Eyes drifted to stare at the liquid in cups. Even Brap Cuiku held his drink in silence.
Slowly, Occoju looked up and met Wing’s clarion gaze. “You need not fear our belief in you,” he said quietly, “only have faith — in Eosha, in yourself, and in us.”
Beneath the weight of Grek’s earnestness, Wing felt momentarily diminished.
Softly, he said to Grek, “Of course I fear it. I think any rational being should.”
In painful, awkward moments, the silence passed and the longer it was kept, the stronger its oppressiveness grew.
“It would be easier,” Wing said with effort, “to give in to you. To tell you what you want to hear. Standing here, like this, makes me feel like a child again — a child of fourteen revolutions.” He paused. “Do you remember?”
He raised his eyes to the room. He’d not meant it to be so, but clearly his gaze came across like a challenge to the Councilmen.
“We remember,” Grek said, his voice not altogether friendly.
“I actually had more faith, back then,” Wing said, shocked to hear the words coming from his lips, “that I could have been Merehr. Now, I have none at all, and not only that I might be that man but in the very idea of a Leader. I think these ancient prophecies may be distracting us — at great cost — by keeping your focus on me and not on what is most important, on the only man who truly can help us.”
One of the younger Councilmen said, “You mean Commander Lant.”
Wing’s eyes shifted to him. “Yes.”
“Commander Lant has done a great deal to help our people, it’s true. And it is also true that he has knowledge of the other valleys that no one else in Rieeve has — we have long ago forgiven him that. But he will never be able to command the power the Leader of Legend will be able to.”
Wing felt his gut clench. There was no use, no use whatsoever in talking with them.
Closing his eyes, Wing burrowed down into himself, looking for the courage he needed.
It was not courage, however, that he found there. It was fear. Fear of the truth. Fear of what it would cost, all of them, if he gave into their wishes. Oddly, the fear sparked the fire of his will. He knew he was not Merehr. That was his will, his knowing, and he would not surrender to theirs. The price would be too great.
Steadied, Wing opened his eyes. “You may hate me,” he said, “but that is better than false hope.”
At the word ‘hate’, Wing noticed a few of the Council members’ mouths gape in astonishment.
“We do not hate you,” Grek replied solemnly.
“Not now,” Wing replied. “But it would come to that if I told you what you wanted to hear, if I said yes, and then did not live up to the promise.”
“How would you know until you try?” another Council member said.
Wing looked around the room. “Try? The Leader would not be one who tries, the Leader would be one who knows. It would be insanity to trust so great a thing to — ”
“Faith?” Grek Occoju said, a hint of challenge in his tone.
Wing’s eyes shifted to him. “False aspirations.”
Frustration was building in the room.
“False aspirations? You mean the Ancient Writings?” Brauth Vanc said. “What do we have to do with prophecies told anciently? What had we to do with what the Ka’ull have done in the Northing valleys? You speak as if it’s our fault.”
Wing glanced at the Councilman. He had nearly died three days earlier working to finish the man’s roof. Wing’s body, nose and eyes were still a stain of swelling and bruising.
“Perhaps more than we think. Perhaps less. I don’t know.”
There were a few astounded murmurs.
“This couldn’t possibly be our fault! You’re mad,” Cuiku said. And then he stood, turning to the others while pointing at Wing. “He’s mad, can’t you all see it?”
The reaction from the villagers ranged from astonishment to mortification.
“Sit down,” Grek Occoju said, tone grim.
“You think I have answers,” Wing said, his voice threadbare. “The truth is all I have are questions.” He took in the room. “If you want to know what to do, if you want my counsel on what should be done about the Ka’ull, then listen to Lant. He knows more than I — more than any of us. Heed his counsel.”
“You have said that before, knowing full well that it is your counsel we seek.”
Wing’s silence prompted the youngest member of the Council, Ne’taan, to say: “What do you think?”
Wing felt the weight of Ne’taan’s question laid upon him as if it were a block of stone.
“I think,” Wing said heavily, “I hope, that truth will eventually find truth.”
“That is what the prophet Teqoi said, isn’t it? Book four of the Ancient Writings,” Ne’taan replied.
Wing nodded briefly.
“What do you think it means?” Ne’taan asked, genuinely, it seemed.
“I suppose that will have as many different answers as there are individuals as ask them. What did Teqoi have in mind when he wrote it?” Wing shrugged. “I suppose only he really knows.”
“An inscrutable answer,” Councilman Cuiku said. “Do you give it merely to avoid understanding?”
“No,” Wing said slowly.
Grek interceded. “We do not mean to be combative.”
“As long as I do not say what you want me to say, it will seem as if I am purporting elusiveness.”
“But do you speak this way intentionally? To avoid true understanding?”
Wing’s eyes softened and his shoulders lowered. “No. I speak my truth.”
“What does your truth have to do with anything?” Brap Cuiku barked.
Wing looked at Cuiku. “Because at least it is my own.”
“But if we can’t understand you, how can we ever come to an understanding?” another of the villagers asked.
Wing subdued a dispirited exhalation. “Gentlemen, how long will we keep going around and around like this? Neither you nor I have changed our minds. This is an impasse. How many times can I say the same words and you say the same words and any of us expect to come to a different accord? Until there is a sort of cross-pollination of feeling, of experience, we will only continue with this going around and around. If we can’t meet on another level and with a different purpose, then…” Wing raised his hands as if in supplication, and then dropped them.
“But we can’t know what’s in your heart unless you tell us,” Grek Occoju said.
“I have told you,” Wing replied.
Grek’s head lowered and his voice was quiet as he said, “Sometimes we think you to be blind and deaf — not to see what we see, not to hear what we say to you. To be so read in the Ancient Writings, to be so acquainted with prophecy, and yet so unwilling to…”
“The message you get from them is different from mine,” Wing said quietly. “How can we agree?”
“We would like to try.”
Wing believed Grek when he said this, and he believed that a few others might feel the same, but the distance was too great. One could not force the crossing.
“I know you believe what you say,” Wing admitted, but as he said the words, something shifted and Wing was drawn into his mind’s eye, into a vision of Rieeve that he would never have imagined. Rather than a small village filled with Rieevans it was now a bustling city filled with the faces and clothing and architecture of many different races. It wasn’t possible, what he was seeing, but it seemed as real as his nightmare visions.
When Wing’s eyes focused again it felt as if he’d been and come back from some inescapably wonderful place.
Every eye in the room was upon him, and the space between where his body stood and where his mind had been, was so surreal it took him a beat to readjust.
“Son-Cawutt?” Grek Occoju asked, leaning forward.
Wing was silent but there must have been something about his expression that caused the Council Members and villagers to continue staring
at him.
Only one seemed to miss what the others were seeing. “Well?” Cuiku asked. “That’s it?”
Wing glanced at Cuiku. “Yes.”
Stymied, Cuiku pushed his chair back and stood. “I give up. Councilmen, please?” He spread his arms.
Only silence and an uncomfortable shifting about in seats answered Cuiku.
Grek spoke again. “Son-Cawutt, is there nothing we can say to you? Will you not give us a chance at least?”
Wing experienced a physical pain in his chest. He glanced down briefly into his cup, at the pool of bright mulled wine. There he saw the reflected image from his mind’s eye, of Rieeve filled with the voices, faces, and languages of many different races. It was a beautiful, awe-inspiring sight. Wing smiled.
Bracing himself for what he was about to say, Wing looked up and took in the room of anxious faces.
“I can no more account for what you see in the Ancient Writings than for what you see in me,” he said at last. “It could be Merehr is a man. It could be that Merehr is only a metaphor. Either way, I am not either, I am a farmer. More than that, I cannot say. More than that, I could never promise. But maybe, just maybe, none of that matters. Maybe change will come anyway.”
As Wing finished, filled with the possibility of the vision he’d just seen, that Rieeve could become a city, a divergent population, he noticed the Council members exchanging an ominous fall of glances.
Councilman Cuiku, looking now rather determined, strode to the foot of the stairs and called up, “Father-Reuth?”
Joash came to his feet, Reean began to speak, and Wing realized the meeting was far from over.
From up the stairs a villager came down, supporting what looked to be a very sick child.
Ice water flooded Wing’s veins. Comprehension drained his extremities of blood. The child’s eyes were a terrible yellow, and it appeared he could barely stand. The child’s father led the boy up to Wing.
Wing stepped away from the wall and set his mug down on the Mesko table.
“He’s been ill for two turns now. We don’t know what’s wrong,” Councilman Cuiku said.
“I am not a physician,” Wing said, his voice sliding off his tongue like shards of glass across a metal plate.
“That doesn’t matter. You…you see things,” the father stammered, “know things, have gifts. Won’t you please help him?”
Wing trembled so violently inside he thought he was going to throw up. Behind him, he could feel anxiety pouring off his mother and rage welling in his father.
With effort, Wing looked down at the boy. The boy did not lift his gaze nor did he speak. Wing felt a deep blackness fill his belly. It felt like death.
Wing made a cursory glance at the father of the child — the man was stricken and obviously heart sick.
Wing swallowed, his tongue thick, heavy in his mouth.
Some of the Council Members had turned away from the spectacle completely. Even Grek looked somewhat shamed. Only Cuiku held his ground, challenging Wing with the directness of his gaze.
Wing met Cuiku’s eyes and felt something cold and still settle in his chest.
When at last he spoke, Wing did not recognize his own voice: “You should all leave.”
He placed a hand on the shoulder of the father and, nodding to the boy, said, “Take him home.”
Joash and Reean stepped up on either side of Wing silently, demonstrating their wish for their visitors to comply with Wing’s request.
Slowly, chair legs began to slide across the floor as the Council Members stood. Some offered Reean their cups with soft thanks, others simply left their beverages and moved out the door. The father, his dying son, Grek Occoju, and Cuiku were the last to leave.
Wing did not lift his eyes to any of them, only stood, a hand on the back of the nearest chair.
As the door finally shut and Wing was left alone with his mother and father, he slumped, leaning heavily on the chair.
“Son,” Joash said, “I am so sorry. They brought the boy. We told them they should continue to consult one of the Village physicians, but they refused. The boy was so ill, we told them he could rest upstairs.”
Reean stepped toward him, her eyes so anguished it pained Wing to see them.
“I understand,” Wing said. “I know you tried.”
Then from the back room, Jake emerged. Wing had not known his little was brother was in the house. He glanced at him briefly, Jake’s expression a collage of pain, concern, and confusion. Behind Jake, Fey came out as well, her big eyes staring up at him.
“You heard?” he asked them both. They nodded. “I’m sorry,” Wing said. “It won’t happen again.”
“Is the boy going to die?” Fey asked.
Wing watched his baby sister’s face a moment. “I think so,” he said. Fey sniffled. The rest of the family had fallen quiet. Wing drew a shuddering breath. “I’m going to take a walk.”
He touched his mother’s hand briefly and then quietly passed across the room, taking back up his heavy coat before moving out the door.
Outside, night had fallen.
In the cold snowy light of the fields, beneath a sky bleeding stars, Wing stood and stared, drowning his hopeful vision of Rieeve’s future in the black.
He’d already waited too long. Tomorrow he would begin preparing to leave Rieeve forever.
Chapter 29
Saddle-making
S potting Wing from a distance, Carly reined in her horse. He was at the side of the barn, working on what looked to be a new saddle. The day was cold, a high frosty nip in the air. But the sun was out — glorious — in a sky filled with a few massive, wandering clouds.
Watching him from a distance, nothing seemed so peaceful nor so beautiful. If only she didn’t know the heartache that played in the heart of the man.
She had not seen him since before the news of Tou. Things had only gotten worse from there. She knew that Lant had done something he’d not done for revolutions: spoken with Wing privately. She also knew that the Council had gone out to speak with him at his home and that they’d brought with them a sick child for Wing to heal, a boy that had passed on the following night.
He had not been seen in the Village since then.
Carly felt her throat tighten, hating that it had taken her so long to come to him.
One of the voluminous clouds passed between their world and the sun, casting a shadow across Wing’s shoulders as he worked, the long beautiful lines of his body moving beneath his shirt.
Carly continued to watch as he flipped the saddle and picked up a leather puncher. A shot of sun caught his attention and he paused, glancing up at the sky. The cloud moved away and the sun shone on his face. Carly saw a smile of satisfaction close his eyes. Enjoying his pleasure, she waited a bit more before calling out his name.
Looking around, Wing spotted her and set aside his tools.
Carly rode up and dismounted, tying her horse to one of the corral posts.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hello.”
Carly wrapped her arms about his waist. Wing’s shirt was warmed by sunlight and sweat, and he smelled like leather and horses.
“Sun feels good, doesn’t it?” she said.
“It does.”
Carly waited a moment, simply basking in Wing’s proximity. He’d wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin atop her head, his body a lean, steady frame into which she easily gave her weight.
“I heard about…” Carly released her breath. “Well, everything.”
Wing stiffened briefly against her and then sagged.
“There are few secrets in the Cant,” she said.
“There are few secrets anywhere,” Wing replied.
Carly leaned back just enough to see his face, keeping her hands curled around his back, her hands upon his lower ribs, rolling her fingers into the curves of long muscle lining his spine.
“What the Council did, Wing, I’m so sorry. It’s inexcusable.”
Wi
ng was dreadfully silent. And then, as if to keep from having to look at her eyes, bowed his head and drew her back into his arms.
Carly leaned against him, wrapping her arms as far around him as she could.
“I can’t understand anything the Council does,” she said into the hollow beneath his shoulder, “but please know that I trust Lant with my life. He would never deliberately attempt to — ”
Wing cut her off. “I know.”
Though she could not see his face, she recognized the resistance in his body, the tone in his voice. It happened before he shut down, shut her out, retreated inside himself, leaving the world without his voice.
And who could blame him? she wondered.
The Council did, of course. But how could they feel so weak, so impotent as the leaders of Rieeve? What, truly, did they believe one man could do that they could not?
Carly drew back a little. “Wing, please don’t disappear. I didn’t come to...” she drew a steadying breath. “Just let me say this. I’ve rehearsed it all the way out here.”
With difficulty, Wing looked at her. There was so much emotion whirling there, behind his eyes, that Carly wondered what else may be going on with him. What else might he not be saying?
“Whatever decision you make,” she said, “I will stand by you. And even if you never tell me your reasons, I’ve never doubted you.”
Looking more disconsolate still, Wing said: “Why?”
“Why?”
“Why would you?”
“Why would I…?”
“Why would you trust me?”
Carly almost laughed. “Are you crazy?”
“Why are you out here?” Wing asked, his tone atypical, echoing both a challenge as well as profound bewilderment. “The Village, the Cantfields are that way” — he motioned with his head — “Mien’k and Reel and Teru are there. Everything is there.”
Carly placed her hands upon his chest. “Not everything.”
Wing’s breath rose and fell wearily. He closed his eyes. “Is there anything I am meant to understand?”
Carly traced his shoulders and hair with her eyes. “All that means very little,” she said softly, leaning into him, “without you.”
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