by Yolen, Jane;
She did not think that taking the sword constituted theft. After all, her father never used the thing and therefore would not miss it. She would get it back to him long before he even knew it was gone. But carrying it tucked beneath her leg, against the saddle, she felt invulnerable. That sword had killed its share of men in the Wars, and the blood grained into the steel would keep her safe. She did not just know this, she believed it utterly.
She thought about her brother Jemmie, now well on his way to the Garunian shore. She did not miss him, not the real Jem, who was a whiner and an occasional liar, and who always made himself out to be the hero of any tale. But she missed the brother he could be, her good right hand when she was queen.
“If I become queen,” she reminded herself. Being the daughter, or the adopted daughter, of a queen did not routinely mean queenship. Not in the Dales where the people had already, in her lifetime, rid themselves of a hated king. But Scillia hoped that this adventure would prove her worthy. To herself, above all others. “And,” she whispered into the rain and wind, “at the same to find my mother root.”
She did not remember when she had first heard the phrase. But long before she had learned about the warrior woman of M’dorah she’d known it. There was a story, a fairy tale really, that her old nurse used to tell. About the little woodcutter’s child who went to seek her lost mam, going along the “mother rood,” the mother road, and finding not one but ten mothers awaiting her. It was an odd tale, not one of Scillia’s favorites. But her old nurse had a lot of stories that were odd to a Southern sensibility. She was from some mountain village in the back of beyond, brought home by a soldier as wife, and then widowed in the Wars. In the South, everyone seemed to say “mother root” when they meant simply the mother who bore you.
“And that’s not Mother Jenna!” Scillia said aloud, renewing her anger which had gotten soft under the lulling rain.
The horse flicked its ears back and forth as if agreeing, and Scillia leaned forward to pat its neck. Then she urged it off the road and under a tree. Her stomach had just reminded her it was well past time for eating.
The rain continued all day and by early evening Scillia was too tired to ride any longer. There was no town in sight, and so she unsaddled the horse and tied it loosely by one leg to a tree so that it would not wander off in the night. Then, remembering her mother’s stories about her time in the woods, she climbed the same tree, but with little grace, and settled into the main crotch to sleep. She was not about to chance a wolf at her throat. As as for cats—she kept the large knife un-sheathed in her lap.
Sometime in the middle of the night the rain stopped. Startled out of sleep by the horse’s night-time grunting, Scillia looked up and saw stars overhead through the interlaced branches. She spoke the patterns aloud as if by naming them she could regain a familiar sense of comfort. “The Hound,” she said, outlining one figure with her finger. “Alta’s Braid.”
As she shifted about in the tree to see all the stars, the knife fell from her lap and clattered to the ground. The horse shied from it, giving a frightened snort, but the rope around its leg held fast.
Scillia thought about climbing down in the dark to find the knife, but was suddenly too afraid to attempt it. Instead, she took the smaller knife from her belt and, holding that, finally fell back to sleep.
The morning was cold and grey, but clear. When Scillia woke, the first thing she saw was her own breath pluming out. Her legs were cramped and when she stretched them, she realized that the little knife was no longer in her lap. Looking down, she saw it resting, blade on blade, atop the larger one, not far from where the horse was contentedly cropping a patch of old grass.
She managed to get down the tree with even less grace than she had gotten up, only to discover that some small animals had been at her pack.
“What a ninny!” she scolded herself aloud. She should have carried the pack up the tree. A wolf or a bear would have made quick work of it on the ground. But with only one arm, climbing the tree was difficult enough. How could she bring the pack up as well? In her teeth? It was much too heavy. She would have to figure that out before another nightfall.
However, although the animals—probably wood mice, she thought—had nibbled a bit of the journeycake and burrowed well into the loaf of bread, they had left the rest of her food alone. She had been lucky this time. She would not chance it again.
She ate enough to be comfortably full and drank several long swallows from her waterskin. Then she saddled the horse. She’d long practice in that, at least. Setting the two knives well into her belt, she mounted the horse and urged it along.
She was soon too warm in the cloak and hat, skinning out of them both without dismounting and tucking them into the left saddle pack. The woods were alive with animals, but none that she could see. There were tracks criss-crossing the path, especially at the narrower points. But nothing that looked big like bear, or as threatening. She was glad of that.
She yawned loudly and the horse pricked its ears up at the sound, but did not otherwise change its plodding pace. She fell into a half sleep as the horse picked out its own way, following the easiest route.
By noon the road had straightened and ran alongside the woods instead of through them. It was hard-packed and rutted, as if wagons had been-pulled frequently along the track. Scillia’s naps had finally ceased and she was able to watch the road and forest beside her with equal parts interest and wariness.
She did not recognize where she was; there were no landmarks she could name. But she knew where she was going: past Selden Hame and on to M’dorah. Wherever that was! She planned to ask for information at the first inn but only enough—she warned herself—to go one stop farther on. She did not want to be tracked by either her mother or father, which was why she had not gotten directions from the kitcheners or from the one guard who had seen her leave. If it took longer this way, then it would take longer. She was, after all, not in any great hurry. M’dorah would still be there whether she got there in one day or ten.
She could have been farther already had she left directly north from the castle. But to fool the guards—who would undoubtedly tell her parents which way she’d gone—she had left by the west gate and ridden straight until she was well out of sight. Only then had she made a great quarter-circle turn to the north.
She smiled. Being tricksy was not in her nature.
“So they will never guess,” she whispered, knowing she had made a good go of it.
A small bird flew out before her and she took that as a kind of sign. Kicking the horse into a gallop, she halloed lustily, grinning as the wind whistled past her ears.
She was off. Alone. On her own.
It was enough.
Slowing at last to rest the horse, Scillia twisted in the saddle to look around. Now there were signs of habitation: a well-kept stone wall ran for many lengths along the road between her and a field that spoke of summer tillage. There was even a tattered scarecrow in the field, its stick arms poking through the sleeves of an old cotta.
She thought about sleeping in a tree another night, decided against it.
“Save that for when I must,” she told herself. She would pay the farmer for what food she ate, what bed she used.
“No!” she scolded aloud. “Work for it!” If she worked, she would be one with her people. She liked that idea much better.
Kicking the horse again into a rough trot, she rose up for a moment in the leather stirrups. There was a farmhouse on the rise just ahead, its front face an invitation. Strangely, though, there was no smoke issuing from the chimney. That was one puzzle. The other was that no dog came down the road to clamor at horse and rider. Surely a farmhouse so far from a village would have need of both fire and alarm.
When she got closer, though, she saw why. Only a front wall and half roof was still standing facing the road, but the side and back walls had mostly tumbled in. There would be no bed there for the night.
She left the horse tied by th
e gate and wandered through the ruin. When they had come this way before, on their visit to Selden Hame, there had been no ruined house. Of that she was certain. Her mother would have made a fuss about it, searching out the farmer and his family and offering them help. Besides, the stone walls held in a field that had been recently farmed; the scarecrow was standing guard over the winter fallow.
Shaking her head, Scillia poked about the four ruined rooms, finding nothing of value and nothing, either, to inform her what had happened, except a great quantity of ash and char which bespoke a devastating fire.
“Did anyone come through this alive?” she wondered aloud. In her mind’s eye she saw flames, heard screams. Then she shook her head for such havering. Her mother always said: Do not measure a shroud before there is a corpse. For the first time she understood what that meant.
At least she could sleep by the wall under the partial roof. That was marginally more comfortable than crouched in a crotch of a tree. Though perhaps not any safer.
She took the packs from the horse and hung them on a hook high on the wall, proud at how well she was learning to cope on her own. Then she unsaddled the horse, hobbled it, found some grain in a covered wooden tub the mice had not yet tunneled into. There was an unfouled well outside, and she drew up fresh water for them both, a difficult task with just one arm, but do-able.
Laying out her blanket under the partial roof, she sat on it a while, just thinking. Thinking about the road ahead, the road behind, and what it felt like being somewhere in-between. Not a comfortable feeling, but not entirely uncomfortable either. She smiled ruefully then shivered. It was cold and damp and she badly needed a fire. So she got up again and found some pieces of wood lying against the front wall, sheltered from the rain. With them she built a small fire in the old stone hearth, the only part of the back wall still standing. When the fire began to crackle merrily, she sat down to let the warmth soak into her bones.
She thought of Skada, and suddenly found herself wishing she could have had a dark companion of her own. Father always said something about a friend shortening the road. But no one called up the dark sisters anymore. That magic—like most of the old ways—had been ended with the dissolution of the Hames.
Probably, she thought, no one even knows how to do it any more. Except the old women at Selden. For a moment she was bitter. There’s lots I haven’t been taught. But, she added, I will learn it all nonetheless.
She tried to remember how in the old stories women called their dark sisters out. Something about moonlight and water and mirrors. A chant. “Come to me …” or some such.
She said the words aloud several times, feeling silly all the while. She even thought about seeing if she could try speaking the chant while leaning over the well. Then suddenly she was much too tired to think of it any longer. Before she could stand and get over to her blanket under the overhang, she fell asleep, still sitting by the fire.
When she woke at dawn, she was lying on her back, far from the roof, and the rain was spitting callously into her up-turned face.
THE SONG:
THE DARK SISTER’S LULLABY
Come to me, sister, for long is the night,
And dreams cannot keep body warm.
I’ll cradle you carefully, darkness to light,
I’ll keep you quite safely from harm.
Come to me, sister, the night will be deep,
And sleep comes not easily soon.
I’ll cradle you closely, my promises keep,
My night for the light of your moon.
Come to me, sister, the stars all take flight,
Come kiss me this once ere I go.
I’ll cradle you carefully night after night
As I did in the dark long ago.
THE STORY:
“What do you mean,” Jenna said savagely to Marek, “that you could not find her trail?”
“We cast both west and north for two days, Jenna,” he answered, his calm voice giving the lie to two days worth of stomach cramps, two days worth of heartache. “West because the guard saw her ride that way and north because that is the road to Selden Hame and then M’dorah, where you said she would be heading.”
Jenna turned her back on him, trembling with fury and fear, and cursing under her breath.
“Then we must try south and east,” Carum said sensibly. “There are only four directions, after all. Scillia is unused to the woods and a novice at concealing a trail. Though she is but one girl on one horse, she will no doubt leave a swath as wide as a legion’s.”
“So one would think,” Jenna said, turning slowly back to face them both. “So any competent woodsman would think.”
“I am as good in the woods as you, Jenna,” Marek said, looking grim.
“Never. You were but a ferryman’s boy when we met. I was trained to be a hunter.”
“That was eighteen years ago and more, Jenna. A man can learn something in that time.”
“Not all men have the capacity for learning,” Jenna said. Then speaking to Carum only, added, “I will go south first.”
Carum put a hand on her wrist. “You wound an old friend with a new sword, Jenna. And he has ridden off sick and come home sicker. Look at his grey face.”
Jenna looked instead into Carum’s eyes for a long moment, then sighed. “You are right as always. Marek—go first to my own infirmarer. And if she says you are fit, ride east. But pray, before even you have the infirmarer’s ear, send men to scout again the territory you already rode. Though …” she said looking down at her feet, “if you did not find the trail, it is probably not to be found.”
“I could have missed something, Anna.”
She went over to him and took his hands in hers. “Salve for your wound, old friend. You miss nothing.” Her eyes searched his face. “Lest … lest in your illness …”
He nodded and she turned and left the room at a run, mounted the stone steps to her chamber two at a time, and in minutes had traded her skirts for pants and her slippers for heavy riding boots.
In the kitchen they were provisioned for a week’s riding. Jenna herself put journeycake into her saddle packs. Then in the stables, she apologized to Marek once again.
“My heart bids my mouth speak faster than my head. I did not stop to think.”
“It is already forgotten, my queen,” Marek said. “But what if one of the men finds her—what should they do?”
“Just keep watch. Keep her safe. She needs to be on this trip alone, or at least she must believe she is on the trip alone. Now get you to the infirmarer.”
“I will when I return, Anna,” he said. “I am feeling better by the minute.”
“You are greyer by the minute,” said Carum. “But I expect your mind is made up.”
“We must waste no more time,” Marek said as confirmation.
Carum put his arms around Jenna. “I would come with you. She is my daughter, too.”
“Now as ever the kingdom needs its king,” said Jenna.
“And its queen,” he countered.
“You know I find the throne a troubling seat. I will not miss it nor it me while I am gone.” She gave him a weak smile, kissed him lightly on the mouth.
He hugged her to him and whispered, “Find her, Jen.”
“You know I will, though others mount the search as well.”
They both knew the truth of that.
Scillia had managed to get into her waterproof cloak and hat just before the rain had soaked her through, but only just. She could not get the fire going again for there was no more dry tinder to hand, and at last she left off trying. Instead she saddled the horse who, it turned out, was as cranky as she. When she mounted up, her father’s sword fell out of its wrappings, clattering to the ground. She was so angry with it and with herself, she nearly just left the thing in the foreyard.
In the end, of course, she dismounted and picked up the sword, shoving it savagely between the saddle pack and the horse with such roughness, the horse reared, nearly tear
ing her arm from the socket in the process. Her hat fell off and when the horse came down again on all fours, his front hooves ground the hat into the dirt.
“Lord Cres himself must have sent you to me, horse!” Scillia cried. Tears of pain and frustration streamed from her eyes, but by then her face was already so wet from the rain, no one could have told she had been crying. But her eyes hurt from crying, and her heart seemed to be beating erratically.
She tied the horse to the front-door latch and picked up the hat which she tucked into her belt. Then she went around the side of the standing wall and stood for a while under the bit of roof. The pattering of the rain on the wooden laths had a calming effect and at last her heart started to beat normally again.
“If I lose my temper and my horse,” she scolded herself aloud, “I will have a long, cold walk home.” And, she thought, a lifetime in which to be embarrassed. It was the thought of the embarrassment more than than the length of the walk or the cold that settled her.
Drawing a deep breath, she walked around to the front again, hat in hand. It was much too filthy to put back on her head.
“Now, horse,” she said, walking up to it quietly, “we must have a talk.” She placed her hand on its nose and rubbed it softly. “You must be a sweetling. You are a sweetling.” Then in cozening tones she added, “And you are much too stupid to know that I mean not a word of it as long as I speak to you nicely.”
She got out some journeycake from the saddle pack and held it out to the horse. Quickly softened by the mizzle of rain, the journeycake made an excellent pacifier. The horse lipped it eagerly. “Sweets for a sweetling,” Scillia said, though the cake was actually rather salty.
While the horse was still savoring its bits of the cake, Scillia untied it and mounted once again.
