Exile's Children (2 page)

“As our wakanisha is of dreams,” Racharran answered, chuckling from across the lodge fire. “Sit, my friend, and fill your belly.”

Morrhyn thought of the meager breakfast set by in his own lodge: this should surely be better, and give him chance to speak with the akaman of his dream and doubts. He sat, shucking off his bearskin, savoring the odors as Lhyn took the pan bread from the flames.

They ate, as was custom, in silence, speaking only when all were done and Lhyn filled cups of Grannach manufacture with sweet herb tea.

“I saw Rannach,” Morrhyn began. “He's of the same mind?”

Racharran nodded, his handsome face darkening somewhat. “My son is obstinate,” he murmured. “This day he intends to go to Arrhyna; tomorrow Bakaan will make formal approach.”

“The Maker grant Vachyr not be there,” Morrhyn said.

“Surely not even Vachyr would sully the Meeting Ground.” Lhyn made a sign of warding as she spoke.

Her husband grunted, shrugging, “Vachyr's a temper fierce as our son's pride,” he declared. “I wonder if there's much to choose between them.”

Lhyn gave him a disapproving frown. “I'd not liken our son to Chakthi's,” she said. “Rannach is—”

“Obstinate,” Racharran interrupted.

“His father's son,” said Lhyn.

“Perhaps.” Racharran spread his hands wide. “But he'll not listen to me in this, and his choice could not be worse.”

“He loves her,” Lhyn said, “and she him. Would you argue that?”

“Not that they share a passion,” Racharran said. “Only that it's a passion such as can deliver us to war.” He turned to Morrhyn. “How say you, wakanisha?”

Morrhyn wiped deer fat from his chin and pondered awhile. Then: “I see both sides, I think. I'd wish the Maker had guided Rannach's eyes elsewhere, but they fell on Arching and they'll not be shifted. We cannot forbid the marriage; neither can Chakthi. What comes of it …”

The akaman said, “Trouble. Were it in my power, I'd forbid it.”

“And make an enemy of our son,” said Lhyn. “He'd take Arrhyna and go away.”

“Yes.” Racharran ducked his head in unhappy acceptance. “And so, instead, we make Chakthi our enemy. Come summer, our folk must ride careful on the grass—the gift of Rannach's desire.”

“But you'll support him.” Lhyn said. “Does Chakthi take it before the Council?”

“Of course.” Racharran's smile was sour with resignation. “He's my son. I've spoken with him, and my words ran like water off stone. He knows my feelings—and Morrhyn's—and he'll not be diverted. But I shall support him in Council.”

Lhyn smiled and filled their cups. Morrhyn said, “I dreamed again.”

Racharran said, “The same?” And when the wakanisha nodded his confirmation: “Aught of Rannach?”

Morrhyn said, “No; and that troubles me. It's as if this dream is so great, it drives all others out. It burns through my nights like a prairie fire.” He shuddered despite the lodge's warmth. “It frightens me.”

Racharran studied his old friend, reading concern like spoor on the weathered face. That disturbed him, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. “Can you put a meaning on it?”

“No.” Morrhyn shrugged a negative. “Save danger threatens, and a danger far greater than Chakthi alone. Ach!” He sighed and shook his head. “I am not a very good Dreamer, that I cannot interpret this.”

Racharran said, “You are the best,” echoed by Lhyn.

Morrhyn favored them with a smile. “Thank you for your faith,” he murmured, “but it troubles me that I sense this yet cannot discern its import.” Conscious that he slumped, he straightened his back, forcing a more confident tone. “I shall speak of it in the Dream Council. Perhaps others have known this dream.”

Racharran nodded: these were matters for the Dreamers, not yet of immediate concern to the akamans. Was Morrhyn's dream shared, could the wakanishas of all the clans gathered for the Matakwa put a meaning to it, then it would become a thing for the Chiefs' Council. Until then he had worry enough contemplating Rannach's suit.

He anticipated a summer of war, and could not help the kindled anger that it was Rannach lit the flame. In the name of the Maker, why could the youth not see reason? Arrhyna was a prize, but there were others aplenty, and did Rannach only set the good of the clan before his own desire, then he would forsake the girl and find some other whose taking was less likely to bring the Tachyn raiding. Rannach was not, Racharran thought sadly, the stuff of which akamans were made.

“You think of Rannach?”

Lhyn's soft voice intruded on his dark contemplation, and he answered her with a silent nod. She sighed and looked to Morrhyn.

The wakanisha said, “The stallion roped, you'd best not let go.”

Racharran grunted irritably. “This stallion is likely to trample us.”

“But still,” Morrhyn returned, “the rope is on and we must make the best of it.”

“Did you offer Chakthi compensation?” Lhyn suggested.

Her husband snorted. “For a bride whose price is already paid? I've some pride yet.” His aquiline features softened and he touched his wife's hand. “Besides, I suspect Chakthi would see that only as added insult.”

“There's no easy answer,” Morrhyn offered. “Save pray the Maker gentles Chakthi's temper.”

“And Vachyr's,” Racharran said.

When Morrhyn quit their lodge, the great encampment was awake. His conversation had delivered no enlightenment, and he felt still no desire to converse with any others, so he drew up his robe to cowl his head and walked away from the lodges to where the toes of the Maker's Mountain rested on the earth. The stone shone silvery in the risen sun, aged as time and furrowed with cracks like the skin of an ancient. Higher, the slopes rose steep, lofting above the Meeting Ground as they climbed to shape the flanks of the great peak. That stood smooth, carved by wind and untold years, a pinnacle that stabbed the clouds, the pillar holding up the heavens: the Gate through which the People had come to Ket-Ta-Witko. Perhaps up there, closer to the Maker's weaving, he might find answers.

He set to climbing, the ascent soon warming him enough that he shed the bearskin, leaving it where a clump of thorn bushes jutted spiny from the rock. He clambered up until he reached a shelf that overlooked the Meeting Ground and squatted there, surveying the lodges of the gathered clans.

Once each year, always in the New Grass Moon, they came to this place in Matakwa. Here they offered to the Maker, giving thanks for bounty past and prayer for bounty to come. Here disputes were settled, and marriages made. What could not be resolved by the akamans and wakanishas of the individual clans was settled by the Chiefs' Council, and the will of the Council was final. Here the wakanishas met in Dream Council, speaking of their visions, seeking the advice of their fellow Dreamers, initiating novices. Here the People met with the Grannach, the Stone Folk, who lived inside the hills and came out to trade their
metalwork for skins and beadwork and bone carvings. The Matakwa was a celebration both secular and holy, bound by one overriding commandment: that no blood be spilled. Morrhyn prayed earnestly that it continue so. He could not say how, but he felt that was connected in some fashion to his dream—that no blood sully the Meeting Ground, lest it bring on the burning horses of his vision with their dreadful riders.

He chanted his prayer and heard the words carried away on the wind that blew up. He hoped the wind carried them to the Maker's ears.

Then, seeking calm, he studied the camp.

The lesser limbs of the Maker's Mountain curved horn-shaped about the great verdant bowl, fending the wind. There was grass for all the horses and sufficient timber to augment the dung fires with ample wood. The stream that wandered across the bowl turned and twisted serpentine, so that none need pitch their lodges far from water. It was as fine a place as any in Ket-Ta-Witko, and surely the only place where all the clans might gather.

The lodges spread colorful below him, painted with the emblems of the five clans and those personal to the occupants. The horse head of the Commacht stood proud across the brook from the Tachyn buffalo; he saw the wolf of the Aparhaso and the turtle of the Naiche, the eagle of the Lakanti. Past the lodges the herds cropped the grass, watched by the older children, the younger scurrying agile and loud between the tents, their games joined by barking dogs. Streamers of smoke rose blue from the cookfires, swirled and lost where they met the wind. Folk wandered the avenues between the tents, pausing to hail friends, renew old acquaintances. Toward the center, warriors displayed horses for barter, women the blankets woven through the long moons of Breaking Trees and Frozen Grass. It was a sight that always stirred Morrhyn's heart, of which he never tired. He hoped that when the Maker took him back, it might be here, where his bones could forever lie close to this wondrous symbol of unity.

He knew he smiled as he watched it all; and then his smile froze at the sight of Rannach splashing through the brook.

The warrior was dressed in his finest, no longer bare-chested but wearing a shirt of pale buckskin, bead-woven and painted with the horse head. His breeches were of the same hide, dyed blue and fringed in red and white, and his dark hair gleamed from recent washing. Over his left shoulder he carried a blanket. He went directly toward the lodge of Nemeth and Zeil, Arrhyna's parents. At least, Morrhyn thought, he bears no weapons; and then: he gave Racharran his word.

Even so, the wakanisha could not entirely quell his presentiment and
looked past the young warrior to Vachyr's tent, pitched beside his father's. He let out his relief in a long sigh as neither Tachyn appeared. Still, his heart beat fast as he returned his gaze to Rannach, for he knew the absence of Arrhyna's other suitor was no more than temporary respite, the quiet preceding impending storm. What shape that storm should take he knew not, only that it surely came on.

“You who made us all,” he said, unaware he spoke aloud, “grant this goes smooth.”

Then he held his breath, as if he stood close by Rannach's shoulder and not far off and high, as the young man halted before the lodge. The flap stood open and Nemeth came out, speaking awhile with Rannach before turning to call inside. Arrhyna appeared, and on the instant Morrhyn saw she had awaited this visit: her hair shone a fiery red, falling loose over her shoulders, and she wore a gown of deerskin worked so soft it was almost white. Morrhyn imagined she had spent the winter moons shaping that garment, in anticipation of this moment.

Rannach spoke and the maiden smiled, demurely lowering her head as she stepped toward him. He shrugged the blanket from his shoulder, raising his arm so that it fell in a swoop of red, blue, and white. Arrhyna stepped into its folds and Rannach settled his arm around her, lifting the blanket to hood them both. Then, moving as one, they walked away, first amongst the lodges of the Tachyn, then over the stream to wander the lines of the Commacht.

Morrhyn drew his eyes away: the declaration was made, now only formalities remained. Formalities and Vachyr's response, and Chakthi's. The wakanisha craned his head around, staring up at the Maker's Mountain. He sensed his dream thundering closer, but the pinnacle offered him no sign of what approached, and after a while he rose and began the descent.

It was time to face the future.

“Three hands of horses were offered.” Chakthi flung out his fingers in emphasis. “Prime stock, every one.” “No doubt, for the blood of the Tachyn herds is the envy of us all.” Juh of the Aparhaso spoke mildly, his tone a gentle contrast to Chakthi's venom. Racharran smiled faintly: the old man was ever a keeper of the peace. “But still the decision rests with the girl.”

Chakthi's hand sliced air, dismissive.

“Who chooses Rannach,” said Yazte of the Lakanti. “Whose bride offer was accepted by Nemeth.”

Beyond this inner circle of akamans and wakanishas, Racharran heard a nervous shifting and guessed that was likely Nemeth. The man had courage, he thought, to defy the Tachyn leader. He wondered if Nemeth and Zeil might not soon come seeking the shelter of the Commacht lodges: it was theirs for the asking.

“Rannach offered only ten.” Chakthi pressed his point, his lupine features painted sharper in the firelight. His pale eyes flashed a challenge. “Ten against Vachyr's fifteen. How can that be right?”

“Our women are not beasts, my friend.” Juh frowned, his wrinkles spreading like sun-cracks over the ancient clay of his face, but still his tone was mild. “They are not bought and sold like horses. Arrhyna has a say in this.”

“And tells Rannach yes.” Yazte spoke with studied calm, only the barest hint of contempt in his voice.

Does this all come to war, we've an ally there, Racharran thought. Yazte's no more liking for Chakthi than I. He turned his attention to the others, wondering where their allegiances would lie. Juh, he thought, would seek to hold his Aparhaso aloof from any conflict. He looked to Tahdase of the Naiche but the young man's face was veiled, as if he'd not yet cast his stone. Racharran could not blame him: Tahdase was not long akaman of his clan—this was his first Matakwa as leader—and, sensibly, he sought no enmities. Even so, Racharran thought, Chakthi forces this to a vote, and then Tahdase must make his choice.

He returned his eyes to the Tachyn akaman as Chakthi spoke again. “I do not say our women are beasts.” Chakthi attempted a placatory smile: it seemed to Racharran like the grin of a wolverine. “Only that any sensible father, any sensible maiden, must surely choose the better price. Indeed, the better man.”

Racharran had promised himself he would play the diplomat in this Council, not invoke Chakthi's anger, but this was too calculated an insult to ignore with honor. He raised a hand and said, “You say that Vachyr is the better man?”