Tor grunted and stood up. “I will go with you to the river,” he said. “But we will have to walk.”
“We are all stiff, Tor, and we haven’t been knifed. We will walk.”
As it turned out, six of the Shumai went with Sark, in addition to Tor and Tristal. The six would cross with the old man and winter on the Isso, near one of the farmsteads. Blu and the rest would accompany Eolyn and Royal back to Pelbarigan. Eolyn remained under her furroll as the casual good-byes were said. She tried not to move. Someone shook her shoulder, and she turned and looked up. Tor was kneeling by her. “Good-bye, Eo,” he said.
“Your arm, Tor. It may become infected. Be careful of it. Keep it clean.”
“It will be all right, what there is of it. Don’t worry. Dailith and Blu will take care of you.” He stood and joined the others. She watched him, moving stiffly among his men and the Sentani, all in awe of him, friendly but deferential, as if he were a moon in a cloud of stars.
Tristal stood with them, head down, cleaning the last flecks of dried blood from the pivot of the locking clasp knife Stantu had given him. He had killed the third Peshtak on the hill with it. The others looked at him with a new respect as one of them to be proud of. Eolyn saw a residual trouble on his face. He scrubbed at every corner of the knife with dry leaves, now even trying to remove old stains from Stantu’s use of it on the plains and at Northwall, as if he hoped to restore it to fresh clean metal just from the forger’s shop, bright and smooth.
XIII
THE trip back to Pelbarigan was difficult for Eolyn. At least she was on a horse, but the persistent silence of the Shumai, and of Royal, who was suffering, wore on her.
The evening of the second day, she confronted Blu. “If you won’t talk, why don’t you leave us? I’m sure we can get back alone.”
“What is there to say? And we are going this way anyhow.”
“That isn’t a frank answer, Blu. I overestimated myself. I didn’t create the Peshtak. If you had encountered them without me, or us, maybe you would all have died.”
“True. It is the shock. We are used to fighting, to hard living. But to burn a whole valley at once, like snapping fingers, with all the people in it. I suppose we fear you.”
“Fear me? What of me? How do I feel with eight silent men, all armed, hating me, all with me for days on end?”
“We don’t hate you. We don’t understand. The whole world has been changing. We are in the middle of it.”
“You can always go out onto those empty plains and be the way you always were.”
“No. Not now. Something has broken. I am going to Pelbarigan.”
“What for? To marry Ruthan?”
Blu stood still, startled. “I will ask. How did you know?”
“Tor said you would. He said—he said he saw you would by watching your dog, Dusk.”
Blu considered that. Behind him, Rawg began to laugh. Blu turned on him. “No, Blu,” said Rawg, holding up his hands. “I saw it, too. On the ship. But Tor had his back turned. He must have listened to Dusk’s claws clicking when he walked around you.”
Blu was embarrassed. But he turned back to Eolyn. “Well? What do you think? What will she say?”
“I? I don’t know. I have none of your gifts. It would seem a logical choice, so long as you don’t drag her around the wilderness.”
“I won’t. I won’t, though we may take some trips. I hope.”
When they arrived at Pelbarigan, they found that Tor had been there and gone again, upriver. He and Tristal were to visit a logging site, perhaps to stay awhile. He said he wanted to strengthen his left arm with heavy work.
Surprisingly enough, soon after the return of Eolyn and Royal, the Protector called a council. “This will be rather short,” she said. “I have two announcements to make. The first is that I made an agreement with the northern quadrant before we undertook to breach the dome. I said that if it did not turn out well, I would resign. I have considered it, and decided that it has indeed not turned out well enough. My fault was in not prevailing on Eolyn’s party not to leave. Therefore I am now resigning and ask you to hold an election tomorrow at this time.” A murmur rose through the room, and a number of people stood to protest. The Protector stood up to leave.
“Wait, Protector,” one of her guardsmen said. “You did not make your other announcement.”
“Oh, yes,” the Jestana said, turning. She raised her hands, and the guardsmen thumped for silence. “The other thing. Tomorrow at the first quarter after high sun, there will be three weddings in the chapel. Only one will be a Pelbar-type wedding, though our ministers will conduct them all. I hope you approve. The first will be of the guardsman, Dailith, with Eolyn. The second, of Blu, the Shumai, to Ruthan.” Another murmur arose. “The third—the third,” said the Protector in a raised voice, “will be mine. Thornton and I will marry. He has asked me and I have accepted, in what he assures me is the ancient manner. We will move to Northwall so I can be with my son. We will be sure you receive all the information about the ancient world he will generate.” She turned and departed by the door behind the Protector’s chair. The whole council was stunned and stood silent for a time. Then the murmur rose again as they left.
As the Protector had surmised, the council and city did not think she had misjudged the matter of Eolyn’s departure. The chief loss was to Eolyn’s own party, and to the Peshtak. The Shumai were not from Pelbarigan, and the loss of Dard and Cruw was never sharply felt. They were also relieved that the pulse weapons had been destroyed. The Shumai had thrown each piece separately into the river, ayas apart, except for the power pack, which Blu kept.
Their sympathy in this matter offset the shock of her marrying Cohen-Davies. But as they thought that over, they knew that she had been the Protector a very long time, had served faithfully, and had wanted to be free of the position for a while, though it had never seemed opportune. As the northern quadrant came to feel, they had been outflanked. Feelings went against them. No chance of electing a conservative Protector seemed possible. When the time came to vote, Sagan, the former Eastcounsel, Stel’s mother, was elected. It was a bitter defeat for the northern quadrant, and again they talked of withdrawing to Threerivers. But even they saw the new promise of a Pelbar Academy, and a hope of the city’s regaining the prominence that the rapid growth of Northwall had taken from them.
At the weddings the chapel was crowded almost to overflowing. Dailith and Eolyn were married in traditional Pelbar style. This was distinguished chiefly by the bridegroom’s complete self-surrender to his bride, as old Pelbar custom had it. Dailith accepted this as a matter of upbringing. Both of the other weddings came from Cohen-Davies’ memory of taped weddings from ancient times. As he and the Jestana kissed, a spontaneous cheer rose from the assembly, merging with the beginning of the concluding hymn from the choir. Proceeding slowly down the side aisle of the chapel, the old newlyweds had the nearly unified sympathy of the entire community, to which Cohen-Davies had endeared himself by his perpetual stories.
Soon after, a Tantal ship arrived for the Jestana and her goods, which were considerable. It flew a black flag. Everyone knew immediately from this that Stantu had died, and the crowd was hushed as the ship drew up to the bank wharf and Jestak’s family stepped off.
Near the shore, where Stel was supervising the erection of an ice ramp, one of the workers stopped and looked. “Bursting bees’ nests and flowering cows, will you look at that!”
Ahroe, who was near, whirled to reprimand his language. Garet was near. Then she followed his gaze to Jestak’s daughter, Fahna, walking with her family to the main city entrance. “You,” she said. “Glan. You have no business . . .” The four men turned to her, all grinning, including her own husband. “Stel, I can’t believe it.”
“I can’t believe it either, Ahroe.” The men laughed.
“How can anybody—” she began. Then she looked, too. “Well, what can I say? Forget it. Forget it.” She turned away.
Fahna wa
lked in her freshness through the early-winter chill, as if shedding flowers. She was looking around, though only she knew it was for Tristal. He wasn’t there. A slight flush heightened her beauty. The gate guard never raised a hand in salute, but Jestak merely rolled his eyes at Tia and continued inside to find his mother. She was a private citizen now, free from the politics that had filled her life, first as a family head, then as a counselor, finally during her years as Protector. Oet would not awaken her in the night anymore to tell her of some crisis. She would never have to sit up and immediately decide the correct thing, with a city waiting to second-guess her. Nor would she be in a dull retirement. She would direct the flow of information from her new husband, guarding, as she thought, his privacy and hers in the process. She was sorry her old friend and sometime adversary, Sima Pall, would not be in Northwall to greet her. But life would still be full and worthwhile. She looked forward to riding up the river on the big ship, even with the chill from the north bringing stray snowflakes already.
Stel visited Tor and Tristal at the logging camp late in Lastmonth, paddling upriver alone in an arrowboat. He walked into the camp blowing a song on his flute, roughly, with his mittens on. The two stooped through the low door of a small log hut to meet him. It was gray and snowing, almost the shortest day of the year. Both seemed contented. Stel was surprised at how Tristal had shot up. He stood only a finger’s breadth shorter than Tor, though still slender.
“Ho, Stel,” Tor said. “What is it? Is there a war to fight?”
“No. Hello to both of you. The others told me you would be over here. I brought you some things—from Ahroe, mostly, and from Ruthan and Eolyn.” Ahroe had sent honey candy and rabbit-skin socks, with the fur inside. She included a roll of Aven, copied out for Tor, in book form, and a book of riddles for Tristal. Ruthan sent new fish hooks, some seed cakes, and small bags of herb seasonings. Eolyn sent her first mathematics pamphlet, designed for teaching, along with a slide rule, made as the ancients had before electronic mathematics. She also included a small stoneware jar of sour-apple jelly. Celeste had made the pot in the Pelbar ceramics shop. It was neat and exact, with a top sealed on with beeswax.
Stel stayed a day, meeting the mixed crew of nine Shumai, an old Sentani couple who cooked and did camp chores, and four Pelbar, who worked and represented Pelbarigan, where the logs would go. The Sentani had a pellute, and much of the evening was taken up in accompanied singing.
The second morning Tor stood in the wet snow as Stel pushed his arrowboat out into the gray river. Stel turned and waved when he had glided out into the current, and Tor merely jerked his head in reply. What was the axeman thinking? Stel saw no motivation in him, no direction. He seemed to be waiting.
The Pelbar artisan paddled south near the east bank, where the channel ran, carrying him with an unobtrusive swiftness. Sun struck the sheet of ice that lay thin over most of the river. Stel squinted against it. He would be with Ahroe by afternoon. Her pregnancy was very evident now, and, like some other women, she was made radiant by it. She had been given officer’s duties in the guard until parturition, but Stel saw it as a permanent step upward. He was concerned. He always liked a little freedom of action, hoped for another trip. She would be in the council, and in a difficult time, with change and new problems.
As Stel watched a flight of scaup sweeping overhead on their way to feed, a rush and jar made him turn his head. He looked through the dazzle of light at a spear protruding from the arrowboat ahead of him. Water was rolling up around the shaft. Instantly kneeling, leaning over, he stuffed a skin into the hole and turned toward shore. A group of Shumai stood there, with an older axeman, laughing and jeering. They looked rough, dressed all in skins and furs. Stel saw no bows.
Deciding without thought, he paddled right toward the bank. He knew they expected him to turn away, but he rode within easy spear range. He would never get away.
“What on Sertine’s green plains is wrong with you?” Stel said, feigning anger. “That water is cold. I do my swimming in the summer.” He imitated Shumai dialect, from years of hearing Hagen daily. They looked nonplussed, but some mocked him. He drew the boat up on the bank in the face of spearpoints, but turned his back on them, stooped, took the spear out of the boat, and held it out, saying, “Whose is this?” A man took it.
Stel swept his eyes across the men, who had fallen silent. “You must be looking for Tor. He is over an ayas upstream, on this bank. He is logging for the winter. I’ve just come from there. Here, perhaps he will hear a horn yet.” Stel took his horn, but felt it jerked from his hands. “All right,” he said. “You call.” He felt his legs kicked from under him. Sitting in the snow, he said, “Where have you been? We have been at peace for years. What’s the matter with you?”
“Pelbar fish vulture. What peace?”
Stel looked up. “Good Aven, man. After the fight at Northwall. The whole Heart River is at peace.”
“Peace nonsense. What have you done to the Shumai? We crossed the whole upper plains and never saw a trace of a running band.”
“Then Tor was right.”
“Tor, who? Right about what? Talk fast now, before we give you a ride on some speartips.”
“Tor is an axeman who lost an arm last summer getting me out of the dome. His running band has broken up. All the bands are. They are settling along the Isso and at Northwall. They are farming, logging, herding. Don’t fool with me. Surely you know this.”
“Lies, man.”
By the boat, another man called, “Ho, Ilder, he’s got Shumai noggins and bowls in this bag.” The men turned, all but one walking over. Stel saw the man turn. He thought he heard a dog. Raran. He knocked the man down and ran, thinking, I am a fool, dodging behind trees and brush as the Shumai yell went up. They would try to run him down, Stel thought. They would, too, he knew, but not easily. They were all older men, older than he, though rangy. One nearly had him. Yes, he heard Raran nearby now. The man grabbed his collar. Stel twisted free and ran on, as Raran flashed past and hit the man in the chest, carrying him down.
Stel never turned, but yelled, “Raran, come on, girl,” thinking, If she runs with me, they will spear me. He glanced over his shoulder. Raran wasn’t coming. She stood over the man she had knocked down. All the hair on her back stood up in a ridge, and her head was at the man’s throat, teeth bared. Stel stopped and turned. He couldn’t abandon the dog.
“Call your dog off, fish guts,” the axeman yelled. “We will give you a quarter sunwidth head start.”
“She’s Tristal’s dog. If you want your man alive, blow the horn for Tor.”
“No need if that is him coming.”
Stel flashed a look backward. It was Tor, with Tristal and four other men. Now it was a matter of waiting. Tor stopped at Stel, who said, “They speared my boat. They don’t even know there is peace.” Tor walked forward at the raised spears, left hand up.
“Tor Vison of Broadbend, originally,” he said. “What’s the matter. Stel attack you?”
The axeman stepped forward. “Disdan. We are come from the ice country.”
“Ice country? No matter. Tristal, call Raran. You’d better come with us. Wherever you’ve been, you seem not to know we are at peace. We have a stew cooking. Send somebody to get Stel’s boat. I suppose he will have to fix it.” Tor turned his back on the Shumai and walked upriver, joining the waiting loggers, Stel following. Stel could hear the snow sloughing behind him as the Shumai followed. Raran walked beside him.
They did bring the boat, with everything repacked in it, piled also with their own backsacks, dragging it on the snow. They were surprised to find Sentani and Pelbar with the Shumai. Tor sat them down and fed them, talking all day, while Stel cut out the broken slats of the boat and shaved down new ones to fit, gluing it all fast, letting it dry, pouring on melted beeswax.
Disdan had not known about the peace. He and his men had been gone from the country for fifteen years, far to the north and west. They told Tor of a country full of flat-h
orned deer, of mountains of ice, with narrow valleys between, of herd animals and wolves, and great white beasts. Ilder’s coat, thick and large, was made from a part of one skin.
“It sounds like what the Commuters call bears,” Stel called over. “I met one in the western mountains.”
“No mistake,” said Tor. “Stel has been there, and beyond. It is a changed world. Now, tell me more about this country of ice.”
Stel saw Tor’s eyes light up. Disdan’s men talked into evening about the area. No people lived in it anywhere. On the west, a range of great mountains, always snow-covered, blocked the way. They had never traversed the mountains. They had lived in careless abandon, free from anxieties, they said. Tor knew they were holding something back.
Finally it came out after sunset, when they were again eating stew. “The truth is,” said Disdan, “that our axeman was a man named Uchman.”
“Uchman? The one who fired the prairie upwind from the Kan River Camp?”
“That one. He fled, and we went with him. He died this spring. We decided to come home.”
“He killed a lot of people,” Tor said.
They fell into silence. “He always claimed,” Disdan said, “that he lit the fire to drive a herd of black cattle, but when it came out from the lee of the hills, the wind took it.”
“Well, that was a long time ago. There have been other fires.” Tor looked at Tristal. “We had one this fall that no one would believe. Tell me about these mountains. You say no one has crossed them?”
When Stel went to bed they were still talking. In the morning, when he left, two of the men who nearly killed him the previous day dragged his boat to the river across the snow. This time he paddled well out on the water, knowing it was foolish, but feeling better. He was glad to hear the Rive Tower horn at dusk announcing his coming.
Ahroe and Garet were down at the bank awaiting him. “What happened?” Ahroe asked. “You’re late. We waited last night well into the fourth quadrant.”
The Dome in the Forest Page 24