The Mountain's Call

by Caitlin Brennan

  Two riders rode into the clearing. They were mounted on white gods. Through the veil of Gothard’s sorcery, the creatures’ coats glowed like clouds over the moon. The men were shadows encasing a core of light.

  Euan sat perfectly still. Gothard’s horse stood like a marble image. Only Gothard seemed at ease. He was alert but calm. Euan had understood that Gothard was a fair journeyman of one of the innumerable schools of imperial magic, but this was a little more than journeyman’s work.

  The riders never saw them. One of the horses might have cast a glance in their direction, but if it did, it did not sound the alarm. They rode on through the clearing and away.

  The sun had shifted visibly when at last Gothard let go the spell. He sagged briefly and swayed, then thrust himself upright. He had to draw a deep breath before he could speak. “It’s safe,” he said. “You can move.”

  Euan stretched until his bones cracked, then rotated his head on his neck. His muscles were locked tight. He released them one by one, a slow dance that Gothard watched with undisguised fascination.

  Euan let his dance stretch out somewhat longer than it strictly needed. When he was as supple as he could hope to be, he was on his feet. “You’re a better sorcerer than I thought,” he said. “I salute you.” He followed the word with the action, the salute of a warrior to a champion.

  Gothard accepted it with little enough grace. Euan left him there, sitting next to his motionless horse, and slipped away into the shelter of the trees.

  Chapter Eleven

  The last test of the Called fell three days before Midsummer. It was the only public test. Those who passed could regard it as an initiation into the life of a rider. Those who failed had the right to vanish into the crowd and be mercifully and formally forgotten.

  A great number of people were gathered in the largest of the riding courts, seated in tiers above the floor of raked sand. All the riders were there, and all the candidates who had passed this test in their own day. Students from the School of War, guests and servants filled all the rest of the benches.

  Some of the Called had family there. One whole flock of peacocks belonged to Paulus. Valeria saw how pale he was and felt almost sorry for him. She at least did not have to fail in front of a legion of brothers and uncles and cousins.

  That gave her an unexpected pang. Her family would never see her here, or know whether she succeeded or failed. Whatever happened, she had left them. She could never go back.

  All of the Called waited together in the western entrance to the court. The eights were intact except for Valeria’s, but she suspected that certain decisions had been made. Some of the Called had a drawn and haunted look. Others seemed dulled somehow, as if the magic had drained out of them.

  Only a few still had a light in them. Some actually shone brighter. Iliya was one. So was Batu. And, she saw with some incredulity, Paulus.

  She could not see herself, to know what the others must see. She felt strong. She had slept last night without dreams, and been awake when the bell rang at dawn. Now at full morning she was ready for whatever was to come.

  Supper last night had been water from the fountain and nothing else. There had been no breakfast, but she was not hungry at all. She was dizzy and sated with the air she breathed.

  She smiled at Batu who stood next to her. He smiled shakily back. “Luck,” he said.

  “Luck,” she replied.

  The hum and buzz of the crowd went suddenly quiet. As before, Valeria felt them before she saw them. The stallions were coming.

  This time no one rode them. They were saddled and bridled, walking beside their grooms.

  Her heart began to beat hard. There was not a sound in that place except the soft thud of hooves on sand, and now and then a stallion’s snort or the jingle of bit or bridle as he shook his head at a fly.

  There were eight of them, as always. She had not seen these eight before. They were massive, their coats snow-white. These were old stallions, how old she was almost afraid to imagine. Their eyes were dark and unfathomably wise. The tides of time ran in them. With every step, they trod out the pattern of destiny.

  She had an overwhelming desire to fling herself flat at their feet. All that kept her upright was the realization that if she did that, she would not be able to get up again. She stood with the rest of the Called, wobble-kneed but erect, and waited to be told what to do.

  Kerrec had appeared while the stallions arranged themselves in a half circle in the center of the court. He called the candidates together in eights, with the broken eight last.

  The test was as deceptively simple as all the rest. Each man was to select a horse, mount and ride.

  “Ride how?” asked a gangling boy from the second eight.

  “That is the test,” Kerrec said.

  By now they knew better than to ask him to explain. They exchanged glances. Some rolled their eyes. Others were praying, or maybe incanting spells.

  Valeria did not envy the first rider in the slightest. He selected himself, shrugged rather desperately and left his fellows and walked out onto the sand.

  The crowd’s silence deepened. The stallions stood unmoving. They did not fidget as ordinary horses would. Their stillness was monumental, rooted in the earth under their feet.

  The young man stood in front of them. His head turned from side to side. He was blind, Valeria thought. He could not see what he was supposed to see.

  When he moved, his steps were slow. His fists clenched and unclenched. He wavered between two nearly identical white shapes. They looked like brothers, with the same arched nose and little lean ears.

  His choice was visibly random. He seized the rein from the groom and flung himself into the saddle.

  The stallion did not move a muscle. At first the rider heaved a sigh of relief, but when he asked the stallion to advance, his answer was the same total stillness as before.

  A titter ran through the crowd. The rider flushed. His body tensed. Just as he would have dug heels into the broad white sides, the stallion erupted.

  The rider went off in the first leap. He landed well, rolling out of reach of the battering hooves. The crowd applauded that, but he did not stay for the accolade. He was gone as he was allowed to do, vanished and forgotten.

  The second rider could not choose at all. He turned and fled. The third chose reasonably well, mounted gracefully, and plodded a lifeless circle before he conceded defeat.

  Valeria had lost count before any of the would-be riders managed a ride worth noticing. The crowd had been by turns amazed and amused, but even devoted followers of the art were glazing over.

  Then a candidate mounted and rode—really rode.

  He was a wiry little creature with the pinched face of a starveling child, but he was light and quick on his feet. In the saddle he blossomed. The stallion danced for him, a stately pavane that won a murmur of approval from the benches.

  Valeria noticed an important thing. It was the stallion, not the rider, who danced. The rider had the sense to sit perfectly still and not interfere. His expression lingered in Valeria’s memory. He was half terrified and half exalted.

  Three more received the gift of the dance, out of three eights. The winnowing was fast and merciless. No one died, but one broke an arm and another left with a bloodied nose.

  Then there were the five of them, the broken eight, who were either the best or the worst of them all. The entrance that had been so crowded seemed echoing and empty. The four who had passed the testing so far had drawn to one side, watching with a combination of smugness that their ordeal was done and sympathy for those who had still to undergo it.

  People were whispering in the crowd, telling one another why this eight was missing three. Their attention had sharpened.

  Paulus went first. He had the most to lose and the least patience to spare. He walked straight toward the tallest of the stallions, but halfway there, he veered aside. When he halted, he was face-to-face with the least lovely of them, a comically long-nos
ed, long-eared creature with a mottled pink muzzle and a spreading pink stain around one eye.

  Paulus’ lip curled. At the same time his hand crept out and came to rest on the heavy crested neck. A small sigh escaped him, as if something inside him had let go. He mounted as punctiliously as always. The stallion shook his mane and pawed once, then gathered himself and rose in an extravagant and breathtakingly beautiful leap.

  Valeria felt the lightness, the sheer joy of that dance. It was perfectly startling and perfectly wonderful. Paulus rode it in terror and delight, until he had to laugh or burst into pieces.

  The rest of them rode on that lightness. Batu, then Iliya added their own steps to the dance.

  Then there were two. Dacius came forward with steady steps, but the magic had passed him by. The stallions turned their backs on him.

  He did not seem crushed as most of the others had been. He shrugged and sighed, and bowed to the stallions and then to the crowd. They ushered him out with a rhythmic stamping of feet.

  Valeria stood alone while the court fell slowly silent. It was even harder to be last than first. Every eye was on her. Every face was expectant. Would she pass? Would she fail? How devastating would it be if she did?

  The stallions had turned to face her. They were waiting as the spectators were, but they must know how she would choose. They were the living incarnation of foreknowledge.

  She had a brief, wild urge to simply ask them, but that passed. None of them in particular called to her as the Lady had. They were all Great Ones, gods among gods. Any one would be pleased to show her the full force of the magic for which she was born.

  She stood in front of them and offered herself. She did not know which to take. Surely if they were willing to carry her, they could decide which of them was most inclined to do it.

  Their amusement tingled in her skin. They found her impudence refreshing. She had not meant it to be any such thing, but gods had their own way of looking at human behavior.

  After a moment, one of them came forward. He was one of the brothers with whom the first candidate had failed. His eye was kind, in its way. He invited her to take the rein and mount.

  She did as she was told. If he pitched her into the crowd, she would let him. It was his right to do with her whatever he pleased.

  He danced for her. It was a portion of the Great Dance, the pattern that opened the wall between worlds. He stopped short of that, with great care, but she felt how close he came. He asked nothing of her but that she be still, and that she learn. This was her magic, he was telling her. This was her place and her power.

  The end was a dramatic departure from the Dance, an exuberant coda. He rose as his cousin had for Paulus, straight up on his hind legs, and leaped. Eight times he did it, and each time the crowd gasped in awe.

  He came down lightly, dancing in place. Valeria had given up any pretense to grace. She clung blindly to his mane and tried to remember how to breathe. He was breathing hard himself. Even for a god, lifting that much flesh and bone through so many leaps was a powerful effort.

  It dawned on her slowly that people were screaming and stamping and yelling the name she had taken. She did not see why they were so excited. She had done nothing but cling for dear life while the stallion danced.

  She slid from his back and stood on shaking legs. The others who had passed were all around her, slapping her on the back, cuffing her until her ears rang. She was too weak to fend them off. They swept her clean off her feet and heaved her onto their shoulders.

  The riders were coming down from the benches. Kerrec was on the sand already, with Master Nikos close behind him. She wanted to be on her feet, one of many, not riding on their shoulders like a hero.

  She struggled, weakly at first, then more strongly. Batu and another burly young person whose name she did not know were carrying her. Hands caught at her. She began to fight in earnest.

  It was as clear as the pattern of the Dance. Her flailing hand struck Batu’s ear and rocked him. At the same instant, as she lost her balance on his shoulder, one of the clutching hands tangled in her coat.

  She fell headfirst through the crowding bodies. Her coat wrenched free of its fastenings. Her shirt caught in it and tore. Her arms were bound in strangling leather and cloth. She could not help herself at all.

  She lay with the wind knocked out of her. The forest of legs had drawn back in a spreading silence. Iliya’s voice spoke, clear and penetrating. “By the Mother! That’s a—”

  Paulus stooped over her. He wrenched at her belt.

  No. She did not know whether she said the word or simply thought it. It filled her from edge to edge and spilled over in absolute and implacable refusal.

  She had more discipline than Cullen had. She did not kill Paulus. He flew up and away and landed hard, but he was alive. The wound to his pride would be worse than any of his bruises.

  She got her feet under her and stood up. No one reached to help. She was more aware of the stallions than of the human crowd. They were watching dispassionately. Of course they had known this would happen. It was as inevitable as a phase of the moon.

  She could not look into every face. She settled for Master Nikos’, aware that Kerrec stood close by him, silent and expressionless. “My name is Valeria,” she said. “I’m sorry I lied. Everyone said I couldn’t be Called—except that I was. I thought if I let you all think I was like the others, then once I passed, you would—”

  “That is not the way of things,” Master Nikos said. His tone was gentle, which surprised her. “I, too, am sorry. But a woman cannot—”

  “She did pass,” Kerrec said. “We can’t deny that.”

  Master Nikos’ mouth snapped shut.

  “Master,” said Kerrec, “I think this is not a deliberation for the open court. If you would be pleased to—”

  “Yes,” said Master Nikos. “Yes, of course.” His eye caught two of the riders. “See to her,” he said. And to the rest: “The celebration will continue. Andres, look after the candidates. Lords, ladies, honored guests, a feast and entertainment have been prepared. If you will follow my riders, they will show you where to go.”

  It was admirable, and remarkable, how quickly confusion settled into order. One of the riders who had been set in charge of Valeria brought her coat. All of its buttons were gone, but it covered her enough for modesty. She was glad to have it back again.

  A path opened through the crowd. No one wanted to touch her, as if female gender could pass to them like a fever. She resisted the urge to taunt them. Her mood had gone wild.

  The stallions were still watching. They were not going to help her. No one was. She was alone as she had been from the moment she was Called. She was the gods’ mistake, or maybe their jest. A human could never tell, with gods.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Absolutely not!”

  First Riders Mikel and Gallus and Regan had formed a wall of adamance. Nikos was saying nothing. Kerrec wished he could do the same, but there was the simple truth that all of them refused to see.

  “She passed every test,” he said doggedly. “The Lady chose her out of all the Called. The Great Ones declared her champion of the testing. She is the most powerful candidate that we have had since the gods know when.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mikel said. “She’s a female. She belongs to the Moon. Our power comes from the Sun.”

  “She has our power,” Kerrec said. “Ours. Pure and strong and straight from the source. I’ve never seen a human like her. She’s almost like one of the stallions.”

  “That’s blasphemy,” said Mikel. “She’s strong, yes. Then let her go to the Beastmasters or the ladies of Astarra. They can handle power of that intensity, and focus it in one of their familiars. She does not belong here.”

  “The stallions say that she does,” said Kerrec. “The Ladies have blessed her. She sees through the world’s illusion. She understands the Dance.”

  “And that makes her dangerous.”

  It was t
he first time Nikos had spoken since their council began. His voice was soft, but it would have taken more courage than any of them had to interrupt him.

  “She is the Moon’s child,” he said, “but the Call came to her and the white gods accept her. She’s too strong to ignore and too perilous to send away. Maybe Astarra could control her, but I have my doubts of that. Not this one. Not this magic. She’s our burden to bear.”

  “The stallions won’t do it,” Regan said. “It will be left to us. Gods! I never signed on as an executioner.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Kerrec said.

  “What else can we do?” Mikel asked. “We can’t keep or, gods forbid, train her.”

  “Why not?”

  “Train a woman? Is it even possible?”

  “I would do it,” Kerrec said.

  “Of course you would,” said Mikel. “You’re too young to know better.”

  Masters had discipline. They did not come to blows. Kerrec focused on his breathing until it was firmly under control, and unclenched his fists with deliberate care. “I may be young, but I’m not blind. I see that the stallions not only reckon her worthy, they see in her a power that none of the male candidates can match. That power must be controlled—and not by killing the body that houses it. If we do that, we incur the wrath of heaven. That same heaven, I do remind you, which Called her here.”

  “That could be debated,” Mikel said.

  “All the more reason to keep her here where we can watch her, and train her as only we know how to do. Because most surely, brothers, if we don’t do it, someone else will.”

  “Who else can—” Mikel stopped short. Good, thought Kerrec. He had remembered how to think. “Oh, no. He wouldn’t—”

  “She would be a gift of the gods to the one we refuse to name,” Kerrec said. “Do you want him to get hold of her, with her power over the stallions?”

  “All the more reason to get rid of her,” Regan said, echoing Kerrec’s words of a moment before. “We’ll raise wards against retribution, and do it as quickly and cleanly as may be. We can’t risk keeping her alive.”