Exile's Children (16 page)

“Yes, I remember.” Chakthi nodded, his smile unctuous. “So surely better no little troubles disturb their concentration.”

Yazte snorted, shaking his round head, and looked to Racharran for support.

The Commacht akaman shrugged, diplomatic, not wishing to offend Chakthi.

Yazte frowned and turned to Juh. “How say you, brother? Do you not grow weary?”

Juh smiled his ancient smile and lowered his head. “It is not for me to bid my brother silent,” he said, “but I think we might set aside these lesser things.”

“Do we vote on it?” asked Tahdase.

Yazte said, “I vote for sleep. I say we leave all lesser matters for another day.”

Juh nodded and raised a hand in agreement, soon followed by Tahdase. Racharran raised his hand. Hadduth whispered in Chakthi's ear and the Tachyn akaman smiled and said, “So be it.” Morrhyn hid a frown: he sensed something went on here that he could not interpret.

He quit the Council at Racharran's side. Lhyn emerged from the crowd to join her husband, and Colun walked with them.

The Grannach was grumpy. “My belly aches for want of sustenance,” he complained. “And a pitcher of tiswin would not go amiss.”

Lhyn laughed and promised him both. Racharran said, “Chakthi does not usually speak so much. I wonder what oiled his tongue this night.”

“There was something about him.” Morrhyn shook his head, perplexed. “As if he and Hadduth shared some secret. Nor was Vachyr present.”

“No.” Racharran's eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion and he looked to his wife. “Rannach quit the fires soon after Colun spoke. Have you seen him?”

She said, “I suspect our son was eager to return to his bride. Like any new-wed young man.”

“Perhaps.” Racharran nodded. They came amongst the Commacht tents and he looked to where Rannach's lodge was pitched. The moon was bright, the tent a shadow on the grass, faint firelight visible at the entrance. A grunt escaped his lips and he said, “His horse is gone, and Arrhyna's.”

Morrhyn suddenly felt all his doubts knot tight in his belly.

Lhyn said, “Likely they ride under the moon,” and jabbed an elbow against her husband's ribs. “Once you had such romantic notions.”

Racharran frowned, ignoring the sally.

Mournfully, Colun asked, “Does this mean I go hungry?”

“No.” Lhyn favored her husband with a disapproving glance. “Do you and I go on, and I'll see that belly of yours filled. My suspicious husband will meanwhile go skulk about our son's lodge—and we'll laugh at his blushes when he returns.”

“And tiswin?” Colun demanded.

“And tiswin,” Lhyn confirmed. She pushed Racharran forward. “Shall you embarrass yourself, husband? Or shall you leave them be?”

Racharran, not looking at her, said, “Feed Colun; all well, I'll join you soon. Morrhyn?”

Akaman and wakanisha crossed the open ground to the lodge. As he saw the unlaced entry flap, Morrhyn groaned. Racharran cursed, shouldering the flap aside to enter. The interior elicited a louder, fiercer oath.

This, Morrhyn though with dreadful realization, is why Chakthi delayed us so long. To give his Maker-cursed son time. Damn them both! He snatched at Racharran's arm as the akaman moved away.

“No, you cannot! Think on it—even is Vachyr gone, what proof have we he'd anything to do with this? Shall you accuse Chakthi without clear proof?”

“Think you this is not his work?” Racharran demanded.

“I think it is.” Morrhyn set himself before his akaman like a man facing an angry bull buffalo, he thought. He set his hands against Racharran's shoulders. “But even so, we've no proof.”

“What proof do we need?” Racharran pushed against the wakanisha. “Shall we wait for Rannach to bring him back across his saddle?”

“Is he alive, then yes,” Morrhyn cried. “Pray for that. Do you go storming through the Tachyn lodges now, you only give Chakthi cause for greater insult, and legitimate!”

For a while Racharran stood rigid, straining against Morrhyn. Then he slumped, the tension leaving his frame. He nodded wearily. “We're caught, no?” He raised his face to the moonlit sky as if in supplication. “Oh, by the Maker! Had Rannach only listened, found some other bride …”

“But he did not,” Morrhyn said. “He found Arrhyna and wed her, with the blessing of the Council. Has Vachyr stolen her, then he stands condemned before all the Matakwa.”

“Does he live to be condemned.” Planed by the moonlight, Racharran's face was haggard. “But does Rannach slay him within the boundaries of the Meeting Ground, then it shall be my son who stands condemned.”

Morrhyn said, “He gave his word.”

A barking laugh escaped Racharran's tight-drawn mouth. “Did
some wife-stealer take Lhyn, think you
I'd
remember such a promise when I faced him? Would you?”

Almost, Morrhyn said no, but he held that back and instead said, “Then the Maker grant Rannach remembers.”

They were blooded warriors, accustomed to the hunt and—sometimes—clan warfare. They could read a trail and, with the Maker's blessing, outguess their quarry. But those skills were also Vachyr's, and he could ride hard and fast, thinking only of escape and the obscuration of his spoor, while they must seek out his tracks by night, and ensure which were his and which those of other riders. With all the People come to Matakwa, the country around the Meeting Ground was busy with trails: they must ride slower, and carefully, lest they lose the sign.

“Ach!” Bakaan rose from his examination of the trampled grass and swept out an arm, indicating the profusion of tracks. “I'd guess a party of Tachyn came to meet him, then scattered two by two.”

Hadustan leaned from his saddle, scanning the ground. “All two by two,” he murmured. “And look.” He pointed to the dung piles littering the area. “They waited for him.”

“Chakthi's hand!” Rannach said it like a curse. “His father must have aided him, sent warriors out to hide his trail.”

“Then,” said Zhy, “it was all planned in advance. And it might be,” he surveyed the tracks, “they join later, and we face … what? Two hands of warriors?”

Bakaan asked, “Do you say we turn back?”

“No.” Zhy shook his head. “Only that we ride cautious.”

“Ten warriors are too many.” Rannach held the stallion in check as the animal pranced, sensing his urgency. “The absence of ten warriors from the Council would be noticed.”

“How so,” Zhy asked, “amongst so many?”

Rannach thought a moment, then: “Chakthi would not give such a task to any save his most trusted men. And I saw none of those absent from the Council fires.”

Bakaan asked, “What do you tell us?”

Under the moon's light it was hard to decide whether Rannach snarled or frowned. Perhaps it was both; he said, “That earlier this day Chakthi sent men out to hide his son's tracks. They gathered here, as if meeting Vachyr, then rode out in pairs in different directions. Vachyr came here and rode on, thinking to confuse any pursuit.”

He dropped from the saddle, tossing the stallion's rein to Bakaan as he walked an impatient circle around the hoof-marked ground.

“See? These are older; harder.” He stooped, fingers delicate as they probed the prints. He checked them all, then: “These, they're more recent. And one animal has smaller hooves—like Arrhyna's mare.” He pointed northward. “Vachyr goes that way.”

Bakaan asked, “You're sure?”

Rannach said, “I pray the Maker I am.”

He leapt astride the stallion and heeled the big horse into the night.

Lhyn was unhappy with Racharran's decision, and her displeasure encompassed Morrhyn. He cringed under her frown.

“Alone?” She expressed her anger with the spoon, ladling stew into their bowls hard enough they must clutch the platters two-handed, lest gravy splatter them. “You send no senior warriors after him? To … protect him? Or prevent him from slaying Vachyr?”

Colun, already emptying his second bowl and his second pitcher of tiswin, beamed and said, “He's a warrior, no? He's my old friend's son—he'll come to no harm.”

“Be quiet!” Lhyn withered the Grannach leader with a single furious glance. “Eat, and drink your tiswin, and hold your tongue. This is my son we speak of.”

Colun belched and shrugged. “Forgive me,” he said, and filled his cup.

“I've explained it, no?” Racharran looked to the wakanisha for support. “It's as Morrhyn says—do I send riders out, then Chakthi can claim I took a hand in whatever happens.”

“And is Rannach slain?” Lhyn asked. “Or he slays Vachyr? What then?”

“Does he slay Vachyr,” Racharran said, “then likely we shall have war with the Tachyn when we need peace, alliance against these invaders. I think that Chakthi planned this well.”

Lhyn settled by the fire, and when she spoke her voice was no cooler than the flames. “And is our son killed?”

Morrhyn ventured an opinion. “He is not alone,” he said. “Those comrades of his ride with him—Bakaan and the other two, Hadustan and Zhy.”

“And has Chakthi sent warriors to halt them?”

Was this, Morrhyn wondered, what marriage was like? Was it this furious exchange of views? Did the presence of children bring forth such differences? He thought how difficult it must be for Racharran: father and akaman of the clan, both.

He said, “I doubt Chakthi risks that.”

Lhyn stared at him and he thought of lions.

He said, “I think that Chakthi agreed this with Vachyr, but would not risk sending others. I think that Vachyr rides alone, whilst Rannach has his companions.”

“And shall likely slay Vachyr,” Lhyn said, granting him no release. “And stand condemned for breaking the Matakwa truce.”

Morrhyn lowered his face: it was hard to meet the burning of her eyes.

Racharran said, “Does it come to that, then surely the Council will understand. By the Maker, Vachyr stole our son's bride! He must be condemned.”

“And we Commacht,” Lhyn said coldly, “then find ourselves at war with the Tachyn. Which you, my husband, and you”—her icy gaze took in Morrhyn—“say that is what we must avoid at all costs.”

“There is no other way.” Racharran's voice sounded empty, bereft. “It's as we say—Chakthi's tied our hands.”

“Oh, Chakthi's clever.” Her answer was a snort of contempt that gathered in her husband and Morrhyn and Chakthi in one maternal basket. “He's tied your hands, eh? And does Vachyr slay our son?”

Morrhyn sympathized with Racharran even as he felt grateful that question was directed at the akaman. He knew what he wished his answer should be, and what it must be. He fixed his eyes on the fire as Racharran spoke. He thought he could not bear to look at either face, the father's or the mother's.

“Then I must go before the Council and demand Vachyr be condemned as a bride-thief and a murderer.” Racharran's voice reminded Morrhyn that they were none of them any longer young: it was the voice of years, weighted with responsibility. “But I must also remember that I am akaman of the Commacht; and that our clan—and all the people—face an unknown threat.”

“And our son?” Lhyn asked.

“Is one man,” Racharran said. “The Maker help me, but does it come to it, I must sacrifice him.”

“Our son?” she demanded.

Her husband ducked his head. As if, Morrhyn thought, a terrible dread hand pressed it down in rueful acceptance.

As Racharran said “Yes,” Colun belched noisily and pitched sideways over the furs, spilling the dregs of his tiswin.

The tracks went north into the stones of the foothills. The moon bleached the pinnacle of the Maker's Mountain the color of old bone.
The timber spanning the long legs of rock disgorged owls that hooted soft protest at their passage. The needles the trees dropped were soft and resilient, not given to the holding of tracks—the bride-thief was not stupid.

Nor were the hunters.

There were always signs to be read: a twisted branch, a scarred root, a place where water oozed and held the spoor. They followed: up into the wide spurs where the rock shone white under the moon and only the gravel drift below afforded mark of hoof-passage. Along ravines where turned stones guided them, lit blue and black by the silent moon. Up and around, along a wide circle that as dawn came on fell into a line moving south and east, skirting the Meeting Ground; likely to traverse the boundary of the Commacht and the Tachyn grass before moving onto the safer ground of Vachyr's own clan.

Rannach pushed them hard, allowing but a single halt to rest and water the horses, riding through the night as if demons bayed at his heels.

In time, the eastern horizon shone pink as the heart of a river-washed mussel shell, and the moon faded reluctantly behind the mountains. The landscape ahead glowed gold and red as the sun came up, chasing herds of white clouds across the paling sky. Birds rose in chorus of the dawn and insects joined their song.

The tracks turned eastward, and showed the tired signs of weary horses.

Bakaan said, “Soon; he's slowing.”

Rannach hefted his lance, the Grannach blade sparking sunlight in glittering shards against the morning. “Yes, soon.”

It was the voice of a questing wolf, scenting prey.

Bakaan said, “Remember your promise.”

“To Arrhyna?” Rannach spoke harshly. “Or to my father?”

Bakaan shrugged. “Better alive, eh? That he face the humiliation …”

Rannach looked into his friend's eyes and offered no answer.

Hadustan said, “He's not running for the Tachyn grass. Look.” He angled his lance in the direction of the tracks glistening dewy in the rising sun. They went toward a dense stand of pine and maple that shone dark green in the burgeoning light. “I think he looks to lose us there, but if we ride hard around …”