Maybe the flush had been enough, and I was already with child—with Dorn’s child. I smiled and placed my hands on my birth-knot. I could use Lumen to sense if a child grew within me, but it might be dangerous to seek a developing mind.
Nailia’s prayer pulled me from my imaginings. “Mother, bless me, for I am good. I am your obedient daughter. My body is your vessel, the pod prepared for your blessing. I live only to serve as MÓdere to your child. Let me carry your babe. Let me raise your child to know your ways, to serve you.”
I turned away but continued listening. Perhaps, I should repeat her prayer. But I could not say those words. Mine were different. I served in higher ways then just being a vessel. I was the right arm of Goddess. I fed the cycle, so that MÓderes could fulfill their destiny.
Ungracious thoughts, I reminded myself.
To clear my mind, I pictured the water by the rock. But soon, I began to recall Dorn’s touch as he washed my hair. The night we had spent together, Dorn had touched me like no man had ever dared, pulling me into his arms, pressing me down with his weight. His mouth had travelled my length, nipping and licking and kissing until all my will was consumed. I had been eager to surrender—weak, yes, but so very willing. I believed it was safe to give myself to him, to trust him. And he had looked deep, had done his own seeking to find my devotion.
“The greatest gift from a warrior Queen,” he had whispered.
IN MY MIND, THE MALE captive’s green eyes replaced Dorn’s, and I felt the heat of vengeance fire my chest. I had to slay the serpent to purge it from my memory. I envisioned the male captive, with his thick, tattooed lips and the slack skin around his jaw. How easy it would be to skin that man with my dagger.
“My Queen!” Nailia whispered, disapprovingly.
I opened my eyes and looked at her. She was lying on her side facing me, her head pillowed in her hand.
“Your thoughts are not of mothering,” she winked at me with a smirk.
I was taken aback, uncomfortable with her friendly liberty.
“My thoughts are for the Horde and its survival,” I replied turning onto my back to look at the top of the tent.
“You have much on your mind,” Nailia agreed and rolled onto her back. “And I’m sure many are thinking of you.”
I sighed and sat up. She was not going to let me be.
“Say what you mean, widow,” I whispered, harshly.
Nailia smiled, bringing my attention to a scar that ran across her lips.
“I saw the gifts bestowed upon you at the river’s edge,” she waggled her eyebrows at me.
I frowned threateningly, but her black eyes twinkled without fear.
“You have many champions, all sturdy men who could father a babe.”
I ignored her teasing and looked around. The other women were focused on gentle, nurturing thoughts, and I was filling my mind with this foolishness!
Her whisper came at my elbow, “I bet the giant could fill a woman to satisfaction, eh?”
“Be still,” I warned her.
But her comment led me down another path of wondering. Angrily, I pinched the inside of my arm to clear out any thoughts of Nethaz and his size. I dug out my goddess carving, turning my back to Nailia’s eyes.
“Mother, I have lost my way. I am sliding between the rings of the cycle. I would hold a sword in my right hand, and a babe in my left. My heart yearns for a man to sire my child, but my mind covets the control of an army. No daughter can be both MÓdere and DreÓdreng,” I stated the obvious.
Holding my goddess carving to my cheek, I whispered, “Mother, please help me find my way.”
“And that General of yours,” Nailia breathed out the words. “What woman would not want to warm herself in his hides?”
I turned to look more closely at my companion. She laughed softly at my discomfort. I calmed myself, trying to be tolerant—accepting like a mother would be. I noticed her scarred lip again and changed the subject from Rserker.
“Nailia, why was your mouth not hound-healed?”
She put her fingers to her lips, and I saw them tremble.
“Because Kaj decided that I should be marked,” she said.
I had never heard of one withholding the hound’s healing. The thought disturbed me.
“Then it is good I have killed Kaj,” I said, without looking at her mouth.
“Think only of a Mother’s love,” she shushed me.
Chapter 14: Blessing by the River
“The flush,” screeched Cook, “we have been blessed!”
I awoke with a start and looked around the tent. Women were leaping up and crying out “Who?” “Who is blessed?” “Who is it?”
I grabbed Cook’s arm. “Who has the flush?” I growled, shocking even myself with my ungracious tone.
“One who has sung of others, but who will now be the song,” Cook rushed off, pleased with herself.
I heard the men’s voices rise with excitement outside. They had stayed awake all night, waiting for this moment. My eyes focused in the dim light, and then I saw her. The chronicle ward stood at the other side of the tent with her head held high, looking straight at me. She was surrounded by women kneeling at her feet, stroking her legs—praising her fortune. I saw the bright red swirls at the base of her neck—the sign of her readiness. My heart ached with loss, but I pushed away the pain and approached her.
“You honour the Horde with your blessing,” I said.
“I thank the goddess for the honour,” she replied. The words were right, but the way she held her head belied humility.
I swallowed against the bitterness in my throat. Nailia moved to my side and provided the next line that I should have spoken.
“Goddess has chosen well,” said Nailia.
“And I will choose well,” the chronicle ward whispered, never dropping her gaze from mine.
“Come!” shrieked Cook, holding the tent open for me to announce the girl.
I carried the ward’s triumphant stare with me like a shadow into the morning’s light. When I stepped from the tent, I was met with the anxious faces of the men. They stood as one, in silence.
I opened my mouth to speak but was struck by their faces turning to gold under the sun’s rays. I turned from their gaping mouths to the river behind me to see the sun peeking from behind the hermafire stones. An aura lit the stone curves sending dancing yellow glitters across the rippling blue water. I felt the grace blossom in my heart as I heard it ripple through the men. Such unnatural splendor could only be bestowed by Goddess. Struck by shame at my selfishness, I dropped to my knees and the Horde knelt with me.
“GODDESS, YOU ARE GRACIOUS. We have waited many years to receive your gift. Our hearts are filled with joy, our minds are filled with wisdom, and all for the child you would bestow upon us. Your name shall grace our lips with glory, and we will hold your child high for all to see—a sign of the wellbeing of the cycle,” I prayed.
We rose as one and witnessed the chronicle ward enter the light. The dawn lit the red swirls at the sides of her neck, and a low moan went through the Horde. Some had never seen the flush. I had never seen it like this. Her markings were like welts of blood rising along her white skin. Now I knew that my markings had been pale ghosts of the sign.
The men of the Horde quickly spread out in a line facing the chronicle ward. Each waited eagerly with the hope of being chosen. In earlier times, young men would have been standing for the choosing, but after years of barrenness, the Horde had only middle-aged men to offer the young woman.
I felt Nethaz move to stand behind me.
“Do you not stand to be selected?” I asked him.
He looked down at me and smiled softly, “I have already been chosen”.
I turned away, mortified that he knew my flush had chosen him. But of course, he would have known for he had seeked my mind, as I had seeked his with Lumen.
The chronicle ward walked slowly to the line of men, basking in her day of glory. They were quiet and still, not their usual boa
stful selves. Pausing in front of each man, she displayed careful consideration before moving to the next. Before her contemplation, some stood tall and strong, others squirmed. Her display was puzzling to me, for I knew how strong the choosing would be, and I knew it would have nothing to do with her will.
Even Rserker contained himself as the girl stood before him. She touched her finger to her lip, looked him up and down, then passed him by. Rserker dropped his chin to his chest.
I had not thought of Rserker as a father. To me, he existed only as a warrior, as a brother—to carry out my commands. Yet, my father had been a vigorous warrior like Rserker. I was suddenly surprised to find they were comparable.
My concentration was drawn back to the ritual of choosing as the chronicle ward approached Dorn. I examined him as she would, my eyes running over the smooth muscles of his arms and legs, the straight back. His golden brown eyes were smoked by lush, dark lashes, but it was the knowledge behind them that struck a fire in my chest. I caressed the waves in his hair with my eyes. I knew he wanted to be a father; they all did. Dorn looked down on the girl with a Warden’s care.
Then, Cook clapped her hands in glee, as the chronicle ward reached out her hand to Dorn.
“The flush has chosen!” Cook shrieked.
A cry went up among my people.
Dorn reached out and took the girl’s fine-boned hand in his.
I held my face like stone, overriding the emotions trying to escape. Thankfully, all eyes were on Dorn and the girl as the group congratulated them. I prayed in silence for strength, trying not to leap across the moss and drive my dagger into her heart. The heat of Nethaz’s hand wrapped my shoulder and grounded me.
His deep voice rumbled in my chest, “No man can refuse the call, once he has become aware of it.”
The words were not meant to comfort me. The giant was reminding me that I had denied him the right to accept. Worse, I had risked the goddess’ disapproval because of my feelings for Dorn.
How stupid that seemed, now! How foolish to risk all for a man!
I shook off the giant’s hand and hissed at a pacer who was standing nearby, “Fetch me the skin-writer!”
I did not follow the others as they danced and sang Dorn and the girl back to camp. Instead, I walked to the rock on which I had garlanded myself for the blessing. Standing behind the grey boulder, I faced Goddess, my heart hardening into my own version of hermafire stone.
The choosing was a tradition as old as life itself, and I had been wrong to deny tradition its right.
“I accept the role of DreÓdreng as my destiny,” I called out across the river.
My voice echoed in the morning river-mist, but there was no reply. Roughly, I untwined the Hall ladder, releasing my auburn hair fall to the middle of my back. Then I dug my fingers into my skull and pulled my hair back into a fierce battle bow, stabbing it into place with sharp twigs that had tried to bob past on the river’s surface. As I jabbed in the last stick, I heard the frantic splashing of the skin-writer approaching.
“What will it be, my Queen?” he asked breathlessly, his pigeon chest laboring with the effort to get enough air.
I turned my eyes back to Goddess—now a black silhouette against the red ball of the rising sun. With rough hands, I ripped my gown from neck to belly, dropping it to float around my hips.
I answered the puffing man without looking at him, “You will cloak my back with the war-dragon.”
I paused and envisioned Dorn reaching his hand out to the ward.
“May it eternally thrust me into battle in the service of the goddess.”
Bracing my hands on the stone, I leaned over, eagerly anticipating the distracting jab of the writer’s ink-blade.
Every stab to my skin killed pinched the arousing, parasitic emotion out, killing my love for Dorn and strengthening me to my former glory as a leader of warriors. I released my third eyelids to keep my eyes moist as I held my unblinking stare on the hermafire stones. Before me, the rising sun turned the colour of the river to blood.
“And blood you shall have,” I promised.
Continue Laywren’s story with book II of The Precious Quest
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Read chapter 1 of Book II below.
Chapter 1: The Brownie Bones Foretold
For two days, I burned with frustration, blood lust, and jealousy. My lover, Dorn, and the girl chosen to be his flush-mate by the Goddess did not leave their tent for two days. The warriors who were tracking the escaped serpent had not been able to rediscover the lost trail at the base of the mountain. I wanted nothing more than to ride for the mount’s base, but I could not interrupt the joining of the chosen. I had to wait the allotted time for the flush-mates to come together, over and over again. I had to tarry until it was sure Dorn’s seed was planted deep in the girl’s belly, before I could ensure my sword would be planted in the serpents.
To pass time, I filled my mind with the serpent’s invasion of my body, reliving it, questioning what it had done to my insides, wondering if it had cooled my flush and returned me to a barrenness that mirrored our world, the land, and the Hall of Return from which no souls came home.
When my rage ran so hot, I thought it would light fire to the plains, I sharpened my sword. Leaning over my blade, I reveled in the burning and itching of the war-dragon tattoo recently carved into my back. The pain urged me to take my revenge on the captive who had shed his skin in my tent and slipped away from my clutches.
When I could sharpen the steel no more, I sought a diversion that would slake my war-lust. Moving in the opposite direction of Dorn’s tent, I walked briskly, intent on running to the ridge of sand shielding our encampment. But as I passed my warrior, Jendara’s tent, spoken words slipped from inside and stilled my legs.
Pausing, I leaned closer to the brown hide wondering what “was lost” to she who had spoken. Did they speak of my faith in the Goddess? My ability to rule the Horde? My body which could no longer be healed by my wound-hound, Hinfūs who was lying dead in the riverbed? Or were all of us “lost” in this world of billowing, red sand that blew from the roots of the last remaining trees with each gust of hot wind?
The sound of women laughing rippled from within the skins and though I had thought brutal, physical punishment would ease my mind, the joyful cadence of their speech drew me forward.
From without, I stated that I would enter.
Jendara’s tender, Eavlyn opened the flap and bowed as I passed her.
Pausing, I scanned the inside of the skin dwelling. Soft light from the sun without created a warm glow through the well scraped hide-walls. Nailia stood. Less passive beside Jendara, one would think Nailia was the sword wielder. I had not seen Nailia since the choosing, and I was not sure I wanted to see her now.
Eyeing the cushions on the floor, and the two mugs of tea cooling on the small table, I saw they had been seated together. It was not my way to visit my people inside their living spaces, and I felt I needed to give a reason for my presence.
“I would like to see more of the tender’s weavings,” I said.
“Of course, Queen Laywren.” Jendara clapped her hands at Eavlyn, who had been captured from the District we had last conquered. She need not have. The woman was already scrambling through a trunk of clothes.
“Come, sit here, my Queen.” Nailia smiled and fluffed a third cushion, placing it on the floor beside her.
I looked to Jendara, for it was her dwelling. She gave a slight nod, her eyes sliding away from mine as a flush stained her cheeks. Following courtesy, I slid my sword out of its sheath and laid it against the tent wall, then moved to the women, crossed my legs, and lowered myself to the floor.
A few days earlier, when Nailia and I had been in the flushing-tent together, I had found a rare camaraderie with her. The woman was unafraid of my status, skirting the edges of disrespect through her affectionate, if bold comments. She was much like my general, Rserker, in that way. Much like, but different because
she was a woman. Most women were subservient in my presence, some were envious, few were friends.
Not wishing to be revered, I freed them from formality.
“What is it I have broken up with my presence?”
“We were having a game,” Nailia grinned like an imp. “And we would like to continue it.”
Jendara kept her head down.
“What is the game?” I asked.
By way of answer, Nailia shook her hand and then scattered small pieces of brownie carcass onto the table. The women were future-reading with truth-or-tale telling bones. Cook was the one who usually relayed our paths, but I knew others dabbled in these magicks.
Eavlyn, seeing my interest in the bones, put away her weavings and brought another mug. I took it from her hand, before she could set it on the scattering of ribs.
“What answer do you seek?” I asked.
Nailia leaned over and whispered, “Who will next be blessed by the flush!”
I looked at Jendara who this time was able to hold my gaze. Nailia began separating the bone fragments.
The Chronicle Ward had been the first woman to flush in nineteen years, not just in the Horde, but everywhere we had travelled. Every village and tribe we had conquered was without children. Only Dorn and the giant, Nethaz, knew I had flushed and faded before coming together with my chosen. Dorn, the keeper of our legends was the man I had wanted. But Nethaz was the mate the flush chose for me and that was unacceptable. So, my chance had vanished, but the Chronicle Ward’s had just begun.
Lost in thought, I watched Nailia’s fine fingers place the tiny brownie ribs and rosined fairy wings into two separate stacks, the legs and arms into another. As she sorted, she was careful not to change the direction in which they had landed.
I had never considered the Horde would be blessed with another flushing. Was it possible? Already there had been two in as many days. Why not more? I gulped the tea to wet my suddenly parched throat.
“Now, to help the brownies tell their tale...,” Nailia said, taking out her dagger, “We need to spill three pools of blood.”
The Precious Quest Page 14
