by Unknown
‘When did you ever wait for his permission?’
Kira’s head came up, eyes flashing. ‘You don’t know what it’s like! He’s . . .’ she stopped abruptly, swallowing several times. ‘He can be very harsh with Kandor.’
And with you, thought Tresen, leaning forward and catching her hands. ‘Dakresh was late again and the council didn’t get under way till past noon, so they’ve decided to stay over and finish the council business tomorrow. No doubt your father will follow his usual practice of ensuring every discussion ends with his words, so he’s unlikely to be back until the dawning after next. The moon will be well and truly full by then and his prohibition ended.’
Kira said nothing and Tresen’s voice gentled. ‘I’ve food and sleeping-slings in my pack. Come with me like you used to. It was so good, walking and talking together and sleeping in the ashaels, just you and me and Kandor.’
‘Did I hear my name?’ said Kandor, appearing from his room, eyes on the platter of nutcake remnants.
‘No, you didn’t,’ said Kira.
‘If you’re talking about going to the starstone, I’m coming too,’ said Kandor, dabbing at the crumbs.
‘You know father’s forbidden me to leave the Arborean,’ said Kira tersely.
‘Well he hasn’t forbidden me,’ retorted Kandor. ‘Tresen and I could bring some rednuts back for you if you want to stay here, or you could come and harvest your own and risk our dear father’s wrath. I don’t think you’ve searched that way for fireweed, have you?’
Tresen stifled a smile at Kandor’s guile.
‘So, are we travelling as a twosome or a threesome?’ asked Tresen casually.
‘A threesome,’ snapped Kira.
Kandor capered around the cookingplace, clapping his hands and whooping.
‘Save your strength for the journey,’ said Kira dourly. Then, turning to Tresen, she said, ‘Give me a moment to change.’
As Kira headed towards her room, Kandor’s smile vanished. ‘There are times when I hate father,’ he said, dropping his voice. ‘He’s never happy unless he’s making Kira unhappy.’
Tresen stared at him in surprise. Having his own thoughts echoed was far from comfortable. ‘Perhaps he has reasons for wanting her close,’ he suggested diplomatically.
‘Close? He can hardly bear to have her near him, or me for that matter. But it’s worse for Kira because she’s a Healer, and not just any Healer, the best in Allogrenia. I know it, you know it, and most of the clans know it, and that’s what father can’t stand.’
Tresen’s surprise deepened. Kandor was the chubby-faced babe Kira had carried on her hip, the little boy with the serious brown eyes who’d trotted at her heels, the gangly youth with an easy smile whose wrists and ankles were now always too long for his clothing, not someone to utter unpalatable truths.
‘I . . .’ began Tresen, but at that moment he heard Kira’s footsteps returning and she reappeared, clad in breeches and shirt, and carrying a gathering-sling.
‘Do you have a waterskin?’ she asked Kandor. ‘And something warm to wear at night?’
‘It’s almost summer,’ protested Kandor.
‘You’ll need a cape,’ said Kira, filling her waterskin from the cask and checking the contents of her pack.
Kandor sighed and headed off towards his room.
Tresen watched Kira pull her pack closed and flick back her plait. In the close-fitting breeches and shirt, she looked very much like Kandor, and more boy than girl . . . until she turned.
‘He can hardly bear to have her near him,’ Kandor had said. Kira didn’t look like Maxen, nor for that matter, did Kandor, so they must look like Fasarini. Maybe they reminded Maxen of his bitter loss all those seasons past. This might be the explanation for his coldness towards them. Then again, so might Kandor’s assertion that Maxen was jealous.
‘Which way do you want to go?’ asked Kira, heaving on her pack.
‘You choose,’ said Tresen, unsettled by his thoughts.
‘If we journey more northerly first, we can spend the night in the ashaels, before swinging north-east,’ said Kira, putting another piece of wood on the fire and pushing an errant coal back into place with her foot. ‘I’ll need to see Lern first, if he isn’t sleeping. Wait for me on the edge of the Arborean.’
Tresen and Kandor made their way out of the Bough and through the scatter of espins and castellas, Kandor playing his pipe but Tresen silent, his mood of happy expectation dampened. If Kandor were right about Maxen, Kira’s future held only misery.
They came to a halt where the espins and castellas gave way to denser stands of fallowoods, Kandor settling on a stump, but Tresen wandering up and down at the edge of the trees. The moonlight limned the great sweep of the Bough’s roof, picking out the intricate carvings on the eaves and windows and lending them the fragile beauty of an ice-crusted web.
Kandor’s breathy tune came to an end and he pocketed his pipe and began poking at the twigs around him, impatient to be gone. ‘If father weren’t Leader, we’d be living in the Kashclan longhouse with you and free to come and go as we wished,’ complained Kandor. ‘I hope Lern’s not being difficult about staying.’
Not since Kasheron’s folk had turned their backs on the northern lands and entered the trees had the Tremen been without a Healer in the heart of their settlement. Gales might blow and even snow fall, and in the early days, wolves ravage and maim, but the Healer always endured, in a crude wooden shelter at first, and later in the magnificence of the Bough.
Tresen’s fingers beat a tattoo on a nearby castella as he wondered if Lern were indeed being difficult. It seemed unlikely, for Maxen’s second son was more like Kira than Merek in temperament. Merek was a stickler for rules, protocols and processes, especially when they suited him.
‘What’s Merek doing nowadays?’ he asked Kandor suddenly, realising he hadn’t seen Kira’s eldest brother for some time.
‘He gathers a lot with father,’ mumbled Kandor, plucking at a stem of pitchie seeds, ‘and he spends a fair bit of time in the Haelen updating the healing records.’
‘Does he . . .?’ began Tresen, then forgot his question as Kira came swiftly through the trees. ‘All’s well with Lern?’ asked Tresen.
‘He’s more than happy to remain as Healer . . . for his share of the rednuts.’
‘Oh, that can be arranged,’ said Tresen cheerfully. ‘The first windfall is always plentiful.’
Kira giggled. The first windfall was notoriously small and the nuts often bitter. ‘And Sendra gives you this,’ she said, handing him a package.
‘What is it?’
‘Freshly baked nutcakes from the drying room.’
‘They’re for sharing,’ broke in Kandor.
‘Of course.’ Tresen stowed them and reached for Kira’s hand. ‘I’m glad you’ve come.’
The warmth of Tresen’s hand chased away the last of Kira’s dread and she took a long, slow breath, pleased to be journeying again, Kandor on one side, Tresen on the other.
‘I’m glad too,’ she said.
7
Erboran dropped the load of washwood onto the floor and looked around his sorcha, still surprised by how different it seemed with the floor clear of his clothing and the air full of the clean scent of plateflower blooms, instead of sweat and soured food.
‘Shelving for my join-wife, or it will be,’ said Erboran, dusting himself down.
Palansa smiled delightedly, drawing him a bowl of sherat before settling at the table opposite him.
‘Did you have to go far?’ she asked.
‘Nowhere is too far for my join-wife,’ said Erboran, enjoying seeing her colour slightly. Her hair was loose, as he liked it, and glistened where it caught the light shafting in from the smoke-vent.
‘Not drinking?’ said Erboran, knowing full well that Palansa’s parents disapproved of sherat.
‘I’m not thirsty,’ said Palansa, flicking back her hair and exposing the curve of her throat.
Erbora
n let the potent liquid swirl in his mouth. ‘I think it’s more likely you’re still under your father’s hand,’ he teased.
‘I’m less Ordaten’s daughter than your join-wife,’ she said, smiling.
‘All of my join-wife,’ said Erboran, rising. Palansa stood also and he came to her, slipping open the first button of her shirt. Her breathing quickened as his fingers moved to the second button, then the third.
He’d never bothered undressing a woman like this before, content for them to unclothe themselves before taking themselves to his bed, or simply pushing up their skirts and taking his pleasure as quickly as possible. But it was different with Palansa. Even the Grounds felt different to him. When he stood gazing over them now, he thought of Palansa by his side and later, their sons there too.
Erboran reached the last button and peeled the shirt from Palansa’s shoulders, exposing her breasts. Her breathing had quickened, her mouth already searching for his. He tasted the sweetness of her breath and felt the insistence of her body as she pressed against him. His kisses moved down her neck to the hollow of her shoulder. She was clinging to him now, so that it was no effort to lift her onto the bed.
Erboran began to struggle out of his shirt, but Palansa stilled his hands. ‘Let me,’ she said with a grin, clambering up on him and easing him out of it.
Her hair fell over her breasts and he could feel her hot moistness as she sat astride him, her fingers on the lacings of his breeches intensifying his need of her. With a groan he pulled her close again, her hair cool against his skin as he rolled her gently beneath him.
Arkendrin plunged his blade into a tree, jerked it sideways, and sent another gouge of wood spinning into the undergrowth. He strode forward, counting under his breath and forcing his way through a dense stand of grasping tendrils before slashing down again. Sweat stung his eyes as he hacked bad-temperedly at a spongy plant crowding his feet. It was stifling under the tangle of stems and branches, and he pulled out his waterskin once more and drank greedily.
It seemed an age since he’d seen more than a fragment of sky, or felt the clean bite of wind on his face; an age since he’d left behind the open spaces of the Grounds.
‘This forest has no end,’ said Urgundin, coming level. ‘And it eats the wind.’
Arkendrin stared about grimly. He’d waited most of a moon before he’d set out, refusing to jump to his brother’s command, like an ebis running before a herder’s stick. They were now into their fourth day of travel under the trees, the sixth since leaving the Shargh Grounds, and the only gold eyes they’d seen belonged to an owl. An owl wouldn’t satisfy Erboran. Oh no, the great Chief must have proof to prop up his chiefship! Under his brother’s rule the Shargh were directionless, watching the pasturelands wither and die, the ebi tug at their mothers’ empty milkbags, content to eke out an existence in the desiccated ebis pen the battles of the Older Days had confined them to! Erboran was even happy, it seemed, to wait for the creature of the Last Telling to stroll onto the Grounds and destroy them all!
Well, there’d be no waiting for Arkendrin! He’d take back proof of the gold-eyed creature and then Erboran would be forced to act as a Shargh Chief should – or lose the chiefship.
He brought his dagger down through the bark of another tree, thinking that if it had been Erboran’s throat, his work would have been far more pleasurable. Urgundin was right; the forest was endless. Bole upon bole as far as the eye could see; green and brown and grey and black; no sunlight, no air and no paths. Irdodun had sworn that he’d seen the gold-eyed creature and treemen as well, but how did they walk and not mark the ground with their passing? Were they as birds? Arkendrin glared up at the trees, scratching at his six-day beard.
Irdodun was a strange man, given to wandering far beyond the ebis pastures, and he was also low on the slope. If Urgundin hadn’t vouchsafed him, Arkendrin would never have left the Grounds. Still, for all Irdodun’s strangeness and lack of Voice, at least one of his claims was true; there were immense trees running south-west, roughly a day’s march apart. He had no idea how Irdodun had come to notice such things, for the land was an unremittingly dreary mix of alien growth, but it was useful. It had made his and Urgundin’s route into the forest easier. All he needed now was the gold-eyed creature Irdodun claimed to have seen.
What if finding the creature of the Telling was impossible in a single journey? What if they never found it? Arkendrin’s knuckles whitened on his dagger. Irdodun had seen her and other treemen as well, but he’d come here many times over the past seasons, finding his way through the rank tangle in his strange moorat way.
Arkendrin hacked wildly at the fronds again and wiped the sweat from his eyes, furious at toiling here while Erboran took his pleasure with Palansa! Behind him, Urgundin slowed, letting the gap between them widen.
Erboran should be here, not him! It was the Chief’s task to protect the Shargh, not his! The task of the mighty Chief Erboran; the task of the firstborn! Yet he’d demanded proof! But proof could take many forms; it need not be the creature itself. Arkendrin stopped mid slash. It would be easier to capture a treeman, for there were many of those, and once back in the Grounds, with Irason’s help, it would take neither time nor skill to wring the truth from his lips. Then Erboran would have to leave his warm bed and come here to slay the creature himself.
Arkendrin’s mind worked feverishly. They had been in this dirty green world nearly four days. If Irdodun were to be trusted, one of the treemen’s long wooden sorchas must be close. He didn’t want to stumble into it and find himself in battle. The tesat on his flatsword was deadly but it wouldn’t kill all of them, and fighting would delay their search.
Time to turn back. The chances of stumbling on a treeman were just as great journeying north-east as they were south-west. And if he didn’t, he’d return at his convenience, not Erboran’s.
He swung round to Urgundin, waiting several lengths behind. ‘We head north-east,’ he said, and strode off through the trees.
8
The air in the Water Cavern was oppressive, the lateness adding to the sense of foreboding that lay like a heavy hand over the gathered Protector Leaders. They exchanged nods as their comrades entered the cavern, but no one spoke.
Commander Sarkash had ordered they assemble in the Water Cavern with all possible speed and discretion. It took little wit to guess the news was bad, for why else would they have been ripped from their beds? To be called together was unusual, and in the middle of the night and in the least hospitable of the Warens’ many caverns, unheard of.
Their Commander stood before them, poorly lit by the single torch. Sarkash rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, trying to ease the tightness of his muscles as he mentally ticked off each new arrival. Only Pekrash and Dekren were absent now, and he knew where they were. Pekrash and his men had been so exhausted that he’d sent them straight to their beds, and Dekren’s patrol was too far out to be called back, even if he were willing to risk sending more scouts. A fresh wave of fear broke over him and he tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that Dekren’s patrol was further west in Renclan octad and probably safe.
The Water Cavern was uncomfortable, but far enough from the main caverns for there to be little chance of his words reaching the ears of the younger Protectors before he had time to properly prepare them. The last thing he wanted was panic sweeping through the Warens or the news reaching the longhouses before he had a chance to speak with the Clancouncil. He was breaching protocol already by speaking to his Protector Leaders first, but he had no choice. His first duty lay in securing the safety of the Tremen, and that meant Maxen and the council would have to wait.
Kest stood with the rest of the Protector Leaders, his gaze on the tense face of his Commander. He was not far from where he’d met Kiraon that morning, and he hadn’t expected to be here again so soon, and certainly not in the middle of the night. Kest’s unease grew as he watched Sarkash’s hand brush at his face, a mannerism that appeared only wh
en Sarkash was at his most discomfited. What was he waiting for? Was this to be an exercise in patience, like their endless tramps through the trees? At dawn he must be out in the Sarclan octad again, and that meant he should be sleeping now.
‘I thank you for your prompt attendance,’ began Sarkash at last. ‘Protector Leader Pekrash has just returned from the Kenclan octad with the grave news that beyond the Third Eight, running parallel with the Kenclan Eights, he came upon a line of trees, slashed at twenty-pace intervals.’
Kest jerked towards his comrades, seeing the same mixture of incedulity and dread that clawed at his own guts. Allogrenia had been breached! Someone had come in and was marking a passage to find their way out again. But the idea was ludicrous, impossible! His eyes fixed on Merenor, whose white face gaped back at him.
‘Pekrash returned at speed,’ continued Sarkash, ‘a course of action for which I’ve commended him.’
Kest’s mind reeled. Surely it would’ve been better to have pursued the invaders and found out their purpose? Then again, if there’d been many of them, Pekrash and his men could’ve been killed, and then there’d be no warning, or at least, none in time. The Protectors learned swordplay and patrolled, but Allogrenia’s safety was built on the premise that the vastness of the forest protected them. No Tremen contemplated they’d ever actually have to fight.
‘I’ve decided to forbid travel beyond the First Eight,’ Sarkash continued, ‘and will assign each clan a patrol so that gathering is conducted within the Eight under our protection.’
If the Protectors were confined within the First Eight, thought Kest, the intruders would be free to roam anywhere in Allogrenia, slashing their paths and laying their plans. It was absolute madness.
‘Commander Sarkash!’ The words were out of his mouth before he had time to stop them and all eyes turned to him expectantly.
‘Yes, Protector Leader Kest?’
