Tears of the Dead (40 page)

Alaya knelt down and snatched up the fish cakes she’d dropped like a greedy gull pecks mudfish from the surf.

Alaya backed away, muttering “I’m sorry” until she disappeared under the dark canopy, leaving Kol-ok alone in the rain.

The son of the Uros lingered on the bow raft for a little while longer. Somewhere before dawn, he threw the crooked stick he once called a spear, into the sea and laid down under the nearest canopy to sleep.

Evil casts two shadows, goodness only one. –
Lo Proverb.

Chronicle of Fu Xi

***

Ba-lok flopped into his boat, smugly satisfied with how events were proceeding. Twice Aizarg had done what he asked - decreed anyone stealing food would face exile and allowing Virag to enter the Minnow Clan. Aizarg sought his advice more often. Ba-lok sensed himself gaining standing in the inner council. He crossed his legs and nibbled on his daily ration of stale fish.

Across the Minnow rafts, his people made their way to the Supply Barge and their evening rations, chattering excitedly about tomorrow’s wedding. He spotted Virag and Ro-xandra in the shadows, close to one another and engaged in whispers.

Virag began to spend a great deal of time with Ro-xandra. This struck him as odd, but the nights were long, and Virag no longer had a boat. Ro-xandra, being a widow, could bed any she chose.

Maybe we’ll make a Lo man out of the old fox, yet.

He scowled at the dried cake’s strong sour odor.
It’s getting ready to turn.

Ba-lok thought of the shrinking pile of fish cakes on the Supply Barge. The stack now only stood knee high.

We must find fish in this great big sea.

Kus-ge emerged from the crowd and squatted next to the brazier, tossing in a few sticks. Ba-lok noticed how drawn she looked. Perhaps the hunger sapped her vitality, or maybe it was more.

Leanness.

“Are you going to eat?” he asked.

“When my work is complete.”

“And what work is that?”

“I have to retrieve a rabbit from a snare.”

“What do you mean?”

Kus-ge considered him with her usual coldness as the corner of her mouth lifted. He couldn’t remember when he last saw warmth in those eyes.

Maybe I’ve mistaken passion, or lust, for warmth all this time.

She didn’t answer his question; instead, she just broke twigs and threw them into the brazier. “Tell me, husband, what are you doing to ensure our people continue to eat?”

“You know what I am doing. I don’t need to answer that question.” Ba-lok put his hands behind his head, pushing the negative thoughts aside, trying to recapture his previous confidence. “Aizarg listens to me. He values my council.”

Kus-ge snorted. Her snort transformed to a sneer. “Are you blind or just stupid?”

“I am sco-lo-ti and your husband. You will not address me that way.”

“No, you are Second.
Second!
That means you are Aizarg’s little boy, scurrying about the decks doing the jobs unfit for Okta and Ghalen.”

“I’ve had enough of your foul words.”

“My words are what you carry to the Uros, not your own.”

Ba-lok flinched and visibly shrank back into the boat. “I don’t need your council.”

“Of course you need my council. Without me, you’d be lost, just like you were on the steppe. If I had been with you on the g’an, you wouldn’t have gotten lost...and captured.” Kus-ge’s voice turned smooth, like polished bronze. “I wonder what the Scythians planned to do to you before Sana would have cut your throat.”

Shame bubbled up in his gut at memories the rain could not wash away. “They did n-nothing.”

“Your face bears scars from a great deal of nothing. Do you have other scars I cannot see?” She shrugged, warming her palms by the fire. “I would not know. You haven’t taken me since your return.

“I’ve heard stories about what Scythian raiding parties do to captives, especially those they capture without a fight. My grandmother told me they don’t consider captive men
as
men, more like women to be used as they see fit,” she laughed.

“Shut up.”

Kus-ge crouched towards him like a panther. Ba-lok found himself scooting backward in the boat.

“You are weak and I’m tired of pretending otherwise. I saved the Minnow, not you. While you played on the g’an, I led our people to safety. Our children’s bellies growl while you sit on the Köy-lo-hely, listening to Aizarg and his lackeys.

“We outnumber them, yet they dictate to us. They dictate because you are weak.” She leaned in close, lips pouting, breath caressing his face. “You...are...
worthless
.”

He slapped her.

It felt good.

Kus-ge smiled and licked her lips. “I’ll forget about that for now.” She spread her legs and lifted her loincloth, revealing knives like Sana’s, weapons he’d never seen before.

Ba-lok’s eyes widened in shock.

“Next time, I’ll kill you. But before that time, all will know of the humiliation you suffered at the Scythians’ hands.

“If you want me to continue playing the dutiful patesi-le before our people and the council, you will listen and obey.”

Virag emerged from behind Ba-lok’s wife, grinning like a living skull. “Good evening, Sco-lo-ti.” He frowned. “I’ve always thought that such a clumsy word. I think the smaller words carry more power, like king or
Uros
.”

Ba-lok’s head swam. “What is going on?”

Kus-ge slid into the boat, resting her thigh seductively over Ba-lok’s leg. He felt the daggers slide threateningly over his skin, gliding their way toward his groin.

“While our people receive rations, Virag and I thought we’d have a private talk with you.”

***

Like caged tigers in heat, the two seas raged to reach one another. Hurricane-whipped waves pounded the rocky barrier from both directions, but the tide favored the greater southern sea. Breakers lifted warm water over the thin granite damn, giving the icy Black Sea a salty taste of its eager lover.

Nuwa sensed cracks rapidly multiplying along the miles-long bridge separating the two continents. Already, the southern sea blasted holes along the cliff’s base far below in the abyssal deep.

Nuwa’s spirit waned, exhausted from her toils. Across the four corners of creation, she’d witnessed a world die and gathered the dead unto the Emperor of Heaven. Here, along the narrow bridge between continents, would begin the last great act of the Deluge, the Cataclysm’s death rattle.

The flotilla drifted out there, far over the horizon, their souls twinkling like campfires on a distant shore.

So delicate, so easily snuffed out like a candle’s flame between the fingers.

The Emperor of Heaven had sealed a covenant with these people. Now her duty wasn’t gathering the dead, but protecting the living.

Wails drifted on the western wind, as the last divine spirit cried out in his struggle to cling to flesh.

Nine times she heard such a cry rise from the mighty city in the west, now buried under the ocean, never to rise again. The race of demigods and the age of the Nephilim had all but passed.

So far, Fu Xi had escaped their fate. She prayed to the Emperor of Heaven this would be the last time she heard such a cry.

His voice thundered in her spirit.
Keep your promise and I will keep mine
.

She considered the narrow rock dam again. “They still have time, just a little.”

She transformed into a pillar of golden fire and raced away into the clouds. A fresh shock wave rumbled through the land bridge as another tidal wave rolled over naked rock.

He waited until he no longer sensed her presence before emerging from the whirlwind. A shadow born from a shaft of rain, a wisp of sea spray, he solidified and strolled across the land bridge, watching the clouds seal over the hole Nuwa punched open as she fled east.

“Most likely flying east to hover over that brat of hers,” he murmured.

The Black Dragon thought it ironic that time had become so important to immortals. Nuwa fled east to watch over a son she’d been forbidden to help, and he raced to destroy those aboard the flotilla before her return.

He could not touch the Ark, but that didn’t matter. Time would serve as his faithful ally in that war. A push here, a nudge here, and, over thousands of years, bloodlines would corrupt, patriarchs would fall, and nations would be led astray. The Ark bore promised hope for mankind. The flotilla carried something far more important to the Black Dragon; the seed of his doom.

“No, my love, they
are
out of time.”
He knelt on one knee and placed his palm flat against the rock. “From the shadows beneath Creation, my kingdom rises. This world is mine.”

The Black Dragon stood and strolled away, body melting into the sea spray.

A shock waved ripped outward from the heart of the land bridge where his palm rested only a few moments earlier. The center collapsed inward. Millions of tons of rock tumbled into the Black Sea, chased by an enormous waterfall. The waterfall rapidly widened, eating away at the brittle granite on either side, until the waterfall stretched several miles from end to end. The warm, salty sea invaded the cold, fresh water. A gush of mist lifted high, feeding the storms above.

The Black Dragon rose into the storms, his rage energizing the tempest. Lightning danced across midnight wings, which whipped the heavens into a maelstrom with but one purpose.

The Lo must perish.

“Love is creation. In the young, love is born from innocence. As we grow, it is born from sacrifice. In the old, it is born from pain.”
–
Sana, Isp of the Lo.

The Chronicle of Fu Xi

***

Alone where no one could see her, Sana indulged in a guilty moment of girlish delight. Eyes closed, she waited for the dawn next to what remained of the storm wall. Tonight, the rain felt comforting. Water reminded her of Ghalen, and she wanted to share his love for it the way she once loved the wind and the open grasslands.

Sana held up her hands toward the lightning as if to embrace it, and laughed.

“You are foolish, girl,” a voice like grating bone cackled from behind. Sana turned and found Kirabol glaring at her, each lightning flash revealing a face of stone.

Her euphoria ebbed away, leaving ill will toward the hag. Kirabol reminded her too much of the old Scythian witches who despised her for being the great Setenay’s granddaughter.

“Leave me in peace.”

She stepped around Sana, tugging at the tattered fox fur shawl wrapped around her bony shoulders. She approached the storm wall until water sloshed around her feet.

“What does a Scythian know of peace?” Kirabol cackled. “But what does a girl know of peace, either? The young know only restlessness.”

“I don’t want to spend my last night as a girl, suffering a tongue lashing from a bitter old woman. I’m leaving; you and the storm can torment one other.” Sana turned to slip back below the canopies.

“I tried to hate you from the moment you came aboard,” Kirabol called after her.

Sana turned around. The old woman tugged a stick off the storm wall. “Perhaps more than anyone, I understand what’s happening to this flotilla. The Uros calls it an arun-ki, but he is wrong. Aizarg and Atamoda see this flotilla as they want to see it.”

“And how do you see it?”

“Exile.”

“From what?”

“From the sun, and all else that is good. I’ve lived my whole life in an exile. There are many things I do not understand, but I understand exile. Perhaps we’ve even crossed into the underworld and do not yet realize it. The Nameless God has banished us to a watery wilderness until we are ready.”

Kirabol clenched the thick limb and easily snapped it. “The flotilla is rotting beneath our feet. The people grumble about their bellies, but we will sink before we starve. Okta knows this, as does Aizarg. Your time is running out.”

No longer comforting, the rain now chilled Sana.

“You’re a hateful woman. If you’re trying to frighten me, it won’t work.”

“No. I could never hope to frighten the granddaughter of the great King Sosa. Did you know I met your grandfather once?”

Kirabol’s eyes narrowed and foreboding wrapped its black arms around Sana’s once joyous heart. She wished she had kept walking.

“I was there that day, when Sosa took your grandmother. There are songs about it among your people, yes? Romantic ones, I’m sure. Do any of them mention me?”

Sana shook her head.

“Not surprising.”

Kirabol’s eyes glazed over as she stared north, as if she could see a distant shore. “The creeks ran deep and cold from the north that summer. It was hot, as hot as I’ve ever remembered before or since.

“My first blood had just come, and I was frightened. My mother had recently died and my father fell into a deep mourning. Setenay’s mother, our patesi-le, took ill with the same fever that had claimed my mother. Setenay had just entered her fourteenth summer and wanted to take care of me.”

She smiled in a way Sana didn’t think possible for such a twisted face. “She always took care of me; my mother, my sister, and best friend all in one.”

Sana tried to erase the hard lines on Kirabol’s face, to transform it around that warm smile and imagine her as a young girl on the precipice of womanhood.

“I didn’t mind the blood as long as Setenay was with me. We went into the marshes looking for moss, talking about boys.

“Boys!” The hag actually giggled and covered her mouth. Sana no longer strained to imagine the young girl. She revealed herself like a ray of sunshine.

“We ended up swimming in a sandy bottomed creek around the bend from the arun-ki. The reeds were so thick and lush around us we felt safe, like a cage. I always felt safe around her. And I remember how cold the water felt on my naked skin! The Lo say water on your skin is the next best thing to a lover’s touch. When you’re young, cold can feel good, because you always know the sun is waiting for you.”

The girl vanished and old Kirabol returned, her gaze falling squarely on Sana. “The sun wasn’t waiting for us that day. Setenay told me later that they’d been watching us for a while, though we didn’t know it at the time.

“Do the songs speak of how they fought over her? Do the chants celebrate how Sosa gutted one of his own men to claim Setenay as his own?”

“No.” Sana wanted to put her hands over her ears, to flee before Kirabol uttered another word.

“I think Sosa took Setenay because she fought back to protect me. She was so beautiful, so brave.

“He laughed as he stepped into the reeds, Setenay’s unconscious body slung over his shoulder like a freshly slain doe. He left me to his men. I don’t think they mentioned that in the songs, either.”

“My people can be wolves,” Sana whispered, regretting the words immediately.

“Ha!” Kirabol howled.

Sana flinched and found Kirabol suddenly in her face.

“Wolves eat what they bite. I am not dead, but let me show you where their knives gnawed on me.”

She lifted her doeskin dress, revealing a nightmare recorded in scars.

Sana turned away and squeezed her eyes shut, unable to unsee the horror.

“Your people have a word for what they did to me, though I’ve never heard it from a Scythian’s lips.”

“The Eviscare,” Sana whispered.

Kirabol stood holding her dress up, rain pelting her nakedness, speaking to Sana as if showing her a mole or boil. “Setenay told me it means ‘The Hollowing.’ They do it to render women of the conquered barren and unable to nurse; horrid to look upon and unfit for a man’s love. Though I think they did it to vent their anger. They didn’t even rape me before they carved me up.

“My people exiled me to an abandoned hut downstream. Setenay’s mother cared for me at first, though she died of grief before Setenay returned.”

She dropped the hem.

“After she died, they left fish on my stoop like I was an animal. No one came to see if I were alive or dead until Setenay herself returned almost two years later.”

“I am sorry...so sorry for what my people did to you.”

Kirabol’s eyes brimmed, and her stone face softened into a raw wound. “Pity doesn’t suit you, Scythian.”

Kirabol sat down on the storm wall. It crackled and popped under her meager weight.

“My life has been spent hating. I hated the Scythians for what they did. I hated my people for ostracizing me. And I hated Setenay.”

Sana knelt down in front of Kirabol, water sloshing around her knees. “Why did you hate her?”

“Because she came back stronger, even more beautiful than when Sosa took her. Fate made her something powerful and wild, while it broke me.”

Kirabol sighed. “Later, I hated her because she always left my hut. It reminded me no one else would visit until I saw her again. Every time she left, she took the sun with her.” She looked up to the blackness, rain pelting her face. “Now she’s gone, this time for good. Maybe the sun is gone forever, too.”

Kirabol caressed Sana’s cheek. “When you stepped onto the flotilla, I foolishly thought that the Narim had transformed Setenay back into a girl, and that perhaps they could do the same for me. I tried to hate you, but I couldn’t. The worst part of spending a lifetime hating, is eventually you only hate yourself.”

“Let me take care of you! When we find land, Ghalen and I will take you into the Turtle Clan.”

Kirabol beamed and patted Sana’s cheek. “So ready to dole out mercy, aren’t you? My, how you have picked up our ways!”

Kirabol slapped her.

Sana bolted upright, rubbing her cheek.

“Stop this foolishness!” Kirabol commanded. “As Setenay was not truly Scythian, you are not truly Lo. She adopted their ways only to survive. Do not adopt those Lo customs which will get you killed.”

She glared at Sana, all softness vanished. “I overheard Atamoda say you threw your daggers into the sea.”

“I am now Lo,” Sana said defiantly. “I will be a patesi-le, an Isp.”

“Did you not hear anything I just said? Tossing away your daggers was stupid, the act of an emotional child.”

“That was my choice, and none of your business.”

“Is living your business? Do not let my people fool you. The Lo can be as vicious and cruel as any. Take it from one who has suffered a lifetime under their torments. Aizarg doesn’t need a Lo girl spouting mercy; he needs a woman with an edge as hard and sharp as a Scythian blade.” She poked Sana’s belly. “He needs Setenay’s granddaughter!”

Kirabol removed her shawl and unrolled something from a bulge in its middle.

“When you’ve spent as many years alone as I have, you think. I’ve prayed to the gods not to think so much. I’ve often wondered why some lead a life full of blessings and others are cursed through no fault of their own. Sometimes these thoughts make me angry, but I think them anyway. And sometimes I wonder why the gods give fools so many second chances.”

She withdrew a rolled leather strap with four daggers protruding from the ends.

Sana inhaled.

“These were your grandmother’s. She gave them to me the night before she departed for the Council of Boats. She never said it, but Setenay knew she wouldn’t return. I asked what she wanted me to do with them. She said I would know.”

Kirabol held them out and removed the Black Blades first, each with a slender, unadorned hilt. “You know their names, their purpose is well known.”

Then she pulled forth two Silver Blades, their thin shafts and bone handles indicative of Scythian craftsmanship. “Setenay called these...”

“
Hope
and
Mercy
,” Sana gasped. “Setenay was a Scythian queen. She carried a fifth blade. Tell me you have it!”

Kirabol grinned and withdrew a cloth-wrapped dagger from somewhere in her dress, and held it up. She slowly revealed a weapon unlike the others.

“Here.” She handed the large dagger to Sana hilt first. “If you know of it, then you know it has tasted blood.”

“Scythian blood.” Sana took the unexpectedly light weapon. “It’s called
Sacrifice
.” She turned it over, studying the holy blade; a weapon clearly not crafted by Scythian hands. A golden, serpent-like creature formed the hilt, which wrapped partway down the blade. The blood red metal blade, neither iron nor bronze, gleamed even in the darkness.

Kirabol returned the four other blades to the thong and rolled them up. She thrust the bundle at Sana. “They are rightfully yours. You will need them, perhaps sooner than you expect.”

Sana took them.

“Of all the people in the Minnow Arun-ki, Kus-ge was the cruelest to me. Setenay wouldn’t say her name if she didn’t have to, preferring to call her the Snake. She tried desperately to prevent her marriage to Ba-lok.” She snorted. “He’s endured the Eviscare, though not in the way I did. I think Setenay still held hope for him. And don’t forget, Scythian, Ba-lok is the only blood relative you still possess.”

Sana wrapped the thong around her thigh, not even attempting to conceal the blades under her loin flap. For a brief moment, she worried the thong may be too long or too short, but it tied perfectly, as if tailored just for her.

Too large and ungainly for the thong, she briefly wondered how Setenay carried
Sacrifice
.

“Thank you,” she said.

Kirabol cackled. “I give her a burden greater than she can imagine, and she thanks me!”

“These...” Sana held up the red blade. “...are sacred. You’ve honored me.”

“If you say so. If you want to thank me, make me a promise.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t go throwing them in the water.”

Sana smiled.

“And be a good Isp. Protect Aizarg. Protect the children. Don’t let Kus-ge hurt them.”

“I will, I promise.”

Kirabol’s shoulders sagged, and her head dipped, as if an enormous burden had been lifted.

Sana whirled about and took a few steps toward the canopy and the dim brazier light. “I want to see it in the light to see if it glows like fire as the legends say!”

“Dawn is coming, and your wedding,” Kirabol’s depleted voice whispered behind her. “Perhaps the rain will end today.”

Lighting flashed, and the dagger answered with a ruddy glow.

“I hope the children see the sun again.” Kirabol sounded weaker.

Sana briefly thought she should get the old woman out of the rain, but the blade captured her attention. “There is something familiar about the knife,” Sana called over her shoulder. “Something I’ve seen before.”