He looked back at her, his face was streaked with shadows. “What are you doing out here?”
“Kalek sent me,” she said, avoiding his scrutiny by looking up at the passing clouds.
“Why?”
“To get me out of his way,” she said, shaking her head, the indignity returning. “He told me to go practice with you.”
Marnej frowned. “To what end?”
Dárja heard an unwelcome note of suspicion in this question. “I’m going to go back. This was a bad idea.”
Marnej jumped to his feet. “No. Don’t go. We should practice.”
He walked out into the clearing, then turned to face her. “Although you look a little weak, and you are a girl.”
“I have fought and killed bigger Olmmoš than you,” Dárja scoffed before realizing he’d been teasing her. “And I’m not a girl.” She sounded out the word in Marnej’s deep Olmmoš accent. “I’m a nieddaš, or haven’t you learned anything yet?”
“Are you always like a burr in the boot?” he asked. “Or is this some special gift you’re intent on sharing just with me?”
Dárja pretended to give the question some thought before saying, “I believe you bring it out in me.”
He bowed. “A natural talent I’ll need to rid myself of.”
She bowed in turn. “Don’t be so hasty. You don’t have that many talents to begin with.”
At this, Marnej drew a short sword, momentarily catching Dárja off guard. Then he skipped away from her to goad her with a wave of his hand.
Dárja tossed aside her bow and quiver to unsheathe her own sword.
“You look so pale,” he said, beaming with amusement. “I promise not to draw blood. I don’t think you could afford to lose even a drop.”
“I make you no such promise,” Dárja said, lunging in a flash of motion.
Marnej parried. He cross-stepped to come at her weak side. Dárja feinted, then swiftly withdrew, letting Marnej’s blade swing far short of her. He closed the gap with a thrust. Dárja met his blade. The clang of metal upon metal briefly numbed her arms, revealing how weak she’d become since returning home. She stepped back, losing her footing in a deep, muddy patch to fall onto her backside.
Marnej came forward, dropping the point of his blade. “Are you hurt?”
Dárja rolled over her shoulder, coming up into a squat with her weapon ready. Marnej batted the blade, then bounded away when she leapt forward. She laughed, missing him completely. The two traded blows until Marnej stepped back and broke off the engagement.
He wiped his face with his sleeve. “Not bad.” He grinned. “Not bad for a nieddaš who has been lying in bed since the harvest moon.”
Bent over the pommel of her sword, Dárja rose to the taunt.
“I take it back!” he said laughing, holding up his hands. “That’s not bad for a Taistelijan who has been lying in bed since the harvest moon.”
Dárja narrowed her eyes into an icy stare. The smirk dropped from Marnej’s lips and his forehead wrinkled. She held her penetrating stare just a moment longer, enjoying her victory, then broke out into a fit of giggles that turned into a wheeze. Dárja coughed, trying to catch her breath. Marnej sat down on the ground in front of her. She followed suit, heedless of the frost and the mud. She leaned back to look up at the sky.
“See, there you are, lying down once again,” he said with a note of triumph. “Is that how they train you Taistelijan warriors?”
Dárja sat up, her pulse quickening. “Irjan trained me.”
“I knew from the moment I saw you fight that my father had trained you,” Marnej said, still lying down but alive with new tension. “You move like a Piijkij.”
Dárja exhaled, telling herself to relax. Marnej’s observation hadn’t been a slight. “He didn’t want to,” she said. “I begged him. I begged him until he relented.”
For a moment, the memory spun her in its lonely web. She’d been so little and so determined. Poor Irjan.
Dárja stirred, aware Marnej watched her through lowered lashes, as if he didn’t want her to know that he was paying close attention.
It was a ploy she had often used around Kalek and Irjan.
“At first, Irjan just pretended to teach me about the sword,” she said, surprised to find that she wanted to talk about him. “His lesson seemed to be more like dancing than fighting. Later on, something changed and he began to take our practices seriously.” Dárja reflected on how the shift had come about, then shrugged. “I’m not sure what prompted it. I was just excited to learn and to practice with him.”
Marnej rolled to face her, feigning interest in the dried stalks of grass they had trampled in their mock battle.
“I miss him,” she said, then steeled herself for what needed to be said next. “And I’m sorry that you’ll never know him.”
Marnej’s hands stilled.
Dárja cleared her throat, praying her voice would not fail. “It’s my fault. No matter what Kalek says. Irjan would’ve stayed here if I hadn’t said that I hated him and never wanted to see him again.” She sniffed back the cold tears that stung her eyes. She’d cried enough.
Marnej just lay there, staring at her. Dárja wanted him to yell and scream at her, because then she’d be able to accept her responsibility. But he just lay there, not moving, not speaking, his pale grey eyes like a distant storm.
It took Marnej a moment to realize that Dárja had stopped talking because all he heard was her saying that she was sorry that he would never meet his father. And she looked as if she truly believed she was to blame—the one who’d struck the blow that had killed his father.
Marnej scrambled to his feet, leaving a startled Dárja in his wake. He needed to move. If he didn’t, he felt he would rip wide open, unable to contain his anger at Dárja, at the gods, or fate or whatever had cursed him. He took a step in one direction, but it felt like running away. He turned back only to confront Dárja. The sympathy in her eyes burned right through him. He wouldn’t suffer pity. Pity was for the weak—for the powerless. He’d been a Piijkij. He’d been trained to kill. Marnej swung around in a circle, overwhelmed by his need to regain what had just been stripped from him with one tearful look.
Out of the corner of his eye, beyond Dárja’s profile, a trio of deer emerged at the clearing’s edge. Their heads bent to graze on the thawing ground.
“Where’s your bow?” he hissed.
Dárja shrank from him, pointing behind her.
Marnej dropped low and ran as quietly as possible. He picked up the bow and quiver as he moved forward, intent on the deer. He judged the wind direction, then shifted to stay downwind of the trio.
Behind him, he heard Dárja’s breath catch.
He took pleasure in ignoring her whispered protests. He had no need for someone to always remind him that he was something less than his father. He crouched as he glided forward, nocking an arrow into place as he’d done hundreds of times to make perfect his technique. Thank the Brethren for their thoroughness.
“Marnej, don’t,” Dárja said somewhere far behind him, her alarm just another sound.
The deer tensed, their ears up, alert.
Marnej straightened, adjusting his aim.
The trio leapt away, the larger two bolting into the forest, and the smallest skirting the far side of the clearing.
“Stay out of this Dárja,” he warned, racing forward, sighting along the arrow’s shaft as he chased after the lone deer.
Dárja’s shouts to stop made him all the more determined. Every step he took it seemed that someone, or something, stood in his way. But not here. Nothing stood between him and his quarry. He was a skilled hunter. Maybe not as renowned as his father, but he’d prove Irjan’s equal in the end. He released the arrow.
The arrow flew true. The bow’s twang echoed in his ear.
In the instant before the arrow hit its target, he heard Dárja’s plaintive cry, “What have you done?”
Marnej’s triumphant response fell away l
ike a hewn tree as pain exploded in his mind and then in his body. He cradled his head, pleading for the cries within to stop. Time stretched out in an endless, agonizing screech, as he shrank further into himself, praying for the torment to cease, promising anything if only it would. And then it did. As suddenly as it began, it stopped.
Marnej fell forward onto the ground, too weak to do anything but thank the gods that the pain had stopped. When he finally regained his strength, he pushed himself up to his knees. As he straightened he saw Dárja, lying on the ground, curled into a ball, her body trembling. He scooted forward, every muscle straining in the effort.
When he laid a hand on her shivering body, she whimpered. “Why did you do that?”
Marnej sat back on his heels. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You killed it,” she cried, rocking back and forth, keening. “You killed it.”
“Yes,” he said. “I killed it.”
“But it was too young,” she sobbed. “Didn’t you hear its song?”
“What do you mean?” Marnej demanded, his insides sick and his thoughts confused. “I killed a deer for food.”
Dárja sat up, her red-rimmed eyes full of loathing. “You can’t kill the young in the Song,” she shouted at him, pounding her fists on the ground.
It was too much for Marnej. “Damn the lot of you,” he shouted her down. “You blame me for things that I don’t know and despise me for things that’re beyond my control.” He pushed himself to standing. “I didn’t choose to live, or kill your mother, or ruin your life.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DÁRJA BURST THROUGH THE garden door into the apothecary. Her face was streaked with dirt, her furs coated in mud.
“Kalek, we need your help,” she cried out.
The panic in her voice acted like a lightning strike to the healer’s quiet contemplation.
Kalek knocked over a stool in his haste to make it to her side. “Are you hurt? What is wrong? What has happened?” His questions flew out, chased by dread.
Dárja shook her head, her eyes wide. “No one’s hurt.”
She looked back toward the garden, then took hold of Kalek’s hand, pulling him down the short, dark hall and out into the frost-covered garden.
Marnej stood just beyond the stone wall, as he had the first time Kalek had seen him. His expression today was no less uncertain.
Still holding his hand, Dárja breathlessly rambled. But Kalek did not need to hear what she said to understand what had happened. The deer draped across Marnej’s shoulders told him all he needed to know—it was too young. Sadness washed over Kalek, relieving his heart of fear but not the sense of foreboding.
Marnej would not meet his eye.
Dárja ran after Kalek. “He didn’t mean to. I thought he knew . . . I tried to stop him but he just didn’t know. It’s not his fault.”
Kalek put his hand on Dárja’s shoulder to calm her. “I know it is not his fault. Marnej has only been with us a short time. He has not been taught all that he needs to know. That is not his burden to bear, but rather ours. Mine and Okta’s and the Elders’.”
Kalek turned to Marnej, who still would not meet his gaze, but he did not need to see the boy’s eyes to know that he was troubled. Marnej’s jaw was squared and clenched, and the ropy muscles of his neck were taut. He rocked ever so slightly as if readying himself for some action.
In an instant, Kalek understood the mistake he had made, the mistake they all had made. Marnej, like Irjan, had been trained for action, but none among their kind had given that fact the weight it deserved. They were all too tired, too disheartened to do anything other than pretend their lives had not changed. They had just let Marnej wander, aimless, and that had proved dangerous.
Marnej needed a calling to suit his soul, because unlike Irjan, who had a prison to bind him, Marnej had chosen to stay among them of his own accord. Kalek neither wanted the boy to regret his decision to stay, nor end up in prison if he decided he wanted to leave.
“Dárja, go inside and clean up,” Kalek said. “I will accompany Marnej to the carver and tanner. The damage has been done, and we have learned something that will not soon be forgotten.”
Kalek approached Marnej, cautiously reaching out a hand as if he were gaining the trust of a wary animal.
“Come,” he gestured, adding, “It will be fine.”
Marnej stood frozen, looking at Kalek’s outstretched hand. Then he nodded, his hair falling into his eyes to hide them from view.
“I want to come with you,” Dárja said.
Kalek turned back to her, shaking his head.
“I need you to go into the apothecary and finish what I have started at the fire. Strain the liquid and place it in a large wooden bowl, then remove the bark, and leave it dry on the table. When you have done that, let the pot cool before you wash and dry it. We should be back by then.”
“Wait,” she called after them. “Marnej, wait!”
Marnej kept walking beside Kalek. The deer’s head lolled against the boy’s shoulder. Its dark eye stared up a Kalek, holding him responsible for Marnej’s recklessness.
Dárja caught up to them, planting herself in front of Marnej, forcing him to look up or run her over.
“I’m sorry,” she said, winded. “I think you know things I know because . . . because you’re Jápmemeahttun. But you don’t.”
Marnej sagged a little as he exhaled.
Kalek started to remind Dárja that she was needed back in the apothecary, but she interrupted him.
“Yes, I blamed you for what happened to my oktoeadni and accused you of ruining my life,” she said, a hint of challenge in her voice.
Marnej stiffened.
“Dárja, this is a matter to discuss later,” Kalek said.
“No, Kalek. That’s the problem. Too little’s been said or too much has been held back.” She put up her hand to prevent Marnej’s advance.
“I know that it wasn’t your choice,” she said. “Maybe it’s time for us to stop blaming others for what can’t be changed and learn how to live as we are.”
Kalek, touched by the hope he saw in Dárja’s fragile smile, waited to hear what Marnej would say.
“I have a lot to learn,” the boy said, meeting her eye as he stepped around her.
Dárja attempted to follow, but Kalek held her back. “I trust you to take care of the apothecary for me, just as you must trust me to take care of Marnej.” Then to ease not only her conscience but his own, he added. “This is not the first time this has happened. We have all learned in our own way and in our own time.”
Kalek watched Dárja’s retreating back just long enough to be sure she would follow his direction, then he closed the gap to keep in step with Marnej.
“She tried to stop me,” the boy said. “I didn’t listen.”
Kalek let silence fill in the space between them until Marnej was ready to say more.
“I was so frustrated,” he began, then abruptly stopped. After a long pause he said, “We were talking about Irjan. Dárja was blaming herself for what happened and then she said she was sorry that I would never know him and the look in her eyes . . . I just wanted to scream.”
“But not at her,” he added with a sidelong glance.
“I wanted to scream and yell at whoever was really responsible. The Brethren. Your warriors. The gods. Somebody. Anybody.” Marnej’s tone grew more anxious. “But there was no one, and I felt like if I didn’t do something, if I didn’t take action, then I would rip myself apart from the inside out.
“And then I saw the deer. I knew it was something I could do,” he said. “I can hunt. It’s what I was trained to do. And I just wanted to prove that there was something within my power that I could control.”
Marnej grabbed Kalek’s arm. “You must believe me. If I’d known what would happen, I’d have never done it.”
Kalek took hold of the boy’s cold hand and squeezed it. He looked into his troubled eyes to make sure that he would be heard.
“I believe you, Marnej. I know you would not have killed the animal if you had known the consequences.”
“Does everybody know what I’ve done?” he asked, shame creeping into his face.
“No.” Kalek shook his head. “Perhaps the Elders and the old ones who spend all their time listening to the Song, but you will not be singled out.”
They began to walk again.
This time it was Kalek who struggled with what to say as a new fraught silence surrounded them.
“I think it is time that we help you learn what we all take for granted,” he said finally, waiting for the boy’s reaction, and relieved to see him nod.
“Was it like this for my father?” Marnej asked.
The tentative inflection of his words, reminded Kalek that Marnej was still very much a boy—one who longed for his father.
“No. It was easier for Irjan. He had no choice in the matter. His movements were tightly controlled for many seasons of snow. What you are doing is much harder.”
Kalek went on, ignoring the fact Marnej had stopped walking. “I think you may find it easier if you can choose a purpose that suits you.”
When Marnej caught up to him, Kalek added, “Okta and I are happy to have you in the apothecary, but we are aware you are not inclined to listen to plants or wait for the right time to harvest.”
Kalek felt certain Marnej would not challenge this blunt assessment. He might, in fact, even find relief in it. Still, he explained himself, “You have been trained for action. Plants and medicine are an art requiring patience and stillness. I do not know if your heart speaks to you about its true desires. If it does, then you should listen. If it does not, then you should ask.”
Marnej said nothing until they approached the stables. “What happens if I don’t find something?”
“I think it is rare for a heart to be without desire,” Kalek said, moving to lift the deer from Marnej’s shoulders.
Marnej drew back. It was a gesture some would have read as defiance. But Kalek took it to be a sign of his remorse, not just for the death of the deer, but also for the hate he had harbored toward Irjan.
Dreams of the Dark Sky Page 20