Exile's Children (18 page)

Rannach wound Vachyr's body in the Tachyn's blanket as Arrhyna bathed. He wondered what should happen when he brought the corpse back to the Meeting Ground, and found it hard to care. He had got back his bride, and he had slain Vachyr in honest battle. How could he be blamed? Was he accused of truce-breaking, surely the Matakwa must understand: Vachyr had stolen his wife. Surely that was the greater sin.

He waited until Arrhyna was done with her bathing and then loaded the body across Vachyr's horse. He helped Arrhyna into her saddle and climbed astride his stallion.

Arrhyna said, as he took up the rein of Vachyr's animal, “Do you want to do this? Do you want to go back? You had best be sure, husband.”

Rannach said, “As I told you, yes. But you need not say anything.”

“Still, he did what he did.”

“Do you love me?” Rannach said.

Arrhyna said, “Yes. More than life.”

“Then it does not matter what he did. Only that you love me, and I you.”

Arrhyna smiled. Rannach heeled his stallion, Vachyr's bay gelding snorted protest at the weight of the body, and they rode toward the wood.

“I cannot doubt the word of the Grannach.” Racharran gestured at the squat folk seated around him. “Does Colun say the Whaztaye are slain, then I'd not gainsay him. It is my belief that such folk as might broach the gate are come; it is my belief we should prepare. But you must make up your own mind. Speak with the Grannach, if you wish; and tell me later what you'd have me do.”

Zeil nodded and said, “Yes, that's wise. Chakthi would not speak so openly.”

Racharran said, harsher than he intended, “I am not Chakthi.”

Zeil said, “No, and I thank you again for accepting me into your clan. You've news of our daughter?”

“No.” Racharran shook his head. “Only what you know—that she
was taken and Rannach went after her. You shall know as soon as I when news comes.”

“Thank you.” Zeil ducked his head.

Racharran sighed and looked to where Lhyn busied herself with the fire. The day aged now, the descending sun hurling red light against the slopes of the Maker's Mountain. Eastward, the moon rose into a swath of gentian blue, like a teardrop on a blanket. Crows roostered loud and heavy-winged herons flapped homeward. The Meeting Ground was hung over with the smoke of cookfires, the air redolent of roasting meat, loud with the sound of the People. All of it as it should be, and always had been, save that …

Save that he sat with Grannach, who brought alarming news.

Save that the wakanishas still sat up there in their Dream Lodge.

Save that his son was gone, likely to slay Vachyr and deliver the Commacht to war.

Save that his wife ignored him …

He rose and went to where Lhyn sat by the fire, motioning that Colun remain. Let the Grannach answer awkward questions for a while.

“I ask your forgiveness,” he said, and—warily—set a hand on her shoulder. “I'd not …” He shrugged, unsure what he should say, what she might answer. “I'd not see our son hurt, but …”

Lhyn said, “I know,” and turned toward him. “I was angry. That Rannach suffer …”

“He might still,” Racharran said.

“Yes.” She turned farther, so that she moved into the compass of his arm, leaning her head against his chest. “But you are akaman of the Commacht, and must think of all the clan. I thought only of our son.”

Racharran said softly, “Yes. I wish it were not so.”

“But it is,” Lhyn said, and smiled for the first time that day. “Now go do your duty, eh?”

Racharran brushed his lips against her cheek and thanked the Maker for so understanding a wife, then went back to speak with his people.

It was impossible to reach agreement. Each wakanisha had shared the dream, and none doubted it was a true dream, but as to its interpretation, what it portended for the People, there was only discord.

Hadduth insisted the invaders must remain beyond the mountains, that the fate of the Whaztaye was none of the People's affair, that likely the western folk had somehow offended the Maker and suffered consequent punishment. To believe these creatures might broach the gate was, he suggested with a veiled glance at Morrhyn, an insult to the Maker,
whose wards must surely hold the People free from harm. Better, he claimed, to set their trust in the Maker and do nothing.

Isten supported him. It was a subtle argument, and the Naiche Dreamer was naturally cautious.

Morrhyn disavowed the suggestion of blasphemy and struggled to conceal his contempt of Hadduth. The Grannach had brought this news, he pointed out, and had fought the invaders, and surely none would question the integrity of the Stone Folk. Did these strangelings come against Ket-Ta-Witko, he said, then would their presence not be an affront to the Maker? Would it not be the duty of all the People to deny them?

Kahteney voiced his agreement, adding his suggestion that any prevarication might well be considered dereliction of the Matawaye's duty to the Maker, and surely a betrayal of their Grannach friends.

Morrhyn looked to Hazhe, who had not yet spoken, but only listened. The Aparhaso Dreamer nodded gravely and declared that the dream had provided much food for thought, but no obvious answers. They needed, he said, more time to ponder the import of the vision.

It was the only agreement the Dreamers could reach.

Full dark had fallen by the time they emerged from the wa'tenhya and walked down the mountainside to their respective clans, and Morrhyn felt a weariness upon him that was sour with his certainty the future must find the People unprepared.

It was dusk before Rannach found all his comrades again.

Hadustan was the first, his face a mirror of zhy's and Bakaan's when they saw Arrhyna and the body slung across the bay gelding, their words neither so different: “Sister, it is good to see you safe,” and “You slew him, then, brother,” and “I wish I'd seen that fight.” Carefully, not one of them commented on Arrhyna's bruises other than to ask was she well, or wondered aloud on the time she had spent with Vachyr. It was as if they all recognized a step had been taken that must likely affect all their futures, and left it to Rannach to say where the trail might lead them.

They made camp close to the edgewood, Vachyr's body left wrapped a little distance off. None spoke of the morrow, but only ate and slept, and wondered at the Council's reaction.

The horses were wearied from the chase and Rannach set an easy pace on the return. None, anyway, were overly eager to face the Chiefs' Council. The strictures of the Ahsa-tye-Patiko had been broken and, no matter the cause, some punishment would surely be assigned them. His comrades unaware, Rannach had made himself a promise that he would take full responsibility: he, after all, was the one who had slain Vachyr. He thought none could blame Arrhyna, but Bakaan and the others would surely earn Chakthi's anger, and the Tachyn akaman seek to encompass them in his demands for retribution. When they came before
the Council, Rannach had decided, he would endeavor to deflect that vengeful temper, draw it to himself alone. He glanced back to where the chestnut gelding bore its carrion bundle and thanked the Maker the season was not so warm the flies came out. Vachyr had been obnoxious enough alive; even dead he caused trouble.

The New Grass Moon was full when they came in sight of the Meeting Ground, and close to its apex. It shone serene from a cloudless sky, bathing the flanks of the Maker's Mountain in light the color of bone, washing over the lodges that spread like sleeping buffalo across the grass. The camp was oddly silent, the central fires sending up a glow that spoke of long debate, attended by all the Matawaye. Talk of Colun's news, Rannach thought, and what conclusions the Dream Council had reached, the People's response. He wondered how his arrival would affect the debate.

They halted on the edge of the Commacht camp and Rannach saw that they waited on his word.

“I'd have this done,” he said. “Do we see to our horses and then …” He looked to where the fireglow lit the sky. “Do you meet me at my lodge?”

Bakaan nodded, unspeaking, and walked his mount away, followed by Hadustan and Zhy. Rannach and Arrhyna went to their tent. The entry flap was laced shut, and when they looked inside they saw the interior restored to order, even the fire low-banked in anticipation of their return.

Softly, Arrhyna said, “Lhyn's work.”

Rannach nodded and said, “You need not witness this. You could stay here.”

Arrhyna shook her head. “I am part of it, no? And I am your wife. What is done to you is done to me.”

Rannach said, “There will be hard words spoken. It shall likely be ugly.”

Arrhyna shrugged.

He asked, “Do you wish to change? To tidy yourself?”

“No.” She looked him in the eye. “Let the People see what Vachyr did.”

He said, “As you wish,” and picketed their horses.

He shed his weapons, and they waited awhile until the others came. All looked grave now, the laughter and the boasting of their return forgotten in face of the imminent future.

“So.” Rannach took up the halter of Vachyr's horse. “Do we go?”

Arrhyna fell into step at his side, and they made their way through
the Commacht tents, watched silently by the old ones who remained to tend sleeping children. They crossed the stream and paced the gauntlet of the Tachyn lodges, to where the Council sat.

Folk parted at their approach and a buzzing murmur went through the crowd so that before they reached the inner circle all knew they came, and none could doubt the burden the chestnut gelding carried.

Rannach heard a shout and guessed the news reached Chakthi. He saw his mother standing with Nemeth and Zeil, all wide-eyed. Lhyn raised a hand as if she'd touch him but did not quite dare. He smiled at her and ducked his head in greeting. Arrhyna said, “Thank you for tending our lodge.” And to her parents: “I am well; be calm.” Lhyn essayed a faint smile and made a helpless gesture; Zeil put an arm about his wife's shoulders.

The senior warriors parted, ushering them through, and as they entered the circle a tremendous silence fell.

Rannach offered the assembled akamans and wakanishas formal greeting and into the silence said, “I ask forgiveness for this interruption, but I deemed it best I came immediately. I have slain Vachyr.”

Yazte of the Lakanti sat closest to where he stood, and he thought he heard the akaman murmur, “No bad news,” but he could not be sure because a second shriek from Chakthi split the night.

The Tachyn was on his feet, staring at the gelding and what it carried. Hadduth stood close behind, his expression unreadable.

Morrhyn said, “Oh, Maker, help us now.”

Rannach looked to his father and said, “I had no choice; he left me none.”

He saw Racharran's stern features cloud and stiffen, eyes a moment closed, then staring at his son as if he looked on a stranger, or past him to some dread future that he had sooner not envision.

Chakthi cried, “My son is killed! Blood is shed in Matakwa—I demand vengeance.”

Rannach led the horse across the circle. It shied at the fires and Chakthi's shouts, but he held its halter tight and thrust the rein at the Tachyn akaman.

“This is your son's horse. It bears his body. He was fairly slain.”

Chakthi stared at the proffered rein; at the blanket-wrapped bundle across the saddle. His lips peeled back so far and wide his gums showed pink, and from between his gritted teeth erupted a snarl akin to a wolverine's. He sprang at Rannach with upraised hands.

Rannach stood his ground as Chakthi's fingers fastened on his throat, and made no attempt to defend himself. Arrhyna screamed. Then Yazte was there, and Tahdase, dragging the enraged Tachyn back, shout
ing for his warriors to hold him. Rannach coughed and massaged his neck. He wondered why Racharran sat so still.

Old Juh, his wrinkled face sear with shock, rose to his feet and spread his arms wide. “Hold, I tell you. Hold!” His voice was harsh from speaking and creaky with age, but still it carried. “Let there be no more violence. Not here! Already there is enough.”

Yazte and Tahdase handed Chakthi to his liegemen, who held him nervously as Hadduth spoke urgently in his ear. The Lakanti and the Naiche stood waiting, until Chakthi was calmed somewhat. He loosed the fastenings on the blanket and stared at his son's dead face, touched it, then handed the rein to a warrior who led the horse away. Yazte and Tahdase resumed their places; Chakthi was slower to sit. His eyes burned like coals in the night of his face, locked firm on Rannach.

Juh said, “I think we must set aside all other matters for now, and speak of …” He hesitated, distaste etched into his frown. “Of this other matter. It is a very grave thing, this.”

Chakthi said, “It is a breaking of the law, of the Will!” His voice was harsh. “My son is murdered in Matakwa. His blood is shed—and blood calls for blood!”

Racharran spoke for the first time: “Not murdered.” He stared stone-faced at the Tachyn akaman, then glanced at Rannach. “Slain fairly, my son says.”

“Your son!” Chakthi made the words an insult. “Vachyr is murdered;
your
son lives.”

Racharran's mouth tightened. Morrhyn touched his elbow and spoke too softly for Rannach to hear. The Commacht akaman turned to Juh, to Tahdase and Yazte. “Do we hear from all those concerned, that all this picture be drawn clear?”

Yazte said swiftly and loudly, “Yes! We need hear all of it.”

Tahdase ducked his head, his eyes darting about like those of a man frightened by his responsibilities and seeking guidance.

Juh said, “I agree. Chakthi, my brother, I mourn your loss; but we must hear the full tale before any judgment is delivered.”

He waited for the Tachyn's sullen nod, then turned to the four, standing nervously now, the eyes of all the People on them. “Who speaks first?”