by K S Nikakis
She collapsed onto the bed, feeling more tired than ever, but she’d already lost three days, so instead of resting she opened her pack and emptied its contents beside her. There was the pot of fireweed Tresen had given her in Maraschin plus a half-used pot she’d originally brought from Allogrenia. The fireweed fingers she had gathered before the Shargh had seized her, had long ago turned to dust. As for the rest of her supplies, there was barely enough for even a beginner Healer’s kit.
‘Kira?’
It was Laryia, poised in the doorway. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said. ‘We could get herbs from Kessom, although we’d have to do it soon. Once snow-melt begins, Glass Gorge will flood and the journey would be too dangerous.’
‘We’d need a steady supply, and some herbs are only potent when newly harvested,’ pointed out Kira. ‘And I don’t think there’s fireweed at Kessom – at least, I couldn’t find any.’
‘Is that what you were doing that last day there, when you came back so late – looking for fireweed?’ asked Laryia suddenly.
Kira nodded.
‘Tierken was frantic when you hadn’t returned, even though he knew the Guard were with you. It was a night like that when my father drowned. I don’t remember him, or our mother, but Tierken does. We think our father was caught while gathering in one of the small valleys up in The Slopes. They’re narrow and fill quickly. His body was found in Glass Gorge.’
Kira was silent for a while, finally understanding the violence of Tierken’s reaction. ‘Is there nowhere that isn’t stone in Sarnia?’ she asked in frustration, thinking of her need for herbs again.
‘There’s the Wastes in the Caru Quarter.’
She had fled to the Wastes after the Mid-market banquet and yet another argument with Tierken, recalled Kira. It was full of alehouses and women who traded themselves, but there was also a place rampant with weeds, where the land dipped like a bowl.
‘Actually, its proper name is Kasheron’s Quarter,’ said Laryia.
‘Kasheron’s Quarter?’ said Kira.
‘When Kasheron and his followers deser– left, Queen Kiraon insisted that Terak put aside a quarter of the city for her eldest son and his followers, should they ever return. She even made a garden there, so they’d be reminded of Kessom. But they never came back. Ever since Tierken’s been Feailner, Rosham’s been badgering him to open it up to the other Quarters to build on. The city’s crowded and extending the wall’s costly. It seemed like Tierken was finally going to agree, but he appears to have changed his mind … Rosham was very annoyed,’ added Laryia.
‘Tierken’s left Kasheron’s Quarter open in case Kasheron’s people return?’ asked Kira, heart quickening.
‘I don’t know his reasons,’ said Laryia. ‘Tierken gets a little of his own back sometimes by goading Rosham. Probably not the best thing to do, given Rosham’s influence in Sarnia.’
‘If Tierken’s Feailner, why can’t he do as he wants?’ Her father had always gone his own way.
‘He can, but it’s easier if he has the cooperation of those who feed the thoughts of others. Sarnia accepts Tierken as the rightful Feailner, but he was raised in Kessom and carries Terak’s eyes – Kasheron’s eyes, too. Gold eyes still elicit ill feeling and mistrust,’ said Laryia looking at Kira uncomfortably.
‘Then the people of Sarnia will never accept me,’ said Kira, the realisation surprisingly upsetting to her. ‘I’ve got gold eyes and I’m a Healer. My very presence here must hurt Tierken.’
Laryia’s hand closed over hers. ‘It’s not that clear-cut. After the long seasons of Darid’s childless rule, Sarnia is keen for certainty. Believe me when I tell you that many in the city would prefer to see the Feailner married to the woman he loves – even if she does have gold eyes – than living alone and childless. Sarnia wants an heir.’
The notion of being part of the Sarnians’ plan for succession was almost as abhorrent as being rejected by them, thought Kira.
‘Don’t let it concern you,’ advised Laryia. ‘They’d like to see me married – preferably to Farid – and carrying, too, for the same reason. After all, if the Feailner won’t produce an heir then his sister should, so that the line continues. But I’ll choose the man and the time of my marriage. Of course, the city can’t see why I haven’t made the Marriage Walk with Farid already and, in some ways, neither can I.’
Kira looked at her in bewilderment.
‘Well, don’t you think he’s handsome?’ asked Laryia.
Kira nodded, remembering the stares of the other women at the Mid-market banquet.
‘And that he’s charming and pleasant?’
‘He’s kind and true,’ said Kira.
‘Yes,’ agreed Laryia. ‘Farid’s a good friend, but I don’t love him, and there has to be love. Don’t you agree?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Kira. But she already knew that for a Feailner things were rarely that simple.
2
Out on the Baia Plain, north of Maraschin, Tierken stood with hands on hips and watched the endless circlings of big, black-plumaged birds. Their harsh cries had become a constant backdrop to the fighting. Marwings, Adris had called them – hunting birds from the southern Azurcades. More like scavengers than hunters, thought Tierken sourly. They shared the dwinhirs’ curved beaks and tearing talons, but none of their grace. No doubt they’d been drawn north by the supply of dead goats, dead horses and dead people.
He sighed and paced up and down. Once he’d wandered with Poerin among the deep valleys and quiet pools of the Silvercades, hunted wolves with Kir herders, galloped Kalos hard and fast over the Sarsalin just for the sheer joy of it. Now all he did was kill.
And the constant killing wasn’t the only thing that troubled him, for he’d left Sarnia with no proper farewell to Laryia, not having intended to become embroiled in the fighting quite so quickly. He had come south only to fulfil the conditions of the trade he’d made with Kira. Despite the perils of travelling through lands haunted by Shargh, she had insisted on seeing her people in Maraschin. And after much argument he’d allowed it on the condition that after three days in the Tain city she would return to the safety of the north to wait out the fighting there.
Kira had fulfilled her side of the bargain, but it had brought him anything but peace. The discovery that she had gone north again with just half a patrol, had filled Tierken with dread, and he had been infuriated that Caledon’s assertion – Kira would go her own way – had been proved correct. And then, to add to his frustration, Tierken had had to endure the long wait for the first messenger to arrive back from Sarnia before he’d known whether the under-strength patrol had actually survived their journey.
Thank Irid, the news had been good, and he’d been able to focus on the coming together of the Tremen with his men. That had gone well also, Tierken not having heard the insult Terak Kutan muttered for over a moon quarter now. Their friendship had been helped by them speaking the same tongue, and so suffering none of the difficulties of the Terak and Tain. But there also seemed to be a genuine liking between the two groups. One people, Caledon had told him, which was what the Tremen Writings suggested – though only one Terak Writing, Tierken reminded himself. Still, he knew Poerin believed it, and there was the ring that Kira carried, engraved with the symbols of both Terak and Kasheron.
The evidence for the truth of Kira’s kinship claim mounted, but the idea of acknowledging relationship with the descendants of the deserter Kasheron remained repellent. Rosham and his followers would use such an acknowledgement as a weapon against him, and Tierken couldn’t fight effectively in the south, if he must worry about his authority being undermined in the north. Kira was safe in Sarnia in any case, and the Terak and Tremen already fought together. If it ever came to the point where he must acknowledge the kin-link, it would be at the time and manner of his choosing, and no one else’s.
Movement out on the plain heralded the approach of Pekrash and the Tremen who, unlike the Terak, travelled on foot. Tierken had be
en waiting most of the day for them, having taken his men on ahead to set fires and traps, and to roast nuts, since some of the Tremen still refused to eat meat.
Adris, the Tain King, and Caledon were further east hunting Shargh, and trying to persuade Tain herders to take shelter in Maraschin. Adris had already moved people from the ravaged settlements of Listlin Tor, Slift Tor and Mendor to Maraschin, but the herders had yet to accept the bitter truth that The Westlans would have to be abandoned.
Adris burned what the Shargh hadn’t already destroyed to deny the enemy food and shelter once they were driven back. The weather on the Sarsalin didn’t soften until late spring and, once The Westlans’ peoples were secure, the Shargh would be hounded deep into the shelterless northern expanse.
Five to six days should be sufficient to exhaust the Shargh – if they were kept running, and away from Ashmiri succour. Then they’d be allowed to flee south again. But to regain the food and shelter of their own lands, the Shargh would have to breach the Terak–Tain–Tremen lines, fight the King’s Guard Adris had stationed along The Westlans, and recross the Azurcades.
The Tremen trickled in and Tierken welcomed Commander Pekrash, offering him a mug of cotzee. The Tremen preferred a concoction called thornyflower tea, and early in their time together Pekrash had prepared a cup for Tierken. It had tasted like stagnant water, and he was glad when the supply had run out.
Pekrash thanked Tierken, holding the metal cup gingerly to drink.
Then Tierken tipped roasted nuts into a bowl for him, and Pekrash thanked him again, reminding Tierken of Kira.
Kashclan thanks the Terak Feailner, she’d say, then refuse to eat.
His thoughts drifted to his time with Kira in Kessom, to their love-making in the allogrenia grove, and he closed his eyes.
‘Your leg pains you, Terak Feailner?’ asked Pekrash, referring to a wound Tierken had sustained in a battle with the Shargh some days earlier.
‘Not really.’
Every Protector seemed to have a keen interest in, and willingness to ease, the injuries of others. If Kasheron had established the Tremen, he’d certainly instilled a powerful sense of nurturing, yet they could still fight – not as effectively as his own men, nor with the same strength, but certainly with agility, speed and a surprising amount of discipline.
They had loyalty to Pekrash – as their Commander – but it was clear that the Tremen fought only for the preservation of Allogrenia. Even so, they were fascinated by everything they saw, and listened wide-eyed to the tales his men told of Terak Tor, Sarnia, the Silvercades and the lands beyond the seas.
Vardrin came in from scouting patrol and delivered his report. Tierken remained at the fire so Pekrash was privy to it. You command the Terak Kirillian, Feailner, Pekrash the Tremen and King Adris the Tains, but we all fight together. If our left hand is weaker than our right, it strengthens both hands of the Shargh, Caledon had said before going east with Adris.
Tierken had made an effort since then to include the Tremen Commander in his thoughts, as well as sharing the Terak messages with him. As a result, what had begun as careful politeness had become, if not friendship, then certainly respect and trust. Now Tierken could see that Pekrash was troubled.
‘If the Shargh are on the plain, perhaps we should have sighted them,’ said Pekrash.
‘And as we haven’t, they might have slid to our flanks or bypassed us and gone further north?’
‘Perhaps, Terak Feailner.’
Given the visibility on this part of the plain, and that the attacks thus far had been close to Maraschin, Tierken thought it unlikely. Still, he went to where Shird and Nordrin sat with a mix of Terak and Tremen, and issued new scouting orders.
Returning to Pekrash, he found Tresen waiting with his Healer’s kit.
‘Time to dress that wound, Feailner,’ said Kira’s clanmate.
Tierken obediently pulled off his boot and eased up his breeches, revealing a heavy bandage protecting over twenty stitches. The sword had been aimed at Kalos’s side and would have killed the stallion had Tierken not kicked out at the sword-hand. Thanks to Tresen’s quick attention and a liberal dose of fireweed, the wound would bequeath Tierken nothing more than a large scar.
Tierken grimaced as he contemplated the fact that he was the only one of his men to suffer more than shallow cuts or bruises. Still, to lose Kalos to a filthy Shargh blade was unthinkable.
Tresen applied a greenish paste with a familiar scent and the wound stung. ‘Surely no need of sorren, Healer Tresen,’ said Tierken, enjoying chipping away at Tresen’s image of him as a barbaric Terak Kutan.
‘I’m sure your grandmother taught you that it’s best to use sorren when cleanliness can’t be guaranteed,’ said Tresen, busy with a clean bandage.
‘She did indeed,’ said Tierken. ‘I thank you for your aid, Healer Tresen.’
‘Healing is given, Feailner,’ said Tresen, as he finished and closed his kit.
That was something Kira would have said too, but beneath Tresen’s studious courtesy there still lay considerable antagonism.
Does Allogrenia mean so little to you that you would give it all away for the scion of the brute Kasheron fled? Tresen had demanded of Kira in Maraschin.
It was understandable that Tresen didn’t want to lose his clanmate and Leader, but Tierken had little sympathy. When the threat to Allogrenia was gone, there’d be no reason for Kira to return there.
It was deep in the night when Tierken’s eyes flicked open. He didn’t know what had woken him to a feeling of intense unease, but Poerin had taught him to trust his instincts in such moments. The night was thick with mist, hiding the moon, and he sprang up and set an arrow as Vardrin, Barid and Shird emerged from the gloom, their bows readied as well. The Tremen, Kirs and Illians still slept, and Tierken wondered whether Poerin’s assertion that Teraks sensed with their skins held truth.
‘A nice blanket to hide the stinking Shargh,’ whispered Vardrin.
The Shargh would have marked their fires before the mist had come down, Tierken realised in horror, and he swung back to the sleeping men.
‘Get up! Disperse! Disperse!’ he shouted. ‘Smother the fires!’
There was a mad scramble from sleeping-sheets as the men followed his orders, and Tierken peered into the darkness. All was quiet and he’d begun to feel foolish when the air whispered and he ducked, bawling orders as a volley of spears descended on them.
He ran forward, loosing arrows at shapes rearing out of the gloom. Screams and grunts erupted around him, but the mist scattered the sound and he had no idea whether the Shargh were in front or behind.
‘Keep moving! Keep moving!’ he yelled into the darkness.
Now that they were away from the fires, they were no more vulnerable than the Shargh, but that didn’t mean they were safe. Tierken’s chest heaved and he came to a stop. The squeal of metal told him there was a battle to his left, but when he went that way, he found nothing. He stopped again, then crept on, expecting a spear or blade in the back at any moment.
Finally, as the sun rose, the mist silvered, tinged gold, and streamered away, revealing him to be some distance from camp. To his relief he could see Kalos with the other tethered horses, but dark shapes littered the grass. Tierken kept his arrow trained on each as he approached, but the Shargh were dead. Had the grace of Irid spared their own? He was almost back to the camp when Vardrin met him, grim-faced.
‘How many?’ asked Tierken.
‘One dead,’ said Vardrin, indicating a body ahead.
One too many, thought Tierken, but he was relieved. It had been a mistake to let their fires burn into the night, and they were fortunate to have escaped so lightly.
Vardrin fell into step beside him but Tierken kept his gaze on the man. The spear had caught him full in the chest, bringing a swift death. Tresen was kneeling beside the body, but before Tierken reached them he rose and, with a bitter glance at Tierken, strode away. Then Tierken saw why. The dead man was Pekrash.
