Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

“No clan. It lies far beyond their reach, but you will have to travel past clan lands to get there. Stay by the river, heed your dreams, and you’ll pass through safely.”

Trey shook his head stubbornly. “But what kind of life could we make in such a place even if we could get there safely?” he demanded. “What do we have to offer? Poetry and music have no need for trapping and hunting.”

Vulshin’s eyes narrowed. “The land and the people will be strange and foreign to you, that’s true, but a sharp eye and a courageous arm are always welcome if they’re offered honestly. It’s their way. Besides, I dreamed you there.” He closed his eyes. “Last night I saw you standing by bright water wearing a coat dyed the deepest blue of a summer evening sky.” He opened his eyes again without noticing how pale Trey had suddenly become. “So you’re going,” he continued. “Don’t argue with me, or I’ll give you a good smack. When I . . .”

“Shaman?”

The two men turned to see Bayne gesturing to them, and Trey suddenly realized how quiet it had become. The old man nodded sadly. “It’s time,” he said. “Help me up.”

Trey hesitated. “You don’t think . . . ?”

“No, Treyill,” Vulshin said firmly but not unkindly. “And neither do you. Their voices are no more. Come, make your first good-bye. It’s what must be done and you know it.”

With a reluctant frown, Trey helped him stand, then together, the two men made their way across the vale toward the now silent tent.

The next morning, after Dierna and her stillborn child had been wrapped in hides and buried under as many rocks as the three young men could pry from the still-frozen ground, Trey set Bayne to breaking camp. Vulshin and Shersi sat, huddled together before the fire pit without speaking and to Trey’s eyes it looked as if they’d already begun their final trek, pausing only to wait until death could catch up with them.

Mouth set in a grim line, he began to wrap the season’s goshon pelts in oilcloth. They would use them to barter their way south to Vulshin’s dream kingdom of Valdemar. Whatever the old shaman believed, they were still trappers, that’s what they did and that’s all they had to offer a new life, regardless of their eyes or their arms. Beside him, Kellisin hovered about uncertainly until he sent him to help Bayne load Dierna’s pony with their extra supplies. He could find no words to comfort him when he had none to comfort himself. Turning away from the injured look in the younger man’s eyes, Trey picked up another pelt with deliberate care.

By the time the sun had reached its zenith, they were ready. Trey made one last attempt to convince Vulshin and Shersi to come with them, but the two older Goshon were adamant.

“It’s our right as elders to choose whether we break camp or remain behind,” Shersi said, her once strong voice weak and breathy. “It’s the way of our people. You know that.”

“Then choose to break camp with us.”

“Treyill,” Vulshin said sternly. “Come, it is time to make your second good-bye. Do it respectfully.”

Trey would have continued the argument afterward, but finally, Bayne drew him away, setting his reins into his hand. His last sight of the vale was that of the hawk circling high overhead, sending its mournful cry into the wind. For good or ill, the last of the Goshon Clan were passing from its world.

The three kinsmen made their way in somber silence for the better part of a week, alternately walking and riding, following what paths were open, and heading roughly south. When they reached the Feral Pass, a thin, mushy path winding its way through a narrow canyon of high, jagged rocks, they rode cautiously, keeping a close eye on the walls of ice and snow that stretched high above their heads. When they finally emerged on the other side, they glanced back to find the sky above the mountain peaks had turned an ominous dark, slate gray.

“Vulshin’s storm,” Trey said heavily.

Bayne nodded. “We have to quicken our pace.”

They made the shelter of a rocky tor just as the storm hit. Huddled behind their ponies, they waited it out and when they finally struggled free the next morning, the pass behind them glittered with impassible snow. Trey narrowed his eyes against the glare.

“Well, that’s it, then,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “There’s no going back now.”

Kellisin glanced over at him. “And Vulshin and Shersi?” he asked quietly.

“Gone. We should never have left them.” Taking hold of his pony’s halter, Trey made his way back to the barely discernable path without looking back.

Bayne shook his head. “We had to respect their wishes,” he said to Kellisin, catching him by the shoulder and pulling him into a rough hug to take the sting away from his brother’s words. “Life is seasonal, and everyone breaks camp for the ride into death eventually, little cousin.”

“I know that,” Kellisin said, his brows drawn down into a tight vee. “Dierna and the baby was hard for us all, but Vulshin and Shersi were old. Trey . . .” He shook his head helplessly. “It wasn’t his choice to make.”