The Blackgod

her riding coat and stood. Though the days were warmer now, nights were still murderously cold, and even in the tents they all slept fully clothed—she never took the heavy wool garment off. She felt a fleeting worry for Tsem; she had seen him climbing up the mesa and wondered what business her former servant could have with Perkar. Whatever it was, the two of them were likely to spend the night together up on the plateau—it would soon be too dark and chill to descend safely.

Her soft boots made little sound as she walked around the steep projection of the slope to where she heard the faint music—a man's voice, a lovely tenor lilting in a haunting minor mode. It suddenly occurred to her that she might be going into danger; gaan were also known as huuneli, “singers.” What if this were her enemy, the Mang shaman, following more closely than any of them realized, even now invoking some god against her?

A hushed padding alerted her that Heen was accompanying her, and though she wasn't certain what such a tired old dog might do in her defense, it gave her the courage she needed to round the prominence.

The singer knelt on a flat stone, eyes closed, face rapt. Nearby stood his mount, a familiar tawny mare. The song itself was in Mang, and she caught the sense of a single verse before the young man opened his eyes and noticed her.

“Hard Wind

Sister with iron hooves

Together we shall travel steppes

That no man nor mount has seen

Courage will be my saddle

And your bridle shall be my faith in you …”

That was when Raincaster became aware of her and stopped, his dark blush visible even in the twilight.

“I'm sorry to interrupt you,” she apologized. “That was beautiful.”

“Ah,” he murmured, looking down at the sand. “Thank you.”

“I have heard your people sing to their mounts before, but never with such silvery throats.”

“You flatter me,” Raincaster demurred.

Hezhi lifted her hand in farewell. “I will leave you,” she said.

“No—please, I was finished.”

“I just heard you singing and wondered who it was, that's all.”

Raincaster nodded again, and Hezhi hesitantly took that as an invitation to stay for a moment.

“I still do not fully understand the bond between you and your mounts,” she went on cautiously. “I love Dark; she is a wonderful horse, but I can't say that I feel she is kin.”

“That's because she isn't,” Raincaster told her. “She can't be.” She knew immediately he meant no offense but was only stating a simple fact. Still, she pursued it.

“Could you explain?”

He shrugged. “In the beginning the Horse Mother gave birth to two children, a horse and a man. Both were Mang, and neither of us ever forgets. Our lines have been separate, of course, but the kinship is always reckoned, always kept track of. We share our souls; in some lives we are born as horses and in others as Humans. But inside we are the same.” He looked at her curiously. “Do you not feel kinship with the goddess who dwells within you?”

Hezhi remembered the wild ride back from the mountain, the sensation of being joined to the mare. “Yes,” she admitted. “But I still do not think it is the same.”

“No,” Raincaster said, his voice very soft. “The old people say that when the perfect rider and mount are joined, they are not reborn amongst us. They go on to another place, where they become a single being. That must be more what you feel.” His voice had a wistful tone.

“Maybe,” Hezhi allowed. “We are as one at times, but mostly I do not notice her.”

“It is a rare gift, to be a gaan. You should be proud.”

“I am,” Hezhi assured him. “Have you never considered—” She paused. “You are such a fine singer. Are you not a gaan?”

Raincaster turned to his mount and began brushing at her coat. “There are two sorts of singers. There are two sorts of songs. I do not have the sort of mansion that gods can live in.” He could not hide the disappointment in his tone.

“Oh.” She searched for something else to say. “You have the gift to make beauty,” she offered finally.

“It is a small gift,” he replied, still not facing her.

“No, it isn't. I may have power—I may be a gaan—but it seems that all I ever do is destroy, never create. I could never sing so wonderfully as you.” And then she did stop, for she had embarrassed herself.

Raincaster turned toward her then, and a faint smile graced his handsome face. “Songs need not reach the ear to be heard and understood. Such music is not made, it simply is.” Then he turned back to Hard Wind, his horse. Hezhi waited another moment, then turned quietly to leave.

“But thank you for your praise,” Raincaster called after her. “It is important to me, though it shames me to show it.”

The night was growing colder, so Hezhi made her way back to the fire, though her heart felt warmer already. Finally, she seemed to have said the right thing to someone.

THREE days later, Perkar found Tsem's war club when they stopped to hunt. It was nearly perfect without finishing, a natural cudgel of black gum that rose almost to Perkar's waist when stood on end. That night, around the fire, he showed the half Giant how to shape wood by charring it in the fire and scraping off the burnt part.

“It hardens the wood, as well,” Ngangata put in, watching over their shoulders. He had just returned from hunting, and instead of a piece of wood, he had returned with an antelope. Tsem nodded at them both. It was just dark, and the wolves Perkar had warned of were singing in the distance, accompanied by the occasional skirl of a tiger owl. The sky was cloudless, the air crisp enough that the fire felt good. A pattering of twin drums a hundred steps or so from camp were Brother Horse and Hezhi, teacher and pupil at their arcane studies, Perkar gathered that Hezhi was making rapid progress in her study of the world of gods—not surprising, since the blood of the most powerful god on earth flowed in her veins.

Tsem scraped enthusiastically at his club. He was clumsy, but the wood and the method of working it were forgiving. A simple but deadly weapon was taking shape in his hands.

“I remember my first sword,” Perkar told them. He felt quiet tonight. Not happy, but not crushed by the weight of the world, either. For once, he felt no older than his age. “Oh, I crowed about it. It was such a beautiful thing.”

“What became of it?” Tsem inquired.

“I … traded it for Harka.” He didn't mention that the blade his father gave him, the blade made by the little Steel God Ko, now lay near the corpse of the first person he was responsible for killing. But at least his father's blade had never itself been sullied by murder.

Perkar looked up in time to catch the warning glance Ngangata shot Tsem. Ngangata, trying to protect him again. Did they all think him so fragile?

Why shouldn't they? His tantrums and sulking had given them ample cause to think so. He resolved to be stronger, take a more forceful role in the journey. After all, it was him the Crow God entrusted with the knowledge of what should be done.

“How much longer, Ngangata? Until we reach the mountain?”

Ngangata considered that. “If we keep this pace, don't lose any horses, and all else goes well—two more months.”

“Two months!” Tsem asked incredulously, looking up from his work. “Won't we walk off the edge of the world?”

Perkar and Ngangata grinned at that. “No. We could ride another ninety days beyond the mountain and still not find the end of the world.”

“What would we find?”

“I don't know. Ngangata?”

“Balat, for many of those days. Balat is a very large forest indeed. Beyond that—Mor, the sweet-water sea. Mountains, forest, plains—finally, I hear, the great ocean. Beyond that, perhaps, the edge