Whisper of Leaves

by Unknown

  Tears squeezed from under Palansa’s lids. ‘I want Erboran.’

  ‘I know,’ said Tarkenda.

  Palansa shifted restlessly, pulling her knees up hard against her belly. ‘I want him here with me! Why should I have to do this without him? Why should –’ She stiffened and clenched her teeth, waiting for the pain to pass. ‘Why should I have to fight Arkendrin to try and keep . . . the loyalty of those as hollow as slitweed?’

  ‘You’re not doing it alone, Palansa, though it might seem so. Erlken sits at that door now, his spear across his knees. He’s as sodden as a newborn ebi unlicked by its mother.’ Tarkenda smiled but Palansa’s face remained set. ‘Squaziseed and shillyflower cakes have been set for you. In sorchas up and down the slope, people call on the Sky Chiefs to send you strength. Ormadon himself spends his entire waking hours plucking the whispers from the air and listening to what’s said of the trees, and there are many others who use their strength in smaller ways to protect you.’

  Palansa said nothing and Tarkenda went back to the vent, silently cursing the damp air, no friend to rotting joints. ‘It’s well that Arkendrin’s deep in the trees, and even if he starts back now, the babe will be snug in its sleep-sling before he returns. There will be peace for the next Chief’s birth.’

  Palansa’s weary face turned to her. ‘And then?’

  ‘It’s as we’ve discussed,’ said Tarkenda carefully. ‘If Arkendrin finds the creature of the Telling and brings her back here to kill, it will sway many of those presently content to wait. A Chief with fire in his belly and a spear in his hand is always preferable to a babe in his swaddlings.’

  ‘Then he will kill my child.’ Palansa’s eyes were huge in her pale face.

  Tarkenda came back to the bed and closed her roughened hand over Palansa’s damp one. ‘He can’t do it openly. We’re strong. We’ll protect him.’

  Palansa gasped, her hand balling under Tarkenda’s grip. ‘You’re strong,’ she said, when she was able, ‘I fear everything.’

  Tarkenda stood for a moment listening to the steady tattoo of rain. ‘An ebis cow will defend her young against a wolf pack, one pair of horns against many slashing teeth. That’s all we see, but it’s not all there is. The ebis loves its young and love gives strength. When Ergardrin was called home, I despaired as you do now, but I loved Erboran and Arkendrin, and that love became my horns, defeating the doubters and even the spears of the hollow-hearted.’

  Her grip on Palansa’s hand tightened. ‘The babe that struggles to free himself is my blood, too, and we have horns enough between us to keep him safe.’

  Palansa said nothing but her fingers relaxed. ‘Now,’ said Tarkenda, giving her hand a final pat, ‘I’ll mix you some honeyed water and then you must try to sleep.’

  Something was tapping Kira’s face and she turned away, nonsensically thinking of a bat’s wing, soft and membranous. There was a smell of wood-smoke, spicy and clean, but also the smell of sweat and blood. The tapping continued and she opened her eyes reluctantly, to see Kest looming over her.

  ‘I’m sorry to wake you, Kira, the ’green knows you need rest, but we’ve got wounded we need to get up on their feet and away from here.’

  Kira raised her head as appalling memories flooded her mind, and her breath caught in her throat. Every bone in her back felt like it was crushed. Kest pulled open her sleeping-sheet and eased her up, the pain shooting to the top of her head. She shut her eyes again.

  Kest gave her arm a gentle shake. ‘We need you, Kira.’ His voice seemed to be coming from far away and she had to struggle to focus on it. ‘We’ve stopped the bleeding, but he must be stitched and you’re the best person to use the fireweed, too. We’ve boiled the stitchweed and made bandages. We’ve done as much as we could before rousing you.’

  Kira struggled to clear her mind. ‘Who?’

  ‘Tresen.’

  The air stuck in her throat, thick as tree-sap. ‘I thought . . . I thought he was dead.’ Her voice broke and she palmed away tears, powerless to stop them. ‘I’m sorry . . . I . . . he’s all I’ve got left.’

  ‘There are many who love you, Kira,’ said Kest, gently pulling her into his arms. ‘Never think you’re not loved,’ he muttered, before releasing her. There was a pause while Kira sleeved her face dry and Kest cleared his throat. When he spoke again his voice was even.

  ‘Brem doesn’t think anything’s broken in your back.’ He held up her cape, sticking his fingers through the rent. ‘Straight through this, straight through your pack and into this.’ He held up a shattered pot of bruise-ease, and unexpectedly grinned. ‘Strangely enough, it was the bruise-ease that did you the damage. Apparently it has the opposite effect to usual when it’s driven into your back.’

  Tossing the pot aside, he helped her up, supporting her as she hobbled to where Tresen lay. She could see no other wounded and she wondered whether they were already dead.

  ‘Others?’ she reluctantly mouthed, her tongue still feeling awkward.

  ‘Two dead. The other wounds are minor and Brem’s dealt with them.’

  Tresen was ashen, even the firelight failing to give him colour as she knelt beside him, every bone in her back feeling as if it had been wrenched out of place and put back wrongly. Amazingly his eyes opened and his hands moved feebly.

  ‘You forgot to say goodbye,’ he whispered, his breathing shallow pants, wincing with every breath.

  Kira’s eyes burned again. ‘Has Brem given you anything for the pain?’ she croaked.

  ‘Sickleseed.’ He half raised his head, his pallor increasing. ‘No everest . . . Kira . . . too dangerous for . . . the Protectors . . . to carry me. We will need to leave . . . at dawn. Shargh are . . . near. I’ll put up . . . with . . . the pain.’

  ‘I have to cleanse the wound with fireweed and stitch it and you’ve already lost a lot of blood, Tresen. We both know the shock could kill you.’

  ‘No everest.’ He smiled weakly. ‘I’m . . . not intending to die. I’m Kashclan, remember, as stubborn . . . as you are.’

  ‘We’re renowned for it,’ she said hoarsely, then coughed to clear her throat. ‘I’m just going to check the wound.’

  Peeling back the sleeping-sheet she placed her hands over his heart. The wounded she’d tended in the Warens had taught her that the pain was strongest there, perhaps because . . . Her fingers warmed, then the wave of fire broke over her, burning until she could bear it no longer, then ebbing, leaving her panting and nauseous. She rocked backwards and Kest’s strong hands steadied her, careful not to touch her back; then he passed her his waterskin, watching her drink.

  ‘Better now?’ he asked.

  Kira nodded.

  ‘It’s the strangest thing . . .’ said Tresen. ‘The pain’s gone . . .’ His gaze moved from Kira to Kest and back to Kira. ‘You took the pain,’ he said incredulously, ‘but how . . .’

  ‘She’s a feailner, like in the Writings,’ said Kest proudly, ‘a taker of fire.’

  Kira said nothing and Kest rose. ‘Your clanmate will explain it to you,’ he said, moving away.

  ‘How long have you known?’ asked Tresen.

  Kira began unwinding the bandages Brem had used to staunch the bleeding, the outer ones stiff with dried blood, those nearest the wound sodden.

  ‘Since the first attack, but I didn’t understand it then.’ She put the bandages aside and reached for the fireweed Brem had set ready.

  ‘So long,’ breathed Tresen, ‘and so many secrets. You didn’t tell me you were leaving the Warens, either.’ Kira said nothing, her attention taken with the wound. It was deep but, thank the ’green, clean-edged. She picked up the fireweed and Tresen’s good hand caught her arm. ‘I thought we were friends.’

  Kira’s eyes flared. ‘So did I! Yet you didn’t tell me how Bern died, or why I needed to stay in the Warens. And you weren’t there.’

  Tresen’s grip tightened. ‘I was under orders.’

  ‘We’re clanmates, Tresen, clan-kin. Didn’t that mean an
ything to you? All the time we’ve spent together, everything we’ve shared.’ She jerked her arm free. ‘You and me and . . .’ She clamped her mouth shut and began easing the fireweed into the wound.

  ‘It was to keep you safe,’ he said hoarsely, ‘to keep you from this.’

  ‘There is no safety!’ she gritted out, keeping her eyes on the wound. She took a ragged breath. ‘I’m going to stitch this now, and take the pain again, then you must sleep if you want to walk out of here and not be carried.’

  Tresen’s hands plucked at the sleeping-sheet, his brief moment of strength spent.

  ‘Don’t leave, Kira, don’t let it end like this.’ His voice was slurring, his eyes unfocused. ‘You weren’t the only one who loved Kandor.’

  Clenching her teeth, Kira pulled the edges of the wound together and started to stitch.

  ‘Pledge me you won’t leave . . . without saying . . . goodbye,’ whispered Tresen, his chest heaving with the effort to speak. She pulled the stitchweed taut and passed the end back through the flesh.

  ‘Pledge me.’ It was more a harsh exhalation than a word, and it forced Kira to stop.

  ‘I pledge,’ she said.

  It was almost dusk but Kest still stood, his sword in his hand. The burial party had returned without incident but he felt in no mood to lie down in his sleeping-sheet and rest. He’d sent off six of his men the short distance to the Fourth Eight, four on the bearers and two guarding, to lay Bisren and Cadrin to rest beneath the nearest alwaysgreen. It was Renclan, despite Bisren being Barclan and Cadrin Sherclan. They were safe in the Fourth Eight’s Shelter now, and that’s all he could do, not being prepared to risk the living by carrying the dead back to their own octads. The Tremen tradition of burying the dead only under the alwaysgreens of their own clans was one of the many things the Shargh had destroyed, and he had no doubt that the Shargh were still looking for them in the forest, watching and waiting, regrouping their strength.

  Those of his men not sleeping stood as he did, guarding Kira and Tresen, and Darmanin, who’d badly wrenched his ankle. Penedrin stood as he did, despite a shallow cut to the hand, and his own shoulder burned from a dagger score. Six Shargh dead and two Tremen; a better ratio than the first time they’d clashed. He grunted. Was this how it was to be from now on? A good day when more Shargh died than Tremen? He was beginning to sound like a stinking Terak Kutan. All death was bad, no matter whose.

  He sensed rather than saw the methodical movement of Nandrin and Jonkesh round the northern perimeter of their camp, and Saresh and Deran round the southern. Nearby, the bodies of the fallen Shargh still lay, unclaimed by their comrades. Presumably this meant that no leaders had died.

  It had been hard to tell who, if anyone, had been in charge of the attack. Two Shargh had clearly been pursuing Tresen, but the others had simply appeared in ones and twos, and in no particular pattern, apparently drawn by the shouts.

  Protectors moved silently but the Shargh blundered about in the undergrowth as if at war with the trees. He’d known of their presence long before he’d seen them, not that the advantage had served him well, not with Tresen running for his life and Kira in the middle of it. Not one of his better leadership moments, he conceded, but then no previous Commander had confronted what he now faced. Sarkash had trained them to fight in formation, each man protecting his comrade, not engage in mad scrambles where you never knew which direction the next sword blow was coming from. And at dawn he’d have a different sort of fight on his hands; that of convincing Kira to return to the Warens, or of taking her there by force.

  Kest woke as a silvery haze was creeping through the trees. It lit Tresen’s deathly countenance and Kira’s weary one. She looked older suddenly, the childlike roundness honed from her face making her less like Kandor and more like a woman. She was lying on her side facing Tresen, her outstretched hand touching him. He’s all I’ve got left, she had said.

  He grimaced. She hadn’t included him as someone close to her heart, and he could scarcely blame her. She had been with Tresen since childhood, and they were clan-linked, whereas she’d known him only a few moons, and for much of those he’d been in conflict with her. And now he must take her back to the Warens. Kest remembered all too well the previous occasions he’d tried to get Kira to accompany him to safety. It wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat, but he had no idea how he was going to convince her to come back to the Warens of her own free will.

  He rose and moved a few paces away, nodding to Nandrin and Jonkesh as they came off guarding duty. Maybe he could argue that Tresen needed her and that without her his wound wouldn’t mend. Or that the women of Allogrenia needed her, for her birthing skills surpassed even those of the oldest birth-wives, or . . . She was waking, her first concern for Tresen, then her gaze moving to him. She pulled open her sleeping-sheet and winced as she got to her feet, limping over to him.

  ‘We must speak, Commander,’ she said.

  ‘As you wish, Tremen Leader Kiraon.’

  He led her away from the mutter of the other Protectors now rousing, to an ancient castella with a trunk broad enough to shelter them from any spears thrown beyond the guards, and sat down. Kira settled beside him, her gaze on the canopy.

  ‘The wind’s dropped and I’ve only just noticed,’ she said.

  ‘It was while you were unconscious. It disappeared as quickly as the Shargh.’

  ‘They haven’t gone far.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Kest. ‘Now, Kira . . .’

  Her gaze swivelled to his shoulder. ‘You’re wounded. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘It’s only a scratch, it’ll wait. Now, I . . .’

  ‘It won’t wait, Kest. Whatever filth the Shargh put on their swords is already working its way into your flesh. Unlace your shirt.’

  ‘This isn’t necessary,’ he said in exasperation.

  But she had already gone back for her pack.

  ‘I’m the Healer, remember,’ she said when she returned, taking out three small pots and setting them carefully on the bough.

  ‘And I’m the Protector.’ He unlaced his shirt. ‘I’m glad you’ve reminded me of the distinction, and of my task, which is to protect the Tremen, including you.’

  She ignored him, her face filled with the intensity he noticed whenever she healed. He felt the cool touch of salves then the scorch of pain.

  ‘The rot’s started and I’m afraid the fireweed will make it worse before it makes it better. I’ll take the pain before I go any further.’

  ‘I’ll put up with the discomfort, Feailner, I’ve seen what taking pain does to you.’

  ‘It’s part of healing,’ she said, recapping the pot and grimacing as she stooped to her pack.

  ‘And after you’ve seen to me I’ll get Brem to salve your back.’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘I think there is.’ He paused. ‘It’s part of healing.’

  She flashed a smile and Kest started. For a brief moment the planes of her face had softened and her eyes were as luminous as honey, then the weariness reasserted itself.

  ‘I could bandage your shoulder,’ she said, ‘but it’s not really necessary and it might restrict the movement of your sword hand.’

  ‘Ah, now you’re sounding like a Protector.’ It felt like fire coals had been placed on his wound, and he struggled not to groan.

  ‘Burning?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fire with flatswords brings the bane, fire without brings life again,’ she quoted. ‘If I’d been quicker in my understanding, many of the wounded would still be alive.’

  ‘And if I’d been quicker learning how to fight, there’d have been fewer wounded. It’s been a hard learning for both of us.’

  Kira picked up a small branch of castella and began turning it over in her hands. ‘You should have told me the Shargh were hunting me, Kest.’

  ‘Yes. In retrospect it was a mistake. Miken feared you might throw your life away to save the rest of us . . . and I agr
eed. As it’s turned out, he was right.’

  ‘Leaving Allogrenia’s not throwing my life away.’

  ‘The chances of you reaching the Sentinel are small, and of getting beyond it, highly unlikely. There’s more grass than trees there, Kira, and fewer places to hide. You won’t be able to outrun them either. The Shargh aren’t fast, but they have great stamina – the Writings speak of them hunting on foot for days upon days.’

  Kira said nothing, but the castella was a ragged stem. ‘It’s safer in Allogrenia,’ he finished quietly.

  ‘For me, yes,’ said Kira, her eyes firing, ‘but not for anyone else! I can’t live out the rest of my days in the Warens, Kest, and if I go to the longhouses, I’ll draw the Shargh there. At least if I leave, they’ll follow me.’

  ‘We don’t know that. We know little about the Shargh and less of why they hunt you. After you’re dead, there’s nothing to say they won’t resume their attacks on the rest of us.’

  ‘Is that what you believe?’ she demanded.

  Kest hesitated. ‘Whether they’d be satisfied with your death, I don’t know. What I do know is that I won’t allow you to sacrifice your life in the hope that they’ll stop their attacks. I’m sworn to protect all the Tremen, Kira, but the Leader most of all, for the Leader holds healing, and it’s healing that makes us what we are. My oath is binding and that means I’m going to have to take you back.’

  She rose and took several paces away from him. When she turned, her eyes were a softer gold and her voice calm.

  ‘The Warens don’t command the Bough, nor the Bough the Warens, despite what my father tried to do. You don’t have the right or authority to command me to do anything, nor me you. Using force against me wouldn’t be protection, it’d be an attack on the Bough. On our return, the Clancouncil would be forced to remove you from command. The Protectors love you and you’re the best man to lead them, so there’d be widespread dissension, perhaps a schism, and even if the Protectors did bow to the will of the council, your loss would weaken them.