Traitors' Gate (54 page)

He reached for her arm, but before touching her he fisted his hand and tapped his chest. He wore two rings, with matching sigils. “If you gave Hari even a moment's breath of happiness, then I thank you for it. Beware of Night. She'll kill you, if she catches you. How she'll do it I don't know, but she has a way.”

Hari's brother! Who knew where his loyalties lay?

“My thanks for the warning,” she said. “Now, go.”

Except for the blood, it wasn't so bad getting him hidden in the wagon. Wings unfurled, Warning waited. Marit grimaced at the blood on her hands. It had gotten over everything. Aui! Never mind it. She dashed back into the storeroom and grabbed three knives and two batons. One baton and two knives she shoved under, into his hands. The other knife and baton she kept, to remind her that a reeve and eagle had been sighted over the Elia Sea.

The cloak wanted her steward to go all the way to the Eagle's Claws to find and kill that reeve. So be it. Marit would get there first.

 

S
HE MOVED OUT
cautiously, flying low, but saw no sign of the other Guardian. The lovers were, amazingly, still at it: such stamina! Neh, it was a different man at work on the same woman. Anyhow, both were oblivious of what had transpired so close beside them. Eihi!

Wedrewe's people worked on, all oblivious, or perhaps all too aware of how quickly death could strike.

In an outer courtyard, the chain of prisoners was being shoved into tiny cages on wagons and locked in. Knowing herself a fool, she circled low until she saw the wagon with its corpses clear the perimeter fence and head into the woods. After that, she flew to the Vessi Road and followed it downstream until she spotted the prison wagons. Herelia was well-settled country but nevertheless there were stretches of road with no habitation in sight. She bided her time for several mey. In the late afternoon she clattered to earth on an isolated stretch of road with broken woodland and meadows on one side and denser growth blocking her view of the river. The prison wagons rolled into sight, and their sergeant called his men to a halt as she rode toward him and caught his surprised gaze with her own.

He is a killer. He has killed men.

“What is your name?” she asked. His cadre hid their faces behind open hands.

“Bolen,” he said, the word squeezed from him by the strength of her gaze.

He spoke truth, which brightens you. His name, given to him by his mother, linked him to the Four Mothers, and deep within his essence which is body and spirit together, she saw, felt, heard, tasted, the thread that binds spirit and body into one creature. Easy enough, for her, to sever them, now that she saw their misty substance. She drew her sword. The soldiers cowered. The prisoners moaned. It was so easy, after all! She could cut away his life, send his spirit through the Spirit Gate. He was a killer. He had killed. She did not even have to touch him with her sword, only cut the threads that spun his shame and his wrongdoing into the pure air.

He hid his face.

“Release the prisoners,” she said.

“Better you execute me with a clean death, lady,” he said hoarsely, “than I face punishment by cleansing for disobeying my orders.”

“Then it would be better for you not to serve unjust masters. These prisoners who face cleansing are assuredly not guilty or else they, too, would have been granted the mercy of a clean death at the hands of a Guardian.”

“They serve as examples because of their stubbornness, lady.”

“Release them.”

He stammered out the order, and his cadre fell over themselves to pull the pins on the cages.

The prisoners hesitated. Then one man pushed free of his confines, scrambling off the wagon, and tugged out two comrades. These three dragged out the others, all but one older man who refused to bolt.

“Run,” she said.

They ran, some into the brush toward the river and others into the woodland.

“You've done them and their clans no favors,” whispered the sergeant, “nor me and my cadre, neither. Those who follow orders don't get hurt.”

She was a fool, showing herself like this. Even if the prisoners survived, how were they to make their way through a Herelia that was in a way a vast prison? How was Hari's brother to do so? But she could not live with herself if she did nothing, even if what little she did was not enough.

•  •  •

S
LAVES DRIVING A
wagonload of corpses weren't deemed suspicious in Wedrewe. At each gate, after an exchange of words, they rolled on. Shai breathed through the blanket that pressed over his mouth and nose. He kept his eyes shut and listened. Eventually, the roadbed changed from rumbling pavement to squeaky dirt, and despite the stiffening weight of the bodies, Shai felt the softening presence of trees. As the slaves chattered away about a tournament of hooks-and-ropes played last month and still in dispute, Shai wriggled backward out from under the dead ones and rolled off the back of the wagon onto a woodland path. The wagon trundled on. They didn't even look back as he scrambled into the nearest brush and lay still, leaves flashing above him. The noise of the wagon's passage faded.

Hu! That had been the easy part.

He pulled on the vest, cut off a strip of the wool blanket to
belt his knives and the reeve baton, and tied the blanket like a cloak at his shoulders. Then he considered the sun. When he'd been marched from Toskala's hinterlands to Wedrewe, a journey of nineteen days, he'd kept track of their general direction. Ignoring the drying stains and unpleasant smells on his skin and clothing, he began walking southwest, roughly parallel to the track. Twice he crossed streams, drinking before moving on, and he found late season berries he'd seen mixed in with his porridge in the prison, easy to gather and tie up in a corner of his blanket. Were those triangular green leaves edible? Yes, he'd seen the children eating them.

At dusk he reached the end of the woodland and stood looking over tidy farmland where lanterns bobbed as folk hurried home. He sank to a crouch. As he scooped mashed berries, he considered the fields and the likelihood of barking dogs. Could he cross safely at night? Steal food, or even just a leather bottle to carry water?

A cough.

Before he even realized he'd been careless, they dropped down on either side of him with teeth bared in something that might have been meant to resemble a welcoming grin or a fierce menacing scowl. He grabbed a knife, and the female knocked him flat so fast, pinning him, that he began to laugh because he was exhausted and hungry and his feet were scraped and bleeding and he stank of corpse and he was stuck out in the middle of enemy territory with scant chance of reaching anyone he might call an ally.

So what in the hells were two wildings doing here?

The male gestured with its hands, tale telling as vivid as speaking: a cloak flowed from its shoulders; folk hid their eyes; Shai did not hide his eyes; the cloaked one kills those who do not hide their eyes.

“Hu!” whispered Shai. “Did you follow me all that way? To get revenge? I didn't betray them. I had no idea your friends were going to be attacked. Or that poor gods-touched girl would be murdered just for being veiled. Please help me get to a reeve hall. That's all I ask—”

The male impatiently tapped its own chest, the female's shoulder, and finally indicated Shai:
Us. You. Together.

Far in the distance, a horn's voice rose and faded.

Hurry.

T
HE NORTH IS
a bitter world. Beyond the confines of the deep waters of the Elia Sea, a long spout of a bay connected to the northern ocean by a narrow strait, the coastline crawled north mey after dreary mey, violent ocean waves crashing at the base of rugged cliffs. In the pockets of shelter where safe anchorage might be found on a scrap of pebbled beach, fishing villages clung to the coast. Marit had never before seen houses in which folk nursed a hearth fire inside the same structure in which they slept, but the rock cottages breathed smoke as might any living body. Truly, it was as cold as the hells. She never stopped shivering. Who would want to live in this bleak landscape?

By the time she reached a wide oval peninsula the moon had blossomed to full and withered away. Here the land was rich in farm plots turned golden with harvest stubble. A pair of linked hills, steep enough to be called mountains, rose out of the peninsula's central rise; at their peaks glinted twin altars whose view thereby spanned the coast, one facing north and one south. Was this “the Egg” described in the tales? She'd heard of the place but had never set foot here.

She landed in an isolated cove on the northern shore and released Warning. The craving for the altar's elixir made Marit lick parched lips, but she resolutely took the last swig of musty souring wine and walked along the sandy shore looking for a fresh stream. Sea wrack littered the sand; a tree trunk had washed up many years ago and was now a haven to numerous tough plants. Pine wood grew beyond the high-water line.

“Heya! Honored Guardian!” A stout woman strode out of the wood, waving a length of cloth to catch her attention. “Greetings
of the day!” The woman lifted both hands, palms open, to touch her forehead as a sign of respect before she extended her hands in welcome. She was smiling, her thoughts an unself-conscious tumult of astonishment, joy, and an old grievance over—Aui!—something to do with a pig. “I'm called Fothino. Please, walk with me to the village. We will be honored to host you for the assizes.”

Marit sensed no danger. Of course, she'd sensed no danger on the day she'd been murdered. And yet she could not bear to live forever in suspicion of humankind.

“You honor me, verea.”

The woman's smile brightened. “If you will be waiting just one breath so we may gather our things . . .” She walked briskly back into the trees and shouted in a strong voice. “Ridarya! Malilhit!”

Marit followed cautiously. The woman had two adolescent daughters who prettily offered the same formal greeting. Like their mother, they wore not taloos but long jackets of rough hemp thread closed with a sash and apron and, beneath all, a length of cloth wrapped to cover the legs.

“Finish you up quick now,” scolded their mother.

They promptly set to whispering as they finished scraping resin into a barrel.

“She doesn't look different than anyone else.”

“How could any ordinary person capture and ride a winged horse?”

The pine trees were being tapped, streaks of pale raw resin running down the wounded bark over a tin lip and into pots. The woman gathered up her cutting tools, wrapped them in burlap, and slung them over her back. “Girls! Run you ahead and tell the village of our good fortune. Let there be a proper greeting.”

The girls raced away, barefoot despite the cold weather. Marit accompanied Fothino at a more sedate pace on a path winding through the woods.

“It seems peaceful here,” Marit said.

“Eiya! Peaceful is as peaceful does. We're a quiet place far from anywhere else, I grant you. But folk will quarrel and
bicker. Me no less than anyone, I tell you honestly, Guardian.” The words she spoke were recognizable but accented, making her a bit difficult to understand. “I sent my good son all the way to Rulla Village just last year to live with his young wife's family just because he and me, we quarreled so much after my good husband's spirit departed through the gate. Girls are easier to raise, neh?”

“I don't know.”

“Neh, forgive me if I've asked what I should not.”

“Ask me anything you wish.”

“Well, then, I will so. With your permission.”

“You have it.”

“According to the records kept in Sapanasu's temple, a Guardian invokes an assizes every seven years. Yet we've seen no Guardian for ever so many years, not since my mother was a child. Folk they pretty much thought we'd never see a Guardian ever again.”

“That wasn't precisely a question. How far back do the records of your Lantern's temple go?”

“I wouldn't know, me being apprenticed to the Witherer in my time. But my lad, the older boy, the one who died, he was a Lantern clerk for three years. He one time told me the records in the temple went back to the very first day folk built the temple here. So it surely is very very old.”

“Very old, indeed. I'm sorry to hear of your misfortune, losing the child.”

Her stride continued unchecked. “He was a good peaceful boy. But I'm fortunate, even so. I've birthed nine children and only lost three, and two of those before their first moon's turning. So really, the gods have blessed me, nay?”

They passed a row of squat charcoal kilns built of earth and stone, empty and cold. Goats chewed at brambles grown around the brick. “There was a dispute over the ownership of these kilns,” added Fothino, sliding so smoothly into this new subject that it seemed of equal importance to the death of her children, and in the life of the village, no doubt it was.

“Was it resolved?”

“Nay. Now we buy from Mussa Village, so it costs us more.
It would be good if we could get these kilns running, but no one wants to open the dispute. There was a killing done over it.”

“A killing!”

“A man died up on Curling Beach who was one of them arguing over kiln rights. Maybe he drowned, or maybe he was hexed, or maybe he was stealing from the trade offering left for the merlings—that's what I think he was doing, for he was a sneaking sort of man. That was four years back. Those two clans involved barely speak to each other to this day.”

“A trade offering left for the merlings?” Marit had heard of this ancient custom in tales. “Do you folk still make such offerings?”

“Don't all folk do so? How can the proper balance be held, if the trade offerings aren't made to the other children of the Mothers? We share with each other, just as it says in the tales.”

The woods gave way to sheep pasture and orchard. “How often do you see outsiders?”