The Sage (5 page)

Still,
his body did not understand, and screamed at him for failing it.

Darkness
closed around him, and he stifled a feeling of panic. He stopped, lowering his
pack to the floor, and waited for his night sight to return. It did, even after
five hundred years, and he saw faintly by the distant light of the jetting
flame—saw two dark holes ten feet in front of him, branching off to either
side. Who knew what other turns and branchings there might lie ahead? And
surely there would be no light at all!

It
was a pretty problem, and Ohaern found his old limbs would no longer take the
weight of standing still to decide. He lowered himself beside his pack, then sat
contemplating the tunnels, puzzling out how to choose which led up to the
earth's surface and which led downward into a farther and more tangled maze
with— for all he knew—a fathomless pit of dark water at its end.

But
as he gazed, a flutter of whiteness appeared within the tunnel. He stared; the
fluttering grew, until a white bird flew out of the tunnel, a huge white owl.
Ohaern stiffened, recognizing the bird for Rahani's messenger, even if the fowl
itself did not—as surely it could not have, for it fluttered about in the
passage, dashing itself from side to side, but not daring to go past Ohaern
into the cavern beyond. Realizing that, Ohaern rose with a shout, rose slowly
and with great effort, but shouting still, waving his hands in their long
flapping sleeves. Alarmed, the bird turned and flew unerringly back into the
passage from which it had come. A trace of fresh air that it recognized? Or an
impulse from Rahani? Ohaern neither knew nor cared—he caught up his pack, swung
it up to his shoulder, and staggered under its weight, but staggered into the
tunnel, following the owl. The light dimmed and surely must have been gone, but
still that ghostly flutter went on before Ohaern, as if it glowed of itself in
the gloom. Hurrying as fast as his stiffened limbs would let him, he hobbled
after, somehow managing to keep it in his sight. On and on he went, tripping
over stones and bouncing off rocky walls, swearing and cracking his head on
sudden dips in the ceiling, but forcing himself on and on, in a panic lest that
white dancing flit from his sight.

He
managed to keep it in view until the darkness began to pale, to wash away under
light coming from ahead. Then he rounded a bend, and true daylight lanced his
eyes, dazzling him. He squeezed his eyes to slits, then opened them a little at
a time as they adjusted to the glare .. .

And
the owl was gone. Had he missed its passing out from the tunnel? Or had it
melted into thin air? Ohaern threw off a shiver and breathed ardent thanks to
Rahani as he forged ahead.

Out
into the light of the world he came, then lowered his pack to the ground with a
crash and all but fell beside it, trembling with relief and exhaustion in every
limb.

Long
he sat beside that cave, till the trembling eased and he began to think of fire
again. The day was light but held no sun— overcast, but early summer, to judge
by the leaves about him. He glanced at the sky, wondering about rain, but not
overmuch, for hadn't he a cave behind him?

Yes,
but one without fuel. Ohaern used the roughness of the rock about the cave
mouth to pull himself to his feet and, leaving the pack, moved slowly into the
forest ahead of him to gather wood—but before he picked up a single stick for
the fire, he selected a fallen branch, almost completely straight, longer than he
was tall, and thumped it against a nearby tree. Satisfied that it was sound and
had no rot, he used it to lean upon as he bent to gather stick after stick—and
roots and berries, too. Then he returned to the cave's mouth, laid a fire, drew
his great knife from its sheath and the scrap of flint from his pack. He struck
sparks into tinder and breathed on the coal, slowly blowing a flame alight.
Then he sat by his fire under a lowering sky, nibbling on berries as the roots
roasted in the coals, and began to carve runes and mystic symbols into the wood
of the fallen branch.

For
three evenings he carved by the fire; for three days he exercised, turning and
twisting, striking a boulder with his great hammer, first the left, then the
right, then the left again, changing the hammer back and forth between hands as
it rebounded. At first he could scarcely lift it for the first stroke; three
days later he could hammer for an hour. He could kneel down and stand up five
times without resting; he could pull himself up to a tree limb; he could hurl a
javelin he made from a straight stick and a piece of chipped flint. Most
important of all, he had taught his body to hunt again, refreshing skills it
had not practiced for hundreds of years.

He
finished the staff on the third night, then pointed it at a dead and distant
tree and chanted words of power. The dead trunk groaned, then broke with a loud
report and fell to the ground. Ohaern nodded, satisfied, and lay down to sleep.

In
the morning, he buried his fire, shouldered his pack, then looked up at the
clear sky, murmuring, “Where would you have me go, O My Beloved? Show me where
he lies, this lump of clay that can become a hero, and I shall find him!”

For
a moment he thought Rahani had not heard him. Then, slowly, trails of white
appeared against the blue dome of sky, streamers of cloud that joined together
to form a plume, a long sweep of arrowing streamers meeting—and pointing to the
west.

Ohaern
gazed up at the mile of arrow with a smile, reassured that he was remembered—and
not alone. He set off toward the west.

As
he walked he stayed alert for other signs, and, days later, found the next—a
stunted pine, its branches all pointing to the southwest. By itself this was
nothing exceptional—on a windy hillside; but in the middle of a forest of
full-branched trees, it was unmistakable, especially since the branches of the
pine all joined together to point. Two days after that, as he was coming out of
a high mountain pass, a white stag burst from cover and sprang away across his path.
Recognizing an emissary of Rahani, Ohaern hurried after the beast, but the
smith's tools grew heavy upon his back, and within a hundred yards his legs
ached and his breath came in hoarse gasps—and the stag was growing smaller and
smaller in the distance. But it looked back, saw Ohaern laboring, and slackened
its pace. In relief, he slowed to a walk, wiping his brow—then realized that he
would lose the stag that way! He started to run, though his limbs were
leaden—and saw that the stag, too, was walking. He slowed again and followed
the animal toward the north, until it rounded a ten-foot-high boulder. When
Ohaern came behind the boulder, it was gone. Alarmed, he looked about him, then
remembered his hunter's lore and looked down at the ground. There he saw its
hoofprints, curving around the stone—and disappearing.

He
stared a moment, not believing, then saw the magic of it and smiled. He settled
his pack more firmly on his shoulders and trudged away toward the north,
wondering if he would find another sign, or the reluctant hero himself.

* * *

Kitishane
had known her father, but had never spoken to him if she could help it, nor did
he speak to her. He never acknowledged by word or gesture that she was his
daughter, for his wife was not her mother. It would have been bad enough if
only they two had known of it, and Kitishane's mother, of course—but the whole
clan knew, and never let her forget it.

“Do
not worry, my dear,” her mother crooned to her, rocking her when she was young.
“We both know your worth, and it has nothing to do with his.”

Nothing
indeed—but the other children did not know that. They mocked her and struck at
her—until she taught herself to block their blows, then even strike back. Most
of the boys her age were smaller than she, so they learned to give her a wide
berth. The girls did, too, muttering that she couldn't really be female if she
struck at them.

When
she came of age, though, and the young men all sought to bed her as her father
had bedded her mother—well, then she learned to fight in earnest. Not just as
women were supposed to fight, with tooth and nail, but as men fought, too, for
she had watched them at their wrestling practice, admiring the sheen of sweat
on flexing muscles. She discovered some new movements, too—that her hips worked
well as fulcrums for her arms to lever a man off his feet, and that if a woman
was weaker in arms, she was quite strong enough in the legs. She learned to
kick, and where; she learned to block with her legs as she blocked with her
fists. It was a hard school, and the first time a boy struck her, fear shot
through her, sapping the strength of every limb—but she realized what he would
do if she did not fight back, and struck at him in panic, then struck and
struck and struck until he ran.

She
watched them practice with sword and dagger, then practiced herself with
sticks, but thankfully never had to use them— until young Cheorl was found
dead.

“Murderess!”
Cheorl's father howled, pointing a trembling finger at her, there in front of
all the villagers assembled, and the village elders nodded.

“Where
were you last night?” Goreh the chieftain demanded, eyes flashing from beneath
his bushy white brows.

“At
home, helping my mother weave, then sleeping!” Kitishane answered.

“It
is true,” her mother said. “She—”

“Of
course she will say Kitishane was at home!” Cheorl's father snapped. “Of course
she will make excuses for her daughter!”

He
should know, Kitishane reflected bitterly. She didn't doubt that he had done so
a score of times and more, for Cheorl.

“We
know she can fight,” one of the boys put in, eyes gleaming at the prospect of
revenge.

“We
have seen her practicing with sword and dagger,” another added.

“A
wooden sword!” Kitishane cried. “A stick for a dagger!”

“So
you would know how to use Cheorl's dagger when you wrested it from him,” Goreh
inferred. “Did he seek to rape you, maiden?”

“I
was never there!”

“I
saw her going into the wood with her bow last night,” Shchambe said loudly.

“A
lie!” Kitishane said hotly, turning on her accuser. “I went inside my mother's
house at dusk, and did not come out!” She had learned the hard way to stay
indoors at night—it needed less fighting, and she never knew when two or three
of them might gang up on her.

“
I
saw her go into the wood, too,” Alluye said through her tears. Kitishane turned
to her, words of anger on her tongue, but she bit them back—Alluye had been
Cheorl's betrothed, and was deep enough in grief. She had always treated
Kitishane with scorn, and had hated her for not accepting that contempt
meekly—but Kitishane's heart went out to her nonetheless. To have found a love,
and lost it!

Then
she remembered the hot looks Shchambe had given Alluye, not in the last week
alone, but for years—and she knew who had slain Cheorl. “Ask him!” she cried,
pointing at Shchambe. “Ask him where
he
was last night!”

“Why,
at home with me, where he should be,” Shchambe's mother said quickly—and since
she had been wed, no one called
her
a liar, even though her husband was
dead.

“Shchambe
is not on trial here,” Goreh said. “
You
are. All who think she is
guilty, say 'aye.' “

“Aye!”
all the villagers chorused.

“Those
who think her innocent, say 'nay!' “

Only
Kitishane's mother said 'Nay.'

“The
punishment for murder is death,” Goreh said heavily.

“No!”
Shchambe cried. “Let her be no longer a maiden, then cast her out!”

A
chorus of voices agreed with him, both male and female. “Aye!” “Yes, that is a
fit punishment for being so unwomanly!”

“I
would rather die!” Kitishane braced herself. It would be only tooth and nail at
the last, then—but she would take at least one of them with her as she died.

“There
has never been such a punishment in our village!” Goreh spoke sharply, and the
tumult died. “But casting out has been done, and shall be done now. Give her a
pack, and a bow for hunting—then send her out!”

There
were shouts of disagreement, but more of delight. They ran to bring her a pack
of food, ran to fetch her bow, then chased her out then and there, running after
her, throwing stones, but she ran faster than any, and only one or two stones
struck her. So she left her village, leaving her poor mother alone and weeping
in the village square.

In
the darkness of the night wood she slowed, hearing the yells of the mob dwindle
behind her. When they were silent, she collapsed against a huge old elm and let
herself weep. The tears poured and poured, but finally began to slacken.

That
was when she heard the laugh, low and menacing.

She
stiffened, tears drying on the instant. She knew better than to ask.

“So
you'd have sent me to the noose, eh?” Shchambe stepped into a patch of
moonlight, shadows painting his face into a mask of evil.

Kitishane
leaped to her feet, snatching an arrow, frantically trying to string her bow.

Shchambe
stepped in to strike it aside with a snarl. “Goreh's a weak old fool not to
give you the punishment you deserve!”

“
You
deserve!” Kitishane shouted. “You slew Cheorl so that you could have Alluye!”

“And
you were there to watch it, were you?” Shchambe growled. “Well, I'll give you
the punishment Goreh should have! Oh, I'll have Alluye, when she's done
mourning—but first I'll have you!” He seized her with one bearlike arm, pawing
at the fastenings of her tunic with the other, then reaching for the neckline—but
he had forgotten that she still held the arrow. Kitishane drove it up as hard
as she could, and Shchambe gave a strangled yell, falling back from her,
doubled over, the arrow sticking out just below his rib cage. Kitishane stepped
in, yanked his dagger loose, then stabbed with it, stabbed again and again,
feeling no guilt or compunction, for as Goreh had said, death was the
punishment for murder—and, as far as she was concerned, should have been the
punishment for the rape Shchambe had tried to commit.