“No problem,” he lied.
Orand grinned again, clearly skeptical.
“Good,” he said. “But don’t worry, it’ll warm up once we’re underway. The sun’s strong, and the light on your back will heat you soon enough.”
Ronon looked up into the washed-out sky, covering his eyes with his palm. If this was strong sunlight, he wondered what weak was. Even though the sky was clear, the light was oddly diffuse. He had traveled on a hundred worlds, and this was the palest light he had ever seen. There was something strangely ineffective about Khost’s sun.
Orand offered him a weapon. It was a long wooden shaft, tipped with an ornately carved blade. Ronon took it in both hands. It was light, but felt strong and well-made. He hefted it powerfully, noting the way the wood of the shaft flexed.
“This is a jar’hram,” said Orand, proudly. “My father’s. He no longer joins the hunt so, as our guest, you shall use it.”
Ronon looked at the young man carefully. “You sure?” As a warrior himself, he knew the importance of an ancestral weapon. He wouldn’t have parted with his own Traveler gun for all the ZPMs in the galaxy.
Orand studied the blade with a pinched expression. “He has no use for it any more,” he said. “Say no more about it.”
Ronon nodded. “Thanks.”
There was a long leather strap attached to the base of the shaft and tethered to the point at which the wood gave way to steel. Seeing how the other hunters were arrayed, Ronon strapped the spear to his back. As he did so, he felt the reassuring weight of his pistol against his thigh, buried in layers of fur. Swords and sticks were all very well, but it was good to know he had a force weapon available if need be.
“When do we go?” he said, still trying to hide his sensitivity to the cold.
Orand looked around at the party, fully clad for the conditions and standing expectantly.
“No time like the present,” he said. “There was a time when my people used to ride across the plains. But the horses couldn’t take the cold and there are none left. Now it’s just us and the Buffalo. That alright with you?”
The Satedan shrugged. “Sounds ’bout right,” he said. “Let’s get started.”
Ronon pulled the radio from his furs. “You picking me up, Sheppard?”
“Loud and clear, Ronon. Stay in contact.”
Orand gave a signal, and the hunters began to move off towards the wasteland ahead. They didn’t assume any particular formation, but walked easily in ones and twos. Ronon cast a look over his shoulder. The barely-visible entrance to the cave complex was several yards distant. Beyond that was the snowfield where the Jumper had landed, and past that stood the Stargate. It all looked very insubstantial compared to the endless expanse of ice and snow around them.
“You’ll be able to get us back?” he said to Orand.
The hunter laughed. “I’ve pursued the White Buffalo on dozens of hunts. I’ve not lost my way yet.”
Orand was young and fresh-faced, but he had an air of calm confidence about him.
“Good,” said the Satedan, grimly. “If we get lost out here, I’ll never hear the last of it from McKay.”
Teyla looked across at Miruva as the young woman stripped dried grass stems into narrow ribbons. The Forgotten worked quickly and surely. Her fingers danced in the firelight, weaving the strands into ever more complicated patterns.
Teyla appreciated Miruva’s art. Her own people back on Athos had been more used to the skills of farming and craft-making than high technology. Teyla even thought she recognized some of the Forgotten girl’s techniques from her homeworld. Though older members of her village had retained many of the Athosian ancestral skills, and no doubt still did so on Atlantis, she had never had the patience or the time to learn. Hers had always been the way of the warrior, the leader. Perhaps the presence of Wraith DNA in her body had driven her that way, to a rootless existence, trading where possible, fighting where necessary. Now, looking at Miruva contently working, she saw a vision of a different life, one that she might have had. That is, if the Wraith had never existed.
She shook herself free of her introspection. It did no good to speculate on what might have been.
Teyla looked around the chamber. It was much like all the other Forgotten dwelling places: clean, basic, well-kept. Even though it was now mid-morning, the torches still burned. They seemed never to be extinguished. Every so often, she saw attendants pour a little more of the mysterious oil into the base of the lamps. When this was done, there was a faint acrid smell, but otherwise the fuel burned with remarkably little residue.
Aside from the ever-present torches, the room was lit with trapped sunlight filtered down from the sky above. They burned as brightly as any of the synthetic lighting on Atlantis, and did much to relieve the feeling of closeness engendered by the subterranean environment.
“The sun-traps,” said Teyla to Miruva. “They are artfully made. How did your people construct such things?”
Miruva sighed. “The secret to making them is lost,” she said. “We have legends amongst us, about the first attempts to carve out a life in the caves. This was in the days when the winters were short. Back then, the secrets of the Ancestors were better known. The tale is told of the master glassmaker, who constructed the shafts of light in the underground places. We benefit from his foresight, but we cannot replicate it.”
“That is a shame,” Teyla said. “You could make your living quarters more comfortable with more such devices.”
Miruva put down her weaving and looked at the twinkling points of light herself. “You’re right,” she said, as if considering the possibility for the first time. “But where would we get the glass? We can still delve the tunnels, but many of the materials our people once used have left us. We make use of what we have, repairing what is broken, but we do not create new things.”
Teyla found this idea disturbing. The galaxy was torn by war and conflict. There was no place for such gentle people, stuck in their ways and reluctant to try new things. If they didn’t find some way of moving forward, they would surely be swept aside. Even if the Wraith didn’t know they were there yet, there was no hiding from them forever.
“The changing climate has no doubt limited what your people can do,” she said, anxious not to offend. “But are you not concerned that if you stick to your traditions, then you may be at risk? The Tauri are not perfect, but you have seen that they are restlessly curious. Where there is a problem, they try and solve it. That is why they are so strong.”
Miruva looked puzzled. “The Tauri?” she said. “Is that the name you give to your men?”
Teyla smiled. It was easy to forget how isolated these people were. “No,” she said. “It is the name of their people, the ones I travel with. And you must put aside the notion that only the menfolk are responsible for our achievements. Our commander is a woman, and I am as much a part of the team as my colleagues.”
Miruva looked at her with admiration. “It is not like that with us,” she said. “I wish it were. But while our men have the honor of hunting the Buffalo, we have little to do but tend the dwellings and ensure that all is kept in order for their return.”
“Such things are important, to be sure,” Teyla said. “But you are an intelligent woman, you can see the problems your people face. Can you not help them do something about them? I’ve seen the way Orand looks at you. You have a follower there, at least.”
Teyla smiled as Miruva blushed deeply. “It’s not that easy. My father…”
“He seems like a good man,” Teyla said, not wanting to cause a family rift.
“Oh, he is,” Miruva said, with feeling. “But perhaps age has not been kind to him. My mother was taken many years ago…”
A note of grief marked her voice, and she trailed into silence. Teyla felt awkward. She had no business interfering. “I am sorry,” she said. “I have been discourteous.”