by Diana Rivers
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Synopsis
The Hadra chronicles the further adventures of the fiercely proud tribe of women, the Khal Hadera Lossien. Engrossing, sensual and rich with detail, River’s storytelling leaves us truly believing in this fantasy tribe of lesbian warriors.
Although this is the third title written in this series, The Hadra picks up where Daughters of the Great Star ends, and ends where Journey to Zelindar begins.
Table of Contents
Cover
Synopsis
Title Page
Copyright Page
Other Books by Diana Rivers
Acknowledgment
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Ursa's Account
Bella Books
Copyright © 1995 by Diana Rivers
Bella Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 10543
Tallahassee, FL 32302
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
First Published by Alyson Publications 1995
First Bella Books Edition 2015
Bella Books eBook released 2015
Cover art copyright © 1995 by Catherine Hopkins
ISBN-13: 978-1-55583-319-0
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Other Books by Diana Rivers
City of Strangers
Hadra Series
Daughters of the Great Star
The Hadra
Clouds of War
The Red Line of Yarmald
Her Sister’s Keeper
Journey to Zelindar
The Smuggler, The Spy and The Spider
Acknowledgment
I would like to thank all of the women of my family and tribe who have listened to these stories over the years and given me support and encouragement, especially Path and Bea and Cedar and Judy and Marilyn and Chris, as well as my Sisters from WomanWrites and from the Midwest Women’s Festival. This book is dedicated to Wanda and Brenda and Cheri and Pam and all the other brave women of Camp Sister Spirit who, with vision and tenacity, are creating Zelindar right here in Mississippi.
Prologue
O Mother, Great Goddess, was I ever so young and innocent? Who could believe it now? But I have these pages here before me as proof. I never thought to see it again, this account Alyeeta made me keep of my early life and that first part of our journey. Yet Zheran has just this morning laid it in my hands. (How that came about, of course, is a whole other story.) The entire packet was lost during that winter we spent in the caves. At the time I did not miss it. If I had, I would not have cared. I myself was lost that winter, wandering in some icy blizzard of the spirit where nothing mattered. After that, so much happened so fast that writing was altogether forgotten.
Before we left the Wanderer camp, I had carefully wrapped my account in oiled cloth and placed it in the bottom of my pack for safekeeping. I never wrote another word in it. How it came into another’s possession…Well, I will tell of that later. It has been almost ten years since we rode out of that valley and I last looked at these pages. Now it all comes flooding back to me: our finding each other and gathering together, our flight from the Zarn’s army, all the hardships and adventures of that time. How strange it seems to read these words, written so long ago by that young woman whose memories I share, who is myself and yet not myself, who is, indeed, in many ways a stranger. Since that time, no matter what I have witnessed or what has befallen me, I have never again felt the same raging bitterness that possessed me then. And never, though I live to be a hundred, will I be able to regain the loving innocence that was my birth-gift. That grieves me still, though I accept it now. Of all the gifts the Goddess bestowed on me, and I can now acknowledge that they were many, that loving innocence was the sweetest gift of all. Ah well, I am as I am. As it must be, as the Witches taught us to say. I cannot live my life backward and I would not live another’s, so I must accept who I have become. All that happened back then helped to shape the person I am now.
My family named me Tazmirrel, for the One the farm folk ask for water when their wells run dry. I was also named for my mother’s mother, whom I never knew. My family called me Tazzia, and later my Hadra sisters called me Tazzi. None of those names fits the young woman who came out of the caves that spring, the one who had gone alone to meet with the old Asharan. I became Tazzil, which suited well enough who I grew to be, the councilor I became. Those who know me best still call me Tazzi, but it is Tazzil who will write the remainder of this account, as I have this day decided to finish the task Alyeeta set for me those many years ago.
* * *
Looking back, that whole first year seems a wild blur. What I recall most vividly is great tongues of fire blazing against the night, horses whinnying, people shouting and running, the smell of smoke, and, above all, the fear, that terrible new feeling that came so suddenly into my life. Of our departure from the Wanderer valley I remember little. The Witches’ belling out, the trip to the Asharan asking place, and all the turmoil that preceded it had sapped my strength, not only of body but of mind and spirit as well. I had been left so depleted, I was scarcely among the living. Pell tells me that when we left they set me on my horse and rode one on either side of me for a ways, to keep me safe. Clearly, I was of no use then to myself or any other. That journey to the caves is all hazy to me now, like peering through deep water for what lies beneath. But, for the sake of the story that follows, I will say some words here about the caves themselves and how we knew of them.
It was Hereschell who led us there, in one of his many acts of kindness on our behalf: Hereschell the Wanderer, who, in spite of our rudeness and poor manners, had become our good friend. I sometimes thought he saw us as his family, the one he never had, though when I said that to him once, he coughed and spluttered and shook his head. “Do you think me some great fool, Tazzi? Why would I choose a family that would cause me nothing but heartache and trouble?” Why indeed? I thought to myself.
On the way to those caves, we had to ride through deep woods for several days. It was during t
his part of our journey that we crossed the invisible boundary that lay between Garmishair and Yarmald. There was nothing to mark the place: no rock stacks, no banners, no line on the road, not even any notches in the trees. Had I not been riding next to Hereschell, I would have been quite unaware of any change, but he stopped his horse and said, with something like awe in his voice, “Now we are leaving Garmishair and entering Yarmald. This is a magic place where Wanderers, Witches, and Kourmairi have more power, and the Zarns have less.” To my amazement he slid off his horse, knelt on the road, and kissed the ground.
“How can you tell?” I asked crossly after he had remounted. “One tree, one rock, one clump of moss looks much like any other to me.” I thought perhaps he was jesting with us, and I was in no mood for his jokes.
He answered very seriously, “I know because I can feel it. I have ridden this road so many times that my heart pulls at me when we get close. But if you go into the woods two hundred feet to either side of the road, you will find a group of three standing stones that marks the place.”
“What is this Yarmald?” Pell asked with some impatience. “I thought Garmishair went all the way to the sea.”
“That is what the Zarns would like you to think. The Shokam of Eezore call everything Garmishair that lies between the Rhonathrin Mountains and the sea. They feel they should have dominion over all of it. But the people of Yarmald do not agree. They fight back in their own ways to keep themselves free. Yarmald is a peninsula, with ocean protecting it on three sides. If you go far north or far south, you will come to the spot where water makes a deep cut into the land. Yarmald is also a place of will and spirit. It is a state of mind.” I knew from the reverence in Hereschell’s voice that there was something of importance here. As I had neither the wits nor the energy to pursue it at that moment, I stored it away to look at later.
Finally, after several more days, the woods opened up. Suddenly we emerged onto wide, gently rolling headlands, covered with grass, all golden yellow from the frost. The caves themselves were not visible from the headlands. Though they had several entrances, all save one were hidden in the steep face of the sea cliff, and were accessible only by a series of hand- and footholds carved into the rock itself. Those entrances led to several large central chambers and to the hot springs that gave the caves their warmth.
Aside from those carefully cut hand- and footholds, there were other signs of former habitation that made me think these caves might once have been an Asharan sanctuary: some carved symbols on the cave walls near the hot springs, a large stone at the top of the slope that must once have been an altar, and another that might have been a sentry stone. Whether this was now a Wanderer place or something Hereschell had discovered on his own and was sharing with us, I had no way of knowing. When I asked him, he shrugged, shook his head, and turned away, acting like the mute he sometimes pretended to be. Alyeeta, who obviously had some prior knowledge of this place, was no more informative.
We made our winter home in the central chambers of those caves. It was dark, damp, stuffy, and crowded there, but also far from the Zarn’s roads and, we hoped, out of reach of his army; a place of relative safety where we could rest and heal—and, above all, stop running. With Hereschell’s help, almost all the money and valuables we had gathered, including my cache of gold coins, had been traded to the Thieves Guild in exchange for food and provisions. Jhemar, Zenoria, Zari, Daijar, and some of the other horsewomen had taken most of our horses south into hiding, since we could feed and shelter only a few with us there at the caves.
Of that winter I remember little. No doubt many stories could be written of our time in the caves and all that happened there. If so, others will have to write them. As for myself, I moved will-less and witless through those days, doing only those tasks that were thrust into my hands and stopping only when someone relieved me of them.
One thing I do recall from that winter is Alyeeta’s gentleness, her unfailing kindness to me. I suppose she understood just how fragile my hold on sanity had become. Besides, as Telakeet so often said, she probably loved me more than was wise. For that while, at least, she put aside her sharp tongue and let me see into the sweetness under her hard crust, a sweetness that was like clear water flowing under ice and gravel. I grew to love and trust her in a whole new way. She became my refuge: the mother, sister, lover I had lost; the teacher I had longed for, yet never thought to find. For a while, Alyeeta the Witch became my village, my family, and my home.
Another thing I remember from that time in the caves is Pell’s face in front of me, Pell’s eyes looking intently into mine, Pell saying with concern, “Tazzi, where are you? Tazzi, come back, we need you here. Where are you wandering, Terrazen?” She would say such things over and over until Alyeeta would come and pull her away. But not even for Pell could I bring myself back. The terrible rage was gone, but nothing had come to take its place. The well was empty to the bottom.
I was not the only one whose mind was bent or wandering that winter. The worst killer among us was not the Zarn’s guards, for they never found us, or even the terrible cold and the short rations, but a thing we came to call the gibbering madness. Sometimes a young woman’s powers came on her all at once and crushed her. Those that had the madness could not be made to eat or drink or care for themselves in any way, and their words made little sense. Sometimes, when none of us was watching, they ran out naked into the ice and snow, often dying of exposure or lack of food. If they managed to survive, the madness left them after a time.
Had it been a gentler place, or had there been enough of us who were well in body and strong of mind, we might have been able to care for the ones who were not. Then, most of the women who died that winter might have been saved. But even for those of us who kept our bodies whole, it was hard to keep our sanity. The crowding and the closeness of the caves took their toll on our minds, and in that harsh, winter-gripped land, any who ventured out had to have all her wits about her. In the end, I think most of us were more than a little mad by the time winter was over, even the Witches themselves.
Chapter One
Not even the coming of spring seemed to lift my spirits or bring much change in my condition. When the ground thawed enough, we buried our dead from the winter. I knew none of them well, or perhaps grief could have reached through my numbness. Instead, as I helped dig and carry, I felt as cold as the ground itself. Chanting the words for the dead, I could not find it in my heart to grieve. Indeed, I almost envied them. They looked so peaceful in their frozen sleep. To me, living seemed too much effort, for too little gain. In spite of our new freedom, I remained as heavyhearted as if we were still imprisoned in the caves by winter’s cold.
One morning I went to sit watch at the entrance to the upper cave. That, at least, was something I could do. This entrance was one that had been blocked and hidden all winter for safety. It was the only one that opened onto the upper plateau and faced south. From where I sat on my rock in the sun, leaning against the entrance wall, I could look west to the ocean, where the sun glinted off the waves; south along the long, curving headlands now greening with spring; and east to the far fringe of trees. I was sharing the watch with Lhiri, who was at the top of the slope facing north. For that moment we were the eyes of the camp. Between us, we could see in all directions.
All around me, new spring grass was thrusting up out of the dark soil in a blaze of green, gray-white patches of snow were melting in silver-blue rivulets, and the trees that were so stark in winter were beginning to show the first soft bloom of buds. It was a sight that should have gladdened my heart after the privations of that long winter. Instead, I gazed at all that brilliance with dead eyes. Though my mind knew better, my heart saw endless shades of gray. Finally, lulled by the warmth of the sun, my head began to nod. In spite of being on watch, I shut my eyes to doze a little, trusting that all was well and promising myself that it would be for no more than a moment or so.
I woke with a start, the hair rising on the back of m
y neck. Frightened, I looked around quickly, sure I had betrayed us to some danger by my carelessness. Instead, I saw that some of the Witches had gathered nearby. They were speaking softly, nodding and gesturing in my direction. Obviously, I was the subject of their intense discussion. When they saw that I was awake and had noticed them, they spoke a little louder, but it was still in the ancient language the Witches used for rituals and secrets. I could understand little of what they said, though clearly it concerned me.
A chill like cold fingers crept up my back. There was no enemy advancing after all. But for me, facing the Witches might be almost as dangerous. The last time they had concerned themselves with me, the Witches had done a belling out, and I had almost died of it. I felt a momentary rush of anger and wanted to shout at them to speak Kourmairi so that I could understand and take some part in my own fate. Then, that utter weariness came over me again, that carelessness for my own life. I thought, What does it matter after all? Why should I care what they do with me? Even if it was dangerous and painful, I would bear it gladly if only it would help free me from that horrifying pit of emptiness into which I had sunk. Two words I heard repeated over and over. The first, yhagarth, I knew meant death of the soul or spirit, a very serious matter from the way they said it. The second, Koyani, I discovered the meaning of soon enough.
Alyeeta seemed to be arguing some point with the others. At last she stepped forward and made a slight bow in front of me. She spoke so formally it chilled my blood. It was as if we had no personal connection, as if we had never been friends or lovers. “I have been sent to ask if you will meet with us before the altar rock at the turning of the night. Someone will come to fetch you and help make you ready.” This was phrased as a request, but I understood it to be an order. Even in my numbed state, I felt little tremors of terror rush up my body. When I tried to question Alyeeta, she raised a hand for silence and turned away.
