by Angus Wells
“What manner of folk would set hot iron to their own faces?” Kahteney’s tone was horrified. “Are they mad?”
“I do not think they did it themselves,” Morrhyn said, “or wanted it done. I think it is something to do with rank, or …” He hesitated, seeking to wrap his mind around a concept alien to the People. “The ownership of human beings; like the markings a man puts on his horse.”
Yazte’s plump face creased in a mighty frown, disgust and disbelief mingled there. “You say these strangers own one another?”
“I think it is something like that.” Morrhyn sighed. “Understand that all I know of them is what I’ve gleaned from Davyd’s dreams, and what little of his language I can understand.”
“Do they claim ownership of one another,” Yazte said, his tone one of horror, “then they can be not much better than the Breakers. How can one man claim to own another?”
“I know not,” Morrhyn said, “but I think these folk do.”
Kahteney said, “The youngster, Davyd, learns apace—likely we can find out from him.”
“Yes.” Morrhyn ducked his head in tentative agreement. “But I’ve the impression he knows less of their world than the man, Arcole. Davyd looks up to that one like a child to his father. I think it’s from Arcole that we shall learn more.”
Rannach looked to Colun. “What more can you tell us, old friend? They spent a while with you, and you must surely have learnt somewhat about them.”
The Grannach scratched his bearded cheek thoughtfully. “Arcole’s back is striped,” he said, “all cut and scarred. As if someone had lashed him.”
“No!” It was Kanseah who spoke, his eyes wide with horror. “Are these people monsters?”
Colun shrugged. “As Morrhyn says—they are different. I tell you only what I’ve seen. But they were not such marks as a man gets by accident.”
“What else?” Rannach urged.
“Ach, hand me that flask that I might loosen my tongue.” Colun waited for the pot and drank deep before he spoke again. “Davyd is bright. He’s mightily curious, and he accepted our ways easier than the others. Flysse stayed mostly by Arcole’s side—remember, he was sore wounded—and Marjia took a great liking to her, which says much. She’s brave.” He chuckled, shaking his shaggy head. “You should have seen her coming up that cliff! She’d have turned back to her man, had Arcole not urged her on and we seized her.”
“Their courage,” Rannach said, “is not in question.”
“No,” Colun agreed, “but still a point in their favor. Is Morrhyn right, then they fled this wooden village like untamed horses the corral. And made their way through Chakthi’s land, which must have taken some doing.”
“They’d Morrhyn for a guide,” Rannach said.
“Yes.” Colun nodded. “But even so, I doubt that was an easy journey.”
Morrhyn smiled, thinking of that journey he’d made with Rannach, from the high hills all across Ket-Ta-Witko, with Breakers all around and the Tachyn, too. He felt a kinship with these refugees: their departure from all they knew into the unknown world of the Grannach caverns, to Ket-Ta-Thanne, seemed a like pilgrimage. And there was that about Davyd that excited and troubled him, for a destiny lay on him like shadows seen past the fire’s glow, all shifting and unguessable. Strands of those many dreams he’d known on the Maker’s Mountain wound about Davyd, so complex he could not unravel them but only admit the absolute conviction that Davyd was linked inextricably to the fate of the People, their fate to his. He could not explain it to the others, not even Kahteney, not past the need to honor Rannach’s promise of sanctuary for all exiles. But in the marrow of his bones and the certainty of his dreaming, he knew, and so the People accepted. He was still the Prophet in their eyes, and for all he’d not own that title, they took his word as if he were Buffalo Father come back out of the First Days to advise First Man and First Woman. It was a burden he could not reject for all its weight and all his doubt: the People looked to him for guidance, and now, even when he claimed a lack of clear knowledge, they laughed and reminded him of what he’d done to bring them to Ket-Ta-Thanne, and trusted him implicitly and totally as babes their parents. And so he could only dream and seek to untangle the tortuous strands of that oneiric web, and say that Davyd and the others must be brought safe to the Promised Land.
He heard Rannach say, “Tell us about their fire-sticks,” and set aside his musings and gave his attention back to the discussion. Those things were surely interesting.
Colun frowned. “Those,” he said, “are strange things. I’ve studied them, and they appear to be constructions of wood and metal, but not such as we make, and I can barely understand how they work. There’s a black powder they pour into the metal tube, and it burns when they strike the metal pieces together. Flame and a loud sound like thunder come from the tube and spit a metal ball a great distance—farther than any arrow flies. But there’s much to-do about pouring in the powder and the ball. A bow is a better weapon, I think; it makes less noise, and it works much faster.”
“But they killed Tachyn with these things?” Rannach asked.
“Yes,” Colun replied. “And when the Tachyn were hit, they did not get up again. It was as if they struck with thunderbolts, and the metal balls made great holes in them.”
“How much farther than an arrow?” Rannach asked.
“I did not measure the distances exactly,” Colun said, somewhat disgruntled by the interrogation, “but perhaps twice the distance. Why?”
“Because if these three have such weapons,” Rannach answered, “then likely all these strangers do.”
“So?” Yazte reached for his blanket, draping it about his wide shoulders. The night grew old and colder, and this weighty conversation seemed to damp the warmth the fire and the tiswin gave. “What’s that to us?”
“Do you not remember the fight at the Meeting Ground?” Rannach looked about the firelit circle of faces. “When the Breakers’ magic sent their shafts farther than ours? Should they find us …” He shaped a sign of warding, glancing around as if he momentarily anticipated attack. “Then such far-firing things would be very useful. And if these over-the-mountains people come against us …”
Kanseah said, “I saw Perico fall then. I could not flight a shaft so far.”
“These folk are not Breakers,” Yazte said.
“No.” Rannach’s face was planed grave by light and shadow. He looked, Morrhyn thought, as Racharran had when he thought grave on the future, the father reflected in the face of the son. “But it would seem they set hot iron to men’s faces and the shoulders of women; and that they lash men as we’d not animals. And they possess fire-sticks that throw thunderbolts farther than arrows can fly. And Morrhyn believes some of them own magic.”
He paused and Kahteney asked, “What do you say, akaman?”
Rannach thought a moment, even now not entirely comfortable with that title, with that weight of duty. Then: “I say that before Morrhyn dreamed of these three strangers we believed ourselves alone in Ket-Ta-Thanne. That the People lived secure behind the mountains, and that only the Tachyn dwelt to the east. Now we know it is not like that—that others than the Tachyn live there, and seem to own strange powers. I know that they are not Breakers, but what if they are like the Breakers? What if they, too, seek conquest?”
“Then we fight them,” Yazte said.
“It was a hard fight against the Breakers,” Rannach gave back, “and too many died. The Maker knows, but we are few here. I’d find out all I can about these others—how many there are, and how they live; what strength they have; what magic. I’d not see the People attacked all unsuspecting again.”
Morrhyn stared at him, sensing where his thoughts went, and said quickly, “That’s wise, but first we’ll bring these refugees home, eh? See them settled amongst us, and learn to speak with them properly, so we understand them, and they us. Learn what we can of their world and its ways.”
“Yes.” Rannach nodded. His face was s
omber; Morrhyn wondered if he knew how much like his father he became. “But then …”
“I’ll look for dreams,” Morrhyn said, cutting him off. “Seek answers there.”
Rannach looked at the wakanisha out of eyes older than his face. “You’ve tried that, no?” He smiled: a thin expression. “And only dreamed of Davyd, of what he knows and sees. Did you not tell me the mountains divide us from this other world so firm your dreams cannot climb them, but become all confused?”
Morrhyn nodded. Around the edges of his mind he felt clouds gather like the building of a storm. For an instant, he wondered if he had done the right thing, bringing these exiles to Ket-Ta-Thanne. It was surely fulfillment of the pledge Rannach had given, that he’d wholeheartedly supported, but did it bring fresh tribulation to the People? Did Rannach contemplate what he feared, then perhaps all his dreaming only delivered the People to more conflict, or a few to death: he’d not see any more. He had not seen Racharran die—he felt he should have; should have dreamed of that betrayal: the guilt lived with him—and he’d not see Racharran’s son slain. He thought he could not face Lhyn with that awareness, not more guilt.
“Best that we seek answers of the Maker,” Kahteney said into the sudden silence. “That before we decide aught else. We bring these strangers home, and then …” He glanced at Morrhyn. “Pahé?”
Morrhyn nodded. “Yes: pahé. And I’d give the root to Davyd, also.”
The Lakanti Dreamer frowned, eyes narrowed in surprise. “He’s not yet of the People, Morrhyn, even less a wakanisha. What of the rituals?”
Morrhyn hesitated, pondering awhile before he spoke. “Save they elect to live apart from us, they shall be adopted into the People,” he said at last. “And are we to learn of their world, then we must be able to communicate with them. What understanding we have so far is got through dreams—through what I’ve seen of Davyd’s, and what mine have planted in his head. So, does he take pahé, I believe he’ll learn our tongue the quicker.”
“Perhaps.” Kahteney stroked his hawkish nose, not yet convinced. “But he cannot know anything of the Ahsa-tye-Patiko. Does he even know of the Maker? You’d take a stranger and introduce him to our mysteries—what shall the People make of that?”
“Young Taza,” Yazte murmured, “will be furious.”
“It’s a thing unprecedented,” Kahteney said.
“I know.” Morrhyn smiled. “As were the Breakers, our coming to this land. A new land and new times, brother.”
“Even so.” Kahteney shifted uncomfortably. “I am not sure it is the right thing.”
“Does the Ahsa-tye-Patiko deny it?” Morrhyn asked gently.
“No.” Kahteney shook his head, fixing troubled eyes on Morrhyn. “But still …”
Morrhyn lowered his head, thinking. The others waited: patience was a virtue of the People, and they did not expect or need instant responses, but allowed a man time to gather his thoughts that he might express them clearly. Morrhyn hoped he did the right thing: he believed it was necessary. Since first he had encountered Davyd’s mind wandering like some lost soul in the Dream World, he had felt destiny gathered about the unwitting youth. What, he could not discern, save that it should influence the People. But still he trod dangerous ground: it was, indeed, as Kahteney said, a thing unprecedented, and there would surely be those objected. Nonetheless, he felt certain it was needful. The very appearance of Davyd and his companion refugees spoke of a strange, unknown world beyond the mountains. Surely it was wisest—safest—that the People gained knowledge of the strangers. And how else than through speech? And how swifter to obtain that goal than through the oneiric communication the pahé root allowed? And if Rannach contemplated what he feared, then best communication be established fast as possible.
When he had the shape of his thoughts defined, and the words to express them formed, he spoke.
The others listened. The akamans deferred to Kahteney—this was a matter primarily of concern to the Dreamers—and it was the Lakanti who answered first. “I cannot argue your reasoning,” he said, “but still I am not sure in my heart. Do we make a compromise?”
Morrhyn nodded his acceptance.
“Then let us bring them to the People,” Kahteney suggested. “Do they choose to become Matawaye, then you and I should seek answers of the Maker in our dreams, and do our dreams confirm what you wish, then I shall support you and Davyd shall take the pahé.”
Morrhyn said, “That is fair,” and looked to the three akamans for agreement.
Rannach said, “I abide by your decision.”
“And I,” Yazte echoed.
Kanseah nodded, murmuring a soft affirmative.
“Then it is decided,” Morrhyn said. “Tomorrow we depart the hills and bring them to the People.”
“That settled,” Colun said, “have you any more tiswin?”
4
Lessons
Flysse smiled as Arcole groaned, and passed him the waterskin. He muttered, “Thank you,” and spilled a flow of tepid water down his throat.
“Perhaps the stream would refresh you,” she suggested.
He began to nod, but thought better of it. His head throbbed, and the warmth the tiswin had delivered seemed curdled into a sour pool that weighted his belly and filled his mouth with the taste of ashes. He licked his lips and glanced around the confines of the tent. The entry flap was thrown back and morning sunlight shone in painful lances against his eyes: he groaned again. Davyd lay snoring beneath a blanket; Flysse looked to have already visited the stream. Her face was bright with excitement, and wet tendrils of golden hair curled on her slender neck.
“It’s strong,” he said thickly, “that tiswin.”
“Taken to excess,” she answered with censorious solicitude, “I suppose it would be.”
Arcole scowled, then saw the mischievous smile she wore and found its match. “You mock me, woman.”
“I?” Flysse folded demure hands to her breast. “Would I mock you, husband? Why, I was just about to bring you breakfast, thinking you’d likely be hungry. A portion of cold venison from last night’s dinner; there are still some cuts left—fine, greasy cuts, all larded with fat. Perhaps some marrow.”
“God, no!” The notion was unpleasant enough Arcole forgot not to shake his head and winced at the pain. “Food is the last thing I want.”
“What do you want, then?”
“Sympathy,” he replied, mournfully.
“Bathe first,” she said, laughing now. “And when you’re clean I’ll give you sympathy.”
“Flysse, you are a stern wife.” This time he remembered not to move his head. “And I love you for it.”
“And I, it would seem, love a drunkard.”
“Not me.” He took her hands, his voice earnest. “You’ve my promise I shall take this brew only in moderation from now on.”
“And I’ll take your word,” she said. “Now, do you take Davyd and go bathe?”
He sighed and crawled to where Davyd lay.
The lad opened his eyes and smiled hugely. “God, but I feared I’d dreamed it all.” He sat up, throwing off his blanket, gesturing about the tent. “Isn’t this wonderful?”
“Yes,” Arcole said, envying the recuperative powers of youth. Perhaps he grew old. Surely Davyd had drunk as much as he, but appeared to feel no ill effects. No, he told himself as Davyd rose, I was wounded and lay healing whilst Davyd drank Colun’s tiswin and got used to it. Surely that’s the reason: it must be. But even so, I’ll drink wary from now on.
“Shall we bathe?” he asked.
Davyd nodded eagerly. “Where’s Morrhyn?”
“I don’t know: I just woke up.” He beckoned Davyd to follow him. “Come.”
They quit the tent for a morning all filled with sunlight and birdsong. A warm wind blew down from the encircling hills, scenting the air with the smell of pine sap and fresh grass, and all across the valley bright yellow flowers waved heavy petals in the breeze. Contrary to Flysse’s threatened pr
omise, the carcass of the deer was gone, and only embers smoldered in the stone-circled fire pit. Colun and his Grannach sat there, drinking tea and spooning up some kind of porridge. Arcole smiled faint thanks and waved more enthusiastic negation as Colun raised a bowl, pantomiming the act of eating. Morrhyn and the one called Kahteney sat in earnest discussion outside the horse-head-painted tent, nodding as they went by, and farther along the three akamans were working on the horses with combs of carved bone.
Davyd hailed them all like old friends, and was answered in like fashion. Arcole nodded politely, not moving his hurting head too much, and followed Davyd to the water.
They found a place where alders overhung the stream with a green panoply, the twisted trunks hiding them from view, and stripped. Davyd entered the water with a merry cry, Arcole more cautiously. The stream was chill even under the heat of the summer sun, and he gasped as he plunged beneath the surface. Then it was only invigorating; he dunked his head and felt the cold water wash away the aftereffects of the tiswin, and when he emerged he was able to offer Davyd a genuine smile.
“Do the—how do you say it?—Matawaye all live like this?” He scrubbed himself with sand. “In tents, out in the open?”
“I don’t know.”
“I thought …” Arcole shook his head, pleased that it no longer hurt.
“Thought what?” Davyd asked, clambering onto the bank and rolling in the grass like some young animal.
“I don’t really know.” Arcole followed him. “That Morrhyn had told you all about them.”
“No.” Davyd sat up, his face serious now. “I know that we shall be safe with them, but how they live …” He shrugged again.
“Yet you speak with them,” Arcole said.
“Somewhat, but not really so much.” Davyd tilted his head to empty water from his ears, brow creasing as he sought to express himself. “It’s as if Morrhyn taught me in dreams, but the words—the sounds—are different when they’re real. It’s like …” He pursed his lips, eyes narrowing. “Listen, there was a fellow I knew in Bantar, a pickpocket called Short Thom. He had a dog called Sam, who did all kinds of tricks on Short Thom’s word.” He chuckled at the memory. “Short Thom would set Sam to dancing, or somersaulting, and while folk watched, Thom would lift their purses. He claimed Sam understood everything he said. God, but he talked to that dog more than he did people! But I think Sam just learnt what the sounds asked him to do, and didn’t really understand. It’s somewhat like that with me. Do you understand?”
