The days that followed their stop in Doltatra proceeded much like the days before their arrival – they would travel for five to six hours, stopping only to rest the Assingh. At night, they would make fires to cook their stew, and practice their performances. One night they even chanced upon a herd of bison and were able to slaughter one for a lively feast that evening. The hide would be useful in making boots and other assorted odds and ends.
But not all was the same as before. Where before lively conversations often flourished, now they were more muted, quieter as if from some great oppressive weight bearing them down. Some of the Magyars would speak a few words, and then become silent, eyes wandering the far horizon, but seeing nothing. The sky itself even felt this change, growing greyer and more distant, even as the horizon itself appeared to grow closer and closer, as if the world itself were contracting.
And of course, every dusk the blue light would shine from the east, announcing its presence to the world, and to them. All conversation, all camaraderie would stop in that moment, as their eyes were transfixed upon that baleful light. Kashin himself felt his heart pound as he saw that febrile beacon, the name Cenziga repeating over and over in his mind in an ostinato. When it had disappeared once more into the mist, none of the Magyars would even acknowledge that it had been there.
Kashin was delighted to know that the potatoes he stole were doing quite well in Varna’s stews. Strangely enough, and defying all of his expectations, the stew tasted even better when he knew the potatoes he’d stolen were used to make it. While he had mixed feeling about the theft, relief that it had gone smoothly, shame that he had stooped to such a level, he could not bring himself to ask whether it would ever again be expected of him. One part of him assured him that he would, and also questioned why that would be bad.
Despite the ever encroaching mountain, life for the Magyars continued as normal. Their rehearsals became a bit more demanding, and several new acts were added. Kashin was surprised to see that Hanaman himself was becoming involved with the performances, as he and Adlemas practised mock battles with various weapons. Kashin was surprised at the fluidity of their motions, but Pelgan assured him while they watched that it was all staged – those two would fight in only a few prepared ways. To the eyes of a seasoned warrior it might appear fake, but most would be very impressed.
Kashin tried to convince Hanaman to allow him to join in the mock battles, but was refused at every turn. When he finally managed to persuade the leader of the Magyars to tell him why, he was quite surprised, but delighted, at the answer. “Thou art a hidden asset, Nemgas. If they that wouldst bring us harm saw thee fight, they wouldst knot to fear thee. If thou dost not perform, then they wilt underestimate thee as Horvig did. Thou wilt protect better if they dost not fear thee as they should.”
And so Kashin continued his role as an ogre in the pageant. Most of the time he did not wear the costume while practising. After all, the stitches on the left arm were weak enough already. If the fabric were to be torn too much then it would become useless. But he was not content to just play that role, and so one day while the Assingh were dragging them through the snow-locked plains of the Steppe, he had Gamran teach him how to juggle one-handed. The little thief was quite delighted to do so, and his instruction was a pleasant way to pass the cold hours.
Kashin was not that bad at juggling either. It was sometimes hard to coordinate while riding the bumpy wagon across the fields of snow, but he was long used to putting his hand where his eye wished it. There appeared to be little more to juggling than that. While he could keep nearly as many balls in the air as Gamran was able to, by the end of that ride, and after many hours of dropping and mad scrambling to keep from losing the balls altogether, he was able to successfully juggle two with his one hand.
At one point, when the wheels had jerked suddenly in the snow, and one of the balls that Kashin was trying to keep aloft began to sail towards the rears of the Assingh, Gamran let out a stream of curses about the snow. That day it was slightly deeper than when they had left Doltatra, almost a week before. Kashin had set the other ball aside, rubbing across its brightly coloured cloth surface with his fingers. “Why canst we use the charms to clear the snow before the wagons?”
Gamran had shaken his head, even as he plucked the ball from the rigging between the plodding Assingh. “Where wouldst ye put the charms? They hath need of a life to draw energy from if they art to work. Thou dost remember how long ye slept afterwards?”
Kashin had nodded, having nearly slept the entire day away after they had been picked up. His dreams had taken him on a tour of that theft over and over again though he could only remember that it had happened, and not specific details.
The little thief had then winked to him as he climbed back up into his seat, the coloured ball in his one hand. “Thou canst then well imagine how tired the poor Assingh wouldst be shouldst we use the charms upon them.”
With a grim understanding, Kashin had only been able to nod then, and continue his practise juggling. When the next day he was sitting with Pelgan while they drove the wagons Eastwards, he also had the Magyar help him learn how to juggle. Pelgan did not usually carry any such balls with him and had to retrieve them before they began their journey. But he too was happy to help Kashin learn. By the end of that day, Kashin had little difficulty in keeping two balls aloft, though three always ended in disaster.
Already there was talk of adding him into the juggling parts of the show, though merely as an added bonus. And so, Gamran and Pelgan that evening began to teach him to toss the balls to others as well while they were being juggled. This was not nearly as easy for him, but it progressed slowly, and by the end of the night he was only dropping every other ball tossed his way. But it would be quite some time before they reached another town.
But it would not be much longer before they reached Cenziga. Just the thought of that strange bewildering mountain filled Kashin with a pulsating energy, as if his whole body were tense from a terrible combat. And invariably, it left him to scratch over his chest firmly, as if the energy were trying to find some way to escape him. His head pounded occasionally as well, and one two occasions his headache was so great that he could not participate in their rehearsals, a fact that filled him with shame.
But those were not the only signs of the approaching sentinel. A week out from Doltatra, a portion of the Eastern horizon became obscured by a thick grey haze. At first it was only barely noticeable, as if a small oval were cut from the otherwise flat horizon. But as the day gave way to night, from within that haze would shine forth that strange blue light, telling all what lay there. And as they continued Eastwards, that haze began to grow, spreading out over the horizon, and towering in the sky before them like a pillar of smoke.
Hanaman and the others appeared upset at the haze’s proximity, but would of course never say why. It always seemed that they turned South when the day first began of their journey, but even so, when they made camp for the night, that tower of fog was directly before them once more. Several times Kashin saw Hanaman disappear within the seer’s wagon, but each time he would emerge in foul mood, as if he heard things he did not wish to hear, or did not hear anything at all.
Eventually, the mountain that was blocked from all view began to start sliding to their north, but it was still very close. However, they had to set up camp a few miles from where the wall of haze began. They could see where it clearly covered the rolling fields, growing up from the snow as if it were a natural wall. But this wall shifted and changed shape, churning inwards upon itself. There was no doubt that magic placed it there, and magic was keeping it firmly rooted in place.
Though Kashin wished to investigate the clouds, not one other among the Magyars would even look in its direction except by accident. He did not push them to do so either, as he had no wish to make them uncomfortable. After all, they were terribly frightened of this mountain, and apparently for good reason. Though he knew it to be there, Kashin still had yet to even glimpse it – glimpse him.
And so, as they sat around the fires that evening, their backs to the billowing tower of fog and haze eating stew, they did so in silence, fires kept low. The Assingh had nowhere to graze with the foot of snow upon the ground, but they still were kept to the far side of the wagons from the mountain. They appeared content to stay there, for even they appeared nervous and anxious about something dreadfully wrong.
Though almost none of the Magyar were willing to speak, Kashin knew that there was not going to be any practise this night. They all were probably just hoping to get to sleep and start extra early tomorrow morning so that they might escape from under this baleful mountain’s glare. Kashin pressed his spoon down into his bowl, slicing one of the cooked potatoes in half. He had not bothered to ask as he did every other night whether he had stolen the potatoes in the stew or not. Somehow, it did not feel appropriate to speak of even those matters that night.
Even still, the potato tasted very good to him, and he somehow knew that it was one of the ones he’d brought to his fellow Magyars. Did he feel guilty for what he had done anymore? There was a part of him that did, but also a part of him that didn’t. Strangely enough, those parts of him seemed rather remote, as if separated by more than just the gulf of time, but also by earthly distance.
As he sat there pondering such matters, he felt that blue light grace the back of his neck, causing the hair there to rise. The sun had set, and the mountain was responding in his own fashion. Kashin could not help but turn, and there he saw through that thick dark haze the single beam of light, iridescent and sparkling from a strange intensity the likes of which he could not fathom. It was not like the light from a candle, and in more ways than just being blue. Where a candle’s light spread all about, this strange blue light was focussed upon a single spot, as if it were a string to be followed.
What could be making such light, he wondered. As if his questioning mind had been heard, a strange pounding began to flush any such thoughts from him. He bent over the bench he was sitting upon, clutching at his head with his one hand. His fingers curled about the grey lock of hair that had tumbled over his eye, and he pulled on it as if trying to tear it free from his scalp.
Chamag and Pelgan were sitting next to him, and both of them came to his side trying to find out what was wrong, but he could not hear their words over the pounding ostinato beating within his skull. Flashing thoughts filled him as he tried to bring his mind to rest, disparate images too fleeting for him to recognize. He tried any number of formulas, from old prayers to many of the creed’s of the Yeshuel, but with a persistence that nearly brought him to tears, the pounding smashed each recitation to dust.
And then he finally heard Hanaman’s alarmed voice shouting out his name, that single word breaking through the irregular drumbeat in his mind. “Nemgas! What hast a hold of thee?” And then, Kashin collapsed to the ground, breathing heavily, his arm plunged deep into the snow, but he did not feel the cold just then. Pelgan and Chamag helped him back to his seat, pulling him from the snow.
Kashin was shaking terribly when he finally managed to sit upon the bench again, and he had the attention of all his fellow Magyars. Gamran had scooted closer, his face filled with a terrible worry. Hanaman leaned down as both Pelgan and Chamag rested their hands on his shoulders to hold him aloft. The look in the leader of the Magyar’s eyes told Kashin that he had never seen anything like this happen, and was terribly worried by what it might be.
“What hast happened to thee, Nemgas?” Hanaman asked again.
Kashin shook his head a bit, his one hand gripping the side of the bench firmly, knuckles white. “I do not know. ‘Twas a terrible pounding with mine head. It came unbidden, but left when thou didst speak just now.”
Hanaman pursed his lips, and then looked around. His eyes briefly caught the tower of haze that churned silently to their north, but he left it just as quickly. “Thou shouldst get thy rest this night. Zhenava can make thee a nepenthe to help thee sleep.”
Kashin could hear a faint susurrus in the back of his mind, as if that ostinato were still there, but only subdued for the moment. He did not turn to glance at the haze, but knew that it must have been coming from there. Why had it struck him and not any of the other Magyars, he could not help but wonder. But even in the thinking of that question, he could feel that whispering murmur build, as if threatening to split his head in two once more.
He shook his head, that grey lock of hair falling before his eyes once more. This time he did not move it back over his ear just yet. “I thank thee, Hanaman, but no. I shalt not need thy wife’s nepenthe.” He did his best to smile to those around him, lips curling upwards against the chill. His hand still gripped the seat of the bench tightly, but he finally managed to relax his fingers. “I hath no understanding of what hath happened to me in these last few moments. But I hath great pride in my heart to know that thou art here to be at my side in this. For we art Magyars, brothers and sisters for all time.”
For the first time that evening, there were a great number ofs miles and buoyant laughter. The moment did not last long, but it was a welcome break from the pervading gloom that lay across the camp. Hanaman returned to his seat after another moment, and Kashin resumed eating his stew. But he could feel the eyes of the others upon him, each wondering what he could be thinking or feeling. The only thing that Kashin was able to focus on though was his desire to remove that beating noise from his mind. It was still there, but dim, as if the faint rumblings of a storm in the distance.
After he finished his stew, Kashin politely excused himself, and said he wished to try and rest. None could blame him, and in fact, a few others joined him in that. Pelgan followed after Kashin into their wagon though the youth was not very tired. Only the look of concern on his broad features could tell Kashin anything, as he was morosely quiet. But his fellow Magyar did finally manage to speak once Kashin had finished taking off all but his linens. “Art thee well, Nemgas?”
The subtle pounding in his head eased a moment, and so he nodded. “I dost believe it to be so. Art thee well, Pelgan?”
Pelgan’s eyes strayed to the northern end of the wagon, but he could say nothing. Finally, an innocence that he had heretofore not seen upon him began to open up on those Flatlander features. It was as if the boy still lurking behind the façade of the man was emerging for the first time in a long time to speak. “I worry for thee, Nemgas. I hath ne’er seen any other struck as thou wert.”
Kashin grimaced and gritted his teeth together as he kneeled down next to his bed. “‘Twas a terrible ache in mine head. ‘Tis gone now though.”
“But might it return unto thee to plague thee more?”
Kashin gripped the quilts in one hand, and stared blankly at the young man. Finally, he shrugged, frowning sorrowfully to him. “I knowest not. I knowest not at all.” But that subtle rhythm continued in the back of his mind, driving a wedge imperceptibly in his thoughts, making it harder to concentrate moment by moment. It was slow though, and he found little difficulty in keeping it at bay for the time being. But how long would that last? Would it diminish as they left Cenziga behind? Even thinking that name caused a sharp lance of pain to reverberate in his skull, but it was over quickly.
Pelgan was at his side in a split second, his hands resting upon his shoulder to keep him upright. “Nemgas?” The tone in the voice was concerned, and filled with a gentleness that he had not often seen in the young man. “Is there aught I can do for thee?”
Breathing lightly, he felt his mind still intact from that pain, but even dwelling on the memory of it brought it back as if it existed not just in that time, but in all times in which it was considered. He turned his focus just upon his breathing and the beating of his heart. That strange ostinato continued though, and he could almost feel his heart trying to match it, though he hoped that was simply his imagination.
“Nay,” he finally managed to say, shaking his head. “Sleep is what I hath need of now.” Even as he spoke, he turned about and slipped inside the quilts, pulling them up over his chest, resting his head back upon the lumpy pillow he had to make do with. Strangely, he could not bring to mind the feather pillows that he had once slept on back at Metamor. It was as if he was trying to read the mind of another person in thinking on those memories.
Pelgan nodded at that, and straightened up. “I wilt stay with thee for now. If thou needest anything, simply ask and I shalt get it for thee, Nemgas.”
His mind felt soothed by the words, but he could not yet tell why. Kashin nodded, and closed his eyes, brushing the grey lock of hair back over his ear as he did so. He tried to pray, but the drumbeat kept his mind from focussing on the words. Shivering he snuggled in deeper under the covers, wishing for nothing but the sweet surcease of sleep to snatch him away from that persistent refrain. He let his thoughts return to the events in Doltatra two weeks past, and strangely enough they soothed him until at last he began to snore.
The young Magyar was relieved when he heard that Nemgas had been able to get to sleep. But the way he was snoring upset him slightly. It was in such an odd rhythm he could not help but think.
Though he slept, he did not do it peacefully. Images flooded his mind, strange ones that did not make any sense. A few things within it he was able to recognize, but the way in which they were presented seemed unearthly to him. There, at one point he stood dressed in black with the jewelled Sathmoran blade at his side before a great and mysterious mountain, its peaks shrouded in mist as bluish-grey rock scaled into the night. But then that mountain bent forward, the summit reaching down to touch him with its pinprick saber.
And then there were the faces he recognized, from his fellow Magyars, and then to the Yeshuel and the retinue of Akabaieth, not to mention that great man himself. They were all running together, down a winding path, even the frail old Patriarch himself was working up a sweat. But strangely enough, no matter how fast he tried to run, the Yeshuel and the Patriarch and accompanying priests always outpaced him, moving around the bends before him, giving Kashin only glimpses of their backs before they would disappear again.
Then there was a silent blue light that whisked down from the sky, a beam so thin he could not grasp at it. It swept down to him, and then he was watching as it dove through his head, slicing it in twain. That sudden lancing pain filled him at that moment, pulsing with demonic joy inside of his mind, even as it shook his whole body with that strange persistent rhythm. And then Kashin shook himself awake, pushing all the images away.
It was dark within the wagon, and the sound of several people snoring could clearly be heard. Kashin looked about, reaching up with his hand to press against his head. It still thudded with that rhythm, growing even more intense as the moment’s passed. He closed his eyes tightly, feeling sweat begin to break out all over his form. His fingers trembled in agony as he tried to push that pain back, but found it rather intractable.
Blinking his eyes open, he stared then at his hand, trying to see into the magic that was at work within it. This proved to be an even worse mistake, as the pounding grew to the intensity of the night before, crushing every thought in his mind beneath its awesome grinding weight. Collapsing, he gritted his teeth together, his hand knocking against the quilts of his bed in that same ostinato, matching it beat for beat, emulating its alien pattern. And then, the pounding was briefly gone, and his mind unclouded. What hast happened, he could not help but wonder.
And then, with an almost sickening finality, the drumbeat resumed in his mind, growing in force, and crushing idle thoughts beneath them. He could still think, but it hurt to do so. Crawling from his bed, he pulled himself over to the cabinet where his clothes were. Slowly, he drew them on, being careful not to wake any of the others in the wagon. Once he was dressed, he crept to the door and slipped out, shutting it softly behind him.
The cold air of the Steppe night hit him immediately, and his breath was snatched away from him. He leaned forward, pressing his hand against the driver’s perch as he looked from side to side. Inside the camp it was quiet, the fires all died to ashes. The snow in between was trampled beneath many boots, leaving it aught but a mess. A short distance beyond wandered the Assingh, many now resting in place, though their long ears remained perked as if they expected something to appear.
On the other side of the camp was the vast emptiness of the Steppe interrupted by that towering cylinder of haze, rising up beyond the leaden grey of the sky. Given that it was only a few miles distant, the mountain itself could not have been that large. He could see formless shapes shifting in and out of that miasmatic mass, but his imagination assigned forms to them, that of screaming faces melting in hot fires and of people being ripped in two by terrible clawed hands.
Shaking his head, that drumbeat still within it, Kashin turned back to the camp an jumped to the ground. The snow was hard under his boot heels, having been stepped on so many times before already. He rested his hand on the side of the wagon, using it to support himself as he walked along their length towards one of the first ones. He needed to be free of this pounding before it drove him insane or outright killed him.
At even thinking of getting rid of it it intensified two fold, driving him to his knees. With gritted teeth he pulled at his hair, both the grey and the black, as he nearly toppled completely into the snow at the wheels of one wagon. The beat was merciless, pounding at his mind and at his back, relentlessly pushing him into the ground every time he tried to get back up to it. Thought was just not something he could manage under its assault despite his best efforts.
But finally, he felt his whole body shake in rhythm with that pounding, his hand beating against his head in time to its awful march. And as he beat, that alien force receded. The reason it did so, Kashin could not understand, but he was glad that it did. As he slowly rose back to his feet, his fingernails digging into the wood siding of the wagon as he did so, he tried to ponder what it was that brought that pounding into his head, and why it sometimes grew so painful.
The answer to the first was obvious, but he kept his mind from it, knowing that the last time he had invoked that mountain’s name it had driven him to the ground as well. In fact, he realized grimly, almost anything to do with that mountain brought him to his knees. Except, there was one thing that seemed to quiet it, and that one thing disturbed him all the more.
He resumed walking along the sides of the wagons, letting his mind focus only on what was before him. Kashin found this easy enough to do. So many days riding these wagons across the endless Steppe could teach any man to do that. Finally, he came to Hanaman’s wagon. His breath was ragged, but he managed to climb up to the door and knock firmly upon it. Waiting, Kashin closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against the frame. It did not take long before Hanaman himself opened the door a crack, only dressed in his linens.
“Nemgas?” he asked, in some surprise. “Why hast thou disturbed our sleep?”
Kashin pressed his hand to his head. “I must speak with thee, Hanaman. This canst not wait.”
Hanaman glanced cross his shivering form and nodded, ushering him inside whee it was warm. A thick curtain cut off the rear end of the wagon, where he and his family slept. The front held a small table and a bench set into the wall to sit at that table. Kashin was guided down into his seat by the leader of the Magyars, who then shut the door, and began lighting a few candles. He set two of them down upon the table, and then reached into a drawer and pulled out his own clothes. “Canst thee sleep?” He asked as he slipped the jerkin over his shoulders.
Kashin shook his head, eyes fixed upon the one of the two candles, noting the way its flame ducked and weave din the still air. How strange, he thought, but could think of little else. “Nay. He wants me. I hath no choice but to go to him.”
Hanaman’s frown only deepened. “Go to him? Go to whom?”
He dreaded to say the name, and so only looked to the north, where the source of his anguish resided. “Him.”
Hanaman followed his gaze for a moment before he realised just what his fellow Magyar was saying. “Thou wilt die if thou shouldst travel there! Art thee insane?”
Kashin let out a bitter laugh. “Aye, I shalt be that if I do not go. He hath set a pounding in my head that I canst not remove. Every time I doth think about leaving, it nearly kills me. Only when I think about going to him doth it leave me.”
Hanaman shook his head and crossed his arms. “I wilt not allow thee to do this, Nemgas. Thou wilt die if thou shouldst travel there. I wilt not allow thee to kill thyself.”
“Thou wilt kill me if thou takest me from this place ere I climb that mountain.”
Hanaman shook his head again, more resolutely this time. “Thou wilt recover with distance. This place is not for those that canst die.”
“I know this in my heart, Hanaman. I must climb that mountain or I wilt die. If I do not start soon, ‘twill be the end of me.”
Hanaman leaned forward then, grimacing, clearly not believing what he heard, or not wanting to believe it. “Then why hast thou come to me? Thou couldst have left in the night and none would hath known.”
Kashin looked up then, feeling the wound of the suggestion deep within him. “I wouldst ne’er hath done that! I am a Magyar, and thou art my sovereign. I couldst not do such with thy consent.”
The answer appeared to greatly mollify Hanaman, but the firmness remained. “Thou dost not and wilt ne’er hath my consent to this lunacy. Get thee back to bed, and if thou needest it, I wilt have Zhenava make thee a nepenthe. ‘Twill certainly help.”
“‘Twill do aught but kill me,” Kashin persisted, wishing not to have to do this, but seeing no way around it. He’d wanted to save this for another time, but there was no choice now. If he was not alive, how could he fulfill his duty? “Thou must grant me this as my boon.”
Hanaman’s face went white then, his eyes wide with sudden fear. “No, Nemgas! I beg of thee, do not ask this for thy boon! I hath no wish to lose thee to him, or to lose thee at all!”
Kashin frowned, pushing that grey lock of hair back over his ears. His mind was strangely clear as he did this, as if it were the only thing he could do. It was as if the pounding in his head was corralling him like some ungulate. “Thou hast left me no choice. Thou owest me a boon, and now I shalt use it.”
Hanaman stepped around the table and got down on his knees. “I beg of thee, Nemgas, do not do this!”
All that he could do was shake his head though. “I hath no choice but to do this, or I shalt die. I know thou dost not believe me, but ‘tis true. Grant me my boon, Hanaman, and all that I ask to fulfill it.”
With a terrible sigh, and for once, obvious heartache, Hanaman nodded, rising from his knees. Kashin wondered if there were tears lurking behind this man’s eyes, but he could not see them. The reserve he held was firm even now. “I wilt grant thee thy boon, thou I wish to do otherwise. I wilt allow thee to climb that mountain.”
Kashin nodded then, the pounding low in his mind, a consistent ostinato blurring his thoughts. But there was one thing clear. He wished to be dressed as he was in his dreams. And in those dreams he had been dressed as he had the day he had first met the Magyars. That day seemed so long ago, as if from another lifetime, but it was what had to be. There was a journey not finished that had to be resumed.
“Hath thee still the black cloak I wore the day thee found me in the snow? And the jewelled blade? I wilt need them.”
Hanaman appeared surprised by the request, but dumbly went to one of the cabinets set into the wall of the wagon. Kashin himself was surprised to see all of his old belongings when the leader of the Magyars opened wide the cabinet. In a small bundle was his black cloak as well as the clothes that had gone with it. Set atop them was the jewelled dagger in its scabbard. And behind them was the travelling pack he’d carried with him. He wondered how much of his equipment remained within it.
Hanaman placed the bundle and the blade on top of the table, his hands trembling ever so slightly as he did so. Kashin gestured with one finger to the backpack as well. “Hath thee removed anything from it?”
“Nay. All remains within it that we found in it.”
Kashin nodded and began to unwrap the cloak, but the pained voice of the other man stopped him. “If thou wouldst grant me this, do not put those garments upon thyself until thou hast left. To see thee in them wouldst make thee dead already.”
Kashin paused, and then nodded, rolling them back up. He gripped one of the arms of the travelling sack and slipped it over his shoulder though. “I wilt honour thy request, Hanaman. I thank thee for granting me this boon.”
But Hanaman could not bring himself to smile at this, but merely nodded his head briefly. “Fare thee well, Nemgas. Is there aught else that ye wouldst have me do?”
He shrugged the backpack onto the stump of his left arm, getting it firmly in place. It was a familiar weight, but his mind had difficulty placing why. “Aye, there is one other thing I wish thee to do. Wait for me. I wilt return, this I promise to thee.”
With a snort Hanaman shook his head. “Thou dost know that thou wilt break thy promise. Thou canst not fulfill it when thou art dead.”
But Kashin resolutely shook his head. The drumbeat began to grow louder, as if impatient. “Assure me that thou shalt wait three days for my return. He wilt not harm thee while he has me to contend with. Wilt thou wait?”
After a long pause, Hanaman let out a disconsolate sigh and nodded. “Aye, I shalt wait for thee, Nemgas. ‘Twill be great sorrow amongst us, but we shalt wait.”
Kashiin smiled then, a simple thing, but a genuine one. “To know that I wilt have thee to return to fills me with delight. And return I shalt. Get thee thy rest, Hanaman. If thou wish to pray o’er me, then do so. To know that all my fellow Magyars will hold me in their thoughts fills me with pride.”
Even still the leader of the Magyars could not bring himself to show anything but distraught tension. “I wilt do as thee saith. Now go before I am compelled to break my pledge.” The last was an order, one borne from terrible division, but an order nonetheless. Kashin bowed his head low and scooped up the bundle in his arm, gripping the hilt of the jewelled dagger in his palm. The curves of his flesh met the hilt and each found their proper place, as if they had been smelted together.
Hanaman opened the door for him, and shut it after he had left. Kashin felt the cold wind grip him as it swirled around. It was dark out, only a few stars shone through a mishmash of dark clouds overhead. Before him to the North stood that tower of haze, rising imperiously to the sky, lost in the darkness far above. He jumped down from the wagon and began to walk north through the snow-laden grasses. He quickly found a steady gait, as if from some dream, and left the Magyar camp behind him.
He waited a few minutes alone by himself in that candle-lit room. Zhenava and his son were still asleep, and he had no desire to wake either of them. Hanaman rubbed his chin firmly with his hand, eyes wide open, mind unable to come to rest. Finally, unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, he stepped from the wagon and jumped to the ground. He did not look to see where Nemgas might be. He had no desire to watch a solitary figure disappearing towards that mountain.
Instead, Hanaman made his way to the wagon at the beginning of the line. When he stepped up to the door, it opened inwards as if in expectation. Blinking, Hanaman crept inside, finding a very worried looking Bryone holding the door. Hanaman stare at her in some confusion, but the girl could only murmur in response.
“What has thee to say?” Hanaman asked then, his voice gentle towards her.
With renewed strength, Bryone pointed one finger towards the curtain hanging before the passageway. “Mistres Dazheen is expecting you.”
Hanaman swallowed then, and nodded, pushing aside the thick cloth to peer into the seer’s small room. Bryone shut the door behind him, sealing them in the warmth of their wagons. Before him, the room was well lit by candles, as if the old woman had been awake for quite some time. She was sitting at her table, curled fingers tracing over her cards that she had arrayed out before her in a small square.
“Nemgas hath left for the mountain,” she said, and it really was simply a statement, not something she wished for Hanaman to confirm. Dazheen knew it to be true just as firmly as she knew who Hanaman was.
“Aye, he hath left. How didst thee know?” Hanaman asked, as he stumbled to the seat opposite her. Bryone remained on the other side of the thick curtain, though he had no doubt the girl was listening in. How could she not after all?
Dazheen’s old eyes continued to study the cards before her. “I knew it to be true when Nemgas came to see me. He asked me about him, and I didst tell unto him of the failure of magic to see that mountain. I remembered then what happened to my cards when thou didst ask me what boon he wouldst ask of you.”
Hanaman swallowed again as he peered curiously down at the cards. Would they fling themselves across the room suddenly again as they did before? “‘Twas the mountain?”
She nodded then, her old face strangely calm. “‘Twas indeed the mountain. I knowest not what it hath in mind for Nemgas, nor canst I see in my cards what that could be.”
“He wilt die?” Hanaman asked.
Dazheen shrugged though, not as if the outcome did not matter to her, but from genuine ignorance. “All that I hath seen canst not answer thy question. But there is this. Thou wished to know how to make Nemgas a Magyar for all time, to make him proud, and to make him wish nothing but to be a Magyar. Thou hast granted him his boon, and so thou hast accomplished this.”
Hanaman stared at her unhappily. “But at what cost?”
“That, my young man, remains to be seen.”