CHAPTER
30
Heart Fires of the Sull
ASH MOUNTAIN BORN
rode in formation with Mal Naysayer and Mors Stormwielder across
forested headland. The trail was wide and clear, formed from soft
gray clay and gravel freighted with quartz. No saplings or ferns
grew on it though the forest was feet away. The sun was high and in
the west and a haze of cloud silvered it, anticipating the full
moon.
Ash rode at the head
of the formation. It did not seem an honor as much as a right. The
two Sull warriors rode at her shoulders, their recurve longbows
strung and ready on their saddle horns, their longswords
cross-harnessed against their backs. Ash knew they were ready to
defend her. She knew she needed defending. Lan Fallstar was one
Sull who wanted her dead. Chances were there would be
more.
The farther she got
into Sull territory the greater the risk. She was Jal Rakhar, the Reach, and the Sull could not
decide whether they wanted her alive or dead.
Ash glanced down at
her hands as they worked the reins. They looked like normal hands, with veins and tendons
and horse dirt beneath the nails, but they weren’t. They were
rakhar dan, and if they were chopped
into pieces they could kill the Unmade. So the question for the
Sull was: Did they kill her and divide her corpse, or keep her
alive and farm her?
She didn’t much like
the sound of either of those and rejected both of them. Ash
Mountain Born was determined to decide her own fate.
A pair of blue herons
flew over the path, whooping as they beat their blade-shaped wings.
Ash wondered if they were close to water. She couldn’t see anything
beyond the massive, shaggy cedars and the fern gardens below
them.
“Hear that?” It was
was Mors Stormwielder. He was speaking Sull.
Ash looked over her
shoulder. The Naysayer was nodding in response. She hadn’t heard
anything.
“Listen,” the
Stormwielder bid her.
Ash listened. She
could hear wind moving the cedar boughs, the distant echo of the
herons, and a coolly repetitive drilling sound that was possibly
some kind of bird.
The Stormwielder
nodded. “That is it.”
She listened again.
The drilling sound repeated, this time farther away.
“It’s the rattle of a
male moonsnake. It means a coven is forming.”
Ash felt a chill rise
along her hands and up the sleeves. “He’s joining it?”
“No. The covens are
females. After they feed, the queen may allow him to
mate.”
“It will be a big
moon,” the Naysayer said quietly. “We guard our horses tomorrow
night.”
Mors Stormwielder
said something in response, but Ash didn’t catch it. She did not
have all the Sull words. For the first time since her human blood
had been drained to make way for Sull blood, Ash felt the urge to
open a vein. The desire to let blood was so strong she could feel
where the knife should break her skin.
Quickly she glanced
from the Naysayer to the Stormwielder. What would they think? If
either were to ask why, she had no answer. It might be the forest,
the rattle of the moonsnake, her new name.
Mountain Born. It was
strong and it was true. She had been born twice; once on a
mountain, once within one. The first time she had been a human
newborn and the mountain was Mount Slain. The second time she was
reborn as Sull, in a mountain cave east of Ice Trapper territory as
she floated in a pool of her own blood. The name honored both
births.
It was a strange
thing, the name. By taking it she had claimed her own identity.
What she had not expected and what she would not tell the
Stormwielder was that it made her, not more Sull, but more
herself.
She was no longer
Foundling, no longer March or almost-daughter. She was Mountain
Born, she was herself. Choosing a name was just the
start.
“We must stop,” she
said.
The two warriors
exchanged glances but did her bidding, shortening reins and
bringing their horses to a halt. They kept their saddles as she
dismounted, watchful but not alarmed. Perhaps they thought she
needed to relieve herself; she had been doing that a
lot.
She searched her
saddlebag for the letting knife, the silver dagger Ark Veinsplitter
had given her after she had become Sull. The weapon was wrapped in
lynx fur. Its blade was so sharp that to touch it was to be cut.
The grip was silver metal, with a design that had been worn to
almost nothing by years of handling. Like all letting knives it
felt right in the hand. Ash pushed up the sleeve of her her dress,
baring the skin of her left wrist.
Now the warriors
understood. With tactful respect they lowered their gazes and
quieted the horses. The Naysayer laid a hand on Ash’s white
gelding.
“Gods judge me,” Ash
murmured in Sull.
She pushed the blade
across her skin. There was no pain, just a sense of opening, of
becoming somehow larger than herself. Her body was no longer
contained by her skin, and the insubstance that shimmered on the
edge of existence touched her from the other side like a
kiss.
Live.
Blood welled in a
perfect line. Ash looked at it. The presence which she felt, the
insubstance, withdrew. She swayed for a moment toward it, chased
it, but it was gone.
Blinking, she watched
her blood roll around her wrist and drip onto the gravel. Time
passed—she did not know how much of it—and the Naysayer moved
forward on his horse.
“Daughter,” he said,
holding a small square of fabric toward her,
“press this against
the wound.”
She took the fabric
and did what was asked. She felt as if she were waking from a
dream. Was this what it meant to be Sull?
Mors Stormwielder
broke the spell. “The Heart Fires lie ahead,” he said once she had
stanched the bleeding, “It is fitting you have honored them. Come,
we leave.”
Ash dropped the
square of bloodied fabric onto the path and went to relieve herself
in the trees. She could not see what would be gained by telling
Mors Stormwielder that she had not let her blood for the Heart
Fires so she kept her peace when she returned and mounted her
horse. As the gelding walked over the spot where her blood had
fallen, she spoke a word to herself. “Raif.”
She did not know
where he was or whose company he kept, but she suddenly knew with
great certainty that the blood she had spilled was for
him.
She did not rush to
return to her horse. Stormwielder might have commanded Ash March,
Foundling, but he did not command Ash Mountain Born, the
Reach.
The party was quiet
as they continued their journey south. Ash sensed a shift in the
two warriors, an easing of tension. The Naysayer edged back in his
saddle and his beautiful blue stallion began kicking out its heels.
Mors Stormweilder’s chestnut fell in step, matching the blue’s
movements so that both horses’ hoofs struck the ground at the same
time. Ash felt the white getting jumpy and gave him the reins, and
the gelding immediately synchronized its gait with the other horses
so all three kicked their forelegs in time. Ash turned to the
Naysayer, smiling and full of wonder.
“This they do for
themselves,” he told her. “They dance for the Heart
Fires.”
Ash’s heart swelled.
The light from the sun was warm on her face. She heard running
water in the distance and began to see glimpses of something
silver-blue moving between the trees. The path climbed and turned,
tilting itself toward the sky. It was so wide now ten horses could
ride abreast. Ash saw other paths leading west and east through the
cedars. She smelled sweet smoke and river water and something
deeply and wonderfully strange. She smelled the night, its
stillness and deepness. And the dark eternal space between
stars.
The cedars fell away
as the path climbed, and they rode through a cut in a rocky bluff.
Banks of bluestone mined with jet formed the walls. Ash caught
glimpses of carvings cut at the base, simple shapes, simply made:
Moon. Raven. Stars.
And then the headland
ended, fell away directly ahead of the path. Mal Naysayer and Mors
Stormwielder reined their horses and dismounted. Ash watched and
did the same. Water was roaring to her left, crashing so loudly she
could not have heard the warriors speak. Ahead she saw sky colored
a shade of blue she had not known existed. Somewhere close by water
was taking to the air. She felt its fine droplets pebble her skin,
and caught glimpses of the shimmering and ephemeral rainbows it
created.
The two Sull warriors
stood silent, heads level, nostrils flaring as they breathed in
essential air. Ash sensed that they were waiting, wanting to allow
her the privilege of being the first to walk to the ledge at the
end of the path.
Releasing the reins,
Ash moved forward. She felt the world was turning, revolving into
place below her. To her left, beyond the ledge, a river was
discharging down a sheer cliff face. It fell for half a league. The
water formed a milk-white torrent that crashed into a plunge lake
at the base of the cliff. Clouds grew there. Ash could see the mist
gaining mass and roundness, separating itself into individual
clouds.
Ahead she saw the
Heart Fires of the Sull.
Icewoods towered in
the valley below, their impossibly tall and slender forms shaped
like flight-feathers. The great Night River snaked through them,
blue-black and wide as a city, its surface alive with water birds,
its meanders terraced with black shale. It was the night sky, and
the icewoods were its stars. And the Heart Fires that burned on its
shores and in the forest were pieces of the full moon.
Ash Mountain Born
guessed that if she were to spend a lifetime traveling the
continents of the world she would not view anything to match this
sight. She stood, letting the mist soak the front of her dress, and
rested her gaze on the reason why the Sull fought.
Here. The Heart
Fires.
Some time later Ash
turned into a remade world. The Sull warriors were still in their
places. Mal Naysayer had opened a vein. He had been away for many
months, she realized, and he returned without his hass, Ark Veinsplitter. Ash tore off the sleeve of
her dress.
“Here,” she said.
“Press this against the wound.”
The Naysayer’s ice
blue eyes held hers, and she knew that in the only way that counted
they were now equals.
He knew it
too.
She would never hear
the word Daughter from him again. Their
relationship had passed beyond father and child.
If Mors Stormwielder
hadn’t been there they would have spoken. Mal Naysayer would have
promised her his life. Ash Mountain Born would have accepted the
promise but offered nothing of her own in return. It was his
misfortune to love her.
The Far Rider and the
Reach looked at each other and understood each other, and then Mors
Stormwielder called them forward to descend the cliff.
Large broad steps had
been cut into the cliff face directly beneath the ledge and the
path wound down, curving west away from the waterfall and
descending onto the cleared ground west of the lake. The steps were
slick, but thick ridges cut into their faces aided traction. The
horses were alert but not afraid. Ash hiked up her skirt. She was
surprised to discover the height made her feel a bit dizzy and
possibly sick. She had been hungry earlier and had been planning to
munch on trail bread, but now the thought of food made her
queasy.
The light, sweet
smoke from the Heart Fires seemed to help. Ash asked the
Stormwielder what was being burned.
“You smell the dann
of the icewood,” he told her. “The wood that is laid down in late
spring and summer. We use it for two things: our sacred bows and
the Heart Fires.”
As they drew closer
to the valley floor, Ash saw there were buildings set between the
trees, stone circles and domes and round towers. All were open in
some way to the sky. Most did not possess roofs. Beautifully pieced
tents colored in white and gray and pale blue occupied the stone
circles, their skins and canvases ripping in the breeze. Guideropes
formed shimmering silver webs between the icewoods.
Seeing the city laid
out beneath her, Ash began to feel nervous. This was real. It was
happening. She had been traveling for so long, running away for so
long, she had hardly imagined the journey could end.
Home, she tried out the word. Perhaps it was the
fact she was still feeling queasy that stopped it from sounding
right.
Two people, a male
and female, were waiting for them when they reached the plunge
lake. The female was striking with black hair pulled back in a top
notch and clay-colored skin. Ash still wasn’t good at working out
the age of Sull, but the female appeared young. Ash envied her
sureness. The male had the kind of metallic cast to his skin that
she associated with the purest Sull. Both of his earlobes had been
removed and his head was shaven clean except for a quarter moon of
short growth in the center of his scalp. Two swords were harnessed
to form an X against his back.
“Do not address him
and do not look him in the eye,” warned the Stormwielder. “He is
Mor Xana.”
The Walking Dead. Ash
understood the words but not their meaning. She knew so little. The
Sull were a mystery to the people of the north. How many non-Sull
had stood at the Heart Fires? Had Angus been here? She did not
know. One thing was for certain: every step she had taken since
she’d crossed the Easterly Flow had been permitted expressly by the
Sull. You could not arrive here without sanction.
Light prismed across
the female’s face as she watched Ash descend the last of the steps.
Fine droplets of water released by the waterfall did strange and
beautiful things with the light. Ash felt giddy. Not trusting
herself to avoid Mor Xana’s eyes, she
averted her gaze from both him and the female, so at first she did
not realize that the female was prostrating herself on the ground
at the base of the stair. The female was dressed in fine doeskin
pants and tunic and when she lay belly-down on the rocky shore, Ash
could see the line of her spine.
“Rise,” Ash told her
curtly, halting on the final step. She would not have
this.
“Jal Rakhar,” the female said, quickly moving to
her feet. “This Sull is glad you are here.”
“I am glad also,” Ash
replied in Sull.
The female’s smile
was lovely and brief. “I am Zaya Mistwalker, granddaughter of the
Longwalker, daughter of He Who Leads and Daughter of the Sull. My
father asked me to welcome you to our home and tent.”
Ash had to think
about the information in this statement. After a moment she turned
to Mors Stormwielder who stood above her on a separate
step.
His keen gray-black
eyes instantly registered her query. “Zaya is my
niece.”
Ash understood from
his manner that he would not greet the girl until the formal
welcoming of the Reach was completed. There were protocols to be
observed.
She turned back to
face Zaya. “I am Ash Mountain Born, Daughter of the Sull, and I
accept your father’s invitation.”
“It is good,” replied
the girl, flashing her teeth.
She saved her real
smile, a long and warm beam, for her uncle. Moving past Ash, she
went to greet him. Ash descended to the lakeshore with the horses.
While Zaya had been performing her greeting, Mor Xana had been standing at the break of the
water, facing east. A single muscle in his neck was twitching. He
was safeguarding someone and she did not think it was
her.
When all the
greetings were complete, the party headed south along the
lakeshore. Sull had staked their tents in cleared and walled
circles along the paths. Their horses and animals grazed on tender
grass and their fires burned with fierce silver light. Some came
out to view the Reach, their expressions serious and probing but
not lacking in respect. The children were slender and quick.
Icewood branches ticked like drawn bows.
Zaya led them along
the plunge lake’s outlet, down toward the river. The sun was
sinking and herons and geese were in flight above the water.
Somewhere to the north a wolf howled for the moon.
The Night River
created its own tow. Ash felt the wind change as she approached it.
She could see the buildings now: a fastness deep within the trees,
a tower set back from the black shale of the rivershore. As they
approached a dome built from opalescent stone, a man came out to
take the horses. The Naysayer greeted him with a touch to the arm,
and dropped back from the party to speak with him. Ash felt a
tremor of fear. In a land of strangers the Naysayer was her only
friend.
She did not yet trust
the Stormwielder or his niece, and she thought it quite possible
that Mor Xana might kill her. He was a
ghost along the path, always walking within blade’s reach of her
heart. She tried not to show her relief when the Naysayer rejoined
the party.
“Here,” Zaya said to
Ash indicating a switch in the path. “My father awaits you in his
tent.”
All in the party
stopped. Ash glanced at the Naysayer, who nodded.
They meant her to go
alone . . . except for Mor Xana, who
moved forward when she did, and who walked in the grass while she
took the path.
A moon one sliver
short of full was rising as Ash Mountain Born entered He Who Leads’
rayskin tent. Outside a white-hot Heart Fire was roaring. Inside a
single lamp shaded with amethyst marked the center of the circular
space.
A Sull was standing
in perfect alignment between the lamp and rising moon. He did not
speak as Ash and Mor Xana entered, but
waited until the tent flap they disturbed fell still.
“Welcome,” he
said.
For a moment Ash
struggled with the simple translation. Nothing in this man’s face
or manner supported the courtesy of that word.
“I am Khal
Blackdragon, son of the Longwalker and Son of the
Sull.”
Instantly she
realized the natural conclusion to her earlier thought: if every
step of the way here had required sanction, every step back would
require it as well.
Khal Blackdragon’s
skin was so darkly metallic his face looked cast from iron. His
black hair was pulled back and notched in three places. It was tied
with lead clasps. He was dressed plainly, in dyed deerskin, and his
only decoration was the torc around his neck formed from soldered
arrowheads.
Ash saw no reason to
return his welcome. “I am Ash Mountain Born, Daughter of the Sull.”
As she spoke Mor Xana slipped into
position behind her and against the tent wall.
He Who Leads did not
acknowledge him in any way. Mor Xana
did not exist.
“I have one question,
Ash Mountain Born,” Blackdragon said to her in a hard and quiet
voice that revealed age. “Do not reply until you are certain of the
answer.”
Ash felt dead tired.
She wanted to wrap herself in blankets and sleep. She did not want
to face this man and his dangerous question.
Blackdragon waited.
Beneath his feet, blue and silver silk carpets shone like old
jewels.
“Ask,” she
said.
The eyes were the
surprising thing about Blackdragon’s face. The skin was gray iron
but the eyes were amber, the color of low-burning
flame.
“Can the Reach
control herself?”
The three people in
the tent were still. The only thing that moved was their shadows,
kept in motion by the shifting glow of the amethyst
lamp.
Did Blackdragon know
she had reached at Fort Defeat as the two Sull assassins approached
her with drawn swords? How was it possible? She had not spoken of
it to anyone, not even the Naysayer. Looking into Blackdragon’s
eyes she decided all things were conceivable with this
Sull.
He had asked the only
question that mattered.
If she could not
control her Reach power she would reach again, tear down more of
the wall, let in an army of Unmade and clear a path for the
Endlords. This went beyond Lan Fallstar and what he had wanted from
her body—its flesh. This went to what she was capable of if the
Sull kept her alive. Ash had no answer.
“Leave now,”
Blackdragon told her, removing the need for her reply. “Refresh
yourself after the journey. We will speak again.”
Mor Xana rose like a spirit summoned by a sorcerer.
As Ash moved so did he, floating to her side so that she would exit
first.
She pushed back the
tent flap and turned to look at He Who Leads. Khal Blackdragon had
shifted his position to retain alignment with the
moon.
Ash and the ghost
left to join the Heart Fires.