Cordimancy (12 page)

“You found the rear guard?” White Hair asked, turning to face the newcomer.

“Of course. And the archers.”

“And?”

The golden man reached over his shoulder to pat his weapon. “We left their guts for the vultures.”

“Good. You can do the same for most of the scum that just galloped away. But save me two or three alive, the younger the better. There’s unfinished business that needs blood magic a little earlier than we expected, and I find that I’m running short on donors.”

The small warrior snickered. He raised a hand to his lips and whistled—a shrill, bird-like warble that carried across the meadow and into the forest.

“See you soon, brother Gorumim,” he said, smiling ferociously. And he flashed into grass and wildflowers and was gone.

13

pyres ~ Toril

Blinking
to clear smoke from his eyes, Toril trudged back through the warren of streets on the hillside north of the durga. He’d been carrying corpses all day, making piles and dousing them with tar, then summoning flame with his torch to consume the death. The stench was in his hair and lungs; his thighs and the small of his back ached in protest.

Was Malena awake? Would she be any better when he reached his quarters?

Rounding a corner, he saw a ruby-throated yellowtail chirping on a remnant of thatch, and paused to observe. The contrast between dull scorch and extravagant feather, mute death and birdsong, struck a chord in his heart. He felt a glimmer of hope. Even here, even now, life flew and trilled…

He whistled.

The bird cocked its head for a moment, warbled, then fluttered away.

He lowered his head and walked on.

The last building on the path back was the paoro. Part church, part school, and part town hall, it was an unpretentious building, just large enough for modest-sized gatherings. Its slate roof and walls of stone had saved it from fire, but already Toril sensed a melancholy air of abandonment about it. It was too quiet.

Per tradition, the paoro’s yard was given over to a burial garden, where ashes could be scattered, or unburned bones from a funeral pyre interred. Granite obelisks at each corner of the garden carried the names of the wealthier dead, with years engraved at irregular intervals to give context.

Toril chafed to get back to Malena’s bedside—and yet he dreaded what he might face when he arrived. Giving in to fatigue and reluctance again, he slumped on a bench and watched bees buzz along a shaggy row of honeysuckle.

Did the dead enjoy fragrance or greenery? Did they listen to the cadence and harmony of the hymns that floated over their resting place each day of worship? Would they notice the desolation that had overwhelmed this place?

Would Malena want her ashes here? She’d had little time to make the place her own...

He had heard that folk in the distant north buried their dead—not the ashes, but the entire body. The custom had always puzzled him. Fire and ash, life and death were a circle that you couldn’t divide. In the spring, farmers burned a handful of parched corn from last year’s harvest to ward away crop blight; in the fall, pollen and dried pumpkin blossoms were cast into the harvest bonfire to acknowledge bounty received. Their essence became one with the smoke that permeated the revelers’ hair and clothing and kept the gratitude alive for weeks afterward.

Now, for the first time, Toril considered the destructiveness of fire. It was hard to think of much else, given the ugliness of the razed town and the friends and acquaintances he’d consigned to flame.

The natural world renewed forest and field through fire, drawing green from black in a never-ending cycle. But it suffered to do so. Why had he never realized that before? The thought of Malena on a pyre haunted him.

“
How
is she?” Toril asked, as he pushed open the door of his bedchamber and slumped to a seat on the chest across from Shivi.

“No better than when you last checked,” Shivi answered, interrupting her gentle hum.

“And no worse?” Toril prompted.

Shivi hesitated. “She woke up for a while right after you left at mid-day. She wasn’t very coherent, but she complained about being cold. She’s been shivering ever since. And she’s breathing faster than I like.”

“She was
cold
?” repeated Toril in disbelief. Sweat was dripping off his nose; the fresh tunic he’d found was clinging to him. “Is that normal?”

“Fever outside, chills inside. Both come from a body out of balance. They go together.”

An edge in Shivi’s tone caught Toril’s attention. He raised his eyebrows.

“It’s not a good sign,” Shivi added. “I think the blood has been poisoned. The corruption is very deep, and Malena is having to fight hard.”

“I only tried to stop the bleeding with my magic,” Toril said dispiritedly. “I didn’t know words for much else.”

“Healing magic is the hardest to tame and the most difficult to kindle,” Shivi said. “I am a hand, with years of experience, and it has taken all my effort just to keep her fever down. I can’t keep this up much longer.” Her fingers, which had been stroking Malena’s forehead, stilled. Toril noticed that dark circles were forming under the older woman’s eyes.

“Even if my magic was useless, I thought the salve would have helped. I’ve seen agiruhir work wonders on livestock with worse injuries.”

“This is different,” Shivi said softly. “Sheep and cattle get cuts, scratches, claw marks. Those are surface wounds; even the ones that look bad are usually treatable if you find them fast enough. You wash the flesh thoroughly, no matter how much the animal bellows, and you change the salve and bandages often. If you’re careful, most of the time the animal makes a full recovery.”

“But...”

“But Malena was stabbed deep in her chest. You didn’t find her for almost a day, and you had limited medicine and no way to clean the wound properly.”

“I could have boiled some water like you did. I could have changed her bandages instead of falling asleep,” Toril mumbled. “I could have tried to find help sooner.”

Shivi touched Toril on the arm. “Second-guessing yourself won’t alter the outcome. You did your best.”

“What are you trying to say?” he asked, his voice little more than a whisper.

“When the blood is poisoned, folk rarely survive, Toril. We can still hope, but I would not mislead you. In all likelihood it was too late when you found her.”

The
sound of boots on the steps at the end of the hall stopped Toril’s desperate pacing.

“You here, Toril?” Vasari asked loudly. “It’s about sundown. Time to go.”

Hika, who’d been dozing near the fireplace, yipped softly. Toril unbolted the door and pushed it open. After a moment, the older man stepped in.

“Shivi went for more herbs a while ago,” Toril said. “She should be back soon.”

Vasari glanced at Malena, noticing her pallor and faint, irregular breathing. He put a hand on Toril’s shoulder. “I’m having my men prepare a litter that can be pulled by one of the horses.”

Toril shook his head. “Can’t move her. Too risky.”

Vasari sighed heavily. “We have to. Malena needs a real healer, not a midwife. And we have to go now. I don’t feel safe traveling at night any more than I have to. Those who did this are still out there somewhere.”

“They’re long gone, Vasari. No point sticking around to play in the ashes.”

Vasari shrugged. “I’ll still feel safer when we’re inside Sotalio’s gates.”

“I’m not moving her.”

“I talked to the old man. He says that she’s not headed for recovery.” When Toril did not react, Vasari put a hand on his shoulder. “Time’s running out, Toril. Not just for Malena, but for you as well. We had to burn the dead, but we’ve already overstayed the time limit Rovin gave us. He’s going to think we’re trying to avoid muster into Gorumim’s border force if we dally. Gorumim will think the same.”

“What do I care what those vipers think?” Toril spat. “I already told Gorumim he was getting no troops from Kelun. Rovin has no authority to muster anybody.”

“Think for a moment, Toril! Noemi’s been wiped out. Folk are scared, and with good reason. They want protection. You’re nowhere to be found, and rumors are flying about your unwillingness to fight, your escape from Bakar. They say you’re a coward. Rovin steps into the power vacuum and acts decisively. He organizes defenses. People accept it. Do you really think he has no authority at this point? Do you imagine you can just show up whenever you feel like it, staff in hand, and people will hail you as their leader?”

Toril’s jaw clenched and unclenched. “Gorumim’s manipulating us, Vasari. He trotted out some osipi prisoners at our war council, claimed they’d been captured trying to sneak in to raid Bakar. Eighteen ahu and one aiki, and they were captured without losing a single man on either side? Since when does that happen?”

Vasari looked taken aback. He opened his mouth, but Toril pressed on.

“Gorumim tried to keep Kelun out of the council, Vasari. He summoned my father when he knew the travel would be impossible for him, probably hoping that Rovin would have to be appointed as a replacement. When I showed up instead, it made things difficult. These prisoners are supposed to be Gorumim’s proof that the osipi are on the war path, that Gorumim desperately needs troops from us. But I don’t buy it. And what happens next? Conveniently, my home gets wiped out by what Gorumim claims is an osipi army. Of course, nobody proposes to investigate, and I’m locked in a cell where I can’t make any demands myself. When I manage to escape I find plenty of death, but not a single golden body. Not one, Vasari.”

“So Gorumim’s wrong. Rovin’s wrong.”

“They’re not just mistaken, Vasari! They’re creating the lie, and then milking it! How did Gorumim get word of the attack, all the way in Bakar? I saw our Voice, dead, with my own eyes. No news got out that way.”

“Someone must have escaped.”

“Who? They would have run to Sotalio. Did you see any breathless messenger? Or did Rovin get the news from Gorumim?”

Vasari stared at Toril wordlessly.

“I don’t understand Gorumim’s motive,” Toril continued, “but Rovin’s easy to read. He announced the attack, got everyone in an uproar. Maybe he let you come because he knew it would look bad not to send a delegation, but I’m guessing you’re also one of the few men of any standing who’s inclined to hear me out. With you gone, he’s got free rein to feed the lie. Keep the people scared. Blame me. Point them at their favorite enemy and sound the war cry! You think I don’t get it? You think the son of Hasha doesn’t see through the politics?”

“If you have any political vision at all, you know that Gorumim is a dangerous man to accuse.”

Toril snorted. “It doesn’t seem like he could make things much worse for me.”

“Then come!” Vasari demanded. “Come and tell the rest of the clan what you’re telling me. Don’t let the schemers get away with it.”

Toril glanced at his wife. “I can’t. Not now,” he said hollowly.

Vasari matched his gaze. “She’s dying, Toril. The old man implied it, and now I can see the truth of it in your eyes. Nothing you do is going to change that. Besides, if you’re really clan chief, you can’t dismiss your duty just for inconvenient timing.
‘My people before myself.’
Or didn’t you take the oath?”

Toril whirled and grabbed Vasari’s
jama
with both fists, almost lifting the man off his feet. Hika, who had observed the whole conversation with detachment, growled as he spoke.

“I am
sick
of impossible choices offered by fools, Vasari. Sick of it. I rushed off to Bakar at Gorumim’s behest, and while I was gone, bandits torched my home. I should have been here, defending my wife and father, but no—I was arguing with a bunch of fawning idiots who’d rather imagine enemies than solve problems. And now you want to lecture me about my duty? What kind of a fool do you take me for? Those men that Gorumim wants for his army—they won’t be sitting around doing nothing. There may not be any war with the osipi yet, but there will be before he’s done. Our men will bleed and die because of this convenient little fiction he’s spinning. Their families will suffer. War is starvation and pestilence and rape and murder, and that’s what Rovin is signing us up for. Kelun has the longest and least defended border with Merukesh. You think I don’t see that?”

He released Vasari. The older man stumbled back, and they stood there, facing each other, both breathing heavily. Toril’s eyes were wild, but a stillness crept into them. “You go,” he said. “Tell Sotalio the truth. Tell Rovin I challenge him. Here. In Noemi. He can come and get me. Or he can wait.”

“You know he’ll never come,” Vasari responded angrily. “You have to go to him. And you have to answer when the clan is calling.”

Slowly, Toril shook his head. “No.”

“What do you mean, ‘No’?”

“If the clan can’t wait a day for the clan chief’s wife to live or die, then I owe it no loyalty at all. I was absent on clan business at the hour of Malena’s greatest need. I’ll not bend her death to its convenience as well. And I’ll be lectured about duty by no man.”

Vasari spread his hands. “You’ve got a name as a lip, Toril, but by Dashnal’s hammer, this is one of those times when a little talent in the ear department might be more useful. My men and I are leaving. Now. If you can’t find a way to come with me, then the consequences are on your own head.” He turned and stomped away.

Toril stood motionless, eyes fixed on the doorway that Vasari had vacated, for a hundred heartbeats, until a groan from Malena whipped his head around. Then he rushed to her side. She was arching her shoulders and gasping in weak desperation.

As he reached for her hand, he heard a peal of thunder that seemed to echo his wife’s pain, followed by Shivi’s voice and the sound of hurrying steps. In a moment the frail woman burst through the door, Paka on her heels. She took in Malena’s condition at a glance and knelt to feel her forehead.