by JD Byrne
“What’s so funny?” Antrey asked Goshen.
“I told him that you were intrigued by his staff, that it drew your attention from across the field. He is amused by your reaction to him. He asks how old you are and if you have ever met a Speaker before.”
“It’s been a very long time,” Antrey said to Goshen, but quickly followed that with, “but don’t tell him that.” Antrey thought for a moment. “Tell him I’m not that young, but that I was an obnoxious and nervous child, unable to sit still for anything, especially the old stories. Now that I’m grown, I recognize what I have missed and want to learn.”
Goshen translated for her, which caused the old man to nod knowingly. Up close, his staff was less impressive that it had appeared at a distance. The gold, or some sort of equivalent, was flaking off in spots, as the wood was showing its age. The figures at the top appeared to have been, at one time, a Neldathi warrior and some sort of large beast locked in combat. Now, it appeared to be some kind of abstract sculpture, comprised of odd curves worn by years of use.
“Tell him that I am particularly interested in the very old stories,” Antrey said. “In the stories of the clans before the Rising. I want to know if life was so much different then.”
Goshen translated Antrey’s question and the old man thought for several moments before answering. When he did so, it was in a smooth singsong voice. “Not so much as you might think,” Goshen said for him. “Each clan kept to itself, for the most part. There was not so much animosity as there is now. There were disagreements, to be sure. Conflicts were frequent when the clans confronted each other over territory, but they were minor compared to what happens these days.”
Antrey interrupted him. “That’s something I’ve never understood. The clans don’t have territory the way Altrerians conceive of it. How can there be territorial disputes?”
Goshen looked at her with a quizzical look, thought for a moment, and then talked to Otom. Whatever Goshen told him must have aggravated him terribly. The old man’s tone changed to quick brisk words, emphasized with a well-timed thump on the ground with his staff.
“What now, Goshen?” Antrey asked.
“He says that he is beginning to think I am playing a trick on him and that Var is enough of a trickster for one old man’s life,” Goshen said. “He is appalled by your ignorance.” He turned to Otom and said something that met with a more reasoned response. “I told him to assume that you know nothing of your people,” Goshen said, turning back to Antrey. “He says that he will do this because he and I are old friends, but that will change if he finds out later it was all a trick.”
“Thank him for me,” Antrey said, “and assure him that this is no trick.”
Goshen translated for her and Otom seemed satisfied. The old man took a deep breath and launched into a long speech, pausing every few moments for Goshen to translate.
“It is true that the Dost, like the other great clans, have no settled land,” Goshen said for him. “There are no cities, nor even villages, like the ones north of the Water Road. We travel at all times, pausing every few days, like we are now. We are constantly at motion, for that is our way. You know that much, do you not?”
“Yes,” Antrey said in the Dost tongue.
“Good,” Goshen said for Otom. “We move, but we do not wander. Each clan has a path that it follows, the circuit that defines our territory. Our land stretches to the Water Road in the north, where we seek some refuge from the bitter cold of winter. Then, as the snows recede, we move back to the south. Although we remain in each place only a few days, these places hold meaning. We return here to hunt year after year. We know in each place what can be picked or harvested for food and what cannot. Places where a young one is born, or an old one dies, are marked in small ways. All of this is our land. That fact does not change simply because we do not occupy every part of it at all times.”
“Ask him if that had changed any since the Rising,” Antrey said to Goshen.
“The territories have always been there, as have the circuits along which the clans move,” the old man answered. “They adjoin each other, of course. The territory of the Haglein lies to the west of the Dost, along the ridge of the mountains. The land of the Chellein to our south, between the Levin Mountains and the sea, for example. Before the Rising, there were conflicts over territory, disputes over boundaries, but they were often resolved peacefully. Councils of the two or three clans would meet and come to a solution without violence. Excessive violence, at any rate. There were those with hot blood, of course, or short tempers who bristled at compromise. But fighting between clans was brief and was more about the clattering of spears than death and destruction.”
“And what about after the Rising?” Antrey asked, although she already knew the answer.
Otom sighed before he answered. “Everything changed,” Goshen said for him, his voice full of regret. “Disputes over territory became personal insults. Became matters of honor, for the clans, the theks, and the gods. One clan would attack the other when they passed near each other. Then, in the next season at the same place, the clan victimized in the prior year would strike back, seeing revenge. The cycle repeats itself, even to this day. Now the clans simply try to avoid one another, but that is difficult as each grows larger. Last year, or perhaps two years ago, our clan turned east and ran into a rear guard of the Chellein. Many lives were lost before the fires of hate burned themselves out on both sides. Nothing was accomplished.”
Antrey paid more attention to Otom and his manner than to what Goshen was translating for him. There was pain in the old man’s voice, reflection on his face of memories he would rather forget. But how could he, as a Speaker of Time? For the first time, the strife amongst the clans seemed real to Antrey, not some theoretical concept. The quaver in the old man’s voice and the way in which the words came so difficultly conveyed the pain and the anguish of this history. Antrey had read of it in books and knew of it from her childhood, but now for the first time in her heart she felt the pain of an open wound that never healed.
Goshen looked at her. “We should probably be moving on,” he said.
Antrey nodded, then knelt down in front of Otom and took the old man’s hand in hers. “Tell him that I thank him very much for his story and ask if I may come back some other time and hear more.”
Goshen translated for her, to which Otom responded with a nod. He then exchanged a few parting words with Goshen before Goshen led Antrey away.
When they were back out into the warming sun and out of his hearing, she asked Goshen, “Is Otom blind? He never mentioned how I look.”
“He is blind when it suits him,” Goshen said. “He sees what he needs to see. From you, all he needed to see was your willingness to listen to him and learn. Nothing else mattered.”
Antrey was confused. “But what about all that stuff about whether I was one of you or not?”
“Pay it no mind,” Goshen said, waving it away. “An old game played between friends who long ago forgot why we are playing it. Believe me, he is quite fond of you.”
“Is he?” Antrey asked, a slight smile on her face.
“Oh yes,” Goshen said. “And that is a very good thing. I think you will have need of a Speaker of Time at your side in the coming times.”
~~~~~
As the great column that was the Dost moved further south, off the mountains completely and into slowly thawing valleys, Antrey tried to familiarize herself with more and more of the clan’s everyday life. With Goshen as her guide, she made the acquaintance of the young and the old, those responsible for the beasts of burden and those who gathered water and other necessities. She sat nearby while the children were trained in the ways of the clan, and went out on a hunting expedition, much to Hirrek’s distress.
The reactions to Antrey, or perhaps to Goshen—she was never certain which—varied wildly. Older members of the clan tended to welcome her warmly and have a good sense of what lay ahead. They had seen so much violence in t
heir lives. Many of them had seen sons or husbands killed or maimed, seen their children carried away, and were eager to put those days behind them. A few appeared to hold on to long-earned grudges and would have nothing to do with Antrey or her plans. She understood and did not try and argue for a change in their perceptions. That would come soon enough, through action. Let them be angry for a while longer.
The younger members of the clan were more confused than anything else. The warriors, especially those who were young enough to have avoided battle in their short lives, at first saw the opportunity for glory and advancement taken away from them. They had, after all, been prepared to battle other Neldathi all their lives. Now came this outsider who was telling them to put all that training to one side, forgive the feuds, and focus on a different enemy, one that could potentially be much more difficult to defeat. They were more open about their concerns, at least. As with the others, Antrey was willing to let them vent their fear at this point.
One morning, the third day of the column’s encampment on a broad plain covered with melting snow, Antrey and Goshen were walking out along the southern edge of the camp. On this particular morning, as with most mornings, Goshen was explaining to Antrey something or other about the Maker of Worlds and her role in everything. Antrey was unsure if Goshen thought this was education or an attempt at conversion. She had no real inclination towards belief in the gods, or even just one, and nothing Goshen would say was likely to change her mind. In that way, she was undoubtedly more Altrerian than she was Neldathi. But she humored Goshen, if only because he had done so much for her already. Besides, his words might yet prove useful in the conflicts to come.
Goshen was on a particularly long and rambling jaunt when something caught Antrey’s attention. She stopped and clasped him on the shoulder. “What is this about?” she asked, pointing.
About a hundred yards away there was a clearing, a circle carved out from the various tents and other small structures. In the circle there were three men. Two stood on the snowy ground facing a third, who stood on a small raised platform of some kind. In his hand was a staff of the sort that a Speaker of Time might carry, although it was much less ornate. Over his layers of skins and furs, he wore a pair of long red sashes, one draped over each shoulder. On the ground between the other two men, on her knees, was a young woman, whose body convulsed as if she was weeping. A dozen others stood around the outer edge of the circle, looking on.
Goshen glanced over at the setting and shrugged it off quickly. “That is a circle of justice, jeyn,” he said as he began to walk away.
Antrey ran to catch up and stepped in front of him. “What is a circle of justice? What are they doing to that girl?”
Goshen stopped and looked over his shoulder. “A circle of justice is the way in which a clan deals with its violators, its lawbreakers. It is a routine part of life, jeyn. There is no need to concern yourself with such things.”
Antrey shot him a cold glance. “My entire claim to any kind of leadership is based on concepts of justice, isn’t it?”
Goshen nodded reluctantly.
“Then shouldn’t I see how justice is carried out amongst my people?”
The energy drained from Goshen’s body, as if he had no will to fight her about it. “There is wisdom in your words,” he said, turning to lead her towards the circle.
They stopped a few feet away from the edge of the circle, close enough to see and hear what was happening, but not so close as to draw attention to themselves. The man on the platform was speaking. “What’s he saying?” Antrey asked Goshen.
Goshen listened for a moment, then shook his head. “It is not possible to fully understand what he is saying now without having heard the beginning,” he said.
“Do the best you can,” Antrey said, rolling her eyes at him.
Goshen sighed. “The one with the staff and the vestments is the kel, the giver of justice,” he said. “The young woman on her knees is called Olmo. I believe that she was caught taking some item or other from someone else, named Ildik. This, apparently, occurred a few days ago while the clan was on the move.” He paused, then turned to her. “In situations like this, the accused is often held in close custody until the clan makes camp. Then they are dealt with in this fashion.”
“Does Olmo admit that she did this?” Antrey said.
Goshen shrugged. “I cannot determine that from what the kel is saying. Her guilt has already been established.”
Antrey knew a little of the courts in Tolenor, but could not explain to anyone how they actually worked. However slight that knowledge was, it was worlds beyond her understanding of what was happening in front of her. “How do they get to that point?” she asked. Before waiting for an answer, she continued, “Who decides she is guilty? What evidence is presented? Is there any higher authority to which she can appeal?”
“If you wish, I can find one of the kels later this afternoon who may be able to answer your questions,” Goshen said.
“You don’t know?”
He shook his head. “Justice in this world is not my concern, jeyn.”
Antrey turned back to the circle. The kel had finished making his speech, the conclusion of which she missed while talking with Goshen. Olmo was clearly weeping, however. Antrey could see the tears dripping off her cheeks into the slushy snow below. On the other side of the circle from where they stood, Antrey saw an older woman, standing with a small boy in front of her, her arms draped around him protectively. She was looking away from Olmo and the kel, but was having trouble doing it. Antrey watched as the woman’s eyes drifted slowly back towards the center of the circle, only to see her head snap sideways, her eyes clamp shut, and her hands cover the boy’s face.
In the circle, the kel had come down off his platform. In his right hand he held a short sword, drawn from where, Antrey could not tell. His two assistants stood on either side of Olmo, each with one arm locked in their hands. Olmo continued to weep, but did not otherwise struggle or fight to get away.
“What’s going on?” Antrey said to Goshen in a voice loud enough that some others in the circle turned and looked at her.
“This is justice, jeyn,” he said. “You wanted to see it.”
The kel walked slowly, ceremonially, around the three others, until he was directly behind Olmo. He knelt behind her and pulled back her head with the braid of her hair.
“No,” Antrey said, shaking her head. She started towards the center of the circle, only to find Goshen in front of her, holding her back with all of his advantageous Neldathi might. “No,” she said again, “I can’t let this happen.”
“You must,” Goshen said, trying to keep his voice down. “You know nothing of this girl, nor of her crime. You know nothing of the laws of the clan that she had violated. If you do this now, step in to stop the clan from working as it always has, what are the people to think? That you are one who would unite them against common enemies? Or that you are a person who does not look like them, does not speak like them, and came from the North to tell them their ways are wrong?”
Antrey knew he was right, but could not bring herself to admit it. She leaned around him to see the kel and watched as he quickly and decisively drew the sword across Olmo’s neck. The woman on the other side of the circle now cried out, unable to control her emotions any longer. The snow underneath Olmo quickly turned red and her body went limp and lifeless between the two men holding her.
After a moment where all seemed perfectly still, the kel’s two assistants took Olmo’s body away. The circle broke up and the people returned to the regular routines of their day. The kel slipped the sword back in a scabbard strapped to his right leg and sat down on the stool that had been his podium.
Goshen slowly relaxed his grip on Antrey’s shoulders and backed away from her. “We can speak to the kel now, if you wish, jeyn. He will be waiting for some time for his acolytes to return.”
Antrey shook her head. “No, not now,” she said. “Some other time.” She thought
about when she might be able to process all this and decided it would not be any time soon. “Come on, Goshen,” she said, turning to walk away. “Tell me more about the Maker of Worlds.”
Chapter 21
Quantstown was a thin city that clung to the west coast of Altreria like an amorous snake. The city extended only a few miles inland from the coast, but it wound its way nearly twenty miles from north to south, snout to tail. There was a high bluff on the northern edge of the city. It provided a panoramic view of the city spread out underneath, as well as the rolling breakers coming in from the sea and crashing on the rocks below.
The hall of the Guild of Writers was perched on top of the bluff. Strefer had grown up there and that was where she became attached to wide, open places. All the sky seemed to hang just above the hall, so much higher than the city beneath. She missed that openness. Tolenor was flat and crowded, with people milling all around you, in a way that often wore her down, but at least there was the open sky overhead. And it was an island, which made it easy to get to the coast and look out over the ocean and feel like she was standing on the edge of the world.
By this point, Strefer longed for the relative openness of the Tolenor streets. She and Rurek were picking their way, slowly but surely, through the claustrophobic trails of the Arbor, and she was uncertain when or if she might see open sky again. There were wide, well-trodden paths that Rurek generously called roads, as well as tight, tangled pathways that looked like trails used by animals. The roads were pocked and rutted by the years of horse and wagon traffic, but at least there was enough space that some sunlight could filter through. Huge trees lined either side of the roads, as if constructed as an arboreal temple. But at least there was some sunlight. The further they went, however, the farther the distance between the roads became.