Exile's Children (7 page)

Rannach, too, she thought, for he said, “What brings you, Mother? Not, of course, that we are anything but happy to see you.”

“Ach!” Lhyn waved a hand, dismissing his solicitous words. “A new-wed couple happy to welcome visitors? Rannach, even were you not my son I'd know better than that. Nor would I disturb you, save …”

Her smile disappeared entirely and Rannach frowned. “What is it?” he asked. “Some trouble with Vachyr? Chakthi?”

“Not yet.” Lhyn shook her head. “Nor, the Maker willing, shall there be. Your father calls Council this night, and I've a thing to ask you.”

Swiftly, she described Colun's news. Rannach's frown grew deeper; Arrhyna was abruptly aware of her nudity. She wished she were dressed: it seemed somehow more fitting that she receive such news clad.

“I shall attend the Council,” Rannach declared.

“As should you,” Lhyn said. “But more …” she spoke of Morrhyn's fears.

“My father would have me skulk in my lodge?” Rannach shook his head in angry denial. “Am I an embarrassment, then? Have I not given my word I'll not raise hand against the Tachyn whilst this Matakwa lasts? Is that not good enough for my father, for my akaman?”

“It is Morrhyn, also, who asks this,” Lhyn said patiently. “And I. Nor does your father believe you would break your given word. But Chakthi, Vachyr … Their tempers are short, and doubtless they still chew on defeat. I ask only that you not give them cause for resentment, but hold to his lodge until the Council sits.”

Rannach chewed on this awhile, then turned suspicious eyes on Lhyn. “I am not
commanded
? My father does not
bid
me remain hidden?”

“No.” His mother sighed, the shaking of her head a weary movement, as if this were ancient ground they trod. “He—and Morrhyn, and I—only
ask
it of you. This news that Colun brings, it frightens me; it … worries … your father. And Morrhyn—it was he pressed hardest that you not give Vachyr or Chakthi the least cause—”

“This is my wife!” Rannach cut short her words, stabbing a finger in Arrhyna's direction. “I courted her as custom demands; she made her choice. The council denied Chakthi's objections and now we are wed, with the blessing of all this Matakwa. What
cause
might my presence give him?”

Lhyn sighed again and looked to Arrhyna, who said softly, “Chakthi needs no cause for resentment, husband. It festers in him like a poisoned wound.”

“His problem,” snapped Rannach, “not mine.”

“Save are these creatures all Colun describes,” Lhyn said slowly, “then the People surely face such problems as transcend these petty squabbles.”

Rannach scowled and said, “I've no squabble with any present at this Matakwa.” He smiled fondly at his wife. “I've all I want.”

Arrhyna returned the smile, but fainter, her eyes drawn irresistibly back to Lhyn's face. Racharran's wife was beautiful in an older as many years as Lhyn. But now she looked drawn, as if trepidation etched the passing of time deeper into her features. It was hard to take such news hid under furs, naked; harder to see the worry in Lhyn's eyes and know that difference existed between the man she loved and his father. She caught Lhyn's eye and saw a plea there: she knew she must make some contribution or accept the role of docile wife.

“Mother speaks sense,” she said, ignoring the flash of anger that lit Rannach's eyes, tightened his jaw. “The Maker knows, I've spent my life amongst the Tachyn lodges, and so can tell you that neither Chakthi nor Vachyr need reason for resentment, or honest cause for squabble—they find such where they will. Do you only comply with this request …” The gratitude in Lhyn's gaze was pleasing.

“And hide myself away like some skulking dog”—Rannach shook his head—“for fear I offend Chakthi and his sorry son?”

“For the good of all the People,” Lhyn said. And smiled, “Besides, had you other plans? The Maker knows, when I wed your father we did not emerge from our lodge for days.”

Arrhyna blushed and giggled. Rannach's scowl eased somewhat. “Mother,” he said, “you are shameless.”

Lhyn shrugged. “It was hunger drove us out in the end … a different hunger. Had your father only thought to lay in sufficient supplies …” Her smile grew warmer, encompassing her son and his bride. “But we were not wed in so propitious a place—our lodge was, from choice, isolated—and so there was no one to leave food outside.”

“We've food enough.”

Rannach refused to be mollified yet, but Arrhyna saw him weakening and, encouraged by Lhyn's frankness, said, “And so no reason to quit this warm lodge.”

She felt her cheeks grow hot at her boldness, and was glad of Lhyn's approving smile.

Lhyn said, “It should be a mother's pleasure to feed you both.”

“And therefore”—Arrhyna allowed her covering fur to slip a fraction—“we've no reason to go out. Save you grow bored, husband.”

Rannach swallowed, his scowl quite lost under the flush that suffused his cheeks. Arrhyna saw Lhyn fighting laughter and let the fur slip father.

“Ach!” Rannach cleared his throat noisily, looking from one woman to the other as if torn between amusement and embarrassment—and perhaps, also, irritation. He threw up his hands. “I am defeated. Do you ask it, Mother, then so be it. Tell my father I shall quit this tent only to so what I must, naught else. But I shall attend the Council.”

“All shall attend that,” Lhyn said gravely, “for it shall affect all. But my thanks; I'll advise your father of your decision.”

Rannach nodded. Arrhyna said, “I've not yet prepared our breakfast,” and blushed anew. “But do you give me a moment …”

“Stay there, daughter.” Lhyn waved her back as she moved to rise. “Let me honor my promise—I'll bring you food betimes.” She smiled and favored Arrhyna with a private look. “And leave it outside, eh?”

“Thank you,” Arrhyna said.

Lhyn rose and was gone. Rannach laced the lodge flap tight behind her and loosed his breeches. Arrhyna threw back the sleeping furs, but when he came to her she set a hand against his chest and said, “Tell me of your father.”

“My father?” Rannach's face was a mockery of outrage. Arrhyna thought it not entirely assumed. “You'd discuss my father now?”

“I'd know what stands between you,” she said, fending off his Tachyn would argue Chakthi's wishes like that.”

“We are not like the Tachyn,” Rannach said.

“No.” It was difficult to ignore his exploring hands, the touch of his lips against her skin. “But it is more than that. There is something stands between you and your father that sets you to bristling like a dog with hackles raised.”

“So I am a dog now?” Rannach's voice was muffled against her breasts. “Your husband is a dog?”

“Dogs are not so strong,” she said, fastening her hands in his unbound hair that she might draw his face up. “Dogs are not such great warriors, nor such mighty hunters—nor so handsome. But dogs acknowledge a leader.”

“I am a man,” he said.

Doggedly, she thought, and almost laughed, but stifled the sound for fear she offend him. “Tell me, husband. Please? I am come a stranger into you clan, and I'd know these things.”

Rannach sighed and gave up his amorous expedition. He rolled onto his back, settling an arm beneath her shoulders. Arrhyna turned into his embrace, running fingers through his hair. Which, she thought with pride, she would braid later, and he be the most handsome warrior in all the Meeting Ground.

He said, “My father is a wise man. He is a great warrior who leads our clan as could no other. I am not like him, but he'd have me so. I lack his patience, his wisdom. I cannot be he, and so I am a disappointment to him.”

Arrhyna said, “No!”

“Yes! He'd school me that I become akaman when he grows too old, but I'd not shoulder that responsibility.”

“It should be a great honor,” Arrhyna said. “Already Chakthi names Vachyr his successor; and I think the Tachyn shall not argue him.”

“I am not Vachyr!” Rannach's voice was suddenly harsh; she tensed against him, abruptly aware of things she had not sensed before. “Nor is my father Chakthi.”

His voice softened and she heard admiration in it, and love. She said, “No, I'd not compare either of you to those two. But why should you not become akaman?”

He groaned. “And carry all that burden? My father took it up when he was not much older than I, and I saw the years it set on him. I'd no more than a warrior—free to ride and hunt where I will, not always thinking on the clan. I'd”—he chuckled into her hair—“go out to steal Tachyn horses without concerning myself with Chakthi's feelings. I'd be free, Arrhyna! I've no interest in the politics of akamans and wakanishas.”

“But,” she began, and was silenced by his finger against her lips.

She bit it gently as he said, “Listen. This is such decision as my father makes—when I told him I'd approach you and ask you to be my wife, he looked to dissuade me. He told me Vachyr courted you, and I should offend the Tachyn; that were I Vachyr's rival, I'd offend Chakthi, and likely he find reason to come against us. He pointed out all the Commacht maidens I might have. Their beauty, their parents' wealth …”

Arrhyna loosed her teeth from his finger as he chuckled and said, “Many of them were very lovely. Indeed … Ach!”

Her teeth fastened again, harder.

“But none compared to you,” he said, his hand no longer against her lips, but tracing the contours of her body. “I told him I'd have no other. That could I not have you, then I'd live solitary and never wed. He told me I was crazed; that I risked the welfare of all the Commacht in pursuit of blind love. He did his best to dissuade me …”

“But,” she said, “did not succeed. For which I thank the Maker.”

“As do I,” he said earnestly. “But my father would have it otherwise. Had he his way, then you should now be wed to Vachyr.”

She shuddered: the notion was horrible. But still … “He has shown me only kindness,” She said. “Him and your mother both.”

Rannach said, “He
is
kind. That makes it harder. Think on it.” His voice grew fierce and she cringed, but against him. “To know what someone wants—what they desire fierce as life itself—and tell them ‘No, do otherwise.' To tell them ‘So you love this woman, but forget her, quite her. Choose another, for the good of the clan.' I could not do that, but my father did.”

“Surely,” she said even as she thought how glad she was Rannach had ignored him, “he had to. For the good of the clan. And he supported you in the end.”

“Yes.” Rannach loosed a gusty breath. “But only when he saw I'd not be shifted from my course.”

“He's akaman,” she said.

Rannach said, “Yes,” again and sighed again. “And for such reasons I'd not be. And that disappoints him.”

“What,” she asked, “would you have done?”

“Were I akaman?” He laughed. “I'd have given my blessing and told Chakthi to set his head under his horse's tail; and did it come to war, then so be it.”

Arrhyna felt pride warm her: that he could love her so well. But even so, he seemed foolhardy. She remembered friends and said, “It shall not, eh? Not now, not after what your mother told us?”

Rannach said, “Not by my hand. Ach, my father thinks I am foolish
—he fears I'll vaunt you before Vachyr and Chakthi! He thinks me a fool, even though I gave him my word. He think me entirely irresponsible.”

Against his shoulder she said, “Perhaps he is only careful of all the People. And knows the course Chakthi's temper takes.”

“And so,” Rannach said, “He sent my mother to speak with me? Not come himself?”

“Had he?” she asked, thinking she already knew the answer, that she discovered momentarily layers of this relationship she had not suspected. “What then?”

Rannach snorted humorless laughter. “Likely,” he admitted, “we'd have argued. And I taken you out on that fine piebald mare, all around the Meeting Ground, both of us dressed in our finest, that all here could see my prize.”

“And rub Vachyr's nose in it?” she asked. “And Chakthi's?”

“Yes!” he said, and laughed honestly. “But you see how wise my father is? He sent my mother instead, knowing she might persuade me.”

Arrhyna feared his pride might get the better of his sense and moved closer against him. “I am glad,” she said, “that your mother succeeded.”

For a moment she thought this little battle lost, but then he relaxed and turned toward her. “As am I,” he said.

Neither of them heard Lhyn's discreet cough as she left the promised food outside their lodge, and by the time they found it, it was cold and the dogs had eaten most of it.

The night was cool, the sky above the Meeting Ground a star-pocked expanse dominated by the gibbous moon that shone silvery on the pinnacle of the Maker's Mountain as Rannach quite the lodge. Arrhyna had braided his hair, fixing the plaits that marked him as a warrior with little silver brooches of Grannach manufacture that glittered bravely in the moonlight. She thought he looked magnificent as he settled his blanket about his shoulders and bade her farewell.

“You'll not attend?” he asked again.

She shook her head, smiling. “I'd not spoil so day with sight of Vachyr. His sullen face would be proud of her. “You can tell me what's decided when you return. Or in the morning.”

Languidly, she stroked their sleeping furs. Rannach laughed. “You grow forward, wife.”

She grinned. “Also I'd tidy this lodge. I'll not have your mother think me a slattern.”

“My mother,” he said, “likes you.”

“And I her,” Arrhyna replied. “And so I'd show her how good a wife I shall be to her son.”