They are of the Standing Dead,' she shouted into his face.
Harth turned her fury on Carnelian, who flinched seeing the hatred in her eyes.
They take our children. Fern…'
'Yes, my mother?'
'Give this one my words.'
'But, my mother, one of them -'
'Just do as you're told,' a man growled from off to one side.
Fern lowered his eyes, then looked round at Carnelian. 'Mother Harth wants me to translate for her,' he said, in Vulgate.
Carnelian gave a nod.
Harth was already speaking.
Fern translated. 'Do you know how much we hate you?'
With a glance to Osidian, Carnelian answered. 'I know you've every reason.'
When Fern translated the Master's words for her, Harth laughed without humour. She said something in a sarcastic tone.
'Every reason?' As Fern was translating, Harth was already saying more.
'You take our children,' said Fern keeping her in the corner of his eye.
A man spoke.
'The best of us.'
A woman.
'I lost a daughter and a son,' translated Fern, his face gleaming with sweat. Others, mostly women, were calling things out and Fern was trying to relay as much as he could.
'Since I was born, my hearth's lost ten children.' 'Mine, twelve.'
'My grand-daughter just last year.'
Ginkga pushed past Harth and came to glare up into Carnelian's face. He could see the tears catching in her wrinkles. He could feel the drizzle of her spittle as she accused him. Fern's voice came from behind her.
'I've just returned from the Mountain where I had to give up my grand-daughter.'
Her face crunched tighter with her sorrow and Carnelian found he could no longer bear it and dropped his gaze in shame. He cringed as the woman went on, her words so violent Carnelian expected to feel her clawing at him. The tirade shifted to Fern.
Carnelian looked up and saw the Plainsman flinching.
'She was saying… her daughter's sorrow… the pain.' Fern was crying.
'We can hardly let them go if they know who we are,' she shouted at him.
'And where to find us,' someone else cried out.
'Do any of the other tribes know they're here?' Harth demanded.
'I can't see how… I can't see how they could,' said Fern.
Carnelian felt her eyes on him again, measuring him up.
Their bodies must never be found. We must bury them so deep in the Mother that even a thousand Rains will not dig them out.'
Carnelian stared at the woman and saw Fern was sharing his horror.
They came to us painted in the colours of the Skyfather,' he cried. He pointed at Osidian. That one bears a mark as if the Skyfather himself kissed his brow.'
The Assembly ignited into uproar. Several men pushed through the women to see for themselves. Withstanding Osidian's stare, they squinted up into his face and then fell to arguing.
Harth's voice carried above the din. 'How can we possibly let them live?'
She had the attention of the room.
'Just because the Gatherer's not due until the year after next doesn't mean the Mountain will not find out about these two.'
'Carnelian, do you understand all this hysteria?' Osidian's clear and ringing Quya chilled the room to silence.
The Elders stared at Osidian, who continued to focus on Carnelian as if they were alone. 'Well, do you, my Lord?'
Carnelian turned to Osidian. Just the sound of his voice seemed to have turned the Elders into the servants that were always present at the edges of a Master's vision.
They were discussing by what means they shall dispose of our bodies.'
Osidian smiled and flipped a hand to point lazily at the Assembly. These filthy savages are actually discussing killing us?'
He inclined his head and masked his face with a pale long-fingered hand and while he stood thus, the Plainsmen gaped at him as if his gaze had turned them to stone.
Osidian revealed his exquisite face, his emerald eyes. 'Barbarians,' he said in Vulgate. Those of you who can understand this coarse tongue convey my words to the others.' Without pausing for their assent, he continued, regarding them from on high as if they were errant children.
'You presume to sit in judgement on we who are the Masters of Earth and Sky? You who live only because we allow it; whose children we have taken to be our slaves since the Creation?'
Carnelian saw his words being passed by those who understood to those who did not.
Osidian took a step forward and the Elders rose in alarm. He seemed to grow larger, brighter. 'Barbarians, you should take care.' His voice rang clear around the room of bones and a terrible fire seemed to spring from his eyes and teeth.
The Masters have cast us out of Paradise and for that they have earned my hatred. They will forget us. But you – you can never forget them. And it seems you have already forgotten we too are Masters. If you kill us, our blood will be upon your hands. Do you think the servants of the God in the Mountain will not see its stain?'
As he scanned the Elders, Carnelian saw their staring terror of him.
'Do you think when the childgatherer comes he will fail to see the red reflection of our blood in your children's eyes? And what then?'
He paused looking for an answer. Where his gaze swept the Elders looked away.
'What do you think will happen then? Do you imagine for one moment, whatever enmity may lie between us, do you really imagine they would let such as you slay even the least of the Masters with impunity?
There are those here who have taken the Gods' salt,' he said, stabbing his finger here and there at the Assembly. 'Others have knelt to kiss the dust in the Mountain. Of these I ask: are the Masters merciful? How many of you hide that mercy's stripes across your backs? I can see the mutilations of lost fingers and shorn ears. How many of you have wept in the night for your lost children? Do not delude yourselves. The Masters know less of mercy than you do of power. They will bring the dragons here.' He stamped his foot on the floor of their mothers' bones. They will exterminate you man and woman, young and old, until your tribe shall be nothing more than a whisper lost in the wind.'
Kyte stood bravely forth. 'What's to stop us… giving… giving you up to the Gatherer?'
Osidian smiled chillingly. 'Do you not recall, auxiliary, the penalty for having looked upon our faces?'
The Plainsman went pale, caught in the green ice of the Master's eyes.
With relief, Carnelian watched Osidian relapse back into a languid state. Long after the echoes of his voice had vibrated away the Elders continued to gape, transfixed. Though Osidian was no longer as white as he had been, still in that dark place, in contrast to Loskai dwarfed beside him, with his green eyes and the bright beauty of his face, Osidian seemed undeniably an angel.
'What did he say?' Harth asked Fern urgently in a half-whisper.
Desperate to undo whatever harm Osidian had done, Carnelian spoke before Fern had a chance to answer her. 'He threatens…' said Carnelian, crudely in their language, 'your destruction… if you touch us… or give us up to the Gatherer… but… Fern spoke tmthfully. I promised… we wish no hurt on you.'
Harth joined her peers in turning her gape on him.
Galewing shambled towards Carnelian, stopping at a distance. 'You
… you understand our speech?'
'Much of it,' Carnelian said, in Vulgate.
As Galewing relayed the answer to the Assembly, their unease turned to near hysteria.
Harth turned on Fern. 'You knew this?'
Fern made a grimace then nodded.
His mother rose. 'What of it? We've always known the Standing Dead have sorcery. Is a broken knowledge of our tongue so great a mystery?'
Galewing glanced at Carnelian. 'But that they should understand our tongue when even many unkith Plainsmen cannot…' He shook his head. 'Are we being fools? Perhaps Fern is right, perhaps they are a gift to us from the Skyfather.' He regarded the Assembly. 'Imagine what secrets they could teach us.'