Uncomfortable days followed and Cahan learned how beaten down the people of Harn were by life in Crua.
They did not rail or complain about what he asked of them. Stronger personalities had asserted themselves so they accepted what was as their lot. Cahan was now in charge, he thought, in no small part, due to his armour. There were those, the butcher Ont chief among them, who tried to cause trouble but because he had both their Leoric and Udinny, who was the nearest the village had to a monk, on his side even Ont and his cronies had largely given up.
Each morning the people of Harn woke at first light, they tended their crops or their animals before gathering in the village centre. There the two reborn put them through spear and shield drill. It was boring and repetitious but necessary. Even their Leoric, Furin, joined in. The only villager who was not part of the drill was the woodcarver, Ilda, whose job of making more spears and arrows was too important for her to take time off. She had shown a real skill for weapon making, her arrows were as good as Cahan’s and he had no doubt would end up being better.
Venn did not join them.
The trion refused anything they thought would lead to killing. It did not make them popular which in turn made them sullen and withdrawn. While the reborn put the village through their paces Cahan schooled the trion in the use of a staff. He had hoped the villagers would see this as Venn joining in, but suspected it simply looked like they were getting special treatment. Worse, he felt like some of them might think it was a case of the Rai sticking together, being aloof. A void began to grow between Venn and the villagers.
Food was eaten communally after morning weapons practice. Then the villagers went to whatever tasks were required of them. Ilda had a little team of people she thought showed promise that she was teaching how to make arrows. The rest of the village were put to work strengthening the walls of Harn or clearing Woodedge. Children scouted for crownwood and crossticks to make bows and arrows. Others dried gasmaw gut for strings. Venn helped with these things, but they did it in a half-hearted way that left no doubt they would rather be doing something else.
A brightness for Cahan was that Segur chose to join them. At first it was wary of the villagers but it soon learned who was likely to give it treats. The creature became terribly spoiled.
In the second eight they did bow practice.
At first they had to do it in three groups, due to lack of equipment, but the children of Harn proved excellent at finding crownwood bushes, and soon the whole village lined up outside the walls. Not even Ilda was excused. There had been frustration at first, when people found out how hard the forestbows were to draw. Many of the smaller villagers complained they would never have the strength for it. But he schooled them, it was not only about strength, it was about the right strength, and that strength came with practice. Though whether they had enough time for the practice needed, well, that was unlikely. Once the people of Harn had overcome their distrust of the bows they began to enjoy shooting arrows.
Though even when they laughed and joked, beneath it was tension.
Targets were set and they practised mass launches. At first few arrows had even reached the target, but as time passed and Least warmed, the villagers shot further and further. Even if they loosed a hundred arrows and only a quarter of them hit then that was enough to scare an advancing army, and an army would be a much larger target.
A few showed real promise, and those he made into branch leaders of small groups. He ended up with four branches of around thirty people each. It annoyed him that Ont was one of the best archers, but the man had a natural eye and Cahan was not too proud to use it.
Venn refused to take up the bow. No matter how much he told them that sometimes it was not about using the weapon, but about being part of something, they still refused. In their youth they saw the world as black and white, as simple when it was anything but. His promise that they need never loose their bow in anger fell on deaf ears. To them the bow was for killing, and as such they would have nothing to do with it. So where the forestbows brought the village together, in merriment and in fear, it had the opposite effect with Venn. The trion’s stubbornness only made them more of an outsider. Cahan would not have worried if the trion been useful in some other way. But Venn had been raised in such isolation they had no practical skills, and few social ones. They could not plough a straight line, they were frightened of the crownheads and the gasmaws, and any form of physical work involved so many complaints that few people, if any, wanted to work with them.
Whispers began to grow about the trion. Rumour, and resentment. Word reached Cahan that some thought Venn a spy.
In the end, Cahan had to assign Venn to jobs because so few wanted to work with them. People grumbled, but he knew it would be worse if the trion did nothing at all.
Tragedy visited in the last days of Least, as Harsh was returning and Cahan found himself constantly looking to Woodedge, expecting a Forestal bring news of armies moving through the trees. He moved archery practice into the village – if any scout saw the village practising outside the walls then any chance of an arrangement with the Rai was gone. Though of course there would be no arrangement, but he let the villagers believe for now.
He thought he was the only one aware of what was to come but he was wrong.
Pressure kept building until he could no longer pretend otherwise.
More and more often he saw villagers stop what they were doing and stare out at Woodedge. He had convinced himself that these were simple and accepting people, and maybe they did live a little more in the now than he did, maybe their lives gave them no choice. But as each day passed, the knowledge of what was coming began to weigh on them. On Cahan, on everyone. Conversations became clipped and words designed to wound were said. Only Furin, and her uncanny way with people stopped fights breaking out.
It felt like something had to give.
The scream, loud, and full of pain, could not have come at a more inopportune time.
Cahan had sent Venn, along with a man called Darmant, to shore up the ledges they had built along the walls, so that they could see over them and use them for protection. Darmant was a shoemaker and not particularly good at anything, not even making shoes, but he was popular. Always ready with a joke, a smile, or a kind word. Cahan sent Venn with him as he was more patient than the other villagers. When he heard the scream he thought it was Venn, as it came from where they and Darmant worked. Had they hurt themself? Or finally taxed the patience of the shoemaker so much he had lashed out?
But the scream continued long past that of a short admonition, or small accident. It was the drawn-out wail of agony, of terrible wounds. The villagers froze at the sound, then ran towards it and Cahan followed. Found his view blocked by the crowd. Over the screaming he could hear Venn’s voice.
“It was an accident! I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it!” Cahan pushed through the jostling crowd using his elbows, feet slipping on churned up mud. Venn and Darmant had been doing a two-person job. One he thought Venn should be good at it by now. He was wrong. The trion had let go of one of the heavy pieces of wood, the weight of it becoming too much for Darmant who had not been able to hold it. He should have been able to get out of the way but by some quirk of unkind fate, maybe he was tired, maybe because, like Venn, he was not very physical or practical, he had not. The ledge had come down, one of the pegs, used to secure it had caught Darmant, ripping open his stomach.
An agonising wound, and one there was no coming back from. A killing blow. The kindest thing that could be done for Darmant was to end him here and send him on to the Star Path.
A numbing shock passed through the crowd. The jostling stopped. Venn’s hands were on Darmant’s stomach, blood welling up over them while the man screamed. Venn looked up at the people surrounding them.
“It was an accident,” they said. Then they pushed down on the wound, repeating, “Don’t die, don’t die.” There was little hope of that. May as well wish to grow a gasbag and float away.
“You have killed him.” Cahan did not know who spoke. But the words spread like fire in dry wood. Growing in strength and menace as they passed through the crowd. The pressure threatening to erupt.
“Darmant!”
“They have killed him!”
“Don’t die. Don’t die.”
“Darmant, the trion has killed Darmant!”
“Don’t die, I didn’t mean it.”
“They are Rai!”
“Don’t die!”
“They came with Gart’s murderer!”
An ugliness, a swift and growing hate. An outlet for all the fear they had been feeling more deeply with every passing day.
“We need them!” shouted Cahan and the crowd turned on him.
“You brought them here!”
Pointing fingers. Grimaces. Spittle and accusation.
“He brought them here.”
You need me.
The fire within him rising, reacting to their anger. The raised voices would be drawing the reborn.
“Don’t die!”
Fighting for control. Strong emotions, washing over him.
You are the fire.
“You’ll kill us all!”
“They killed Darmant!”
“We should hand them over!”
“Bind them!”
“Burn the bows!”
You are the fire.
And in a moment of inattention. The fragile thing they had been building in Harn was lost. The village may have come together but he was still an outsider. Venn was still an outsider. They would hand them over to the Rai the minute they appeared, no time for thought or question. Cahan had been fooling himself it might be otherwise.
Power, washing over and around him.
You are the fire.
He could burn it to the ground.
“What’s happening?”
Burn it all to the ground.
“Is he dead?”
The crowd quieting.
Aggression flowing away.
The power hanging in the air.
The only voice Venn’s.
“Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die.” Repeated so quickly it was almost one word, not stopping to take a breath. Within Cahan the cowl squirming, the embers glowing more fiercely. He had thought it the approach of violence, but that was not the case.
A cowl always reacted to another user.
Venn was drawing power. Cahan wanted to scream out, “No!” How could the trion do it? After all they had said. In front of the crowd they were taking the Darmant’s life?
But they were not.
Venn’s power came from the ground, feeding it through themselves, giving it and of themselves to Darmant. The blood around their fingers drying, the terrible tear in Darmant’s stomach knitting together.
Cahan did not know what this was.
He did not know this was even possible.
Venn was healing the man, Cahan knew it would be too much for the trion. What flowed in from the ground was not nearly as much as what flowed out. The trion’s skin drying, withering, their flesh shrinking and tightening to the bone.
Then they looked at him.
“Venn…” said Cahan.
“I didn’t want him to die,” they said. Then collapsed into the bloody mud.
The crowd silent.
Darmant looked like he was sleeping, Venn looked like they were a thousand years old. Cahan was unable to speak. The cowl was for killing, for war. That it could heal any other but the user, that had never occurred to him. Was it some property of what Venn was? The conduit, they had said.
No wonder the Rai wanted them back.
“What happened?” said one of the villagers.
“I do not know,” said Cahan, and the crowd parted before him as he picked up the body of the trion, light as floatvine, and walked towards the Leoric’s longhouse.