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She called them her Found, and this was the name by which they knew themselves, the name of their own hidden tribe. Dwelling unseen in the midst of their kin, their very existence unimagined by anyone in any of the six tribes. There were some, they knew, who might suspect, but suspicion was all they possessed. Men such as Synyg, Karsa’s father, who treated the memorial blood-posts with indifference, if not contempt. Such men usually posed no real threat, although on occasion more extreme measures proved necessary when true risk was perceived. Such as with Karsa’s mother.
The twenty-three Found who stood witness to the beginning of the warriors’ journey, hidden among the trees of the valley side, were by blood the brothers and sisters of Karsa, Bairoth and Delum, yet they were strangers as well, though at that moment that detail seemed to matter little.
‘One shall make it.’ This from Bairoth’s eldest brother.
Delum’s twin sister shrugged in reply and said, ‘We shall be here, then, upon that one’s return.’
‘So we shall.’
Another trait was shared by all of the Found. Siballe had marked her children with a savage scar, a stripping away of flesh and muscle on the left side-from temple down to jawline-of each face, and with that destruction the capacity for expression had been severely diminished. Features on the left were fixed in a downturned grimace, as if in permanent dismay. In some strange manner, the physical scarring had also stripped inflection from their voices-or perhaps Siballe’s own toneless voice had proved an overwhelming influence.
Thus bereft of intonation, words of hope had a way of ringing false to their own ears, sufficient to silence those who had spoken.
One would make it.
Perhaps.
Synyg continued stirring the stew at the cookfire when the door opened behind him. A soft wheeze, a dragged foot, the clatter of a walking stick against the doorframe. Then a harsh accusatory question.
‘Did you bless your son?’
‘I gave him Havok, Father.’
Somehow Pahlk filled a single word with contempt, disgust and suspicion all at once: ‘Why?’
Synyg still did not turn as he listened to his father make a tortured journey to the chair closest to the hearth. ‘Havok deserved a final battle, one I knew I would not give him. So.’
‘So, as I thought.’ Pahlk settled into the chair with a pained grunt. ‘For your horse, but not for your son.’
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She called them her Found, and this was the name by which they knew themselves, the name of their own hidden tribe. Dwelling unseen in the midst of their kin, their very existence unimagined by anyone in any of the six tribes. There were some, they knew, who might suspect, but suspicion was all they possessed. Men such as Synyg, Karsa’s father, who treated the memorial blood-posts with indifference, if not contempt. Such men usually posed no real threat, although on occasion more extreme measures proved necessary when true risk was perceived. Such as with Karsa’s mother.
The twenty-three Found who stood witness to the beginning of the warriors’ journey, hidden among the trees of the valley side, were by blood the brothers and sisters of Karsa, Bairoth and Delum, yet they were strangers as well, though at that moment that detail seemed to matter little.
‘One shall make it.’ This from Bairoth’s eldest brother.
Delum’s twin sister shrugged in reply and said, ‘We shall be here, then, upon that one’s return.’
‘So we shall.’
Another trait was shared by all of the Found. Siballe had marked her children with a savage scar, a stripping away of flesh and muscle on the left side-from temple down to jawline-of each face, and with that destruction the capacity for expression had been severely diminished. Features on the left were fixed in a downturned grimace, as if in permanent dismay. In some strange manner, the physical scarring had also stripped inflection from their voices-or perhaps Siballe’s own toneless voice had proved an overwhelming influence.
Thus bereft of intonation, words of hope had a way of ringing false to their own ears, sufficient to silence those who had spoken.
One would make it.
Perhaps.
Synyg continued stirring the stew at the cookfire when the door opened behind him. A soft wheeze, a dragged foot, the clatter of a walking stick against the doorframe. Then a harsh accusatory question.
‘Did you bless your son?’
‘I gave him Havok, Father.’
Somehow Pahlk filled a single word with contempt, disgust and suspicion all at once: ‘Why?’
Synyg still did not turn as he listened to his father make a tortured journey to the chair closest to the hearth. ‘Havok deserved a final battle, one I knew I would not give him. So.’
‘So, as I thought.’ Pahlk settled into the chair with a pained grunt. ‘For your horse, but not for your son.’
‘Are you hungry?’ Synyg asked.
‘I will not deny you the gesture.’
Synyg allowed himself a small, bitter smile, then reached over to collect a second bowl and set it down beside his own.
‘He would batter down a mountain,’ Pahlk growled, ‘to see you stir from your straw.’
‘What he does is not for me, Father, it is for you.’
‘He perceives only the fiercest glory possible will achieve what is necessary-the inundation of the shame that is you, Synyg. You are the straggly bush between two towering trees, child of one and sire to the other. This is why he reached out to me, reached out-do you fret and chafe there in the shadows between Karsa and me? Too bad, the choice was always yours.’
Synyg filled both bowls and straightened to hand one to his father. ‘The scar around an old wound feels nothing,’ he said.
‘To feel nothing is not a virtue.’
Smiling, Synyg sat in the other chair. ‘Tell me a tale, Father, as you once did. Those days following your triumph. Tell me again of the children you killed. Of the women you cut down. Tell me of the burning homesteads, the screams of the cattle and sheep trapped in the flames. I would see those fires once more, rekindled in your eyes. Stir the ashes, Father.’
‘When you speak these days, son, all I hear is that damned woman.’
‘Eat, Father, lest you insult me and my home.’
‘I shall.’
‘You were ever a mindful guest.’
‘True.’
No more words were exchanged until both men had finished their meals. Then Synyg set down his bowl. He rose and collected Pahlk’s bowl as well, then, turning, he threw it into the fire.
His father’s eyes widened.
Synyg stared down at him. ‘Neither of us shall live to see Karsa’s return. The bridge between you and me is now swept away. Come to my door again, Father, and I shall kill you.’ He reached down with both hands and pulled Pahlk upright, dragged the sputtering old man to the door and without ceremony threw him outside. The walking stick followed.
They travelled the old trail that paralleled the spine of the mountains. Old rockslides obscured the path here and there, dragging firs and cedars down towards the valley below, and in these places bushes and broadleafed trees had found a foothold, making passage difficult. Two days and three nights ahead lay Rathyd lands, and of all the other Teblor tribes it was the Rathyd with whom the Uryd feuded the most. Raids and vicious murders entangled the two tribes together in a skein of hatred that stretched back centuries.
