by Angus Wells
Rannach nodded, reminded of his role in that confusion. “Do they come.” he said awkwardly. “I’ll take word to my father. You’ll have allies then—surely the Commacht, likely the Lakanti.”
Colun grunted, his eyes fixed on the valley below. “Perhaps; save they’re too busy fighting amongst themselves. But timely? Do those creatures breach our defenses, I think we shall none of us have too much time. Ach, I wonder if I shouldn’t have challenged Chakthi myself, put my ax in his skull and let in a little sense.”
“That should be my battle,” Rannach said. And softer, “I was the one fired his rage.”
“No.” Colun turned from his observation of the valley to look up at the young Commacht. “Chakthi’s rage is all of his own making. Had Vachyr not”—he glanced at Arrhyna and shrugged—“he left you no honorable choice save what you did. And Chakthi was a part of that—he knew of his son’s plans and approved them. His, the sin. I only wish your folk saw it clearer, that your Council had condemned Chakthi to banishment, not you.”
Rannach smiled thanks for that support and said, “You’d sooner have Chakthi for a neighbor?”
Colun’s laughter belled across the sky. “As soon I’d bring a wolf pack to this place! I’ve no love for Chakthi. Do you not know the story?”
“Only that my father names you true friend.” Rannach shook his head. “And that you come always to our lodges.”
“You Commacht,” Colun said, “make the best tiswin. But there’s more to it; perhaps I’ll tell you later. Now, however, do we go down?”
He moved from the balustrade, waving his followers to him, and they began the descent to the valley floor.
It was a wide way and smoothly carved, but vertiginous for all its width and easy surface. Rannach brought the horses down wary, aided by Arrhyna, and it was a relief to tread the floor, to be once more on grass.
The sun that had lit the strath so bright touched the peaks now, and shadow fell down the walls even as the sky remained bright. Stars showed, and the shaved round of the New Grass Moon. Rannach thought on how the Matakwa should be continuing until that disc was at least half waned, and felt a melancholy that he could not know how his clan fared, or be with his people when Chakthi attacked. He thought its would be good to face the Tachyn akaman down the length of a lance, and better still to see the head go in to Chakthi’s belly.
He shaped a furtive sign of warding, reminding himself it had been anger delivered him to this place, his clan to war, and vowed that when he and his bride were settled here, he would perform rites of absolvement, express to the Maker his contrition. But first he would see Arrhyna safe and settled: he owed her that for her courage and all she’d suffered. She was his first concern. He looked to where she led her piebald mare alongside and smiled. She smiled back, and he thought how brave she was and how lucky—no matter what—that she had chosen him.
They went on awhile until they reached the stream and Colun called a halt.
“We’ll camp here this night,” the Grannach said, “and in the morning leave you.”
Rannach asked, “Shall you come back?”
“In time.” Colun nodded toward the valley’s farther end. “As I say, I must speak with my folk. How long that shall take, I cannot tell, but I’ll bring back word or come avisiting. Now, what’s to eat?”
A fire was soon built and the packs ransacked for the makings of a farewell feast. Rannach insisted his supplies be used, assuring his Grannach hosts that he could easily hunt food in so hospitable a place. None argued, save that Colun mourned the absence of tiswin.
When their bellies were filled and they lounged on the grass about the fire, Rannach asked Colun what was the story he had earlier mentioned.
“Well …” Colun chuckled, the sound like the rumbling of a bear’s belly. “Perhaps it’s not my place.”
For all he liked this squat man, Rannach thought then of taking him and shaking him, save that the Grannach was too strong, and would likely embarrass him with that blunt power. So he smiled and said, “I’d hear it, save you are forbidden to tell it.…”
“Not forbidden.” Colun smiled a reminiscent smile, staring at the fire. “It was agreed we’d not spread the tale wide, for fear of … upsetting … those concerned. Your father’s a tactful man, Rannach, and thinks beyond his own pride.”
Rannach ducked his head. “I know. But still I’d hear this tale.”
“Perhaps.” Colun glanced around at his fellows. “How say you?”
Like befurred rocks, the Grannach faces grinned. “Tell it, why not? It’s a fine story.”
Arrhyna said, “Please, Colun. I’d know this tale.”
“And your smile,” Colun said gallantly, “is hard to refuse. So, listen.… It was my first Matakwa. I was but newly named a creddan—which is somewhat like the title of akaman amongst your folk—and you, Rannach, were but a mewling babe, carried by your mother. Racharran was not long akaman of the Commacht, and I knew him not at all then, save from a distance.
“So, I came down to the Meeting Ground all prideful in my newfound status and drank your fine tiswin and, I am ashamed to say, took more than I could then manage.” He paused as his comrades laughed, waiting for their merriment to die before he continued. “The next day I found my head akin to that rattle you shook in those days, and my belly not very easy. I thought to go off alone awhile and gather my senses. And what did I find?”
He broke off again, grinning. “What I found was a sizable bear, not long woke from his winter’s sleep. The bear and a certain Tachyn warrior, whose name I did not then know. We came together in a wood some distance from the Meeting Ground, in a clearing there—me, the bear, and this Tachyn. He was ahorse, but his beast took fright and threw him, and he fell down on the ground. When he rose, he saw what I saw—that the bear was not in the best of humors and intent on eating one of us. Save he could not decide whether to chase the horse, the Tachyn, or me.
“Well, the horse made up its own mind and fled—wise animal!—which left the bear with but the two choices. I thought of following after the wise horse, but then that the bear would likely overtake me. Nor did I think it manly to leave the Tachyn warrior to face the beast alone. I had no weapons; the Tachyn had been hunting and carried a bow. I thought he’d use it, but he looked at the bear and took to his heels instead. The bear took after him and I picked up a fallen branch and threw it.
“I should not have done that: I should have let the bear take the coward. But I am Grannach and we know no fear, so I threw my stick and the bear turned about and came after me.
“At this point—as I wondered how fast I might climb a tree, and whether or not the bear should climb it swifter—your father came riding up. He was concerned for my health, he told me later, and had come looking for me. Praise the Maker that he did! However, he also carried a bow, and he put arrows into the bear faster than any man I’ve seen. He feathered the beast! It turned from me and went after him, and he led it away across the clearing and through the trees.
“Well, I ran after him and saw him slay the bear. Later we skinned it and ate its meat, and he gave me the hide which your mother had prepared.” Colun beamed, stroking the skin that draped his shoulders. “This is that same animal, and that is why I am your father’s friend and yours.”
The fire crackled, sending sparks into the night. Rannach said, “And the Tachyn?”
“Why, he was Chakthi, of course.” Colun grinned wickedly. “The bear slain, your father took me up on his horse—which I liked not at all!—and we returned to the clearing. We found Chakthi there. His bow lay on the ground and he was high in a tree. By the Maker, but he clung to his branch like a possum, and took a long time coming down, even though your father assured him the bear was dead. I watched him descend, and I do believe his breeches were wet!”
Laughter echoed into the night. The Grannach rolled about, holding their sides. Rannach said, “What then?”
Colun said, “Diplomat that your father is, he assured Chak
thi no word would be spoken of what transpired. Then he bound me to silence, telling me that it were better I not say anything, lest I make an enemy of the Tachyn akaman. Then he caught Chakthi’s horse and brought it back, and we rode away to drink tiswin.”
Rannach said, “Then Chakthi should be grateful to my father.”
Colun’s smile went away. “Should be,” he said. “But is not. Chakthi is such a man as regards gratitude as a hateful debt.”
“So,” Rannach asked, “is that why Chakthi bears us Commacht such enmity?”
“In part, I think.” Colun nodded, grave now, and stared serious at Rannach and Arrhyna. “Neither has he much liking for me, or any Grannach, for like your father I was witness to his cowardice.”
Arrhyna frowned and said, “But Racharran told him no tales would be told, and surely he must know that word stands good.…”
Colun shrugged. “I think that matters less to Chakthi than that we know, that we saw him up that tree all pale with fright, his bow forgotten on the ground. I think that such a man as Chakthi is broods on such matters, and they become like a festered wound that he cannot forget.” He nodded as if in confirmation of his own assessment and fixed them both again with solemn eyes. “You two are the only others who know of this. Morrhyn does not, neither your mother. You see? Your father holds to his promised word.”
Rannach said, “Had a man saved my life, I’d announce the debt. I’d feast him and name him blood-friend.”
“You are not Chakthi,” Colun replied. “His head follows a different trail, some other poison enters him.”
“The invaders?” Rannach followed the direction of the Grannach’s gaze. The mountains looked to him impassable, all cold and crenellate, looming moonwashed as snarling fangs. “How could that be?”
“How could I know?” Colun poked at the fire, encouraging brighter flames. “I am a creddan, not a golan or a wakanisha. I cannot interpret signs or dreams. But …” His bulky shoulders rose and fell as he sighed. “There’s surely a madness come to the borders of this land, and it seems to me a madness enters your people. Ach! The world knows a Grannach’s word is good—but who listened to my warning?”
“My father,” Rannach said, “and Morrhyn. Also Yazte and Kahteney.”
“Whilst Chakthi and that hangdog Dreamer of his ignored it.” Colun tossed a stick at the fire, sending sparks flurrying. “And old Juh and his wakanisha prevaricate; and Tahdase and his dither and look to Juh for guidance like puppies to the leader of their pack. And all the while …” He looked again at the hills. “Is that not madness? When a true friend warns of danger the wise man listens and readies, no? But your Council only dithered and blocked its ears, like children who close their eyes tight to deny what’s before them.”
At Rannach’s side, Arrhyna shivered and drew closer to her husband. Colun saw her shifting and essayed a smile. “You’ll be safe here. Do they come, you’ll have warning enough to get yourselves back down the mountains.” He fetched the kettle from the flames and filled their cups, sipped the tea, and sighed mournfully. “Ach, but I wish this were tiswin.”
One of his fellows chuckled and said, “There’ll be beer when we reach home.”
“It’s not the same.” Colun shook his head, grinning at the two Matawaye. “Of all the things you flatlanders make, it’s my conviction tiswin is your greatest achievement.”
“Perhaps I can brew it here,” Arrhyna said.
Colun’s face lit up. “You think that possible? Might you teach my wife?”
“I don’t know.” Arrhyna smiled. “I must explore this place, see if the right ingredients grow here. But can I, yes: I’ll teach your wife.”
Rannach said, “I didn’t know you were wed.”
“Since your father took his first step,” Colun replied, and beamed a huge grin. “I married late, but wisely—Marjia is the most beautiful woman in all these hills. Or any others.”
Rannach wondered how old the Grannach was. He knew the Stone Folk lived slow, long lives, but Colun’s innate vitality seemed that of a young man: he had thought the Grannach no more than his own father’s age, perhaps less, but Colun’s words suggested a far greater length of years. It was not the custom of the People to speak much of age, and so he assayed a different question. It seemed to him he should learn all he might of his hosts.
“What’s a … golan, you said?”
“One gifted by the Maker.”
“The wakanishas are gifted by the Maker,” Rannach said. “Do your golans dream, then?”
“No.” Colun drank his tea and shook the cup clean. “Their gift is that magic that allows us to shape the stone. They read its pathways, its flow and ebb, and use their gift to follow those ways. To open them to our tools. You flatlanders think stone is dead, but it’s not—it lives. Slow, I agree; and hard of comprehension save to the golans.”
This seemed to Rannach quite incomprehensible, and he said, “They use their magic to cut the tunnels? Like that one we used?”
“To open the ways,” Colun answered. “To persuade the stone to let us through. Then we ordinary folk come with our tools and refine the work. The entrances, they’re all golan work. I can explain it no better.”
“I’d like to meet one of these golans,” Rannach said.
Colun said, “Perhaps you shall. They’ve little to do with any others, but who knows? These are strange times. Two flatlanders come to live in our hills, and a darkness stirs across the world. So who knows what meetings might come about?”
Rannach said, “Yes,” and would have spoken further of the Grannach ways and all the world beyond these mountains, but Colun yawned massively and announced it time to sleep and Rannach knew he was done with talking.
He left the horses hobbled, cropping on the rich grass, and spread his blanket beside Arrhyna. It seemed wrong to pitch their lodge while their hosts slept open on the ground. He touched his bride’s cheek and composed himself for sleep. The last thing he saw was the pinnacle of the Maker’s Mountain shining like bleached bone under the moon.
He woke to shadow, realizing that dawn came late to this valley, and lay awhile listening to the morning. Birds rose chorusing, and from afar he heard the belling of a stag. He thought the hunting should be good here, and felt a sudden and tremendous excitement that he trod grass none of the People had before trod—as if he and Arrhyna were reborn as First Man and First Woman, raised by the Maker from the clay to walk this new land. He rose, draping his blanket about his shoulders, and fed the fire. Across the sky ran a great wide beam of golden light that fell upon the flanks of the Maker’s Mountain and lit the peak so that it shone all silvery white, no longer like bleached bone but bright and radiant as newfound hope. He bowed his head and made a gesture of obeisance, promising the Maker that he would from now serve him as best he could, following the Ahsa-tye-Patiko and warding his wife and people even to the giving of his life.
Then he started, embarrassed, as the others woke and gathered about the fire. Arrhyna went to the stream, and after her ablutions were performed, came back and set to preparing breakfast.
When they’d eaten, Colun declared it time to part. Rannach asked where they went, and when the Grannach indicated the valley’s invisible farther end, offered to ride with them.
“Stay here for now,” Colun said. “Pitch your tent and see your wife comfortable. Hunt; explore. Learn the valley and find a place to live. When I can, I’ll come back. Perhaps with Marjia”—he looked to Arrhyna—“that you fulfil your promise.”
Arrhyna said, “I shall, is it possible.”
“Ach, tiswin!” Colun chuckled. “I shall offer prayers that it is.”
Arrhyna smiled; Rannach said, “Shall I not ride with you at least a little way?”
Colun beckoned him off then, out of earshot, and said, “Make your camp here a few days before you wander farther. And when you do, go no higher than that.” He thrust a finger at the pines standing above the topmost terrace. “Let that be the limit of your explora
tion, eh?”
Rannach ducked his head and said, “As you will. But why?”
Colun sniffed noisily. “I am but one creddan, as your father is but one akaman. My clan claims this valley, and it was my decision to bring you here. It might be that …” He grinned somewhat shamefaced. “That not all agree with my decision, especially when I tell my people of your Council’s indecision. It would be wiser that you stay safe here, not risk offense. None shall harm you here, but some might take affront did you go wandering about our hills.”
Rannach nodded and again said, “As you will.” He no longer felt quite so secure.
Seeing this, Colun said, “No harm shall come to you here. I’d have said this earlier, save I’d not frighten Arrhyna. She’s had frights enough of late, no?”
Rannach said, “Yes,” and took the Grannach’s horny hand between his own. “My thanks for all you’ve done, Colun. I deem it an honor to name you friend.”
“And I,” Colun said. “You’re your father’s son.”
“Save I lack his wisdom.”
“That shall likely come.” Colun held Rannach’s hands hard: it was as if stone ground his bones. “Time makes some men wise, if they live long enough. I think you’ll learn it.”
Rannach said, “I hope I may.”
“The Maker stand with you,” Colun said, and turned away.
In a while the Grannach were gone, trotting up the valley to where the stream turned around a stand of juniper and was lost.
Arrhyna said, “I think I might make tiswin from those berries.” And then: “What did Colun say to you?”
Rannach shrugged and said, “Farewell,” and for a moment thought to hide from her what else. But they were together now and alone, and he’d not hold any secrets from her. So he told her.
