We had stood by the fence and curiously watched the adults enter the lodge used for big decisions. Little did we know then, the hound pups waited for us inside—little balls of whimpering that marked our passage from childhood to the bearing years.
Warriors needed the hound-healing the most, but females seemed to be the target of the gifts. Every family had at least one. All scrapes from childhood, stabs of the sword, even diseased limbs were healed by the hounds. My father’s hound had served me well. But in my fourteenth year, the year of my first bleeding, my name was called, and I walked the length of the totem hall.
Every tribe member was there to bear witness to the ceremony, everyone, except my mother. She would not be present, because she could not be welcomed as a Mantie. I kept my head high, proud to be included, immune to the disapproving faces around me.
An Outlander elder stood at the other end of the hall, waiting to present me with my hound. Her face was as pinched as her heart against the idea of a mixed breed receiving a gift from the goddess. But the elder had no choice. The Firslain were the givers, and they chose the blessed. And I had the blood of an Outlander. I would not be denied my right.
When I stood before the woman, I tilted my head in respect as was the custom. The elder reached into a basket and lifted out the runt of the pack. Her clawed fingers shook Hinfūs roughly by his neck fur. He whined and wiggled in her grasp, pulling up his hind legs up to protect his pot belly. I smiled and reached out my slender arms, eager to hold the furry pup. But the elder leered at me and pulled a sharp dagger from her fur vest. My eyes darted into the crowd, searching for my father, and then desperately shot back to the elder, begging her not to.
She laughed, and hissed, “You shall have the pup, but not whole.”
I pulled my dagger as she struck to cripple his hind leg. My blade deflected her blow. The ring of the clashing metal was followed by her harsh gasp of outrage.
“You dare strike at me, child?” The woman called out, her voice echoing through the lodge.
“You dare interfere with the goddess’ blessing?” I spoke louder. My haughty pride holding me steady before the woman.
The silence was deafening. I could feel the hatred of the Outlander tribe burning into my back. They had waited long for a reason to cast me out. But a youth’s heart is foolish, and I would not stand down. I would not let her maim my hound.
The elder’s grey eyes glittered like flint-rock. Hinfūs had stopped whining and struggling, hanging in the air as if accepting his fate. She tossed him, skidding him across the floor, and I spun, running after. I grabbed him by the leg before he could reach the booted feet of the seated Outlanders. On my knees before the tribe, I sheathed my dagger and lifted the little pup into my arms, his hind legs kicking against my grasp. But my pleasure at his cuddle did not last.
LIFTING MY EYES, I saw my father’s face. His disappointment was carved deep into his features like a stone epitaph. He lowered his head, his glance sliding from mine, and I knew the moment of his separation from me. I had shamed him more profoundly than I could know. I had broken one of the most sacred Outlander codes. I had disrespected an elder; threatened an elder... me, the half breed.
THE REMEMBERED PAIN of my father’s disapproval added to the sting of losing Hinfūs, weighing down my heart until it felt as if it would slip from beneath my ribs. My arms trembled in agony as I held Goddess straight out while balancing on the limb of the tree. I had been standing thus for hours, and I welcomed the pain for it cleared my mind of memories.
A noise below curled me against the trunk in silence. A pacer walked by the tree, unaware of my presence in the branches above her.
How long before the challenges for my rule would begin?
Chapter 13: The Goddess Reveals Herself
I was impatient to hunt the serpent, especially after Hinfūs’ death, but I knew it would please the Horde to dally by the river. We set up our tents, mainly because I felt mine could afford me some warning of a night intruder.
Just as I expected, someone came to my tent in the night. Lying awake, I heard a whisper outside. Motioning for the flanks to open the tent flap, I silently rose, holding my daggers at the ready. A pacer stood in the full moon, her mottled skin seeming to undulate in the white light. She did not look at me, but kept her face turned down and to the side. Suspiciously, I peered into the moonlit space behind her.
“Speak,” I said, when I was convinced she was alone.
She raised her glance to my chin, and whispered, “Bathes in moonlight—Goddess—along the river.”
“Goddess! At the river?”
The woman nodded. My heart leapt with excitement. This would not be a trap, because pacers did not lie. But it could be a punishment from Goddess. I rushed to put on my armour. Perhaps, Goddess had answered my prayers. There was always a chance it would be a blessing. I ordered the flanks to follow, just in case.
MOVING SOUNDLESSLY through the night, we started at the riverbank, south of the dam. The air around the river was moist and cool, for the new water had quenched the soil creating a green oasis in just half a day. I marveled at the plant-life that could become lush in such a short time—proof that the world wanted to live. The riverbed wound through a dark wooded area, and we followed its snaking silver line. Wild creatures slipped back into the underbrush at our approach, reluctantly moving away from the wet shore. We walked in silence, until the forest rose up a steep incline, the trees leaning forward and falling down the slope. I could see no shoreline at the bottom of the hill, only the water and the sheer cliffs.
“Do we have to climb?” I asked the pacer.
“You follow,” she said.
The woman moved into the edge of the water, stepping on stones only she knew were there. The flanks hard hooves slipped on the stones creating loud splashes, so I waved them back. The going was tedious, but soon the river turned sharply, and we came out on the other side of the hill. I stepped onto the bank’s heady soil, as rich and black as night. A pungent smell of rotting wood scented the air. Ahead of me, the pacer stepped to the side, and I caught my breath as I saw Goddess in all her glory.
Rising out of the water was a fertility shrine—a tower of black hermafire-stones. Each stone was the length of four men, and each was as round as a mother’s belly. The stones were too large for mortal hands to move, yet they had been laid three high on an island in the middle of the river. The moonlight seemed to pierce the hermafire’s smooth sides, bending within to send silver beacons shining.
Truly, this was a sign of favour! I dropped to my knees in the newly greening moss.
“Thank you, Mother. Thank you for revealing yourself to us.”
I would not make the same mistake I had made when I had awoken with the flush. This blessing was to be shared. I opened Lumen to the Horde and let them experience the wonder within my heart as it soared with renewed faith. I felt each awakening mind as my people became aware of the vision before me. Elation fed back to me through Lumen. They would come. They would come, and we would begin the fertility rite and maybe, Goddess willing, some of us would flush.
THE SUN’S RISING FOUND most women of bearing age seated on a rock or stump along the river. We faced Goddess, together, and opened our hearts and minds to her graciousness. And we prayed. Oh, how we prayed that she would light the wick within our wombs.
As a DreÓdreng, I served Goddess in ways other than childbearing. But my union with Dorn, and my taste of the flush, had left me hoping for a babe of my own. I had no kin to prepare me for the blessing. So alone, I sat on a large rock that rested in the shallows. I dipped my shell into the river water and began combing the braids of knots that had become my hair.
I was so immersed in the task, I did not see Dorn approach until a warm hand covered mine and he said, “I would untangle such beauty.”
He smiled down at me with his teasing eyes then reached out his hand for my comb like a tender. The veins stood high on the muscles of his forearm, and I felt a thrill at
the memory of his distracting touch. Willingly, I released the shell to him.
We were quiet as he pulled and tugged and cut through the brambles. After releasing a difficult knot, Dorn apologized and laughingly patted my head. The motion made me think of Hinfūs. I pushed the memory down before it could score me.
A great splashing came through the shallows. Looking around Dorn’s side, I saw Nethaz tromping through the calf-deep water, carrying a small wooden bowl in his large hands.
“This may soften the ties,” the giant said, when he reached my side.
Unlike Dorn, Nethaz did not glow with hope. His voice was almost forlorn, and his eyes did not quite meet mine. I resisted his morose dampening of my spirits and turned to look at the wooden bowl he had brought. Sage scented goose grease whitened the bottom of the wooden dish. I nodded my thanks, and held it for Dorn to dip the comb in.
Rserker was next, bringing a garland of flowers to tie about my waist. In a land that had been parched only a day before, no flowers could have been found. But Rserker had torn strips from a piece of District cloth and had woven the pieces into flower buds. I stood to accept his gift.
“These will help you bloom,” Rserker said awkwardly as he draped the wreath around my hips. I lowered my head to hide a giddy smile that rose up at the idea of Rserker crafting flowers.
“Thank you, Brother,” I said, trying not to burst into laughter. Rserker beat me to it, raising his shoulders and barking out his embarrassment. I joined him gladly.
When our laughter died down, an uncomfortable silence settled. I became very aware of the water wetting my white shift and Dorn standing poised, holding the comb in midair. I looked at the giant, who looked at Rserker, who looked at the sky. Their attention was unbearable.
“Do you not have some task on shore?” I barked.
They seemed relieved as they nodded at each other and wandered back through the shallows. I snorted and sat down, shaking my head at the foolishness. Dorn steadied it with his hand.
“I think I will win this battle, if you stay still,” he reprimanded.
Dorn untangled the last of the knots and my hair was released from its filthy coils. As he combed from scalp to end, the pull of the shell on my hair thrilled me.
“Now,” he whispered, leaning close to my face and cradling the back of my head. “Tip.”
I leaned back, arching over the smooth rock, trusting his strength to hold me. The water was cold against my head, rising with a chill to the back of my ears. Pushing his hands close to my scalp, Dorn scrubbed handfuls of sand into my hair, rubbing out months of oil and grit. My skin tingled under his fingers. I closed my eyes against the brilliance of the sun and prayed in whispers to Goddess.
Mother, just as the buds will bloom into flowers, let me bloom inside.
Let me be filled with nectar and sweet scents of a newborn babe.
Mother, my fingers would touch skin that has never known air.
My ears would hear the song of need.
My heart would bond with another that has grown within me.
Mother, would that I could nourish a child in my body, at my breast.
My mind is full of all that I could share.
I am strong, Mother.
I am still strong, and I have guidance to give.
Hot tears pooled at the corners of my eyes as I whispered the words.
Dorn raised me up, and the tears rolled down my cheeks. I could feel his breath on my face, but I dared not look at him.
“Laywren,” he rested his hands gently on my shoulders.
I peered at him through my lashes, the sun sparking the tears on my lids. Where I thought there would be pity, I found the same look of emptiness—the heartsore ache of the childless in Dorn’s eyes.
“The goddess can hear your prayers, and she knows your soul,” he whispered with such passion, such belief in me, I dared to believe in his words.
Dorn leaned forward and crushed my tears between our lips.
“A man’s hand,” said Cook, pushing Dorn to the side, “however grand.”
“Cannot weave,” said other Cook, coming up behind me, “we believe.”
“The plait that would weight the fate!” said third Cook.
The cooks bustled between us, pushing Dorn further away from me. I smiled at Dorn’s frustrated grimace as we were separated.
Accepting that he was outnumbered, Dorn stepped back, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Very well, ladies of the pot. Braid the ladder to the Hall, and tie the knot,” he bowed to them.
The three hags ignored him, as they began to pull and tug at my auburn mane, shaping it into the ancient headdress of fertility. Over their plump shoulders, and around their large ears, I watched Dorn walk down the river. He stopped to speak to each of the Horde’s women, encouraging the preparations. Occasionally, he looked back at me, but I pretended not to see him.
As two yanked at my hair, third Cook lifted a skin flask and poured a bright liquid into the river. It mixed into the rippling water, swirling into the depths. Grunting, Cook leaned over her fat rolls and began making signs on the water’s surface. I was taken by the graceful movements and did not notice the bright liquid rise to the top of the water until Cook scooped it into a wooden bowl.
“Drink the draught that naught could sink, and think of naught but floating kings,” she said, handing me the cup.
I took the bowl, sniffing, as I raised it to my lips. It smelled of flank piss and bitterroot. How much sweeter Dorn’s lips would have been. I held my breath and gulped it down. The foul liquid made me shudder and gag. The cooks laughed, pulling me upright by my hair.
“Now, now, now, now, now,” they chanted with glee, draping a cloth of such vivid colour around me, I was struck dumb with wonder.
I blinked away tears of gratitude and looked for Dorn along the river. He was four groups downstream, leaning over a figure in white on a stone. The skin on my neck tightened as I recognized the chronicle ward. Dorn was tenderly washing her hair. She reached up and caressed his face. My breath came deep and low, dragged from my chest by jealousy. I wanted to use Lumen to seek their thoughts, to spy on their emotions.
Cook twisted my head to the side, forcing my gaze to the forest’s edge. Among the trees, Nethaz stood in the shadows, his muscled arms crossed over his broad chest. He held my gaze, then turned and looked down the river at the object of my envy. At that moment, I hated the giant for witnessing my weakness.
A LARGE TENT WAS RAISED on the river’s shore, and as dusk approached, we women were moved into its warm embrace. Not one of the others sat until I had chosen my place. Then they settled. The women admired each other’s hair and adornments, petting with compliments and giggles. I hardened myself to their flattery as they praised my Hall ladder and eventually, they moved away to chatter among themselves.
“Many times, have I been overlooked by Goddess,” a woman said as she knelt beside me.
“May Goddess see you first, this day,” I replied, recognizing the woman as Kaj’s widow, Nailia.
“No woman can compete with the presence of a Queen,” she answered, her voice smooth on the compliment.
I searched her sun-browned face but found only sincere admiration.
“Maybe not a woman, but what of a girl?” I asked, nodding toward the chronicle ward, who seemed to be the darling of the others.
“Not such a girl. She buds beneath her shift, and her eyes are cunning with tainted plots,” Nailia whispered.
I considered her accusation for it supported what I had seen of the girl’s actions. She was seemingly sweet on the outside, but she hid a shrewdness beneath her youthful beauty.
The cooks entered the tent carrying a heavy, fire grate. I had never seen it before and was taken with the intertwining pattern of the cycle worked into the iron. But even more distracting were the green masks the cooks were wearing. Everything had become ceremony, down to the swish of their grass woven clothing.
COOKS LAID THE GRATE in the middle of
the tent. Then, they filled it with sage leaves, trout-wood twigs and glittering bits of the mountains. Stretching out their puffy, white arms, they held hands around the grate. Moving in step, they circled it, chanting together.
May the moon lead the way
with beams to sway
the blessings of Goddess.
Might the stars light the flight
of the babies’ souls, tonight
with the blessings of Goddess.
They sang their chant over and over until a small spark smoldered in the trout-wood. It wiggled like a glow worm among the leaf litter before it touched the mountain shavings. Then light burst upon the walls, blinding me. Instinctively, I leapt to my feet, putting my hands out to protect myself. As I blinked away the flash, a figure slowly focused in front of me. It was the chronicle ward, scorn staining her face. I blinked again, and she was back at the wall surrounded by her swarm. My hands felt empty without my sword.
“Clear your mind of all but a mother’s love,” whispered Nailia.
She sat down and patted the ground beside her. Then, she lay back and closed her eyes, crushing her short, spiked hair against the ground. The widow was right. The goddess would not choose an unfit to fill. I breathed out deeply, settling again beside Nailia. Closing my eyes, I tried to trust, but could not stop looking through my lashes to see where the ward was. She was on her back, rubbing her stomach in smooth circles, singing a child’s lulling song.
“Mother,” I began to whisper, but Cook came to touch my skin.
The old crones were circling the women like vultures, looking for signs of the flush. I could hear the murmur of the men talking quietly outside, as they waited by their fires.
Would Goddess bless me twice? Would she bestow the flush on me, when she had already tested me, and I had failed?
I tried to pray again, “Mother...,”
The Precious Quest Page 13
