Crowchanger (Changers of Chandris) (6 page)

The first time Sylas could remember squaring off against Craie he had been no more than four or five—beating helpless little fists on his father’s chest. He could not remember what had triggered it. The way his father treated his mother, most likely. That had been the first time he had felt the blade grass on his legs, his mother sobbing that he was too young to be beaten. Much too young. Craie dominated Sylas by strength and fear after that. But he and Craie now stood eye-to-eye. Soon Sylas would have his father’s breadth of shoulder and depth of chest. Older than Zynoa, Craie was well past his prime and heading for decline. Sylas knew the days of Craie’s dominance over him were coming to an end.

Craie’s lips parted in something close to a sneer.

“So you’re back. I hear you rode back?”

Sylas nodded. He didn’t want to talk to his father. Other boys would get a back slap or a brief hug from their fathers. He got a staring match and a greeting that would never suggest how rarely they saw each other.

“Still not mastered it then, this changing?” The way Craie spoke of it, with a sneer in his voice, it sounded as if changers were the despised people on the island, not the Chesammos.

“Not yet.” Sylas heard the strain in his voice—his jaw clenched so tight it almost cracked—and made an effort to relax himself. He unfisted his hands, forced his shoulders lower, finally released the tension in his jaw.

Craie grunted. He had not listened when Sylas explained about the kye and the calling, pronouncing it ‘changer nonsense.’ Sylas was sure Craie thought he made most of it up. He realised with a sinking heart that his father’s only interest was in how soon he could be brought back from the Aerie and set to work digging linandra.

There was no shame in the work—the village ate only if the diggers found linandra—but Sylas had glimpsed a better life. He now knew it was possible to learn, live in freedom, and maybe, just maybe, take his mother there to give her the life she deserved.

“Father, when I have controlled my changing, may I stay at the Aerie? There is so much more I could learn and—”

“You truly think I would allow it?” Craie’s roar filled the house and from the corner of his eye Sylas could see his mother quaking. Even now, with Sylas on the brink of manhood, Craie was quick with his blade grass belt, and Sylas held up his hands in a placating gesture. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Craie that he would do as he pleased and Craie could not stop him, but if he were to be rejected by the Aerie he would have no home here—no place to go. He had heard of others in a similar situation, making their way to Adamantara, selling their ear bead for the price of a passage to the mainland, never being heard of again. It would destroy his mother if he did that.

“I only thought…”

“What good do you do our people up there on the mountain? Do you breed more Chesammos to help us? Tell me, are there Chesammos changers up there with you?”

There were three Chesammos on the council, Sylas told him. Master Donmar, Master Jesely, and Master Cowin. All highly respected. Beside him, his mother tensed and Sylas glanced at her in reassurance. He would watch what he said—try not to inflame his father’s temper.

“And are they married to Chesammos women? Do they make more Chesammos to help us survive?”

Sylas hung his head. “No, Father.”

Master Jesely had been married—to an Irenthi, of all people, albeit a low-ranked one. A daughter of one of the minor houses who had died bearing their only child. Their daughter had died with her. When Jesely made any comment about Sylas and Casian, Casian went off on a well-worn rant over his supposed double-standards. Master Cowin had recently married Mistress Elyta, an Irmos so fair anyone would take her for Irenthi until they drew close enough to see her eyes—light hazel, not the blue or green of the true Irenthi.

“Then you will come back. Work the pits. Be a man, not some pampered bird up in your mountain nest.”

“And marry Skarai’s daughter, so that you may sit on the council?” He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

Craie’s eyes flashed past him to Zynoa. “You told him?”

Sylas knew that look. Craie barely held his temper in check.

“It wasn’t her fault. Pietrig said something. I pressed her. She would not have told if I had not made her.”

Craie’s lips drew back, showing teeth.

“I should let both of you feel the cut of the grass for that.”

“And have your wife and your son bloodied and beaten for the festivities? That would hardly be auspicious.” And would hardly suit a gathering member-to-be, Sylas thought wryly. Luckily the same thought must have crossed his father’s mind. He glared at Sylas and stormed off, leaving Zynoa looking as shaken as Sylas felt.

She lowered her eyes.

“That’s why I didn’t let Pietrig in. I do not believe he means you harm. I know he does not. But he is involved in this scheme whether he likes it or not, and I did not want him raising an ash storm, ashini? I see so little of you and it is your piercing day. I want calm desert and blue skies until you must leave.”

He felt guilty that he looked forward to leaving. However much he missed his mother—and he did—he longed to be a changer. Maybe a councillor, maisaiea-yelai, although councillors were nearly always talents, and he was not. When that happened he would fetch his mother to live with him. Away from Namopaia. Away from his father.

Chapter 6

S
ylas stood motionless in the centre of the wrestling circle waiting for the needle to pierce his ear. He could feel his father’s hands steadying his head, then the sudden, acute pain of the tokai needle and the smooth, velvety flow of blood. Elder Skarai spoke the traditional welcome to adulthood and Craie put the bead on its twisted wire through the newly-made and bleeding hole. By tradition, the boy’s father did the actual piercing—or an uncle or other close male relative, if the father were dead—but Sylas would have preferred anyone other than Craie to have done the deed. Anyone else might have given him a reassuring smile before, a hug of congratulation after. But his father turned away, wiping blood from his fingers onto his clothes, forgetful that these would be his wedding clothes later. Sylas wondered what sort of omen that was: a man going to his daughter’s wedding wearing the blood of his son on his tunic. He studied Craie’s face for any sign of pride, but saw none. Sylas was a disappointment to Craie, who had always favoured Lynto.

He wanted to grab Craie’s arm, turn his father to face him, tell him that he would have given himself for Lynto gladly, if that had been possible. But he could see only emptiness in his father’s eyes: the knowledge that the only further use Craie had for Sylas was for him to marry Skarai’s daughter and raise his own status in the village.

His mother and Aithne came to admire the bead, and Kael, his sister’s husband-to-be, slapped him on the back and called him brother. They, too, wore their wedding clothes. At least there were a few hours before the wrestling. The rules forbade targeting the ear wire, but it would still be vulnerable so soon after the piercing. He would not remove it, though. A Chesammos never removed the bead, once inserted. It went with a man’s body to his funeral pyre, the flawed beads often shattering in the fire along their fault lines. He wondered what would happen when he transformed. Would the bead be left on the ground with his clothes, or would it transform with him? He would have to ask Master Jesely. He didn’t want to risk losing the bead once he finally had the knack of the transformation.

The wedding came next, and Craie showed little more interest in or emotion at that. What good was a daughter to him, when he needed sons? Aithne would be claimed by Kael’s family now, and while any grandchildren she might produce would have some small effect on Craie’s position, the greater part would go to increase Kael’s parents’ status, and that of Aithne and Kael on their own account. No, Craie needed Sylas and Fienne married and breeding. Sylas shuddered.

After the simple ceremony ended with a call to the Lady to bless their marriage with many children, Craie spent some time talking to Skarai. Sylas was uncomfortably aware that they would be discussing their plans for Fienne and him. When Fienne brought zacorro for the two men in cups made from hollow cane and little bigger than Sylas’s first knuckle joint, Craie eyed her as if assessing a cheen before making an offer to buy it. She brought the tray to Sylas next, and he tried not to meet her eyes when he took a cup and downed the bitter spirit. It burned his throat, nearly choking him, and his eyes watered with the unfamiliar taste.

He scanned the crowd for Pietrig, but with no luck, and wondered if the two families were contriving to keep them apart. He would see him at the wrestling shortly, but he needed to clear up the awkwardness that might arise between them because of his mother’s hostility. Then his head spun and he remembered Master Jesely’s warning about the zacorro. To be in any fit state to wrestle he would have to recover his senses. Slipping away from the drinkers, he made his way to the well and lowered the bucket down into the water.

Like all wells this far into the desert, it was deep, and it took him some time to haul the water back to the surface. As he heaved the bucket over the low stone wall that surrounded the well shaft, his sister joined him.

“I thought you might have gone looking for Pietrig,” she said.

He kept his voice casual. “They seem to want to keep him away from me. Do you know where he is?”

“He’s in the elder’s house. He came looking for you, so they shut him away.”

“Did they at least let him out for the ceremonies?” His stomach twisted at the thought that his friend might not have seen his piercing.

“He saw. I spoke to Fienne. They let him out for that and the wedding. And he will wrestle later.” She dipped cupped hands into the cool water and drank deeply. He did the same. “Ah, that’s better. Kael is over there being plied with zacorro. I doubt he’ll be fit for anything on our wedding night.”

Sylas chuckled. “I had one cup. I’d not find my way to the wrestling circle if I had any more than that. Are you happy?”

“Yes. But it will be hard on Mother, having us all gone.”

“I might be back soon,” he said, although the thought made his heart sink.

“Did Mother speak to you?” When he nodded, she continued, “Then you must do as she says. She will miss you if you stay at the Aerie, but it would hurt her more to see you a linandra digger. She has high hopes for you. Mother says you were meant to be a changer, and I think she’s right.”

This was the most Aithne had opened up to him since they were children. He didn’t know how to take her words. A few years ago he would have thought she was trying to get him to stay away from her, but she sounded sincere. Sad, but sincere. And he didn’t think she would urge him to do anything that would hurt their mother unless there was good reason.

Aithne squeezed his arm and turned to go. “It’s nearly time for the wrestling. Remember, whatever happens you must stay at the Aerie. Follow your dream, brother. This village is not a good place to be.”

He drank another handful of water, then splashed his face, washing the wound at his earlobe. Squaring his shoulders, he walked to the wrestling circle. For the first time, he would take his place among the men.

The Chesammos loved their wrestling. At any celebration, men from other villages would come to see or participate in the sport, bringing a contribution to the feast to gain entry. Many walked hours, sometimes days. Sylas had not competed since he went to the Aerie—there had been no celebrations during his visits—but he had easily outclassed all the boys apart from Pietrig. The two of them had always been closely matched. Sylas was out of practice (Benno certainly didn’t challenge him enough to prepare for bouts at this level), but he desperately wanted to fight Pietrig.

Pietrig was a formidable opponent. They had learned together, practised together, so that Sylas might have been fighting his reflection. He did not need his mother’s uncanny understanding to know what the other young man was thinking, what next move he was planning. Although there were others more skilled, he and Pietrig would form the closest contest, and an evenly matched pair were absorbing to watch. However, Sylas had not reckoned on the way the matches would be organised. The entrants were put into four groups, each with an equal number of youths and experienced adult wrestlers. The resulting four winners then faced off for the overall victory. He and Pietrig were in different groups, and they had little chance of more than one fight each, since straight away they would be up against older, heavier, more experienced fighters.

Sure enough, Sylas was defeated in his first bout, ceding to a vicious choke hold from a visiting wrestler. Nearly twice his age, and half as much again in weight, the man had the better of it from the start and Sylas went out of the competition nursing a bruised neck and an even more bruised pride. The look on his father’s face showed that he had expected more. Sylas brooded at the back of the crowd. Craie would be angry later.

Pietrig made it through the first round, forcing a submission from a local man a year or two older than he. Sylas had sparred with the man several times and knew him to be a good opponent. That young man sat out the remainder of the competition with a face like sour swanflower fruit. At least Sylas lost with better grace.

In the next round, Pietrig drew a man at least a handspan taller, with tree-trunk legs and thick arms to match. Pietrig submitted quickly, retiring to the crowd amidst words of commiseration, rubbing his shoulder ruefully.

Sylas watched to the end, the sick disappointment in his stomach abating as he appreciated the skills of the fighters. Pietrig and he had learned this way as boys. They had studied the games at weddings and festivals, memorising the moves and practising them until they became second nature. He still had so much to learn.

After the final fight, a Namopaian was pronounced the winner, following a highly tactical bout against an outsider. The locals greeted the win with a roar of approval; home wins were always popular. The noise had hardly died down when the referee—an experienced official from another village—took to his feet and clapped his hands for silence. “A special contest has been requested and approved under the accepted forms.”

Sylas perked up. Named matches rarely occurred, and had to meet certain conditions regarding the suitability of the contest. The combatants often had good reason to ask for the match: a grudge; two rivals kept apart in the main contest by the division of the fighters; a hefty wager. They generally resulted in a spirited fight. Sylas was shocked, then, when he heard his name called.

“A fight between Pietrig son of Skarai, the challenger, and Sylas son of Craie.”

Sylas sought Pietrig’s eyes across the ring. Pietrig did his best to feign nonchalance, but Sylas knew him well. He was tense. Was this Pietrig’s father’s doing? But no, the announcement had named Pietrig the challenger. If another had asked for the fight his name would have been given and both fighters asked to agree to the match.

Craie glared at Sylas, livid, willing him to decline the fight. Looking across the circle, Sylas could see Skarai looking no less annoyed, pulling on Pietrig’s arm and talking to him urgently. There was no shame in turning down a challenge—it happened all the time—but when he looked back at Pietrig he could see something in the other man’s eyes. A need for this. A hunger. Sylas understood. His need was no less. In his mind he had fought Pietrig a hundred times in the last week. He would not let the opportunity pass.

Sylas nodded tersely at the official. The man reminded the pair of the rules. It didn’t take long; Chesammos fights were more or less anything goes. The winner was the man who forced the other to cede, nothing more complicated than that. The only moves prohibited were biting, gouging of the eyes, ripping of the earring, and deliberate breaking of bones. Beyond that, the fighters had free rein and a lot of scope for inflicting the pain needed to draw a submission from their opponent.

They indicated their readiness to fight, and circled each other warily, bare feet seeking for purchase on the ashy ground. Wrestlers rarely spoke once the fight was called; indeed, most considered it bad sportsmanship. Talking to your opponent could be considered trying to throw him off guard or interrupt his concentration. But as they locked eyes, then arms, each watching for the chance to catch the other a fraction off balance, Pietrig murmured, “I didn’t ask for the exchange. You have to believe me.”

Sylas stared at him. Was this why he had called him out? To try to convince him that he had not betrayed him? He would never believe that of Pietrig, and for all Zynoa’s apparent anger, he didn’t think she believed it either.

He let his glance flicker down to Pietrig’s feet—saw the other man’s gaze follow his for the fraction of a heartbeat it took Sylas to grab Pietrig by the shoulders and try to force him down. But Pietrig was heavier and had wrestled plenty over the last few months. He managed to stand his ground and hook a foot around the back of Sylas’s legs to throw him off balance. These two had traded these opening moves so many times they knew them like the steps of a dance. All that remained was for one to put a foot wrong, make a misstep, and the other would take advantage.

They spun, crashing to the ground. Sylas could taste ash on his lips, feel it grinding into his skin. They jostled for position, first one on top, then the other, limbs entwined more intimately than lovers. The sheen of sweat coated bodies and dampened hair, and skin slid on skin as it became more difficult for either man to get a grip.

Pietrig pinned Sylas, hands grasping both his arms, body pressing against Sylas’s chest. As Sylas strained and heaved to shift him, Pietrig bent and hissed in his ear. “They plan rebellion. The linandra teams hide stones from the Irenthi. You must tell the Aerie. They will know what to do.”

Sylas ground his teeth, arching his back to throw Pietrig off. Surely this was a ploy to distract him? Chesammos were peaceful. The idea of rebellion was so alien to them that Pietrig had used the Irenthi word, lacking the ability in their own language to convey what he meant. But Yestro had been murdered. That was inescapable truth.

Squirming out from under, Sylas threw his weight to one side, rolling over to reverse their positions. The hum of the onlookers’ voices rose to a low buzz at this development. He had his hands on Pietrig’s neck. If he could only hold it, a choke on the windpipe was an effective way to achieve a submission. But Pietrig wrapped one leg around Sylas’s back, bringing his other foot up into Sylas’s midriff, kicking at his stomach, trying to push him off.