Come Twilight (32 page)

Sixth, that Ermangild shall receive, for the trees we have taken, ten measures of grain and two sheep every half year.

I, Hassan ibn Fahsel ibn Hassan, set my hand to this of the fifth full moon in the Christian year 722, 104 of the Hegira.

“It is a terrible waste,” San-Ragoz said as he watched Aulutiz’s companions empty out his chest and kick at the soil in their search for treasure. He hoped he would be permitted to gather up some of the earth once they understood that their labor was in vain.

“So you say.” Aulutiz was growing edgy as the night drew to a close. Already a few birds were singing and the dimmest stars were paling.

“There is nothing here, Aulutiz,” said one of his companions. “Just old dirt.” He kicked at it, scuffing it into the ground.

Aulutiz flung up his hands. “Then it was all a lie,” he exclaimed in disgust.

Erupting from the branches of the olive trees, birds flocked overhead, and a pair of bats, like scraps of soot, fluttered toward the old barn, to rest in the rafters.

“You may have no use for it; the earth is treasure to me.” San-Ragoz bent to salvage as many handfuls of the soil as he could, pushing it into a mound and laying a bit of rotting cloth atop it.

“If you are mad enough to value it, take it,” said Aulutiz, making no effort to conceal his annoyance at this disappointment.

“You are most gracious,” said San-Ragoz, his irony unnoticed by the others.

Aulutiz was restless now, and he glanced at the eastern crags where the tarnished silver sky announced the coming sunrise; more sounds came on the breeze. “It is time to sleep; it will be full-light soon,” he announced, and motioned urgently to those with him. “Hurry. We’re late.”

“What about him?” the tallest of the group demanded, pointing at San-Ragoz.

In the sheepfold, the animals were milling, ready for food and the shepherd to guide them out of the village for a day up the mountain.

“If he is who he says he is, he can fend for himself.” Aulutiz pointed toward the forest. “Go. Go.” He flashed a look in San-Ragoz’s direction. “If you are still here tonight, my mother will want to see you.”

“And I her,” San-Ragoz said grimly as he continued to pile up the earth that had been spilled from his chest.

“It is nearly dawn,” Aulutiz called as he ran toward the promised haven of the trees.

“I know,” said San-Ragoz. He sat on the ground and began to unlace his houseauz, working the inner sole lose so that he could put a lining of his native earth beneath it, and replace the inner sole. He had finished both houseauz and was tying the laces when the silver edge of the sun sent long shadows over the land. San-Ragoz felt the annealing presence of his native earth spread through him as he stood up facing west, his shadow lying before him like a reclining giant. Using the old cloth for a bag, San-Ragoz scraped up the rest of the Carpathian earth he could salvage, unconcerned now with the brightening sun. Holding the bag closed with his hands, he began to walk toward the olive trees; behind him he heard the first of the villagers open his door and step out into the morning. Without haste, San-Ragoz went through the orchard, his spirits lifting and his strength returning. He was almost smiling as he went into the forest south of the village. When he came upon an outcropping of rock, he stopped, and found a hollow between two boulders where he could put his rescued Carpathian earth. Then he laid back atop the earth and let himself begin to regain his stamina and vitality.

Just before he lapsed into his intense slumber, two questions niggled at his thoughts: if Aulutiz and his companions were on their native earth, why were they inactive during the day? Why did they behave as if the sun drained them of all strength? Should they not have been as capable as he, on their native earth, of resisting the exhaustion of the sun? He had no answer when he woke, shortly after noon; rising and setting himself as much to rights as he could, he went back to the edge of Mont Calcius, determination in his stride.

This time there was a man with three missing fingers manning the gate. He had the bearing and body of a mason; he used his big shoulders to show he would not admit strangers to the village before he spoke. “Stop there.” The animals of the night before were gone.

“Willingly,” said San-Ragoz, keeping to his place by the wall.

“We do not welcome strangers here,” the gate-warder said, adding unnecessarily, “I will not admit you.”

San-Ragoz’s demeanor did not change. “No matter. I do not seek entry; I ask only for some information, which you may give me without letting me in.” He did not add that he could easily climb the stone wall, or that he had been in the village the night before.

“What information is that?” asked the gate-warder.

“Something I have heard in my travels—I understand your region of the mountains is called Holy Blood: why is that?” He saw that his bluntness had shocked the man, and went on smoothly, “I came this way some time ago and it had no such reputation then.”

The gate-warder did his best to smile. “Lowland rumors,” he said, dismissing the name and its significance with a wave of his hand.

San-Ragoz nodded. “It is always thus.” He paused, then went on, “And yet, I have heard the same in these mountains, from villagers living here. Why would they say—?”

“Because we fear the Moors,” said the gate-warder quickly. “They are coming higher and higher into our forests. If you have been here before, you must have no doubt of that.”

“They are taking many trees on the lower slopes,” San-Ragoz agreed.

“We have no desire to give them ours. We encourage them to believe all manner of terrible things about our villages and our people. It is very useful.” His expression was partly smug and partly worried; his explanations were not being received as he expected they would be.

“An excellent precaution,” said San-Ragoz. “But I saw a cup filled with blood set in a ruin. That was not done before—not that I was aware of.” He cocked his head. “Did I miss something earlier?”

The gate-warder shook his head several times. “No. No, you did not miss anything.” He coughed. “With the Moors here, we have returned to the old ways. The god of the Christians has not protected us. The older gods might. We leave the blood of our animals. At feast-times we sacrifice a horse.”

“Ah,” said San-Ragoz, beginning to understand how this ritual had come about.

“Do not walk abroad at night, foreigner; there is a need of a goat tonight. Not all goats walk on four legs.” He scowled.

“You are saying I may be one such,” San-Ragoz said.

“If that is how you take it, you may be warned,” the gate-warder recommended. “And do not return here.”

San-Ragoz gave a single nod. “I thank you for your counsel.”

“This is no place for you, or any foreigner,” the gate-warder said for emphasis. “Tell any others you may meet.”

“It is certainly no place for the Moors,” said San-Ragoz, and stepped back from the gate. “Oh. One question more: have the old gods helped you?”

“We leave the cups of blood,” said the gate-warder.

“Yes, you do,” said San-Ragoz before he turned away. “And that is not an answer.” He did not bother to look back as he went on to the north-west, crossing the little stream without hesitation or discomfort; he was aware of being observed for every step he took until he went back into the forest, and along the game trails and abandoned roads he had learned the century before. Once there, he kept on at a brisk pace, covering distance rapidly, following the faint but unmistakable pull of the blood-bond. This led him upward, to the long, bare ridge above the village; to the shepherds’ huts that stood at every ten thousand paces as the mountain rose toward its crest in a treeless sweep of stone. He passed one, and saw another behind him on the ridge; by mid-afternoon, he had gone by a third; he estimated he was twenty-five or -six thousand paces from Mont Calcius; he could barely make out the cluster of buildings surrounded by trees below him in the distance.

Finally he saw one stone house larger than the others, much better-made and kept up than any he had discovered on his walk; it was at the end of a circle of ruins. There were old stone arches standing around the house, each with a cup placed within it. Approaching the door of the house, San-Ragoz saw that it was banded with iron and certainly bolted on the inside. He knew he would have to wait until dusk to speak to its occupant, and so he spent the late afternoon inspecting the cups, noticing how much the blood in each had coagulated, and determining what animal had provided it—most were sheep and goats, but two were boar and one was a horse. San-Ragoz put each back in its arch, then went back to the door, found a place to lean against the stones, and tarried there as the sun dropped lower and lower in the west.

By twilight, he was ready and alert, anticipating the arrival of Chimenae’s band. They would be up by now, and they would travel swiftly. Chimenae herself would want to receive them; he was determined to see her first. He was sorry now that he had such a disheveled appearance, but there was nothing to be done; he brushed off the front of his outer habit with the missing sleeve, and straightened the hang of the garment.

There was the distinct scrape of a metal bar being drawn back and then the door swung open, the old hinges moaning, and Chimenae stepped out of the darkness, stopping at once when she caught sight of San-Ragoz, poised to attack, and staring as recognition dawned. “You!” she accused him. “You!” She was dressed in Byzantine silks that had once been a deep, vibrant red but were now faded to a dull pink against which the old-fashioned tablion of gold coins stood out luminously in the last echo of daylight. Golden coins hung from her ears and there was a narrow diadem of gold around her brow; she had belted her clothing at the hip and had many rings on her fingers. Her shoes were tooled leather and had once been red.

San-Ragoz made her a reverence. “My greetings, Csimenae.”

“How can it be?” She recovered from her momentary stupefaction and was now glowering at him. “You left a century ago.”

“That I did. Circumstances have brought me back.” He paid no heed to her conduct.

“What are you doing here?” Chimenae demanded; there was no welcome in her voice or gladness in her face.

“I am hoping to get into Frankish territory,” he said candidly. “I came here in search of shelter.”

“And you thought you would find it? In this place?” She laughed and began to advance again, her movement swaying and sensuous. “I had almost forgotten you. I assumed you were dead. It was so long ago that you left.”

“A century, as you said,” he acknowledged with a shrug. “Not so long a time for us. The blood-bond will tell you when I have died the True Death. Until then, you may assume I am . . . alive.”

She chose to ignore this kindly admonition; she raised her head with imperious style. “My clan is coming. You should be out of sight.”

“Why?” he asked bluntly.

“Because they do not know you; you do not belong here,” she told him, her hands on her hips. “You are a stranger.”

Now San-Ragoz was genuinely shocked. “A stranger? How can I be that, when it is my blood that gives you life?”

“You left,” she said, and came up to him. “You went away. My blood rules here now.”

“As you should have done,” San-Ragoz said. “You should have left these mountains eighty years ago at least.”

Whatever her reply might have been, it was stopped as the first of her tribe came hurrying up the slope, two with raised swords; there were others close behind. Chimenae swung away from him and faced them. “Stay back!”

Aulutiz was in the lead, and he very nearly ignored his mother’s command as he rushed at San-Ragoz. “You again!” he cried out.

Chimenae reached out and grabbed the young man’s shoulder as he attempted to go past her. “You knew he was here? When did you see him?”

“We happened upon him,” said Aulutiz. “Twice.” He shot a look of reproach at San-Ragoz. “He said he is Sanct’ Germain. I told him to leave.”

“Why did you say nothing to me?” Chimenae demanded, forcing Aulutiz to face her as she spoke. “I should have been told as soon as you found him.”

“I thought he would be gone by now; most men obey us when we give them an order,” he replied, looking shamefaced and annoyed. “Why should I speak of him? He is just a ragged stranger.”

“Sanct’ Germain returns and you do not suppose I would want to hear of it?” Chimenae asked incredulously.

Aulutiz feigned indifference. “If he is Sanct’ Germain.”

The others of Chimenae’s tribe had arrived; they stood in a half-circle, many of them uneasy, as Chimenae announced brusquely, “He is who he says he is.” This grudging concession brought a few of her clan anxiously watchful.

“He dug up an old chest last night, in Mont Calcius,” Aulutiz went on. “It had earth in it, just earth.”

“So that is what you wanted,” said Chimenae as she rounded on San-Ragoz. “Well, now you have it, take it and go.” She pointed down the slope. “There is a track over the mountains that will bring you into Tolosa. The snows are retreating and the passes will soon be open. It will be hard-going, but not impossible for you to cross. You are not wanted here any longer. I have no more use for you.” Then she gave her full attention to the clan gathered around her.

Watching them, San-Ragoz saw that there were thirty-eight of them and that twenty-seven were male. None appeared to be more than thirty years of age; two looked somewhat younger than Aulutiz. He observed how Chimenae dealt with them, showing the greatest favor to her son and doling out smiles and frowns to the rest, modifying her praise with a challenging glance, her rebuke with a sympathetic tone of voice and always watching the others, measuring their reactions. He was troubled by her deliberate way of playing one off against another, and the eager, jealous manner in which her clan scrutinized every nuance of her attentions.

“What fare tonight?” Aulutiz asked, standing back from his mother.

“We hunt,” said one of the younger men, grinning in anticipation as he reached out and slapped Aulutiz on the upper arm in a show of camaraderie. “It is our night.”