Sunmaster, page 12
He did wonder, for a moment, whether his captors thought he needed his eyes, mouth, or hands to work witchery. He needed none of those things, although he did need for his head to hurt less. Probably they'd tied him up more to keep him quiet and from knowing who they were. But maybe Shenryalan witches did need one, or all, of those abilities to work their own magic. He would have to ask Oyun, or maybe Milu.
Either his head hurt too much for him to be scared, or he'd gotten so accustomed to being in dangerous, out-of-control situations to panic. Rasim felt like it was maybe more the former than the latter, because if he started thinking about it like that, his heart began lurching and his stomach soured as his hands went sweaty.
Maybe it was better to just believe he'd find a way out of this, because he had every other time so far. He took a shaky breath through his nose. He didn't want his captors to know he was awake, but he wanted to throw up less, and he was afraid he might if he didn't get some fresh air into himself.
The deep breath tasted too much like horse hair to make him feel better. Rasim pressed his face against the ground for a moment, trying to steady himself through the nausea and the throbbing head, and then nodded a little. He could do this. He would be fine.
He had to be. Because somebody had presumably overheard him with Desimi and Ūrrin, asking about delzjha, and had taken steps to remove his questions from the conversation. If he could stay alive and captive long enough, he might learn who, and then, at least, he would have something solid to go to Captain Nasira with.
Rasim actually laughed at himself, hardly a sound at all. It made his head hurt, and a tear leaked from the corner of his eye into his blindfold, but even he saw that his approach was a little bit funny. Stay captive to learn secrets. No one in their right mind would decide that was a good idea.
Well, he'd been hit on the head really hard. Maybe he wasn't in his right mind at all.
The ground vibrated with footsteps. There were hoofbeats farther away, too, but the footsteps were coming closer, and ended in a booted foot nudging him in the ribs. Nudging, not kicking. That was something. Maybe they didn't want to kill him or even beat him up, at least not right away.
Something seemed wrong with that, but he couldn't think clearly enough to understand why. He did groan, not entirely on purpose, when the boot nudged him again. A Shenryalan man said, "He's awake," which was simple enough for Rasim to understand. Then big hands folded themselves into his tunic and sat him upright. Rasim whimpered and swayed. He wasn't generally happy about being blindfolded, but just then he thought the world swimming by would have made him throw up, so not being able to open his eyes was something of a blessing.
The person holding him never let go, but somebody loosened his gag and brought liquid to his lips. Rasim was too thirsty to think of purifying the—milk, as it turned out—with witchery, and felt a rush of dismay as his tongue went numb, like he'd been drugged. He croaked, "What was that?" in passable-enough Shenryalan, and heard a woman's unpleasant chuckle.
"Zjhala. Shaman's milk."
Rasim crushed his eyes closed even tighter behind the blindfold. Zjhala sounded like it was related to the poison that had been used on Bayar. He tried to remember what exactly Oyun had given him to drink in her tent. Maybe it had tasted like that. Maybe she had poisoned him. His head hurt too much to think clearly. Then his mind separated from his body, leaving him staring down at himself from a few feet above his own head. His hair had dark brown roots growing out from the lemon-and-honey blond he'd bleached it when he was trying to escape slavery in Moran. The man holding him had straight black hair that fell over his shoulders from a center part, and, from above, a handsome nose.
Rasim had seen people from this angle most of his life. This is what they looked like if he climbed a mast and looked down, or even just looked down from a high hammock in the guildhall. But he had never been detached from himself when he'd looked down at them, before. He tried to cry out with alarm, and managed to, but slowly, as if he wasn't quite connected to himself anymore. The woman chuckled again. "Zjhala works fast."
He heard the words in two places: through his ears, but with that slow pace, like everything was traveling toward him through water. He also heard it in the air, thin ripples of sound that seemed to bounce at him at a normal speed, then speed away again at a much greater one. With effort, he raised his head—his spirit head, not his real one—to look toward the woman who was speaking.
A thump of dismay went through him, starting in his body down there on the floor and rising with no particular urgency to where he drifted above himself. He'd imagined he would know his captor, for some reason. That she would be a familiar face from the central tent, maybe. But if he'd ever seen her before, it had been in passing, at best. She was Shenryalan and much older than he was without being old, not grey-haired or wrinkled, just regular-old, like the Waifia's first mate, Hassin, or like Prince Lorens. She wasn't dressed in the furs or colors that seemed to mark people of particular importance in the tribe, nor did she have the tattoos that both Oyun and, to a lesser degree, the Great Mare Irlin bore. She was ordinary.
Rasim, drifting there out of his own body, had another peculiar twinge of his heart, this time of an aching recognition. Ordinary. He'd spent most of his life being ordinary, overlooked, wishing for great things and knowing he lacked the witchery talent that the guild required for those great things. There had been many paths open to him: shipwright, teacher to the apprentices, fisherman, cook. There were many jobs that the guild required, that didn't necessarily take much witchery skill. He could have done any of them.
But he'd dreamed of something bigger. He'd dreamed of captaining the Waifia, and no matter how clever he was, having almost no witchery barred him from that path. The fleet captains needed to command enough magic to keep their ships upright in a storm, if necessary. They needed to be the ones who could keep their ships from foundering, alone if need be. Ilyaran fleet captains, especially the flagship captains, were extraordinary witches. Ordinary would never be enough.
Rasim understood ordinary, and the hopes that might make a person reach for more. If the sea serpents hadn't attacked the fleet months ago, he didn't think he would have ever even imagined how to reach for more. Not as an apprentice, anyway. Not for many years as a journeyman, either. The Guilds were too structured, and he'd never really thought of anything beyond them.
But if someone had come to him and suggested there was another way, that perhaps he could learn to command the things he'd been denied, or lacked? He wished he could say he would never do such a thing, but he thought he knew himself better. The opportunity might well have been too much to resist.
And maybe that's what this perfectly ordinary woman had encountered. A chance. An opportunity. One Rasim could understand, even if he almost would have preferred not to.
He dropped back down into his body with what should have been a thud, except he had been all spirit outside of it, and spirits didn't thud. He still felt distant from himself: when he tried to swallow, it took a strangely long time, like returning to his body had only been a courtesy, not melding flesh and soul together again.
He'd felt something like that in Oyun's tent, but not nearly as strongly. His tongue hadn't gone numb when he'd drunk what she gave him then, though. Maybe these people had given him a much stronger dose. But he'd gotten a look at his captors now, so breaking free seemed like a better idea than it had before. That, and the drug they'd given him made his head hurt less, so that had been a bad idea on their part.
Stonemastery would take too long and he couldn't see to know if he was succeeding with it, and sea witchery meant dragging water up from deep beneath the plains. Sky magic would do. He could probably pull the whole tent up, exposing his captors and himself to whomever was around. He took a rough breath and reached for the light, dancing witchery of the air.
Nothing happened.
It was there. Rasim could feel it, just out of reach, but the detachment that made physical motion distant and awkward affected the ability to reach his witchery, too. He tried again, and the power swirled away like trying to hold sand in his hands, or water. On one level he understood it was the drug, but he still wheezed, "What's wrong?" in frightened confusion.
The woman cackled and came closer yet, crouching near enough that he could feel her body heat, and almost, if he didn't try too hard, see her, but not with his physical eyes. Just the spirit-eyes that weren't quite properly settled into place, because of the zjhala. "It's a spirit-walking drug," she said, obviously choosing her words carefully and speaking slowly so he had a hope of understanding. "Our shamans use it to teach their…"
Rasim didn't know the next word, but it still clearly meant something like 'apprentice.' The woman felt like she was watching him, making sure he understood before she carried on. "Sometimes, to heal the sick. It takes away pain. Mmm."
The last sound suggested she wasn't happy with her word choice, but Rasim understood anyway. It didn't take pain away, exactly. His head, for example, still hurt horribly. But the drug made everything distant, though, which made pain harder to care about. He cared very strongly that he couldn't get to his witchery, but it didn't matter. Regardless of which kind of magic he reached for, it slithered out of his grasp, leaving him helpless in the hands of his captors.
Panic finally set in. Blood rushed through his ears, drowning out something the woman said, and his hands went cold while his belly twisted with sickness. He said, "I'm—" and threw up before he could get any more of a warning out. Not that he knew how to say 'vomit' in Shenryalan anyway.
The man holding him let out a shout of disgust and dropped him. Rasim collapsed sideways, hitting his head again and sobbing with the impact. Stars exploded, then drifted against the back of his eyelids, and he had a few seconds where he thought that this would be the time to yell for help.
His body wouldn't respond to the impulse to yell. Or not fast enough, anyway. The woman, more irritated than disgusted, put her hand over his mouth, brought her own mouth to his ear, and said, "If you shout," and the rest of the threat was lost on him.
He understood the sentiment clearly enough, though. If he shouted, something awful would happen. Miserable with the peculiar distant pain and the chills of panic wracking his body, he nodded. The woman uncovered his mouth, and he didn't cry out, even though he wanted to. He wasn't even sure if he stayed quiet because of her warning, or because he just couldn't make himself shout. He heard the man cleaning up, and felt the earth he'd spattered bile on being brushed away and tidied, and through all of it, all he could do was lie there with tears leaking into his blindfold.
Eventually the woman spoke again, from nearby. "You haven't asked, sorcerer-child."
He laughed, a tiny hoarse sound. "You heard me asking about delzjha. You don't want me to find you. So you stole me. That seems dumb." His Shenryalan wasn't really that good, but the woman chuckled again, so he thought she got the point.
"Yes," she said. "That's some of it. But you have many kinds of sorcery. We want to know how, and to take them from you."
For a moment, Rasim's head felt so thick and stupid that he thought she actually meant take his witchery, like it could be lifted out of him and put in someone else. Then he said, "Teach," in Ilyaran. "You want me to teach you." Almost as an afterthought, he said, "No," in her own language.
"Then we have no reason to keep you alive."
Rasim whimpered, although from the inside it felt more like tiredness than fear. The woman, though, made a satisfied sound, like she thought the threat was getting her somewhere. And if it weren't for the fact that Rasim still felt completely detached from his witchery, he might even have agreed. He'd taught Islanders magic in exchange for his freedom. There wasn't any arguable difference in teaching Shenryalans.
Except the Islanders had at least dragged him out of the ocean, saving his life before enslaving him. This woman or her people had hit him over the head and dragged him off. Somehow that seemed important.
Of course, nothing was going to be very important if he was dead. Still, somehow he managed a rough little sound that might have been a chuckle of his own. "Can't. That drug…zjhala…can't get to my witchery." He used the Ilyaran word, then added, "Sorcery," in case the woman hadn't understood. "Besides, you're too old."
She smacked him alongside the head for that, which sent another spill of sparks across the backs of his eyelids. Rasim decided maybe he should be quiet for a while. Maybe take a nap. Master Usia would tell him not to nap after a head injury. Rasim wondered what had happened to the master healer. He hadn't seen him since the fight in Hongrunn when so many Seamasters had been captured and enslaved and, he was afraid, killed.
His captor, incredulously, said, "Are you crying?" although Rasim didn't think it was an unreasonable thing to do, under the circumstances. He didn't answer, only shuddered with tears for a long time, before he did drop off to sleep, no matter what Master Usia would have said.
There was a moment, when he woke, where he hoped his power would be back and he'd be able to escape. But the detachment was there instead, the feeling like his body and spirit weren't quite attached, and the magic was on the wrong side of that. It felt quieter outside, and he thought it must be night now. Then, slowly, he realized his hands weren't tied anymore, which seemed spectacularly stupid on his captors' parts. He pulled his blindfold off, wincing at glimpses of firelight, at the still-present throbbing in his skull, at the air on his eyes, strangely cold after having had them covered for hours.
The tent was empty, although there were signs of occupancy. The central fire, beneath the clever double-layered hole in the ceiling so smoke could escape, had burned low, but not out. There were sleeping pillows and pads, and utensils for cooking and eating. He hadn't been abandoned, just given more freedom than made any sense.
Getting to his feet was much harder than he expected it to be. The signals from his mind to his body traveled slowly, and he was clumsy and prone to waves of dizziness. It took him a minute or two to stagger to the tent door. He drew a deep breath, preparing to yell for help as soon as he stepped outside, then pushed the door open.
The cry for help died on his lips, astonishment sharp and clear enough to be painful.
There were no other tents around, no Great Gathering surrounding him, no roving bands of children or groups of gossiping adults. There were horses a little distance away, and a great, vast darkness that stretched in grassy waves to a horizon cut by stars. Rasim staggered a step, searching for something to hold on to so he wouldn't fall.
He was absolutely, entirely on his own.
CHAPTER 15
A laugh sounded off to one side, almost behind him, and Rasim knew he was worse than alone. He was alone except for the people who had taken him. He turned, head pounding, to discover there were a few other tents, after all, but the steppes behind them were as empty and endless as those in front of him. "There's no one here, sorcerer. Just you and your—"
Rasim didn't know the word the woman used, but thought 'enemy' or 'fear' would probably be a close enough translation. He nodded, the motion still feeling thick and slow, and cast his gaze upward for a moment.
He could navigate by the stars, but navigating was only useful if he had a destination. Rasim had no sense of where the gathering was, nor any way to escape except by foot over unfamiliar terrain, which the horse-riding nomads could cover at far greater speed.
For a brief, desperate moment he thought maybe his friends would rescue him. They'd look, but there were tens of thousands of Shenryalans gathered on the plains. Smaller groups almost certainly left on a daily basis, maybe to hunt, maybe just for some privacy from the vast congregation. Figuring out which of them he was with would be like—
Rasim giggled, a thin, high sound that made his head throb in that distant, disassociated way. It would be like finding a particular stalk of grass on an endless steppe. It was possible, but not very likely, especially quickly.
He really didn't want to teach these people any kind of witchery at all, and he wasn't sure he would have any choice. "Fine. All right. But I need to know what you know, already. Who taught you. How they taught you." Every word felt like it fought its way through thick mud, his concentration forced. "And I need my own witchery."
The woman strode up to him, got close enough to make him dizzy, and said, "Hah!" right in his face. In the faint firelight from inside the tent behind him, her eyes were almost gold, lighter in color than most Shenryalan's, or maybe just reflecting the flames. "Nice try, sorcerer. You'll drink the zjhala again before you rest tonight, and every day. Not every teacher can do."
Rasim, still dizzy and not always wise at the best of times, snapped, "Not every student can, either, and you're old."
At least he tried to snap it, but the words were still coming slowly, and he was pretty sure he'd spoken Ilyaran. She understood his tone well enough, though, and put her hand on his face to shove him backward. Rasim fell over, completely unable to catch himself, and smacked his skull against the ground again. The last thing he really remembered until morning was gagging down another zjhala-laced drink, and no longer caring that his head hurt.
They hadn't bothered tying him up again. There was nowhere to run, or maybe there was everywhere to run, but it wouldn't do him any good. Rasim got up carefully, wishing his body and spirit felt like they belonged together, and lurched out of the tent to find somewhere to relieve himself. That made his head hurt, too, which didn't seem particularly fair.
The camp had three tents, at least forty horses, and eight or ten people that Rasim could see. Mostly women, ranging from a girl not much older than he was to a set-jawed grey-haired woman who reminded Rasim of the mother of the helpful girl who liked Bayar, but it wasn't her. The man he'd thrown up on the day before was nowhere to be seen. That didn't mean he wasn't there, though. Rasim hadn't even looked around the tent he'd been in to see if he was alone before he'd gone out to empty his bladder. There could have been a dozen other people in there, for all he knew.
