Exile's Children (58 page)

He saw they came toward the wood, and made a swift decision.

“We pull back. We'll put the wood between us and them, and seek the shelter of the ridges.”

“And do they come to the ridges?” Motsos asked.

“Then we pull back farther. The canyon's what, three days' riding?”

Motsos said, “For us. But for them …?”

“Save they see us and chase us,” Bylas said, “I think they'll ride slow. But listen, all of you. Does it come to a chase, we do not go back. You understand? We must not lead them to the canyon, but away.” He thought a moment. “You've the fastest horse here, Motsos. So, are we spotted, we run and look to confuse our tracks. When you safely can, break off and take word home. Warn Racharran.”

“Leave you?” Motsos looked offended.

Bylas said, “Yes! That the clan know is the important thing.” He set a hand on his friend's shoulder. “And your horse is swift, eh?”

Motsos nodded reluctantly. “As you say.”

Bylas smiled. “As I say. Now, let's mount and ride while we've the time.”

They swung astride their horses and rode fast as snow and low-hung branches allowed. None were cowards, but all felt mightily wary of being found on open ground by what came after them.

Tahdase's lodge was warm, the fire merry as his young wife took the kettle from the flames and filled her husband's and Isten's cups. That duty done, she retreated demurely and set to decorating a shirt with brightly colored designs of summer flowers. Tahdase glanced at her and smiled fondly, wondering if he'd have the opportunity to wear the shirt or she have the time to finish it. He turned his face toward his wakanisha and motioned that Isten speak.

The Dreamer looked aged. Crescents of shadow hung beneath his eyes, and those had a haunted look. He sipped his tea and voiced polite thanks before he spoke of what brought them together.

“They say strange riders have been sighted. Such folk as Racharran's men spoke of. They say there are buffalo slaughtered and left to rot.” He smiled a twisted smile and snorted sad laughter. “If anything
can
rot in such a winter.”

Tahdase said, “I know this; I have heard what they say. What I need to know is who these strangelings are, and what they do here.”

Isten stared at his akaman as if Tahdase were a child who should know better. “They are who Racharran's men told us they are, I think. They are the folk Colun spoke of at Matakwa.”

His tone prompted a brief narrowing of Tahdase's eyes, a flash of anger that was instantly replaced with embarrassment as the young chieftain ducked his head and said, “Yes, all I've heard is as Racharran's men told us. But …” He raised his head so that Isten saw the plea his gaze expressed. “What are we to do about them?”

“Are they scouts,” the wakanisha said, “then they are the vanguard of that horde Racharran saw. Likely they seek the Wintering Grounds.”

“And if they find them,” Tahdase said softly, “and they are all Colun and Racharran said they are, then we are in terrible danger.”

At the rear of the lodge his wife gasped and pierced her thumb with the needle. Tahdase glanced briefly in her direction and returned his gaze to Isten.

The wakanisha nodded gravely and said, “Yes.”

“So what shall we do?” Tahdase asked.

Isten met his gaze, thinking he seemed very young and frightened. The wakanisha felt very old. He said, “Had I my dreams …”

“But you don't,” Tahdase said sharply. “The Maker turns his face from you.” He saw the hurt in Isten's eyes and added softer, “He turns his face from us all, no?”

Isten nodded. “It would seem so. It would seem what happened at Matakwa blights us.”

“Then it's the fault of the Commacht and the Tachyn?” Tahdase sprang on hope like a starving dog on a carcass.

“Perhaps.” Isten gestured helplessly. “Surely the wards are broken, can these folk cross the mountains. Perhaps the Ahsa-tye-Patiko is broken.”

“Not by us,” Tahdase said.

Isten said, “I wonder,” in a slow and thoughtful voice. “I wonder if it matters any longer who owns the blame. Is the Ahsa-tye-Patiko broken, then it is broken, and I think that who broke it matters little in the Maker's eyes.”

Tahdase frowned. “How can that be? Was it broken by the Tachyn and Commacht, then surely these newcomers must descend on them.”

“Our people die,” Isten said. “And have these strange folk come through the mountains, then surely the Grannach also die. Are they guilty? Were the Whaztaye guilty?”

“I know nothing of the Whaztaye,” Tahdase said—defensively, Isten thought. “Not much of the Grannach. My father knew them, but I …” He shrugged.

“The Grannach do not lie,” Isten said. “They are the guardians of the hills, and they do not lie. But they did warn us …”

“Yes, yes,” Tahdase nodded. “And have these invaders come through the Grannach's passes, then no doubt Grannach
have
died. And Naiche die, and likely other clans suffer. But what are we to do?”

“I think,” Isten said, “that perhaps we should send riders to the Commacht and ask what Racharran does.”

“Perhaps.” Tahdase stared awhile at the fire, rolling his cup between his hands. He seemed not to notice the hot tea that spilled out. “But first let's send riders to the Aparhaso and ask what Juh does.”

“Why not send them to both?” Isten asked.

“No.” Tahdase shook his head. “First to Juh. Then, when we've word of what he thinks, to the Commacht.”

“Are you sure?” Isten asked.

“This is my decision,” Tahdase said.

Isten nodded. “You are akaman of the Naiche: it shall be as you wish.”

They crossed the valley and topped the wall beyond. From there, looking out from behind the screen of pines that hid them, they could see the broken country stretching away to the width of the icebound river that curved slow and lazy across the flat. The river was too broad that ice had locked it yet, and the farther bank devolved onto a wide beach that ran smooth to the stands of hemlock, beech, and maple that scratched at the cold sky with naked branches.

Rannach turned to Morrhyn and pursed his lips. The wakanisha looked, if anything, worse than that first day in the valley. Strands of white hair straggled from the hood of his cape, and his cheeks were sunk in, the bones prominent as a dead man's. His lips were thinned and cracked by the cold, moving as his teeth chattered. Had he not known better, Rannach might have thought him a ghost, a revenant spirit come back to haunt him for his sins. In all of Morrhyn's face, only his eyes seemed alive, and they burned with such awful determination, Rannach could not look long at them for fear they'd suck out his soul and bind him forever to the Dreamer's purpose.

Save, he thought, he was already bound.

The Maker knew, but he felt no choice but to deliver Morrhyn safe to his father who—being the man he was—might likely execute the sentence agreed by the Council should his son return from banishment. “Just” was a word people applied to Racharran; “hard” was what came to Rannach's mind. He thought it not impossible his father thank him for bringing Morrhyn back and then order his execution: justly.

But he had given Morrhyn his promise and he would not renege on that, no matter the cost.

“I see no danger,” he said. “There's neither smoke nor any other sign. Nothing moves out there.”

“Even so.” Morrhyn leant against a pine, an arm around the trunk as if without that prop he must fall down.

“Even so?” Rannach queried.

“It's there,” Morrhyn said, the syllables distorted by his jangling teeth. “Small, but even so …”

“We can follow this ridge,” Rannach offered. “It shall delay us—the next ford is three days distant—but if you say we must …”

“Three days?” Morrhyn frowned, which contorted his face horribly. “And after?”

Rannach stabbed a finger in the direction of the river. “Do we cross here, then we're in line for the Wintering Ground. Five more days?”

“And that way?” Morrhyn waved a glove at the ridgetop.

Rannach said, “Three days to the ford, then a stretch of river breaks that shall likely take us three more. After that, perhaps nine or ten. The horses are wearying, remember.”

Morrhyn nodded. Rannach thought, And also you. Can you last so long? Can you even last five days?

“There's not the time.” Morrhyn spoke into the gnarled bark of the tree. “O Maker, there's not the time.” He pushed away from the tree, shuffling across the snow to where the paint mare waited. “We must risk it. But listen, eh?”

Rannach nodded as he heaved the Dreamer astride the mare. He no longer asked if Morrhyn needed help: it was too obvious, and he only gave it.

“There's danger down there.” Morrhyn raised a hand to point in the direction of the breaks. “No great force, but … something. I cannot dream it clearer.”

“And if we ride around this danger?” Rannach asked.

“Then we shall come too late,” Morrhyn said. “Oh, Rannach! The Maker forgive me, but I lead you into peril.”

Rannach smiled. “My life's forfeit, no? Every step I take into Ket-Ta-Witko I'm in peril. So what more is this?”

Morrhyn smiled back. “You've courage,” he said. “And you grow wiser. But listen, I think that what we face cannot be met with honest lance. Your bow should be the better weapon.”

“Then I'll ready my bow.” Rannach mounted his stallion and heeled his lance in the saddle sheath, drew his bow from the quiver and nocked a shaft. “Do we go on?”

“Yes.” Morrhyn nodded. “But carefully, eh?”

Bylas heeled his horse to speed for all the animal was already running fast as it could. He could hear the baying of the lion creatures behind him. They sounded close, but he had sooner not look back: better to fasten his eyes on the broken country ahead, where he might lose them. Better not to see them at all.

He turned his face in Motsos's direction and shouted, “When we reach the gulleys, you turn off and ride for the canyon.”

Motsos waved a hand in acknowledgment. Bylas breathed a hasty prayer to the Maker that they all survive. He doubted they would. But Maker, he asked, let Motsos at least live to take word back.

They came in amongst the ridges and galloped hard along the widest draw. Then, deliberately, waving Motsos on, Bylas slowed his horse and motioned the others up around him. In a group they followed after Motsos until he turned away in the direction of the canyon. They followed awhile, until Motsos split off and the snow lay all churned behind him so that pursuit must surely be difficult.

Then Bylas shouted over the pounding of the desperate hooves and the roaring of the lion-things behind, “We fight! For the Commacht, eh? And all the People!”

“We should have wintered with the Commacht.” Yazte loosed a string of curses that elicited a reproachful glance from his wife. “Together, we might be strong enough.”

“ ‘Might' is a loose bridle,” Kahteney said. “And from all Motsos and Bishi told us, two clans alone should not be enough.”

“No.” Yazte shook his head, reaching for the tiswin. “But had we listened, looked to persuade the others—”

“We did not and they did not,” Kahteney interrupted. “And now it's too late.”

“I know.” Yazte grunted, like some hibernating bear disturbed out of winter slumber. “I know all the things we should have done and did not; what I want to know now is what we should do now.”

Kahteney looked him in the eye and gave bleak answer: “I don't know.”

“Ach, you're my wakanisha,” Yazte grumbled. “You're supposed to advise me.”

Kahteney chuckled softly, the sound as grim as his worried face. “I've no dreams to guide me,” he murmured, “nor much advice to offer. Save what hindsight grants.”

“Hindsight!” Yazte gestured irritably, splashing tiswin unnoticed over his breeches. “Hindsight's no use to me. I've a clan looking to me for guidance—I must look ahead.”

Kahteney nodded. “Those we've sighted are surely scouts. Scouts go ahead of a war band—”

Now it was Yazte who interrupted: “And therefore that horde Racharran sent warning of comes into Ket-Ta-Witko. Yes! I know this, and that even the scouts are formidable. I know that if they find our Wintering Ground and bring that horde against us, we've little chance. Oh, by the Maker, I know this! But what am I to do?”

Did he expect a response, he got none. He continued: “Shall I tell my Lakanti we must strike our lodges and quit the Wintering Ground?
To go where? To the Commacht? Would they welcome a whole clan in that canyon? What should we all eat? And if these strangeling invaders find the canyon? In the Maker's name, Kahteney, I tell you I don't see any answers. Not save we wait here and pray; and likely die.”

Softly, Kahteney said, “Perhaps that's the Maker's wish.”

Yazte said bitterly, “Then he's unkind.”

“Or just,” Kahteney said no louder, “and delivers the People to punishment for the breaking of the Ahsa-tye-Patiko.”

“All of us?” Yazte drained his cup, refilled the vessel. “That's a hard judgment, no? Should he not limit his ire to those closer concerned?”

Kahteney shrugged, offering no answer.

“I'd not,” Yazte said sullenly, “just sit here and wait for death. But the Maker help me, I cannot think of what else to do.”

“Perhaps …” Kahteney hesitated. “Perhaps you should send a messenger to Racharran.”

“To what end?” asked Yazte. “If anything, the Commacht are worse off than we. Morrhyn's gone away, no? And the Commacht suffered all summer from Chakthi's raids.”

Kahteney shrugged again. “I can offer no better advice.”

“Ach!” Yazte emptied another cup. “He's hard, our Maker.”

“But just,” Kahteney said. “Perhaps he'll offer us a chance to survive. I cannot believe he'd destroy all of the People for the sins of the few.”