Exile's Children (22 page)

She touched her lips to his cheek and let him go. Morrhyn could see the tears she held in check. Almost, he wept himself: it seemed all order was disrupted and he could not know what blame to apportion to Rannach, what to Chakthi, nor what to himself or even—he made the sign of warding—to the Maker. He rose and took Rannach's hands.

“For what worth it has, you go with my blessing. The Maker guard you and see you safely home again.”

“Thank you.” Rannach turned to Colun. “So, do we go?”

The Grannach grunted and emptied his cup. “Strike your lodge and fetch your animals,” he said. “We'll be ready.”

Rannach nodded and took his father's hand. They did not speak, but there was again some kind of understanding between them, and Rannach quit the tent.

Bakaan and Hadustan and Zhy waited for him, and when he told them he departed, they announced they'd accompany him.

“No.” Rannach shook his head. “You heard the judgment—no succor. I'll not see you condemned for my crime.”

They argued, but he remained unbending and they contented themselves with helping him prepare for departure.

It was soon enough done. The lodge was struck, its hides and all its contents stowed on two horses, the bay stallion and Arrhyna's piebald saddled, then Rannach took up his weapons. Lhyn came with food, and Nemeth and Zeil came sad with their daughter. To them Rannach said, “I ask your forgiveness that I take your child away so soon.”

“Not you,” Zeil returned, scowling as he looked toward the Tachyn camp. “This is Chakthi's doing. Go with my blessing.”

“And come back safe,” Nemeth added.

Rannach bowed his head. “No harm shall come to Arrhyna while I live,” he promised. “This I swear.”

Then Colun and his Grannach, all bearing weapons, came shuffling up.

Racharran set hands upon his son's shoulders. “Go now, and the Maker with you. We'll confuse your trail somewhat, and delay Chakthi as long as we can.”

Rannach could not resist it: “But without bloodshed, eh?”

Before Racharran had chance to reply, he embraced his father, then his mother, and swung astride the stallion. Arrhyna mounted the piebald and took the lead reins Bakaan offered.

“So.” Colun raised a hand. “My thanks for your hospitality. What further news we get, I'll send you somehow. Farewell.”

He lifted his ax, and his Grannach shaped a phalanx before the horses, Colun at the head. He broke into a trot that surprised Rannach with its speed. The young Commacht looked once at his wife, once at his parents and people, then urged the bay forward after the speeding Stone Folk.

They went swift away, toward the hills where the Maker's Mountain stood still hidden behind the veil of cloud.

It was an arduous trail the Grannach took, and by the day's ending they were in a place only the wakanishas had visited. Colun left men behind to watch their backtrail and set guards on their camp, which was in a corrie where the rocky walls hid their fire and a single man might watch down the mountain for sign of pursuit. Rannach noticed that Colun had another watch the high slopes also, as if the Grannach feared not only Chakthi's pursuit but also what might come from above: more than words, that impressed on him the gravity of Colun's warning.

They rose with the dawn and continued upward, on narrow trails that rose steep enough it was often necessary to dismount and lead the horses, which—accustomed to the plains of Ket-Ta-Witko—liked this climbing not at all. Without them the Grannach should have gone much faster, for they moved like mountain goats, surefooted and fleet where the horses stumbled and balked.

When they halted at noon, Colun said, “You'd do better to leave those beasts behind. Let them find their way back to your clan herds and you go on afoot.”

Rannach looked at the bay stallion, cropping grass beside Arrhyna's mare, and shook his head. “I hunted that horse a full moon before I got my rope on him; and it was another moon before he'd accept the saddle. I'll not give him up so easy.”

“They slow us,” Colun said.

“And should Chakthi find them coming down the mountain?” Rannach gestured downslope. “Then he'll know where we go.”

“Chakthi!” Colun turned his head to spit. “He's not coming after us.”

“How can you know?” asked Rannach.

“These are our mountains.” Colun gestured at the encircling peaks, steeper and craggy now, dominated by the massive bulk of the Maker's Mountain. “We Grannach know who comes and goes here. Besides …” His knobby face creased in a mischievous grin. “My watchers came back last night whilst you flatlanders slept, with news.”

“News?” Rannach could not conceal his urgency: the circumlocution of the Grannach was sometimes frustrating.

Colun nodded and chewed deliberately on a piece of meat. Rannach must contain himself and accept that Colun would speak in his own good time, and only then; and that all depended on the goodwill of the Stone Folk, for without them survival should be perilous. Still, it was no easy lesson to learn.

Eventually, Colun swallowed and said, “Ach, but I miss the tiswin your people make. However … Yes, my watchers came back and told me your father and Yazte thought to mark the ending of the Matakwa with horse races, which took place about the foothills. The Naiche and the Aparhaso joined in, and”—he reached for the meat, selecting a cut—“and so, when Tachyn warriors came riding up, they found their path quite blocked. Now Chakthi takes his people away.”

“He might still send scouts,” Rannach said.

“On a cold, old trail?” Colun shook his head, chuckling. “And one, the Maker knows, that does not favor horses.”

Rannach nodded and thought a moment. “Still, I'd keep the horses,” he said. “Should these invaders come, I'll need a mount to carry word. But can they live up there?” In his turn, he gestured at the high slopes.

Colun shrugged. “The getting there will be hard, but can they climb, they'll live. We've animals of our own, you know.”

“I didn't.” Rannach smiled an apology. “I thought you Grannach lived entirely in your tunnels.”

Colun laughed hugely. “Like moles, eh? Or rats?” He opened his eyes wide in semblance of some subterranean creature, his hands groping blindly at the empty air. “Wandering about in the dark, down in the deep stone?”

Somewhat embarrassed, Rannach nodded.

“We've more than our tunnels,” Colun said. “You'll see.”

Then, before Rannach could question him further, he sprang upright and shouted that they go on.

The way grew steeper still, until it was quite impossible to ride and they must go on foot, with ropes on the animals and the Grannach shouldering the beasts from behind. Rannach thought it would be no easy descent. but he no longer feared pursuit. He felt instead another fear, and wished he had spoken at greater length with Morrhyn. He and Arrhyna were now in a place none of the People had visited. The afternoon sun shone bright on the pinnacle of the Maker's Mountain, and he thought on the stories of the People and the Ahsa-tye-Patiko, and that he now trod sacred ground. It was not forbidden, but the People acceded this land to the Grannach, deeming them the guardians of the passes and the gate, and none of the Matawaye came here. He had shed blood in Matakwa, broken the Will, and albeit he believed he could not have changed that slaying, still he wondered how the Maker might regard his presence here.

He raised his eyes to the Mountain and shaped a sign of warding. Am I bloody and sinful, he thought, then punish me, but not my wife. Arrhyna is innocent, and surely cannot be condemned.

But the Mountain gave back no obvious answer, though he saw an eagle ride the sky and a flight of ravens winging black across the azure and wondered if he observed some sign that only a wakanisha could interpret. He felt breathless and oddly dazed. The light seemed brighter here and the landscape startlingly clear, as if the slopes and trees and boulders bruised his eyes. The lore of the People had it that the First Folk had come to Ket-Ta-Witko from that mountain, brought to the land through the gate. Most had gone down onto the grass of the plains to become the clans of the Matawaye, those who elected to remain amongst the peaks becoming the Grannach. He had not thought much on that—it was a thing of the Dreamers, not for warriors—and in the hinder part of his mind he had always entertained a doubt, thinking it strange a people who loved the grass so well should come from mountains. But now, as he came ever closer to the Mountain—closer than any of his kind in living memory had come—he wondered. It was so vast a hill: a gigantic column that seemed to support the sky, majestic in its sheer enormity, and he less than an ant on even these lesser slopes he climbed.

He had not realized he halted until a Grannach shouted for him to go on, save he wished to pick up his cumbersome horse and carry the beast himself. The hoarse voice rang in his ears and he shook his head, but the terrain still shimmered around him, impaling him on the vision
of the pinnacle, and he thought he must remain immobile, like a votary statue staring forever at the Mountain. Then Colun's hand came down to clasp his face and shake him, and he heard the Grannach say, “Flatlanders! Ho, Rannach, do you move, or shall you stand all goggleeyed until you starve?”

He said, “I …” And aimed a trembling finger at the peak.

Colun said, “Yes, I know. Now move!”

It seemed impossible. He looked back and saw Arrhyna brought up between two Grannach, her horse in care of others, still more with the laden packhorses. Her eyes were wide as his, and on her face an expression of rapture.

Pain then: he realized that Colun had slapped him, and the Grannach was very strong. His eyes watered and his head spun a moment, but then he grunted and took up the rein and continued on.

That night was cold, their camp made in a cleft where a thin column of white water spilled out from black rock to pool amidst dressed stones before trickling away downslope. Moss grew on the rock, and little stunted bushes like clutching hands. Arrhyna slept soon as she had eaten, but Rannach must force himself to the effort of grooming the animals and seeing them blanketed against the chill. He was grateful for the warmth of his wife's body as the thinning moon looked down impassive.

In the morning, mist draped the cleft and the fire sputtered and spat, affording little heat. Rannach was miserable, and Arrhyna seemed dulled by the cold; moisture sparkled on the horses' manes, and they fretted. The Grannach were themselves: cheerful as ever, speaking eagerly of homecoming. Rannach looked up and saw only a narrow band of gray that did no more than hint at the possibility of sunlight, and thought that they must face days of such traveling before they could hope to reach the high slopes where the tunnels began. He wondered if they had not done better to remain on the grass and take their chances with the Tachyn.

And then he saw his first example of the Grannach's wondrous work.

They left the cleft behind and toiled up a sweeping traverse overhung with looming cliffs and stubby, wind-twisted pines. The trail looked to turn back on itself to the east, near vertical, and Rannach could not see how the horses should manage the ascent. Ahead, Colun halted, awaiting his little column. He was beaming as Rannach and Arrhyna labored up to join him, as if anticipating some great joke.

“See?” He stabbed a finger at the blank rockface.

Rannach stared wearily at the stone and shrugged.

“What do you see?” Colun asked.

Rannach glanced at Arrhyna and said, “Stone. I see stone.”

Colun nodded and said, “You've not the eyes of a Grannach. Watch and you'll see what none of your people have ever seen.”

He set both hands flat against the rock and muttered, too low and guttural for either Matawaye to make out the words. They only stared in amazement as the stone trembled, like water rippled by a flung pebble, and became an opening. Rannach gasped and clutched at the stallion's rein as the horse skittered, backing from the impossible ingress. He dragged the plunging head down and blinked, scarce able to believe his eyes. Where smooth gray stone had been, there was now a semicircular opening large enough to accept a horse. The arch was carved with intricate symbols, and within was light, bright as the sun, shining from nowhere to reveal a smooth floor running back into the mountain.

“Moles, eh?” Colun's grin spread wider. “Rats, eh? Enter and see for yourselves.” He stepped through the arch, bowing elaborately like some genial host delighted with his guests' surprise.

It was the promise of hope and hospitality, but still Rannach felt a strange reluctance to enter. He was accustomed to open places, to the sky's wide space and the spread of the plains. He looked at Arrhyna and saw her similarly disinclined. But they had nowhere else to go, so he took in a deep breath, took her hand, and walked into the tunnel.

The horses balked at first, but then allowed themselves to be led in, urged on by the Grannach. Colun stood by the arch and, when all had entered, spoke again and again touched the stone. The blue sky wavered and darkened as if a mist blew up, and was replaced with solid rock.

Rannach stared about. The air was warmer than was right, and smelled dry. He could not tell where the light came from: it surely could not come from the stone itself, alone. He felt threatened by the imponderable weight of the mountain, and was grateful for the soft touch of Arrhyna's hand.

“Come.” Colun beckoned them and, without waiting to see if they obeyed, struck out along the tunnel.

The air was still and silent, flinty in their nostrils. It was very quiet, so that the clatter of the horses' hooves dinned loud, like raucous voices raised lewdly in some holy place. Rannach hurried after the Grannach, who now speeded ahead, and all the while looked around in abashed wonder at the legendary way he walked.

In time they came to a wider place and Colun announced it night, and that they should halt. Numbed, Rannach and Arrhyna obeyed and looked to the animals. They were in a vaulted cavern they could not tell
was carved by the Grannach or nature, or perhaps both working in union. Ribs of blue stone curved upward out of walls that were more gold than white, conjoining in a sunburst circle overhead. At the center of the smooth floor was a walled pool of dark water, and about its circumference stood benches of dressed blue stone, darker than the arcing ribs above.