Chapter 22: False Signs

The first to reach the Spire was not an Ortheri warrior, hungry for Yîgeke's blood, but Kargöz. He'd managed to slip out of their grasp in the confusion, and, like Yîgeke, could close the distance to the Spire faster than his armor-clad enemies. But only a little; they were right behind him. When he met her at its base, he turned and stood, sheltering her with his body. "Run," he whispered. "Perhaps you can get away while they finish me."

But she had accepted her fate. She had done what she came for. She wanted nothing more than to be with him now. She put her arms around him from behind and waited for the moment, her eyes closed.

When it hadn't come a few moments later, she opened them once more and peered around him. In a circle around them, the Ortheri had paused, staring into the distance, down into the valley. She turned and followed their gaze, still embracing Kargöz, and for a few moments, eyes wide, she watched as Caras Lithgweth was swept away, erased as if it had never been. There was a gasp from the warriors, and she soon found its cause: Oyana's cry, holding aloft the severed head of the Ortheri Baugcaun.

She turned to meet the eyes of the warriors, and they fixed theirs on her. She could almost feel, as if for a moment she had borrowed Kumzu's gift, their thoughts and feelings. The shock of all that had been lost. The thought of turning and running now, to salvage something of their world. And the desire to wreak bloody vengeance on the First Hand. They raised their axes and spears once more, their warrior's rage winning out over the other thoughts.

And a horse charged through the ruins, scattering the warriors. A man rode atop it, shrouded in a hood and cloak the color of twilight, his face shrouded in shadows much the same. The Ortheri warriors struggled for balance a moment, then, thinking better of it, turned to scramble back down the path to join the few of their remaining kin. The rider wheeled his horse around and turned to peer out from the shadows of his hood at Yîgeke and Kargöz.

"You!" she cried. "You are the one who placed the stake atop the monument!" With a slight movement of his head, the man nodded. "And the others? Did you falsify all the Spears?"

He shook his head. "We bred a horse with markings in its hide, and sold it on a day when a sandstorm would make the moon red. We placed a tree, positioned an iron stake, and, in a moment of panic, we captured and fired a ballista. No more. Mere showmanship, sleight of hand. It was you who made the prophecy come true, you who persevered, you who understood. It was you who won your freedom this day."

"Who are you?" she asked, clinging to Kargöz.

"My name is unimportant. You shall not look upon my likeness again."

"But why? Why do all this?"

She thought she saw a grin. "It is a fair question," he conceded with a bow of his head. "You are not the first First Hand, Yîgeke. We have attempted this many times over the years. And each time, the man or woman who chanced to be identified as the First Hand failed to take up the charge. What little was accomplished was suppressed by the Ortheri, buried, and forgotten. When we saw that you were the new First Hand, we despaired." His voice was wry but also kind. "You did not seem particularly promising. But you were to be the last First Hand, whether you succeeded or no."

She gaped at him. "Why was I to be the last?"

He turned and gazed into the setting sun. "Far from here, great events of which you know little are taking place. Half the Ortheri army marches now to a battle in a distant land. We had hoped an earlier attempt would cause the Ortheri to be defeated before they could send any forces to that battle. Other efforts of ours have prevented the march of many other tribes into the West. But at least we've halved how many Ortheri soldiers now march upon the White City."

Yîgeke had never heard of a White City. Her thoughts went to Caras Lithgweth, whose walls of imprisoned sand where mostly white, but it was gone, and in any case, clearly not what the mysterious man meant. "So this was all to save some Westerling prince?" she asked, momentarily angry.

He turned back to fix his eyes on her. "Yes, and no," he said, apparently amused by her ire. "We certainly wished to help the forces in the west; it is what set us on this road. A terrible shadow will rise and, hopefully, fall, without you even knowing what horror you have been spared. No, more than spared. That you have helped to spare yourself. But we did not engage in this action merely for the West. If we had found that, to save the, as you call it, Westerling prince, we had to enslave your people rather than help them free themselves, we would have sought another way. Or at the last, we would have turned away. No victory won through embracing darkness can ever stay true, can ever strike down darkness."

"You speak as if you care about us," she said, though the anger was ebbing. Kargöz's hand was warm in hers. "You used us just as much as the Ortheri did." But she regretted the words as soon as she'd said them.

Unperturbed, the man simply shrugged. "As I said, all we did was play a few pranks. It was you who found hope in the sand, who had the strength to hold it aloft, who struck down your oppressors and found your own way. It is this, not some distant war, that you should hold in your thoughts this day."

"What do we do now?" Yîgeke asked.

"That is, for the first time, no one's to decide but your own," the man said, turning his horse to the path. "A new life stands open before you. Make of it something the equal of what you have done today, and your name will be sung a thousand years from now." He spurred his horse into motion, and soon disappeared around the stones of the hill.

Without another word, Yîgeke tugged Kargöz's hand, and began the slow descent to meet their fellows. There was much still to be done.