Waterborn

held the command there for a moment, then pulled the touch away. The priest sagged in his chair, sweat beading on his forehead. She'lu smiled, feeling a bit better. He could have merely released his Forbidding entirely; it would have been less painful for the priest. Nothing that had been discussed was of any real importance, after all. But it pleased him to bring the man discomfort. Indeed, the fellow had been allowed to take notes on much of the court's business—the financial matters, for instance—and he would be allowed to keep those notes, so that the priesthood would not register a complaint. But leaving him Forbidden to talk about those same things would make the priesthood suspect he held unknowable secrets. It would keep them guessing.

'Now,' She'lu snapped. 'Is that all, Nyas?'

'No, my lord. There is still the matter of the Southtown Levee…'

Suppressing a snarl behind a courtly smile, She'lu settled back into his throne, resigned to an even longer day than usual.

II

The Alwat and the Gods

'They slow us down,' Eruka complained. 'Why did they have to bring children?'

'They would have slowed us down no matter what,' Perkar pointed out. 'They have no horses.'

'We almost have none ourselves,' Eruka reminded him. He felt a brief flash of anger at the flaxen-haired singer, but it quickly passed. They were in the same predicament—both had lost horses they could ill afford to lose. But Eruka was trying to keep in good spirits about it, as opposed to sulking; Perkar supposed he should do no less.

At least they were back on a trail now, though one that was clearly the result of Alwat feet and thus not comfortably broad enough for a horse. The branches sometimes grew low and that also made it difficult to ride, so they spent much time walking, anyway. The Alwat walked far, far in front. He only now and then caught a glimpse of them, as a matter of fact. He had been astonished when all seven of them came along as guides: two men, two women, an infant, an older child, and a gnarled creature Perkar guessed to be an old woman. For traveling they donned soft shoes of deerskin and long cloaks of the same substance, tanned white but with many odd figures and designs burned into them. It was the first thing like adornment Perkar had observed; they wore no jewelry that he could see. They did carry weapons, or at least tools, in little pouches slung over their shoulders on straps. Each adult bore a long cane-pole spear, sharpened and fire-hardened at the end. One of the women also carried a sharp stick. Now and then she would stop, dig some root out of the ground, and place it in a net on her back. She chattered to herself all the time that she did this. Usually she was through by the time the Humans had caught up to her, and she would scramble up and run back to the other Alwat, short legs pumping. Once, instead, she ran circles around the men with horses, chattering what almost seemed like a little song. The other Alwat were more aloof and sober, though when they took breaks to eat or rest they would come back down the trail and watch the Humans, muttering to one another now and then.

Eruka and Apad were proving poor company. He guessed that they were both shaken by the events of the previous day; Eruka by his paralysis, which no one had mentioned, and Apad—his eyes darted here and there, a shadow of fright over them. Given what had happened to Atti, even wearing armor, it was a miracle that Apad had survived unscathed, and that thought seemed to be lodged in his mind. Perkar had tried to congratulate him on his good fortune, only to be rebuffed by a scowl.

Both of his friends wore their armor today, he noted, and both cut fine, heroic figures; Apad in a mail coat of two layers, one steel and the other brass, brass greaves, and a hemispherical cap with a long, lozenge-shaped noseguard. Eruka wore black chain over a scarlet gambeson; rather than a shirt, his armor was a long coat divided into a split skirt that allowed him to straddle his horse. They looked wonderful, warlike; but the air was thin here, and he noticed them puffing and panting. For himself, he had decided to trust the word of the Alwat, who said there was no further danger of attack. As weird and disgusting as they might be, they lived here, were as intimate with the spirits of the land as he was with those of his father's pastures. If there was real danger, they would tell Ngangata—after all, they must think of him as one of their own—and Ngangata would tell them.

After a few more stabs at conversation with the sullen pair, Perkar spurred Mang up ahead to where Atti rode.

'How is that today?' he asked the older man, gesturing at his bandaged torso.

'Very stiff, very painful. But there is no fever in it, I think.'

'Good. If you feel any, let us know. We can prepare a decoction of some sort.'

Atti nodded. 'The Alwat gave me something last night. It helped me sleep, anyway.'

'Doesn't that worry you?' Perkar asked. 'No doubt their intentions are good. But medicine intended for a dog does not work as well on a cow. Why should the potions of the Alwat not poison us?'

Atti shook his head dismissively. 'That isn't the way of it, Perkar. Look; a cow and a dog cannot mate, cannot get offspring from one another. Human and Alwa can; Ngangata proves that. They are much like us, Perkar, much indeed. And I've had their medicines before.'

'They seem very different to me,' Perkar admitted. Atti shrugged. The two of them rode along in silence for a while. The wind picked up a bit, and the sky began to hint at darkening as a carpet of gray cloud slid in from the south. Atti shook his head at that.

Ngangata had ridden ahead, apparently to converse with the Alwat. Now he rode back. He said a few words to the Kapaka— ahead, seemingly lost in his own thoughts—and then continued on to join Atti and Perkar.

'The Alwat say there is shelter up this way, not too far. One of the stream gods told them it would be best to seek it.'

Atti agreed. 'Feels odd, doesn't it?'

Ngangata nodded.

'What feels odd?' Perkar asked, and then wished he hadn't, for they both looked at him blankly.

But after a moment Ngangata told him, 'The wind. The wind feels odd. The gods are up to something strange, I think.'

'Oh.'

Above, a pair of squirrels chased one another, shaking leaves down upon the travelers. The branches crowded lower once more, forcing them to dismount yet again. Perkar considered waiting for Eruka and Apad, rejoining them despite their ill humor. He had thought to strike up some friendship with Atti, perhaps get some advice on hunting —but Ngangata made him very uncomfortable, though he grudgingly admitted that the little man was winning a sort of admiration from him. It was the admiration one had for a fine, sharp sword or a well-made fence. He glanced over at the half man, coughed to clear his throat.

'Without your bow, I think, the Wild God would have killed us,' he said.

Ngangata frowned a bit. 'I have had a lot of time to get used to my bow,' he said. 'It provides well for me. I thank the god from which it was made daily.'

Perkar had seen that, the little man crouched over his stave, croaking the words of a song. Never loud enough for him to hear. He felt a twinge of guilt. How often did he offer to Ko, who had made his sword—or even to Ani Perkar, the oak spirit for whom he was named?

The wind gusted, and now Perkar thought that he, too, sensed something strange in it. A smell perhaps. A smell like flowers, or… something like that.

'Have you met these Alwat before?' Perkar asked. It seemed an inane question even as he said it; but he somehow wanted to talk to this Ngangata, this not-quite-man, wanted to understand his own fear and dislike of him.

'No,' Ngangata replied.

'Do they all speak one language? It seems a strange tongue.'

'All languages seem strange to me,' Ngangata answered, and Perkar thought he saw the merest hint of a smile lift those wide lips. 'Theirs no more than any other. It is a language more… fit for speaking to the forest gods than yours.'

'But the forest gods speak my language,' Perkar said. 'Even the Wild God spoke it.'

'He spoke what you speak because it is what you speak. He used your own voices, even,' Ngangata reminded him. 'But Human speech is ill-suited for speaking to the gods, in many ways. The Alwat have lived with the gods for