by Unknown
Praise for The Whisper of Leaves
‘An impressive debut novel which combines assured writing and well-paced storytelling. K.S. Nikakis is a welcome addition to the ranks of Australian fantasy authors.’
Juliet Marillier
‘[The Whisper of Leaves] is strong on its arboreal setting, and promises further complexity. For the genre fantasy fans.’
The Age
‘Nikakis . . . weaves an enthralling story with characters you care about.’
The Sydney Morning Herald
‘This excellent book is filled with adventure and mystery, tragedy and love, with power struggles, the thrill of success and the crushing weight of defeat. A definite recommendation . . .’
Daniel Habashy, Newcastle Herald
‘This is great fantasy.’
Cairns Post
‘Here’s a strong new voice in Australian fantasy writing. It will be a pleasure to watch as this tale unfolds in future instalments.’
Good Reading
‘Follow the lovely, vibrant Kira every step of the way in this fast-paced, epic story from a brilliant new Australian writer.’
Toowoomba Chronicle
KAREN SIMPSON NIKAKIS grew up in the alpine region of north-eastern Victoria. She spent her childhood riding horses around the surrounding countryside, developing a keen interest in landscapes.
After starting out as a teacher, Karen worked in adult migrant education, teacher education and business communications. Taking leave from work to spend time with her young children, she pursued further education, becoming interested in fantasy, mythology and Jungian theory. As well as doing a PhD on Joseph Campbell’s hero path, she wrote short stories, poetry and novels during this period.
Karen lives with her family on acreage near the western edge of Melbourne and lectures in business communications at Deakin University.
The Whisper of Leaves is Karen’s first novel.
BOOK OF THE
KIRA CHRONICLES
K.S. NIKAKIS
For Libby Ferri, lifelong friend,
28 November 1954 – 29 November 2006
This edition published in 2008
First published in 2007
Copyright © K.S. Nikakis 2007
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Arena Books, an imprint of
Allen & Unwin
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Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
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National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Nikakis, Karen Simpson.
The whisper of leaves.
ISBN 978 1 74175 504 6 (pbk.)
I. Title. (Series : Nikakis, Karen Simpson.
Kira chronicles ; bk. 1).
A823.3
Internal design by Kirby Stalgis
Map by Ian Faulkner
Set in ITC Legacy Serif by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
The Tremen
THE BOUGH-DWELLERS
Maxen (Leader, Kira’s father, of Kashclan) + Fasarini (of Sarclan)
Merek (eldest son of Maxen) + Kesilini (of Morclan)
Lern (second son of Maxen)
Kira (Kiraon, daughter of Maxen)
Kandor (youngest son of Maxen)
Sendra (helper, of Sarclan)
KASHCLAN
Descended from Kasheron
Miken (Clanleader) + Tenerini (of Barclan)
Tresen (son of Miken)
Mikini (daughter of Miken)
Brem (experienced Healer and Protector)
Arlen (learner Healer and Protector)
Paterek (learner Healer and Protector)
Werem (learner Healer and Protector)
Kertash (Protector Leader)
SARCLAN
Descended from Sarkash
Berendash (Clanleader)
TARCLAN
Descended from Taren
Farish (Clanleader)
Kemrick
Sarkash (Protector Commander)
MORCLAN
Descended from Mormesh
Marren (Clanleader)
Kest (Protector Leader)
Kesilini (Kest’s sister)
Feseren (Protector) + Misilini (of Barclan)
Penedrin (Protector)
RENCLAN
Descended from Renen
Sanden (Clanleader)
Pekrash (Protector Leader)
Sanaken (Protector)
KENCLAN
Descended from Kentash
Tenedren (Clanleader)
Senden (Protector Leader)
BARCLAN
Descended from Baren
Ketten (Clanleader)
SHERCLAN
Descended from Sheren
Dakresh (Clanleader)
Sener (elder son of Dakresh)
Bern (younger son of Dakresh)
Bendrash (Protector Leader)
The Shargh
Erboran (Chief) + Palansa
Arkendrin (younger brother of Erboran)
Tarkenda (mother of Erboran) + Ergardrin
Loyal to Erboran
Erdosin
Irsulalin
Ormadon
Erlken
Irmakin
Loyal to Arkendrin
Irason
Ermashin
Urpalin
Orthaken
Irdodun
Urgundin
Founders of the Four Shargh Peoples
The Shargh: Artmenton
The Soushargh: Urchelen
The Weshargh: Irkardin
The Ashmiri: Ashmiridin
Prologue
Death pervaded the cavern, crusting the walls and rising in clouds to the top of the chamber. Was it the air’s long confinement that caused the accompanying stench, or the bitterness of those whose lives had been snatched away, leaving only their voices imprisoned in the dreams of Shargh Tellers? Or was it something else?
Whatever the cause, darkness added to the sense of oppression, the fire in the chamber’s centre giving little light.
Ordorin wasn’t perturbed by the stench, attributing it to the tailings from some wolf lair deeper in the labyrinth or the rotting carcass of a stray ebis that had crashed through the ceiling from the Cashgars above. The world of dreams and Tellings, and of the shades of those who’d already gone to the Sky Chiefs’ realm, held no interest for Ordorin. His world was that of the he-wolf in flight, the straight-thrown spear, the men he could bring to his side and the women he could coerce to his bed. He’d come to the cavern only because the Teller’s summons had hinted at power – and power interested Ordorin very much.
Ordorin’s hand went to his dagger as he strained to make out the hunched shadow waiting for him. Crouched next to the fire, the Teller’s body was more bone than flesh, his eyes dark pools despite the firelight.
‘This will be my Last Telling,’ said the shadow.
Ordorin wondered whether the Teller was playing at trickery
, reaching his own fist towards the chiefship. Perhaps the Teller’s call had been a ruse to get Ordorin away from the Grounds and the blood-ties that might help him. It was said the Tellers drew their dreams from human flesh.
The Teller’s lips curled in a macabre imitation of a smile. ‘Perhaps you’re wondering why I summoned you,’ his voice rasped again. ‘Perhaps you’re wondering why I’ve chosen to favour you above all others with the last and most important of my Tellings.’
Ordorin’s grip tightened on his dagger. Could the Teller pluck the very thoughts from his head?
The Teller’s bony hand groped at the skin bag at his waist and he dropped a clutch of leaves into the fire, the stench in the cave becoming the rank sweetness of rotting fruit. Abruptly Ordorin’s blood took on the same ragged pulse that came with the cornering of a he-wolf or the sight of the naked flesh of his rival’s join-wife. He was to be privy to something denied other warriors. Already he was wondering how he’d be able to use the information to their cost.
‘Ordorin!’ came the Teller’s voice, jerking his attention back to the cave. ‘How many ebis have you stolen this season from your neighbours?’
Ordorin’s brows lowered, his eyes probing the darkness, judging the Teller’s intent, but the air around him had thickened and his head swam.
‘How many, Ordorin?’ insisted the Teller.
For Ordorin, the Teller’s voice had slipped into the same slow rhythm as the swirling, over-sweet smoke, the cave rippling in front of his eyes.
Ordorin felt the answer drawn from him. ‘Eleven,’ he said.
The Teller dropped another handful of leaves in the fire, turning the smoke white and sending shadow wraiths along the walls. They stretched and shrank, towering over Ordorin, then drawing back into the darkness. Ordorin watched them with heaving chest, unable to withdraw his gaze. Sweat slid down his back, then a new acrid odour filled his nostrils, making him forget his dagger and all memory of why he’d come.
‘How many sons and daughters who bear their fathers’ names carry your blood, Ordorin?’ said the Teller, his voice seeming to come from far away.
Ordorin stared down at his massive hands. He’d used them to crush the life from a writhing neck more than once, but now they lay slackly against his knees as if they belonged to someone else.
‘Seven,’ he heard himself say.
‘Tell me who fathered your grandfather, Ordorin.’
‘Orkarnin.’
‘How many sons did Orkarnin bring forth?’
‘Four.’
‘The third of these sons. Who was he joined with?’
‘Marzeka.’
‘And how many sons did Marzeka birth?’
‘Five, but the second was ill-formed and died in his birthing-bag.’
The Teller nodded and his eyes gleamed, the following silence broken only by the flitter of bats hunting bessel moths high in the cavern. Ordorin had the unsettling sensation of gazing down at the shell of himself crouched beside the fire. The darkness was no less intense but his vision was more acute, so he could clearly make out the bony body of the Teller and his own stolid form. He craved his dagger, flatsword and spear.
‘I did not bring you here for your wit or for your morals,’ the Teller went on, ‘I brought you here for your memory. This will be my last Telling, and the last Telling of the Shargh. No more Tellers will walk the Grounds or go where I go in dream. I am the last.’
The last? thought Ordorin, dazed.
The white smoke lit the Teller, making him burn brighter than fire but colder than death.
‘What . . . what is it you would have me do?’ said Ordorin, his tongue thick and unwieldy.
‘Listen, then be my mouth.’
‘Your mouth? But who am I to tell?’
‘Your memory will carry on in your blood, as your appetites and lusts will. Take your first-born son and instruct him as I instruct you. In turn, his first-born son will be his mouth.’
‘But . . .’
‘Be silent and listen! I give you the story of the doom of the Shargh . . . and the power to undo it.’
The Teller’s hand moved and the smoke blushed red, causing Ordorin’s eyes to sting and weep. The shadow of the Teller stretched like a vast serpent around the cavern walls, imprisoning him. Ordorin’s brain screamed at him to be gone, but his body was as heavy as stone.
Then a wailing filled the cavern, driving him before it – a reedrat under talon shadow – fleeing along the ways beyond the realm of sleep, beyond the earth times of light and darkness, to the realm of the Teller. This was the place of the impossible made possible, of the unimaginable given shape, of the void of beginnings and endings.
Abruptly the wailing stopped and Ordorin became aware of his thundering heartbeat, and above it the chant of the Teller, imprinting his body and mind and memory.
If Healer sees a setting sun
and gold meets gold, two halves are one.
Then Westerner with silver tongue
will love and lose the golden one
but bind a friendship slow begun.
If horses graze in forests deep
where trees their summer greening keep
then fire will be the flatsword’s bane
and bring the dead to life again.
Deeds long past will hunt the Shargh
and funeral smoke consume the stars
until the thing that draws no breath
devours the dark that feeds on death.
Silence suddenly reasserted itself and the heaving shadows became the blank walls of the cavern. The light that had illuminated the Teller was gone too, leaving nothing more than a broken old man.
‘Thus speaks the last of the Tellers,’ the man whispered, his voice as sere as summer grass. ‘Sleep now.’
Ordorin’s head sank forward and he knew no more until roused by the dim light of day. His neck ached and his legs were no better, cramped and bloodless. He cursed as he massaged feeling back into them before staggering upright.
The cavern was empty but the Teller’s message remained.
1
Many seasons later, deep in the south-west, wind rippled the canopy of an immense forest. High in a sever tree, Kira was showered with medallions of light, and a sweet mix of sever, castella, ashael and lissium scents were released into the air. From Kira’s vantage point, the forest was a vast gleaming ocean, chattering as twigs clashed, locked, then broke free again.
‘Don’t be more of a fool than you already are, Kira!’ came a voice from below.
Kira climbed even higher, partly to spite Tresen and partly to get a better view of the canopy. The intense blue of the sky made her squint after the muted light of the forest floor. If she were in an alwaysgreen she’d be able to see to the Third Eight, but the sever tree was smaller and more finely limbed, the branch she was on already protesting.
Tresen shouted again but his voice was lost in a cacophony of birdcalls as a flock of springleslips skittered away. Kira watched the yellow and blue flashes of the springleslips disappear among the branches and heaved a sigh. If only she could fly, up and away from the confines of the Bough, her father’s disapproval and the squabbles of the Tremen, over the canopy to its very edge and beyond.
The thought brought the familiar shiver of fear. Far to the north, beyond the forests of Allogrenia, were the vast mountains and plains that the Writings spoke of: the terrible landscape of Kasheron’s journey and the brutal haunts of the Terak Kutan. How could Kasheron, whose blood flowed in her own veins, be so different from his twin brother Terak?
The branch Kira was on creaked again and she swung herself down to a sturdier one, then descended hand over hand until she’d left the bright world of the leaf-ocean behind and was back in the cooler green-lit world below. It seemed an age since she’d last climbed high into the canopy, as she spent more time in the Warens now, exploring the Writings stored there. In the last few moons she’d ventured into the further caverns, finding Writings that spoke of Kash
eron’s journey, how he had established Allogrenia, named his people the Tremen and brought healing into being, using new herbs they had found beneath the trees.
Kira grinned at Tresen, still staring up, hands on hips, feet planted wide. From her vantage point, he looked so full of his own importance. Since he’d begun Protector training with Commander Sarkash in the Warens, he thought he knew everything, but she knew more about the Writings and could still jump better than him, and from greater heights, if she chose.
‘Kira! Come down!’
By the ’green, he was turning into a nag, she thought, strolling to the end of the branch and lowering herself into a crouch. No doubt he thought her still too high to jump but she’d done so from these heights before, and so had he before the Protectors had curbed his freedoms and made him sensible. A honeysprite chirruped above her head, then the wind woke again, making the bough dip. Stinking heart-rot! Her arms windmilled and she grabbed at the foliage, slicing her hand in the process. Ow! They weren’t called sever trees for nothing.
At least Tresen had given up bawling at her, she thought, sucking the wound and quickly scanning the forest floor. Where was Kandor? Surely Tresen hadn’t let him wander off? Her clanmate was poking at a shelterbush with his sword, pretending to ignore her. She opened her mouth to shout but thought better of it. It’d be quicker to jump. Crouching carefully, she glanced back and forth between the ground and the branch, estimating her height and visualising her landing. It was a long time since she’d made such a jump and doubt stirred, but she dismissed it. Taking several deep breaths to loosen her muscles, she pushed off.
For a wonderful moment she was flying, the fragrant air an intoxicating mix of sunlight and shadow, birdsong and silence. Then, too soon, she hit the ground with a terrific impact. There was an explosion of leaf litter as she relaxed her knee joints and dipped her shoulder into a roll. But instead of coming up and over and back onto her feet, the force of the landing threw her forward again and onto her belly, slamming the air from her lungs. There was a horrible moment of suffocating panic, then the blessed relief of a lungful of air.
