“Then do not allow Tuari’s blind hatred to speak for thee. This halfbreed is born of Clyste. Her choice. Grant him the walking gard to keep him safe.”
Stian dropped his hand heavily, leaving three small flowers twined in Kol’s hair. “Bring him.”
The true lands are dying. So simple a phrase to leave my heart hollow. Did no one know the reasons? Were even the Danae, who could reshape the earth and command its creatures, confounded by it? What did that do to Osriel’s hope? Navronne’s hope?
Kol tramped and skidded down the slope toward me. Wary of this elder who spoke so casually of breaking halfbreeds, I chose not to let them know I’d overheard. I sprang to my feet and shouted louder than before, “I’ve heard the stones’ voices, vayar. This one is most unhappy.”
“Thou hast heard—” Kol stopped halfway down the slope and shook his head as if to clear it. “Come up, rejongai. We will talk of stones’ voices later. Stian summons thee.”
When I reached Kol’s side, and we climbed slowly toward the waiting elder Dané, he spoke softly. “Thou hast shown reasonable manners thus far, Valen, and I would caution thee to continue. My sire hath only tonight learned of thy parentage…”
“…and he is no happier than I was.”
For the first time I glimpsed amusement twitch Kol’s fine mouth. “Thou hast no measure of his unhappiness, wanderkin. And Stian’s skills make my own appear but a nestling’s tricks.”
I doubted that, having heard how Stian spoke of his son’s talents, having witnessed those talents summon the earth itself to his service.
“And mention not thy female companion or the monk.”
No, Stian would likely have no kind feelings for Eodward’s tutor or a human stranger, however unlikely that Saverian and Kol would repeat my parents’ folly. Indeed, the consideration of a mating between Stian’s son and the physician conjured a delightful image—something like the conjoining of a swan and a woodpecker. A virginal woodpecker.
I smothered a grin. “Aye, relagai. No mention of distracting humans.”
The elder Dané awaited us where the rolling meadow formed a shallow bowl, choked with dead willows and matted vegetation. His fingers stroked the blades of brittle grass that had once stood as tall as my hip.
“Stian sagai”—Kol bowed gracefully before his father—“I present a wanderkin of our blood-clan. I have accepted the charge of his dam to stand as his vayar. He hath pledged himself to explore and learn, and I judge that his talents and experience have given him knowledge sufficient to accept his walking gard. He answers to the name Valen.”
Stian rose. A snarling cat graced the brow and cheek of the broad-shouldered Dané, its long tail twined about his neck. The gards that marked his flat belly, broad chest, and muscled limbs spoke of jungles and hot, languid pools. Despite his white hair, he appeared no older than Prior Nemesio. A man in his prime, with spring-green eyes that scoured me.
“Scrawny. Thick-boned. Weak.” I might have been a cow. An ugly cow.
Kol answered coolly. “Valen followed me from the Sentinel Oak to Evaldamon without rest, sagai. Even so, his strength or endurance is no matter. I seek thy consent only for the walking gard, that Clyste’s child may have skills to elude those who would break him…to our shame. His use of those skills shall be his own burden, not thine or mine. He is not to dance.”
Stian’s lean face resembled Kol’s. The father’s chin sat squarer. The son’s eyes sat deeper. Stian reminded me of the first stone whose voice I’d heard. Unyielding heaviness. Stalwart density.
The elder’s arched nose flared in contempt, and the creases about his eyes deepened. “The Cartamandua bragged that he sowed his seed across the lands and seasons and taunted his kin with his scattered offspring. That such a preening rooster laid hand to Clyste…that she chose prisoning to protect him…Pah!”
“When I was a boy, Janus named the Danae glorious, generous, and hospitable,” I snapped, anger banishing caution. “I refused to believe him, madman that he was, preferring the common wisdom that the long-lived are spiteful, petty, and cruel. A child’s insights can be astonishing, can they not? For even then, I did not know that a Dané had stolen Janus’s wits over a broken promise. Nor had I been ensnared by Danae trickery designed to murder other humans. Nor had I yet experienced the Danae welcome for their imperfect kinsmen. Is your hammer ready?”
“Rejongai!” Kol barked.
I pivoted to face my uncle squarely and bowed. “Teach me, if I have erred, vayar. I assumed that frank speech must be expected between elders and wanderkins. Or perhaps it is believed that halfbreeds do not hear when their lacks and parentage are so unkindly discussed, which, of course, must make it proper to cripple such a flawed being.”
Stian’s complexion darkened. He stepped forward, his fingers splayed in some fashion that caused sweat to bead on my brow and back.
I did not retreat.
“Stian sagai!” Taut as a maid on her virgin night, Kol stepped between us. “I am his vayar. Thou canst not touch him without first touching me.”
“Give him passage, Kol,” said Stian, snarling and pointing to the fractured rock. “I consent. But do it here. Without sparing. Then keep him forever from my sight.”
Chapter 16
While Stian reclined on the fallen slab, glowering at us, Kol led me up the jagged southern face of the rock. Once we had left the ground behind, Kol’s muttering never ceased. “Thou hast the thoughtfulness of a badger, Valen. Did I not warn thee of his temper? Did I fail to mention that this is the same Stian who must be consulted as the archon prepares to break thy knees? For a passing satisfaction, thou hast forfeited every benefit of his tolerance.”
“What hope has any halfbreed of his tolerance?” I called up to my uncle, whose feet dislodged sharp slips of rock that peppered my face. My blood yet ran hot, as well, though it was cooling rapidly as the distance between my feet and the hard ground increased. Why did words bother me so?
The uneven steps, created by long-ago fracturing and smoothed by centuries of wind and rain, grew narrower and impossibly farther apart as we neared the top. I squeezed my fingers into a crevice, even as a fierce wind threatened to rip them out again. Praising Kemen Sky Lord for his moonlight, I gripped with toes curled as if they might hold me to the rock.
“Stian bears no inborn hatred for humankind,” snapped Kol. “He nurtured Caedmon’s son against all custom. Never did he fail in love for Eodward, even when my mortal brother broke his promise to return—a betrayal that cost my sire the archon’s wreath and brought to power those who despise all humans and their works. Never did he fail in love for Clyste, though she tore his heart by refusing to explain who had fathered her child and who had taken the babe away, though it meant he watched her unmade and bound to earth.”
With a last smooth effort Kol stood atop the rock looking down. Wind gusts snatched his hair from out its knot and threatened to tear me from the wall. Every scrap of my will was required to loose my fingerhold and follow him.
“Nor did Stian fail in love for me when he saw I knew Clyste’s secret and would not yield it. When my sire takes his season in this mountain, he feels the dying of the earth and believes some failing of his has left us helpless to change what comes. Thou knowest not of tolerance.”
Of a sudden, my personal grievance seemed petty. Kol’s passionate avowal touched the very heart of my purpose. Out of breath, heart galloping from the climb, I crawled over the rim of the rock. “Kol…relagai…why is the earth dying? In the human realms, matters are far worse than here. Our weather, our crops and herds—”