Teo's eyes misted over, and he lost the sense of what he was reading.
Gods. He blinked; blinked again, but the old and fading words on the yellowed parchment page kept running together into illegibility. Teo rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand to clear them, but they wouldn't stop blurring. He glanced over to the corner of the scarred desk, at the time-candle he'd brought with him into the Library. He shook his head in mild surprise. Half burned-down already? It only seemed an hour ago that he'd started his search.
Is it really midnight? He sneezed and rubbed at his nose as another sneeze threatened; his eyes felt gritty and sore. He looked around, certain that the candle must have burned too fast, but he was alone; nothing but battered, empty desks and full, dusty bookshelves. His fellow Archivists and their novices had slipped away while he was deep in researches. I guess it must be. I guess I got pretty involved.
He closed his eyes for a moment; felt contented, rather than exalted, by his discoveries. But then, that was what being an Archivist was all about, anyway. Not the Seeker's sudden thrill of seeing something new arise out of your investigations, but rather the slow process of putting all the bits together until at last you could stand back and see the whole.
The whole—Hladyr bless, I have put together a whole indeed this time!
He opened his eyes again and contemplated the neat pile of papers before him with profound satisfaction. Each page was covered with notes in his own careful hand. He had put together a picture of the horse-nomads and their ways that had waited unnoticed in the Archives for a century—and that only Felaras had guessed (or hoped) existed. More than enough to inspire a soul-filling contentment.
An aged but still musical contralto interrupted his reverie.
"When I told you to burn midnight oil on this one, Teo, I didn't mean you to take me quite so literally."
He blinked, and came back to himself; not with a start, but slowly, carefully, as he did everything. He turned around to face the door, wondering what could have brought the Master of the Order down at this hour. Unless . . . unless things had gotten worse since this afternoon.
Master Felaras leaned against the frame of the open Library door, the only spot of color in the room full of dark wooden bookcases and leather-bound books. Her scarlet wool tunic and darker red breeches made her look like a flame in the light from the time-candle and the carefully shielded oil lamp beside the door.
No outward sign identified her as the Master of the Order. Not her age, nor her iron-grey hair—there were others in the Order who looked (or were) older. Not the sword at her side, nor her clothing; Masters wore what they pleased. Some Masters of the Order had gone robed in precious silks, and some in rags.
She certainly didn't look or act nobly born; if an air of pedigree was a prerequisite for the Master's seat, Halun, (silver-haired, blue-eyed, holding himself with all the pride of his Ancas ancestors) would have had it long ago.
Maybe it was the aura of calm authority. Maybe it was the feeling she seemed to project that she would, somehow, get things done.
Whatever it was, it was obvious that she was the Master even without the tiny badge on the shoulder of her tunic, of Sword, Flame, and Book—the badge that only the Master wore.
"Dreaming awake, lad?" Her generous mouth quirked in a smile. "Hadn't you better be doing that in bed?"
He gave himself a mental shake, and returned the smile. "I'm sorry, Master, I was woolgathering."
"I hope you were gathering more than that." She sniffed, and rubbed the side of her nose with her knuckle. "I hope you gathered me some answers. I need them; we've had bad news. The nomads are at the Teeth."
"I have what you wanted, I think," he said cautiously. "I found a whole set of Chronicles taken from some silk merchants who came through the Teeth about a hundred years ago."
"Isn't that a bit old to do us any good?" she asked doubtfully, pushing away from the door frame and walking over to lean on his desk instead.
He shook his head as she planted both palms on the desk top and looked over his shoulder. "No, not really. Things don't change much for the horse-nomads. Not that much to change, really. They would probably be much the same today as they were when the Sabirn Empire collapsed . . . except for one thing."
He launched into a fairly concise summary of what he'd gleaned, pausing now and again to check his notes. Felaras followed his speech with narrowed eyes, nodding now and again when something he said seemed to touch on something in her own mind.
His throat was dry and his voice cracking a bit as he built up to the really choice bit of his gleanings. " . . . so this wandering healer, whoever he was, and the merchants seemed to think he was one of us, made one really important change in their outlook. Almost in their religion. By the time the merchants came through, he'd risen in the legends of the Clans to something like a saint or a demigod."
"Which means what? That a scholar gets nearly the same treatment as a shaman?"
"Oh, better," Teo hastened to tell her, not concealing his glee, the glow of discovery making him forget his aching shoulders and burning eyes for a moment. "A man that's a scholar or a healer is sacrosanct. It's assumed that the Wind Gods have him under something like divine protection. If you molest him, you bring the gods' anger down on your whole Clan; if you shelter him, you bring their blessing. A scholar can move about among the Clans pretty much at will, and virtually unmolested. All he has to fear is outlaws."
"What if this bunch is—"
"No," he interrupted, "these aren't outlaws; they have their horsetail banner with them, so they're a real Clan."
"Gods bless." She gripped the edge of the table and closed her eyes, leaning all her weight on her hands; and suddenly Teo saw not her strength, but her bone-deep weariness.
It frightened him. They depended on her.
"Master Felaras?" he said, reaching out to touch the wool of her sleeve with tentative fingers. She sighed; and he saw not the Master, but an old, tired woman. One with terrible weariness behind what was no more than a facade of strength. "Master?" he faltered again in dismay.
She opened her eyes quickly, and the strength was back; real, and not an illusion. It was surely the weakness that was the illusion—
She was looking at him measuringly, and he wondered why.
"Teo," she said, slowly, "Would you . . . ?"
When she didn't finish the question, he prompted her. "Would I what? Anything you need, Master Felaras. Just tell me what to look for."
"Never mind." She favored him with another of her half-grins; back to being the Master Felaras who was as predictable and dependable as the stone of the Fortress. "Get on to bed, there's a lad. I'm calling a Full Convocation in the morning, and I want you to have a clear head for it; as one of my three pets, you'll be in for a lot of questioning, after, from your own chapter. I want you in shape to answer clearly and remember who asked what for me." When he hesitated, she jerked her head impatiently in the direction of the door. "Off with you! I'll secure the Library."
He nodded obediently, gathered up his paper and his pens, and handed her his notes on his way out the door.
But as he left the Library he thought he could feel that penetrating stare on his back—as if she was looking for something in him. It seemed that her eyes followed him all the way back to the door of the Archivists' Quarters.
The boy slept uneasily beneath his blankets of felt and horsehide, his face pale and haggard in the light from the clay-lined fire-basket, his dark hair matted with sweat. From time to time he moaned in his sleep, as the pain of his wounds and of the injury to his head passed the drugged wine he'd been given; it bit at him and made him toss his head on the hard, flat leather pillow. He shivered too; and that was a bad sign, for the round felt tent was as warm as a sunshine-gilded spring day, so that meant that the last of the mould-powder had done him no good. Yuchai was undoubtedly in the first stages of infection, and the Healer-woman Shenshu might not be able to grow what he needed quickly enough to do him any good.
Shaman Northwind (he'd borne the name for so long that even he had difficulty recalling the time when he'd been Taichin, or sometimes Taichin Wanderer) sighed and began unpacking his medicine rattles and sacred incense from their basket. The scent of precious sandalwood rose from the packing; nothing less would call the Wind Lords' attention to their need. He'd helped clean and bind the boy's injuries; he'd well-wished him with all the strength and skill at his command. When all else failed, there was always prayer.
At least the storm has stopped, he thought. But everything else . . . it's as though the entire world was ill-wishing us. And now Yuchai—lightning spooking his horse, sending both of them into that pit-trap—it was an omen. Wind Lords, have you deserted us too?
Someone coughed politely outside the tent-flap; Northwind identified the cough without thinking. "My tent is always open to you, Khene Jegrai," he called softly.
The felt tent-flap was pushed aside by a strong, slender brown hand; the rest of Jegrai followed his hand in short order, and was, like the hand, strong and slender. The Khene of Running Horse Clan cast a worried look at the wounded boy, then seated himself cross-legged on the layered carpets of the tent-floor with a grace that was almost boneless.
There was something about the young man that commanded attention, demanded loyalty. Northwind sometimes thought of him as a pure flame in a fine porcelain lamp such as the Suno made and used; his spirit seemed to shine through his flesh. That spirit was powerful enough to make one forget Jegrai's patched and faded clothing, garb that was more suited to a beggar than a Khene and the son of Khenes.
"How is the boy?" That voice, as flexible and obedient to Jegrai's will as his horse, held only concern now. For once—with no one about to see him—Jegrai was not being Khene. Jegrai was being young Yuchai's adored—and anxious—cousin.
The Shaman shrugged eloquently, rippling the fringes decorating his suede leather garments. "He lives. Whether he will prosper I cannot tell you, but it is now in the hands of the Wind Lords. Both I and Shenshu have done all we can."
"The Wind Lords do not hear us," came the bitter reply.
Twenty years ago Northwind would have rebuked Jegrai for blasphemy. Ten years ago he would have delivered a lecture on the folly of man attempting to judge the will of the gods. That was in the days when Running Horse held their territory in relative peace. Before the Suno Lords chose to conquer the Clans from within, by setting Clan against Clan, turning what had been friendly contests of honor into blood-feud and death. Before Khene Sen of the Talchai turned upon them. Before their flight into this strange land where the earth rose to block the sight of the open sky. Now he only sighed.
"I do not know that either, Jegrai. It certainly seems that nothing we have done has prospered."
"Except our running," the young Khene spat. "That we do well enough, it seems."
Northwind looked up, and his eyes locked with Jegrai's hard, black ones. There was no doubting the power, the will behind the Khene's eyes. The tent seemed too warm of a sudden, and the Shaman was the first to drop his gaze.
"I do not know what to tell you," the Shaman said, after silence thick enough to choke upon filled the tent. "I truly do not. You know what I know; that the omens have told me that the Winds say our fate lies in the West. And truly, these people of the West cannot seem to stand before us."
"That is at least in part because we move so quickly that we outpace the rumors of our coming." Jegrai's tone was still bitter, and he played with the end of his sash, plaiting and unplaiting the faded fringe. "We are down to half the strength we had when we fled the Talchai, Shaman. At this rate . . . Tell me, should I stop this senseless, cowardly fleeing? Should I give myself over to the hands of our enemies? Will that save my people further suffering?"
To his people, the Khene was as strong, as cold, as a living blade—as fierce as a wind-driven fire. He was none of these things now; the mask was gone before his teacher and oldest companion. Northwind could not meet that burning, agonized gaze, but for that question he did have an answer.
"It was," he said slowly and carefully, "the Talchai who broke faith when your father died. It was the Talchai who allied themselves with those Suno dogs and began gathering or destroying the Outer Clans. More specifically, it was Khene Sen, who would make himself Khekhene over all the Clans. And he did so because you dared to speak the truth of him in Khaltan, the Great Council. Would you have us bind ourselves over to one who licks the spittle of dogs so that he may bear the Banner of Nine Horsetails, so that sons of dogs will call him Khekhene?" His voice strengthened. "You kept honor; Sen has destroyed his."
"What good is honor," Jegrai cried, his voice tight with anguish. "What worth is honor when it is bought with the lives of Vredai children? When the First Law of the Wind Lords is 'Cherish the children, for they are the lifeblood of the Clan' and what I have done has spilled that blood as surely as the swords of the Talchai?"
He says "Vredai children," but he means Yuchai, the Shaman thought. Then he rebuked himself. Nay, that is less than the truth. I have never seen any but a healer or shaman take the First Law so to heart as Jegrai. Yuchai is the first youngster to be so badly hurt since the raid that near destroyed us—and Jegrai knows full well that it was because Yuchai was striving to emulate him. Jegrai would feel the same guilt over any other child suffering what Yuchai has.
Yet another thought occurred. And the boy lived in his shadow. He is the son Jegrai longs to have. . . .
"What worth is freedom?" he replied softly. "I tell you, it is everything. And if we bought safety at the expense of our freedom, then the Wind Lords would turn their backs upon us."
"But—" Jegrai began.
The Shaman cut him off ruthlessly. "And what if you turned back and faced the wrath of Khene Sen alone? What good would that do Running Horse?"
"You would live—"
"We would die," Northwind said fiercely. "Vredai would be no more, her banner trampled, her women and children distributed to Sen's hangers-on, her men sold in the slave markets of Kalandu. You know this, Jegrai. There is not enough grazing for all the Clans since the drought, and that has continued for three years; that is what allowed the Suno to twist fear into the quarrels that began this. That is why when we fled, we fled west, where no one goes. Because there is water and grass in the West, and because Khene Sen will destroy us if he takes us."
Jegrai bowed his head, and his shoulders sagged. "And that too is my fault. If I had not stolen the Talchai shrine—if I had not thrown it into the path of those who pursued us so that their horses trampled it into the dust before they knew what had happened—"
"You called your 'council.' You asked me; you asked all of us before you did it," Northwind reminded him. "And all—myself, Ghekhen Vaichen, your mother Aravay, and Shenshu—we all agreed. Khene Sen had already trampled his Clan's honor into the dust; it were well to remind his people of that. For them to trample and destroy their own shrine was a terrible omen, and we hoped it would shake them deeply. And besides that—"
"We had thought there was no way to escape him; we thought we were doomed," Jegrai finished for him, dully.
Northwind did not like this lifelessness that had come upon his Khene. Even Jegrai's fire could not burn forever, and it seemed he was coming to the end of his will. Northwind put force behind his words in an attempt to shake him from this sickly mood. "Think, Jegrai! We all thought—you and your advisors—it was the only chance we had to distract them from the chase long enough to have a hope of eluding them. The Wind Lords favored us, Jegrai. They favored us then; and I—I somehow have the feeling that I am reading the omens aright. There is something they wish for us here. . . ." Shaman Northwind sighed. "And we have not done much to find it."
Jegrai shook his head. "Now that I shall take the blame for. A winter's march, a spring campaign—we have not done much but trample the land-folk beneath the hooves of our horses. And the crops."
Northwind felt the pain any of the Vredai felt at the abuse of good land. It was not through will that Running Horse Clan wandered—it was through lack of good grazing lands. Any of them would as lief gone back to the settled, pastured life of their ancestors, before the Suno drove them into the steppes.
"This land is leaderless, and I cannot see how these folks have lived all this time without a leader to rule them. It is a good land, ill-used," Jegrai continued, "but we are hurting it further—I can hear it groaning, Shaman. It is spring, and there should be, there must be, planting. But we, we are keeping the land-folk from that planting. We rob them, when we should be trading with them. Now they will starve, and then there will be nothing and we will starve—"
"But we are starving now," Northwind said with reluctance. "What choice have we but to live off them? And the Talchai may be yet on our track."
"I think . . . I need a council, Shaman." Jegrai finally seemed to have regained some of his resolve. "Tell the others; speak to the warriors, the scouts, then come to me at midmorning. We need, perhaps, to change direction. Perhaps the time has come to stop running."
"I shall," Northwind replied soberly, heartened again. "And I shall speak with the Wind Lords this night. If there be anything I may do to gain their aid . . ."
"So long as you gain Yuchai's healing—and an end to the deaths of my people—that is all that matters to me, Shaman." Jegrai rose, his head brushing the roof of the tent. "The rest must be, as you have told me, done or undone by our own actions. Tell the Wind Lords that when you speak to them."
"I shall," Northwind replied soberly, as Jegrai slipped back out into the cold, damp night. "Believe me, I shall."
Felaras surveyed the Convocation with what she hoped looked like calm authority. Every person in the Fortress truly a member of the Order was here, in the Great Hall. Once this had been some huge assembly room, perhaps an armory or training-room, or a dining hall, but Master Duran had caused it to be altered so that it matched his memories of the great lecture rooms in the colleges of Targheiden. It was useful to have one place within the walls where all members of the Order could gather at one time. Tier after tier of wooden benches built like three huge staircases, one on each of the three blank walls, rose to the ceiling, so that the room had taken on the look of a lopsided bowl, or half a bowl, with the lectern at the bottom of it.
It was a perishing cold bowl, though. No fireplace, and mostly stone. Her nose was cold, and her fingers, and she hoped her nose wouldn't start dripping. That would surely put paid to the little dignity she could muster.
The room buzzed with the sound of those assembled muttering to one another. The room was nearly full, and the folk on the benches hardly looked to be members of the same organization. There was no "uniform" for the Order, not even an approximately uniform way of dress.
That was the legacy of Duran; their diversity. They came to the Order from every class, every race, every nation. Half of those here in the Fortress had been born here—but there were plenty, like Felaras herself, who had come from far away, hot on the scent of learning. Some had come seeking a legend of magic; some, like Halun, had come on the advice of their teachers. All shared the same dream: to learn, to teach, to preserve old knowledge and seek new.
That was the only commonality within the Order. And the varied dress of the members reflected this.
Those of the Watchers tended to wear breeches and tunic regardless of sex, but the cut, color, and style of those garments ranged from the dark cotton gabardine garments typical of the island kingdom of Bergem that Kasha wore, to the heavy, brightly dyed, fur-trimmed wool of Albirn that she herself favored. The Archivists tended to robes, with deep pockets and wide sleeves that could also serve as pockets, but that did not even hold true throughout the chapter. And the Seekers wore anything and everything; Flame tended to knee-robes and breeches and Hand to short tunics and breeches—but there sat Halun in a rich blue robe more suited to an Archivist, and beside him was Zorsha in a dark-grey tunic that could have come from Kasha's wardrobe. And the minds and souls about her were as varied as the clothing their bodies wore. Felaras wondered how in the name of all the gods she was ever going to get this motley crew to agree on anything.
She had never enjoyed lecturing, nor holding these Convocations. She always felt like a Seeker's prize specimen of new insect under all those eyes. She'd held Full Convocations perhaps four times in her twenty-seven years as Master. This would be the fifth—and the most important.
She cleared her throat, and the dull hum of voices ceased. Silence fell over them all, a silence that seemed fragile, and prone to shatter at a breath.
"You've probably heard the rumors," she said, deciding that blunt directness would serve her better than anything else now. Tell them the bad news, get the shock over with, and then get those fine minds moving; that's what I need to do. "I called you all here to tell the exact truth. There's a Clan of horse-nomads out of the East that's been pounding through Azgun since fall. Nobody's managed to hold them, or even make an effective stand against them. Now they're here; just on the other side of the Teeth. I've been warning the Yazkirn Princes and the Court of Ancas that they're coming; I wasn't believed, and I see no reason why they should suddenly send an army to rescue us. They won't lift a finger to help us; they will move only if they see a threat to themselves. As you should well know. So we're alone in this."
Near two hundred pairs of eyes were on her; brown, grey, blue—some shocked, some frightened, some thoughtful—and some, still, full of an arrogant contempt for the danger on their doorstep.
"There are, at minimum, nearly a thousand fighters. That's a guess, but probably a low one—I'd reckon more, and you all know what my chapter was. And that's assuming their women don't fight, or their youngsters, which may be a stupid thing to assume. The Vale folk are running for shelter; I sent them to the caves—"
"I thought the caves were supposed to be our shelter!" shouted an angry voice from the back.
"Would you rather they came here for refuge?" she replied sharply. "There's at least room for them in the caves! Tell me where in Hladyr's name we'd put them if they came here, why don't you?"
The tense silence fell again. This time the silence held a strong note of fear. They were beginning to see the danger. And take it to heart.
"All right, now you know the worst of it. There's no doubt in my mind that we can keep them off the Pass. The question I have is if we can—or should—try to do anything, and in that I include trying to outwait them. We've got supplies enough for about two months, but no way of getting more except from Yazkirn, and that means trading. And you all know the only coin we have to trade with."
She paused, but it seemed that there was no one else ready to make any protests yet.
"I want you all to think about this problem; we've a couple hundred of the finest minds in the world here. I want to hear if any of you have any answers or questions. We all know that sometimes it's the questions that make the answers. I'm including you novices in this—sometimes what seems to be a stupid question or answer turns out not to be so stupid after all. When you leave this room you'll be given duties to cover so that we can get the Fortress ready to withstand a siege. But while your hands are busy, I want your minds busy too. Whatever you come up with, put it in writing. Leave it in my study. Sign it or not, I don't care. I want your thoughts, men and women of the Order. I can't make a decision that will determine the fate of the Order without knowing those thoughts."
Once again she raked the room with her eyes.
There was very little fear there now. Some dismay, but very little fear. And a great many faces that had gone quiet and inward-focused. She began to hope.
"All right, then; see your chapter Leaders about your duties—and remember what I told you." She made a dismissing motion. "You may go."
"So." Jegrai settled himself on a thin pad of stuffed felt beside the cold fire-pot in his tent, and surveyed the faces of his four councilors. Light came through the white felt; it was shadowy within, but not at all dark. Beyond the felt walls he could hear the sounds of the camp; children playing, folk talking, normal and sane sounds that had not been heard among the Vredai tents in far too long. He hoped that what they decided here might bring those sounds back again.
He had trusted the wisdom of these four since he first took the reins of Running Horse at fifteen. Then, they had ruled him. . . .
Now he ruled them, and the change had come about so gradually that no one of them could put a finger on a particular moment and say, "That was when things changed." But the change was there. And he had thanked the Wind Lords that they had been great enough of soul to accept that change.
On his right, Shaman Northwind; a man so old he had outlived Jegrai's grandfather. He looked as fragile as one of those pampered little birds the Suno Emperor kept in gold cages. In some ways he was as frail as he seemed, but not in any fashion that had any significance to his duties. His eyes were oddly gentle, and full of good humor even at the worst of times; his face was as wrinkled as a dried berry. His silver hair, worn loose and as long as his waist, marked his calling, for no warrior would have grown such a convenient handle for an enemy to seize. His moustache and neat little beard were as silver as his hair, but not nearly so long. Today he was wearing his fringed ceremonial robes and his -buffalo-skull helmet, which indicated to Jegrai that he, too, felt this council might well decide the fate of Running Horse Khenat.
To Jegrai's left sat his mother, Aravay, as she had sat at the left hand of his father. She was like an antique carving of fine ivory; nothing could be read upon her face, which was a serene, feminized version of her son's. After all these years, Jegrai thought in sudden wonder, after all she has been through, suffered through, she is still beautiful.
But she was more than beautiful; she was clever and cunning and wise. She heard everything that any woman of the Clan said; knew within a day what any of them did. She knew entanglements of kinship and honor-debt going back generations; remembered things Jegrai would have long since forgotten. She had advised his father, and he had had the sense to listen to her. Some had scoffed at Jegrai for keeping her on his council, but Jegrai had no intention of ever letting her go. The man who put away the gifts that Aravay had to offer simply because she was his mother was a fool who did not deserve to be called "Khene."
To the Shaman's right sat Shenshu, the chief of the Healer-women. Where Aravay was an ivory carving, Shenshu was a round little earthenware statuette; everyone's favorite aunt, the person who heard everything troubling anyone. Nor would she reveal those secrets—not directly, at least. But Jegrai could depend on her to tell him—indirectly, if need be—what he needed to know.
To Aravay's left was Vaichen, the warlord of Khenat Vredai. Dark as old leather, aged, wrinkled and weathered, and bald as a stone—but he sat straight and tall, and met his Khene's level gaze with perfect fearlessness. Injured in a fall that killed his horse this past winter, his right leg stiff and without feeling. There were those who said he had outlived his usefulness, for what good was a warlord who could not lead the charge? To which Jegrai would immediately reply, "What use is a warlord who does not know his brain from his buttocks?" So long as Ghekhen Vaichen could use that brain and speak his mind, Jegrai would see that the horsetail banner remained in front of his tent. . . .
"So," he said, looking from one to another of his advisors. "We are met. I would hear what the people will not tell their Khene."
Shenshu cleared her throat and began, with an apologetic side glance at the Shaman. "They are frightened, Jegrai. They say that the Wind Lords have either abandoned us, forgotten us, or can no longer hear us in this land where the earth blocks the sight of the sky. But they are also afraid of the Talchai." She ran a string of wooden beads through her fingers, as if the feel of the carved wood in her hands soothed her; they clicked softly in the pauses between her words. "They say we must not stop; that we must keep running. They think that the Wind Lords will not be able to hear the Talchai either, in this place, and that . . . you have seen, perhaps, the consequences when a rabbit is chased by a dog through camp? The rabbit, running swiftly, may overturn waterskins, may frighten the horses—but he surprises the encampment and they do nothing to him. But the dog, following after—ai, the women chase with sticks, the men with whips, children throw stones, and every hand is against him. So they think it may be with us, as the rabbit, and the Talchai, as the dog. We scatter these land-folk before us, but when the Talchai come they shall be aroused and they shall have regathered their wits. We must let nothing stop us but the Great Western Ocean. So say the frightened."
Jegrai nodded; in some ways that turn of thought had a great deal of merit. Surely it was true that they had, so far, met little resistance. But there was no guarantee that this fortunate state of affairs would continue. He did not know what lay beyond the mountains. At this point, none of them knew. If it was another organized empire such as the Suno ruled, they would be crushed.
He reached beside him for the skin of khmass, and poured each of his councilors a full wooden cup of the powerful fermented milk. He had no fear that any of them would lose his or her head to it, and he wanted them to know he truly wished to hear everything, however distasteful. And indeed, there was a slight relaxation of posture in everyone around the circle at this gesture of hospitality.
"So, the frightened would continue to flee, and hope we may still outpace the rumors of our coming." He sipped his pungent khmass and nodded thoughtfully. "There is merit in such a thought—but we have not yet met a people who can stand against us. And when we do, we may find ourselves trapped between the grass fire and the raging torrent."
He rolled the cup between his palms, the wood silken and warm under his fingers, and waited to hear what this observation would elicit.
"That is the more likely as we force deeper into the West," rumbled Vaichen. "The warriors have a liking for this valley beyond the Pass, what they have seen of it. They say it is a good place for defense. They are saying that we should take it, and make our stand here. Then, when the Talchai come, we should die in honor and glory, making them pay, and pay, and pay."
"And you, Ghekhen?" Jegrai looked at his warlords hands, clenched around his wooden cup.
"To survive and prosper is a better revenge," the old man said reluctantly. "To take this valley—if we can—would be no bad thing. It is defensible—and is like the old tales of the home the Suno stole from us. But I cannot counsel making a stand; I would not care to have our banner in Khene Sen's tent, no matter how many lives it had cost him."
"Can we take this valley?" Aravay spoke softly. "I do not know that we can. You know that my care is the scouts. The young scouts have brought tales to me, of wizards on the western pass. They say that it is only because they are vowed not to meddle in the lives of lesser men that we have not been struck down before this. They say that the storm of last night that sent Yuchai's horse shying into the pit-trap is a warning not to go further. They say that the wizards of the mountain can call upon the lightning—"
"Any man can call upon the lightning," Northwind said skeptically. "The question is, will it answer him?"
"They say that the lightning has answered the wizards, and out of a cloudless sky and bright day," Aravay replied. "They captured those who had seen it with their own eyes."
"Men will say anything," interrupted Vaichen.
"But these were not men, they were children. And they had seen this less than a year ago."
Jegrai clenched his jaw, angry at the thought that his orders regarding youngsters had been disobeyed. "Children? We took children? How? What became of these children?" Jegrai asked sternly. "We are burdened enough with Vredai children, but—I gave orders that there was to be no slaughter of women and young things. Vredai has honor. We fight only those who will fight us—and we make no warfare on the helpless."
"The scouts surprised and scattered a party of fleeing land-folk in the pass itself," his mother answered serenely. "And two children were left behind. As you ordered, the scouts took counsel of me. Upon my advice, Obodei, who has some of their tongue, took them blindfolded through the valley pass and released them." Aravay smiled a little. "But only after telling them to tell their parents that we numbered in the tens of thousands and ate babies, and that they were fortunate that Obodei was not hungry at that moment."
The Shaman grinned, Shenshu snickered, and Vaichen shouted his laughter. Even Jegrai had to chuckle.
"Old schemer, well did your husband name you Fox-woman!" Vaichen snorted. "I think perhaps I should take the horsetail banner and have it placed before your tent!"
Aravay inclined her head to him, her eyes twinkling.
"These wizards," Jegrai prompted. "Did the children have anything else to say of them?"
"That they are very strange; more scholar and healer than wizard. They sound something like to Holy Vedani. That they keep mostly to themselves, but have been known to take a very clever child into their ranks should the child wish to become a wizard. That they have lived upon the mountaintop for time out of mind, and trade wondrous devices for food and the like, but have otherwise little to do with the folk of the valley."
Jegrai whistled between his teeth, softly. "So," he said, after turning all this over in his mind, "we have one choice: to make a stand. And another: to continue to flee. I think perhaps we have a third. We might seek allies and settle here, so that if the Talchai follow, they find us in the position of strength."
"Allies from among the wizards?" the Shaman asked, one eyebrow rising high. From his expression, Jegrai judged that he was surprised, but cautiously approved. "What of the land-folk, then?"
"I do not know; I do not think it matters for now. Eventually we must win them if we are to remain, but first we must win the wizards. It would be best to come at the wizards with at least the appearance of strength, hm? It would make an alliance to their advantage, I think."
"Aye," Vaichen said, slowly. "What say you to this: let us harry these land-folk, but gently. If they flee, pursue only so as to let them know we do pursue, but allow them to escape. Raid only to take what we need, no wanton wastage, no despoiling, no burning. Most of all, take this end of the valley and hold it, so that we have a secure camp to work from."
"Good." Jegrai nodded, and felt a rising hope. This might well work. "The warriors are weary enough to accept this, I think. Listen out there—I think the Vredai are equally tired of running and warfare. I think they would welcome the chance to rest. All of you—pass the word that we do not harry the wizards; we will tell the people that they are dangerous, and probably quick to anger—"
"And like to Holy Vedani," his mother interrupted. "That will hold them when naught else will. The Wind Lords would surely curse a man who caused harm to such a wizard. Fear of the Wind Lords will stay their hands where fear of magic would not."
"Very good." He put his cup down on the carpet and leaned forward. "This is what we do not want the wizards to learn; that we are fleeing the Talchai, that we are not here to conquer, but in retreat. If they rally their folk and cause them to come upon us from behind, we surely will be caught between fire and torrent. If the Talchai do not come upon us this summer, they surely will the next."
All four of his advisors nodded at that, faces sober. "Is there anything else?" Shenshu asked.
"I need to learn more of these wizards," he replied, chewing his lip. "Much, much more."
Though Jegrai had his own tent, he had neither wife nor sister to tend it for him. Though Aravay had her own tent, which had been his father's, she found time to tend to his. The arrangement worked well, for she could bring him the scouting reports—if they were less than urgent—with his dinner.
So she had tonight. The light from the lantern hanging from the centerpole cast a gentle glow that made her seem as ageless as a Wind Lord. She handed him the covered bowl of thin stew she had brought from her fire, and knelt beside him while he ate.
"The wizards are of a surety aiding land-folk over the pass," Aravay said softly. "So all the scouts say."
Jegrai flexed his aching shoulders and leaned back against the tentpole. He had ridden out with a raiding party, but what they had brought back with them was firewood; a singularly awkward prey to carry. "These land-folk either will or will not return; it is of no consequence. If we do settle here, our own folk will make up for those who flee. How do the folk care for this new camp?"
"They do not like the mountain at our back, but the pasturage and good water make up for it," his mother replied. "My son, you are worried. Have you learned something which troubles you?"
"Aye," he brooded for a moment, then concluded that Aravay might as well know the worst. "We can go no further. It is as I feared. Beyond the western pass lies a land that is well ruled, and strong. It is called Yazkirn, and governed by princes. They have ignored our presence because they care not overmuch for these lands; they are hard to reach and tax, and besides, contain the wizards. But—should we force our way over the pass, it would be up with us. They would come to the defense of their land, and crush us. If they even think we have become a threat, they will come to us, and I think we would have no chance."
The fire in the fire-pot flared, and Aravay's eyes showed her alarm, though nothing else did. "How came you to learn this?" she asked, cautiously.
"That merchant we let pass. I questioned him myself; promised him no despoiling in return for truth." Jegrai sighed. "I have some skill at reading men, I think. He told truth. We are in the cooking pot. . . ."
"Unless we can gain the favor of the wizards."
"Aye." He bit his lip, and told her what he would tell no other living soul. "They frighten me, Mother—and they fascinate me. They can call the lightning, for every prisoner we have taken has tales of it, tales so unlikely I think they can only be true. They have used it—imagine this, Mother—to gain metals, and to level great rock outcroppings, and to change the lay of the land about their fortress! And if they can call lightning to do that for them, it should be the work of a single thought to use it to start a fire in the grasslands where we cannot escape it."
Only once in Jegrai's memory had the Vredai been caught in a grass fire. They had lost a third of the herds, and many lives, and there were men and women among those left who still bore the ugly keloid scars from it. It had been in the first year of the drought, and the memory still gave him nightmares when storms passed overhead.
"The stories I hear say they are very wise," his mother replied thoughtfully, her hands busy with plaiting a new riding quirt. "And that they do nothing without good reason. And that they are no friends to the kings over the mountains."
Jegrai sat straight up. "That is something I had not heard!" he exclaimed.
His mother looked up and smiled at him. "The kings over the mountains drove them here, or so it is said," she told him serenely. "And wizard or no, I have never yet seen the man who does not thirst for revenge."
"So-ho. A reason to ally to us. Their magic—and our -warriors . . ." Jegrai fell silent, considering the possibilities.
"You have ever been a Khene who respects good advice when you can get it, my son," his mother said demurely, breaking the long silence.
He roused from his thoughts and gave her a half smile. "If there are strange gods to have the blessing of, and wizards to come upon my side—it would be folly to foul my chances, no?"
"And you have never been foolish, not even as a child." Her eyes darkened with affection; then a sadness passed across her face. "The Shaman wished me to tell you that there is no change with Yuchai."
Jegrai cursed under his breath, and his food lost its savor. He started to push his bowl away, then recalled how little they had, and finished it grimly.
"My son—I speak as a mother." Aravay put her hand over his, and her eyes were soft with concern. "I cannot see how Yuchai's hurt is your doing, nor does his mother blame you for it."
"You cannot—but I can," he replied harshly. "The boy follows after me with his heart in his hand. He strives to copy all I do. He wishes so much to have my approval that he would do anything to get it. There was no need for him to have joined the scouts. He was barely within the age. I could have told him he must wait a year. But I was a scout at fourteen summers, so therefore he must do likewise—I should have forbade it. He is not the rider nor the fighter that I was at twelve, much less having the skill I had at fourteen. But I could not find it in my heart to tell him no. And this is the result of my ill-judgment. Bones broken, and flesh torn by the stakes in that pit, and a blow to the head from which he may never awake—and it is only by the grace of the Wind Lords that those people have honor enough not to poison the stakes. It is only by their grace that he is not dead already."
"Jegrai—" Aravay said, after a moment of brooding silence. "I wonder—the Holy One was a healer—and if the wizards are of his kind, could it be that they could help young Yuchai?"
He started, for the thought had not occurred to him. "It may be—it just may be. All the more reason to ally with them. And may the Wind Lords grant it be not too late!"