“You are seen, Maedreth,” Cloedeya said, standing before her and handing her a plate. It was a ritual. A few moments later, Melsa walked past her and laid a hand on her shoulder and said, “You are seen, Maedreth.” Even Little Praeda looked up from playing and said it. Manrie watched from the other side of the campfire. She watched Maedreth’s face while she spooned stew into her mouth and chewed. She waited for Maedreth to answer them, to whisper “Don’t see me, don’t see me.” But Maedreth stayed silent, eating slowly, staring at the ground at her feet.
Manrie watched Maedreth because she didn’t want to look at Taeyaho. There he sat, on the other side of the fire, eating slowly and intently. He wasn’t looking at anyone but he was aware of them. There was something wary in his posture. And the others walked around him warily, observing, wondering what to make of the things that Manrie had told them. As she wondered. A sense of strangeness seemed to emanate from him, a miasma as thick and unpleasant as Nurhmer Jahnajeel’s reek. But was it really there? Or was she imagining it, because she had decided that he was a stranger?
All day long they had wound their way through the foothills, and Cloedeya had been on edge. When they had come this way before, the hills had been fresh with tantralamuhn and other herbs and flowers. Early summer sunlight had warmed the ridges. Now the skies were clouded, as if they had been struck and bruised. There had been no sense of threat in these hills a few moons ago. No worry about marauders, cultists, murderers. Perhaps such people had been hiding in the folded valleys, but Manrie hadn’t known about them. Cloedeya hadn’t worried about them. Now his mismatched eyes wandered with worry as they traveled. One eye seemed to scan the horizon. The other eye seemed to look back, along the length of the caravan, to where Taeyaho walked alone.
Cloedeya came and sat beside her now, and steam rose from his bowl of stew as if drawn to his nostrils. He inhaled deeply and tried to smile. “There are spirits gathering at the edge of our encampment.”
She looked. She could see them. A crowd of lonely figures, waiting just at the edge of the firelight. She looked around for Little Praeda and saw her sitting in Koenbahki’s lap. She was dozing, breathing softly, one little hand cupped around Koenbahki’s chin. Koenbahki saw Manrie looking and smiled. An inviting smile. The same smile that she had been flashing all day.
“There are more of them than before,” Manrie said, looking back at the spirits.
“Yes. There was a battle. A revolt. We heard about it in Raesidae. Do you remember?”
“Yes. Koenbahki was involved, somehow.”
“Her family was. I am worried that she will see them out there, among the dead.”
“I should be nicer to her.”
“Are you being mean?”
“I’ve been ignoring her. I don’t know what she wants from me.”
Cloedeya was quiet for a moment. He chewed thoughtfully at a mouthful of stew. “Most people are simple,” he said. “Most people simply want love.”
“But it’s too much, Cloedeya. I told you. Ghosts rode me. I’ve had too many people taking pieces of me. If it continues, there won’t be much of me left.”
“Koenbahki isn’t a ghost.”
“But it’s the same thing. Can’t you see? My father and brothers took pieces of me when they died. And Aizdha.”
“You’re afraid that Koenbahki is going to die?”
“It’s not that. It’s…I let people in. And then they become part of me. Sometimes. And then they leave, and it’s like they leave a hole in me. I’m all shredded, Cloedeya.”
He nodded. “Love is a terrible thing. A beautiful and a terrible thing. But I have found that people leave parts of themselves with you, as well.”
“Yes. I thought that. On the mountain.” She looked around the camp, at the firelight shining on her friend’s faces. “I was worried that you’d be changed. That you wouldn’t be like my memories of you.”
Cloedeya nodded. “Maybe we are changed. At least a little.”
“And Taeyaho is changed, Cloedeya. He’s so different than he was.”
On the other side of the fire Taeyaho stirred and lifted his head, as if he could hear their murmuring. “Yes,” Cloedeya whispered. “Yes. I see it. But he may still come back to us. Big Praeda was changed like that, once. When we lost her. But we found her again. She became herself again. Slowly. Like we had been holding the parts of her that she lost.”
“Like a bag of dried beans in the pantry wagon,” Manrie suggested, and he smiled.
“Like a bestiary that a girl left to collect dust in the corner.”
She stared into the fire and thought about the bestiary. Some day she might draw in it again. Might make notes of her journey. Notes about giant insects, and blind scholars, and women who wore headdresses that resembled wings. But not now. She couldn’t even bring herself to open it.
“I was happy on the mountain,” she said softly. “For a few moments. I felt content, like I did that morning in Raesidae. Before Tafaemi stole Uku away.”
They were silent for awhile, thinking of Uku. “He was a man with a tremendous heart,” Cloedeya said.
“Tremendous,” Manrie agreed. Then she said, “colossal, monumental, immense,” and laid her head on his shoulder, and allowed herself to cry again.
The next day they came into Hiraherra. The town had changed during the intervening moon cycles. It was full of refugees, and Koenbahki spoke to them as the caravan rattled along the main thoroughfare. Manrie watched her as she ran along the side of the road, stopping beside huddled women in tattered robes, sometimes cupping their faces in her hands, sometimes kissing them. They cried. She held them as they cried. She paused for a long moment beside an old man who had three little girls clinging to the hems of his robes. Her smile was fragile, on the verge of shattering. Manrie couldn’t help herself. She broke away from Cloedeya and went to take Koenbahki’s hand.
“This is Gherbhet,” Koenbahki said. “He lived on our street in Yenceyan. He’s a cobbler.” The old man reached out with a calloused hand and placed it on Manrie’s head, as if he were blessing her. “They came into town days ago,” Koenbahki told her. “A few have been taken on as clients of the First Families. But they say that Gherbhet is too old.”
“Do they feed you?” Cloedeya asked, coming to Manrie’s side. The caravan had stopped in the street.
“No, Master Cloedeya,” the old man said, “they don’t.”
“My friend, I will not allow you to call me master. How many of you are there?”
The old man pursed his lips. His eyes narrowed as he thought. They were red-rimmed and glazed. Like sunset seen through old glass. “Maybe a hundred.”
“A hundred who the First Families won’t take?”
“We rebelled, you see. We followed Mueslahvin.”
“They don’t trust you to be good clients.”
“Not me.” He looked down at the three little girls. “Maybe them. Someday. When they grow up.”
Cloedeya turned back to the caravan. He called to Melsa, who had taken the reins of the lead horse. “We will turn around. We’ll go up to Gethen’s Hill.” He glanced back at the old man. “We will prepare a banquet there. Tell the others. We expect a hundred guests at sunset.”
The old man eyed him warily. “There are ghosts in those hills.”
Cloedeya gave a little laugh. “There are ghosts here in town.” His expression turned thoughtful. He called to Melsa again. “Take the caravan to the hill and start preparing.” Then he looked at Manrie. “Will you come with me? We need to speak to the First Among Firsts.”
Melsa began to turn the wagons. The three little girls scattered from the old man and flitted among the people who lined the thoroughfare. Refugees began to stand, to follow the caravan. Cloedeya couldn’t help himself. He hurried to Melsa’s side and said, “We won’t be able to rely on food from Hiraherra. It will have to be soup. Make a broth of the ham first, then add the potatoes we dug along the Ordaelauwa River and those white beans we bought in Drachahda. They’re buried deep, under the sacks of rice. But I checked them last week and they haven’t spoilt. I’ll be there soon.”
Melsa nodded. “There may be trouble.”
“Yes. You have Taeyaho,” this said with a glance at Manrie. “Use the threat from Ineshashar if you have to.” Melsa nodded grimly.
“Ineshashar?” Manrie asked as she and Cloedeya strode down the street.
“The people rioted. They wouldn’t share food with each other. We burned the wagons.”
“What?”
“It was during the famine. The soil had gone bad. Nothing was growing. They were desperate.”
“So you destroyed all of the food?”
“We expected to starve, too. But it was either that or watch as the bullies ate and the weak died.”
“But you survived.”
“Yes. Grain came from Libreigia. The scholars released some of their stores. When it came, no one tried to seize it. They brought it to us. We cooked for everyone. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
“The cooking?”
“We hadn’t eaten in days. We would not eat until everyone else had been fed.”
“You were giving them a lesson.”
“I suppose. Or we felt guilty for burning the wagons. People had died as we waited for the grain from Libreigia. We had to atone.”
A crowd had grown in the street. People were calling Cloedeya’s name and trying to touch his robes. He smiled grimly at them and lifted his hands to their shoulders and faces. They smelled of weariness, of days and nights on the road, of lake water from bathing and the lingering stench of burnt corpses. They passed him and joined the throng that was following the caravan out of town.
Townspeople had come out of their houses and shops to watch, curious about the commotion. Old friends. People who had helped Cloedeya only a few moons ago. As Manrie and Cloedeya passed the tavern, the man who owned it came out and stared at them. He didn’t smile. Two young men emerged and stood at his side. They were carrying cudgels. Earlier in the summer they had been playful, grinning. They had brought bowls to where Taeyaho was grilling in the keep’s courtyard and he had flipped fish at them with a laugh and a cheer.
Figures were assembling in the street ahead, the keep looming behind them on its bluff. Manrie saw some of the young men she had seen talking to Raeflin when she sat on the keep’s walls. Fine young men, the children of the First Families, who had lounged on the grass and gossiped and laughed as the banquet was being prepared. A very tall man in embroidered robes stood before them. He leaned forward and called Cloedeya’s name. “Where are your wagons going?”
“We will hold a banquet on Gethen’s Hill. For the refugees.”
The man considered this. “Will you take them with you. When you leave?”
“They may follow if they wish. Why won’t you feed them, Irdehree?”
“There are too many. We have been waiting for the King’s Patrol to come and capture them.”
“And what will the king do with them?”
The tall man shrugged. “Take them to Libreigia and sell them as slaves. They need slaves, east of the mountains.”
“I will make you a bargain instead,” Cloedeya said.
“What bargain?”
“I can stop the ghosts from walking your streets at night. From appearing in your bed chambers. I can return them to the barrow.”
A murmur from the crowd of young men. Irdehree leaned further forward. “How?”
“Have you had no word from Tzurfaera? No word from Raesidae? We have returned their dead to their rest.”
A pause as the man considered. “We have heard of strange happenings.”
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“I will do this for you. I will bring the ghosts to the barrow. If you take the refugees as clients. If you feed them and care for them.”
“There are too many.”
“Think, Irdehree,” Cloedeya said, his voice sharp and insistent. “This is how Hiraherra grows strong. Imagine what you could do, with all of these new clients.”
“The King of Yenceyan would never allow it.”
“He would if I promised to lay his dead to rest as well.”
Each sentence seemed to bend the man further forward. He was almost folded over. He stared down at his feet. Behind him, the faces of the young men looked eager and afraid. Manrie studied them, willing one of them to speak, to argue on behalf of the refugees. “We will consider,” Irdehree said to the ground.
“Patriarch…”
“I said that we would consider, Cloedeya. Go and have your feast. We will hold a conclave.”
He turned and Cloedeya turned at the same time, as if they were engaged in the steps of a dance. Back up the long street, past the tavern and the glowering tavern keeper, past a chandler and a carpenter’s house and a smithy. A town, just a town, like any other. But a miasma of dust hung in the air. As if the dirt had been stirred by too many feet. The sun was bright and the tops of the trees were dappled with green and yellow. Water glinted off of the lake. A beautiful day. Only the mood of the town was a canopy of misery that seemed to shadow everything.
“Would you really do it?” Manrie asked.
“Do what?”
“Would you really deny them a disc, if they don’t take in the refugees.”
Cloedeya sighed and looked down at the road. “I don’t know. I want to feed everybody. Sometimes I can’t.”
Manrie looked out at the lake. “Why aren’t they afraid of the witch here?”
“Her island is too far to the north.”
“Her curses can’t reach them?”
“They tell themselves that.”
“You said you didn’t believe in the curses.”
This made Cloedeya impatient. “I said that people pretend to be cursed, whether they are or not. That they use curses to excuse their behavior.”
“So Hiraherra curses itself.”
Cloedeya paused and turned to look back. They had come to the top of a rise and the last shacks and outbuildings struggled up the hill and then fell away. “Yes, I suppose it does. But this is the King of Yenceyan’s curse, as well.”
He turned to walk again. “Have you ever met him?” Manrie asked.
“The king? Yes, I’ve met the king. He was very clever when he was young. Much beloved. But that was before he found the fleece, and got lost within its whorls. Old Yesaera tried to warn him.”
“Who’s Old Yesaera?”
“A wise woman. A weaver. Some say that she was there when Yenceyan was founded. But that was the Old Yesaera before her. Generations before her. It’s a title, not a name.”
Manrie thought about this. The library had its archivists, but they had individual names. She supposed that if Baenlaez died, someone else would become the master of the farm. Was he dead? The thought of him made her glance about, made her sniff the air for the reek of mushrooms. “If you died, would there be another Cloedeya?” she asked.
He paused and gave her a long look. “I hope so,” he said at last. “I hope that if I die, someone will keep feeding people. But maybe they should keep their own name.”
“Big Praeda would take your name.”
“But she wouldn’t keep it for long.”
The road had led them to the foot of a hill, and there were people sitting beside it. People crowding the slopes, squatting or sitting or laying in the long grasses. Faces turned towards Cloedeya. People whispered his name. They raised their hands to him and he took them as he walked among them. Manrie watched. His shoulders were slumped, as if he were bearing a great weight. His head was lowered under it. She felt something ease inside of her. A resentment. A lingering anger. She could forgive him for eating the okubrahchi. All of these people looked to him. Their expressions pleaded with him, as if a meal could take their pain from them, could end their sorrows. Of course he wanted comfort. Of course he wanted to know that comfort would always be there for him. She imagined that Melsa and Big Praeda felt the same. They had burnt the wagons at Ineshashar. They were always having to make choices, to decide how to face the cruelty of the world. Each choice carried its measure of guilt. They needed each other. They needed to be certain of each other, to know that the love they held between them wasn’t fragile, couldn’t break. She suddenly wished that she had eaten the okubrahchi. That Taeyaho had eaten it as well. If he had, he wouldn’t have become a stranger.
There was a well on Gethen’s Hill. When Manrie saw it, her mind flooded with memory. She and Aizdha had rested here, once. She remembered how he had sat on the edge of the well and dangled a bucket into its depths, peering down in the same way that he peered at a manuscript. They had been heading east again, after several moons spent studying the hahtahee, the many-trunked elephant that ranged through the long grasses of the plains. Another image superimposed itself over her memory. The plains, but seen through different eyes, the grasses waving in the moonlight. Lokeyn’s memory. But hers also, now. The ghosts remained with her, even after they had gone. They left some part of themselves, as they took some part of her with them. An exchange. Not the permanent love of Cloedeya and Melsa and Big Praeda. But something that lasted, nonetheless.
She glanced up at the sun. Hours until dark. No fear of phantoms. Little Praeda was sitting in the dirt beside the pantry wagon, tearing leaves off of a sprig of oregano. Manrie wondered where her blindfold had gotten to. She might want it for herself. The ghosts that had ridden her were like the people who looked at Cloedeya with such avid faces. The dead would come at nightfall to demand something of her.
More people were spread out across the crown of the hill, all facing the wagons and the well. The cooks were aware of their watching eyes. Melsa’s shoulders seemed to have widened, as if they were a screen she could place between herself and the hungry gazes. Big Praeda was flushed but working avidly, dicing carrots on a large board. Only Maedreth was her ordinary self, convinced that she couldn’t be seen. She was humming and peeling potatoes. Taeyaho wasn’t there.
“Where’s Koenbahki?” Manrie asked Melsa, coming to her side and keeping her voice low. An old woman who was seated in the grass nearby was watching her very closely. Red-rimmed, over-curious eyes and cheeks hollowed by missing teeth.
“I sent her to the top of the wagon for some herbs.”
“And Taeyaho?”
Melsa gave a furtive glance around the camp. “I don’t know.”
Cloedeya was taking charge. A group of children had followed him to the crest of the hill, and he began inventing jobs for them. They jabbered, dispelling the sense of performance and scrutiny. Manrie climbed the ladder to the roof of the pantry wagon. Koenbahki was there, seated among the pots, clutching her legs to her chest. Manrie sat down across from her. Koenbahki lifted her face and rested her chin in the space between her knees.
“Is Oekarahni still there?”
“I don’t know,” Manrie said. “I don’t know who that is.”
“An old woman. A gossip. She wants to tell me how my father died.”
“Don’t you want to know?”
A tear slid down Koenbahki’s face. “I’ve been pretending that he’s still alive. I thought I might find him here, or in Yenceyan.”
“You told me about it. The first time we met. I didn’t understand. Or I did, but I didn’t pay enough attention.”
Koenbahki reached out a hand and touched the side of Manrie’s face. “It’s not your fault.”
A pause. The scent of boiled ham was lifting from below. “Why do you like me, Koenbahki?” Manrie asked.
Koenbahki dropped her hand, then lowered her face into her arms. She took a long time in answering. Her voice was very small. “I look at you and see what I could be.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re free.”
Manrie felt tears rise into her eyes. She looked away, towards the lake. Sunlight glittered on the water. “I’m not. Baenlaez was careful to remind me of that. Aizdha never freed me. I’m really nothing but an escaped slave.”
“Not free in that way. You are yourself.”
“Koenbahki, I’m not. I’ve…I’ve been carrying ghosts. I told you when I found you in the mountains. Ghosts have been riding me. They become part of me for awhile. Then they take part of me when they leave.”
Koenbahki stared out from between her knees, her eyes shining. “I know you said that, but I think you’re wrong. You haven’t changed.” She reached out and took Manrie’s hand. She traced a small scar over a knuckle. “We get cut and the look of our skin changes. But even if it’s scarred, it’s still our skin.”
Manrie wanted to pull her hand away, but she didn’t. “Are you still the person you were when you lived in Yenceyan?”
“Yes and no. The same kind of food tastes good to me. I still want to be held by a woman and not a man. I have always loved the color orange.” She grinned shyly, and Manrie laughed. “And you still look for Little Praeda, whenever you come up to the wagons. You still look too long at people’s faces and make them uncomfortable.”
“I do?”
“Yes. You study them. You want to discover something, and you haven’t yet.”
“What do I want to discover?”
“I don’t know. But it isn’t surprising that the ghosts want to ride you.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. You’re always inviting the world in. You’re curious about it. You can’t help yourself.”
“Aren’t most people curious?”
Koenbahki laughed. “No, Manrie. They aren’t. Not really.”
They stared at each other, and then Koenbahki leaned forward and kissed Manrie. Her mouth was damp with tears and her nose was wet as it pressed against Manrie’s own. But the kiss was very sweet. Manrie leaned into it. It felt real. It was the first real thing she had known since the cradle, when the old guardsman slipped across her consciousness like a veil.
They pulled away from each other. Koenbahki looked down, suddenly shy. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Studying my face.”
“It’s a beautiful face.”
Now it was Manrie’s turn to reach out and caress Koenbahki’s cheek. “I know something,” she said.
“What do you know?”
“One of the ghosts, he was a soldier. In the king of Yenceyan’s army. He was there, at the battle. He didn’t want to remember it, so I don’t know much. But the battle wasn’t at the fort. Mueslahvin led the men out to fight so that the women and children could escape.”
Koenbahki considered this. “I have two brothers and three sisters.”
“You haven’t seen them among the ghosts?”
“No.”
“So maybe they’re still alive.”
Koenbahki’s expression tightened. Here eyes were bleak. “Maybe. Maybe the king has taken them and made them slaves.”
Manrie leaned forward and kissed her again. “Do you think that old woman knows? The gossip?”
“She says she knows how my father died. But how could she, if the battle wasn’t at the fort.”
“We should go and ask her.”
Koenbahki hesitated, then nodded. But she stayed seated as Manrie stood. Manrie held a hand out to her.
“Don’t be afraid,” Manrie said. “I’ll be with you. I’ll be right at your side.”
She climbed down the ladder first. When she reached the bottom she turned, expecting to find the old woman’s avid gaze fixed upon her. But the woman wasn’t looking at her. All of the people on the hillside were looking to the east. Some were standing. They’re bodies held postures of grim stoicism, as if a dreaded moment had finally arrived, and they had decided to surrender to it. Koenbahki dropped to the ground at Manrie’s side. “What is it?” she asked.
Manrie took her hand. Together they began to weave through the crowd. She saw Taeyaho, standing in the grasses to her left. She glanced back and saw Cloedeya and the others moving forward. Sunlight slanted down along the road that lead from Hiraherra. There were riders on the road. The breeze ruffled their short riding robes.
“No,” Koenbahki said softly. But her voice wasn’t despairing. She sounded curious.
“No?”
“They’re not the king’s riders. Their robes are salmon colored.”
Manrie looked. The horses were coming up the rise. The people who had spread out along the road stood looser, their tension fading. Then Manrie saw a face she recognized among the riders. “Beztrae,” she breathed.
“Who’s Beztrae?” Koenbahki asked.
“The Captain of the Pinnacle Gate. From Libreigia. But those aren’t Libreigia guards.”
The crowd was parting, making a path for the horses. Beztrae rode past and Manrie called his name. He looked towards her and his handsome face broke into a smile. He pulled his horse out of the column and slipped from the saddle. He embraced her. He smelled of leather and fertile earth.
“Little Manrie,” he said, holding her at arms length and studying her. “We have found you.”
She tensed. “Were you looking for me?”
He massaged her shoulders with his broad hands, reassuring her. “These men have been sent by the Lady of Hasra. She would like to see you.”
“The Lady?”
“They are her rangers. They were in Libreigia when word came from Hasra, and they asked me to accompany them. To identify you, when we found you.”
“But why does she want to see me?”
“You are the keeper of the bestiary, are you not?”
The bestiary. She had clutched it to her as she fled from Libreigia. She had thought that it defined her entire purpose in life. That she was the bestiary and that it was her. Koenbahki had said that she hadn’t changed. But she had changed.
“Why does she want the bestiary?”
“You have met her, have you not? You would know better than I do.”
“Maybe she found another carapace.”
He grinned through his confusion. “Manrie, it is good to see you. Come, let’s hear what Yoehnen is saying to your friends.”
“Yoehnen?”
“The captain of the rangers. A good man.”
“Beztrae,” Manrie said with sudden urgency, “all of these people are being hunted by the King of Yenceyan. He wants to capture them and sell them as slaves.”
The good humor refused to leave Beztrae’s face. “We will take them to Yenceyan.”
“That’s where the king plans to sell them.”
“We will take them as refugees. Libreigia takes in refugees, as you know.”
He turned to lead his horse up the rise. Koenbahki took Manrie’s hand and squeezed it. Her beautiful face shone with relief and ardor. She laughed out loud. Manrie laughed, too.
Then she looked beyond Koenbahki and saw Taeyaho staring at her. Sunlight tangled in his pearlescent hair. His eyes, as he stared at her, were full of a strange triumph. As if he had brought the rangers from Hasra. She was filled with sudden scorn. Taeyaho! The changed boy. The untrustworthy boy. The boy who had replaced her friend.