The Cry of the Marwing Read online

  Tierken cursed. ‘Then have Kalos saddled, and as soon as the Lady returns have her sent with escort to Kessom. Immediately, Tharin, whether it be this night or next dawn.’

  Tharin bowed and withdrew.

  ‘Kira would have to choose now to demonstrate her Tremen independence,’ muttered Tierken.

  Farid said nothing, still shaken by Tierken’s uncharacteristic behaviour at breakfast and wondering if it were some sort of residual aggression from fighting. Tierken had been tense when he’d first returned, but Farid had assumed that things had returned to normal. Perhaps they had, he thought soberly, not being able to recall a time when Kira and Tierken hadn’t clashed.

  ‘Will you take Arlen with you?’ he asked, guessing that if Kira’s ride were the result of that morning’s argument, she’d be in no hurry to return.

  ‘Only Kira’s skills can save Eris now,’ said Tierken, going to the door. ‘Send her immediately,’ he reiterated, and left.

  Farid spent the night wandering between his rooms and the Domain gate, but by the next dawn, neither Kira nor her Guard had returned. At noon, worried now, he ordered Tharin to send more Guard in search of them and returned to the Meeting Hall to complete his work, but found it impossible to settle. The absence of Kira and her Guard seemed increasingly sinister, and he wondered if he should send message to Tierken. But it would take a full day for a messenger to reach Kessom and Tierken was already distressed by Eris’s illness. In the end, Farid decided it would be better for Tierken to curse Kira for her childishness than to have him further upset by the news that she was missing, especially as Tierken could do nothing more than what Farid had already done.

  The day dragged on and by nightfall the Guard he’d sent in search of Kira and her escort hadn’t returned either. Farid began to wonder whether he’d made a fatal mistake in not sending a patrol immediately he’d known she was missing. If remnant Shargh lurked near the Rehan mouth, all the Guard could have been killed by now and Kira dead or carried far away.

  Another tense day crawled past and Farid was in the process of ordering a patrol, when he heard the approach of horses.

  ‘Thank Irid,’ he muttered as the Domain gate opened.

  It was Storsil and Farsrin, grimy and exhausted – and alone.

  ‘What’s happened?’ demanded Farid.

  ‘The Lady Kira galloped away from us and we’ve been searching for her since. We carried no food or water, so we’ve had to return.’

  ‘She galloped away from you in the Rehan Valley?’ asked Farid in puzzlement.

  ‘She went over the Sarsalin.’

  ‘Did she say anything before she went?’ Farid managed to ask.

  ‘She thanked us for our guarding of her during her stay in the north.’

  Farid sent them to get food – and ordered their discretion – but remained where he was. Clearly, Kira had broken with Tierken, but to reach the safety of Maraschin she would have to survive any roaming Shargh, wolves or fanchon, and the harshness of the plain. There were also more innocent – but lethal – mishaps that could befall a lone traveller. But he couldn’t send a patrol after her, for even if they found her, the only way they could bring her back now was as a prisoner. Word of it would be throughout the city in less than a day, making Tierken’s feailnership untenable. Northern Leaders had taken lovers in the past, but none had kept women captive.

  All Farid could do was send Marin with a discreet message to Maraschin to find out whether Kira had survived the trek. At least Tierken must know that.

  33

  In the darkness of Eris’s room, Tierken had lost all track of time. His grandmother had been awake when he’d arrived and when Thalli had given him her place at the bedside. He’d taken his grandmother’s hand, and had been trying to dredge up excuses for Kira’s absence, when Eris had spoken.

  It gladdens me that Kira has kept her pledge not to come to my dying. She understands that all things that live reach their ending, and that she must use her strength now for her own healing.

  And Tierken had still been struggling with this revelation when Eris had spoken again, little more than a whisper this time, as her strength failed.

  Are you helping her heal?

  The unnatural burn of his grandmother’s eyes reached past his antagonisms and arguments, his beliefs and justifications, into the very core of him.

  No, he heard himself say.

  Eris stared at him unblinkingly, and her words this time were scarcely more than an exhaled breath. What is it you want, Tierken?

  Then her eyes had closed and she’d not spoken again. The bed cover rose and fell sporadically, and there were long silences between the rattle of each breath, but Tierken remained at her side, head bowed, gripping her bony hand in his.

  As the long night uncurled, images of Eris tumbled through his mind like leaves in the wind: placing baby Laryia into his arms and telling him to keep her safe; holding him as he sobbed out his grief and rage at Merench’s funeral pyre; spitting in the direction of Sarnia as they’d ridden away; roasting nuts beside the Kristlin, the water as bright as a looking-glass under the night sky; raising her hand in farewell as he’d followed Poerin into the mountains.

  Tierken didn’t think he’d slept, but when he next became aware of his surroundings, the room was full of the pale light of dawn and Eris was still and cold. He smoothed the strands of grey hair back from her forehead and kissed her, but remained beside her. The light was ebbing again when Thalli returned, and led him out into the cooking place. He was cramped and shivering, and she put a cup of cotzee into his hands, then raked up the coals until the warmth flowed over him as tenderly as Eris’s love.

  Thalli said little, just hugged him and kissed him formally on each cheek, as did the Kessomis who came to see Eris, and to pay their respects to him, not as Feailner, but as Eris’s grandson. Though no one intruded on his thoughts through meaningless chatter, he wasn’t left alone. Thalli was replaced by Leos, then Jafiel, then Robrin, who finally led him by the arm to his sleeping-room and ordered him into bed. Tierken had obeyed, sleeping long and deeply, and waking to the knowing that things could never be the same.

  Thalli was in the cooking place when he came back, nursing her child, who he recalled was named Kira. The child must be almost eight moons old, Tierken realised, as he breakfasted with Thalli. She had a fuzz of fair curls and Tierken wondered what colour hair a child of his and Kira’s would have. Thalli was sandyhaired, and Leos fair also, but he and Kira were opposites, except for their eyes.

  Thalli was keen to know of Laryia’s journey south and of how her friend would be spending her time in the forests, but Tierken struggled to answer. He’d taken no interest in Tremen ways, apart from those that grated – such as bonding.

  Finally Thalli rose and settled her daughter onto her hip. ‘It’s a fine day,’ she said as she gathered her things. ‘Why don’t you take a walk up to the southern slopes? Kira found a dwinhir nest there she was keen for you to see, although the chicks would have flown by now. The Keshall have organised Eris’s farewell for the morrow.’

  Tierken thanked her and followed her out into the bright air, turning his feet up the path. While he was away, members of the Keshall would remove Eris’s body to where the pyre had been built. They would clean and set the room to rights, scattering the bed with leaves of morning-bright to gladden the hearts of those who grieved.

  Among the Kessomis, such tasks were not left to the blood-kin, as they were among the Kirs, Illians and Teraks. The Kessomis followed older ways, the community giving the final rites to those who had been a part of themselves. Tierken was glad of the custom on this occasion, for despite the brilliance of the snow against the sky, and the crispness of the air, he felt as hollow as a husk.

  Thalli had said that Kira had found a dwinhir nest in the southern slopes, but he’d never known dwinhir to nest that low. Even so, he searched the sky for them and, as the day wore on, listened for the higher calls of juvenile birds, finding the nest
at last, long abandoned.

  Its emptiness resonated, and he descended a little to a tumble of boulders and wearily settled on one. It gave a good view of Kessom, and he stared down at the scatter of houses. He had known Eris’s days were drawing to an end, but his present awful sense of lack wasn’t solely due to her death. He had truly loved just three women in his life – for he scarcely remembered his mother – and in one way or another, they were now all far from him. Eris was dead and Laryia deep in the southern forests. While Kira . . . He rubbed his jaw, forcing himself to recall their last encounter.

  He would have struck her if Farid hadn’t intervened, and the knowing appalled him. Apart from the repellent notion that he was capable of deliberately hurting her, it would have destroyed all that had ever been between them. If he were to prevent it from happening again, he had to understand how he’d let himself get to such a point. His grandmother never wasted words and now he considered her last ones.

  What is it you want?

  He wanted Kira, but that wasn’t what his grandmother had meant. Give her time, Eris had urged him on more than one occasion. But how much time must he give Kira, he wondered irritably. It had been nine moons since he had first brought her to Sarnia, time enough for her to become . . . Terak? It was an accusation she’d flung at him in one of their recent rows, and he’d shrugged it off. Now he considered it, forcing himself to relive their other arguments as well. Her clothing, her work in the Wastes, her wish to be free of her Guard, her risk-taking, her healing and taking of pain, her insistence on going to Maraschin before the fighting, her desire to renounce the leadership of the Tremen in person, and even her relationship with Caledon.

  Again and again, he stopped himself treading the same path he’d taken at the time, making himself take her part instead, considering her reactions in the light of what he knew of her and of Allogrenia. It was a long, unpleasant process, and by the time the air had begun to chill and he’d left his cold perch to return to Kessom, nothing was resolved, although his ignorance of Kira’s growing in Allogrenia was glaringly obvious. It had been a mistake to reject Caledon’s offer to pass on his knowing of Kira’s time in the south. Tierken had thought the past finished, but now he saw how potently it imprinted the present. He sifted through everything he knew of Kira’s past and it seemed to boil down to two things: Kira’s intense love for her younger brother, and her father’s lack of love for her. And neither knowing seemed to be of much use to him now.

  34

  Tarkenda ducked into the top sorcha, went to the table, drew a bowl of sherat and gulped it down.

  ‘Orsron’s dead,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ gasped Palansa, hoping she’d misheard.

  Tarkenda drew a second bowl. ‘Orsron, Sansula’s son. He sickened during the night, burned as if he lay in fire coals, and now he’s dead. Just like that,’ she said, clicking her fingers.

  Palansa brought a shaking hand to her mouth. ‘Poor Sansula,’ she choked, but her thoughts darted to three days before, when they’d sat together, playing with their sons in the reed beds.

  Palansa hurried to the sling and laid her hand on Ersalan’s forehead. He was no warmer than usual, but her heart continued its frantic beat.

  ‘Arkendrin’s gone, too,’ said Tarkenda.

  ‘What, he’s dead?’ asked Palansa, grappling with this next piece of astonishing news.

  ‘No – gone, left,’ said Tarkenda, lowering herself onto a stool. ‘He’s taken Irdodun and Irdodun’s lesser blood-ties and gone.’

  ‘But where? Why?’

  ‘For the gold-eyed creature,’ said Tarkenda. ‘What else but its death can restore the vision to his rotting eye? Cure his lameness? Grant him your son’s death, your body and the highest sorcha? What else but the creature’s destruction stands between him and all he so richly deserves?’

  Palansa settled opposite and searched Tarkenda’s face. ‘Have you seen this in your visions or dreams?’

  Tarkenda didn’t answer and Palansa caught her hand. ‘Have you?’

  ‘I’ve told you what I’ve seen,’ said Tarkenda, shrugging her off. ‘The creature will be here and there will be death. But seeing isn’t enough. We already have an abundance of death. Its death won’t stop ours.’

  ‘But the Telling suggests that our suffering will end,’ countered Palansa. ‘Deeds long past will hunt the Shargh and funeral smoke consume the stars until the thing that draws no breath, devours the dark that feeds on death,’ she quoted.

  ‘It would end if we were all dead,’ said Tarkenda. ‘You forget that the creature breathes. Whatever the “thing” is, it’s not the creature.’

  In the silence that followed, wailing sounded from the slope below.

  ‘It might not be Sansula’s blood-ties,’ said Tarkenda. ‘Warriors still die from the effects of the fighting or from the water in their lungs.’

  ‘Might they have brought this evil back with them?’ said Palansa fearfully. ‘This thing that’s killed Orsron? Perhaps the thing that “draws no breath” is some vile pestilence the Northerners have seeded. Perhaps they won’t even need to come here themselves to destroy us all!’

  Tarkenda took her by the shoulders. ‘Calm yourself,’ she ordered.

  ‘I’m frightened for Ersalan,’ whispered Palansa.

  ‘Sometimes babes die,’ said Tarkenda.

  Which was true, but it was unusual for them to die so quickly, and so unexpectedly, she thought. And Orsron had been a lusty little boy, not like some babes who were born sickly and succumbed to even the smallest ill. But voicing her fears wouldn’t help Palansa remain strong, and Palansa must be strong for what was to come.

  Instead she said, ‘Keep Ersalan within for the next few days, until we see how things unfold. Orsron may have taken a chill, or been born with some flaw that only the Sky Chiefs knew of. And with Arkendrin gone, there’s at least one less risk to Ersalan,’ she added.

  Palansa’s anxious expression didn’t ease. ‘For now,’ she said.

  35

  Kira went without pause, without thought and without looking back. When she came across a soak she let Bright-wings drink, and when the stars crowded the sky she slowed, but she didn’t stop. The new day showed her direction more clearly, and she struck west towards the Breshlin, reaching its banks and following the river down. At dawn on the third day, she came to the Ford and crossed, refusing to look north up its gleaming flow. She knew that Cover-cape Crest was a day’s ride further and there was a spring and the alwaysgreens for shelter. She’d rest there, if her strength didn’t fail her first.

  Brightwings still seemed eager to go on, but Kira was beyond weariness and her misery was intense. Caledon had told her that the Allogrenia she’d known had ceased to exist the day the Shargh had found it. The person she’d been in Sarnia was like that now – her beliefs, hopes and dreams utterly destroyed.

  Perhaps it was for the best, she pondered dully. Perhaps her lot in life was not to be a bondmate or a mother, but a Healer. It was what she’d once told her father, long ago, before the Shargh had come.

  It was a little after midday when Kira became aware of a curious grey cloudbank forming low to the west. She stared at it as she rode, reminded of the snow clouds that had forced the patrol to Ember Keep on her first journey north. She wasn’t far from the same spot, she realised uneasily.

  If you’re going to get early snow, it will be between Cover-cape Crest and Breshlin, Tierken had said. The northern ruler had slipped into her thoughts, but she barely noticed, horribly aware that she had no gifan, and no knowing of the way to Ember Keep. Kira hoped that the cloud front would go away, but it rolled inexorably towards her, extinguishing the sun and enclosing her like a clammy web. It wasn’t snow cloud, but a dense bank of fog.

  Within a dozen paces, Kira could scarcely see a length in front, and a half-dozen paces later, she had no idea in which direction south lay. Fearful of becoming lost, she dismounted and let Brightwings graze, the air’s dampness making her shiver en
ough to don her jacket and cape. The mare tore at the grass contentedly, but as time wore on Kira’s legs grew tired and her back ached.

  It was deep in the night, and Kira had knotted her hands in Brightwings’ mane and was dozing against her for warmth and comfort when the mare’s head suddenly shot up. Grass crunched, as if trodden on, and Kira’s scalp prickled. After a moment, Brightwings resumed her grazing, and although the mare now seemed unconcerned, Kira remained petrified that there were others nearby. It could be the Guard, but it could also be Shargh, or something else.

  Kira told herself that it would be dawn soon, the fog gone, and she would be on her way to her rest at Cover-cape Crest where the trees were thick and safe.

  ‘You’ll like the grove,’ she murmured to Brightwings. ‘It’s –’

  The mare snorted, wild-eyed, and danced sideways as a dark shape launched itself at Kira. It knocked her off her feet and leapt on top of her, then a disfigured face thrust close, its lips drawing back in a macabre smile as rough hands tightened around her throat.

  After Eris’s funeral, Tierken returned to the house that was now his and Laryia’s. He wandered through the empty rooms, running his fingers over the carved wooden chests and the brittle bunches of herbs that hung drying from the roof beams, still sensing Eris’s presence. He thought of her at night, too, as he sat in the cooking place, nursing a mug of cotzee – and he thought of Kira.

  The urgency of the painful soul-searching he’d engaged in on the day of Eris’s death had ebbed, leaving him resolved to give Kira more time to settle. On his return to Sarnia he’d be patrolling north in any case, and Mouras would continue Kira’s instruction in his absence. Then the duties of the Domain would increasingly occupy her days and her familiarity with the administration of Sarnia strengthen her feeling of belonging.

  A new moon hung in the sky by the time the sense of Eris had truly gone, and Tierken pulled the door of the house shut behind him and set off down the path. He made his way across the small bridge spanning the Zinaidi, recalling all the times he’d chased Laryia across it, or hidden beneath to leap out and surprise her. Kalos was saddled and waiting, and Robrin embraced Tierken, standing with upraised hand as Tierken set off along the track.