The Wizard in the Woods, page 22
part #2 of Lords of Arcadia Series
horsemen left the tables. She tried not to feel like she was being followed.
Once outside, she set Aisling down and he galloped off to locate all the new foals in the great crowd of Farasai eating in the commons.
She’d taken only two steps after him when a hand dropped heavily over her shoulder.
It was a gesture of familiarity. She expected to see Tonka when she turned. And she did, but not the right Tonka.
The big gold gazed down at her, his expression of dark distaste sliced by ribbons of that eerie, almost-white hair. “That was a good riddle,” he said. His hand on her shoulder tightened. “And one worth your remembering. None of us are tethered here.”
He drew his runka from his back-sheath, released her, and walked away, wiping the hand that had touched her on the shoulder of his foreleg as he went.
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28. H’wathu
Evening brought with it much drinking, much late feasting, and much story-telling by the tall fires set to burn around the kraal. There was music played on pipes, not much like the wild tunes played by the Arkes, but melodies slow and lingering in the air. The horsemen sang, the lyrics in that language Taryn thought was Swahili but which the horsemen simply called Far, but there was no dancing.
Which was not to say that there was nothing loud going on in Gathering. Any time you combined open barrels of wine with a bunch of strangers, things were bound to get loud. Among the Farasai, that meant races, runka-throwing, and other impromptu contests, punctuated by roars of laughter and shoulder-slapping. And where every point of celebration lingered, eventually there was sex. As Tonka had promised, the Gathering had brought a feast of mares, and with new stallions to compete for them, couplings quickly became the first prize of choice among gamers.
Taryn stayed close to H’wathu and kept Aisling close to her. As the night wore on and the volume was slowly dialed up around the kraal, she gave in to her discomfort and asked him to take her to bed.
His was one of the farmer’s lodges, and his padded berth stood well down the row. Aisling, not content to share this Farasai-bed, found a blanket-laden table to dive under, screeching out his warning to all 188
nearby griffins that this was his den for the night, dammit, before collapsing in a baby-mangled heap.
“He was sleeping beside you when last we met,” H’wathu remarked, gazing at the shadowed place from which Aisling’s tail protruded.
“He’s growing up fast,” she agreed. “Maybe too fast. Bancha’s book said that griffins like him didn’t even start chewing on the mangled critters their parents brought back until they were half a year old, and Aisling’s actually gone and caught himself a rock-hopper already. I think I’m rushing him and I don’t think it’s healthy.”
“Worry is the privilege of all parents,” H’wathu said. “But mind you, rock-hoppers are not the testing measure of a hunter’s skills. Rather than worry over the things that Aisling does too early, you should reserve your energies to worry for those things he develops late.” He glanced her way. “Know you of any?”
“Not off the top of my head, but then, I’ve lost my book.”
“Then here is a fresh thought—” H’wathu came toward her with a small smile. “Assume that you do everything well and Aisling flourishes for it.” He spread his hands to display the notion and then glanced toward the row of sleeping spaces. His tail flicked. His eyes came back to her without his smile. “Shall we to bed, lady?”
H’wathu showed no awkwardness as he arranged himself in his bed and although his flanks jumped slightly when she first settled down with her blanket, he allowed her to curl against his side without comment.
The silence in the otherwise empty lodge was not an easy one.
When she couldn’t stand it anymore, Taryn shifted and said, “I’m sorry I took you away from the party. I know it’s early.”
“Tis late enough,” H’wathu grunted. “I have no heart for these Gatherings any longer.” It was a reminder of his mate and foals, slain by humans, and it fell like lead over her as she lay beside him. Perhaps he sensed it. He said, “I am glad to see you. It has been too long.”
“I’d have been back sooner, but I’ve been held prisoner by the Arkes since the river flooded.”
“So I have heard.”
She wriggled around until she could see up into his face. “And would you happen to have heard why?”
One ear flicked. He did not reply and he continued to stare straight ahead at the wall.
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Taryn settled back down (uttering a Farasai-style grunt without realizing it) and crossed her arms with a scowl. “If you people had half the respect for me that you claim to have, you’d trust me with the truth,”
she said.
Now he looked at her, so dismayed that she was instantly sorry she’d said anything. “Taryn,” he said. “Please do not ask me to choose between my friendship to you and the obedience I owe to the lord of the Valley.”
She sighed and rubbed at her temples. “I might have known Tilly was behind this. No, H’wathu, I won’t ask you to choose. I just wish—”
She made herself stop there, but the following silence was awkward. Outside, the sounds of the Gathering went on—laughter, talking, pipes and song—everybody happy except them. Just when she was beginning to think it couldn’t get any worse, hoofbeats came running up, clear as could be outside the scout’s lodge and someone slapped the wall just over H’wathu’s bed.
“Ha!” a horsewoman cried. “I win, thee gimped and feebled ass!”
“Ah, I gave thee lead,” a horseman replied, good-naturedly enough. “What prize, Swik?”
“Thee, Puka!” Laughter, followed by the mouthy hums and soft moans of some serious making out.
Taryn sighed and covered her eyes. H’wathu answered her with a commiserating “Hm.”
Outside, a shuffle of hooves terminated the moaning and replaced it in short order with rhythmic grunts. It was impossible to ignore, especially since the couple were making no effort to be quiet, but Taryn was unprepared for the feelings that surged through her as she listened. She tugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders, trying to shut them out with the same act as shutting her eyes.
“You’re missing him,” H’wathu murmured.
She looked up, trying not to gape. “I’m not going to play dumb,” she said eventually, “but I am going to ask how you knew.”
He shook his head and then cupped his chin on his fist, giving up even the pretense of sleep. “Shall I embarrass you and say that we all had seen it coming? Let the romantics of the world say what they will of opposing attraction and star-crossed loves, but the truth of all things is that like calls to like.”
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“And Tilly and I are alike how?”
“In every way that matters.” H’wathu glanced at the wall, beyond which, the mating session was still in full voice. “Our lord is just and honorable and oversees his Valley with a protector’s eye, not a conqueror’s. I could wish him no greater happiness than you. Of course, he is the only lord I have known, but I believe he is a good one. And I believe that you are good for him.”
The sounds of passion grew louder, wilder. H’wathu shuddered and dropped his head back onto his folded arms.
“Are you okay?” Taryn asked.
“Oh, aye.” And, archly, “It will not be much longer.”
Right on cue, a manly cry tore the air and then there was quiet again. After a moment, hooves clapped, marking disengagement, and then the two moved off, speaking in low, friendly voices.
“We Farasai are built for stamina of repetition,” H’wathu continued. “Not duration.”
She managed half a laugh.
“But they will surely have another race before the night wears on too thin. Foaling has passed and new life is knowing its welcome all through the kraal. Young mares look to mothers, and mothers to their mates. Tis a time for rising blood and racing hearts. Tis a very good time.”
Silence.
“My Areduanna,” he said haltingly, “was the fleetest of any Farasai. She was born with a blaze,” he added, as if that explained something to her. He bent his head and rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. Taryn could feel the muscles of his sides twitching hard, though he clearly fought to contain them. It was as though this act of speech were physically exhausting to him, and yet he drove himself to continue. “And winning, aye, as a summer’s day. At Gatherings, every stallion challenged her to race for the prize of her fine body, but she could not be caught. I…”
His hand stayed at his eyes. He did not move.
Taryn hesitantly touched his back, rubbing her hand lightly over his coat right where the coarse fur met his smooth skin.
He looked at her and slowly his hand lowered. “I found courage in a cup,” he said, and offered a thin, pained smile. “And I challenged her to run. I am not a racer and never have been. She asked if I were certain. I told her I had a secret means of winning.” He smiled again. It 191
was a more honest look. “The race was called and she was away at once, so easily. But she saw me running and she dropped back to keep my pace, to tease me. She said, ‘What is your winning weapon?’ And I told her I would show her at the finish. So I ran and she ran with me, until the edge of the field was nigh. She asked me how I meant to get ahead of her. And I…I asked her to stop running.”
Taryn laughed. “Did she?”
“Aye.” His own smile was fading. “We had a foal between us at the following Gathering, and at the Gathering next, we stood together at a bower. It has always been…such a good time.”
Taryn said nothing. She could hear music playing outside, slow and sorrowful pipes that lingered in the ear. H’wathu was staring at the wall, his face drawn and pale in the darkness.
“I miss her,” he said suddenly. “Ah gods, I miss her.” He heaved himself unexpectedly upright, forcing Taryn to lunge away as his hooves struck at the ground. He was gone before she’d managed to gain her feet and by the time she reached the door, he was nowhere to be seen.
She knew she should go back inside and wait for his return, but Aisling had other ideas. As soon as he saw her up and the door open, he took this as permission to rejoin the party and went bounding past her and down into the commons. She quickly lost track of him in the dark, although that didn’t much worry her. She knew his night-vision was excellent and he wasn’t likely to lose sight of her. Nevertheless, she couldn’t exactly shut the door on him and go back to bed.
With a due sense of dread, she started moving toward the commons, hoping to find a familiar face. The party was in full swing, the music getting louder to accompany singing that was more and more inspired by wine. There were birds on skewers over many of the fires for late-night snackers, and open barrels of assorted spirits for those wishing to refill their cups. Everywhere was the undulating rumble of conversation, in English and in Far, and even in a bizarre pidgin-mix of the two. And of course, there was plenty of celebratory sex, performed all around her with Farasai boldness.
Taryn stayed in the shadows, letting Aisling run broad loops back to her and away again. She made her way unhurriedly toward the Jiko lodge, knowing that a full belly would quickly convince her fierce prince how sleepy he really was and that the time spent feeding him would give H’wathu a chance to come home.
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The lodge wasn’t empty. As ever, Ven manned the fires, preparing pots for the next day’s breakfast, and there were perhaps a dozen others helping her. Ven’s colt was slumped against the wall under a blanket, sucking his thumb in his sleep. Watching him, seeing how comfortable he seemed to be, Taryn had to wonder if he’d even been out of the Jiko lodge yet. She knew the Vyengo Mochozi was considered Ven’s personal lodge as well as the house of healing, but apart from those days when Taryn had occupied it, she’d never seen Ven go there.
As Taryn made her way up the double rows of empty tables, she was passed by a young mare, her shoulders hunched in an exaggeration of stealth. The mare trotted as quietly as possible across the lodge to the carving counters, sending swift glances to Ven’s turned back all the while, and reached out to snatch at a bowl of leftover trenchers.
Quick as a cobra, Ven reared and struck, the dipper in her hand rapping smartly on the mare’s knuckles. She held that pose, forelegs kicking at the open air and arm outstretched, staring at Taryn in surprise, and then came down in a whump, beckoning with her empty hand while using her dipper to plate a trencher with meat and sauce.
“Taryn, kinswoman, come! How good it is to—Get you hence, grubbing villain! I shall have the whips at you, Niv!—to see your appetite return! Come and feast, my friend!”
“I just wanted a little bite for Aisling,” she protested.
“Eat,” Ven said sternly, sending a slap onto the mare’s departing rump to speed her on her way out the door. “I mislike your color.”
“Oh, for crying…I keep telling you, I’m Irish!”
“As I tell thee, I am Ven!” The horsewoman stamped both forehooves at once, and Taryn took the trencher that was thrust at her.
She found herself an unoccupied corner and sat, picking at her unwanted feast with a scowl. “Where’s Tonka?” she asked.
“Breeding,” was Ven’s proud reply.
Taryn felt herself blushing, suddenly far more aware of the enthusiastic mating happening in the commons just outside the open door. “Where’s Morathi?” she ventured.
“With the Morathis of our distant kin, sharing visions and wisdoms.”
“So all the Tonkas come to the Gathering, and all the Morathis.
Do the Vens come?”
“No Ven would ever leave her kraal,” Ven said, flicking her tail.
She stirred at the contents of a pot, tasted another, returned to brush at 193
the hair of her colt, and then started stacking trenchers in a basket. “But hunters come also, kinswoman. As do scouts and farmers. In full, each kraal sends twenty of their own, and every effort is made that every Farasai should attend at least one.”
“Except the Vens.”
“I was not always Ven,” she reminded her. And then frowned.
“Eat, Taryn! I will not have you take ill in my keeping.”
“Ease thee,” Taryn muttered, pushing meat around on its bread platter.
Ven’s ears laid back flat. “Do not you ‘thee’ me, human! I care not how old you are, you’re young enough yet to have my broom on your backside!”
Taryn ate, sneaking bites to Aisling as often as she dared under Ven’s narrowing eyes. “How long do they last?” she asked, hoping to distract her. “The Gatherings, I mean.”
“Until the fullest of the moon.” Ven glanced around and stamped a hoof. “Taryn, I warn thee, if I must cross this room to feed thee—”
Taryn ate faster.
“Of course, some Gatherings last longer spans and some much shorter.” Ven’s attention wandered to the pots; she moved away, speaking over her shoulder as she lifted lids and stirred at contents.
“Thus, ‘tis planned as to which kraal should have the hosting of the more wearing Gatherings. This kraal is strongest of all, and to us falls these lengthy feasts.” She beamed. “We have been some twenty days gathered now and still the moon is not full.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I would never have come if I’d known.”
“I would rather have thee here than many of those gathered without,” Ven replied, and several of her helpers laughed. “Taryn—”
“I’m eating!”
More laughter. The colt in the corner woke, sniffling and ready to cry, and Ven went to him and lowered herself to nurse. “I would have said only that you are always welcome here, but since you draw my eye, I note that you have fed every bite of fowl to your griffin and half your bread besides.”
Taryn forced herself to take a large bite of the sauce-soggy trencher. Aisling opened his beak half-heartedly, but dropped his head onto his talons before Taryn could pinch off a piece for him. “Come on, be a sport,” she muttered, jostling him. His claws flexed on her thigh, 194
but he didn’t move. Great. Practically the whole trencher left. “I think I’ll take a walk,” she announced casually. Maybe the pheasants were hungry.
“Shappa, go with her,” Ven ordered, her arms around her colt.
Taryn glanced at the horseman who immediately stepped up, and pulled a face. “I don’t need a guard,” she protested. “You act like you think I’m going to run away.”
Ven cast her an arch look.
“I’m not!” She took advantage of a good seethe by tossing down her trencher and bounding to her feet. “Although I really should. I have things to do, you know!”
“Mm.” Ven separated babe from breast with a flick of her finger and got slowly and deliberately to her feet. She advanced on Taryn, head down and fists clenched, a tight smile stretching her lips. “Truly, I mislike your color. I think perhaps you require bed rest.”
“Oh come on!”
“Bed rest and broth.”
“I’m not—”
“And tonics.”
“What are tonics?” she asked warily.
“Nasty, is what they are,” one of her assistants remarked.
“I can sweeten them with honey,” Ven added. “But in your condition, I shouldn’t like to risk it.”
Taryn eyed her from a safe distance. “You wouldn’t dare,” she said finally.
Ven tossed her stiff mane and laughed. “Would I not?”
“Antilles would come for me.”
“And you think he would risk your health if I called it to question?” Ven snorted and folded her arms with a smirk. “He would fashion thee restraints to hold thee to my table if I put the right whisper in his ear!”
Taryn slumped, defeated. “Fine, you win.”
“Always.” Ven pointed firmly at the discarded trencher and Taryn retrieved it, grumbling. “Be thee here for morning meal, I warn thee,” were her parting words as Taryn and Shappa left the lodge.
