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Old 10-25-2004, 02:32 PM   #306
piosenniel
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Rôg . . . at home

Safe in the arms of my family . . . protected by my clan . . .

The thought slid through his mind again and again, yet it brought him no comfort. There at the cooking fire, their heads bent together, his sister and mother were just putting the final touches on the evening’s meal, laughing at some small joke that one had told the other. Their faces, shiny with sweat from the nearness of the cook-fire, looked up at him and smiled, drawing him into their little circle. A moment later and the circle enlarged. His father had quit his axe making for the day and come to their tent. In a familiar gesture from his youth, Abâr had ruffled his son’s hair as he passed him, calling out to his daughter Daira his timeworn jest. ‘Smells good today!’ he said grinning. ‘Not a trace of smoke and cinders!’

How often had this small ritual occurred, he wondered to himself, and how long would it be given the grace to continue?

His thoughts flew back to the Eagle encampment, to Ayar’s tent. The family and clan’s sorrow as their leader lay ill, dying. Their grief at her death. Aiwendil’s description of what was taking place among the maenwaith came back to him, as did the whispered fears of little Miri. How many others had been killed, would be killed, so that the Wyrm Clan’s schemes might go forward? And when would that Wyrm’s eyes widen their view, seeking the last remnants of resistance? Some of his clan might fall to the hired slayers before the alarm could be raised.

At his earlier meeting with his clan-leader he had broached the subject of what was happening in the north. Îbal had listened patiently, nodding as he took in the information. Silence followed the telling as the clan leader considered his reply. ‘I’m sorry it has come to this for our cousins,’ he began. ‘But the safety of our own clan comes first for me, as it should for you.’ Rôg opened his mouth to speak further, but Îbal cut him off with a gesture. ‘You have told me that the few of our clan you were able to seek out have been given the word to return to our homeland. Even now they will be traveling to the desert and steppes of the northeast with their families. The Old Ones will be there to welcome them, but we should soon hasten there ourselves. The Shadow has lifted. There is no longer need for us to hide here. We are Zadan n’Yo, The House of the Gift. That we are together and will soon be free to follow our own ways is enough.’ His clan leader had made his final judgment on the matter, and Rôg kept silent, though his thoughts protested what had been said. He had bowed, his expression neutral, and taken his leave.

~*~

Supper was done, the dishes and pots washed and stowed away until called into service again. Rôg hung the cloth he had used to dry them on one of the tent’s ropes and hunkered down beside his sister to enjoy a mug of tea. Daira poured one for herself and then for him. Knowing his sweet-tooth, she pushed the pot of honey near him. For a space of time, only the clink of his spoon against the sides of the mug filled the space between them. His sister spoke quietly, leaning her shoulder against his, asking what it was that troubled him.

Rôg watched the steam rise from his mug as he collected his thoughts. ‘I’ve only shared this with the clan leader,’ he began. Daira’s brow furrowed at this beginning, wondering what was so secret that he had not shared it with them first. ‘The clan in the north that I stayed with for a few days – great trouble is looming over them.’ Daira nodded slowly as if she understood. ‘Men!’ she spat out. ‘They are after them for something aren’t they?’ she asked, her brown eyes wide. ‘They should get far away from that mannish place. No good ever came from trying to fit in or treat with such creatures.’

‘It’s not Men they have to be afraid of, sister mine. It is the others of their own kind, our kind, who hunt them down and seek to kill them.’ Daira’s brow puckered further and she shook her head violently. ‘It’s true. I have seen it with my own eyes and heard it from their lips,’ he went on, sitting his untouched mug down by his knee.

Daira listened as he told the story of the clan leader and the suspicions of who had poisoned her. He spoke of the things Aiwendil and the Eagle clansmen had told him of the Wyrms and their plans for a city; how many of their cousins in the north believed it better to comply rather than be killed.

‘Killed?’ Daira’s face had paled at his words; she could barely comprehend what he spoke of.

‘Many believe she will hunt with a vengeance those who resist, and eliminate them all. She is a greedy one, or so I’ve come to think of her from what I’ve heard.’ He raised his head and looked about at the families gathered round their little fires. ‘Who can say when she will turn her cold eyes toward our little clan, and pursue us.’ Daira shivered and drew up against him, laying her cheek against his.

‘The Old Ones should hear of this. You must go to them for counsel.’ Rôg nodded his head, saying that once the clan had returned to its home, he would seek them out. His sister, in turn, shook her head ‘no’ at this.

‘No. Much as I want you to stay with us, I think you should go sooner than that. Tonight, in fact. Take advantage of the cover of darkness.’ ‘I’ll tell some story to mother and father . . .’ she said, already considering how she might put it to them that Rôg would be gone for a few days . . .
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