Contrarywise

of its minerals, the water chattered happily in her ear like a good friend making jokes. Yafatah dipped her fingers in the brilliantly stained pool. She stared grumpily at the Springs, aware that their incessant murmuring made it impossible to feel completely alone. Or frightened. She shrugged, thinking that in a place like this, she was sure a person could untangle the worst of personal knots. Yafatah sighed wistfully, wishing she and her mother could tarry longer in this hidden glen. Scowling, she idly scanned the rocks directly above her. And froze. So did Kelandris. Yafatah, who had heard stories from her old Mayanabi friend about a crazy woman living somewhere in the vicinity of the Yellow Springs, swallowed hard. Remaining motionless, she stared at the dark mass on the ledge. Was it a person or just a trick of the twilight? The mass remained absolutely still. After staring at it for several minutes, Yafatah concluded that it must be a boulder or something. She continued filling the water sack—albeit more hastily. When she finished, she glanced back at the ledge. And yelped. The hunched, black silhouette was gone. Reaching for her akatikki—an Asilliwir blow-tube—Yafatah hoisted the filled water sack to her shoulder and ran in the direction of her clan's caravan camp. The water sloshed out of the sack as she stumbled down the dark mountain trial and spilled onto her red tunic and pants. She ignored the cold water, her heart pounding in her throat, her akatikki grasped firmly in her left hand. Suddenly remembering that she presently carried only mild sleep darts with her instead of her clan's more lethal hunting type—an adjustment she had made herself after one particularly emphatic dream last week—Yafatah swore softly under her breath. Would a sleep dart hold a madwoman? Especially one as tall as the old Mayanabi claimed this woman was? Yafatah scrambled over some loose rock nearly losing her footing. As she slowed to catch her balance, Yafatah heard them. She heard wild dogs in the near distance. Wild dogs that were downwind of her. Chapter Three Night had finally come to the Western Feyborne Mountains. Zendrak guided Further down the steep forest trail with the firm press of his knee against her shoulder, both rider and horse depending on each other's extreme night vision to see them through the utter dark. Brittle autumn leaves rustled overhead. Squirrels scurried along oak limbs. Acorns and twigs snapped loose and fell to the ground. Further suddenly snorted nervously, her blue-black ears turning backward and forward as she listened to the baleful howl of an approaching wild dog. She came to an abrupt standstill, her haunches trembling. At Zendrak's insistent pressure, leg against belly, she continued her descent. She sidestepped a fallen branch and snorted again, her blue-glass eyes wild with an instinctual fear of the unseen dog; there had been hunger in that howl. Zendrak patted Further's sweaty neck quietly, his touch reassuring but uncompromising. The mare jigged in place; then, prompted by Zendrak, she departed from the main trail. They travelled due west now, moving through the underbrush into a direct line of intersection with Yafatah and Crazy Kel. Ducking a low overhang of branches, Trickster's Emissary held his left hand in front of his face, testing the air experimentally with his long fingers. He stroked the darkness deftly like a master weaver sorting threads. Then, finding the one he wanted, Trickster's Emissary smiled. In his hands, coincidence was a subtle power. And he enjoyed making use of it. Zendrak tugged the night gently. The direction of the wind changed to east. In a matter of moments, the starving cur on the uppermost end of the forest trail picked up a familiar scent: sweaty, fearful horse. Giving voice immediately, the dog signalled the rest of the pack that dinner was imminent. They replied with excited baying. Zendrak grabbed a handful of black mane as he felt Further prepare to bolt. Glancing over his shoulder at the snuffling lead dog, Trickster's Emissary laughed. The trap was laid. He and the mare were its camouflage; Yafatah was the bait. But Rimble's quarry? Zendrak's eyes glittered cooly. Rimble's real quarry was the last unclaimed member of his small Contrarywise Circle: Kelandris of Suxonli. Zendrak pulled his green cowl away from his face. He had waited sixteen years for this night. Crazy Kel began humming to herself as she climbed down the steep trail that ran above the waterfall of the Springs. So the young girl was from Tammirring, she thought, testing the razor-sharpness of her knife as she walked. And she had bloodcycle dreams. Tricksterish ones. Kel's mind slipped into a drowning pool of mad logic, distorted and inaccurate. Tricksterish dreams could mean only one thing, decided Kelandris, the child was a Revel Wasp Queen—like she herself had been sixteen years ago. Crazy Kel stiffened, a new thought occurring to her. So, she thought nervously, the child was from Suxonli. Come to fetch Kel, no doubt. Bring her back and make her stay. For Kel must pay and pay and— «Springs about! Pain stay out!» whispered Kelandris in sudden panic. Pain, she thought. Calm, now. Think. The knife. The girl. Yes. Do it. Crazy Kel picked a fork in the trail that would intercept Yafatah before the young girl was in shouting distance of her caravan. As the woman in black slipped between the shadows, she suddenly slowed, her veiled head cocked to the side. She listened to the frantic, unexpected baying of the wild dogs. Crazy Kel swore. She had killed this pack's lead mastiff last week hoping the rest would panic and disperse. Apparently, they had not. Unknown to Kelandris, Zendrak controlled tonight's attack. Rimble's orders. And pleasure. Crazy Kel shrugged. So she would kill again. Yes. A thrust to the young girl's heart should do it. Yafatah, for her part, had been casting nervous glances over her shoulder for the past five minutes. What had incited the wild dogs to such a frenzy? she wondered. They sounded as if they were very close to their quarry. She swallowed, hoping fervently that she was not it. Sweating with fear, Yafatah tried to increase her speed in the woods. But unlike Kelandris, Yafatah did not know all the twists and turns of this particular glen trail, and she missed a curve. She slipped off the gently sloping embankment, falling to her knees and dropping the water sack. Yafatah cursed her unfamiliarity with the Piedmerri terrain. She left the sack where it lay, and got to her feet. Still holding her akatikki firmly, Yafatah groped through the dark like a blind person and climbed back on the path. She hesitated. Was it her imagination, or did the baying of those wild dogs sound quite a bit nearer? Truly panicking now, Yafatah sprinted in the direction of her clan-kin. As she rounded the corner, she slowed in confusion. What little night perception she possessed had suddenly been blanked out. She shook her head, peering intently into a large blackness not fifteen feet ahead of her. Hearing the rustle of clothing, Yafatah nearly cried with relief. Surely, here was help—a member of her clan, perhaps? Then Yafatah noticed the height of the figure and stiffened. Heart pounding, she realized Old Jamilla had not lied: the Madwoman of the Springs was real. Yafatah bit her lip; the hungry baying of the wild dogs seemed minor in the face of this new, immediate danger. Should she shoot the woman with her akatikki? What if she wasn't truly mad? Yafatah's breathing became shallow. If she knocked out the woman with a sleep dart, then the woman would surely be dinner for the wild dogs. That would be murder. Killing four-leggeds for food was one thing. Killing a two-legged out of fear was quite another. Yafatah fingered her akatikki uneasily, And loaded it. «So you dream of the King of Deviance, too,» whispered Crazy Kel. «And do you know, my sweet, what he'll ask of you?» «What?» asked Yafatah hoarsely. She stared into the pitch black, seeing absolutely nothing but darkness upon darkness. «What?» she repeated. Crazy Kel chuckled. «He'll fuck you, and prick you, and mark you with 'C.' Then he'll put you in his oven and have you for T.'» Kelandris laughed uproariously. «That's T' for Trickster. He's the Greatkin Prickster.» «I beg your pardon?» asked Yafatah. She had been raised not to use any of «those words» with adult company. «I mean—» «Oh no,» interrupted Crazy Kel. «It's I who must beg your pardon. After all, I'm the one who killed you. Rue on rue.» «But—but I be not dead,» said Yafatah checking the position of the sleep dart. «Neither am I,» giggled the woman in black. «But I should be. That's the law. According to shit-hole Suxonli.» Yafatah raised the akatikki to her lips, her conscience screaming at her. «I be sorry, Kelandris,» she whispered, the name of the woman in black suddenly occurring to her. «I do be sorry to have to do this.» Crazy Kel sniggered. «I think you should know that Trickster's an old fart. And what's more, I've a knife pointed at your heart.» Yafatah blanched. Her lips inches away from the mouth of the akatikki, she hesitated. Did the woman in black know she was holding a loaded blow-tube? If so, that meant that Kelandris of Suxonli could see in the dark. Yafatah shivered imperceptibly. Yafatah was good with an akatikki—very good, in fact. And at this close range, she was certain to hit the Madwoman of the Springs. However, thought the young girl, it's also possible that Kelandris of Suxonli has a way with knives. And if she throws the knife true? Yafatah took a ragged breath. Then I will be quite dead. Yafatah lowered the akatikki slowly. «Dying,» said Kelandris thoughtfully. «Dying is easy. It's living that's queasy.» She positioned her knife for throwing. «I don't understand, Kelandris—» The woman in black chortled with new laughter. «Nobody did. So of me they got rid. I am the nameless and the formless. The spaceless and the faceless. Kelandris? Who is she? She is the Trickster's infernal he.» As Crazy Kel finished speaking, the hunting call of the wild dogs exploded around them. Simultaneously, Zendrak and Further broke through the forest underbrush. The power of the Fertile Dark surged over horse and rider, causing a blue-black charge from Neath to spark along Zendrak's green cloak. Yafatah took one look at the mare's enormous size and the absolute dark of Zendrak's eyes as they reflected in the queer blue light of Neath and screamed. Before she could bolt, Trickster's Emissary reached down and grabbed her by the waist. This was the cusp of the season when change gusted with the wind— Not knowing what else to do, Yafatah called to the woman in black for help. «Kelandris,» she screamed, «do something— But Kelandris of Suxonli remained rooted to the spot, her expression unreadable under her flowing black veil. «Please!» wept the child, struggling frantically against Zendrak's strong grip. «Kelandris—» Trickster's Emissary smiled, then, pulling Yafatah toward him roughly, he said, «Change or be changed.» Looking into the face of the man who held her, Yafatah shrieked. His eyes had no pupils. They were as dark and reflective as obsidian.