Sunmaster, page 8
They spent hours wandering the camp, trading what little they had with the Shenryalans, until the only things they had left of their Ilyaran garb were the pouches that they each carried a small carving of Siliaria in. Someone tried bargaining for Rasim's, and he grinned ruefully and shook his head. "This is our goddess. Like King Horse," he said as clearly as he could in their language. "We can't trade her away."
There was some surprise over their goddess being so small, but Rasim couldn't explain it any better, and Kisia, with her better command of the language, didn't improve things. Eventually she was fairly certain they thought maybe the peculiar outsiders put all their little carvings together to make a big god, which Rasim had to admit seemed as likely as anything. They didn't try to trade for the carvings after that, though, so it appeared enough understanding had been reached.
All three of them were exhausted and giggling by the time they found their way back to the central tent. A grim-faced guard stepped inside, obviously informing them that their wayward journeymen had returned, because Nasira exited in a jaw-clenched towering fury that struck Rasim as so funny that he had to chew on his inner cheek to keep from laughing. Kisia clutched his elbow as the captain began yelling at them, and when he glanced at her, her entire face was contorted into an attempt at looking guilty, but mostly looked like she had to empty her bladder. Desimi, on Kisia's other side, studied the ground very hard, and when Nasira's tirade came around to demanding what they thought they'd been doing, the big journeyman looked at her without a trace of remorse.
"Improving Ilyaran relations with Shenryal, Captain."
Nasira came up short, stared first at Desimi, then at the other two, and visibly realized not one of them felt any regret at running away for most of the day. A single drop of cool dread started to form in Rasim's stomach as he started to wonder what kind of punishment they'd earned for themselves, but the Great Mare's pleasant voice rose from the tent, inviting not just Nasira, but the journeymen in as well. Nasira's nostrils flared, but she shortened the sails of her temper and gestured them in with a sharp motion.
The foreigners were grouped together near the door, and a path the width of Bikat and Irlin's thrones was cleared down the center. Rasim blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dimmer light, then blinked again as he realized that aside from his own people and their companions, the tent was segregated. Men sat on one side, women on the other, although Irlin's throne was on the male side, and Bikat's, on the women's. On both sides, the ages of those gathered ranged from close to Rasim's own, to the obviously-ancient Oyun, whose age and status earned her a chair heaped with furs and pillows. She sat at Bikat's side, and across from her, in the men's half of the tent, Bayar sat beside his mother in a chair built to suit his particular stature.
Rasim slowed as he entered, partly because of the great heat—a small, carefully tended fire sat in the center wheel, and managed to stifle the tent—and partly because no council he'd ever seen had been so divided between men and women. It made the Shenryalan's way of life seem suddenly and distinctly different in a way he hadn't expected, and he took a moment, trying to adjust to it.
It was also very formal and solemn. A trio of sweaty, giggling Ilyaran journeymen shouldn't be there under any circumstances. He and the other two exchanged nervous glances, their laughter falling away as they edged forward when Irlin beckoned.
Unlike their captain, the Shenryalan Great Mare appeared pleased with their state, examining their new clothes with amusement. "That is a very excellent coat, Journeyman Desimi. One of our finest makers has gifted that to you."
Desimi cast Rasim a panicked look, then mustered a smile for Irlin. "Thank you. I wish I had something better to give them in return than my tunic."
"I am sure they are quite pleased with the trade," Irlin replied with genuine serenity. "Outsiders are rarely seen in the tribes, and more rarely welcomed, but you…Waifians?" she enquired with a lifted eyebrow. "Those who sail on the Waifia?"
A grin split Desimi's face. "We'd just call ourselves Ilyarans, ma'am, but Waifians is good."
"But you are not all Ilyarans," she pointed out, and Rasim had to sneak a glance at the group of non-Shenryalans who sat together near the door.
They were mostly Ilyaran, it was true, but Nikki, the old Moranese beggar woman who had cast her lot with theirs when the city fell, was among them. So was Prince Lorens, and Lars, although he and Endat hadn't actually sailed to Shenryal on the Waifia. But Karluk, the Ilyaran Skymaster who had helped Rasim escape the Moranese arena and earned his own freedom by doing so, was there too, as was his wife, who had also been enslaved. Their children must be nearby, Rasim thought, although they were even younger than the journeymen, and probably didn't belong in the great tent right now.
There were several other former slaves, not all Ilyaran, who had escaped to the Waifia when Moran had fallen, and a few of the Northerners who'd sailed with Endat were there, too. All in all, they were a more diverse crew than Rasim was used to seeing on the Waifia, but he still liked the idea of them all being Waifians. Without meaning to, he said, "If being Waifians is what's made us welcome here, then it's worth it. Everyone was kind to us today, and they were interested in Desimi's witchery," then winced under the weight of Captain Nasira's glare.
Irlin, though, smiled again. "So we have heard. Rumor spreads quickly through this camp, sorcerer-child," she said to his surprise. "Rumor of sorcery being used spreads more quickly than most. But today, with Bayar's return, even the most conservative of our people do not look fearfully on Ilyaran water magic, or on outsiders. And now you have the look of our own people—"
She had more to say, but first the Ilyaran group, and then the larger gathering in the tent laughed as the translator's quick words caught up to them. Desimi patted his chest, then briefly curled his fingers around the necklace he hadn't taken off since King Taishm had given it to him months earlier. For an instant, Rasim had a flash of envy, or something close to it. The bigger boy looked so confident and certain of himself, like wearing another culture's clothes and bearing a mark of appreciation from the king suited him unexpectedly well.
The moment faded as quickly as it had come, an equally strange sense of relief sweeping over Rasim. Having someone else be the center of attention for a while was exactly what he wanted. Now all they needed to do was figure out who'd kidnapped Bayar, determine whether Shenryal was in danger as a whole, and go home to fight off the Moranese army that was probably bearing down on Ilyara.
He said, "Oh, well, if that's all," far enough under his breath to not distract Irlin, whose smile stayed in place as she said, "Very well, you have something of the look of our people," to the dark brown boy with his curly short hair and Shenryalan clothes. "We would like to make a gift of more of our garb to you. To all of you," she said, raising her eyes to the rest of their group. "Tonight is the beginning of our Great Gathering, where all five of our tribes come together to share the journeys we've taken through the Great Spiral over the past hand-span of years. We had not," she said solemnly, "expected to find joy in our gathering, this year. We had imagined we would gather to ask our shamans for forgiveness for what must be done, and that we would ride to the east to take back, or avenge, our lost son."
As she spoke, several people rose from around the tent, carrying bundles of folded clothes that they brought to the foreigners who sat together. Nasira was given hers first, and shook open a beautiful, loose-fitted tunic that would fall to her shins, and a contrasting sash like the one Desimi had been given. There was a plainer pair of trousers with them, but the long tunic was clearly the highlight of the gift. The captain stood with the richly dyed fabric in her hands, her expression stunned and awed, before she gathered the clothes against her chest and bowed toward first the woman who'd brought it to her, and then to the Shenryalan leaders.
"Now we have not only Bayar's return to celebrate," Bikat said, taking up where Irlin left off, "but a long-missing tribesman to welcome home. We would like you to be part of our celebrations, and to accept these clothes as a measure of our gratitude."
Nasira, tight-voiced in a very different way than she'd been while yelling at her errant journeymen, bowed again. "We would be honored, King Horse. We thank you, Great Mare. We thank all of you, whose craftsmanship has gone into these gifts. We could never repay you."
"You already have." Bikat made a dismissive motion that was also somehow polite, and the Waifians were escorted from the central tent before Rasim even realized that was what the gesture meant.
He hadn't thought they'd been in the tent all that long, but the sun was on the horizon now, and there were clearings where there hadn't been, before. People in gorgeous clothes, some as simple but beautiful as the tunic Nasira had been given, and others layered with those tunics beneath coats like Desimi's, were gathering around bonfires that Rasim swore hadn't been there before. The smell of roasting meat rose in the air, making Rasim's mouth water and his stomach growl, even though they'd been snacking all day.
Desimi eyed one of the bonfires and the meat-roasting spits nearby like he might make a run for it, but Nasira somehow knew. "Try it and you'll spend the rest of your life cleaning keels with your teeth."
The threat might have been over-the-top, but Nasira's tone brooked no arguments. Everyone—journeymen, former slaves, Northerners and all—went into their tent to change into the clothes they'd been given, and not very much later, Rasim emerged with Kisia and Desimi, feeling both self-conscious and pleased with his appearance. They'd given him green to wear, with a bold sky-colored sash and undyed trousers thick enough to keep the evening's chill away. Desimi had his coat and a new tunic beneath it in the same red as the side patches of the coat, but Kisia's clothes were extraordinary.
A Shenryalan woman had come into dress her, and now she wore robes of gold and white embroidered with red, with pictures of horses and stars running through the embroidery. Her short hair was oiled so it gleamed, and tiny tendrils of curls had been pulled down in front of her ears. Golden paint glittered along her cheekbones, and her eyes were painted with white and red and gold so they looked enormous in the setting sun's light. Rasim had never seen her in makeup before, although at home, girls and boys alike only a little older than they were began to wear it, especially at the festivals. It made her look older, and even prettier than usual. The robes had a high collar that brushed her jaw, and she had golden loops dangling from her ears.
He hardly understood why she was so magnificently dressed until they rounded the spiral leading to the central tent. Irlin and Bikat's thrones had been moved outside and now sat framed against the deep orange backdrop of the tent door. The Great Mare and King Horse were splendidly dressed and smiling, but Bayar, who was beautiful to begin with, wore robes that matched Kisia's, with the colors reversed. Where Kisia's were mostly gold, Bayar's were white, with the same red embroidery. His hair was loose and long and shining with braids that held spirals of gold and scarlet, and his face was painted with gold and black and cream that brought him beyond beauty into ethereal grace. It seemed like it had to be on purpose, and from the smile that lit Bayar's face when he saw Kisia, Rasim knew it was. His stomach lurched and he smiled uncertainly, wondering how he hadn't noticed how much time they'd spent together on the Waifia, and then a commotion pulled his attention away.
The laughing, dancing crowd parted to make a pathway. Two old women in gold and red escorted an even older man, who wore grey and white embroidered with blue mountains. Five or six younger women walked behind them, and behind them came more than a dozen children, some older than Rasim, others barely toddling. One of the younger women carried a well-swaddled baby in her arms. The old man's cheeks glowed red with pride and joy beneath a warm white fur hat, and for all his obvious age, he walked strong and tall. It wasn't until the second look that Rasim realized the two oldest women favored him, their Northern father. His breath caught, and Kisia clapped a hand over her mouth.
Kif's daughters were not just adults in the prime of their own power, but grandmothers themselves, as proud and joyful to be reunited with their father as he was. That would be enough, Rasim thought. That would be enough for any father, but to find himself the grandfather of many, and the great-grandfather of so many more, had to fill a place in the old man's heart that had been hollowed out upon his exile, decades ago. Rasim, smiling so widely it hurt, wiped tears away, and felt Kisia's hand snake into his and squeeze.
The three oldest of them, Kif and his daughters, walked together, solemnly, to Irlin and Bikat's thrones, while the younger people stopped at the outer edges of the gathered group. Irlin gave them all a fond smile, then nodded. Kif turned to Rasim, and, seeing Rasim's tears, had to wipe at his own watery blue eyes.
"You found your family," Rasim whispered in Kif's own language. "By Siliaria's grace, you found them. I'm so glad, Kif."
The old man chuckled gruffly. "Must've been her grace, if that's what dumped you on our shores and started all this nonsense. I'd have never come back, without you," he said more quietly. "I'd have never known my daughters, or theirs. This old Northerner owes you, Ilyaran."
"No." Rasim shook his head, trying to speak around a tight throat. "No, you don't owe me anything, Kif. I'm happy you found your family. Does that mean—is your exile lifted?"
"Our mother's sisters are no more," said one of his daughters, carefully, in the Northern tongue. "The banishing ended with their deaths. Now Father is with us again, and the lost years melt away like snow in sunshine."
Bikat rose, speaking in the Northern tongue as well. "We learned, from the surprise of those who came with him, that this outlander who loved one of our own took our secrets with him when he left, and kept them as close to his heart as he kept the memories of his daughters." Bikat said, in the Northern tongue as well. "We do not boast of our sorcery, and to speak of it to outsiders is to betray the Shenryalan people. This outlander has known the truth all these long years and told no one, even, I think, when that knowledge would have been prized by his mothers. Tonight, as our Great Gathering begins, I ask all the tribes of Shenryal to speak his name to the King Horse, and make him one of us in the endless spiral. He is Kif to you, but to us he will be Nedet Alū , Grandfather Winter. Grandfather, let us welcome you home."
CHAPTER 10
Someone pressed a brilliant orange drink that smelled of fruit and alcohol into Rasim's hands soon after that. He sipped it, coughed, and handed it to the celebrant next to him, who drank it with a gesture of thanks. Even without alcohol, the night spun into something like a story, with dancing and singing, all volume and joy with very little understanding on Rasim's part. He danced with Kisia, and then Sesin, and then with several Shenryalan girls, including the pretty one whose mother had glared at her for smiling at him the day before. Then somehow he was dancing with Captain Nasira, whose short black hair stuck to the sides of her face with the effort and heat of the evening.
That was how everyone, whether Ilyaran or Shenryalan or Northern or something else entirely, looked: bright-eyed and sweaty and joyful, as if they needed a moment of rest and laughter more than anything else. He bowed to his captain as they found new dance partners, and for a moment, thought she even forgot she'd been mad at them. Eventually, exhausted, Rasim moved to the side of the dancing, watching people move through firelight and a drumbeat that felt so strong it seemed like the air jumped with it. Bayar and Kisia were still dancing, flashes of gold and white and red in the night. Rasim's stomach hurt, even though he thought he'd eaten enough. Maybe he needed more, though.
He got up and made his way through the crowds, trying to be awake and suspicious of mind, as if someone would show themselves as a great evil while they danced. He found Sunmaster Endat sleeping peacefully under a fur somebody had thrown over him, and couldn't decide if he was more envious or astonished that the ambassador could sleep through all the noise.
More food didn't do much to settle his stomach, but cold water helped him stay awake as he wandered through the dances and conversations that he couldn't understand. Prince Lorens was deep in conversation with Bayar's mother, who looked faintly impatient, to Rasim's eyes. Maybe she wanted to be dancing. He took the next flask of orange drink that was offered to him and brought it to Lorens, shouting, "You look too serious, your highness! Drink this and go ask Kisia to dance!"
"Last I saw she was dancing with Bayar," Lorens said as he took the drink with a grin. Rasim thought that was exactly why Lorens should go dance with her.
He frowned at his feet. Wanting Lorens to go dance with Kisia because she was dancing with Bayar didn't make any sense. Still, the Northern prince waved his newly-acquired drink and said, "Forgive me, Great Mare, I'm not celebrating well enough, and dragging you down with me. I shall amend the error of my ways." He left with a bow, and Irlin turned a curious look on Rasim.
"You did that on purpose, sorcerer-child."
"You looked like you were being too polite to tell him to go jump in the harbor," Rasim said, more honestly than diplomatically.
Irlin laughed. "And perhaps I was. But surely you are too serious. A young man at such a celebration should be enjoying himself, not looking out for his friend's mother."
"I am enjoying myself, but I thought you should be too." Rasim lifted his chin like he could point to Kif among the crowd. "This doesn't happen very often, does it? Welcoming an outsider to your tribes?"
"Very rarely indeed," Irlin agreed solemnly. "Not in my lifetime, and I do not myself recall Grandfather Winter's banishment. Oyun does, but Oyun, I think, is eternal."
Rasim smiled. "Our Guildmaster is like that. Well, former Guildmaster. She retired. But we still call her Guildmaster. Anyway, she's a hundred and four years old and I think the guild would crumble if anything happened to her."
"Your guilds sound very like our clans, I think," Irlin murmured. "All part of the same great curve of the spiral, but fiercely independent and proud of our differences. But you are not plagued with dragons, in your land."
