Showers passed, along with the scudding clouds that bore them, but for much of the time the sky was bright. Sunlight would fling the stark shadows of leafless trees across the camp and set the grass glowing green in memory of summer. Flocks of small birds chattered through the vo’an. The Kyrinin came and went. They hunted, gathered firewood, prepared meals just as any villagers might.
But amidst the familiar there were the reminders that he was far from what he knew and understood. The great face woven of boughs, standing like a sentinel watching over the heart of the vo’an, unsettled him. Once or twice he saw Kyrinin lay their fingertips upon it and murmur some words. The poles decorated with the skulls of various animals were sometimes, when the light caught them just so, menacing. Perhaps most unnerving of all, he would sometimes notice one of the Fox standing quite still amongst the tents, staring at him. When he returned the gaze there was none of the discomfort a human might show at being so caught out. Always it was Orisian who looked away first.
Once or twice a day he and Rothe were allowed to pass some time together. Rothe’s hushed conversation was filled with concern for Orisian, and with plans for escape as soon as the two of them were strong enough. Orisian knew they could not get away if the Fox opposed it; their safety relied on reason and patience, not flight. In his heart of hearts, Rothe must know the same. Perhaps he spoke of escape only because he thought it was what Orisian needed to hear to keep his spirits up. If so, they were equally guilty of imperfect honesty, for Orisian had not told the shieldman about his audience with the vo’an’tyr. It would not help for Rothe to know their fate still hung so precariously in the balance. Not yet, at least.
Ess’yr visited him often, sometimes bearing food, sometimes to check his wound, sometimes for no particular reason he could grasp. He came to look forward to the sight of her. Though she seldom smiled, there was an undercurrent of goodwill in her manner. Still, she talked in strange circles, as In’hynyr had done, and he always felt that he missed half the meaning of her words.
Sometimes she would answer his questions. How many people were in the vo’an? he asked; two or three hundred, she told him. Seven a’ans, which would disperse once more in the spring. Where was the rest of her family? Her parents had gone to the willow. Her brother was hunting in the Car Criagar.
Then when Orisian posed a question that trespassed beyond whatever unseen boundary hedged their conversation, she ignored him, or walked away. She would not discuss his and Rothe’s fate, nor would she talk of Inurian. And when he asked about the great, unearthly face of twigs and branches that gazed across the camp she only shook her head a touch. He learned to tread with care.
At night, he lay longing for sleep amidst the strange smells of the Kyrinin tent, listening to the alien sounds of forest and camp. In those loneliest of hours, in the grip of darkness, he fought a losing battle against the images and memories that jostled within his head. They were of Castle Kolglas on the night of Winterbirth. But the person he longed for most, whose absence hurt more than any other, was someone lost long before: Lairis, his mother. The hole she had left in his life was as cavernous as it had ever been, the wound exposed afresh. He held the furs of his bedding tight about him, as if they were her arms.
On the morning of the fourth day since he had awoken, when Ess’yr brought him a bowl of watery broth, he sensed that something had changed. There was a lightness in her manner that had not been there before. He asked if In’hynyr had made some decision, but Ess’yr ignored the question.
‘My brother is back,’ she said. ‘He will see you.’
The tall, lean hunter Ess’yr later ushered into Orisian’s hut was more imposing than any Kyrinin Orisian had yet seen. In the mere act of entering, without a word being spoken, the space became his. His long silvery hair had an almost metallic sheen to it. His taut face was covered by an intricate swirl of dark blue lines tattooed into the skin. The smoke-coloured eyes remained impassive, but the corner of his mouth gave the faintest of twitches at the sight of the Huanin youth crouched on the sleeping mat.
‘My brother,’ said Ess’yr. ‘Varryn.’
‘I am Orisian,’ he said, wishing his heart had not picked up its beat.
The tall Kyrinin angled his head and narrowed his eyes. Orisian felt impaled.
‘Ulyin,’ Varryn said, and swept out into the morning.
Ess’yr gazed after him, scratching once at her cheek with a white fingernail. Orisian cleared his throat. ‘What does ulyin mean?’ he asked.
‘A baby bird; no feathers. They fall from nests.’ She looked at him. ‘Bad hunting,’ she said and went after her brother.
He saw Varryn again that afternoon, when Ess’yr shepherded him out of the tent and over to a fire where a bowl of stew was waiting. As they sat side by side, eating in silence, her brother joined them. Orisian watched him out of the corner of his eye. Caution vied with curiosity for a while, as he took in the dense tattoos that scarred the Kyrinin’s skin. Eventually he set his bowl down and turned to Varryn.
‘What...’ Orisian hesitated for a moment. ‘What do the marks mean? On your face?’
Ess’yr spoke before her brother could reply. ‘This is kin’thyn. Threefold. Very few have the third.’
She murmured something to Varryn. Orisian was struck anew at how her voice danced when she spoke in her own language; as if a stream flowed in it. Varryn gave a nod of assent to whatever she had asked him.
‘I can tell you how he won the kin’thyn. He agrees. Do you wish it?’ she said to Orisian.
‘Yes, I would like that.’
‘The first kin’thyn when he was thirteen summers.’ There was something almost reverent in Ess’yr’s tone. ‘He was in a spear a’an of Tyn’vyr, crossed into White Owl lands. They hunted the enemy for five days. He put an arrow in an old one from behind a tree. The second when he was fifteen. A spear a’an of the enemy came near. He opened one of them with a knife. Then many summers before the third. Kyrkyn called a spear a’an, and they went across the valley, went deep in enemy lands. They found a family by a stream, and sent them all to the willow. Varryn took the fire from their camp. They ran for the river, but the enemy was as wolfenkind behind. Many fell. Kyrkyn, and ten more. Five came out from the trees and back. Varryn carried the fire with him. Only for this is the third kin’thyn given. For the enemy’s fire.’
Throughout the telling, Varryn had regarded Orisian with a fixed, emotionless gaze. It made him want to turn away. Instead he asked, ‘How do you cross the valley into Anlane so easily? Without us, my Blood, knowing you are there?’
The question was directed at Ess’yr, for Orisian had assumed her brother would not understand, but Varryn rose to his feet, setting aside his bowl though it was still half-full of steaming stew.
‘Huanin do not know,’ he said. He walked off, pausing after a few steps and half-turning. ‘Eyes and ears are thick and heavy. Like your legs and feet.’
Orisian watched the Kyrinin’s back as he stalked away.
‘Varryn does not like Huanin too well,’ said Ess’yr.
‘No,’ Orisian agreed. ‘You don’t seem to feel the same way.’
‘I do not love your race. But Inurian speaks well of you. Of you.’
Orisian forgot all about Varryn. Here was a momentary chink in the shield Ess’yr maintained against questions he longed to ask.