“I tried to stop you,” she repeated.
He shrugged uncomfortably. “I loved you. I did foolish things.”
She nodded. “I have heard rumors, flying down from the mountain. He sang of you, where he eats me. Do you feel more a man now, Perkar? Do you feel more a match for a goddess?”
“No,” he said, his voice small but firm. “No, you were always right.”
“What do you want of me now?” she demanded, and her voice was a bit sharp. She had always been like that, hard and soft, comforting and angry, all at once.
“I only want for you to forgive me.”
“Forgive you?” she asked, as if she were repeating words in a foreign language.
“Forgive me for killing in your name. Forgive me for…” He searched his brain, but despite his rehearsal, he could not find the words.
“Forgive you,” she repeated. She shook her head slowly. “So many things men have done for me, over the years—so many stupid things. At first, you know, I did not try to stop them. They amused me. But the blood of this girl, this form you see, oh, it sleeps for long, but sometimes I am almost Human. I feel sorrow, feel ashamed, just as you might—though I hate it. And I feel love, Perkar. You can hurt me, I think. I was always afraid you would hurt yourself and add to my sorrow. And so you have.”
“But I am alive,” he told her. “Here I am.”
“But so terribly hurt,” she said, “so scarred. Can I forgive you for that, for scarring my sweet Perkar?” She shook her head, pursed her lips. “Take whatever you want,” she said at last. “If you want my forgiveness, take that.”
“You have to give it to me, I think,” he replied.
She spread her arms wide, gesturing up and down the river,
“True. And the Mang are not all one people. What troubles the Mang of the western plains need not have any effect on the Mang of the South.”
“Except,” Perkar noted, “in times of war. Their confederacy exists for mutual protection and mutual raiding.”
Ngangata shook his head unhappily. “This means trouble for us. Brother Horse may find it difficult to treat us with hospitality when the news arrives.”
“Ngangata!” Perkar cried. “Hospitality! My people are dying, and it is my fault. You know that, you were there. The Forest Lord had agreed to give our king more land. Because of me, that offer was withdrawn and will never be made again. Now it seems, unable to expand west, my people have chosen to move into the Mang borderlands. My fault, all of it.”
Ngangata regarded him for a moment. “Apad and Eruka—” he began.
“Are dead? Perkar finished. “I am the only one left to shoulder the blame. In any event, Apad and Eruka would have lacked the courage to do anything without me.”
Ngangata's face was grim. “I know that,” he replied. “I agree; much of the blame for this lies with you. But if I understand Piraku, you should be thinking of something to do about it, rather than blaming yourself over and over again—rather than telling me about your guilt yet again.”
Perkar clenched his fist and shook it in Ngangata's face. “And just what is it I can do?“ he shouted. ”How is it that I can set this right, resurrect those already dead, my father perhaps among them?”
Ngangata watched the fist impassively. “If you don't intend to hit me,” he growled, “unclench that.”
For one awful, helpless moment, Perkar did want to hit the half man. But at last he let the fist drop, uncurling it. He was opening his mouth to apologize when his head yanked around of its own volition—or rather, Harka's.
“In the trees,” he suddenly whispered, just as an arrow struck him in the shoulder. He gasped at the impact, surprised that there was no more pain. He had a confused glimpse of Ngangata in motion, heard the dull flat whine of his bow.
“Watch out!” Harka warned, as Perkar fumbled him out. The blade trailed out into the light, a sliver of aquamarine ice.
As he stumbled back to his feet, his gaze was again drawn to the trees; another shaft whirred from them, though not in his direction. Ngangata—the likely target—was nowhere to be seen. Of more immediate concern were the two horsemen churning through the snow toward him, both mounted on striped Mang horses. The men were Mang, too, multiple braids indicating that they were warriors of some rank, the red-dyed horsehair plumes on their leather helmets a sign that they were at war. Perkar had never seen Mang at war until now. They looked like wolves.
They bore down on him, one with a lance, the second with a short, curved sword. Perkar whooped at them, his father's battle cry, and waited, Harka held steady with both hands. The arrow, he now guessed, had not penetrated more deeply than his outer flesh, halted by the thick coat of elk hide and the light lacquered armor beneath.
He waited until they were nearly on him, and then suddenly darted to his right; both horsemen swerved, still hoping to catch him between them, but Perkar sank to one knee and cut through both front legs of the nearest horse. The animal shrieked piteously and pitched past him, into the snow, the rider sprawling over his mount's neck.
An absolute master of his steed, the second Mang pulled in tight, but had to strike awkwardly to reach Perkar. Perkar avoided the blow entirely, stepped up, and slashed deeply into the warrior's leg. The man uttered no sound, but his face registered a vast surprise as the blade sliced through the heavy lacquered layers of wood, bone, and leather that protected his thigh.
Perkar turned back to his first opponent, who was rising to his feet, murder on his face. Unfortunately for him, his lance was too long to bring around effectively, and though he managed to graze Perkar's shoulder, he soon held only a wooden pole, the steel blade severed from it by a quick blow from Harka. The Mang shot one glance at his mutilated steed, snarled, and hurled himself weaponless at Perkar, though a knife flapped against his hip. Harka took him in the heart, yet the man remained on his feet for a few instants, the purest look of hatred Perkar had ever seen only reluctantly replaced by death's cold gaze.
The second man was lying on his horse's neck, teeth clenched; as Perkar watched, the blade dropped from his hand into the blood-spattered snow. The horse itself pranced nervously, as if unused to having no direction.
Another shaft sped past Perkar, but almost at the same moment, he heard a sharp cry from the direction of the trees. He crouched behind the quivering body of the downed horse, waiting for more attacks, but hone came, and Harka remained still and quiet.
After a moment, Ngangata emerged, cautiously, from a clump of trees. “Are there more?” he asked, eyes nervously picking through the valley.
“I don't think so. Harka?”
“No more. But there is someone else. ”
“What?” Perkar turned to Ngangata. “Harka says no more Mang, but there is someone else.”
Ngangata nodded. “Someone killed the archer.”
“Ah. I thought you did that.”
“No,” Ngangata denied.
Perkar drew a deep breath. “Come out, if you are a friend. If not, ride on.”
There was a pause, and then a stirring in the trees. The figure of a man emerged and began walking leisurely toward them.
“That, ” Harka informed him, “is not Human. ”
IV The Godsight
SHE stood beneath a leaden sky, the vastness of the River stretched before her. Those waters seemed a perfect reflection of the obscure heavens—his substance seemed dense, as if it were really polished slate or beveled steel—and it radiated a cold strength that numbed and quickened her simultaneously.
She bent closer, touched her finger to the dark water, then gasped when she saw impressions upon the surface, as if invisible objects lay pressed upon the skin of the River God. Nearest was a hollow shaped like a water scorpion, so clear that she could even make out the delicate patterning of its plated underbelly. There, a trumpet-cuttlefish, long tapering horn of its shell smooth, the tentacles and a single large eye pressed in relief And there—she gasped and looked away from the detailed mold of her cousin D'en 's face, as she had last seen it, with his eyes on stalks, like those of a crab.