Whisper of Leaves

by Unknown

  Miken stood at his doorway once more, this time watching the last of the Clanleaders’ escorts disappear among the trees, still not quite believing what had taken place.

  ‘So, Kira’s to be Leader,’ said Tenerini, coming to his side.

  Miken slipped his arm around her. ‘And Kest’s to replace Sarkash.’

  ‘He’s a good choice.’

  ‘But not Kira?’

  Tenerini was intent on the springleslips hunting bark beetles among the castellas, but the kink in her brows told him she was troubled.

  ‘Kira,’ she sighed. ‘Kira needs time to grieve, to heal herself, but if she’s Leader of the Bough, there’ll be no time, even if . . . when this is over, there’ll be no time.’

  ‘When this is over, there’ll be less need for healing. She’ll be able to visit Sogren and Wessogren, to come to accept what has happened, to say her farewells.’

  ‘It might be too late. Kandor was everything to her.’ She looked up at him. ‘We should have fought harder to have her here with us, Miken; and Kandor.’

  Miken ran his finger down her cheek. ‘Yes, how well we see when we look over our shoulders. But we both know that Maxen would never have relented. The more we asked, the more he delighted in refusing.’

  ‘Yet he had little love for either of them.’

  Miken’s arm tightened round her and he kissed her head. ‘No, but he enjoyed having power over them, particularly Kira. And while he had Kandor, he had all the power in the world.’

  Tenerini snorted. ‘Well, he has none now, and I’m glad. The only good that’s come of this, may the ’green forgive me, is that Kira’s free of him at last.’

  Miken looked at her in surprise. ‘That’s an unworthy thought, Tenerini.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but an honest one. And you’re the only person I’d voice it to.’

  ‘Ah, then it’s fortunate we’re bonded and bound to keep each other’s secrets.’ Miken stared out into the fading light, the foliage flickering with birds seeking their roosts. Somewhere to the east came the voice of a mira kiraon, its call sending an icy breath over Miken’s skin.

  ‘I need to go back to the Warens,’ he said abruptly.

  Tenerini’s head jerked up. ‘What? Not this night surely? You were there only yesterday.’

  ‘I know, but Kira had gone off into the tunnels and I didn’t see her. I need to speak with her about the leadership.’ And make sure she is well for my own peace of mind.

  ‘Can’t it wait? You could go tomorrow – with an escort,’ said Tenerini.

  ‘There’s little risk while the moon is small.’ And I’d rather leave the men here with you and Mikini and the others of my longhouse.

  ‘You think the next attack will come with the full moon?’ asked Tenerini.

  Miken hesitated, but Tenerini was not a child to be fed only honey. ‘Both attacks have been at the full moon, which makes sense for a people who are unfamiliar with the forest. Even Tremen have been known to get lost on a cloudy night.’

  ‘The next full moon,’ whispered Tenerini, her gaze flicking round the darkening trees.

  Miken drew her back into the hall and shut the door. The longhouse was alive with light and the comforting smells of espin smoke and of nutbread as well as the voices of Kashclan coming to prepare their evening meal. He watched Tenerini join them at the cooking place. Would the Shargh attack them here? he wondered, slipping on his pack. They’d gone straight to the Bough last time; straight to the Leader and his family. After making his farewells, he stepped out into the dusk and set off at speed. Miken was unsure where the next attack would be. The only thing he was sure of was that there would be a next time.

  ‘I think I’ve found something.’

  Kest’s voice came from a long way off and Kira jerked upright, having no recollection of what she’d been thinking of in the last few moments and wondering if she’d actually gone to sleep.

  ‘It’s a list of herbs from Kenclan octad. Something about fireweed . . .’ continued Kest.

  Kira sprang to her feet, stumbling and almost falling on him as she snatched the sheaf from his hands.

  ‘There’s no need –’ started Kest.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .’ she muttered, reading feverishly. Memories rattled in her brain then fell into place and the sheaf tumbled to the floor.

  ‘Kira?’

  ‘I know what it is, Kest. I know what it is!’ She gripped his arm. ‘Come, we don’t have much time.’

  ‘Tell me what you’re talking about!’

  ‘Fireweed, Kest, it’ll cure Shargh wounds. And it’s in Kenclan octad. Come on!’

  He stepped in front of her, blocking her way. ‘It’s a full day’s travel, Kira, and we can’t do it without food, water and rest, and we daren’t do it without a patrol.’

  ‘We don’t have time. We have to go now,’ insisted Kira.

  ‘You don’t have the right to risk yourself, even to save others. You are our Healer now.’

  Kira turned on him furiously. ‘We’ve had this stinking conversation before. I’m not skulking in this hole while people die, even if you’re willing to.’

  Kest’s hand shot out and fastened on Kira’s wrist, then he picked up the lamp and began to drag her from the cavern.

  Her father had done this to her, thought Kira, not by touch, but by intimidation, crushing and confining her most of her life. It was almost as if he were here now, flesh cold as the stone pressing in on her, pushing the breath from her lungs. She began to gasp, unable to get enough air. The sweat poured down her neck, the lamplight disappearing into black blotches.

  Kest felt her sag and thought it was a trick, but her breathing was harsh. He lowered her to the floor and set the lamp down. He’d never used force against a woman in his life, and he’d used it twice now, in the space of a day. There was nothing in his Protector training to teach him how to control a completely recalcitrant, totally unreasonable woman. He pushed her head down between her knees, holding her against him, feeling how small and fragile she was, like a bird. The mira kiraon; she was well-named, not just for her eyes, but for her claws. He tensed as she roused, preparing to hold her again if necessary.

  ‘I . . . I’ve . . . got . . . a map,’ she gasped, as if their conversation had never been interrupted. ‘A map of the Warens. We . . . can get to Sarnia Cave from here. It’s . . . quicker Kest, quicker than . . . going overland.’

  She fumbled a page of Writings out of her shirt and flattened it on the cavern floor, her hands shaking. Did she never give up?

  ‘There are three openings shown . . . see? One in Renclan . . . and these two, they open in the Kenclan octad.’

  Kest shifted the lamp closer. It was the most extensive map of the Warens he’d ever seen. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘From the storeroom, before my oil ran out and you came.’

  ‘And you never thought to tell me?’ If there were maps like these, the Warens could become a real part of the protection of Allogrenia, rather than a musty afterthought.

  ‘I forgot about it . . . I’m sorry. But it means we can get to the Kenclan octad and back, within a day.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Well, we’re about here,’ she said, pointing to the map. ‘They’re only just outside it. There’s the Water Cavern and the training rooms. It’s about half that distance again to this entrance.’

  ‘You’re assuming that it is an entrance, and that it’s open – not blocked by rockfall – and that this map’s to scale.’

  ‘To scale?’

  ‘That that distance there is, in fact, equal to this distance here. And there’s also the little matter of an escort. You’re not wandering about all over the octad looking for fireweed.’

  ‘I won’t be wandering about, Kest. It’s near Sarnia Cave.’

  ‘And you’ve only just remembered this?’ he said, folding up the map and helped her to her feet. ‘This isn’t a game or some sort of competition about who gets thei
r own way. The Shargh could be anywhere, and we already know what their intentions are.’

  ‘Are you accusing me of lying?’ Her face had taken on the petulance of Eser at her worst.

  ‘I’m saying it’s strange that you suddenly have such precise knowledge,’ said Kest.

  ‘You’re saying I’m a liar!’

  ‘Stop acting like a child! If you expect people to understand what’s in your heart, then you’d better start telling them what’s in your head.’

  ‘I read of fireweed some time ago, Protector Leader,’ clipped out Kira. ‘When we took the wounded to the Sarnia Cave, I saw a herb I didn’t recognise. You refused to give me time to look at it further. Just now I’ve read a description of fireweed’s properties and habitats, and they fit what I saw. Is that sufficient, Protector Leader?’

  ‘It’s an improvement.’

  ‘And will you let me go, or will you take me prisoner again?’

  Stinking heart-rot! Why did she have to ask him questions like these? Every shred of his Protector training told him it was madness to go to the Kenclan octad without a patrol. And they’d had no food or rest for close on two days. The way he felt now, he’d have trouble fighting off a stickspider. Yet if they went back to the training rooms to rest and eat and gather a patrol, more of the wounded would die. His men would die.

  ‘We’ll go direct to Sarnia Cave. If there’s no fireweed there we’ll come straight back. No argument, no scouting about, no excuses. Do I have your word?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And one last thing, Kira.’ He bent, so that his face was level with hers. ‘If we come under attack, at any time, you are to run. Run and don’t look back. Do you understand?’ His eyes were hollow, his jaw shaded with stubble.

  ‘I couldn’t leave . . .’

  ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  29

  The marwings circled and croaked higher and higher above the Grounds, their wings scarcely beating, the shimmering heat giving them an easy ride upon its back. Shading her eyes, Tarkenda shifted her gaze to the bleached earth below them, then to a dark blot. Was it the putrefying corpse of an ebis that had given up the struggle to live on the sparse pasture, or a Shargh warrior returning from hunt? She squinted into the glare, irritably wiping away the wetness seeping at the corners of her eyes. Maybe those the Sky Chiefs took early were blessed, not having to contend with rotting bones and clouding eyes.

  Grunting, she continued up towards Arkendrin’s sorcha, noting the empty fire circle and the smell of rancid sherat, and not needing the buzz of blackflies to know that the remains of his food were being devoured by things that stung and squirmed. It was fitting that the sorcha of a warrior who couldn’t even pay his brother the respect of one moon’s mourning had become the haunt of lesser creatures. How had she spawned such a son?

  Was Arkendrin’s jealousy and conniving seeded by his birth order or gifted by the Sky Chiefs before he’d left her belly? she wondered. He’d always been one to secrete things away that should rightfully have been shared: the thickest wolf-skins, the season’s first gathering of grahen eggs. And now he used his brother’s mourning time to hunt the chiefship for himself. Would Erboran have acted any differently had he been the younger brother? She thought so. Erboran had held a love for his people that went beyond himself, and he’d respected the wisdom of the Sky Chiefs. Erboran had followed the old ways, and in doing so kept them safe. There were many on the Grounds who were blind to this, whose ears heard none of the tales of past suffering. They fed off Arkendrin’s promises of future glory, and in turn Arkendrin fed off them.

  A hot wind stirred, raising a squall of dust and thudding the sorchas against their struts. Arkendrin had been born on a day such as this, Tarkenda’s sweat mixing with the birth-water on the bed as he’d squalled, louder than the summer wind. Ergardrin had laughed, swinging him bloodied and wet above Erboran’s head. Here I have a brother for you, little one, to test who might be Chief. The words had chilled Tarkenda, but Ergardrin had dismissed her fears, insisting he’d spoken in jest. And he’d dismissed her wanting of a daughter too. What is a daughter but a joining for some other man’s son? There’d be plenty of time for daughters, he’d said. But there had been no time, and no daughters. Just death and Arkendrin’s hunger for the chiefship.

  Erlken was crouched at the front of Erboran’s sorcha, sharpening his flatsword, the whetstone rasping and the blade catching the sun as he turned it. The dazzle filled Tarkenda’s eyes, and in its glare she saw the flash of many blades, the plunge and scream of horses and the faces of fair-haired men. In a blink the vision was gone, and the thud of hoofs became the flapping of sorchas in the wind. Erlken was still working his sword and the marwings still circled overhead.

  Tarkenda no longer questioned why the Sky Chiefs sent her such visitations while those around her remained untouched, instead spending her strength in trying to understand the meaning of what she saw. This struggle now held her motionless under the harsh beat of the sun, and it was some time before she became aware of Erlken squinting up at her, his hand to his forehead in respectful greeting. His face still held a boyish softness, but his body was that of a man.

  ‘Where goes your father?’ she asked.

  ‘He didn’t say, just asked that I be with the Chief-wife. She sleeps,’ added Erlken, as if to prove that he hadn’t been remiss in his guarding.

  Tarkenda frowned. Ormadon had barely left Palansa’s side since Erboran’s death and must have good reason for doing so now. She flicked open the door flap and was greeted with a wall of stifling air, thick with the scent of ripe cheese, ebis fleece and burrel cones. Hobbling across the pelt-strewn floor, she loosed a vent flap, letting a gust of warm air sweep in and wake Palansa.

  Palansa jerked up, pushing the damp hair from her forehead.

  ‘You’d be dead now, if I were an intruder,’ said Tarkenda acerbically.

  ‘You would’ve had to kill Erlken first,’ replied Palansa.

  Tarkenda poured herself a bowl of water and gulped it down. It was warm and slightly muddy. ‘Simple enough,’ she said, wiping her mouth. ‘He may be Ormadon’s son, but he lacks his fighting skills.’

  Palansa came to the table. ‘He wouldn’t die quietly, and I’d have time to prepare.’ She patted the dagger under her dress. ‘Arkendrin might kill me, but I’d make sure he never became Chief.’

  Tarkenda’s eyes hardened. ‘There’ll be no victory if you lose your own life, and that of your son.’

  For a while the only sound was flapping hides and creaking struts.

  ‘Sometimes I hope that the babe is a girl,’ said Palansa wearily, lowering herself onto a seat. ‘Then it would be safe, and I would be safe.’

  ‘Do you think Arkendrin would let his brother’s seed live, even if it were a girl?’ She poured Palansa a bowl of water and passed it to her. ‘If the babe is a girl, then Arkendrin will be Chief, and none will dare raise their voices against him, no matter what he does.’

  Palansa’s knuckles whitened on the bowl. ‘Then I hope misfortune befalls him and he never returns!’

  ‘Hope will serve us less well than action.’

  Palansa said nothing and Tarkenda cleared her throat, determinedly lightening her voice. ‘I’ve spread word of Arkendrin’s breach of his brother’s mourning time.’

  ‘That won’t dissuade his followers,’ muttered Palansa. ‘Even if he used Erboran’s bones for blackfish bait, they’d still be licking at his heels, waiting for his fortunes to drag theirs up the slope.’ She got up and wandered back to the bed, picking up the part-finished keep-pot she’d been weaving when sleep had overtaken her.

  ‘The wolf chases only what it can catch. We won’t waste our strength on those who have tied their futures to Arkendrin’s, but on those who waver, waiting to see which way things turn.’

  Palansa turned the pot over, tracing the pattern of flatswords she’d worked into the side. ‘What if Ark
endrin kills the gold-eyed Healer?’

  ‘I don’t think he will.’

  ‘Do you doubt his hunting skills?’

  ‘The Sky Chiefs have sent me more visions,’ said Tarkenda, her face grim.

  The pot dropped from Palansa’s hands. ‘You know my son will be safe?’

  Tarkenda sighed. ‘Do you think if I knew that I’d have kept it from you? Do you think Ormadon would be like a shadow at your back?’ She poured herself another bowl of the muddy water; she was drier than a beetle husk. It seemed an age since she’d drunk clear, sweet water.

  ‘Then what . . . ?’

  ‘I’ve seen fighting.’

  ‘That could mean anything,’ said Palansa.

  ‘Fair men on white horses.’

  ‘Northerners,’ hissed Palansa, ‘but why . . .?’

  Tarkenda moved to the door and pushed the flap wide. She felt suffocated, as if the sorcha held insufficient air. ‘It may be that I see echoes of old visions, of things that have already come to pass.’ She leaned out, peering across the Grounds, searching for anything amiss.

  Palansa came to her side. ‘Do you believe that?’ Her hand had crept to the knife hilt under her dress.

  ‘No.’ She let the door flap fall back into place. ‘I think it’s yet to come. The Last Telling speaks of horses in the south-west.’

  ‘If horses graze in forests deep.’

  Tarkenda whirled. ‘You know the Telling?’

  ‘I . . . I asked Erboran for it. I told him I should know what our son must carry forward.’

  Tarkenda winced as she lowered herself back onto her seat. ‘And what did Erboran say to that?’

  ‘That I was a troublesome woman who gave him no peace.’ Palansa smiled but her eyes glistened.

  ‘Yet he told you as Ergardrin told me,’ said Tarkenda. Perhaps they both sensed they wouldn’t live to raise their sons.

  ‘Northerners fighting us,’ Palansa’s voice intruded. ‘It makes no sense, unless . . . the horses of the Telling are theirs.’ Her brows drew into an intense frown. ‘In which case the first part of the Telling must come to pass and the Healer will see the sun set. But that would mean she has to leave the forest, which would mean Arkendrin failed.’