Exile's Children (24 page)

Rannach said, “Had a man saved my life, I'd announce the debt. I'd feast him and name him blood-friend.”

“You are not Chakthi,” Colun replied. “His head follows a different trail, some other poison enters him.”

“The invaders?” Rannach followed the direction of the Grannach's
gaze. The mountains looked to him impassable, all cold and crenellate, looming moonwashed as snarling fangs. “How could that be?”

“How could I know?” Colun poked at the fire, encouraging brighter flames. “I am a creddan, not a golan or a wakanisha. I cannot interpret signs or dreams. But …” His bulky shoulders rose and fell as he sighed. “There's surely a madness come to the borders of this land, and it seems to me a madness enters your people. Ach! The world knows a Grannach's word is good—but who listened to my warning?”

“My father,” Rannach said, “and Morrhyn. Also Yazte and Kahteney.”

“Whilst Chakthi and that hangdog Dreamer of his ignored it.” Colun tossed a stick at the fire, sending sparks flurrying. “And old Juh and his wakanisha prevaricate; and Tahdase and his dither and look to Juh for guidance like puppies to the leader of their pack. And all the while …” He looked again at the hills. “Is that not madness? When a true friend warns of danger the wise man listens and readies, no? But your Council only dithered and blocked its ears, like children who close their eyes tight to deny what's before them.”

At Rannach's side, Arrhyna shivered and drew closer to her husband. Colun saw her shifting and essayed a smile. “You'll be safe here. Do they come, you'll have warning enough to get yourselves back down the mountains.” He fetched the kettle from the flames and filled their cups, sipped the tea, and sighed mournfully. “Ach, but I wish this were tiswin.”

One of his fellows chuckled and said, “There'll be beer when we reach home.”

“It's not the same.” Colun shook his head, grinning at the two Matawaye. “Of all the things you flatlanders make, it's my conviction tiswin is your greatest achievement.”

“Perhaps I can brew it here,” Arrhyna said.

Colun's face lit up. “You think that possible? Might you teach my wife?”

“I don't know.” Arrhyna smiled. “I must explore this place, see if the right ingredients grow here. But can I, yes: I'll teach your wife.”

Rannach said, “I didn't know you were wed.”

“Since your father took his first step,” Colun replied, and beamed a huge grin. “I married late, but wisely—Marjia is the most beautiful woman in all these hills. Or any others.”

Rannach wondered how old the Grannach was. He knew the Stone Folk lived slow, long lives, but Colun's innate vitality seemed that of a young man: he had thought the Grannach no more than his own father's age, perhaps less, but Colun's words suggested a far greater length of
years. It was not the custom of the People to speak much of age, and so he assayed a different question. It seemed to him he should learn all he might of his hosts.

“What's a … golan, you said?”

“One gifted by the Maker.”

“The wakanishas are gifted by the Maker,” Rannach said. “Do your golans dream, then?”

“No.” Colun drank his tea and shook the cup clean. “Their gift is that magic that allows us to shape the stone. They read its pathways, its flow and ebb, and use their gift to follow those ways. To open them to our tools. You flatlanders think stone is dead, but it's not—it lives. Slow, I agree; and hard of comprehension save to the golans.”

This seemed to Rannach quite incomprehensible, and he said, “They use their magic to cut the tunnels? Like that one we used?”

“To open the ways,” Colun answered. “To persuade the stone to let us through. Then we ordinary folk come with our tools and refine the work. The entrances, they're all golan work. I can explain it no better.”

“I'd like to meet one of these golans,” Rannach said.

Colun said, “Perhaps you shall. They've little to do with any others, but who knows? These are strange times. Two flatlanders come to live in our hills, and a darkness stirs across the world. So who knows what meetings might come about?”

Rannach said, “Yes,” and would have spoken further of the Grannach ways and all the world beyond these mountains, but Colun yawned massively and announced it time to sleep and Rannach knew he was done with talking.

He left the horses hobbled, cropping on the rich grass, and spread his blanket beside Arrhyna. It seemed wrong to pitch their lodge while their hosts slept open on the ground. He touched his bride's cheek and composed himself for sleep. The last thing he saw was the pinnacle of the Maker's Mountain shining like bleached bone under the moon.

He woke to shadow, realizing that dawn came late to this valley, and lay awhile listening to the morning. Birds rose chorusing, and from afar he heard the belling of a stag. He thought the hunting should be good here, and felt a sudden and tremendous excitement that he trod grass none of the People had before trod—as if he and Arrhyna were reborn as First Man and First Woman, raised by the Maker from the clay to walk this new land. He rose, draping his blanket about his shoulders, and fed the fire. Across the sky ran a great wide beam of golden light that fell upon the flanks of the Maker's Mountain and lit the peak so that it shone all silvery white, no longer like bleached bone but bright and radiant as newfound hope. He bowed his head and made a gesture of
obeisance, promising the Maker that he would from now serve him as best he could, following the Ahsa-tye-Patiko and warding his wife and people even to the giving of his life.

Then he started, embarrassed, as the others woke and gathered about the fire. Arrhyna went to the stream, and after her ablutions were performed, came back and set to preparing breakfast.

When they'd eaten, Colun declared it time to part. Rannach asked where they went, and when the Grannach indicated the valley's invisible farther end, offered to ride with them.

“Stay here for now,” Colun said. “Pitch your tent and see your wife comfortable. Hunt; explore. Learn the valley and find a place to live. When I can, I'll come back. Perhaps with Marjia”—he looked to Arrhyna—“that you fulfil your promise.”

Arrhyna said, “I shall, is it possible.”

“Ach, tiswin!” Colun chuckled. “I shall offer prayers that it is.”

Arrhyna smiled; Rannach said, “Shall I not ride with you at least a little way?”

Colun beckoned him off then, out of earshot, and said, “Make your camp here a few days before you wander farther. And when you do, go no higher than that.” He thrust a finger at the pines standing above the topmost terrace. “Let that be the limit of your exploration, eh?”

Rannach ducked his head and said, “As you will. But why?”

Colun sniffed noisily. “I am but one creddan, as your father is but one akaman. My clan claims this valley, and it was my decision to bring you here. It might be that …” He grinned somewhat shamefaced. “That not all agree with my decision, especially when I tell my people of your Council's indecision. It would be wiser that you stay safe here, not risk offense. None shall harm you here, but some might take affront did you go wandering about our hills.”

Rannach nodded and again said, “As you will.” He no longer felt quite so secure.

Seeing this, Colun said, “No harm shall come to you here. I'd have said this earlier, save I'd not frighten Arrhyna. She's had frights enough of late, no?”

Rannach said, “Yes,” and took the Grannach's horny hand between his own. “My thanks for all you've done, Colun. I deem it an honor to name you friend.”

“And I,” Colun said. “You're your father's son.”

“Save I lack his wisdom.”

“That shall likely come.” Colun held Rannach's hands hard: it was as if stone ground his bones. “Time makes some men wise, if they live long enough. I think you'll learn it.”

Rannach said, “I hope I may.”

“The Maker stand with you,” Colun said, and turned away.

In a while the Grannach were gone, trotting up the valley to where the stream turned around a stand of juniper and was lost.

Arrhyna said, “I think I might make tiswin from those berries.” And then: “What did Colun say to you?”

Rannach shrugged and said, “Farewell,” and for a moment thought to hide from her what else. But they were together now and alone, and he'd not hold any secrets from her. So he told her.

When he was done she said, “But we are safe here, no?”

“Colun said that.”

She took his hand and smiled. “Then all is well. Do we pitch our lodge and begin this new life?”

Rannach said, “In a while,” and took her in his arms.

Militiamen with bayonets fixed threateningly to their muskets lined the wharf from warehouse to waterside, a red-coated corridor from the land the prisoners were leaving forever to the ship that would take them into the unknown future. She was a schooner—the
Pride of the Lord
—and the sailors hanging from her rigging greeted the exiles with jeers and whistles as the column shuffled miserably toward her. Their catcalls joined the mewing of the swooping gulls in a chorus of derision, but Flysse paid them no heed—she was too concerned for Davyd, whose fear of water threatened to overcome his fear of the Militiamen's anger. The soldiers brooked no delay, nor hesitated to use musket butt or bayonet to urge on the tardy, as if the exiles were no more than cattle driven to slaughter. Ahead of Flysse, a weeping man turned back, and was forced on at bayonet point, his sobs becoming a shriek of pain as steel pricked his buttocks, decorating his breeches with bloody patches. The perpetrators laughed as if it were a great joke; Flysse felt Davyd's hand seek hers and grip hard. She looked at his face and saw his lips drawn tight over clenched teeth as he stared fixedly ahead. She thought he looked very young, and very afraid. Glancing around, she saw Arcole Blayke behind her, his expression disdainful as he eyed the chuckling soldiers. He seemed unaware of Davyd's terror.

The line moved slowly on, across the cobbles to the gangplank. At the head of that gently undulating ramp stood a captain. He held a heavy key with which he unlocked the prisoners' handcuffs, tossing
them to a pile on the deck. More Militiamen stood there, alert as the exiles were freed and herded to the hold. Flysse felt Davyd shudder as he stepped on board. He looked around, wild-eyed, as his manacles were removed, eyes roving over deck and swaying masts to the gunwales, to the sea beyond. He made no move, but for a moment she feared he would attempt to flee, though she could not imagine where.

The officer favored the boy with a contemptuous look and was about to speak, when Arcole forestalled him.

“Go on, lad. Don't give these bullies the pleasure.”

Flysse turned, smiling gratefully as Davyd moaned and allowed her to lead him toward the hold, but Arcole was staring at the captain and she realized his words were intended less for Davyd than in challenge of the Militiaman.

The captain only sneered and loosed Arcole's manacles, motioning for him to follow the others. Arcole made a show of adjusting his shirt cuffs, bowed to the officer in a manner that succeeded in being insulting, and strolled leisurely to the ladder descending into the bowels of the ship. Flysse thought him very brave, and very foolish.

For her own part, she was terrified. Perhaps not so much as Davyd—whose fear seemed to rob him of volition, rendering his legs rubbery, his movements disjointed as a poleaxed steer—but still more afraid than she had ever been. She was grateful for the boy's presence, for his helplessness that enabled her to ignore her own terror to some extent. She concentrated on helping him down the ladder—she thought that he must fall without her hands to guide him.

But when she reached the bottom and saw her charge safely down, she found herself abruptly confused. She had never set foot on board a ship before, and she was immediately disorientated. The hold was a long, dim area divided by stacked ranks of narrow bunks that left barely enough space for passage between. Many of the bunks were already occupied, and Flysse peered around, wondering where she should lead Davyd. He had guided her in the warehouse, but now he only stood blank-eyed and shuddering like a mindless babe. She started as a hand touched her elbow.

What's wrong with him?” Arcole asked, indicating the trembling boy.

“He's afraid of water,” she replied.

“As are too many here.” Arcole looked around, his nostrils flaring, and Flysse realized that the hold did, indeed, bear an odor of unwashed bodies. “Still, do you follow me?”

As he moved past her, she blushed and took a firm grip on Davyd's hand, leading him unprotesting after the tall man.

Arcole made his way between the bunks to a section overlooked by a hatch. The metal grille let in sufficient light, it was easier to see, and the air here was a little fresher. He halted, indicating the tiers.

“Save you object to the observation of the sailors, Mistress Cobal, I suggest you take the topmost. It shall be the airier.” He extended a hand to help her up. “I'll see the boy settled.”

“Thank you.” Flysse allowed him to aid her climb. She noticed that his hand was very smooth.

She settled herself on the bunk and watched as Davyd took the middle level, and Arcole the lowest place. Each bunk had a straw pallet and a thin gray blanket. They were barely wide enough to accommodate the occupants, and surrounded by raised planks that formed low walls. Looking up through the hatch, Flysse could see a mast and the spars outlined against a blue sky. It occurred to her that it was the sky above Evander and that this should be the last time she would ever see it. She closed her eyes and told herself she would not cry.

“I must confess,” she heard Arcole declare in his Levan drawl, “that I've known better quarters.”