"Hezhi," the note began.
I have lived a long life, but there has never been much joy in it. What pleasure I did find was usually in the paper and ink surrounding me. And so I thank you for an unaccustomed sort of happiness. I never intended to love you, you know, for I have learned that love is rarely pleasurable. It was not when I thought you dead. I cursed myself daily. Yet now I hear you live and are safe, and I no longer regret my affection. I would, of course, never say these things to you, but pen and paper may speak when I am silent.
I know you must worry about your nurse, Qey, but she is well. The soldiers found her half dead amongst dead priests and believed her to be the victim of your crazed bodyguard as much as they. Neither has anyone pointed a finger at me. The massacre at the South Gate is little talked about, and your name is spoken only as Hezhinata.
I have sent along a paper and pen with the Mang; I only hope they do not use it to wipe themselves with along the way back to you. It is my hope that you will compose a letter or two to an old man, telling him of the things you see. There must yet be wonders he has not read of.
You must not return to Nhol, Hezhi. Nothing pleasant awaits you here. I have confidence in you, know that you will make a life for yourself wherever you go. You have that in you, and it is all you, nothing of the River you leave behind. Be blessed by whatever gods there are in your travels, and try to think kindly of me, though I was never as good to you as I should have been.
—Ghan
She read the letter and read it again, never sure whether to laugh or cry. It did not really matter; either would have contained the same mixture of joy and melancholy. She gave Brother Horse a hug and thanked him again. Grinning, he patted her shoulder and then started to rejoin his family in drinking. He turned, though, gazed at her seriously.
"You may become Mang, if you wish," he said. "I will adopt you as my daughter, and we will find a good, capable husband for you. Who knows? Now and then I see the sparkle of power in you—not like it was, of course, not enough to change you, but perhaps enough to make you a shamaness, to earn an honest living that doesn't involve scraping hides."
"I'm learning to like scraping hides, thank you," she replied. "But I thank you for your offer. It is very kind, since I know I would be a burden, at least for a time."
"Families have broad shoulders," Brother Horse replied, "made to bear burdens."
"I don't know what I will do yet," she mused. "I think Perkar and I must speak."
"You are not bound to him," Brother Horse said.
"No, not bound exactly," she half agreed. "But there are debts we share, responsibilities we hold together."
Brother Horse shook his head. "Such young people to be so serious. Enjoy yourselves, before your bones turn into dry sticks and your skin into leather."
Hezhi smiled. "I will try," she promised.
Perkar edged around the skinning frame, admiring the hide from all sides. "You've done a nice job with this," he said. "One would never know you were once a princess."
She attempted a smile, but it fell into a flat line.
"Sorry," he hastened to add.
"No," Hezhi said. "It isn't that. Being a princess never meant much to me. It might have, I suppose, if…" But the if hung in the air.
He pretended to examine the skin more closely, embarrassed.
"What are your plans, Perkar?" she asked abruptly. "Do you plan to hunt with the Mang from now on?"
"No." He had been thinking about that, of course. "No. I'm repaying debts right now, and I thought to begin with the closest, the ones I owe here. I'm also told that winter is hard on the western steppes. When spring comes, I'll go back to my father's land, to my own people. I have much to atone for there, many things to set right."
"Many things that I share blame for as well," Hezhi said.
"This has been discussed," he told her. "I believe you to be blameless."
"If I am, you are as well. But if you bear responsibility, so do I, Perkar. You can't have it both ways. We did this together, you and I. No matter what Brother Horse says, this skein was wound by the two of us, out of our fears and desires. I barely know you, but we belong together, at least for a time."
He tried out a chuckle and found it wanting. "How old are you?" he said. "Why not rest for a few years, be a child awhile longer?"
The girl looked back at him wearily. "That is already lost to me," she said quietly.
"Lost things can be found," he replied. But he knew what she meant. He would never again be that boy with his first sword, whooping in his father's pasture.
"I don't know," he went on, when she didn't reply. "We have many months to think about it. It might be that you will change your mind."
"I might," she conceded. "I did promise Tsem a few things. But I want you to think on this."
Perkar grunted. "You know," he said, "you frighten me a bit."
"I? I thought you were a demon, when I first met you."
"Perhaps I am, when I wield Harka. I don't know. But you…"
"How do I frighten you?"
"Who knows? All that time, on the River, your face the only clear thing in my mind. I can't see you without remembering that, without remembering that I hated you for a while."
"You still hate me?"
"No. It is just a memory. A clear memory." He settled down, cross-legged.
Hezhi hesitated for an instant, eyes turned from him. "You were going to kill me," she blurted suddenly.
Perkar grinned sardonically. "We were going to kill each other, weren't we?"
Hezhi nodded, but choked suddenly, gasped with an obvious effort to fight back tears. Perkar stared at her with open dismay. She bit her lip and began to scrabble to her feet. Perkar, to his own vast surprise, reached his hand out gently, laid it upon her shoulder. After a tiny hesitation, he knelt and drew her to him, felt her heart beating in her slight form like a thrush's wings. She sobbed, once, into his shoulder, and he felt a sudden tightness in his own throat.
"I'm sorry," he sighed, as he hugged her awkwardly. "I'm sorry. I know it hurts, all of it."
"I never meant to…" she mumbled, sniffling.
"Shh. Never mind," he soothed back. For a moment they stayed that way, and Perkar realized that though he had come half a world to find her, he had never really touched Hezhi.
"Listen," he said seriously, disengaging but leaving his hand on her shoulder, "all of this talk about duty and responsibility is fine, but I would be happier if we could at least like each other."
Hezhi nodded, reached up to brush at the dampness beneath her black eyes. "I can do that," she said, her tone a shade less certain than her words.
Perkar smiled, but boyishly this time, with none of his world-weary hardness. "I can do that, too. Maybe…" He crinkled his brow. "Maybe we need each other to heal from this; I don't know. But when I go home, I hope you will come with me."
"I would like that," she replied.
Suddenly embarrassed, Perkar turned his attention back to the skinning frame. "I thought I might go for a ride," he confided. "I like this horse the Mang gave me. He reminds me of one I used to have." He glanced over at the girl. "Would you like to come with me?"
Hezhi surveyed her work. Overhead, a late flight of geese arrowed through the turquoise sky.
"Yes," she said, her eyes distant. "Yes, I think I would."
He rose and offered her his hand, but she stood on her own before taking it, grinning.
"Where shall we ride to?" she asked.
It was his turn to smile. "Anywhere," he said. "Wherever we choose."
They turned together toward where the horses waited.
About the Author
Born in Meridian, Mississippi, on April 11, 1963, J. Gregory Keyes spent his early years roaming the forests of his native state as well as the red-rock cliffs of the Navajo Indian reservation in Arizona. Storytelling in his family and on the reservation sparked an interest both in writing and in the ancient. Pursuing the ancient, he obtained a B.A. in anthropology from Mississippi State University. Moving to Athens, Georgia, he worked ironing newspapers and as a night guard to support his wife, Nell, in her metalworking/jewelry degree, and also began seriously pursuing writing in his spare time.