by Unknown
Bern shrugged. ‘I’m not gathering, I’m reconnoitring. I know every clump of simpleweed in my octad and the Barclan octad, but it’s different here: there are caves.’
Kira didn’t know whether Dakresh was right but Kest believed the threat was real and immediate, and she wondered abruptly if she had the authority to order Bern home.
‘Have you been to the caves?’ pursued Bern, his enthusiasm overcoming his initial shyness. ‘They’re massive, with white stone that goes on forever. One of them’s even got water in it, and I’ve slept there many times. You can roast blacknuts at the front and see the trees swaying in the wind as far as the Third Eight.’ His voice rang with excitement, reminding her of Kandor suddenly, and of her own delight in wandering.
‘The Protectors prefer that people don’t journey on their own, especially outside the First Eight. It would be safer if you went back to your longhouse.’
‘You’re journeying alone,’ pointed out Bern resentfully.
‘I’m gathering.’ There was an awkward silence.
‘I just want to spend a couple of nights at the caves,’ said Bern contritely. ‘Then I’ll go home.’
Kira nodded and prepared to go, but Bern lingered. ‘You won’t tell the Protectors you saw me, will you?’ he said, jiggling from foot to foot.
‘Why?’ asked Kira, noticing his bulging pack for the first time. ‘Have you disobeyed their orders?’
‘No . . . my father’s.’
‘Your father’s?’
‘Dakresh.’
‘Clanleader Dakresh?’
Bern nodded.
Kira stared at him in astonishment. Miken had once described Dakresh as a tardy man, as stuck in his ways as a root through rock. He was also old, and it surprised her he had a son as young as Bern. Maybe he’d bonded more than once; it was said that the Sherclan changed bondmates more often than the withysnake its skin.
Bern was still waiting anxiously and she came to a decision.
‘I’m living in the Warens at the moment and unlikely to see your father in the next few days. As long as you’re back in your longhouse by then, I see no reason why I should mention you.’
She sensed his delighted smile and he gave a clumsy bow before bounding off up the slope.
If only her legs would carry her as fast, thought Kira dourly, trudging off in the opposite direction and starting to search for the landmarks she’d passed along the way. Here were the twin-crowned castellas, there the tangle of shaggyman clinging to a bough next to the micklefungus; there the sequence of shelterbush and bitterberry. She should run, but she was having trouble walking. She trudged on.
31
Dawn was silvering the canopy before Kira arrived back at the vine-covered hole. She numbly filled her pockets with sour-ripe fruit again before hissing Kest’s name through the tangle, and shoving her feet through the opening. She inched forward until her bottom was on the edge. Then, folding her arms around her face, she dropped. There was a grunted oath as Kest’s arms closed around her, crushing her to him and enveloping her in the comforting smell of his jacket.
For a long while he simply held her. ‘Praise to the alwaysgreen which Shelters us,’ he said, his voice ragged. ‘You took long enough.’
It was dark in the tunnel after the dawn-lit forest above and Kira could barely make him out. ‘Have you run out of oil?’ she asked.
‘No, I’m conserving it.’ Flints scraped and light flared, revealing Kest’s haggardness with shocking clarity. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days and Kira’s heart faltered.
Kest was almost as familiar to her now as Tresen; no longer just the aloof man she’d first met near Nogren, nor the one who’d held her to his will on the nightmarish journey to and from Sarnia Cave. He was the companion who’d run with her through the rain-filled night in search of sorren; the friend who’d now searched in the darkness with her for the Writings on fireweed; the man who’d just hugged her in relief at her safe return.
And she’d seen the other side of him, too, his head thrown back in joyous laughter as he’d danced with her in the Morclan longhouse in celebration at the birth of Feseren’s son. She wanted to tell him how much he meant to her, but instead blurted out: ‘You should’ve rested while I was away.’
Kest was busy packing away the flints. ‘Rested? With you out there, with the ’green knows how many stinking Shargh . . .?’ He cleared his throat, and when he straightened his face was devoid of expression.
‘You did get the fireweed?’ he asked as they walked.
Kira patted her shirt.
‘And with no trouble?’
‘It took me a while to find it. I don’t know Kenclan octad as well as I thought.’ Kira’s face warmed.
He hadn’t actually asked her if she’d seen anyone.
‘Was there much there?’
‘Enough for two more harvests,’ said Kira, her exhaustion returning with crushing suddenness.
‘Only two?’
‘The Writings say it’s potent, and I didn’t search for more,’ mumbled Kira, dragging more air into her lungs; even speaking had become an effort. ‘Now I know its habit, I might be able to harvest it closer to the Bou . . . to the training rooms.’
‘Or the Protectors will.’
Kira didn’t argue. The lamplight was blurring, giving the illusion that they were somehow walking in a yellow bubble. They trudged on in silence, finally passing the gape of a large cavern.
‘The storage room,’ said Kest thickly.
Kira nodded. How much further? And when she got back, how much longer before she could sleep? The Writing had told her little about the fireweed’s preparation; no doubt it was written elsewhere, but there’d been no time to search. No time, no time, no time. Her toe caught and only Kest’s reflexive grab saved her, his hand remaining on her arm. The drag on her eyelids was unbearable. Was it possible to sleep and walk at the same? Kest’s grip shifted to her waist and she sagged against him, comforted by his strength and scent. Eventually he was almost carrying her over the ground but she was too tired to even thank him. Finally, as if in a dream, the darkness and emptiness dissipated and she was surrounded by light and people: Tresen and Miken and Kesilini.
‘We’ve found something we think might cure Shargh wounds,’ mumbled Kira.
Tresen gave a yelp of excitement.
‘It’s the fireweed I told you about . . . before . . .’ Kira slurred to a stop and carefully extricated it from her shirt.
‘It looks more like fungus than weed,’ said Tresen, turning it over curiously.
‘But how –’ began Miken.
‘Make a paste,’ said Kira, focusing her remaining strength on Tresen.
‘What makes you think –’ began Miken again.
‘I’ll need bandages, Tresen.’ She paused, considering sluggishly. ‘How much sickleseed’s left?’
‘Kesilini made up two pots in the last night, but I’m not sure how much leaf is still there.’
‘Wait for me,’ said Kira, staggering off towards her alcove.
Miken turned back to Tresen, but he was already heading for the Herbery, leaving only Kest, now being supported rather than embraced by his sister Kesilini. There was much Miken needed to say, but again it seemed that he would have to wait.
Kira collapsed onto her mattress and dragged her pack onto her lap, pushing a clumsy hand into its depths. The pouch was double-wrapped and had been there since last summer. Carefully she tipped the hard glossy seeds into her hand. Morning-bright. The leaves gave the training rooms their cheerful smell, but the seeds were poisonous, or so the Tremen believed. Kira rolled them back and forth in her palm. The Writings said that in the north those who took morning-bright seeds had no need of sleep, running and fighting for days, sometimes until their hearts stopped, and they dropped where they stood.
She didn’t want to run or fight, just heal, and she’d only take one little seed; surely it wouldn’t be as punishing? A groan sounded from beyond the curtain and, s
crewing her eyes shut, she placed the seed on her tongue. The effect was almost immediate, as if she’d swallowed a fire-spark. Heaving herself up, she gulped down a cup of water, but far from quenching the fire, it seemed to add fuel, heat spearing through her chest and arms, making her cough violently. She dragged in air, sweat pouring from her skin as the heat redoubled, sending tears streaming down her face. Her head felt like a furnace confined by her skull, set to explode. Then, just as suddenly as it’d begun, the heat drained away and she sagged backwards, crying in relief.
She felt normal again; well, not exactly normal, but nothing ached or begged for rest, and the crushing exhaustion was gone. Pulling off her filthy clothes, she dressed in clean ones from the pile, scrubbed her hands and face then dried herself. Two more days, she promised herself, stowing the seeds safely, then she’d rest.
Tresen had already unbound Fedren’s wound, the putrid smell forcing Kira to breathe through her mouth as she knelt beside him. The bowl of pinkish red paste sat ready, but for the first time since setting out to find it, she hesitated. What did she really know about it apart from Writings transcribed by those sharing blood with the Terak Kutan?
‘Why do you delay?’ demanded Tresen.
Gritting her teeth, she ladled the paste into Fedren’s wound, covering every part of the raw, rancid flesh, before moving on to Berik. Tresen worked behind her, binding Fedren again, while Werem hovered beside them with a basket of fresh bandages.
What if Fedren died anyway? thought Kira. Or worse still, what if the fireweed made his passing agonising? Was this strange paste to be their salvation or bane? Her hands stilled. ‘Maybe we should wait.’
‘For what? Death?’ said Tresen. ‘Don’t delay me, Kira, I’m almost finished here.’
Reluctantly Kira smoothed the paste into Berik’s wound and moved on to old Miren. Next to him lay his grandson, his face as pale as wax, then Narek, Pirten and Sorosen, Dorn and Firgen, then those with lesser wounds. She toiled on in silence, losing herself in the ghastly rhythm of stripping away oozing bandages and coating stinking flesh. Finally she came to the last of the wounded and sat back on her heels, putting the bowl aside.
Chimes chinked and it took her a moment to realise that such a thing was impossible, for the Warens lacked wind. It was the chink of cups she heard, Kesilini having returned and set one of the side tables with thornyflower tea and plates of nutbread.
‘Come and eat, Kira,’ said Kesilini, ‘then you must rest.’
Kira scrubbed her hands in a wash bowl and settled at the table. It must be close to midday but she felt no cramps from kneeling, or aches from bending.
‘Drink your tea, Kira, you must surely need it.’
Kesilini’s likeness to her brother was startling. She had the same white-blonde hair and the same blue eyes, which were now clearly puzzled.
‘I can’t understand how you’re still healing when Kest sleeps as if dead,’ she murmured.
‘It’s because she’s taken something,’ said Tresen, pulling his chair alongside, his voice as hard as his eyes.
‘Taken something?’ said Kesilini.
Tresen’s hard gaze remained on Kira. ‘The green and growing give us herbs that mend flesh or knit bones. There are some that even make flight seem possible . . . or bring death. A good Healer knows which is which; a good Healer doesn’t misuse their knowing.’
Kira’s head came up. ‘I didn’t have a choice.’
‘Of course you had a choice! Why do you always think you have to do everything on your own? I could’ve tended the wounds and Kesilini could’ve bound them, and there’s Arlen and Paterek and Werem. Who do you think healed while you were away wandering in the Warens?’
Anger roared, as explosive as unexpected. Kira slammed her cup down, slopping the liquid and scalding her fingers. ‘I gave them the fireweed! I gave them something we know nothing about! It’s my task to mend what might come of it, this night, or tomorrow, or the day after!’
‘The day after? What in the ’green have you taken?’ He caught her wrist and his expression turned to horror.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ Kesilini’s trembling hands had gone to her mouth.
Tresen’s voice was sharp with fear. ‘Your heart’s thrashing like the Drinkwater in flood! Do you know what you’re risking?’
Kira snatched her hand away and shoved her chair back. ‘It’s nothing to do with you . . .’ She was interrupted by a shuddering groan and spun. ‘Who?’
Tresen was on his feet too. ‘I didn’t see . . .’
‘Serdric, I think,’ said Kesilini.
Serdric was one of the last Kira had treated, and his head was now tossing from side to side, his skin florid and slick with sweat. Kira hastened to his side.
‘He’s burning!’ She felt for the pulse in his neck and his arm flailed sideways, catching her a stinging blow across the face and knocking her backwards. Another groan erupted from the other side of the room and Kira scrambled upright, looking round wildly.
‘Maybe we shouldn’t have treated them all at once,’ said Tresen, struggling to restrain another tossing man, while a choking sound erupted behind him.
‘It’s made them worse,’ exclaimed Kesilini.
‘Fetch all the sickleseed we have,’ ordered Tresen, ‘and the other Healers. We’re going to need everyone.’
Tresen had no idea how long it was till the screams and thrashings had given way to the quiet of uneasy sleep. All he knew was that he never wanted to endure anything like it again. Fireweed had certainly burned the rot from their wounds, but it had brought with it a ferocious fever, barbed with a pain so severe that even sickleseed had struggled to subdue it. And it had come too late for Miren and his grandson.
He glared at Kira, still bent over the wounded. He didn’t know what angered him most: her abuse of herbs or her refusal to acknowledge her mistake in doing so. It was as if she’d closed off, as if all their time of growing together had ceased to exist.
A hand gripped his shoulder and he jumped.
‘I hear I’ve missed some very strange happenings,’ said Miken.
‘Giving a room full of wounded a fever-bringing herb at the same time is not a good idea,’ conceded Tresen.
‘But it worked?’
Tresen nodded and his father’s grip tightened, bringing home to Tresen the enormity of what they’d achieved. They’d cured Shargh wounds!
‘It’s spoken of throughout the Warens, but I hardly dared believe it possible,’ said Miken. ‘This is a great day for the Tremen.’
‘But not for Miren and his grandson – or Kira.’
Miken’s smile drained away. ‘Tell me.’
Kira blinked as the wavery form of Miken picked his way towards her, looking as though he was swimming under water. She blinked again, resisting the urge to giggle.
‘Come,’ he said, taking her arm and lifting her. He supported her back to her alcove and twitched back the bed cover. ‘Lie down.’
Obediently she stretched herself out on her bed, Miken taking off her boots and pulling the cover over her.
‘What have you taken?’ he asked.
‘Morning-bright seed.’
‘I thought it was poisonous,’ he said, bringing his hand to her neck. Kira watched as he appeared to float away, reappearing and pushing a rough sack of some herb under her legs. ‘That will take some of the strain off your heart,’ he said. ‘You are to stay like this till I tell you that you can move.’ Wood scraped against stone as he settled on a chair. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Like my head’s at the First Eight.’
Miken grunted. ‘Anything else?’
‘I’m having trouble seeing.’
‘What about your hearing?’
‘I can hear.’
‘Good, because I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen. The council has appointed you Tremen Leader and Kest, Protector Commander. I think they’ve chosen well on both counts.’
Kira felt like protesting but the co
ver was warm and Miken’s blurring outline had given way to blackness. ‘I’ve never wanted the leadership,’ was all she managed to muster.
‘I know, but the leadership is assigned to the best Healer in Allogrenia, and you’ve long been that. Your role will not be greatly different to what you’re doing now. You’ll continue to heal and keep healing-knowing safe while Kest ensures the protection of the Tremen. Neither of you will have to do these things alone, for you’ll have the support and help of the council, and of all who dwell in Allogrenia.’
Kira said nothing, feeling Miken’s hand on her neck once more.
‘I think your heart’s slowing. Are you feeling calmer?’ he asked.
‘I’m tired.’
Rough fingers smoothed back her hair, stroking rhythmically. He’d stroked her hair like this when she was a child: comforting her after the death of her mother and later cleaning the bark scuffs from her face, healing her small hurts, holding her as she wept.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said, his voice reverberating, like the sound in Sarnia Cave. Kira felt a smooth cylinder of wood being put into her hands.
‘It’s Kandor’s pipe,’ Miken’s voice said gently.
The darkness became a storm of sleet-snow. ‘I don’t want it.’
Miken’s warm hand closed over hers. ‘Remember his smile, Kira, and his love of music, and his love for you,’ his voice whispered like wind through the canopy and his lips brushed her forehead. ‘Sleep now, dear one.’
His words slipped away to nothingness as Kira tightened her grip on the pipe, tears wetting her face. At least she could still feel, she thought vaguely, then that sense was swallowed too.
32
Arkendrin grunted impatiently as he flicked the flies from his face. The flies that lived under the trees were smaller than the blackflies of the Grounds, but just as greedy. They were thick now, feeding off the mess that spattered the leaves and coated the churned earth. The treeman screamed and sobbed, still bucking under Ermashin’s grip, his breeches dark where he’d wet himself. Arkendrin’s lip curled. The treeman was tall like the rest of his ilk but blubbered like a babe denied the teat. Urpalin slid his dagger over the treeman’s shoulder, teasing him before slicing again. The treeman shrieked, his gurglings forming the word he already knew meant owl.
