The Song of War

Chapter 9

Weeks later, in Huenantli

 

The water drip continued.

It was part of the world now, Cuatal realized. There had never been a time he could remember when the water didn’t drip. No matter what memory he conjured, from his childhood to his days before his capture, his mind rushed to this room, telling him that even then, in this room, the water dripped and dripped and dripped, counting the days until the end of days. Or, at the very least, until the end of his days.

Okoshan’s visits offered some reprieve – and he felt conflicted about that. A point of resistance would be to endure without them. But the point of his capture had never been about resistance. It had been about proving a point, about showing that the Cults were not the savages she’d claim them to be, without her guidance. And even though it hadn’t been about martyrdom either, he had expected that possibility and had even accepted it, knowing it could be made to spread the Song. But the Ukunfazane had stayed her hand, with him as she had with Shukuan, Bhokali and the rest of the singers, at least if Okoshan was being truthful.

He had to be. What possible gain could there be in spinning tales for him? Every time he visited and spent time with him, he had updates. A few weeks ago, his followers, as he called them, had contacted the Cult of Death. They had listened but few took an open stance – for them, after all, their business came first, as ever. Some ten days after that, a group from the Cult of Famine began spreading a new tale; their tale. Not even the Lady’s agents have heard that. Then, the Song of War was recorded, taking its place among Talethirst’s endless stories and making it a part of W’adrhŭn history, and a group of Famine cultists, calling themselves Quenchers, left Talethirst to spread the Song. Some of them fled east, guided by Bhokali. Others fled southwest and due south, searching for Tribes among the Cities – and for the apostates of Ezimdala, the pirate. All this, the Ukunfazane had allowed to happen, never interfering, never losing her temper, never prosecuting those who spread the Song. To those of the Song, Okoshan had told him that Cuatal was known as Scion, meaning Scion of War. And yet, still, Okoshan, a Scion of Conquest, Her Scion, had done nothing. She had done nothing. Cuatal wondered why. And when Okoshan visited next, he answered:

“People expected the Ukunfazane to give chase to Ezimdala. She did not. Then they expected her to stop Nagral. She did not. Now, everyone is telling a tale in hushed voices, fearing the time she cuts off the heads of all who whisper it. She has not. And will not. Has it ever occur to you, Cuatal, that these things were of her design?”

“They were not,” Cuatal answered, sharply, almost offended, but Okoshan had said no more on this.

“Do you wish to hear my Song, today, Okoshan?” Cuatal asked and the Scion simply shook his head with a smile.

“Another time, perhaps,” he said, “for today I cannot linger. Would you like to hear of your followers, next time I visit? Should I ask for news?”

Cuatal nodded.

“Alas, even I cannot promise I will know of all for they are spread all over. Bhokali leads Quenchers across the mountains. Shukuan is missing, last I heard. But I am confident that until the next time we meet, I will know more. Her brother, Luttu, is with the Bound fugitive, Pokkal, travelling to meet the so-called Fallen King. Ask of one and I will make sure I have news of them next time we meet.”

Drip. Drip. Drip.

View on the Living World!