by Dave Duncan
The only sounds of dissent came from Brankion's sixth child and second son, Polion. It was universally understood that he would marry Niad Bilith in the same ceremony, although no one had actually heard Polion himself agree to this. Polion went around muttering dire criticisms of the aspects of Muol, Ogoal, and Jaul. A date several months hence would be considerably more auspicious, he thought. Everyone listened politely, smirked behind his back, and paid no further attention. More than one mother would be relieved to have Polion Tharn chained to his own bed.
So there were only three days available to organize what Bulion insisted must be the greatest feast and celebration the valley had ever seen. The entire family set to work with joyful enthusiasm.
Tharns did everything in groups, usually comprising four or five adults and at least that many children. It was late in that first day before Gwin managed to steal a few precious minutes alone with Bulion. The two of them slipped away from their escort, to the shade of some poplars just outside the village. They lay side-by-side on a ferny bank to indulge in a little cuddling and some of the inconsequential small talk to be expected of lovers on a lazy, stifling summer afternoon. Gwin watched the shimmer of leaves against blue sky overhead and marveled at how content she felt. In the distance she could hear the excited screams of children, clinking of tools from the shops, and a steady thud of axes as the new house was prepared. City and hostel had already faded into the past and she felt not a single regret.
She was not quite untangled from them yet, though. She would have to accept an offer and sign papers. She had told her agent to send the necessary documents to her at Tharn Valley, but she had an uneasy suspicion that she might have to go back to Daling and sign before notaries. And then she would have to decide what to do with the money. The Tharns seemed to lack for nothing that it would buy them.
"This honeymoon thing," Bulion muttered, hugging her with one arm and waving his hat at the flies with the other, "how long do you suppose we'll be gone?"
"Labranza said two weeks on a horse, each way. We may want to stay a while. We should be back in time for the harvest."
It still seemed incredible that the patriarch was willing to leave his precious valley for so long. Partly he was repaying his debt to Niad, of course. That meant he had to send some of his lambs out into the big, wide world, and he would trust no one except himself to see that they all returned safely. Partly he wanted to prove that he was still a real man, worthy to be leader—prove it to Gwin, to the family, to himself. But partly he was just trying to please her, and she was both flattered and grateful.
"Six men?" he said. "Or seven. Me and of course Polion. Wosion wants to come. Zanion for brains, Jukion to scare away the sinful with sheer size. A couple more youngsters?"
"You're the only one who can choose, love." She knew that every male older than ten was itching to go. She knew that one day the clan would need a new leader, and Bulion's decision now might have a great deal of bearing on who would ultimately succeed him. He could not be unaware of that.
He yawned. "We'll leave Brankion in the saddle and see who bucks him off."
Gwin chuckled drowsily. "Sometimes you are a lot more devious than you like to pretend, Big Bull."
"Me? Devious? I'm just an old fat bumpkin. Do you think Wraxal'll come? Would he even bother to defend himself if there's any trouble?"
"He certainly won't be much use any other time. All we can do is invite him."
"And when do we start? That's the other thing."
That was tricky. Gwin was impatient to set out. If the expedition was delayed too long, it might just sink into a swamp of procrastination. But she had not broken free of the hostel yet. She must...
Go as soon as possible.
Bulion felt her jolt of surprise and flicked alert. "What's wrong?"
"Er... A horsefly bit me." Fates! Gwin cursed under her breath. She did not want to lie to him, but she would not admit that she was hearing things. She had managed to convince herself that the imaginary voice had been nothing more than a sign of worry, of nerves stretched too far, too long. She had not expected it to follow her here. Perhaps she just needed more time. Perhaps when the wedding was over, she would be able to relax and become her sane, solid, level-headed self again.
"I think we should go as soon as possible," she said. Her ghostly advisor always seemed to offer good counsel. This time it had merely suggested what would she would have concluded without it, so she could just forget she had heard it. "As soon as I've settled the sale of the hostel and buried the loot under the bed."
Bulion grunted. "Mmph. Gwin, love?"
"Yes, love?"
"I... Oh, nothing! Let's go and look at the fort."
#
The fort was located a few minutes' walk up the valley, a bowshot back from the river. Three walls of massive blocks stood waist high, the fourth side blocked by a hill of dirt, tree stumps, tumbled masonry. Remains of ancient construction peeked out in places. A dozen brawny men sweated over shovels, wheelbarrows, and massive building stones. Bulion led her inside and beamed around proudly.
"That tower was still standing when I was a youngster. It fell down in the quake of 62. May have been earthquakes brought the rest down in the first place. And the trees, too. It was all jungle here in those days."
She looked around with a forced smile. The site resembled a sheepfold more than a fort. Of course it would be more impressive when the walls were higher. She must make some intelligent comment that would not reveal her doubts.
"How long is this going to take?"
"The way we're going, about two years."
But they would not continue at their present pace when the walls grew higher. How were they going to manage the scaffolding they would need to lift those monster blocks? Had they thought about pulleys and derricks yet?
"It must be thousands of years since those stones saw daylight," she said inanely.
Bulion chortled. "Twice that! See—we decided not to make it as big as before."
Yes, she saw. She also saw that some of the new walls had no proper foundations. She saw that soon the workers would be tearing down old walls to build new ones. She thought that all this sweat and effort would be much better spent on archery lessons. A wooden stockade manned by fifty or sixty good bowmen would be a far more dependable stronghold, and a mobile force of archers might even keep an enemy away from the valley altogether. Alas, the fort was Bulion's joy. If she criticized it, his feelings would be hurt. That blank, solid expression would come over his face.
She hunted wildly for some more questions to ask. "What about water?"
He beamed. "We uncovered the old well, see? Over here."
He led her to a corner and pointed to the circle of crumbling masonry. The dirt inside it was level with the ground.
Brankion dropped his shovel and came wandering across to join them, wiping his hands on breeches that were certainly no cleaner.
"You don't know how deep it is?" Gwin asked.
Brankion arrived. Brankion was the oldest of her stepsons-to-be, a full twenty years older than she was. He matched his father in size, bulging over the belt of his breeches. His beard was grizzled and the fur on his chest was mostly white, although at present he was painted a uniform gray by dust and sweat. He stood for a moment, smiling out from under his hat brim with Jukion's benevolent grin.
"Hello, Son!" she said. "I admire your energy on a day like this. You're doing a great job here."
Pause. "Um. Thanks, Mother." Brankion always paused before he spoke, as if he kept mislaying his voice and had to search for it every time he needed it. Gwin liked Brankion much better than his brother Wosion.
He beamed shyly. "Want to thank you more for that fine daughter-in-law you brought us. She should bring some good-looks into the family, that one!" His eyes were Polion's eyes.
"Niad is willing?"
Pause. "Oh, she's willing! She seems crazy about the lad, although what she sees in him except trouble, his mother an
d me can't imagine."
"He's a fine boy!" Gwin protested. "He was the hero of the fight in the hostel. He's in favor of the wedding, too, I assume?"
Brankion considered the question as if it surprised him. "Polion will do as he's told," he decided.
Gwin considered protesting and decided not to meddle. Arranged marriages were an old Zarda tradition.
"Gwin was just asking," Bulion said harshly, "why we haven't dug out the old well yet. She pointed out that the water may have shifted since the old castle was built, and a fort with no water could not withstand a siege. She suggested that digging out the well first would make more sense than building the walls and then discovering that we'd made a mistake."
"I did not say all that!" she protested. "I just... That may be a good idea, but it wasn't mine!"
Brankion studied the pair of them for a long moment. Then he took his hat off and wiped mud from his arm onto his bald head. He replaced his hat.
"You trying to introduce some brains into the family now, Father?"
"Think it may be about time." Bulion was furious.
"Um. Better late than never. I'll get started." Brankion stalked away to find his shovel.
"I didn't say that!" Gwin shouted after him.
"You're contradicting me in public!" Bulion growled.
"But I didn't say that."
"But you thought it! And I should have—long ago! Not one of us thought of it!"
"I didn't say it."
"But you should have. Say it next time, please? And if I won't listen, whisper 'well!' in my deaf old ear! Let's go home."
"I love you, Bull."
"I love you, Nien. Can't think why you want a stupid old man like me."
29
One of several dozen new words Gwin had already learned that day was astran. That was Zardan for a-space-onto-which-several-houses-open. It must not be confused with ustran, which meant a-space-behind-houses. An astran should not be entered without a reason; to take a shortcut across one was bad manners.
When she and Bulion returned to his astran, she was surprised to discover it full of people. She was even more surprised to be greeted by a cheer. The cheer was not directed at her, though, nor at Bulion, but at Tibal Frainith, who was standing in the center, bowing all around to acknowledge the applause.
Like all the other men in the valley, he was bare-chested, clad only in breeches, but he was also hatless and barefoot at the moment. He lacked the coverings of beef and body hair that most of the others displayed, too. In the hard sunlight glaring off the plaster walls, he was a lengthy collection of bones wrapped only in skin. He was not unlike a younger version of Carp.
All around the perimeter adults were standing, sitting on the benches that flanked all the doorways, or sprawled on the ground. Everyone seemed to be draped in children and the ground was thick with them. Some youngsters had scrambled up on the thatch roofs for a clear view of this outlandish, capering stranger.
"What's going on?" Bulion growled.
"Predictions, Grandfather." Polion had an arm around Niad, inevitably, but there was a nervous glint in his eyes. "Tibal Saj just predicted that you two would come in through that gap."
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Tibal said. "My next miracle is to inform you that Zanion Tharn will now emerge from that doorway!" He gestured.
"What the fates is going on out here?" Zanion demanded, coming out of his house. Another cheer.
What was going on? Gwin was scanning the crowd. Amongst the adults she noticed Wraxal Raddaith standing glumly in the background, and Wosion, and even Jukion and Shupyim.
Bulion began to swell like a bullfrog...
"Sh!" she said before he could erupt. "I think this may be important." Everyone he had mentioned as a possible member of the Raragash expedition was now present. Across half the width of the astran, Tibal's eyes met hers. He smiled a welcome. Then he addressed his audience again.
"You may have wondered why I am going to call this meeting. Well, I just wanted to reassure you about the Cursed."
Sudden, uneasy stillness filled the astran, broken only by the pipings of the very small. Tibal turned around slowly, beaming at everyone.
"You are frightened of us? Some of the Cursed can be dangerous, yes. They rarely mean to be, and they're much more dangerous to themselves. Usually we're just too busy trying to cope with our own problems to have time to make trouble for the Blessed. That's what we call you in Raragash—the Blessed. If you're not Cursed, then you're Blessed. There's the Jaulscath up along the trail, for example. Jojo Kawith. You can find out what she's up to just by going to visit her. You'll soon know exactly what she's thinking. And she will know what you're thinking, so don't plan any tricks. But leave her alone, and she'll leave you alone. She can't come close without you knowing it."
He paused, turning again. I'll explain tomorrow, he had said. He had planned this then, or foreseen it.
"And there's Wraxal Saj, over there. Talk with him if you want to know what it's like to be a Muolscath. He probably won't bother to tell you. He doesn't care whether you know or not. He doesn't care about anything! There's no passion in his life, no emotion. No purpose. Poor Wraxal? No, not poor Wraxal. Don't feel sorry for him. He doesn't care!"
Gwin's eyes sought out Niad again. She was biting her lip and hugging Polion, waiting to be next.
But Tibal did not mention the Ivielscath.
"And then there's me. Or will be me. Or was me. I'm a Shoolscath. My memory works forward, not backward like yours does. You remember this morning, yesterday, last year. I premember this evening, tomorrow, next year. Your lives unfold all the time, growing longer. Mine dwindles. I don't remember the past at all, just a few minutes. I don't remember coming here. I wouldn't know how long I'd been here, or when I arrived—"
"Yesterday!" some boys called out.
"—except I knew you were going to tell me!" Tibal grinned, winning some nervous snickers from his audience. Then he straightened and folded his ropy arms. He frowned. "But knowing the future isn't a blessing! All the time, every day, every minute, I'm in terrible danger! You want to hear why?"
The juniors shouted, "Yes!"
"Well, I'll tell you. I know I will. I'll tell you why we Shoolscaths never make prophesies."
Young voices shouted out that he had made prophesies. He'd prophesied about Gwin Saj and the Old... Grandfather... coming in, and Zanion coming out...
Tibal looked astonished. "Did I do that? Really?" Gwin could not tell whether or not he was faking.
"Yes! Yes!"
"Well, if I did do that, it was because they were very safe prophesies. There aren't very many safe prophecies. I know another one, though. You want another prophecy?"
"Yes! Yes!"
"All right!" He spun around and pointed at a huge woman perched on a bench outside Brankion's house. "Arthim! You're going to give birth again!"
The audience exploded in laughter and loud protests that it didn't take a Shoolscath to prophesy that. Arthim's soft bulk shook with merriment. She was Brankion's wife, and even larger than he was, a human dough-bag. Tibal raised a hand for silence.
"Her fourteenth will be a son!"
Cheers. Arthim beamed. People shouted congratulations.
"Fourteen children and eleven boys!" Bulion smiled approvingly. "That ties her with old Nimim for the family record!"
When the noise had faded a little, Tibal shouted, "And so will her fifteenth—Arthim is going to have twins!"
During the ensuing pandemonium, when even Bulion had gone pushing and shoving over to hug Arthim, Gwin quietly wondered how Tibal knew that, if he truly did. She guessed that Arthim had at least a season to go. Would Tibal Frainith still be here in the valley then, or was he destined to return to it later? Premembrance was a personal thing, wasn't it? Labranza had said as much. Now several other women were demanding to know the sex of their unborn, and Tibal was shaking his head and refusing to predict.
"That was an exception!" he said when h
e had the crowd's attention again. "Now listen carefully, because this is the hard part. You may be wondering why I'm telling you all this. Well, I can't tell you why. I don't know why! A Shoolscath doesn't do things for the sort of reasons you do things. He does them because he knows he's going to do them. If I have a conversation with someone, I know more or less what he's going to say and what I'm going to say—but I have to say it anyway. I don't know the exact words in advance, any more than you recall the exact words of a conversation after you finish it. But I have to take the time to do what I know I'm going to do."
He turned around to face Wosion before the pastor began to speak.
Wosion said, "You're saying that the future is fixed for you? That every minute of your life is decreed in advance by the fates?"
Tibal shook his head. "No! I do know the future as I shall witness it, but it is not fixed for me. I can change it if I wish. This black eye of mine—I could have dodged that punch."
He waited a moment to let them think about it. He did not look at Gwin.
"You, Zanion! Who taught you to speak?"
Zanion grinned. "Don't speak much."
"I know that! That's why I'll enjoy your company. But who taught you?"
"Arthim, I suppose. Mother."
"Right. Your mother taught you your mother tongue. You know how to speak because you learned as a child. How can I speak, then?" Tibal glanced around the silent faces. "You Blessed all remember your childhoods. You know how to speak, how to behave, how to be people; you recognize your friends and family. You know all those things because you have memories. I don't have a memory. I can't recall my parents at all. I don't even know their names. I don't remember the beginning of this meeting! So how can I speak? How do I know what words mean, and how they fit together?"