Chapter Two
of Living

A sound in the garden, a Screaming Snake or Whispering Ass?
Dare you ask?
Which to weather and whether too which,
A hawk in the clouds or a snake in the grass?
The charger on the field or donkey in the ditch?
Donkey. Dun Key. Done key.
Which key do you bear?
Baha! Optimist, are you?

—Tomes of the Touched

Her feet followed the men’s trail, winding through trees along the low ground between rolling hills. Though her eyes plied the woods for threats, only flashes of movement or a flutter in the dark focused her thoughts away from the struggle of empty memories. The Void and the whispers of the Listening Gods faded into the face of a young man. Her brother. Benê. After sorrowful drips reached her cheeks, mystery hardened her pain with a single thought: I don’t remember him. Nothing. The doubt felt preposterous, but she couldn’t drive away the question of how she could trust he was her brother at all. She couldn’t even decide if the question was hopeful or hopeless, so she turned her efforts to why they’d been in these woods to begin with.

A faint recollection of a horse rolling in languid strides beneath her; she rode astride, side-saddle in the dress she’d torn from her body. Benê rode beside her, his face hazy but his laughter clear. You’re dead. Why are you laughing? A man astride a big roan waved his arms to her other side, incomprehensible jabber, but a painful stab of humor arose with the memory. The man was in his forties or early fifties and armed. She knew him, but his name fluttered like a dragonfly just out of reach.

She stopped dead in her tracks before she understood why. Lantern light cast steady glows ahead, and she puffed her lantern into darkness. She crept forward, conscious of her nudity in a way she hadn’t felt before, and questioned the right-headedness of not borrowing her brother’s clothes, as if Benê would mind. Shadows stood and paced in the light beside a wagon as she approached, and nearby, two horses with riders. Her trail led to men, and she couldn’t trust it to happy coincidence.

Two riders, a wagon driver, and two men pacing. No way to know if another was pissing in the bushes. She ducked low and skulked south, slipping between trees and behind undergrowth to get close enough to hear their words.

A pacing man spat before stopping to stare into the woods. “Skunk bastards, what’re they doin’? Diggin’ a grave proper?”

The two on horseback mumbled one to another, and Poleen slipped a tree closer to take a knee. Still, she couldn’t make out their words.

A deep voice with an accent she didn’t recognize sounded from the wagon. “Supûlô no. Nothing wrong with respect for the dead.”

A man barked from his horse, “Gray teeth and dark desires, my mama always taught me. There isn’t no respect for the Saints, let alone the dead, in those two men.” Laughter from all but the teamster. “If you’d stayed to dig, we might be riding by now.”

“Weren’t more’n one shovel, no how.”

The other horseman leaned in his saddle, adjusting his stirrups. “Our waiting is over, but our job is only half done. Soon as those dogs are back, you boys meet us at the Ripping Boar. We’ll make out from there at dawn’s break.”

The other men stared as the two riders heeled their mounts and disappeared down the dark road. The spitting man spat again. “Happily departed, says I. The silk purse thinks he pisses holy water.”

The teamster said, “It’s the silk purse that makes sure you’re paid.”

Spitter spun. “I’m gettin’ damned sick of your sticking flowers on every grave we pass. The man’s a whoreson who kissed the right asses, or he’d be diggin’ a grave like them poor bastards out there. Don’t you be sayin’ otherwise.”

“A better grade of whore than your mother, of this I’ve little doubt.”

Pacer chuckled. “Easy, men. We’re all friends here.”

Spitter huffed and turned his back on the wagon. “All friends so long as this sod keeps his lips from flappin’.”

Pacer paced, the teamster slumped in his seat, and Spitter stalked to the side of the road to stare into the woods. Wicks of silence eased the tension between the men before Spitter groaned and slapped his own face. “Cursed squinter. Where the damnation are them two?”

Wolves howled before breaking into manic yapping, and she wondered if they fed upon the bodies she left behind. Prayed to the judgment of the Saints that they’d leave Benê be.

Pacer said, “If you’re in such a hurry, go find them yourself.”

“My Saints say no. Fact is, they say you should brave the wolves.”

“I’m a patient man.”

Spitter stalked within paces of Pacer. “A coward, I says. Though right courageous with the blood of others.”

The teamster jumped from the wagon. “Unmûlu isin. You men are like children. I’ll see what’s taking them so long.” He hefted a short spear from the wagon’s bed and traipsed into the dark.

Spitter waited for the man to disappear in the shadows of the forest. “I’m a hopin’ the wolves eat that one.”

Pacer said, “You know how to drive a team, do you?”

An uncomfortable shift of feet. “I figure I could learn ta.”

They wandered to the wagon’s side and stood within a pace of one another. Five men, or even three, was a fight she didn’t want to start, but two tickled an unholy temptation to violence. Fear would be an ally the moment they recognized her face; no man would stand before a person they thought dead with dry palms. She waited wicks, making certain the teamster was good and gone, then shifted her dagger in her sash to nestle into the small of her back.

She stood, lumbering forward, stomped to break a branch in her path. The snap brought their eyes to her, and she stumbled to catch herself against a tree. “Help me.”

Pacer took a single step her way, his instinct to protect her, but Spitter barred his path with an arm. “Hold them steps.”

Wobbling strides carried her toward them. “Two men in the woods; they tried to rape me.”

She drew closer to the halos of lantern light, and both men squinted. Then Spitter pulled an ax from his belt, shoving the other man from his side. “Banes and Damnation! It can’t be.”

Pacer stumbled from the shove, righted himself against the wagon, and when his eyes landed on her again, they widened. His words came with a rasp. “Wakened Dead.”

She gazed at her hands. “Of what are you speaking? I’m alive. Don’t you see?”

Pacer backed against the side of the wagon, slinking to its rear. She assumed he was about to piss himself, run, or both. “We hanged you. You were dead.”

She straightened with sad eyes and a frown as she slid the dagger from her sash. “With every beat of my heart, I appreciate your honesty. I swear it. The only question remaining is if I leave you for the worms or eat you myself.”

The man spun, bolting into the dark. Spitter stood slack-jawed and frozen, weapon in hand, as she sprinted past him, and she was on Pacer’s back in thirty strides. His body crushed to the turf beneath her, his breath pounding from his lungs, and her left palm struck him in the back of the head three times, driving nose and lips into grass and rocks. He squirmed, and she struck him with the dagger’s pommel, sending him limp. She straddled him, fingers twitching with tingles of energy. Then took a single step to the side, kicked her right foot above her head, and brought her heel down on the man’s skull with all the strength she could muster. She felt the bone crack as much as she heard it.

She trembled sinew to bone, staring and panting with exhilaration. But there was another man.

She turned to the wagon. No one.

She cocked her head, and her eyes followed the beat of feet running straight at her.

Spitter was a shadow lumbering with a big man’s gait, his breaths ragged and his eyes wide as he raised his ax. He was a fighter, but still, she smelled the fear on him. She side-stepped and slashed the pit of his attacking arm, and the man‘s strides faltered with a grunt. He spun, and she kicked, clipping his right foot into the left, and he stumbled, a hand to the ground for two strides before tumbling. He hit the turf under control and rolled, jumping to his feet with ax in hand despite blood staining his shirt. He was quicker to the rebound than expected, but not fast enough. She slipped past the curve of his ax’s edge for a hug and plunged the blade into his belly; she sucked a breath of triumph as his breath escaped in a gasp.

The dagger passed in and out of Spitter a dozen times, holding him standing long after he should’ve fallen, before she remembered to breathe, and her lungs let loose through the rush of the kill. A tremble chilled her spine as she released the man to his knees, and in a flicker, his face kissed the ground, arms splayed as if a bird fallen from the sky.

Uncounted wicks passed as she stood, breathing through shudders, regaining composure and control, and she shook a chill from her body before crouching to wipe the dagger’s blade on the man’s shirt. She returned it to her sash and snagged the man’s ax from the ground, hefting its weight, testing the balance.

Her eyes fluttered, and her nose twitched; the teamster drew close. She didn’t know how she knew. She waited in her crouch as the moon slid from behind a cloud, lighting the roadside clearer than before.

“Milôkêsku!”

She turned on a toe in a predator’s pose, ready to lurch into the expected chase or fight. Instead, the man tossed his spear to the side and dropped to his knees, lowering his eyes to the stone-strewn dirt of the road as a supplicant before his master.

She stood, puzzling him. There wasn’t the look and scent of fear like the other men. She pointed Spitter’s ax at him. “You’re a strong man. I’d expect you to fight for your life.”

“Inhotûlô emerus vishûu.” The man was on his knees, but there was no grovel in his voice.

“I’ve never killed a man I can’t converse with. Though, to be honest, I don’t recall killing a man before tonight. It’s all so new, but I appear to have a knack for it.”

“My apologies, Montêsu. You being half-blood, I assumed you spoke Tôlk.”

She strode to stand before him, close enough now to see that his skin was black, nothing like the men she’d killed. “Look at me. What do you see?” His gaze rose, but his mouth didn’t open. “Do you believe me the Wakened, as your friends did? I assure you, my heart beats, and my skin is warm.” She glanced at her bare breasts. “Try to test my word, and I’ll take your hand off.”

“No, Montêsu, I wouldn’t.” He eased his jacket from his shoulders and held it out for her. She took the proffered garment and slipped it over her shoulders. The fabric smelled of healthy sweat, not putrescence and whiskey. “Would you like my pants?”

The coat was light and long, reaching to cover half her thighs, but his girth and short legs guided her decision. “As humorous as that might be, I’ll leave the both of us some dignity.”

“Thank you, Montêsu.”

“Your friend in the woods wanted to touch me though thinking me dead; you are better than him. So tell me, what am I then? A witch?”

He sputtered gibberish before his tongue and mind brought words. “Sometimes, sometimes, a noose is poorly tied... seated wrong on the neck.”

“You believe this?”

“No. I’ve seen death enough to know its face, even when beautiful and in the dark. You were dead, Montêsu. But sometimes the Four Queens delay a soul’s entry to eternity.”

“The Four Queens? Your gods?”

“The wives of the father, the Dreaming King.”

“The wives of some god I do not know. And truth be told, I don’t care to know.” She paced a circle around him, but his eyes remained pinned on his head. “Tell me why you don’t fight for your life.”

“In my land, a soul returned from execution has been deemed forgiven. Some say chosen. Milôkêsku”

“In your land... You called me half-blood.”

He stared at her as if she were some crooked-tongue blathering nonsense in the street and begging for bread, but his tone carried confusion. “Excuse me, Montêsu. I... do not know what to say. Your skin, it is between mine and these Goro.”

“These men are Goro, and you are Tôlk?”

His eyes remained puzzled. “I am Mostulê, from the Free City of Mostul Ûbar. I call them Gorô, but they would say Aprelêun or Vitôn. To me, they are one and the same. Tôlk is our language.”

“I am Goro and Mostulê?”

“Perhaps, Montêsu, but there are eight free cities. Many a man has left behind a child with its Goro mother.”

The notion felt dizzying in its familiarity, and the vision of a lovely, pale-skinned woman flitted before her eyes. My mother? She willed a memory of her father, but all that came to her were words. “My mother spoke of my father as a count.”

“No, Montêsu, the Goro have counts, not the Free Cities, but I have heard the Goro call the nobility of Mostul Ûbar counts. It could be—‘

She stomped her foot and waved away his words. “This is all fascinating and confusing.” She put a foot to his back and forced his kneeling bow into a sprawl before sitting on his back. She rested the dagger’s point above a kidney and reached her right hand around his neck, digging her nails into flesh until seizing his esophagus.

“This is unnecessary, Montêsu.”

“The Berjer of Aprelêu, was he one of the men on horseback?”

“No, Montêsu. Nerdrich nâ Hilêômbrâ is one; the other I only know as Relegôs. Both are men of the Notuholis Aprelêu.”

She knew the name, and the utterance fluttered her stomach even if she didn’t understand why. Her hand cinched his throat. “The Notuholis Aprelêu? Why would the trade consortium want me dead?”

“They claimed you a fleeing thief.”

“And my brother, a thief as well?”

“I was hired to haul these men and a prisoner. No one spoke of the boy or a hanging. On the nightmares of the Dreaming King, I swear it.”

“They lied about a prisoner; did they lie of thieving as well?”

“I don’t know, but they took something from you. It rests beneath the seat of the wagon.”

She squeezed until his breath came as a wheeze, and he grunted. “If this is some trick...” He shook his head, and she released him before sauntering to the wagon with her eyes pinned behind her, but he did nothing more than rise to his knees and stare.

She glanced beneath the seat, spotting a plain wooden chest bound by iron straps. It slid from hiding with a tug; whatever they claimed she’d stolen wasn’t heavy. The latch held tight when she tried to flip it. Locked. She dropped it to the ground with a thud, and a second, hollow thud followed as something bounced inside. “You have a key?”

“No, Montêsu. Neither do I know what is inside, except it’s another box. Nerdrich carried the key.”

“Another box, you say?” She considered breaking it open with the ax but feared damaging whatever lay inside, so she bent over, lifted, and hefted it over her shoulder before returning to stand in front of the teamster. “What is your name, Mostulê?”

He met her eyes. “Âvorê Môbudon, Montêsu.”

She held the ax before her. “It seems my hands are full, so you must die as a tree rather than as a man. Any words before I send you to your queens?”

“My life is yours.”

She nodded with a grunt, preferring a fight, and raised the ax.

Hesitated.

Exhaled.

Lowered the blade.

“Your queens may yet see fit to kill you, but I will let you live as a man. Take your team and leave.” She turned and took two strides northerly before spinning back. “Those men said the job was half done. What did they mean?”

Âvorê hesitated and lowered his eyes again. “Your mother, Montêsu.”

The time between the beats of her heart stretched as her throat knotted, and the image of cobbled streets, stone buildings, and a pond on the edge of a town flashed in her mind. Home. Nindi’vilu. She glanced at her surroundings with recognition and, of a sudden, knew her way. “We’re on the Sedûnyâ Road.” She glanced at the team of horses. “To kill her?”

“I don’t know, Montêsu. I didn’t know about killing anyone, at least at first. I was hired for my wagon.”

If they hadn’t lied about a prisoner, there was greater hope. “Your horses. Broke to ride?”

He shook his head. “I owe you your life, your brother’s, and my own. I am your man. Let me help you.”

“No.” She glanced northeast, remembering that the woods thinned and turned into rolling pasture and fields. It was the shortcut she needed, but she wouldn’t let wasted weight slow her down.

The chest hit the road with a clatter. With three bangs from the blunt butt of the ax, its seams split, and with a dozen more, it opened enough to reach its contents. The box inside was fashioned from cream-colored wood streaked and knotted with whorls of dark red and small enough to clutch in a single hand. Etchings of vines and flowers covered its silver frame and its contents were protected by a steel clasp. If nothing else, it would be lighter and easier to carry than the chest.

She stood and eyed Âvorê. “If you follow me, I will kill you.” She turned northeast with hurried strides, and memories flashed in her mind: Running and laughing in a garden, skipping rocks across a languid pond dotted with flowering lily pads, stuffing her mouth with blueberry moonbiscuits, and the only commonality was the loving smile of the woman who must be her mother. Her lips crinkled at her empty memories, but she needn’t a name to know she must save her.