Torn, confused, I sat on the stony ground near the mouth of the gorge and spread the map out on the ground. My hands trembled as I selected stones and placed them on the corners, so the wind would not blow the parchment away. Then, sitting very straight and still, I made my being calm, and looked at the map through half-closed eyes.
Along the great rivers my spirit flew, through the mountain gorges of the far north, over the borders of the Hena and the Igaal lands. But my people were not there. South I came, down through the snow-topped ranges, and down farther yet, toward our old Shinali lands. And there, in a canyon deep in the Napangardi Mountains, I felt a throb of life. I went along that place again, down a wide flat valley with a river, aware of the dizzy height of canyon walls all around. Then, in a vast natural cavern hidden by the sweeping cliffs, I felt the presence of my people. About halfway between Ravinath and the coast they were, and—as the eagle flies—only five miles from their old homeland. It seemed strange that they were so close to the place where the battle would be fought, almost as if they knew the time had come.
Nearly all the people were out on the flat ground in front of the cave. Shooting targets had been set up on sticks, and everyone strong enough to draw a bow was lined up in ranks, bows in hands, and Yeshi was going back and forth in front of them, shouting instructions. Beyond them, on the cliff face, a huge eagle had been painted in black. Under the eagle sat old Zalidas, more wrinkled and frail than ever, his hair pure white, yet with the strength of his dreams about him like a light. Very still he sat, dignified in full ceremonial and priestly garments, holy signs painted on his face. He was watching the archers, and his lips moved, as if in prayer.
As I looked at him, at the orderly ranks of archers, at the eagle painted on the cliff, a joy went through me, a wonderful astonishment, and I realized what they were doing: my people were preparing for war. Hardly able to contain my joy, my gratitude, I crouched in front of Zalidas. His lips became still, and his eyes widened. He was halfway in the other world, half entranced. With all my will, I passed to him two words: four days. I repeated the words several times, but Zalidas gave no sign that he received them. And then another idea struck me, though I did not know if it would work, or if I could do such a thing within a vision such as this: I decided to make an illusion of an eagle in flight, that would be seen by him and all the tribe.
Standing, I looked along the canyon, past the towering cliffs, and called up an image of my people’s sign. At the head of the canyon my eagle began its flight; it swooped low, gliding right over the heads of the archers, its wings almost sweeping their bows; then it turned and came along the cliff, past Zalidas, who was standing now, transfixed, his hands raised in salute to the giant eagle that passed, so close to him that the wind of its wings lifted his white hair; then it gave four loud cries, soared away, and vanished into light.
Everyone there saw it. For a few moments they stood looking up, and some of the little children ran to their mothers, screaming; but the young people gazed up in amazement, the old ones began chanting prayers, and Zalidas cried out in a loud voice, “The Eagle has come! Four days! Four days we have, and then they will join with us, our allies! Shoot well, my children, shoot well with your bows! Soon you will be on the battleground, fighting for our lands!”
I lifted my head, and saw that the shoorai wind had blown bits of grit and sand across my map. It was near evening. I looked along the shore of the lake to where the camp was and saw that several big cooking fires had been lit, for the usual pits were not large enough to contain meat for all that great company. Mudiwar and Ramakoda were still sitting on the council mat on the grass, with Embry and some of his soldiers, obviously still talking battle plans.
Shaking the dust off my map, I rolled it and began walking back, trying not to look at the signs of battle beneath my feet, for they spoke too clearly of the greater war to come. Despite the joy that my people were in readiness, I could not understand the heaviness on me, the feeling that although the Time of the Eagle had come, my part in it was somehow skewed, out of tune with who I was. I could not imagine picking up my bow and firing an arrow through the wondrous chambers of a man’s heart, even if that man was the soldier of the Emperor Jaganath. But neither could I imagine not marching in that mighty army, not being alongside my mother, and Yeshi, and all my people I loved, when they fought their last great fight for freedom. I felt torn, painfully divided.
Back at Mudiwar’s tent I put away the map and went to the healing tents. So many wounded, there were! In long lines they lay, tough Navoran soldiers alongside Igaal women and men and Hena warriors. Most were recovering well, and many were leaning up and talking to one another. They called a greeting to me as I went among them, and seemed cheerful enough. Some were in pain, and those I knelt by for a while, my hands on their nerve pathways. One Navoran soldier, a youth not much older than myself, was dying. As I sat by him he gripped my hand, his eyes full of suffering and fear. I eased his pain and held his hand while he made the journey to the shadow lands. When he had gone I closed his eyes and sat there by him with my head bent, sorrowing, wondering. Someone in the stone city loved him as son, brother, maybe husband. How could his death make anything right?
I went out and asked two of Embry’s men to come and carry the youth away for burial, then I went to my own small healing tent, where Chetobuh lay apart from the others. Ishtok was with him, and stood up when I entered.
“You look weary,” he said, coming close. I leaned my head on his shoulder, and he put an arm about me and kissed my brow. “Did you find your people?” he asked.
“Yes. They are in the Napangardi Mountains, less than a morning’s march north of their old homeland. They are preparing for battle. Will you go and tell Embry for me? Your Navoran is good now, and he will understand. I want to sit with Chetobuh awhile.”
“I’ll be glad to tell him.” Then he drew back a little and cupped my face in his hands, looking at me. “I thought this day you would be a high lot happy,” he said. “But you are sad. Why?”
“Because I hate war, Ishtok. What was done to Chetobuh here was wrong, the very worst kind of wrong. But does killing a man, even one of the men who did it to him, make it right? And how many killings will it take, to bring justice and peace? Our small battle here yesterday was bad enough. How many wounded are there? How many dead were buried and burned and sent to the skies today? How many, Ishtok?”
“There were more than two hundred wounded,” he replied. “Dead, there were fifty and two of Jaganath’s soldiers, nine of Embry’s men, twenty of my people, and five Hena.”
“Too many,” I said. “There has to be another way, Ishtok.”
“Another way for the Time of the Eagle to come?” he asked, surprised. Seeing that I was serious, he added, gravely, “It is your people’s dream that is fanning this fire, Avala. Your vision that has fired up my father, and Embry, and the Hena, and even the Navorans. If you want another way, you’ll have to find it.”
His lips brushed my cheek, and he went out.
I sat by Chetobuh and placed my hand on his brow. He was slightly feverish, and in pain again. I stopped his pain, and gave him water to drink. But he seemed distressed, and waves of fear came from him. Pitying him, I said gently, “If it is well with you, I will walk with you through your thoughts, your fears, and ease them. Will you agree to this?”
He nodded, and I bent over him until our brows touched. Images rushed over me—the rooftops of the stone city, with their slender pointed towers and noble domes, and courtyard gardens. I was looking down from a balcony high on a wall, and knew it was the palace. Then there were long passages of polished black stone, floors with beautiful mosaics, vast rooms with fountains and trees in gigantic pots, and ceilings painted blue with silver stars. And over all a brooding, fearful presence. Then a glimpse of a robe, brown and ordinary, and the back of an old man’s feet, shuffling as he went along a dusty floor. The light grew dim, and I saw the whole of the old man, his simple robe, long
such as the Navorans wore sometimes, and his white hair. He carried a small lamp. Down narrow stairs he went, and I followed. Blackness engulfed us. There was a sense of being enclosed, of stone all around, close and suffocating, and an unbearable fear of being buried alive. I thought of white light, and it was there, lighting up the old slave’s back, making a bright halo of his hair, and turning his small lamp to a dim yellow glow.
Through deep subterranean tunnels we went, winding and steep. Sometimes we came to vast caverns with three or four tunnels leading away from them, and the old man ahead chose one without wavering, and we followed. There were crypts where ancient dead lay in rotting binding cloths, and caves with dusty pots of arrows and spears, and the remains of fires from times long past. At times the passages were so small we stooped to pass through, and I felt the hammering of Chetobuh’s heart, his awful fear at being so deeply underground. Then we heard a deep booming through the rock, and soon after came out into a cave and saw gray cloudy skies, and the sea thundering on rocks far below. Chetobuh sobbed with relief.
I lifted my head and rubbed my forehead. I ached from the tension of our long underground journey, and realized my palms were sweating from the fear I had shared. But Chetobuh lay peaceful, sleeping, his lips curved.
I remembered a story my mother had told me, of how my father, too, had escaped the palace through catacombs, guided by a friend who knew them well. Did many know of those tunnels, I wondered? They went from the underground palace storerooms to the coast. I wondered how many slaves had dared escape that way, risking being lost, starving to death alone and in the dark. And while I wondered, the thought occurred to me that if people could escape the palace that way, they might also go in. Then other thoughts came, tumbling over one another, urgent and compelling—snatches of conversations in Ravinath, things Taliesin had said, about how Navora was built on slavery, and if every slave rebelled the city would fall within hours.
As if struck, I sat bolt upright, an amazing idea rushing over me. What if the slaves were armed, the city taken from within, Jaganath captured, his stronghold conquered, all within a single morning? Would there be a need, then, for the huge battle? Maybe not. But then, hard on the heels of hope, came the cold realization that if the slaves rebelled, Jaganath would summon his army. The slaughter would happen anyway, but the city itself would be the battleground, and the slaughtered would be the slaves, the very ones we wanted to rescue. No, I told myself, I was being irrational, desperate, dreaming. But the idea of a slave rebellion blazed strong in my mind, and I tried to think of ways it could be done without Jaganath calling on his army to subdue it.
For some strange reason, I remembered some of the poems Delano had read to me in Ravinath, his stirring battle epics of conquests of past times. Lines of his poems came to me, verses I had loved: a story of a small band who, by trickery, overwhelmed an entire army; an account of a bold uprising when surprise and cunning won against impossible odds; a tale of a king deceived, his army drawn to a false fight while his city fell, undefended. As I remembered the stories of cunning and deceit and pure bravery I wondered whether Jaganath, too, could be drawn into a false fight. Could he be deceived? I thought of what Embry had said about waiting being hard, and how he had been tempted at times to march on Navora before the Time of the Eagle, taking his chances with the small army he had. Could Jaganath be deceived into thinking that the Shinali had become impatient, that they were marching alone, without the other nations?
And then the ideas came, huge images flying like dreams into my mind, many at once, yet each one clear and whole and astonishing, until, within the space of a few heartbeats, I had the whole stupendous plan. For a while I sat there, breathless, hardly able to believe that such a plan had been given to me. But it was there, bold and blazing in my mind, and I had to take it to Embry, even if he laughed and called it mad.
Half afraid, astonished at my own audacity, I went outside to look for him. People were sitting on the mats, eating the evening meal. It was dusk, and the first stars were out. Embry was sitting with a group of his soldiers, and some of the Hena warriors, next to Mudiwar’s mat. I went over and stood at the edge of his group. Embry looked up and smiled.
“Come and sit down, Avala,” he said. “I wanted to talk with you. Ishtok told me where the Shinali are. I looked for you, to discuss the matter, and couldn’t find you.”
“I was with Chetobuh,” I said. Two of his soldiers moved to make room for me, and I sat between them, facing Embry across the bowls of food, suddenly shy, unsure of myself among these experienced soldiers. How real was an idea in a poem, against their combined years of battles and conquests? Hesitantly, I said, “I’ve had an idea. It’s probably a bit wild.”
“I like wild,” said Embry, with a grin. “Beside, you’ve already given one inspired speech; from the look on your face, I’d say there’s another coming up. Spit it out. I’m all ears.”
I said, “Navora can be taken from within. There are catacombs leading into the city. You know of them?”
Embry nodded. “Those catacombs are treacherous,” he said. “Very few people know the way through. I don’t know anyone familiar with them.”
“I know the way,” I said. “The slave Chetobuh escaped through the catacombs. The dread of them still torments him, and I’ve walked there several times with him, through his memories. I could find the way through.”
Embry put down his feasting knife. I saw some of his men lean forward, and they all stopped eating. “Go on,” said Embry.
I said, “I’ve been told that most of the people in the palace are slaves. I also understand that if all the slaves rebelled, the city would fall very quickly. If a group of your men went in through the catacombs, they could secretly arm the slaves, and organize a rebellion.”
“It wouldn’t work,” said one of the soldiers. “Jaganath would have his army into that city so fast, the slaves wouldn’t have time to fall down before they died.”
“Not if his army was already occupied,” I said, “already involved in a battle outside the city. It wouldn’t be the great battle with all the tribes, just a small battle, at first. A diversion, a false battle to confuse and distract. You said something to me the other day, Embry, about my people being patient as they wait for the Time of the Eagle. You said that sometimes you’ve been tempted to march on Navora before the right time. What if we deceived Jaganath into thinking that we are all impatient—you and your breakaway army, and the Shinali people—and that we are marching on Navora without waiting for the unity with the Hena and Igaal?”
I waited for another objection, but there was none.
“This is my plan, if it will work,” I continued. “At dawn, just as the slaves revolt, my people, with your forces, will enter through Taroth Pass, and march down across the Shinali land toward Navora. They will surely be seen, and Jaganath told. But thinking it is to be only a small battle, he will send out only part of his army to deal with it. Your army, with the Shinali, will meet Jaganath’s few thousand, and then, just as they join in battle, the full force of the combined tribes will come in through the pass and pour across the plain to support our side. It will be too late for Jaganath to do anything. Even if the rest of his army is on the way to the city by then, to put down the slave uprising, he will have to divert them to the real battle. It takes time to send messages, to change orders. It will be too late; his army will be divided, confused. Jaganath’s soldiers—the smaller force facing the twenty thousand warriors—will realize they are hopelessly outnumbered, and will surrender. By the time our tribes reach Navora, the city also will have fallen. Since most Navorans are already looking for the Time of the Eagle, we’ll be welcomed. The battle will be over, the Eagle will have settled its wings, and most of Jaganath’s army won’t even have got to the fight.”
For long moments there was utter silence on our feasting-mat. I had not noticed, until then, that some of the soldiers on nearby mats had overheard my plot and come near to hear more. Lamps had been lit
and placed on the mats, and in the leaping red light the soldiers’ faces were tense and expectant as they waited for Embry’s response. Embry rubbed his chin but said nothing.
“There is another reason this will work,” I said, “another reason we need the battle in two stages. My people don’t have horses, and will have to march to the battleground and fight on foot. They can’t start the battle at the same time as the Hena and Igaal warriors, who will move fast and fight from horseback; my people would be left behind, still marching onto the battleground while the battle is halfway through. My people need to go first, they need to begin the fight. That’s their right.”
Breathless, I waited for Embry’s word. At last he said, “By God, Avala, where did you learn battle tactics?”
“In Navoran poems,” I said.
One of his soldiers laughed, saying, “Delano! She’s been reading Delano! By God, I wish he was alive to know his poems inspired this last battle!”
“We don’t know, yet, that they have,” muttered Embry. He turned to the red-haired soldier next to him. “What say you, Boaz?” he asked. “Do you think this wild idea might work?”
“It’s insane,” growled Boaz. “Utter lunacy, too far-fetched to be credible. Of course it’ll work.”
Some of the soldiers cheered. We noticed that the feast was over, and we were the only group left on the mats. As I stood to go Embry said to me, “I’ll think about this idea of yours, and talk it over with my men. When the plan’s finalized, I’ll need you to translate while I talk with Mudiwar. It’ll be a late night, I’m thinking. The sooner we are on the move, the better.” He took my wrist in a Navoran handshake, adding, “Thank you. Your father would be proud of you, this night. One day the whole Navoran Empire will know your name, warrior-woman.”