6

ARAK’JUR

The Guardian’s Tent

Sinari Village

He took her roughly from behind.

Llanara let loose the breath she’d been holding as his motion slowed and stopped. His head cleared, and he pulled himself out of her as she collapsed onto his bed.

She was his, but she was not his wife. Rhealla. Forgive me.

He winced as he stood, reaching down to pull up his leggings.

“Are you going, then?” she asked, breathless from their mutual exertion. “A trip with the men would be good for you.”

He shook his head. “They do not need me for simple trade. I’d thought to speak with the shaman after the ceremony.”

She turned to regard him, a thoughtful look wrinkling the smoothness of her young face. She was a beauty. Llanara. Fierce like the mareh’et, terrible to behold when her wrath was stirred, with claws as sharp as the Great Cat’s. She had a vibrance he thought gone from his life forever. He did not deserve a woman like Llanara, and if his will were stronger he might have turned her away. Youth deserved youth, not a man burdened with his memories.

“Arak’Jur,” she said. “You will need to choose eventually, you know.” She rolled over, exposing the curve of her backside to him, flashing him a smile as she stretched over the full length of his bed of long grasses. “You give me your seed, am I not worthy of your tent?” The look on her face was playful, though her words were solemn.

“Llanara,” he said as formally as she had, enunciating every syllable of her name. “You are young, and I can forgive your poor choices. The elders would not be so understanding, if you sought to pledge to a man such as me.”

She laughed, a rich sound that brought color to the browns and grays of his tent. “May I at least accompany you to the ceremony?”

“I will allow it,” he said formally again, eliciting another laugh.

She stood, teasing him again with the sight of her body as she twisted, putting on her hide leggings and woven tunic. He took her arm, and they closed the flap of his tent behind them as they walked the pathway into the heart of the village.

The village woke around them as they walked, gestures of greeting and nods of respect as elders, children, men, and women started their days. Smells of smoking elk meat and simmering maize drifted from the cookfires at the village center, preparation for the feast that would see the traders off to meet with the fair-skins of New Sarresant at the opening of their barrier. Hides, beads, woodcarvings, and woven blankets traded for steel, fishhooks, muskets, iron pots, knives, and axes for woodchopping. The fair-skins’ arrival had brought wealth, an end to the old war between the Sinari and the coastal tribes of the Tanari, and a profitable relationship in the years since, even after the fair-skins’ barrier went up to claim their fallen enemies’ land. He knew their barrier ran far to the south, unbroken for many moons’ journey, and that not all the tribes living along it had been so welcoming of their newfound neighbors. But the Sinari had prospered more than most tribes from trade.

“Tell me, my guardian,” Llanara said, draping his title in playful mockery as they walked. “Will you join the shaman in blessing the traders before they go?”

“They do not need my blessing, Llanara. I am no Sa’Shem.”

“You could be.”

He said nothing to that. This was her game, and he let her play it. Instead he turned toward the village center, watching as the men piled hides to be counted, awaiting the shaman’s blessing on their exchange. He kept silent, and she stood beside him, letting him feel her presence.

At once she spoke. Brazen, bold, without fear. “Will you ask the shaman to find you an apprentice?”

He frowned. She had never asked him this, never directly. He could not pledge blood-oath to her so long as he was Arak, guardian of the tribe. And there could be no new guardian until he had time to train an Ilek, an apprentice many whispered was long overdue.

He took his time in answering, framing the words carefully in his mind. It was time he tell her the truth. Her boldness deserved a bold reply. But when he spoke, it was in a whisper.

“Ka’Vos never saw the coming of the valak’ar to our lands, Llanara. He had no vision of my slaying it, no vision of Arak’Mul’s death. Perhaps the spirits never intended me to be guardian. If I ask the shaman to look, do you know what he will see?”

She sucked in a breath. The coming of a tribe’s guardian was a thing foreseen by the shamans; for Arak’Jur to have come upon his power unbidden was a dire omen. If it were known his guardianship had not been foretold, it would cast doubt on the status of their tribe. It might even betoken a curse—the threat of the spirits’ withdrawal, leaving them unprotected against the ravages of the wild.

Llanara said nothing, only stood beside him, watching the men continue their preparations.

She wanted more than just the blood-oath that would make her his wife. She wanted him to give up the mantle of guardian, to seek greater status as Sa’Shem, chief, or as warleader, Vas’Khan. The Sinari, like the rest of the northern tribes, were led by councils of elders in times of peace, with each voice speaking freely, inviting others to weigh and consider arguments by merit rather than the station of the speaker. But other tribes’ shamans had seen omens, had spoken of blood, fire, a hunger for war. Other tribes’ hunters had shed their Valak names, taking up the mantles of Venari, the warrior, and Vas’Khan.

The Sinari shaman was silent.

Ka’Vos saw the coming of great beasts; in this his gift continued. But not for the first time Arak’Jur wondered whether Ka’Vos had lost some part of his magic, the deep connection to the spirits of things-to-come. It was a blasphemous thought, a frightening thought. That did not make it untrue.

“Have I frightened you, Llanara?”

“Yes.”

“This is why you belong with a younger man, with simpler troubles.”

She shot him a hot look, but did not stir. She stood by his side, contemplating the truth he had revealed. As a woman, she was no hunter, but she had strength just the same. For all the heat in her blood, her mind was quicker than his, when she stopped to consider.

Finally, she spoke. “If you did not need the shaman’s blessing to become guardian, you do not need a vision to find your apprentice.”

He sighed. It was a typical answer, the sort he expected from her. “You would have me ask Ka’Vos to lie?”

“Do you need ask Ka’Vos for anything?”

She stared him down, defiant. “Llanara …” he began. She waited for him to finish.

“It is more complicated than that,” he said finally.

At this, their exchange was broken up by a group of young men who’d noticed the guardian and his woman. They beckoned, welcoming him and Llanara to help with the preparations for the ceremony. He was pleased to do so, pleased for the simple distraction of physical work. He helped to hang the hides, the cords strung with bone, the racks of elk antlers and beaver tails they’d claimed in seasons past. Llanara let him go, with a look in her eyes promising further discussion when next they were alone. She saw to the women’s work, the mixing of the echtaka, the decorative paint the hunters wore, and of the dried meats, fruits, and ground maize the men would carry for sustenance.

The other men cheered him on when, at their urging, he invoked the spirit of the una’re, the Great Bear, and called for strength. With the beast spirit’s magic he hoisted a pole alone, doing the work of six men. It was vulgar to use his gifts for such, but it brought heart to the men, and the Great Bear was more understanding than most when it came to the ties of loyalty.

Ka’Vos emerged when their preparations were complete, as if the spirits had whispered to the shaman the precise moment for his arrival. He and his apprentice, Ilek’Inari, passed like a chill wind through the crowd, cloaked in the furs of elder beasts, their faces painted with black stripes, eyes glazed with visions of the spirits. The women backed away as the shamans took their places, gathering for rituals of their own. Llanara caught his eyes as she left, and he did not miss the heat she directed toward him, and toward the shaman standing at the center of the grounds, before she vanished from his sight.

“Men of the Sinari,” Ka’Vos intoned when the women had gone. “You seek to travel south and east, to trade with the fair-skinned men and women who are no sons and daughters of these lands.”

The crowd murmured its assent, until one voice emerged to speak on their behalf. Valak’Anor, a young man who bore the Valak name, a master hunter, though he was freshly come to it. “Honored shaman,” Valak’Anor replied. “We do. Our pelts and fish, exchanged for goods of metal and woven cloth. Honed edges, to tame the trees, and fabrics to tame the wind and cold. By trade we are made strong, if the spirits will it so.”

“You are wise to consult the spirits in this exchange,” Ka’Vos said with a slow nod. “Do not forget our people once lived as the fair-skins do: hidden behind walls, afraid to spread ourselves and claim the bounty of these lands. Listen, and remember. Remember the first tribes, the first Ka, who found the spirits and learned to heed their call. On a day not quite so different from this, in a time long ago, in a faraway place we once called home.”

Arak’Jur smiled as Ka’Vos told the tale. He’d heard its like before—every man of the Sinari had, in gatherings such as this, the private histories of their people preserved in the wisdom of the shaman’s tellings. By the end, the exuberance of the gathering had been replaced by somber reflection, a note of wisdom that suited Arak’Jur’s mood.

The women returned shortly after, and the traders said their farewells, lashing furs and leather bags to their horses, bound for the edge of Sinari land. They would make their trades with the fair-skins and some would continue on, to the Ranasi tribe in the north, and the Olessi in the west. Goods would be traded between each neighbor in turn, before the men returned to the village, gathering more goods in advance of the next opening in the fair-skins’ barrier.

Llanara was not among the women who returned to see the hunters and traders off, and so he was left alone with the shaman beneath the totems of the gathering place. Ilek’Inari moved to clean and retire the implements of their ceremony while Ka’Vos approached him, meeting his eyes with a familiar nod.

“Arak’Jur,” the shaman said, sounding winded, tired, now that he was finished speaking on behalf of the spirits. Ka’Vos’s hair had long since gone to gray, his skin tough and creased with the lines of age.

“Ka’Vos,” he said, returning the nod of respect. In his time as shaman Ka’Vos had presided over generations of peace with their neighbors, good harvests, and bountiful births. It was not so easy to disregard a lifetime of service, whatever Llanara wanted to think.

“Walk with me,” the shaman said. Arak’Jur complied, settling into an easy stride beside the old man’s long walking staff.

“I have seen a vision,” Ka’Vos said quietly. “But I do not know what it means.”

Arak’Jur turned, eyebrows perked with interest. “Would you speak of it with me?”

“Yes. A scaled creature, in the company of a fair-skin. It drank deep from us, filling itself, but with the blood of our enemies as much as from our strength. And then it vanished.”

“A troubling vision,” Arak’Jur offered. “Could it be another great beast, so soon after ipek’a?”

Ka’Vos clutched tight to his staff as they walked, but kept his eyes forward, focused on the path ahead. “The land has teemed with them of late. But I do not think so. This creature was different.”

Arak’Jur slowed, eyeing Ka’Vos as the old man paced beside him, waiting for more. The shaman looked fragile, the gray in his hair seeming to echo the lines beneath his eyes, the creases in his skin.

“What of the fair-skin?” Arak’Jur asked when the shaman did not continue. “Is the creature some sign of their magic? A warning from the spirits of things-to-come?”

Ka’Vos shook his head. “I cannot be sure. The creature drank from us, but from our enemies as well, enemies come from a great distance. And the fair-skins have not stirred from behind their barrier since the destruction of the Tanari.”

Arak’Jur nodded. He knew the stories. The Sinari people had fought great wars against the Tanari tribes for generations, in the time of his grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather. Much blood had been shed on both sides, until the fair-skins arrived from across the sea. The strange foreigners had made useful allies, but when the war was done they erected their barrier and multiplied behind it, building cities of iron and stone on lands that had belonged to the Tanari, and to still more tribes, extending far to the south. The fair-skins were many now, but few among them dared to leave the lands they’d claimed—they had no shamans, no guardians to protect them from the great beasts of the wild.

“Perhaps these are the visions the other tribes’ shamans have seen,” he said.

“Perhaps. But our bonds with our fellows are not so strong as they once were. I fear it, Arak’Jur. I fear if war comes, it will not be so easy to divine our enemies, even with the spirits’ guidance.”

The silence stretched on as they walked the winding paths through the woods near the village. Each of them deep in his thoughts, considering the implications of what Ka’Vos had seen.

Until Ka’Vos froze mid-stride in the center of the path.

“What?” Arak’Jur asked. “What is it?”

“He comes.” Ka’Vos’s voice was cold, pained.

“Who?”

“The fair-skin. The scaled beast. They come now!”

With wide eyes, Arak’Jur turned and ran back toward the village.

Arak’Jur rushed into the clearing, where a strange man stood at the head of the path, alone, as if waiting to be greeted. He wore a red coat, bright like the sun at the height of the season of fire, a hue so bright it shone despite the overcast skies. Light hair to go with his light skin, and pale blue eyes like none Arak’Jur had ever seen on a tribesman.

The rest of the tribe had withdrawn into the village at the fair-skin’s coming. Without the hunters and traders present they were ill-equipped to deal with a threat. Better to wait for their guardian to handle this strange newcomer. Only Llanara had stood her ground, curse her for a fool. She stood in the center of the gathering place, watching the strange man with an intense gaze. Yet neither moved. For all her bravery, she was not fool enough to approach the man unbidden. And the fair-skin seemed content to wait.

Arak’Jur was not. He strode toward the man and raised his hand, calling a cautious greeting in the fair-skins’ tongue. He’d learned enough to make himself understood, when the hunters met with the fair-skins at the openings of their barrier, though he would not trust his words to settle matters of import. Perhaps it would be enough to learn why the man had come.

Yet when the red-coated man replied, he spoke the tribes’ tongue perfectly, without accent or inflection. Odd. Perhaps the man was a trader, accustomed to dealing with his people. But even among their traders, he had never heard of a fair-skin brave enough to approach a village without escort.

“Hello, guardian of the Sinari,” the man said. “My name is Reyne d’Agarre, and I bear an offering of peace to you and your people. Peace, and power.”

The man nodded to something unseen beside him, and a crystalline serpent materialized, as if from thin air. Its scales were flushed a deep blue, and it craned its head to look him directly in the eyes.

A voice sounded inside his head, strange and foreign.

Peace, and power. The power to protect your people, Arak’Jur.