I said, “That is completely insane. You told me yourself—they don’t forgive, and they won’t rest until you’re dead. You might as well commit suicide right here, where you’re guaranteed a decent burial, and spare yourself the ride.”
Soukyan shook his head slowly. “I don’t want them to forgive me. I want them to stop following me.” He made a quick gesture of blessing over the burners and lit the incense. “I want it done with, that’s all, one way or the other.”
“Oh, it will be done with,” I said. “That it will. I fought one of those people, remember.” Soukyan had his back to me, murmuring inaudibly into the thin fumes that smelled faintly like marsh water. I was furious. I said, “So you’ll fight them all at once and get it done with indeed. A hero’s death, no doubt of it. I would have let you drown if I’d known.”
Soukyan laughed then. His laugh is a private laugh, even when shared: there is always something kept aside. “Did I say I was going to fight them all? Did I? I thought you knew me better than that, Lal.” He turned to face me. “I have a plan. I even have an ally or two back there, and some old sleights and confidences to bargain with. Believe me, I will be as safe as I was with you on the river.” He put his hands on my shoulders, adding quietly, “Though not as happy. Likely, never again.”
“Stupidity,” I said. “I cannot abide stupidity.” I sounded like Karsh. I had never been so angry with him, not even when I discovered his deception, and I was angrier because I had no possible right to be angry. I said, “What plan? Let me hear this wonderful plan.”
He shook his head again. “Later, maybe. It’s far too long a story.”
“Everything is a long story,” I said. I felt very tired, suddenly not the slightest bit ready for any new adventures, any voyages anywhere. I put his hands away and moved restlessly around the little windowless room. It was designed and appointed more or less like any travelers’ shrine in this half of the world: always white, always freshly painted (there is a law, and even Karsh apparently heeds it), always provided with the ritual cloths and candles and statues of a dozen major religions. They vary somewhat, depending on the region, but the one in which I was raised is never among them. Mostly I find that just as well, but not then.
Behind me Soukyan said, “Lal, it has nothing to do with you. This is my life, my past, my own small destiny. I am finished with waiting for it to bring me to bay one more time. I will go and meet it, for a change—and not in a bathhouse or on a river shore, but on a field of my choosing. There’s really no more to be said.”
Nor was there, for some while. He commenced a cumbersome process of passing his bow, sword, and dagger back and forth through the two tiny threads of incense, muttering to himself as he did so. I went outside and sat in the dry grass, chewing weeds viciously and watching a flock of tourik birds mob a snow-hawk that had ventured too close to their nests. Then I came back into the shrine, though you’re not supposed to reenter after leaving a ceremony. Soukyan was kneeling, head bowed, weapons arranged just so before him. I said, “You can’t cross the Barrens in winter.”
Without looking up, he answered, “I know that. I will make for the coast and turn south at Leishai. A longer road, but a safer one, for some way at least.” When the last of the incense had smoldered away, he rose stiffly to his feet, making a final obeisance to nothing. He said, “And you?”
I shrugged. “Arakli, I suppose. I have wintered there before.” The marshy incense-smell still lingered in my nostrils, irritatingly heavy with memories that were not even mine. Soukyan said, “And after Arakli?” I did not answer him. He said, “Come, I’ve told you my destination. It would comfort me much to know where you are.”
“I am Lal,” I said. “That is where I am.” Soukyan looked at me for a moment longer, then nodded and strode to the shrine door. When he opened it, we both heard Lukassa laughing nearby, a sound neither of us had ever imagined hearing: it went by us like a breeze in the grass. Soukyan held the door, but I said, “I will stay here for a little,” and turned back toward the white chests full of other peoples’ gods.
ROSSETH
I rode with them as far as the turning where I had first seen them, by Marinesha’s bee tree. Not clinging behind Lal this time, but on Karsh’s old white Tunzi, who clearly felt very important to be part of such a procession. The wizard led the way, mounted on a tall sorrel stallion that had simply appeared in the stables the night before, calmly munching oats and barley with the guests’ beasts as though it had every right to be there. Tikat and Lukassa rode beside him on the two little goat-eyed Mildasi horses, and I rode in the rear between Lal and Soukyan. I must always remember it just as it was, because I never saw any of them again.
It was a cool, windy dawn, and leaves dead too soon were rattling across the path, hundreds at a gust. With the end of the terrible summer of the magicians, autumn seemed to be rushing in too fast, reaping the dry sticks in the fields, stripping the trees of the scabby brown lumps that the birds wouldn’t eat. It saddened me to see it then, because I felt that my life was being stripped of companionship and excitement and dreams in the same way. Soukyan read it in my face, surely, for he leaned from his saddle to put his hand on my neck, as he had before. Once we had passed out of sight of the inn, he had let his woman’s guise rise from him like mist, dissolving in the morning sun. His gray-brown hair was growing out, the harsh convent cut fading as well, but the twilight eyes and the reluctantly gentle mouth were still Nyateneri’s.
“Nature always likes to clear away and start over,” he said. “Mark me, next spring will be richer than anyone has seen for years. You’ll never be able to tell that a couple of wizards fought a war here.”
“No, I won’t,” I answered, “because I won’t be here next spring.” Lal put her arm around me, and I breathed in her smell of great distances and strange, warm stars. She said, “So many lovely things burned without having a chance to ripen. Be sure that this does not happen to you.” Her hand brushed Soukyan’s hand then, and she pulled it away sharply, covering the movement by ruffling my hair. She began to sing softly in that half-talking, rise-and-roll-and-fall way of hers. I inhaled that, too, as I did Soukyan’s exasperated sigh and Tikat’s quiet, almost invisible attentiveness to both the old man and Lukassa. I wanted to move up beside him and say a proper farewell, because we had been friends, but he was already gone from my world, as surely and finally as the wizard Arshadin was gone.
Oh, it was never so short a ride to the tree and the spring and the bend in the road as it was that day. Nothing I could do or say or think about could make it last any longer. All that was left was to concentrate on remembering everything: the blowing leaves, a scuttling shukri that hunched and spat at us by the roadside, the sudden cross-currents of cold air down from the mountains, the colors of the six ribbons in the old wizard’s beard. Lal’s song, the flickering loose end of Lukassa’s white headscarf, Tunzi’s constant farting which embarrassed me so. And I did remember it all, and I fall asleep to it still.
You can’t see it until you round the turn, but just beyond the path divides, one fork skirting the mountains toward Arakli, the other slanting eastward to meet the main road that runs to Derridow, Leishai, and the sea. The wizard drew rein at the bee tree and wheeled his horse to face the rest of us. Fragile even now, to my view—I know Soukyan thought he would never be truly strong again—nevertheless he held himself as straight in the saddle as Tikat, and the green eyes were as eager as though everything, everything, good and bad, were waiting to happen for the first time. People of my age are supposed to feel like that, but I certainly didn’t, not that morning. I felt as if everything were over.