Lady of Horses

by Judith Tarr

  Magpie slept on undisturbed. White Bird might be awake, but her eyes in the firelight were blank. Neither of them called Sparrow back.

  She stretched her stride. When she was out of sight of the hut, under paling stars, she stretched her whole body from toes to fingertips, reaching for the sky, then swaying, dipping, whirling, dancing through the tall grass.

  She stumbled and went sprawling. The thing that had caught her was no stone: it was soft, and it grunted. She snapped into a knot and rolled away from it, flinging herself to her feet.

  It was no wild sow or sleeping wolf. It was a human figure in a woman’s long tunic, with long hair streaming over its shoulders. Even in the grey light of morning, it was as bright as sunlight.

  “Keen!” said Sparrow, astonished. “What are you doing out here?”

  “The same thing you are, I suppose,” Keen said. “What did you run away from?”

  She spoke lightly, but something in her tone made Sparrow drop to her knees and seize that rounded chin, peering into the face.

  Keen twisted free. “I’m not hurt. I . . . just had to get away.”

  “From what? What did he do to you? Tell me!”

  Keen did not look as if she wanted to, but Sparrow had always had the stronger will. She got it out as if through clenched teeth. “Nothing. Nothing with his fist. But—he took another wife.”

  “I heard,” Sparrow said flatly.

  “You heard? And you never told me?”

  “I couldn’t,” Sparrow said, taken aback by the flash of Keen’s eyes. Keen, angry? Keen was the most even-tempered creature in the world. “I was in the women’s house. One of the others there knew every scandal. She made sure we did, too. We heard all about the shaman’s daughter of the Tall Grass and the White Stone shaman. So it’s true? He’s making her senior wife?”

  Keen nodded. “Her father is more useful to him than mine, you see. So he sets her over me. I’m to be glad of it, since it gives me a friend in the tent, and brings me a flock of servants to do everything I used to do. It sets me free, he says. Free—indeed. Free to walk away.”

  Sparrow could not give way to temper. Not yet. Her mind had to be clear. “Free to walk where? Back to your father?”

  “No,” said Keen. “He tells me to be glad of it. It’s easier for me, you see. I can sit back and let someone else rule the household.”

  Sparrow sat on her heels. Keen’s calm was brittle to breaking. Sparrow had never seen her like this. As if—

  “Are you sure he never touched you?”

  “Of course I’m sure!” Keen shook herself. “Please. I’m sorry. It’s just—he didn’t tell me. Until—until last night, he hadn’t been near me since spring camp. He—he never—he never looked to see if I was gone!”

  Sparrow could not bear to see her cry. She folded arms about Keen, held her and rocked her while she wept herself out. It took a long while.

  How strange, Sparrow thought as she felt her shoulder growing wet through the worn leather. Years of Walker’s cruelties had done little to shake her; they were nothing that she took pleasure in, but neither did they break her spirit. A few days of them had shocked Keen to the marrow.

  Ah, but he had been kind to Keen. No doubt he had told her he loved her. He was probably still saying it, even as he supplanted her with a newer, wealthier wife. It would never occur to him that what he did might wound her to the heart. It was convenient. It served his purposes. Of course Keen would accept it.

  Sparrow did not like to understand her brother so well. All men, from what she could see, thought such thoughts. Women were cattle, to be bought and sold without regard for what they might think of it. But Walker had a way about him. If he had been as heedless as any other man, it would not have mattered; but he lied. He made one think he had a heart.

  As Keen wept, the morning brightened about them. The sun rose in a sky heavy with haze. The day would be hot, searingly so. Sparrow had a day or two before she was looked for. Walker likely would not go hunting his wife, with a new wife to keep him occupied.

  She dried Keen’s tears and smoothed the hair back from that lovely face—it even wept beautifully, blushing rose rather than going all to blotches. “Listen to me,” she said. “We’ll go away for a day or two, you and I. We’ll take the mare and ride till we’re tired of riding. Then we’ll camp and rest, and never mind the world beyond us. If you want to go on after that, we will. Or we’ll go back, and we’ll find a place for you. You won’t be a servant to that child from the Tall Grass, not ever. Not unless you truly want to.”

  Keen shook her head. She was a gentle creature, but when she made up her mind, it was firmly made up. “I won’t share a tent with her. Everybody tells me I’ll learn to be a sister to her—but she’ll be sister as Walker is your brother. As—as you always told me he was.”

  “They’re well matched, then,” Sparrow said. “He might even let you go. If when we go back, we speak to the king, catch him when Walker is busy being married—Linden has a soft heart. He’ll give you your freedom, I’m sure he will. Maybe,” she said with swelling heart, “maybe he’ll even take you for himself. The king can do that. He can take you in and honor you and treat you with respect.”

  “Linden . . .” Keen made the word a sigh. “He is pretty. And yes, he’s kind, and he’s a fine lover, they say. I could do worse than that.”

  “Much worse,” Sparrow said. “He’s the king.”

  “So he is,” said Keen. “I’d forgotten. It’s so much to keep in mind—kings dying, kings rising up. Stallions fighting. There will be a war, I suppose. There’s always a war when the men make themselves a new king.”

  “That won’t matter to us,” Sparrow said.

  “It should,” said Keen. “People die.”

  “People won’t die.”

  “Promise?”

  Sparrow opened her mouth, but the words did not come out. She had been saying whatever came into her head, to comfort Keen. But this—Keen was not asking only for comfort. Keen wanted something more.

  Keen wanted surety. Sparrow could not give her that. Sparrow was a shaman. She was not supposed to be, but she was. If she promised that no one would die, she would have to keep that promise—and she could not.

  Keen understood her silence. The tears were all gone, which was as well.

  She stiffened. Sparrow let her go. She stood, smoothing her skirt, combing her hair with her fingers. “I want to go away,” she said. “We can do that. The rest . . . if it will be, it will be.”

  Sparrow was content with that, if Keen was.

  oOo

  Sparrow’s captivity in the women’s house and Keen’s flight from her husband’s tent had taken them to the far side of the gathering from the horse-herds, though the herds of cattle—and their herdsmen—were nearby. They had to crouch low and pretend to be wind in the grass, Sparrow with the ease of practice, Keen mimicking her name.

  She was not as sturdy as Sparrow. She had to stop more often, and rub legs and back that ached with moving so slowly and so unnaturally. It had been a long while since she ran wild with Sparrow and Wolfcub, and he taught them both to hunt as his father had taught him.

  They made a broad circle round the cattle and skirted the outermost edge of the camp. It was a clear run there till they came on the horses.

  Once the swell of the ground hid them from the camp, Sparrow straightened and gestured to Keen to stand erect, and sped through the grass. Keen trailed her, but not too far.

  Sparrow was giddy with freedom. Her anger at Walker was deep and lasting, but she set it aside till she could use it, like a new-made weapon. For the moment she gave herself up to speed, and to looking out for Keen, to be sure she did not stumble or fall behind.

  The mare was waiting. Sparrow could feel her impatience. In what seemed a very long time but by the sun was brief enough, they ascended the last hill and looked down on the horse-herds.

  Sparrow dropped to the grass before the summit and crawled the rest of the way i
n concealment. Keen was in no wise unwilling to do the same. When they had reached the top, she lay on her face while Sparrow scanned the herds. She was breathing hard, and shaking with exhaustion.

  Foolish creature, why had she not said anything? Sparrow bit her tongue on the rebuke. Keen was one of the bravest people she knew, and one of the least inclined to complain. She would go until she dropped, like a good horse.

  It was Sparrow’s fault; she should have seen that Keen was pressing the limits of her strength, and slowed down. But she had been too eager to come to the mare.

  Keen was recovering as they paused. Sparrow searched the herds below for signs of priests or herdsmen. There did not appear to be any. By ancient custom, no one waged war during the gathering, nor did tribes raid one another. There was nothing to watch for but wolves and lions, and those tended to be lazy in the summer’s heat.

  The herds were quiet, grazing in their clans and tribes. The royal herd kept the far edge as always, with the mare on guard as she so often was. She knew Sparrow was there. She grazed, but watchfully, with an air that bade Sparrow be quick—she had somewhat in mind, and she needed Sparrow for it.

  Sparrow waited a little while even so. But no human figure stirred, nor did a dog lope along the edges, questing for invaders or stragglers. These might have been wild herds for all the evidence she found of men’s presence.

  At last, when Keen’s breathing had quieted and the mare had begun to stamp with impatience, Sparrow rose from the grass and trotted down the hill.

  25

  Linden had made a very pretty king for the nine days’ sacrifices. He astonished people, perhaps, by drinking in moderation, dancing all the dances with tireless grace, and seeing to it that every tribe’s fire saw him at it for at least a little while. Whatever his failings of wit or wisdom, he had a gift for winning people’s hearts.

  On the second day after the sacrifices, Linden was called upon to be king over the gathered tribes. He had to sit in the king’s circle and hear petitions, settle disputes, and pass judgment on those who had broken this law or that during the time of sacrifice.

  This clearly was much less to his taste. He had learned to sit still, all hunters did, but Wolfcub saw the hint of fidget in the way he sat, in the flicker of his eyes toward the circle’s edge. But for Walker, who sat at his right hand and advised him frequently and very softly, he might have simply stood up and walked away. But Walker would not allow that.

  Linden did not have a gift for judgment, or much patience either. Wolfcub watched with interest as the morning stretched. Linden had been called out before the sun was well risen, dressed and combed and set in the circle with barely a bite to eat or a drop to drink. The old king had done as much—held audiences in the morning before the day’s heat rose too high—but Linden had never been at his best in the morning. He was a creature of the evening, a dancer about fires and a lover of women. In the mornings he best preferred to sleep.

  At first Wolfcub thought Walker had done this to test the young king, to prove his fitness or lack thereof. But as the sun rose higher, Wolfcub began to think that Walker had not thought such a thing at all. He had brought his puppet out to do his bidding. It had never occurred to him that the puppet might object.

  When the sun poised between sunrise and noon, Linden rose abruptly. One petitioner had gone. Another was coming forward, dragging a much disheveled woman who was perhaps his wife.

  Linden took no notice. He smiled charmingly, inclined his head to them all, and said to the petitioner, “Take her home, good man. Do with her as you see fit. I,” he said sweetly, “have duties elsewhere.”

  The woman shrieked and began to babble, begging the king’s mercy. The king turned away, still smiling, and said to his companions, “Come, we’re going hunting.”

  It was a terrible insult to both Walker and the elders, and no less to the petitioners still remaining. Wolfcub and Spearhead exchanged glances and, after an instant, shrugs.

  Linden was king. He could do as he pleased. And it was pleasant to see Walker struck speechless.

  Linden was not quite done in the circle. He spoke again to the elders and petitioners. “After this, audience will begin midway between noon and sunset, and continue till dark. I’m much more awake then, and much more likely to give you a fair hearing. For now, good morning; may the gods keep you.”

  He left them with that, walking lightly, taking visible joy in his freedom. The clamor of outrage that broke out behind him was muted somewhat by his promise of a later audience. Still, that clamor captured Walker as he moved to follow, and held him fast.

  Linden’s smile grew sly. He waited till he was out of earshot; then he laughed, deep and long. His companions had to hold him up or he would have rolled on the ground.

  When he could speak again, which was some little time, he said, “Did you see the shaman’s face? Oh! Oh, gods! Like a clubbed ox.”

  Some of the companions laughed with him. Wolfcub did not, nor did Spearhead.

  Linden noticed. He put aside his mirth, not easily, and patted each on the shoulder. “There, there, my elders. I won’t do this every day. But by the gods, hauling me out at the crack of dawn and making me listen to all that before I’d even had a cup of kumiss—it’s ungodly. I couldn’t stand for it. I’ll be a good king tomorrow. Today I’ll hunt. Or swim or fish, or whatever else I can do that’s not either in the camp or concerned with being a king.”

  Few of them could contest that. They had been hauled out, too, to stand behind the king; and without even his grace of being the one everyone looked to. It was crashingly dull to stand guard for hour upon hour while people droned on and on. The beaten woman might have been a diversion, but Linden’s hunt was a better one.

  “He’ll probably kill the woman,” Spearhead said as they strode toward the horse-herds. “I know that man—he’s one of the Dun Cow People. He’s given to killing wives when they cross his temper.”

  “Then she shouldn’t have done it,” said Linden. He shook his head. “Women. I’m supposed to take a wife when the marrying starts. Wives, if some of the old men have anything to say about it. One from each tribe, they’re telling me. Can you believe it? I don’t remember that my father did any such thing.”

  “Probably,” drawled Curlew, “because he already had a tentful of wives when they made him king. I remember he married one or two.”

  “He always married somebody at gathering,” Linden said. “They want me to do it all at once. Something to do with sending all my father’s women to the tomb with him—that was a noble gesture, but nobody asked me if I wanted it.”

  “Truly?” said Wolfcub. “Nobody did?”

  “Not a soul,” said Linden. “They try to tell me it was the old shaman who commanded it, but he’s been shut in the shamans’ tent, talking to nobody. He’s willing himself to death, I suppose. That would be like him. No—it was Walker. I’d lay wagers on it.”

  “No gamble there,” Spearhead said. “My brother, the one who’s an apprentice—he tells me the old man’s refusing food and drink.”

  Linden nodded. “Yes, I can believe it. He loved my father. They were battle-brothers, did you know? The shaman was older, but with being a shaman and all that goes into it, he rode to his first battle when my father rode to his. They fought together then and always. It was like having a second right hand, my father said.”

  “Drinks-the-Wind is left-handed,” Curlew said.

  “Yes, and they’d ride side by side, with a spear on either side, and no one could stand against them.”

  That was an old song, and none of Linden’s making, but the companions seemed to find it stirring. Wolfcub was almost reluctant to break into their mood, but he had a thought, and he had to speak it. “What if it’s not the shaman who’s willing himself to death? There are poisons that work slowly, and spells that eat away at a man’s spirit.”

  Eyes rolled at that. But Linden said, “No. No, I don’t think that’s so. Drinks-the-Wind is old. He was losing
his powers before all this even began. Now, without his battle-brother, what’s left for him? He’ll walk across and be with my father again. They’ll travel the gods’ country as they traveled this one.”

  Wolfcub set his lips together, carefully. He might have tried to persuade Linden, but this was not the time or the place. He walked on instead, and the conversation turned to other things.

  oOo

  They did not approach the horse-herds by stealth. There was no need; they were not raiders or lovers on tryst. But they quieted as they drew nearer, and stepped more softly, so as not to alarm the mares or the skittish foals.

  The riding stallions ran in their own herd, all but the king’s stallion, who as lord of the royal mares kept his own place and eminence. This morning they had claimed a fertile field near the river, at somewhat of a distance from the rest, but still closer to the camp than the royal herd. The companions paused there first to catch and bridle their own mounts, while Linden looked rather longingly at his former stallion, the pretty sorrel with the mane as fair as his own. But his new horse was much prettier.

  He caught Wolfcub watching him. His face brightened; he clapped his hands. “Boarslayer! Here, I’ve a gift for you. Take this horse. I insist!”

  Wolfcub swallowed a groan. The horse was pretty, oh indeed, and tractable, and not too slow in a gallop. But for heart and sheer intelligence, he was not even the beginning of a match for Wolfcub’s ugly little dun.

  There was little Wolfcub could do but put on a smile and accept the gift. He could have sworn his dun sneered—and when the beast turned his back and dropped manure almost in the sorrel’s face, it was as clear as words.

  Wolfcub sighed and bridled the sorrel and sprang astride, as one by one the others did the same. All but Linden. Wolfcub offered him a hand. He grinned and swung up behind Wolfcub.

  oOo

  They rode out of the field, over a low ridge and onto the windy plain. Horse-herds dotted it. The royal herd was impossible to miss, with its white mares and its silvermaned stallion.