by Cat Bruno
With a whisper, she told them what she had heard, but then the fennidi began talking, and the field quieted. The hush of swaying grass accompanied his words.
“Women of Sythia, I have come from afar to find you!” he answered, his voice strange as the rune-magic shaped his words into the Sythian tongue.
Before any could respond, he continued, “And I am not alone. There are four others with me, and we have come in peace with an offer for your queen.”
“What could we want from you, little man?” a Sythian woman barked.
His laugh caught the wind and twinkled under the falling sun. Red-winged birds flew from the trees, mimicking the sound as they crossed overhead.
“Word spreads that Sythia is in need of coin,” he finally replied, although his lips still curved upward.
Behind the brown-clad woman, the others stirred, their horses shifting, hooves pawing at the grass. Yet, they said nothing.
Again, the same woman cried, “You have heard wrong then! Long before even my grandmother’s time, Sythia has fared well. None command horse and bow as we do, and if we have need, an arrowhead can fill it.”
Her threat was clear, but Gregorr did not move.
“Your skill is why we have come,” he explained. “To learn the ways of the Sythian bow. We offer coin and kinship as payment.”
“Kinship,” the woman laughed, the sound hollow and rough, as if she tasted of salt and slate. “There are few of you, and I could kill you all myself.”
With his hands offering submission, Gregorr pleaded, “We have come in peace. If it is not coin that you need, then perhaps our other skills would be welcomed.”
Syrsha watched the woman pause, although she was still too distant to notice much more.
“I have never seen one who looked like you. Where is your homeland?” she demanded, flicking the reins in her hands.
Nodding as if to confirm her words, Gregorr said, “Far to the west of here. My kin rarely stray from the forests, and few know of us. Many fennidi could rival you in archery, my lady. But I have come to you without weapon or bow and without the skill to use it.”
As if she had not heard his boast, the woman asked, “What made you leave your homeland?”
“Many moon years ago, a girl appeared seeking an army. My queen sent me to join her.”
His reply, while truthful, offered little explanation, purposefully so, Syrsha knew.
With a laugh, the Sythian grunted, “One man, untrained at that, is all your queen offered. The girl must have been unremarkable.”
Gregorr did not rise to her taunt. Instead, he answered, “Untrained with bow, but not untrained altogether. There are few that know the hidden weapons of the forest as I do, my lady.”
“You speak of poison,” she called, accusingly. Behind her, the women reached for their bows.
Paying them no heed, Gregorr shrugged. “Poison and remedy both. Herbs that heal. Plants that protect. We live off the land, taking only what is needed.”
The Sythian raised her hand, calling on her warriors to halt. Syrsha could not look away, not even to Otieno. Again, she struggled to recall the women, even their leader, with her gray-streaked hair tangled and fraying and knew not if she had come before. The woman was not unknown, but the memories were fog-covered ones, much to Syrsha’s dismay.
“Where is the girl?” The question drummed across the field, pounding and loud. It was more than a question. More than a demand even. The bows behind the Sythian leader were not raised, yet hands held steady.
“She is safe. Think of me as her ambassador,” Gregorr gently replied without moving.
Cackling with laughter, the woman called, “No welcome will be granted until I meet the girl. The choice is yours.”
Gregorr stepped toward her then, as if he had expected the request. “Give me your vow that she will be unharmed.”
A long pause followed before the Sythian nodded. “The girl shall remain safe. You have my word, little man.”
Syrsha knew that Otieno, Aldric, and Sharron could not make sense of the exchange. If they had, Otieno might have rushed into the field himself, and a ward would be humming around her courtesy of Aldric. They had nearly forgotten her, she realized, still kneeling in the soft grass behind the others. As quietly as she could, Syrsha stood.
She had long ago learned the ways of the desert cat, silent and nearly invisible. None knew that she had stepped away until she was nearly beside Gregorr. By then, it was too late to stop her.
There were no rune markings to protect her. No steel armor to stop arrowheads from piercing her skin. No ward to shield her. Her hands burned at her sides, empty of weapon. Flames threatened to catch fire there, yet she fought her father’s gift.
I will come to them as equal, she thought. Makeena. The name came to her as smoke, swirling and gray, rising from the dirt in dance.
Staring at the dark, narrow eyes of the woman, Syrsha began to remember. She nearly laughed, but her faded thoughts refused to steady enough for certainty. The woman was older than Sharron by a decade or more. Her hair was thick, yet streaked with white and lines rimmed her eyes and mouth. Her body was softer than those of the women behind her, yet Makeena was lean still, with warrior’s arms. She wore what most of the others did: loose-fitting pants that were gathered just below her knees. Across her chest was a leathery vest, thinner than the one that Syrsha wore, and one that offered little protection. She wore no tunic beneath it, Syrsha suddenly realized, a blush spreading across her alabaster cheeks.
Before the woman could address her, Syrsha put her hands out in front of her, palms up, in greeting, showing that she was unarmed. Without dropping her arms, she stepped closer.
“You do not know me, Makeena?” she called, the question falling smoothly from her tongue, another gift from the Tribe.
“Faela,” Gregorr whispered, coming to stand beside her.
In words only he would know, she murmured, “I remember her. I would not have stepped forward if I had not.”
Had it been Aldric or Otieno, an argument would have followed. With Gregorr, older and wiser than all of them, none came.
“Should I know you, girl? There are many who know my name. I have been the Sythian Queen for longer than you have lived.”
Syrsha watched as the woman’s eyes examined her. They were thin, angled into high cheeks, and they looked upon her as if she was prey. As if she was Crow.
The thought nearly made her shake, for she had not thought on her mother’s killers for a moon year or more. But the woman was not Tribe, nor had she much mage-skill for Syrsha smelled no taint of magic. She was a warrior, trained and battle-tested. She was a queen, leader of women who longed for a life other than that of wife or mother.
I was right to come, she realized, with growing relief.
“For a quarter-moon year, I trained with you, mastering the bow until I was needed elsewhere,” Syrsha explained.
When Makeena laughed, her horse jostled beneath her, and her riders joined in, until the howls of the rugged women echoed across the field. Around their necks, Syrsha noticed, were strands of leather, jingling like bells.
After a moment of listening to the clattering, she remembered more.
Hanging from the leather straps were teeth, each one taken as a token after a kill. The teeth were stained red with bloodroot, and a hole was chiseled into them. When finished, the teeth were laced onto the leather, adorning the warriors as both trophy and charm. Makeena’s own necklace edged her breasts, the teeth too numerous to count.
Wiping at her mouth, the queen told her, “When our children can walk, we give them a bow. For those who come to us late, it takes nearly five moon years to master the shot. Forgive our laughter, but you must think me a fool to believe that in a few moons, your skill matched our own.”
“I am not untrained, Queen Makeena, and your women would do well to learn other weapons as well.”
Just as she replied, Syrsha’s mind cleared and an image shined, as memory,
as bright and real as the sun above.
In a voice that all the women gathered could hear, she cried, “Grant me a kyzkua!”
As expected, Makeena paled, her sun-darkened face unable to hide her surprise. The other Sythians looked to one another, eyes wide and curious. One woman smiled.
Liang.
She was pale, her ivory face covered by a large-brimmed hat. Unlike the others, she wore a tunic underneath her vest, more so her skin would not redden under the sun than for modesty. Her eyes, angled more than anyone’s, were nearly black, but they shimmered with a joy bordering on madness. Her kin were not Sythian, Syrsha knew, for she had the look of the Far East about her, small-limbed, much like a delicate bird.
But she, too, wore a ring of teeth.
Syrsha still had her eyes on the woman when Makeena jumped from her mount. It was only when the queen stood steps from her that she looked up.
“Who told you of the kyzkua?” Makeena asked, her words as sharp as flint.
Gregorr still stood at her side, and she turned to him, knowing not how to explain her time-walking to a woman who had no memory of her.
It was he who answered when she could not.
“The girl has mage-sight, my queen. Where we are from, some can see what others cannot. Some, like the girl, can see what has not yet occurred, but will. It was how she convinced us to come here.”
“I have heard of such sight,” Makeena admitted with hesitation, her forehead wrinkled in thought.
To Syrsha, she asked, “You know what it is that you request?”
Before she could answer, Syrsha looked to the fennidi and said, “Otieno will not be pleased. Nor will he approve.”
Thoughtful as always, Gregorr paused. “And you must be unguarded?”
She nodded and explained, “The Sythians are not without mercy. For women seeking to join, even ones who have long been enemies, they can request a kyzkua, a race of sorts. If they survive, they are welcomed without reserve.”
“Faela,” he began.
Putting a hand on his arm, she continued, “The Sythians are warriors, to be sure, but they are not Tribe. They do not have the blood of gods as I do, Gregorr. I would be surprised if a single arrow hits me.”
“So this race involves you outrunning them while they shoot arrows as you flee?” he hurriedly asked in Ancient.
“Something close to that. I will be allowed my sword, I think, but no shield. There are but a handful of women here. If I can not escape them, then I should never seek the North.”
He did not disagree, which was approval enough.
To Makeena, she asked, “If I win, then I become recognized as a Sythian and would be allowed to learn your ways? Even if I can only stay a few moons.”
“Aye,” Makeena agreed with a curt nod, “None can run it but you.”
“It will be as you say,” Syrsha admitted to the queen.
With a tilt of her head, Makeena called out to her riders, “The girl has requested a kyzkua, and I have accepted. Let her gather her belongings, and then we will lead her people to Argeus.”
“We had thought to travel to Odeena,” Gregorr interrupted.
Glancing at him with blade-like eyes, Makeena told him, “Odeena is our home, where our children learn in safety and our men reside. Argeus is where we train without the worries of man and child to interfere.”
“Most of our coin is in Odeena,” he told her, as way of explanation.
“You will need no coin if the girl survives.”
Her answer silenced them both.
With little else to say, they walked back toward their hidden camp, Syrsha pondered what to tell Otieno and Aldric. She had already defied her Akkachi once by entering the field. When he learned what she planned next, he would never allow it.
As if he understood her fears, Gregorr whispered, “Let me talk to the diauxie.”
She never loved Gregorr more than that moment. With her fingers still stained, she grabbed at his rune-written face and kissed his cheek.
“It was my choice to come here. And mine to run the kyzkua. I will tell him what I must do next,” she stated.
By the time they had finished talking, the others were near enough to hear. Aldric’s face was wan, more so than usual, and Sharron eyed her intently, checking for injuries no doubt. Standing near the tree where she had left him was Otieno. Fury colored his face red and his eyes blazed orange against brown orbs.
In his hands was Enyo.
Before she could speak, he hissed, “Come no further, faela.”
His words, edged with fire, caused her to pause.
“What ward did you place on us that would not permit movement?”
Had Aldric noticed the way her face showed her surprise, he would not have approved. Syrsha hurriedly looked to her feet, to her laced boots, wondering for a moment if they would serve her well in the kyzkua. With her eyes clear once more, she looked back to Otieno.
“I worked no magics aside from the runes for Gregorr,” she haltingly explained.
From behind, the fennidi called, “When the queen called for Syrsha, I locked the portal. In doing so, only she could walk upon the field. Had I not, you would have tried to stop her, Otieno. This Sythian Queen is more than we thought, more so than Syrsha even remembered. She needed to see Syrsha, and I knew you would not have allowed it.”
She expected Otieno to yell, for his voice to tear through the valley as if a great flood of water. His silence was worse.
Reminding herself that she was Wolf, Syrsha stepped toward him, despite his earlier threat.
In a voice steady and hardened, she told him, “We are to go with the Sythians to their camp called Argeus. Once there, I will take part in an ancient game the Sythians refer to as kyzkua. With only a sword as shield, I will attempt to make my way through a course the women have constructed. While I run, a group of Sythian archers will attempt to shoot me. If I complete the kyzkua, I will be named Sythian-kin.”
When he still said nothing, she hastily added, “And I will have gained a powerful ally.”
Angry peals of laughter followed her explanation. Looking to him, she could see spittle across his lips and dripping from his chin. As a child, she feared upsetting him. Yet, she had come far since then. With sword and with flame.
Her jaw tight and her words clipped, Syrsha told him, “I think you have forgotten who I am, Akkachi. You would dress me in skirts and have me sit a throne, allowing others to rule in my place.”
He did not move.
“I have forgotten nothing. You are a child with foolish thoughts. Remind me how the daughter of the wolf fares when she is bleeding from a hundred arrows.”
It was her turn to laugh, and she did, not caring if the others listened.
“Give me the same speech after the kyzkua, Otieno. I will let you count the arrows that miss. For you would grow bored waiting to mark the ones that strike.”
When she walked away, Aldric followed her. Unwilling to listen to another lecture, she ignored him as she tied her satchel onto the sides of the saddle. He eyed her wearily as she climbed atop her mount.
“Gregorr told me that you have regained memory of Sythia,” he called up to her.
Pulling her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck, she nodded, and said, “The girl, Liang, will come with us when we leave. I master the bow sooner than I expected. We will be gone from here within a quarter-moon.”
Even Syrsha no longer could distinguish what was truth from what was lie.
“Is the kyzkua wise, Syrsha?”
There were many more words on his lips, but the mage would only ask her once.
Kicking at her horse, she shrugged, “It will not be the last time I do something you and Otieno deem foolish.”
She had talked enough, offered enough explanation and reassurance that all would be well. In truth, she knew not what would occur during the race. Her father had warned her once that her time-walking could alter the path that she walked, and those paths that others wal
ked as well. During her time in Cossima, little had changed and time-walking was a safe escape. Syrsha traveled with ease, abandoning her flesh and returning with none realizing that she had gone. Now, as she traveled and awoke each day in a new place, she was no longer certain that her memories were true ones. It was not something that she could admit.
Mist wrapped her thoughts, dimming the edges and casting gray shadows. Mage-sight would not be so darkened, she knew. Her gift was not a simple one and using it came at a cost.
No matter, she thought, riding toward the Sythians. I am a Wolf still, and it will take more than arrows to kill me.
Nearing the circled riders, Syrsha swallowed hard, shook herself free from doubt and approached with a well-masked face.
“You have not told us your name,” Makeena bellowed.
She was not nearly the fool Otieno and Aldric thought her to be.
“Which one would you like? I have many,” she jested, enjoying the surprise as it colored the Sythians’ cheeks red.
It was Makeena who recovered first. “The true question is which one do you like,” the aged queen said.
Syrsha quieted and her amusement disappeared. For she had no answer.
*****
5
When they came upon Argeus, Makeena rode ahead, and Syrsha led her mount toward Gregorr.
“You think Otieno will ever speak to me again?” she asked, her words low.
A soft smile crossed his face. In the faded evening light, the fennidi bathed in starlight. Here, in the middle of vast grasslands, a half-day ride from the forest’s edge, his pine-colored skin seemed out of place, just as it had been in Cossima.
Suddenly, and before he could answer, she remarked, “You must long for Eirrannia. For the mountains and rivers and the towering trees. And for your kin and Ohdra.”
Her words trailed off, as if she too longed for their homeland, one that she had not visited in flesh since she was a babe.
“For many moon years, I lived among my people and never thought to leave. Not until your mother came. We have long prospered, peaceful in our isolation and solely dependent on our ancient ways. Tribe and Eirrannian both called us friend, although the rest of Cordisia knew little of our kind. I have never wished that Ohdra would have sent someone else with your mother, faela,” he explained.
