Verkanta’s drill field was a wide space in the southern quarter of the town, kept empty of buildings, open to the sun and the wind. There warriors would go to exercise and keep up their weapons-practice, at least those styles that were used on foot. Horseback riding and charioteering practice took place in the nákorë, the hippodrome, a long oval track marked out beyond the walls. Kráva tried to go to one or the other at least every other day, if the weather wasn’t foul.
Two days after the king’s feast, she rose just before dawn, stowing Tarankláva safely away in her uncle’s lock-box. Then she went alone to the drill field, her ravens flying in the pearlescent sky overhead. Once she arrived, she stripped down to a breech-clout and a wrap around her breasts, and then set out to run eight times around the outside of the field. By the time she was done, the summer sun had risen, and other men and women had come to use the field.
She went to the archery range, and loosed about a hundred arrows with a borrowed war-bow. She threw javelins and heavy stones. She partnered with a burly male warrior, tossing a heavy stuffed animal skin back and forth. Then she picked up a shield and a wooden practice sword, and sparred with other warriors for over an hour.
Sometime in the middle of her drill, she became aware of Drúthan on the field as well, following his own training routine. He pretended to pay her no special attention, but from that point on, it became a game of stolen glances and subtle display across half the field. Kráva knew it was foolish of her, but her eyes kept wandering in that direction, taking in the sight of him.
He’s not like the king, she decided. Múrvira is like a big cat, arrogant, slow and thoughtful until he needs to move, and then quick as lightning. Drúthan is more like a bull, strong and tough, watchful and silent, but fierce in the defense of those he loves. Not that he’s slow. Gods above, he moved fast the other night, shield out to stop that arrow with almost no warning.
Then her sparring partner got through her guard and laid a stinging blow along her ribs, hard enough to bruise. She returned her attention to what she was doing. For a few moments, at any rate.
A few exchanges later, her partner stepped back with a raised hand to ask for a break. He glanced across the field to see what had distracted her, and then turned back with an amused grin. “I should be so lucky,” he commented.
“Heaven and earth, I should be ashamed to be so inattentive,” she muttered. “I haven’t done the like since I was still in my aregbana training.”
“You paid for it,” he said. He extended a hand for her to grasp. “I’m Trenkáma. My clan is High Grove.”
Despite herself, Kráva chuckled as she took his hand for a moment. “Mighty Hand, is it? I should know that for the truth,” she said, patting her bruised ribs with a wince. “Although I didn’t think I had High Grove’s favor these days.”
“The gods favor you, and that’s enough for me.” He began to collect their practice gear, to return it to the wagon where such things were stored. “Are you worried about Kórlo? Don’t be. Aside from his own close kin, I don’t think anyone in the clan liked the old bastard much. If anyone else is to blame for him eating your sword, it’s Múrvira. That was not well done.”
“He’s your clansman, and your king,” she objected.
“He certainly is, and if you were an enemy of his, I would be the first to stand at his side against you. That doesn’t mean I have to approve of everything he does.”
For a moment, Kráva wished she had her sword in hand, so she could read something about Trenkáma. She settled for a guarded nod. “Thank you. Also, for the bout. That will teach me not to be distracted.”
“A few bruises and training scars are always the best teacher,” he agreed, and turned away with a wave.
Kráva thought about continuing, but after the past few hours she felt enough fatigue to decide she had done her duty for the day. She recovered her clothes, throwing a light cloak over her training wear, and tucking the rest under her arm in a neat package.
She thought to go and watch Drúthan at his own drill, but then she saw something unusual at the edge of the field. Lóka leaned against a post-and-rail fence, a short, slender figure standing beside him, both watching the warriors at work.
As Kráva approached, she caught a little of their talk, a rapid-flowing, musical language, of which she recognized not a single word. From Rána, the foreign speech sounded easy and natural, suited to the tones of her soprano voice. Somehow Kráva was not at all surprised to hear Lóka respond fluently, with none of the pauses or catches one would expect from someone speaking a foreign tongue.
“Hello, Kráva,” the sanatha called, in the Tremára speech.
Kráva waved as she came within easy conversation. “Is that the sanatha language I hear?”
“One of three,” said Lóka, giving Rána a warm smile. “The High Tongue, it’s called. It’s a pleasure to have the opportunity to speak it, with such an charming interlocutor.”
Rána cocked one golden eyebrow at him, but let the flattery pass. “Kráva, how old is our vaita friend?”
Kráva thought back, counting in her head. “He’s seen twenty-four summers, I think.”
“This summer would be twenty-five,” Lóka corrected her easily.
“Then I take back my suspicions of him,” said Rána. “I can imagine a man of the Tremára who had hidden connections, learning the daharim tongue, the better to communicate with those who wish us all evil. It would not be easy, it would take many months of time, but it seems possible. There is no chance that any man could become so adept in the High Tongue without many years of study.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Kráva admitted.
“Our languages are difficult for you late-born folk,” said the sanatha woman. “We do not normally waste our time teaching them to you. Even the men of the Sea Kingdom, our allies of old, do not make a study of the High Tongue. So, if a man as young as Lóka is fluent in it, that cannot be the result of learning. It must be a natural talent. Or, dare I say, a god-given talent?”
Kráva had seen the question coming, so she had time to school her face into impassiveness. “For that, you would have to ask Lóka.”
“I have. He was evasive.”
Lóka only continued to smile enigmatically.
“Well, he hasn’t told me everything, and I may be the closest friend he has,” said Kráva. “Of my personal experience, I know he can read three different scripts, and he also speaks at least four different languages. All as if he was a native, as far as I can tell. I doubt that is the limit of his skill.”
“It is not,” admitted the vaita.
“So, how many languages do you speak?” asked Rána, a note of genuine interest in her voice.
“As far as I can tell? All of them. I have yet to meet any speaking creature that I could not understand and converse with.”
There was a long moment of silence, as Kráva and Rána absorbed that statement. Then Rána nodded slowly, an expression on her face telling of other suspicions confirmed.
“Well, I can think of at least one language you don’t know,” said Kráva at last, pointing to a pair of black birds perched on the same fence, a little distance away. “You can’t understand my ravens.”
“Of course not,” said Rána. “Power granted by one god cannot penetrate the secrets of another. Especially when the other god is of higher rank.”
Lóka shrugged. “You speculate wildly, my lady.”
“Not without cause, I think.” Rána cocked her head at him, giving him a sharp glance from under her heavy brows. “Kráva, I suspect our friend is your close kinsman. First cousin, isn’t that right, Lóka?”
Kráva thought hard, and then a thought came to her. She nodded in sudden comprehension.
Kórsata, the Lofty One, she realized. Sky Father’s son, by a minor goddess of the Blue Mountains. God of fire and healing, patron of smiths, artists, musicians, and poets. If Lóka has a divine parent, that would be the most likely candidate. Which would make Sky Father his grandsire as well as mine, Rána is right about that.
Lóka’s smile widened, as he enjoyed the clash of wits. “As far as I know, my lady, Kráva and I share no mortal blood at all.”
“A fine response, although it was not an answer at all.” Rána snorted in derision. “Never mind. Kráva, I had hoped to see you this morning. I must say farewell for a while. I leave Verkanta within the hour.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“North.” Rána looked troubled. “It’s about Betráxa, the man who murdered that AngvÃrai agent.”
Kráva nodded. “The men Múrvira sent to capture him, they’ve been gone too long.”
“Too long, and with no word for several days. Múrvira fears something has gone amiss. I persuaded him to give me leave to go and investigate.”
“He trusts you so far?” Lóka asked.
“Indeed, he does,” said Rána, staring at him with her jade-green eyes wide. “Of all those who might work on his behalf, he knows that I alone have no ties to anyone who might wish him ill. I have no family, clan, or tribe. No spirit or god will sway me. I care only for his success.”
The vaita was silent for a moment, then he bowed deeply to her. “Then may the gods grant you a successful journey and a speedy return. Even if they are not your gods.”
Rána gave him a dazzling smile, and then turned to hurry away. Kráva and Lóka both watched her go.
“Do I detect a hint of personal interest, Lóka?” she asked after the sanatha was out of earshot.
“Perhaps,” he admitted. “She is a very interesting person. She has traveled across the world, from the homeland of the Sea Kingdom to the isles of the uttermost East. She speaks a dozen languages, and she learned every one of them through honest effort. Not to mention, she is far more comfortable with the gods than I have ever been, even though her people have no regard for them. I could learn a great deal from that woman, Kráva.”
“All that, and a strikingly pretty face.”
“Well, yes, that too.” He chuckled. “That is not at the top of my list. She shares the king’s bed, and is unlikely ever to consider sharing mine. Although . . .”
“Yes?”
“I’ve never taken much interest in women, Kráva, but that is not because my preferences lie elsewhere. It’s more a matter of wanting a woman who is at least my equal.”
Kráva snorted in amusement. “Arrogant!”
“I suppose that did come out badly,” he chuckled. “Try this, then: I want a woman who would be with me for the right reasons. Not because I paid for her for a night, and certainly not because I thought she was my property. Not because she was desperate for a living. Not because her father or her clan chief thought I would be a good match and forced her into it. I saw enough of that kind of commerce between men and women, when I was young, to last a lifetime. No, I want a woman who could never be forced into anything she did not want. Someone who chose me, because she valued me.”
Kráva listened to this speech with growing discomfort, because she suddenly suspected about whom the vaita was thinking. “Lóka . . .”
His smile widened, and he threw back his head and laughed aloud. Across the field, Drúthan stopped and glanced in their direction, wondering what they were talking about.
“No, Kráva, I know better than that. You love the warrior’s life too well. You could only desire someone who could share that with you, and I am not that man. I don’t resent that. You are my friend, and I value that too much to yearn after something that would suit neither of us very well.”
Relieved, Kráva nodded and reached out to clap a hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad. I do value you, Lóka, but you’re right, I doubt we would match well as lovers.”
“Rána, on the other hand?” Lóka sighed. “It’s never likely to happen, I suppose. It seems she prefers warriors as well, if her taking up with Múrvira is any indication.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” she said thoughtfully. “What she seems to appreciate most about him is that he’s clever.”
Lóka opened his mouth, as if to make some light comment, but then he stopped and looked pensive.
“So, what have you three been talking about?” Drúthan asked, walking up to them with an appreciative glance for Kráva.
“Rána is off to see if she can discover where Betráxa is hiding,” said Kráva. “Also, Lóka and I have agreed that he and I would make poor lovers.”
“Those are both good things, I suppose. Are you sure you can trust Rána?”
“I think we can trust that she’s not following any agenda but her own.” Kráva frowned, looking thoughtfully at both of her friends. “Speaking of which, I wonder if we’ve learned enough about our enemies to begin making our own plans.”
“What do we know?” asked Drúthan.
“Well, I think it’s clear that the tribe isn’t in immediate danger of internal strife,” said Kráva. “Men like my uncle, or your father, aren’t entirely happy with the way Múrvira rules. Some of Múrvira’s own clansmen aren’t happy with him either . . .”
“Although those aren’t as likely to do something about it as they were, thanks to you.”
“True.” Kráva shook her head. “I hate that Múrvira used me that way, but I have to admit it silenced some of his rivals. The point is, I don’t think any of the clans are ready to break with Múrvira. Not even close. Do you agree?”
Slowly, both men nodded.
“Nor do I believe Múrvira is ready to break with any of the clans,” said Lóka. “Even knowing that your father was visiting the other chieftains, to discuss what was to be done, he has not tried to punish anyone. Instead, he works to persuade those who are open to persuasion.”
“I agree,” said Kráva decisively. “Which means that all our enemies are external to the tribe. The skátoi, Pelkóra King and his Men of Iron, and this foreign god who seems to be taking an interest. Are there any others?”
“That archer, the other night. One of Pelkóra’s agents, I’ll warrant.” Drúthan ran his fingertips through his beard in thought. “Before Rexava was killed, he threatened us. ‘His hand is closer to you than you know, and it will strike before you have any chance to raise a defense,’ that’s what he said. That sounds as if it might describe a killer who could get into Verkanta and strike from the king’s very hall, without anyone knowing about it or being able to stop it.”
“Interesting, that the assassin struck at you, Kráva.” Lóka frowned. “A god-touched hero is certainly a fine target, but why not try to kill the king instead?”
“Because someone has been attacking the children of the gods in these lands,” Drúthan said. “Rána said so yesterday.”
“True, but according to her, that has been going on for a long time. Pelkóra King can’t have been implicated in the death of Kráva’s mother. He was only a small child at the time.”
“What about a foreign god? One who hates the gods of the Tremára and their children?” Drúthan spread his hands, as if laying out evidence before them. “Perhaps Pelkóra and the Men of Iron are not the prime movers here.”
“What about the skátoi?” Kráva asked.
Silence fell, as the three of them stood by the fence in the warm summer sunlight. To Kráva, the idea of a distant god moving in the world, striking at her from faraway countries, seemed absurd. The day was too bright, the air too warm and laden with pleasant scents, to make such darkness seem plausible.
“There are some very ancient stories,” said Lóka at last. “The skátoi were not always simple nomads, wandering in small bands and companies with their herds, out on the Great Plains. Long ago, they formed armies that swept across the land, attacking the sanadmára and their allies among men. All at the command of dark gods who hated the Ancient Folk, and sought to drive them into the sea.”
“That makes sense,” Kráva said slowly. “Suppose this foreign god, the one whose agents use the daharim tongue, has influence both over the skátoi and over the Men of Iron. Then it all fits together. This god seeks out and slays the gods’ children, except for those like Pelkóra who serve it. It sends the skátoi to attack us. All to weaken us, prepare us for . . . what? A war of conquest?”
“We are very far away from the Sunlit Lands, where this god supposedly dwells,” Drúthan objected.
“It is a god,” said Lóka. “It can afford to think in the very long term.”
Kráva’s fist clenched at a sudden thought. She slammed it on the fence’s top rail in frustration. “It’s worse than that,” she told them. “Lóka, those letters in the daharim language. They were written in the vaita script.”
“Yes.”
“No one knows the vaita script, except vaitai. The daharim language probably has its own script anyway. There are vaitai in the Tremára lands, spying for this foreign god, using their secret script to hide what they’re doing. Possibly right here in our tribe. Rána was right to be suspicious.”
Slowly, Lóka nodded. “Yes. I’ve had my own suspicions for several days now, ever since we reached Verkanta. When Rána showed us those letters, I knew at once what they meant.”
“Gods above, Lóka! Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”
“What could I say? Whom could I accuse?” Lóka balled his fists, his face ugly with anger. “I probably know the men who are betraying us all, but I do not know who they are! I dare not accuse anyone until I am certain. I owe you my freedom, Kráva, but I owe the order my life.”
They were silent, for a long moment.
“The king needs to know,” said Drúthan calmly.
Lóka took a deep breath, relaxed his hands, and visibly let go of his anger. “The king probably does know. All the most critical facts, we have because Rána came to us. Don’t you think she has told him everything she knows?”
“Still, one of us should talk to him.”
The two men stared at Kráva, until she sighed and nodded her head. “All right. I’ll go talk to Múrvira. Tomorrow.”
“Good.” Lóka glanced at Drúthan. “We should make sure your father and your brothers are aware of everything we believe is happening. Kráva, your uncle and his sons likewise.”
Kráva nodded. “I agree. Shall we meet on the path up to Mednákalë, say, an hour past sunrise tomorrow?”
They quickly agreed, and went their separate ways. Behind them, unnoticed, Trenkáma watched them go.