Exile's Challenge

by Angus Wells

  “What ails you?”

  He turned toward Flysse. Her pretty face was become solemn and she touched his hand. He stared at her a moment, then essayed a smile. She was with him, and that was compensation for all loss.

  “That we leave much behind,” he said, remembering that promise he had once made her, that he would conceal nothing from her. “That we can never go back.”

  “To Grostheim?” She frowned and shook her head so that the westering sun bounced light all golden off her curls.

  “To all we knew,” he said. “To our old lives.”

  “Would you?” She eyed him with amazement. “I’d not. We’ve a new life before us.”

  “Yes.” He nodded slowly, cautiously. “But it shall not be easy.”

  “Nor was our escape,” she said. “Nor would have been life in the wilderness. We are fortunate, Arcole. We are safe from the Autarchy and the demons, both; we are amongst good, friendly folk. How can you look so glum?”

  Almost, his old self spoke, to tell her that she and Davyd would likely fit this new place better than he. Davyd that he found himself with other Dreamers, without risk of persecution; she because she was born in the countryside and knew its ways. Whilst he was of the cities, a gambler and a duelist, a gentleman. But that was the man he had been, prideful, even arrogant, before the Autarchy set the hot iron to his cheek and sent him across the Sea of Sorrows into exile. That was an Arcole that no longer existed. So he said, “I suppose I’m afraid.”

  Davyd heard that last and chuckled. “Afraid? You know no fear, Arcole. And what’s to be afraid of here?”

  He looked at the young man and felt his smile grow genuine. Surely Davyd was no longer the frightened boy he had seen herded terrified onto the Pride of the Lord, seeking his protection. He had grown, physically and emotionally. His was the talent that had brought them safe through the wilderness to this new place. He accepted it now, and that acceptance of responsibility matured him. Indeed, it seemed to Arcole that Davyd became their leader here, and perhaps that was the reason for his uneasiness—that he could now only follow. He was not accustomed to feeling helpless.

  “Nothing,” he answered, and shrugged. “Save that I’m a stranger in a strange land.”

  Davyd laughed and said, “But a kind land, I think.”

  Arcole realized the Matawaye and the Grannach had fallen silent as they spoke, and were watching them. He looked at their faces, the Grannach like friendly boulders, the Matawaye like hospitable hawks. He nodded: “Yes.”

  It was impossible to tell whether Morrhyn had understood his words or merely read the emotions on his face, but the wakanisha reached out to grasp his wrist, and spoke in his odd, guttural language. Kahteney added something, and Arcole looked to Davyd for translation. But Davyd only shrugged and waved his hands in indication of ignorance. Rannach said something, and Colun clapped his hands and repeated it eagerly: “Tiswin!”

  Rannach climbed limber to his feet and disappeared awhile into the tent painted with horses’ heads. He emerged holding two containers of beaten metal, squatted smiling, and solemnly handed a flask to Arcole, the second to Colun.

  The Grannach tilted the pot and swallowed deep and long. Arcole drank slower, remembering the fierce liquor from his sojourn under the mountains. It sat both sweet and tart on his tongue, somewhat like gin, but pleasantly smoother, with an underlying fire that radiated out from his belly to fill his veins and imbue his whole body with a delightful warmth. Perhaps these folk were not so savage, could they produce such a drink. He lowered the flask and hesitated, not sure to whom protocol demand he pass it. Morrhyn nodded to Flysse, who took the container and sipped delicately before handing it on around the circle, favoring Davyd with a warning, maternal glance that was answered with a grin and a swallowing almost enthusiastic as the Grannachs’.

  The sun was descended below the western hills by now, the eastern sky become a slowly stretching panoply of blue velvet pricked out with stars and the slim crescent of a newborn moon. A warm wind skirled through the trees flanking the stream, rustling the leaves in a gentle susurration that softly echoed the murmuring of the water. A nightingale sang, and overhead a flight of crows winged roostward, calling noisily to one another. The scent of pine sap drifted on the breeze and a horse whickered softly, answered by its fellows. Arcole took the flask from Kanseah, who smiled shyly, and drank again. He felt the tiswin warming him, more than just his belly, but also his mind, so that his doubts began to drift away and he relaxed, smiling at these newfound companions.

  He chuckled as the flask came round again, and drank eagerly. The moon seemed brighter here, the stars more brilliant, the sky even wider than over Salvation. The night hummed with sounds he could barely recognize, like unfamiliar music, and the wind was aromatic with strange perfumes. He beamed at Davyd and said, “You brought us to a good place.”

  Davyd nodded and said, “Yes.” Arcole wondered why he nodded so slowly, and why his own head felt so heavy. Surely he’d not taken more than a swig or two from the flask?

  Then Flysse said, “This tiswin is strong, no? Perhaps we’ve drunk enough.”

  Davyd shook his head no faster than he’d nodded. Arcole turned his to stare solemnly at his wife. “Shall we go to bed then?” And wondered why she assumed that expression of fond disapproval.

  After a while, he was dimly aware of Morrhyn speaking with Rannach—great, good friends, the both; nor any less plump Yazte or diffident Kanseah, or stern Kahteney. And Colun was truly an ally, even was his squat and stumpy figure difficult to make out in the waning light, seeming to waver and shift like a boulder shining with moonlight and cloud-drifted shadow. He wondered why a ghost Davyd sat beside the fleshly reality.

  “I think,” he said with grave apology, taking care to articulate the words clearly for all they were curiously difficult to shape, “that I am become a trifle drunk.”

  Flysse said, “Yes,” and looked for help to Morrhyn.

  The wakanisha smiled and nodded, raising the flask he held and rolling his head, his eyes deliberately crossed. Flysse laughed and pantomimed sleep, folding her hands and resting her head against them. Morrhyn spoke to Rannach, who in turn spoke to Yazte, and both rose smiling to lift Arcole to his feet. Arcole felt both embarrassed and amused, leaning against the two Matawaye with a wide smile and eyes that refused to focus properly. They smelled comfortingly of well-worn buckskins and horse sweat, of the tiswin and more odors that he could not identify. Their arms were strong around him, and he hung his across their shoulders, aware he was drunk and knowing them good, true friends—the which he proclaimed, for all his tongue tripped on the words and they could not understand him. It seemed not to matter. Kanseah and Kahteney helped Davyd up, and Flysse followed as the two men were brought slack-footed to the unmarked tent.

  It was shadowy inside, scented sweet with leather and pine sap, and three thickly haired hides were spread around the confines, blankets of bright colors folded on top. The Matawaye lowered Arcole and Davyd onto the furs, and Morrhyn indicated to Flysse where a waterskin hung from the lodgepoles. Kahteney delivered their gear, setting the packs and muskets down at the center of the tent. He seemed nervous of the muskets he carried.

  Flysse said, “Thank you,” and the Matawaye smiled and gestured and left them alone.

  The flap covering the entrance was lowered and the tent grew instantly dark. Outside, Colun chuckled. Flysse spread a blanket over Davyd, who was already snoring softly, and hauled a hide to where Arcole lay. He sighed gustily as she lay down, and reached for her. She fended off his hands as she spread the two blankets across both their beds, and then held him, both still full-clothed.

  He rose up on one elbow and stroked her lips, her cheek. “Forgive me?” he asked. “I’m drunk, but I still love you.”

  Flysse said, “Yes, I know; and I you. Now best you sleep, eh?”

  Arcole nodded and groaned. And fell back, instantly asleep.

  3

  Welcome Friends


  “Strange folk,” Yazte murmured, and belched softly as he passed the flask to Kahteney.

  The Lakanti Dreamer smiled faintly and glanced at Morrhyn. “Are they as you dreamed them, brother?”

  Morrhyn shrugged. “Yes and no. As I’ve told you, only the young one was clear, for he’s the only one with the talent, and I saw the others only through his eyes.” He chuckled fondly. “He perceives the one named Arcole as a great warrior, and the woman as the most beautiful in all the world.”

  “She’s somewhat skinny for my taste,” Yazte offered, “but I suppose she’s pretty enough. As for the man …” He looked to Colun. “You know them better than any of us, my friend. Is he a great warrior?”

  Colun drew blunt fingers through his beard before he answered. “He fought Chakthi’s cursed Tachyn bravely enough. With those fire-spitting things they carry. We watched them from the cave,” he glanced at Morrhyn, “just as you told us. It was Davyd urged them climb, and Arcole who came last, as befits a warrior. He took an arrow—a nasty wound—but even then his thoughts were for the woman and the boy. Yes, I’d say he’s a warrior.”

  “And Davyd a Dreamer?” Kahteney asked.

  Morrhyn nodded solemnly. “I saw him like a torch burning through a foggy night. He’s surely the gift, but must learn its proper usage.”

  “He’s young yet,” Kahteney said. “He’s time to learn.”

  “Yes.” Morrhyn nodded again, his bright eyes clouding an instant. “And the Maker knows, but we’ve need of Dreamers, eh? You and I, brother, are the only wakanishas the People have now. I’ve not named my successor, and …”

  Rannach spoke for the first time. “There’s time aplenty for that naming. You sound almost as if it were a thing imperative. As if …” He shook his head, eyes hooding.

  Morrhyn chuckled, interpreting his expression. “The Maker’s not ready for me yet, Rannach. But even so, that time shall come and I’d not leave the clan unguided.”

  “You’d name this stranger your successor?” Yazte frowned at Morrhyn, turned questioning eyes on Kahteney. “A stripling boy, not even born of the People?”

  “Why not?” Morrhyn laughed. “We are all strangers here, no?”

  “And he’s the Maker’s gift,” Kahteney added. “And as my brother says—we’ve need of Dreamers.”

  Colun, blunt as ever, asked, “Why is it that you have no more Dreamers? By the Maker, I can remember when old Gahyth took Morrhyn for his pupil; and Chazde named Kahteney; and Bakka …”

  Morrhyn quelled the recitation of names by passing the Grannach the flask. “Things change,” he said. “Perhaps the People began to forget the old ways, and so the Maker denied us the talent. Or perhaps it was some doing of the Breakers. I know not; only that amongst all the People there is now only young Taza has the least sign of the gift.”

  “And he’s willful,” Kahteney said, eyes clouding as he frowned. “I’d not name him, save he calms.”

  “Taza’s an unbroken colt,” Yazte said. “All pride and vanity.”

  Kahteney nodded. “Nine times now he’s come to me, asking that I name him. No,” he corrected himself. “Demanding that I name him. It seems he cannot understand it is not like that.”

  “Will not,” Yazte said. “He dreams and therefore believes himself a Dreamer. He needs a lesson in humility. Ach!” He shook his head. “I’d almost ask that you accept him, that he not wear the warrior’s braids and I not get the task of disciplining him. He reminds me somewhat of Chakthi!”

  At further mention of that hated name Rannach’s face stiffened. His eyes grew bleak; like a hawk’s, Morrhyn thought, studying its kill. It was hard for the young akaman, knowing Chakthi had murdered his father; harder still for Rannach to grant Chakthi his life and send the Tachyn akaman into exile beyond the mountains with his lapdog wakanisha and those of his clan who remained loyal after so great a betrayal.

  Rannach drank before he spoke, as if he’d wash a sour taste from his mouth. Then: “What news of them?”

  The question was directed at Colun, who shrugged and said, “The Tachyn roam the foothills, but this summer went away. I think Chakthi perhaps took them off to fight.”

  “Fight who?” Yazte asked. “Are there folk past your mountains?”

  “There must be,” Rannach said, impatience hidden under a soft tone. “Else where did these strangers come from?”

  “Indeed,” Colun agreed. “Though none of my folk have seen them.”

  “Then how do you know?” Yazte was become a little slowed by the tiswin.

  Or age, Morrhyn thought, for the Maker knows we all grow older. How long have we been in this new land, two years? It seemed a lifetime and yet no time at all. Ket-Ta-Witko seemed both a dream and only yesterday; the Breakers both a distant memory and a daily threat. He was of an age with Yazte: they could not be so old.

  “The Tachyn,” Colun said with all the ponderous patience of the long-lived Grannach, “have spent themselves against the hills since first we took them east. We brought them through the high passes as was decreed at that first Matakwa, and delivered them to the land beyond the mountains. Then the golans sealed the passes, that none come back.” He chuckled hugely. “I remember Chakthi’s parting words: ‘I shall return one day and slay you all.’ Ach! I’d have slain him then, had young Rannach not set the duty of mercy on me. It should have been better, I think—to put my ax in his head, and Hadduth’s.”

  “There was enough blood shed in Ket-Ta-Witko,” Rannach said.

  Morrhyn clasped his arm, smiling approval. That moment—when he sensed the future of the People in this new land hung on Rannach’s decision—had been a proud moment in Morrhyn’s life. He had known then that Rannach had learned to judge and weigh and think before acting. Known that the wild young warrior who had slain Chakthi’s son, albeit in a fair fight, had matured, that he understood the nuances of the Ahsa-tye-Patiko, the Will that bound all living things into their place in the Maker’s great design. And Morrhyn had known then that he would make a fine akaman. Rannach did not smile back.

  “Whatever.” Colun took up his account again. “He looked for ways. Ach, but he set men to climbing the cliffs and dying when they fell. Sometimes that cur dog Hadduth found our secret openings, and then tried to unlock them. He failed, of course, and more Tachyn died in the attempt—when rocks fell on them, or the stone changed shape and there were no longer any holds.” He smiled with malicious innocence. “They gave up after a while, but always they patrolled the cliffs and the foothills. Like scavenging coyotes seeking an easy kill. Ach, it gives me great pleasure to contemplate Chakthi’s frustration. Almost, it’s better than killing him.”

  “We made a pledge,” Rannach said uneasily. “That we’d not bloody Ket-Ta-Thanne. Not break the Ahsa-tye-Patiko again; not kill a brother.”

  “Chakthi’s your brother?” Colun’s deep voice was carefully neutral. “When he took his followers away did he not abrogate those bonds? How can he and his followers be still of the People?”

  Rannach hesitated; Morrhyn waited on his reply.

  “The Tachyn were created by the Maker,” Rannach said slowly, the words emerging painful from his mouth. “They are Matawaye, no matter what Chakthi did, no matter what Hadduth did. No matter that they forget the Will, I promised them life.”

  “Chakthi promises you death,” the Grannach returned.

  “But to do that he must cross your mountains,” Rannach said, and smiled. “So why do you believe he fights?”

  “They went away,” Colun said, “all of them. For a while the foothills were empty. I took men down to look, but there were no Tachyn there. It was too early for the summer hunting, and I thought perhaps they’d given up. But then Morrhyn sent word we should watch for the strangers and the Tachyn came back—in smaller groups.” He shrugged. “Then these strangers came, and as best I can understand Davyd, they fled a battle. I may be wrong: it is only what I suspect.”

  He looked to Morrhyn, who took up the story: “I t
old you of my dreaming—that folk came from across a great water, such as I’ve never seen, on vast canoes with huge sails. I’ve dreamed of a strange place built all of wood, where they live all the time and never roam. They chop down trees and burn the grass so that they can seed strange plants. They are not like us.”

  Kanseah said, wary, “The Breakers?”

  “No”—Morrhyn shook his head—“not the Breakers. As best I understand Davyd’s dreams, and his words, these are folk come from a faraway land. I suspect that Chakthi resents their presence in what he considers his country, and that Colun’s right—he brings the Tachyn against the wooden place. I’ve seen Davyd’s dreams of fire and battle, and I think that these strangers have escaped this wooden place. Still, there’s much I need learn about them; much we all need learn, now we know we are not alone.”

  “These strangers can no more cross the Grannach’s mountains than Chakthi’s Tachyn,” Yazte said.

  “Likely not,” Morrhyn allowed. “But they are very different to us, and some, I think, own magic of a kind. So best we learn—in case.”

  “What do you say?” Yazte asked. “That you’d go seeking others?”

  “Perhaps not that.” Rannach shrugged. “But Morrhyn thinks these new-come folk are divided amongst themselves, in a way I cannot properly understand, and are there more like these three, I’d know of it.”

  He spread his hands in a gesture of incomprehension and Yazte turned to Morrhyn for explanation.

  “I think that some are lesser than others,” the wakanisha said. “This is a thing I’ve seen in Davyd’s dreams, but I cannot explain it properly. It is something to do with the marks they wear on their faces.”

  “The woman, Flysse, has such a mark on her shoulder,” Colun offered. Then scowled as Yazte’s brows rose speculatively. “Marjia saw it and told me.”

  “I thought that was decoration,” Rannach said.

  “Ach, strange decoration!” Colun snorted. “Those are such marks as hot iron makes. I’ve seen such marks on our smiths, when they’ve burned themselves.”