by Angus Wells
The lodges spread colorful below him, painted with the emblems of the five clans and those personal to the occupants. The horse head of the Commacht stood proud across the brook from the Tachyn buffalo; he saw the wolf of the Aparhaso and the turtle of the Naiche, the eagle of the Lakanti. Past the lodges the herds cropped the grass, watched by the older children, the younger scurrying agile and loud between the tents, their games joined by barking dogs. Streamers of smoke rose blue from the cookfires, swirled and lost where they met the wind. Folk wandered the avenues between the tents, pausing to hail friends, renew old acquaintances. Toward the center, warriors displayed horses for barter, women the blankets woven through the long moons of Breaking Trees and Frozen Grass. It was a sight that always stirred Morrhyn’s heart, of which he never tired. He hoped that when the Maker took him back, it might be here, where his bones could forever lie close to this wondrous symbol of unity.
He knew he smiled as he watched it all; and then his smile froze at the sight of Rannach splashing through the brook.
The warrior was dressed in his finest, no longer bare-chested but wearing a shirt of pale buckskin, bead-woven and painted with the horse head. His breeches were of the same hide, dyed blue and fringed in red and white, and his dark hair gleamed from recent washing. Over his left shoulder he carried a blanket. He went directly toward the lodge of Nemeth and Zeil, Arrhyna’s parents. At least, Morrhyn thought, he bears no weapons; and then: he gave Racharran his word.
Even so, the wakanisha could not entirely quell his presentiment and looked past the young warrior to Vachyr’s tent, pitched beside his father’s. He let out his relief in a long sigh as neither Tachyn appeared. Still, his heart beat fast as he returned his gaze to Rannach, for he knew the absence of Arrhyna’s other suitor was no more than temporary respite, the quiet preceding impending storm. What shape that storm should take he knew not, only that it surely came on.
“You who made us all,” he said, unaware he spoke aloud, “grant this goes smooth.”
Then he held his breath, as if he stood close by Rannach’s shoulder and not far off and high, as the young man halted before the lodge. The flap stood open and Nemeth came out, speaking awhile with Rannach before turning to call inside. Arrhyna appeared, and on the instant Morrhyn saw she had awaited this visit: her hair shone a fiery red, falling loose over her shoulders, and she wore a gown of deerskin worked so soft it was almost white. Morrhyn imagined she had spent the winter moons shaping that garment, in anticipation of this moment.
Rannach spoke and the maiden smiled, demurely lowering her head as she stepped toward him. He shrugged the blanket from his shoulder, raising his arm so that it fell in a swoop of red, blue, and white. Arrhyna stepped into its folds and Rannach settled his arm around her, lifting the blanket to hood them both. Then, moving as one, they walked away, first amongst the lodges of the Tachyn, then over the stream to wander the lines of the Commacht.
Morrhyn drew his eyes away: the declaration was made, now only formalities remained. Formalities and Vachyr’s response, and Chakthi’s. The wakanisha craned his head around, staring up at the Maker’s Mountain. He sensed his dream thundering closer, but the pinnacle offered him no sign of what approached, and after a while he rose and began the descent.
It was time to face the future.
2 Ceremonies of the Horsemen
“Three hands of horses were offered.” Chakthi flung out his fingers in emphasis. “Prime stock, every one.” “No doubt, for the blood of the Tachyn herds is the envy of us all.” Juh of the Aparhaso spoke mildly, his tone a gentle contrast to Chakthi’s venom. Racharran smiled faintly: the old man was ever a keeper of the peace. “But still the decision rests with the girl.”
Chakthi’s hand sliced air, dismissive.
“Who chooses Rannach,” said Yazte of the Lakanti. “Whose bride offer was accepted by Nemeth.”
Beyond this inner circle of akamans and wakanishas, Racharran heard a nervous shifting and guessed that was likely Nemeth. The man had courage, he thought, to defy the Tachyn leader. He wondered if Nemeth and Zeil might not soon come seeking the shelter of the Commacht lodges: it was theirs for the asking.
“Rannach offered only ten.” Chakthi pressed his point, his lupine features painted sharper in the firelight. His pale eyes flashed a challenge. “Ten against Vachyr’s fifteen. How can that be right?”
“Our women are not beasts, my friend.” Juh frowned, his wrinkles spreading like sun-cracks over the ancient clay of his face, but still his tone was mild. “They are not bought and sold like horses. Arrhyna has a say in this.”
“And tells Rannach yes.” Yazte spoke with studied calm, only the barest hint of contempt in his voice.
Does this all come to war, we’ve an ally there, Racharran thought. Yazte’s no more liking for Chakthi than I. He turned his attention to the others, wondering where their allegiances would lie. Juh, he thought, would seek to hold his Aparhaso aloof from any conflict. He looked to Tahdase of the Naiche but the young man’s face was veiled, as if he’d not yet cast his stone. Racharran could not blame him: Tahdase was not long akaman of his clan—this was his first Matakwa as leader—and, sensibly, he sought no enmities. Even so, Racharran thought, Chakthi forces this to a vote, and then Tahdase must make his choice.
He returned his eyes to the Tachyn akaman as Chakthi spoke again. “I do not say our women are beasts.” Chakthi attempted a placatory smile: it seemed to Racharran like the grin of a wolverine. “Only that any sensible father, any sensible maiden, must surely choose the better price. Indeed, the better man.”
Racharran had promised himself he would play the diplomat in this Council, not invoke Chakthi’s anger, but this was too calculated an insult to ignore with honor. He raised a hand and said, “You say that Vachyr is the better man?”
Morrhyn’s elbow dug hard against his ribs, but he ignored the wakanisha as he faced Chakthi. The Tachyn smiled stonily and ducked his head. “Vachyr is Tachyn: yes, he is the better man.”
Racharran stiffened even as Morrhyn’s hand clasped his wrist. None bore arms in Council, but had Racharran worn a blade then … “Careful.” Morrhyn’s voice was a breeze against his ear. “He rants; he seeks to provoke you. Do not rise to his bait.”
It was not easy. Yazte stared at Chakthi as he might at some night crawler found in his bedding. Old Juh frowned in open disapproval. Even careful Tahdase looked shocked. At their sides, the wakanishas of their clans scowled. Racharran reined in his anger, forcing back the challenge that sprang to his lips. Carefully, measuring his words, he said, “Your opinion is your own to hold, brother. As is mine.”
A shadow crossed the Tachyn’s face, anger and disappointment flashing an instant in his eyes. In the name of the Maker, Racharran wondered, does he truly look to begin a fight here, now?
“We are the Council of the People.” Juh’s voice was no longer so gentle; now it was edged with the steel that made him akaman. “It is unseemly that we trade insults here, in Matakwa.”
Yazte grunted agreement; Tahdase nodded as solemnly as his youth allowed.
Chakthi stared fiercely around for a while, then Hadduth spoke softly in his ear and he lowered his head. “My brother Racharran speaks the truth. Our opinions are our own to hold. I intended no insult to the Matakwa.”
It did not sound like an apology, but under the pressure of Morrhyn’s fingers, Racharran nodded his acceptance.
“So, then, do we return to this matter of Arrhyna?” Juh sounded relieved.
“What’s to discuss?” Yazte smiled with deliberate calm. “An offer has been made, an offer rejected; the maiden has chosen. What else is there?”
Chakthi’s teeth ground behind his thin-pressed lips and the eyes he turned on the Lakanti were cold as winter ice. “As akaman of the Tachyn, I object to her choice.” His voice was no warmer than his gaze. “As akaman of the Tachyn, I ask that the Council decide this matter for her.”
This was without precedent, but it was no more than Ra
charran had expected. Times were, a maiden could not decide between two suitors or her parents might object to her choice, then the matter could be decided in Chiefs’ Council, all concerned presenting their views and the Council’s decision final. In this case there was nothing for the Council to decide: Arrhyna had chosen, her parents did not object. Chakthi pushed too far—as Racharran had feared—solely on behalf of his son. He looked past the Tachyn akaman to where Vachyr sat amongst the warriors. The young man was glaring across the Council fire—at Rannach, Racharran guessed.
“Does my brother Racharran object to this?” asked Juh.
Racharran shook his head even as Yazte murmured, “You need not do this, brother. This is a farce.”
He flashed the Lakanti a smile and made a small, quieting gesture. It was a farce: he had no doubt of the immediate outcome, for all he might wish Arrhyna would stand up and renege her promise to Rannach, declare her mind changed, and go to Vachyr. The future should be easier that way. But still—he could not help the small flame of malice—it should be good to see Chakthi humbled.
Ceremoniously, he rose to his feet, blanket cradled, and said, “I have no objection. Let those concerned be heard.”
Old Juh nodded. Yazte scowled dark as Chakthi. Tahdase looked nervous. The ancient Aparhaso chief raised a hand. “Then I summon them,” he intoned. “Let the maiden and her parents step forward and be heard. Let the warriors step forward and hear our judgement.”
The protagonists moved through the crowd encircling the Council. Vachyr and Rannach trod proudly, glowering at each other like young buffalo bulls in rut. Arrhyna came with downcast eyes, nervous as a deer, Nemeth and Zeil close behind and no more confident. The crowd fell silent.
Juh said, “Let the maiden Arrhyna speak,” and smiled encouragingly. “Child, you are much honored—two brave warriors ask your hand and offer many horses. Which would you have?”
For a moment, Arrhyna’s hair curtained her face, red as the fire’s glow. She spoke from behind its veil, too soft she might be heard. Yazte said, “Child, do you speak up? You’ve naught to fear; none shall harm you here, nor say you nay.”
Arrhyna raised her head at that, green eyes wide as they fixed on Rannach. “My choice is Rannach,” she said.
Vachyr’s scowl darkened, the corners of his angry mouth downturned. Rannach beamed. Juh said, “Now we hear the parents.”
Zeil glanced at Chakthi, clearly loath to earn the akaman’s further disfavor. Juh motioned that he speak, and the man touched his wife’s hand. With his eyes fixed on the ground he said, “Vachyr’s bride-offer is generous, but my daughter has made known her choice and I cannot deny her.”
“You name Rannach your choice?” Juh asked.
Zeil swallowed and said quietly, “I do.”
“And there is agreement with your wife in this?”
Zeil nodded. Nemeth said, “There is. I would abide by my daughter’s choice. I name Rannach.”
Racharran heard Chakthi’s furious grunt, saw the tightening of Vachyr’s jaw. No good at all, he thought. This shall be a troubled summer. But even so … He could not deny that the Tachyns’ discomposure afforded him a degree of pleasure.
“Then it is agreed by all who have a choice in this,” Juh said. “How speak my brothers?”
Yazte said, “It is agreed,” beaming at Vachyr.
Slower and softer Tahdase said, “It is agreed.”
Chakthi snarled and shook his head. “I say no!”
Juh turned to Racharran. For an instant the Commacht thought he might shock them all by siding with Chakthi, but that should only make an enemy of his son, and likely drive him away. Then those headstrong warriors who followed Rannach would go with him and the clan be weakened. Nor, was he honest with himself, could Racharran perform so dramatic a turnabout: it would be a diminishment of his honor. Loud, he said, “It is agreed.”
Juh climbed stiffly to his feet, his arms raised as he turned slowly around the circle. “Then let all present know it is decided.” His voice was pitched to carry to the outermost ring. “The maiden Arrhyna shall wed the warrior Rannach with the blessing of this Council. Let none argue this, nor speak against it.”
Chakthi did not speak against the decision—could not—but instead sprang upright with a furious snort and stalked from the circle, Hadduth trailing his heels. Vachyr hesitated a moment, glaring first at Arrhyna then at Rannach before following his father.
Into Racharran’s ear Morrhyn said, “Chakthi cannot argue this.”
“No?” answered Racharran.
Morrhyn said, still soft, “To argue this is to go against the Council. He would be cast out; no less Vachyr.”
Racharran grunted, then looked to his son, who came past the fire with his bride-to-be. Rannach’s smile was wide and proud; Arrhyna stood modestly beside him.
Racharran climbed to his feet and took the girl’s hands. “I welcome you to the Commacht, daughter.” He glanced at Rannach. “Perhaps you’ll tame this stallion.”
Arrhyna smiled shyly. “Thank you, my akaman. I am honored to live amongst your lodges.”
Rannach said, “Thank you, father. For a while there I feared you might take Vachyr’s side.”
“For a while,” Racharran said quietly, “I thought I might. For the good of the clan.”
The shock he saw on Rannach’s face was gratifying, but then he shrugged and smiled more warmly. “But how could I, after Chakthi’s insult? Vachyr the better man? Ach, no! only”—he placed a hand on both their shoulders—“tread wary about those two, as you would about a wounded buffalo.”
Rannach nodded gravely. “I’d see Arrhyna in our lodges this night,” he said. “And ask you offer her parents our hospitality.”
Perhaps, Racharran thought, there’s yet hope for him. Perhaps marriage will gentle him. Aloud, he said, “That’s wise. Yes: I’ll speak with them now.”
“Thank you,” Arrhyna said. “The akaman of the Tachyn bears them little love for this, I think.”
“Chakthi,” Rannach declared, grinning, “bears little love for anyone. Save Vachyr.”
“Go.” Racharran dismissed them with a wave. “Take your cohorts with you. And remember your promise!”
“As my akaman commands.”
Rannach spread his blanket to encompass Arrhyna and jerked his head. On the instant, Bakaan and the others came hurrying up to form an honor guard. Racharran went to where Nemeth and Zeil stood. They looked to him like buffalo separated from their herd, and frightened.
“Your daughter sleeps under my protection this night,” he said, “and soon shall wed my son. Would you name yourselves Commacht, then you are welcome in my clan.”
Nemeth looked at Zeil, who nodded and smiled nervously. “My thanks,” he said. “We’ve angered Chakthi with this, and …” He shrugged helplessly.
“Chakthi is not a man to forgive a perceived slight,” Racharran finished. “Do you bring your tent across the water now, and tomorrow we’ll cut your horses from the Tachyn herd.”
“And does Chakthi object, my Lakanti shall be there.” Yazte came up to join them, clapping Racharran cheerfully on the shoulder. “In the name of the Maker, my friend, that was a thing worth the seeing. Chakthi had the look of an old bear driven from his wintering cave. His discomfort was a thing to relish.”
“Old bears are grumpy,” Racharran said. “And often dangerous.”
“True.” Yazte’s smile faded. “But should this particular bear show his claws, you’ve but to ask my help.”
Racharran nodded. “I’ll see them wed soon as possible,” he murmured. “Perhaps the ceremony will cool Vachyr’s ardor and he look elsewhere for a bride.”
“Perhaps.” Yazte snorted. “But Chakthi’s pride? That shall not be cooled, I think.”
“Ach, pride!” Racharran chopped a dismissive hand. “Such pride is a curse.”
“But what should we be without our pride?” Yazte asked. “You’d not take the Tachyn’s insult. Was that not pride?”
<
br /> “It was.” Racharran smiled, somewhat ashamed. “I rose to that.”
“As would any warrior,” Yazte said. “Chakthi stepped beyond the pale with that. I’ve not your calm. Had he said that to me …”
Racharran nodded, wearying of the conversation. He felt a need to forget the bellicose Tachyn for a while. “I’ve tiswin in my lodge,” he said, “do you care to celebrate this decision.”
“I do,” Yazte declared eagerly. “Lead on, my friend.”
“A moment.” Racharran motioned that Yazte wait, and went to where Juh sat, deep in conversation with the Aparhaso wakanisha, Hazhe. He waited politely until they looked up, then extended his invitation.
“Thank you,” murmured Juh, “but these old bones of mine crave rest, and the days when I could sit with you youngsters drinking the night away are long gone. The wedding, though, I shall attend.”
Racharran ducked his head, accepting the subtle dismissal. He turned toward young Tahdase, but the Naiche akaman was already quitting the circle, surrounded by a protective band of warriors.
He returned to where Yazte waited. “We drink alone,” he said. Yazte chuckled. “Then the more for us.”
Racharran smiled and looked about for Morrhyn. The wakanisha was deep in conversation with Kahteney of the Lakanti and Isten of the Naiche, and when Racharran caught his eye and motioned the lifting of a cup, he shook his head. Racharran shrugged—so it would be him and Yazte, and therefore, no doubt, further discussion of Chakthi and his famous temper. He went from the circle with the Lakanti, hoping Yazte did not drink him dry.
“I’ve known the same dream,” Kahteney said. “I fear it bodes ill for the Commacht. I believe it means war with the Tachyn.”
“That may well come,” Morrhyn allowed, “but I cannot beleive the dream refers to that. I fear it is something larger.”
