by H. M. Long
“I’ll show you the way, Eangen,” he said, adjusting the stocky lamb in his arms and nodding towards the waterfall at the end of the valley. His head was shaved and his accent was wholly Soulderni, juxtaposing his decidedly un-Soulderni appearance.
I had never met an Arpa in a peaceful setting, nor one so visibly marked by an Arpa deity as Iosas. So I chose not to speak, ducking my chin and falling into step behind him.
Soulderni parted and churned around us as we passed through the camp. Their women wore high-belted gowns like Silgi, while the men, including Iosas, chose kaftans or tunics, with trousers in the northern style. But while Eangen favored greens and blues and greys, the Soulderni leaned towards fiery, earthen oranges, reds and creams – the colors that their land most readily produced.
The people cast me curious glances, but it was the smiles that caught me off guard. An old woman outright beamed at me. A middle-aged man touched his forehead in acknowledgement, with a nostalgic turn of the lips. Children clustered behind the side of a tent to grin and peer at my short frame, lighter skin and thick, frizzing black hair, and called greetings that I only half-understood.
Their god was missing, and they were hiding in this valley. But they still had the will to welcome a foreigner, far from home?
“Did they tell you about Oulden?” My guide’s voice pulled my attention back to him. The lamb rested his head on his shoulder, placidly blinking between me and the crowd.
“A little,” I replied, picking up my pace so we could speak more easily. My muscles were stiff from days of disuse and my wounds, pinched and aching, stretched with the exertion. “I know a new god invaded Soulderni land and Oulden’s nowhere to be found.”
Iosas shifted the lamb in his arms to consider me more directly. “I wouldn’t call them a new god, Eangen. From what our priests say, they – he – isn’t like Oulden or Aliastros, or even Eang.”
“Your mother called him a new god. An Arpa one, too.”
Iosas made a discontented sound. “I’m not sure about that.”
I brushed my fingers across a tall standing stone as we passed. “Why?”
“Our gods have faces and forms, like us.” Iosas slowed as the camp petered off. The waterfall draped over a horseshoe cliff some two hundred meters above us, roaring where it plunged into a pool at its base. But though mist began to condense on my cheeks, we were still far enough away not to be deafened. “They treat, negotiate. They want to be seen and feared and worshiped. But this god has no face. No worshipers. No name.”
While I digested this, the man made for a low stone altar beside the pool, stained from centuries of bloodletting. He set the lamb’s feet down on the altar. “Will you take the knife from my belt?”
I had more questions to ask, but once the knife was in my hand the presence of Oulden settled upon me. Even if he was in hiding, this was his shrine: his holy ground. The god would hear.
I stilled and breathed deeply, letting the fine mist and clean mountain air rush into my lungs. The shard of Eang inside me swelled to meet it, and I felt the ghostly weight of my lost collar around my neck.
Iosas didn’t comment on the change in me. I saw the breath stream out of his lips, sending the mist into eddies, and his hands held the lamb in absolute stillness.
“Greetings, Oulden, from a son of Aliastros,” he rumbled under the roar of the waterfall.
“Greetings, Oulden,” I echoed, “from a daughter of Eang.”
The waterfall continued to crash down, unchanging and unaffected. But I felt the mist press in closer and the noise of the camp grew muffled.
I put the knife to the lamb’s throat and slit. The animal bucked and bleated and, when it had quietened, Iosas held it over the pool. Its blood drained into the dark water in a long, languorous stream.
I drew up beside him. With practiced resolve, I slit open a fingertip and let the drops fall beside the lamb’s blood for good measure.
“For allowing me shelter in your land, when I was injured and lost,” I murmured to the mist and the roaring cascade.
Droplets of blood struck the surface of the pool, one by one. Then they vanished. The water remained dark but clean, all signs of the sacrifice washed away.
“You’re an Eangi, aren’t you?”
I looked at Iosas askance. I couldn’t evade a direct question like this, not without lying. “Yes.”
“I’ve heard only Eangi can make sacrifices among the Eangen. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Mmm.” His pale eyes stared into the distance beyond the waterfall. The drained lamb lay on the altar beside us now, limp and lifeless. “Then, priestess, are you here for a purpose? Has Eang sent you?”
I followed his gaze and let my eyes roam up to the rim of the waterfall. It glistened in the sun, smooth and flashing through a haze of mist. While saying yes might put me in a better position among the Soulderni, it wasn’t precisely the truth. Eang had not planned on my being swept into Souldern, and the only charge she’d given me concerning it was to leave again.
But this land was troubled by the gods, and I was a priestess. So perhaps, by proximity, there was a purpose to my presence – however brief I intended that presence to be.
“I can’t say,” I finally returned. “It was a riverman who found me and brought me to Oulden’s Feet. He wanted favor with Eang, he claimed. For the ‘upheaval’.”
Iosas went quiet. “Well. The upheaval is here. And I, for one, am glad to have Eang in this camp.”
I looked at him sideways, but he was already bending to rinse his hands at the lapping edge of the pool. I mirrored him, hoping the movement would alleviate the need for me to reply.
As I handed the knife back, the young man abruptly asked, “Will you put my family in danger?”
Thinking of kind and trusting Uwi, holding out her hand to me on the riverbank, I shook my head firmly. “No. But I would prefer the camp not know I am an Eangi.”
“Why?”
I contemplated him for a minute, then answered candidly, “I need to return north as soon as possible. If your people know what I am, they may expect more than I can give.”
Iosas accepted this stoically and took up the dead lamb by the hooves. “Let’s head back. You should stay with us until after the Solstice. The gathering will break up after that and I’ve a cousin who can take you north. He can get you through the Arpa border, quietly.”
I hesitated. Summer Solstice was a fortnight away. How could I waste such valuable time when Vistic was missing, Sixnit captive, Eangen being invaded and Omaskat moving on to gods-knew where?
But even as I thought it, the weakness of my body reasserted itself. Loose hair brushed over my bandaged ear. My wrist ached. The dog bite on my thigh smarted and the puncture wound in my ribs protested my every breath. I was in no condition to traverse Arpa territory. Especially with the threat of interloping gods.
As reluctant as I was to do it, I forced myself to nod. “Then I’ll stay until the Solstice. Thank you.”
Iosas started towards the camp. “Good. In the meantime, Eangi, keep your secret close; I’ll not expose you.”
ELEVEN
I was sixteen. Yske and I joined a line of women on one side of the long hearth, shoulder to shoulder in our winter dresses of richly dyed wool and thick embroidery, our faces clean of kohl and hair bound in perplexing tumbles of braids, leather and beads.
Across the fire, Eidr caught sight of me and his face broke into a wide, wild grin. He staggered as the other Eangi and Eangen men jostled him, each clad in their own heavy winter tunics and kaftans, skirted and trimmed with intricate, wide braid.
Eidr rejoined their song, hurling verses across the flames toward us women, and I grinned back.
We women replied, familiar harmonies and lyrics twisting up into the rafters of the Hall of Smoke. The men’s feet pounded. The women spun and shook out their skirts in a quick, thunderous clap that disintegrated into laughter as a little girl lost her balance. She toppled into a
dozen helpful arms, the song ended, and we merged into a second, then a third.
We sang. We chanted. We danced. We lost our breaths and sagged into one another while the winter wind howled through the high chimney and cracks of the huge double doors. But inside the Hall, the air was warm, thick with fire and life, movement and music.
One of the worst winters in living memory was drawing to a close. The elder Eangi murmured that there had been conflict among the Eangen and Arpa gods, effectively silencing Eang for months on end and leaving the Eangen to endure a bleak winter without divine aid. But Eang’s silence, the High Priestess assured us, was no reason to fear for her wellbeing. Nor was it a reason not to celebrate her victory.
We served the Goddess of War, mortal yet undying, and she would return to us triumphant. So, we sang.
At one point, Ardam, war chief of the Eangi, raised his voice over the last of the villagers’ lilting strains. The song was familiar, ages old, and it signaled the transition into a different part of the celebrations: the telling of our history. His voice was strong, swelling over our heads as he drew our attention to the front of the Hall.
Eidr pulled me under his arm and leant against one of the Hall’s many carved pillars. I eased into him, enjoying the labored rise and fall of his chest against my back.
Ardam’s voice took on a chanting quality while we settled in. Children were shushed and a knot of red-cheeked women smothered the last of their laughter in each other’s shoulders.
He sung of black waves, and the boats on which our people came to Eangen. He sung of Eang, who saved them from the cold of that first, hard winter. He recounted how she led the Gods of the New World to victory over the Gods of the Old – gods of starlight, shadow and rage. And when his verses finished, Svala’s voice rose in his place.
The tempo increased, the melody turned, and a new layer of intensity settled over the onlookers. The High Priestess told of each New God, one by one. Most had submitted to Eang – Aita the Great Healer and Esach the Goddess of Storms, along with lesser Eangen deities like Riok and Briel and Dur. But others had refused, like Gadr and the shape-shifting deity who had once inhabited Iskiri land, Ried.
I closed my eyes as the verses spun on, unraveling the story of how Eang had slain and bound Ried, and how Gadr had fled north to the high mountains.
Then she sang of the struggles of the Eangen. When Svala described the departure of the traitors who became the Algatt, her eyes flashed; the people roared and joined in, ending the tale in a clamorous riot of Eangen and Eangi voices.
“Eang, Eang,” we cried. “The Brave. The Vengeful. The Watchful. The Swift.”
As the final word rung out, someone screamed. I started, struggling to see over the press of humanity. At my back, Eidr went still.
“What is it?” I hissed to him.
“I can’t tell – wait.”
The scream died. Eangi elders pushed the crowd back to reveal an Eangi girl, standing rigid at the head of the Hall before the densely carved, candle-laden altar. Ardam moved to help the girl, but the High Priestess blocked him.
“It’s Eang,” Svala said, her voice oddly thick. “Leave her.”
The crowd retreated more, leaving a half-moon of empty floor around the immobile girl. She was no older than twelve.
Slowly, the girl raised her head. I flinched back into Eidr.
Her eyes looked like bottomless wells. The torches around her flared with sudden heat and, for a timeless instant, Eang looked over the masses through the Eangi’s eyes. We all felt her gaze, both Eangi and Eangen, like a fire in our blood.
Then she departed, as wordlessly and unexpectedly as she had come. Time slowed, drawing out the space between two breaths. Torchlight flickered. The girl’s face slackened and her eyes fluttered closed. And then, at last, she collapsed to the hard-packed earthen floor.
No one spoke. No one moved. Svala, staring at the motionless girl, eased back onto her heels and ran a hand over her lips, collecting herself. Now, I can recall the mix of fear and relief on her face – then the flutter of grief. But in the moment, her disconcertion went without notice. The girl had only fainted, after all.
Svala would not announce until the next morning that the girl had died. It was Eang’s gift to a favored daughter – not only a visitation but a swift, painless entry into the High Halls of the Gods and Eang’s feasting tables. Deaths like this came every so often among the Eangi. It was the very highest honor.
But in Albor that night, we thought the child had only lost consciousness. So as soon as the goddess departed, the occupants of the Hall erupted into an elated, worshipful roar around her crumpled form. It filled my ears to bursting.
Eidr stepped forward and threw his head back. As his presence left me, I closed my eyes and cradled my Fire in my chest for a euphoric moment. Then I added my own cry to the throng, unleashing a full-throated howl up into the rafters of the Hall of Smoke.
TWELVE
Over the next two weeks, my shattered wrist knitted and my wounds closed under Silgi’s care. I mourned my mangled ear, but only when no one was around to see me touch the ragged flesh and generous scabs. My Fire couldn’t return a lost piece of flesh. I could braid my hair to cover it, but that was little comfort. This was not a simple scar – my hearing was affected, and I had lost a piece of my body.
I settled in with Silgi’s family, meeting her husband Ceydr and working frequently beside Uwi on whatever household tasks my health permitted. I requested several times to meet the cousin Iosas claimed could take me north, only to be told they had not yet arrived. It wasn’t until the night before the Solstice, once evening fires had sprung up, that my question was met with affirmation.
Ceydr, a greying Soulderni man with a black topknot, brilliant red kaftan and a deliberate, smooth stride, led me through the camp. The settlement had swelled since my arrival, forcing the Soulderni to overflow into one another’s space. Trying not to trample toddlers underfoot, they greeted one another with kisses and laughter and clustered around laden festival tables.
If I cast my eyes to the sky, I could almost pretend that I was back in Albor for our own midsummer festival. The Hall of Smoke would be thick with incense and visitors. The Eangi women would wear gowns of sky blue and the men forest green, the edges of every garment embellished with braid or embroidery of white and grey and black. I would braid Eidr’s hair and he would pull me down into his lap, kissing me for the entire Hall to see. Yske would roll her eyes. Sixnit would smirk, and her husband Vist would goad us on.
My throat constricted and my surroundings faded. For the barest instant, I caught the scent of Eidr again: smoke and earth, iron and leather, all undergirded by his own warm humanity. I would kiss him and hide in curve of his neck, enclosing myself in him.
I felt cold. I ached for the security of his arms around me, of the laughter of my friends and cousins in my ears. The sense of being one of many, part of a whole.
Here among the Soulderni I was surrounded, but so very, very alone.
“Ceydr!”
My attention drifted back to the present as a woman shouldered through the crowd. Her eyes were the darkest blue I had ever seen, nestled into so many laugh-lines that she seemed permanently on the edge of mirth.
“Euweth.” Ceydr kissed her on the mouth and spun her to face me. I blinked. The environment had transformed him from stately patriarch to jovial, impish boy.
She laughed and leant into his shoulder.
“This is a stray Eangen that Uwi found,” Ceydr said. “Escaped the bloodshed up north and was delivered to us by a riverman.”
“Well.” Euweth drew me closer. “After that ordeal, a little time on Oulden’s chest seems to have done you good.”
I smiled at her. The expression didn’t come easily, but these people were my hosts. I needed to keep their trust, no matter the darkness that lingered over me. “Ceydr’s family has been very kind.”
Ceydr waved over her shoulder at someone unseen and nodded at me. “
She needs to get back to Eangen.”
“We can take her to the border,” Euweth offered without hesitation. “She can regale us with Eangen songs on the way. And tonight. That’s my price. Oh, child,” she laughed at the expression on my face, “come and take a drink. We don’t expect you to sing sober.”
Euweth’s family was much smaller than Ceydr’s. There was no husband, but she had a son of perhaps twenty-five who was not in the company of a wife. He smirked as his mother and Ceydr laughed like children.
“Here.” The young man handed me a cup. He wore his black hair short, like Iosas, though most of the older men wore topknots. “Don’t mind them. They grew up together and the sight of one another takes them too far back.”
I accepted the cup and sniffed at it. It was mead, but not like home. Eangen honey always tastes like pine, so our mead does too.
The Soulderni bent down to look in my face. Whatever he found there, it made him smile. His features lacked his mother’s free joy and his black beard was too short, but there was a companionableness about his eyes. “I’m Nisien.”
“Hessa. Tell me, Nisien, what should I expect from the next few days?”
He surveyed the gathering. “Well, tomorrow morning at dawn, there will be prayers and dedication. Sunset is when the sacrifice is made and Oulden will bless us… if he comes, but… the priests claim he will. The next two days will be weddings and feasting. Then we head back north and take you home.”
“Just as far north as you can,” I clarified. “I don’t need you to take me into Eangen. Though I’d appreciate advice on passing the Arpa border.”
The lightness around his eyes clouded at mention of the border. “Of course. We’ll do what we can for you.”
I faced him more directly. The wine warmed my stomach, and with it, my discomfort eased.
“You Soulderni are strange people,” I informed him, awed that he would help me so easily. “Good people. But strange.”
“Life is… sparser, south of Eangen,” he admitted, “but also longer. There’s little to live on and half of it goes to the Arpa. But what we have, we enjoy, and give to others.” He glanced into my cup, discovered it was still three quarters full, and tapped the bottom impatiently. “Drink this and come. I hear you can sing when properly tended.”
