by Jean Johnson
“Which leads me to the most important piece of information you need to know, and need to get set into your head as firmly as possible,” Kodan continued, speaking quietly as one of the outrunners padded closer to the wagon to avoid a clump of vine-choked trees. “I do not know what the wedding customs are down in the Valley, but up on the Plains . . . a woman does not stand in front of an open fire and hold out her hand to any man standing across from her. Don’t do it. Not until you’re absolutely sure you want to marry that man.”
She stiffened, her cheeks flushing, then paling. The brown dress she wore didn’t flatter her coloring when she did that. “I know. That’s how my mother was ‘claimed’ by the shapeshifter who won her as his war prize. I’ll not let any man drag me through the flames. Like I said, I’m not my mother. I’ll fight back.”
Drag you through the . . . what? Kodan stared at her, appalled. The whickering of one of the mares warned him he had to pay attention to his driving, and he carefully guided horses and vehicle away from the bushes lining the curving road.
“Whatever your mother endured, that is not the way of the Plains, I can assure you. In fact, the more I learn about these curs, the more I hope they’re long dead. And I’ll make sure the Councils start looking for any sign of them, to make sure they’re long dead. Or if they’re not, to send them rapidly in that direction.” Taking a moment to compose his thoughts, Kodan continued his explanations. “Because so many of our men are shapeshifters, taking the forms of beasts on the land, in the rivers, and through the skies, it is said that we tend three of the four elements, earth, water, and air. But since our women tend to our homes and our hearths, it is said that they are the keepers of the fourth element, fire.
“If a man wishes to court a maiden, he must be strong enough to brave the fourth element. It is the man who leaps through the flame to a woman. Not the other way around,” Kodan emphasized. “But he is only supposed to do so when she holds out her hand to him, with some form of fire between them bigger than a candle or a torch, and witnesses to see it happening. Only then is it considered a true marriage.
“For this reason, our women are taught to hold their hands out to the side, or to walk around the firepit, the hearth, or the brazier-pan, before handing something to a man, or accepting it from him. And a man is taught to also walk around a fire before handing something to a woman—if she drags him through the flames to her, it is as shameful and invalid as it would be for a man to drag a woman to his side of the coals,” he instructed her. “So be very, very careful that you do not hold out your hand to any man near a fire that can be leaped or crossed.”
“Your brother . . . um . . .” She fell silent a long moment. Kodan waited patiently, until Tava finally asked, “Your brother suggested that you were going to court me. But . . . if this is so, you’re saying I shouldn’t hold out my hand to anyone, including you?”
“Not until you understand us. And not if you’re not interested in me. Which you couldn’t possibly be, just yet, since you don’t really know me yet,” he added honestly. “You are pretty, and you have an inner fire that I suspect has been smothered by life down in the Valley. You’ve shown your intelligence as well as your spirit, and I admire both in a woman. Most of us do. But while I admire you, I have also been trained to be practical, and until you understand who we really are, shedding the misconceptions wrought by your mother’s terrible ordeal . . . you really shouldn’t choose any of us. You need to know your own mind first, and you need to know our culture, so you’ll know what to expect if you do wish to choose one of us as your mate.
“So ask as many questions as you like. Just keep certain subjects quiet, so that you aren’t overwhelmed by expectations you do not yet understand. Because of your mother’s ordeal, you’ll probably misunderstand what those expectations are and misinterpret how the others would act toward you,” he said. “Keep the others ignorant for now. You’ll have a lot more time to explore and absorb Shifterai culture that way, and be able to do it at your own pace.”
“You say this as if you expect the others to . . . to pressure me somehow, with what I can do,” she muttered. “But what about you? Why shouldn’t I fear you, since you know?”
Kodan made sure they were on a straight stretch of the road before giving her a long, pointed look. “Because you think you have to fear me, simply because I know. I told you; I think things through more than the average Shifterai—it is expected of a multerai to think broader thoughts, to think well into the future, and to consider all options carefully.
“Multerai are often made Clan and Family leaders and are expected to be worthy of the responsibility. We are expected to think before we act and speak. I know you don’t understand us, and until you do, I will do my best to give you the time you need to absorb the truth of our people. I cannot say the same for the others, so it is best if you do not tell them just yet.”
She absorbed his words in silence for a while, long enough for the trees to thin and open into a bush-strewn meadow. Up at the head of the caravan, Kodan’s father raised his hand, swirled his fingers into a fist, then flicked them to the left and the right. The others stopped their wagons, so he did the same.
“I don’t know if you saw it or not, but my father—Siinar—just signaled for a bush break,” Kodan told the woman at his side. “This is one of those things our people don’t think about, since they learn it as very young children. What it means is, when we are traveling, the men go into the bushes on the left to, well, use the bushes, and women go off to the right.”
Tava glanced off to her right and frowned. “But, there are men to the right. Or at least some tigers.”
“The outriders always stay out there. It’s to ensure no wild beast stumbles upon us unawares. But you’ll note their attention is turned outward, so if you need to use the bushes, you will still have some privacy,” he told her. When she hesitated, Kodan added, “You’d better get used to it now. Until we reach the Family camp, there are no refreshing tents already set up, and no pits will be dug. I’ll trust you know which of the local leaves are safe to use.
“Once we get up on the Plains, I’ll show you which kind of grass is best for cleaning oneself. You don’t want to pick the wrong kind. Sawgrass cuts all but the most callused of fingers, and you really do not want to get it near anything delicate. Even a shapeshifter isn’t immune to sawgrass cuts, if we’re not careful and mindful of what we’re doing.”
That made her giggle. She quickly raised her hand, muffling and subduing it, but her cheeks blushed and her eyes gleamed with humor. In that moment, Kodan realized his flattering words from earlier were indeed true: She was quite pretty. The dress was baggy and ugly, but the woman wearing it was lovely.
So far, he had seen her angry, scared, grieving, wary, and curious. Now he wondered what she would look like if and when she laughed heartily. Setting aside that thought for now, he nudged her with his elbow. “Go on. Use the bushes if you need to. I’ll be using the ones to the left myself.”
“Um . . . avoid the low vine-plant with narrow, four-lobed leaves and a red vein down the center of each lobe,” Tava told him, biting her lower lip for a moment. Kodan didn’t know whether she was suppressing a smile or not, before she added with another hint of humor, “Your sawgrass might be preferable, since you could shift-heal the cut, but the itchy oils of the redvein leaf are another matter entirely.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, and warn the others,” Kodan acknowledged mock-gravely, pleased she had unfurled from her fears at least enough to advise him against potential woodlands harm.
Two days later, just as they were reaching the edge of the Plains, Tava had her first true glimpse of the Shifterai way of life. Or rather, her first glimpse of the Shifterai version of their summer homes, the mysterious geome. A light sprinkle had begun about mid-afternoon, picking up into a misting drizzle. Consulting with his father and Manolo, the two eldest men of the warband, Kodan had called for an early halt. The rain looked like it would be fa
lling in earnest soon, and that meant setting up the tent for those not on patrol.
Sitting under the scant shelter of the forward-projecting roof of the trader’s wagon, Tava watched its assembly, fascinated and yet puzzled. Rather than starting with a vertical pole at each end and a line pegged across them, forming the roof ridge, the start of the Shifterai tent was a series of latticework fences. Long staves had been drilled and fastened together by braided cord, making the framework both flexible and expandable.
There were five such sections taken from one of the wagons the Shifterai had brought with them, and they were assembled inside a circle marked by a long loop of knotted rope. More thongs lashed the fence together, save for one spot that was left empty. That spot was closed by an empty, rectangular frame and yet more strong, grass-woven cord.
It looked more like a goat pen to her, or maybe a place to put the ducks that were waddling around, eating the grass of the meadow the warband had chosen for the night. Not like the makings of a tent. As she watched, short, shallow arcs of wood were brought out of the wagon, their tongue-and-groove ends slotted together and pegged in place as soon as they were passed over the fence wall from one man to the next.
There were a series of slots carved into the giant assembled ring on the upper and the outer edge. A much smaller ring had similar holes, though it was attached to what looked like the bones of a conical-roofed doll’s house attached to it, carved from carefully joined pieces of wood. It was brought into the center and held thigh-high by one of the shifters, while two others started slotting short staves between the innermost ring and the outer wooden circle. Torei—the one holding the little ring—finally let go and stepped away from the smaller, hat-topped ring, allowing the others to finish filling in the spokes of the odd wooden cone. As they did so, Tava saw the shifter who had milked her goats, introduced during their travels as Tedro, slipping the cord-woven handles of net bags onto four of the spokes, spaced evenly around the ring.
Four long poles and three bundles of longer staves were brought into the fence, distracting her from wondering what the nets were for. Four odd pieces of wrought iron were brought in as well. They were mostly straight and vertical, save for where they swirled in a horizontal loop twice down their length, one near one end and the other just past the halfway mark. The far end was pointed. Like the net bags, she didn’t know what these were meant for; all Tava could do was watch and wonder.
Three of the Shifterai picked up the cone-braced ring. They stretched themselves up, their belts and tunics rising up with their torsos until the drawstring waistbands of their gathered pants hung well below the hems of their shirts. Four more moved in to place the poles, which had Y-shaped ends, under the ring. Tava thought it was for support, until she saw the others who were standing on the outside picking up the longer staves and slotting them into the holes on the outer edge of the large wooden ring, like they had done for the shorter staves forming the cone.
These staves all had loops on their outer ends, which were hooked over the crossed tops of the lattice fence. As soon as about five of the staves were in place, stabilizing the ring, the men holding the forked poles in place moved them out of the way, and Tedro quickly went from spot to spot, hammering the looped iron into the ground. The poles were dropped down through the double loops, the ring lifted just a little higher by the shapeshifters still holding on to it, and settled into the forks in the poles. The loops on the ends of the staves were adjusted, and more staves were slotted into place, until the outer edge of the ring resembled the inner one. These staves were set at a steeper slope than the inner ones, though, forming a sort of angular dome.
Now the tent tarps came out and were dragged up and over the slanting roof sides. First came oiled canvas ones, three of them angled to drape over most of the roof and down the sides, overlapping, then thick felt, and then a final layer of canvas. These were all lashed around the sides by broad woven bands fastened to the frame. The final layer of canvas had been painted with animal shapes, worn from being handled and somewhat faded from the sun, but the predominant pattern was easy enough to see, for most of the animals depicted were tigers, many of them sitting on their haunches with their right hind legs stretched out in some way, each extended paw outlined by a light blue diamond.
Over the tiny, solid cone at the very top, a double-sided stripe-cat hide was pulled into place, attached by ropes that fastened to the bands looped around the walls. Two of the five ropes were pulled back, leaving just enough room for air to escape through the gap between the tiny cone-roof and the small ring supporting its struts. Those struts, not much longer than half her forearm, were just high enough to let air flow in. Or rather, Tava realized, just high enough to let smoke out. That cone-tip is broad enough, it should keep all but the worst rain out of the tent. How very clever . . . and how very large the whole thing is, now that it’s assembled.
All of it had filled the bed of one wagon to the top of its rails. Tava thought it was a bit much to take when traveling, when a wedge-tent was far more compact and thus more practical in her opinion. It would have also taken less time to erect, though the practiced movements of the shapeshifters and the sheer number of helping hands had assembled the whole thing almost as fast as she and her father had ever set up their own travel tent . . . which was just big enough for the two of them. Not this massive structure that was at least as big as her whole house, if not bigger.
It was a good thing the geome was finally up and ready, she realized, squinting up at the overcast sky. The light rain had thickened. The droplets were still smallish, but far more of them were falling now, in the steady, earnest way that said it would most likely rain all night, if not longer.
Looking away from the geome, Tava saw Kenyen and Torei chasing down her ducks and hens, catching them and putting them back into their makeshift cages, which they tucked under the wagons for shelter. Enough meadow grass was available through the spaces in the cages that they should be able to forage. Even the horses were given some protection; felted blankets had been tied over the backs of the Shifterai ones, with makeshift blankets tied around the Mornai horses. Only her goats were left bare, but then, a goat would chew on just about anything in the often futile hope it would turn out to be something tasty.
Siinar approached her, holding up his hands to help her down. “Come; by custom, you are allowed into our tent until supper is finished.”
Seeing a complicated bit of ironwork that looked like some sort of brazier and stand carried into the geome, Tava let him help her down from the wagon bench. The thought of being somewhere warm and dry appealed to her.
“After you have eaten and drunk your last,” Kodan’s father explained to her, “you must retire to your wagon for the rest of the night, since on the days when the sun cannot be seen, the end of supper is considered sundown for all the maidens out on the Plains. In the City, the customs are a little different for after supper or after sunset, but the priestesses will explain these things to you once we reach the Family.”
He gestured for her to enter the doorway of the tent, and Tava realized it was a doorway. At some point in her distraction, someone had brought out a door-panel and hung it on the rectangular frame. It even had a latch with a pull-string, though it stood open at the moment. Once inside, the thickness of the layered walls was evident; she could hear the rain pattering on the outermost canvas, but it was muted and muffled by the intervening felt. The sounds of the men doing mysterious things with the brazier and with the net bags hanging from the ceiling, of them bringing in ground tarps and blankets from the other wagons, were all louder than the rain itself.
On the sloped sides of her father’s wedge tent, the sound of rain falling was sharp and noisy, making conversation difficult. But her father had always planned for such things and usually brought along a book or two. Usually it was something small, such as a book of stories or of poetry, something that could be tucked into a saddlebag without much trouble
Tava couldn’t r
emember which book her father had taken with him on his ill-fated, final journey, nor had she been in any shape to notice which one was missing when these Shifterai had packed up her home three days ago. She longed for a book now, as she had the last two nights, but they were packed under too many of her things in the other wagons to be easily extracted. Or at least, she would long for one once she had to retire to the trader’s wagon.
The wagon had clever oil lamps fixed to its walls on the inside, but nothing worth reading other than the late trader’s ledger of transactions as he had traveled up and down the length of the Valley. Dry reading suitable for putting one to sleep, but Tava was tired of sleeping once night fell.
A sudden, bright light startled her. Blinking, Tava squinted and looked up. A miniature white moon hung in one of the nets, glowing brightly. Stunned, she watched as Tedro, body stretched so that he could reach the net, tucked another translucent ball into the next loosely braided cord bag. The bag had a bone-carved hook, which he fastened in place, safely caging the head-sized orb. A sharp thump of his knuckles set the bag and ball swaying and brightened it into abrupt, glowing life.
Oh! Those are lightglobes! Eyes wide, Tava stared at the orbs. She had read about them in some of her father’s books, but had never seen one before.
They were mage-made Artifacts, crafted by spellcasters from glass and mysterious, exotic ingredients, which the books hinted came from far-flung lands. Because of that distance, they were also incredibly expensive to own. Varamon had once told her that he knew of several houses in the larger cities of Mornai that had lightglobes, and that he himself had once owned a lightglobe in his youth, a gift from a very pleased city patron, but that he had sold it to make enough money to buy himself a farm in the village of Five Springs.
