Binary Part 9
Karin crossed her arms. "I don't think that's any real concern of yours now, Father, is it?
"What?"
"I said, I don't think it's any real concern of yours any more. I know what I'm doing. Yosset knows what's good for him, and Roge will see the logic of what I intend. What more do you need to know?"
He stared at her incredulously.
Witness Kovaar lifted his gaze and cleared is throat once more. "Princ.i.p.al, if I may suggest -- "
"Shut up, Kovaar! Just, shut up!" He braced himself, ready to stand. "Karin, I cannot believe you're saying this."
"Father, just sit down, will you? Sit down and listen. You pa.s.sed the t.i.tle of Princ.i.p.al to Roge. When you did that, you stepped into the background. You must have expected us to be able to perform the task you set us. You must have believed we had the capability. There is no way you could have taken such a decision without that faith. Make no mistake, Princ.i.p.al Men Darnak, you taught your children well."
He eased himself back into the chair. He turned to Witness Kovaar, seeking advice, a reaction, anything, but the priest had his gaze fixed firmly back in his lap. Again, he suffered a pang of regret. If Sandon had been here...
Slowly he turned to face his daughter again. "You cannot mean that."
She frowned again, this time leaning forward. "Of course I mean it." Then her features softened. "It is time, Father. It's time for you to step back, to relax. It is time for you to take some well-earned rest. Since Mother died, I've watched you. You've driven yourself, never stopping, never taking the time you need to come to terms with her pa.s.sing. You have been a good teacher. You've been a good parent, despite the burdens of the Princ.i.p.ate. We have watched and learned from you. You have prepared us well. Now it's time for you to rest. It's time to let us take the load."
He felt all the strength leave him for a moment, and he slumped back into the chair. She was right. He stared across at her, the clean features, the honey-brown hair and he glanced up at the wall behind her. There, mirroring Karin's coloring, the steady gaze, the clear open features, hung a portrait. Twelve, fifteen years old, the painting was still the woman he had wedded. Sadness and loss welled up inside him, but he pushed it down. Instead, he just felt suddenly weary. Gavina had always been the voice of reason, his steadying hand. He swallowed and pressed his lips together, seeking composure.
"No, Karin, you're right. But you cannot blame me for wanting to take a part, to help. I can't just step away."
She placed her hands gently on the table edge before her. "No, of course I don't blame you. And I know you can't. But if we need help, we'll come to you."
He looked down at his old, pale hands and pressed the fingers of one with the other. "I'm still concerned about Tarlain," he said quietly. "Have you heard nothing?"
"Roge and I talked about it. We think that the most likely place for him to have gone is the mines. He's spent so much time there over the last few months that it makes sense. He and his beloved Kallathik."
He glanced up at that, but let it pa.s.s.
"But why would he go there?" he said.
"Does it matter? He'll be as safe there as anywhere, and if he wishes to continue any of the work he started in Welfare, then that's the place for him to do it." Her voice had become all business again. He peered across at her, a.s.sessing. Sometimes he wondered at just how much hardness nestled inside her.
"So, what now, Father?" she asked. "Will you go back to your estates?"
"Well..." He considered for a moment. "I thought we might stay here for a few days. Rest up. Then, I think we might head out to the mines and find your brother. He can still be useful to you."
She shook her head emphatically. "I'm afraid that's impossible. Edvin has already told me you've got about thirty men with you. I have nowhere to put them. Not now. There's enough with getting ready for the move without my household having to put up with thirty more, and their animals and everything else. I'm not equipped for that. We're not equipped."
Again, he was forced to look at her in disbelief, then shake his head. "But we have just traveled from the estates. You don't expect us to camp in the grounds do you?"
"Absolutely not. More than thirty of you? If you had announced you were coming, I would have tried to discourage you. As it is, there's no way I can accommodate that number of people. I don't know what you were thinking, but there is simply no way. I don't know why you think you need such a large collection of hangers-on anyway."
He sat where he was, unmoving, unable to find the words.
"I believe, Princ.i.p.al, we might be better heading for the mines, if that's your plan," said Witness Kovaar, finally. "We should make the journey before the storms really set in."
Men Darnak answered, still staring across at Karin. "Yes, Priest, I believe you're right." He pushed his chair back and stood, still without moving his gaze from his daughter's face. "Come, we should get the group ready to leave." He turned, striding from the room, not even bothering to check if Kovaar was following, leaving Karin sitting there with a self-satisfied expression across her face.
He barely knew what he was feeling as he marched through the audience chamber. He reached out a hand and dragged the dustcover from another chest as he pa.s.sed, letting it billow and fall on the stone flags behind him. At the end of the long room, he threw wide the doors and stepped out into the cloud-filled gloom. He'd already walked half a dozen paces before he noticed it was raining. He stopped, his teeth clamped firmly together and turned his face up to the sky, letting the large heavy drops beat against his face.
"Princ.i.p.al."
"What is it, Priest?" he said from between clenched teeth.
"We should get out of this weather. Get the men together."
Men Darnak slowly lowered his face and looked at the pathetic figure huddled beside him, stepping nervously from foot to foot. d.a.m.n him. d.a.m.n all of them.
"Yes, you're right" he said, and with a frustrated sigh, headed off toward the stables.
Twelve.
Sandon scratched at his stubbled chin, then gave a wry grin. It was more than stubbled now. The itch was starting to drive him mad. He could barely remember the last time he had gone unshaven for so long. He stood just outside Alise's wagon, waiting impatiently. That was another thing he couldn't get used to. Not a single one of the Atavist community ever seemed to be in any sort of hurry. He could understand why, from spending long hours poring over the pa.s.sages in the large book left to him by Badrae. Everything with a time and a place. And so said The Words of the Prophet. At first, he couldn't wait to get away, to be off to find what had happened with Men Darnak and the Princ.i.p.ate. After the first four or five days -- it was so hard to get any sense of time amongst the Atavists -- instead, the idea that had started working in his back thoughts had started to take real shape.
He'd been here over ten days, now, but there was no real sense of urgency. The day-to-day preparations at his estates would look after themselves. They were used to his long absences on various tasks for Princ.i.p.al Men Darnak. He only really supervised to give himself a sense of comfort. No one would be missing him at the Princ.i.p.ate, and the only actual person who really mattered in the equation had effectively banished him. Men Darnak would not be expecting Sandon to show up in defiance. Spending so much time with Alise hadn't hurt either. He could almost feel as if there might be a place for him here. She had ministered to him, showed real concern, even talked to him about life here among her people when pressed hard enough.
He glanced down at the old homespun robes he now wore, then ran one hand over the rough weave. It was coa.r.s.e, but still slightly soft at the same time. They were much more comfortable than they looked. The thick hood guarded against cold and wind alike, and the shapeless cut hid a mult.i.tude of sins. He cleared his throat and scratched the side of his face again.
He could hear noises of her bustling about inside the wagon, getting her things together, but he knew better than to call out to hurry her up. She would take her own sweet time, just as all of them did. He scratched at his chin again -- he had to stop that -- and turned to watch the rest of the camp. Something was different today. There seemed to be more activity, all at the same unhurried pace, but there just seemed to be more.
"Sandon, ah there you are."
Turning his attention from the campsite, he swung to face her. "Yes. I was waiting for you, Alise."
She frowned reprovingly, shook her head, and then smiled. "Always in such a hurry, Sandon. I hope I did not keep you waiting too long."
"Well, no, I suppose not." He gave her a quick smile. "Not too long, anyway."
She half returned his smile, looked slightly puzzled for an instant, then seemed to dismiss whatever was troubling her. "So," she said. "Are you ready?"
He had promised to accompany her to collect some of the plants that grew further inland from the edge of the escarpment, plants that she apparently used in her treatments and remedies. He wanted to learn as much as he could now. He needed to understand the Atavist way of life as best he could in the limited time available to him if he was going to carry out his plan. There were too many dependencies right now, but at least he had a way forward. Going with Alise as she went about her errands would allow him to observe yet another aspect of their life and give him convenient opportunity to ask the hundreds of questions that kept tumbling through his head. He had to sort them out, prioritize them and talking to her helped that process.
"Come, Sandon," she said, leading off, the hand-woven basket she carried held in the crook of her arm.
"Where are we going?" asked Sandon.
She answered without breaking stride or turning around. "Up behind the hills there grows a profusion of plants. If the Prophet wills it, we will find what we need."
Her stride was quick and sure, and Sandon had to hurry to catch up. They moved through cl.u.s.ters of tents, the groups of Atavists performing various tasks. Everywhere, still, despite the unhurried pace of the adult population, the children ran between the tents and the tether lines. Sandon shook his head. Did the onset of p.u.b.erty release some special chemical into Atavist blood to slow them down? There was certainly no restraint shown in the younger members of their numerous family. Nor a great deal of discipline as far as he was able to observe. Perhaps it was discipline by example that brought such order and unhurried calm.
"Is there something special going on, Alise?" he asked, having finally matched her pace. "There seems to be more activity than usual."
She didn't answer; she didn't break stride.
"Alise?"
"What is it, Sandon?" Her attention was fixed on the landscape stretching out and upward from the camp's edges.
"Is something happening that I should know about?" Sometimes it was exasperating trying to extract the merest shred of information. Patience. He had to be patient.
"We are leaving soon, if that is what you mean."
"Leaving?" He hadn't planned on that. Not yet. "Where?" he said. "Yes, yes, I know." He echoed her words even as she spoke them. "Where the Prophet wills it."
He sighed. She seemed not to notice.
"Well there must be someone who knows where you're going."
She gave a slight shrug. "Yes, Badrae, some of the other Elders. Of course they know, but then they know better what the Prophet wills."
Then he would have to find out, if he could ever track down Badrae long enough to ask him the question. His plans hinged on knowing where they were going to be and when. As he thought about this, he lapsed into silence. Without his questioning, Alise fell silent too, and then after a couple minutes more walking, pointed over toward a slight sandy rise further up the slope. They headed in that direction, and as they walked, Alise started to hum a low tune. Sandon glanced up briefly, trying to see if the tune was anything he might recognize. It was a slow, sweet melody, but nothing he was familiar with. There was something almost ceremonial about it.
As they crested the low rise, the landscape became shrubby, scattered with small stunted bushes, hard and gnarled against the seasonal winds and the poor, sandy ground. They stretched out as far as he could see, finally disappearing behind another rise further up the slope. While he had stood there looking, Alise was already ten paces ahead of him. He grunted and moved to catch up.
"Where are you leading us, Alise? There hardly looks anything usable here."
"No, not yet. Up further. That's where I usually find the plants we seek, but they only appear in this time close to Storm Season. It is important to be here at this time for that reason. Normally, there are fewer in the seasonal camp, but it is good to be here."
"Uh-huh." He nodded. "And for any other reason."
"Sometimes," she said. This time it was Sandon's turn to frown, but already he knew better than to try and seek more explanation of a statement like that one. It had all the characteristics of yet another as-the-Prophet-wills-it response. He looked sideways to peer at her face, but there was nothing for him to divine. She looked off across the landscape, a faint smile on her lips, the humming starting again, almost as if it had never been interrupted. He watched her for a while as they walked. If it had been another time and another place...
He would have to find Badrae soon, if they were about to break camp. He must find out which direction they would head, but he had no idea if the Atavist elder would be forthcoming about their plans either. With any luck, they would coincide with his own. He would find Leannis Men Darnak. He would find him and then, well then, he'd do what he did best. He'd observe and he'd a.s.sess and when the time was right, he would act. He had to put things to rights, or at least try. It was the least he could do for Leannis Men Darnak. He owed him that much.
Traveling with the Atavist family would allow him the freedom to get where he had to go undetected, and then, when he found Men Darnak's party, hopefully join with them. There were three main things he was counting on when that finally happened: The general lack of attention paid to the Atavists by the rest of the population should a.s.sist with his cover; the deep reliance on the teachings of the Prophet should give him some connection with Men Darnak; and lastly, his own role over the last few seasons, always in the background, always un.o.btrusive. All these things should work in his favor. He had already decided to borrow a supply of Alise's healing ointment to keep his skin stained dark. Pale-faced official Sandon would be transformed into the dark skinned, robed and bearded Atavist. There were too many ifs, but at least it was a plan, and he could improvise as he went along. He was good at that.
"Sandon, where are you going?"
He'd been so bound up in his own thoughts, that he'd completely lost awareness of his surroundings. He turned around to see Alise standing there, basket in hand, quite a distance behind. "Um, sorry. I was thinking."
"We will start here. Come, let me show you what we are looking for."
She placed the basket down on the ground beside her and knelt on the sandy ground. Feeling slightly sheepish, Sandon made his way back to where she waited for him expectantly.
"It is funny, Sandon. Sometimes you remind me of Tchardo. Do you know who I mean?"
As he joined her, he shook his head. The name was familiar, but he couldn't remember from where.
"In The Words of the Prophet," she said in response to his blank look. "Always lost in your own head. Always heading in another direction. You should learn to focus, as Tchardo did. Find the true path, Sandon. There is a lesson for you there."
Yet something else from that d.a.m.ned book. "Hmmm," he said.
He stooped to join her. Tchardo. It was a good name. It was a name that an Atavist might easily use....
They spent most of the day wandering from place to place, stopping and gathering while Alise explained the purpose of one or another plant, how to recognize the areas they might grow, which ones to avoid. By the time they headed back to camp, Sandon was marveling at the level of knowledge she seemed to carry around in her head. As they wandered down the slope, Sandon could see that the preparations for departure were well advanced in their absence. They would be breaking camp soon, perhaps the following morning. He really needed to find Badrae. If they were truly going to be leaving, then the older man should be around the camp somewhere. He had to be.
"Listen, Alise," he said. "I have to go and do something. Will you be all right with these?"
"Yes, of course," she said with a smile. "I could have shown you what we need to do to prepare them, but if you have other things to do..."
"I would love to have you show me, Alise, but really, I have to do this now."
She nodded. "Thank you for your a.s.sistance."
"No, Alise," he smiled back at her. "Thank you."
As he headed off toward the camp's center, Alise made her own way to her wagon. Sandon felt a little torn. He really would have liked the opportunity to spend some more time with her. Still, he had other priorities now.
Many of the elders kept their wagons and tents in an area on the other side of the camp, and he headed that way. The wagons he pa.s.sed now had a full complement of tightly wrapped bundles stacked on the trays underneath. Pots, ropes, other pieces of equipment hung on pegs along their sides along with water skins and sacks. The central fires bustled with activity as the older family members made preparation for the communal evening meal. Long low trestle tables had been set up around the central clearing. It made sense. Constantly on the move, a mobile community, they couldn't do with permanent furniture. Anything that could be transported on a wagon would be practical, hence the trestle tables. They could be slipped away under the wagon beds for transportation, along with so much else. There had to be less transient Atavist communities dotted about the place elsewhere, those involved in farming and raising crops. He wondered how they interacted, whether it was a system of trade and barter, but he couldn't think what it was this particular family might trade. Something for more thought, and he filed it away in the back of his head along with the mult.i.tude of other bits and pieces he was acc.u.mulating.
Now, where would he find Badrae? The elders were over that way, if he remembered correctly. He was just about to head toward their wagons, when he saw something that drew him up short and made him quickly reach for his hood. He had spotted Badrae, and with him was a pair of the other family elders, but that was not what had stopped him abruptly in his tracks. With them stood another man, an outsider, and he wore the robes of a priest. Witness Kovaar! Sandon ducked his head, trying to draw further into the shadow of his hood. What was the man doing here, of all places? Resisting the urge to turn and walk quickly away, he peered across the intervening s.p.a.ce and watched.
The four men appeared to be in deep conversation. Badrae shook his head and held out his arms, palms outstretched. Sandon narrowed his eyes. Kovaar. But wait. This was not Kovaar. This man was heavier, with hair, and it was gray. It wasn't Kovaar at all. But that still didn't explain what a priest of the Church of the Prophet was doing here in the midst of an Atavist camp. The priest stabbed the air in front of him with one finger, and Badrae shook his head again. The other two elders were still discussing something, their faces close together, and then one of them turned and said something to Badrae. The older Atavist seemed to consider, then nodded slowly. The priest nodded in return, gave a formal gesture of blessing, then turned and disappeared between the wagons. Sandon hung back, waiting to see what would happen next. The three elders drew together in discussion. After a few moments more, the other two left, heading in different directions across the camp. Badrae remained, staring out over the evening activity, seemingly deep in contemplation.
After a moment's consideration, Sandon decided that this opportunity was as good as any.
"Badrae, Alise informs me that we're moving camp," Sandon said as he approached. Sometimes, the direct approach was as good as any. "I would like to come with you, if I can."
It took a moment for the older man to answer, and when he finally did, he seemed distracted.
"Oh, Sandon. Yes. Yes, if you want to. You are welcome among us."
"But where will you be headed?"
"Where the -- "
" -- Prophet wills. Yes, I know. But Alise said you were perhaps closer to the Prophet's will, that you might have some idea where you were headed."
Badrae seemed to collect himself, and he turned to look at Sandon's face, peering first into one eye, then the other. "Why is it so important to you, Sandon?"
Sandon hesitated, and the pause was enough to prompt a nod from the older Atavist.
"So be it," said Badrae. "You have your own reasons." He fixed Sandon with a steady gaze before continuing. "We will likely head to one of our settlements down on the plains. We need to stock up before Storm Season descends with its full force."