by Jo Walton
She pulled the leaves out of her hair, looking at her sister thoughtfully. Maybe, though she’d never say it, Elenn would be glad if Darag killed Firbaith, so she could marry Ferdia. But she didn’t think so. Elenn’s sense of duty was much stronger than that. Besides, Firbaith was a handsome man, and much more sensible than Ferdia. She had never been able to understand how it was that her sister had got so besotted with the sulky idiot in the first place.
Elenn tutted at Emer and put on the pearl circlet Orlam had given her. It looked magnificent. “It’s almost time,” she said. “Your hair will do.”
“Time for the funerals?” Emer asked. “Darag killed Trivan, did you know?”
“Nobody told me, but somebody would have told me if she’d managed to kill him and open the road, so I suppose I knew. And right after the funerals comes the wedding.”
“The actual wedding?” Emer was shocked. “Now? Tonight? Not just a betrothal?”
“Would I wear the shawl for a betrothal?” Elenn asked, smoothing it on her shoulders. The bridal color did not suit her as much as the colors she normally wore.
“People often do. Betrothal is a sacrament, too.”
“Well, anyway, Firbaith wanted the real wedding tonight. After all, Atha is married to Darag. It’ll give him moral authority talking to her.” Elenn was clearly repeating something she’d been told. She stood up, stooping because of the tent, and Emer realized that she was shaking a little. Beauty stood, too, and paced beside her mistress.
“It’ll be all right,” Emer said clumsily.
Elenn put her hand out to Beauty, who licked it. She fussed at the dog, pulling her ears, not looking at Emer as she spoke. “I keep wishing Orlam could be here,” she said. “I wanted to ask … have you and Conal …” She hesitated. “I mean, I’ve never …” she began, and trailed off again.
Emer felt like an old woman, immensely older than her sister, decades and centuries older. “Yes we have,” she said. She stopped and looked for words for something which was mostly a wordless delight. “It’s just as good as everyone says. It’s a bit awkward at first, but then it’s lovely. You just need to pay attention to how things feel and not be afraid. You think about making him feel good—and don’t worry about asking if you’re not sure. Then making you feel good is up to him. Most likely Firbaith knows all about it and can show you.”
Elenn still wasn’t looking up. “Thank you. That is a help. Ap Fial blessed my womb and told me about childbearing, but I didn’t like to ask about that.”
“What did he tell you about childbearing?” Emer asked, suddenly intensely curious. “I’ve always wanted to know.”
Now Elenn looked up, her beautiful face sealed shut. “It’s a mystery of the Mother,” she said. “The sun is nearly down. We should go.”
Emer followed her sister to the funeral pyres. They were in the same place they had been the other nights, just outside the camp. She tried to think of the fallen, but repetition had made the ceremony seem almost routine. Her body was exhausted but her mind could not be quiet. Even as they sang the Hymn of Return, it kept darting off to Conal, stricken, to love and death and the nature of betrayal. Afterwards ap Fial and their parents came over to them. Allel thrust a bough of blackthorn into Emer’s arms. It was heavy with pink blossom, the heady scent hung on the air. He was carrying birch, and Maga silver fir.
“Where have you been all day?” Maga asked.
“Emer ap Allel has been helping weave the gods’ will,” ap Fial said, almost before Emer could wonder how to answer. Ap Fial frowned at Maga and drew his shawl tight around him.
“Well, you’ll have to manage without her tomorrow,” Maga said. “I need her.”
“She must help daily while we stay here,” ap Fial said, still looking very severe. “Without her, we would all be less than we could be.”
Allel patted Maga’s shoulder warningly. Maga looked as if she wanted to say more, and even question the priest. She looked angrily around. “The bridegroom is waiting,” she said.
Emer went through her part in the ceremony as if in a dream. If she was doing the gods’ will, then what could the gods possibly want? Beastmother had struck Oriel down. It didn’t make sense. She had thought she was thwarting the gods. But then, she hadn’t thought Maga would notice she was missing. As for ap Fial, how did he know? Oracle-priests could know anything, but did that mean she did this in other worlds? And was he betraying Connat in protecting her? The oracle-priests had their own loyalty, to the gods and the worlds, but he belonged to Connat as Inis belonged to Oriel.
Emer threw down her branch an instant after she should have, but Firbaith trod it down just as he should. It was a terribly rushed wedding, but all the omens were good, and at least Elenn would not be stuck here with Maga. If Emer was in Oriel, she could go to the Isles and visit sometimes, and Elenn and Firbaith would be bound to visit Atha and Darag. Emer could not make these thoughts more than empty wisps of plans that she knew would never come to be even as Firbaith kissed Elenn. He was as good as dead already, whether he knew it or not.
The feast was held out of doors around the campfires in the dusk. It was like a festival, everyone eating in sight of everyone else, except for those who were part of bloodfeuds who ate carefully apart, as always. Bloodfeuds were suspended for festivals, so anyone could eat with anyone.
Emer ate with her parents, Elenn and Firbaith, and Lew ap Ross of Anlar. She had no idea why Maga had singled him out for attention, but she was glad to see him; he seemed almost like an ally. His smile reminded her of Conal. They talked for a while of the contest and the journey she had made with the three princes of Oriel. She longed to ask him why he had abandoned his long-standing alliance with Oriel, but dared not. Maga seemed pleased that Emer was entertaining Lew and spoke mostly to Firbaith. Emer was glad to be overlooked again. She didn’t want to have to lie about what she had been doing all day.
Firbaith and Elenn shared the traditional loaf, but everyone else ate griddies hot from the campfires. Maga had spared one of her herd for the feast, giving Firbaith the champion’s portion. The meat was stringy and limited. Emer heard some muttered complaints from the champions. At least there was plenty of ale, and everyone drank deep. There was much laughter. Although it was war and their friends were dying, there had been no great battles. The host seemed ready to be amused after three days waiting around achieving nothing. Every moth that blundered into the fire aroused laughter, every joke made people roar. Even those pining for love of Elenn, or saying they were, seemed to think Firbaith a fair match for her. Ferdia seemed to be drinking sparingly, but cheerfully enough as far as Emer could tell. People were talking as if it were a settled fact that the road would open tomorrow.
During the singing, Elenn leaned close to whisper to Emer. “Sisterly secrets!” bellowed Firbaith, laughing and downing another cup of ale.
Lew smiled. “Don’t they make a pretty picture heads together like that?”
Emer felt apprehensive. What could Elenn want to ask now?
“Will you look after Beauty tonight?” Elenn asked urgently. “She’s used to sleeping with me, and she might come and look for me. And if I tie her up, she’ll howl. There aren’t any other dogs here or I’d leave her with a kennel master. She’s used to you. She won’t mind.”
Emer looked down at the hound. Beauty was more than half grown now, not a puppy anymore. She liked dogs well enough, in their place, out hunting. “Of course I will,” she said. Elenn knelt and hugged the dog, whispering in her ear as she had whispered in Emer’s. When she rose, she had tears in her eyes. They were gone before she turned back to the others.
Then Elenn and Firbaith went off to the specially prepared tent, everyone calling out traditional bawdy blessings on the marriage bed. It occurred to Emer that this was probably the first wedding she had ever been to where the bride and groom really were consummating not just their fertility, but their relationship. Some of the jokes were ones usually heard at betrothals. Harps and drums str
uck up tunes and half the camp began to dance. Emer kept her hand on Beauty’s neck, holding her from going after her mistress. She drew the dog with her through the crowds toward her tent and her bed.
Maga came up to her as she left the circle of the firelight. There was a tremendous noise from the music and the dancing, but nobody was paying them any attention. “That went well,” she said. Emer smiled her agreement. “Tomorrow, I shall betroth you to Lew ap Ross of Anlar.”
Emer stood still for a moment, chilled through. Then hot anger warmed her. “You will not,” she said. “Have you forgotten what I said to you when I came back from Muin? Have you forgotten all I have said to you since?”
“Conal is a fool and has taken so long considering that it amounts to refusing my offer,” Maga said. “I have had enough of your obstinacy. Lew is an allied king. He likes the look of you, and has done so since he first saw you. You were talking to him happily at dinner, so it is clear you do not dislike him. He wants a wife who will guide him and make him a strong alliance, he has said as much to me. As for you, you will be a queen immediately. What more could you want?”
Emer remembered Anlar, the cobwebs in the hall and the dogs lying down among the champions. She thought of Lew, good-hearted but nearly forty years old and weak-willed. “While Conal the Victor lives, I will never marry anyone else,” she said.
“He won’t live very long once we open a road to Oriel,” Maga said and smiled.
“If you hear news he is dead, talk to me of your matchmaking,” Emer said. “You cannot make me marry against my will.”
Maga looked at her impatiently. “What will you do?” she asked. “Kill yourself like a cowardly Vincan and set yourself against the pattern the gods have woven for your life? ‘Her father brought bold Drusan to her bed, but there they found fair Elenn lying dead,’” she sang. Beauty raised her hackles and growled at Maga. “Life is not for throwing away like that.”
Emer was ready to fly out against her mother, to rail and shout and object again. As she drew herself up to do it, she felt all the aches of the day again. “I am too tired for this nonsense,” she said evenly. “I have said everything I am going to say about this many times already. I told you I am not your property.”
“I gave you life,” Maga said. “I gave you breath itself. And no thanks, just ingratitude. I am your mother and your king and you owe me obedience.”
“There’s more to being a mother than that, or a king either,” Emer said. Then while Maga stood speechless, she walked on toward her bed, taking her sister’s dog with her.
24
(FERDIA)
Just as Ferdia was about to make his second cast at the target, a hush spread among the other young warriors who were practicing with him. He threw, making his neck shot, then turned to see. Maga was stepping down from a chariot close behind him. She was wearing all her finery, gold torcs and arm-rings, and brooches set with pearls, and long chains of amber. She smiled at him but did not speak, waiting politely for him to throw his third spear. He turned away from her, took a calming breath, and threw. The spear flew straight for the heart of the target and his companions stamped their feet in praise. His face heated as he turned back towards them.
“Well thrown, son of Cethern,” Maga said. “I am going to Cruachan with the carts to bring back ale and food for feasting. Will you come with me to drive my chariot and protect me from dangers we might encounter on the way?”
Ferdia just looked at her for a moment. Who would attack Maga’s chariot, when all the fighting folk of Oriel were laid low by a curse and everyone else in the island was allied to Connat? And he knew she could drive a chariot herself. She had just driven it across the camp, after all. Or, if she had wanted a champion to go with her, the whole might of Connat was drawn up here with nothing to do. After seven days of it, they were becoming so restless they were beginning to fight among themselves. All the same, however ridiculous her request was, he could not in courtesy refuse her. Besides, everyone was listening.
“I will come with you, for what little I might do,” he said and bowed.
Maga narrowed her eyes. “I am sure you could do great deeds if you were called upon to do so,” she said and bowed in return. Her gold flashed as it caught the sun when she straightened. She turned and mounted the chariot, holding the reins to Ferdia. He took them and climbed in beside her. The looks the others gave him were envious. He would gladly have changed places with any of them.
The ponies, both dusky black mares that looked as if they had no staying power, were lively and ready to be off. They drove in silence until they were out of the camp. Ferdia had to concentrate on steering wide of tents and groups of people running about. Most of them seemed to be sharpening weapons or practicing, but there were big groups gathered around people telling stories. Nobody seemed to want to move out of his way. He was glad when they were past the press of people. The carts were waiting, drawn up on the road to Cruachan under a stand of alders. There seemed to be a great number of them.
“We will lead the way,” Maga said, waving to the carters. “Go slowly and let them stay only a little way behind. We are here for their protection.”
There was nobody now to hear anything Ferdia said. “What are we to protect them from?” he asked.
Maga looked at him and smiled, a smile he did not at all like. “Mostly from their own fears,” she said. “But we have taken up arms, and long ago I made a law that in time of war, all supply carts will be accompanied by a chariot. It has many times saved food that we needed from being taken by the enemy.”
“This is not war,” Ferdia said, almost before he could think what he was saying.
“It is most like war,” Maga said.
Ferdia thought it wisest not to reply to this at all. His father kept the distinction very clear.
They drove on slowly for a little while. They passed farmhouses and tilled fields and here and there a wooded spinney. The land was much like Ferdia was used to in Lagin. It would have been a pleasant drive, except that he was very aware that Maga was watching him.
“You are a fine young champion,” she said after a while.
“Thank you,” Ferdia replied, horribly embarrassed.
“It seems to me that you would do well against one of the Keepers of the Roads. You throw your spear straight, even when you have been surprised. You are young and strong and well trained. Yet you have not gone against them. Why is that?”
Ferdia stared between the horses’ ears. She should not have asked. He could not say that he had no desire to die. “Darag is my foster brother,” he said. “It would be the greatest impiety to fight him.”
“Oh, yes, that little stay in Ardmachan from which we all hoped for so much and yet gained so little,” Maga said, her voice gentle. “I was against it from the start, but allowed Allel to overrule me. If Darag is your foster brother, you must know him well.”
“Very well indeed.” The road was rising to go over a little hill, and a dark cloud covered the sun.
“We all know he is good with a spear, but so little else about him.” Maga hesitated as if she wanted Ferdia to say something.
“I can tell you what he is like, but you met him when he came to Cruachan in the contests after Amagien’s Feast,” Ferdia said.
“That was for such a short while, and besides, he was on the hill or asleep for most of the time. And such strange things he fought, too, three-headed dogs, headless ogres. Is it true that his father is a god?”
“I have heard it said,” Ferdia said cautiously. “It would explain how it is that the curse has not laid him down.”
“Such a strange curse,” Maga said. “And who knows how long it will last? But if he is the son of a god, which god would it be, do you think? Or has he not confided that even to his foster brother?”
“He doesn’t know,” Ferdia said. “Many of the gods come to the festivals, it is said.”
A soft rain started to fall. The first drops of it sent up a fresh green smell from
the dust of the road. Maga drew a fold of her overdress over her head. “How curious that the god should protect him without revealing himself.”
“I don’t know if he’s protecting him,” Ferdia protested. “It could just happen that way, because of who his father is.”
“If his father didn’t take notice, he wouldn’t have seen the three-headed dog,” Maga said as if she were perfectly sure, as if the gods took her into their confidence about such things. “No, he must know and be keeping it to himself.”
Ferdia thought about what Darag had said about the strangeness. He was sure Darag had been telling the truth. He didn’t want to say that to Maga. He just shook his head, feeling the dampness of his hair as he did.
“Also, some divinity must be protecting him both from the curse and from our spears, and guiding his spears to kill our champions,” Maga went on in the same tone.
“He doesn’t need his spears guided by the gods,” Ferdia said. “He is uncommonly good—fast and accurate, with good judgment as well as a good eye.”
“I begin to understand why you don’t want to fight him,” Maga said.
Ferdia felt heat rising in his cheeks. “He is my foster brother,” he repeated, and turned his face away from Maga. The rain was heavier, but he welcomed it now. He realized he had unintentionally put on a burst of speed and he slowed carefully so the carts could keep up.
“Do you think my daughter Elenn beautiful?” Maga asked. Her voice was soft and confiding now.
Ferdia wondered how many men she had beguiled to their deaths with that question. Four at least, whom Elenn had married, one every night for the last four nights. Nobody would ever know how many others had gone to death hoping to clear the road and win Elenn’s fabled starry eyes and midnight hair. “Very beautiful,” he said. “One of the three most beautiful women of the Island of Tir Isarnagiri, as the poet has it.” Anything else would have been rude. Besides, nobody could deny that Elenn was beautiful.
