Chains of Mist (21 page)

-10-

Roger awoke with a gasp. Pain exploded in his chest, a telltale sign of one or more broken ribs. Both of his shoulders felt like they were on the verge of being wrenched out of their sockets, and when he tried to move his hands he realized that they had been tied at a very awkward angle behind his back. His legs were bound in a similar manner, his feet pressing painfully against the backs of his thighs. The fact that he was upright told him that he was bound to a pole or stake, rather than lying tied up on the ground.
Great—caught like a fly in a web. Now, where’s the spider?

Something sharp prodded him roughly in the chest, sending fresh waves of pain shooting through him, but he suppressed any outward display of agony.
Let them see that torture, if that’s their plan, won’t work.
He raised his head, blinking through dried blood, and saw a tall man wearing some sort of animal skin brandishing a spear at him. Seeing that Roger was awake, the man jabbered something in a language Roger didn’t understand. When Roger didn’t reply, the man repeated himself more loudly and poked Roger again, harder this time. This time Roger couldn’t restrain himself. “Hey, cut it out!” he yelled.
He probably can’t understand what I’m saying, but he’ll get the gist.

The man paused, then retreated out of Roger’s field of vision. Groaning, Roger tilted his head further upward. Several men and women, older than the man with the spear but similarly garbed, were seated in a semicircle a few meters away from Roger. After several moments of muted, unintelligible conversation, one of the old men raised his hand and called out to someone in the shadows. Another figure shuffled into view. Shorter than the others, his face and torso were covered with piercings and tattoos. He raised a hand and made an imperious gesture towards Roger, and Roger saw tiny burn marks all along the man’s fingers and wrists. The new arrival stared at Roger quizzically. Roger met the man’s gaze, wondering what his purpose was, when suddenly he tasted bitterness in his throat and a foreign voice blared out within his mind. “The
kat’ara
wants to know what your purpose is within the lands of the Traika, stranger.”

In spite of his determination to show no signs of weakness, Roger’s mouth dropped open in shock.
Whoa. I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised—after what I’ve seen the last few days, this isn’t really too spectacular. But still…whoa.
He wondered how to respond and immediately heard the voice again. “Simply speak, and I will hear the echo of your words in your mind.”

Roger wasn’t sure what that meant, but he complied. “I need to get to Nembane Mountain.”

The tattooed man’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “I recognize ‘Mountain’ but not ‘Nembane.’ Do you refer to Kil’la’ril?”

Roger remembered that Talan had mentioned the mountain’s native name but couldn’t recall what it was.
That’s gotta be it, though; there’s only one mountain around here.
“Yeah, that’s the one.”

The tattooed man conferred with the others, then turned back to Roger. “For what purpose do you seek Kil’la’ril?”

“I—” Roger stopped. He didn’t really have a good answer to that.
I never got the details of what exactly we’re supposed to be doing here.
“I’m meeting up with a friend of mine,” he said, then continued with a burst of inspiration, “A very powerful wizard who knows I’m here. He’ll come looking for me—”

The tattooed man cut him off. “If that was an attempt at intimidation, I warn you not to try it again. The
kat’ara
do not respond well to threats, stranger. These are our lands—we alone control their power. Your
wi’zerd
would be helpless against us.”

Roger wasn’t so sure about that.
When Talan was talking about Espir’s magic, he didn’t mention the natives. That means he probably doesn’t think that they’re a threat. Then again, he might’ve just thought that we wouldn’t be running into them, so there’d be no point mentioning them at all.

The tattooed man continued. “Where are you from, stranger? What tribe holds your family blood?”

Roger said nothing—
how would I respond to that?—
and the tattooed man’s eyes narrowed. “The Traika do not suffer intruders into our lands, stranger. We have many enemies…and we have not become the largest tribe between the seas by being overly trusting. What tribe holds your family blood, stranger? We will not ask you again.”

Getting angry now, Roger almost told them the truth, but his common sense stopped him in time.
I did attack their warriors, so right now I’m firmly an enemy. If they think that I’m a spy of some enemy tribe, they may keep me alive for ransom or interrogation…which might not be pleasant but would be better than death. If I tell the truth, they’d probably think I was simply insane, and thus useless to them. It certainly won’t help me.
So, once again, he said nothing.

The tattooed man, seeing that Roger was not going to respond, turned back to the others. After a short conversation, the tattooed man spoke again to Roger. “The
kat’ara
will give you time to think on your impertinence. When next they speak with you, stranger, you would be wise to tell them what they want to know.”

* * * *

Lerana was meditating in the shade of one of the towering stefia trees, listening to the melodic trills of the hand-sized meekara soaring overhead, when a youth with gangly limbs and shoulder-length dark hair came hurrying up to her. He knelt and made the sign of Ja’nal. “Honored
to’lak
,” he said. “The revered
Jo’ma
requests your presence.”

Lerana rose immediately to her feet. “You have done well,” she said, placing her hand on the youth’s brow. “Ja’nal bless you.”

The young man’s eyes shone with pride. “Thank you, honored
to’lak
.” He stood, turned, and hurried back towards the village.

Lerana took a moment to gather herself, then set off after the youth. She did not run; such blatant demonstrations of haste were unseemly for a
to’lak
, even for a junior member such as Lerana. Yet her steps came quickly. It would not do to keep the
Jo’ma
waiting, after all. Soon she reached the Traika village. The guards made the sign of Ja’nal as she passed them, and she dipped her head respectfully in reply. She made her way quickly through the village, and found the leader of the Traika
to’laka
sitting by a firepit, her back turned as she tended to the flames. She approached the old woman, then knelt and lowered her head. “Revered
Jo’ma
.”

“My child.” The old woman’s voice was like the creaking of the slender tuari tree in a heavy storm. “Sit with me.”

Lerana settled herself next to the old woman. She took care to avoid the hungry, malevolent gaze of the huge terek perched like an otherworld demon on the
Jo’ma
’s
shoulder. She tried not to imagine the bird’s sharp talons gouging out her eyes, or tearing through her skin to feast on her flesh. “You wished to see me, revered
Jo’ma
?”

“Indeed I did,” replied the old woman. “You have heard of the disturbance from earlier today.”

Lerana clicked her tongue in confirmation. She had been communing with her
e’tana
since early morning, and so had not been in the village when the scouting
tar’keta
had returned, but news of such a nature spread faster than a terek diving from the heavens towards its prey. “The prisoner. The man with the strange garb and jabbering speech.”

A faint smile touched the old woman’s face. “He is a peculiar one, that is for certain. But he is not unintelligent. And he possesses a great power. It feels ancient, almost as ancient as Kil’la’ril itself. It may even be greater than my own.”

Lerana had to fight to keep the shock from her face. She had seen the
Jo’ma
perform feats of raw magical ability far beyond anything that she herself was capable of. The thought that someone else might be more powerful than the
Jo’ma
was nearly impossible to comprehend. “Do we know his purpose here?”

“The
kat’ara
believes him to be a spy. They are convinced he is an agent of one of our enemies, sent here to learn our secrets…or possibly to kill our leaders and leave us defenseless.”

Lerana gave another affirmative click of her tongue. If he were a spy, he would not be the first who had attempted to sneak onto Traika lands. The Fifth Rule of Den’ja forbid the use of espionage during war, but that meant little. The Traika had many enemies who would not hesitate to stoop to such trickery to see them defeated. “What do you think, revered
Jo’ma
?”

“He is certainly not a spy,” replied the old woman. “That much is obvious. He cannot speak our language and his gaudy attire makes him stand out like a bortath among chakkata. Beyond that I am not sure. He claims that he came here with another and that they have some purpose on Kil’la’ril. He called this second individual a
wi’zerd
, which I believe to be a barbaric equivalent to our
to’lak
. But I have already cast out my senses towards Kil’la’ril and I can find no trace of this person. So that, too, must be false.”

Lerana accepted that statement without question. The possibility that this
wi’zerd
might be somehow shielding himself from the
Jo’ma
never entered her mind. The old woman’s power was absolute; none could hide from her spirit gaze. “What is to happen to him?”

“The
Dar’katal
has already spoken before the
kat’ara
. He has invoked the Seventh Rule of Den’ja and demanded the blood of the trespasser as payment for his crimes.”

Lerana was unsurprised. Lorann,
Dar’katal
of the Traika, was a vengeful man who was fiercely protective of the warriors under his command. He would advocate ferociously for the death of the one who had killed two of his own. “And what would you advise, revered
Jo’ma
?”

The old woman gave a dismissive wave of her skeletal hand. “The
Dar’katal
is a fool. He sees only long-handled spears and sharp-fletched arrows. He does not comprehend the true nature of power. He does not see what a boon this stranger could prove to be. For his own pride, he would kill the thing that might be the salvation of our people.”

Lerana felt suddenly uncomfortable. Custom and informal law placed the
to’laka
above all secular authorities, so she and the
Jo’ma
could speak ill of the
Dar’katal
without fear of repercussion. But just because one
could
do something did not necessarily mean it was wise or right to do so. “And the
kat’ara
?”

“The
kat’ara
will accede to the
Dar’katal
’s demands. They also desire the stranger’s death.” Disgust was heavy in the
Jo’ma
’s voice. “They also cannot think long-term. They scurry around, blind as newborn chakkata, unable to comprehend that something might exist beyond the dirt beneath their feet.”

Again, Lerana refrained from echoing aloud the
Jo’ma
’s criticisms of the ruling council of elders. The old woman said no more. Instead, she turned back towards the firepit, stoking the flames with a trickle of invisible power.

Lerana waited respectfully for a while, but eventually she could wait no longer. “What is it that you wish of me, revered
Jo’ma
?”

The old woman looked back at Lerana. “Go to the prisoner. Find out who he is and what he wants. His
real
purpose, not the lies he weaves around himself like strands of juraa
silk. Gain his trust, and use that trust to learn the secrets behind his power.”

“It will be done, revered
Jo’ma
,” replied Lerana immediately. Then she paused, suddenly uncertain. “But why me? Are there not others better suited to this task?”

The old woman eyed Lerana thoughtfully. “Perhaps there are. But I have devoted much thought to the matter, and every time I search my
e’tana
for guidance the answer is the same.
You have an…earnestness, an openness, about you that the elder members of the
to’laka
do not. He will more readily trust someone nearer to his own age, I think.”

Lerana did not share the old woman’s confidence. Her life was one of magic and meditation; she had no experience in the art of persuasion. Yet she offered no more protests. Who was she to argue with the will of the
Jo’ma
? “I will do my best,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady and not entirely succeeding.

“I know that you will,” replied the
Jo’ma
. “Go now, my child. The fate of the Traika may rest on your shoulders.”