Exile's Children

by Angus Wells

  He shrugged and drained his cup, his face abruptly a mask of disappointment when he found the pitcher empty. Unspeaking, Lhyn brought another, and he drank with relish.

  “But you held them?” Racharran asked.

  “In a way.” Colun nodded doubtfully. “We slowed their advance somewhat in the ravines and the defiles. But only slowed it—they are careless of losses. In the Maker’s name! I saw them press on across the bodies of their dead and wounded with no more thought than they gave the Whaztaye fallen. On and on they came, even when we sent rocks crashing down, avalanches that buried them by the score; and every time we thought them halted, they came again. Like ants, they were: remorseless. We had no choice but to fall back until we reached our secret places. Had we not those refuges …” He sighed and shook his head. “We went into the tunnels and sealed the entrances behind us. Then we licked our wounds awhile and debated what to do.”

  Morrhyn asked, “The seals held? These … invaders … could not breach them?”

  “Not then,” Colun answered. “When I left, the seals held intact. But …” He spread his hands wide. “Did the Whaztaye speak aright and they did come through the farther mountains, then they’ve such powers as I’ve not seen before; nor ever believed could be. Still, when I departed the tunnels were secure. And do these creatures gain entrance, the passage shall cost them dear. But if they succeed …I deemed it wise to warn you.”

  “And our heartfelt thanks for that,” Racharran said.

  Morrhyn said, “What did they look like?”

  Colun shrugged again and told him, “I never saw their faces—I saw only their armor, which is not like any I have seen before. Like insects they were, all bright, shiny colors that hid their faces and their forms.”

  “They were not men?” asked Morrhyn.

  “They have two arms, two legs,” Colun said, “and they’ve each a head. But are they men, I cannot say. I thought them demons.”

  Wakanisha and akaman exchanged a look. Racharran said, “This news must be brought before the full Council.”

  Morrhyn nodded and said, “Yes, and must be discussed in Dream Council.” He turned to the Grannach. “You’ll tell all this again?”

  Colun said, “Do you ask it,” and favored them both with a somber stare. “I fear this threatens us all. Perhaps all the world.”

  “I’ll send word now.” Racharran stood, crossing to the lodge’s entrance.

  When he stepped outside, Morrhyn saw that the sun was up, the wind abated. Streamers of white cloud ran out across a sky of pure blue and all the Matakwa camp was awake, loud with cheerful laughter. He turned to Colun’s gruff voice intruded on his thoughts.

  “You dreamed of this?” the Grannach asked.

  “Perhaps; I’m not sure.” He felt that doubt dissolving even as he spoke. “I’ve had such dreams as deny clear interpretation.”

  He told the detail of his recurring dream, and when he was done Colun said, “And the other Dreamers?”

  “One at least,” Morrhyn advised. “Save he believes it a scrying of different trouble.”

  Colun gestured that he explain and Morrhyn told him of Kahteney’s interpretation. “Perhaps,” the Grannach murmured, “you are both right.”

  “How so?” asked Morrhyn. “Trouble with the Tachyn is scarce so fearful as what you’ve described.”

  “Save,” Colun said grimly, “that does this horde find a way into Ket-Ta-Witko, it were better the clans fight unified, not betwixt yourselves.”

  Morrhyn felt a hollow place open inside him at that, and for a while could only stare aghast at the craggy little man. Then all he could find to say was “Yes.”

  Racharran came back on the heel of the affirmative, halting as he saw Morrhyn’s face. “What is it?” he demanded. “Some new alarm?”

  Morrhyn reached out to clutch his wrist. “There must be peace between the clans.”

  Racharran studied his friend and ducked his head in confirmation. “All well, there shall be. In light of Colun’s news, I doubt even Chakthi can harbor such petty grudges.”

  “Even so.” Morrhyn did not release his hold. “Do you impress that on Rannach? And in council seek to bind Chakthi with solemn vows?”

  “I shall,” Racharran promised. “Even now messengers go out with word. I’ve asked that we sit in Council this night.”

  Morrhyn had a single akaman and he could only wait until the messengers returned with their answers. He loosed his hold and reached unthinking for a cup. He had raised it to his lips and drunk before he knew Colun had filled it. He did not taste the tiswin, only the heat spilling through the void inside him. Across the fire he saw Lhyn watching him, her eyes clouded.

  “Rannach,” he said. “I’d ask him to hold our camp this day—to his lodge, if he will—that he not flaunt Arrhyna before Vachyr or Chakthi.”

  “I’ll go.” Lhyn spoke before her husband, motioning that Racharran remain seated. “Likely he’ll take it easier from me.”

  Morrhyn said, “It matters little how he takes it, only that he obey.”

  Lhyn nodded, pale-faced, and was gone, and then the three men could only wait.

  4 The Stolen Bride

  Arrhyna hid giggling and naked beneath a fur as Rannach cursed and tugged on his breeches. It was not unusual that a new-wed couple find themselves the target of friends’ tricks, and already her husband’s had played their share. She supposed this calling of his name was another, but for all she could not find it in herself to object overmuch. These Commacht were a cheerful folk, unlike her own Tachyn, whose mood reflected their akaman’s. Since Chakthi’s wife had died, he had become a surly, sullen man, his temper shout, his judgments swift and brutal, and that dour temperament seemed to infect all the clan. There was not so much laughter amongst the Tachyn lodges. She frowned as she thought on how he had treated her parents, then smiled at the thought that they were now taken in by the Commacht. Racharran seemed a kind man, if somewhat stern, and most assuredly of far graver disposition than his son. She watched as Rannach—her husband now!—laced his breeches, admiring the way muscle corded and flexed across his broad shoulders. Did he curse, it was good-natured, and the Maker knew, he was so handsome, she so fortunate.

  Her smile faded as he flung back the lodge flap, an oath dying on his lips, replaced with a mumbled apology.

  “Mother, forgive me. I thought …”

  He stepped back, inviting Lhyn to enter. Arrhyna drew the fur up to her chin, wishing there had been more warning of this visit. What would Lhyn think of her, lying abed with breakfast not even thought about yet? She bit her lip at sight of Lhyn’s face, but then the older woman smiled.

  “What apologies are needed are mine to offer.” Lhyn ducked her head in Arrhyna’s direction as Rannach draped a blanket about his shoulder. “You’re settled, daughter?”

  Daughter. Arrhyna liked that: it seemed a further seal laid on the happiness of her future. She nodded from behind the fur and said, “I am … Mother.”

  “My son”—this with a mock stern glance at Rannach—“treats you well?”

  Arrhyna blushed and giggled and said, “He is a fine husband.”

  “Whose attentions I’d not deprive you of.” Lhyn smiled still, but behind her friendly expression Arrhyna could detect … She was not sure: fear was her strongest impression. Despite the fur, she felt a sudden chill.

  Rannach, too, she thought, for he said, “What brings you, Mother? Not, of course, that we are anything but happy to see you.”

  “Ach!” Lhyn waved a hand, dismissing his solicitous words. “A new-wed couple happy to welcome visitors? Rannach, even were you not my son I’d know better than that. Nor would I disturb you, save …”

  Her smile disappeared entirely and Rannach frowned. “What is it?” he asked. “Some trouble with Vachyr? Chakthi?”

  “Not yet.” Lhyn shook her head. “Nor, the Maker willing, shall there be. Your father calls Council this night, and I’ve a thing to ask you.”

  Swiftl
y, she described Colun’s news. Rannach’s frown grew deeper; Arrhyna was abruptly aware of her nudity. She wished she were dressed: it seemed somehow more fitting that she receive such news clad.

  “I shall attend the Council,” Rannach declared.

  “As should you,” Lhyn said. “But more …” she spoke of Morrhyn’s fears.

  “My father would have me skulk in my lodge?” Rannach shook his head in angry denial. “Am I an embarrassment, then? Have I not given my word I’ll not raise hand against the Tachyn whilst this Matakwa lasts? Is that not good enough for my father, for my akaman?”

  “It is Morrhyn, also, who asks this,” Lhyn said patiently. “And I. Nor does your father believe you would break your given word. But Chakthi, Vachyr … Their tempers are short, and doubtless they still chew on defeat. I ask only that you not give them cause for resentment, but hold to his lodge until the Council sits.”

  Rannach chewed on this awhile, then turned suspicious eyes on Lhyn. “I am not commanded? My father does not bid me remain hidden?”

  “No.” His mother sighed, the shaking of her head a weary movement, as if this were ancient ground they trod. “He—and Morrhyn, and I—only ask it of you. This news that Colun brings, it frightens me; it … worries … your father. And Morrhyn—it was he pressed hardest that you not give Vachyr or Chakthi the least cause—”

  “This is my wife!” Rannach cut short her words, stabbing a finger in Arrhyna’s direction. “I courted her as custom demands; she made her choice. The council denied Chakthi’s objections and now we are wed, with the blessing of all this Matakwa. What cause might my presence give him?”

  Lhyn sighed again and looked to Arrhyna, who said softly, “Chakthi needs no cause for resentment, husband. It festers in him like a poisoned wound.”

  “His problem,” snapped Rannach, “not mine.”

  “Save are these creatures all Colun describes,” Lhyn said slowly, “then the People surely face such problems as transcend these petty squabbles.”

  Rannach scowled and said, “I’ve no squabble with any present at this Matakwa.” He smiled fondly at his wife. “I’ve all I want.”

  Arrhyna returned the smile, but fainter, her eyes drawn irresistibly back to Lhyn’s face. Racharran’s wife was beautiful in an older as many years as Lhyn. But now she looked drawn, as if trepidation etched the passing of time deeper into her features. It was hard to take such news hid under furs, naked; harder to see the worry in Lhyn’s eyes and know that difference existed between the man she loved and his father. She caught Lhyn’s eye and saw a plea there: she knew she must make some contribution or accept the role of docile wife.

  “Mother speaks sense,” she said, ignoring the flash of anger that lit Rannach’s eyes, tightened his jaw. “The Maker knows, I’ve spent my life amongst the Tachyn lodges, and so can tell you that neither Chakthi nor Vachyr need reason for resentment, or honest cause for squabble—they find such where they will. Do you only comply with this request …” The gratitude in Lhyn’s gaze was pleasing.

  “And hide myself away like some skulking dog”—Rannach shook his head—“for fear I offend Chakthi and his sorry son?”

  “For the good of all the People,” Lhyn said. And smiled, “Besides, had you other plans? The Maker knows, when I wed your father we did not emerge from our lodge for days.”

  Arrhyna blushed and giggled. Rannach’s scowl eased somewhat. “Mother,” he said, “you are shameless.”

  Lhyn shrugged. “It was hunger drove us out in the end … a different hunger. Had your father only thought to lay in sufficient supplies …” Her smile grew warmer, encompassing her son and his bride. “But we were not wed in so propitious a place—our lodge was, from choice, isolated—and so there was no one to leave food outside.”

  “We’ve food enough.”

  Rannach refused to be mollified yet, but Arrhyna saw him weakening and, encouraged by Lhyn’s frankness, said, “And so no reason to quit this warm lodge.”

  She felt her cheeks grow hot at her boldness, and was glad of Lhyn’s approving smile.

  Lhyn said, “It should be a mother’s pleasure to feed you both.”

  “And therefore”—Arrhyna allowed her covering fur to slip a fraction—“we’ve no reason to go out. Save you grow bored, husband.”

  Rannach swallowed, his scowl quite lost under the flush that suffused his cheeks. Arrhyna saw Lhyn fighting laughter and let the fur slip father.

  “Ach!” Rannach cleared his throat noisily, looking from one woman to the other as if torn between amusement and embarrassment—and perhaps, also, irritation. He threw up his hands. “I am defeated. Do you ask it, Mother, then so be it. Tell my father I shall quit this tent only to so what I must, naught else. But I shall attend the Council.”

  “All shall attend that,” Lhyn said gravely, “for it shall affect all. But my thanks; I’ll advise your father of your decision.”

  Rannach nodded. Arrhyna said, “I’ve not yet prepared our breakfast,” and blushed anew. “But do you give me a moment …”

  “Stay there, daughter.” Lhyn waved her back as she moved to rise. “Let me honor my promise—I’ll bring you food betimes.” She smiled and favored Arrhyna with a private look. “And leave it outside, eh?”

  “Thank you,” Arrhyna said.

  Lhyn rose and was gone. Rannach laced the lodge flap tight behind her and loosed his breeches. Arrhyna threw back the sleeping furs, but when he came to her she set a hand against his chest and said, “Tell me of your father.”

  “My father?” Rannach’s face was a mockery of outrage. Arrhyna thought it not entirely assumed. “You’d discuss my father now?”

  “I’d know what stands between you,” she said, fending off his Tachyn would argue Chakthi’s wishes like that.”

  “We are not like the Tachyn,” Rannach said.

  “No.” It was difficult to ignore his exploring hands, the touch of his lips against her skin. “But it is more than that. There is something stands between you and your father that sets you to bristling like a dog with hackles raised.”

  “So I am a dog now?” Rannach’s voice was muffled against her breasts. “Your husband is a dog?”

  “Dogs are not so strong,” she said, fastening her hands in his unbound hair that she might draw his face up. “Dogs are not such great warriors, nor such mighty hunters—nor so handsome. But dogs acknowledge a leader.”

  “I am a man,” he said.

  Doggedly, she thought, and almost laughed, but stifled the sound for fear she offend him. “Tell me, husband. Please? I am come a stranger into you clan, and I’d know these things.”

  Rannach sighed and gave up his amorous expedition. He rolled onto his back, settling an arm beneath her shoulders. Arrhyna turned into his embrace, running fingers through his hair. Which, she thought with pride, she would braid later, and he be the most handsome warrior in all the Meeting Ground.

  He said, “My father is a wise man. He is a great warrior who leads our clan as could no other. I am not like him, but he’d have me so. I lack his patience, his wisdom. I cannot be he, and so I am a disappointment to him.”

  Arrhyna said, “No!”

  “Yes! He’d school me that I become akaman when he grows too old, but I’d not shoulder that responsibility.”

  “It should be a great honor,” Arrhyna said. “Already Chakthi names Vachyr his successor; and I think the Tachyn shall not argue him.”

  “I am not Vachyr!” Rannach’s voice was suddenly harsh; she tensed against him, abruptly aware of things she had not sensed before. “Nor is my father Chakthi.”

  His voice softened and she heard admiration in it, and love. She said, “No, I’d not compare either of you to those two. But why should you not become akaman?”

  He groaned. “And carry all that burden? My father took it up when he was not much older than I, and I saw the years it set on him. I’d no more than a warrior—free to ride and hunt where I will, not always thinking on the clan. I’d”—he chuc
kled into her hair—“go out to steal Tachyn horses without concerning myself with Chakthi’s feelings. I’d be free, Arrhyna! I’ve no interest in the politics of akamans and wakanishas.”

  “But,” she began, and was silenced by his finger against her lips.

  She bit it gently as he said, “Listen. This is such decision as my father makes—when I told him I’d approach you and ask you to be my wife, he looked to dissuade me. He told me Vachyr courted you, and I should offend the Tachyn; that were I Vachyr’s rival, I’d offend Chakthi, and likely he find reason to come against us. He pointed out all the Commacht maidens I might have. Their beauty, their parents’ wealth …”

  Arrhyna loosed her teeth from his finger as he chuckled and said, “Many of them were very lovely. Indeed … Ach!”

  Her teeth fastened again, harder.

  “But none compared to you,” he said, his hand no longer against her lips, but tracing the contours of her body. “I told him I’d have no other. That could I not have you, then I’d live solitary and never wed. He told me I was crazed; that I risked the welfare of all the Commacht in pursuit of blind love. He did his best to dissuade me …”

  “But,” she said, “did not succeed. For which I thank the Maker.”

  “As do I,” he said earnestly. “But my father would have it otherwise. Had he his way, then you should now be wed to Vachyr.”

  She shuddered: the notion was horrible. But still … “He has shown me only kindness,” She said. “Him and your mother both.”

  Rannach said, “He is kind. That makes it harder. Think on it.” His voice grew fierce and she cringed, but against him. “To know what someone wants—what they desire fierce as life itself—and tell them ‘No, do otherwise.’ To tell them ‘So you love this woman, but forget her, quite her. Choose another, for the good of the clan.’ I could not do that, but my father did.”

  “Surely,” she said even as she thought how glad she was Rannach had ignored him, “he had to. For the good of the clan. And he supported you in the end.”