babe, Psal could not leave it, dying though it was. They placed it in its sister’s hands.
Lan picked up Psal’s staff and thrust it into the firstborn’s hand. “Firstborn, how the old man pleaded for you! With tears! As if all the world depended on it. Gaal, too, championed your cause, declaring that a marriage between both clans might lead to a joining of both clans. Nahas seemed almost at the point of relenting, but then…” His words trailed off as he glared at Netophah.
“But then?” Psal pressed.
“Nahas wanted Moonlight to marry that nature-blessed one instead. Well, he doesn’t trust you, does he?”
“As a child, I slept in Chief Tsbosso’s longhouse. I hunted with him. Yet I have never betrayed Nahas. But this king of yours insists on distrusting me.”
Psal remained silent as they began their return journey, musing on the mixed motives of the wily old chief and on his father’s wariness. Then, he felt Netophah’s hand on his arm.
“Look, Firstborn!” Netophah shouted.
Emerging in the red desert—in the middle of the day under the daymoon: a longhouse was materializing along their path. Such a thing did not happen. Many studiers—or warriors under an enemy’s blast—had tried to keen longhouses before the third moon rose. They had failed, the towers balking at a daytime keen. But there it was, a one-story longhouse with the typical Falconer “wings” on either side, keening in broad daylight.
Lan dropped the handle of the cart he was pulling. “A Falconer longhouse joined to a tower which carries Peacock Clan memories. Other echoes as well. Do I hear correctly?”
“The small windows in the wing, and the tower at the leftmost front of the longhouse, declare it to be a Voca modification of a Falconer longhouse,” Ephan said, “but the tower’s song also has Peacock rhythms running through it.”
“Which is it, then? Voca or Falconer?” Psal asked Ephan. “Or perhaps a Peacock Clan?”
Ephan grasped his dagger. “If any in the Falconer clan had learned the daytime keen, they would have told us! And I know of no other—” He edged closer. “If the Peacock Clans have discovered the daykeen, the Wheel Clan will soon bow to their strength!”
The shimmering longhouse, a pulsating half-visible wisp of brick and wood, barred them from the feasters in the far distance. The keen progressed steadily and Psal approached awestruck. The longhouse fully materialized at last, and when its main entrance door opened, a slender woman appeared. Psal could not tell whether age or illness stooped her, but she walked slowly, like a warrior wounded from many battles. Her pale tan trousers matched her tunic, but a yellow scarf covered her gray hair, which flowed down her back like a snowy rivulet. She seemed to be of mixed Waymaker-Grassrope parentage, and she descended the external steps of her longhouse with majestic but determined slowness. Five young women with features from various clans followed her, their lances or swords raised high.
Psal limped toward the chief. The Voca Wheel Clan truce will hold, but what of these children? She shall not have them.
When he stood before her, the Voca chief placed her long whalebone sword against his left thigh. “Where are you taking my children?”
“Great Chief, I am Psal. Firstborn son of Nahas and a studier for the Wheel Clan. We found these children alone. I ask therefore of your gracious mercies that—”
“Indeed? The son of King Nahas?” The Voca Chief eyed the Waymaker clan children in the same way a victim of theft would gaze on her rediscovered stolen property. “I’m Chief Tamira. We’ve keened for these young ones, bringing their longhouse here. Why do you take what is ours?”
Lan drew his knife. “No doubt it was you who deprived them of their mother. Why then should we reward.…”
The warrior nearest Chief Tamira lunged forward and stood between Lan and her chief. “One more step, boy,” she said. “And you die.”
Chief Tamira touched the warrior’s shoulder and the girl lowered her lance. “We claim the girl, Warrior. Only the girl.”
Netophah stepped in front of the small cart he pulled. “We won’t let you have her!”
The Voca chief tossed him a disdainful glance and spoke to Psal. “Prince Psal, your return journey is long and the place of male feasting is far away. We are many. If we killed you, who would know?”
“Chief Tamira, you would not kill us or break the truce,” Psal answered. “And the children are ours. We found them. They now are Wheel Clan property.”
The chief reached for the girl but the child clutched at Netophah’s arm.
“She does not wish to be separated from her brothers,” Ephan said.
Netophah added. “If you want recompense, Nahas will give you much for them. I give you my solemn word.”
The Voca Chief ignored him, walking toward Ephan. “You must be Ephan, the one they call ‘Cloud?’ Nahas’ Little Favorite? I have heard ‘Storm and Cloud always go together.’” She glanced at Lan and Netophah. “And who are these?”
“The older is Lan, a warrior of our clan,” Ephan said. “The other is Netophah, heir of all the Wheel Clans.”
Chief Tamira’s eyes sparkled, her voice rippled with laughter. “So I am in the presence of a future king? Is that why you spoke so boldly to a Voca chief, Little Arrogant One?” She turned to Psal. “And you have accepted this loss of your birth-right, Prince Psal?”
“I consider myself honored to be a studier.”
“Indeed? Does the Wheel Clan still say ‘Women, towers, studiers—all frail things that attempt to manipulate?’”
Psal frowned. “I have heard it said.”
“I’m sure you have. Well, perhaps little Netophah’s reign will be more enlightened.” She gestured for Psal to walk with her. “Studier-Firstborn, the truce between Nahas’ clan and ours forbids our taking your young ones. It says nothing about young ones from other clans. Or does Nahas still want to extend his dominion and care to all clans, regardless of their desires?”
“Great Chief Tamira,” Ephan called. She turned and smiled so lovingly at him he stammered. “I know it is within the hearts of women to have mercy. Be merciful to us this once and do not separate the children. Let us keep them.”
“Nahas will refuse the boy, Little Favorite.”
“True, Great Chief, but Tsbosso or one of the other chiefs will accept them.”
“King’s Little Favorite.” She walked to Ephan. When she stood before him, she stroked his cheek so gently she might have been his mother. “Good words. Respectful words. But if you don’t give us the girl, the boy will be killed. Now. Bleeding at your feet.” She whistled toward her longhouse. From within it came seventy or more young women with daggers drawn. “Would you rather he die than give the girl to your enemy?”
“But you are not our enemy,” Netophah said. “You’re our ally now.”
But Ephan shook his head. “It has to be done.” He lifted the weeping girl and carried her to the arms
