The Blasted Lands (29 page)

They were well out to see before the sun set. Captain Callan kept members of his crew on the lookout through the night, likely waiting to see if they would be followed.

***

After a while day and night became irrelevant. The distance to the top of Durhallem was deceptive, and though he’d thought to reach the entrance to the mountain within hours, it seemed much longer.

Andover walked in heat that was blistering, and carried on through cold that left his teeth chattering and his toes numb, and still he walked. He did not stop to rest, because he had been told that his time for resting was done.

And so he walked. He moved up the side of the mountain, always angling higher, occasionally crawling on his hands and knees when the incline was too steep, and sometimes scaling the nearly vertical sheer wall of stone. More than once he was grateful for fingers made of iron that were capable of gripping so much harder than mere flesh.

He walked until the snow started, a layer of white that hid the dark rock of the mountain. He continued higher still, feeling the ice beneath him and the biting cold of the air he breathed.

And in time, he could never say exactly how long with any accuracy, Andover Lashk reached the entrance to his destination. And seeing the entrance to Durhallem’s Heart, Andover Lashk forced down his dread and walked into the simple cave. The floor was level enough, a rough black cut into the mountain’s surface. The walls around him were obsidian – rich, black glass – and seemed to reflect his face back at him from a million or more uneven facets. He walked forward cautiously, barely able to see into the darkness, and he walked for a long time indeed.

There was no doubt in his mind as to where he was. How could any mere mortal doubt the presence of a god? He stepped into the cave and felt the heat of Durhallem’s heart and the calculating rage that rested there.

Why are you here?
He did not hear the words. He
felt
their meaning within his body.

“I am here to thank you.” No. That wasn’t right. Durhallem had done nothing for him. It was Truska-Pren who had given him his hands. “I am here to be judged by you.” Yes. That was it. He was supposed to find out if he was worthy.

Did he see the force that came for him?

No. He saw nothing but darkness. But he felt it. He felt a powerful wave of presence, a vast thing of impossible scope that
noticed
him for a moment, truly noticed him and examined him.

And judged him.

A moment later the pain came, a great searing agony across the left side of his face. Muscles spasmed, flesh twitched, bone moved within his face, and when he thought for sure that he must scream or go mad he remembered the words of Drask Silver Hand so very long ago now, as he prepared to be given his new hands.

Place your hands within the blessing box. Do not move them, no matter how great the pain, no matter how tempting. Life is pain, and if you would have hands that live, you must accept that pain. Do you understand?

He thought of those words and obeyed them as best he could. He did not move his face, despite the desire to do so. He tried not to scream and could never be certain if he succeeded there. The pain was vast, as large as any he could remember, but he did not move, he dared not move. The presence might notice him again if he did and he felt that would be a very bad thing indeed.

The pain disappeared as quickly as it had come to him. There was no lingering reminder of the agony. It was simply gone.

Andover closed his eyes and fell to his knees, able to breathe again for the first time since feeling the presence.

His hands clutched tightly to something he could not see. When he was strong enough to rise he kept his grip on that something and made his way to the entrance of the cave.

The stars were out and the night was cold and Andover Lashk walked carefully down the side of the mountain along a trail that had not been there before. He worked his jaw and felt the changes along the left side of his face and wondered what they might look like. His hands kept their tight grip on whatever had been given him by Durhallem, but he did not look at it. His eyes stayed on the path ahead of him instead. He understood in his soul that to look away would be to lose the path and he was not sure he was strong enough to make it back down the mountain without it.

The sun rose and still he walked, still he kept plodding along. In time he stopped, but only long enough to drink the cold waters from a trickling stream of melt off. The ground was once more stone and the air was warm on his skin.

The sun was fading by the time he reached the village, and once again great fires raged within the pits before the cliff side dwellings.

Tusk came toward him and stopped a few feet away. His hand reached out and grabbed at Andover’s face looking carefully first at his right cheek and then at his left.

And then the man roared, “He is scarred! Andover Lashk is scarred by Durhallem!”

Around him the people cheered and Andover blinked, shocked by the sudden noise.

The feeling that he was in a dream did not quite leave him, but it faded as the people came forward, many clapping him on one arm or the other, others, like Delil, embracing him briefly as if greeting a member of the family they had not seen in a while. It seemed that every person in the village came his way and offered their congratulations.

And maybe they did. He could not tell.

There was the talk of his being scarred and Andover let his hand drift up to touch his face. The right side was the same as ever but the left was changed.

His voice sounded strange when he spoke for the first time in over a day. “How?”

“No one can meet the gods and be unchanged, Andover Lashk. You have received the blessings of Durhallem. He has given you obsidian and your first Great Scar.”

He nodded as if he understood, but the words only grazed the surface of his mind. He was tired and doubted he would ever feel as if he had slept enough again in his lifetime.

“You have wondered why we wear veils before your people and now you know. Your people would not understand. They have not been blessed.”

Tuskandru reached to the veil covering his face and pulled it back. A moment later the cloth was tossed aside amidst a faint tinkling noise from the thin links that adorned it.

Andover barely heard the noise. He was far too busy studying the markings on Tusk’s face. They had no symmetry and each was as different as any of the marks on the man’s flesh, save in that they were prominent and impossible to ignore. Along the left side of his face a thick scar ran from the cheek down to the jaw. Not but a few inches distant another scar, heavy enough to stand out among the many scars on the man, ran above his mouth and almost to his nose. A third jagged across his right side, but that one seemed an open wound that would not bleed.

At least that was the impression until the wound moved. All three of the scars opened and flexed along with the broad lips of Tusk’s mouth. And from the mouth and the scars alike Andover could see flashes of teeth, hints of gums. When Tusk spoke again all of the scars and his mouth moved, each adding a note of sound, and the apprentice blacksmith finally understood the source of the odd distortion in the voices of the Sa’ba Taalor.

“When we meet with the gods, we are gifted with the voices of the gods, you see? We understand them and we can speak with them. Once we are worthy, once we have proven ourselves, the gods bless us with their marks and their voices alike.”

Delil peeled the veil from her face and he saw that she had two such scars, one on the right that ran along her jaw line and one on the left that bisected her full lips. When the mouths were silent they did indeed look like scars. When she spoke they moved, they formed words and sounds.

“You are blessed today, Andover. Durhallem has accepted you.”

Through the exhaustion that seemed to weigh him down, Andover felt a blooming understanding and a rising dread.

He spoke with both of his mouths. The one he had been born with and the one Durhallem had cut across the left side of his face. The mouth he had been born with let out a slight whimper and said, “Blessed?” And the other mouth, the scar that spoke in a slightly different tone said, “Blessed. Durhallem has blessed me.”

He should have been horrified, but the exhaustion was still there, like the weight of too much wine upon him, and it crushed his panic.

But there was more. He could not fully understand it, did not want to make sense of it, but part of him was thrilled with the change.

He looked around him and saw the faces looking back, Delil, Tusk, Bromt and others whose names he barely knew and could hardly remember, and understood that they accepted him and reveled in the change.

They accepted him as one of them.

As an equal.

And it was good.

He fought back tears, not of grief but of joy. For the first time in so very long, Andover felt that he belonged.

Chapter Thirteen

When he stopped at Dretta March’s home on his way to the palace and his offices there, Merros did so with mixed feelings. Since actually meeting her, the morning encounters had become a part of his life and he had come to truly enjoy them. On some occasions they merely ate in comfortable silence and on other occasions the two of them exchanged tales of Wollis and reminisced over the man they had both loved in their own ways.

It had become a part of his routine, and that was something that Merros was not used to having. His life had been broken into simple rituals since he’d joined the military and while the locations changed the practices he kept seldom did. He woke, he cleaned himself, shaved and prepared for the day. He dressed, saw to his weapons and then went to the daily tasks, usually breaking his fast on the way out the door or occasionally when he reached his command.

Now the ritual had changed. Now he broke fast with Dretta, often eating nothing more than fruit, but sometimes having meals that required time and energy to prepare. A lot of time and a good deal of energy. Roasted meats, pastries and breads served with preserves and honey, and the breads often fresh from the oven and still warm to the touch.

If this kept up he’d be having his uniforms altered to give his belly more space.

That thought brought a bittersweet smile. Because the chances were good that the ritual would be going away.

While they sat at the table outside of Dretta’s home – to date he had never actually been inside the structure, merely beneath the cover of the patio – Merros chewed thoughtfully at his food and Dretta watched him with a wary expression.

As he was chewing on the loaf of crusty bread into which fruits and nuts had been backed – something he had never seen done anywhere but in the northern climes – Dretta finally had enough.

“What is on your mind, General Dulver?”

“Am I General Dulver today?”

“When you are acting so formally and refuse to look me in the eyes I must assume you are here on official business.” Her words were light enough, but her expression spoke of a deep and abiding dread. “Do you plan to tell me bad news of my son’s fate? Is Nolan injured?”

He was horrified. “What? Gods, no, Dretta. Your son is fine. Nolan is on an assignment for the Empress, and I have received several reports on his condition. He is well.” He could see her relax. She let out a deep breath and the tension fled from her face, removing years from her age. In truth she was younger than he was and younger by almost a decade than Wollis had been. She had married young and her husband had not.

“Then why are you acting like an ass?”

“What?”

“You’ve barely looked at me. You’ve not said four words. If I’ve offended you than say how and if I have not than explain your silence before
I
take offense.” Her dark eyes nearly glared.

“I didn’t mean–”

“You are a man. Men seldom mean to do anything. Wollis did not mean to leave me for months at a time. He did not mean to run off to all the cities of the Empire. He did not mean to die.” She choked a bit on the last, but closed her eyes and continued. “Men never mean to. And yet they do. So I ask you again, what is it that bothers you?”

There it was, that knife of guilt. He made himself accept the wound without flinching.

“I have been trying to find a way to tell you that the city is going to be abandoned.”

“Come again. I did not hear you well.”

“I’m afraid you did. The Empress and the royal court are moving to Old Canhoon, to the original palace. The army will be leaving here. The people who tend to the army will be leaving and so will all those who serve the royal court. Everyone will be leaving.”

“Why?” Dretta’s had reached for a knife, but only so she could cut herself a slab of the hearty bread. She dripped the edge of the bread into thick honey and began chewing slowly as she stared at him.

For just an instant he wondered why that should be so appealing a sight and then he pushed the thought aside. Dretta March was Wollis’ wife. That was as far as he had to consider before moving on.

“Well, there seems to be some worry about the city meeting up with disaster.”

“That would be a thing to let people know, yes?”

“Well, yes, but there’s the panic to consider.”

“What panic?”

“If we tell the people that the city is in danger, they will most definitely want to leave. And they’ll want to do so in a very big hurry. And if they all leave at once, there’s going to be every imaginable sort of problem with everyone trying to leave at once.”

Dretta raised one eyebrow archly and studied him. Merros squirmed, feeling a bit like a bug under close scrutiny. Wollis had gone on at length on more than one occasion with stories of his wife’s ability to make him feel like a complete buffoon with an expression. Merros was beginning to think his friend had been understating the matter rather than bloating it out of proportion.

“You understand the logistical dilemma, don’t you?”

“How many soldiers do you have in this city of yours, Merros Dulver?”