The Dawn King (The Moon People, Book Five)

by Claudia King

  “Up, girl,” he said under his breath, “and present yourself properly. You've a high priest looking to speak with you.”

  From between the furs a pale, dirt-streaked face emerged. Her hair and complexion had the look of the forest people about them. She was an adult, but just barely. Much the same age as the young men who often vied for places on the pilgrimages, Jarek noted.

  “Are you the one who came to the temple last night?” he asked her.

  A scowl, a blink, and a nod answered him.

  “Show some respect, girl. I told you this is—”

  Jarek silenced Nirut gently with a hand on his arm. “Thank you, my friend, you may go back to your guests.”

  The wayhouse keeper glared at the girl a moment longer, then took his leave. Jarek waited for his sleepy companion to rouse herself, watching Nirut bring in a huge bowl of fresh spring water for the families at the table.

  “Why didn't you let me have an audience last night?” the girl said. Her voice was soft but with a bitter edge, like supple cord that might be yanked whip-taut at a moment's notice. Here was a woman, Jarek suspected, that had seen more than her years implied.

  “It is not the way of the temple to admit visitors after dark,” he said, squatting down so that he could meet her eye to eye.

  “So it is your way to sneak down into the village under a cloak instead?”

  Jarek grinned. Most definitely a traveller, this one. No man or woman of the Dawn King's village would have dared address a high priest with such mockery.

  “I am a very strange high priest,” he said, drawing back the hood of Nirut's cloak so that she could see his face more clearly. The girl's eyes widened, but she kept a steady tone when she spoke.

  “I've heard of you. You look like the Moon People from the southern plains.”

  Jarek tensed slightly. His birth pack were known to some of the Sun People, but few had ever made the connection between him and them. Most would sooner assume he was a traveller from the lands of his grandfathers, far, far, in the south, from where tales of other dark-skinned Sun People sometimes emerged.

  “I am sorry,” the girl said, seeming to mistake his discomfort for indignation. “No one deserves to be told they are anything like those beasts.”

  Jarek forced a smile back to his lips. “You know something of the Moon People?”

  “I know enough to despise them.” That whip-cord tension returned, spreading to the girl's eyes in a hard flash of hatred. “If you are a high priest, then tell one of your shamans to take me on their pilgrimage west.”

  “Why are you so eager to go to the lands of a people you hate?”

  The girl's posture prickled with fury, and beneath her ragged furs and malnourished frame Jarek noticed knots of travel-hardened muscle.

  “I want to kill them,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “For my village. For my mother. My father. My sisters. All those the Moon People took from me.”

  “Are you sure the Moon People were responsible? What if it was the warriors of another village who took your family away?”

  The girl looked away with a bitter shake of her head. “I saw them turn into beasts. Besides, our kind do not do such things to one another.”

  Jarek felt an upwelling of pity for the angry young woman. It was easy to make heroes and villains of the world when the truth was so much more ruthless.

  “All the world can be your enemy if you let it,” he said gently. “Before the time of the Dawn King the heartlands had bloodshed of their own. Food stolen for hungry mouths, daughters stolen for unwed sons, and all of it paid for in blood. I could command a shaman to take you to fight the enemies you seek if I wanted. It is within my power to do such a thing, even for a woman like you.”

  “Then do it. Make them take me, please, High Priest!” She leaned forward as if to grovel.

  Jarek shook his head. “No.”

  “I've fought more foes than half those boys the shamans take! Most of them have never even seen a wolf of the Moon People. They don't know the size of those beasts, the strength of them, the speed. Give me a bow and I'll fight as well as three warriors!”

  “I'd tell you the same even if you were a man. The pilgrimage is not about fighting.” Jarek's earlier mirth had deserted him. “Our people venture into the Moon People's territory for the metal that lies there.”

  The girl scoffed at him. “They never tell stories about picking up metal. The pilgrims buy their power with trophies of the Moon People as much as the riches they bring back. What do you know of the wolves anyway?”

  “Enough to realise that fighting them is foolish. I'd send our people to make bargains with the Moon People if only I had a way to reach their alphas.”

  Disdain still marred the young woman's dirty face. “They say a dark sorceress leads them. A demon woman herself, the mother of all evil spirits. You'd try to bargain with that?”

  For the second time in their conversation Jarek found himself caught off guard by the girl's words. A dark sorceress? This was not a tale he had ever heard before. Women could not lead in the lands of the Moon People any more than they could here in the heartland plains. Likely it was just a fiction made up by superstitious travellers, yet still it niggled at him.

  “Perhaps I would,” Jarek said, measuring his words carefully. “If only I knew more of this sorceress.”

  The girl glowered at him. “Let me join the pilgrimage and I'll tell you.”

  Jarek shook his head. As his braids swayed he reached up to remove a polished metal ringlet from one of them. Rings of metal had begun to replace the rare stones and sea shells the Sun People sometimes used as a means of universal trade, though only the wealthiest of merchants could afford to deal in them.

  “Take this instead.” Jarek held out the ring to her. “You can trade it for bricks, enough to start a house of your own—”

  The girl slapped it out of his hand. The metal tinkled as it bounced off the wall.

  “I don't want a house!”

  A withering look crossed Jarek's face. He was not the sort to grow angry or impatient in the face of such insolence, but he was beginning to see how blunted this woman had become to reason. She was a creature of anger.

  “Use it to win another season of Nirut's patience, then. Share some songs around his table, find some stories that can make you laugh. Laughter slays more demons than arrows in these lands.”

  “Keep your metal, and keep your laughter.” The girl turned away and pulled the heap of furs back around her.

  With a weary smile and a shrug Jarek picked up the ringlet, tossing it in his palm as he allowed more practical thoughts to chase the plight of this unfortunate girl from his mind. If she needed help he would be glad to offer it, but he would not let her turn herself upon the Moon People like a weapon. Nothing good would come of it. Perhaps after enough pilgrims had said no to her she would start finding the prospect of a heartland home more attractive.

  Jarek slipped off Nirut's cloak and tossed it down on the end of the table, departing before the others could recognise him. Now that his curious little mystery had been solved he felt no more need for anonymity. His next destination would take him along the village's main path anyway, and a borrowed cloak would do little to conceal his identity out there.

  The conversation with the girl had left him with a new mystery to ponder. This sorceress she had spoken of, who was she? Just a story, or a person of flesh and blood?

  You are dreaming again, he chided himself. Feeling that lost hand back on your shoulder. Yet no matter how hard he tried to subdue it, his curiosity continued to grow.

  There was only one woman who had ever possessed the passion, the tenacity, and the spirit-touched wisdom to bring the other clans under her control. She was the only woman he had ever truly loved.

  He could see it now. When her father sent her away it had been as a gift to his most powerful rival. As den mother of that clan she could have twisted its young alpha to her will. A deep
sadness pained Jarek's throat as he imagined her dark-haired beauty transformed into something terrible—a conqueror like her father, using her power to bring the other clans to heel, ruling over them like the Sun People's warlords of old.

  Surely not. Surely it was nothing more than the ravings of an angry girl. He imagined what might have befallen the Moon People in the years since his absence, and in a rare flash of insight he saw time stretching out between then and now, questioning whether his departure might have marked a divergence in the course of his people. He had tried to soften Adel's hard heart. Blunt her rough edges. What if she had become something monstrous without his voice to calm her?

  “High Priest, High Priest!” a voice cut through his chilling reverie, and he realised that sweat had begun to bead on his forehead.

  “High Priest, so I am!” he exclaimed with a smile, turning toward the woman who had accosted him. Within moments a small crowd of people had gathered, all vying for his blessing as they regaled him with tales of their families and the various hardships they had suffered since last they met. He took time for every one of them, dismissing his previous worries as he slowly made his way down the path with an ever-growing entourage in tow.

  It was well into the morning by the time he managed to extricate himself from the crowd near the edge of the village, reassuring the last of the hangers-on that the Son would always be there to inspire them so long as they held hope for the future in their hearts. The brief sermon had done as much good for Jarek as it had for his followers, turning his thoughts away from cosmic worry and back toward a sense of normality. The tale of this sorceress was probably nothing, certainly not some fateful portent of the lover he had left behind. Still, it would be best to check with the pilgrims just to set his mind at ease.

  Three camps had been erected in the fields at the edge of the village, tents and canoes secured upon the banks of the river that fed the nearby crops. It would not be long now before the pilgrims bundled up their tents, lashed their canoes together, and paddled south all the way to the sea. From there they would skirt the coast, their shamans reading the tides that would carry them all the way around the far mountains and into the lands of the Moon People.

  Jarek avoided the groups of hopeful young men who had arrived from the neighbouring villages, making instead for the largest camp at the centre of the three. This time he parleyed his way through the crowd with stern looks rather than welcoming smiles, making sure his garment of priesthood was seen by all. The pilgrims made way for him with respectful bows and words of reverence, leaving him free to approach a heap of supplies that had been piled near the riverbank. Sitting upon an upturned canoe, a man with braided red hair and tattoos running down his back counted shells as he motioned his men to measure off sacks of grain for their journey. His initial glance was dismissive of Jarek, but a second look snapped his attention up from his work.

  “High Priest.” The shaman bowed his head, but did not rise. “Have you come to join our pilgrimage too?”

  Jarek shook his head. “Not join, Liliac, only to share tales. Please, finish your work. I can see your canoes will soon be carrying an aurochs' weight in food.”

  “Aye, and the man to make measure of it all is me. Help yourself to food, drink. My men will see that you're kept in good comfort.”

  Despite the curious reverence shown by the people around him, Jarek was grateful for the chance to sit down and share some fruit-sweetened water with the pilgrims. This was why he enjoyed walking through the village. It reminded him that he was still a man, not some spirit given flesh as the other high priests would have had the laypeople believe. He even felt something else stirring beneath his skin, the prickle of fur and the growl of the beast in the back of his throat. His sense of smell sharpened, woken up by the fragrances blown in on the wind. Reaching into a well-worn pouch at his belt, he sprinkled a handful of crushed leaves into his water and swallowed them in a sip. Shortly thereafter, the urge to take the shape of his wolf dissipated.

  “It must be more than tales you're after, High Priest,” Liliac said when he joined Jarek on the riverbank at noon. The shaman squashed down a tuft of long grass so that he could sit, batting away the summer flies that danced over the water. “What is it? More tribute for the temple? I'm bringing twice as many canoes as men this time. We'll bring back enough metal to cover every wall of the Dawn King's chamber if he commands it.”

  “The Dawn King has given me no such order, but...” Jarek beckoned the shaman in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Could you furnish my domicile with that much metal?”

  Liliac looked at him hesitantly for a moment before realising that he was joking. A cackling laugh spilt from the shaman's lips.

  Jarek grinned. “No, I really do just want tales today. You're one of the few who speak the Moon People's tongue, are you not?”

  “Speak is a strong way of saying it. The people of my father's village did, up in the north forests on the edge of the Moon People's plains. I can say enough to make them hesitate before they try to kill me, at least. I learned that much on my last pilgrimage.”

  “And does your father's village still make friends of the Moon People?”

  Liliac looked over his shoulder uncomfortably. “None of us are friends to them.”

  “I understand. But you still hear word from your family there? Tales of life beyond the heartlands?”

  Liliac gave him a hesitant nod. “I might do.”

  “Any tales of a sorceress? A stray bird tells me that the Moon People follow Alphas no longer, but a woman.”

  “What birds have you been listening to?” The shaman grimaced. “There's a sorceress in their lands, so I've heard, but she's one to be feared, not followed. Even the Moon People wouldn't be foolish enough to worship a woman of dark magic.”

  Jarek gazed toward the western horizon. “So she does exist.”

  “Far from these lands, thankfully. On our last pilgrimage there was only one band of Moon People wise enough to talk before fighting. They warned us about her. I couldn't understand it all, but they said to keep to the south rivers till we crossed the mountains. They said the sorceress dwelt in the north, and there'd be no saving us if we went that far.”

  Jarek turned to Liliac, his sudden enthusiasm taking the man off guard. “Could you find those same people again? Go to those north lands they spoke of?”

  “What for? We want to see as few Moon People as possible.”

  “I'd not ask you to put yourselves in danger. Go to this sorceress only if they permit you, but when they ask...” Jarek swallowed, weighing the risk he was about to take by revealing so much to this man. “Say that you wish to speak with Adel.”

  “Is that a name I should know?”

  Jarek tapped the side of his nose. “I hear tales of my own, my friend.”

  “Hm. Why, though? Any talk with the Moon People is a risk, and my men won't like it. I don't like it. Dark magic isn't to be toyed with.”

  “Would you not rather travel their lands unmolested on your next pilgrimage? This is your chance to make peace with them, as the people of your father's village do.”

  “I wouldn't have the words to make peace with them. I can barely speak enough to hold a conversation.”

  “A simple message is all I desire. An offering, one leader to another.” When Liliac did not respond, Jarek added, “This would be a great service to the Dawn King. I have his ear, and you would have mine. Some day the temple will need another wise shaman to ascend to the priesthood.” Jarek smiled as he saw the hungry glint in Liliac's eye. A pilgrim through and through, hungry for the world's riches. He knew he had him.

  “What message would have me deliver, High Priest?”

  Jarek beckoned him close again, and in hushed tones he imparted his plan.

  —2—

  Daughter of the Night

  Many leagues distant from the lands of the Sun People, across forests and plains and mountains, a hidden valley nestled at the heart of Den Moth
er Adel's territory. The seasons turned, feeding spring with the sun's warmth until a sweltering midsummer enveloped the land. Even the cool spray from the valley falls did little to alleviate the heat, filling the air with a sticky humidity that had driven half the pack into sleeping outside. The great moon and sun spirits were at war, so the omens said, for how else could such a heavy winter have been followed by an equally harsh summer?

  Adel found it difficult to teach her apprentices in such weather. It had been a trying year for her thus far, but she struggled to push on despite the discomfort. She owed it to Netya—to all of her followers—to be a better leader to them than her father had been to his clan. It was difficult to accept just how close she had come to going down that path no more than two seasons prior. Fear and fury, she realised, were things she had to stop using as the only tools of her leadership. She had to forget what had gone before, let go of it, and find the hopeful woman within herself once again.

  The den mother wiped the perspiration from her brow, clapping her hands sharply to catch her apprentices' attention. Twice per moon she had taken to instructing them all personally for a day, growing to understand each of their personal strengths and weaknesses so that she could better help their mentors in teaching them. An uncomfortable stir rippled through the half dozen young women, drawing their wilting attention back to the task at hand.

  “I once tended the wounded of two whole clans under sun like this,” Adel said. “With a broken nose and blood in my eyes while I did it. Our people expect strength beyond strength from their seers. I will have you learning out here in the snow next winter if that is what it takes.”

  Her words managed to stir the flagging apprentices back to life, all save one. Adel's eyes narrowed. Kiren, the girl who was more huntress than seer, still gazed after a bird as it flitted from rock to rock on the valleyside above them. The fact that Netya could make this wild thing listen to her at all was a testament to her hidden talents as a mentor.