by Cat Bruno
Gregorr had admitted as much before, yet neither could forget that even the fennidi now suffered.
“How long until war reaches the fennidi? How many of our kin will die before I reach Eirrannia?” she somberly asked.
Her questions did not surprise him. Of late, he sensed urgency in her. Word spread of Delwin’s army preparing to break the truce with the North, and Syrsha was now of an age to know the truth. With Crispin’s death, the tentative peace that had held across Cordisia since King Herrin’s murder had broken. For fifteen moon years, Crispin had kept Delwin from attacking Eirrannia and the Tribe, a feat not even Aldric could make sense of, despite the many moon years he had spent in Rexterra.
Delwin had long prepared for war. Building an army of mage and soldier and adding to the number of Lightkeepers by the hundreds, he had readied with a patience that matched his vengeance.
Only when he felt his army ready did he have his brother killed, although none in Cordisia could speak on such without being hanged for treason.
Aldric had told Gregorr as much, although many in Cordisia probably suspected the same. Crispin’s sons, of an age where either could rule, and his wife had abandoned the King’s City, exiled in lands that Delwin controlled. Guarded by men loyal to the new king, they had little choice but to allow Delwin the throne. Only Jarek remained, the true heir, but unknown and without ally.
Like Eirrannia, Jarek waited for Syrsha to return.
“I know you are anxious to return, but there is little that we can do. Not yet.”
His reply was hushed, the smile gone from his face as a cloud of resignation shaded his eyes. She was right, he knew. Many would die before they could return. But she was young yet, and her army small. In truth, it was no larger than it had been when first they departed Cordisia.
“We stayed in Cossima overlong,” she grumbled, jumping from her mount. “While I played at sword and spear, Delwin braced for war. Where is my army, Gregorr? Where are my ships and shields? Eirrannia does not even know me!”
Her pleading had grown loud, enough so that the others noticed.
Jumping off his gelding, he reached for her as he answered, “Eirrannia waits for you, as do the fennidi. It will take moons, perhaps even a moon year for Delwin to reach the North. There is time yet, Syrsha. Time for you to grow stronger and time for you to secure allies.”
“How strong must I become?” she cried. “Otieno thinks me too weak to even face a few Sythians. Aldric refuses to teach me the darkest magic, and even you warn me off rune-use.”
Syrsha’s cheeks reddened as her voice grew high and shrieking.
Again she asked, “How long must I wait? How many must die before I return?”
War has not even begun,” he scolded. “And, even so, you are not yet ready. Perhaps in a moon year.”
Behind them, Aldric approached, concern evident on his sunken cheeks.
Keeping his words guarded, he told them, “The Sythians wonder why the girl and the forest man are arguing. As do I.”
Dropping his hand from Syrsha’s arm, Gregorr answered, “Syrsha grows impatient to return home.”
He did not need to tell the mage that he did not speak of Cossima.
To Syrsha, Aldric said, “I know you long for Eirrannia, but it is better to wait and strike with the strongest weapon than to attack early and fail.”
“We must hurry nonetheless,” she told the mage, although her words had quieted.
With a nod, one that Gregorr had seen many times before from the instructor, Aldric said, “You are right, no doubt. So let us begin. First, you must win the kyzkua. With Sythia as an ally, your army grows.”
Before she could answer, the mage asked, “What of the Tribe? You have talked little of your father of late.”
Gregorr watched as her eyes darkened, ebony and shining like river rock, at the mention of the High Lord. He could not visit her in flesh for fear of his own father following, yet they all knew that Syrsha time-talked to see him, her only living parent. Even then, she could only do so under heavy ward, for the Crows still coveted her as prize, as they had done since her birth. War had spread across the Tribe, between Crow and Wolf, since Caryss’s death, until Nox had forced his children to cease fighting.
Yet Caryss’s murder remained unpunished. The Crow Lord’s death had long ago been promised to the girl who had watched her mother die.
The gift of vengeance was all that she had asked of Conri.
Her eyes still a smoky black, Syrsha muttered, “The unnamed one still keeps him shackled. Visiting him has become difficult.”
Aldric glanced about before asking, “Is he prisoner then?”
“His doors are warded. All of them. When Blaidd last tried to visit Conall, he was unable to enter. So Blaidd has gone to the Southern Cove Islands.”
“Does Otieno know?” Aldric hurriedly asked while the diauxie was tying off his mount.
Syrsha shrugged, as if she was no longer interested in the conversation. Gregorr thought that she would walk away then, but listened with interest when she continued.
“I have invited Blaidd to join us, now that he can no longer return to the Tribelands.”
“Is he not being watched, faela? That seems an unnecessary risk.”
Aldric’s warning was a fair one, thought Gregorr. As cousin to Syrsha, both Crow and Nox would see him as threat.
Her laughter, unnatural and loud, as if she was choking, skittered across the grassland, silencing the others. Gregorr watched as she wiped at her fading eyes.
“He is young, careless, and headstrong,” she explained, amusement still streaking her words. “Conall knows not what to do with him, for his magic is uncontrollable of yet. Blaidd finds trouble often and makes much of it himself. He is no threat, not to anyone but himself, and unwatched because of that.”
In a chiding voice, Gregorr told her, “You are only a half-moon year older than him, faela. And he is half-Tribe. There is hope for the boy.”
Across the field, Makeena walked, and Syrsha hurriedly said, “Do not misunderstand my feelings for him, Gregorr. I quite adore Blaidd and have begged him to join us with sincerity.”
“Will he come, do you think?” Aldric murmured.
With another laugh, this one true and sweet, Syrsha told them, “When I tell him of the Sythians, he will be here in haste.”
Shaking her head, yet smiling, she added, “Blaidd has broken many hearts across the Cove. He will welcome a new challenge.”
It would be good for the boy to come, Gregorr mused. He would have said as much, but the Sythian Queen neared.
Steps away, she called, “Welcome to Argeus. For tonight, you will be honored with guest-rights. Tents have been set up for you, and a feast will be served after nightfall. On the morrow, the kyzkua will be called.”
Makeena gestured broadly behind her, where arched tents, larger than they had been using, were neatly arranged in a circle. In the center was a large fire pit, flames rising high into the dusky evening. Two women knelt next to the fire, preparing a large deer carcass. Several others were scattered about, all wearing loose-fitting, multi-patterned pants and laced-up vests. There were several that appeared to be older than he, Gregorr realized with some surprise.
When the queen noticed him eying the camp, she declared, “You will find no men here. The three of you have been named as guests, but you must act as such. Any sword raised will be seen as threat, and you will die before you can sheathe it. If a woman comes to you willingly, then you are free to act. But rape is punished with death and not a quick one at that.”
“You have been warned. No more than that I will say. Now, it has been a long ride for many of us, and we desire nothing more than to rest by the fire. See to your belongings, then join us.”
Up and down her arms, ash-colored drawings of animals bloomed crimson under the dying light of the setting sun. He had noticed the others’ markings too, although none had as many as Makeena, and none had come near enough for an examination. I
n Cossima, Gregorr had come upon similarly painted skin. Yet, now, close enough to make out what was etched there, he wondered if the Sythians did not have their own rune-magic.
Turning on her booted heel, she departed, her cropped pants, lightly colored and dyed with a dark, diagonal design, tight against her well-muscled legs. Makeena wasted no time with kind words, nor did she offer much about Argeus. She was, Gregorr concluded, much like a king.
Beside him, Syrsha’s shoulders twitched, and he realized she was struggling to suppress laughter. Her eyes gleamed with mirth, and he shook his head in warning.
Her long fingers moved to her mouth, as shield and the group walked toward the tents.
In the language of his people, she whispered, “It is difficult to take her seriously while staring at her breasts.”
“They have no need of armor, for their horses are swift and their aim is straight,” he insisted.
“So they claim. What are their markings, Gregorr? Now that we are near enough to look upon them, I noticed how it is not only Makeena who bears the dyed drawings. Is it rune-lore?”
He followed her into a large, curved tent and glanced about, impressed with the size and construction. Four small featherbeds lay across the far end, and the tent was filled with drinking cups, a fire kit, and privy pots. Several other items were scattered throughout, including a bronze brazier that was on a small table near the door.
As he examined the leather-wrapped handles of the bowl, Gregorr told her, “I noticed the markings as well. They are really quite well-done, pierced into the skin with fire coals and not temporary like rune inscriptions. On Makeena’s shoulder, there is a leaping deer. Only when I looked again did I notice that it was being chased by a snow-cat. After the kyzkua, you might be able to inquire more about their meaning.”
“You might be the only one who thinks I will survive. What fools Otieno and Aldric are to think so little of me,” she huffed.
He let her simmer, knowing that she was young still and had much to prove. Lifting the brazier to his nose, he smelled its burnt contents. Surprised by the strong, tart smell, he placed it back on the table.
“Would you like to join the others?” he asked Syrsha, turning back to her and hoping her temper waned.
With a nod, she followed him from the tent. The girl would be fine, he knew with certainty.
It would be even better, he figured, if at least some of the arrows struck her.
*****
The air had cooled and the skies had darkened as night crept across the grassland. Curling flames, red-orange and sparkling, jumped from the large fire pit, more threatening than welcoming, despite the many women gathered there. Syrsha watched as the Eastern woman rearranged several logs, spreading them out to allow the fire to smolder wide and low.
Plumes of smoke greeted her as she neared, and the scent of charred deer meat caused her stomach to grumble in response. Rushing over, she knelt next to Liang, sniffing at the crackling chunks of meat.
“Can I try it?” she asked the girl, her voice quivering, the Tiannese words strange even to her own ears.
The girl’s hair shone in the firelight, clipped short against her head. Her eyes, small and oval, looked upon Syrsha with interest, examining her without comment. For a moment, Syrsha thought the girl might remember her, yet she only shrugged, as if bored, unimpressed with Syrsha’s Tiannese.
“It has not cooked long enough,” Liang told her, spinning the skewered meat.
“Aye, but that is how I like it,” Syrsha explained, as she had done often as a child.
“Suit yourself,” Liang said, handing her a leather-wrapped stick.
The strings of leather were moist, stained red by dripping blood. Where her fingers gripped the skewer, they became sticky, and again her stomach moaned. It had been nearly a half-moon of subsiding on dried meat, and Syrsha’s eyes darkened as she licked at her fingers. Without looking toward the girl, she bit, filling her mouth with the soft cut of venison. Her mouth burned as her tongue lapped at the sizzling juices.
Again she bit, closing her eyes as she chewed. Syrsha could not recall a time when she had tasted something so sweet. It was not until she had eaten all that she looked back toward Liang, having forgotten that she was beside her.
The Sythian gazed at her with an unmasked face.
“We have been long in travel, and I must ready myself for the kyzkua,” Syrsha stuttered, as way of explanation.
With another shrug, as if she cared little, Liang taunted, “I fasted the night before my own. And only three archers caught me.”
Wiping at her mouth with the edge of her sleeve, Syrsha mumbled, “Three too many.”
Like her voice, Liang’s laughter was deep and thunderous, loud enough to be heard over the snapping logs. Gregorr and Otieno, standing on the far side of the pit, looked over, and Syrsha hurriedly glanced away, finishing the last of her meal.
“None think you will even finish,” the girl smirked.
Liang was a few moon years older than Syrsha, small-boned and thin, unlike many of the other Sythians. She looked as unlike them as any could, except Otieno, Syrsha thought. Syrsha had seen Liang’s kind often in Cossima, yet the women had always been in silken gowns, their hair long and elaborately coifed. She had seen none carrying a weapon in all of her time there.
Ignoring her teasing, Syrsha asked, “How did you find yourself a Sythian? I had not thought them to raid so far east.”
Liang waited to reply, prodding the fire, and Syrsha thought she would not answer. Her welcome from the Sythians had been courteous, yet cautious. None saw her as friend, she knew.
“Four moon years ago, my husband and I were traveling from Tian, with a wagonload of perfumes and spices. We took the northernmost route, making our way to Cossima, which took the better part of a moon year. By then, I had decided that I did not want to be married. Well, I never wanted to marry. But after that first moon year, I knew that I would not return to Tian.”
When she spoke, Liang stared into the fire, never directly looking at Syrsha. Her words were hollow, as if an echo calling from far off, and Syrsha understood that there was much the girl was not telling her.
But she said nothing as Liang continued.
“Yoon, the man I was married to, had decided that we would only stay a half-moon in Cossima before heading back east. Which meant I had little time to prepare for my own departure. I was never allowed to have any of the coin and had to rely on Yoon for nearly all. But he was a foolish man, and I could have easily killed him. Some days I wish I had. Instead, I took what I could as he slept. With a little help from a large jug of rice wine, my escape was an easy one. From Cossima, I headed north.”
Which meant that Liang had traversed a similar journey to her own, Syrsha realized, although she could not admit as much.
“I came upon the Sythians near the Rhanne River, and, like you, requested a kyzkua. They thought me slow-witted, for I had the look of a child about me, and, then, my hair was long and tangled. It had been a difficult journey after Cossima, and my clothing was torn and blood-covered. What a sight I must have been,” she groaned.
After a moment, she added, nearly in disbelief, “I arrived wearing what was once a silk gown. My left arm was wrapped, broken from a fall I had taken a half-moon before. I had discarded my shoes days before, and a bloody trail followed me as I walked. Yet I saw these beautiful women bathing in the river, with their bows lying nearby. I had heard tales of the Sythians, of course, for they often traded and raided near the Great Merchant Road.”
“I was allowed three days to recover before the kyzkua, which all knew was not enough time. Yet I begged to be allowed to continue, for the Sythians were moving camps soon after, and my request was granted.”
Liang paused, lifting up her silken tunic to reveal a thick, white scar near her navel. “The first arrow struck within moments of the starting drums.”
She turned then, her tunic still held high, and showed Syrsha her lower back. A long, n
arrow scar, faded and raised, covered an area nearly the size of Syrsha’s hand.
“Near the midday point, I was hit with two arrows, by the same archer. She was faster than me, twice over,” Liang laughed roughly.
It was only then that Liang turned to face her. And only then did Syrsha see the final arrow strike.
A jagged scar, thick and shining, cut across the woman’s neck. The arrow had pierced her cleanly.
“Aye,” she nodded, her words strained and low, when she noticed that Syrsha understood. “I was just steps from the finish when that last arrow hit. I never saw which direction it came from, but I heard it streak through my hair and past my cheek. After it struck, my vision dimmed, and all I could see was blackness. I crawled to the end, dragging myself through the low grass. I was lucky to have fallen in an area that had been well-traveled and the grass stomped low.”
Syrsha reached toward Liang, her fingers trailing across the scar, and whispered, “Few would have survived as you did.”
Liang shook her head, forcing Syrsha to pull her hand away, as if it had gotten too close to the fire.
“The Sythians saved me. Once I crossed the finish, I was one of them,” Liang gasped, overtaken by the memory. “For a full moon year, I could not speak. The other wounds healed well and quickly, but this one did not.”
Her hand was at her throat, covering the scar. Again, Liang gazed at her, eyes shining and flames jumping. At the edges of her memories, Liang lived, wrapped in shadow, yet known.
“Take this as warning or as advice. Do not stop, not once, not ever. Do what you must to finish,” she warned.
Pointing to the sword that Syrsha had moved to her back, Liang asked, “That will do you little good.”
With a smile that spoke of Tribe, Syrsha told her, “You have not yet seen me wield it.”
Liang grunted, softly, and Syrsha realized that there was little that could impress her. Throwing the stick back into the fire, Syrsha readied to leave. Liang did not know her, not yet. Perhaps the others will offer advice, she mused.
