The stray dogs barked at the moon, fancying themselves wolves. The stray dogs barked at the ghosts that prowled the sidewalks and appeared at the dark bends of the alleyways, where the drunks and the vagabonds ended up. They were not particularly threatening, nor were they tender; they were no good for guarding houses or playing with the young children of the aristocrats — instead they drifted, weightless, at some point in between. In a certain sense, there were parallels with human beings.
Ounga wondered why he was thinking of them, of all things, since they had never mattered to him in any special way — and even less so today, of all days. There they were, chasing their tails in his mind, a malicious grin on their muzzles and the remnants of bones that the butchers had tossed them still on their palates. Tonight the night was strange, as if enchanted — lucid at times, and at others as confused as the pattern of a tiger in the dark, a blurred canvas on the wall of a mind full of doubts.
Stray dogs. Stray men.
Seated at the tip of the limestone rock, his feet dangling over the still waters of Lake Yar and his hair loose at the mercy of the cold wind, Ounga contemplated the full moon and the illuminated skyline of the city of Raio'kiar. He wanted to see it one last time before leaving, because he loved it the way one loves a forbidden woman.
Blue lamps, copper bells, and the sound of rigging on the docks. The intricate and magnificent city of the Andean mountains undulated along the valley, tracing the edge of the immense body of water like a caiman pointing south, toward the lowlands where the plainsmen herded cattle and raised horses that kings and emperors killed each other over. Ounga knew it perfectly, could even feel its warmth. The smell of fried golden frog, the burning taste of salted fish, the heavy mud of the main streets and the rattling of the ox-drawn carts. The chimney smoke projected over the lake and the red lanterns of the pleasure districts, beside the façade of the Mazales Cathedral, with its strange clock and its cone-shaped spires that no craftsman of this age could replicate. Narrow alleyways where men were murdered and robbed, and the main plaza where the mayor gave his speeches, and where Ounga was due to present himself tomorrow at eight o'clock to enlist in the military service of His Illuminated Majesty, King Lonwa of Gambria.
Suddenly, his hands trembled. The bottle of maguey slipped from his fingers like whale oil, and an unpleasant dizziness overcame him until he had to close his eyes. He had been avoiding this for days, ever since he had seen the decree signed by the governor on the posted placards — as though the words inscribed there did not concern him. The day was drawing near. Threatening. Ounga knew he could not run; the stray dogs hid among the filth and the shadows, but sooner or later they had to come out and fend for themselves. Riao'kiar forced their hand.
He turned his gaze from the beautiful façade that composed that creation of man and looked back at his home — a solitary light at the top of a ravine thick with brush and medium-sized trees. The small hut where he lived with his mother and his brother looked as though it were about to collapse and roll at great speed toward the lake, yet for some unknown reason it held its ground, in perfect balance between a limestone ledge and a scattering of gravel. Ounga imagined his mother at the foot of the wood-burning stove, thinking about the fate of her eldest son, who had gone out hunting, and the news from her youngest, who was about to embark on a journey that might cost him his life. He saw her sad, with her reddish hair, her crystalline green eyes, her slightly flared nostrils and her warm, pensive lips. From the mountain rose the hollow sound of hooting owls hidden behind the leathery leaves of the coffee plants, and the toads croaking in the pools gathered around the lake — the remnants of winter's death rattle and the opening melody, bright flutes and lutes, that spring would soon perform. Ounga could not imagine living and dying anywhere else, for the colors of the mountains and their depth moved him to the verge of something like love. And though he enjoyed fishing, it never crossed his mind to move to the coast and venture out into that monstrous flat creature of salty breezes they called the sea.
Lake Yar was all the flatness he was willing to accept.
They said the campaigns against the Jui would be concentrated in the Southern Steppes, in lands where fig trees did not grow and which were held hostage by swamps — so flat you could see farther than any man's eye could reach. Ounga might have considered joining the Army had the war been in Legish, to the East, in the high peaks of the kingdom of the Reborn, where the Predestined one dwelled and the guardian of the Castle of the Ten Heavens kept watch. But he had no desire to travel south, much less north, to the land of deserts and seas.
He looked at the pack lying beside him and swallowed hard. It was a difficult decision — despite knowing that the war would end and his absence would be forgotten with the passing autumns and summer suns; despite the consoling beauty of the peaks and the impossibility of dying at their hands. What troubled him, on the other hand, was that it had to happen this way — without farewells or words of encouragement, as though he were a criminal excised from the bosom of his family and repudiated by society. But he had decided not to tell them.
Ounga took the maguey bottle and put it in the pack. He rolled up his trouser legs and adjusted his boots. He noticed that his heart was hammering against his ribs and that his stomach had tightened, but he slung the pack over his shoulder and resumed his journey. He had already overcome the hardest part — descending the mountain to the western shore of the lake — not because of the terrain, but because of the melancholy that came from leaving behind everything he loved. No more skipping stones at sparrows, no more leaps from the platform, no more pre-dawn hunts.
Ounga pressed his palms together and looked one last time at the light of the hearth, while offering a prayer to the gods for the well-being of those he loved. Coming from a Rōi'ar family had infected him with dubious beliefs and exaggerated superstitions. Yet tonight he wanted to believe in the force of fate, and in the faith of men. He took the fork in the road and began to climb again, moving away from the city to the west, toward Rabbit Pass and the Serene Mountains. Crickets stirred along the path and fireflies traced loops of light in the tall grass nearby. The sky was not thick with stars, but the night was calm.
Ounga wondered whether men were reincarnated as the oracles claimed — those who understood a few words of the ancient tongue — perhaps into fireflies or some other earthly creature. That was a life he would accept gladly. He would love to be a flamingo, that elegant and graceful bird that alighted on the water like a ballet dancer. That, of course, provided he did not suffer the stones of some lunatic obsessed with pink feathers and pointed beaks. He thought he had probably killed several reincarnated souls during the long hunts his brother had dragged him on, and he felt sorry for the incomplete souls who had lost their chance at healing. He envied them too. More than ever he longed to escape this reality, to become a ghost and roam the mountain passes alongside peasants laden with corn and coffee. But wishes are rarely granted, and after a while of scattered thoughts and unattainable dreams, he reached the Monte Azúcar inn.
It was an old adobe house with a hideous sign on the façade. Beside it was a pigpen and a cramped stable, where a few horses stamped the ground to relieve themselves of flies. From the windows came a faint glow, no doubt from candles, and from inside rose a thundering racket — so raucous that anyone unfamiliar with its dual purpose would have thought a party was underway. The inn was, of course, the ideal refuge for petty criminals and prostitutes, who plied their trade in the back courtyard without any shame, and who knew Ounga, although he had never been their customer. The mountain man would have preferred to skip it altogether, but he had planned to dine there in advance. Along the road ahead there would be no more inns — not even dwellings — for a good stretch, and the land was not always generous with you. With his pack secured firmly on his shoulders, he approached the swinging door while a mangy dog sniffed at him with an unfriendly look on its face, then pushed it open and peered inside.
The nearby voices fell silent for a moment, but after inspecting the visitor and recognizing him, returned to their clamor. One of the prostitutes who had just come in through the back door — still adjusting her dress — came bounding toward him with a bright smile and a sensual expression.
"Well, Ga, have you finally decided to become a man?"
Two customers playing cards at a wooden table covered in scratches burst out laughing. Ounga ignored the woman and sat down at the corner table.
"Come on, Ga, don't be shy!" The prostitute pouted.
"Don't call me that. I'm of age."
"How is Hu? He hasn't come in a month. I miss him terribly."
Ounga felt a pang of sadness at the sound of his brother's name. He pictured him in the forest, setting the traps. He had warned him to stop spending money on Sofi, but his brother believed he could pay her off and make her his wife.
"You're a dangerous woman. I'm sure you want to rob my brother."
"How awful!" Sofi gave him a light slap on the shoulder blade. "Your brother proposed to me two months ago — sweet, isn't it? He hasn't got any money, but he's very brave for standing up to those men who spend all their time licking Yesca's boots — he even fought several of them. Didn't he tell you?"
Ounga scoffed.
"They broke his leg and nearly killed him, and you didn't even show up to say thank you."
The prostitute was unmoved.
"He brought that on himself. I told him he could never tear me from Yesca's clutches by force. He's a man bound to his own principles — and besides, he's possessive about his treasures."
Sofi's voice shifted slightly in tone, to something sweet, almost admiring. Ounga sensed that this Yesca — whom he did not know — was her great unrequited love. He wondered how sick a person must be to fall in love with the man who had dragged her into this filthy world, into the greasy hands of wicked and ugly men. He did not understand her.
"You're making that face again, Ga. I don't like it."
"It's a free world. I can make whatever face I please."
Sofi laughed.
"You know what? If you had the will to save me, I'd go with you without a second thought — I'd even be willing to challenge Yesca."
Ounga couldn't tell whether she was joking or speaking seriously.
"I like you, Ga. I know you're a virgin. I could help you with that…" She leaned close to his ear. "For a cheaper price."
"Go away. I only have two eight-gram sonels."
The prostitute scoffed and wiped the smile from her face; in a cold voice she answered:
"You're a monster."
Ounga watched her rush over to the table of a blond man wearing a shouldered coat and a four-ringed earring, smile renewed, neckline slightly neglected. The man, apparently very wealthy, was completely surrounded by women and shouting like a desperate market vendor trying to make a sale.
"The usual, Ounga?"
Ounga nodded as he drew four eight-sonels from his wallet. A small fraction of what he had saved would be enough to survive on, for in the mountains a metal plate was worth nothing — not even for stoking a fire. Instinctively, he glanced over at Sofi, and for some reason found himself wondering whether his brother would steal his savings to pay for the contract of that woman who, in a hundred reincarnated lives and all the ones to come, would do anything short of loving him. Perhaps he hated her — but he was scandalized to find himself doubting his brother's honesty. Shortly after, his bread and beans arrived.
"Who is that man?" he asked the innkeeper.
The man set the plate on the table and looked him directly in the eyes. He was a short man in his fifties with a pockmarked face and one blind eye — no doubt the fruit of a wayward youth. His gaze was as hard as steel and difficult to hold. He smiled with the three or four teeth he had left and whispered:
"You'll see soon enough."
"Barkeep, a round for everyone!"
The man's deep voice boomed through the room, keeping time with the clap of his large and lustrous boots. The innkeeper hurried to oblige; he ran to the counter and uncorked an aged cognac, which he poured into a glass of genuine crystal. It was the finest thing a squalid place like this could offer, but it was enough to please the man.
"Cheers!" he cried, showing a row of gold teeth.
He raised the glass the innkeeper had handed him and surveyed those present — some of whom returned the toast, while others regarded him with disbelief. His table sat in the center of the room, directly beneath the beam that divided the ceiling in two. It was an extremely dangerous spot, but the man seemed unbothered by the possibility of an attack. The criminals seated at the nearby tables — some of them quite notorious — were laughing under their breath, and the thieves lurking at the darker tables never let his golden rings out of their sight, rings bearing a crest of condors and…
Then Ounga realized that the thieves wore no expression of greed. Only fear. Deep fear.
Immediately, a shiver ran through his veins like an electric discharge, and he nearly fell from his chair. It was then that he noticed six other men — all dressed in the same coats, gray with golden embroidery and braided epaulettes — sharing a separate table and watching the rowdy figure, clearly on alert for any incident. They were soldiers. Infantry of the Magistracy. And the boisterous companion, judging by the ring and the earrings, was none other than a Patron — or perhaps a general. Ounga clenched his fists, palms sweating, feet tingling.
Sofi looked at him from the far end of the table and flashed a wicked smile. She was an attractive woman, but very expensive. On occasion they had exchanged long and suggestive conversations, and Ounga suspected she reminded him of some relative, for despite being of no interest to him, she treated him with preference and had let drop the idea of doing it for free. Nevertheless, he now had the nauseating feeling that she would betray him if the opportunity arose — if it earned her some kind of favor, perhaps from the Patron or from Ounga himself.
He had not noticed it when he came in, but now that he paid attention, he found strange the uneasy silence that reigned over the other tables, as though the presence of that military man had soaked the room with a heavy vapor capable of suffocating even the most talkative throats. Only that one table was enjoying itself. The others, one by one, were emptying out, to the bewildered and confused gaze of the innkeeper. His instincts screamed at him to leave as fast as possible. Ounga picked up the pack and began to rise.
"Hey, Ga — already leaving?"
Sofi said these words in her usual tone. The mischief of a prostitute. Yet in them Ounga caught the threat. He wanted to bolt straight for the door at full speed, but something stopped him. He was caught halfway between standing and sitting back down. With a sinking feeling, he noticed the soldiers watching him with narrowed, inquisitive eyes.
"I'm going to the bathroom," he said in a trembling voice.
"Leave the pack, mountain man."
Ounga blinked several times. The voice — cold as ice and difficult to place — dissolved into the silence that had suddenly flooded the room. Ounga looked in every direction but could not find its source. He took the pack and started to leave.
"Didn't you hear me?"
A young man in an immaculate uniform with an enormous sword on his back stood up from the farthest seat at the table of six and pointed at him. He was of medium height. Not particularly muscular, but deeply menacing. Perhaps because of those two torches that cast a freezing light. Each of his eyes — large, well-defined, with snow-white lashes — was half purple and half amber, the colors bleeding into each other at the equator, along a diffuse line where the pupil appeared round and black; and his hair was slightly restless, as though it had a life of its own — as though the wind were stirring it, yet every window was shut tight. Ounga swallowed.
"Yes."
Stumbling, he rose from his seat and made for the back door. The man sat back down, but never took his eyes off him for a single second. Ounga finally understood that it was he — not the general — who was terrorizing the criminals, and even his own companions. It struck him as astonishing and inconceivable that he had not noticed it sooner. He could feel it now, working its way into his bones, gripping his muscles. His immense aura washed over him with the precision of a clockmaker. Its tendrils crept up his body and walked across his skin, each one with a thousand eyes watching him, warning him not to do anything stupid. He could not explain how, but somehow this man had concealed his presence the entire time, and had made it incredibly conspicuous just now — at will, like a faucet you open and close by hand. There was no escaping the sensation of his presence. Even with his back turned, Ounga knew exactly where he was — could even see his crossed legs, his eyes fixed on his nape, his double-edged sword rising from his living hair, and his two-toned pale eyes searching for signs of weakness.
Ounga turned left toward the stables and approached a stone wall. He undid his fly and prayed to a thousand gods that some urine would come. He had no wish to find out what that man would do if he discovered there had been no need to go — but fortunately, the fear and intimidation that those gaze-piercing-through-walls eyes inspired in him helped loosen his bladder.
"Who is that man?" asked a voice. It must have been one of the swordsman's companions.
"A friend," answered Sofi.
"What is he doing traveling at this hour? I've been told the road is very dangerous."
"Bah! He's poorer than a beggar. Bandits won't bother with someone like that. Though I've never seen him out at this hour. He must have something urgent to do — ever since I've known him, he's been more of a hermit."
"Is that so?" said the swordsman.
Sofi's voice tightened, thinned, went quiet.
"Yes, sir. I… never… His brother is the vagrant and the troublemaker. Ounga is nothing like that."
The urine had run out. He had to go back. Ounga looked at the distant silhouette of Lake Yar and sighed. The cool scent of the mountains did not come — instead, a wave of urine, horse dung, and human sweat washed over him. He found it hard to believe he was in this situation, that he had had the nerve to leave home without saying goodbye, to behave — as Sofi had put it — just like his older brother.
Was he truly afraid? Was the army really that terrifying? People said it was impossible to defer the draft or flee from it. What was so wrong with presenting himself tomorrow in the main plaza, where the Infantry Patrons would be waiting with their impassive faces and straight-pressed uniforms, ready to pursue him if he failed to appear? It was unfortunate, but perhaps he ought to face the violence and the terror that the coming war inspired in him — the blood, the sharpened weapons, and the brutal forced marches. Perhaps he should accept that he was a coward, that he was a man accustomed to running when the situation overwhelmed him, that no one would be able to help him now, and that perhaps the forests and the mountains he trusted so deeply would not hide him from men as bloodthirsty as the one he had just met.
Yes, his conscience was right: he was unequivocally terrified of joining the army, and he was running from a reality that would give him no quarter. He was choosing to die in the belly of dense branches rather than fight for his life on a battlefield.
Once again he felt that thundering pressure. The iridescent eyes bore into him, as though asking why he had not yet returned — surely he had finished what he had come to do. Perhaps he was faced with a Rau'kîar trying to tell him something he could not understand: a warning, a portent. Yet Ounga did not believe it, nor did he want to. The man was not a monster.
He turned around with thousands of distorted thoughts vying for control of him, and walked with unsteady steps back to the inn.
"…He doesn't look like a criminal."
"He isn't," said the swordsman.
"Do you think he's running?"
"Only one thing could frighten a man like him."
Sofi let out a small sound.
"The draft?"
"Indeed… But it's none of our concern. The visionari will take care of him."
"He's just a boy. Why don't we let him go?"
"You know perfectly well that His Illuminated Majesty's Conscription Law is merciless," said the swordsman coldly. "Any man who evades service will be condemned to death, as will his accomplices, whoever they may be. What is so special about this mountain man? Princes have also been compelled to join the army. No man of Gambria is exempt."
"So we can't let him go."
"No."
The hairs on his neck stood up. Thousands of droplets of sweat broke through his skin. Blood ceased to flow for a fraction of a second. The presences multiplied. The six members of the Infantry unleashed their aura. Ounga's mind blazed with a single image: run. He remembered the mountains, craved their warmth, their immense and cool sobriety. The sweetness of the rushing streams, the water tumbling down the falls, the drip from the trees leaning over the slopes, the dense fog at the summit.
Ounga planted his boots on the ground and broke into a run around the western side of the inn. Two steps — he felt he could escape.
"You're a fool, mountain man."
The swordsman appeared before him, just as people said an encounter with an apparition ought to be. A tenth of a second earlier there was nothing, and a tenth of a second later — there he was. His blade at his throat. His lips so close to his ear that Ounga could feel their warmth. No human being was built to move at such a speed.
"How—"
Suddenly, three more figures appeared before him, in the same way the swordsman had — as though they had been drawn there. They did not turn when Sofi opened the door with a sharp bang and covered her mouth with both hands, eyes wide open, feet pointing back inside. The blade grazed skin, and Sofi shuddered. In a quiet voice, pleading, a whisper — just audible:
"Don't kill him… please… Prodigy of the Twelve Thorns."