The day before, in the mountains, he, Geim, and Deena caught five such fish in an alpine stream, and roasted them for dinner. A good meal. The pure white flesh tasted light and flavorful.
"Aumeris," he murmured. That was the name Geim had used. It meant streaker. "Aumeris."
He barely heard himself. Twenty-five generations insisted that they knew all the fishes of the Wood. There was no need to know the names of fishes elsewhere. What if their meat was poisonous?
His ancestors did not know this world, did not want to know this world. Then let them keep theirs, and leave him to deal with the one he was living in.
The voice that shouted most loudly was that of his great-great-grandfather, who had also been a modhiv. He called for his descendant to remember the code of a warrior, to hold to the ways that had served the tribe generation after generation, to purge himself of foreign tongues, ideas, and loyalties.
Toren reoriented a small connection in his mind. His great-great-grandfather's voice vanished from the din. Toren choked back a sob. Quickly he searched, and found that every part of that ancestor's experiences remained, accessible to his call. But now, the information came only if he called it. The dead man's spirit lived on, but was bound, forbidden to speak without permission.
What had Geim said? "Things change when one has no ancestors to tell the living how things should be." For Toren, at that time and in that place, things needed to change. He stilled his father's voice, and his grandfather's. He wept, but the pain of separation was less excruciating than the condemnation, confusion, and disquiet of the active totem. He had heard legends of Vanihr who had silenced the speakers within, but he had judged the tales to be myth. That they might be authentic occurrences had been inconceivable.
He repeated the adjustment until he had muzzled every ancestor. "Forgive me," he whispered as he shut out the founder of the Fhali nation.
All at once, the tiny grove into which he had fled seemed disturbingly vacant. A small frog splashed noisily into the pool, startling him. Birds fluttered in the upper reaches of the trees, suddenly very loud. He accessed the recollections of his father, just to be sure he could. His sire, a stern believer in the value of tradition, chastised him because he had let his hair come loose. The manner in which it was fastened was one of the ways Fhali denoted their tribal identity. Toren cut off the admonishment.
He rose unsteadily to his feet. Like most of his ancestors, his father had been angry that Toren had been abused, livid that the totem had been violated. Strangely, Toren could not summon one breath of rage.
He stumbled out of the grove, uncertain of his destination. The Soft Room did not beckon, nor did he wish to see Struth or the high priestess. He did not wish to see anyone. In time he would seek out Deena, at the very least to apologize, but not yet. He turned away from the wing of hospitality rooms, discovered a path through the garden, and headed for the front of the temple complex.
No one challenged him, though he passed a pair of priestesses, and sentries gazed down at him from their posts on the outer walls. The drelb, to his surprise, courteously opened the exit for him. He meandered into the amphitheater via the main entrance, tucked himself into a corner, and observed the petitioners at the Oracle of the Frog God.
The supplicants cast their offerings and uttered their questions. Struth declined to answer. As the afternoon wore on, Toren huddled farther and farther back toward the wall. Though the people at the dais represented many nationalities, none spoke Mirienese, and certainly none used Vanihr. Toren ached for the turn of a familiar phrase. He caught barely a word here and there, trivial terms whose meaning he had picked up listening to Geim and Deena converse during the journey.
He missed his ancestors. He needed them. He clenched his fists. Why could they not have whispered? Why did they have to shout?
He rose and left the temple. Walking down the avenue of temples, the fire of anger flickered at last. The irony struck him. That morning, he had projected his fury at Struth because she had stolen his totem; now he resented his ancestors and had to wonder if the frog god had done him a service by containing them.
He nearly bumped into a fat acolyte of one god or another, who cursed him. Gibberish, more gibberish. Other passersby mumbled their unintelligible gossip. What was he to do with himself? The confrontation with his totem had proven that he had, after all, somewhat adapted to this northern world, but that did not mean he belonged here yet.
How could he get back to the Wood? Only there, in familiar lands, could he possibly let his totem live as it had before. No, he was deluding himself-he could never let his ancestors speak freely again. They would always remind him of what he had done. But the Wood was still the only place he could call home, and Rhi waited for him there.
To leave the continent, he would have to cross the ocean. He would need to know the speech of the sailors to find passage, work off debts, and avoid opportunists. The only scheme that tempted him was to return to Irigion. He knew the route, and once there, some of those who spoke Mirienese could teach him the tongue that most of the northern principalities seemed to share. A year or two might be consumed before he reached the Wood, but that would still return him home long before his son came of age.
He threw the dream up at the wisps of clouds gathering in front of the setting sun. Struth had snared him well.
His warrior instincts told him that one of the people walking behind him was making straight for him. He turned.
Geim joined him. For an instant, the sight of another Vanihr reawakened his totem. His ancestors strained at their bonds. Toren winced, but kept them in check.
"You are well?" Geim asked.
Toren laughed wryly. "I am healthy, if that's what you mean."
"Not exactly," Geim stated, but let the matter drop. The bracelet on his wrist, the talisman of pursuit, drew Toren's glance. Geim shrugged. "You know you're too valuable to us to let you wander far. Struth felt you needed the time alone, but now it's best that you return to the temple."
"Why not?" Toren said, and reversed direction. "Thank you for reminding me of my imprisonment. I was just reflecting on what a clever cage it is." Under the sarcasm, it astonished him how good it felt to be able to discourse with ease and subtlety.
"The precautions are for your own safety. Gloroc's spies and assassins have a formidable reputation, and even Struth's eyes cannot be everywhere."
"The concern of the goddess touches me," Toren said.
"You really are free to go, if you wish."
"I may do that-later." The language matter refused to settle down and leave Toren be. "Tell me," he asked as they turned down the alley toward the side entrance, "why did Deena teach me her native tongue, and not the one that you and she shared? Was that deliberate?"
"You mean, why did we keep you from learning the main language of the north?" Geim asked bluntly.
The forthrightness pleased Toren. "Yes."
"It was not to handicap you, if that's what you're thinking. Just the opposite. Struth wants you to learn the High Speech immediately. Deena and I were prohibited from teaching it to you, in part because it is not a native tongue to either of us. We each speak it with an accent. Would you like to start now?"
Toren blinked. "As a matter of fact, yes."
The drelb admitted them to the temple. "Very well," Geim said. "We had planned to wait a day or two, but I think tonight will do. Come. There's someone you need to meet."
XIX
DUSK HALLOWED THE CORRIDORS of the main edifice of the temple complex as Geim led Toren up spiraling stairs to the third floor. They stopped before a door in the northeast corner of the building. Geim knocked. A thin, warbling voice responded.