The Blackgod

“Well, what now?” Tsem sighed. “What do we do now?”

“Now,” Perkar said, “we go back to my people. We tell them about the new bargain with the Forest Lord, about the new valleys he has opened for colonization.”

“That will end the war?” Yuu'han asked a little harshly.

Perkar turned a concerned gaze on the Mang. “I know a lot of your people have died,” he said softly. ”Saying I'm sorry means nothing, I know.”

“They were warriors,” he responded. “They chose their deaths. But I have to know, after all of this, after aiding you even against my own, that it was worth it.”

“It was worth it,” Ngangata answered. “The war will end. Perkar's people talk a lot about fighting and glory, but they would actually much rather tend their cows in peace. In the lands they have taken from your people, they would never know peace.”

“That is true,” Yuu'han conceded. ”We would fight for the plains our horses graze upon until none of us were left alive.”

“And we know that,” Perkar assured him. “Only desperation drove my people to attack yours. Now they can settle peacefully in lands that are more suited to cattle, anyway. You can return to your folk and tell them the war will end, my friend.”

“That pleases me. It would please my uncle, as well.”

“Your uncle was a good man, a great man,” Perkar said. “I'm sorry for what happened to him.”

Yuu'han smiled faintly. “He knew he would die. He knew that he would die as soon as he left his island. He had a vision.”

“Then why …” Hezhi began.

“He was old, but he was still a man,” Yuu'han explained. “Still Mang. If he had lived much longer, he might have lost that, might have become another pack for his clan to carry about with them. We would have done that, for he was dear to us. But he would have hated it. He saw a path that would bring his death, but also much glory, many songs.”

“Piraku,” Perkar said.

“As you call it. He died quickly, with little pain, but valiantly. And he cared about you all, was willing to give his life.” He looked uncomfortable. “As was I. I only ask that you remember where he died, honor his spirit now and then.”

“I don't think we will soon forget Erikwer,” Ngangata replied. “And I'm certain your uncle will soon wear other clothes; perhaps those of a stallion or a hawk.”

“It may be. Or perhaps he roams with his old mount, Firehoof, in the plains of the Ghostland. Either way, I'm sure he is just the same as he was, a noisy, perverse old man.”

“Almost certainly.”

“In any event, we will remember him,” Perkar promised, “and I will send him plenty of woti and beer, wherever he dwells now. Starting when we get home, and I have something to send him. You will join me in some woti, I hope. In a toast to him.”

“I think I will return along the river,” Yuu'han said, shaking his head. “It will be quicker and easier than traveling through the mountains, and now the Changeling is … friendlier.”

“When will you leave?”

“In the morning, I think.”

“That will be a long journey alone,” Ngangata said.

Yuu'han shrugged. “I will not be alone. My cousin will be with me.” He jerked his head toward his mount, Huu'yen.

“Of course. But we will miss you,” Perkar said.

“And I all of you.”

They talked a bit longer, of inconsequential things, watching the red-eyed Fire Goddess in her hearth of stones, and one by one they fell asleep, and though Ngangata stood sentinel, even he was blissfully snoring when the new morning dawned.

EPILOGUE A Different-Colored Spring

THE warm vapor of black woti carried up into Perkar's nostrils, a delicious scent. The promise of its taste tugged powerfully at him, pulling him back across the years to his first sip of the dark, warm drink, and for an instant he felt anew everything he had known then: pride, joy, love, and above all, hope. The promise that his Ufe had just begun, that the great fields of the world were stretched out before him. Had the sunlight really ever seemed so golden, so untarnished?

That had been only five years ago. This was the fifth anniversary of his manhood rite, of the day when his father had trounced him so soundly before his whole family, when he had been given his first sword.

“Drink it, son,” his father exhorted. “You have been home for more than a year; time enough has passed. Put away your mourning and drink.”

Perkar hesitated, still. The smell was so fine. What had he told Karak, a year and some months ago? You have made me like a ghost, able to appreciate only the smell, never the taste…

Something like that. He smiled thinly, raised the cup to his father. He had never thought of Sherye as old before, but he seemed old now. In the two years Perkar had been gone, his sire looked as if he had aged ten. His hair was more than half gray, his eyes compassed by seams of pain and worry.

“To your Piraku, Father,” Perkar said. He lifted the small cup and drank. The wine seemed to rush into his head, filling it with smoke and honey before it burned its way, pleasantly, to his belly.

“To your Piraku, my son,” his father answered, and drank his own. The older man then poured them both another cup.

“Perhaps I am flesh again now,” Perkar murmured, and this time when he smiled, it felt more genuine.

“What do you mean?” his father asked.

“Nothing.” Perkar shook his head. “Something best forgotten.”

Sherye measured him with iron-gray eyes and smiled ruefully. “My son goes away and returns with a mouthful of cryptic remarks. But at least he returns. And today he is a man for five years.” He raised the second cup in salute. Together they drank.

The warmth from the first cup was beginning to reach into Perkar's blood, and finally he felt his shoulders begin to relax. He sagged back a bit on his pillow. They sat alone, his father and he, in the banquet hall of the damakuta where Perkar had been born. Only a handful of candles burnished the walls of polished red cedar, while above, the steep pitch of the ceiling climbed into darkness. The low table before them held only the bowl of hot water, the pitcher of woti it warmed, and their cups.

“I feel that I have been a man for only a year,” Perkar admitted. “Two at best. I don't know. I only know that I was not a man when I set out with the Kapaka.”

Sherye barked out a short, harsh laugh as he poured yet more woti. “We are never men when we say we are, son—it's only later, when we question our worth, that we stand some chance of finding it.” He tossed down the third cup, waited for Perkar to do likewise, and then poured a fourth.

“You intend for us to get drunk tonight, don't you, Father?” Perkar asked, already beginning to feel somewhat light-headed.

“Very drunk,” his father conceded. “Very.”

Six drinks later they were well on their way. Perkar felt his face numbing and softening, and to his horror, tears welled behind his eyes. In his months of self-enforced temperance, he had forgotten the power of woti to draw out the hidden, to release things best bound—to make hardened men bawl like mouseling infants.

His father swayed back and forth when he next spoke, the rustling of his rust-and-black quilted robe the only other sound.

“When will you take the land, son? When will you build your own home? Your younger brother—Henyi—is already gone four months.”

Perkar bit his lip. He had tried to remain silent on this issue, keep it in. But suddenly he felt the words bolt past his lips like a willful steed.

“When all have chosen,” he cried, louder than he wished. “When all whom I wronged have picked the choicest land for pasture. Then I will go.”