. “I have failed these four children, but we know there are many others that still need help. And I will follow Gorumim into the jaws of hell itself before I walk away.” He glanced at the women. “There’s no reason for all of us to come, though. Maybe it’s time for Shivi to do something safer…” He didn’t dare suggest that Malena stay behind—he knew how she felt about her sister—but maybe if she had a frail companion to care for…
Shivi shook her head impatiently. “I’m coming,” she croaked.
Toril opened his mouth to protest, but she stopped him with a gesture. “You’re thinking it’s terrible that you led Paka to his death. You don’t want my blood on your hands as well. And you’re worried that I’ll slow you down, when you’re desperate to make up ground.”
What could Toril say to that?
“Paka and I came after the children because we wanted to, not because you’re a persuasive leader, Toril. We knew the risks as much as anybody could.”
“I shouldn’t have let you come.” Toril said.
“
Let
us? Who says you get to decide our travels?” Shivi retorted. She wiped at her eyes with some fingers, then gave a sad hint of a smile. “As for keeping up, I might surprise you. Paka and I traveled to the capital several times when we were young, and we took a route that cuts many leagues off the obvious, winding river road. It branches a couple hours from here, and I think I can find it. My legs might be old, but if I come, you’ll make better time.”
Toril considered this.
“The capital will be a dangerous place,” he said gently. “Gorumim’s sanguimancy makes my blood run cold. In Kikal Pilar he will be in his element, and I have no friends to call upon. I have no real plan.”
Shivi snorted. “You think the general scares me now? You think his blood magic can stop me? Any angry woman is dangerous, Toril. One who’s defending little ones is a special kind of fierce. Paka was my only reason for caution.”
As
the flames faded, Malena crept back and back, moving a little at a time to avoid attention. When she was sure she was outside her companions’ field of vision, she turned and hurried downhill, stepping cautiously over rocks along the bank of the river. With luck, they would stay by the fire, lost in their own thoughts, for a while longer.
She thought she’d cried herself dry—her aching throat and burning eyes said so—but she heard herself sniffle as she went.
She shook her head and blinked hard.
A few hundred paces downriver, the bank curved and widened. She waded out, gasping as the water splashed above her thighs.
The river was a black expanse all around her. She had studied it before the sun went down, and thought it looked shallow. It was hard to tell, now, if she’d been right. Shallow was good; she’d cross more easily. But she’d swim if she had to.
Behind her, she now heard voices. Her heart began to pound. She lurched forward, stumbled, dropped a shoulder into the rushing current, straightened again.
More voices. A clattering of rocks. Splashes.
That would be Toril, chasing after her.
Why couldn’t he ever just leave her alone? What gave him the right to challenge what she’d decided?
This time, he would not bring her back. Malena would not—could not—face him. Even more, she couldn’t let him bring her back to face Shivi.
She was over her waist now.
She would not listen when he called to her.
She would not.
But the voice, when it came, was an old woman’s, and it didn’t plead. It was whipcrack hard, laden with command.
“Get back here, you foolish girl! How dare you!”
Despite herself, Malena flinched and turned.
The two women faced each other across a bowshot of rushing river. It was dark, but Malena could see Shivi up to her knees, hands on hips. Her posture conveyed anger. Toril and Oji were farther back, along the bank.
“I said, get back here. Come back right now. We aren’t going to spend another day searching for you.”
“I don’t want you to!” Malena shouted. “Leave me alone.”
“You planning to just float away?” Shivi called back. She began walking out into the deeper water, splashing awkwardly. “Do I have to come in after you?”
“Don’t come!” Malena shouted hoarsely. Her feet were frozen.
Shivi kept wading.
“Please,” Malena said. “Please leave me alone.”
Her lips were trembling so much that she barely speak.
“I killed him,” she slurred. “Me. Paka burned tonight because of me.”
Shivi kept wading.
“If I hadn’t run out into the Rift like a halfwit, he wouldn’t have taken a spear in his ribs.” Malena’s shouting was turning to sobs. “You said it yourself: I’m a dolt of a girl. If you go on without me, you’ll have a better chance to save them. I just keep making things worse.”
Shivi kept wading.
“The children too,” Malena continued. “You hear me, Shivi?” She raised her voice, screaming to be sure that Toril and Oji heard as well. “I killed those children, too! We missed them by hours. Hours that
I
wasted.”
A hand touched her shoulder. Despite Shivi’s earlier tone, the gesture was gentle. Immediately, Malena remembered how she’d felt on an earlier night when the older woman had soothed her heartache.
“Yes,” Shivi said, voice husky and low. “You
did
do something foolish. And it
did
cause some hurt.” She stopped, allowing the water to gurgle around them, content to stand in silence.
“Then let me go,” Malena said, gulping to steady her voice.
“No.”
Malena blinked, gulped a hiccup back, and ran a soggy sleeve across her cheek. “I don’t… don’t… understand,” she stammered.
Shivi sighed and splashed the rushing water with her other hand. “When I was a young bride, Lena, I did something cruel and thoughtless. I had always been good with my fingers, and a bit impatient about the way we women have to work so hard to earn respect. I’d married a weaver who was a bit cocky, and who I quickly realized had less skill than I did. One day, I laughed at the clumsiness in a basket Paka was weaving, and demonstrated how it could be improved. Worse, I did it in front of my husband’s father—someone whose esteem meant everything to him.”
Malena shivered impatiently. The last thing she’d expected from the older woman was a story.
“I had no idea how much a few thoughtless moments could wound a tender heart. I will never forget the hurt look in his eyes, or the way his lip quivered.”
Malena stared. She could hear the emotion coming from Shivi’s silhouette.
“Here’s my point, Lena. That night when I came to my senses and found a quiet moment to beg his forgiveness, he put his finger on my lips and kissed the tears out of my eyelashes and said he was sorry for my hurt as well as his. And then he said he intended to forget all about it, and he loved me, and could I please help him get his mind on something more exciting than weaving.”
Shivi’s voice broke as she finished. She splashed the water again, looked away for a moment.
“We were married forty-eight years after that night, Lena. It wasn’t all easy and fun. Paka and I each had a lot to learn, and there was plenty of pain in the process. Still, looking back I see enough joy and friendship to outweigh the hard times. And every bit of that goodness owes itself to a few moments of forgiveness that Pak’ita gave me—not because he had to; not because I deserved it—but because he wanted to, and he could.”
“It’s not the same,” Malena said. “You can’t compare a few unkind words to the deaths of your husband and those… those innocent… children.”
“Actually, if we compare hearts, I may have had more malice and pride than you did, Lena,” said Shivi. “Shouldn’t intentions count for something?” She waited. “Did you intend any harm?”
Malena shook her head and looked away.
“No.” Shivi shook her head. “Of course you didn’t.” She waited for a while, allowing her words to sink in. Then she reached up and put a wet hand on Malena’s chin, fingers demanding, turning her face and pulling her forward until their two faces were closer. “Let’s not have any misunderstanding, though. You might not have intended harm, but you knew you were being selfish and stubborn. And it was doubly hurtful to repeat the same mistake all over again just now. Shame on you for that.” She tugged on Malena’s jaw for emphasis, then released her grip and laid a palm tenderly against her cheek.
It was such an odd comment—sharp but lacking all rancor—and the hand at the end was so different from the fingers at the beginning, that Malena jerked her head in surprise. Shivi’s hand found her cheek again.
“What?” Shivi asked. “You thought I would say not to feel guilty? Not to worry? That it didn’t matter?”
Malena opened her mouth, then closed it again. She didn’t know how to respond. What was Shivi saying?
“Claiming you killed someone is a lie, Lena. It isn’t fair. Gorumim—and those pishachas—killed someone. They might have done it regardless of your choices; we’ll never know. On the other hand, saying you didn’t hurt us would be a lie, too,” Shivi said. She pushed hair out of Malena’s eyes, then returned to stroking her shoulder. Malena felt a warmth spreading up her neck. “And saying I forgive you because it wasn’t so bad would be a counterfeit forgiveness. It would ring hollow in your heart, and mine, and cheat us both. Forgiveness isn’t finding a way to minimize what someone else has done. It’s not offering them cheap absolution, or talking yourself into some weird way of seeing things that pretends the pain is not a problem.”
“I… don’t understand,” said Malena, shivering both from emotion and from the cool water.
“Forgiveness is refusing to let the darkness have the final say in your heart. It opens its eyes completely, willing to see the good, the bad, and the ugly as they really are. And then it chooses to love anyway. Like Paka did. Like this.” And Shivi wrapped her arms around Malena, squeezing fiercely.