vanished, leaving her mouth filled with the sweet, clean taste of water, and she stared at the Mujar. He sat back, removed his hand and met her gaze. The gentle glow in the depths of his eyes struck her. The softness bespoke infinite compassion and unspoken wisdom, mixed with a strange, passive emptiness.
Borak stepped up behind him, whipped a thin rope around his neck and pulled it tight. The Mujar's hands flashed up to grip it, then he released it with a hiss, as if burnt. He slumped, his eyes closed and his hands fell to his sides.
Borak chuckled as he tied the rope. 'Now he's not going anywhere.'
'What's wrong with him?' she demanded, concerned that the Mujar sat so still, his head bowed.
'I heard about this method, and it certainly works, wouldn't you say?'
Talsy shook her head, became aware that her leg no longer hurt and glanced at it. Her limb was slim and straight once more, as if it had never been hurt. She flexed it, finding it as good as it ever was. The Mujar had healed her completely and painlessly, and his reward had been entrapment and cruelty.
'What have you done to him?'
Borak settled into a chair in front of the fire, filled his pipe and lighted it, his eyes twinkling. 'Gold, lass. There's a thread of gold in that rope, and now he's trapped by it. Odd effect it has on them. Makes them all sleepy and helpless. We'd have used it to enslave the useless bastards, but they turn into zombies at the touch of gold, no good for anything. Still, as long as that's around his neck, he can't do anything. Come spring, I'll take him to the Pit over at Mercher's Crossing.'
Talsy stared at the Mujar, who seemed oblivious to his fate. Her father's cruelty shocked her, and she did not understand his hatred. 'Why can't we just let him go? He's done nothing to us. In fact, he helped us.'
'Helped us?' Borak made a rude noise. 'We helped ourselves, lass. He wouldn't have done anything if we hadn't made him. These damned yellow monkeys don't deserve to live, and we can't even kill them. Only a few years ago, we discovered that gold has this effect on them, but now they're almost all in the Pits.' He puffed a cloud of smoke. 'Maybe the medical school will pay to cut this one up and find out what makes them tick before they throw him in the Pit.'
'No, papa! Please let him go!'
Borak shook his head. 'You're too young to remember how we tried to bring them into our society. We offered them money, luxuries, anything they wanted, just for their help. The bastards weren't interested. They wouldn't use their damned Powers unless they owed us, and they don't need our help.'
'But…' Talsy glanced at the Mujar again. 'We can't feed another person until spring. It's hard enough finding food for us.'
'We don't need to feed him. Mujar can't die. Not of anything. Believe me, we tried. No poison works on them, and you can't drown, suffocate, strangle – hell, nothing works. Why do you think we throw them in the Pits? Even then they don't die until their hundred years are up. They just can't get out, that's all.'
'But… why do they eat then? And why don't they fly out of the Pits as birds?'
Borak tapped his pipe. 'We don't know. We know very little about them, except that they can control the elements and can't be killed.'
Talsy chewed her fingernails. 'And change their shape.'
'Yeah, that too.'
'But if you could force him to help me by using the arrow, why didn't people do that before, if offering them money didn't work?'
'It's been tried. Everything has, even blackmail and torture. The trick with the gold will work once or twice, maybe three times tops, then they get wise to it. After I stuck him with the arrow, he was watching me. That's why I left the arrow on the table and used the rope instead. The manifestation of their powers gives a little bit of warning, but not always enough. If I'd come near him with that arrow again, he'd have turned into something really small, a bird maybe, then used fire to burn a hole in the door and escape.'
Talsy nodded. 'Then they're not stupid.'
'Stupid enough to be grateful in the first place. A Trueman wouldn't be grateful if you'd done that to him, he'd be bloody furious.'
Chanter listened to the distant beating of his heart and the swish of blood rushing through his veins on its endless errand. The sounds were the only comfort in the strange, dead world in which he found himself. The rope made it hard to breathe, but he did not need to. He could sense the Powers, but they were all beyond his reach, shying away as if a wall blocked them. Dolana flowed under him, its cold tendrils denied. No Crayash warmed him, allowing his flesh to cool, and Ashmar swirled around him, out of reach.
For someone who had used the Powers all his life, called on them whenever he needed them and, in moments of extreme danger, unwittingly invoked them, their absence was frightening and strange. The instant the rope had tightened around his neck, the world had blurred and receded. Not as bad as the arrow in his flesh, for there was no pain this time, but similar. Time had become meaningless, just another part of the world with which he had no contact. The two Lowmen mumbled in the distance, and a calm, helpless rage dwelt in him.
Vaguely, he was aware of someone dragging him across the floor and dumping him in a corner, his head banging against something hard. He no longer breathed, for the rope had closed his throat, and his lungs burnt for air. His heartbeat marked the time, but the beats were trackless, numberless, and uncountable. Isolated from the world, he had no way of knowing how long he lay in the corner. Only his memory provided an image of his surroundings. Sounds reached him through the numbness and the rush of blood in his brain.
The sharp clang of a pot jabbed his ears, making his neck muscles jerk and his eyelids flicker. Banging and scraping sounds sawed at his nerves, but they were faint, intangible, and not sufficiently real to break the bonds of stillness. At times, long stretches of silence entombed him further in his lost world, letting him sink into a numb abyss. His tenuous hold on reality slipped a little more each time, until a sound mercifully awakened him once more to the fact that something else did exist outside. This slight assurance gave him little comfort when his senses cried out for stimulation. The fire's crackle made him long for Crayash, but its lack chilled him.
Chapter Three
Talsy studied the Mujar while she chopped carrots for supper. A week had passed since her father had dumped him in the corner like a broken doll. He did not breathe and had grown cool, yet his heart still beat. Several times, she had pleaded with her father to let him go, but Borak asserted that she did not know Mujar, and he did. She pulled a mutinous face as she mulled over the situation. What if he was wrong? Her questions had revealed that Borak only knew common folktales about Mujar. Maybe there was more to them than people thought. Had anyone ever bothered to get to know one, or had Truemen always discounted Mujar as stupid creatures with no purpose or use?
Sweeping the chopped carrots into the pot, she set the stew on the fire. Borak had made the arduous trek into the nearest village this morning for supplies, and would be gone until dusk. She had returned early from her hunt with a fat snow grouse and set about preparing the bird for the pot. Cooking, hunting and cleaning were all her life consisted of, and probably ever would. Later, when she found a mate, there would be child rearing too. She would probably never leave this bitter valley or know any people other than the villagers and farmers here. Already her father had pointed out several men of the right age and breeding for her. He planned her life as if it was nothing to do with her. She was merely the person who dwelt in her body, her father had bred it and therefore owned it. That was the way things were.
Talsy frowned, pondering while the stew bubbled. Her dull existence was no different from any other girl. She had no special talents or great beauty. There was nothing to set her apart from her peers, and she had no reason to expect anything more than what her father planned for her. The Mujar had come into her life like a cold mountain breeze, sweet and wild, but untouchable. It could be savoured in the instant it passed and then cherished as a memory, nothing more. He was trapped now, however, helpless to save himself from the Pit. Borak had warned her not to touch the rope. According to him, the Mujar might use his powers to escape, maybe even hurt her, yet Borak had also said that Mujar never harmed anyone.
The Mujar's silent presence mocked her cowardice. He was probably the only chance she would ever have to change her life and explore the world. Be someone. If only he would take her with him, wherever he was going. Her
