Wintermoon

by Mercedes Lackey

  Even with his hand slipping from Araitha’s shoulder…even with the way Araitha suddenly drew aside from him, her eyes blank with far too many emotions to show.

  And his rasp of guilty laugh.

  “Ha—Cliro. Are you going up, too? That was a strike and no mistake. A wonder the temple withstood—”

  Behind, the two of them, the curtain of the little room had been drawn back, to show a disheveled bed, narrow but still wide enough for the pair of slender and hard-muscled figures who had chosen to couch there together. A flagon of wine stood on the floor. In the grey-red moon-and-torch mixing of the light, it gleamed in a horrible way, blinking and winking at Clirando like the center of an evil eye: Didn’t you guess, girl? it seemed to say. Didn’t you know?

  Clirando walked past the water tank and met Thestus and Araitha at the door of the cell, and pushed them both back inside. They let her do this, not resisting.

  Thestus was taller than she, but Araitha was her own height. Araitha with her beer-brown eyes and long, dark golden hair. Thestus had always honestly praised that hair. And other things. Araitha’s warrior skills, her musical gift with lyra and tabor. Clirando, Araitha’s sister-friend since they had been six years old in the training courts of the temple, was always happy when others praised Araitha.

  As for Thestus, he had come to the Father Temple, a warrior, with his own band of twenty men, only two years before. He had singled Clirando out inside three days, as she had him. Since the Spring Festival they had been lovers. Parna never minded such liaisons. Her warriors were also allowed love, and to make children, if they wished.

  Clirando shook her own long brown hair over her shoulders and looked at him. Then she looked at Araitha.

  Neither of them spoke.

  Thestus’s mouth locked shut as if a key had turned behind his lips.

  It was Araitha who laughed now and said, scattering her words light as beads, “Oh, Cliro. It means nothing. We only—only for a moment. That was all.”

  “Liar.”

  “Cliro—what could it matter? We both love you. Do you—” she threw back her head, defiant “—grudge me a little pleasure?”

  Always her way. Attack was defense to Araitha.

  “I grudge you this.”

  Thestus opened his locked lips and spoke to Araitha.

  “Don’t try to reason with her. We both know what she can be like when she loses her self-control.”

  Cliro turned and slapped him stingingly across the mouth.

  He swung aside with a curse, was already reaching for the dagger lying in its sheath on the floor. Araitha made a noise. Cliro kicked Thestus’s hand away, then kicked Thestus full in the chest so he fell back bruisingly on his well-formed butt.

  “No,” said Cliro. “Soon but not yet, sweetheart.”

  “Cliro—” said Araitha.

  Clirando no longer liked the sound of her name from her friend’s beautiful mouth. The mouth was very red and swollen from Thestus’s kisses tonight. Maybe that was why the name of Cliro sounded wrong.

  “Be quiet, you bitch. Both of you. I’ll issue the challenge now, so you know. In seven days at first light, before the Maiden. First you, I think, Thestus, for the shorter time I’ve known you—if ever I knew you at all. A little later for you, Araitha, you filthy slut.”

  “I am no—”

  “You are a slut. You are a traitor. To me. Him I hate. But you I hate the most. I called you friend.”

  Araitha began to cry, like any soft merchant’s wife.

  Clirando turned, her own eyes burning. She stalked out and across the court, where the others standing there, who had seen most and heard all of it, murmured together.

  She knew that anyone, other perhaps than some great sage, would have felt shocked pain and anger. But aside from her personal hurt, this very publicly witnessed betrayal showed her own judgement up poorly. No one could fail to be aware she had been in ignorance until tonight. Clirando was a commander. In no respect could she be seen to have been stupid.

  She thought now, in horror, that, blind to their antics, she might well have trusted them beside her in battle—and possibly been unwise in that, too. Had their desire proved so irresistible, honor demanded they should have told her to her face. But they had deceived her as if she were some silly woman reared only for the house.

  Clirando did not go up to the lightning-blasted roof.

  “Forgive me,” she said to the goddess, in the private shrine beside the main hall. Amber lamplight starred the goddess’s calm face. Polished marble etched and dressed with gold, her eyes were two green stones. Clirando also had green eyes—Thestus had said they were green as leaves of the bay tree. “I can’t help mend your roof, Maiden. I’m shaking like some fool before her first skirmish. Pardon me.”

  The calm face looked down at hers.

  “I will meet both Araitha and Thestus individually in the war-court. Before the whole town. I think you allowed me to see what those two had done to me, to find them out. I’ll punish them. Oh, not a fight to the death. But I’ll shame them both. They’ll lose their places in Amnos and go far away. Where I need never look at them again. Do you allow it, Lady?”

  Above, there came a faint rushing—tiles dislodged—and then cries and a crash as they plummeted onto the terraces below.

  “Is that disapproval, Lady?”

  Parna did not answer. But Clirando had never known her to. It was a formality to ask. Clirando’s human course was already set.

  She had long thought, though one must respect the gods, one could not expect understanding from them. They gave favors or hurts according to some indecipherable law of their own.

  And I am hurt, she thought. Struck in the heart.

  She would make them pay, her lover, her sister. There was no other road now to peace.

  Arguments among the warrior-priests of Parna and the Father were often settled in the war-court, in public duel.

  Generally it was two men who fought. Women tended to settle their disagreements with only their bands to witness. Rarely did a female warrior demand satisfaction of a male in the court, though there had been cases now and then. Clirando had known that aside from the officials and certain priests bound to attend, a lot of Amnos would crowd into the public seats to see.

  It had occurred to her, many people had known about Thestus’s liaison with Araitha. Some even came to her, subsequent to her finding out, and confessed—among these was Erma from Clirando’s own band.

  “I never knew if I should tell you, Cliro—”

  “You should have.”

  “I know. But—”

  Clirando forgave Erma, who was holding back her tears. She was still young, only fifteen, five years younger that Clirando. Tuyamel, on the other hand, offered to skin Thestus for Clirando. “I wouldn’t want the skin, thanks, my friend,” Clirando said. Tuy had laughed. “Fair enough. I shall leave it to you then.”

  The morning was fine, the sun just torching the east, when Clirando stood on the war-court and faced her former lover across the clean paving.

  All around, the crowd sat in respectful silence. There was none of the shouting or merriment that went on when ritual games or war exercises took place here. This was a solemn, fraught occasion.

  Clirando had to steel herself, too. She had fought beside Thestus only once in battle—against pirates last fall, blood raining among red leaves at the edges of Amnos’s forested shores. But often he and she had exercised together. They knew each other’s moves perhaps too well.

  She had thought he would try to surprise her. She judged correctly.

  The instant the signal came to begin, he dropped onto the ground and came rolling at her like a human hedgehog. As she leaped aside, his short sword whipped out. It cut one of her sandal thongs. Only her reflexes had saved her from much worse.

  She tore off both sandals and he, having stood up again, watched her mockingly.

  There was contempt in his face. Maybe that was only a mask. Or maybe his looks o
f love had been the mask.

  She had tried very hard not to examine why he had used her as he had, and played her false. Now certainly was not the time for analysis.

  Clirando wondered if he had other tricks, and he had. Having allowed her space to undo her shoes, he lounged idly, paring his nails, so a slight amusement rippled through some of the audience, only to be shushed as improper.

  He would not move again to meet her.

  She stood waiting.

  He stood idling. He began to whistle a popular tune of the town.

  “Come on,” she said. Her voice carried.

  “I’m here if you want me. You come on.”

  She knew it was another trick.

  Clirando moved toward him slowly, then suddenly very fast, running as if straight into him—veering at the last second. A fine pinkish powder spurted from his left hand, clouding the air between them. He must have taken it out with the paring knife. It would have been in her face, her eyes, if she had dodged less effectively. Play dirty then. A bitter smile touched her mouth. He must be scared of her.

  From veering, she swung and cut him across the left shoulder. Blood burst like a flower.

  With a roar he turned on her.

  To her he seemed heavy now, graceless. He had not bothered to prepare for this, only his tricks. She had been practicing every day.

  He was a poor warrior. Brave and strong, cunning sometimes. But his skill was not so great. She had thought more highly of him when she loved him, seeing him through lover’s eyes, wanting him to shine.

  Inside six minutes more, she had scored him lightly across arms and chest, thighs, and even his back as he went skidding down from a sidelong blow. She did not aim to cripple him. He would need his fighter’s trade where he was going, out into the wide world far from Amnos.

  But by then he was a mess, and losing blood, his face pale and congested, ugly, frantic. He was bellowing at her, oaths and blasphemies for which the priests would be setting him a penance. He told her, also, and told the crowd, why he had lost his sexual interest in her. She was too cold, he said. Cold as Moon Isle with its heartless crags. She was too masculine. She had no feminine gifts to match her male ones.

  Clirando knew these things were lies, and saw that possibly, in desperation, he was trying to unnerve her that way, and so catch her off guard. She felt nothing by then, only the desire to end the fight. As he lunged she brought up her blade under his and sent it spinning—to be fair, his sword had grown slippery from his blood—then she punched him clean and square on the point of the jaw. He keeled over and fell with a crash, his already unconscious eyes staring at her all the way down.

  The priest and priestess of the court approached and asked if Clirando was satisfied.

  “Yes. But one more thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “Let him be sent away.”

  “You know, Clirando, that he must be. You have disgraced him before the town. He will never fight for Amnos again.”

  They offered her an interval to rest, then.

  Clirando said she would meet Araitha at once.

  She believed this would be harder, but in fact when her sister-friend came out, pale and angry and lovely in the broadening rays of the sun, Clirando felt nothing still.

  They fought well and without tricks for ten minutes, during which each cut the other.

  Clirando thought, This is too much like play. This is too much like times when we have done this for exercise, and to learn from each other.

  Something came to Clirando then. The terrible rage she had not wanted to feel and, so far, had avoided feeling.

  When she loses her self-control, he had said.

  Clirando lost it.

  Some part of her stood in the air, watching in astonishment as she slashed and hacked at Araitha, who was now falling back before her.

  Words tried to boil from Clirando’s mouth. She held them in, but they radiated from her eyes she believed, judging by Araitha’s face.

  Finally Clirando sprang. She went through the swirl of Araitha’s blade—which afterward Clirando found had sliced her left arm from shoulder to elbow. As they tumbled over, she drove her knee into Araitha’s midriff, exploding all breath from her body.

  Clirando knelt over her vanquished opponent, plucked the sword from Araitha’s loose grip and slung it clattering across the court.

  “You’re done,” she hissed.

  Araitha had no breath. She sprawled away and curled up on the paving, crowing for air, in the same posture Thestus had adopted when first attacking.

  “Clirando, are you satisfied?”

  “Yes.”

  “She too is disgraced. She too will never fight for Amnos again.”

  A victor might be applauded by the crowd.

  The stands were applauding loudly. In the tumult Clirando could hear the battle shouts of her own band.

  She did not look, did not acknowledge. She went below to one of the fighters’ rooms, was bandaged, drank a pitcher of ale, and fell into a deadly sleep.

  Araitha visited Clirando’s house three nights later. It was the hour before Araitha’s ship was to sail, taking her away to the distant city of Crentis, where she had relatives. Thestus by then was long gone.

  Araitha wore a woman’s dress and heavy cloak, and her hair was braided with golden ornaments.

  She stood staring at Clirando.

  Clirando said, “Who let you in?”

  “Old Eshti. She doesn’t know. She thinks we are still friends.”

  Above, the dusk was already full of stars over the little courtyard. A tiny fountain tickled the night with silvery sounds, and leaves rustled in the trees as the house doves settled. Through a lighted door, Eshti the servant woman was already bringing cups of fruit juice and wine.

  “Thank you, Eshti,” said Clirando. “Put them there.”

  “Something to warm you. The nights turn colder,” said Eshti. “And she, our poor lady-girl, this long journey.” Then Eshti went to Araitha and pressed her young hand in two old ones. “Don’t fret, dear. You’ll be home in Amnos before too long. I’ll see the mistress doesn’t forget you.”

  Clirando had not been startled by her servant Eshti’s ignorance of what had happened—only glad Eshti, who would have been upset, had not been bothered with it. The market no doubt would have carried the gossip, but Eshti was a little deaf, and besides well known and liked. It seemed lips were tactfully sealed when she approached.

  When the old woman had gone, Clirando found she had dug her sharp nails into her palms. She relaxed her fists.

  “Best she doesn’t know then,” she said. “But tell me, before you go, what you could possibly want from me?”

  “To give you something, Clirando.”

  “I want nothing of yours. How could you think I would?”

  “This gift you must take.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. I’ve had it especially worked for you. The ancient women who live in the caves on the mountainside—they helped me fashion it.”

  Clirando’s heart turned to stone.

  Witches lived up there, and other mad and dangerous sorts.

  She readied herself for one more trick—some poison or assault.

  Araitha spoke softly.

  “I curse you, Clirando. It’s nothing much. Your life will be hollow as an emptied jar. Nothing in it but dust. Love may come and go, adventures may come and go. But they will echo in the hollow of you, and they too will become dust. And never again will you sleep. Oh, no. That respite from your thoughts will never be yours—unless some drug gives it to you. All your life, be it short or long, sleepless and empty you shall go.”

  Clirando shrugged. “You’re a fool, Araitha.”

  Araitha said nothing.

  Her face was like a statue’s, expressionless and blind.

  She slipped away out of the courtyard, vanishing from dark to light to darkness in the subtle way of a ghost.

  Clirando poured the juice and wine on
the ground. They had been poisoned, by Araitha’s words, her childish, horrible little bane.

  Clirando was not afraid.

  She spent the evening as she had planned, reading books and scrolls from her father’s library. He had been both scholar and soldier, and traveled to many lands.

  At the usual hour Clirando went to bed. Coolly she mused a moment on Araitha’s words, but paid them no proper heed. Just as she always normally did, she fell asleep swiftly, and slumbered until morning. She had suspected it was a feeble curse.

  The trading ship, the Lion, which was to carry Araitha to Crentis, sank in a gale off the unfriendly coasts of Sippini.

  All on board were drowned, and the ship herself dragged to the bottom. Only remnants of cargo washing in to the port evidenced what had happened.

  When news reached Amnos two months after, it was Tuyamel and Vlis who came in person to tell Clirando.

  She heard the tidings quietly. When her girls were gone, Clirando threw a pinch of incense into the watch fire of her private shrine.

  “Forgive her, Parna. Let her live well in the lands beyond death. Forgive me too for I don’t know what I must feel.”

  That night Clirando dreamed of Araitha, not drowning, nor as she had been in life, but veiled and hidden, passing through a shadow to a light—to a shadow.

  When Clirando woke with a start it was still deep night. She lay awake through the rest of it, until dawn showed in the window.

  The following night, though tired from exercise, she did not sleep at all.

  Her life was active and under her command. She did not think this insomnia could last. But it lasted. Night followed night, sleepless. She grew accustomed to the changing patterns of moon and cloud reflected on the ceiling. Even when, exhausted as she came to be, she lay down to rest at noon, sleep would not come. It fluttered over the room before the cinders of her eyes, brushed her with its wing, and flew far, far off.

  Death it seemed had cemented the curse firmly into a place of power. Or, it was Parna’s punishment.

  Winter entered Amnos. Now was the time of long nights.

  Clirando suffered it as best she could. When an alarm rang from the town’s brazen gongs, she leaped down the streets leading her band among the other warriors. Pirates were trying their luck again, made hungry by lean weather. They were beaten back into the sea. Clirando’s band did well, and sustained no casualties.