“I think that’s what they are searching us for,” Kanthe said. “Seeing if we might be infected, bearing wounds that might suggest infestation.”
“You may be right.” Frell glanced behind them. “They would not want that scourge to spread to the rest of their forest. The river is likely a natural barrier, rife with pyrantha. Only birds would be a risk. Perhaps they scout the river’s edge for any attempt of the skriitch to spread here.”
The tribesman who held the spines and stingers scowled at them. He lowered a palm to a bone dagger slung at his waist.
Kanthe held up a palm. “Nay.” He shook his head and placed a palm on his bare chest. “Nee shell.”
He struggled for the proper words to explain. He formed wings with his palms and wafted them about. He mimicked plucking the spines and pointed to what the man held. He gave a firm shake of his head, returning his palm to his chest.
“Nee shell,” he repeated. Not from us.
The tribesman lowered his palm from his dagger. Another Kethra’kai joined him, carrying a wooden bowl full of gray powder.
“What’s that?” Frell asked.
Jaleek, the tawny-headed one who had been examining Kanthe, seemed to understand. The tribesman straightened, pointed from the spines to the bowl, then crossed his arms into an X.
“Kraal,” he said with a reassuring nod.
Kanthe closed his eyes.
Oh, no …
Jace called to him, “What does that mean?”
Kanthe grimaced, refusing to answer, knowing he could never speak it aloud, especially to a certain grieving member of their party. He opened his eyes and stared over to the tall bushes where the old crone and a clutch of Kethra’kai women had taken Nyx to be examined in private.
She must never know.
He prayed none of the women shared that particular word’s meaning with Nyx.
If only we had waited another half day …
He turned to Jaleek, who smiled with encouragement, as if assuring them that the skriitch were no threat.
“Kraal,” he repeated, pointing at the bowl of powder.
Kanthe shook his head, not in disbelief, but in despair.
Kraal meant cure.
37
NYX LIFTED HER arms as one of the Kethra’kai, a woman named Dala, wrapped a length of spotted fur across her bare breasts. The tribeswoman then snugged it securely and clasped it in back. Once done, Dala inspected her and nodded her satisfaction.
With the study of her body ended, Nyx donned her breeches and soft boots. They had warmed her clothes by a small fire. The heat helped calm her. Plus, the gathering around her was welcoming, if not somewhat reserved.
She reached to Jace’s cloak, but the heavier wool was still sodden, so she left it drying beside the fire. She looked down at herself, judging herself to be adequately attired. She heard the men talking beyond the bushes. She didn’t know if they had dressed, but from the way a few of the women peeked through branches and whispered with winks, she guessed they were still naked.
The elder Kethra’kai, the one held in highest esteem, stood up from a stump and crossed toward Nyx. The old woman had been present for the entire examination, but she had drawn no nearer. Her gaze never left Nyx’s face. As she reached Nyx, she leaned on her cane. Its white length was adorned with a row of pearlescent white shells imbedded into the wood. Each had been carved into the changes of the moon, running from sliver to full, then back again.
She breathed harder, reminded of what had started her on this journey. As handsomely as the moon was depicted on her cane, the sight was wrought with too much bloodshed and heartbreak. She heard an echo of Bashaliia’s keening, saw her dah fall to the ground. She pictured the cairn of stones in these woods. All of it drawn around a single word of dread and premonition.
Moonfall.
The elder seemed to read her sudden distress. The old woman lifted a hand and placed a warm palm—withered but still as firm as the hardwood of her cane—on Nyx’s cold cheek.
“I heard you, child,” the woman whispered.
Nyx didn’t understand, but the confusion drew her back from the brink of despair.
Dala bowed toward the elder, then spoke to Nyx. “Xan. Dob van Xan.”
Nyx understood Dala was offering the elder’s name.
“Xan,” she whispered, testing it.
The elder gave a nod of acknowledgment. “You bridled so sweetly,” Xan said. “How could I not be drawn by your song?”
Nyx swallowed. “What do you mean?”
Nyx remembered the tyger and her poor attempt to confront its savagery. It was nothing like the chorus of the Kethra’kai. The forest tribe’s ability with bridle-song was unique, ingrained into their blood. Such was known throughout Hálendii and much of the Crown. A few others were so gifted, but even they often had some distant connection to these tribesmen.
None knew why the Kethra’kai retained such a talent. Nyx remembered some debate in her sixthyear class, between alchymists and hieromonks, on this very subject. The monks believed it was a blessing of the Daughter, the dark Huntress of the moon.
Nyx stared again at the cane’s row of sculpted shells, depicting the Daughter’s endless chase of the silvery Son, marking the moon’s waxing and waning. But she also remembered what the alchymists believed: that the gift of bridle-song was not a blessing of the gods, but instead rose out of necessity. To survive in this ancient forest, rife with dangers at every turn, it would require more than a hunter’s skill and woodland knowledge. The alchymists suspected bridle-song had helped the tribes survive, to bend a portion of the fauna here to their will.
She pictured the tyger leaping away.
Maybe the alchymists were right.
Still, such an explanation had not satisfied her back in her sixthyear and still failed to do so now. It didn’t answer the fundamental mystery. Where and how did the tribe acquire this bloodborne talent?
“I heard your song,” Xan repeated. “It was so full of grief, yet also love. Your call traveled far to reach me, to call me to you.”
How could that be possible?
Nyx again felt brittle leaves under her knees, Kanthe’s blade in her hand, a finger rubbing velvet fur. The cairn of stones was so far from here. They had traveled from midday and deep into latterday before reaching this river.
“How could you have heard me?” she asked aloud.
“Ah, the power of bridle-song comes not from the lips but from the heart.” The woman placed her palm between her own breasts, then over to Nyx’s chest. “It reaches those who know how to listen with their spirit.”
Nyx did not want to believe any of it, certainly not that she might be gifted with bridle-song.
“But be warned,” the elder said. “There are beasts, like that tyger, who will be drawn to your trail. They will seek to kill anyone who risks bridling them.”
Nyx remembered the soak of blood in her clothes. If the old woman was right, it wasn’t blood scent that drew the beast. It was me. No wonder Kanthe’s attempt to misdirect the tyger by leaving false trails had failed.
“And it’s not just beasts that you need to fear,” the elder said dourly.
Nyx frowned for some explanation, but Dala interrupted, looking impatient. “Nee crys wan jar’wren.”
Xan lifted a palm, calming the younger woman. “Dala is telling you we all heard your song.”