Speaking Bones

PART ONE

HAIL-PUMMELED FLOWERS

CHAPTER ONE

BACK IN THE FLOW

WORLD’S EDGE MOUNTAINS: THE FIFTH MONTH IN THE NINTH YEAR AFTER THE DEPARTURE OF PRINCESS THÉRA FROM DARA FOR UKYU-GONDÉ (TWELVE MONTHS UNTIL THE LYUCU MUST LAUNCH THEIR NEW INVASION FLEET TO DARA).

For much of the winter and spring, the last remnants of the rebels of Kiri Valley lived in constant fear.

They would find some hidden valley on the western side of the World’s Edge Mountains and make camp, careful to mask smoke, middens, noise, and other signs of their presence. But a few days later the pursuing garinafins of the Lyucu would be sighted in the sky to the south, and they would have to pack up and be on the run again.

Tipo Tho, with her newborn son strapped to her chest, suggested several times that perhaps the group should attempt to scale the massive peaks to the east and cross over the mountain range, but most of the surviving Agon warriors strenuously objected to the plan. To cross the mountains was to move into the realm of the gods, and that was simply something mortals did not do.

But that is also why we would be safe, Tipo said. Cudyu wouldn’t think of chasing us beyond the mountains either.

The other surviving Dara fighters nodded. This seemed the most obvious choice.

But Takval and his warriors looked at her as though she were babbling nonsense.

Look at how tall the mountains are, said Takval, pointing to the snow-capped peaks. They were about halfway up one of the mountains, and already everyone was shivering and having trouble breathing. The cold gets worse the higher we go, and Alkir can’t fly that high.

We can make the crossing on foot, said Çami Phithadapu. "There are ways to keep everyone warm. We can come up with some plan—"

The old shaman Adyulek swore and walked away, disgusted.

With all due respect, I don’t think this is the best time for Dara to be suggesting any more changes to the ways of the Agon, said Gozofin.

Tipo, Çami, and the others held their tongues. After the disaster at Kiri Valley, the reputation of the Dara allies among the Agon was in tatters. Takval’s people blamed Théra for pushing them to farm instead of pasturing and hunting, for putting their trust in weapons enhanced with Dara magic instead of the known ways of the Agon, for insisting on delaying the attack until the Lyucu had returned to Taten instead of following Volyu’s original suggestion of a quick strike at Aluro’s Basin…. Among the people of the scrublands, the only argument that ultimately swayed was victory in war. And since Théra had been responsible for the greatest defeat of the Agon since the death of Pékyu Nobo Aragoz, everything she had pushed for was worthless.

And so, as spring came to the mountains, they continued to meander north, following no clear plan beyond survival.

While the rest of the Dara survivors seethed at what they saw as the unjust treatment of their princess, Théra was unperturbed.

More accurately, she remained in the near-catatonic state she had fallen into after the loss of Kunilu-tika and Jian-tika. Most of her waking hours were spent fingering the bag of baked clay logogram playing blocks and an old silk mask with an edging of embroidered tolyusa berries, so worn that it was nearly in tatters. She made no suggestions and gave no orders; she obeyed whatever instructions were given to her docilely; the very act of survival seemed to her a burden more than she could bear.

Takval, though weighed down with the responsibility of keeping the small band alive by himself, never stopped trying to help Théra. He held her in their tent and spoke to her of his love and need, even if she never responded. He asked Adyulek to intercede with the gods on Théra’s behalf, but the old shaman shook her head, explaining that there wasn’t much she could do when the princess had neither trust in nor fear of the gods of Gondé.

She isn’t Agon, and she’s too proud to accept our wisdom, said Adyulek. Perhaps because it’s rare among her people to lose children, she lacks the inborn strength to recover from such a blow. Leave her to her deserved suffering—she is, after all, responsible for our plight with her obduracy.

Takval didn’t agree with this assessment, but he could hardly compel the old shaman to put aside her suspicion and prejudice. In the end, he asked Thoryo to become Théra’s caretaker, hoping that the originless young woman with a gift for speech could offer some comfort to Théra in the accents of Dara.

So Thoryo spent all her time with the princess. She fed her, bathed her, sang to her quietly, and strapped her into the netting on the garinafin, next to herself, when the band needed to take flight again.

She also talked to Théra. She didn’t speak to her of strategies and plots, of plans and grand ideals. She simply took her to quiet clearings in the mountainside forests, where spring alpine flowers bloomed in all their finery, or to cliffside overlooks at sunset, when birds swooped through crimson and gold clouds like colorful fish in a painted sea. She spoke to the princess softly of the beauty around them.

One day, after a spring shower, Thoryo took Théra to a high point in the valley the band was bivouacking in. They sat down on a rock. Everything—the trees, the grass, the glistening red berries in the bushes, the eggshell-yellow mushrooms peeking out from under the rock they sat on—shone with a vivid, wet light. A rainbow arched across the sky opposite from the sun.

This is my favorite moment, climbing onto a high spot right after rain, exclaimed Thoryo. The world has been reborn!

As always, Théra said nothing. But Thoryo heard a scratching noise that made her glance to the side. To her surprise, she saw that Théra’s hands were fluttering in her lap like frightened birds, searching for something that didn’t exist. Gingerly, she placed a hand over Théra’s, stilling those restless fingers. For the first time in a long while, she saw that the princess’s lips were moving, as though trying to speak.

She leaned in. Théra’s voice was so soft that she could barely make out the words.

… climbing onto a high place… after a spring rain…

Princess! Are you all right? she called out, frightened.

Théra blinked, as though awakening from a long dream. Tension and color returned to the slack muscles in her cheeks as she focused her gaze on Thoryo. She cleared her throat, and spoke in a voice raspy from disuse. A great lady I met years ago told me that gazing upon the rejuvenated world after rain was one of the greatest of pleasures in the world.

Thoryo nodded. I agree.

Tears spilled from Théra’s eyes as her body convulsed. Thoryo pulled her into an embrace and cradled the princess’s head against her shoulder, the same way Théra used to hold her in Lurodia Tanta, when Thoryo was certain that they would never make it out of the desert alive.

Zomi… Takval… Dara… my family… my sons… all the dead… everyone I touch is hurt, lost, gone, ruined… my heart is bitter.

Thoryo gently caressed her back, saying nothing. It was a long time before Théra’s lamentation abated.

When you first found me, said Thoryo, when I saw the bodies of all those people from the Lyucu city-ship and the Dara marines adrift at sea, I was inconsolable. I couldn’t understand how the gods could be so cruel as to give the gift of life only to snatch it away.

Théra sat up and wiped her eyes, listening intently.

I wondered why we should even believe in the existence of the gods. The Ano sages speak of the River-on-Which-Nothing-Floats, and the Agon speak of riding beyond the World’s Edge Mountains on cloud-garinafins. But who has ever returned from the country of death to verify these claims? There seems to be nothing but the terror of death in this world; death is the one single truth against which all courage and struggle is vanity. Why doesn’t everyone just give up?

Théra shuddered, hearing her own fears echoed in the words of Thoryo.

"I’ve found no answers in the words of the Ano sages or the stories of the Agon shamans. But I have experienced the world through my senses. Death does come to everything: flowers wilt, trees wither and shed leaves, the sun sets, the strongest ewe or cow weakens with old age, voices fade, sweet fragrances dissipate, the light in the brightest eyes winks out. Yet, beauty never dies. Beauty always refreshes itself."

She pointed, and Théra followed her finger, taking in the promise of the rainbow.

After every winter comes the spring, and every death is accompanied by the promise for more life. With his dying breath, Admiral Mitu Roso tried to save the children of Kiri Valley from wolves. On the night of the Lyucu assault, Souliyan Aragoz and Nméji Gon chose to buy more time for us with their own lives. It isn’t that they weren’t afraid of death. But they also saw themselves as part of something grander, a greater Life that never dies so long as each individual life refuses to yield to despair.

You speak of the Flow, muttered Théra, "as did that great lady who once shared some lotus seeds with me. She spoke of the infinite potential in a heart of emptiness, of the ever-renewing pleasure of simply being. But my errors—"

I am not wise enough to know the will of the gods or the right course in life, said Thoryo. I only know that the world is too large, too beautiful, too interesting to let one act define us. Death only triumphs when we stop learning and growing. So long as our lungs sing with the gift of life, we cannot cease to give back to Life.

Théra said nothing. She stilled her heart and opened her senses, to the intense carmine glow of the berries, to the woodsy fragrance of the mushrooms, to the distant song of an answer-me-now, to the warm caress of the spring breeze. She let herself sink into the Flow as though diving into the eternal sea.

CHAPTER TWO

CITY OF GHOSTS

TATEN-RYO-ALVOVO: THE FIFTH MONTH IN THE NINTH YEAR AFTER THE DEPARTURE OF PRINCESS THÉRA FROM DARA FOR UKYU-GONDÉ (TWELVE MONTHS UNTIL THE LYUCU MUST LAUNCH THEIR NEW INVASION FLEET TO DARA).

With the coming of the spring, the hilly region on the eastern shore of the Sea of Tears, known as Taten-ryo-alvovo, the City of Ghosts, came back to life.

As it neared the Sea of Tears, the Ghost River gave up the urgency of its youthful source back in the snowmelt mountains, slowed down, and spread itself to embrace the land with the mellow kindness that came with age. Long before it reached the vast lake at the end of its journey, most of its waters had seeped into the ground, turning the land around the eastern shore into a giant swamp.

The mounds that made up the City of Ghosts, called barrows, rose out of this wetland-dotted terrain. Covered with a thick layer of lush grass, the mounds resembled furry, massive beasts at rest. Between the mounds, where marsh alternated with dry land, one could see bushes and even copses of trees, bedecked with flowers in every hue of the rainbow, promising berries and fruits in fall. Flitting shadows of birds and animals could be glimpsed between the dappled shadows.

It had been a hard winter for the small band of refugees. Water had to be obtained by melting ice chipped from the frozen salt lake—luckily, the edge of the barrows provided plenty of dried grass and firewood for fuel. At first, Razutana was afraid of drawing pursuers with smoke, but Sataari told him there was no need to worry. No one ever approached the City of Ghosts, not Lyucu, not Agon, not tanto-lyu-naro, not even the gods.

Although neither Sataari nor Razutana were great hunters, the Agon children, led by the redoubtable Nalu, Tanto and Rokiri’s close friend, took up the burden of the band’s sustenance. In this endeavor they were aided by the fact that the barrows were never visited by hunting parties, and prey had not yet learned to fear humans. Even through the worst part of the winter, Nalu and his band caught hares, voles, hibernating lizards, brumating snakes, and Razutana and Sataari dug for tubers and roots and caches of nuts hidden by moonfur rats near the mounds. They succeeded in keeping starvation at bay. Mostly.

Five small bodies lay at the edge of the barrows, almost hidden by the rejuvenated vegetation. Now that insects and larger animals were active again, the dead children would soon begin pédiato savaga, a journey that would end with reunion with their parents on the backs of cloud-garinafins.

Grief, like snow, had to yield before the quickening demands of life, the compulsion to go on.

A few times during the winter, Razutana had urged that the band move their encampment deeper into the barrows, where he believed more and better food would be available than at their site on the border of the salt flats. But Sataari would not hear of it, and none of the Agon children—not even levelheaded Nalu—treated this suggestion as sensible either. Eventually, Razutana dropped the idea.

But with the arrival of spring, Razutana renewed his pleas. His hunch during the winter had proven right. The vibrancy and fecundity of the barrows was plain to anyone. To avoid a repeat of the tragedy of the past winter, it seemed obvious that they should move deep into the barrows proper, build shelters and storage pits, and spend much of the summer and autumn gathering a food store against the next winter.

Sataari shook her head, explaining that the blood price she had paid to the All-Mother gave them the right only to skim from the very edge of the mounds, but not to penetrate into the interior. To set foot within the City of Ghosts was to bring ruin on the whole band.

Most of the Agon children nodded at this explanation, but Tanto and Rokiri were bewildered. They still didn’t understand the nature of this place.

Why do you act as though the place is filled with boiling lava or poisonous miasma? asked an exasperated Razutana. Why have the Lyucu and the Agon never settled here, even though it’s a perfect oasis?

Because we are not allowed to.

That explains nothing! Is the City of Ghosts… sacred?

Sataari shook her head, and then nodded, and then shook her head again.

Baffled, Razutana tried again. Is it… cursed?

Sataari nodded her head, and then shook it, and then nodded again.

I’m afraid that I’m completely at a loss.

This place is why we live in the Sixth Age, said Sataari. In her voice was awe and revulsion, reverence as well as terror.

I know about the Ages of Mankind, said Razutana, but never have I heard of the barrows of Taten-ryo-alvovo.

That’s because it’s a sad story, not often told, said Sataari.

A small bonfire was built, and a set of tiny drums, made from the vertebrae of snakes and the pelts of voles, had to serve in place of true cactus drums. As the children gathered around the grass-fed fire, thick with smoke, Sataari began to chant and dance.

The people of the scrublands believed that the world had been born out of primordial chaos with the coupling of the All-Father and the Every-Mother, but just as parents on the scrublands could not count on every child surviving into adulthood, the pair of Prime Deities could not count on their creations’ permanence.

The world was as mortal as its inhabitants.

(Razutana, Tanto, and Rokiri leaned in, rapt.)

The Lyucu and Agon were not the first people. The gods had remade the world again and again. Before Afir and Kikisavo, there had been other peoples.

During the First Age of Mankind, the world was as flat as a freshly scraped piece of voice-painting vellum and as dry as Lurodia Tanta. People—they were not shaped like the humans of the present age—stood rooted in the ground like cactus lobes. The only water they could drink was dew and the only breath they drew in and let out was the result of the action of the wind. Sunlight was all they needed to sustain themselves, and they offered lethargic praise to the gods with their slow-swaying, vegetal poses.

The gods found this world too lacking in motion, too complacent in demeanor. Thus, they sent forth an eagle with a burning stick in its beak, who started fires all over the world until it was consumed in a fiery tide.

(As Sataari danced and chanted, she sketched figures in the ground with the tips of her pointed feet. Startled, Razutana and the pékyus-taasa recognized the figures: smaller versions of those fantastical, immense designs they had seen in the salt flats from the air on the way here.)

During the Second Age of Mankind, the gods took another approach. They flooded Ukyu-Gondé, and a great ocean covered the entire world. This time, humans were remade to be as sleek as fish, and they swam the world-ocean in pursuit of smaller fish and shrimp, crunching their jaws on crabs and oysters. The humans could not speak—for with water in their lungs, how could they produce thinking-breath?—nor could their finned appendages grasp instruments capable of making voice paintings.

The gods found this world too silent, too close to a living death. Thus, they sent forth a whale with icicle teeth, who left crystalline trails and hail-foam wakes that refused to dissolve wherever it swam until the whole world became a solid block of ice.

During the Third Age of Mankind, the gods remade the world by bringing the clouds down, and humans were remade as birds. Each tribe sang in a different style, and the chittering, twittering, chirping music pleased the immortal ears very much. But then some of the bird-humans grew bold and decided that they would prefer to fly ever higher instead of remaining in the sublunary realm, and their cacophony shook the stars loose in the firmament.

The gods, unable to put up with the disturbance, decided to destroy this world by sending forth a thousand-thousand bolts of lightning, incinerating the clouds and the winged humans in one brilliant flash.

During the Fourth Age of Mankind, the gods decided to punish their mortal kin for daring to reach for the stars. They remade the world with bone and dung, and humans were reborn as insect-like creatures forever mired in death and corruption. Driven by hunger, they consumed everything they touched, regardless of the stench and filth, and yet their hunger remained unsatiated.

The gods did not have to do much to end this age, for the humans soon ended the world by themselves. After devouring everything, they were trapped in empty darkness, the absence that outlasted all substance.

Having learned from their previous attempts, the gods created the Fifth Age of Mankind as a paradise. There was a balance of rich soil and fresh water, of sweet wind and mild sunlight. Milk bubbled from springs in the ground, and honey pooled into fragrant, indulgent lakes. Lambs and calves willingly lay down next to the people to be slaughtered, and fruits and nuts that were so nourishing that you were full after just three bites sprouted everywhere. Horrid wolves and tusked tigers stayed far away from the people, subsisting only on the dead. Humans lived lives of leisure and abundance, and they gave birth to more children with every passing year. No grandparent ever had to walk into the winter storm, nor did fathers and mothers have to strangle newborn babes so that other children could have enough to eat.

The gods hoped that humans would be able to live in this world where everything was good and offer pious praise to their makers.

And at first, the humans did exactly that. But as the population swelled, their hearts became restless. Bored with praising the divine, in their idleness they invented fantastical contraptions that imitated the power of the gods, built grand storytelling mind-scars out of piles of bones and logs and stones that sought to surpass the grandeur of the All-Father—

(Are the gigantic stone paintings we saw mind-scars? asked Razutana. Are they remnants of a past age?

Sataari ignored him and went on.)

—and entertained themselves with songs and poems and never-ending tales that sought to exceed the wisdom of the Every-Mother. They believed that by their own efforts, they were close to achieving godhood for themselves, forgetting that they were but another iteration in the gods’ endless attempts at perfecting their own creation.

Humans grew ambitious and greedy. Rather than living off the bounty of the land, as the gods had intended, they began to enslave it. With no predators, no droughts, no storms to plague them, they decided that they should stop roaming around so that they could accumulate possessions. They gathered into large tribes and divided the land into separate parcels with stone fences at the borders so that the fruits and nuts and tubers that came out of each parcel would belong only to the tribe staking a claim to that parcel. They settled into tent-cities rooted to one place and penned up sheep and cattle so that they could no longer graze freely and wander about. They clogged and shackled the rivers with weirs so that the fish had nowhere to go except into their cooking pots. They built ever more elaborate edifices and apparatuses that celebrated the power of humankind but turned their faces away from the gods.

As the tribes continued to multiply and stopped roaming to new pastures, they gave the land no time to recover. The teeming clans tried to extract every bit of nourishment from the world with their clever inventions, devices that enslaved the land, the water, and the air. As the people clamored for More! More! More! they began to war among themselves, and they turned their cleverness to devising fearful weapons and dark magic that could slaughter thousands at a single blow.

They became so wicked that, instead of offering up their own bodies after death to the vultures and wolves who were also gods’ creatures, they decided to bury their dead in the ground, as though hoarding themselves in storage pits, and heaped their corpses with treasures and magical weapons, as if they could take such things with them into the afterlife.

Then they covered these selfish vaults with mounds of earth, to deny the carrion eaters their rightful claim and to erect monuments to their own greed. The land was littered with with many such barrows, as though mindless moles had tunneled under the earth, pushing up earthen bumps in their ignorance and blindness.

The gods, sorrowful that their perfect creation had been desecrated by the people in this manner, sent forth monsters to punish the ungrateful. Garinafins made of only bones flew across the land, burning down their huts and charring their storage pits; tigers with star-metal tusks broke into their pens and slaughtered the animals they had imprisoned; horrid wolves with stone teeth and claws tore apart men, women, and children alike, showing no mercy. And there were many other monsters besides, all indescribably terrible.

The rivers dried up and the lakes shrank. Water that had once been sweet and refreshing turned salty and bitter. Land that had once been lush with vegetation turned into dry desert. Wind whipped dust into the air, blinding the people and grating against their skin until they were covered in blood. The world that used to be a paradise became so inhospitable that humans had no choice but to leave their bordered parcels, abandon their rooted settlements, and stop the enslavement of the land.

And that was how the Sixth Age of Mankind came to be, when humans were driven into the scrublands, full of harsh storms and brutal droughts, lashed by lightning bolts and cleansed by prairie fires. The people forgot all their vain knowledge, discarded their false wisdom, and huddled in the darkness—until the coming of Kikisavo and Afir, who warred against the gods and won the tribes the wisdom they needed to survive in this debased world.

Tribes were no longer free to have as many children as they liked, but must cull the aged and the infirm much as they culled their own flocks and herds. Sheep and cattle must roam widely so as not to overburden the land, sparsely covered in hardy shrubs, spiny cacti, and brittle, skin-lacerating grass. Smaller versions of the monsters that had destroyed their ancestors’ lives provided a constant reminder of the arrogance of humankind and how we had displeased the gods. Of the grand settlements of the people during the Fifth Age, nothing was left save these burial barrows, the mounds at the eastern shore of the Sea of Tears called the City of Ghosts.

The barrows were a reminder of what happened when humans gave in to their hubris, monuments to the depravities of lives sustained through extraction and exploitation of the land, rather than submission to its wisdom.

Despite the appearance of bounty, the barrows were forbidden ground. Anyone who entered the barrows would incur the wrath of the gods and be cursed never to escape. The refugees had obtained the Every-Mother’s blessing to stay on the very edge of the barrows because of their desperate predicament, but to ask for more was to commit the same error as those who had lived at the end of the Fifth Age, whose pride and greed had brought about their fall.

Though Sataari was a skilled storyteller, the tale of Taten-ryo-alvovo faded from the minds of most of the children after a few days. They knew the story already, at least in outline, and there was too much to do at the settlement to linger on old myths.

Led by Razutana, they built a purification system modeled on the experiences of Takval and Théra in Lurodia Tanta, which turned the salt lake into an adequate source of potable water. At the edge of the barrows, Nalu led the other children in hunting for partridges, hares, moonfur rats, and the occasional moss-antlered deer. They also picked tidal tern eggs on the rocky lake shore and fished for hairy crabs and giant brine shrimp in the shallows. What they couldn’t eat right away, they tried to turn into jerky and pemmican.

Razutana and Sataari took the children on expeditions to pick berries and nuts and to dig for tubers. The pair complemented each other well. Sataari drew on the shamanistic lore of medicinal and edible plants; Razutana had studied the native flora for years using the techniques of Dara cultivators. There were many plants near the barrows that neither knew, and in such cases, the pair learned to combine their skills and instincts to experiment cautiously, dividing those that were safe and useful from those that were toxic and devoid of value.

Back in Kiri Valley, due to the mutual suspicion between Agon shamans and Dara scholars, they had not known each other well. But thrust into a situation where the two had to work together to keep a large group of children alive in an unfamiliar environment, they discovered a previously unknown appreciation for each other’s domain of expertise.

Even more unexpectedly, Razutana found that he enjoyed Sataari’s company. His mind quickened at the way she danced and moved in the firelight, her lithe, youthful figure animating the stories of the ancients; his heart sped up whenever she praised him for a clever bit of herbal deduction; he tried to make her laugh, despite the stress and pressure of the unknown all around them, because hearing her laugh made him feel like he was walking on clouds.

To preserve this happy mood, he resisted the urge to suggest that they try to cultivate some of the new plants in gardens near the settlement to provide a more reliable source of food. Now that he had a better understanding of the origin of the Agon’s vehement distaste for farming, he could predict her reaction without voicing the idea.

However, unlike the Agon children, Razutana could not get the story of Taten-ryo-alvovo out of his head.

Imbued with the Dara scholars’ general skepticism of the existence of the supernatural, Razutana couldn’t help trying to make sense of the stories of the Agon by comparing them to the sagas of Dara. Did the cyclical pattern of these tales signal a fundamental philosophical difference in the Lyucu and Agon way of thinking, as compared to the people of Dara, whose philosophies tended to emphasize humankind’s perfectibility and progress through change? Or did the yearning for a mythical golden age represent a mental escape to offset the harsh conditions of the present, much as the Dara myth of the Ano’s perfect homeland, now sunken in the western sea, offered hope to the people in times of war and turmoil?

Though Razutana, much like Théra, didn’t put much stock in a realm beyond the mortal world, he believed that old stories that had survived many generations likely held a truth—but a truth cast in the language of metaphors that could no longer be read. His mind never stopped trying to decipher the real history that lay beneath the fantastical lore of the scrublands.

There was one other person whose imagination was seized by the legend of Taten-ryo-alvovo: Tanto.

All the children of the settlement suffered nightmares and were prone to bouts of melancholy. Though young minds were resilient, losing their parents and grandparents, or at least prolonged separation without knowing their fates, left deep scars. Add in the fact that the community of Kiri Valley, the only tribe and home they had ever known, was gone, it was a wonder that they were holding up as well as they did.

Sataari and Razutana kept the children busy with constant work and chores. This was only partly because there really were many tasks that had to be done for their survival; it was also a way to distract their traumatized minds with a sense of purpose. Sataari tried to entertain the children with nightly renditions of traditional scrubland tales: Tiger Witch and Naro-with-Eleven-Toes, How the Horrid Wolf Got His Hair, The Tanto-Lyu-Naro Lost in the Boneyard, and so on. Since these were not sacred stories, she could simply narrate them without a storytelling dance. Razutana, for his part, re-remembered episodes from Dara’s history, with the exploits of the hero Iluthan during the Diaspora Wars and the deeds of the Hegemon being particular favorites among the children.

One night, as Razutana recounted for a circle of children the story of how the Hegemon obtained Na-aroénna, the Doubt-Ender, Tanto made his way quietly around the circle to Sataari.

Tell me more about the magical weapons that people used during the Fifth Age, he begged.

"Why do you want to hear about them? asked Sataari with a frown. Those were wicked weapons, invented in a sinful age and wielded with false pride."

I want to know more about them so that… I can tell if the weapons my mother wanted to teach us to build are also dangerous.

Sataari relaxed and nodded with approval. All right. It is said in the old tales that the vainglorious chiefs of the Fifth Age learned to harness the power of lightning so that a single warrior could stun a hundred-hundred naros with but one sweep of her magical staff. It is also said that they learned to bind the power of thunder so that merely by playing a set of drums, they could make a noise that made a thousand-thousand culeks fall at once, with blood oozing from their eyes and ears. It is finally said that they learned to tame the power of the wind so that simply by aiming a set of bone trumpets at the air, they could imitate the voices of the gods and make insects, birds, and even garinafins fall out of the sky.

Tanto’s eyes widened as he listened intently. "They were that powerful? Would the warriors and riders commanded by my father’s father have been able to withstand these weapons?"

Sataari shook her head. Of course not. Weren’t you paying attention? Those weapons were from another age, and they unleashed powers that humans were simply not meant to have.

What about the Lyucu? Would they have been able to withstand them?

Pékyu Cudyu may frighten children, Sataari said with contempt in her voice, and he is certainly following in the footsteps of those arrogant chiefs from the Fifth Age by pitching his Taten in the same place, year after year. But he and all his garinafins and thanes wouldn’t stand a chance against those powerful weapons either.

If only those ancient chiefs could return on the cloud-garinafins and fight with us—

Don’t blaspheme! said a stern Sataari. No matter how powerful their weapons were, because the haughty hearts of the barrow-dwellers had turned away from the ways of their ancestors and their lungsongs no longer honored the gods, they were ultimately driven out of paradise. That’s the most important lesson of all taught by the City of Ghosts.

Tanto nodded, as though he understood.

CHAPTER THREE

BANDIT QUEENS

TOAZA: THE SEVENTH MONTH IN THE NINTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF SEASON OF STORMS AND THE REIGN OF AUDACIOUS FREEDOM (TWENTY-TWO MONTHS UNTIL THE REOPENING OF THE WALL OF STORMS).

Tiphan Huto popped a grape into his mouth, savoring the sweet burst. Then he lay back on his bed and stretched out his limbs, enjoying the feel of smooth silk sheets and a soft mattress.

Servants had brought blocks of ice out of the cellar and placed them in cubbies all around the room. A windmill on top of the house drove fans behind the cubbies, filling his room with cool breezes that kept the scorching summer heat at bay.

It’s nice to be home, he thought.

He was lucky; he knew that.

Back in Pan, when he had first been brought before the stern judges in the underground courtroom, he had been so terrified that his knees refused to support his weight, and he had to be held up by soldiers on either side. He began to whimper when he saw that a deputy minister of justice had been sent to act as the prosecutor for the Throne. And when the chief judge had slammed the block of ironwood, his symbol of office, against the bench to bring the court to order, he had lost control of his bladder and sphincter simultaneously.

After he had been taken away to be hosed down and changed into a fresh set of prison scrubs, he was brought back to kneel before the judges again. Witnesses—mostly pirates and hired swords who had turned against him in order to save their own hides—described in detail his various schemes: frauds upon the public, lies and forgeries to gain advantages over his competitors, betraying business partners to pirates, smuggling contraband from Unredeemed Dara, conspiracy to kidnap and enslave….

His family had mortgaged what assets they could still access to hire the most expensive paid litigators possible to defend him. Much as his siblings and cousins despised him for selling out the Huto clan to benefit himself, their only chance of preventing the Huto business empire from escheating to the Throne was to save Tiphan from conviction on the most heinous charges, however futile that effort appeared.

The litigators had advised Tiphan that his best course was to plead guilty to the lesser charges and throw himself at the mercy of the judges. But Tiphan rejected their counsel because he knew that no mercy would be granted. Treason prosecutions were extremely rare; the Throne never brought such charges unless they intended to seek the death penalty. And after what he had done…

He forced his remarkable brain to focus on the task of survival despite the terror, to devise some scheme to conjure a miracle.

The Throne’s case was built on circumstantial evidence, he realized. He had been paid with gold ingots with stamps that could be traced back to tribute fleets to Rui; many of the pirates caught working with him wielded Lyucu-sourced bone weapons; the rescued victims had overheard conversations that strongly hinted that they were destined to be slaves for the Lyucu.

But Tiphan clung to the hope that the Throne had no direct proof. The anti-piracy raids had not caught any of the pirate kings who negotiated the deals with him, only low-level flunkies. He had been careful to transact with his partners only through intermediaries and to leave no written trail. Moreover, none of his own people had ever heard him make an unambiguous, clear reference to abducting skilled workers for the Lyucu—he had insisted that everyone speak in code.

The Throne had to prove that he knew or should have known that the abducted mechanics and engineers were being sold to the Lyucu. That was the heart of the treason charge; everything else he had done paled in significance next to that. So long as the requisite mental element of the crime was lacking, he could not be convicted.

Deny, deny, deny! he instructed his litigators.

But the litigators told him that the Throne intended to call on other witnesses, farseers whose testimony would have to be in camera and sealed. Apparently the farseers had secret intelligence about the Lyucu plans and would be able to show that Tiphan Huto had been acting as their agent. A full confession that gave the farseers additional information was his only chance for leniency.

No! Never!

Cold sweat drenched his back; he couldn’t sleep the whole night. If the farseers were involved, then he was sure to be convicted. Telling the truth would only make things worse. No one bargained with the farseers and came out ahead, not even a business genius like Tiphan Huto.

And so, in the morning, when he was brought to court to confront the new witnesses, he was ready to soil himself a second time in order to delay the inevitable by another hour. Unfortunately, due to nervousness, he had neither eaten nor drunk anything for most of a day, and he lacked the ammunition to carry out this last, desperate tactic.

Terror and regret so clouded his mind as he knelt there that it took him a while to understand the chief judge sitting behind the bench as he read from a scroll.

…Empress Jia has directly intervened… farseers will not testify… We deem the defendant’s actions extraordinarily base and heinous… insufficient evidence to support a charge of treason, which is hereby withdrawn in a confession of error… is convicted on all other charges… Empress Jia pleads for mercy… therefore a fine will be imposed instead…

He knelt there, stunned, as the realization gradually sank in. His gambit had worked. He had called the farseers’ bluff.

His best guess was that the farseers either did not know as much as they claimed or didn’t want to reveal the extent of their knowledge of Lyucu plans (even in sealed testimony). To minimize the embarrassment of a failed treason prosecution, Secretary Kidosu had appealed to the empress to intervene and grant him what essentially amounted to a pardon. To be sure, the Huto clan would pay a heavy price, as the fine levied to compensate the victims and to send a message would certainly eject the family from the top rank of trading clans in Wolf’s Paw. But compared to what could have happened…

Just be glad you weren’t prosecuted during the Principate or the Reign of Four Placid Seas, his litigators told him, looking smug, as though his salvation was the result of their useless, wagging tongues, instead of the victory of his own clever stratagem of denial and delay, executed by himself with flawless verve and battle-hardened resolve. Tiphan told them to get out of his sight immediately.

Still, Tiphan agreed with the litigators in one respect: He had been lucky. Kuni Garu had abolished paid litigators, simplified the criminal code, and given the farseers free rein over the investigation and punishment of traitors. Tiphan wouldn’t have lasted a day under that system. Thank Tazu that Empress Jia and Prime Minister Cogo Yelu had built up the bureaucracy, with intricate rules of evidence and burdens of proof. Sure, the system avoided harming the innocent, but Tiphan was most glad that it also gave him the room to wiggle free.

Bring me some iced sour-plum soup! Tiphan called out, and shifted to a cooler spot on the bed.

After he returned to Toaza, the angry elders of the clan had berated and lectured him for three days and three nights, while he knelt before the mourning tablets of the Huto ancestors. What was left of the mercantile empire he had built was taken away from him and divided among his timid siblings and cousins, who couldn’t recognize a good trading opportunity if it bit them in the ass. Then the elders had confined him to his room and told him he was to reflect on his errors and would have nothing more to do with the family’s business.

Tiphan had seethed and stewed the whole time he knelt in the ancestral hall. How could the elders be so cruel? Didn’t they see that everything Tiphan had done had been aimed at bringing more wealth and prestige to the family? How could his siblings and cousins be so shortsighted? Even with the losses from the fine, the clan retained enough capital to rise again—and meteorically so if he were in charge. This should be an occasion for celebration, and he, Tiphan Huto, should be hailed as a conquering hero in the field of business!

Never mind. He would bide his time.

Let my siblings and cousins worry about making money and bringing honor to the Huto name for a while. I need a break anyway.

Staying in his room wasn’t so bad. He could order whatever food and drink he wanted, and maybe later, after the elders and his older siblings got busy and didn’t watch him so closely, he could sneak in an indigo house girl or two and bet on the boat races by sending messenger pigeons to a bookie.

Eventually, after his siblings and cousins had bumped into a few walls and found out just how hard it was to engineer the rise of the Huto clan without their master tactician, they would surely come back to him begging. He would make them pay then.

For this was the most important lesson Tiphan Huto had learned from his experiences in Ginpen, the one fact about himself that he had not known before but now understood as bedrock truth, the one secret weapon that was more valuable than any skill or knowledge:

He was lucky.

He had dodged conviction for treason; evaded the near certainty of the death penalty; eluded the mysterious farseers, the self-righteous deputy minister of justice, the stone-faced judges, the meddling fools of the Blossom Gang… not because of the work of the overpaid litigators or his insincere displays of remorse (insisted on by the elders), but because he was lucky.

Incredibly, impossibly, Tazu-pleasing-and-Lutho-defyingly lucky.

And everyone knew that good fortune was the greatest, most desirable, and least replicable asset in business; everyone except his foolish relations.

So no, he regretted nothing and would have changed nothing. He would simply bide his time until he could take command of the clan again.

He took a sip of the iced sour-plum soup. A baby plum, tiny but incredibly sweet, landed on the tip of his tongue: an omen of good fortune. He sighed contentedly.

It’s better to be lucky than right.

- Do you know what Jia is up to, my sister, my other self?

- No, but when have we ever truly understood the heart of our favorite girl?

- Risana could never see into her mind—

—and neither can we. That is probably why, after all this time, we still find her interesting.

Tiphan Huto was counting his winnings in the boat races when he felt something cold and hard pressing against his neck.

Impatiently, he tried to shove it away. The object bit into his hand, and he yelped in pain as he jolted awake in the darkness.

Actually, he wasn’t sure he was awake. Gingerly, he ran his finger over the object: long, flat, two sharp edges… there was a sword against his throat!

He opened his mouth to scream, but a rough, knotted piece of rope forced its way between his teeth and was jammed right down his throat. He gagged, but the forceful hand behind the rope didn’t relent.

Are you always this slow? demanded a harsh voice in the darkness. Or did all that greasy food at dinner clog up that slimy, slippery organ you call a brain?

Mfff!

A light flickered to life: a lit candle.

A woman stood on either side of the bed; both wore kerchiefs covering the lower halves of their faces. Their eyes glinted as coldly as the sword held at his throat.

We just want to talk, said the woman with the candle, who seemed to be the older of the two. Her voice wasn’t unkind.

Our sisters are stationed near the rest of your family, said the woman with the sword, whose tone was far harsher and more threatening. If you don’t behave— She drew the sword slowly across Tiphan’s throat, drawing blood.

Tiphan couldn’t care less about the rest of his family. But he nodded, not too vigorously, lest the sword cut deeper into his skin.

The woman lifted the blade away and pulled the knotted rope out of his mouth. Sit up.

Tiphan did and tried to compose himself as the two women found cushions and sat down opposite him in thakrido. He saw that they were dressed in black leggings and black fitted tops that allowed them to move silently and efficiently, with no loose fabric to snag or catch on obstacles and corners. Their hair was coiled tightly atop their heads and pinned in place with plain black coral pins, the only decorative element a delicate silk flap at the end that shimmered in the firelight like a butterfly’s wings or a dyran’s fins.

The women were obviously hardened criminals, likely bandits who kidnapped for ransom.

He cleared his throat. Err… Mistresses, no—Master Mistresses—no— How does one address robbers in a way that doesn’t offend? Most Noble Bandit Queens—

The two women looked at each other and grinned.

I like that, said the older woman, the one with the candle. You can call me Queen… Lightbringer.

And you can call me Queen Blooddrinker, said the woman with the sword. She lifted the scarf over her face to reveal a snarl, her teeth glinting against the dim candle light.

Yes, yes! Queen Lightbringer and Queen Blood… Blooddrinker— He shuddered at this terrifying image. Your humble servant is most honored to be visited by two such noble queens. I despise the government as much as you do! No, I despise it even more, especially that foolish Cogo Yelu and wicked Jia—

Lightbringer and Blooddrinker both frowned at this attempt to curry their favor.

No-no-no! I misspoke, misspoke!—of course women bandits would sympathize with Jia, a thief who had usurped the throne from her child—I despise the government exactly the right amount, not one whit more or less than is appropriate. Uh… um… if the noble queens could instruct this foolish servant how much… er, contribution you would like for your benevolent cause, I will endeavor to obtain it the soonest—

We’re not here for ransom, said Blooddrinker impatiently. Are you trying to insult us?

"No, no! I misspoke again. The contribution would be entirely voluntary. It’s to build a more magnificent mountain fortress befitting the dignity of the two noble queens—"

Calm yourself, Master Huto, said Lightbringer gently. We want to do business with you.

Tiphan paused. What… what kind of business?

"A business you’re familiar with. We know you have certain connections with buyers who are… shall we say, in a similar trade as us."

Tiphan’s mind churned. Certain events lately have largely severed those connections.

We know all about the trial. But the pirates captured by Aya Mazoti are just lowly henchmen. We know you can get back in touch with the pirate kings.

Tiphan tried to keep his voice noncommittal. Even if I could—and I’m speaking purely in hypotheticals here—what exactly is it that you have to sell?

"You don’t need to worry about that. Suffice it to say that it’ll be more profitable than anything else you can get your hands on, though you may sell it only to these buyers. We’ll bring you a regular supply. You can mix it with your ordinary trading goods on shipments around the Islands and then make certain detours to meet with your buyers on the open seas. We’ll split the profits half-and-half."

"Just how profitable?"

Let’s put it this way: If you manage the business well, the Huto clan may become the wealthiest trading clan of Wolf’s Paw in three years.

A surge of excitement shot through Tiphan like a silkmotic bolt. But I’m currently not allowed to do any trading. The elders have placed me under house arrest.

That is a simple matter to take care of. In a couple of days there will be a messenger from the magistrate of Toaza to your clan heads, explaining that it is the Throne’s policy to encourage the rehabilitation of criminals like you by putting them back to work in their trade as soon as possible.

You can do that?

We have our ways, said Lightbringer.

Tiphan Huto pondered the proposal. His luck really was his greatest asset. He had just been plotting his return earlier today, and look how many things were turning out exactly the way he wanted already!

Are the goods you want me to trade dangerous?

Possibly, said Blooddrinker. Especially if you try to steal any of it. She waved her sword threateningly again.

I mean to ship! Whether it’s dangerous to ship!

No, said Lightbringer. In fact, it’s likely that the customs inspectors won’t even know what it is… but to be safe and to make sure you’re focused, we’ll want you to stop trading in all the other contraband you used to ship: antiques, saltpeter, pig iron, weapons, abducted individuals—especially abducted individuals. The risk is simply too great.

Tiphan started to object. "I’m not admitting anything—"

Lightbringer ignored him. Don’t worry, the profits from our goods will more than make up for your losses. Now, we all know that the pirates are just middlemen, and they won’t appreciate the true value of what you’ll be selling; so you may have to convince the pirates to carry a few trial boxes to the ultimate buyers first, just to prove that there is a market.

Tiphan nodded thoughtfully. If what these bandits were claiming was true, he would find ways to raise the prices once the market was proven, especially if he had a monopoly. As for dividing the profits half-and-half… ha, he was confident he could outwit a few simpleton bandits and make the deal even more favorable for himself.

To be sure, if the ultimate buyers were really willing to pay such an exorbitant price, then the goods were likely restricted to military use. That wasn’t his problem, though. He was a clever merchant, not a dumb hero—just look at how poor the veterans were, even after losing an arm or a leg for Dara.

I think we have a deal, he said. Soon as you get the elders to let me trade again, we can start.

Very good, said Lightbringer.

Before he could react, Blooddrinker had gotten up from her sitting cushion and closed the distance between them without appearing to move. Astonished, his jaw dropped reflexively. The woman pushed something into his mouth, pinched his nose shut, and slapped him squarely on the lips. The blow caused him to swallow whatever had been forced into his mouth.

What… what was that? he sputtered, trying to keep his shocked and terrified voice low since Blooddrinker had picked up that sword again.

Consider it… insurance, said Lightbringer.

You’ve just ingested a rare mushroom called Blooddrinker, said the woman with the same name. In an hour it will take root in your stomach, and there will be no way to remove it from your body short of a surgeon slicing you open and ripping out your viscera along with it. Once rooted, the mushroom’s mycelia will spread throughout your vessels and muscles, subsisting on your blood. In a month or so, you’ll start to feel the most excruciating pain all over your body before a slow, agonizing death.

But why!? Tiphan trembled with rage and horror. Why would you do this—

Not to worry. Though the mushroom can never be removed, we can give you a medicine to keep its growth under check. As long as you take it once every month, you’ll live on indefinitely with no ill effects. Every time we meet to deliver you the goods and to get our profit, we’ll give you a dose of the medicine.

Tiphan breathed hard as the implications sank in. Apparently these bandits were more sophisticated than he thought. This would guarantee his cooperation and honesty.

Why don’t we work out the details over the next hour? said Lightbringer. It will give the mushroom a chance to settle in your gut. Also, it’s rather rude that you haven’t offered us any tea.

Tiphan nodded in resignation as he went about preparing tea in the glow of the single candle. He was a little trepidatious at the idea of a deadly mushroom being implanted in his belly, but all in all, considering he would soon get everything he desired and more, he still thought he was blessed with extraordinary luck.

Tiphan Huto will rise again!

CHAPTER FOUR

A LONG JOURNEY REVEALS THE TRUE STRENGTH OF A HORSE

WORLD’S EDGE MOUNTAINS: THE SEVENTH MONTH IN THE NINTH YEAR AFTER THE DEPARTURE OF PRINCESS THÉRA FROM DARA FOR UKYU-GONDÉ (TEN MONTHS UNTIL THE LYUCU MUST LAUNCH THEIR NEW INVASION FLEET TO DARA).

The band managed to stay just out of the reach of the pursuing Lyucu, but they never could shake the hunters completely. No matter how obscure the valleys they hiked through or how unexpected the direction of their flight, always, at most a few days later, the Lyucu would appear on the edge of the horizon.

Though he tried to maintain a confident demeanor, with each failed attempt to be free of the pursuit, Takval grew more worried.

One morning, as the camp awakened in late afternoon—they always traveled at night and slept much of the day to reduce the possibility of discovery—Takval found that the two Agon warriors posted as lookouts were missing. There were no signs of predators or struggle.

Takval sighed. Apparently, the pair had finally lost faith and stolen away while the rest of them were sleeping. Considering that all the rebels, Dara and Agon, remaining with Takval now numbered less than twenty, this was a tremendous blow.

Do they really think they can just fade away into the scrublands, to be adopted into some Lyucu or Agon tribe where they can live out the rest of their days in peace? fumed Takval, as though talking to himself. Every tribe will be on the lookout. Capturing one of the escapees from Kiri Valley will bring them great rewards from Cudyu.

There was no response. Everyone understood that Takval had delivered that monologue as a warning.

Théra beckoned Takval to come with her on a walk away from the campsite.

You can’t do that, she said quietly.

Ever since that rainy-day talk with Thoryo, Théra had begun to rouse herself. Though she was no longer the confident, determined leader of Kiri Valley, she took part in discussions with Takval and the others, and offered ideas and suggestions from time to time. With each passing day, more strength seemed to return to her, and she took an active role in hunting, pitching the tent, tending to Alkir’s needs, even asking Takval to teach her how to ride, something she had never shown much interest for in the past.

What do you mean?

You’re the pékyu, said Théra. Our cause may look hopeless, but we haven’t lost. It’s only when you stop trying to inspire them and resort to threats that they’ll lose all faith in you.

Takval gazed at Théra. The mask of resolution and strength, which he had kept up for months, fell away in an instant, revealing a tired and frightened man. In a barely audible whisper, he said, What can we do with one garinafin and less than twenty people, many of whom aren’t even fighters?

I don’t know, said Théra. But I do know that Tenryo Roaten was once just an escaped hostage with a single garinafin, and that my father began his rebellion with a band of prisoners and deserters about equal in number to ours. And I seem to recall an Agon prince who wasn’t afraid to dive into the endless sea from a city-ship, alone, armed only with the hope that he would find a way to free his people.

Takval pulled Théra into an embrace and kissed her deeply. My breath, the mirror of my soul, he said when he finally let her go. I have missed you.

I’m sorry that I haven’t been there for you, said Théra, tears in her eyes. "Kunilu-tika and Jian-tika may be gone, but the beauty of the world remains. We must not let the storm make us forget the rainbow."

Now that you’re with me again, I already feel as strong as Afir.

As they turned back toward the encampment, Théra whispered to herself, There’s always a second act. Always.

True to his word, Takval made no more threats. Instead, he rallied the Agon warriors to practice and drill, making plans to capture more garinafins if they should chance upon a lone Lyucu hunting party in the foothills. Meanwhile, Théra kept up the spirits of Tipo, Çami, and the other Dara members of the party, reminding them that they still had the opportunity to avenge their friends and loved ones, and to carry out the mission that their homeland had entrusted to them.

One day, Takval returned to the camp from a scouting flight unexpectedly early. Behind Alkir, his mount, was another garinafin, so badly injured that it could barely keep aloft. The pilot was Araten, one of the Agon thanes of Kiri Valley, who everyone thought had been lost along with the others. Riding with him were six other Agon warriors, all of them beyond their prime fighting years or injured at the time of the Lyucu assault.

The newcomers were a sorry sight: emaciated, covered in scars—the older ones clearly from fighting and the newer ones signs of struggle against the elements. Their eyes looked haunted, as though they had witnessed horrors beyond the ken of mere mortals.

Théra was amazed. How did—

Later, said Takval gently but firmly. There will be time enough.

Quickly, ventilated fire pits were stoked to life. Based on a traditional Agon design with improvements made by Çami, these pits minimized smoke and firelight, keeping the risk of discovery