The Blood Knight - J. Gregory Keyes [182]
Kalbok: A walking stench.
“I’ve never heard of people riding goats,” Stephen muttered.
“I imagine there are many things you’ve never heard of,” Pale suggested.
“I’m going to vomit again,” Stephen said.
“They don’t smell that bad,” Sister Pale replied.
“I’ve no idea what you would consider foul-smelling, but I never want to meet it,” Stephen said, fighting down his urge. “Doesn’t your friend ever wash these things? Or at least comb the maggots out of their fur?”
“Wash a kalbok? What a strange idea,” Sister Pale mused. “I can hardly wait for the next thing you’ll think of to improve life for us simple mountain folk.”
“Now that you mention it, I have some ideas for improving your roads,” Stephen said.
In fact, his nausea was only by about half due to the scent of kalbok; the rest came from its gait across what even Aspar White couldn’t possibly refer to as a road. Even calling it a trail was akin to confusing a mud hut with a palace. Their route dipped and turned along the lips of gorges and up promontories that seemed to be held in place only by the roots of straggling, half-dead junipers. Even the dogs took extra care in placing each step.
“Well,” Sister Pale said, “be sure and submit your suggestions to Praifec Hespero when we see him again. As a sacritor, he has some sway in these matters.”
“I will,” Stephen said. “I’ll distract him with a detailed proposition while his men are spiking us to trees.” A sudden worry occurred. “Your friend. If Hespero is following us—”
“Pernho won’t be there when they arrive. Don’t worry about him.”
“Good.” He closed his eyes and instantly regretted it because it only made him dizzier. With a sigh, he opened them again.
“He called you something,” he said then. “Zemlé.”
“Zemlé, yes. It’s my birth name.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s our name for Saint Cer,” she explained.
“And the tongue you were speaking?”
“Xalma, we call it.”
“I should like to learn it.”
“Why? It isn’t widely spoken. If you want to get along in the mountains, better that you learn Meel.”
“I can learn both,” Stephen said, “if you’ll teach me. It should help us pass the time.”
“Very well. Which first?”
“Your language. Xalma.”
“So. Then I know just how to start the lesson.” She touched her hand to her breastbone. “Nhen,” she said. Then she pointed to him. “Wir. Ash esme nhen, Ju esh wir. Pernho est wir. Ju be Pernho este abe wiré…”
The lesson continued for the rest of the day as the kalboks climbed steadily higher, first through rocky pasture and then, as they crossed the snow line, into a dark evergreen forest.
Before evening the forest had given way to a desolate, ice-crusted heath where nothing grew at all, and Sister Pale’s words came muffled through her scarf.
Stephen’s paida and weather cloak were back in Demsted, and he was thankful for the ankle-length quilted robe and heavy felt jerkin Pernho had provided him. The cone-shaped hat he was less certain about—he felt he looked silly in it—but at least it kept his ears warm.
Clouds sat on them for most of the journey, but as the sun was setting, the air cleared, and Stephen peered awestruck at the giants of ice and snow marching off toward every horizon. He felt tiny and titan all at once and intensely grateful to be alive.
“What’s wrong?” Pale asked, studying his face.
Stephen didn’t understand the question until he realized that he was weeping.
“I suppose you’re used to this,” he said.
“Ah,” she replied. “Used to it, yes. But it never loses its beauty.”
“I don’t see how it could.”
“Look there,” she said, pointing back. After a moment he thought he saw movement, like a line of black ants against the white.
“Horses?” he asked.
“Hespero. With some sixty riders, I should say.”
“Will he catch us?”
“Not soon. He’ll have to stop for nightfall, just like us. And he’ll be much slower using horses.” She clapped him on the back. “Speaking of which, we’d better