“We cannot speak of it yet,” Jiriki told him, and would not explain further.
After the strange events in the butterfly cavern, Aditu, Jiriki, and several more Sithi had prepared quickly, almost feverishly, for a journey, gathering up water and food for Morgan and Eolair, as well as a few blankets and other things. As soon as the preparations were completed the small group—perhaps a dozen in all—had set out. Morgan thought they had been walking for at least an hour now, but was not quite sure. In fact, he was not quite sure of anything at the moment, except that the world was far stranger than he had ever guessed, stranger even than he had suspected when he looked down into the shadows of Hjeldin’s Tower and saw what he felt certain (but still did not want to believe) had been the red priest Pryrates’ restless, murderous spirit.
Is this what Grandfather means when he says you never know you’re in a story? Am I in a story?
The Aldheorte itself seemed different to Morgan now, older and deeper than the parts he had traversed before. The shadows seemed darker too, the moments of sun less frequent. Even the trees and other vegetation seemed to huddle closer together, as if for protection.
The Sithi, though, seemed not to notice, and it certainly didn’t slow them any. Jiriki walked so quickly it almost seemed like running, and his sister, despite her bulging belly, had no problem keeping up with him. But the one called Yeja’aro was the most agile of all, and also seemed in the greatest hurry. Morgan had the feeling that if Yeja’aro could have whipped them into greater speed, he would have. Not that anyone but another of his own folk could have kept up with him: at one point, while the rest trotted down into and then up out of a small canyon, Yeja’aro simply leapt from one side of the little valley to the other, dozens of paces away—an astonishing feat that none of Yeja’aro’s kin seemed to notice. Meanwhile, the mortal prince and the aged lord steward had to scramble over obstacles their companions seemed barely to notice.
Yeja’aro kept looking back to Aditu and her brother. Morgan could guess nothing of Sithi feelings by their faces, but there was something noteworthy just in the frequency with which the red-haired Sitha watched the siblings. Something complicated seemed to be going on there—love, anger, hatred, perhaps all three. Whatever it was, though, was strong; Morgan felt certain about that.
At last, he caught up to Aditu (or more likely, he knew, she slowed down for him) but he was too daunted to ask about the things he had been wondering. Instead, when he had mustered enough breath, he asked, “Where are we going?”
“To T’seya Go-jao,” she said. “Another of the little boats, as we call these more humble dwellings. Your grandfather saw Jao é-Tinukai’i, the Boat on the Ocean of trees, the greater refuge from which all the little boats came.”
“What direction is that? Because Eolair said he thought we were traveling west—back in the direction he and I first came.”
“That is true, more or less.”
“But then the sun should be in our eyes, at least when we can see it through all these bloody trees. It has to be far past noon and the sun’s been on the back of my neck for an hour!”
She adjusted her pace a little to match his. “Hm. Did your grandfather ever teach you to play shent?”
“He tried.” In truth, it had been one of the most frustrating things Morgan could remember. The game had far too many pieces, or at least the pieces had too many names, and the contest seemed to have no rules that made sense. Instead it was full of useless directions such as, “Consider the point from which you started,” or “Follow the wind.” In the few times he had played with King Simon he had won only once and did not understand why, except that a bored, blatant attempt at cheating on his part had made his grandfather laugh. The memory brought a pang of discomfort and anger. “I could never do it right.”
“It is about different ways of thinking. That is why I asked. Yes, the sun is on your neck. Yes, we are traveling west. Some things are more slippery than you think they are.” She reached out and patted his arm, her touch light as a bird’s wing, then sped her pace again. Morgan could only struggle to keep up.
? ? ?
What seemed a good part of the afternoon had passed when they finally reached a quiet lake hidden among the trees, a blue gem darker than the sky. Sithi dressed in pale green and gray waited there, tending a tiny harbor complete with what looked to Morgan like a very flimsy dock and several flatboats made of woven willow branches.
Morgan, Eolair, and all the Sithi climbed into one of the boats and were soon poling themselves silently across the lake. On the far side they slipped into a hidden river where Morgan had seen nothing but reeds, then made their way up it for some time. At last they began to pass strange structures made of willow branches and thorns that had been raised on both banks, like defensive walls but impossibly fragile. As they moved farther upstream the walls occasionally rose to join over the top of the water, so that he and his fellow passengers seemed to float through tunnels of gray wood and black thorn. Not long after that, Morgan began to notice more Sithi crouching behind these structures, watching their boat pass from expressionless golden eyes. Most of these wore colorful wooden or bone armor. Their spears and swords did not seem made from metal either, but Morgan felt sure from the cold faces watching them pass that the weapons would prove as deadly as any steel.
At last they came to a wide place in the river with a willow-wood dock and an enclosure beside it on one side that was roofed with an even more complicated arrangement of willow limbs thatched with broad leaves. A figure stood on the dock as if it had waited there years just for this moment. As they drew closer, Morgan could see this was another Sitha, with the same blaze of red hair as Yeja’aro. He wore no helm, but was armored in pale green painted wood, with a sword hanging in a scabbard on his belt. Something about his face seemed unusual, but Morgan was still too far away to make out what it was. At least a dozen Sithi warriors stood behind him in attitudes of calm expectancy.
“S’hue Khendraja’aro!” called Jiriki as he leaped lightly from the boat to the dock. “I see you have heard of our coming. We left H’ran Go-jao quiet and secure.”
“You have brought mortals,” said the red-haired Sitha, his arms crossed on his chest. Hearing the harshness in his words, Morgan thought that this man and Yeja’aro had more in common than just the color of their hair, their thin, prominent noses, and their high brows. Could this one be Yeja’aro’s brother? Father? Morgan had already learned from quiet conversation with Count Eolair that it was nearly impossible to guess a Sitha’s age.
Aditu helped Eolair from the boat to the dock, then stepped across herself, nimble as a squirrel leaping from one thin branch to another. The other Sithi followed, but did not move forward to greet or mingle with those on the dock. Morgan wondered what that meant. Something invisible seemed to hang between them, as if these two groups, all but identical to Morgan’s eyes, were somehow from quite different tribes.
Jiriki turned to Morgan and Eolair. “S’hue Khendraja’aro is our mother’s brother.”
“More importantly,” said Khendraja’aro, “I am the Protector of the Zida’ya.”
Now that he was closer, Morgan could see that the protector’s face was scarred. Something had cut him from the left edge of his mouth up almost to his cheekbone, and it had not healed well. Not only did the scar give him a persistent and disturbing half-smile, but at the top end it pulled his eyelid down into a squint.
“We have news, Khendraja’aro,” said Aditu.
The red-haired Sitha raised his hand. “And this news meant you thought it appropriate to bring mortals here? To me?”
“We did what—” was all Jiriki had a chance to say before Khendraja’aro interrupted him, taking a step toward Count Eolair.
“Know that it is only the old alliance between my people and yours, Hernystirman, that prevents me from killing you both on the spot.” His voice was not loud, but something hard in it carried right to Morgan’s ear, like a shout. “As it is, honor demands that you two be allowed to leave this place. But that is all. Whatever knowledge you seek, whatever bargain you hope for, it is denied before you even ask. Now go, leave this forest now, or even the old, hallowed memory of your noble Sinnach and the battle of Ereb Irigú, when our people fought together, will not save your miserable lives.”
49
Blood as Black as Night
Jarnulf and the Hikeda’ya had climbed well beyond Urmsheim’s broad skirts, but although they had been pulling themselves upward for days now, until even the tallest of the nearby peaks lay below them, the bulk of the great mountain still towered high above.