Song of the Silvercades

by K S Nikakis

  ‘You fight the Tain?’ asked Arkendrin, limping up and down, his pallid face flushed by the last of the light.

  ‘We test their resolve,’ said Orbdargan. ‘Tain warriors have no belly for fighting, marching out only to reclaim their dead. They’re treatied to the Northerners against us, but if they raise no swords to protect their own, they’ll raise no flatswords for them!’

  Arkendrin’s eyes darted around feverishly as he considered Orbdargan’s words.

  ‘I’ve sent warriors on Ashmiri horses to raid the place the Tain call Westlans,’ continued Orbdargan. ‘On a horse, your wound won’t matter. The Ashmiri see everything. If the gold-eyed creature’s crossed the Braghans, they’ll know where it dwells.’

  ‘You can bring horses here?’

  ‘I’ll send message for my warriors to bring them. I go now to Yrshin of the Soushargh so that he can join with us in reclaiming what was stolen. I’ll return before the second moon.’

  ‘This cursed wound will be healed by then and I’ll have no need of horses!’ said Arkendrin.

  ‘Horses will bring you to the creature quickly, Chief Arkendrin, and its death will be a fitting start to the victories that await. The circlet of chiefship will be yours, and whatever else you desire.’

  Arkendrin’s gaze went to the highest sorcha on the spur. ‘I’ll be ready.’

  Inside the sorcha, Palansa sat back on her bed feeding Ersalan. She wished she could suckle him outside and name the stars for him as she often did, but Arkendrin was with the Weshargh Chief, a man with strange reddish-brown hair and enough arrogance for twice his seasons. He’d strutted round the spur for nearly a moon quarter without paying his respects to the real Chief.

  Better that he doesn’t, Tarkenda had said. Better he spends his time filling Arkendrin’s head with dreams of victory in the north and that Arkendrin spends his days contemplating his coming triumphs, rather than dwelling on us and the babe.

  Palansa gazed down into Ersalan’s eyes, and it was as if she looked into Erboran’s eyes. Ersalan’s tiny fist pummelling her breast was the nearest she would come to Erboran’s caress. She closed her eyes, overcome by how she craved Erboran’s touch – the smell of him, the feel of him inside her, his urgency matched by her own.

  Tarkenda ducked through the door.

  ‘Ersalan grows faster than a grahen chick in a stink-beetle swarm,’ she said approvingly. ‘He must be half as big again as Sansula’s son, and her son was born ten days before.’

  ‘He feeds all the time,’ said Palansa, waiting for the ache of longing to fade.

  ‘It’s as if he’s in a hurry,’ said Tarkenda, pouring herself a cup of water. ‘Did you know Irdodun’s shifted his sorcha further up the slope?’

  ‘But he’s sought no permission!’ said Palansa in astonishment, wrapping Ersalan and sliding him into his sleep-sling.

  ‘Irdodun palms his forehead to none but Arkendrin,’ said Tarkenda.

  ‘He thinks he has a Voice now, does he?’ fumed Palansa, rocking the sling gently despite her anger. ‘That his wise words will be heard at a Speak? Does he have no honour? Do the ways of his fathers mean nothing to him?’

  ‘Arkendrin thinks he’s clever, playing on Irdodun’s ambition, but Orbdargan plays on Arkendrin’s want for glory in the same way. It seems a wolf can be trapped with as little as a scuttle-lizard, if it’s hungry enough,’ said Tarkenda.

  ‘Are they still at Arkendrin’s sorcha?’ asked Palansa.

  ‘Not when I passed by. Ormadon says that Orbdargan’s leaving on the morrow and that Arkendrin’s ordered food be prepared for his journey.’

  ‘Does Ormadon know where he’s going?’ said Palansa.

  ‘South.’

  ‘He goes to the Soushargh, which means Arkendrin must have agreed to take his blood-ties north,’ said Palansa.

  ‘Did you doubt he would?’ said Tarkenda, her voice tinged with sadness.

  ‘But surely it’s good for us if Arkendrin goes north to fight? It means Ersalan will be safe.’

  ‘No one’s safe once the fighting starts, Palansa,’ said Tarkenda, with a sigh.

  Deep in the southern forests, Miken presided over a special Clancouncil. Kira was not the only person missing – Dakresh of Sherclan having sent his son Sener in his place. The council could have compelled Dakresh to attend or relinquish his clan’s leadership, but Miken knew the death of his younger son had dealt the elderly Sherclansman a terrible blow, and the meeting was sombre enough without causing further upset.

  News of Kira’s departure had elicited dismay and mutterings about Kest. As Sener had put it, ‘Sherclan doesn’t understand why a Protector Commander – who’s sworn to protect – allowed the Tremen Leader to go to her death.’

  The words may have been uttered with all the bluntness of Sener’s eighteen seasons, but Miken knew the sentiments were shared by many of those gathered.

  It was Sanden of Renclan who was first to rise once the opening preliminaries were complete.

  ‘Is Commander Kest to present this council with his reasons for letting the Tremen Leader go, for it would seem that we are at least owed an explanation?’

  ‘The Commander is beyond the Fourth Eight on patrol, but he discussed his reasons with me when he brought my son home,’ said Miken.

  ‘With respect, Clanleader Miken, you’re not the council,’ said Kemrick, rising.

  ‘You’re quite right, Clanleader Kemrick, but neither the council nor the Protector Commander has the authority to forbid a Leader to leave,’ said Miken.

  Kemrick looked thoughtful, but Berendash sprang to his feet. ‘Surely the Commander should have advised the Leader to remain in the safety of Allogrenia.’

  ‘You assume he didn’t – and that Allogrenia is safe,’ said Miken.

  ‘Safer than wandering alone beyond its shelter,’ retorted Berendash, unleashing a new wave of muttering.

  Kemrick rose, waiting for the hubbub to quiet before speaking. ‘Perhaps Clanleader Miken, you could deliver Commander Kest’s report on his behalf.’

  ‘By all means,’ said Miken rising and trying to ignore Berendash’s fingers tapping on the table. ‘I’m assuming that the nature and number of the Shargh attacks are known to everyone here, including you, Sener, from your father.’

  Sener nodded.

  ‘What the council might not have dwelt on is the pattern of these attacks, although I don’t presume to know your private musings.’

  ‘Just tell us what you think,’ interjected Berendash.

  ‘It’s not what I think that matters, but what Commander Kest and Tremen Leader Kiraon thought. Each reached the same conclusions.’

  ‘Which were?’ demanded Berendash.

  ‘Peace, Sarclan leader,’ said Kemrick. ‘If we’re to understand the Commander’s reasoning, we need to follow in his footsteps.’

  ‘I will be as brief as possible,’ said Miken. ‘You will recall that, in the first attack, Kandor of Kashclan was choked unconscious but the Shargh clearly intended to kill Kiraon of Kashclan – as she was then known. At the time, I was so grateful to have my son and clan-kin safe, I didn’t question this anomaly. It was Commander Kest who brought it to my attention.

  ‘In the second attack, at Turning, the Shargh again ignored many within sword-range to kill Leader Maxen and his family.’

  ‘Yet Tremen Leader Kiraon escaped,’ mused Berendash, following the train of thought.

  ‘Though bearing their violent mark,’ said Kemrick, his kindly face clothed in anger.

  Miken gazed down at the table as if gathering his thoughts. ‘The third attack was on your brother, Sener. We know that the Tremen Leader saw Bern near the Sarnia Cave, and that Commander Kest’s patrol found his possessions scattered between there and where his body was found near the Fourth Eight.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Sener.

  ‘There were things not said for your father’s sake,’ said Miken.

  ‘There’s more?’ Sener’s agonised eyes held Mi
ken’s, as Kemrick put a steadying hand on his arm.

  ‘I’m sorry to cause you pain but what I’m about to say explains much of why the Leader chose to leave. Bern wasn’t killed straight away. We suspect the Shargh wanted to find out where the Leader was and took Bern to the edge of the forest because they had someone there who spoke Tremen.’

  ‘These are guesses,’ said Berendash, glancing at Sener who sat with his head in his hands.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Miken. ‘Which brings us to the fourth attack. The Leader guessed, as Commander Kest and I did, that the Shargh hunted her, and that if she remained in Allogrenia, the killing would continue. The Leader wasn’t willing to risk any more such deaths.

  ‘Protector Tresen caught up with the Leader near the Fourth Eight, and they were under Shargh attack when Commander Kest’s patrol reached them. The Shargh fighter who wounded my son had the opportunity to kill the Leader, but hesitated.’

  Miken paused and gulped his cup of water.

  ‘Why did they delay?’ asked Tenedren.

  ‘We guess because the honour of killing our Leader belonged to their Leader.’

  ‘And the last attack?’ prompted Kemrick.

  ‘Having decided to leave Allogrenia, the Leader remained hidden in the trees when Commander Kest turned his patrol for home. Protector Nandrin – who’s similar in build – wore the Leader’s braid to trick the Shargh into believing she was with the patrol. They’d gone barely fifty lengths when the Shargh attacked, showing no interest in anyone except Protector Nandrin. Again they deferred to their Leader for the honour of his death.’

  Miken sat down and it was a while before anyone stirred.

  Finally Kemrick rose. ‘These are guesses, as you’ve said, Clan-leader Miken, but if true, we would expect no more attacks. By my reckoning, it’s been twenty-one days since the last, and I’ve heard no further reports of slashed trees.’

  ‘There’s been only one full moon in that time,’ said Beren-dash.

  ‘The last attack on Commander Kest’s patrol took place when the moon was near new,’ said Kemrick.

  ‘Opportunistic, rather than planned,’ countered Berendash.

  ‘Whatever the reason, for the first time since Kasheron brought us south, our leader is absent,’ said Kemrick. ‘It may be that Tremen Leader Kiraon died before leaving the forest, has been killed since, is captive of some enemy the Writings tell us nothing about, or is safe. Unless or until she returns, or sends message, we have no way of knowing what’s befallen her. We may never know.’

  Miken gulped down another cup of water, the baldness of Kemrick’s summation reinforcing the magnitude of his loss. She wasn’t Tremen Leader Kiraon to him but the child who’d played with his own children, who – like them – had run to his arms for comfort.

  ‘I, for one, prefer to live with hope, rather than despair,’ said Marren, joining the debate for the first time. ‘Clanleader Kemrick’s words are true and I thank him for them, and for summing up our predicament so eloquently. The choice before us now, Clan-leaders, is whether to appoint a new Leader and, if so, when we appoint one.’

  ‘I think we should wait,’ said Sener unexpectedly, colouring as the eyes of the Clancouncillors turned to him. ‘Appointing a new leader is like saying Tremen Leader Kiraon’s dead and I’d prefer to think of her as alive. And if she does return, and we’ve got another leader, it could be embarrassing.’

  Berendash guffawed and Miken grinned in spite of himself.

  ‘I would prefer to wait also, but we cannot wait forever,’ said Kemrick. ‘I suggest the leadership be discussed again in three moons.’

  There was a general murmur of agreement.

  ‘That’s well and good but it doesn’t resolve the problem of who’s to heal in the meantime, and from where,’ said Berendash.

  ‘Then let’s address that,’ said Kemrick. ‘Perhaps we should start by identifying the Healers who remain to us. It would seem sensible to make the longhouse where most of them dwell the place of healing, at least until the Bough is rebuilt.’

  ‘That means the Kashclan longhouse,’ said Berendash.

  ‘There’s a risk the Shargh might be drawn to any longhouse that becomes the centre of healing,’ pointed out Marren.

  ‘Not if Clanleader Miken’s guesses are true,’ countered Berendash.

  ‘Of course, any added risk could be addressed with an increased presence of Protectors, but it’s something the council should consider,’ said Marren.

  ‘What think you, Clanleader Miken?’ asked Kemrick.

  ‘I will leave the decision in the hands of the council,’ said Miken, dragging his thoughts back to the room. ‘It makes no difference which longhouse the Healers dwell in apart from the need to set up pallets and shift herbal stores.’

  ‘Who would you judge to be the strongest Healers?’ persevered Kemrick.

  ‘Brem probably, but he’s chosen a Protector’s life. Arlen, Paterek and Werem have skills, but are still learning.’

  ‘What of your son?’ broke in Berendash. ‘He worked closely with the Leader.’

  ‘He’s a gifted Healer but it will be some time before his strength returns. He’s yet to complete his Protector training, too,’ said Miken.

  ‘Has Kasheron’s healing blood dwindled to such an extent that we can muster only three beginner Healers?’ demanded Berendash.

  ‘You forget the loss the Shargh have inflicted on us,’ said Kemrick. ‘Healers Maxen, Merek, Lern and – one way or another – Tremen Leader Kiraon. Who knows whether Kandor would have followed the same path, for Kasheron’s blood ran strong in him, too. If it’s three young Healers we’re left with, perhaps Commander Kest will release Brem and Tresen to further their skills. Until then, we must hope that the guesses we’ve discussed are correct.’

  ‘Hope’s not much use against swords,’ muttered Berendash.

  12

  Kira’s frustration at delaying her journey north was intensified by the Sanctum’s strange ways of healing that she gradually discovered over the course of the next week. Physick-General Dumer was responsible for the Sanctum’s smooth running, yet went to his home each evening, not returning till morning. The lesser physicks weren’t there all the time either, but worked in shifts. Major Physicks, such as Aranz, slept at the Sanctum, but like the rest of the physicks, didn’t gather the herbs for their ministering. This was done by people who weren’t even Healers.

  Kira had never contemplated healing as something to be divvied up between different people and different times. Care of the ill or injured continued day and night, as ongoing and natural as eating and breathing. Even worse was the notion of trading it, Kira’s face burning at the memory of yesterday’s events when the woodcutter’s son had been collected by his kin.

  Dumer had sent for her and there had been much bowing and smiling by the boy’s aunt and uncle, Dumer translating for her. The woman had handed her a sparkling bracelet of yellow metal, which Dumer explained was trade for healing the boy. Her refusal of the bracelet and protestations that the healing was given were met with bewilderment, and confusion. Did Kira think the trade was somehow not enough? It was only the arrival of Aranz, and his curt instruction to simply accept the bracelet, that had resolved the situation.

  How are the gatherers to be given trade, if we accept no trade for those we cure? Aranz had said later. And how am I to procure my food and clothing if I have nothing to trade? In your lands it may be that everything is given, but it isn’t in ours. If you are not to go hungry, naked and roofless, you must have something to trade.

  Earlier that day, Kira had asked Aranz to show her the Tain Writings on healing and was appalled to find there was only one sheaf. Her dismay deepened when she discovered it was written solely in Tain.

  ‘Of course the Chronicle’s in Tain – it’s our physick-knowing,’ said Aranz.

  ‘But it means no one else can use it, and with only one copy of everything it could easily be lost. When the Shargh attacked my people they burned o
ur healing Writings. I rewrote the lists in Tremen and Onespeak and the other Healers made copies, so now they’re stored in different places. Is there no one here who could copy your healing into Onespeak?’

  ‘Speri, perhaps, if Dumer would release her,’ said Aranz, naming one of the lesser physicks. ‘She has a good knowing of Onespeak.’

  ‘Could you ask Dumer?’

  ‘He’s not likely to agree unless the request comes from Prince Adris. He’d see rewriting the Chronicle in Onespeak as time-wasting. Perhaps your friend Lord Caledon could ask the Prince for you,’ said Aranz, replacing the Chronicle on the shelf and waiting politely for Kira to exit the store where it was kept.

  ‘Caledon’s gone with Ad … Prince Adris to Westlans and won’t be back for another two days.’

  ‘The Westlans,’ corrected Aranz, leading the way to the alcove where they took their meals. ‘It’s where my kin live.’

  ‘I thought you were from Mendor,’ said Kira, settling at the table.

  ‘I am. Mendor, Mendor Spur, Slift Tor, Listlin Tor, The Fierway are all part of The Westlans. It’s the name for the Tain lands west of here that lie between the northern Azurcades and the Sarsalin. So I’m a Westlaner and a Spursman as well as a Tain.’

  ‘Would you like –’ he began, then froze as hoofs clattered outside. There were raised voices, one of them Dumer’s. Aranz half rose as a physick rushed past the alcove and backtracked as she saw them.

  ‘You’re to come, Major Physick Aranz. You too, my Lady. Dumer requests it,’ she panted.

  Kira and Aranz hurried to where Dumer waited with a King’s Guard. The Guard turned, his face grey with exhaustion, while beyond the colonnades, his horse stood with heaving flanks.

  ‘You’re to prepare for wounded,’ said the Guard. ‘They’re a day and a half from the wall.’

  ‘How many?’ said Kira, forgetting her place as she thought of her limited fireweed supply.

  ‘Fifteen set out.’

  ‘Fifteen! We’ve never had to treat that many at once,’ said Aranz.