by Angus Wells
He looked to Isten, hoping—or fearing—for confirmation, but the Naiche Dreamer only shook his head and said, “This is a thing for the Dream Council, not”—he glanced around as if fearful of eavesdroppers—“so public a place.”
Morrhyn frowned. Isten and his akaman shared the same cautious nature; or the one fed the other: it was hard to decide. They both prompted him to think of nervous deer, waiting, testing the wind, before venturing forth. Surely neither would come readily or swiftly to any decision; and he felt in his bones that swift decisions would be needed ere long. But, by custom, he must allow Isten was right: was the dream forewarning of events momentous as he feared, then it was a thing for the Dream Council, for all the wakanishas. And after, when interpretation was agreed, for the full Council. He wondered if, after that night’s events, concord could any longer be reached. He lowered his head in silent acceptance.
“Best then we sit in council soon,” Kahteney declared tersely, favoring the Naiche wakanisha with an irritated glance.
“Yes.” Morrhyn nodded, wishing it might be now. It seemed that since arriving at the Meeting Ground his trepidation grew apace, as if this gathering of the clans somehow accelerated his concern.
“But best Rannach and Arrhyna are wed first,” said cautious Isten. “Let that particular thorn be blunted before we seek Hadduth’s aid.”
Morrhyn doubted the marriage ceremony would do much to blunt any of the Tachyns’ feelings, but it would, he supposed, finally resolve the minor problem. “My brother Isten speaks wisely,” he declared diplomatically. “But once that is done?”
“We hold Dream Council,” said Kahteney, and smacked his lips, grinning. “Now, Morrhyn, did Racharran not invite my akaman to drink tiswin? And do you not think we wakanishas should attend them?”
Morrhyn hesitated. He would sooner speak of the dream or be alone to contemplate its meaning. Save, he thought, Isten will not lend us his advice; and Kahteney believes it means war; so … He ducked his head and said, “I suppose so. Isten, do you join us?”
“I think not.” The Naiche smiled apology. “Likely Tahdase would have my counsel.”
He nodded his farewell and left them. Kahteney watched his retreating back and said, “A careful one, that. Like his akaman.”
“Caution,” said Morrhyn, “is no bad thing.”
“Save it become vacillation,” said Kahteney. “And those two are like skittish colts. They prance and run directionless when the stallions stamp their hooves.”
Morrhyn refused to be drawn into criticism. Instead, he pointed in the direction of the Commacht lodges. “Do we join our akamans before they finish all the tiswin?”
Kahteney needed no further urging: together the wakanishas strode from the circle.
Their path took them through the Tachyn camp, and there folk watched them pass in silence. It was impossible to know their feelings. Morrhyn saw light in Chakthi’s lodge and the outlines of three men cast shadowy against the hide. Chakthi and Vachyr spoke with Hadduth, he surmised; he wondered of what. Kahteney appeared oblivious, or careless, but the Commacht was relieved when they forded the stream and came amongst the lodges of his own clan.
From where the tents of the unmarried men were pitched there came a great clamor, laughter and shouts and dancing. They celebrated Rannach’s triumph with tiswin: Morrhyn hoped they would not drink so much as to carry their merrymaking across the stream. He wished he could share their carefree joy.
Racharran and Yazte sat outside the Commacht akaman’s lodge, a pitcher passing from hand to hand. They laughed and jested, but more soberly than the young men, as befitted mature warriors. Space was made for the two wakanishas, and Morrhyn accepted a cup that Racharran filed. Lhyn, he saw, was not present, and assumed she saw to the settling of Arrhyna and her parents, whose lodge the girl would continue to share until the ceremony was concluded—the usual safeguard against a groom rendered overly amorous by tiswin.
“Nemeth and Zeil are settled?” he asked.
Racharran nodded, his face a moment dark.
Yazte chuckled and said, “Chakthi watched their going like some bile-ridden buffalo, then announced them banished from the Tachyn. Ach, it was a sight to savor, his black face.”
Morrhyn essayed a smile, not wishing to offend.
“We spoke of the Grannach,” Racharran said.
Yazte said, “Of their absence.”
Morrhyn felt a fresh prickling of doubt. The Stone Folk attended the Matakwa each year, coming down from their high caves and secret tunnels to trade their metalwork with the People—had since first the clans came to Ket-Ta-Witko—but the Meeting Ground had been filled for three days now and usually the Grannach would have appeared on the first. That they had not seemed to the wakanisha a further confirmation that all was not well. Lacking any explanation of their absence, he only shrugged.
“When shall you hold Dream Council?” Racharran asked.
“Once Rannach and Arrhyna are wed,” Morrhyn replied. “When shall that be?”
“I’d see her parents’ horses safe,” Racharran said, “and then announce the wedding. The horses tomorrow, the wedding the next day?”
“Yes.” Morrhyn stifled a sigh and took the pitcher, filling his cup. Perhaps tiswin would still his fear a little. “You’ll feast them?”
“Modestly,” Racharran said. “I’d not see my son’s pride too swollen, nor seem to flaunt the thing in Chakthi’s face.”
“That’s wise,” the wakanisha said. “And perhaps the Grannach shall be here by then.”
“I’d throw a great feast,” Yazte declared, laughing, “and make a point of inviting Chakthi and Vachyr.” He paused, still laughing. “Or perhaps a point of not inviting them.”
Morrhyn thought the akaman had taken his fair share and more of the tiswin. Racharran said, “I shall invite Chakthi and Hadduth—it should be insult otherwise.”
Yazte snorted, but Kahteney nodded approvingly. Morrhyn said, “Might you not ask Juh to arrange it? Will Chakthi listen to anyone, it must be him. And does Chakthi accept, then it must surely be a step toward settling these differences.”
“That should be a wise move, I think—if it works,” Racharran said soberly.
“I am outvoted, then,” said Yazte, reaching for the pitcher. “But I tell you, that sour face will spoil my appetite.”
Racharran reached out to grasp the Lakanti’s wrist. “Does he accept, my friend, then I ask that you bear that spoiling. I charge you to curb your tongue and not give him cause for further offence.”
“Me?” Yazte’s eyes rounded and he slapped a hand to his chest in mockery of innocence. “Offend Chakthi, me?”
“Yes,” Racharran said. “Have I your word?”
Yazte’s lips pursed as if he contemplated the matter, then he shrugged. “It shall be hard, but yes. I’d not see your son’s wedding feast spoiled. Though …” His smile grew broader. “I think Chakthi’s presence shall not improve it much.”
Racharran said, “Perhaps not; but peace between us shall.”
The morning of the wedding dawned fine. The sun lit the pinnacle of the Maker’s Mountain as if in blessing, and when Morrhyn emerged from his lodge he perceived no ill omens—save, perhaps, that he had again dreamed of the fire-footed horse and its blank-eyed rider. Nor was he comforted by the continued absence of the Grannach, and as he bathed he cast his eyes toward the mountains, hoping all the time to see the Stone Folk coming.
He was disappointed, and struggled to shake off pessimism as he returned to his tent to dress in his finest buckskins, readying for the ceremony.
Such affairs were conducted simply by the People, thought the Commacht lodges and, to a lesser extent, those of all their neighbors, were abustle as the time approached. Usually, Rannach’s chosen man would have gone amongst the Tachyn to summon forth the bride and present her suitor, then lead them back to the groom’s clan, but now that Nemeth and Zeil were taken into the Commacht, Bakaan went to their tent and called that they com
e out.
Rannach stood behind him. His hair was woven in the warrior’s braids and his wedding clothes shone with beadwork bright as his eyes. Three times Bakaan called, and at the third cry Nemeth and Zeil threw back the flap and led their daughter out. Arrhyna wore pale deerskin, bracelets of Grannach work glinting on her wrists, little combs of the Stone Folk’s precious silver glittering in her fiery hair. Bakaan took her hand and brought her to where Rannach stood, then motioned that they follow him to the cleared center of the Commacht encampment.
Morrhyn waited there, with Racharran and Lhyn, and as the procession drew near he was reminded of their wedding. Gahyth had presided then, and he had stood behind the aging Dreamer, fighting to curb his envy that his closest friend won the woman he loved. He had thought such memories long buried, but as Rannach and Arrhyna approached, he felt them rise anew, and must fight down the same sense of loss. He hid behind a wakanisha’s gravity as he motioned the pair kneel and raised the sacred rattle over their heads.
The crowd fell silent as he intoned the ritual and the couple gave back their responses. He touched them both with the rattle, asking that the Maker regard them with favor, and it was done. Racharran led out a piebald mare, her coat brushed to gleaming smoothness, and saw Arrhyna mounted; Lhyn brought her son’s favorite horse. Then Morrhyn gestured that they follow him, the parents falling into step behind the bridal pair as the wakanisha led them amongst the Commacht lodges and then on in a wide circuit of the Meeting Ground, through all the encampments.
As they passed, he proclaimed the traditional words: “Let the people see these two are wed. Let the People ask the Maker bless them.” But as they went by the Tachyn lodges he was unpleasantly aware of the muted response—even more of Hadduth’s unsmiling visage, the wakanisha’s lips moving silently in what might have been either agreement or curse. Few there came out to follow the procession, and of Chakthi or Vachyr there was no sign. It was a relief, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, to go amongst the Lakanti, and after them the Aparhaso and the Naiche, where folk shouted joyously and came trotting behind calling greetings and good wishes, laughing as they showered the bridal pair with dried petals and sweet-scented herbs.
Bakaan and those other warriors closest to Rannach had erected a lodge for the pair, set apart from the others on the edge of the Commacht camp, close by the Maker’s Mountain, that their first nights together be spent close under the watch of the Maker and they have privacy. There they would remain until the Matakwa was ended and they have pitched their lodge with the other married folk. Looking at their smiling faces, Morrhyn thought they had sooner go there immediately, but first they must partake of the feast.
That was ready on their return, the guests trailing them in a great laughing crowd: a marriage made at Matakwa was considered most lucky. And perhaps it is, Morrhyn thought as he watched the informal celebration commence. But like a blade, luck has two sides, and he wondered should that luck be good or bad.
He found a place at Racharran’s side, where the most favored guests sat. Lhyn was on her husband’s left, next to Nemeth and Zeil, with Rannach and their daughter; Juh and Yazte and Tahdase were there, each sided by their wakanishas and their wives. Kahteney favored Morrhyn with a smile the Commacht Dreamer returned even as he wondered, Where is Chakthi? Where is Hadduth? Do they intend to insult the Commacht with their absence?
He grunted his relief as the two Tachyn appeared, for all they seemed in no wise happy to be there. Chakthi offered only the curtest of formal greeting to his hosts, and even terser to the bridal couple; Nemeth and Zeil he ignored.
Racharran climbed to his feet—smiling, Morrhyn thought, less in genuine welcome than relief similar to his own. “I bid you welcome, brother.” Racharran gestured that Chakthi and Hadduth take their places. “And you, wakanisha. You favor us with your presence.”
Chakthi ducked his head as if receiving no more than his rightful due; Hadduth’s thin lips stretched in parody of a smile. They sat in silence, accepting the tiswin Racharran himself poured.
“This is an auspicious day,” he said, raising his cup in toast. “My son weds a Tachyn maiden, and at Matakwa. Do we put by those things that have stood between us and celebrate this wedding in friendship? Do we drink to future amity?”
It was an unfeigned offering of peace. Juh beamed and nodded his silvered head in commendation; Tahdase murmured encouragingly. Even Yazte hid his dislike and showed the Tachyn his teeth in approximation of friendship.
Chakthi stared awhile at Racharran, then slowly raised his own cup. “To the future,” he said.
“A toast.” Juh’s voice filled a moment of awkward silence. “I drink to Rannach and Arrhyna. May their joining join their clans.”
Again Chakthi’s cup was raised an instant slower than the others, but still he drank. And still, Morrhyn thought, it is like inviting a vicious dog to share the feast, all the time wondering if he’ll eat or turn on the guests.
Tahdase intoned a toast: “To Rannach and Arrhyna. May their union bless this Matakwa.”
Chakthi drank again, but again a moment late, as if he used the tiswin to wash away the words.
Now Yazte spoke. “I drink to Rannach and Arrhyna. And to peace at this Matakwa.”
Morrhyn sighed gratefully as he raised his cup. Likely Kahteney had reinforced Racharran’s admonishment that the Lakanti not offend Chakthi. But then Yazte spoke again: “And your toast, brother?”
His round face beamed amiably at the Tachyn akaman, and surely there was no overt hostility in his question save, Morrhyn thought, it is a kind of challenge.
Chakthi smiled then and raised his cup. “I drink,” he said, “to Rannach and Arrhyna. May they receive all they deserve.”
It was no clear indication, but neither was it possible to find offense in the words. They were ambiguous, perhaps, but not insulting. Those present drank, and for the first time Chakthi’s smile seemed genuine.
3 Ill Omens
The feast lasted long into the night, thankfully with out incident for all Chakthi and Hadduth seemed less to celebrate than brood. They spoke little, and then only when addressed directly, and their smiles seemed to Morrhyn furtive and empty of humor, save they shared some private jest. As soon was meet, Rannach and his bride made their excuses and departed for their lodge and, once they were gone, Chakthi and Hadduth offered unsmiling farewells and quit the Commacht camp. None were sorry to see them go, and the feast grew more lively for their absence: tiswin flowed in renewed abundance and, as if the cloud were blown away to reveal the sun, the camp rang loud with laughter and bawdy songs.
Morrhyn drank his fill, but not so much that his senses were fuddled, and he saw that all those of the inner circle—save Yazte, who sat cheerfully swaying, his attention alternating between a cup of tiswin and a rib of buffalo—shared his caution. He listened alertly as Juh beckoned Racharran closer.
“This was well done,” the old akaman declared. “That Chakthi attended is a good sign, I think.”
Racharran hesitated before replying, and from his expression, Morrhyn saw that he did not share Juh’s optimism. “I hope it be so,” he murmured. “I had hoped to dissuade Rannach from this courtship, but …” He shrugged eloquently. “You know my son.”
“Indeed.” Juh smiled. “A warrior proud as his father. And as determined.”
“Headstrong,” Racharran said. “He sets his own desires before the good of the clan.”
“Perhaps,” Juh allowed mildly. “But marriage between the clans is not forbidden, nor necessarily a bad thing—are your hopes realized, then this wedding may bind the Commacht and the Tachyn closer. And even I am not yet so old I forget what it is to love.” He reached out to touch his wife’s hand, at which Guyan, whose hair was silver as her husband’s, beamed and nodded.
“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.”
“Y
oung 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.”
