Exile's Challenge (35 page)

“Yes.” Morrhyn forced a smile and ducked his head in agreement, letting his eyes rove on to where Davyd's lodge was pitched.

That stood beside his own, the shared lodge of Flysse and Arcole close by, Tekah's—inevitably—near. It should be hard, Morrhyn thought, for anyone to get close to Davyd with that watchdog alert.

Then a shout from the eastern edge of the bowl caught his attention and Rannach's hand clasped his shoulder.

“They come! See?”

A column wound down the rocky trail, its leaders already within the shadow of the pass, bellowing greetings that echoed magnified off the stone walls, so that the Grannach arrived as if heralded by roiling thunder. At such a distance they looked like animated, hairy boulders, all small and round and hard, drawing their little handcarts piled high with trade goods.

Rannach said, “I'd greet them properly,” and was gone running to his horse.

“And I,” Yazte added, though his run was more of lumber akin to a bear's charge.

Morrhyn turned to Kahteney. “Best prepare, eh, brother?”

Kahteney nodded and they walked at a dignified pace to their lodges.

Davyd lay near naked and totally embarrassed in the shade of his lodgeflap. Flysse and Lhyn tended his wounds, and for all he denied they pained him and he had no need of such ministrations, they ignored him, applying womanly wisdom to damage and protests alike. Those wounds
would
be dressed, and he accept it else they summon Arrhyna from where she nursed Debo and ask she hold him down. He had no choice save to acquiesce, even when he heard the shouting and endeavored to rise.

“Easy, easy.” Lhyn set a hand against his chest and pushed him gently back. “This first, eh? Then you can greet Colun. Let him and Marjia come to you, eh?”

“I'm …” Davyd began to say, and then shrugged, sinking back: as well argue as try to wrestle the Grannach.

Even so, it was difficult to lie supine and impatient as all around the Meeting Ground exploded tumultuous. But wait he must until Lhyn was satisfied and declared that he might now dress, and Flysse added her consent, and he was left alone to tug on his clothes himself—which was a mercy for which he thanked the Maker, thinking it quite likely the two women insist they perform that office for him.

He emerged from his lodge to find Flysse and Arcole outside, Morrhyn and Kahteney there, Arrhyna holding Debo's hand, and Tekah hovering behind. Briefly Davyd wondered if the Commacht feared the Grannach might attack him. Then Colun and Marjia came striding over the grass, Rannach and Yazte walking their horses alongside in honor guard, and Davyd forgot Tekah as he smiled at his friends.

“It's good to see you,” he said. “The Maker bless you.”

“The Maker damn whoever did that to you.” Colun was blunt as ever. He halted staring up at Davyd with a mixture of sympathy and anger in his gray eyes. “Is he not already dead, name him and I'll slay him.”

Davyd had no doubt but that each word was sincerely meant. He said, quickly lest any other—especially Tekah—answer on his behalf, “It was a wolverine, Colun.”

It was strange to see stark surprise on the face of a rock. Almost, Davyd chuckled as Colun gaped, then turned to Marjia, whose big blue eyes showed only concern. “Tell me.” Colun returned his gaze to Davyd. “No, wait! Clearly there's a great tale here, and great tales are best told over a flask of tiswin, no?”

From where she stood with Rannach, his arm around her, Arrhyna said innocently, “I thought you made your own now, Colun.”

“We do.” Colun beamed. “Thanks to you, we've a goodly supply. Save … Ugh!” He broke off as his wife's elbow dug his ribs.

“The thought of Matakwa was celebrated,” Marjia continued, “and then our departure. The more as this is the first we women have attended. And, of course, fortification was needed on the journey here.” She glanced archly at her husband. “Some things do not change, and consequently our stocks are depleted.”

“Near gone,” Colun agreed, his face solemn, “and me with a thirst. And,” he looked again at Davyd, “a great tale to hear. Which surely cannot be told without …” He groaned again as his wife's elbow once more collided with his ribs.

“Tiswin,” Marjia said, smiling. “So—why do you men not go tell your tales and drink your tiswin while I go with my friends, who shall likely have a different story. Save,” she encompassed both Davyd and Arcole in her look, “I am glad to see you both alive and …” She fixed Davyd with an almost accusing glance. “Reasonably healthy.”

Davyd shrugged, not knowing what to say.

“And I, sweet Marjia, am pleasured by the sight of you.” Arcole flourished a bow that might have graced some Levanite dowager. “Your loveliness is unchanged.”

Davyd wondered if Marjia blushed at that. It was hard to tell, but surely she smiled and patted Arcole's cheek, which rocked his head sideways and left him a moment blinking. He wondered if he should attempt some equally florid compliment, and decided he could not; the gutter was a poor schoolground for such matters. So he only smiled and watched the women gathered up by Marjia as if by some
flaxen-haired avalanche that carried them away and left the men alone.

“So?” Colun demanded. “Tiswin?”

Rannach laughed loud. “The Maker knows, old friend, but you've not changed.”

“Should I?” Colun asked. “Should you like me better?”

“No.” Rannach shook his head, then studied Colun as if appraising a likely horse. “I doubt I could like you better.”

“Ach!” Colun made a dismissive fist. “Leave the soft words for your pretty wife, eh? Only give me …”

Before he could complete the sentence, Rannach and Yazte, Arcole and Davyd, even Morrhyn and Kahteney, said in unison, “Tiswin!”

The flask went around the circle and the People stayed distant, aware that such matters were discussed as should come before the Full Council, when all might have their say. For now, it was a thing of akamans and wakanishas and the creddan of the Grannach. And did Tekah hover in the background, then Tekah was Tekah, and blood-sworn to defend and guard Davyd—whom all acknowledged was to be Morrhyn's successor. And what matter that Arcole sat with them, for was he not one of them and favored of both Rannach and the Prophet, Morrhyn? None would argue that: not Morrhyn's wish, nor much Rannach's. The People had come to depend on those two, who had come down from the mountains of Ket-Ta-Witko to bring word of the Breakers and save them from annihilation.

And so the People enjoyed this first night of true Matakwa, when the Grannach were come again amongst them, and entertained their Stone Folk friends and drank much tiswin, and roasted the best meat, thinking that on the morrow the trading would begin—Grannach metalware for skins and clay pots; sound blades for beadwork and decorated shirts; furs for arrowheads and lance points. Matakwa as it had been in Ket-Ta-Witko!

And did any think of Taza, they set the thought aside: he would be judged, and were he guilty then surely the Council
must know it and decide his sentence. But that was for the morrow: this night was for celebration.

For most.

It shall be soon now Are you strong?

Taza said, inside his head, safe inside his lodge, Yes: are you with me I am strong.

It shall not be easy, but the reward shall be great Are you sure?

Yes. What shall be my reward?

All that you want Davyd's death, Morrhyn's Respect. That the People lower their heads before you and shudder at your words

Truly? So much?

Truly. You shall be as thunder over the earth, mightier than the buffalo herds when they migrate You shall have dominion over them all

And I need only do what you ask?

What I tell you, yes. Shall you do that?

Yes!

Then only wait and I shall show you the way

I shall!

Good, we are agreed
.

“I've seen nothing,” Colun said, reaching for the flask. “The Tachyn—the Maker damn them!—seem to have given up their assaults. The forests that side are quiet.”

“And you've seen naught of the …” Morrhyn hesitated at the unfamiliar word, “Evanderans?”

“No.” Colun shook his head. “Nothing at all. Do they build these fort things, then it must be far away. Not where we can see them—which means a long way away.”

“And yet …” Morrhyn hesitated, glancing at Davyd. “The dreams …”

Colun shrugged. “I can only tell you what I know—that Chakthi no longer brings his Maker-forsaken Tachyn against our hills, and I have seen none of these … Evanderans?
Neither the ones marked like our friends, nor the … soldiers?”

Kahteney looked at Davyd and frowned a question. Davyd said, “I know only what I dreamed. I do not understand it.”

“I think,” Morrhyn said, “that it were best we conduct the ceremonies and then build a wa'tenhya. Perhaps if you are formally named …”

Davyd said, “Perhaps,” feeling unsure.

Colun said, “Is there any more tiswin?”

Those rites adopting the newcomers into the People were conducted the next day. While the sun yet trembled on the edge of the encircling hills, Arrhyna came for Flysse, Rannach for Arcole, and Morrhyn for Davyd, and they were led in silence to the center of the Meeting Ground, where all the Matawaye and the visiting Grannach waited. The previous night's feast fire was built up again, and the three were led three times around the flames. Then each in turn, their sponsors asked their wishes, and they answered as they had been tutored: “I would be one with the People in the eyes of the Maker.” Then each sponsor walked the circle, asking did any present object, and when there came only a great shout of agreement, returned to the waiting adoptee and intoned formally: “The People accept you as one with them.”

Then Morrhyn and Kahteney shook rattles over the heads of the new Matawaye, and gave them each the feather of an eagle, and spoke the ritual words: “Praise the Maker, and may He welcome these folk amongst us. May they become as one with us and be named as us—Matawaye.”

The three lowered their heads as the sun came up over the peaks and struck full into the bowl. It illumined the grass and the lodges, light streaming radiant over the camp as if in blessing, and then all the akamans and both wakanishas cried out, and all the People came from where they waited to gather round in a great milling throng that threatened to overwhelm them with good wishes and hearty backslaps, and invitations to feast—though those were scarce necessary, for already meat was roasting on the fire and the chill dawn air
filled with the succulent odor of venison and buffalo. Colun and Marjia came laughing, he with a flask and she with cups, and toasts were drunk and the celebratory feasting began.

It was chaotic. For all they'd lived long amongst the People, they were now truly Matawaye and therefore welcomed anew. Arcole had no sooner settled beside Flysse, a buffalo rib dripping fat over his hand, than he was beckoned away by Dohnse, who'd offer him tiswin while Flysse was carried off by laughing women, and Kahteney came shyly, but nonetheless beaming, to invite Davyd to share quail's eggs. The day, it seemed, was to be spent in celebration.

“Your naming shall come later,” Morrhyn told Davyd when the young man found his way back to the central fire. “Tomorrow, perhaps; or the next day.”

“And the dreaming?” Davyd asked, wiping grease from his chin. “You and I and Kahteney?”

Morrhyn hesitated.

Davyd belched—the Maker knew, but he'd eaten more than enough—and could not help a slight frown as he recognized a curious reluctance in the wakanisha. “That first, no?” he asked. “Surely it must be so—I tell you, Morrhyn, I dreamed that I was wakanisha and warrior, both; but you say that cannot be.” Now he hesitated, troubled by his own thoughts and the clouding of Morrhyn's pale blue eyes. “So—were my dreams true, how can you name me?”

Morrhyn had sooner this not come up: he elected to put his faith in the Maker and trust in those answers, but Davyd forced him to commitment. “I do not know,” he said honestly.

“Then best put off my naming,” Davyd said. “At least, until you've dreamed.”

Morrhyn nodded slowly. There was such wisdom in this young man as must surely make him a great wakanisha; and the Maker knew but Morrhyn
would
name him his successor, confident that could only be for the good of all the People. But it was as Davyd said, and that Morrhyn could not understand at all.

“Perhaps best,” he allowed, hearing his own reluctance. “Do you and I and Kahteney dream, and then we shall decide.”

Only sleep and I shall show you the way to all your dreams Forget what they said, for I shall make you strong enough that they cringe before your wrath and eat their laughter like bitter ashes

Taza curled on his furs, comforted by the promises. The Maker knew, but they'd laughed at him when he made his rightful claim to naming, and that—for all the voice's assurance—had hurt. They'd laugh at him? Not at Davyd, but at him; and soon look to see him tried before the Council. He had scant doubt of the outcome: all faces were turned from him, smiling toward the upstart Davyd.