Time of the Eagle (25 page)

“How long have you had your own army?” I asked.

“A year. The day I saw you hiding in the river, that was the day I began to plan my move to create a renegade army. By chance—if there is such a thing as chance—I was promoted, put at the head of a battalion. Men grew to trust me. It did not happen overnight, but steadily, over months, as I proved myself. I kept my ears open, listened for talk of dissatisfaction with Navora, chose my men and my time. It was not difficult, for by
then many were speaking openly against Jaganath. Seven hundred of us rode away from Navora and never went back. Since then we've been on the move, defending a few Hena tribes, and now an Igaal tribe. But the time for these minor battles is almost over.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Your father told me about the Time of the Eagle. We need that time, Avala, and we need it soon. We need to end Jaganath's reign, before he destroys everything our forefathers ever built up. He has only a handful of people who are loyal to him. I suspect that if—when—it comes to the final fight, most of the soldiers in his army will surrender. The sooner we can bind these native tribes together, the better. My army will fight with the armies of the Hena and Igaal, and with the Shinali. Together we will make a formidable force against Jaganath. Does Mudiwar know of the Time of the Eagle?”

“Yes, but he is adamant that he will never risk battle with Navora, and wipe out his people as the Shinali have been almost wiped out. He swears he will never take part in the Time of the Eagle.”

“Well, he has a point. You don't know how close your people came to being utterly destroyed, in Taroth Fort. And they would have been, but for what your father did. I never met another man like him. He loved your people and your mother, more than he loved his own country, his own life. He told me a lot about the Shinali. That's where my sympathy with them began, back there in Taroth Fort. And it's where I began to be disillusioned with the Navoran Empire. Seventeen years is a long time to be disillusioned, to crave change. I admire your people for their
patience, Avala. It's long been a secret fear of mine, that one day the Shinali will lose that patience and decide to march on Navora on their own, with nothing but their courage and their dreams. God knows, I've been tempted to march on Navora myself, at times, with what army I have. Waiting is the hardest thing for an army, Avala. To be trained for something, to be certain of the rightness of it, yet to have to spend a year—maybe many years yet—waiting for the perfect hour to act, is like living with a frenzied horse about to bolt.”

“We have a very great priest, Zalidas,” I said. “He keeps our dreams alive, but he keeps our hearts true to the prophecy, above all else.”

“Tell me about yourself, Avala. How is it that you are here with the Igaal? I've learned to speak a little Hena, which is similar to the Igaal tongue, and many of the Hena with us have learned to speak Navoran, and I understand, from things I've heard, that you are a slave. Is that true?”

I told him my story, omitting the part about Ravinath. But when I had finished he gave me a shrewd look and said, “You're leaving something out, Avala. You speak Navoran extremely well, with the accent of the educated. Where did you learn it?”

To my relief at that moment we were interrupted by one of his soldiers. “I'm sorry to interrupt, sir,” he said, “but the Igaal chieftain is calling for a meeting, and you're needed.” He added, to me, “You're needed, too. Mudiwar wants you to interpret, I think.”

The council mats were placed behind the camp, on the flat grasslands where the goats grazed. Mudiwar, Ramakoda, Ishtok, and
the other men of his family, as well as some of the Hena warriors and a few of Embry's soldiers, were sitting there. There was a place for Embry and me beside Mudiwar, and we faced all the others. There were perhaps five and twenty Igaal altogether, and twenty soldiers, with the five Hena men who were of Ishtok's pledge-family. I was the only woman.

Mudiwar was sitting straight and still, his fine old face stern, his staff upright in his hands.

“I begin this day with a word to the soldiers of this man's army,” he said, his voice carrying easily in the still morning air. “Tell their leader, Avala, that I thank him for his allegiance with us, and for making yesterday a victory day. But I do not understand why soldiers fight other soldiers. Such men of our own tribe, fighting Igaal, would be killed as traitors. Tell me why this thing is done.”

Apologizing for the chieftain's bluntness, I repeated the words to Embry, in Navoran. He smiled a little and nodded, and bent his head and thought a while. At last he looked up and made this speech:

“You are the chieftain of a great tribe that belongs to a great nation, Mudiwar. I, too, am of a great nation, but our chieftain, the one we call the Emperor Jaganath, is an evil man, with magic ways that no one can fight against. He is destroying everything good, that most Navorans love—destroying justice, and mercy, and peace. I and my men, and the Hena who fight with us, wish to see him overthrown. Only then will the great city of Navora be freed from his evil control, and will your Igaal tribes, and the Hena and Shinali, also be free.

“Until now, your people have not been raided often for slaves. This will change. The city of Navora has been twice ravaged by plague. The population has diminished, and many people have fled. The city walls have been strengthened and rebuilt, not to keep enemies out but to keep the people in. The situation is desperate. There are not enough people to grow food, to repair roads, to farm, to work in the coal mines. Everything is in short supply. Jaganath has demanded that his army supply more and more slaves, so that the city can be run efficiently. Even the ships in the navy are sailed by slaves, under very hard Navoran commanders. The wounded here from Jaganath's army have told me that there are new orders to treble the numbers of slaves taken. My soldiers won't always be here to defend you. While we're here Jaganath's army attacks somewhere else. He has a double purpose in raiding your tribes: not only does he replenish his supply of slaves, but he also keeps your nation weak and divided, so you will never become the great army he fears. He will attack you again and again, tribe by tribe, until, like the Shinali, your people are diminished and powerless, or all dead. Your only hope is in the Time of the Eagle. The Hena tribes are already willing to join us in battle against Jaganath's army. We await only your agreement, and the allegiance of the Igaal tribes; then the Time of the Eagle is here.”

Full of hope, I finished my translation, and looked to Mudiwar. He chewed on his lower lip, and at last replied, “He can't wipe us out, that mad chieftain of yours. We Igaal are like the sands by the sea, the stars in the sky.”

“So were the Shinali, once,” Embry said.

Mudiwar gave a bitter laugh. “And whose fault is it that they're nothing, now?” he said. “They made a mighty big mistake, tangling with the Navorans. I won't follow in their footsteps.”

“Those words are not worthy of you, my father,” said Ramakoda, “since Navorans sit among us, and since it was they who helped us win the battle yesterday.”

“If it wasn't for Navorans,” growled Mudiwar, “there wouldn't have been a battle in the first place. It seems to me that the Navorans are a treacherous lot, divided and fighting among themselves. Half want to kill the Shinali, the other half wants the Shinali to help them to kill their own Emperor. If they want the Time of the Eagle, let them have it. They can all tear one another to pieces. To my mind, the world will be better off without them.”

I did not interpret Mudiwar's last speech. I said to him, “My chieftain, you did not hear what Embry said. It is not half the Navorans against the other half. It's a very few Navorans in power who are treacherous and wrong, and who—”

“It's not your place to speak in this council,” said Mudiwar. “You are here to interpret, that is all. I heard the man Embry very well. I have said it before, and I say it again: I will not take part in your foolhardy war against Navora. I do not wish to hear about the Time of the Eagle again. And despite my tribe's misplaced gratitude, Embry and his soldiers have not helped us in our trouble, but made it worse. Now their great chieftain knows some of his soldiers have deserted him, and he knows where they are, and he'll soon send his entire army here to wipe them
out—and us along with them. We would have been better off if some of us were taken as slaves, than to have the whole military force of Navora called down upon our heads. And we can't even move camp and flee north, with so many injured. An ordinary slave raid would have been better than this.”

“Our gratitude is not misplaced, my father,” said Ishtok. “My Hena brothers are here, and they are not afraid to stand with the Navorans against their Emperor. They were not ungrateful for Embry's help when they were raided, but joined him, after.”

Full of wrath, Mudiwar turned on him. “Afraid? Afraid? You think I'm afraid? By Shimit, I'll have you horsewhipped for that! It's not fear that drives me, you mad fool—it's sound judgment. My first task as chieftain is to protect my people. To keep alive . . .”

He stopped, distracted. We were all distracted, for at that moment there was a commotion at the place where the gorge opened into our valley. A group of Embry's soldiers had been out scouting, making sure that Jaganath's army was not returning with reinforcements, as Mudiwar feared it would. Now they had come back, pulling a horse after them, its rider unconscious across its back. Ramakoda excused himself from the council and ran to them, along with other members of the tribe. Soon there were urgent shouts for Mudiwar, and for me. The chieftain banged his stick on the council mat, ending the meeting, and I helped him to his feet. Together we hurried to the man the soldiers had brought in.

By the time I got to him he had been laid on the ground. People were gathered about him, some weeping, some praying,
some saying angry things. They parted to let Mudiwar and me through. When he saw who it was, Mudiwar gave an awful cry and fell to the ground, his arms about the man's shoulders. He wept, saying over and over again, “Chetobuh! Chetobuh, my son, my son!”

In tears, Ramakoda bent over his father. “Let Avala look at him, my father,” he said. “If anyone can mend him, she can.” Over his father's head, Ramakoda looked at me and said, “Chetobuh was taken in slavery in the time I was away after the lion, when you found me. He must have escaped from Navora.”

Several people helped Mudiwar up, and he stood supported by Ramakoda while I knelt by the escaped slave.

His injuries were horrendous. Near death he was, starving and naked, and with awful stripes over him, as if he had been whipped all over his body. One of his eyes had been gouged out, and his tongue had been cut away. Barely conscious, he moaned and sobbed terribly, and he twitched and trembled from the agony he was in. Immediately I passed my hands down over his face and along the back of his neck, easing his pains. When he was quiet, I stood up.

“I'll do my best for him,” I said to Mudiwar. “Have him carried to my small healing tent.”

Lovingly, Chetobuh was picked up, and six people began carrying him along the shore. As I went one of the Navoran soldiers who had found him said to me, in a low voice, “He will have defied the Lord Jaganath in some way. Such slaves always had an eye gouged, or their tongue cut out. This man must have been braver than most, to have had both punishments. Also, he's the first slave I know who has escaped. I suspect he stole the
horse from the farms on the edge of the Shinali land. He was wandering in the mountains west of the Ekiya when I noticed him through my telescope. I wish you well, healing him, Avala; he's suffered the worst kind of punishment, and we see only the outside. God knows what the Emperor's done to his mind. Even if he survives, I suspect he'll be mad.”

Even great prophecies are not set in stone, but depend on human beings to work them out and fight for them and bring them into being.

—My mother, Ashila

T
he healing of Chetobuh was the hardest I had ever done, and called on every skill I had learned at Ravinath. Chimaki helped, and old Mudiwar insisted on watching, though he rocked back and forth in grief, and wept openly. Ishtok sat with his father, and he, too, wept, tears running down his cheeks like rain.

First, I cleaned out Chetobuh's eye socket, for it was badly infected, and I laid new skin across, cut from his chest, to protect the exposed tissues within. Then Chimaki and I washed all his stripes, and I cleaned the infection from those as well. In parts his ribs and the bones of his back were exposed, and I guessed he had been whipped many times. His tongue I could not mend. But the hardest part of his healing was the easing of his mind. That I did not attempt until the rest of him was anointed with ointments, and securely bound. Then I sent everyone out, though Mudiwar protested.

“I'm going to walk in his memories,” I explained. “I may live through some of them, with him. No matter what you hear,
what I say, please do not come in. Do not allow anyone to interrupt me. It would be dangerous for me to be disturbed.”

Mudiwar nodded. Then he went out, and he looked very old, bent, and in despair. I was surprised, when he lifted the tent flap and went out, to see that it was dusk.

Alone but for the unconscious slave, I sat and pressed Sheel Chandra's amulet to my forehead.

The Master was lying in his bed, a blue and golden coverlet drawn over him. He looked peaceful, but his skin was gray. Salverion was sitting with him, his hand on Sheel Chandra's chest, perhaps healing him. I stood aside, dismayed that Sheel Chandra was ill, and loathe to disturb them. Then I saw Sheel Chandra lift his right hand and look in my direction. “My friend,” he said to Salverion, “our daughter needs me.” His voice sounded weak.

Immediately Salverion got up. For a few moments he touched Sheel Chandra's brow, then he left the room.

Slowly, I drew close to the bed. Sheel Chandra's hand dropped back on the covers, and he closed his eyes.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, Master,” I said. “I'm so sorry.”

Without looking at me, he smiled. “Ah, beloved, you could never disturb me,” he said. “Don't be afraid. I'm not ill, just very weary.”

I knelt by him and took his hand in both of mine. His skin was cool. He felt solid, real to me, though I did not know if my presence was so real to him, or if I was only like a dream.

“How went the battle, dear one?” he asked.

I was surprised that he did not know. Then I suddenly knew why he was so exhausted. How powerfully he had shielded me,
when I had gone out onto that battlefield time and time again, dragging the wounded away! Perhaps a hundred times that day I might have died, but for him. Weeping, I pressed my cheek against his hand. I felt suddenly unspeakably favored, blessed beyond words. “Thank you, Master,” I said. “Thank you for all the times you held off death yesterday.”

“It was my joy to do that,” he replied.

“We won the battle. Others fought on our side, with us.” I told him of Embry and his soldiers, and the Hena warriors who had joined him four months ago. “The armies are ready to gather,” I said, “though Mudiwar still will not believe in the Eagle's Time.”

Sheel Chandra said, very softly, “Forces are indeed gathering, Avala, and the time is nearer than you think. But what else is on your heart?”

“A slave,” I said. Briefly, I told him of Chetobuh, finishing, “I must walk in his memories, and heal his mind.” I stopped, unwilling to ask the favor I had come for.

But he knew it anyway, and said, “I will shield you while you do it, my dear. It is wise of you to seek my help, for it is very hard to heal the memories of someone so tortured. When you walk in his memories you will carry a white light, and that will protect your heart and mind, and ease his.”

“But you are already tired, Master.”

“Even as we speak, Taliesin is on his way here, and he will help me. All will be well, dear one. Go in peace. Your hour is come.”

Though I was mystified by his final words, a great peace went through me. I stood, and bent, and kissed his cheek. His pillow
smelled of lavender, and his silver hair spread out upon it was silken soft. “Thank you, with
sharleema
,” I said. “I love you, Grandfather.”

Then I felt myself drawn away, called through utter darkness; I felt the coldness of stone, of mountain air, and heard the wild night winds howling across the plains. Then there was a softness of leather, a warmth, and the scent of my healing tent with its herbs and ointments. Out of the dimness, I saw the white bindings about the slave Chetobuh. He was asleep.

I took a deep breath and said a prayer. Then I bent my forehead to his.

When I raised my head from Chetobuh's, the birds were singing outside, and it was morning. During the healing, not knowing where he was, he had tried at times to sit up, to flee, and I had held him in my arms and rocked him, as one would rock a distressed child, and that was the way we still were. He was asleep again now, but I was trembling, weary after the long, appalling journey through his mind. I felt I had lived a whole lifetime in one night and seen horrors enough to last for many lifetimes.

Waking, Chetobuh tried to speak, but the sounds were unintelligible, rough and guttural in his throat. “Hush, hush,” I said, kissing his brow. “All is well, now. You are home. I am Avala, healer from the Shinali. Your father is just outside, waiting to see you. Ramakoda is here, and Ishtok, and your sister, Chimaki. They all are well. Chro is here, hurt from a recent battle, but alive. Navoran soldiers sided with us in the fight, and are good people. You are safe.”

He sobbed, and I rocked him, weeping with him, feeling the
blood seeping through the bindings on his back. I would have laid him down, but he shook his head and clung to me like a child. A long time I simply held him, healing him, loving him. Never had I seen a human being so broken. In his great anguish he seemed to hold all the pain of every slave ever taken captive. In him, through him, I had seen the worst that the Navoran Empire could do; and it seemed to me that in his brokenness lay the suffering of us all. And so I held him and wept—for him, for every slave in Navora, every slave in Navoran mines, on Navoran roads, in Navoran ships. And as I wept a rage rose in me, white-hot and overwhelming, a rage that could not be ignored, or left unsatisfied; and I laid Chetobuh down, and in that rage I went out and looked for Mudiwar.

The funerals were over, the skies clear of smoke and the ugly birds. The place seemed almost normal. Mudiwar was on a feasting-mat, and his family was with him, with Embry and his officers, and the Hena warriors. Hardly able to breathe for the huge things that were in my soul, I went to them. Seeing my face, they fell silent. Mudiwar put down his knife. There was utter quiet. I remained standing, a little way in front of Mudiwar's mat.

“He is well?” Mudiwar asked. “My son, all is well with him?”

“He is alive,” I said. “His scars will mend, maybe even his mind. But all is not well with him. All is not well with any of us—not with you, not with the Navorans, not with the Shinali, not with the Hena.” My voice rose, I hardly knew what I was saying. I was crying, overwrought, consumed with rage and an overwhelming desire for justice. Mudiwar tried to stand, began to warn me to keep my voice down, to control myself, but
Ramakoda put his hand on his arm. I spoke on, and even the children were quiet, listening.

“Nothing is well in this land,” I said. “You think you are free, Mudiwar. You think your people are free. But how can you be free while a man like Chetobuh lives, and suffers what he has suffered? All night I have walked in his memories, seen things I had not imagined human beings could do to one another—things too terrible to think on, to talk of. Things Chetobuh has lived through and survived. Through him, I've seen them.

“I've seen slaves carrying stones to build a Navoran road, one of them a woman in childbirth. She was whipped, forced to continue working even while the child was coming out of her. Even then she was beaten, forced to abandon her newborn, to see it trampled on the road. I've seen children strung up and burned alive, as punishment to their parents for angering the Emperor. I've seen how rich Navorans in Jaganath's palace used little children, and then had their broken bodies thrown on the fire pits outside the city, even before they were dead. I've seen women who have been raped, beaten, humiliated, over and over again, as prizes to the soldiers who had gone on raids. I've seen slaves punished for the smallest errors, because they could not understand the Navoran commands shouted at them. I've seen a man skinned alive because he dropped a knife while serving the Emperor Jaganath. I've seen slaves stripped naked and made to crawl through the drains under the city, to clean them out, to break the ice in them in wintertime. I've seen slaves chained down, their eyes gouged out, or their tongues dragged out with iron prongs and sliced off, because they saw things they should not have seen, or protested, or spoke up for one another. I've seen
how any who attempted escape were spiked out on the ground and left alive for the birds and wild dogs to finish. I've seen—”

“Stop!” cried Mudiwar, covering his face with his hands. He was leaning over, his head almost to the ground, distraught.

“No, I will not stop!” I cried. “Because I haven't just seen slaves, strangers unknown to us, whose plight might distress us for a day, and then be forgotten. They are your people, Mudiwar—
your people!
Your sons, your kinsfolk, your tribe, the ones you are responsible for, to whom you are protector and chieftain and father. They are the kinsfolk of the Hena. They are our dear ones, precious and beloved.

“And you say, Mudiwar, that it doesn't matter if a few of your people are enslaved—that so long as most of them are free, you consider yourself a good chieftain, a good protector. Yet are you? Are you truly a chieftain to those enslaved? Who else can they call to for rescue, if not to you? What hope have they, if they have no hope in you? If even their own chieftain doesn't care about them, who else will?

“You say you won't march on Navora, because your people are already free. I say that while one slave, one Igaal slave, remains suffering and broken in Navora, not one of us is free. And while one slave cries for his chieftain to come and rescue him, and that chieftain does not, then I say that chieftain is not worthy of his place.”

I stopped, breathing hard. There was total quiet in the camp. Mudiwar's face was gray, and he was staring at me with an expression I could not read. I said, more quietly, my anger spent, “You may come and visit your son when you wish.”

I turned and began walking back to my healing tent.

“Avala!” It was Mudiwar calling me.

I turned back. He was struggling to stand, Ishtok on one side of him, Ramakoda on the other. “Come here, before me!” commanded Mudiwar.

I obeyed. People parted to let me through. We were the only ones standing, the chieftain and his two sons, and I. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Embry sitting nearby, his blue sashes blowing in the wind. One of the Hena warriors, who knew a little Navoran, was interpreting my words to him. Suddenly I felt ashamed of my outburst, and more than ashamed, for surely now I had lost all standing with the tribe, and committed a heinous offense.

Mudiwar stood up very straight and signed to Ramakoda and Ishtok to stand aside. Proud, erect, Mudiwar said, “You raised your voice to me, Shinali slave. Worse—you say I am not worthy of my place.”

I opened my mouth to ask for his forgiveness, but he raised his hand, stopping me.

“You say I am not worthy,” he repeated, “while one Igaal slave calls to me for help and I do not go. Yesterday if you had said these words to me, I would have had you punished, for it is a high crime for a woman to insult her chieftain. But today you say those words, and my son Chetobuh says them through every wound he bears, and I must listen.

“A long time ago, Avala, you first spoke to me of the Time of the Eagle. Yesterday our friend Embry also spoke of that time. Our Hena friends speak of it. It is time I, too, listened to the call of your prophecy, to the call for freedom and right.”

He stopped a moment or two, and we all were silent, waiting.
My heart hammered, and I could hardly breathe, for suspense and hope.

Mudiwar said, speaking quiet but clear: “And so I will join with the Shinali and with the Hena and with Embry and his men. I will fight in this mad Time of the Eagle. But I will not fight so that the Navorans will be rid of a tyrant. I will not fight so that the Shinali get back their bit of land. I will not fight even for the Hena, though a tribe of them I honor. I will fight because I am chieftain, and my people are wronged. I will fight to free my people who are slaves.”