by Diana Rivers
Such a wave of fury rushed up in me at those words that it almost threw me off my feet. The taste of it filled my mouth and for a moment even blinded my eyes. “I am too much for you, am I?!” I screamed at her. “It is you who have poisoned my soul and my heart with your rages. Alyeeta told me to beware of you, that you would suck my blood and leave me dry.”
Alyeeta, of course, had said no such thing. Alyeeta seemed to be softening to this new Rishka and had even said some good things of her. But at that moment what did I care what Alyeeta had said? I was being left again, left by a lover one more time, left by this Muinyairin I had taken pity on, this woman who had torn open my heart. She was standing there telling me it was my fault, my fault, MY FAULT! Suddenly I was spitting and snarling like an Oolanth cat, fangs showing, claws out, cutting and slashing, wanting to hurt, to do damage, to draw blood, wanting not to care, though of course the pain of my attack came back at me in full force. I talked wildly, going on and on, throwing out obscenities that amazed me even as they flew from my mouth. She was leaving me for my anger? Well, I would show her something of anger! Let her see it unsheathed!
Rishka for once was silent. When I stopped for a moment to catch my breath before charging on, she put up her hands before her and said, “Peace, Tazzi. That is enough.” Then she turned and walked away, leaving me alone with my seething, boiling rage, leaving me to be consumed by it.
Lucky for both of us that we could not harm each other bodily, or in my pain and despair I might have followed her and rushed at her departing back with a knife or a stone. Instead I shouted after her, “You are just one more to leave me, no different from the others. Go! Go! What do I need you for?”
Never again, never again to win that incredible sweetness out of the fire, to feel flesh and spirit melted, consumed, reborn. For a while everything looked like ashes after the blaze. Later, though I burned for her in a torment of longing and ripped at my body with my nails at night, I did not try to mend the rift between us. Let her go to her healing if she needed that more than she needed me. What did I care anyhow?
A day or so later Alyeeta caught up with me and said sternly, “You are not to lie about the things I say. Rishka has as much right to the truth as you do.” So now even Alyeeta was defending Rishka. I felt angry again and betrayed as well, but I did not lash out at Alyeeta as I had at Rishka. There was something about Rishka saying she was trying to heal herself that had put me in a towering rage. It was as if she were trying to be better than I was, as if she were trying to heal herself of me, as if I were the sickness in her life and Olna the health.
It was Olna that I lashed out at next, saying angrily, “I see you are trying to steal away my lover.”
She looked at me for a long time, not laughing or mocking me as Alyeeta might have done or saying cruel and insulting things like Telakeet. The pity in her eyes was worse than any insult. She seemed to be truly trying to understand for she finally said, “Do you really believe that, Tazzi?”
Much as I tried to I could not break free of her gaze. I wanted to give back a bitter, clever answer, but those eyes demanded truth. I found myself saying, “No, that is not what I believe.”
Oh yes, I heard that next question coming and did not want to answer it. “Then why did you say that to me?” she asked in that seemingly simple and direct manner. Behind that question was the power of her eyes.
Against my will I heard myself answering, “Because it was a hurtful thing to say and I was hurt and angry and afraid, and wanted to lash back.” I was flushing with shame as I heard my own words.
“Oh,” she said softly and I saw that look of pity deepen. “When we pass on the hurt in that way then there is more hurt in the world that needs healing. There are other ways...” She shook her head, breaking the contact of our eyes and went on in a different tone, “Well Tazzi, I am glad you do not really believe I would do such a thing. If you did then we could not be friends. It is a terrible thing to steal away someone’s affections, but that is not what I am doing. There is something that Rishka needs that you can neither give her nor help her with. Your anger and your pain are too much like hers. They feed on each other. She has been deeply hurt and needs to mend.”
My heart clenched with fear at her words. “You see, it is true,” I said with more bitterness. “With all your talk of healing and mending you will steal her away just as I said, though you may not mean to in that way. But what does it matter. It will all come to the same in the end. She and I will not be lovers, and it will be because of you.”
“Oh, Tazzi, your spirit has grown sick from all you have seen. Let me help. I understand. I have been there.”
“No, I want none of your tampering,” I shouted at her, backing away, “No! Ask me no more questions, I will tell you nothing else.” Her pity and your kindness weakened me. It was like having my heart pried open with a hay hook. I turned and ran for the edge of the woods, not looking back. I knew she would not follow. In some part of my heart I longed for Olna’s touch and her kindness. I wanted to cry out, I need something from you, too, as much as Rishka does, but pride and pain thickened my tongue and cut off the words. It was my silence that spoke instead. I was still nursing too much anger. That anger was the first thing I would have to give up if I were to ask for Olna’s help. I knew that and I was not ready. I was still too raw.
Oh, I loved Olna and I hated her. I was in a rage of jealousy at her caring for Rishka, yet I would not let her near me. She frightened me in a way none of the other Witches did. It was not her Witch powers I was afraid of, it was something else, something for which I had no name that went straight to the core of life. It felt as if she could see right through me, as if I were glass or water. I was not so pleased with what lay in my heart that I wanted it clearly seen by anyone.
In spite of all this I wrote whenever I was able to, with Alyeeta always driving me on, saying, “Do it now. Who knows when there will be another chance?” It gave me some satisfaction to see the pages piling up and know what had already been recorded.
Other things went on in that camp besides my own private war with madness. Vanhira finally came with her travel-wagon, though by a very different road from the one we had used. She was in a great good humor, very pleased with herself. “Well, I sold the soldiers plumcakes, read their fortunes and fattened my purse. They still think you are ahead of them and are rushing on, planning to chase you right into the sea. I told them this enormous mass of women like a great snake had passed me on the way, crowding me and my little wagon right off the road. They, in turn, told me some wild stories of this thief who had scaled a wall to cut their horses loose and vanished in a hail of flaming arrows, delaying them by at least three days.” Pell laughed and slapped her leg as if this was the best joke of her life, but I shuddered, seeing her again, swinging on that rope, a target for all those arrows.
Somehow Hereschell had obtained a small quantity of fastfire, probably through a connection with the Thieves Guild. No matter what else was happening, Pell and Jhemar worked with it everyday on a little sandbar island in the middle of the river, trying to find some way to control it. Sometimes there were strange explosions and huge gouts of fire rushing skyward. Then the children would crowd the shore to watch. Often one or both of them came back with singed hair or clothing. Always they carried with them the smell of flaming death, but they were so sure they were close to an answer that nothing could be said to discourage them from their dangerous sport.
The Muinyairin set up games every day with many Wanderers joining in, riding or wrestling or throwing the short spear. Murghanth and Teko taught juggling to the children. The Wanderers, men and women alike, sewed patches of colored cloth together to make winter covers while they sat around their fires, for it was growing cooler every day. There was always music and song, which seemed as much a part of Wanderer life as breathing or eating. Watching him now among his own people, I wondered what Hereschell’s long periods of silence cost him. He seemed to be one of their best singers
and his story telling always brought him a crowd. I watched him from a distance, but when I saw him turn worried eyes on me I looked away quickly.
I avoided everyone who loved me except Soneeshi. Dancer, after her first panic, had grown used to the wolf. Soneeshi often went on long runs with us. Sometimes I climbed back up to the top of the little knoll to watch and be alone. Soneeshi, who was not comfortable either in the turmoil of the camp, would come and sit by me. Sometimes she lay with her head in my lap.
The hardest thing for me in the Wanderers camp was seeing everyday the flash of red hair—‘Potter red.’ The Wanderers, who so far had kept most of their own daughters out of the Zarns’ hands, had also sheltered many of the Potters’ daughters among them. Their people had an old history of comradeship on the road. Many times I would think I saw Kara among them only to dash forward and stare dumbly into a stranger’s face.
After a few days I stopped chasing. I watched from a distance with my heart aching. It was like having her die over and over. It was like watching for Irdris again, only worse.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Someone was playing the flute. The notes floated up to where I was sitting with Soneeshi on the little knoll. Suddenly I was on my feet and running, running down into the valley with my heart pounding in my throat. The notes had formed themselves into a tune, a tune I knew by heart, knew at the very core of my being. It was one of the tunes Kara had fashioned when we were still children, a tune made just for me. “Tazzia’s Song” she had called it. Trying out different patterns of notes and different rhythms, she had grown more confident till suddenly the music had taken its own sweet, clear form, as if it could only be that way and no other. I had heard it played over and over, though never so well or so boldly. Who else could it be? I ran headlong into camp, dashing past startled faces. Then abruptly I slowed to walk. What if she had taught that tune to some other Potter girl when her family traveled to the fairs?
That familiar music tore at my heart and drew me on. I kept walking forward as if under a spell, though now every step was torture. The sound came from a group of women in dark, hooded cloaks. They were still mounted on their horses. At first I could not tell who played that fateful flute. Then, by the sway of her body, I knew which one made the music. Still I could not see her face for she was shrouded in her dark hood. I advanced toward her, forgetting to breathe, pulled in spite of myself, terrified of that moment when the stranger would turn and in her unknown face Kara would die for me one more time. It was too cruel that out of all the possible combinations of notes in the world she was playing that tune.
Suddenly the music stopped. I stopped, too, praying for it to continue. Just one more time, please play it one more time, I wanted to call out to that stranger. I was fixing my eyes on the back of her head, willing her to continue, when with a laugh and a quick impatient toss of her head, she threw back her hood. Her red hair tumbled to her shoulders, and I saw her face. “Kara!” I shouted. “Kara!” I yelled again as I ran stumbling and panting. “Kara! Kara! Kara!” In an instant she was off her horse and in my arms. As we hugged I could feel our hearts pounding together and the hard wood of her flute pressing into my back.
“Oh, Tazzia, Tazzia, they told me you were alive and here in the camp, but no one seemed to know how to find you. I thought if I played that tune you would come.”
“Kara, beloved, all this time I thought you were dead, yet I have searched for your face again and again with every flash of red hair. When I heard those notes I dared to hope...Is it really you? Are you really here?” With shaking hands I reached out to touch her face, to caress the soft waves of her bright hair, to run my hands down her arms. Suddenly I was sobbing and laughing and shaking all over at the same time. When I could speak again, I said, “Come sit with me and tell me all that has happened and how you came away alive from that mob.” As I spoke I noticed another red-haired young woman who was watching me over Kara’s shoulder, eyes as intent as a hawk’s and with as little friendliness in them.
Kara threw her cloak on the ground, drew me down beside her and put an arm around my shoulder to hold me close. Others quickly gathered around. “Tazzia! My Tazzia! Thank the Goddess I have finally found you after all those months of grieving. So much has happened since I saw you last. So much! How can I tell it all?” She was shaking her head. “Well, to start with, you will be amazed to hear that it was your father who saved me, though I think it was not for my sake or even for yours, but for his village.
“You saw how those men lost all their fear and threw themselves on me, ready to kill me with whatever they could find, even their bare hands. I was crushed to the ground by their bodies, my face pressed into the dirt. I could hardly breathe and was sure I was about to die. At that moment I was far more afraid of being smothered under their weight than I was of any harm from their hands.
“Then I heard your father’s voice, louder than even the shouts of those angry men. ‘Get off her, you fools! Do you want to bring the Potter’s curse down on this village? A curse to blight your fields and sicken your cattle and your children? Get off, I tell you! Do not kill the girl! Up! Up!’ He must have been using a stick as well as words, for I could hear thuds and curses and cries of pain. ‘Get up! Get up! Her blood marks our ruin. If you shed Potter’s blood it will bring us seven years of misery!’ He went on in this way until finally I could feel the terrible weight on me easing. Even when he had pulled the last of them off I could not move. I could hardly suck in a breath of air. It felt as if all my bones had been broken, but in truth I think it was my will to live that had been broken. Your father had to haul me to my feet. Even so, I could not stand. If he had not had a grip on my arm I would have fallen to the ground again. I had never been afraid before, and now my whole being was flooded with fear. My body was shaking uncontrollably.
“My attackers, meanwhile, had backed into a circle around us, still shouting and threatening me, calling me Witch and Puntyar and ‘bloody murderer’ as if I had stabbed Jortho with my own hands. In spite of them your mother came up, threw a shawl over my shoulders, and put her arms around me. ‘I will not let them hurt you again,’ she whispered to me. Seeing that, the villagers began cursing and shouting at her too, calling her Puntyar as well and whatever other foul things came to mind. At that, your father jumped in front of us to protect your mother. He shook his stick at them and they shouted back at him. I feared they might all tangle soon in some terrible, bloody fight.
“Just at that moment my father galloped into the yard, his face red with rage. He began bellowing at the men to back away from me quickly or he would ride them down. My father in a rage is a formidable sight, as I am sure you remember. Muttering and grumbling, the men stepped aside to give him room to pass. ‘What is happening here?’ he roared at your father, as if he were the one at fault.
“‘Get her away from here, and quickly. She can tell you the story herself.’ Your father handed the stick to your mother and helped me up on the horse. As we rode out of the yard I heard him shout at those men, ‘Go home now! Out of my yard! Tomorrow you will be very glad you have not shed any blood this night.’
“We rode home in silence. When we got there my father tried to question me, but my mother intervened. She took me to my bed. I was stumbling and staggering, exhausted beyond reason. For three days afterwards I lay in a fever. As soon as I was out of danger they shipped me south in a Wanderer’s wagon, hidden among the pottery. By then the edict had already been posted and there was no going back.” She shook herself, as if shaking off the memories. “That is the end of that part. I will tell you the rest later.”
When she finished speaking, the watcher, who now stood in front of us, coughed for attention. I looked up to see her frowning down at me. Kara turned and smiled up at her. “Tazzia, this is Vestri, my Zenda. We are...”
There was a sudden roaring in my ears, so loud I could not hear the rest of her words. I knew well enough what Zenda meant, for Kara had called me that more than once. It mean
t beloved bond-partner in the Potters’ tongue. Pain slashed through me. All my joy poured out from that wound. It was as if I had found her and lost her again in less than a heartbeat. When I could regain some composure, this stranger and I nodded stiffly to each other, but if thoughts could grow fists she would have been lying flat on the ground. I am sure she could read my thoughts and that hers were not so different.
Kara jumped to her feet, pulled me and took my arm as if suddenly eager to have me away from that crowd. “I am stiff from riding. Come walk with me and tell me everything.”
I was compliant for that moment and steered our steps toward my little knoll, but as soon as we were free of the others I pulled away from her hold and turned to face her. “Oh, Kara, how could you forget me so quickly in this way?”
She was shaking her head. “I could never forget you, Tazzia. You are my sister of the heart. I trust we will be friends and sisters the rest of our lives. Far from forgetting you, I looked for you in each new face and asked for news of you everywhere we went. But I had to go where I was led. I would not have survived those first months alone. The Wanderers kept me alive and as you heard me say, those I was sent with traveled south. Not till we turned north again for the Great Gathering did I hear word of this Pell and that you might be her second-in-command. Then I tried to hurry our steps as best I could, though Wanderers, of course, are not easily hurried. They travel at their own pace.”
“I do not need your sistering,” I burst out angrily. “I have enough sisters here to last me a lifetime. It is your love I want, Kara, and your passion again.”
