by Unknown
‘Pass me my pack, will you.’ Once she was away, she could take some sickleseed to still the nausea.
Kandor handed her the pack and she slid it on, her head pounding so badly that she vomited again and had to wait for a while before being able to walk to the window. Kandor helped her clamber onto the sill, and steadied her as she lowered herself to the ground.
The shutters to either side were wide, throwing slashes of light onto the ground but the single lamp in the Herbery barely sheened beyond the room, leaving a path of darkness to the trees.
‘Let me come,’ pleaded Kandor, leaning out the window, the lamp behind him lighting his hair like a halo.
‘We agreed you’d stay,’ she said, dragging her hands from his. Then, crouching low so that those within the hall wouldn’t see her, she followed the stripe of darkness across the Arborean. Once in the trees, she kept to the densest blots of shadow, barely aware of her direction, her face throbbing, her legs scarcely able to carry her.
It was a long while before she became aware of where she was. She was in the Kashclan octad, in the lands she’d trod a thousand times on her way to see Tresen, Miken, Tenerini and Mikini – to see those who loved her. Her throat thickened, and this time she let the tears come. All she wanted now was some hollow to creep into, to sleep away the shock and to give the pain in her face time to calm.
Finally, unable to go on, she dropped to her knees and pushed her way into a stand of bitterberry and shelterbush, ignoring the scratches as she forced her way forward, letting the mesh spring back behind her. It was quiet inside, sheltering, safe. She brought her arms around herself and curled into a ball, giving herself up to sleep.
She had no idea how much later it was when she jerked awake. A flowerthief whirred overhead, and then a springleslip, its wings thrashing like a drumbeat. Kira’s numb brain grappled with the disturbance of the roosting birds, then branches tore and broke and the earth vibrated with the thump of running feet. Kira froze. There was a scream – gurgling, horrible, cut short – and then fighting was all around her: men shouting and cursing, and metal squealing against metal.
Shargh ran past, pursued by the taller shapes of Tremen, but most stood their ground, shouting to each other in their harsh tongue as they fought. The Tremen also shouted as they fought: Behind you! ’Ware left! Hold fast!
Moonlight flashed along the swords as they slashed and jabbed, and occasionally lit the faces of the combatants. Kira could scarcely bear to look at the Shargh, their guttural cries waking the terror of the first attack, but she recognised the garb of Morclan. The fighting surged backwards and forwards without any obvious order and then, somewhere behind her, there was a harsh scream. Several of the Shargh broke off their combat and ran in the direction of the scream, chased by Tremen.
Some Tremen remained, bent over the wounded, and she heard Brem’s voice, bawling instructions on how to staunch bleeding. There was a brief moment of stillness, punctuated by the sobbing groans of those on the ground, and Kira scrabbled into a crouch, fingers gouging the earth. Then feet pounded back towards them and she heard Brem curse and the rasp of his sword being drawn. Her shelter was smashed sideways as Shargh burst through, a boot finding her thigh and an elbow skimming her head. There were four of them, the two in front slashing at any Tremen who challenged them, the two behind bent under the burden they shouldered. They must have seen her but they didn’t stop, crashing away through the trees.
The Shargh were gone but Kira’s dread grew, threatening to overwhelm her. Sweat started on her brow and she searched for movement. Nothing and then . . . a soft blurring of the canopy. Her nose caught the scent first. Smoke was coming from behind her, from the Bough! With a nauseating shock she realised the Shargh had come that way too.
Kira sprang away, the smoke thickening with every stride until the air was crackling and the trees ahead vivid with orange light. The forest thinned then gave way, and she slewed to a stop on the edge of the Arborean. The Bough was burning, great gouts of flame gushing skyward, the heat beating at her skin in waves. Silhouettes ran back and forth, fighting and dying against a lurid backdrop, joining the shapes already littering the ground. She could see Sendra, huddled on her side; her father, prone; Lern, his head at an impossible angle. She reeled backwards, grabbing at a tree for support as a flame-clothed figure staggered screaming into the trees.
Then a tableau appeared at the side of the Bough, the heavier shapes of two Shargh dragging a struggling figure, forcing him to his knees, crimson light running along the blade as it swung back. Kandor!
The world disintegrated, jagged pieces of everything Kira had known sucked into a void of horror, taking her with it, her lungs devoid of air, her heart stopped. Then, just as abruptly, the world reassembled itself and she screamed and sprang forward. In the same instant her legs were smashed from under her and she was hurled face down to the ground. A hand clamped over her mouth, another pinioned her arms and she was dragged backwards, her heels scrabbling for purchase and finding none. Then she was wrenched off the ground completely as her captors began a mad flight through the trees, bushes clawing at her clothing and branches whipping her face. Her captors said nothing, their silence as relentless as their speed. There was blood in her mouth but her mind was empty of everything except the appalling image of the descending blade.
23
Tarkenda dropped the spindle between her knees, drew the ebis fleece taut, then flicked it round her hand and set the spindle flying again. It grew fat with yarn but she barely noticed, her ears straining for sound, her gaze darting between her spinning and the door flap. She was weary. Sleep had been as scarce as rain in the days since Erboran and Arkendrin had gone to the south-western forests, her nights filled with images of blood and the endless cries of marwings.
Palansa sat beside her, carding, her lapful of ebis fleece hiding the bulge of her belly, and Tarkenda offered up thanks again for new life even as she shifted on her stool, trying to ease her back.
Palansa looked at her sympathetically. ‘Your bones pain you?’
Tarkenda nodded. Once they had ached only when the ebis pastures were green, but it was a long time now since they had been other than brown.
Palansa put aside her carding brushes and rose.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Tarkenda sharply.
‘To fetch your seat. It’s more comfortable than Erboran’s stool.’
‘It would be best you stayed here,’ said Tarkenda.
‘There’s fleece enough for spinning. I won’t be long,’ said Palansa.
‘Stay, Palansa!’
‘I –’ Palansa began, surprised by Tarkenda’s vehemence. Abruptly a high-pitched wail sounded down the slope.
Tarkenda closed her eyes as the wailing grew, surging up towards the sorcha like the Grenwah in flood. The sound of running feet was unmistakable and Palansa’s horrified gaze jerked between Tarkenda and the door.
‘Get the circlet of chiefship,’ ordered Tarkenda.
‘What?’
‘Get the circlet! Erboran is dead. You must protect your son.’
Palansa gripped her belly and swayed, but Tarkenda forced her bones into action, catching Palansa by the shoulders and shaking her savagely. ‘Arkendrin will kill the babe – you must protect the next Chief!’
The words were scarcely out of Tarkenda’s mouth when the flap was thrust aside. Tarkenda whirled, throwing herself between the intruder and Palansa, but it was only Irdodun, his face scarlet from running, but his air of triumph unmistakable. Beyond the sorcha, the day was filled with screaming and shouting.
Irdodun wiped the sweat from his face and bowed. ‘I bring grievous news, Chief-mother. The Sky Chiefs have called your first-born home. Your secondborn, Chief Arkendrin, asks that you prepare the ceremonies to speed his brother’s passing.’
Palansa gave a shuddering groan but Tarkenda stared at Irdodun without speaking and his colour deepened. Arkendrin had made the mistake of sending one of his cronies ahead, rather
than coming himself. Finally, with an awkward bow, Irdodun turned back to the door, Tarkenda following him, head held high, back straight as a spear. Shargh were massing round the sorcha, forming an ever-thickening circle, moaning and wailing.
Tarkenda stood motionless outside the sorcha, and slowly they quieted. ‘The Sky Chiefs have chosen to call Chief Erboran home,’ she began. ‘He has been a great Chief, caring for us well, and while he will rest in the cloudlands, I grieve for his passing. Yet my sadness is balanced with joy, for the Sky Chiefs – in their wisdom – have ensured that the Shargh’s ways, the ways that he, the firstborn, followed, can go on. The Chief is gone, but his son, who carries his blood and the blood of all first-born sons back to the Mouth of the Last Teller, remains.’
The sorcha flap stirred and Palansa emerged, eyes dark hollows, cheeks wet, but holding herself proudly, the circlet of chiefship glinting in her hair.
Tarkenda softened her voice. ‘The Sky Chiefs have prepared us well for this moment, as they have in the past. When they called my join-husband Chief Ergardrin home, they ensured his seed lived on in Erboran, and now they have ensured that Erboran’s seed lives on in his join-wife’s belly. Once they honoured me as guardian of the new Chief until he was of age, now they honour Palansa.’
A murmur ran through the gathering and Tarkenda’s heart faltered as she heard the voices of those who were enemies of Erboran raise in protest. Erboran had held Arkendrin’s followers to his chiefship by honouring the long seasons of Shargh ways, but also with sword and spear. What hope did two weaponless women and an unborn child have? She forced herself to remain calm, even as Irdodun screwed his head round and stared down the slope. Arkendrin must be near; time was short and she must bring the Shargh behind her.
‘Chief-mother, what if the Sky Chiefs send a daughter?’
Tarkenda started; it was the loyal Erdosin asking a question she would have expected from one of Arkendrin’s followers. Had he turned or had she missed something? Palansa’s claim to the chiefship rested on her carrying a son. What did Arkendrin’s claim rest on?
Tarkenda’s heart quickened. Irdodun had said nothing about the Healer’s death. Surely if she’d been killed, Irdodun would have bragged about it by now.
The Shargh were beginning to murmur again, but she raised her hand, commanding silence.
‘Will the Sky Chiefs break the line that stretches from the Cave of Telling to this moment?’ she asked slowly. ‘Always the first-born son has carried their will and spoken their voice, but if they send a daughter? Then it can only mean that it’s their will that a secondborn son rules, that they intend a second-born son to be the tool of our salvation by ridding us of the creature of the Last Telling. I do not think it will be so.’
Many of the Shargh were muttering, clearly unconvinced.
Tarkenda took a deep breath. ‘Irdodun!’
The Shargh turned to look at him and he squirmed slightly. ‘Has my second-born son led you well?’
‘Yes, Chief-mother. Erb . . . Chief Erboran was killed early in the fighting. We didn’t know that treemen had hidden themselves around the Healer-creature’s sorcha. They attacked us, but Arkendrin gathered us once more and we killed many treemen. We burned their main sorcha to the ground, and Arkendrin himself killed the leader and his sons. It was a mighty battle and Arkendrin a mighty leader.’ Irdodun’s eyes shone and he seemed to grow taller.
‘Ah, you should have spoken sooner, Irdodun. It would have lessened our grief to know that the shadow of the Last Telling had been scoured away forever.’ She raised her voice and her gaze swept the crowd. ‘Let us rejoice in Arkendrin’s leadership. He has killed the gold-eyed Healer.’
An excited babbling broke out, but Irdodun shuffled from foot to foot. ‘I did not say that, Chief-mother.’
Tarkenda felt like swooning with relief, but she remained expressionless, silencing the crowd with a sweep of her hand.
‘Are you saying that Arkendrin failed to kill the creature of the Telling?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
She considered him with eyes of stone.
The gathering stirred but no one spoke and then a marwing swept up from the plains and over the sorcha roof, crying thrice in quick succession as it arced away over the Grounds. Women screamed and many of the men dropped into fighting crouches.
Tarkenda seized the moment. ‘The Sky Chiefs have spoken! To dishonour the way of the firstborn will surely bring bloodshed and death to us all.’
Tarkenda bowed to Palansa and brought her palm to her forehead; after an excruciatingly long pause, she heard the creak of leather and skins as the Shargh followed suit. Then, with a final imperious look at the crowd, she held the flap open for Palansa and followed her back into the Chief’s sorcha.
Tarkenda took two steps, staggered, and had to clutch at the wall to keep herself upright. She hung there panting, the world blotching with blackness and her stomach roiling, and when her sight cleared all she could see was Palansa’s furious face.
‘You knew he was going to die, didn’t you?’ she whispered hoarsely.
Tarkenda nodded.
‘You knew he was going to die, and you did nothing! You let him go to his death! And all the time you were planning for this!’ Palansa slammed her hand down on the table. ‘All the times you walked me to the Thanawah to gather basket reeds; all the times to the targasso groves. Parading me! Showing me off! Up and down the slope! Flaunting the next Chief! Knowing your son was going to his death! Knowing and doing nothing!’ Palansa choked and turned away.
Tarkenda still sagged against the wall, thinking not of Erboran, but of her long dead join-husband Ergardrin.
‘Had you no feelings for him?’ hissed Palansa, turning on her again. ‘No love? Answer me!’
‘I carried Erboran in my belly, even as you carry your son, and you ask me this?’
Palansa’s hands clenched and unclenched. ‘Then why didn’t you stop him? Why did you let him go?’
‘The Sky Chiefs can’t be gainsaid.’
‘The Sky Chiefs!’ spat Palansa, tearing the circlet from her head and hurling it at the wall.
‘They’ve shown me what’s to come.’
The heave of Palansa’s chest stilled. ‘They showed you Erboran’s death?’
‘They’ve shown me many deaths. What’s happened in the treelands is just the beginning.’
Palansa’s skin had whitened to wood ash and sweat glittered on her upper lip. ‘How will it end?’
‘That is still hidden, but this I do know. You will raise your son to be Chief, even as I raised Erboran.’
‘And Arkendrin?’ asked Palansa, her hands clutching convulsively at her belly.
Tarkenda lowered herself gingerly onto a stool. ‘To be Chief, Arkendrin must kill the gold-eyed Healer, or Erboran’s son. To strengthen his claim on the chiefship, he will seek to do both.’
Palansa groped her way to a stool and sat down too. Silence fell, disturbed only by the sound of wailing on the slope.
‘I want him back,’ said Palansa hoarsely. ‘I want him in my arms, I want his flesh next to mine. I want to feel the softness of his hair, to smell him, to hold him . . .’ She choked to a stop and looked up at Tarkenda. ‘He’ll never know his own son . . .’ She collapsed forward and Tarkenda pulled her close. ‘I loved him,’ sobbed Palansa.
Tarkenda’s arms tightened round her and tears stained her own face. ‘We both loved him,’ she said.
24
Kira came to her senses with a sickening surge of terror. Moonlight sliced down from above and tree branches formed a jagged mesh between her and the sky. She stared at them unblinkingly. Somewhere, on the edges of her mind, she knew that everything was gone but her brain was as bloodied as a wound and incapable of moving beyond the feel of leaves under her back. Her captors were crouched nearby, their harsh whispers punctuated by the raw panting of their exertions. There was another sound, too, a rhythmic scraping, like grit under stone.
After a while, the hiss
of her captors’ speech resolved itself into words. Shargh speaking Tremen, she thought nonsensically.
‘She shouldn’t be breathing like that,’ said the first speaker.
‘It’s shock. She’ll be all right.’ The second speaker sounded older, and more authoritative.
‘They’ve hurt her!’ The first speaker, angry.
‘She’ll be all right, just keep her quiet.’
‘I hate this!’ The first speaker again.
‘We have her, that’s all that matters,’ said the second speaker, the voice cracking with emotion. There was a brief silence then the voice sounded again, calm now. ‘She must be kept safe. She holds the greatest healing knowing now.’
The scraping sound quickened, like an avalanche of stones, making the sweat pool in her eyes and her head swim. She was lifted again and the image of the Shargh running with their burden came back to her, bringing another surge of terror. Then the avalanche of stones became a torrent, sweeping her away.
It was the smell of dankness that drew Kira back the second time and she came reluctantly, some part of her knowing that waking would bring only misery and pain. Her mouth was full of the dregs of a herb – sickleseed, her Healer self told her as she dragged her eyes open.
It was gloomy, the room full of shadows, but the walls were clearly of stone, not wood, and she was lying on a mattress on the floor, not in her bed. Her eyes moved sluggishly over her surroundings. Sacks of scavenger leaf lay in massive piles at her feet, and casks of oil and dusty bundles of falzon took up most of the space along the walls to either side. Her thin mattress had been squashed in among the stores and a table with a water jug and basin pushed into one corner. There was no lamp set but a faint wash of light intruded from the cavern beyond, illuminating pits and hollows in the stone and the occasional wink of crystal.
Thirst burned, chapping her lips and thickening her tongue. Sickleseed was known for it, a side effect of its more useful properties of deadening pain, dulling feeling and bringing sleep. Kira could see the page detailing it in the Herbal Sheaf, except the Herbal Sheaf no longer existed, gone with everything else into the ruination of the flames. She struggled awkwardly from the bed and poured herself a cup of water, gulping it down, refilling the cup and gulping it down again. The water was dank, almost musty tasting, but she was greedy for it, drinking with eyes closed, intent only on the slide of the liquid down her throat.
