Exile's Children (23 page)

“We've no more food than we carry,” Colun said as if this were the most ordinary place, needless of explanation. “But come tomorrow …”

He beamed and would not be further drawn out: they fed the horses from the packs and themselves ate cold food, the jerky and fruits Lhyn and the others had given them.

“Did you make all this?” Rannach asked.

“Over the ages.” Colun lounged on a bench. “I myself did not, but this is all Grannach work. Ours and the Maker's.” He shaped a sign Rannach did not understand. “You can sleep peaceful here.”

That was said easier than it was done. It was strange to lie down aware that a mountain's weight lay overhead, where the light dimmed on a spoken word and only a pale glow from the sunburst ceiling shone, no moon or stars, nor the lodgefire's glow. Neither could they lie together, but each on their stone pedestal, like ambitious godlings or corpses laid to rest. Rannach was thankful for the waxing of the light and the bustle of the Grannach as they readied a cold breakfast; nor any less Arrhyna, who tasked herself with the horses and the dressing of her hair as if she'd soon as not be gone swift on their way.

On: through a longer length of tunnel, the Grannach padding fleet, the two Matawaye uneasy followers after their rescuer hosts, the horses trotting clattery loud behind, fretful at their strange surroundings. All day they moved, halting only once to eat and rest, and throughout all the tunnel showed no change, as if they traversed an eternal day governed by Grannach magic—a day that might, Rannach thought, go on forever, deeper and deeper into the mountains until there be no emerging but only everlasting travel. He began to wonder if he was being punished for slaying Vachyr.

Then the tunnel ended in another blank wall, and again Colun set his hands against the rock and spoke his oddly syllabled words, and the stone evaporated. Rannach was a moment blinded, his mind no less bedazzled than his eyes. He heard Arrhyna gasp and knew her dumbfounded as himself; he heard Colun chuckling. When his sight cleared he could not speak, only grunt out his amazement.

Beyond the carved arch of the tunnel's egress was a balustraded
shelf that overlooked a valley embosomed within the mountains. The peaks rose guardian above, marching away into misty distances from which, like an impossibly vast sentry, rose the Maker's Mountain. About the valley the slopes fell gentler, as if smoothed by the Maker's hand or centuries of Grannach labor, and across them ran planted terraces, and down them little streams and stands of luxuriant timber. All down the valley's bowl there was grass that ran green and thick as any on the plains, and the streams that sparkled down the slopes fed into a wider brook that meandered away into the distance, disappearing into haze. Copses and larger hursts rose dark from the floor, and Rannach saw bighorn sheep grazing, and deer. It seemed to him as if a piece of his familiar grasslands was lifted up and brought to the mountains.

“Not all tunnels, eh?” Colun's hand fell heavy on his back, laughter bubbling in the Grannach's throat. “Not all grim stone and groping, eh?”

Rannach could only shake his head and mumble, “No.” He stared, marveling, at the incredible vista. It was a fine, wide place, and the farthest limits stood beyond his sight.

Beside him, Arrhyna said, “Do your folk live here, Colun?”

“Not live,” the Grannach answered. He walked to the balustrade, which reached to his waist, and swept out an arm. “We've such valleys all through the hills. We grow our crops here, and raise what meat animals we need. We hunt here, and come simply to see the sky and the grass, the woods, when the need's on us. Our dwellings are inside the stone.”

He turned, beckoning them closer, and they joined him, wary of the low balustrade. It was a long drop to the valley floor.

“You, though, shall make your home here. You've water and grass, the crops on the terraces, and game for the taking. You'll be comfortable here, I think.”

There was the hint of a farewell in his words, and Rannach asked, “Where shall you be?”

“I must go to my people.” The dense-bearded face darkened, his smile fading. “I must tell them what happened below, at the Matakwa. I must tell them what your Council decided concerning the invaders. Or, rather, what your people could not decide.”

“The Commacht are with you,” Rannach said. “And the Lakanti.”

Colun snorted dismissive laughter. “They
would
be—save likely your clan shall be fighting Chakthi's Tachyn. Perhaps with the aid of the Lakanti, but nonetheless engaged in petty war, whilst … Ach!” His fist pounded the balustrade's rim. “Do they look to come out of the
Whaztaye country through our hills, we'll fight them. Perhaps they'll not attempt that passage; perhaps Chakthi shall be slain and your folk make peace. It's in the Maker's hands now.”

Rannach nodded, reminded of his role in that confusion. “Do they come.” he said awkwardly. “I'll take word to my father. You'll have allies then—surely the Commacht, likely the Lakanti.”

Colun grunted, his eyes fixed on the valley below. “Perhaps; save they're too busy fighting amongst themselves. But timely? Do those creatures breach our defenses, I think we shall none of us have too much time. Ach, I wonder if I shouldn't have challenged Chakthi myself, put my ax in his skull and let in a little sense.”

“That should be my battle,” Rannach said. And softer, “I was the one fired his rage.”

“No.” Colun turned from his observation of the valley to look up at the young Commacht. “Chakthi's rage is all of his own making. Had Vachyr not”—he glanced at Arrhyna and shrugged—“he left you no honorable choice save what you did. And Chakthi was a part of that—he knew of his son's plans and approved them. His, the sin. I only wish your folk saw it clearer, that your Council had condemned
Chakthi
to banishment, not you.”

Rannach smiled thanks for that support and said, “You'd sooner have Chakthi for a neighbor?”

Colun's laughter belled across the sky. “As soon I'd bring a wolf pack to this place! I've no love for Chakthi. Do you not know the story?”

“Only that my father names you true friend.” Rannach shook his head. “And that you come always to our lodges.”

“You Commacht,” Colun said, “make the best tiswin. But there's more to it; perhaps I'll tell you later. Now, however, do we go down?”

He moved from the balustrade, waving his followers to him, and they began the descent to the valley floor.

It was a wide way and smoothly carved, but vertiginous for all its width and easy surface. Rannach brought the horses down wary, aided by Arrhyna, and it was a relief to tread the floor, to be once more on grass.

The sun that had lit the strath so bright touched the peaks now, and shadow fell down the walls even as the sky remained bright. Stars showed, and the shaved round of the New Grass Moon. Rannach thought on how the Matakwa should be continuing until that disc was at least half waned, and felt a melancholy that he could not know how his clan fared, or be with his people when Chakthi attacked. He thought its
would be good to face the Tachyn akaman down the length of a lance, and better still to see the head go in to Chakthi's belly.

He shaped a furtive sign of warding, reminding himself it had been anger delivered him to this place, his clan to war, and vowed that when he and his bride were settled here, he would perform rites of absolvement, express to the Maker his contrition. But first he would see Arrhyna safe and settled: he owed her that for her courage and all she'd suffered. She was his first concern. He looked to where she led her piebald mare alongside and smiled. She smiled back, and he thought how brave she was and how lucky—no matter what—that she had chosen him.

They went on awhile until they reached the stream and Colun called a halt.

“We'll camp here this night,” the Grannach said, “and in the morning leave you.”

Rannach asked, “Shall you come back?”

“In time.” Colun nodded toward the valley's farther end. “As I say, I must speak with my folk. How long that shall take, I cannot tell, but I'll bring back word or come avisiting. Now, what's to eat?”

A fire was soon built and the packs ransacked for the makings of a farewell feast. Rannach insisted his supplies be used, assuring his Grannach hosts that he could easily hunt food in so hospitable a place. None argued, save that Colun mourned the absence of tiswin.

When their bellies were filled and they lounged on the grass about the fire, Rannach asked Colun what was the story he had earlier mentioned.

“Well …” Colun chuckled, the sound like the rumbling of a bear's belly. “Perhaps it's not my place.”

For all he liked this squat man, Rannach thought then of taking him and shaking him, save that the Grannach was too strong, and would likely embarrass him with that blunt power. So he smiled and said, “I'd hear it, save you are forbidden to tell it.…”

“Not forbidden.” Colun smiled a reminiscent smile, staring at the fire. “It was agreed we'd not spread the tale wide, for fear of … upsetting … those concerned. Your father's a tactful man, Rannach, and thinks beyond his own pride.”

Rannach ducked his head. “I know. But still I'd hear this tale.”

“Perhaps.” Colun glanced around at his fellows. “How say you?”

Like befurred rocks, the Grannach faces grinned. “Tell it, why not? It's a fine story.”

Arrhyna said, “Please, Colun. I'd know this tale.”

“And your smile,” Colun said gallantly, “is hard to refuse. So, listen.… It was my first Matakwa. I was but newly named a creddan—which is somewhat like the title of akaman amongst your folk—and you, Rannach, were but a mewling babe, carried by your mother. Racharran was not long akaman of the Commacht, and I knew him not at all then, save from a distance.

“So, I came down to the Meeting Ground all prideful in my newfound status and drank your fine tiswin and, I am ashamed to say, took more than I could then manage.” He paused as his comrades laughed, waiting for their merriment to die before he continued. “The next day I found my head akin to that rattle you shook in those days, and my belly not very easy. I thought to go off alone awhile and gather my senses. And what did I find?”

He broke off again, grinning. “What I found was a sizable bear, not long woke from his winter's sleep. The bear and a certain Tachyn warrior, whose name I did not then know. We came together in a wood some distance from the Meeting Ground, in a clearing there—me, the bear, and this Tachyn. He was ahorse, but his beast took fright and threw him, and he fell down on the ground. When he rose, he saw what I saw—that the bear was not in the best of humors and intent on eating one of us. Save he could not decide whether to chase the horse, the Tachyn, or me.

“Well, the horse made up its own mind and fled—wise animal!—which left the bear with but the two choices. I thought of following after the wise horse, but then that the bear would likely overtake me. Nor did I think it manly to leave the Tachyn warrior to face the beast alone. I had no weapons; the Tachyn had been hunting and carried a bow. I thought he'd use it, but he looked at the bear and took to his heels instead. The bear took after him and I picked up a fallen branch and threw it.

“I should not have done that: I should have let the bear take the coward. But I am Grannach and we know no fear, so I threw my stick and the bear turned about and came after me.

“At this point—as I wondered how fast I might climb a tree, and whether or not the bear should climb it swifter—your father came riding up. He was concerned for my health, he told me later, and had come looking for me. Praise the Maker that he did! However, he also carried a bow, and he put arrows into the bear faster than any man I've seen. He feathered the beast! It turned from me and went after him, and he led it away across the clearing and through the trees.

“Well, I ran after him and saw him slay the bear. Later we skinned it and ate its meat, and he gave me the hide which your mother had
prepared.” Colun beamed, stroking the skin that draped his shoulders. “This is that same animal, and that is why I am your father's friend and yours.”

The fire crackled, sending sparks into the night. Rannach said, “And the Tachyn?”

“Why, he was Chakthi, of course.” Colun grinned wickedly. “The bear slain, your father took me up on his horse—which I liked not at all!—and we returned to the clearing. We found Chakthi there. His bow lay on the ground and he was high in a tree. By the Maker, but he clung to his branch like a possum, and took a long time coming down, even though your father assured him the bear was dead. I watched him descend, and I do believe his breeches were wet!”

Laughter echoed into the night. The Grannach rolled about, holding their sides. Rannach said, “What then?”

Colun said, “Diplomat that your father is, he assured Chakthi no word would be spoken of what transpired. Then he bound me to silence, telling me that it were better I not say anything, lest I make an enemy of the Tachyn akaman. Then he caught Chakthi's horse and brought it back, and we rode away to drink tiswin.”

Rannach said, “Then Chakthi should be grateful to my father.”

Colun's smile went away.
“Should be,”
he said. “But is not. Chakthi is such a man as regards gratitude as a hateful debt.”

“So,” Rannach asked, “is that why Chakthi bears us Commacht such enmity?”

“In part, I think.” Colun nodded, grave now, and stared serious at Rannach and Arrhyna. “Neither has he much liking for me, or any Grannach, for like your father I was witness to his cowardice.”

Arrhyna frowned and said, “But Racharran told him no tales would be told, and surely he must know that word stands good.…”

Colun shrugged. “I think that matters less to Chakthi than that we
know,
that we saw him up that tree all pale with fright, his bow forgotten on the ground. I think that such a man as Chakthi is broods on such matters, and they become like a festered wound that he cannot forget.” He nodded as if in confirmation of his own assessment and fixed them both again with solemn eyes. “You two are the only others who know of this. Morrhyn does not, neither your mother. You see? Your father holds to his promised word.”