by S. L. Viehl
Resa knew him. He was the son of Navn, the rasakt. Ygrelda had pointed him out one day. He was also waiting for her to say something, judging by his expression. What would be the safest response? “Egil not here.”
The hunter moved away from her and wandered in a circle for a time, muttering and shaking his head. He would stop, stare at the dead avian, then at her, and take up walking nowhere again.
The jlorra, which was not interested in the avian’s carcass, came over to her and nudged her hand. Resa stroked him, not sure what to do about Navn’s son. She did not wish to stay near him, as he was acting as if he was angry with her. Yet she could not go back to the caves until he told her to go. Ygrelda said that was one of the most important of the people’s rules: to wait for the men to say what to do.
“Why did you do it?”
She looked up into the hunter’s face. “Do?”
He jerked his head toward the avian. “Kill the ptar.”
“Help man.” That was what the people’s women were supposed to do, always. “Woman kill creature … bad luck?”
The hunter’s eyes seemed to bulge out of his head, and then he began to make the huh-huh-huh sound that the women made when they were happy or amused. The sharp sound he made wasn’t like theirs.
“You killed it,” he told her when he was finished making the sharp sound. “You saved me. I am Aktwar, the son of Rasakt Navn. Do you know what that means?”
“No.” She hoped it did not mean he would kick her and hit her, as Egil had done.
Aktwar put his hands on her wrists, but he did not hurt her this time. “It means that I owe you my life. Come.” Still holding one of her wrists, he led her to the skimmer. Resa looked back at the jlorra, who gave them a long look before seizing the ptar’s carcass and dragging it off to the caves.
As Resa climbed onto the back of the skimmer, where Aktwar fastened her to the strange chair part of it, she wondered if this would be the last time she saw the big cats. Then the skimmer was rising, not far from the ground, but enough to make her clutch at Aktwar’s back.
Flying through the air felt exhilarating and frightening at the same time. Resa tried not to cling to the young hunter, but by the time they landed outside the iiskar she had her fists curled tightly in the shreds of Aktwar’s outfurs. He helped her down, his hands still not harsh or hurtful, and gestured for her to follow him into camp.
Resa followed as slowly as she dared. If owing her his life made Aktwar angry, he could do whatever he wished to her. She sensed from Ygrelda’s words that he was important, perhaps almost as important as the rasakt. Perhaps that she had saved him from the ptar would make Navn feel more kindly to her. He might let her live out in the caves, with the cats, and, after a time, perhaps return to the camp to be with the people.
That possibility quickened her step a little.
Aktwar led her to the rasakt’s shelter, where he pointed to a spot outside the flap. “Stay here. I must tell him first.” He stepped through the flap.
Resa stayed there for a long time. She ducked her head each time a man passed her, but she could feel the weight of his eyes. For the first time she realized how much she smelled—she had not been able to bathe properly while out in the caves—and now there was ptar blood all over her outfurs.
When the young boys of the camp started loitering near the rasakt’s shelter to stare at her, she pulled her hood forward, trying to hide her face. She did not have the bit of cloth she had been using as a face wrap with her.
At last Aktwar came out. He did not look particularly happy. “My father is not here,” he told her. “He will not return until nightfall.”
Resa brightened. “I go back caves?”
“No. You will stay here, with my mother, until my father returns. Come.” He went back through the flap, and feeling helpless, Resa followed.
The interior of the shelter was very warm, and the scent of food tickled Resa’s nose. If she were back at the cave, she would be eating the stew she had made before Aktwar and the ptar: her only meal of the day. There had been no time, however, and now her stomach felt hollow and was making growling sounds.
There were two other men inside. Both were older men, hunters whom Resa had glimpsed in the past. Neither seemed particularly happy to see her. A woman came out of the back room of the shelter carrying a tray with bandages and a bowl containing a pungent mixture.
“That isn’t necessary. I’m only bruised. I want you to know …” Aktwar turned to Resa and frowned. “What is your name, woman?”
“Resa.” She watched as the other woman set down the tray and walked toward them, her movements slow and deliberate. Resa thought of the white snakes she had seen slithering out of vent shafts.
“Mother,” Aktwar said, “this is Resa.”
“I know.” Sogayi smiled. “Come, sit. Tell me how you saved the life of my son.”
Navn considered staying the night at Iiskar Sverrul. The rasakt, Knab Sverrul, was an old friend, and with the rebellion upon them it might be months, even years, before they saw each other again, if at all.
Knab, who had already sent his men to serve the Raktar, had been philosophical about his decision to back the rebellion. “I do not wish it, but I have little choice. It is not as if we have never fought before. Our fathers’ tribes went to war, as did their fathers, and their fathers. Men fight.” He shrugged. “It is the way of men.”
“The tribes before us fought each other over hunting territory. The windlords are our masters. We displease them, and they withhold our food, and we starve.” Navn shook his head. “The rebels are fools.”
His old friend’s gaze turned shrewd. “How much meat is on your table of late, Deves? How long has it been since your women baked bread? Do you think the vral will come to find your iiskar worthy?”
“I do not believe in vral.”
“Neither do I, but the hunters begin to.” Knab rolled his eyes. “I think the rebellion preys on more than our stores.”
Since the windlords had stopped sending the foods that could not be had on the planet, all the iiskars that had not allied with the rebellion had been gradually using up their stores. Some said the Iisleg might adapt to eating nothing but meat—the beasts thrived on it—and their hunters could provide meat for a hungry tribe, but only for as long as the game held out. Navn knew as well as Sverrul that there were now too many tribes competing for the same food. In time, that would dwindle, as well, and the Iisleg would turn on each other or sicken and die. They needed the synthetics and foods the rebels were growing in the abandoned trenches to survive. Word had been sent that the only tribes permitted to share in the bounty were those who joined the rebellion.
The Raktar was no better than the windlords.
“Even if your tribe does not join the rebels,” Knab told him, “the windlords will not reward you for it. I have friends in the west, and they have attested to the fact that the few loyal tribes have received nothing from above. The rebels will not share their food with those against the rebellion. There is no alternative.” He gave Navn a pained smile. “You must send your men to fight.”
“We trade one cruel master for another,” Navn said bitterly.
His old friend gave him a pitying look. “That is also the way of men.”
Before he left the iiskar, Navn embraced Sverrul, and once more refused the gifts his friend wished to make him. “Your hunters serve the Raktar now,” he told Knab. “Save your stores, for you will need them if the rebels are defeated. I will look after my own.”
“Send word if you decide to move on,” Sverrul asked as he embraced him. “If we survive this, I want to know where I can find you.”
Navn thought about his friend’s request as he mounted his skimmer and took to the air. Part of him valued Sverrul’s counsel, and part wondered if his friend had promised more than men to the rebellion. Does he wish to know where my iiskar goes for his sake, or so that he may report our movements? Another reason to despise this Raktar—he made Navn
question the word of a worthy ally, as well as a friend he had known and trusted since his boyhood.
Navn had gone to Sverrul alone, so he was by himself when he arrived back at camp. Most of the men were out hunting, while the rest were at work repairing storm damage to the shelters. He nodded to the respectful greetings he was given, as always, but noticed the close looks his men gave him when they thought he could not see. Also remarkable was the absence of all the women.
His men might have any reason behind their furtive glances, but there was only one thing that kept all the women inside: One of them had done something to earn a severe punishment. Women always scattered and hid like terrified children when that happened.
Navn felt the tightness of anger in his head and chest as he entered his shelter. Sogayi would tell him what it was, as she always did, while she massaged the tiredness from his head and neck. These days, she was his heart’s only shelter. Why cannot the other women be like mine? No wonder so many men envied him his wife.
Navn came to a stop just inside the flap. In the center of the shelter, a half-naked, limp body hung from a discipline pole, baring a back covered with lash marks and trickling blood. Two of his strongest hunters were plying their whips with rhythmic ferocity, adding more ghastly stripes.
“Hold.” He strode forward, intent on seeing the woman’s face, his rage swelling like a poisoned wound. Only when he saw that the prisoner was the ensleg, not Sogayi, did he find his voice again. “What is this?”
“Punishment, Rasakt,” the oldest hunter said, lowering his gaze and his whip. “This female fashioned a weapon, and used it.”
Sogayi’s serene, beautiful face swam before his eyes. “Whom did she kill?”
The two hunters exchanged glances, but before the oldest could speak, Navn’s wife rushed to crouch before him. He was so relieved that he lifted her in his arms and embraced her tightly. Over her head, he said, “Get out.”
The two hunters bowed and left the shelter. For a long time all Navn could do was hold his woman, and stroke her hair, and savor the sound of each breath she took. Only when the ensleg stirred did he set Sogayi at arm’s length.
“Tell me what has happened here.”
Sogayi’s cheeks gleamed with tear streams. “I was so afraid, my husband. I prayed you would come, and you are here. Surely I am the woman most blessed by the gods.” Overcome, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
Such a gentle creature, to be subjected to such ugliness. Navn almost drew his blade to slash the ensleg’s throat. But the alien female only moaned a little before her head fell forward again.
It took Navn some time to calm his wife, and what she told him when she could speak made his heart grow cold. The ensleg female had come to the shelter, her garments covered in blood. His own son, Aktwar, had brought her, claiming she had saved him during an attack by a wounded creature.
“I invited her to sit with me, and talk with me,” Sogayi said, sniffing back new tears. “She told me that she threw herself at our son when he was fighting the beast. She said she had used … that she had made for herself …” Unable to speak, Sogayi lifted a hand and pointed to an object lying at the ensleg’s feet.
Navn went to pick up the object, which was a very sharp wedge of metal coated in dried blood. “This?” He held it up. “She made this? Used this?”
Sogayi nodded.
Navn studied the metal. It was no more than a sharpened scrap piece, too small to use as anything but a cutting tool. “What happened then?”
His wife clasped her hands together. “Two of my husband’s men were present when the ensleg spoke to me. I—I summoned them to be here, because I was afraid. She was covered in blood. They saw her display the weapon and invoked punishment. I did not know what to do but to hide.”
Of course, she could not do otherwise. Sogayi was a proper female and knew better than to challenge a man’s decision. “What was the punishment?”
“It is what is always done, for her to be beaten until dead.” She gave him a brief, wretched look. “I would have begged them wait for you, but all Iisleg, even women, know the law.”
A woman was forbidden from fashioning, touching, or using weapons. It was one of their more common laws, but Navn was not sure that the ensleg had been made aware of it. She had been here only a short time; she did not yet speak their language. This is why you should have had her killed, the first day she came to camp.
His wife glanced at the ensleg and shuddered. “I am glad you are here now, so that you may dispatch her.”
“Father?”
Sogayi’s mouth opened and closed as Aktwar entered the shelter.
Navn’s son looked pleased to see his father until he caught sight of the ensleg. “Why is this woman being beaten? She saved my life.”
“With this?” Navn showed him the makeshift dagger.
“Yes. She cut the throat of a wounded ptar that was trying to eat its way through my back. Who ordered her to be beaten?” Aktwar went to the discipline post and untied the ensleg, lifting her sagging body into his arms. “I am taking her to Hurgot.”
“No.” Navn closed his fist over the metal piece. “You will not.”
Aktwar stared at him. “Father, if not for her I would be dead, my body torn, my eyes pecked out of my head.”
“She used this to kill the ptar?” Navn showed him the dagger, and when Aktwar nodded, he sighed. “She has violated the law. Yes”—he lifted his hand when his son began to protest—“I understand that it was to save you, and for that I will always be grateful to her. But the law is the law for a reason.”
“This is nonsense. I owe my life to this woman, Father.” Aktwar gently lowered the ensleg’s body to the furs covering the floor. “She had no reason to help me. She is ensleg. It would not have surprised me if she had stood and watched that ptar kill me.”
“My son, she may have meant to hurt you, and killed the ptar through clumsiness,” Sogayi said in a low, hesitant voice. “Or perhaps she did this thing to gain your trust, knowing you would bring her back among the tribe, where she might use her weapon again, but this time on the living.”
“That is enough.” Hearing such scheming words coming from his beloved’s mouth made Navn feel sick. To his son, he said, “If she saved you by any other means, Aktwar, I could reward her.”
His son’s brow furrowed. “The only other way she might have saved me was to give herself up to the ptar so it would take her instead of me.”
Sogayi nodded sadly. “That would have been the proper thing for her to do. There is nothing more glorious than for a woman to give her life so that a man may live.”
“If this thing is to be done,” Aktwar said, his voice harsher than Navn had ever heard it, “then it will be merciful, and by my hand.” He drew his blade and crouched by the ensleg, lifting her chin.
“No.” Navn thought of Sverrul’s tales of the vral, and concealed his terror at the prospect of watching his son slash the ensleg’s throat. If he does so and she will not die … “There is the other punishment.”
Aktwar frowned. “What other?”
“Sogayi, leave us.” Navn waited until his wife was gone before he told his son, “She will be taken out of the camp.”
“It is not more merciful to allow her to slowly freeze to death,” Aktwar snapped.
“She will be cast out.” Navn turned away so he no longer had to look upon the ensleg. “She will be made skela.”
ELEVEN
Skjæra did not need to sleep as the other skela did, and so she was the first to hear the skimmers as they landed. She recognized the sound of the propulsion devices that made them fly, and heard the heavy footsteps of the hunters. She did not rouse the headwoman. Hunters who brought the skela’s portion of the meat came only to drop it outside, so the sound was ordinary to her ears. Only when a shout rang out did it startle her and wake Daneeb.
“What is it?” Daneeb came out of the crawl, already wearing her day garments.
Skjæ
ra thought for a moment, trying to recapture the memory of the sound. Recently she had begun remembering things, but only when it served her own purpose. Rarely did anything interest her enough to trouble herself. Even speaking still seemed unnecessary most of the time.
The headwoman went to the view hole. “Skimmers,” Daneeb said. “Too many. Stay here.” She jerked on her outfurs and hurried out into the bitter cold.
Skjæra paid no further attention to the matter, and went back to contemplating the amber red light of the heatarc. The beautiful colors changed constantly, blending and reblending into new shades. She could see a tiny universe of heat and light in the heatarc, and it was seductive. She could not bring herself to go too near it, not since the explosion, but she could sit and watch it for days. She would have done so, many times, if the sisters had left her alone.
On the ice I was born, and on the ice I will die, but this entire world will never be as lovely as this small heart of the stars.
Solitude and silence were not to be hers now, it seemed, for Daneeb returned and shouted for all the sisters to rouse themselves.
Skjæra rose to retrieve her outfurs.
“No,” Daneeb said, and pointed to Skjæra’s crawl. “You have not slept.”
She did not respond, but simply looked at the headwoman and waited for the rest of it.
“I know what you are thinking, and I tell you again: no.” Daneeb’s face darkened as some of the sisters stopped dressing to watch them. “You will obey me here, Skjæra. You will go into your crawl, stay there, and sleep. Go now.”
Skjæra thought of walking past Daneeb and outside to see what the hunters wanted. She thought of climbing into her crawl. Decisions, too, were not an easy matter for her.
Daneeb gave her a different look, the one that begged without words.
Skjæra went to her crawl, climbed in, and waited in the dark narrow space until she heard Daneeb and the other sisters leave. When they had gone, she climbed back out and dressed.
Outside it was still dark, and the cold had sharp teeth. Skjæra pulled up her hood to conceal her face and scanned the front of the skela’s caves. A group of men stood before the sisters. A small bundle of cloth lay in the snow between them.
