Whisper of Leaves

by Unknown

  Maxen smiled tightly. ‘Our knowing is old, Clanleader, as you’ve already pointed out.’

  ‘Some things don’t change.’

  The councillors moved restlessly and it was Marren who finally broke the silence. ‘Perhaps, until we hear to the contrary, it would be safer to assume they are hostile.’

  ‘We cannot disrupt the doings of the longhouses merely on an assumption,’ said Maxen.

  ‘Yet you would risk their safety on an assumption,’ retorted Miken, barely rising.

  ‘I think this is a pointless debate, Clanleader, like so many others you and I have engaged in,’ said Maxen. ‘Rather than waste the valuable time of the rest of the council, I suggest we call for a division now.’

  ‘Any debate on the safety of the Tremen is far from pointless!’ exclaimed Miken. ‘Allogrenia has been breached! Strangers have invaded our land, could still be here, and we don’t know their purpose. It was for this that Kasheron established the Warens, that he made Protector training part of what it is to be a Tremen man. To ignore the Warens is to ignore Kasheron’s wisdom and foresight at our peril!’

  Maxen drew himself up to his full height. ‘Do not have the presumption to lecture me on Kasheron’s intentions, Clanleader! He built the Bough as the centre of healing; he made it the heart of Allogrenia, not the Warens. He sundered a people to leave the stench of sword-death behind. It was his intention that we would never again be governed by the sword and, by the ’green, it’s an intention I intend to keep! The Protectors will bow to the Clancouncil!’

  ‘Are we to leave ourselves defenceless? Is that what you want?’ demanded Miken, his finger jabbing the air.

  ‘No one said anything about being defenceless,’ broke in Dakresh. ‘The Protectors are there if we need them. Be seated, man, so we can get on with the council.’

  There was a general murmur of agreement. ‘I thank you Sherclan Leader for reminding us of our purpose today,’ said Maxen. ‘We will now decide, as is the right and duty of the council, whether we return to our normal gathering, or if we remain confined within the First Eight. Those who would declare for the former, move to my right hand, those for the latter, to my left.’

  There was a scraping of chairs and a shuffling of feet, and when the room had stilled again only Miken and Marren remained on Maxen’s left.

  ‘The division is clear,’ said Maxen. ‘Ensure your longhouses know the council’s will. Now, are there any further matters for discussion?’

  Eyes slid towards Miken, but Miken’s lips remained tightly closed. What was the point? The council had decided that no threat existed, and so no stinking threat existed! No doubt if his son and his clan-kin were dead, they would have somehow murdered themselves! Miken heard Maxen begin the words of closing but he was already striding towards the door and was halfway across the Arborean before a shout managed to penetrate his seething thoughts.

  ‘Miken!’

  He whirled; it was Marren. ‘We need to speak.’

  ‘Of what? Apparently all is well in Allogrenia and we can all go back to our slumbers,’ he said sarcastically and went to stride on, but Marren caught his arm.

  ‘When the Leader’s a fool, then the protection of the Tremen comes back to those who aren’t,’ said Marren.

  ‘The Bough’s all-powerful,’ said Miken. ‘We can’t gainsay it.’

  ‘No, my friend,’ said Marren urgently. ‘But it’s our duty as Clanleaders to protect our longhouses as well as those we love. That hasn’t changed. We need to go to the Warens. We need to speak with Sarkash.’

  Miken steadied. Marren was right. They needed advice on what might still be done to keep their longhouses safe – to keep the Tremen safe – and to plan for what might come. He nodded and together they set off swiftly up the Drinkwater Path.

  Kest’s patrol moved slowly, maintaining a tight formation, with Kira and Kandor in the centre and the lifeless bodies of Feseren and Sanaken borne at the rear. Sanaken had died a day after Feseren without ever rousing from his everest-induced sleep. The remaining men went without speaking, grim-faced and weary with travelling. They’d scarcely paused since first light but were nearing the entrance to the Warens and would soon be able to rest and eat.

  Kest walked to one side, his gaze on the surrounding trees but his thoughts on his Commander. He’d fulfilled his orders in keeping the Healer and her brother safe, but it had cost the lives of two of his men. He replayed what had happened for the thousandth time. The flatsword had been poised above the Healer, and any delay would have brought it slicing down across her throat, yet he wondered again whether he’d erred, and whether Feseren and Sanaken had died because of it. He plucked a leaf of cindra and chewed on it, its pungency driving the tiredness from his brain. He must report to Sarkash and arrange an escort for the Healer and her brother back to the Bough. Then he must take Sanaken and Feseren back to their longhouses. He clenched his jaw. Here’s your bondmate, Misilini. Here’s the father of your child. I’m sorry he’s dead.

  He spat out the leaf and wiped his mouth. Misilini might not even stay at the Morclan longhouse, preferring to raise her child among her own. Sanaken was unbonded but not unloved. There would be much suffering among his kin too.

  Kest shrugged off the thought. His men were exhausted, their faces etched with grief. The Healer was slumped against her clanmate, her eyes on the ground. There were many victims of this bloody encounter.

  *

  The Protectors came to a halt and Kira looked up at the alwaysgreen, for a moment struggling to think which one it was. Nogren, she realised numbly; they must be at the Warens.

  ‘You can rest and eat here,’ said Kest, ‘while I arrange a patrol to take you to the Bough.’

  Kira’s sense of foreboding intensified. She’d disobeyed her father by leaving the Arborean and she’d not taken the night voices seriously. And, most terrible of all, she’d failed in her healing.

  The formation broke as the men were forced to shuffle round Nogren, the Protectors having to tilt the bearers to clear its trunk. One of the bodies slid sideways and a white arm slipped from beneath the covering, swinging limply.

  Kira faltered but Tresen’s grip tightened. ‘Almost there,’ he said soothingly.

  They cleared the entrance and moved into the cool moistness of the Warens, the Protectors quickening their pace again. For the first time on the return journey, they spoke to each other in muttered snatches. Other Protectors appeared, their greetings cut short as they took in the grim faces and bearers. Kira heard fragments of speech being passed to and fro: the Shargh attack, the woundings, the deaths. The news ran like a wave before them, silencing everyone it touched.

  After a while, orders boomed and the patrol split, Penedrin leading Kira and Kandor off into one of the smaller eating caverns. The rest of the men, along with Kest and Tresen, continued, their gritty footfalls echoing into silence.

  Kira collapsed at a table, laying her head on her arms, watching Penedrin in conversation with another Protector. His voice was low, but she had no doubt what he was saying. She shifted her gaze to the lamp. It was made in the old style, its bulb of glass-root crazed and all but empty. That was how she felt at the moment: empty, scoured out, bereft.

  ‘I’m starving,’ said Kandor, plonking down beside her, his face filthy and his hair wild.

  ‘I think Penedrin’s getting food for us.’

  ‘I wish he’d hurry up.’ His fingers tapped the table. ‘I hope it’s not more dried mundleberries.’

  Kira looked up at him. ‘You should wash your hands and face before you eat.’

  ‘So should you.’

  Kira straightened. She didn’t need her brother to tell her that she looked terrible. ‘You –’ she began, but Penedrin was approaching with a platter of sweetfish, nutbread and dried sour-ripe.

  ‘You’ve water still in your waterskins?’ he asked, his face shadowed with stubble and grubby as Kandor’s.

  Kira nodded.

  ‘There’s no time to b
rew tea,’ he said apologetically. ‘As soon as Protector Leader Kest returns, we’ll be leaving.’

  Kira thanked him and he resumed his muted conversation with the other Protector. Protectors came and went, their gazes curious, and Kira forced herself to concentrate on the sweetfish.

  ‘The men are worried about Kest,’ mumbled Kandor, cramming a thick wedge of nutbread into his mouth.

  ‘Kest?’

  ‘He’s lost men.’

  The sweetfish balled in Kira’s throat and she swallowed with difficulty. ‘The fault’s not his.’

  ‘That’s what the men say.’

  ‘Is Sarkash so unreasonable?’ She didn’t know much about the Commander, only that her father and Merek thought him a fool.

  ‘It’s not Sarkash who’s in charge.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Weren’t you listening to what the men were saying on the way in? There’s been some sort of argument while we’ve been away. Apparently father now commands the Protectors as well.’

  ‘But surely Sarkash knows more about the Protectors and keeping us safe than father?’

  Kandor started on the pile of sour-ripe. ‘Of course he does. But you’ve heard Merek on the subject, surely. Kasheron turned his back on killing in the north to establish a centre of healing in the south. That centre is the Bough. All things, including the Warens, must serve the Bough. It’s what the great Kasheron himself intended.’

  ‘But Kasheron set up the Protectors too. They’ve always been separate. Before Sarkash, Thendron commanded them, and before him Barek. They’ve never been commanded by the Bough.’

  ‘Yes, but things are different now father’s Tremen Leader. It’s all about power,’ he said and sighed.

  Several caverns further on in the Warens, Kest stood before his Commander, his back rigid despite his aching muscles, his face determinedly expressionless. He’d finished delivering his report some time ago, but still the silence stretched; Sarkash’s gaze was on a point beyond his shoulder. Finally the Commander’s eyes refocused, and he gestured to a chair.

  ‘Sit, Protector Leader, you’ve had a difficult few days.’

  Kest settled opposite, the ache in his muscles lessening, but not the churn in his guts. He could hear the spit of moon moths caught in the lamp flame. Only a single lamp burned and it lit the planes of Sarkash’s face, making him look old suddenly, and worn.

  ‘You’re sure they were Shargh and not Ashmiri?’ asked Sarkash.

  ‘They were armed with daggers and flatswords, and wore no patterning. Unless the Ashmiri have given away their arrows and stopped dyeing their faces, they were Shargh.’

  ‘It’s a long time since we’ve had any knowing of the world beyond the trees,’ said Sarkash. ‘Perhaps things have changed among our neighbours.’

  ‘Do you think our isolation has become a danger to us?’ asked Kest suddenly.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking that, but . . .’ He half shrugged. ‘It no longer matters what I think.’

  ‘I’ve been a Protector for eight seasons and for two of those a Leader. Your thoughts have always mattered to me.’

  Sarkash’s expression eased. ‘You’ve heard that Tremen Leader Maxen has assumed command of the Warens?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s authorised the clans to resume gathering beyond the First Eight.’

  ‘But that’s madness!’

  ‘He has the agreement of the Clancouncil.’

  Kest stared at him in disbelief. ‘But that was before they knew of the attack. Surely now they’ll reverse the decision?’

  ‘Tremen Leader Maxen is not in the habit of reversing his decisions, no matter what the circumstances. He would see it as a backdown.’

  ‘Did no one argue against it? Surely they could’ve waited for my return?’

  ‘Miken of Kashclan spoke against it, and your own Clanleader,’ said Sarkash, then paused. ‘Their objections were to be expected.’

  Expected and therefore discounted. ‘You’ve spoken with Clanleaders Marren and Miken since?’ asked Kest.

  ‘They came here seeking advice directly after the council. They’re keen to secure the safety of their longhouses.’

  As well they might be, thought Kest, his mind going to Sanaken and Feseren.

  ‘There’s one further thing,’ said Sarkash, brushing at his face. ‘Tremen Leader Maxen will seek to attribute blame for what’s happened. He’s already assured the council that the incursion into Allogrenia was some sort of harmless chance by a people who mean us no ill will. He would see it as a weakness to revise such an opinion.’ Sarkash hesitated. ‘Miken tells me Maxen’s already blaming Kiraon for going beyond the Arborean, suggesting she caused the attack through her actions. When he hears that Tremen have been killed . . .’

  Maxen would blame her for their deaths too. Kest let his breath out slowly. ‘Kiraon’s not at fault. I launched the attack that caused the deaths of Protectors Feseren and Sanaken.’

  Sarkash gestured dismissively. ‘The Leader’s son was unconscious and the Leader’s daughter in grave danger. No, you did as you ought. We cannot afford to lose Kiraon,’ he said, his voice steely. ‘But as we both know, Protector Leader, it’s not how I view these things that is important now, but how Tremen Leader Maxen views them.’

  And Maxen would be looking for people to hold accountable, Kest realised. That’s what Sarkash was telling him. If Maxen were to maintain his assertion that no threat existed to the Tremen, then the injury they’d suffered must’ve been brought about by their own ill-considered actions or, more precisely, by the actions of his daughter Kiraon and Protector Leader Kest.

  ‘The night grows old,’ said Sarkash. ‘You should get some rest.’

  ‘I beg permission to take Feseren home.’

  ‘Granted, of course,’ sighed Sarkash. ‘I’ll assign you a patrol for the task and another to escort Kiraon and her brother back to the Bough. Merenor can lead them. I’ll have a patrol take Protector Tresen back to his longhouse too; I know his clan-kin are most anxious. Pekrash can take another patrol to bear Sanaken’s body home, for he’s clan-kin. You see, Protector Leader, I have plenty of men at my disposal now no threat exists to Allogrenia.’

  17

  Erboran strode up the steep, skreel-clad slope, barely aware of the wind rasping over stone, or the grasses rattling against the hard-baked earth. Mawkbird feathers rolled past his boots and caught in the bones of long-dead bushes, but he didn’t notice, nor did he see the marwing corpse, as desiccated as the buttonweed and flatgrass, for his mind had been consumed by the same thought for over a moon now: the gold-eyed Healer lived.

  The cave mouth loomed before him but he didn’t go in, instead turning aside and staring out over the Grounds. He couldn’t enter the Cave of the Telling with his head whirring like a dust squall. The Sky Chiefs demanded a quiet heart and a respectful mind in this, the place they’d once gifted words. It was near dusk, but the air was still warm and he took a swig from his waterskin, grimacing at the muddy taint. The land was eating the water, so long was it since the Sky Chiefs had sent rain. Did they withhold it because Arkendrin had given Urgundin no fit sending, leaving him to rot among the entrapping trees?

  It was unlikely; the days of clear skies and scorching sun had started long before Arkendrin and Urgundin had set off on their ill-fated journey, before even he’d joined with Palansa. The tightness in his neck and shoulders eased and he smiled at the thought of her. Soon Palansa’s belly would be as round as a button flower and the coming of the next Chief as plain to the Shargh as it was to him. His mother had already whispered it among the sorchas but there were many, such as his brother’s cronies, who must have the proof of it under their eyes before they believed.

  The next Speak was yet to be held, for a moon of mourning must first be given to honour Urgundin, but already Arkendrin strutted about with puffed chest, seeding the Grounds with the story of his heroic journey. Not that it would do him any good. Those whose allegiances were to the blood-bor
n Chief had been swift in ensuring that Erboran was privy to all that Arkendrin said.

  Arkendrin knew the Telling, but had spent little time pondering it, unlike Erboran. Their long confinement and the present lack of rain had made him consider, over and over again, how the Telling might reflect the Sky Chiefs’ will. Was it that the Sky Chiefs were keeping them safe from the slaughter of their forefathers, for the cursed Northerners didn’t bring their swords south of the Braghans? The withholding of rain was more difficult to comprehend, especially by those who thought of nothing beyond the boniness of their ebis. It might be that the pastures beyond the Braghans were even drier than here, but it might also be a test. The Sky Chiefs knew, as he did, that a people whose lives consisted of full bowls and bellies soon lost their strength, becoming too weak to defeat any future adversity. Arkendrin and his cronies understood none of this. For them, need was a thirst to be quenched immediately.

  He stared at the last of the sun. If Healer sees a setting sun and gold meets gold, two halves are one . . .

  Did the gold refer to eyes, as Arkendrin believed, or something else? The land before him was gold, scorched by the relentless sun and ungreened by rain, the herders having to take the ebis to the foothills of the Cashgars to find fodder and, despite their care, losing more and more to the Cashgar wolves. Ormadon had told him there was anger among the warriors at the losses and that Arkendrin fed this anger with tales of lush pastures beyond the Braghans.

  Such talk was opportunistic and deluded, but the willingness of some of the warriors to believe it revealed their longing for action. He knew Arkendrin sought to use the Last Telling against him but Erboran could also use it to soothe the restlessness of many of Arkendrin’s followers. If it were a hunt they wanted, ending with the killing of the Telling, then Erboran could certainly oblige them at small cost to himself.

  The wind flicked the hair from Erboran’s face and he raised his eyes to the purpling sky.