Whisper of Leaves

by Unknown

  Tarkenda hobbled to the sling and carefully lifted the child out, then went to the vent and pushed the flap aside. The rain had eased at last and the clouds had peeled back, spilling silvery light over the Grounds. In the wash of watery air, the babe’s dark eyes gazed back into hers.

  ‘Son of my son,’ she murmured, bringing her lips to his sticky forehead, the swell of her heart stopping further speech. Then, forcing her aching back straight, she went to the door and stepped out into the mud. Ormadon was there in the churn and those who were loyal to Palansa, as well as some of the higher-placed blood-ties of those who trailed at Arkendrin’s heels. Pulling the swaddlings away she held the babe high, his arms and legs jerking convulsively and his mouth opening in a long, loud bawl. There was a murmur of approval and Tarkenda gathered him to herself again, winding him snugly into his swaddlings before going back into the sorcha.

  Palansa’s eyes were open, her hands fluttering towards her and Tarkenda placed the bundle carefully into her arms.

  ‘Is he well?’ whispered Palansa.

  ‘You heard him,’ said Tarkenda, smoothing the sweaty hair from Palansa’s eyes. ‘He’s better than you.’ She heaved herself onto the bed and turned the bundle towards Palansa so that she could see him.

  ‘Erboran’s son,’ breathed Palansa.

  ‘The son of Chief Erboran, son of Chief Ergardrin, first-born son of the first-born son of the Last Teller’s Mouth. What will you name him?’

  Palansa gazed at him, devouring him with her eyes. Tarkenda smiled, remembering how it was with Erboran.

  ‘Ersalan.’

  ‘Ersalan,’ repeated Tarkenda. Palansa had taken part of Erboran’s name as she must, but also part of her own as was fitting, for she was now both his carer and protector.

  ‘Chief Ersalan,’ said Tarkenda softly, ‘you are well named.’

  43

  Night had fallen again and it was time. Kira knelt beside her clanmate, speaking his name softly. ‘Tresen?’

  The Protectors sat quietly, taking their evening meal. Kira was acutely aware of their presence as she shook Tresen gently. Kest already waited with a group of others on the edge of the trees to begin their ruse, and she shook Tresen again. She wanted to be alone with him to say a proper goodbye, but Nandrin hovered on Tresen’s other side like a concerned Healer would.

  ‘Tresen?’

  Her clanmate roused and she waited for his eyes to focus. ‘Your hair?’ he whispered hoarsely.

  ‘I’m leaving now, Tresen.’

  Tresen’s hand moved feebly and she took it in hers. It was clammy and limp.

  ‘Kest’s letting you go?’ he croaked.

  ‘He understands I need to do it for the Tremen.’

  ‘He’s a fool then.’

  Nandrin’s breath hissed and Kira’s heart quickened. Surely what a wounded man said wouldn’t be held against him?

  ‘Kest knows we can’t defend Allogrenia on our own,’ said Kira.

  ‘Then let him take your place.’

  Kira began to extricate her hand. ‘I have to go now, Tresen, Kest’s waiting for me. I’m going to hide in a terrawood all through tomorrow and Nandrin’s going to pretend to be me. See? He’s wearing my plait.’

  She made an attempt at a smile but Tresen’s hollow eyes didn’t leave her face. ‘Your death won’t bring Kandor back, Kira.’

  She felt a sense of suffocation and it was a moment before she could speak. ‘I don’t intend to die . . . I intend to bring aid.’ Her words sounded empty, even to her own ears, and Tresen’s fingers tightened on hers.

  ‘I love you. Doesn’t that mean anything?’

  She jerked her hand free and scrambled to her feet. ‘I have to go now, Tresen. May the alwaysgreen Shelter you and guide your way; may its shadow bring you home again, lest you stray.’ Her haste robbed the farewell of any meaning and Tresen turned his face away. Was it to end like this? thought Kira. All their seasons of growing together, everything they shared? It might well be the last time she ever saw him, yet her mind was empty. She wanted to be enclosed in one of the intense hugs they’d shared each time she’d said farewell and set off back to the Bough.

  Nandrin was trying to make himself as small as possible, clearly discomfited, and she touched his hand briefly. ‘Thank you for doing this, Protector Nandrin. Stay safe.’

  ‘May the alwaysgreen Shelter you, Tremen Leader Kiraon.’ He went to bow, catching himself just in time and nodding instead.

  Kira picked her way through the sleeping men and into the scrubby land where Kest and the others waited, her cape catching on sour-ripe vine as she neared them. She felt like sobbing and was glad the gloom hid her face from the assembled men.

  ‘We’ll walk apart as if we’re gathering,’ instructed Kest, moving away.

  They were playing a game now, Kira reminded herself – Protectors on a night-time forage – and she couldn’t expect Kest to notice her distress or offer her comfort when the Shargh’s eyes might be on them. The vine tore at her hands but, with a final wrench, her cape came free and she followed them into the night.

  A little to the east, in the Kenclan octad, Irdodun sat with his leg resting on a broken bough, contemplating the half-hidden shapes of his comrades. Most of the warriors lay sprawled in the undergrowth resting, but Arkendrin was busy applying tesat to his flatsword, the use of his running hand rather than his fighting hand the only sign that something was amiss. He’d said nothing about the wound to his shoulder, neither washing nor binding it, but his shirt was stiff with blood and he’d slept a good part of the light away.

  Chief Arkendrin wounded, Urpalin and five of his lesser kin dead in the rot of leaf and root, and still the creature lived. It was as if the Sky Chiefs smiled on her rather than them. A bird broke cover and Irdodun jumped, his hand going to his flatsword as he watched it wing away, cawing discordantly. Then, to the east, foliage rustled and snapped, and his grip tightened on the cool metal as he wondered if the treemen had developed an appetite for hunting as well as fighting. But it was only Orthaken returning from a scout.

  Orthaken stooped low and palmed before Arkendrin, Irdodun straining to hear if the other man had found anything of use on his long reconnoitre. But it was as he’d expected: having camped with their injured for two days, the treemen were preparing to leave. Twenty, Orthaken said, against their own eleven. Irdodun grunted as he shifted his leg again, still finding no relief. Orthaken must have miscounted, although he’d never admit it; there’d been twenty-one when Urmarchin had scouted earlier. Maybe one of them was off in the trees scavenging for the foul things they ate, though the Sky Chiefs only knew what they gathered. He’d found nothing worthy of his mouth among the trees.

  He rubbed his leg absently, considering the odds. As well as the two they’d killed, two of the treemen were wounded, one so badly that he’d not left his bed since the battle, the Healer-creature staying by his side. He doubted she’d be fighting either. Eighteen to eleven then or seventeen to eleven if you believed Orthaken’s boast that he’d wounded their Chief. Irdodun’s lip curled. He certainly hadn’t seen any sign of it, the man striding about as if sound and whole.

  Pushing the crude crutch he’d fashioned deep into the rotting leaves, he levered himself upright and hobbled towards Arkendrin. His ankle was twice its normal size, the result of a branch giving way as he ran, and he wondered how he was to fight when he could barely walk. Arkendrin was on his feet too, his eyes like coals in his pale face, striding about the clearing as if preparing for battle.

  ‘I’ll not lose the creature a third time,’ he muttered, as he slashed at the foliage.

  He was still using his running hand. ‘I’m wondering if your brother’s join-wife has birthed,’ said Irdodun carefully.

  Arkendrin stopped in mid slash, turning to stare at him. ‘What matter if she has? A squalling babe is no defence against the evil this creature intends us.’

  ‘You’re right, Chief Arkendrin, but its birth would bring offerings and entreaties
to the Sky Chiefs. They may have . . . been distracted from our cause. It was a great ill-fortune to lose Urpalin and to have the creature slip away again when we were so close to ridding ourselves of it.’

  ‘It’ll be dead by the dawning.’

  ‘I thought you intended to kill the creature at the Grounds. If there’s a babe in the highest sorcha, the Chief-mother would have claimed the chiefship for it while we’ve been away. Those who follow like water down a hill will need to see the creature’s blood spilled to believe the Sky Chiefs favour you over your brother’s seed.’

  ‘I’m Chief!’ said Arkendrin, eyes bulging. ‘I need no proof of the killing!’

  Irdodun let his shoulders sag. ‘It’s as you say, Chief Arkendrin.’

  There was a brief silence then the unmistakable sound of running feet. Warriors scrambled for their weapons and Irdodun struggled to hold both his crutch and his sword, as the thumping grew louder. Finally the bushes gave way and Urgasen appeared, sweat-stained from his long journey from the Grounds but showing no weariness in the way he moved or in his crisp gesture of honour to Arkendrin.

  ‘I’ve been searching for you these past days, Chief Arkendrin, and give thanks to the Sky Chiefs for your clear trail and the scouts you’ve seeded in the trees. I bring important news from the Grounds: the Chief-wife has birthed a son.’

  The warriors muttered but Arkendrin’s face remained impassive. ‘What she’s birthed is of no interest to me. The Healer-creature’s within reach of our swords.’

  Urgasen looked at him in surprise. ‘The honour of the Sky Chiefs requires your return.’

  Arkendrin’s jaws moved up and down as if chewing ebis fat and the warriors tensed, but Urgasen seemed oblivious, glancing round and frowning. ‘Where are the others?’

  Arkendrin’s feet had planted wide and he was fingering his flatsword. ‘They fought badly.’

  The reply was little more than a snarl and Urgasen paused, becoming aware of the tension and considering his next words more carefully. ‘It may be that they fought without the Sky Chiefs’ favour, Chief Arkendrin,’ he said steadily, ‘for those who dwell above have as little liking for the stale closeness of this place as we do. Certainly the Sky Chiefs favour the bright openness of the Grounds, for they’ve sent rain there and a male child to the highest sorcha. For this they should be honoured in the way we have always honoured them.’

  ‘The highest honour’s the creature’s blood!’

  Urgasen stepped back. ‘It’s as you say, Chief Arkendrin, but I follow the older ways, like my father Urgundin before me. I wish you well in your hunt.’ Then, palming his forehead again, he disappeared back into the trees.

  44

  Kira lay in the muted green cave of the terrawood’s boughs, debating whether to wait or continue her journey. She’d promised Kest to wait and rest, but there was no rest to be had when her nerves were as taut as saplings under boots.

  Curse this waiting! She sat up, making the branch creak and dip and peered down, but all she could see was an interlocking sea of dark foliage, which of course was why she’d chosen a terrawood to hide in. It must be close to midday. Even given the fact that he’d have to stop to let Tresen rest, Kest should be halfway to the Third Eight by now, as should the Shargh who followed him. There was really no reason for her to stay, but still she hesitated. Kest’s instructions had been clear: ‘Wait for a full day and travel only at night. The Shargh see less well than us in the forest, especially with a small moon.’ And then, unexpectedly, he’d asked her whether she still had the small carven owl he’d given her. ‘Let it remind you, Tremen Leader Kiraon, when you’re far from us, of your home under the trees and of those of us here who love you.’

  Kira’s hand closed over the mira kiraon, hanging round her neck next to the ring of rulership. Her eyes burned, the longing to go home an immense unsated hunger. She could wait no longer. Either she must go back or she must go on, there was nothing in between. She came down the tree soundlessly, stopping short of the final boughs to peer out and listen. The forest was still, pulsing with the ripe smells of summer, the scents of her childhood, and she leapt nimbly to the ground. All she wanted to do now was to get the leaving of Allogrenia done with and begin the next part of her journey.

  She kept to the shelter of the larger trees where it was possible, passing the Fourth Eight with its new burial mounds of cut turf. Two dead, Kest had told her after the attack, but she’d been so concerned about Tresen that she hadn’t even asked who they were. They had clan-kin, mothers, fathers, possibly brothers and sisters. She hurried on, scanning continually, ears straining for sound. The warmth of the day began to ebb and finally the sun disappeared beyond the canopy and the chuff beetles’ rattle joined the jostle of roosting birds.

  There were no terrawoods but it didn’t matter. She had no intention of stopping. Her legs were weary and her shoulders ached from the bulging pack, but fear clothed her like a cape, and she knew that even if she did find a tree to climb into, sleep wouldn’t come. There was something else keeping her moving too. The knowing that in the bottom of her pack was the pouch of morning-bright seeds. One of those would grant her at least another day and night of travel, before her senses failed her and she’d need to hide. She tried not to think about where beyond the forest she could safely sleep for two days, as she had after taking morning-bright in the Warens.

  The small moon was outshone by the glimmer of stars, and these seemed to grow brighter as she went, for the canopy was breaking and the stands of shelterbush and bitterberry thickening. Rambling tangles of sour-ripe formed impenetrable barriers, at times even climbing into the trees. Kira had to loop around each sprawl, reorienting herself before continuing. At least the sour-ripe’s presence so close to the edge of the trees gave her hope that they’d grow beyond the forest as well, their fruit giving her food on her journey.

  Kest hauled on his pack and adjusted his sword. ‘Yes, we’re leaving,’ he muttered, resisting the urge to stare out into the forest. ‘Now you can follow along behind us with your stinking swords and leave Kira in peace.’

  His pack was wet with dew and chill against his back and he barked an order for his men to come into defensive formation around Darmanin and Tresen. Jonkesh provided an arm for Darmanin and Brem took most of Tresen’s weight, Nandrin hovering on his other side with hood drawn close. Fortunately the heavy dew made the use of hoods necessary.

  Tresen was paler than hoarfrost and the fact that he was upright at all was a tribute to Kira’s skill. Tresen’s wound and Darmanin’s inability to put weight on his ankle made them horribly vulnerable but there was little he could do about it. They moved off slowly, Kest snapping off a sprig of silvermint and sucking the dew from its fronds as he anticipated what might be to come. The water was crisp on his tongue, sharpening his senses. The attack would be sooner rather than later, he concluded, for each step took them closer to home and the Shargh further from theirs, and if the Shargh followed their usual pattern, they’d go straight for Nandrin. Kest had once thought this denoted a perverse kind of honour but he’d since realised their desire to kill Kira blinded them to all else.

  It made the Shargh single-minded and fearless but it made them predictable as well, the Protectors being able to let them pass before attacking from behind. He’d also come to understand that the honour of killing Kira wasn’t to be shared. In the most recent attack, the Shargh who’d wounded Tresen had had ample time to kill her, but after stabbing her in the back he’d hesitated, clearly looking for someone else. It was a delay that had cost him his life.

  Kest stared around grimly, his men equally stony-faced, their tension palpable. The castellas were old here, broad and close-growing, their ancient trunks providing good shelter from spears but limiting visibility, perhaps aiding the Shargh more than them. At least the castellas would make the Shargh’s running style of attack difficult, Kest comforted himself, unlike the sparser stands of sever ahead.

  Somewhere to the left, a springleslip chi
rruped, cut off abruptly and chirruped again and Kest’s hand went to his sword. Either a hunting bird was sliding towards its nest or something else approached. He flexed his shoulder experimentally, the wound burning but, thanks to Kira, his muscles loose.

  His men knew, as did Nandrin, that Nandrin was in terrible danger whichever way the attack went, as was anyone who tried to defend him, but the young Protector had accepted the risk with the same good nature as he’d accepted the teasing that had accompanied his donning of Kira’s plait.

  Another shrill piping erupted and Kest jerked his eyes to the trees. If the Shargh discovered now that Kira wasn’t among them, they’d realise the trick and speed back. His heart thundered and he shortened his steps, allowing Penedrin to draw near before muttering a command to him. His words ran like a ripple back through the patrol to Tresen, who groaned loudly and allowed his legs to buckle. Brem called out in alarm and Kest raised his hand, bringing his men to a halt.

  ‘We rest here for a time,’ he said.

  The men exchanged glances, as if wondering why they were stopping so soon after starting their journey, but formed a defensive circle and began removing their packs. Brem spread a sheet for Tresen and helped Nandrin lower him onto it, then made his way to Kest’s side.

  ‘You think they’re close?’

  Kest nodded and they walked on until they were clear of the guarding men. ‘I think they’re very close and unlikely to wait much longer.’

  Brem stroked his stubbly chin, gazing round as if admiring the shafting sunlight. ‘And if they discover our Healer’s a man, they’ll go back to find the real one?’

  Kest nodded. ‘I’m beginning to think I made a mistake in telling Kira to stay in the terrawoods for a day. If she’d set off at dawn, she’d be well past the Fourth Eight by now.’