Stone Spring (22 page)

He took his sons’ upper arms and held them both before him, face to face. Shade was shocked by the hatred in Gall’s face - and yet this was a man who had destroyed himself, effectively, rather than take his brother’s life. Gall’s one act of fraternal loyalty, the only one Shade could remember in his life, even if it had come accompanied by a killing.

The Root pronounced, ‘Hear me now, all of you, you Pretani and you lesser folk. There is bad blood between my sons. That blood must be let. Otherwise it will fester. From now on I will have only one son. Only one of you will walk away from this place. Which one is up to you.’

Shade said, ‘You can’t—’

Gall growled, ‘He can.’

The Root said, ‘You others, you snailheads. You stand here and see me lose a son. Whichever of them survives, will you accept that as vengeance for your loss?’

The snailheads looked at Knuckle, who nodded, curtly.

‘Then let it be done—’

And Gall’s hands were immediately at Shade’s throat, massive, unbelievably powerful, crushing his windpipe. Gall, taller, pressed down; Shade fought to stay standing.

The surrounding people, shocked, stood back. Zesi cried out and might have run forward, but her father and sister held her back.

But Shade still had the snailhead knife in his hand - the toy knife meant to get him through the pain of the tongue stud. He worked it in his grip, pushing out the blade.

Gall, grunting with exertion, said through clenched teeth, ‘Brother, I should have finished you off that day at the camp. I should have strangled you at birth—’

And Shade drove the knife into his brother’s belly, under his tunic, straight into the flesh and through muscle walls, guts.

Gall grunted like a speared ox. Still he stood, though foam flecked his mouth and his eyes bulged. And still he crushed Shade’s throat. Shade, unable to breathe, saw him as if at the end of a holloway, long and deep and dark.

And so Shade braced himself, and pushed the blade upwards under Gall’s ribs and into his heart. Gall shuddered and groaned, and hot blood gushed over Shade’s hands, arms, stomach. At last those gripping fingers released their hold.

Gall fell forward on to Shade. He was heavy, and Shade, weakened, bloody, could barely hold him. But he lowered his brother to the ground, gently, and knelt over him.

The Root glared down at them, expressionless. Then he turned and walked away.

A wider ring of people stood, shocked, their mouths wide with horror. Ana had her arms around Zesi, who could not look at Shade.

Kirike came forward. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We’ll clean you up - we’ll take care of your brother, we’ll talk to your priest—’

There was a rumble, like thunder, or an immense drum. It came from out to sea. People turned to the north, to the ocean, distracted, even Kirike, even Shade.

And a single wave, almost stately, anomalously tall, came washing from the sea to break high up the beach.

28

All across the northern hemisphere tremendous masses were on the move, as ice melted and water flowed. Under this pressure the seabeds suffered their own spasms of compression and release. Huge subsurface salt deposits, relics of previous eras of drying, shifted and cracked - weak points in the rocky substructure, their failure causing uplift and fracturing on the surface.

Far to the north of Etxelur the seabed was particularly unstable. As the ice had receded over Scandinavia, rivers swollen by meltwater had eroded away whole landscapes and deposited the debris in the shallow ocean - the ruins of mountains and valleys dumped in fans and scree slopes and undersea dunes. This gigantic spill was never in equilibrium; it had been deposited too quickly for that.

Huge volumes of mud slid and settled in the deep dark. Strange weather systems gathered over the restless seabed, ocean storms whose rumbling thunder could be heard far away.

Given enough time, a more significant adjustment was inevitable.

29

It was a half-month after the midsummer Giving that the party for the wildwood hunt gathered outside Zesi’s house.

When Zesi emerged, her tied-up pack in her hands, the Pretani were already there, ready to leave. The dozen hunters, bristling with spears, were laden with sacks of salted meat and the fruit of the sea. The food was a gift from Etxelur, from Kirike. The most precious gift of all was a small sack of herbs, unguents and seeds, prepared by the priest, a souvenir of the dreaming house, sophisticated beyond anything the Pretani could produce. On a late summer morning that was already hot, the Root stood outside the house, arms folded, massive in his skins, silent and unmoving as an oak tree. The Root would lead the walk. The Pretani would have it no other way. Kirike stood with him, talking quietly.

Shade stood by his father, face blank, eyes downcast. He wouldn’t look at Zesi.

And now Jurgi the priest walked up to the party, pack on his back. Zesi felt her temper burn.

Zesi, the chosen challenger from Etxelur, was allowed one travelling companion. Her father had brusquely rejected her selection of various hard-bodied, hot-headed young men. To her horror and amazement he chose Jurgi - a priest, who had gone through none of the challenges and rites of manhood, who hunted only for exercise, who had never had a woman.

‘Yet he is the one,’ Kirike had said, stern and unmoving.

‘It’s supposed to be my choice!’

His blue eyes were bright with anger. ‘You’re lucky I’m allowing you to go at all. You have no control. It is said that in my absence it was as if the community was being led by a child. And by lying with the Pretani boy you brought shame on us all, and caused anger and death to be brought into the heart of the Giving - death at the midsummer solstice. You know I’m not one for omens. Pray that the little mothers are more forgiving than I am.’

‘But Jurgi is scarcely a man at all!’

‘He’s a better human being than you’ll ever be. I trust him to keep you safe, and from doing more harm.’ And he had walked away, refusing to discuss it further.

Zesi had seethed. She knew better than to argue when she was beaten. But now that old anger and humiliation returned.

Jurgi wore a simple cloth tunic, leggings and boots of softened deerskin, and as well as his pack he carried a hide cloak, warm and waterproof, tied over one shoulder. He wore none of his priest’s finery, his face was scrubbed clean save for the circle-and-line tattoo on his cheek, and the thick greasy blue dye in his hair had been washed out leaving it a natural brown. He looked normal until he grinned at her, showing his wooden teeth.

‘Just don’t shame me, priest.’

‘I’ll do my very best.’

A few more of the folk of Etxelur were gathering now, to see off the party. Ana came out of the house and took Zesi’s hands. ‘I wish you weren’t doing this.’

Zesi glanced over at Shade. ‘And I wish things were different. I wish Gall still breathed, disgusting fool that he was.’

‘It was all the fault of the Root’s scheming. We shouldn’t let it come between us.’

Zesi looked hard at her sister, for the first time in a long age. Ana had always just been here, in the background of her life, not objectionable, never very interesting. But now she was growing into a woman. She was thinner, paler than Zesi - less beautiful, Zesi knew. But she was more serious, more dependable than Zesi was, probably. A better person. And in the middle of this mess, a better friend than Zesi deserved. Zesi hugged her, impulsively. ‘I’m sorry.’

Ana, hesitant, hugged her back. ‘What for?’

‘I don’t know. For all I’ve done, and for all the horrible things I’ll do in the future, that will hurt you one way or another. For that’s what I’m like, you know.’

‘Well, that’s true,’ Ana said dryly, making Zesi laugh. ‘But we’ll always be sisters. No matter what we do we can’t wipe that away.’

‘I wish I had your wisdom.’

‘And I wish I had your eyebrows. Now go, and keep safe.’

Arga came running up, followed by a bouncing Lightning. Arga was crying. ‘I slept late! I nearly missed you!’ She grabbed Zesi’s waist, and Lightning jumped up at them. ‘If you’d gone before I could say goodbye—’

‘It’s only a couple of months.’ But Arga looked up, her round face streaked with tears, and Zesi saw that two months was a long time in such a young life. ‘I’ll be back before the summer is done.’ Gently she pushed Arga away. ‘I’ll teach you dolphin riding.’

‘Ha! Or I’ll teach you, more like . . .’

The Root rumbled in his own tongue, ‘Are we done? It would be good to get past those sand dunes yonder before the sun goes down . . .’

So they set off, the Root and his son leading the hunters, and Zesi and the priest following. The Etxelur folk waved and clapped, and for a while Arga and an excited Lightning ran alongside the little column.

Zesi glanced back at Ana and her father. It struck Zesi that Kirike hadn’t spoken to her all morning, hadn’t embraced or kissed her - hadn’t said goodbye. Even now he didn’t so much as wave.

She turned and walked up towards the dunes.

They marched steadily south.

The coastal plain gave way to rolling hills, and for the first few days they followed faintly defined trails through banks of heather and bracken. The high moorland was thick with billows of gorse, prickly green and yellow, and with broom, a subtly gentler shade. The thorn bushes bore white blossom, and buttercups with big heavy bright yellow heads dotted the grasslands. Ground-nesting birds rose at their approach, piping their indignation.

Once, on a ridge, Jurgi pointed out vast herds far away, cattle or deer, like the shadows of clouds on the earth. The priest said, ‘The Pretani are ferocious hunters, but if there were a hundred times a hundred more of them they could never empty the world of game.’

As they walked, Zesi was aware of Shade all the time - all the time - as if he was the centre of the world, and the brightest thing in it. And in the night, when he lay just paces away from her, she ached for him deep in her belly. But she dared not speak to him, even come close to him. If he was drawn to her in the same way she saw no sign of it. Perhaps the murder of his brother, all because of her, had burned out whatever he felt for her.

The Pretani, men of the forest, were uncomfortable in open country, and they eyed the world around them suspiciously. Each night when they made camp it always had to be under trees, even if they stopped at some copse long before the sun was down, and wasted travelling time.

It was only when they rounded the vast salt marshes at the eastern neck of the Moon Sea, and walked west into a landscape coated more thickly with forest, that the Pretani started to look happier. Still, this wasn’t like the oak wildwood of their home; here birch dominated a more open forest, with groves of juniper and alder and rowan and cherry. Occasional pines grew tall, with lichen clinging thickly to their branches. Zesi knew that forest like this cloaked much of the southern reaches of Northland, all the way to the south coast where the snailheads came from. The going was easy, the forest open enough to let in plenty of light, and the Root led them confidently through an undergrowth of fern and bracken and vivid moss carpets.

That first evening in the forest, when they camped in comforting gloom under the trees, Zesi sat with the priest, preparing a meal of salted meat with mushrooms fried on a hot rock in the fire. The Pretani had picked the mushrooms for them, knowing what was safe to eat here and what was not. The scent of the burning birch logs was strong and resinous, and the flames licked bright orange.

Zesi heard the drumming of a woodpecker, loud and regular.

Jurgi got up, took a stick, and hammered on a tree trunk. The woodpecker stopped drumming and came fluttering into sight in the high branches of the tree, a big bird, black and white with a splash of red on its underbelly. ‘It drums to attract the females. Thinks I’m a rival.’ Jurgi dropped the stick and waved his fingers. ‘Fly away, little man. I’m no threat. Unlike these Pretani.’ He sat with Zesi again.

‘It occurs to me,’ she said, ‘that I don’t know any of their names. The Pretani, aside from Shade and the Root. I know everybody’s name in Etxelur.’

‘They run things differently in Albia. The Root and his sons matter more than anybody else, save maybe their priests. What they say goes. Everybody else just has to obey—’

‘Like a child.’

‘No, not that. You may guide a child’s behaviour, but you expect her to grow into an adult who will make her own decisions. No, the other Pretani are like dogs, like Lightning. Who must always do as they’re told, all their lives. I know it’s odd but it’s the way they are. And they’re not unique. You should talk to Novu.’

‘Who? Oh, the rock maker.’

‘Brick maker.’ He used Novu’s own word. ‘I think it’s similar where he comes from.’

‘Why would anybody want to live like that?’

‘Because it works. The Pretani seem to control a lot of their country. And it suits the top men. Look how big the Root’s belly is.’

That made her laugh.

She watched Jurgi as he sat at ease, bare to the waist, cross-legged, picking bits of meat and mushroom from the hot rock. She thought back to how she had looked at Ana as she had set off from Etxelur - as if she had never seen her sister before. It occurred to her that she rarely looked at people. She was too busy blundering through life, in pursuit of something or other. People were a means for her to achieve her goals, or they got in the way. ‘You’re doing well,’ she said now. ‘On the walk, I mean.’

He grinned. ‘Thanks. I’m enjoying learning how to hunt from the masters. The range of signs they look for, the animals’ scent, piss, scut, saliva, signs of feeding, broken twigs . . . Even a bent blade of grass tells a story. And they don’t just track the animals, they seem to try to guess how it thinks, where it will go, the decisions it will make. Remarkable. No wonder the Pretani eat so well.’

‘I thought you’d turn back in a day, or I’d be carrying your pack after two.’

He shrugged. ‘I’m a priest. Priests don’t have to do a lot of walking, or carrying. But I was a boy before I became a priest. I won a lot of the kids’ challenges at the Giving feasts - this was when you were small, I guess you wouldn’t remember. Once I was chosen I gave all that up. People don’t want to find themselves being beaten in some race by a priest - or, worse, to beat him. It complicates relationships.’