‘I did not steal him, Bairoth. Synyg gave me both Havok and his blessing.’
‘A night of miracles, it seems. And did Urugal stride out from the rock to kiss your brow as well, Karsa Orlong?’
Dayliss snorted at that.
If he had indeed stridden onto mortal ground, he would have found but one of us three standing before him. To Bairoth’s jibe Karsa said nothing. He slowly swung his gaze to Dayliss. ‘You have blessed Bairoth?’
Her shrug was dismissive.
‘I grieve,’ Karsa said, ‘your loss of courage.’
Her eyes snapped to his with sudden fury.
Smiling, Karsa turned back to Bairoth and Delum. ‘ “The stars wheel. Let us ride.” ’
But Bairoth ignored the words and instead of voicing the ritual reply he growled, ‘Ill chosen, to unleash your wounded pride on her. Dayliss is to be my wife upon our return. To strike at her is to strike at me.’
Karsa went motionless. ‘But Bairoth,’ he said, low and smooth, ‘I strike where I will. A failing of courage can spread like a disease-has her blessing settled upon you as a curse? I am warleader. I invite you to challenge me, now, before we quit our home.’
Bairoth hunched his shoulders, slowly leaned forward. ‘It is no failing of courage,’ he grated, ‘that stays my hand, Karsa Orlong-’
‘I am pleased to hear it. “The stars wheel. Let us ride.” ’
Scowling at the interruption, Bairoth made to say something more, then stopped. He smiled, relaxing once again. He glanced over at Dayliss and nodded, as if silently reaffirming a secret, then intoned, ‘ “The stars wheel. Lead us, Warleader, into glory.” ’
Delum, who had watched all in silence, his face empty of expression, now spoke in turn. ‘ “Lead us, Warleader, into glory.” ’
Karsa in front, the three warriors rode the length of the village. The tribe’s elders had spoken against the journey, so no-one came out to watch them depart. Yet Karsa knew that none could escape hearing them pass, and he knew that, one day, they would come to regret that they had been witness to nothing more than the heavy, muffled thump of hoofs. None the less, he wished dearly for a witness other than Dayliss. Not even Pahlk had appeared.
Yet I feel as if we are indeed being watched. By the Seven perhaps. Urugal, risen to the height of the stars, riding the current of the wheel, gazing down upon us now. Hear me, Urugal! I, Karsa Orlong, shall slay for you a thousand children! A thousand souls to lay at your feet!
Nearby, a dog moaned in restless sleep, but did not awaken.
On the north valley side overlooking the village, at the very edge of the tree line, stood twenty-three silent witnesses to the departure of Karsa Orlong, Bairoth Gild and Delum Thord. Ghostly in the darkness between the broadleafed trees, they waited, motionless, until long after the three warriors had passed out of sight down the eastern track.
Uryd born, Uryd sacrificed, they were blood-kin to Karsa, Bairoth and Delum. In their fourth month of life they had each been given to the Faces in the Rock, laid down by their mothers in the glade at sunset. Offered to the Seven’s embrace, vanishing before the sun’s rise. Given, one and all, to a new mother.
Siballe’s children, then and now. Siballe, the Unfound, the lone goddess among the Seven without a tribe of her own. And so, she had created one, a secret tribe drawn from the six others, had taught them of their individual blood ties-in order to link them with their un-sacrificed kin. Taught them, as well, of their own special purpose, the destiny that would belong to them and them alone.
She called them her Found, and this was the name by which they knew themselves, the name of their own hidden tribe. Dwelling unseen in the midst of their kin, their very existence unimagined by anyone in any of the six tribes. There were some, they knew, who might suspect, but suspicion was all they possessed. Men such as Synyg, Karsa’s father, who treated the memorial blood-posts with indifference, if not contempt. Such men usually posed no real threat, although on occasion more extreme measures proved necessary when true risk was perceived. Such as with Karsa’s mother.
The twenty-three Found who stood witness to the beginning of the warriors’ journey, hidden among the trees of the valley side, were by blood the brothers and sisters of Karsa, Bairoth and Delum, yet they were strangers as well, though at that moment that detail seemed to matter little.
‘One shall make it.’ This from Bairoth’s eldest brother.
Delum’s twin sister shrugged in reply and said, ‘We shall be here, then, upon that one’s return.’
‘So we shall.’
Another trait was shared by all of the Found. Siballe had marked her children with a savage scar, a stripping away of flesh and muscle on the left side-from temple down to jawline-of each face, and with that destruction the capacity for expression had been severely diminished. Features on the left were fixed in a downturned grimace, as if in permanent dismay. In some strange manner, the physical scarring had also stripped inflection from their voices-or perhaps Siballe’s own toneless voice had proved an overwhelming influence.
Thus bereft of intonation, words of hope had a way of ringing false to their own ears, sufficient to silence those who had spoken.
One would make it.
Perhaps.
Synyg continued stirring the stew at the cookfire when the door opened behind him. A soft wheeze, a dragged foot, the clatter of a walking stick against the doorframe. Then a harsh accusatory question.
‘Did you bless your son?’
‘I gave him Havok, Father.’
Somehow Pahlk filled a single word with contempt, disgust and suspicion all at once: ‘Why?’
Synyg still did not turn as he listened to his father make a tortured journey to the chair closest to the hearth. ‘Havok deserved a final battle, one I knew I would not give him. So.’
‘So, as I thought.’ Pahlk settled into the chair with a pained grunt. ‘For your horse, but not for your son.’
‘Are you hungry?’ Synyg asked.
‘I will not deny you the gesture.’
Synyg allowed himself a small, bitter smile, then reached over to collect a second bowl and set it down beside his own.
‘He would batter down a mountain,’ Pahlk growled, ‘to see you stir from your straw.’
‘What he does is not for me, Father, it is for you.’
‘He perceives only the fiercest glory possible will achieve what is necessary-the inundation of the shame that is you, Synyg. You are the straggly bush between two towering trees, child of one and sire to the other. This is why he reached out to me, reached out-do you fret and chafe there in the shadows between Karsa and me? Too bad, the choice was always yours.’
Synyg filled both bowls and straightened to hand one to his father. ‘The scar around an old wound feels nothing,’ he said.
‘To feel nothing is not a virtue.’
Smiling, Synyg sat in the other chair. ‘Tell me a tale, Father, as you once did. Those days following your triumph. Tell me again of the children you killed. Of the women you cut down. Tell me of the burning homesteads, the screams of the cattle and sheep trapped in the flames. I would see those fires once more, rekindled in your eyes. Stir the ashes, Father.’
‘When you speak these days, son, all I hear is that damned woman.’
‘Eat, Father, lest you insult me and my home.’
‘I shall.’
‘You were ever a mindful guest.’
‘True.’
No more words were exchanged until both men had finished their meals. Then Synyg set down his bowl. He rose and collected Pahlk’s bowl as well, then, turning, he threw it into the fire.
His father’s eyes widened.
Synyg stared down at him. ‘Neither of us shall live to see Karsa’s return. The bridge between you and me is now swept away. Come to my door again, Father, and I shall kill you.’ He reached down with both hands and pulled Pahlk upright, dragged the sputtering old man to the door and without ceremony threw him outside. The walking stick followed.