Burying the Shadow (34 page)

I anticipated
our meeting might be rather embarrassing, but Q’orveh greeted me
with casual friendliness, as if nothing whatsoever had transpired
between us the previous night. Keea was nowhere to be seen;
irritating that he should be invisible at the only time when I
wanted to see him. I asked Q’orveh why he’d summoned me.

‘I want to
discuss our approach to the Strangeling,’ he said.

I knew the
Strangeling to be a wide area of ruins, inhabited by every kind of
rogue imaginable. It hugged the border of the Bochanegran Empire;
perhaps the ruins were those of ancient cities that had been
abandoned by the Bochanegrans centuries before. The Strangeling was
not a place regularly frequented by soulscapers, and it was
certainly not somewhere I intended to linger on my way to
Sacramante. ‘Oh?’ I replied, carefully.

‘Things will
get more... bizarre, I feel. The Toors have come from the west and
they say the incidence of strange occurrences is much more frequent
back there. Also, Toortaki has told me of evil riders on the road,
who have no faces. They inspire terror in the heart of anyone who
sees them.’

More tribal
fairy-stories! ‘What has this to do with me?’

He seemed
puzzled by my coolness. ‘I thought you were interested in these
things. I had hoped to help you. Also, I feel very strongly we will
need a soulscaper among us in the western lands.’

‘I see. Do all
the tribal shamans feel this way, Q’orveh? Since when has the
soulscaper’s role changed from rival to saviour?’

‘Your
bitterness surprises me,’ he said. ‘I think the strangenesses are
things that we should face together, Taps and tribes alike. I
supposed you felt the same.’

‘Yesterday,
you spoke of prayers to appease your god, and no interference in
divine activity. In fact, you reprimanded me. Now, I am essential.
Your turns of mind confuse me, Q’orveh.’

‘Are you with
us or not, Rayojini?’ he asked sternly.

I sighed.
‘Q’orveh, I am a healer. My vocation is to help people wherever I
find them. In that respect, you have my commitment.’

My words
seemed to satisfy him. ‘Go out and enjoy the festival,’ he
said.

Rayojini

‘
Nor uglier the
night-hag, when called in secret, riding through the air she
comes…’

Paradise Lost,
Book II

After leaving
Q’orveh’s tent, I sought out Aniti and Juro as I had intended. We
sat together, with a group of Halmanes, and the evening passed in a
pleasant haze of intoxication. We all drank the nomad’s vicious
brews far too liberally and, at Juro’s insistence, he, Aniti and I
had shared a pipe of our secondary scrying mix; dreamy illusions
crowded the corners of my vision. I rambled on incoherently, to an
equally incoherent Aniti, about the sacrifices I had made for my
lone life’s path, which precluded all intimate relationships of a
long-term nature. She accepted this without apparent upset, but
asked me to look for her when I next returned to Taparak. This, I
agreed to do without question, although I had a feeling it would be
a long, long time before I saw my home again.

I had kept alert for
signs of Keea but he made no appearance throughout the night.
Before my mind fuzzed up completely with smoke and alcohol, I had
made a cursory search for him, among the groups of celebrating
nomads gathered around the campfires. No one, when asked, could
remember seeing him since the morning. I was not permitted access
to Q’orveh’s tent, because youths stationed outside informed me
that a private rite was being conducted within. They did not think
Keea was involved.

I did not
disclose to the other soulscapers that I planned to resume my
travels alone the following day. They themselves talked about
returning to Taparak very shortly, and clearly assumed I would
remain with the Halmanes until we reached the Strangeling. I did
feel a little nervous about my proposed escape. Would Q’orveh come
after me when he realised I’d abandoned his tribe? (Did some honest
part of me hope that he would?) Was having a soulscaper around that
important to him or, more worrying, would he see my flight as a
sign of culpability in some way? I could only find out once the
camp was behind me.

As the fires
sank low, and people began to drift off into the trees, I saw
Q’orveh come out of his tent. Perhaps it was no coincidence Aniti
and I had chosen to sit quite nearby. The shaman appeared shaken,
perhaps drunk; he was naked to the waist. I watched him stretch up
his arms to the sky, extending the magnificent muscles of his lean
body, letting his tangled mane fall back in a ragged flag to below
his waist, and a brief pang crossed my heart. Should I go to him?
Would I be rebuffed if I did? Aniti touched my arm. I looked at her
sharply, expecting some provocative remark. But she was not looking
at me. ‘Rayo, can you see that?’ she asked. ‘Look at his throat,
just above the chest. What has he done to himself?’

‘A ritual
cut,’ I said, glancing at the mark she indicated. ‘The nomads are
like that.’

‘He looks...
ill.’

‘Drugged. He
has his acolytes in there with him.’

Aniti
shrugged. ‘Are you going to speak to him?’

Q’orveh stood
motionless, staring up at the moon. For some reason, at that moment
I could not bear the thought of touching him again. ‘No,’ I said.
‘Some delicacies can only be sampled once.’

‘Am I one of
those?’ she asked archly.

I patted her
hand. ‘You are a Tap,’ I said, ‘a woman - not a delicacy.’

‘I admire you
greatly,’ Aniti blurted.

I squeezed her
hand. ‘I don’t deserve it!’

She sighed.
‘You are no longer touched by the magic of this place, are you?’
The disappointment in her voice tugged briefly at my heart, but I
hardened it swiftly. Seeing Q’orveh had somehow choked the urge for
intimacy, with anyone, from my body.

I shook my
head, not entirely without regret, and Aniti gently pulled her hand
from beneath my fingers.

At dawn, after
a few hours sleep alone, I removed myself as quietly as possible
from Sah’ray’s tent. A fog had come down, lying thickly in the
basin of the Sink, so that the rock walls were invisible. Only the
peaks of other tents showed as smudges in the immediate vicinity
and I could hear the muffled tocking of the bells worn around the
necks of the mules and goats, hobbled nearby.

It was chilly
enough to warrant wearing my long, heavy coat; I bundled my hair up
into my hat, so it wouldn’t get too damp. Carryback firmly in
place, I carefully picked my way through the camp, treading
deliberately so I wouldn’t make a noise by accidentally thrusting a
foot into a pile of pans or something similar. The Sink looked
utterly enchanted, as if everyone was under the spell of a magical
sleep. The air smelled of damp ashes and spilled wine, and many
people were asleep where they’d fallen - drunk - the previous
night. I nearly stumbled over a slumbering youth, who lay
motionless on the ground outside one of the tents. Thankfully, he
did not wake. All the rubbish from the previous evening’s
festivities was left lying around; dead fires, tumbled pitchers,
half eaten bones. Sound was deadened; not even the murmur of a
child broke the stillness. I passed the tent of Q’orveh, and had to
resist a powerful impulse to glance inside. The strength of this
urge made me realise that, for a few days at least, I was going to
miss being able to look at Q’orveh. It also made me realise that I
wasn’t leaving any too soon.

The thickness
of the fog meant that it took me some time to find the curving road
that led up to the plains. Once I had found my bearings, and had
begun the long climb, a lone black bird cawed desolately from a
ragged tree sticking out of the crater wall. It seemed a bleak
omen. I increased my pace, grateful to be leaving the Sink, and all
its secrets, behind. It was a nuisance I hadn’t been able to speak
with Keea again (perhaps he had deliberately avoided me), but at
least he’d given me enough information so I knew what to look for
in Sacramante. What would he think when he found out I’d slipped
away? I had a feeling he’d be quite annoyed at losing the person he
enjoyed tormenting.

If I thought
to escape the fog on the Flats, I was mistaken, but under the
circumstances, it was probably fortuitous. If Q’orveh did discover
my departure shortly, at least I wouldn’t be visible on the road.
My footsteps seemed to make hardly any sound; a wall of soundless
whiteness surrounded me. At first, I enjoyed the sense of isolation
and then, the noises crept in upon me, and I became aware of how
alone I was, and also how I was armed only with a knife.

A thud of hoof beats
came through the mist, sounding as if someone was riding along side
of me, just out of sight. I could hear the jangle of harness, the
grunts of a labouring horse. For a moment, I paused. There was only
silence, and I could see nothing moving, other than the thick banks
of cloud roiling across my path. I was glad I had wrapped myself up
well; my coat had become soaked within an hour of leaving the camp.
I shivered and held my breath, straining to hear something. No,
there was definitely nothing to be heard. Obviously, I had caused
the sounds myself; buckles rattling on my carryback perhaps, and
the muffled thump of my own tread upon the packed dirt of the road.
I started moving again, humming a simple tune under my breath to
create an aura of security around myself. Then I heard it again;
jangle, clop, thump.

I halted
immediately, hastily flexing my senses in an effort to pick up some
sign that I was not alone. But, again, all the noises had ceased
when I stopped walking, leaving an eerie, waiting silence, as if
reality itself was holding its breath. I was not altogether free of
the fear of pursuit.

I had picked
up some talk the previous evening, concerning the mysterious
strangers who had been seen riding across the plains. The Toors
spoke of cloaked men who rode heavy, white horses and whose
behaviour was somehow threatening. One woman said that the riders
wore armour that looked like skin. How I wished these people could
be more objective! It was like trying to work out a puzzle,
translating their superstitious prattle into hard information. If
there really were sinister riders flitting about the Flats, there
had to be a sensible explanation. I did wonder whether, after
having played unwilling host to one or two strange events, a local
landowner had sent some of his people out on horseback to scout
around. It was possible. Perhaps I was being followed by one of
these riders now. Hoping they weren’t as aggressive as the nomads
described, I tried to peer into the long grasses beside the road,
but if anyone lurked there, it was impossible to discern. I am
rarely frightened when travelling. Human beings, I can usually deal
with, in one way or another. I can run fast; I can fight with an
unfaltering arm and without squeamishness; I can talk the spirit
from the craziest of madmen, until I have them eating out of my
hand. Things that I cannot see, that are not human, I deal with in
the way I deal with anything in the soulscape; with my will.
Thoughtforms manifesting in reality are the easiest of creatures to
cope with. With these thoughts in mind, I slowed my pace, breathed
deeply to regulate my heart and summoned my inner strength. It was
senseless to feel afraid or threatened. And yet, a premonition of
dread was creeping all over me like a swarm of insects; my skin
actually
crawled
. All my efforts to banish it had no effect.
Blood drained from my face; I found it hard to breathe. Was this
how it felt when the Fear took someone? Was it? I knew that was the
most dangerous thought to dwell on, because terror of the Fear
builds it the widest of portals into the mind.

You are a
soulscaper, Rayojini, I told myself firmly. What you are thinking
is nonsense and worthy only of nomads!

I reminded
myself objectively that although there
were
recorded cases
of soulscapers becoming victims of the condition they attempted to
eradicate, the instances were few, and those who did succumb were
always weak individuals, who had neglected their training. Never,
in the history of soulscaping, had a seasoned professional like me
been taken, or at least, if they had, no-one had ever heard about
it. Then, I definitely heard an equine snort in the grass on my
left, and the sound of hoof beats accelerated to overtake me.

I stopped
walking and pulled out a knife from my belt for comfort. It was a
useful and well-loved instrument that had spitted my food and
provided me with protection for many years. Then, I straightened my
spine, closed my eyes, and extended my senses out into the fog. If
anything was there, soulscape effluvia or not, I willed myself to
become aware of it. Nothing. I tried again, but it was like trying
to see through thick cloth. Then I opened my eyes and, for a
moment, believed I had manifested some thought form of my own into
reality.

Just ahead of
me, on the road, stood the motionless form of a gigantic white
horse. It was caparisoned in a tasselled mantle of purple cloth,
over which ran a complicated harness of embossed leather. On its
back, sat a stooped, cloaked figure, wearing a lemniscate hat. Two
hawks were tethered to the saddle in front of it. The horse’s head
was turned a little to the side, as if to examine me more closely,
and I could see its eyes were pink, like an albino’s, with long,
white lashes. Its rider’s face was indiscernible beneath the brim
of its hat; I could not tell whether it was male or female, but the
ambience of authority was unmistakable. I had no doubt come across
one of the mysterious riders the Toors had talked about. I exhaled
gustily in relief. This I could cope with. This was not a problem.
Both horse and rider were real, larger than life itself. My step
buoyant with relief, I confidently walked forwards, saying, ‘A less
than bright day to be abroad, my friend. Are you lost?’