Chapter 5

The dark water spread out in a V behind Orim as she swam. Ripples ran away from her across the lagoon's surface. A few shafts of sunlight reflected off the water, glinting in the evening air.

It was, as nearly as Orim could determine, about a month since her capture by the Cho-Arrim. On the forest floor it was difficult to be certain of the passage of day and night. The light was always the same soft, gray glow of the tree trunks. Within the village a fire burned at all times, and the ChoArrim moved about it immersed in their everyday routines. Orim slept when she was tired and awoke feeling rested and refreshed, but she had no idea whether she had been asleep two hours or ten. Perhaps the best measure of how much time had passed was how well she had picked up the Cho-Arrim language. Total immersion had taught her many words very quickly.

Total immersion… she dove deep and swam through dark spaces.

Orim now had full run of the settlement without accompanying guards. They would have been a useless expenditure of manpower, since Orim had no idea in which direction lay the forest's edge. If she went the wrong way and became lost, the Cho-Arrim told her, she would wander endlessly down the aisles of tall trees and never again feel the wind on her face. Certainly the forest looked the same to her wherever she walked: hoary, shaggy, vast, and vaguely threatening. Her sole clear landmarks were the village and the lagoon that bordered it-the lagoon whose waters seemed to swell and recede according to some strange rhythm. Odd sounds came from the water occasionally, noises too deep and remote to come from human or animal throats.

She surfaced. A few hundred feet from where Orim swam, Weatherlight floated peacefully. Figures moved casually on the upper deck. One waved to Orim, and she waved back. To these folk, Weatherlight was not a ship. It was an oracle. Even down here among the trees, they had glimpsed Weatherlight's cometary arrival across the sky and had believed the airship to be their god Ramos. An old myth told of Ramos falling from the heavens and breaking into pieces-soul, mind, and body. All the evils of Mercadia arose from his broken being. A prophecy told that Ramos would return, and if soul, mind, and body were reunited, he would unite the world and drive the evil away. To these folk, Weatherlight was not a warship but something altogether more valuable. It was a holy relic-the soul of a god.

There was no arguing with gods or their believers. Orim no longer tried to disabuse these folk of their strange notions about the ship. She only waved and smiled at the soldiers, turned, and swam for shore.

In the roots of the tree where she'd left her clothes, the healer found Is-Shada, her arms clasped about shapely knees, dark hair pulled back in a braid.

She giggled as Orim shivered. "I told you it was too cold."

"Cold water can be good for you," Orim said serenely. "At the university, we used to pour cold water over ourselves every morning and evening. In the winter we had to break the ice on the surface."

Is-Shada's giggles grew louder. "You were young and foolish. I'm young and sensible. You won't catch me swimming for at least another month. What was the 'university'?"

Orim had become accustomed to Is-Shada's rapid-fire questions. At first, when she only vaguely understood their meaning, she had labored over her answers, provoking still more questions and frustration on both sides. Now the healer had learned to pick and choose the questions to which she supplied detailed replies. Is-Shada never stopped asking, though.

"The university was a place at which I studied my art. My friend Hanna studied there as well."

"Hanna!" Is-Shada exclaimed. "What is she like? Is she pretty like you? Did she study the healing arts as you did? Where was the university?"

"Hanna is very pretty," Orim replied. She had not thought of Weatherlight's navigator in some time. Is-Shada's question conjured up a mental picture of Hanna, her face grimy with grease, bent eagerly over a dissected component of the ship's engine-but pretty. Always pretty. "She was not a healer, though. At the university she studied artifacts."

"What is an artifact?"

Orim laughed. "It's-an artifact. A magical object." She pointed toward the ship. "Weatherlight is an artifact."

Is-Shada's eyes, always expressive, grew round and wide.

"An artifact? Really? It's more than that! Much more."

"Yes," Orim replied, her eyes faraway. "Yes, on that we agree."

Is-Shada looked troubled. "I think we should not speak of this." She lay back and watched as Orim bound her turban about her head. "Why do you wear your hair like that? It conceals your beauty."

"It marks my status as a healer," Orim replied.

Is-Shada looked serious. "Yes. You healed me that horrible night. Do you have chavala?"

"What is chavala?"

Is-Shada hesitated, struggling for the right words. "It is a gift from above," she replied slowly. "It is not given often, but those who possess it stand high in the favor of the tribe and of the gods. Ta-Karnst is so marked."

Orim put out a hand and pulled the younger woman to her feet. "Come on. Let's get back to the village before they think I've run off."

As they made their way through the trees, both women greeted the tribesmen they passed. Some sat industriously by the side of the lagoon, pulling gently on fishing nets. Much of the Cho-Arrim diet consisted of fish, supplemented by fruits, berries, and vegetables collected from various parts of the forest. Orim had not tasted red meat since she had been among the tribe, and she found the change a welcome one.

As a rule, Cho-Arrim preferred the cool, pale light that came from lanterns that each home possessed, or the gentle silver light of the forest itself. Tonight, though, the bonfire burning in the middle of the village was heaped high with fuel, driving away the cold and shadows. Around the fire, a large group had gathered.

Orim and Is-Shada approached curiously, and the younger woman gave a delighted clap of her hands.

"It's the separi! The storytellers. They are about to start!"

There were seven separi, three women and four men. They looked no different from the other Cho-Arrim Orim had met, but the village tribesfolk surrounded them, chattering cheerfully. One by one, villagers found seats around the fire. The very old and young were wrapped in shawls and blankets. Orim and Is-Shada settled in among them.

The separi began to perform. Around the fire they went, each carrying two masks, which they alternated as they assumed different characters. For the most part, the stories were simple fables, easy to follow, mostly comic. Orim laughed with the rest of the village, and when she had any trouble understanding, Is-Shada, curled up catlike at her side, explained.

In time, there came a short pause. The players gathered in front of the fire, upon which several villagers stacked more wood so that it blazed with a sudden ferocity. Then the separi began another play.

This was evidently not comic, and Orim had more difficulty following the action. It concerned some great conflict, for two men stood opposite one another, moving their hands in complex rhythms as their minions battled. Sometimes the fighters pretended to wield swords or spears; other times they moved swiftly, as if imitating machines that hacked and clawed at one another. The two sides separated, and Orim saw that the man on one side had been joined by a woman, from whose mask flowed a tangle of vines dyed bright red to simulate hair. On the opposing side were two figures, both male. In the middle, two separi surrounded a female, her mask trailing green vines. She swirled the tendrils around her, a whirling cloud of green and yellow. As the motions of the opposing men became more intense, supported by the players at their sides, the woman in the middle gradually sank to her knees. Her motions became slower, then ceased altogether.