Waterborn cotc-1, page 11
part #1 of Chosen of the Changeling Series
"Thank them for me," the Kapaka said.
"They have no such word," Ngangata told him. "I can tell them 'It is enough' or 'You can share our camp, too.' "
"Tell them it is enough, then."
Perkar was glad that they were sleeping at some distance from the Alwat camp, though he had no illusions about being safe from them, should they decide to attack. It was just good to be out of their sight, out of that strange regard, the kind a child or a very old man might hold upon you. As he closed his eyes, he wondered what an Alwa might dream about, if dream they did. He might ask Ngangata, who must surely have dreams of both kinds, Human and Alwat.
INTERLUDE
In the Court of Black Willows
She'lu Yehd Cha'dune, Chakunge, Lord of Nhol, emperor of five domains and the desert hinterland, stared at Nyas—his vizier—with drooping eyes. The deep orange light slanting in through the chamber's high, narrow windows identified the hour as late, nearing sundown. He had been transacting the business of Empire since it had lanced through from the other side of the room at a similar angle. Soon, hopefully, he could snatch a moment of rest, some food in private. He need only focus his attention for a bit longer on the items of the day. Hard to do sometimes, when so many of them were so boring. For instance, Nyas was just finishing a tabulation of tribute received from the sixteen quarters of the down-River port of Wun Yang. She'lu hoped the next matter—whatever it was—would be a bit more interesting.
"Next, my lord, I have a somewhat personal item, a possibly distasteful matter." Nyas peered around his nearly round nose with wide-set eyes, awaiting She'lu's leave to continue.
"Go on," She'lu said, his attention fully focused again.
"It concerns your daughter Hezhi."
"It isn't another complaint from the librarian, is it, Nyas? I thought we had settled that matter." He picked at his robe, frowning.
"Perhaps so, my lord. That is not what I must speak to you about."
"Good." She'lu frowned as Nyas actually looked around him—as if every person within earshot had not been Forbidden to speak anything they heard. As if anyone he did not know about could approach this throne. This must be a delicate matter indeed.
"You remember the incident in the Hall of Moments, just outside of the Leng Court."
"Of course. Three of my elite guardsmen and a priest were killed before they banished the thing. Apparently the priesthood has become complacent—more intent on playing politics than keeping dangerous ghosts out of the Hall of Moments." He aimed this remark, with a flash of his eyes, not at Nyas, but at the pale, pudgy man who occupied a lower seat to his right. The man—today's representative from the priesthood, one De Yehd Shen—colored visibly but did not respond verbally. Not here, anyway, and not without the support of a more eminent priest.
Nyas, of course, caught the exchange, and so shook his head. "Our records show that the hall was swept the day before, in preparation for court, and was being swept again when the attack occurred. It is hard to find any fault…"
"Something was not done right. I still feel the track of the damned thing whenever I walk there. It was strong, more demon than ghost. Almost like something summoned. But I did not summon it."
"Perhaps it slipped through or awoke when you called the Riverghosts," the priest suggested, his little-boy voice clear and piping.
"I would have felt that," She'lu retorted, narrowing his eyes. "Do you think I have no more sense or control than to summon such a thing?"
"Perhaps if some other person took advantage of your summoning, however…"
"Stop," She'lu snapped. "Darken your mouth! I've been through this, and with members of the priesthood far more competent and knowledgeable than you. I don't wish to discuss this further. And what does this have to do with my daughter?" he demanded, suddenly realizing, to his chagrin, that he was somehow missing the point.
"Your daughter," Nyas said, "was seen in the Hall of Moments with her bodyguard at the time of the creature's appearance and attack." He looked meaningfully at She'lu.
The emperor glared back at him. "And?" he asked.
Nyas sighed. "If you remember, Lord, Hezhi is nearly of age— some twelve years old."
"Oh? Oh."
"Indeed. It may be a coincidence, but it could be something more."
"Is my daughter being watched?" he asked. Was the priest actually hiding a smirk? She'lu trembled with the sudden exertion of not striking the simpering fool down. The urge to reach out, slap his soul a bit, was overwhelming. He was emperor, he reminded himself, because he could resist such temptations. His brother, after all, had been born with more power—but no self-control at all.
"She has been watched diffidently, my lord. There has been no formal assignation to her."
"I suppose we should make one then, just in case, though I find it inconceivable that my daughter…"
"Even you are not completely apprised of the River's will," his vizier reminded him.
"Yes, yes. Assign someone to watch her, then."
"My lord," the priest chirped. "That is the business of the priesthood."
"I suppose it is," She'lu grudgingly admitted.
"If you will permit me, I will bring this to the attention of the order."
She'lu drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne, looked tiredly around the chamber. The black columns that supported the roof and gave the court its name seemed to mock him, somehow. Like the priest; nothing he could overtly do anything about. Yet. "Very well," he said at last. "But I want to know who it is."
"I suspect I know who will be assigned, my lord, if you will permit me."
"Go on."
"A new Jik has recently been initiated. He shows enormous potential. He will be very discreet."
"Why a Jik?" She'lu asked irritably. "I see no reason for an assassin to watch my daughter."
"Please, my lord. The Jik are not assassins. They are priests."
"Yes. The sort of priests who assassinate people."
De darkened again. "It is common practice, my lord, when the child is a direct descendant of the Chakunge. You yourself were certainly watched over by a Jik."
She'lu aimed a smoky stare at his vizier. "Is this true, Nyas? You were my father's vizier."
Nyas nodded yes.
She'lu ceased tapping his fingers and glowered at the priest. "Very well. Send him to me, and tell him to have a care. I have high hopes for a good marriage for the girl."
"Very good, Lord," the priest acknowledged. "If you would but give me your leave…"
She'lu sighed heavily, drank some power from the River, felt it course and shimmer in his veins. He sent a finger of it out to the priest, touched his tiny, fragile soul. He stroked it a bit harder than necessary; the man shuddered and his eyes rolled up.
"You may speak of the matter of my daughter, and that only," he commanded. He held the command there for a moment, then pulled the touch away. The priest sagged in his chair, sweat beading on his forehead. She'lu smiled, feeling a bit better. He could have merely released his Forbidding entirely; it would have been less painful for the priest. Nothing that had been discussed was of any real importance, after all. But it pleased him to bring the man discomfort. Indeed, the fellow had been allowed to take notes on much of the court's business—the financial matters, for instance—and he would be allowed to keep those notes, so that the priesthood would not register a complaint. But leaving him Forbidden to talk about those same things would make the priesthood suspect he held unknowable secrets. It would keep them guessing.
"Now," She'lu snapped. "Is that all, Nyas?"
"No, my lord. There is still the matter of the Southtown Levee…"
Suppressing a snarl behind a courtly smile, She'lu settled back into his throne, resigned to an even longer day than usual.
II
The Alwat and the Gods
"They slow us down," Eruka complained. "Why did they have to bring children?"
"They would have slowed us down no matter what," Perkar pointed out. "They have no horses."
"We almost have none ourselves," Eruka reminded him. He felt a brief flash of anger at the flaxen-haired singer, but it quickly passed. They were in the same predicament—both had lost horses they could ill afford to lose. But Eruka was trying to keep in good spirits about it, as opposed to sulking; Perkar supposed he should do no less.
At least they were back on a trail now, though one that was clearly the result of Alwat feet and thus not comfortably broad enough for a horse. The branches sometimes grew low and that also made it difficult to ride, so they spent much time walking, anyway. The Alwat walked far, far in front. He only now and then caught a glimpse of them, as a matter of fact. He had been astonished when all seven of them came along as guides: two men, two women, an infant, an older child, and a gnarled creature Perkar guessed to be an old woman. For traveling they donned soft shoes of deerskin and long cloaks of the same substance, tanned white but with many odd figures and designs burned into them. It was the first thing like adornment Perkar had observed; they wore no jewelry that he could see. They did carry weapons, or at least tools, in little pouches slung over their shoulders on straps. Each adult bore a long cane-pole spear, sharpened and fire-hardened at the end. One of the women also carried a sharp stick. Now and then she would stop, dig some root out of the ground, and place it in a net on her back. She chattered to herself all the time that she did this. Usually she was through by the time the Humans had caught up to her, and she would scramble up and run back to the other Alwat, short legs pumping. Once, instead, she ran circles around the men with horses, chattering what almost seemed like a little song. The other Alwat were more aloof and sober, though when they took breaks to eat or rest they would come back down the trail and watch the Humans, muttering to one another now and then.
Eruka and Apad were proving poor company. He guessed that they were both shaken by the events of the previous day; Eruka by his paralysis, which no one had mentioned, and Apad—his eyes darted here and there, a shadow of fright over them. Given what had happened to Atti, even wearing armor, it was a miracle that Apad had survived unscathed, and that thought seemed to be lodged in his mind. Perkar had tried to congratulate him on his good fortune, only to be rebuffed by a scowl.
Both of his friends wore their armor today, he noted, and both cut fine, heroic figures; Apad in a mail coat of two layers, one steel and the other brass, brass greaves, and a hemispherical cap with a long, lozenge-shaped noseguard. Eruka wore black chain over a scarlet gambeson; rather than a shirt, his armor was a long coat divided into a split skirt that allowed him to straddle his horse. They looked wonderful, warlike; but the air was thin here, and he noticed them puffing and panting. For himself, he had decided to trust the word of the Alwat, who said there was no further danger of attack. As weird and disgusting as they might be, they lived here, were as intimate with the spirits of the land as he was with those of his father's pastures. If there was real danger, they would tell Ngangata—after all, they must think of him as one of their own—and Ngangata would tell them.
After a few more stabs at conversation with the sullen pair, Perkar spurred Mang up ahead to where Atti rode.
"How is that today?" he asked the older man, gesturing at his bandaged torso.
"Very stiff, very painful. But there is no fever in it, I think."
"Good. If you feel any, let us know. We can prepare a decoction of some sort."
Atti nodded. "The Alwat gave me something last night. It helped me sleep, anyway."
"Doesn't that worry you?" Perkar asked. "No doubt their intentions are good. But medicine intended for a dog does not work as well on a cow. Why should the potions of the Alwat not poison us?"
Atti shook his head dismissively. "That isn't the way of it, Perkar. Look; a cow and a dog cannot mate, cannot get offspring from one another. Human and Alwa can; Ngangata proves that. They are much like us, Perkar, much indeed. And I've had their medicines before."
"They seem very different to me," Perkar admitted. Atti shrugged. The two of them rode along in silence for a while. The wind picked up a bit, and the sky began to hint at darkening as a carpet of gray cloud slid in from the south. Atti shook his head at that.
Ngangata had ridden ahead, apparently to converse with the Alwat. Now he rode back. He said a few words to the Kapaka— ahead, seemingly lost in his own thoughts—and then continued on to join Atti and Perkar.
"The Alwat say there is shelter up this way, not too far. One of the stream gods told them it would be best to seek it."
Atti agreed. "Feels odd, doesn't it?"
Ngangata nodded.
"What feels odd?" Perkar asked, and then wished he hadn't, for they both looked at him blankly.
But after a moment Ngangata told him, "The wind. The wind feels odd. The gods are up to something strange, I think."
"Oh."
Above, a pair of squirrels chased one another, shaking leaves down upon the travelers. The branches crowded lower once more, forcing them to dismount yet again. Perkar considered waiting for Eruka and Apad, rejoining them despite their ill humor. He had thought to strike up some friendship with Atti, perhaps get some advice on hunting—but Ngangata made him very uncomfortable, though he grudgingly admitted that the little man was winning a sort of admiration from him. It was the admiration one had for a fine, sharp sword or a well-made fence. He glanced over at the half man, coughed to clear his throat.
"Without your bow, I think, the Wild God would have killed us," he said.
Ngangata frowned a bit. "I have had a lot of time to get used to my bow," he said. "It provides well for me. I thank the god from which it was made daily."
Perkar had seen that, the little man crouched over his stave, croaking the words of a song. Never loud enough for him to hear. He felt a twinge of guilt. How often did he offer to Ko, who had made his sword—or even to Ani Perkar, the oak spirit for whom he was named?
The wind gusted, and now Perkar thought that he, too, sensed something strange in it. A smell perhaps. A smell like flowers, or… something like that.
"Have you met these Alwat before?" Perkar asked. It seemed an inane question even as he said it; but he somehow wanted to talk to this Ngangata, this not-quite-man, wanted to understand his own fear and dislike of him.
"No," Ngangata replied.
"Do they all speak one language? It seems a strange tongue."
"All languages seem strange to me," Ngangata answered, and Perkar thought he saw the merest hint of a smile lift those wide lips. "Theirs no more than any other. It is a language more… fit for speaking to the forest gods than yours."
"But the forest gods speak my language," Perkar said. "Even the Wild God spoke it."
"He spoke what you speak because it is what you speak. He used your own voices, even," Ngangata reminded him. "But Human speech is ill-suited for speaking to the gods, in many ways. The Alwat have lived with the gods for much longer than your kind, have refined their communication with them."
"I suppose that's true," Perkar said, remembering the "Ekar Irusungan," the song telling of the world's beginning. When Human Beings came into the world, they found the forests and Alwat already there. "They are friendly with the gods, then?"
"As friendly as you are with those in your father's lands, I suppose. But the Alwat have reached a different accommodation. Their understanding of gods is different, I think."
"Do they ever…" Perkar felt himself flush hotly. "Do the Alwat and the gods ever have… ah, union… ?"
Ngangata was looking at him very strangely. "You mean sex?"
"I mean anything like that, touching, talking face-to-face, and sex, yes…"
"They live with them. They do not shut themselves up in dead walls…"
"My father's damakuta is not dead wood," Perkar said, a bit annoyed. "Father pleaded with the trees from which it was built; their spirits inhabit it still. As does the hearth god, and a little sprite or two—my house is not dead."
"No, no. But compare that to living in the wildwoods. There are two kinds of gods…"
"Every child knows that," Perkar said.
"Yes, but which is more common?"
"The Aniru, I suppose, the gods of places."
"And the Anishu, the gods who live in things—they are fewer?"
Perkar thought about that. In his father's lands, there was one pasture god, who had been the old forest god—he was Aniru because his life was not tied to a single tree, but to an area of land. The Anishu lived in things, were things—like Ani Perkar, who lived in the oak, like… she, for she was the Stream.
"Yes, I think so. In the whole of the pasture there is really only the one god, the old forest god."
"And the gods of the trees that once lived there, before your ancestor made his bargain with the old god of that land?"
"Gone, I suppose, or living as houses and fence rails."
"But here, look around you. A god in each tree, not just in a few. And rather than one huge place with one god—like your pasture—there are many little ones; the god of that hollow, of this ridge, of that rock outcropping. There are the gods of territory here, too—we fought one—but they are outnumbered. Some of these Aniru resent all of the smaller gods within their territory, I think. I think that is why some bargain with your kind, because you simplify things. Kill all the lesser gods and the gods in things. Then the Aniru, those who live on territories, large spaces of the earth—then they are alone, unchallenged."
"I never really thought about that," Perkar muttered. "I never really thought about the gods plotting against one another."
"Of course you have. Every child learns 'The Song of the Hawk God and the Raven.' "
"Yes, but that song is about war. There are many like that. What you speak of is much more subtle, much more devious."
"Yes."
"But the Alwat do not 'simplify' things for the Aniru?"
"The Alwat prefer the gods in things," Ngangata replied. "The trees, the little places. And yes, they are intimate with them. They consider themselves kin."
"As do we. I am kin to the pasture god."
"Yes. But did you ever stop to wonder how the kinship custom came about? When Human Beings began moving into the forest, seeking pasture, whence came the idea of becoming kin?"
