the Year the Horses came

by Mary Mackey

  Up to that point, the bath had been a more or less pleasant experience, but soon things got strange again. When her hair was combed and fairly dry, a women came forward with a bag of something that proved to be rancid butter. Marrah protested and made frantic motions to convey the fact that she thought it smelled awful, but either they didn't understand or they didn't care. Ignoring her, they proceeded to butter her from head to foot, smiling all the while as if they were doing her a great favor. When her curls had been reduced to a single, slick thing that looked like a long, greasy snake, they braided her hair again, wound the braid around her head, and stuck feathers and ornaments in it.

  When she stood up, she felt as if she were balancing a pudding on her head, but the women must have thought she looked lovely because there were smiles everywhere. In place of her old leggings and the linen tunic she had worn all the way from Shambah, she was given new clothes made of matted white wool and white calfskin boots that tied at the ankles. When she insisted on keeping her old belt and her medicine bag, they let her — although not without a long discussion and many frowns. The final thing they did before they led her back to the tent was to muffle her in a long white shawl so only her eyes showed.

  And that was it. She expected to be taken to Zuhan or at least brought to the queen's tent, but instead she sat alone all afternoon, well buttered and looking like a lumpy white bag. Outside, the women went on singing and dancing and the drums went on thumping, but whatever the party was in honor of, she didn't seem to be invited. Perhaps that was just as well. She no longer feared they were going to kill her, but she suspected she wasn't going to be happy when she learned why they'd dressed her up.

  The day grew warmer, and the air in the tent heated up. By the time the shadows were long, she had begun to feel like someone who had tripped and fallen into a trough of itching ointment, but every time she tried to throw off the shawl or pull up the ends of her leggings to enjoy a good scratch, some woman would poke her head through the tent flap and cluck at her disapprovingly.

  Late in the afternoon Dalish finally appeared. One look at her face and Marrah knew she didn't bring good news. She leapt to her feet and seized Dalish's hands. "What have they done to Arang?" she cried. "Have they hurt him?"

  Dalish squeezed her hands reassuringly. "Don't worry. Arang's fine. They're feeding him honey and toasted grasshoppers this very minute."

  "Grasshoppers? Oh, poor Arang. He hates them so!" It wasn't a sensible thing to say, and she knew it. What did grasshoppers matter when Arang's life was at stake.

  Dalish smiled a little, and the red tassels on her forehead swung like a row of silent bells. "Arang may hate grasshoppers, but he's very brave. He's sitting beside Zuhan right this minute, munching away like a little Hansi chief. Every once in a while, they honor him with something else disgusting, and he eats that too and says thank you."

  "They're honoring him?" Marrah was so relieved she could hardly speak. She sat down and put her face in her hands. When she looked up, Dalish was looking back with a sympathetic expression. "Then they must believe he's really Achan's son."

  "Yes, luckily for us they do." Dalish settled down beside her. " Zuhan's not only swallowed the whole story, he's decided to adopt your brother into the tribe." She mopped her face with the hem of her shawl and sighed. "Personally, I think it's something of a miracle. Arang looks no more like Zuhan's grandson than I do, but the old man's frantic for an heir. He knows the subchiefs will never follow Vlahan the Bastard, and as for your former lover" — she lowered her voice and looked around cautiously — "the less said the better."

  Marrah longed to ask her if she'd seen Stavan, but the look on her face indicated the question wouldn't be welcome. There was a strained silence.

  "So when does this adoption ceremony take place?"

  "Right away." Dalish mopped her face again.

  "Do I get to go to it?"

  "Everyone gets to go. That's the whole point: Zuhan's old, and rumor has it he's not in the best of health. He has no intention of dying before he's makes every last man, woman, and child in this tribe accept your brother as his legitimate grandson."

  Suddenly Marrah understood why she'd been bathed and buttered. She pulled up the cuffs of her leggings and gave herself the luxury of a thorough scratch. Evidently she'd worried herself nearly sick for no reason. "So that's why they greased my hair and dressed me in this fancy outfit."

  There was an unpleasant silence. Dalish didn't smile as Marrah had expected her to do. Instead, she looked down at her hands. "Not exactly." She looked up again, and a pained expression crossed her face. "I should have told you right away, but it isn't easy to bring you such a message."

  Something cold and unpleasant filled the tent. "What are you talking about? What message?"

  Dalish mopped her forehead again. There was a guilty look in her eyes, one Marrah didn't like. It was a look of complicity and betrayal. "They dressed you in white wool because — " She paused and began again, and Marrah had the distinct impression she was stalling for time. "Did you know that old Zulike, Zuhan's peace-weaving wife, has publicly declared that you're a virgin?" She smiled a little, but it wasn't a real smile. "Zulike said she was very surprised to see that you had a maidenhead, especially since you're so old, but I told her you'd begged your father to refuse all offers of marriage so you could devote your life to your nephew, and she seemed impressed. Of course she doesn't know anything about how our people share joy. Around here men never wait to enter a woman. I don't imagine the nomads have ever seen anyone over twelve with a maidenhead intact."

  Marrah had no idea what she was talking about and said so. She was impatient and worried, and she was starting to feel angry as well. She wished Dalish would stop looking at her that way. She needed to know the truth, but Dalish was hedging.

  "A maidenhead." Dalish mopped her forehead again. "You know: that little piece of skin a woman usually has over her birth place, the one that breaks the first time she lets a man enter her. By all accounts yours is a little the worse for wear, but it's still there, which is the important thing. The nomads worship a woman's maidenhead, and every man wants to be the first to break it."

  Marrah was too amazed to speak. Finally she found her tongue. "That's the single most disgusting thing I've ever heard! No wonder you didn't want to tell me."

  Dalish bit her lip and looked away. Her face suddenly turned stony, and when she lifted her eyes to Marrah's they were hard. "I wish that was all, but the fact is, you've only heard half the news." She paused. "Zuhan sent me here to tell you that he's giving you to his son, Vlahan." She spoke quickly. "You're in luck: you're going to be Vlahan's wife, not his concubine. The wedding ceremony takes place this afternoon, and there's no use in your falling apart, or screaming, or making any objections, because there's not a thing you or I or anyone else can do about it."

  Marrah felt as if she'd been hit. She rose to her feet. "You can't mean it. This is terrible." She paced across the tent. "I can't do it."

  Dalish rose and stood with her hands folded across her chest. When she spoke her voice was like ice. "Be quiet, I tell you. What do you expect me to do, go back to Zuhan and tell him you've refused his son? Count your blessings. They could have slit your throat by now, but instead Zuhan's honoring you."

  "Honoring me!"

  "Yes, honoring you." Dalish's voice broke, and she began to cry. "Marrah, I can't help you. I want to, but I can't. If I tell Zuhan you won't do it, he'll probably kill both of us. Vlahan's no prize, but you'll just have to marry him." She seized Marrah by the shoulders as if she was going to shake her, but instead she drew her close. "Dear friend, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I — " Perhaps she was going to say she was sorry a third time, but if so, she never got the word out. Her voice broke in mid-sentence. Putting her hands on Marrah's cheeks, she drew her still closer and kissed her on the forehead. "They'll come get you just before sunset. Be brave, dear." Then she turned and fled from the tent.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN
/>   Just before sunset a dry wind began to blow. It came from the west, scattering seeds and leaching the last bits of green from the summer grasses. The swifts rode it, diving for small insects; the gray partridges and black-bibbed quail hid from it; the horses and cattle turned their backs on it; and even the sheep had enough sense to close their eyes against the dust. It wasn't one of the great winds of midsummer that swept up from the south, baking the steppes and making life intolerable, but it was strong enough to flap tents and chap lips, and as Marrah stood among the Hansi women watching her brother being adopted into the tribe, the wind burned in her throat like hot ashes and her eyes wept of their own accord.

  It seemed right that she should be crying that evening, even if the tears were only wind tears and her heart was cold with despair. It was an incredible piece of luck that Zuhan was adopting Arang, but no matter how hard she tried to tell herself this, everything about the ceremony made her feel as if she were losing him forever.

  The drums were the worst part. As she stood there, guarded on all sides by the women, the drums hammered and hammered at her until she felt as if they were pushing her heart out of shape and beating her into submission. There weren't just a few drums; there were dozens. Wild men played them, bare-chested and crazed-looking men with teeth filed to points and white skeletons painted on their bodies. As they struck the drums, they howled like wolves and screamed like wildcats, and their eyes rolled back in their heads.

  The nomads moved to the drums, not in any kind of orderly dance but in an ominous shuffling rhythm, back and forth, side to side, pushing against Marrah and carrying her with them. She felt lost in the smell and heat of their bodies. They were so much taller she couldn't see over them, so much heavier she couldn't hold her ground, so she was forced to dance, and while she danced she cried her wind tears and thought of Arang and her coming marriage.

  Sometimes when she collided with a wool shawl or stepped on someone's foot, a face looked down at her, but otherwise she was ignored. Still, they must have noticed her because after a while the women shoved her up front where she could see. But it was an evening when it would have been better not to have eyes or ears. All her life she remembered her first sight of old Zuhan, the Great Chief. He sat cross-legged on a low platform covered with white rugs. Behind him, the tall grasses swayed like a wave about to break, and overhead the sky was turning a sullen red, shot through with gold and a purple color that reminded her of crushed grapes.

  He was an old man, gray-haired and lean with a face that looked disturbingly like Stavan's. He had the same strong jaw that Stavan had, the same slender nose and high cheekbones, but there was no trace of Stavan's gentleness or good-nature there, and Marrah could see at once that only a fool would expect mercy from him. His face was the face of a man who loved power: intelligent, hard, vindictive. The coldness of the steppes had gotten into his eyes, and she could see the darkness of long winters in the way he held his mouth and the violence and heat of summer in the set of his jaw. He stared out at the crowd — and perhaps at her — with cold blue eyes that never blinked. On his head he wore a sun crown of gold and copper, and in his right hand he held a horse-headed scepter heavy enough to crush a man's skull.

  Arang sat beside him, looking like a small, frightened child. At the sight of him she felt pity and love fill her heart — and anger too. They'd done things to Arang that were cruel and stupid; things only outlaws would do to a twelve-year-old: stripped him down to a leather loincloth and painted him to make him look fierce, drawn a white wolf mask on his face, marked him with red ocher, hung a string of wolf paws around his neck, punched holes in his ears and stuck hawk feathers in them, and cut off most of his hair. But they hadn't been able to erase the frightened expression from his face. He sat coiled up around himself, clutching his knees in his hands, and every time he looked at Zuhan or the drummers or, worse yet, at the terrible leather-lined cup at his feet, he trembled like a rabbit about to bolt. The cup was obviously made from a human skull and the Goddess only knew what Zuhan intended to do with it, but Marrah couldn't call to Arang over the drums and tell him to be brave. She couldn't offer him anything, not even the sight of her face, because in the dust and the dancing she was only another shawled figure swaying in front of him, one of hundreds, and it was clear he didn't recognize her. And all the while the drums were saying: He is taken into the tribe. He is taken . He is a Hansi.

  Time passed, the drums went on beating, and the women went on shoving Marrah from side to side until her feet were sore and she was exhausted. At last, just when she had given up hope of ever hearing anything else, the drumming stopped and Slehan came forward to present Zuhan with the loot he had taken from Shambah. He walked proudly through the crowd looking every inch the conqueror, but the truth was, he didn't have much to offer: only some gold temple adornments, some bolts of cloth, the slaves, and Akoah. Akoah was so muffled in her shawl that Marrah couldn't see her face, but she could tell she was terrified by the way she shrank from Zuhan.

  Zuhan hardly seemed to notice Akoah and the slaves. He inspected the bolts of cloth and the temple adornments, testing the weight of the linen and scratching at the gold as if he thought Slehan might be trying to trick him by offering copper. As he sifted through the loot, his eyes narrowed and he frowned. It was clear he was seriously displeased. Shambah hadn't been a rich city, and there were only a few ceremonial chains, some earrings, and half a dozen bracelets carved with triangles and other goddess signs. Zuhan fished out one of the earrings — a small gold butterfly about the size of Marrah's thumbnail — crushed it, and threw it at Slehan contemptuously. Then he made a short speech. Marrah couldn't understand the words, but she didn't need to. The meaning was clear. "Is that all?" he was asking Slehan. "Is this what you've brought me? Where's the rest?"

  She expected Slehan to try to defend himself or at least apologize, because anyone with any sense could see that the next thing Zuhan would do was order his warriors to seize Slehan and shake the rest of the nonexistent loot out of him, but instead of begging Zuhan's pardon, Slehan smiled a long, cold smile, reached into his leather pouch, pulled out a necklace, and presented it to Zuhan with an arrogant bow. It was hard to see what Slehan had to smile about. The necklace was ugly, very long but crudely made. Still, there must have been something in the gift because a murmur of approval ran through the crowd, and the women next to Marrah made little hissing noises of pleasure. How odd the nomads were. Here was this primitive ornament — which on second glance didn't even look like a necklace — not made of gold or even copper, yet everyone was admiring it as if it had been crafted by the best goldsmiths in Shara. The truth was, it looked like a string of dried figs. But odd figs: they came...in pairs. Suddenly she realized what she was looking at. She closed her eyes and shoved her shawl in her mouth to keep from screaming. A wave of revulsion passed through her. When she recovered enough to open her eyes again, Zuhan was holding the necklace and inspecting it from all angles. He seemed pleased. Perhaps he was thinking it would be easy to get more treasures in a place where so many men could be conquered by so few.

  At last Zuhan grew tired of admiring Slehan's string of horrors. He waved his hand, assigning the slaves: five to Slehan, no doubt to reward him for such a great victory; four to various warriors who must have served him in some special way. The women went off weeping. When the slaves had been disposed of, Zuhan indicated that Akoah should stand behind him. Later Marrah learned this meant he had taken her as a concubine.

  Again the drummers began to drum, but this time the rhythm was slower: very regular and almost hypnotic. The beats rose and fell like waves slapping against the shore, and the women around Marrah moved more languorously. It was clear by now that many of them were in a trance state, but not the trance state priestesses experienced. When Marrah looked to either side, she saw their lips were parted slightly and their eyes had a faraway, dreamy look, as if they were waiting for an imaginary lover who would never arrive.

  But she was wr
ong about that. The Hansi women knew exactly who they were waiting for, and he wasn't imaginary at all. Suddenly the drums stopped again, the crowd parted, and she saw a small herd of horses being led through the throng by five of the oddest-looking men she had ever seen. They had been painted blood red from the tops of their heads to the tips of their toes, and their long hair stuck straight out from their heads for three handspans or more, like haloes of fire. They must have been costumed to represent the sun, because the man who followed them definitely represented lightning. His face was painted with white rain signs, and his body was black except for a jagged white bolt of lightning that ran from the top of his left shoulder down his left side. As he came closer, she saw the lightning bolt had been painted over a long, ugly scar.

  Although the man was scarred, he was in no way crippled, and he walked proudly, strutting past the nomads, who bowed to him as if he were the Goddess incarnate. His odd wedge-shaped face, greenish eyes, and small nose gave him a wolfish look and made it impossible to tell how old he was. He could have been thirty or fifty or even seventy, but if he was an old man, he had the body of a young one: muscles like rocks and long, cruel-looking hands.

  As he drew near to Marrah, she heard the women around her whisper "Changar."

  The Hansi diviner stopped in front of Zuhan and made the smallest possible bow. It wasn't really a bow at all, just a nod of the head, but Zuhan seemed satisfied. He nodded back as if to say, This man is almost — but not quite — my equal, and lifted his horse-headed scepter. As soon as the crowd saw the scepter lifted, the men cheered and the women began to warble. The drummers started drumming furiously, moving their hands so fast that from where Marrah was standing they seemed to have two complete sets of fingers. If she had known what was coming next, she might have tried to push her way to the back of the crowd again, but instead she just stood there, half deafened by the noise.