Guy Kay - The Summer Tree

I feel old, Ivor realized. I’m jealous. I’ve got a son who can do Revor’s Kill . What did that make him? Was he just Levon’s father now, the last part of his name?

Which led to another thought: did all fathers feel this way when their sons became men? Men of achievement, of names that eclipsed the father’s? Was there always the sting of envy to temper the burst of pride? Had Banor felt that way when twenty-year-old Ivor had made his first speech at Celidon and earned the praise of all the elders for the wisdom of his words?

Probably, he thought, remembering his father with love. Probably he had, and, Ivor realized, it didn’t matter. It really didn’t. It was part of the way of things, part of the procession all men made towards the knowing hour.

If he had a virtue, Ivor reflected, something of his nature he wanted his sons to have, it was tolerance. He smiled wryly. It would be ironic if that tolerance could not be extended to himself.

Which reminded him. His sons; and his daughter. He had to have a talk with Liane. Feelingly decidedly better, Ivor went looking for his middle child.

Revor’s Kill. Oh, by Ceinwen’s bow, he was proud!

The Feast of the New Hunters started formally at sundown, the tribe gathering in the huge central area of the camp, from where the smell of slowly roasting game had been wafting all afternoon. Truly, this would be a celebration: two new Riders and Levon’s deed that morning. A feat that had obliterated the failures before. No one, not even Gereint, could remember the last time it had been done. “Not since Revor himself!” one of the hunters had shouted, a little drunkenly.

All the hunters from the morning were a little drunk; they had started early, Dave among them, on the clear, harsh liquor the Dalrei brewed. The mood of mingled relief and euphoria on the ride home had been completely infectious and Dave had let himself go with it. There didn’t seem to be any reason to hold back.

Through it all, drinking round for round with them, Levon seemed almost unaffected by what he had done. Looking for it, Dave could find no arrogance, no hidden sense of superiority in Ivor’s older son. It had to be there, he thought, suspicious, as he always was. But looking one more time at Levon as he walked between him and Ivor to the feast—he was guest of honor, it seemed—Dave found himself reluctantly changing his mind. Is a horse arrogant or superior? He didn’t think so. Proud, yes; there was great pride in the bay stallion that had stood so still with Levon that morning, but it wasn’t a pride that diminished anything or anyone else. It was simply part of what the stallion was.

Levon was like that, Dave decided.

It was one of his last really coherent thoughts, for with the sunset the feast began. The eltor meat was superlative; broiled slowly over open fires, seasoned with spices he didn’t recognize, it was better than anything he’d ever tasted in his life. When the sizzling slices of meat started to go around, the drinking among the tribesmen got quite serious as well.

Dave was seldom drunk; he didn’t like surrendering the edge of control, but he was in a strange space that evening, a whole other country. A whole other world, even. He didn’t hold back.

Sitting by Ivor’s side, he suddenly realized that he hadn’t seen Tore since the hunt. Looking around the firelit pandemonium, he finally spotted the dark man standing by himself, off on the edge of the circle of light cast by the fires.

Dave rose, not too steadily. Ivor raised an inquiring eyebrow. “It’s Tore,” Dave mumbled. “Why’s he on his own? Shouldn’t be. He should be here. Hell, we… we killed an urgach together, me and him.” Ivor nodded, as if the stumbling discourse had been lucid explanation.

“Truly,” the Chieftain said quietly. Turning to his daughter, who was serving him just then, he added, “Liane, will you go and bring Tore to sit by me?”

“Can’t,” Liane said. “Sorry. Have to go get ready for the dancing.” And she was gone, quick, mercurial, into the confused shadows. Ivor, Dave saw, did not look happy.

He strode off to fetch Tore himself. Stupid girl, he thought, with some anger, she’s avoiding him because his father was exiled and she’s chief’s daughter.

He came up to Tore in the half-dark, just beyond the cast glow of the many fires. The other man, chewing on an eltor haunch, merely grunted a hello. That was okay. Didn’t need to talk; talkers bugged Dave anyhow.

They stood awhile in silence. It was cooler beyond the fires; the wind felt easy, refreshing. It sobered him a little.

“How do you feel?” he asked finally.

“Better,” Tore said. And after a moment, “Your shoulder?”

“Better,” Dave replied. When you didn’t say a lot, he thought, you said the important things. In the shadows with Tore, he felt no real desire to go back to the center of the clearing. It was better here, feeling the wind. You could see the stars, too. You couldn’t in the firelight; or in Toronto, either, he thought.

On impulse he turned around. There it was. Tore turned to look with him. Together they gazed at the white magnificence of Rangat.

“There’s someone under there?” Dave asked softly.

“Yes,” said Tore briefly. “Bound.”

“Loren told us.”

“He cannot die.”

Which was not comforting. “Who is he?” Dave asked with some diffidence.

For a moment Tore was silent, then: “We do not name him by his name. In Brennin they do, I am told, and in Cathal, but it is the Dalrei who dwell under the shadow of Rangat. When we speak of him, it is as Maugrim, the Unraveller.”

Dave shivered, though it wasn’t cold. The Mountain was shining in the moonlight, its peak so high he had to tilt his head back to take it in. He wrestled then with a difficult thought.

“It’s so great,” he said. “So tremendous. Why’d they put him under something so beautiful? Now every time you look at it, you have to think about…” He trailed off. Words were too tough, sometimes. Most of the time.

Tore was looking at him with sharp understanding, though. “That,” he said softly, “is why they did it.” And he turned back to the lights.

Turning with him, Dave saw that some of the fires were being put out, leaving a ring of flame, around which the Dalrei were gathering. He looked at Tore.

“Dancing,” his companion said. “The women and boys.”

And a moment later Dave saw a number of young girls enter the ring of fire and begin an intricate, weaving dance to a tune laid down by two old men with curiously shaped stringed instruments. It was pretty, he supposed, but dancing wasn’t really his thing. His eyes wandered away, and he spotted the old shaman, Gereint. Gereint was holding a piece of meat in each hand, one light, one dark. He was taking turns biting from each. Dave snorted and nudged Tore to look.

Tore laughed, too, softly. “He should be fat,” he said. “I don’t know why he isn’t.” Dave grinned. Just then Navon, still looking sheepish about his failure that morning, came by with a flask. Dave and Tore each drank, then watched the new Rider walk off. Still a boy, Dave thought, but he’s a hunter now.

“He’ll be all right,” Tore murmured. “I think he learned his lesson this morning.”

“He wouldn’t be around to have learned it if you didn’t use a knife as well as you do. That,” Dave said for the first time, “was some throw the other night.”

“I wouldn’t have been around to throw it if you hadn’t saved my life,” Tore said. Then after a moment he grinned, his teeth white in the darkness. “We did all right back there.”

“Damn right,” said Dave, grinning back.

The young girls had gone, to cheerful applause. A larger operation began now, with the older boys joining a number of the women. Dave saw Tabor move to the center of the circle, and after a moment he realized that they were dancing the morning’s hunt. The music was louder now, more compelling. Another man had joined the two musicians.