Dreams of the Dark Sky Read online

  Okta staggered back at the impact of this judgment. He glanced at Einár, expecting to see condemnation. Deep folds shaded the Elder’s weary eyes. Okta’s shame bloomed hot. He had just quietly denounced the Olmmoš boy when he should have castigated himself. Blame rested with him, not Irjan’s son. Okta plopped down on the bench beside his work table. He was too old and he had seen too much to deny his attempt at playing a god. When Irjan had entered their lives, Okta had been adamant that, as half-Jápmemeahttun, Irjan deserved to live. But there was a part of him that now wondered if their kind might have been spared the recent tragedies had he just let the Taistelijan warriors track and kill Irjan in the very beginning.

  “You have always listened to your heart, Okta,” Einár said. “Sometimes for the betterment of us all, and sometimes to our detriment. But we are so few now.” The Elder paused as if he chose his next words with care. “I am compelled to caution you. The actions of one will impact us all.”

  Okta nodded.

  The Elder withdrew from the apothecary, closing the door behind him. Okta sat, taking stock of the news. The knowledge that Dárja lived was both a profound joy and a subtle agony. Selfishly, he wanted to see her determined young face peer around his door again, if only to exonerate him for his part in her misery. But if that came to pass, he would once again have to cause her heartbreak. He would have to tell her of Irjan’s death on the battlefield.

  Young. Headstrong. She will only see her part in it, Okta thought woefully.

  He could not say Dárja had been wrong to blame Irjan for what had happened. Irjan’s actions had altered the course of all their lives. In trying to bring his son, Marnej, back from the gods’ embrace, Irjan had doomed the life bringers, Aillun and Djorn. The life force created by a boaris at death was meant to help the nieddaš give birth to her child and then allow her to transform to almai. Djorn did not have the power to sustain life for more than two souls. Marnej had been reborn, but Aillun died. And Dárja had been denied the life force she needed to mature fully as one of their kind.

  When Irjan had pleaded to join the warriors leaving to fight the Olmmoš, Okta had recognized a man desperate for some kind of redemption. While he did not agree with the need for bloodshed, he respected Irjan’s desire to be a part of it. He had not talked Irjan out of fighting. Rather, he had helped him, and embraced him, and watched him ride into battle. His heart had ached for the man. Half Jápmemeahttun and half Olmmoš, Irjan had labored to do what was right and had suffered for love.

  Kalek was right to agonize over how to tell Dárja this truth, he mused to himself. If she were to walk through his door right now . . . The thought disappeared almost as soon as it formed.

  Okta leaned forward to rest his hands on his knees. The anticipation kindled by Einár’s news flickered briefly before reason snuffed it out. Dárja may be alive, but she could easily be a prisoner or pursued by the Brethren of Hunters, by Marnej even. Okta was certain that, despite the distant connection between Dárja and Marnej, if their songs were heard together, then it could only mean she was in danger. Marnej had been raised an as Olmmoš. Raised to be a Piijkij, like his father, he had sworn an oath to kill their kind. Marnej might be Irjan’s son, but he was also a Hunter.

  Okta wanted to act. He wanted to do something. But Einár’s warning stung his conscience like summer nettles. In the past, Okta had sent Kalek out to meddle in the affairs of the Olmmoš, believing it to be the best course of action. And he knew if he told Kalek that Dárja’s song had been heard, his apprentice would rush into the Outside to try to find her. Kalek was as much a guide mother to the girl as Irjan, even if Irjan was her chosen biebmoeadni.

  Okta wrestled with his thoughts. The reasonable part of his mind said it would be futile to send Kalek out to save Dárja. She could be dead within days. But the truth was that he could not bear the thought of losing Kalek. He had risked his apprentice’s life twice, believing the chance for peace was justified. But never again. Kalek was too dear to him and the future was now too uncertain to risk anything on some notion of pride.

  Okta still sat with his hands upon his knees when Kalek entered the apothecary. If any misgivings persisted, they disappeared the instant he saw his apprentice. Framed by his pale, lank hair, the young almai’s doubt-etched brow overshadowed his face. If the gods possess pity they will place no more demands upon him, Okta thought, then silently promised, Nor will I.

  “I thought you had left to collect herbs,” Kalek said, surprised to see Okta.

  “Yes, yes. I became distracted and delayed,” the ancient healer said, staying within the bounds of truth.

  Kalek passed by his mentor, briefly touching Okta’s shoulder. “Come, I will help you.”

  Okta watched Kalek’s sure, fluid movement around the apothecary. How different their paths had been. He remained grateful that Kalek had not had to fight in the war. Too young for the ancient battles and too valuable for this last stand, Kalek had been spared. But even as he praised the gods for this small mercy, he knew that the young almai had not really been spared. To watch one’s kind slowly die over a lifetime might prove to be a greater cruelty than witnessing comrades killed in battle.

  “Thank you, Kalek,” Okta finally said. “I much prefer your company to my own.”

  A feeble smile graced the almai’s face. “That is only because you are so old and your own company so familiar.”

  “True,” Okta agreed with a knowing laugh, “I find that, in your company, I need to bend less to pluck the right herbs.”

  Kalek took the thin woolen cloak from its worn peg. He held it out to Okta, who stood. Kalek’s smile lingered, but it did not reach his eyes.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE HIGH PRIEST OF the Order of Believers felt the tingle of satisfaction as his bishops, soldiers, and servants bowed their heads and murmured their greetings. “My Vijns” rose up through the smoke-blackened rafters of the great hall’s vaulted ceiling.

  Bávvál offered a casual wave of his hand to acknowledge the deference of those gathered, then dabbed the sweat that beaded his closely cropped hairline. The summer’s stultifying heat had pressed its way into the airless hall, but Bávvál still wore his full ceremonial raiment. The fox collar clung to his neck, as the woolen cloak dragged across the earthen floor. Even with the lightest weaves, the long length of blue cloth tugged upon the clasp at this neck, chafing him with each step.

  Still, Bávvál would not have changed anything for comfort’s sake. His robes were a sign of his power. He was the Vijns, the Breath of the Gods. He had been the one to prevail where his predecessors had failed. He had seen the end of the Jápmea Immortals. Immortals, he scoffed silently, the rancor of their ancient name upon his tongue. Jápmea scourge, more like. A pestilence finally cleaved from this world. And the Brethren of Hunters will soon join them in obscurity.

  With no Immortals, there was no need for Immortal hunters. The Brethren’s bid to wrest power from the Believers, from him, was at an end. Bávvál took delight in how easy it had been to manipulate the Brethren’s honor and their oath to protect the Olmmoš from the Jápmea.

  Their sacred Oath. Bávvál sniffed at the thought.

  A few worthless concessions to the Brethren’s leader, Dávgon—and a well-placed spy—and Bávvál had discovered the truth about their treachery. Whatever dreams of power Dávgon had envisioned for himself and his precious Piijkij, they would be crushed forever when it was revealed that the Brethren of Hunters had harbored among their ranks the very abominations they had sworn to kill.

  Bávvál smiled to himself as he stepped onto the ornate wooden dais. The smell of warmed beeswax enveloped him. He approached the carved pillars that flanked the lone imposing chair. The pillars, with their snarling bears, were a fiercesome sight, but it was the chair that truly symbolized Bávvál’s authority. He had ordered the blackened wood to be inlaid with bone. Light and dark, like life, where days and souls were measured by the light and the dark they contained.

  I
f he were to remake the chair now, Bávvál would use the Brethren’s bones in place of the reindeer and the cow horn that had been used. Indeed, he might yet do just that. It would be a testament to his achievements, and a warning to any who would challenge him. Pleased with this new idea, Bávvál turned and released the silver clasp at his neck. His robe fell with a heavy rustle. He looked out on the crowded-yet-hushed room before easing himself into his seat of power.

  Slowly, those standing came to life once again with shuffling feet and overlapping voices.

  “Rikkar,” he called to a retreating figure.

  The man came to a jerking stop, then turned on his heel, his downy hair a nimbus above his sloped shoulders. Rikkar looked to all sides to see who else had noticed him, then hurried toward the dais, hesitating at the edge. Bávvál waved him forward.

  “My Vijns,” he said, bowing before the High Priest.

  Bávvál eyed the man’s thin arms and boney wrists with distaste. He had known Rikkar since they were both acolytes. Scarcely off our mothers’ teats, he recalled with nostalgia. His mother had chosen not to claim him when a better offer of a handmate had been made. The new man wanted nothing to do with the last man’s seed, and the Believers gained another body to serve the gods. Rikkar, on the other hand, had been the cherished son of a Believer priest. Coddled and praised as a youth, Rikkar had grown up believing in his own ordained ascendance. Indeed, one could not deny he was a gifted orator and a passionate Believer. However, his presumption was not matched by an aptitude for advancement.

  Rikkar had been clumsy in his efforts to rise above his position as village priest. He had sought to use one of the Brethren’s disgraced Piijkij for his own gains and when that failed, he was compelled to ally himself more closely with the Brethren. Bávvál, in due course, forgave him his treachery. As High Priest, he respected ambition. In fact, he much preferred it to passion. Ambition was predictable, zealous faith rarely. Yet Rikkar had surprised him. Throwing his lot in with the Brethren. Now that, Bávvál had not foreseen. Still, as was the way with most fledgling conspirators, Rikkar had made mistakes, only to find himself caught between the bear and the eagle.

  Rikkar had gaped like a fish upon land when Bávvál had confronted him. It was an amusing recollection. All the more gratifying for the outcome. Seventeen seasons of snow as a viper in the Brethren’s nest. And Dávgon none-the-wiser.

  “Has word been sent to the Brethren’s fortress?” Bávvál asked, leaving the past for the present.

  “Yes, my Vijns,” Rikkar said through a thin-lipped smirk.

  “I see this prospect pleases you, Rikkar.” Bávvál kept his tone light. “There was a time when these Hunters were your brothers-in-arms.”

  The man’s smile faded. “An error you helped me to realize. Through your grace I will sit upon the Court of Counselors.”

  “You are not wearing the Counselor’s robe yet,” Bávvál warned, his words clipped. He had forgiven the priest his trespass. He had not forgotten the betrayal.

  “Yes, my Vijns.” Rikkar inclined his head, revealing the pale scalp of his tonsure.

  “And what is Dávgon’s intention?” Bávvál asked, growing impatient with the man’s fawning.

  “They are preparing to journey here for an audience, my Vijns.”

  “In what numbers?”

  “It is to be a large retinue. The Avr wishes to make an impression upon all who might see the Brethren.”

  Bávvál frowned, more from disgust than concern. “What of the Jápmea?”

  “You can be assured he is bringing her.” Excitement had crept back into Rikkar’s voice. “The boy will likely be among the escorts, as he is often at Dávgon’s side.”

  Rikkar’s eager countenance annoyed Bávvál. “You will not be missed?” he asked with a hint of mockery.

  Rikkar blinked, his eyes momentarily downcast. “I am tolerated, but not sought for my company or my joik,” he said. Then, with a rueful laugh, he added, “They would be shocked to hear the story of my life sung.” And, as if to himself, he whispered, “Indeed, I am.”

  “My Vijns,” a penetrating voice from the crowd broke into the quiet.

  Rikkar stirred.

  Aware of his priest’s shame, Bávvál looked out into those gathered. “Come forward,” he said to no one in particular. Then, to Rikkar, he said with uncharacteristic kindness, “The gods thank you.”

  “As I thank the gods,” Rikkar mumbled in a thick voice, then withdrew, swerving around an approaching servant, who momentarily teetered with his laden tray of food.

  The servant knelt, presenting the tray to the High Priest with deference. Bávvál picked at slices of cold goose, leaving aside the dark bread and hard, pungent cheese. He had just taken a bite when his counselors appeared before him, each affecting a more dignified aspect than the next.

  “My Vijns,” the eldest in the group spoke up, his voice more of a croak. A weak attempt at a smile merged his wrinkles together, a look that most would mistake for an ailment. “We must address the matter of these soldiers.”

  The other counselors nodded in agreement, but let their deputy carry on.

  “We cannot continue to quarter them within the Stronghold. There are too many. They have depleted our stores.”

  “I see no need to keep them,” the youngest counselor interrupted, his impatience winning out over prudence. “The Jápmea are defeated.”

  Bávvál shifted his attention to Erke, the young counselor, regretting his decision to raise the thankless cur. “There is much you do not see,” the High Priest commented, turning away from the sallow-faced youth to address the ancient counselor. “Your concern is noted. For the time being, we will maintain the soldiers at the Stronghold. Increase the requisitions from as far afield as you must go. When I am assured, then we will distribute the soldiers to safeguard the temples.”

  “Safeguard against what?” the callow youth blustered.

  The comment, whether born of simple-mindedness or outright insolence, tested Bávvál’s forbearance and coalesced his resolve to be rid of the young counselor at the first opportunity. No amount of coin or patronage was worth his irritating presence.

  “The soldiers,” Bávvál said, “will safeguard against any who dispute my power. And to make sure, Erke, you shall join their ranks. No doubt they will benefit from the wealth of your wisdom.” The youth blanched, then looked as if he were about to protest. Bávvál cut him off with a curt dismissal. “The gods thank you.”

  Taking the cue, the counselors bowed their heads. “As we thank the gods,” they intoned as one, then scurried away. Their flaxen robes flapped about them.

  Bávvál picked up another piece of cold goose from the tray beside him. He popped it into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully as he considered his next step.

  “Get me Áigin,” he said to the servant standing just beyond his sight. When Bávvál heard no movement, he looked over his shoulder to see the boy anxiously craning his neck in every direction before running off like a startled deer.

  “My Vijns, you wished to see me.”

  With a jolt, Bávvál swiveled in the other direction. “Áigin,” he said, stifling his gasp.

  The reed of a man inclined his head. His long, thinning hair fell forward to frame his composed face.

  “Dávgon is bringing his pets to us,” Bávvál began without preamble. “The march will likely be a gaudy display meant to impress farmers and villagers. Two regiments are to leave immediately. I want their fortress burned and every Piijkij in chains. Make sure the commanders know to stay well away from Dávgon’s procession. I do not want the surprise I have planned ruined by carelessness.”

  “It will be done,” the gaunt man replied with the assurance of one unaccustomed to doubt or disappointment.

  Bávvál held up his hand to forestall Áigin’s departure. “Make sure I never have to hear from Counselor Erke again. But allow his family to mourn his shocking accident.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “The gods
thank you, as I thank you.”

  Áigin nodded, then slipped away as silently as he had appeared.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MARNEJ AWOKE FROM FITFUL dreams drenched in sweat. He sat up in his bunk, sliding his legs out from under knotted covers. The cool earthen floor beneath his bare feet reassured him. No thrum. No pulse. No voices in his head other than his own. Thank the gods. But even as he thought this, Marnej’s gratitude foundered on the fact that these were the same gods who’d blighted his life. They had made him different. Made him . . . what? He didn’t know.

  The girl, Dárja, claimed he was Jápmemeahttun. An Immortal, like her. Marnej told himself that it was a lie. She was the Brethren’s prize from the Great Battle. She would say anything to gain her freedom. Still, she knew about the voices. She heard them too.

  Marnej shook his head to clear his doubts. Just because I sometimes hear voices doesn’t mean I’m a Jápmea. But a part of him knew that he was deceiving himself. How else could he explain his visions before the battle or the strange way his world had dissolved into another—one where everything felt disturbingly alive? He shivered at the recollection.

  She’d called it a gift. Marnej snorted. It was a curse that set him apart from the other Piijkij. They didn’t trust him. He saw it in the way they looked at him. But he was loyal. Above all else, he was loyal to the Brethren of Hunters. Unlike his father, Irjan, who had betrayed the Brethren by walking away from his duty and his oath. Just like he’d walked away from Marnej.

  Irjan had never cared about him, no matter what the Jápmea girl had said. Still, for one brief moment, Marnej let himself believe that his father had always loved him. He let himself envision a life where he was accepted. Wanted. Even now his heart leapt at the possibility. His breath was quick and ragged with longing. Disgusted, he pushed away the desire as he hastily propelled himself to his feet.

  The girl’s Jápmea. She’d say anything to escape, he reminded himself.

  “I am loyal,” he muttered as he tugged his shirt over his head, the cord lacing catching on his tangled hair.