Sessan’s tent.
A woman screamed. Nacris ran out of the crowd. She picked up a pair of stones and threw them at Karada. The chief batted one away, but the other hit her horse on the side of the head. The animal reared, and to avoid being thrown to the ground, Karada slid off his rump. A bronze elven dagger gleamed in Nacris’s hand. Karada had only a flint hunting knife.
Pa’alu had a bronze dagger of his own. He forced his way through the excited crowd until he was a few paces from where Karada and Nacris now circled each other.
“Karada!” he shouted, holding up the elven blade. She couldn’t pick out his voice amid all the others screaming her name, so he cried, “Nianki! Take this!”
Her old name reached her. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder at him. That was enough for Nacris, who lunged at her. Karada grabbed Nacris’s arm and spun around, using the force of her spin to propel Nacris away.
“Nianki! Take the dagger!” Pa’alu flipped the weapon at her. It landed point first in the sand. Karada snatched it up just in time to parry another furious rush. Nacris used her blade like a short sword, slashing underhand and lunging at Karada’s belly. At one point the bronze blade scored a bloody line down the length of Karada’s right forearm. Nacris paid for her success when Karada backhanded her across the face. The furious challenger spun away, falling to her knees in the sand. With astonishing speed, Karada was on her back. She grasped Nacris by the hair and jerked her head back, baring her throat to the keen bronze blade
The yelling, milling crowd instantly fell silent. The change was so abrupt even Karada noticed. She paused, crouching over her opponent, knife pressed to Nacris’s throat just enough to crease her skin but not enough to draw blood.
“Stop!” yelled a man’s voice. “Stay your hand!”
Nacris struggled a little, but Karada pricked her to remind her how close to death she was. Karada looked this way and that, trying to see who dared give her orders.
The nomads parted ranks and a young man emerged. His short hair and tidy clothes marked him as a villager, not one of her nomads.
“Don’t kill her!” he said, horror evident on his pale face.
“Why not? She meant to kill me!” Karada snarled, panting.
“She’s mad with rage because you killed her mate,” the man insisted.
Karada looked down at Nacris. She could feel her foe trembling and see tears running off her face to the sand. Karada removed the knife, stood up, and planted a foot in middle of Nacris’s back. The latter collapsed facedown in the dirt. Karada kicked Nacris’s dagger away. It skittered to the man’s feet. He picked it up and offered it butt first to Karada.
Pa’alu ran forward and took his own knife back. Karada was sweating heavily, and blood dripped down her fingers from the cut on her arm.
Pa’alu offered her his water gourd. She took it, saying, “You made it.”
He smiled. “So did you.”
She took a long swig from the gourd. When she finally lowered it, she wiped her chin with the back of her hand and looked at the villager. “Why did you try to stop me?” she asked him.
Amero said, “You won the fight. There was no reason to kill her.”
“Maybe not, but I heard a lot of people shouting her name. There can’t be two chiefs in this band. Either I am chief, or there is no band.”
“You won. You are the chief,” said Pa’alu firmly.
Amero opened his mouth to speak but he was jostled aside as Pakito, Targun, Hatu, and Samtu worked their way to
Karada’s side. Pa’alu took his brother’s hand and raised it high. He cried, “Hail, Karada! Hail, Karada’s band!”
The nomads took up the chant with enthusiasm, repeating it so loudly the valley thundered with their cry.
Sessan’s body was cleared away, and Nacris was carried off to a shelter on the edge of the camp. Karada strode up to Sessan’s large tent and sat down on the chiefs stool. Targun set to washing and binding her wound as warriors lined up to attest their renewed loyalty to her.
Standing in a half circle behind Karada were her stalwarts, Pa’alu, Pakito, Samtu, and the rest. Amero worked his way to Pa’alu’s side. The young villager’s face reflected a jumble of emotions, impossible to read.
“Pa’alu, I must speak to you.” Amero said.
“Aye, Arkuden. What is it?”
“What was it you called Karada during the fight?”
The plainsman kept his eye on the line of warriors saluting and passing his chief. “Her true name,” he said. “Everyone was screaming ‘Karada, Karada,’ and she couldn’t hear me among the hundreds.”
“Karada is not her true name?”
Something in Amero’s tone caught Pa’alu’s attention, and he looked down at the smaller man. Shaking his head, he replied, “Ten years ago, when I first met her, she was just a wandering hunter like Pakito and me. Only later, when she was gathering the band together did she take the name Karada.”
Amero tried to calm the excitement rising in his breast. He’d heard what the plainsman had yelled, but he kept telling himself he’d heard wrong. It simply couldn’t be.
“What is it? What is her birth name?”
“Nianki.”
Amero blinked. He tried to speak, but his words came out as a croaking whisper. He cleared his throat. The noise of jostling, celebrating nomads around him seemed to grow louder in his ears. He swayed slightly. “Did you say ‘Nianki?’”
Pa’alu nodded. His eyes were on his chief and he didn’t notice the young headman’s evident distress.
Amero left the loyal circle and stepped into the chiefs line of sight. He stared at her, this stranger called Karada.
Could it be? He stared hard, trying to see past the sunburn and the scars, calling up in his mind the face of his lost sister.
His strange expression caused the chiefs smile to drop away. She returned his glance sharply and demanded, “Now what, village-man? First, you had me spare a foe who would’ve killed me. Do you want me to forego the oaths of my loyal people now?”
“What is your name?” Amero asked. His voice trembled.
“What? Can’t you hear? The sky knows my name today!” To Targun, almost done wrapping her injured arm, she said in a phony whisper, “These rockpile villagers seem a little slow-witted.”
“Is your — ” Once more Amero had to clear his throat before he could resume. “Is your name Nianki?”
Conversation around the chiefs tent died. Karada shrugged. “That was the name given me by my mother and father.”
“Were their names Oto and Kinar?”
“So they were. Who told you that?”
Amero took a step toward her. “Did you have a brother named Amero?”
Her amused expression vanished, and she frowned at him. “I did,” she said. Her hazel eyes were as hard as gemstones. “He was killed many years ago, along with my parents and another brother. How do you know his name?”
Amero’s mouth opened and closed. As Karada watched him with growing wonder, he looked straight at her and announced, “Because I am Amero, Nianki. I am your brother.”
Chapter 15
The plainsmen had a saying: “Swift water grows the biggest fish.” It was their way of saying change brought danger and hope in equal measure.
