The Right Hand of God (3 page)

magic. How, then, could you doubt the favour of the Most High rests on you? How else could you have defeated them?'

The Haufuth scowled, and Kurr muttered under his breath. The lean philosopher had been talking like this for days, ever since their deliverance from the slave markets, in spite of the anger it engendered among his fellow travellers. There had been a time, Kurr admitted, that he had almost been persuaded. Almost he had believed they were the chosen of the Most High, his instruments of salvation destined to bring deliverance to Faltha. To his credit, the Haufuth had never gone along with the words of this outlandish man, words echoed by the equally suspect Hermit, and even by Hal, their own fey prophet. Yes, there were things he couldn't explain, rightly or wrongly, he acknowledged that. He'd seen the castle of Kantara with his own eyes, had witnessed the power of the Jugom Ark. His friend the Haufuth bore the physical scars on his hand in testament to that power. But knowing these things and not being able to explain them fell a long way short of the unquestioning belief others professed.

'Answer me this, then, O Prophet of the Most High,' Kurr grated. 'If his favour rests on us, where is the Jugom Ark? Where is Leith? Strange way to show favour is that, burying Arrow and Wielder alike under a pile of rubble.' He knew his words hurt Phemanderac, he meant them to hurt, because the philosopher seemed not to care for their feelings, so often did he bring up the subject. Phemanderac turned away without a word and busied himself with one of the packs. Perhaps he did care, but not enough. Leith was not from his village.

The old farmer returned to the problem. How had the four Bhrudwan warriors been defeated?

How had the Company bested even one, this Acolyte, as Mahnum named him?

The question would not leave him, and every time Achtal the Bhrudwan aided them and then deferred to Hal the cripple, unease grew in his mind like a blight taking hold in his apple orchard back on Stibbourne Farm. He remembered giving up hope of anything but a slave's life in that terrible city by the Lake of Gold, until miraculously their purchaser turned out to be the Bhrudwan, complete with camel train. They had been totally in his power then, yet he acted as their servant. What sort of hold did Hal have on the man, and how secure was it? It was as though the Company held the sun in a jar and made it do their bidding. At any time it might break out of its prison and incinerate them all with its power.

Perhaps that was the plan all along.

The travellers took a moment to tend their animals, then set off again to climb the few remaining steps to the top of the pass. Already the huge desert flies buzzed lazily around the pools of drying blood. Achtal did not spare the bodies even a glance: it was as though the people who until a few moments ago inhabited them no longer existed for him. Kurr and the former Captain of the Instruian Guard, who shared with Achtal the vanguard of the camel train, exchanged uneasy glances.

Further down the train the Arkhos of Nemohaim wiped sweaty palms on his red robe. The last few weeks had proven extremely taxing for him, but he was alive, a victory of sorts. Even his dark inner voice was quiet now, sated for the moment by the bandit stepping back on to his sword.

The Arkhos received as deep a shock as anyone to be redeemed from the slave market of Ghadir Massab by the Bhrudwan. He'd fully expected to be killed. Indeed, his captain had made to defend him, but the traitorous Bhrudwan did nothing but lead them to a camel train he had persuaded one of his countrymen to give him. The Arkhos was not clear over that - the Bhrudwan must indeed be high in their complicated hierarchy to have commandeered such wealth.— but it proved the perfect disguise. The Bhrudwan even produced their cloaks, packs and swords, having gained them from the slavers as part of the purchase price he paid.

The hatred the Arkhos of Nemohaim bore towards these northerners had not lessened, he knew that, everyone knew that, there was no point pretending otherwise; but while that cursed Bhrudwan served them he could do little but agree to a temporary alliance. Strangely, the crippled boy had suggested it, arguing it would be sensible to recognise the informal partnership originally forced on them because of the attack by the Sanusi of the Deep Desert.

In the uncertainty of their rescue it had been agreed to by the northerners, no doubt for the same reason as he gave his swift assent. Sharing the road with his enemies was better than the alternative, which was to lose contact with them - or worse still, to be hunted by them.

The arrangement, therefore, met with the Arkhos's approval. Without their support it was less certain that he would be able to return to Instruere. And he desperately wished to return. He had plans for that city, and for its new leader. The loss of the Jugom Ark did not change that.

The camel train crested the pass; and suddenly the green basin of Maremma lay spread below them like an irregularly patched cloth. A spur of the Veridian Hills stretched a brown finger into the smoky distance, and along this spur, high above the plains, wound their path. Through the town of Fealty it would go, the birthplace of Conal Greatheart and still the seat of his knightly order, then down to Sivithar on the great river, and thence to Instruere; two weeks or more at walking pace. There the travellers would go, having failed in their quest. They were bereft of the Jugom Ark, had lost one of the Arkhimm, and faced an uncertain future.

The Arkhos smiled. He was certain about one thing. The future would involve blood and fire.

The abiding impression created by the Wodhaitic Sea was one of peace. Each morning Leith invariably found his favourite position, lying on his stomach in the prow of the outrigger, letting the silent, turquoise depths slide by mere inches from his face, taking in deep breaths of the astringent salt air. He would spend the day talking with Maendraga, or perhaps with Geinor and his son Graig, while they fished for their evening meal. Then in the evenings, after the warm rains, the glorious red-green sunsets and the swift darkness, Leith talked with the navigator, the only Aslaman willing to make conversation with him.

In spite of all that had happened to Leith, he did not truly appreciate how exotic his life had become until these nights on the ocean. On his travels he had seen so many places unlike the green, rolling hills and chalk cliffs of Loulea, his home: barren, snow-covered moors, cold rearing peaks, deep green woods, wide white deserts. An amazing variety of people had crossed his path, from the ragged villains of Windrise to the laughing Fodhram, the simple but proud Fenni, the sophisticated yet confusing urbane Instruians. Yet the most unsettling land Leith had yet travelled was no land at all, but the sea, the wide, pathless Wodhaitic Sea.

Two weeks on the ocean had given Leith his first respite, his first chance to really think, since that Midwinter's night

many months ago. He found himself relaxing, unclenching like a hand held as a fist for too long - or, perhaps, like the hand learning to hold the Jugom Ark more and more gently. So, for the first time on his journey, he was in a position to appreciate the unfamiliarity surrounding him.

Relentless heat served as a constant reminder that he journeyed far beyond the lands he knew.

Coming from a Firanese winter to the warmth of late spring in Instmere felt odd enough, but with so much to occupy them all in the great city of Faltha he hardly noticed the warmth, or perhaps became accustomed to it. The Valley of a Thousand Fires assaulted them with unbearable ferocity, but their journey through the valley lasted only a few days, and they gained some respite at night. But here on the Wodhaitic he found no escape, day or night. The night heat was the worst, leaving him gasping for breath, sweating like a horse after a day's hard riding.

Along with the heat and the vastness of the pitching, heaving ocean came the astonishing skill of their navigator. The archipelago to which they had travelled had been made up of a few dozen tiny islands, none more than half a day's walk around, scattered like crumbs on a tabletop; yet the Aslamen guided their craft straight to them, travelling a hundred leagues or more northwards across the west wind in just over a week. Leith felt sure, in spite of the confidence the Aslamen displayed, they would miss their target and go sailing on forever, until the ice swallowed them or they came to the end of the world; but had since learned in conversations with the navigator that a combination of secrets, wielded by one with experience and skill, made the islands difficult to miss.

The islands themselves were tiny outposts hidden like secrets in the midst of the sea. Leith had expected small

mountains rising out of the water, miniatures of the lands he knew; but the island upon which they made their landing was raised no more than a man's height above the waves. As they had sailed through a narrow gap in the coral reef and into a wide lagoon so startlingly blue it seemed to have been mistakenly coloured by a child, Maendraga leaned over to Leith and whispered in his ear: 'No talking now. This is Motu-tapu, the sacred island of the Aslamen.

No word may be spoken until we leave, save the passing on of the Name.' Leith nodded his head in earnest reply, though he had been told this before, and had little idea of what the magician meant. All he knew was that Maendraga desperately wanted to bury his dead wife's name, and he had usurped the quest to do so. The Guardian of the Arrow had claimed that travelling on the dugout canoe would be the speediest and safest way back to Instruere, but Leith suspected that Maendraga would have insisted on this particular journey even if it proved the slowest path of all.

Once on the island, little more than a strip of land that cleverly escaped the notice of the sea, the four outsiders were instructed to wait under the palm trees until it was time. There they waited in silence through the long morning and longer afternoon, watching the white clouds gather and lifting their faces to the warm rains; until the evening when, the air washed clean and fires burning along the beach, they were summoned to the Burying.

Perhaps a hundred people, maybe more, assembled before the largest of the bonfires on the shores of Motu-tapu on the night of the Burying. Leith and his companions were the only people not Aslamen, and they felt a keen discomfit. The islanders did not need words to communicate their disdain,

even hatred, of the White-skins. The air seethed with a barely restrained violence, as though the four intruders were committing innumerable acts of sacrilege simply by standing under the trees. For a while Leith thought it might be provoked by the presence of the Jugom Ark; but, curiously, none of the islanders indicated any interest in the flaming Arrow he carried, or showed any fear of it. Leith kept his tongue, in spite of his curiosity and growing nervousness, and did not ask Maendraga what was so important about his wife's name that they needed to brave this suppressed malice to return it to the island. And now, it seemed, the secret was about to be revealed.

A man wearing a long robe and carrying a blazing brand came forward and with the fiery stick pointed to a woman. With great dignity of bearing she walked to the fire, pulling something out from under her robe as she did so. In the half-light Leith could not be certain what it was, but he fancied it was a doll. The woman held it up for a moment, then cast it into the flames.

As she stood watching it burn, a small child came up to her. The woman bent down and whispered something in the little girl's ear. A shy smile spread over the child's face, then she and the woman shared an embrace. A moment later the little girl danced off into the shadows, obviously happy.

What's all that about? Plainly Leith would get no answers here, as talking was forbidden. He would have to wait until they left the island and he could question Maendraga. Whatever had just happened, its significance escaped him.

'A Name has been buried and reborn,' said the voice in his mind.

Leith started, and let slip an involuntary gasp that, fortunately, no one heard above the crackling and sighing of the fire.

He would never get used to the voice in his head. He certainly never wanted to.

'Here on this shore the Names of the dead are returned to the Pei-ra. They are committed to the fire, thereby freeing the Name to be given to the next generation.' So the Name is cast into the fire by the symbolic act of casting some object in! Something personal that belonged to the dead person!

'Yes. The doll was owned by a little girl called Laya, who died of a sickness in her bones.

She was loved very much, and all the islanders miss her. But now her Name has been reborn, and whenever they see the new Laya, they will remember and be glad. And the new Laya will try her best to be good like the old Laya was.'

Do you believe all that stuff! Leith asked, though he was profoundly moved by the simplicity of the ceremony.

'Believe it? If you mean to ask whether their interpretation of events is totally accurate, then the answer is no. But no more inaccurate than yours. And somewhat more meaningful Then why is this silence necessary! Why is no one allowed to talk!

'Names are sacred to the Pei-ra, nowhere more so than on this island. The only words to be spoken here are the reborn Names, and then only at the moment of rebirth. Thus they are sealed to the next generation. The Names are never an islander's personal property. They are held communally, and loaned to the person using it. But at death they must be returned to the heart of Pei-ra, names gathered to the secret Name of the Aslamen, and from there redistributed. I like the system. It teaches respect for the achievements of the dead, and fidelity to the living. '

So Maendraga's wife Nena? Is that why Maendraga came here - so that her Name can be reborn?

'So his memories of her can find rest. So he can pass on the Name in the belief that someone, somewhere, is striving to be faithful like his Nena.'

And if she doesn't? What if she shames the Name by her deeds?

'Watch and see. Look at her face. Then decide if Nena's memory and Name will be honoured.'

Hold on. You called these people Pei-ra! Weren't they the ones driven out of Astraea by the Tabuli and the Nemohaimians? Didn't we see the battle mounds in the hills north of Kantara?