Cordimancy (34 page)

The ascent was agonizing.

Always when she looked back, she saw the pishachas, narrowing the gap between them. Her heartbeat crescendoed.

They were halfway up, perhaps, when grunts and shrieks reached their ears, and they heard scrabbling almost straight below. Their pursuers had covered the final hundred paces in a sprint; looking down, Malena saw pishachas dismounting, preparing to scale.

Toril was panting too heavily to react. His head hung low, his back bent almost double. Paka held his shoulders in a death grip, eyes wide.

Oji cursed softly.

“Hold still,” Malena said. “Shivi, pull in a little closer to Paka.” When the older woman was out of the way, Malena crept back along the shelf they all shared, found a safe position, and pried with the staff. For a long moment, she feared she’d selected the wrong boulder—but then a chunk of rock nearly her own height cracked away from the face of the cliff and plunged, shattering and gathering a cascade of smaller debris as it fell.

Screams sounded, then a few odd squeals and a high whine that faded into silence.

Rocks clattered.

“Killed a few,” Malena said, grimly. “But not enough, I think. They’re regrouping.”

“How far?” Toril gasped.

“We’re closer to the top than the bottom,” Malena said. “I hope.”

Toril groaned.

“There’s a crack that runs almost vertical, just ahead,” she added. “If we brace our backs, we might be able to go straight up. Looks like it runs all the way to the top.”

“I might manage that with one good leg,” Paka said. “Let me off.” Malena heard strings twang, hollow wood bang lightly. “I won’t be bringing my music any further, I think.” He sounded sadder than she had ever heard him.

They began wedging their way up the chimney. Malena went first, calling down instructions to the others. Blindness was less of a handicap; safety depended on friction more than on balance or perfect placement of hands and feet.

In short order, even Toril, at the bottom, was higher by the height of a dozen men. Sounds of pursuit concentrated at the foot of the crack; apparently, it was too wide for the pishachas to emulate the humans’ climbing technique. She heard a splinter and vibration as the sitar smashed.

“Is that daylight?” Shivi gasped, looking upward.

Bitterness welled in Malena. She had hit a dead end. The top was almost within reach—she saw a lip that, on flat ground, she might have touched on tip-toe. But there was nothing more to brace against; the chimney widened into smooth rock with no obvious handholds.

The pishachas will have their meal after all
, she thought.

“I can’t,” she called, her voice breaking. “The last little bit…”

For a long moment, only ragged breathing, Malena’s muted whimpers, and clatters and howls far below, broke the mist.

Then Oji spoke.

“Drop one end of the staff to me,” he said. “I’ll climb. Stay put, and brace well.”

Malena complied. She felt the staff grow heavy, and gritted her teeth as it jerked. Her arms ached. A small hand grabbed her wrist, then her ankle. It slipped, grabbed again. She felt weight on her shins. The staff grew light.

Oji gasped for a few moments. Malena gritted teeth at the discomfort from him kneeling on her leg.

“Now raise the staff and brace it somewhere.”

Somehow, she jammed the staff inside her hip and held it, tolerating its dig, while Oji shinnied up. At the top, he flailed for a moment, then flung himself forward, fish-tailed, and disappeared.

She closed her eyes. So, so weary. At least one of them would survive.

Her legs were beginning to tremble. How long could she hold out before she fell?

Breathe in. Breathe out.

A golden head—a beautiful head—popped back over the edge. She realized that she was seeing now without the aid of the staff. A momentary rent in the mist revealed streaming sunlight; even after the gray closed back, shapes were visible.

“Now Shivi,” he said. “She’s next lightest. If you can anchor her, there’ll be two of us to pull you up.”

Could she do this?

She remembered that she had to. Tupa was depending on her. The other children, too.

Once more she dangled the staff, praying that she had enough strength in her arms and hands to sustain the weight. Shivi was much less agile than Oji, but she seemed to get a boost from below; soon she was crouching in Malena’s lap. Instead of climbing the staff, she lifted it to Oji, who pulled her up easily. The two of them then hauled Malena, clinging to the staff, over the edge. Malena flopped face-down onto stone, knuckles bleeding, chest and belly raw, and sobbed.

She saw daylight. Silica glinted in the stone at her cheek.

She was out of the mist.

A hand fell on her shoulder.

“We’re not done. It will take all to lift Paka.”

In a trance of adrenaline, she watched Oji lay down at the edge, fog surging around him, and extend the staff. She felt his ankles in her hands, felt her heart thunder, watched herself heaving beside Shivi. An old man’s head rose.

She saw Paka take off a belt, wrap a wrist around one end, and hand the other end to her. She felt her shoulders and thighs bunch, felt Shivi’s bony fingers around her waist. The two men knelt at the edge, backs straining. An arm appeared, slapped, dug nails into a crack. Toril threw himself forward, slipped, slid away. The belt in her hands jerked…

Stretched…

Held.

Toril emerged from the mist once again, face contorted.

He teetered for a moment that seemed to last an hour, then slithered forward and collapsed at her feet, utterly exhausted.

She fell to her knees, pressed forehead to his shoulder, and wept.

46

Lin's seedling ~ Toril

The
first thing Toril noticed, when his heartbeat slowed and his lungs no longer shrieked for air, was the breeze—specifically, its temperature. In the depths of the Rift, his face and throat had flushed with heat, and thirst had driven him nearly mad. The sensation of baking, both outside and in, had built hour by hour.

Now a delicious breath of cool tickled rivulets of sweat on the nape of his neck, slid across burning forehead and between parched lips, and soothed his lungs.

He felt… Alive? Calm.

Next he heard the quiet.

There were no ghostly wails.

No echoes from malicious denizens of the mist, animated by blood lust.

No confusing tricks of the ear.

It wasn’t dead silence, but rather a sort of soft, peaceful texture of sound. Was that rustling leaves? He thought he could just make out the burble and chuckle of running water.

He raised his head and blinked.

Sunlight struck his face.

Malena rocked back. Too late, he appreciated her proximity, missed the delicate pressure of her fingertips on his back.

She brushed a tear off one cheek and smiled.

Toril smiled back.

Feet slapped stone.

Oji trotted up, a dripping waterskin in both hands. He offered it to Shivi first. The old woman closed her eyes in relief as liquid hit her lips. Then Paka’s beard bobbed. Malena sighed when her turn came, holding wet palms on her throat as she finished.

Toril half expected the water to be warm and clouded by salt; with the vision of the staff he’d seen plenty of boiling cauldrons and mineral-crusted sinkholes while they traversed the waste. As thirst grew critical, he’d debated stopping, wondering if a noxious drink would be better than nothing. Now he was certain he’d risk it.

However, this water was pure, sweet, and cold. He had never tasted anything so exquisite. Toril gulped until the skin grew flaccid in his hands and his stomach gurgled.

“I will be in your debt forever for that drink,” he whispered to Oji. Unexpectedly, his eyes began to brim. “We all will. It was a taste of heaven.”

Oji clapped his shoulder. “Remember how I shivered when you killed a cat and free-cut me? Remember the cloak you offered? That was my heaven.” He opened his mouth to say more, then shrugged and laughed instead.

Looking over Oji’s shoulder, Toril took in his surroundings for the first time. The stone they’d climbed fringed a gentle, grass-covered rise; the rill that had slaked their thirst glinted through vermillion poppies. It was achingly beautiful—but Toril confirmed what he’d seen before with the staff—they had not reached the edge of the Rift. They were on an island of sorts; their circle of sunshine appeared to end in billowing haze within a short walk in every direction.

The central fact of their new location was not the hill, however. Nor was it the mist that groped its borders and meant their reprieve was only temporary, nor even the spring that would have riveted Toril’s attention moments before.

At the apex of the hill stood a solitary oak tree; once he lifted his gaze, he had eyes for nothing else.

It was enormous—majestic, hale, and symmetrical—and the most magical, yet the most exultantly alive and natural thing he had ever seen. Morning sun made its leaves shimmer in green and gold; the poppies seemed pale and washed-out by comparison. The trunk, covered with moss, stretched more than twice as wide as Toril’s staff at its base; its branches, thick as a man’s height, swept out to a crown so broad and high that it dwarfed both the clearing and the walls of mist.

Toril’s heart leapt when he saw it.

Here was something that did not shrink from the darkness.

Here was a refuge no pishacha could infringe or destroy.

For reasons he did not understand, Toril immediately sensed a sort of inversion of cause and effect about the tree. Ordinarily, water and good soil made a tree possible; here, he was certain it had been the opposite. Somehow, this tree had pushed back the reeking, foul haze, transformed rock and sand to rich loam, willed pure water out of the ground, freshened the air, and thrust above darkness to hail the sun and stars in flight. It must have stood like this for centuries, sending taproots deep, rustling its joy.

Malena saw his expression, and turned. He watched the lines at the corners of her eyes and lips soften. Her mouth opened in a wordless expression of delight.

For a long time, nobody spoke; they just sat and feasted on the sight of the tree.

Paka was the first to find words. He cleared his throat. “I’ve always had a thing for oaks,” he said. “Now I know why.”

Shivi limped over to Malena and cupped her cheeks with wrinkled hands. “Remember when I said not to give up on joy?” she whispered.

Malena leaned into the older woman’s shoulder.

“I know this tree,” Paka murmured. “At least, I know what it must be.”

“You do?” Oji asked. “What is it?”

Paka held out his hand. “Help me up. Need to wash the wound in my leg. Toril’s got a rip in his ribs, and everybody has cuts and bruises. I don’t know if the water here is magical, but it sure felt that way when I drank just now. Let’s get cleaned up, and I’ll tell you the story of this tree while we work.”

“
If
you’ve read
Memimir Taran-ya
, you know a little about the Blood Rift,” Paka began. “It tells how the land was torn by sorcery—blood magic—worked by an ancient queen of Zufa named Viro. It warns us to avoid her same mistake—and I suppose that’s true enough, far as it goes. But it’s just the start of the story. Here’s how I heard it, back when I was studying to be a kada, in fancy kada words.”

He grimaced as Oji swabbed his hip, then inhaled carefully.

Long ago, Zufa was ruled by a wise raja who had twin daughters, Lin and Viro. They were his only heirs.

Lin was gentle and generous by nature, and she grasped affairs of state with a wisdom far beyond her years. But she had no great love of politics, and preferred to spend her days walking among the blossoms and trees in the palace gardens, or making friends with the homeless waifs who clustered at the gates to beg for alms. She had a talent for learning people's names, and it was said that her father preferred her smile to a week of sunshine.

Viro was quick and fiery, with striking features and a ready wit. She was also a gifted hand, like her late mother; rumor had it that she could stroke tears from a stone with the magic in her fingers. And she excelled as a student of history and language, battlecraft and commerce.

Because Lin was the eldest, her father and his advisers expected her to take the throne, while Viro would marry for alliance. This prospect was not especially pleasing to either of the girls. Lin was not eager for a future of duties and formality; Viro resented being relegated to a lesser realm at the margins of power, where her talents would languish.

One day Viro approached the raja with a request that he allow his daughters to reverse their roles. It was best, she argued, for each person to do what suited them. She loved the complexity of negotiation and statecraft, and had her tutors not described her as their most brilliant pupil? She would wield the power of the throne with greater zeal and expertise than her sister. Besides, why should Lin be saddled with a role she didn't relish? 

The raja consented to ponder, but he did not agree right away. He saw a kernel of sense in the plan; however, his younger daughter's ambition troubled him, and he worried that the proposal would sow the seeds of contention. The common folk idolized Lin. Would they accept her replacement cheerfully? Could he in good conscience deny them a ruler with her natural integrity and compassion? What about the aristocratic young men who were already beginning to send out feelers for Viro's hand? If he flouted tradition, would his grandchildren accept the station they were born to, or would Lin's posterity seek to take back their legacy?

And of course, he had Lin's feelings to consider. Detesting pomp was understandable—he'd battled a similar restlessness himself, all his life—but that did not mean Lin would be miserable as queen. He derived warm satisfaction from the wars he had managed not to fight, from the occasions when he'd displayed clemency and restraint, from a reputation for justice. He was sure Lin would someday feel the same.

Besides, would the role of a foreign consort really be more pleasant? Transplanted to the court of a distant realm, his daughter would live as figurehead, with less substance, less chance for friendship and down-to-earth frankness to counterbalance the posturing. Lin liked to gossip with the scullery maids; here, the habit was endearing, if a bit undignified, but among those who knew Lin less well, such behavior was more likely to garner contempt or censure. Viro's verbal sophistries and aloof cultivation of admirers was a better fit for such a life.

Weeks went by, then months, and the raja could not settle on a course of action. 

Viro grew moody. She acted bewildered at her father's indecision, wounded at his lack of confidence. She began to find fault with her sister, first subtly, and then with greater boldness.

One day the raja found Lin crying quietly in the gardens. Her favorite flowers were wilted and dying. Lin blamed a hot east wind, but the raja knew better. He had seen Viro in that very spot the previous evening, her slender fingers stroking the petals with what he had supposed was uncharacteristic affection. He recalled with miserable certainty her magical talents.

Viro approached him that same evening. "Why do you delay, Father?" she said. "Is tradition so sacred that it outweighs the happiness of both your daughters?"

"If only it were that simple," the raja replied.

"Ah," said Viro, as if she were suddenly realizing something. "You fear to hurt Lin's feelings." She paused. "Or mine."

"Of course," said the raja. "But that's not it, either. At least, that's not the whole issue."

"Then what?" Viro prodded. "Do five extra minutes at mother's breast matter so much to fate? Lin may be older, but she is more interested in songbirds than diplomacy, Father. I work hard to learn the languages of Merukesh and Altria. I practice my magic and my bargaining and my thrusts and parries because I want to carry on your legacy. Lin is a heart; she can't kindle or even curtsy, and she will never manage power like me."

The raja smiled sadly at his daughter. "Come with me," he said in a soft voice. And he led Viro onto the balcony. Below, Lin was handing out leftover bread from the palace kitchens to hungry beggars. She was at ease among the rabble, bantering with confidence. The guards at the gate were alert, but not worried.

"What do you see?" said the raja.

"I see Lin skipping her lesson with the harp," said Viro tartly.

The raja gazed down and shook his head. "Two kinds of power are at play down there, daughter. One is the power of a smile and a loaf and a name remembered. It is a power that you could wield well, if you chose. Mastering such power would bring you real happiness."

Viro waited for her father to continue, but he seemed content to remain silent.

"And what is the other power you see?"

"Wilted flowers," he whispered.

Viro understood then that she had lost her father's trust as well as his endorsement, and her heart grew bitter. "You are naive, Father," she said. "A hunk of stale bread won't cure poverty. Sound bargaining might, though. If I could get better prices for our millet when we trade with our neighbors, there would be less riffraff in the streets."

"There is a difference between food and kindness," said the raja.

"Is there?" said Viro.

The old raja lived to see Viro marry the crown prince of Altria, but he was mercifully dead when Viro's father-in-law and husband died in quick succession, both of unexplained illness. Lin heard the news and thought of her flowers and wept for the sister of her childhood. She had lost her own husband to a plague within months of marrying, and she knew something of loneliness—but Lin was certain the silence in her sister's chambers echoed with a type of emptiness that was especially haunting.

Altria grew proud under Viro's leadership. It severed its ties to Zufa, stopped sending tribute. Its army intimidated smaller satellites; its ambassadors were polished and cunning and quick to take advantage—and they always blamed Zufa for inequities of wealth or opportunity. "We have a common enemy," they said. "The crown in Zufa has grown fat on our taxes; now we must stick together to counter her lopsided influence." Some lands listened.

Lin ignored her advisers who counseled a decisive consolidation of power; she felt it was kinder to let some vassal states grasp at independence than to plunge the entire land into war. And perhaps her soft heart betrayed her.

A drought swept the land. Lin had just begun an ambitious plan to irrigate the plains south of the capital; now she bent all her effort to complete the project. She moved out of the palace into a dusty tent to be near the digging. She met with local councils of elders to arrange equitable well-sharing plans. She opened the treasury to hire idle farmers, and sent them into the mountains to redirect runoff into streams, and streams into the larger rivers that kept the lowlands alive. She blinked gritty tears beside villagers as they watched cattle grow bony, then weak, then diseased and catatonic. And still the land grew drier, until green was a miracle that children knew only from the memories of their elders, and water was as precious as myrrh.