by Diana Rivers
And yet there was another side to all this. It was her pain that called to me as well as her rage, cried out to me to be mended, drew me like a magnet—pain so like my own that sometimes I could not tell where the boundaries between us lay. She touched me as no other lover could, and in places that had been closed and sealed over. There were even moments of sweetness, almost unbearable sweetness that drew me back whenever I thought to break away. Yet whenever that sweetness turned to closeness and I thought to trust it, it would as quickly turn again to rage, slashing and burning, destroying all that had been built between us. It was as if we were locked in mortal combat and all our loving was a war, with those sweet times only a little truce before the next battle.
And yet...and yet...where does the truth really lie in all this turmoil of the heart? There were some more normal times when we simply went about together and shared our tasks for the sake of each other’s company. I noticed that Rishka did not try to bait Alyeeta anymore, that, in fact, she avoided her whenever possible. So there, at least, Rishka had met her limit. Sometimes we even talked in the way that lovers do and told each other our stories, or at least Rishka told me stories of her life among the Muinyairin and I told her some tales of my early childhood. Of Kara I did not speak, nor of my own escape. Though often I thought to tell her my story, so like her own, something always held my tongue, a voice in my head saying, Of what use? How can she hear you? Her heart is too burned out to care. Also, I remembered Pell’s coldness when I cried for Kara, and could not risk encountering that again. Instead, I added Rishka’s bitterness to my already full store.
The contempt in which others in the world held the Muinyairin had with Rishka turned to vengeful pride. Even when things seemed pleasant enough, something would suddenly strike her. She would look about strangely and say to me, “See how they all avoid me? Jhemar, especially—she keeps a distance of at least six horses between us at all times. And those silent, frightened girls who try to hide whenever I pass—do they think I plan to eat them alive?”
“Rishka, sometimes your pride makes a fool of you. Jhemar avoids you because she is an empath, more than any of us. What is in your mind hurts her. As to those girls, those silent ones, they saw their people murdered before their eyes, butchered by riders who rode into their camp, much as you first rode in among us, shouting and with swords flashing. I know from the one who hid them that their own people were all killed for sheltering them. Do you blame them for being afraid?” Except for Alyeeta’s silencing, this was the first time I had seen Rishka with no words and no answer.
In spite of her bristliness, she made herself useful in the camp. She was in truth as good a teacher as Zenoria had said. A few times I even went to watch her teach. The contempt and loathing she had spewed out in Alyeeta’s shelter she did not allow herself in the practice ring. Zenoria was right, there she was fair and patient and very capable. Her skills as a rider were matched by her skills as a teacher. Even watching her with Irdris I could not have reproached her, though Irdris herself, while trying hard to do her very best, must have been a trying student. In spite of Rishka’s best efforts, Irdris never learned to ride well. She could not sit her horse comfortably. Far from merging together as one being, it always seemed as if she and the horse had collided accidentally and might part again at any moment. The look on her face was usually one of slight surprise, as if this chair she had been sitting on had suddenly grown legs and decided to walk away with her on it. In spite of this she could talk to horses better than any of us, except perhaps Zenoria and myself. Horses would follow after her, sometimes even with their unwilling passengers. But that is a different story and for another time.
Those moments of normality and peace between Rishka and myself were always short-lived. Our own private tempest grew so fierce that Alyeeta felt obliged to speak to me again. “You do yourself some harm with this, Tazzi. The best in you is being bent and twisted.”
“You are only jealous,” I answered spitefully. “You cannot bear to see me loved by another.” I knew the words were ugly and untrue before I spoke them, but I could not stop. Some demon that seemed beyond my power drove me.
Alyeeta looked at me sadly and shook her head. “No, Tazzi, not this time. There is nothing here to envy, only something to grieve for. Believe me, it is not out of jealousy or hurt pride that I say these things, though I am quite capable of both. It is for love of you, for your own sake that I speak and tell you what I see. That young woman has a deeper pit of rage and pain and bitterness in her than you can imagine. She will draw you into it if she can. You are susceptible to her, for she has tapped your passions in a way no one else ever has. I see you eating poison with both hands like a starved beggar. Do you expect me to stay silent?”
I was angry at Alyeeta for telling me what I already knew and did not want to hear and would not listen to, so I said rudely, “It no longer matters to me what you think or say.” As soon as I said that I felt again a chill of fear and remembered her pointing fingers.
Alyeeta drew herself up tall and said coldly, “Be careful, Tazzi, you risk something far worse than my displeasure if you continue in this way.”
I could not be sure if this was a threat or a warning. Either way it mattered little, for, of course, I did not heed her words. In the end none of it mattered anyway, for our small private lives were soon swept away in the rush of larger happenings. Later I shuddered to think what might have befallen us both had we continued on our course.
***
One evening, when Rishka was off on a mission in search of some Muinyairin said to be in hiding, I found myself prowling about the camp. Not willing to lie alone in my shelter, waiting to see if she would come back in want of some loving, or come back in a fury, or come back at all, I wandered restlessly till Jhemar called me over to the fire. She had camp watch for the night and so asked me to sit up with her and help her stay awake.
I went, but I went warily, coming to squat beside her. “Do you also want to preach to me about Rishka? If so, you waste your breath.”
“I? Preach?” she answered with a laugh. “My own head is so full of tangles, how would I know to tell another the right road to take. The night is long, sitting watch is tiresome. You are the only other one about. I thought perhaps to have some company, to tell some stories or smoke some jol.”
“Excuse my edginess, Jhemar, but when so many hate her it is hard to know what will be said to me next. She sees how you keep your distance as if you find her loathsome.”
“Hate her? Surely not. I think it is the pain of her Muinyairin pride that makes her see things so. There are some here who are frightened of her, and she herself helps that along. Some are angered by her ways and she helps that even more. But hate her, no, that is something else altogether. Not me, certainly. How could I hate her? I pity her. I know too much. I can read all that has happened in her life as soon as she comes near. Yes, I keep my distance. Being near her causes too much pain for me. Not all the shielding the Witches try to teach me can shut that one out. When I get too close she comes cutting through like a knife. And you, how can you stand it?”
I shrugged, “Her pain is so much like my own pain, I swim through it like water. How can it hurt me?”
“It hurts you, Tazzi, but you choose not to see it.” Quickly she held up her hands. “Now that is all I will say on the matter.”
“So she is to be blamed and shunned for her pain and in that way more pain is added to it? When I think of the things her father did to her all those years...Sometimes I think fathers are the curse of our lives.”
“Not mine,” Jhemar said quickly, as if glad of a different topic. “Not mine. My father was my first true friend and I miss him still.” As she spoke she was lighting the jol pipe she held in her hand. I relaxed and sat back to listen, putting Rishka out of my mind for that moment.
“My father thought me very fine,” Jhemar went on. “He tried to teach me everything he knew, though my mother interfered when she could, saying such kn
owledge was unsuitable for a girl child. It was my mother, poor misguided woman, who wished to make a lady of me, a losing game if ever one was played. You can see I was not cut of a cloth for that. But I was her only daughter. Who else did she have to work her dreams on?”
“Already at twelve I had reached my full height, with hands like a farmer’s and the feet of a horse. I had grown too fast. I never knew where my limbs were until they collided with something fragile and, of course, valuable. My poor mother, she tried, but what was she to do with this great creature? She could not beat me into a different shape, nor did she attempt that again after the first try. Instead, she used her tongue. Until I learned not to care, that tongue hurt more than a lash and left me more helpless. If she could have cut off my fingers and toes so that the stubs could be forced into little white gloves and dainty slippers, I swear she would have done so. Instead, I did us both a great kindness. I left. But I know my father must still grieve for me as I do for him.”
While I was still dealing with the surprise of all this, she went on to tell me some childhood story from before her time with the Wanderers, and suddenly I understood. “But you are a Shokarn,” I exclaimed, sitting up to better see her. “But your skin...your speech...?”
“I would be as white as Irdris if I lived in a house in the city. And speech is easily learned. By now I feel as if Kourmairi is my native speech, but I can also speak some Muinyairin, and much of the Wanderers’ secret tongue as well.”
“But you never speak Shokarn, not even to Irdris.”
“It is not my favorite tongue,” she said abruptly. “It brings back too many memories.” Then she quickly went on to tell me some tale of the Wanderers while I leaned back again to listen. I was used to Jhemar’s silence, and so was amazed at her skill as a story teller and charmed as well, but underneath I sensed an uneasiness, some trouble eating at her. At last her words stopped, and she sat staring into the fire. I could feel a great weight on her, yet nothing came clear.
“Jhemar,” finally I said, “what is it that sits so heavy on you?”
“Eezore,” she answered, still staring into the fire. The way she said that word, it sounded like the tolling of a heavy bell. Then she looked up suddenly, straight into my eyes, and said again, “Eezore! There is some civil strife there between those who are high and in power, and we, the Star’s children, are in the middle of it all. In some way, we are the cause of it. It is hard to get a clear picture of what is happening there. We only get rumors, bits and pieces. One thing, however, is very clear. Many, many of us are trapped behind those walls. I think Pell plans to move against Eezore while they are in conflict with each other, thinking this may be our only chance to crack open the city.”
“To do what?!” I exclaimed, sitting up straight and staring at Jhemar.
“Move against Eezore, the city of the Zarn? She must be mad! Does she think to take this bunch of half-trained girls and go up against a walled fortress city of many hundreds, defended by the guards?” Irdris had told me enough of Eezore for me to have formed a very frightening picture of that city.
“Keep your voice down,” Jhemar said quickly. “None of the others know yet, only myself and Zenoria. Pell has spoken to no one else.”
I was shaking my head and could hardly breathe from the shock of it. “Eezore,” I repeated numbly. “She thinks to go against Eezore. Well, she is even wilder than I had imagined. No wonder you are so full of dread. With your city knowledge and your Shokarn speech, you would be very useful in such a venture. For myself, of course, I know nothing of cities and can speak only what little Shokam Irdris and Alyeeta have taught me. Surely I would not be one of those chosen to go to Eezore.” Jhemar nodded but made no answer.
After that we spoke little, but sat watching the fire, each in our own thoughts. Soon Noshir came to replace Jhemar, and I went off to my shelter to try to sleep. The dreams that came to me that night were strange and very troubling.
***
There is what we say and there is what we do. Sometimes they are the same, as close as twins. Sometimes they are not even acquainted with each other. And so it was when I spoke of Eezore, saying I would not be one of those to go. The great walled city of Eezore, source of all our troubles, lay in the path ahead of me like fate or like a mountain. No words of mine could move it. We say what we want to say, and sometimes what we need to say, but in the end we do what we must do.
Chapter Sixteen
For those next few days, rumors of Eezore hummed and buzzed among us like a hive of angry bees. Every rider coming in brought with her some new story—tales from the market or the road. Each one was more unlikely or fantastic than the one before, so they soon tangled with each other, full of contradictions. In the end nothing came clear, nothing we could base our plans upon.
In the midst of all this, much to my amazement, Maireth rode into camp. She had come with Josleen and Megyair. They had just escorted some burned ones to Pell’s shelter. Though I was overjoyed to see her up and riding that way, I was also much concerned for her health. She, however, was not to be persuaded to go back. She had come to learn the healing of burns from myself and Alyeeta, saying we knew much more of that than Amelia. In spite of my worries, she insisted on staying. She even spoke of going to Eezore to rescue the burned ones there.
As I had little time at that moment for teaching, or for healing either, Alyeeta took on most of the task, going at it with such a passion that I could almost feel jealous. She had already taken on Ashai, the new Shokarn, teaching her reading and writing as well as healing. I noticed how Ashai watched her, much as Renaise used to watch Pell. Seeing that, I even felt some of my old discomfort. Now, whenever I came into Alyeeta’s shelter, either Ashai or Maireth, or both, were likely to be there, and sometimes Irdris as well, sitting in the corner bent over a book.
By now every woman in the camp knew, or at least suspected, that Pell meant to mount some kind of raid against the city. That added much heat to the talk. Pell’s own contacts in Eezore seemed to have fallen into some deep crack in the earth. When she tried for mind-touch with them nothing came back, nothing but silence and darkness, or sometimes an edge of pain. In a constant fret of worry for those of us that might be trapped there, she threatened to go to Eezore herself and seek out the truth of it all.
Jhemar and I both tried to dissuade her. I echoed Jhemar’s arguments that all had to do with tactics and strategy, saying we could not afford to lose her to the city at this time. In truth, I begged her not to go because I had such a terror of that place. It was very different from the fears I had already learned. It was a terror I could not have explained to anyone, and it haunted my dreams. The thought of Pell in that city filled me with dread.
Often it seems we draw to us the very things we fear most, and so of course, it was I myself who drew Eezore even closer. It had already been a bad day among us, the worst I think since we had come to camp there in Alyeeta’s clearing. Then a sentry rode in saying that someone had come with a message. When I heard that two of the Star-Born were in hiding at the edge of the woods on the Tarmaine-to-market road and needed a guide to bring them safely in, I leapt at the chance. Pell, Jhemar, Zenoria, and Kazouri were all away at that moment, so I was the natural one to go. Even if they had been there, I think I would have argued for the chance. Leaving Renaise in charge, I was up and gone from the clearing like a horse bolting through a broken fence, glad for any excuse to be free from there in spite of the danger.
The camp had been getting hotter and more crowded with each day. The full weight of the summer’s heat had finally settled on us. Even there, deep in the woods, everything was dry and dusty. The very leaves hung limp and gray in the still air. Clothes, if we wore them at all, turned wet and clung to us like korbi leaves. If we went naked, our bodies ran with sweat that dripped into everything we did. There was no breeze and little relief, even at night. Worse than any of this was the threat to our water. The little stream that ran below Alyeeta’s shelter was being suck
ed drier with each passing day by the heat. Its few remaining pools had to be saved for drinking water for ourselves and the horses. There was nothing to spare for washing. Sweat-encrusted clothes had to be worn again and again. Our dirty bodies gave off a rank stench and clouds of flies settled everywhere to plague us. In fact, the whole camp reeked. I joked sourly that we could have been found by smell alone.
Tempers were short and quarrels broke out easily. As much as possible the Witches kept clear of us. Since Pell was mostly gone, it fell on me to keep the peace, no easy task since there was little peace in my own heart. Renaise and I even set to snapping and snarling at each other, something we had not done since we had settled our old quarrel, a poor example, surely, for those who looked to us for guidance.
Altogether, I rode away from our camp with a sense of freeing myself from a deepening bog. Things were no better on the road, however. Even before I reached the appointed place, I could smell smoke. Soon there were signs of fire and the hoofprints of many horses milling about. A sense of awful doom hung over the spot. I waited in hiding for awhile, making the call of a tzatzi bird at intervals. Finally I turned for home, as eager to be safely back as I had been eager to be away. I went as fast as I dared, carrying a terrible weight in my heart for the two who had not been there to meet me.
Long before I reached her I saw the old woman, and I sensed her well before that. She was sitting under a tree with a basket of apples for sale. A shiver of apprehension went up my spine. There was nothing unusual in the sight of an old woman selling something by the side of the road except, of course, that she had not been there when I passed by such a short time before. Certainly her apples would not have stopped me. They looked old and wormy. I could easily have found better apples lying under any farmer’s tree. I might have ridden by hastily with hardly a glance, if not for the circle of bent willow branches in the dust before her. Inside this circle was a triangle, also of willow, in the middle of which she had set her best apple, a golden one to catch the eye. I looked at her to try to read her expression. Even in that stifling heat she had herself covered with a fringed shawl that hung low over her forehead and almost obscured her face. Nothing could be read in its shadow.
