"But-" Rankil flattened herself against the side of the tunnel and pulled her cloak around Hestra. "They'll be here any-"

Lights appeared around the nearest corner. "Great Mother! They're here!" She froze as the torch dropped from Myrla's fingers. Whether it was simple panic or the wrathful faces of those pursuing them that made her hesitate she couldn't say, but her next conscious thought was of Myrla taking her by the hand as they ran. That handhold became their mutual lifeline as they followed Archell's torch down tunnel after twisting tunnel. They weren't sure how long they ran or how far, but in time Archell called a halt and the spent trio collapsed to the ground. Myrla used her own saliva and one of the wraps to clean the worst of the soot from Hestra's eyes and mouth, then offered her the last bit of milk.

"They won't be following us anymore, will they?" Rankil gasped.

"No." Myrla locked apologetic eyes with her. "The slick could burn for days so unless they stumble across an intersecting tunnel, we're safe."

"Good to know." Only then did Rankil dare a look around. They were in nothing more than a wide spot in the tunnel. It was cramped but would have to suffice. "Any idea what time of day it is?"

"Late enough for Archell's stomach to be talking," he observed.

"That could be anytime." Rankil removed the torch from his hand. "Guess it doesn't matter. It's night in our world. The torch burned too quick when we ran with it. Maybe we should save what's left and call it a night."

"Might as well." Myrla yawned as she wiped the oily film from her lips. "Hestra's asleep." She placed the infant back in her carrier and bound it to her chest for warmth. "Good thing the deeper caverns stay a constant temperature."

"But it's still a bit damp. Maybe we'll be warmer together." She pulled Myrla into her lap, shielding them both from the cool humidity. "Think what you will of my excuse," she whispered.

Archell sighed but didn't say a word.

"Night, Archie."

"Night, Rankil dankle, Myrla and Hestra, too."

Rankil ground out the torch.

"Explain your presence!" Unknown hands slung Archell and Rankil into opposite sides of the tunnel as others pulled Myrla up a little more kindly, letting her shade her eyes from the glaring torchlight. "Do you have any idea of the damage you've caused?"

Myrla squinted toward the loudest voice. The accent was odd, perhaps one of the Autlach dialects she'd never heard. "We didn't mean any harm." She stuttered in her best Autlach. "We were being followed by bandits. The fire stopped them from getting to us. We are sorry."

A rumble rose from their captors and the voice eased to more of a parental tone. "Well, you shouldn't be caving so young. Especially with a baby." They brought Archell and Rankil to Myrla's side.

"Quite an accent you have," continued the voice. "Dark coloring, too. You must be from the southlands. Which one of these fellows is your husband?"

"I am!" Rankil dropped her voice as she wrapped her arms about Myrla and the baby. "Like my wife said, we were being pursued. The caves were our only hope. We dropped a torch when we were running and the next thing we knew fire was everywhere."

"Apology accepted," the voice replied. "We'll chalk it up to youthful stupidity." A well-fed Autlach with long gray hair and a bristling beard moved into the light. "Would you like a guide out of here?"

"We could use a hand." Rankil's protective grasp loosened. Someone removed the torches from their faces while someone else produced a water skin.

"Drink up."

Their rescuers took congenial, though removed, spots facing them. Except for the heavy Autlach, their faces remained cloaked and well out of the direct light.

"Tell us about these attackers," said a gruff tenor in the group. "Were any of them familiar?"

"Longpass." Archell took a second swig to quench his thirst. "Bad man."

"We know him," assured the voice. "Rapist, murderer, bandit, and every bit of it done in the name of Raskhallak. You were lucky to escape."

Myrla, remaining silent so her accent wouldn't again come into question, rinsed and refilled Hestra's bottle with water. Despite her efforts, a few drops spilled across her hand as she poured, leaving a smudge which caused the tenor voice to burst into laughter.

"A bottle when you should be nursing? And your complexion, young woman, it's streaking!" The tenor jerked up Myrla's cuff, revealing the ivory flesh of her forearm. "I think we can end the shadow games and make proper introductions." Before Rankil could become defensive, the tenor threw back her hood, revealing a rolling smile, razor short hair, loop upon loop of battle braid and ocean blue eyes which added to her good-humored face.

She cleared her voice. "Hello, my sister. My name is Jefflynn, supervisor of the gas well you destroyed today. You've managed to find a new way to pierce the Tekkroon border, something many have died attempting." Jefflynn cleared her throat again. "Stars, but it's hard to keep that voice up," she said to her companions as they lowered their hoods.

Several of the other Taelachs chuckled and Jefflynn's Autlach companion laughed heartedly. "There are a few things the Taelach can't do well, sis, and copying a male Aut's voice happens one of them." He smiled jovially. "Now what about our three fire starters and their little one?"

"I don't like taking outsiders straight in like this," replied Jefflynn as she looked down the passageway. "And Medrabbi will probably have my hide for it, but, seeing as we can't just leave them here, I don't see any other way." She shrugged her shoulders and motioned for them to follow her.

"Come on, everyone. Let's show these people how the Tekkroon get things done."

Part III.

Alert.

Chapter Fourteen.

Fear comes in many forms-fear of death, fear of pain, however, fear of change is by far the most prominent.

-Taelach wisdom.

Astounding things happen when one is shoved into a culture technologically superior to one's raising. The brain accepts, denounces or refuses to acknowledge the existence of that which is different. Rankil, Myrla and Archell experienced all three mindsets to varying degrees during their first moon cycle with the Tekkroon, each discovering their own way of coping. Jefflynn, the Tekkroon's lead well master, and her gentlewoman Dawn temporarily took the trio into their grotto and then helped Rankil and Myrla settle Hestra into one of the smaller family dwellings carved into a nearby hill. Archell was quite content with his cubicle in the single's cavern. Serrick, Jefflynn's twin Autlach brother, maintained quarters just down the corridor and was happy to help Archell with whatever he needed.

No one questioned Rankil and Myrla's youthful appearance, nor did they pry their minds for answers. The Tekkroon respected privacy and publicly chastised unwarranted invasions. Rankil and Myrla maintained the social image of a happy family but privately they were unsure how to handle their new situation. Each turned away when the other dressed and, even though they shared a common bed, they never exchanged more than a hug or quick kiss on the cheek. They often lay back to back at night, discussing the day's events, their fear of losing control helping them maintain a comfortable distance.

Their greatest concern, however, remained Kaelan and Jewel. Myrla cried most every evening for them and insisted that a Gretchencliff portraitist draw Kaelan's and Jewel's likenesses so that she might share their images with the sisters who worked in the deeper caverns. The picture itself was a simple but realistic line drawing on stretched white hide, but Myrla painstakingly oversaw the portrait's creation, describing her raisers in such fine detail that their likenesses were uncanny.

For various reasons, most of which Medrabbi, the even-tempered, aging broadback mayor of the Gretchencliff Colony holdings explained in her slow, patient fashion, that little of the clan lands were open to them. They were restricted within the Gretchencliff borders, to the main square during the daylight hours, and to the food and household stores for necessities-practical places such as those. All other areas were forbidden without an approved escort. Medrabbi called it probation. Rankil renamed it boredom. They weren't allowed to carry anything heavier than children's eating blades and were denied the opportunity to do more than menial tasks. Myrla, once she had regained her composure enough to think outside of her search, was assigned to assist with the youngest community members in their housing area's creche. Rankil and Archell spent long hours shoveling snow or cleaning ice from the external steam outlets of the Tekkroon's complicated radiant heating system. Like Myrla, they repeatedly inquired about Kaelan and Jewel's disappearance, but Medrabbi told them little could be done in the way of an above-ground search until the snow melted in the high passes. The avalanche risk was just too great.

Their lives continued in this monitored fashion until Medrabbi called them to attend a mandatory bonfire in the colony's main square. They were made to stand in full view of the community, all two thousand of the Gretchencliff, excluding those helping to maintain the Tekkroon's tight boundary lines, watching as they were given status and training assignments.

"All Tekkroons contribute to the clan's well-being." Medrabbi glared at the colony's youngest broadbacks, who grinned brashly back, and then to the wisest members of her elected council, who nodded agreement.

"You have all been observed during your probation, your qualities and natural talents taken into consideration when making your assignments." Medrabbi took Myrla by the hand.

"Lady Myrla, gentlewomen are the backbone of the Tekkroon, running many of the day-to-day affairs and providing an internal line of defense that has saved us on more than one occasion. I've been informed you have the gift of patience and understanding with the children. Those are qualities needed in a teacher, something we never seem to have enough of. You are to report to instructor Perrywinn, supervisor of Gretchencliff primary schooling, at the eighth bell tomorrow morning to begin your training. I am certain of your success."

Medrabbi then placed Myrla's hand in Rankil's. "Young Rankil, you, like your name, were difficult to decipher. There is an abundance of aggression hiding behind your scarred face, a power that must be forged into something positive lest it fester into hatred for those who have wronged you. We've seen you playing blade games with your cousin and know your skill level is significant, even with a child's utensil. Assuming this ability extends to the bow and sword, the master guard commander has suggested you join the ranks of the Powder Barrier, the elite of the Tekkroon forces. Upon completion of your training, special privileges will be provided to you and your young family, the least of which is larger housing." Medrabbi waved off Rankil's stuttering thanks and turned a speculative eye on Archell, who shuffled his boots across the saturated sands surrounding the fire circle.

"Ah, a winnolla is a precious addition to any clan. We have so few that the artistic-minded elders from every colony were scrambling to take you under their direction. But there was only one real choice for you." Medrabbi motioned to a tree of a gentlewoman seated on a folding stool which groaned under her weight. An obvious figure of respect, she dominated those around her, both in height and air of dignity.

"Maestro Lisajohn, the Bowriver colony's music master, has won the battle for your talents." Medrabbi was the only one who maintained steady contact with Lisajohn's penetrating gaze. "You are to move your belongings to her students' grotto. Music, verse and the presentation of such are to be your only concerns from this moment on."

"Archell will do his very best." The Autlach grinned in a manner Rankil had rarely seen. It was happiness, the purest of bliss. He had survived every impossibility to get to this point, the beatings and names now nothing more than an inconvenience on the road to this higher place.

"Very best?" Lisajohn was musical even in speech. "Young man, I expect NO less than excellence from you. You are winnolla, are you not? I have it on good authority that you are, but if you feel unworthy of the title and task-"

Archell's jaw tightened. There was but one true way to prove his worthiness to his new taskmistress so he breathed deep, held his head high, and let music flow from the depths of his gut. No sound rose above his pure, sweet melody, no noise would have dared pierce such perfection. Even fussing babes, including Hestra in Dawn's arms, quieted to the sound. Archell's voice rose from its depths to a falsetto within a single verse, the full range of his talent placed before the entire colony. The final note lingered in the silence, a tone so pure it resonated in every heart present. Archell returned Lisajohn's gaze when he was through, searching for some response on her unemotional face.

"Not bad." Lisajohn cocked the head topping the crisp folds of her collar. "Not good, but not bad. Your phrasing was atrocious, your tone too pure given the song's subject matter." She waved her hand to dismiss the faults as frivolous. "But those are common mistakes of the untrained. We shall discuss how to correct these errors in due time." A smile flashed across her complacent mouth. "We shall also begin placing your various tunes into a readable form. Mother knows a winnolla's tunes are the ones that seem to survive the ages." With a snort and a physical shift on her bowing seat, she motioned those around her to assist her to her feet, then, leaning on a crutch, gestured Archell to follow.

"Continue, Medrabbi. We shall be out of your hair very soon. Gather whatever you have accumulated on your short stay here, apprentice Archell, and we shall depart."

"You are welcome to stay," said Medrabbi with a bow. "There is no music scheduled this evening but I am sure our musicians-"

"I'll have to refuse the invitation." The gigantic maestro tucked her fold stool under her free arm. " 'Tis a twenty-minute cart ride to the Bowriver Square, and my escort is waiting. Good evening to you all and my apologies. I did not anticipate my presence would interrupt your business." And Lisajohn departed the square in a flourish of fabric, an anxious Archell close on her heels.

"Join us anytime, Lisajohn, you, too, Archell. Your interruptions are always welcomed. It was well worth it to hear that song." Medrabbi, like many in the community, had been noticeably moved by the Autlach's lyrics. "There is only one other order of business on my agenda, broadback elders' business. Unless there are other matters to discuss, we shall adjourn to the interior round for that undertaking." After several minor difficulties were brought to light and their solutions delegated to the proper authority, Medrabbi dismissed the crowd. Dawn, Hestra still cradled in her arms, her own two daughters trailing behind, ushered Myrla away from the square. Someone caught Rankil by the shoulders as she joined the flow toward the housing areas.

"Not so fast." Medrabbi's almond-shaped eyes forecaste the importance of the remaining evening. "There is more to becoming a Tekkroon for you. Much more."

"But Myrla," objected Rankil, attempting to turn back. "I should really see she-"

Jefflynn appeared at her elbow, grasping her arm and helping pull her toward an open door set into the hillside. "She's staying with Dawn tonight." Many more jovial faces and helping hands, all broadback, assisted Jefflynn and Medrabbi in shoving Rankil through the doorway and into the middle of a large cavern housing rows of tables and benches. A dozen or more heavy lanterns blazed inside.

"I think she's clueless to all of this, Medrabbi." Jefflynn took a seat on the edge of the mayor's cushioned bench.

"Quite possible, seeing her only exposure has been through the Serpents." Medrabbi bellowed for kegs and mugs to be brought from a side storeroom then called the round to order by pounding the table. Rankil stood before her. "Now youngster," she chuckled. "Do you know why we're here?"

"Just look at her," howled someone at a nearby table. "Babe, she is. You sure she's old enough for the Recognition? Looks to me she should still be tugging the bottle."

"The winnolla is old enough," said Medrabbi between draws from her mug. "He's past the Recognition. That's why I let Lisajohn take him tonight." She stared hard at Rankil until she dropped her gaze. "But Rankil still seems a might tender at times. She's still growing height-wise, but it's not uncommon for one of us to grow until she is nineteen or twenty." Her head tilted while she scrutinized one of the Gretchencliff's newest residents.

"Someone bring her a bench and a cup before she passes out from the stress." Then Medrabbi regarded her with a little more kindness in her tone. "You were obviously raised Aut, my girl. Your accent is far too defined for Taelach to have been your first tongue." Medrabbi reached forward and flipped up the edge of Rankil's tunic, revealing the marks dimpling her lower back and abdomen. "You're too young to have been flogged for a crime, and no clan I know of punishes on both the front and back. If maturity comes through hardship and survival, Rankil, I believe it's safe to state you're the eldest here. Besides, we've all seen you with that woman and baby of yours. You're very protective of them."

"I love them." Rankil's voice cracked just when she intended to sound the most mature. "Please don't take them from me. They're all I have left, all I've ever really had."

"We wouldn't dream of such cruelty," Medrabbi said swiftly as to dismiss the notion. "They should remain with you. But I demand honesty of you at this moment. How old are you?"

Rankil glanced at the Gretchencliff mayor and then to Jefflynn who nodded at her to provide the truth. "I'm sixteen, if you please." Then she stammered to add, "I'll be seventeen this next summer."

"Twelve or thirteen is grown for a woman in the Aut world." Jefflynn nudged Medrabbi in the ribs. "And as you said, she has had a difficult existence."

"I know. I know." Medrabbi tugged at her battlebraid and looked to the others, seeking their opinions. "Others know more of you than I so this is beyond me alone. We'll put it to a vote. Sixteen will require extra guidance on our parts, instruction as to what is expected"-Medrabbi pointed straight to Jefflynn- "insight as to what is required socially and otherwise."

"The other youths mustn't know of this exception to the rules," called out the broadback raiser of a youth Rankil's age. "Keeping one of the hormonal snots in line is hard enough without them all thinking they're grown."

"We all think we're grown at that age," laughed Medrabbi. "But I think it may be true in this case. Rankil's age will remain a closely guarded secret. Rise before me child Rankil, and we shall tally the vote. All in favor-" Medrabbi never got to the opposed as every occupant of the room rose to her feet. "Child Rankil is no more. Welcome to the Tekkroon and Gretchencliff, Broadback Rankil!"

Our world has changed. Archell had said earlier that day. He was right, thought Rankil as hoots of approval filled the room. It had changed for the better.

"The acceptance is noted in the clan records." Medrabbi thrust a filled mug in Rankil's hand and encouraged her to drink of the sweet ale common to the Tekkroon. "The Recognition is the oldest of Tekkroon ceremonies." The smell of burning pilta began to waft through the room. "A girl becomes a broadback woman with this ritual, capable of taking the responsibilities of battle, hard work and"-the Gretchencliff mayor peered at Rankil-"demonstrating love to the gentlewoman of her choice."

"Enough talk, Medrabbi." Jefflynn forced Rankil back to her bench. "Get on with it. Who has the shears?"

"I've got 'em!" declared a voice from the rear.

"Pass them over so Medrabbi will quit her speech making." Jefflynn grinned defiantly at her leader. "She's indirectly my responsibility so I should have a part in this, too. I am, after all, acting as her raiser in this regard."

Medrabbi latched onto the shears when they came near. "The shears will remain in the mayor's control," she said with a wry chuckle.

"Not tonight, good friends." An age-darkened head sporting a multi-looped braid pushed toward Medrabbi. "Tonight, I challenge the claim."

"That challenge is recognized. Is the speaker who I believe?" Medrabbi strained to identify the voice then motioned the crowd to make way. "Ah, it is. Harlis, you grace the Gretchencliff with your presence. What brings you to us this eve?"

"New blood, Medrabbi, new blood." Harlis appeared in the round. She stood short for a broadback, her height further reduced by a spinal injury that caused her shoulders to be uneven. But she was also so thick in the upper arms that the openings in her royal blue tunic had been slit. "I had to meet the young people for myself. This one in particular interests me. I've been told she grew up clanless."

"Indeed she did, sister Harlis." Medrabbi clasped the clan leader on the back. "How long have you been lingering about?"

"Long enough to hear the winnolla's song, Lisajohn's usual criticism-and other matters." Harlis's gaze centered on Rankil.

"Your thoughts?" inquired Medrabbi.

"The Gretchencliff always do things differently than most." Harlis took an untouched cup and pulled a hard swallow from it, pale upon pale eyes never wavering from Rankil as she drank. Rankil dared to return the look, and their eyes locked for a moment. It was a brave though perhaps foolhardy move, one that many broadbacks took as a provocation but as Harlis was easy to humor, she took the stare for youthful mischief.

"I've spoken to several elder sisters regarding this matter and I believe-" Harlis dropped to the bench beside Rankil and lay her arm across her back. "I believe Rankil here is up to the demand." The clan leader's fingers grasped the top of Rankil's shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bring tears to most, a growl from Rankil. "I also believe"-the comment was intended for Rankil alone-"that the Serpent clan is too stringent in some regards, unbending to an obvious exception to the norm. You're a test subject for my council, the answer to the question does hardship make for maturity? Don't mess this one up, young woman. Medrabbi and Jefflynn have gone out on a limb for you. Screw up, and they'll both be your ruin. Understand?"

"Yes, clan leader Harlis."

"Harlis will do." Harlis flashed a grin. "Just remember where you've been and where you're going and you'll be fine. Now, someone hand me the shears. I'll take my right of first cut then I'll be off. An unattached gentlewoman in the Adner colony has requested my company this evening." Harlis winked at Rankil, released her grip then rose. "And I'd be a fool to refuse such a kind offer."

The clan leader snipped a small section of hair from the top of Rankil's head then departed, the lock still wrapped in her fingers. "Farewell, young Rankil. We shall meet again-sooner than you think. Coach her, Jefflynn. Knock her on her ass if she warrants it. She's yours to mold."

"I will, Harlis." Jefflynn's expression became guarded as she turned to Rankil. The usual means of teaching a broadback her role, while tried and true, might throw astray some of Rankil's good beginnings with Myrla. But above all else, the Recognition must be true to its name. Rankil must feel the responsibility, the seriousness of her position, something that was often lost in the night's indulgence. No. Jefflynn stepped back as someone refilled the mug in Rankil's hand. No. Rankil should make her own decisions this night. Be they right or wrong, they were hers to make.

Someone poured a bucket of half-melted snow over Rankil's head. "Get used to cold baths!" Jefflynn joined the friendly mayhem as a second bucket rolled down Rankil's back. "They're the best alternative if your woman is not willing." Rankil voiced objection as she was lifted from the bench and placed face down on one of the tables.

"Quit your complaining. Tekkroons don't whine." Medrabbi began scraping the hair from the back of Rankil's head. "Don't move. I've already drank four mugs and will slice you if you so much as blink."

Rankil remained still, her eyes closed against the spinning sensation the ale created. First the back, then the sides of her hair disappeared, leaving a narrow mohawk strip on the very top when Medrabbi stopped to drain another mug. Now tipsy and quite insecure, Rankil kept her eyes closed to the laughs and whistles around her until the final section of hair was pulled straight for removal. Different hands finished the task, soft, gentle hands that rubbed her forehead and ears. A delicate, flowery scent accompanied the touch and Rankil looked up, straight into the plunging neckline of a well-endowed gentlewoman. Horrified, she tensed and jerked backward only to be pushed into the perfumed recess again.

"Never had one of you do that," laughed the owner of that generous pair of breasts. "Hold still now. Let me finish, and you can see everything." She removed the remaining tuft and someone jerked Rankil upright into a chair. The woman slid into Rankil's lap to run an exposed leg down hers, toes toying with her boot cuff. "Like what you see?"

All Rankil's attempts at communication failed.

"Hey, Jefflynn," shouted one of the onlookers. "What'd you say at your Recognition?"

"I don't rightly recall." Jefflynn replied as she observed Rankil's expression. "But I believe I managed an aoh Mother yes' in there somewhere." She bent close, rotating Rankil's head so her nose pushed back into the center of the sweet-smelling woman. "Say something, Rankil, or Abbye will think you aren't enjoying her company." Then she hissed in a whisper only Rankil could hear: "Say it whether you are or not. It's expected of you."