by Angus Wells
EXILE’S CHILDREN
A Bantam Spectra Book/ January 1996
Spectra and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1995 by Angus Wells
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wells, Angus.
Exile’s children / Angus Wells.
p. cm.—(The Exiles saga ; bk. 1)
eISBN: 978-0-307-57464-0
1. Title. II. Series: Wells, Angus. Exiles saga ; bk.1.
PR6073.E386E95 1995
823′.914—dc20 95-17735
Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
1: The Meeting Ground
2: Ceremonies of the Horsemen
3: Ill Omens
4: The Stolen Bride
5: A Thief Is Taken
6: Virtue Assaulted
7: Honor Betrayed
8: Branded
9: The Die Is Cast
10: Of Things to Come
11: Homecoming and Accusal
12: Judgment
13: Wild Places
14: Departure
15: For a Lady’s Honor
16: Across the Sea of Sorrows
17: From the Depths
18: The Long Night Falls
19: Sanctuary
20: Quest
21: Terrible, Swift Sword
22: Each in His Own Place
23: Landfall
24: Indenture
25: Events Unexpected
26: A Messenger Cursed
27: Winterfire
28: Endings and Beginnings
29: Dark Dreams, Dark Promises
30: The Wind Blows Cold
31: Until Death
32: Preparations
33: Events Pertaining
34: A Grim Future
35: Messengers and Doubts
36: Flight
37: A Promise Given
38: Time Running Out
39: Gambler’s Luck
40: Waiting for the Dream
41: The Promise
42: Exodus and Betrayal
43: New Land: New Judgments
44: A Desperate Enterprise
45: The River
46: The Wilderness
47: Under the Hills and Far Away
Dedication
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
1 The Meeting Ground
When Morrhyn came out of the Dream Lodge the first thing he saw was a heron chased across the sky by three harrying crows. The ungainly fisherbird swooped and dove, its wide wings beating heavily, but the crows were relentless in their pursuit, and as the heron reached the stand of hemlock flanking the Meeting Ground, it squawked a protest and gave up its catch to the robbers. Morrhyn wondered if this was an omen, and if any of the other wakanishas attending the Matakwa had observed the drama. He would mention it later, he decided, and perhaps they would discuss its meaning; meanwhile, he had much else to occupy his mind.
After the heat of the lodge, the early morning air struck chill on his sweated skin and he shrugged his bearskin closer about his shoulders. The year was young yet, the New Grass Moon barely full, but the sky promised benevolence, and when he turned to make obeisance to the Maker’s Mountain, he saw the great peak shining brilliant in the rising sun. Perhaps that, too, was an omen; perhaps the Maker sent a sign to balance the other. Morrhyn was unsure: lately, his dreams had left him turbulent with uncertainty. He felt some dreadful threat approached the People, but what its nature or when it should arrive remained mysterious. This past night, as before, he had dreamed of strange creatures all clad in shining metal, and mounted on such beasts as defied imagining, and knew their purpose was evil. At their head rode a figure whose armor shone sun-bright, and whose mount was huge and black with wickedly curling horns and eyes that blazed fiery. No such folk, or such weirdling beasts, existed in all Ket-Ta-Witko, and he feared the meaning of the dream, and prayed earnestly that it not be realized. When it came his turn to speak in the Dream Council, he would tell all this to his fellow wakanishas and seek their advice. Perhaps others had shared the dream: he could not decide if he hoped for that confirmation of his oneiric power or dreaded its corroboration.
Sighing, he made his way through the sleeping lodges to the stream that crossed the Meeting Ground and stooped to lave his face and chest. Farther down the brook he saw Rannach watering his prized stallion, laughing with several of the other unmarried warriors. The young man stood bare-chested in the cold, and for a moment Morrhyn envied him his youth and the overweening confidence it brought. He had never enjoyed such confidence, but then, he had come early to his calling, recognized as a Dreamer and claimed by old Gahyth before he had opportunity to ride out after the wild plains horses or go alone against the bear or the lion to earn the right of the warrior’s braids. He was wakanisha: his hair hung loose; Rannach’s was tied in the braids these seven winters now.
And now the young man prepared to choose a bride. There were maidens enough amongst the lodges of the Commacht who looked favorably on him, and their parents would welcome his bride-visit. Morrhyn wished he would choose one of them; it should be so much simpler. But Rannach had eyes only for Arrhyna, as if his first sight of the Tachyn girl had hooked his heart and bound it firm. Had Morrhyn not known better, he might have wondered if the maiden had entranced Rannach, delivered him some love potion that enslaved him with ropes of blind desire; but from Matakwas past he knew her for a modest girl, seemingly unconscious of her beauty. He did not believe she had worked some magic on Rannach but only been herself, and Rannach fallen honestly—and totally—in love with her. Which, of course, was the strongest magic of all, and in the circumstances perhaps the worst.
Morrhyn grunted as he straightened, absently cursing the years that tolled their count in the stiffening of his limbs, and nodded greeting as Rannach smiled and waved, hoping his silence should indicate to the warrior his aversion to conversation. He had no desire at that moment to speak with the young man: he knew where the conversation must go, what he would say and what Rannach would reply, and that it must leave him further troubled. He needed to think, to ponder his dream and the days to come, to determine what part Rannach and Arrhyna might play in the future of the Commacht; indeed, in the future of all the People.
It would all, he thought as he burrowed deeper into his robe and turned from the stream, be so much easier if Vachyr did not court the girl: if Vachyr were not Chakthi’s son, or Chakthi so intransigent. But these things were immutable as the Maker’s Mountain. Intermarriage amongst the clans was not unusual, and if Rannach paid court to any other Tachyn maiden, likely Chakthi could find no cause for objection. The Maker knew the Tachyn akaman held little enough love for the Commacht, but he would likely not argue Rannach’s pursuit of some maiden other than Arrhyna, only urge the parents set an exorbitant bride-price. That his only child pursued the same
maiden changed everything: Chakthi would bring all his influence as akaman to bear, seeking to deliver Vachyr whatever—or, in this case, whoever—the warrior desired. Chakthi’s love of his son was blind and, since his widowing, untempered by feminine influence.
Nor did Morrhyn believe Hadduth likely to do other than second his akaman, even though it was the wakanisha’s duty to consider the greater good, the welfare of all the People. Hadduth, he could not help thinking, was a cringing dog to Chakthi’s wolf: when Chakthi howled, Hadduth barked his support. It needed no dreaming to prophesy this looming future. Rannach was headstrong in his pride, and should Vachyr contest with him, should it come to a challenge…
That, Morrhyn thought, he had rather not consider. Save he must, for he was wakanisha of the Commacht and his burden was the contemplation of fate’s weaving. It was a burden he accepted, delivered when Gahyth saw him for a Dreamer, but it brought him little pleasure. Its weight sat heavy; nor was it shared, for amongst the young men of the Commacht he could discern none with the talent. He was not yet so old he need worry about that absence, but the time must surely come when he need teach another the art. He thought that then he must perhaps turn to another clan, to persuade some likely candidate to take the oaths and vow fealty to the Commacht. And did it come to that, he would not look for his successor amongst the Tachyn.
A voice intruded then on his musings, and he saw that he had come absentminded amongst the lodges. Lhyn called to him from the mouth of Racharran’s tent and he smiled at sight of her, old memories, old longings, stirring ruefully. Gray strands wove through her hair now, but they seemed only to make the gold glow brighter, as if silver joined the molten flow; and were there lines upon her face, they served only to emphasize her beauty. Once, perhaps … But Morrhyn shoved the thought away. Lhyn had made her choice and he would not argue it; had not then, when he saw her eyes grow moist as she denied him and told him she went to Racharran, and could not now, when he saw her happy. He raised a hand and went toward her, still not quite able to stem the swift thudding of his heart. Perhaps, he thought, I am not so old after all.
“I’ve pan bread readying,” she told him, “and Racharran brought home a deer. Shall you eat with us?” She held the lodge flap open as she spoke, knowing he would not demur.
Morrhyn beamed as the smells wafted tempting to his nose and said as he entered the lodge, “Our akaman is, indeed, a great hunter of deer.”
“As our wakanisha is of dreams,” Racharran answered, chuckling from across the lodge fire. “Sit, my friend, and fill your belly.”
Morrhyn thought of the meager breakfast set by in his own lodge: this should surely be better, and give him chance to speak with the akaman of his dream and doubts. He sat, shucking off his bearskin, savoring the odors as Lhyn took the pan bread from the flames.
They ate, as was custom, in silence, speaking only when all were done and Lhyn filled cups of Grannach manufacture with sweet herb tea.
“I saw Rannach,” Morrhyn began. “He’s of the same mind?”
Racharran nodded, his handsome face darkening somewhat. “My son is obstinate,” he murmured. “This day he intends to go to Arrhyna; tomorrow Bakaan will make formal approach.”
“The Maker grant Vachyr not be there,” Morrhyn said.
“Surely not even Vachyr would sully the Meeting Ground.” Lhyn made a sign of warding as she spoke.
Her husband grunted, shrugging, “Vachyr’s a temper fierce as our son’s pride,” he declared. “I wonder if there’s much to choose between them.”
Lhyn gave him a disapproving frown. “I’d not liken our son to Chakthi’s,” she said. “Rannach is—”
“Obstinate,” Racharran interrupted.
“His father’s son,” said Lhyn.
“Perhaps.” Racharran spread his hands wide. “But he’ll not listen to me in this, and his choice could not be worse.”
“He loves her,” Lhyn said, “and she him. Would you argue that?”
“Not that they share a passion,” Racharran said. “Only that it’s a passion such as can deliver us to war.” He turned to Morrhyn. “How say you, wakanisha?”
Morrhyn wiped deer fat from his chin and pondered awhile. Then: “I see both sides, I think. I’d wish the Maker had guided Rannach’s eyes elsewhere, but they fell on Arching and they’ll not be shifted. We cannot forbid the marriage; neither can Chakthi. What comes of it …”
The akaman said, “Trouble. Were it in my power, I’d forbid it.”
“And make an enemy of our son,” said Lhyn. “He’d take Arrhyna and go away.”
“Yes.” Racharran ducked his head in unhappy acceptance. “And so, instead, we make Chakthi our enemy. Come summer, our folk must ride careful on the grass—the gift of Rannach’s desire.”
“But you’ll support him.” Lhyn said. “Does Chakthi take it before the Council?”
“Of course.” Racharran’s smile was sour with resignation. “He’s my son. I’ve spoken with him, and my words ran like water off stone. He knows my feelings—and Morrhyn’s—and he’ll not be diverted. But I shall support him in Council.”
Lhyn smiled and filled their cups. Morrhyn said, “I dreamed again.”
Racharran said, “The same?” And when the wakanisha nodded his confirmation: “Aught of Rannach?”
Morrhyn said, “No; and that troubles me. It’s as if this dream is so great, it drives all others out. It burns through my nights like a prairie fire.” He shuddered despite the lodge’s warmth. “It frightens me.”
Racharran studied his old friend, reading concern like spoor on the weathered face. That disturbed him, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. “Can you put a meaning on it?”
“No.” Morrhyn shrugged a negative. “Save danger threatens, and a danger far greater than Chakthi alone. Ach!” He sighed and shook his head. “I am not a very good Dreamer, that I cannot interpret this.”
Racharran said, “You are the best,” echoed by Lhyn.
Morrhyn favored them with a smile. “Thank you for your faith,” he murmured, “but it troubles me that I sense this yet cannot discern its import.” Conscious that he slumped, he straightened his back, forcing a more confident tone. “I shall speak of it in the Dream Council. Perhaps others have known this dream.”
Racharran nodded: these were matters for the Dreamers, not yet of immediate concern to the akamans. Was Morrhyn’s dream shared, could the wakanishas of all the clans gathered for the Matakwa put a meaning to it, then it would become a thing for the Chiefs’ Council. Until then he had worry enough contemplating Rannach’s suit.
He anticipated a summer of war, and could not help the kindled anger that it was Rannach lit the flame. In the name of the Maker, why could the youth not see reason? Arrhyna was a prize, but there were others aplenty, and did Rannach only set the good of the clan before his own desire, then he would forsake the girl and find some other whose taking was less likely to bring the Tachyn raiding. Rannach was not, Racharran thought sadly, the stuff of which akamans were made.
“You think of Rannach?”
Lhyn’s soft voice intruded on his dark contemplation, and he answered her with a silent nod. She sighed and looked to Morrhyn.
The wakanisha said, “The stallion roped, you’d best not let go.”
Racharran grunted irritably. “This stallion is likely to trample us.”
“But still,” Morrhyn returned, “the rope is on and we must make the best of it.”
“Did you offer Chakthi compensation?” Lhyn suggested.
Her husband snorted. “For a bride whose price is already paid? I’ve some pride yet.” His aquiline features softened and he touched his wife’s hand. “Besides, I suspect Chakthi would see that only as added insult.”
“There’s no easy answer,” Morrhyn offered. “Save pray the Maker gentles Chakthi’s temper.”
“And Vachyr’s,” Racharran said.
When Morrhyn quit their lodge, the great encampment was awake. His conversation had delive
red no enlightenment, and he felt still no desire to converse with any others, so he drew up his robe to cowl his head and walked away from the lodges to where the toes of the Maker’s Mountain rested on the earth. The stone shone silvery in the risen sun, aged as time and furrowed with cracks like the skin of an ancient. Higher, the slopes rose steep, lofting above the Meeting Ground as they climbed to shape the flanks of the great peak. That stood smooth, carved by wind and untold years, a pinnacle that stabbed the clouds, the pillar holding up the heavens: the Gate through which the People had come to Ket-Ta-Witko. Perhaps up there, closer to the Maker’s weaving, he might find answers.
He set to climbing, the ascent soon warming him enough that he shed the bearskin, leaving it where a clump of thorn bushes jutted spiny from the rock. He clambered up until he reached a shelf that overlooked the Meeting Ground and squatted there, surveying the lodges of the gathered clans.
Once each year, always in the New Grass Moon, they came to this place in Matakwa. Here they offered to the Maker, giving thanks for bounty past and prayer for bounty to come. Here disputes were settled, and marriages made. What could not be resolved by the akamans and wakanishas of the individual clans was settled by the Chiefs’ Council, and the will of the Council was final. Here the wakanishas met in Dream Council, speaking of their visions, seeking the advice of their fellow Dreamers, initiating novices. Here the People met with the Grannach, the Stone Folk, who lived inside the hills and came out to trade their metalwork for skins and beadwork and bone carvings. The Matakwa was a celebration both secular and holy, bound by one overriding commandment: that no blood be spilled. Morrhyn prayed earnestly that it continue so. He could not say how, but he felt that was connected in some fashion to his dream—that no blood sully the Meeting Ground, lest it bring on the burning horses of his vision with their dreadful riders.
He chanted his prayer and heard the words carried away on the wind that blew up. He hoped the wind carried them to the Maker’s ears.
Then, seeking calm, he studied the camp.
The lesser limbs of the Maker’s Mountain curved horn-shaped about the great verdant bowl, fending the wind. There was grass for all the horses and sufficient timber to augment the dung fires with ample wood. The stream that wandered across the bowl turned and twisted serpentine, so that none need pitch their lodges far from water. It was as fine a place as any in Ket-Ta-Witko, and surely the only place where all the clans might gather.
