by Unknown
‘Protector Arin of Tarclan,’ he said hurriedly, his eyes flicking to Kest again.
‘Kashclan greets Tarclan,’ said Kira automatically. Was the young Protector about to tell her something Kest wouldn’t want her to hear?
‘Tremen Leader . . . I come to thank you for saving my brother Eresh,’ said the young Protector, bowing again, his eyes glistening with tears.
‘I’m a Healer, Arin, there’s no need for thanks.’
His head bobbed once more, his grip on her hands tightening. ‘He said you healed his pain. He said –’ His eyes went to Kest again, now clearly moving back in their direction, and Kira took the opportunity to extricate her hands.
‘I thank you for your words, Arin.’
Arin straightened and with a final bow made his way back to his comrades, bowing to Kest as they passed.
‘What did Protector Arin of Tarclan have to say for himself?’ asked Kest, as he juggled a platter piled high with nutbread, sweetfish and sour-ripe onto the table, then two cups of thornyflower tea.
Normally Kira would have found such an enquiry innocent but now she found it intrusive. Did Kest imagine that Arin had told her something he shouldn’t? Like the fact that the Shargh hunted her, not healing.
‘He thanked me for healing his brother,’ she muttered, sipping the tea.
‘Protector Eresh,’ said Kest thoughtfully. ‘He’s one I didn’t think would survive, and of course he wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t found the fireweed.’ His voice was gentle, his words clearly intended as a compliment, but Kira kept her eyes on the table. There was a short silence and she heard his fingers begin to tap. It never took Kest very long to become irritated with her.
‘Aren’t you going to eat?’ he asked at last.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘When was the last time you did eat?’
Kira shrugged, and his hand shot out and seized her wrist, pushing the shirt cuff high. ‘Look, all bone and no flesh, Kira. Is that how a Healer looks after herself?’
‘Don’t,’ she said, but he was as angry as she was, his grip on her wrist solid.
‘Then eat,’ he said, releasing her, his eyes like ice. ‘If you sicken, then who will heal? You don’t have the right –’
‘Don’t tell me my rights! The healing’s recorded, Kest. There’s a copy in the training room, three in the reaches of the Warens, one in the Tarclan longhouse, one in the Kashclan longhouse. Tresen’s a gifted Healer, Brem’s good, Werem, Arlen and Paterek are improving. You don’t need me anymore, Kest; the Tremen don’t need me anymore!’
‘What are you talking about?’ he said, leaning across the table, his shrewd eyes searching her face.
She felt her cheeks warm. Shrugging, she picked up a piece of nutbread, taking a large bite to appease him.
‘You’ll always be needed, Kira, you’re the Tremen Leader. Even if . . . when this is over, when the stinking Shargh have gone, you’ll be needed.’
Kira swallowed the moist lump and looked up. ‘Tell me, Kest, is it the task of the Tremen Leader to save the Tremen people?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘By healing?’ he asked.
Kira nodded. ‘By stopping their suffering.’
Kest’s eyes were still searching Kira’s face, looking for hidden meanings. ‘Of course,’ he said finally, ‘why do you ask?’
‘Sometimes in the Warens I need reminding, that’s all.’ She forced a smile. ‘It’s easy to forget, in the darkness.’
The day was dying, flutterwings spiralling to the forest floor, just the occasional chirrup filtering from the canopy. Kest scarcely noticed; in fact he was so preoccupied he was almost to the Kashclan longhouse before he realised it. Four days in Kenclan octad with Senden’s patrol and another two returning through Morclan – it was little wonder that his bones ached. He’d walked further in the last moons than he probably had in the previous twelve, but at least the news was good. No more slashed trees in any of the octads, no sightings, no Tremen unaccounted for. The third full moon since the last attack had passed and the night forest was growing dimmer again. The Shargh were waiting, but for what?
His hand played over his sword hilt as his thoughts turned to Kira. Perhaps it was his concern for her, rather than the Shargh, that fed his unease. It had been some time since her eyes had flashed that extraordinary rebellious gold, but in some ways she seemed even less in accord with him than before. At that age Kesilini had been cool when upset with him and overly loving when pleased with him. But Kira wasn’t like Kesilini, or like any other woman he’d ever encountered. She was more like an enthusiastic new Protector if anything, full of an exuberance that must be moulded into a useful shape, and with lots of inclinations that had to be curtailed.
When she’d insisted they climb Nogren she’d been as wild as a bird, eyes smouldering, and then she’d walked out on the branch. The cold sweat broke out on his brow even at the memory. Her sudden turns of recklessness boded ill, almost seeming to hint at some sort of death wish. He wondered whether it stemmed from the loss of her family, and of Kandor in particular, or whether it had always been part of her nature.
He hadn’t known her at all before the Shargh attacks and the problem was that those who had known her best were dead, except for Miken and Tresen, which was why he was here instead of in his bed. He was worried, though, that seeking advice from a Clanleader who’d been no friend of Maxen’s was doing nothing to enhance his command, and even risked alienating those who had been Maxen’s allies. If they were to fight off the Shargh, the Tremen must be united, not fractured along old lines of allegiance.
He rapped on the door and it swung open almost immediately to reveal Tresen, clearly surprised at seeing him. ‘Commander Kest . . . I . . . Kashclan welcomes Morclan.’
‘Morclan thanks Kashclan,’ replied Kest, stepping into the longhouse.
‘Is your father within?’
‘He’s beyond the Second Eight gathering with a patrol.’
And so would not be back before the morrow, realised Kest.
‘Would you like me to send message to him to return?’ asked Tresen.
‘No. I . . .’ He stopped. He’d wanted to consult with Miken about Kira, and Tresen – mostly to be reassured that there was no risk of Tresen and Kira breaking Tremen law by bonding if Tresen returned. But it seemed he would have to think for himself after all.
‘I know you’re on a few days’ leave, Protector Tresen, but I have a favour to ask.’
‘By all means, Commander. But please, come in and eat with us first.’
Kest peered past him to where Kashclan were taking their evening meal, the inviting smell of new-baked nutbread drifting towards him. He shook his head regretfully. ‘I thank you, Protector, but I must be back in my own longhouse before dawn.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’d like you to return to the Warens.’
Tresen’s eyes narrowed.
‘Call it guarding duty if you like, but I want someone with the Tremen Leader,’ said Kest.
‘Isn’t Kesilini there?’
‘Kesilini’s been back in my longhouse since the new moon and the training room is all but empty of wounded. Arlen and Paterek are there, of course, and I know that Kira spends much time reading the Writings in the Storage Cavern, but the Warens is a lonely place for her. Soon the council must decide on how and when the Bough is to be rebuilt. In the meantime, I’d feel better if she had the company of someone who knew her before all this began.’
‘I’ll leave at dawn,’ said Tresen.
‘I’d prefer it if you went now.’
‘Then I’ll go immediately, Commander.’
‘Thank you, Protector. I’ll be in Renclan octad with Clanleader Sanden for the next few days but back in the Warens by the new moon. We can discuss your duties more fully then.’
39
The sun slid clear of the world’s curve, glancing off the eastern walls of the sorchas and sending the spur’s shadow snaking to where ebis slumbered, propped on rigid legs, heads low.
But there was no sleep to be had by Palansa, confined in the highest sorcha on the spur, the stifling interior and her aching back both ensuring wakefulness. Ormadon had insisted the flaps be shut when they slept, but it meant the air pooled like the scum-filled puddles in the Thanawah, sticking her shift to her back and breasts, and plastering her hair across her forehead. Finally she got up from her bed and went to the vent and loosed the flap.
The dawn air was scarcely fresher than the fetid air inside, but she stayed there, shifting on swollen feet and rubbing her back as she stared across the Grounds. Already the day was heavy with the smell of dust and dry grass, the ebis beginning to shamble towards the Thanawah in ragged lines, tails flicking at the blackflies.
She turned, her gaze following the slope beyond the Cave of the Telling and the Cashgars, towards the distant blue of the Braghans, until the press of her belly against the wall prevented her from seeing further. She was tighter than a drum and a lot heavier, but at least the babe was quiet now after spending the entire night kicking her! Perhaps she’d go back to bed and snatch some more sleep, but pain jabbed and instead she paced slowly to the table and back, since the pain usually grew less when she walked.
Window to table, table to window, taking care not to nudge or kick anything that might disturb Tarkenda. Two days ago the older woman had laid her rough warm hands over Palansa’s belly and proclaimed the next Chief ready to be born, then fetched sweet-oil and rubbed her back.
When Palansa had woken later, she’d found the swaddlings Tarkenda had used with Erboran and Arkendrin next to the bed, and a sleep-sling fastened to the roof.
None of it seemed real, thought Palansa, clasping her hands under the mountain of her shift. The babe that had flickered inside her as light as button-flower seed now bulged her belly with foot and fist, and would soon be in her arms. Erboran’s son. She smiled at the thought before new pain speared, making her gasp and double over.
‘What is it?’ said Tarkenda sitting up, tucking her hair back into her grizzled plait.
‘Just my back,’ said Palansa, lowering herself onto a stool and screwing her eyes shut as the pain stabbed again.
‘I’ll rub it for you.’
The mattress rustled and the uneven pad of Tarkenda’s crooked feet crossed the pelts, then there was the clunk of wood hitting wood as she retrieved the oil from the basket of ease-pots. ‘Come and lie down.’
Palansa heaved herself up and retched, having to hold the table till the nausea ebbed. ‘My back’s making me ill,’ she muttered.
Tarkenda peered at her. ‘I think the babe’s coming.’
Palansa retched again and Tarkenda fetched a bowl, helping Palansa to the bed again and setting the bowl beside her before ducking out through the door flap. The air was thick with midges but all was quiet in the other sorchas. Ormadon was the only person awake, leaning on his spear surveying the slope. He’d already discarded his cape.
‘There’s a storm coming, Chief-mother,’ he said, his eyes squinting against the glare.
Tarkenda followed his gaze towards the Braghans. The sky was clear but she felt the same faint tingling as he did. ‘Has Arkendrin returned yet?’
‘No, Chief-mother, nor those who accompany him. Most of the lower sorchas are empty.’ Ormadon’s black eyes held hers. ‘Since the moons of mourning finished he’s made sure those who follow him remain in the northern and eastern parts of the forest. This is where Irdodun first saw the creature, and where she escaped Arkendrin before. The treemen have recently been favouring these reaches too. Arkendrin knows time grows short.’
‘Shorter even than he thinks. Palansa’s taken to her bed.’
The furrows of Ormadon’s face deepened. ‘Then it’s better he’s not here, Chief-mother. Will the Chief-wife birth this day?’
‘I don’t think so. I laboured for two dawns to birth Erboran, and a babe will often follow its father in such things.’
Ormadon turned the spear over in his hands, as if testing its strength. ‘I’ll summon those loyal to the blood-born Chief to ensure the Chief-wife births in peace. And I’ll tell Gensana to start her baking. The Sky Chiefs will have their squaziseed and shillyflower cakes to keep them content.’ His face broke into a smile. ‘It will be good to have a Chief again, even if he does squall.’
A long, shuddering groan sounded from the sorcha and he touched his brow and stared skyward. ‘May the Sky Chiefs send her strength.’
‘And a cool day,’ replied Tarkenda.
Tresen let the curtain to Kira’s alcove fall and wandered around the empty training room. He’d journeyed through the night, buoyed by the thought of sharing hot tea and fresh nutcakes with her. Kest had clearly been worried, and he’d half feared that he’d arrive in the Warens to find her hunched in a corner, silent and uncommun icative. But all that had greeted him when he had arrived was a deserted alcove and a solitary jug of water.
Kest said she spent much time in the Storage Cavern and no doubt that’s where she was, her nose buried in a dusty Writing, but he’d feel better if he could get hold of someone to confirm her whereabouts. He scratched at his stubbly jaw and, taking a cup from the side table, poured himself some water, gulping it down before the taste hit him. After a few days back in his longhouse and on patrol under the rustling leaves, hearing birdsong again, he’d forgotten how bleak this place was. But Kira hadn’t had the chance to forget. Was that why Kest had sent him?
Footsteps echoed, the unmistakable pound of Protectors, and he tensed as a command was shouted and they came to a halt outside the cavern. Surely not more wounded? A single set of footsteps detached itself and Tresen braced himself.
It was Penedrin, still sweat-stained and grimy from patrol.
‘The Leader is here?’ asked Penedrin.
His lack of greeting added to Tresen’s sudden unease. ‘I’ve just arrived myself, on Commander Kest’s orders. I’m assuming the Leader’s in the Storage Cavern. Have you wounded?’
Penedrin ignored the question, hurrying back to the cavern entrance and barking another order. The patrol marched on. Then he came back into the cavern, his face grim.
‘I’ve sent the patrol to the Storage Cavern, but we must ascertain exactly where the Leader is,’ he said. ‘There are slashed trees in Renclan octad. I returned via the Renclan longhouse and left a message for Commander Kest, who is due there shortly. If the Leader returns or you learn of her whereabouts, send message to me immediately at the Storage Cavern.’
Then, nodding briefly, he strode out.
Renclan had only one Warens opening, thought Tresen, trying to reassure himself. But the Shargh might still find their way in, and if they did . . .
There was the soft fall of footsteps and he whirled in relief – but it was only Arlen, the Kashclansman’s face reflecting his own surprise but not his disappointment.
‘Tresen! Welcome. I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well . . . I thought you’d be guarding our longhouse, since the Leader’s there.’
Tresen’s heart jolted. ‘What makes you think the Leader’s at Kashclan?’
‘I . . . I assumed it was so. It was said among the men that she’d go there when the last of the wounded went home, and when Brithin was released and the Leader left, I thought that’s where she’d gone.’
‘Left? When did you last see her?’
Arlen stood, considering with maddening slowness. ‘It must be near two days,’ he said, ‘though it’s hard to track time here.’
‘And you didn’t tell anyone? Stinking heart-rot, Arlen! She could be lying injured in the Warens!’ Or already taken by Shargh.
Arlen looked startled. ‘She hasn’t gone into the Warens, Tresen.’
‘What makes you so sure?’ demanded Tresen.
‘She’s taken her clothing and a sword.’
Tresen gaped at him. ‘A sword?’
‘She came to the training rooms and asked for one,’ explained Arlen. ‘Paterek sharpened a
practice sword for her; they’re lighter. I . . . we assumed she’d carry one since she was going back under the trees.’
Tresen rushed back to the alcove, Arlen close behind him. Her pack was gone, but she always carried it anyway, and she owned so little it was impossible to tell whether anything was missing. He gazed about wildly. The bed was neat, the cover pulled smooth, but there was a sprig of something on it that he hadn’t noticed before.
‘Cinna,’ said Arlen helpfully, ‘it must have fallen from her pack.’
‘Herbs don’t fall from Kira’s pack,’ snapped Tresen. Why had she left it? He racked his brains. Cinna was the first herb to poke its leaves through the soil in spring, and the last to die away. The clans hung it in the longhouses in winter as a reminder that spring would come back. There was even a children’s rhyme about it: silvermint to calm, bluemint to smooth the scar, icemint to balm, cinna to remember.
He seized Arlen’s arm. ‘Send message to Penedrin in the Storage Cavern. Tell him Kira’s been gone two days and is leaving Allogrenia.’ He thought feverishly. She’d exited the Warens through Kenclan before, but Kenclan was north-east, towards the Shargh. He guessed she’d choose the Renclan opening instead. ‘Tell Penedrin she’s leaving through Renclan and that I’ve gone after her. Penedrin will send scouts to Kest.’
Arlen stood staring at him, mouth agape and Tresen shook him violently. ‘Go!’ he shouted, waiting only to see Arlen flee before grabbing his pack and sword and sprinting out of the cavern. By the ’green, he hoped his guess was right!
He still had nutcake and a full waterskin and while it’d be quickest to go through the Warens, he didn’t know the way well enough. Cursing as he ran, he swerved back down the tunnel towards Nogren. He should have seen it coming – he knew Kira best of all. Even Kest had suspected something, but all too late! He pounded through the last cavern, ignoring the guarding Protector’s exclamation, and flung himself past Nogren, before sprinting off again. It was dawn, a small moon still in the sky, not a full one; she might be safe. He cursed again, the spit hot in his mouth, his lungs screaming. Slashed trees in Renclan! He thought of Bern and forced his legs to greater speed.