Plainly he was disappointed at the mountaineer’s refusal to ask for clan standing. But at last he said:
“I claim him as a member of my family clan, to fight under our banner and eat at our fire—”
“So be it.” She dismissed them both with a wave of her hand. Already she looked beyond them to Jarl and was summoning the Star Captain imperiously.
Arskane threaded through the camp, giving only hasty greetings to those who would have stopped him, until he came to a tent which had two carts for walls and a wide sweep of woolen stuff for a roof. Round shields of rough-scaled skin hung in a row on mounts by the entrance-four of them-and above these warrior shields the wind played with a small banner. For the second time Fors saw the pattern of the widespread wings, and below those a scarlet shooting star.
A small, grave-eyed girl glanced up as they came. With a little cry she dropped the pottery jar she had been holding and came running, to cling tightly to Arskane, her face hidden against his scarred body. He gave a choked laugh and swept her up high.
“This is the small-small one of our hearthside, my brother. She is named Rosann of the Bright Eyes. Ha, small one, bid welcome my brother—”
Shy dark eyes peered at Fors and then little hands swept back braids which would in a few years rival those of the woman chief and an imperious voice ordered Arskane to “put me down!” Once on her two feet again she came up to the mountaineer, her hands outstretched.
Half guessing the right response Fors held out his in turn and she laid small palms to press his large ones.
“To the fire on the hearth, to the roof against the night and storm, to the food and drink within this house, are you truly welcome, brother of my brother.” She said the last word in triumph at her perfect memory and smiled back at Arskane with no little pride.
“Well done, little sister. You are the proper lady of this clan house—”
“I accept of your welcome, Lady Rosann.” Fors showed more courtliness than had been in his manner when he had greeted the chieftainess.
“Now,” Arskane was frowning again, “I must go to my father, Fors. He is making the rounds of the outposts. If you will await us here—”
Rosann had kept hold of his hand and now she gave him the same wide smile with which she had favored her brother. “There are berries, brother of my brother, and the new cheese and corn cake fresh baked—”
“A feast—!” He met her smile.
“A true feast! Because Arskane has come back. Becie said that he would not and she cried—”
“Did she?” There was an unusual amount of interest in that comment from her tall brother. Then he was gone, striding away between the tent lines. Rosann nodded.
“Yes, Becie cried. But I did not. Because I knew that he would be back—”
“And why were you so sure?”
The hand rugged him closer to the shield stands. “Arskane is a great warrior. That—” a pink-brown finger touched the rim of the last shield in the row, “that is made from the skin of a thunder lizard and Arskane killed it all alone, just himself. Even my father allowed the legend singer to put together words for that at the next singing time-though he has many times said that the son of a chief must not be honored above other warriors. Arskane -he is very strong—”
And Fors, remembering the days just past, agreed. “He is strong and a mighty warrior and he has done other things your legend singer must weave words about.”
“You are not of our people. Your skin”—she compared his hand with hers—“it is light. And your hair-it is like Becie’s necklace when the sun shines upon it. You are not of us Dark People—”
Fors shook his head. In that company of warm brown skins and black hair his own lighter hide and silver head-capping must be doubly conspicuous.
“I come from the mountains-far to the east—” He waved a hand.
“Then you must be of the cat people!”
Fors’ gaze followed her pointing finger. Nag and Lura sat together at a good distance from the sheep and the tough little ponies as they had apparently been ordered to do. But, at Fors’ welcoming thought, Lura came up, leaving Nag behind. Rosann laughed with pure delight and threw her arms around the cat’s neck, hugging her tight. The rumble of Lura’s purr was her answer and a rough pink tongue caressed her wrist.
“Do all you people of the mountains have the big cats for your own friends?”
“Not all. The cat ones are not so many and it is for them to choose with whom they will hunt. This is Lura who is my good friend and roving companion. And that yonder is Nag who runs with the Star Captain.”
“I know-the Star Captain Jarl, he who has the kind eyes. He talks in the night with my father.”
“Kind eyes.” Fors was a little startled at a description so at variance with what he thought he knew. Though Rosann probably did not see Jarl as he appeared to a mutant and tribal outlaw.
Smoke was rising from the line of fires and borne with it was the fragrance of cooking. Fors could not repress a single sniff.
“You are hungry, brother of my brother!”
“Maybe-just a little—”
Rosann flushed. “I am sorry. Again have I let my tongue run and not remembered the Three Duties. Truly am I shamed—”
Her fingers tightened on his and she pulled him under the entrance flap of the tent.
“Down!”
Fors’ heels struck against a pile of thick mats and he obediently folded up his long legs and sat. Lura collapsed beside him as Rosann bustled about. Before Fors could even make out the patterns of the hangings on the walls Rosann returned, carrying before her a wide metal basin of water from which rose steam and the spicy scent of herbs. A towel of coarse stuff lay over her arm and she held it ready as Fors washed.
Then came a tray with a spoon and bowl and a small cup of the same bitter drink he had brewed under Arskane’s direction in the museum. The corn mush had been cooked with bits of rich meat and the stimulating drink was comforting in his middle.
He must have dozed off afterward because when he roused it was night outside and the crimson flames of the fire and the lesser beams of a lamp fought against the shadows. A hand placed on his forehead had brought him awake. Arskane knelt beside him and there were two others beyond. Fors levered himself up.
“What—” He was still half asleep.
“My father wishes to speak with you—”
Fors gathered his wits. One of the men facing him now was a slightly older edition of his friend. But the other wore about his throat a pair of silver wings fastened to a chain of the same stuff.
The chieftain was smaller than his sons and his dark skin was seamed and cracked by torrid winds and blistering suns. Across his chin was the ragged scar of an old and badly healed wound. Now and again he rubbed at this with a forefinger as if it still troubled him.
“You are Fors of the mountain clans?”
Fors hesitated. “I was of those clans. But now I am outlaw—”
“The Lady Nephata gave him earth—”
Arskane was both interrupted and effectively silenced by a single sharp look from his father.
“My son has told us something of your wanderings. But I would hear more of this Plainsmen encampment and what chanced with you there—”
For the second time Fors repeated his outline of recent events. When he had finished the Chief favored him with the same sort of intimidating glare which had worked on his son a few minutes before. But Fors met it forthrightly.
“You, Ranee,” the Chief turned to the young man with him, “will alert the scouts against this trouble and make the rounds of the western outposts every hour. If an attack offers, the two beacons on the round hills must be fired. That you must keep ever in the minds of the men—”
“You see, rover”—the Chief spoke over his shoulder, addressing a shadow near the door, and for the first time Fors noted a fourth man there—“we do not go to war as to a banquet-as these Plainsmen seem to do. But if it be necessary then we can fight! We who have faced the wrath of the thunder lizards and taken their hides to make our shields of ceremony—”
