No, not again. This time she would make her own way.
But what did that mean? Could she survive here, in the Mang Wastes, without the Mang or Perkar?
No, she could not.
Could she face Brother Horse again? She didn't know if she could do that, either.
Abruptly she realized that she might no longer have a choice. New sounds intruded upon the slow, terrible melodies of wind through stone. The muffled rhythm of hoofbeats, tinkle of brass bells, and human voices moving nearer with each moment. Reluctantly she opened her eyes and glanced quickly around. What would she do if it was Brother Horse? He must know that she had seen him. Had he intended that?
Well, she would face him. If she died, she died. She would not die weeping or cowering. She was Hezhi, daughter of the emperor of Nhol, once possessed of enough power to make the world quake beneath her feet. It would take more than an old man possessed by demons to make her cringe.
Still, she trembled a bit as she stood to face the hoofbeats.
Two horsemen had entered the canyon. Neither was Brother Horse. They were Mang, clothed in bachgay—long black coats split for riding—and flaring elkskin breeks. Rigid bands of lacquered armor showed beneath their coats. Both bore bows. It was plain, even to her, that they were following her tracks—and that they now saw her.
As they drew closer, she realized that she did not recognize them; they were not of Brother Horse's band. This was no surprise—since the Ben'cheen had begun, there were more strange faces than familiar ones. What was more disturbing was that these men also wore steel caps with plumes of red-dyed horsehair, and she remembered hearing that this signified being at war. She glanced around, wondering where she might hide, but there was nowhere; the cliffs were too sheer to scale—at least for her to scale—and there were no obvious caves or crevasses to crawl into. She could only watch them come, alert for any sign of their intentions on their faces.
When they drew nearer, they unstrung their bows, returned them to ornately embroidered sheaths. They paused in doing this, and though one might take his eyes from her, the other was always watching, as if she were a snake or some other dangerous thing.
Done disarming, they urged their mounts closer to where she stood, and she, not certain how to respond, merely watched them come.
“Du'unuzho, shigiindeye?” one asked softly. “Are you all right, cousin?” His accent was strange, not like that of Brother Horse, though she could still understand him. Up close, his face was not as fierce as it appeared from a distance; lean and narrow, it tapered pleasantly. His eyes were not black, as were her own or those of the other Mang she knew, but a light brown, flecked faintly with green. He was quite young, perhaps no more than fifteen. His companion looked the same age, though more thickly built, his face and eyes more typically Mang.
“Gaashuzho, ” she answered. “I will be.”
He nodded, but his face registered the strangeness of her accent. He cast his eyes down for a moment, as if considering how to say what he wanted to say.
“You are not Mang,” he settled upon at last.
“No,” she answered. “No, I am not. But I am in the care of the South People.” Brother Horse had told her to explain that to any strangers she met.
“It is she” the second rider hissed, but the first held up his hand to silence him.
“My cousins call me Moss, for my eyes,” he explained. “My war name is Strums the Bow. You may call me Moss, if you please. My cousin's name is Chuuzek.”
“Hey!” Chuuzek grumbled, and Hezhi wondered if he was upset because his name had been given to a stranger or if it was because the name Moss gave meant “He-Continually-Goes-About-Belching.”
“My name is Hezhi,” she replied, knowing it was polite to give a name when one was offered. “Have you come here for the Ben'cheen?”
“Partly,” Moss told her. “We are of the Four Spruces People.” He said that as if it should be significant, and Hezhi was sure that it probably was, to other Mang. It meant nothing to her, but she nodded as if it did. Moss regarded her impassively, then cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. “I would like to offer you a ride back to the village. It is a long walk from here.”
“No, thank you,” Hezhi replied. “I have a companion I shall rejoin shortly.”
“Ah,” Moss replied. Chuuzek looked around the canyon at that, expressing either disbelief or wariness. He grunted something under his breath.
Something isn't right, Hezhi realized. These two were acting oddly, even by Mang standards. It could be because she was not Mang, but there was Chuuzek's blurted “It is she.” That worried her immensely, and she wished now that they would go away. Moss seemed pleasant enough, concerned even, but then so had Yen, and he had been prepared to kill her.
“I think,” Moss said apologetically, “that I should insist. It is not meet that we leave you here, wandering about in the cliffs. Your companion is Mang?”
“He is.”
“Then he will find his way home easily enough.”
“He will wonder what became of me.”
Chuuzek snorted. “If he is Mang, he will read the signs well enough.”
Hezhi frowned up at them. She could see the hilts of their swords clearly, protruding from sheaths laced to their saddles. Chuuzek had his hand upon his, but Moss' were folded loosely, casually, at the base of his horse's neck.
“You wear war tassels,” she said. “I can't know what your intentions are.”
“It is true,” Moss said. “We are at war. Not with you. But I might take you captive, if that is the only way you will allow me to return you to the village.”
“I still prefer to decline.”
Chuuzek snarled; Hezhi could see that he was genuinely angry. Moss merely looked uncomfortable.
“I would rather have your permission,” he began, but at that moment he was interrupted by the sound of another horse approaching.
Hezhi looked beyond them to the new arrival, saw that it was Brother Horse, mounted, Heen trotting a hundred paces or so behind. For just a moment it all seemed far too much. The stranger she knew or the stranger she did not know?
Surrounded by monsters.
She would watch them. She would pretend that she did not care what happened to her. That was simple enough.
“Well, hello,” Brother Horse bellowed as he drew nearer. “How are my nephews from the Four Spruces Clan?”
Moss turned in his saddle and then dismounted, a sign of great respect. Chuuzek dismounted, also, with some hesitation, muttering under his breath.
“We are well enough, Grandfather,” Moss replied. “Only trying to convince this little thrush that the snow and open sky are no place for her with sundown approaching.”
Brother Horse smiled broadly. “My little niece is a hard-headed thrush,” he explained, his eyes focused on Hezhi rather than on the two warriors. “I appreciate the concern, however.”
Hezhi shivered. Brother Horse seemed so normal. Suddenly she doubted what she had seen; perhaps the monsters within him were merely some illusion created by the Fire Goddess, by the unevenness of her own vision. Once again, she did not know enough. But if, inside, Brother Horse was really a demon, what hope did she have?
Her only hope lay with herself. Not with Perkar, not with Tsem, not with the River. She did not need a butcher or a giant. She strained, for the first time trying to will the godsight to happen, to force a vision of the old man.
His form did not waver; he remained as he seemed.