by Kate Elliott
It takes him half the short summer’s night to get there, but when he reaches the hummock and takes that last step onto its slick surface, he can shake out his tense limbs. The rounded dome warms his feet, and it smells faintly of sulfur. He is safe.
Safe, that is, until he has to cross back.
He has made this journey before. Only here, in the center of the nesting ground, can mortal ears hear the whispering of the WiseMothers. No creature enslaved to the earth lives long enough to hear even one of their thoughts in its entirety. But the youngest of the WiseMothers can still speak, if only one has the patience to listen. He has listened to them before. He has brashly asked their advice.
Yet it is not their advice he seeks this day.
Night fades to morning. He waits. First Son does not come.
He waits, and listens.
“They. Will. Pass. The. Bridge. And. The. Cataract.”
“They. Will. Part. The. Waters. The. Fire. Rivers. Will. Change. In. Their. Course.”
“Make. Room. Make. Room.”
A sigh passes through them, wind groaning down from the northern fjalls, murmuring out of the eastern fjalls, and whispering in the faint voices of those few scattered to the south where the land has been worn away one stone at a time by tide and current, where sea and ocean meld and mingle to breathe the vapor of their disparate perfumes into the salt-strewn air.
What the WiseMothers speak of is mystery to him. The sun passes its noonday height and begins to sink before he hears a stealthy footfall, followed by the frustrated roar of First Son of the First Litter as he springs out from the rocks and stands on the brink of the nesting ground.
“Coward!” he cries. “Do you think to hide from me there? Weakling! You must have water and food in time, or you will wither away and return to dust. Come and fight.”
“Come and get my braids,” says Fifth Son. He displays the three braids he has tied around his arm. “If I die out here, you will still have to come and get these to prove your worthiness before OldMother.”
For a moment only First Son gapes, taken by surprise. He, strongest and canniest among them all, wears only a single braid wound round one arm. But he will not ask how his rival gained so much while he was gaining so little; he controls his surprise quickly. He is not foolish.
He gathers stones from the verge of the nesting ground, and when he has gathered enough, he tosses the first one to the opposite side of the sandy surface. The surface ripples as he slides a foot out onto the sand, then freezes. A claw spikes into the air and curls around the distant stone. Stone and claw vanish. First Son tosses another.
Fifth Son waits as the sun sinks and First Son slowly crosses the glimmering sand. He waits until First Son has come about half the distance between him and the rock. Then, casually, as soon as First Son has gone still and the last stone thrown by him has vanished under the surface, he takes a stone from his pouch, measures the distance, and tosses it to land at First Son’s feet.
There is a moment of stillness. Wind whispers at his back. The long afternoon shadows of the WiseMothers stripe the nesting ground, cloudy, bright, cloudy, bright.
First Son springs, dashing for the safety of the central hummock. But no creature can run faster than the ice wyrms.
Three claws pierce the sand, engulfing the stone, and then the thick shaft of a tail thrusts through, whipping back and forth, seeking. The creature’s skin is so clear, like ice, that Fifth Son sees the venom curdling beneath. It strikes. The spiked tail recoils faster than the eye can see. Three times it strikes, for First Son is nimble and desperate enough that his luck holds twice as he dodges; but on the third it stings. And vanishes beneath the sand.
First Son howls in pain, in fury. In fear.
In his convulsions, he drops all the stones he has gathered for the return trip. They rain down around him like so much fist-sized hail. Tiny claws seek, find, and gather them into their grave, where they will lie for aeons in the clutches of the ice-wyrms. What use do the ice wyrms have for stones?
Who can know?
As First Son shakes and jerks, as spittle and frothy copperish blood foam from his mouth and nostrils and ears and eyes, Fifth Son cautiously slides off the hummock and circles it. First Son’s thrashing and spasms certainly will disorder the filaments that carry sound and motion to the burrowing ice-wyrms. But he still has to get the braids off First Son before he vanishes beneath the sands and thus those two trophies become lost to him. This is the most dangerous part, because it must be timed just right so that he reaches First Son after he can no longer struggle but before the ice wyrms drag him beneath.
Slowly Fifth Son circles. Slowly his rival stiffens or really, more precisely, solidifies.
His convulsions slow, stall, and the tiny claw stalks, the tendrils of the ice-wyrms, twine like vines up his legs and begin to haul him down, an ungainly process with something this large. First Son’s eyes are frantic with fear, the only fear one of the RockChildren is ever allowed to express without losing all honor and position. Fifth Son tosses a stone to the opposite side of the nesting ground and as the movement ripples out, attracting attention over there, he slides in toward his rival, who can see him but no longer resist.
He cuts off his brother’s braid. He takes for himself the braid of Seventh Son, gained only yesterday. The day grows dim, as dim as it will get at this time of year. Only the brightest stars in the fjall of the heavens can pierce midsummer’s cloak.
He tosses a stone and slide-steps away, far enough to watch safely, and then he waits, still and silent with his feet on the venomous sands.
He watches as First Son is swallowed under the sands. He is helpless, and will remain so for a very, very long time. The priests say that the ice-wyrms digest that which they drag down into their nest, or that the thing which incubates there and which they protect digests it.
Who can know? Who has ever returned to speak of such a thing?
The WiseMothers do not answer that particular question.
According to the priest, who may or may not know the truth of these matters, for it is in their interest to claim knowledge that they might not actually possess, it can take up to a thousand years for the living rock—that which First Son has now become—to be digested in the belly of the nesting ground. A thousand years is the life span of twenty-five RockChildren, each one measured from the ending of the last. That is a long time to take to die, and every moment of it—so the priests say—awake, aware, and in agony.
But a thousand years is nothing to the sea. A thousand years is nothing to the wind. And to the bones of the earth laid bare at the surface as rock, a thousand years might encompass the merest shifting of one finger of a WiseMother’s hand. To the stars that lie above in the fjall of the heavens, a thousand years does not even encompass a thought.
One stone at a time he moves out of the hollow, and he reaches safe ground as dawn brightens the short summer’s gloom that passes as night.
From far below he dreams he hears the singing of SwiftDaughters and the stamp and scrape of their feet on the dancing ground. He counts his braids: one, two, three, four, five. And the sixth his own, still attached to his head.
Triumphant, he descends from the fjall to proclaim his victory.
When Alain woke, finding himself tangled in the bedclothes and alone in the bed, he heard Tallia praying. She spoke the words in a rush, as if she feared she would not have time to say them all. It was near dawn. She knelt by the unshuttered window, modestly clothed in a shift, with her head bent and her slight shoulders curled as under a great weight.
Even this sight stirred him. He flushed and rolled onto his stomach, but it was no good. Sorrow stirred and rose to follow him as he heaved himself off the bed, stumbled against the sleeping Rage, and hurried outside. Tallia paid him no mind, or perhaps she truly did not notice him because she was too caught up in her prayers. Because she insisted on such modesty, he, too, slept in a shift. Now, in the gray dawn rising, he was glad of the coveri
ng. A stream ran by the monastery guesthouse where they had sheltered for the night. The shock of it on his legs calmed him. He splashed his face, shuddering, and then climbed out to the opposite side to relieve himself in the bushes. Sorrow growled softly, sniffing through the bracken, nosing up forest litter. The hound had a fondness for beetles, and he snapped one up now. Wind sighed through leaves. A drizzle began to fall. With his feet muddy and his hands chilled, Alain staggered back inside. He had recovered his equanimity enough to sit on the bed, although he dared not kneel beside her. She could go on for hours like this.
As soon as it was light, the servants came, washed his feet, took away the chamber pot and brought out his clothing. Tallia had to cease praying so that they could make ready to leave. Count Lavastine, riding home triumphant, did not intend to waste time on a leisurely journey.
Outside, Lavastine greeted him with that brief smile which in him signaled his deepest approval. He greeted Alain in this fashion every morning, and occasionally in a most uncharacteristic manner made labored and mercifully brief jests about becoming a grandfather. It made Alain sick at heart to hear him speak so. Surely the servants, who slept on pallets or on the floor beside the bed of their master and mistress, suspected that the marriage went unconsummated. Yet Tallia had twice now rebuked him for tossing and turning so on the bed when he was deep in sleep, dreaming, no doubt, of Fifth Son. Servants might assume anything from such small noises. Why should they believe anything else? God in Unity had made female and male in Their image, to live in harmony together, and had conferred immortality upon them in this way: that through their congress they could make children, and their children make children in their turn. In this way humankind had prospered, as had all the creatures of earth, air, and water.
In this way the county of Lavas would prosper.
He tried not to think about it too much. When he was near Tallia, his body had an unfortunate tendency to react in ways that embarrassed him. Was she so much holier than he was? Was it a sign of her worthiness in God’s eyes that she could pray half the night to God’s glory while he slept soundly? That she cleansed herself with fasting while he wolfed down his meals as eagerly as his hounds? That she begged him for a marriage of two pure souls unsullied by earthly lust while he knew in his heart—and elsewhere—that his soul was already stained by desiring her so fiercely?
“You are quiet, Son,” said Lavastine. “This is a fine morning. The rain is a blessing from God, for the crops will grow greener because of it.”
“And all our fortunes prosper,” said Lord Geoffrey, who rode at the count’s left hand. Alain glanced at him. Was his tone sour, or was that only Alain’s imagination? Geoffrey was usually scrupulously polite. “You would have been better served, cousin,” continued Geoffrey, “to tend the gardens at court more assiduously. There are many factions to be watered.”
“I see no point in gardening where I have no skills. The king supports me. That is all I need to know.”
“The king, God’s blessing on him, will not live forever. There was a rumor at court that the king means to name his bastard son as heir after him. But Princess Sapientia has her own adherents, and they will not stand by and do nothing if that comes to pass.”
“The king has favored me with the reward I most wished for. Now I will toil in those fields that God cherishes most: to make sure my fields and my folk prosper.”
“Is that what God most cherishes?” asked Tallia. “God wishes us to cleanse ourselves of the stain of darkness that has corrupted all earthly creatures, all save the blessed Daisan.”
“Even the blessed Daisan labored in the fields of earth, my lady Tallia. Is He not also known as the shepherd who brought us all into the fold? What if there were no women spinning and weaving, no men smithing or toiling to grow crops, and no lady and lord watching over them as God have ordained each to her own station? Then what would become of those good churchfolk who pray for our souls and for their prayers are given wax and wheat and cloth as their tithe?”
“Why, then, they would shed their earthly clothing—which is nothing but a burden—and ascend to the Chamber of Light!” she replied, looking surprised.
That twitch of the mouth signaled irritation. Alain recognized it, but not even the count of Lavas dared criticize a woman who, although now his daughter-in-law, outranked him. “So they would,” he agreed curtly.
Lavastine had sent most of his men home before him, after Gent, but Tallia had brought an impressive retinue of her own, one provided for by the king’s generosity. They rode home like a victorious army.
“Do not be seduced by the pleasures of the court, Alain,” Lavastine added. “What use to fly about in the train of the king? For his pleasure? His favor?”
“The favor of the regnant is nothing to sneer at,” retorted Geoffrey, stung. “It is no sin to enjoy hunting and the pleasures of court.”
“So I have observed,” said Lavastine in his quietest and most scathing voice, “that you have acquainted yourself well with hunting, hounds, horses, and hawks, but rather less with fabric-making, blacksmithing, agriculture, commerce, and medicine.”
“I have a wife, and she has a chatelaine and a steward.”
“So you do, and so she has. I also have a chatelaine. But what captain can expect to win a war when he makes merry in his tent while battles are fought outside? No matter how sweet his songs. Nay, cousin, we gain greater favor by pleasing God as I have described.”
“We gain God’s favor by prayer!” said Tallia stubbornly.
“So we do.” He always agreed with her. Then he smiled. “And I pray God that my house is blessed soon with the fruit of your marriage to my son.”
“Indeed,” said Alain with feeling. “May God so bless this house.”
Tallia blushed scarlet, glancing at him and then away. A few of their attendants chuckled. Lord Geoffrey smiled thinly.
The road crossed into forest, and for a while they rode in silence, making good time on the smooth dirt path that cut through the trees. Even the wagons rolled swiftly, unjarred by ruts. Now and again the woodland opened into a meadow where flowers bloomed. A doe bounded away, followed by a half-grown fawn. A buzzard soared above the trees.
They came to a village at midday, and children ran up to watch them ride by, only to scatter at the sight of the black hounds. At the village well they stopped to water their horses at the trough. Once Alain had secured the hounds, the village householders came forward to pay their respects. One old woman had a wickedly sharp cider that brought tears to Alain’s eyes and made him a little giddy, and he thanked her, amused by her laughter at his reaction.
Yet it wasn’t just the cider. The sight of Tallia, in such sunlight, made his head spin. She had covered her hair with a shawl, neatly folded and tucked, but even so wheat-colored strands of hair curled free. She had a way of standing, hands lax and mouth slightly parted, that made his heart ache to comfort her. Offered a cup, she took it—to refuse was unworthy of a noblewoman of her consequence—and sipped at the cider. Alain envied the humble wooden cup, whose plain surface in this way met her lips. When she had finished, she gave the cup to her attendants to drink from, and when it was refilled, they handed it to the servants. After this, Tallia waited by the well while the householders brought loaves, cakes fried of flour and honey, and a pungent cheese. These offerings were modest, but they seemed to please her more than any feast.
“Will the young lord take an egg?”
It was a rich gift for such a village, offered by a young woman no older than Tallia. She had dirty blonde hair pulled back in a braid, a face hastily washed with dirt still smearing her neck and patching one ear, and an appetizing shape that her clothing did little to disguise. She had a pretty smile, and she opened his hand so she could roll the egg onto his palm. It was warm, roasted, and her fingers were warm as well. Alain was suddenly terribly glad that their party wasn’t spending the night here. He flushed, she thanked him, and abruptly Tallia came over to stand beside him.<
br />
Someone laughed. The village girl retreated, not without a backward look. Tallia had a high stain of color in her cheeks, and, daringly, she took hold of his hand right out there in public.
It was a tiny victory. He squeezed her fingers, feeling triumphant—truly hopeful—again.
“God will only favor our sacrifice as long as we both remain pure,” she murmured.
His reply stuck in his throat. He felt like he’d been kicked. She let go of his hand and went over to her horse as soon as Lavastine’s steward called the servants to order, leaving him standing there. He didn’t have the heart to eat the egg himself. He peeled it, broke it in half, and fed it surreptitiously to Sorrow and Rage.
They had ridden not an hour out from the village when an outrider clattered up to tell the count that an Eagle had been sighted, riding after them. Lavastine obligingly pulled the party aside and soon after a weary-looking Eagle rode into view. He had a remount on a lead behind him, rings of dust around his eyes, and hair that would have been red if it hadn’t been so dusty from riding.
“Count Lavastine. I am sent by order of His Majesty, King Henry. This tale came to his ears through the agency of Prince Sanglant.” He paused. Alain knew the look of Eagles recalling a message memorized days or weeks ago. “‘Count Lavastine must beware. The one whose arrow killed Bloodheart is protected against magic, and if Bloodheart’s curse still stalks the land, then it seeks another.’”
“A curse,” muttered Lord Geoffrey.
“Prince Sanglant spoke of a curse before,” said Alain. “The Eika, at least, believed it could affect them.”
“Yet Bloodheart is dead.” Lavastine smiled grimly. “Nevertheless, I value my life as much as any man, and in particular the life of my son. Let men march in a square around the riders, each one a spear’s length apart, and let them keep their eyes to the ground and look for any creature that might fit the description Prince Sanglant gave us. Let my clerics pray, and cast such charms as God allow. We must trust in God to see that no harm comes to those who have been faithful to Their commands.” He gestured to signify that this was his will on the matter. Terror barked once, and Fear answered. Steadfast and Bliss sat, panting, on the verge. Sorrow sniffed in the brush growing in the ditch that lined the road, and Rage had flopped down on the track in the shade of a wagon.
