by Unknown
Arkendrin’s gaze swung to Palansa at the head of the pyre, shimmering like a spirit-shadow in the heat-warped air, chin high, her cursed belly ripening like ground-fruit. She stood in the Chief’s place, in his place. How could a thing unborn be Chief? He sucked in a lungful of smoke and was racked by a hacking cough. Only two thrusts of a flatsword lay between him and the chiefship, and his muscles ached to take what was rightfully his. Erboran’s skin blistered and cracked, but Arkendrin barely noticed, his thoughts buzzing like blackflies. If he claimed he’d bedded Palansa before she’d joined with his brother, then the seed growing in his belly would be his, and the chiefship. But he’d not be believed – his cursed mother had seen to that! She’d made it known among the sorchas high and low that Palansa had bled in Erboran’s bed at their joining.
Tarkenda had always sided with Erboran against him. And now she was using Palansa to take the chiefship for herself! His fingers twitched and he rocked forward on the balls of his feet. Half the Shargh already favoured him becoming Chief and it would take little to bring the rest behind him: just the death of the Healer-creature, or the miscarry of his brother’s seed. Killing the creature of the Telling would be simpler, and then he’d take Palansa whether she willed it or not. Death of the young during birthing was unfortunate but not uncommon.
He felt his mother’s gaze on him and he licked his dried lips, forcing his face into an expression of suitable solemnity. The air was unbearably close, the stale end of another hot day, and the craving for the touch of rain against his face was overwhelming.
Well, he’d danced attendance on the great dead Chief long enough! With the slightest dip of his head and briefest touch to his forehead, he strode off across the Grounds, breaking into a run when he was clear of the gathering, ignoring the slide of sweat over his body as he forced his feet into rhythm with his thudding heart.
The cracked margins of the Thanawah stretched ahead, and he turned along it, running parallel with its sluggish flow till he came to the stands of slitweed, the blood roaring in his ears as he came to a stop. He stood, chest heaving, until slowly the sounds of the Grounds intruded: the hungry lowing of ebis behind him; the rattle of the slitweed; a water-toad croaking. A shrunken moon bobbed on the water, shifting and blurring with the Thanawah’s movement. Arkendrin glared at it. So it was with the Sky Chiefs! Their intent seeming one thing but turning out another; birthing him into the Chief’s family, a season behind the firstborn, then taking the firstborn to the cloudlands, and leaving his seed behind.
But no more! Before the moon was full again, he’d be back under the cursed trees and this time he’d not fail in capturing the creature. Not that the fault was his that it still lived. Erboran had led badly, thwarting him even in death by forcing him to abandon the attack to bring his body home. Well, the sending ceremony was over, and he’d not be idling away the three mourning moons watching Palansa’s claim on the chiefship grow as big as her belly. The sooner the thing of the Telling was dead, the sooner he’d prise the chiefship from Palansa’s fists.
Something moved and his hand went to his knife. It was only a water-toad, its eyes as yellow as those of the foul thing of the Telling, jumping closer, muscles bunching under glistening skin. Arkendrin waited, then slammed his heel down, the toad’s skin popping as he ground the quivering mass to jelly, then booted it into the water. The moon shattered, then the slivers drew back into a whole, the toad’s blood drifting across its face like funeral smoke.
Irdodun sat in the quiet night attending the makeshift spit, salting the peeling skins of the grahens, his gaze more often on Arkendrin’s back than on the tasks at hand. The flames glanced off the eyes of the wolf Arkendrin had slain, making them glow in a hollow imitation of life as its body stiffened in the cooling air. The pelt was lush and Irdodun wondered whether Arkendrin would claim it. He’d made no move to skin the beast, seemingly content with its hunting, and now stood staring out over the Grounds. Irdodun poked at the coals to spread the heat more evenly, imagining the pelt strewn across his sorcha floor or fattening his bed covers.
Urpalin’s coughing jerked him from his reverie.
‘Will I skin the beast for you, Chief?’ asked Urpalin, his eyes on the wolf.
Irdodun scowled down at the fire, not trusting himself to look at the scrawny face of the younger man. He sensed Orthaken tense too, but Arkendrin was barely aware of any of them, his body still pulsing from the chase and kill, the wolf’s blood still wet on his shirt. The rocky hill of the Last Teller lay at his back, and the sky was pierced with a moon as sharp as ebis horn, giving little light. Not that he needed light to know the place of each sorcha on the slope, each pool and eddy within the Thanawah, Grenwah and Shunawah, each rock and roothold of burrel, targasso and stone-tree.
Cooking fires dotted the Grounds but he stared beyond them to the south-west, to where the gold-eyed creature lived and breathed and prospered.
‘I won’t be waiting three moons,’ he said, turning. ‘I won’t let my people suffer merely to honour a man who now takes his ease with the Sky Chiefs.’
‘The Chief-mother will say that Erboran must have his three moons of mourning,’ said Irdodun. ‘She will use it against you.’
Arkendrin paced to and fro on the edge of the fire. ‘The curse of the Last Telling grows stronger by the day. We cannot afford three moons of waiting on a corpse; the creature must be destroyed before we are destroyed.’
‘You speak as a Chief should,’ said Irdodun.
‘We need to know where the creature hides. It wasn’t in the place we burned. We must know where it is.’
‘We could send watchers,’ suggested Urpalin.
Arkendrin’s teeth flashed. ‘When Urgundin was taken, the Sky Chiefs granted me a boon. It’s often the case with those they favour, I’ve heard tell.’
‘A boon?’ Irdodun leaned forward.
‘When first we found the creature, the treemen shouted a word. It’s the creature’s name. We don’t need to find the creature, only a treeman who knows where it is.’
‘It’ll be simple to make him speak,’ said Urpalin, patting his dagger. ‘But we don’t know their tongue. How are we to understand what the treeman says?’
Arkendrin’s gaze swung to Orthaken and he started. ‘Your blood-tie Irason told me what the word meant, for he once traded with our Ashmiri brothers. He knows northern words, for the Ashmiri trade far. Bring him to the edge of the trees and wait for us there.’
Orthaken blanched. ‘Chief Arkendrin . . . Irason’s old. There’s much he doesn’t remember. What if . . . it’s not enough?’
‘It will be enough.’
Palansa wrung the water out of the last of her clothes, dumped the damp bundles into her basket and struggled upright. There were many women at the Grenwah’s washpools, their chatter ebbing and flowing on the sunny air. Palansa nodded to them as she turned up the bank, glad to be done with her chores. Her belly made crouching by the water awkward and she was relieved to be away from the curious eyes of the other women. She stopped at the top of the bank and swung the basket onto her other hip. As she did so, Ormadon suddenly appeared at her side.
She glanced at the old warrior in irritation. Didn’t Tarkenda even trust the washer-women?
‘I’ll carry the basket for you, Chief-wife,’ he said.
‘There’s no need.’
They walked for a while in silence, Palansa scanning the sky, which was cloudless, again, and feeling the crisp grasses underfoot. Why did the Sky Chiefs not send rain?
‘And what do the washer-women say?’ asked Ormadon.
‘Only the usual gossip. I’m sure it’s of no interest to you . . . unless you’ve come to like women’s work.’
‘Gossip is always of interest, Chief-wife. Women speak loudly of what their join-husbands whisper. The one furthest upstream; whose blood-tie is she?’
‘Ermashin’s. She’s joined to his uncle’s second son.’
‘Of what did she speak?’
‘
She was complaining that her join-husband gives her no pleasure in bed. She says he should just be called a husband because he’s no longer capable of joining with her.’ Ormadon’s ruddy face remained impassive.
‘She says she might try a younger man tonight, as her join-husband’s away,’ added Palansa mischievously.
‘Did she say where her join-husband was?’ asked Ormadon, his eyes narrowing.
‘No, but . . . I’ve noticed that Arkendrin’s sorcha has been empty these last few days. I know he goes beyond the Grenwah hunting, but it’s his habit to be back by nightfall.’
‘Perhaps he returns when you’re sleeping.’
‘The fire-circle’s cold.’
‘It’s good you’re observant, Chief-wife, it bodes well for the health of your son – the next Chief.’
Palansa shifted her basket back to her other hip and gazed about the brown pasture lands. ‘What does it mean, Ormadon?’
‘Erlken tells me that Orthaken has taken Irason to the southwest forests.’
They were coming to the first of the sorchas and Palansa lowered her voice. ‘Irason can scarcely walk, so crippled is he with old-man’s ache. His join-wife spends half her time grubbing for oil-root in the targasso, but it doesn’t seem to do him any good.’
‘I don’t think they’ve taken him south-west for his swiftness,’ murmured Ormadon, his eyes flicking between Orthaken and Urpalin’s deserted sorchas as they passed. Marwings flapped overhead and Palansa saw Ormadon’s hand move to his flatsword. She tightened her grip on her basket but said nothing, concentrating on navigating the steep path winding up the slope.
‘Before his bones were eaten, Irason travelled far,’ said Ormadon. ‘He learned other tongues.’
Palansa stopped to catch her breath, the babe squirming and pummelling at her lungs, making her pant. She set the basket down, feeling inclined to accept Ormadon’s offer to carry it after all, but then decided it was better that his hands were free. She squinted out over the sun-bleached pastures while her breathing steadied. There was only one reason why Arkendrin would take the slow-moving Irason all the way to the forests.
‘He seeks the gold-eyed Healer of the Last Telling,’ she said softly. ‘He thinks killing her will give him the chiefship.’
‘Killing her or killing the next Chief,’ said Ormadon, his gaze following hers. ‘He thinks it will be simpler to kill her, but if that fails . . .’
‘I’m not afraid of him,’ said Palansa, turning on Ormadon fiercely.
‘There are many who aren’t afraid of the red scum infesting the Thanawah’s drinking holes but it still injures them,’ said Ormadon.
‘What should I do?’ asked Palansa, her hands moving protectively over her belly.
‘Let the Chief-mother guide you and I’ll send Erlken to keep you company for a while. I think it’s time I listened to what the sorchas tell.’
26
Kira rolled onto her side, trying to find ease for her aching bones and failing. Her mattress was the type used by Protectors, stuffed with sere grass that poked at her no matter which way she turned. Though Tresen had secured a hanging across the alcove to give her privacy and a place to sleep, there was no sleep to be had. Jarin and Marakin’s groans were audible from the training room beyond and her mind was filled with images of Kandor begging her to take him with her on the night of Turning. She sat up, hugging her knees close and tugging the sleeping gown back over her shoulder. It was too big, but at least it was clean.
She clutched at the image of the falzon bandage binding a wound, managing to quench the scene of death and fire in her head before it took hold. It was almost habit now, this cutting off of memory, a reflexive response to something she knew had the power to destroy her. If only this mental sleight of hand could be used for what was to come. Everest still held the most severely wounded but those with lesser wounds were already burning, their breathing becoming like Feseren’s, each gasp screaming that she’d failed, again.
There must be a cure, the old Tremen rhyme proved it! Tossing the covering aside, she paced around the alcove. Fire with flatswords brings the bane. Fire was fever; Feseren’s death had taught her that. He’d burned, just as those beyond the hanging now burned. Fire without brings life again. Fire without what? It made no sense! How could fever bring life? Fever burned the flesh as surely as flames had burned the Bough. There must be something else!
But what? Where? Two steps to the wall, two to the bed. Kasheron’s people must have suffered Shargh wounds and they’d survived. The cure hadn’t been in the Herbal Sheaf or in the Writings. And it hadn’t been in any of the many caverns she’d managed to explore so far. If she were to find a cure, she must search for the answer deeper in the Warens.
Wrenching the gown over her head, she pulled the dirty Protector garb back on and grabbed her jacket and pack. Tresen was at the far end of the training room, his attention on a thrashing Protector. Just as well, for she didn’t have time to argue with him about her safety. Moving swiftly through the rows of wounded, she snatched one of the tunnel lamps and set off into the darkness.
Miken edged round Nogren’s trunk into the outer cavern, nodding to the Protector who sprang from the shadows. It was Darmanin of Kenclan, one of Kest’s men. They were all Kest’s men now, he corrected, and it was fitting. Kest was a strong fighter with a good strategic brain. But more importantly, he had the men’s trust.
As he hastened on along the first tunnel, the air grew danker and Miken’s nose wrinkled. The ventilation was better in the training rooms, but it was no place for the ill. Still, they couldn’t risk moving them. Also the bee’s-comb of tunnels kept Kira safe, which was the main thing. A staccato of footsteps filled the cavern ahead and the bobbing glow of lamps appeared, requiring Miken to flatten himself against the wall. It was a patrol, their leader shouting orders in preparation for Nogren’s passing.
‘Commander Kest,’ called Miken, having to bawl to be heard above the noise of their passing.
The patrol came to a halt and a lamp was passed along the group.
‘Clanleader Miken, what brings you to the Warens?’ asked Kest.
‘I come to speak with Kiraon,’ said Miken, his words carrying to the back of the patrol.
‘I might come with you, Clanleader,’ said Kest slowly.
‘By all means.’
Kest called one of his men forward and they conferred briefly, then the patrol moved on, leaving him and Miken alone.
‘I’m calling a Clancouncil for the morrow,’ said Miken as they walked. ‘The Clanleaders will formalise your command of the Protectors and appoint Kira Tremen Leader.’
‘Do you think that’s wise so quickly?’
‘What? You or her?’ asked Miken dryly. ‘Kira’s our best Healer,’ he added after a moment, when Kest failed to respond.
‘I don’t doubt Kira’s healing skill but she’s still very young,’ said Kest. ‘She lacks the ability to think before she acts. I . . .’ Kest stopped. ‘I beg your pardon, Clanleader, I didn’t intend clan insult.’
‘I think you and I can put aside such niceties in the interests of honesty,’ said Miken. ‘Kira’s lacked the hand of good guidance and, as you’ve no doubt noticed, is fond of going her own way. But the gift of healing’s strong in her, along with the passion for it that true Healers possess. As for the rest of it . . .’ Miken shrugged. ‘It will come in time.’
Kest wondered whether she’d be given that time, but said nothing, and for a while the only noise was the grit of their boots over the cavern floor.
It was Miken who broke the silence. ‘Has she spoken of Kandor?’
‘I’ve had little time to visit the training rooms,’ said Kest regretfully. ‘But Tresen says she’s neither wept openly nor spoken of anything that happened that night, and he daren’t raise it with her.’
‘Kira had great love for Kandor. She . . .’ Miken’s voice cracked and he slammed his hand against the stone. ‘He was only a boy, yet the stinking murderers ignored
Protectors to kill him!’
Kest waited for the heave of Miken’s breathing to quieten before speaking. ‘Since last we met, I’ve received the reports of the Protectors who fought that night.’
Miken’s head flicked round. ‘And?’
‘The Shargh left their dead where they fell, except for one.’
‘They took a body back?’
‘Yes.’
‘You think it was their leader?’
‘Who else? No others were accorded the privilege.’
There was a brief silence while Miken digested the news.
‘I’ve been thinking about the manner of their attack,’ continued Kest. ‘They passed Barclan and Kenclan longhouses to reach the Bough, making it a journey of over four days from the Sentinels. If they were simply intent on killing Tremen, they could’ve sated their appetites with far less trouble. Clanleaders Tenedren and Ketten had set no guards.’
‘I’ve had the same thought,’ said Miken. ‘Go on.’
‘Then there’s the first attack. They’d choked Kandor unconscious but they were clearly intending to kill Kira.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Why didn’t they kill Kandor then? A hand over his mouth and a sword across his throat. It would’ve been easy, and then when Kira came to his aid, kill her too.’
Miken’s blood ran cold. Kest’s words held a terrible logic. ‘You think they had no real interest in killing Kandor because they were hunting Kira? And that having failed to kill her then, they came to the Bough for her, ignoring the longhouses along the way?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve thought of reasons for any of this.’
Kest shrugged helplessly; the lamp-glow from the training room ahead illuminating his discomfited face.
