Part 3 (1/2)
Easier to pull a bullock from a womb than to get words out of this one. She considered him, frowning. After the Long Winter, the chiefs had broken generations of tradition to ask Darak to join the convocation they held at the twice-yearly Gatherings; only at their invitation could anyone else address the circle.
”So. How did you find the convocation?”
”Worthless.”
The savagery in his voice stopped her.
”The northern tribes don't understand what it's like.”
”The raiders, you mean.” He glanced at her, clearly surprised. ”We've all heard the tales.”
”But you've never lived them.”
”Nay. We're fortunate.”
”So far. Forgive me, I shouldn't be burdening you.”
”Bel's blazing ballocks. I'm not a child. How bad are things?”
”Bad.” He lowered his voice. ”Many of the coastal villages are deserted, the people murdered or fled inland.”
”Your people?”
He looked away, his face bleak.
”Forgive me, Urkiat. I'm the one burdening you by forcing you to speak of such things.”
”I have to speak. But no one seems to hear.”
”Darak did.” Again, that surprised look. ”He's not in the habit of inviting strangers home.”
”The Memory-Keeper . . . Darak . . .” He breathed the name with prayerful reverence. ”. . . encouraged me to speak and tried to calm the chiefs after, but-”
”Calm them? Good G.o.ds, man, what did you tell them?”
”The truth. That the northern tribes have abandoned us. That they don't care what's happening in the south. That they must be foolish or stupid or both to believe they'll be safe from the raiders forever.”
”That must have gone over well.”
”Not as well as I hoped.”
His glower gave way to a reluctant smile and Griane decided she might like him, after all.
”Darak and your chief-Nionik? They called a meeting of the chiefs from the tribes along your river. I spoke better there. A little. But they all said they had enough to do with the planting and the peat cutting. And after that, of course, there was the thatching and the shearing. Time enough come the harvest to worry about the raiders.” With a visible effort, he calmed himself. ”I came to speak to your council and the elders of the Holly Tribe across the lake. G.o.ds grant I have better luck with them.”
”You're tired and hungry and heartsore. You'll tell the tale soon enough, but for now, try and let these matters go.” She drew back the bearskin that hung across the doorway of their hut. ”Urkiat, you are welcome to our home.”
Instead of offering the ritual response, he just stood there. ”This . . .” He took a deep breath. ”This is where you live.”
”Aye, Urkiat,” Darak said, his voice dry. ”It's a hut. Come in and sit down.”
Urkiat dropped his pack and seated himself beside Darak.
”Faelia, put the oatcakes on the fire. Callie, stop rummaging in your father's bag and fetch the brogac.” Darak dipped his little finger into the stew, deftly avoiding the smack she aimed at his hand. ”Enjoy the brogac. The stew will be a while yet.”
”We could open the presents,” Callie suggested.
”Best wait for your brother,” Darak said.
Faelia tossed her braid. ”Who knows when he'll appear? Half the time he doesn't even come home for the midday meal.”
”He'll be home,” Griane said with more a.s.surance than she felt.
”I could fetch him,” Callie said. ”After we open the presents.”
Darak laughed and pulled Callie into his lap for a hug. ”All right. We'll have the presents.”
He'd brought a new sh.e.l.l for Callie's collection and a dagger for Faelia who squealed when she saw the bronze blade. Griane gave Darak a long look. The gift was far too expensive and offering her a dagger would only feed her illusions of becoming as great a hunter as her father had been.
With an apologetic shrug, Darak held out the dagger to Faelia, carefully cradling it in both hands. Over the years, he'd become skilled at manipulating objects, but it still hurt Griane to see the stumps where Morgath had severed the forefinger and middle finger of each hand, to watch him holding a weapon and remember how skillful those hands had once been with dagger, with sling, with bow. The tribe still valued his hunting instincts and many fathers sent their boys to him for instruction. He taught them with the same quiet patience he showed when teaching the children the legends of the tribe, but since he had taken the path of Memory-Keeper, he had abandoned the hunt.
”The oatcakes are burning, Mam.”
”Well, turn them over, Faelia. If you can tear yourself away from your gift.”
Faelia sniffed. ”You're just jealous.”
”Faelia.”
Although Darak's voice was quiet, Faelia flushed. Griane wished she had the gift of controlling their volatile daughter with a single word.
”What did you bring Mam?” Callie asked, oblivious to the undercurrents.
”What do I always bring your mam?”
He fumbled in his bag and pulled out several small packets made of that wonderfully light woven material the southerners called ”flaxcloth.” She unwrapped the first, bending her head to sniff the small blue-violet buds.
”Mmm. They're lovely.”
”They're called sweet spike. The trader said ladies put the packets in their clothes to keep them smelling nice. They're also supposed to relieve headaches and irritability.”
I'll dose Faelia with them tonight, she thought.
Callie leaned over her shoulder, his soft hair tickling her cheek. ”What are these little ones, Fa?”
”Flea seeds. Good for the bowels-tightening and and loosening, the trader claimed. And those are sunburst, sun blossom . . . sun something or other. Fine Memory-Keeper I am. Anyway, you make the flowers into an ointment for skin rashes, cuts, and sc.r.a.pes. The trader said it was especially good for babes-scalp itch and a.r.s.e rash-and also for a woman's nipples when they get sore from breast-feeding.” loosening, the trader claimed. And those are sunburst, sun blossom . . . sun something or other. Fine Memory-Keeper I am. Anyway, you make the flowers into an ointment for skin rashes, cuts, and sc.r.a.pes. The trader said it was especially good for babes-scalp itch and a.r.s.e rash-and also for a woman's nipples when they get sore from breast-feeding.”