by Angus Wells
Arrhyna nodded and Juh waved Hazhe forward.
The Aparahaso Dreamer rose stiffly to his feet and paced to where Arrhyna stood. He pointed to the holy mountain and said, “We stand in the gaze of the Maker. This is a holy place, where any who lie must surely bring down his wrath. Do you then swear that you are chaste?”
Arrhyna said without hesitation, “In the Maker’s name, I do. I am … Before my husband, I knew no man. Since I was wed I have known only him. Save …” Tears rolled slowly down her cheeks; Rannach struggled with the Grannach to go to her. “Vachyr took me by force, and beat me until …” She looked from the wakanisha to Chakthi. “Do you go look at his face and see the marks I put there, fighting him!”
Hazhe declared, “I find her true.”
Chakthi shouted, “I am not satisfied. She lies! This is some Commacht device, that my son’s murder go unpunished!”
There was a loudening murmur ran through the crowd then, as if bait were tossed over water and the fish rose. Then Juh spoke again.
“This is no easy thing,” he said. “There can be no doubt a crime has been committed; indeed, two. Shall my brothers hear my thoughts on this and then we decide what measures be taken?”
He waited until all voiced agreement, then rose and walked to the circle’s center. Firelight and moonglow cast his face like worked stone. “First,” he said, “it is my belief that Vachyr was maddened by loss of the woman he’d have for his wife. I believe he stole Arrhyna, the which was ill done and a heinous crime.”
Chakthi’s cry of “No!” went ignored, as was Yazte’s enthusiastic “Yes!”
“But wrong cannot justify wrong.” For an instant, the ancient eyes fell on Rannach. “And it cannot be argued that the shedding of blood in Matakwa is also a crime. This is the second: that Rannach slew Vachyr even as the Matakwa truce bound him to peace. He scorned the Ahsa-tye-Patiko in that.”
“And must die for it,” Chakthi shouted.
Juh ignored this as he ignored the other. “Two crimes,” he said.
“The one punished; the second … We must speak of this.”
He returned to his blanket, seating himself as Racharran called to be heard.
The Commacht akaman took the speaker’s place, his head a moment lowered. Then he looked up, eyes moving slowly about the circle. “Rannach is my son,” he said, “and I do not argue that he is headstrong, but this I swear in the name of the Maker—that before we came to this Matakwa, where I knew he would seek Arrhyna’s hand, I had from him a promise that he would accept whatever judgment the Council delivered in that matter, nor raise his hand against Vachyr.”
“So much for Commacht promises,” Chakthi snarled.
“I trust his word,” Racharran continued, “and I tell you that what he has done he did because he had no other choice. Would any here”—he turned around slowly, his eyes encompassing the assembled akamans and all the crowd—“would any here, finding their wife stolen, not go after her kidnapper? Would any here, finding her beaten, not look to slay her taker?”
“The Ahsa-tye-Patiko!” Chakthi bellowed. “Shall we overlook the Will? Does the law no longer matter?”
“Your son stole Arrhyna. His was the crime. Rannach did only what any other warrior would do, in honor.” Racharran let his eyes move out over the crowd again. “Is that not true?”
Yazte was the first to answer. “Yes!” he cried, and his shout was taken up by others until all the Meeting Ground rang loud and roosting birds shifted nervous in the trees.
When there was silence again, Racharran said, “Then I ask that the Council look lenient on my son. Had Vachyr not stolen Arrhyna, there would be no crime. Let the blame be Vachyr’s!”
Chakthi rose to speak, but Hadduth clutched his arm and whispered in his ear and the Tachyn akaman fell back silent as Yazte asked to speak.
“I am with my brother Racharran in this,” the plump Lakanti said. “That Chakthi has lost a son is a sad thing. But the crime was Vachyr’s—Rannach did no more than would I, or any other man. I say we should not punish him.”
Chakthi said, “My son is dead.”
“Then let there be a blood-price agreed,” said Yazte. “Let that be settled and put aside. We’ve other matters to discuss.”
Chakthi said, “My son’s death is of no account?”
Doggedly, Yazte said, “Let the Council decide a blood-price.”
“No!”
Yazte shrugged, spread his hands in exasperation, and looked to Juh, who turned to Tahdase and asked, “Do you speak, brother?”
The young Naiche akaman whispered with Isten and then rose nervously to his feet. “I agree that Vachyr was wrong.” He glanced swiftly around, his eyed flickering from face to face. “It was a crime to steal Rannach’s bride, but I think it is as my brother Juh says—wrong cannot justify wrong. And as my brother Chakthi says—blood has been shed in Matakwa and reparation must be made.”
Chakthi said, “I call for Rannach’s execution.”
Racharran said, “Let the Council decide a blood-price and it shall be paid. But how can any call for my son’s death?”
Tahdase looked helplessly to Juh.
The old akaman said, “This is not a thing we may decide easily, or swiftly. Do my brothers agree, I suggest that we speak on this. Save …” He ducked his head at Racharran, at Chakthi. “Save that two fathers are involved, and their loyalties are consequently divided. I say that neither Chakthi nor Racharran have say in this, but only we who have no part.”
Tahdase nodded his agreement abruptly; Yazte glanced at Racharran before he ducked his head.
Racharran said carefully, “So be it.”
Chakthi whispered again with Hadduth, then allowed it be so.
Juh said, “Then we three shall speak on this and deliver our decision.”
Chakthi asked, “When?”
Juh sighed and said, “This Council is already long, and we’ve much yet to discuss. Do we sleep tonight, and Yazte and Tahdase come to my lodge on the morrow? The People shall know our thoughts this next night.”
Chakthi grunted his agreement, then demanded: “And the while? Shall the murderer be guarded, or shall his father set him free?”
Racharran tensed at that slur, but held his temper checked and said nothing.
Juh’s face expressed disapproval; he looked to Racharran. “Your word is good, brother. Shall you ward your son, that he attend our judgment tomorrow?”
Racharran said, “I shall.”
Juh said, “That’s good enough for me.”
Chakthi looked to argue, but again Hadduth restrained him, and he lowered his head in curt agreement.
“Then,” Juh said, “when the sun sets tomorrow, let us all attend and this thing be settled.”
The Grannach released Rannach on his father’s nod. He rose and set an arm about Arrhyna’s shoulders; he felt very confused and a little afraid. He felt he tottered on the brink of a precipice, flailing for balance, and he was unsure whether the chasm was his death or the love and hate—both inextricably mingled—he felt for his father.
Racharran said, “Shall you remain?”
“Is my word still good, yes.”
“Your word was always good. But you are like an unbroken horse: it’s hard to know who you’ll kick next.”
Warriors moved about them, shielding them, and they began to walk toward the Commacht lodges.
Rannach said, “I thought you betrayed me. But then you spoke and I …”
Racharran sighed and looked to the westering moon, then back to where the pinnacle of the Maker’s Mountain stood bone-white and bleak against the sky, and said, “Do you not think I love you?”
Rannach was taken aback: he shrugged.
Racharran said, “You are my blood, my son. And you are a warrior of the Commacht, and the clan is my blood. I need consider both: the burden of any akaman.”
Rannach frowned and said, “I slew him fair.”
“I know; I never doubted that. Nor, likely
, would I have done different.”
Rannach said, “Then why …?”
Wearily, Racharran said, “Because I am akaman of the Commacht and I must think of the clan and all the People, and things come toward us that frighten me.”
Rannach had never heard his father speak before of fear, and if frightened him. He looked at his father’s face and began to ask a question, but Racharran raised a hand to silence him. “Not now. Do you come home and we shall eat and drink tiswin, and then I’ll tell you.’
Rannach nodded and drew Arrhyna closer, letting his father lead the way. At least he remembered, as he saw Morrhyn sucking on his bitten hand, to ask the wakanisha’s pardon for that injury.
“No matter.” Morrhyn shrugged, and Rannach thought his face looked haunted. “It will heal. Though, by the Maker, you’ve powerful teeth.”
Rannach smiled at that, but could not quite summon a laugh.
Racharran’s lodge was crowded. Lhyn met her son with a smile, embracing him and Arrhyna, then the two women busied themselves at the fire as Colun reached for the tiswin and began to pour. Racharran turned to Morrhyn and asked that the wakanisha speak of the Dream Council.
“You need to know this,” he said to Rannach, “that you understand why we must have peace.”
His tone boded no good, and Rannach nodded and sat silent as Morrhyn spoke. When the Dreamer was done, Racharran told of the akamans’ debate, interrupted by Rannach’s return, and of his fear—and Morrhyn’s—that save the clans swear binding oaths of peace, the People would likely fall in disarray before the invaders.
“But is this so,” Rannach said when the ominous tale was told, “then Hadduth agreed the truce, and Chakthi. How could they do that, knowing of Vachyr’s crime—likely privy to his escape?”
“Now you show sense,” Racharran said, and ruefully, “if somewhat late in the day.”
Rannach bristled. “What else should I have done? What else could I have done? My wife was stolen!”
“Brought the matter to the Council,” Racharran answered, “that Vachyr’s crime be known from the start. Had the Council sent out riders, perhaps Vachyr might have been taken alive, and Chakthi have no chance to accuse you.”
Rannach met his father’s eyes awhile and then lowered his head. “I did not think,” he said slowly. “I knew only that Arrhyna was taken and I must go after her.”
“And now,” Racharran said, “there’s a price must be paid.”
Morrhyn said, “I suspect it was a well-thought trap. I wonder if Chakthi did not gamble on Vachyr escaping—which should likely have led to war. And if Vachyr was taken? Why, Chakthi could deny all knowledge. And was Vachyr slain? Then, again, an end to peace—without blame attaching to Chakthi.”
Rannach studied the wakanisha in amazement. “You say that Chakthi gambled his own son’s life?”
“I believe he did.” Morrhyn sighed, his brow creased in a frown. “I suspect all this was hatched by Chakthi and Hadduth, in spite and hatred of the Commacht.”
“But …” Rannach spread his hands, indicating bafflement. “Are your worst fears aright, Chakthi plays into the hands of these invaders.”
Morrhyn nodded.
Rannach said, “How could he? Is he crazed?”
“Perhaps.” Morrhyn shrugged. “That he bears us Commacht no love is common knowledge. Then at this Matakwa he saw his son’s desires thwarted, and Zeil and Nemeth taken into our clan. Perhaps that was more than he could bear.”
“But to gamble his own son’s life?” Rannach shook his head. “And when all the People are likely threatened?”
Mildly, Morrhyn asked, “Did you think of all the People when you aimed your lance at Vachyr?”
Shamefaced, Rannach shook his head.
Morrhyn said, “I think there’s a poison in Chakthi, and in Hadduth. It addles them. Perhaps—” He hesitated, eyes a moment closed, his face a moment haggard. “Perhaps it’s to do with these strangeling invaders.”
Lhyn gasped at that and clutched her husband’s shoulder. Arrhyna drew closer to Rannach, as if the chill, dread breath of nightmare invaded the lodge, a black and ominous mist.
“Be that as it may,” Racharran said heavily, “there are more immediate problems. A judgment shall be delivered tomorrow, and I must accept it.”
“No!” Lhyn’s fingers drove hard into the muscle of his shoulder. “Rannach acted honorably!”
“But still broke the law,” Racharran said. “Still shed blood in Matakwa.”
“Had he not,” Arrhyna said, “I should be with Vachyr now, likely brought to the Tachyn grazing. What then?”
“War with the Tachyn.” Racharran spoke hollow-voiced. “Chakthi’s wish still granted.”
“Shall Juh and the others not see that?” Lhyn asked. “Not see Chakthi for what he is?”
“Perhaps.” Her husband ducked his head as if it sat heavy on his neck. “But without proof they can know only that Vachyr was slain and Rannach admits the deed. That the Ahsa-tye-Patiko was ignored.”
Rannach squared his shoulders and asked, calmly as he was able, “What shall their judgment be? My death?”
He ignored Arrhyna’s horrified cry; Racharran ignored Lhyn’s. The akaman said, “Perhaps they will consider the circumstances. Perhaps Yazte can convince Juh and Tahdase. Perhaps they will consider my plea and their judgment be clement.”
“And is it not?” Rannach asked.
Racharran faced his son. “I am akaman of the Commacht. I must abide by their judgment, no matter what it cost me.”
12 Judgment
The moon stood aloof over the Meeting Ground, this night veiled in fast-blown streamers of dark cloud so that patterns of shadow and light pursued a dance across the encampment. From the center, where the Council fires burned, sparks rose to join the dance. From all the People gathered there to hear the judgment of the akamans there rose not a sound; it was as if the Matawaye held their breath, waiting, knowing these events momentous.
They had talked enough that day, all the men and women, debating amongst themselves what their decision might be were they seated with Juh and Tahdase and Yazte in the Aparhaso chieftain’s lodge.
It was a day unlike any other in the memory of the People. The Matakwa’s usually festive air was dulled and glum. Racharran asked of his warriors that they hold close to the Commacht lodges and not venture where their paths might cross those of the Tachyn. Chakthi stalked amongst his folk with the white clay of mourning a rigid mask over his lupine face. He vowed his son would lie within his lodge until judgment be delivered, and only then, avenged, be given burial.
None were sure where: no man had before died by violence during Matakwa, and none could say for sure whether or not the Ahsa-tye-Patiko allowed that the trees of the Meeting Ground might take such a body. The Tachyn thought perhaps Chakthi would take Vachyr back, to lay him in the ancestral burial wood, but Chakthi would not say—only cry for vengeance and spill ashes on his loosened hair. Hadduth, his own face streaked white, trailed on Chakthi’s heels like a skulking dog.
Rannach, in deference to his father and his own promise, remained mostly in his lodge. When he bathed or went to tend his horse and Arrhyna’s, an escort of senior warriors went with him. He kept a brave face. Arrhyna endeavored to conceal her fear, to stem the tears that threatened when her parents came or Lhyn sat with her outside the lodge.
As if his eyes were opened in a moment, Rannach understood what it was to be an akaman. He saw the barely hidden dread in his mother’s eyes and the unmasked pain in his father’s, and knew that Lhyn’s fear was entirely for him, her son, whilst Racharran must fear for him, for the Commacht, and for all the People. It seemed to him a terrible burden.
As the time approached when his future should be decided, he said to his father, “I am sorry.”
Racharran smiled: a thin stretching of his lips. “As am I.”
“Whatever judgment comes,” Rannach said carefully, “I shall accept.”
Racharran nodd
ed and turned his face toward the Maker’s Mountain. The pinnacle was bathed in the light of the westering sun, its flanks and peak reddened as if wounded. “I know you are brave,” he said. “I would also have you understand.”
Rannach said, “I think I do.”
“Were this another time, another place,” Racharran said, “it should be different. Had Colun not brought his news, had Morrhyn not dreamed his dreams …”
“I know. I’m sorry,” Rannach said again.
Racharran smiled again, warmer now: the heat of pride there. “You’ve courage,” he said, and took Rannach’s right hand between his own. “You were always brave and I have always been proud of you, but I must think past you. Do you understand that?”
“Now,” Rannach said.
His father said, “I cannot argue the judgment.”
It sounded like a farewell. From behind him, where Arrhyna sat sewing, Rannach heard a gasp. He said, “I know. I’d not ask that you do.”
“What I can do,” Racharran said, “I shall. But the People cannot be in disarray are Morrhyn’s worst fears aright.”
“No.” Rannach held his father’s hands tighter. “I understand.”
• • •
The clay masked Chakthi, his face unreadable. Only the dark eyes showed his hatred as he studied Rannach, his unbound hair falling matted and ash-smeared about his shoulders, as if he were some vengeful ghost unleashed by the Maker to take his toll on the quick.
And if he were a spirit, Rannach thought, then Hadduth was his familiar, crouched whispering at his master’s side, his own features all distorted by clay and ash, as if Vachyr had been his own son and Chakthi’s loss his. But Rannach stifled his contempt: he had made his father a promise and would not break it, for Racharran’s sake and his own honor.
His father sat across the circle from the Tachyn, Morrhyn close by, and Lhyn with Zeil and Nemeth, the two mothers with their arms about Arrhyna. Colun squatted surrounded by his Grannach, a cluster of living rocks, their bearded faces grave as stone. Behind them, allowed such precedence for their part in this drama, stood Bakaan and Zhy and Hadustan. Juh sat with Tahdase and Yazte, their Dreamers in a group beside. And all around there was silence as the People waited.
