Page 33 of Humans Don't Have Horns
I grab the loose skin behind her neck and straddle her, my fingers buried in her gray fur. She starts to run. My weight barely slows her massive body. I feel her strong muscles beneath my thighs. The wind whips my hair back, whooshing in my ears. She runs at the same pace for hours and only stops at the sight of hanging bodies. The entrance to the Mongan territory.
Even with my heart bleeding from Daton’s abandonment, I know he will never intentionally harm me. But he is the only Mongan I can say that of, and I am to enter their territory. The dangling corpses at the entrance of the camps are a blunt reminder of that. There is no power or weapon in my hands except my knowledge of their language, as he taught me, and a small knife he gave me.
Daton is charged with treason, and the penalty is death. That they would go to that extent with him says a lot about their cruelty. They have been tormented and abused in ways beyond forgiveness. Maybe it changed them all, as it changed Daton. Or perhaps they were like this all along. They have chosen retribution and revenge as their path. It is a dead end. One doesn’t need Amada’s wisdom to see it. Killing Ashar and his men gave me that lesson firsthand.
I get off the direwolf, and she runs into the darkness without even a glance. I know I will never see her again. I didn’t thank her. I didn’t even ask if she had a name while I still could. But then, those are my needs, not hers.
I face the hanging corpses. Their stench is revolting. There are five ofthem. I think they are two females and three males, but it is hard to tell in this light and with their state: rotting and half-eaten. They are naked, and in a way that, of all, makes it the hardest. They were stripped of their dignity, of their humanity. Is Daton the one responsible for this? If not for them, he is responsible for others. Witnessing the brutality he had told me about in his own words struck me hard. Some of them have blue hair, some red. Renyans and Aldonians. I want to take them down and bury them. Whatever crime they committed—and from what I’ve learned, their crime may be unforgivable—leaving them like this is not right.
I look at the camp before me. Daton won’t be able to save me tonight. And I might end up right here, hanged naked for the vultures to eat me. Amada will not protect me any longer. She was brutally clear about it. She didn’t appreciate me using her to kill Ashar. She didn’t choose me to honor and protect me. She chose me to serve her. And she will kill for me no more.
I enter the camp at dusk, but the air of the swamp is still warm and thick. The smell is as bad as I remembered. The camp looks abandoned, except for the behemas and some goats I spot. There are no Mongans to be seen. This is the first I get to observe the camp. The last time I was here, I remained in the tent the whole time and then followed Daton quickly out in the middle of the night. It is violently bare. No flowers, no decor. Small tents, like the one I slept in, are laid out in circles. In some circles, there are five tents, while in others, there are ten. In the center of each circle, there is a firepit and some cookware. There is no fire in the fire pits. But I hear speech and some shouts in the distance, so I know there are Mongans here. I follow the chatter until I reach a large circle with a big tent at its center.
Children of all ages run and play outside the tent. They look so out of place in this camp, where corpses dangle at its entrance. The children shout and jump and run with pure mirth. Their clothes are raggedy, and their feet are bare. Some are no more than toddlers. There is not one adult in sight.
Soon enough, some of them notice me, and they gather around. They talk excitedly about me and my appearance, not knowing I understand them or just not concerned with it. One of the girls twirlsmy shirt. I’m still dressed in the Aldonian uniform Daton gave me. However, you can hardly identify it as such in its current dirty state. I look as undone as I feel. My hair is a mess, and my face is smudged with grime.
An older boy comes and gently pulls the girl away from me, and shushes the other kids. Unlike them, he seems old enough to be wary of me, even though he can’t be more than ten. His obsidian-black eyes are focused on the ground as he waits for me to follow him without a word.
He leads me to the entrance of the largest tent in the camp. Even with the heavy fabric of the tent that muffles the voices from inside, I can hearrowdy shouts. I glance at the boy. He looks at me gingerly, but when I fail to move, he nods in encouragement toward the tent entrance.
I gnaw on my lower lip as I try to work up my courage to walk inside. I hope this isn’t the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.
Chapter Seventeen
Lian
As I enter the tent, I squint at the light of the sconces. The space is packed with Mongans. They all stand because there is no room to sit. There are hundreds of them, at least. All those eyes turn to me, all those mouths open in shock. As fear floods my system and perspiration pools on my back, I can sense that many of them are apprehensive at my appearance—a Puresoul at the heart of their never-visited territory.
I’ve arrived in the middle of Daton’s trial. Minera, the Mongans’ oracle, whom I remember from her conversation with Daton, is midsentence as she notices me.
But my eyes, my soul, are immediately drawn to him. Daton is the only Mongan sitting on the ground. One leg spread on the ground, the other folded. His arm is draped over his knee, his head held high. He’s not chained. There’s no trace of the broken man that left me near a waterfall. No evidence of the fissures in his soul. He doesn’t look like a prisoner awaiting a verdict. He looks like a king. Even in the middle of his trial, he looks like a king watching over his domain. A halo of power and dominance surrounds him. My lungs contract at this. How was I so blind? How could I spend all that time with him? Intimately. Andnot realize what he is.
Daton said their religion forbids them from having a king. It is considered a challenge to the Goddess. Well, I don’t know what word in Mongan describes what he is, but in his worn-out Mongan clothes, sitting on the ground with no throne and no crown, he is more of a king than any royal I’ve seen. And I feel abashed at how blind I was.
At first, I only saw his brutality, and then I saw other things. And it all distracted me. I feel stupid and vain that I came here thinking he would need me among his subjects. Our eyes meet, and he stiffens, but he keeps his expression blank. Yet I swear his eyes are obsidian black again. No trace of those starry eyes I once saw. I feel his scorn burn me, and I blush under it. He doesn’t want me here.He left you, you idiot. Of course he does not want you here.
“What is the meaning of this?” Minera cries in anger and gestures at me with her hands, but the question is for Daton. It is an accusing question, and I can see Daton’s jaws lock even harder than before.
I don’t wait for him to explain what he cannot. I step forward, hoping my jitteriness will go unnoticed, and say, “The demichads are back.” I say it in Mongan. The people gasp in shock.
I hear murmurs near me. “He taught her our language.” My presence here seems to worsen his position instead of helping him.
“We know,” Minera says curtly. Then she asks slowly, as if I am an idiot that can barely comprehend her, “Why are you here?”
Her dismissing the return of the demichads alarms me. I assume Daton already told them of the demichads’ return. Doesn’t she believe him?
“I’m here to help you defeat the demichads,” I answer, struggling to keep my voice steady. It is true. That is why I am here. And mentioning saving Daton would only escalate his situation further. And does he even need me to save him?
“Haa,” Minera howls in laughter. “We don’t need the help of heretics,” she says, waving me off. Then she turns to the crowd. “The heretic presence here is only proof of his sins to the Goddess,” she points at Daton accusingly. “He has taught her our language.” She throws her hands in the air dramatically. I can feel the anger pervade the tent. “She knows where our camp is.”
Now she points to me, malevolence in her words. “And now we are all exposed to a heretic’s attack, for she is stupid enough to lead them to us.”
The crowd murmurs in agreement.
A Mongan woman in the crowd steps forward. Her hair is braided back, and she wears a Mongan necklace and plain dress. I recognize her as Emek, the woman who cared for me and fed me while I was a captive here. “This is not right,” she calls loudly, and they all go quiet. “To even consider to stone to death the Emancipator. This is not right. How many of you sitting here were enslaved but set free by him?” She raises her hand as if to say this was her fate.
An astonishing number of people raise their hands and cry in support. I’m almost dizzy from the quick turn of events. The crowd was so enraged at Daton, and now it flipped.
