They allowed Kathen Aru to return to the rest of his guild. A gesture of goodwill, he knew, for helping them bring down the Shadow of the Giant. And with the promise that he would be there, when negotiations started.
Oshya:de guided him through the forest. The blaze that had permeated the woods had died down, both by natural exhaustion and by the efforts of both metahumans and natives. The air in the forest had changed, smelling both woody and with the familiar ozone reek of spent plasma. What animals had been here, the deer and the birds, beavers who had built dams in the rivers, black bears and wolves, had fled, for other parts of the plane.
Fled, or burned.
It would be a while yet before they would return, before the forest's scent would resemble something natural.
He heard their voices, Kathen did. The animals. The people. Whispers in his mind, altogether overtaking his own thoughts, as well as Merry's usual observations.
If the Oshya:de noticed, they did not say anything. The head of their party, Okwaho, guided Kathen through the trees, a practiced path away from the forest and towards the tundra to the north. They stopped at the forest's edge, where in the distance Kathen could see the remains of his guild.
“You will go there, and you will talk to them,” Okwaho said, “Relay our demands. And we can end this bloodshed.”
Kathen nodded, murmuring a word of thanks. Okwaho did not return it. He and his party melted back into the wood, though Kate knew they were watching him.
It had been a mad dash out of the forest and from the Sovereign Melody's corpse. The survivors of the starship were arrayed out amongst the tundras in makeshift tents or escape pods dragged over to provide shelter. A few cookfires, lit aflame by random bits of firewood and plasma charges, blazed multicolor against the drab, thin grass and the chilly sky. Kathen stumbled forward.
And he could hear their voices in his mind.
Panic.
Anxiety.
Fear.
Grief.
Overwhelming grief. For those they had lost. They had been a guild, and although Kathen had never learned most of their names he could feel their agonies, their lost friends and family. Here was Etnoka, one of the weapons officers. His three eyes were hanging down, staring at the fire, for he had lost his brother in the blazing deluge. Kathen had never spoken to him before, not outside of the job.
Sondoka, Etnoka's brother, even in death Kathen could feel him. He had argued with his brother the night before they arrived to Impellia III. A stupid argument, over something that didn't matter, but it had been the last time they had ever spoken to each other.
The last word of brotherhood.
Kathen turned away, his bottom lip quivering.
“Kathen?”
Rhunea approached him. Heavy bags hung under her eyes. Her armor was in tatters. Her arm was in a sling. But she ran over to Kathen and embraced him at once.
And then started playing with his hair.
And he heard her voice, in his head.
“Wild again,” she said, “You must… you must keep it combed. Or buzzed. A buzz would be good…”
She was trying to find some sense of normalcy in all of this. The world had ended, she had walked through hell, and somehow she was still alive.
“Thank the gods you're alright,” she said, “Come on, this way.”
She took him by a hand, guided him through the camp.
There was Tlona, who had once passed Kathen down a hallway, and had helped him carry a few supplies to the cargo bay. He had never once gotten her name.
Her husband had been killed during the assault. Even in death, Kathen could feel him, guiding people to escape pods, allowing himself to be the last one to leave, cut off from his final exit before he could clamber in.
His name had been Amantis.
Kathen swallowed.
His head was awash in grief.
He felt Old Scar before he saw him. Fully half of his body was covered in plasma scarring. The ugly lump of a man had healing salves applied to his arms, bandages wrapped around his head. The whisper of Rhunea's magic scented the air.
If there was any truth to the world, it was that Old Scar was a survivor. Somehow he was awake, glaring at Kathen as Rhunea brought him forward. Hate and anger radiated off him like heatwaves.
“You're alright,” he said.
“I am,” Kathen said.
“Did you see Valm?”
Kathen hesitated. Then, looked up, fixed him with a look. One of their guildmates started reapplying salves. His name was Khr'ech'nar. He and twenty-two nestmates had left their homeworld of Cheelk'na to find their place in the Silver Eye. Khr'ech'nar and his twenty-two nestmates lived together in a single room on Mausoleum.
Thirteen of them had joined him on the Sovereign Melody.
He had never once learned their names. He had seen them. Yes, he could remember them. Joining them at mealtime, perhaps, never exchanging conversation. Manning the station next to his.
Dear god, one of them had been with him just a few nights before. He had been killed by that eye-headed metahuman.
He had never once learned his name.
“Kathen,” Old Scar growled, “Where's Valm?”
Kathen blinked.
Looked at the weapons instructor.
“Captured,” he said, “The Oshya:de have him.”
Rhunea's eyes widened. Old Scar spat.
“Then the war continues,” he said, “We'll wait for reinforcements from offworld. Glass this place to oblivion.”
The war continues.
Such a trite way to put it. Kathen's brow furrowed.
“The... Oshya:de,” he said, “They sent me back with a message. To negotiate.”
“Negotiations ended as soon as they shot down the warbird,” Old Scar said, “No, there will be no negotiations.”
And Kathen could see it now.
More warships would come. Valm had sent for them. An entire fleet, to glass this place. The metahumans would fight back. The same battle that had played out a few nights before would play out again. And again. Until there was nothing left here but ash and death and voices in his head.
“No,” Kathen said.
Old Scar shifted.
“Excuse me?” Old Scar said.
“I said, no,” Kathen said. He stood a bit straighter, “We have a chance to end this.”
Old Scar grimaced, and shook his head.
“I don't believe what I'm hearing,” he said, “They shot us down! They killed our people! They've captured our leader, the Prime Voice, and now you say that we should talk with them? Come to some sort of... some sort of what, an accord?”
“Yes,” Kathen said, “They have the guildmaster. They can kill him.”
“If they kill him, then the High Federation will do more than glass this plane,” Old Scar said, “They'll erase as much of it from the maps as they can. They'll take whatever survives and make it wish that it didn't.”
He shook his head.
“No, Kathen,” he said, “This is just a minor pause. This is just-”
“More people are going to die, if we keep going,” Kathen said, “Not just the metahumans. Or the Oshya:de. Our own people.”
“They knew what they signed up for.”
“I don't care,” Kathen said, and he stood as tall as he could, and raised his voice, “I am going to talk with them. And find some measure of peace.”
“Like hell you will,” Old Scar growled, “As ranking member of Pagan Chorus-”
“I said, I don't care!”
His voice roared. The wind seemed to pick it up. Expand its volume. His voice was like thunder, ancient and deep. Rhunea flinched. Old Scar's eyes widened. The camp went silent.
And stared.
Kathen glared at Old Scar, seeing red. Such hatred, in his mentor's heart. Kathen could see all of it laid bare. There was no worry. No anxiety. Just blood red loathing. He did not care for this plane. Did not care for those who had been lost.
He only cared for killing Mutts.
“Sairad Ghedir.”
This voice came from Khr'ech'nar. He was staring at Kathen in awe.
And, as Kathen turned, he noticed the same look on everyone's faces.
(And, for the first time, it felt right to him.)
“I am Sairad Ghedir,” Kathen said, and he both knew and did not know his words, “Lord of the Past. And I say to you, we will talk to them, and let the killing end.”
He clicked a button, and his plasma whip crackled to life. Three sinewy lines of energy trailed on the ground, scraped against the grasses.
“Or would you like to challenge me, old man?”
Old Scar glared at Sairad Ghedir.
But he said nothing.
***
They bound Olendris Valm in ropes.
Two Oshya:de and two Warriors guarded him at all times. They kept him in a small cave, a natural one, just poking off from Father Mountain. Father Mountain itself was in the middle of being disgorged. Workers, both metahuman and Oshya:de, were busy carrying food out. Supplies. Crates of weapons, and arming themselves with them. A full contingent of soldiers guarding the Traveling Point. Weapons aimed at all times. Fractal was with them, the air around her rippling, ready to crush any ship that dared to try and arrive on Ganá:yeht.
Becenti was near the Traveling Point as well, Valm's advanced Silverfish in hand. He was speaking quietly into it. Wakeling's crone voice came from the other side. A connection from Impellia III's Traveling Point, across the galaxy, dipping into the warp, all the way to Everlasting Truth, and the Traveling Point back to Londoa there.
“So that's it, then,” Wakeling said.
“Yes,” Becenti said, “That's the situation.”
“I...” Wakeling went silent for a few moments, absorbing everything Becenti had told her. When she spoke again, her voice was careful, “Are you... alright, Myron?”
Becenti suppressed a wince.
“I can't say that I am, if I'm... If I'm being honest,” he said. It felt like there was a stone in his throat, “I... Vyde, we need your help. The Federation is going to be on its way soon, and we need a way to get everyone out.”
“I don't know if there's much I can do, Myron,” Wakeling said, “You are a long way away.”
“There's thirty thousand metahumans here,” Becenti said, “And the Oshya:de, too.”
“I've already arranged for Meleko to swing by and pick you up,” Wakeling said, “But that might take a few weeks.”
“On the Titania Amber?” Becenti said, “Vyde. You know what the Federation will do when they see all of this. I don't even know if the negotiations with Pagan Chorus will be enough to save us.”
Wakeling was quiet for a long time.
In the distance, Becenti could make out a few members of the Oshya:de building the beginnings of a longhouse. A few metahumans were helping them, bending posts and poles into the structure's shape, covering it with long sheets of bark conjured from thin air. Already, rebuilding had begun.
“I can call in a few favors,” Wakeling said, “I... Oh dear, this is going to cost us, Myron.”
“I'll do anything,” Becenti said, “Just... You're our only chance.”
“I'll see what I can do, then,” Wakeling said, “Keep in touch.”
“I will,” Becenti said.
He ended the line.
His head swam with anxieties and possibilities. He took a shuddering breath.
There was still work to do. Becenti walked off, to go find Hadawa'ko and Tekahentakwa.
***
“I'm sorry, Lunus Oculus, but we haven't been able to find him,” Leafy said.
They were in the sandstone tower together, along with a few of the Clan Mothers. Wá:ri was talking to Degonwadonti, arranging for guards to be posted outside the door when the delegation from Pagan Chorus would arrive. The Oshya:de kept glancing over at Pocket, who ignored them.
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“The last we saw of him,” the Warrior said, “He was apparently going into the Sovereign Melody's engine room. I think he was the one who blew the whole ship up.”
She sighed.
“That's a one way trip.”
Lunus Oculus breathed in, and out. Closed her eyes, which had recently turned piercing emerald, and steadied herself.
Many dead friends.
Many dead dreams.
“It's alright,” she said, “Thank you, for searching. I know it's been busy.”
“Of course,” Pocket said, “I'll continue to look, too. Who knows? Maybe he survived. Maybe we're allowed miracles.”
Leafy walked into the room. Of the remaining leadership of Luminary's loyalists, he was one of those few who the Workers felt comfortable representing the Warriors. She avoided the Oshya:de altogether, but gave Lunus Oculus a curt nod.
“Almost time,” Lunus Oculus said, and she swallowed some nerves, “Almost the end.”
***
Nomatrius Dorucanthos had, in his will, a request to be cremated on his home plane, should that be possible. Even with the idea of homeland percolating in his mind, even with his wealth being used to fund the nation of New Ludaya, he still had a thought of his ashes interred in the old Dorucanthos family crypt.
At the end of it all, Nomatrius Dorucanthos cared most about his family, placing them before nation.
Perhaps that would be enough to absolve him, wherever his soul went. Snapdragon Dorucanthos stared at the raised dais that they had laid Father's body. Covered him with a white blanket. They swallowed, mentally preparing themself for the dialogues to come. People were busy moving everything out of...
Father Mountain. Yes. That was its old name. Snapdragon tilted their head, considered Father, wondered how he was alright with all of this. Wondered why they had gone along with him, when he had thrown in his lot with Luminary. Dodeca was far braver than them. They could see their sister now, helping heft a crate over a shoulder, moving down the ramp, talking idly with one of the Oshya:de. She had not wanted to take part in the talks with the High Federation.
As such, it fell to Snapdragon. One of the only people from the old government whom the Oshya:de were willing to hear out.
Always, always Snapdragon. The responsible one. The eldest Dorucanthos.
What joy.
Movement from the right. They turned to see Jaskaios standing beside them. The two siblings looked at Father's body for a moment. They had not seen their little brother express any sort of grief at Father's death. Then, he was one to keep to himself, for such things. When Summersong had died, they had not seen him weep openly. Only after his breakdowns.
After he had bled his tears.
“It's time,” Jaskaios said.
Snapdragon nodded. Rose.
And they made their way towards the sandstone tower.
***
The five Clan Mothers and the one Warleader, accompanied by Becenti, made up the contingent of the Oshya:de within the sandstone tower. They were arrayed as one along a wide, circular table on the tower's top floor. Tallneck had intended for this table, lovingly crafted by one of his associates, who had the power to turn air into wood, to be a place for him to place maps of the plane. He had dreamed of it filled with an entire map of New Ludaya, the whole valley hemmed in by mountains.
Now, it was the place where the future of Ganá:yeht would be decided.
The teacher himself was not present for this meeting. Instead, it was Lunus Oculus, Glow, and Meloche who represented the New Ludayan Workers. From the Warriors, Leafy, whose tallish neck towered over the others, her hair falling like ivy from the top of her reptilian head. She shifted, perhaps uncomfortably, at the sight of the Oshya:de just across from her. Beside her was Snapdragon Dorucanthos, the only member of the Rulers whom the Oshya:de would speak with. Lord Freak had disappeared. The Pit and Pauldros the Stonemaker were being held in another place, their fate to be decided by those they had harmed. Memoire, too, but she was at least allowed to wander with Aima and a few guards.
Snapdragon had finally been able to replace their mask. They sat quiet, a frown painted on their face, as the delegation from the High Federation walked into the room. Kathen Aru was leading the contingency, though he looked exhausted, deep rings running beneath his eyes. Rhunea the doe-headed woman walked in after him. She and Becenti exchanged looks, though she was the first to break. Dicaeopolis took up the rear, smiling his professional, lopsided smile, though no one returned it.
It was Hadawa'ko who spoke first.
“Alright,” he said, “Let's get started.”
He flipped a tomahawk, laid it on the table. He glared across the table, at Kathen Aru. Yes, he recognized this man. The one who had freed him on the Sovereign Melody.
“To the High Federation, the Oshya:de are willing to make peace with you,” the Warleader said, “Our home only will remain in... forecast-”
He said this word with some hesitance. It still felt odd on the tongue, to use it in this way.
“For another year. In that time, we will be at peace. You will leave our home, and leave us alone. That is all that we wish.”
He turned to Lunus Oculus.
“I had wanted you to leave our home. Leave us alone. Go back to your multiverse.”
There was an utter, stark silence to his words.
“But,” he said, “The Clan Mothers have spoken. There are many of you who did not know the true extent of what Luminary did to us. What the Founders did to us. We are willing to speak with you. To allow you to continue staying on Ganá:yeht. We have discussed this, and we are willing to broker a new treaty. A new Settled Peace, one you and yours will be beholden to.”
“Now,” Leafy said, “This is not such a simple thing.”
She leaned forward.
“You ask that we become your subjects.”
“No,” Tekahentakwa said, “We ask that we become the stewards of our lands.”
“What laws will we be under?” Leafy said, “What of our own self-determination? Our own laws?”
“You may continue to have them,” Tekahentakwa said, “Provided they respect the land. Provided you do not carve into mountains, or burn down our sacred places.”
“In those cases, we would have to defer to you,” Leafy said.
“Yes,” Hadawa'ko said, “You would.”
“These are our terms,” this came from Clan Mother Otstoch, “As the original occupants of this land, we have stewardship over it. All you have brought to this place has been destruction and death. It was not Oshya:de who set the forest ablaze. It was not Oshya:de who tried to glass this plane from the sky.”
Leafy opened her mouth, then closed it.
“Many of us will not agree to this,” she said, “They want to live where they please. Live as they please.”
“That does not mean that they will not be able to,” Tekahentakwa said, “Our laws are sensible. They are for respecting the land, and each other. Before your Founders, before your Warriors and Workers, I am sure you had the same ideas.”
At this, Leafy grimaced.
“And the Warriors?”
“Some will be asked to leave,” Hadawa'ko said, “Many who chose to remain loyal to Luminary, and who have injured or killed our people.”
“And those who want to leave?”
“They will be allowed to,” Hadawa'ko said, “To find their fortune elsewhere.”
“And the Pit? Pauldros? The other Founders?”
“Those we could find,” Hadawa'ko said, “Will be forced to stay here. To help rebuild. To atone, for the actions they have caused.
At this, Kathen Aru cleared his throat.
“Now, hang on there,” he said, “Both Pauldros and the Pit, as well as Memoire and several other metahumans on this plane are wanted fugitives within the High Federation.”
“I assure you, there will be justice,” Hadawa'ko said.
“What sort of justice?” Kathen asked.
“They will be made to help remake our world,” Hadawa'ko said, “To help us rebuild. Then, they are to live in distant places. Away from their people, and ours. Exile.”
Kathen stared hard at the Warleader for a long time.
Then, he glanced at Dicaeopolis and Rhunea. The doe-headed woman nodded. The satyr shrugged.
“Very well,” Kathen said, “But those who have Silver Eye bounties are to be remanded to High Federation custody.”
“No.”
This came from Lunus Oculus.
“We will not allow ourselves to be under your control again,” she said.
“You harbor criminals.”
“Criminals?” Meloche said, “You brand us criminals for breathing. I could say the wrong word, and you people would throw me into a prison camp.”
“You're trapped,” this came from Dicaeopolis, “You're up against a wall. The hosts of this beautiful plane are allowing you to leave, but there is still a problem. This looks much like a nation, all the same.”
“It will not be a nation,” Hadawa'ko said, “The metahumans here, those that choose to stay, will not govern in the way they had. They will not build weapons. They will not use their abilities for violence.”
“All the same,” Kathen said, “The High Federation does not look kindly on a metahuman force in its own backyard.”
He shook his head.
“Let us take the guilty,” he said, “The rest of you, I leave to the Oshya:de.”
“'Guilt,'” Glow said, “Is a very easy word for you to throw around. You have made our very existence illegal.”
There was a silence.
And Becenti cleared his throat.
“There is the possibility of us leaving of our own accord.”
They turned to him.
“We are a guild,” Becenti said, “The Amber Foundation has resources. We can bring ships in. To retrieve metahumans, and leave this place.”
Kathen looked at him.
Rhunea cleared her throat.
“Myron... can you promise this?” she said, “It's a big ask.”
“It is,” Becenti said.
“The Dorucanthos Family also has access to such ships,” Snapdragon said, “Given time, we could call a few over.”
“And where would you go?” Kathen asked.
“Everywhere,” Meloche said, “As we always have.”
He sighed.
“A diaspora. As we ever have been, I suppose.”
Dicaeopolis chuckled.
“And you expect us to just... let you go?”
“It's either that,” Becenti said, “Or we let Valm go. And we tell the entire multiverse what transpired here. Not just the metahuman nation. But that Olendris Valm, Prime Voice of the Federation, got his warbird shot down, and captured by multiverse natives in his own backyard.”
He smiled amicably.
Kathen grimaced.
Knew that he had been caught.
“The High Federation will oversee the exodus,” he said, “Take whatever ships you wish. But the fleet is already on its way here.”
“And while it is here,” Hadawa'ko said, “We will hold your leader, such as he is, until the wampum is beaded. When the metahumans who are told to leave, leave.”
“You won't give him up to us?” Rhunea said.
“We know your kind,” Hadawa'ko said, “The multiverse, the Outside, it is a place full of deceit. Each of you are liars, in your own way. I, nor the Clan Mothers, trust you to keep to your word, even with a wampum in hand. So we will hold your leader, until the time comes for our plane to leave forecast.”
“That’s not acceptable,” Dicaeopolis said, “You’ll return our leader to us. His return is the only thing keeping our guildmates from renewing our assaults.”
“You don’t speak for them?” Hadawa’ko said, “Then why are you here?”
Rhunea winced. Kathen was silent, staring at the Warleader.
“This is what I mean,” Hadawa’ko said, “Tell me, did you sneak in here, away from your guildmates, to make a deal behind their backs? Is the High Federation truly willing to negotiate with us in good faith?”
“They are,” Kathen said, “I am.”
“Which is it?” Tekahentakwa said, “You are not the High Federation.”
And at this, Kathen rose to his feet. Rested a hand on his chest.
“Return our leader to us,” he said, “And I promise you, we will leave you alone.”
“And what word do you rest this on?” Tekahentakwa said.
Kathen took a deep breath.
“I am Sairad Ghedir,” he said, “Lord of the Past. I swear to you, the High Federation will leave. Release Valm to us upon the exodus of the metahumans. After this, we will leave you alone. The authority is my own. I speak for the High Federation. I speak for the Silver Eye.”
“And,” Hadawa'ko said, “If Valm changes his mind? He is your leader.”
“I am Sairad Ghedir,” Kathen repeated, “He will listen to me.”
And, somehow, he knew this to be true.
He continued, and a deep tremor rumbled beneath his voice, as though something in the deeper realities spoke through him.
“I freed you from your prison, Warleader,” he said, “On the Sovereign Melody. I heard your voice, and I knew what was happening here was not right. You trusted me then. I ask that you trust me now.”
There was silence.
The Clan Mothers looked over to Hadawa'ko, who merely stared at Kathen Aru. The Pagan Chorus simply stood. He was wearing the remaining tatters of his combat armor, looked tired above all else. He had been organizing the guild since Valm's capture and since they had started deferring to him in all matters.
(Already, they had stopped calling him 'Kate' or 'Kathen' and merely Sairad Ghedir.)
He wanted to end this. End this humiliation. Moreover, end the death and destruction. Aru felt the voices of everyone in the room. Heard them on his skin, crawling up his arms and into his mind.
They all wanted the same thing too.
An end to all the death.
And, he realized, the High Federation was doing far more to hamper these talks than anyone else.
They had come here to destroy.
A lifetime of being taught to help others. To uplift the weak, to protect them from the strong.
A lifetime of sneaking supplies to starving worlds. Of hunting down those who would prey on the innocent.
A lifetime of being taught to do the right thing, and to cherish life.
And those same teachers were wanting him to be the butcher.
That could not happen.
That would not happen.
He tried to project these feelings into the room.
The metahumans scoffed. Of course they would. They had no reason to believe Kathen Aru's words.
Yet he knew he did not need to convince them. Guilt and good faith meant that they would defer to the Oshya:de.
…And the Warleader, Hadawa’ko, whom he had freed, nodded.
“Very well,” he said, “We will give you Valm when the metahumans are gone.”
Grimaces. Sneers. Becenti looked over at Hadawa'ko, who did not turn to meet his gaze. Tekahentakwa whispered a few words in his ear. Hadawa'ko shook his head.
And that was that.
…
…
There were other talks.
Organizational pieces. What metahumans would leave, and who would be permitted, or forced, to stay. What High Federation presence would be involved on Ganá:yeht.
By the end of it, very few in the room were happy.
But there was an accord.
Nightfall brought the beading. Seashells gathered from many places across the plane. A few smoldering remains of the Sovereign Melody were brought forward, chipped pieces of combat armor. Ice made eternal by metahuman power. Magical stones that hummed with their own sort of power. Simple shells taken from the shores of the great lakes, carved painstakingly by expert hands. The wampum came together, was complete in the morning.
A treaty enshrined in beads.
Peace, perhaps.
A rest, at the very least.
***
“So,” Olendris Valm said, “You have chosen to end this.”
Kathen was permitted to see Valm for a few minutes. They had taken him into one of the caves, posted both Oshya:de and metahuman guards outside its mouth. One of the former Warriors of New Ludaya stood in the room with them, leaning absently against the wall. This here was a Warrior who had her head on straight. Pocket was smart. She would not end all of this talk, this one chance of letting the metahumans go free, on the death of the Prime Voice.
Valm was still tied up in thick ropes, yet even with this, even after a few days of nothing but prison rations, he stood tall. Intimidating. His eyes narrowed at Kathen.
“Of your own choice, with no word of dissent, you have chosen to end this.”
“Yes,” Kathen said, “And no, there was word of dissent. But they chose not to act on those words.”
“Old Scar,” Valm said.
“And a few others,” Kathen said, and he crossed his arms, “But I asked if they wanted to fight me over it. Physically. Words won't sway me. Only action will.”
Valm tilted his head at these words.
“You did more than that, I would imagine,” the guildmaster said, “There are many who would not have agreed.”
Kathen was quiet for a long time.
Then, he took a breath.
“I am Sairad Ghedir,” he said.
“And that, my lord, is enough,” Valm said, and he smiled.
It made Kathen's blood run cold.
Whispers in his mind.
“What does it mean?” he said, “What... What are you doing to me?”
“I do nothing but reveal the truth,” Valm said, “But, all in due time. It is good, I think, that your first act is mercy. But we will speak later on this. The enemy is still here.”
He nodded at the Warrior. Pocket snorted.
***
The night ended with the wampum finished. It was carried by Clan Mother Tekahentakwa, who would carry it for the rest of her days. The three factions dispersed, the Oshya:de to the base of Father Mountain, joined by those metahumans who had assisted them. Despite everything, they still posted a guard in front of the Traveling Point.
Those New Ludayans who had not joined the Oshya:de loitered. Some went back to their towns, or communes. They returned in silence.
In their houses, they debated. Talked. Went over what they would do.
Some chose to stay with the Oshya:de. On Ganá:yeht, where at least they had simple safety. There was the question of what the Oshya:de would do to them. Some feared retribution. Others knew otherwise, that the Oshya:de were much like them: people who just wanted to leave free of fear, to build a world for their children.
Others still cried out. There was anger in them. Anger at the world. Anger at the High Federation, or the natives whose homeland they had stolen. Anger at the simple fact that they possessed the metagene, for what use was the weird and wonderful, if you were hated for it?
Others simply... disappeared. Into the forests, deep into the mountains, damn the treaty, in hopes they would be able to live apart from the Oshya:de and from the other metahumans altogether. Peace in solitude.
Conspiracies were thought. Anxiety and relief rippled through the communities.
They weren't being removed.
And that, at least, was hope enough.
Still others looked at the Oshya:de, and this treaty, as the replacement of one oppressor for another. First the High Federation, then the Founders, and now these baselines who used stone tools and traded with beads. They looked at this and saw a dark future, one where the metahumans who stayed would be used, or slaughtered, or made into weapons, as they had been on other planes.
They could not imagine a place where this would not happen. Where they would be allowed to live, and simply live, while non-metahumans lived with them.
…
…
But dawn still came, all the same.