In the distance, down the far side of the hill and beyond a parched flat of cracked ground made hazy by heat, a lush garden of green blossomed out of the sandy wasteland. He smelled water and thought he might die of wanting. His mouth was so dry. He simply could not go one step farther. Sinking down into such shade as the boulder granted them, he eased Adica down to the sands and collapsed beside her, shaking too hard even to get a grip on his water pouch. The ground quivered beneath him, and at first he thought it was just his trembling, but that vibration came from the earth itself, which shuddered as though a huge beast tramped past.
A huff of hot wind stirred his hair. The normally imperturbable Laoina cried out. He leaped up and spun around just as Rage and Sorrow erupted in a frenzy of barking.
She stalked the sands like a queen, powerful and swift. The fluidity and dignity of her movements made her both beautiful and frightening. Four-footed like a lion, her massive paws splayed over the sand so that they didn’t sink in. She resembled a lion in most ways, with a tawny coat and a sleek body twice the size of a bull, but she also had wings, bristling with feathers the color of wax, and above her broad shoulders she wore the head of a woman, more vain than proud, fierce in aspect and with a silken mane of gold flowing down her massive shoulders.
“Maoisinu,” whispered Laoina. “The lion queen.”
He knew in that moment that he had traveled far from Osna village, farther than he had ever believed possible. Maybe this was the afterlife. Maybe he had wandered into the realm of legend. Or maybe he was just in a place so incomprehensible, without iron, without turnips, without decent ploughs or ships or even the God of Unities, that he had passed beyond anything known in the lands of his birth.
XII
DEEP WATERS
1
THE emporium of Sliesby boasted a network of sturdy plank walkways, wrapping the town like stout vines, so that the busy merchants on their way from dock to warehouse would not wet their feet in bad weather. Stronghand admired their industriousness even as the town elders quivered before him. Like a trading network, the walkways linked harbor to town, workshop to storage shed to drinking hall. Even on such a day as today, early in spring with a hard rain blowing down over the town and the streets whipped into muck, merchants could walk unimpeded as long as they had good cloaks to cover themselves.
The rain battered Stronghand’s back as he examined the folk huddled before him, most of them coughing and shuddering as the storm broke over the town. They stank of terror. Tenth Son of the Fifth Litter had spearheaded the early season strike, abetted by the fisherfolk, who’d had a dispute with the human community at Sliesby last season over the herring catch.
Out in the lowlands on the landward side of the town’s palisade, a levy of disarmed soldiers was digging a mass grave for their fallen comrades. He smelled the distant stench of blood and offal, picked out of the souse of rain. Although the fight had been short, the Sliesby militia hadn’t gone down easily.
Behind him lay the bay. Many islets and larger islands crowded the sound, all of them newly brought into the sphere of human cultivation. Rain made a sheet over them, although he saw lighter sky to the south.
According to the tribal history, two generations ago these lands had lain uninhabited by all but the animals and the occasional visit of one of the fisherfolk, seeking rushes or hemp for basketry and netting. Once, deeper inland in a district known for its lakes, the farthest eastern tribe of the RockChildren had built its OldMother’s hall. That tribe, called Sviar, had not been heard of since two Sviar ships had been sighted raiding southward in the time of Bloodheart’s father’s chieftainship. With the recent incursion of human tribes, well armed, vigilant, and only slightly less belligerent than the RockChildren themselves, none among the RockChildren had gone to investigate their absent brethren.
But he might. At last, goaded by the long silence, one woman stepped out from under the porch that gave his prisoners scant shelter and into the beating rain. Unlike most human women, she wore a light veil that concealed her features. Her cloak glistened with raindrops.
“Chieftain,” she said in the common language used by all traders, a melange of Wendish, Salian, and old Dariyan, “what is your will with us, who have harmed none but only seek to trade?”
The others shrank back against the wall of the town hall. The gap widened between them and their colleague, as if they hoped to escape the punishment sure to be inflicted upon her for her rash speech.
“What are you called?” asked Stronghand. “What nation among humankind do you call your mother?”
She had expressive hands, spread wide now as she gestured to two darkly-featured and nervous men standing among the crowd who wore peaked hats and ornamented sleeves, whose ends they twisted at this very moment. “We are children of the people called Hessi in the language of the Wendish folk and Essit among ourselves. I am known as Riavka, daughter of Sarenha. I act as Holy Mother to those of my people who live and visit in this port. I come before you as a supplicant, for I know well what stories are told and indignities suffered by those who have fallen under the fierce attack of your people.”