Tarashana by Rachel Neumeier (little red riding hood ebook TXT) 📕

the story said, but there was something else to him that made him more impressive still—a burning intensity that was not exactly anger, but something different, stronger and more dangerous. Even in this first glimpse of him, I felt that. All his own people swayed back when he moved. My father did not. His hands were at his sides, not near his knife. I thought many things might happen now, but I was not concerned that my father might draw a weapon. He had promised Koro he would not do it. I shifted a step to the side so that I could see better. Then I walked forward. I pretended to ignore Yaro, knowing that my father would keep his attention, or that if Yaro’s attention did shift to me, someone would call out to warn me. I did not expect anything of the kind. I thought Yaro was too proud a man to notice me when he had no way to prevent me from doing as I chose.

Tano was on his feet. His hands rested against the side of a wagon, not entirely relaxed, but open. He had pressed his forehead against the side of the wagon, which was not correct, and his eyes were closed, which was a fault. He had not straightened, and did not even yet, which suggested he might not feel steady enough to move without staggering, which would be shameful. But overall, I thought he had not done badly. Blood coated his back. I did not count the cuts, but I thought the number greater than twenty, but fewer than forty.

If we had not come, I wondered how many more strokes Yaro would have dealt. The arm of a man that strong would not tire very quickly.

I set my hand against Tano’s arm and said his name.

The muscles beneath my hand were rigid at first, but the tightness eased a little when I spoke. “Ryo,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I thought you would come. I—I thought—”

“You will tell me later what you thought,” I told him. “For now, straighten your back. Turn. Do not show pain. Set that aside. It is not important. Go to the lord of the inGara and beg his pardon for putting him to so much trouble.”

He did stagger when he straightened. I kept my hand on his arm, steadying him, and he caught his balance after that first moment. I turned with him, ready to steady him again if he needed that, but he did not. He did not look at Yaro. He did not look at anyone. He walked straight to my father. He had to pause before he knelt. But he managed that, and bowed, and said, carefully and clearly, “Lord, I apologize for causing this trouble. I know all your concerns must be much more important than this, and I beg your pardon. I put myself in the way of an enemy of the inGara. I deserve your punishment for behaving stupidly and causing trouble.”

“Perhaps this may be so,” answered my father. “This is something I will consider later.” He was not looking at Tano. He was looking only at Yaro. He said, in the same calm way, “If an inGara warrior offended the warleader of the inTasiyo, then that is a complaint that should have been brought to me. If a respected warrior of an allied tribe considered it right to correct a young inGara warrior, that would be different. I would not take offense at that. But an enemy should show far better manners.”

“That is my son,” snapped Yaro—which was all he could say, but I was certain he knew even as he said it what the response would be. I was certain he knew what he had done. He knew what had been done to him. He knew everything, or nearly everything.

Not a stupid man, not by any measure.

“No,” my father said softly. “This is Tano inGara, a young man who does not remember any other people before he came to inGara. This is my son’s brother.” He turned slowly to look at Koro and said, even more softly, “O king, I bring a charge against the warleader of the inTasiyo. By lifting his hand against my warrior, he has broken Convocation law. He has also broken the ban that forbids acts of war between his tribe and mine. I ask you to judge both charges now.”

Koro’s expression had long since settled into the calm that befits a king. If he had not already understood everything important about what had happened, I would be very surprised. He was the kind of man who knows how people behave. He said, “I will judge these charges at once. Yaro inTasiyo, warleader of the inTasiyo, how do you explain your actions?”

“The young man did not tell me he was inGara,” said Yaro, which was the only possible answer he could make. I did not even doubt his words. He went on vehemently, “A man has a right to punish his son and a duty to correct the failings of his warriors. If this young man had become an inGara, he should have said so. The fault for this misunderstanding lies on this young warrior.”

His voice on that last word held open contempt. I was certain he did not realize Tano had done this to him. He set the fault against my father. He was not stupid. But in some ways, he was blind.

Koro listened to him without changing expression. Then he looked down at Tano and asked, “Tano inGara, have you anything to say? Or do you ask your lord to speak for you?”

Tano straightened, though he did not stand up. His expression was hard to read. He might have felt triumphant, but I did not see that in him. He might have felt rage, but I did not see that either. I had never wished more for the