Exile's Challenge (21 page)

“But still he dreams. Can he become a warrior and also dream?”

Morrhyn answered with a slight shaking of his head. “The dreaming talent shows early, in the young. Save the gifted eat the pahé then, the talent dies as they grow older. Is Taza not given the root soon, his ability will wane.” He saw Davyd about to object and raised a hand to order silence. “Kahteney and I have discussed this at length, and with the akamans, and we are agreed that Taza is not fit to become a wakanisha.”

Davyd nodded slowly. “He says I cannot be a wakanisha,” he murmured, “because I was not born of the People.”

Morrhyn smiled humorlessly. “I say you can,” he said. “Whose word do you take?”

“Yours.” Davyd answered without hesitation. “But even so …”

“At this Matakwa you will be adopted Matawaye.” Morrhyn's smile grew warmer. “You and Arcole and Flysse. Then you must make your decision.”

“To be a warrior,” Davyd said slowly, “or a wakanisha.”

Morrhyn nodded, studying his face. Your will be done, he thought, but, Maker, grant he takes the right path.

“Taza would be very angry,” Davyd said, “if I became a Dreamer.”

Morrhyn said, “I do not think Taza's opinion is important.”

Davyd shrugged. “I'd not anger any of the People.”

Morrhyn laughed, clapping his hands. “Already you think like a wakanisha. But listen, Taza is but one voice. There are many others would support your choice—no matter what it be.”

“You'd make me wakanisha, no?” Davyd said.

Again, Morrhyn nodded. “But mine is only one voice, too. The decision is yours.”

Davyd looked past the older man to the totem-ringed cairn
that marked the gateway's site, the holy place from which the People had come to Ket-Ta-Thanne.

Then he said, obviously choosing his words with great care, “From the first time I saw Arcole fight, on the ship that brought us to Salvation, I wanted to be like him—I wanted to be a warrior. I saw him with Flysse and I wanted a woman of my own. I …” He paused, embarrassment flushing his cheeks. “I wanted Flysse.” He chuckled softly, laughing at himself. “I know better now. I know she belongs with Arcole, but even so … to never know a woman?”

Carefully, Morrhyn said, “The Ahsa-tye-Patiko does not forbid a wakanisha a wife. Some choose not to wed—as if all the clan, all the People, become our bride—but it has been done.”

Davyd nodded. “But I could never wear the braids.”

“That,” Morrhyn said, “no.” He wondered if it was sorrow or confusion he saw on Davyd's face, and felt a pang of guilt that he forced the youth to such decision.

“This is not an easy thing you ask of me,” Davyd said.

Morrhyn answered, “No.”

“Why?” Davyd asked. “Why me?”

“Because,” Morrhyn said, “you have the talent, and I believe you would be a fine Dreamer.”

“And if I'd be a warrior?”

“Then you would be a warrior,” Morrhyn told him. “The choice is yours. I am sorry, but I cannot make it easy for you.”

“No.” Davyd's lips curved in a faint smile and he coughed a short laugh. “I suppose I knew, really—that you'd ask me this. Must I decide now?”

Morrhyn shook his head. “It is something you should ponder.”

“Then I think,” Davyd said, “that I should like to go away on my own, and seek the answer of the Maker.”

“That,” Morrhyn said approvingly, “is a very wise decision.”

Flysse sat with Arrhyna and Lhyn, working a buffalo hide smooth. It was comforting, even now, to engage in such
homely tasks—to go freely about her own affairs without fear of reprimand, and better still to live safe, not forever on the alert for danger. It was good to wear skirts again; indeed, she enjoyed the feel of the doeskin Arrhyna had gifted her, and found the soft leather boots of the Matawaye more comfortable than buckled shoes. The People lived to the rhythm of the seasons, and that reminded her in many ways of her childhood in Cudham. Save, she thought with amusement and only the very least pang of nostalgia, her parents would frown on her living in a lodge constructed of poles and animal hides, furs for a bed, and most of her cooking done outside, over an open fire. Yet she felt entirely at home, and no longing at all for squared walls and tiled roofs, wooden floors and cooking stoves.

She worked the scraper firmly over the skin as the two Commacht women had taught her, and glanced at the child playing busily with the wooden spinning top Rannach had carved him. Dressed in jacket and breeches of soft rabbit fur, he resembled a small bear.

Debo was a sturdy child, whose customary expression was a broad smile, and was his conception a matter of some doubt, it was never mentioned. He favored his mother in looks, save for the thatch of reddish brown hair and the angle of his nose, which belonged to neither his mother nor Rannach, but they both doted on him, and Flysse considered that a sign of their virtue, the innate goodness of the Matawaye. She had heard the story soon enough—how Chakthi's son, Vachyr, had kidnapped Rannach's new bride and raped her before dying on Rannach's lance point—and was it not surely confirmed, still it seemed that little Debo was Vachyr's child. Which mattered not at all to Rannach, or any of the Commacht. Flysse thought that a marvelous thing that set the People quite apart from her own kind. In Bantar the offspring of such an assault would have been aborted with the approval of the Autarchy, or did the mother seek to keep the baby, then it was her husband's right to divorce her or give the child up for indenture. The Matawaye, Flysse thought as she smiled at chubby Debo, were far kinder.

Arrhyna saw the direction of her glance and made a cooing sound that brought Debo trotting to her, holding up his toy
as if for her inspection. Arrhyna planted a kiss atop his head and he abruptly sat down, chortling with delight. Flysse caught the mother's eye and Arrhyna offered her a smile happy as her son's. Flysse wondered when she and Arcole might have a child.

“What thoughts, eh?” Lhyn asked knowingly.

“I was …” Flysse blushed, then laughed. She had no secrets from these two. “I was thinking of babies.”

“The thing to do,” Lhyn advised with mock solemnity, “is to keep trying.”

“Yes.” Arrhyna giggled. “Rannach and I try very hard.”

“Arcole is a powerful man, no?” Lhyn affected a questioning expression.

“He is.” Flysse was by now accustomed to their teasing: the People were far more open than her own kind, and felt no embarrassment at discussion of such intimate matters. “And we do.”

Lhyn nodded sagely. “Perhaps we should ask Morrhyn prepare you a potion.”

“I think not,” Flysse replied, smiling. “We shall have a baby, or not. It shall be as the Maker wills.”

“Spoken like a true Commacht,” Lhyn declared. “Which you shall be soon enough.”

“The Matakwa?” Flysse raised inquiring brows.

Lhyn nodded, but it was Arrhyna who answered: “Rannach says it shall be held this year, when the New Grass Moon is full.”

Flysse made a swift calculation. She had yet to properly master the People's calendar, which was based not on the arbitrary titling of months but their naming in accordance with their nature, with the climate they delivered. It was now the Moon of the Turning Year, when the last vestiges of winter gave way to the promise of better weather, and as best she could work out, the New Grass Moon would reach its fullness in about six weeks. She asked, “Where shall it be held?”

“Close on the mountains,” Arrhyna told her, “that the Grannach have not so far to travel.”

“They've not horses,” Lhyn explained. Then laughed, slapping her forehead. “But I forget—you know as much of
their ways as I, no? Surely you've spent more time with them.”

“Yes,” Flysse said. “It shall be good to see Colun and Marjia again.”

“And be an easy journey,” said Arrhyna, pride in her voice, “thanks to my husband.”

“How so?” Flysse asked.

Arrhyna smiled. “When we sojourned in the high valley we saw the Grannach drawing a thing they called a cart,” she said. “It rested on pieces of round wood that rolled over the ground smoother than a travois. Rannach remembered that, and showed the People how to make carts. We shall use them when we go to the Matakwa.”

“My son is clever,” Lhyn murmured.

They seemed so delighted with Rannach's borrowed invention that Flysse forbore to mention that wheeled carts were entirely usual in Evander. Most Evanderans, she knew, would consider the Matawaye primitive, uncivilized, but they were not—they simply lived a different life. Indeed, in many ways they were more civilized than her kind, surely far closer to the world they inhabited, living with nature rather than seeking to impose their will on immutable forces. Nor, she thought, absently stroking her shoulder where the brand sat, did they claim ownership of other human beings, or burn Dreamers at the stake. And so she smiled with Arrhyna and Lhyn and said, “And at Matakwa I shall become truly one of the People?”

“All of you,” Lhyn confirmed.

“Arcole shall get his braids and be named a warrior,” Arrhyna said. Then quickly added, “He is now, of course. But at Matakwa it shall be declared before all the People.”

“And Davyd?” Flysse asked.

She saw the two Commacht women exchange a glance then, Arrhyna opening her mouth to speak but deferring to Lhyn. The older woman said, “Davyd must choose his path. He's the Maker's gift.”

Flysse said, “The dreaming?”

Lhyn nodded. “Yes; and so he must decide which path he'd take.”

Flysse thought of the enthusiasm she'd seen on Davyd's face as he faced Arcole at swordpoint, and the pride he took
in his bowmanship, his delight when he finally mastered his buckskin horse; then she thought of the time he spent with Morrhyn, his pleasure in those lessons. He had sought to emulate Arcole for so long, and now, in Morrhyn, had found another figure with whom to identify—and it was as if he stood divided.

The object of her thoughts appeared then, his young face set solemn, his smile of greeting somewhat strained. He squatted, opening his arms to Debo, who ran smiling toward him. He picked up the child and held him high, Debo laughing all the while as Davyd studied his round face as if seeking answers there.

He set Debo down and said, “I must go away.”

“Why?” Flysse was suddenly afraid.

“I've a decision to make, and I need to be alone.”

Almost, Flysse reached out to take his hand—was tempted to urge he stay, to tell him she knew of the imminent branching of his life, the crossroads he faced. But Davyd was no longer a boy and she knew he must make his own decisions, so she only nodded and said, “As you will.” And then could not resist adding, “But be careful, eh?”

Davyd chuckled and said, “What harm can come me?” Then: “Where's Arcole?”

“With Rannach,” Flysse told him, “hunting. Shall you await their return?”

“No, I'd go now.” Davyd shook his head, his eyes a moment regretful. “This is not a thing that can wait.” Then he shrugged. “No matter; tell Arcole, eh?”

“I will,” Flysse promised. “When shall you return?”

He said, “I don't know. It depends on the Maker,” and rose to his feet.

Flysse watched him go, thinking that a heavy burden was placed on his young shoulders. She hoped he had the strength to bear the weight.

Davyd went to his lodge and gathered up those things he'd need; not much, for he intended to construct a shelter and set snares rather than drag the lodge behind his horse or carry
food. He would need, anyway, to fast. He saddled the buckskin, packed his gear, and readied to mount.

“Where do you go, brother?”

Tekah appeared; like a self-appointed guardian, Davyd thought fondly, ever vigilant of my welfare.

He said, “I must go away awhile, Tekah; alone. There are things I must ask of the Maker.”

Tekah frowned. Since that first day when Rannach had reprimanded him, he had elected himself Davyd's mentor in lay matters. “Shall I not come with you?” he asked. “Partway, at least?”

“No.” Davyd smiled to soften the refusal, springing astride the buckskin. “This is something I must do alone. Trust me, eh?”

Tekah nodded, still frowning. Davyd laughed from the saddle and repeated what he'd said to Flysse: “What harm can come me?”

Tekah shrugged, his face still doubtful, but offered no objection as Davyd heeled the buckskin round and set the horse to walking through the great camp.

Neither he nor Tekah saw the figure that had watched them from the shadow of a nearby lodge, nor did any mark it as unusual when Taza saddled his horse and rode away.

Taza had no particular plan in mind save to follow Davyd and see where his rival went, and why. The stranger had been with Morrhyn before he quit the camp, and from his expression Taza guessed he had matters to ponder. He thought he likely knew what. Word was out that Matakwa would be held this year, the strangers adopted officially into the People, and it was plain to see that Morrhyn would name Davyd his pupil. Against all precedent, the wakanisha had given the newcomer the pahé root, and spent the winter cloistered with him, instructing him in the Ahsa-tye-Patiko and the ways of dreaming.

The notion enraged him: it was unfair!
He
owned the talent—both Morrhyn and Kahteney knew it—but still Kahteney refused to name him, and Morrhyn supported the Lakanti Dreamer. Taza could not understand why. He had approached Kahteney when first he began to dream, and the wakanisha had agreed to consider him as catechumen, but then—in Taza's opinion—reneged on the agreement. He had gone to the wakanisha time and time again, pleading with him, even begging, demanding, but still Kahteney refused. Yet Taza owned the ability. He knew he could become a true Dreamer if only he received the training—the training he saw Davyd get daily. He ground his teeth in rage, feeling his face grow hot as he thought of the injustice. Why should this upstart newcomer—one not even born of the People!—be given that prize Taza coveted? Morrhyn fed him pahé like mother's milk to a baby, and that could only strengthen his talent while Taza's must wither and wane without the sacred root. Davyd, he thought, would grow ever stronger, and he steadily weaker, until the passing years leached out his ability
and left him dreamless, his gift wasted. He would become no more than another warrior, ordinary. Or less, for his crippled leg denied him some measure of mobility. He could not run with the other young men, nor climb very well, nor walk without his twisted foot dragging.