A smooth bead is earned for each complete season of service. More may be threaded onto an auxiliary's service cord for any action deemed by a superior to go beyond those stipulated in the Legionary Code; such awards subject to ratification by a quaestor who shall index the action against the Categories of Valour. Rough beads are threaded onto a service cord according to statute infringements as listed in the Categories of Offence. The Protocol of Remission states that smooth beads may be given up to redeem rough beads subject to the Laws of Remission. The Laws of Remission are: first, that a rough bead may be redeemed by the loss of a smooth bead; second, rough beads may be redeemed by mandatory or voluntary chastisement as determined by the Laws of Punishment; third, three rough beads can only be redeemed by the concurrent loss of three smooth beads.
The Laws of Punishment are: first, that a rough bead may be redeemed by a standard flogging; second, that three rough beads may be redeemed by progressive mutilation as described in the Schedule of Removals and according to the corresponding protocols; third, that at any time a service cord should have on it five rough beads, the auxiliary to whom it belongs shall, without recourse to appeal, be put to death by crucifixion. The Schedule of Removals is applied as follows: on the first occasion, the middle fingers of both hands with associated knuckles; on the second, the ears; on the third, the nose; on the fourth, the right eye; on the fifth, the left eye.
It was the sudden stillness that pulled Carnelian up from his nightmare. He could no longer feel the sway of the black water. Confused, he wondered if the boat had brought him at last to the opposite shore? Opening his eyes, he found he was wedged in, buttocks pressing against a crossbeam, his knees almost in his face.
Somewhere, a man was speaking. Though his voice was harsh and nasal, its pouring of almost-words had a familiar sound that made Carnelian smile even as he strove to pluck out meaning.
'… the lads are scared enough already,' another voice was saying with a strange accent.
Dream still clouding his mind, Carnelian became convinced it was one of his marumaga brothers speaking. Grane perhaps, though Carnelian had a notion it was his Uncle Crail he had been expecting, who Aurum had had killed. Carnelian wanted to see Grane's face, but was unable to clear his head enough to call out.
'Do you imagine I'm any less afraid than they are, Father Cloud?' asked the nasal voice, speaking as if to the deaf. Through no choice of mine, I'm now as much involved in this sacrilege as the rest of you. If that weren't bad enough, what possessed you two to bring the Standing Dead with us?'
Carnelian did not recognize the voice, nor the strange term.
'Leave them be, Ranegale,' growled a weary voice Carnelian had not heard before. 'Can't you see their uncle and their brother lying there dead?'
Carnelian grew uneasy. All this talk of death and the strange names; worse, there was something peculiar about their speech that was making it hard to follow.
'Leave them be?' said Ranegale, the man with the nasal voice. 'You may be an Elder, Stormrane, but I don't believe even that gives you or your sons the right to let the dead ride.'
Realization came to Carnelian as a shock. The voices were speaking neither Vulgate nor the tongue of the Masters, Quya, yet he understood them. Incredibly, they were speaking the same barbarian language his nurse Ebeny had used with him and his brothers when they were children.
'… my doing, not theirs,' Stormrane was saying.
To hear the cadence of Ebeny's speech in a man's voice was startling.
'And was it you, my father, who ordered some of the lads to double up so as to free saddle-chairs in which to put the Standing Dead? I see by your silence it wasn't. Will you deny it was Ravan who first saw the Bloodguard and Fern who then found the Standing Dead? No? Then it seems we all agree it was your sons who drew us into that bloodbath, so don't ask me to leave things be. If they'd let things be, your brother and your eldest son would still be alive; you yourself and the rest of us unwounded and, even now, we'd all be safely on the road to Makar. Instead of which we're out here tainted by this sacrilege, the Mother forgive us and, if that weren't enough of a curse, we now have these white scorpions to deal with.'
White scorpions? Was Ranegale talking about him? More than one Master. Carnelian's mind cleared. As Ranegale continued droning accusations, Carnelian became desperate to see his beloved. His knees were blocking the view and he found that his head was wedged too tight against his chest for him to turn it. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied two youths squeezed one behind the other into a wicker saddle-chair.
'I won't allow you to accuse Ravan,' Stormrane was saying.
Forcing life into his hands, Carnelian swivelled them until they caught the edges of the saddle-chair. Gripping as hard as he could, he strained to pull himself up. The resulting spasm caused him to roll his eyes up into his head. Nausea surged in waves. Everything from neck to thighs was aching pulp.
'I don't recall you warning us of danger when my son spotted the Bloodguard among the slavers nor any complaints when we went in to rob them.'
The words pulsed with the blood hammering at Carnelian's temples.
'Sky and Earth! What's that got to do with anything?' Ranegale replied. 'It was only when Fern found the Standing Dead among the sartlar that the Bloodguard began to kill us.'
Sartlar? That word made the memory of his suffering seep in like rain through a cloak. He fumbled his hand up to his neck and trembled as it touched the raw crusty edges of his wound. He endured the agony as his fingers probed for and did not find the rope. That he felt naked without it made him weep bitter tears.
A voice carried from the distance and Carnelian heard creakings as the barbarians turned to look. He tried peering down the tunnel between his knees and saw that his saddle-chair curved up into a basketwork prow. Beyond stood his aquar's neck, past which he could make out, against the brooding sky, a giant from which the voice appeared to be coming.
Thank the Skyfather that at least we're not pursued,' said Cloud, the man with Grane's voice.
'What need have they to chase us,' said Ranegale, 'when they know the dragons will do their work for them?'
'We must get back onto the road then?' A youthful voice taut with fear.
There we'd have no chance at all, thanks to you, boy.'
'Ravan…' said Cloud, gently. The fight was sure to have been seen from the watch-tower. Our descriptions will have been sent all the way down the road. Patrols will already be on their way up from Makar as part of the scouring. On the road they'd trap us as easily as if we were on an earthbridge.'
Then we must hide deeper in the fields,' said the youth.
'Without the watch-towers to steer by we'd soon be lost.' Cloud gazed out, sadly. This enslaved earth has no trees, no hills, no landmarks at all save only kraals, each identical to every other.'
'How far are we from the road?' bellowed Ranegale in the direction of the giant.
'We'll still see the tower flares,' a reply came back.
The voice seemed to Carnelian ludicrously thin for such a giant. He was still dazed. He focused on thoughts of Osidian, desperate to know if he still lived. Fearing another spasm, he gingerly applied pressure with his thighs and, gritting his teeth, slid himself back and up his saddle-chair.
Squinting against the pounding in his head, Carnelian saw there were perhaps twenty aquar ranged around him. A few were riderless, the others bore men and youths enveloped in black hri-cloth, their legs hooked over the peculiar transverse crossbars that formed the front of their saddle-chairs. Most of the raiders had their heads turbaned by more of the cloth so that only their faces were exposed. Save that these were free of the chameleon tattoo, the raiders could have been from his own household. Searching among them, he found a saddle-chair into which a patchy black body had been folded. Carnelian's heart leapt. He did not need to see the face to know it was Osidian.
The raiders were looking into the distance and, when he followed their gaze, he saw a man riding towards them behind whom rose the giant that Carnelian now realized was nothing more than the overseer tower of a kraal.
'You saw no one in any direction, Loskai?' Ravan again. Carnelian located the youth standing on the ground, a slash of dried blood across his forehead and cheek, his face sweat-glazed, bruised.
Loskai shook his head. Ravan turned to look round at another rider who was hunched forward gripping his ankles, his loosely-turbaned head almost resting on his knees. Ravan sank his chin.
'You're right, Ranegale, this is all my fault. I was the one who noticed the Bloodguard.'
'Don't speak like that, son.' It was Stormrane reaching out to grasp Ravan's shoulder. The man had a grey mane worked through with feathers, peppered with pale beads. Deep grooves around his mouth and eyes made him seem an old man, but if so, a strong one, though his sickly pallor showed how serious was the wound he bore. Stormrane had so much the look of one of Carnelian's people he was lost for a moment trying to work out which one he might be.
Ravan, looking up at his father with adoration, forced from him a grim smile. 'Son, you fought bravely. You made me proud. You'll have a good scar to show your hearthmates.'
Ravan tried a grin, but the corners of his mouth dragged it down. His eyes strayed to where two bodies were stretched out on blankets on the ground.
'Your brother and your uncle were warriors who brought the Tribe much salt,' said Stormrane, misery dulling his eyes.
Ravan was no longer seeing the dead but rather something in his mind. 'How was the Bloodguard able to kill them both?'
They were overmatched,' said Cloud. Next to Stormrane, he seemed to be the oldest there. Wisps of greying hair framing his cowled face threaded beads similar to Stormrane's that Carnelian judged to be some of their precious salt.
The youth turned to look at Cloud. Standing over the corpses, he shook his head and frowned. 'I'd heard but not believed how fast the Bloodguard are, how skilled.'
One of the other youths stuttered something and, suddenly, Carnelian found the barbarians jerking round to gape at him. He watched the colour drain from their faces. Some were trembling.
Ravan made some comment about Carnelian's eyes.
'Angels or not, I say we kill them now,' shrilled Loskai. He darted looks at the other men, making sure to always keep Carnelian in view as he might a serpent. 'Kill them both, before they get their power back, before they bring the dragons down on us.'
Carnelian cared for nothing but the use of plurals, the pronouns that proved Osidian must be alive.
'What makes you so sure they can be killed?' asked Stormrane.
Carnelian's awareness of their fear, their hatred, was washed away by the warm relief of knowing Osidian lived.
Cloud lifted his hands and quietened the youths.
'Well, Fern,' said Ranegale, 'I'll ask you in the hope you'll stop hiding behind your father.' He let go of his ankles and straightened up to point at Carnelian. 'Why've you landed us with the poison of these Standing Dead?'
Carnelian wondered why they referred to Masters thus. He noticed Ranegale had only a single eye, the other being concealed by a leather band. Hidden beneath the windings of his head cloth, the lower half of his face seemed unnaturally flat.
Another man stepped into view. Young, slender, he was taller than Stormrane, much darker skinned. He looked quite unlike the other barbarians.
'I'm not hiding behind my father.'
Fern's voice was husky. He turned dark eyes on Carnelian, who was forced to bear their sharp hatred. Fern frowned and his stare lost its intensity.
'I don't know,' he said, sounding surprised. He seemed to be examining Carnelian for a sign who, in turn, registered the livid welt cutting along Fern's jaw line.
'Because of them my brother and my uncle are dead; my father's wounded, my little brother.' Fern glanced at Stormrane and Ravan and then back at Carnelian, his eyes slitting. Then he looked at Ranegale, his face becoming haunted with uncertainty.
'How can I answer you when I don't know myself. Finding them has brought death to my kin. Perhaps I just couldn't ride away with nothing to show for so much loss.'
Ranegale, who had cupped his hands to the sides of his shrouded face to listen, dropped them. 'You mean the way you ran away from the legions?'
Snarling, the young man sprang forward but Cloud caught him in a hug. Carnelian's aquar threw back its head crowned with startled plumes, rocking spasms of agony up his back and neck.
'You know perfectly well, Ranegale, why he left the service.'
In Cloud's arms, Fern glared. He glanced at his father for support, but Stormrane turned away and Fern's face fell.
'Because they hurt him,' whined Ranegale in a pantomime voice, rolling his head as he spoke. He froze. 'Service in the legions hurts everyone. I should know.'
His hand straying up to his face lacked a middle finger. Carnelian stared because, in spite of the swarthy skin, the hand resembled those of the Wise. A token of the four-horned Lord of Mirrors, warlike avatar of the Black God.
Stormrane threw back his maned head, making the beads tinkle. 'You're always parading your mutilations as if they were marks of honour. I and many* of my line managed a longer service than you with only a few stripes on our backs and, when we returned, we each brought the Tribe many times more salt.'
Loskai edged his aquar closer to Ranegale, whose shrouded head was looking down at Stormrane.
'You'd better look around you, old man. The days when you and your kin could oppress us with your service records have passed.'
He stabbed a finger at the dead. 'Your brother and your eldest are corpses. Though you hide it, you yourself have taken a wound that's as like as not going to finish you. Then all that will be left of your line will be a few boys barely of age and, for a while, the half-breed.'
He cast a dismissive glance at Fern. 'Do you believe the brass still at his throat is going to command much awe in the Tribe?'
Carnelian searched for and found the plain legionary collar forged around Fern's neck which only the Masters had the knowledge to remove. Cloud let him go as Stormrane squared his shoulders to face down Ranegale and Loskai. Clearly, he intimidated them.
'When the time comes, Fern will pay for his desertion.' Stormrane glanced at Fern who hung his head.
The raised voices were making the aquar nervous. The youths on their backs were looking upset; several close to tears. Cloud forced his way between the two parties.
'Stop this! We're not going to help ourselves or our tribes by fighting each other.'
Cloud went among the aquar, smiling, addressing each youth in turn, putting straightness into their backs. Some dabbed their eyes, sneaking looks at each other to see if their unmanliness had been witnessed.
'Will the Elders do us the favour of letting us hear their plan,' growled Ranegale.
'Nothing's changed,' said Stormrane. 'We go on to Makar.'
Through the scouring line? With the dead?'
Now at his father's side, Fern lifted a fist. 'Do you want to leave them here to rot and so deny them their place in the sky?'
'If it will save the rest of us from joining them. Besides,' he pointed to the kraal tower, 'that will form a perfectly good burial platform.'
Stormrane shook his head with anger. 'Even if this sky were our sky, you deliberately forget this accursed land is shunned by all but the most unclean birds. Had you been in his place, my brother would never have left you behind.'
Cloud had returned. 'We'll just have to find some way to take them with us through the line.'
Stormrane did not seem to hear him.
'What about the Standing Dead?' asked Ranegale.
Stiff-faced, Stormrane and Fern both looked sidelong at Carnelian.
Cloud shrugged, grimacing apologetically. 'You did make us bring them, Fern. Surely you must've had some notion what to do with them?'
Carnelian was relieved when Fern looked away, running a hand up his forehead, pushing back the cloth and revealing some of his thick curling hair. 'Revenge…? Some recompense…?'
Torture?' asked Loskai. 'Murder?'
Fern let his hand fall. 'What good would that do?'
Cloud was looking at them horrified. Torture? Murder? Are you all possessed? These are Standing Dead; angels. Can you imagine with what fury the rest of their kind would hunt us if we harm them in any way?' His eyes widened. 'For such a sin they'd torch the Earthsky from end to end.'
Ranegale gave a snort. They're rather shabby for angels.' Despite his bravado, Carnelian felt the man's unease as he turned his single eye towards him. 'Just being here they make a bad situation hopeless. Let's finish them. What more do we have to lose? If we bury them deep enough, they'll never be found.'
Stormrane shook his head. 'I agree with Cloud. The risk's too great. Besides, now we have them we may as well try and put them to some use.'
Ranegale sneered at him. 'And how do my fathers suggest we take them along with us? We've no spare aquar.'
Cloud looked at him tentatively. 'Some of the lads could double up.'
'Am I the only one who can see that the Standing Dead are too weak to ride? We barely got them this far,' said Ranegale.
'We're going to have to make drag-cradles to carry our dead,' said Fern. 'Making a couple more wouldn't delay us much.'
'Drag-cradles will slow us down.'
Loskai spoke up: 'My brother's right. Whichever way we go, we'll run into dragons. Pulling drag-cradles, we couldn't hope to outrun them.'
Stormrane looked murderous. 'I'll not leave my son nor my brother behind.'
Fern clasped his father's arm but Stormrane tore himself free.
'I won't have to,' he said, oblivious of the hurt he had just caused his son. 'I'll work out some other way to get us through the line.'
'It becomes clear how the renowned Elder, Stormrane, achieved the rank of a three-squadron commander,' drawled Ranegale.
Stormrane's face hardened and he looked away to the horizon as if he had noticed something moving on it. 'Between the South Road and the Ringwall, the land narrows all the way to Makar. It would be preferable if we were to hold back: the longer we wait the more the line will stretch, pulling open the gaps between the dragons.'
He held up a knotted cord for all to see. This only holds fifteen days. Pulling the drag-cradles through mud we'll need every one of those to reach the meeting in time.'
'Do you think we'll make it, father?' asked Ravan, hope in his face.
Stormrane smiled. 'Of course we will, son.'
Cloud had become sombre. 'Let's hope so. Our tribes sent us to protect our tributaries. Only a few days remain before we're supposed to meet them in Makar. If we're late, they might try crossing the Leper Valleys without us.'
Ranegale fixed them with a baleful eye. 'And will you, Father Stormrane, and what's left of your line take it upon yourselves to look after the Standing Dead?'
Grimly, Stormrane glanced at Fern, then gave a nod.
As he leaned against the neck of Carnelian's kneeling aquar, the youth stared at him without a blink. It was easier to ignore that stare than the constant throbbing ache of his body. Sleep with its grinding, bitter nightmares was a poor refuge. Carnelian tried instead to distract himself by concentrating his attention on the demolition of the kraal tower. More of the barbarian youths were swarming its upper storeys, tearing off the woven matting to get at the scaffolding beneath. Poles that had been worked free were being fed down to the kraal bridge, where the men were splitting them with axes.
When his aquar stirred and seemed about to rise, Carnelian gritted his teeth, anticipating agony. Through his lidded eyes he watched the youth reach up and caress the creature's eye-plume fans closed. Carnelian looked for what had disturbed the aquar and saw Stormrane and Fern approaching. The older man had the same slow pained walk Carnelian's wounded father had had as they journeyed along the leftway to Osrakum. Snatches of that other life formed and melted before his mind's eye. He glimpsed but would not allow to fully surface the thought of his father exposed to Ykoriana's malice. For a moment it was better to relive what had been. Back on the leftway. It was strange that dark time should now appear so bright. At least then, a few pieces of his world had still remained unscattered.
Feeling someone beside him, he looked up. Grief sat over Fern's face like a mask. Carnelian saw the brown eyes registering surprise, perhaps at detecting his compassion, but then they flicked away.
This one's conscious,' Fern said to his father, in their tongue.
Carnelian considered the man who had saved him from the slavers. His eyes were drawn to the brass bright against Fern's dark throat. The boss bore no legionary cypher and the band appeared to be free of rank and service sliders.
Carnelian became aware Fern was watching him. As their eyes meshed the barbarian erupted into anger.
'You have to get out of the saddle-chair,' he said in thickly accented Vulgate.
'I don't have the strength,' Carnelian said.
'We'll lift you.'
Carnelian saw the opportunity. 'Did you have to lift the other Master?'
'We don't have time for debate.' Stormrane grabbed Carnelian's arm and pulled on it.
Carnelian cried out as his spine twisted.
Fern's voice came through the ringing pain. 'You're hurting him.'
Carnelian opened his eyes and saw Stormrane throwing off his son's restraining hand. Carnelian could not help noticing it lacked a middle finger.
'If you're so concerned about this one, you sort him out,' snapped Stormrane. He snatched the shoulder of the staring youth and led him away. Fern watched them go with the look of one who had just been slapped. He became aware of Carnelian.
Though he is an angel, your friend burns with fever.'
Carnelian looked from the barbarian's four-fingered hand into his face, fear for Osidian freezing everything else out. 'Can you let me see him?'
The barbarian crossed his arms, hiding his mutilated hands in his armpits.
'I can hardly tell you apart. Are you brothers?'
Carnelian was touched by the man's vulnerability.
'Well?'
Carnelian regarded the frowning mahogany face and wondered what answer to give. A nod was safer than the truth. 'Please show me where he is?'
Fern shook his head. 'We don't want you near each other.'
Carnelian considered befriending this barbarian by confessing that he understood their tongue, but decided this was an advantage he could ill afford to give away.
'You mean, the older man that was here doesn't.'
Fern's face darkened. That older man is my father, who with good reason blames you for the killing of our kin.'
'Do you?'
'What do you think!'
Carnelian caught a look in Fern's face that belied his words. 'Can you do anything for… my brother's fever?'
Fern looked surprised. 'You believe it possible he might die?'
Carnelian worried about what power his answer might lose him.
Fern frowned. 'If he were like other men there would be a chance he might wake from it. Until then, all that can be done for him is to give him water and what food he will swallow.'
Carnelian saw he had to speak. 'He is a man.' Clearly, Fern had difficulty believing this.
'Will you see to feeding him yourself?'
When Fern gave a ragged nod, Carnelian decided that would have to be enough. The man made motions indicating that Carnelian should climb out of the saddle-chair. Twisting sent a deepening stab into his back.
'Perhaps it'd be better if I stay here.'
Fern set his jaw. 'No.'
'Are you afraid I'll escape?'
'Why wouldn't you?'
Carnelian was reluctant to attempt an explanation. 'How far could I get without reins?'
Fern's mouth curved with contempt. 'Real riders don't need them.'
Carnelian was too weak to argue.
It took them a while to manoeuvre him out onto the ground. He stood, swaying a little, stooping to relieve the agony which was squeezing a cold sweat from his skin.
Looking at Fern's feet, Carnelian began chuckling. The dark mirth bubbled out until over it he could hear the man, puzzled, asking him what was happening.
Carnelian managed to speak. 'I was just thinking…' Chuckling took over again. 'I might… might be more comfortable if you gave me back my ropes.'
Rain ran down Carnelian's face. It was the only part of him exposed. The rest sloped down to where, just beyond his feet, the two poles of the drag-cradle were gouging the earth. He could see their double track scratching off over the wake of chopped-up mud left by the aquar. Beyond, the land stretched featureless, greyed by the downpour. Above him the tail of Fern's aquar swung like a tiller, narrowing to a whip that sometimes stroked his feet. Blankets and leather bands swaddled him to the drag-cradle frame. It quivered with each step the aquar took. Dozing, Carnelian thought he was back on the accursed ship that had brought him with his father and his brothers from their island to the shore of the Three Lands and the Commonwealth of the Masters.
When day began fading to night, the barbarians called a halt. The stillness of the drag-cradle came as a blessed relief. Fern walked out in front of Carnelian, his face haggard, his legs and cloak splattered with mud. He was motioning instructions. Carnelian felt a tremor in the frame. Turning his head, he saw brown hands holding on to the wood.
'What're they doing?' he asked.
Fern glanced down at him. 'Unhitching your drag-cradle from my aquar.'
His dark eyes flicked away. The frame gave a shudder that awoke Carnelian's pain. With a rasping, he felt the poles come free even as the aquar's tail started feeding away over him, its tip dragging up the blankets towards his face. He closed his eyes, anticipating its touch, but then he felt the frame being lowered to the ground.
He opened his eyes and blinked away the rain. 'What news of the dragons?' he said to no one in particular.
Fern loomed over him, issuing instructions in their barbarian tongue. Carnelian could hear the suck and splash of footfalls as the youths moved away.
Fern's face came close enough to Carnelian's that it sheltered him from the rain. He examined Fern's brown eyes. He could smell him and feel the heat of his anger.
Fern bared his teeth. 'Don't imagine they'll rescue you. I'd kill you myself before I let that happen.'
He disappeared. When the constant patter of rain on Carnelian's face had cooled his own anger, he began to wonder if he was going to be left all night in the rain. When Fern returned, it was to force some strips of leather into Carnelian's mouth which he had to chew or else choke. It was only as his mouth began to fill with musty flavour that he realized it was dried meat.
For days, Carnelian was dragged through a constant pelting rain. His blankets clung heavy and sodden. Often the mud grew so deep the poles stuck fast. As Fern's aquar struggled to break loose, Carnelian would suffer with each shudder. Though the barbarians were always hidden from him, he could hear the desperation in their voices as they urged their aquar on. Their march was a monotonous slap and suck amidst the downpour. Carnelian knew they were sending lookouts ahead. A voice would shout something down from the sky. The raiders would not pause but would continue on until the kraal tower would slide into Carnelian's view and he would watch it shrink and fade.
Each evening as the day was squeezed black by the rumbling sky, Fern fed him more strips of dried meat. Carnelian lubricated his chewing by opening his mouth and letting it fill with rain. When asked, Fern would confirm Osidian's condition unchanged. His moroseness discouraged conversation. Ravan was often there, resentful as he helped his brother with the feeding, with the unhitching, with the hitching that every morning freed Carnelian from the blinding rain. As he was angled up he was able to blink his eyes open and peer blearily at the infinite, drear monotony of the Guarded Land.
Against that landscape, Fern and his brother were often the only living things Carnelian could see. He became intuitive in reading their moods, seeing past the masks of fear they wore. Their grief was deepening and he felt he knew the cause: he could not recall the last time he had heard their father's voice.
The raiders pressed on towards Makar. Each day that passed put another twist of dread into their stomachs as they searched the horizon for the scouring line and its dragons.
The drag-cradle came suddenly to a halt. Carnelian heard Ravan cry out, then Fern. Young voices were making a commotion. Carnelian shook himself out of his stupor, anxious to know what was going on. Facing away from the barbarians, all he could do was strain to pick out their voices.
'Does he live?' asked Ranegale. There were some words Carnelian could not catch, then: 'Put him back in his saddle-chair.'
'We must make another cradle.' Fern's voice, sounding frightened.
'We've no time for that,' said Ranegale.
'We'll make time.' Cloud's voice. 'Do you really believe he'd be lying there in the mud if he had the strength to ride?'
'He gave you the cord, Cloud. How many knots does it hold now?'
For a while Carnelian could hear only the whispering of the youths. 'Seven.'
'Our best hope is that whatever's delaying the scouring line will keep it in Makar for five days more. That's already bleak enough don't you think, Father Cloud? And now you've decided to back Fern in what will cause us at least half a day's delay.'
'Let's dump one of the Standing Dead,' said Ravan. 'My one's fever is going to get him anyway so we might as well use his cradle for my father.'
Ranegale's nasal voice rose to a bellow: 'No. We need them both alive.'
'Why?' demanded Cloud.
There was a silence during which Carnelian struggled but the leather bands were too tight.
'Why doesn't my father let us all in on his plan to get through the scouring line should we run into it.'
'My plan is that which Stormrane trusted me with. We fire some kraals and when the auxiliaries come to see what's happening we slip through the gap they leave in the line.'
There were murmurs of support.
'So you all feel this is a good plan, eh? I'd like to see you set fire to rain-sodden wood.'
Voices rose in protest.
'Listen. Listen! That's not really important. If you'll listen, I'll tell you what is. Have you any idea how close the roads have come on either side of us?'
They all fell silent.
'I can see you do. Well, imagine now how close together the aquar twenties will be in the line. It will be a city wall with dragons as its towers. Most of us have seen how fast dragons can move and we all know perfectly well how swift unburdened aquar run. The Standing Dead in the dragons' towers will spot us the moment we make a break for it. They'll close the gap like this.'
A slap like whiplash.
Then we'll just have to creep through at night,' said Fern.
'If you'd stayed in the legions more than a few days you wouldn't be saying anything so stupid. They'll set their fires close enough for their light to overlap. Even if they didn't we'd never be able to time it. No. If we run into them there's only one way we'll get through. We'll have to move one of the dragons out of line.'
Everyone began shouting at once. Carnelian strained to hear Ranegale's voice among the others. He caught the phrase, 'Standing Dead'. The hubbub quietened.
'We'll leave them both, or maybe just one of them, in a kraal to be found by the auxiliaries.'
'Rather than suffer death for having looked on them, they'd murder them,' said Fern. 'How would their commanders ever find out?'
'We'll tie them up to the kraal's outer wall so they can be seen from the dragon towers. Of course the poor bastards will all die for seeing our Standing Dead, but it'll bring a dragon. With luck, more than one.'
'And you think this would make a breach in their line big enough for us to race through?' asked Cloud. From the tone of his voice Carnelian could tell the Elder was already half convinced.
'You're going to hand them over alive?' asked Fern, incredulous.
'If we give them corpses, the auxiliaries will leave them guarded in a kraal and then hunt us down,' said Ranegale.
'And alive, our Standing Dead will bring them down on us like lightning,' said Fern.
'Can you imagine the confusion when they find two living Standing Dead out here? Dead they'll bring down swift vengeance: alive, perhaps they'll open us a door in the scouring line. We'll flee towards Makar. Once we reach the pass we'll lose any pursuit. They'll never find us in the Earthsky.'
They'll close the pass against us,' said Fern.
Their laws forbid it for at least another twenty days.'
'Don't you think they'll overturn their laws to avenge two of their own?'
'Cloud, give me the reckoning cord.'
Carnelian could hear the movement of an aquar.
'Look at how few knots lie between us and Makar. If this cloud cover holds they won't be able to use the speaking mirrors. Their couriers, we might outrun.'
'With drag-cradles?' asked Cloud.
'We'll have to ditch those,' said Ranegale. 'Glare all you like, Fern. You know as well as I do there's no other way.'
'Fern,' Cloud said. 'You can cut their hearts out, take them home and, in your koppie, give them to the sky.' 'What about my father?' Fern demanded.
'Ranegale, are you sure we need both the Standing Dead?' Loskai interrupted.
They're our only hope and one of them already looks like he might die,' said Ranegale. 'Besides, we might be able to use the trick twice to widen the opening in the line. We daren't throw away any chance.'
'What… about… my… father?' Ravan squeezed the words out one at a time through his rage.
As the barbarians fell to arguing Carnelian closed his eyes. The pain in Ravan's voice had awoken in him a memory of the anguish he had known on the road when his own wounded father had been close to death. He forced himself to work out what he should do. When he had it, to make sure they would listen, he hardened his heart and became a Master. When he spoke, his voice had the characteristic resonance of power.
'What is all that noise about?'
The arguing died. Carnelian felt the judder as Fern jumped down from his saddle-chair. He heard the sucking footfalls of aquar approaching. The ground trembled as they began moving round into sight. Barbarian faces frowned down at him, then Fern appeared at his side. Seeing the pain in his face, Carnelian faltered, dropping the attempt at imperiousness.
Tell me what all the arguing is about. Please.'
Ranegale's eye flashed. 'Why should we tell you anything?'
Fern looked to Cloud, who shrugged. 'What harm can it do?'
Once he had Fern's gaze again, Carnelian held it as the man began recounting the arguments.
'Well then,' Carnelian said, when Fern was done. The solution is simple. Your father must lie here and I'll take his place in the saddle-chair.'
Ravan stared. Ranegale sneered through the cloth wrapped around his face, 'We might not be angels, Master, but that doesn't make us fools.'
Without disengaging his eyes, from Carnelian's, Fern said: 'He wouldn't try to escape as long as we hold the other Master. They're brothers.'
'Will he be any more able to ride than Stormrane?' asked Cloud.
Carnelian had seen the hope that had come into Fern's eyes. Though he had understood Cloud's words, he made Fern translate them for him.
'Do you believe I'm as enfeebled as your father?' he asked him.
Fern's pain and grief turned to anger. 'Why are you doing this?'
Carnelian wanted to tell him that he understood; that once his own father had been wounded. The word 'compassion' was on his lips, but he swallowed it. It was not a word they would believe coming from a Master's mouth.
'I wish to ensure you use Ranegale's plan. I know you'll not leave your father behind.' He glanced at Ranegale. 'In the end I don't think even he would leave him behind… not alive anyway. If they found your father alive, the legion would get from him the name of your tribe. You're wise to fear the Masters. If they can, they will exterminate you and all your people for what you've seen and done. Other options will cause a delay. Any delay makes it more likely you'll be forced to try Stormrane's plan. If you managed to elude the line, what would you do with us? I fear you would kill us, hide us in the earth, hope the vengeance of the Masters would be blinded and not find you.'
Ranegale's eye glared down at Carnelian. 'Have you considered, Master, that speed might bring us to Makar before the legion sets out?'
The blankets suppressed Carnelian's shrug. 'I'd consider it if your voice weren't telling me you don't believe it yourself.'
Ranegale frowned and Carnelian saw he had the knotted cord pulled tight between his fists. 'Free him and we'll see if he can ride.'
Fern released the bands that bound Carnelian to the drag-cradle, then peeled off the sodden blankets. The eyes of the barbarians on him, Carnelian turned with a groan to clutch one of the drag-cradle's poles. He allowed Fern to help him up. Ravan hung around in the background, uncertain whether to help. Tottering, Carnelian forced his spine straight. He took some steps towards the kneeling aquar swimming at the centre of his vision. He leaned on Fern, who, somehow, managed to help him into the saddle-chair.
'Her name's Blur,' Fern whispered in Carnelian's ear.
At his touch the aquar rose, thrusting Carnelian up towards the stormy sky. He clawed hold of the chair.
'Are you all right?' Fern asked.
Carnelian nodded. Ravan and the others were lifting Stormrane into the drag-cradle. Fern was freeing something from the side of the saddle-chair. Glancing down, Carnelian saw it was a spear. His eyes followed the haft to the head. He stared.
'Sky-metal,' he said, in Quya.
'What?' said Fern.
Carnelian pointed at the rusty iron spearhead that was the length of his hand.
Fern frowned at the spear. 'It is my father's, passed down through his line from father to son.' His frown deepened as he hefted it. Carnelian wondered if Fern was considering that it might soon pass to him.
'It's a precious heirloom.'
Fern regarded him. 'I shall not claim it.'
'You know its worth?'
'I'm not my father's true son,' he said, bitterly. Carnelian realized Fern and the other barbarians could have no idea they had in their possession fabulous wealth. Though, when he considered it, it was wealth that could not easily be realized. Who but the Masters could afford such a treasure? To offer iron for sale was more likely to bring death than riches.
Fern was speaking. 'Can you move further up the chair?' He tapped the spear on the crossbeam of bundled rods that ran transversely across the aquar's back and stuck out on either side. 'Grip this with the back of your knees.'
Carnelian's buttocks were hard against it. As he pushed himself up the chair he felt as if his back were tearing apart. He was hardly aware of Fern's hand helping him.
'The chair's too small for you but we don't have the time to adjust it now.'
He helped Carnelian angle his shins so he could get his feet to the aquar's back.
'She's used to my father and will not respond well to kicking. If you lift your feet from her back, she'll kneel. To move right or left, apply more pressure on that side. To make her pick up speed, rock your feet from heel to toe.' He took hold of one of Blur's three-fingered hands to keep her steady. Try it.'
Carnelian found it was harder than it sounded. Feeling his foot being gripped, he leaned forward to watch Fern moving it in the way he had described. Sensing Carnelian's eyes on him, Fern let the foot go.
To stop her, dig your heels in.'
Carnelian made some ineffectual attempts to follow the instructions. Fern twitched a smile at him.
'You'll pick it up. For the moment, just make sure you keep your feet flat on her back and she'll shoal with the others.'
As Fern had said, Blur maintained her position in the midst of the other aquar with no need of Carnelian's directing. But he failed to find a posture in which her every footfall did not jar his spine.
Carnelian was trying to doze when it occurred to him there was nothing stopping him from seeing Osidian. Recalling Fern's instructions, he dug his heels gently into his aquar's back. Blur slowed and the other aquar began passing by on either side. As she came to a halt, Carnelian searched the drag-cradles. There were four. Two carried Fern's uncle and brother, their corpse faces slimy with rain. In another he recognized Stormrane's grey tousled head. Furthest away, the fourth held nothing that looked like Osidian. Carnelian heard Ranegale's cry and looked up to see him stopped and looking round. Carnelian hardly noticed Fern coming up to Ranegale and paid no attention to their quarrelling. The whole group was beginning to pull away from him.
He focused his attention on the fourth drag-cradle and tried to apply Fern's lessons. Rocking both his feet from heel to toe, he made Blur begin walking. He tried putting more pressure on his left foot. Sweat running down his back, he held to his purpose and, to his delight, Blur veered towards the cradle. When they were near it, he sagged back and left it to her to match her stride smoothly to the rest.
The drag-cradle looked like the pupae of some monstrous butterfly. He managed to find a face, but did not immediately recognize it as Osidian's. Faded to brown, the bitumen made the white skin showing through appear to be leprosy. He could see nothing of the familiar beauty, nor any sign of life. There seemed not enough of the man he loved even to make Carnelian grieve. Osidian's life had reversed the order of things. He was a butterfly who had returned to melt his beauty into the filthy casing of a chrysalis. Carnelian could not bear to imagine what of Osidian might survive. It was better he should die. How could there be a life for him worth having in this outer world? Should Ranegale's plan work they might be found and then, no doubt, be returned to Osrakum. Even if Osidian were to reach there alive, he would suffer the death the Law decreed for those who were brothers to a new God Emperor. Over his corpse, Carnelian would accuse those responsible for the kidnapping, the defilement. He would unmask Ykoriana and Jaspar's schemes. He would liberate his father from whatever punishment they had inflicted on him. He, Suth Carnelian, would have his revenge on all of them. He closed his eyes, savouring it.
Laughter rattled his chest like a fit of coughing. It seemed the greatest irony that it was only now he had become a slave and captive that he should have finally acquired the taste for vengeance of a true Master.
Slow lightning was playing over the bellies of the clouds.
A word was passing among the raiders like a rumour. 'Dragonfire.'
Carnelian watched the next burst flicker for a while, then die. Looking round at the barbarians, he could see their fear. Voices made bleak requests about stopping, but Ranegale insisted they must push on until they reach the next kraal.
They headed towards the silent, flickering dragonfire until, at last, they reached a kraal. Ranegale scaled its tower accompanied by Loskai and Cloud. Carnelian waited with the others, his heart fluttering between hope and a bleak desire that the coming crisis should be delayed.
When the men came down it was obvious they had seen nothing but the dragonfire. Everyone was glad when Ranegale declared they would camp there for the night. Carnelian lifted his feet from Blur's back and she sank to the ground. He bowed his head as he mustered the endurance to climb out.
'Fern sent me to help,' a voice said in a thick Vulgate. Carnelian lifted his head and saw it was a youth he did not know.
'I'm…' The youth hesitated, then smiled. 'Krow, from Father Cloud's tribe.'
In the uncertainty of that smile Carnelian could see the fears that had been haunting everyone for days. He let the youth take his weight and slowly they managed to get him standing. Carnelian lent back against the saddle-chair fearing he might faint.
'She's a good one,' said Krow.
Carnelian looked at him not understanding.
"This aquar…' said the youth, patting the creature's neck.
'Yes,' said Carnelian.
'I could try and adjust her chair for you, if you'd like.'
'You're kind but I'll not have much further need of it.' He indicated the flickering sky.
When Krow turned to look, Carnelian saw fear peeping through.
'You've never seen it before?'
The youth turned to look at him, then shook his head. 'Neither have I,' Carnelian admitted. Krow looked incredulous. 'No, really.'
They waited for the sky to light up again and then watched it until Carnelian noticed Fern approaching. He looked so morose Carnelian felt compelled to say something. Pointing he called out: 'No doubt you've seen dragonfire often before.'
As Fern blushed, Carnelian remembered his legionary collar had no sliders and he regretted his clumsiness.
Fern locked eyes with him. 'We're going to have to remove the bitumen from your skins. Krow here will help.'
'And Ravan?'
Fern sent Krow away to fetch some water. 'My brother and his father are very close.'
'He blames me,' said Carnelian, sadly. 'Does that surprise you?'
Carnelian held Fern's gaze. 'I can't regret that you saved our lives but I do regret at what cost.'
Fern looked down at his hands. 'Do you need help walking?'
'I'll manage, thank you.' They moved off, Carnelian enduring the awkwardness of each step.
'How far away are the dragons?' he asked to distract himself from the prospect that he was soon going to look upon Osidian.
'We'll meet the line tomorrow. That's why we've got to wash you now.'
'Of course.'
As they had reached the drag-cradles, Osidian's bitumen-mottled face came into view all glazed with sweat. Carnelian helped Fern undo the bands. Though a faded black, the blanket covering Osidian was woven with blue patterns that reminded Carnelian uncannily of those Ebeny had woven. He stared at it for a moment, remembering her. It strengthened his belief she had come originally from the same stock as the raiders. He reached out to touch the blanket but it was too damp for him to be able to tell if it had the same texture as Ebeny's. What he did feel were the tremors coursing through the body beneath.
'Fever,' said Fern.
'Yes,' said Carnelian.
'Soon you'll both be free.'
Carnelian glanced at Osidian's face.
'You don't seem overjoyed,' said Fern.
Carnelian looked up. 'He'll die.'
'You can't know that.' Fern frowned as he saw the certainty in Carnelian's face. 'How did you come to be among sartlar?'
That's too long a tale for now,' said Carnelian. He busied himself peeling the blankets from Osidian's body. The rags the slavers had put on him could not conceal the shivering in his limbs and chest.
Fern put his hand on Carnelian's arm. 'At least tell me why you gave up your drag-cradle for my father?'
Carnelian looked into the barbarian's dark eyes. 'I remembered my own father who once was wounded and near to death.'
'Compassion?' Fern said with such disbelief that it made Carnelian ashamed to be a Master.
They crouched on either side of the drag-cradle. It was Krow appearing with a leather bowl that rescued Carnelian's composure. The bowl regained its shape as the youth put it down and Carnelian saw it was filled with brackish water. They removed Osidian's rags and all three began to wash him.
Carnelian could not help but contrast this with the time he had cleaned him in the Yden. To do for him what only slaves did had been a proof of love. Carnelian tried to hide his tears by leaning over Osidian, rubbing at the brown-edged bitumen patching his face.
'He's so bright,' said Krow in wonder.
'Angelic beauty,' breathed Fern.
Carnelian wiped his eyes and muttered, 'You've not seen the green fire of his eyes.'
'Can they differ much from yours?' Fern asked.
Uncomfortable, Carnelian busied himself with cleaning one of Osidian's stained eyepits. He could not help feeling he was preparing him for the tomb. Carnelian imagined Osidian and himself naked, gleaming bait for the dragons. Of course they would be taken back to Osrakum. No doubt the Wise would come themselves to the Three Gates to oversee a special purification before they should be let in. They would bleed Osidian; embalm him with myrrh. Carnelian leaned to kiss the cold stone lips. He could not bear that the Chosen should see him thus. Osidian's pride would have baulked at appearing so dishonoured; a piece of meat. Carnelian grew angry wishing to keep him from their eyes, their sneers. What delight they would take in witnessing one who had been almost the Gods, brought so low. Come what may, Carnelian determined he would find a way to bury Osidian in the Guarded Land's red earth where they would never find him.
Slowly, carefully, he straightened his back. He watched Fern rubbing away at Osidian's birthmark and he put his hand on his arm.
'He was born with that.'
The barbarian looked at Osidian with a strange intensity of which Carnelian was hardly aware. His life was a bitter taste in his mouth. Could he deny Osidian the second waking of the tomb, however high the price? What else then could he do but take him back to be slain in Osrakum?
He became aware Fern and Krow were staring at him.
'Couldn't you make two masks of leather to hide our faces?' he asked and saw they did not understand. The auxiliaries who look on us tomorrow will be killed.'
Fern's eyebrows rose but then he shook his head. 'It's your white faces Ranegale is hoping to use as bait.'
Carnelian stood naked in the midst of the barbarians, who were getting their aquar ready to make the dash through the scouring line. Ranegale and Cloud were up in the kraal tower trying to spy the dragons. Carnelian's gaze fell on Osidian. The bruised marble of his body had been laid out on a blanket. His legs stretched beyond it into the mud. Carnelian had covered him with another to shield him from any rain, though there had been none since dawn. His gaze lingered on this second blanket. Its indigo-patterned russet was so like Ebeny's it was hard to believe she had not woven it. Beside Osidian lay the corpses of Fern's uncle and brother, weighing the air with the sickening stench of their decay. Stormrane lay beyond them. He had died some time in the night. Fern was crouched over him, mourning, the misery of the decisions that would soon come upon him clear on his face. His back turned, Ravan was gouging a channel in the mud with his heel. Several times Carnelian had seen him glancing at his father, his face sick with sorrow. Around them, already in their saddle-chairs the youths sat, some staring at nothing, others intensely checking knots, testing the tension of ropes or, absentmindedly, caressing the necks of their aquar with their feet. Sometimes one would sneak a glance up at the tower.
Carnelian knew that when Ranegale came down it would be time to help them carry Osidian round to the other side of the kraal; the side exposed to the dragon line. Carnelian and Osidian would be bound to the two posts the barbarians had worked into the ground. From there, Carnelian would watch the scouring line draw nearer. He would have a good view of the consternation of the auxiliaries, their terror when they discovered the two Masters. A dragon would approach and one of the Chosen would descend from the tower on its back. The auxiliaries would be slain for having looked upon a Master's face. Perhaps Carnelian might even see them lit like torches by dragonfire. The Chosen commander would find masks for him and Osidian and they would ascend into the dragon's tower. He imagined the commander's reaction. Pity perhaps. A confusion of emotions when he, being of the Lesser Chosen, discovered they were of the Great. The questions, the endless questions all of which Carnelian would refuse to answer. Perhaps the legion would halt the scouring while a message was sent to the nearest watch-tower. From there, if Ranegale had been right, the watch-tower's ammonites might have to wait for nightfall before they could use flares to jump their messages from tower to tower all the way to Osrakum. No later than the next morning the Wise would know that two of the Great had been found naked in the midst of the Guarded Land. How would they react? 'Master?'
Carnelian turned to see Krow, his head bowed. 'Will you send the dragons after us down into the Earthsky?'
Carnelian considered it for a moment. He realized he was already beginning to feel like a Master again. It was almost as if he were towering before the youth in a court robe. He knew that should he demand it, Krow would kneel in the mud and worship him. He shook himself free from that mood and saw standing before him not a slave but a human youth. This could be his brother Tain or many others of his people. He felt ashamed. Krow had shown him kindness even though Carnelian was of the race who oppressed his people.
He reached out to touch Krow's shoulder. 'I'll do everything in my power to make them forget you.'
The youth gave him a trembling smile, a nod, then walked away. Carnelian's gaze fell upon the miserable figure of Ravan regarding his kin lying dead in the mud. Carnelian could not help contrasting this with his own certain hope that soon he would be rejoining his own father and brothers. Compassion made him approach the grieving youth. As he neared the corpses, his disgust at their decay was overcome by pity. In a way these dead were his fault too. He noticed the tattoos Stormrane held in his hand and, crouching down, turned his head to read them. One gave the reign year, Ten Nuhuron appended to which, for some reason, was the number nine. Presumably the first two components showed the year in which Stormrane had enlisted in the legions. Carnelian mused that this was a couple of years after Ebeny had been sent to Osrakum to pay her people's flesh tithe. Below the date glyph was another larger and more complicated one that he was surprised to find he was unable to read. He peered closer, trying to decipher it by reading its syllabic components. Still a reading eluded him. He allowed his eye to wander here and there allowing combinations to release their sounds in his mind. Snatches of almost words but nothing that made any sense. What might the glyph be for? As he considered this, his eye found, scattered through the glyph, the three syllables making up the Quyan word ten; the same as the reign year. He concentrated on the components left and found, similarly scattered, the name Makar. He read the three remaining components aloud.
Ravan spun round eyes and mouth agape. 'How… how do you know?'
'Know? Know what?'
The name of our tribe.'
'You're…?' Carnelian stopped. He pronounced his utterance in the language of the barbarians. 'Ochre,' he said.
Ravan looked as if he were just about to be sick.
Carnelian reached over to lift Stormrane's left hand.
'Don't touch him,' cried Ravan. Before the youth snatched the hand from his grasp, Carnelian saw that it too held glyphs; mostly numbers.
Fern came running up. 'What're you doing to my father?'
Carnelian stood up to face him. 'When you cut out their hearts you must also take their hands.'
Fern looked incredulous. 'Hands?'
Carnelian reached out and took Fern's hand. The barbarian allowed him to splay the palm and read the tattoos there. Fourteen Kumatuya Nine, with, below it, another large glyph which contained 'fourteen' and also 'Makar'. The components remaining once again spelled out the name of Fern's tribe rendered into Quyan sounds.
Carnelian looked into Fern's eyes. 'All those of you who've been auxiliaries carry the name of your tribes tattooed on your hands. If the Masters find these bodies as they are, they'll know they're Ochre and will visit their vengeance on your people.'
Fern paled. 'But you know it and you're a Master.'
'But I won't -'
Carnelian was interrupted by Cloud rushing out from the kraal. They've found us,' he cried. 'Up, up, all of you. We must flee.'
Everything erupted into motion. Aquar squealed and flared their plumes as they lurched up, their riders clinging to their chairs.
Cloud strode forward. 'Auxiliaries riding fast in our direction,' he said quickly. 'A dragon's coming up behind them.'
Fern looked wildly at the dead. He drew a flint knife. 'Don't hurt father,' sobbed Ravan. Carnelian grabbed Fern's shoulder. There's no time.' Fern looked around desperately. 'But you've just told me we can't leave them.' Carnelian grimaced.
Ranegale rode up. 'We'll have to kill the Standing Dead now,' he said in the barbarian language.
Carnelian looked deep into his single eye. 'You're welcome to try,' he said in Vulgate.
Fern gave him a startled glance before turning to Ranegale. 'Would you stay to bury them?'
They're your problem.' Ranegale forced his aquar towards them so that Carnelian and Fern had to throw themselves from its path, then coursed away, followed by the majority of the others.
Carnelian saw the remaining aquar still crouching with empty chairs. 'Fern. Quickly. I'll help you tie their bodies into the saddle-chairs.'
Fern gaped and Carnelian could see the agony of indecision in his face, but then the barbarian gave a violent nod.
'Ravan,' he cried and the youth rushed up to help.
They lugged Stormrane's corpse, then hoisted it into Fern's saddle-chair. The pain in Carnelian's back made him more of a hindrance than an aid. He cast around for some way to help. He saw the blankets lying on the mud. He stooped to take one and was soon tearing it into strips.
Once all the corpses were stowed, Carnelian gave the two brothers some strips and helped them tie the corpses into the chairs.
Krow rode up. 'Hurry!'
Carnelian glanced round. Osidian lay under the russet blanket as if asleep. He frowned, seeing their return to Osrakum; seeing Osidian being bled for ritual. Panic rose in him. He tried to fight it with thoughts of seeing his father, his people. He tried to imagine the meeting with them, but the vision would not come. There was no joy. He told himself they needed him. His return with Osidian would damage Ykoriana's power, perhaps bring her down. He would save his father from her.
Carnelian tried not to look at Osidian, but his eyes would not obey him. He gazed at the face of his beloved. 'You cannot save him,' he muttered.
This reverie was interrupted by Fern grasping his shoulder. 'Well here we part, Master. Thanks.'
Carnelian looked at his friend. The sincerity in his face gave rise to an impossible hope.
Take us with you,' Carnelian blurted before doubt could make a coward of him.
Fern gaped. 'What?'
The man's honest puzzlement set the decision steady in Carnelian's heart. He pointed at Osidian. 'If the Masters take us, they'll kill him.'
Fern took a step back. 'But… but you in the Earthsky… it makes no sense.' 'We've nowhere else to go.'
Fern's eyes took in his kin sitting tied to their chairs, then returned to linger on Carnelian. He spun round. 'Ravan, I'll ride with you.'
Carnelian's panic returned. This was madness. Then he felt as if he was choking. What about his father?
Ravan was protesting but Fern cut through with a bellow: 'You'll do as you're told.' He turned and looked at Carnelian. 'Well, don't just stand there!'
Carnelian began moving towards Osidian. He tried to reassure himself that the Great would protect his father, if only to defend their ancient privileges from encroachment by the new God Emperor.
Fern was pointing at Osidian. 'Krow, will you give your aquar up for that one?'
Krow stared down, paralysed by fear.
'We can't leave the Standing Dead here,' cried Fern.
Krow turned in his saddle-chair searching, crying out: 'Father Cloud, Father Cloud.'
Fern rushed up and grabbed the youth's foot. That one,' he pointed at Carnelian, 'read the name of my tribe from the picture on my father's hand. By warning us, he saved my people. We owe him. Please, give up your seat and ride with him; Blur's stronger than your aquar and will more easily carry you both.'
Krow glanced over at Carnelian, then made his aquar kneel. Fern lurched over to Osidian, stooped, threw the blanket off him and, with a grunt, tried to lift him. He grimaced under the strain.
Carnelian rushed to help and together they dragged Osidian to Krow's saddle-chair, crammed him in and secured him as they had the dead.
'Come on,' shrieked Ravan. Carnelian turned to see Krow holding Blur for him. The drizzle that had begun to fall made Carnelian aware of his nakedness. He scooped the russet blanket from the ground and wrapped it around his waist.
'We must go now,' roared Fern as he vaulted into Ravan's saddle-chair. Carnelian ran over to where Krow was still holding Blur. He climbed into her chair and hooked his legs over the crossbeam.
Krow clambered in on top of him. 'Make her rise.'
Carnelian pressed his feet into her back and Blur swayed them into the air.
'Follow us,' Fern cried. Over Krow's head, Carnelian saw Ravan's aquar lurch into a run, then Blur was loping after her.