Exile's Children (42 page)

Morrhyn could not, during those brief interludes when he woke and understood where he was, understand how he lived. He had no food, and for all the hot spring warmed the cave a little, it was scarce enough to fend off the cold outside. Snow fell there—when he opened his eyes, he could see its drifting white curtain like a veil across the cave mouth—but he lacked the strength, or perhaps the will, to crawl so far as the entrance to see how deep it lay on the slopes or which moon stood in the sky, and so he only dragged himself to the well to sip the thick metallic water and then huddle again in the folds of bearskin and blanket and return to the dreaming. It was all he had. He hoped his horse survived; he doubted he should live, and could not care. His life was of no importance—one small spark amongst many, already sputtering as cold and hunger took their toll—and it seemed to him the Maker kept him alive only to dream, which he could not decide was punishment or reward.

It was strange to find his talent returned to him only to reveal such horror. He supposed the Maker granted him final revelation, and that he would die in the cave when the last mystery was uncovered. He could not imagine climbing back down the mountain to speak of what he learned—did any still live below to hear it—for he was very weak and could not imagine making that descent. He thought that likely his bones would rest here forever, time stripping off the flesh with none to bring them home, for surely none other would be crazed enough to come here.

He wished he might bring back to the People word of what he dreamed, what he learned, but that was an old desire from another life: one he'd known before he came there, which was gone. His life now was the cave and the dreaming, nothing else, and his quest now seemed prideful and vain, the boasting of a dreamless Dreamer seeking some personal validation. It seemed to him a magnificent irony that his pride be answered with revelation, and that he then die alone with all that knowledge.

He drew the bearskin over his head and closed his eyes again, slipping on the instant back into the dream.

This must be how the Maker saw his creation, as if he looked out through his eyes, aware of all in all places, without time's barrier, but all contiguous. Save he was not the Maker, but only a man, and what he saw was so vast, he could not properly comprehend it or order it. It was larger and infinitely more complex than his poor mind might encompass, so that it seemed as if images of knowledge raced through his head too swift he could grasp it all, but see only parts.

But those parts!

He saw the folk who named themselves the Breakers cross the salt desert that boundaried the country of the Whaztaye. He saw their beastmasters drive their awful charges against the People Beyond the Hills, and the warrior horde come after. He saw the Whaztaye slain, and fleeing; and the Grannach succor them in the foothills. Uselessly, for he saw what the Breakers did (and stirred, horrified by the vision) knowing that should be the fate of the Matawaye, of his own People, as the Breakers came into the mountains and fought their way into the Grannach tunnels, and the high passes…

Where he saw Grannach slain by beasts and Breakers, and Colun fight them and argue for unity and be ignored so that he came to a decision even as the Grannach argued amongst themselves just as his own People had argued at Matakwa, and went each their own way, ignorant—or wilfully blind—to the larger danger …

Which set Tachyn and Commacht to fighting, which he saw as if he stood invisible in the midst of battle, watching Racharran charge a band of Chakthi's warriors alone, his men all spread about behind in defense of the helpless ones …

And Rannach in a valley with Arrhyna, where alders grew beside a river and Arrhyna swelled with child, and he knew that Rannach did not know, for Arrhyna was afraid as yet to tell him, fearing he'd bring her back to the lodges of the Commacht and die there …

Save that was already too late, for the Breakers crossed the moun
tains and would soon come against the Commacht, and all the People, and destroy them. Save …

There was a thing he did not understand, which floated on more water than he'd ever seen, swallowing wind in great squares of white like flattened tents, and spat flame from metal pipes against creatures such as the Breakers used, and on the floating thing …

There was a Dreamer who …

Came to an unknown land, frightened of his talent (which Morrhyn could not understand) and denied it …

Because his world contained Breakers of a different kind, who …

Fire then: he woke drenched in sweat, and instantly shivered in the cave's chill, and drew the bearskin and the blanket tighter around his wasted body and dove back down into the dream …

Which showed the Breakers passing the mountains because …

The Ahsa-tye-Patiko was ignored when Vachyr stole Arrhyna with his father's blessing, and Chakthi was eaten by the black wind from the mountains …

And Rannach slew Vachyr when he might have taken the kidnapper alive, but did not because Arrhyna urged him to slay her abductor and he knew only hatred and pride …

Which drove Chakthi to what he did …

And Hadduth—worst of all—was tainted by the black wind and knew not what he did, save he was blinded as all the other Dreamers. But still …

The Tachyn would waste and destroy the Commacht even as the Breakers came down against all the People. Unless …

 … It was as if that same black wind stirred cloudy over Morrhyn's dreaming, so that he wondered in his sleep if the Breakers were stronger than the Maker …

And saw them drive the People, all the Matawaye, all the Commacht and Tachyn, the Lakanti, the Naiche and the Aparhaso, before them as they had driven the Whaztaye …

And the floating thing find a harbor and folk come off the thing to a camp of wooden lodges …

And some of them shine like torches calling a lost rider home …

And flee from …

He was not sure what … The Breakers or the People? There seemed no difference in the malign intent he sensed.

Only that those three shone like beacons in the darkness of his dreaming, and that …

He must find them, even as a rider lost in night and fog looks for the
lights of home and asks the Maker his horse tread sure and not fall into hole or mire, but only come safe back …

But he could not understand how, for they were—he did not understand how he knew this, only that he did—not of his world, but of one of those contiguous with his, as if all the worlds spun around one another and nothing existed alone but all in perpetual coexistence so that all moved together and crossed and were the same and at the same time different …

And that, somehow, in a manner he could not understand, his world and theirs must come together to defeat the Breakers …

And that it was his task to make it so: and therefore to live …

 … Which he could not understand at all, for he could not conceive of living: Surely he was destined to die here, in this cave.

Surely that was his fate … To dream these dreams that opened worlds to him and showed him past and future as if that were the Maker's last gift to him before he died …

But he had not seen it all; did not know it all.

He knew somewhat of things past and somewhat of things to come; but so much was yet veiled in mystery …

 … Who were the Breakers? Where did they come from?
Why
were they so malign, so intent on destruction?

 … And those strangers who shone so bright: who were they?

It seemed then that a light shone and he looked into its brightness and it spoke in words of flame that had no sound but what he heard inside the channels of his mind and the marrow of his bones and the core of his waning life: it said,
When the dream is done, go tell them. Go find them. Go do what you must, if you've the strength. That, or die with all your People
.

And he could not deny it, so he rose and hugged his bearskin to him and crawled to the cave mouth and looked out to where the snow fell over crags and peaks and far steep-walled valleys where lights moved that he knew were the lights of the Breakers as they wound their way to Ket-Ta-Witko, which they would conquer and leave waste after all the People were slain unless he obeyed the voice of the flame.

So he crawled back to the spring and drank and felt very afraid, for he still did not think he could survive the downward climb and that even if he somehow did, then still surely the Breakers must find him and slay him, and even did they not, then how could he, afoot, find his clan or any of the People in time to warn them?

You survived the journey here,
the flame inside his eyes said.
You will survive the journey back, have you the courage
.

I am afraid, he answered. I am very afraid. And what good shall it do? Shall I tell them they are to die?”

No,
said the flame.
Sleep and understand
.

So he slept, and dreamed again. Of an answer.

“Does he live?” Lhyn asked her husband. And then: “Be still, I must bind this.”

Racharran sighed and held his wounded arm rigid as she wound a moss-filled bandage around the cut. “I don't know,” he said. “How could I? He went away when we need him most. I'm not a Dreamer, that I can answer such questions.”

“No.” Lhyn tied off the bandage. “You're akaman of the Commacht.”

“What does that mean?”

Lhyn set the remaining moss back in its pouch and faced him square. “We lose too many,” she said. “First our son, and then Morrhyn. How many more?”

“This war is none of my making,” he said. “It's all Chakthi's doing. I've looked to avoid it, but he sends his warriors all the time against us. What else can I do but fight?”

“You might have kept Morrhyn with us,” she answered.

“How?” Racharran flexed his arm. The arrow had gone deep, but he thought he would not lose mobility; it was not the first cut he'd taken. “I did my best to dissuade him, but he'd have none of it. The Maker summoned him, he said—‘I think I might find answers there,' he said—and would not be dissuaded.”

“You could have held him,” she replied. “Bade him remain.”

“What is this?” Racharran asked. “You seem more concerned for Morrhyn than for Rannach.”

“Rannach you sent off with Colun,” she returned, “knowing he and Arrhyna would be safe with the Grannach. Morrhyn went alone, when Tachyn ride against us and he'd go where none have gone before.”

“I could not stop him,” he said. “How could I?”

“I don't know,” she said. “Only that I am afraid for him.”

“As am I,” he said.

Lhyn said, “I know; I'm sorry. But …”

Racharran opened his arms and she came into them and he held her close, thankful for the comfort of her body. The year's events frightened him, disturbed all his notions and concepts of the world so that it seemed nothing was any more fixed or permanent but all blown about in
disorder as if a vast and unfelt storm raged—but Lhyn's presence was an anchor in that gale.

“These are strange times,” he said.

“I do not understand them,” she said, and felt a pang of guilt that she felt greater fear for Morrhyn than for her son. It was as if his going had opened a hole in her, revealed only by his departure, his absence. She had not known it was there before, and she told herself that it was only because Morrhyn went into the unknown whilst Rannach went escorted by Colun's Grannach and must surely be safe with them. Whereas Morrhyn …

She hugged her husband tighter and said against his chest, “I am afraid.”

“We are all afraid.” He stroked her hair, watching the play of firelight on the gold all threaded through with silver, and for a while pretended all was well: that they rested comfortable in their lodge and there was no war, nor any hunger, nor so many burial scaffolds in the trees, nor winter coming on.

But he was akaman of the Commacht, and such pretendings were not a luxury in which he could indulge. There were too many scaffolds in the trees and too many widows weeping in the lodges. The Falling Leaf Moon stood over the camp and soon the White Grass Moon would rise, and there were too few supplies stored up against the cold moons, for there had been no time for hunting with Chakthi's Tachyn always prowling.

He resisted the urge to sigh, looking past Lhyn's head to the fire, wishing Morrhyn were there. Even bereft of his dreams, the wakanisha had been a rock on which he might lean. But Morrhyn was gone away, and Racharran could not know if he was slain by the Tachyn as Lhyn feared, or lived, or starved, or … It was, Racharran thought, as if all the world had gone mad, all turned upside down and shaken by forces he did not understand. Chakthi pressed his war long past the time of fighting—no one fought after the Moon of Ripe Berries was gone—and surely the Tachyn must be as poorly set for winter as his own Commacht. Ach, even Yazte had called back his Lakanti warriors to cull the buffalo herds as they migrated, that his people have hides and meat and rich marrow to see out the winter. He had apologized, and Racharran could not argue. How could he ask the Lakanti to go hungry when the wolf winds blew and the grass was all hard and white, and the herds went away to the south? He could not; he could only accept Yazte's promise of charity, that whatever excess the Lakanti took would be gifted to the Commacht.

As if my clan is become a widow, he thought bitterly, dependent on charity.

And Juh and Tahdase, for all he had sent messengers entreating their aid, had done nothing. Save take their people far from the fighting, as if it were none of their affair but only a squabble between the Commacht and the Tachyn, which Racharran, even without Morrhyn's advice, sensed it was not. He thought then of what Morrhyn had said of a dark wind blowing over Ket-Ta-Witko, and shivered.