Draven's Light (Tales of Goldstone Wood) Read online

  He wondered now if Callix had survived the last few days. Had Draven spared him all those months ago only for the Kahorn prince to fall prey now to another Rannul blade? What purpose would that serve? None Draven could see. And his own life ruined for it!

  These dark thoughts and more roiled in his head. Indeed, he hardly knew himself for self-reproach and despair. Then and there he might have sunk into blackness inescapable, had not an evil still more dire set upon the night.

  For Oson stood up suddenly. All eyes turned to him, expecting the soon-to-be bridegroom to offer a speech, some praise to his great chief, some lewd compliment to his pale bride. His mouth was open, ready to speak.

  Instead he gave a choking, gurgling gasp. No other sound did he make, but fell upon the ground and writhed. His feet lashed out in terrible kicks, striking Itala. She screamed in pain, unable to move quickly enough to get out of his reach. But Gaher rose up and pulled her away, holding her protectively even as he shouted down at the convulsing young warrior. “Oson! What is this devilry? Have you taken too much drink?”

  But Oson continued to thrash, and white foam filled his mouth. Women screamed. Lenila, his sister, dropped her serving platter and tried to rush to her brother’s side, only to be caught and held back by the other women. So Oson struggled alone in the center of the village, his body weirdly shadowed in the firelight, every muscle straining and shaking.

  Then he lay still, save for the swift rise and fall of his chest. He was yet alive. His eyes were wide, staring, unseeing.

  “Oson?” Gaher let go of his daughter and crouched before the young man. “Oson, do you hear me?”

  But other than his heavy breathing, which Draven could hear even from where he stood in the shadows, Oson gave no sign of life. Even when Gaher touched him, he did not move.

  Gaher sat back, looking around at his people, searching the eyes of the old men and women for some knowledge he did not himself possess. He said, “What can this madness be—”

  But his voice cut off abruptly when Oson began once more to convulse. This time his agony was worse than before, and women screamed and hid their faces, unwilling to watch such evil doings.

  When at last Oson lay still again, Gaher barked orders to his men. “Come! Help me!” he demanded. They came, however unwillingly, gathered up the brawny warrior between them, and bore him away to his own sod house.

  For three days Oson lay in darkness, untended save by Lenila and a few others who dared enter his house. The village waited in terror to learn his fate. Questions abounded without answers. Was he bitten by some rabid beast while traveling through Kahorn territory? Had some tribal magician set a curse upon his head?

  Draven did not try to see Itala during that time. He remained out of sight, afraid that if he reminded anyone of his presence, they would lay the blame of Oson’s sickness at his door. After all, Draven should have been the one marching at his father’s side. He should have been the one struck down. Or perhaps no curse could have fallen had the chieftain’s son not disgraced himself in the light of dawn. It was hard to understand the ways and wiles of the airy gods.

  But Draven alone had heard the warning, the words of Prince Callix: “You must not let them cross the river . . .”

  At sunfall on the third day the first of the mourners began the death songs, and Draven knew that Oson had died of his mysterious malady. Funeral preparations began; a canoe was prepared to carry the young warrior on his last voyage down the river, perhaps even to the Endless Water.

  While all this took place, Draven stole quietly to Oson’s house. The body lay alone within. None would sit with the dead man for fear of what evil his unsettled ghost might work. Not even fair Lenila dared draw near but keened her mourning songs far from that dark door. Draven slipped inside and struck a light, holding up a burning rush so that he might look more closely upon the dead man.

  Oson was scarcely older than Draven himself. They had been friends once, back when they were only Gaho and Oso, boys playing at war. Since Draven’s naming they had not spoken.

  Draven crouched before the body, searching for . . . he knew not what. On a sudden impulse he lifted Oson’s beard. It was not yet very long or very thick, just enough to cover most of his neck. So Draven lifted it and held the rush light close to see what he might find.

  Wrapped around Oson’s throat were ten finger-shaped bruises.

  Akilun broke off his story so abruptly, the girl gasped for breath. “What happened next?” she asked, her eyes round with wondering horror.

  “No,” Akilun said, shaking his head and glancing toward the long windows and the slits of ruddy sunlight cast on the eastern wall. “No, it is too late, too near nightrise to speak of such dark things.” He had sat beside the girl throughout this part of his long story, but he stood now and offered a hand to help her stand as well. “Soon,” he said, “this House will be full of light, and all things may be spoken of without fear. But for now, let this tale wait until the morrow and the sun’s early light.”

  The girl wanted to argue. Her heart beat a frantic pace following the revelation of what Draven had seen. But she picked up her still-full waterskin obediently and allowed herself to be escorted back through the shadowy hall. To her surprise, Akilun continued beside her out the door, down the steps, and across the stone-paved yard.

  “What of . . . what of the Strong One?” the girl asked. “Does he not need the water gift?”

  But Akilun, his eye on the dusk-deepening sky, shook his head. “Only bring it again earlier tomorrow, and that will be enough for the both of us.”

  She expected him to part ways with her at the beginning of the downward trail. Instead, Akilun walked beside her all the long way down from the promontory’s crest. She was glad, for, caught up as she had been in his story, she had not realized how old the day had grown. Indeed, the moon already rose into purpling clouds, and the sun had fallen almost beyond view. The people of Kallias would be drawing near to the nighttime fires, and meals would be cooking over hot coals. The girl had never before been out so late. She felt that she should be more frightened by the dark whispers of the surrounding forest, but her mind was so full of the story she had just heard, she found no time for such childish fears.

  Before they came quite within sight of the village, Akilun stopped. “You go on from here,” he told her. “I will stand by until I know you are safe.”

  How he would know, the girl could not guess. Perhaps he could see farther than she could. However it was, she made a quick sign of reverence then hastened on her way, still holding the waterskin tightly. She hoped her mother would not notice that it was still full and ask why the water gift had not been delivered.

  She felt Akilun’s eyes on her until she stepped within the village borders. There she turned around, wondering if she could catch a glimpse of him up the hillside track. But she saw nothing. Still she knew that he was there, watching over her until she was safely home.

  The girl did not wait for her mother to send her up the hill the following day. As soon as the morning was well progressed, she snatched up the waterskin, emptying it of yesterday’s untasted water as she raced down to the river to fill it afresh. Then she darted back up to the village, found her mother, and said, “The Kind One—Akilun—he asked me to bring the gift early today.”

  “Oh?” Iulia looked up from the grain she ground with stone and mortar, shading her eyes to study her daughter. “Well, if that is so—”

  “It is so, Mother! I must go at once.”

  Iulia frowned, ready to protest. But before she could form the words, her own mother hobbled from the hut behind her, laughing and saying, “You can see the girl is ready to flit away like a swallow! Best let her go before she strains her wings.”

  Iulia glanced between her old mother and her young daughter, perhaps guessing at some secret understanding between the two to which she was not privy. With a shrug and a wave of her hand, she said, “Go on then.”

  And the girl, with a swift s
mile of thanks to her grandmother, was away up to the Great House once more.

  She found Akilun once more at work on his carving. Between Akilun and his brother, they seemed to make miraculous progress on all the enormous tasks involved in raising such a House—stone carving, floor laying, mortar and measurements, things she could not begin to comprehend. Yet, in comparison to the wonders they worked all around, Akilun’s progress on this one carving was painfully slow.

  Draven’s upraised arm was more defined than it had been the day before, but his hand and whatever he was holding aloft remained formless. More and more the original shape of the ugly stump disappeared, giving way to cloak and torso and strong legs. But always Draven’s face drew the girl’s gaze, so noble did it seem to her in the light of Akilun’s lantern.

  Akilun himself crouched, working on what looked like the beginnings of Draven’s right foot. Though he did not look around, he called out to the girl in greeting, saying, “So you have come early, have you?”

  The girl did not respond to this. She crossed the cavernous hall, not even noticing how little now she feared its vastness, and sat down just within the circle of lantern light, the waterskin propped up beside her. “I’ve been thinking,” she said, “about the story. I still believe what I said yesterday is true. I believe Itala loves the prisoner, Callix. He gave her the copper necklace, didn’t he?”

  Akilun glanced her way, a smile on his mouth though his hands continued to work the chisel, paring away the wood in thin, gentle curls. “Are you so very certain that is how the story must go?”

  “Yes. It must,” the girl insisted, though how she had come to this conclusion she could not say. Yet when Akilun did not immediately respond, she felt a sliver of doubt slip into her heart. “Am I not right?” she asked.

  “You may be, Iulia’s daughter,” Akilun replied.

  “But what became of him then? Was he killed? What of the tribe across the river, the Kahorn people?”

  “Patience,” said Akilun. Tap, tap, tap went his hammer and chisel. “Patience, and I will tell you how it went.”

  Perhaps we deserve it. All of us.

  It had been easy to think otherwise at first when it was just Oson who was taken. Itala had hidden in the young women’s house, her crutch beside her, her legs drawn up to her chest, and she had prayed to all the airy gods she could name that Oson would not survive whatever strange malady had taken him. That he—her brutal, bloody intended—would follow into death all those he had slain, and she would be free of him.

  It was probably a sin to pray such prayers. The gods did not seem to hear her one way or the other, so she doubted it mattered. And when one of the village maids carried word to her that Oson had died, Itala did not give thanks. She merely nodded and, when the maid had gone, bowed her head and clutched the copper necklace close to her heart. Even when she heard Lenila’s mourning songs rising up into the dark of evening, Itala felt no surge of pity. The world was a better place free of such a beast.

  But before dawn the next day another victim fell down convulsing, foaming at the mouth—an old warrior with grey in his beard who had survived his share of campaigns and cruel winters. He was dead in two days.

  Panic spread through Rannul. Rumors of mad dogs spread, and many loyal beasts were slain in fear. It did no good. For scarcely had the old warrior’s funeral canoe been launched in swift pursuit of Oson’s then another man fell prey to the same sickness, this one a grandfather long past his fighting years.

  And when the grandfather died, Accata, a mother of three grown sons, was next.

  Itala stood outside Accata’s house, leaning heavily on her crutch and listening to the hushed murmurs of the one old medicine woman who dared tend the sick. The murmurs were healing chants spoken with earnest belief. But similar prayers had done no good three times already. Why should these be any different?

  “Perhaps we deserve it,” Itala whispered. A cold spring wind bearing the memory of winter caught in her hair and bit her cheeks. “Even Accata. For she is the mother of killers.”

  A spasm of pain up her leg made her grimace. Her clubfoot hurt for no reason sometimes, even when she took extra care to put no pressure on it. She cursed bitterly but then swallowed the curses back. After all, if Accata deserved this frightening illness then surely Itala deserved all her pains. She may not have birthed killers yet. But she was the daughter of a killer, born of a proud line of killers. Indeed, had her soul been switched for her brother’s at birth—had she been born with the strong man’s body he boasted instead of this crippled frame in which her spirit was housed—she had no doubt that she would have marched into battle alongside Gaher. For did she not crave the acclaim of her people as much as any man?

  Had she not slain Hydrus?

  She turned then and hobbled away from Accata’s house, moving slowly and painfully out of the village, down to the river. She progressed through the trees, ignoring the pain, panting sharp breaths through gritted teeth. Many times she was obliged to stop and rest herself but never for long. After all, she had much farther to go this time and could allow for no weakness. Let her body fail her later . . . but not now. Not now.

  At last she stood above Draven’s secret culvert, her gaze following the fall of the many thin streams. The river was loud here, and it was difficult to hear much else. But Itala believed her ears discerned a tapping of stone on stone.

  “Brother!” she cried. “Are you there?”

  She was obliged to cry out three times before he heard her. Then Draven stepped away from the wall and into her line of vision. His beard had grown in during the last many months—still a young man’s beard but covering the whole lower half of his face. He would never allow it to grow long like a warrior’s, for he had not earned that right. Even so, he looked much older than he had a year ago.

  “Itala, go home,” he said.

  But she shook her head and started down the narrow trail. She knew this would bring him up in a hurry. Sure enough, he was scrambling up beside her within moments. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, his voice heavy with weariness. “You should not seek me out.”

  “Oh, and I should remain in the village listening to mourners wail instead?” she demanded. “Are you the only one permitted to hide?”

  He bowed his head, and she thought perhaps he felt shame for abandoning her in the village. But when he looked up again, there was such a stricken expression in his face, she felt her anger at him dissipate.

  “Have you not wondered,” he asked so quietly that she scarcely heard him over Hanna’s roar, “if I am the cause of Rannul’s suffering?”

  “Never,” Itala said immediately, perhaps too quickly for belief. But she reached out and took his arm, gazing at him earnestly. “Rannul’s suffering is Rannul’s own fault. Not yours, my brother—or no more than any other man’s. After all, you did not march into war against those who could not defend themselves.”

  Here Draven frowned. “Could not defend themselves? What do you mean by this? Has not Kahorn always been our deadly enemy? Have we not striven against them for many generations?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know,” Itala replied. “But I do know that Kahorn was unprepared for such an attack. I do know they could do nothing as the warriors of Rannul set upon them.”

  “How could you know this?”

  “Callix told me.”

  The next moment Itala found herself pouring out the whole of her story. Draven’s face was stony, devoid of expression, but she did not care. She had carried this secret so long, and her heart hurt with the need to tell someone of her hidden fears and hidden pain.

  “He came to see me soon after we hunted Hydrus,” she said. She always said “we” when she spoke of that hunt, though among the people of Rannul no acknowledgement of Draven’s part was ever made. “He brought me a gift. A gift his father once gave to his mother.” She drew the copper necklace out from under her garments, and it caught the sunlight gently. “He said that his mother told him to give i
t to the bravest woman he met, and with it, to give his heart. He told me that he had never seen a braver woman.”

  Her voice caught, but she drew a deep breath and forced herself to continue. “He thanked me for my part in saving his life and said that throughout his whole long march back home he thought of me. I don’t think he ever saw my—my evil foot or this crutch I must carry. He saw only my heart, and he thought it fine and valiant. So he gave me this necklace, and he told me that he would never forget me.”

  Draven said nothing. He scarcely moved.

  “He came again, a few times only,” Itala continued. “It is so dangerous for him to enter our territory. He knows what our father would do to him if he is caught. But he came anyway and . . . and I . . .” She clutched the necklace in her fist. “Brother, I think he must be dead. Our father claims Kahorn village was destroyed. Callix would have fought in its defense. And I need to know . . .”

  She could say no more. She could only meet her brother’s unreadable gaze, and it was the bravest thing she had ever done. Indeed, as Draven studied his sister’s face, he saw there for the first time the true depths of the fear she was capable of feeling. And he saw her struggle to surmount that fear, and he knew that she was courageous indeed.

  He said nothing of his own thoughts, of his disappointment or approval. In truth, he did not know what he felt, did not know if he had a right to feel anything. He knew only that he loved this fierce, small sister of his.

  “What would you have me do?” he asked.

  “Take me across the river,” Itala said. “I must see for myself what has become of him.”

  Much might be said of Draven’s journey with this sister. But let us not dwell on it just now. You need know only that Draven and Itala again traversed Hanna’s rapids and continued beyond the bare promontory crested with its twisted tree. They moored their craft and plunged into thick growth, scarcely knowing where they went, for neither had ever seen this side of the river.