The Legend of Broken (45 page)

“Indeed I do feel honored, lord,” Keera says, still with great humility. “For she is famed among all our tribe as the most righteous and powerful of woodland spirits—a noble soul with a mighty heart. One of our fellow foragers claims to this day to have seen her kill nearly every member of a Broken hunting party, long ago.”

Caliphestros studies the young Bane woman further. “Your homage is well stated, young lady. I have long known of the deference your people show the great cats of the Wood: but in you there is something else—something more than mere fear or deference.”

“Yes, my lord,” Keera answers with a quick nod. “If my agreement is not unacceptably vain.”

“It is not. You are a woman who exhibits graceful strength, integrity, deep knowledge, and compassion. Do not ever apologize for such qualities, Keera, for in the vicious, mendacious world of men, they are the finest and most powerful gifts that anyone can hope to possess.” Caliphestros leans forward, stroking his grey beard and suddenly realizing just how long the thing has become, and how much of that length is no longer grey, but white. “And so, please, bring your eyes up, if you can bear the sight of the deteriorating, mutilated man before you, that we may converse the easier. As for Stasi—if your friends do not hold her gaze for too long, until she has grown as tolerant of their scents as she is pleased by yours, she shall not strike at them. Not so long as
you
are present, at any rate.”

Keera, eagerly but nonetheless slowly, turns upward, letting her eyes run the length of the panther and then settle on the green jewels that are set into her proud face; and for an instant, she feels a deep chill of mournful recognition. “I—it is said, in our village, that she is so fearsome because she sprang from the loins of the Moon itself, which gave her such color, brilliance, and almighty power …”

“I have heard this tale.” Caliphestros lifts his head, ever more intrigued by this small woman of great wisdom. “But you think otherwise …”

“I—with all respect, my lord, I believe I
know
otherwise.”

“Indeed? And you may simply call me Caliphestros, Keera. It was my name, when there were other humans to use it, and so I suppose it must become such again.” A thought occurs to him. “Do you know the meaning of your own name, by any chance?”

Keera quickly shakes her head. “No. Caliphestros.”

Watching this extraordinary scene, Heldo-Bah begins to moan, his upper body rocking back and forth. “She has called actually him by his name alone—without his title. We are dead men, dead, dead, dead …”

“Stop it,” Veloc hisses, cuffing his friend a quick blow to the head.

“You two will be silent,” Caliphestros says, more forcefully than angrily—but his tone is nonetheless stern enough that the panther punctuates his remark by eyeing the two small men and letting out the short, low growl that such creatures employ as a warning call to those immediately about them. The old man reaches down to stroke her haunch as his gaze returns to Heldo-Bah and Veloc. “Do not suppose that my gratitude is infinite,” he says, “for I know that foraging, while vital to your people’s survival, is also employed as punishment, on occasion. And at first blush, the pair of you have the sort of habitually contrite expressions that would mark Bane who have undertaken their foraging under precisely such disgraced circumstances.” Caliphestros deliberately softens his aspect and voice, once more, as he looks again to Keera. “Yours is a name from far to the south,” he continues. “From the Sassanid empire, which some call Persia. Do you know of it?”

Keera shakes her head modestly. “No, Cali—” Her voice falters. “I beg your pardon, but may I not call you ‘my lord,’ for now? I find that I feel impertinent, doing otherwise. Perhaps, with time, this will change …”

“Wiser and wiser,” replies Caliphestros, as he slowly nods once or twice. “Very well, Keera. It is a beautiful, indeed a fine name, intended for those who are gifted with sight: to see far and truly—in
all
ways. Which, I suspect, you do.”

“She does that, my lord,” Veloc says, putting one hand to his chest and holding the other arm out before him, assuming his best historian’s pose. He then declaims further, and just as clownishly: “There is no greater tracker in our tribe, nor a wiser head—”

“If you wish to keep
your
head, boy,” Caliphestros interrupts, “and the throat beneath it, then mind your tongue until your opinion is requested.” He gives Keera a rather conspiratorial glance. “Your brother, eh? I heard you mention as much, during your argument—and it would more readily explain why one of your character keeps such questionable company as his.”

“Yes, my lord,” Keera replies. “But he is not as great a fool as he sometimes sounds. A good man, in fact, but he has long had the ambition to be the historian of our tribe, which ofttimes causes him to take on airs.”

“Historian, eh?” Caliphestros echoes. “Indeed? And to what school of history do you belong, Veloc?”

Again assuming the absurd pose of the orator, Veloc asks, “My lord? I fear I do not understand you—what
school
of history?”

“Yes,” Caliphestros says, plainly entertained. “History is, among many other things, a long war, Veloc—a war between factions, each of which is as fanatical as any army. So—are you an annalist, for example, like the great Tacitus? Or perchance you seek moral lessons in the lives of great men, as did Plutarch.” Reading utter consternation in the handsome Bane’s features, the old man tries not to laugh aloud, and queries further, “No? Perhaps you admire the books of the estimable Bede, from across the Seksent Straits. He was once a friend of mine—although I do not know if he yet lives.”
†

“I know none of these names, lord.” Veloc’s mask of pride, now undercut by confusion, grows naught but sillier. “And I must ask—what has
history
to do with
books
?”

“Ah,” noises Caliphestros. “So you
speak
the tales of history, do you, Veloc?”

The handsome Bane shrugs. “What else should a true historian do, my lord? Were history to be recorded in books, why … How should we know who put it there? Or where it originated, and what part is fact, what legend, and what mere myth? Only
spoken
knowledge, handed down through the generations from wise man to pupil, over and over, can offer us such integrity—should any of our number speak lies, his fellows will likely catch him at it, whereas the lies of a man who writes books will long outlive him, with no one left to tell of his deceptions!”

Stroking his beard slowly, Caliphestros studies Veloc for a few silent moments. “He is either more intelligent than he sounds and appears,” the old man muses quietly, “or wholly unaware that he has grazed a deep truth. And I am not certain which I find the more disconcerting …” Coming out of this reverie, Caliphestros fixes his grey gaze on Keera again. “And so, my sharp-eyed girl—you saw something in Stasi’s face, before we were interrupted. I believe so, at any rate.”

“I may be wrong, of course, lord,” Keera carefully murmurs. “But—it is a thing, I have noticed, a thing that certain animals, even though they be as different as man to panther, can sense in each other. The loss—the death—of a loved one. Loved
ones.
”

Caliphestros’s brow ripples suddenly with profound sorrow. “You have lost children?”

“Not—yet,” Keera answers softly. “But … my husband. The only man I have ever loved.” She nods quickly, without turning, in the direction of her companions. “Loved, that is, as a wife should—with affection, admiration, and—”

There follows a pause, which Caliphestros fills for the modest Keera: “And
desire,
my girl. Eh?” At a quick nod from her, the old man elaborates: “There is no shame in it, Keera, nor embarrassment, save for those who have never known such love. Was it the illness that has struck your people?”

Keera’s lips tremble, much as the old man’s did, only an instant earlier; and in her desperation to maintain her dignity, she lets the fact that Caliphestros seems to already know of the plague in Okot pass. “He—he was taken, just a few days ago. The pestilence has come to several parts of the town we call Okot. Two of my children are also—” Keera fights back the tide of weeping that is rising in her breast and throat; but a lone tear finally escapes, to fall heavily upon her cheek, and drift down it.

The panther sets her pointed, tufted ears sharply forward, and picks her proud head up. But her green eyes fix, not on the forest about the camp, but on what seems to be Keera’s face.
Or is it her throat?
Veloc and Heldo-Bah ask each other with quick, worried glances. Then, leaving Caliphestros perched on a limb, in one almost impossibly agile movement, the panther almost
pours
herself from the elm to the ground, upon which she begins to walk softly toward the Bane female.

As Heldo-Bah covers his face in panic and horror, Veloc quickly lifts his short bow over his shoulder and nocks an arrow, all his pompous, foolish posturing vanishing as he executes the expert motion. He then draws the bow, aiming at the panther’s chest.

“Keera!” he cries. “Move aside—run, I have no shot!”

“Lower your bow, historian!” Caliphestros orders, raising an arm and outstretching a hand in seeming threat. “Such foolhardy aggression can only anger, not harm, both my companion and myself!”

Keera, who has been staring into the eyes of the beast, only nods and holds five splayed fingers out behind her. “It’s all right, Veloc. Put the bow away …”

{
ii
:}

“I will not put it away,” Veloc says, raising his outstretched bow arm to now take aim at Caliphestros. “If I cannot hit the animal, old man, then
you
will suffer for it, unless you truly have charms that can stop an arrow!”

Caliphestros sighs once. “I should hardly be much of a ‘sorcerer,’ if I did not, historian.” The old man seems no longer concerned, now that Veloc’s arms have moved, despite the arrow’s threatening his own life. Seeing this, Veloc’s draw on his bow begins to relax. “You have some little bit of your sister’s wisdom, then,” the old man goes on. “Good. For you have nothing to fear, in this …” He keeps the same hand held out, but turns the palm upward as he indicates Keera and the panther.

As he allows the draw on his powerful bow to ease further, Veloc stares in bewilderment at the masterful huntress who is approaching Keera: remarkably, there is no malice or hunger in the animal’s expression, and her body betrays no hint that she is stalking. Although confused and a little uneasy, Keera stands her ground well; and when her face is level with the panther’s, there being but a few feet between them, she can see that the cat means her no harm.

“You have a way with creatures, I see, Keera—and they with you,” Caliphestros says quietly. “Yes … a great gift. I know only one other like you …” But the old man can speak no more of the matter, apparently; and his jaw sets, trembling just enough to indicate a battle raging inside him.

The panther’s nose, deep red and looking as tough as hide, nonetheless is delicacy itself when it moves to a spot just a few inches from Keera’s face—close enough for the Bane tracker to hear the surprisingly gentle sniffing and whistling sounds, as well as the short, ever so short breaths of air, that escape from it.

Having found the precise spot on Keera’s face where the single tear fell, the white panther sniffs ever more delicately at the small trace of salt and moisture that remain; and then she reveals her rough, pink tongue. Even as her breath speaks of the kills she has made only recently, the barest tip of that long organ licks the tear and its track gently away from Keera’s face …

Keera trembles throughout her body; but the quivering calms as trust grows along with it, and the beginning of a bond is formed. When the tracker begins to lift a hand, she glances up at Caliphestros, as if to ask his leave to touch the creature.

“I think you will be safe, now,” the old man answers, reassured by Stasi’s actions that he has been right to trust these three Bane, and especially this young Bane woman.

Keera, meanwhile, runs one small hand along the panther’s arching, solidly muscular neck, and then her fingers move up to scratch behind the animal’s ear. At that, the panther begins to purr once more, and to lick Keera’s face with less delicacy, yet more delight.

“It would seem,” Caliphestros says, “that Stasi has understood you precisely, Keera.”

“‘Stasi,’”
the Bane woman murmurs, smiling in friendship and still caressing and scratching the panther’s head and neck. “What does it mean?”

“It means that she is a creature of rebirth,” Caliphestros replies. “Of resurrection—as you will soon discover …” He laughs affectionately when he sees the panther put one paw to Keera’s left shoulder and the other on her right, keeping most of her weight on her hind legs, and still delicately cleaning the Bane woman’s face, and then her neck and hair: precisely as she would if Keera were a cub of her own. In the midst of this seemingly impossible moment, only Veloc continues to look momentarily alarmed, but Caliphestros dismisses the Bane’s brotherly concern with a wave of his hand. “You need not fear, Veloc,” he calls. “She is only making a new friend—and a new friend who doubtless offers far more amusement than the sole companion she has had these ten years.”

“Ten years?”
Heldo-Bah echoes. “You have been in that cave with this beast for ten years? Scant wonder you’re mad, old man.”

“Heldo-Bah!” Veloc scolds.

“Oh, calm yourself, Veloc,” Heldo-Bah replies. “If he could have transformed us into toads, he would have done so when you threatened to kill him.”