by Unknown
‘No . . . yes. I was looking for you, but if you know where my brother is, I’d be pleased if you told me.’
‘I think he’s with Kira.’
Kesilini nodded, her face remaining carefully composed. ‘Actually, I’ve come to help you . . . to offer my help, at least . . . I was helping prepare the herbs earlier and I’ve spent some time with women in childbirth. I know it’s not the same, but . . . I could prepare bandages or clean wounds . . . if you show me how, or watch while you get some sleep . . .’
She had Kest’s eyes, but so much sadder. ‘Thank you, Kesilini. I’d be glad of your help.’ He led her back to where the most severely wounded lay. ‘The men here have been given everest and will sleep at least another day, but you can help me give the others honeyed water.’ He ladled a dollop of honey into a jug and began to stir.
‘Only honeyed water? I would have thought . . .’ She coloured. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to question . . . I’m not a Healer.’
Tresen tapped the last of the honey off the spoon on the side of the jug, and lowered his voice. ‘You thought we’d be doing more for them? You’re quite right, Kesilini. We’ve cleansed the wounds with sorren and stitched them and bound them with falzon. Ordinarily that would be enough. But these are Shargh wounds, and Shargh wounds rot despite our healing. All that’s left for us is to stave off thirst.’
Kesilini’s eyes widened. ‘Are you saying there’s no cure?’
Tresen hesitated, having already said too much.
Kesilini came closer. ‘Are you saying Healer Kiraon cannot heal them?’
Tresen looked at her, considering. ‘I won’t lie to you, Kesilini, not after what’s happened, but what I say mustn’t go beyond this room.’
Kesilini nodded.
‘The Shargh use something on their blades that causes wounds to putrefy. Even small wounds rot. Kasheron’s people knew of a cure, but the knowing’s been lost. Unless we find it again, we can’t heal the wounded.’
Kesilini’s face blanched. ‘So they’ll all die,’ she whispered.
‘There’s hope. Everest seems to slow the fester, and even now Kira searches the further tunnels for old Writings. Kest’s gone after her.’
‘Isn’t that dangerous?’ She’d caught his arm without realising it.
Tresen shrugged. ‘The Warens are full of caverns and tunnels, and completely dark, and they’ve never been completely mapped. Kira’s very tired; she’s barely slept since the attack.’
‘Then why did you let her go? If she gets lost . . . if they both get lost, or injured, or . . .’
‘Do you think she asked my permission?’ he asked, his voice sharp.
‘You should have –’ started Kesilini.
‘Seen her go and stopped her? Yes, I should have. And Maxen should have heeded Sarkash’s warning and postponed the Feast of Turning. And the Protectors should have been patrolling the First Eight.’ He slammed the jug down on the table. ‘All these things should have happened, Kesilini, but they didn’t, and they can’t be undone. Kira’s choice was to stay here and watch the wounded die or go into the darkness. Kest’s choice was the same. Which do you think they should have chosen?’
Kesilini dropped her head and a tear slid off her cheek onto her tunic.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tresen, pushing his hand through his hair. ‘It’s probably best you go back to your longhouse.’
‘No, I want to stay. I . . . I thank you for telling me these things. They were right to go.’ She raised her head and gave a tremulous smile. ‘Maxen was planning on making Merek Leader after him, but I never thought it was right. It should always have been Kiraon. I’ve seen her heal. She fights to heal in the same way Kest fights.’ Tears started afresh and she wiped them away. ‘It’s just that I’m frightened of losing Kest too.’
Tresen touched her hand briefly. ‘We’re all frightened of losing those we love, Kesilini.’
Miken stood at the door of his longhouse, the dawn air chill on his face. All but one of the Clanleaders were within, breakfasting on the nutbread and dried mundleberries Tenerini had set ready, and drinking freshly brewed lemonleaf tea.
Tenerini was now busy on the edge of the trees, filling the cups of the Protector escorts gathered there and sending Mikini and Mira back and forth to the longhouse on all manner of errands. Miken heard snatches of the conversations behind him: ‘the routes of Protector patrols’, ‘gathering’, ‘the likelihood of further attack’. The Clanleaders were anxious about leaving their longhouses even for a short time.
He glanced back, catching Marren’s eye. The Morclan leader’s brows rose in an easily guessed question: would the Clanleaders support Kira as Leader? It was a question Miken had spent the night pondering. Meetings to appoint Leaders were inevitably difficult, but it was doubly difficult this time. Maxen’s death had been untimely, with no time to prepare, and they were now in a time of threat, not peace.
Miken rocked on the balls of his feet, trying to contain his impatience. At least Dakresh was consistent, always being the last to arrive. Perhaps it had been a mistake for him to call a council at all. Perhaps he should have waited for someone else to do it. He was widely regarded as Maxen’s adversary, and the Clanleaders might withhold support for Kira simply because she was his clan-kin.
There were other sensitivities too. Most of the Clanleaders had agreed with Maxen that no threat existed. They would now have to justify themselves or admit they were wrong. He thought of Tarclan’s new leader Kemrick. Who would Tarclan blame for their previous Clanleader’s death? Certainly not Farish himself. It was always easier to turn away from the pain of a self-inflicted wound.
There was movement in the trees as a new patrol appeared and Dakresh hobbled stiffly towards him.
‘Kashclan welcomes Sherclan,’ said Miken formally.
‘Sherclan thanks Kashclan,’ said Dakresh, peering up under silvered brows. Miken escorted him to his seat and took his own, gulping down his tea without tasting the lemonleaf’s tang, his attention on what was to come. If only there were time to let Tarclan grieve, to let them all grieve. But they couldn’t afford to wait. New Leaders must be appointed, both for the Bough and the Warens, and a formal strategy of protection put in place. Clearing his throat, he rose, and the murmured conversations died away.
‘Kashclan welcomes Clanleaders Dakresh, Kemrick, Tenedren, Ketten, Berendash, Sanden and Marren to council,’ he began formally, putting Marren last so as not to highlight their usual accord.
He waited for the gathering to finish its traditional response, then, bowing to Kemrick, said: ‘The Clancouncil mourns the loss of Clanleader Farish. May he rest easy beneath the ’green.’
Kemrick rose. ‘Tarclan has given him to Wesgren. He is the sun and air; he is the roots and soil.’
‘May the alwaysgreen Shelter him,’ responded the council.
Kenrick resumed his seat and Marren rose.
‘The Clancouncil mourns the loss of Tremen Leader Maxen. May he rest easy beneath the ’green.’
‘Kashclan has given him to Sogren,’ responded Miken. ‘He is the sun and air; he is the roots and soil.’
‘May the alwaysgreen Shelter him,’ returned the council.
Miken stood again, surveying the gathering solemnly. ‘All our clans have suffered loss. We have much to decide today, councillors. Let us begin.’
Kest pushed the sheaf back onto the shelf, swearing under his breath. His neck was stiff, he was as dry as a husk, and there were still at least two-thirds of the cavern’s contents to check. It must be midday outside, or so the growl of his stomach told him.
‘How many lists of gatherings do you need?’ he asked of the air. Season eleven, season twelve, season eighteen, season twenty-three . . .’ He squinted through the gloom at Kira, who was crouching motionless over a sheaf. ‘Found anything?’
She didn’t respond and he dragged himself upright, the pain in his groin reminding him of their earlier encounter.
‘Kira?’ Was she as
leep? No. He crouched beside her and peered at the Writing. ‘What is it?’
‘Deaths,’ she said softly. ‘Babes and their mothers. So many . . .’
‘Season five,’ noted Kest, ‘the early days of Allogrenia. They would have hunted out the silverjacks by then and were probably trying to live solely on pitchie grass. Not the best diet for a woman carrying.’ He looked at the pile of discarded sheafs to her side. ‘Nothing on healing?’
Kira shook her head. ‘Not yet.’ She peered up at him. ‘We have to keep going, Kest. We won’t have time to come back.’
‘I know.’ Did she think he was going to argue? He knew as well as she did that they only had a couple more days before the wounded would be beyond their help. And then it would be Feseren all over again.
‘Have you got any food?’ he asked irritably.
‘No, I didn’t think to bring any. I didn’t think I’d be away this long.’
‘The problem with you is that you don’t think.’
Her eyes flashed. ‘And I suppose you do? Well, I’m waiting for you to offer me a nice slice of that nutbread you’ve brought with you, Protector Leader Kest.’
Kest quelled a retort and grabbed another armful of sheafs from the shelf. At least the store had held a large cask of oil, as she had predicted, and they wouldn’t have to fumble their way back. He threw the pile on the floor.
‘You realise that the council’s meeting today to make you Leader,’ he said.
Kira stiffened, but kept her gaze on the sheaf in front of her. ‘I won’t accept the leadership.’
‘You won’t have any choice.’
‘I’m not worthy of it. They’ll have to find someone else.’ She gathered up the sheafs she’d been looking at and pushed them back on the shelf.
‘There is no one else, Kira.’
She kept her back to him. ‘I’m not worthy,’ she said.
Kest got to his feet. Had he been a fool to broach the subject? Would the grief she’d somehow managed to contain spill out again, robbing her of her wits, or worse, of her healing? They must have a strong Leader! Someone who took no action – or worse still, vacillated – would be useless, no matter how extraordinary their healing.
‘I killed Kandor.’
For a moment he thought he’d misheard her, then he wrenched her round to face him. ‘The Shargh killed those of the Bough, not you.’
‘I killed him!’
It was almost a shriek. Perhaps she was becoming unhinged with the grief of Kandor’s death and the battle to heal the injured.
‘He wanted to come with me, but I made him stay in the Bough. Don’t you understand? I made him stay!’ Her eyes were as bright as metal, the lamplight making them other-worldly.
‘Why did you leave . . . ?’ Kest began, then stopped, his eyes going to the bruise on Kira’s face, fading now to yellow-green, the cut under the cheekbone healing. Maxen had been furious at Merek’s bonding, and he remembered well the Tremen Leader’s cold gaze on him as he’d danced with Kira. The last piece of the puzzle fell into place.
By the ’green which Shelters us! He took a steadying breath. ‘I know what happened that night, and I know how you got this.’ He touched her face gently with the back of his fingers. ‘And I say this to you, Kiraon of Kashclan, that none of it is your fault. It’s not your fault that your father had no love for you, or that he put his own ambition and pride before the good of the Tremen. It’s not your fault he broke every tenet of Tremen law against violence.’
Kira caught his hand in hers. ‘Pledge that you won’t speak of this, Kest. Pledge!’ she pleaded.
‘I seem to be spending a lot of time pledging to remain silent on things that everyone should know.’
‘My father was appointed Leader by the Clancouncil and accepted by the Tremen people. Speaking of this will only bring shame on us all. We need to work together now, not squabble among ourselves. We need to remember what makes us Tremen, and to fight for its survival.’
‘Spoken like a Leader.’
She flushed, but held his eyes. ‘Will you pledge?’
He took a deep breath. ‘I’ll pledge if you accept the Clancouncil’s decision, whatever it might be.’
Kira’s eyes surged gold again as she nodded.
Kest brought her hand to his lips. ‘I shall enjoy working with you, Tremen Leader Kiraon.’
28
In the hall of the Kashclan longhouse, the arguments surged to and fro like the Drinkwater in flood, showing neither signs of abatement nor resolution. Half the councillors were passionate that Kira should become Leader and the other half were equally passionate that she should not. Watching them, Miken felt as if he’d been confined in his longhouse for days rather than since dawning, and there was no release in sight. He refilled his cup and stared out the window, the light telling him that it was well past midday. The Clanleaders’ escorts were no longer visible and the still morning had given way to a breezy afternoon, the castellas and severs dipping and swaying.
Dakresh was on his feet now, waving his finger under Marren’s nose.
Time to call a halt. The debate had reached the stage where everything had been said anyway, and was now simply being repeated using different words. Miken set his cup down so that it chinked loudly and rose. ‘Councillors. Councillors!’
The noise faltered and faces turned to him.
‘I think it’s time we made a decision,’ he said.
‘It was time mid-morning,’ growled Dakresh.
‘We needs make a good decision,’ retorted Marren, glaring at him, ‘not any decision, and good decision-making takes time.’
‘So can bad,’ muttered someone.
‘I could have called for a division some time ago,’ acknowledged Miken, ‘and I would have if we’d been debating foraging rights or the fair exchange of goods between longhouses. But I need hardly remind you that we’re deciding something far more important, and that whoever we appoint today must have the support of all of us, not just half of us,’ he said, looking at each councillor in turn.
‘It’s clear you haven’t got the numbers, Clanleader,’ said Dakresh. ‘Let’s just get on with it, so we can move on to the Warens’ leadership and be getting back to our longhouses.’
Marren’s chair grated back. ‘It’s not just a matter of numbers, Clanleader Dakresh, but of who’s best fitted to head the Bough.’
‘Precisely,’ snapped Dakresh, ‘and a girl of barely seventeen seasons, even if she is a good Healer, is certainly not fitted. The next Leader should have been Merek; he was the only one of Maxen’s seed to have inherited the healing power along with the strength of will to see us through this. It’s one of the great tragedies of this whole sorry mess that he was taken too.’
Miken opened his mouth to protest but shut it again. Nothing he could say now was likely to improve the situation. Another figure rose. It was Kemrick of Tarclan, Farish’s replacement, and until this moment he’d been silent. Miken had known nothing of Kemrick before his appointment, but had learned since that he was an intensely private man, spending most of his adult life in solitary wanderings. It was a strange choice by Tarclan, especially after the outgoing brashness of Farish.
‘Clancouncillors,’ began Kemrick, ‘forgive me if I seem naive, for I’ve spent little time in these debates, whereas you are all obviously well-practised. It seems to me that the issues debated here today are really quite simple. As a Tremen, my understanding is that the Bough is the centre of all healing. Is that not so?’ His gaze shifted slowly round the councillors, and there were nods of agreement. ‘And it is also my understanding that Kiraon of Kashclan is the best surviving Healer in Allogrenia.’
Again came the murmurs of assent.
‘Then it follows that she be made Leader of the Bough.’
‘It’s not as simple as that, Clanleader Kemrick,’ said Berendash. ‘It’s not Kiraon’s healing that is in question here, but her strength and strategic ability.’
‘Strength and strategic a
bility? I rather thought that they were the preserve of the Warens,’ said Kemrick, smiling to ease the bluntness of his words. ‘I am, as I said, unpractised in the way of debates, but I am well versed in the history of Allogrenia. How and why we came to be here has always been of particular interest to me, and I’ve spent a considerable time studying the sheafs stowed in the Warens.
‘What they tell me is that Kasheron gave his heart to healing, but that his head understood the wisdom of keeping the sword. We’ve been fortunate to have had so many seasons of peace to enjoy his legacy of healing. But now we must call upon the other half of what he has bequeathed us.
‘It seems to me that the decision facing us is not who will lead the Bough – Kiraon, we agree, is the best Healer – but who will lead the Protectors in the Warens.’
There was absolute silence, then Kemrick nodded to each councillor in turn. ‘I thank you for hearing me,’ he said, and sat down.
Miken schooled his face to blandness. ‘I thank you, Clanleader Kemrick. Are there any further contributions? No? Then I suggest we divide.’
‘I see no reason to waste time in two divisions when one will suffice,’ snapped Berendash, glancing around the table. ‘I take it that we are in agreement in appointing Kashclanswoman Kiraon to the Leadership of the Bough?’
There was a mutter of assent.
‘Then let us focus on the leadership of the Warens. The Protectors of my longhouse tell me that their preference for Commander is Kest of Morclan.’
‘As do mine,’ added Tenedren.
‘And mine,’ said Sanden.
‘What say the other clans?’ asked Miken.
‘Kest obviously has the confidence of Morclan,’ said Marren, his eyes sliding to Dakresh.
‘I have no objection,’ grunted Dakresh. ‘He’s young in seasons, but old in his thinking. The men like him and that’s important if they must spill their blood for him.’
‘For us,’ corrected Kemrick.
