by Unknown
‘I . . . I didn’t realise you could carve.’ He had carved it for her. The realisation was startling.
‘Ah, I’m insulted Healer Kiraon. I am a Morclansman after all, and here you are suggesting that I don’t have the skills possessed by my clan-kin.’
He was teasing her she knew, but it did nothing to lessen the heat in her face. ‘Are others of Morclan coming?’ she asked, managing to steady.
‘They’re here now, apart from those securing our longhouse.’
Kira looked about in puzzlement.
‘They’re outside, guarding the lands within the First Eight,’ said Kest.
The First Eight! She hoped her father didn’t hear of it. ‘It’s a shame they’ll miss the feast, but at least you’re here.’
‘I escorted Kesilini. As soon as the bonding ceremony’s complete, I’ll join my patrol.’
Only Protectors were permitted to patrol, and yet Kest used the term about his Morclansmen, who weren’t Protectors and were bound by the Clancouncil’s declarations to continue normal clan activities. And Kest had worn a sword, opening flouting her father.
‘Kashclan does as we do,’ he added, as if guessing her thoughts.
Kira’s mouth dried. She’d thought a number of her clan merely late, but now she realised they probably wouldn’t be coming either. Yet Turning was now the only time she could openly mingle with Mikini and Tenerini without risking her father’s displeasure.
‘Miken won’t leave his longhouse defenceless, but he intends to come, as does Tresen,’ said Kest, nodding to Sendra as she went past with a group of Sarclansmen and women. ‘They wouldn’t miss seeing their beautiful clanmate.’
‘I wish you’d stop calling me that.’
‘I thought you admired the truth. And with your hair braided and gemmed, you look even more beautiful than usual.’
Kira’s eyes sheened gold and she opened her mouth to reply, but thankfully, at that moment the crowd stirred and drew back and the shouted conversations began to quiet. ‘I think the players are about to begin. May I get you a drink, Morclansman Kest?’
‘Only if you stay to share it with me,’ smiled Kest.
‘I must resume my greeting duties, for I’m leaving the task unfairly to Lern and Kandor.’
‘But not to Merek?’ asked Kest.
‘I rather think Merek has an excuse this night, don’t you?’
Erboran crouched motionless in the shadows, watching the group of treemen gathered outside the wooden sorcha. Dozens of lamps wasted their light through the windows, their spill catching the eyes of the girl each time she turned to greet the treemen issuing from the forest. It was impossible to tell her eye colour from his hiding place, but he’d no reason to doubt Arkendrin’s assertion that she was the creature they hunted. She was younger than he’d expected, but clearly of important blood, standing next to the Chief and the other men of his line.
He frowned. If she were of ruling blood, it might explain her escape from Arkendrin and Urgundin, and the determination of the treemen to protect her. The Telling spoke only of the creature, but it made sense that she was important and powerful. His gaze went to their Chief. The Sky Chiefs themselves were strengthened by having their blood-ties around them and the blood-ties between the dead and the living endured beyond the funeral flames, so the threat wasn’t just in her, but in those of her line too. If she were to be truly destroyed, then her blood-ties must also be scoured from the earth. He whispered to the warrior next to him and watched him slip away. Arkendrin and his followers were secreted on the other side of the clearing, and it was important they understood the power of the creature’s blood-ties too.
In the time he’d been watching, two of the creature’s male blood-ties had gone back into the sorcha, but she remained with the Chief. A Chief with no weapon! More like an ebis cow than a man, and like a cow, ripe for the slaughter. None of the finely dressed treemen and women emerging from the trees carried weapons either.
His hand went to his flatsword, loosening it in its sheath.
‘They’ve come to carouse and feast together,’ Irsulalin whispered, ‘and much sherat will be drunk.’
Erboran nodded, taking his point. If they delayed their attack until late in the night, the treemen would have spent their strength in celebration, and the accomplishment of their quest would be all the surer. The Sky Chiefs’ sheltering hand was over them, but he didn’t want to have to waste his strength in this musty tangle again, not with his son growing in Palansa’s belly back on the Grounds. He settled back on his haunches, elbowing aside a fleshy-leaved plant and muttering a curse. The tree-world was just as Arkendrin had described it: a vast rank reedrat’s nest, with no dawn and no dusk. If Healer sees a setting sun . . . The Sky Chiefs willing, she’d soon be seeing nothing.
Kest sauntered up and down the hall, skirting the dance floor and exchanging pleasantries with those he knew, but avoided being drawn into conversation. The whole building hummed with music, the players’ faces shining with sweat as dancers called for ‘thread-the-leaves’, and ‘the weave dance’, time and time again. He could see the dancers’ heads whirling beyond the spectators and feel the vibrations through the floor, but felt no inclination to join them.
There was still no sign of Miken or his kin, and despite his outward calmness, Kest’s belly was churning. The lamps had grown dimmer as the nut oil sank in the bulbs, and he came to a stop at a window and loosened the shutters, peering through the crack. He should be out there with his clan-kin, not stuck here. Grunting, he pushed the shutters wider and thrust his head out, enjoying the relief of the cool air on his face. The ornate lamps were pretty, but they added to the hall’s closeness.
A weave dance came to a halt behind him, and he turned to see Maxen’s spare form begin a slow pace to the top of the hall. Thank the ’green; the bonding ceremony must be about to begin. The lower part of the hall was crowded with elders resting their bones and exchanging gossip, but beyond their grizzled heads he glimpsed Kesilini’s bright hair, and Merek, following Maxen up the hall.
Kest’s fingers tapped the sill impatiently as he lounged against the wall, one eye on Maxen’s progress and the other on the night outside. Where was Miken? Marren believed that any new attack would come at the full moon, for strangers would be aided by the extra light, and he believed it too, for it made sense . . . to everyone except Maxen.
The Feast of Turning is always held on the last full moon of spring and this will not be changing, he’d said.
Marren had called Maxen’s response intransigent, but it was more like blind stupidity. And Kesilini was to bond with this man’s son! A drumming began and Kest groaned; surely there wasn’t going to be even more music? A crowd had gathered round the players’ platform, blocking his view. A single note of a pipe joined the drum, and the crowd murmured appreciatively and surged forward. Kest drew himself up to his full height, straining over the gathering. The piper was Kandor, the tune slow and sweet, and vaguely familiar. What was it? The name escaped him but it had something to do with the first Kiraon.
Their own Kiraon was somewhere close to Kandor, no doubt. He could see Maxen in conversation with Farish, the Clanleader of Tarclan, but most of the Tremen were intent on Kandor’s performance. The piping came to an end and there was enthusiastic applause as Kandor stepped down from the platform. Kest lost sight of him for a moment, then the crowd parted and Kest glimpsed Kira throw her arms around her brother.
He’d called her beautiful before, and so she was – her hair braided and bejewelled, her tunic finely woven and patterned – but in that moment her love for her brother made her as luminous as the lamps. The crowd thickened, anticipating the bonding ceremony, and he lost sight of her, but the image stayed with him. He’d seen her fight to save Feseren and watched her as she’d slept, her face still etched with Misilini’s pain. He’d travelled with her and spoken with her since, but he was still at a complete loss to know how Maxen could have produced a daughter so unlike himself.
The Tremen Leader had mounted the players’ platform and the ring of rulership flashed as he raised his hands in a grand sweeping gesture. He was completely at ease, his voice rising and falling, his gaze moving over the crowd solemnly, seemingly not at all concerned that his chosen heir was about to bond to Morclanswoman Kesilini, sister of the contemptible Morclansman Kest. Then an appalling thought occurred to him. Surely Merek had told his father of his intentions? Maxen’s welcome had been icy, hardly surprising given their recent dealings, but the Tremen Leader had paid no special attention to Kesilini.
Kest launched himself into the throng, sliding through gaps when he could, and excusing himself when he couldn’t. He could see his sister’s fair head next to Merek’s darker one, standing with the rest of Maxen’s children to the side of the players’ platform, but the first couple had finished their bonding pledge before he’d managed to reach them. Lern welcomed him with a smile but he couldn’t catch Kesilini’s eye, her attention fixed on those bonding. He willed her to turn, but the second couple completed their pledge and the hall erupted with clapping and cries of good wishes. Then she and Merek stepped forward.
Maxen looked as if he’d turned to stone. At any other time Kest would have welcomed Maxen’s discomfiture, but not when his sister’s happiness was at stake. Merek completed his declaration and then Kesilini began hers.
‘I, Kesilini of Morclan, daughter of Mesan, daughter of Kirini, sister of Kest, speak now at Turning, that I choose Merek of Kashclan as bondmate and Shelter, until leaf-fall and branch-fall shall end all my days.’
Maxen hadn’t moved. Someone unfamiliar with him could have mistaken his stillness for calmness, but Kest knew better. Why hadn’t Merek warned his father? Then, as his gaze moved between father and son, he understood. They were equal in pride and arrogance, neither willing to bow to the other or share confidences. How could such a bonding possibly bring Kesilini happiness?
Applause erupted again and there was a brief hiatus while the crowd waited to see if others intended to bond, then the platform was engulfed with well-wishers as the bonded couples were congratulated. Maxen had already turned away, his conversation with the Sherclan leader giving him an excuse not to greet his new bond-daughter.
Kest forced a polite smile as he lined up behind Lern to wish Merek and Kesilini well. At least if Kesilini were utterly miserable she could break the bonding, he consoled himself, even if such actions were frowned upon. Lern embraced Kesilini and moved on to Merek, and then it was his turn. ‘May your love be as strong and enduring as the alwaysgreen,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek.
‘And may you find love also,’ she replied, her face radiant.
He nodded and turned to his new bond-brother, but even on this happy occasion, Merek’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
‘I welcome you to Morclan,’ said Kest formally.
‘And you to Kashclan,’ returned Merek.
The bond could be broken, Kest reminded himself as he moved away, but the thought brought him little comfort. The players started up again and the dancers swirled across the floor led by the newly bonded couples, spiralling in then out again, as smooth and rhythmic as ripples in the Drinkwater. Kest searched the crowd for Kira. The tightness of his guts told him his time would be better spent outside, investigating the non-arrival of Miken and his kin, but he’d had a yen ever since Kira’s visit to the Morclan longhouse to dance with her again.
Kira watched Merek and Kesilini dancing. Kesilini was holding Merek close and laughing up at him, and Merek looked the happiest she’d ever seen him. There was joy in the faces of the other bonded couples too, and Kira felt a twinge of envy.
‘I beg one dance with the beautiful Kiraon before I leave.’
Kira started. It was Kest, his intense blue eyes holding hers.
She shook her head.
‘You don’t know the steps?’ asked Kest.
‘I know the steps, it’s just that . . . it’s for bonded couples.’
‘The wreath dance is for anyone who enjoys dancing and I know that you enjoy it as much as I, unless, dear bond-sister, you’ve changed since we last danced together.’
‘No, but –’
‘Good,’ said Kest smoothly, catching her hand and drawing her onto the floor.
The dancers ebbed and flowed, taking Kira with them, up the length of the hall, then round and back again. She whirled, carried along with the pulsing music, catching glimpses of Kandor making comical faces at her, and then of Kest, curiously intent. She was glad that she couldn’t see her father.
Finally the last sweet note of the pipe died away, and the dancers came back into line, Kest bowing and she nodding, as was customary. ‘I thank you, Kiraon of Kashclan,’ he said, bringing her hand to his lips.
Then he was gone and Kandor was beside her. ‘You’re looking rather hot or are you flushed with regret that you’ve missed this year’s bonding ceremony?’
‘You were right the first time.’ She fanned herself as she poured a drink. ‘I didn’t see you dancing,’ she said between gulps.
‘The handsome Kest didn’t ask me,’ said Kandor.
Kira choked and Kandor grinned, then the smile drained from his face.
‘I would have speech with you, Kiraon,’ said her father. ‘In the Herbery,’ he added, his eyes colder than sleet.
Kandor’s shoulders straightened and he stepped forward.
‘The jugs on the lower table need refilling,’ said Kira quickly, holding Kandor’s gaze. ‘I’ll be back in a moment to help you.’ She willed him to go and finally he nodded, then she moved away quickly before Kandor had a chance to change his mind.
The Herbery door shut behind her, cutting off the bright light and cheery hubbub of the gathering, a single lamp illuminating the harsh planes of her father’s cheeks and jaw. Somewhere behind her a moon moth fluttered against the shuttered window.
‘Earlier this evening I asked that you speak with Clanleader Farish. Not only have you failed to do so, but you’ve made a point of denying him the barest of courtesies. As if that weren’t enough, you’ve chosen to make an exhibition of yourself by dancing a bonding dance with Kest of Morclan, a man who’s proven to be both incompetent and disloyal.’
‘But Kest’s not –’
‘Kest initiated the attack,’ gritted Maxen. ‘And you failed to heal the wounded that resulted from it! By aligning yourself with him, you’ve insulted everything Kasheron stood for.’
Kira stared at him in bewilderment. She’d never seen him so angry. ‘I’ve not insulted –’
His hand slammed down on the table. ‘Don’t contradict me! Morclan flouts the Bough daily. This very night Morclansmen usurp the role of the Protectors and defy my authority by sending out their own patrols.’
His voice sank to a harsh whisper, and abruptly his face was a hand span from hers. ‘By favouring Kest, you’ve humiliated me in front of the entire gathering!’
Kira’s heart was pounding in her throat, making speech difficult. ‘I haven’t –’
There was a flash as his ring caught the lamplight, and then the shock of a blow, sending her sprawling backward, cracking her head on the floor. Darkness imploded then receded, leaving behind pools of nausea. Then her father spoke again, his voice still resonating with anger. ‘You will obey me in the end, Kiraon.’ Then the lamplight dwindled and she drifted away.
22
Awareness came slowly, creeping back with the smell of dust, not the fine dust of herbs, but wood dust, filling her nostrils with grit. The smell was puzzling and she turned, waking a vicious throb in her head. A blinding shaft of light sliced the darkness, visible even through her closed lids as a door creaked open, and the sound of music and voices was suddenly loud, then muffled again as it clicked shut. The surface under her face vibrated as footfalls moved nearer.
‘Kira?’
It was Kandor, reaching for the lamp. The full memory of what had happened surged back. Using the table leg, she hauled herself
into a sitting position, the throb in her head trebling and making her retch. Kandor’s lamp swung nearer, the yellow light sending shadows scuttling like littermice. Go back to the hall. The words formed in her head but dissolved into a meaningless mumble as they came out of her mouth.
‘Kira!’ hissed Kandor as he saw her face.
She caught his arm, forcing her numb mouth into action again. ‘Do nothing.’
‘I’ll kill him! He has no right to do that . . . He has no right!’
He was shaking. She could feel it through his embroidered shirt. ‘If you love me you’ll do nothing.’ By the ’green, she was going to be sick. Bile filled her mouth and she turned her head aside, vomiting onto the floor. Kandor’s tears splashed down on her, warm and wet, sobs racking his body.
If the Tremen knew her father had struck her; if they knew the Tremen Leader had used violence . . .
‘I’ll leave and come back when everyone’s gone,’ said Kira. She’d have to find somewhere to hide until the Bough was empty of guests. No one must know. ‘You . . . you must stay here, Kandor . . . say nothing.’
‘No!’
Taking his face in her hands, she brought her forehead to his. ‘Don’t spoil Merek and Kesilini’s night.’
He jerked away. ‘Spoil their night? What about your night, Kira? What about your whole life!’ He was all but shrieking; in a moment, someone would come to investigate the disturbance.
‘I’ll go to Miken,’ she said hurriedly.
‘You pledge?’ said Kandor, between tearing sobs, his tear-stained face suddenly full of determination. ‘Pledge me, Kira!’
She hesitated, regretting her words. The last thing she wanted was trouble between the Bough and the octads.
‘Pledge or I’ll tell everyone in the hall what he’s done!’ said Kandor.
‘I’ll go to Miken if you stay here and remain silent.’
Kandor flung his arms around her but she pushed him away and pulled herself upright. The room was swaying and she had to hold on to the edge of the table to stop herself falling.
