A scarlet-cloaked warrior strode across the grass to relieve the nearest sentry and Gwerath murmured, "It is time for me to gather windflowers to dress the Tent of the Goddess. I will show you the rest of the camp later, perhaps if you can come to me after the noon meal?"
She took them back to the centre of the camp before changing into her Torga's robes and hurrying away.
The three travellers did not enjoy the privacy of Kerish's tent for long. Forollkin had just begun to outline the possible schemes for escape when Tayeb entered.
"Greetings, kinsmen. Gift-bringer, you will eat with the warriors and then ride with me on a hunting party. There is a small herd of wild Irollga close to the camp, we must kill the bull and take the cows. Talvek, learn all you can from my daughter so you will be ready for the Testing."
The Galkians received their orders in angry silence and Forollkin departed with Tayeb. At least the ride outside camp would help him get his bearings.
An old woman brought food to Kerish's tent at noon and he shared it with Gidjabolgo. Afterwards the Forgite asked permission to check a string he thought needed changing on the Prince's zildar. Kerish left Gidjabolgo hunched over the instrument, and Lilahnee asleep on the pallet, and set off to find the Tent of the Goddess.
Enecko and another warrior, leaning on his spear, barred his way. Enecko smiled lazily. "Come out without your cat to claw a path for you? How bold!"
Kerish gave him the kind of look that would have petrified a Galkian and made to step round him. Enecko grasped the Prince's shoulders and the other warrior closed in behind, caught hold of Kerish's hair and jerked back his head. Enecko set the point of his spear against Kerish's throat.
"And without your brave brother too, or even our spitfire Torga to guard you . . ."
The spear grazed his skin and a few drops of blood trickled down Kerish's neck. He stopped struggling.
"Let me go, Enecko; you only attack me because you daren't face my brother again."
The Erandachi pressed the spear harder against Kerish's throat and smiled as the Prince flinched.
"Perhaps so. What do you think, my friend, should we waste our weapons on one who cannot even bear arms?"
"Let him be," said the other man. "A warrior does not kill women or children."
"Or half-breeds tainted with foreign blood."
Enecko took away the spear and his companion released Kerish's hair with a final tug.
"Run along, little one. We have a hunt to join. You can tell the tale to your big brother when he returns."
He pushed Kerish to his knees and they sauntered away.
Struggling with his helpless anger, one hand at his bleeding throat, Kerish did had not noticed Gidjabolgo watching from the tent flap.
"They are right, Master, you should not walk out with no-one to defend you; think of that precious quest of yours.”
"I can look after myself," snapped Kerish automatically and then winced. But the expected sarcasm never came. Gidjabolgo delved into the folds of his dirty tunic and brought out a small bone dagger.
"I don't doubt that you can defend yourself, but you may need this to do it with."
He held out the dagger.
"Where did you get it?"
"I stole it," said the Forgite calmly.
Kerish stared at the slim white dagger.
"The Law of the Godborn forbids . . ." he began.
"These men do not live by the Law of the Godborn. Will you let them treat a Prince of Galkis like a slave?"
"No, but . . ."
"And must you always rely on your brother's protection? What about those keys at your waist, would you let such men take them and stand by helpless?"
"No.” Kerish took the dagger and hid it in the breast of his tunic. "Thank you, Gidjabolgo."
Chapter 8
The Book of the Emperors: Hope
But he spoke to them earnestly saying, "I beg you, use the senses which you are given. Look deeply into every stranger's eyes until you find your own need mirrored there." "What need?" they asked of him. "You will know," he said, "when you see it in another."
Kerish knew that the tents of the Hunter and the Goddess were pitched just beyond the northern boundary of the camp. Too proud to ask the exact way, the walk was longer than it need have been and his back prickled with the stares of everyone he passed. As he walked between the outermost circle of tents he noticed a sound that came to dominate the ordinary noises of the camp; a sound between a scream and a sigh, sometimes fierce, sometimes sad, sometimes discordant, sometimes harmonious, but always disturbing.
Kerish could not understand why none of the craftsmen working outside their brown tents seemed to notice it. Then he stepped on to the strip of grass that marked the boundary of the camp, and understood. Some way ahead of him was pitched the black and scarlet tent of the Hunter of Souls. To each of its corner-posts was fixed a harp of bone, played by the ceaseless winds of Erandachu.
"The Children of the Wind," murmured Kerish, and wondered how his mother had ever endured the stillness of the Golden City.
To his right stood the blue tent of the Mountain Goddess, patterned in white felt with stars and windflowers. Kerish ducked through its flap and left behind the plaintive music of the wind-harps. As his eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness he saw the Torga filling the hanging lamps with fresh oil. Kerish's feet sank into the soft furs that covered the floor as he moved forward to look at a tapestry that spread over one wall of the tent. The hanging was woven from the dyed fur of young Irollga and showed a woman with pale hair. She was as tall as the mountains against which she stood. It was not a good likeness of Sendaaka.
Gwerath walked towards her cousin, a taper in her hand brightening her hair to molten silver.
"I did not hear you come in," she whispered. "Our image of the Goddess is very ancient. I'm sure no other tribe can have woven one so beautifully."
The tapestry was patched in places but the blue-green of the goddess' robe and the star in her lifted hand were still brilliant.
"Do all the tribes of Erandachu worship the Goddess and the Hunter?" asked Kerish.
"Some now honour only the Hunter, and in the old ways, from the Dark Time before the Goddess came down to bring us wisdom."
"And why do people turn to the old ways?"
Gwerath began re-lighting the lamps. "For many reasons; the winters grow harsher, the traders from the West come only rarely, but the slavers from the East more often. My father says that none of the tribes prosper as they did and men blame the new ways."
"Men like Enecko?"
Gwerath nodded. "He is a votary of the Hunter of Souls and longs to return to the Dark Time, when the Hunter never spared his quarry. I am not strong enough to make them fear the Goddess. I dream so rarely and I cannot untangle the dreams of others. I know the charms but there is no healing in my hands. That is why your coming is so important to my father. I have failed him, but you will show the tribe the power of the Goddess and make them believe."
"Gwerath. . ." Kerish stared helplessly at the tapestry. On the pale woven face of the Goddess he seemed to see Sendaaka's frozen tears. "Gwerath, I do not have power from your Mountain Goddess. I cannot help you."
The Torga of the Goddess blew out her taper and knelt to re-arrange the windflowers heaped at the foot of the tapestry.
"Cousin, I know you have the power, even I can sense that, and She sent me a true dream about you."
Kerish turned away to look at one of the other tapestries. He tried to speak lightly, "Does the Goddess dwell on your Holy Mountain or further north?"
"She is in all high places," said the Torga. "She loves mountains because they are closer to the stars She came down from."
Kerish looked down at his cousin. Her hands were full of windflowers.
"Why did She come down from the stars?"
"To look for her lost daughter, her only daughter," answered Gwerath. "She has not found her. She grieves always and so understands our sorrows."
"How do you know?" demanded Kerish.
"It is the Lore of the Tribe. The Chants have been given from Torga to Torga, since the end of the Dark Time. In the snow months, in our winter camp, I chant them to the people. That is a good time," said Gwerath wistfully. "In winter, the Hunter of the Souls is not so strong . . . but I promised to show you the rest of the camp. Where is your brother?"
"Tayeb ordered him to join a hunting party."
Gwerath stood up.
"My father is glad to have so brave and skilled a warrior to fight for us. Are there many men so tall in your father's country?"
"Oh, Forollkin is quite exceptional, " murmured Kerish.
"I thought it must be so," declared Gwerath. "Come, I will show you the Sheyasa."
*****
Later that afternoon they went back to the Prince's tent. In return for his tour of the camp, Kerish showed Gwerath his treasures. She was shocked at first by the zildar, it seemed like a harp, which only the fingers of the wind could play, but she revelled in his zeloka jewels.
Holding up the great collar, Gwerath traced the golden outline of the wings. "Are there really such birds in your country?"
"There were once. They were created by Zeldin, the god of my father's people, for Imarko, his lady. They flew between them carrying messages, but no-one has seen a living zeloka for many centuries."
Gwerath asked him about the stones and metals and Kerish told her a little of the countries from which they came.
"Oh cousin, you have seen so much of the huge world, and I so little. I know it is wrong to want to leave my circle, but I wish I could see a city, or a forest or the sea itself, anything new and strange."
"Perhaps you will, if you want it strongly enough. Have you ever dreamed about your own future?”
"No.”
Gwerath broke the short silence by setting down the collar and asking timidly, "What is this?"
"This? This is the Book of the Emperors, in which all the lore and wisdom and history of my people is written down."
"Written?"
She was puzzled and Kerish realized that the Erandachi must have no system of writing.
"Let me show you."
He opened the book.
"Oh, but it's beautiful," exclaimed Gwerath, "and all those marks mean something?"
Kerish explained to her as simply as he could the principles of writing and Gwerath grasped them very quickly. She pointed to a line on the vellum page.
"What does that say?"
"Geterish-na ti rarak-un len metiya-na alkit-en. That is High Galkian, the ancient language of my people. In Zindaric it would be, `On the rock of our love we will build a nation'."
"And can you make marks like these?"
"Of course."
Gwerath looked ashamed of her question and Kerish said hastily, "Shall I teach you to read and write? I am sure you would learn easily."
"Would you? Oh cousin, how can I thank you?"
Kerish's hand went to the dagger in his tunic. "Can a Torgu also be a warrior?"
"Yes, if he can defeat a warrior in combat. But why do you ask? You do not carry weapons."
Kerish drew out the bone dagger.
"I do. Gwerath can you use that knife you wear?"
It was Gwerath's turn to be indignant. "Of course, better than most men."
"Then will you teach me to fight the way your warriors do?
"If you wish it," said Gwerath doubtfully.
"And tell no-one."
"I swear by the Goddess; but why does your brother not teach you? He is a warrior."
Kerish closed the book in his lap.
"My brother must not know."
"But surely he is your elder, you are bound to obey him."
"I am not bound," said Kerish harshly, "we have no such custom. Gwerath, please . . ."
His smile melted her doubts.
"As you will, cousin. What shall we do first?"
"Write," said Kerish. "I will show you the letters of the Zindaric script and see how many we can fit to the sounds you use.”
*****
As Kerish began the lesson, Forollkin was cantering across the windy plains, his white stallion contrasting with the red-furred Irollga ridden by the rest of the hunting party. Their quarry was a small wild herd, comprised of an old bull and a dozen cows and calves. The hunters sighted them grazing near a stream. Keeping a good distance away, the riders spread out into a circle to surround the herd.
The lifting of Tayeb's spear was the signal to move in. Each man had dipped his spear-point in enough poison to make an Irollga drowsy but the plan was to kill the old bull. His thick hide would adorn his executioner's tent. The placid, hornless cows stared blankly at the approaching warriors and then bent to lick their calves. The old bull snorted anxiously. Like all Irollga, he had poor eyesight but now he heard and smelled the hunting party. He butted the cows into a huddle and lowered his head, preparing for battle.
Forollkin leaned over his horse's neck, whispering softly. He wondered how the stallion would stand up to a charging Irollga. Forollkin had been equipped with a short spear that kept slipping in his damp palms. He was determined not to bungle this kill. The other men could stay well back and throw their spears. His steed was faster and more manoeuvrable than any Irollga. He would risk coming in close to stab the bull.
Tayeb shouted. The old bull lumbered towards him but suddenly swerved towards the next rider, so the chief's spear missed its target. The bull seemed horribly fast for his massive size. The second rider thrust at him. The spear pierced the bull's shoulder but the enraged bull did not falter. The rider tried to turn his mount out of the bull's path but he wasn't quick enough. One of the bull's long horns, gored the rider in the leg. He fell from his panicked mount almost under the bull's hooves.
"Hoy!" Forollkin had galloped across the circle and brought his horse right up against the bull. "Hoy!"
The huge head, with its tiny malicious eyes, turned towards him. As the blood-tipped horns began to lower, Forollkin leaned in and thrust his spear into the bull's throat. He hung on grimly as the tormented creature pushed against the spear, trying to gore and slash with the terrible horns. Forollkin resisted with all his strength until he felt the bull weaken. Then he jerked back the spear. Blood gushed out of the old bull's throat and he fell heavily. Forollkin dismounted and drove his spear into the writhing animal. With a last feeble lift of his massive head, the bull died.
Forollkin helped the wounded man to bind up his leg, leaving the rest of the hunting party to round up the cows and calves. Tayeb soon rode over to them and dismounted.
"A good kill, kinsman. The meat is for the tribe, but the hide and horns are yours. "
Before the bull was skinned and the meat cut up, Enecko knelt beside the corpse. He rested one hand on the bull's head and began to sing.
"He is praising the brave bull and thanking the Hunter of Souls for a successful hunt," explained Tayeb.
Forollkin listened for a while. “I don't speak your language but this is music my bones can understand.”
Tayeb nodded. “The Sheyasa are famous for their hunting songs and Enecko is our finest singer.”
Forollkin was surprised to think that Enecko had something in common with Kerish, but he soon forgot the man in the exhilaration of returning to camp as the honoured hero of the hunt. As the Sheyasa joined in the song under the cloudless skies, Forollkin felt as if he held the bright world in the palm of his hand.
*****
Tense with concentration, Gwerath recited the letters of the Zindaric alphabet.
"Well done, your memory is excellent."
"I have been trained to remember things because I must know all the lore of the Goddess."
"Soon you'll be able to write down that lore,” said Kerish, forgetting that he had no intention of staying long enough to finish the lessons. “I'm sorry the only book I have with me is in High Galkian. No, wait, I do have some poems I translated into Zindaric."
He g
ot out a scroll that was half-covered with a translation of an Ellerinionn poem. Gwerath exclaimed in delight at the graceful calligraphy and exuberant borders of intertwining flowers and fabulous beasts.
"Oh lovely, are there many men in your country who can make such pictures?"
"Yes, but I drew these myself."
"You, cousin? How I envy you."
The Children of the Wind (Seven Citadels) Page 15