Exile's Children (69 page)

He would deliver his message, he thought, and afterward decide.

When the lookouts brought him to Racharran, he was mightily surprised to find Perico of the Aparhaso, and Kanseah of the Lakanti, and
young Jach of the Naiche come there before him; no less to see the banished Rannach at his father's side.

But it was sight of Morrhyn that surprised him most.

The Commacht Dreamer greeted him as a friend, which set him a little more at ease as he nervously faced the suspicious eyes that studied him as if he were a scout for a raiding party. That he could understand, but there was something more, something in all their eyes, on all their faces, that he could not quite define. They seemed to share some secret knowledge. And the camp he had just crossed had looked to him as one readying for travel.

“I am sent in peace,” he said when the formal greetings were done. “By Chakthi; with his word of friendship.”

Rannach frowned at that, mistrust cold in his eyes. Nor did Racharran look much better convinced.

It was Morrhyn who beckoned him to sit and said, “I know this man. Dohnse, is it not? It was he agreed our fording of the river, and again when I went away he let me pass unharmed.”

Softly, Dohnse murmured, “And paid for that.”

Racharran said, “And now Chakthi sends you with his word of friendship?”

Dohnse nodded.

Rannach said, “Why you?”

Dohnse shrugged, forcing himself to look at the younger man, not into Morrhyn's bright and burning eyes. Rannach seemed older, less headstrong. “Because of what I did, I suppose,” he said. “Because of all the Tachyn, you might trust me.”

Rannach said, “Trust Chakthi? That's much to ask.”

“Still Dohnse comes in peace.” Racharran frowned at his son's bluntness. “And we shall hear him out.”

Dohnse bowed his head and said, “My thanks. You've little enough reason to trust any Tachyn, but this I tell you—I bear you no ill will, nor do I seek to trick you.”

“And Chakthi?” Rannach demanded, ignoring his father's angry grunt.

Dohnse hesitated. Things went on here that he did not understand but sensed were momentous. Rannach was come back from exile, and Morrhyn returned looking as if he'd seen the face of the Maker. All the clans were represented, and he supposed Perico and the others came like him, as messengers, with words from their leaders concerning the invaders. Likely their messages were much as his. But still—there was
that about Chakthi and Hadduth that sat ill with him. Did they seek to play him as a pawn in some secret game, he would not lose his honor: he had little enough else. He decided to speak only the truth.

“Chakthi and Hadduth bade me come,” he said, “and tell you that they believe such danger comes against all the People as to make Chakthi forget his anger. He says that it is set aside, and revenge forgotten. He says he would know what the Commacht intend, as it was Morrhyn and Racharran who spoke most strongly in Matakwa, when he had better listened than allowed his grief such rein. He says that surely the akaman of the Commacht must understand what it is to lose a son, and know that pain; and that his grief made him mad. For this he apologizes and asks forgiveness. He says he will pay whatever bloodprice Racharran asks in compensation for this past summer's war.”

That, all of it, was exactly what Chakthi had told him, and he fell silent, awaiting Racharran's answer.

The Commacht akaman looked at Morrhyn and raised his brows in silent question.

Morrhyn said, “Do you believe this, Dohnse?”

Again Dohnse shrugged. “He has washed the white from his face, and braided up his hair again. He smiles now, and says he waits for Racharran's word.”

Rannach spat into the fire. Morrhyn repeated: “Do you believe this, Dohnse?”

“I tell you,” Dohnse said, uncomfortable, “what my akaman bade me say.”

“What Chakthi says,” Rannach muttered, “is not always what he means.”

Dohnse shifted on the furs. The lodge felt very warm and he knew he trod a thin line that hung above a gulf of dishonor. “I tell you what I was told to say.” He looked at Rannach, at Racharran; then into Morrhyn's eyes. They made him think of ice pits, could fire burn blue in ice.

Those eyes locked hard on his and he could not look away. Suddenly the others faded—the fire gone, and the shadows it cast across the lodge. There remained only Morrhyn's eyes, which seemed to look deep into him, into his soul, and demand the truth, absolute. It was as if the Maker himself stared at him.

From out of that blue burning he heard a voice say, “I believe you are an honorable man, Dohnse. I believe you have told us what Chakthi says, each word true as he said it. But … what do
you
believe?”

“I?” He stared into the blue fire. His mouth went dry, and at the same time he felt a great desire to spit. It seemed a lump lodged in his throat and he wondered, under that penetrating gaze, if it was potential
dishonor he coughed out as he said, “I do not believe him. I do not believe Hadduth. The Maker forgive me, but I believe they intend to betray you.” He could not help himself: those eyes drew out the truth like fish guts. Perhaps the carcass left behind would be clean, and he be only honorable, not stinking of treachery and lies. “I believe they would know what you do and use that against you. I know not how, but that is what I believe, the Maker help me.”

Morrhyn said, “He shall, my friend,” and the lodge came back in focus and Dohnse shook his head, swaying where he sat.

Morrhyn set a hand on his shoulder, steadying him, and passed him a cup that he gulped down, not knowing what he drank, save it was hot and wet his parched throat.

“Have I betrayed my clan?” he asked.

“No!” Morrhyn shook his head, more vigorously than a man so frail had right to do. “You uphold the honor of your clan, and your own.”

Dohnse smiled gratefully, and said, “Thank you.”

Morrhyn nodded, pausing awhile, as if measuring the Tachyn. Then he said: “The Commacht go to the Meeting Ground. The Maker promises us another land. A place free of the Breakers, where we can live peaceful.”

Dohnse gasped. This was not at all what he had expected to hear: no wonder those others wore such thoughtful faces. But there was no doubting the confidence in Morrhyn's voice. Slowly, he said, “That's a long trek in such snow. And with these … Breakers … across the way?”

Morrhyn said, “It shall not be easy. But still, it's the Maker's promise. Otherwise, all the People shall die.”

Dohnse hesitated, glancing from one to another. On the faces of the Commacht he saw only certainty and resolution; on those of the other messengers, a mixture of wonder and doubt. He cleared his throat and asked, “How shall this be? How
can
this be?”

Morrhyn said, “When you let me pass, I went to the Makers Mountain and the Maker sent me visions—promises. The Ahsa-tye-Patiko has been broken, and so the People are denied Ket-Ta-Witko, which shall fall to the Breakers. Do the People remain, then they, too, shall fall to the invaders.

“But the Maker does not entirely forsake his people. He offers us the chance of salvation. He offers us another land, do we but heed him. There, we may start anew.”

Dohnse looked into the Commacht wakanisha's eyes and wondered why he could not see such truth in Hadduth's: there was no room left
for doubt in Morrhyn's and so he nodded, accepting. But even so, the enormity of what Morrhyn said spun his mind around as if he rode an unbroken horse.

“How?” was all he could think to ask.

“The
how
of it I do not know,” Morrhyn replied, “only that it must be so. Are the People to live, they must go to the Meeting Ground. The Grannach who survive shall join us there, and the Maker deliver us safe to a new land.”

Dohnse licked his lips. He could not doubt Morrhyn's words, but still it was as if the wakanisha told him to reach into the fire and take out a burning log, and that his flesh should not be seared. He looked again around the circle and saw that same mixture of conviction and doubt reflected in all their faces.

“The Commacht ready now,” Racharran said. “We go before the Rain Moon comes up.”

Morrhyn said, “The Breakers cross the plains even now, and in the season of the Rain Moon shall come against all who remain; but those who come with us to the Meeting Ground shall find the new land. This is what the Maker told me—that those who believe and accept his redemption shall be saved.”

“Even,” Dohnse asked, “my clan? After I've told you …” He paused. It was one thing to hear Morrhyn assure him he retained his honor, another to accept it.“… That I believe Chakthi would betray you?”

Morrhyn said, “All the People. Do the Tachyn come honestly, then they shall find the new land too.”

Dohnse said, “I …” and glanced around again. “I do not know how Chakthi shall take this. Or Hadduth.”

“They will take it as they take it. Like all the akamans, like all the other clans.” Morrhyn looked at each messenger then, fiercely. “Take that word back to your akamans—that the Commacht go to the Meeting Ground to find a new land, free of the Breakers. Tell them we leave soon, and they had best join us.”

Dohnse watched as Perico nodded. The Aparhaso, he thought, believed. Kanseah frowned as if he were unsure; or uncertain how Tahdase should take this news. Jach looked dumbfounded. And likely, Dohnse thought, his own face reflected that same startlement.

“You might remain with us, do you wish.” Racharran's voice brought the Tachyn's eyes to the Commacht's face. “You need not go back.”

Dohnse frowned and shook his head. “We've spoken here of honor,” he said, “and though I thank you for that offer, I refuse it. Is all
that Morrhyn's said true—which I believe it is—then how could I keep my honor did I stay? No, I must go back to my clan with this promise. Do Chakthi and Hadduth listen is their affair; but I shall bring this word to the Tachyn. I must, else I am entirely without honor.”

“Well said.” Racharran nodded, smiling approval.

“Take back the word, Dohnse,” Morrhyn said. “Tell Chakthi and Hadduth; and do they not tell your clan, then
you
advise the Tachyn of the Maker's promise.”

Dohnse nodded and said, “I shall.” Then frowned again and added, “But there's little time.”

“The Maker willing, there shall be enough,” Morrhyn returned. “Do we act swift.”

He gestured that Racharran speak, and the Commacht akaman said, “We prepare to leave now. All well, the Breakers shall find this canyon empty when they come. All others should strike camp and join us along the way. In such weather it shall likely take us all the Rain Moon to find the Meeting Ground, but …”

He turned to Morrhyn, who said, “The Moon of the Turning Year should be a fitting time to find a new land, no?”

“All well.” Rannach's voice was edged. “But is there not a thing we should consider?”

“What?” his father asked.

Rannach gestured at Dohnse. “That this Tachyn owns honor I would not dispute. But he's warned us he mistrusts Chakthi and Hadduth—that he believes they intend to betray us. Is this not true?”

His face, planed hawkish and fierce by deprivation and fireglow, swung toward Dohnse, who could only nod agreement and say forlornly, “Yes.”

“Then do we send him back with word of all we intend,” Rannach said, “might Chakthi not attack us along the way? Or even at the Meeting Ground?”

Racharran's stern face expressed no emotion as he looked from his son to Dohnse and said, “There's that, yes.”

“And if Chakthi uses this? And halts us on the way? How many shall die? Shall we ever reach the Meeting Ground, or shall we be destroyed by Chakthi and the Breakers?”

Morrhyn's answer was calm. “It is a chance we must take.”

Rannach opened his mouth to reply, then closed it and nodded his comprehension.

Racharran said, “It is decided.” His voice was firm.

One by one the messengers nodded their agreement and went to
find their horses, beginning the journey back to their Wintering Grounds with the promise of salvation or destruction—none sure how their akamans might take it, or even if the People should die under the beasts and blades of the Breakers before they could find their redemption.

The Commacht wasted no further time: the camp was struck and the clan moved out. Scouts ranged ahead and warriors flanked the defenseless ones. Youths with their hair not yet braided herded the horses, and a band of the older men rode in rearguard. Racharran headed the column, Morrhyn and Rannach alongside, but in truth it was the wakanisha who guided them all.

He hoped the clement day was a sign of the Maker's favor. Surely, it seemed the sun shone a little warmer, sparkling bright on the snow that crunched under the many hooves, the poles of the travois gliding smooth and easy. And the crows that had circled the Wintering Ground with the rising of the sun had not followed them, but descended on the empty camp to pick over the leavings like the dark shadows of nightmares left behind. The camp dogs ran eager baside the plodding horses, and children laughed to be off on a great—albeit not understood—adventure. Even those who had argued against going now wore smiles or, at least, determined expressions, as if, once committed, they would make the best of things.

Morrhyn prayed fervently that it
was
the best of things they did: the road ahead was long and hard, and undoubtedly dangerous. And though he did not doubt it was the only way, still he could not entirely dismiss the creeping tendrils of unease that curled insertive into his mind.

The journey alone should surely claim some. The oldest and the weakest should likely die before they reached the Meeting Ground, for
food was sure to run short with scant time for hunting, even if game was to be found, and the supplies they carried with them were barely enough to see them through. The nights would be cold: fireless, as they must hide from enemies; nor would the days be much better.