Song of the River by Sue Harrison Page B

a knife,” he said, looking into Sok’s face, seeing in Sok’s eyes the slight widening of surprise. Cen turned to another man. “And you,” he said. He pointed to several others, even tilted his head toward one of the men who held him. “You also,” he said.
    “Yes,” said the man holding him, and released his grip on Cen’s shoulder. The hunter pushed up his sleeve to show a knife in a sheath strapped above his wrist. “I still have it.”
    “Mine, also, I have,” said another man, and another. Sok, still standing before the trader, held up a knife. Other knives went up, more knives than Cen had traded to these men, many more knives. At another place, another time, he would have laughed.
    But why not show a knife? Better to claim having one than to be accused of killing.
    The large man, still holding the murder knife, turned to look at the hunters, at their blades lifted to the sky. In that moment, with one arm free and people no longer watching him, Cen moved quickly to grab the weapon from the large man’s hand. He roared, but Cen turned the knife toward him, then toward the other man who still held him. That one, a village elder, let him go.
    But there were too many of them, and too many weapons. Cen could never get away. Besides, how far could he run with ribs broken, eyes nearly swollen shut? The men were wary. Why be the first to close in on the trader? Why be the one to feel his blade? If he had killed once, he would not hesitate to kill again.
    “One of you traded for this knife,” Cen said. He continued to hold the blade out, and he circled slowly as he spoke. The men were quiet, but all watched, waited, their own knives in their hands. “One of you killed the woman, and this man’s grandfather.” Cen lifted his chin toward Sok. “One of you tried to kill my son. For that, I will kill you, whoever you are. If I do not find you during my life, I will find you after I am dead, when I am spirit and can move without being seen.
    “I tell each of you this. I did not kill anyone. I did not hurt my son.”
    Cen steadied his feet against the earth. What good were words if dizziness claimed him?
    Suddenly an image came to him, something he had long ago tried to put out of his mind—a mourning ceremony he had seen far to the north, among people he could not now even give a name. A woman had lost her husband, a father his son. They had cut themselves with knives to show their sorrow. That in itself was not so unusual, but the woman had also cut off a finger, the man a strip of flesh from the calf of his leg.
    Blood for blood, Cen thought, and called out, “I lift my own voice in mourning.” He looked at Sok. “I mourn the man you called grandfather,” Cen said. “I mourn the woman who was mother and wife among you.”
    He waited, but no one moved toward him; no one spoke.
    “I did not kill them,” he said again. “And I did not injure my son. I lift my voice to spirits who might call my son to their world. I offer blood for blood. Mine for his.”
    Cen clenched his jaw. They wanted blood, like dogs panting for the lungs of newly killed caribou. He could see it in their eyes. Did these men hope it would ease their pain? Or did they need to show their own strength? Did they believe that if they controlled the power to kill it could not be used against them?
    “Blood for blood,” Cen said again. He thrust the thin chert blade into his leg and peeled away a long curl of skin. The pain was more than he had imagined. Darkness closed in around his eyes. He clenched his teeth and waited until his mind cleared, then lifting the flap of skin, he cut it away from his leg and threw it on the ground. “To show my sorrow,” he said.
    He bent over and picked up a fist-sized rock from the edge of the closest hearth fire. Sok moved toward him, but Cen held up his knife. “A trade with the spirits,” he explained.
    He slipped the rock into his left hand then pressed it against his chest. He gripped the knife