From Across the Clouded Range (101 page)

No Morg would think of Morgvel as a
single place. Four Morg lodges were located in the surrounding
hills, but each lodge was its own, independent, self-contained
city. Built into the hills and extending through heavy wooden
structures, a lodge included everything its residents needed:
storage rooms, animal stalls, smithies, shops, common kitchens and
dining areas. A woman could live her entire life without ever
leaving the halls of her lodge. And women ruled the lodge. Men had
their own bunk rooms, dining areas, entertainments, and even
corridors. They entered the women’s areas only by invitation, and
the Mother could expel them into the cold for the smallest
infractions.

“
Great Mother,” the uhrm
said when Nyel approached. “I have run for half a moon cycle from
Stermspek with a message from my Mother for you alone.”

“
What is it child?” Nyel
tried to keep her voice strong though she was nearly
breathless.

“
My Mother says, ‘The lost
sons have returned. They lead an army and have allied themselves as
before to chaos.’”

Nyel choked on her own
breath, nearly collapsed as her legs turned weak. A daughter came
to help, caught her arm, and held her as she coughed. Her sons
grumbled around the messenger.
The lost
sons returned and with them the chaos that led them
away
.
Thus the
times go from dim to darkest black.
“Thank
you, gar Stermspek,” she croaked when she had recovered enough
breath to speak. “Your message is received. My sons will see that
you are fed and given the chance to recover from your journey.” The
uhrm responded with a nod and allowed two of the men to lead him
away. Two others remained before the door, Nyel’s two oldest sons,
the husbands of her first and second daughters.

She found the eyes of her oldest son.
“Riju, send runners to the other lodges. The Thull will meet as
soon as a quorum can be assembled.”

“
Yes, Mother,” the big man
replied. “And Father?”

Nyel drew a breath but did not get the
chance to use it.

“
I’m here!” Ithar ral
Torswauk bellowed. His face appeared a heartbeat later, one
remaining eye leering through the top of the door. The slash that
had taken his eye was remembered by a scar that ran from the line
of his silver hair across his deformed nose and split lip to his
jaw. Nyel hated him for that scar, for selling himself and her sons
to the foolish outsider’s war that had taken his face and far too
many of them. She had not allowed him to her bed since. She sneered
at his presence now. “This is not your business, Wife. Your Thull
has no say. And do not think to interfere. The Callik will decide
how to meet the lost sons.” He turned to look at his sons. “Why are
you standing around the women’s room like boys in heat? War is
coming. We must prepare for a return to glory, for the only life a
man need know.”

“
This is my lodge!” Nyel
yelled. “Do not think to tell me my place or to order my sons.” She
closed on the door, eyes on fire. Her sons were smart enough to
back away. Her husband was not. “The lost sons have not crossed
into our lands. They have not threatened a lodge or sent emissaries
to negotiate our hire. Until one of those things occur, it is you
that has no say. The Thull will meet, and we will determine how to
approach the lost sons. And until such time as they bring war upon
themselves, you and your Callik will stay out of it, or you will
sleep with the trees. Do you understand?”

Ithar’s face screwed up in
frustration. His fists balled, but he bit back his anger. He turned
and stomped down the hall, muttering to himself about his wife’s
cold bed and dried up femininity. Nyel felt sorry for whomever of
her widowed nieces was likely to take him into her bed this
night.

When her husband was gone, she looked
back to her first son. He had backed away from the door and watched
Ithar’s back warily. “You heard me, Riju,” she commanded. “Send
runners. Assemble the Thull. And tell me if your father tries again
to outstep his bounds.”

Riju bowed the looked to his brother.
Nyel had just placed him between Ithar’s fire and her cold command.
It was as welcome a location as a lump of iron caught between the
forge and the hammer. “Yes, Mother,” he eventually replied then
accompanied his brother down the hall.

Nyel turned back to find three of her
daughters standing around her. They looked frightened. “Can it be
true, Mother?” the youngest asked. “The lost sons are just a
legend.”

“
There are no legends
daughter, just forgotten truths.” Nyel sighed, thought about
herself at that age, the way she had felt as her husband marched to
war for a chest of gold. “You should hold your husbands close this
night. Cherish them while you can. Ask them to give you another
daughter. It may be the last chance you have.”

#

Teros Maciam struggled to maintain his
meditation, to keep his emotions suppressed, his mind open to the
Order. He was an administrator, not a weaver, but he had enough of
the talent to know how the pattern was shaping around him, to see
the events that would soon engulf him. And despite generations of
preparation, he did not feel ready to face what would soon
arrive.

The tentative knock at his chamber
door gave him the needed excuse to break his pointless meditation.
“Enter,” he said, voice little more than a breath.

The door to his chambers swung slowly
open. “I am sorry to interrupt your meditation, your Grace, but you
asked me to bring any news of Warlord Rammeriz.” An old man in a
brown robe stepped through the door, head down, hands buried in his
sleeves.

“
The news?”

“
Our brothers report that
he escaped last night. The new Emperor,” the acolyte stopped at the
rise of the Xi Valati’s eyebrow. “I apologize, the brother of the
former Emperor, Nabim az’ Pmalatir . . . .”

“
Has not been
anointed?”

“
No, your. . .
.”

“
Then he is not the
Emperor, and we will not pretend that he is.”

“
Yes, your Grace. Again,
my apologies, Nabim
an’
Pmalatir has made no statement other than to
postpone the trial, but our brothers assure me Rammeriz has
escaped, is even now leaving the city and heading
north.”

“
Calm yourself, brother,”
the Xi Valati sighed. “The tapestry is very delicate and must not
be disturbed. Is all as it should be in the Hall of
Understanding?”

“
It is as you ordered.
Silence, study, meditation. Oneness with the Order.”

The Xi Valati sighed long and slow,
brought his eyes to those of the man who had been his secretary
from the time the Order had chosen him to lead Its church. “The
last sign has come, Marcum. The end is upon us. Outsiders will soon
enter our sanctuary. No guard, no acolyte, no counselor will do
anything to impede them. You and all who follow the Order must
maintain your meditation even in the face of death. We are now
disciples of Valatarian in the truest possible sense.” Marcum
gulped noticeably. Sweat ran down his bald head, formed a bead on
the end of his nose, dripped to the floor. Teros drew a shaking
breath. “I will await them under the dome. Have The Book brought
there immediately. And the boy I told you about as
well.”

Marcum nodded, licked his lips. Teros
could feel the emotion radiating from him, rippling through the
tapestry, distorting the pattern that had been so carefully woven.
“Calm yourself, my friend. The pattern has been set. We must simply
play out our strands, make them bold and bright so that they can
mark the way for those who will take our places, those who will
carry the pattern when our strands have ended.”

The Xi Valati rose from
his mat and walked to the door. In the distance, thunder
rumbled.
The storm has
arrived
, he thought.
Thus far the pattern has held, but greater tests remain. And
I can only do my small part and hope that others will do the same,
that the tapestry we have woven will not come undone at any of a
thousand possible points.
It all seemed
too much to hope, but Teros sighed and went to perform his final
weavings, to pull the weft one final time.

The End Book 1

#

To learn more about H.
Nathan Wilcox, visit me at
hnathanwilcox.com
.

Thank you for reading.