by J L Forrest
“Get some sleep,” the Atreiani said, and no more.
◆◆◆
In the morning the E’cwnii feasted. The campfire roared, with corn roasting on hot stones. Yellow squash with sugar beet, prairie chicken, and wild long-horned cattle stewed in iron pots with potato and sage. Dogs begged and stole scraps from the meal.
Whenever anyone neared the Atreiani, they bowed or prostrated themselves.
Near the flame, yw Sabi sat at the left hand of the Ahtros; Nyahri, at his right. Beyond the camp, frost coated the grasses, melting only after the blue sky brightened. A few E’cwn women dared smiles at the Atreiani, who only nodded in reply.
As the meal concluded, Nyahri ate honeyed bread surrounded by those she’d lived among all her life, brave young men, bright children, and concerned matrons. Youths danced to flutes and drums, and the Ahtros smiled to watch them.
The tribe celebrated Sultah yw Sabi. Nyahri clapped to the dancers’ rhythms, breathing the plain’s heady air, sweetened by autumn’s first currents. For a moment she allowed herself a measure of respite, an instant to forget Suhto had died, how everything had changed. Then, from the corner of her eye, a flutter of supernatural hair stole the daylight; the Atreiani’s gaze followed the dancers too, but her focus sought something distant.
Nyahri recognized the expression—the same as her own, when she missed her mother or brother, when the longing overtook her. “You well, Atreiani?”
Yw Sabi started from her reverie, blinking at Nyahri. “Well as can be.”
“Missing someone?”
For an instant, yw Sabi betrayed surprise. “You presume my business? To have any right to it?”
Nyahri sat back. “I—I did not mean to offend.”
“You didn’t offend,” the Atreiani said. “You presumed.”
“I am right?”
“I should put it from my mind.” The Atreiani gave a scantly perceptible roll of her eyes. “Now is now. Here is here. I don’t take the generosity of your tribe for granted.” She turned back to the dance.
The Ahtros laid his hand on Nyahri’s.
After the feast ended, Nyahri walked him to his tent, slowly, too slowly. The cold mornings bit his limbs, and Nyahri ached in sympathy for him, to see his face, always masking his pain. The Atreiani followed and they sat in the sunlight outside the door. Nyahri lent her arm to her father, helping him settle. She warmed his tea and, as she did, the Ahtros retrieved a stick and on the ground he drew a map.
“Major rivers here and here,” he said, pointing, “the Wyst and Bhar. Broken ruins in the north—from your time, Atreiani?”
She nodded. “Likely.”
“The Inwnii call those ruins the Devils’ Teeth. You may approach Swyn Templr two ways—west of Abswyn or more northerly by the ruins and across to the Wyst. It has been too long for me, yw Sabi, so I cannot suggest one road over another, except the Bhar is more direct.”
“I understand.”
“Cohltos valley is here,” he pointed, “high in the mountains. This time of year there may be snow on the way, who knows? Prepare for cold weather. You will be deep in Oudwn lands and their archers guard the path, so you will meet them—it is no small ride.”
“I’ll walk.”
“I do not recommend you do.”
“I’ve never tended a horse. Before this week I’d never ridden one—I’ll walk.”
The Ahtros scratched his chin, then sipped his tea. “Even on horseback it could be weeks before you reach Swyn Templr. Too slow to walk. Winter will catch you.”
“I don’t fear the cold.”
“Do you fear avalanches? Drifts? The pass will be unreachable and there are other reasons to ride.”
“Such as?”
He bowed his head. “I wish no offense, Atreiani. Perhaps you fear no men? But if a woman ahorse may be said safer than one afoot and, it follows, an Atreiani ahorse is safer than one afoot. Oudwnii are not the only tribe in the lands. While they are our enemy, they are more civilized than most—in the north there are the Gabarii and C’naädii and even more violent tribes. You should ride, unless you do wield all the powers of a god.”
“What’s to say I don’t?”
“Then you need fear no man,” he said, “but still to have a horse is better than not.”
“Doesn’t change anything. Whatever I am, I’m not a horsewoman.” The Atreiani shifted her gaze to Nyahri.
Nyahri realized yw Sabi’s ploy and cleared her throat. “I could tend after her in the saddle, care for her horse.”
His eyes widened as he wrestled back his panic. “The Oudwnii would like nothing better, daughter, than to capture you. An easy thing to do if you ride straight into their arms.”
“Father, I am capable.”
“Capable, yea! But were you a strong man, full grown, I would still doubt, and you are a young woman.”
Nyahri’s face flushed and she tightened her fists. “I earned the right of the hunt many times over, I have killed men—”
“Yea, but—”
“It was my mother, your wife, who taught me of the Atreianii.”
“I sometimes wish she had not—”
“It was I who yw Sabi came to first. It is I who should accompany her to Swyn Templr. It is I who am most able of us here to find what portents this brings and to follow it to its end.”
His voice deepened, “Rein in your pride—”
“She has some reason for pride,” the Atreiani said, “don’t you think? Your daughter seems capable—she’s no delicate flower.”
“Ay,” he grumbled.
The Atreiani continued, “And I am certainly no young woman. Nyahri will not be a lone E’cwni on the road, but an Atreiani’s guide.”
“Revered Sultah yw Sabi,” he said, “goddess or not, can you guarantee her safety in this world?”
“No.” The Atreiani shook her head. “Can you?”
He frowned bitterly but at last let go, sighing, raising an eyebrow at his daughter. “You made up your mind to go,” he said to her, “before we had this conversation.”
“I will guide the Atreiani to Swyn Templr. Would mother not have gone?”
He flinched at this and Nyahri regretted the words.
Before she died, Nyahri thought, he learned to resent the gods.
“You will have all you need,” he said to yw Sabi, “and Nyahri shall go with you.”
The Atreiani nodded.
“When do you leave?” he asked her.
“Tomorrow morning,” she said.
He raised his hand. “I know you make no promises, not for my child nor for anything else, but please favor my tribe. Favor my daughter, for an old man’s sake.”
“As soon as we leave,” yw Sabi said, “take the tribe east.”
She nodded to the Ahtros, then to Nyahri, and left for her own tent.
“You are your own woman,” the Ahtros said to his daughter.
“Thank you, father.”
“Do not thank. The last man I said was his own is now dead.”
“Yea, father.”
“You will not, I believe, come back to us.”
“I may survive.”
“Survive or nay. I am reminded of the old stories, of the tales your mother used to tell. You will leave us and on this road you are likely to become hers—” He gestured after the Atreiani. “—at least as much as your own.”
“Nay, I will come home.”
“Nyahri, please, follow the goddess’s example and make me no promises—”
“Yea, father.”
“—except to make me proud of you. Follow the course you believe best.”
Nyahri kissed his cheek and left him.
The encampment’s business carried on. A handful of women and young men knelt near the Atreiani’s tent, singing the ancient songs. Nyahri’s heart aching, she looked to all the faces she knew.
What could I give them? she asked herself. What Ahtras would I be to them, when I am the death of all my suitors? What would
one more moment here accomplish?
Nyahri went to the horses and soothed Kwlko; or he, her. She scratched his ears, saddled him, and for hours rode alone on the plains, a full quiver at her side, her bow strung across her back.
{09}
That afternoon, Nyahri slew an antelope, which she gutted, quartered, and brought back to camp. After washing, she brushed the stallion, whispering to him, and left a blanket on him to ward away the cold. Long after dark, as Nyahri passed the Atreiani’s tent, she noted lamplight through the door. She stood noiselessly on the grass-bare earth, thinking to call out, but decided instead to turn away.
“Nyahri?”
She froze. No mortal could have heard her.
“Yea, Atreiani?”
“Come.”
Inside, yw Sabi sat with her legs folded. Nyahri settled across from her.
“You needn’t accompany me anywhere tomorrow,” the Atreiani said.
“Yw Sabi, my father has said I am my own woman. I go where I choose.”
“Your own woman?” Yw Sabi hinted a smile. “Then you should choose to stay here.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve seen your father’s health and I gather, sooner than you’d prefer, you might be somewhat more important here than you like to tell yourself.”
Nyahri’s cheeks flushed, something like anger swimming through her, something like regret. She swallowed it.
“I will go with you,” she said.
Yw Sabi sighed. “Perhaps some good will come of it. In a few months you’ll be back home with a lifetime of stories to tell.”
“I will help you the best I can,” Nyahri said. “For now I am yours.”
Yw Sabi took a darker disposition, her head tilting upward. She looked down on Nyahri, her gaze heavy.
“How much,” yw Sabi said, “do you really know of our ways? Last night, mistress—tonight, I am yours. You say it casually, as if ‘for now’ had anything to do with it. Your mother must have heard fairytales passed through the generations, and you heard them too?”
“She repeated the rituals, the words, to me, to my sister.” Nyahri bowed her head. “I know enough, yw Sabi, to know what I say.”
“I think not. You’re toying, pretending to know. Language is important. We reserved these words for the highest servants, our seconds, elevated between Homo sapiens and Homo atrean.”
“Did you ever have such a servant?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“She,” yw Sabi said, as if breathless for that moment. “I don’t wish to talk of her.”
“Did all Atreianii have such servants?”
“No, but it was a well-considered system—it bound them to us and us to them, created a bridge between us and humanity. Our laws prevented the joining of our demesnes with one another, and unions between Atreianii never lasted. The need for total commitment, for unyielding devotion, and for trustworthiness demanded another kind of companionship. Shifting allegiances were no allegiances at all and we had to know who to trust. Not that it mattered in the end.”
Nyahri fidgeted, glancing aside, searching for something to say.
“See?” yw Sabi said. “You don’t understand at all. You don’t mean, ‘I am yours,’ repeating things half heard and barely understood, distorted by time and culture. You mean only, ‘I am going along for now.’ It isn’t the same thing.”
Nyahri raised her chin. “You are right. I do not know. For all my mother’s stories, I know less with each new thing you say. I do know how long I looked upon the night sky and wondered at those patterns—the Web of Lwn, the quick stars, the errant stars, and all the heavens—and now you tell me they are something even more wondrous! How long I wondered after you, Sultah yw Sabi, your name on Abswyn’s door! You figure at the heart of our tales, the Atreiani feared by Atreianii, but now you are here and I find you not so terrifying—”
“Do not presume me kind.”
“Yet you have treated me with some kindness. I know the gods brought me to you—”
“There are no gods.”
These words cut Nyahri. “Yw Sabi, the gods—”
“There are no gods, though it sometimes serves me to play the part. We’ll discuss it in due course. Until then you will follow me, and you will guide me. Believe me, Nyahri, you puzzle me almost as much as I puzzle you, and I too would like to learn more.”
“I puzzle you?”
Yw Sabi nodded.
“I will follow as you wish,” Nyahri said.
“You called me a devil and I reprimanded you.” Yw Sabi touched Nyahri’s cheek, a perfunctory gesture. “Devil I probably am.”
Nyahri drew away, a fraction, from yw Sabi’s fingers.
“Hmm?” Yw Sabi raised her eyebrows.
Do not touch me so, Nyahri thought.
The Atreiani withdrew her hand. “Get some rest. We should depart early tomorrow. Goodnight.”
Nyahri hesitated, wanting to stay as much as to leave, flustered by the unexpected caress. Then she headed to her own tent.
Inside, all was dark, Cirje gone, and Nyahri lit the lamp. On the bedrolls lay a coronal of darkest night-falcon feathers, a band of leather threaded with sinew and crimson cloth. The feathers hung in braids of silver wire and finely wrapped red twine. Nyahri ran her fingers over the headpiece, its plumage and beaded cords, and she slipped it over her hair. Feathers cascaded down her back.
She knelt, closing her eyes to gauge the coronal’s weight, the strands waiving gently back and forth. Behind her the tent opened, Cirje crouching at the threshold.
“It is beautiful,” Nyahri said. “It reminds me of mother’s.”
“A priestess’s coronal. I made it with Suhto at midsummer, but I hid it with our aunt. It was a gift if—”
“If I accepted him?”
Cirje nodded. “I was angry. But now—”
“Ay, I remember—there were cuts on your fingers you would not explain to me.”
“The unwrapped wire is sharp.”
“You went to so much trouble, and I have hurt you with all my deeds, all my thoughtless words.”
“It is nothing, Nyahri. Let us not be angry again, nay? We are caught up in miracles and this is a dreamtime. Should we not be together in it?”
Somewhere toward the horizon, coyotes called, their songs punctuated by the occasional horse’s bray or dog’s whine. Nyahri braided Cirje’s hair, and the girl cried until she slept. Setting the coronal aside, Nyahri rolled onto her back with her eyes open to the blackness, and she laid her hands on her stomach.
I will do as I know my mother would have done, she thought, I will follow the Atreiani, but I will not follow so blindly. Yw Sabi is no great killer of men, nay? Not so frightening? Perhaps all the legends of her are wrong. Yw Sabi, do not touch me so—
Nyahri smiled and thought, Eh, do touch me so. That was nice—
◆◆◆
She opened her eyes, staring across her sister’s vacant bedding. Cursing to have overslept dawn, Nyahri bolted upright, threw on clothes, and burst from the tent. A clear sky overarched the frosty plains. The E’cwn men and women tended their tasks, and a woman disassembled the guest tent, laying the hides and poles on a litter. Dread settled in Nyahri’s heart and she looked in every direction.
Has the Atreiani left me anyway?
Girls gathered water at the river, elders warmed their hands at the fire, and a woman smoked the antelope which Nyahri had slain.
Nay! Where is she?
After a frantic search, Nyahri found yw Sabi standing on a westward-facing knoll, dressed in her Atreian clothing, the strange gray fabric covering her to her ankles, wrists, and neck. Beneath her pant hems, she wore light black boots.
Nyahri crossed the encampment to her side. “Yw Sabi, I thought you abandoned me.”
The Atreiani kept her eyes on the mountainous horizon. “I considered it.”
“Forgive me for oversleeping.”
“For sleeping? When you’re probably
still anemic, still recovering, cracked ribs and all?” Yw Sabi waved her hand dismissively. “You give me other reasons to leave you behind. Not the least is a good family who’d be fortunate to keep you, this winter and every winter after it.”
“Yw Sabi, I wish to go with you.”
“If I say no?”
Nyahri furrowed her brow. “Yesterday you asked me to guide you. My father gave his leave—”
“Shush.” Again, the dismissive wave. “I gather you’d just follow me anyway. We’re not delayed because you slept late, no, nor because I question taking you from your family. We delay because your father insists on choosing me a proper horse. Some monster, no doubt, full of fire. I’d prefer something docile. I’ll need you, Nyahri, if for nothing else than to teach me how to ride and care for a horse.”
“The Atreianii never rode?”
“Many kept horses. I had other—” She paused, savoring some memory. “—amusements.”
At the campfire they ate a hot but simple meal of beans, potatoes, and sage trout. Soon, a gathering of children brought to the camp a charcoal-hued gelding, chosen from among the Ahtros’s fastest horses. He had bridled the horse in silver, and new-oiled saddlebags hung at his flanks, with blankets and winter clothes strapped behind the cantle. A master-tooled saddle of dark leather rested on his back, and Nyahri recognized it too as her father’s. The saddle, Nyahri feared, would be a poor fit for the Atreiani, but it would have to do.
After their meal, Nyahri lashed the Atreiani’s bag to the gelding’s pack and tethered him aside Kwlko, who she burdened with her own gear and the foodstuffs.
Yw Sabi mounted, her ankle once more turned too much in the stirrup, her hands too near on the saddlebow. She patted the charcoal’s neck as though she might touch something unclean.
Uncertainty, Nyahri thought, the same which children show the first time.
Nyahri watched wide-eyed, somewhat reassured by yw Sabi’s doubtfulness in the saddle, a quality which lent her some vulnerability. The plainswoman felt as if she kept a talley, counting qualities of the Atreiani which made her more or less human.
Nyahri sprang to her stallion’s back.
“What do I do?” yw Sabi asked.
