“Why?” Ghe asked cautiously. “If they are of the Blood Royal…”
“It is not only their shape that changes,” the priest explained. He looked squarely at Ghe, his pale eyes lapis shards of the light shimmering down the facing hall. “Their minds change, become inhuman. And their power becomes great, without control. In times past, some River Blessed have passed unprotected; we have missed them. One was even crowned emperor before we knew he was Blessed. He destroyed most of Nhol in fire and flood.”
The priest stood up and walked over to a brazier in which coals glowed dully. He nervously sprinkled a few shavings of incense on them, and a sharp scent quickly filled the room.
“Below,” he whispered, “they are safe. And we are safe from them.”
“And if they know their fate?” Ghe asked. “If they try to escape it?”
“We know what happens when the Blessed are not contained,” the priest murmured. “If they cannot be bound beneath the city, then they must be given back to the River.”
“Do you mean…?” Ghe began.
The priest nearly hissed with the intensity of his reply. “The Jik were not created to carry on assassinations of enemies of the state, though you now serve that purpose well. Have you never wondered why the Jik answer to the priesthood and not the emperor directly?”
Ghe thought for only an instant before replying. “I see,” he murmured. “We were created to stop the Blessed from running free.”
“Indeed,” the priest replied, his voice relaxing a bit. “Indeed. And more than a few have been killed by the Jik.”
“I live only to serve the River,” Ghe replied. And he meant that, with all of his heart, both of him; Ghe then and Ghe in the water.
BUT now he could see the lie, of course. The great lie that was the priesthood. They existed not to serve the River but to keep him bound. Those whom the River blessed were given their power for a purpose, so that he might walk the land rather than live torpidly within his banks—so that the god of the River might roam free. And the priests bound the River's children, though they pretended to worship him. If one worshipped a god, would not one help it realize its dreams? What matter to the River if a few buildings were crushed in the pangs of birth, a few Human Beings died? The River took in the souls of all when they died anyway; he drank them up. All belonged to him.
Far from worshippers, Ghe could see now, the priests were the enemies of the River. They had fought for centuries to keep the Royal Blood checked, diluted. That was why they had set him to kill Hezhi, the emperor's daughter—kill that beautiful, intelligent girl. And he would have done it, had not her strange barbarian guardian been unkillable! Ghe had stabbed him in the heart with a poisoned blade, and still he stood back up, chopped off Ghe's head—
He flinched away from that thought. Not yet.
However it had happened, it was fortunate that he had not slain Hezhi. Much depended upon her, he realized. The River had many enemies plotting against him, and now Ghe, the River's only true and loyal servant—now he had those enemies.
And he knew his task with a wonderful, radiant certainty. His task was to save Hezhi from her foes, for she was the River's daughter, and more. She was his hope, his weapon.
His flesh.
Soon enough, Ghe knew, he would open his eyes, would creep back up to the light, take up his weapons, and make his way where Rivers do not flow. A wrong would be righted, a god would be served, and perhaps, just perhaps, he would once again kiss a princess.
PART ONE
MANSIONS OF BONE
I The Mang Wastes
HEZHI Yehd Cha'dune, once-princess of the empire of Nhol, yelped as what weight her small body possessed was suddenly stolen from her in an explosion of force and wind as the thief—her horse Dark—shook all four hooves free of the earth. For a moment they hung almost still above the uneven slope of shattered stone and snow, but Hezhi knew—knew in her belly—that when they struck back down the mare would just keep falling, tumbling head-over-tail down what seemed almost a sheer grade. She doubled her hands in Dark's mane and leaned against her neck, straining to hang on to the barrel-shaped torso with her legs, but when the horse's hooves were reunited with the ground—first front and then thunderously rear—she slapped back into the saddle with such force that one leg kicked unwillingly free of its stirrup. The surrounding landscape blurred into jolting white, gray, and blue nonsense as she ignored the free-flapping stirrup and just held on. Then, suddenly, the earth was flat again and Dark really ran, digging her head into the wind, hammering across the half-frozen ground like a four-limbed thunder god. The mare's flat-out run was so smooth, Hezhi's fear began to evaporate; she found the stirrup, caught the rhythm of the race, and her tightly held breath suddenly released itself in a rush that quickly became triumphant laughter. Never before had she completely given the Mang-bred horse her head, but now that she had, the chocolate-and-coffee-striped mare was gaining on the four riders ahead of her. When one of them—perhaps hearing her laughter—turned his head to look back, she was near enough to see the surprise register in his unusual gray eyes.
Thought you could leave me back farther than that, didn't you, Perkar? she thought, with more pride than anger. Her self-esteem doubled when the young man's expression of amazement became one of respect. She felt her own lips bow in glee and then promptly felt stupid for beaming so, like one of those useless creatures back in the palace or some brainless child. Still, it felt wonderful. Though she was only thirteen years of age, it had been many years since she felt anything at all like a child, good or bad. It couldn't hurt to smile and laugh if she felt like it, could it?
She clapped Dark's flanks harder and was rewarded by a burst of even greater speed from her steed—and was consequently nearly thrown over the mare's head when the animal quickly stamped to a halt to avoid crashing into Perkar and the others, who had stopped suddenly.
“What?” Hezhi sputtered. “Are you trying—”
“Hsst, Princess,” Perkar stage-whispered, holding up a finger. “Yuu'han thinks our quarry is over the next rise.”
“And?” she shot back, though lowering her voice, too.
“We should walk from here, or we may panic them,” another man answered. Hezhi switched her regard to the second speaker, who was dismounting. He swung his right leg over his mount's head and let his thick, compact body slide to the ground; his boots crunched in the thin layer of snow. He was clothed in heavy breeks and an elkskin parka tanned white. In the hood, his face was paler than the coat, like bone, and his thick hair fell from one side in a milky braid. His eyes, on the other hand, were black, set deeply in his head beneath cavernous brows and a forehead that sloped back rather sharply from them, the legacy of his unhuman father.
“Thank you, Ngangata, for explaining that? she replied, “though I haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about.”
“It's what we brought you to see,” Perkar explained, also dismounting. His hood was down, his short chestnut hair in wind-combed disarray. He was slighter than Ngangata, narrower in every dimension though nearly as bleached looking to Hezhi's eyes, many shades fairer than her own sienna complexion. Lighter by far than their other two companions, Yuu'han and Raincaster, who were both Mang tribesmen, flesh burned copper brown by the fierce sun of their native deserts and plains.
“You brought me to see nothing!” Hezhi answered. “Indeed, you tried to leave me behind.” She gestured back toward the hills they had just spilled down, where the highlands crumbled into the more gradually rolling plains the Mang called huugau. But even as she said this, she blushed; Perkar was grinning broadly and Ngangata not at all, but the two Mang were both studiously looking down and away from her. After half a year among the Mang, she knew what that meant. They were trying to keep her from seeing their smiles, which meant Perkar was telling the truth. They had intentionally goaded her into following and let her catch them.