Exile's Challenge (10 page)

“What if he'll not accept the duty?”

“Then he refuses.” Morrhyn shrugged. “The Maker shall decide, no? He'll tell us when we dream.”

Kahteney had known Morrhyn most of his life, since that Matakwa when the Dreamers had named their chosen successors, and they both younger than Davyd. They were old friends; but Morrhyn had always been the stronger Dreamer, and now … now he was a Dreamer such as the People had never known. Kahteney wondered if he would welcome such communion with the Maker as Morrhyn had, or if that duty should destroy him. Sometimes he wondered if Morrhyn lived still entirely within this world, or set his feet in both the Dirt World and the Spirit World, like the Grass Dreamer who showed First Man and First Woman the bridge between the spheres. Surely he was changed by his sojourn on the holy mountain—and Kahteney would not argue overmuch with his decisions: he was, after all, the Prophet. And would he give Davyd the pahé root and name the stranger his successor, then so be it.

So Kahteney grunted agreement and held his tongue tight-reined against his doubt and looked toward the valley where all the lodges of the People spread out in glorious array, and set his mind to thoughts of coming home again.

And when they came down the long, wide slope of the valley's ingress, Rannach took a bugle of buffalo horn from his saddle and blew a clarion call that had horsemen thundering to greet them. The women picking berries set down their baskets and ran across the grass, and dogs barked, and all the camp gathered, wondering at what—or who—the Prophet brought to them.

It was an alarming sight, to see so many horsemen come charging toward them, all racing their animals as if to battle, whooping and shouting. None bore weapons, and their cries rang with glee rather than menace, but still Arcole glanced back instinctively to the packhorses, thinking of the muskets stowed there. The gray began to prance and he fought the
horse calm, almost losing his seat. Beside him, Flysse turned her roan, looking from him to the approaching riders to the beaming Matawaye around them. She seemed less alarmed than excited, and he told himself no harm was intended, but only a welcome.

Davyd felt no doubts: Morrhyn's smile told him this was only greeting. But even so, the buckskin snorted and set to plunging, and for all he clamped his thighs hard on the horse's ribs and locked his right hand in the mane, and tugged on the single rein with left, still he felt himself bucked off.

He shouted as he fell; cursed volubly as he hit the ground. And then, even as he lay winded and embarrassed, there were unshod hooves all around him, and tan faces looking down, smiling, some—to his chagrin—laughing. He cursed some more, ignoring Flysse's admonition, and clambered to his feet, irritably dusting his shirt, rubbing at his shoulder, which ached abominably from the sudden contact with the ground. It seemed to him a most ignominious meeting, and he could not help scowling at the surrounding Matawaye as one took up the rein of his horse and leaned with careless, casual grace from his saddle to pass it to him. He took it with sullenly grunted thanks and wondered if he might retrieve his lost dignity by vaulting into the saddle.

He thought not—more likely he'd fall again and they laugh again—and so stood red-faced, holding the buckskin still, and wondered how he would get back up. God!

“Ach, but these strangers you bring us are not very good on a horse, Rannach.”

“No, but they have other powers.” Rannach looked at the speaker with disapproving eyes: it was not meet to laugh at guests. “There's much they can teach us. Much we need learn from them.”

“But not horsemanship, eh?”

“He's a Dreamer. Morrhyn says he's a great Dreamer.” Rannach hid his smile as Tekah's faded. Mention of the Prophet's name was a mighty tool: it stilled so many arguments.
He glanced sidelong at the wakanisha, wondering if he abused their friendship. But Morrhyn sat his paint horse with solemn mien, only looking gravely at the welcoming riders, so he went on: “Do you help him up? His name is Davyd.”

Tekah nodded and slid limber from off his horse. He went to where Davyd stood and said, “I am sorry, Davyd. Please forgive my rudeness. I welcome you to our lodges. Shall I help you mount?”

When Davyd only frowned, he said to Rannach, “He doesn't understand me.”

“How should he?” Rannach asked. “Do you understand
him
?”

“Then what do I do?”

Tekah stared around, confused. The laughter shifted from Davyd to him. Rannach said, “He's not used to our horses, so offer him your hands to climb on, like a step.”

Tekah frowned. “He's not a woman with child.”

Rannach said, “No,” sternly.

From the corner of his eye he saw Arcole readying to dismount; guessed he was about to help Davyd, and motioned that he not. He wondered if the stranger would understand the importance of this small ritual. That a man fall from a placid horse was indignity enough: was Davyd to be respected by the People, some precedent of importance must be established, even did Tekah resent it. Save Davyd be accorded respect, all Morrhyn's hopes should likely be dashed down abruptly as Davyd's tumble.

Morrhyn looked on in silence, clearly pleased with Rannach's response. No less than Yazte's as the Lakanti reached out to touch Arcole's wrist and indicate he remain in the saddle.

Then was delighted as Kanseah swung to the ground and cupped his hands and said, “Shall I help you up, Davyd?”

Rannach said, “You see? The akaman of the Naiche helps our guests.”

“And I,” Tekah said; hurriedly, moving to offer his hands alongside Kanseah's, so that Davyd was sprung back astride the buckskin horse so swift he almost tumbled off the farther side.

Tekah clutched the mane, that the horse not buck or
prance and disgrace Davyd further. He said, “Forgive me,” ducking his head slightly. “I intended no insult.”

Not properly understanding all that had gone on, but guessing the man apologized, Davyd smiled and said, “Yes.”

Tekah nodded, and looked to Rannach. “Don't these people have horses?”

“I don't know,” Rannach answered. “The man and the woman can ride, so I suppose they must. But I don't think Davyd had sat a horse before we put him up.”

“Strange.” Tekah shook his head in puzzlement. “People who don't ride?”

Looking down from his own mount Rannach said, “The Grannach don't ride.”

“No,” Tekah agreed. Then grinned. “But the Maker never saw fit to make horses their size, whilst these strangers”—he indicated the newcomers with a sideways turning of his eyes—“seem in most ways much like us.”

“In many ways I think they are,” Rannach answered. “And in others, not at all.”

He glanced at Morrhyn, thinking this was a thing better explained by the wakanisha; but Morrhyn sat his horse silent, only smiling calmly. Rannach quelled a frown, wondering if Morrhyn tested him in some fashion. It seemed often that way: that when a word, an explanation that would ease a situation, might readily come from Morrhyn and be accepted by all, he left it to Rannach to explain. It was as if he guided his akaman just so far, and then left Rannach to his own devices; and it was not always easy. Rannach had inherited the mantle of his slain father—was now, here in Ket-Ta-Thanne, become all unassuming the paramount chieftain, as if he took the places of both Racharran and old, dead Juh—and he knew himself young and inexperienced in the ways of leadership. He supposed Morrhyn forced that duty on him for want of other candidate, and was still unsure he welcomed it. Yazte, after all, was older than he, and—he thought—wiser. But even Yazte looked to him, likely because, he thought, Morrhyn was wakanisha of the Commacht—the Prophet—rather than because the Lakanti believed him a great leader. But there it was: They looked to him for the final word. And
Morrhyn sat his paint silent and benign as an owl perched waiting for the movement of a mouse.

So Rannach said, raising his voice so that all the outcome riders should hear, “But whatever they are, they are welcome among us. They are escaped—like us! And we are pledged to welcome them, no? So, do we bring them home as honored guests?”

The answer was a great shrill shout of agreement; a waving of hands and bows; a dancing of horses. And from the women on the hillside and the folk in the camp, an answering yelling that set birds to flocking in alarm from the timber, and the dogs in the valley below to barking, the horse herd along the valley to snorting and running—as if all this new world belled a welcome that was entirely unnerving in its enthusiasm.

“God, they howl like banshees.” Arcole fought his horse alongside Flysse's. Riders surged around them, whooping and circling, melded to their mounts.

“Yes,” Flysse answered over the din, “but are they not magnificent?”

Arcole looked at the ringing, milling horde and could only nod his agreement. He had seen the armies of the Levan face the forces of Evander. He had been an officer of cavalry, and seen the squadrons of Evander's horsemen attack; but not like this. These people—these Matawaye—seemed at one with their mounts, as if they grew on horseback. He envied them their control, and shouted over the thunder of the hooves, “Yes! They are!” And could not resist urging his gray horse to a gallop.

Flysse matched him, stride for stride, on her roan, the two of them racing down the slope of the valley's mouth with Rannach and Yazte and Kanseah anxious beside, fearful their refugee guests fall off and harm themselves as horsemen came like grounded thunder all around them, screaming encouragement. Arcole felt his heart beat faster and whooped in response as he and Flysse heeled their horses to greater effort, looking to outrun their escort. Which, of course, was pure ambition and quite impossible; but it seemed to earn them
respect—as if the Matawaye recognized kindred spirits—and they came swift and escorted into the camp.

Davyd saw his friends go charging off and wished he might match them. Almost, he tried, but sense prevailed and he came on slower, not daring more than a trot for fear he tumble again and again become the butt of laughter. Morrhyn and Kahteney rode to either side, and the one called Tekah hovered about, nervous. Davyd guessed some reprimand had been delivered the man—and thought, as Tekah watched him solicitously, that should he slip, then Tekah would likely come charging in to catch him. He wondered if the wakanishas would have joined in that mad gallop, were he not there, and what Rannach had said to Tekah.

But it seemed as if the man appointed himself guardian, for as they came down onto the flat and halted amongst the tents, it was Tekah sprang first to the ground and took the buckskin's bridle, holding the animal still as Davyd clambered awkwardly from off its back. He spoke—Davyd could not understand, but his tone was amiable—and Davyd smiled in answer, and then Morrhyn spoke and Tekah nodded dutifully and led the buckskin away; and then for a while all was confusion.

Folk milled around, staring, all speaking at once, with Morrhyn and Rannach and the others of the escort answering, so that the noonday was filled up with sound and Davyd felt his ears battered by the noise. Arcole and Flysse came to stand beside him, smiling and bewildered.

“What in God's name are they saying?”

Davyd shook his head in answer to Arcole's question. “I don't know. I think they welcome us.”

“Like a pack of baying hounds.” Arcole grinned and shaped an elegant bow as a man tapped the scar on his cheek. “Shall I ever understand them?”

Davyd began to say, “Yes,” but then a figure wormed through the throng and stared at him with such … He was not sure;
anger
was the word that came to mind, or even
hatred
. But how could a stranger hate him, what could he have done to anger someone he had never met? He smiled
tentatively and saw the other's lips thin furiously, the dark eyes smolder.

It was a youth of about, he estimated, his own age. They were of a height and similar build, save for the slight bowing of the other's legs. He was dressed in breeches and shirt, and his raven hair swung loose about his vexed face, backdrop to the anger there. He spoke, stabbing a dark finger at Davyd's chest and then at his own. The only words Davyd understood were “wakanisha,” his own name, and that of … it seemed his accusor: Taza.

Taza spat on the ground between Davyd's feet.

Kahteney and Morrhyn spoke together then, sharply, and Taza scowled and turned away, disappearing back into the crowd. Davyd noticed that he limped.

Arcole said, “I know not why, but you've an enemy there: best watch him.”

“How?” Davyd tried to find Taza through the crowd, through the shouting bustle of friendly greetings. “What have I done to make him an enemy?”

“Nothing that I know of.” Arcole shrugged. “But even so … Watch your back around him, eh? I've seen that look before, in the eyes of men who sought my death.”

Then he laughed as Davyd's face fell, and hung an arm around the young man's shoulders and said, “But I'm still alive, no? By God, we're all alive—against all odds—and come amongst friends.”

Of that, save for Taza, there was no possibility of doubt: they were crowded round with cheerful faces and before long found themselves seated by a fire on which meat roasted, flasks of tiswin passing round, and they the guests of honor.

They were introduced to Arrhyna—Rannach's wife, as they understood, and who was, Davyd thought, almost as beautiful as Flysse, with red hair like his own, save hers was darkly burnished copper and his bright as a new-picked carrot. She was sweet and gracious in her skirt and tunic of soft hide, with dark, doe eyes that swooped lovingly on her husband and were answered with glances no less adoring.

Davyd wondered if he should ever find such a union.

And then there was Lhyn, who sat between Morrhyn and Rannach, and was older, with silver in the gold of her hair
and lines on her smooth cheeks and about her eyes. For all her smiling generosity, she had an air of contained sadness, and also of pride—as if she had lost things or people but also won, and was not sure which were better. And Yazte came with his fat and beaming wife, Raize, who was plump and rounded as her husband and no less cheerful, and plied them and her husband with food and tiswin—like, Davyd thought, some busy Bantar tavern wife who'd see her customers eat and drink their fill. And also Kanseah, who seemed to have no wife, for he sat alone; and Morrhyn and Kahteney, who neither came with women. And a warrior called Dohnse, who also sat alone within the circle, and seemed shy as Kanseah.…