Storms of Destiny Read online

  If only the Hthras trackers trusted their senses! If they did, the spell would work on them, fooling their eyes, their ears.

  They would follow the leaf downstream, thinking they saw glimpses of a running figure, thinking they heard running footsteps, thinking they smelled the fear of a fugitive.

  The spell would not fool the jagowas, of course, but the water would do that … or so Khith hoped.

  Still whispering, Khith began edging back again, careful not to move the brush more than necessary. Stoically, it ignored the scratches, chanting in a voice that was scarcely more than breath.

  “Searchers < beat, beat >

  Will not find me

  Hunters < beat beat >

  Lose my trail

  Forest < beat, beat >

  Help and guide me

  Shield me with the forest’s veil

  Help me that I may not fail …”

  It was a long, slow, miserable crawl. Khith backed away for many lengths before it could find a place to turn. Once it could crawl forward instead of scuttling backward, it was a little easier. The Hthras ducked its head, ears flattened with misery, crawling doggedly as insects feasted on its cuts, and its palms, knees, and feet grew sore and abraded, despite the softness of the forest loam.

  Finally the Hthras took a chance and crawled out of the brush. Only then did it dare to turn and look back whence it had come.

  Dusk was falling, and the searchers must have activated

  their lightsticks. There was a distant phosphorescent gleam far downstream.

  The spell had worked!

  Khith drew courage from that knowledge, feeling the swell of pride. It had studied for years, but never before had a spell been so important. The scholar had feared that the old spells would prove ineffective. Khith had wondered whether Hthras magical abilities had waned over genera-tions, and that was why most Hthras had given up on the old spells.

  But that one had worked. Khith hugged itself in triumph.

  Then the scholar stiffened, as it heard a different sound.

  Snarls and growls, followed by a keening, uncanny wail, and it was growing louder!

  The jagowas—they’ve loosed them! They only sound like that when they’re coursing free!

  Quickly, Khith changed its escape plan. It could no longer hope to stay to the forest paths on its way northwest. No, for now it must go due west. And quickly!

  Khith was already tired from its long crawl, but the scholar forced its body into a fast trot. The heavy pack bounced uncomfortably on its back, but there was no time to adjust the straps. Khith glanced up at the treetops, wishing it could travel those byways. To the Hthras, even narrow tree limbs were like roads, and they felt most comfortable traversing the forest canopy.

  But if it took to the treetops, its pursuers could send for reinforcements, and in a short time it would be caught. Khith had no illusions about being able to outdistance searchers in the treetops. Only here, on the forest floor, far below the Hthras’ domain, might it hope to elude its pursuers.

  Unlike most Hthras, Khith knew the forest floor. The scholar had spent so much time down here, where most Hthras never went, that it could sense the green pulse of the forest life.

  As the scholar ran, following faint paths that were little more than game trails, Khith strained every sense to its ut-most. Where are the jagowas?

  Dream-memories of sharp teeth assailed the fugitive as Khith imagined the creatures gaining, gaining, then their bodies arcing up in a huge pounce. Khith shook its head, telling itself to calm down. If the jagowas were within pouncing range, it would have heard them.

  The trail grew less distinct, then vanished. Khith was wad-ing through scattered blade-brush now. The tiny cuts and slices smarted and drew insects to feast on the blood.

  Gasping, Khith ran faster, abandoning its efforts at stealth. It could hear the jagowas coursing, sensed them drawing nearer. Without their handlers to control them, the beasts would tear it to pieces within minutes.

  Khith wished fervently that it had studied spells of warding, spells of defense, spells meant to render an enemy helpless. But such spells were not in its nature. It found the idea of violence abhorrent.

  Its world narrowed until there was nothing but the forest and its terrible need to flee the bloody fate coursing behind it. Run! Run! RunrunrunrunRUN!

  Panic threatened to overwhelm the scholar, but with one small, sane part of its mind, Khith forced itself to look around as it plunged onward. Where am I?

  The ground beneath its running feet was ascending … a good sign. The forest giants were smaller here, mixed with other varieties of trees. Khith’s night vision, like that of all Hthras, was acute. Putting on a burst of speed, it managed to gain a minute or so on its pursuers.

  With frantic haste the scholar leaped for the bole of a rough-bark tree, swarmed up it halfway. From this vantage point it could clearly make out the landmark it needed—a tall, dead forest giant shone ghostly silver by the light of the Moon.

  Khith scrabbled back down the tree trunk, the air tearing its chest with every breath it drew. Altering course slightly, it headed for the dead giant.

  As Khith approached the huge, silver bole of the lightning-blasted tree, it could hear the pursuers. They had gained again, and were now only minutes behind. The jagowas were in full cry, maddened by the blood-fresh scent of their prey.

  Moving cautiously despite its haste, Khith walked due west of the dead giant. Fifty paces …

  It nearly overshot its goal, despite the moonlight and the thinning vegetation. But its night vision was keen, and it saw the faintly luminescent marker far down the tree trunk, nearly hidden by the giant roots. Pulling off its pack, the Hthras wrapped its robe around its hands as it cautiously searched for the slender cord of spun silk that was fastened to a staple set deep into the tree trunk.

  Its questing hands found the narrow length, so fine-spun and translucent that it would be nearly invisible even in daylight. Quickly but carefully, Khith began reeling in the spun-silk cord, winding it round and round the bole of the tree.

  Hurry! Hurry!

  It seemed that hours had passed by the time the silken cord was replaced by the anchor-rope for the Hthras bridge.

  Khith hastily fastened the bridge-ropes to the tree trunk, using the clamps attached to the cords. Only then did it regard the bridge and the chasm that yawned beneath it.

  The cliff was a high one, naked rock scored as if a huge blade had slashed downward, creating a deep chasm. Far below, water rushed foaming white in the moonlight. This chasm marked the boundary of the local Hthras demesne.

  Digging its narrow heels into the ground, Khith began tightening up the bridge, snugging up each cord until it was taut. The sounds of shouts and snarls from the jagowas closing in lent speed to its exhausted body. The harsh ropes scored the scholar’s palms.

  It seemed to take forever, but finally it was done. Khith hauled on the bridge until it was taut, then secured the end to the bolts screwed into the tree at the edge of the cliff.

  The bridge was visible in the moonlight as a spiderweb of narrow cords, scarcely seeming strong enough to support a single Hthras. But lian vines were strong.

  Holding tightly to the two cords that served as handrails, Khith ventured out, its narrow, limber toes curving around the thicker ropes running along the bottom of the bridge.

  The bridge swayed and shivered, and Khith stopped, clutching the hand-ropes tightly. It had crossed this bridge before, in daylight, with experienced guides to shepherd it over the chasm. Never by moonlight. Never when it was already trembling with exhaustion and nearly witless with fear.

  Another shout, much nearer now, lent strength, and Khith wavered forward, trying to balance, trying to gain speed.

  The thick rope beneath its feet seemed impossibly narrow.

  The scholar was nearly halfway across now. Below it the river thundered and spray from the white water shimmered in the moonlight.

  Hurry! Don’t look
down!

  Khith lurched forward, almost running, fixing its eyes on the end of the bridge. Its world narrowed to those last few strides to be crossed …

  And then it was there, on the other side!

  Khith whirled around, unslinging its pack, only to see one of the jagowas burst out of the forest and leap onto the bridge. The animal crouched low and started forward, snarling.

  No!

  Khith grabbed its sheath-knife out of the pack and began frantically sawing at the rightmost hand-rope. It was gasping for breath and could not look at the animal that crept so determinedly forward. The scholar had never in its life inten-tionally harmed another creature.

  Hthras did not eat meat, did not even keep animals for fur or milk. Everything they used, they grew.

  With a spung! the hand-rope parted. The bridge tilted sideways, and the jagowa, with a scream of fear, fell …

  And fell.

  Khith was sobbing as it sawed on the next rope. Minutes later the last of the bridge was severed, and the scholar watched the limp rope structure twist and turn in slow motion before it came to rest against the opposite cliff.

  Looking up, it saw its people on the other side of the chasm. They stood there, regarding the scholar across the nothingness, and Khith realized that it had literally cut all

  ties with its own people by its action. There would be no forgiveness, no pardon … ever.

  Slowly, stumbling with weariness, Khith managed to shoulder its pack. Then it turned and staggered into the forest, leaving its homeland and its people behind.

  The Road to Q’Kal

  Despite the late winter chill outside, the interior of Shekk Marzet’s tent was stuffy from the braziers burning dried yak dung. Seated on a cushion at the back of the tent, where she had a good view of the Shekk and his many guests, Thia blinked and blinked again, fighting drowsiness. It was essen-tial that she stay awake. Shekk Marzet needed her, and the old man had been very kind.

  It had been nearly five months since her escape from Boq’urak and the twin ziggurats. She’d staggered into Verang half dead from terror and exposure, aware that her novice’s robe and shaven head marked her as a runaway from the twin temples.

  The town was nearly deserted, all the good citizens relaxing by their fires after supper. The only other person out on the streets had been Shekk Marzet. Seeing the staggering, exhausted girl, he quickly wrapped her in his cloak and hustled her into his town house before anyone could see her.

  At first Thia had been afraid that the old man had unworthy motives in rescuing her, but her fears abated when the Shekk immediately summoned his two daughters to tend her, bathing her numb white feet in warm water, giving her

  some of their own clothing, and burning her habit. When Thia finally recovered her wits enough to ask why the Shekk and his family had risked so much for her, his eldest daughter, Joyana, had regarded her steadily, her eyes sad.

  “Our father hates the priests, and he spits when he hears Boq’urak’s name,” she replied, struggling to keep her voice steady. “It’s because of our brother. When he was only seventeen, he and some other boys in Verang stole some trinkets and sweetmeats in the marketplace. It wasn’t the first time Doren had been in trouble with the law. The priests … they decreed that the only way he could expiate his sin was …

  was—” Joyana’s voice broke and she began to sob.

  Her sister, Loisa, finished the grim tale. “They said he must go to the god at sunrise. They took him, and they did it.

  Cut out his living heart, as though he were a common criminal. Our little brother! Father cursed them, and cursed Boq’urak and His worship on that day. Fear not, Thia. We will hide you. If you have turned your back on that evil god, you are our friend.”

  Since then, Thia had remained in the Shekk’s house, accustoming herself to wearing a thick modesty veil—as be-hooved a woman of marriageable age—letting her hair grow, and waiting until the search for the runaway novice had died down. Shekk Marzet had treated her as a third daughter; she was intensely grateful to the old merchant, and extremely pleased to be of use to him in his business.

  Thia realized that her eyelids were drooping again, and gave herself a vicious pinch. Wake up! Time for you to be alert! The company had just finished a huge meal, and belches and other sounds of digestive activity erupted.

  Marzet clapped his plump, ringed hands. “My friends, we have had our dinner and friendly conversation. Time now for business, by your leave.”

  The two thin, pale-faced gem merchants nodded. Marzet gestured, and servants hastily cleared a space in the center of the tent, taking away the low table and replacing it with several thick Severian rugs and large, tassled cushions. With surprising ease for one so old and pudgy, the Shekk dropped down onto a crimson cushion and sat cross-legged. “My esteemed guests, I am eager to see your wares.”

  With a flourish, Dantol, the taller of the two gem merchants, spread a midnight-colored swath of velvet before the Shekk. “We bring only the best for our generous host,” he said with a bow, then nodded at Gervej.

  Gervej reached into a pouch and brought out a large stone that flashed green fire. “An emerald, Lord Shekk.

  Nearly flawless, and …” he held it out on his palm, “but see the size! As big as a woman’s thumbnail, and the color,”

  he made a kissing noise, “it is as vivid as any I have ever encountered.”

  “Ah …” Marzet took the gem, turned it over thoughtfully, then produced a thick lens and peered at it. “The color is indeed vivid. Natural? Or enhanced by magic?”

  Gervej shook his head, his expression pained. “Shekk, how can you imply that I would offer you an enhanced stone? Of course not!”

  Marzet nodded, then held the stone and lens up to study it in the light of the lantern that hung on a pole to his right. In doing so, his eyes slid sideways to Thia, who was busily adjusting her modesty veil over her left ear.

  “Ah, well, a lovely piece, a lovely, lovely piece,” Marzet said heartily. “How much?”

  Gervej named a sum that was merely exorbitant. The gem merchant smiled, obviously anticipating a good bargaining session.

  “No, I regret, too rich for my blood,” Marzet said, putting the emerald back onto the cloth. “Next?”

  Gervej glanced sharply at his associate, Dantol. “You are not interested?”

  Marzet smiled with his mouth only. “Next?” he repeated.

  Thia sat watching, now fully alert, as Marzet examined the gem merchant’s wares. Thanks to her ability to sense truth from lies, the Shekk acquired two flawless and genuine flame-gems, an opal, and a dozen faceted blue topazes that would be ideal for a necklace or bracelet.

  Finally, when the mystified gem dealers had gathered up their rejected wares and were bowing themselves out of the tent, Thia caught the Shekk’s eye. Marzat gave her a wink and a grin of thanks.

  Quietly, Thia gathered up her skirts and slipped out of the tent. The chill was bracing after the stuffiness of the tent, and she stood gazing up at the night sky, thinking how few days were left until they reached their destination, the crossroads city of Q’Kal. This trade city, larger even than Verang, lay in the northernmost reaches of Kata.

  Dropping her modesty veil, she inhaled a breath of cold, dry mountain air. The caravan was traversing the last of the high steppes that came down from the range that bisected Amavav. Within a tenday’s journey they would be crossing a narrow stretch of territory claimed by Galrai, then they’d have to journey across Severez before reaching Q’Kal, which lay nearly on the Katan and Severez border.

  Hugging her heavy shawl around her shoulders, Thia turned and gazed back at the mountains, which she could only see as dim black shapes, since there was no moon tonight to illuminate their jagged, white-capped peaks. She could trace their outlines only by the way they blocked out the profusion of stars. This far from any city, the stars seemed almost close enough to touch, and they glittered more vibrantly than any gem merchant’s wares.

&nb
sp; Marzet’s party was traveling with a large caravan bound for Q’Kal. The old merchant had explained to Thia that he always traveled with a caravan, never alone. There were bands of fierce robbers in the steppes, and there was safety in numbers.

  Thia realized that for the first time in her life she couldn’t see the mountains that surrounded Verang. The range behind her divided Amavav from Amaran; these were not the mountains of her birth.

  I’m on my way to being free! she thought with a surge of exultation.

  The moment of excitement faded quickly, however, to be replaced with apprehension. Thia frowned as she stared into the darkness. The caravan would reach Q’Kal in only two tendays. And what shall I do then? Stay with the Shekk, who has been so kind? Or go off on my own?

  Thia had never been alone for more than a few hours, had never earned her own living. For a moment she was tempted to remain with the Shekk and his family. They spoke her language, they were decent people. The Shekk treated her like another daughter.

  Even as she thought longingly of remaining part of their family, realization coalesced in her mind. No. I must leave them. The decision was as inescapable as the snow and ice shrouding the mountains in winter—only if she left behind every trace of her former life, could she ever hope to be free of the twin ziggurats. As long as she traveled with the Shekk, she would be under suspicion from anyone sent by the priests to track her. Any priest or priestess who left the temple voluntarily was considered the worst kind of heretic, and would be hunted and recaptured if at all possible. And if she were recaptured, Thia had no doubt she would meet Narda’s fate, or one equally harsh.

  And … worse … Thia knew she was endangering Marzet and his family. If they were discovered to be sheltering a runaway from the temple, they would be judged criminals, and given to the god at sunrise. It was the law.

  I can’t repay their kindness to me by putting them in danger, Thia thought. Her heart felt leaden, sick with fear. I must leave them. I must find the courage. When we reach Q’Kal, I must slip away, without a word of farewell, so if they are ever questioned, they will honestly be able to say they have no idea where I have gone.