by Unknown
He took her hand in his. ‘You’ve done all you can.’
Her eyes jerked past him and she half roused. ‘Where’s Kandor?’
‘Foraging with Nandrin and Jonkesh. They haven’t gone far, he’s quite safe,’ he said, settling next to her and smoothing the hair back from the cut on her face. ‘You look like you’ve had a fight with a thicket of sour-ripe and the sour-ripe won.’
‘It was a hard journey,’ she said.
A hard journey; how true that was. He’d chosen not to believe there were strange voices in the night, and so she’d chosen not to believe it too. If they’d both chosen differently, none of this would have happened. But they hadn’t wanted to believe that the web of protection they’d woven around themselves was as fragile as a moth-case; no one did. He wondered how Maxen would react. Not well, he suspected.
Once Kira’s eyes were shut and her breathing steady, Tresen rose, standing for a moment looking down at her. The firelight glimmered on her hair and lit the planes of her face, honed by exhaustion. For a moment he glimpsed another Kira: older, wiser and sadder. Outside the day was bright with birdsong, but in here, death waited.
Merek stared out of the Bough window. The sun was high, the dew long gone. He should be out gathering, or netting, or blacknutting, or better still, with Kesilini. Even collecting pitchie seeds for Sendra was preferable to being cooped up here. He stuck his head out the window, watching the brown-caped smudges of Kest’s men moving on their predictable paths through the trees.
That was the trouble with men who lived their lives under orders; not a single thought of their own. The whole exercise was a complete waste of time in any case. Even if there were intruders in Allogrenia, and they were hostile, they’d never reach the Bough. He’d said as much to the Protector in charge, but the man had simply told him to return to the Bough. He may as well have conversed with a chuff beetle for all the sense he’d got out of him.
Even dealing with Kest would’ve been better, despite his stiff-necked ways, but Kest was ‘not available’. He’d gone off after Kira and Kandor, no doubt on Sarkash’s orders, for it was the kind of meaningless activity the Protector Commander delighted in. After all, even if the intruders were in the same octad as Kira and Kandor, the size of the octad meant that the chances of the intruders stumbling upon them were minuscule. Grunting, Merek threw himself into a chair beside the all-but-dead fire. Sarkash had been closeted with his father in the Herbery for most of the morning, Sarkash probably badgering him about locking everyone away in the clan longhouses until the danger had passed. But how were they to judge that the danger had passed if they were all skulking behind their shutters?
Suddenly, the outer doors burst open, but it was only Lern, his arms loaded with windfall. Merek watched him drop his burden into the fire-basket and dust off his shirt.
‘What news from the world beyond the door?’ asked Merek ironically.
‘Who knows?’ said Lern, raking the coals back into life and positioning the new log. ‘I’ve spent most of the morning getting Barash’s permission to gather wood. He doesn’t seem to know what’s going on. I don’t think the Protectors have organised messengers between the patrols yet.’
‘Hardly surprising given that Sarkash is in control.’
‘Oh, Sarkash’s all right,’ said Lern, poking at the new log until flame spurted.
‘All right for stacking scavenger leaves and storing water barrels.’
‘You’ve never got along with him,’ teased Lern, settling beside Merek, ‘just because he thinks the Warens are more important than the Bough.’
‘He’s certainly ignorant of protocol, if that’s what you mean. His first duty was to inform the Bough of the intruders, not send Protectors scuttling all over the forest.’
‘He’s Commander of the Protectors, Merek, his first duty is to –’
The Herbery door flew open and their father strode out. ‘You need to remember, Commander, that I’m the Tremen Leader, and it’s I who’ll decide our course of action . . . after due consultation with the council, of course.’
Sarkash followed him across the hall, almost jogging to keep up, his hand brushing at his face. ‘I assure you that’s not in dispute, Leader Maxen. I simply request you call no Clancouncil until Protector Leader Kest has returned from the Kenclan octad. Apart from anything else, it’s unwise to require the Clanleaders to travel from their longhouses until we have a better understanding of the intruders.’
Maxen turned on him. ‘And will Kest be able to provide us with that? I think not. He’s unlikely to report anything that we don’t already know from Pekrash. It requires only one pair of eyes to see slashed trees, Commander.’
‘With respect, Tremen Leader, if Protector Leader Kest had only slashed trees to report, he would have returned by now.’
‘He may not have located my daughter and son, or if he has, they’ll slow him down, neither Kiraon nor Kandor having the strength or discipline of his men,’ said Maxen.
‘We don’t know what Protector Leader Kest has encountered, which is why I urge you to wait.’
‘I won’t wait, Commander. You will send messages to each of the longhouses that the council will meet tomorrow dawning at the Bough. Provide each Clanleader with an escort if you will, I leave that to your discretion,’ he said, drawing himself a draught of ale and drinking deeply.
‘I’ll provide escorts, as you wish, Tremen Leader Maxen,’ said Sarkash heavily. ‘I bid you good day.’
Maxen nodded curtly, waiting for the door to shut before saying, ‘That man is a fool.’
Lern kept his eyes on the fire. He’d never enjoyed his father’s imperious moods, and drinking an ale while not offering Sarkash the barest of hospitality was churlish and embarrassing. Merek seemed to be suffering no such discomfort, drawing himself an ale also, and saying, ‘Sarkash should’ve been retired seasons ago. He seems to be under the delusion that Kasheron came south to establish the Warens, not the Bough.’
Lern glanced from his brother to his father, noting their similarity as he’d done many times before. Why was he so different? Different from them, and Kira and Kandor. He felt a surge of envy for his sister and younger brother, for their closeness, then a shiver of apprehension. If only they were safely back here.
His father and Merek were still discussing Sarkash’s shortcomings, and didn’t notice Lern make his way outside, and towards the guarding Protectors. Just as well his father and Merek were engrossed in denigrating Sarkash; the last thing Lern wanted to do was to have to explain his overpowering need to escape their company. He took a deep breath and felt the tension drain from his shoulders. The forest was full of sunlight and birdsong, and the easy camaraderie of patrolling; not like the Bough, with its endless power plays.
Lern’s feelings of frustration weren’t new. The realisation that he no longer wanted to live in the Bough – or even to heal – had crystallised slowly over the last few seasons until now, he realised, it was as hard as fallowood sap. All that was left was for him to find the words – and the courage – to tell his father.
14
Tenerini lifted the baking boxes from the coals, the lids rattling as her hands shook, and tipped the loaves onto the stone at the side of the hearth to cool. Nutty steam rose and Miken’s mouth watered, despite his churning thoughts. The Kashclan hall was quiet, most of the clansmen and women having already breakfasted and returned to their rooms to begin their daily tasks.
‘Where’s Mikini?’ asked Miken suddenly.
Tenerini was taking out her anxiety on the dough, her flour-covered hands slapping and punching. ‘She’s gone with Sherine and Mira to collect redwort.’
‘Not beyond the castellas?’ said Miken sharply.
‘Of course not. They know Protector Leader Senden’s orders as well as we do.’ She worked for a moment in silence, folding and refolding the dough, then half shook her head.
‘What?’ asked Miken.
‘The girls have finished a length of clo
th and simply must have redwort for the dyeing. So many young men stationed so close to the longhouse! I suppose there has to be some compensation for all Senden’s prohibitions,’ she said, her hands thumping up and down. ‘I think the Protectors appreciate the company too. It can’t be very interesting treading the same piece of forest over and over again.’
‘Not as interesting as pretty girls,’ agreed Miken, his thoughts on the rednut groves in Kenclan octad.
Tenerini wiped her hands on her apron and lifted the bread crock from the shelf. ‘At least they’ve taken Mikini’s mind off Tresen.’ She faltered and bit her lip.
Miken sighed. He could add nothing more to what he’d said last night as she’d lain weeping in his arms. Tresen and Kira and Kandor were beyond their reach and beyond their aid. All they could do was to put their trust in Kest and wait. And waiting was always the hardest.
‘They should’ve been back by now,’ she said hoarsely.
They’d been through that too. ‘We don’t know how long it took the patrol to find them. They might’ve missed them at the rednuts and have had to double back to search the octad. It’s not easy in Kenclan, given the terrain, and if one of them has turned an ankle or something, which is possible in the stonelands, it’d slow the whole group down.’
‘The first batch is ready,’ said Tenerini, when her voice was steady again.
Miken selected the largest one and broke it in two, inhaling the doughy odour, but her words had sharpened his own worry again, robbing him of enjoyment. She was right; the nutting party should have returned by now. And he’d been so busy with the Clancouncil, he hadn’t even farewelled Tresen properly when he’d left.
May the alwaysgreen Shelter you, and guide your way; may its shadow bring you home again, lest you stray. Home again . . .
Tenerini’s eyes were upon him and he took a bite from the loaf. ‘Fit for a feast. Let’s have some tea, too,’ he said with forced cheeriness, going to the thornyflower bin. Beyond the castellas, he could see Senden’s patrol moving backward and forward through the trees. Where in the ’green was Kest’s?
He hoped with all his heart that all was well, but it was useless pretending; it mightn’t be. The Shargh and their kin were the only people south of the Azurcades and their brutality was well known. Tresen wouldn’t even be able to protect himself – his training was too short – and he was with Kira and Kandor. Tresen wouldn’t leave Kira, and she’d never abandon Kandor. One sword for three people, against how many Shargh?
A figure emerged from the trees, and Miken froze. It was Sarkash, stoop-shouldered and grim-faced.
‘What is it?’ asked Tenerini.
‘Commander Sarkash,’ said Miken slowly. ‘I’ll get another cup.’
Tenerini’s stricken gaze remained fixed on Miken’s face.
‘We’ll need some platters for the nutbread,’ added Miken, ‘and some sweetfish and sour-ripe. The Commander probably hasn’t eaten.’
There was a knock at the door but Tenerini remained rooted to the spot.
‘Don’t keep the Commander waiting on the doorstep,’ said Miken gently.
Tenerini took off her apron and went to the door while Miken set the platters on the table.
‘Kashclan welcomes you, Tarclansman Commander Sarkash,’ said Tenerini formally, her voice betraying only the slightest tremble.
‘Tarclan thanks Kashclan,’ returned Sarkash, his gaze already seeking out Miken.
‘Commander Sarkash,’ said Miken. ‘You have news?’
Sarkash’s hand fluttered over his face. ‘I regret, Clanleader Miken, that Protector Leader Kest has yet to return. When he does, you will, of course, be informed.’
Informed! It was his son and his clan-kin who were out there; Sarkash was behaving as pompously as Maxen. Miken quelled his irritation, reminding himself that the man was a guest in his longhouse.
‘You’ve eaten, Commander?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Please join us.’
Sarkash nodded and some of the strain eased from his face as they settled at the table and Miken filled their cups. Tenerini served the fish and added bowls of sour-ripe, riddleberries and honey, then pulled the last batch of nutbread from the coals and tumbled it steaming onto a platter.
For a while they ate in silence; the only speech the offering of food and polite acceptances or refusals. When they had finished, Tenerini collected the platters and brought a jug of withyweed ale and a small bowl of rednuts before muttering an excuse and withdrawing.
The door clicked behind her but for a moment neither man spoke. The hall remained empty too, as if word of Sarkash’s presence had spread, and the Kashclansmen and women were reluctant to disturb them.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you news of your son and clan-kin,’ began Sarkash.
‘But that’s obviously not why you’re here,’ said Miken curtly.
‘No, it’s not,’ said Sarkash. ‘I’ve been in discussions with Tremen Leader Maxen, and he requests your presence at the Bough, for a council meeting, tomorrow dawning.’
‘Surely it’s a waste of time meeting before Kest returns,’ he said in surprise, studying Sarkash’s impassive face. ‘You told him this?’
‘I . . . Tremen Leader Maxen and I discussed a number of things.’
More like Maxen blustered and you were forced to listen, thought Miken, his sympathy rising. ‘Did you discuss what we should do now our defences have been breached?’
‘That will be decided at the council.’
‘It will be pointless discussing anything at council without your presence, Commander. It’s the Protectors who ensure our safety, not the Bough.’
‘That’s not the Tremen Leader’s view,’ said Sarkash carefully.
Miken took a handful of rednuts and rolled them slowly between his fingers, considering the older man thoughtfully. Sarkash could have sent a messenger with news of the Clancouncil meeting, yet he’d chosen to come himself.
‘The relative authority of the Bough and the Warens has never been clearly delineated,’ said Miken at last, ‘because what’s affected one hasn’t really affected the other, until now . . .’
Sarkash said nothing, watching him intently.
‘Of course,’ went on Miken, ‘in one sense, the Warens’ responsibility is essentially the same as the Bough’s, namely to ensure the safety and well-being of the Tremen. Kasheron’s passion for healing didn’t blind him to the realities of what he’d fled in the north, and he clearly intended the Warens to be of equal importance to the Bough, or else he wouldn’t have established it as a separate entity with its own Leader.’
‘I’m hoping that’s the view the council will take, Clanleader Miken. The Warens don’t wish to usurp the power of the Bough, but it needs to be remembered that Kasheron established the Protectors as well as the Bough, and obviously foresaw a role for both of them.’
‘I take your point, Commander,’ said Miken, offering to refill Sarkash’s cup. The older man declined, pushing his chair from the table. ‘I’ll send extra men to escort you to the morrow’s council,’ he said, moving towards the door.
‘There’s no need –’ began Miken.
Sarkash raised his hand. ‘I think it best that we err on the side of caution, Clanleader Miken, at least until Protector Leader Kest returns and we know more fully the nature of the threat.’
Long after those of his clan had gone to their beds, Miken sat alone in the hall, dread keeping him wakeful. Outside, the forest looked as it always had, yet the churn in his guts told him that somehow, somewhere, things had changed. He feared that his old life, their old life, was coming to an end. Was it just their peace of mind that had ceased with the arrival of the intruders, or the long peace of Allogrenia? One thing at least was plain: the uncomplicated coexistence of the Bough and the Warens was no more.
Miken’s gaze drifted round the hall. Kasheron’s followers had laboured long and hard to establish Allogrenia: building the Bough and longhouses, planting the g
reat circles of alwaysgreen, filling the pages of the Sheaf with Healer knowing, imprinting each new generation with a hatred of metal. Axe-wood was fire-hardened for cutting, pots fired for boiling and beards removed with clear-root instead of blades.
And yet Kasheron and his folk had worn swords at their belts when they’d entered the forest, carrying more on their pack-horses, and Kasheron had established the Warens, with its systems of Protector training and patrolling. Had Kasheron brought part of his warrior twin Terak with him, or was it simply that a lifetime of fighting couldn’t be so easily cast aside? And was the coming confrontation between the Bough and the Warens to play out Kasheron’s and Terak’s conflict all over again? Was that what the heave of his stomach portended?
Miken rose and wandered round the hall, creaking boards following his footsteps. Maxen had already struck the first blow by demanding the Warens bow to his authority. If tomorrow’s council acquiesced, the Tremen would be forced to invest all their futures in the wisdom of a single man – and one whose judgement had already been shown to be significantly clouded in relation to his daughter.
Miken stopped at the window, staring out into the darkness. Sarkash had come here tonight seeking his support, but he was only one of eight councillors. What of the others? As young men they’d all served as Protectors, but that was many seasons past for most of them, and none had returned to the Warens, concerning themselves with gathering rights, the exchange of surplus for lack, and the provisioning of their longhouses.
Miken frowned. Yes, the other Clanleaders attended every Clancouncil, as indeed they must, but they rarely disputed anything Maxen said. Only his own voice and Marren’s were ever raised in challenge. Not that there had been a major issue to disagree on. Life in Allogrenia had long been ordered and predictable: the seasons came and went, marked by the celebrations of Turning and Thanking, bondings and birthings, and the lying to rest of the old among the roots of their clan’s alwaysgreens. There had never been a need to debate the relative authority of the Bough and the Warens, let alone resolve it.
