West of the Moon by L. E. Bryce

Author:L. E. Bryce
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Phaze

Chapter Ten

Grasslands spread before him as far as the eye could see. Wild wheat brushed his horse's flanks and caressed his ankles as he leisurely rode along.

From here, one could barely see Hapaniku on its hill. Only the wispy white smoke of a dozen cook fires hinted at human habitation.

The scene was all that Kalmeki loved about the Turya-lands: the vast, untenanted silence, the shifting shadows cast by distant mountains and the clouds rolling over the steppes, and the certainty that men could utterly die out and the Earth Mother would scarcely notice. A thousand years of wind and rain would wear down the mounds of the chieftains. Hapaniku would crumble back into the landscape.

I could keep riding, he thought, and leave these cares behind me.

At times, he longed to do just that. Leave the green river valleys and imposing strangeness of the east-lands behind to return to his birth place—or now, ride away from Hapaniku and let Zhanil sort out his own mess. Harsh it might seem, but no more so than what chieftains required of their sons and daughters by sending them into the wilderness to survive or die. At eighteen, Kalmeki himself had ridden far from his father's settlement, into lands where he knew no friendly face, with only his horse, a water-skin, and his bow to keep him alive. For a fortnight he wandered, bereft of human companionship, despairing of life until the ominous silence of the grasslands brought not fear but a sense of peace, a meditation on how fragile his existence was, and how precious.

Zhanil needs this—needs to be cast out into the wilderness without his guards or laws or crown. Then he will know what it is to be hard. He will understand what life truly means.

Kalmeki urged his horse forward down a shallow hill. Behind him, the faint white smoke disappeared utterly. I want men to look at my keshka and tell me I am blessed, not cursed. At least six men had offered their condolences since he left his father's settlement. Eight others had done the same at Hapaniku, and one of them had been Yhade's father. Though the insults knotted him with heartache and stopped his throat where he would have rebuked the speakers, it hurt all the more because some part of it was true. Zhanil might be a brave man, decent and loving, but a twenty-five year old king should not be so naïve about the world.

"Storm God!” he cried. Echoes reverberated through the landscape, carrying his voice to heaven. Tears welled up in his eyes, threatening to spill over even as his cry caught in his throat. “Let him find the will to grow strong!"

Distant hoof beats caught his attention. Drawing his bow, he turned in the saddle, ready to fire into the dust cloud rising over the hill.

"Lord Kalmeki,” called a woman's voice, “you cannot court me if I am dead."

Yhade, dressed for riding, her luxuriant hair pulled back into a single, long plait, faced his arrow without flinching, until, abashed, he lowered his bow.

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