Song of the Silvercades

by K S Nikakis

  Was Tierken scaring her in revenge for the trouble she’d caused him? she wondered. Then the horse reached the plain and pounded over the grass in a hard gallop. Tierken crouched low and she hunched down behind him, the air slicing through her jacket. Dark clouds boiled ahead, reminding Kira of when she’d run before the storm towards the Azurcades, and of stumbling on Caledon. But Tierken didn’t run before the storm, he ran towards it.

  They streaked across the plain, wind driving grit into their faces, thunder clashing. In Allogrenia, such storms tore trees in half, but there were no trees here, and no shelter. Lightning slashed and rain hurled against them, hard as stones. Then, without warning, Tierken veered left, plunging down into a shallow run of land towards a dark tunnel-like opening.

  He slewed to a stop at the tunnel entrance and leapt to the ground, wrenching Kira after him in a single action. Not faltering in his headlong flight, he hauled her and the horse into the tunnel. The horse snorted and blew, the smell of its hot sweat filling the confined space. Beyond the silhouette of its ears, thunder roared and lightning shattered the murky sky.

  ‘What … is this … place?’ gasped Kira, breathless from their flight.

  ‘A storm-safe. They’ve been built by herders over many seasons and are scattered over the Sarsalin. I thought we’d beat the storm here, but the Sarsalin had other plans.’

  It must have been a massive task to dig out the soil and rock, thought Kira. The walls had been lined with blocks of stone.

  ‘You should change into some dry clothes,’ said Tierken, wrenching off his sodden jacket and shirt, and pulling another shirt from his pack. In the garish light, the criss-cross of scars on his back was clear.

  ‘Your back!’ exclaimed Kira.

  ‘Do you think I expect my men to bear what I haven’t?’

  ‘It’s barbaric!’

  He still held his shirt, the skin of his chest and torso golden, with dark hair curled across it.

  ‘Pain’s a powerful teacher,’ said Tierken, slipping on his shirt. ‘Do the Tremen not train their men to fight?’

  ‘To protect.’

  ‘And when they’re disobedient, or careless, or learn their lessons poorly, how are they taught to remember?’

  ‘Not by beating!’

  ‘Ah, well that probably explains why you ended up in Shargh hands,’ he said.

  ‘The fault wasn’t theirs!’ exclaimed Kira. ‘They would have sacrificed every one of themselves, right down to the last man, to protect me!’

  ‘Then why didn’t they?’

  ‘Do you think I want people to die because of me? To have them killed or so badly slashed that it takes half the night to stitch them up? To have my family –’ she choked to a stop.

  ‘Properly trained men prevent such things,’ said Tierken.

  ‘They are properly trained,’ cried Kira. ‘But we live by healing, not by killing, not like the Terak Kutan!’

  Tierken froze. ‘What did you call us?’

  ‘The Terak Kutan,’ said Kira relucantly, recalling too late Slivkash’s reaction to the word.

  Tierken seized her by the shoulders and brought his face to hers, his eyes burning with fury. ‘Be grateful that the Terak Kirillian do not raise their hands to women,’ he said, his grip tightening so that she winced. ‘Don’t ever use that phrase again in my hearing.’ Releasing her, he strode to the tunnel entrance and stood staring out at the rain.

  Kira settled on the ground, resting her head against the tunnel wall and rubbing her bruised arms. Her task was to go north and beg help from the Terak king, not alienate his men by spitting the insults the Tremen had used since the Sundering. The more Kira thought about it, the more ashamed she grew. She was the Tremen Leader, not a thwarted child.

  The rain finally eased and Tierken readied his horse. ‘Time to go,’ he said.

  Outside, the ground was sodden and the sky open, a washed gold mirroring the sweep of the plain. Kira couldn’t bring herself to apologise, but she resolved not to cause Tierken any further trouble.

  They went on at a gentler pace, but Tierken remained silent, still angry. It was close to dusk when they reached camp. It was set between two small rises, the one at the back steep, with the Terak shelters hard up against it.

  Tierken stopped next to one of the shelters, which looked like a large sleeping-sheet strung over a rope between two poles. They had probably been set because of the rain, thought Kira.

  ‘This is your gifan,’ he said, helping Kira dismount.

  ‘I thank you, do you –’ began Kira, but Tierken had ridden on and was now in conversation with Marin, the word ‘Ashmiri’ floating back before they were out of ear-shot.

  The men were gathered some distance away, and Kira scanned the group for Jonred, but couldn’t see him. She’d resolved to avoid irritating Tierken, so turned to the gifan. Her sleeping-sheet was inside and she pulled off her boots and crawled into it, her exhaustion greater than her hunger. Curling into a ball, she slept.

  32

  Tierken hadn’t expected to share Cover-cape Crest with the Ashmiri, but when Marin told him they were nearby he realised it provided him with a timely opportunity to deliver Terak greetings, and remind these Ashmiri of the oath Ashmiridin had sworn, many seasons past. It was unlikely Chief Uthlin would be here, for there were half a dozen Ashmiri groups spread out between the Silver and Azurcades.

  The Ashmiri had aided Shargh attacks by lending them horses, and if things turned bad, the Crest would give good protection, being too steep for the horseback fighting the Ashmiri preferred. The ground was slick from the storm too, and the moon near full, so there could be no surprise attack.

  ‘How many are there?’ Tierken asked Marin.

  ‘Nine sorchas and about three hundred ebis,’ said Marin.

  ‘It could be Uthlin then,’ said Tierken thoughtfully.

  Ashmiri wealth was measured by ebis; so many herd animals and so few sorchas meant wealthy and influential Ashmiri. Perhaps the storm had granted him more than a hard ride and a violent argument with his guest. Tierken ordered the horses be resaddled, and outlined a course of action in case they were attacked.

  ‘You plan to visit them?’ said Marin.

  ‘They’ll know I’m here. It would be an insult not to present my compliments. We’ll go on foot: me, you, Jonred, Drinen and Shird.’

  ‘On foot, Feailner? Do you think that’s wise?’ said Marin.

  ‘Are you suggesting our Ashmiri oath-swearers are also oath-breakers?’

  ‘The Shargh ride Ashmiri horses.’

  ‘Not something I’ve forgotten; nor should we forget that while the Ashmiri are tied to us, they’re kin to the Shargh. It’s unwise to force men to choose between blood and words, Marin. It’s better to remind them of honour. In the Ashmiri’s case, it’s stronger than both.’

  ‘And are we to go weaponless as well, Feailner?’ asked Marin, not much placated.

  ‘Of course not, nor would they expect it. We’ll take knives in case we must fight up close and swords to maintain our honour, and we’ll take arrows to fire over our shoulders in case we must run,’ said Tierken.

  ‘Meros grant it doesn’t come to that,’ grumbled Marin.

  The small group assembled and Tierken led them up the Crest, the near-full moon painting the Ashmiri sorchas as bright as snow. Soon the Ashmiri would take their ebis south, leaving the northern grazing to the hardier goats of the Kirs and Illians. As Tierken expected, they were met some distance out, for the Ashmiri always set watchers. Tierken and Marin exchanged glances after the Ashmiri gave a brief bow, rather than the usual gesture of respect, then their escort led them to the highest sorcha on the slope. Gesturing them to wait, he disappeared through a door-flap, and Tierken signalled to Shird, Jonred and Drinen, who stepped back and took up defensive positions. They could hear speech, the language harsh to Tierken’s ears; Kir and Illian had seemed the same before he’d mastered them.

  Apart from Marin, who was Illian, Tierken had chos
en Terak to accompany him, the Terak having a bent for thoughtful action, unlike the Kirs, who were all dash. It was a difference forcibly pointed out to him by Poerin, who had done all he could to thrash Tierken’s Kir tendencies out of him over the hard seasons in Kessom.

  The escort reappeared, palmed his forehead and waved them in, the gesture of respect either an encouraging sign or a trap, thought Tierken. It was warm in the sorcha, and luxurious compared with the patrol’s conditions of travel. The floor was covered with wolf-skins, and lamps hung from the roof struts, their intricate metal-work and stained glass throwing gloriously patterned light onto the hide walls. A fire burned beneath the smoke vent, metal pots and pans gleaming on the coals.

  Uthlin was positioned on the other side, easy to identify because of the single black dots tattooed on his cheekbones. Warriors sat beside him, their cheeks similarly patterned with single dots in white, green, red, blue or yellow. Their swords and knives were at their belts, their spears on the skins behind them, noted Tierken as he bowed. Even when invited to enter the sorcha, Tierken must lower his head first, ‘giving way’ to Uthlin. Ashmiri mores were another thing Poerin’s ‘gentle guidance’ had burned into his mind.

  Uthlin palmed his forehead, and gestured Tierken to sit, Marin settling at Tierken’s right hand, Jonred at his left, Shird and Drinen to either side of them. Tierken’s men would not be introduced or acknowledged, except by their status, which, like the Ashmiri’s, was determined by their position in relation to him. Nor would Uthlin’s warriors palm their foreheads to him, their presence at this meeting introduction enough.

  Even without gold eyes, Uthlin would know who he was. Dwinhir, some called the Ashmiri – for their ability to see whatever moved on the plain – but others called them skin-hovers, after the plain’s scavenger birds.

  ‘The Ashmiri greet the Feailner of the Terak, Kirs and Illians. May your time be blessed with rich pastures and many sons,’ said Uthlin, in good Onespeak.

  ‘The Feailner of the Terak, Kirs and Illians thanks you and is honoured to sit in the sorcha of a people whose friendship has endured from the time of Terak himself,’ replied Tierken.

  Uthlin’s eyes glittered as he dipped his head, and Tierken wondered if he’d been too hasty in reminding Uthlin of his forebear’s oath. There was an edginess about the Ashmiri Chief, as if he were about to spring from the hides.

  ‘The Sky Chiefs send their storms early,’ said Uthlin, filling an ornate metal cup from the pan on the fire, and passing it to Tierken.

  The offer of drink – spiced sherat – and the small talk, suggested that Uthlin had taken no offence, but the Ashmiri Chief was definitely ill at ease. Tierken took a careful sip. Only a fool dulled their reflexes when sitting in the sorcha of the Shargh’s kin.

  ‘The Sarsalin has many moods,’ he acknowledged politely, the sherat moving through his bones like liquid fire.

  ‘We know the Sarsalin well,’ responded Uthlin tersely.

  Tierken gazed down at the sherat, as if considering its merits. Poerin had taught him that silence spoke louder than words with the Ashmiri.

  ‘But there’s a place where the wind and rain might enter even the best-set sorcha,’ added Uthlin.

  It was the Ashmiri way of saying they’d suffered misfortune, but Tierken still held his silence.

  ‘A warrior has been burned by the storm and we wait to see if the Sky Chiefs claim him,’ said Uthlin.

  Under the terms of Ashmiridin’s oath to Terak, the Ashmiri were free to travel and set camp when and where they wanted, without explanation or excuse to the Terak. Even if one of their kind were struck by lightning, they wouldn’t necessarily set sorchas, the giving and taking of life the prerogatives of the Sky Chiefs.

  The fact that Uthlin had stopped, and told Tierken the reason, could only mean that the injured man was important, and that Uthlin was asking for help. Tierken took another sip of the sherat, knowing it was acceptable to delay his response. If the man were badly burned, Uthlin knew he would die. So the man must be capable of being saved.

  Tierken’s thoughts went from Marin – whose skill lay mainly in setting bones – to Kira. If she could save the man, it would generate much goodwill, and if the Shargh continued their inclination for warfare, he was going to need all the Ashmiri goodwill he could muster. But if Kira failed to save the man, or caused him further suffering, the result could be the opposite.

  ‘A Healer travels with us –’ began Tierken.

  ‘Our Hals are skilled,’ interrupted Uthlin, breaking protocol. It was a sign, Tierken decided, of his distress over the injured man.

  ‘The Healer is not Terak, Kir or Illian,’ said Tierken carefully. ‘Nor is she of the Kessomi people, but of a people in the far south, beyond the Azurcades.’

  The Healer is a stranger to us both. If she fails, the failure will not be Terak, nor the debt for her efforts Ashmiri.

  Uthlin nodded briefly and Tierken gestured to Shird, who rose and left. Kira didn’t know Shird, but Tierken couldn’t send Marin or Jonred on an errand, nor did he want to be left without his best fighters.

  ‘How grow the pastures south of the ridgelands?’ asked Uthlin, topping up his cup and moving on to more mundane things.

  Tierken started to describe the grasses, soil moisture and spring levels of the lands they’d passed, an exchange of information expected among grazing peoples, and Uthlin’s tension seemed to ease. In contrast, Tierken’s muscles knotted as he considered how little he actually knew of Kira. It was possible that he’d just made the worst mistake of his life.

  33

  There was movement behind him and Tierken broke off his description to Uthlin and turned to see that Shird, and the escort who’d met them earlier, had come back. There was no sign of Kira, which meant she probably waited outside. He hoped Shird had reassured her that the Ashmiri weren’t the Shargh. She was unlikely to be of use if she were frozen with fear. The escort spoke to Uthlin, and Uthlin murmured something to the warrior next to him, who rose and left. Tierken’s heart raced and he whispered to Marin to follow.

  Uthlin continued his questions about grazing matters, but now Tierken found it all but impossible to concentrate. The fact that Uthlin had sent out the warrior at his right hand, presumably to oversee Kira’s healing, could mean only one thing: the injured man was a member of Uthlin’s own family.

  Outside in the icy night, Kira was feeling increasingly anxious. A strange patrolmen had wrenched her from her sleep and insisted she come, and now she was alone in the midst of the Shargh’s kin, surrounded by skin houses and the bellows of the Ashmiri herd animals. The patrolman who’d fetched her had disappeared inside with the young Ashmiri with dots on his face. She peered around shivering, then the young Ashmiri reappeared, making her jump, with Marin and an older, ferocious-looking Ashmiri. The man looked so like a Shargh that Kira’s heart lurched, not even Marin’s presence reassuring her.

  ‘Did Shird tell you what’s happened?’ whispered Marin, as they accompanied the Ashmiri through the icy night.

  ‘No. Who’s Shird?’

  Marin cursed in Terak, but before he could speak again, the Ashmiri ducked into another of the round houses and they reluctantly followed.

  The first thing Kira noticed as she straightened was the glorious warmth, then the groans of agony. A young man lay on his side, naked on a sheet, his cheek, shoulder, arm, torso, hip and thigh blistered, even the hair on the side of his head burned off. The raw flesh had been covered with a greenish paste, its scent suggesting a mix of silversalve, sorren, bruise-ease and honey – as good a salve as any for burns. A young woman held the man on his uninjured side, and various Ashmiri moved in and out of the sorcha.

  Kira knelt down and the fierce-looking Ashmiri settled beside her, so close he almost touched her.

  ‘He was struck by lightning,’ said Marin, his gaze on the injured man.

  Kira knew from the Protectors that young men hid pain, but this young man was so consumed by it that such dec
eption was impossible.

  ‘Was he on a horse?’ asked Kira in Onespeak.

  The Ashmiri next to her nodded.

  ‘I need him on his back,’ said Kira, wondering if, having fallen from a horse, the man might be bleeding inside.

  The Ashmiri beside her said something to the young woman, and she clenched her teeth and eased him over.

  The man screamed and a heated argument broke out between the young woman and the warrior beside Kira. It stopped as suddenly as it began, but Kira’s scalp prickled as she thought of the knives the warrior carried at his belt. The tension in the sorcha was palpable and she feared the warrior would stab her if she touched the injured man. But she had no choice.

  She took a steadying breath.

  ‘Don’t let me fall on him,’ Kira whispered to Marin, as she brought her hands down over the man’s heart. She didn’t need to touch him, the severity of his pain plunging her into the fire-filled tunnel. What she saw was the boiling core of pain and injury in his lower back.

  Kira pulled back, nauseous, and Marin gripped her arm. The sorcha was absolutely silent, the injured man no longer groaning, his eyes fixed on her. He had a black dot on one cheek but the other had been burned off.

  ‘I need him on his side again,’ said Kira.

  The young woman turned him without argument, and Kira ran her hand down his back, then carefully flattened her palms against his spine and pushed, the man grunting as the bones slipped back. The young woman cried out in relief and Marin caught Kira’s arm and helped her up, pulling her after the older Ashmiri, who’d already hurried out.