AUTHOR'S NOTE: See additional Author's Notes at the end.
xXx
Escthta woke suddenly, his gasp loud in the small cave space. His stomach groaned, reminding him of his half-starved state, and he pressed a palm to it. His hands hurt, throbbing in a low, but insistent agony. He felt weak, his muscles seeming to tremble on their own in their frantic need for energy. Escthta shivered to stave off winter's yet icy grip, and he chafed his arms as he lifted his head.
He saw why he was cold; he had kicked aside the screen that protected the hole from frigid winds off the mountain. He saw H'chak-di's discarded body suit, a husk of the human she had been, in a heap on the floor. He saw her tomb, made by his own hands, each stone set in place and wedged against its neighbors. He looked at his hands, his claws split and blunted by rocks, dried black blood on each fingertip. He saw it all, but remembered doing none of it.
Numbly, he pushed himself up, wincing as his body aches became more pronounced in the cold. The fire had died out a long time ago, though there was the scarcest feel of heat from the ashes. He remade the fire in silence; the sounds of wood and ignition seemed loud and abrasive to him. Part of him wanted to simply sit in the quiet with H'chak-di, just the two of them, and let exposure do its work. But there was yet another part of him that went through the fire-making motions, drawing heat and light back into the cave, and Escthta despised himself for being able to feel heat and see light, where H'chak-di never would again.
Survivor's guilt was something usually limited to young warriors on their first hunt, a lingering feeling of malcontent when one of their friends was killed. There was a sense that all was not right with the world, that something in the machinery of the universe had sprung loose and thrown the natural order of things into chaos. There was no explanation of the disorder that eventually claimed all life, and so the malcontent and hurt helped to forge new warriors, hunters that healed over their wounds with ideas of honor and increased value after death.
Escthta paused and looked at the wall of stones he'd built to close off H'chak-di from this life. By his reckoning, it had been almost a day and a half since her death, although he had no way of knowing how long he had slept by her tomb. Soon the cave would stink of death. He had to be gone by then. He curled himself around the fire, using what furs had not been entombed with H'chak-di to cover himself.
When he woke the next morning, the cave was dark, barely touched by the faint blue light of pre-dawn outside. He made a face at the olfactory recognition of decay. It was small, but insistent, coating his mouthparts in a film of death, and he gagged as he realized again what it was, what must be going on behind that wall of stones. Water evaporated more slowly in cold air, but evaporated nonetheless, desiccating the body except for the moist guts. Muscles stiffened with rigor mortis now softened under the relentless attack of bacteria. Intestinal fauna ran amok, breaking down the walls of cilia that kept them from a bounty of decaying meat. Life persisted even now, for it was life that took apart the dead, that took sustenance from their bodies, and it continued without thought, the engine of biomass grinding through the grit and soft parts, breaking molecular bonds and returning elements to the earth.
Escthta's stomach churned uncertainly as he coaxed the fire back into flame, not sure what to make of its master's sudden neglect. He stood, eyes directed forward, though he didn't move with any real purpose. The pack was ready to go; H'chak-di had been drying thin strips of meat over the fire for weeks, padding their exile rations with whatever he could hunt. The improvised boucan occupied several metal tins of food that sat neatly in the bottom of the pack. It seemed like so much wasted effort, so much food for just one person. Taking one of the tins, he collected some snow to melt. He should fill all the bladders he had with water; the water supply meant for two would give him longer between necessary stops to fill the skins.
Still feeling disgusted with himself, he folded up some of the tenderly worked leather into rolls, shoving them down in the bag. He would probably not have time to put together a makeshift bivouac, but the good intentions settled his mind. The skins were filled and nestled inside another set of furs.
Next, he dressed and armed himself, more fully than he had since they were first set down on that beach months ago. He turned the heating mesh on a low setting, mindful of how his activity would warm him up. The mask came next, and it felt claustrophobic on him; he had spent the last several weeks in a state of constant communication. He instantly hated how closed off he felt, but there was no better way to carry it, and he might actually need some of the information from the HUD. The wristblades and his spear were last, the spear lashed to the top of the pack. He didn't bother to kick dirt over the fire; it would die out on its own. With one more look to the wall he had made, he ducked his head out of the cave. The snow was melting in the warming sun, and he looked up to the pass between the mountains hopefully before beginning to trudge through the melt.
xXx
White-hot gold alloy crept out of the crucible; the metalsmith made sure that the mold was filled to the brim before nestling the crucible back in the furnace. That was the last piece he'd have to cast for this order, and he was thankful for it. It had nearly wiped out his backstock of precious metals. He'd had to melt down some of his own personal jewelry to meet the demands, but considering the customer, he could hardly refuse the order.
A'bunde's stomach growled and he ignored it for the third time in as many hours, despite the setting sun outside his window. He opened it, squinting at the bright red disc sinking slowly in the sky. A breeze chased up to his sill, and he breathed it in before turning and sitting down at his bench to resume his work on some of the smaller pieces. They excited him, being so different from the rank rings he was normally called upon to shape. Small and delicate, the tusk rings were slowly coming into being under his hands, etched with lacy filigree, with settings that would be studded with the smallest of gems. A finished ring sat in the tray off to the side, ready to be set with stones. A'bunde lowered his magnifying glass and set the unfinished ring in a clamp so he could more easily etch his designs into it.
As he worked, his hands skillfully guiding his tiny picks and scrapers, he found his mind turning to the part of his order he had not yet finished. He would need to solder these pieces together, and there was still the stone-setting to be done. And then there were the bracelets.
The order had been very specific, he mused, smoothing one of the filigree curls out with the tip of a file. As an artist and more importantly, as someone who designed jewelry to be worn in sets, he was very sensitive to how pieces looked together. Combining several colors of metal could be garish if done improperly. Any of the nacre gems would look out of place on something beset with gems of the earth. Rank rings that were for the same owner often came with a request for similar designs. They were artfully crafted components of an artfully crafted image. Even the most dull-witted hunters would acquire their own look and style, provided they lived long enough.
And that was why the bracelets, or more appropriately, the metal cuffs, stood out. They came with no samples of the designs they would be accompanying. Perhaps more telling to his mind was that each other pieces of the order had extensive instructions about motifs and shapes, but this came with only terse directions about size. Were they a gift for someone? Surely any yautja that could afford to wear these would have their own motifs that they wished incorporated. Perhaps they were for a slave to a female on the Broodworld?
He shook his head, moving away from the clamp and the filigree, looking at the unfinished bracelets. The gold, burnished bright, seemed to glow even in the dim lights of forge and sunset. They were simple and large; A'bun'de thought they were for a male, just by their very heft and shape. He looked at the intricate filigree work in his clamp, clearly destined for the new Matriarch, and then back at the bracelets, his face creased in consternation.
He wasn't one to meddle in the affairs of his clients, but he ached to know who the cuffs were for, if not for the lady.
xXx
From the seat on her dais, Paya stared icily at the councilmen across the room. She had succeeded in throwing the Council, if not the entire City, into an uproar with the procession of her plan. Thtarok, her former colleague, had blanched with panic, and even the blustery Kvar'ye had bowed to her demands. It was a heady feeling for any female, and she relished their submission to her will.
The melding of Da-kvar'di and Paya was not yet complete; the Allmother had chosen this vessel for her strength, intelligence and determination, one who would be more suited to administer a change in the regime. And there would be change, for Da-kvar'di was now privy to the goddess' plan, and she understood better now her role in it. Like a flash of light, her mind had been illuminated by divine knowledge, and she was contrite for the things she had done to thwart the march of time. As a mortal, she had sought to strive against the cosmos and the injustice perpetrated upon her people by their goddess. As an avatar, she now understood how futile and misguided her efforts had been. The part of her that was yet mortal wondered how much of her own life had been in the goddess' plans.
"Bruyaun's death is… unfortunate," she began. The councilmen stiffened, and she smiled at them, her tusks curving in a sinister arc. "But he was not so valuable that he could not be replaced."
"Without a mourning period?" Kvar'ye asked quietly, and Noskor and Ghanede traded glances at the velvet challenge.
"He has been given the burial he deserves, has he not?" Paya looked down at them and they did not reply. Bruyaun had been incinerated, with all the contents of his trophy walls, a mighty funeral pyre set alight, his body sizzling as the fat dripped off his blackening bones. Such a burial was from a time before skulls recorded a Hunter's honor and glory. It denied him the processionals accompanied with the entombment of a great Hunter, and was entirely below his station.
There was much about this Paya that unsettled them deeply. Though newly minted, she had grown into Da-kvar'di as a snake grows into new skin; she seemed more powerful than ever. The diaphanous robes were gone, for new raiment better suited her. She wore a scaled-skin cloak and plate armor that evoked the power of nearly mythical prey. The carapace of the previous Matriarch was discarded in favor of a diadem, a set of horned fins that swept up and away from her face. Gone were the intricate hair knots, for this Paya favored the dreadlocks of warriors. She was not simply the Allmother, but a warrior queen the likes of which had been absent from yautja society for millennia.
"Have you any suggestions for replacements?" Her question echoed in the large hall, but the Councilmen just looked nervously at one another.
"There are few yautja so qualified to hold such an honored position," Noskor said cautiously.
"Did her Excellency have a candidate in mind?" Ren'da ventured.
"Hir'cyn would make an excellent addition," Paya said without pause. "His trophy case is respectable, but what is more necessary is a keen intellect."
"I must advise against this choice," Kvar'ye said, blustering. "Hir'cyn is a most unorthodox-"
"I think it's a good choice," Tjat'le grunted, looking down at his hands, folded in front of him on the table. "Hir'cyn has a fair hand and is as well-traveled as any of us, as well as having certain crucial knowledge about the Psionic." He lifted his eyes to look at Thtarok for a moment before moving his gaze to Kvar'ye. "I do not trust we have seen the last of him," he breathed.
All eyes turned to the Matriarch, seeking knowledge of the Psionic in her face. She regarded them silently, her thoughts inscrutable. This unsettled them all further; the one thing that was worse than a silent Matriarch was one that had only just become silent.
Kvar'ye glowered at the head Councilman and then ground out, "Of course, I am not opposed to a certain amount of growth in the Council. Shall we put it to a vote?"
"All in favor of welcoming Hir'cyn as our fellow Councilman?" Tjat'le raised his hand as he finished speaking, and Ren'da and Ghanede slowly raised their hands to follow. Noskor raised his hand, which left Thtarok and Kvar'ye trading glances before lifting their own arms in reluctant support.
"Unanimous then," Paya said, with no small amount of smug approval in her voice as she looked at Kvar'ye. "I thank you."
"We shall consult him tomorrow," Noskor said, looking at Ren'da, who nodded.
"And the other matter I have tasked you with? The Psionic?" She looked at each of their faces, shrewdly searching them with more than just her eyes. Finally, she lit on Kvar'ye, sensing an opening. "You've searched the area but cannot find him?"
"Your pardon, Excellency, he has all but vanished." Kvar'ye said, hesitating a little in his speech.
"Even for an accomplished Hunter such as yourself?"
Kvar'ye bristled. "The snows have been heavy, Excellency." He stood slowly, drawing his fingertips over the table surface. "We have no way of knowing which way he headed once he was released, or if the human is-"
"The human no longer matters. She is dead," the Matriarch said flatly. Kvar'ye and Thtarok exchanged glances.
"Begging your pardon, Excellency, but if you know the human is dead, then…"
"Don't question me, Kvar'ye. Just because I know it does not mean I could tell you where it happened," she spat.
Kvar'ye stood up in indignation. "Even the best Hunter could not track prey gone by weeks past under a blanket of snow!" he raged. "What madness is this, that you would send us after an exile we condemned only months ago? What do you mean to do by bringing such a dangerous beast back here and flouting our authority? I will not stand for this! I will not-"
Paya raised one hand at him, and as she spoke, her armor seemed to shine and glow, though the portal overhead showed an overcast sky. Her hands, beautiful and terrible, traced an invisible path down his neck, and small bits of his adornment shattered on his person, a necklace of small skulls turning to powder in a puff of debris.
"How DARE you!" he screeched, but could not move from where he stood. The Matriarch's hand stopped and she smiled cruelly. "Do you think you can match me in single combat, Kvar'ye?" She jerked her hand, and a buckle at his shoulder snapped apart, dropping a pouch at his side. The buckle's smoking pieces rocked back and forth on the floor, filling the room with the hot smell of molten metal.
Kvar'ye howled with impotent rage and stalked out of the chamber, leaving the other Councilmen alone with the Matriarch. She lowered her arm and turned to Noskor, the retributive fire fading from her armor.
"I believe that you may have better success in tracking the Psionic, Noskor," she said slowly, too sweetly for him to feel comfortable.
"I did spend a few years mentoring him," Noskor offered, none too pleased with being the focus of her attention.
"Very good," she said, folding her gauntleted arms with a ring of metal. "Very good, indeed."
xXx
Escthta sat down heavily on a large, flat boulder, already anticipating a long swallow of water. He opened his pack and reached for the skin that had been closest to his body, cradling it to feel for ice. It was pleasantly warm, and he let his fingers sink between the folds for a moment before removing his mask. The water was warm and tasted of leather. He paused between gulps to look up at the pass, squinting against the bright, cloudless sky.
He was pleased with the progress he had made so far; the snow was new, but voluminous and fairly wet. Packing it under his feet had made a steep, but traversable incline. He suspected that the thinning air had slowed him considerably, but he judged the pass was maybe only an hour and a half of steady climbing away. He'd already spent one cold night bivouacked against a rock face, awakening to a sheet of snow covering the makeshift shelter.
Escthta examined the skin, which he had hung across his shoulders and over the pack as he hiked. The high sun had long ago dried whatever moisture had leeched into the leather during the night. He carefully folded and rolled the hide up, stowing it in his pack along with the skin of water. With a grunt, he shouldered the pack again and began hiking up to the pass.
The pass narrowed as he approached, crags looming on either side of Escthta. He stopped at the narrowing, his fast, shallow breathing fogging his mask. The thin air here made his lungs ache, and he took the opportunity to stop and look up at the peaks, which extended for hundreds of feet up on either side of him. He stumbled a bit, dizzy with the heights; he hurriedly looked back at his feet to regain his focus. The dizziness passed, and he pressed on.
The pass closed in, becoming a slit of a canyon that split the summit. Rock faces that were hundreds of yards apart drew together like the folds of a cloak, leaving a passage about ten yards wide that was largely free of snow. A weak breeze whistled mournfully between the rocks; the floor of the canyon was flat, and seemed unnaturally smooth in places. Escthta might have passed the cave by if he had not removed his mask to take in the scene with his natural eyesight.
The entrance was small, and might have only been a notch in the rock wall to the casual observer, but Escthta's left eye saw the shadow of what had been, the runic writing around the opening, the mostly decayed brazier that had once warded the chill away from the interior. He whipped his head around, looking for guards or occupants, before chuckling humorlessly to himself. Winter still pressed hard against the mountains; even if this was some kind of pilgrimage site, only a martyr would risk his life to come up here in snows like this.
Brushing away the snow and ice from the stone doorway exposed the chiseled characters, which Escthta did not recognize as being part of any yautja script or language. He exhaled loudly, looking down, as his heart plummeted into his stomach.
Escthta knew that if an exile could defeat a Councilman, he could win back his right to enter society. Many chose to buck an exile order and wreaked havoc as Bad Bloods rather than serve the sentence, which was death in all but name. Since most exile sentences were carried out on other worlds, it was unlikely that an exile would ever return to the City to challenge a Councilman. He couldn't remember specifics, but he knew there had been one case of an exile defeating a Hunter on a far-off planet and using his insertion pod to call back a Hunting ship; the ship retrieved him and bore him back to the homeworld, where he fought Tjat'le to a draw. Escthta had hoped that he might do the same, but that wish blew away with the flakes of snow he brushed from the doorway.
He moved forward and nudged the brittle remnants of the metal brazier with his foot before looking deeper into the cave. The passage was narrow, designed to provide a barricade against the cold. It wound around one wall and then another before opening into a chamber larger than he anticipated; it yawned black beyond his normal vision, but his left eye showed roughly circular columns, deeply engraved, lining a path to a room beyond. His right eye adjusted slowly, but it could add nothing to what his left saw.
Before him a short tunnel stretched out and ended in a circular room. The free-standing columns, hewn out of the surrounding rock, directed him down the tunnel toward the altar, with little space between them and the walls they lined. As he walked, he found the sconces, lining the walls behind the columns, and in the eye granted him by Cetanu, he saw them begin to flicker with phantom torchlight. Pale and green they burned, only for him. Escthta stilled, his breath caught in his throat. Dark heaps behind the pillars seemed to writhe in the dancing shadows, macabre caricatures of their living selves. Escthta looked away from them quickly, but within moments they became ethereal creatures of darkness that stood on two legs, lurching forward into the weak illumination of the torches, their husks left behind the pillars. He did not breathe, fear beating fast at his temples as he prepared himself for the possibility of combat.
They moved past him and through him, shades of former things that moved as if life had never ceased for them. After a moment, he was able to get accustomed to their nonexistence, breathing again slowly, though the momentary panic had drained his lungs of their air. He took another step forward, watching them as they moved into the circular room at the end of the path, splitting to follow the walls. Ghostly fire in sconces on the pillars themselves joined those on the wall in shedding wan light over the hushed cavern. Escthta set his pack down just inside the doorway, his mask next to it.
Wide, flat steps created a circular, sunken arena, dominated by the great altar at its center. As Escthta approached the altar, he noted its circular steps up around the side of it, sliding his fingertips along the pleasing roundness of the letters that adorned it. Smaller, steeper steps climbed up around the great altar, which had the shape of a shallow bowl. Escthta stood facing it, a small preparation surface to his right, where the tools of a priest might have once lain. The shadows, which were constantly crossing the arena, seemed not to think that the altar was there, or at least ignored it. Escthta looked up at the ceiling of the cavern, surprised to discover a white plug of snow and ice directly overhead, the altar positioned so that melt would fall directly into the bowl. He reached in to touch the bowl's bottom, rubbing his fingers in the powdery dust.
As he touched it, his left eye saw the altar burst with light and the shadows grew bright and gained form; they were somewhat shorter than he, with broad shoulders and stocky limbs. He closed his right eye, all but blind in the darkness of the cave, and watched with his left as the plug overhead melted, splashing into the bowl underneath, and then high and clear sunshine warming the black stone basin. The wraiths around him drew close to the altar, their paths increasingly smeared and blurred, but their luminous forms becoming ever more distinct.
One of them ascended the altar's steps; he watched as she solidified in his view, her hair gathered into loose braids, her priestly robes barely hiding her nudity. He jumped down as she walked up, moving into the ephemeral crowd that was gathering at the altar. She gloried in the sunlight as the star passed overhead, and purified the basin with fire. A small brand crumbled in an instant, and she painted symbols around the edge of the altar with a paste of ash. Braces of small animals and tender greenery appeared in the basin; blood pooled under them. Small fruits and then grains were nestled among the bodies and buds, while the priest exalted and continued the rituals.
And then, a shaft of sunlight pierced the cavern, falling directly on the offerings. The priest cast the basin into flame again, fur and grain burning fiercely. The shades around him knelt in supplication; the priest was frenzied, and he could nearly hear her shrieking in fervor as the sun shined down on her from its zenith. Then, the moment was over, the offerings burnt out. Small ghosts came forward to the altar and the priestess raised a blade to each of them and cut into their foreheads, pressing an ointment made of ash and blood from the offerings into the wounds. The marks burned on their foreheads, shining into Escthta's mind, and he knew them. Blooding marks.
He turned away from the altar, looking toward the door, grabbing his pack and mask, pausing to lay them outside the cave. He turned back into the cave, walking into the hallway, seeking one of the dark heaps behind a column. Escthta reached behind it, fumbling, until his hands closed over something round and leathery. He picked it up, surprised to find that it did not come away from the body, but instead carried the whole of it gingerly out into the light, where he finally opened his right eye.
The skin was yellowed, stretched taut over the crown, and the eyes were sunken and black, shriveled away centuries ago. He gently smoothed over the heavy brow, the places where hair had once grown, the mandibles twisted by decay and mummification in the mountain tomb. The Blooding mark was still visible, a faint tattoo in the center of the forehead. It was from no clan he recognized, but there could be no doubting it. Somehow this kind of Blooding had been completely forgotten, from a time before the Hunt was all that any yautja knew, from a time before the kainde amedha.
Escthta cradled the cold mummy for several minutes, memorizing its dead face and allowing himself a few moments of grief for lives lost. He chittered softly at it, the sounds of soothing that mothers made to their young, and then looked up at the sky; the sun was further along its path than he had realized. He carried the mummy gently back into the cave, settling it back into its resting place behind the column. He stepped back into the main ritual chamber, and the wraiths were dark and shadowy again, all but the priest, who was being helped down from the altar by an apprentice. She leaned heavily on him as they walked toward the back of the chamber, to a curtained-off room that Escthta hadn't noticed before.
She waved away the apprentice, and the apprentice became faint and indistinct as he left her side, running back to the altar; she alone remained lit. Escthta followed her into the room, feeling that the curtain had long ago disintegrated, though his left eye showed it intact. He moved through it after it fell closed behind the priest. The small room smelled of dust, though his left eye showed it meticulously kept. He thought he could scent a female now that he was looking at her, but he might have been imagining it.
Escthta watched her disrobe and remove the adornments of her office from her loosely braided hair, jewelry from her tusks. She was an earthy beauty with large lower tusks, her dark brown hide bearing the faintest of spots, her belly an enticing shade of chestnut. He could visually identify the signs of season on her, the fullness of her heat showing in her breasts, the way her vulva glistened even in the phantom torchlight. Even though he knew she was long dead, an instinct to breed her bloomed in his groin.
She seated herself on a cushion on the black stone floor, using a bone comb to smooth her hair. He watched her for a few moments more and nearly bit his tongue off when she looked directly at him and smiled, flaring her tusks. Her mouth moved, but he heard no sound. She bowed her head to him, her dark hair sliding over her bare shoulders, and then faded from his view, though the ghostly torches still burned.
Escthta's gaze fell upon the bone comb; he reached down to pick it up, surprised to feel it under his hand. It was smooth and cold, having weathered the ages well without drying out. After a moment of indecision, he bowed his head to the absent specter of the priest and walked slowly to the entrance of the cave. The shadowy vestiges had also vanished, and the fires doused themselves in his wake. Even when he looked behind himself with his Cetanu-gifted eye, he saw no light, no sign of the bodies and lives that had ended therein. He packed the comb in carefully, folding it in some furs and tucking the parcel to the side of his pack. He tightened his mandibles grimly. The death god's gift was not entirely useless. With a glance to the afternoon sun beginning to fall from its zenith overhead, he shouldered the pack and continued through the pass to the other side of the mountains.
xXx
AUTHOR'S NOTE: To any of you that have returned after this unpardonably long hiatus, I thank you for your continued goodwill. I cannot promise any frequency to updates other than those allowed by my current lack of employment. Thanks to Chocobo Goddess for resuming the mantle of beta so readily, even in the midst of her moving house!
As always, feel free to send me an email or message with questions or comments.