The Desert Spear
Page 48
Jardir gave a dismissive wave. “We will speak on it no more, my friend.”
The greenlander nodded and turned to go.
“Do all men in the North believe as you do?” Jardir asked. “That Heaven is not truth?”
The Par’chin shook his head. “The Tenders in the North tell of a Creator who lives in Heaven and gathers the spirits of his faithful there, much as your dama do. Most people believe their words.”
“But you do not,” Jardir said.
“The Tenders also say the corelings are a Plague,” the Par’chin said. “That the sins of man were so great that the Creator sent the demons to punish us.” He shook his head. “I will never believe that. And if the Tenders are wrong about that, what faith should I put in the rest of their words?”
“Then why do you fight, if not for the glory of the Creator?” Jardir asked.
“I don’t need Holy Men to tell me corelings are an evil to be destroyed,” the Par’chin said. “They killed my mother and broke my father. They’ve murdered my friends and neighbors and family. And somewhere out there,” he swept a hand over the horizon, “is a way to destroy them. I will seek until I find it.”
“You are right to doubt these Tenders of yours,” Jardir said. “The alagai are no plague, they are a test.”
“A test?”
“Yes. A test of our loyalty to Everam. A test of our courage and will to fight Nie’s darkness. But you are mistaken, too. The way to their destruction is not out there,” he waved his hand at the horizon dismissively, “it is in here.” He touched a finger to the Par’chin’s heart. “And on the day all men find their hearts and stand united, Nie will not be able to stand against us.”
The Par’chin was silent a long time. “I dream of that day,” he said at last.
“As do I, my friend,” Jardir said. “As do I.”
More than two years after his first visit, Par’chin returned once again. Jardir looked up from chalked slates of battle plans, seeing the man cross the training ground, and felt as if his own brother had returned from a long journey.
“Par’chin!” he called, spreading his arms to embrace him. “Welcome back to the Desert Spear!” He spoke the greenlander’s language fluidly now, though the words still felt ugly on his tongue. “I did not know you had returned. The alagai will quail in fear tonight!”
It was then Jardir noticed the Par’chin came with Abban in tow, though neither he nor Jardir needed the fat khaffit to communicate any longer.
Jardir looked at Abban in disgust. He had grown even fatter since Jardir saw him last, and still draped himself in silk like a Damaji’s favored wife. It was said he dominated trade in the bazaar, due in no small part to his extensive contacts in the North. He was a leech, putting profit above Everam, above honor, and above Krasia.
“What are you doing here among men, khaffit?” he demanded. “I have not summoned you.”
“He’s with me,” the Par’chin said.
“He was with you,” Jardir said pointedly. Abban bowed and scurried off.
“I don’t know why you waste your time with that khaffit, Par’chin,” Jardir spat.
“Where I come from, a man’s worth does not end with lifting the spear,” the Par’chin said.
Jardir laughed. “Where you come from, Par’chin, they do not lift the spear at all!”
“Your Thesan is much improved,” the Par’chin noted.
Jardir grunted. “Your chin tongue is not easy, and twice as hard for needing a khaffit to practice it while you are away.” He scowled at Abban’s back. “Look at that one. He dresses like a woman.”
“I’ve never seen a woman dressed like that,” the Par’chin said.
“Only because you won’t let me find you a wife whose veils you can lift,” Jardir said. He had tried many times to find a bride for the Par’chin, to tie him to Krasia and keep him close, as Inevera commanded.
One day, you will have to kill him, Inevera’s voice echoed in his head, but he did not wish to believe it. If Jardir could find him a wife, the greenlander would cease to be a chin and be reborn as dal’Sharum. Perhaps that “death” would fulfill the prophecy.
“I doubt the dama would allow one of your women to marry a tribeless chin,” the Par’chin said.
Jardir waved his hand. “Nonsense,” he said. “We have shed blood together in the Maze, my brother. If I take you into my tribe, not even the Andrah himself would dare protest!”
“I don’t think I’m ready for a wife just yet,” the Par’chin said.
Jardir scowled. As close as they were, the greenlander continued to baffle him. Among his people, a warrior’s lusts were as great off the battlefield as on. He had seen no evidence that the Par’chin preferred the company of men, but he seemed more interested in battle than the spoils that rightly came to those who lived to see the dawn.
“Well don’t wait too long, or men will think you push’ting,” he said, using the word for “false woman.” It was not a sin before Everam to lie with another man, but push’ting shunned women entirely, denying their tribe future generations—something his people could ill afford.
“How long have you been in the city, my friend?” Jardir asked.
“Only a few hours,” the Par’chin said. “I just delivered my messages to the palace.”
“And already you come to offer your spear!” Jardir cried loudly for all to hear. “By Everam, the Par’chin must have Krasian blood in him!” The men laughed.
“Walk with me,” Jardir said, putting his arm around the Par’chin as he mentally reviewed the night’s battle plan, seeking a place of honor for his brave friend.
“The Bajin lost a Pit Warder last night,” he said. “You could fill in there.”
“Push Guard, I would prefer,” the Par’chin replied.
Jardir shook his head, but he was smiling. “Always the most dangerous duty for you,” he chided. “If you are killed, who will carry our letters?”
“Not so dangerous, this night,” the Par’chin said. He produced a rolled cloth, uncovering a spear.
But not just any spear. Its length was of a bright, silvery metal, and wards etched along the head and haft glittered in the sunlight. Jardir’s trained eye ran along its length, and he felt his heart thump loudly in his chest. Many of the wards were unfamiliar, but he could sense their power.
The Par’chin stood proudly, waiting for him to react. Jardir swallowed his wonder and blinked the covetous gleam from his eyes, hoping his friend had not seen it.
“A kingly weapon,” he agreed, “but it is the warrior that wins through in the night, Par’chin, not the spear.” He put his hand on the Par’chin’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Do not put too much faith in your weapon. I have seen warriors more seasoned than you paint their spears and come to a bitter end.”
“I did not make it,” the Par’chin said. “I found it in the ruins of Anoch Sun.”
Jardir’s thumping heart came to a stop. Could it be true? He forced himself to laugh.
The greenlander nodded and turned to go.
“Do all men in the North believe as you do?” Jardir asked. “That Heaven is not truth?”
The Par’chin shook his head. “The Tenders in the North tell of a Creator who lives in Heaven and gathers the spirits of his faithful there, much as your dama do. Most people believe their words.”
“But you do not,” Jardir said.
“The Tenders also say the corelings are a Plague,” the Par’chin said. “That the sins of man were so great that the Creator sent the demons to punish us.” He shook his head. “I will never believe that. And if the Tenders are wrong about that, what faith should I put in the rest of their words?”
“Then why do you fight, if not for the glory of the Creator?” Jardir asked.
“I don’t need Holy Men to tell me corelings are an evil to be destroyed,” the Par’chin said. “They killed my mother and broke my father. They’ve murdered my friends and neighbors and family. And somewhere out there,” he swept a hand over the horizon, “is a way to destroy them. I will seek until I find it.”
“You are right to doubt these Tenders of yours,” Jardir said. “The alagai are no plague, they are a test.”
“A test?”
“Yes. A test of our loyalty to Everam. A test of our courage and will to fight Nie’s darkness. But you are mistaken, too. The way to their destruction is not out there,” he waved his hand at the horizon dismissively, “it is in here.” He touched a finger to the Par’chin’s heart. “And on the day all men find their hearts and stand united, Nie will not be able to stand against us.”
The Par’chin was silent a long time. “I dream of that day,” he said at last.
“As do I, my friend,” Jardir said. “As do I.”
More than two years after his first visit, Par’chin returned once again. Jardir looked up from chalked slates of battle plans, seeing the man cross the training ground, and felt as if his own brother had returned from a long journey.
“Par’chin!” he called, spreading his arms to embrace him. “Welcome back to the Desert Spear!” He spoke the greenlander’s language fluidly now, though the words still felt ugly on his tongue. “I did not know you had returned. The alagai will quail in fear tonight!”
It was then Jardir noticed the Par’chin came with Abban in tow, though neither he nor Jardir needed the fat khaffit to communicate any longer.
Jardir looked at Abban in disgust. He had grown even fatter since Jardir saw him last, and still draped himself in silk like a Damaji’s favored wife. It was said he dominated trade in the bazaar, due in no small part to his extensive contacts in the North. He was a leech, putting profit above Everam, above honor, and above Krasia.
“What are you doing here among men, khaffit?” he demanded. “I have not summoned you.”
“He’s with me,” the Par’chin said.
“He was with you,” Jardir said pointedly. Abban bowed and scurried off.
“I don’t know why you waste your time with that khaffit, Par’chin,” Jardir spat.
“Where I come from, a man’s worth does not end with lifting the spear,” the Par’chin said.
Jardir laughed. “Where you come from, Par’chin, they do not lift the spear at all!”
“Your Thesan is much improved,” the Par’chin noted.
Jardir grunted. “Your chin tongue is not easy, and twice as hard for needing a khaffit to practice it while you are away.” He scowled at Abban’s back. “Look at that one. He dresses like a woman.”
“I’ve never seen a woman dressed like that,” the Par’chin said.
“Only because you won’t let me find you a wife whose veils you can lift,” Jardir said. He had tried many times to find a bride for the Par’chin, to tie him to Krasia and keep him close, as Inevera commanded.
One day, you will have to kill him, Inevera’s voice echoed in his head, but he did not wish to believe it. If Jardir could find him a wife, the greenlander would cease to be a chin and be reborn as dal’Sharum. Perhaps that “death” would fulfill the prophecy.
“I doubt the dama would allow one of your women to marry a tribeless chin,” the Par’chin said.
Jardir waved his hand. “Nonsense,” he said. “We have shed blood together in the Maze, my brother. If I take you into my tribe, not even the Andrah himself would dare protest!”
“I don’t think I’m ready for a wife just yet,” the Par’chin said.
Jardir scowled. As close as they were, the greenlander continued to baffle him. Among his people, a warrior’s lusts were as great off the battlefield as on. He had seen no evidence that the Par’chin preferred the company of men, but he seemed more interested in battle than the spoils that rightly came to those who lived to see the dawn.
“Well don’t wait too long, or men will think you push’ting,” he said, using the word for “false woman.” It was not a sin before Everam to lie with another man, but push’ting shunned women entirely, denying their tribe future generations—something his people could ill afford.
“How long have you been in the city, my friend?” Jardir asked.
“Only a few hours,” the Par’chin said. “I just delivered my messages to the palace.”
“And already you come to offer your spear!” Jardir cried loudly for all to hear. “By Everam, the Par’chin must have Krasian blood in him!” The men laughed.
“Walk with me,” Jardir said, putting his arm around the Par’chin as he mentally reviewed the night’s battle plan, seeking a place of honor for his brave friend.
“The Bajin lost a Pit Warder last night,” he said. “You could fill in there.”
“Push Guard, I would prefer,” the Par’chin replied.
Jardir shook his head, but he was smiling. “Always the most dangerous duty for you,” he chided. “If you are killed, who will carry our letters?”
“Not so dangerous, this night,” the Par’chin said. He produced a rolled cloth, uncovering a spear.
But not just any spear. Its length was of a bright, silvery metal, and wards etched along the head and haft glittered in the sunlight. Jardir’s trained eye ran along its length, and he felt his heart thump loudly in his chest. Many of the wards were unfamiliar, but he could sense their power.
The Par’chin stood proudly, waiting for him to react. Jardir swallowed his wonder and blinked the covetous gleam from his eyes, hoping his friend had not seen it.
“A kingly weapon,” he agreed, “but it is the warrior that wins through in the night, Par’chin, not the spear.” He put his hand on the Par’chin’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Do not put too much faith in your weapon. I have seen warriors more seasoned than you paint their spears and come to a bitter end.”
“I did not make it,” the Par’chin said. “I found it in the ruins of Anoch Sun.”
Jardir’s thumping heart came to a stop. Could it be true? He forced himself to laugh.
