Black Halo

moisture, but found only hardness. His body had become more rigid, as though it ate and found sustenance from his words as he folded his arms and stared past the crowds of lizardmen.

It was neither faith nor nature, she told herself, that made her reach out a hand and place it upon his shoulder.

‘Have you ever … told anyone else about this?’

She expected him to tremble, as he occasionally did in her presence. It was with utter calm that he turned to her, however.

‘It is not a problem of the Venarium, hence not a problem of my mentor, hence no.’

‘There are others to talk to, you know,’ she offered.

‘I find no solace in priests, obviously,’ he replied coldly. ‘And who amongst the others would listen, even if I wanted to talk to them?’

‘Me?’ she asked, smiling.

Now, he trembled, as though the thought were only occurring to him now. ‘I … already said about priests-’

‘I’m also a friend,’ she replied, her smiling fading as she glanced down. ‘And I’ve been considering my position as to the Gods.’ She awaited some considerate word, some phrase of understanding from him, perhaps even a little reassurance. When he merely stared blankly at her, she continued, regardless. ‘It seems … sometimes that no one’s listening. I mean, up there.

‘Well, how could they, right? Even if you don’t believe that the Gods watch over everyone, they’re supposed to watch over their followers, aren’t they? So how come I’m frequently surrounded by people obsessed with causing injuries that I’m supposed to cure? And half the time, they’re inflicting said injuries on me. I’ve thought it over, wondered if this was just all a test, but what kind of test just doesn’t end? And what about gods whose messages conflict with others’? If there are so many, and not all of them can be right, who is?’

She sighed, rubbed her eyes, heard him take in a deep, quivering breath.

‘You’ve probably thought about this before, haven’t you? I mean, maybe you’ve wondered if there was anything beyond just this. So, if anyone has some insight, I’d wager you-’

Empty space greeted her when she looked up, the boy vanished amidst the crowd.

‘Do.’

No sigh followed; she was out of them, almost out of sources for answers, as well. She muttered angrily, reaching out and snatching a mangwo-filled gourd from a passing Owauku who scarcely noticed. She stared down at it with more thought than liquor likely deserved.

Almost, she told herself as she tipped her head back and drank, but not yet.

Feasts, fetes and parties were foggy memories in Lenk’s mind. He could recall food, lights, people. He could not recall tastes, warmth, faces. Disturbing, he knew, cause for great alarm, but he could not bring himself to care. The world was without chill memories and cold fears. The bonfires burned brightly; the liquor had long since drowned any concern he had for the sweat peeling off his body and the loincloth precariously tied about his hips.

No sense in worrying about it, anyway, he thought. After the Kampo, he determined that no other parties would ever matter. Even if he could have remembered them, Steadbrook’s humble festivities would be a world behind the Owauku’s riots.

And, to hear from her, at least six worlds behind a shictish party.

‘So, anyway,’ Kataria said through a voice thick with restrained giggling, ‘there are pretty much only three things worth celebrating.’ She counted them off on her fingers. ‘Birth, death and raids.’

‘Raids,’ Lenk mused, his mind seeming to follow his tongue rather than the other way around. ‘You typically kill humans during them, don’t you?’

‘Sometimes, and only because they’re the most numerous. But Tulwar, too, and Vulgores, Couthi … well, not Couthi, anymore, obviously, but only because they had it coming.’

‘So, you celebrate birth, death … and more death?’

‘If you want to dumb it down like a dumb … dumb, yeah,’ she grunted, slurring at the edges of her speech. ‘But it’s the whole atmosphere that makes it special. See, we bring back all the loot … er, reclamations back to camp and eat and drink and sing, and if there was one who was particularly bothersome, we drag his body back to camp — never alive, see — and make a whitetree. That’s when we take them by their legs and … and …’

She looked up, the fierce glow of her green eyes a contrast to the sheepish smile she shot him.

‘It’s a tradition,’ she said, chuckling. ‘Even if it is violent, you aren’t in any place to pass judgement.’

‘I never did,’ he replied, offering a grin of his own.

‘Yeah, but you were thinking it.’ She made to step closer and wound up nearly toppling over, her face a hairsbreadth from his. ‘I know. I can smell your brains.’

That statement, at the moment, was the least offensive thing about her and, no matter what she smelled, brains certainly weren’t what filled Lenk’s nose. Her breath reeked of liquor, roiling out from between her teeth in a great cloud. This was challenged only by the smoky odour of her body, her usual musk complemented by the copious amounts of sweat painting her flesh.

He was not intoxicated, not by the sight or scent of her, at least. His fifth empty cup lay in the sand behind him, forgotten and neglected. His head was swimming, his body quivering; it felt as though the mangwo coursed through his veins. Drums were still pounding, song still roaring, but the idea of crashing down onto the sand and waiting for the morning to come seemed quite appealing.

Or it had, anyway.

Her presence invited a quick and ruthless sobriety. It was not likely that she could smell his brains anymore, since he could feel them threatening to leak out of his ears as she swayed closer to him. Thought faded, leaving all focus for sight and sound … and smell.

The firelight bathed her sweat-slick skin in gold, battling the pervasive moonlight’s determination to paint her silver, both defeated by the smudges of earth and mud that smeared her pale skin from where she had fallen more than a few times. Her breath was an omnisensed affront: a reeking, heavy, warm cloud. Her smile was bright, sharp, lazy like a sated predator. The typical sharp scrutiny of her eyes was smothered beneath heavy lids. Her belly trembled, a belch rising up out of her mouth. He blinked, stared, heard, smelled.

Arousal, he reasoned, was possibly the least sane, and — given his attire — most awkward, response imaginable.

It hurt, if only slightly, to take a step back.

‘So,’ he said, ‘do you miss it?’

‘Miss what?’ she asked with a sneer. ‘My family? My people?’ She raised a brow. ‘Or the killing?’

‘Is that all you have to go back to?’

She turned her frown away and asked the ground instead of him. ‘What else is there?’

‘Other things.’

‘Oh yeah?’ she asked. ‘What is it you’re going back to?’

A good question, he thought, as he stared at her. He had no family to go back to, and while, technically, his ‘people’ were in no short supply, he had no particular group of humans he wished to call by that name. She stared at him expectantly, as though waiting for his eyes to offer an answer his lips could not.

‘To a place where I don’t have to kill anymore.’

Her expression was unreadable. It might have been, anyway, if he had been staring at it. Instead he met her eyes, the same eyes that he had squirmed under, that he had shouted at her over, that he had turned away from, feeling the chills that followed the stare, hearing the voice that followed the chills.

Turn away now, he told himself. Better to not know her answer. Even if she doesn’t kill you right now, even if she doesn’t say she’ll go back to the killing even after all of this, you can’t live with this. Not the staring. Not the question if she ever really means what she’s going to say. You can’t live with this, just as she can’t live without the killing. Better to turn away now.

Drums thundered. Her ears twitched. She didn’t blink.