Читать книгу The Constant Tower - Carole McDonnell - Страница 7

CHAPTER 1

THE STUDIER OF WORLDS

Now my prince, in my former rendition, I spoke of Ephan’s deeds. Then you asked me to tell the tale again, and this time to tell you Psal’s story. I will play my part. But you must play your part as well. For you it is given the task of forgetting all you have heard of the previous tale and to keep your heart and mind on Psal. Can you do this?

Inside the Nahas longhouse, see then: Psal. A boy of about fifteen. A prince too, like yourself, a studier of worlds for his clan. But primarily, a boy.

He had risen early before the moons waned and, as usual, was thinking of his sweetheart Princess Cassia, the daughter of Chief Tsbosso, his father’s great enemy. For six months, King Nahas had forbidden the marriage. Confused, longing for Cassia, Psal knew only this: he breathed easier and walked more joyfully when among the Peacock Clan, the clan to which the gentle, lovely Cassia belonged.

“How wonderfully the Peacock women use twigs to frame their faces!” he extolled. “And how elegant the decorated shells in their hair! They’re such simple and natural beauties. Don’t you think so? Unlike our women who use pretense and distance so our warriors will prize them! Aren’t the women of the Peacock Clans charming in their naturalness?”

Ephan’s apricot-colored eyes peered at him through thick locks of white hair. “Breasts and tightly woven hemp skirts do have a natural effect. But she was very bold that sweetheart of yours, wasn’t she? For all that ‘simplicity’ of hers.”

“Cassia is a chief’s daughter. Tsbosso’s daughter! Why shouldn’t she be bold in letting me know she wanted me?” He spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “She allowed me to kiss her the last time we met.”

“Yes, you told me. Several times.” Ephan picked up the gray parchments used to track towers. “But she didn’t allow you to lie with her, did she?”

“A chief’s daughter can’t just lie with anyone.”

“If this girl wants a lover whose features are like those of her own people, the Firstborn son of King Nahas is not just ‘anyone.’”

Footsteps light and soft—a woman’s—hurrying down the corridor momentarily pushed thoughts of his beloved away. They stopped outside the keening room. The intricately-embroidered curtained screen in the doorway was pushed aside. Psal looked up from his parchments, outside his daydream: Narena—the midwife of the longhouse—entered. She stood peering down at Ephan, her adopted son, and at Psal, the studiers of the royal longhouse.

“Betri’s time has come.” She pushed her thick, unkempt, graying hair from her face.

“Why tell us of this?” Psal asked her. “You’re the midwife.”

Even if Psal was only a studier, he was Firstborn of the clan; Narena should’ve showed him due respect, but she answered curtly. “The birthing’s difficult, and Chief Studier Dannal is asleep.” She looked from Psal to Ephan, then back to Psal again.

Dannal was not asleep, of course; the old studier’s listlessness and stained teeth were only two of the telltale signs that the Tomah pharma had enslaved him.

“Boys,” Narena said. “Hurry! Which one will it be?”

Ephan lifted the parchments—pale hands over paler hair—and waved Psal toward the door. “I’m tracking towers. This one’s mind is on love. Let him bring new life into the world.”

* * * *

Bright morning; the moons fled. Psal clutched a newborn boy in the hollow of his left arm. The infant’s palate was cleft, the nose split in two.

With his right hand, Psal attempted to ward off Cyrt—a chief captain, his father’s close kinsman. A jagged scar on Cyrt’s right cheek proclaimed the warrior’s bravery in a past skirmish with a Peacock Clan, but now such bravery vaunted itself against an innocent child. Cyrt turned to the others; some gesture unseen by Psal caused laughter to fill the longhouse. Dagger drawn, Cyrt wheeled about to look at Psal again. Smirking, he tossed the weapon from left hand to right. Back and forth, the blade flashed rhythmically, like oil lanterns flickering in the morning light.

Tears trailed down Psal’s cheek. Again, Cyrt’s relentless teasing. The ten years away from his clan studying with the Master of the Wintersea should have given him a thicker skin.

Nevertheless. He turned to his father. “King Nahas, Father. Queen Hinis, Mother. Allow the child to live.”

King Nahas stood near the hearth; his face ruddied and shamed by his son’s weakness. Near a window, Queen Hinis—regal and cold she was—threw Psal a scornful look. The boy sunk into himself. “Firstborn,” the queen asked, “will you grow teats and feed it?”

“I expect he will,” Cyrt said, and the queen smiled.

His back against the wall, Psal clutched the child with both hands now. “The other clans, Great Queen. Such damaged little ones…they allow to live. Mother, this one will live. This one should live.”

He could give no valid reason for wanting the child to be spared. Certainly a vague hope of the child’s future usefulness was not enough to disdain the Wheel clan’s age-old edict. Male children born ill, damaged, or deformed were killed. Mercy generally did not triumph over the cruel tradition. Psal’s father—nature-blessed Nahas, chief of the Nahas longhouse, king of all the Wheel Clans—had mercifully allowed Psal to live.

Yet once again, Psal told himself, the error of that mercy is being shown to all.

Psal pushed past shame. “They will not think you weak, Father. Nahas, this child might prove valuable to our clan. As I have, Father. Am I not valuable, Father?” Tears clouded his sight as he waited for the king’s answer. “Am I not loved, Father?” He wiped his eyes with his forearm and pointed to his clubfoot, the mark of his ignominy. He lifted the twisted shriveled left leg, a thing he always hid. “I have lived, Nahas, and have proven myself. Am I not a competent studier, Father, deft in all tongues, skillful in all natural lore including tower science?”

The child in his arms gasped for air, a half-hearted fitful cry, hurting its own cause. Yet it must have desired life for it turned its head from Cyrt’s dagger and buried its face in Psal’s black studier’s tunic as it grasped his thumb.

The king spoke to Cyrt and not to his Firstborn, his voice impatient, but not—unlike Hinis—cold. “Cyrt, take the child.”

Darkness as Psal closed his eyes. Darkness as he pressed his back against the wall, wishing it would swallow both himself and the child. Light again when he lifted his eyelids and looked on Narena. Narena—she who eyed all damaged children with a shudder—glared at him in silent scorn, and Betri…now clutched…now asked, “Studier, can you not see the child is suffering?”

“Firstborn, you shame your father. Be more of a man.” Although gentle and playful toward healthy children, Cyrt never showed mercy to Damaged Ones. Only Ephan had somehow earned his begrudging respect. He spoke now to Ephan, who had hurried down from the rampart. “King’s Favorite, tell the Firstborn, this isn’t a battle he’ll win.”

“Cloud,” Psal begged Ephan. “Plead for me. Plead with your mother. Tell her you have lived, you have thrived these fifteen years.” He held his breath, hoping Ephan—King’s Favorite—would help his cause.

Ephan leaned forward, whispered in Psal’s right ear, “Well did our old master nickname you ‘Storm,’ for you blow both good and bad away. Look now, did they not grant you time to use soothing pharma to kill the child? More than that you did not ask. Little though that mercy was, you should have taken it. Now morning docks in this unexplored region, our studier tasks await us, and the child still lives. Let Cyrt take it outside.” Ephan held a warning finger before Cyrt’s face, spoke as if he, a studier, was a warrior’s equal. “But, Warrior, take care you kill the babe quickly and mercifully.” Ephan reached for the newborn, but Psal clutched it tighter.

“Let me send it from this world,” Psal pleaded. “I’ll use pharma to soothe it softly and swiftly into a painless death. Please, I will. I will.”

The hands of his fellow studier gently pulled the child from his own tightly clenched fingers; the newborn was turned over to Cyrt. Psal leaned against the wall, his arms empty. Once again, he lost the battle against traditional “good sense.”

The child’s cries faded as Cyrt carried it from the longhouse. Throughout the gathering room, women, children, warriors—even the other three studiers—stared at Psal. Psal took several deep breaths. He placed his empty hand on his left leg. What will the others see when they look at me? A petulant ghost dragging its lame leg away in defeat. He glanced at the hearth, then at the Residential Corridor to the left of the gathering room. No escape there. Other warriors had awakened and were walking toward the hearth. He looked in the opposite direction, the passageway known as the Chief’s Corridor. There, past the Chief Studier’s room with its glut of pharma, past the royal chambers, past the grain storerooms, the armories and the ice rooms with fermented meat, the solitude of the stables awaited him. There, on the farthest edge of the longhouse, he could chew himself into oblivion on Tomah bark. He could be bowed and cowed by sleep. In dreams, he could forget his ignominy.

Except, he reminded himself, a Tomah-wracked body was not a body a studier should have. And a Firstborn should not hide his grief in enslaving pharma. I am still Firstborn of the Wheel Clan. Even so, wouldn’t it be better to be cast into the fearsome night rather than live with this people?

He stood unmoving until all eyes but Ephan’s turned elsewhere. Then, rejecting Ephan’s outstretched hand, he followed his friend toward the Chief’s Corridor.

“Cloud,” he asked Ephan as the din of the gathering room faded. “Why am I not more accepting of my fate? As a Firstborn, I should be brave. As a studier, I should unflinchingly toss myself into the embrace of the unmaking night as if we were lovers. But here I am. Studier and Firstborn. Both and neither.”

Ephan drew a long breath. “Unfortunately, it is an uncommon predicament.”

Psal wiped his snotty nose and tear-wet face. “I know it. I know it. And here I stand, being so much and so little, stinking up Nahas’ longhouse.”

“A small stink, not a great one.” Ephan walked into one of the studiers’ rooms and waited for Psal to enter.

“Why must you joke? I’m telling you my heart.”

Ephan turned, smiled his broken smile. “You had me pondering smells that could stink up a three-hundred-chamber longhouse. I could not help but joke. But do not fear. Perhaps you will do great unsmelly things yet. Only, do not attempt to change things now. Wait until you’re a chief. Why battle alone? And so publicly?”

“I didn’t battle alone. The child was on my side!”

“How exasperating you are!”

Away from the hearth, Psal considered how his father had ignored him. He forced confidence into his voice. “Nahas, come here! We must speak! Now!”

In the dimly-lit corridor, several young girls on ladders were uncovering the shutters in the ceiling windows while others switched on the roof’s sun crystals or extinguished candles. Ephan, the girls, and three women carrying grain from the storage rooms all gave Psal warning looks. He challenged all with a Firstborn’s haughty frown and waited at the entrance of the king’s chamber for Nahas to approach.

When the king entered his royal quarters, he walked past Psal. “Firstborn,” he said with unconcealed impatience. “If you’re here to tell me of the new region, speak on. But if I am to be confounded and assaulted by one of your tantrums—”

“You did not honor me as Firstborn, Father.” Half-remembering the pose and attitude of some long-dead warrior, Psal tried to make his body—blasted like a weed in a heavy storm—imitate strength. “You should have.”

“Firstborn”—the king walked to an unshuttered window and leaned against it, his back to Psal—“I had hoped your training as a studier would change the propensities of your heart. But your anger against your own people is still too great.”

Psal crossed his arm. “If I hate my own people, then you should allow me to leave.”

“That old discussion again.” The king peered into the slowly-emerging terrain. “Firstborn, you’ve keened us into a thicket. Was there no better place for the longhouse to anchor?”

“The region is full of rocks, lakes, and thick forests, Nahas.” Aware that he was still standing in the doorway, Psal tentatively placed his right foot into his father’s room, then dragged the left one inside also. “The tower could find no sparser…No, Nahas, I will not allow you to leave the conversation unfinished.”

Nahas rubbed his forehead and turned from the window. He stared at Psal as if pondering the strange creature he had spawned. Then he looked outside again and pointed to a tall, looming structure outside. “It looks like an ancient temple. I suppose you and Ephan will want to explore the ruins. But first things first. Soil samples, and mapping.…”

Psal bit his bottom lip. “Father, about Cassia—”

“You wanted the girl because she wanted you.” Nahas was not looking at him. “That was her greatest virtue. Not her only virtue, of course, but it was the virtue you most admired because you’re a boy who hungers for love. A king’s son should not be ruled by such heart hunger. Such emotions show a diseased mind, something far worse than a diseased body.”

“The Peacock Clan does not disdain my ‘diseased’ body.” Psal grasped his father’s arm and yanked hard. “Or my diseased mind! Cassia does not. The Peacock Clans honors all people, whatever their illnesses. They do not kill their—”

“Enough!” The king pulled his hand away, raised a clenched right fist.

Psal flinched. The dull ache in his hip pleaded for soothing pharma, but now his body betrayed him, trembling. He winced. Showing his pain shamed him, but either Nahas had not seen it or had mercifully decided to ignore it.

The king’s arms, freckled and tanned, relaxed. It gestured at the world beyond the window. His voice was soft again, patient. “The knowledge of keening is our wealth, Firstborn. Our tower science has helped us survive. We own much. Food, fertile regions, lakes, seashores. You believe a marriage between you and Cassia will end the skirmishes—at least with Tsbosso’s clan. But can you not understand? I cannot let a studier marry into the clan of our enemies. Would you not allow your wife to seduce away our secrets?”

“No, Father. I would not.”

“See, that is where we differ,” the king said. “Truly, I think that within ten days of marrying into their clan, you would betray us.”

“And why would I do that, Nahas?”

“To help Tsbosso defeat other Peacock Clan chiefs,” the king said. “Because you are too eager to please any who claim to love you, Firstborn. The Peacock Clans—strong as they are—are disorganized and always warring among themselves. Who can count the number of their chiefs? And Tsbosso, your friend, is the wiliest of them. Even now, the friendship between you and that scheming chief troubles me. When you have proven yourself capable of honoring our clan’s laws, I will consider allowing you to marry Tsbosso’s daughter. In the meantime, if you need a woman, visit the comfort women as Ephan and the others do. The conversation is ended.”

Psal looked about the king’s chamber to hide his hurt. His gaze fell on a red linen cap lying on his parents’ sleeping mat. Similar to the leather caps worn by Wheel Clan warriors and studiers, this cap was worn by chiefs’ sons on ceremonial occasions. It was unusual to have both a studier and a prince’s cap, but Psal’s own red cap rested on a shelf in the Firstborn’s Chamber, a room he rarely visited. He assessed his father: the close-cropped auburn hair, the muscular arms, the strong body. How grievous that one so nature-blessed should be so unlucky to bear a son with my cursed form. And yet…he allowed me to live.

“Nahas, if I find a girl from our clan who loves me in spite of my infirmity—or because she thinks I might someday become a chief—any marriage would be an unhappy one. Even if the girl loved me, she would tease me relentle—”

“Or you would think she teased.”

“Whatever the cause, we would not be happy. This is how these things go.”

“Is that how those things go?” The king walked from the window and placed his hand on his door. “Firstborn, sometimes you speak like an old man, sometimes like a little child, sometimes both. You are neither. Now, hurry. The dawn is breaking and you have much exploration to do.”

Stung by his father’s words, Psal blurted out. “Nahas, one day I will leave you, and with that leaving I will leave all that you value.”

“You speak your heart’s intentions too freely,” the king answered. “Should I trust you to keep our secrets, when you cannot keep your own?”

Psal didn’t answer.

“And one thing more, Firstborn. You may enter anytime, of course. You’re my son. And you are Firstborn. But think twice if you open my door only to challenge me.”

Head bowed, jaw tight, Psal limped from his father’s chamber past the keening room toward the studier room. In other clans, the position of studier of worlds was inherited or earned. Or it was cast like a mantle onto the shoulder of some intelligent child by communal vote, and that child would be taught all the lore, tongues, and beliefs of one of Odunao’s great clans. Not so the Wheel Clan. They chose damaged boys to be studiers. Such children were expected to be grateful. The Master of the Wintersea had taught his students that they were ghosts, and that being a ghost was an honorable thing: ‘A studier is dead while he lives,’ the old teacher had said. ‘Because, though damaged, he has been spared death, which others think was his rightful due. Thus, he is a ghost, an intermediary between all clans, a mediator between the living and the dead, the Creator and the created, the organic and the inorganic world. A citizen of all the tribes.’ We are not kings of the earth. We are its very dust.

He entered the studier room, where he found Ephan sorting through a basket of pharma jars.

Swiveling on his stool, Ephan settled two circular crystals held together with a little wire frame on his nose, then strapped a large dagger to his right thigh and placed a slingshot and several empty jars onto the cart. “That certainly ended well.”

Psal limped past him. “If you cannot console me, be quiet. Or speak of other matters.”

“This is a watery region. Emon plants should be abundant.” Emon, the Studier’s Herb. So called because studiers with painful illnesses, like Psal, often reeked of it.

“I suppose so,” Psal answered. Where was Cassia today? What was she doing?

He sat on a low, wheeled bed, made comfortable with cushions, that Ephan had designed and built for him. Grumbling, he rolled toward Ephan, who now stood beside the parchment-cluttered shelf. Ephan lifted a brown clay jar containing a sticky white balm that protected those afflicted with the Wheel Clan disease against the sun, and Psal tried to think of exploration, discoveries and soil samples—such things that delighted studiers and bored warriors. He found no joy except when he thought of Cassia.

Ephan opened two more clay jars containing pharma against the venom of reptiles and insects. He rubbing his hands with these ointments, then passed the jars to Psal.

Through the window, the new terrain grew more distinct. The unmaking night was over.

Psal touched his nose, so very like his father’s, a nose like a sloping mountainside. Unlike his father and the rest of the Wheel Clan, Psal was not pale-skinned. Nor was he dark like those from his mother’s Macaw clan. His skin was honey-colored, and long black hair circled his head in a tangle of loose curls. Not that his clan brothers cared about such matters, but it was another thing that differentiated Psal. Psal caught Ephan’s gaze and grimaced. He dropped his hand, then leaned on his right elbow, facing Ephan.

“Cloud,” he asked, glancing at his woven blanket. Would it hold all his meager belongings? “Would you think me weak if I escaped our clan and married Cassia?”

“I? I would think you cruel for leaving me behind to be punished by Nahas. Even if I was entirely ignorant of your flight, I would suffer greatly for your deceit.”

“But, your suffering aside, would you hate me? I would not like you to hate me.”

“I would still love you. Hunted man though you would be. Responsible for war though you would be. I suppose I would worry for you, but I would not worry long.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Wayward One, Nahas would drag you back to us. If you wish to be free, why not flee to your mother’s clan? Your uncle Chief Bukko is a good man, and you—a peace child—would be honored among them. And they would allow you to marry Cassia.”

Live with his mother’s mealy-mouthed clan? Psal’s stomach turned. “I’ve seen their studiers. Lazy, satisfied, smug. Exploration doesn’t interest them.”

“True, true. As the clan, so the studier—as they say.”

Ironic, considering the studiers of this clan. Psal could hear water nearby. The water spoke of stillness: probably a lake. He heard echoes also, with his studier’s hearing, and the wings of bats inside a cave. He groaned. “The walls of this longhouse are eating away our souls.”

“Walls have no teeth.” Ephan lifted his hands and let half the parchments rain down on Psal’s head. “And you don’t believe in souls. Nahas rebuked you privately just now. A mercy. And he gave you ten days to betray us. His confidence in you grows. There was a time he’d have given you a whole day. I, myself, am also prone to helping others, but I would hold out more than ten days.”

Psal picked up a stylus, wet with blue ink and threw it at Ephan who caught it, laughing. Ephan walked to the window, a wide smile brightened his face. If Psal hadn’t always insisted on getting a good night’s sleep, Ephan would’ve stayed up all night watching the regions melt into each other. From Psal’s youth he had felt as derelict as the Ruined Lost Cities, crumbling away like a rock beaten continually under a hammer, or like flowing waters wearing away a stone. He pushed away the sharp pain burning through his left hip and stood.

“Father spared me because my mother was grieving for a husband and he for a brother. Killing me would’ve been one more grief. When he found you, crawling naked and weak and damaged in the desert, that cunning one said, ‘these two ghosts will live and grow together. Then no one will consider me weak for saving my damaged son.’”

“Sounds like a thought that would come to Nahas.” Ephan walked to the tower stairwell. “We need Rangi too, and more Tomah for Dannal. Although…perhaps we should not let him have more of what enslaves him.…”

Psal picked up the boots the women had made for him and stared glumly at the misshapen left foot. “Have you ever wondered what our lives would have been had we been born among the cliff-dwellers or among those who live in the caverns?”

“To live a life huddled in caves is not for you. Nor are you one to remain rooted forever. Cave dwellers are homebodies, always fearful lest the night catch them far from home. Those who live inside cliffs are no better.” He pointed through the window. “Nor can I see you living in huts or in tents, under poles and reindeer pelt. In a longhouse, your soul can roam free and you have a clan to protect you. What could be better? Look, look at this new region. Do you wish to know what I saw as I stood on the rampart?”

“I hardly care.”

“Ah, but you do! You do care!” Gaal’s voice.

Tall and stocky with the olive skin and deep-set dark green eyes of the Grassrope Clan, Gaal was the Chief Steward of all Wheel Clan lands. He pushed aside the curtained screen.

“Firstborn,” he said, entering, “Cyrt had almost begun to like you…well, not ‘like’ exactly. But—”

“If Cyrt is as he is, why are you his friend?”

“Firstborn, a warrior offered me his friendship. Should I—a steward—reject it?” Gaal tousled Psal’s hair.

Psal pulled away “You are not as friendless as you think. Your fighting and mediation skills are so excellent that all respect you and accord you benefits few stewards enjoyed.”

“True, Firstborn, but all are aware that my mother—and not my father—was of the Wheel Clan. It is a curse I must bear.” Gaal moved to the window and squeezed Ephan’s shoulder. “Cloud, tell me of this new region.”

Ephan grabbed two black leather caps from a basket and threw one to Psal. “There’s a lake,” he said. “But shrub and vines clutter the path to it. Best to walk. The horses couldn’t get through. And what do you think is below that clear blue water? An overwhelmed city from ancient times!”

Psal doubted Ephan saw all he claimed. Like all those with the Wheel Clan disease, Ephan’s eyes were weak. But Ephan’s keen sense of smell and sharp hearing were helpful in hiding his eyes’ weakness.

“But tell me,” Gaal said, “you saw no clan markings when you stood on the rampart?”

“None,” Ephan answered. “No other clan has claimed this lost region. And I heard no other clan tower in any nearby region.”

“Firstborn, are you still pouting?” Gaal glanced back at Psal. “Look now, the craftsmen and stewards have created such marvels for your convenience. The royal longhouse is unlike all others! Stools that are tables at one moment or steps and beds the next. Such love your father has for you! You wish to become a chief, do you not? Prove yourself mature. Then you shall not have to accept the place your damaged body assigned to you at birth.”

Assigned to him? Had he not accepted the fact that his perfectly-formed, nature-blessed younger brother Netophah would be king? Why should he have to prove himself to be a chief?

“How differently you speak when you’re complaining about the Wheel Clan women who refuse to marry you!”

Gaal flinched as if hit. Pricked by guilt, Psal watched the not-quite-warrior leave.

“The day has only begun and already I have been pummeled with rebukes and speeches,” he said after Gaal was gone.

“You steadfastly refused Gaal’s offer of friendship. And why insult him? He’s honorable enough. Separated from the warriors, we of the lesser castes—warriors, stewards, studiers, and farmers—often befriend each other. And steward though he is, Gaal is a better warrior than those with Wheel Clan fathers. You should—”

“Our chief steward is Father’s closest friend, Cloud. I have no intention of taking aid from the enemy’s camp.”

Ephan pulled the brim of his cap low over his face and threw a bow, several arrows, and about twenty small pouches into Psal’s studier’s sack. He gathered all the parchments and threw them on the council table. Then, lifting the intricately-carved walking staff which Chief Tsbosso, king of the largest Peacock Clan had given to the Studier-Firstborn, Ephan said, “I have no desire to chart endless towers today. Storm, let us venture forth and explore this world.”

* * * *

All day the studiers surveyed, collected, and made notations. Deyn, Lan, Broqh, and Kwin—young warriors who had befriended them—remained at their side aiding them. As second moon climbed high in the sky, after Nahas’ warriors had hunted, the fires were set. When third moon began to rise, Psal and Ephan climbed to the tower to study the controlled blaze.

See then: Psal and Ephan. Silent, both peering through spyglasses. The double moonlight usually turned the night sky from pale indigo to dull gray. But now, the distant sky glowed like torches: red, white, yellow. Nearby, the smoke mocked the day, misting the forest with bright grays and dull blues. Around the longhouse, the fire flickered and crackled. From the northwest, the terrified howlings of wild cats, from the northeast, the hoof beats of stampeding animals, echoing in the sky the cawing of fleeing birds.

Trouble grew inside the longhouse; First Night had gone. Second Night was come. Psal’s young sisters had not yet returned. In the gloom, there was no glimpse of the lost girls’ yellow tunics.

“Cloud.” Psal noted the fatigued jitteriness of Ephan’s eyes. “Are you sure the count is right?”

“I am not blind.” Ephan climbed into the watchtower, the rounded spire of the tower. “I’ve told you already. Four hundred and eighty-six. All are inside except your sisters.” His tone calmed. “Psal, the fires are far away. The girls are wise enou—”

“Nine and six year-old girls are not wise, Cloud. Earlier, when you spoke to Father—”

“No, they haven’t crept in through any window or any of the lesser doors.”

Psal sighed, caught between anger and worry. What if the fire outpaces my sisters? What if the night outpaces them? Nahas will send warriors to search for them, but the advancing night! Even if we anchor the longhouse tonight in this region, the night.… He leaned against the watchtower, then paced the rampart. He strained his ears. “Do you hear that?”

“The sound of a child crying. But it is not the voice of either of your sisters.”

Netophah, golden-haired, nature-blessed, raced up the tower stairs. He tugged at his brother’s arm. “Firstborn, Father says Lan is the fastest of us. Lan will search for our sisters. We can wait no longer.”

In the gathering room, Lan—fleet Lan, wild Lan—stood at the threshold of the longhouse’s main entrance. Twenty years old, well-favored, slender, black-haired Lan was the child of a studier. Psal’s friend, he had been allowed inside the studiers’ ghostly circle. Smoke billowed past him into the gathering room as all awaited the king’s command.

Chief Studier Dannal approached Lan. Aged, his body blighted by enslavement to Tomah and the Wheel Clan disease, he placed a hand covered with cancerous sores on Cyrt’s shoulder and spoke to Lan.

“Lan is swift, but—even if he finds them—how would the little ones fare, hungry and night-tossed without a studier’s help? Ephan’s knowledge will guide all the lost home.”

True. Lan knew more about towers than the other warriors, but he was not a studier. A studier could hear the barely audible songs of towers and regions, as well as the heartbeats of spoiled little girls lost in a blazing forest.

“I will return again with the king’s daughters safe at my side,” Ephan said, but Lan remained at the door.

Psal grasped Ephan’s hand. “I will accompany Cloud.”

Ephan glanced at Psal’s deformed leg. “You’ll delay—”

“I will not.”

Psal’s two young brothers at her side, Hinis hurried toward Ephan. Fear for her own daughter and for Netophah’s sister lined her face. She hastily removed the leather cloaken from Lan’s shoulder and placed it across Ephan’s. Folded and strapped to the shoulder, the cloaken—when unrolled—was large enough to cover three large warriors—or two slender studiers and two careless little girls—and would prevent the night from separating them. “Bring my daughters home,” she commanded.

Out the studiers ran, the longhouse fast-fading behind them, second night riding hard at their heels. Psal’s weak muscles complained; his left leg and thigh hurt. Emon pharma, powerful though it was, only dulled his pain. Now, as he ran into the smoke, his lungs screamed in pain. Yet, he had to run. Then, a cry so small only a studier could hear it. As one, both turned eastward.

Ephan ran fast, faster, toward the cry. Second night and fire swirled about him, dust and smoke hid him from Psal’s sight. Psal hobbled behind, cursing his wretched leg, strengthening his heart against anticipated grief. Then he heard the girls’ voices issuing from a smoky clearing beyond a fiery thicket. The flames crackled all around. Past the blaze and into the clearing, Ephan ran. Out he came again, the fire licking at his heels, the girls in his arms coughing.

“Give Ria to me,” Psal said. Tears and smoke burned his eyes.

Ephan pushed Psal’s arm away. “I can carry both.”

Not in this smoke! Not with this fire! Not with the unmaking night fast approaching. “Give her to me!”

Another cry sounded from within the fire. A baby’s wail.

“The newborn? Is it still alive? Cyrt promised mercy!”

Ephan grasped Psal’s hand. “Hurry! Away!”

Psal shook off Ephan’s hold, ran into clearing. The child lay gasping amidst the brush. Psal lifted his dagger, held it high above the child’s struggling chest. He could not strike. Out he came again, the blaze nearer. “Ephan! Please! Be merciful! Kill it for me.”

Ephan’s mouth dropped open.

“You should have killed it when you found it!” Psal shouted.

“The fire rages!” Ephan yelled.

“Where is your mercy? Like Cyrt, you would allow it to burn in this fire!”

Ephan placed Tanti on the ground. Hasting, silent, he raced back to the infant, knife drawn. A moment passed. Ria leaped onto Psal’s back. The child’s wailing stopped. Ephan scrambled from the smoke, wiped his bloodied dagger against his tunic and returned it to its sheath. Immediately, Tanti climbed into Ephan’s arms.

Suddenly, strength and power flowed through Psal’s damaged body. How fast he ran—and without pain! As if the wind bore him along. How fleet his feet! As if tower music pulled them in its wake. Like arrows shot forth from a bow, they flew from that forest, the darkening smoke pursuing.

At the longhouse, Psal’s youngest brother greeted him. “I watched from the rampart, Firstborn! How fast you ran!”

“As fast as any other.” The next to the youngest shouted, leaping as children do.

“Faster! If I had not seen it, I would not have believed it!”

Psal, too, could not believe it. He laughed, blushed when his father smiled. His mother smiled also. A smile not wide enough to remove the memory of her disdain, yet this rare tiny thing lifted Psal’s heart.

He set his sister on her feet. “I should’ve let the Voca find you,” he shouted. “They keen for abandoned towers and lost little girls like you!” He pointed through a window to the rising moons. “Did you not hear Lan’s horn?” The girls glanced at each other—guilt and relief on their faces. Fear as well. His heart softened, his voice too. “I teased.”

His sister threw her arms around his shoulder, kissed his neck. “We didn’t want the child to die alone.”

Tanti burst into tears. Her he did not tease. Because she was Netophah’s sister. Because she was a little thing who could not bear being teased. He only squeezed her shoulder gently.

Cyrt sat near the hearth, eating of a wild boar caught earlier. Psal limped toward him.

“Why was the child made to linger?” He shoved Cyrt. “Even the animals and the fire did not wish to harm the child.” He turned to the others. “Only you, members of its own clan.…” He caught his mother’s gaze, closed his mouth. Whatever glory gained by finding his sisters, he had now lost again.