A novel by Meredith Skye

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Inside the tsirvak of the Sand Plain, Morrhan and his little brother, Norbi, bowed before the earth crystals. By custom, the clan to paid homage to the earth-gods. Since the death of the Borrai, a hundred years ago, each clan worshipped the gods in whatever way they saw fit. Shaheak priests saw to the spiritual safety of the clans.

"If the gods are dead, then why do we worship them?" Morrhan's ten year old brother asked him.

"The priests say that the Borrai only sleep. One day they'll awaken again to defend the us."

Norbi looked thoughtful. "I've heard some people say that such ideas are ridiculous. They say that the gods are gone forever. And that we need new gods."

Morrhan had heard such talk too. "I disagree," he said. "The gods will help us—they have to. The spirit of the gods were hidden in a god-stone. When the time is right, it will be found."

Long ago the Chanden came and destroyed the Borrai with their sky-flames. Before the Borrai died, their spirits retreated into a god-stone to be brought forth at a later time. The shaheak Riddich hid the stones and died later at the hands of the invading Chanden. The location of the stone was lost forever, though there was a poem handed down through the generations, a riddle that spoke of the god-stone.

Stone calls to clan

And fire shall awake

Wind shall descend

And sweep 'cross the lake

Where is the head,

with pow'r to set free?

The stand of the dea

shall rest 'neath dark sky.

Fountain shall break

Alone in the mist

the Mountain shall shake;

Borrai shall enlist.

Morrhan had told Norbi this poem many times. No one knew the meaning of the poem. There was much speculation on the location of the stone. Many had tried to find it and failed.

"You think they find the stone and once we have Borrai again ... the new Borrai will defeat the Chanden for us?" asked Norbi.

Long ago, the Chanden had either destroyed or taken over their ancient cities—such as Urrlan and Karther—and the more habitable areas of the plains.

"I hope so," said Morrhan.

All who resisted the Chanden and their laws were arrested and imprisoned. A hundred years later, the Garrans' will to fight had weakened. Many of them now lived in the cities, working in the mines or factories. Despite long hours of labor the Garrans remained poor, treated as trespassers on their own lands.

Norbi followed Morrhan out of the shrine.

"Morrhan," asked Norbi, "can you come with me to the Black Hills to hunt crystals?"

Morrhan hesitated. The crystals were valuable—a month's worth of food—but difficult to find.

"No, not today, Norbi," said Morrhan, not with so many warriors gone.

"Why?" the boy insisted.

"It's dangerous out there. And it's my duty to watch the tsirvak while Father's away hunting."

Wild beasts and poisonous snakes roamed the Black Hills—among other things. Also, the Chanden sometimes ventured out from their stolen cities, growing bolder each season. They hunted in groups both for the lithe four-legged eke beasts or the huge, horned orvallin, one of which could feed Morrhan's tribe for weeks.

"It's not that dangerous," objected Norbi, pouting.

"Some Garrans have gone missing recently. They say the Chanden hunters killed them. We'll go some other time and take some others with us."

Morrhan didn't want to take a chance, especially with the life of the youngest son of his second mother, Shibbea.

As was his right as chief, their father, Ashtan, had four wives: Eileava, first mother; Shibbea, second mother; and Reisha, third mother. The youngest was Drinia, fourth mother. 'Many wives makes the tribe large,' so the saying went.

Morrhan's own mother had passed away when he was born, so he never knew her. And his father, Ashtan said little about her, no matter how much Morrhan prodded.

Drinia, the youngest of Ashtan's wives, was aloof to Morrhan. Though Shibbea wasn't Morrhan's true mother, she'd always treated him as her own.

Norbi no longer considered himself a child, even though not quite an adult yet. Still growing, he stood two heads shorter than Morrhan, who wasn't that tall. Resentment flared in Norbi's eyes. "I'll go alone then."

"You will not," said Morrhan sternly. Their father, Ashtan, was on a hunting round with the clan and looked to Morrhan to take care of things at the tsirvak.

Morrhan walked on, ignoring Norbi's displeasure. Hunting had been poor since the Chanden came and disturbed the land—always mining and building. The animals didn't venture as close any more. Hunting parties had to travel farther and be gone longer. Money bought the food that could make up the difference, but it meant working for the Chanden or selling them jewels such as they could find, for which the Chanden paid far less than their true worth.

Norbi sat near a heat-well—warming himself from air rising from within the Mountains of fire. The boy's impudence annoyed Morrhan. A man would understand.

In the clan room, Morrhan found his third mother, Reisha, and helped her coordinate the evening meal. Tonight they used food from the cellars. The last hunting trip had been poor. But with luck, this hunt would be more bountiful. Then they'd have meat for a month—more, with his new Chanden refrigeration pots. Morrhan hoped that the gods would favor them.

In truth, Morrhan knew he should go on a hunting trip and prove himself to his father. But Crysethe and Keilah were right—Morrhan wasn't a warrior. He excelled at shooting a bow. The others spent a lot more time practicing their fighting skills than Morrhan. He had always been more interested in reading and in knowledge. He felt that while spears and arrows were good for hunting—somehow it would never be enough. But this fascination with books and learning was rare among the clansmen.

Chanden law ordered that every child spend two consecutive seasons enrolled in one of their Chanden schools, about four months. During that time, they studied the Chanden language and other knowledge the Chanden considered basic: sanitation, first aid, history, a little math, and Chanden law.

They were also taught basic reading and writing, only in Chanden. The Borrai had an ancient writing system, but few Garrans learned it—only the shaheak.

While many tribes failed to send their children for even one season, Morrhan liked school so much that he'd begged Shibbea to let him go for three extra seasons, a fact she concealed from Ashtan, who disapproved of school altogether.

So, now Morrhan read in private, insomuch as a tsirvak allowed privacy. Too often, perhaps, Morrhan had volunteered to stay behind from the hunt and watch over the clan's weaker ones—and read. The others questioned his bravery—perhaps they were right.

Nonetheless, Morrhan's half-brothers were glad to be spared home-duty, so they endured his strangeness.

The clan gathered as Reisha and her younger sons and daughters served the meal. They made the chant of gratitude to the hunters, then ate.

The Garrans' existence, while not luxurious, wasn't dire. They had what they needed to survive, including a measure of safety—as long as they stayed clear of the Chanden. Creatures of comfort, the Chanden rarely ventured this far out.

Perhaps in time the Garrans would learn to deal with the Chanden. The Chanden had the knowledge of science, of medicine, of travel to the stars—something which both frightened and fascinated Morrhan.

Full and content, Morrhan relaxed near a heat-well, listening to the endless chatter of his kin, the jokes and banter. Somewhere someone sang softly to a baby. The women worked on sewing while the children played. The warmth and companionship reassured Morrhan and he forgot his fears.

In the cities, other clans were now broken up by the Chanden ways—all living in separate family groups. Morrhan could scarcely imagine this—to be so alone. In the tsirvak there was always activity, always a friend, a laugh, a song, or a tale to amuse oneself. Or an argument to settle.

The moment of quiet was broken when Shibbea came over. "Morrhan, have you seen Norbi?" She looked worried and she wouldn't ask such a question carelessly, without having searched. Morrhan knew the answer and stood. How could he not have watched him better!

"He asked about going to the Black Hills and I told him no," said Morrhan, but obviously Norbi had not heeded him and had gone out alone. The fool!

Already it was several hours past dark. The worry turned to fear in Shibbea's eyes. Morrhan pulled on a warm cloak.

"I'll go after him," said Morrhan, grabbing his dagger and his bow. There weren't many at the tsirvak right now that could accompany him.

Crysethe appeared wearing her cloak, and under that—a dagger. "I'll help you," she said, a stubborn look of resolve on her face.

"No," Morrhan said without even thinking. "It's too dangerous." Crysethe had trained hard as a hunter, but was too young for such a mission. "Stay here," he said. "Help Pirka and Rheggi guard the clan." Pirka was old enough but been chosen to stay behind from the hunt, despite his protest. Rheggi was experienced as a fighter but his skills had waned with age.

Crysethe made to object but Morrhan interrupted her. "Rheggi's in charge." He didn't stay to hear her argument but ran up the long maze of tunnels to the surface.

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