by Claudia King
Such things changed a person. Who would she be now, she wondered, if she had hidden the truth away, letting it become lost to legend?
The question of her mentor's past nagged incessantly at Netya's thoughts. She would learn the truth of it. She had to. Yet within days another obstacle threw itself into her path, as if the spirits of the world were conspiring in unison against her.
Winter had arrived. After the muted grey skies of the wet season the sight of the valley blanketed in brilliant white snow stung her eyes. All other preoccupations had to be forgotten as the next few days became a steady chore of moving belongings to the seers' cave and sealing up summer dwellings for the winter. The cold season was to be a harsh one, just as the signs had predicted.
It was a forlorn sight for Netya to see her little hut creaking in the wind, the purple colour long since having run out of thatching that had disintegrated under the assault of rain and snow. The hut had survived the previous winter, though, and with the spirits' blessing it would survive again. A little thatching was easily replaced, and once the sun came back she would decorate it in vibrant purples once more.
As the witches settled into the communal cave there was much posturing and assertion of status. While Adel's coven did not settle their disputes via challenges, they were still as proud and tenacious as any of their kind. The apprentices were turned out of their private nook to make room for Sister Lyucia and some of her companions, while the eldest and most senior seers took the back of the cave for themselves. Newer and younger members of the clan were left to make their hearths near the front, where cold drafts wafted in from the entrance by day and moisture trickled down through the smoke cracks by night. Netya had never been one to fight for a cosy spot, nor to turn anyone else out so that she could claim their hearth for herself. She would have been content to let Caspian keep her warm near the front with the apprentices, but her friend Fern managed to coax her into joining the huntresses in the warm hollow they had staked out for themselves closer to the back of the cave.
“You just want Caspian somewhere you can get your hands on him,” Netya teased.
“Maybe, but he'd agree too if it meant keeping you warm. You could take any spot you wanted if you'd only ask. There's no reason for you to shiver down at the front.”
Netya glanced around the segment of the cave Fern had claimed. The wall bulged out smoothly two thirds of the way toward the back, likely carved out by the springs that seemed to have bubbled their way through every part of the northern ridge at some point in the distant past.
“I thought we kept the herb baskets in here?”
Fern grinned. “Lyucia wasn't happy about the huntresses sleeping up around them. I told her of course, of course, she was right. Only the seers should be allowed to keep watch over their sacred herbs. I bet she regrets it now that her little sanctuary's stuffed full of them!”
“Fern!” Netya stifled a giggle. “She'll poison every meal you eat this winter!”
“It would take some magic to do that.” The huntress slapped the hard-packed earth next to her where a series of boards covered a rectangular opening in the cave floor. “We have the meat rations to ourselves. I'll make sure not to eat anything that's been in Lyucia's cooking pot.”
Only the deepest parts of the cave had accumulated a covering of soil, but in this area it had been dug out and lined with wood all the way to the cold stone below. A couple of arm lengths deep and sealed with boards on top, the chilly space was perfect for keeping dried meat fresh all winter long. Preserving what they had was important, for any winter hunting would prove exhausting at best, fruitless at worst. Netya had already spent one winter cold and hungry when they first came to these lands, and it was not a trial she wished to endure again.
Netya glanced up and down the cave, taking note of where everyone was. Friends and family formed their own little sub-tribes within the clan, usually sharing a hearth or two separated from the others by a line of rocks or a stack of belongings. Lyucia had the apprentice's chamber. Ura and Meadow had taken charge at the back of the cave. Fern's area was for the huntresses, and the handful of mated women had made their own space with the help of their men. The latter group had congregated around the centre of the cave, making sure no stray eyes landed upon the clan's only males. Netya and Caspian had grown comfortable enough together that they did not begrudge friends joining them in the furs, but many of the others were a little more protective of their partners, perhaps rightfully so. The only men Adel allowed into the valley were the mates of the seers, making it difficult for fresh romance to bloom. Only those who visited Orec's den frequently had the chance to cultivate new relationships.
With Adel back on her mind again, Netya realised that the den mother was notably absent from the cave.
“Adel is staying on her own again this winter, isn't she?”
Fern nodded. “She had us bring plenty of firewood up to her cave, for all the good it will do. You could light a bonfire in there and it would still be freezing.”
Netya chewed her lip anxiously. “I am worried for her.”
“At least she is nearby. We can go up every day to make sure she hasn't frozen.”
“That isn't what worries me. She has been so alone, especially since the Rainfall Hunt. Can you imagine being by yourself all winter long, with nothing but your own thoughts and dreams for company?”
Fern shrugged. “I might go mad. But some people say Adel is mad, doing everything she has done to bring us here.”
“I don't want her to be alone.”
Fern hesitated before responding, leaning in a little so that no one else would overhear. “She was like this for as long as I can remember back before you came to Khelt's pack. Meeting you, fighting the alpha, forming this clan—it brought new life to her spirit.”
“Then where is that life now?”
“You are the seer, not I,” Fern said. “And she listens to you more than anyone. Try and get her to join us. I'll even bring all the firewood back down myself.”
“Do you think she has forgiven me yet?”
“I don't think she forgives anyone, but that hasn't stopped you from swaying her before.”
Netya took a deep breath, realising that she had barely spoken a word to her mentor for an entire season.
“I have to try, don't I?”
“You would not be you if you did not.”
Uplifted by her friend's words, Netya tied her gown tight about her waist and threw her cloak of winter furs over her shoulders. Pulling up the fluffy hood against the wind, she hurried outside and clambered up to Adel's den. Sharp wind surrounded her, leaving its numbing touch on her fingers by the time she reached the cave. She would need to make new mittens soon. Hopefully Briar would be kind enough to help her with one more favour.
Ducking her head beneath the heavy winter drapes Adel had set up outside, she called the den mother's name. There was no response. The wind picked up, stirring another shiver from Netya's back. Several layers of hanging fur and leather still separated her from the interior of Adel's cave. She pushed through the outer drapes to where it was a little warmer.
“Adel?” she called again. “Den Mother?”
Firelight suddenly flashed through the strips of leather in front of her as Adel yanked them aside, glaring down at her former apprentice. Netya shrank back half a pace. If there was one thing she would never be able to match Adel in, it was her imposing height.
“Netya,” the den mother said, her expression softening a little. “What do you want?”
“Must I always want something when I come to visit you?”
“I've no time for frivolities.”
Netya peered around the cave. Judging by the half-scraped fox pelt next to Adel's fire, she had been busy making another one of her effigies.
“How else will we pass the winter if not with frivolities? You can't have enough animal pelts in here to last you all the way till spring.”
“I have visions to consult, thoughts to dwe
ll on. A den mother's problems are without end.”
“Perhaps you might gain better insight into them by being among your people?” There was a hopeful note to Netya's words. “Many voices are often better than one.”
“Until they drown each other out.”
“I was wondering if we could—”
“How goes your companionship with Kiren?” Adel abruptly changed the subject. “Is she eager to earn back her place among us?”
Netya considered pulling the thread of conversation back in the direction she had intended, but butting heads directly with Adel was rarely a wise idea.
“Truthfully, I do not know. She seems to be trusting me again, but whether that will be enough to make her stay?” She shrugged. “You may have driven her away for good in doing what you did.”
“It was necessary. I'll not be shown to tolerate defiance from women like Vaya.”
“Even if it means losing Kiren?” Netya's jaw tightened. “Even if it means taking away my chance at becoming a mentor?” It stung her to be so harsh, but some of what she said seemed to reach Adel. The den mother frowned, the conflict between duty to her pack and loyalty to her apprentice clearly having unsettled her.
“I would never set any challenge I did not think you could rise to, Netya. You have been eager to spend time at Orec's den lately, yes? Then spend as much of the winter there as you want. You have my permission. Win back Kiren's loyalty and return her to us this spring. I still want that girl to be our eyes among Octavia's pack.”
Netya's brief flicker of hope sunk back down under the weight of disappointment. Every time she tried to touch Adel's heart the den mother always found some way to turn it back around into a matter of cold practicality. Now was not the time to be timid. She needed to push harder.
“Did you ever know a man named Koura?” she asked, risking a subject change of her own.
“One of Orec's warriors. I know all their names.” This time Adel's response betrayed no hint of emotion, but something about it still told Netya she had caught the den mother off guard. The following moment of silence confirmed it. Adel would never let such a strange inquiry hang unless it had set her thoughts racing.
“He is very loyal to you,” Netya said, “and I think he cares deeply for your own happiness, as do I.”
“What does this have to do with Kiren?”
“Not with Kiren.” Netya hesitated, then took the plunge. “With you. I fear you are becoming too harsh. Too... distant, like you have forgotten the closeness of your own people. Please, come and stay in the cave with us this winter. I worry what this cold, this loneliness, is doing to you.”
“You worry over nothing, Netya, I have weathered worse winters by myself.”
“But you do not have to. Koura said to me—he said you were like a spirit of sorrow, when you could be a spirit of moonlight.”
“Is that what he said?”
“In different words, maybe, but I know there is truth in it. Whatever you lost at the hands of your father, it does not have to weigh so heavily upon you.”
Netya braced herself for her mentor's anger, but it did not come. Instead Adel leaned against the rocks wearily, regarding her former apprentice with a hard gaze.
“That time was long ago. It is forgotten, and better left that way. Do not waste your efforts trying to bring it back to life. You of all people should understand the importance of forgetting your past.”
Cracks of pain flashed through Netya's heart as the faces of her mother, her sisters, her old village returned to her. The face of her dead uncle. The cold river, and the bloody shard of flint clutched in her hand.
Adel shook her head. “Better to forget some things. Be the woman you are now, not the memories of your past, and let me be the same.” She turned away and withdrew to her fire, making it clear that the conversation was over. Netya lingered for as long as she dared, but the den mother had frozen her out. Even the air in the cave seemed to grow colder as the silence swelled.
The apprentice in Netya wanted to trust in her mentor's wisdom. Perhaps Adel was right, and this was simply the way she was now. No hard heart to soften, no old wounds to mend. The past was best left forgotten, just as hers was.
Yet she had not forgotten it, had she? Rather, she had allowed one thing to end as another began, letting go and moving forward. Those memories were still with her, and they still hurt, but they were not the same burden they had once been. Seeing the hate in her mother's eyes when she refused to recognise her own daughter, fleeing from her people as they hunted her across the plains—those things had marked a final and absolute ending to her former life. She remembered too the day she heard the herons calling, sick with regret and loss. When she had taken the pendant Caspian made for her and let it drop from the edge of the cliff, she had been letting go of the girl she once was to become something new. Had it not been for those moments of release, would her past sorrows still be a crippling weight upon her soul?
Netya made her way out of the cave, looking back as a gust of snowflakes swept in and clung to the swaying drapes before they could fall closed. More than ever she yearned to know the truth of the den mother's past. What burden was it that Adel still carried? Netya pulled her cloak close against the wind, suppressing a shudder as an even more troubling thought occurred to her.
What if Adel's burdens had become so deep a part of her that it was no longer possible for the den mother to let go of them?
—18—
Tales of Heroines
The wind spirits howled through the valleys, whooping and keening their delight at the frozen world. They rattled the branches of bare trees and scattered snow from their heels as they danced through the forest and rushed up the ridge toward Orec's den. Impatiently they tugged at the screen covering the entrance to the seers' cave, angry at the light and warmth inside. Did the dwellers within not know that this was the season of cold, where even moon and sun hid their faces?
“The grandmothers of my people were afraid to come to this land because of wind and snow like this,” Kolami, Netya's assisting seer, said. “To them the winter was all one spirit. Cold Tanhenem, frozen and dark in the north. They feared death would come to any who visited his lands, but it was the only place they knew they would not be followed.” The dark-skinned woman glanced anxiously toward the screen as another loud gust rustled it.
“Your kind are all strange. The way you talk of your homeland, it's no wonder you left,” Koura said. The old warrior was lying on his side next to their fire, recovering from the wounds of yet another bloody duel. This time he had staggered in with bleeding—and Netya suspected broken—ribs, along with a host of congratulatory followers. For the first time in many days he had managed to win one of his fights, and it had been all Netya and Kolami could do to keep the others out of the way while they tended their patient. Most of the revellers had dispersed by now, but the allure of the warm seers' cave had been hard to resist for those with only cold and drafty dwellings to return to. Among them were Kiren and Vaya, the latter of whom had thankfully kept her tongue to herself while Netya worked. It was still uncomfortable being around the huntress, but they had crossed paths enough times since the Rainfall Hunt to blunt the edge of the hostility between them. For the most part they endured one another in silence, though that did not stop Vaya from locking eyes with her rival and trying to stare her down every time their gazes met.
“I suppose we are all strange in this clan though, aren't we?” Koura chuckled, sipping on the warm bowl of fermented fruit the seers had given him. Netya would have preferred to dull his pain with something less scarce during the winter season, but the intoxicating drink seemed to be the only medicine Koura was willing to accept.
“A strange group indeed,” Kolami said distractedly, still looking at the twitching screen.
“I wedged it in tight, you needn't worry,” Netya said, putting a reassuring hand on the other woman's arm.
“I hope you can unwedge it again when I need to relieve mysel
f of this drink.” Koura took another loud slurp from his bowl.
Netya tossed him a clay vessel bound in leather. “You can use that like the rest of us. We won't spend half the night freezing while we take the screen up and down.”
“A whole night in the seers' company. Such an honour,” Vaya muttered.
Kiren shushed her. “At least we can sleep in here without shivering.”
“Give us a story, or a song!” Koura threw his arm in the direction of the group huddled against the wall. “Where's the singing boy? Maybe he can make a song about my victory today!”
“Back freezing himself in our cave,” Kiren said.
“Hmh. Just a story, then. Who's got a tale I've not heard before and a tongue to tell it?”
Vaya flexed her shoulders and leaned forward. “What better tale is there than my defeat of Great Rook? You've yet to hear it from the huntress herself, have you old warrior?”
Netya rolled her eyes. Even during her brief visits to the training cave she had overheard parts of Vaya's new favourite story twice already. Koura, however, seemed a little more enthusiastic.
“Go on, then. Narolen says you cheated, but I'll hear the tale from your own lips before I call it false.”
“You'll hear nothing false tonight, old man,” Vaya growled, “only a story of courage and skill that your children's children will still be telling. When I learned of the beast in the valley I knew he would be a prize like no other. A lesser hunter would have thought it impossible, but I knew...” Vaya launched into the rest of her story with gusto, telling it with a fervour and sharpness that Netya would never have expected from a woman like her. For someone so inarticulate, the huntress's passion broke through her abrasive exterior when she spoke of fighting Great Rook. While clearly no great spinner of tales, her raw spirit had an infectious quality to it, and soon the others were joining in with the huntress's snarls and whoops of enthusiasm that punctuated each pivotal moment in the recounting of her fight. Even Kolami perked up and joined in towards the end, but Netya, having no taste for grisly tales of bloodshed, remained quiet throughout, patiently waiting until the conversation moved on to something else.