The Broken Land(55)

“Let us hope he does so.”

Atotarho looked at the dense oaks. Icicles hung from the branches. In the moonlight streaming across the forest, they resembled fangs, glimmering and still, waiting for careless prey to walk beneath them.

“He will. I pay him well.”

Negano squinted at the clearing ahead. A small grassy area surrounded by massive boulders, it spread barely twenty hands across. The young people of the village called it “Lovers’ Meadow.” They came here to court and talk, and do the things they couldn’t in the crowded longhouses.

“Let me go ahead, my chief, to make sure all is well.”

“Yes, thank you.” Atotarho propped his walking stick and leaned his crooked body against it while he watched Negano cautiously walk forward to search the moonlit meadow. The other guards moved up behind Atotarho to guard him while Negano was away.

The forest was utterly deserted, frigid, and smelled of fires long grown cold. Earlier in the evening, mist had curled across the ground. Hatho, the Frost Spirit, must have frozen it solid and sprinkled it over the piles of autumn leaves that leaned against every tree trunk, for they sparkled in the moonlight—which made the stillness seem all the more ominous.

Negano trotted back up the trail. “It’s safe—at least as safe as it can be, given the circumstances.”

“Good. Don’t follow me. I want you and your men to stand twenty paces away.”

“But, my chief, if he leaps for your throat, we’ll never be able to get there in time.”

“I will risk it.” To keep you out of hearing range.

Negano bowed respectfully. “Of course. Qonde, you heard him. Circle the men around the meadow. Make sure each man can see the chief.”

“Yes, Deputy.”

The men silently moved away to take up their positions.

Atotarho’s feet crackled in the frosty leaves as he placed his walking stick and slowly plodded toward the meadow. The circlets of human skull that decorated his black cape flashed as he walked.

When he entered the meadow he saw the time-smoothed rocks arranged around the fire pit like benches. The flecks of mica in the stone shimmered. He went to the closest rock and gingerly sat down. Every twisted joint in his body ached. He had to be careful. If he fell he’d be in excruciating pain for days.

While he waited, he rubbed his sore knees. Chunks of charcoal filled the fire pit before him. No one had been here for a while. The only things around the pit were a shattered tea cup and a rabbit rib cage. Mice had been chewing on it, leaving their distinctive teeth marks in the bone.

A faint sound, like a twig cracking, made him go still. He had the chill sensation of being watched, spied upon by a deadly predator too smart to allow itself to be seen until the time was right.

Through the gaps between the boulders, he spotted Negano standing on the trail with his war club propped on his shoulder, his eyes fixed on Atotarho, but he didn’t see any of his other guards. Nonetheless, he knew they saw him, and that put him somewhat at ease.

Across the pit, directly in front of him, the darkness between two head-high boulders seemed to ripple. He stared at it. A cape blown by the wind? A hunting animal? A bar of pewter light lay across the ground like a polished sword carved from old rain-silvered wood. When the figure stepped into it, the bar slashed across his chest and flickered through the feathers of his cape as though they were aflame.

“You’re afraid,” a quiet voice said. “I can smell your fear sweat.” He had painted his face pure white. That paleness, contrasting so sharply with the darkness, gave him an eerie, corpselike appearance. “Be at ease. I have no intention of doing you harm. Tonight.”

“Did you come alone?”

“I abide by my agreements. Yes, I came alone.”

A Hills People accent, but tinged with elements from the People of the Mountain, and a slight Flint drawl, the vowels rounded a little too much. As a boy, he had been around many different peoples. He continued standing in the bar of light, letting Atotarho see him, as if it were a momentary gift before he vanished like smoke.

“Come and sit down.” Atotarho gestured to the stones around the dead fire pit.

“Sit? In your presence? Hardly.”

The man had a starved face with upturned batlike nostrils and big ears. Oddly luminous, his obsidian eyes never blinked, or at least Atotarho had never seen it. Long black hair draped the front of his feathered cape. Ohsinoh lived off darkness like a nectar moth, moving from flower to flower, sucking it dry. On the rare occasions when they’d met in daylight, the bluebird feathers of his cape had gleamed an unearthly color. Tonight, however, they appeared washed with silver dust, each feather casting a tiny arc of shadow.