Exile's Children (20 page)

“Is my word still good, yes.”

“Your word was always good. But you are like an unbroken horse: it's hard to know who you'll kick next.”

Warriors moved about them, shielding them, and they began to walk toward the Commacht lodges.

Rannach said, “I thought you betrayed me. But then you spoke and I …”

Racharran sighed and looked to the westering moon, then back to where the pinnacle of the Maker's Mountain stood bone-white and bleak against the sky, and said, “Do you not think I love you?”

Rannach was taken aback: he shrugged.

Racharran said, “You are my blood, my son. And you are a warrior of the Commacht, and the clan is my blood. I need consider both: the burden of any akaman.”

Rannach frowned and said, “I slew him fair.”

“I know; I never doubted that. Nor, likely, would I have done different.”

Rannach said, “Then why …?”

Wearily, Racharran said, “Because I am akaman of the Commacht and I must think of the clan and all the People, and things come toward us that frighten me.”

Rannach had never heard his father speak before of fear, and if frightened him. He looked at his father's face and began to ask a question, but Racharran raised a hand to silence him. “Not now. Do you come home and we shall eat and drink tiswin, and then I'll tell you.'

Rannach nodded and drew Arrhyna closer, letting his father lead the way. At least he remembered, as he saw Morrhyn sucking on his bitten hand, to ask the wakanisha's pardon for that injury.

“No matter.” Morrhyn shrugged, and Rannach thought his face looked haunted. “It will heal. Though, by the Maker, you've powerful teeth.”

Rannach smiled at that, but could not quite summon a laugh.

Racharran's lodge was crowded. Lhyn met her son with a smile, embracing him and Arrhyna, then the two women busied themselves at the fire as Colun reached for the tiswin and began to pour. Racharran turned to Morrhyn and asked that the wakanisha speak of the Dream Council.

“You need to know this,” he said to Rannach, “that you understand why we must have peace.”

His tone boded no good, and Rannach nodded and sat silent as Morrhyn spoke. When the Dreamer was done, Racharran told of the akamans' debate, interrupted by Rannach's return, and of his fear—and Morrhyn's—that save the clans swear binding oaths of peace, the People would likely fall in disarray before the invaders.

“But is this so,” Rannach said when the ominous tale was told, “then Hadduth agreed the truce, and Chakthi. How could they do that, knowing of Vachyr's crime—likely privy to his escape?”

“Now you show sense,” Racharran said, and ruefully, “if somewhat late in the day.”

Rannach bristled. “What else should I have done? What else could I have done? My wife was stolen!”

“Brought the matter to the Council,” Racharran answered, “that Vachyr's crime be known from the start. Had the Council sent out riders, perhaps Vachyr might have been taken alive, and Chakthi have no chance to accuse you.”

Rannach met his father's eyes awhile and then lowered his head. “I did not think,” he said slowly. “I knew only that Arrhyna was taken and I must go after her.”

“And now,” Racharran said, “there's a price must be paid.”

Morrhyn said, “I suspect it was a well-thought trap. I wonder if Chakthi did not gamble on Vachyr escaping—which should likely have led to war. And if Vachyr was taken? Why, Chakthi could deny all knowledge. And was Vachyr slain? Then, again, an end to peace—without blame attaching to Chakthi.”

Rannach studied the wakanisha in amazement. “You say that Chakthi gambled his own son's life?”

“I believe he did.” Morrhyn sighed, his brow creased in a frown. “I suspect all this was hatched by Chakthi and Hadduth, in spite and hatred of the Commacht.”

“But …” Rannach spread his hands, indicating bafflement. “Are your worst fears aright, Chakthi plays into the hands of these invaders.”

Morrhyn nodded.

Rannach said, “How could he? Is he crazed?”

“Perhaps.” Morrhyn shrugged. “That he bears us Commacht no love is common knowledge. Then at this Matakwa he saw his son's desires thwarted, and Zeil and Nemeth taken into our clan. Perhaps that was more than he could bear.”

“But to gamble his own son's life?” Rannach shook his head. “And when all the People are likely threatened?”

Mildly, Morrhyn asked, “Did you think of all the People when you aimed your lance at Vachyr?”

Shamefaced, Rannach shook his head.

Morrhyn said, “I think there's a poison in Chakthi, and in Hadduth. It addles them. Perhaps—” He hesitated, eyes a moment closed, his face a moment haggard. “Perhaps it's to do with these strangeling invaders.”

Lhyn gasped at that and clutched her husband's shoulder. Arrhyna drew closer to Rannach, as if the chill, dread breath of nightmare invaded the lodge, a black and ominous mist.

“Be that as it may,” Racharran said heavily, “there are more immediate problems. A judgment shall be delivered tomorrow, and I must accept it.”

“No!” Lhyn's fingers drove hard into the muscle of his shoulder. “Rannach acted honorably!”

“But still broke the law,” Racharran said. “Still shed blood in Matakwa.”

“Had he not,” Arrhyna said, “I should be with Vachyr now, likely brought to the Tachyn grazing. What then?”

“War with the Tachyn.” Racharran spoke hollow-voiced. “Chakthi's wish still granted.”

“Shall Juh and the others not see that?” Lhyn asked. “Not see Chakthi for what he is?”

“Perhaps.” Her husband ducked his head as if it sat heavy on his neck. “But without proof they can know only that Vachyr was slain and Rannach admits the deed. That the Ahsa-tye-Patiko
was
ignored.”

Rannach squared his shoulders and asked, calmly as he was able, “What shall their judgment be? My death?”

He ignored Arrhyna's horrified cry; Racharran ignored Lhyn's. The akaman said, “Perhaps they will consider the circumstances. Perhaps Yazte can convince Juh and Tahdase. Perhaps they will consider my plea and their judgment be clement.”

“And is it not?” Rannach asked.

Racharran faced his son. “I am akaman of the Commacht. I must abide by their judgment, no matter what it cost me.”

The moon stood aloof over the Meeting Ground, this night veiled in fast-blown streamers of dark cloud so that patterns of shadow and light pursued a dance across the encampment. From the center, where the Council fires burned, sparks rose to join the dance. From all the People gathered there to hear the judgment of the akamans there rose not a sound; it was as if the Matawaye held their breath, waiting, knowing these events momentous.

They had talked enough that day, all the men and women, debating amongst themselves what their decision might be were they seated with Juh and Tahdase and Yazte in the Aparhaso chieftain's lodge.

It was a day unlike any other in the memory of the People. The Matakwa's usually festive air was dulled and glum. Racharran asked of his warriors that they hold close to the Commacht lodges and not venture where their paths might cross those of the Tachyn. Chakthi stalked amongst his folk with the white clay of mourning a rigid mask over his lupine face. He vowed his son would lie within his lodge until judgment be delivered, and only then, avenged, be given burial.

None were sure where: no man had before died by violence during Matakwa, and none could say for sure whether or not the Ahsa-tye-Patiko allowed that the trees of the Meeting Ground might take such a body. The Tachyn thought perhaps Chakthi would take Vachyr back, to
lay him in the ancestral burial wood, but Chakthi would not say—only cry for vengeance and spill ashes on his loosened hair. Hadduth, his own face streaked white, trailed on Chakthi's heels like a skulking dog.

Rannach, in deference to his father and his own promise, remained mostly in his lodge. When he bathed or went to tend his horse and Arrhyna's, an escort of senior warriors went with him. He kept a brave face. Arrhyna endeavored to conceal her fear, to stem the tears that threatened when her parents came or Lhyn sat with her outside the lodge.

As if his eyes were opened in a moment, Rannach understood what it was to be an akaman. He saw the barely hidden dread in his mother's eyes and the unmasked pain in his father's, and knew that Lhyn's fear was entirely for him, her son, whilst Racharran must fear for him, for the Commacht, and for all the People. It seemed to him a terrible burden.

As the time approached when his future should be decided, he said to his father, “I am sorry.”

Racharran smiled: a thin stretching of his lips. “As am I.”

“Whatever judgment comes,” Rannach said carefully, “I shall accept.”

Racharran nodded and turned his face toward the Maker's Mountain. The pinnacle was bathed in the light of the westering sun, its flanks and peak reddened as if wounded. “I know you are brave,” he said. “I would also have you understand.”

Rannach said, “I think I do.”

“Were this another time, another place,” Racharran said, “it should be different. Had Colun not brought his news, had Morrhyn not dreamed his dreams …”

“I know. I'm sorry,” Rannach said again.

Racharran smiled again, warmer now: the heat of pride there. “You've courage,” he said, and took Rannach's right hand between his own. “You were always brave and I have always been proud of you, but I must think past you. Do you understand that?”

“Now,” Rannach said.

His father said, “I cannot argue the judgment.”

It sounded like a farewell. From behind him, where Arrhyna sat sewing, Rannach heard a gasp. He said, “I know. I'd not ask that you do.”

“What I can do,” Racharran said, “I shall. But the People cannot be in disarray are Morrhyn's worst fears aright.”

“No.” Rannach held his father's hands tighter. “I understand.”

•   •   •

The clay masked Chakthi, his face unreadable. Only the dark eyes showed his hatred as he studied Rannach, his unbound hair falling matted and ash-smeared about his shoulders, as if he were some vengeful ghost unleashed by the Maker to take his toll on the quick.

And if he were a spirit, Rannach thought, then Hadduth was his familiar, crouched whispering at his master's side, his own features all distorted by clay and ash, as if Vachyr had been his own son and Chakthi's loss his. But Rannach stifled his contempt: he had made his father a promise and would not break it, for Racharran's sake and his own honor.

His father sat across the circle from the Tachyn, Morrhyn close by, and Lhyn with Zeil and Nemeth, the two mothers with their arms about Arrhyna. Colun squatted surrounded by his Grannach, a cluster of living rocks, their bearded faces grave as stone. Behind them, allowed such precedence for their part in this drama, stood Bakaan and Zhy and Hadustan. Juh sat with Tahdase and Yazte, their Dreamers in a group beside. And all around there was silence as the People waited.

Juh rose and walked to the circle's center, where Rannach stood. He must raise his head to look the younger man in the face, and when he did, Rannach could not interpret his expression. He adjusted his blanket about his shoulders and turned slowly around, speaking loud that all hear.

“As was agreed, I have spoken long with Tahdase of the Naiche and Yazte of the Lakanti, and we have reached a decision. Shall our judgment be accepted by all?”

Rannach was the first to answer yes, Racharran the second. Chakthi said, slower and enigmatic, “Be it fair.”

Juh turned hooded eyes on the Tachyn and said, “It was agreed by you, brother. Will you argue now?”

Chakthi's lips worked, the clay splitting in myriad lines that distorted his features even further. Hadduth touched his elbow and spoke in his ear, and Chakthi lowered his head so that his ashy hair curtained his face. From behind that camouflage he said, “I will hear your judgment.”

Juh took this for assent and turned to Rannach.

“This is our judgment; it was not easily reached. There are many arguments, both for you and against you. That you broke the law cannot be denied …”

From Chakthi's mask, like a ghostly moan, came: “The law is clear—his death.”

Juh ignored him. “… But neither can it be denied that Vachyr
transgressed when he stole your wife, and we believe her testimony. Therefore, the first crime was undoubtedly Vachyr's.”

Rannach stood stock-still. Like the sparks lofting from the fires, he felt an ember of hope rise.

“So,” Juh continued, “there is a balance here. It is our belief that had Vachyr not gone against the Will, you would not have broken it. But”—he raised a hand from under his blanket as if to quench the disagreement none had voiced—“still it is as I have said: that wrong cannot be justified by wrong.”

Rannach felt the ember die.

Juh said, “Our brother Chakthi has called for your life. Your father has offered blood-payment. Chakthi has refused that and would see you slain. What say you?”

Rannach was startled. He had anticipated judgment—readied himself for death—assuming the verdict already decided: the one way or the other. He had not thought to be asked his opinion.

He looked at Juh and saw no dissemblance in the ancient eyes, only patience and sorrow. He fought the impulse to turn toward his father. He said carefully, “I slew Vachyr in fair fight. I told him I would take him back to face judgment of his crime, but he taunted me and my temper rose—I took up my lance and slew him.”

“And these taunts? What were they?”

Rannach said, “Insults,” and glanced swiftly at Arrhyna. “I'd not speak of them.”

Arrhyna broke from her mother's arm, and Lhyn's, and rose to shout, “Vachyr boasted of raping me!”

Softly, that only Rannach hear him, Juh said, “There's honor in you.” Then louder: “Our judgment is this: that Rannach of the Commacht had just cause to slay Vachyr of the Tachyn, and so we would not take his life. But that he shed blood at the time of Matakwa was wrong, and therefore we have decided that Rannach be banished from the lodges of the People. Let him go away and live lonely. Let none succor him, neither his own clan nor any other. And should he come again onto the grass of the People, then his life is forfeit. This is our judgment: let it be done.”