Heir of Iron

Chapter 17

(The image above is of a village in Nepal, similar to the ones that Mandhi and Navran visit in this chapter. The original image was found here: https://ugotravel.wordpress.com/2009/12/30/).

"You disgust me," Mandhi said.

It was a fair enough response to the story he had told. Navran said nothing, but clenched his fists and kept walking straight ahead.

"Let Navran speak without comment," Gocam said.

"Why?" Mandhi spat. "He is supposed to be the child of the Heir. The next Heir, himself. And he debauches himself with Ruyam in the emperor's household while Taleg and I risk our lives."

"I invited him to confess, and he agreed. While we walk together, we listen together."

His face felt hot. Gocam protected him from Mandhi's scorn, and had been protecting him for the past three days as he slowly unspooled his memories. They walked, and he talked. Mandhi's contempt and fury? That he deserved. She only stirred up the disgust he had in himself, and Gocam could not shield him from that.

"Do you even realize what happened before we reached you in Majasravi?"

"You told me," Navran muttered.

"Did you stop to think about it? Does it even matter to you that Taleg nearly died on the road to Davrakhanda, and then in Majasravi---"

"Mandhi, calm yourself," Gocam said.

Her breath was coming furious and uncontrolled. She bit her lower lip, and her eyes closed. Not fury, now. She was holding back sobs. He closed his eyes and looked away. Her sobs were worse for him than her fury.

"You two should not be fighting," Gocam said. "You need each other."

Mandhi wiped the corners of her eyes with her fists. "I know. But I can't trust him. That's the problem."

It would be better for all of them if they didn't need Navran. But it was too late for that. He had tried to escape from them and only made things worse. "I'm done for now. Won't talk any more to bother you."

"It's not the talking that bothers me."

"Be kind," Gocam said.

#

They were fourteen days out from Ternas, on the south road that followed the skirts of the mountains. It was the nearest thing to a thoroughfare this far west, and it limped through a series of miserable little shepherding and cotton-growing villages which consisted of half-collapsed mud-brick houses cowering under the heights of the mountains. They slept in the open. The rains had not started yet, and the dry season was burning towards its conclusion, cracking the mud in the bottoms of the river beds and smothering the air with a harsh, muggy heat. The moon was bright, tending towards its fullest, and they walked far into the night, letting the cool of the evening salve the misery of the day.

The sun was touching the peaks of the mountains when they approached a village on their fourth evening. The day had been a grim, silent march, and Navran was looking forward to the evening cool and sleep. Gocam stopped abruptly in the path and raised his hand.

"Do you see them?" he asked.

Navran squinted. Far ahead he could make out some number of red-clad figures moving between the mud-brick buildings.

"You two get off the road," Gocam said. "Hide in the brush. I'll go ask them."

He and Mandhi did as commanded. About ten yards off of the road, Mandhi found a place in the dry, late-summer scrub where they could see the road but would be invisible to casual watchers.