Contrarywise Page 3

  —A MAYANABI SAYING Chapter One First light: the between-time of Everywhen when night tarried, day still longed to be, and all Mnemlith listened for the sounds of morning. First light: the rift between worlds when dreams murmured subtle things in gray, and waking minds reached for the distinct colors of dawn. Now was the moment of renewal and eternal return. To consciousness. The Mayanabi Desert gleamed at sunrise. Amber light played across shifting sands and vanished. Silence. Three heartbeats, and the earth opened. Sound that clattered and gathered speed, hoof against stone. Like a jagged riptide, a green-cowled figure thundered from the gap, his cloak a dark undertow of roiling power that startled. The desert stirred in its sleep, a hot wind running to meet this first wave of Jinnaeon: Trickster's Improvement. The desert air crackled with the shock of the new, and the figure in green came riding into the open on the back of a blue-black mare. Faster. The man hunched forward. His name was Zendrak. He was Trickster's Emissary: Rimble's threshold of change. The mare's dark mane whipped his hidden face, and he bent lower to fill his senses with the mare's strong animal smell. Her sweat blended with his, salty and pungent-wild. This mix was a perfume that slapped the mind awake; it was the scent of Rimble's Own. Zendrak held his olive-skinned hands steady on either side of the mare's reaching, streaming neck. His fingers held no reins. There was no need of them. Nothing in civilization could control this mare. Nothing could constrain her. She was a loan from the Stables of Neath, and she ran to the rhythm of her own fierce spirit. She was the leading edge of Rimble's building crest, her hooves striking the meter for change. She travelled no roads: only the currents of coincidence. Her name was Further, and she was a Power of the Fertile Dark. Faster. The Emissary whispered his destination. The words were a hiss on the hot, dawn wind: the Yellow Springs. The mare's ears flicked backward. Her pace never faltered as she turned north toward snow-misted mountains. The thrum of her hooves, the beat of his heart, and it was on to the Yellow Springs: an ancient haven of healing. This was a four-thousand-mile journey, and they would complete it by day's end. Tonight they would position the final piece of puzzle-unasked-for but undertaken long, long ago. The mare's powerful stride lengthened. They passed through town and valley. The remains of night shattered in their relentless wake. Heads turned, but eyes saw nothing. Tale-tellers yawned over breakfast, and children stumbled out of bed. Some wondered at the sudden shift in temperature and shrugged as they unbuttoned their nightshirts. Here in the southern lands, the air was sweet and warm, and summer still lingered though the months approached Fall. In the north, however, this was not so. There, Autumn made bright festival with the trees, and the people of Suxonli already wore wool. Zendrak smiled. This was the cusp of the season when change gusted with the wind and colors were crisp. Now the weather was unpredictable. This was nature's shifttime—Trickster's Glory. A wild joy overtook the Emissary. He cried out, reckless and alive! Sparks flew, hoof against stone. And Zendrak was riding, riding. He was riding north to Suxonli to bring Summer to one of Rimble's Own. Faster. Chapter Two Crazy Kel sat motionless on a mossy, limestone ledge a few feet above the Yellow Springs of Piedmerri. Swathed in her habitual veil and robe of black, Crazy Kel lay her head against her hunched knees and sighed. Her expression remained concealed under the drape of material covering her face and broad shoulders. She opened her startling, pale green eyes slowly, her face strained by an internal turmoil that had caused her yet another sleepless night. She took a deep breath, trying to calm the ache in her chest. This ache was not a physical pain; however, it had a physical location—her heart and lungs. Crazy Kel rubbed her breastbone gingerly and winced. What was this ache? she wondered. She had felt it only once before, and that had been sixteen years ago. There had been no answer for it then, and there appeared to be no answer for it now. She shut her eyes again, listening numbly to the tumbling rush of the twenty-feet fall of water directly below her. Crazy Kel smiled sourly. Crazy Kel—born Kelandris of Suxonli—was thirty-three years old. And as far as the elders of Suxonli Village were concerned, Crazy Kel ought to be dead. It annoyed them that she wasn't. The woman in black chuckled bitterly. «Strong I am,» she whispered in a queer, sing-song monotone, «and strong shall I ever be. I have danced for the King of Deviance, and the bastard made me his he.» The ache in her chest intensified without warning. Crazy Kel swore. Gasping for breath, she pressed her forehead against her knees, her jaw clenched. «I draw the Springs roundabout. I cast this pain out and out.» When this incantation failed, Crazy Kel sidled closer to a trickle of the copper colored water of the springs diverted from the main by fallen leaves. Crazy Kel thrust her left hand into the iron laden wash, hoping to draw some strength from the minerals themselves. She sucked the taste of it off her dirty fingers, comforted by the familiar feel of the metal flavor in her mouth. «Iron Springs be my friend. Bring the pain of Suxonli to end.» Her shoulders sagged as she wondered just how many times she had prayed for this in the past sixteen years. How long would it take? How long would her internal wounds remain raw? She shrugged. The lashes on her scarred back had healed long ago. But her mind? Crazy Kel groaned. Sometimes she was very, very sane. And sometimes she wasn't. Crazy Kel watched the spray from the falls below her catch the light from the setting sun. A rainbow flickered briefly and was gone. «Don't make promises you cannot keep,» she snapped at the Springs. «What was sown in Suxonli, I forever reap.» The rainbow reappeared as if in contradiction. Crazy Kel spat at the Yellow Springs. When the rainbow remained, she bowed her head unexpectedly. She felt ashamed. The Yellow Springs had provided her safe haven since Suxonli had cast her out. She owed the Springs gratitude, she told herself angrily—even on her bad days. Crazy Kel bit her lips under her black veil, listening to the cheery splash of the water. She smiled hesitantly, as if the muscles of her face were unaccustomed to doing so. Then once again, she put her hand in the rivulet beside her, touching it as gently as if it were a lover she had inadvertently spurned. The rainbow lengthened, then vanished. Night approached. The fading rays of the sun turned dark gold, making the deposit of iron on the rocks below the surface of the Springs appear as bright as a newly minted copper. Crazy Kel inhaled the peace of the place, thanking the Springs again for the long moment of protection they had afforded her. She certainly hadn't deserved it, she thought. But then that was the nature of this place. It didn't judge. It simply gave. Even to the condemned like her; even to a person who had been branded akindo and convicted of murder. Which is the same thing, thought Crazy Kel tiredly. She shook her head. Stupid Springs—giving to a murderess. But then, I suppose that's your business, isn't it? she thought at the falls. And what do I know? I'm just an ignorant village woman. And a criminal at that. Her shoulders sagged again with a bitterness that even the Springs could not alleviate. The Yellow Springs were an ancient place of sustaining spiritual power well known to the locals yet virtually undiscovered by the rest of Mnemlith. Those few who were fortunate enough to drink from the mineral and metal laden water of this hidden place left whispering tales of miraculous cures—both physical and psychological. Lying deep in the black earth piedmont of the Western Feyborne Mountains. They lay half a mile south of Suxonli village—on the other side of the Mazemouth River and just across the border of the land called Piedmerri. Kelandris grit her teeth. She could not remember how she had come to the Yellow Springs. Or who had cared for her during those first months after the Ritual of Akindo. Mostly, she remembered feeling alone. And helpless. Crazy Kel glared at the old scars on her dirty hands, and wondered how she had gotten them. Then she wondered why she had survived the Ritual of Akindo. It was also a mystery to the elders of Suxonli why Kelandris had not died sixteen years ago when they pronounced her akindo: kinless and without soul. The Ritual of Akindo was an ordeal of harsh justice designed to destroy not only the mind but also the body. This had not been the original purpose of the ritual, but the people of Suxonli had forgotten its older significance and meaning: namely, a confrontation with death while still living and a radical release from
personal history. The current Ritual of Akindo included a severe beating which was then followed by the ingestion of a toxic dose of an indigenous hallucinogenic substance called holovespa: the whole wasp. Understandably so, the elders of Suxonli had expected the beating alone to kill seventeen-year-old Kelandris, but her six-foot-four body had proved to be as strong as her stubborn, insolent spirit, and she had survived. As a result, the elders had been forced to continue the ritual, now pouring a killing dose of the drug holovespa into Kel's bloody mouth. This had been carried out by the person whom Kelandris had loved most: her fifteen-year-old brother, Yonneth. The holovespa itself was a natural substance, a kind of royal jelly manufactured internally by the Holovespa Wasp Queen—intended solely for her larvae. However, the villagers of Suxonli had been stealing this jelly for centuries, making a potent sacramental compound from it. They called it Rimble's Remedy and dispensed it during their yearly Trickster's Hallows—a late autumn carnival of euphoria. The Ritual of Akindo had turned this wild (but essentially harmless) festival of masquerade into a streaming, screaming nightmare of distortion. As per the requirements for akindo, Suxonli had given young Kelandris enough drug to synaptically unhinge her mind permanently. They had expected her to kill herself. But Kelandris had not. She had lived—not well, but she had lived. Despite Suxonli and its judgement. The Ritual of Akindo had not been without its effect, however. By the end of that particular Trickster's Hallows, Kelandris had emerged certifiably insane. Left emotionally stripped of all normal ego structures—both positive and negative—Kelandris had collapsed into herself and wandered lost in a miasma of mistaken perceptions and uncontrollable fear. Her body bloody and broken by the beating and her mind savaged by the holovespa, the villagers had left her in a cave on the outskirts of town. Kelandris had been too weak and disoriented even to weep. Everyone in Suxonli had agreed that if Kelandris survived, it would be an utter miracle. Kelandris did them one better. She not only survived—she escaped. But not without help. After a week of questioning and piecing together everyone's stories of that night, the elders of Suxonli concluded that Kelandris had received aid from someone outside the community. There was talk (especially by Yonneth, Kel's younger brother) that his seventeen-year-old sister had lost her maidenhead the night of Trickster's Hallows. Yonneth swore that there had been a stranger present—a man who topped Kel's own formidable height by an intimidating two inches, He had also smelled—said Yonneth with disgust—reeked of unusually strong horse sweat. There had been an immediate uproar. Kelandris had not played by the rules. She had added insult to injury; not only had she been responsible for the death of several villagers of Suxonli, but she had also had the bad taste to survive the justice of the Ritual of Akindo and escape Suxonli's borders as well. Some months later, someone reported seeing Kel alive at the Yellow Springs in the land of Piedmerri. As the harshness of a Tammirring village meant little to the gentle Piedmerri-born, Kelandris had been permitted to remain at the Springs with no fear of extradition. Surrounded by the Feyborne Mountains, this region was a place of unusually potent and unpredictable landdraw. That is to say, the geological matrix of the area was naturally tricksterish. Protected by the seemingly random weather conditions of the mountains that surrounded the Springs, the area was a mapmaker's nightmare. Trails were known to disappear at will, and compasses sometimes spun wildly—the magnetic field of the Feyborne Mountains living up to their name. Very fey. And occasionally very sentient. Crazy Kel stiffened abruptly. She had acute hearing and night vision—an inadvertent legacy from the holovespa. The veil obscured nothing but the plaintive beauty of Kel's face. Her senses alert, she listened intently to the sound of an approaching child. An adolescent girl, thought Kelandris. Southern Asilliwir born by the queer brogue of her accent. Crazy Kel wondered who the kid was talking to. Then she realized the answer was no one; the Asilliwir girl was talking to herself. Crazy Kel decided to stay where she was—perhaps give the girl a fright if she became too bold or inquisitive. Crazy Kel patted the double-edged knife she wore hidden in the inside sleeve of her right arm and smiled coldly. As the girl came into full view, Crazy Kel started. The kid was not Asilliwir born at all; judging by the girl's dark hair and green eyes, she was Tammirring. Crazy Kel fingered her knife thoughtfully. Yafatah, which was the girl's name, was fifteen and an only child. Having spent her entire life without the company of a brother or sister, Yafatah almost always talked to herself when she was alone. Especially when she was troubled about something. Like tonight. «I be all right,» she told herself with more confidence than she felt. «The dreams mean nothing. And me Ma be just worried—that be all.» Yafatah lowered a leather water sack to the pool of copper-colored water at her feet. «And it doon't have nothing to do with me being Tammirring. It be just a phase. On account of me getting me bloodcycle so late and all.» Crazy Kel frowned under her veil. Had she heard the girl correctly? Bloodcycle dreams? The woman in black leaned forward, her grip on the hidden knife tightening slowly. Thoughts of Suxonli clouded her mind. Yafatah, who was busy pouring water, did not hear the soft rustle of Crazy Kel's clothing. The young girl sighed heavily and continued trying to cheer herself up. «And I will na' go to a Jinnjirri-born healer. What do they know,

  them Jinnjirri? I doon't care if there be a Jinnjirri in me dreams or noo. It be just a dream!» she added loudly, fighting back the tears of panic in her throat. She wiped her face hastily. «And that Greatkin. That Rimble. He be noo dream-friend of mine. So what be everyone's problem? And Jamilla? Just because I be fond of her—of a dread Mayanabi Nomad—oooh, scary, scary,» mocked Yafatah. «So what? Old Jamilla be a Mayanabi, and she be harmless. And her stories doon't be causing me nightmares. They doon't!» Yafatah bit her lower lip, feeling painfully confused. She was sure the dreams would go away if her mother and the rest of the Caravan Council would just leave her alone. Responding to the darkening twilight, Yafatah's gloom deepened. Then, almost against her will, the young girl felt her mood buoyed by the relentless rush of the Yellow Springs. Brimming with the healing properties of its minerals, the water chattered happily in her ear like a good friend making jokes. Yafatah dipped her fingers in the brilliantly stained pool. She stared grumpily at the Springs, aware that their incessant murmuring made it impossible to feel completely alone. Or frightened. She shrugged, thinking that in a place like this, she was sure a person could untangle the worst of personal knots. Yafatah sighed wistfully, wishing she and her mother could tarry longer in this hidden glen. Scowling, she idly scanned the rocks directly above her. And froze. So did Kelandris. Yafatah, who had heard stories from her old Mayanabi friend about a crazy woman living somewhere in the vicinity of the Yellow Springs, swallowed hard. Remaining motionless, she stared at the dark mass on the ledge. Was it a person or just a trick of the twilight? The mass remained absolutely still. After staring at it for several minutes, Yafatah concluded that it must be a boulder or something. She continued filling the water sack—albeit more hastily. When she finished, she glanced back at the ledge. And yelped. The hunched, black silhouette was gone. Reaching for her akatikki—an Asilliwir blow-tube—Yafatah hoisted the filled water sack to her shoulder and ran in the direction of her clan's caravan camp. The water sloshed out of the sack as she stumbled down the dark mountain trial and spilled onto her red tunic and pants. She ignored the cold water, her heart pounding in her throat, her akatikki grasped firmly in her left hand. Suddenly remembering that she presently carried only mild sleep darts with her instead of her clan's more lethal hunting type—an adjustment she had made herself after one particularly emphatic dream last week—Yafatah swore softly under her breath. Would a sleep dart hold a madwoman? Especially one as tall as the old Mayanabi claimed this woman was? Yafatah scrambled over some loose rock nearly losing her footing. As she slowed to catch her balance, Yafatah heard them. She heard wild dogs in the near distance. Wild dogs that were downwind of her. Chapter Three Night had finally come to the Western Feyborne Mountains. Zendrak guided Further down the steep forest trail wi
th the firm press of his knee against her shoulder, both rider and horse depending on each other's extreme night vision to see them through the utter dark. Brittle autumn leaves rustled overhead. Squirrels scurried along oak limbs. Acorns and twigs snapped loose and fell to the ground. Further suddenly snorted nervously, her blue-black ears turning backward and forward as she listened to the baleful howl of an approaching wild dog. She came to an abrupt standstill, her haunches trembling. At Zendrak's insistent pressure, leg against belly, she continued her descent. She sidestepped a fallen branch and snorted again, her blue-glass eyes wild with an instinctual fear of the unseen dog; there had been hunger in that howl. Zendrak patted Further's sweaty neck quietly, his touch reassuring but uncompromising. The mare jigged in place; then, prompted by Zendrak, she departed from the main trail. They travelled due west now, moving through the underbrush into a direct line of intersection with Yafatah and Crazy Kel. Ducking a low overhang of branches, Trickster's Emissary held his left hand in front of his face, testing the air experimentally with his long fingers. He stroked the darkness deftly like a master weaver sorting threads. Then, finding the one he wanted, Trickster's Emissary smiled. In his hands, coincidence was a subtle power. And he enjoyed making use of it. Zendrak tugged the night gently. The direction of the wind changed to east. In a matter of moments, the starving cur on the uppermost end of the forest trail picked up a familiar scent: sweaty, fearful horse. Giving voice immediately, the dog signalled the rest of the pack that dinner was imminent. They replied with excited baying. Zendrak grabbed a handful of black mane as he felt Further prepare to bolt. Glancing over his shoulder at the snuffling lead dog, Trickster's Emissary laughed. The trap was laid. He and the mare were its camouflage; Yafatah was the bait. But Rimble's quarry? Zendrak's eyes glittered cooly. Rimble's real quarry was the last unclaimed member of his small Contrarywise Circle: Kelandris of Suxonli. Zendrak pulled his green cowl away from his face. He had waited sixteen years for this night. Crazy Kel began humming to herself as she climbed down the steep trail that ran above the waterfall of the Springs. So the young girl was from Tammirring, she thought, testing the razor-sharpness of her knife as she walked. And she had bloodcycle dreams. Tricksterish ones. Kel's mind slipped into a drowning pool of mad logic, distorted and inaccurate. Tricksterish dreams could mean only one thing, decided Kelandris, the child was a Revel Wasp Queen—like she herself had been sixteen years ago. Crazy Kel stiffened, a new thought occurring to her. So, she thought nervously, the child was from Suxonli. Come to fetch Kel, no doubt. Bring her back and make her stay. For Kel must pay and pay and— «Springs about! Pain stay out!» whispered Kelandris in sudden panic. Pain, she thought. Calm, now. Think. The knife. The girl. Yes. Do it. Crazy Kel picked a fork in the trail that would intercept Yafatah before the young girl was in shouting distance of her caravan. As the woman in black slipped between the shadows, she suddenly slowed, her veiled head cocked to the side. She listened to the frantic, unexpected baying of the wild dogs. Crazy Kel swore. She had killed this pack's lead mastiff last week hoping the rest would panic and disperse. Apparently, they had not. Unknown to Kelandris, Zendrak controlled tonight's attack. Rimble's orders. And pleasure. Crazy Kel shrugged. So she would kill again. Yes. A thrust to the young girl's heart should do it. Yafatah, for her part, had been casting nervous glances over her shoulder for the past five minutes. What had incited the wild dogs to such a frenzy? she wondered. They sounded as if they were very close to their quarry. She swallowed, hoping fervently that she was not it. Sweating with fear, Yafatah tried to increase her speed in the woods. But unlike Kelandris, Yafatah did not know all the twists and turns of this particular glen trail, and she missed a curve. She slipped off the gently sloping embankment, falling to her knees and dropping the water sack. Yafatah cursed her unfamiliarity with the Piedmerri terrain. She left the sack where it lay, and got to her feet. Still holding her akatikki firmly, Yafatah groped through the dark like a blind person and climbed back on the path. She hesitated. Was it her imagination, or did the baying of those wild dogs sound quite a bit nearer? Truly panicking now, Yafatah sprinted in the direction of her clan-kin. As she rounded the corner, she slowed in confusion. What little night perception she possessed had suddenly been blanked out. She shook her head, peering intently into a large blackness not fifteen feet ahead of her. Hearing the rustle of clothing, Yafatah nearly cried with relief. Surely, here was help—a member of her clan, perhaps? Then Yafatah noticed the height of the figure and stiffened. Heart pounding, she realized Old Jamilla had not lied: the Madwoman of the Springs was real. Yafatah bit her lip; the hungry baying of the wild dogs seemed minor in the face of this new, immediate danger. Should she shoot the woman with her akatikki? What if she wasn't truly mad? Yafatah's breathing became shallow. If she knocked out the woman with a sleep dart, then the woman would surely be dinner for the wild dogs. That would be murder. Killing four-leggeds for food was one thing. Killing a two-legged out of fear was quite another. Yafatah fingered her akatikki uneasily, And loaded it. «So you dream of the King of Deviance, too,» whispered Crazy Kel. «And do you know, my sweet, what he'll ask of you?» «What?» asked Yafatah hoarsely. She stared into the pitch black, seeing absolutely nothing but darkness upon darkness. «What?» she repeated. Crazy Kel chuckled. «He'll fuck you, and prick you, and mark you with 'C.' Then he'll put you in his oven and have you for T.'» Kelandris laughed uproariously. «That's T' for Trickster. He's the Greatkin Prickster.» «I beg your pardon?» asked Yafatah. She had been raised not to use any of «those words» with adult company. «I mean—» «Oh no,» interrupted Crazy Kel. «It's I who must beg your pardon. After all, I'm the one who killed you. Rue on rue.» «But—but I be not dead,» said Yafatah checking the position of the sleep dart. «Neither am I,» giggled the woman in black. «But I should be. That's the law. According to shit-hole Suxonli.» Yafatah raised the akatikki to her lips, her conscience screaming at her. «I be sorry, Kelandris,» she whispered, the name of the woman in black suddenly occurring to her. «I do be sorry to have to do this.» Crazy Kel sniggered. «I think you should know that Trickster's an old fart. And what's more, I've a knife pointed at your heart.» Yafatah blanched. Her lips inches away from the mouth of the akatikki, she hesitated. Did the woman in black know she was holding a loaded blow-tube? If so, that meant that Kelandris of Suxonli could see in the dark. Yafatah shivered imperceptibly. Yafatah was good with an akatikki—very good, in fact. And at this close range, she was certain to hit the Madwoman of the Springs. However, thought the young girl, it's also possible that Kelandris of Suxonli has a way with knives. And if she throws the knife true? Yafatah took a ragged breath. Then I will be quite dead. Yafatah lowered the akatikki slowly. «Dying,» said Kelandris thoughtfully. «Dying is easy. It's living that's queasy.» She positioned her knife for throwing. «I don't understand, Kelandris—» The woman in black chortled with new laughter. «Nobody did. So of me they got rid. I am the nameless and the formless. The spaceless and the faceless. Kelandris? Who is she? She is the Trickster's infernal he.» As Crazy Kel finished speaking, the hunting call of the wild dogs exploded around them. Simultaneously, Zendrak and Further broke through the forest underbrush. The power of the Fertile Dark surged over horse and rider, causing a blue-black charge from Neath to spark along Zendrak's green cloak. Yafatah took one look at the mare's enormous size and the absolute dark of Zendrak's eyes as they reflected in the queer blue light of Neath and screamed. Before she could bolt, Trickster's Emissary reached down and grabbed her by the waist. This was the cusp of the season when change gusted with the wind— Not knowing what else to do, Yafatah called to the woman in black for help. «Kelandris,» she screamed, «do something— But Kelandris of Suxonli remained rooted to the spot, her expression unreadable under her flowing black veil. «Please!» wept the child, struggling frantically against Zendrak's strong grip. «Kelandris—» Trickster's Emissary smiled, then, pulling Yafatah toward him roughly, he said, «Change or be changed.» Looking into the face of the man who held her
, Yafatah shrieked. His eyes had no pupils. They were as dark and reflective as obsidian. Another charge of electric blue-black light snapped and crackled over Zendrak's cloak then shot down his arms. His fingers discharged the current into Yafatah, who yelped as much from fear as from the intensity of the electrical shock. Just when she had given up hope that she would ever escape this terror, the horseman dropped her to the ground. He sped away. As Yafatah fell sideways, she heard the growling lunge of one of the wild dogs. She also heard the sound of a deft intervention. The dog howled in agony, its throat cut. As the cur rapidly drowned in its own blood, the rest of the pack broke cover, baying and snuffling. Yafatah heard the muffled plunge of Crazy Kel's knife once more. Another dog screamed as Crazy Kel continued to notch the night with her terrible skill. Yafatah scrambled to her feet, her akatikki in hand. There were too many dogs—even for the black-robed giant standing beside her. Yafatah squared her shoulders, and entered the snarling fray. Waiting until one of the dogs attacked her singly again, Yafatah fit her blow-tube with two sleep darts—wishing anew that they had been marked with poison. True, the Asilliwir herbal sleep potion was potent, its effect long lasting. It was not, however, immediate. So two darts were better than one. Yafatah smiled grimly. She would use the same dose on the madwoman beside her, she decided. When this was over. And without warning. Yafatah had seen Crazy Kel's level of expertise with the knife now. She must not permit the woman to take her by surprise. If she did, Yafatah knew she would never survive the night. Hearing a growl to her left, the young girl whirled, sending her darts airborne as she did so. There was a surprised whimper and the satisfying crash of a large dog seconds later. Feeling pleased with the trueness of her aim, Yafatah reloaded her akatikki. The woman in black swore unexpectedly. Breaking free from the queer, monotone rhyming she had used before, Kelandris said clearly, «I've been stung in the face by something.» Then, feeling the unseasonable heat of a certain desert wind, Kelandris added in a more horrified voice, «Greatkin-have-mercy—don't do this to me again! Don't bring me your thaw. Don't bring me your thaw in autumn.» Yafatah stared at the woman in black. Kelandris had her hands stretched out in front of her—as if she were reaching for something she could not see. «He's gone,» said the fifteen-year-old girl, taking aim against another attacking dog. «Who's gone?» asked Kelandris, her voice puzzled. Yafatah stiffened as the truth dawned on her; Kelandris of Suxonli had not seen the man on the blue-black mare. The wind changed. Yafatah wrinkled her nose. What was that peculiar smell? she wondered. Horse sweat and something else. Then her eyes widened. Sniffing the sleeve of her red tunic, she realized she had the smell all over her. Chapter Four Yafatah was never certain what happened next. Everything at once, it seemed. The wild dogs of the Feyborne continued their attack, snarling and snapping at the young girl's legs. She fought them off valiantly with well aimed kicks and the sleepy sting of her darts. Crazy Kel did likewise, her knife slick with the blood of the ravenous curs. At odd moments, however, Crazy Kel also complained viciously of a growing numbness in her body—so much so that young Yafatah finally had to wonder if maybe she'd inadvertently hit the madwoman with one of her akatikki darts. Yafatah shrugged. Kelandris had mentioned being stung by something very shortly after she'd let the first darts fly. And there had been two in the blow-tube. Yafatah pressed her lips together. Somehow, that man on the big horse was involved in this. Somehow, she thought, sniffing the fingers of her left hand and wrinkling her nose once more. The scent wasn't bad, she decided. Just strong. However, before she could consider the' matter further, chaos erupted around her. It seemed the calvary had arrived—in the form of ten members of her Asilliwir clan, all of them on foot, all of them carrying torches and darts. Dogs fell right and left. Sometime during the melee, Crazy Kel fled to the woods, her black clothing rendering her all but invisible in the forest shadows. Yafatah watched her leave but was distracted by her mother's glad hug. She crushed the girl to her bosom, her voice choked with the happiness at finding her only child still alive. Her mother's name was Fasilla. She was an herbalist-healer. Unlike her daughter, Fasilla was Asilliwir born; it was from Fasilla that Yafatah had received her southern brogue. «Child, child—doon't ever frighten me like that again!» «Well, I didna' mean to,» replied Yafatah indignantly. She scowled. Her mother made it sound like she'd gone looking for the wild dogs. «They came all of a sudden, Ma—from noowhere.» Fasilla grunted with agreement. «Blast these Feyborne. It be just like them to let something fierce bad happen. They be a tricksterish range; they doon't be called Rimble's for nothing!» Fasilla spat on the ground at the thought of Greatkin Rimble and all his mischief. «But the Springs do be good, Ma—» «For the Piedmerri born, perhaps. But clearly not for the Asilliwir.» «But I can feel their good, Ma,» protested Yafatah, all of her native Tammirring-born psychic senses on the defensive. «I can almost hear them talking to me, Ma. If we could stay a little while longer—» Fasilla regarded her daughter wildly, her irritation with Yafatah's thinking evident on her tanned face. «Ya,» she said fondling her daughter's dark hair roughly, «you do be almost killed out here. Have you noo thought for your own safety?» Yafatah stared at the ground. «I just wanted to listen to the Yellow Springs, Ma. I thought they might talk to me about me dreams. That be all.» Fasilla turned Yafatah toward the caravan park and smiled. «Never you mind. We'll see to what ails you come the morning.» «We will?» asked Yafatah, her expression dubious. Fasilla nodded. «We do be leaving at dawn for Jinnjirri country. For that dream doctor I do be telling you about.» Yafatah said nothing, her green eyes angry and trapped. Dinner with a southern Asilliwir clan was traditionally a rowdy affair, the meal ending with dancing and musical accompaniment. As Yafatah picked at the remains of sweet beans and jerky on her plate, a few of her adoptive landkin scrambled to their feet and beckoned to her to join them in a fast moving circle dance of all women. Yafatah declined their invitation with a shake of her head. Drums and flutes soon trilled the night with a lively melody. Feeling miserable, Yafatah put her plate aside. She was about to get up and head off to bed when one of the younger clan children grabbed her sleeve and offered the older girl a piece of fresh fruit for dessert. «Pommins?» asked Yafatah in wonder. «Where did we be getting these? I thought they be long out of season.» «While you were being dog meat,» replied the child, «we had visitors. One was a caravan out of Speakinghast. Seems you can get anything in a city as large as that,» added the twelve-year-old. «Here—take it.» She grinned, exposing a hole in her front teeth—one she'd recently acquired in a fist fight with an older Brother. «I've had three. One more pommin, and I'll puke.» Her name was Cass, and she was from northern Asilliwir, a region known for blunt speech. Yafatah accepted the proffered fruit greedily. Pommins were her favorite food. Colored like a peach but having the tough skin of an orange, the pommin was an eastern delicacy. Yafatah peeled the skin slowly, exposing the sweet, golden meat of the fruit. She bit into it, wincing in preparation for the tangy burst to come. Scarlet, jewel-like seeds exploded in her mouth, their juice slipping over her lips. Yafatah's eyes danced. «It do be ripe!» she cried with delight. Cass put her hands on her hips, her blue eyes annoyed. «What? Give you a green pommin? What kind of friend do you think I am?» «Mmmm,» said Yafatah, nodding her head and taking another large bite. At her passion (and the pommin) got smaller, it suddenly occurred to Yafatah that Cass had not told her who the other visitor to camp had been. She inquired between mouthfuls, wiping her lips with her tunic sleeve. Cass looked uneasy. «I won't tell.» Yafatah shrugged. «Why?» she asked, her expression puzzled. «It'll only make you pissy, Ya. And you've been pissy a lot lately.» Yafatah's cheeks flushed. «Thanks. That do be a fine thing to say.» Cass swore. «Your Ma said for me to keep my lip closed. I'm just doing what she asked me to do, so don't get sore with me, Ya. It's not my fault.» Yafatah nibbled at the empty peel of the pommin, her expression thoughtful. «It was old Jamilla, wasna' it?» Cass's jaw dropped. «How in Neath did you figure that out?» «Easy,» said Yafatah in
disgust. «Ma forbade me to talk to the old woman this morning. She said she'd tell Jammy off, too, if she ever saw her again.» Yafatah sighed sadly. «That do be a terrible thing Ma did. Jammy was me friend.» My only real friend, thought Yafatah in silence. Cass rolled her eyes, her face contemptuous. The hardness of her mouth expressed all the prejudice her kin felt toward Jamilla's kind, the Mayanabi Nomads. «Why are you so loyal to that stupid, old bagwoman?» «Jammy doon't be a bagwoman!» «Well, she wears nothing but rags, Ya. And she smells—» Yafatah jumped to her feet unexpectedly, sending the pommin peel flying. Old Jamilla did smell, she thought in astonishment. And it was a smell a little like that of the dark horseman! Jammy. She had to find Jammy. She would understand what Yafatah had seen out in the woods. And she would believe her, too. Not like Ma before dinner, thought Yafatah angrily. An hour earlier, when Yafatah had tried to tell her mother about the woman in black and the electric-blue charge of the horseman, her mother's face had gotten her «worried look.» Then Fasilla had changed the subject, pulling Yafatah into a discussion about their dawn departure for the land of Jinnjirri. In no time Yafatah's waking nightmare had become lost in a mass of details: what provisions they would need, which harness they would use on the pair of gray geldings that drew their wagon, the condition of the horses' shoes versus the condition of the roads they'd be travelling. Yafatah had tried to bring the topic of conversation back to the woman with