—Interrogation transcript, Shkohr Detention Facility, November 15, 1992 AC.
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Martius 15, 1993 AC
“He’s coming home?” Zaya clutched at the telephone so tightly, she could hear the Bakelite handle creak a little. “Can I . . . I mean, does he want to see me?”
Trennus Matrugena’s voice was gentle on the other end of the line. “I’m sure he does, Zaya. You’re welcome to dinner tonight. We’ll be at the Jerusalem house, and not the Caledonia villa. Just keep in mind, he’s changed a lot in the last year or so. Judging from what I’ve seen of him today in the Veil, he’s become a very capable young man, if a bit on edge.” He paused. “There are supposed to be a few decent gladiatorial bouts on the far-viewer tonight. That seems a quiet way to welcome my son home.”
Zaya said a few words of dazed assent, and hung up, staring at the phone for a long moment. Latirian, Solinus, and Fyriacus were all in the Judean Defense Force—levy forces attached to the Legion, and thus, legionnaires themselves, even if the distinction was only stood upon by the Roman forces. Their family came to a halt when they came home, or when Rig returned, and Inghean brought him over. But Master Matrugena—King Trennus, Zaya reminded herself, forcibly—seemed more concerned than usual. Zaya thought she understood why. Latirian, Solinus, and Rig had all entered the military during a time of heightened tensions, but relative peace. They’d had time to adapt. Fyriacus, closer in age to Maccis, but more distant in demeanor, had set out to live his life as far away from the rest of the family as possible . . . but even he had been fully eighteen when he’d enlisted, and he’d gone through boot-camp surrounded by dozens of other young soldiers. Maccis hadn’t yet been seventeen when he’d volunteered. His eighteenth birthday had passed during his ‘hostage’ period . . . and he’d been almost completely alone since. No social network, and no family on whom to rely.
All the thoughts came together in one flash, and Zaya swallowed, hard. That is almost exactly how people are indoctrinated into cults. Well, it’s also how people are indoctrinated into military life, too, if I’m being honest here. How has he changed? She shook her head, as another thought leaped in behind the rest. What if changed means he doesn’t want to be around me anymore? His telegrams were always so . . . brief.
She looked down at herself, and shook her head. The circles her thoughts were running in weren’t helping at all. And there was no way she’d know anything for certain before tonight. So she bounded up the stairs, and stared into her closet, trying to decide what on earth she should wear. Something that said welcome home, but was suitably respectful for his family, and didn’t shout I really missed the touch of your hands. And as she stared at the clothing sightlessly, she tried to figure out where and how they could have some privacy together. She didn’t think that in this era of heightened security, that her mother would look with fondness on her taking an unbadged visitor down to the vaults again. I could use a little of my money and rent us a hotel room somewhere in town, perhaps. Just being able to curl up together and tell the rest of the world to take itself to Tartarus for a while should be enough . . . shouldn’t it?
Three or four reversed decisions later, Zaya thought she’d come up with an outfit that did not scream of insecurity and fear of rejection. She’d also had to fight her reflexive urge to put on anything she’d normally wear to the archives—the high-collared tunics and brocade, laced vests were as necessary as the fingerless wool gloves. The archives were normally kept at a chilly sixty degrees, for the preservation of the texts when they were brought out of their argon-filled chambers. Then she informed her mother where she was going. Erida looked at Zaya, her expression mildly amused, but also cautious. “He’s been away a year, dear one. He’s had his first taste of combat, and then some. He won’t be the same.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Zaya jittered in place.
“Because it is true.” Erida patted her on the shoulder. “I’ll have the car brought around. You’re an adult, but you are still my daughter. I will not ask you to be home by eleven, but I ask that you comport yourself as the daughter of a Magi under the roof of our colleagues and allies.”
Zaya dropped her head. “Yes, Mother.” An inwards sigh. If she had one iota of the gift of magic, she’d have apprenticed as a true Magi at twelve or thirteen. By now, she’d be a journeyman, trusted with crafting her own spells. Every time she passed by the summoning grimoires in the archives—many of these were actually kept on shelves, and not in the lined vaults—Zaya’s fingers itched. She knew every line, every curve, of a binding or protective circle. She could read the Names and conjurations perfectly in a half-dozen languages. But the fact remained that she could not see so much as a house-spirit unless the spirit manifested. She’d lived her entire life with air spirits around to help her get dressed, earth spirits to guard the house and chase rats and vermin, fire spirits to regulate the temperature, water spirits to ensure that their food wasn’t poisoned and that their baths were comfortable . . . and she’d seen them once, maybe twice, in the past eighteen years. And a summoner who had no idea when he or she was being stalked by a maleficent spirit, was very likely to be a dead summoner.
“Very well,” Erida told her, her tone gentle. “Enjoy yourself.”
Zaya was fairly certain that her feet didn’t hit the ground between the door of the motorcar and the door of the Matrugena house. The door opened before she even reached it, and she got a startled impression of white everywhere, including a white beard, and then she was picked up off the ground and swung around. There was a moment of hesitation on both parts as he set her down. Maccis—surely, it was Maccis, but he didn’t look like himself—leaned down to kiss her, and she stared up at him, seeing almost as much uncertainty in his eyes as she felt, herself. So she got up on her tiptoes and pulled his head down. Alien scrape of long whiskers on her face made her giggle. Everything was different. His scent was different. She wasn’t as attuned to smells as he was, but there was a mix of foreign soaps and foreign foods on his skin. And as he released, she was able to get her first good look at him, and realized that he’d filled out through the shoulders and chest, his arms felt like iron . . . and his face was gaunt. He hasn’t been eating well, she thought instantly, and blurted out, “Maccis, are you all right?”
And at the very same moment, he said in her mind, as if he were in wolf-form, Zaya, I’ve missed you so much. He blinked, she blinked, and then he shrugged a little and found his voice. Lower than she’d remembered, and darker than his mental voice. “I’m fine. Mostly hungry. And I really need to shave. The beard makes me look seventy. Good enough reason never to let it grow in if I can avoid it.” He pulled her close again, and gave her another kiss, in full view of the neighborhood. Thank you for being here. Some nights, I think the only thing that kept me sane was thinking of you, my family, and home.
She gasped a little for breath, and followed him into the house, which had been largely empty for the past six months. The various children had all adapted to Lassair’s absence. Zaya knew that the fire-spirit was out, patrolling the southern deserts with Illa’zhi, her father, and came home once a week to see her children and spend time with them. The youngest ones cried, but Zaya had seen them stop in the middle of a bout of weeping, look up at the ceiling, and suddenly sigh in contentment . . . and she’d know that their mother was singing to them in their thoughts. Dividing herself a different way than she had before.
Maccis’ grip on her hand was almost painfully tight at first, but he began to relax a little as his family surrounded them in the living room. Saraid was there, manifested; the forest-spirit always wore a traveler’s leathers and had, tonight, perched a festive green wreath of oak leaves over her lupine ears, and offered one to Maccis and Zaya, too. This is a celebration. Maccis helped us win the trust of Fenris. And now, he must tell all of us of everything he has done in the last year.
That took a while, going all the way through dinner, in fact, as Trennus
and Saraid gently and interestedly asked their son questions. And yet Zaya had the sensation that Maccis was being reticent, even after the youngest children had been put to bed. She was still getting used to seeing him again, and was acutely aware of his hand on hers under the table once they’d finished eating. A car door slammed across the street, and he jerked, his fingers tightened on hers, communicating the tension that sang through his whole body. And his blue eyes took on the emotionless quality of a predator. The same look that he’d told her he didn’t like about the big cats, like tigers. Because all they saw in the world were prey, obstacles, or threats.
Conversation also seemed difficult for him. More than once, he resorted to mind-speech—something he’d never done in human form before. Most of the time, in school, he’d been as human as he could make himself. The collar had been his only gesture of defiance. It added to the sense that he both was, and wasn’t, the person she’d known before. The expressions were mostly the same, the voice, too. The smile, when he remembered to use it, was the same. But the boy, the boy who’d cheerfully taken the form of a puppy so he could clamber up in a hammock with her and read on a summer afternoon without being teased or chastised . . . that boy was gone. He was still Maccis, but Maccis with a stranger living inside of him. The soldier—if not the soldier, then the adult wolf—was part of him now.
And part of Roman culture, and Pictish culture, too, was showing respect and honor to the boy who’d gone away and become a man. The marks on the skin signaled the transition to adulthood, but afterwards? When someone fought for his or her people, had gone into the darkness, and come back changed . . . the change had to be recognized. Zaya understood that, intuitively. But it was still a sad thing, in a way. Because she’d loved the boy he’d been, and the man was a stranger. But they were still the same person.
They watched the gladiatorial fights that evening after dinner, and Maccis kept his hand around hers, the entire time. Zaya rarely watched the far-viewer. The news, after dinner, with her mother, most evenings, but her time was so tightly scheduled between her studies, dance, and self-defense lessons, that merely sitting and watching the screen made her feel uneasy.
Tonight’s gladiatorial bouts included the execution of seven criminals in Rome. Zaya had seen the occasional public execution, but didn’t seek them out. Tonight’s convicts were all members of Potentia ad Populum. Three had been convicted of burning down a technomancer’s house, with the sorceress, her husband, and her two small children all inside; the woman had escaped with one of the children, but her husband had gone back inside for the other, and both had died in the burning structure. The sorceress and her surviving daughter were in the seats today, and the cameras kept coming back to the Roman woman’s face; she had glossy, shiny patches of skin on her face, and a scarf around her head to conceal them and what was left of her hair; her daughter appeared to be unscarred, and played beside her in her seat, not looking at the sands below.
The other four men had been convicted of entering a temple of Jupiter with guns, and opening fire on the priests there, before spray-painting on the walls slogans like, The gods cannot save you or where are your god-born now?
“They targeted a technomancer who wasn’t particularly powerful, and a temple that was on the outskirts of the Empire, and where they knew there were no god-born nearby,” Maccis’ father muttered. “Cowards. Every one of them.”
Only one of the men seemed to know one end of a sword from another; the rest were quickly dispatched by the gladiators, and the professionals each raised their heads, in turn, looking for the signal to kill from the Emperor, who was in attendance. Caesarion IX, still relatively young in appearance, as a god-born, raised his hand each time, and gave a thumb’s up gesture in response to the question, Should this man die?
Zaya cringed each time the sword or the spear came down, but she couldn’t deny that justice was being done. The camera panned back to the sorceress and her daughter in the stands; the woman had just pulled her daughter into her lap, and seemed to be weeping with relief behind her smoked glasses. “I hope they can give her some more plastic surgery,” Zaya said, quietly, as the crowd roared on the far-viewer. “She doesn’t need any more reminders of other people’s hate.”
Maccis had watched the executions expressionlessly. But when lions were brought in for a match against gladiators, however, his demeanor changed. He was watching the way the lions fought. And from the way he stiffened, and his muscles twitched now and again, she knew he was trying to help someone fight. She just wasn’t sure if he happened to be on the lions’ side, or the men’s.
Finally, the evening came to an end, and he asked her at the door, “Could we . . . go for a walk in the woods tomorrow? My mother says there’s nothing in her forest that would harm either of us. We could even go through the door, and into the Woods in the Veil, if you liked. And . . . I’d really like to be able to spend some time with you.”
“I’ll tell my mother that I’m taking the day off,” Zaya told him, and paused, “On one condition.”
Maccis blinked warily. “Name it.”
“Shave. Please, gods, shave.”
“I’ll have you know that there were times that I put fur everywhere to stay warm.”
“It’s not cold here! Shave! Please!”
Well, since you asked so nicely . . . He leaned down and kissed her again, pulling her into him.
“Are you going to bring apples?” Zaya whispered, and felt a shudder go through his entire body.
Believe me, Zee, if we finally get somewhere private, apples aren’t going to be needed. Well, maybe one for you. His tone was rueful.
Her cheeks flushed, and Zaya laughed. “I’ll consider myself warned.”
She hadn’t been out into the Caledonian Forest north of town yet. She knew that Fritti had been behind getting most of the Judean farmers moved south and compensated with new land. Most of the Jerusalem city council wanted the Picts to pay for the land they were now occupying. The Picts contended that they were living on their traditional land, thank you, and would offer compensation for the disruption in the form of reduced costs on mutton, wool, and industrial products from their manufacturing cities. The lands south of the city had bloomed, however. Thanks to Lassair, marginal farming areas suddenly had experienced bumper harvests last fall—even on lands that had never been cultivated before. Melons, grapes, wheat, and corn were in abundance, at the moment.
Helpfully, the new mountains to the north trapped rainclouds, and the forest itself cooled the region, which encouraged rainfall, just as Minori had predicted months ago. Climatologists were suggesting, given the trend of the past forty years towards wetter, cooler weather anyway, that within forty more years, the entire northern half of the much-altered peninsula would be subtropical forest, with some swamps, and very favorable farming areas, assuming the trees would agree to . . . move themselves.
Zaya had turned down the invitations to go exploring the woods with Maccis’ various siblings. She was glad the next day that she had. It gave them a chance to discover it all, together. They picked a direction, and just started walking. “What happens if we get lost?” Zaya asked.
I’m not going to get lost. Da always knows which direction he’s facing. So do I
“Yes, but he orients himself by the ley-lines. How do you know?”
Maccis shrugged. I don’t know. North, I feel a pull towards. Might be magnetism. I never really noticed it till I was running with the pack. He slipped an arm around her waist, and lifted her, easily, over a deadfall, before moving over it, himself.
There were wonders in the woods. They passed a ring of dryads around an oak tree whose leaves had turned to shimmers of silver and gold. A ring of light poured out from under its canopy, and it sang, sweetly, to all passersby. They both stopped for a while to listen, and Zaya shook her head as they finally walked away. “There are rumors that those trees use their song to entrap people, and then eat them.”
“Maybe intruders in the fores
t. People here to clear trees without permission, or enemy soldiers. I didn’t get a bad feeling there, and we were able to leave voluntarily.” Maccis shrugged again. “Something for you to document, maybe. I don’t think those trees have ever existed before.”
Zaya nodded, excitedly. “I asked one of the dryads from school to ask one of the trees what it remembered . . . and she swore it said it remembered walking on two legs. But it also said it was happier now. Being a tree was peaceful, she told me it said.”
“Gods. If we had problems with fenris being accepted as people . . . . ”
“Oh, everyone knows that fenris are human—”
“Human is a limiting term. They prefer to be considered people, not humans.”
Zaya looked up, distressed. “But if they’re categorized as something other than human, then they aren’t . . . entitled to human rights under the law—”
“And if we met aliens from another planet, they might still be people, but they wouldn’t be human. And they’d be proud of who and what they were, and humans would have to learn to accept them, or not, on their own terms—and they’d have to accept humanity on ours. Most fenris know they’re . . . relatives. And they’re fine with not being human, so long as everyone keeps in mind that they’re people.” A bird chattered down at them from the trees, and Maccis sighed, his frown fading. “Not really what I wanted to talk about.” He turned, caught her face, and kissed her, so sweetly she could feel it all the way into her toes.
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