“Come down,” the Merikit whispered in Jame’s ear, her voice quivering with mirth or something else.
They descended the steps into the lodge.
“Of all her housebonds,” said Granny behind them, “he was her Favorite.”
The door closed. Jame found herself swept up into strong arms, her mouth pressed to sweet lips. The other’s breath smelled of rich spices. Her tongue tasted like honey. Her full breasts buoyed up the world. She ran her hands down Jame’s sides to cup her buttocks and draw her close. Jame melted into the embrace. Here and now, this was a goddess as much as a woman, the second face on the Ivory Knife, the passionate, fruitful mother.
“Awake,” Gran Cyd breathed into her mouth. “You can not be your kind’s Ice Maiden forever.”
Granny Sit-by-the-fire stood beside them, her incandescent eyes barely level with the Merikit’s elbow, leering but insistent.
“I said, ‘He was her Favorite, but he died.’”
With a laugh, Gran Cyd released Jame and pushed her toward the steps. Jame stumbled up them, shoved open the door, and staggered into the clearing. By the fire, Granny’s smoldering eyes greeted her, as did a shout from the waiting women.
The drum quickened its beat. Stepping in time to it, she scrambled after her scattered wits. As she steadied, she moved into the wild music that prompted her to leap and spin. This was the delirium of fever, the death dance that seeks to transcend life.
Faster, faster . . .
The clearing spun around her as the drum thundered in a continual roar. Then, abruptly, it stopped. So did she, panting, but wound so tight that she thought she was about to fly apart. With a shout, she uncoiled in a leap that took her half way across the clearing, nearly into the fire. There she collapsed, panting. For a moment, there was a shocked silence. Then someone began to cheer, followed by the rest of the audience. Jame rose and gave them an unsteady bow, then rejoined her friends on the hillock. Lyra laughed at her, giddy with relief.
“Oh, you were so funny! Until . . . until . . . you weren’t.”
“And so she lost her only true love, but he left her with her only child, a son.”
Jame removed the doll from her belt and dropped it into Lyra’s lap.
“Your turn.”
The other women had withdrawn from the clearing, leaving Gran Cyd alone. All eyes turned expectantly to the Kencyr girl.
“But, but . . .” Lyra stammered.
“Go on!” hissed Prid. “Just do what they tell you to. It’s easy!”
When Jame had translated this, Lyra gulped and descended.
“Of course she spoiled him.”
Gran Cyd stripped off her golden torques and loaded Lyra with them so that the girl swayed under their weight.
“Having much, he wanted more. ‘All she possesses will be mine when she dies,’ he said to himself. ‘May that be soon!’
“But our lady was no fool. ‘Alas,’ she said, ‘It breaks a mother’s heart, but he must go or I.’”
Gran Cyd mimed energetically driving a spade into the earth next to the steps. The women grunted with each thrust. Cyd bent lower and lower, stopped to wipe her brow, and continued.
“‘There was an old woman who dug her son’s grave,’” Jame murmured, quoting something she had heard long, long ago.
The Merikit paused, as if to admire her handiwork.
“Go on, go on,” breathed Prid, leaning forward, joined by others among the witnesses.
Lyra glanced at them, uncertain, but their urging was unmistakable. She stepped up behind Gran Cyd and gave her a tentative shove. The Merikit queen uttered an undignified squawk and jumped into the stair well.
“‘And when it was done, he buried her in it.’” Of course. This indeed was a tale of the Four, how Mother Ragga became the Earth Wife.
Lyra scrambled back with a yelp. Under her feet, the ground heaved. Out of it came a claw-like hand with earth packed black beneath its ragged nails. A broad, mud-streaked face followed.
“Am I late?” the Earth Wife sputtered, spitting out dirt. “Tcha . . . men! They take forever to do anything, except in bed.”
The bonfire flared. When it settled, Granny Sit-by-the-fire was gone. That, Jame supposed, marked the end of the women’s mystery, or perhaps not quite. Half a dozen brought their babies down into the open space. Although no judge of such things, Jame guessed that these infants were some eighteen months old, already struggling free of their mothers’ arms and toddling about with chortles of delight. Hands urged her to rise. She went down to join the milling miniature throng, stepping gingerly so as not to trample anyone.
What in Perimal’s name . . . ?
Gran Cyd had emerged from her lodge, a child with hair the color of smoke in her arms. She smiled warmly at Jame.
“See, my Favorite? We have indeed been blessed.”
“Oh,” said Jame, staring. “These are . . .”
“Yes. Your daughters.”
All of them had turned. Wobbling steps brought them to her knees where they clung, beaming up at her with luminous gray eyes. She stroked their hair. Their cheeks were warm under her fingertips, their upturned faces brimming with glee.
“Er . . .” Jame said. Children had never played much part of her life. “They . . . they’re beautiful.”
She touched the queen’s child. It smiled at her with bright, silver-gray eyes, but it was something else, more subtle, more disturbing, that made her glance quickly at its mother.
“Cyd . . .”
“Hush. Not now.”
BOOM-Wah-wah-wa-boomph . . .
The men were returning from Kithorn. Their torches wound up the darkling hill in a fiery stream and the open gates received them. Women scattered, dragging their daughters after them, stifling giggles. Chingetai burst into the open. His broad, bare chest was smeared with charcoal to represent the Burnt Man, whom he had played in the keep courtyard. As he slapped at it, intricate blue tattoos emerged through a cloud of dust.
“My consort and lodge-wyf!” He threw wide his brawny arms to embrace her, but let them drop when he saw what she held. She gave the child to Mother Ragga who retreated with it down into the lodge, glowering back over her shoulder.
“Housebond. Welcome.”
Chingetai reached behind him and hauled forth a subdued Hatch with a bruised eye quickly turning black. “I present to you the Earth Wife’s Favorite, returned to favor!”
“Oh.” Prid’s hands rose to cover her mouth. “Oh, no.” Then anger sparked in her eyes. “Oh, Hatch, after I waited all year, do you relish your bed privileges as the Favorite so much? Then enjoy them, for you will have none of me!”
“Prid, wait . . .”
But she had stormed off into the night.
Hatch spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I tried to lose,” he said, looking from Jame to Gran Cyd and back. “But the Challenger hit me with a rock and then he insulted . . . well, what else could I do but smash in his face? I-I think I killed him.”
Chingetai clapped him on the shoulder. “Then he was unworthy. Be proud, boy! Why, tonight you will be the envy of the entire village!”
“Not of all.” His consort regarded him soberly. “We women sometimes see things . . . differently.”
“And that, somehow, is our fault?”
“Have I said so? But still, think: Do you speak for the entire tribe?”
“For that of it which matters,” he said, but would not meet her eyes.
Women bustled past, bound for the communal hall, carrying pots, pans, and trays heaped with steaming food.
“Now we feast!” said Chingetai, turning away to follow with evident relief.
“My housebond is a fool,” Gran Cyd said sadly, watching him go. “Then again, his mother came from a neighboring tribe where women are held in less regard than they are here. Our customs do not always please him. Losing his little sister as Ice Maiden to the Eaten One didn’t help.”
Char emerged from the shadows, again in his own cloth
es. As Jame had feared, however, Ma had split his pants open down the back. Like most Kendar, he only wore a loincloth beneath and, by the way he kept tugging down the hem of his jacket, he was clearly feeling a draft.
“You said you would speak to someone about Bene.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Cyd . . .”
The Merikit queen smiled. Jame had forgotten that she, like her consort, understood Kens. “Would this be about the stray cow that Chingetai brought back to our village? There, you must ask him. Cattle raids are his business.”
Jame and Char caught up with Chingetai outside the hall, a curious Lyra and Jorin trailing after them at a safe distance. The Merikit still seemed shaken and disinclined to talk, but Char stepped around him, into his path.
“I want my cow,” he said, glowering up at the big man.
For a moment, Jame thought that Chingetai would hit him. What should she do? Trip the hill-man? Catch his arm as he swung, hoping to throw him off balance? Step between them and risk getting her head knocked off?
But then Chingetai collected himself and gave a boisterous laugh.
“When cattle wander, boy, finders keepers.”
“This cow is in calf to a yackcarn bull.”
“Truly? Ah then, bad luck to us both. Have you ever seen a yackcarn female? Even new-born, they are huge. A domestic cow would burst, trying to birth one.”
“And if the issue is male?”
“That would be very rare, and no doubt just as fatal. If young female yackcarn are big, think how enormous a male would be.”
“But its sire isn’t . . .”
Jame hastily cut in: “If what you say is true, why not give us back our cow and save yourself the trouble?”
Chingetai scratched his bearded chin. “Why not indeed. Very well. I return her to you.”
As he turned to go, with barely suppressed fury Char said, “That damn bull. If he’s already in effect killed a third of our herd, we’ve got to kill or at least drive him off before he gets to the rest of it.”
Chingetai swung back, staring. “You still have a yackcarn bull hanging around your cows?”
“Yes,” said Char, ignoring Jame’s effort to shut him up. “And a prime pest he is, too.”
“But . . . but . . . this is wonderful! What a hunt it will be, worth a thousand songs for generations to come!”
“If we permit it,” said Jame. “Remember, Tagmeth is on Kencyr land. Don’t you dare launch a cattle raid on us.”
Char cut in. “What will you give us in exchange for such a hunt?”
The Merikit looked at him with dawning respect. “What do you want?”
“Cows to replace all those that this menace of yours costs us. And a good bull—of proven potency, mind you.”
“Done.”
Chingetai spat on the ground and ground the spit in to seal the bargain. Char did likewise. With a nod, the Merikit turned and disappeared into the hall.
“Char . . .”
“What? D’you think you could have gotten a better deal?”
“No, but . . .”
Jame had just realized that she really didn’t want the yackcarn bull killed. The memory of him being sat on by a cow was somehow endearing.
“When Chingetai finds out that his trophy male is a midget,” she said instead, “will he keep his word?”
Char shrugged. “You know these people better than I do. We can only hope.”
“Go with him,” Jame told Lyra as the Kendar followed the Merikit inside. “Try not to let him pick any fights.”
Lyra stared at her. “How?”
“I don’t know. Faint?”
When they were gone, she stood listening to the cheerful clamor within, keeping her back to the door to preserve her night vision, although with the full moon now riding high that was hardly necessary. There. The pale oval of a face ducked back into the doorway of a nearby lodge. Jame crossed over to it.
“Prid,” she called softly down into the darkness.
The Merikit girl emerged. Even by moonlight, Jame saw that her face was swollen with tears. She stumbled up the steps and threw herself into Jame’s arms, sobbing. Jame held her.
“Being the Favorite isn’t easy,” she murmured into the other’s tousled hair. “The village expects a lot, and so do the Four. Hatch did what he had to.”
“S-some of the girls say I’m a fool for not w-wanting to share him. It isn’t natural, they say, and n-neither am I.”
“I doubt if Gran or Ma or Da would say so. Your beloved is quite handsome. It sounds to me as if your former friends are jealous.”
“Does it?” said Prid doubtfully. “But he didn’t have to win again. Oh, how could he, after I . . . after we waited so long?”
“You left before he could explain. The Challenger fought dirty. More than that, though—well, Hatch is a sensible boy. I’ve only seen him truly upset once, on our wedding night, when he thought I was going to hurt you.”
Prid gave a shaky giggle.
“Yes, it was funny at the time, or would have been if I hadn’t been so drunk on fermented fish piss. But tonight the Challenger insulted someone. I think it was you, probably for the same reason that you’ve been teased before. And Hatch lost his temper.”
“Then . . . then it was all for my sake?” Prid drew back and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Oh, what a fool!”
“Men can be like that when they fall in love.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Wait another year, I suppose, if you still don’t want to share your mate. There, there,” she added as Prid burst into tears again. “You’re both very young, although you might not think so. I’m told that anticipation makes some things sweeter.”
“Would you wait?”
That was a good question. If she loved someone as much as Prid did Hatch, would she let anything stand in her way? Her situation was at least as complicated as the two young Merikits’, more so if one considered the possible cosmic consequences. Jame thought of Bane, of Randiroc, of Torisen. Each had stirred her blood. A time might come when one of them struck sudden fire in her veins. What would she do then?
“Awake,” Gran Cyd had told her. “You can not be your kind’s Ice Maiden forever.”
But why not? she thought now, defiantly. How much simpler it would be, how much safer. Then again, when had her life ever been either?
“Would I wait?” she said lightly, and reached out to chuck Prid under the chin. “I have you, sweet lodge-wyf. What more could I want?”
Prid stepped back, pouting. “Now you laugh at me, but you are never here. My lodge will be so empty with Hatch gone, for I see now that we can not share a hearth and not a bed.”
“I may have a solution for that. Lyra needs to escape her own kin for awhile. Will you give her shelter?”
“Oh.” Prid considered this. “That mask she wears—is she really so ugly beneath it?”
“Not at all. It’s just that Highborn Kencyr women conceal their faces.”
“You don’t.”
“I am something of a misfit, as you may have guessed.”
“Even among your own kind?”
“Especially there.”
“Well, she seems nice, and I have always wanted a sister. Yes. I would like that very much.”
“Good. Now at last we can celebrate.”
Jame paused at the hall’s door while Prid eagerly went on ahead to join her new friend. The communal lodge lay mostly underground, a circular amphitheater with deep, earthen benches reaching down almost to water level and prone to flood in the spring when the Silver overleaped its banks. Wicker cages tucked back against each riser contained shadowy seated forms, the tribe’s honored dead encased in leather and wax like the watch weirdling who guarded the southern approach. If they came out tonight, Char was in for a shock. Living Merikit crowded the benches, eating and drinking in a cheerful babble of voices. On the whole, Jame thought that Lyra would be happy here, and hopefully not get her young hostess into too much t
rouble.
Chingetai emerged near the fire-pit at the bottom of the hall and shouted to gain attention. When this failed, he put his fingers in his mouth and blew a piercing whistle. Folk shushed each other to listen, apparently expecting to hear something funny.
“My Merikit,” he shouted up at them, “I bring great news! A yackcarn bull has been sighted in the Riverland, and we have been given permission to hunt him! Who among us has ever seen such a wonder? Surely, this generation is blessed. Give the word and I will lead you to glory!”
The men in the crowd stirred in excitement. “Yes!” cried someone.
“Yes!” “Yes!” “Yes!” others echoed.
By now they were all on their feet, cheering.
Chingetai strutted and preened before them.
Jame sighed.
Chapter VII
All Things Rampant
Summer 100—102
I
HE WOKE, or thought that he did, in the arms of Kallystine. That, at least, was her perfume, musk with a faint hint of corruption. She stretched out on top of him as supple and seductive as a cat, her perfect breasts pressing against his chest, her husky voice tickling his ear.
“See? Was that not good?”
“Yes,” he said; then, with a shudder, “No.”
She laughed. Only her eyes gleamed through the heavy veil that she wore. The fabric drew taut, molding itself to the features beneath. Sharp cheekbones, a pointed chin, bared teeth . . . a skull, grinning down at him.
“Someone else would like to say hello.”
“W-what?”
“Shhh.”
A fingertip touched his lips, then slid down to tease his nipple. He shivered and cupped the heavy fullness of her breasts as they swung before his face. They, at least, had always been sweet.
“Ah, Ganth, is this not what you have dreamed about? You could have had me.”
“No.” His voice grated, harsh and stammering in his own ears. “You wanted my older b-brother, Greshan. Father p-promised him to you.”
“What Gerraint Highlord promised me was a half-Randir heir to his throne. I would have used Greshan, but someone better came to claim me. In your precious Moon Garden. Under your grandmother Kinzi’s very window. Oh yes, I saw that ancient hag spying on us, may we have blasted her sight. But you, sweet boy, would you like to try again for a better heir than the one that you drove out of the Haunted Lands with curses? Shall I let you, Ganth G-grayling, dear little Gangrene? And you, standing there in the shadows, would you like to do more than watch? Once Kinzi said, ‘We Knorth are a passionate house, and not always wise.’ Not, indeed. Poor little lost children. Come play with me.”
The Gates of Tagmeth (Chronicles of the Kencyrath Book 8) Page 14
