Exile's Children (68 page)

His heart sat heavy as he mounted and led his men away, back toward the canyon.

None spoke as they rode, and he thought likely they shared his own gloomy vision of the future. It would be, he thought, a sorry homecoming.

They were two days out from the canyon when they saw the riders. There had been no sign of the invaders' scouts—as if they'd learnt all they needed and drew back to the horde—and what slowly crossed the snow ahead were two figures on horses whose gait told of near exhaustion. Racharran saw no need to halt, nor need of caution, but rather felt a great curiosity. Perhaps the other clans had learned of the horde and sent messengers. Surely too late, but even so … He urged his mount to a faster pace, closing on the riders.

They turned to face the oncomers as if readying for fight, and as they did, Racharran gasped and shouted, “I know that horse! By the Maker, that's Rannach's stallion!”

“And that pretty mare he gave Arrhyna,” Motsos called back. “Do they come home?”

For an instant, Racharran wondered if he would welcome that, or if he rather preferred they remain in the mountains. He supposed this meant they at least lived—albeit surely for only a while longer.

He closed the distance and saw his son raise a lance in greeting. Then the second figure threw back the hood of its cape and he wondered who rode with Rannach.

When Morrhyn said, “Greetings, Racharran. Do you not know me?” he could only shake his head and gape.

Lhyn came to meet them as they rode in from the canyon mouth, her eyes bright as she saw Racharran come safe home, then starting wide in unalloyed amazement as she recognized her son. Unthinking, careless of dignity, she broke into a run. She was not alone—most of the clan came with her, eager to hear their akaman's news, no less surprised than she to see Rannach with him.

And Arrhyna? Surely that was the paint mare Arrhyna rode, but could it be Arrhyna slumped there, all swathed in concealing furs? A measure of trepidation tainted Lhyn's joy, for that second figure sat the horse like one at the limits of exhaustion. She glanced back and saw Nemeth and Zeil hurrying forward.

Then she gasped as the figure pushed back the concealing hood and she saw the snow-white hair framing a face that even so emaciated she knew. Her steps faltered as eyes that seemed to burn from out of the dark and skeletal features fixed on her, and the thinned mouth stretched out in a smile.

“Morrhyn?” She came on slow, looking from one to the other. “Rannach?”

Around her the Commacht fell silent, staring fixedly at the men they had likely thought dead, surely never to be seen again. Racharran halted his horse and slid from the saddle.

“We've unexpected guests,” he said. “And much news.”

It was hard to tear her eyes from her son, from Morrhyn, and she glanced sidelong at her husband. “Good or bad?”

Racharran said, “Both. But we'll speak of that later.”

She nodded and went to the two men, still mounted. Morrhyn, she thought, because he needed help to climb down, Rannach because he seemed unsure of his welcome. She had no thought of the Council's decree then: only that her son was come home. She raised her arms and he came off the weary stallion into them. His embrace was strong, but she thought him very thin, even gaunt.

He said, “Mother, it's good to see you.”

She only shook her head, lost for words, and held him, her cheek against his, her hands touching his face as if she'd reassure herself he lived and was real, and not some phantom come to taunt her. When she was satisfied, she let him go and looked to Morrhyn.

The wakanisha was dismounted now. He looked smaller, sunk in on himself, yet somehow larger. That, she decided, was his eyes—they blazed with such purpose as she'd not before seen, as if their light alone animated his wasted body. She embraced him as she had embraced her son, and against his chest said, “Morrhyn, I am happy to see you back. I am happy you live.”

He smiled—she could not help but think of a corpse's grin—and said, “As am I.”

Then Racharran was there, and Nemeth and Zeil, asking of Arrhyna; and the wives of the dead scouts, inquiring of their husbands.

Racharran spoke to them, and to Arrhyna's parents Rannach said, “Arrhyna is safe—or was the last I saw her. I left her in care of Colun's Grannach, in a valley where no Breakers have come. Also …” He hesitated, grinning, proud and embarrassed both. “Also she carries a child, a son.”

They laughed and beamed their pleasure even as the widows of the dead began to keen. Lhyn wondered if she had not sooner known her son remained safe there, and then …

“How can you know it's a boy?” she asked.

Rannach said, “Morrhyn told me,” as if that were the most natural thing in all the world.

She looked again at Morrhyn then. He stood tottery as an old man. Had Racharran not supported him, she thought he must fall down in the trampled snow. She looked again at his burning eyes and saw the truth there.

“You dream again,” she said.

He nodded. “I've much to tell you; to tell all the clan. And not
much time for the speaking. We've none of us much time; none of the People.”

It was as if a wolfwind blew icy through the warmth of a lodgefire, and Lhyn shivered. Racharran said, “I've the gist of it, but we must talk in clan Council.”

Lhyn stared at him and was afraid of what she read in his eyes. She looked at Rannach and Morrhyn and said firmly, “Tonight. These two needing feeding first.”

Morrhyn said, “It should be better now.”

“No.” She shook her head. “First, warmth and food. Tonight you can address the clan.”

For a moment she thought he'd argue, but then Racharran nodded and turned toward the encircling crowd and raised his arms for silence—which was scarce necessary for they all hung on every word—and said, “Our wakanisha is come back with much news. But he is weary and hungry, and would rest awhile. So—build up the fires, and when the moon rises we shall speak of the future and what we must do.”

Lhyn noticed that Morrhyn raised his face to the sky then, as if he'd check which moon might rise and the time before its coming; and felt again afraid.

The lodge was warm, which was an unfamiliar sensation, and his belly was full, which was no more familiar. Had his body its way, he'd have slept—just closed his eyes and rested back against the luxury of the furs and drifted off into sleep: it should be so easy.

And so hard: the clan waited on him and he owed a duty to the Commacht and to all the People, entrusted him by the Maker. Enough had fallen to the Breakers—Racharran had told of Bakaan's death, and Bylas's, and all the others—and he'd lose no more.

He wished his body were not so frail and waved off Lhyn's offer of tiswin for all he thought it might vitalize him. He took tea instead, and summoned up his thoughts and said, “It's as I told Racharran along the way—save the People leave, we shall all be destroyed.”

Lhyn asked, knowing she need not but still compelled: “You're sure? It's much the Maker demands of us.”

Morrhyn said, “Yes: I am sure. Save we do this, we are all lost. The Commacht and all the People.”

Racharran said, “Leave? It's surely hazardous here; but even so …”

Rannach said, “They defeated the Grannach. They came through the mountains.”

“I've seen them,” Racharran said. “But …”

Sharply, Rannach said, “What?”

His father shrugged and answered, “I've looked to band the clans—after Matakwa; after the first killings by these … Breakers, you name them?”

“They name themselves so,” Morrhyn said, “because they break worlds, because they break the Maker's Will.”

Racharran nodded, turning to his son. “Even so. I believe you—trust you!—but still you were banished by the full Council. Shall the other clans trust you? Or call for your life, for breaking that edict?”

Rannach threw back his head and laughed. “My life, father? I've chanced that coming here. Not against warriors of the People, but against the Breakers! I left my wife in the mountains! I—”

Morrhyn clutched his angry, outflung arm, silencing him. “I asked Rannach to bring me back,” he said. “And Arrhyna urged him go, because it was the only way. He chanced his life for the People.”

Racharran ducked his head. When it lifted, he said, “Forgive me, my son. I am proud of you: I welcome you back, and shall fight any who seek to execute that sentence.”

“Save,” Rannach said, “it shall likely be the Breakers who slay me, do you not listen.”

“I listen,” Racharran said. “It's the others I fear are deaf.”

Morrhyn sighed and said, “Are they, then so be it. But the Commacht can survive! If …”

Racharran waved him silent. “I know. But to leave … everything? That's a hard departure, no?”

Morrhyn said, “It's the only way, else we all die. Do the rest listen, then good. But if they refuse—the Commacht, at least, might live.”

Racharran nodded. “Yes, so be it. But I'd make this offer to the rest.”

“If there's time,” Morrhyn said.

It had not been easy to convince the Commacht that flight was the clan's only hope. There were no few who still saw Morrhyn's departure as betrayal, and those who could scarce envisage the journey west in such bleak weather; others claimed that journey could only leave them easy prey to the Breakers, and more could not believe the promise.

The talking had gone on well into the night before the cold had driven them to their lodges, and had resumed the next day. Morrhyn had spoken as eloquently as he could, and his fierce words and penetrat
ing eyes had persuaded many. Then Rannach had spoken, of his sojourn in the valley and the sad news the Grannach brought. Racharran had told of his own encounters with the Breakers, and had summoned those warriors who had seen the enemy and lived to speak. Another night and another day were spent debating it, but finally, as the sun fell behind the canyon walls, the last doubters allowed themselves convinced and it was agreed.

And then the messengers began to arrive.

Perico came very slowly across the river with his right hand lifted up and the fingers spread wide in sign of peace, or the Commacht he knew watched from the slim moonshadows of the trees might slay him else. He thought few might be welcomed here, in so well-armed a camp—which, he thought, was unusually abustle. Indeed, almost as if the Commacht prepared to move.

Save no clan moved from its Wintering Ground in such weather; not with the Frozen Grass Moon barely faded and the Rain Moon yet to come.

Unless …

He heeled his mount faster through the ice-strewn water and shouted, “I am Perico of the Aparhaso! I come with word from Juh, for the akaman of the Commacht.”

And to himself and his horse: “And I am very cold and afraid, and I think I shall not like taking Racharran's word back to my akaman.”

Kanseah wondered if it was a sin against the Ahsa-tye-Patiko to resent the duty his akaman and his wakanisha set on him.

An honor, they had told him, but he found scant honor in riding alone through the bone-cold night, wondering if strange creatures might pounce upon him and slay him and leave his body unburied; or worse.

He had seen the remains of past battles strewn along his path: bared bones of men and horses, all stripped and shattered. He would have howled—had he not feared the sound bring down those … things … upon him—and urged his horse to a swifter pace: the Commacht Wintering Ground offered safety.

He preferred to think no farther than that: it was all too large for a simple warrior who'd sooner lay warm with his wife than carry messages that might shift the shape of the world.

•   •   •

Jach thought it should be good to see the Commacht again; and was it on such a mission as Yazte had said, then he must surely be acclaimed a hero on his return.

He had been surprised when his akaman had summoned him and invited him to sit beside Kahteney, and the chieftain's wife had poured him tea, and both had praised the speed of his favorite horse and his equestrian skill, and he had listened carefully to what they told him to say and felt only pride that he was entrusted with the message for Racharran.

Yazte's own words, emphasized by Kahteney so that each one was burned clear on Jach's memory: The Lakanti will follow you now. Give us word by this messenger, who can be trusted, and we go with you.

It was a great mission—a matter of great honor—and it almost warmed Jach's heart enough that he no longer felt the cold.

Dohnse came in wary as a cur dog.

The Commacht had poor reason to welcome any Tachyn, and he doubted many might recognize him as the man who'd let the clan cross the river unattacked, or any as the one who'd let Morrhyn ride free. Indeed, he could not properly understand why Chakthi had sent him with a message he could not entirely understand or believe.

He had seen the Tachyn akaman scrubbed clean of mourning's white clay with his hair bound up again, and surely Chakthi had smiled and said his rage was gone and such threat came against all the People that old sorrows need be set aside and all band together against the newcome enemy. He had sounded sincere; and Hadduth had been with him, and lent his voice to Chakthi's, and both had given Dohnse the message.

But even so …

Chakthi was not such a man as to readily give up his anger, no matter what else threatened. And there was something about Hadduth …

But even so: it was better to ride free than skulk foraging about the Tachyn Wintering Ground like some homeless hound, so Dohnse approached the Commacht with his hands raised high so that they see he carried no weapons, his shield reversed and his lance slung point-down in sign of friendship, and was unsure whether it be his alone or also Chakthi's.