Shivers racked her, and she tugged at the front of her fur jacket, which was missing the thong that held it closed. Odd how Lowmen felt the cold, he reflected. With so little Crayash to warm them, they even died of it. He picked up a handful of snow and rubbed it on his wound, stiffening with a grunt as Shissar’s healing power swept through him. The pain ebbed quickly, and he rose to his feet and stepped towards her, intending to carry her as she had asked. Her eyes glinted, and she raised the arrow, forcing him to retreat. He cocked his head. How was he supposed to help her if she would not let him near her?
The girl chewed her lip, her brows knotted. “If you hurt me, I’ll stick you with this.”
Chanter nodded, and she lowered the arrow.
The Mujar approached Talsy and knelt to slide his arms under her knees and back. He picked her up as if she was weightless, and she wound her arms around his neck, the arrow close to his skin. Up close, his matt skin glowed with health and his hair, although tangled, appeared freshly washed.
He glanced at her, his breath steaming. “Which way?”
Talsy’s cheeks warmed with embarrassment, and she pointed. “Over there.”
The Mujar strode across the clearing and entered the forest with a gliding gait that hardly jolted her leg. His feet made no sound, and the frozen undergrowth seemed to part before him and close behind. He gazed ahead as if she did not exist. A thousand questions clamoured in her mind, and she asked the most pressing one.
“What would have happened if I hadn’t pulled out the arrow?”
“I would have stayed a bird.”
“And the wolves would have eaten you.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m Mujar.”
Talsy frowned. “What’s your name?”
He hesitated. “No name.”
“You don’t have a name?”
“No name.”
She sighed. “All right. Why didn’t you want to help me at first? Why did I have to make you?”
“I owed you nothing.”
Talsy scowled at him. “You don’t have to owe a favour before you help someone, you know. It’s a basic Trueman kindness.”
“I’m not Trueman.”
Talsy was about to ask him what difference that made, then remembered all the Mujar who had been thrown into the Pits over the years. They had a right to hate Truemen, but she did not understand why Truemen hated Mujar. He seemed a god-like creature to her. A beautiful, perfect man endowed with magical powers, like a fairy tale wizard. Perhaps he would stay with them if she was nice to him. She found him far more attractive than any man she had ever met before. Talsy tore her eyes from his face to look around.
Shadows crept across the land to darken tree trunks and undergrowth, turning the snow grey. The Mujar’s long strides ate up the miles, but a fair distance still remained. A wolf’s mournful, wailing howl made her shiver, but it was a long way off. The Mujar exuded warmth that sent a rosy glow into her bones, and the pain in her leg seemed to have vanished, too.
Chanter longed to answer the wolves’ cry and run for a while with his lupine brothers across the frosty, moonlit land. The chase, however, would end with the death of his brother the deer, with which he shared just as much affinity. He could only hope this unfortunate situation, which his inattention had brought about, would not become any worse.
As soon as he had fulfilled her Wish, he would be free to go. The girl indicated that he should turn to the left and he did, his feet sinking into deeper snow. He shared his warmth with his burden, whose shivers had long since stopped. She held him tighter, and he flinched as the arrowhead touched the back of his neck. He sensed the wolves’ approach. They had detected him, and ran to greet him.
The sight of the pack rushing towards them made the girl reach for the knife in her belt. Chanter forged a brief mind-lock with the lead wolf, warning him away, and the pack veered off, vanishing into the forest as quickly and soundlessly as they had appeared. The girl scanned the forest with wide, fearful eyes, the knife glinting in her fist.
“Where did they go?” she demanded.
“To hunt.”
“But they were attacking us!”
“No.”
She glared at him, looking suspicious and edgy. “I suppose you made them leave?”
“Yes.”
Talsy studied the Mujar’s impassive face, torn between disbelief and awe. Moonlight threw pale fingers over the snow when at last her home came into view, a cabin huddled between a shed and a log pile, all covered with snow. As the Mujar headed towards it, her father emerged, armed with a spear. He stared at them for several moments before calling, “Talsy, is that you?”
“Yes, Papa.” She waved, immensely proud of herself.
“Are you all right?” Her father hurried closer, lowering the spear.
“I broke my leg. A bog sow attacked me, but I still got supper.” She waved the hare. “This nice man helped me.” With a quick smile at her saviour, she explained, “This is my father, Borak.”
Her father fell into step beside them, glancing at the Mujar, but clearly unable to see much in the gloom. He flung open the cabin door and admitted them into a cosy room that a roaring fire in a crude stone hearth and several oil lamps lighted. Dried clay filled the gaps between the logs that formed the walls, and two fur coats hung on hooks beside the door.
A soot-blackened stove stood in one corner, next to a barrel of water and a basin atop a scarred table. Battered tin cups and bowls filled the shelves on the wall beside it. A curtained alcove housed a copper tub, and a narrow bed with a patchwork quilt was visible through the sole interior doorway. A pair of overstuffed, cloth-covered chairs faced the hearth, and another table stood beside the stove with a chair on either side of it.
Borak indicated Talsy’s bed against the far wall, and the Mujar lowered her onto it and stepped back. Borak leant over his daughter to examine her splinted leg.
“I’m grateful to you, stranger,” he said over his shoulder. “You’ll stay the night, of course. It’s bitter outside, and not safe with the wolves about.”
Chanter frowned at the Lowman’s offer of free comforts, and hesitated when he would have left. Borak, a vast bear of a man with a bushy brown beard and thick brows, straightened and swung around. His brown eyes raked Chanter.
“Mujar!”
Chanter raised his hands and retreated towards the door, wishing only to escape the cabin and the implied threat of the Lowman’s horrified tone.
“Stop right there, buster!” Borak snatched the arrow from his daughter and brandished it, circling to cut Chanter off. The lamps and fire flared as the Mujar reached for Crayash, but Borak leapt at him and stabbed the arrow into his arm. Chanter gave a soft cry and collapsed, all the Powers once more out of his reach. He panted, his eyes unfocussed, the agony transfixing him.
Borak leant over him and spoke garbled words. Chanter writhed as Borak yanked the arrow out and the world sprang back into focus, fresh agony shooting up his arm. The Lowman pinned him to the floor with a boot on his throat and waved the arrow in his face.
“Now you owe me, Mujar,” he snarled. “Gratitude, right?”
Chanter nodded, shivering as the Earthpower sank frigid tendrils into him. “Wish.”
Borak grunted and lifted his foot, brushing his mustard yellow leggings as if touching a Mujar had soiled him. The girl sat up, clearly surprised by her father’s cruelty.
“Did you have to hurt him, Papa?”
Borak kicked Chanter in the ribs, making him grunt. “Mujar scum. He can do much more than carry you home, lass. You had to make him do that, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“He’d have left you to the wolves, girl. Mujar have no feelings. I’m glad you got him. Another one for the Pit.”
Chanter sat up, freeing himself from most of the Dolana, and Crayash ignited in his bones. Trapped again by Gratitude, he looked up at the Lowman. “Wish.”
> “Shut up, damned Mujar scum,” Borak snarled.
Chanter bowed his head so his hair fell forward and hid his tormentor’s hateful expression.
The Mujar’s meek acceptance amazed Talsy. Surely he could see he need not be grateful to people who kept sticking a gold-headed arrow into him and then demanding a wish when they pulled it out? Her father sat beside her to remove her splints.
“Watch him,” he admonished. “He might try to slip away.”
“Why did all the lamps and the fire get so bright just now?”
“He reached for the Power of Fire, probably to burn a hole in the door so he could escape.”
“Or to burn you.”
“No, Mujar don’t kill. In fact, they don’t like to harm anything. That’s why they come into towns looking for food.” Borak chuckled as he undid her leggings. “Ironic, isn’t it? They can kill at a touch, but they’re cowards; damned yellow-bellied beggars. Imagine what a Trueman could do with their powers. Hell, they can’t even be killed.”
“Yes, I imagine a Trueman would rule the world with those powers.”
“Damn right!” He met her gaze. “Well, he could do a lot of good in this world.”
“And a lot of bad. It’s lucky for us they don’t like to harm others, or they’d rule the world.”
Borak tugged at her leggings. “Damned yellow monkeys. They don’t have the brains to use what they’re given. It’s wasted on them. They’re no better than animals, remember that. They’re freaks; useless, brainless, spineless freaks.”
Talsy glanced at the Mujar. “I think he’s beautiful.”
“Sure, but only on the surface. Deep down, they’re empty, just living shells.”
“That’s hard to believe. He doesn’t seem stupid, only very gentle.”
Borak grunted. “Why isn’t he saying something in his defence, then? He’d have left you in the forest, make no mistake. He wouldn’t have helped you if you hadn’t used the arrow to make him.” Her father peeled aside her leggings to reveal a swollen, discoloured limb.
“I asked him about that. He said that he didn’t owe me anything. After all, we throw them in the Pits. Why should they help us?”
“They never helped, even before that. Don’t waste your pity on him. He doesn’t deserve it. He wouldn’t even understand it.”
Borak patted his daughter’s hand, then rose and kicked the Mujar, making him flinch and look up. “Wish, you damned monkey.”
Chanter nodded. “Wish.”
“Heal my daughter’s leg.”
Chanter wondered why they did not use the Power of Shissar to heal her. The shaman of his clan had never asked him to heal the sick, so he had assumed Lowmen could do it themselves. Still, if they wanted him to do it, he owed Gratitude, and healing was easy. He went over to the bed and knelt beside it, and Borak crossed the room to rummage in a drawer. Chanter examined the girl’s swollen limb, running his hands over it, and she shivered. He rose and went to fetch a water jug on the table. Borak stepped into his path and brandished the arrow, making Chanter step back.
“Where do you think you’re going, Mujar?”
Chanter pointed at the jug. “Shissar.”
Borak eyed him. “Water, eh? All right, take it.”
Chanter poured a cup of water, giving Borak a wide berth as he returned to the girl. He dipped his fingers into the cup, and the cool Power flowed into him in a liquid tingle. Pain shot up his arm, and he bowed his head to hide his grimace. When it passed, he trickled a handful of water onto the girl’s leg, then laid his hand on it and let the Shissar flow through him in a river of glittering sweetness. It brought visions of waves and spume, rain and running brooks, the silken touch of water.
Talsy gasped as the room seemed to fill with mist and her sight blurred as if she was underwater. The faint thunder of surf mixed with the trilling gurgle of a creek and the soft whispering hiss of rain. It vanished, leaving her mouth tasting sweet and clean. The Mujar sat back, removed his hand and met her gaze. The gentleness in his eyes struck her. The softness spoke of infinite compassion and ancient wisdom, mixed with a strange, passive emptiness.
Borak stepped up behind him, whipped a thin rope around his neck and pulled it tight. The Mujar’s hands flashed up to grip it, but he released it with a hiss, as if burnt. He slumped as his eyes closed and his hands fell to his sides.
Borak chuckled as he tied the rope. “Now he’s not going anywhere.”
“What’s wrong with him?” she demanded, concerned that the Mujar sat so still, his head bowed.
“I heard about this method, and it certainly works, wouldn’t you say?”
Talsy shook her head, becoming aware that her leg no longer hurt. Her limb was slim and straight once more, as if it had never been hurt. She flexed it, amazed. The Mujar had healed her completely and painlessly, and his reward had been entrapment and cruelty.
“What have you done to him?”
Borak settled on a chair in front of the fire, filled his pipe and lighted it, his eyes twinkling. “Gold, lass. There’s a thread of gold in that rope, and now he’s trapped by it. Odd effect it has on them. It makes them sleepy and helpless. We’d have used it to enslave the useless bastards, but they turn into zombies at the touch of gold, no good for anything. Still, as long as that’s around his neck, he can’t do anything. Come spring, I’ll take him to the Pit over at Mercher’s Crossing.”
Her father’s cruelty shocked her, and she did not understand his hatred. “Why can’t we just let him go? He’s done nothing to us. In fact, he helped us.”
“Helped us?” Borak made a rude noise. “We helped ourselves, lass. He wouldn’t have done anything if we hadn’t made him. These damned yellow monkeys don’t deserve to live, and we can’t even kill them. Only a few years ago, we discovered that gold has this effect on them, but now they’re almost all in the Pits.” He puffed a cloud of smoke. “Maybe a medical school will pay to cut this one up and find out what makes them tick before they throw him in a Pit.”
“No, Papa! Please let him go!”
Borak shook his head. “You’re too young to remember how we tried to bring them into our society. We offered them money, luxuries, anything they wanted, just for their help. The bastards weren’t interested. They wouldn’t use their damned powers unless they owed us, and they don’t need our help.”
“But we can’t feed another person until spring. It’s hard enough finding food for us.”
“We don’t need to feed him. Mujar can’t die. Not of anything. Believe me, we tried. No poison works on them, and you can’t drown, suffocate, strangle – hell, nothing works. Why do you think we throw them in Pits? Even then, they don’t die until their hundred years are up. They just can’t get out, that’s all.”
“But… why do they eat then? And why don’t they fly out of the Pits as birds?”
Borak tapped his pipe. “We don’t know. We know very little about them, except that they can control the elements and can’t be killed.”
Talsy chewed her fingernails. “And change their shape.”
“Yeah.”
“But if you could force him to help me by using the arrow, why didn’t people do that before, if offering them money didn’t work?”
“It’s been tried. Everything has, even blackmail and torture. The trick with gold will work once or twice, maybe three times tops, then they get wise to it. After I stuck him with the arrow, he was watching me. That’s why I left the arrow on the table and used the rope. The manifestation of a Power gives a little of warning, but not always enough. If I’d come near him with that arrow again, he’d have turned into something small, a bird maybe, then burnt a hole in the door and escaped.”
Talsy nodded. “Then they’re not stupid.”
“They’re stupid enough to be grateful in the first place. A Trueman wouldn’t be grateful if you’d done that to him, he’d be bloody furious.”
Chanter listened to his heartbeat and the swish of blood rushing through his veins. The soun
ds were the only comfort in the strange, dead world in which he found himself. The rope made it hard to breathe, but he did not need to. He could sense the Powers, but they were all beyond his reach, shying away as if a wall blocked them. Dolana flowed under him, and his flesh cooled without Crayash, while Ashmar swirled around him, out of reach.
For someone who had used the Powers all his life, called on them whenever he needed them and, in moments of danger, unwittingly invoked them, their absence was frightening and strange. The instant the rope had tightened around his neck, the world had blurred and receded. Not as bad as the arrow in his flesh, for there was no pain this time, but similar. Time had become meaningless, just another part of the world with which he had no contact. The Lowmen mumbled in the distance, and a calm, helpless rage dwelt in him.
Vaguely, he was aware of someone dragging him across the floor and dumping him in a corner, his head banging against the wall. He no longer breathed, for the rope had closed his throat, and his lungs burnt for air. His heartbeat marked the time, but the beats were trackless, numberless, and uncountable. Isolated from the world, he had no way of knowing how long he lay in the corner. Only his memory provided an image of his surroundings. Sounds reached him through the numbness and the rush of blood in his brain.
The sharp clang of a pot jabbed his ears, making his neck muscles jerk and his eyelids flicker. Banging and scraping sounds sawed at his nerves, but they were faint, intangible, and not sufficiently real to break the bonds of stillness. At times, long stretches of silence entombed him further in his lost world, letting him sink into a numb abyss. His tenuous hold on reality slipped a little more each time, until a sound awakened him once more to the fact that something else existed. This slight assurance gave him little comfort when his senses cried out for stimulation. The fire’s crackle made him long for Crayash, while its lack chilled him.