Sunmaster, page 3
So was Rasim. On one hand, he didn't really want to be up close for a dragon kill. On the other, the dragon would have to get within a horse's height of the ground to catch one, and that was probably Rasim's only chance to jump free without killing himself.
On the third hand, jumping into a herd of panicked horses seemed…
…like only the third or fourth worst idea he'd had in the past hour, when he thought about it like that.
The herds swept back together again, as though the horses had decided one big target was better. The dragon squealed with delight and dove, but not nearly as steeply as before. Its wings snapped out into a glide as it came above the herd, which looked like a dark, roiling mass from Rasim's viewpoint. Jumping off the dragon was abruptly much harder than jumping off the mountainside had been. He hadn't known what he was doing, there. Now he could see the thundering animals and imagine their hooves crushing him, and he didn't like horses to begin with.
The dragon dropped so fast Rasim's stomach lurched. He could smell the horses now, and the sharp green scent of the new grass they crushed as they ran, and the dust from dry earth as it rose. Here and there, even in the growing darkness, some of the horses looked deformed, their backs too thick or their gait a little slower. The dragon dropped again, its neck stretched long and its attention focused sharply on some poor horse up ahead. One more drop and Rasim would be as close as he could get to the ground. His heart hammered and his hands were cold with fear, but his mind was strangely clear. That seemed to happen a lot when things were at their worst, maybe because he just couldn't afford to focus on anything but the moment as it happened.
The dragon dropped one more time, and a great many things happened at once.
He threw himself clear. That was the thing that seemed most important. It was harder than he thought, because the dragon was moving so fast that even when he jumped, its wing got to where he was aiming at about the same time he did. A great wing bone smashed into him, knocking him into a tumble instead of the semi-planned arc he'd hoped to fall in. Rasim called sky witchery, hoping to slow himself a little, but the ground came up very fast. Horses came up even faster, leaping over his balled-up form. Every single part of Rasim's body hurt from the impact with the earth, and he flinched with every hoof that just barely missed him as it sailed overhead.
Within a few seconds the herd split around him, and something reached down to snatch at him. It didn't quite catch him, but it got him halfway upright, which was not where he wanted to be. Rasim yelled, and something else—someone else—grabbed him and hauled him upward.
Riders. There were riders on a handful of the racing herd. That's what he'd seen. Not deformed horses, but horses bearing riders in the same colors as their pelts, hugging the animals' spines so closely they'd been unrecognizable as people. At least, not from above on dragonback.
The rider he was with slowed, letting the herd race by. In the falling darkness, Rasim saw spears and arrows fly at the dragon as the herd split and closed together again and again, never giving the flying monster a predictable target. He didn't think any of the weapons were hurting the dragon, only harrying it. It bellowed with frustration and rose higher above the herd. More arrows flew at it, and after a minute it roared again, then took itself to the skies, leaving the grasslands behind.
A shout of satisfaction went up from the riders. They wheeled, taking themselves out of the larger herd, and joined the rider who had rescued Rasim. Words spoken far too quickly for Rasim's limited grasp of Shenryalan flowed around him before they obviously made a decision. A handful of riders fell back, apparently planning to stay where they were for the moment. Rasim guessed they might want to keep an eye out for the dragon, in case it came back.
The rest of them, though, including the one he rode with, urged their horses to speed again, and took off across the night without a word of explanation. Rasim briefly considered throwing himself off the horse, too, but he was already cold, tired, and in pain, and also quite certain they would come back for him and be really annoyed that he'd slowed them down.
Besides, Bayar had told him that his clan, the Horse clan, considered killing people to be one of its worst sins. Whatever lay ahead, it probably wasn't the almost-certain death the dragon had offered.
Probably.
CHAPTER 4
He had no real idea how long they rode for. Long enough for Rasim to become incredibly stiff and uncomfortable, but that would have happened even if he hadn't throw himself off both a mountain and a dragon today. Horse-riding was awful. He'd just about decided he needed to ask for a chance to walk when an encampment appeared in front of them, as if out of nowhere.
After a disbelieving stare, he realized it rested in an enormous hollow between hills so gradual and shallow that Rasim hadn't realized they actually existed. The steppe grasses were purple and white under the moon, and Rasim's impression of the whole prairie so far had been one of endless skies and bleached colors.
The encampment below was a riot of strong color in comparison, even in the moonlight. Wheels of brightly-dyed tents spiraled out from a single, enormous circular building. Wide paths lay between the spirals of tents, and the tents themselves got smaller as they moved away from the central one toward the tips of the spirals. Dogs lazed in front of the outermost tents, sprawled half in and out of them. As they approached, many of them sprang to their feet, not barking, but wary and prepared. Some of them were huge, nearly as big as the smaller ponies being ridden, and Rasim wondered if everything in the steppes came in unexpected sizes.
Between the smallest, personal tents and the enormous central one, there were cooking tents, and washing tents, forges and sewing circles, all with a strange air of prepared impermanence. Closer yet to the center were family living spaces, with a few older children still awake with their parents, sitting around fires and watching the returning riders curiously. Everything was filled with color: inset swatches of dark reds, rich blues, brighter tones layered over undyed hides, and softened with fur of every shade and length.
The Shenryalan people were nomadic, with no cities, just gatherings and gathering-places. This place had the feeling of a cozy village, but it had to be portable. Rasim could hardly believe it could be packed up and carried away on a moment's notice.
The central building was another a tremendous tent, capable of being put up and taken down swiftly and efficiently. Its walls were of thicker hide than many of the others, giving it a stiffer and more permanent look, but they were hide, and cloth, all held together with leather stitching and slender, sapling-width poles. A long, snapping flag flew from its peaked top, the colors of a white horse on a red background visible as it shifted and pulled in the wind. As they came closer, a wide soft door was thrown back and a small, ancient woman emerged. The door was closed behind her, and for a moment she stood framed against its brilliant orange-gold dye. She wore heavily embroidered purple silk robes, a color that reminded Rasim of the moon-touched new grass. Its sleeves were rolled back to expose her arms and the innumerable tattoos marked into her wrinkled skin. They were visible on her throat and face, too, faded with age but clearly a lifetime's work. The rider Rasim sat with unceremoniously dumped him off the horse, and when he staggered to a more or less upright position, booted him in the butt to send him forward to the tattooed woman. No one else moved.
He said, "Um," uncertainly, and a hiss erupted from the riders, and, he realized, from an awful lot of other people who had gathered around them with unfriendly expressions. He said, "But," and cringed as another silencing hiss drowned the word.
The old woman's expression didn't change at all. Her eyes were as black and sharp as Guildmaster Isidri's, and even in moonlight she had a warm redness in her cheeks that reminded Rasim of Bayar. She carried a staff in one hand, and Rasim thought it was carved with creatures that might match her tattoos, but firelight from somewhere nearby made the shadows shift and change, and he couldn't tell for sure. She pointed imperiously to the space right in front of her, and Rasim, wishing there was anyone else on his side here, stepped forward.
Without a word, she reached up—up, because even if Rasim wasn't tall, the old woman was considerably smaller—and seized the sides of his head. He froze, then tried not to resist as she pulled his head down to hers. She took a deep breath of his hair and held it as if she was tasting his scent. Rasim's heart started hammering hard, like he was afraid he wouldn't taste good enough. She released him, frowning, and he had the urge to ask her to sniff him again, to make sure he passed muster.
Instead she turned away, barking several commands to those around them. In the midst of them, Rasim heard a word he knew from Bayar, and blurted, "Sorcerer!" first in Ilyaran, then in Shenryalan. "I am a sorcerer, Bayar said—I know he said you don't trust witchery, but I know that word!"
He honestly thought they'd have been less surprised if one of the horses started talking. The old woman turned to him one muscle at a time, her black eyes very bright in the firelight. "Bayar?"
So much relief swept Rasim that he suddenly needed very badly to pee, and wondered how he could ask where a toilet was. From the old woman's expression, though, that was not what he should be talking about. "Bayar," he said again, then, struggling to pick out useful words from his limited Shenryalan, said something that he hoped they would understand as, "He's my friend. He's here, he's safe, he's—" He ended up pointing toward the mountains he'd left behind. "At the watchfire mountain with the flat top," he said in Ilyaran, because he didn't have anything like those words in their language, and then remembered he did, at least, know the river's name in their tongue. "Near the Crack in the Bowl!"
The old lady's expression didn't really change, but Rasim saw something new in it anyway. Satisfaction, maybe, or at least interest. She spoke again, and a handful of the riders he'd come in with, none of whom had dismounted, turned their horses and rode away. Then she poked Rasim in the chest with her staff and lifted iron-grey eyebrows expectantly before placing a hand on her own chest and saying, "Oyun."
"Oyun? Oh. You're O…I'm Rasim." He pushed the staff aside with a fingertip, not wanting to offend, and put his hand where it had been. "Rasim." Then he bowed just in case, because whatever Oyun was, it was clearly a role of importance.
She gave him a sharp smile of approval. "Rasim. Sorcerer-child."
Rasim mumbled, "Seamaster journeyman, not…" then sighed and agreed, "Sorcerer-child."
Oyun cackled and pointed her staff imperiously toward a second tent near the huge one. It was nearly as large, but dyed differently, with shadows and streaks that reminded Rasim of Oyun's tattoos and made him very strongly not want to go in it. Spirits belonged in that tent, not Ilyaran journeymen who were in over their heads. He shook his head, and the old lady smacked him with her staff. "Ow!"
She threatened him with the staff again and he glanced around, finding innumerable Shenryalan gazes staring at him with borderline offense. Clearly telling Oyun 'no' was not an option. Rasim said, "I don't understand," but reluctantly went toward the second tent. Someone opened the soft hide door, letting him pass, and closed it again behind them.
It was very dark inside, although a small central fire glowed with embers. The fire sat in a bowl of its own, handles gleaming in the ember light, and the tent was surprisingly hot after the cool night air. Rasim could see very little beyond the fire bowl, but a smaller tent sat right next to the fire between two tall poles that held the ceiling up. Oyun thumped him in the back and pointed imperiously at the smaller tent. Rasim stood there a few seconds, trying to decide whether arguing was worth it or not, then just sighed and crawled inside.
It smelled appalling, like sweat and sweet sharp smoke. If the outer tent was hot, this one was roasting. Oyun crawled in behind him, then, with her stick, reached out to grab one of the fire's handles.
A whole sledge filled with embers came away. She pulled it into the little tent, closed the door behind her, and sat across from Rasim. The temperature soared and sweat broke out on his forehead as his mouth went dry. He looked for water, and Oyun opened a flask of it. He reached for it gratefully, but instead of giving him any, she squirted the water onto the embers. It filled the already-stinky little tent with steam and a terrible stench of sweet smoke. Rasim howled, "Siliaria's tits!" and lunged for the door, only to be stopped by the old woman's walking stick whacking him in the forehead.
He fell back with another howl, rubbing his forehead, and she pushed him back into place with the stick, then poured more water on the coals. Steam billowed again, making him sick with the heat and scent. He clapped a hand over his mouth, trying not to vomit, and Oyun grinned gleefully and poured more water onto the embers. Rasim gave in and turned to the side, throwing up until his eyes dripped. More water went on the embers, sending the foul smoke smell and steam through the tiny space, and Rasim threw up again, and again, until he couldn't do anything but lie in a ball on the floor and whimper with tears sliding across his nose. Oyun was a blur on the other side of the still-glowing embers. A leering, grinning blur that picked up a drum and hit it hard with her walking stick.
The most horrifying reverberation wobbled through the tent, bounced against its thick hide walls, and sprang back again, rattling Rasim's bones both ways. He hadn't yet recovered from that when she hit the drum again, and then again, until she was keeping up a steady beat that wouldn't let him go, but shook him back and forth like a dog with a bone. He didn't think he had anything left to throw up, but he managed anyway, then put his head on his stinky arms and cried.
The tears took him by surprise, and wracked his body as hard as the drum beat did. He didn't know how long he cried, but he knew what he cried for, as memories and moments he thought he'd already mourned rose in him under the drum's incessant demand and the overwhelming heat in the little tent. He cried for Agnet, and for the terrible destruction of Moran, and for all the friends who had died in Hongrunn and by the sea serpent and even, to his surprise, for the parents he had never known, and never truly missed. The sobs went on a long, long time, and the tears for even longer, but Oyun never missed a beat of her drumming.
Eventually, completely drained, Rasim sat up. He was so tired, tired from the past year, from the day's adventures, from not knowing what was happening. All he had left was waiting to see what happened next. The drumbeat couldn't dislodge any more emotion, or the smelly steam and smoke any more bile. If Oyun wanted him any more depleted, she would have to feed him something to empty his bowels, too. She didn't seem to feel that was necessary, and if he weren't so light-headed with exhaustion, he might have been grateful.
She had, somehow, built up the fire without stopping the drumbeat. It was only a tiny flame, enough to lick at the air and add a little more heat, but it danced there beautifully, almost solitary in the darkness. He watched it, because the only other thing to see was Oyun, and her intent gaze on him was too uncomfortable to meet. His thoughts, already slow, fell away gradually, until his eyes lidded heavily and the firelight seemed to take up a place behind his lashes. All at once he fell, a swift drop that left his body sitting in front of the fire, watching the flame, but his sense of self somewhere else entirely. There was no landscape, no movement, only gentle darkness and the endless thumping of the drum.
A sand snake wiggled up out of the darkness, slid around his leg, and disappeared again. It was speckled brown with a pale belly and reminded Rasim, a little, of the great stone snake he had fought at the edge of the Northern Sea. It came to him two or three times more in the darkness, then slithered off, leaving him feeling rather comforted. A spot of light—firelight—appeared in the black when it was gone, and, having nothing else to do, Rasim drifted toward it.
It sat there in the nothingness, burning nothing, simply being. Rasim had always thought of fire as destructive, even fearsome, as if a glimmer of memory about the Great Fire that had ravaged Ilyara in his infancy was stronger than his knowledge that fire was a useful tool when well-kept. Finding it alone, by itself, with nothing to even burn, made it seem less dangerous. Its light and warmth were the gifts it gave, and in this oddly quiet place of darkness, it took nothing in return. He sat down beside it, sighing, and compared the flame to water's surging strength, to stone's unmoving silence, to air's endless dance. Fire, he thought, breathed. It rose and fell, growing and shrinking, just as a breath did, like a living thing that could not live without air any more than a person could. He had the power now to take away its air, which took away the trace of fear, that hint of terror dissipating like smoke on the wind. The fire in the darkness went away, and Rasim opened his eyes.
He held a flame in his hand, cupped there like a drinking cup with a round, warm base and a narrow neck. It didn't burn him, or go out in the moment he realized he held it; it only glowed there, softly lighting the too-hot tent. He closed his hand, and the flame faded; when he opened it again, the fire sprang back to life like a whisper at the back of his mind, crackling and satisfied and soft. That was what Sunmaster Endat had wanted him to feel, the life of the flame, and now that Rasim knew it, he would never lose it again. He let it die, so that only embers lit the room, and asked, "What did you do? Why did you do it?"
He didn't exactly expect her to answer, but he wasn't exactly surprised when she did, either. She shook her ancient head, grey braids beaded with bright colors falling over her shoulders as she did so. "Unbalanced, you. Sorcerer-child, but broken. Water, pah. Not by nature, not in you. Fire, yes, but fear quenches flame. Unbalanced, you," she repeated.
