“I want to spear a big fish,” the girl replied promptly.
To her dismay, both Grandmother and Akilun laughed. Her flush deepened, this time with embarrassment. “Are there no more big fish like Hydrus?” she asked. She could not remember seeing any among the fishermen’s catches, though her fearful imagination had sometimes glimpsed dark shadows slipping beneath the river’s surface, which made her hesitant to wade out very far.
“Not so big, no,” her grandmother told her, still chuckling softly. “But I am sure Hydrus has many grandsons who will, in time, equal him in length and might. Perhaps we will spy one someday soon? After all, Hydrus himself was hunted so very long ago.”
The girl nodded at this, and though she shivered at the idea of such a monster in her own dear river, it was a delicious shiver. For the first time she felt what a delight fear might be. “I shall have to practice my throwing arm.”
“Yes,” her grandmother agreed and rose stiffly from her seat, grimacing at the pain and pressing a hand to her hip. But she changed the grimace into another smile and leaned on the girl’s thin shoulder. “We must go now. You may practice your throwing arm this very day and perhaps spear us something to add to the cooking fires tonight. Something smaller than Hydrus.”
Akilun escorted them to the door of the Great House and even across the work yard. At the beginning of the forest path he bowed respectfully to Grandmother, once more making the reverent signs, to which she responded in like kind. Then, narrowing her eyes as she studied him, Grandmother asked, “Will you tell her the whole of the story?”
“Do you wish it, good lady?” Akilun asked.
“I do,” said she. “It is a hard tale. But it is time that she knew it, and I would have her hear it from you.”
“In that case, I will tell her.” Akilun made another bow which seemed to include the girl. This delighted her. She was not one to receive such courteous gestures, not a scrawny child like she!
The girl was thoughtful as she supported her grandmother back down the hillside. Her mind was full of the river and the rushing water and the mighty twists and churnings of Hydrus. But she found herself considering more thoughtfully the end of the tale and those things her grandmother had spoken of then.
“I think I know how the story will go,” she said before they’d even come in sight of the village.
“Do you, now?” said her grandmother, the first she’d spoken since leaving Akilun’s presence. Her voice was tired. The journey up the hillside really was too long for her these days, and she limped painfully. “Then you must certainly return and hear the rest, for how else will you know if you guessed rightly?”
The girl nodded at the wisdom of this, determined to carry the waterskin up to the Great House again.
It was late in the afternoon the following day before the girl found a chance to snatch up the waterskin and hasten up the hillside. Summer was at its height, and there was much work to be done about Kallias village, preparing for the long winter while there was still time. The storehouses must be filled to brimming with all manner of dried fishes and mushrooms and smoked meats.
The girl had spent much of the day brushing mushrooms as clean as she could with a brush made of stiff grasses. She could not wash them with water, for then they would waterlog and not dry properly. Once they were clean, she cut them into pieces and spread them out to dry on a high, hot stone, guarding them from flies and thieving squirrels. It wasn’t difficult work—indeed, it was rather boring. But it took quite a lot of time.
At last, however, she caught her mother’s skirts as Iulia hastened by. “Have we delivered the water gift today?” the girl asked.
“Oh, great airy gods!” Iulia cried, her gaze turning up to the promontory. Then she helped her daughter to her feet and gave her a push in the right direction. “Do it for me now, won’t you, child? You can fill the skin yourself. And hurry!”
Delighted, the girl hastened to obey and was soon well on her way up the track to the Great House. Already the sky was beginning to turn gold, and the forest around her wore a thick, lazy aspect. The girl, by contrast, was excited and alert, eager to tell Akilun her guesses about his story.
The courtyard had changed dramatically since the day before. Indeed, when she stepped from the trees, the girl half wondered if she’d somehow taken a wrong turn and come to a new world entirely. For the work yard was no longer cluttered with stone debris, discarded tools, and bits of dismantled scaffolding. All of this had been swept away as though by some magic and the dirt ground beneath laid with astoundingly smooth and flat blocks of stone. It looked like ice to the girl, and she stepped onto it with great wariness, afraid her feet would slip. It was solid, though gleaming and bright.
Moving cautiously, the girl approached the Great House. She could hear a hammer pounding far away; only one, if her ears told her correctly. Probably the Strong One, hard at work, as always. But where then was the Kind One? She searched around the Great House, afraid to call out for fear of attracting the Strong One’s notice, but did not see Akilun anywhere.
At last she was obliged to approach the great door and peer into the depths of the hall. She found, when she did so, that the huge empty space inside no longer frightened her as much as it had. If she spent too much time peering into the deeper shadows, her courage would surely fail her. But instead her eyes instinctively sought the glimmering light of Akilun’s lantern. She saw it and the form of Akilun himself sitting before the carving.
The girl slipped through the doors, clutching the waterskin tightly, then crossed the hall and made her way up behind Akilun. The statue had changed since yesterday too. Now most of the shoulders and upper torso were in place, and all of one arm. The other arm, which seemed to be lifting something up, was unfinished. She wondered if it would hold a weapon when Akilun’s work was through.
“Is that you, Iulia’s daughter?” Akilun asked without looking around.
“Yes,” the girl replied, never stopping to wonder how he had known. “I brought your water gift.”
“Thank you.” But Akilun did not turn to accept the proffered gift. He remained where he sat, his elbows on his knees, gazing up at the carving, his own work. The girl stood for a silent moment then joined him on the floor, sitting cross-legged with the waterskin in her lap. She studied the statue and the new additions, the folds of Draven’s shirt and the fur of his cloak.
Then she turned and studied the side of Akilun’s face. To her surprise, it was full of deep sorrow.
As though guessing at her unspoken question, Akilun spoke in a low voice: “It is such a strange and sad mystery to me. The mystery of mortality. Even now, so many ages since I first entered this world, I struggle to understand. But I think . . . I think it may be the most beautiful mystery. And those who live within the confines of mortality may perhaps best understand the glory of eternity when it is finally revealed. Nevertheless, it is strange. And so sad.”
The girl didn’t understand any of this. Akilun spoke in his own language, and the words could not take full shape in her mind, instead leaving only vague impressions of sound and color, like the end of a long rain shower, the distant rumble of retreating thunder, and the first ray of sunlight bursting through the gloom.
The girl shrugged and rested her chin in her hands. “I think I know what will happen in the story,” she said.
“Is that so?” Akilun glanced down at her, one eyebrow upraised.
“Yes. Ita—Itala, rather—will fall in love with the prisoner. The prince across the river. That’s how stories go. Good stories, that is. And they must marry at the end.”
Akilun smiled at this speculation, and it was not a mocking smile. “Perhaps,” he said, nodding. “Before this ending you suggest may come to pass, however, there are many impediments for them to surmount. You see, not long after Itala hunted Hydrus, winter fell, and the world was frozen and quiet for many long months. But when at last the snows melted and the ground thawed once more, Gaher bade the war drums sound
. . .”
The warriors of Rannul marched down to the river, where they soon filled the canoes to brimming. All the village gathered at the water’s edge to see them off. Barefoot children screeched small variations on the deep-throated battle cries of their fathers and older brothers. Women said many prayers to the uncaring gods of the air and sky, but their eyes were bright with pride as well as sorrow.
Draven and Itala stood side by side a little apart from the rest. Itala should have been in the very midst of the gathering, wearing the necklace of bear claws and hawk talons that marked her precedence among the women of Rannul. Instead she remained at her brother’s side, watching with him, as solemn-eyed as he. She watched in particular the strong young warrior who climbed into Gaher’s own canoe. Oson was his name, and he was the favorite among those who vied for Itala’s hand in marriage. If he proved himself as worthy in war as he had proven himself in the hunt, he would become her husband.
Itala lifted her hand to finger the necklace she wore instead of the bear claws. It was much smaller, made of stone-hammered copper flakes in various shapes, strung on a stout gut cord. She shuddered and took some of the weight off of her crutch to lean against the supporting bulk of her brother instead. Draven did not seem to notice. His gaze was fixed upon the far shore where even now the first of the warriors beached their canoes and dragged them up to hide in the foliage.
He should be among them. He should be even now bearing his sickle blade into the thick of that forest, plunging headlong into battle against those wicked Kahorns who plundered Rannul mines, poached Rannul game, and otherwise encroached upon all that by right of ancient conquest belonged to Rannul. He should be whetting his appetite for blood.
Instead his stomach clenched with a mixture of self-reproach and sickening fear. How he hated the peaceful heart in his breast, the heart which loathed the very idea of shedding a man’s blood! What a fool. What a coward. What a disgrace to his father’s name.
Though he knew he should not, Draven allowed his travelling gaze to rest on the face of lovely Lenila, who stood in the shallows near the riverbank to wave the warriors on. Her pride in her brother, Oson, was evident to all. She never once looked Draven’s way.
Draven drew a deep breath and let it out slowly so as not to make a sound. He did not want to call Itala’s attention to his sighing. Once more he gazed across the river to where his father’s canoe even now rested. He remembered suddenly something he had all but forgotten over the cold winter—the words of the Kahorn prince on the dark shore beyond the promontory.
“You must not let them cross the river. If they do, they will suffer the same fate as Kahorn.”
But what fate was that? Little enough had been seen of the tribe across the river, despite all the vicious rumors of plundering war parties. Indeed, Draven suspected that all Gaher’s rousing speeches against the many evils of their neighbors were so much vaporous breath upon the wind. So what then had become of Kahorn? And what of the wounded prince?
A sudden gasp from his sister startled Draven from these thoughts. He caught her in his arms even as her knees gave out, and she pressed her face into his chest. He wondered briefly if she was fainting or ill. Then, much to his surprise, he heard a muffled sob.
“Ita!” he exclaimed, speaking her child’s name in his anxiety for her. “Ita, sister, what is wrong? Why do you weep?”
But Itala—his brave sister, the slayer of Hydrus, her father’s pride—only shook her head. Her tears continued to fall until long after the last warriors disappeared into the shadowy forests of Kahorn country.
Two days later, those who waited in Rannul saw smoke rising across the river. It was distant . . . if the day had not been so clear, they might not have seen it at all.
Draven worked silently, out of sight of the village during this time. He wanted no one to be visibly reminded of his disgrace, of the ugly truth that he was not welcome to march into battle beside his father. So he spent his days hunting, fishing, avoiding the fields and pastures where women and children might glimpse him and throw stones his way. Whatever he successfully caught he delivered to Itala, who in turn delivered it to the rest of the tribe. So he contributed his meager portion, outcast though he was.
He saw the smoke from a quiet inlet of the river where he stood poised to spear. He could not have said what sense drove him to raise his intense gaze from the water where the trout swam to the heavens where the smoke curled. But something moved inside him, and he looked, and he saw. And he wondered.
To whom went the day? Would the warriors of Rannul march home triumphant, their enemies slaughtered?
Would that be a victory?
The face of the prisoner he had refused to kill flashed before his mind’s eye. But he shook this thought away and all thoughts of the blood even now being shed, focusing instead on the task at hand.
A week later, the first of the children came running into Rannul village shouting that they’d heard the victory drums beat across the river. Itala, who sat in a quiet place carding lambs’ wool, looked up at the sound of the bright, eager voices. Anyone watching her would have seen her face, already pale, turn a ghastly grey. But she set her jaw, put aside her work, and painfully hauled herself up onto her crutch. She could not bring herself to follow the other women down to the river but stood in the village center.
How long she stood there counting her breaths, she did not know. Too soon she heard the victory drums of which the children had spoken. They were expressive drums, speaking of many things in a language of deep reverberations. She knew before she saw the warriors that they returned from a mighty triumph. She knew that Gaher was lauded among his warriors as a great chieftain, slayer of many men. And women. And children too, Itala did not doubt.
She grimaced at a sudden heaving in her gut, wishing to be sick. But she dared not. Someone might see. Someone might see her doubled up in weakness, and this she could never allow. No, for she was the slayer of Hydrus, the pride of Gaher. She must stand strong and greet the warriors.
She looked for Draven but did not see him. Then the drums entered the village.
Children swarmed ahead, singing and dancing even as the bloodstained men progressed down the center path between sod houses, Gaher at their head. Itala saw Oson at his right hand and knew what that meant for her future. Once more she felt her stomach heave, for Oson’s beard was brown with bloodstains. The champion of Rannul, no doubt. A worthy husband.
Itala steeled her face so that no expression could move it, neither smile nor frown nor grimace. When her father saw her and raised an arm in greeting, she inclined her head respectfully, her hand over her heart. She felt the copper under her fingertips and clutched it momentarily for strength.
But then her father was beside her, a massive arm around her shoulders. “My brave Itala!” he cried. “We are victorious.” Then he turned to the gathered tribe and raised his axe above his head. “The Kahorn barbarians will pillage from us no more! Their farms are razed, the village of their chieftain laid low. Those among them yet living are scattered to the four winds! Rannul is safe again.”
And all the village set up a great cheer. No one saw how hard Itala clenched her jaw, forcing back the many words that sought to burst from her throat. No one noticed the pallor of her cheek, or if they did, they saw no difference from her usual sallow complexion. After all, though her heart was brave and strong, Itala was weak in body.
“Now where is Oson?” Gaher demanded, and he drew the bloody young man to his side. Oson grinned down at Itala, his eyes full of possessiveness and other things Itala dared not name. The stink of death was on him, and Itala yearned to throw away her crutch and flee through the throng, flee into the forest, into hiding. To disappear like Draven did.
But Itala was no coward. She met Oson’s gaze, and her eyes revealed nothing, though the tension in her neck may have revealed much to an observant man.
Oson was not such a man. He laughed and boldly declared his triumphs to her, there in the hear
ing of all. He spoke of his many kills over the last few days, claiming feats of slaughter unparalleled. Most of his stories were lies, Itala knew. But behind the lies were vicious, brutal truths.
“You see, my fierce little wolf pup?” Gaher said, interrupting Oson in the middle of his declamations. “You see what a fine husband I have found for you? By his strength and your courage, we will see such offspring of my household as will dominate all this region, aye, from here to the Endless Water!”
Another cheer went up. What a fine thing it was to the people of Rannul. Victory over their enemies; a marriage of their princess to a worthy warrior. A feast must be held in short order, the storehouses opened to celebrate such doings.
So Itala found herself caught between her father and her betrothed. Someone found the necklace of bear claws and draped it around her neck, covering up the smaller, more delicate copper necklace. Someone else wrapped her in a heavy cloak, though the spring was already warm and she did not need it. It was ceremonial, however, so she dared not shrug it off. Gaher and Oson also wore fine cloaks over their dirty, gore-spattered bodies, and she nearly gagged many times over at their stench—she, who was used to the slaughtering of livestock and fowl, to skinning and tanning and all manner of odorous perfumes. But this was not the same. She thought she might smother and die in this reek.
And through it all, though she sought Draven in the crowd, she did not see him.
Draven remained on the outskirts of the village, watching all the comings and goings, but daring not take part. He saw Itala in the center and Oson seated in the place of honor that should have been his. Lenila hastened to serve the men, laughing and joking and singing by turns.
Had he been a true man, he could have taken part in all of this. If he had spilled the blood when it was ready and warm for offering.
Draven's Light (Tales of Goldstone Wood) Page 8