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

I wondered what would come of that. That woman with the baby and the bitter heart might be trouble. Or perhaps living among honorable people would take the poison from her heart. If that woman caused a problem for the inKera, no doubt Soro’s wife, or Hokino’s wife, or some other important woman of that tribe, would handle that problem.

Probably many important women of many tribes, my mother foremost among them, were already discussing different ways to handle that kind of problem.

No doubt they were also discussing me.

I set that thought out of my mind again, as firmly as I could. There were many other more useful things to consider.

Standing, I left my father’s tent and walked through the inGara camp, toward the place I knew my mother’s tent would be set. Our camp was not deserted, but I saw few warriors, only women and craftsmen—and I saw almost no one who was not inGara, save a few inGeiro. My mother's tent would be at the center of the rest, and our warriors would be farther out toward the edge of our camp, watchful, or would have gone to escort our women or our craftsmen wherever people wished to go.

Aras would not have gone to any other camp. I was almost certain of that. He would probably still be my mother's guest. That would be the safest place for him and for all the Lau, until the Convocation ended and all the tribes that were less forgiving toward sorcerers left inGara lands. That would be soon. No one likes to travel across the high north when the earth begins to thaw and the soil becomes first damp and then boggy. Already I thought I felt the change in the air that meant the long cold was ending. Soon, many kinds of birds would begin to come from the south.

Etta had sixteen winters now, still early for the daughter of a singer to marry, but I thought she would probably not wait much longer. Iro would suit her. I almost did not mind the thought that she would marry him. That was a change that had come to my heart, better than other changes.

Raga had seventeen winters. He was alive. He would live for many more winters. I suspected strongly that some year, not distant from this year, he would return to the starlit lands and learn the stories of the Tarashana. I saw the years of his life before him, all but endless, and for the first time I realized that I might actually someday forgive myself for leaving my brother to die.

He was not dead. I had known that, but somehow, this morning, the knowledge came to me in a different way, as though the truth of his life was something I only now truly accepted.

Perhaps I might even forgive Aras for what he had done to me, if I forgave myself for what I had done to Raga.

By this time, I had come to my mother’s tent. She had laced it tight together with two other tents of the same enormous size, which surprised me a little until I thought again. No doubt after yesterday’s events, many, many singers and other important women had wanted to come to her tent to discuss everything.

From the patterns of porcupine quills woven into the sides of one of the great tents, I knew one of these was the tent of Lutra inGeiro, foremost singer among the inGeiro, Naroya’s wife, mother of Rakasa and Iro. That was not at all surprising. The third of the great tents, I did not know.

Ordinarily, with the morning fair and not too cold, my mother would have pegged the opening of her tent back to show that anyone might come and go. Today, the entry was closed fast. So was every other opening, as far as I could see. From this, I was certain at least some of the Lau must be within. Yes. I heard voices within, including, I was certain, Lalani’s quick and lively voice, speaking almost without accent, but still very recognizable.

Putting back the flap, I slipped into the tent.

The purple and blue and gold of the rugs and cushions made it seem that I had stepped inside a gemstone. Except that the place was warm and soft and fragrant with the scents of tisane and, more surprisingly, barley bread. We did not usually have much barley left this close to the end of the long cold.

Another of the great tents had many more red rugs than purple. That was Lutra’s tent. The third was blue again, and a vibrant orange. Those were colors I did not recognize. But, among the women sitting around a low, round, lacquer table near the center of the combined tents, I saw Siwa inKera, Hokino’s wife, Arayo’s mother. She was not a singer, but the tent was very likely hers, since she sat directly to my mother’s right.

Arayo sat near his mother, but he was not paying attention to her. He was showing Tano how to throw a knife hard and straight. They each had gathered up three or four knives. They were using a small piece of cowhide, hardly bigger than a man’s head, as a target. If either of them missed and put a knife through the blankets and felt that covered the side of the tent, then Arayo would soon be showing Tano how to stitch up cloth with stitches neat enough to please my mother. Indeed, I saw three rents in the fabric beyond their target already. But if my mother did not object, certainly I need not.

Tano’s younger brother was not present. I suspected he would be with Garoyo, or perhaps he had been set to some task suitable for a boy that age, but either way, Tano clearly was not concerned for him. Or he had set concern aside. He had learned to trust