Their going was slow, for Itala was quickly exhausted. They spent the night in one of the few standing shelters they could find, and Draven fed his sister from meager supplies and took nothing for himself. He wished he could have convinced her to let him go alone, but she would not have it. And how could he argue with her? He had never felt the desperation of love he saw now torturing her.
So together they pressed on, hoping that in the midst of the terror clutching Rannul, Itala’s absence would not be noticed. Draven himself was already as good as dead and forgotten.
Kahorn village, so it was said, stood a day’s march beyond the river’s banks. One of Hanna’s branching tributaries flowed past it, so Draven knew they must search for water. But in the end they simply followed the path of destruction wreaked by Gaher and his men.
Until at last they stood on the edge of the forest, gazing down into what once must have been a thriving village center. Many sod houses, very like those of Rannul, lined either side of the tributary’s banks, and fields and pastures surrounded, extending out as far as the eye could see.
But all was now charred ruin. The sod house roofs were blackened, and equally black and cold were the doorways, testimony to the furnaces so recently contained therein. The fields swirled with the ashes of decimated crops, and no sign of life could be discerned anywhere save for the cries of carrion crows.
From where she stood, Itala could see savaged bones.
She stared long and silently at this evil landscape. She was so quiet that Draven feared she had fallen into a stupor. At last, however, she turned to her brother, and in a voice strained with exhaustion and despair, she said, “He is dead then.”
Draven put his arms around her and held her close as she wept.
Akilun’s voice, speaking the strange language of his people, filled the girl’s head with images so clear she may have looked upon them herself even as he spoke. When that last image passed before her vision—when she saw the devastation of Kahorn—she believed she saw it just as Itala had long ago.
Just as Itala wept then, so the girl buried her face in her hands and let her tears fall.
Akilun, who had worked slowly and meticulously in time to his own voice, stopped and turned to her. He spoke her name and asked, “Why do you weep so?”
At first the girl could not answer. She was too overcome with Itala’s emotions. But slowly her mind resettled, became her own once more. Her vision cleared, and she was able to look into the Kind One’s face illuminated so gently in the lantern light. Then she sniffed and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “I—I feel so sad,” she said, which was already obvious enough. So she tried again to put her feelings into clearer words. “I feel so sorry for Itala. For the poor prisoner. For Callix, who died.”
Then Akilun’s brow, which had been puckered in concern, smoothed as he smiled. “Dear child, do not weep! The story is not done. Prince Callix wasn’t dead.”
“He wasn’t?” The girl sat up straight, her eyes shining with sudden hope.
“No indeed,” Akilun assured her. He lifted his tools again and set back to work. “No, for it was but a few days later, after Draven had returned his sister to Rannul village, that Itala received a sign . . .”
Accata died, and another member of Rannul fell ill—a child not even come to his tenth year. There was no reasoning behind who was taken. No one who had touched or tended to the previous victims became sick. Man, woman, and now child . . . all were prey to this strange malady, without preference or exception that anyone, even the oldest medicine woman, could explain.
A sense of doom pervaded all. The villagers went about their daily work, but none seemed capable of raising their heads to face each new day. Each new day could so easily be their last. Anyone at any moment could fall prey to this agonizing sickness.
Having delivered Itala safely back home, Draven continued his practice of staying out of sight. He hunted and left his offerings at the village borders. Sometimes they were accepted. Sometimes they were ignored only to be dragged off by wild beasts. Nevertheless, he always brought them.
And he wondered about those things he had heard and seen. No one else seemed to have discovered the finger-shaped bruises he had glimpsed on Oson’s dead body, and he did not know to whom he could mention them. Were they merely bruises Oson had received in the heat of battle? Or did they, as Draven suspected, pertain to the unearthly manner of his death?
It hardly mattered either way. Nothing could be done, Draven knew. Nothing but continue to exist until one met with a brutal death. A coward’s attitude, to be sure, but what was he if not a coward?
But Itala . . . her heart was differently set.
She found her brother while he was on the hunt, rooting him out of hiding with far more ease than pleased his pride. Her crashing through the underbrush drove away all game, and she called to him loudly every few steps. He almost tried to slip away, irritated at her for spoiling his hunt. Instead he rose up from hiding and stood with a spear gripped in his fist as she hobbled up to him.
In her hand, she clutched a wreath of red asters; asters, which were not yet in season, and therefore a strange sight to behold.
“Brother!” Itala cried, lifting the blossoms high like a banner. “Brother, I found these outside my door this morning.”
“Indeed?” said Draven, frowning at her. Upon closer inspection he saw that the asters had been carefully dried to preserve their color and shape. “Did you prepare them for some—”
“No, no!” Itala cried. “I found them like this. Woven into a ring. Someone brought them.” She stood before him breathing hard, leaning heavily on her crutch. “I believe Callix brought them,” she said. “He knew. He knew about the asters that bloomed just before I slew Hydrus. I told him, and he knew. This is a sign. He is alive. He is alive and near!”
The voices of the night were many and varied, and the Prince of Kahorn knew them all. He knew the humming chorus of crickets in the grass and little biters in the air. He knew the liquid, deep-throated boom of bitterns strutting in the marshy places along the river’s bank. He knew the voice of the river herself—of Hanna, the sometimes gentle, sometimes vicious mother of this great land. Far off, he heard the lonely howl of wolves, an eerie harmony to the nearer sounds.
Callix knew the songs of evening, and he feared none of them. What he feared was the silence. The silence underlying everything now.
The silence flowing down from the empty crest of the promontory.
He felt it, though he did not look at it, the high bare peak where the twisted tree stood. He hated being so near to it but could not bring himself to leave. Not yet. He would give her until dawn. If she did not come, then he, broken by yet another loss, would take up his spear and go, pursuing the weary footsteps of his people already marching far away from this land that was once their home.
Home had been stripped from them—the raiding warriors of Rannul but the final stroke of the knife.
Another familiar sound struck Callix’s ear: the dip and pull of a paddle on the water. He leaned out from hiding, gazing upriver. The moonlight showed a canoe approaching from the opposite shore. He knew it must be Itala. He also knew that she must have convinced her powerful brother to carry his canoe far downriver to a crossing point below the rapids. That, or they had taken the same harrowing, moonlit journey Callix and Draven had made a year ago. Somehow, Callix doubted Draven would put his sister at such risk.
The canoe trailed a diagonal path across the broad surface of Hanna, coming to rest not far from where Callix waited. Just as Callix had hoped, Draven remembered the place he had moored his craft when he helped his enemy escape and grounded it there again now.
Itala stumbled as she tried to climb from the canoe on her own, nearly falling flat on her face. Callix stepped forward, but Draven was much closer. He caught his sister, and she leaned heavily against him. Then she growled, “Leave me, I don’t need help!”
Draven snorted but made no other protest. He t
ook a step back, and both of them saw Callix approaching. Itala gasped, and Draven’s hand went for a weapon. But the next moment, by some miracle of sight or second sight, Itala recognized the shadowy form.
“Callix!” she cried and staggered toward him, forgetting her crutch and stepping painfully with her clubfoot. He leapt forward and relieved her of the pain by catching her in his arms. Draven, embarrassed, turned away and gave them a private moment of desperate gladness.
“I was so afraid for you,” Itala said, holding her beloved close.
“And I, for you,” Callix replied. “Tell me, Itala, has the . . . have your people—”
“Yes.” Itala growled the word, pulling back and glaring fiercely up into the destitute prince’s face. “Yes, the curse of which you warned me has now attacked Rannul. And I am glad of it! After what we have done, I am glad of it.”
Her angry voice emphasized her ugly words, but Callix shook his head. “No. Never be glad of such evil. I am only sorry it has spread, and I doubt now that it will ever stop.” He put his face close to Itala’s, his forehead pressed to hers. “My dear one, come away with me. The remnants of Kahorn are leaving this land, following the rising sun to see what new life it might illuminate for us. Perhaps if we go far enough we might escape both this bitter war and this far more bitter malady. But I cannot bear to go without you! You must come. Please.”
Itala’s skin was pale in the moonlight, and her eyes were like two enormous stars, filled with tears. “My love,” she said, “what manner of coward would I be to leave my own people while they suffer so? We deserve our fate, but I cannot pretend that I am not a daughter of Rannul. I cannot forget my father and forefathers so easily.”
Callix gazed earnestly into her eyes. He saw there that she did not speak the whole truth. Though her words were courageous, fear, deep fear scored lines in her face. The stranglehold of her heritage was mighty indeed. There was at least one man in this world whom Itala truly dreaded. She would not cross Gaher.
“I would never be able to forgive myself,” she said. Her words did not lie, but neither did they speak the whole truth.
How he wanted to argue. To plead, even to rage. But he loved this proud young woman too dearly. So Callix saluted her with a kiss upon her forehead then stepped back and bowed low. “You are your own mistress, Itala. I honor your decision.” Though it broke his heart to speak the words, there was no good in waiting, no good in straining this painful farewell to the breaking point. “I wish you long life and happiness. And I will never forget you.”
“Callix!” She spoke his name too softly for him to hear as he retreated from sight. In a moment he was gone, swallowed up by the forest. Her sharp ears listened to his retreat until he had passed beyond hearing as well.
Itala wrapped her arms tightly around her weak body and cursed her weak spirit. Who was she to claim any courage for herself? She had slain Hydrus, to be sure, but that was such an easy task by comparison to this. In this venture, this crisis moment of her life, she knew she had failed.
But she would not risk the terror of running from her father.
Slowly she turned and tried to take a few steps toward her brother. She stumbled and fell to her knees.
Draven covered the space between them and stooped to assist his sister. She clutched his arm, leaning her head against his fur-clad shoulder. “They’re going away,” she said, her voice even but straining to remain so. “They’re traveling east, and they won’t return.”
Draven said nothing. After all, it was probably for the best of all concerned. He could see no future for Itala and her father’s enemy. Another war party from Rannul would surely wipe out the last of Kahorn. No, it was for the best that they left, the prince and his people.
He helped his sister up and assisted her back into the canoe. Splashing in the shallows, he shoved the canoe off then climbed inside and took up his paddle. He stroked against the river’s current, working to get them both as far upriver as possible before the rapids’ flow became too strong.
At last they put to shore. Itala climbed out before he could help her, grabbed her crutch, and began pushing her way through the thick-grown foliage. He pulled his canoe high up onto the shore and left it before hastening after his sister. He walked behind her for a while, allowing her the privacy to weep or rage as she needed. He could not tell which way her heavy spirit tended, for she was silent.
There were no paths this far downriver from the village, and their going was slow in the darkness. He stepped forward at last and asked, “Will you rest?”
“No,” she replied and kept on, though he knew she must be exhausted to the point of fainting. But Itala would punish her body, as though by so doing she could earn some penance for her heart. Her coward’s heart that would not permit her to stand up to the wrath of Gaher.
At last she fell heavily against a tree and did not move save to breathe. Draven stood by and did not touch her. Very quietly, as though confessing a sin, she said, “I cannot go on.”
“Never mind,” Draven replied, and he picked her up. She was slight, and he broad and strong. Nevertheless, their going was slow, and Draven was obliged to choose his way carefully through the thick trees and undergrowth. He felt the eyes of the night upon them, but none belonged to any creature brave enough to accost him.
Just as dawn approached, they came to more familiar territory, close to the village. A keening wail went up with the rising sun, and both Draven and Itala knew that the child possessed of the convulsing sickness had died.
“Put me down, brother,” Itala said then. “I will walk the rest of the way.”
The stern pride in her voice was command enough. Draven obeyed, and they continued very slowly back to the village. The mourning of Rannul reached out to greet them as they stepped from the forest into one of the outlying fields.
Suddenly Itala stopped, her eyes narrowing. By the light of grey morning’s approach, she saw a shadow flicker along the ground. She looked up to see what might have caused it. Some hawk or other raptor, perhaps. But no, there was nothing.
She returned her gaze to the ground, searching for that dark, insubstantial movement. Nothing at first and then . . . yes. There it was. A shadow without source, moving swiftly across the field. And it was coming straight for them.
Itala gasped. For she saw in that momentary glimpse that the shadow reached out two long arms, two long-fingered hands.
Before she could speak, the shade was upon them. Her brother fell down heavily at her side. He kicked her crutch with one flailing leg, and Itala plummeted to earth. She covered her face with her arms, for Draven’s whole body convulsed so violently that he could have done her serious injury. She rolled away from him, screaming, “Gaho! Gaho!” in her terror.
For Draven was lost to himself, lost in a storm of pain. Foam fell from his lips, foam and blood as well, for he had bitten his tongue. He may have tried to struggle, but it was no use. Itala pushed herself upright, staring at the horror before her. She screamed his childhood name again and again, as though somehow she could make him hear her, as though somehow she could draw him out of his agony.
Then suddenly across her mind’s eye she glimpsed again the shadow. The shadow with the reaching arms. And she knew, though she could not see it, that this shadow clutched her brother even now with those long fingers and shook him to his core.
Itala grabbed her crutch and used it to push herself upright. Then she dropped it and, ignoring the shooting fire up her leg, lunged at her flailing brother. Her hands grasped at what she could not see, could not feel, but what she knew was there.
She caught the monster and wrenched it harshly.
Draven gave one last great cry. Then he lay still, unfeeling, unseeing. His eyes stared at the sky above him, golden now with the sunrise, but his gaze was empty.
Then, just as the sun crested the far horizon, he blinked and came to himself. He felt the field grasses tickling his face. Clouds moved slowly across his vision, high in the sky abo
ve. His heart galloped in his breast, and he spat blood from his mouth.
Only then did his ears begin to work. And he heard his sister’s grunting pain.
Draven sat up and whirled around. Itala writhed on the ground, every muscle straining, her jaw tight, her teeth clenched. She looked as though something beat her, worried her like a wolf savaging its prey. But there was nothing to be seen.
Then she was still. Just as Draven had witnessed with the others, the episode passed, leaving her gasping for air and unconscious.
“Ita!” he cried. The next moment she was in his arms and he was running for the village, shouting for help.
The girl was very quiet that night as she stared into the evening fire. Her family was busy and bustling all around her, her eldest sister boasting of her prowess at the hunt even as the results of her day’s work roasted over the flames. Iulia scolded the littlest ones and called out orders to her big sons and her husband, all of whom obeyed her with mild good humor.
But the girl simply sat, her back against a boulder as a protection from the night surrounding. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them. She stared at the flames but did not see them.
Strange images formed by the Kind One’s words filled her eyes.
He had stopped abruptly and turned to her just as the story reached its crisis moment. She could not believe that he would end the tale there, with Itala succumbed to the sickness! But he had gazed at her thoughtfully and said, “I’m sorry, Iulia’s daughter, but I must stop now. It is getting late, and I have other tasks to which I must attend.” He knelt before her, his eyes looking deep into hers. “I don’t think I am the one best suited to tell the next part of this tale in any case.”
And so he sent the girl on her way. Though the sun was still high, she had all but fled down the track, certain that invisible eyes watched her from the shadows of the forest surrounding. She’d reached her village panting, and her heart had scarcely calmed its frantic beating in the hours since.