“Oh, no,” she muttered.
It was a small exclamation, not intended to be overheard, but Moss caught it, favored her with brief but intense scrutiny.
“Where is your niece from?” Moss asked quietly.
Hezhi understood, of course, that Moss did not for a moment believe that she was Brother Horse's niece. Though her appearance more resembled the Mang than it did Perkar's strange folk, there were still quite noticeable differences. And Moss had heard her speak, could not help but know her Mang was recently learned. “Niece” was merely the polite way for an older man to speak of a younger woman—particularly one under his protection.
“She is from Nhol,” Brother Horse told him in a tone that made it clear that the question, though it had been answered, was not a welcome one. “And she is my niece in all but blood.”
“Huh,” Chuuzek grunted, but Moss merely nodded acceptance.
“There are two more at my fire right now,” Brother Horse went on, “two more who also do not share the blood of the Horse Mother, who have no kin amongst the herds. But they are under my protection, as well. My clan and I would take it hard if anything should happen to them.”
Hes telling them about Perkar and Ngangata, she thought.
“Also from Nhol?” Moss asked.
“No, not at all,” Brother Horse replied.
There was a brief, restless silence, during which Chuuzek became more and more agitated, chewing his lip and bunching the reins in his hands.
“If they are Cattle People, I will kill them,” he suddenly blurted defiantly.
Brother Horse reined his mount to a full stop and turned in his saddle to face the young man squarely.
“If you kill a man—or a woman—under my protection, in my village, I will consider it murder,” he said. His tone remained placid, but the words somehow conveyed the most resolute finality imaginable. Chuuzek made to speak again, but Moss intervened.
“Of course we understand that,” he said. “We are Mang. Our mothers taught us well.”
“I would hope so,” Brother Horse returned. “I would hope it would take more than war to see our ancient ways set easily aside.”
“This is more than war,” Chuuzek growled, but then, at another glance from Moss, he lapsed into sullen silence.
Brother Horse moved his mount forward again, and the silence pooled around the horsemen, threatening to stay with them all until they reached the village. Still, Brother Horse made no move to quicken his pace.
What could Chuuzek have meant, this was more than war? Hezhi barely understood war at all—as the insulated daughter of the emperor, she had rarely had occasion to think about it—but how could a war be more than that?
“I see the pennant of the Seven Hoof People,” Moss remarked.
“They arrived yesterday,” Brother Horse told him.
“Is old Siinch'u with them this year?”
Hezhi felt the cords of her companion's back loosen a bit. He even uttered a little chuckle, and Hezhi was certain, though she could not see his face, that he was grinning. “Oh, yes. I caught him trying to sneak into my granddaughter's tent the other day.”
“Still the same then.”
“Of course. Gods help lecherous old men.”
“Yes,” Moss replied. “Didn't I hear that you spent several years on an island hiding from the Woodpecker Goddess because you and her daughter—”
“No need to repeat rumors like that,” Brother Horse snapped. But it was his mock anger now, a joking kind of disapproval, very different from the low, dangerous tension of a few moments before.
Had she seen that danger, that thing with claws and molten eyes?
“Tell me about your granduncle Snatch-the-Pony. I heard he—”
“Yes, it's true,” Moss nearly crowed, his face opening into a radiant smile. “He went over to the Fang Hills …”
So when they reached the Swollen Tents Brother Horse and Moss were laughing together. But Chuuzek, trailing a bit, kept his face flat and expressionless. Hezhi thought it to be a thin, translucent mask over murder—and perhaps more.
VIII Tales of the Changeling
PERKAR sat staring at the Blackgod for a long while. He noticed and understood Ngangata's occasional glances warning him to be cautious. Perkar felt he hardly needed such a warning, but then again, the record of his Ufe seemed to register one mistake after another. The Blackgod simply gazed at the fire, his lips moving every now and then, as if he were speaking to the Fire Goddess, but otherwise he remained cryptic—as unknown and unfathomable to Perkar as the marks that Hezhi made on her long white leaves.
Good Thief added nothing to the silence. He ate the dried meat they gave him without speaking; he seemed to have expended his energy not only for threats and self-recrimination but for everything else. More than once Perkar thought he had fallen asleep, but his eyes always fluttered back open.
Destroy the Changeling. Perkar had spent months denying to himself that such a thing was within his power. Good people had died when he believed it was. His king had died, and a war with the Mang had begun because a single, stupid boy had believed he could slay the unslayable.
Now a god who claimed to have created the world told him it was possible, that it had been a part of things all along.
And he was afraid to ask the vital question—afraid to ask how.
Because if Karak told him, he might believe. And if he believed…
Across the fire, the Blackgod raised his weird yellow eyes. He smiled, and Perkar saw, in the spooled lights and images of his memory, a great black bird, gripping Apad's shoulders, plunging his beak down into brain and blood, only to come up wearing the grin of a Crow.
“How?” he asked, knowing the question would damn him.
“How?” the Blackgod repeated, blinking at Perkar.
“No,” Ngangata stated flatly. “Perkar, let it go. Whatever he plans—whether he tells the truth now or not—it will not go well for «s.”
“You can ride away,” Perkar said. “In fact, I beg you to ride away. You have shared enough of my burdens, my friend.”
Ngangata worried at the fire with a stick, banked it a bit. “We should both ride away.”
Karak softly clucked with his tongue. “There is so much Alwat in you,” he said to Ngangata. “Always ready to let things be. Always satisfied with the way things are.”
“Things could certainly be worse,” Ngangata retorted.
The Blackgod nodded. “Alwat through and through. But your friend, here, is Human—through and through. Better, he is a hero.”
“Perkar knows my opinion of heroes,” Ngangata replied.
“Enough,” Perkar snapped. “Tell me. Explain to me how I can destroy a god who lies across the entire breadth of the world.”
“Oh, you cannot,” Karak said.
Perkar blushed with fury. “Then why did you say that I could?”
“Well, you can certainly help to slay him. It is within your power to bring about his destruction.”
“Karak—”
“Blackgod. ”
“Blackgod, then,” Perkar snapped. “Perhaps the gods enjoy such quibbling. Perhaps immortality twists you so. But I want no part of it. Speak to me plainly or do not speak to me at all.”
Karak's eyes flashed red and then white hot. A snarl curled his handsome lip, and he bolted to his feet. Perkar, suddenly filled with Harka's sense of danger, reached for the blade, but his hand never reached it.
The Blackgod clapped his hands together and lightning was born. Thunder came in the same instant, to shatter the very air around them. Perkar was flung back roughly, dazed by the blinding light and deafening noise. Both throbbed in his head. He was only dimly aware of being lifted bodily off the ground as someone took a double fistful of his shirt. A great river of flame still ran across his vision, and he was not even certain whether his eyes were open or closed. He fumbled again for Harka, but an iron claw closed around his sword wrist and held it with absolute strength.