he asked, glancing at his woven blanket. Would it hold all his meager belongings? “Would you think me weak if I escaped our clan and married Cassia?”
“I? I would think you cruel for leaving me behind to be punished by Nahas. Even if I was entirely ignorant of your flight, I would suffer greatly for your deceit.”
“But, your suffering aside, would you hate me? I would not like you to hate me.”
“I would still love you. Hunted man though you would be. Responsible for war though you would be. I suppose I would worry for you, but I would not worry long.”
“Why not?”
“Because, Wayward One, Nahas would drag you back to us. If you wish to be free, why not flee to your mother’s clan? Your uncle Chief Bukko is a good man, and you—a peace child—would be honored among them. And they would allow you to marry Cassia.”
Live with his mother’s mealy-mouthed clan? Psal’s stomach turned. “I’ve seen their studiers. Lazy, satisfied, smug. Exploration doesn’t interest them.”
“True, true. As the clan, so the studier—as they say.”
Ironic, considering the studiers of this clan. Psal could hear water nearby. The water spoke of stillness: probably a lake. He heard echoes also, with his studier’s hearing, and the wings of bats inside a cave. He groaned. “The walls of this longhouse are eating away our souls.”
“Walls have no teeth.” Ephan lifted his hands and let half the parchments rain down on Psal’s head. “And you don’t believe in souls. Nahas rebuked you privately just now. A mercy. And he gave you ten days to betray us. His confidence in you grows. There was a time he’d have given you a whole day. I, myself, am also prone to helping others, but I would hold out more than ten days.”
Psal picked up a stylus, wet with blue ink and threw it at Ephan who caught it, laughing. Ephan walked to the window, a wide smile brightened his face. If Psal hadn’t always insisted on getting a good night’s sleep, Ephan would’ve stayed up all night watching the regions melt into each other. From Psal’s youth he had felt as derelict as the Ruined Lost Cities, crumbling away like a rock beaten continually under a hammer, or like flowing waters wearing away a stone. He pushed away the sharp pain burning through his left hip and stood.
“Father spared me because my mother was grieving for a husband and he for a brother. Killing me would’ve been one more grief. When he found you, crawling naked and weak and damaged in the desert, that cunning one said, ‘these two ghosts will live and grow together. Then no one will consider me weak for saving my damaged son.’”
“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.”
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