Again, there is something in Baster-kin’s tone, when he speaks of Isadora, that Arnem both dislikes and fears; but by now, the new commander of the army of Broken is too weary and baffled to pursue the matter, and so answers simply, “Indeed I have been, my lord. These many years.”
“Yes,” Baster-kin murmurs. “Fortunate, indeed. Speaking of which, we haven’t had a chance to discuss your—family situation.” Serious purpose fills Baster-kin’s face. “It is one of the effects of your great success. Were you a less consequential man, perhaps we might have let it go … But, as you are not, the matter will have to be resolved soon, Arnem.”
“And I have no doubt that it will be,” the sentek replies.
Baster-kin seems to realize he can ask only so much, at so rare a moment. “Yes. Time enough for such matters to be settled upon your return. Which I do not doubt will be triumphant. But keep it in your thoughts.”
“It rarely leaves them, my lord,” Arnem answers, starting up the stone ramp toward the light of earliest dawn. “And so, by your leave, I will bid you good night.”
Baster-kin says nothing, only lifts a hand in acknowledgment; but when Arnem reaches the top of the ramp, he looks back down into the cellar, watching the Merchant Lord’s movements—
And he is not entirely surprised to see that Baster-kin does not, in fact, take the stairs leading up, in order to make his appearance in the Merchants’ Hall; rather, he goes back to the doorway of the room where the Bane Outrager, Arnem is sure, continues to be tortured.
Turning to face the slowly brightening sky, Arnem breathes deep, glad to be away from the business of state and as confused as he can ever remember being. He will need some time, to assess all that has happened; time — and his wife. His Isadora: “Lucky, in that regard …” Why, of all the statements that the Merchant Lord has made this evening, is it such a trivial comment that echoes so relentlessly in the sentek’s mind? He knows of the rumors that circulate concerning the tragic illness of Lord Baster-kin’s own wife — who has not been seen in public for many years — and of the Merchant Lord’s heroic efforts to attend to his spouse’s every need; is it simply the unpleasant taint of envy in Baster-kin’s voice that sparked Arnem’s uneasiness? Does the appearance of any weakness, in this man who is ordinarily so haughty and self-assured, bring on some unwelcome sense that Broken itself is not so mighty as it appears? Or is Arnem displeased to think of himself as someone who can find room in his spirit, at such an important moment in the life of the kingdom, for base, boyish jealousy at the mere mention of his wife’s name by another man of influence and power?
Longing for the comforts of his home, his family, and slumber, Arnem turns to begin walking at a healthy pace down the Celestial Way toward the Fifth District of the city. But as he sets out he sees, through the early mist of a spring dawn, the distant sight of Lord Baster-kin’s Plain, and the black mass of Davon Wood spreading away beyond:
It is a vivid and unwelcome reminder, one that will make sleep impossible in the few hours he has until assembly sounds: for, when dawn breaks fully, Arnem’s oldest friend, Herwald Korsar —“Yantek Korsar,” Arnem says aloud, pointedly defying the stricture never to so refer to his comrade again — will be taken to that very edge of the Wood. He will then be tied by his forearms and thighs between two trees, after which two priests of Kafra — using ceremonial knives and axes from the Sacristy, the polished steel blades, engraved brass fittings, and well-turned ash handles of which make them seem unsuited to so base a task — will sever both of Korsar’s legs at the knee. If the yantek is lucky and the priests are skilled, only two swings of the sacred axes will be needed; but whatever the case, he will be left hanging, to bleed to death or be torn apart by scavenging wolves and bears while still alive, after having been literally reduced to the stature of a Bane. It is the ritual’s ultimate purpose (along with the suffering that leads to it), for no more ignoble end could be imagined — particularly for so great a soldier as Korsar …
Thinking of this, Arnem decides that he will run home, to the comfort that discussion of such subjects with his wife nearly always brings; and his pace, as he sets out, is rapid, indeed.
The Bane foragers learn the inscrutability of all
gods — even their Moon …
There is no one alive that knows Davon Wood better than do Bane foragers, of whom Keera’s party are the most experienced; and, while their lungs may be small, the foragers have developed the ability to maintain fast paces over distances far longer than any laurelled champions of the Tall. Imagine, then, how fast a Bane mother who is also a forager, and who harbors the deepest fears for the fate of her family, might run. Imagine it, increase it, endow it with any superlative you may wish to conjure — and you will yet be unable to describe the pace that Keera has set for Veloc and Heldo-Bah on the dash from the Ayerzess-werten to their home of Okot. More remarkable still, the two men behind her have never once complained of that pace, never once asked for respite; nay, not even for a sip of water from the skins they carry. For they know only too well that they are not mere athletes striving to add luster to their names: they are tribe members who have learned that the blackest horror has, after two hundred years of safety, struck their home; and they run to know what price the Death has exacted from their people.
Dawn begins to break, and life to stir, in the vast wilderness; but among the three foragers, it is noted only because the markings along the trail they follow become easier to see. It is a merciless bit of irony that these same markings, which usually impart the happiness of being ever closer to home, now only heighten the agony of the possibility that such joy may be gone forever. Keera’s disciplined mind works hard to push aside her mounting fears; but what occupies her thoughts instead is not hope of a happy resolution. Rather, she puzzles with the supreme mystery that eventually befalls every soul that harbors true faith in a divine providence:
How could her deity have forsaken her? How could the Moon have inflicted the Death upon her tribe and her family?
Has she brought it on her people, by battling the Knights with her brother and Heldo-Bah, and thus insulting the Priestess of the Moon? It cannot be, for then the punishment would be hers alone. And what of Heldo-Bah’s many crimes, and Veloc’s too-frequent participation in them? There are no answers, here, either, for Heldo-Bah has paid the price with the loss of his freedom forever, while Veloc, too, submits himself to punishment when he thus angers the Priestess, the Lunar Sisters, and the Groba Elders; and even if he did not, where is the divine proportion in meting out plague to punish a few brawls? Is not the Moon a deity of compassion? And if she is not, then what marks her as superior to the Tall’s absurd and vicious golden god, Kafra?
There—in the distance: Keera can see the trees thin, and then, away past that point, the last of the downward grade that ends in the rapid drop of the high cliffs that form the northern edge of Okot. In mere moments, they should be upon — nay: They are upon them already! Hidden, in the ghostly light that is the Wood at dawn: huts. Bane huts. Deserted. And no sign of the fires that should be burning, now, with great-bellied cook-pots atop them, heating the morning gruel with boiled wood-fruits — wild apples, pears, and plums — that, sometimes fortified by a few thin strips of boar’s back cooked on a skillet of flat iron — constitutes nearly every Bane’s first meal. But here, among these twenty or so thatched huts … nothing. Not even the light of fat-lamps within …
For the first time, Keera slows, and comes to a halt. As her lungs work hard, she stares about in bewilderment, fearing — not fearing, hoping—that she has lost the trail, and stumbled upon some old settlement that has fallen into disuse: the sort of place in which Heldo-Bah spent much of his early manhood. But the markings are just where they should be, prominently cut into large rocks and ancient trees. Now as ever, Keera is on the trail she intended to follow, and she and her companions are in one of the northern settlements that surmount the cliffs ahead: they are, in fact, among the community of Bane healers and their families, who carry on their noble work inside the caves that pock the faces of those same cliffs, the barely accessible retreats called the Lenthess-steyn.† It is possible, of course, that the healers are in those caves even now, if the Outrager Welferek spoke the truth, and did not concoct a callous lie to spare himself torment at the hands of Heldo-Bah; and yet—
If the healers are in the Lenthess-steyn, then where are their families? Where are
