a ring of posts had been set up, each a tree trunk massive in itself, cleaned of bark, planed and cut so that the posts were all but identical. And outside the ring of posts there was a circle of trees, all of them oaks, some quite young, none as massive as the big specimen at the centre. It was obvious they had been deliberately planted, or perhaps moved. There were only a handful of houses, massive and old-looking, their hide covers stained black by smoke.
Aside from the track they had followed, Zesi glimpsed more ways cut into the forest, leading off from this place. Maybe this was how the Pretani lived – inside the forest itself, in these clearings cut and burned into the tree cover, linked by their wide, straight ways. And if the Root lived here perhaps the network was centred on this huge, impressive site.
The Pretani men dumped their packs and stripped off sweat-soaked tunics. More men, and a number of women and children, came out of the houses to greet them. The women did not seem so deferential here. One of them walked up to the Root himself and immediately started to harangue him.
Shade saw Zesi staring, and he grinned. ‘My mother. And his number one wife. He has several, as is the custom for the Root. But she is the one who counts, the one he has to listen to-’
There was a cry, unearthly and agonising. Zesi saw the branches of that big central tree rustle, and out leapt a figure, a man, green as the tree itself. He dropped to the ground on all fours, capered over to the Root, and performed an odd dance, more animal than human. Then the green stranger sniffed the air, and ran straight over to Jurgi.
Zesi felt for her blade.
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ Jurgi murmured. ‘I’ve heard of this. This is their priest – he lives in their most sacred tree. It’s rare for him to come down to the ground at all.’
The Pretani priest stood tall. Zesi saw that he was no more than a boy, slim, naked under a kind of net cloak of green leaves, though his skin itself was dyed a livid green. Young he may have been but he evidently recognised Jurgi as one of his own sort. He jabbered a lengthy speech in Pretani. Jurgi replied with a few words, backed up by phrases in the traders’ tongue. Then the priest scurried away and clambered up his tree, lithe as a cat.
‘What did he say?’ Zesi asked.
‘It was a welcome, of a sort,’ Jurgi said.
‘What sort?’
‘If we keep quiet and obey all the rules, we might live long enough to be dishonoured by defeat in the wildwood hunt. That sort.’
Shade approached them. ‘Look – you can use the house over there. There’ll be a feast tonight, to welcome home my father. It would be best to stay out of the way.’
Zesi snorted. ‘Not much of a way to treat a guest.’
The priest touched her arm to hush her. ‘Look over there.’ He gestured towards the Root and his wife, who was, Zesi saw now, pointing at her and Jurgi.
‘They’re arguing about us,’ she said.
Shade said with a tired smile, ‘About you, Zesi, I’m afraid. About all that happened at the Giving. For my father the issue is settled. Not for my mother, who rejects the honour of men. You being here is – provocative.’
Zesi said angrily, ‘If that woman wants some kind of showdown-’
‘No,’ said both Shade and Jurgi, together. ‘Please,’ said Shade. ‘Just stay out of the way. Look – don’t come out of your house tonight. During the feast. You may not like what you’d see.’
Zesi did not enjoy being hidden out of sight. But she stomped off to the house. The house itself was massively built, laden thick with leaves sandwiched between two hide layers, and it was cool inside. There was a hearth, unlit, a couple of hide pallets stuffed with leaves, and bowls of water.
It had been a long journey. After a wash to rinse the grime off her limbs and a soak of her feet, and a piss into a pit at the rear of the house, with relief Zesi lay down on one of the pallets. It crackled softly, smelling of autumn and wood smoke, and she fell into a deep sleep.
She didn’t wake until evening, with the scent of cooked meat in her nostrils.
She sat up, suddenly hungry. The house was dark. By the light of a lamp of oil burning in a stone bowl, the priest was unwrapping a parcel of meat covered with leaves. He sat by the hearth but the fire still wasn’t lit; the night was too warm.
She could hear chanting outside, laughter, running footsteps, a kind of singing.
She came to join Jurgi. ‘They’re having their feast.’ She found her blade, grabbed a bit of meat and sawed at it.
‘Yes. Making quite a row at times. This is the Pretani in the wild, I guess. And I think the Root is using his Etxelur gift, the herbs and unguents and seeds. I’m glad he didn’t ask me to administer it for him-’
A scream cut through the night like a blade, making them both jump.
Zesi hurried to the door flap.
The priest called after her, ‘Zesi – no – you heard what Shade said.’
‘I’m just going to peek.’ She loosened the flap’s ties, making a crack so she could see out.
Fires blazed all around the grove, making a light bright as day. People danced, frenzied, men and women alike, even older children, in the flickering shadows of the ring of poles. There were no drums, no flutes, as there would have been in Etxelur; the only music came from the people’s ragged song. The Root and his green-clad priest stood before the great old tree at the heart of the clearing.
And a man was suspended from the holy tree, his arms outspread, his wrists tied by lengths of rope to the branches. Zesi could see how he shifted his weight, agonised, struggling to breathe, his face a grimace in the firelight.
It was Shade.
Jurgi’s hand was on her shoulder; otherwise she might have lunged forward. ‘Stay,’ he whispered. ‘This is their way. This is Shade’s way. Come back inside.’
But she shook him off and stayed to see more.
The Root stood on a log before his son. He held up a blade and swiped it across Shade’s forehead, creating a vivid red gash. She understood. This would be the kill tattoo, a memory of Shade’s brother that he would carry for ever.
The blood ran in a sheet over Shade’s forehead and into his eyes. Suspended, he thrashed, but made no sound.
34
They were woken before dawn by Alder the medicine man, who came to their house, his finger held to his lips. Hush.
Zesi rolled off her pallet and pulled on a tunic. She glanced over at the priest. ‘The hunt?’
‘Evidently.’
She quickly emptied her bladder, and grabbed a blade and a spear. While she waited for the priest she tested her weapon one last time, feeling its balance, stressing the attachment of the point to the shaft with resin and dried rope. She had made the spear herself, with her father’s help, and used and repaired it many times. It was short enough to be used as a stabbing spear, long and well balanced enough to throw if need be.
Zesi felt her heart beat harder as she faced the unknown challenges of the day, of a hunt in a terrain she didn’t know, surrounded by men who longed for her to fail. Bring it, she thought. I am ready.
They stepped out of the hut. In the dying light of last night’s fire she saw half a dozen Pretani waiting for them, hunters, the green-clad priest, gathered around the Root and Shade. The Pretani carried spears and light packs, and they all had their faces and arms dyed dark green. The new scar on Shade’s forehead, crudely stitched and stained black, was livid.
As soon as Zesi and the priest emerged, the Root set off without a word. The others followed, and Zesi and the priest had no choice but to jog after them.
At first the Root led them along one of the wide ways that led from the ceremonial centre, but he soon cut off onto a track which, if it existed at all, only the Pretani could see, and they pushed into the deeper forest.
