Exile's Children by Angus Wells Page B

fears.
    â€œMy father would have me skulk in my lodge?” Rannach shook his head in angry denial. “Am I an embarrassment, then? Have I not given my word I’ll not raise hand against the Tachyn whilst this Matakwa lasts? Is that not good enough for my father, for my akaman?”
    â€œIt is Morrhyn, also, who asks this,” Lhyn said patiently. “And I. Nor does your father believe you would break your given word. But Chakthi, Vachyr … Their tempers are short, and doubtless they still chew on defeat. I ask only that you not give them cause for resentment, but hold to his lodge until the Council sits.”
    Rannach chewed on this awhile, then turned suspicious eyes on Lhyn. “I am not
commanded
? My father does not
bid
me remain hidden?”
    â€œNo.” His mother sighed, the shaking of her head a weary movement, as if this were ancient ground they trod. “He—and Morrhyn, and I—only
ask
it of you. This news that Colun brings, it frightens me; it … worries … your father. And Morrhyn—it was he pressed hardest that you not give Vachyr or Chakthi the least cause—”
    â€œThis is my wife!” Rannach cut short her words, stabbing a finger in Arrhyna’s direction. “I courted her as custom demands; she made her choice. The council denied Chakthi’s objections and now we are wed, with the blessing of all this Matakwa. What
cause
might my presence give him?”
    Lhyn sighed again and looked to Arrhyna, who said softly, “Chakthi needs no cause for resentment, husband. It festers in him like a poisoned wound.”
    â€œHis problem,” snapped Rannach, “not mine.”
    â€œSave are these creatures all Colun describes,” Lhyn said slowly, “then the People surely face such problems as transcend these petty squabbles.”
    Rannach scowled and said, “I’ve no squabble with any present at this Matakwa.” He smiled fondly at his wife. “I’ve all I want.”
    Arrhyna returned the smile, but fainter, her eyes drawn irresistibly back to Lhyn’s face. Racharran’s wife was beautiful in an older as many years as Lhyn. But now she looked drawn, as if trepidation etched the passing of time deeper into her features. It was hard to take such news hid under furs, naked; harder to see the worry in Lhyn’s eyes and know that difference existed between the man she loved and his father. She caught Lhyn’s eye and saw a plea there: she knew she must make some contribution or accept the role of docile wife.
    â€œMother speaks sense,” she said, ignoring the flash of anger that lit Rannach’s eyes, tightened his jaw. “The Maker knows, I’ve spent my life amongst the Tachyn lodges, and so can tell you that neither Chakthi nor Vachyr need reason for resentment, or honest cause for squabble—they find such where they will. Do you only comply with this request …” The gratitude in Lhyn’s gaze was pleasing.
    â€œAnd hide myself away like some skulking dog”—Rannach shook his head—“for fear I offend Chakthi and his sorry son?”
    â€œFor the good of all the People,” Lhyn said. And smiled, “Besides, had you other plans? The Maker knows, when I wed your father we did not emerge from our lodge for days.”
    Arrhyna blushed and giggled. Rannach’s scowl eased somewhat. “Mother,” he said, “you are shameless.”
    Lhyn shrugged. “It was hunger drove us out in the end … a different hunger. Had your father only thought to lay in sufficient supplies …” Her smile grew warmer, encompassing her son and his bride. “But we were not wed in so propitious a place—our lodge was, from choice, isolated—and so there was no one to leave food outside.”
    â€œWe’ve food enough.”
    Rannach refused to be mollified yet, but Arrhyna saw him weakening and,