The Outskirter's Secret (21 page)

The Outskirters were dressed much as Bel was
and spoke in accents little different from hers. To Rowan, they
seemed each to carry a similar air: a combination of confidence,
straightforwardness, humor, interest, and hidden, surprising
subtlety.

Like Bel herself. They were her people.

Rowan turned to study her friend. "It seems,"
the steerswoman said, "that you have a mission of your own."

Bel nodded broadly, but did not meet Rowan's
eyes. "I'll travel with you to the Guidestar, to see what's there;
and I'll see that you get back to a place you can reach your
country from, or help you find a tribe to take you. But after that,
I'll leave you, and go north, and try to talk to the tribes
there."

"I'll be sorry when you go." She was sorry
already. "I didn't think, Bel; I didn't consider what all this
might mean to the Outskirters."

Bel gave an easy shrug. "They're not your
people."

"No, but they're yours, and you're my friend.
Now I'm worried about them."

The Outskirter looked up at her. "Rowan, you
can't worry about everyone. I'll take care of telling my people;
you find your Guidestar and figure out what Slado's up to, so I'll
have more to tell."

Rowan laughed, shook her head, and clapped
Hers shoulder. "I consider that an excellent division of labor."
They went out into the camp together.

Garvin waved them over to Averryl's tent.
"He's livelier, but confused," the warrior said of the injured man.
"He says he doesn't remember walking to the camp. I can't convince
him that he's stayed put." The women joined Garvin on the ground,
and Rowan found herself being calmly scrutinized by the boy. She
introduced herself; he responded with "Harramyn."

"Only one name?"

"I'm too young to name myself like an adult.
But my line is Mourah, and my mother is Kree." He spoke her name as
if expecting an appreciative reaction.

"So you'll become Harramyn, Kreeson,
Mourah."

Harramyn nodded, and Garvin made a
deprecating sound. "Hari."

The boy corrected him patiently. "No, I'm too
old for 'Hari.'

"Are you a friend of Averryl's, or perhaps a
relative? You seem very worried about him."

"I'm not related. My mother likes him, but
he's not my father. She wouldn't want anything to happen to him.
I'm going to help Mander."

"Who's Mander?"

"You know." He tucked one arm behind his
back, and wiggled the other enthusiastically.

Garvin gave him a thump. "Don't make fun of
Mander. He can do plenty of things that you can't. And never
will."

"Ha. I'll never have to. I'll never cross the
line; I'm going to die with my sword in my hand."

Another voice spoke. "Yes, and sooner rather
than later." The boy was hefted up by strong hands, then settled
down again into the lap of the red-haired woman from the council
meeting. Harramyn frowned and wriggled in her arms, as he tried to
decide whether her comment was a clever jibe or a dire
prediction.

She introduced herself. "Kree, Edensdotter,
Mourah." She resembled her brother Garvin very little; he was
broad-shouldered, pale-haired, she compact and fiery. His eyes were
a wide, deep blue, hers small and close-set, of a sharp blue so
pale as to be almost colorless.

Rowan was disturbed. "Has the council decided
so quickly?" It did not bode well.

"No," Kree reassured her. "I stepped out, to
get you settled. You'll be sleeping in with my band, for tonight,
at least. With Averryl here, and Fletcher who knows where, there's
room."

Bel nodded, satisfied. "Good; that's better
than having a tent to ourselves. The more people, the warmer, and
it's turning cold all of a sudden." She made a suggestion: "If
we're accepted, you could use me in Fletcher's place. Or Averryl's,
if he can't fight."

Kree considered, then poked her son in the
ribs. "Will Averryl be able to fight?" she asked him.

"Mander doesn't know."

Displeased, Kree sat considering
implications; from her demeanor, Rowan understood that Kree was
chief of her war band. Kree spoke to Bel. "Are you any good?" Bel's
reply was a small smile, which seemed to satisfy Kree. "And you?"
she asked Rowan.

The steerswoman winced. "I don't yet know
what my status should be, if I'll be permitted to serve as a
warrior. But I think I can hold my own: Bel and I traveled alone
from the Inner Lands, and we've made it here safely."

"The Inner Lands . . . how far is that from
here?"

"About five hundred miles."

"Eight hundred kilometers," Bel added,
translating to Outskirter terminology.

Kree permitted herself to be impressed. She
gave Hari another poke. "Show them where to sleep. And where's
their gear?"

The boy scrambled to his feet and disappeared
into the tent, returning with packs and Rowan's cloak, which he
seemed to consider a very peculiar object.

Bel took it from him and passed it to Rowan.
"Lead on, Hari."

"Harramyn," he corrected.

The afternoon passed, and very differently
from Rowan's first experience among an Outskirter tribe. There,
people had avoided acknowledging her and spoke to her only when
necessary, or when tricked into it. Here, every passing person
seemed to seek an excuse to come by her tent, to address her, and
especially to call her by name. It was: "Rowan, how is Averryl?"
"Are you really from the Inner Lands, Rowan?" "Here, Rowan, come
lend a hand," and "Hello, Rowan, what are you doing?"

"I'm writing," she answered for the dozenth
time, on this occasion to a mertutial who had paused before her as
she sat outside Kree's tent. "I'm trying to record the things I'm
learning in the Outskirts, and what I see that I don't understand
yet."

"Writing . . ." The old man thought long,
then shook his bald head disapprovingly. "We used to do that. We
gave it up." And he hurried off on his duties, arms full of dirty
laundry, leaving Rowan bewildered, with a hundred questions trapped
between her mind and voice.

"Ho, Rowan!" But it Was Bel this time,
returning from a stroll between the encampment and the inner circle
of guards.

Rowan greeted her with relief. "I should have
gone with you. This is getting tiring."

"I thought you liked answering questions."
Bel settled down on the rug, stretching her short legs before her
and leaning back on her elbows.

"I do. But not the same ones, over and
over."

"Say you'll tell them later, all together. It
can be like a story. That's what I've been doing. Everyone wanted
to hear about Averryl's rescue; I'm going to make a poem of
it."

"Please don't embroider. If someone asks me,
I'll have to tell the true version."

"Ha. The true version is what I'll tell. It
was a good fight."

"Yes. And I sincerely hope I'm never in
another like it." She closed her logbook and rubbed fingers that
were stiffening in the chill air over eyes that were blurring from
close work. She had been trying to conserve her paper, writing as
small as possible, forcing herself to be concise. Even with these
tactics, there was too much for her to effectively notate: hundreds
of observations, large and small, a sea of detail.

Bel looked at her sidelong. "You've been
sitting there since I left you?"

"Yes. Trying to catch up." She had had no
opportunity for the last few days, and little before that, to make
her entries. Looking around, she realized with surprise that the
deepening of the chill in the air was due to the approach of
evening. "I had no idea," she said.

"A steerswoman never gets lost, except in her
own thoughts," Bel observed wryly. She thumped Rowan on the back.
"Take a walk. Everyone's busy getting ready for evening meal and
bed. They won't bother you."

Rowan left her book and pens in Bel's care,
and was only greeted twice on her way to the camp's edge. There,
looking out, she could find no sign of the inner circle, only some
twenty goats in two unequal flocks, nuzzling the barren ground,
shaking their flop-eared heads in annoyance.

It was quiet out on the veldt, despite the
icy breeze: no redgrass stood to chatter in the wind, no
tanglebrush, no rattle and rasp and squeal of goblins. Behind her,
the camp noises defined an audible delimited shape, like a safe
room with invisible walls. Following an inner impulse, she skirted
the camp, circling around to where she could look out to the
east—for all the past month, east had been her direction, eastward
lay her unmarked road and her final destination, and she found
herself seeking it, trailing toward it as surely as a banner driven
by western winds.

As she came around a cluster of tents, she
noticed that someone was sharing with her the quiet fall of evening
on the veldt.

Kammeryn stood some forty feet out from the
camp, facing the horizon. Rowan was reluctant to interrupt his
solitude, but she was certain that he had heard her approach. She
did not know if it was more polite to greet him, or to ignore him,
or to turn away and walk elsewhere. She made her choice by making
no choice, and stood quietly a few paces to the side and behind
him, waiting for him to take note of her. But he did not
acknowledge her, did not turn to her or speak, and minutes
passed.

He seemed not to be musing idly, but studying
something. She tried to find what was holding his attention. The
land around the camp was used and barren, up the near hills, across
them, up the farther hills. The tribe had already passed this way,
had only doubled back for Averryl's sake. They could not remain
here long; perhaps this was Kammeryn's concern.

Beyond the hills the land was lower, and not
so visible. Scouts would have told Kammeryn what lay there; perhaps
he was making his future plans.

In the farthest distance, at the limit of
sight: an irregular line, lit glowing pink from the light of the
falling sun behind the camp. It was too low to be mountains, too
high to be part of these low hills, and too nearby to be the
distant Dust Ridge. No such feature was marked on Rowan's poor
maps. She stepped forward unconsciously, fascinated, gaining no
better perspective.

When she reached Kammeryn's side, she saw
that he was not looking out, but up. "The Eastern Guidestar," she
said.

He nodded, slowly, accepting her presence
without surprise. "If it fell, would it fall here?"

"On the camp? I don't know, but it's not very
likely."

He stood silent again, and the world grew
darker as the sun disappeared. More stars began to show: the Eye of
the Bull, the Hound's Nose, and at the horizon, the Lion's
Heart.

The seyoh's voice was very quiet. "If they
both fell, how would we know where we are, how would we know where
to go?"

"By the true stars, and by the sun." If the
Guidestars fell, she suspected that there would be greater and more
urgent concerns than the one he voiced. And yet she sympathized
with him; loss of direction was important to his life, and was the
one result most easily comprehended. "Navigation by the stars is
complicated, and less accurate," she told him, "but it can be done.
If you like, I can teach you, or one of your people. If you feel
the need."

"Unseen Guidestars," he said quietly, "and a
Guidestar falling, wizards coming to the Outskirts . . . How can
what you say be true?" His face was no longer distinguishable in
the gloom.

Rowan could find no further thing to say to
lend greater force to her knowledge. "It is true," she told him.
"And the things Bel said—I hadn't considered them before, but yes,
I believe her. Sometime, I don't know when, but soon or later,
these things will affect your people."

"The council cannot reach consensus," he
said. "My word will only permit you seven days."

Her heart sank. "I'm sorry. I've come to like
your people. I almost feel at home here."

He was a dim gray shape, his white braid
falling across his heart like a shaft of light. He spoke, not like
a seyoh, but as a man, with reluctant, disbelieving wonder. "How
can Guidestars fall? They've been there forever."

"They haven't been there forever. Nothing has
been anywhere forever." It seemed too large a statement; she
doubted it herself, even as her heart and mind both recognized its
truth. "You yourself haven't been here forever," she told him, "nor
your people. Long ago, their lands lay west of here; longer ago,
farther west. And before? Who can say? But they must once have had
a home."

Out of the gloom he answered, and it was in
an altered voice, soft, but with a slow subtle rhythm: the voice of
a storyteller:

" 'They came at last upon a river, cool and
deep, wide in silver sunlight. Here to the banks, and north and
south, ran redgrass, deep, and high as the waist of a man, and the
air was sweet and warm. The people said each to the other: "Our
wandering is ended, and now we will stay. This place is our
home."

" 'But Einar said to them: "This is not your
home." And in forty days, when the land was made barren, he led
them across the river; and they traveled for twenty days.

" 'The people climbed long into a high land,
where the sun shone around them on every side. In endless winds the
grasses danced and spoke, and there were glittering stones upon the
ground. The people looked up into light, around into light, and
down into shadows below, where they saw the peaks and hills that
rose from mist like stars from night. Every eye saw only beauty,
and the people said to each other: "We will not leave here, but
remain in this land. This is now our home."

" 'But Einar said: "This is not your home."
And in thirty days the redgrass was silent in its death, and Einar
led his people down into the valleys; and they traveled for twenty
days.

" 'Around the valleys stood high hills like
hands to shelter the herds and the people. Small brooks fell far
from above, to cross and cross again the lands below. The goats
climbed among the falls, finding rich redgrass between, and shelter
from the winds. Below were roots for the people, and blossoms, and
level ground for the camp.