Tagrun walked the woods with Chanti, worried that the others would get upset over his missing the council. Not enough to walk away from the woman he loved, but enough to be uncomfortable. Chanti sensed his unease, but was not yet ready to share her man, young though he may be by the standards of her bloodlines. But he was the only other with any significant amount of the green blood of her kind in him. Only one with at least a grandparent from her people would live close to long enough for her not have to mourn his passing on too soon.
That she had known him since childhood, at times it made her feel awkward, knowing he was born at a time of her life that others would have, and were, dying. But elves aged far slower than humans, already the woman who had raised her was gone from her, dying this past winter from the ravages of old age, and that ones husband, who she called father, was soon to follow her soul to their next life, in another world she could not join them in. But the boy, when he was ten summers, she had seen him, seen he had the ears of her folk, ones she had seen since on her true kinsmen who had left her amongst these folks for protection, had come looking for the fate of her family.
Chanti held Tagrun's hand firmly. He had talked of the death of his friend and partner, and they had both shed tears for Hathrad. She had never thought that the violence of the outer world would find the area of grasslands the Eagles preferred most of the year. And it was the darkness of that shadow that she had felt in the wind as they met, she was sure. For the last two greater moons, her sleep had been disturbed by shadows and nightmares of death and horrible beasts. When the buhatar herd had risen from awful deaths to walk after dying, those dreams became worse. Dreams of a shadow that came between her and Tagrun, that grasped her and stole her into the darkness. A darkness that entered her.
The dreams left her disturbed and excited. There was a sense of strange power in the shadow, a power she could taste and feel moving all over her, like the breeze after she climbed from one of the many hot springs here. It was incredible, yet there was a sense of horror that came over her at it as well. There was pain and death in that power as well, some price to be paid for it. Something she had not encountered before. There was a ban on magic in the clans, for reasons so old she had no knowledge of why, and like many young people, she had reached the point in life she felt she understood more than those who held those rules as sacred to be followed.
Beside her, Tagrun was just content to be with her, he had not sensed the shadow, nor the discontent with the rules of the clan his love had. No hints of the taint the shadow had sowed came to him. As they walked along the paths, turning back to the convocation at the fire at last, he spoke.
"I am on a hunt, one I must finish. The sands said it may take a long time, but it must be done." Now he stopped, and turned to face her. "When I come back to the grasslands, I ask if you will wait for me here, accepting a tent and my family as yours."
Chanti laughed. It was the normal proposal of the clans, to join together, but she was the one who owned the tent, the goods and the meats he would provide to share with the clan as she wished. "Which clan would we be? By the river or on the hills shall we live?" This was also part of the response, asking him which clan they would be of after they married. It was crucial, though sometimes the clans would rule on it, trading a couple to another clan for a skilled couple from them whose talents they lacked.
"I say we lay it before the council, let them decide." He then looked down to the ground. "It is not for us to make this decision until I return though. I merely ask if you will wait for me."
His shyness made her heart warm, forgetting the touch of the shadow. "I have waited for you since I saw your mother and ears, Tagrun. I will wait longer, just try not to make this a long courtship, my love."
The both laughed, then walked slowly to the council, savoring the rare time allowed them alone yet together.
At the gathering by the fire, the elders listened to the tale of the necromancer's deeds that Galen told them. The assassin had held up the blade at the first question of the elders on the reason he was there. The sight of an assassin's blade, one bought to end a life, left the elders quiet for a long time. He spoke softly, revealing what they knew to be some but not all of the truths he knew. Tagrun and Chanti came back as they had begun to ask questions of the events, if he knew of a description they could spread among the clans to prevent more deaths, whether he knew the destination this one sought. Galen's answers were considered well, choosing his words with care not to upset the elders, or those gathered in a larger circle outside the benches around the fire.
Tagrun listened to the questions, especially the ones Xibo gave, worried at the tones in his elder's voice. The man was mad over the fires, more that no member of the clans had thought to burn out the undead. But the anger he had at the killings, of beasts as well as people, was hotter. The young hunter was still deciding if the words would need his talk of the sand casting, when the old men and few old wise women signaled they had heard enough.
Xibo grumbled some, though he nodded his acceptance of the changes. Drixaz merely laughed at his former competitor, and his lack of patience in all things.
As they parted though, Arklo had stepped back up to grasp Galen's elbow. "You will be asked to join with stone and grass tonight my friend." His words were soft, filled with a tension not normal to their talks in the past. "I worry about what will come of that, and which totems will come."
The totems were the great spirits, the embodiments of the world that the tribes lived in, and symbols of which clan one was of. Galen knew they honored them as he did his distant and cold gods, but never knew these totems would manifest to the people. He had never been touched by more than the sand castings of these folks, and a few other open rituals before. Even his levir, the husband of his sister, had never spoken of other types of religious ceremonies they had. It disturbed the assassin, that one of his guild would be asked to take oaths he might not be able to keep, for he was vowed to keep only secrets of his mission in progress from the Allegiance of the Blades. To make oaths to keep this place secret might conflict with his duty to his guild. Nor could he guarantee keeping his mouth shut if he got in his cups.
The clans, in showing him this place, had made taken the decision from him. He either went through with this or died here, his blade still thirsting for the heart of the necromancer he sought. Or could this be some way the clans sought their revenge upon the sorcerer? Possibilities, thoughts and glimmers of ideas yet to form moved in the mists of the otherworld he often perceived when thinking. His gods he had left aside long ago, as the ethos of his folk did not take kindly to his profession. Yet from time to time, he found a hint of their hands on his journey through life.
In the end, the elf shrugged off his misgivings. They could not give him a choice, as he had entered something beyond what he had dreamed, and this necromancer had indeed stirred up the anger of the clans, something not to be taken lightly. Few remembered the past like elves, many of whose elders were young children in lands here about that the ancestors of the clans had destroyed, leaving a vast area of farms, vineyards, and ranches to turn to untamed prairies again. While some of his folk found that a good thing, most agreed the deaths it had caused among all folk were not.
The wind was rising, lifting a myriad of sparks and embers off the slowly dampening bonfires of the council into the air, to mingle with the lights of the stars above, making many shapes there. Shapes that some said could tell the future as well as sands cast in the duwim of the elders. Fate was not something so easy to read though, Galen knew. Many years ago, in his own temples, a haruspice had spoken of his own doom, to come at the hand of a pale spider, though a scorpion would rise from the dust of the fight to avenge him.
Galen snorted, making Arklo look at him sternly. Assassins had no gods, save the dark gods of death that most folks seem to have as forces of evil in their legends. To think any save the one holding a blade or his foe could determine something so it could be seen far in advance was foolishness, and why most prophets spoke only in vague terms and timelines that none could confirm.
"Thinking of prophecies and readings from my youth, Arklo. That is all. Things that have never come true, and never can." Galen let soft words fall into the air, not wishing to offend those still nearby with scoffing at beliefs they held dear.
Galen sensed more than saw the nodding head of his friend. "Yes, until the day comes that one sees prophecies proven, one often doubts their worth, or wonders if some action has let him avoid them." The hunter shifted the long pipe he carried from one arm to the other, not so much to ease a burden, but to set it away from his fried who hunted men not beasts. "We all think little of our gods, until they reveal themselves to us, my friend. Perhaps this hunt of yours is for you to find your own faith again."
Galen laughed aloud, realizing that some folks could not be swayed from their set beliefs as easily as one who had lived a life filled with death, such as he had. "All things are possible, I guess. Though some how I doubt I will believe again in gods, until the time comes for me to be judged and given my next life, my friend. I only hope I remember you and your contentment with hunting when that time comes for me."
Arklo words were like the wings of an owl in the night, soft and nearly silent, meant for Galen alone. "This way, my friend. Let us see if your hunt is not just for a man, but to find your belief again."
They walked into a thicket, leaving the great crater, and seeking one of the vast dykes of frozen lava that the place was made of, leading south from the crater to the next plateau. The wind and its embers moved with them, the latter slowly dying away into specks of deeper black in the night as the lesser moon rose above the horizon. As so often in the spring, the chills and tastes of winter were still in the North wind, leaving them to wish for warmer clothing than what they had on. The trail led to a narrow and rugged ridge between the central and southern mesas.
For the elf the weak blue light of the lesser moon was like walking in daylight after a bit, but for Arklo, the illumination was insufficient for more than a slow walk. Several times the hunter held up his free hand as he scanned the path ahead. Two of those pauses there was movements on the trail ahead, a snake and a stench mink. As the snake had been a rock rattler, and neither man wished to be sprayed by the stench mink, Galen kept quiet, following Arklo forward, his worries of the conflict of oaths to come growing as he walked. The way ahead for him would prove he was sure, as narrow and treacherous as the one they walked now.
At last the saddle was passed, the way widening a small bit as it rose back to the level lands. This tableland was less brush and more trees, the air rich with the familiar scent of cedars, and a touch of some other trees that had perhaps, by the feel of the now strong wind, bloomed to early. The earth here was softer, more a loam of some kind laid over the rock somehow, perhaps built up by the trees and ages of fallen leaves and needles. Still, they moved into the mesa, in a twisting trail the assassin was sure had crossed itself many times, but never once could he tell for certain, as there were no distinctive landmarks for even his excellent night vision to make out.
At last they reached an open area, yet another crater. To Galen's relief, this one had no signs of activity under the earth, nor even a hint of the rotten egg smell he associated with such places. He could no longer see the stars, even, to tell how much of the night had passed. Not even the glow of Athalan, the great ringed giant of the sky shown, but that only told him that perhaps he lay in the horas when the inner planets hid with the sun. That was still a long period of darkness to make an estimate of traveled distances on, leaving Galen worried that he had not pulled out his string of bacae for counting paces with. It was far too late now.
In the center of the crater, as in so many the elf had visited seeking his prey or from just sheer curiosity, there was a dome of rock that had risen back out after explosions had dug the crater. Rough hewn stairs led up the mound of slowly crumbling rock. It was strange, Galen thought, how this place was made up of large flats around craters raised high in the air. This showed the gods had a sense of humor, as well as disliked those who tried to explain how they did everything in detail.
At the top of the dome, again, there was a ring of idols. His own people had stopped making representations of the gods ages ago, but he understood the reasons for these images of the gods of the grassland folk. To them only by seeing could they believe. Then again, that was why he was here, it seemed, to find out if he believed enough to convince them of his connection to this land.
There was an altar in the center of the dome's top. One that sent chills into Galen's blood. The stone of the top had blood channels carved in it, and only a humanoid being would fin those channels. Despite his promise to Arklo to follow through and make a commitment to the tribes, now he wondered exactly what he had committed to doing. There were still tales of blood and human sacrifice by the clans, but not from those who knew them well, now he wondered if all he knew of the clans was a ruse.
Arklo senses his halt, and spoke into the night. "The altars we still use, yes my frined, but as reminders of what the totems asked us to leave behind when they gathered us back tino their arms. Hear me Galen, and know. Yes, during the times my people came to this land, and for many snows after we were here, we did do awful things, even practice the dark magics. We leave these here to warn the children to come that there is a price to pay for the easy way of magics. A price they must never choose to pay, lest we all fall back into the darkness again." The hunter's hand slapped the stone. "But these stones have been wet with dew, rain, snow and honey since those days, Galen. Relax. We choose not to deny our mistakes, but hold them out as mistakes. Yes, from time to time, one of ours breaks the oaths and bonds. They forget they have joined the grass and stones, and taken the pledges to live better than our ancestors had. But we do not sacrifice friends upon them."
Galen stared off to what had to be the west, where flashes in the sky sometimes showed a jagged horizon. Storms were coming, the big night time ones that marked the coming and reign of summer. Storms that could impede or aid the hunt for his prey. Which was already taking too long, as others besides those he had agreed to avenge had died.
"I will take your word for that, Arklo. Pray I do not find out otherwise." Just that cold reminder of his profession normally shattered friendships in the past. The hunter did not give him the reaction of fear.
"By joining to the grass and stone, that is what you pledge. That if you find someone using the dark arts, and not to use any magics in the grass yourself. We do not ask those who make their living by magic to give it up, just to show restraint in its use, here in grasslands." The rasp of a knife being drawn set the assassin on edge, despite the words of assurance, the near silent whisper of his own blade finding his hand answered.
Arklo laughed. "You are too tense, my friend. This is to lift a clump of grass to the altar. Nothing more." Soft strikes into the wet ground told the assassin the truth. The change in what he knew and did not about his friends and their ways, coming too fast these past few days. Galen no longer knew if he trusted the world, or the people of the grass.
"Being nervous has kept me alive this long, and in my work, that is what matters, living to retire." Galen left the knife on the altar, it was not one of his guild ones, just a simple throwing blade, well-balanced and of finest craftsmanship, to be sure. But it was made to be left if need be, as often one had to do, when killing someone.
Turning back to the altar, a clump of grass was set there. "Now, here is how we do this. No blood, no magic, just set you hands upon the altar, covering the grass, and repeat after me."
The oath were not a dangerous as Galen feared, had plenty of room for free interpretation, and only were strict on the point of never revealing the location of the Vault of Sandor to any not of the grass and stones, or agreed by many to be allowed to join with them.
The rest of the night passed in a short discussion, and sleeping by an altar that still radiated the nightmares it had seen over the ages. Nightmares that even an elf could not block out. Nightmares that opened his eyes, not just to the actions of the ancestors of the Kensori, but also those of his own and other peoples. The Vault of Sandor had other names over the ages, and the Loom of the Spider-gods was one of those names, Galen found, as he walked into those nightmares, wishing his weapons had come with him.
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