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It was a long trek back to Nakkiga through the hilly lands along the base of the mountains the Hikeda’ya called Shimmerspine and the mortals called the Whitefells. The Talons sheltered for one night in a sentry outpost of the Order of Sacrifice, a cavern hollowed deep into the stony hillside and almost impossible to see from the valley below. The warriors stationed there were on long detail, and thus strange to Nezeru—their service had begun long before she had received her sacred calling—but Makho and Kemme knew many of them, and spent the evening drinking the quicksilver liquor called analita, and Ibi-Khai was closeted with the fort’s chief of Echoes for hours. Even Saomeji spent a brief time with his order counterparts, although as with most of their kind, Singers were solitary by nature, so the conversation did not last long. Only Nezeru found herself completely alone, but after what had happened on the island she felt no desire for fellowship and telling tales. She was also certain many of the tales would be about her, so she found herself a spot far from the sounds of conversation and did her best to rest.
In the morning, Nezeru thought that their Sacrifice hosts were looking at her differently: every Hikeda’ya soldier of the outpost, whose path crossed hers, seemed to examine her with interest, although with some it seemed more like contempt. She was shamed anew: she had little doubt that Makho and Kemme had told them of her failure and her punishment, and although her wounds were finally healed enough for her to move with some of her old grace, it felt as though everyone could see them through her garb. She could not help wondering if Makho had told them about the child she claimed to carry as well. Her belly would never grow, but her lies felt larger with each passing day, her crimes harder to hide.
“We have new orders,” Ibi-Khai informed them when Makho had gathered the Talons in preparation for leaving. “They were passed to the Chief Echo here in the sentry post, with my Magister’s binding truth-word to prove them. We are not to go back to Nakkiga, but instead we are ordered to take Hakatri’s bones to Bitter Moon Castle.”
All the Talons were surprised by this change in plans, and none were happy, especially not Makho, who Nezeru felt sure had been looking forward to a triumphant return to Nakkiga, not a trip to an isolated border fortress. Still, any message authenticated by the High Magister of the Order of Echoes came with the implied authority of Queen Utuk’ku herself, so all the Talons’ faces were cloaked in respect. Only Saomeji dared to show anything else, and his look was close to triumphant. As they made their way out of the fortified cavern, past the files of armored and helmeted Hikeda’ya soldiers, he leaned close to Nezeru, his golden eyes bright, and said, “It seems my masters have snatched this triumph from the lords of your order.”
She did not know what he meant, but she wanted no more to do with him than was strictly necessary, so she did not ask.
After leaving the outpost, Makho’s hand rode on fresh horses for several days through the mounting snows, following a more southerly route than they would have, until at last, on a morning when the sky was clear, they saw Bitter Moon Castle on the horizon. The fortress was a squat mass of granite at the top of Dragon’s Throat Pass, built in the days of Hikeda’ya power to watch over one of the most important routes in and out of Nakkiga. The Talons had a hard climb up narrow, winding paths to get there, and Nezeru was not the only one whose body ached by the time they reached the top of the pass and the great cleared area in front of the castle walls.
To her astonishment, as they approached the forbidding structure, its gates swung open and a great procession moved out onto the plain toward them, a hundred Sacrifices or more, a few riding but most marching to the rhythm of muffled drumbeats. The troop was led by something Nezeru could not quite make sense of, a massive sledge pulled across the snow by a team of panting wolves. A huge, cloth-covered bundle the size of a small cottage was lashed to the sledge.
Makho signaled the rest of the Talons to stop and wait. This was clearly no ordinary greeting party. Nezeru wondered what might be on the sledge. Was it meant for them?
The odd procession came to a halt before them, but a single white-robed rider continued forward on a tall, ice-white horse. As this figure neared, a sensation of helplessness swept over Nezeru, a terror stranger and more subtle than anything she had ever felt—like Saomeji’s ice moly, but chilling thoughts instead of wounds. She sank to her knees in the snow, waiting for the tall shape to dispose of her in whatever way it chose; within moments, the other members of the hand, even Makho the chieftain, had done the same.
“Where is the Singer of this hand of Talons?” asked the hooded rider in a voice like the scraping of ice on stone. Given time, Nezeru felt sure such a voice could reduce a mountain to rubble.
“Here! I am your humble minion, great Lord of Song.” Saomeji hurried forward to abase himself before the rider. “It is my joy to live and die for you and our queen, Master.”
“Pretty words,” said the rider. “Perhaps you shall have the opportunity to do both, and sooner than you think. Do you have the bones, little Singer? Hakatri’s precious bones?”
“I have carried them all this way.”
Makho stood up, although Nezeru thought he might have stumbled a little in his haste, which was astonishing in itself. “Here! By what right do you seize the queen’s prize?”
At his movement several Hikeda’ya soldiers from the front of the procession stepped toward the Talons, pikes lowered, but the smallest movement of the white rider’s hand stopped them. “By what right?” the tall figure said. “Child of our long exile, I am that right.” He reached up a white-gloved hand and pushed back his hood. Nezeru’s heart skipped and barely righted itself.
“Lord Akhenabi!” Makho’s voice was squeezed and faint. He fell back onto his knees and pushed his face against the snow. “Magister, I did not know it was you! I beg your forgiveness. I did not know . . .!”
Nezeru could only stare as her heart fluttered and bumped in her chest like a trapped thing. Akhenabi! She felt her skin tighten, her hackles rise. The High Magister of the House of Song was a figure of terrifying legend among the Hikeda’ya, the queen’s closest confidant and counselor. One of the first born in this land after the Eight Ships had arrived from the lost Garden, the great magician had been a power in Nakkiga since longer than any but Utuk’ku and a few other ancients could remember.
And like the queen, the Lord of Song went always masked. All the Hikeda’ya’s first generations wore masks by tradition, but Akhenabi’s was the strangest Nezeru had ever seen, made of a thin, pale material that clung to his face and neck so closely that it mimicked the movements beneath. Only his eyes, the holes of his nostrils, and his mouth showed through, but the mask clung so closely to those that it might have been a second skin.
Akhenabi turned back to kneeling Saomeji. “You. Bring the bones to me.”
The Singer carried the bundle forward with careful, reverent steps, then kneeled beside Akhenabi’s stirrup and lifted it high in the air. Akhenabi reached down his long arm for it, then unwrapped the cloth in which the bones were shrouded. His masked face did not change or show any emotion, but Nezeru thought she could feel the satisfaction beating out from him like the heat of a fire.
“So. You have done well.” The Lord of Song turned his masked face to Makho and the rest of the Queen’s Talons. “So well that the Mother of All has gifted you with a new quest—a second vital task. You should be very proud.”
Makho took a moment to speak. “Of course we are proud, great one. Serving the queen is everything to us. But may we know what this task is?”
“Your own Echo has been told what is needed,” rasped the Lord of Song. “The knowledge has already been placed in his head, and he will lead you where you must go, Hand Chieftain. To your eternal honor, you are given this service by the Queen herself.” He paused and nodded, as if savoring something. “You and your hand are to find a living dragon and bring it back. Our queen has a use for its blood, but the beast must be alive when we take that blood.”
“A living dragon?” Makho was clearly astonished, but with a visible effort of will, he mastered himself. “Are we not to return to Nakkiga first, Magister?”