Iro took up the tale, speaking quietly. “Those of us who were scattered came together far below. We knew which way to go by means of the sorcerer’s leash. We knew Aras was alive. We hoped Etta and the Tarashana sorcerer might be with him. We traveled as quickly as we could. The gods guided our steps, but this was a long way. We came to Talal Sabero. I was killed there, too quickly to do anything useful.” He spoke in calm, measured tones. “I thought if I died, I would become a shade and then I would fight in the way that shades fight. But by then the shadow tide was very close. I think this is why I did not become a shade in the ordinary way. I fell into the dark, perhaps because I was killed by these shadow warriors or perhaps only because the shadow tide was so close.” Iro paused. Then he said, in the same calm way, “Fortunately, Tano inGara was wiser than I. Many shades were battling our enemies there. Tano did not permit himself to be killed. He slipped by our enemies to speak to the shades and explain what was happening. He should tell that part.”
Tano did not raise his gaze as he told his part of the story. The whip marks across his back showed vividly. Everyone had an idea of him already because of what had happened with the inTasiyo—what he had caused to happen. Now I saw eyebrows rise and people glance at one another as this tale gave them a different idea.
“The eagle who was also a man was probably a servant of the gods,” Koro inKarano said. “I know a few tales that speak of shades who take on such service.”
Aras tilted his head, so that I guessed he might know Lau tales of that kind. Raga straightened, caught my father’s eye, and checked himself. Koro saw all this and smiled slightly. “I will tell those tales later to anyone who wishes to hear them.” He added, his tone thoughtful, “In those tales, a shade of that kind will speak to a living person only if that person possesses the strength to bear the attention of the gods. The gods are said to make note of such a person and remember his name.”
His gaze as he said this was on Tano, who did not look up. Koro finally looked away. He said, “So. Whose story is it now?”
Garoyo shifted slightly so that everyone would look at him. He said, “This must be close to the time I heard Aras call to me. I went toward the place I knew he was and came out of the darkness. Hokino inKera was already there.”
He glanced at Hokino, who nodded, taking up the story himself. “Everything the warleader of the inGara described was also how it happened for me. When I came out of the shadow tide, I was very high in the mountains. Aras was protecting the Tarashana sorcerer and Etta inGara, but they were beset by enemies. The danger was clearly very great. I still had my sword, so I ran forward and fought these enemies, giving Aras the respite he needed. There were too many enemies, even for me. But very soon, Garoyo also came out of the darkness.” Hokino smiled, grimly but with satisfaction. He and Garoyo exchanged a small nod. Hokino went on, “We could see, or perhaps we knew by means of sorcery, that if we held long enough, then the victory could still be ours.”
Garoyo nodded. “We held for some time. But there were too many of those shadow warriors. We did not hold them long enough. I was killed—we were both killed. It happened as Iro inGeiro said. I fell—we both fell—into the dark. That time, I knew the place. But that time, I could not hear Aras.”
“Throughout everything, I could never hear any shade or shadow,” Aras said quietly. “Once a person was killed, that person was lost to me. Ryo, would you prefer to tell the last part of the story?”
“No,” I said, keeping my voice level. I could not bear to speak of it, but I did not say that. I said, which was also true, “I did not know anything but my own part. You knew everything. You should explain how it happened.”
Aras sighed. He rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers, then dropped his hand and looked at Koro inKarano. “The situation had become desperate. We had come near victory and also near defeat. Almost everyone was dead, and those of us upon the height of the mountain were still beset by enemies. Ryo was still alive, and close, with Lalani. Also Raga and Arayo, whom I had found only a short time before. These four people came together, but they also faced enemies. If they turned to climb, they would be cut down at once. This is how it was at that moment.”
“Everyone understands,” Koro agreed. “Go on.”
“Yes. Inhejeriel was creating her great work of sorcery, channeling the voices of the stars to make a ... pathway of light that would lead as many of the lost Tarashana as possible into the sky and then to their own country. Etta’s task was to help her sing the names of the lost. Mine was to lift one name at a time from Inhejeriel’s mind and give it to Etta. I could do this while Garoyo and Hokino fought for me, but not when I had to fight for myself. I knew I could not hold our enemies back for long once they were cut down. I was calling everyone who still lived as urgently as I could. Ryo sent Lalani up alone.” Aras nodded gravely to her, and she nodded seriously in return.
“Lalani has the gift to remember, as some Lau have it,” Aras said. “I set a great number of Tarashana names in her mind. She took up the task to give all those names to Etta, one at a time.”
“Not all,” Lalani said, speaking for the first time. Because of all the people gathered here, she had taken the customary manner of a Lau woman among men—subdued, even humble. But now, remembering she was among Ugaro, she looked up again, so that I was reminded of my early days among the Lau, when I had had to try hard not to bow my head.
She said, “We redeemed very many of those lost. But some were not redeemed. Those who were lost forever were all Tarashana people, because Inhejeriel sang the names of the Ugaro people who had been lost before she sang the names of most of her own people. Everyone should know this. That she promised to do that, and she kept her promise.”
Many people murmured and made small gestures of approval.
“Yes,” Aras said. “Inhejeriel was a great and courageous woman. After I gave all those names to Lalani, I could put my attention to fighting, but this was not enough. I knew our enemies would kill me soon and then they would kill Inhejeriel and Etta and Lalani, and the great working would be ruined before it could be finished, all their courage made nothing.” He stopped, looking at me.
Bracing myself, I said to Aras, “Tell the story as it happened.” If we had been speaking only to young men close to my own age, I would have looked around proudly and added, I will not permit anyone to say anything regarding the events that will be described. In this company, I could not say anything of the kind. Instead, I said, not looking at anyone, keeping my tone flat, “I would very strongly prefer that no one express any opinion regarding these events. Any offense that occurred lies between Aras and me, no one else. Everyone who hears this tale should remember that all these matters have already been settled.” Then I looked at Aras.
“All right,” he said softly in darau. Shifting back to taksu, he went on, looking steadily at Koro inKarano and at my father. “Ryo knew I needed him, but he thought he could not come. If he turned and made the last part of that climb, only Raga and Arayo would be left to hold back our enemies. Two young men would not hold them long. They would both die quickly, for very little gain. If Ryo stood with them, they might hold a long time. He chose to stand with them. I decided his choice was wrong. I used the sorcerous tie I hold to him to take his will. I made him order his younger brother and Arayo to hold, and I made him turn and come to me. He did as I made him do and came up the last small distance, leaving the young men to die so that he could fight for me instead.”
I did not wait to see how anyone would react to this. I knew very well how everyone would react. Before anyone could respond, I said, speaking forcefully, “The strategy was sound. The warleader of the inGara and the warleader of the inKera agree that the decision Aras made was the right decision for that battle.” I paused to let everyone understand this. Some of the people who had begun to speak settled back, listening. I went on. “I agree with this as well. The victory came to us, when otherwise our enemies would have won.” I told them all h
ow it had happened, saying at last, “At the end, the eagle drove back our enemies for one moment and another moment and a third moment, until at last we held long enough. Inhejeriel completed her task. The bridge she made rose through the earth and into the sky.” I sketched the rising spiral with my hand and finished, “Thus very many of those lost were brought back into the lands of the living, into the starlit lands. This was how it happened.”
Before anyone else could respond to any of this, Koro ordered, “For forty breaths, no one will speak.”
In all that crowded tent, no one made a sound. As the pause came to an end, some of the people in the tent looked at Koro inKarano to see what he thought. Some looked at my mother, or at me. But by far the greatest number of people had turned their attention to my father. My father was gazing at Aras, utterly expressionless. Aras had lowered his eyes to his hands, which were folded together. There was no obvious tension in his pose, but he was sitting very still.
When the pause ended, Koro said, “Sinowa inGara, these events concern inGara most nearly. If you wish to express an opinion, I will hear you.”
My father did not answer at once. Finally, after a time long enough for the silence to become tight and impatient, he spoke. “I have two questions I wish to ask. Here is the first: Aras Eren Samaura, did you know everyone who died in the land of the shades would be returned to the land of the living by the sorcery of the Tarashana woman?”
“No,” Aras answered, not raising his gaze. “I hoped it might be so, but I thought it unlikely. If the Saa'arii shadow tide had not taken all those people up, I am almost certain they would have died, because no sorcery could have drawn them out of the land of the shades, only out of the shadow tide. I think now the gods tilted the terrible thing the Saa'arii made and put it to a better use so that those lost might be redeemed. But I did not know that was happening.”
My father nodded. He turned to me. “My son, have you forgiven this offense? Have you accepted any apology for anything that occurred?”
Ah. I should have thought to answer those questions before they were asked. I answered them now. “I forgave the act because it was the right decision for that moment, but I have not forgiven the offense. Perhaps I may forgive it before I die, or perhaps not. I have not accepted any apology. Perhaps I may accept an apology at a later time, or perhaps not.”
My father nodded again. He glanced around, making certain he held everyone’s attention, as he assuredly did. Then he turned to Koro. “When a battle is close and the outcome uncertain, sometimes a warleader must make a difficult choice. I respect the opinion of my warleader and of the inKera warleader regarding the strategy that governed the events we have heard described. I was not present, so I have no opinion regarding that matter myself.” He paused.
Then, indicating Aras with a small movement of his hand, he said, “This man confesses that he has broken an important oath, but he is not inGara. If he sets his honor at hazard or shatters it entirely, that is not a matter for me to judge. He is Lau, not Ugaro, so I do not consider this offense properly a matter for any Ugaro to judge. Oathbreaking is an offense against the gods; let the gods make what disposition they will regarding that crime. That is my opinion regarding that matter.” He paused again, for an even longer interval. Finally he added, not glancing at me, “If a man offends any of my sons in a grievous manner, then I am also offended. But my second-youngest son is old enough to know what his honor requires. I think it best to permit my son to make his own decisions regarding every matter of that kind.”
I bowed my head. So did Aras.
Koro nodded. Then he asked, “Marag inGara, do you have anything to say?”
My mother had listened to everything with her customary calm. Now she answered, “Everyone showed admirable courage and determination. This is a remarkable tale in every way. I would like to hear a more detailed account of the woman’s part of this story. I also think soon we may hear a request from the Tarashana people, for Ugaro to set our strength against the Saa’arii of the sunless sea and against the great king of those people. I think singers and poets and the lords of the tribes and our king should all discuss what answer might be made should such a request come to us. But later will do for all this.” She lifted her hands to show that she meant to say something important and everyone should listen. Then she said, “I have no opinion on matters more suited to the judgment of warriors. But I suggest that, regarding everything that happened in the land of the shades, this is a time when it is better to let those most closely concerned in the matter settle everything as seems best to them. If any further accounting is due beyond this, then my husband is correct: it is best to let the gods make that accounting.” She lowered her hands again.
“For forty breaths, no one will speak,” Koro commanded again. He watched Aras steadily during the pause. I tried to imagine his thoughts, but I could not even begin to do so and gave up the effort. I could think of nothing myself, but only waited, counting the breaths. When the pause ended, Koro said, his tone decisive. “I have no opinion regarding any offense that might have occurred during the events we have heard described, as the Ugaro involved in these events do not request my judgment. For any Lau involved, the matter seems to me one that is better left to the king of the summer country to judge.” He looked at Aras and added, “An important Lau sworn to the summer king should take this problem to him. That is my opinion.”
“Yes,” Aras answered softly. “You are right, o king. I will take the matter to my own king.”
Koro nodded. He paused long enough to show he considered that the subject should turn. Then he said, “When I tell this story, this is how I will tell it.” He told it from beginning to end, setting every event properly in its place. This took a surprisingly short time. When he had finished, he asked us all, “Is this an accurate account of the way in which everything happened?”
Of course it was. Koro had been a poet for a long time before he became king. He knew exactly how to set a tale in order, even a complicated tale with many pieces. He nodded when we all agreed. Then he looked around the crowded tent. “Every poet here, stand up.”
Raga jumped up. The man sitting near Darra also stood up, as I had known he would. Three other men also got to their feet.
Koro said to them, “Everyone should tell this story just as it happened. Every tale changes as people tell it, and that will be so here as well, but not tonight or tomorrow. Let everyone first hear the tale exactly as it happened.” He looked around once more, then nodded. “Everyone may go,” he said. “If anyone wishes to speak to me regarding anything that happened today or regarding this tale we have heard just now, I will hear that person. Any other concern should wait for a later time.”
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No one spoke to my father, even after we left the great tent of our king. His expression was closed, and the way in which he looked at a man who tried to speak to him was so uninviting that this person, a respected inGara warrior who always had opinions about everything, changed his mind and walked away instead. Everyone walked away, heading for their own camps, where they would tell their own people everything they had heard and argue for a year over every detail of the story.
Hokino inKera gripped my arm hard for a moment before he walked away. He did not say anything. Neither did his brother Soro. No one spoke to me. I had no doubt that they both, and everyone else, would think of a great many things to say to each other regarding every possible matter very soon. I turned my thoughts from that as firmly as I could.
My father did not look at Aras now. He said to me, “My son, come with me.” He also signaled to Tano, a curt flick of one hand, with a little gesture that indicated Tano should also bring his brother. Then he nodded to Garoyo and added, “Come when you have given the necessary orders to safeguard our people.” Then he walked away, toward our own camp. I glanced at Garoyo, who lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug and said, “Go.” He went to speak to some of our people, warriors, who had gone aside to wait for him. I made a
sign to Tano to take his brother and follow my father, but I stayed where I was, beside Aras, upset and worried.
Aras appeared calm, but I knew he was concealing tension, perhaps fear, perhaps pain. The thoughts of everyone near us must hurt him. Though he hid this well, I could see the tension in his hands, in the set of his mouth. He said, “Ryo, you had better go.” I knew this was true. I had to go, and soon. But I still hesitated.
My mother came to us. She said to me, “Go, my son.” Then she said to Aras, “If you wish, you may come to my tent.” She included all the Lau with a small, graceful gesture. “All your people may come. I and other women wish to hear more of the woman’s part of this story.” She smiled at him, her manner exactly as always. “Or, if you prefer, we may speak of unimportant things.”
This offer, made in this way, at this moment, was much more important than her words suggested. Once everyone saw that my mother did not regard Aras with disfavor, they would begin to think perhaps his act had not been as offensive as it seemed at first—at least not so offensive as to be unforgiveable. Aras probably understood this. He did not smile, but he bowed his head and said, very politely, “Marag inGara, I thank you for your kindness, and your extraordinary forbearance. I would be glad of the chance to answer any questions you may ask about anything that happened.”
Now I could go. Turning, I jogged after my father.
The distance to my father’s tent was not great. He had not waited for me, but he had not been hurrying, so I did not come there too much behind the others. I went into the tent, not permitting myself to breathe quickly. Tano was already kneeling, his head bowed, in the place appropriate for young men, near the entry. He did not look up when I entered. His younger brother knelt behind him, as a boy that age should. He was perfectly still. Someone had taught him to be quiet. I went forward, knelt in the appropriate place, and bowed. Then, straightening, I waited.
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