Chapter 4
Pavo wasn’t all that surprised when he woke up. However, he was absolutely puzzled as to the fact that he was still alive.
And, dammit, he was still out in the desert.
The boy was sitting nearby. Capella was nowhere to be seen.
“Am I in Hell?” he croaked.
“Not yet.” The boy stood, stretching, and walked over to him. He looked down his nose at him, a condescending smile on his lips. “You’re injured.”
Pavo’s heart sank. He was going to be left to die out here, all because some desert-whelp was in too much of a hurry to do a good deed for a fellow human being.
Scowling, he reached over with his good hand and rolled up his sleeve, revealing the foul-looking wound. “Yes, I am wounded. Quite badly, too. So if you do intend on leaving me here to wither in my own agony, at least give me a few good whacks over the head with that walking-stick of yours. If I have to die, I’d rather do it unconscious.”
Cane growled, rolling his eyes. “Stop your whining. It’s not much farther until we reach Kaitos.” He helped a bewildered Pavo to his feet, propping his good arm over his shoulder.
“Well,” Pavo said. “I guess thanks are in order. Your mother must’ve raised a good lad, after all. Remind me to thank her if I ever meet her.”
The boy’s fingers suddenly dug into his back. “Shut up and conserve your energy.”
Two hours later, Cane stopped to let Pavo rest. The man looked very bad now; a thin sheen of sweat covered his pale forehead, and his face was mottled with red. He seemed to be wavering in and out of consciousness. He was obviously a stranger in the desert, from his naturally-pale skin to his odd clothes. Cane had absolutely no idea why he was there in the first place, but he knew that the man would die if they didn’t reach Kaitos soon.
And where is that goat?
She had wandered off about half an hour ago, but Cane had neither the energy nor the desire to chase after her. He covinced himself that he was relieved to be rid of her.
They had reached a flat plain of cracked earth, much like the scrublands of Spica, and he could see Kaitos in the distance. What he saw didn’t please him, though.
“Is it just me,” said Pavo, a little querulously. “Or do I see smoke on the horizon?”
“Indeed you do.”
“Ah, alright. Just wanted to be sure.”
Cane scratched the back of his head, considering his options. All two of them.
“Do you think you can keep walking, Pavo?”
“I’d much rather ride that horse over yonder.” He seemed to be staring at a point off towards Kaitos.
Good, now he’s hallucinating.
“There’s no horse,” Cane said with a weary sigh. He turned. “It’s just a…horse?”
A brown steed galloped toward them, the rider hunched low over its neck. Cane saw Capella trotting far behind, trying to keep up on short legs.
The horse came to a stop beside them, stirring up a large dust cloud, and a man clad in cloak and facial scarf peered at Cane. “Is something wrong? This goat showed up a while ago, looking quite distressed. Kept nibbling my hand and tugging at my robe, then going out toward the desert. I knew she wasn’t one from our herd, because none of our does are that pure white.”
Pavo recovered from a coughing fit, waving a hand in front of his face. “Dammit, man, did you have to stir up the entire desert?”
“Thank you,” Cane interrupted pointedly. “This man has an infected cut, and it’s causing a fever. I was heading to Kaitos when I found him.”
The man’s jaw shifted, and he dismounted. “Well, boy, I suggest that you turn around and go back to wherever you’re from.”
“Why’s that?”
“Kaitos is destroyed.”
“Lovely,” Pavo croaked, slumping even further onto the ground.
Cane blinked. “What do you mean, destroyed?”
“Razed, boy. Lot of armored soldiers came through this morning. Left behind a ruined village full of the dead.” The man looked down at Pavo. “Our healers are overwhelmed, but I suppose one more wounded man won’t make much of a difference.”
As Pavo clambered onto the horse’s back, Cane stared ahead at the smoking black strip in the distance. Destroyed…
Every year, for centuries—so the stories said—a young man between the age of eighteen and twenty had been chosen for the pilgrimage to Kaitos. Every year, for centuries, it had been there.
The man swung onto the horse, trying to keep Pavo from toppling over. He wheeled the horse around and barreled toward the town. Capella looked at Cane for a moment, then turned to follow them.
What now?
The easiest answer was to continue to Kaitos, try to replenish his supplies, and go back home to resume his normal life. A life free of djinn she-goats and injured strangers in caves.
Then he remembered something his mother had told him.
He had been six or seven, and had asked about the pilgrimage with eager curiosity. She had pulled him onto her lap, smiling, and told him what the elders told every inquiring child. But then, a distant look in her eye, she had added something that he had never heard from anyone else, before or since.
“The pilgrimage is not just a rite of passage or a test of survival skills in the wild, little one. It’s about learning what is right. And when you are chosen, then you are obligated to fulfill the destiny laid out for you. But before you can fulfill it, you must discover it. You must learn tolerance, clear thinking, and compassion for those who need it.”
Then she had smiled again, kissed his forehead, and sent him out to collect wood for the evening cooking-fire.
Oh, how he missed her.
The destruction of Kaitos was tragic, but it didn’t mean that his pilgrimage was over. He would go to his destination, and try to discover what his destiny had in store for him.
‘Razed’ was indeed the proper word for what had happened to Kaitos; the earthen homes were for the most part shattered, and fires still burned in the ruins. Blood was everywhere. Cane could smell it as he neared the edge of the town, where a large number of people had gathered. Prone bodies were lined up on tired bits of sheets, with men and women kneeling beside them, tending their wounds and offering words of comfort.
As Cane looked around for Pavo, he noticed a knot of well-dressed men standing off to the side. They didn’t appear to be happy with each other.
“A pyre is the only way,” one said earnestly. He had a bowed back and wore a long robe of red wool.
“It’s an outrage! My son…” The speaker’s voice broke off momentarily. “My son will not be burned.”
Realizing the nature of the conversation, Cane ducked his head and hurried on. Suddenly he felt very sick.
He spotted Pavo easily, on account of three things. First, he was still wearing that absurd, tattered leather coat; second, he was the palest person in sight, partly due to ethnicity and partly due to injury; third, the goat was lying next to him in the scant shade of a tree, chewing her cud happily. Goats were always blissfully unaware of human troubles, it seemed.
Pavo himself was propped up against the tree, staring glassy-eyed up at the clouds. “A starving poet cannot live on a ration of grass,” he said as Cane approached.
Cane considered this, and nodded in agreement. The man was skinny. That, along with the pale skin, made him look quite unhealthy.
“Foreigners,” Cane muttered.
“He’ll be out for a while.”
Cane turned, and found the horseman smirking at Pavo. He had removed the cloth from around his face and head, revealing an unkempt mane of tawny hair. It surrounded a face which clearly stated that he was a warrior; the nose was off-kilter, a faded scar ran across one strong cheekbone, and he eyed everything with a certain wariness.
Cane made a mental note to be cautious around the man. He didn’t really like the idea of finishing his pilgrimage dead—even if that was what his destiny demanded.
The man stepped forward, extending a large hand. It looked extremely powerful. “I’m Leo.”
“Cane Venatici.”
“You, chaps,” snapped Pavo. “Move out of the way, all four of you.”
Cane arched an eyebrow.
“They gave him a rather…strong pain-killer.”
“I can see that.”
“So, Cane Venatici, what brings you here?”
“I’m on a pilgrimage from Spica.”
“Hm, I thought so. It’s getting near that time. One reason why I followed that goat into the desert. But that’s a matter to discuss with Aldebaran.” Leo nodded toward the man in the wool robe, who appeared to have resolved the argument.
The others hobbled away as Cane approached, and Aldebaran looked at him steadily. “Hello, my son. What brings you here?”
Cane bowed his head respectfully. “I am here from Spica.”
The old man’s yellow eyes widened for a moment. “Ah…I see. I suppose it is that time again, is it not? I apologize for the state of things here; we were attacked this morning. I would offer you food and drink, but the soldiers destroyed everything.”
Cane winced slightly. “I am sorry for your loss, and I do not expect food or drink. May I help somehow?”
A woman had been hurrying by with a handful of herbs. Now, she paused to look sharply at him. “You could hunt down and slaughter the bastards who did this.”
“Mirach!” Aldebaran snapped. “Hold your tongue!”
“I’m only saying what we are all thinking.” The woman looked at Cane, wisps of graying hair hanging around her grim face. “You’re from Spica, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you could help us—”
She recoiled when Aldebaran thundered, “Enough! There are wounded that need tending to, Mirach!”
Ducking her head, she hurried away.
“I apologize,” the old man said quietly, turning back to Cane. “In the chaos of today, I suppose she momentarily lost her sense of discretion.”
“That’s alright,” Cane said, a bit puzzled.
“Well, son, I shall leave you be. I know the pilgrim usually wants some time to…ponder…things. I am sorry to say that the raiders destroyed our sanctuary, so you will have to find a place of your own.” The elder bowed deeply and walked away.
Cane stared after him, overwhelmed and bewildered.
That evening, he wandered between the crumbling, smoldering shells of what used to be homes, searching through the endless rubble for any survivors. He found that he was indeed pondering many things.
Then a voice came from the shadows. “I must speak with you.”
He turned, and the woman named Mirach stepped out of a crumbling doorway. “You were sent on the pilgrimage?”
“Yes, I was,” he replied evenly.
The woman’s entire face trembled. “Then please, you can help us! Perhaps this is the omen!” Her eyes widened, and she added quickly, “I did not assume to speak for you, Master Venatici, but I thought, perhaps…”
Cane sighed. “First, please don’t call me ‘Master Venatici.’ Second, what is this about omens?”
She smiled, but it looked a bit confused. “Do you not know?”
“Evidently, I don’t.”
“Well…the Chosen have always come here on their pilgrimages, as you well know. Ever since I was a little girl, I remember them arriving around this time, dusty strangers with sort of a driven look about them. Father said they had had an epiphany out in the desert, and now were meant to fulfill it. That’s what always struck me. They looked half-mad from their purpose.” She gazed steadily at him. “You, however, do not.”
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