by Judith Tarr
“Then what?” said Danu. “What does he want?”
“I think he wants to be king,” Sarama said.
Danu raised his brows. “A king? A man set over us?”
“That’s what he was raised to be,” she said.
“But the dreams,” said Danu. “Mine, Catin’s—if all he wants is to sit on a horsehide and tell people what to do, where’s all the fire and terror?”
“I don’t know,” Sarama said. She sounded troubled. “Agni is a great hunter. Men love him. Women, too. He’s been strong in war, but he’s never been as hot for it as some. Though he’d throttle me for saying it, I think he’d rather tame a horse than kill a man.”
“But he would kill one,” Danu said, “if he were driven to it.”
“Even you would do that,” said Sarama. She silenced him before he could protest. “The Lady tells me nothing but that he’s in her country. It’s as if—she’s glad. How can she be glad? He wants to be king.”
“I never tried to understand the Lady,” Danu said.
“I can’t help but try.” She sighed heavily.
“Will you be glad to see your brother?” he asked when she did not go on.
She blinked. “What? Glad? Of course I’ll be glad. But I don’t want him here.”
“I should like to see him,” Danu said.
“I can imagine,” she said as if it had just occurred to her, “that he would be fascinated to see you.”
He frowned.
She clasped him tight, and startled him with a ripple of laughter. “My dear beautiful man, among the tribes a woman’s man is chosen for her by her kin. Her male kin. Her father, if she has one living. Her brothers. She most certainly does not choose her own, and above all she does not come to her brother with a man’s child in her belly, and that man no one he has ever seen before.”
“Dear Lady,” Danu said. He thought perhaps he should be appalled.
It was difficult. She, after all, had chosen him. He could never regret that. “What will he want to do to you?”
“Nothing,” she said, “if I can help it. If not . . . he’ll likely not kill me. I don’t think. He might want to geld you. Kill you. Demand that you take me as your wife, and make my honor yours.”
“Wife?” said Danu, struggling with the word in her language.
“Woman who belongs to you,” she said. “Woman who lives in your tent, bears your children, does your bidding.”
Danu laughed incredulously. “You? Belong to me? How can you bear my children? They’re yours.”
“That,” she said, “is going to baffle my brother to no end.”
“I am baffled,” Danu said.
She patted his cheek. “I’m sure you are,” she said.
He did not like this mood of hers. At least, he thought, it was brighter than it had been before. “Tell me what you’re laughing at,” he said.
“Myself,” she answered. “No, don’t glare at me! I doubt my brother will kill you, and he knows that if he gelds you I’ll do the same to him. He’s going to insist that I marry you.” And before he could ask: “Marry is to make me your wife. To take me and say that you own me, and accept my honor as yours.”
“I can’t do that,” Danu said.
“I’ll have to promise to take no other man while you live. You have no need to promise the same. A man may take as many wives as he likes.”
“I won’t make you do that,” said Danu, “and he can’t force me. I don’t care if he tries to fight me. All of this is appalling. The Lady will never allow it.”
“That’s why I was laughing,” she said. “Because I know you, and I know him. If you don’t kill each other, you’ll be fast friends.”
“I’ll never understand him,” Danu said, “nor he me.”
“I hope you may,” she said.
“If he’s like you, I never will.”
She shook her head, drew him to her and kissed him. “You are a wonder and a marvel, and I wish to the gods I had never led my brother to this country. He’s going to change it—more than I ever could. Because I can teach you how to fight, but he gives you reason to do it. I can feel the younger gods in him. They’ll destroy the Lady if they can, and set this country under their heel.”
“They’ll never touch the Lady,” Danu said. “You never need fear that.”
“But they can touch you,” she said. “They can touch your country. And then—”
“And then we shall be stronger. We can do that, Sarama. Soft is strong. Like spidersilk. Like water, wearing away stone.”
“You are so sure,” she said.
He was not; but he was standing on the step of the Lady’s house. It must be she who spoke in him.
It comforted Sarama, or seemed to. That was all he wanted.
64
As inevitably as snow in winter, in the wake of the messenger from the east came the Mother and her daughters of Larchwood, fleeing the coming of the horsemen. Others like them had come westward, but only they had come as far as Three Birds. Only they feared war so much that they ran as far as they expected it to go.
Their Mother came with them, but Catin led them. It was her fear that brought them. Her urgency drove them on.
“You should go farther,” Sarama said to her. “Go all the way to the world’s edge. Maybe the horsemen won’t follow.”
Sarama had not meant to speak with Catin. But after the dance and the feast of welcome, when the Mother’s house had been turned upside down to make room for its guests, the two of them happened to meet between the house and the temple.
Sarama had taken refuge in the Lady’s house for a while, and like a coward evaded Catin’s bitter dislike. But she had come back because she was too proud to stay away, and because she had left Danu to face Catin alone.
Not that he could not fend for himself, but she should have been there. She should have stood beside him.
As the Lady’s luck would have it, she met Catin halfway between house and temple, under a grey and misty sky. The tenders of the fields had been singing thanks to the Lady for her gift of rain after so many days of sun—blessing her for bringing relief to parched earth.
Sarama had only begun to understand what the world and its weather were to people who made the earth grow and bear fruit. She was not so glad of rain: it turned roads to mud and made riding a misery.
It was only mist now, more pleasant than not on her cheeks. Catin had not even worn a mantle against it.
She stopped at sight of Sarama, and thought transparently of turning and walking away. But like Sarama she had her pride. She said, “So I was right. Are you still denying it?”
“No,” said Sarama. “That’s my brother leading the horsemen. Did you know that?”
Catin’s eyes widened. So: no one had told her. Not that anyone knew, except the messenger who had gone on to the Long Bridge, and Danu.
Danu had kept silent. Sarama was not surprised.
She watched Catin’s surprise transmute into a kind of glee. “He followed you. Did you tell him to do it? What did you promise him?”
“Actually,” Sarama said, “I forbade him. He came regardless.”
“How very disobedient,” said Catin.
“Horsemen are like that,” Sarama said. “They don’t listen to women.”
“That is the women’s fault. They should keep their men in hand.”
“So they should,” said Sarama. “Did you ever think of doing it, instead of running away?”
That stung: Catin’s eyes glittered. “We came to take counsel with the Mother of Three Birds, and to ask her help in standing against the horsemen.”
“While the horsemen take your city that you left behind.” Sarama shook her head. “You should have stayed. He’s not fighting or killing. He might even have been worth your choosing. Aren’t you curious to know what a man of the tribes is like?”
“Whipcord and wire,” said Catin, “and a powerful stink. They never bathe after the midwife dips them in mare’s milk and ha
nds them to their mothers.”
“Ah,” said Sarama. “You have seen them.”
Catin shook her head tightly. “I’ve heard what people say of them. One of them forced a woman. She was carrying a baby. It died. Have you ever heard of such a monster?”
Sarama smiled her sweetest smile. “I’m sure it was an honest mistake.”
Catin hissed. “Only an outlander would make light of such things.”
“Surely,” said Sarama. “I think you came here to taunt me. Why do you dislike me so much? Do you want Danu as badly as that?”
“You took him away from me,” said Catin.
“You cast him off,” Sarama said. “You nigh to broke his heart. Can you fault me for wanting to comfort him?”
“You did that,” said Catin with a long, raking glance.
Sarama met that glance and laughed. “Imagine! I’m quarrelling over a man. He’d be horrified if he knew. He’s such a proper man of his people.”
“You don’t deserve him.”
“Probably not,” said Sarama. “Now say it. Say that you expect me to take my Mare and ride away and lead the horsemen here, and make them bring war to the people who cherished me as one of themselves.”
“You’re fond of mockery, aren’t you?” said Catin.
“Not as fond of it as you.”
Sarama shrugged, sighed, walked past her. As she had more than half expected, Catin caught at her arm, pulling her about.
She gave to it as if it had been a horse’s leap and shy. Catin seemed a little startled at the lack of resistance. She put Sarama in mind, just then, of a young and headstrong mare, fiercely mistrustful of strangers and fiercely protective of her own. It did not make her easier to like, but it bolstered Sarama’s patience.
Catin did not seem to know what to do with Sarama now that she had caught her. Sarama did not help her; she stood quietly, waiting for Catin’s grip to slacken.
“I’ll be watching you,” Catin said. “Every moment of every day, and every night, too, that you walk abroad from your bed. If you even think of running to your brother, I’ll know. I’ll stop you.”
“I am not going to run to my brother,” Sarama said. “I’m not going to send for him, either. If he comes here—I’ll welcome him. But only if he comes in peace.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Catin.
Sarama shrugged. “The truth doesn’t depend on your belief. Now will you let me go? I’m wanted in the Mother’s house.”
“And I am wanted in the temple,” Catin said, thrusting Sarama away. “Go, laugh at me. Remember that I’m watching you.”
“I won’t ever forget,” Sarama said.
oOo
Danu was standing in the doorway of the Mother’s house, silent and invisible until she stood in front of him. She started and nearly leaped on him before she knew who it was.
He regarded her without fear of the knife she pressed to his throat, frowning a little as he searched her face. “You’re ill,” he said.
Slowly Sarama lowered the knife, sheathed it, breathed deep. “Not ill,” she said. “Troubled.”
“Tilia will speak to Catin,” Danu said. He spoke quietly, but there was a growl in it, too soft almost to hear.
“No,” said Sarama quickly. “No, don’t tell Tilia. She’ll trample Catin flat.”
“She’ll tell Catin to let you be,” Danu said. “Catin’s dreams are too strong for her spirit. They twist her in ways that I don’t like. She’s decided that you are bent on destroying us. Nothing any of us says will dissuade her from it.”
“For all any of you knows, that is the truth.”
Danu shook his head. “She doesn’t understand. She thinks she knows what you are, what the dreams mean. But she hears too many voices. She can’t tell which is true and which is false.”
“How do you know that I can, either?”
“I know,” Danu said with certainty that Sarama could envy—if she had not wanted to slap it out of him.
“Don’t trust me,” she said. “Don’t believe me. Catin is wise in that. She knows that I’m the enemy.”
“You are not,” Danu said, unshakable.
“You do love me,” Sarama said. She meant it, and not with irony.
“I do love you,” he said in all seriousness. “Now come inside. Everybody’s quiet. I kept a jar of the honeyed wine for you.”
She held him before he turned to lead her within. “Tell me. Tell me the truth. Do you trust me?”
“Why should I not?” he asked, as innocent as a newborn child.
“Maybe,” she said, “because my brother and others of my kin and kind are riding toward you with swords.”
“You are not,” he said. “You’re teaching us to fight.”
“Catin trusts too little,” Sarama said. “You trust too much. Is there no balance in the world?”
“The Mother has balance,” Danu said. “Tilia may—she’s difficult sometimes to predict.”
“Ah,” said Sarama: a sound half of disgust and half of unwilling amusement. “I’m a fool, too, because I chose you. We’ll all be fools together. My brother will be so appalled, he’ll turn and run from the sight of us.”
Danu rolled his eyes at that, which made her laugh; and that was no ill way to regard the whole of it.
65
Agni held his men in a delicate balance, poised between conquest and war. They went out as he commanded, took towns and villages, exacted tribute in treasure.
There were too few of them to settle in any one place or hold any single city. They trusted to speed, and to ceaseless motion. If there had been resistance, they would have crushed it. But there never was.
He lingered a few days in Larchwood, long enough for all three of his mares to foal: the dun sisters on the same night, their spotted cousin the day after. Two fillies and a colt, red dun or red chestnut, stamped each in the image of its father. Then when they were big enough to travel, drawn by the same restlessness that had brought him so far, he left the city behind, took his horsemen and rode toward the setting sun.
Summer deepened about him. The days were breathlessly hot, the nights still and warm and abuzz with biting flies.
The westward cities crowded ever closer together, in ever greater numbers of people. He rode straight; those who had followed him came and went, hunting in widening circles but always returning. They all ate like kings, and dressed like them, too.
It was a glorious riding, but with an edge to it, a shortening of temper. They had seen the new moon in Larchwood. As it swelled to the full, they came through a skein of villages to a town that proclaimed its wealth with a fluttering of banners and a ringing of what Agni learned were called bells. They were made of copper, and they made a sweet sound.
To be so rich, he thought: to be able to delight one’s fancy with precious copper, to shape it into a ripple of music.
Here at last he could not simply ride into the town and take what he pleased. People stood across the road, women most of them, with hunting spears and blades of peculiar shapes and sizes, that must be knives for cutting meat and butchering cattle and, perhaps, mowing grain in the fields. Their faces were grim, their feet set firmly in the road, their bodies walling it from side to side.
Agni halted in front of them. His people drew up behind, tall on their horses, towering over these women on foot. “Mika,” he said to the child who rode behind him, “tell them to let us pass.”
“They’re not going to,” Mika said.
Agni sighed faintly. Tillu had opinions and was not shy in expressing them, but he never argued as this child did. Neither had he spoken as well for Agni, or been so keenly aware of these people’s minds: how they thought, what they meant by the words they spoke.
“Just tell them,” Agni said.
Mika told them—or so Agni could suppose. One of the women in the front rank answered in a harsh clear voice. Agni knew the word: “No.”
“Tell her that if she resists, it is an act of war. And in war,
people die.”
“She says she knows,” Mika said when he had spoken and been answered.
“Very well,” Agni said. He turned Mitani about and raised his voice.
“We ride forward. Don’t strike unless someone strikes you first. Use your horses’ weight to drive them back. This town is ours. We will take it.”
They all nodded. He caught and held any eye that gleamed too brightly, and stared it down. When he was satisfied that they would do as he bade them, he turned again and rode Mitani toward the line. It did not waver, which spoke well for these people’s bravery and badly for their common sense.
Very deliberately he kept his spear on his saddle and his long knife in its sheath. He simply rode forward.
Mitani hesitated, unwilling to trample living flesh; but Agni urged him on. He could feel the weight of his warriors behind him, their numbers smaller than the people gathered here, but strong, and mounted on horses.
The line stiffened against the weight of them, but it could not hold. It weakened and wavered and broke.
Agni was through, and the road was clear, his warriors quickening their pace behind him.
oOo
He did not see how it began. He heard a sound that he knew too well at first to understand. The song of an arrow, the soft thud as it struck flesh; the cry of a wounded man. But as he turned, he saw as in a dream the raising of a spear, the woman—it was a woman, he could not mistake her—driving it into the body of a horseman who pushed past her.
One blow bred another. The tautness of waiting shattered. With a howl of pure glee, Agni’s warriors leaped into the fight.
Agni drew breath to bellow at them, to command them to stop. But the words never escaped. The people of this town, the Lady’s people, were fighting—not well, but fighting it certainly was. Their archers were particularly dangerous. Maybe for them it was easier, because they need not stand face to face with a man before they shot him.
Agni waded in. He slipped his spear from its lashings and struck with the butt of it, fending off wild blows, ducking arrows that flew overhead.
