"Sendaaka," said Forollkin uneasily. "Perhaps we shouldn't say anything about her."
"Gwerath believes that the Goddess sent her a dream about us. They would never have found us without it." Kerish sat up. "Yet why would Sendaaka do that? Every day we stay here delays our quest, stops us reaching Saroc and sending him to fetch her home!"
Forollkin frowned. "If she sent the dream, well, she must have thought it was important that we meet the Sheyasa."
"And tell them that their Goddess is false?"
"She must have wanted you to find your family," went on Forollkin. "A brief delay won't hurt our quest and Sendaaka has waited centuries."
"If it is brief, " said Kerish lying back again. "I don't think Tayeb means to let us go."
"I'll make him,” said Forollkin, as if he was comforting a child.
Kerish smiled crookedly. "Forollkin the warrior will make him."
"The warrior . . . Do you know, Kerish, in that duel with Enecko I felt as if I were two people fighting." Forollkin looked down at his hands. "As if there was a shadow inside me, giving me strength, but forcing me to act against my will. I nearly broke that man's neck. It wasn't necessary but I wanted to kill him."
Kerish shrugged.
"Tension, we break under it, more than we notice, and afterwards it's hard to put the pieces back together."
"Perhaps, and yet I felt as if something outside of me had got in and..."
"How could it?" snapped Kerish. "Do you know where they've taken our horses?"
"No I don't, but I intend to . . ."
The tent flap was suddenly flung open and Tayeb entered.
"Kinsman, I have come to fetch you to your feast."
"Thank you," said Forollkin, "and Kerish . . ."
The Chieftain shook his head.
"This feast is only for men, for warriors. You will be brought food, sister-son, and if you are lonely my daughter will keep you company."
"I understand," said Kerish bleakly.
He stroked Lilahnee and seemed absorbed in her presence.
"Come, Gift-bringer."
With an anxious glance at his impassive brother, Forollkin left with Tayeb for his triumphal feast.
*****
Kerish did not seek out Gwerath. He lay quietly until a bowl of curds was brought for his supper. After he had eaten, he took up his zildar, tuned it and began to play. It was only then that he remembered Gidjabolgo.
Kerish slipped out through the tent-flap and called softly to the Forgite. Gidjabolgo had used the full length of his tether to crawl out of sight behind the tent. Now he limped towards the Prince.
"My gentle Master summons his slave?"
"I'm sorry, Gidjabolgo. I forgot about you," said Kerish honestly, "until my music reminded me."
For once Gidjabolgo seemed to have no sharp answer ready.
"Your music reminded you of me?"
"Yes, come into the tent, at least you can sleep under cover and tomorrow I'll make Tayeb release you."
"And where is my other generous Master?"
"At his victory feast. He fought a duel and won it. He is now a warrior of the Sheyasa."
"So strength triumphs and thought is left to pine."
Kerish tossed a fur to the Forgite. "You can sleep on that."
Gidjabolgo settled himself in reasonable comfort and finished Kerish's half-eaten supper.
"So you are now a priest of our melancholy sorceress," said Gidjabolgo, through the last mouthful of curds.
"By Imarko, " murmured Kerish, "if you tell anyone what you know about Sendaaka I will leave you here to...”
"I'll say nothing. They'll learn their folly soon enough when their Goddess has abandoned them. Who will send the Sheyasa good dreams then?”
"It is the idea of Sendaaka and her teachings that are important, not the petty powers she may bestow... "
"So it doesn't matter if their Mountain Goddess is a pretty lie, like your Promised Saviour? I'd rather look an ugly truth in the face."
"I am sorry for you, Gidjabolgo," began Kerish.
"No, I don't think so," said the Forgite coolly, "just angry and slightly afraid of being pushed into thoughts you do not want." Gidjabolgo scuttled back towards the tent flap. "I see my prattling has displeased my courteous Master, I will leave you."
Kerish mastered his anger, pushed Lilahnee from his lap and picked up his zildar.
"Go or stay as you please."
He bent over the instrument and began to play a lament from Far Tryfarn. It told of a young man's obsession with the Ultimate Mountains and his sweetheart's vain attempts to stop him trying to reach them. The young man had never returned across the grasslands of Morolk and the song ended with the girl's curse on all distant beauty.
Next Kerish played a complex set of dance tunes and improvised variations.
Gidjabolgo sat listening quietly and it was nearly an hour before he spoke, "Master, you are tired. The notes sing in your mind, but your fingers stumble. Let me play you to sleep."
Kerish hesitated.
"I promise you, " said Gidjabolgo, "my words will be as meek as milk."
"Did you play for your Masters in Forgin?" asked Kerish.
"Lewd songs and spiteful, yes, but there is music in me that I do not sell."
"Show me. " Kerish handed his beautiful zildar to the Forgite and lay back with his arms around the purring marsh cat.
Gidjabolgo plucked out a gentle tune and his voice added the pounding rhythms of the sea. He sang of ships reaching a safe harbour and the seabirds swooping like messengers of hope.
As the harmonies deepened, Gidjabolgo watched the tensions in Kerish's body melt away. The Prince smiled dreamily and closed his eyes. When the Forgite was sure that Kerish was asleep, he reverently set down the zildar and blew out the lamps.
When Kerish woke the next morning Gidjabolgo had already crept out of the tent. The first thing the Prince saw was a woman's layered skirt and the ends of two braids of chestnut hair weighted with clips of horn. Eamey was stooping over him.
"Good morning, kinsman." She set down two platters. "I have brought cheese and milk for you, and fresh meat for your beast."
Kerish sat up hastily. He had slept in his clothes but someone had spread a coverlet over him.
"Thank you . . . kinswoman."
"When you have eaten, go to Gwerath's tent. Your brother will meet you there, if he wakes before noon," said Eamey, smiling down at him. "Gwerath will show you our camp. When you have leisure, come to my tent and talk to me about Taana."
"I hardly knew her, " answered Kerish stiffly, "I was very young when she died."
"But your father is still alive, and she loved him?"
"I think so."
"Then by telling me about him you will teach me something about Taana." Eamey paused and then said gently, "Kinsman, I think you are as afraid of me as I am of you."
"Afraid!"
Eamey knelt in a billow of blue and crimson leather.
"Taana was my dearest friend, closer than a sister. I can see nothing of her in you and yet you have the power to break the Taana who lives in my memory. Do you think I will take away the mother of your dreams? Perhaps you are right, but if we share our knowledge, we can build a new image of her."
"I will come as soon as I can," said Kerish.
Eamey leaned forward and kissed him on the brow.
*****
When Lilahnee had dragged each piece of meat off her platter, covered it with dust and slowly eaten it, and Kerish had finished his own breakfast, he changed back into his travelling clothes. The blue leather tunic and breeches were not unlike Erandachi dress - only his colouring would make him conspicuous. The Prince called to Gidjabolgo but the Forgite was no longer tethered to his pole and was nowhere to be seen. With Lilahnee at his heels, Kerish strode over to his cousin's tent.
Inside, Gwerath and half a dozen women were sitting cross-legged in a circle with a green banner spread out between them. Gwerath dropped her bone
needle and leapt up to meet them, ignoring the other girls' squawks of fear at the sight of the marsh cat.
"Welcome, kinsman. Look, we are sewing you into place."
"What?"
"In our circle."
She knelt and pushed a handful of the soft leather towards Kerish. He also knelt to look at it and Lilahnee sat at his side, growling at the nervous girls.
The banner was embroidered with interlocking circles, each containing a colourful symbol.
"See, here is the crimson of the warrior, that's for your brother."
Gwerath's fingers were slim and well shaped but the nails were ragged and grimy. She was dressed like a boy again and her hair was winning loose from its half-hearted braids.
"And this is the windflower in white and blue for a Torgu of the Goddess. At least, it should be, but I'm not very good at flowers."
"And is all your family embroidered here? You must be forever sewing and resewing."
Gwerath nodded. "The unpicking is very tedious. I'm glad I only have to do our own circle."
"How many circles are there?" asked Kerish.
The other girls had taken up their needles again and were bent over the banner, looking at him through lowered lashes.
"Seventy," answered Gwerath with some pride, "though of course they are all linked. You can see on the banner."
"So people can marry outside their own circle?"
"Marry?"
The Zindaric word seemed to mean nothing to the Torga. Kerish tried again. "Mate?"
"Oh yes, of course, but not outside the tribe, except during the Great Gathering. Sometimes though, women are carried off by raiders."
"As my mother was," murmured Kerish.
"Yes, but only the Geshaka would have sold her to slavers!"
"They are your enemies?"
"They are the strongest tribe whose circle overlaps with ours."
"Overlaps?"
"Yes." Gwerath sounded a little impatient at his ignorance. "We only share territory for two weeks but there are always battles. We shall overlap at the next move."
"Why not change territories then?"
Gwerath stared at him horrified and several of the girls stopped sewing.
"Leave our circle and become nameless wanderers! The Hunter drew the circles with his spear so there should be room for all the tribes. He would strike us down if we broke our circle!"
"But must you always keep moving?"
"In summer, yes, or how would the herds graze and our warriors hunt? In the dark months we stay in one camp."
"So you will never leave your circle?"
"Only at the Great Gathering," said Gwerath, "when we go to the Holy Mountain, one year in seven."
Kerish would have asked more questions but Forollkin walked into the tent with a face like bleached and crumpled linen.
Gwerath jumped up. "Good morning, kinsman."
Forollkin winced at the bright ring to her voice and the dazzle of her silver hair.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Kerish smiled sweetly. "Gwerath is going to show us all round the camp."
Forollkin, who would rather have been lying quietly in his tent, muttered something polite and trod on Lilahnee's tail. The marsh cat spat and raked him with her claws. Kerish's laughter jarred his tender head but Gwerath insisted on leading them out into the sunlight.
"Cousin," said Kerish, suddenly serious, "where is Gidjabolgo, my servant?"
"Oh, he is being fitted with a collar. Then everyone can see he's a slave and we can let him loose without fear of his escaping."
"You have many slaves?" asked Forollkin coldly.
"No, the last time we raided a camp very few captives were taken."
"You enslave all those you capture?"
"Yes," said Gwerath, "except for the warriors, of course."
"And the warriors, I suppose, you kill?"
"How could we insult them with slavery?" Gwerath sounded puzzled. "Cousins, have I offended you? Forgive me, I do not know your customs. Are there no slaves in your country?"
Forollkin broke the short silence. "We buy slaves."
"Buy them! We would never do that," exclaimed Gwerath. "Are your people very different from ours?"
"Perhaps not," muttered Forollkin.
They were walking through the area of the camp reserved for warriors, who lounged outside their scarlet tents, polishing spears, tossing bone quoits or braiding each other's hair.
"And what do your warriors do when they're not fighting or hunting?" asked Kerish.
"Each man takes his turn at guarding the camp and the herds, what else should he do?"
They passed beyond the scarlet tents through noisy crowded rows of green tents.
"The children live here," said Gwerath, "and women who are not sharing a man's tent. All except me, because I am the Torga of the Goddess."
Children ran shrieking from the marsh cat, who growled and swished her tail, enjoying the terror she inspired. Young women stared placidly at the strangers, while the old women bent over their looms or the cooking fires of dried Irollga dung.
Gwerath led them on through the black tents of the half-men, warriors who were crippled or old, to the brown tents of the craftsmen, the tanners, the dyers, and the bone-carvers; all those who bore no arms and had no voice in the councils of the tribe. There they found Gidjabolgo, held down by two slaves, as he was fitted with a heavy bone collar.
The collar-maker saluted Gwerath and Forollkin, but not Kerish; as yet he had no place in the tribe. Gidjabolgo was released and pushed towards them.
"And which of my kind Masters have I to thank for my fine new ornament?" demanded the Forgite.
"Come with us," said Kerish, not looking Gidjabolgo in the face. "They won't tether you again."
Gwerath took them round the boundaries of the camp, past a stream where women were washing clothes and gossiping and a group of young men were noisily bathing and splashing one another. They paused beside a pen where three Irollga were being broken as riding beasts, but the presence of the marsh cat made the geldings nervous and the warrior in charge asked them to move on.
"We will go to the edge of the herd and find your Irollga," said Gwerath. The wind had unbraided her hair and coloured her cheeks and she was smiling at Forollkin. "The warrior's portion, four cows in calf and a gelding, but perhaps you will prefer to ride your horse still?"
"And what am I supposed to do with them?" murmured Forollkin, as the Torga of the Goddess led them to the open grasslands.
Children tended the cows as they grazed, but on every hillock was a scarlet-cloaked warrior, his spear sharp against the horizon, an alarm horn slung across his shoulders. Gwerath stepped aside with one of the sentries who wanted her to interpret a troubling dream.
"As Tayeb said, the camp is well guarded, " muttered Forollkin.
"You spoke to him last night?" asked Kerish quickly.
"I did. He refuses to let us go. We will be watched night and day and hunted down if we try to escape."
Gidjabolgo laughed. "So here we stick and not all the slaves are collared. Still, my Lord Forollkin should be happy here."
Gwerath returned before either brother could answer.
"I have found your Irollga."
The four Irollga cows were heavily in calf but they lumbered to their feet as they sniffed the marsh cat. Gwerath soothed them, stroking their velvety muzzles, unafraid of their short, curled horns. She tried to teach Forollkin their names but he protested that they all looked alike to him. She went on to tell him what colours their horns should now be painted and what ornaments he should give them.
"Ornaments?"
"And they will need re-blessing by the Torgu of the Hunter or they may sicken."
"I thought you would have nothing to do with the Hunter," said Forollkin.
Gwerath stared at him. "The Hunter gave us the Irollga, he made them with his own blood."
"And did he make the Sheyasa too?" asked Forollkin, not quite suppressi
ng the amusement in his voice.
"We are the music the north winds woke from the Harp of the Hunter," said Gwerath quietly, "we are the Children of the Wind."
The Children of the Wind (Seven Citadels) Page 14
