Winterbirth (24 page)

Orisian felt lost. A decision was being forged out of arguments he did not fully understand. He felt powerless. The thought went through his mind that Fariel would have known what to say, what to do.

And Inurian would have. He was uncomfortably hot. The walls of the tent pressed in upon him.

'We know that there can be good as well as evil in the Huanin,' In'hynyr said. 'At the place you call Koldihrve there is peace between Huanin and Kyrinin. There can be good in the people of the valley, too. Two summers gone, a youth from the
a'an
of Taynan was hunting. He was foolish, and a boar wounded him. A man from the valley found him and cared for him. He made him well, and the youth returned to his
a'an.
By this we know that there is good in the people of the valley. Do you have this good in you?'

'I would help someone if they were hurt,' said Orisian. 'As Ess'yr has tried to help me. Not all Huanin think ill of the Kyrinin, just as not all Kyrinin think ill of us. I wish the Fox no harm.'

'You do not wish the Fox any harm,' said In'hynyr, as if testing the truth of the words by their taste. She paused, and an intense silence descended. Orisian glanced from face to face. Blank eyes met his. There was no connection to be made with these people; they regarded him with the detachment of a slaughterman picking a sheep for the knife.

'Ess'yr tells us that you are high amongst your people. You are one of the rulers,' said In'hynyr.

'No,' said Orisian, 'not really. My uncle is the Thane. Inurian is my friend...'

Again, the curt sniff. He wondered if In'hynyr was displeased. He had thought Inurian's name might buy him some friendship here. It did not appear to work. He cast about for something else that might serve better. It might not be true, he thought, that Fariel would have known what to say. He had not talked to Inurian about the Kyrinin, as Orisian had often done; he had never imagined visiting a Fox camp, would never have even thought such a thing to be possible. He would not have seen any difference between Fox and White Owl.

'My family is no enemy of the Fox,' he said. 'And we are no friends of the White Owls.'

'The man in the castle in the valley fights the White Owl. That is good. Have you also made war on the enemy in Anlane?'

'I have not fought them myself, if that is what you mean. Warriors from my home have, when they raided against our people in the forest. Rothe, the man who is with me, he has fought them. He is an enemy of the White Owl.'

Orisian was starting to feel sick again, from the heat, the heady smell inside the tent, the weariness he could feel in his bones.

'All hands are against the Fox,' said In'hynyr. 'We are a small clan. Eighty
a'ans.
The White Owl, who swarm like bees, are five times as many. Your kind fill the valley like mice in the grass. We are a small clan, but we hold against our enemies. To hold, our sight must be clear like the fox, and our thoughts sharp. Ess'yr felt duty to you, and we allowed her wish to aid you. Our duty is to the
vo'an.
Is the
vo'an
safe?'

'I wish only to return to my own people. I will not tell anyone where the
vo'an
is. Neither will Rothe, if I tell him not to. We just want to go back.'

He could speak no more. There was a throbbing behind his eyes. Everything he had ever heard about the Kyrinin, every tale of butchery, was milling about in his head demanding attention: children killed in their beds in farmhouses; the torture of warriors captured in forest skirmishes. Yet still he clung to the notion that tales were only tales, and they were not about him, here, now. He could not believe that he had escaped the horrors of Winterbirth only to be condemned to death by this small old woman with red in her silver hair.

'Drink,' said In'hynyr. For a moment Orisian looked at her, not understanding, then he recalled the small wooden bowl still resting on his knees. Hesitantly, remembering the drink's astringent taste, he raised it to his lips and sipped. The liquid had cooled a fraction and though it still tasted harsh it did not burn so fiercely. His head cleared a little. The oppressive heat seemed to lift itself from his face.

'What is your promise worth?' In'hynyr asked him.

Orisian paused, searching for some form of words that might make the connection he needed with this woman.

'It puts a duty on me,' he said. 'As you bear a duty to the
vo'an,
as you say Ess'yr felt some duty to me.

My promise is a duty I owe to myself, and to you.'

'Where will you go?'

'Go? I...' He hesitated. Where would he go? His father was gone, perhaps Anyara and Inurian as well.

And Kolglas was far away, if Rothe was right about how far they had travelled. 'I would go to Anduran first,' he said. 'To my uncle, the Thane. If what you say is true, my people must make war against the Black Road and the White Owls. I must be a part of that.'

Somewhere within the tent, hidden amidst the shadows, someone had begun to sing. It was a soft, chanted song, so low and deep that it was like a distant murmur. Orisian could not even be sure whether there was a single voice or more. He could hear no words within the song. It had a funereal sound.

'I mean the Fox no harm,' he said again. 'I am not your enemy. If there is war, it will be against other Huanin and against the White Owl. Not the Fox.' He could think of nothing more to say.

For a long time, no one said anything. There was only the song, flowing around him. He lowered his eyes and stared at the bowl cupped in his lap, and the liquid within. Its heat was fading quickly. A few fragile wisps of steam rose towards his face.

'Leave us,' said In'hynyr at last.

Fighting back a surge of relief, Orisian scrambled to his feet. In his eagerness to take his leave he ignored the pain in his side. Only as he made for the opening in the side of the tent did doubt reassert itself.

'Will we be allowed to leave the
vo'an,
then?' he asked.

'We will think on it,' was all In'hynyr said.

HE SAT CROSS-LEGGED in the tent's doorway for long hours. They had given him a cloak of marten fur that had a powerful scent as if it was freshly stripped from the animals. He needed it, since each day turned the air a little crisper.

Two weeks, and a lifetime, ago this would have been a dream realised for him, to be in the midst of a camp of the Fox. Even now, despite the gnawing memory of what had brought him here, he was aware of an otherworldly peace and calm in the camp. The Kyrinin moved about with precision and balance, whether adult or child. The oldest of them, shrunken and even a little stooped, retained a natural grace Orisian had never seen in his own kind. The adults were tolerant of the packs of children that darted to and fro amongst the tents. They watched, sometimes joined in with their wrestling and chasing. Orisian never heard any voices raised in anger or excitement.

Showers passed, along with the scudding clouds that bore them, but for much of the time the sky was bright. Sunlight would fling the stark shadows of leafless trees across the camp and set the grass glowing green in memory of summer. Flocks of small birds chattered through the
vo'an.
The Kyrinin came and went. They hunted, gathered firewood, prepared meals just as any villagers might.

But amidst the familiar there were the reminders that he was far from what he knew and understood. The great face woven of boughs, standing like a sentinel watching over the heart of the
vo'an,
unsettled him.

Once or twice he saw Kyrinin lay their fingertips upon it and murmur some words. The poles decorated with the skulls of various animals were sometimes, when the light caught them just so, menacing. Perhaps most unnerving of all, he would sometimes notice one of the Fox standing quite still amongst the tents, staring at him. When he returned the gaze there was none of the discomfort a human might show at being so caught out. Always it was Orisian who looked away first.

Once or twice a day he and Rothe were allowed to pass some time together. Rothe's hushed conversation was filled with concern for Orisian, and with plans for escape as soon as the two of them were strong enough. Orisian knew they could not get away if the Fox opposed it; their safety relied on reason and patience, not flight. In his heart of hearts, Rothe must know the same. Perhaps he spoke of escape only because he thought it was what Orisian needed to hear to keep his spirits up. If so, they were equally guilty of imperfect honesty, for Orisian had not told the shieldman about his audience with the
vo'an'tyr.
It would not help for Rothe to know their fate still hung so precariously in the balance. Not yet, at least.

Ess'yr visited him often, sometimes bearing food, sometimes to check his wound, sometimes for no particular reason he could grasp. He came to look forward to the sight of her. Though she seldom smiled, there was an undercurrent of goodwill in her manner. Still, she talked in strange circles, as In'hynyr had done, and he always felt that he missed half the meaning of her words.

Sometimes she would answer his questions. How many people were in the
vo'an?
he asked; two or three hundred, she told him. Seven
a'ans,
which would disperse once more in the spring. Where was the rest of her family? Her parents had gone to the willow. Her brother was hunting in the Car Criagar.

Then when Orisian posed a question that trespassed beyond whatever unseen boundary hedged their conversation, she ignored him, or walked away. She would not discuss his and Rothe's fate, nor would she talk of Inurian. And when he asked about the great, unearthly face of twigs and branches that gazed across the camp she only shook her head a touch. He learned to tread with care.

At night, he lay longing for sleep amidst the strange smells of the Kyrinin tent, listening to the alien sounds of forest and camp. In those loneliest of hours, in the grip of darkness, he fought a losing battle against the images and memories that jostled within his head. They were of Castle Kolglas on the night of Winterbirth. But the person he longed for most, whose absence hurt more than any other, was someone lost long before: Lairis, his mother. The hole she had left in his life was as cavernous as it had ever been, the wound exposed afresh. He held the furs of his bedding tight about him, as if they were her arms.

On the morning of the fourth day since he had awoken, when Ess'yr brought him a bowl of watery broth, he sensed that something had changed. There was a lightness in her manner that had not been there before. He asked if In'hynyr had made some decision, but Ess'yr ignored the question.

'My brother is back,' she said. 'He will see you.'

The tall, lean hunter Ess'yr later ushered into Orisian's hut was more imposing than any Kyrinin Orisian had yet seen. In the mere act of entering, without a word being spoken, the space became his. His long silvery hair had an almost metallic sheen to it. His taut face was covered by an intricate swirl of dark blue lines tattooed into the skin. The smoke-coloured eyes remained impassive, but the corner of his mouth gave the faintest of twitches at the sight of the Huanin youth crouched on the sleeping mat.

'My brother,' said Ess'yr. 'Varryn.'

'I am Orisian,' he said, wishing his heart had not picked up its beat.

The tall Kyrinin angled his head and narrowed his eyes. Orisian felt impaled.

'Ulyin,'Varryn said, and swept out into the morning.

Ess'yr gazed after him, scratching once at her cheek with a white fingernail. Orisian cleared his throat.

'What does
ulyin
mean?' he asked.

'A baby bird; no feathers. They fall from nests.' She looked at him. 'Bad hunting,' she said and went after her brother.

He saw Varryn again that afternoon, when Ess'yr shepherded him out of the tent and over to a fire where a bowl of stew was waiting. As they sat side by side, eating in silence, her brother joined them.

Orisian watched him out of the corner of his eye. Caution vied with curiosity for a while, as he took in the dense tattoos that scarred the Kyrinin's skin. Eventually he set his bowl down and turned to Varryn.

'What...' Orisian hesitated for a moment. 'What do the marks mean? On your face?'

Ess'yr spoke before her brother could reply. 'This is
kin'thyn.
Threefold. Very few have the third.'

She murmured something to Varryn. Orisian was struck anew at how her voice danced when she spoke in her own language; as if a stream flowed in it. Varryn gave a nod of assent to whatever she had asked him.

'I can tell you how he won the
kin'thyn.
He agrees. Do you wish it?' she said to Orisian.

'Yes, I would like that.'

'The first
kin'thyn
when he was thirteen summers.' There was something almost reverent in Ess'yr's tone.

'He was in a spear
a'an
of Tyn'vyr, crossed into White Owl lands. They hunted the enemy for five days.

He put an arrow in an old one from behind a tree. The second when he was fifteen. A spear
a'an
of the enemy came near. He opened one of them with a knife. Then many summers before the third. Kyrkyn called a spear
a'an,
and they went across the valley, went deep in enemy lands. They found a family by a stream, and sent them all to the willow. Varryn took the fire from their camp. They ran for the river, but the enemy was as wolfenkind behind. Many fell. Kyrkyn, and ten more. Five came out from the trees and back. Varryn carried the fire with him. Only for this is the third
kin'thyn
given. For the enemy's fire.'

Throughout the telling, Varryn had regarded Orisian with a fixed, emotionless gaze. It made him want to turn away. Instead he asked, 'How do you cross the valley into Anlane so easily? Without us, my Blood, knowing you are there?'

The question was directed at Ess'yr, for Orisian had assumed her brother would not understand, but Varryn rose to his feet, setting aside his bowl though it was still half-full of steaming stew.

'Huanin do not know,' he said. He walked off, pausing after a few steps and half-turning. 'Eyes and ears are thick and heavy. Like your legs and feet.'