"Angus Wells - Exiles 01 - Exile's Children" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wells Angus)

girl and find some other whose taking was less likely to bring the Tachyn raiding. Rannach was not,
Racharran thought sadly, the stuff of which akamans were made.
тАЬ You think of Rannach?тАЭ
LhynтАЩ s soft voice intruded on his dark contemplation, and he answered her with a silent nod. She sighed
and looked to Morrhyn.
The wakanisha said, тАЬ The stallion roped, youтАЩ d best not let go.тАЭ
Racharran grunted irritably. тАЬ This stallion is likely to trample us.тАЭ
тАЬ But still,тАЭ Morrhyn returned, тАЬ the rope is on and we must make the best of it.тАЭ
тАЬ Did you offer Chakthi compensation?тАЭ Lhyn suggested.
Her husband snorted. тАЬ For a bride whose price is already paid? IтАЩ ve some pride yet.тАЭ His aquiline
features softened and he touched his wifeтАЩ s hand. тАЬ Besides, I suspect Chakthi would see that only as
added insult.тАЭ
тАЬ ThereтАЩ s no easy answer,тАЭ Morrhyn offered. тАЬ Save pray the Maker gentles ChakthiтАЩ s temper.тАЭ
тАЬ And VachyrтАЩ s,тАЭ Racharran said.
When Morrhyn quit their lodge, the great encampment was awake. His conversation had delivered no
enlightenment, and he felt still no desire to converse with any others, so he drew up his robe to cowl his
head and walked away from the lodges to where the toes of the MakerтАЩ s Mountain rested on the earth.
The stone shone silvery in the risen sun, aged as time and furrowed with cracks like the skin of an ancient.
Higher, the slopes rose steep, lofting above the Meeting Ground as they climbed to shape the flanks of the
great peak. That stood smooth, carved by wind and untold years, a pinnacle that stabbed the clouds, the
pillar holding up the heavens: the Gate through which the People had come to Ket-Ta-Witko. Perhaps up
there, closer to the MakerтАЩ s weaving, he might find answers.
He set to climbing, the ascent soon warming him enough that he shed the bearskin, leaving it where a
clump of thorn bushes jutted spiny from the rock. He clambered up until he reached a shelf that
overlooked the Meeting Ground and squatted there, surveying the lodges of the gathered clans.
Once each year, always in the New Grass Moon, they came to this place in Matakwa. Here they offered to
the Maker, giving thanks for bounty past and prayer for bounty to come. Here disputes were settled, and
marriages made. What could not be resolved by the akamans and wakanishas of the individual clans was
settled by the ChiefsтАЩ Council, and the will of the Council was final. Here the wakanishas met in Dream
Council, speaking of their visions, seeking the advice of their fellow Dreamers, initiating novices. Here the
People met with the Grannach, the Stone Folk, who lived inside the hills and came out to trade their
metalwork for skins and beadwork and bone carvings. The Matakwa was a celebration both secular and
holy, bound by one overriding commandment: that no blood be spilled. Morrhyn prayed earnestly that it
continue so. He could not say how, but he felt that was connected in some fashion to his dreamтАФ that no
blood sully the Meeting Ground, lest it bring on the burning horses of his vision with their dreadful riders.
He chanted his prayer and heard the words carried away on the wind that blew up. He hoped the wind
carried them to the MakerтАЩ s ears.
Then, seeking calm, he studied the camp.
The lesser limbs of the MakerтАЩ s Mountain curved horn-shaped about the great verdant bowl, fending the
wind. There was grass for all the horses and sufficient timber to augment the dung fires with ample wood.
The stream that wandered across the bowl turned and twisted serpentine, so that none need pitch their
lodges far from water. It was as fine a place as any in Ket-Ta-Witko, and surely the only place where all
the clans might gather.
The lodges spread colorful below him, painted with the emblems of the five clans and those personal to
the occupants. The horse head of the Commacht stood proud across the brook from the Tachyn buffalo;
he saw the wolf of the Aparhaso and the turtle of the Naiche, the eagle of the Lakanti. Past the lodges the
herds cropped the grass, watched by the older children, the younger scurrying agile and loud between the
tents, their games joined by barking dogs. Streamers of smoke rose blue from the cookfires, swirled and
lost where they met the wind. Folk wandered the avenues between the tents, pausing to hail friends,
renew old acquaintances. Toward the center, warriors displayed horses for barter, women the blankets