by Angus Wells
Tekah nodded, the fire’s light dancing over his features, settling planes of shadow across his cheeks, beneath his troubled eyes. “And his hair? Like Morrhyn’s …”
Rannach nodded in turn. “Yes; after he came down from the mountain.”
“There’s no mountain here.” Tekah stared into the flames.
“Even so, the Maker has surely touched him.” Rannach shrugged. “Morrhyn can likely explain it when we get him back.”
“When shall that be,” Tekah asked, “with such wounds?”
Rannach shrugged again. “Surely not soon, save the Maker heals him faster than mortal man.”
Tekah said, “He did Morrhyn,” and Rannach ducked his head in solemn agreement.
Fire played over his skin even as ice water filled his veins. It seemed that flames danced under his shuttered eyelids, and when he forced them open there was the same intricacy of light and shadow, transfiguring the faces that leant toward him and spilled warm broth between his lips, so that he could not discern between Arcole and Rannach and Tekah, not even when they spoke, for their voices seemed to come from far away, echoing down great distances as if they spoke from out of some land other than the territory he inhabited. He wondered if this was a last temptation: that he was shown the chance of survival, distant, that he know fully what he lost.
And then, without sense of time or place, his eyes opened clear and he saw that he lay within the confines of his rebuilt sweat lodge, and that a fire burned in the makeshift hearth and Rannach sat beside him, chin on chest, dozing.
He said “Rannach?” and the Commacht akaman started upright and was instantly alert, bringing a clay mug filled with cool stream water to Davyd’s lips.
Davyd drank deep and looked around, seeing sunlight filtering past the edges of the lodgeflap. He said, “I’d go outside.”
Rannach frowned. “You’re weak yet.”
“I’d go outside,” he repeated. “I want the sunshine on my face. And then I must go home to speak with Morrhyn of my dreams.”
He did not wait on Rannach’s answer, but rather pushed up to a sitting position and thrust the blankets that covered him aside, so that Rannach had no choice save to support him and help him stumble out from the lodge.
The light was very bright after the shadowy interior, and he narrowed his eyes against the glare that dizzied him and set his head to spinning. Nor could he deny his weakness as his legs faltered, and he must lean on the strength of Rannach’s arm lest he pitch over. He saw Arcole and Tekah rise from where they sat beside a fire and come toward him with amazement on their faces, joy in their eyes, and he was surprised that the smell of the fish baking over the flames made him hungry.
They brought him to the fire like an old man—an ancient tottery with years, or a weakling babe, one of the Defenseless Ones—and set him gently down. Tekah laid a blanket about his shoulders, and Rannach produced a knife and set to flaking a fish as Arcole held him upright.
“I’m stronger,” he said, “and I must go home.”
They exchanged glances. Rannach said, “Yes; soon.”
He said, “I must speak with Morrhyn,” and turned his head to study them each in turn. “There were dreams.”
“Listen, Davyd.” Arcole still held him and he thought that he might not be able to remain upright save for that arm about his shoulders. “You’ve taken sore wounds. You need to rest.”
“I must go home,” he repeated. “I must speak with Morrhyn.”
Arcole said, “You’d not last a day horseback. God, boy! Those wounds would split and you’d bleed to death, or …”
He shook his head in frustration as Davyd raised a weakly hand, motioning him to silence. “I dreamed, Arcole. Do you not understand that?” He looked to Rannach and Tekah. “Morrhyn was right—I’ve the talent; and I’ve dreamed! Now, must you bring me back on a travois, then so be it. But I must go home!”
Arcole began to speak, to argue, but Rannach set a hand on his arm, staring firm at Davyd. “Morrhyn survived because the Maker kindled his life,” he said. “So that he might bring back word of the Breakers and offer the People salvation. Do you claim the same?”
Davyd hesitated. Then: “I don’t know; I am not Morrhyn, but …” He nodded slowly, conviction growing. “Perhaps; and be it so, then the Maker shall keep me alive, no? And do I die, then …” He shrugged.
Rannach looked at Arcole. “I say we build a travois and take him home.”
Tekah nodded. “And I.”
Arcole frowned, sighed, then said, “Tomorrow. Let him, for God’s sake, have this day at least to regain his strength.”
Rannach turned to Davyd, his dark eyes framing a question that for a moment Davyd could not understand. Then he realized the akaman waited on his decision as he might have waited on Morrhyn’s—which was startling. He said, “Tomorrow, yes.”
They came back to the valley in slow procession, Davyd blanket-swathed on the travois, the fever still on him so that the journey was a thing of jigsawed patterns, of passing in and out of consciousness until familiar voices rang loud all about and familiar faces stared down at him. He recognized Flysse and Arrhyna, Lhyn; then Morrhyn.
Who said, “Quick, bring him to my lodge.”
Davyd said, “I’ve much to tell you.”
And Morrhyn nodded as if he understood it all, and said, “Yes. But first, those wounds must be dressed.”
“I dreamed,” Davyd said.
And Morrhyn answered, “I know; and in a while you shall tell me.”
19
Accusations
Taza experienced a moment of utter panic as he recognized what the People shouted. Mostly it was only Davyd’s name, but in amongst the joyful din were such snatches as told him the outlander had survived and was brought home, which he had not believed possible. He wormed through the throng, not close, but near enough that he might catch a glimpse of Davyd’s face and marvel at the snow-white hair, and feel the panic mount fresh heights.
The Maker knew but he’d been careful. Davyd’s gear he’d scattered through the wood and beyond, trusting that were it ever found the scattering be assumed the work of the wolverine. The buckskin horse he’d led away on a wide circle a full three days before “finding” it and sending the bulk of the search parties off to the north and west, opposite to the wood’s direction. He had been confident the raw meat and bloodspoor he’d trailed to Davyd’s sweat lodge would bring the wolverine to his rival—nor any less that the beast would kill Davyd.
But now Tekah brandished the skin like a battle trophy and the upstart outlander was back in camp, alive, and Taza could not help but wonder how long it might be before the print was fitted to the hoof and he have questions to answer that must surely condemn him. He wondered if it were not best he find his horse and ride away now, save to where? Were he blamed, then surely the People would come looking for him, find him and bring him back to face judgment. He did not relish facing the circle of the Council, but … He looked again at Davyd’s face, the wounds, and made a sudden decision: he’d bluff it out.
He eased back, standing amongst the throng, one small figure in a multitude, and watched as Davyd was taken to Morrhyn’s lodge.
Lhyn was foremost amongst those surrounding Davyd. Rannach and Tekah carried the travois, and Arcole walked beside. Flysse took station on the farther side, clutching Davyd’s hand and marveling at his gaunt features, the changed color of his hair. She spoke his name, softly, as might a mother murmur the name of a hurt child.
And he smiled at her and said, “Flysse? Don’t worry, I can’t die now. At least …” He coughed a laugh that clearly pained him. “… not yet.”
Over his shoulder, Morrhyn said, “He’ll live. Were he to die, I’d have dreamed it. But even so …” He raised his voice, addressing himself to Arrhyna and Lhyn, who came concerned with Flysse. “Hot water, eh? And clean cloth; needles and thread.”
The two Commacht women strode briskly away and Flysse accompanied the travois to Morrhyn�
��s lodge, where the wakanisha ordered it be set down and Davyd carried inside.
There was insufficient space for all who’d enter and Morrhyn asked that Rannach and Tekah stand sentry outside, hold back the anxious crowd, while only Flysse and Arcole accompany the wounded man into the rawhide shelter. Arrhyna was already there, busy about the fire, a pot set to boiling, her dark eyes flashing anxiously from Davyd’s face to Morrhyn’s. Then Lhyn came back with needles and gut thread, calm in the face of catastrophe: long used to binding wounds.
Hers were the hands that plied the needles, delicate as they were firm, stitching the ugly gaps the wolverine had imparted even as Morrhyn fed Davyd some palliative that lent his eyes a dreamy look and left him sighing as the bone pierced his skin.
“He’ll sleep now.” Morrhyn set compresses of herbs over Lhyn’s handiwork, fixing them in place with lengths of cut cloth. “He’ll feel no pain. Save …” He looked at the young man’s face and grimaced. “… perhaps when he wakes and sees himself.”
Arcole said, “He’ll be no pretty sight,” his voice grim, “and I’d know who stranded him there.”
“Come tell me.” Morrhyn gestured that they quit the lodge, pausing to glance at the waiting women. “Shall you stay with him? One, perhaps?”
Lhyn ducked her head. “I’ll see to it.”
Morrhyn smiled at her, and Arcole saw flash between them a lifetime of possibilities now burned down like the ashes of an old fire to friendly embers. He felt Flysse’s hand in his and clutched it tight. God, but it was as if his own son were wounded: he had not properly realized until now how much he cared for Davyd.
Outside the lodge the People waited in the afternoon sunlight, silent as Morrhyn emerged. The wakanisha raised his hands and said loud, “He’ll live. He sleeps now, but he’ll live and there is no more you can do save thank the Maker for his survival.”
There came from the crowd a murmur of gratitude, of relief, and it began to drift away.
Taza went with it, cursing the news even as he parodied a smile and his mind raced. Davyd could not have named him, nor Morrhyn dreamed his guilt, else he’d surely be taken. Why not? More, how not? His smile grew more genuine as he thought on the possibility that his deeds were somehow concealed, as if some power protected him. Yes, he decided, he would bluff it out. Bluff it out and win.
“There were tracks,” Tekah said, “another camp. Who built that, watched Davyd.”
Rannach glanced at Morrhyn, anticipating the wakanisha speak, but Morrhyn only nodded and held his own council, so that Rannach felt impelled to say, “We cannot be sure it was Taza.”
Yazte said, “He was gone from camp. By all accounts, for all the time Davyd was missing.”
“And he brought Davyd’s horse back,” Tekah said. “The horse would not have strayed far from the wood.”
“Save it scented the wolverine,” Rannach said, “and was panicked.”
“Then it would surely have run for home,” Tekah said. “Not gone away to the northwest.”
Rannach nodded, his face thoughtful. He looked to Morrhyn, who in turn looked to Kahteney.
“What do you think, brother?”
The Lakanti Dreamer shrugged, his eyes troubled. “I wonder what to think. I think that we should have dreamed of this—foreseen the danger But we did not! And is Davyd all you believe him to be, then surely we should have dreamed warning.”
Morrhyn said, “Perhaps,” and stared into the fire.
The rest—Rannach and Tekah, Yazte and Kahteney, Arcole—waited on him, on his response. He was, no matter his protestations, the Prophet, and they hesitated to foreguess him.
There was a long silence before he spoke again, and when he did his words were somber: “What you say, brother, is right—we should have dreamed the danger.”
It was a warm night—the climate here in Ket-Ta-Thanne kinder than the lost homeland, the Moon of the Turning Year delivering soft promise—save it seemed a wintry gust blew over them all. And when Kahteney spoke it was as if the wind grew colder still.
“But we did not, and Davyd might have died. How can that be?”
Morrhyn sighed. Why was it always him to whom they looked for answers? He was only the Maker’s tool, not some oracle. He knew only so much as the Maker allowed him, and in this matter, he knew nothing: he could understand it no better than Kahteney But they looked to him and imposed on him a duty he could not refuse, and so he said, “Perhaps our dreams were clouded.”
He had sooner not said that, not least for the widening of the eyes studying his face, the trepidation there. He had sooner given some easy answer, but he could not: only speak the truth that had gnawed at his mind since first Davyd was too long away.
Kahteney said “The Breakers?” in a voice that barely succeeded in rising above the fire’s crackling.
Morrhyn shrugged and told the truth: “I’ve not dreamed of them; but …”
“Here?” Kahteney’s voice was urgent. “Surely not. How might they find us here?”
Morrhyn saw Rannach’s eyes dart wide, his hand lock instinctively around the hilt of his knife. Yazte made a sign of warding; Tekah whistled between his teeth and stared at the night as if he expected those creatures to come howling out of the shadows.
Morrhyn said, “The Maker willing, they’ll not; cannot.”
Kahteney said, slowly, “But you wonder?”
Morrhyn shrugged again. “Our dreams were clouded, no?”
Kahteney nodded; none others spoke.
“I do not say this is the Breakers’ doing,” Morrhyn said. “Only that we failed to dream of Davyd’s danger. Which is not a thing I can properly understand.”
Tekah said, “Taza!” And then lowered his angry face, abashed to have spoken out of turn.
Kahteney nodded slowly, carefully, looking the while through sidelong eyes at Morrhyn. “It might well be. Surely he’s somewhat of the gift; save …”
“As we’ve agreed,” Yazte declared loudly, “Taza’s the gift, but not the sight of it. Could he cloud your dreaming?”
Morrhyn said, “Likely not; save he was aided.”
“Maker!” Yazte’s voice was suddenly no longer fueled with tiswin, but only solemn. “What do you say, Prophet?”
They waited on him in uneasy silence. All around, the great camp went about its nocturnal business; fires painted patterns of shadow and light over the massed lodges; cook-fires scented the air; children called to one another, and dogs barked, horses whickered. Folk came to inquire after Davyd, answered by Lhyn or Arrhyna or Flysse, who waited tenderly patient on the wounded man. Those who saw the faces of the akamans and wakanishas assumed they discussed Davyd’s condition and politely avoided that solemn circle. It seemed to Morrhyn that they sat within a vortex of cold, as if some great battle approached.
Then Morrhyn said, “I suspect this is a thing of importance, and we should not discuss it alone. Rannach …?”
The Commacht akaman nodded. “Yes. Kanseah should be here; and Dohnse, I think.” He looked to Tekah. “Do you ask them attend?”
The young Commacht sprang to his feet and was gone. Silence fell, and Morrhyn wondered what might be unleashed here. He stared into the flames, uneasiness growing.
Then Tekah came with Kanseah and Dohnse, the Naiche and the Tachyn somber as their escort, their faces grave as they took places about the fire.
“Welcome,” Rannach said, and grinned dourly, “though I think what you’ll hear might not be so welcome.”
Dohnse, the older of the two, shrugged and took the cup Arrhyna offered him. Kanseah smiled nervously, his eyes downcast.
Rannach said, “We deemed it best you hear all this, that you speak on behalf of your clans.”
Kanseah nodded. Dohnse said, “My clan is the Commacht.”
“Even so,” Morrhyn said, his voice gentle, as if he’d avoid the risk of hurt or insult, “you were once Tachyn, and they may have something to do with this.”
“The Tachyn are no longer.” Dohnse made
a dismissive, chopping gesture. “Those people who went across the mountains with Chakthi are Tachyn. There are no Tachyn in Ket-Ta-Thanne.”
His voice was flat as a knife’s blade and no less edged. He faced Morrhyn as he spoke, and his eyes held steady on the wakanisha’s. In them Morrhyn saw pain, old suffering held in careful check.
He smiled and reached out to touch Dohnse’s wrist. “You are Commacht, brother, and the clan honored by that choice. But even so, best you hear this.”
Dohnse nodded and Morrhyn turned to Rannach, motioning that the akaman speak.
Rannach outlined what they had already discussed, Morrhyn and Kahteney adding their pieces. Then Rannach asked that each present speak his mind.
Yazte was the first. He said, “I do not understand this clouding of your dreams, but the rest seems obvious to me—Taza followed Davyd and stole the horse, wrecked the camp.”
“We cannot know that,” Kahteney said. “Not for sure.”
“We can question him,” Yazte said.
“Perhaps that might decide the one thing,” Morrhyn said. “But the other? This obfuscation frightens me.”
Morrhyn saw Kanseah glance up at that, the Naiche’s face stark-planed, as if some supporting rock were snatched from under him. But he said nothing, only waited on the others.
Rannach said, “Did Taza look to slay Davyd, then he must answer for that crime; but I am not a Dreamer and I cannot speak on the other matter.”
Morrhyn nodded. “Perhaps it were best we leave that aside for now. When Davyd’s recovered, Kahteney and I shall speak with him. Do we, all three, dream together, then perhaps we can find an answer.”
“And Taza?” Rannach asked. “Until we hear Davyd’s side, can we properly accuse Taza?”
Past the circle of the fire’s light, where close-packed lodges spread darkness over the ground, Taza stroked the neck of the yellow dog that lay beside him in the shadows. It was easy to eavesdrop on folk who assumed customary privacy; they did not anticipate anyone would intrude so. That was the way of the People: to live close but grant personal freedom through application of discretion. Because, he thought—not stopping to wonder if that voice was his or some other’s—they are fools.