Chapter Five

Aryn stood in the chill rain staring at the tree-home.  Green buds were sprouting from the crown of twisted trunks, and the field where he stood was a morass of mud from the melted snows.  The boy, now much taller than he had been when he was first carried to this strange abode two winters ago, knew he would miss the place more than any of the camps he had come to and left during his childhood; they had never been more permanent than a season or two, whereas he had spent a full two years here.  But it was more than the time spent, it was the laughter and grief, the frustrated practice at arts he had never before tried and the thrill of success when he achieved, and the friendships he had developed between himself and the two Roamers.  Torell of course was still with him, standing to one side and staring out over the rolling hills with a mask of impatience, and Aryn knew he would see Lorness again, but not as the boy who lived in the tree.  Not as a host to what he had come to think of as his own home.
            Lorness had stayed until Torell’s return, as promised, and Aryn had cared for her in the first days as best he could; the Roamer had put up with his ministrations as a way of guiding him to the proper plants and their preparation to fight off her fever and the infection that swelled her wound to a bright, hot crimson.  When she was able to walk again without too much difficulty she continued to teach him about each plant and tree they encountered on their walks, far more than he had ever learned from the healers of the tribe.  Her instruction went beyond the simple explanation of which plants were good for what, she detailed the functions of the human body and how the properties of each plant acted to repair, suppress, or encourage them.  Aryn remembered much of what she told him from some of the scrolls he had practiced reading from Torell’s chest.
            When Torell returned and Lorness left, the scrolls continued to be a source of long hours of discussion with the male Roamer.  Aryn had read many of them so many times that he had memorized long passages, and at times was not sure whether he was actually reading or simply reciting what he had many times before deciphered, but this memorization had not included understanding.  Throughout the winter nights when the snows piled high and the wind screamed through the bare branches, Torell and Aryn explored the ideas of geography, thought, politics, and being that had been described by the long-dead authors.  Though still very young, Aryn’s life had recently armed him with enough experiences that he was able to grasp many of the concepts, although others left him still mystified despite Torell’s long explanations.  In this way, and in the many daily chores that remained important despite the season, the boy and the Roamer passed the winter.
            And now the long-awaited spring was here, and Aryn stood at the threshold of his new life, every one of his most precious possessions rolled into the bearskin that had served as his curtain, and the heavy chopping sword he had taken from the dead warrior protruding from one end, as he had seen Torell prepare his own weapon.  They were to leave the tree-home as it was, only the fire-place emptied and the chest of scrolls hidden in one of the caves of the western ridge, and Torell had already warned the boy that they would not return next winter, and perhaps not the next.  Aryn felt a strange sadness at leaving the home situated as if they were just going for an overnight fishing trip, perhaps it was the fact that the trees forming the walls were still alive that he believed the tree-home would feel lonely.
            “It really isn’t going to get much drier the longer we stand here,” Torell said, perhaps purposefully misinterpreting Aryn’s reluctance to begin their journey.  Aryn nodded and turned his back on the home, leading the way down the hill.

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For three winters the boy and the Roamer wandered the forests and mountains of the People.  The boy grew long and lean, eventually becoming taller even than his Tamaziaghat companion, who never seemed to change beneath the wolf-pelt hood, and together they saw many things. 
            With Torell, Aryn attended the council fires of many tribes, more than he had ever believed would have been in the world, and there heard of the many battles fought with the Easterners, of the suffering of the tribes from starvation and injuries or illnesses caused by their lives of constant flight; Torell would council courage and hope, explaining over and over again that this scourge would not last, that already this winter had seen fewer reavers than the previous one, that the supply of Easterners was at least not unlimited, that the peaceful times of good hunting and peace would return again soon.  And Aryn stayed by Torell’s side during the feasts carried out in honor of the Roamer, feasts that were noticeably leaner and less joyous than those of his youth, but which were no less welcome for that; during these nights Aryn listened again and again to the retelling of the ancient sagas and songs, till every word, every nuanced catch of breath, became as much a part of himself as his own name.
            During these visits to tribes, Aryn learned again to keep company with his own kind, and found at first that it came with some difficulty.  He felt lost when in large groups of folk, and worried constantly that he was saying the wrong thing, sitting in the wrong place, or not eating his food properly.  This discomfort soon dissolved with practice, and he even learned new things; at one camp, after much awkward fumbling he managed to sneak a kiss from the daughter of the tribal chieftain, and found that he enjoyed it enough to continue to practice with other willing girls at other tribes.  Torell noticed and growled a warning to Aryn after they left the camp, but the Roamer’s fears seemed to be based around concepts Aryn could not yet understand, so the conversation was ended with Torell’s final cryptic comment “I’ll not have you sowing seed at every camp between here and the coast.”  Aryn had shrugged, not wanting to display his ignorance by asking for clarification.
            The tribes were not the only councils they visited.  At first Aryn hung behind as Torell crept into the circle of wolves that sang their lonesome cries to the moon from granite cliffs and joined them in their song, but as the years went by the one-eyed boy learned to keep his heart calm as he accompanied the Roamer into the pack.  Aryn sat with Torell as the Roamer seemed to listen intently to the conversations of the ravens that would gather, or watch schools of fish linger in a pool for hours.  As a hunter, Aryn had been raised to read the basic flights of birds to discover water or alert one to a violent disturbance, but Torell showed him the more intricate dance of weather, bird, season, and forest; how to read those tiny messengers who acted as liaisons between the earth with the sky.  Snakes, humans, rabbits, insects, bears, or elk, nothing was too large or too small to escape their notice, and every member played out their role in the complicated dance of death and life in the forests.
            The forests themselves became another book to be read, and the stars and clouds, and great granite cliffs and the clear mountain streams that babbled or roared through their twisting paths from ice caps to the distant, unseen ocean.  And Aryn began to realize that Torell was teaching him to read a language far more complicated than what he had shown the boy scratched on the scrolls, so that he may understand even better the intricate story in which he himself, everyone, was an actor.
            What Aryn was learning from Torell about the world was not overtly taught, and in fact Aryn would only later understand that he was being taught at all.  But though the pair spent many nights visiting the tribes, they spent most nights alone, rolled up in their cloaks beneath the protective spread of an oak tree, or in a niche in the cliffs, or in the middle of a meadow.  They rarely built fires, except when the icy nights of winter demanded it, and they ate what they hunted or foraged that day, never taking large game that would require storage.  Sometimes Torell would teach Aryn about the healing properties of plants, mosses, and fungi, combining the teaching with what Aryn had read in the scrolls regarding the human body to make his understanding of how certain properties acted on elements of health to achieve affect even richer than what Aryn had learned from his tribe.  And some nights, when they were not following owls or watching the bobcats hunt, Torell would teach him to use the heavy sword Aryn still kept from the warrior that had been beheaded at the tree-home.  “I think we’ve finally found something you have an aptitude for, boy,” Torell once said, leaning on his own sword and panting after a long bout.  “It’s a shame you weren’t rescued by a Swordsmaster.  You pick up on the weapon pretty quick.”  Aryn felt no pride in this; instead he felt a strange sense of shame, remembering the men he had already killed.  But he continued to practice, for as Torell said, in these days it was a skill that a young man could ill afford to ignore.

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The years passed with few incidents, except for a broken leg Aryn suffered in the second year of their wandering as he was trying to climb down from a tree, and which Torell set quickly and limited him to hobbling only from one overnight camp to another on the two thick branches that bound his leg.  Aryn began to forget his former life among the North Wind.  It was not a conscious thing, he just found that his world was so much larger now, and he was not the same Aryn who had once hunted as the youngest member of the tribe’s hunting party.  He rarely thought about those days now, so involved was he in the movement of herds or the flights of robins or the wheeling of the stars.  So it came as somewhat of a surprise to one day be staring into the face of an older Tryon, the last person from his tribe he had spoken to before the terrible battle which had marked the end of his former life.
            The pair had found this tribe encamped on a broad meadow stretching above a wide river, and as was more and more common these days, had found the camp surrounded by sharpened stakes and watched by well-armed men and women with fatigue and fear in their eyes.  They had been greeted warmly by the tribe’s chief, who had brought them to his shelter to share a meager dinner and some of the blackberry wine that Torell still would not let Aryn partake of.  As they ate and talked, the chief had invited others to the shelter; some of the more respected hunters of the tribe, the war-chief, and some of his warriors.  And it was among these warriors that Aryn recognized Tryon Blackfeather.
            Tryon had also recognized Aryn, and the two embraced with shouts of joy, then each examined the other.  Tryon’s fingers gently traced the scar that ran down Aryn’s face behind the patch, but Aryn noticed that his childhood friend had also been laced with fresh scars, though he seemed to retain everything he was born with.  The soft features of youth had been hardened and chiseled, and beneath Tryon’s skin rolled muscles more developed for the weight of armor and sword than the lean musculature of a hunter.  He had been introduced as one of the war-chief’s best pupils, and the leather grip of the sword at his belt was shiny with use.
            Not wanting to disrupt the conversation of their elders, the Aryn and Tryon excused themselves from the shelter and walked through the camp, each excited to recount to the other their own past five years.  Aryn told his own tale, and learned that Tryon had survived the battle after killing two of the raiders by lying still as if dead when the hunting horn was sounded, as had been their instructions.  Most of the other tribesmen had escaped into the forest, but Tryon had witnessed the fury of the raiders against those tribesmen who, like Tryon, had feigned death as their hiding place.  Fearing that he would be discovered, the boy had managed to crawl into a bramble bush.  A raider had found him there, and had captured him, dragging him from the bush and beating him unconscious, then had bound him and brought him to the raider’s camp.  Tryon did not tell of what had happened during his time as a prisoner, and the dark cloud that passed over his face warned Aryn from inquiring further; Tryon merely went on to say he found an opportunity days later to strangle the man who had captured him and flee into the forest, where he eventually stumbled upon this tribe, who called themselves the Storm Dancers.  The Storm Dancers nursed him back to health, and since then Tryon had studied to be a Swordsmaster, and fought every raiding party that attacked the tribe or their hunters.
            “And you?”  Tryon asked Aryn as they paced together through the campfire smoke hanging between the shelters, closer placed in these days of danger than was normal for the People.  “I see you are an apprentice to the Tamaziaghat; will you be staying in this forest when you complete your training?”
            Aryn shook his head, smiling.  “I’m not apprenticed to Torell.  He says I’m too young.”
            Tryon slapped Aryn’s shoulder.  “These hard times sometimes require apprentices to begin at a younger age…to ensure they will live long enough.  I suppose some would say I am still too young to begin my training, but Master Rolard has taken me in regardless, and considers me one of his best students.”
            “I’m very happy for you,” Aryn replied with genuine warmth.
            Tryon considered his younger tribesman critically for a moment, then announced, “I do not think you would make an acceptable student for any of the Disciplines though, since you are missing an eye.”
            Aryn could not control the blush of shame, but he could not argue with this statement that spoke out loud his innermost fear.  “Yes, you are probably right,” he admitted meekly.
            Tryon gave Aryn’s shoulder another slap, and grinned.  “Don’t worry, though.  You can still bring in meat for the tribe, can’t you?  Perhaps not as much as a two-eyed hunter, but you’ll be able to pull your weight.  Will you be staying here, with the Storm Dancers?”
            “I…I don’t know.  I don’t think so.”
            “Well, if you do, I will make sure I look after you.  You and I are the last of the North Wind, as far as I know.  We have to stick together!”
            Aryn gave Tryon a grateful smile, and together they continued walking towards the center of the camp, where the feast fires were being built.

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The feast was more generous and carefree than Aryn and Torell had experienced at other tribes during their travels, and Aryn couldn’t help but wonder whether this was as a result of the number and the ferocity of the Storm Dancers’ warriors.  This tribe certainly had more armed men and women than any of the other tribes of the People, and Aryn wondered whether this meant that their hunters were more free to follow the deer and elk, and better able to protect their stores of food than the other tribes.  It did lend a certain war-like atmosphere to the tribe as a whole which Aryn found strangely uncomfortable; not only was most of the talk and customary bragging centered around feats in battle, but the respect the tribesmen held for their warriors bordered on reverence, placing the status of warrior above that of the hunters, something Aryn had not experienced before.  Clearly the Storm Dancers were proud of their ability to defend themselves against the Easterners, and valued this higher than their abundant wealth of meat and skins that would ensure a comfortable winter.
            On a more personal level, this high regard in which the tribe held their warriors meant that Tryon, whom Aryn followed all night like a cub stumbling after its mother, was admired and praised by everyone they met, and he had fully accepted his role as the adopted son who promised to be among the future leaders of the tribe.  Gradually Aryn’s friendly feelings for his former acquaintance developed into awe, and though the one-eyed boy felt even more disheveled and clumsy in the presence of this young man who glided through the crowd with the grace and confidence of a cougar, he could not tear himself away.  By the time the moon was at its apex and the feast fires roared to their pinnacle, Aryn was convinced that what Tryon had said was right: he could never apprentice to any of the Disciplines, including the Tamaziaghat, but as Tryon’s friend he could at least hope to share in a fraction of his coming glory.  They two had to stick together, didn’t they?  They were the last of the North Wind, and this unique tie to the young warrior prodigy, something no Storm Dancer could ever hope to claim as well, was a warm glow of pride in his heart.
            As a tribal favorite, Tryon had of course no difficulty in procuring a skin of blackberry wine, and carried it openly with all the confidence of someone who knew he would not be challenged or treated as a youngster.  Aryn felt no such confidence, but had, after checking carefully to ensure Torell was busy elsewhere, swallowed great gulps of the tart, bitter dark liquid.  After a few such visits to the wine bag, he felt pleasantly light-headed, the light of the dancing fires was softened and more hypnotic than usual, and he found himself actually enjoying the company of Tryon’s many Storm Dancer friends.
            One such friend was a girl of Tryon’s age named Faya, introduced to Aryn as his “adopted sister”, since she was the daughter of the family who had taken primary responsibility for the North Wind orphan when Tryon had first stumbled into the hunting camp, bleeding and starved.  Aryn could see how close the two were, how Tryon so casually draped his arm across her shoulders as they laughed together, and she turned her shoulder to draw even closer to him.  Aryn was captivated by her; whether this was the effect of the wine or something else, he could not say.  She was attractive, not as strikingly beautiful as some of the other young women he had noticed around the feast fires, but her easy and heartfelt smile, bright eyes, and demeanor of wicked playfulness lurking just under the surface made her for Aryn the most fascinating creature of the tribe.  Watching Tryon ignore the flagrant flirtations of other girls to remain by Faya’s side, Aryn knew the young warrior was at least equally as enchanted, and he was once more proud and happy for his friend.
            By the time Torell, sitting cross-legged at a fire and surrounded by the elders and chiefs of the tribe, began the low moan that initiated the string of tales and sagas he would sing throughout the rest of the night, Aryn had finished the wine in the bag Tryon had been carrying, and had somehow ended up holding his own full bag.  The light-headed feeling had progressed to a sickening whirling sensation, and he no longer wanted to remain in anyone’s company, particularly not Faya’s, since his tongue felt swollen and completely incapable of speech.  As the rest of the Storm Dancers gathered within the circle of firelight in which the Roamer sat, Aryn turned the other direction, stumbled against the rough bark of a shelter, bounced off it and fell into some bushes, where he vomited and then knew no more.

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The rays of the morning sun were cruel spears thrust between his eyelids, prying them apart.  Aryn groaned and tried to turn over, but his limbs were stiff and aching, and the movement caused a fresh wave of nausea that he could not ignore.  In utter misery, the young hunter spent an eternity on all fours dry heaving in the same bush he had befouled last night, then became vaguely aware of a pair of soft boots before him and the smell of pipe smoke in the air.  He forced himself to look up, and the condition of his brain that morning was such that he was surprised to see Torell looking down at him, serenely puffing on his pipe.  Aryn groaned again and let his head sink to his forearms.  He did not care what the Roamer thought or would say.  He was so completely sick and exhausted that he wanted only cool water to wash the burning sick from his parched throat and then sleep.  The rest of the world could burn for all he cared, and at this moment would prefer.
            “Stand up,”  Torell said.
            “Go away,” Aryn whispered.
            A sigh.  “Alright, you got drunk.  If you’re man enough to drink wine, you’re man enough to stand up and clean yourself off the next morning.”  Gnarled fingers brushed a matted lock of Aryn’s hair hanging limp against his cheek.  It was caked with vomit.  “The gods, look at this,” said Torell.  “You are a sight.  Stand up, the river’s only a few steps away.”
            Some inner shred of obedience forced Aryn to his feet, but was not enough to overcome a rising tide of rebellion.  Aryn stood sullenly in front of Torell, glaring at the Roamer’s boots and steadfastly refusing to walk to the river.
            “Come on,” Torell said evenly, displaying not even the slightest hint of impatience.  “We’re leaving as soon as you’re ready.  This was only a short visit.”
            “I’m not going.”
            Torell said nothing.  Birds, far more merry than they had any right to be in Aryn’s opinion, filled in the silences that fell between the sporadic noises of a camp awakening after a long night’s feast.  Aryn began to wonder if the Roamer had heard him.  He raised his face and stared into the ice blue eyes to drive home his point.  “I’m not going.  I’m staying here.”
            Torell’s face remained expressionless.  “Is that what you want?”
            Aryn’s anger momentarily overrode his hang-over.  “It really doesn’t matter, does it?  It’s what you want, it’s always about what you want, and you’ve been trying to pawn me off on a tribe since you met me!  Well here’s one, and here are friends who want me and care about me, and I’m sick and tired of stomping all over the stupid forest tailing behind you like some lost cub!  I’m staying here.  You go play with your wolves and bears, and I hope they finally tear you apart like they should have done every other time—“
            Aryn stopped himself as his fogged brain finally registered what was coming out of his mouth.  He stared at the Roamer in horror, but mixed with a terrified glee of liberation, expecting the blow to land at any moment but swearing to himself he would never flinch beneath it.  And he did not flinch, even as Torell’s hand swung up to his face, though it was not to strike him.  Gently, the Roamer tugged Aryn’s eye-patch from where it had been shoved up on his forehead, pulling it back into place.  He then said, “You really should clean yourself up before you go talk to your new friends,” then brushed past Aryn without another word.
            Aryn watched the wolf-hooded Roamer pace through the camp, through the smoke of last night’s fires and gangs of hyperactive children, and it was only long after that Aryn realized he had never thanked the man.
           

Chapter Six

Torell had always been leery of giving Aryn to a tribe because of the burden it would unfairly place on communities only barely able to survive the long winters made harder by the Eastern raiders, but the Storm Dancers were perhaps the best suited to accept an orphan, especially one who hunted with such ease.  Aryn soon realized that his years of following Torell had honed skills he never knew he possessed, since he had always felt clumsy and foolish in the company of the Tamaziaghat.  But now among the tribal hunters he found their knowledge of the forest to be almost childish.  They passed by what was for Aryn obvious signs of prey, they stomped noisily through the underbrush, they even smelled wrong.  They of course had been able to provide well for their clans and tribe, and Aryn in hindsight realized that they were no better or worse than his own tribesmen had been, but the difference between how the tribesmen and Tamaziaghat approached the land was made very clear to him.
            Aryn soon established himself as one of the tribe’s most valued hunters, but while this would have brought great renown among most communities of the People, the Storm Dancers reserved their honors for their warriors.  To Aryn’s mind, the hunt was for his new tribe merely a means to continue their exploits in battle, to allow time to forge weapons and armor, for the young men and women to train in war craft, and to defeat as many of the Easterners as possible.  The tribe had acquired such a reputation that the Eastern raiders avoided Storm Dancer camps, and though Aryn was grateful for this, it disturbed him that the Storm Dancers were not satisfied with the ensuing peace, and bands of warriors would travel long distances to find Easterners they could fight.  Other tribes would send runners to the Storm Dancer camps when they were threatened, and were fully justified in expecting to return to their families with a large group of heavily armed Storm Dancers looking for an opportunity for battle.  The exploits of these warriors were sung and praised loudly, and the few acts of cowardice were universally condemned and usually resulted in the self-exile of the offender.
            Aryn had of course learned the use of his heavy sword from Torell, and in an effort to fit in had in the early days of his adoption by the tribe joined some of the warriors in training.  When Tryon saw the clumsy chopper Aryn proudly showed him, the young Swordsmaster could not speak through his laughter for several minutes.  “Come on,” Tryon said pityingly, “If you are going to continue to follow me around, we must outfit you properly.  I’m sure that thing is perfect for quartering elk, but you must have a real weapon.” 
            The next day, Tryon brought Aryn one of his own swords he no longer used, three feet of wickedly lethal steel, balanced so well that the blade seemed alive in Aryn’s hand and responsive to even his unconscious thoughts.  Experimenting with a few thrusts and passes at the empty air, Aryn realized he would have to adjust much of his fighting technique now that he no longer needed to compensate for the weight of his former blade, but he knew the fundamentals taught to him by Torell should remain the same.  He challenged Tryon, who after a moment’s silence agreed, and the two collected the wood sheaths used by the Storm Dancers to protect both flesh and steel during practice, and walked to a nearby meadow.
            Tryon was a tribal favorite, and Aryn had been the focus of much curiosity since his arrival, so Aryn was not surprised to find a large crowd gathering around the two North Wind youths.  The two saluted, then circled, each sizing the other up, registering footwork and body stance.  Tryon delivered a few slow, almost careless passes that Aryn easily avoided, and Aryn responded in kind.  The two circled again.  Aryn watched Tryon’s face carefully.  The young Swordsmaster apprentice wore on expression of boredom, and on Aryn’s second pass even seemed to smirk.  Aryn was infuriated, and launched himself at Tryon, delivering blow after blow at full strength, ignoring every protocol of practice rounds.  Tryon fell back, defending himself well, but the smirk and laconic expression were gone, replaced now by confusion.  Exalting, Aryn spun, feinted beneath Tryon’s sword arm and twisted his own blade around to land a solid blow across Tryon’s ribs, the blade rattling in the protective wooden sheath.
            For a brief instant the world seemed to hold its breath, and not even a bird call could be heard.  As this was a practice round, the two fighters should have separated, resumed their guards, and then continued, but the black rage in Tryon’s eyes told Aryn that he had only a moment.  Aryn stepped back just in time to miss a savage thrust, then found himself falling further back beneath a whirlwind of heavy strikes, unable to regain any initiative or even solid footing.  He blocked and parried without riposte, trying to buy just a moment to catch his breath, when suddenly Tryon’s wood sheath crashed into his face just below his eye-patch, the swing having come through his blind spot.  Aryn staggered under the strength of the blow, determined to stay on his feet, and heard the ringing noise of steel leaving the protective wood, heard a collective gasp from the on-lookers, and a sharp cry.  Aryn spun back to face Tryon, his own sword still in its sheath, and felt a hot stab of pain on his right cheek just below his good eye.  He stared down the length of steel held against his face, and looked into the eyes of Tryon at the other end.  “Do you want to lose the other one, boy?” growled the apprentice Swordsmaster.
            Aryn said nothing, willing every muscle in his body to remain frozen, lest the slightest twitch spook the enraged Tryon into a rash act.  After the eternity of a few heartbeats, it was Faya’s voice from the crowd that broke the tension.  “Tryon, let him be.  This isn’t right.”
            The pleading note in her voice seemed to be the balm Tryon’s ego needed, and his smirk returned.  His sword vanished from Aryn’s face, though the young hunter remained as still as possible.  Someone in the silent crowd handed Tryon his discarded sheath, and after casing the weapon he turned to their expectant faces and asked, “What is the matter with everyone?  It was only a quiet match between two old friends.”
            Aryn allowed himself to slowly lower his own sword, but remained alert, trying to calm his thundering heart.  Tryon faced Aryn again and slapped him chummily on the shoulder.  “What’s the matter, Aryn?  You look a little pale.”
            Aryn said nothing, not knowing what words would spill out of his mouth from the torrent of thoughts raging in his mind.  Instead, he merely turned on his heel and walked slowly back to camp, knowing, but not caring, that this would further increase Tryon’s standing in the eyes of the tribe.  Many days passed before he would speak to Tryon again, and though he forgave Tryon in his heart for losing his temper, the two never spoke of the match, nor did they ever practice together again.

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Even if Aryn’s hunting prowess did not earn him the esteem among the Storm Dancers it would have among the North Wind, he readily made friends other than Tryon, and this included Faya.  Aryn remained at least as enchanted with her as he had the first night they had met, and over time his adoration even grew.  If Faya was aware of his feelings for her, she showed no sign, and their conversations rarely explored very deeply.  Faya’s natural joy for life was genuine and a constant, and Aryn found a strange comfort in her company, a safe feeling through which ran a thrill of excitement each time their hands touched or her scent filled his small shelter.  Faya was of course trained in the use of the sword, as were all Storm Dancers of her generation, but she was not a warrior, and was therefore not one of the clique that Aryn, the hunter, was never really a part of.  She was for him a confidant, a witness to his achievements on the hunt, a fellow explorer of the hills surrounding the various camps the Storm Dancers established, and even a playmate in those hours that she proved she was not yet too old at heart to play at Skip Stick or Tortoise.  In the dark, waiting for sleep to claim him, Aryn would push down any thoughts of romance, having seen the way she looked at Tryon, and knowing that Tryon believed her heart was every bit his possession as his own sword.  Aryn refused to be the type of man who would come between two souls in love, knew that he would only hurt Faya by admitting his own burgeoning feelings.  He swore he would do nothing to jeopardize her friendship.
            Had Aryn paid more attention to the ancient songs he had memorized from hearing Torell repeat them on countless visits to innumerable tribes, he would have realized the futility of hiding his feelings for long.  That winter witnessed the inevitable.  Aryn returned one evening from an overnight patrol of the trap-line to the winter camp the Storm Dancers had built on a high meadow to find only the elderly and children.  The warriors had left that morning in response to a terrified Red Elk tribesman’s report of a band of Easterners a day’s walk to the east, and the snows and howling winds had driven the remaining Storm Dancers to the toasty warmth of their shelters, where they would trade tales, songs, and gossip.  Bored after the lonely days checking and resetting traps, Aryn was somewhat surprised but very glad to find Faya in his own shelter, the coals bright and hot enough to make the shelter an oven, and the girl warming a bowl of amaranth gruel on a hot-stone. She smiled as he pushed his way past the elk hide and into the tiny shelter, but said nothing.
            Aryn had come to the tribe at an age too old to be treated as a child, so although he was not yet apprenticed nor mated he had been expected to build his own shelter for himself.  He had done so and was much more comfortable sleeping alone than trying to integrate into the traditional family or clan shelter at his age, but Faya, also neither an apprentice nor a mate, was by custom of the People expected to remain in her family shelter until ready to build her own family.  She had of course visited Aryn’s shelter many times since they had met, but never this late in the evening.  Aryn imagined she was expected at her family’s shelter for the evening meal, and while he had no concern for his own reputation, he was concerned that this uninvited nocturnal visit would cause comment among the tribe’s gossips.
            Aryn struggled out of his cloak and snow boots, folded the cloak into a seat, then squatted across the firepit from her.  His dome-shaped shelter was small and crowded, too short to stand upright and just broad enough to stretch out in sleep, and Faya’s scent filled it palpably. The red light from the coals burnished her brunette hair copper and washed her cheeks with crimson.  Aryn thought she had been crying, but could not be sure.  “Hello, Faya,” he said softly.
            “Hello.  Do you want something to eat?”
            He nodded and accepted the bowl, and the two remained silent as he ate and she absentmindedly stoked the fire, lost in her own thoughts.  When he was finished, Aryn set the bowl down next to him and cleared his throat.  “Look, it’s not that I’m not happy to have you here, but… your family…?”  He had no idea how to continue.
            She lowered her face into shadow and shook her head.  “I don’t care.  Mother is harping on it again and I just…”
            Aryn poked around in his memory for any clue as to what ‘it’ might be, but came up as mystified as ever.  A wisdom beyond his years kept him from asking her to explain, and he changed the subject.  “Quite a few squirrels on the line.  Only one hare.  I don’t know what’s keeping them down; I didn’t even find much sign, so I know it’s not the fault of the traps.  They’re just not he—,” and then she was kissing him, stopping his words and his heartbeat and filling his world with her fragrance.  He returned the kiss and forced himself to concentrate on the instant, to remember every detail of every sense of this one moment, because it could never happen again.
            He lost his battle with his conscience when she at last pulled away from him and pulled her doeskin tunic over her head.  “Tryon?” he managed to croak, and did not know if it was a question, warning, or some kind of statement of triumph.
            Faya pushed him firmly on his back and guided his hands to her naked breasts, and if this was an answer, it was the only one he was going to receive this night.

AAA

When the scouts from the war party returned two days later, there was bigger news than the gossip that Faya Morningspear had spent a night in the shelter of the new hunter with only one eye.  And it had only been that one night, spent timidly, then joyfully making love until the eastern sky was stained with dawn light.  Aryn did not see Faya all the next day or night, and spent his time moping around the nearly empty camp, busying himself with the task of avoiding her family’s shelter, from which he never saw her emerge for even the most menial chore.  Aryn had not allowed himself to think about Torell, but now desperately missed the Roamer’s silent and impassive presence, to which he could unload all of the burning emotions of blind love, wretched guilt, and insecurity, and receive a shrug and a puff of pipe smoke, pushing it all aside as insignificant childhood angst that would soon pass.  While that had infuriated Aryn in the past, he now truly missed the dismissive air with which Torell would have received this latest turn of events.
            When the first scouts from the war party returned to the camp the next afternoon, Aryn steeled himself for a confrontation with Tryon.  He was not afraid: Tryon and Faya were not mated, and therefore Tryon had no right to challenge him to a duel that he would most definitely win.  After two days of rationalization, Aryn had succeeded in convincing himself that what he and Faya had done was no betrayal to Tryon, but was instead the natural and logical decision of two grown people.  Aryn steadfastly refused to acknowledge any guilt, and as shouts of welcome arose across the camp at the sight of the three warriors loping across the meadow, the young hunter felt prepared to go straight to Tryon with the truth, rather than wait for him to hear it through gossip.
            But he would not get the chance to talk to Tryon for many days.  The news the scouts brought overwhelmed all the other topics the Storm Dancers had thought so important just hours ago and, as Aryn realized sooner than the native tribesmen, would change the tribe forever.
            “It was a trap,” heaved the first scout even before she had slowed to a walk.  She gulped water from a proffered skin; her cloak was thrown back and the skin on her bare arms steamed in the icy morning air.  A few streaks of war-paint not washed away by sweat traced lines across her olive-tan face.  “We came upon an overnight camp of maybe two dozen of them, and Desric decided we should attack within the hour.  As soon as we did, a full horde, maybe even one hundred of them, swept in on the battle from the surrounding hills.”  She paused to pull deeply from the water skin.
            “What happened?”  The questioner could not wait for the scout to finish her drink.  Anyone from the tribe who could had gathered around the three by now, and Aryn caught a glimpse of Faya’s face, twisted in concern, but she would not meet his eye.
            “We fought,” growled one of the other scouts, an older man Aryn had practiced swordplay with after the incident with Tryon.  “They killed many of our warriors, and wounded more, but we killed more of theirs.  Those of the Easterners who could flee did so, and we dealt with the prisoners as they have done so many times with ours.”
            A barrage of questions followed this announcement; for the most part they were shouted names of loved ones, asking if they were among the dead.  A few of the older women sent up the mourning wail, for to the elder generation all Storm Dancers were loved ones, and their deaths were to be honored.  But the scouts either did not know or would not give specific names, and soon Qodash, the tribe’s chieftain, stepped next to the besieged scouts with his arms raised in a supplication for silence.  When this was at last achieved, Qodash asked the scouts “When is the rest of the war party expected to return?”
            There was an unexpected silence from the scouts, and they glanced at each other.  At last it was the first scout who spoke.  “We do not know, my chief.”
            “How, you do not know?”
            The scout glanced down at the trampled snow, then raised her eyes to meet those of Qodash.  “Desric was killed in the fighting, my chief.”  A new set of voices raised the wail.  “After the battle, there was confusion, many of the older Swordsmasters who had been expected to become war chief after Desric had been killed with him, but there was a young one who rallied the war-band.  He gave us hope, brought us back together again, and gave us a plan.  He spoke so eloquently, my chief, and he had fought with such strength, always in the thickest of the battle.”  Her tone was almost pleading by this point.  “He said we were to follow the survivors, that now was the time to once and for all rid the People of these scavengers.  The war band is now giving chase to those Easterners who fled the battle.  Tryon Blackfeather sent us three back to tell the news.”
            For long moments, the only sound to be heard in the camp was the wailing of the mourners.  Even wise old Qodash was speechless.  Tryon!  Not only had he not yet been initiated as a Swordsmaster, he was barely an adult, and the traditions of the Storm Dancers, indeed, of all the tribes of the People was that the oldest, most experienced warrior was recognized as a war chief.  But here this youngster, this favorite golden child of the tribe who was not even a Storm Dancer by birth, was now responsible for the best warriors this tribe had produced.
            But the warriors always chose their own war chief, they followed the man or woman they felt the most confident in, for it was their own lives they risked in doing so.  Even Qodash had no real say in the matter.

AAA

Tryon returned with the rest of the war party four days later, trotting out of the sparkling winter morning and into the mass confusion of a tribe cheering their victorious heroes, begging for news of loved ones, demanding details of what had happened since the scouts’ last report.  Tryon favored the well-wishers with a dazzling smile but provided no answers, and walked directly to Qodash’s shelter with three other warriors, leaving the tribe to mob the rest of the war party.  Tryon held council privately with Qodash for the rest of the morning, and was found later that day deep in sleep in his adopted family’s shelter.  No one had the heart to wake him.
            The war party that returned seemed to Aryn’s eyes to be about the same size as the war party that had left, which did not account for the slain warriors named by the scouts.  The reason soon became evident: as the tribe surged around the warriors who had not accompanied Tryon to Qodash’s shelter, a group of armed men and women stood apart, watching the scene for a few minutes before walking slowly away from the camp and into a stand of trees nearby.  Aryn followed them silently, and watched for a few hours as they went about the business of setting up their own camp; building three large shelters, digging a dun pit, and laying a fire pit.  They spoke the language of the People among each other, but their words were clipped and carried a strange lilting accent.  By the time Aryn returned to the Storm Dancer camp, the explanation was already circulating among the tribe.  They were Red Elk warriors who, inspired by Tryon’s fiery speech at their council fires, had sworn to join him in his hunt for the surviving Easterners.  For two days the Red Elk and Storm Dancer warriors had criss-crossed the hills, killing every small band of Easterners they encountered, and found little resistance from these demoralized survivors of the original fight.  When Tryon had decided to return to the Storm Dancer camp these warriors had accompanied him, for it appeared that Tryon was not yet finished.  He had plans to continue his campaign against the rest of the Easterners, hunting them as Aryn’s people had once hunted deer, until not one more remained in the mountainous land of the People, and no others would dare to cross over from the plains.
            By the time the feast fires were roaring, it seemed to Aryn that the entire tribe had been struck with the same craze for warfare and bloodshed that his old acquaintance apparently suffered from.  The talk was of nothing but the coming fighting, and the mood was almost joyous.  The Red Elk warriors were called over to the Storm Dancer camp and embraced as brothers and sisters, and loud were the boasts and applause as warriors told of the deeds of their fellows in arms.  Those many who mourned fallen loved ones were more subdued, but even they smiled at the talk of vengeance and glory.  Aryn could understand the pride the tribe felt at the feat its warriors had performed, but he could not cast off the dark shadow of the future that he foresaw.  He was a newcomer, and though always well and politely treated by the tribe, he was not enough of a Storm Dancer to voice his concerns against this overwhelming communal desire for war.  There was only one ear he could safely confide in, and he searched for Faya in the crowd gathered about the roasting pits.
            Since the return of the scouts, Faya’s confinement had apparently come to an end, but Aryn had not found a chance to speak to her in private.  He desperately wanted to tell her how they talked together and held each other in his dreams, how empty and cold his own shelter now seemed when he awoke alone, how he had heard the meadowlarks singing her name to him as he walked the trap lines.  But he only met her in the most public places, drawing water or tanning hides, and though she always favored him with a smile she never made any attempt to draw him away or search him out in the forest.  This left him confused and frustrated, and he had spent the last four nights arguing with himself for long hours as the stars wheeled overhead.  But the subject of the Storm Dancers’ latest war-path seemed of greater importance to him now than his own puppy love, and he needed someone to calm his fears for the future.
            He finally caught sight of her standing at one of the fires, Tryon’s arm draped casually across her shoulders.  Aryn did not know if Tryon had heard the gossip yet, but Tryon’s easy laughter and the proprietary way he stood next to Faya told Aryn the new war chief had either not heard or not believed.  Regardless, the one-eyed youth took a deep breath and stepped in front of the couple.  “Faya,” said Aryn, refusing to look at Tryon.
            Faya’s eyes flashed what may have been anger, but her voice was pleasant.  “Hello, Aryn.”
            Tryon was regarding Aryn with care.  “Aryn Steelshaft,” he said.  “You haven’t even welcomed me back.”
            Aryn now turned to face Tryon, the young war chief at least four fingers taller than himself.  “Of course I am happy that you returned safely,” Aryn said, choosing his words carefully.  “But I wanted to speak with Faya alone.”
            Tryon produced a small smile.  “Whatever for, Aryn?  Is what you have to say so private you can’t say it here?”
            Aryn bit down on a rising such of anger.  Was Tryon testing him?  “I would prefer to speak with Faya alone,” he said simply, not trusting himself to utter any of the far more complicated responses that ran through his mind.
            Faya slipped out of Tryon’s arm in the ensuing silence, a silence that extended beyond the two young men to include anyone within earshot of the little tableau.  “Of course, Aryn,” she said lightly, choosing to ignore the tension.  Without a further look at either of them, she walked out of the circle of firelight.  Aryn willed himself to wait through a silent count to ten, matching Tryon’s gaze of bored amusement with his own glare, then followed her.
            As soon as they were a safe enough distance from the tribe, Faya spun around and faced Aryn.  He could not read her expression in the darkness, but her stance told him that the pleasantness she had displayed at the fire had been an act; she stood as if she were prepared to challenge him with steel.  But being this close to her, breathing in her fragrance, his resolve not to express his feelings for her began to crumble.  “Faya,” he finally choked out of a throat suddenly painfully constricted.
            She held up a hand in warning.  “Aryn, I do not want to talk about you and I.  I do not know, I haven’t decided anything, and I don’t even know if there is anything to decide.  Please just leave me alone and let me think…”
            As she talked, Aryn’s resolve returned, and he stopped her.  “Faya, I wanted to ask you about Tryon’s war-path.”
            This did seem to catch her by surprise.  “What do you mean?”
            “His plans to carry this fight further than Storm Dancer lands, to take our warriors far from their homes and families to hunt down these Easterners.  I don’t understand why.  The Storm Dancers are safe here, I don’t believe the Easterners will dare attack us again, so why risk our warriors for the protection of other tribes?  Why not return to the way we were, following the hunt, living in peace?”
            Faya stood still and silent in the dark for many minutes, and when she spoke her voice had an edge of steel to it.  “Aryn, to be honest, they are not ‘our’ warriors.  They are Storm Dancer warriors.  You are not a Storm Dancer.  They fight, it is what they do, and now they will be doing good for the People across this land, regardless of tribe.”
            Aryn released a gasp of frustration.  “This is exactly what I’m talking about. ‘Regardless of tribe’?  We take care of ourselves, we live as we can, with the land, in peace when we can and in war if we have to.  But we don’t have to now.  Why is this happening?”
            Faya’s voice told Aryn what her shadowed face would have shown him could he see it.  “Aryn, stop saying ‘we’.  Go hunt your deer and rabbits, and leave the fighting to those who are willing to do it.  You have shown me your true heart.  All I can say now is thank you for making my decision easier for me.”  And without waiting for a reply, she brushed past him and walked back to the feast fires, and Tryon.
            Aryn felt in that moment that he had lost far more than his friendship with Faya.

Chapter Seven

The war party was prepared ten days later, and this time they carried from the camp not only their arms but packs loaded with food and supplies to last for many days.  The Red Elk warriors were similarly outfitted, and were fare welled by the Storm Dancers as if they were their own.  Aryn was not present to see the party leave, as he had led a band of hunters on a three day hunt for a herd of elk in the next valley, and though he had not planned to miss the occasion, he was not sorry for it.  His relationship with the rest of the tribe had been strained since Tryon’s return; he knew that Faya had not told anyone about their conversation, but his distaste for the war preparations had been obvious enough that it was no secret, and he knew that whispered comments about the night Faya had spent in his shelter were still very much in currency among the gossips, whether or not Tryon was privy to them.  As he had always been somewhat of an outsider from this adopted tribe, his withdrawal from the daily rhythm had not been difficult, and he now viewed the Storm Dancers less as his tribe and more of a reason to hunt.  Aryn had earlier established himself as one who could relieve an aching head or set a broken bone better than anyone else in the camp, and even after his withdrawal he was still sought after by mothers of sick children or the elderly with aching joints.  Providing these services as well as fresh meat gave Aryn a purpose and a place in the tribe, despite his desire to withdraw.
            Two moons passed before the Storm Dancers received any word about their warriors, and the snows were melting and green buds had sprung from the branches by the time a pair of scouts arrived at the camp with a message for Qodash.  Tryon was asking that the Storm Dancers meet him and his warriors at the fork of two rivers below the Wolftooth peak, and there pitch camp.  It was an unprecedented request for a war chief to make of a tribal chief, but the tribe very much needed to move to new hunting grounds, having only stayed at the present one for the winter and in fear that Tryon’s scouts would not be able to find them again.  At the council fires that night, Aryn’s was the only voice that brought dissent, pointing out that a camp should be moved to a new location based on the availability of game, not on the whims of a war chief.  But his opinion was shared by none, and indeed counted for little, as he was both young and not truly a Storm Dancer.
            The Storm Dancer camp was broken down and moved by dog, sled, and pack to the sunwards side of ice capped Wolftooth, where two mighty rivers met in their tumble towards the distant sea.  In those flat meadows at the fork the Storm Dancers found a camp already built, and its council fires headed by Tryon Blackfeather.  The weeks he and his warriors had spent since leaving their loved ones had not been only in chasing and fighting Easterners, they had also recruited the warriors of many of the tribes they had come across in their travels.  The camp of armed men and women who had sworn allegiance to Tryon was now twice as large as the original Strom Dancer tribe, and peopled by a fascinating mix of costume, accents, and customs.  This conglomerate of diverse tribesmen had agreed to unite beneath a single symbol, a bear skull upon which were painted four stars.  This skull had been placed on a long shaft of oak, and was displayed next to the warrior camp’s main firepit.
            Aryn was among the contingent that accompanied Qodash from the Storm Dancer camp being erected at the crest of a low hill overlooking the sprawling warrior camp.  Tryon had caused a wicker and stake barrier to encircle his camp along those sides not bordered by the two rivers, and along this barrier lounged small knots of warriors at regular intervals.  Qodash had already seen the one opening from the hill the Storm Dancers occupied, and he steered his group towards it.  As they passed the four warriors that stood at the barrier’s gate, Aryn’s hackles rose.  The warriors were courteous to Qodash’s party as they stepped aside to allow access, but it was a cold reception, and one that seemed to only highlight the weapons that, though still sheathed, remained readily available at a moment’s notice.  Aryn told himself that it was only the strange clothing they wore, that Storm Dancer guards would have perhaps bothered to smile.
            But the sight of the bear skull on the pole as they passed the central firepit chilled his heart, and he could find no reassuring thought to comfort himself.  The skull on the pole dominated the camp, thrust itself into the bright sky so aggressively that the smoke of the cooking fires drifted around it rather than dare to cross it.  The skull watched the camp, all who entered, and included in its gaze all that it yearned to conquer.  Qodash was not the head chieftain in this place, and Aryn was not among friends.
            Tryon Blackfeather took pains, however, to present a different face.  He emerged from his shelter to greet them all, embracing and kissing Qodash as his chieftain and even bestowing upon Aryn a warm smile and firm clasp.  Unbalanced from his premonition, Aryn automatically returned the friendly greeting and followed the rest of the party into the warrior camp’s long hall, which was built in the traditional fashion of a peaked log roof over a long, narrow trench.  The warrior camp had apparently been here for a few weeks.
            During the obligatory small talk that preceded more serious business, Aryn learned to his surprise that the warrior camp had only been here nine days.  In nine days the warriors had built that impressive fence, the long hall, and had even paved their council firepits.  And perhaps more surprising to Aryn was the news that Tryon did not plan on remaining at this camp for much longer.  A comfortable camp, two rivers, and plentiful game from what Aryn saw on the travel here, yet Tryon told Qodash “We will be tearing down the camp in a few days and moving on.”
            Qodash did not display any surprise.  “To where?” he asked in an almost bored tone of voice.
            Tryon returned the affected boredom with a shrug and sipped from his wine.  “There is still much we must do.  We will not rest until these lands are safe, and the Easterners have been pushed back across the plains.”
            Qodash nodded.  “That was your oath.”  Then, gently, he asked, “When was the last day you laid eyes on an Easterner?”
            Tryon’s face froze, and for an instant his carefully careless sprawl across a bearskin became tense.  Then he relaxed and drawled, “Oh, I suppose it’s been a day or two.”  And he raised his wine bowl to his face once more, but not fast enough to hide the glare he flashed at Qodash behind it.
            But Qodash was wise, and Qodash was old, and Qodash had played this game between chiefs since long before Tryon was born.  His voice, face, even the way he sat, expressed nothing but genuine concern for a young tribesman.  “I must have been mistaken.  I was led to believe that the last confrontation your warriors had with an Easterner was more than one moon ago, and that was a lone wounded barbarian attempting to flee east before he would die of starvation.  And yet your warriors have stayed very busy since then.”
            Tryon’s mask broke, and twisted into a grimace, yet he sought to maintain deference.  “I would not expect you to understand the art of war, my chief, any more than you could expect me to settle an inheritance dispute.  I am afraid your information was wrong.  The enemy is wily.  He has evolved in order to survive, and to attack us…” he paused for dramatic effect, “…from the inside!”
            Although the hissed words seemed to send a shiver through those warriors who sat on the opposite side of the hall from the visitors, the drama apparently failed to permeate Qodash’s sudden veil of congenial senility.  “Well, I’m sure that’s all very interesting.  Yes, you sound as if you have everything under control, young man.  And though I shouldn’t bother my old head about matters of the war council, my concerns remain the care of my tribe.  May I ask you: when your warriors leave, will you tear down this long hall?”
            Tryon’s relaxation this time was genuine.  “Of course, if it pleases you, we would be honored to know that the Storm Dancers make use of this hall, and the firepits, and the fence.  In fact, I will cause the wicker fence to be replaced with wood, to ensure that my tribe is well protected during our hopefully brief absence.”
            Qodash squinted at Tryon.  “That’s an awful lot of wood to cut.”
            Tryon’s apparent victory had made him expansive.  He waved a hand nonchalantly.  “Anything for my tribe.”
            “Indeed,” said Qodash quietly.
            Aryn could no longer contain himself.  Not only was this madman gibbering about “inside” enemies and continuing to fight a war that no longer existed, but now he was proposing to clear swaths of forest the Storm Dancers would need for hunting and harvesting.  Aryn’s years with the two Roamers had shown him the delicate balance that existed between the People and the forests, and now Tryon planned to smash that balance before leaving a tribe as large as the Storm Dancers there, and all to build a fence.  The young hunter stood suddenly, but a cool, steady hand fell on his arm and gently guided him back down.  Aryn still had far too much respect for Qodash not to return to his seat, silently.
            The rest of the hall gazed at Aryn curiously, surprised by his outburst.  Only Tryon seemed to find the event amusing, and he smirked at his childhood acquaintance.  “Aryn?” asked the new war chief.  “Was there something you wanted to say?  Probably had something to do with animals.”
            Qodash answered instead.  “Aryn is my best hunter, and of course he is concerned about game.  It is what makes him so important to me, and to the Storm Dancers.” Here it was the old man’s turn to pause, and the veil of senility fell from his countenance.  “And therefore to you.  Do not forget that you are a Storm Dancer.”  Qodash rose from his seat, fluidly, and there was the reminder in that movement of all the strength and power the young Qodash was sung for, and which the old Qodash still had somewhere deep inside.  “You are a Storm Dancer, and I am your chief.  The warriors that left my camp with you two moons ago are Storm Dancers, and I am their chief.  I do not speak of those that you have chosen to gather to your council fires, they are not my concern.  But the Storm Dancer warriors, and their wives, and their children, and their children’s children, are ultimately my responsibility.  Not yours.”
            The hall was silent, all eyes turned to Qodash.  Tryon was speechless, the wine bowl, empty now, hung from limp fingers.  Qodash stepped forward to glare down at the still seated war chief, and no warrior dared move a muscle to stop him.  Qodash thrust a veined and pale fist under Tryon’s nose.  “You will pay me respect, war chieftain of the Storm Dancers.  You will hear my words.”
            Tryon did not nod.  As if pulled by invisible strings, he leaned forward and kissed the back of Qodash’s fist.  Qodash then paced the side of the hall where sat the warriors, and at each Storm Dancer he stopped, and the ceremony was repeated.  When he reached the end of the hall he did not stop his stride, but allowed it to carry him up the shallow steps and out into the bright sunshine.  Aryn and the rest of Qodash’s party silently stood and filed up the steps behind the Chief of the Storm Dancers.

AAAA

Qodash’s council fire that night was a grave affair.  The tribe was proud of their warriors, proud of the oath they had taken, and believed in Tryon Blackfeather and his cause.  Qodash shared these feelings, but that night confessed to the men and women gathered about his fire that he “needed to remind the young war chief who answers to whom.”
            Darush, a younger man and one of Tryon’s contemporaries, was quick to respond.  “My chief, I don’t believe it is a matter of questioning your authority.  You have gained more respect from this tribe than any previous chief because you have allowed the warriors the freedom to accomplish these victories.”
            Qodash normally did not respond well to flattery, but his expression was distant as he gazed into the fire, his thoughts miles away.  “We are safe.  For the first time in these long, nightmarish years I can finally say that.  This safety is more valuable to me now than anything else, but I would never have said something like that twenty years ago.  The wars with the Easterners have changed us as a People more than we believe they have, and I do not believe that it is for the better.”  He did not speak again for the rest of the night, and soon the council drifted away to the temporary tents and shelters they had built on the hill until the warriors vacated the camp at the base of the hill.
            Aryn could not sleep for the chaotic thoughts that spun through his head.  Owning no pack dogs and nothing that could not fit in a pack, Aryn did not have a tent or shelter, but had rolled himself in a cloak and lay beneath a willow, tossing and thrashing.  He still felt a tug of loyalty to Tryon, even after all that had happened between them since Faya.  He had not spoken to the girl since the night she had defended Tryon and told Aryn that he was not truly of their tribe; her words had hurt much less than he expected, and he knew this was because his secret hidden fear had been spoken by another and thus made true.  He continued to lead Storm Dancer hunts with a clearer heart in knowing that he was not truly accepted as one of them, and that he did so as an outsider offering his help to a tribe.  Knowing one’s place within the pack was an enormous comfort, regardless of what that place may be.
            But despite his best efforts to ignore it, Aryn felt a bond with Tryon that no amount of bad blood could erase, that the Storm Dancers could never come between.  As far as Aryn could tell, he and Tryon were the sole survivors of the North Wind tribe.  It was certainly plausible, when one considered how many of the People were killed in the first years of the Easterner encroachment.  It was the unfathomable toll that also drove this current desire for blood and supported this mad campaign of Tryon’s, but in the end this toll was a loss to the People, and Tryon and Aryn together stood as a reminder to the other tribes of what had happened.
            Stretching his legs full out before deciding he preferred them curled, then testing the comfort of lying on his left instead of his right before moving to his back, Aryn tried to find justification for his failure to hate Tryon.  Tryon had been kind to him when he first appeared at the Storm Dancer camp, abrupt in his own way, but he had tried to protect Aryn and show him the ways of this strange new tribe.  He had given Aryn the sword, and spoken well of his hunting abilities to the crowd of young worshippers that Tryon had accumulated even in those days.  They had argued, of course, and been frustrated with each other, as brothers will.  And of course there was Faya.  Had the roles been reversed, and Tryon had slept with a woman that Aryn cared deeply for, and whose feelings were well known around the tribe, Aryn would have been angry, hurt, and embarrassed as well.  All that was understandable, and if it were only that Aryn could find a way to mend his friendship with Tryon, be accepted into his trusted circle, feel that he belonged somewhere.
            But the image of the bear skull towering over the hard-eyed warriors kept appearing in his mind’s eye, and sent a chill through his soul each time.  He saw again the faces of the warriors at the gate, of those in the camp they walked through, and the warriors that sat with Tryon in the long hall.  Their expressions were reflections of Tryon’s own.  The air of restrained violence that hung over the warrior’s camp, and of complete obedience to their war chief, were products of Tryon’s shaping.  Aryn wished he could believe these things were alien to him, but they were not.  He had seen it before on the faces of the Easterners he had fought in his first battle.  And he knew that Tryon was responsible for bringing this way of life to the People.
            Somehow, at some point, he must have found sleep, because one moment he was turning over yet again seeking a comfortable spot beneath the tree, and the next moment the sun was a finger-width over the horizon and there was a long, mournful wail rising from the huddle of Storm Dancer tents.  Aryn scrambled from his cloak, snatched his spear, and raced noiselessly towards the origin of the cry.
            He reached Qodash’s tent to find a crowd already gathering.  Aryn pushed his way through to the center, and the tribesmen let him pass while sending around the murmur that “Here comes the Roamer!  Let him through!”  It was the first time Aryn had ever heard himself referred to as a Tamaziaghat, but he was too preoccupied to correct the speaker.  The crowd wanted a Roamer because they wanted medical care for their chieftain.  Qodash lay where he had been pulled from his tent, lifeless.
            Aryn desperately searched for any signs of life in the old man, reaching into the deepest corners of his memory, even back to the strange scrolls of Torell’s he had learned to read from.  It was pointless.  Qodash had been dead for hours.  One of the tribe’s medicine women now joined him at the side of the corpse, and their eyes told each other what they already knew: there was no hope.  Together they examined the body minutely, searching for any clue to the cause of the old man’s death, but by mid morning they both had to admit that it must have been age that at last had fulfilled its promise.
            During Aryn and the medicine woman’s examination, preparations for the funeral were already underway, the tribe notified, and a runner sent to the warrior camp with the news.  Tryon arrived as Aryn was standing to stretch his limbs after his fruitless search for an explanation; the young war chief arrived dressed in warrior splendor, with an armed escort of twelve men and women.  Tryon embraced Aryn, murmuring words of sorrow, then made his way through the Storm Dancers, repeating the process.  Watching him, Aryn felt nauseas at the artificiality that apparently only he saw in Tryon’s words and actions, but he said nothing.
            The grief the Storm Dancers felt was genuine though, and overwhelming.  The mourning continued for three days, and many of the warriors from other tribes came from Tryon’s camp to join in the feasting, and hear the songs of Qodash’s life and deeds.  The Storm Dancers decided to erect stones to Qodash’s memory, and by the time his body was prepared for the flames on the third day, seven standing stones crowned the hill that had been the Storm Dancers’ temporary camp.  Demprii, one of Qodash’s councilors, had been chosen by the  old ones as the new chieftain, so it was he who applied the torch to the wooden platform upon which lay Qodash’s corpse, dressed in his finest robe and holding both sword and hunting spear for whatever he may meet in the next world.
            Aryn stood watching Qodash’s funeral pyre with his belongings packed into his bedroll and slung over his shoulder, the sword ready to hand just as Torell had done so years ago.  When the platform collapsed into its pile of hot ash and coal, he turned his back on the Storm Dancers and walked into the night, northwards, into the forest.  There was nothing left for him at that tribe except ill fortune, for Demprii was one of the most vocal supporters of Tryon’s campaign.  Although Aryn still loved many of the Storm Dancers and still thought of the tribe with a warm fondness, he turned his steps away from them without regret.  He had no plan for the future and no desire to make any; all Aryn knew was that he had never been one of them, and the time for him to leave his hosts was at hand.
            A small child of three winters was the only person to watch him leave, but she never told anyone.