by Unknown
Soon the moon would rise, brilliant and full-formed, streaming into the cave of the Telling and lighting it as if with a thousand lamps. This had astonished Erboran as a boy, until Tarkenda had pointed out the holes hidden in the roof. The moon had been full, too, the night she’d brought him here and made him the Mouth of the Last Teller, and though it’d been late they’d gone back to the Grounds to sleep. He’d not be sleeping here this night either. The walls of the cavern spoke with the voices of the Tellers whose bones were now as dry as the dust beneath his feet, and it was well known that the dead resented the intrusion of the living.
He turned into the cave’s darkness, the gritty stone giving way to fetid slime as he neared the roosting places of the chika bats, quick pulses of air past his face marking the departure of those late to their hunting. Then the walls disappeared and he was in the Cave of the Telling, the last shaft of daylight illuminating a blot of darkness in the floor’s centre. The hair on the back of his neck stirred, despite having seen it before. Here lay the ashes of the very fire Ordorin had knelt beside to receive the Last Telling.
He touched his palm to his forehead and lowered himself to the pitted stone where his father and grandfather had knelt, and where one day his own son would kneel too. Erboran remained motionless until the first faint beams of moonlight penetrated the chamber, his mind calming and his thoughts beginning to crystallise. There was no doubt that a gold-eyed creature existed, for Arkendrin’s Voice was second only to his own and must be believed. But was she the thing of the Telling, the Healer whose breath would rob them of theirs? If Healer sees a setting sun . . . Arkendrin had said that such was the murk created by the trees, that neither the sun’s rising nor setting could be seen. She might well be the one, but would killing her prevent the rest of the Telling coming to pass?
What was the meaning of the meeting of gold and of halves? Of flatswords failing? The thought chilled his blood. In fact, the whole Telling was like trying to corner a shadow-wraith, a wolf that howled but had no substance. He felt blind, as if a cape had been flung over his head, his temples pounding, sweat starting on his brow. The answers lay beyond his warrior grasp, in the ever-moving cloudlands of Tellers! Curse the lack of Tellers! Curse the Sky Chiefs for taking the Tellers from them!
A gust of wind found the cave’s entrance, picking up speed as it roared along the narrow ways under the earth, and hurtled into the cavern. It scoured the ash from the fire circle, sweeping it up into a moonlit column so that it hovered over Erboran like a vast, faceless figure. Erboran cried out and sprang back, then the wind died and the ash fell earthward, greying his skin.
Erboran threw himself forward, face pressed to the floor, dust filling his mouth and nostrils, his voice rising and falling in harsh incantations. It was a long time before he was able to stumble back to the entrance. The Grounds stretched away before him, silver under the hard, bright ball of the moon, and he staggered down the slope and back across the grasslands, his shadow rolling and jerking behind him.
Tarkenda paced round her sorcha, wincing and stopping now and again to rub her hip. The Speak had been in progress just a short time but it wouldn’t last much longer. She had remained in her own sorcha, for the Speak had little to discuss. Arkendrin had returned with confirmation of the gold-eyed creature, but without Urgundin. Blood must be spilt to assuage his death.
Tarkenda stared sightlessly at the sorcha walls. There had been too much blood lately, staining her dreams and visions, and she feared there was more to come, not just in the south-western forests, but on the Grounds itself. Thrusting the flap aside, she stepped outside.
The stars arched over her in an immense dome and, more through habit than anything else, she sought out the stars that had guided the Shargh in the Older Days: Nastril, Wistrin, Maghin, Sonagh and Anghin. The light they gave was still clear and bright, but the Shargh no longer followed it, penned now like ebis, at war even with themselves. Thank the Sky Chiefs that at least this night was quiet, with no shouts of warning or marwing cries heralding misfortune. She stared down the slope to where the cooking fires winked, red against black, like funeral pyres.
There was no comfort to be found there either. Rubbing at her hip again, she turned back to her sorcha and had just lowered her bones to a seat when the flap stirred again and Erboran appeared. The metal ebis horns of his circlet of Chiefship flashed as he straightened and Tarkenda’s breath caught in her throat. For a moment she was looking at her long-dead join-husband, then the shadows shifted and the illusion vanished.
Erboran settled opposite, stretching his long legs to the side of the table. ‘We’ll leave with the growing of the moon and return with its withering,’ he said.
‘Arkendrin knows the way?’ she asked, drawing him a bowl of sherat.
‘He’s marked a trail and the moon will help us. Scouts left this night,’ he said, and sat for a moment, contemplating the bowl’s patterning. Then his dark eyes flashed to hers. ‘Keep Palansa near you.’
‘Does the babe still make her ill?’
‘She fears for me,’ he said. ‘It’s the way of carrying-women, I believe.’
‘I’ll keep her safe.’
Erboran nodded and rose and Tarkenda stood too, despite the protest of her joints.
‘Erboran?’ she said. ‘Must you go to the forests?’
Erboran’s brows narrowed. ‘You ask me this? You who’ve served as the Mouth of the Last Teller?’
Tarkenda’s knuckles whitened on the back of the chair. ‘What of the Speak?’
‘We’re of one mind. The gold-eyed creature must be killed and Urgundin honoured.’
‘She might not be the thing of the Telling,’ said Tarkenda.
‘Arkendrin and his followers believe she is.’
‘And you? What is it you believe, Erboran?’
Her son smiled but there was no warmth in his eyes. ‘That sometimes warriors must hunt more than wolves.’
The flap hissed back into place and the darkness swirled again, but it had nothing to do with a vision. Trembling, Tarkenda lowered herself back to her chair, drawing herself a bowl of sherat and gulping it down. Then she drew herself a second. Whatever the Sky Chiefs sent couldn’t be changed, age had taught her that. It had also taught her that troubles were better faced without a befuddled mind. Grimacing, she thrust the bowl aside. All that was left for her was to plan for what was to come.
18
Kira pushed the grinding stone backwards and forwards, a pile of nutmeat to one side, a bowl of nut oil to the other. Time slipped away as she worked, the deep stillness outside drawing to itself a mantle of dew, the mira kiraon returning sated to their roosts, the forest beneath them dusted with bone, feather and fur. The moonlight was spilling in through the shutters and slowly awareness woke that the moon was full again, the second since the attack. Surely it hadn’t been two whole moons since she’d returned? The pain rushed back, bringing with it the memory of her father looming over her, his words falling like blows.
Your arrogance and wilful disobedience have brought about a clash with a people who have never meant us harm, and have caused the deaths of two of our own people. Your ignorance of healing has caused unspeakable suffering, not only to those who died, but to their entire longhouses. The very Bough itself has been dishonoured by your actions, and all that Kasheron fought for over the long seasons, betrayed . . .
Tears scalded her cheeks. It didn’t matter how kindly Lern spoke to her or how much Kandor railed against their father, she knew in her heart that if she hadn’t disobeyed him, Feseren and Sanaken would still be alive.
Blinking away the wetness, Kira emptied the last of the nut oil into the cask and slowly wiped the slipperiness from her hands, then covered the nutmeat and placed it on the shelf. The baking could wait until the morrow, for there was still a good supply of nutbread Sendra had prepared before she’d gone back to her longhouse. Kira drew a chair to the fire and curled up in it, glad to be alone.
Kandor had spent m
uch of the evening wandering round the cooking place eating the nutmeat and trying to start conversations, but he’d eventually gone off muttering something about practising his piping. Merek had been in the Herbery, but when Lern and her father had gone gathering, he’d suddenly slipped on his cape and left.
The fire was all but out, but Kira was too disheartened to add wood from the collection of windfall laid near, or to satisfy her hunger with nuts or sweetfruit, or to go to her bed, despite her weariness.
A rap on the door made her jerk convulsively; then there was a second rap, more urgent. Where was Kandor? He should . . . A third rap forced her upright and across the hall to the door. Kira gaped at Kest, struggling not just with his sudden appearance but with his strangeness. It wasn’t only that he was clean and relaxed, but that he was dressed in the distinctively patterned clothing of Morclan, not Protector garb.
‘Healer Kiraon. It’s good to see you again.’
‘I’m just Kiraon now, not Healer Kiraon,’ she said, coughing to ease the sudden constriction of her throat.
‘We have a woman in childbirth in need of aid,’ said Kest.
‘I . . .’ She stopped, a shocking realisation coming to her. ‘There are no Healers within the Bough,’ she blurted out. Why had Merek left when he knew Lern and her father had already gone out?
‘She’s asking for you, Healer Kiraon.’
‘I . . .’ Kira took a steadying breath. ‘As I said, I’m no longer a Healer, Protector Leader. I don’t have the knowing, or the skill, to serve those who are ill. Healer Lern will be returning soon. He’s helped in childbirth before. It’s best . . . he goes with you.’
Kest’s gaze remained on her face. ‘She’ll have no other Healer but you. If you won’t aid her, she must birth alone. It’s her first babe.’
Kira dropped her head. ‘I can’t come.’
She felt Kest’s hand on her chin and raised her face reluctantly.
‘Do you fear your father’s anger?’ he asked.
‘Don’t ask me to come!’ she exclaimed, jerking away. ‘I’ve already disgraced the Bough and I daren’t injure it further.’
‘Would you deny her your healing?’
The question was brutal, despite the gentleness of Kest’s voice. All her life Kira had gathered for healing, or read of healing, or healed. Healing was a gift, given freely without expectation of reward. To deny healing was akin to wielding a Terak Kutan sword.
‘Healing must never be denied,’ she said.
Kest nodded. ‘Good. I’ll be waiting for you on the western edge of the Arborean with my men. Be quick.’
Kest strode back across the clearing, his mask of politeness replaced with one of fury. So, Maxen had taken the opportunity to remove his daughter from her rightful place as his successor. He’d scarcely recognised her! Even in their most desperate moments he’d never seen her show such despairing acceptance. The man was her stinking father! Had he no love for her at all?
‘Was Maxen within?’ asked Penedrin.
‘No,’ said Kest, taking out his temper on a length of scamper vine that had lassoed his ankle. ‘Nor Merek nor Lern. For once fortune’s smiled on us.’
‘Is it as we thought?’
The Morclansmen were close and for once Kest allowed himself to speak freely. ‘Things are as we’ve heard. Maxen has stripped his daughter of her role of Healer.’ There was an angry mutter and Kest raised his hand, waiting till the men had quieted. ‘I’ve persuaded her to come, but she doesn’t know –’ There was the sound of a door closing and he turned back to the clearing, smiling pleasantly as Kira half jogged towards him.
There were close to fifteen men waiting in the trees, and Kira’s puzzlement grew as she returned their nods and greetings. They wore swords and were clearly under Kest’s control, but like him they were clad in Morclan garb, not the dull green of Protectors.
‘Is this a patrol?’ she asked as they moved off quickly.
‘Tremen Leader Maxen doesn’t authorise the use of Protectors within the First Eight,’ said Kest blandly. ‘These are men from my own longhouse.’
Kira watched them slip swiftly away through the trees, taking up flanking positions as they had on the journey back from the Sarnia caves. Swords whispered from scabbards and there was an occasional gleam as they caught the moonlight.
The Clancouncil had decreed that no threat existed in Allogrenia and the Protectors were bound by the declaration as much as the Clanleaders. With a cold sinking feeling, Kira realised that Kest was breaking Tremen law, as was Morclan Leader Marren, who’d obviously agreed to the use of his clansmen.
‘If the Clancouncil has decreed that no Protectors be within the First Eight, then they shouldn’t be here,’ pointed out Kira, having to lengthen her stride to keep level with Kest.
‘They are here as Morclansmen. As you know, each Clanleader has the right to use his men to protect his clan, as he sees fit. You’re coming to aid a woman in the Morclan longhouse, so your safety and her safety are one and the same.’
It was the sort of word-trickery Kira had often heard from her father; a clever answer except for one thing. ‘Only Protectors are permitted to carry swords, Protector Leader.’
Kest smiled. ‘Yes.’
Kira said nothing more, concentrating for a time on picking her way through a young growth of bitterberry without falling behind the swiftly moving men. Her healing was not all that had failed with the coming of the strangers. Marren of Morclan was openly defying the will of the Clancouncil and, in so doing, defying her father. Was Marren alone? She knew little of the other councillors, except Miken. He was probably doing the same.
‘The Clancouncil hasn’t seen what we’ve seen, Healer Kiraon,’ said Kest after a pause. ‘They agree with Tremen Leader Maxen that no threat exists because it’s preferable to believing terrible things have happened and might continue to happen.’
Kira wiped the sweat from her forehead but said nothing.
‘You’re very quiet, Healer Kiraon,’ said Kest after a while.
‘I was thinking.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of the Bough, of the Warens,’ said Kira, panting slightly in her effort to keep up.
‘And?’
That everything has changed, that no matter what happens now, we can never go back, thought Kira But she couldn’t say it, wouldn’t say it, in case voicing her fears made them more likely to come true.
‘How long has the Morclanswoman been labouring?’ said Kira instead.
‘Since noon,’ said Kest. ‘And she’s Barclan.’
‘Her bondmate’s Morclan,’ murmured Kira, thinking aloud.
‘He was,’ said Kest.
Kira stumbled to a stop, staring at Kest in dread, aware that the Morclansmen in the trees had stopped too.
‘Her bondmate was Feseren, Kira. It’s Misilini who’s birthing.’
Kira felt like she’d turned to stone, overwhelmed by memories of her failed healing. ‘I can’t do this, Kest.’ The words were choked out, as if a boot were on her throat.
‘Would you desert her?’
Kira brought her shaking hands to her face. ‘I killed her bondmate!’
Kest took her by the shoulders so that she was forced to look at him. ‘Don’t you recall what I said about Shargh wounds? Fire with flatswords brings the bane, fire without brings life again.’
‘I don’t understand what it means!’ she all but shrieked.
‘No one does, beyond the fact that it’s Shargh swords that kill, not Healers! Not Healers, Kira,’ said Kest, giving her a small shake.
‘I’m not a Healer anymore!’
‘And I’m not a Protector Leader any more,’ said Kest bitterly. ‘I lost two men, the first Protector Leader ever to do so. Tremen Leader Maxen felt I was no longer fit to lead, or even to protect.’
For the first time Kira saw Kest’s anger and hurt. ‘The fault was not yours! It wasn’t yours!’ she cried.
‘Nor yours,’ he said, gently lifting a l
eaf from her hair. ‘We’re a good pair, are we not? A man who’s no longer a Protector, escorting a woman who’s no longer a Healer, to aid a woman who trusts us both.’
‘There’s no one I’d rather be escorted by,’ said Kira thickly.
For a moment his hand lingered on her face, then he straightened. ‘Then let us continue as quickly as possible, Kira of Kashclan, for Misilini has need of us.’
The night was old before a narrow path emerged from the trees and Kira sensed some of Kest’s tension ease. The smell of woodsmoke was unmistakable and a hum of speech rose from the men as they came together. Ahead, a blotch of yellow light appeared as a door was opened and an imposing silhouette advanced down the path to meet them. Kira blinked up at him, guessing it was the Morclan Leader Marren.
‘Morclan welcomes the Bough’s Kiraon,’ a deep voice intoned.
‘The Bough thanks Morclan,’ returned Kira hurriedly, as she followed him under the heavily carved lintel into the hall. It was warm and bright, filled with lamps and the savoury scents of food. Every member of the clan seemed to be there. It was closer to day than night, and yet a sea of hands were extended to shake hers, or to touch her gently in greeting.
‘The Bough thanks Morclan,’ she repeated over and over again, moved almost to tears by the warmth of the welcome.
‘We have food laid ready, Healer, if you would join us,’ said Marren, his face stern and very lined, with the same blue eyes that made Kest so striking.
‘I . . . I thank you Clanleader,’ said Kira quickly, ‘but I must see Misilini first.’
‘By all means,’ said Marren. ‘Pera will take you to her.’
An older woman elbowed her way forward, and Kira hurried after her through a large door into the cooler dimness of the passageway. The door clicked shut behind them and Kira heaved a sigh of relief.
‘You’d think they’d never seen a Healer before, wouldn’t you?’ said Pera, advancing down the passage.
‘It’s a long time since I’ve been here,’ mumbled Kira, striding after her. Morclan was one of the largest clans, and the passage connecting each family’s rooms was long with not a single part uncarved. Walls, ceilings and floors were all adorned, and chimes hung in every window, each set beautiful and different to its neighbour.
