Exile's Children

by Angus Wells

  He broke off, embarrassed again. Arcole finished the sentence for him: “Are an exile.”

  “Yes.” Var fidgeted with his sabretache, clearly torn between the refuge of formality and the odd relationship that began to form. “You understand? I cannot …” He shrugged. “I’d have it different, but I must return you to the hold. But you’ve my word I shall not forget what you’ve done.”

  Arcole bowed. He had expected no less, had perhaps gotten more than he had hoped. He went to the door and strode across the deck to where Flysse and Davyd stood.

  Repairs were already begun. Exiles were set to work on the broken railings and damaged planks; the dead were drawn into neat lines, hidden beneath tarpaulins. Var came up and with Bennan at his side, commenced a brief funeral service, after which the corpses were pitched overboard. All the while they watched, Flysse and Davyd stood close by Arcole, as if they would reassure themselves he lived. Had he thought about it himself, he might have felt the same surprised relief. But he was thinking on what Var had let slip, that the Pride of the Lord and, therefore, he presumed, all the transports, were not hexed against external attack. And that Tomas Var, for all he did his duty, seemed not entirely happy with the task. There was food for future thought in that.

  And further, Arcole now knew Davyd dreamed true. He was not yet sure how he might fit together such tidbits of knowledge, but like the gambler he was, he felt instinctively that such cards should be held close, against their future use.

  As soon as he was able to speak privately to the boy, he asked that Davyd tell him of any future dreams. Davyd promised; now more than ever, Arcole was a hero in his eyes.

  Nor less in Flysse’s. She had seen little of the battle, and only after it was done learnt of Arcole’s reckless venture, but she had known he remained on deck while she was below. She had believed they all might die and realized with a shock that her fear was less for herself, less for Davyd even, than for Arcole. She had not known she cared so much until she came out on deck and saw him safe. Then she had felt her heart pound wildly, and must hold herself back lest she fling herself into his arms and hold him tight. When he hugged her, she had struggled not to blurt out her feelings, afraid she presumed too much and that such declaration embarrass him and drive him from her. To tell him she loved him was too blatant, but to herself she admitted it was true: she loved Arcole.

  Davyd’s nightmares ended with the destruction of the sea serpent. The ocean still disturbed him: it seemed unnatural to float atop those unknowable depths, but he was able to come to terms with that. The absence of warning dreams assured him no further perils threatened, and had he a fear left, it was that Arcole might let slip some careless word that should condemn him to the Inquisitors’ fires. But that was a very small fear—he trusted Arcole as he had trusted no one save Aunt Dory.

  Indeed, had he thought about it, he would have realized that the place Aunt Dory had occupied in his life, the place that had been empty since her demise, was now filled by Arcole and Flysse. They were like newfound parents, or elder brother and sister. He had been alone so long, living on his wits and the deftness of his fingers without true friends that it was a joy to know them. He refused to think about their impending landfall, when fate might well separate them.

  When such glum prospect did intrude on his happiness, he dismissed it, telling himself that Grostheim could not be so large a place they be parted. Sometimes he allowed himself to imagine them together there, that Arcole would take Flysse to wife and they would adopt him. Even did that not happen, he would surely see them often enough. Arcole would surely arrange it so.

  Davyd had absolute faith in Arcole: he thought there could be nothing Arcole could not do. By God, he had slain the sea serpent! He had saved Flysse from rape, and even the marines—stern agents of the God’s Militia—had hailed him hero. Now even Captain Var treated him with respect and had promised to speak out on his behalf when they reached their destination. He hoped Arcole would arrange it that they three remain together. It did not occur to him, dazzled by his admiration, that Arcole might entertain other plans.

  And the Pride of the Lord continued on across the Sea of Sorrows, laboring slowly through the final limits of the weed sea, then swifter as the clinging wrack gave up its hold and freshened breezes filled the sails. No more serpents attacked, though three were sighted and the remaining cannon primed and aimed. Had Davyd dared speak out, he would have told Tomas Var there was no danger, but Arcole was the only one to share his knowledge and so he only watched, pretending a trepidation he no longer felt.

  Then one day, when the sky spread bright above and the sea blue all around, three gulls came swooping overhead, their mewing answered by the sailors who shouted that landfall was nigh. The next day a line of darkness lay across the western horizon, and on the day after that the schooner came in sight of Salvation’s coast.

  18 The Long Night Falls

  The New Grass Moon was flattened like a shield dented in battle as the Commacht returned home. The clan had ridden a distance with the mass of the People and then, when the Aparhaso and the Naiche went their ways, somewhat farther with Yazte’s Lakanti. But that trail parted in a few days and the doubled strength of the two clans was split. Consequently, the Commacht akaman rode wary, knowing Chakthi’s promise and the man’s temper. He set his warriors about the defenseless ones as the column wove homeward, with scouts and outriders and a rearguard about the main body of the clan. It was, for all Yazte’s promises of support, a sadder journey than was usual, and Racharran looked constantly for sign of ambush and all the time hoped Chakthi might see sense.

  Forlorn hope, he knew, but still could not resist.

  They came down a grassy avenue banded by tall oaks, sloping toward a river with the sun lowering, shedding red light over the treetops, all the clan spread out in long defile with the scouts ahead and the outriders pressed in close by the timber, the rearguard watchful behind. Racharran thought to camp that night beside the water.

  Then horsemen came out from the trees. Their shields carried the buffalo-head emblems of the Tachyn and their faces were war-painted: all bands of black and red, with daubs of white on the cheeks. They came screaming their battle cries and firing bows that took three of the outriders from their ribs and chests, and then were gone still howling back into the wood. The Commacht warriors slew two of them, but then a second wave came from ahead, cutting in behind the scouts to send shafts like savage rain onto the column before turning back to the safety of the timber.

  Racharran rallied his clan, calling in his warriors tight about the column, and urged them to a gallop for the river. He shouted down the younger men who would go after the ambushers and bade them hold the flanks. By the time they reached the water, the Tachyn were gone.

  Four Commacht were dead, and more wounded. A dog snapped, howling, at the black and red Tachyn shaft driven through its ribs until a warrior ended its misery with an ax. All looked to Racharran for guidance.

  He could do no more than bid them camp in tight formation beside the river, which should protect their backs, and set his warriors guardian about the camp, more ringing the horse herd. The young men and not a few of the older warriors were for riding out in search of the enemy. They pointed out—and rightly—that to attack a clan homebound from Matakwa was open breach of the Will, and had Chakthi himself not, by his action, set himself beyond the Will? Racharran could tell them only yes, and no—that did Chakthi elect to ignore the Ahsa-tye-Patiko, that was his choice, but that the Commacht would not thus soil their hands. And when they asked him must they then ride all the way home in fear of Tachyn raids, he could only say yes, and bid them fight only defensive, adding, “On our own grass, the Will no longer ties our hands, and are we attacked, it shall be war.”

  This pleased them, for the treacherous raid heated tempers that might be cooled only in blood, and many set to speaking of the numbers they would slay and the punishments they would inflict on the Tachyn.

  Racharran
left them to it. His spirit was sunk low, for he saw the hoped-for peace was all lost, wisdom burned away in the flames of Chakthi’s rage, and he foresaw chaos descending when the People stood in great need of common sense and common purpose. He walked a distance off alone, to where the waning moon painted the green grass all silvery and the river ran quick between its banks, babbling as it conversed with itself and the night. He looked to where the sentries patrolled, and past them to the trees, and then beyond toward the mountains, distant now and dark, the Maker’s Mountain a pale pillar upholding the sky. He wondered how Rannach fared, and Arrhyna, and what newborn terrors Colun might find on his return home.

  He spun, his Grannach blade in hand, as soft footsteps came up.

  “Ho, it’s me.” Morrhyn raised hands in gesture of calming. “Think you a Tachyn might come so close?”

  Racharran shook his head, returning the blade to its sheath. “This talk of war troubles me,” he said. And beckoned the wakanisha to his side. “Shall we walk aways?”

  Morrhyn fell into step beside his friend. “I should have dreamed of this,” he murmured.

  Racharran’s laugh was a souring of the night. “We’d no need of your gift to foretell it.” He glanced sidelong at the Dreamer. “That Chakthi’s crazed enough to break the Will? I knew that; but still men died.”

  “That was not your fault,” Morrhyn said. “You did all you could.”

  Racharran said, “I hoped too strong. I set too much faith in men. I hoped Chakthi yet retained some honor.”

  Morrhyn said, “Because you are a good man; an honorable man. Men like you see the best in others; you seek to see it, and overlook their weaknesses.”

  “And so my people die.” Racharran stooped to lift a pebble from the river’s shore, flung it out over the water. It splashed and was gone. “Do such ‘good men’ make good akamans?”

  Firmly, Morrhyn answered, “Yes. You hold to the Will and seek only the good of all the clan, of all the People. That must be our hope, for I think that every breaking of the Ahsa-tye-Patiko now must be an offense against the Maker, and we shall need his goodwill in the times to come.”

  Racharran grunted, folding his blanket tight around his shoulders as if a chill wind blew, though the night was warm as the New Grass Moon faded toward its rebirth as the Moon of Dancing Foals. “And what shall come?” he asked. “More attacks? More die along the way? Until the young men fret and perhaps rebel? And then? War with the Tachyn? When we should all of us think on what Colun told us, and prepare for the worst.”

  Answers were hard to find: Morrhyn sighed and said slowly, “Perhaps; likely. There’s a blind madness come to Ket-Ta-Witko, I think. It’s as if”—he hesitated, looking toward the distant bulk of the Maker’s Mountain—“as if some dark wind blows through the mountains to soil our minds and make us mad. You see the danger, and Yazte. But the others are like children hiding under their blankets, waiting for the night to go away.”

  “Shall it be a long night?” Racharran asked. “And shall it go away?”

  Morrhyn closed his eyes a moment. He thought it might be no bad thing to find his own blankets and draw them firm over his head and play the child. But he could not: he was wakanisha of the Commacht, as Racharran was akaman, and they could neither of them forsake their duties. He said, “I think it shall likely be a very long night, and I cannot say if it will go away.”

  Racharran halted. The river folded here, a steep bank sliding down to a sandy bench. He lowered himself to the ground, legs dangling, and motioned Morrhyn to sit beside him. “What does your dreaming say of this long night?”

  “Nothing.” Morrhyn spread helpless hands wide. “Since I sat in the wa’tenhya, I’ve not dreamed at all.”

  Racharran turned to study his face. The akaman’s was lit stark and hard-planed by the moon. Morrhyn found it hard to meet his eyes: they held no accusation, but still he felt accused. He said, “Since then I’ve slept like a child—either sound or waking frightened through the night. But what wakes me, I cannot say. There’s nothing here.” He tapped his head as if to dislodge some clogging hindrance. “No dreams, no warnings—only fear.”

  Racharran nodded, unspeaking. He stared at the river, running oblivious of their presence or their concerns, like passing time that flows and changes and is the same and always different.

  Morrhyn said, “I’m afraid. I feel unarmed—as if I were a warrior hunting a man-eating lion in a thick, dark wood without weapons. I know the beast is there … somewhere … but I cannot see it or smell it or hear it. Only know that it watches me. And waits to pounce.”

  He felt Racharran’s hand upon his shoulder then, squeezing. The akaman said, “Perhaps when we come home?”

  “Perhaps.” Morrhyn smiled sadly. “But meanwhile, what use am I? A Dreamer bereft of dreams? Useful as a blind horse.”

  Racharran’s hand squeezed harder. “A blind horse can still carry a load, my friend.”

  “Save,” Morrhyn said, “it’s not much use in battle, eh?”

  “You wakanishas do not fight,” Racharran said. “Yours is the harder part.”

  “I am afraid.” Morrhyn paused so that Racharran could not decide whether he stated a simple fact or voiced a wider fear. “I am afraid that in the days to come we shall all of us be called to fight. Against men or … something else. And my weapons are my dreams. Are they lost, then I am … what? Truly useless.”

  “No!” Racharran shook his friend as he might a despondent child. “You are what you are—wakanisha of the Commacht! Not only our Dreamer, but also arbiter of the Will. You interpret the Ahsa-tye-Patiko, and in that I think I shall need your help in the days to come.”

  “The Ahsa-tye-Patiko?” Morrhyn found a turf loose between his knees and worried it up and tossed it into the edgewater. It fell soggy and bobbed awhile, then took the current and was borne away. He could not look at Racharran’s face as he said, “I wonder if the People do not all forget the Ahsa-tye-Patiko. Surely Chakthi disregards it; Vachyr did. Rannach was driven to that …” He bit his tongue. “Forgive me, old friend.”

  “No.” Racharran shook his head. “For what you say is true. Rannach did … what you say.”

  “With cause,” Morrhyn said.

  “Yes.” Racharran nodded. “But still, to no good effect. And did Chakthi plan it all, or only Vachyr, then the end’s the same, no? The Matakwa ended in chaos and we all go our separate ways when we need harmony. But still we need the Will. Let the Tachyn forget it; we Commacht shall not.”

  “You see things straight,” Morrhyn said. “True as an arrow.”

  “Because I see them simpler,” Racharran gave him back. “To draw the bow and sight the shaft? That’s easy—any warrior can do that. But you? Your task is the hard one, brother. You’re the one communes with the Maker and must translate his Will for us.”

  “Save part of that is the dreaming,” Morrhyn said. He tried to find the turf along the river’s length and could not. He wondered if it floated on or sank.

  Racharran said, “A part, yes. But another is the Ahsa-tye-Patiko, and that part you can still carry.”

  “Like,” Morrhyn asked, “the blind horse with its load?”

  “If you will,” Racharran answered. “It’s a load needs bearing. I think that I shall need your strength when the warriors grow restless.”

  Morrhyn said, “You shall have it—for what it’s worth.”

  Racharran said, “It’s worth much. Now, do we go check the picket lines and then find ourselves food? I think Lhyn’s a flask of tiswin yet unopened. Save Colun found it.”

  Morrhyn smiled and nodded his assent, and they rose from their melancholy contemplation and returned to where the clan built the fires and wondered what the morrow held.

  They crossed the river with a vanguard established on the farther bank and warriors watchful on the near. There was no attack, and by mid-morning all were safely over, even the slain whom they carried with them that they might be set to rest in the trees of their o
wn country. They went swiftly as a clan might, which was not very fast with old folk and children to tend, horses to herd, laden pack animals and travois to haul. Racharran took to halting early did some readily defensible place appear, and each night the camp was guarded. But still they moved inexorably toward their own country, and that was their beacon and their hope.

  They came to a place where the land ahead was open, spreading wide between far ridges topped with birch and tamarack. The sky was oyster blue and laced with drifts of high cloud that strung out like the tails of racing horses on the sweet-scented wind. Off to the south a small herd of buffalo grazed, the bulls ringing the cows and calves as they scented the passing clan. Racharran led the column, his shield firm on his left arm, Grannach-bladed lance tall in his right. Bow and shafts lay quivered across his back. That morning, as Lhyn readied food, he had honed his knife. It was not the way he would usually have come home, and it seemed a weight upon his shoulders and his soul. He wished it might be different, yet knew it was not and could not be, and that he must accept it as he had urged Morrhyn to accept the weight of the wakanisha’s burden.

  He saw the Tachyn as his people reached the end parts of the ridges and the full width of the plain beyond spread out, sloping down to a deep and fast-running stream that marked the boundary of the Commacht grass. There were twenty men by his count, riding their animals slow along the ridgetop to his right, and when he looked to the left he saw twenty more, pacing their horses to match the column. They made no move to attack, only rode in insulting escort, as if daring the Commacht to charge them. Forty warriors were scarce enough to halt or defeat the clan, but they could inflict a damage Racharran had sooner avoid. He wondered what they planned, and if more men waited in hiding ahead, behind the last slopes of the ridges. He thought of the Ahsa-tye-Patiko, which forbade him to make the first move, and that the water ahead should be a barrier, his people penned by river and ridges.