Zachary Jernigan - No Return

“Thank you,” the man said. “I have had bad luck, finding a place to sit. Fesuy Amendja is my name. Opas is my home.”

“I am Vedas Tezul. Golna is my home.”

Fesuy nodded. Something moved under the skin of his cheek, and he made a loud sucking noise. Though the Tomen only spoke to Vedas, the other travelers had lapsed into silence, watching. Of all the peoples of Knoori, Tomen very likely suffered the most intense prejudice. They were not even liked by most other Anadrashi, and for good reason. Tomen respected Tomen and no one else.

Vedas did not care about this. He merely wanted to be left alone.

“Golna, yes,” Fesuy said. “I recognize it, your accent. I am well traveled. Still, it is a surprise. There are not so many far easterners in these parts. Are there Knosi in Golna?”

“Yes, two communities exist. I don’t visit them often.”

Fesuy spit a mejuan pod into the fire. He reached into the folds of his robes, brought forth a leather bag, and popped another pod into his mouth. He offered a second to Vedas.

Vedas stared at the proffered drug as if it were a live coal. “No, thank you.”

“Not for you,” Fesuy said. He tipped his head to stare at Churls.

Churls shrugged, reached across Vedas’s chest, and took the gift. She bit the stem off and spit it into the fire. Fesuy followed, and they toasted before putting the pods in their mouths.

Berun’s glowing eyes shifted from one to the other, obviously curious. The ritual seemed to satisfy the rest of the travelers, as wine bottles were suddenly uncorked and passed around. The elderman bowyer lit two long pipes and passed them in opposite directions. Conversation renewed.

With attention now shifted away from him, Vedas relaxed.

“I know your faith,” Fesuy said. “No drugs, correct?”

“Yes,” Vedas answered. “And alcohol only during celebrations. In my order, even that is discouraged.”

“This is a shame. Traveling through life without release.” Fesuy leaned back, and Vedas followed his gaze. They cursed Adrash together, one set of fingertips touching horns, one palm blocking out the Needle. The Tomen sighed. “I have seen only one other blackskin on the road. People say the rest came through weeks ago, from all over the continent. You are late for the revelry, yes?”

“Yes,” Vedas admitted. “Though I hope to be there in time to fight.”

Fesuy looked him up and down appraisingly. “Out of all Golna, you were chosen?” He smiled. “I am indeed honored to sit with you. Perhaps my worries about reaching Danoor in time are unfounded, for this is an auspicious sign—one that I will mark in the morning with an invocation. If you allow it, of course. Will you accept this small gesture in your honor?”

Berun shifted next to Churls, who raised an eyebrow when Vedas looked at her.

“Sure,” Vedas told the Tomen.

‡

Pressure built in Vedas’s chest, staring at the dead woman.

She was built like a bull. Her bulk lay on the paving stones, and her skirt was pulled up around her hips. Her neck had been expertly cut, deeply enough to sever the spinal cord without severing the flesh at the back of the neck. After death, her head had been tipped to the side so that the gaping wounds were exposed. Then her killer had shat on her face. Flies buzzed around the mess. A line of ants crawled through the blood to reach her.

Vedas refused to look at the horrible thing the killer had done to her womanhood, but an Ulomi man named Spofeth had no such inhibitions. He knelt at the woman’s feet and stared. He claimed to have once acted as a policeman in the Pontiff of Dolin’s Army, but he spoke too finely to convince Vedas of this. His wife had found the body before most of the others woke.

“Easy answer, here,” Spofeth said. “We all saw her walk away when the Tomen sat down. Clearly, he didn’t like that.”

As much as he disliked the man’s tone, Vedas could not but agree. The cut was too fine to have been done with a straight sword. And they had all seen the gladiator insult Fesuy. It was enough for the travelers to condemn the man. It was enough for Vedas. The Tomen had seemed pleasant enough in the short time they had conversed, but that was immaterial.

Will you accept this small gesture in your honor? the man had asked.

Sure , Vedas had told him, not knowing what it meant. How could he have known?

A Knosi man stepped forward. Vedas recognized him from the fireside. His white cassock marked him as an Adrashi priest, though Vedas did not know the variety. The man had seemed kind enough the previous night, had even smiled at Vedas and offered him wine which Vedas refused. A scar ran from the corner of his left eye to his jaw. It twitched as he looked at the dead woman. His mouth worked at words before they came out.

“We will bury her, and I will perform rites.”

Spofeth pointed to the tattoos of serpents winding around the gladiator’s heavy thighs. “She was an Usterti, Father. Witches don’t believe in Adrash.”

“That is irrelevant,” the priest answered, iron in his voice. “Whether she believed in Adrash or not, Adrash knew of her existence. Did anyone here know her? No?” He turned to Vedas. “You knew her killer. You talked to him. Now you will carry his victim’s body.” He cut Vedas’s reply off with a gesture. “I am not placing blame. Adrash has simply put you here now to do this thing.”

Vedas thought of several responses and dismissed them all. He looked at Berun. “Will you hold her head?”

Together, they carried the woman a dozen feet off the road, careful not to tear her head from her body. Twice, Vedas nearly vomited at the smell of shit and blood. Berun quickly dug a deep grave in the soft black earth, and then he and Vedas laid the body at its bottom, positioning her as if she were sleeping. A woman Vedas did not recognize tore a length of red material from her skirts. Vedas tied it around the corpse’s neck.

Churls offered her hand. Vedas took it, and climbed free. Though the aroma of freshly turned earth filled the air, he could still smell the sour stench of Fesuy’s excrement, the iron of the dead woman’s juices. The smell would linger, of course. It would follow him for a while until he managed to forget it.

Just as he had forgotten Julit Umeda and all the others?

He caught the priest’s eye and felt the first stirrings of resentment. How dare the man tell him to carry the body? How dare the man watch him work, only so that he could spout lies over the woman? She was dead, and the god had no interest in her soul.

People were nothing to Adrash. Adrash would make the whole world a tomb.

Have I forgotten who I am? Vedas asked himself.

Before the holy man could start talking, Vedas signaled to Berun to start filling the grave.

“It is custom to leave it open,” the priest began.

“Never mind your custom,” Vedas said. “Speak if you must, but speak plainly. Don’t insult this woman with your falsehoods. She wasn’t a member of your church.”

The priest regarded him for a long moment, and then put his right fist to his forehead and extended it to Vedas.

A blessing. A supplication for peace. Adrash be with you.

It was the wrong thing to do.

Vedas took a step forward, his fingers curling as resentment bloomed into anger—pure, righteous anger, hammering in his chest, behind his eyes, causing the world to tremble before him. Churls’s hand closed around his wrist, but he pulled it away. Another step and another, until he stood before the priest. Every nervous fiber of his being ached to send his fist forward, but he could not make himself do it.

The moment held for a second. Five seconds. Ten. His muscles screamed under the tension.