by Unknown
Sitting at her table, Kira’s senses felt dulled by the endless tedium and the repetitiveness of her task. Yawning, she set down her pen and stretched, the scratch of Tresen’s pen continuing. He looked like a hanawey hovering over its prey, clean sheets of patchet paper scattered to one side, neat stacks of Writings on the other. What must be recorded seemed endless. Findings and gatherings, preparations and treatments; the signs and symptoms of fevers and chills, breaks and sprains, cuts, burns, childbirth, old age; knocks to the head; falls . . . the lists went on and on, written in Tremen and Onespeak.
She’d started with fireweed: the place and manner of its growth, its gathering, preparation and ministering. Fire with flatswords brings the bane, fire without brings life again. Fire was the fever brought on by whatever the Shargh put on their flatswords, and fire without was the fevered heat that came without flatswords, heat that came from the fireweed, which burned the flatswords’ rot away. Never again would the meaning of the rhyme be lost, even if the Shargh killed every Healer in the Warens. But fireweed was just one herb in a list of hundreds.
She eased her head back and rubbed her neck. Pledging to record her knowing while sitting in a longhouse filled with sunlight and birdsong was one thing, doing it day after day – or was it night after night – in the Warens was quite another. She knew too much! Since the age of four she’d been trailing around the Herbery, looking and listening. At seven she was out gathering beyond the First Eight. She couldn’t even remember when she’d first begun reading the Herbal Sheaf or felt broken bones come together under her fingers. The knowing seemed always to have been there, and now it must all be recorded.
But it was no use grumbling; she owed her understanding to the Healers who’d come before, and now she must preserve it for those who followed, no matter how wearisome the task. Picking up her cup, she gulped down the tepid water, grimacing and wiping her mouth. Why did the Warens’ water taste so different to the Drinkwater? It was almost as if it had distilled the mustiness from the walls.
Tresen’s hand moved from ink pot to paper, ink pot to paper, with mesmerising regularity. Kira sighed. At least they only had one copy to do, for Arlen and Paterek were busy in one of the storage rooms transcribing their Writings into others. And it would be easier soon, for there’d be fewer wounded to care for and more time to write. Two of the wounded had already been taken back to their longhouses under escort, and in the next few days another couple would be ready to leave. By late summer, the training room should be empty, providing there were no more attacks, and she would be free to leave the Warens,providing Kest allowed it. Her fingers drummed the table.
‘I’ve almost finished the gathering sites for sorren and annin,’ said Tresen. ‘Do you want me to start on the mints next?’
‘Yes,’ said Kira vaguely, her thoughts still on Kest. ‘Icemint, bluemint, silvermint, and can you include silversalve? It’s similar in habit and use.’
Tresen nodded, his hand resuming its journeying.
Was Kest back yet? she wondered. It must be five nights since the council, no, probably six. If Kest were back, he hadn’t deigned to visit her, which meant that Bern was probably safely ensconced in his longhouse enduring no more than Dakresh’s wrath.
She rolled a stub of patchet paper along the table and gazed idly at the bundles of sorren, serewort and winterbloom stacked along the wall beside her bed. It was pointless deluding herself. If Kest were back, he would’ve come to see Kesilini, and no doubt taken the opportunity to give her another tongue-lashing over Bern. She crushed the paper under her fingers. Kest’s absence could only mean that Bern hadn’t been found – or Kest had come under attack. Why hadn’t she insisted Bern go back immediately, or told Kest about seeing him?
Kenclan was north-easterly, and the moon must be nearly full again now, a dangerous time to be abroad, even for a patrol. Curse the Shargh! At the full moon she used to climb high into the alwaysgreen and look out over a canopy as silver as the seas of the older tales. Instead of mighty seabirds rising and falling above its waves, there was the dart of hanaweys and frostkings, and the piercing cry of the mira kiraon. Now this, too, was lost to her.
A groan sounded and she rose and went to the curtain but Arlen was already there, water tinkling as he moistened a cloth and pressed it to a wounded man’s face. The restless movements of the man stilled, and she turned back to the Writings. Where should the copies be stowed? In one of the longhouses perhaps, and here, and in the more obscure caverns?
She yawned again and rubbed her eyes, not knowing whether she was really tired or simply sick of sitting. The oil was low in the lamp, the cover full of silvermoths pit-pitting against it. One had fallen in and lay moving feebly on its surface. Lifting the cover, she hooked it out with her finger, but its wings were crushed and it lay where she left it. Silvermoths would be thick in the trees outside too, drawn by the moon. What wouldn’t she give to dash along the Drinkwater Path, to feel the dawn air bright against her face, to smell the wet leaf-fall and leaves and berries?
Tresen’s pen had finally fallen silent and he was looking at her.
‘Why don’t you go to bed? You’ve done enough for the day,’ she said to him.
His skin was sallow in the lamplight, his eyes hollow. He’d lost weight and his smile since he’d been confined here. He’d always been quick to tease, to joke, to laugh, but not anymore.
‘You’re looking pale, Tresen,’ continued Kira. ‘You should go back to your longhouse for a while. Tenerini hasn’t seen you since this began, or Mikini. They must be missing you and you them. And what of Seri?’
‘Seri’s safe in her own longhouse, which is the best place for her. And it wouldn’t be fair to leave you to do this on your own.’
‘Arlen and Paterek can help,’ said Kira.
‘They don’t know enough Onespeak.’ Tresen recapped the ink pot and wiped his hands. ‘Besides, I’m not going till you can come; it’s your longhouse too, remember. Tenerini’s always wanted another daughter.’ He paused, and took her hand. ‘And I another sister.’
‘Your mother’s been kind to me,’ she said softly, ‘and if I wasn’t Leader I’d come. But I am Leader and that changes everything.’
‘No Leader has to do everything on their own,’ said Tresen, tightening his grip. ‘You can . . .’
A rhythmic thump sounded, faint at first, growing rapidly louder, and they fell silent. The noise drew closer, seeming to pause outside the training room. Tresen half rose from his seat, then the noise passed on, receding into silence. Kira’s breath hissed and Tresen slumped back.
‘No more wounded, at least not yet. But the moom’s waxing and Kest’s still beyond the Third Eight.’
Kira jerked round. ‘The Third Eight! How know you this?’
‘Penedrin told me. You knew Dakresh’s son was still missing?’ said Tresen, busy gathering the unused patchet paper into a pile.
Kira nodded dumbly.
‘Apparently he was sighted near Sarnia Cave, so Kest’s gone looking. Personally, I doubt there’s much hope of finding him; the octad’s too big. It’d take a whole moon to search properly.’ He pulled on his jacket and fastened it. ‘Bern knew the dangers. He should’ve kept to his longhouse. His foolishness is risking many lives now.’
‘He’s only thirteen!’
‘Old enough to know better. There are twenty-one men in a patrol, Kira, that’s twenty-one who might be wounded or killed, and that’s twenty-one who won’t be there to protect their longhouses.’
‘Are you saying they shouldn’t look for him?’
‘We lost the equivalent of a patrol – either dead or wounded – in the attack on the Bough. If that happens every full moon how long do you think we can last? Do the sums, Kira – I have.’
‘Every life’s important, Tresen!’
‘Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think . . .’ He stopped, forcing a weary smile. ‘I don’t want to argue with you, Kira. I’m going to take your advice and get some slee
p, and I suggest you do the same.’ Unexpectedly, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. ‘I wish you a good night, clanmate.’
The curtain fell back into place but Tresen’s words remained. It was what Sanden had said at council, but Tresen had gone even further. He was suggesting having to trade one life for another, in this case, Bern’s for the patrols’. She licked her dry lips and pushed the hair from her eyes. If Tresen were right, next time it mightn’t be the life of a wayward boy but of a birthing woman that had to be sacrificed – Kira’s own life and the lives of the patrol who must accompany her deemed worthier.
Surely it wouldn’t come to that? Surely this time would pass? And everything would go back to what it was before: summer mornings in the Herbery, the sound of Kandor’s pipe? The hope mocked her, bringing with it the unbearable, inescapable pain of Kandor’s death. She curled up on her bed, cradling her head. Sleep brought no rest, just dreams of Kandor haloed in light as she’d dragged her hands from his, condemning him to death. She groaned, her thoughts going to the everest pouch in her pack, as they so often did these days. Half a leaf would bring a sleep of many days and a whole leaf send her to where Kandor now dwelt, a place empty of memory and pain. How she longed to go there. But she hadn’t the right; she was the Leader, the holder of all healing, able to stop the deaths of other Kandors.
She pulled herself to her knees and then to her feet, stumbling back to the table and collapsing into her chair. Tremen and Onespeak, she thought numbly, and began to write.
Kest sat slumped against an espin, staring up at the moon. He was filthy, his shirt stiff with dried sweat, his hands gouged black with digging. Half of his patrol was secreted among the trees, the rest wrapped carelessly in their sleeping-sheets, too shocked by what they’d seen to set camp properly. Many had simply crawled into their sheets without bothering to eat, and he hadn’t eaten either, the stench of putrefying flesh too strong in his nostrils.
Bern had been dead for many days, though even a couple in the summer heat would have been enough. But heat alone hadn’t caused the grotesque disfigurement that had sickened them on finding him; Bern hadn’t died from a single wound but from many. His death had been agonising. Kest unclipped his waterskin and took a long, slow swig. The simplest explanation was that the Shargh were barbarous, that they’d chanced upon a lone boy and enjoyed some sport. But that left too many things unexplained. The line of slashed trees penetrating to the Second Eight, where they’d come upon Bern’s pack; the single boot they’d found as they’d followed the slashed and trampled growth north-east, and Bern’s body dumped like refuse near the Sentinels. Why hadn’t the Shargh killed him where they’d captured him?
Kest stowed his waterskin and hauled himself to his feet, picking his way between his men to the deeper darkness of the alwaysgreen. There was someone there, keeping vigil: Nandrin, Bern’s clanmate. He rose as Kest approached, but Kest waved him back, settling beside him. The darkness hid the new-turned earth but the air told of where they’d cut the turf with their swords, and dug out a resting place between the roots with sticks and hands. Patrols didn’t carry shovels and he wondered whether that was just one of many changes he’d have to make.
Nandrin sat with his hands hanging slackly between his knees. Kest glanced at the silent Protector next to him and at the moon-stippled shapes of his men resting under the trees.
‘I hope Clanleader Dakresh forgives us for not bringing Bern home,’ he said softly.
Nandrin roused, his face like a skull in the moonlight. ‘At least he’s safe now. The alwaysgreen Shelters him.’
‘But too distant for Dakresh to visit. I don’t think his old bones will carry him this far.’
‘No, nor his heart,’ said Nandrin, his eyes dark pools. ‘Who’d do this? Who’d do such a thing to a boy?’
‘People who worship death, not life.’
‘Outsiders,’ spat Nandrin. ‘Northerners; murderers!’
The Shargh weren’t Northerners, but Kest let it go, glad Nandrin was talking. Not like Kira, who’d never spoken her grief. Why did he think of her now, when so much else crowded his head?
Nandrin wiped his sleeve across his face. ‘The roots have taken him,’ he said hoarsely.
Kest gripped his arm. ‘The tree grown strong from him, the new leaves spun from him.’
‘The wind sung songs of him . . .’ Nandrin choked to a stop.
‘His story told,’ finished Kest quietly.
As if in answer, a breeze riffled the canopy, and the alwaysgreen sighed. Kest stood. ‘We leave at dawn, Nandrin; time to get some sleep.’
Kest watched Nandrin crawl into his sleeping-sheet but he didn’t go to his own. He was weary, but not inclined to sleep. The bright fragments of light on the leaf litter attested to the moon’s near fullness and, to make matters worse, the forest surrounding the alwaysgreen was dense with shadow. A waxing moon and heavy cover. It would suit the Shargh well. Settling with his back to a tree, he sharpened his sword.
35
In the highest sorcha on the slope, Palansa sat on the hide of rulership surveying the assembled warriors. Her fingers locked, bone against bone and greasy with sweat, as the warriors’ eyes flicked over her.
Arkendrin had positioned himself directly in front, with Irdodun and Urpalin at each side. Now and again he murmured to Irdodun, and the lesser man smirked, but Arkendrin’s eyes never left her.
Palansa shifted her attention to Irdodun. The man was like the stink-beetles that burrowed about in ebis droppings. Despite their grand and intricate tunnels, all they’d ever be were stink-beetles in gobs of dung. She smiled contemptuously and Irdodun dropped his eyes. Her confidence surged as if she’d struck the first blow. To her side, Tarkenda nodded discreetly and Palansa cleared her throat, waiting till the rumble of conversation ceased.
‘This Speak I call on behalf of my unborn son, who, when he greets the day, will be the first-born son of Erboran himself, the first-born son of Ergardrin, continuing the line of rulership the Sky Chiefs bequeathed us. I call this Speak because a matter of great importance has arisen, a matter that affects us all.’ Palansa slowly moved her gaze from one warrior to another as she spoke, passing over her allies, Ormadon and Irsulalin and their kin, in the same unhurried way she passed over Arkendrin and Irdodun.
‘The Sky Chiefs honour us with life and they take us home at its ending, so that we might dwell forever in their realm. In return, we honour them,’ she said, then paused, bringing her attention back to Irdodun. ‘Yet some among you besmirch that honour by hunting and spilling blood during the time the Sky Chiefs have decreed that no blood should be spilt. Irdodun, I call upon you to explain your dishonour.’
‘I have no Voice, Chief-wife.’
‘I grant you one for this occasion,’ said Palansa.
‘You cannot do that, Chief-wife, without dishonouring those you claim to honour,’ said Arkendrin. ‘I must speak on Irdodun’s behalf, for it is I who led the hunt . . . as you well know.’
Tarkenda had warned Palansa that Irdodun couldn’t speak, but she’d wanted to avoid Arkendrin. Now she kept her face impassive, resisting the urge to look back at Tarkenda as Arkendrin raised his hands theatrically.
‘We teeter on the brink of our own destruction,’ he began. ‘Do we plunge to our doom, or do we take back what is rightfully ours? Look around you; the lands are thirsty, the pastures dying. The ebi die too, and their mothers must eat the stone-trees to keep flesh over their bones. The Grenwah and Shunawah sink and the Thanawah blooms red. Soon sickness will stalk the Grounds. The highest sorcha lies empty of Chief, although one day it might house a squalling babe.’
He got to his feet, breaking convention. ‘What use is a suckling while in the fetid air of the south-western treelands, the gold-eyed creature of the Last Telling roams, plotting our destruction? Is it dishonour to hunt it? Is it dishonour to seek to destroy that which will destroy us? I am a Shargh warrior! Ordorin’s blood runs in my veins too! I, too, am the seed of the warrior th
e Last Teller chose above all others to preserve the Sky Chiefs’ warning!
‘Should I sit idly in my sorcha while the gold-eyed creature prospers? Should I turn my back on my people? The Sky Chiefs demand honour, yes, but they gave us spears and swords and tesat to rot the wounds of our enemies. They gave us warning through the Last Telling and the ability and strength to bring it undone. If I have dishonoured the Sky Chiefs, then in due time I will beg their pardon, but there are none here to whom I need palm my forehead.’
There was a brief silence, followed by a rising tide of muttering. Palansa’s mind raced. The insult was deliberate, the challenge to her authority obvious. She couldn’t call on the warriors present to defend an unborn child; an unborn child was women’s business, unreal to them until born. But Arkendrin was real, chest puffed, eyes shining, painting pictures of glory that stirred their blood. Palansa stared down at Erboran’s sword and spears lying before her. Why had the Sky Chiefs left her to fight this battle?
Tarkenda’s voice boomed. ‘Sit, Arkendrin. You insult all present by standing.’
It was a mother’s rebuke, delivered to a wayward son, not an order delivered with the authority of a Chief. With a mocking smile, Arkendrin slowly sat. The exchanges died away and attention drifted back to Palansa.
‘The Sky Chiefs have never left us without a Chief,’ said Palansa with deliberate quietness. She couldn’t out-bluster Arkendrin and wouldn’t try. ‘And always it’s been the first-born son of a first-born son. Even when we roamed far beyond the Braghan Mountains, no second-born son has ever been Chief.’
Arkendrin’s sneer now had a set quality, but Palansa felt no satisfaction. She would need to win more than a game of words if she were to protect her child. ‘In this the Sky Chiefs have held true, and we have honoured them for it. Indeed, it has been our willingness to grant the Sky Chiefs their due that has allowed Arkendrin to boast that he need palm his forehead to no one, for he was but a babe when his own father was called home. There were those then who argued, as Arkendrin does now, that the Shargh should look elsewhere for a Chief, that Ordorin’s bloodline should be broken.