Leviathan's Blood (44 page)

‘I don’t need a dark hole.’ Her voice was rough. ‘I have nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘Listen to yourself,’ the Cold Witch said, contempt clear in her voice. ‘You sound as if your tears are all caught in your chest. As if they’re frozen down there, trying
to get out. I know that they are not tears for me, but I will believe that they are. I will believe that you know what I have lost. For over two hundred years I loved Fo. He had the most beautiful
mind I had ever met. To talk to him was to see connections that no one else could, or would. It will never return and I will have to live with that absence.’

‘I am not looking for a fight, Eira.’

‘I do not even remotely care what it is that you want.’

And then she was gone and the doorway was empty, but for its faint light, and its promise of fire.

The afternoon’s sun had begun to set, its light catching on the broken edges of trees, a burnt orange offering to the violence that Heast and Taaira were following.

The trail that the two rode along alternated between sunlight and the heavy, broken shadows of the trees as it climbed a ridge. Heast had not expected the path, and the two had come upon it in a
sudden turn to the east, away from the Kingdoms of Faaisha and towards the plains.

‘Once we reach the ridge at the top,’ Kye Taaira said at the start of the narrow trail, ‘you will see that a part of the mountain has broken and fallen through the ground. It
has left a huge expanse where rivers run like veins in your arm. But by the morning, the trail will have turned again and we will be back in the direction we want.’

In a year, Heast believed, the Mountains of Ger would be too dangerous to journey over. The rot in the mountain would reveal the hidden tunnels and rivers that flowed throughout the range and it
would bring the Cities of Ger and the corpses of men and women to the surface with it, just as it had claimed Mireea and the towns that had been above it. It would claim people, those who came to
live on the shuddering land – Heast had no doubt that there would be men and women, desperate and opportunistic, who would come onto it. Animals would do the same, and they would die beside
the humans.

On the trail, Heast’s horse baulked twice before they reached the end of the steep climb. The second time, Heast stroked the beast’s neck and listened to the eerie silence that
filled the broken trees around him, but it was not until the third time that he said, ‘Your ancestor is no longer far away.’

‘I fear he plans to attack us after nightfall,’ Taaira said. ‘He must not consider us much of a threat.’

‘Is there another path we can take?’

‘Not that I know of.’

Heast’s heels nudged his horse up the trail.

The ancestor would not consider him much of a threat, he knew. His sword was steel and he could use it passably well, but given what Heast had been told about the creature, he did not expect to
be its equal. Yet, a certain part of him anticipated the conflict, for he had never seen one of the Hollow fight before. He had heard stories, of course. Had heard about them fighting with fists
and with staffs, and had heard how they fought as no other warrior did. But he had heard enough in relation to his own life over the years to know that the stories of one’s achievements were
much like a bloated and distorted corpse, no matter how flattering they might appear on the surface.

‘Soon we will be at the Faaishan border, Captain,’ Kye Taaira had said earlier, when they had broken for lunch. ‘When we are there, we should make good time to
Vaeasa.’

‘We won’t be heading there,’ Heast had replied. ‘At least not first.’

‘Where
will
we go?’

‘Maosa first.’ Heast cut two slices off the thick black bread that Essa had given him. Cheese and pork followed. ‘It was where Baeh Lok was taking you, before you were
caught.’

‘It may not be standing,’ Taaira said. ‘Have you considered that?’

‘I have.’

‘But still we will go?’ He regarded Heast intently. ‘What is there that is so important? I have been there before. It has little to recommend it.’

‘It is where Anemone lives.’

The tribesman chuckled.

Heast smiled. ‘You’ve met her, I take it.’

‘She is a cranky old woman,’ he replied. ‘Our shamans always visit when they are there. It is a sign of utmost respect, but you would not know it to hear how she speaks to
them. Why would she treat you any differently?’

‘Because she is the witch of Refuge,’ he said.

After lunch, they had continued up the trail, and now, as Heast entered a clearing, he saw a single body lying in the centre.

The horses, which had baulked earlier, did not do so now. With gentle nudges, Heast and Taaira split to the left and right as they rode into the clearing, but the precaution was unnecessary.

The man – for it had once been a man – lay on his back, quite obviously dead, his body a mix of injuries and deformities. Heast lifted himself from his saddle and walked closer to
examine the body. It appeared as if a second skeletal structure had been fused against the first, enlarging the cheek and chin on the left hand side of his face, the skin breaking beneath the
growth to reveal hard bone. The man’s forehead had suffered similarly, with the bone above the right eye protruding, and a lidded and blind third eye in place. The distortion continued down
the limbs. On the right arm, the elbow joint fused oddly, and the right hand had four fingers growing from the back, leaving nine – including the thumb – in place.

But it was not that which had killed the man.

He had been killed by blunt incisions, each wound tearing open his skin. No sword had made them, nor a knife. Heast suspected, as he lifted a flap of skin aside to reveal damaged organs, that it
had been done by hand.

‘This is what the child did,’ Taaira said quietly. ‘This is one of my ancestors. But where is his blood?’

‘There are no tracks.’ Heast left the body, walked to the side of the clearing that broke into thick trees that still grew on the mountain. ‘Except the ones he left.’

‘He did not do this himself.’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Look at his legs, arms, at where the wounds are. They were to immobilize him first.’

The tribesman rose from beside the body of his ancestor. ‘I know of nothing that could do this, Captain.’

‘I know,’ Heast said, turning away from the trees, away from the ruins that were defined by the broken Spine of Ger, clearly visible from where he stood. ‘It is as I said: the
Ghosts of Mireea are watching us.’

Just after midnight, the marriage was announced.

The groom was the youngest son of Miat Dvir, a skinny boy no older than thirteen who had found the joys of masturbation, but not yet shaving. He was presented to Yoala Fe by Usa Dvir, who stood
head and shoulders taller than the boy and spoke in a strong voice about the deeds of the boy’s father, who had bonded the Saan together by blood, long before his son, Hau, was born. He was
true blood from the warlord, though Bueralan doubted that Miat had any real care for the boy: the old man had had close to a dozen children, but all the stories and rumours the saboteur heard
claimed that he had little love for any but his eldest two sons. Regardless of how much Hau’s father had loved him, the boy was a legitimate Saan prince, and his presence here beside Usa
Dvir, coupled with two dozen guards in copper bracelets, was a clear message to the First Queen of Ooila: succession and change was the bride’s price.

Yoala had spoken to her mother shortly before the announcement. Bueralan had been with the First Queen when her daughter had opened the glass door, dismissing the Queen’s Voice with a wave
of her hand, before walking determinedly across the balcony. As she drew closer, Bueralan thought that the hardness in her matched her older self well. In their youth, he had always thought that it
ill suited her and Zean had laughed at his attempts to soften her. His marriage to Yoala had been decided at a very early age, and he had adhered to it until he was old enough that his interests,
along with her own, had diverged to such an extent that the prospect of marriage was simply one of unhappiness on both parts. By the time he had become involved with the Hundredth Prince, his
engagement to the Third Princess had been over for three years, and the two of them had not spoken since.

‘If you don’t mind,’ Yoala said to him coldly, ‘I’d like to speak to my mother alone.’

Bueralan glanced at the First Queen, who replied that she would be fine. He nodded and left. After he closed the door, he stood beside the Queen’s Voice and watched the party before
them.

‘Are you having fun?’ she asked him.

‘I was promised that,’ he said drily. ‘I keep waiting for someone to ask me to dance.’

‘Don’t look at me.’

‘Perish the thought.’ A moment of silence passed between them. On the floor, people stood close to each other, clumped in sections while young men in robes of pale yellow walked
among them, holding trays of food and drink. ‘You want a drink?’

‘Very much so.’ The Queen’s Voice shook her head. ‘But just water, and if you don’t mind, could you pour it yourself?’

‘The Saan rarely poison,’ he said.

‘Who said I feared the Saan?’

He left her on the first floor, taking slow, lazy steps down the large staircase that ended on the smooth stone floor. At the far edge of the room were a series of long tables dominated by a set
of ice sculptures. They depicted half a dozen warriors fighting a single Saan warrior, who held two broken blades in his grasp. The Saan warrior loomed over the others, and though his swords were
in a defensive position, there was no doubting that he would fend off these attackers, who had begun to melt into large pools of water from their torsos, giving the impression that they were about
to drown in their own blood.

‘Impressive, is it not, Captain?’

Bueralan dipped a glass into the cold water. ‘Hello, Usa,’ he said.

‘It is meant to be a depiction of the Blade Prince in his famous battle at the Jajjar. He had been cut off from the rest of the Dvir army and found himself isolated in the small town. Over
one hundred warriors swept into it to kill him, and in a battle that took over a week, he killed each and every one of his opponents. It was said that on the third day his blades broke, and he
fought for four more days with the shattered remains. Personally, I suspected he picked a fresh blade, but legend is a strange thing, beholden to no fact.’ The Dvir war scout moved to stand
beside Bueralan, his back to the sculptures, to the fragile glasses and beautifully arranged plates of food, his gaze on the floor above. ‘Do you know, I did not think the old woman would
ever let you out of her clutches. She must like the fame you come with.’

‘There will be a new topic tomorrow.’ He dipped a second glass for himself into the water. ‘You know that as well as I do.’

‘Yes, but the shock of the marriage will be greater, thanks to you. I ought to pay you for that.’

‘The Saan do not hire mercenaries.’

‘I have heard such a thing said myself.’ He smiled faintly. ‘She is a beautiful woman, is she not?’

Bueralan followed the other man’s gaze and found it centred on the Queen’s Voice. ‘I don’t think she is your kind.’ He recognized the insult as he spoke, knew that
he should stop himself, but found that he continued drily, regardless. ‘She has too many opinions and is much too old for you.’

The war scout’s smile faded. ‘We’re all just flesh, Captain.’

‘A fascinating insight, Usa.’ Bueralan picked up the two glasses, the moisture running over his hands. ‘Do you have more written down?’

‘It was always said you had a soft spot for slaves.’

Bueralan left him, then.

He walked up the stairs slowly, returning to the Queen’s Voice without rush, aware that he had most likely made an enemy of Usa because of her. He was surprised, despite himself. He had
gained a greater respect for the Queen’s Voice over the night, at times watching her converse with men and women while the First Queen was silent beside him, watching the sureness and
confidence by which she maintained the standards of royalty without compromising her own grace. She had made his job much easier, allowed him to learn faces, names, to note those who approached and
those who did not. But he did not think that he had been so impressed that he would insult the war scout of the Dvir family. But he supposed that it did not truly matter: any retaliation that Usa
could undertake would have to be done outside the Dvir interests, and once the night was over, the war scout would be busy enough that he would be forced to put aside Bueralan’s words.

Yet, as the announcement of marriage was made, and Yoala Fe took her young fiancé’s arm in her own and stepped into the middle of the downstairs room, which filled with applause as
orange-and-yellow confetti dropped from the ceiling, Usa Dvir turned to stare at Bueralan.

‘You’ve made a friend,’ the Queen’s Voice said.

‘I’m very charming.’

She might have said more if the applause in the room had not faded to one strong, steady clap, much like a war drum’s beat.

‘I did not know that I had arrived for a wedding,’ a man’s voice said. ‘Samuel, did you know anything of this?’

A brown-skinned man stepped into the room without waiting for a reply. From his position upstairs, Bueralan could not see his face, but he could see the old dust-stained leather armour that he
wore, and the hilts of two worn weapons, one a dagger, the other a sword. But it was the chain in his hand that drew Bueralan’s attention, the chain that fell in a slack loop behind him, and
was connected to the neck of Samuel Orlan.

‘Guards!’ Yoala demanded. ‘
Guards!
Who has let this man in?’

‘I am afraid they all stepped aside for me.’ The hand that held the chain was heavily scarred. ‘They knew my name, both my names, and they laid down their weapons for me. One
even called me Mister Ren, but I told him that that was my father’s name, and that I was simply Aela.

‘Aela Ren.’

‘The second offer,’ Jiqana told me, ‘was given a week after we had been in the camp. In the days before, the soldiers would come up and talk to you. Some were
frightening: they had filed their teeth down, or dug trinkets beneath their skin, but some were not. Some were normal. Friendly. But both would ask you about your life, about the things that you
had done, and the things you wanted to do. It did not seem to me that anything anyone said was right, but nothing appeared to be wrong, either. In some of us, it bred a kind of confidence. After
two or three days, they would begin to whisper about what they saw in the camp. They would point out that the Faithful did not have much food. That they did not have a single uniform. That their
siege weapons were made from town walls and buildings. By the sixth day, some were even talking openly about how many of the Faithful weren’t even soldiers.