Perhaps it was not the mountain causing her to think such thoughts, but history itself. According to legend, Danoor had been founded upon the rubble of Hawees, an ancient elder city that had once clung to the mountainside—a city Adrash had razed in celebration of mankind’s birth. Precious stones and inexplicable glass mechanisms, proof of the legend’s origins, were still being unearthed from underground excavations.
As a youth, Churls had seen a few of these relics on display in Onsa. Her mind nearly buckled as she considered their age—a hundred thousand years, two hundred thousand? Academics insisted the elders had been interred in the ground long before the era of man, the modern and mythic history of which spanned a mere twenty-five millennia. Perhaps Adrash himself did not recall the age of Hawees’s beautiful relics.
How, Churls had wondered as she stared at the shattered remnants of an extinct people, could men worship a god who would destroy such precious things? How could men live in a city dedicated to that destruction?
She could think of no worse place to make a home.
On the other hand, she could think of no better place to host a battle between the Followers of Adrash and the Followers of Man.
‡
As they entered the vast tent camp visitors had erected south of the city, the sun disappeared over the mesa, plunging the valley into another degree of darkness. Churls made out the many fires of the Tomen camps Berun had described in the foothills.
“You see them?” she asked Vedas. “Orrus Alachum, they’ve tripled in size since we last looked! There must be five thousand of them now. What do you think they’re waiting for?”
He scratched at his thick, wiry black beard. For once, the weather seemed to bother him as much as it bothered her. His lips were cracked, his eyes red. “The winner, I assume. That will determine which way the riot goes, who they start killing first.”
“That’s a grim outlook,” Berun said. “You think that’s their plan—five thousand against an entire city, bloated to twice its normal size by travelers? They’ve done nothing so far. Maybe they’ve come to their senses and just decided to enjoy the tournament.”
Vedas regarded the constructed man. “You can believe whatever fantasy you like, but I’m done with deceiving myself. We all saw what Fesuy did to that woman on the trail.” He squinted into the distance, and then pointed to a pool of firelight below the encamped Tomen. “Another thing—what do you see at the base of the hill?”
“Another group is camped there.”
“Notice anything else?”
“No. Yes. The men are wearing uniforms. They’re very well organized.” Vedas nodded. “As I suspected. An army battalion, which proves I’m not the only cynical one. The Tomen intend to attack, and the Knosi government knows it.”
“They couldn’t stop them from entering the city?” Berun asked.
“How?” Vedas spread his arms wide. “The influx of travelers has stretched the resources in Danoor for months now. When you were last able to check your map, that army battalion wasn’t here, which means they must have double-timed it from the capitol. All their general can do now is send for more troops and wait for the inevitable. Perhaps they will muster enough to stand against the threat, but I doubt it. We have riots even in civilized Golna. They have a way of spreading.”
Churls chuckled at this understatement. She scanned the faces around the campfires, noted the posture of men and women as they walked from tent to tent, trading gossip. They hardly seemed concerned, but only a fool looked to the gathered masses for wisdom.
They reached the first buildings of Danoor proper, which unlike the majority of Knosi cities had never been surrounded by a wall. For millennia its relative isolation had dissuaded conquering peoples, though one could not discount its citizens’ legendary fighting skill as an equal factor. Lomen, one of Churls’s former lovers and gambling partners, had hailed from a neighboring region, and claimed all children of the mesas were taught to wield the ckomale, a pair of sickles linked together with wire.
Travelers thronged bone-dry streets the color of rust. Everywhere, the color of rust. Except for infrequent splashes of painted wood, the buildings were uniformly and seamlessly constructed of red clay and red sand. They rarely rose above the third floor and seldom existed in anything other than a rectangular shape. The uniformity depressed Churls, but the presence of lavish parks, where broad- and thin-leaved succulents fought for space with thorny, winter-blooming bushes and wiry jocasta trees, compensated for this.
“Not far now,” Churls said to no one in particular.
“Yes,” Vedas and Berun responded together. Vedas cleared his throat.
Keenly aware of how little time they had left as companions, Churls fought to keep the melancholy from her face. She had failed to determine what Vedas and Berun ultimately meant to her, though she had spent no small amount of time pondering the question.
Perhaps she and Berun could remain friends. He liked her, and might even be swayed to stay with her in the city, even accompany her home—positing, of course, that they did not kill one another in tournament.
But Vedas? She could not be Vedas’s friend, even if he wanted such a thing. Her desire would always betray her.
Despite her persistent attempts to reign in her emotions.
Despite the anger this lack of self-control inspired.
The curve of his lips, the timbre of his voice, the way thoughts showed on his face several heartbeats before words ever came out: She had memorized every detail of Vedas Tezul. His presence had long ago become a dilemma, causing her every ounce as much distress as joy.
It ached in her marrow, being so close yet so far.
‡
After nearly two hours of walking, they reached the northern end of the city, which to Churls’s eyes was indistinguishable from the southern. The streets were crowded this close to the White and Black Suit camps, filled with the sounds of conversation and trade. Revelers spilled from every inn and restaurant door.
Clearly, lodging near Vedas would be difficult to find. Churls wondered how long it would take for the man to comment on this fact. Undoubtedly, he wondered why his companions had remained with him for so long.
She had no answer. It was foolish to prolong the inevitable, yet she could not help herself. She stole glances at him, found excuses to slow their progress.
It took her a while to understand that such diversions were not only being allowed, but encouraged. Vedas and Berun were dragging their heels. Twice, Vedas complained of soreness in his legs and asked them to stop in a park—an awkward moment, both times, as he massaged his thighs and stretched while she examined plants that held no real interest for her. Berun was no help, standing in place as though he were a statue.
Light spilling into an alleyway marked yet another inn. Unlike the others, it appeared relatively unoccupied.
“We should stop for a drink,” Churls ventured. “Say goodbye and all that. Celebrate our arrival and soon-to-be victories.” She laughed, and it sounded pitifully hollow.
Berun smiled, nodded. Vedas looked northward, clearly conflicted.
“All right,” he said. “Just one.”
They entered the dimly lit interior, where the smell of coffee hit Churls like a friendly kiss. Contrasting sharply with the biting cold that descended with nightfall out of doors, the inn was delightfully warm and close. She whistled softly, surprised by the opulence of the room. Voluptuous Knosi women in diaphanous robes reclined on low couches, dipping folds of spongebread into various sauces, sipping from small flutes of wine. The few men, mostly soft-looking Knosi in fine silks, each had two or three women attending to their every need: peeling grapes, massaging feet and shoulders.