Excerpt The lymmnal crouched in the shadows, waiting. The world around it was reflected in the curve of its three smoke-blue eyes. There was about the steppe, in the scoured pleats and folds, the gnarled islets of trees, beaches of pale lichen, and oceans of lavender grass, the sheer rumbling wrinkled breadth and width of it, a staggering sense of age, but also, something beyond age, a kind of unspeakable aloneness that arose, spectral and shivering, from its rigorous beauty. Newcomers found its vastness vertiginous, but by the time they had become coated by its fine ruddy dust, they were already intoxicated. The night was moonsless, chill, the air above the flat grasslands of the great steppe utterly without weight, magnifying the ghostly crenellated ice-pale peaks of the Djenn Marre. The grass, thigh high, had been thickened by the darkness into a mass with heft and presence, a world unto itself. Within that world, the lymmnal sensed something just below the threshold of movement, the small heat, perhaps, generated by a body similarly crouched, or again, possibly, the shallow anxious breathing, the accelerated pulse of someone coiled, someone about to spring into sudden action. The lymmnal, lying low at the perimeter of the Ghazzi Qhan camp, had been trained to sense these ephemera. Its nostrils dilated, quivering, and its three eyes scanned the darkness for the trace of an outline that was out of place. A marmalon poked its head above ground for a moment, but the lymmnal, hungry as it was, ignored the rodent. The marmalon vanished at the soft swish of the finbats' flight. A formation of them dived and swooped toward the tops of the wild grass, skimming for supper. Then, they, too, were gone. High clouds scudded, a presence, darker than dark, and these, too, the lymmnal noted. The scent came a split second before the movement, for it had learned that under extreme tension these biped interlopers exuded a scent. And so, it was already in midleap when the body began its run to pierce the perimeter. Utterly silent, the lymmnal buried its triple set of teeth into the interloper's shoulder. Then the full weight of its flying body struck the interloper, knocking him off his feet. The lymmnal dodged the one swipe of the interloper's blade, then snapped its powerful jaws, crushing his shoulder socket. The interloper passed out, and the lymmnal, well satisfied, dragged the body back into the circle of firelight that surrounded the tree. The sixteen Ghazzi Qhan sat or stood around the tree, which rose, winged and proud, from the red soil. A fire cracked and sparked, a stewpot, crusty with soot, sat on ashes nearby. On the far side of the tree, but very close to it, a female lay on her back. Her belly was a mountain stroked by a male as he said the Ber-Bnadem, the birth prayer cycle. Another female knelt between the pregnant female's legs, speaking slowly and softly as if to the newborn about to arrive. Othnam made a sign to the lymmnal, and it obediently released the interloper. Mehmmer, Othnam's younger sister, joined him in dragging the interloper to the tree. "Jeni Cerii," Othnam said as he scruffled the thick fur behind the lymmnal's muscle-ridged neck. Using the heel of his hand, he brought the Jeni Cerii back to consciousness. For a half hour they interrogated him without receiving a single answer. Mehmmer spat onto the spy's face. Someone threw a hunk of raw meat to the lymmnal, who immediately scarfed it down with a brief snuffling sound. Lymmnals made little or no noise unless they were in extreme distress. Othnam looked up at the thornbeam tree, gnarled, gray-black, old as Time itself, and utterly magnificent. He and his sister had tended this tree from the moment they were old enough to walk; their parents and grandparents were buried here, protected by its roots. It belonged to Othnam and Mehmmer now, a legacy of hope and transcendence. It would be their children's long after they themselves were turned to dust. When they returned from their long treks into the wilds, this tree was their anchor, their succor, the sight of which informed them that they were home. Using the killing limb, the strongest branch of the tree, Othnam and Mehmmer strung the Jeni Cerii up by his neck, letting him strangle slowly and painfully as was the custom. No prayers were said at his death. This, too, was the custom. Mehmmer's dark glittering eyes watched the death throes with a good measure of satisfaction. She was tall, as broad-shouldered as her brother. Her hair was blue-black, a mane of intricate braids strewn with tiny, spotted ghryea shell, discs of dark-striped amber, teardrops of emperor carnelian. She wore tight leather breeches that came to just below the knee, a loose-sleeved wraparound shirt of undyed muslin and yellow, thin-soled shoes with curled-up silver tips. A simple belt cinched her waist, from which hung a narrow-bladed sword, a scimitar, and a jewel-hilted dirk she had made herself. In fact, she had forged her brother's push-dagger, which was most useful both in stealth and in hand-to-hand combat. You held the beautifully weighted ball hilt in your fist, the slender ovoid blade protruding from between the index and middle fingers. It was a stabbing weapon, rather than a slashing one, and so ideal in cramped quarters. It had saved Othnam's life more than once. "Less than a day's trek from Agachire, and we are shadowed by the Jeni Cerii," Mehmmer said. "What should we do?" "We shall bring this proof of Jeni Cerii perfidy to Makktuub," Othnam said. "What if Makktuub asks." A look of alarm crossed Mehmmer's face. "What if he wants to know what we were doing?" "We are simple merchants, pious and peaceful." Mehmmer looked uneasily at the dead spy swinging from the noose they had fashioned. "It is the pious part that concerns me." "The Ghorvish prayer sites are secret from both Jeni Cerii and Makktuub." Othnam looked away. "Rest assured, sister, that they shall remain that way." "But going to Makktuub." "I am well acquainted with the dangers," he said, more sharply, perhaps, than he had intended. "Yes, of course, we both are. Our parents." "Let us not speak now of their suffering," Othnam said softly. "We have spent the last three days singing the whole Khendren prayer cycle on the anniversary of their death in order to honor their lives." "Yes, brother." "We will not make the same mistake they did," he whispered. "We will be Makktuub's friends; we will do his will. And in return he will leave us to our beliefs and our faith." While Mehmmer was dark, Othnam was not. He had golden hair, which he wore, as all the males did, in a thick, twisted knot, shiny with oils, on top of his head. His face, creased by sun, wind and, once only, an enemy's blade was strong and finely sculpted. He possessed the eyes of the true mystic, seeing what others could not. These eyes, blue as the sky, were shot through with vivid emerald flecks-Ghorvish whorls, as they were called, proof that he was among the chosen of the Ghor, the wise men of ancient times who had received the Mokakaddir, the ecstatic prayer cycle the Ghazzi Qhan chanted, from Jiharre himself. The lymmnal broke from Othnam's side, trotting over to the newborn and began to lick off its amniotic fluids. The mother beamed, touching with her fingertips the baby's tiny moist toes. Brother and sister followed the lymmnal, firelight and the webbed shadows cast by the twisted thornbeam branches playing over them. Mehmmer took the female baby into the crook of her strong, sun-bronzed arm, wiping it down as custom dictated with her soft woven sinschal, the long scarf wound around the head and neck, protection from sun, wind, rain, and dust. Then she kissed the child in the center of her forehead. Othnam stood beside her, his curved dirk held before him. While Mehmmer chanted, he made the three small ritual cuts over the sternum with the tip of the blade. The child screamed, the blood flowed from her tender flesh, dripping onto the mother's bare belly. Then Mehmmer stanched the flow, using an ointment. The baby ceased to cry. Her unfocused eyes stared into infinity, and she took a firm grip on Mehmmer's finger. Smiling, Mehmmer passed her over to Othnam, who lifted the babe up to the night sky and recited the ritual prayer: "Life's first wound has been given and received. The tribe has received blood as proof of lifelong allegiance and devotion. The first blessing is now given and received. Little one, may you grow large, powerful of limb and mind. May all the Korrush be your pasture and your battlefield. May you live one hundred years, long enough to see unity and the face of the Prophet." When the rite was over, Othnam returned the newborn, whose name was Jeene, to her parents, and he and Mehmmer set about cutting down the Jeni Cerii. They stripped off the clothes, took the weapons as booty, which they gave to the newborn's parents since the Jeni Cerii was killed on the night of their daughter's birth. While the red dust of the Korrush skittered through the campsite, they squatted over the corpse, slowly and methodically stripping the skull of skin and flesh. They knew little of the Jeni Cerii-or of any of the other tribes, for that matter-save to fear them. The grisly work they did now served as a kind of balm to soothe this primitive fear. Not far away, the loyal lymmnal lay curled contentedly by the fire, watching them incuriously out of the eye that was set between its ears in the back of its head. m The lymmnal rose out of a shallow sleep, for lymmnal did not sleep as it is commonly understood. Opening its eyes one by one, it rose soundlessly, trotting away from the sleeping figures ranged around the thornbeam tree, crowned now by a new white skull, drying in the first ruddy rays of sunlight slanting across the Korrush. The lymmnal kept its nose to the ground, its haunches semicontracted. The scent was nothing like what it was used to. Its long furred head wagged back and forth like the point of a compass. Though it crept forward in its standard attack stance, it was curious as well as wary. The scent at length led it to a girl who sat, a voluminous greatcoat swept tight around her. She was hunched over, possibly asleep, but at the lymmnal's approach her head came up very slowly. Her eyes opened and gazed upon the lymmnal. The tension went out of the animal's frame, and it crouched, its forepaws stretched out in front of it. It gave a little sound and, after a short silence, the creature responded in kind. A murmured conversation ensued as the other creature crept a little closer, until finally their snouts touched, their noses twitched as they scented each other, then licked each other. The lymmnal was thus surprised at the expressions on its masters' faces when it brought the new creature into camp. It could not understand why Othnam drew his sword and Mehmmer glowered at the hooded figure. "What is this trick, stranger, that you have used to gull our lymmnal?" Mehmmer growled as the rest of the camp began to stir. Other weapons were unsheathed, lifted point first toward the intruder. "If the Jeni Cerii sent you to plead for their spy's life, it is too late." She gestured to the skull whitening in the newborn sunlight. Riane pushed the hood of Nith Sahor's greatcoat off her head with one hand while she stroked the ridged back of the docile lymmnal with the other. "As you can see, I am not Jeni Cerii nor a member of any of the Five Tribes. I come from the southern city of Axis Tyr. My name is Riane." Mehmmer said, "That cannot be your real name." "To that, I can only say that Riane is the only name known to me. I have no memory of my early years high in the Djenn Marre; I can recall neither parents nor whether I have any siblings." Something unknown flickered briefly across Mehmmer's face before Othnam introduced himself and his sister. "If you are Ghazzi Qhan, then I have not lost my way." Riane smiled. "To answer your question, I seem to have a way with animals. Also, I believe this creature knew I was no threat to you." She looked around at every face, marked Othnam and Mehmmer most closely. "Assuming you speak truthfully, why have you journeyed so far from Axis Tyr?" Mehmmer said shortly. "I wish only safe passage to Agachire. I seek an audience with the dzuoko of-" "We know you not. You are mad if you think we will give safe passage into the heart of our territory." Mehmmer took a menacing step toward Riane, lifting the edge of her sword, but Othnam stayed her. "My sister is still unsettled by the discovery of the Jeni Cerii spy," he said. "My apologies." "I thank you," Riane replied, "but none are needed. I do not blame you for your suspicions. It seems you live in a precarious balance." "Yes. There is continual war between the tribes, raid and counterraid, death and vengeance, which begets more vengeance and more death." Othnam pointed with his chin. "I see you carrying a dagger of an unusual manufacture. Would you allow me to see it?" "Certainly." Riane handed over the dagger Eleana had given Annon. It was her most prized possession. Othnam took it and, in one swift motion, put the edge of its blade to her throat. "Are you not afraid that I will cut you open from ear to ear?" "I am afraid, yes, that your hand will slip and inadvertently draw blood," Riane said. "But as to your meaning, if I were afraid of you, I never would have given you my dagger." Othnam grunted, reversed the dagger, holding it out to Riane. Mehmmer again grew agitated. "Othnam, don't-" "Hold it, if you wish," Riane said to Othnam. "While I am under your protection I can't think why I would need it." Othnam nodded, seemingly pleased. "We will give you safe passage to Agachire." Mehmmer rounded on him, her eyes blazing. "Brother, are you mad? You cannot mean what you say, this one came from the same direction as the Jeni Cerii spy we hung scant hours ago." "I walked all night," Riane said. "I saw no one." Othnam was about to answer her when a cry from the other side of the camp caught their attention. Paddii, the newborn's father was running toward them, gesticulating. "It is Jeene," he said. His face was a mask of anxiety. "She has stopped breathing. We have tried everything- We don't know-" "Let me look at her," Riane said at once. "Take one step...." Mehmmer warned. "Please," Paddii said. "Someone do something. My daughter is dying." Riane said, "Your six-legged guardian has saved your lives many times. It knows I mean you no harm. Why do you doubt its judgment now?" "What if you have bewitched it with sorcery?" Mehmmer said. "We have heard of sorcerers, evil beings known as sauromicians," Othnam said. "They blaspheme against the Prophet Jiharre." "I am no sauromician," Riane said truthfully. "I have given you my weapon. Please let me help." Othnam hesitated, then nodded. With Paddii jogging at their side, he led Riane to where Paddii's tiny daughter lay blue and unmoving atop her mother's belly. The mother was weeping, chanting prayers through her sobbing. Riane knelt. She opened the newborn's mouth, stuck her finger down the tiny throat. "The baby has something in her windpipe. If you do not attend to her immediately, she will be dead within minutes." The mother moaned, and Paddii rolled his eyes. Mehmmer brushed Riane aside, stuck her own finger into the infant's mouth. "There is an impediment," she said. She hunched over, her face filling with blood an she concentrated. "I cannot . . . It will not come out." "I can save the child." "You will not touch her," Mehmmer said shortly "Will you deprive the newest member of your tribe the chance to live simply out of anger and suspicion?" "Mehmmer," Othnam said gently, "as Riane said, our loyal Haqqa trusts her. We will watch her closely. Let her help." Mehmmer scowled, then she rose, nodded curtly, and stepped aside to make room for Riane. "If the baby dies . . . " She waggled the tip of her sword. Riane ignored her as best she could. On her knees, she took the little girl up in her arms, pried open her mouth. The cause of the obstruction, she soon discovered, was a thorn from the tree that had blown into her open mouth while she slept. It was lodged crosswise, stuck in the tiny throat. "It must be true," Mehmmer said fretfully. "The thorns fall at the beginning of winter." Riane tried to gauge the grave expressions on the others' faces. She was worrying that winter had already begun, and she seemed no closer to finding the Veil of a Thousand Tears. Clearly, these folk did not trust her. What if she could not get to Perrnodt? What if Perrnodt did not know where it was? Calming her mind, she put all her doubts aside and concentrated on the task at hand. "Do either of you have a narrow-bladed weapon?" Mehmmer reacted as if Riane had struck her. "What would you-?" Othnam handed over his push-dagger, and his sister glowered at him. "I pray to Jiharre you know what you are doing, stranger." Riane kept the thumb and forefinger of her left hand at the hinges of the baby's mouth, while she lowered the narrow blade down the infant's throat. The mother gave a stifled scream, and Mehmmer's prayers rose all the louder. The point reached the level of the thorn. Riane knew she had only one shot at this. If she missed severing the thorn, or even overshot the mark by a fraction, the blade had every possibility of piercing the infant's neck right at the spot where the main artery pulsed. But if she did nothing, the newborn was dead anyway. Saying a silent prayer to Miina to guide her hand, she struck downward with the slight angle she had calculated in her mind. The thorn cut cleanly in two; the tip of the blade hovered less than a millimeter from the side of the infant's throat. Riane handed the push-dagger back to Othnam while she forced air into the baby's starving lungs. When the baby was breathing on her own again, she handed her back to her mother, who was weeping openly with relief and gratitude. "Thank you," Othnam said. Riane nodded and stood. "May I have something to drink?" Someone started to comply, but with a gesture Mehmmer stopped them. She went herself and poured water from a crescent bladder hanging on a wooden peg into a copper cup, gave it to Riane. Briefly, their hands touched, they looked into each other's eyes. "It would be an honor to give you safe passage to Agachire," Mehmmer said. She took the drained cup from Riane's hand, and said very softly, "Perhaps my anger and suspicion comes from stripping the flesh from too many of our enemy's skulls." Riane said, "It would, I think, be wise to suggest to the mother that she move from beneath the tree. It was one of its thorns that almost killed the babe." Mehmmer hesitated a moment. "You could have told her that yourself." Riane smiled. "Mehmmer, would it not be better if it came from you?" Mehmmer's dark eyes searched Riane's face. Then she nodded briefly and went to talk to the father about moving the family. While she did so, Othnam gave Riane a look, and she followed him a little way from the campsite. Haqqa trotted after them, sat panting, leaning against their calves. "You said something before about needing to find the dzuoko Perrnodt." "I did not mention her name." He laughed softly. "You did not have to. There is only one kashiggen in the Korrush; therefore, only one dzuoko." "Could you make the introduction?" His odd intense eyes seemed to scour the flesh from her. "If you do not mind my asking, why are you seeking her?" "I wish to be her student." Mehmmer grunted, having returned from her errand. "You do not look like imari material." Of course, she wasn't imari material. She had come to the Korrush to be taught by Perrnodt and to beg her to show her where the Maasra was hidden. It would be foolhardy to confess that to tribesmen she barely knew and who were already suspicious of her. "Nevertheless," she said as forthrightly as she could, "this is what I desire above all else." Othnam nodded gravely. "Then I shall see to it myself." He watched his sister as she settled the family in its new spot outside the ring of the tree. "But first, of course, you will have to meet Makktuub." top Excerpted from The Veil of a Thousand Tears. Copyright © 2002 by Eric Van Lustbader.