Waterborn

resentment.

'You took it well. You made me proud.'

Perkar bowed his head, afraid to show the fierce grin of pleasure at his father's approval. Sherye laid his palm on Perkar's back.

'Piraku,' he said. 'You will find Piraku, just as I did, as my father did.'

Perkar nodded; he could not speak. The two of them sat in silence, let the heat work further into their bones. Sherye threw a handful of water and spruce needles onto the rocks, and fragrant steam hissed up around them.

'She's beautiful, isn't she?' his father said after a time.

'Yes,' Perkar answered. 'Beautiful. Father…'

'Hm?' The older man's eyes were closed.

'I love her, Father.'

Sherye snorted. 'Of course you do. We all did… do, though the way we love her changes. That's why our grandfathers made that pact with her, son. It's good to love the things in the land.'

'No. No, not like that,' Perkar went on. 'I love her like…'

'Like the first woman you've ever made love to. I know. But she's Anishu, son. You'll see that soon enough.'

'It's happened before! That song, the 'Song of Moriru,' where…'

'I know the song, son. But the man died, and Moriru lived on and on, always sad. That's the way it would be.' He smiled and reached over to tousle Perkar's chestnut hair. 'You'll find a Human girl soon enough. Don't worry about that.'

'She's already sad,' Perkar whispered, unwilling to pass over the subject so lightly. 'She says…'

'Son.' Sherye's voice was solemn, sober. 'Son, let it go. There is nothing you can do for her. Let it go.'

Perkar opened his mouth to speak again, but his father half-cocked one eyebrow, his signal that the matter would be pursued no further. Perkar turned his gaze down into the empty woti cup.

But he did not let it go. He could not.

 

III

The Labyrinth

The ghost hesitated at the edge of the hall, unwilling actually to venture into the light streaming down through the open roof of the small courtyard. Very little direct illumination reached the flagstones; the palace was three stories high here and the yard only ten paces across. Still, the white stucco shimmered with reflected sunlight. Ghosts did not particularly care for light.

Hezhi watched it back into the hall, hesitate near a stairwell, perhaps deciding where to go next. Qey had told her that ghosts often did not know what they were about—often forgot even that they were dead. Where and when did this one think it was? She studied it, hoping for clues, but this ghost provided few. It was less a form or even a shadow than a distortion in the air, like something seen through a glass of water—or like glass itself, for that matter. Sometimes you could see more—features, even. When Hezhi was six, she had awakened to confront the pale, nervous face of a young man. When she shrieked, he vanished quite quickly. She had never seen so clear an image since then.

Qey left little offerings for a few of the ghosts—especially Luhnnata, the one who inhabited her kitchen. Hezhi had come to be familiar with the young man who haunted her own room, though she never again saw his face.

She shrugged. This wing of the palace was strange to her, one with ghosts she had never seen. Certainly it would not be a dangerous one, not here, so close to the heart of things, where the Sba'ghun priests swept nearly every week.

'Let's go, Tsem,' she commanded, stepping out into the light of the courtyard. The air was fragrant with sage and oregano growing from various stoneware boxes. A pigeon quickened its waddle to avoid their passage. Hezhi and Tsem brushed on past the ghost, which seemed to hug close to the wall when they came near.

'I can't believe I didn't think of this earlier,' Hezhi muttered as they turned from the narrow passage onto a larger thoroughfare. Though it was a covered hallway, light streamed in from the courtyards on either side; the basic architecture of the palace made it impossible to go far from one of the alleged hundred and eighty-seven courts.

Tsem shrugged, not otherwise answering.

'You did think of it, didn't you?'

'Not exactly,' the half Giant said reluctantly.

'Some help you are.'

'Princess. Remember that you bullied me into helping you with this little enterprise. My agreement was only to go along with you into the lower cities to protect you. I never said I would do any more than that.'

'You said you would help me find D'en.'

'I never said that, Princess.'

Hezhi thought about it. He hadn't. Still, she was in no mood to be generous. 'Two years we've been running into solid walls— literally. If I'd thought to go through the library two years ago, we would have found him by now.'

'Shhh, Princess. I think this is the place. You don't want anyone to hear your crazy talk.'

The open doorway to their right did indeed seem to lead into the archives hall. At least, the legend on the frame said as much.

Inside, an old man sat on one of the fashionably low stools common throughout the palace. A writing board lay across his lap. On the board was a sheet of paper to which he was vigorously applying a brush and ink. Hezhi found herself instantly fascinated by the speed with which the characters flowed from his brush tip, the grace with which they lay on the paper afterward.

It took him a moment to look up.

'Yes?'

Hezhi nodded to Tsem, who bowed for her, then announced her. 'Princess Hezhi Yehd Cha'dune, ninth daughter of the Chakunge—Lord of Nhol. She is here for instruction.'

The old man blinked. Hezhi could see that the scarf wrapped around his head hid a nearly bald pate; his thin face crinkled naturally into a scowl as he carefully placed his brush upon the ink-mixing stone.

'Child, what do you want of me?'

Tsem started to speak, but Hezhi waved him back with what she hoped was a suitably imperious gesture. 'My father wished that I should learn more of writing, of science, and of… architecture. You are to instruct me in these things.'

The old man narrowed his eyes, as if fascinated by some strange insect he had just discovered on his morning meal.

'I've had no notice to that effect,' he said at last.

'No matter,' Hezhi snapped impatiently. 'I'm here.'

'So you are. But I am busy.' He took the brush back up and began writing again.

'Who are you?' Hezhi demanded, in as imperious a tone as she could muster.

The old man sighed, paused in midstroke. He finished the character and laid the brush back down. 'You may call me Ghan.'

'That's not a name. That's the old word for 'teacher.' '

Ghan set the writing board aside. 'At least you know that much. What else do you know, little Princess?' She did not miss the thick sarcasm in the scribe's voice.

'I can read, if that's what you mean.'

'You can read the syllabary, I'm sure. Every child can read that. But can you read the old characters?'

'Some of them.'

'And who, pray tell, taught you that?'

There was something accusing in the man's voice, something that made Hezhi feel suddenly insecure,