Exile's Challenge Read Free Page A

dreams.” He shrugged.“Like in the Grannach caverns? When I could almost understand Colun? It’s as if …”
    He hesitated, faltering for the words. Morrhyn touched his shoulder, spoke, touching his forehead and Davyd’s, gesturing at the high hills, his hands moving in a pattern that was itself language.
    Davyd chuckled and ducked his head as Arcole watched in disbelief, aware he witnessed some kind of communication that lay just beyond his comprehension.
    â€œYou remember I told you I’d dreamed of a man like Morrhyn?” Davyd said. “Well, I did; and he dreamed of me. Of us. He knew we were coming—that’s why the Grannach were waiting for us, and Morrhyn’s people. They’re called …” He hesitated, stumbling over the name so that Morrhyn repeated it slowly. “Matawaye. They live here, the Grannach in the mountains.”
    â€œI understand none of this,” Arcole said.
    â€œNor I,” said Davyd. “Not really; only that it happened and I
can
understand them. Or most of what they say, at least.” He frowned. “I’ve much to learn, but Morrhyn says—I think—that I shall. And you, in time. But most important, we’re safe here. The demons cannot pass through the mountains.”
    â€œNor Wyme’s Militia?” Arcole asked.
    Davyd chuckled. “Through the mountains? Didn’t you say they’d not even come into the wilderness?”
    Arcole nodded. There was magic at work here, such as he failed to comprehend. He was familiar with the hexing powers of the Evanderan Autarchy, knew somewhat of prophetic dreaming, but this was something else: as if the passage through the mountains imbued Davyd with the gift of tongues. Or it was as the young man said—that Morrhyn had reached out in sleep to teach this odd and guttural language to the youthful Dreamer.
    For surely Davyd understood sufficient that he might play the part of interpreter: urged on by Morrhyn, he began to introduce folk.
    The tall young man whose black hair was fastened in two long braids with silver brooches was named Rannach, and he was some kind of leader. He was very handsome, his featuresaquiline and somewhat stern until he smiled, and then only sunny. Arcole held out a hand, which Rannach stared at in confusion; then Rannach touched his own to his chest and extended it palm outward. It was, Arcole supposed, the manner of greeting in this unknown land, and he aped the gesture, at which Rannach and the others beamed in approval.
    The fat man—though Arcole guessed muscle lay beneath those generous folds of flesh—was named Yazte. He was older, his dark braids paled with strands of gray, his eyes twinkling as he gave the newcomers greeting.
    Then Kahteney—whose hair, like Morrhyn’s, was unbound, his eyes deep-set, like pools of blue water in the weathered cragginess of his face—smiling grave greeting. Arcole noticed that neither he nor Morrhyn bore weapons other than belt knives, and as the introductions were made he thought that Davyd said these two were
wa-can-eeshas
, which appeared to be some title that set them a little apart from the others.
    Finally there was Kanseah, whose hair was braided like Rannach’s, dark red as a fox’s brush. He was, as best Arcole could judge, of an age with Rannach, but lacked that one’s authority, smiling shyly as he welcomed them and quickly retreating, deferring to Rannach and Yazte, who in turn appeared to defer to Morrhyn and Kahteney.
    Arcole sensed some subtle order here. Rannach and the other—
ak-ah-mans
, he thought they were called—carried weapons: long-bladed knives and hatchets. Without any suitable frame of reference, he could think only in terms of his homeland, assuming the ak-ah-mans were military leaders and the wa-can-eeshas like the Inquisitors, owners of such magical powers as rendered sharp steel and powder unnecessary. Save neither