Unfinished Song(Book 4): Root Page 14

  “Don’t bother,” said Umka, as stubborn as always, but Mayara had already left the hut. She would face the Tavaedies if she had to, if that’s what it took to save her mother.

  She hadn’t even past the garden when she ran into Joslo.

  “I was in the woods nearby and I heard your cry,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  “My mother is sick. I must find the Tavaedies.”

  “I’ll do it,” he said. “I can run faster. You stay and care for Umka.”

  She nodded, so grateful for his help she did not question her good luck in finding him so close by. When he returned with the Tavaedies, she stayed out of their way, and in any case, they allowed no one in the room when they danced their healing spells over her mother. Mayara hoped to find Umka miraculously improved, so disappointment hit her like a rock to find the old woman looked as weak and wan as before.

  “Don’t blame the healers. This kind of hex, none can heal.” Umka shrugged. “Don’t think it will be long now before the black crow finds me.” She squeezed Mayara’s hand. “I want to talk to your young man, that Joslo.”

  “He’s not my young man.”

  “Don’t sass me, young lady.”

  Mayara had to smile. “I’ll bring him inside.”

  Umka insisted on speaking with Joslo in private. Mayara left the two of them inside the dim, smoky hut, while she paced the snow, promising herself as soon as Joslo went home, she would tell Umka the truth.

  Joslo remained inside much longer than Mayara expected. His face looked ashen when he emerged at last.

  “Your mother is dead,” he said quietly.

  “What?” She began to tremble. “What?”

  “She went peacefully.”

  “I don’t care how she went!” she yelled at him. “She can’t be gone! I wasn’t ready! I had to tell her… I’m not ready for her to be gone!”

  “No one ever is, Mayara,” Joslo said. He reached out to hug her.

  She hated him. If he had murdered her mother, she could not have hated him more. She blamed him for it, she blamed him for all the pain she felt.

  “Get away from me!” she screamed. “Why didn’t you tell me? When you saw she was so near the end, why didn’t you come get me? I didn’t even get to say good-bye. I didn’t even get to tell her I loved her!”

  “Mayara, I know you’re upset, but—”

  “Get out of here, get off my land, I never want to see you again!”

  “Don’t be absurd,” he said. “You’re grieving, you’re not thinking clearly.”

  “I don’t want to marry you. I never have. I was only waiting for my mother to die to tell you, because I knew she liked you. I don’t. I don’t want you. I don’t need you. I have a better place to be, I have a better future than with you. Leave and never come back, Joslo!”

  If possible, his already grave face grew gaunter. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

  Her whole body shook. She couldn’t take the words back any more than she could catch a basket’s worth of feathers upset by the wind. He was hurt, yes, but this was for the best. She didn’t plan to stay in the Corn Hills any longer anyway. It was long past the time she should have unburied her wings and embarked upon the journey to find her people.

  “I’ll leave you to your better life,” he said bitterly. “But, Mayara. Remember. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got solid roots. I’ll always be there if you ever do decide you need me.”

  Dindi

  A man leaned over her.

  Fear, which had subsided during the Vision, flared up in Dindi with fresh strength. Dindi lashed out, but a strong hand grabbed her wrist.

  “Dindi! Thank the Seven Faeries! I though you’d never wake.”

  “Tamio?” Relief flooded Dindi first, followed by confusion. She smelled the musty air of an underground space, but a large one. Muffled sounds overhead of stomping feet and drunken singing. The ceiling planks trembled. “Tamio? Where are we?”

  “Alone. Together. Does anything else matter?”

  He beamed at her. Literally. Dindi had seen him glow before. Everyone’s aura glowed from time to time, Tavaedies more often and more energetically than ordinary people, but she had never seen the light surrounding Tamio as bright as now. His light was usually more purple than anything else, but now it was mostly green.

  “Dindi.” He licked his lips. “There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time.”

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  “But before I ask,” he said, “I must know: Do you love me?”

  “Painfully.”

  “Would you do anything for me if I asked it of you?”

  “Joyfully.”

  “I hoped you would say that.” He placed a henna tube on the pile of furs beside her. “Let me tell you what I need from you tonight. I don’t want to wait any longer.”

  He ripped off his fur tunic, baring his muscular chest. He leaned forward and whispered into her ear.

  As much as she wanted to please him, she hesitated. “Tamio, I’ve never done it before. I might do it wrong, and disappoint you.”

  He placed his hand over hers, to still her trembling.

  “I’ll guide you,” he promised.

  Dindi

  Later that night, Dindi returned to her Den, humming to herself. The Den was cold, and Jensi’s cot was empty. Oh, yes…Jensi would be with Yodigo. It was their wedding night.

  Tibi yawned and sat up. “Dindi? It’s so late. Where were you?”

  “Can’t tell you,” Dindi giggled. “He made me promise to keep it secret. And besides, you wouldn’t believe me anyway. Ah, Tibi, everything is going to be different for me now. You and Jensi won’t have to be ashamed of me anymore. Everything’s going to be better.”

  “Dindi, are you drunk?”

  “Maybe.” She laughed again. “But not on beer.”

  “You’re worrying me. I wish Jensi were here.”

  “Oh, she wouldn’t approve, I’m sure,” Dindi said breezily. “The sour puss. But she’ll see. I’m finally going to possess a little happiness of my own. Everything will be perfect.”

  Umbral

  The Orange Canyon tribesfolk had built bomas, platforms in the trees, to pitch their tents. A steady stream of warriors increased the population of their encampment every day. They had not only Raptors and Riders, but fair number of foot warriors, other Tavaedies and slaves as well.

  Umbral did not know how the Mask of the Obsidian Mirror would fair against the mind magic of Orange Canyon. They were a cunning people, more dangerous in their way than any other tribe, especially the Thought-Eaters.

  He hid doubt behind boldness and strode directly through their camp. The waking sun had not yet cleared the horizon, and most of the camp still slept.

  “Where is Amdra?” he asked a yawning foot warrior.

  The man pointed to the highest boma.

  Umbral tapped the neck of the jet black Raptor he rode. “Take me there, Shadow.”

  He missed his tail-wagger but a hound would not impress the bird-people. He needed to convince them he was one of them. The vortex of energy from which Shadow had been crafted still pulsed darkly in this world, so now Umbral had a giant raven.

  Three octagonal platforms, connected by ladders, formed Amdra’s aerie. The uppermost platform was a landing and launching pad, the middle one a large nest for her Raptor and the third held Amdra’s tent.

  Apparently, Amdra was not above improving her sleeping arrangements, however. A sleeping man and woman entangled their bare bodies in the nest under a fur. Since there was no sign of her Raptor, Umbral concluded that she found more than one way to ride her slave.

  “Wake up!” he barked at them.

  The first moment someone looked at him was the most crucial. People would see whomever they hoped or sometimes dreaded to see. Umbral did not control, or even know, whom they perceived until they cried out a name.

  When Amdra looked up at him, all the blood left her face.

&
nbsp; Sheer terror—she looked upon someone she dreaded.

  Amdra scrambled out of the nest. Despite the cold, she was only half dressed. Her handsome slave appeared to be naked under the blanket. She pulled on her fur coat and pants. Then she prostrated herself before Umbral, whomever she imagined Umbral to be.

  “I did not know you were coming, my lord,” she stammered.

  A name, give me a name so I know whom you see when you look at me. Umbral had assumed all this time that she was working with her brother Zumo; but she would not have cowered before her brother.

  Amdra had power. The mere mention of her name, the threat of her arrival, terrified ordinary men. Who terrified her?

  Deathsworn Tip Number One: When in doubt, play the bully. Bullies were enough alike that it was easy to improvise.

  “I did not send you here to waste time pleasuring yourself with your toys,” he said scornfully.

  “My lord, if you kill my Hawk, where will I find another Raptor?” Her voice quavered. “Please, he is useful yet. If you are angry, punish me; but do not punish me by killing him.”

  What nice friends you have, Amdra, Umbral thought.

  “I should kill you both,” he suggested. Or was that going to far? Surely Amdra would sneer at that?

  But she and her slave both groveled on the wooden platform, too petrified to even beg for their lives.

  He pretended to relent. “I’ll spare you for now.”

  The strain in her shoulders eased only a fraction. “Thank you, Great One.”

  ‘Great One?’ Are you jibbing? What kind of idiot insists on being called ‘Great One’?

  “What is your plan?” Umbral asked. Deathsworn Tip Number Two: Ask for what you want, it saves much time.

  “My lord, we cannot take the White Lady as long as she is protected in the tribehold of the Green Woods.”

  “So why are you wasting your time camped here?”

  “The contest…”

  “Were you planning to compete, Amdra?”

  She flushed. “Of course not, Great One. But it seemed that for the time being, a truce might serve both sides.”

  “And after the time being?”

  “In the summer, the White Lady will leave with her crop of dancers, the Green Woods clans will scatter and our Red Spear allies will arrive. The Vyfae and Malfae can devour this whole land come high summer, when the trees are dry as kindling. We have only to wait for the White Lady to depart. She will be vulnerable once more. The longer we are here, peacefully, the more she will become accustomed to our presence, and the less she will expect the attack when it comes.”

  That might be true, but it did not suit Umbral’s plans to allow Orange Canyon and Amdra’s mysterious ‘Great One’ to capture the White Lady or her crop of Vaedi hopefuls. Obsidian Mountain would have that honor or none would.

  “I want you to attack the tribehold,” he said.

  Amdra balled her hands into fists. “No, my lord, I will not do that. Not even for you. We do not have the strength to take the tribehold. We would all perish.”

  So you do have a spine, Umbral congratulated her. Good for you, except it makes my job harder.

  “What if I were to say I planned to double the number of Raptors and Riders you have here now?”

  “But from whence, Great One? So many have been…occupied elsewhere.”

  “The details are not your concern. They will be here. But that is not enough. You must also weaken the defenses from within. Have you been making progress on that, Thought Eater?”

  “We have a truce,” she said stiffly.

  “Which you plan to break. Sooner is better than later, as long as the enemy suspects nothing.”

  “Yes, Great One.”

  “Come, Amdra, you are not a fool,” he said.

  “Two layers,” she said reluctantly.

  “Two layers,” he agreed. Whatever that means. I hope we are not swapping recipes for caramel corn cake.

  The longer he stayed the greater the chance he might slip up and say something suspicious, so he turned to leave. Just as he mounted Shadow, Amdra blurted a question.

  “My lord, what about the Black Well?”

  “The Black Well.” Deathsworn Tip Number Three: Repeat questions as statements.

  “Has anyone been able to close it yet?” Her voice cracked. The Black Well terrified her as much as the ‘Great One.’

  “Just do your job here,” Umbral advised.

  The Black Well. Has anyone been able to close it yet? He did not like the sound of that name, or that question.

  Orange Canyon, who is your master now? And what darkness have you opened that you cannot close?

  Kemla

  Kemla had seen Tamio pick up Dindi—the drunken trollop—and disappear with her the night before. Certain he had made his move, Kemla suggested to Margita and Yalena, her cousins who were also in the Tavaedi troop, that this morning they should claim the sweat lodge, cleanse and then paint themselves with henna, in preparation for the dance contest. All the young Tavaedi girls from their troop joined in, and after some Green Woods Tavaedi maidens heard about it, they wanted to join too. Kemla agreed magnanimously. The more yappity-mouthed gossips who witnessed Dindi’s humiliation, the better.

  Dindi herself almost didn’t come. She thought she was not invited since she was not a real Tavaedi, and normally, Kemla couldn’t have agreed more, but today, Kemla smiled, “Dindi, of course you must come. You’re going to be in the performance too. Just to lay out props for the real dancers, of course, but you should still henna your hair.”

  Kemla tugged her along to the sweat lodge.

  The sweat lodge worked on the same principle as the steam pits that warmed the dugout homes, only the square pit in the center of the main room was much larger, so it held hundreds of hot rocks. Log benches encircled the depression. The bevy of maidens stripped nude except for a thin wrap around their hips and left their furs and leather piled in the antechamber. Inside, the rocks were ready for them. Red fire salamanders, dragons no bigger than Kemla’s hand, slithered in the pit. Their scaly bellies scratched against the pumice, shush-shush-shush. Green Woods girls poured water from small clay jars over the rocks. A cloud of steam enveloped them.

  Dindi was too modest with her hip-wrap. Kemla couldn’t tell if Tamio’s clan mark was there or not.

  Time to prod.

  The maidens had been gossiping of this and that. Most of them were speculating about the erotic shenanigans of the newlyweds.

  “I don’t think it was just the newlyweds who enjoyed a tumble on the mats,” Kemla said. “I heard Tamio boasting to his friends that he bedded and branded a girl last night.”

  “Branded her?” Margita giggled.

  “Not literally with fire, but he claimed he left his clan mark inside her thigh.”

  The other girls squealed and made much of this rumor.

  Kemla watched Dindi carefully. Her face was flushed bright pink, but was that from shame or from steam? Maybe Dindi had been so drunk the night before she didn’t even remember what Tamio did with her.

  The conversation moved on, but the idea had been planted.

  Dindi

  Dindi instinctively distrusted anything Kemla suggested. The nicer Kemla acted, the more suspicious Dindi grew. She also had her doubts about going anywhere with a crowd of her peers. During Initiation, her age cohort had chosen her to be the ‘Duck,’ the louse everyone bullied, and it was supposed to have been a lifelong stigma. She had by some miracle seemed to have outgrown it, but when Kemla snake-smiled at her like that, Dindi’s heart beat faster and the old memories flooded back.

  However, except for Kemla, the other young women seemed genuinely friendly, and Dindi relaxed enough to enjoy herself. Between the maidens of both tribes, they had a whole morning’s worth of secret feminine rituals. The Rainbow Labyrinth girls had already learned the trick of the steam bath from their Green Woods hostesses. They taught the Green Woods girls a trick of their own, with hot wax and shar
p flints, to create smooth, hairless bodies. Once the rocks cooled and the steam diminished, the girls rubbed each other’s bodies with oils. The Green Woods girls retrieved henna paste from in the antechamber, with the accompanying tools: skin tubes, wood bowls, brushes.

  The Tavaedies with the most important parts in the tama naturally deserved the most ornate designs, but Kemla grabbed Dindi’s hands unexpectedly, saying, “Dindi, let us do you.”

  Margita and Yalena flanked Dindi like guards, murmuring, “Yes, Dindi, let us paint you! We’ll do your hair too.”

  “You would look lovely as a redhead,” Kemla said.

  “I don’t know…”

  “I’ll be dying my hair too.” Kemla tossed her long black hair. “It’s fitting, since I will be dancing Orange. We can be twins.”

  “Thank you, but…”

  “You can’t say no. Let’s start with your hair.”

  Kemla sat behind her to brush her hair with a sheep horn comb. The prongs stroked Dindi’s scalp. The steady pressure felt pleasant, despite the unease in her gut.

  She shut her eyes. In the steam pit, the fire salamanders shuffled against each other, curled up into balls of sleep. Their snores sounded like the rumble of pleased cats.

  Fingers divided her hair into thick sections. The sharp scent of apple vinegar and lemon in the henna pinched her nose. The touch of it felt cold, like sticky mud. Kemla smoothed clumps onto each tress. As she finished with a hank of hair, she fastened it up on Dindi’s head with a wood pin.

  Margita and Yalena, respectively, decorated Dindi’s left and right hands. A pinprick hole in a hide-bag squeezed out thin streams of henna to draw flowers, coils and zigzags. They lifted a single finger at a time, tickled it with cool taps of liquid, dabbed the digit with a rag, set it down and began again. The swirling pitter-patter climbed her arms halfway to the elbow.

  Kemla finished with Dindi’s hair. She wrapped her head in a rag. Margita and Yalena set her arms above her head with instructions not to move them.

  “Lie down, so we can finish your body art,” Kemla commanded.