'You're up,' a voice cried, and Carnelian saw it was Fern bounding towards him. He looked closely at Carnelian.
'You seem well enough.'
‘I don't think he is,' Poppy piped up.
Fern gave her a look of concern. 'Do you think he should rest longer?'
Carnelian interrupted Poppy's reply. 'Would you like to be alone to discuss me?'
They all grinned. He made sure to hold each of their gazes. 'I'm fine. Really.'
He laughed when he saw Poppy and Fern exchange glances. 'Now will someone please tell me what's going on here?'
'What happened up there?' asked Fern.
Carnelian saw by the serious way they were both looking at him that he would have to give them some kind of answer. 'We got lost.'
Fern frowned. Poppy glanced up at him and then she frowned too.
For a moment, Carnelian was overwhelmed by the love he felt for them both. The easy flow of his feelings for Fern surprised him. With a shock, Carnelian realized he felt free of Osidian. He no longer felt that Osidian's darkness was a burden he had to share. Sadness at the love they had lost threatened to overwhelm him.
Poppy and Fern were watching him. Carnelian took his friend's arm and pointed. 'What're they doing there?'
Fern looked uncertain. Poppy shook her head, then shrugged. 'They're making ochre, Carnie.'
'For the women?'
'For everyone that's going,' said Fern. The gatherings are held under the protection of the Mother.'
He pointed to a pole set upright in the ground from which there hung a flag woven from scarlet feathers. 'A trucestaff inviting us to the valley of the Smallochre.'
'A kin tribe?' asked Carnelian.
Fern shook his head. 'One of those neighbouring the Koppie. All our neighbours will be there: the Woading, the Tallgreen, the Darkcloud, the Bluedancing.'
The Bluedancing?'
The trucestaff will ensure there'll be no trouble.'
Carnelian gave Poppy his hand and then put his other arm about Fern's shoulders. 'Come on, give me a tour.'
They watched mud gouged from the bank of the stream being piled upon a sled. They helped some boys drag it back to where the women threw handfuls of it into leather bowls. Fires were burning smokily where cubes of fat were being melted into oil. One bowl, brimming over, was lifted with a pole by two men. Children were scolded out of the way as it was carried to where women were kneading mud into balls. The women punched depressions into the balls into which the oil was carefully poured. They watched it cool. When it was just beginning to set, they began to fold the edges of the depression into it and then resumed their kneading.
Mud balls that were ready were rolled in ochre earths. The red dough produced was being worked into men's hair, which was then lifted up and moulded into crests. Several women worked on each, helped and pestered by children, using their palms to shape and smooth them up until each man had a curving fluted crest like a bellower's rising from his head.
Next the ochre dyes were brought. With these, patterns of concentric circles were painted on their skins using flexible lengths of cartilage or dabbed on with fingers. The men grinned and the women laughed and scolded them as they tried to evade the tickle of the painting.
A little further on, under an awning, Fern showed Carnelian the women that were to go on the embassy. Akaisha was there, grimacing as Whin worked wax and fat into her hair.
'Is he all right?' she asked Poppy.
Carnelian tapped his chest grinning. 'I'm here, my mother.'
She grinned. 'I know you are, dear.' She looked at her son. 'You should be getting ready, Fern.'
Fern looked embarrassed, but proud. 'I'm going too.'
'It's a great honour,' said Whin, pleased for him.
They hung around just long enough to watch as a cone of basket-weave was placed on Akaisha's head, around which her salt-beaded hair was wrapped to make a glossy horn. Whin gave them a nod as they took leave of her.
In the stream, aquar were being scoured clean. On the bank, others were having their hides layered with fine mud. On this smooth ground rings and spiral designs were being daubed. Feather-wreaths were being clasped around their necks. Their saddle-chairs were being prepared with bright standards and banners of tattered, scarlet saurian-leather.
Fern took Carnelian's shoulders. 'I really should go and get ready. Are you sure you're fine?'
'Yes, now get going.'
They grinned at each other and then Fern moved off into the crowd. Carnelian allowed Poppy to draw him into the children's dances and their games. Still not wholly recovered from the sky-sickness, he grew quickly weary and, seeing this, Poppy led him away from the hubbub. It was a sense of duty that made him ask her to take him to see the Master.
Osidian had chosen an acacia away from the Tribe under which to make his camp. As Carnelian and Poppy approached, two shrouded figures came out to meet them.
'He will not see you, Master,' said one, who turned out to be Krow.
Carnelian looked beyond him but could see nothing in the brooding shadow beneath the tree.
'He mentioned me specifically?'
'Yes, you,' said the other figure, Ravan. He drew his uba from his face, revealing a sneer.
Carnelian considered his next words carefully. 'You should take care, Ravan; his feelings for you might not be what you believe them to be.'
Ravan smiled unpleasantly. 'You're just bitter you've lost him to me.'
The youth was distracted by the hubbub floating towards them on the breeze. His eyes, gazing off at the Tribe, were filled with longing.
'Why don't you all come and see what's happening?' offered Poppy, brightly.
Ravan gave her a filthy look, turned on his heel and strode back to the acacia. Ducking an apologetic smile, Krow followed him. As Carnelian walked away he was haunted by a feeling that he should have left Osidian on the mountain to die.
Carnelian stood among the Tribe watching the emissaries set off. Around him bull-roarers were producing a slow, undulating moan. Bone struck on bone: stone on stone. Everyone was jigging up and down in an oceanic surge. Through their midst, with barbaric pomp, rode the embassy of the Tribe, the truce staff carried before them. He saw Fern beside Akaisha and waved. Harth was there with Crowrane and Loskai. Carnelian spotted Ginkga, Galewing, Kyte. The Elders' saddle-chairs were the gaudiest; hung with feathers, tinkling trinkets, pieces of stolen brass that caught the light like mirrors. These wizened men and women with nodding crests, hung with their jewellery of salt, sat enthroned in their saddle-chairs, to the backs of which had been lashed feather-pennoned poles. Behind them came the riot of their warrior escort, dark skins agleam with sweat and vermilion designs.
When Sil announced she was going to gather herbs in the foothills, Poppy asked if she and Carnelian might go with her. Sil and Carnelian glanced at each other, embarrassed.
'I don't-' Carnelian began, but was interrupted by Whin.
'You should go, Carnie. Poppy will enjoy it and, though there's unlikely to be any danger, I would feel happier if my daughter had an escort that I trust.'
Carnelian and Sil both stared at Whin, surprised by her endorsement. The rest of the hearth reacted as if the matter had been decided and helped bundle them off, so that soon, Sil and Carnelian with Poppy on his lap were riding towards a far edge of the valley.
At first Carnelian and Sil could think of nothing to say to each other. It was Poppy who decided she and Sil should teach Carnelian songs. At first reluctant, Carnelian began to enjoy himself, even their teasing of his accent. They found a rash of berries the birds had overlooked and dismounted to pick them, putting as many in their mouths as in the baskets. When Sil caught her robe on some thorns, Carnelian helped her loose. They watched Poppy plucking berries, her mouth stained with their juice.