05



“I’m sorry to be so much trouble,” said Serifar, for roughly the zillionth time that day.

Kastor gave the response he’d been giving since about noon, which was when he’d quit trying to be polite: “Na llar.” A useful Kyri phrase which meant, ‘It’s no big deal, you’re welcome, quit talking about it.’ He was pretty sure Serifar knew no Kyri, but he was welcome to ask for a translation. So far he hadn’t. The injured Mara wasn’t exactly coherent.

With Serifar’s ritual exchange finished yet again, Charis resumed chattering. He’d been instructing Serifar about everything under the sun all day. Serifar, doped up and sagging where he rode in front of Kastor, was in no position to object. In so far as one could have opinions while full of opium, he seemed to be enjoying it. Charis was fascinated by the novelty of an apparent grownup who knew less about the world than he did. Kastor was the only one not happy about the situation. Even Aunethan was being disgustingly patient about being ridden double. Kastor would rather have walked alongside, but Serifar couldn’t stay upright by himself. So Kastor had spent all day with his arms around Serifar’s waist -- carefully, so as not to open any stitches -- and the Mara leaning back against his chest.

The thing that made this so unpleasant was that his body and his brain disagreed about whether this was a good arrangement. Serifar, like all his race, was gorgeous. It was a bland sort of beauty compared to Mikah’s roguish charm or Stiaan’s icy perfection, just a smooth lack of flaws -- if one didn’t count the red ridges of newly closed cuts that crossed his cheek -- but he was still the third prettiest thing Kastor had ever seen. Where he wasn’t lumpy with bandages, he was slender and smooth, just the sort of willowy build that had always got Kastor’s ears burning. But while Kastor couldn’t help being aware of all these things, he was, on everything but a purely physical level, totally uninterested. A bit repulsed, in fact. Serifar might have the body of an adult, but in his mind he was a little child.

A rather uninteresting child, at that. Too much sweetness. Too self-effacing. Maybe it was a phase. He’d heard children went through a stage of saying ‘no’ to everything; maybe new-made Mara had an apologizing phase.

So Kastor was feeling a little like a pedophile, and wanted to ditch the Mara at the first opportunity. The trouble was that there were no more good-sized towns on their route north.

The place Randan had been sent to, Arivell, was to the southwest, and had only a thousand souls in it anyway. Serifar was very likely with them for the duration; however long it took for his broken arm to knit and his legs to regrow their lost muscle. Perhaps longer. It had occurred to Kastor that Serifar might not be able to find food without his powers, especially one-armed. The chances of finding a village more courageous than the last one were slim. In fact, the chances of any village at all were getting slimmer with every mile they rode. They hadn’t seen a plowed acre since mid-morning. Now they rode through untouched forest. The road was just a cart track, not even cleared to bowshot, sometimes overgrown with frost-killed weeds.

The day was cold enough to require gloves, and so bright that Kastor would have given his last penny for a glare shade, either smoked glass or slatted wood -- or even a bit of gauze to tie over his eyes. The sharp shadows of bare branches did nothing to dim the sun’s blaze; instead, they made it worse by flicking past in stripes as he rode. What probably seemed fair weather to those with work to do was a recipe for a blinding headache when he had to keep staring at the thin cover of new snow ahead.

And Serifar smelled like swampwater and Mikah. Kastor’s mood was steadily getting worse.

“Right, Da?”

Kastor shook himself out of his thoughts. “What? I wasn’t listening.”

Charis rolled his eyes. “You should listen to people when they’re talking. It’s bad manners not to.”

“I thought you were talking to Serifar.”

“I was.” A pause while Charis tried to think of a way he could go on chastising his father for rudeness, and Kastor fought free of his foul temper. Then the boy repeated his question, in Kyri this time. “I was telling him we don’t have to worry about food, because you’re a good hunter. So if there isn’t a town, you’ll just kill something. Right?”

“Right. Which means we should stop a little early, so I have light to hunt by. Thanks for reminding me.”

After thinking a while, Charis looked at him again. “Da?”

“Yeah?”

“When you were Arthane, you were the Hunter’s... what’s the word for it? You stood for him. Like Mother stands for the Herder. Right?”

“Right. Representative. Proxy, maybe. Avatar, if you want to be fancy.” Kastor frowned, trying to figure out where this was going.

“But Mother kicked you out, so then you weren’t Arthane anymore.”

“Well, technically I didn’t stop being Arthane until last year, when she finally got around to divorcing me. It irks me a bit that the Council felt they could ignore that.”

Charis waved this trivia off. “But it was her decision. So she decided you didn’t stand for the Hunter anymore. But isn’t that kind of like she’s bossing the gods around? Didn’t she sort of tell the Hunter, ‘You don’t have a -- an avatar -- because I don’t like him’?” He tilted his head. “Can she do that?”

Kastor gave a low whistle. “You sure pick the hard ones.”

“Well? Can she?”

“She made me Arthane in the first place. The gods didn’t tell her to marry me. She just decided to.” Without consulting me first, he added mentally.

“Yeah, but the Council had to approve it, didn’t they?”

“You’ve been studying.”

Charis wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t haven’t had much else to do.”

“So what you’re saying is, how much religious authority does the Gethanein have? Or how much does the Council have?”

“I know what the law says. I had to learn that. But it just seems to me, unless Mother can tell the gods who to talk through, you’re still the Hunter’s man.”

Kastor stared at him, lost for words. He replayed the discussion in his head, looking for a hole in Charis’s logic. There wasn’t one. No earthly authority could dictate to the gods. So either he’d never been the Hunter’s representative, or he still was. Supposedly, a Gethane or Gethanein was guided by divine hands in choosing a consort; everyone had said at the time that Alys must have been so guided, to pick him. He had not, after all, presented himself to her, or to anyone, had been very difficult to find, difficult to know, silent and fierce and dirty and just barely of legal age. He’d been so much the Hunter, they’d said, that it was as if the Horned Man himself had taken his own throne. Of course, they’d changed their minds later... but had the gods? Or had the gossips been wrong to begin with? Kastor had assumed the latter, when he’d thought about the thing at all. Now he had to reconsider. Had the Horned Throne been empty since Feanod’s death? Or had this saddle become the Throne?

“Da?”

“I’m thinking.” Slowly, he shook his head. “I can’t answer that, Charis. It’s... a pretty good question.”

“But Da -- shouldn’t you know? Didn’t it feel different? Didn’t the Hunter talk to you?”

Kastor sighed. “I wish. Would’ve made a lot of things a lot simpler. I guess I used to think he communicated with me. Not in words or dreams, or anything so obvious, just a sort of feeling in the back of my mind. An awareness. I don’t know. That thing is still there, but I think it’s only me.”

“But you believe in the gods, right?” Charis’s eyes begged him to answer in the affirmative.

“Definitely. I even heard their voices once...” He trailed off, remembering the circumstances of that vision, when he’d stood within the Forge, lending his will to Mikah’s remaking. Though his last sight of Mikah’s face returned to him, distracting him with an old ache of grief, he remembered what those voices had said to him. What they’d called him.

Rhuun na Nagn. Hunter’s Hound.

He realized he had the answer to Charis’s question, that he’d had it all along. He was astonished that something like that could be a surprise to him -- My god told me I was his special pet, said it right in my ear, and then it slipped my mind -- it sounded ludicrous, in retrospect. But then, the very moment after being called that name, he’d said goodbye forever to the other half of his heart, and spent the following six months or so trying not to think about anything except what was right in front of him. In fighting the temptation to drown in misery, he’d shut away the Hunter’s message as well.

There was a panicked moment when he half expected an arrow from heaven to strike him dead for his stupidity. Only a moment, though. He hadn’t been given any instructions, after all. He’d never heard of anyone being called Rhuun na Nagn in any legends or songs, there was no precedent. Maybe he ought to have asked someone, but who could he tell? He imagined trying to phrase the question: When I was in the Forge of Dawn, you see, the gods spoke to me -- no, I didn’t see them, they spoke from behind and I didn’t turn around because I was scared. Who’d believe him? No one he trusted to advise him. He was alone in this. As he was alone in everything. For a moment, the loneliness was unbearable.

Then the wind tossed a sparkle of powder snow down from the branches above, reminding him where he was and what he was doing. If he was going to submerge himself in angst, this was a ridiculous time for it. Save that sort of thing for midnight wakings. It’ll be a nice change from stewing in self-pity over my precious tragedy. He dug up a wry grin, and turned it toward his son.

“Who can tell what the gods get up to? If the Hunter wants me to be doing any work for him, I’m sure he’s capable of letting me know.”

Charis gave a wide-eyed nod, more impressed than disturbed that Kastor was able to talk about a god like that. Switching back to Nestrian, he returned his attention to Serifar. “Da says we’ll stop early so he can hunt. Maybe he’ll kill a deer. Did you ever have fresh venison, Serifar?”

The Mara mumbled, “Poor deer. Do we have to kill things?”

“We do if you want to eat,” Kastor said.

“Oh.”

Several minutes later, when Charis and Kastor had both forgotten the conversation, Serifar produced a drawn-out sniffle, then suddenly burst into tears.

“Uh-oh,” said Charis, hovering uncomfortably between pity and laughter. “What’s he crying about?”

“Probably the opium’s worn off. Just a minute, buddy, I’ll get you another pill.”

Serifar shook his head sadly. “The poor animal. Can’t I just have some oatmeal?”

Father and son exchanged a look.

Charis said, “Well, I want meat.”

Kastor said, “Take the pill, Serifar.”

Serifar obediently swallowed the medicine. His sniffles continued for some minutes, until he abruptly sagged back against Kastor with a dreamy sigh, fast asleep.

“Is he heavy, Da? You look grumpy.”

“Start looking for a good campsite,” Kastor grumbled. “If I don’t get this sack of potatoes off me pretty damn quick, I’m going to heave him off the horse.”



“Are we really going to sleep here, Da? It’s so cold.” Charis looked around the spot Kastor had chosen, a crescent-shaped clearing along the bank of a stream. The trees were tending more toward pines than they had in previous days, and the green branches cut the wind a bit, but thin snow still swirled on the ground, and ice edged the chattering water.

Kastor snorted. “Are you Kyri, boy, or did you just steal a Kyri’s shoes?”

“But we don’t have a tent!” Then Charis drew himself up, belatedly stung by his father’s words. “Never mind. I can take it if you can.”

“That’s the spirit.” Kastor clapped a gloved hand on his son’s shoulder. “It’ll be warmer than you think, anyway, once we get a fire going. We’ll build it here, see, and those rocks will reflect the heat. Think you can handle the camp chores while I hunt?”

“Can’t I come with you?”

“Someone has to watch Serifar. Besides, you didn’t bring your bow.”

Charis looked away, flushing slightly, and mumbled something.

“What?”

“I don’t have one, I said.” He met Kastor’s eyes, suddenly angry, though not with anyone present. “They said I can’t shoot. But I bet I could, if anyone would let me try. Nobody lets me do anything. I bet you’re going to tell me I can’t, too.”

Kastor was silent a moment, as he rode out the short surge of anger those words brought. Hadn’t anyone been willing to give this child a chance? “No,” he said clearly, “I’m quite certain you can learn to shoot. But we’ve just the one bow, and -- well, try.” He took his bow from his saddle and strung it, then handed it to his son.

Charis tried it the wrong way first, tried to draw with his weak hand, but his fingers wouldn’t grasp the string. He reversed his grip; after a bit of adjustment, he got the stave settled in the palm of his right hand, arm braced straight to aid its meager strength, and with all his might strained to draw the bow. He bent it farther than Kastor thought he would.

“That’s enough now,” said Kastor when Charis wouldn’t quit. He was afraid the kid would go on trying until he bloodied his hands. “It’s a grownup bow. The pull’s a bit heavy even as those go. Still, you see you can hold one. Start you out on a child’s bow, build up your strength, you’ll be a sharpshooter in no time.”

Charis gave him a smile full of hope and trust. “You really think so?”

“I’m sure of it.” Kastor gestured at the waiting horses, and Serifar sitting propped against a tree with snow in his hair. “Now you’d best get to work, if you want to be warm tonight. You can leave the tack on the horses if it’s too heavy for you. I’ll be back before dark.”

“But...”

“Can I count on you?”

This bait worked where orders hadn’t. Charis lifted his chin proudly. “Sure, Da, I’ll get it done.”

“Good man.”

When Kastor came back at sunset with four fat rabbits and a pair of pheasants, he was much more settled in his mind. Three hours of drifting through silent woods had quieted all the internal voices and put paid to nagging worries. Also, he had to admit, sticking arrows in things that squawked and bled did a lot to relieve tension.

He was pleased to discover, on his return, that Charis had somehow managed to unsaddle the horses, as well as brushing the campsite free of snow and building a high, cheerful fire. Charis and Serifar were sitting on the saddles, Serifar leaning against a rock but otherwise upright and alert, and Charis was telling him a story. Kastor crept up quietly so as not to interrupt.

“So Chehe Mahar lied and said he’d stop stealing cattle,” Charis was saying. “And Simha believed him. Simha wasn’t too smart. He let his cattle roam again, and he only put one shepherd to guard them. The shepherd had a name, but I forgot.”

“They just called him Madoc, when I heard it.” Kastor said, and Charis spun around with a little squeak of suprise. Kastor grinned. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Wow, you were really quiet.” Then his eyes widened. “You killed all that? Just now?”

Kastor spread out his finds where no one would step in the mess, and got out his knife. “I don’t think these woods are hunted very often. I could’ve got more, if I felt like trying harder. I saw so many deer droppings, I had to be careful not to step in any.”

“Why didn’t you get a deer, then?”

“Too much like work. Those things are heavy.” As he talked, he quickly jointed and skinned the rabbits. “You were telling Serifar how Chehe Mahar stole the white cow? That’s a good one. I like the Chehe Mahar stories. That little bastard had attitude. I never could get excited about those noble-hero tales, Ahashnar and the Calling Spear and like that. But that little dog always makes me laugh.”

Serifar roused a little to blink at him in confusion. “Dog?”

“You didn’t tell him what Chehe Mahar means, Charis?”

“Oh. Oops. No.” Charis turned back to his rapt audience. “Chehe means stray dog, you know, like some mutt nobody wants.”

“Used to be my nickname,” Kastor put in.

“Seriously?” Charis was aghast. “Who called you that?”

He waved it off; it had stung at the time, but he was a little nostalgic about it now. “Oh, everybody. Serifar, if you’re going to be picking up Kyri words, just remember that chehe is a nasty word. The nice word for dog is nagn. But Chehe Mahar, he’s our trickster, he got up to all kinds of good trouble. Mahar means clever.”

“Clever stray dog,” Serifar said slowly. “And this is one of your heroes? Or a god?”

“Animal spirit. Not quite the same. It gets a bit confusing, because the gods have animal aspects, but -- I should let Charis get back to his story.”

“Yeah,” said Charis with sudden indignation as he realized he’d been distracted. “I was saying how Simha put Madoc to watch the cows. And he said to watch the white cow especially, because she gives the magic milk, and Chehe Mahar is trying to get it. And we can’t let him get it, because it would be better if Chehe Mahar didn’t become immortal, because think of the trouble he’d get up to. And Madoc said not to worry about it, he could kick Chehe’s butt if he wanted.

“So that night, Chehe Mahar comes sniffing around like usual, and Madoc sees him. He says, ‘Get away from those cows, Chehe Mahar, or I’ll swat off your head!’ ‘Oh, I wasn’t going to steal any,’ says Chehe Mahar, ‘I’m just saying hello to them.’ ‘I don’t believe you,’ says Madoc, and he throws a rock and hits Chehe Mahar on the rump. Chehe Mahar goes running away, yi yi yi! And he doesn’t come back that night.”

Kastor listened with pleasure as Charis went on with the story. He detected some of his mother’s style; he remembered that ‘yi yi yi!’ from his own early childhood. Charis was an excellent storyteller for his age. Most children would have rushed through this part, but Charis took his time, building up a rhythm as he told how Chehe Mahar came back on the next two nights and got hit in the ribs and then in the head. By the time Charis reached that point, Kastor had arranged his kills around the fire to roast, and thrown the guts and bones well away from the camp, since the ground was too hard to bury them. He moved closer to the fire and set to scraping the rabbit skins clean.

“Well, at this point, Chehe’s had enough. He goes running home to his wife, thinking about how he’ll complain to her, and she’ll tell him it’s all everybody else’s fault, like she always does. But this time, when he comes home, she screams and starts throwing sticks at him. She says, ‘You better get away, stranger, or my husband will bite your gizzards out!’ ‘But I am your husband,’ says Chehe Mahar. ‘You can’t fool me,’ says Chehe’s wife. ‘My husband is much handsomer than you, he doesn’t have a fat nose like yours.’ Now Chehe gets it -- Madoc hit him in the face with a rock, and his face is all swelled up. Like this.” Charis puffed out his cheeks, making Serifar giggle.

“He explains until she believes him. Then she’s sorry, and tries to comfort him. ‘Oh poor baby, I can’t believe Madoc was so mean and threw rocks at you.’ ‘Don’t you worry, wife, I’ll get back at him,’ says Chehe, because he has an idea. Madoc is watching out for him, but what if he disguised himself? ‘Help me make a mask, wife, I’m going to get that cow and drink the magic milk no matter what!’ ‘You’re so clever, Chehe,’ says Chehe’s wife. And she makes him a mask, and a wig, and a cloak, and because Chehe’s wife is so very tricksy, when she’s finished he doesn’t look anything like himself. You’ll never guess who she made him look like.”

“Who?” Serifar demanded eagerly.

“The Hunter himself!” Charis paused for effect, but Serfar’s reaction didn’t satisfy him. “That’s one of the two Great Gods! He’s so strong and powerful, you wouldn’t dare pretend to be him! But Chehe did!”

“Oh!” The Mara nodded sagely. “He had guts, that dog.”

Better pleased by this, Charis continued. “He sure did. His wife made him a mask with horns on it, and stilts so he’d be tall enough, and everything. He looked so much like the Hunter, he was scared of his own reflection, and wouldn’t look in a water bucket ever after that. Now he goes back to Simha’s place, and this time Madoc thinks he’s the Hunter, and bows low. ‘It’s an honor to see you, Revered Lord,’ says Madoc, ‘and how can I serve you tonight?’ ‘I’ve come to see Thane Simha’s famous white cow,’ says Chehe Mahar. Madoc doesn’t suspect a thing. He takes him right to the cow.

“Now Chehe Mahar leans down close to the cow, and makes like he’s listening.” Charis tilted his head and nodded. “’M-hm, m-hm.’ He says to Madoc, ‘The cow tells me she has a secret. You better not listen.’ ‘But Simha told me to guard the cow,’ says Madoc. Chehe Mahar stands up tall and makes a scary face --” Charis drew himself up sternly, sucking in his cheeks in mock anger -- “’Don’t you talk to me like that, Madoc! I’m the Hunter, and I give the orders around here! Now go away so the cow can tell her secret without you eavesdropping!’ Well, Madoc is so scared he just about pisses himself, and he runs all the way back to camp without stopping.”

“Yi yi yi!” said Serifar.

Charis laughed. “Madoc’s not a dog!”

“What is he?”

“A bear!” Charis said sharply, as if Serifar should have known this. “Madoc means bear. Bears go like this: ‘Wmf wmf!’ Anyway, now Chehe Mahar is alone with the white cow. You can guess what he did then.”

“He stole it.”

“Yep. Stole her all away, back to camp where his wife was waiting. He said, ‘Milk this cow, wife, and let’s drink it quick before someone finds out what we did.’ She milks the white cow, and they drink the magic milk. ‘Ha ha,’ says Chehe, ‘now I’m not afraid of anyone throwing rocks at me, because I’m immortal! Now everyone will have to treat me better!’

“By now, Madoc’s back at camp, and Simha wants to know why he’s not guarding the cow. Madoc tells what happened. Simha says, ‘He must be done talking to her by now. Let’s go back.’ They go out to the field, and the white cow is gone.”

“They think the Hunter took it,” Serifar said. It was hilarious, how excited he was getting, as if he’d never heard a story before in his life.

But then, Kastor realized, he probably hadn’t.

Charis took out his little knife and prodded the nearest rabbit. “I think it’s done, Da.”

“Are the birds done too?”

He tested those. “Yeah. Can we eat?”

“We’ll have the birds tonight. Rabbit keeps better, it’s leaner. Why don’t you get out some of that bread and cheese in my saddlebags? And the salt, it’s in a little clay jar, it’s gray. Oh, and lay out that oilcloth, so we can put the meat on it.”

“How come I have to do everything?”

“Because my hands are nasty.” Kastor wiggled his bloody fingers. “Gnaar!”

“Ew.” Charis went to dig in the saddlebags.

Serifar said, a bit forlornly, “Then what happened?”

“I’ll tell you later, after we eat.”

“Oh. But... is there more?”

“Yeah, there’s more, but I’m hungry! Che ghanhar, Serifar! Just hold your horses.”

“My horses?” The Mara looked at the nearest example.

Kastor explained. “It’s an expression. It means don’t be so impatient. How are you feeling, by the way? You seem wide awake, so I’m assuming the opium’s worn off.”

“I think so.” The Mara looked down at himself. He wiggled the fingers that stuck out of the roll of splint and bandage. “I couldn’t do that this morning.” He wiggled them some more.

“Are you in pain? Do you want another pill? There should be a few left.”

Serifar bit his lip, thinking. After a moment he said, “No. I don’t want a pill. I don’t like having my head all spinny like that. It doesn’t hurt so much.”

“I’ll check your bandages after we eat. Charis, will you feed him? I need to finish this before the hides freeze.”

“I guess,” said Charis reluctantly.

Serifar said, “You can eat first.”

“Don’t be stupid, you’re sick,” Charis told him, kneeling beside him to start feeding him bits of steaming pheasant.

Kastor didn’t want to make Charis self-conscious by saying anything, but inwardly, he was warmed by pride. Not a lot of boys that age would look after someone else when they could have eaten first. Not a lot of adults either.

When he’d finished scraping the rabbit skins, Kastor set them aside and washed his hands and knife in the stream. He ate quickly, and less than his share, letting the growing boy and the injured Mara have the greater part. Not that there was a shortage of food at the moment, but it was his instinct to be cautious. Then he set a pan of water on the fire. While he waited for that to boil, he had a look at the trees around the campsite, and was pleased to find hemlock and oak plentiful in the vicinity. He piled hemlock bark and oak galls on the flattest rock he could find and set to pulverizing them with the pommel of his skinning knife.

“Da? Whatcha doing?” Now that he was full, Charis sounded sleepy.

“Going to see if I can get some use out of these rabbit skins.”

“Oh.”

“Saddle-tanning doesn’t make the best leather, but it’ll at least keep them from rotting.”

Serifar said, “I don’t understand.”

“You make a bark mash and roll it up in the skins, tie them behind your saddle. Whenever you camp, scrape off the mash and put on a new one. Do it until the tan takes, then oil it. Works better on thin skins. It’s not pretty, the fur gets stained, but I don’t care about that. I just don’t like to waste things. Hey, Charis, could you...” He trailed off as he saw that Charis wasn’t listening. The boy had rolled himself up in his cloak and curled against his horse’s side, and was fast asleep with his face still greasy from dinner. Kastor sighed. “He could’ve waited five minutes.”

Serifar was gazing at Charis with an odd look in his eyes. He said softly, “Kastor, will you answer something for me?”

“Sure.”

“When I look at him, I feel very soft and very large at the same time, and I want to make things happier around him. What does that mean?”

For a moment, Kastor was alarmed, thinking that the Mara had some unnatural attraction to the child. Then he understood, and smiled. “It means he’s a little kid, and you’re a good person.”

“Do you feel the same thing?”

“Yes, only more so, because he’s my son.”

“That means... you made him?”

Kastor chuckled. “I had some help.”

“Humans start out so small. I started out this size.”

“Yes, I know.” The water was boiling. Kastor took it off the fire to cool.

“But you stop getting bigger after a while. And... and eventually you die.”

“Yes. Surely you understand about mortality.”

“I knew -- I was told, but --” He looked to Kastor with his violet eyes full of tears. “He’ll die. This little one -- my friend -- he’ll get bigger, and then he’ll get wrinkly and sick, and he’ll die! And you, you’re my friend too, and you’ll die even sooner because you’re already grown up! And, and, and I can’t stand it!”

“Hush. You’ll wake him.”

“And you won’t come back, any of you. Those animals you killed, that we ate, they won’t come back either.”

“That’s right.”

Serifar took a long, shuddering breath, trying to control himself, but his effort failed; the word came out in a wail: “Why?”

“Quietly, you -- you silly creature.” Kastor sighed. On his way to Serifar, he tucked Charis’s cloak more tightly around him. Then he knelt beside the Mara with the pan of water and a cloth. He wet the cloth and wiped away Serifar’s tears. “Quit blubbering before your nose starts running, or you’ll get snot in your cuts.” He gave another sigh, and spoke more gently. “If things didn’t die, the world would be overrun. There’d be no room for anyone. Besides, death isn’t really the end. After you die, your soul goes on to Death’s kingdom. People believe different things about what that’s like. We Kyri have a special afterlife, a place called Canagh na Ddheru -- the Field of Wild Horses. Pantheonists believe Death’s land is a foggy place, full of green woods and flowing water, they call it The Mists. And most everyone believes that when you’ve had your fill of the afterlife, you can go on to be reborn. So don’t worry too much about it. If the tales are true -- and I believe they are -- then I’ve already died a bunch of times, and here I am again.” He used the cloth to lift Serifar’s chin, to make him meet his eyes, and gave him a smile. “Besides, I’ve been told I’ll live a lot longer than most mortals, so Charis probably will too. You’ve got a long time to get used to the idea.” He didn’t want to address the fact that he didn’t intend to spend more than a few weeks in Serifar’s company; not the best subject to bring up while the Mara was being emotional.

Serifar had contained his weeping while Kastor spoke. Now he gave a final sniffle and returned the smile. “You’re so kind to me. I like you so much.”

“That’s... that’s very nice, Serifar.”

“I never had a friend before. I met some nice people, but they never wanted me to stay. Those people in the village, they didn’t want me to stay. Why is everyone afraid of me? I wouldn’t hurt them.”

“They can’t know that for sure. You said yourself, some of the other Mara are pretty nasty.”

“But I’m not!”

“Well, but aren’t some of the nasty ones nasty enough to pretend to be nice?”

Serifar’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know I’m not like that?”

“I don’t really. Doesn’t seem likely, but I can’t be sure.”

“Then... why...?” Serifar sucked in a hissing breath as Kastor peeled away the bandage over his shoulder stump. He had to pause for a few trembling moments while Kastor checked the wound. It was scabbed over, and new skin was forming at the edges. The terrible knob of bone that had been exposed before was no longer visible.

“You’re healing well,” Kastor said as he put on a fresh bandage. “The rate it’s going, it’ll stop hurting in a day or two. Lean back, I need to get at your side and I don’t want to take your arm out of the sling.”

Serifar obediently leaned back. “How do you know I’m not secretly rotten?”

“It’s...” Kastor shook his head. “Look, I can’t explain everything to you all at once. It’s not as simple as mean and nice. There’s no absolute good or evil in any creature with free will. You, me, Charis, we all have good and bad in us, we might be the soul of kindness one day and cruel as a wyr the next.”

“That’s why you got a funny look when I said you’re kind.”

“Not a lot of people think that about me, you know. People tend to be frightened of me. And maybe they’re right. I can be very nasty sometimes.”

“But you wouldn’t be cruel to me, right? I’m your friend! Right?”

“Serifar...” Kastor pressed his lips thin, trying not to answer. He finished replacing the bandage around Serifar’s middle. The legs were next, he’d have to take the Mara’s pants off, and he really didn’t want to just now.

Serifar prompted quaveringly, “You wouldn’t, right?”

Kastor’s voice came out low and tight. “Serifar, there was once a man I loved more than anything on earth, more than life, more than sunlight or freedom -- and I was so cruel to him that I didn’t tell him I loved him until four days before he died.” He forced himself to speak more gently. “I’m a difficult person to be friends with. You just have to trust that I don’t mean you any harm. And we just have to trust that you won’t harm us. And there’s never any better assurance than that. There’s never any certainty, and most of the abstracts people live by are illusions.”

“That’s not fair.”

“There is no fairness. There’s no such thing as justice.”

“That’s not what the priest in the village said.”

“I could be wrong. I don’t think I am, though.” Kastor had busied himself with re-warming the water and wringing out the cloth long enough. “Lean on my shoulder, I have to lift you up to get your pants off.”

“Do we have to? It’s cold.”

“I don’t think you’ll get infected, being a Mara, but we’d better not take chances. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

The less-injured leg no longer needed a bandage; like the cuts on his face, that wound had healed to a puckered red mark. Kastor picked the stitches out without concerning himself about Serifar’s little yelps of protest. The other leg, the one that had been too badly bitten to stitch, was scabbed and mending like the shoulder, and he replaced the bandage. All told, he didn’t take more than five minutes, but the Mara was shivering by the time Kastor reclothed him, and his teeth were chattering. When Kastor had finished dressing him, and made to withdraw his arm from around Serifar’s waist, Serifar leaned into him to keep him there.

“Don’t let go,” Serifar said. “You’re warm.”

“I have more work to do.”

“Just a few minutes.”

Kastor sighed. “I guess. All right.” He let the Mara huddle against his chest. After this odd conversation they’d been having, it felt even more weird than riding double had. It was extremely disturbing to have Serifar’s head nestled under his chin. The Mara seemed oddly small, and very thin. Kastor was pretty sure the contact was entirely innocent on Serifar’s part. It didn’t seem like the new Mara had the slightest experience of anything sexual. Kastor definitely wasn’t going to be the one to introduce him to the concept. As soon as Serifar stopped shivering, Kastor pulled away.

“Now I have a couple of things to attend to before I sleep. Want some help getting settled?”

“Where?”

“Let me get my horse to lie down.” Charis’s mare had been lying down since before dinner, but Aunethan was dozing upright, head hanging. Kastor coaxed him to settle. It took a bit of doing; some horses liked to lie down, and some didn’t, and Aunethan was of the latter type. Eventually he was persuaded, though, and Kastor carried Serifar over and arranged him between horse and fire, wrapping him up well. The Mara was heavier than before, though still far too light for his size.

Serifar didn’t sleep right away. His eyes shone in the light of the dying fire, watching while Kastor finished up the rabbit skins. He followed every movement as Kastor took his sheathed swords from their baldric and got comfortable with his back against a rock, sitting crosslegged, swords nestled in his folded arms.

“Do you sleep like that?” asked Serifar quietly. “Sitting up? No one else does.”

“I don’t want to sleep too deeply. This way, I’ll hear if anything tries to sneak up on us.”

“I see.” Then, after a while, “What’s the end of that story? The one with the dog and the cow?”

“Charis will tell you tomorrow.”

“But... I want to know now.”

Kastor began to refuse, but realized that telling the story might calm him as well as putting the Mara’s fussing to rest. “All right. Where were we? Thane Simha had just discovered the white cow was gone, yes?”

“And he thought the Hunter had done it.”

“Right. Naturally he was unhappy about this. The more he thought about it, the more it bothered him. Of course he wasn’t pleased the cow was gone, but that was the least of it, when he got to thinking about the implications of the theft. If the Hunter felt he could just go around taking things, then who could be sure of anything? It might be his horses that were stolen next, or his wife, or who-knows-what. Simha thought about this, and he built himself slowly into a terrible rage.

“At last he said to Madoc, ‘This can’t be allowed. We’ll have to do something about it. I won’t blame you if you’re too afraid of the Hunter to join with me, but I’d be glad of your help if you’ll give it.’ ‘Join with you in what?’ asked Madoc. And Simha said, ‘War.’

“Madoc was afraid, but he knew it had to be done. He said, ‘I’m with you, Simha, and so are all the bears.’ Simha gathered all his raiders, and put them on fine horses, and armed them with long spears. He spoke to his allies, Thane Resheth and Thanein Eheret, and they agreed to fight as well. Resheth brought all his bison, so many that they made a cloud of dust from one horizon to the other. Eheret brought all her dragons, so many that they blackened the sky. Madoc came with all the bears of the wood, the black bears and the brown bears, the white bears of the ice-lands, and the great silverbacks that can tear down whole trees. And with this army, Simha rode to war.

“Now, the Hunter had no reason to expect this. He was roaming the heights, as he was pleased to do in those days, as silent and swift as the wind, and as unconcerned. But he has very sharp eyes, the Hunter. He saw the cloud of the army’s coming, and he saw what was beneath it. He thought to himself, ‘Why are all these bears coming toward me, and this flight of dragons, this herd of bison, and all Simha’s men with war-spears? There’s no one here for them to fight but me.’ He saw that if they came to him on the heights they’d trample the forest in their charge, so he went down to meet them on the plain.

“’What does this mean?’ he asked them. ‘This army you’ve gathered, coming toward me as if you mean to fight with me?’ Simha was frightened so his heart choked him, but he worked up his courage and said, ‘Lord, you cannot simply take what you will. That white cow is mine, and no one else’s. I raised her from a calf, I fed her sweet clover, I guarded her from those who would steal the magic milk. You must give her back, or we will make war on you. And you see we have a great host, so it may be that we’ll win.’

“’I haven’t stolen your white cow, Simha,’ the Hunter said. ‘If I had, you would be right to make war on me, though I think you would not win. And it’s true I’ve stolen a cow or two in my time, aye, and horses too, for didn’t I steal the Red Horse from Shejehan? But I didn’t take your white cow.’ Then Simha said, ‘Madoc saw you with his own eyes. You came to see the cow, and you sent him away so you could hear her tell a secret, but when we came back to the field you were gone and the cow was gone. How can you tell me you didn’t take her?’

“At this, the Hunter laughed. ‘Little man,’ he said, ‘if I wished to steal your cow, I wouldn’t need to trick you. For in all the world is there a warrior to match me? Is there anywhere a raider that has my measure? You’ve been decieved, Simha, and I think I know who decieved you. Send away your army. I’ll get your white cow back for you.’

“The Hunter, as I said, has very sharp eyes. He climbed to the top of Mount Edrhuun, which is his home. He looked over all the world, and he saw Chehe Mahar’s camp, and he saw the white cow there. Swift as the wind, he ran down the mountain, ran to Chehe’s camp in two heartbeats, scaring all Chehe’s horses away, and they haven’t stopped running to this day. Of course Chehe was alarmed, and jumped up, crying, ‘Hide the mask, wife! Throw it in the fire!’

“’It’s too late, Chehe, for I know what you did,’ said the Hunter. ‘If you only stole Simha’s cow, I’d say it was between you and him; I care not who steals whose herds. But you threw the guilt on me, and for that I will kill you.’ Terrified, Chehe fled. It was no use, though. The Hunter’s bow Ruaghellin can shoot all the way across the world, and never misses. His arrow sped faster than Chehe could run, and found Chehe’s heart. And that would have been the end of it -- but Chehe had drunk the magic milk of immortality. The arrow didn’t harm him one bit. He plucked it out, and he laughed and danced, and said, ‘Ha, you can’t hurt me, I’m the great Chehe Mahar, who has drunk the magic milk! Go back to your mountain, go beat your horns against a tree, for I’ll soon be king of the world!’

“’Mock me all you want, I care nothing for it,’ said the Hunter, ‘but the one thing I can’t stand is a cowardly lie. Immortal you may be, but I shall make you wish you were not!’ And he attacked Chehe in earnest. He beat him with his fists, and tossed him on his horns, and struck out his eyes. At last he cut Chehe up in little pieces and scattered him all over the world.

“’Now,’ he said to Chehe’s wife, ‘you may put him back together, if you can find all the pieces. But first, go give Simha back his cow.’

“Chehe’s wife brought Simha the cow, and acted very sorry, so sorry that Simha forgave Chehe and said he’d never seek revenge, because the Hunter had punished Chehe so thoroughly already. Then she went and collected all the bits of Chehe and sewed him back together, so that he came back to life, almost as good as new. But though she looked and looked, she never could find his tail. That’s because the Hunter had thrown it so far into the sky that it never came down. Even now, you can sometimes see Chehe’s yellow tail roaming around among the stars.” Kastor saw Serifar still watching him expectantly, and added, “That’s it. That’s the end.”

After a long pause, Serifar said softly, “You tell it very differently from Charis.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s not bad. I like it.” The Mara closed his eyes with a sigh. “Your voice is so beautiful. It sounds like far-away thunder. I wish you would go on talking always.”

“My throat would get sore. Go to sleep, Serifar.”

“Yes, Kastor,” said the Mara obediently, and relaxed into instant oblivion.

Kastor wished he could sleep so easily. His head was full, he felt wide awake. He had far too many things to think about.

He supposed it was only natural that Charis would be telling stories with the Hunter in them, after their talk of gods that afternoon. Possibly the traditional tales were the only ones Charis knew well enough to retell, no matter what his tutors had made him read. Nevertheless it felt a bit omenish, somehow. Especially since it was a story of Chehe Mahar. A tricksy cur, not a noble hound, but still, there was a dog in it. And it had just come back to Kastor that Stiaan had been babbling about a vision, a dream of Kastor that smelled of the Hunter, something about killing a stag and -- and he couldn’t remember, Stiaan had been half incoherent.

Which, now that he thought about it, was out of character. Not that he knew the silver Mara all that well, but he remembered how Stiaan had been eloquent even while trapped in his own magic circle, bleeding, believing his brother had betrayed him. For him to blurt out his dream all tangled the way he had, it must have disturbed him a great deal. What if Stiaan’s worry that the gods were getting him involved in some scheme of theirs had been correct?

But what on earth could they want, could the Hunter want, that involved Stiaan?

Am I supposed to know? Am I supposed to be able to puzzle this out? Hell, I don’t know if I even want to be a god’s errand boy, if that’s what I’m to be. It’s not as if I owe him anything, not when I’m not even allowed to set foot on the Sei anymore. I don’t see how I can be his hound when I’m exiled. It’s always so much simpler in stories. They explain, in stories.

The stars wheeled overhead, the fire burned down, and at last Kastor dropped into shallow sleep, no closer to answers than before.



In the morning, he and Charis warmed up with another fighting lesson. They breakfasted on rabbit and dry bread. Serifar was now able to stand, with help, and limp around a little if he was leaning on someone. He still needed to ride double, but could stay upright in the saddle, and so he rode behind Charis. The mare pretended to be terribly overburdened for the first hour or so, then gave up theatrics and quit protesting.

“I named my horse, Da,” Charis said. “I know her well enough now.”

“What did you name her?”

“Duaradda.” Older sister.

“A good name.”

“You know why I named her that?”

“Why?”

“While I was sleeping, this morning, she pushed my blanket closer to me with her nose. Like a big sister tucking me in.”

“That’s an excellent reason. Did I tell you I named mine?”

“No. What’s his name?”

“Aunethan.”

Charis pursed his lips as if he wished he’d thought of it first. “That’s a really good name.”

Serifar said, “I shall have to learn Kyri.”

“I’ll teach you!” Charis volunteered, and the morning’s subject was established.

Kastor was less inclined to brood today. He hadn’t come to any conclusions, but he’d established that he didn’t know enough to make decisions, and that was a kind of resolution, if a temporary one. He supposed it also helped that no one was leaning on him. He listened to the language lesson, taking pleasure in his son’s brightness and enthusiasm, curious about the Mara’s thought process.

Serifar remembered words after only one telling, but he just couldn’t seem to get a handle on the grammar. That was very different from the way Kastor learned languages. He’d found that the structure and rhythm of a language became natural to him in only a few days, but even when he spoke the new language constantly, he was always groping after the words for simple things, words he’d said dozens of times already. Words like ‘blanket’ and ‘breakfast’ would escape him, while words like ‘miscellaneous’ or ‘nocturnal’ would get stuck in his head and refuse to leave. Nestrian had been a little easier than Semnian, because they were related languages, but that meant he was always sticking Semnian endings on Nestrian words. Well, not so much anymore, but he had at first.

After four hours, Serifar finally got the hang of putting the adjective after the noun instead of in front, and stopped putting the verb before its object. Kastor remembered how he’d picked up the corresponding rule for Semnian the second time he’d heard a sentence with words in it he recognized. But then, Serifar apparently recognized all the words he’d ever heard, so maybe that balanced it. The Mara began cheerfully constructing sentences like, ‘Your pretty horse walks slowly,’ which made Charis praise him excessively.

“Llassen emurdha,” Charis instructed, pointing at the sky. “Clouds are coming.”

Serifar dutifully repeated it.

“Ran ambeir meld emurdh ge?”

“Probably,” said Kastor.

Serifar and Charis both giggled. Serifar demanded, “What did it mean?”

“I said, ‘Do you think it’ll snow?’ Da, what if it snows a lot?”

Kastor gave him a curious look. “Then there’ll be a lot of snow.”

“I mean, will we stop?”

“If you give it some thought, you’ll realize that stopping would only do any good if we had a tent. Granted, if it got so deep the horses couldn’t move through it, yeah, we’d have to wait it out. But it probably won’t. Touch iron.” He tapped his knife hilt, more as a joke than because he was superstitious.

Charis let it go, no longer concerned. “The word for blizzard is melmadoc, Serifar.”

“Melmadoc. Is that related to madoc, bear?”

“Very good! Yeah, it means ‘bear snow’. And then there’s meldagar, which is the wet sticky kind, and melkas, which is what we had the other day, that’s more rain than snow. And melkel is the best kind of snow. That’s the dry sparkly kind that falls in little flakes. The kind you can play in and it doesn’t soak through your pants.” Charis looked hopefully at the sky.

“So mel is the snow prefix? You said meld, a moment ago.”

“Right, meld is snow.” He glanced at Kastor. “And kas is rain, and kastor is thunderstorm. I don’t know what my name means, though.”

Serifar said, “Your name is thunderstorm? How appropriate.”

“Yeah. From kas and tara -- tara means noisy. I suppose it helps that my mother’s a bit precognative. Charis comes from chars, arrow.” He smiled at his son. “It’s an old name. You were named after your great-grandfather, my mother’s father, who was a great witch, or so she tells me.”

“She told me that too. Am I going to be a witch like grandma?”

“Maybe.”

Serifar put in, “A witch? Really?”

“Nestrian doesn’t have the right word,” Kastor told him. “Our word is berus. Beruin, for a female.”

“I can’t be Gethane, because I limp. But I dunno if I want to be a witch. The magic looks interesting, but there’s too much herbs.”

“Too much herbs?” Kastor chuckled.

“You know, you have to learn them all, and you’re always picking them and messing with them. Grinding them up, or boiling them, or whatever. Grandma is always doing herbs.”

“Well, you don’t have to be a witch if you don’t want to.”

“What if I turn out to have magic?”

“Then it would be smart for you to study with your grandma at least enough to control it. But that doesn’t mean you have to do what she does.”

“I dunno what else I could do, though.” Charis’s brow furrowed. “I’m not good at anything.”

“Sure you are.”

“No I’m not. I’m too weak to do anything.”

“Bullshit.”

Startled by the crude word, Charis struggled between a giggle and continued sulking, and ended up with a very odd smile. “Well, but...”

“For one thing, kid, you’re a hell of a storyteller. Learn the right stuff, train up your memory, and you could be an excellent bard.”

Charis brightened. “I bet I could!”

“As for being too weak to do anything, did we or did we not have a sword lesson this morning?”

“Yeah...”

“And did you or did you not draw a grownup bow almost halfway?”

“Yeah!”

“And unless I’m dreaming, are you not riding your very own horse, without a special saddle or any help?”

“Right! I am!”

“Not to mention you get around damn fast on that cane of yours, limp or no limp. I think everyone’s been way too careful of you.”

“Yeah!” Then the boy’s enthusiasm waned to thoughtfulness. “But... I think maybe... maybe I sort of let them. I mean, let people take care of me. Maybe I was a little bit lazy.”

“Maybe. If you were, though, you’re not now.”

“That’s true!” Charis drew himself up proudly. “When I get home, I’m going to be different. If I want to go out, I’m going to go out, even if they tell me to stay by the fire and keep warm.” He glanced down at his sleeve, and a look of joy replaced his determination. He held his arm up to show Serifar. “Melkel!”

“Oh, how pretty! Look, there’s some on your hair!”

“I can’t look at my hair, silly, it’s on my head!”

“Catch one for me too.”

“All right, here, just a second -- you have to be patient --”

Kastor smiled at the snowflakes landing in Aunethan’s mane. Perfect six-pointed crystals. Melkel indeed.

When he next looked ahead, through the thickening haze of snowfall, he saw that the trees ended, giving way to fields. In the white distance he thought he could make out a darker thread, smoke from village chimneys.

He considered, as the smoke grew clearer, and then the houses crept into view, whether he needed anything from the place. Far too early to stop for the day, since he didn’t plan to hunt; there were two of the rabbits left, and a decent quantity of biscuits and cheese, despite the inroads they’d made at noon. Still, he supposed, it wouldn’t hurt to ask about buying something. If he could get a couple eggs, he could make grass soup, which would be a fine thing to have on a snowy night.

Movement caught his eye; someone crossing the village common, seeing him and dashing into a house. Bit odd, how frantic that motion had been. But then, strangers were probably rare around here, and mounted strangers even more so.

As they came closer, doors began to open, people to come out. They were carrying tools of various sorts as if they were weapons. They clustered at the near edge of the village, blocking the road. Kastor slowed his horse, concerned. Charis murmured a question, but Kastor could only shake his head. He had no idea what they were up to. A whole village turned to banditry? It didn’t seem likely. When the Kastor had come within speaking distance, he reined in. He looked at the villagers, and the villagers looked back. The townsfolk were scared, sweating, hunched, clutching their axes and shovels and whatnot with white-knuckled hands. After a moment, a short, broad fellow, still brawny despite his gray hair, shouldered forward to point a cudgel at Kastor.

“Get out of here, you murdering savage! You won’t have anything from us!”

Kastor and Charis exchanged a look. Charis’s eyes demanded an explanation. Kastor shrugged. “Beats me,” he said.