A Blight of Blackwings Page 2

  He sang just one line at a time, and in between there were extended musical breaks that bridged into another key, scaling up to the third line, and then back down to the original key for the last line.

  One Puff: I feel in my core the need to stop and ponder.

  Two Draws: I am beset by problems I am helpless to solve as I am.

  Three Drags: To be well again I must change, yet change is painful.

  Four Breaths: To remain the same is also painful, so I welcome change.

  Five Pulls: May this fire transform me and light my way to a better future.

  After the customary break he gave everyone to get seated, he pulled out one of his black seeming spheres—his supply replenished by Numa’s visit—and grinned at Survivor Field.

  “I have a new story to begin with you today. There will be more regarding the traitor Vjeko, never fear. The pelenaut will have much to share. But it is not yet the time.”

  That earned a dismayed response from more than one throat, including mine, but Fintan pressed on.

  “We met our new narrator earlier on the periphery of events, and you just heard of her surrender to the Nentians at the Godsteeth, but now she will get to speak to you in her own words. Friends, I give you Olet Kanek.”

  He threw down his fragile egg of a stone, and when it shattered, the gas billowed up, covered him, and then revealed a much taller new form. Olet Kanek was eleven feet tall or more and armored, save a helmet. Her red hair spilled free about her head and rested on her steel shoulders. I thought her simultaneously attractive and fearsome, for she clearly knew how to use the weapon sheathed at her side. Her lips were drawn down in worry, or perhaps it was just solemnity.

  I sparked up a bowl of leaves and inhaled, the gases searing the lining of my throat, a fiery salve for my scorched heart. The gulls and blackwings circling overhead keened with hunger, the slosh and slap of the tide against the hull an unsteady rhythm to their arias, but I focused on breathing in and then breathing out a plume of smoke, willing not just the toxins but poisonous thoughts to exit my body.

  My plume met and mixed with one from the mouth of La Mastik, priestess of the Flame, who had sparked her own pipe. We were the last two lavaborn among the Hathrim who had escaped the eruption of Mount Thayil, and we had much to burn away and transform in the purity of fire. We also needed to forge new steel in our minds for the trials ahead, and fire was necessary for that. La Mastik was thinking much the same, and she gave voice to it, eyelids half closed and her voice a reverent prayer.

  “May our lungs ever prove the bellows to forging new fires, new paths, and new creations,” she intoned.

  “May our purpose burn pure and blue,” I responded, in tandem with those who watched us.

  Her eyes snapped fully open and locked on mine, held them as we drew deeply on our pipes. This was going to hurt, but it needed to be done. The other passengers on the boat listened raptly, on their knees, hands clasped in front of them. In the ritual of a funeral smoke, there is comfort, even if it is only witnessed rather than performed: It is a drape of order over a whirlpool of chaos, a refuge from wind and water. We all needed it now. The customary rites for the dead could not be observed in this case, and we needed to resort to this secondary ceremony as we sailed north to Talala Fouz, the capital of Ghurana Nent.

  “Thurik witness our love and respect for those who fell at Baghra Khek,” La Mastik said. “Their memories will burn in our minds until we ourselves are ashes.”

  I have always appreciated that sentiment. It is good for the lavaborn to be reminded that we are not invincible. It is true that Gorin Mogen inflicted terrible casualties all by himself, but he was ultimately defeated by a Fornish greensleeve. Their bantil plants destroyed some houndsmen, and their spore pods slew more that inhaled too deeply; thornhands removed the spines and organs of many who ventured outside the walls. But the bulk of the other lavaborn were trampled by a stampede of kherns that were supposedly summoned by a Nentian boy who’d found the Sixth Kenning.

  We learned that the Fifth and Sixth Kennings were more than a match for the First, and should they continue to work in tandem, the world will change.

  That was hot popping logs to me: I had wanted it to change for a long time anyway.

  “The Mogens,” I began after exhaling a new puff of smoke. “Gorin, Sefir, and Jerin, whose fire saved us and birthed a new city.”

  Shedding tears at this point was not only allowed but encouraged by social convention. It was no hardship to summon them; they rose and spilled down my cheeks without effort for Jerin, if not for his parents.

  The challenge would be to make them stop, for I regretted Jerin’s death so deeply and until now had not been free to show it. I had felt such surprise to find him a kindred spirit who wished to be free of his father, like me. Surprised and somewhat chagrined that I liked him, since our fathers wanted precisely that and had arranged our marriage without our consent. He was supposed to be agreeably awful and easy to despise. But he’d impressed me so that I felt I might actually grow to love him. And then he was gone.

  I had some hope left: I could still pursue the dream we had of a city born of goodwill instead of blood and fire.

  The funeral smoke was good for us. The other boats sailing alongside and behind had no lavaborn, but they had firebowls and people willing to lead and list the names of the dead, and we did right by our fallen. We left the carrion birds behind, and the sun sank below the surface of the Larik Ocean before we were through giving voice to our grief, but I spoke into the quiet afterward, hoping my words would carry across the water to other boats.

  “Hathrim, hear me! I do not know what this Nentian king will ask of us when we arrive in Talala Fouz. I do not know if he will agree to our proposal. But I want you to know that you are all free. Free to come with me if we are given leave, and free to return to Hathrir at any time. I am not your hearthfire; I make no claims of leadership. I am just one of the lavaborn who want to live a new life in a new place, in a new way with new friends, and you are welcome to join me if you choose. May Thurik’s flame burn brightly within you all.”

  It was not a speech my father would have made, nor would Gorin Mogen. It did not stoke fire here or fuel passion there, urging some specific answer or course of action. It burdened them with choice, and some, I think, were displeased. Most were simply confused: They had never not been ruled by a firelord. But the result was silence and heads in motion: turning to either side to see how others were reacting, some shaking their heads in condemnation, others nodding in approval.

  I was satisfied with that. If I preached freedom on one hand and burned hot at disagreement, then I was no better than a sand badger snapping at his own ass. No better than my father, the Hearthfire Winthir Kanek, who told me one day I could forge my own future and told me the next I must forge a marriage with a stranger.

  After the funeral smoke, I kept careful watch of my feelings. I worried that I would lead people to their ruin. I worried that I would die without ever knowing love. I worried about what my father would do when he heard I wasn’t coming home. But I smiled in the sun and took my turn at the oars and kept my worries hidden until night, when I huddled under ice-howler furs, my cheek pressed against the bottom of the glass hull, and wondered how peoples of all kennings or no kennings could live together in peace.

  When we finally landed in Talala Fouz, most of our people were shunted to the northern banks of the West Gravewater, in a poorly developed area, while La Mastik and I were led to the palace to deliver our petition.

  I had a letter signed by Tactician Diyoghu Hennedigha and Viceroy Melishev Lohmet, but I did not know what it said: It might contain instructions that we be executed immediately. But we represented thousands of Hathrim. Killing us all would not be easy, and we had not come for any sort of conflict. They might decide simply to kill La Mastik and
me and tell the remainder of our people to go home or be destroyed.

  Talala Fouz was my first experience of a Nentian city—Baghra Khek, I felt, did not qualify, even though Gorin Mogen gave it a Nentian name.

  It was a place of startling industry, deplorable poverty, and immense wealth, the economic conditions capable of taking dizzying climbs or dives when one crossed a street. The king’s palace was a white-walled cake with swooping slate rooftops, surrounded by manicured gardens and ebullient bronze fountains. The lintels above the doors were high enough to admit us without ducking, and the skylight room with the king’s throne at the back was likewise roomy for us.

  The current king of Ghurana Nent had been crowned before my birth, so his given name had been forgotten by the common folk long ago. Once seated upon the throne, every king was supposed to be an avatar of Kalaad’s will beneath the sky, so they were all known as King Kalaad, followed by an ordinal number and often a disparaging or humbling epithet like “the Unwashed” or “the Unmannerly.” This one was King Kalaad the Unaware, forty-fourth monarch of Ghurana Nent.

  I wondered if that epithet was supposed to be his excuse for having done nothing of significance for twenty years. Perhaps he was simply unaware that anything needed to be improved? Except that he didn’t look unaware when we arrived. He was showing his age, his once-black hair now a long white mane, but there wasn’t the slightest hint of senility in his bearing or expression. He was sharp-eyed and quick. And it became clear to me that he had been doing something significant for twenty years: He’d been keeping himself in power and keeping the kingdom exactly the way he wanted it—profitable for those who supported him.

  King Kalaad didn’t speak to us directly—at least, not at first. He relayed instructions through a chamberlain, even though we could hear and see him perfectly well. The chamberlain presented our letter to him and he glanced up at us. We towered above him, even though his throne was elevated several steps above our feet. I could tell it annoyed him, because his mouth turned down at the corners. He rubbed at his naked chin as he examined the seal, then waved the envelope and said, “Have them wait over to one side.” He apparently did not want us looming in his peripheral vision as he read. He frowned and pursed his lips as he broke the seal and scanned the contents, raised his eyebrows once, then grunted. Again within our hearing, he told his chamberlain, “Have them return. I have questions.” Only when we stood before him this time did he deign to acknowledge we were capable of hearing him speak and could reply without the chamberlain’s prompting.

  “Ignoring all this nonsense about the Sixth Kenning and defeating Gorin Mogen with fewer than five Nentian casualties, it says here you do not want to return to Hathrir but instead establish a city in the north under my control?”

  “Yes, King Kalaad.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “We’ll build a rudimentary road as we go. That road can be improved over time and timber harvested. We will send taxes once a year to you, provided we survive, then more frequently as the road improves.”

  “That’s what I truly want to know. How will you survive, heading into the Gravewood with winter coming on?”

  I gestured to La Mastik. “We are both lavaborn. The Gravewood has no shortage of fuel. We will hunt and fish and forage and live on what supplies you might grant us.”

  “So all you want is permission and supplies?”

  “That’s correct.”

  King Kalaad the Unaware sniffed. “I don’t see the benefit to me. Giving you food and sundries to take into the Gravewood amounts to little more than supporting an extended mass suicide.”

  “You stand to gain much! A path through the Gravewood, access to the northern shore and the timber of the north, and a new city site suitable for expansion, where every citizen will be paying taxes into your government coffers. Already you have a similar opportunity in Baghra Khek, which can now be settled and flourish. That city’s development cost you nothing,” which I realized was untrue after I said it. It cost Hashan Khek about two thousand men, all slain by Gorin Mogen’s lavaborn and houndsmen. I’m not sure the king would count that as a cost, however. Melishev Lohmet’s pet tactician, Ghuyedai, had spent their lives like puffballs in the wind, so they must have held no value to him. “Think of this as developing two cities, then, for the price of one.”

  The king snorted. “A sales pitch. Unexpected.”

  I took it from his expression that he didn’t like sales pitches and was inclined to refuse. I jumped in with a hint at what he’d have to deal with if he said no. “And, of course, this will ensure you won’t have thousands of Hathrim trying to find work in your river cities. Our people can’t go back, so we must seek a way forward.”

  His eyes slid over to his chamberlain and he raised a single eyebrow, which was a signal for his chief courtier to weigh in.

  “New revenue streams will please everyone,” the chamberlain ventured, confirming what I thought: This government was all about money. Money for a few, anyway. All the various moral and logistical issues we faced were of no consequence except that they might provide a new source of revenue.

  The king slumped back in his chair and sighed. “All right. You’ll strike north from Ghuli Rakhan. You can sail your boats upriver?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do that. The boats will become property of the viceroy there upon your arrival, which he will use for the river trade. In return, he will supply you with what you need out of his own resources. I will write a letter to that effect and give it to you shortly. But I want you out of Talala Fouz today, is that clear?”

  “It is, but may we have some food for the journey?”

  “You may purchase some from the royal victualer at the same discount we receive from merchants. I will see to that as well.” He turned to his chamberlain. “Take them to the victualer and insist on the discount. Then return here for the letter I’m writing to the viceroy.” He rose from his throne and padded to his writing desk, off to one side, idly flicking his wrist our way. “That is all,” he said, the sum of his grace delivered. Our royal audience ended without ceremony, and we dutifully followed the chamberlain to purchase some food and potable water, since the Gravewater itself did not qualify. Getting that delivered to our landing site on the northern shore and organizing a hasty departure burned most of the remaining daylight hours, but the Nentians were helpful. They wanted us to be someone else’s problem as quickly as possible so that they could return to squeezing profits out of their people and natural resources.

  Privately, while the boats were being loaded and the sun hung low in the sky, La Mastik and I drew off to one side and had another smoke, this time a celebratory remembrance of the occasion. I waggled the king’s letter to the viceroy in front of her.

  “We are going to start a new city founded on principles of equality,” I said. “No hearthfire. No viceroy. Leaders elected among the people, like they do in Rael. We are forging something new for Nentians and Hathrim. And my body will be no man’s prize.”

  La Mastik nodded and smiled a thin-lipped smile as she expelled a breath of smoke from the side of her mouth, the colored-glass chain leading from her nose to her ear gleaming in the firelight. “Have you considered what you will do if your father comes looking for you? He has probably heard what happened at Baghra Khek already.”

  I shrugged. “All the more reason to leave sooner rather than later. He’ll move more slowly than us, and he can’t simply invade to chase us down. The Nentians are going to notice.”

  “And what will you do when that white-haired king eventually sends a viceroy to rule this city we’re starting?”

  I shrugged and puffed idly at my pipe. “The Gravewood is dangerous. The road to our city will remain perilous for many years to come.”

  La Mastik smirked and blew a ring of smoke into the starlit night. “Thurik protect
us and burn our enemies.”

  I returned her wry smile as I gave the ritual answer. “May his fire warm our hearths.”

  * * *

  —

  Fintan dispelled his seeming, shrinking down to his much smaller Raelech size, and withdrew another sphere, upon which to imprint the new form he would take momentarily.

  “You’ll recall that while Olet and her people sailed north from the Battle of the Godsteeth, Abhinava Khose and I were riding north on stolen horses, trying to arrive ahead of any message from Viceroy Melishev Lohmet that might suggest that we were horse thieves or worse. We got there a bit after Olet, so the king had heard of us, but during the ride I may have been a tad excited to be riding with the world’s first plaguebringer.”

  He chuckled and threw down his seeming sphere, the oily gases forming around him in the shape of the handsome young man from Khul Bashab.