Exile's Children (5 page)

“Yes.” Racharran sipped tiswin, his expression thoughtful. “But still Chakthi loves Vachyr fierce as a bear sow her only cub; and I think Vachyr is sorely disappointed.”

“Young men often are,” said Juh. “But they get over it. Vachyr will turn his attention elsewhere—he's no choice now.”

“I hope it is so,” Racharran said; but Morrhyn guessed that he, too, thought on Chakthi's dark face and equivocal toasts.

“Ach, is this a wedding feast or a mourning?” Yazte interjected. “The girl made her choice and Rannach has his bride. Let Vachyr and his miserable father whine all they want, they can do nothing.”

“Not in Matakwa.” Racharran nodded, unsmiling. “But after? Our grazing shares a border, and that's ever easy cause for disagreement.”

Yazte snorted laughter. “Does Chakthi come raiding, send for me. I'll bring my Lakanti against him and between us we'll crush him.”

“Best not speak of war here.” Tahdase made a gesture of warding, his youthful face worried. “That's to bring ill luck down on all.”

“True.” Juh nodded gravely. “The Matakwa is for peace, not talk of war. Nor is this a war council, but a wedding feast. So …” He lifted his cup. “I drink to friendship.”

They drank, but as he raised his own cup, Morrhyn glanced to where the moon struck silvery against the flanks of the Maker's Mountain and saw an owl drift silent across the face of the disc. Symbol of wisdom and death, both: he wondered which this bird presaged, and felt a sudden chill. There was too much strange at this Matakwa—the dream, the ill feeling, the absence of the Grannach. All felt to him the disparate pieces of some momentous puzzle that he could not yet comprehend.

Abruptly, he said, “I'd sit in Dream Council tomorrow or the next day.”

Across the fire Kahteney ducked his head and said, “I too. As soon we may.”

“The next day, if you will.” Hazhe, whose years were not much fewer than his akaman's, smiled and gestured with his cup. “I shall need a while to recover.”

“And Hadduth must be informed,” said cautious Isten.

Morrhyn said, “The next day, then, but no later, eh? There are matters we need discuss.”

It was agreed and set aside: this feast was not the place for such debate as Morrhyn sought. But still he could not help finding Kahteney's ear to ask if the Lakanti had seen the owl.

“I did,” he answered, “I believe it was a sign that Racharran was wise to seek peace with Chakthi.”

Or, Morrhyn thought even as he shrugged and ducked his head, that death shall soon visit us.

That night—what little was left when the guests finally departed—he elected to pass in his sweat lodge. Less, were he honest, in search of enlightenment than from the desire to sweat out the tiswin, that his head be entirely clear for the talks to come.

Even so, he dreamed: of a heron that fought uselessly with harrying crows that fell like black thunderbolts from a stormy sky where fires seemed to burn behind the louring clouds. An owl spun circles above the combatants, its white wings painted red as blood, and when the heron was driven down, the owl swooped after, driving off the crows; but still the heron fell and lay broken-winged upon the ground. The owl flew off, toward the snow-white pinnacle of the Maker's Mountain, where the sky became all red, as if the heavens bled. There was thunder then, like an uncountable herd of horses running wild across the grass, and a shouting.

Morrhyn woke. Wind beat a tattoo on the hide of the lodge and the fire was burned down to glowing coals, the stones dulled and vaporless. His head throbbed somewhat, but nonetheless felt cleared of the tiswin's effects. He found the water bucket and drank deep, then realized the shouting continued: swiftly, he drew on his buckskins and unlaced the lodge flap.

Racharran stood outside, his braids whipped by the wind, his blanket drawn tight across his chest. His chin was lowered against the draft, and when he raised his head Morrhyn saw trouble in his eyes.

“The Grannach are come.” The akaman spoke without preamble, the absence of greetings a further mark of his concern.

Morrhyn reached back to fetch out his bearskin. “Where are they?”

“Lhyn feeds Colun; the rest are settled about the camp.”

This was not untoward: usually the Stone Folk would come first to the Commacht lodges. Their leader, Colun, was long a friend of Racharran, and it was to the akaman's tent he customarily paid his first visit. Now, however, Morrhyn sensed all was not well. “What's amiss?” he asked.

“I've but a little piece of it.” Racharran shook his head as if that little piece were more than he could properly comprehend, and not at all to his liking. “I'd have you hear the entirety with me, then we must take it to the rest.”

Morrhyn nodded, pausing a moment to glance in the direction of the Maker's Mountain. The sun was not yet fully over the horizon and the sky pierced by the peak was tinged with pink. It brought back the images of the dream and the wakanisha shivered inside his fur. The wind was chill—not unusual in the Moon of New Grass—but he knew the cold he felt came from another source. He fell into step beside Racharran, matching the akaman's long stride, neither man speaking.

The lodge was warm, Lhyn piling wood on the central fire so that tongues of flame rose crackling toward the smoke hole. There was the savory smell of pan bread and hot tea, the spitting of roasting meat. Morrhyn shed his bearskin as Racharran closed the tent flap and laced it tight. Then he frowned as he saw Colun.

The Grannach chief was small, like all his people: standing, his head would reach no higher than Morrhyn's chest. His hair was gray but no indication of his age, for the Stone Folk all resembled the rock they tunneled, as if they were carved from the same material. But Morrhyn had never seen a rock look so miserable.

“Greetings, Morrhyn.” Colun spoke from where he sat, like a stumpy child ensconced in furs. His teeth flashed briefly from the density of his beard. “You are hale?”

“I am.” Morrhyn stared at the little man with a mixture of sympathy and frank curiosity. It was a reflex to add: “And greetings to you. What has happened?” There was no need to inquire after Colun's health: it was written in his wounds.

Lhyn had already wound a bandage about his craggy head, and now knelt to bathe the long cut scoring his cheek. His right hand wore a filthy wrapping, and Morrhyn saw a red-stained gash in the thigh of his leather breeches. His belt lay close to hand, as if he'd not be parted from the weapons sheathed there: a wide-bladed sword and a curve-headed ax. He winced as Lhyn sluiced off dried blood and set a potion of curative herbs down the length of the cut.

“A long story,” Colun said, “and one that troubles me to tell it. A cup of tiswin would lubricate the tale.”

Racharran brought out a pitcher. Morrhyn was vaguely surprised that any of the spirit was left. He shook his head in refusal of the cup Racharran offered and waited impatiently as Colun drank.

“That's good.” The Grannach smacked his lips and raised his brows in anticipation of more.

The Stone Folk, Morrhyn thought as the cup was refilled, downed tiswin even faster than Yazte, but it seemed to them no more than water. His own head still ached somewhat, and he wished Colun would tell his tale without protraction. A useless wish, he knew: the Grannach spoke as they lived, at their own pace and to their own rhythms.

Racharran settled himself on the furs, placing the pitcher in Colun's short reach. Lhyn glanced at it and frowned, but made no comment as she dressed the Grannach's wounds.

“There was a battle.” Colun extended his bandaged hand in evidence. Lhyn took it and began to unwind the dirty cloth. She made a disapproving sound at the sight of the damage, and Colun said, as if apologizing to her, “I deemed it best we come immediately to the Meeting Ground with the news. These are only scratches.”

“Who fought?” Morrhyn knew that sometimes the Grannach contested amongst themselves for ownership of the tunnels, the lodes of metal they worked, but such internecine struggles were not of such import that Colun would hurry wounded to the Meeting Ground.

“All the tribes.” Colun grimaced as hot water was splashed across his hand. “In the western passes.”

“Against the Whaztaye?” Morrhyn frowned in disbelief: he had it from Colun himself that the People Beyond the Hills were peaceful, friends to the Grannach as were his own Matawaye.

“No.” Colun shook his head, his face become as mournful as anything so stonelike could look. “I think there are no Whaztaye any longer. I think they are all slain—or worse.”

Morrhyn heard Racharran's sharp intake of breath; even calm Lhyn paused in her ministrations. He stared in perturbed wonder at the rugged little manling.

The People knew of the Whaztaye, for all they had no contact with any who dwelt beyond the mountainous boundaries of Ket-Ta-Witko. The Maker had set down all humankind in their appointed places when the world was made, and to venture beyond those limits was to go against the Will, the Ahsa-tye-Patiko that holds all things in their rightful place. Nor was there reason: Ket-Ta-Witko was spacious and bountiful,
and fed all the People's needs. Thus it had been since first the sun rose over the world; the Maker had given the Matawaye their place, and the Whaztaye theirs, and ringed both lands with such peaks as defeated trespass. Only the Grannach moved through those rocky barriers, and only through those—never out of sight of their home-hills. What news passed between the peoples of the world, they carried along their secret ways, and denied passage to all others. Sometimes they were named the Stone Guardians, for they were fierce in defense of the Maker's boundaries.

Morrhyn heard himself ask, “How? Do the Whaztaye defy the Will?”

Colun refilled his cup before he spoke again. “Not the Whaztaye. Some other folk.”

He drank, impervious to his listeners' impatience as the rock he resembled. Morrhyn stifled a sigh, knowing he must wait on Colun. That the Grannach had come hasty with this news did not mean he would tell it swift.

“We saw them—the Whaztaye—first in what you name the Moon of Cherries Ripening.” Colun glanced at the clean bandage Lhyn wound about his hand and murmured, “Thank you. So, yes—it was in the Moon of Cherries Ripening that they came in numbers to the east of their land, hard against our mountains. They were refugees and they were more than the land there could feed, but still the clans gave them shelter. They were a sorry lot—the Whaztaye are not like you Matawaye, but farmers and hunters, without much skill in battle—and their sole baggage was sad stories. They sent some of their chieftains and holy men into the hills, to bring the tale to us, and I tell you, in the name of the Maker, the tale was doleful.” He broke off abruptly as Lhyn touched his thigh.

“I must clean this,” she said. “Take off your breeches.”

Colun swallowed. “A pinprick, nothing worse.” Morrhyn thought he blushed, though it was hard to tell on a face so flinty.

Lhyn said, “Made by a very large pin. Now, shall you remove these leathers, or must I ask my husband and Morrhyn hold you down and I do it?”

Colun studied her defiantly awhile and found no retreat in her gaze. Had Morrhyn time for laughter, he would have chuckled at the Grannach's expression.

“Well?” Lhyn asked.

“In the Maker's name!” Colun fumbled, awkward with his bandaged hand, at his belt buckle, grumbling all the while. “I had not
thought the women of the Matawaye so forward. Were you my wife …”

“You'd likely obey swifter,” Lhyn said, and knelt to remove the Grannach's boots. “Ach, think you you're the first man I've seen without his breeches? Or the first I've tended? Now …”

She frowned as the wound was exposed. It seemed a lance had pierced Colun's thigh. The cut was deep and lipped with swollen purple flesh, crusted with old blood. Lhyn muttered something too low for the men to hear and filled a bowl with steaming water into which she sprinkled herbs. “This,” she murmured, “will likely hurt somewhat.”

“In which case …” Colun downed a cup of tiswin and readied another. Then, as if to hide his embarrassment: “Where was I?”

“The Whaztaye sent a delegation,” Racharran prompted.

Morrhyn saw the akaman shared his own impatience—and the same resignation.

“Yes. Ach!” Colun stiffened as Lhyn began to wash the ugly wound. “So, they sent a delegation of their chiefs and holy men to the hills. Like you, they've a gate-place where the Maker brought them to their land, and where, like you, they meet with us. This, however, was not the time, and they said they waited there full half a passing of the moon before my people noticed them. They were very hungry when we came, but even more intent on telling their tale than eating. Which reminds me of my own hunger.”

His bushy brows rose in question, like two caterpillars arching their hairy backs on a stone.

Lhyn said, “Soon. Let me first finish this, and then I'll see your belly filled.”

Colun mumbled something that sounded like “Women!” then promptly smiled an apology as Lhyn glanced up, saying, “Forgive me, but your culinary skills are legend, and the scent of that meat whets my appetite so keen.”

Lhyn snorted and set to plastering the wound with salve. The Grannach looked disappointed, and then, almost reluctantly, resumed his tale.

“Yes, they told their story, which was most disturbing.… They spoke of their people—those who lived—fleeing in great numbers out of the west, driven in panic and disarray before a dreadful army. All their land, they said, was riven by this horde, which none of their seers or holy men had foretold. They spoke of awful slaughter and asked our help. They asked that we should take their defenseless ones into our tunnels and send our warriors to join in battle against the horde.” He paused, frowning as if even now he marveled at the request. “In all our history,
none have asked this of us; it was a thing that seemed defiance of the Will. It was a thing we debated amongst ourselves.”