Gaho took one step, and another. His arm was even now upraised, ready to plunge the knife to its mark.
Suddenly a pale white face seemed to swim before his eyes.
As though in a dream, he thought the face stood between him and his enemy. But no. No, she stood beyond him, just within the torchlight, a few paces apart from other villagers. Ita, his sister, looked on with wide eyes, leaning on her supporting branch.
And her eyes seemed to say to him, even as she had said but a short while before: I will lose you.
Already Gaho was taking his third step. With the fourth, he reached out with his empty fist and caught the prisoner by the throat, throwing him to the ground. He pressed his knee into his enemy’s chest, the knife upraised. He looked into the eyes of his sacrifice.
But he saw his sister’s eyes instead.
I will lose you.
The roaring in his ears was almost more than a man could bear. Far more than a boy could withstand. He must give in. He must deal the blow, spill the blood. He must earn his name.
The prisoner, all fear lost in rage, snarled up at him, too weak to move. Too weak to defend himself.
Gaho felt his chest heaving, his heart ramming against his ribcage. It seemed to him that he felt these things from a distance, as though they were happening to someone else. Even the berserker thunder in his head no longer belonged to him. He stood upon the outside.
And he asked himself, Is this who you will be?
In that moment he knew something he would never have dared to face or admit. Something no boy of Rannul would acknowledge without the deepest, most searing burn of shame. But he knew the truth, and there was no point in denying it. Even as the bloodlust cleared from his head and the light of death faded from his eyes, he accepted the bitter truth in his heart: He was no killer.
Shame fell heavily upon his shoulders. Later he had no memory of his next several actions. He could not remember dropping the knife. He could not remember rising up and backing away from the prisoner, who lay panting but otherwise unmoving in the dirt. He never could recall how he turned and approached his father, bowing deeply.
Afterward he was told that his words were “It is done.” But he had no memory of speaking them.
Gaher gazed down upon his son. His own face was now as pale as death, and the lines of his mouth were merciless and hard. And disbelieving. He tried a few times to speak before he found his voice. Never before had any man of Rannul heard his chieftain’s voice tremble. But it trembled now as he said, “Your man’s name, my son. Is this how you would achieve it?”
For all had seen the match. All had seen the strength of Gaher’s son. All had seen him bring his enemy down, like a dog pulling a hart from its flying feet. All had seen what should have been.
And yet the prisoner lived.
“Is this how you would end your bloodletting? Even now, as first light approaches?” Gaher demanded.
Dawn touched the rim of the world, and the sun rose slowly, his golden eye peering down upon the shame displayed below. There were no clouds to mar his view, no coverings for the chieftain and his son.
Gaho nodded and did not meet his father’s gaze. “It is done,” he said. “I am no longer a boy.”
“And you are no true man,” said Gaher. “Nor are you any son of mine. I give you one last chance. Slay your enemy, or you will never bear the name intended for you. Do you understand me?”
“I understand,” whispered his son.
“And you will not obey?”
The boy who was now a man bowed beneath the weight of his chieftain’s displeasure. But he said only, “It is done.”
Gaher’s lips drew back in an animal snarl. The warriors surrounding saw his hand move to his ax and wondered if he would slay his son. But instead, clenching both hands into fists, Gaher took a step back. His voice was full of wrath as he spoke, but it was clear and even.
“Very well. You have achieved your manhood. But no true man and no true son are you. I will not name you Gaheris. You are instead Draven, Fainthearted. This is your doom, brought down upon your own head.”
So Gaho died that dawn. In his place beneath the rising sun stood Draven the Coward.
The girl sat with her chin cradled in her hands, gazing up at the face wrought in wood above her. The Kind One worked while he told his tale, and during the telling the face had taken on still more definition. Long hair curled around the square cheeks and jaw, each lock made to look as soft and silky as real life.
But it wasn’t the magic of the Kind One’s hands that held the girl enraptured. It was the magic of his voice. And when he came to the end of his telling, she sat a while in silence, soaking in his words, half wondering if he would continue.
At last, when no more story proved forthcoming, she said, “That was very sad.”
“Yes,” the Kind One agreed. “It was a sad time. A brutal time.” He turned to her then, chisel in hand, and smiled his beautiful smile. She felt as though she basked in the light of her own personal sun. “But it’s not the whole of the story. Come back tomorrow, and I will tell you more.”
“Can you not tell me more now?” she asked. Later she would think back on this conversation and be surprised at her own daring. But at the time she felt so at ease in the Kind One’s presence that she never thought to check her words.
The Kind One shook his head gently. “Your mother will already be wondering what has kept you so long. She’ll worry about bear and wolves.”
The girl doubted this very much. Her mother was far too busy to worry about her every child, certainly not in so short a time. Nevertheless she got to her feet, brushing wood shavings from her skirt. As she did so, she stepped outside the circle of light cast by the lantern . . . and suddenly became aware of the hugeness of the incomplete hall around her. High overhead, she heard the ringing of the Strong One’s hammer. The sound touched her ears, bearing with it the return of all her fears.
She snatched up the empty waterskin and fled through the dark hall, making for the open western doors as fast as her short legs could carry her. She did not feel the Kind One’s watching gaze follow her as she ran. Oblivious to all save her fear, she slipped through the doors and left the shadows of the hall behind, stepping into the late afternoon sunlight on the top of the promontory. Even then she felt no ease. Her fear pursued her, reaching from the hall to snatch her back.
So the girl continued her flight, darting through the rubble of construction and gaining the path down the hill and the sheltering arms of the forest. She kept her back to the Great House, focusing all her will on the trail before her, the trail leading back down to a life she knew and understood.
“I won’t go back,” she told herself. If her mother tried to send her, well, she’d dawdle and dispose of the water and return an appropriate amount of time later. She wouldn’t lie. She simply wouldn’t say anything, and she knew her mother, distracted by each day’s cares, wouldn’t ask. But the girl would never return and face the Brothers again, not on her own.
She paused suddenly as a glimmer caught her eye. Slowing her frantic pace, she moved to the side of the trail, peering through the tangle of leaves down to the river winding below. River Hanna, the life’s blood of her people. From this vantage she could see fishermen in canoes returning to Kallias with the day’s catch. She could see women crouched in water to their knees, scrubbing garments or filling skins.
But the girl’s eyes trailed to the shore beyond and the unknown forest stretching as far as she could see. She whispered to herself, “The tribe across the river . . .”
And she wondered.
Mother did not ask her to return the next day. Nor the day after. Nor the day after that. The girl told herself that perhaps she wouldn’t have to return, and even insisted she was glad.
But on the morning of the fourth day, as she followed her grandmother slowly down to the river—Grandmother often needed a younger shoulder for support—she found herself gazing across to the far bank again, ev
en as she had on her way down from the Great House. While helping her grandmother to wash her face and arms and hands, she suddenly asked, “Were there people living across the river when you were a little girl?”
Grandmother raised her fair brows, wrinkles piling up on her forehead. She was the oldest woman in Kallias, mother of many children, grandmother to many more. But even in her age she did not forget a single name or face. She spoke the girl’s name softly. “Yes,” she answered. “Yes, there were people who lived across the river back then. Rannul tribe.”
“You knew them?” the girl asked.
“I knew them.” Grandmother offered no more but held out her hands for the girl to pat dry with a bit of woven fleece. The girl was gentle, for her mother always told her, “Your grandmother is not strong. You need to take care of her.”
It was odd though—for all her grandmother’s frailty, there was always such a light in her pale eyes. Even now, as the girl glanced shyly up into her grandmother’s face, she saw that telltale glimmer. It reminded the girl rather startlingly of the Strong One upon the promontory.
“Where did you hear of Rannul?” Grandmother asked as the girl helped her to her feet and back up the wide track to the village. “Has someone been telling you stories?”
The girl nodded. Then, as though sharing a great secret, she said, “The Kind One.”
“The Kind One?” Grandmother smiled, and her eyes lifted to the promontory and the walls of the Great House rising up above. “You mean Akilun?”
The girl nodded. “He told me a story. Or part of a story.”
“About the Rannul tribe?”
“Yes. And a man named Draven.”
At the sound of that name, Grandmother paused and leaned more heavily on her granddaughter’s shoulder. Concerned, the girl studied her grandmother’s face, watching for some sign of illness or fatigue. Instead she saw only that same smile, though perhaps softer than it had been a moment before. The old woman drew several shallow breaths before finally saying, “That is a story worth hearing. Would you tell it to me?”
Thus encouraged, the girl launched into her own version of the tale she had heard several days before. She knew she didn’t recall some of the details correctly, but her grandmother never interrupted her, only listened and nodded and grunted with interest.
Drawing to an end, the girl finished with “He said there was more, but . . .”
“But?”
The girl hung her head. “I haven’t gone back to hear it.”
“Why not?”
“Mother hasn’t sent me.”
But Grandmother was no fool. She put out a hand to a nearby fallen log and slowly lowered herself down upon it. She extended her bad foot before her, allowing it to rest. Then she turned a shrewd gaze upon her granddaughter. “You are afraid.”
The girl did not answer.
“Are you afraid of Akilun?”
“No. But . . .” The girl found she could not put words to her fear. She didn’t understand it. And Grandmother’s clear eyes made her feel suddenly ashamed. She doubted her grandmother ever feared anything in her life. It wasn’t in her nature.
Grandmother reached out and took the girl’s hand. “Ask your mother,” she said. “Ask her if you may carry the water gift today. And see what more Akilun has to tell you of Rannul tribe. Of Draven.”
The girl stared at her grandmother’s blue-veined hand, at the gnarled knuckles so weak with age. Grandmother squeezed, a certain urgency lending strength to her grip.
“Will you go, child?”
“I will go, Grandmother.”
If Mother was surprised at the girl’s request, she was in far too much of a hurry to show it. She was always in a hurry about something. Twelve children have a way of keeping a woman on her feet.
“Yes, yes!” she said, waving a hand at the full waterskin in her daughter’s arms. “Yes, take it up, and be certain you don’t bother the Brothers.”
The girl wondered, as she climbed the track up the hill, if asking the Kind One to continue his story would be considered a bother. She pondered this same question all the way to the top of the promontory and stood a while on the edge of the wide clearing, staring up at the House, still pondering. She spied neither of the two Brothers from where she stood, but she could hear the sounds of their labors coming from inside.
On trembling feet she drew near to the great western doors once more. This time she could not spare a glance for their fantastical carvings. Her gaze was fixed entirely on the black shadows within. Shadows that seemed to creep out through the opening like dark, grasping hands.
“Hullo there.”
The girl startled and whirled about. She found herself staring up at the Kind One, who stood before her with the sun in his hair. He smiled, and she felt her ramming heart grow calm, her breath come more easily.
“I wondered if you would return,” Akilun said, putting out a hand to accept the water gift. He drank and then called to his brother. Etanun’s muffled voice answered from within, declaring that he would be some time yet. Akilun shrugged and handed the skin back to the girl. “Can you wait?” he asked. “Until my brother has time to spare?”
The girl nodded. She wanted very much to ask about the continued story, but shyness clogged her throat. She hugged the waterskin to her chest and stared down at Akilun’s feet. Did he even remember his promise to continue the tale?
But the Kind One did not leave her in suspense for long. He said, “Would you like to see how my carving is progressing?”
Without looking up, the girl nodded. She slipped her hand into Akilun’s and allowed him to lead her to the doors. Once more, while holding his hand, she found that the darkness of the great hall did not frighten her as it did when she stood alone. She passed through the doors into the massive space within, and it was like stepping into another world. A shadowy world, but full of secret beauty. If she only had different eyes, perhaps she would be able to see it and understand it. But even half-blind and uncomprehending, she thrilled at the possibilities and promises held within these mighty walls. She glimpsed the Strong One’s powerful form partway up a supporting pillar but could not see what work he pursued.
The Kind One led her through piles of work rubble to that place along the northern wall where his lantern gleamed brightly on the contours of the ugly log. On the contours of Draven’s face and neck and shoulders.
The girl gasped at the sight and let go of Akilun’s hand in order to draw near. She stood just beside the lantern, felt the warmth of its glow on her skin. But her eyes were for the carving alone. For Draven. She could see every curl in his beard and thought that if she were only tall enough she could feel the softness of the fur mantle taking shape around his shoulders. Once more she had a sense of familiarity as she gazed upon his likeness, but she could not place it. There was not a man in all Kallias so strong, so noble, so sad.
She turned to the Kind One then, her curiosity making her bold. “What happened?” she asked, her voice bright and eager. “What happened to Draven? To the prisoner he would not kill?”
Akilun drew nearer to the girl and his work. He carried his hammer and chisel but did not set either to the log, not yet. He stood eye to eye with the wooden face he had carved.
“Let me tell you a story,” he began.
He did not know where his footsteps took him, only that they carried him away, far away from the village center. Not to his own small house, nor even to the house of his mother where, when he was still a child, he had found comfort. His mother, were she still alive, would surely not receive him now. Her shame would be deeper even than his father’s, for she would know that a coward had sprung from her womb.
So Gaho—Draven now, his shoulders bowed under the weight of his new name—stumbled through the shadows of swift-spreading dawn into the fields beyond the village cluster. In retrospect he hoped he had not trampled any of the crops so dearly precious to the life of Rannul, so hard won from the cold earth. But at the time he did not thi
nk of this. He merely walked, his vision dark even as he followed the sun’s lengthening light.
He came at last to a fallow field far beyond the sight of any in the village. Not even the field workers, muddy-fingered women and children with curious, resentful eyes, would see him this far out. The grass of this field had grown high, shielding whole societies of small animals and insects in its depths. Into this world Draven plunged, the tall grass bowing beneath each step but springing back almost into proper shape behind him so that his progress was well shielded.
He collapsed in the center, prostrate and unmoving, and there lay for he knew not how long. It may have been hours later before the first real thought came into his head and whispered through his tightly drawn lips:
“What have I done?”
It was an honest question. Just then he couldn’t remember. Even as he lay still and struggled to recall, he could form no clear vision of the events beyond his fight with the prisoner. He knew only that he had failed. He knew only that he bore the coward’s name.
He knew that he had not finished the task set to him.
What could his future be? He saw many visions pass before his mind’s eye. Visions of Gaher and the warriors of Rannul marching off to glorious battle . . . and Draven remaining behind. Remaining with the women and the children and the elderly warriors who spat upon his shadow whenever he passed them by. For no true men of Rannul would permit a coward to march in their midst.
His shame would stain him for the rest of his days. And what long, endless, tormented days awaited him!
He could not face them now. So he lay in the tall grass, so still that a line of ants marched over his hand and away. A grouse passed so near, he could have reached out and wrung its neck had he been able to summon the strength. A fox’s long nose and bright eyes appeared in his vision, and it seemed to Draven that its gaze was full of disgust. It moved on silently into the tall grass, leaving Draven alone with the ants.
Perhaps he slept. That, or he fell into a sort of stupor. However it was, he grew so numb to the world that he did not hear or feel someone approach behind him and believed himself alone until a sudden sharp kick planted itself in his thigh.