by Paul Chafe
C'mell rippled her ears every time the tuskvor threw Cherenkova around. “You look like a vatach challenge-leaping a grlor,” she said, after a particularly nasty balk. Ayla clenched her jaw and hung on grimly, determined not give up before she'd shown she could handle the basics. She was exhausted and soaked with sweat by the time she was finished. She napped with the pride while the sun was high, and when she woke up she discovered a whole new set of muscles, all of which ached from their unaccustomed use. Fortunately the beasts just followed the herd when left to themselves. On the migration the harness bars were only necessary if you wanted to guide your tuskvor next to another one so you could talk to someone. There was no need for her to take regular steering shifts.
The trackway beneath them was pounded into dust, and behind them, where the foothills flattened into the plains, the living river broke up into a network of gray tributaries, fading into invisibility against the backdrop of the jungle verge, now barely visible as a green mist on the horizon. She could see now that the trackway path itself was actually recessed, worn into the landscape after countless generations of migration over this exact route. The migration was an awesome sight, a primeval force of nature, as vast and inexorable as the tides. If a comet were to strike in the middle of it tens of thousands of tuskvor would die, incinerated in a fraction of a second, but, she had no doubt, the tens of tens of thousands more who survived would continue inexorably on their genetically programmed course, implacably negotiating the still steaming crater rim, traveling across the scorched, sterilized landscape until they struggled out the other side, indifferent to everything but the compulsion to move east and south with the change of the seasons.
The next day saw them to the Long Range, and the rolling savannah that covered the foothills gave way to alpine forests, and then high meadows dotted with wildflowers. Higher still, the grasses came only in tufts on a landscape built of rock and crags. The way became steep and their tsvasztet tilted alarmingly as their tuskvor took the grade. For a time Cherenkova feared it would slide free, or she would slide free of it, but the straps held. Frost appeared and the air grew chill, and soon the world was white, with snow-capped mountains rearing above them. The chill became bitter cold, and their waterskins slowly froze solid. Cherenkova slept that night huddled between Pouncer and Quicktail, as warm as any kitten cuddled close to its siblings.
Some time before dawn she awoke to realize that the tilt of the tsvasztet had leveled out. She stood up to see the migration forging its way through a glacier-carved pass between two vast, craggy peaks. The Traveler's Moon was overtaking the Hunter's Moon overhead, both nearly full and casting a soft, mystical light that made the entire scene seem unreal. The air was crystal clear, thin enough that breathing was hard, and cold enough to burn her skin, erectile tissue stiffening to raise wispy hairs no longer capable of providing insulation. She rubbed her arms against the goosebumps but didn't dive back to the warmth of her living fur blanket. The stars were out, the Milky Way spilled across the sky as a familiar background to alien constellations that blazed with an intensity she had seen nowhere except a warship's bridge. It was a moment, she realized, that would never occur again in her life, that no other human had ever experienced and, almost certainly, no other human would ever experience again. She watched until she could not watch any longer, until she was shivering uncontrollably, until she could no longer hold her eyes open. By then the tsvasztet had tilted downward again as the tuskvor found the downgrade, and she slid back between the two kzinti to let their body heat melt the chill from her bones. As a little girl she had dreamed of going to the stars, of seeing sights that no one else had ever seen before, of discovering things that no one else had even imagined might exist. There had been a time when she had nursed an unearthly fear that she might die before she could make that a reality. That fear had long since faded as she earned first her wings and then command rank, acquiring a record that any officer might envy. Still, this was something unique, something to tell her grandchildren, if she ever had any, and she fell asleep with the knowledge that she had satisfied a hunger she had almost forgotten she had had.
She dreamed then, of a kill drop, a cliff five thousand feet high, with the tuskvor herd surging blindly toward it. Those at the front balked, rearing back, and the herd began to pile up on the cliff's edge. For a moment the vast migration paused, and then the unrelentingly building pressure of the following beasts began to push those at the front forward. A mid-sized adolescent skidded, stumbled and pitched over the edge, bellowing in uncomprehending fear, and then suddenly the river of flesh became a living waterfall, as tuskvor after tuskvor dropped over the edge to die on the jagged rocks far below. The kzinti leapt from back to back to escape in desperate bounds, but Ayla could not make such leaps, could only watch helplessly as her beast was pushed ever closer to the precipice. She looked across to the next great gray back, a good ten meters away, looked down an equal distance to where walls of flesh pressed together above heavy, trampling feet. It was death if she stayed, and death if she leapt, but if she leapt she would die trying to save herself, and that made all the difference. She gathered herself, and then suddenly Pouncer was there, lifting her like a rag doll and leaping himself, just as their tuskvor slipped and fell over the edge. They were airborne for an eternity, and then the kzin landed, claws finding purchase in the thick, tough coat of another herd grandmother, his muscles straining as he fought his way up its back, only to gather himself and leap again, as that beast too stumbled and plunged over the edge. The dream became a nightmare, with Cherenkova hanging on desperately as Pouncer leapt and leapt, tiring steadily but never gaining ground against the tide of the herd. She knew she should let go, should sacrifice herself to allow him to save himself, but her fingers were locked in his mane in a death grip and she couldn't have let go if she tried, and they were both going to die, and then they were airborne again, this time falling as the tuskvor they had just landed on pitched forward and over.
And she was floating, falling weightless and surrounded by two-hundred-ton beasts that bellowed in panic and flailed as they fell. And she remembered the first time she was weightless, eighteen years ago now, a cadet pilot in a Rapier trainer on her first familiarization flight, and the instructor had boosted them ballistic and then cut the power and handed her control as they dropped into freefall, just to see what she could do. And she had found at that moment that she could fly. She had dreamed of it all her life, studied hard every night to make the academy, learned the drills by heart, flown the simulators until she could do it blindfolded, dreamed every night of the time she would make it real, but nothing, nothing had prepared her for the feeling of flying as she had then, as she was now.
And she was flying, not falling, she had control, and she could save herself, but Pouncer was falling too. She dove then, stooping like a falcon on its prey through air churned violent by the huge thrashing beasts. She dodged flailing tusks, lost sight of him for a moment, then all at once she had caught him. She strained upward then but he was heavy and whatever it was that gave her the buoyancy to fly wasn't powerful enough to arrest his downward momentum, and what she should have done was abandon him but she would not, could not, because he had given his life trying to save her and she could do no less for him, and they plunged down to die together on blood-slick stone amid the shattered bones of the tuskvor.
She awoke with a start, and shook her head to rid it of the unsettling images. It was the mountain climber's rule. Thin air brings strange dreams. It was one thing to understand where her dream had come from, another to let go of the uncomfortable feelings it gave her. The air was warmer than it had been, and soon 61 Ursae Majoris was rising to show the mountains already receding behind them, the air parched and dusty as they descended to the broad desert plateau opening up in front of them. It would take days to cross it, and already the migration was showing the cost of the march. There were dead tuskvor by the wayside, at first rarely, then more often. They were mostly youngsters or
small mothers who had entered the migration without the reserves to finish it, occasionally a huge grandmother or male grown too old for the journey. Stragglers tended to be forced to the edges of the migration stream, and when they died the first to arrive were the circling hrhan, soaring scavengers with fifteen-meter wingspans and long, snaky necks, who tore at the bodies with razor fangs. Later the wralarv would appear, lumbering, shaggy and savage; they looked small in the vastness of the scene, but the smallest of them would have feared nothing from a polar bear. It occurred to her to wonder what it was that drove the tuskvor to undertake such an arduous journey. Even the jungle in the dry season was a more forgiving environment than the burning desert.
The sun was high on the second day in the desert when a tuskvor slid alongside hers with ponderous grace. Cherenkova was developing an eye for the delicate art of tuskvor handling. The mazourk was C'mell, and Ayla put down her beltcomp and watched with some envy at the kzinrette's casual skill at her task. A kzintosh leapt from its back to their own travel pad. It took her a moment to recognize him. Sraff-Tracker.
V'rli was lying languidly on her prrstet, half napping, half keeping an eye on the harness bars while the tuskvor strode along. Pouncer and Ferlitz were gone, having leapt off to socialize early in the morning.
V'rli turned her head. “Sraff-Tracker. Welcome.”
Sraff-Tracker made the gesture-of-abasement, although to Cherenkova's eye it seemed sloppy. “Honored Mother. I come with a question.”
V'rli rippled her ears. “I am here with an answer. Perhaps it applies to your question.”
“Honored Mother, the Traveler's Moon is well past its cusp.”
“That is true, Sraff-Tracker. What is the question?”
“The time of sanctuary is over. Why do we still shelter this outcast and his pet?” He gestured at Cherenkova without looking at her. “We have fulfilled our obligations, and more.”
“Pouncer fought with us. His sister died to defend our den. Even the Cherenkova-Captain played its part, and played it well.”
Sraff-Tracker snarled. “The kz'eerkti, whatever tricks it can do, it is prey, nothing more. Provisions on some of the tuskvor are running low.”
“And Pouncer?” If V'rli noted the threat to Cherenkova she ignored it.
“His time of sanctuary is over.”
“It was not over when we began the migration. Would you have him jump into the herd now?”
“If we had not taken him in, the Tzaatz would not have come at all.” Sraff-Tracker avoided the question.
“Are you saying we should have ignored the tradition of Sanctuary?”
“I am saying that his presence here puts us all at risk.”
V'rli snarled. “Did you know a Black Priest led the enemy? He will be seeking more than the heir to the Patriarchy, depend upon it. The world has changed, Sraff-Tracker. The Tzaatz remain a danger.”
“Honored Mother! What of tradition? We gave him sanctuary, now that is done. He must leave.”
“What of honor? Does Ztrak Pride toss out Heroes who fight our fight beside us? His sister died for us, Sraff-Tracker. He has earned his place at our pride circle.”
“He has no name!”
“When we reach the high forest den he can take a namequest.”
“You must compel him to leave. Tradition demands it.”
V'rli let her fangs show. “I will not. Migration began before his sanctuary ended.”
“Then I will challenge him and he will die before the sun is down.”
“Duels are forbidden on the migration, Sraff-Tracker. That too is tradition.”
Sraff-Tracker just snarled, and leapt back to his tsvasztet. He climbed from the pad to the platform and snarled something at C'mell, who pulled the harness bar and smoothly guided her tuskvor away. V'rli let her eyes slide shut and went back to sleep.
Ayla spent some more time practicing with the harness bar. Their tuskvor seemed to be in a particularly uncooperative mood, and she privately named it “Camel.” While she grunted and strained to get the recalcitrant animal to go where she wanted it, she thought about Sraff-Tracker's visit. He represents a danger. Why does he see Pouncer as a threat? Is it C'mell? She knew little of kzinti mating habits, and she suspected that the rules were very different in a social structure where the kzinretti were more than simple property. She didn't like Sraff-Tracker, hadn't liked him since the day they'd met Tzaatz Pride and he'd decided he'd like to eat her. So do I warn Pouncer? It should fall to V'rli, but what if she doesn't tell him? She spent some time mulling that question. She didn't want to get involved in the pride's internal dynamics. But Pouncer is my ally, and my friend. She would tell him if V'rli did not.
V'rli made it easy for her. She just told Pouncer, “Sraff-Tracker wants you to leave the Pride.”
“Will you support him in this?”
“No.”
“Then I will stay, Honored Mother, as long as I and the Cherenkova-Captain are welcome.”
V'rli turned a paw over. “You have spilled blood for us, First-Son-of-Meerz-Rrit, and so I stretched the tradition to take you on the migration. You would not have made it to Mrrsel Pride before they had left on their own journey. If you are to stay with Ztrak Pride you will need to complete a namequest.”
“I have already decided on my quest, Honored Mother.”
“What will you do?”
“I will reclaim the Patriarchy from my traitorous brother and the Tzaatz who stole it for him. I will take back my inheritance.”
“You said as much when you first came to us. I thought you might have tempered your desire.”
“I am resolved.”
V'rli fanned her ears up. “No one here doubts your courage, Pouncer. Do not bring us to doubt your wisdom. Choose another quest, one you can hope to complete.”
“I did not choose this quest; Kchula-Tzaatz chose it for me. Honor allows me no other course.”
“It is too soon for vengeance. A namequest must be completed alone, and what you speak of requires a campaign.”
“And if I alone lead this campaign?”
“You are no longer a kitten, but you are not yet a warrior. Who will follow you?”
“You will, I hope, and where you lead, Ztrak Pride will follow. Perhaps my mother's pride will follow me as well, and where two prides of czrav lead perhaps the others will come too. The Tzaatz will have weaknesses, and we will find them and exploit them.”
V'rli looked at him for a long time. “Do you know the story of the krwisatz?”
“The-pebble-that-trips-pouncer-or-prey. I know it.”
“I think you may indeed be krwisatz, Pouncer, for Ztrak Pride, for the czrav, perhaps for all kzinti, and most of all for yourself.” She paused, looking into the bloodred sunset. “Be sure you trip the prey, and not the Pouncer.”
It was the first time V'rli had used his familiar name. There was weight in the moment, acceptance with the warning. Even Cherenkova understood the significance there. Pouncer made the gesture-of-obeisance-to-wisdom. “I will heed your advice, Honored Mother.”
A tuskvor came alongside theirs and a dark shape leapt onto their journeypad — Quicktail. V'rli raised her tail as he clambered onto the platform. “And now my favorite storyteller” —she fanned her ears up— “Tell us a tale, Quicktail. Give us the scent of something worth tracking.” She wrapped her tail around her feet.
“This is the story of wise K'ailng…” Quicktail began, settling down in the center of the platform. “Who had traveled far from his homeland, and one day…”
The kzinti leaned forward on their prrstet as the youngster wove his words into a story. Cherenkova listened too, lying next to Pouncer for warmth against the gathering chill of the desert night. She idly rubbed the fur on his neck, provoking a muted rumble of a purr. It was a comforting action, almost intimate, that the kzin half tolerated and half enjoyed. Who is the pet here? She smiled at that thought. Ztrak Pride was becoming his pride, and it was becoming Cherenkova's pride too. V'rli was sol
idly on their side. In the background the creak of the tsvasztet and the occasional grunt of the tuskvor were overlaid on the vast rumble of the migration's steady pace, constant, reassuring sounds like the throbbing engines of a ship at sea. Quicktail's story was compelling, but she found herself unable to shake a vague unease. Sraff-Tracker is dangerous. He doesn't want us in his pride. We're a problem for him, and he isn't going to leave it alone.
Through birth and death, the Pride lives on.
— Wisdom of the Conservers
The Circle of Conservers was an ancient fortification, built high on a mountain crag jutting vertically up from the warm waters of the Southern Sea. Unlike those of the Citadel of the Patriarch its defenses hadn't been modernized, or even maintained, in the eons since vertical cliffs and deep water were considered strong protections against any foe. The massive walls were still there, and the towers, but the network of defensive tunnels beneath it was long collapsed. The walls had lost their crenellations, the towers' arrow slits had been widened into windows, or filled in entirely. In the courtyard, well tended grasses grew where mighty siege engines had once stood ready to sink the ships of an invader. The massive gates were long gone, leaving only an empty archway, and the untended gatehouses had long since crumbled. The only thing to stop an intruder was the steep, winding trail from sea level to the mountaintop.