The Vastness Page 15

  I would have called him a fool in return, but my eyelids pulled hard. Clea fell asleep, and I followed.

  We woke to the groan of an iron gate at the base of a tall fortress, and I flinched at the brightness of the sun. The man had carried me a great distance. The ship was a speck, the gully one of hundreds, and the wall a ribbon that ringed a snow-covered plateau. The long white valley that rolled down from our high vantage was marred by a serpentine road. Ice-covered peaks surrounded us.

  I’d been wrapped sealskin coat. It slid off as the man maneuvered me through the door and the icy air stabbed my face and neck. I could not cry against the terrible bite that climbed into my mouth and lungs.

  “Don’t breathe the open air, you stupid woman. I didn’t carry you all this way for you to die at our doorstep.”

  He shouldered his way inside, others rushed in after him, and we were swallowed by darkness as the door was slammed shut.

  The air inside was as cold. The dim lantern in the room was not at first apparent as my eyes recovered from the blazing wash of white snow and blue skies.

  The chamber proved to be a barren stone square filled with men who did nothing but breathe. In slow stages them worked the snow and the ice from their skins. The grouped that had joined us was large, but their number did not hide Aden. His black touch and the dead rasp of his breath could not be ignored.

  A door on the far side opened when they were done, and we stepped into a vast egg-shaped cavern lit with a paltry number of oil lamps. Its floor descended in four wide terraces to a small hot spring at the bottom. A wide stair made it way from the door to the bottom, and each shelf of warm earth was lined with yurts and work areas. A small army of men emerged from the dwellings. The heat from the hot springs was delicious and the men removed their heavy skins.

  He set me down. “Welcome to the Priests’ Home of the Zovi. I am acolyte Burhn, our senior member.”

  The stink of caribou and unwashed men made my eyes water.

  Aden was not interested in introductions. He approached, took Clea away from me, and unwrapped her bundle. She cried out at the touch of the cold air, and the army of acolytes roared their approval.

  “Do you have druids enough to assail us here, once we are all made into Ashmari Hessier?”

  “I am Dia Vesteal, and you will make few Hessier if you do not get us warm and fed. A dead baby and fetus will only go so far.”

  Burhn balked and then rescued Clea from Aden. He wrapped her again, but she would not stop crying. He surrendered her back to me, and I hurried the hungry girl to my aching breast. I had little milk to give her, but she worked hard and quieted.

  Aden did not react to Burhn’s move until after Clea had calmed. His tortured face filled with rage. His Ashmari turned and eyed my daughter like she was meal.

  “You better get a hold of these two. I doubt you brought us here for them.”

  It took him an equal amount of time to hear my words and focused on the pair. The air chilled while he worked his magic and his body sagged before the Ashmari turned and started across. Aden stumbled sideways and several acolytes moved to help him. He pushed them off and staggered after his Ashmari, leaving Burhn and the rest to decide what to do with me.

  “I’ll need food and a proper fire or Aden will lose all three of us.”

  “We have no wood for a fire.”

  “You have a ship’s worth in the bay.”

  The acolytes gathered apart from me and the argument was heated. I let a bit of the cold into Clea’s bundle and she cried out. Burhn gestured at us and seemed to win the argument.

  Several men started toward the entrance. Burhn offered me his arm, and led me down the stairs. “Aden is going to butcher your children when he recovers.”

  “If he recovers,” I said, but was in almost worse shape than Aden.

  Burhn helped me down to the bottom terrace and a wide yurt beside the hot springs. I do not recall being laid down upon the wide bearskin bed. He slept outside that first night upon a stack of caribou hides. I learned this when his own snoring startled him awake and he tumbled off the stack and through the yurt’s thick flaps.

  “What is wrong with the baby?” he asked when he stumbled up to see me slather fat upon the rash along her backside and legs.

  “Her wraps all went foul many days ago. I found a jar of fat that should soother her while I wash everything. I hope you don’t mind that I use some.”

  “She’s so little.”

  Won’t make too many Asmari Hessier from her little bones. Do you have a knife? We could cut an arm off now, if Aden is ready.”

  “You are a savage.”

  “Says a man who hopes to be made into a Hessier with her remains. Are you going to do it yourself, or will you ask someone else to do it?”

  He covered her with a blanket, took away the jar, and started out. Then he stopped and gave the jar back. “There is some dried caribou and radish in the dry cooler behind that shelf. It’s heavily salted so drink plenty of water. There is also a trench behind the yurt for ... pitch a little lye on top of you ...”

  “Shit in the hole? Anything else?”

  He shook his head left me. I pulled my half-eaten slice of dried caribou from under Clea’s bedding, devoured it, and washed it down with a squeeze from a skin.

  By the time he returned, I had everything washed and Clea back to sleep. She got a tiny bit of milk from me, and I was sure she’d get all she needed the next day, as full as I was.

  Burhn said nothing as he stomped inside. He grabbed a satchel a locked chest and sat with it on his bed of hides outside.

  I wanted to ask if his mood meant that Aden was worse off than he’d hoped, but I left him alone. I laid down with Clea to let my poor body get a second dose of sleep, but could not as I watched Burhn through the open flaps. He was braiding thin strips of cloth into cords, and one acolyte after another visited him to barter with dried fish and cuts of caribou fat for whatever it was that Burhn had in the satchel.

  The entrance door opened and closed, and a man delivered a heavy load of scrap wood to the pile beside the yurt. He worked off his hood and glove and pointed as if offended. “Why sell it all now? What did I miss while I was down at the bay?”

  “I’m headed down the glacier and back. You’ll all get more used out of them than I can.”

  “You will make a beautiful Hessier, Burhn.”

  “Compliments won’t help the deal. What do you have? Butchers are not known for their ability to scavenge.”

  “I found this small barrel washed up on shore. It’s full of apple preserves. I hate apples.”

  “One candle.”

  “One?”

  “Eat the apples if you don’t like the price.”

  “Villain. You are lucky that you are the only one who can stomach chewing all that caribou fat. It’s a deal.”

  Burhn made the exchange and brought the barrel in to me. “Better eat it all before I leave in the morning. He’ll come back for it.”

  He also had hold of a wobbly hunk of fat, which he took a noisy bite from on his way back out.

  The lid of the barrel lid had been open and fit back into place. It popped back open with a tap and the sweet smell of Enhedu apples overcame the stench of the place.

  The butcher had cheated Burhn, having already eaten half the fruit, but I lost the thought as I gobbled down the wonderful mash.

  Burhn found me scooping the last of the sauce into my mouth with my hand. He chuckled at me, took a well-chewed wad of fat out of his mouth, and wrapped the mass around one of the braided cords. His huge hands proved nimble as he shaped it into a fat candle.

  When my eye got heavy from the wealth of food, he set his work aside and wet a cloth with hot water. He wiped my hands and face and covered us with a blanket.

  I did not get a chance to ask what the candles were for before my eyes closed.

  The world seemed to freeze.

  I came awake and tried to scream, but could not. It was as though I w
ere encased in black ice. An Ashmari stood over me with his boot upon my chest.

  “How many druids are there?”

  “She can’t breathe to answer you, you idiot.”

  “The Ashmari leaned more of his weight upon me as his magic push through every muscle and bone.

  “Do they know of this place?”

  My tears froze in my eyes. I tried to nod my head. I tried to say, yes. The bitter magic made me tell the truth and I shook my head, no. Its grip faded and he lifted his boot off me.

  “How many druids are there?”

  “One. Geart Goib.”

  “He discovered our thralls in the Oreol and Enhedu?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “The last I knew of him, he was sailing south from Enhedu to Bessradi.”

  “With your child’s father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they the ones who killed Parsatayn and the Hessier in Bessradi?”

  “Who?”

  The Ashmari blinked at me. Burhn said, “Parsatayn was the Chancellor of Bessradi. He overcame Sikhek and became the Sten, but the earth has warmed as if all the Hessier in Zoviya are dead. Did your druid kill them?”

  “I do not know. Barok exposed the Hessier to everyone in Zoviya. You will be hunted wherever you go.”

  The Ashmari looked at Burhn, and the man’s arms fell useless to his sides. When it turned back to me, the air crackled and his terrible magic sized me again.

  “Has your druid found any weeping children?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. No. He has not found any children.”

  It pressed his magic deep and said, “You will stay here and care for the child.”

  Then the horrid creature departed, and I curled up around my stomach in search of warmth and life.

  Burhn covered me with a fur.

  I threw it off.

  He laid it back across me. “They will kill you if you risk the girl.”

  I was shivering too much to protest. He lit a fire and started putting on heavy clothes. He checked his boots, gloves, and hat.

  “I am leaving now. The other acolytes will see to you. Stay close to my yurt.”

  “I hope you freeze to death.”

  “That is very a very likely outcome.”

  He found a pair of long thin tubes and blew into each before he tucked them into a pocket along his wrist. I did not know what there were for.

  “What do the acolytes do here besides plot the end of the earth?”

  He ignored the question and said, “You will find some dried meat and a bag of radishes handing in the corner. And there are three candles left in my satchel. You can use them if you want to read.”

  “Read? What books would fools like you have here?”

  “I have many. We trade them and we read so that we will make good Hessier.”

  I laughed at him, and he started out but stopped. “Don’t let that cheat bargain for any of my things. Especially my books. He hordes them. He has nothing I’d trade for.”

  “I’ll burn your books the first chance I get.”

  “Your druid has filled you with hate and the evils of the earth.”

  “I’m going to kill all of you.”

  He shook his head and closed the flaps behind him.

  17

  Sikhek Vesteal

  Hessier feel nothing.

  As our mortal lives end and our unhinged souls are bound into our dead bodies, pain and emotions fade. Calm replaces all distractions of the body, as we become walking beacons of the Shadow’s power. A desire to end the Earth is all that remains, and wherever we go Her spirit is diminished. Hessier are vessels designed to bring a frozen end to the world.

  If only I was still Hessier.

  In Geart’s last moment he sang a song that remade me. It made me a man once more, and with it came the drunken carnival of human emotions and hurts. I would have beat upon my frail and accursed mortal body, but could not move from the seasickness that plagued me. Since the first high wave I’d not managed a solid meal or full night of sleep. Every muscle was locked tight and a swirling nausea spun me in circles whenever I closed my eyes. It went on without end.

  Hands lifted me some days later. Soma was there, and a healer. He gifted me the full strength of his healing magic, and I was able to answer her questions about the hostile coast we sought. The sickness returned quickly and each day that followed became worse than the last as we moved south and the cold penetrated the ship. Five days became twenty and I lost count as the cold bit harder. Wild warmth from above deck cooked me awake once and then at regular intervals, as though Soma was burning through her supply of Vesteal blood to keep her ship and crew alive.

  “You waste it,” I whispered. “Only death can truly power the magic you wish to summon with Barok’s blood.”

  “What did you say?” someone responded. I could not see the man, but my rattled brain understood it must be the Chaukai who stood guard over me. I repeated my words, perhaps, but despaired. We’d been too long at sea. “We have lost. Aden has beaten us. He’s made it to the Priests’ Home, and will raise an army Zoviya cannot stop.”

  Guilt rose and I recoiled from the memories of my crimes. I had started this—had spilled the blood of my family and my people to wrest the powers of the Hessier from the Spirits of the Earth and the Shadow. I had been the first Hessier, and all the hurts caused since were on my account.

  Voices moved toward me.

  “He’s been babbling away all morning.”

  “Has he made magic?”

  “No, and not much sense either.”

  “Lift him up. Wake up, I need you magic, Hessier,” Soma yelled, and her rough palm struck my face and shocked my eyes open long enough to see their angry faces. “Sing to the storm or tell Geart the words.”

  She did not believe that Geart had remade me.

  I felt the stab of the wind above deck as they dragged me up. I had memories of the word for the twist and push of the air, but could not tap it forward into my mind. I caught a glimpse of the terrible state of the ship and crew. These were not the proud people who’d departed Enhedu convinced of their invincibility. They clung to haggard life, upon a ship layered in ice.

  Geart coughed. The sound was the dead bark of a butchered cow—one I heard often when I’d ruled Zoviya.

  “So ugly a sound,” I said and struggled to lift my head. Geart stood forward of Soma, an impossible weight of dead flesh and mercury. A crackle of ugly light flitted like the ghost of a firefly between them.

  “Sing to the storm, damn you,” Soma said and struck me again.

  I started to sing the verse she wished—turn wind, warm air—but the words stuck in my throat.

  Geart leaned toward me with hungry black eyes. He did not know these words. He willed me to give them, but no compulsion took me. My soul was tossed about between them instead like a naked child in a box of broken glass.

  I wept and wished I could sing for her. I truly did. But the Spirits of the Earth hung about her like a cloak of flame and the Shadow was a frozen fog about Geart. I was separated from power—blocked as if by something as vast and unyielding as the storm that tossed the green seas.

  The world faded and spun. I could not keep my eyes open. I wanted my power back. I wanted it all to stop. I looked northwest. I smiled, I think, though I tried to hide it. There was one place yet that could restore me. My last secret in the hills of Aneth.

  Soma hefted me up and her frostbit face was all I could see. “Sikhek. Stop the storm.”

  I had nothing for her.

  She tossed me in front of Geart “Heal this miserable wretch. I need him to sing.”

  Geart began to, but struggled. “Something stops me.”

  “Is it Sikhek? Is he stopping your magic?”

  Geart took a half step toward me and fell to a knee. The deck shuddered. “I am held.”

  Soma drew a knife and knelt down on my chest and stabbed it into the skin above my
heart. I felt nothing but nausea. My tears froze in the corners of my eyes.

  “Stop this, Sikhek. Is the storm your doing?”

  “It is not me. This struggle is between you and Geart. You draw so much of the Shadow and the Earth to yourselves, there is nothing left for the song.”

  “You advise we separate?”

  “He will rebel if you are not close to him. Get to the Priests’ Home. They won’t be able to sing, with you there so near to Geart. Magic will come hard and your Chaukai can do the work for which they were made. Kill Aden. Save the children.”

  “I know my mission, you vermin. Boatswain, get this sack of shit off my deck.”

  I worried he would put me over the side, but the hands dragged me down and dropped me in a dark corner.

  The ship swung around again, still trying to claw its way south, and the sudden change in roll and pitch dug a smear of blood up from my savaged stomach.

  My senses abandoned me.

  18

  Dia Vesteal

  The Priests’ Home

  A day ended and another began as the acolytes stopped staring at me and settled back into the rhythm of their day to day tasks.

  Every fourth day a man would lead in a massive bull caribou enveloped in a purple glow. It was butchered near the entrance, and the pieces made their way to other men. All their food, clothes, and equipment were crafted from the beasts. Ropes made of tendons, bowls make if hipbones, and shirts woven from the long hairs.

  Their cycle was interrupted on my account, however, as men would draw straws to see who’d go down to the shore to scavenge wood for me. The interruption was not welcome. Three men would go down to the bay and back, and the return of the third expedition earned me many dark looks. I did not understand their new anger until I saw that one of the men had been overcome with cold. They carried him into one of the far yurts, and the hateful eyes aim my way multiplied.

  A mound of sealskin approached and dropped a thin armful of wooden wreckage onto the pile beside the yurt.