The Tiger and the Wolf (30 page)

‘Wishing you’d not come?’ Venater’s rough tone grated in his
ear.
‘The lucky man’s wishes are ignored by the world. The luckless man’s are granted,’ Asmander replied, the old saying falling
from his lips by rote.
‘You’ll go hunting this Stone River, if he’s even here?’
‘He’s here,’ Shyri’s voice broke in. ‘I saw one of his people –
one of his warriors from the Wolf place. And he was watching
us.’
‘We cut such fine figures, who would not?’ Asmander remarked drily. The three of them were indeed attracting a lot of
attention. Leather-skinned northerners stared at them as though
they were ill-loved figures from legend, stopping in their tracks
to glower at the three travellers. More than that, though, there
was a constant pressure about them, a flexing of the air, a bristling of the ground. The Stone Place did not know them; the
Stone Place did not like them.
‘First things first: we will set a fire,’ Asmander directed. ‘In
the morning, we shall see what we can accomplish.’ He looked
up at the louring sky, feeling that same great presence bear
down on him. He wanted to fight it. He wanted to run. He
wanted to shed his human form.
‘I will not perform for you,’ he whispered.

The next morning he woke slowly. Whatever the northern
spring might be like, the world was still bitterly cold, and none
of the Horse Society’s gifted clothing could change that. The fire
had died, and the three of them had been huddled close
together, Shyri curled into him, and Venater’s broad back against
his own.

He had not slept well, waking often to stare up at a sky full of
scudding clouds, at the cold and distant constellations. He could
pick out plenty that he had a name for, but they seemed different here, refusing to acknowledge him. This was a northern sky
and, like the Stones, it did not know him.

And he knew that the local people would be the same, unless
he did something about it. If he just went from hearth to hearth
and badgered them for aid, then it would not matter what he
promised them. He first needed to cut himself a place in their
world. And not just the craggy, boggy, freezing hell that was the
Crown of the World. He needed to engage with the world of
their traditions and their observances. He needed to touch the
invisible here at the Stone Place.

With a chill, clouded dawn clawing at the eastern sky like a
corpse from its grave, he kicked the other two awake.
‘I am about to do something reckless,’ he informed them.
‘What’s new?’ Venater responded promptly, but the old
pirate’s eyes flicked towards the jutting fingers of the stones, and
Asmander nodded.
‘What if you die of it?’ he asked – not quite an angry demand,
yet certainly nothing as human as concern.
‘If the locals kill me, I expect you both to go down valiantly
before their blades in an attempt to prolong my life,’ Asmander
told him, eliciting a snort of derision. ‘If I am struck down or
driven mad or whatever by . . . by the powers here, then you’re
just plain out of luck, Child of Venat.’
‘You’re serious? You’re going to piss on their gods?’ Shyri
demanded.
‘What? No!’ Asmander snapped back. ‘That is how you go
about things on the Plains, is it?’
‘Certainly it is. We find a holy place of another tribe, piss on
it’s the least we do. How else to keep our enemies’ gods weak?’
Asmander shook his head. ‘Well, thank you. Suddenly this
desolate place seems somehow more civilized in comparison.’
He was about to go marching off towards the stones, when she
snagged his shoulder.
‘Wear this.’ It was a necklace of polished discs, weirdly textured. He had seen it on her sometimes. She had a bag of similar
pieces and swapped between them, for unspoken reasons of her
own.
‘If this is another pissing-contest thing, then I won’t.’
‘This was passed to me by my mother – my real mother, and
she had it from hers. The horns it is cut from belonged to a tribe
wiped from the Plains in the story-times, the long-ago times.
Like the Aurochs, they have gone back to their beasts, and my
people drove them to it. So: this is strength, this trinket. This is
triumph. I am lending it to you I lend you the strength of the
Laughing Men through all the years. We know no masters and
there is nothing we will not do. That is our creed. Wear this, and
carry our strength to the northern gods.’
Genuinely touched, Asmander took the cord and looped it
over his head. The horn discs were an unfamiliar burden on his
chest, heavy in a way their mere weight could not account for.
‘That’s a fine creed, girl,’ Venater said softly.
‘One your people would recognize,’ Asmander noted, and the
pirate nodded solemnly.
Then it was time: the sun was dragging itself clear of the
horizon, a finger’s breadth at a time, as Asmander strode
towards the stark pillars at the heart of the island. The other two
fell in behind him and, both at once and yet with no spoken
signal, they Stepped, so that he approached the heart of the
north with a spotted hyena padding to his left, and a sprawling,
whip-tailed dragon on his right, the dawn light glittering on its
black scales.
They stopped on reaching the stones themselves, though. It
was only Asmander who stepped through into that circular
space, to drop to his knees before the altar. By then, a great
many eyes were fixed on him.
He bowed his head: not in reverence but merely as an aid to
concentration. With his eyes closed, he could feel the hostility
surging in on him in waves from all sides, from every stone. It
was not a personal dislike, not the price of anything he had
done. It was the place itself reacting to the child of another land,
of different gods.
So, here I am
, he addressed the stones in his mind.

I am the First Son of Asman. But that will mean nothing to you.
Why should you care who my father is, after all?
I am born of the clan of the Bluegreen Reach – and on the banks
of the Tsotec that is a good thing to be. But it is nothing to you, and
who would blame you?
I am a Champion of the Sun River Nation. I am a scion of Old
Crocodile, bearing a warrior soul within me, a soul from out of time.
I can Step into a shape you never saw, a beast of the myth-times that
no man ever hunted.
Ah, I have your interest, then?
For he could feel the vast, invisible attention of the place shifting around him, like great stone
blocks.
I have come a long way to stand before your people. You are
mighty and I am but a man, yet I have seen sights that most of your
people cannot dream of. I have seen Atahlan the beautiful and fought
pirates amongst the estuary islands. I have hunted with the Laughing
Men, and have stood in the dead city of the Stone People.
With his eyes closed, it was easy to believe that a ring of
people surrounded him, close enough to touch. Perhaps they
did. Perhaps killers of the northern tribes had crept up to avenge
this slight offered to their holy place. The temptation to open his
eyes, to reach out for them, was like a fire under his skin. To do
so would ruin everything though.
I have earned my place here
, he told the stones.
I have fought
Sure As Flint, champion of the Many Mouths tribe, and I have sent
his soul onwards to be reborn amongst the wolf packs. As who I am
means nothing in this land, recognize me for my deeds.
And he stood up smoothly, with his eyes still tight shut. One
hand found the steel dagger he had killed Sure As Flint with,
and he drew its blade across the back of his arm, feeling the
sensation as cold more than pain. He held the metal in place
there, letting his blood slick it, turning it so that both sides were
greasy with redness. Then he laid it on the altar.
What belongs to
the Crown of the World, I return to it. Take it, take my blood. Know
me and recognize me.

Stepping away, the sudden absence of that fierce pressure
almost made him stumble. He felt a gathering of powers knotting with the louring clouds above, twisting and coiling across
one another.

There was thunder, but it was distant as the mountains, dismissive like the shrugging of gods. Nothing struck him down.
He felt no curse descend upon him. The north did not have to
like him, but it had withdrawn its enmity a little, giving him
some time and room.

He turned and walked back to the other two, meeting none of
the northern gazes that lit upon him.
‘Who knows?’ he told them, as he made that last step, the one
which took him out of the circle, out of the direct focus of the
Crown of the World.
Who knows what I have accomplished?
Venater twitched his head sideways pointedly, and only then
did Asmander see a third figure there, lurking in the shadow of
one of the stones at the outer edges of the circle. His eyes went
wide when he saw what manner of man the newcomer was.
A Serpent priest: just about the last man Asmander would
have looked for here in the cold north. An ancient Serpent, his
skin gone pale and brittle, grey beneath his eyes and in the hollows of his sunken cheeks, his skin crossed by the faded
snakeskin tracks of his devotion. He wore Horse Society castoffs, just like Asmander and his fellows, but here was a withered
old man of the south, nonetheless.
‘You dare more than I would, Champion of the Riverlands,’
the priest said softly. For a moment the hair stood up on
Asmander’s neck, that this man should know him and his soul
so quickly. In the next, he guessed that such information had
come from the loose lips of Shyri or Venater.
He realized that he had tensed up, waiting for some terrible
pronouncement from the old man, but the priest merely shook
his head slightly.
‘My name is Hesprec Essen Skese, and I have been travelling
a long time, and it is good to see faces that I recognize. Let me
be a guest at your hearth, just for a brief while, and I will ask for
the blessing of Serpent for you, and then we may talk of warmer
places.’

It was close to midday the following day when Loud Thunder’s
Mother finally sent for him. Lone Mountain ambled up, and
Maniye wondered if the pair would start fighting again, but they
just stared at each other until Thunder nodded and sloped off
towards the single tent. Maniye tried to trail in his wake but he
turned and looked at her in a way that told her she was not welcome there. This was the heart of the Bear’s mysteries and not
for outsiders.

Lone Mountain now sat down almost exactly where Thunder
had been, looking as disconsolate at being kept out as the other
man had been unwilling to be called in. She went and sat near
him, and tried to think of some way to open a conversation. The
great brooding bulk of the Bears warned her off, though. They
were all of them built on a different scale to her; they could
smash her with a single ill-thought gesture.

Then he glanced towards her, expressionless, and she blurted,
‘I like your robe,’ before she could stop herself.
He grunted. A moment later she read the sound as amusement. ‘I traded many skins for it, to a Horse man. I thought it
would make me . . . different.’
She nodded warily. ‘Because you want . . .’
‘I am her real blood, the son of her son,’ Lone Mountain said
softly, ‘but it is not to her blood she listens. It is to the spirits: to
Winter and Storm and the Bear. In another season, in a different
year, I would be enough. She would call me, and tell me to
become war leader, because all the wars would be small wars.’
Maniye felt a curious cold feeling run down her back. ‘Wars
. . . ?’
Lone Mountain’s voice dropped lower, until it became a
whisper for her ears only. ‘Mother is old. For ten years now we
have thought she would soon pass on and leave her human
shape behind her. She is close to the spirits, as only one of so
many years can be. But is she wise now, or has she gone beyond
wisdom into the foolishness of age?’ He was not looking at her,
but talking as if to order his own thoughts. ‘She speaks of a great
war and a time of broken laws. She says it will be soon now. She
says she has looked in the sky and the water and the earth, and
they tell her Loud Thunder must be war leader, or none at all.’
His broad shoulders rose and fell.
Maniye was peripherally aware of a low rumble of voices
from within the tent, deep enough that she almost felt it through
the ground. Now one voice was raised, angry and insistent: as
resonant as Thunder’s own but a woman’s voice nonetheless.
Lone Mountain shifted uncomfortably. The other Bear men
were paying no heed, some sleeping, one feeding sticks to a fire
with a child’s all-consuming focus, another knapping a flint with
careful, measured strokes. Only Mountain himself seemed to
detect the shift of mood. She had the impression that he had
travelled more than the rest, spent more time with human beings
of other tribes.
She wondered if he had been trying to be like Loud Thunder.
She could hear Thunder’s slow tones sounding as though he
was patiently explaining something. The other voice cut him off
in mid-flow. There was nothing to the rhythm of their speech
that suggested they would be finished any time soon. Maniye
put a hand briefly to Lone Mountain’s arm, a tiny gesture of
commiseration, and then backed away from that solitary tent,
seeking somewhere where the air was less taut and tense.
There was quite a milling of people in the space between the
fires. She saw a handful of the Coyote had laid out blankets,
setting out their stock in trade. This would not be their usual
goods and gear that they had hawked between villages of the
Crown of the World from spring to fall. Instead, here were their
special wares: scrimshaw from the Wetback people of the coast;
translucent sharp-edged stones stolen from the earth; blades of
black glass; glittering statuettes of jasper and greenstone and
shining grey false-iron stone. These were trade goods fit for
priests, objects of ritual, and the men and women who had
brought them here were not pedlars but votaries playing their
part in the great dance between spirits and men.
She watched the acolytes of a dozen tribes crouching to pore
over the assembled wares, as though divining the future in that
scattering of items on the blankets. Everyone here was consumed with purpose, desperate to lure the favour of the coming
year. There would be propitiations and ceremonies, dancing and
drums. Some would don masks, others would paint their faces.
There would be promises made, and sacrifices of precious
things. Perhaps the Deer people would have a crowned yearking whose reign was come to an end, or the Eyriemen a
girl-child clad in gold to become their messenger to the other
world, or the Boar would bring the makings of a god-feast.
Every tribe of the Crown of the World had come here with its
own traditions and ways, but nevertheless they were all seeking
the same thing.
Her eye lit on one particular piece amidst the ceremonial
clutter. From somewhere, after how long a journey, had come to
the north a carving in a rich green stone. Its shape was foreign,
a twined and knotted serpent that seemed to tunnel in and out
until it had honeycombed the material that it was composed of.
She knew instantly this must be southerner-work, some token of
Hesprec’s own faith. Although she had nothing to trade for it,
she drew closer, thinking what a fine gift it would make for him.
When she had squatted there long enough, knowing that she
was wasting her time and yet fascinated by the delicate workmanship, she looked up and found herself staring into the eyes
of Kalameshli Takes Iron.
The priest of the Winter Runners had plainly noticed her in
the very same moment. For a moment they just stared. She was
close enough that he could have reached out and grabbed her,
and she felt every muscle tense, ready to Step, ready to spring
away.
A terrible expression appeared on his face. It was not what
she expected – not the anger that she almost demanded as her
due:
here I am – I ran away, I disobeyed.
But Kalameshli had only
shock and alarm to offer her. It was as though she had become
a figure of fear somehow for the man who had tormented all her
growing years.
His hands twitched, but almost to shoo her away rather than
to reach for her. And then it was too late. There was another
man at Kalameshli’s elbow, and it was her father.
Akrit Stone River saw her and his face went dead, every vestige of him withdrawing from it and leaving her no window into
his thoughts at all. He was frozen, his body battling itself, and
she was still there, still caught on the very point of flight, and
around them everyone else continued about their business.
It was the Stone Place, she understood: the sacred place
where no man raised a hand against another, save in the name
of religion. It was as she had been told: so long as she remained
here, and so long as the days of the equinox held, she was safe
from the merely worldly ambitions of her father.
But there was a dark and angry look coming to Stone River’s
face as he stared at her, and she saw Kalameshli raise his hands
in warning, not touching his chief, but trying to draw his attention and tap his ire. By now a few of the traders around them
had sensed something amiss. She saw one old Coyote flip his
blanket over and bundle his goods away hurriedly.
‘Girl,’ her father got out. ‘Come with me.’
She shook her head, finding that she had no words left when
facing him. She remembered the weight of his hand, the quick
fire of his rage, the coldness of his regard. These had been the
milestones of her years. They were her memories of home and
family and childhood, and she had shed them like snakeskin
when she had absconded with Hesprec.
‘You are mine,’ Stone River hissed. ‘Come with me.’ Still he
would not actually reach for her, but his head twitched, tugging
at her with his authority, demanding that she come meekly to
heel.
There was a word rising within her. She felt it coming like a
nauseous wave and tried to fight it down, but it flooded her
mouth with bile and forced its way out of her lips.
‘No,’ she said.
And then she had Stepped, because she saw that word impact
on Akrit Stone River’s composure and tear it open. He lunged
for her then, with Kalameshli calling out his name to stop him,
but all he got was a handful of hairs from her tail.
Then he had Stepped himself and went pounding after her.