'You would be dead if I did not bring you. The needed medicine was here.'
Orisian pressed his hands into his eyes. Perhaps Rothe had been right. There was nothing but danger here. The woodwights were savages after all, their thoughts twisted in strange patterns.
'The vo'an'tyr will send for you.' She rose and made to leave the tent.
'Wait,' he said. 'Will you be there tomorrow?'
The woman shook her head.
'Will they speak my tongue?' asked Orisian.
'In'hynyr has often wintered at Koldihrve.'
For a moment Orisian was puzzled, then he understood. Koldihrve: the settlement of masterless men at the mouth of the Dihrve River beyond the Car Criagar. It had the reputation of being a wild, dangerous town, all the more so because the Fox Kyrinin had a winter camp on its edge. It was the one place Orisian had heard of where Huanin and Kyrinin still lived side by side.
'That is where you learned it as well?' he asked.
'Enough questions.' She made for the doorway.
'What is your name, at least?' Orisian said.
'Ess'yr,' she said.
With that she was gone and Orisian was left alone. After a time - a dead space in which thoughts ran unhindered and chaotic around his head - for no one reason that he could name, but for all of them, he found there were tears in his eyes.
They came for him early in the morning. He had been awake a little while. The sound of dogs barking outside had woken him before dawn, and dark thoughts had kept him from sleep once roused. When the Kyrinin entered the tent he was examining his wound, having peeled away the dressing. There was an angry red weal, but it seemed to be healing. He had no time to replace the poultice. Silent Kyrinin warriors led him out of the tent.
A wetting drizzle was falling, as much a heavy mist as rain. Beneath its veil, the vo'an was a silent, muffled place of indistinct shapes. They crossed through a part of the camp he had not seen before, rising up a slope to a grove of trees where one shelter stood apart from the others. There was a patch of bare earth before it, into which tall poles were driven. One had a column of deer skulls attached to it, another the pelts of beavers, a third was twined around with boughs of holly. They sent him inside alone.
The air within had a cloying, herbal intensity that was almost tangible, as if someone had pressed a cloth dripping with scent across his nose and mouth. He wrestled with a sudden wave of nausea. A bright fire burned in the centre of the tent, and a crowd of Kyrinin were seated around it. As he stepped in, all turned to look at him. One of the women rose and reached for him. He shrank away from the touch. She grasped his shoulder and pressed him down. He sank to the ground. The oppressiveness of the air seemed a little less, and his head ceased to spin. The woman put a small wooden bowl into his hands.
'Drink,' she said.
He lifted the bowl to his lips, and winced as he tasted the hot, bitter liquid it contained. He did not dare to put it aside, since he had no idea what had significance here and what did not. Somewhere inside him, not as far beneath the surface as he would have wished, there was a small boy shivering with fear and loneliness. He knew a time had now come, perhaps the first time, when he could not allow that boy to be a part of his thoughts. He rested the bowl on his knees and looked around with what he hoped would pass for composure.
There were perhaps twenty Kyrinin crammed into the tent, facing and flanking him in tight ranks. Here and there, on the faces of both men and women, he could make out the fine, curling facial tattoos that he thought were supposed to mark out warriors or leaders. In the War of the Tainted, he had heard, the Kings' warriors had cut the skin bearing such brands from the faces of dead Kyrinin, to prove what dangerous enemies they had slain.
Opposite him, across the shimmering flames, was a small woman, older than most of the others. She was wrapped in a cloak of some roughly woven material decorated with black and blue swirls. There were bold streaks of red slashed through the silvery hair that fell across her shoulders. Her features were sharp but there was a furrowing in the skin at the corner of her eyes and mouth that betrayed the passage of years. Her flat grey eyes were fixed upon Orisian.
'I am In'hynyr. I am the vo'an'tyr,' she said, her voice a light, reedy sound that had a thread of iron within it.
Orisian nodded. The liquid he had swallowed had left a burning track down his throat and into his chest.
"We will talk,' said In'hynyr.
'As you wish,' replied Orisian faintly. He was at a loss to know what else to say, or whether he should be saying anything at all.
'There are five vo'ans of the Fox clan this season,' In'hynyr said, 'which is a good number. This place we are in now is a good one. The Sun-facing slope with rich forests. There is food to be gathered here. The forest is generous. This season is the first we have had a vo'an here since my first child was carried on my back. She has many children of her own now. It has been a long wait for the Fox to return. When there was a vo'an in this place before, Huanin from the valley saw our fires and came to seek us out. We led them over rough ground and steep valleys. We traded killings with them and they went away. You are from the valley, thicklegs and heavyfoot?'
'I ... I am from Kolglas,' stammered Orisian, caught unawares by the sudden question. In'hynyr's voice had a rhythmic, lulling quality to it that distracted him from the meaning of the words being spoken.
'Why have you come to this vo'an?' asked In'hynyr.
'I was wounded. I was brought here. Ess'yr said . . .' Orisian replied. He tried to continue, but In'hynyr gave a sharp sniff and spoke over him.
'It was known in the Fox clan that there would be war in the valley this season. Our spear a'ans in the summer returned from the lands of the enemy with word of a Huanin army. They said the White Owl, who are carrion-eaters, would make war upon the people of the valley alongside this army. The White Owl, who have no memory, make themselves the servants of the Huanin. That is good. They shall suffer for it. It is good, too, that there is war in the valley. If there is war in the valley, we shall be left in peace.
So we returned to this vo'an after many years.'
Orisian was struggling to follow all that was being said. If the White Owls had given aid to the Inkallim, it might explain how they had reached Kolglas. With Kyrinin guides they might have come undetected through Anlane. Yet it seemed an impossible alliance. The White Owls were no friends of humans, and the Bloods of the Black Road certainly none of Kyrinin.
'This is a good vo'an,' In'hynyr was continuing. 'We shall come back here next season if all is well. The a'an of Yr'vyrain found you and the big man by the water. Ess'yr of that a'an wished to make you well, and brought you here. We gave leave for that, for death had your scent. You are made well now.
'It is a grave matter that you and the big man have come here. When the clans were younger, when the City shone like the sun, one of the Huanin came into a vo'an of the Fox, by an ice-free stream in a valley of oaks. He was lost. He was given food and shelter. But he was foolish, and spoke of foolish things like a child who knows not how to be still. After a time the people told him to go. And because the Huanin heart is hot and their thoughts are like fire, he was angry. He took earth in his hand and cast it upon the torkyr and cursed the Fox. For this, he was taken and sent to the willow. This did not heal the wound.
Many of the people in the vo'an sickened and died in the next summer. The flames from the torkyr they carried with them were made unclean by his anger.'
'You want to kill me because of something that happened hundreds of years ago?' asked Orisian, striving to keep the tension that was knotting his stomach out of his voice.
'This man was sent to the willow a thousand and a half years gone,' In'hynyr corrected him. 'When the wolfenkind still cast a shadow in the world. When the Fox lived nearer the sun, in kinder lands. But his name is not forgotten. I know the names of the people who died of sickness in the summer that came after. They are not forgotten. We sing for them still. We do not forget. Do y
ou? Do the Huanin forget the past?'
'No, we don't forget, but ... I am not the same as that man. His mistake ... his foolishness ... is not mine.'
Orisian felt lost. A decision was being forged out of arguments he did not fully understand. He felt powerless. The thought went through his mind that Fariel would have known what to say, what to do.
And Inurian would have. He was uncomfortably hot. The walls of the tent pressed in upon him.
'We know that there can be good as well as evil in the Huanin,' In'hynyr said. 'At the place you call Koldihrve there is peace between Huanin and Kyrinin. There can be good in the people of the valley, too. Two summers gone, a youth from the a'an of Taynan was hunting. He was foolish, and a boar wounded him. A man from the valley found him and cared for him. He made him well, and the youth returned to his a'an. By this we know that there is good in the people of the valley. Do you have this good in you?'
'I would help someone if they were hurt,' said Orisian. 'As Ess'yr has tried to help me. Not all Huanin think ill of the Kyrinin, just as not all Kyrinin think ill of us. I wish the Fox no harm.'
'You do not wish the Fox any harm,' said In'hynyr, as if testing the truth of the words by their taste. She paused, and an intense silence descended. Orisian glanced from face to face. Blank eyes met his. There was no connection to be made with these people; they regarded him with the detachment of a slaughterman picking a sheep for the knife.
'Ess'yr tells us that you are high amongst your people. You are one of the rulers,' said In'hynyr.
'No,' said Orisian, 'not really. My uncle is the Thane. Inurian is my friend...'
Again, the curt sniff. He wondered if In'hynyr was displeased. He had thought Inurian's name might buy him some friendship here. It did not appear to work. He cast about for something else that might serve better. It might not be true, he thought, that Fariel would have known what to say. He had not talked to Inurian about the Kyrinin, as Orisian had often done; he had never imagined visiting a Fox camp, would never have even thought such a thing to be possible. He would not have seen any difference between Fox and White Owl.
'My family is no enemy of the Fox,' he said. 'And we are no friends of the White Owls.'
'The man in the castle in the valley fights the White Owl. That is good. Have you also made war on the enemy in Anlane?'
'I have not fought them myself, if that is what you mean. Warriors from my home have, when they raided against our people in the forest. Rothe, the man who is with me, he has fought them. He is an enemy of the White Owl.'
Orisian was starting to feel sick again, from the heat, the heady smell inside the tent, the weariness he could feel in his bones.
'All hands are against the Fox,' said In'hynyr. 'We are a small clan. Eighty a'ans. The White Owl, who swarm like bees, are five times as many. Your kind fill the valley like mice in the grass. We are a small clan, but we hold against our enemies. To hold, our sight must be clear like the fox, and our thoughts sharp. Ess'yr felt duty to you, and we allowed her wish to aid you. Our duty is to the vo'an. Is the vo'an safe?'
'I wish only to return to my own people. I will not tell anyone where the vo'an is. Neither will Rothe, if I tell him not to. We just want to go back.'
He could speak no more. There was a throbbing behind his eyes. Everything he had ever heard about the Kyrinin, every tale of butchery, was milling about in his head demanding attention: children killed in their beds in farmhouses; the torture of warriors captured in forest skirmishes. Yet still he clung to the notion that tales were only tales, and they were not about him, here, now. He could not believe that he had escaped the horrors of Winterbirth only to be condemned to death by this small old woman with red in her silver hair.
'Drink,' said In'hynyr. For a moment Orisian looked at her, not understanding, then he recalled the small wooden bowl still resting on his knees. Hesitantly, remembering the drink's astringent taste, he raised it to his lips and sipped. The liquid had cooled a fraction and though it still tasted harsh it did not burn so fiercely. His head cleared a little. The oppressive heat seemed to lift itself from his face.
'What is your promise worth?' In'hynyr asked him.
Orisian paused, searching for some form of words that might make the connection he needed with this woman.
'It puts a duty on me,' he said. 'As you bear a duty to the vo'an, as you say Ess'yr felt some duty to me.
My promise is a duty I owe to myself, and to you.'
'Where will you go?'
'Go? I...' He hesitated. Where would he go? His father was gone, perhaps Anyara and Inurian as well.
And Kolglas was far away, if Rothe was right about how far they had travelled. 'I would go to Anduran first,' he said. 'To my uncle, the Thane. If what you say is true, my people must make war against the Black Road and the White Owls. I must be a part of that.'
Somewhere within the tent, hidden amidst the shadows, someone had begun to sing. It was a soft, chanted song, so low and deep that it was like a distant murmur. Orisian could not even be sure whether there was a single voice or more. He could hear no words within the song. It had a funereal sound.
'I mean the Fox no harm,' he said again. 'I am not your enemy. If there is war, it will be against other Huanin and against the White Owl. Not the Fox.' He could think of nothing more to say.
For a long time, no one said anything. There was only the song, flowing around him. He lowered his eyes and stared at the bowl cupped in his lap, and the liquid within. Its heat was fading quickly. A few fragile wisps of steam rose towards his face.
'Leave us,' said In'hynyr at last.
Fighting back a surge of relief, Orisian scrambled to his feet. In his eagerness to take his leave he ignored the pain in his side. Only as he made for the opening in the side of the tent did doubt reassert itself.
'Will we be allowed to leave the vo'an, then?' he asked.
'We will think on it,' was all In'hynyr said.
VI
HE SAT CROSS-LEGGED in the tent's doorway for long hours. They had given him a cloak of marten fur that had a powerful scent as if it was freshly stripped from the animals. He needed it, since each day turned the air a little crisper.
Two weeks, and a lifetime, ago this would have been a dream realised for him, to be in the midst of a camp of the Fox. Even now, despite the gnawing memory of what had brought him here, he was aware of an otherworldly peace and calm in the camp. The Kyrinin moved about with precision and balance, whether adult or child. The oldest of them, shrunken and even a little stooped, retained a natural grace Orisian had never seen in his own kind. The adults were tolerant of the packs of children that darted to and fro amongst the tents. They watched, sometimes joined in with their wrestling and chasing. Orisian never heard any voices raised in anger or excitement.
Showers passed, along with the scudding clouds that bore them, but for much of the time the sky was bright. Sunlight would fling the stark shadows of leafless trees across the camp and set the grass glowing green in memory of summer. Flocks of small birds chattered through the vo'an. The Kyrinin came and went. They hunted, gathered firewood, prepared meals just as any villagers might.
But amidst the familiar there were the reminders that he was far from what he knew and understood. The great face woven of boughs, standing like a sentinel watching over the heart of the vo'an, unsettled him.
Once or twice he saw Kyrinin lay their fingertips upon it and murmur some words. The poles decorated with the skulls of various animals were sometimes, when the light caught them just so, menacing. Perhaps most unnerving of all, he would sometimes notice one of the Fox standing quite still amongst the tents, staring at him. When he returned the gaze there was none of the discomfort a human might show at being so caught out. Always it was Orisian who looked away first.
Once or twice a day he and Rothe were allowed to pass some time together. Rothe's hushed conversation was filled with concern for Orisian, and with plans for escape as soon as the two of them were strong enough. O
risian knew they could not get away if the Fox opposed it; their safety relied on reason and patience, not flight. In his heart of hearts, Rothe must know the same. Perhaps he spoke of escape only because he thought it was what Orisian needed to hear to keep his spirits up. If so, they were equally guilty of imperfect honesty, for Orisian had not told the shieldman about his audience with the vo'an'tyr. It would not help for Rothe to know their fate still hung so precariously in the balance. Not yet, at least.
Ess'yr visited him often, sometimes bearing food, sometimes to check his wound, sometimes for no particular reason he could grasp. He came to look forward to the sight of her. Though she seldom smiled, there was an undercurrent of goodwill in her manner. Still, she talked in strange circles, as In'hynyr had done, and he always felt that he missed half the meaning of her words.
Sometimes she would answer his questions. How many people were in the vo'an? he asked; two or three hundred, she told him. Seven a'ans, which would disperse once more in the spring. Where was the rest of her family? Her parents had gone to the willow. Her brother was hunting in the Car Criagar.
Then when Orisian posed a question that trespassed beyond whatever unseen boundary hedged their conversation, she ignored him, or walked away. She would not discuss his and Rothe's fate, nor would she talk of Inurian. And when he asked about the great, unearthly face of twigs and branches that gazed across the camp she only shook her head a touch. He learned to tread with care.
At night, he lay longing for sleep amidst the strange smells of the Kyrinin tent, listening to the alien sounds of forest and camp. In those loneliest of hours, in the grip of darkness, he fought a losing battle against the images and memories that jostled within his head. They were of Castle Kolglas on the night of Winterbirth. But the person he longed for most, whose absence hurt more than any other, was someone lost long before: Lairis, his mother. The hole she had left in his life was as cavernous as it had ever been, the wound exposed afresh. He held the furs of his bedding tight about him, as if they were her arms.
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