“Sounds like a thought that would come to Nahas.” Ephan walked to the tower stairwell. “We need Rangi too, and more Tomah for Dannal. Although…perhaps we should not let him have more of what enslaves him.…”
Psal picked up the boots the women had made for him and stared glumly at the misshapen left foot. “Have you ever wondered what our lives would have been had we been born among the cliff-dwellers or among those who live in the caverns?”
“To live a life huddled in caves is not for you. Nor are you one to remain rooted forever. Cave dwellers are homebodies, always fearful lest the night catch them far from home. Those who live inside cliffs are no better.” He pointed through the window. “Nor can I see you living in huts or in tents, under poles and reindeer pelt. In a longhouse, your soul can roam free and you have a clan to protect you. What could be better? Look, look at this new region. Do you wish to know what I saw as I stood on the rampart?”
“I hardly care.”
“Ah, but you do! You do care!” Gaal’s voice.
Tall and stocky with the olive skin and deep-set dark green eyes of the Grassrope Clan, Gaal was the Chief Steward of all Wheel Clan lands. He pushed aside the curtained screen.
“Firstborn,” he said, entering, “Cyrt had almost begun to like you…well, not ‘like’ exactly. But—”
“If Cyrt is as he is, why are you his friend?”
“Firstborn, a warrior offered me his friendship. Should I—a steward—reject it?” Gaal tousled Psal’s hair.
Psal pulled away “You are not as friendless as you think. Your fighting and mediation skills are so excellent that all respect you and accord you benefits few stewards enjoyed.”
“True, Firstborn, but all are aware that my mother—and not my father—was of the Wheel Clan. It is a curse I must bear.” Gaal moved to the window and squeezed Ephan’s shoulder. “Cloud, tell me of this new region.”
Ephan grabbed two black leather caps from a basket and threw one to Psal. “There’s a lake,” he said. “But shrub and vines clutter the path to it. Best to walk. The horses couldn’t get through. And what do you think is below that clear blue water? An overwhelmed city from ancient times!”
Psal doubted Ephan saw all he claimed. Like all those with the Wheel Clan disease, Ephan’s eyes were weak. But Ephan’s keen sense of smell and sharp hearing were helpful in hiding his eyes’ weakness.
“But tell me,” Gaal said, “you saw no clan markings when you stood on the rampart?”
“None,” Ephan answered. “No other clan has claimed this lost region. And I heard no other clan tower in any nearby region.”
“Firstborn, are you still pouting?” Gaal glanced back at Psal. “Look now, the craftsmen and stewards have created such marvels for your convenience. The royal longhouse is unlike all others! Stools that are tables at one moment or steps and beds the next. Such love your father has for you! You wish to become a chief, do you not? Prove yourself mature. Then you shall not have to accept the place your damaged body assigned to you at birth.”
Assigned to him? Had he not accepted the fact that his perfectly-formed, nature-blessed younger brother Netophah would be king? Why should he have to prove himself to be a chief?
“How differently you speak when you’re complaining about the Wheel Clan women who refuse to marry you!”
Gaal flinched as if hit. Pricked by guilt, Psal watched the not-quite-warrior leave.
“The day has only begun and already I have been pummeled with rebukes and speeches,” he said after Gaal was gone.
“You steadfastly refused Gaal’s offer of friendship. And why insult him? He’s honorable enough. Separated from the warriors, we of the lesser castes—warriors, stewards, studiers, and farmers—often befriend each other. And steward though he is, Gaal is a better warrior than those with Wheel Clan fathers. You should—”
“Our chief steward is Father’s closest friend, Cloud. I have no intention of taking aid from the enemy’s camp.”
Ephan pulled the brim of his cap low over his face and threw a bow, several arrows, and about twenty small pouches into Psal’s studier’s sack. He gathered all the parchments and threw them on the council table. Then, lifting the intricately-carved walking staff which Chief Tsbosso, king of the largest Peacock Clan had given to the Studier-Firstborn, Ephan said, “I have no desire to chart endless towers today. Storm, let us venture forth and explore this world.”
* * * *
All day the studiers surveyed, collected, and made notations. Deyn, Lan, Broqh, and Kwin—young warriors who had befriended them—remained at their side aiding them. As second moon climbed high in the sky, after Nahas’ warriors had hunted, the fires were set. When third moon began to rise, Psal and Ephan climbed to the tower to study the controlled blaze.
See then: Psal and Ephan. Silent, both peering through spyglasses. The double moonlight usually turned the night sky from pale indigo to dull gray. But now, the distant sky glowed like torches: red, white, yellow. Nearby, the smoke mocked the day, misting the forest with bright grays and dull blues. Around the longhouse, the fire flickered and crackled. From the northwest, the terrified howlings of wild cats, from the northeast, the hoof beats of stampeding animals, echoing in the sky the cawing of fleeing birds.
Trouble grew inside the longhouse; First Night had gone. Second Night was come. Psal’s young sisters had not yet returned. In the gloom, there was no glimpse of the lost girls’ yellow tunics.
“Cloud.” Psal noted the fatigued jitteriness of Ephan’s eyes. “Are you sure the count is right?”
“I am not blind.” Ephan climbed into the watchtower, the rounded spire of the tower. “I’ve told you already. Four hundred and eighty-six. All are inside except your sisters.” His tone calmed. “Psal, the fires are far away. The girls are wise enou—”
“Nine and six year-old girls are not wise, Cloud. Earlier, when you spoke to Father—”
“No, they haven’t crept in through any window or any of the lesser doors.”
Psal sighed, caught between anger and worry. What if the fire outpaces my sisters? What if the night outpaces them? Nahas will send warriors to search for them, but the advancing night! Even if we anchor the longhouse tonight in this region, the night.… He leaned against the watchtower, then paced the rampart. He strained his ears. “Do you hear that?”
“The sound of a child crying. But it is not the voice of either of your sisters.”
Netophah, golden-haired, nature-blessed, raced up the tower stairs. He tugged at his brother’s arm. “Firstborn, Father says Lan is the fastest of us. Lan will search for our sisters. We can wait no longer.”
In the gathering room, Lan—fleet Lan, wild Lan—stood at the threshold of the longhouse’s main entrance. Twenty years old, well-favored, slender, black-haired Lan was the child of a studier. Psal’s friend, he had been allowed inside the studiers’ ghostly circle. Smoke billowed past him into the gathering room as all awaited the king’s command.
Chief Studier Dannal approached Lan. Aged, his body blighted by enslavement to Tomah and the Wheel Clan disease, he placed a hand covered with cancerous sores on Cyrt’s shoulder and spoke to Lan.
“Lan is swift, but—even if he finds them—how would the little ones fare, hungry and night-tossed without a studier’s help? Ephan’s knowledge will guide all the lost home.”
True. Lan knew more about towers than the other warriors, but he