Tarashana Page 16

  We did not see the two great mountains draw apart that day, nor the day after that, but by the afternoon of the next day, though the valley itself was not yet plain to the eye, anyone could see there was space between the feet of the mountains. The day after that, we came to the marshy lands that surround the southern tip of the lake.

  “We should leave you here, Ryo,” Bara said to me. “I should go to the inGeiro camp, to tell everyone what has been happening. But I will make that ride alone if Rakasa prefers to accompany you.”

  Rakasa nodded earnestly. “I think this might be best, Ryo.”

  He meant that he would support me against my father’s disapproval, should my father be so angry that I needed that support. I bowed my head. “Thank you,” I answered. “I am grateful for your generous offer. But I think I should answer my father myself, Rakasa.”

  He looked at me for a moment longer. Finally he said, “Very well! Please tell your mother that my mother will probably ride around the lake to visit. Many inGeiro will probably come to visit—certainly I will, unless my father forbids me! I want very much to know what Aras discovers regarding the avila woman!”

  “Yes,” I agreed, and he and Bara reined to the side and rode away toward the eastern bank of the lake. I hoped I had not made a mistake in telling Rakasa to go with his partner rather than asking him to stay by me.

  The morning after that, we finally came to the lake itself.

  “Today,” I said, gazing along the long sweep of blue water. The lake stretched far north, much farther than the eye could see, to the cliffs near the pass, where the waterfalls came down. Geese floated out on the water and small birds fluttered in the sedges along the bank. There was no ice at all in this season, even where the water was most shallow. “We will come to my mother’s camp today.”

  Then I thought of something else that perhaps I should say. I looked at Geras, whose taksu was better now, but not as good as everyone else’s. “When we go among my people, it would be better if everyone speaks only taksu. We say that strangers should not whisper. This is even more true for you than for Ugaro of a different tribe.”

  “Got it,” Geras told me in darau, and added in taksu, “I understand this.”

  The phrase was right, and his accent was better than it had been. I nodded to him, signaling to everyone that we should ride on. As we rode, I thought of other things I should explain. I said, “When we come to my mother’s camp, my father will probably come to meet us. Everyone will kneel to show proper respect.” I remembered to add, “Not Lalani. A woman seldom kneels. Everyone else must. I will greet my father first. Then Aras will greet him. Aras, you will bring your people forward and make them known to my father. Geras, Suyet, my father may not speak to you. If he does not, it would be better if you do not speak to him.” I finished firmly, “When he asks about Tano, leave that for me to answer.” I gave Aras the sternest look of which I was capable.

  “I’ll try to stay out of it,” he said blandly.

  That was clearly the best answer he would give. Leaving that topic, I turned to Lalani. “For you, everything will be easy. My mother will welcome you and everyone will want to be friendly.”

  “You seem really sure,” Lalani said in darau. Then she adjusted this to taksu. “I am certain you are correct in everything, Ryo.”

  “I am certainly correct in this. My mother will probably invite you to sleep in her tent. You may accept if you wish. You may wish to speak to her regarding certain matters before you decide to raise up your own tent. If you do so, women will ask you whether you are married. If you say someone here is your husband, by saying it, you will make it true among the Ugaro. You should know that.”

  “I should certainly know this!” she exclaimed. She said it in taksu, and laughed, but then she looked at Suyet.

  He was half laughing, but also holding up his hands. “It’s not—I don’t have the rank, so—”

  “Yet,” murmured Aras.

  “My lord—”

  “The situation might temporarily become a little complicated, but I think it would probably work itself out in time.” Aras added to Lalani, “Ugaro don’t consider it right for a man to explain this sort of thing to a woman. Discuss anything you like with Ryo’s mother.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, relieved. “Do not hesitate. She will not be offended by anything you ask.” I could hardly imagine the conversations that might occur between Lalani and my mother. That thought was both amusing and terrifying.

  Late in the afternoon, after so many days of traveling, we finally followed the lakeshore around the steep roots of mountains and found my mother’s camp spreading out along the edge of the water. Great tents had been raised up in an arc that followed the curve of the land, with patterns of porcupine quills dyed pink and yellow and green worked into each tent to show the family of the woman who owned it. Wagons formed a second arc, echoing the first. Long cords strung with beads made of dyed bone and deer antler hung from the corners of some of the wagons, rattling in the wind that rolled off the mountain’s flank and gusted across the lake. Clusters of smaller tents spread out away from the lake, some for young women who had married not long ago and perhaps did not yet have many children, others for men and boys.

  Nearer the water, many comfortable places had been made for women to work at all their many tasks, and other places for bowyers and metalworkers and other craftsmen. In the middle of everything, where everyone could help keep ravens and dogs away, thin strips of drying meat were laid out on racks. Later, that meat and other foods would be stored in hollows carved into the mountain, with blocks of ice to seal the entrances and keep the stores from spoiling. Already many of the coldest, deepest storage places would be filled with meat taken when the steppe deer had passed across our territory. Ice stored there, with dried grasses packed around it, would last all the way from one cold season to the next.

  Farther from the camp, in the valley between the mountains, past the cliffs where the waterfalls came down, a few ponies and scattered cattle grazed. In the long cold, all the inGara herds would be gathered there. Little snow ever falls so close to the mountains, for the heights capture most of the snow. Then the winds that come down the mountains are so dry that they pull any snow that has fallen from the earth back into the sky. It is bitterly cold, but with the shelters for warmth at night, and with the snow seldom deep, the herds can live in these mountain valleys all winter. The herdsmen cut grass to store, and if we have enough of that and enough stored grain, we can bring most of our animals through to the spring.

  In the winter lands, Lau horses catch the eye and so do Lau, so by the time we came near, almost everyone had come out of the camp to see us. Children ran up first; they had never seen Lau before, of course. Suyet leaned over toward me and murmured to me in darau, “If you’d brought in a tiger tame at your heels, I think they’d stare less!”

  I laughed at him, though I was already looking past the children, waiting for the men who would come out soon—for my father. Young women were coming now to herd the children back a little distance. Young men stayed back farther, out of respect for the older men who were coming more slowly. Older women would come last of all—until they realized a Lau woman had come with us. Then my mother and other women would come forward.

  Finally I saw my father. He was walking among other respected warriors, not moving with any haste, but not pausing to speak to one person or another as ordinarily he might have. By coming out of the camp to greet visitors as they rode in, my father made it clear he regarded his guests as important people.

  The last small distance seemed to take surprisingly long to cross, even though the strides of the Lau horses had not become any shorter. But finally we came near enough. I checked my mare, slid down from her back, and gave her reins to a boy who ran up to take them. “Put the saddle packs beside my mother’s tent,” I told him. “You may ride this mare down to the pasture if you wish. The Lau teach their horses different signals than we use, but be patient with her an
d she will come to understand you.”

  The boy listened seriously, though he was grinning. He was a boy I knew, a son of a cousin, but he had been a child when last I had seen him. Now he was old enough to be trusted with important duties, and plainly very pleased for a chance to ride a tall Lau horse. He touched the mare’s face to greet her. She tipped her head to blow in his palm and nudged him, hoping for a little piece of bread or dried fruit. “I will have something for you soon,” he told her. He accepted a leg up to the high saddle and nudged her to the side, to go around the camp toward the pasture. Other boys were taking the other horses in the same way.

  By that time, my father had come the last of the distance. I went to him, knelt at his feet, bowed, and finally straightened to look him in the face.

  “My son,” he said formally. “Welcome.” Then he said, much less formally, “Ryo,” and touched my cheek lightly. He turned his hand palm up, giving me permission to stand, and I rose and stepped out of the way.

  Aras came forward and knelt as I had done. His mouth was a little tight, probably because there were so many people here and everyone was thinking very many things very emphatically. But when he straightened from his bow and met my father’s steady gaze, he was smiling.

  “My guest,” said my father. “Lord of Gaur, scepter-holder of the summer king. I suppose you are still a sorcerer.” He spoke clearly, making certain everyone nearby could hear him.

  “Lord,” answered Aras in the same way. “Yes, that is so.”

  “But you will not use any forbidden acts against any person of inGara.”

  “No, lord. I have sworn the strongest possible oaths before the gods that I will never do such a thing. I swear that again now. I will not harm anyone of inGara by means of sorcery. I will not set any false memory into anyone’s mind unless I have permission to do it. I will not bring anyone under my will, nor in any way cause someone to act or refrain from acting by means of sorcery. If I break this oath, may the Sun turn his face from me and destroy me.”

  My father waited a long moment to let that oath stand in the quiet. Though there were so many people here, everyone was silent, showing respect for that vow and confirming that they had heard it spoken.

  Finally my father said, “Aras Eren Samaura, you are my guest, and welcome as a friend of the inGara people. You have had a long journey to come here, answering my request in the most generous way. Accept inGara hospitality for as long as you wish to remain.” He signed permission for Aras to rise and looked expectantly past him at the others.

  “My people,” Aras said, and named them as they came forward. The soldiers knelt. Of Lalani, Aras only said, “It seemed possible a woman’s opinion would be desired in this matter.” She lowered her eyes modestly.

  “That could be so,” agreed my father. “I am certain my wife will be pleased to greet this young woman.” He glanced at my mother, now standing to one side among the other women. I could not see my younger sister anywhere. I was sorry for that, but it did not surprise me because I knew she would be with the inGeiro. Probably she was not too far, only on the other side of the lake, and would come soon—or I might go there to greet her.

  But I saw my eldest brother’s wife, Nisig. She held a new baby, in a sling over her shoulder, as women carry very new babies. I had not even heard Nisig carried another child. She had three daughters already; perhaps this was a son. If that were so, Garoyo would surely be pleased. He cherished his daughters, but a great warrior should have sons.

  My older sister was also here. I had not seen her for a long time; her husband, Suroka, was a friend of my brother Tokavo. Most often they traveled together, with another of inGara’s herds. But there she stood, looking at me, her head a little on one side as she did when she thought perhaps a young man had been up to some foolishness, but was ready to be amused by it. She was much older than I, thirty winters and four; her youngest son had two winters now, but her oldest daughter had as many winters as my younger sister, my mother’s daughter, and had already married.

  I had not been here to see Nisig’s last baby born, nor this new one. I had not seen Tasig’s son begin to toddle, nor my niece marry, nor my younger sister become a woman. Seeing my mother and my sister and my brother’s wife now made me feel how long I had been absent from their lives.

  “I offer Lalani Tasananet the hospitality of my tent, or she may raise up her own tent beside mine,” my mother said warmly. “She is my guest, and welcome among the inGara. Her kinsmen may take places in her tent or elsewhere, as they see fit.”

  “I am happy to find the singer of the inGara so generous to a woman of a different people,” Lalani answered in her excellent taksu. “I have heard many stories of Ugaro women from the singer’s older son, but I have never heard any story as an Ugaro woman would tell it.”

  My mother laughed and held out her hand. “There are many stories I will tell you,” she promised.

  Lalani went to her, glancing at me to be sure she should. My mother touched the back of her hand when she tentatively offered it, then drew Lalani to stand beside her. They were so very different in every way, for a moment I worried Lalani might feel too far out of place, but she smiled down at my mother and then flashed a swift, delighted grin at me and I knew she was not at all discommoded. I should have known she would not be; she was always fearless. I signaled to Geras that they could rise. I had forgotten to explain that they should stay with Lalani. Both Geras and Suyet moved to stand behind Aras instead. Everyone saw that. But there was nothing to do for that now, and my father showed no sign of offense, so people should make allowances for a difference in courtesy and not assume they meant to imply they did not trust their lord to inGara hospitality.

  This left Tano inTasiyo, who did not come forward, but knelt where he was, bowed to the ground, and stayed there.

  “Who is this?” my father asked me. He was already beginning to frown. No one would behave so humbly unless he knew he would not be received as a friend.

  My stomach had been tight already. Now the tightness became worse, but I tried not to show that. I answered, “Lord, this young man is a son of Yaro inTasiyo. He was foolish enough to trespass upon inGara lands. He has been punished for this act, and he has sworn now to obey me as though I were his oldest brother and his warleader. I have taken him into my honor and sworn to conduct myself toward him as I would toward a younger brother. I ask my father to respect my oath.”

  A silence had come down upon the whole gathering before I had finished speaking. Everyone stared at me and at my father and at Tano inTasiyo. Older people hushed younger, and so the stillness spread, until even the youngest children fell silent. My father’s expression had not changed, but something had changed. The stillness that had come into his face was wider than anger. For a long time, at least forty breaths, he did not move or speak.

  Then he finally said, “My son has sworn to deal with a son of Yaro inTasiyo as a brother?” There was no anger in his voice either. The tonelessness of his voice was deeper than anger.

  I said, “I am aware that I may have been more generous than my father would approve. Nevertheless, I ask my father to respect my oath.”

  “I think,” said my father, still in that toneless way, “that my son would do better to show more wisdom in his decisions. An oath may sometimes be so ill-advised that it becomes dishonorable to hold to it.”

  I knelt at once and bowed. “I am very sorry my father disapproves so strongly of my decision in this matter. Yet even so, I ask him to respect my oath.”

  My father began to speak.

  “Lord,” Tano said. He spoke clearly, though he did not lift his gaze. “Your son misspoke. I have no father. I have no people. I ask—I beg—that the lord of the inGara permits me to come among his people as the least worthy of all inGara warriors.”

  I had not expected that at all. Perhaps I should have: certainly this was something that would make my father see him differently; but if I had considered the problem until the stars fell fro
m the sky, I would not have thought of it. Yet as soon as the words were set into the air, I saw I should have expected nothing else. I did not know what my father would say. This was the humblest manner of petition, but in any petition of this kind, the lord of a tribe may respond as he chooses.

  My father still showed nothing in his expression, but after a long moment, he said Tano, “My son seldom misspeaks so severely.”

  “His words were true once,” Tano answered. “But now I have no father and no people. I have no hope unless the lord of the inGara decides to grant my request.”

  “I think perhaps a young man need not be entirely without hope if my son has decided so irrevocably that he should deal with him as with a younger brother.” My father’s tone was sardonic now rather than flat. He had been as surprised by that request as I had been—more surprised. Now he was beginning to think of this problem in a different way. I straightened, the tightness of my stomach easing.

  “I misspoke,” Tano said at once. “I know Ryo inGara will deal with me far more leniently than I deserve, so I know I do not need to be afraid of anything. Even the anger of the lord of the inGara does not frighten me.” He was pale, so anyone could see he was afraid despite his words, but he spoke steadily.

  There was a silence. “Come here,” my father ordered him at last. “I wish to see what manner of young man asks for the favor of the inGara.”

  Tano rose, walked forward, and knelt again, this time directly before my father. He did not bow, but looked up, as he had been ordered to do.

  “You have the look of your father.”

  “That may be; I would not know,” Tano replied. “If I had a father once, I have forgotten him. I remember nothing of any people before I came into inGara lands.”

  Another pause. Finally my father said, “What would you bring to the inGara people if I grant your request?”

  “Nothing of any value, lord. I would truly be the least worthy of your warriors. But if you grant my request, I would be loyal. And if you chose to be so generous, that might prevent trouble between a respected inGara man and his son.”