Exile's Children (85 page)

Morrhyn sighed and looked at the hawk. The bird still rode the wind, lofty and arrogant in its freedom. He thought perhaps he had none any longer, but only duty, which was a hard burden. It would be easy to speak of the dream and deliver judgment: the Maker had shown him what had happened; and what should happen did he take the role of decider. He could make it easy for the People—shout out the truth and order sentence. But then he would be forever the Prophet, and they always look to him for answers when those solutions were better found in their own minds, their own spirits. The Maker offered hope—their presence in this new land was proof enough of that—but also he looked to men to do right of their own volition, not be only guided like herded horses.

So he said, “The truth? The truth is what Dohnse tells us, that Chakthi slew Racharran.”

Noise then: a great shouting. Knives appeared, bright in the sun. Colun was on his feet, a hand extended in angry accusation, his voice roaring for sentence of death. Morrhyn saw Lhyn staring at the Tachyn, her eyes spilling out tears and her lips writhing back from her teeth. Yazte rose ponderous, hand on his belt knife. Rannach remained seated—which allowed Morrhyn some measure of hope—but his face was dark with rage and disgust.

Morrhyn climbed upright and raised his arms: silence fell—he was the Prophet.

“We are come to a new land,” he said, “which is a gift of the Maker, when else we might have died. But it seems we bring with us all the troubles of Ket-Ta-Witko. Do you all think about that? Think about how much this Council is like the last Matakwa, when that which drove us from our homeland began.”

Yazte said, “Tell us what to do.”

Morrhyn shook his head. “No. That is not for me to decide.”

Yazte opened his mouth to speak again, but Kahteney took his arm and spoke to him, and the Lakanti chieftain shrugged and scowled, and fell quiet.

Rannach asked, “Then who? Who decides if not you?”

Morrhyn looked at the young man and said, “You.”

It hung on this, precarious as an egg balanced on a knife's blade, delicate and deadly as that hawk riding the unseen currents of the sky. The dream—the Maker—had shown him that: Rannach must decide; or … He had rather not think of that “or,” and so he held his tongue and stared at Rannach, waiting.

“I am not fit,” Rannach said.

Morrhyn said, “You are akaman of the Commacht now. It was your father Chakthi murdered.” It was hard, that, with Lhyn's eyes wide upon him, all tear-tracked. “Yours, then, the decision.”

Yazte said, “That's fair.”

And Colun, “Yes! Let Rannach decide.”

Chakthi said, “Is this Matakwa as the Prophet claims, then
all
must have a voice, and the decision be reached by all.”

“This is our way and has always been our way.” Hadduth rose to his feet and spoke loud. “At that last Matakwa—when Vachyr was slain—Racharran had no say because it was his son accused! Now accusation of murder is made against Chakthi, and Racharran's son asked to decide the verdict. How can that be fair? Racharran himself would not agree to it.”

Voices murmured, “No!” Others murmured, “Yes!” And some said, “Execute him!”

More called for Morrhyn to decide: because he was the Prophet.

He raised his arms again. It was somewhat embarrassing to own such repute that that simple gesture delivered silence. He said, “I will not.”

Kahteney rose. “Perhaps there's another way. The Prophet says that Rannach must decide; Chakthi and Hadduth say no. So—shall this Matakwa elect the judges? Or the judge?”

Morrhyn said again, “I'll not be the judge. This is for the People to decide.”

Kahteney said, “Then I give my vote to Rannach.”

Yazte said, “He's mine also.”

Colun said, “And mine.”

Hadduth said, “The Grannach have no voice in the Council of the People.”

Kanseah said, “The Naiche shall abide by Rannach's judgment.”

There was no one yet to speak for the Aparhaso, so Morrhyn said, “Shall it be so? Shall Rannach judge?”

And there came an answer that matched the bellowing of the Breakers' beasts in its volume: “
Yes!”

“So be it.” Morrhyn beckoned Rannach to stand. “The judgment is yours to make.”

Chakthi shouted, “No! This is not the way. This is not how the Ahsa-tye-Patiko has it.”

Hadduth joined him in his protest, and no few of the Tachyn; but all the rest—which was the great mass of the People—shouted them down and they were forced to angry silence.

Rannach stood. He looked around the circle: at Morrhyn and his mother, at his wife, at Yazte and Kahteney and Colun, at Dohnse and all the rest waiting for his word, and finally at Chakthi.

“I believe Dohnse speaks the truth,” he said. “And Morrhyn. I believe that Chakthi slew my father.”

Shouts came: calling for Chakthi's death. Morrhyn waited, hanging like that hawk on the currents of Rannach's words. All hinged on this: the dreamed future, which might go the one way or the other, dependent on men, on one man—Rannach.

Rannach said, “This year past, I slew Vachyr. I believed that what I did was right. But had I let him live—had I brought him back alive to judgment—then perhaps the Breakers would not have come to Ket-Ta-Witko. Perhaps there would have been no war between the Commacht
and the Tachyn. Perhaps we should all live still in that old land the Maker gave us. But I did not think then; now I do.”

He paused, staring round. His eyes were fierce, defying any to argue him. Morrhyn waited, patient as the hawk; nor any less hungry.

“Blood was shed then,” Rannach continued, “when blood should not have been shed. Morrhyn taught me that it broke the Ahsa-tye-Patiko and delivered the Maker's wrath against all the People. It delivered the Breakers upon us.”

The hawk folded its wings and stooped: salvation or damnation?

Morrhyn waited with the rest. The dream spread out down its intricate paths, like a spider's web—mazed and fragile and strong until broken.

And Rannach said, “I'd not chance again the Maker's wrath. We are brought to a new land, which is good.” He gestured at the rolling grass, the blue-running rivers, the distant mountains. “I'd not again chance breaking the Ahsa-tye-Patiko. I'd not spoil the grass of this new land with blood. Listen! My wife grows large with a child—shall he be born to war? Or shall we live peaceful? We are exiled from Ket-Ta-Witko by what I did, and Vachyr, and Chakthi. But I'd not see that strife again. I'd see a peaceful land where my son might grow up without war.

“So—I claim no blood right against Chakthi. He slew my father, but I'll not claim his life.”

Yazte said, “No payment? He murdered your father—my brother!—and you'd let him go free? That I cannot accept.”

Shy Kanseah, even, said, “I believe the Prophet; I believe Dohnse. Can you let your father go unavenged?”

Rannach looked at Morrhyn, who gave back no clear answer save an enigmatic smile, and said: “I would not soil the grass of this new land with blood. Does Chakthi confess his sins and swear repentance and fealty to all the People, then I say he and his Tachyn live with us; and let our coming here wash away past sins.”

He turned his eyes challenging on Chakthi. Morrhyn fought a smile—it went well so far: one path the dream had shown him. But there were yet more to be taken, to other destinies.

And Chakthi took one as he stared at Rannach and shook his head and said, “Swear fealty to you?
No!
I confess no sins; neither accept your right to judge me.”

The hawk rose up and Morrhyn was not sure whether its claws hung open or closed.

“Then I give judgment,” Rannach said.

Chakthi said, “You cannot.”

Yazte said, “He can—we sit in Chiefs' Council and we have all agreed. Rannach's is the final word.”

“One day, old man,” Chakthi said, “I swear I shall kill you.”

Yazte laughed and said, “Dream on, murderer.”

Chakthi surged up, but Hadduth grasped his arm and pulled him down even as the Lakanti and the Tachyn again drew weapons.

Kahteney said, “What is this judgment?”

And Rannach said, “That we of the People who are true to the Ahsa-tye-Patiko cannot live with such as he, or any who follow him. I say that we send them away, where they not soil us with lies and envy and hatred. I say that they go”—he flung out an arm to where the line of distant mountains stretched all shadowy and cloud-hung across the eastern horizon—“there! Beyond those hills; and find themselves a place and never come back to where the People live.”

Chakthi scowled, and Hadduth whispered again into his ear. Morrhyn smiled, glad that path was taken.

Colun said, “Those look like good mountains. I'd take my Grannach there and build our tunnels again. How think you, Baran?”

Baran nodded and said, “Yes. Let's go there.”

And Colun said, “We'll be the Stone Guardians again, eh? And forbid Chakthi and any fools who follow him passage back.”

Baran grinned through his beard and glowered at the Tachyn and said, “Yes. We'll seal off the hills and never let them through.”

Rannach said, “So be it. Let all who follow Chakthi strike their lodges and go with him. They shall go in peace—unharmed!—and cross the hills and never come back on pain of death. Save”—he stared fierce around—“any who come here like us—like exiles fleeing destruction and oppression—shall be welcomed. Any who come seeking that refuge the Maker gave
us
shall be welcome amongst the People.

“How say you?”

His question was answered with a roar of approval and agreement from all save those still loyal to Chakthi.

Morrhyn felt pride swell, and bright hope: Rannach had learned well in exile, and in the long, hard moons that followed. He had chosen a path that seemed to the Dreamer the best—the one that led to peace and a future fruitful to all the People. He seemed to inherit his father's wisdom, and—hopeful—the wakanisha smiled at Rannach.

Who said, “Those who'd go with Chakthi shall quit this place tomorrow, before the sun stands noonday. Is that fair?”

Yazte said, “More than fair. I'd send them out now.”

Rannach said, “They need time. They've wounds also.”

Morrhyn blessed him for that.

Yazte shrugged and Colun asked, “Shall we Grannach go with them and guard their passage?”

Morrhyn waited again for Rannach's decision, and was no less pleased when Rannach said, “Let them first take out their horses from the herd and all they own, and then warriors from all of the People escort them to the hills; those who'd go. All others are welcome to remain. But those who go with Chakthi shall be taken there by all the clans—the Commacht and the Lakanti, the Naiche and the Aparahaso, the Grannach—that all see them gone across the mountains, nor ever return save to swear loyalty to all the People and the Ahsa-tye-Patiko. That”—he looked to where Morrhyn sat smiling—“is my judgment.”

Chakthi scowled and climbed halfway to his feet, but Hadduth held him back again and whispered to him, and the Tachyn akaman, still sullen, acquiesced and began to smile.

And Morrhyn remembered another path his dreams had taken, and wondered again about the weight and the burden that duty gave him. But he closed his mouth on the warnings he'd shout because he knew this was a thing to be determined by men who were not Dreamers, and must decide their own fates. He was the Prophet and saw the many paths, but did he outline them all, then none had choice—which was the balancing of the Maker's scales.

Yet still he wondered, as he looked at Chakthi and Hadduth, if it had not been better he told all he knew. That, or take a knife and drive it into both of them as they, together, had driven that blade into Racharran.

But he did not, only bowed his head and agreed with Rannach's judgment.

It was the best he could do: the only thing he could do, and leave the People themselves.

The Tachyn still loyal to Chakthi struck their lodges not long after the sun rose. They gathered up their horses and their dogs and all else they possessed. They set their worst wounded on travois and began the long trek to whatever awaited them past the mountains.

Colun and his Grannach went with them, and an escort of all the warriors Rannach had decreed.

They were not so many—Dohnse was believed, and the Prophet's dreaming—and for those who went with Chakthi and Hadduth, there was an equal number that remained behind.

They were welcomed into the clans still loyal to the People, though it was a sad welcoming, for much was lost. Not only Ket-Ta-Witko, but
also those things that had made them what they were—and all of them knew those things were changed.

Chakthi and all who followed him seemed no longer of the People, but tainted by the sin of the Breakers' dark wind, and all those who watched them go wondered at their fate, and what their anger might bring.

Morrhyn watched the long column go out and thought of what his dreams had shown him: if all was now well, and the People safe, or the Breakers come again because …

He set that doubt aside and asked, “What shall we call this land?”

Rannach said, “Ket-Ta-Thanne.”

Which meant in the language of the People
The Promised Land
.

Morrhyn nodded and said, “That seems fitting.”

And so it was named: Ket-Ta-Thanne.

And the People settled there—the Commacht and the Lakanti, the Aparhaso and the Naiche and the Grannach—and spread across the grass and into the mountains, and set up their lodges and built their tunnels, and dwelt in harmony, all of them—save Chakthi's Tachyn, who had gone across the mountains the Grannach guarded to whatever lay beyond.

And while all remembered Rannach's vow that Ket-Ta-Thanne should be always a refuge for exiles, it seemed they were the only folk in all those wide spaces, and none realized how soon they would be called upon to honor that promise.