Stone of Tears

Dominating the city, near the center, rising up on an island of its own, stood a vast palace, its imposing, crenellated west wall bathed in the sun’s golden rays. Baileys and ramparts and towers and sections and roofs, all of grand design, joined together into a complex structure that held labyrinthine courtyards with trees, or grass, or ponds. The palace seemed to be stretching its stone arms, jealously trying to enclose the whole of the island atop which it sat.

Seen from this distance, with the thread-thin streets radiating out from the the island at the core of the city, and strandlike bridges spanning the river all around, the palace reminded Richard of nothing as much as a fat spider sitting in the center of its web.

“The Palace of the Prophets,” Sister Verna said.

“Prison,” Richard said without looking to her.

She ignored the comment. The city is Tanimura, and through it, the River Kern. The palace itself sits on Halsband Island.”

“Halsband.” His hackles rose. “Is that some kind of sardonic joke?”

“What do you mean? Does Halsband have significance?”

Richard raised an eyebrow. “A halsband is a collar used to launch a hunting hawk on an attack.”

She shrugged dismissively. “You read too much into things.”

“Do I? We shall see.”

She let out a small sigh as she lifted her hips, starting her horse down the hill, and changed the subject. “It’s been many years since I was home, but it looks as it always has.”

The two Baka Ban Mana men who had guided them through the swampy, trackless forest for the last two days had left them that morning, once Sister Verna was at last in familiar territory. Although he never lost his sense of direction, Richard could easily see how people could become disoriented there. But he was at home in such places of vast desolation, and was more likely to become lost in a building than in dense woods.

The two men had spoken little over those two days. Though they were swordsmen as fierce as those Richard had fought, they were in awe of him. Richard had to shout before they would stop all the bowing. No amount of shouting, though, could make them stop calling him Caharin.

One night, before he went to stand his usual watch, Sister Verna had told him, in a quiet tone, that she was sorry that he had had to kill those thirty people. A little surprised by her sincerity and the seeming lack of meaning other than that stated, and haunted by the memory, he had thanked her for understanding.

Richard scanned the fertile hills and valleys. “Why isn’t this land farmed? With all those people, they must need to plant food.”

Sister Verna lifted a hand holding the reins and indicated the land on the other side of the city. “Farms cover the land on that side of the river. On this side, it’s not safe for man nor beast.” Tilting her head back, she indicated the land behind. “The Baka Ban Mana are always a threat.”

“So they don’t farm here because they’re afraid of the Baka Ban Mana?”

She cast a glance to her left. “do you see that dark forest?” She watched him as he took in the fringe of the dense tangle in the next valley. Huge, old, gnarled trees were packed close together, covered with vines and moss, and harboring gloomy shadows. “This edge runs for miles more toward the city. It’s the Hagen Woods. Stay far away from it. All who let the sun set on them in the Hagen Woods die. Many who set foot there die before they have a chance to wait for the sun to go down. It’s a place of vile magic.”

As they rode, he kept glancing toward the Hagen Woods. He felt a longing for that gloomy place, as if it complemented his dark mood; as if he belonged in there. He found it hard to draw his eyes away.

Up close, the streets of Tanimura were not the orderly place they appeared from a distance. The fringes of the city were a confusion of squalor. Men pushing or pulling carts laden with loads of rice sacks, or carpets, or firewood, or hides, or even garbage, wove around and past each other, sometimes clogging the way. Lining the road were hawkers of every sort, selling everything from fruits and vegetables and strips of meat cooked on little sticks over tiny smoky fires in impromptu stone hearths, to herbs and fortunes, to boots and beads. At least the cooking gave spotty relief from the reeking stench of tanneries.

Huddled groups of men in worn, dirty clothes shouted with excitement or burst into laughter around games of cards and dice. Side streets and narrow alleyways were clogged with people and lined with ramshackle huts of tarp and tin. Naked children ran and played among the flimsy shelters, splashing in muddy puddles and chasing each other in games of catch-the-fox. Women squatted around buckets, washing clothes and chatting among themselves.

Sister Verna muttered to herself that she didn’t remember the squalor and the unhoused multitudes. Richard thought that, despite their condition, they looked happier than they had a right to.