"True."
She turned slowly. In profile her stomach protruded mightily, suggesting that, perhaps, she carried twins. She had not even waited until the beginning of the second time of long light, much less the end, which had not yet come. Duwan felt a knife stab from the inside, and almost bent with the pain.
"Who?" he asked, his voice a croak.
"Noo," she said.
"A good match. Son of Manoo the Predictor."
"Oh, Duwan—" She took one step toward him, her legs wide to balance the front-heavy bulk of her body. She halted when there was movement behind them and a well built young male entered.
"Greetings, Duwan," said Noo, son of the Predictor. "I was moved by the recitation of your adventures."
"I have given my greeting to an old friend, a female that I tended in the young house," Duwan said. "I ask your understanding and forgiveness for entering your house in your absence."
Noo made a gesture of negation. "You are welcome as a friend of the family, and as our most famous warrior."
"May they be twins," Duwan said, nodding at Alning.
"The midwife thinks so," Noo said. He smiled. "A good way to start a family, is it not?"
Duwan walked north, skirted springs, found himself under the cliffs where, at a time that seemed both far distant and most recent, he had climbed into the rays of Du to thrust his left arm into the concealed maw of the rock sucker. He started climbing, soon felt the weak light as he clambered recklessly to the very top of the cliffs. At the top, with a cold wind sweeping across the barrens, he looked down on the steam and green of the valley and wept.
"Du," he said, "if this is punishment for my errant ways when I was among the enemy, then it is deserved." But, ah, it hurt. It hurt more than he had hurt when he'd lopped off his left arm to save his own life. It hurt so much that he remembered the story his grandmother had told him about the son who had leaped, or fallen, from the cliffs. It was tempting, for a moment. Then he looked again at the valley, saw the villages, the movement of Drinkers in the squares, remembered the intoxicating heat of Du in the far south. He had his duty.
He found Belran at the forge of a metal worker, stripped to the waist, wielding a hammer himself, forming a sweetly designed blade. He watched. That blade would taste enemy blood and help to return the stolen heritage of his people. Why, then, did he not exult?
"The fires of the forges will burn all winter," Belran said, as he dipped the glowing blade to the accompaniment of a hissing and metallic smelling steam. "There, that is all for today. We will let the spirit of the metal rest for a time." He wiped his hands on his garment and buckled on his weapons. "This royal guardsman you fought," he said. "Did you note well his technique?"
"Quite well," Duwan said. "He was the best I'd seen."
"Show me."
There was no audience. Longswords were padded. Duwan played the part of Captain Hata. His sword hissed and thudded against Belran's padded weapon. He felt the sweat begin to form, and the closest thing he would ever know to joy—or so, at least, did he think at the time—filled him as he faced a sword as skilled, possibly more skilled, than his own and demonstrated Hata's offensive techniques. Then he stepped back.
"I shifted to the left hand," he said, "after studying all his techniques. He was susceptible to a low, rising sweep, but he managed to counter it." Belran came at him, and he found it more difficult to counter the left-handed blows. It ended, oddly enough, as his duel with Hata had ended. He felt the impact of Belran's sword on his head, was dazed, but felt the solid impact of his padded blade on Belran's toughened stomach at the same instant. He rose, shaking his head, and helped Belran to his feet. The older warrior was panting.
"Of course, the killing blow to the stomach would have been countered with the shortsword," Belran said.
"When we go south we will not fight by the Enemy's rules," Duwan agreed. "He is an abomination to the light of Du, Belran. It is given to us Drinkers to rid the land of him, to end the eating of Drinker young and the sacrifice of living entities of all brotherhoods, to bring freedom to the enslaved."
Belran clasped right arms with him, showed his teeth in a fierce grin.
"It makes my flesh crawl to think of the Enemy's evil," he said. "We will fight side by side, warrior."
Why did being accepted by the great Belran as an equal not give him joy?
He ate with his family, hiding his heartbreak. Jai wanted to serve, but his mother insisted that she sit with the family and eat. His grandmother sat by his side.
"Thanks to you, my son," the old female said, as she toyed with her food, "I will become one with the earth when you lead us to our homeland."
"So be it, Grandmother," he said.
"To have eternal peace and warmth and to feed and grow on the goodness of the earth," she said.
"It is good," he said.
"You have heard the whispering?"
"Yes. Most of the time it is muddled, confused by many voices, Grandmother."
"This female, your Jai, says that she, in the end, could also hear the whisperings," his grandmother said.
He glanced at Jai almost guiltily. He had not given her one thought, much less a look, or a smile, since returning from the house of Alning and Noo. "She is, after all, Drinker," he said.
"Duwan, help me to survive the coming darkness," the old woman asked, pleading in her voice. "Promise me that you will not let me harden. Promise me that you will plant me yourself in some warm, rich spot blessed by the full rays of Du."
"I promise," Duwan said, taking her hand only to be surprised by the rigid, hard feel of her.
"There is much to be done," his father said. "I have called a gathering of elders. We must make our plans and our preparations. I have advised that all fertile grafting be discontinued during the coming darkness, so that we will have no new young to impede our journey."
"An excellent idea," Duwan said.
"I have spoken with Belran and the other village elders," his father said.
"You will command the people of our village during the trek." Duwan nodded, taking the responsibility not with joy but with a sense of duty settling upon his shoulders.
"Now you should rest, my son," his mother said. "You've been long on the march, and long awake."
When he awoke, the elders of all the villages were already gathering in the square. He was summoned by his father and went forth to see them, all the wise men of the Drinkers, seated on the good earth, looking up at him as he strode to the speaker's mound.
"My son knows the way to the south," his father said. "I and my village elders have put him in command for the duration of the trip. I ask that all other villages follow suit."
There were no objections.
"Now here is our chief warrior, Belran the Leader," Duwan's father said, "to make suggestions as to our preparations." Belran took the speaker's mound. "I do not underestimate the difficulty of the journey. Duwan will tell us more, again and again, so that it can be implanted in our minds, as we prepare during the long darkness. When we leave, we must travel light. We will not be able, for example, to take our forges and anvils. Our loads must be weapons, food, water, clothing. When we have reached the lands of the south we must have spare weapons, the extra ones we will carry. We must, during the winter, have our metal workers convert all surplus iron into weapons. We will put emphasis on arrowheads, for our bows will be of great advantage to us. Duwan has told us that the bow is well known by the Enemy, but that it has fallen into disfavor. Since our supply of good wood for bows and arrows is limited here, we must carry only the pre-made heads, to be fitted to arrows made from the plentiful wood to the south."
An elder from a neighboring village stood and Belran politely stopped talking. "You are a respected warrior, Belran, but I think you presume too much," the elder said. "Our village has not yet voted." Before the astounded Belran could speak, Duwan leaped to the speaker's mound. "Vote?" he howled. "This is not a matter of village politics. This is the destiny of our people."