Winterbirth

by Brian Ruckley

  She and Varryn sliced the fungus into thin strips, turning each one briefly over the fire before passing it out. The flavour was good, with a meaty hint beneath the taste of soil.

  As they went on down towards Koldihrve, Orisian asked Yvane about the ruined farmhouses that dotted the landscape.

  'There were more people here once, and they made a better living from the land,' she said.

  'That much I'd guessed,' said Orisian pointedly.

  The na'kyrim shot him a wry glance.

  'Losing a little of that great gentleness of yours?' she enquired. 'Might not be such a bad thing, so long as you don't get carried away. Anyway, this was Aygll land before the War of the Tainted. Went wild in the Storm Years after the Kingship fell, and never got over it.'

  They passed a dozen Kyrinin who were perhaps making for the vo'an on the lakeshore. Varryn exchanged a few soft words with them. From the direction of their glances, it seemed that Ess'yr was the subject of their discussion. One of the travellers produced a small packet from inside his tunic and unwrapped a bound bundle of twigs. Varryn accepted it with a nod of his head and the other Kyrinin went on their way.

  When they rested for a time in the early afternoon, Varryn heated some water over a small fire. He dropped the twigs in and let them stew. A sharp, almost acrid, scent rose from the pot. Ess'yr drank the infusion down and afterwards a little of the paleness was gone from her cheeks and she walked with an easier stride.

  That evening, when they bedded down a short way from the track, Orisian went and sat beside her. No one else seemed to be paying them any attention. He spoke to her quietly.

  'How are your ribs?'

  She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. 'Nothing,' she said. 'I live still.'

  Her tattoos were still livid, not yet settled into her skin. They were much less dense than those upon her brother's face. A spiral swung around the swell of her cheek; fronds of dye cupped the corners of her eyes. It was almost beautiful. Only the first kin'thyn, Orisian supposed. More would come if she killed again.

  'Inurian always seemed to have a cure for any ill,' Orisian said. 'The same medicines you use, I suppose.

  He learned them from you? From the Fox, I mean?'

  Ess'yr only nodded at that. She was looking at him now, with those still, strong eyes.

  'You sent your sister to me,' she said. 'That was well done.'

  Orisian knew what she meant: the cord of Inurian's life.

  'It was Yvane's idea. It seemed right.'

  'You feel more clearly than most of your kind,' she said and there was the slightest, gentlest of smiles on her delicate lips.

  Orisian felt a breath of heat rising in his face. For the first time in many days, he had a glimpse of that Ess'yr he had seen before they reached Anduran: the one who looked at him as if he was Orisian, not just some Huanin. Her hand lay only the shortest of reaches from his own, her fingers pressed softly into the yielding moss.

  'You buried it in a dyn ham? Orisian asked.

  There was only a fleeting pause. Anyone watching her less carefully than Orisian would have missed the momentary tightening at the corner of her eyes. He wanted to touch her in that instant — to offer comfort

  - but he did not.

  'No,' she said. 'He was na'kyrim. Only half of him was of the true people. But I found a place. I cut a good willow staff. It will leaf when the winter is over.'

  'Did you . . . How long did you know him for?' Orisian asked her.

  She thought for a moment, and he feared she was not going to reply; that, as so often when he asked a question she did not wish to answer, she would not hear it. She did, though.

  'Five summers ago. He visited my a'an. I saw him, but I did not speak with him until the next summer.

  He came back.'

  'And . . .' Orisian had to suppress the urge to cough, 'you loved him then?'

  'Well enough,' was all Ess'yr said, as if he had asked how she liked their campsite. Orisian could not tell whether the question had offended her.

  'He was very kind to me,' he said. 'Always. I would have been very lonely if he had not been there . . . after the Fever. He was always there to talk to, about anything. I will miss him.'

  And to his surprise she smiled again, the curling lines upon her face flexing themselves gracefully.

  'He loved you,' she said. Her voice was so gentle, so careful of his feelings, that it gave him the will to take a further step.

  'What was it he said to you, by the waterfall? When Varryn was angry. I heard "ra'tyn", and it seemed important. Did it have something to do with me?'

  Her gaze flicked down, and he knew that he had reached too far. She gave no sign of anger, and did not shrink away from him, yet he felt the distance between them suddenly yawn. She was no longer Ess'yr, who he knew a little; she became the Kyrinin, who he knew hardly at all.

  'That is not spoken of,' she said, and turned away from him, a slight rigidity in the movement the only hint of her injury. That, he knew, ended the conversation.

  He stayed there for a little while, wrestling with frustration. She made him feel like a child. He knew she did not mean to do it, but still it cut him. His own shortcomings annoyed him more, though. There was some key, he thought, some turn of phrase or way of being, that he lacked. He could not quite close the gap. And yet, if asked, he could not, or would not, have explained precisely why it mattered to him; why he wanted so much to narrow that distance between himself and Ess'yr.

  In the morning, they awoke to find Yvane still wrapped in her bedding, her breathing shallow and fluttering. Rothe, who had taken the last watch, said she had been thus for half an hour or more. She would not wake, not even when Orisian gave her shoulder a tentative shake. They spent long minutes in indecision.

  'We should get some water from a stream . . .' Rothe was saying when at last Yvane returned to herself, sat up and glared at her audience.

  'What are you all looking at?' she demanded, sounding a little groggy.

  They busied themselves with the packing away of their simple camp and the sharing out of some food.

  Only after they were on the move, working their way along a sodden stretch of the track where thick rushes had all but overwhelmed the path, did Orisian ease himself to Yvane's side and ask her what had happened.

  'Visited Koldihrve, as I visited Inurian in Anduran,' she said. 'Best to make sure of some kind of welcome. The place has few comforts to offer, but Hammarn will give us a roof over our heads at least. I think I scared him halfway to death. It's a long time since he saw me like that; I think he'd forgotten. His mind has more holes in it than a mismended net.'

  She clearly saw or sensed some doubt in Orisian, for she smiled at him.

  'Don't worry. Hammarn is just an old, distracted na'kyrim. He can be a bit . . . unusual, but his heart is true enough. He's a friend, and will be nothing but delighted to have so many visitors. That's not something you could say for most in Koldihrve.'

  Orisian did not relish the prospect of arriving in a town of masterless men. He could guess that there would be no warm welcome waiting there. Against that, though, he could set the thought that he was about to see a place where Huanin and Kyrinin lived peacefully alongside one another. He knew of no other place where such a thing would happen in these days. He had not thought of it before, but it was obvious that there would be na'kyrim here, and that knowledge quickened his pulse a fraction. Inurian and Yvane were the only na'kyrim he had ever known. The only other he had even seen – just for a moment — had been at Kolglas on the night of Winterbirth: Aeglyss.

  'Yvane,' he asked, 'do you know ... is Koldihrve where Inurian came from? I know his father was from the Fox clan, but I never knew where he grew up.'

  'No,' said Yvane softly. 'Inurian was born in a summer a'an in the Car Anagais. His mother . . .' she paused and looked at him. 'Best to leave that,' she said. 'It is not the happiest of tales. Don't you think, in any case, that he would have told you himself, if he wanted you
to know?'

  Orisian gazed at the muddy ground passing beneath his feet.

  'Perhaps,' he said. 'Perhaps he meant to tell me many things one day. He meant to take me with him into the forest, I think. Maybe even next summer.'

  'Perhaps he did,' said Yvane. 'I don't think he would have taken any other Huanin, but you... yes, perhaps.'

  She fell silent then, and they trudged along. Flakes of snow began to drift down from the flat, endless clouds. A flight of ducks whirred overhead like fat bolts loosed from some crossbow. Up in the forests on the edge of the Car Criagar a stag bellowed. It was a mournful sound. Some stories said that all the creatures of the world wept when the Gods departed, save the Huanin and the Kyrinin who were the cause of it.

  Something else has passed away this time, Orisian thought. Let this night be a warm memory; let it be a seed of life. Those were the words his father had spoken on Winterbirth's eve, as he had done every year for as long as Orisian could remember. But this time the memories of Winterbirth carried nothing of warmth. No seed - at least none with any good in it - had been planted in Castle Kolglas. If spring did come, it would break upon a world changed beyond recognition.

  They came to a derelict barn, and rested there for a little while. The snow had turned to desultory sleet.

  The building's roof was skeletal, its rotting beams exposed like the ribs of some half-decayed carcass deposited by flood waters.

  Yvane dozed, huddled in her cloak. Rothe shared some food with Anyara. The two Kyrinin whispered to one another while Varryn applied a balm to the still raw tattoos on his sister's face. Orisian could not settle and wandered listlessly around the barn. There was no sign of fire or storm or other damage. Like all the other abandoned farmsteads they had passed on their journey down the valley, it had been killed by neglect, not some sudden catastrophe.

  He clambered into a gap in the wall. The stones were overgrown by a carapace of grey-green lichens.

  Orisian ran his fingers over them, testing their minutely intricate texture. The wind gusted, throwing a scattering of sharp sleet into his face, and he grimaced, turning his head away.

  'Keep under cover,' called Rothe. 'We don't know who might be watching.'

  Orisian took a step down from the breach. Something made him look outwards once more. He saw a group of figures standing twenty paces or so away: Kyrinin warriors, staring silently at him. Their faces were thick with the tattoos of the kin'thyn. For a few seconds he and they were motionless as the sleet swept across them. Then Varryn came soundlessly up to his shoulder, and brushed past him. Orisian watched as Varryn conferred with the newcomers.

  'What's happening?' Rothe asked from behind Orisian.

  He could only shrug in reply.

  After a few minutes, the band of warriors drifted away into the surrounding scrub and Varryn came striding back. His gait was purposeful, almost hasty.

  'What news?' Orisian asked, but the Kyrinin ignored him and went to speak with Ess'yr. The language was incomprehensible, but for once the expressions upon their faces were almost eloquent. An intensity entered their eyes as brother and sister talked. There was urgency in their tones. Yvane had stirred herself, and as she listened to the discussion Orisian saw her begin to frown.

  Varryn and Ess'yr came to some conclusion, and began rapidly to prepare themselves to move on.

  'Will we not wait for the weather to improve?' asked Anyara, contriving a note of innocent enquiry.

  'No,' Ess'yr said. 'We go quickly now.'

  'What's happened?' said Orisian.

  'The enemy are coming.'

  Yvane was thoughtful as they hastened to keep up with the two Kyrinin, who set a hard pace away from the barn.

  'The Inkallim?' Orisian asked, but Yvane shook her head.

  'It seems there is war in mountains. Not just a raid: hundreds of White Owls have come north, from the sound of it. I've never heard of so many coming into Fox lands. It's not how the Kyrinin fight their battles, not these Kyrinin at least. They prefer sneaking about in little groups.'

  'Are they coming this way, then?'

  'Probably. The greatest Fox vo'an is beside Koldihrve. The White Owls will want that if they've blood on their minds, and they must have a powerful thirst for the stuff for so many of them to come so far. It smells bad to me. Like everything else. If you're not aboard a boat heading south soon you may not be going anywhere.'

  A strange scene greeted them as they rounded a drift of alder trees and came at last within sight of the sea. Two very different settlements flanked the broad mouth of the River Dihrve. Upon its northern banks lay a chaotic jumble of houses and shacks, sheltering behind a crude ditch and dyke: the masterless town of Koldihrve. To the south of the river was a vo'an, a sprawling mass of tents and huts much larger than Orisian had expected. A long wooden trackway raised on poles connected the two settlements across the river. It might have been a vision from the distant past, from the time before the War of the Tainted, when the two races had more in common than distrust and bitterness.

  And beyond the ramshackle roofs of Koldihrve was a sight more welcome, and more unexpected, still: the tall masts of a fine sea-going ship at anchor in the estuary.

  Cerys, Elect of Highfast, ran a finger down the hem of her plain brown robe. It was fraying. She must mend it soon, as she had done several times before. Few amongst the na'kyrim of Highfast would have begrudged their Elect a new robe but Cerys preferred to set an example. The Thane of Kilkry-Haig still sent an annual boon of coin, and lesser gifts could usually be expected from Kennet nan Lannis-Haig -

  Inurian's doing, of course — and one or two of the Marchlords on the northern frontier of Taral-Haig. All of that, however, went on food and the materials needed for the great tasks of chronicling and copying.

  There was little left over for luxuries such as new clothing. When Kilkry had been highest of all the Bloods, things had been easier. Nowadays Lheanor oc Kilkry-Haig must send an ever-growing tithe south to Vaymouth; he had less to spare for the secretive workings of Highfast.

  The Elect let the hem fall from between her fingers. She was allowing idle musings to distract her from the demands of the present. Gently, she reached out into the Shared, letting her senses flow with its currents. She felt the presence of those she sought: the Conclave was gathered in the room that adjoined her own chambers here in the castle's keep.

  She did not relish the prospect of this meeting. Disquiet was abroad in Highfast, and it made people irritable and argumentative. There had been too many rumours circulating in recent days; perhaps that at least could be ended by this gathering.

  She lowered her chain of office about her neck. It was very simply made — nothing but unadorned links of iron - as befitted what was a symbol of servitude rather than of elevation. To be elected as head of the Conclave lifted the candidate above others only so that the burden of preserving Highfast and its accumulated wisdom should fall more heavily upon their shoulders. The chain's weight tired Cerys, and she never wore it save on official occasions such as this.

  Soft conversations died away as she entered the meeting chamber. Every eye was turned upon her. She smiled more resolutely than she felt. There were five other na'kyrim present. She would call most of them friends, but that did nothing to dilute the air of tension that filled the chamber. Cerys took her seat at the head of the table and poured herself a beaker of water. A platter of thick-crusted bread was passed to her and she tore off a piece and swallowed it down. A small ritual going back two and a half centuries to the first days of the Conclave in Highfast: that hunger and thirst should be sated, lest their pangs distract from the deliberations to follow. Cerys had little real appetite these days, but the traditions must be respected.

  'Has everyone taken food and drink?' she asked, and when all gave their nodded or murmured confirmation, she said, 'Let us make a start, then.'

  She turned to an old, frail-looking man seated beside her. His long hair was cloud-white and his eyes almost entirely mist
ed over. The skin of his face was seamed by a thousand vanishingly fine lines. Olyn was beyond his hundredth year - aged even by the standards of the long-lived na'kyrim - and Cerys had hesitated over whether or not to burden him with the delivery of his ill tidings. Even if his body was failing him, however, his mind and his will were as strong as they had ever been. It was his own wish that he should be the one to repeat to the Conclave what he had whispered in the Elect's ear two days ago.

  'Olyn has news that I thought all of you should hear,' Cerys said. 'Olyn, if you please?'

  Olyn straightened in his seat and ran a swift tongue over his lips to moisten them.

  'The crows have been uneasy this last little while,' he said in a wavering voice that ill matched the clarity of the thoughts beneath it. 'I have spent much time in the roost, to soothe them. I have slept there on some nights when they have been particularly restless. Four nights ago, I was woken by a great clamour.

  When I sought its cause, I found that one long gone had returned. Idrin. Inurian's companion.'

  There was no sound greater than an intake of breath in the room, but Cerys felt the undercurrent of regret. None would fail to understand the meaning of the crow's return. It extinguished, irrevocably, any faint hope that Inurian might still be alive.

  'That is a great loss to us,' murmured Alian, a beautiful, slight Woman. Her head was bowed as she spoke. She would have been too young to have seen much of him when Inurian dwelled here, Cerys thought, yet she feels her life is reduced by his death. Everyone feels that, and rightly.

  'We do not know what has happened, but there is no doubting that Inurian is gone,' Cerys said. 'I have reached out for him - I know others have done the same - and there is no sign. It is, as Alian says, a great loss. He chose to leave this place, but he left his mark upon it just as it did upon him.' She glanced at the keeper of crows. 'There is more that I wished Olyn to share with you, though.'

  'It leads us away from the certain,' croaked the old, blind man. 'I believe that I . . . caught the moment of Inurian's death. There was an instant, a few days ago - I had sunk myself into the Shared - when I think I felt his passing. He ceased to be a presence in the Shared, became a part of its memory.'