by Jean Johnson
But she is Shifterai, and I will find her. We don’t abandon our own.
Both Tava’s and her father’s horses were tired by the time they reached home the next day. She had spent too many hours yesterday obscuring her backtrail and hadn’t been able to hitch up the cart until this morning. Driving to the place on the trail where she had found him, she had wrapped Varamon’s body in a sheet and lifted it into the wagon. It was a task made physically less difficult from the way she could flex her muscles bigger, but a task made emotionally harder from the tears that kept blurring her vision.
Even now, with the sun playing shine-and-shadow games with the drifting clouds overhead, it wasn’t easy to keep her grief at bay. Her father was gone. The only parent she had ever known. The one person who had accepted all of her, from her occasional stubborn streaks to the outlander magic she had inherited.
Varamon had loved her, encouraged her, cared for her, even when the rest of the village had declared her an improper disgrace. She wasn’t docile enough, she was too forward and bold, and she didn’t heed her rightful place. Her father hadn’t cared that she couldn’t stitch as neat a seam as the other village maidens, so long as she could pen a neat line. He hadn’t limited her education to the needs of household and garden, but had encouraged her to study as much about the world as she could, given their limited resources. He would debate with her in the evenings, discussing motives for people’s deeds, the balance of politics versus profit, and the way the events of the past echoed into the future.
But that was all gone. No more debates on the King’s decision to rebuild the levees this far up the river next spring, no more mutual sympathies for having to weed the garden when we’d both rather be reading . . . no more seeking out and studying new kinds of animals together, to see if I can transform myself into some new creature . . .
“Where have you been?!”
The strident demand startled both Tava and Tender. The gelding tried to rear in the traces, forcing her to deal with the reins. With a voice that could erode iron, the Aldeman’s wife attacked her again.
“You ungrateful child! Unnatural girl! You’ve been gone all day long, and with your father off on business, there’s been no one to chaperone you!” Abigan Zin Tua grabbed at Tender’s halter, yanking the nervous horse still. “You were gone yesterday, and you were gone today—for all I know, you’ve been tossing your skirts for the boys in the next village! Is that why you’re on the path to the priest? Are you finally going to confess all of your hidden sins?”
The urge to growl like a beast rose up within her. Tava swallowed it down, even though she knew they were alone at the moment. Abigan was a proper Mornai woman; she never raised her voice this stridently in the presence of a man . . . but there weren’t any men around at the moment. Hypocritical to the last, Tava thought sourly. She didn’t fight with the reins for control, not wanting to give the gelding a sore mouth.
“Tender came home alone, yesterday,” she managed to say, only to be cut off before she could add more.
“Alone? What do you mean, alone?” the middle-aged woman demanded. “Alone, like you were alone? Where is your father, girl?”
“I went searching for Father . . . and I found him, yesterday. But I couldn’t bring him home until I came back for the cart. That is where I have been all day. Bringing my father home . . . and taking him to the priest.”
Abigan choked back her next demand, face coloring. She quickly released the gelding’s harness, hurrying to the back of the cart. No doubt she intended to apologize profusely for being so forward in his presence, but she stumbled to a stop, peering at the shrouded shape in the bed of the small wagon.
“He . . . he . . .”
“He’s dead,” Tava confirmed.
Abigan’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly a few times before she managed to ask, “How?”
“He was ambushed by bandits.”
Shrieking, Abigan snatched up the hem of her skirt and pelted up the path, gasping something about warning the village’s Alders, and something else about invaders on the way and everyone being murdered in their beds.
Depression warred with disgust. Gently shaking the reins, Tava nudged Tender into plodding forward again. She wasn’t going to the priest to confess her supposed sins; she was going to the priest to deliver her father’s body. After that . . . she didn’t know what she would do.
I used to ask Father why he stayed among such small-minded people . . . and he always said that they needed someone with a bigger mind to watch over them, even if they didn’t appreciate it. But what you did, Father, putting up with these people . . . I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I want to do it. Not for these people.
I can’t stay here in Five Springs, Father. Not without you to buffer and protect me from these people . . . and not without you here to protect them from me. Because the next person who calls me unnatural and accuses me of . . . of . . . with men, I might not confine the urge to growl and bare my teeth at them.
I don’t have you to protect me anymore, Father. All I have is myself. I must protect myself. Somehow.
If Tender hadn’t been waiting for her, if the goats hadn’t needed milking and the ducks and chickens feeding, Tava wouldn’t have returned home. Not that sitting outside all night had been pleasant; the edge of the great Morning River was a prime breeding ground for mosquitoes, midges, and other insects. She had hardened her skin to keep them from biting her all night long and wrapped herself in a wool cloak to keep warm against the cool night air, but they had still buzzed around her eyes.
She sat vigil long after the other villagers returned to their homes for the night, stoically watching the flames on Pyre Rock until there was nothing left but smoldering ashes and bits of bone. Varamon’s soul had fled to the Dark at his death, to make its journey to the Afterlife; the body that burned was nothing more than a shell. Yet she couldn’t quite tear herself away from her vigil, couldn’t quite contemplate going to bed without remembering that her father wouldn’t be waiting for her.
It was hard to grasp. Not until she heard a horse nickering in the distance, the sound joining the twitterings of birds welcoming the dawn, did she think of her father’s horse. She had returned the gelding to its paddock, had made sure there was water in the troughs for him and the other animals to drink, but hadn’t done much more than that to see to her animals’ basic comforts. She certainly hadn’t seen to her own, other than the cloak.
But that whicker from one of the village horses reminded her of Tender and the fact that he would need her. That his stall needed sweeping, his water needed changing, his coat needed grooming. Thinking of that made her realize that she needed water, and grooming, and a bit of food herself.
The village priest had laid out her father’s body for a day so that mourners could pay their respects. The second day had been spent purifying it with prayers for Varamon’s departed soul and wrapping it in fat-soaked linens woven in the rippling blues, greens, and browns of the river that gave the Mornai their sense of identity. On the third day, it had been carried by the village Alders to Pyre Rock, which the men of the village had stacked with bundles of wood to ensure a full, clean burning.
In all that time, she had eaten and drunk whatever had been pressed upon her by the more sympathetic wives in the village, but nothing had passed her lips once the funeral pyre had been lit. Now, contrary beast that her body was, it dared to feel hungry. To protest that it was alive and wanted something to eat and drink. Life and death flowed like the river; even after a terrible flood, some plants continued to live, and some animals continued to survive. She was alive, and her body reminded her that she needed to stay that way.
Mindful of her duty to both the gelding and herself, Tava uncurled her body from her seat on the stones of Mourning Rock, erected on the edge of the river across from the matching stone platform of Pyre Rock where the remains of countless villagers had been burned over the years. Giving the smoldering cinders one last, long look, sh
e picked her way down the rough-hewn steps and headed inland, following the path that skirted the village.
The sun rose as she mounted the first embankment, golden pale as it peeked through the trees around her. Some of the golden rays lit up small, bluish, acorn-shaped fruits lurking among the leaves of the salal bushes. Father loves . . . these.
Closing her eyes for a moment, Tava fought back the sting of association. When she opened them again, she harvested several of the pea-sized berries. Father is dead, passed into the Afterlife where he will be offered the holy fruits of the Gods and the best of history’s finest feasts. I am alive and am required to earn my food, either by growing and gathering it myself, or trading for it through some craft or skill. I do not dishonor his memory by being hungry for the same fruits he loved.
They were tart-sweet, puckering her mouth and reminding her of her thirst. Still, they were food, and they were good. Picking and eating as she moved, she slowly made her way toward the second embankment. The path joined the road not far from where it crossed one of the two streams that flanked the village. Detouring when she reached the brook, she knelt and cupped her hand, drinking her fill from the one, and nibbling on a few of the berries cradled in the other.
Closing her eyes, she rested on the mossy bank next to the road. Tender could wait a few moments more; he had water and grass. She had water and berries. A simple, meager repast, but at least she was able to focus on it. It certainly shows the recent state of my mind, how I cannot remember what I’ve been eating over the last few days . . .
I am alive, and I will live, she thought, eyes closed as she accepted her father’s fate. I must decide how to live. I know farming and animal-tending, but I’ve seen how the Aldemen treat their servants. Particularly the female ones. I will not take up a life where I am ordered about like that, with no say in anything I do, or when I can do it. I am a scribe, a good one . . . but these villagers hesitated to take me on even with Father’s reassurances.
He did say women scribes were preferred in the cities, and he came from the cities himself, so he would know. I should go downriver to the next city and see what kind of work a wandering scribe can acquire. It was a daunting thought, but a necessary one. She could guess what life here in Five Springs would be like if she didn’t go. Staying here is not a pleasant thought. At least I’m of age, and the sole heir to Father’s belongings.
Alder Bludod has always wanted to annex Father’s property. I can sell the land to him for a good price, pack up all the things I need on the cart, and drive Tender south along the road—I know it’ll be safe to travel on the road because the bandits are gone. Warbands are vicious and frightening, but they are thorough. That was the only thought that spoiled her imaginings: running into the warband again. No, not drive downriver. I’ll take the next barge, instead. Even if it’s headed upriver.
There are large towns upriver as well as down. There are even other kingdoms I could visit, if I’m brave enough to leave the valley. Surely someone, somewhere, will need a scribe, and won’t mind if it’s a woman. Father always said these little villages were very conservative, compared to other places.
Footsteps on the road brought her out of her thoughts. Opening her eyes, Tava twisted to peer behind her. The sight of Alder Bludod and Aldeman Tronnen coming up the path made her scramble to her feet, almost tripping on her skirts in her haste. It was rather early in the morning for both men to be up and about, particularly when she knew from village gossip that the elderly Bludod preferred being served his breakfast while he still lay abed.
It was even odder to see both men headed her way. Either they were leaving the village to go somewhere—which was unlikely, given Bludod’s age—or they intended to come and see her, since the side path that led to her home wasn’t that far ahead. Dusting off her skirts, Tava firmed her resolve. She would speak to Alder Bludod about selling the farm and its animals to him, save only for her belongings, the cart, and Tender to pull it.
Having the Aldeman on hand made the moment a little awkward, since she knew Alder Bludod was reasonable enough when on his own, but the other man was a bit too status conscious for her tastes. Then again, the sight of the village leader stiffened her resolve to leave. Father put up with these small-minded men for his own reasons, none of which is mine. I know I’ll lead a happier life as a traveler, even with all its uncertainties, than I would if I remained here.
“ There you are.” Aldeman Tronnen didn’t wait for her to greet him. He jerked his head back, indicating the road behind him. “Go to my house. Abigan is expecting you, so do not dawdle.”
His terse words confused her. Stepping onto the road, Tava blocked both men. “I don’t understand. Why is she expecting me?”
“ To tell you what to do, of course. Now step out of our way,” he said.
To tell me what to . . . ? That sounded like he expected her to take orders from his wife, like some sort of servant. Tava didn’t move. “I’m sorry, but I have other things to do today. Including speaking to you, Alder Bludod. I know my father refused you several times over the years, but now that he is gone, I would like to discuss selling our farm to you, since I know you’ve always been interested in it.”
“Sell the farm?” Aldeman Tronnen scoffed. “You do not have any rights to sell that farm, girl! Get to my wife, and do not waste any more time.”
He moved to step around her and cross the low, wooden bridge spanning the brook, but Tava shifted, blocking him. “What do you mean, I don’t have any rights? With . . . with my father dead, all that was his now belongs to me as his sole heir. And as I am of age by three full years, the property is mine to do with as I please. To keep or to sell.”
“ That is a lie,” Tronnen said.
“That is the law,” she countered.
He frowned at her for arguing, but Tava didn’t back down. Hands going to his hips, the Aldeman addressed her. “You, woman, are no heir of Varamon Vel Tith. You are not of his blood, you did not come from his loins, and you are not his inheritor. You are nothing more than a landless bastard—and you will be grateful I am giving you a roof over your head!”
“Varamon bathed me in the waters of the river and accepted me as his own child. My name is scribed in the priest’s book of names and lineages. I am his daughter, by the writings of the law!”
The middle-aged Aldeman smirked. “Funny, I don’t recall reading your name in the priest’s book.”
Barely in time, Tava bit back the retort, That’s because you’re too ignorant to know how to read. Saying it would have been the truth, but it would not have helped her cause. Instead, she strove for logic.
“It is still the law, and my name is still in that book, written down as the sole surviving heir to Varamon the scribe. And you, as Aldeman, are sworn to uphold the laws of the Mornai. Deny me my legal rights, and you will break the law,” she warned him. “If you do so, you are nothing more than a greedy criminal. Are you a criminal? Or are you an Aldeman who follows the writ and the spirit of the laws you have sworn to uphold?”
For a moment, she almost backed him down. Noise on the road behind her distracted all three of them. Glancing behind herself, Tava spotted several riders coming into view through the trees. The winding nature of the road had cloaked their approach until now. Both the Alder and the Aldeman stepped around her, moving onto the bridge for a better look. Tava had to crane her neck to see the riders, with their loose-gathered, pale-dyed garments and the gleam of strange necklaces made from gold and polished stones draped over their collarbones.
Alder Bludod grunted. “That looks like a warband from the Plains. I haven’t seen any Shifterai in a good three decades, but I do remember those pectorals they wear.”
“Thank the Goddess,” the Aldeman muttered back. “I’ve been worried about those bandits that killed the scribe—you will go to my wife,” he ordered, turning to face Tava. “And you will learn your place, serving in my household. Count yourself lucky that you will have one. If you serve well and are obe
dient, I might grant you a small dowry so you may wed.”
Tava felt her blood roil. Before her father’s death, she had done her best to hold her tongue. She hadn’t always succeeded, but she had tried, for his sake. But for all she was Varamon’s legally accepted daughter, she wasn’t enough of a Mornai to stay her tongue now. “I will do no such thing! That land is mine, and all that stands upon it!”
Stepping around him, she strode across the bridge, intending to angle through the woods to reach her home all the faster. It wasn’t just about feeding and watering Tender now; it was about securing her few belongings and the cart, and getting ready to leave this place as soon as she could. Whether or not she was paid for the land. She was not going to stay in Five Springs just to be a servant to a pair of hypocrites. She knew she had caught the attention of the Shifterai men ahead of her, but if she just could get across the road and slip between the thickets—
—Pain exploded through her head as the back of the Aldeman’s fist knocked her down.
TWO
Kodan spurred his horse forward. He had seen the trio talking, seen the young woman look like she was arguing with the two men, and had been curious. The Mornai who lived in cities weren’t nearly as conservative as these far-flung villagers seemed to be, and the cultural expectation that females had to show respect toward men while in public often meant they had to be subservient as well. It was a foreign concept to the Shifterai, of course, but then, these Mornai were foreigners, outlanders with outlandish ways.
Striking a woman, however, was not something he would tolerate. Not when she had offered no visible violence of her own. His wasn’t the only steed hurried forward; Manolo rode just behind him on his right and his brother Kenyen rode on the left. If there were others who followed faster than the rest, Kodan didn’t take the time to look for them.
