Chapter Six: An Unexpecting Guest

With the setting of the sun, all shadows merged. Light flickered in a mountain range of clouds on the southern horizon.

"We're almost there, ah?" Jerevan broke the quiet monotony of rustling grass and soft footfalls. He had become less talkative as darkness grew and walking took more attention.

"Uh-huh." Radovin squinted at the glow of outdoor hearths through the tops of the trees.

Jerevan moved his head as if trying to see past something, the movement barely visible. "I can't see doo-dah. No, I can see the fires, sort of. Smell 'em too. Thank the Good Ones! You can find the path in the dark?"

"Yeah...we're real close...." Radovin noted the relative positions of the fires and two vague clumps of taller trees. Things looked different, he was used to prowling alone. A growing moon lost in ragged clouds wasn't much help. The hill rose above them to his right, not so high here as it had been some distance back. They were near his favorite lookout spot, and the ford was right below that.

"I'll go on ahead and make sure of the way. Wait here, ah? I don't want you to fall."

"All right. I'd rather not either."

Radovin moved slowly forward, stepping toes-down, trusting feel when vision failed. The stream had cut its course at two levels here over the years. The upper bank on this side was no gradual slope, but a damnable thing of rock and thick, prickly brush. A well-worn path on a slant led to the ford. His probing feet soon found the familiar hard-packed soil.

He stood still for a moment, listening to distant voices over the sigh of leaves. It made him feel as if he were dead already; a ghost haunting the camp, able to see but not be seen, to hear the voices of the living but never again touch or speak to them. He wrenched himself around and hurried back.

"It's just a little way," he said, taking Jerevan's hand again. They descended to the stream, sliding on their butts. Amid the thick foliage there was only sound--the soft voices of the water and leaves, muffled talk and laughter from the camps. Swift, shallow water tugged at his feet as he felt his way among slippery rocks. He helped Jerevan onto the undercut lower bank and guided him up the path through the underbrush. Their wet moccasins squelched.

They soon reached grassy level ground behind the White Horse band's camp. The largest tent loomed ahead, a black hill outlined against firelit smoke. A hearty roar of laughter came from the far side of the tent. Uncertainty surged through Radovin, threatening to melt his bones. This was it, the end of his journey, his final goal. Jerevan's hand tightened on his for a moment; the boy's smile of relief showed in the diffuse light. Radovin forced himself onward.

Heads swiveled as the pair entered the circle of firelight. A man turned to face them. "Jero, I thought you were staying over--hai! what happened to you?"

The first speaker was replaced by a taller man who thrust himself in front of the rest. An unruly mane of light hair haloed his head with fire. Lovaduc. Fear grabbed Radovin by the middle. The headman towered over him like one of the walking stones.

"Jero! Are you all right? What happened?"

The man's voice held no threat, only concern. Radovin backed off a step anyway, but he might as well have been invisible. Lovaduc's attention fixed on his disheveled, blood-smeared son.

Jerevan stepped forward, further eclipsing Radovin. "I'm all right. I guess. I fell, an'--an'--" After stoutheartedly trekking over hill and dale with a throbbing concussion, he fell sobbing into the arms of a woman who had just pushed through to Lovaduc's side. The motherly figure hustled him toward the tent, Lovaduc following. The focus of the small crowd moved with them.

Radovin's focus was going too, and fast, leaving his mind blank. He heard a couple of voices questioning Jerevan; the answers were inaudible.

"You fell? Where are you hurt?"

"Are you sure?"

"What happened?"

"What about--"

"Hai, give us some space here, you musk oxen. Ottavar? Where'd he go?"

"Come on, Jero, you need to sit down. Oh, your poor head."

"Where's that fellow he came with?" Lovaduc turned, head swaying to scan the scene. "Oh. There you are." He returned in a few long strides. "Are you hurt too?"

Radovin managed to emit a faint "No." The man filled his field of vision. He wanted to run, but there was no place to go, and his legs were cooked parsnips.

"Come inside and sit down, ah?" Lovaduc held out his open right hand. "Share our food and rest a while, at least." When Radovin didn't move, he stepped closer and put the hand on his shoulder, urging him forward. Radovin shuffled his feet in numb obedience. He stumbled over nothing on the scuffed earth. Huge hands caught him under the arms and dangled him upright.

A woman appeared at their side. "Mutamari!" she exclaimed. "You poor thing, where did you come from? Are you ill?"

She must mean him, but Radovin couldn't speak. He shook his head. That made him dizzy.

"Get him inside, Lovo."

"I'm doing that, Vina. Hai, come on, young fellow. Good, you can move your feet."

He let Lovaduc half-carry him into the tent and sit him down on a cushion. The headman left him there and went to the other side of the hearth.

A merry little blaze crackled and sang in the indoor hearth, doing more to light the interior than the lamps around the sides. Radovin stared at the scene without trying to make sense of it. Jerevan acknowledged him with a weak smile and wave from across the fire. Near him, the man that Radovin had identified earlier as Ottavar stirred something in a bone cup. The shaman glanced up once, turning back to his work with a distracted air. An assortment of bowls, cups, and herb pouches, bits of soft leather, a small grinding stone--familiar tools of the healing craft--lay on a clean mat. Several cooking stones sat on top of the flat rocks encircling the hearth, bits of leaves stuck to them.

The woman who had spoken to Radovin outside knelt at his side, peering at him with hazel eyes well-marked with lines of smiling and caring. "Are you all right?"

He blinked a few times. No, he wasn't all right. His feet were ice cold and his mouth a pit of ashes. His head was filled with slippery thoughts that he couldn't get a hold on. He could barely carry one idea at a time and kept dropping them. Talk, that was what he was here for. He needed to wet his throat in order to talk. "I--c--could I have some water, please, a--amada?"

"Of course!" The woman called to someone out of sight, "Sumi, get some water for our guest, ah?"

In a moment, a much younger woman who looked a lot like her offered a small aurochs horn to Radovin. "Thank you," he said, taking it in both shaky hands. He drank all of it with brief gasps of breath between gulps. The young woman took back the empty horn.

A general bustle and buzz of talk scattered around the tent. People of all ages entered, left, and re-entered. Most of them sat to eat a late snack of something hot, with their eyes more on Radovin than on their bowls.

The background activity meant less to Radovin than the water, still trickling down his body, that he had spilled while drinking. He became conscious of his cold, wet feet. It wasn't at all proper to wear one's moccasins inside. He stared at them. At last he moved. One moccasin came off with a good nudge from the other foot. It plopped on the mat, a shapeless turd. Then he carefully positioned his bare toes to push off the remaining one. An arm reached down from somewhere and made them vanish. His feet moved up onto a hearthstone with a will of their own, attracted to the heat like moths to a torch.

The kind-voiced woman spoke to him again. "Are you cold? I can get you a wrap."

He shook his head slowly. It wasn't cold that made him shiver in short bursts. Get a hold of yourself! You have a job to do here. He hadn't said that aloud, had he?

"Would you like more water, or tea, or something to eat? It's just dry-meat stew, but there's plenty of it. I am Tevina, by the way. I haven't seen you around before...." She tilted her head, emphasizing the suggestive pause.

He dredged up his forgotten manners. "I--I'm sorry. I am Radovin," he began. Radovin of where--what--the Bull band? Hardly, nor of the Raven band since too long.

He was saved the trouble of more thinking; his name was a spark in dry grass.

"Radovin?" Ottavar exclaimed. Lovaduc's head jerked upward. Jerevan's eyes went round as moons. Everyone in the tent stared at Radovin. One man was coughing and one of the young ladies seemed to have blown tea out her nose. Radovin gaped, words lost.

The shaman and headman lurched to their feet and came charging around the hearth from opposite directions. They stepped around or over anyone who was in the way and attacked as one.

"You're the one who--"

"You left those--"

Tevina bristled up. "Slow down, you two. Lovo, you're stepping on my skirt." She yanked at the fringed doeskin wraparound.

"Ah, sorry." Lovaduc backed off a step, then crouched to get his head closer, looming ominously in Radovin's view. "Look, Radovin, ah? We've got to talk to you."

Ottavar was again saying practically the same thing. Their voices whirled around the tense knot that was Radovin. They knew about him? Knew his name?

Tevina waved her hands. "One at a time, you geese! None at all would be better. Can't you see how bewuthered he is? I think he might be sick. He's certainly hungry and tired. Settle down, for goodness' sake." A man off to one side laughed. She wrinkled her nose and swatted one hand in his direction.

Lovaduc made an awful face and a wide shrug. "All right, all right. I'm not going to eat him, Vina, but I want to know what he's up to with those scratchings. We all do, ah?"

Ottavar studied Radovin from the other side. "Mama's right, Lovo," he said. "He needs food and rest first. Radovin, we can talk tomorrow. You're safe here."

"I have to tell--have to t-tell--" An uncontrollable trembling had taken over Radovin's body. He wrapped his arms tighter around himself and clamped his jaws to keep his teeth from clacking.

"Tomorrow," Ottavar said. "Eat, get some sleep. Then we'll talk." He moved back.

"Umph. Tomorrow." Lovaduc straightened up, took a step away, and clapped his hands once. "Listen up, ah? We're going to have to talk about some things tonight. I'm going to turn the flap now, in case any busybodies noticed anything and want to drop in for a late chat. The less who know about our guest just yet, the better."

The pressure eased, but not enough. Radovin closed his eyes for a moment. That was worse. The overload of emotional energy surrounding him buzzed like flies on something dead. He opened his eyes again and stared into the fire. Focusing on it helped to shut out the threatening confusion.

"Radovin?" Tevina's soft voice recalled his attention more effectively than any angry roar might have. Her warm hand on his arm touched something deep inside that he had carefully hidden long ago. It still hurt.

"I'll get you some stew. You are hungry, aren't you?" She bent sideways; her face loomed in front of him, full of concern and beginning to blur.

"Yes." The choked whisper bolted from his mouth before his jaws and throat spasmed shut. He had not hardened himself for perils such as these--the ambience of the tent, the warmth and caring, the contented sounds of people who knew where they belonged. The terrible sweetness of her voice evoked an overwhelming hunger for more than food. He lost his last shred of control.

Tevina put her arms around him. He slumped against her, sobbing helplessly. She rocked gently and murmured nonsense-words.

Radovin's emotional lapse ran its course. He raised his head slowly. "Ah...'m sorry," he mumbled. His mind had cleared a little, at least. Vahé! What a piece of dung he was--filthy, dressed in smelly rags that anyone else would have thrown out long ago, bawling like a baby. And the shaman's mother--vah! How could he have let go like that? It wouldn't happen again. He shoved a tangle of hair out of his wet face. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right, you're tired." Tevina tilted her head to look into his face. "You'll feel better after some food and a good night's sleep." She took a shallow bowl from Ottavar and held it in front of him. "Here's your stew."

Radovin accepted it with shaky hands. "Thank you," he whispered. His stomach was ready to speak louder. That nice bit of rabbit he had abandoned would have been inside him some time ago. The first scoop of thickened stew made his jaws tingle. It was all he could do to chew a little before swallowing, it was in such a hurry to get into his stomach.

The bellyful of warm stew pulled his eyelids down. He wondered where he would be allowed to sleep. Looking to his right, he saw that Tevina had gone. On his left, Ottavar sat cross-legged, regarding him curiously. The shaman offered him a drinking-horn. He accepted it with a mumbled "Thank you," and took a hearty swig. His eyes widened. It was filled with diluted hucha, not plain water.

"Drink it down," Ottavar said, smiling. "You need it."

Radovin shrugged, his shoulders pinching in toward his ears, and gulped down more. He was thirsty from eating. The warm spirit of the watered alcoholic brew slithered down his arms and legs, melted his backbone, until there was no tension left in him. There was something else in it, some herb, but he was too hazy to play analytical games. It seemed all right to let go, nothing mattered.

Ottavar spoke again, his voice a landmark in the drifting mists of Radovin's thoughts. "Jerevan's asleep; he's going to be all right. It was a good thing you were there when he fell."

"I dunno why I was there...."

"You were sent, ah?"

Ottavar's hand came to rest on his shoulder. Radovin was too numb to flinch, but he glanced uneasily at the man. Their eyes met for an instant. In a brief flash he was looking at himself. His point of view snapped back just as quickly, and he nearly spilled the remaining contents of his horn cup. He shook his head and knuckled his eyes one-handed. Then he emptied the horn down his throat and stared at the fire once more.

The dying fire's lazy shifts of light became a sunlit plain. A herd of mammoths sauntered by, grazing.... He started, snapping awake when the horn fell from his hand. "Unh...wha...." Ottavar still sat beside him. The tent was quiet, empty; low voices sounded off and on outside.

A woman spoke behind them. "Do you want me to bring some of the extra bedding back in from the giggle-tent?"

"Ahm...no," Ottavar answered, "don't bother. He'll be in mine. I'm going to sleep by Jero, just to be sure."

"All right. The rest of 'em are sorted out, I think."

The shaman shifted and stretched his legs. "Radovin, time for bed, ah? "

"Uh...a'right." Radovin found his legs where he had left them a long time ago, and they were still capable of lifting him from the cushion. Hands touched his arms and back, kept him from floating off and leaving his feet behind. The distance between his head and the mats was a doubtful issue. "I...hafta pee," he muttered, suddenly conscious of the pressure.

"This way." Ottavar steered him toward the rear of the tent where a tightly woven basket held the ashes of previous fires. Radovin aimed with great care. He tried to retrieve his nether garments afterward, but Ottavar held him upright. "Never mind that. Come on, you're asleep on your feet already."

He let himself be guided a short distance. His belt was removed and his short tunic pulled over his head. Then he floated away, hardly aware of the warm, soft covering that was laid over him, or the murmured words.

Ottavar carried the wretched clothing out the back way--all but the belt with its grungy pouches, which he left hung by his bed--and tucked it all into a gap low down in the woodpile. Baz had tossed the reeking footgear; whether in the bushes or the muckhole, he didn't know. He doubted very much that Radovin would want any of it. Those filthy rags must have been barely wearable at the start of his journey. Judging by what they had found out so far, and what he had seen now of Radovin, the Bull band had a lot to answer for. He took a few deep breaths.

The campground was quiet. Only his own band stayed out under the stars tonight, too wrought up by the advent of their unexpected guest to sleep until they were talked out. He walked around to the front, joining the loose huddle between the refreshed fire and the tent. Lovaduc, alternately twiddling a twig and picking his teeth with it, looked up expectantly.

Ottavar resopnded first to Tevina's questioning look. "He was out when he hit the hide. Should stay that way a good while."

"Good," she said. "That poor boy is exhausted. And half starved. He looks like he's been eating rabbits too long."

"He tell you anything yet?" Lovaduc's blunt question got him only a pained stare.

"Shit, Lovo, keep your beard out of the fire," Tanochen said, with an indulgent smile.

"Agh, don't you get on me now," Lovaduc said to his sister's mate. He heaved a deep sigh. "Vahé He isn't sick, is he, Ott? He looks almost as rotten as he sm--well, he looks pretty bad."

"No, I don't think so, just overtired and underfed, and...." Scared spitless, Ottavar thought, and with good reason. The Bulls would undoubtedly skin him alive if they caught him. "He's been on his own for a couple of moons, and Mari knows where he's been holed up. No place too near, or somebody would be bound to notice something. Well beyond that wash, I'd guess. He can't possibly get here and back in the dark, so I imagine he doesn't get much sleep when he's slipping in with his messages. He was certainly up and about all last night, and likely quite a few other nights recently."

"Oh my goodness," Sherilana exclaimed, "and he's been out there alone all that time? He looks younger than Jerevan!"

"Mm...some years older." Ottavar had observed what the breechclout covered, as well as making a rough guess based on overall proportions. Radovin was well over the dividing line between boyhood and manhood as The People reckoned it, although he had no marks of rank or attainment. The big, dark eyes distracted motherly types. "Small for his age, I'd say."

Tevina snorted. "He's still pretty young, and it's a long way to go alone. When did he take off?"

"Hac says they say he went missing on the day of the Feast of Rebirth. Nobody else has seen him, just the bits of painted leather. Well, and the pranks. The Bulls are looking for him now, they know who's doing it."

"Pranks, ah?" Lovaduc's eyes brightened. "You hadn't mentioned that. What's he been up to?"

"Hac said something this morning, but you had your head stuck someplace. I asked him about it later. Trash all over, pots pissed in or stuffed in the muckhole, tripod lashings cut so the meat went in the fire. That only worked once." Ottavar chuckled dryly. "He leaves a black feather each time."

Lovaduc ignored Ottavar's gibe. "A black feather. Is he one of those from the Raven band, y'think?"

Ottavar nodded slowly. "Could be. That might account for the bad-luck talk. Hac didn't get anything very solid about him. They don't talk about him much more now than before. We get the impression he's been treated like an ash basket. I think he was beaten a lot."

"What? No!" Tevina's eyes narrowed in anger. "Who would do such a--no, don't tell me if you know, because I'll commit a blasphemy myself."

"You won't do it alone," Sherilana avowed.

Ottavar clenched his hands. "At least four years Ivergan must have had him, maybe more, and he's never been seen at a gathering or a hunt, nobody outside the band knows he exists, not a word about him from--that--what in the name of the Underworld was he trying to do?"

Lovaduc paced back and forth a few times. "Like it or not, we'll have to play their game for a bit. We need to get as much information as we can before the Council Meeting. That means you are going to have to watch your mouth, young man." He stopped and pointed a warning forefinger at Havener, Jerevan's younger brother. "And you"--pointing at Karina and Anella, the second and third of his flock of daughters--"and as for you, little duckling...." He pursed his lips and gazed at the youngest.

"I'll keep Tucali close by me," his mother said. "That's what grandmothers are for, ah?" Zhamavi patted the blonde locks and received a smile from the sleepy tot who leaned against her leg.

"Good. I just want to make sure you kids know that this is serious. No one is to speak his name or make any mention of a person staying with us. If you bring friends over, keep them out here at least long enough for someone to think of an excuse or get him hidden. Somebody sick...well, Jero can play that part for a while." He looked toward Ottavar, who nodded. "Because if the Bulls get their hands on Radovin, I don't think he'll ever talk again."

"What's you mean?" Tucali chirped.

"He means they'll kill him," Havener said. "Like they did Grandpa an' Kayotar." The eight-year-old set his jaw firmly. "They won't get anything outta me."