It was later in the afternoon when he came to her again, as she sat on the banks of the Loudwater watching the stream tumble through its rocky bed. “Here,” he said. “Do ye like it?”
The carving was a human figure, small enough to hide easily in her hand: nude, and undeniably female, with small breasts like her own budding from the chest. It was the hair that distressed her the most: a moon ago, a ca’ woman from Nessantico had passed through their town, staying at the inn one night on the road to An Uaimth. The woman’s hair had been braided in an intricate knot at the back of the head; entranced by this glimpse of foreign fashion, she had worked for days to imitate those braids-since then, she had braided her hair every day the same way. It was braided now, just as the nude figure’s was, and her hand involuntarily went to her knot of hair on the back of her head. She wanted, suddenly, to tear it out.
She stared at the carving, not knowing what to say, and she felt Old Pieter’s hand on her cheek. “It’s you,” he told her. “You’re becoming a woman now.”
His hand had cupped her head, and he brought her to him, pressing her tight against him. She could feel his excitement, hard on her thigh. She dropped the doll.
What happened then she would never forget: the pain, and the humiliation of it. The shame. And after it was over, after his weight left her, she saw his belt lying on the grass next to her, and there in its sheath was his knife, and she took it. She took the hilt in hands that trembled and shook, she took it sobbing, she took it with her tashta ripped and half torn from her, she took it with her blood and his seed spattering her thighs, and she took it with all the anger and rage and fear inside her and she stabbed him. She plunged the blade low in his belly, and when he groaned and shouted in alarm, she yanked out the blade and plunged it into him again, and again, and again until he was no longer screaming and no longer beating at her with his fists and no longer moving at all.
Covered in her own blood and his, she let the knife drop, kneeling alongside him. His dead eyes stared at her.
“When a thing dies, the right eye remembers the last thing they see-the last face they saw…”
She half-crawled to the bank of the Loudwater. She found a stone there, a white and water-polished pebble the size of a large coin. She brought the stone back and pressed it down over his right eye. Then she huddled there, a few steps away from him, until the sun was nearly down and the goats came around her bleating and wanting to go home to their stables. She woke as if from a sleep, seeing the body there, and she found that curiosity drove her forward toward it. Her hand trembled as she reached down to his face, to the pebble-covered right eye. She took the stone from that eye, and it felt strangely warm. The eye underneath it was gray and clouded, and though she looked carefully into it, she saw nothing there: no image of herself. Nothing at all. She clutched the pebble in her hand: so warm, almost throbbing with life. Her breath shuddered as she clutched it to her breast.
She left then, leaving his body there. She walked south, not north, and she took the pebble with her.
She would never return to the village of her birth. She would never see her matarh again.
The White Stone turned in her sleep. “ I didn’t mean to hurt you, girl, ” Old Pieter whispered in her dreams. “ Didn’t mean to change you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”
OMENS
Eneas cu’Kinnear
He wished now that he’d bothered to learn more of the Westlander speech.
Eneas knew some of their words, enough to get by in the crowded, fragrant, and loud bazaars of Munereo. There, among chattering, jostling crowds, one could find sweet perfumes from the plains of the West Horn; the rich, black, and sweet nuggets from the jungles along the Great Southern River; intricate painted basketry from the people of the Great Spine; fine woolen fabrics from the sheep of the northern hills of Paeti, dyed with brilliant hues of green and orange and patterned with intricate knotted geometric patterns; exotic herbs and fruits that the sellers claimed came all the way from the great interior lakes of the western continent. In the official markets, Eneas could find inferior products priced twice or three times as much as he’d pay in the open bazaars, sold by Westlanders who understood the speech of Nessantico.
But it was at the bazaars, hidden away in the maze of narrow streets of the city where the original inhabitants still lived, that the true treasures could be found, and there no one would speak Nessantican even if they knew it.
Munereo… It was a dream. Another life, like his time in Nessantico itself. Against harsh reality, those times felt as if they’d happened to someone else, in another lifetime entirely.
He knew those of full native blood called themselves the Tehuantin. It was the Tehuantin they fought now, who had come pouring into the Hellins from the mountains to the west after Commandant Petrus ca’Helfier had been murdered, after the commandant had raped or fallen in love with-depending on who you asked-a Tehuantin woman. Ca’Helfier had been assassinated by a Westlander. Then the new commandant-Donatien ca’Sibelli-had retaliated, there had been riots and growing turmoil and unrest, and the strife had finally escalated into open war, with more and more of the Tehuantin coming into the Hellins.
Now Eneas was to be another casualty in that war. If that is Your will, Cenzi, then I come to You gladly…
Eneas groaned as a sandaled foot kicked him in the ribs, taking away his breath and his memories. Someone growled fast and mostly unintelligible Tehuantin speech at him. “… up…” he heard. “. .. time.. ” Eneas forced his eyes to open, slitted against the fierce sun, to see a Westlander’s face scowling down at him: tea-colored skin; the cheeks tattooed with the blue-black slashes of the warrior caste; white teeth; bamboo armor laced around him, a curved Westlander sword in the hand he used to gesture, the sound of the blade audible as it cut the air.
Eneas tried to move his hands and found them bound tightly together behind his back. He struggled to push himself up, but his wounded leg and ankle refused to cooperate. “No,” he said in the Westlander tongue, trying to make the refusal sound less than defiant. He cast about in his exhaustion-muddled mind for words he could use. “I… hurt. No can… up.” He hoped the Westlander could understand his mangled syntax and accent.
The Westlander gave an exasperated sigh. He lifted the sword and Eneas knew he was about to die. I come to You, Cenzi. He waited for the strike, staring upward to see the death blow, to let the man know he wasn’t afraid.
“No.” He heard the word-another voice. A hand stopped the Westlander’s hand as he began the downward slice. Another Tehuantin stepped into Eneas’ sight. This one’s face was untouched by caste marks, his hands were uncallused and soft in appearance, and he wore simple loose clothing that wasn’t unlike the bashtas and tashtas of home. Except for the feather-decorated cap that the man wore over his dark, oiled hair, he could have passed in Nessantico for simply another foreigner. “No, Zolin,” the man repeated to the warrior, then loosed a torrent of words that were too fast for Eneas to understand. The warrior grunted and sheathed his weapon. He gestured once at Eneas. “… bad… your choice… Nahual Niente,” the man said and stalked away.
Nahual. That meant his rescuer was the head of the nahualli, the war-teni of the Westlanders. “Niente” might be a name, might be a secondary title; Eneas didn’t know. He stared at the man. He noticed that the man’s belt held two of the strange, ivory-tube devices that had been used to murder A’Offizier ca’Matin. Eneas wondered if he would be next; he would have preferred the sword. He gave another quick silent prayer to Cenzi, closing his eyes.
“Can you walk, O’Offizier?”
Eneas opened his eyes at the heavily-accented Nessantican. Nahual Niente was staring at him. He shook his head. “Not easily. My ankle and leg…”