by Unknown
‘I need more than owl,’ growled Arkendrin. And I need it now. With each passing day Palansa’s belly swelled with the thing that would supplant him, and the waverers on the Ground swayed more in her filthy direction. The Sky Chiefs had granted him the creature’s name earlier – Kiraon – and he knew its meaning. But he was no closer to finding the cursed creature.
‘Find out where the Kiraon-owl is,’ ordered Arkendrin.
Irason leaned forward once more, his belly heaving as the smell of blood filled his nostrils. The day was hot and he’d had a long wait under the trees for Arkendrin to bring the treeman, but Arkendrin had offered him no water and he daren’t ask for any. He wobbled, almost tipping onto the blood-soaked treeman, and Orthaken caught his arm, steadying him.
Irason dredged around desperately for more words from the north. ‘Is Kiraon-owl where?’ he said carefully.
The treeman’s eyes were wild and unfocused and Irason doubted the treeman heard him.
‘Where is Kiraon-owl?’ he tried again, wondering if a different word order would help.
Urpalin raised his dagger again and blood dripped onto Irason’s sleeve. Irason had to clench his teeth to stop their rattle. The treeman cried and screamed, and there was a new word in the sobbing babble.
‘Warens,’ said Irason tentatively. The word was strange to him. ‘Warens,’ he repeated, looking at Arkendrin.
Arkendrin’s expression of frustration deepened and Irason shrank back.
‘What is this cursed warens?’ demanded Arkendrin, his hand going to his flatsword.
Irason wiped his sweaty brow and turned back to the treeman. ‘Warens where place kiraon-owl is?’
The treeman was panting now, his sobs reduced to harsh whimpers, and Irason wondered if he were dying. The treeman’s shirt was sodden and rivulets of blood pooled on either side of him. Irason glanced at Ermashin. Ermashin’s face was blank but Arkendrin’s face was like thunder now, his sword half drawn.
‘What is warens?’ bawled Arkendrin.
Irason cringed and Urpalin’s lips drew back. He brought the knife down again and blood spurted from the treeman’s neck, showering Irason. The treeman gurgled a single word then convulsed.
‘Hole,’ Irason managed to croak before his belly emptied itself onto the grass. Orthaken held him until his retching quieted, and he became aware that the treeman was quiet too. Wiping his mouth, he looked up in time to see Arkendrin’s fist come down into Urpalin’s face, sending him sprawling. Then, cursing viciously, Arkendrin strode about, trampling the undergrowth and slashing at the trees.
It was a long time before Arkendrin felt the storm of fury drain from his veins. Three stinking days following their slashes into the trees; three more stumbling about looking for a stray treeman; three dragging him back to the forest’s edge, all wasted because that fool Urpalin didn’t know the difference between pain and death. The first gave information, the second nothing! All they had for their trouble was that the creature lived in a hole. A hole! Surely Irason was mistaken? Arkendrin glared at the old man crouched next to his blood-tie Orthaken and he seemed to shrivel even further.
Arkendrin could afford to delay no longer in this filthy tangle! Thrusting his sword into his belt, he heaved on his pack, and without a backward glance, strode off through the trees.
Never had the forest smelt so wonderful or looked so beautiful, thought Kira, drawing the air deep into her lungs. Everything was scent-drenched and sun-dappled, with flutterwings spiralling in glittering columns and flowerthieves chattering high in the sever trees. This was where she needed to be, not in the Warens! There was nothing in the Warens except darkness and dankness; this was where she wanted to live, even if it meant being hunted down and dying beneath the trees!
But she was no longer just a Healer, free to wander at will; she was the Leader, off to her first Clancouncil, off to rule over a group of old men, half of whom didn’t want her as Leader.
Her belly lurched uncomfortably and she dried her palms on her sagging leggings, watching the Protectors slipping through the trees around her. The tunic was too big too, the sleeves reaching to her fingertips, but beautifully embroidered with alwaysgreen leaves – the mark of Kashclan. Miken had told her that Tenerini was busy with her needle making her new clothes, but that they weren’t yet ready, so she’d sent her own for Kira to wear to her first council. Miken’s pride in Kashclan again providing the Tremen Leader was obvious, but Kira wondered whether his pride would soon turn to shame.
Her belly increased its churn and she broke off a stem of sweetchew, concentrating on peeling back the horny bark. It was always difficult to start, but once a corner was lifted, it usually came away cleanly. The bark slipped off and she popped the sweetchew into her mouth. Tresen loved it: as sweet as honey, he always said; sweeter than honey, Kandor had always retorted. She stumbled and a nearby Protector caught her arm, steadying her.
‘Please take care, Leader Feailner Kiraon.’
‘I . . . I will, thank you. And I am just Leader Kiraon.’ The Protector was an older man Kira didn’t recognise, and he was now clearly puzzled.
‘Your pardon, Leader Kiraon. It’s many seasons since we’ve had the honour of a woman Leader, and Commander Kest himself instructed us on the appropriate way to address you.’
Kest obviously still wanted her ability to take pain recognised, despite his pledge to keep the knowing to himself. Kira snapped off some more sweetchew, taking her irritation out on the bark. He probably meant well, she acknowledged grudgingly, and the last thing she should do was to undermine his authority.
‘Commander Kest’s quite correct,’ she said carefully, ‘but I don’t think it’s necessary to remind people I’m a woman by including feailner in my title.’
The Protector gave a small bow. ‘As you wish, Leader Kiraon.’
They walked on, the only sound the pad of their footsteps and the calls of tippets jousting in the treetops. The Protector nearest wasn’t the only one of Kira’s escort she didn’t recognise, in fact there were only a couple of faces of the twenty or so men who were familiar. Most of them were older than the Protectors who’d brought her back from the nutting expedition and older than those who dwelt in the Warens. These men were broad-shouldered and well-muscled, their faces stern and uncompromising. Kest had chosen his most experienced Protectors as her escort. Yet, rather than making her feel safer, she found herself nervously searching the trees.
‘Which clan are you from, Protector?’ she asked, in an effort to distract herself.
‘Renclan, Leader Kiraon.’
‘I’ve not been there,’ admitted Kira, feeling inadequate again. How was she to lead a people she’d never met?
‘We’ve been blessed with good health and few accidents, at least in the seasons of your growing, but your mother visited us often, for she had a taste for Renclan song.’
‘She sang?’ asked Kira, wishing she knew such things.
‘Oh, she had a very sweet voice, and graced us with it many a time. Do you sing, Leader Kiraon?’ asked the Protector, smiling.
Kira shook her head. Her father had insisted on a quiet decorum in the Bough, and her time had been taken up memorising herbal lists and remedies, not learning song-words.
‘I’m surprised,’ he said kindly, ‘for your mother’s bequeathed you her face, and it’s said that the voice and the countenance go together.’
Kira ground the sweetchew between her teeth, waiting for the constriction in her throat to ease. ‘What are you named, Protector?’ she asked, when she was able.
‘Lethrin, Leader Kiraon.’
‘When things are more settled, Lethrin, I’d like to visit your longhouse and hear the music my mother enjoyed. Do you still play it?’
‘Most nights, Leader Kiraon. And you would be a most honoured guest.’
*
They stopped to eat at midday, Kira settling under an ashael to take her meal of nutbread and fruit. As a child she’d imagined ashaels speaking to each ot
her, their words whispering from tree to tree the entire length and breadth of Allogrenia, with news of courtings and pledgings and birthings all passed from leaf-tip to leaf-tip. But she’d never imagined them as messengers of death. It was strange. Her mother had died and others too, her father joining their processions through the trees. She’d even seen the newly turned earth when her wanderings had taken her to the Eights. Death had been all around her, but she’d never noticed it.
She got to her feet: the ashaels’ song this day was lonely, almost a keening. Seeing her rise, the Protector Leader gave a short command and the men came back into formation.
The council meeting was taking place near a new moon, rather than a full one, for Miken said it was important to deal with the concerns facing the Tremen as soon as possible. It was to be held at the Sherclan longhouse, although being the first for a new Leader, it could have taken place at any of the eight longhouses. Miken had warned her not to appear to be favouring Kashclan, and not to seek advice or assistance from him or Marren at the council. It made sense that the first council wasn’t at Miken’s longhouse – now for a while her own. But surely as Leader she should be able to seek advice from whoever she chose? Her father hadn’t liked Miken or Marren, because they’d disputed what he said. She hoped the divisions within the council between those who supported her father and those whose views accorded with Miken’s and Marren’s did not endure after her father’s death.
There was so much she didn’t know about how the council worked, Miken only being able to spend a single morning instructing her. Maybe if she made a terrible mess of the leadership, they would appoint someone else. A feeling of relief swept over her, tempered by the knowing that she was at least going to have to attend this first meeting. Clancouncils began with formal welcomes and after that Kest would probably outline his plans for the protection of the longhouses, followed by discussions on any issues Kest or the Clanleaders raised. Her role would be to ensure that any discussions were orderly and to call for a division when they’d run their course. It had sounded simple enough when Miken had described it, but now it seemed overwhelming.
What if the councillors ignored her? Tenedren and Ketten would probably be courteous, but not Dakresh. Maybe Miken had chosen Dakresh’s longhouse to appease him. Marren could be relied on to be polite as well, and probably Kemrick too, since his simple words had ensured her appointment. Miken had said that Kemrick and Berendash would probably agree in most decisions, because there’d always been an alliance between the two octads. What sort of alliance she hadn’t thought to ask.
Then there was Sanden, who she knew nothing about. In fact, apart from Miken, she knew very little about any of the Clanleaders. They’d come to the Bough barely twice a year, either at the Feast of Turning or at Thanking, and she’d taken no interest in them or her father’s and Merek’s discussion of them, or their discussions of Clancouncil business.
She spat the sweetchew out and sucked the sugary remnants from her teeth. From what Miken had said, each of the Clanleaders had their own wants and needs, and she began to see that despite the fact they were all Tremen, each clan was distinct. How had her father managed to hold them together? And take over the Warens? He’d obviously had skills she didn’t, and this was soon going to be horribly apparent to everyone. She hoped her brief stint as Leader didn’t turn into a costly mistake.
Smoke threaded the trees and there was an excited whoop and scatter of leaves as a child scampered off, rousing Kira from her reverie. The young lookout had beaten his own longhouse’s Protectors to the news of their arrival. Smoke thickened, heavy with the scent of fallowood – hardly surprising given that fallowoods were thick about the longhouse, and the Protectors drew in about her, more for ceremonial reasons than protection. The silvered wood of a building emerged, roofed in shaggyman and mottle-crested shingles, its shutters thrown wide to the summer air.
Voices echoed, a hubbub composed of the giggles and shouts of children and the sterner tones of adults quieting them. Sherclansmen and women had gathered in front of the longhouse and along the path to the entranceway. Kira quelled the urge to flee back into the forest as a hush fell. Then people smiled, extending their hands in welcome, and Kira slowed, refusing to scurry past them rudely despite her shaking knees.
‘Kashclan thanks Sherclan, Kashclan thanks Sherclan,’ she repeated over and over again, until she reached the heavily carved door and the silent Sherclansman waiting there. He was too young for Dakresh, standing stiffly in formal Sherclan clothing, light brown hair to his shoulders in the Sherclan manner, and oddly familiar, though she knew she’d never met him before.
‘Sherclan welcomes Tremen Leader Feailner Kiraon,’ he said carefully, bowing low.
‘Tremen Leader Kiraon thanks Sherclan,’ replied Kira, glancing around furtively, wondering if Dakresh’s absence were some sort of insult and if so, how she should react. But there was no sign of contempt or cunning in the face of the young man who’d greeted her, just sombre respectfulness.
‘I’m Clanleader Dakresh’s elder son Sener. Please accept my father’s apologies for not being here to welcome you himself.’
Kira smiled, realising that he was the brother of the boy she’d met near Sarnia Cave.
Sener stood aside and she moved past him into a hall decorated with garlands of starflower and lissium, the white and pink striking against the darker wood of the walls. A large table stood at its centre. Seated round it was a gathering of stern-faced men, whose conversation came to an abrupt halt as Kira appeared. There was a brief hiatus, then they rose as Sener led her to her seat at the head of the table and withdrew. All the chairs were taken except one, obviously Dakresh’s, and she wondered again whether his absence was a sign of displeasure. Kest wasn’t there either. Perhaps protocol demanded he join them later. After all, he wasn’t a Clanleader. She took up her position, staring stolidly ahead, fighting the urge to seek out Miken.
There was a clearing of throats and then the council spoke as one.
‘The Clanleaders welcome Tremen Leader Feailner Kiraon. May her healing be strong, her hand gentle and her ears open to the thoughts of her people.’
The greeting was clearly part of a traditional welcoming ceremony; the problem was that Miken had neglected to describe it to her, and so she had no idea what to say in response.
‘I thank the Clanleaders for their welcome. I will heal with all my heart, gather without harm to the green and growing, and listen to those who would have words with me.’
There was a pause and Kira felt her palms moisten. Something more was obviously expected, but to mumble something inappropriate just for the sake of it wasn’t going to mend the situation, so she remained silent. The silence stretched, becoming uncomfortable, then the Clanleaders sat down. Kira was about to follow suit when one of them rose again. He wore the reddish-brown tunic of Tarclan, but her mind had gone horribly blank.
‘Clanleader Kemrick,’ he said gently, introducing himself.
Kira felt like falling on his neck with gratitude, but all she did was nod.
‘As we are enjoying the hospitality of Sherclan,’ he began softly, ‘it is Clanleader Dakresh’s task to carry out the next part of the welcoming ceremony. However, as he has been delayed, I hope there will be no objection if I continue in his stead.’ He glanced around the assembly and there was a murmur of approval.
‘You have come to the leadership suddenly and tragically, Tremen Leader Feailner Kiraon, but none here doubt your strength to do it. We understand therefore that you may not be familiar with the small doings of the council, and I hope you will take no insult if we,’ Kemrick gestured to those present, ‘help you in these early meetings. I too am new to this role, so I know how puzzling it can seem.’
‘I thank you for your words,’ said Kira.
Kemrick’s face was full of kindness and she sensed that he wasn’t the only Clanleader who wanted her to do well, her plan to renounce the leadership at the end of the meeting beginning to seem
churlish.
‘The mark of the Tremen leadership is the ring of rulership,’ went on Kemrick solemnly. ‘The ring is older than Allogrenia and carries upon it the running horse, mark of our kin in the north, and the alwaysgreen, beloved of we who have chosen to make our home beneath its shelter. In giving this ring, the Tremen entrust themselves to their Leader. In taking it, the Leader accepts that trust, and the responsibilities that go with it. Will you take the ring?’
The question took Kira by surprise and Miken was clearly nonplussed too. Having paved the way for her appointment, Kemrick was now giving her the chance to escape it. Could it be that he wanted a good Leader, and to be a good Leader she had to be willing? The silence was stretching; she must give an answer.
‘I have never sought the leadership,’ she began hoarsely, then cleared her throat. ‘I’ve always been content in gathering, in making herbal pastes and potions, in tending the sick and injured. I had thought I would heal and do nothing else. I had never imagined life beyond that.’
By the ’green, she was doing this poorly; feet were shuffling and glances being exchanged. She took a deep breath, and continued. ‘The gathering of herbs and the making of potions are small things perhaps in the affairs of the council, but they are what Kasheron broke a people for, they are why he brought our forebears south, and they are why the eight clans laboured to establish our gentle, beautiful Allogrenia.’
Her throat tightened but she made herself meet the gaze of each of the councillors; at least she had their attention now.
‘I cannot force my will upon you, nor will I try. I am a Healer, that is all. But I pledge to you that I will never stop striving to heal and that I will never stop struggling to keep healing strong, and that I will fight to the end of my strength to rebuild and reclaim all that the Shargh have tried to take from us. If that is not enough, then you must choose another Leader.’