“Did I not say this is the queen’s wish? Do you question me?” The angry scrape of Akhenabi’s voice made Nezeru tremble though she was not its target.
“No, great one!” Makho bowed his head, but the chieftain had never lacked for courage, and there was still a sign of stubborn resistance in the straightness of his back. “It is just that I had planned on our return, so I could deliver one of my Talons for discipline. She nearly compromised our retrieval of the bones. How can I trust her with this new task?”
Akhenabi’s masked face turned to the rest of the hand where they kneeled behind Makho, and lit on Nezeru with a chilly finality she could feel in her innards. “You,” he said. “Come to me.”
Her heart seemed to be racing downhill now. It was nearly impossible to make her legs work, worse even than the first day after her whipping. When she managed to get her feet beneath her at last, she staggered forward and then sank to her knees once more, staring at the horse’s slate-colored hooves instead of at the Lord of Song.
“Look up, Sacrifice. Look at me.”
She did, and had to restrain a sound of startled horror. Akhenabi’s mask was not simply draped over his face, she now saw, but had been stitched at the eyes and mouth and nostrils with tiny knots—stitched, she felt sure, to his very skin. The pearly, translucent mask itself was painted with runes almost as small as the knots, faint silvery letters she could not read, symbols that only showed when the starlight fell on them at an angle, so that as the Lord of Song examined her, they appeared and disappeared across his cheeks and forehead.
“No, my eyes,” he demanded. “Look into my eyes.”
She did not want to—by her oath and her death-song, she did not want to!—but she could not resist that harsh, powerful voice. Her gaze met his. For a moment the dark wells of the magician’s eyes seemed to grow smaller, until they were no larger than the puncture a bone needle would make, but at the same time Nezeru felt herself falling forward into them as though they were gaping holes in a dangerous, icy pond.
For an instant she tumbled helplessly into that darkness, then the magician’s empty black eyes were somehow inside her instead, digging carelessly through her thoughts. Everywhere they roamed she lay naked and unprotected, as if some great pair of hands held her and touched her in any way their owner wished. Her lies, her treacherous, cowardly thoughts, even the corrupt flow of her mortal blood—Nezeru was certain that the Lord of Song could see them all. She could hide nothing.
At last, Akhenabi turned from her, and she toppled forward into the snow, limp and barely sensible, resigned to death.
“There is no need to return her to Nakkiga,” the Lord of Song declared. “She will suffice for what comes next.”
Nezeru was astounded. How could the great Akhenabi not have seen her deepest secrets? But he had seen them, she was certain—she had felt the subtle, inhuman touch of his curiosity push in wherever it wished. So why was she not being punished?
“But, great lord,” protested Makho, “—a living dragon? How will a single hand, even of Queen’s Talons, manage to capture and bring back such a creature? Hakatri, whose bones we have brought to you, was one of the greatest of the Zida’ya, but the worm Hidohebhi burned him unto death.”
“So you would say five of our kind cannot equal the deeds of one of the Zida’ya?” Akhenabi hissed, and his voice was like the crack of the hebi-kei. Makho tried to meet his eye but could only hold that dark gaze for a split-instant. “You let fear of failure make you a coward, Hand Chieftain. But the queen herself demands your success, and Utuk’ku is always generous. She has sent you a gift to help you complete your task.” Akhenabi raised his hand again and the wolf-team drivers whipped their animals up onto their feet and drove them forward. The great sledge creaked and groaned for a moment, frozen in place, then the ice cracked and the huge runners slid across the ground until it reached Akhenabi and his white horse.
“Give Chieftain Makho the goad,” Akhenabi ordered. One of the sledge’s drivers came forward and handed Makho a rod of bright vermillion crystal. “Now take up the goad, Hand Chieftain.” The Lord of Song spoke as though enacting some ritual only he knew. “Wait until you feel it warm in your hand, then say the word ‘Awaken’.”
Makho stared at him for a moment, then at the sledge and the covered mound tied at the center of it. He lifted the crystal rod. “Awaken.”
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the ropes on the sledge began to rustle and creak as they were pulled tighter. One of them snapped with a report that made even Makho start. Then a second broke, then a third, and the covered mass began to quiver. Now the great wolves harnessed to the sledge all began to moan, loud, whining noises of unease. An instant later the heavy tent-cloth ripped like parchment and fell away as the thing on the sledge rose, trailing broken ropes that seemed no larger than spiderwebs.
Even Saomeji was surprised—Nezeru heard him murmuring beneath his breath. It sounded like prayers.
The giant crouched, blinking. It was by far the biggest of its kind that Nezeru had ever seen, nearly twice the height of mortals or Hikeda’ya, covered in grayish-white fur except for its jut-browed face, which was hairless and covered in leathery, dark gray skin. A wide gray ring of witchwood encircled the beast’s neck.
“Look! Do you see the yoke he wears?” asked Akhenabi. “The queen herself put it on him. It binds him to the service of the one who holds the goad. But use it sparingly or he will become inured to the pain and difficult to master.”
The giant looked blearily from side to side. It hunched its shoulders and growled so loudly and deeply that the watching Hikeda’ya twisted in discomfort at the sheer power of it. The beast then leaped down from the sled, landing so hard Nezeru felt the ground shudder. The wolves began to howl with redoubled excitement and terror.
“Bind him to your will!” Akhenabi almost sounded amused. “Bind him quickly, Hand Chieftain, or he will tear you apart!”
“How?” shouted Makho.
“Hold the goad firmly! Think of your hands closing on his neck. Think of choking him as you tell him what you want.” Now Akhenabi actually laughed, a terrible, scraping sound. “Or be sure the monster will kill you all!”
“Stop, giant!” shouted Makho. He thrust the rod toward the creature. “Down on your knees.”
The giant growled, the sound so low that it made Nezeru’s heart bounce behind her ribs, but it did not otherwise move.
“Down!” cried Makho.
The creature groaned and clawed at its neck, but after a moment sank slowly to its knees, massive, black-nailed hands flexing in frustration.
“He is Goh Gam Gar, oldest of his kind,” said Akhenabi. “He is your new companion—although I doubt he will be your friend. Now go, and bring back the blood of a dragon. The Queen of the World awaits your success.”
15
Atop the Holy Tree
It was a warm day out and a hard climb up hundreds of narrow steps, but Lord Chancellor Pasevalles considered it well worth the trouble.
I am like a cat, he thought with quiet amusement. Always happiest when I can perch in some high place and look down on everything else.
He stepped out onto the top of the Tower of the Holy Tree, and his troubled mind was immediately soothed by the cool air swirling in from the Kynslagh. He put his back to the morning sun and peered down from the western side of the tower, but other than an assortment of castle livestock grazing on the green and castle-folk going about their assorted employments there was little to see. He wondered what those curiously foreshortened men and women would think if they knew they were being watched from on high. Then another thought came to him: Is this what God sees from his high heaven? No wonder He cares so little for us. We are scuttling things.