“Well, usually, but certainly where training a channel is concerned.”
Suddenly the child grinned more brightly than ever. “Welcome to Fort Rimon. I’m BanSha. We’re going to be great friends.”
He scampered away laughing.
Solamar gazed after him, feeling his own smile fade slowly as he puzzled over that odd conversation. Then he went into the comfortably appointed room.
Though he understood this was not Rimon’s home, but only the room where he slept when he had to be close to the infirmary, it felt like a home. There was a magnificent quilt hung on the wall over the head of the bed, an ingenious thing created from what appeared to be a baby’s quilt in the center, surrounded by tightly woven ultra fine silky black angora fabric. By touch, it seemed the quilt had been stuffed with wool fibers and stitched to a backing just as fine as the front.
The only image on the quilt was a long triangle topped with the arc of the moon’s horns with an odd third peak in the middle. It was made of a single piece of bright blue cloth on a field of what had probably been white at some time. The baby’s quilt was worn, scuffed and much mended while the rest of the quilt was newer. The material was top quality, the stitching perfect and the thing had to be worth a fortune beyond its sentimental value. Just touching the corner infused him with a sense of awe.
Aware of the passing of time, he went to rummage through Rimon Farris’s closet and drawers and make himself presentable, feeling decidedly awkward about invading the privacy of his generous host. It was as if the symbol on that quilt was a ward, guarding the man’s privacy.
He became very sure he shouldn’t be here at all when he found a gorgeous jeweled belt of familiar expert workmanship tucked into Rimon’s sock drawer. He trusts strangers so easily. He ran the supple leather through his fingers and examined the stitching. It could easily have been made by Solamar’s grandfather. His father would have been able to say for certain. Solamar’s own skills at reading objects had never equaled his father’s. He returned the belt and took some heavy wool socks.
He changed into the awkwardly fitting clothes. He’d have to find the Tanhara people and discover who was left alive, find the Dispensary and get to work, find—well, Kahleen probably knew all the answers.
CHAPTER FOUR
RELUCTANT FAREWELL
Rimon didn’t see or speak to Solamar again until the funerals. The Tanhara channel had been gone from Rimon’s room when Rimon arrived to wash up, gone from the Dispensary when he arrived to check on things, gone from the hospital when Rimon came to follow up on those he’d treated. Someone said they’d seen him heading for the stables with Kahleen in tow, and Rimon imagined her silent protests. She hated horses. Or rather, they hated her.
So, just before noon, when he saw Solamar standing on the boulder they used for a podium at the edge of the cemetery, Kahleen nowhere evident, Rimon barely recognized the man. He was clean, well barbered, neatly dressed in clothes that almost fit, clothes from Rimon’s own closet, boots from someone else and a wide-brimmed hat he didn’t recognize.
Rimon climbed the steps carved into the side of the boulder and took his place beside the top channels from each of the Forts whose refugees now lived in Fort Rimon. Their Companions and the three people from the Fort Rimon Council who had survived the Freeband attack made a crowd.
Everyone turned toward him as he slid into the group’s complex nageric field. Bruce was late, but that was just as well. Rimon didn’t relish the idea of Bruce’s grief pounding into the ambient nager. Bruce’s nageric field was the only one that could pierce Rimon to the core. He looked around, waiting for Lexy.
It was not noon as originally planned. The sun was lowering swiftly in the leaden winter sky. Might snow before dawn, Del Rimon thought bleakly.
Jhiti moved up behind Rimon and offered, “Losing Aipensha is a terrible blow. Everyone loved her.”
He drew Jhiti up beside him. Jhiti was one of the three surviving Fort Council members. He was a renSime with organizational talent who had taken charge of their defenses. “Yes, her loss is a very serious blow,” Rimon answered steadily. I never should have ventured out of the shelter. She only followed my lead. “Still, overall we were very lucky this time, thanks to your endless drills.”
Rimon carried three large slates with the names of the dead which he would have to read, some of whom had been the leaders of the group so adamantly opposed to letting him direct the channeling staff transfer schedule, sparing Clire and her unborn child on his own judgment. If I hadn’t let them vote—vote!—on Clire’s medical condition, she wouldn’t have been in Need. She wouldn’t have Killed.
Rimon knew, all the channels knew, that even if they got her back now, they could only hope to save her child. She herself would be doomed to a horrible death.
He sucked his gloom in and hid it deeply inside. “Jhiti, your crew did a remarkable job on the cisterns or we’d have nothing but ashes for walls now if any of us even survived. Whoever heard of Raiders using fire-arrows!”
“They must have picked it up from some town, maybe from Gen Territory. It isn’t just that they want our Gens. They hate us. They all hate us.”
Jhiti looked back at the Fort where a stream of people still trudged down the steep hillside toward the gathering group. “We’ll have to build new walls anyway. Have to enlarge the compound. With Tanhara here we’re in a bad way for shelter, stables, water, everything.”
Rimon heartily agreed. Part of the acrimony he’d been facing from the various factions was from simple overcrowding. Simes, sensitive to the life-energy fields of others, the emotions of others, were never meant to live so close together. “I want to get the foundation for a new wall dug before the first bad freeze. We can cut logs and erect them even during the winter, but we can’t expect to dig efficiently after the ground freezes.”
Jhiti agreed with a flick of his nager. “I’ll want to put the new wall at the very edge of the drop-off to the valley floor even though that may be an irregular oval. It will be a little easier to defend, and it appears we’ll grow to fill the whole space and have enough people to defend that much wall. People were sleeping under the weavers’ looms today.”
“We’ll have to hold Fort Council elections again,” replied Rimon heavily.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Jhiti. “But if you say so, Benart will get it organized. With all these new people, it’ll be complicated.”
“Benart is trying to inventory feed for the animals and figuring rations for the winter. He’s delegated the channeling schedule record keeping to Val so he can straighten out the supply problem.” With so many strange channels trying to work together, it took an experienced channel to keep everything moving, so Val had to add Benart’s record keeping and communicating tasks to her usual job of assigning the channels’ work schedules. The new arrivals were in no condition to help yet.
Jhiti only sighed. “Like I said, elections don’t seem a priority.”
To Fort Rimon natives, maybe it isn’t, thought Del Rimon, but every decision he made without Council backing would be chalked up to some strangely twisted motive and by spring the Tanhara folks would be taking sides, splitting and fracturing the temporary unity forged during this emergency. He supposed the distrust of him arose because none of them could zlin him, Lexy or Aipensha well enough to know how he really felt about things. Not to mention how I just ignored the Fort rules, climbing the walls during an attack.
He swallowed hard and tried not to think of Aipensha as he watched people gather at the edge of the ever-growing cemetery, grouping themselves around the flat boulder as they had too many times recently.
He scuffed at the boulder’s surface, noticing that someone had chiseled it flatter here and there.
Just after noon, they’d held a brief ceremony over the mass grave of the Freebanders. Raiders never collected their dead.
The dead stock animals had been stripped of all useful parts and the remains buried down past the fields.<
br />
Four more of the injured had died, so the ceremony had been delayed to dig the additional graves.
Now three long, neat rows of new graves had been opened with a few others scattered about next to previously deceased family members. Some of those graves were for tiny bodies. Eighty-six had died, including the Tanhara dead, plus a hundred ninety-two Freebanders. And Clire.
The bodies were laid out beside their respective resting places, shrouded in plain cloth. Rimon heard the rhythmic tap of hammers doing emergency repairs of burned sections of the Fort. Guards were posted on the walls, and around the cemetery to protect the path back up to the stockade in case of another attack.
Several search parties, foraging parties and scouting parties were out. Rimon had seen to it that all those missing the funeral had volunteered to do so, and not because they couldn’t yet face their grief.
Finally, Rimon saw Lexy and Kahleen coming down the hill. He stepped up front and signalled the musicians. They struck a low, long chord of howling grief, a cry of bereavement, the traditional opening to funerals.
Rimon grabbed the ambient nager to inject his own sick loss, anguish, shock, and ragged disbelief into the emotional atmosphere, working them toward the catharsis they’d been suppressing since the previous day.
He had watched Clire Farris Kill Solamar’s Companion, Losa. His daughter, Aipensha, had been trampled to death trying to save Clire from her kidnappers. Neither would have been outside the shelter if it hadn’t been for his disregard for the oldest of Fort laws.
Solamar stepped up beside him, and joined as they had when the two of them had stood upon the Fort wall and become a beacon of blazing Gen nager for the Raiders. Only now, they raised grief, shame, remorse, guilt and all that went with being unable to save a loved one.
Kahleen joined Solamar, dressed in her best and flipping her unbound auburn hair behind her shoulders. Lexy slid against Del Rimon’s other side, her field work impeccable, blending her channel’s nager into theirs seamlessly. She took a moment to mutter, “The selyn audit is finished. Tanhara lost a lot of renSimes, so they’re arriving here Gen-high. We’ll have enough selyn to support the workers and get the new buildings done. The Companion situation looks good too with Aipensha....”
She just plain blew the fields to pieces sending shards of flashing emotion slicing through the crowd. In that split second, Rimon was undone.
He turned in front of Lexy, grabbed her tight to him, rolled so his back was to the crowd and tried to block all Lexy’s Farris nageric power from the crowd while he rocked against the hollow pain they shared.
It’s not your fault, Father.
It was a whisper on the wind, an icy twist to the ambient. He looked over Lexy’s bent head with eyes and Sime senses. At the edge of the graveyard, near the Farris plots, mist oozed from between the tall evergreens. Against that mist, made of that mist, shrouded in misty nageric clouds, stood Aipensha clinging to Zeth Farris, her grandfather.
Behind her gathered rank after rank of the dead. Rimon recognized many from the names on the slates he held and others from his own distant childhood. The wraiths whispered as if singing to the music. “It was not your fault. You saved the Fort. Live now, grow stronger.”
Aipensha’s voice led them, her accent, caroling her irrepressible joy in life. His father’s voice blended with hers. Behind Aipensha the chorus chanted her words, an echo that passed back to the farthest rank under the trees, in the depths of growing shadow. “Father,” she sang. “Del Rimon,” sang the others. “Rimon Farris!”
A stiff breeze whirled through the valley, rattled the trees, dispersed the tendrils of mist as if they’d never been. The musicians fell silent.
Kahleen and the other Companions on the boulder beside them had moved to contain the raw nageric outburst.
Rimon, still sheltering Lexy, turned to the gathered mourners to see what they had made of the mist turning into people who spoke as if chanting to the music of grief. The audience looked up at him with no trace of awareness of what he’d seen. Seen not zlinned he realized. There had been nothing to zlin. There had been nothing there.
Beside him, Solamar whispered, “Who was that?”
Solamar saw that? I don’t believe he saw that. “Aipensha. My daughter. Zeth, my father. Others who died yesterday, or years ago. They’re together now.”
Their eyes met, and he knew Solamar had seen.
While he stared at Solamar, Lexy pulled herself together, hugged him one last time and stood away. The three channels once again orchestrated the tenor of the ambient nager in a more staid fashion.
Nevertheless, they had shared their naked grief and guilt with everyone there, heaping it on top of what others felt. Rimon was ashamed.
He began the ceremony. “We gather to bid farewell to eighty-four of the finest people who have ever lived and two of our children. They gave their lives so that we could go on and realize their dreams. We stand as one with them all, carrying the responsibility they so ably shouldered.”
He brought up the slates. The light was dimming fast now, the air cooling. First came the Tanhara dead, and leading that list was Losa, Solamar’s Companion.
Solamar had to be prompted to step forward and say a few words on her behalf while she was lowered into her grave, and the attendant, a Tanhara Gen, began covering her over with reluctant strokes of his shovel.
Before they’d finished, Rimon read the next name, and very quickly Solamar picked up the rhythm of it. Rimon went through the dead of the other Forts among them, each with a channel to speak for them, and finally came to Fort Rimon’s own dead. Benart had listed Aipensha last, right after Clire, or Rimon would never have gotten through his part of the eulogies.
By the time Aipensha had been lowered into her grave, they were standing in the dark, a full moon on the horizon. Still the sound of shovels echoed. They couldn’t walk away from these graves only to fall to bickering again. The world inside this Fort had to unite against the groups arrayed against it from outside. Rimon spoke.
“Fort Intalace was the first to be overrun. Clire Farris arrived here with four others from Intalace who gave their lives defending Fort Rimon leaving her the sole survivor. Intalace was destroyed by the juncts of the town they had settled near.
“Fort Butte was defeated by drought and a bout of plague and sought refuge here last year.
“Fort Unity, a large and thriving community, attracted the attention of the territory junct government and was taxed to death before floods and mudslides wiped out their crops. Freeband Raiders, accidents and disease nearly took them all before they arrived here this last spring.
“Fort Veritt was almost wiped out by raids from the Gen army because they settled too near the Gen Territory border and the local Sime town wouldn’t turn out to protect them from the Gens who thought Fort Veritt was the source of the raids into Gen Territory. Most of the Veritt refugees here still have nightmares about the last Gen raid that caught most of their channeling staff in the open and burned down their Fort and all its crops.
“Fort Tanhara,” he gestured to Solamar, their ranking channel, “I’m told was overrun by Freeband Raiders and town juncts who worked in concert to destroy the Fort. That is the most frightening development so far.
“The town juncts and Freebanders hate us more than they hate each other. They hate us because we don’t Kill our Gens. They hate us because we are not addicted to Gen pain and fear and death, not dependent on the Kill to garner enough selyn to live for another month, not junct. They hate us because we are perverts.
“Freeband Raiders have never been any kind of organized menace. Here in the mountains, they’ve never been more than small packs of wild animals that swarm over any unsuspecting road party. Now suddenly they’re mounted, and they shoot fire-arrows to destroy our buildings, cooperate to scale our walls.
“Our scouts report the town of Shifron has been attacked by a very large, organized band of Raiders. A small part of that band split off and chased
Tanhara here wanting their Gens for the Kill. Theory is they have taken the town’s Gen Pen and are settling in for the winter. Scouts report the town’s ordinary junct population has fled south.”
Rimon paused to let that news sink in. From Shifron the Freebanders could raid Gen Territory for fresh Gens to Kill during any break in the weather. The Gen civilization out there allowed no Simes to live among them, and kept a standing army to enforce that. But to selyn starved Freeband Raiders who often Killed two or three times a month instead of the normal junct’s one a month, Gen Territory was filled with herds of Wild Gens, not people living as best they could in a harsh environment.
If there was no break in the weather, those Raiders would come to Fort Rimon for their Kills. By spring, perhaps the more peaceful, disciplined junct residents of Shifron would return with the Sime militia to take their town back.
Shifron had been making a good living between furs, lumber and pine nuts. They’d want their town back.
“Rimon Farris,” Del Rimon said, “my grandfather, the first channel, discovered how to avoid Killing Gens, how to take selyn from any Gen and transfer it to any renSime, letting the Gen live to produce more selyn. Most of you are the fourth generation of this dream of a world where no Gen has to fear the Kill and no Sime has to fear dying of Attrition. But in only four generations, we are failing.”
The only sound was the rhythmic snick-hiss-thud of the shoveling.
“Our failure stops today. Today, over the open graves of our parents, children, siblings, and loved ones, we pledge ourselves anew to my grandfather’s vision.
“Fort Rimon will survive this winter, and by spring we’ll be bigger, stronger, and better than ever. Come spring, we’ll clear more land, plant and prepare for the following winter. And we will help the citizens of Shifron take their town back from the Freeband Raiders. Shifron will have no reason to ally with the Raiders against us.”
The Farris Channel: Sime~Gen, Book Twelve Page 6
