Exile's Children (73 page)

Dohnse shrugged again and said, “He's a cautious man. And …” His gesture seemed to encompass the summer's war and all the ill feeling between his clan and the Commacht.

“Yesterday's trouble.” Racharran raised a hand in sign of peace. “Tell him we'll—”

He broke off as Yazte touched his wrist. “Tell him,” the Lakanti said, “to come meet us here; him and Hadduth. They can lead us to your people.”

His wide smile belied the mistrust implicit in his words, and Dohnse smiled grimly back and nodded. “As you wish.”

He turned his horse and went back across the river, cantering in amongst the breaks.

Yazte's smile became genuine. “Does he set an ambush, he'll not come. And should he think to trick us, we'll have hostages.”

Morrhyn said softly, “There's no ambush. Not here.”

“Even so.” Yazte shrugged, then frowned as Dohnse came back with Chakthi and Hadduth.

All three Tachyn forded the stream and reined in. Hadduth sat silent on his horse, his eyes fixed curiously on Morrhyn, widening somewhat as the gaunt Dreamer returned his own blue stare, and then turning away as if the Tachyn could not meet that penetrating gaze.

Chakthi greeted them and made the sign of apology. “You've cause enough to hate me,” he said, “but it's as Dohnse told you—Vachyr's death drove me awhile mad, and I knew not what I not what I did. I ask your forgiveness; and do you name blood-price, I shall pay it.”

Racharran studied him a moment. His face was clean of mourning's white and his hair was braided. Also, he bore no weapons and his eyes met the Commacht akaman's unflinchingly. Racharran glanced sidelong at Morrhyn, who ducked his head a fraction.

“What threatens now outweighs all that's gone before.” Racharran ignored Yazte's eloquent sniff. “I'd see no more slain. Neither by the Breakers nor any other. Do you accept the promise Morrhyn brings us and swear truce, then we've peace between us.”

Chakthi nodded solemnly and raised a hand in pledge. “I swear truce, to peace between your clan and mine. This I swear in the name of the Maker, and do I renege, may he damn me.”

Racharran in turn raised a hand and said, “Let there be peace between us … brother.”

Chakthi smiled and said, “Peace, brother.”

“So be it.” Racharran glanced at the sky. The sun stood close on its zenith, bright against the steel-hard blue. “We've a ways yet to go, and slowly with so many. Do you call up your people and we go on?”

“As you command.” Chakthi lowered his head submissively. “Where do we station ourselves?”

Yazte said quickly, “To the rear,” and favored the Tachyn with a bland smile. “Our people are already on the move.”

Chakthi's features expressed no resentment, but still Racharran thought to say diplomatically, “Shall you be our rearguard?”

Chakthi said, “As you wish. Shall you come with me?” His eyes encompassed all the warriors standing in audience: tacit acceptance that he was a hostage.

“No.” Racharran shook his head before Yazte had chance to speak again. “Best that you organize your people and we ford this river.”

Chakthi nodded and turned his horse. Hadduth moved to his side, but Dohnse hesitated an instant, as if doubtful, then shrugged and went with them.

“I'd sooner have kept them,” Yazte murmured.

“He swore on the Maker's name.” Racharran watched the three Tachyn riding for the breaks. “There's peace between us now.”

Yazte spat and grunted.

Racharran said, “We need trust, are we to survive. And he gave his word.”

“Yes.” Yazte's response was ambiguous. “He did.”

They crossed the river and went on into the breaks where the Tachyn sheltered. There was no ambush, and, as the column passed, the Tachyn fell in docile at the rear. The Commacht and the Lakanti were all mingled, and Racharran had thought to station Rannach in their midst, that his son and Chakthi not meet. Both had sworn vows of peace, but even so … Both, he thought, were hotheaded, and he'd no wish to test the new-made truce. He sent a rider back, to call Rannach up to the fore. Did all three tribes stand between them, they need not meet. At least, not yet.

He brought his horse closer to Morrhyn's and said, “It went smooth enough, no?”

The wakanisha ducked his head inside his cowl and said nothing.

Racharran frowned. “You've dreamed of trouble?”

“No.” Morrhyn shook his head and sighed.

“Then what?” Racharran asked. “Do you think of what Dohnse told us? Do you expect betrayal?”

“No.” Morrhyn turned briefly toward his akaman and smiled thinly, then looked ahead again.

Chakthi had given his word, no? Had pledged his very soul, which surely must be proof enough of his honest intent. Surely; save … 
Why had Hadduth seemed so hesitant? Kahteney had been full of questions when he learned that Morrhyn had back his dreams, but the Tachyn wakanisha had voiced none. That seemed to Morrhyn strange—that a Dreamer stripped of his talent not question another newly blessed by the Maker; and after that initial observation, Hadduth had refused to meet Morrhyn's eye.

Perhaps he was ashamed; perhaps he regretted the summer's war; perhaps he felt guilt for his part in that trouble. Morrhyn thought that was likely the reason—that Hadduth felt embarrassment in his presence.

Perhaps; but he could not shake off the lingering doubt that behind Hadduth's veiled gaze lurked something else, as if the man's blank face hid secrets. What, he could not say, and shook his head in frustration. Likely it was only embarrassment, or guilt; and his dreams warned of no danger from the Tachyn along the way.

He realized Racharran studied him with worried eyes and forced a warmer smile. “I've not dreamed of betrayal,” he said. “And we've Chakthi's promise, no?”

Racharran nodded. “Was that a lie, you'd know.” His tone hung midway between question and statement. “You'd have dreamed of that.”

Morrhyn said, “Yes,” more confidently than he felt.

The Maker's promise belongs to all the People, he told himself, to the Tachyn as much as any other clan. It cannot be denied them for fear of nebulous doubt.

“And likely Dohnse would warn us,” Racharran's voice intruded on his musings, “did Chakthi plan anything.”

“Yes.” Morrhyn agreed with an eagerness born of suspicion. “Dohnse's an honorable man.”

Racharran said, “Then all's well,” and turned as Rannach came up.

“The Tachyn fall in behind.” Rannach's voice was flat. “And people say Chakthi's sworn truce.”

“Good.” Racharran smiled. “Now ride with us.”

Rannach grinned and dutifully brought his horse into line.

They went on, clearing the breaks to climb the rising plain ahead, where the land lay all open save for little stands of timber and folds that might conceal the Breakers had Morrhyn not promised them safe passage. Word spread fast amongst the refugees that the Commacht wakanisha dreamed again, and soundly. They had heard it, of course, the news delivered by the messengers, but to hear it said was not the same as
knowing
it: that sensate belief came with the reality of their situation,
and the many who followed only because their akamans led them began to accept the promise, and to trust in Morrhyn.

By now the Commacht entertained no doubts, but the more recently come Lakanti and the even later-come Tachyn at first rode wary, knowing that if the Breakers came on them, they were surely lost. But the days passed and they moved inexorably, if furtively, toward the distant mountains without attack. Sometimes they hid, seeking the concealment of draws or woodland, or setting high ground between themselves and the searching enemy Morrhyn warned of. But always his warnings proved sound, and must they hide—cold and hungry for want of fires that would betray them—then that was a small price to pay for survival and the promise of salvation. They began to call him Prophet, which embarrassed him greatly, for whilst he was confident his dreaming protected them from discovery, still he felt an irritating doubt that nagged, like a dog barking far off, at the hinder part of his mind.

He could not clarify it or properly explain it. Nor—for fear of disturbing the harmony that grew—would he speak of it. He sought out Hadduth and was met with smooth apologies for past disagreements and the Tachyn's assurance that his own dreams were not yet returned. Neither were Kahteney's, and so Morrhyn must accept Hadduth's word, and only wonder at his undefined misgivings.

When the akamans met—from which conferences Rannach was tactfully banished—Chakthi was all submissive contrition, bowing to the suggestions of Racharran and Yazte as if he were newcome to his station and they the senior chieftains. He seemed all repentant, and held his clan in its rearward position without argument. Even the Lakanti akaman softened toward him and, almost, Morrhyn came to believe his and Hadduth's good intentions.

But still not quite: there yet remained something he could not define hidden behind their smiles and earnest eyes.

And daily the dark bulk of the mountains came closer, until, between the setting of the Rain Moon and the rising of the Moon of the Turning Year, they sighted the Maker's Mountain shining in promise under a sun that grew steadily warmer.

The snow that had blanketed Ket-Ta-Witko for so long began to thaw, which slowed them somewhat—for the rivers grew fierce with meltwater and the ground muddy. But the Maker's Mountain rose before them, and in the sheltered places trees put out buds, and birds sang louder, as if in recognition of the coming spring, and that filled them with renewed hope.

And then, with the Moon of the Turning Year gibbous in the sky, they reached the Meeting Ground.

•   •   •

“What now?” Racharran asked, and five pairs of eyes turned expectantly to Morrhyn.

He paused a moment before replying, gathering up his thoughts. “We must wait awhile. We must give the Aparhaso and the Naiche the chance to join us, and allow Rannach time to bring Arrhyna and Colun's Grannach down from the valley.”

Kahteney asked softly, “How much time?”

Morrhyn shrugged and said, “The Maker will tell us when.”

“Tell you.” Kahteney's voice was rueful. “I've not yet gotten back my dreams.”

“They'll come.” Morrhyn smiled encouragingly and looked to where Hadduth sat, his brows rising in question.

The Tachyn wakanisha shook his head and muttered, “No. I still cannot dream.”

He met Morrhyn's stare only briefly before lowering his eyes.

“How shall it happen?” Yazte asked.

“I don't know yet. The Maker will doubtless tell me.”

“Before too long, I hope.” Yazte scratched a chin. “Do the Breakers pick up our trail … ”

“
When
they do,” Chakthi said. “So large a trail cannot go long unnoticed.”

Yazte's expression suggested he found it irritating to agree with the Tachyn, but still he ducked his head and said, “That's true.”

Morrhyn shrugged again. Racharran said, “Even so, we cannot leave the Aparahso and the Naiche.”

Chakthi said, “Perhaps the Breakers have found them. Perhaps they cannot join us.”

“Still, we wait.” Racharran's voice was firm, brooking no dissent. He looked to Morrhyn, smiling. “Morrhyn shall tell us when the time comes.”

“Forgive me.” Chakthi lowered his head, hands spread in sign of apology. “As you say—we wait.”

Three days they had been on the Meeting Ground. The lodges stood close-huddled, for none felt entirely safe with the hills ringing them and nowhere to run if worse came to worst. The warriors of all three clans grouped daily about the approaches, and at night remained on guard, constantly alert. Their supplies dwindled apace, and even though the sun shone warmer each day and the snow melted, still there was little grazing for the horse herds. Nor any game to be found—the buffalo were not yet come back, and it seemed the deer and smaller animals had all fled or been slain by the Breakers.

Morrhyn was assailed daily by those who dared approach him, and always with the same question: “When?”

To all he gave the same answer: “In the Maker's good time. When he brings us to salvation.”

Most accepted, trusting him—was he not become, after all, their Prophet?—but there were yet others who began to wonder, and murmured cautiously amongst themselves that he was changed, that he was the wakanisha who had deserted his clan in time of trouble, that perhaps the exodus was a terrible mistake.

None of this was said in his hearing, but still he heard it; and could not help but wonder if it be true—in his dreams, he got only the suggestion he wait, that all would be well.

But he knew that food ran short in the lodges, and that the animals fared no better. He could not help but entertain the terrible doubt that perhaps he was a false prophet, tricked by the Breakers' magicks and duped by them into leading the People to destruction. He prayed each night for strength, for revelation—and got back comforting dreams of salvation. But when he woke and went out from his lodge into the warming sun and saw the expectant faces that turned his way, the doubts came back. He ate the pahé root given him by Kahteney—his own all gone—but that allowed him no clearer dreaming than before: only
Wait!

It was hard to be a prophet, for folk expected clear and instant answers that he could not give. He did not—honestly—know how or when the Maker would show them the way to the new land. He could only pray, and trust the Maker; and pray again that he was not duped into becoming the Breakers' instrument.

Two more days passed and hope—or its loss?—arrived with the dawning sun: Perico rode in with two hundred weary Aparhaso; and before the same sun set, Kanseah brought a smaller group of the Naiche.

Their explanations were echoes, like two voices chanting the same sad song: