The Oathbreaker's Shadow Page 4

  He then said a word in this strange tongue, the only word that still made sense to him: ‘Mother.’

  He saw her eyes, dark as chewed grass, visible though the rest of her face was covered, and saw those eyes being dragged further and further away. Then he was wet again. Wet. Water.

  Raim opened his eyes and saw Dharma, his adopted younger sister, splashing water on his face. He s

  5

  Raim spent the rest of the morning packing down his tribe’s yurts: the duty of the young and strong. He started with the one he shared with Dharma and his grandfather, and – before yesterday – with Tarik. As he loaded the lattice work frame of the yurt onto a cart and creased giant folds in the felt that served as the outer walls, he realized that when he, Sola willing, joined the Yun, his grandfather wouldn’t be able to maintain such a large home. Loni would have to barter down for a smaller tent to share with Dharma until she grew old enough to choose a new clan. Then he would be too old to take care of any more young children. Once Dharma was gone, he would be forced to join a cheren – a community of elders with no more purpo a temporary settlementar return this?’0">

  But for the moment, they had this big yurt to transport. Dharma dashed around the thick felt, setting pots and pans and their other belongings down in their rightful place with practised precision, so that when Raim folded them together it would balance equally. Then it was time to get it all loaded onto the camel: a much more difficult task than Raim would have liked. Their camel was a surly beast that Dharma had named ‘Batu’, which implied ‘loyal’ in Darhanian, but Raim would’ve preferred to call him ‘Berke’ instead, which was closer to ‘difficult’.

  ‘Ready?’ Raim called to Dharma. She had managed to get Batu to lie down and was standing in front of him with a distracting bright orange carrot in her hand, whispering comforting words into his ear. She looked up at Raim and nodded, her expression deadly serious. Without waiting for Batu to complain, Raim grabbed the sides of the felt and hauled them up onto the camel’s back.

  ‘Quick, Dharma!’ As he had done many times before, Raim held the bundled yurt firmly between Batu’s two humps so he couldn’t topple the burden to the floor. Dharma leaped into action, dropping the carrot into Batu’s waiting mouth and picking up the stray ends of rope they had left on the ground beneath Batu’s belly. She scrambled onto the felt pile, rope in hand, and swiftly tied a knot, securing the bundle on his back. Once it was all done, she jumped back onto the ground.

  ‘We did it!’ Dharma said, smiling. Raim looked around. Everyone else was still trying to load up their camels. He and Dharma were the first to be finished.

  ‘No!’ piped up another voice from not too far away. It was Lousha. ‘You’re not finished until your camel is up and in the line.’

  ‘We are finished!’ Dharma protested. With her hands on her hips she looked more like Lousha’s old grandmother than a ten-year-old girl. ‘The last knot has been tied!’

  ‘Are not!’ he shouted back, tongue out.

  Raim picked up another carrot and placed it in Dharma’s hand. ‘You’ll get Batu moving faster with another one of these.’

  Dharma giggled. ‘You’re right – you’d be no help with this part anyway, it’s clear you two don’t like each other very much!’ As if to confirm her statement, Batu launched a globby, orange-flecked ball of spit to the ground at Raim’s feet, and stared at him haughtily.

  Now Raim laughed. ‘All right, all right, I’m leaving. I’ll go see if Loni needs any help . . . don’t let Lousha get the better of you now.’

  ‘Never!’ she said, already waving the carrot in front of Batu’s face to try to get him to his feet. Eventually he deigned to regard the carrot worth the effort, and ambled up with no sense of grace whatsoever: haunches first, until he was stretched out almost like a cat, then dragging his front legs reluctantly up to standing. He took a few lumbering steps forward, more like a newborn calf than an old, disgruntled camel, and Dharma had to alternate between walking and skipping to keep up with the animal’s long strides.

  Raim started moving towards the back of the long line of people, where the goats were grazing. That was where Loni would be. When Tarik had been with them, he’d helped Dharma with the tent while Raim pu a temporary settlementmSVcedlled the goats. Now Loni had to do it. Dust plumed in the air as carpets were shaken out, a week’s worth of dirt returned to the soil. Raim covered his eyes and mouth with his arm and ran through the earthy clouds.

  Their tribe was large and rich by Darhan standards, with the twelve families each owning at least one camel and one ox in addition to all the goats. They were goatherders by tradition, and the young children of the tribe were given the duty of encouraging the animals from pasture to pasture. Most tribes were lucky to have even one camel and some families were forced to share. His village was immensely fortunate. Raim’s close friendship with Khareh meant the tribe often travelled with the royal caravan. Together with all their servants, the royal entourage was easily three times the size of Raim’s tribe.

  It was also the friendship between Khareh and Raim that had allowed Tarik the leisure time to study for the Baril, a privilege usually reserved for the particularly wealthy. Preparing for the Baril meant spending a few months of the year learning how to read and write under the watchful eye of a Baril monk, usually at Pennar, the only temple outside of the Amarapura mountains. Most of the time a tribe needed all of their young men to herd the goats, guard the yurts or hunt for food. It would have also meant that Raim would not have been able to join the Yun. While he had undeniable talent, his strong limbs would have been better suited to tending to the animals and the tribe would not have been able to lose him to Mhara twice a year for training. Like all the people of Darhan, he would have been trained for warfare anyway, but by the general army, who sent officers to each tribe to give every Darhanian a lesson in combat.

  Invasion was a constant threat in Darhan, especially from the un allied tribes, who refused to be joined under Batar-Khan. If Raim’s tribe travelled close to the borders of Mauz, they knew they could be called upon at any moment to fight. Raim had been only seven years old the first time his tribe had been called up to go to war. He remembered hiding behind a stack of dusty old rugs, watching Tarik struggling to put a boiled leather vest on over his tunic and to balance the heavy quiver of arrows on his back. Tarik had never been a fighter. All the younger kids, Raim included, had been rounded up with the elders, but they weren’t free from helping out with the campaign. They ran along behind the army, scouring for dropped arrows that could be reused, scavenging weapons and armour from the fallen and bringing water to thirsty or injured troops. They faced the gore and the glory from an early age, and Raim knew his destiny was amongst the warriors.

  But being part of the general army just wasn’t the same as being Yun. No one, barring the Khan and the warlords, garnered more respect.

  To find Loni, Raim followed the sound of bleating goats. Sure enough, as the dust began to clear, he saw his grandfather, heels dug firmly into the ground, trying to coax one of the beasts into motion.

  ‘Where’s . . . Dharma?’ Loni spluttered between heaves.

  ‘She’s gone on ahead.’ Raim moved behind the three oversized beasts and pushed their tails till they took small steps forward out of annoyance.

  ‘What? You shouldn’t have left her alone. I would’ve got them moving sooner or later.’

  Raim looked into the surly yellow eyes of the goats and seriously doubted it. The people of the steppes treated their goats well – so well that they grew to the size of young horses. Raim had heard that goats were smaller and scrawnier than sheep in the SI’m so sorrybl instantdouth. It was no wonder. The Southerners, especially around the capital of Aqben, were well known to the Darhanians as a stagnant, lazy people, never moving, treating the land like a slave, working it relentlessly. When he thought of the South he was glad for the enormous, savage desert between them. No one except the savage Alashan and the destitute Chauk survi
ved in the desert. And they survived only because they had no choice but to – they were not welcome anywhere else.

  When the goats were all moving and the entire tribe had begun the long journey back towards the capital city of Kharein, Raim ran forward to find Dharma. The scene was organized chaos. The smell of fresh camel dung invaded Raim’s nostrils and he held his nose as he passed by a particularly stinky beast. The neat single file line had degraded as families speeded up or slowed down in order to travel side by side and gossip about the messenger and the old man they had seen being driven off in a cart destined for the Garra prison.

  Raim ran up behind Dharma, surprising her by hoisting her onto the back of their camel as he grabbed the reins. Her bright giggles in turn made him laugh, and he was glad that his grandfather had a lively young girl to raise after being stuck with two serious boys. Although he and Khareh never failed to make trouble and keep Loni – not to mention the prince’s bodyguards – on his toes, Raim’s dedication to becoming Yun meant he had always restrained himself, not daring to make a mistake that might ruin his chances. Khareh once bragged to Raim that he had run so far into the Sola desert he had thrown stones at the Chauk. While Raim strongly doubted whether anyone – even a prince – had that kind of courage or endurance, Khareh certainly had the freedom. He didn’t have to worry about having Yun mentors to upset, or a grandfather to scold him. Batar-Khan rarely questioned Khareh – the scene in the royal tent had been one of the very few times Raim had ever seen the Khan confront his heir.

  Raim didn’t know what had happened to Dharma’s parents, but it was well known that they were not of Moloti tribe origin, for she had arrived in the company of two soldiers. Loni knew. A new promise knot had appeared around his neck the same day she arrived. It wasn’t hard to guess, though. Men and women who disappeared without word or warning were only destined for one place: Lazar.

  ‘Pass me my loom, please, Raim,’ she said, patting the top of his turban with her tiny hands as he walked. He threw the reins over his shoulder and fumbled through one of the saddlebags. He had taken special care to pack Dharma’s travel loom close to the top of the pack; he knew she would ask for it. She was always weaving and the elders all complimented her on her skill. The loom was as wide as Raim’s forearm and twice as long. Dharma used it to weave squares of carpet as they were wandering through Darhan, and later the squares would all be sewn together to create walls and floors for their yurts or blankets for cold nights. Even Raim, who was no expert in such things, could recognize the intricacy of her loom work, the woven figures so lively he could almost see them moving. With her skills, she could hope to join the Una tribe of weavers, who had won Batar Khan’s royal warrant and were widely regarded as the most superior of all the weavers.

  ‘Dharma, this is brilliant,’ he said as he handed her the loom.

  ‘Thanks! Loni taught me how to tassel properly. It’s hard.’

  ‘You’re telling me.’ Raim’s own attempts at carpet weaving had failed miserably. His knots were uneven and the pattern never connected pI’m so sorrybl instantdroperly. He could wield a sword expertly with his hands but tiny strings befuddled his fingers.

  The Amarapura mountains, their lofty snow-covered crags now Tarik’s desolate home, disappeared into the northern horizon. The tribe marched on, working their way across the flat plains towards Kharein. The steppes – their territory – stretched for miles, flat and calm like water in a bucket. Although all around it spread extremes – mountains to the north, desert to the south, dense, thick forests further east and west – when Raim stood on the steppes nothing could be seen but land and sky. And if you did not know every inch of that land and sky intimately, getting lost was as simple as closing your eyes and spinning around in a circle. There were no landmarks beyond the blades of grass and no signposts except the stars. The universe opened for miles above them. Their land was like their history: eternal.

  They travelled for three nights before reaching Kharein, not bothering to build their yurt every night but instead sleeping out under the clear night sky full of stars, until it was light enough to move again.

  Every step they took closer to the city, their population grew. All tribes were on their way to the capital, some with a Yun hopeful, but most simply for the annual festival. The excitement that the festival created was a welcome change from the slow monotony of nomadic life. It was a time for all Darhan citizens to revitalize their skills and barter for supplies they would need for the rest of the year. It was a chance for young people to decide which clan they might aspire to join and to what service they wanted to dedicate their lives. And for most Darhanians, it was the time to meet and choose a partner from outside their tribe.

  But by far the most exciting event of the Festival was the Yun selection. Since every man and woman in Darhan was trained in basic fighting arts, watching the talented apprentices battle to join the best of the best was a great highlight. For the apprentices themselves, to win brought honour to the entire tribe, and this was Raim’s chance to be the star.

  Kharein itself was shaped like a pentagon and surrounded by a long, low wall. The wall served more as a way to section off the inner city from the masses of yurts that surrounded it than as any means of defence, as Kharein needed little defending. The flat, isolated land that surrounded the city meant that any attacking army could be seen from miles away, and would be met well before it reached the city. On every point of the pentagon stood a tall watchtower, guards keeping a vigilant eye for suspicious plumes of dust. During Festival season, the yurts were scattered around the outside of the city walls, clustered together by clan like white petals around a flower. This was the only time Kharein truly looked alive. Without the visiting population it was simply a dried-up bud – the centre of royal activity, perhaps, but not the home of people’s hearts. The people of Darhan could not be settled. They moved constantly, shifting with the days of the year, the seasons, the animals. By the end of the month-long Festival even the merriest Darhan grew restless. They dispersed, seeds on the wind, and yet remained unified. It was the life of the Darhan, and had been for centuries.

  When they finally stopped, Raim couldn’t even see the outer wall for all the yurts and tents that had been set up. To an outsider it might have looked haphazard, but each tribe knew its place; each clan had their own position and style of yurt. Setting up their home again took about an hour, but Raim took pride over every rope, peg and inch of frame. If things went according to plan in Kharein, this would be the last softened. ‘You should n from the pose f time he ever set up his yurt with Loni and Dharma. After he took the knot to join the Yun, there would be no turning back to his old life.

  He was finishing up positioning one of the woven tension bands that held the felt outer covering of the yurt in place when Loni stepped out of the door, Dharma holding his hand. ‘We are heading over to visit the Una clan, to show off Dharma’s weaving skill.’

  Raim patted Dharma on the head as she went by. ‘You’ll blow them away. You’re the best weaver I know.’

  ‘Shall we meet you in Kharein? I know you have something important to choose.’ Loni winked.

  Raim swallowed down unexpected nerves and nodded, then waved them goodbye. He had to choose his promise string. The time had almost come.

  When Raim was satisfied that their home was well built and the 8IL3J">‘

  6

  Raim walked out of the yurt dressed in the uniform of a Yun apprentice: a light, loose-fitting silk shirt under a knee-length brown robe tied at the waist with a strip of leather. Dark trousers made of coarse cotton billowed around his ankles. He kneeled down in the dust outside the yurt to tie up his boots, tucking the excess fabric from his trousers into the top before lacing them up. He felt more comfortable in these clothes than in any others – except, he imagined, when he would be able to change into the ebony-black robes of the Yun. When he was finally ready, Raim began to pick his way through the maze of yurts to reach Kharein.

  He loved
entering the city, and he let the excitement of the moment wash over him as he passed through the main gate. Although the surrounding wall was low, the main entrance was a tall gate with an intricate pagoda-style roof. All the largest and most important buildings in Darhan were housed within the inner city: the Imperial Palace, the Rentai – Darhan’s greatest temple – and the iron mill. The palace took up the entire northern corner, with a large open courtyard that served as a stadium for Yun tournaments and as a forum for the Khan’s audiences and declarations.

  Through the eastern corner of the city ran the River Iod, which transected the inner city walls. The iron mill was built over the top of the river, and a giant waterwheel turned the complicated mechanisms inside. This mill served many purposes and was the principal manufacturing workshop for all of Darhan. Although he had never he Western Eye of Sheba of the >

  He headed deeper into the city, following the throng. He spied people from every clan and tribe amongst the crowds: from the weavers, with their fingers dripping in yarns, to the soldiers, swords hanging from their belts, to ordinary goatherders staring wide-eyed at all the wares. Someone he would have been, if it wasn’t for Khareh.

  He owed Khareh so much because his life could have been so different. He felt as lucky as a raindrop that chanced to fall in a mighty river as opposed to on the dusty ground.