It would do, she had already decided, as a farewell.
“There won’t be another time,” she said. It was nearly a whisper. Yanassa’s hands paused in her hair.
“I’d planned to caution you against loving him,” Yanassa said, her voice full of compassion. “He holds too tight; it’s unseemly in a man. But was love never a danger for you?”
Hanani’s hands tightened in her lap. She couldn’t find the words to voice what churned within her. Wanahomen had committed a full four of wrongs against her. Yet since then he had been considerate of her in his rough way, even kind. The consideration had confused her; the kindness had turned her anger into something entirely different. It bothered her to realize that she would lose him too when this was all over, as surely as she had already lost Mni-inh and Dayuhotem.
But Wanahomen would not be like them in one crucial way. She might never see him again if he survived his war, but at least she would have the comfort of knowing he was alive.
Yanassa sighed, taking her silence as an answer of its own. “I’m glad my people don’t follow your goddess in earnest,” she said at last. “She demands too much of you.”
“She grants us great power. It’s only fair She demand a high price for it.”
Yanassa made a disparaging sound. “There’s no fairness in this.” She fastened something on Hanani’s head and then moved around in front of her. “Can you not leave your Hetawa? We would take you in.”
Hanani stared at Yanassa, too surprised to be offended. “The Hetawa raised me from the year of my sixth flood. It’s my home. The Servants of Hananja are all the family I know.”
“Family does what’s best for you! What proper family censures a woman for following her nature? You’ve learned your value, found some pride in yourself. If you live among us you could nurture sons and daughters, build a wealthy clan on your skills as a healer, live surrounded by those who honor you as you deserve. Will your Hetawa ever give you that?”
“Not sons and daughters, and any wealth I earn would go to the Hetawa, but …” She frowned, considering Yanassa’s words. When she returned to the Hetawa—if she was allowed to continue serving at all—she would be assigned penance for her misdeeds. If she atoned fully, she might someday be allowed to attain Sharer status. Then she could build a reputation based on her skill, gain acolytes and apprentices to guide, learn the deeper lore of her craft, perhaps even ascend to the Council of Paths—
But she frowned, troubled. That might be the natural path of any male who served the Goddess, but would it be so for her? What acolyte would serve her, after Dayu? What apprentice would want the Hetawa’s lone, maligned woman as a mentor? Could she ever earn enough respect from her pathbrothers that they would allow her to represent them in important Hetawa matters? Even Mni-inh had been unable to do that, and he had not been hampered by controversy.
But it was the thought of Mni-inh that silenced her doubts.
“They’re my family,” she said again, more firmly. “My mentor spent half my life training me, believing in me. He wanted me to wear the ruby collar and become a full Sharer at last. I can’t just put that aside, Yanassa.”
Yanassa sighed, settling back on her heels. “That I understand. Sometimes honoring our families means looking beyond our own needs.” She gathered the leftover hair ornaments and rose to put them away. Hanani looked in the mirror and saw that the curls had been pulled back from her face and held in place by a ring of overlapping bronze plates. A good style for traveling. But she paused, puzzled, as she spied a thin red cord among the curls. She picked it out and found that it had been clipped into her hair, and a second one lay beside it.
“One for your blood cycles,” Yanassa said, noticing her confusion. “The other for your virgin blood. The third won’t come unless you bear a child, and the fourth would be for the end of your cycles. They’re your mark cords.”
“Mark …?”
“Mmm-hmm. Men have a great fancy ritual in their twelfth year. They do something with their penises, dance around with their uncles and brothers, grunt and fart and tell themselves they’re men. We women need only look to our own bodies.” Yanassa finished putting away the ornaments and came over to rest her hands on Hanani’s shoulders, smiling at her in the mirror. “Forgive me if you have your own Gujaareen ways for such things. I mean no disrespect. Among us, the cords are a badge of womanhood.” She turned so that Hanani could see the three cords woven into a braided lock of her own hair.
Hanani had no idea whether there were Gujaareen ways for such things. She stared at Yanassa’s cords, then at her own, and her sight blurred. “O-one of the priests in the Hetawa,” she began. She faltered, her throat tightening, and then took a deep breath. “He said that I would never be a true woman.”
Yanassa’s mouth fell open. “What in shadows would he know of womanhood? You didn’t actually listen to that stupidity, did you?”
“I—”
Yanassa groaned and turned Hanani to face her. “Listen to me. Earning honor for your clan—or your Hetawa, whichever—that makes you a woman. Glorying in your own beauty, mastering the power of your body, taking care of the world or at least the part of it close by … The cords simply mark the most obvious stages.” She gave Hanani a rueful smile. “I’ve always said there should be more cords—one for putting up with fools, one for every sassy child—but alas, then our heads would be weighed down with red.”
Hanani couldn’t help smiling at that, though very quickly her throat tightened again. She swallowed and let the cords fall back into her hair, and decided to let go of something else as well. “Yanassa, thank you. There’s much that I still don’t understand about you, but you have been kind to me, and that is what matters most.” An idea occurred to her; she gestured around at her tent. “All these things I have. I can’t take them back with me. May I give them to you?”
Yanassa started, her eyes going wide. “You would give me so much wealth? But I’m not even of your clan!”
“Where I come from, family is a matter of heart, not blood ties. You’re my friend—the only woman-friend I’ve ever had. That has great value to me, worth more than wealth.”
Yanassa shook her head and leaned forward to embrace her. “That was only proper,” she said in Hanani’s ear. “Any woman can face the world alone, but why should we have to?”
Hanani held her tightly, trying not to wish for what could not be, and finding herself only partially successful.
Finally Yanassa let her go, sniffing and dabbing at her eyes with a scented sleeve. “Well. Any more of that and the army will leave you behind.”
Hanani nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and turned away to finish packing. The bags were only partially filled by the time she was done, though she’d put in her Hetawa clothing, her small toiletries and healing ornaments, and the packets of rations that Yanassa had brought from the tribe’s quartermaster for the journey.
“What of these?” Yanassa asked, lifting the box she had given Hanani for her jewelry.
“They’re yours as well.”
“What? No, you need them—” Yanassa made a face. “Oh, Hananja, they’re going to make you wear that stupid red outfit again, aren’t they?”
Hanani grimaced in consternation, but reminded herself that this was the hazard of befriending a barbarian. “My role in the Hetawa is a man’s role. In Gujaareh, when a man takes a woman’s path, or a woman a man’s, that person must take on an appearance to suit.”
Yanassa rolled her eyes. “Do they plan to give you a clay penis too, and big bronze balls? Mind you, Wanahomen will be very cross if yours are bigger. And he will compare, trust me.”
This idea was so ludicrous, the image it brought to mind so ridiculous—and Yanassa’s characterization of Wanahomen so spot-on—that Hanani could not help bursting into giggles. “No, of course not!”
“Well, then.” Yanassa went to one of the bags, opened it, and dumped Hanani’s jewelry in. “I’ve seen the men in your land: they like f
inery just as much as the women. And here—Men wear eye paint, don’t they? That means you can wear it too.” She tossed in cosmetics after the jewelry.
Hanani didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. “Men do not wear lip tint, Yanassa.”
“Then let them start!”
Closing the saddlebag, Yanassa came over to Hanani and took her hands. It took a moment for Hanani to stop fighting laughter enough to see the seriousness in the Banbarra woman’s face.
“Don’t forget yourself, when you go back to that place,” Yanassa said, her eyes intent. “If you must go back to them, go back on your own terms. Serve your Goddess your way.”
Hanani sobered and looked away. “That’s well and good for layfolk,” she said. “But I’m a Servant of Hananja. How can I break tradition, disrupt the Hetawa’s order, and still claim to follow the path of peace?”
“You will never be a man, Hanani, no matter how tightly you bind your breasts. You don’t want to be a man. And they may never accept you, no matter how well you follow their rules and ape their behavior. So why shouldn’t you embrace what you are? And serve in whatever damned way you want!”
Hanani faltered, thrown by the very idea. Only then did it occur to her: what she did would be regarded as precedent, if ever another woman sought to join the Hetawa. Everything she did, all that she achieved, would set the pattern.
And Yanassa was right about something else. She had tried, again and again, to do things the way her fellow Sharers had done them. She had worked harder, trained longer, humbled and stifled herself in an effort to be perfect—and still Yehamwy had been afraid of her. Still some of her fellows saw her, not as a Servant of Hananja, but as a woman pretending to be one.
There was no peace in continuing to do what had already proven unworkable. Sometimes tradition itself disrupted peace, and only newness could smooth the way.
There was a drumming at the tent flap, and a man’s voice called Yanassa’s name. “Here,” called Yanassa, and a young man, not much older than Hanani and with the most beautiful long-lashed eyes over his veil, thrust his head in. He said something in Chakti, and Yanassa nodded. The young man inclined his head to Hanani as well, then withdrew.
“Pretty, isn’t he?” Yanassa grinned at Hanani, who had been staring. She blushed.
“H-he has pretty eyes.”
“Ha! Look away from that one, mouse; he’s mine. The tribe’s potter, so he won’t be going off to war, thank the gods. Wana was the last warrior I dealt with, and he quite soured me on the idea years ago.” She turned away from Hanani and picked up one of the saddlebags, indicating that Hanani should take the other. “And a potter can use his hands well indeed when it comes to certain other arts—”
Hanani gasped, covering her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Yanassa!”
“Well, it’s true.” With a smug smile, Yanassa held the tent-flap for Hanani. “Now. Come with me and I’ll show you a marvel.”
Hanani followed Yanassa through the camp, nodding to those Banbarra she had spoken with, or healed. Some still did not return her greeting, and several young women in particular had been snubbing her since her first night with Wanahomen. But more people nodded to her than turned away, and Hanani was surprised to realize how many of them she had come to know, if only a little. She had been among them less than a month; it seemed far longer.
They reached the ledge overlooking the long view of the canyon, where Hanani stopped in awe.
The canyon was filled, from one wall to the other and on either side of the river, with row upon row of men. What she was seeing must have been only a portion of the whole, for they were moving slowly forward as they filed out of the canyon to begin their journey. Hanani could almost taste their eagerness to fight, wafting on the air like the dust stirred by their horses’ hooves. It was a profoundly unpeaceful feeling—and yet Hanani could not bring herself to disapprove. Instead, to her own great surprise, she felt excited, hopeful. Surely Gujaareh would be freed, with these warriors’ help. Surely they could restore the land to peace for another thousand years.
Yanassa startled her badly then by reaching into some unnoticed fold of her garments and drawing a knife. She raised this over her head and let out an ear-piercing, singsong cry: “Bi-yu-eh!” Before Hanani could fathom what she was doing, other cries went up around her, and she looked about to see that most of the tribe’s women had come to stand at the ledge along with them, seeing the army off. They too raised weapons where they had them, and let out that unearthly cry.
Someone touched Hanani’s arm, and she turned to see Hendet beside her. “Sing,” Hendet said, in her low, aristocratic Gujaareen. “For the warriors’ victory. For peace and few casualties, if that pleases you more, and a quick end to this whole mess. Think of it as a prayer—but sing.” And to Hanani’s shock, Hendet too raised her voice in a deeper, though no less barbaric-sounding cry. Something in Sua.
It seemed a strange custom, but Hanani saw the meaning in it. She had no weapon, having refused to carry one even after the Azima incident. Such things had no purpose other than to cause pain, to her mind. But she had killed Azima with her bare hand, hadn’t she? Magic was both a useful tool and a deadly weapon, no different from any knife, for all that it was a gift of the Goddess.
And so, hesitantly, she raised her hand. She closed her eyes, drew in a breath, thrust aside propriety, and joined in the women’s farewell. She called Hananja’s name and made the word a prayer, thinking, Let there be peace again soon, for me and for all these people, and when You have done that, take no more from me.
When she ran out of breath and the other women’s songs began to fade, Yanassa clapped her on the shoulder. Bowing over her hands in farewell to Hendet, who returned the bow with regal grace, Hanani and Yanassa ran to the ladders and clambered down to ground level. Tassa waited by the corral, holding the bridle of Hanani’s saddled horse and looking anxious. He and two other boys quickly helped Hanani strap on the saddlebags. Then Hanani mounted Dakha, who stamped her feet, impatient to be off with her fellows. The last of the warriors were beginning to pass, followed by the farriers and trappers and others who had chosen to travel with the army in support.
Ready at last, Hanani looked down at Yanassa and Tassa, her throat tightening. “Yanassa—”
Yanassa shook her head. “No farewells. It’s unlucky.”
Hanani nodded, but could not resist at least a blessing, if not a farewell. “Walk in Her peace dreaming and waking, Yanassa. Know that I will see you again in one or the other.”
Yanassa smiled. “You’ll see me in waking, foolish girl. Once Wana has his city back, I mean to come there to trade and grow rich, and I promise you, I will seek you in your Hetawa. You had better be wearing at least earrings! Now go.”
Swallowing, and straightening her posture as befitted both a woman of worth and a Servant of Hananja, Hanani turned and rode off to join the army’s train.
40
Alliance
With the wind at their backs and the smell of greenlands to guide them, the Banbarra army made good time reaching Sabesst, among the western foothills of Gujaareh. Sabesst was a forbidding, boulder-strewn pit of a valley, with steep sides and only the most narrow of passages in or out. Gujaareen myth said that Sabesst was where Merik, the god who had shaped the mountains, had once set down his tools while he took a nap. It was one of the few places in the foothills where an army could form in secret.
Riding at the head of the Banbarra column, Wanahomen led them through the middle of his allies’ camp, trying not to curl his lip at the makeshift corrals, the haphazard tent-rows, the tiny smithy that looked ill prepared to handle even a horseshoeing. The men, at least, were the one positive Wanahomen saw: there were perhaps thrice as many of these soldiers as there were of his Banbarra. But the ones Wanahomen first noticed were a sorry lot. None of the nobles’ men were in formation or drilling as they rode in. Most just came to stare at the foreigners in undisciplined curiosity. All wore varying colors and emblems, showin
g their allegiance to this or that noble family; there had been not even an attempt to unify them with a single sash or color. Worse, Wanahomen noted a troubling number of soldiers who were elderly, or little more than boys. Some were too scrawny to lift a sword, or too fat to sit any but the largest horse.
“This is what you mean to take against the Kisuati?” Ezack spoke in Chakti, but he wisely kept his voice low in any case, perhaps so that their new allies would not hear the disdain in his tone. “A good number of these should be sent into the desert to die and ease the burden on the rest.”
Wanahomen shared his disdain, but dared not let himself dwell on it. These soldiers, poor as they were, were all he had. “Many are hired men,” he said, and then amended himself when Ezack looked confused. The concept of fighting for pay was unknown to the Banbarra. “Not true warriors. More like slaves: they obey anyone who can feed them.”
Ezack made a sound of disgust. “They have slaves fight for them? And you call us barbarians.”
Looking farther, Wanahomen spied a few signs of hope. Not all of the soldiers had come forward as the Banbarra arrived. A good number remained back among the tents, watching. These men were fitter, and there was something more than bored curiosity in their eyes. They watched Wanahomen in particular, as he was the only one in indigo at the head of the column; the other war leaders were back with their own men. They knew who he was supposed to be.
“There,” Wanahomen said to Ezack, taking care not to look toward the men of whom he spoke. “Those are the warriors—men of the military caste, and others who were once of Gujaareh’s army. I’d hoped we would see at least a few. They’ll make up for the rest.”
The Shadowed Sun: Dreamblood: Book 2 Page 37
