Exile's Challenge (6 page)

Rannach said, “I abide by your decision.”

“And I,” Yazte echoed.

Kanseah nodded, murmuring a soft affirmative.

“Then it is decided,” Morrhyn said. “Tomorrow we depart the hills and bring them to the People.”

“That settled,” Colun said, “have you any more tiswin?”

Flysse smiled as Arcole groaned, and passed him the waterskin. He muttered, “Thank you,” and spilled a flow of tepid water down his throat.

“Perhaps the stream would refresh you,” she suggested.

He began to nod, but thought better of it. His head throbbed, and the warmth the tiswin had delivered seemed curdled into a sour pool that weighted his belly and filled his mouth with the taste of ashes. He licked his lips and glanced around the confines of the tent. The entry flap was thrown back and morning sunlight shone in painful lances against his eyes: he groaned again. Davyd lay snoring beneath a blanket; Flysse looked to have already visited the stream. Her face was bright with excitement, and wet tendrils of golden hair curled on her slender neck.

“It's strong,” he said thickly, “that tiswin.”

“Taken to excess,” she answered with censorious solicitude, “I suppose it would be.”

Arcole scowled, then saw the mischievous smile she wore and found its match. “You mock me, woman.”

“I?” Flysse folded demure hands to her breast. “Would I mock you, husband? Why, I was just about to bring you breakfast, thinking you'd likely be hungry. A portion of cold venison from last night's dinner; there are still some cuts left—fine, greasy cuts, all larded with fat. Perhaps some marrow.”

“God, no!” The notion was unpleasant enough Arcole forgot not to shake his head and winced at the pain. “Food is the last thing I want.”

“What do you want, then?”

“Sympathy,” he replied, mournfully.

“Bathe first,” she said, laughing now. “And when you're clean I'll give you sympathy.”

“Flysse, you are a stern wife.” This time he remembered not to move his head. “And I love you for it.”

“And I, it would seem, love a drunkard.”

“Not me.” He took her hands, his voice earnest. “You've my promise I shall take this brew only in moderation from now on.”

“And I'll take your word,” she said. “Now, do you take Davyd and go bathe?”

He sighed and crawled to where Davyd lay.

The lad opened his eyes and smiled hugely. “God, but I feared I'd dreamed it all.” He sat up, throwing off his blanket, gesturing about the tent. “Isn't this wonderful?”

“Yes,” Arcole said, envying the recuperative powers of youth. Perhaps he grew old. Surely Davyd had drunk as much as he, but appeared to feel no ill effects. No, he told himself as Davyd rose, I was wounded and lay healing whilst Davyd drank Colun's tiswin and got used to it. Surely that's the reason: it must be. But even so, I'll drink wary from now on.

“Shall we bathe?” he asked.

Davyd nodded eagerly. “Where's Morrhyn?”

“I don't know: I just woke up.” He beckoned Davyd to follow him. “Come.”

They quit the tent for a morning all filled with sunlight and birdsong. A warm wind blew down from the encircling hills, scenting the air with the smell of pine sap and fresh grass, and all across the valley bright yellow flowers waved heavy petals in the breeze. Contrary to Flysse's threatened promise, the carcass of the deer was gone, and only embers smoldered in the stone-circled fire pit. Colun and his Grannach sat there, drinking tea and spooning up some kind of porridge. Arcole smiled faint thanks and waved more enthusiastic negation as Colun raised a bowl, pantomiming the act of eating. Morrhyn and the one called Kahteney sat in earnest discussion outside the horse-head-painted tent, nodding as they went by, and farther along the three akamans were working on the horses with combs of carved bone.

Davyd hailed them all like old friends, and was answered
in like fashion. Arcole nodded politely, not moving his hurting head too much, and followed Davyd to the water.

They found a place where alders overhung the stream with a green panoply, the twisted trunks hiding them from view, and stripped. Davyd entered the water with a merry cry, Arcole more cautiously. The stream was chill even under the heat of the summer sun, and he gasped as he plunged beneath the surface. Then it was only invigorating; he dunked his head and felt the cold water wash away the aftereffects of the tiswin, and when he emerged he was able to offer Davyd a genuine smile.

“Do the—how do you say it?—Matawaye all live like this?” He scrubbed himself with sand. “In tents, out in the open?”

“I don't know.”

“I thought …” Arcole shook his head, pleased that it no longer hurt.

“Thought what?” Davyd asked, clambering onto the bank and rolling in the grass like some young animal.

“I don't really know.” Arcole followed him. “That Morrhyn had told you all about them.”

“No.” Davyd sat up, his face serious now. “I know that we shall be safe with them, but how they live …” He shrugged again.

“Yet you speak with them,” Arcole said.

“Somewhat, but not really so much.” Davyd tilted his head to empty water from his ears, brow creasing as he sought to express himself. “It's as if Morrhyn taught me in dreams, but the words—the sounds—are different when they're real. It's like …” He pursed his lips, eyes narrowing. “Listen, there was a fellow I knew in Bantar, a pickpocket called Short Thom. He had a dog called Sam, who did all kinds of tricks on Short Thom's word.” He chuckled at the memory. “Short Thom would set Sam to dancing, or somersaulting, and while folk watched, Thom would lift their purses. He claimed Sam understood everything he said. God, but he talked to that dog more than he did people! But I think Sam just learnt what the sounds asked him to do, and didn't really understand. It's somewhat like that with me. Do you understand?”

“I think so.” Arcole nodded. Then: “What happened to them?”

“To who?” Davyd asked.

Once Arcole would have corrected his grammar. It seemed pointless now and so he only said, “Short Thom and his dog called Sam.”

Davyd's smile faded. His eyes went a cloudy green. “The Militia arrested Thom,” he said bitterly. “Sam went to his defense and a Militiaman stuck him with a bayonet. Thom was sent to the prison barges.”

They all had such memories, Arcole thought, and perhaps Davyd more than he or Flysse. Evander was a dark and gloomy country, the Autarchy a cruel parliament; he wondered vaguely what hierarchy governed this new land. He set a hand firm on Davyd's shoulder.

“All that's behind us now. We're free and amongst friends, no?”

“Yes.” Davyd nodded, brightening again. “And I'm hungry. Do we see what's for breakfast?”

Arcole hesitated, then felt his stomach answer. Best eat hearty, he thought, suspecting a long ride lay ahead of them, and that it would be no easy journey. Then: God, have Flysse or Davyd sat a horse before? He nodded, and they dressed and made their way back to the camp.

Flysse was settled by the fire, surrounded by Colun and his Grannach and the five Matawaye. She was pointing at things—a kettle, the tripod that held it, the bowls—and her hosts were naming the items while she dutifully repeated the words.

She laughed as Arcole and Davyd approached, holding up a dish of beaten metal and saying something that sounded to Arcole like a cough. He saw Morrhyn touch her shoulder and correct her pronunciation, then nod his approval as Flysse repeated the word. It now sounded to Arcole like the sound of a dog's bark, and he wondered if he could ever learn this odd language.

He smiled as the Dreamer gestured, the hand signs easy of
interpretation, found a place at Flysse's side, and took the offered bowl.

The porridge was thick and restorative, salted and laced with wild honey. He washed it down with tea, and after he had eaten two bowls, proclaimed himself filled.

Rannach spoke then, and when he was done, Davyd announced that he thought the akaman said it was time to leave. This Arcole found easy to understand, for the Matawaye and the Grannach all rose briskly and set to cleaning the eating implements, then kicked out the fire and set to striking the leather tents. Arcole was impressed by their efficiency: the tents were down and bundled in moments, packed onto the spare horses, and the others readied. Morrhyn gestured at the exiles' gear and spoke to Davyd, pointing at the packhorses. Davyd said, “I think he'd stow our stuff with theirs.”

Arcole studied the horses they must ride. The animals were smaller than those of his homeland, lean and muscular, with a look of speed and agility. They had no stirrups, he saw, and only thin saddles of lightly padded leather, each animal guided by a single rein that was woven into a simple halter around the muzzle. He could ride; indeed, he had been considered a fine horseman, but he wondered how he would manage with so basic a harness. And he doubted Flysse and Davyd could manage at all.

He nodded his agreement and watched as packs and muskets were lashed amongst the tents. The Matawaye, he noticed, stowed their quivers and shields on fastenings behind the crude saddles, thinking that he must learn to carry his musket thus—or learn to use a bow from off a horse's back, which he thought must surely be very difficult.

Then Colun and his folk were clustering around, bidding them what Arcole guessed were farewells. He clutched the Grannach's hand and offered thanks for all his help and hospitality. The words of both went knowledgeless, but the meaning was understood: a bond existed that had no need of words.

Then Arcole gasped as Rannach drove his lance into the ground and vaulted astride a bay stallion. Then again as plump Yazte did the same, and Kanseah, like limber gymnasts.
Morrhyn and Kahteney mounted less dramatically, but still athletic, simply taking hold of saddle and mane and springing astride.

Arcole said, “I think this shall not be easy.”

Flysse said, “Why not?” And went to the roan horse Rannach held for her, and leapt onto the saddle.

Arcole gaped. The Grannach and the Matawaye laughed at his expression.

“I was born on a farm,” Flysse said; somewhat smugly, he thought. “I learnt to ride horses long ago, with no saddles on them.”

He nodded and looked to Davyd, who was staring at the buckskin Morrhyn held for him with an expression that reminded Arcole of his looks before the sea serpent came to attack the
Pride of the Lord
.

“I've never been on a horse before,” he said.

“It's not so hard,” Arcole returned.

“It's big.” Davyd's voice was wary as his look. “I'll fall off.”

“We all do,” Arcole said. “I did, at first.”

Davyd's expression suggested that he doubted this, and Arcole saw that he was torn between embarrassment and disinclination. He felt sorry for the youth, remembering his own first equestrian ventures. The pony had seemed gigantic, the ground too far below him. And that little animal, he reminded himself, had been equipped with proper saddle, stirrups, and full harness. Then Flysse heeled her animal closer and smiled fondly at Davyd.

“It's really not so difficult.”

Davyd refused to meet her eyes, his cheeks growing red. “How do I get on?”

“Mount,” Arcole said unthinking. Then frowned—how, indeed, without Davyd be subjected to further embarrassment? He said, “I'll help you. Look, take the rein and the mane …” He set Davyd's hands in place and cupped his own, stooping. “Now put your foot here.”

Davyd obeyed and Arcole took his weight, seeing him settled astride the buckskin.

“Hold with your knees.”

The horse turned and Davyd swayed precariously, crying
out as he lost his seat and fell to the ground. His shout was followed by a stream of curses that fouled the morning air.

Flysse said, “Davyd!” Then, “Are you hurt?”

“No.” He clambered upright, rubbing at his shoulder. His face was flushed and sullen. Arcole was grateful neither the Matawaye or the Grannach laughed. “Do we try again?” he asked.

Davyd hesitated, scowling, then nodded and came warily around the buckskin. Morrhyn brought his own horse alongside, Kahteney on the other flank, so that the buckskin stood quiet and the two wakanishas were positioned to support Davyd. Or catch him, Arcole thought as he lifted the youth back onto the saddle. This time Davyd kept his seat.

Arcole turned to his own animal. It was a rangy-looking gray that swung its head to study him as Kanseah passed him the rein. He stroked the animal's muzzle, murmuring softly as he braced himself to mount. I can do this, he told himself. I must, for I'll not be helped into the saddle like a child. Even so, he was less than confident. He took the rein and the mane as he'd shown Davyd and launched himself up. The gray snorted and skittered as he landed, and he clamped his thighs tight on its ribs, aware of the Matawaye watching, and Flysse. He gritted his teeth, determined to retain his dignity, and was thankful he stayed astride. Managing the horse, however, was another problem: the simple saddle was surprisingly comfortable, but he found the absence of stirrups disturbing, and could not at first decide how the single rein could guide the animal.

Then Kanseah touched his arm, smiling shyly, and showed him how the single length of rawhide might be drawn to the left to turn the horse in that direction, and how its laying against the neck turned it the other. Heels came into it, but such nuances he would leave for later—for now he was satisfied just to remain seated.

“You see,” he heard Flysse call, “it's not so difficult.”

The gray had begun to curvet and he was concentrated too much on holding his seat to answer, so he only offered what he hoped was a nonchalant smile until the beast calmed, accepting his weight and unfamiliar smell. He looked to where Davyd sat, still flanked by the Dreamers, and wondered how
far they would travel this day, and how the youth would feel at journey's end. Pained, he guessed, and likely he not much better: it had been a long time since he'd sat a horse.