Chapter 37: Blood at the Congress

The alcove between the buttress roots of the Heart of the Song where the chiefs sat was the only one not crowded with homes, cobbles, and commerce. This, according to Bachi, was the place where the most important Kuruk came to worship. They believed not in any dead ancestors, like the Catori, nor the rebirth of souls, like the Shinsok. They worshipped the Heart of the Song itself, believing it to be where all life sprang forth. The chief and the wealthy elders of the tribe gathered in this untouched glade at the base of the great tree, isolated from their brethren by a solid wall of red and white bricks, all of uniform size and held together by some material as hard as stone. The colors made fanciful geometric patterns, yet the work paled in comparison to the majesty of the world tree to which Tarek clung. The brick wall and buttress roots made a triangular, open-roofed room nestled up against the tree. Looking beyond the tall brick wall, Tarek could see villagers and tribesmen packed together cheek by jowl as they waited to hear what their chiefs decided.

Within the alcove room, the chiefs sat on worn wooden stumps in a circle – except for the Kuruk chief, a magnificently fat man in feathers and fur draped over a tall, ornate chair so bedecked with jewels and shiny things that Tarek’s eyes refused to take it all in. He looked to be asleep. Seppa sat just to one side of the Kuruk chief, looking spare and wise in comparison. A select cadre of warriors from each of the tribes ringed the walls on all sides of the room, protecting their leaders.

And there, standing before the others, holding forth in his booming, thunderous voice, stood Zuma, chief of the Catori. Tarek’s heart clenched. He looked just as vital and hearty as ever. The last time Tarek had seen the man, Zuma had condemned him to die… but it was still nice to see him.

These rains are the beginning of a great change.” Zuma cried. “It is one we must confront together.”

“Can the Catori read the future in a pile of rat dung out there where you squat in your mud huts?” one of the other chiefs asked acidly. “No one knows what the rains will be like in the year to come. You prepare, you do your best, and you take what comes. Did you seriously drag us all from our own lands for this nonsense?”

The man was dressed in oiled leathers. Tarek had never seen him before, and he mentally marked him as one that he’d need to get blood from. There’s the Iktaka chief; we already have his. And we don’t need Seppa’s. I don’t know who the new Yura chief is. Might as well cut all of them if I don’t recognize them. Better to get too much blood than too little.

Zuma’s brow drew together, and he looked ready to do murder at the other man’s dismissive words. “Do none of you have numerators? Have you forgotten how to read the heavens?”

“Of course we have numerators,” one of the others sighed. “It’s tradition.”

“We don’t,” admitted another. “I never picked a new one when the old fellow died. Seemed a waste of time.” Several others nodded in agreement. The Kuruk chief kept sleeping. Tarek’s old chief did not appear to be making much of an impact.

Zuma rubbed his hand over his face. “You learn to dig trinkets from the ground and you forget the very foundation on which you are built.”

“I will not be lectured by some dirty savage dressed in torn skins,” said one of the rich chiefs sternly.

“You will,” Zuma snapped, “because apparently this dirty savage is the only one who knows his head from his ass!” He thrust a finger at the men standing against the walls, singling out Locotl, the Catori numerator. He’d been standing very still, and Tarek hadn’t noticed him. “This is my numerator. He’s the wisest man I ever met. He told me – he showed me, both with his calculations and as we looked to the heavens – that one of our guiding stars has fallen out of heaven.”

“Which one?” asked an advisor standing at the Kuruk chief’s shoulder. A numerator, most likely.

“G-g-gurobo,” Locotl stuttered.

Tarek looked to the top of the buttress root across from him on the far side of the Congress. A flicker of movement had caught his eye. Raising his head just a bit farther, Tarek locked eyes with Tavi. His younger brother held up a hand in a wait motion. Bachi wasn’t yet in place.

“Look for yourselves,” Zuma boomed at the others. “It is gone. The Ones Beneath can only guess why. Who can say what happens in the heavens? But that star passes close enough that it affects the lesser moon. Without it, the rains will come sooner, stay longer, and drop more every single year. This time it rained for forty days. Next year it will be longer. The year after that, even longer. The calculations say that within ten years we will have another Year-Long Flood. And we don’t know if the waters will ever go down after that. The whole of the Land could drown. It would kill us all.”

“The Year-Long Flood is a myth!” the acid-tongued chief protested. “A story to scare children.”

“We’ve crossed the whole Land to come listen to legends and stories,” said another chief, throwing up his hands. “Let us talk about water rights or something else more useful; this is madness.”

“Madness is ignoring the signs right in front of your faces,” Zuma protested.

Bachi’s head appeared alongside Tavi’s. It was time. The chiefs would have to debate the floods some other time; Tarek had things to do. Hauling himself atop the great root to which he clung, he pulled the bow from his back and fitted his arrow to the string. There was no help for it – he knew he’d be seen. He stood, drawing his bow.

Seppa, who had been one of the few listening to Zuma with interest, pointed at him. “Who is that?” she asked.

The other chiefs all looked. Zuma locked eyes with Tarek, and his jaw dropped.

Tarek loosed his arrow.

The chiefs all dove for cover, yelling in fear as their honor guards scrambled flat-footed for their weapons. But Tarek wasn’t aiming at any of them. The fire-hardened point of his arrow slammed home into the flesh of the Heart of the Song right where the roots met the tree, only two hands’ height above the ground. Immediately, a thick white mist poured forth from the tree, enveloping the arrow and spreading rapidly through the alcove. More mist seeped from unhurt parts of the tree and from the ground itself nearby as the Heart of the Song strove blindly to protect its green magic.

Tarek let loose a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The stories didn’t lie. Thank the Ones Beneath. Or whoever.

Most of the men gathered below didn’t remember those stories, apparently, for though they looked at the billowing mist with bemusement, they did nothing to avoid it. The thick white stuff rolled over the closest ones in a wave, and they dropped senselessly to the ground in a heartbeat, disappearing into swirling eddies of blank whiteness.

Seppa knew something of the mist, and she moved as quickly as her crabbed old body would manage toward the barred door in the brick wall, covering her nose and mouth with the fabric at the neck of her dress. The old woman was too slow, though, and the white crested over her. She was gone.

The warriors nearest the door began to understand that something had gone dreadfully wrong, and they crowded together at the door, fumbling at the heavy bar holding it shut. But these were fighting men of different tribes, and each jockeyed for position against the others, one going so far as to punch the man next to him. Four different fights broke out within ten heartbeats, the door stayed closed – and the mist covered them all.

Silence reigned in the alcove. The mist filled the triangular space deeper and deeper, looking like a bottomless pool of empty white nothing. The mist crested the patterned brick wall and spilled over to the other side, and Tarek heard cries of alarm from the crowd outside. He slung his bow across his back and crouched down, hoping no one beyond the wall had noticed him.

Tavi unspooled a rope he’d woven from tough old vines out in the forest and let one end drop into the mist, securing the other to a nearby knot atop his root. Tarek wished he could have done the same, but he’d felt encumbered enough already with his bow and arrow that he hadn’t wanted to wrap a long rope around his waist as well. He’d climb down using the crevices in the bark just as he’d done on the way up. It would take a few extra heartbeats, but if their margin of safety was that narrow, they were doomed anyways. Tavi held up his hand once again, signaling wait, and they watched the mist below anxiously.

Tarek knew the mist was dissipating with unnatural speed, but it felt as if he sat there for nearly a handspan before the dim shapes of fallen bodies appeared in the thinning whiteness and the bare ground showed itself again. Tavi nodded to him, and Tarek flipped around, feeling his way down with questing toes, trying both to hurry and be careful at the same time. The delay was maddening. They’re right there! This is it!

Then his feet touched down, and he hurried to the center of the alcove where Tavi was waiting, dancing aimlessly with anxiety. Bachi had almost reached the ground as well.

“You’ve got the fur?” Tavi asked, eyeing Tarek’s nose mask critically.

“Yes,” Tarek said, holding out his hands, which grasped impatiently at nothing.

Tavi handed him a scrap of fabric the size of his hand, doubtless stolen from some poor Kuruk’s clothes hung out to dry. Tarek pulled the knife from his belt and looked around for his first victim as Tavi doled out a cloth to Bachi, who’d just come huffing up to them.

“Poke, swab, and move onto the next,” Tavi said quietly. “Everyone but Seppa. Better to have too much than too little.”

Tarek nodded, his stomach jumping and twisting within him. As he moved toward the nearest body, though, a hand fell on his arm.

“Can you do this?” Tavi asked.

“I’m fine,” Tarek said, gesturing to his Pahtl-fur breathing apparatus. “Come on, we have to move fast!”

Tavi lingered, looking doubtful, but Tarek walked away with all the confidence he could muster, hoping his hands weren’t shaking too obviously.

He wanted the blood. He’d dreamed of it the last two nights in a row, moving from one neck to the next, drawing in power, feeling strong, sating himself. Sweat dampened the hair at the back of his neck, and it had nothing to do with the heat. With Pahtl’s smell in his nose, though, the blood hunger wasn’t overpowering. At least not yet. Drawing a deep breath through his nose, he knelt by one of the fallen chiefs, a short, stocky fellow in a rich robe with shining metal bracers on his arms. Is he the Pa’acua chief? Avonako? Who knows? Just do it!

Holding his breath, he jabbed his knife into the exposed meat of the man’s upper arm. He cut no deeper than the length of his fingernail. Sorry, chief. Deep, rich red welled around the tip of his knife, and his insides clenched. His mouth watered, and he wanted. He yanked his eyes away from the sight, swabbing his cloth at the wound. He felt wetness on the fabric, and though it felt like pulling himself away from Yaretzi’s embrace, he stood and stepped back from the insensate chief, breathing heavily, knees weak. I can do it. Ones Beneath, it’s hard, but I can do it.

From one to the next he went as Tavi and Bachi did the same nearby. Their feet kicked up trailing wisps of mist remnants, but whatever magic it had was already fading. Tarek heard jostling on the far side of the door, and someone began knocking. Only one more. Bachi and Tavi were already on their final victims. Tarek knelt by his own. It was Zuma.

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Another knot of panicked, jumbled emotion joined the others already battering Tarek’s belly. Zuma had been as much a father to him as Tenoch had been; in some ways, more. He had encouraged Tarek, overlooked his Song-deafness, and pushed him to succeed. He also had you strung up to die. You can’t skip him. Be done with it.

Averting his gaze, he jabbed Zuma’s forearm and wiped at the spot with the cloth, mingling his blood with that of three other men. Oh, he’d hate that. Well, I hate that you killed my parents. One outweighs the other, Zuma.

A strong hand gripped his wrist. Tarek looked down in shock. Zuma was waking.

“Whassat,” he groaned. “Tarek?”

Tarek yanked back from him, but the man’s grip was like roots buried in packed dirt. His heart thundered, and he dropped his knife to pry at his old chief’s fingers.

“Tarek?” he said, more clearly. “You’re dead.”

Tarek stood, trying to wrench his arm away, but Zuma had always been the strongest of men. A twitch of his burly arm and Tarek stumbled to his knees again.

“Why aren’t you dead? What’s on your face?” Zuma’s eyes cleared and focused, and anger stitched his brows together. “Blood magic traitor,” he hissed. His other hand darted up and pulled the mask from Tarek’s nose. “Let me see your face, traitor!”

Tarek gasped, and the smell of blood overwhelmed him. With a despairing cry, he slammed his forehead into Zuma’s nose. It crunched, and Zuma’s grip slackened. Now! Run!

But he didn’t. With a groan of pleasure he took Zuma’s bloody forearm in both hands and drew it up toward his mouth.

A hand tangled in his loose hair, pulling his head back just before his lips touched the bloody skin. Tarek shouted in pain and frustration.

“Don’t,” Tavi cried as Tarek reached back blindly behind himself. “You don’t want to do this!”

“Don’t tell me what I want!” he roared. “He deserves this!”

Tavi’s arms snaked around his neck and yanked the dangling fur filter back up to Tarek’s nose.

“I know he does,” he whispered, hugging Tarek, holding the cloth-bound fur to his face. “But you don’t.”

Tarek sagged. Holding the mask in place, he nodded to Tavi. “Yes. Yes, okay, I’m sorry. Let’s go.”

Bachi was waiting by the rope, bloody cloth in hand, looking about ready to jump out of his own skin. “Now would be a good time,” he called. The knocking at the door had become a heavy banging. Someone had fetched a ram, and they were about to break the door down. Zuma was thrashing on the ground, trying to get his feet under himself.

Tavi ran for the rope, and Tarek was right at his heels. It had made sense to approach separately and have two vantage points before, but they’d go together as they escaped. They reached Bachi, and Tarek snatched the bloody cloths from both boys, tucking all three into the oiled journey bag on Tavi’s shoulder as his younger brother readied the rope. Tavi tugged on the line, putting one foot up on the wall of the buttress root. The rope pulled free of its mooring above and tumbled down at their feet.

“Wormshit,” Bachi said.

The door shuddered as the hits became heavier. The heavy wood barring the way was beginning to bow and splinter. Zuma had gotten to his knees, and the others were beginning to stir. Tarek might reach the top of the root before someone entered, but Tavi wasn’t the best climber, and Bachi would never make it.

“Sheathe your knives,” Tarek told them. “We’re going out the front.”

Their eyes went wide, but they followed him as he ran to the door. Zuma held out a hand as they passed, but they steered wide of him. Once they were well away from the chiefs, Tarek pulled off his mask and cast it aside. He stepped over a tangle of fallen warriors and put his face near the door.

“Stop!” he yelled. “We’re coming out!”

He flipped the heavy bar out of its thick metal hooks and pulled the door open, darting into the gap before anyone on the other side could react, pulling Tavi and Bachi by the hand. They stumbled into a group of men holding a fallen tree as they gathered momentum for another slam at the now-open door. Their eyes went wide and they stumbled to a halt, losing their grip on the broad trunk, which thunked to the ground. They were too concerned with their toes to keep the trio of boys from darting out into the milling crowd.

“Someone attacked the chiefs!” Tarek cried, pointing back into the walled-off alcove. “There’s blood! We all fainted! Quick!”

The crowd surged forward, and Tarek pulled Tavi and Bachi into the fringes of the surge angling themselves out and away from the developing cluster of yells and confusion. It was like wading upstream in a chest-high river, but bit by bit they drew away from the chiefs’ alcove and the furor of an unknown attack during the Congress. He could see the edge of the crowd just a few man-lengths ahead of himself, and he still had a hand gripped tightly on both Tavi and Bachi. Don’t think about us, just focus on the chiefs. We’re nobody. There are bigger problems to take care of.

Then he heard Zuma’s roaring voice like a bolt from the sky: “STOP! TRAITORS! BLOOD MAGIC!”

Tarek couldn’t help himself. He looked back. Zuma leaned in the doorway, barely able to stand, but his finger pointed unerringly right at them. Everyone stared at them.

Tarek bulled over the woman in front of him and started to run. Bachi’s hand slipped from his grasp, and then Tavi’s. They all needed both hands to push their way clear before the crowd turned on them. Those behind seemed to understand before those ahead, but flat-footed confusion slowed them nearly as much as malice might have.

Tarek broke free of grasping hands and angry faces into an open spot. A quick look showed Bachi and Tavi both at his heels. With only a heartbeat to decide, Tarek broke to the left and made for the bridge over the buttress root that led to the next street over. The roots will block most of the ones chasing us. Either they follow us on the bridge or go all the way around.

Of course, now that they’d broken free of the crowd, there was nothing to stop anyone from loosing arrows to their hearts’ content, and that’s exactly what they did. A metal-headed arrow clattered on the cobbles a pace to Tarek’s right, the shaft splintering.

“Don’t run in a straight line,” Tarek snapped over his shoulder. “Be erratic!”

They wove and dodged through the clumps of people, trying to put as many bodies between themselves and the ones chasing them as possible. Men, women, and children looked up with widening eyes and the trio pelted toward them and yells of anger rose into the air in their wake. Everyone was trading, feasting, and drinking, and they were slow to understand the calls of traitors and blood magic. Tarek took the steps up the buttress root bridge three at a time, keeping his head low as another arrow gouged a furrow out of the handrail right by his fingers. Back down into the other street and through the next tunnel. Then we’ll be far enough ahead that we can blend in with the tribes and disappear.

The great Guriya river flowed in the middle of the next street, meaning another elevated bridge to cross. The high points were the most dangerous – they gave archers behind them the best line to bring them down. The north-flowing river rushed by beneath them as the three of them bobbed and ducked their way toward safety. Bachi was grunting and huffing as Tavi pushed him faster from behind.

Right as they reached the crest of the bridge, cobblestone streets both ahead and behind, his eye fixed on the dark hole of the root tunnel a stone’s throw ahead, Tarek heard a funny little urk behind himself. It was a quiet sound, but something about it arrested him. He skidded to a halt and looked back. Bachi was standing still, both hands on the handrails, a look of offended surprise on his silly mustachioed face.

An arrow transfixed his throat, the fletchings trembling beneath his right ear and the bloodied point standing out on the left. He opened his mouth to speak, and blood spilled from his lips.

Tarek was far enough away that the blood lust didn’t grab him immediately. He looked back in the flight path of the arrow and saw a slim archer standing on the street lower her bow, a cascade of black hair swinging behind her.

It was Yaretzi.

She saw him, and her sky-blue eyes widened. He thought he saw her mouth say Tarek. He saw joy, chased by pain, and then uncertainty, which was replaced by resolve.

She reached over her shoulder and drew another arrow.

With a scream in his heart and fear in his throat, Tarek darted back to Tavi and Bachi and pulled them over the railing with him into the rushing waters of the Guriya.

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