“Well not right this minute,” Tavi said, after a flustered moment. “You could at least try to help me come up with something, Fade.”
Fade stared vacantly for a moment and then frowned. “Marat eat Alerans.”
Tavi swallowed. “I know, I know. But if they were going to eat us, they wouldn’t have given us blankets and a place to sleep. Right?”
“Maybe they like hot dinner,” Fade said, darkly. “Raw dinner.”
Tavi stared at him for a minute. “That’s enough help, Fade,” he said. “Get up. Maybe nobody’s looking and we can make a run for it.”
They both stood up, and Tavi had just crept to the tent’s flap to peek out, when the flap swung out, letting a flood of pale sunlight in along with a slender Marat youth dressed in a long leather tunic. His hair had been pulled into a braid identical to Doroga’s, though his body was far more slender, and his features far finer, sharper. The youth’s eyes were an opalescent swirl of colors, rather than the dark brown of Doroga’s. His eyes widened upon seeing them, as though surprised, and a chipped dagger of some dark stone seemed to leap into his hands and swept at Tavi’s face.
Tavi leapt back, fast enough to save his eyes, but not quickly enough to avoid a swift, hot pain, high on his cheek. Tavi let out a yelp, as Fade whimpered and jerked frantically at Tavi’s shirt, dragging him back and unceremoniously to the floor behind himself.
The Marat blinked at them, startled, and then demanded something in the guttural Marat speech, his voice high and, Tavi thought, perhaps nervous.
“I’m sorry,” Tavi said. “Um. I don’t understand you.” From the floor, he showed the Marat his open hands and tried to smile, though he supposed it looked rather sickly. “Fade, you’re standing on my sleeve.”
The young Marat scowled, half lowering the knife, and demanded something else, this time in a different-sounding tongue. He looked from Tavi to Fade, face twisting into revulsion as he studied Fade’s scars.
Tavi shook his head, glancing at Fade, who moved his foot and warily helped Tavi to his feet, watching the young Marat with his eyes wide.
The tent flap opened again, and Doroga entered. He stopped for a moment staring at Tavi’s face. The burly Marat growled something in a tone that Tavi recognized extremely well — though he normally heard it from his uncle after something had gotten complicated.
The youth spun to face Doroga, hands sweeping behind his back and hiding the knife. Doroga scowled and rumbled something that made color flush the youth’s cheeks. The youth snapped something back, to which Doroga replied with an unmistakable negative slash of his hand, together with the word, “Gnah.”
The youth thrust up his chin defiantly, snapped something in terse terms, and darted out of the tent, past Doroga’s reach, moving as quickly as a frightened squirrel.
Doroga lifted a hand and rubbed at the side of his face with it, then faced Tavi and Fade. The Marat studied them both with his dark eyes and grunted. “My apologies for the behavior of my whelp, Kitai. I am called Doroga. I am the headman of the Sabot-ha. Of the Gargant Clan. You are Alerans and my prisoners. You are the enemy of the Marat, and we will partake of your strength.”
Fade whimpered in his throat and clutched at Tavi’s arm hard enough to make it go numb.
“You mean,” Tavi asked, after a moment’s silence, “that you’re going to eat us?”
“I do not wish to,” Doroga said, “but such is the decree of Clanchief Atsurak.” He paused for a moment, eyes focused on Tavi, and said, “Unless this judgment is contested by our laws, you will give your strength to our people. Do you understand?”
Tavi didn’t. He shook his head.
Doroga nodded. “Listen to me, valleyboy. We-the-Marat prepare to move against the Alerans of the bridge valley. Our law calls you enemy. No one speaks otherwise. So long as you are enemy of the Marat, you will be our enemy, and we will hunt you and take you.” He leaned forward, speaking slowly. “So long as no one speaks otherwise.”
Tavi blinked, slowly. “Wait,” he said. “What if someone says that I’m not an enemy?”
Doroga smiled, showing his teeth again. “Then,” he said, “we must hold trial before The One, and discover who is correct.”
“What if I say we’re not your enemy?”
Doroga nodded and stepped back out of the tent. “You understand enough. Come outside, valleyboy. Come out before The One.”
CHAPTER 26
Tavi glanced back at Fade and then followed Doroga out of the tent and into the blinding light of the first day of winter. Sunlight poured through crystalline skies to blaze over the snow that covered the ground in an almost perfect layer of white. It took Tavi’s eyes long seconds to adjust and for him to squint around him as he emerged from the tent, Fade clutching at his arm.
They stood among hundreds of Marat.
Marat men, most of them as heavily built as Doroga, sat at cooking fires or watched casually, hands near the hafts of spears or on chipped-stone daggers or furyforged Aleran blades. Like Doroga, they wore only a brief loincloth, despite the weather, and evinced no signs of discomfort, though some of them wore cloaks of hide and fur that seemed more ornamental or martial than made with the intention of keeping their owners warm or dry. Children ran here and there, dressed in the same long leather tunic Doroga’s whelp had worn, and watched the strangers with obvious interest.
To Tavi’s astonishment, the women wore nothing more than the men, and lean, muscular legs, naked, strong shoulders and arms, and other things a proper Aleran boy was not supposed to see (but wanted to anyway) abounded. Tavi felt his face flush, and he shielded his eyes furiously, trying to pretend it was still the sun in them.
One of the young warriors nearby made a quiet comment, and that same coughing laughter resounded around the camp, which Tavi saw was arranged down the slope of a long, bald hill. He felt himself flush further, yet, and glanced at Fade. The slave stood beside him, no expression on his face, his eyes somewhat distant—but he put his hand on Tavi’s shoulder and squeezed, as though reassuring himself that the boy was there.
Doroga stood, patiently waiting, and then nodded toward the crest of the hill. He started that way himself, clearly expecting to be followed. Tavi glanced around them at the young warriors, who watched him with studied disinterest and fingered their weapons. Tavi moved his eyes to where a couple of older Marat women were chatting to one another and piling up wood beneath a roasting spit. One of them turned to Tavi and squinted at him, holding up a weathered thumb, then compared it to the length of the spit.
Tavi swallowed and hurried up the hill after Doroga, Fade close at hand.
At the top of the hill stood a dozen huge stones the size of a small house, arranged in a loose circle, some leaning upon others. They were rounded, any rough edges filed away by the winds and rains and seasons, but had obdurately resisted the elements, with no cracks apparent in their surfaces.