Storm Bride (17 page)

Chapter 19

Saotse

T
he water that they crossed
was murky and cold with the trembling of the Powers. Oarsa stirred in the deeps, as if readying to breach Saotse’s defenses like a whale breaking the surface of the waters. But not yet. He was still far off, and as for Saotse, the earth, the soil, and the ground were her comfort and her friend.

With great relief she heard the gravel biting at the belly of the canoe and the voices of the Ruhasei barking orders to leave the boats, come up on the shore, carry packs, move forward. A core of men remained to paddle the canoes back across the bay to Ruhasu, where they would take up the next wave of fighters and refugees answering the
kenda
’s call. Saotse, Tagoa, Palam, and the rest in their group did not wait for them. The
kenda
was waiting, and Palam was impatient.

They traveled for a day on foot. When the group moved slowly, Saotse walked, her feet in moccasins to shield her from Sorrow’s touch, and when they hurried, she was carried. They passed through a land of fragrant spruces and ferns, the twin of the north shore of the bay, gradually rising from the salty mist of the seashore to the drier, sun-lapped inland. The land was sprinkled with the villages and fields of the southern Prasei. A crooked little deer trail through the woods was the closest thing to a road.

The people they passed called out to them, “Are you going to the
kenda
?”

“Yes,” Palam called back, “and we’re bringing one of the Kept.”

Guffaws of disbelief followed them, but Saotse was content to remain silent. Let the peasants of the forest laugh. She was going to meet the
kenda
.

The first night, they stopped in a larger village and begged shelter, in the name of the
kenda
and the Kept. The poor villagers openly disbelieved the messenger’s claims about Saotse, but they sheltered them anyway.

Saotse refused to do a demonstration. “I am tired,” she said, “and Sorrow rests in preparation for the battle to come.” She didn’t add that she doubted she could perform any demonstration without damaging the village.

The second and third days were much the same, passing through the alternating coolness of tree shadows and warm, fragrant stretches of cornfields at the edge of villages. They passed an outpost of the
kenda
, from which Palam dispatched couriers telling of their approach. They met other refugees of Prasa along the road and shared terrible stories of the city’s fall. The lodges of their hosts were awash in remembered blood. This shared remembrance, more than any of the promises of the
kenda
’s support, was what endeared them to their hosts.

Around noon of the fourth day, Tagoa stopped suddenly in the path. “What is
that
?”

Saotse heard only the grinding of wheels on the path approaching them, like the sound of a cart, but with the tinkling of bells. The footfalls of the group around her fell silent.

Palam laughed. “Have none of you ever seen a chariot before?”

A voice like an oak beam battered the air, speaking in heavily accented Praseo: “We come in the name of the
kenda
of Kendilar. Is the Kept of the unknown Power among you?”

Saotse crept forward a few steps with Tagoa guiding her elbow. “I am she.”

Silence hung in the air. Perhaps he disbelieved her. Twice she heard Palam open his mouth as if to say something, but twice he shut it again.

“Is this your entire party?” the speaker asked.

“There are others from Ruhasu,” Palam said, “but they lag us by half a day.”

This seemed to satisfy the other. “Come then, Grandmother. The
kenda
has sent a chariot and spears to carry you in honor to his side.”

Tagoa touched her shoulder. “A little bit ahead is the chariot,” he whispered. “It’s a wide chair mounted on wheels as if it were a cart, with two horses pulling it. I’ll guide you into it.”

He led her toward the sound of the bells and the smell of horses, up a precarious step, and onto a little bench, wide enough for her but no other. She felt no reins. Was she supposed to drive this device herself? All around her, the voices of the rest of the party moved forward, wondering and muttering at the strange device and the Yivrian soldiers. Tagoa let go of her hand.

“Where are you going?” she asked, frantic.

“I’m right here,” he said, resting a hand on her shoulder.

The leader of the soldiers tutted, and the chariot lurched forward. Bells on the reins tinkled like rain on water. The chariot swayed slightly as they moved, lurching and bouncing over the ruts in the road. Once her nervousness subsided, Saotse began to enjoy the chariot. It was easier than walking and more dignified than being carried. The rocking of the wheels and the gentle swaying of the reins established a comfortable rhythm.

The chariot traveled with the group for the rest of the day, until they reached and relied upon another village’s hospitality. The villagers greeted the growing party with weariness, and Saotse heard them muttering about having to house the
kenda
’s guard again. But based on what the
kenda
’s men said, tomorrow Saotse and her companions would reach the camp.

It was afternoon the next day when Tagoa said to Saotse, “I believe that we’re coming close.”

She heard murmuring among the
kenda
’s men. They halted in a place where the voices of soldiers were thick and stern, where a tense discussion in Yivrian passed between the chariot driver and the guards. Then they passed beyond the sentries, and Tagoa let out a gasp that carried even over the creaking of the chariot’s wheels.

“What do you see?” she asked.

“An army… I’ve never seen anything like it. I see spears like the blades of grass in a field. The forces are camped in groups, with banners over the top of them painted with totems and names. There must be, oh, a hundred different banners, with a hundred men under every banner. Over there—is that it? What else could it be? I think I see the
kenda
’s pavilion.”

The sound-stifling canopy of the forest fell away from them, and Saotse heard the murmur of people crowded together like nesting gulls. It was like the furor of the market, a froth of speech and smoke, but
bigger
, as if the market had gone mad and spilled itself over the entire breadth of the city. The encampment assaulted her nose: unwashed men crowded together like cornstalks, smoking campfires with fat sizzling in pans, the odor of horses and hay, grass and pine trampled underfoot, and open latrines putrefying in the sun.

Saotse’s companions went mute while the hubbub of the encampment rose up around them. They were going down a narrow path, with the noise of the encampment stretching away on both sides.

“What do you see?” Saotse asked Tagoa. “You said something about the
kenda
’s pavilion.”

“Ahead of us,” Tagoa said, “there are great tents, as big as a lodge, of white fabric with silver flags flying from the poles. There is a sword painted on the sides of the tent, with nine stars around it. Is that the
kenda
’s insignia?”

“I don’t know,” Saotse said. Her ignorance shamed her. Did the
kenda
raise an ancestor totem over his lodge as in Prasa? Should she salute it? Should she address him as “Grandfather,” as she would the Eldest of another
enna
, or did he possess a title of his own?

They stopped. Ahead of them, someone conversed with Palam in Yivrian. Palam said to them, “The rest of you from Ruhasu will be shown to your camp. The Kept, her aide, and those of the
kenda
’s
enna
will come with me.”

Saotse took a moment to realize that “her aide” was Tagoa. He padded up next to the chariot and clutched her arm as if it were a stone in the sea. A tide of grumbling and barked orders washed away the rest of the party from Ruhasu, leaving only the three that the leader had mentioned.

“Finally,” Palam muttered.

The chariot lurched forward. Dimness swallowed Saotse’s head, and the muffled sounds of the camp dropped away. Voices speaking in clear, sharp Yivrian filled a narrow, roofed space. The pavilion quieted. A question shot like an arrow through the silence in a voice raspy with age.

Palam carried on a short conversation with him, then addressed Saotse with a fear-drenched voice, “Grandmother, Kept of the unknown Power, can you rise?”

She clenched the sides of the chariot and pushed herself to her feet. She sought the ground with her foot and stepped forward.

To her surprise, the elderly speaker spoke in lightly accented Praseo. “Grandmother, you are the Kept who makes the earth shake?”

“I am.” Her words bunched up on her tongue. “Forgive me, Grandfather, for I can’t see you. But I believe you are the
kenda
.”

“How bold of you to assume that the first person to speak to you is the
kenda
himself.”

“I do not mean to be bold.”

“No? Do you mean to flatter me, then?”

“No. I only… I just want to know with whom I speak.”

He laughed. “Well, then I won’t deny that I am the
kenda
. And you are either a
very
bold liar or someone even more significant than myself.”

“I am not a liar.”

“I have heard some rather unlikely stories of your exploits. Perhaps you let others lie for you.”

“I don’t know what stories you’ve heard. But I am truly Kept by the Power that I named Sorrow. My companions may tell you stories.
True
stories.”

“So then, Grandchild,” the
kenda
said.

“Yes, Grandfather?” Palam replied.

“Is it true that this woman split the ground open and raised up a wall of stone to protect your retreat from the savages?”

Palam began to answer in Yivrian, but the
kenda
cut him off. “Speak so that the Kept may understand you.”

“My apologies, Grandfather,” he said in Praseo. “As I said, I saw it with my own eyes.”

“And did she ruin an acre of forest by making the ground roil like water around the roots of the spruces?”

“I didn’t see that, but I saw the result. It was… impressive. And terrifying.”

“Terrifying, yes. Would it be too terrifying to ask the Kept for a demonstration, then? Or would I be too afraid?”

Saotse straightened. “I would, Grandfather. But I worry that no one in this pavilion would survive.”

She felt the quivering of the Power at her feet, and with a thought she could have joined herself to Sorrow and torn the pavilion apart. The Power was furious with grief, and the thought of sliding into her and losing herself in Sorrow’s grief and anger was a perpetual temptation. Once she had stirred Sorrow to move, she didn’t know if she could stop before someone was injured. So she resisted.

The
kenda
suddenly switched into the rapid, tinkling-water tones of Hiksilipsi, and he was answered in kind by a female voice at the edge of the tent. The woman’s answer seemed to satisfy him, for he said, without the flinty edge of mockery that had marked his earlier conversation, “Well answered. Tliqyali, the Hiksilipsi woman here, will help you. You may call upon Sorrow, and she will ensure that nothing goes awry.”

A soft female hand closed around hers. Saotse almost pulled away in fright, but the woman squeezed her hand and whispered to her, “I won’t hurt you. I will hold your hand and ensure that you don’t lose yourself in the Power.”

“Can you do that?” Saotse asked.

“I can. Don’t be afraid.”

Saotse nodded, then bowed toward the
kenda
’s voice. “As you wish. Forgive me if this doesn’t go well.” And she opened herself to Sorrow.

All around her were men with spears.
She began to shake, reaching toward them with fists of stone, eager to lash out against her persecutors.
Peace
, Saotse thought,
these are our allies
, and the thought dissolved like dust in the pool of Sorrow. The stone fists collapsed, but her earthen shoulders shook. She would not strike, but she would weep, and her weeping made the soil of her fingers shudder and crumble. Her mouth opened, lips of sod tearing away from one another, and—

A hand, a human hand, closed around hers, and pulled her out. The Power receded, and Saotse was a woman again, kneeling on the ground.

The tent roared with confused babble. The smell of freshly turned soil and torn sod filled the air. Shouts thundered on every side, and feet stamped the ground. The sound was strangely disturbed, as if she were deafened on one side, and then she guessed that half of the pavilion had collapsed, and the sounds on that side were muffled and reflected strangely. Tliqyali still held her hand, and she whispered in Saotse’s ear, “Hurry forward!”

She stumbled forward a few paces across uneven ground and heard the
kenda
call out to her, “Well, Grandmother, that was more than I expected!”

Saotse had expected him to be angry, but his voice was friendly and bemused. “I’ve ruined your pavilion.”

“They’ll raise it again. But be sure that no one will doubt the ferocity of Sorrow after this. Now, Tlaqyali would like to speak to you, and I would like to speak to my grandchild and your companions. Ruhasu is, from what I understand, the only village to have driven off an attack by the Yakhat, and you are certainly the only ones brave or foolish enough to attempt to attack them back. My generals and I would hear everything you know about them. Will you indulge us?”

She wanted to say that she was by no means in charge of Ruhasu and that he should ask their
akan
. But rather than contradict the
kenda
, she simply said, “Yes.”

“Excellent. You may rest for a while if you’d like. Tents have been prepared for you and for the entire contingent from Ruhasu. Tlaqyali will wait on you, and take you to their gathering as soon as you’re ready.”

The woman’s soft, long-fingered hands slipped into Saotse’s palm again. “Come, Grandmother,” her heavily-accented Hiksilipsi voice said. “We have a table where you may rest and speak.”