Song of the Silvercades

by K S Nikakis

  Kira looked around for patches of lusher growth, but the dense bushes made it hard to see anything at all, so she started up the slope.

  ‘It’s best you stay in the open,’ said Somer.

  Kira ignored him, following a faint scent of rot, then squatted and trawled her hands through the detritus of leaves and twigs. Somer panted up beside her, his brow furrowed.

  Kira crawled forward, her fingers skimming slime and then colliding with a spongy protuberance. Heart soaring, she eased the litter aside to reveal an upright row of dark red fingers.

  ‘Fireweed,’ she breathed, elated. ‘And ripe.’

  But Somer’s gaze was fixed on the slope above them. ‘Horses!’ he whispered. ‘Don’t move!’

  Somer walked backwards away from her, knuckles white on the bow. Did he show himself to draw the Shargh’s attention? she wondered.

  ‘I think they’ve gone,’ he said finally, gesturing violently to Derz. ‘We go too, while we have the chance.’

  Kira sliced the precious spongy fingers as quickly as she could, but Somer grabbed her arm and yanked her upright.

  ‘I must –’ she protested, but Somer was already hauling her down the slope.

  ‘If they’re Shargh, we’ll not leave the Thanaval alive,’ he hissed.

  ‘But they saw you, and they didn’t attack,’ said Kira, panting from the speed of their descent.

  ‘Too steep for horses,’ said Somer, dragging her through the last of the bushes to the valley floor, oblivious to the thorns raking their cheeks. ‘Ashmiri horses,’ he muttered, still in Onespeak, as they went. ‘Meros grant us Ashmiri riders too!’

  They reached Derz and Jaitich and began a swift retreat down the valley. Kira passed two fingers of fireweed to Jaitich to increase the chances of the fireweed reaching the Sanctum. If the Shargh killed her, it might be too dangerous to retrieve her body, and the wounded woodcutters would die.

  Somer and Derz directed them, their voices low and urgent, but Jaitich remained silent, his eyes everywhere, sweat staining his shirt. Kira tried to control her fear by focusing on the sweep of woodlands ahead. A hundred and fifty lengths away, she estimated.

  Birds broke from the trees to their left, and Kira’s heart rate doubled. A hundred lengths to go, then seventy.

  Somer and Derz’s speech came in harsh grabs. Fifty lengths to the Thanaval mouth now. Thirty lengths, twenty-five, twenty. Kira wanted to run, but Somer went at the same even pace, still scanning, still passing an endless stream of messages to Derz behind. Fifteen lengths, ten.

  Then they came out of the shadow into the bright light of the woodlands. Jaitich staggered sideways in relief and Derz came level to confer with Somer. Close to a hundred lengths to the east, she caught a glimpse of the Commander and two troopsmen, the rest of the troop probably guarding the gatherers in the Pelaval.

  Somer sprinted off to report the horses they’d seen, and Derz gestured them forward, then turned, his eyes widening with horror. Kira swivelled and gasped as she saw that Somer lay prone, a spear sticking out of his back. Even from the distance, she heard the Commander’s bellow, then lost sight of him as two Shargh burst from the spur in front, their gaze fixed unwaveringly on her.

  Derz shouted and loosed an arrow, narrowly missing the first of them. Neither Shargh deviated from their path, and Jaitich whirled and sprinted back into the valley. Kira spun as well to see brown horses pound towards Jaitich, who skidded to a stop, half crouched and covered his head. Kira expected to see him hewn down, but the Shargh swept past him, continuing straight towards her.

  There were Shargh between her and the troop, and between her and the shelter of the trees. Kira fled westward, lungs screaming, horses closing behind. Then a black horse surged from the lee of the spur ahead, Kira instantly recognising the rider. She slewed to a terrified stop, fixated by the hatred in his gaze, and the thunder behind surged over her.

  By the ’green which Shelters us, let death be quick!

  But there was no slash of swords, just rough hands flinging her over the horse’s harness. Blood stormed in her ears as her head swung beside the horse’s thrashing legs and the Shargh swept on, laughing and shouting.

  Grasses were replaced by tree roots, and the horses heaved and panted as they were forced up the slopes. Finally the sickening motion ceased and there was an exchange of harsh whispers, before boots came within her line of vision. Kira was yanked from the horse, the sudden change from head-down to upright robbing her legs of strength. Then a hand caught her hair and her head was jerked back. The Shargh from the first attack loomed over her, spitting words barbed with such venom that they seemed to strike her face. His tirade came to an end and he raised his knife to her eyes.

  Kira was engulfed in fear so complete that every shred of everything she’d laboriously built to protect herself from the horror of Kandor’s death was torn to shreds. The Shargh was going to kill her by stabbing out her eyes.

  21

  Tresen still held his sword before him, long after the stranger lay motionless. He scanned the plain and the forest to either side, then advanced on the man warily. The man had spoken Tremen and brought news of Kira, but then Tresen realised the man must actually have spoken Terak, for no stranger knew Tremen. He must be a Terak Kutan, and as he’d known of Kira, she must have reached the north. Joy flowed through Tresen but he sobered as he looked at the stranger’s injuries.

  The man had an angry red gash under his hairline, a blush of bruising down his face and an eye-socket crusted with blood. His arm had been crudely bound and splinted but was horribly swollen, and the bandage on his thigh was blood-soaked.

  Tresen considered how best to shift the unconscious man to the Sentinel’s shelter. His own weakness meant he couldn’t heave the man upright, so in the end, he used the straps of the man’s pack to drag him, trying not to worsen his injuries. It was fully dark before Tresen reached the Sentinel and rolled the man onto the sleeping-sheet he’d found in the man’s pack.

  Then Tresen collapsed beside him, gulped down water until his heart steadied, and considered the fire he was going to have to set for light to tend by. He set it on the forest side of the Sentinel, well within the rim of its sheltering branches, hoping that the massive boughs would diffuse the smoke.

  When it was well alight, Tresen unbound the man’s arm, dug his fingers along the puffed up flesh and pushed the bones back into place. Both arm-bones were broken, but the breaks felt clean. Tresen searched around for straighter splints then rebound the arm with falzon bandages.

  The man’s thigh wound was deep and ragged, and had some sort of herbal paste on it. Tresen flushed out the dried blood and the splinters he found with warm water, bathed the wound with sorren, then bound it with the last of the falzon. He cleaned the man’s head wound and laved it with sorren, then washed the blood from the man’s eye.

  Once he’d tended to the obvious injuries, Tresen slid his hands under the man’s shirt, and felt for rib breaks. There were none and he rolled the man onto his side and pushed his shirt high. The man’s back was a shocking mass of welts and bruises, and reminded him of a Writing he’d found once, that told how the Terak disciplined their patrolmen by beating. Gingerly Tresen brought his palms over the skin, finding no rib breaks there either. The man had been fortunate, Tresen thought, for he’d suffered no injuries likely to kill him. Tresen left him on his side and tucked the sleeping-sheet over him securely, then contemplated him as he drank thornyflower tea with honey.

  The man didn’t look barbarous, despite being a Terak Kutan. His face was narrow and shapely, unlined despite the glint of silver in his hair, and anything but brutish. The man didn’t carry a sword either, but there was a clip on his belt for one. Tresen opened the stranger’s pack and, though he felt like a thief, took the sword he found within and put it into his own pack. Then he stomped on the remains of the fire and climbed into the alwaysgreen. If the stranger intended him harm, he wouldn’t know where he was and, even if he guessed, the man’s
injuries would make climbing impossible.

  Caledon came awake slowly, seeing no sign of the Tremen of the last night. His broken arm throbbed, but he gradually realised that it had been properly splinted and bound with pale bandages, and there was a clean bandage round his thigh. Had the Tremen gifted him his healing skills, then left him to his fate?

  The branches stirred and Caledon looked up. The Tremen from the last night climbed down, dumped his pack near the tree, relit the fire and set water to simmer.

  ‘How do you feel?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m very thirsty,’ said Caledon.

  The Tremen passed him a waterskin and steadied it while Caledon drank. ‘I needed that,’ Caledon said. ‘I’ve had no water since the Azurcades.’

  ‘How many days is that?’

  ‘The maps say it’s an eight-day journey across the Dendora, but I’ve no idea how long it took me,’ said Caledon.

  ‘If you drank no water, I find it hard to believe you survived,’ said the Tremen.

  ‘I drank sida sap,’ said Caledon, nodding towards the sad pile of twigs still tied to his pack. ‘Not the best taste in the world, but enough to keep you alive if you’re desperate.’

  ‘I’ve not heard of it.’

  ‘Neither had Kira,’ said Caledon. ‘From what she told me, I don’t believe it grows in your lands.’

  ‘Last night you brought greetings from Tremen Leader Feailner Kiraon of Kashclan. Do you know where she is?’ said the Tremen, his gaze piercing.

  ‘She’s in Maraschin,’ said Caledon.

  ‘In the north?’

  ‘The northern foothills of the Azurcades.’

  ‘Is that near Sarnia?’

  ‘Sarnia’s another ten days on foot across the Sarsalin Plain,’ said Caledon.

  ‘But you are from Sarnia?’

  ‘I’m from Talliel, west of Sarnia. My name’s Caledon e Saridon e Talliel, which means Caledon, of the family of Saridon, of the city of Talliel. Kira found it easier to call me Caledon.’

  ‘But you speak Trem … Terak,’ said the Tremen.

  ‘I speak many tongues.’

  The water bubbled and the Tremen took the pan off the coals, then pulled a cup from his pack. ‘Do you have a cup? I’ve only brought one,’ he said.

  ‘In my pack. It would be easier for me if you retrieved it.’

  The Tremen lifted Caledon’s things out methodically and respectfully until he found Caledon’s cup stowed at the bottom. It was metal, and Caledon noticed the Tremen’s distaste.

  ‘I’ve taken your sword,’ said the Tremen. ‘I will return it to you before you leave our lands.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Caledon.

  The Tremen added water to a swirl of herbs, unwrapped a pot of honey and added some to both cups, then handed Caledon one.

  ‘I thank you, and I thank you for the aid you’ve given,’ said Caledon. ‘I’ve only met two Tremen in my life, and both have had a part in its saving.’

  ‘Tell me of Kira. Is she well? Is she safe?’

  ‘Both of these things, but I would speak of her as we walk. Kira promised to delay her journey north until a little after the new moon, but my injuries have robbed me of any sense of time. How long is it to the new moon?’

  ‘About eight days, but I can’t allow you into the forest till I know more about you,’ said the Tremen, colouring. ‘You may have extracted information from Kira by threat, or even murdered her.’

  ‘Trust is a cloak, long in the weaving, as I once said to Kira,’ said Caledon. ‘Your Leader told me how the alwaysgreens are used for navigation, and gave me this,’ he said, producing the carved owl.

  ‘I’ve never seen Kira with it,’ said the Tremen, staring at it without recognition.

  ‘She told me it was a gift from Protector Commander Kest,’ said Caledon, noting the Tremen’s expression flick from surprise to distaste. ‘She said to show it to Protector Commander Kest as a token of her trust.’

  ‘What else did Kira say?’ asked the Tremen.

  ‘She trusted me with the names of the three people she loves most in the world … of those who still live. Clanleader Miken of Kashclan, his son, Tresen of Kashclan, and Protector Commander Kest.’

  The Tremen rose and took several quick steps away. Caledon wondered if something were amiss.

  ‘I’m Tresen of Kashclan,’ the Tremen said hoarsely.

  ‘Ah, you were badly wounded in the last attack.’

  ‘I’m all but recovered, and soon to rejoin the Protectors,’ said Tresen, then seemed to reach a decision. ‘We’ll eat and then start back. It will be a slow trip with your injuries. How did you come by them?’

  ‘I was careless,’ said Caledon. He had taken too much for granted, including the intent of the stars.

  ‘It seems you paid a high price,’ said Tresen, ladling what looked like jam onto bread and passing it to Caledon.

  The bread was made of nutmeal and the jam concocted of strange berries, but Caledon wasn’t thinking of the food. Eight days till the new moon! He had a bare fifteen days to convince the Tremen to send men and to recross the Dendora and the Azurcades. Even were he uninjured, he couldn’t do it, and now the price of his carelessness was going to be higher than wounds and broken bones: Adris’s pledge to take Kira north bound him.

  Caledon shut his eyes as the star-wish formed in his mind: By the grace of Aeris, let her be safe.

  22

  Adawngreeter sang, and during the nights of travel through the forest owls had called: the hanawey, the frostking and the mira kiraon, Tresen had said. Caledon rested against a tree and watched sunlight paint the air a luminous green. It was the sixth dawn he’d seen in the forest, or rather hadn’t seen. Tresen still slept, his face reminding Caledon of Kira, sharing the fine bones and build of the Kessomis who still lived in the mountains. The Terak – who’d sprung from the Kessomis – had mixed their blood with the Kirs and Illians, and tended to be darker and thicker set.

  Tresen had told him many things but Caledon had learned more by watching him. The mira kiraon’s call had filled Tresen’s face with longing for his clanmate, but there was anger, too, at her leaving.

  Later, as Tresen had spoken of growing with her, of roaming the forests, of nutting and jumping games, he’d always mentioned Kandor, the name Kira had cried in nightmare. Even when Tresen described his own wounding, which had brought him close to death, his pain was less.

  In the end, Caledon asked about Kandor outright.

  Kandor was the younger brother Kira raised, Tresen had said. She saw him killed by the Shargh, and blames herself for his death.

  Soon after they set off that morning they met one of the patrols Kira had spoken of. Given the Cashgar Shargh were but two days north-east of the forests, Caledon had expected the Protectors to be a more obvious presence. Still, the forest was dense and he suspected patrols could pass close by others without either being the wiser.

  When the Protectors appeared, Tresen had been several lengths to one side, a style of travel Tresen had adopted from their first day, despite Caledon’s reliance on a stick. Suddenly there were men with raised swords all around him, making Caledon’s appreciation of Tremen fighting skills instantly deeper.

  Twenty, Caledon counted, plus their leader, the same configuration the Terak used. Tresen and the leader drew off to one side, while the guarding Protectors stared at Caledon’s boots and pack, and where the edges of his dark green shirt were visible.

  After a short while, the leader beckoned Caledon to the bole of a storm-broken tree.

  ‘Please sit and rest your injuries,’ he said.

  Caledon sat without speaking, having learned long ago that a cooperative silence was a quicker way to build trust than unasked-for speech.

  ‘I am Protector Leader Pekrash of Renclan. Protector Tresen tells me you are … Caledon e Saridon e Talliel.’

  ‘A name strange to the Tremen tongue,’ acknowledged Caledon. ‘Your Leader, Kiraon of Kashclan, calls me Caledon.’
/>   ‘Protector Tresen tells me you bring news of our Leader,’ said Pekrash.

  ‘I carry a message from her she would have me deliver to Protector Commander Kest and the council,’ said Caledon, pausing to let Pekrash digest the fact that his business was official. ‘But I can tell you that Kira is safe and well in Maraschin, the Tain city on the northern edge of the Azurcade Mountains. Kira tends the injured in the Sanctum there, awaiting my return before she continues north towards Sarnia.’

  ‘You bring a message the Tremen have hoped for,’ said Pekrash. ‘There will be rejoicing in all the longhouses, but especially in Kashclan, where those closest to her dwell. It’s best you go there now. I can’t split my patrol to escort you, or deviate from Commander Kest’s orders,’ added Pekrash apologetically, ‘but the risk is small this close to the Arborean. I’ll send a message to the Commander to meet you there.’

  Within a few moments, Caledon and Tresen were alone in the forest.

  They went on, but didn’t reach the Kashclan longhouse till dawn the next day, Tresen walking with a steadying hand on Caledon’s arm in recognition of the thickness of the trees.

  ‘The forest must remain unmarked but the longhouses have paths nearby, simply because of the numbers who pass in and out,’ explained Tresen.

  Not much of a defence, thought Caledon, as a long building appeared, its roof patterned with lichen and its timber walls silvered with age. It all but blended with the dense growth behind it. No metal and no glass, noted Caledon, as they made their way towards the single heavy door, its design the same as the communal houses in Kessom.

  The door opened before they reached it, revealing Clanleader Miken of Kashclan, his similarity to Tresen striking. Miken eyed Caledon shrewdly, and Caledon recalled that Kira had spoken of this man with love. That meant a bond that bound both ways.