The Steerswoman's Road

by Rosemary Kirstein

  Rowan nodded, and gathered her information into a coherent explanation. “That I am a steerswoman means that I am a constant student. I try to understand everything I encounter. I study what I see, and if there are people who can inform me, I ask questions of them.

  “The simplest thing I study, and most constantly, is the land itself. I chart the country I cross, as accurately as possible. That skill of steerswomen is the one of the greatest uses to people in the Inner

  Lands, and it’s what we are best known for. But we are also interested in the people of the lands we chart, their ideas, actions, and traditions. And many more things: why plants grow where they do, the nature of objects, of natural events, how to use mathematics to navigate and to measure and describe ...” She paused, discovering a more concise and inclusive statement, and its simplicity surprised her. “The Steers-women are actually trying to answer only three questions: what, how, and why.”

  “To the Steerswomen,” Bel put in, “knowledge is life.”

  “That’s a very simple statement,” the seyoh told Bel, “and true in every way.”

  Someone behind Rowan caught Kammeryn’s eye, and he made a gesture of formal recognition. The person addressed Rowan, who turned to face the speaker. “But not everything is significant, to every person. One learns what one needs to know, to survive.” It was a woman, just past middle age, her hair two sweeps of dusty crow’s wing down her breast.

  “There’s more to life than survival,” Rowan told her. “Bel sings, for example, and she doesn’t do it to survive.”

  “I’ve never heard Bel sing,” Kammeryn said, with a dignified nod in Bel’s direction, “but I can tell you this: She does sing to survive. It keeps her spirit alive.”

  Rowan smiled. “I learn to keep my spirit alive. And I give what I know to whomever should need it, and that keeps my spirit alive, too.”

  The council considered the statement; then a young man at Kammeryn’s left was granted the floor. “And have you finished with the Inner Lands,” he said, in a challenging tone, “that now you come to study the Outskirts? Perhaps we don’t want to be studied.”

  “I don’t wish to interfere with your people in any way. And no, we haven’t finished with the Inner Lands; I don’t believe we ever shall.”

  “But you’ve come here.”

  “Yes. For a particular reason,” she told him, then spoke to the assembly at large. “For the most part, the steerswomen travel along their assigned routes, studying whatever they encounter. Later, when they’re too old to travel well, or if they so decide at a younger age, they may choose one subject and try to understand it in depth.” She nodded to Bel, who unfastened the belt she wore and passed it to Kammeryn. “This is what I’m studying now.”

  Nine silver disks, with silver links between. Each disk held an odd, flat jewel of opalescent shades that fragmented and shifted in the light from the vent flaps: sky blue, midnight blue, pale water blue, and one jewel showing shades of rich amethyst. The gems all had thin silver lines crossing their surface, as if inlaid: some parallel, some branching geometrically from a central vein.

  Kamineryn fastened the catch and held the belt up, looped around two spread hands. “Beautiful. And a waste of good metal.” He passed the belt to his right. It began to make its way around the circle. “And I approve,” he continued. “Beauty is its own end.”

  “Have any of you seen that sort of jewel before?” Rowan asked. The grizzled man who now held it shook his head. “Stolen from the Inner Lands, I would guess. We don’t have jewel-cutters.”

  “My father made it,” Bel told him, “of jewels found in the Outskirts.”

  The information inspired puzzlement, and the belt continued its journey smoothly, each person studying it and indicating unfamiliarity as it passed through his or her hands. But Kammeryn’s gaze held both Rowan and Bel, and he shook his head, not at the jewels but at the two women.

  “A treasure hunt,” he said. His voice held deep disappointment.

  “No,” Rowan replied. She leaned forward. “I want to go to the place where the jewels were found, and see how they lie, and what might be there with them.” She took a breath before revealing the most startling fact imaginable. “These are the shattered pieces of a fallen Guidestar.”

  The jewels’ progress stopped, abruptly. They were now directly behind Rowan, and she could not see who was holding them; but she saw all around her faces turning toward that invisible person, bodies leaning, one hand reaching.

  The old woman on Kammeryn’s right was the only person to show no surprise. “Something so beautiful could only come from the sky,” she said when the seyoh recognized her, and then she nodded, slowly, almost sleepily. Her expression was blank and serene, representing possibly calm wisdom, possibly age-raddled stupidity.

  “No Guidestar has fallen,” the youngest member said, then realized he had spoken without being recognized, and silenced, flushing in youthful embarrassment. Kammeryn reassured him with a glance, then made a small gesture that indicated general discussion was permitted. The young man continued, hotly, “You Inner Landers think anyone who can’t build an outhouse is a fool. But we have eyes. The Guidestars are still there.”

  “Unless—unless there are others we’ve never seen.” Rowan had to turn to see the speaker: a woman, somewhat older than Rowan, red hair cropped short, face broad of cheekbones, pointed of chin. It was she who now held the belt, looped over one hand. Small blue eyes, pale and bright as diamond chips, flickered as she thought, blinking as if their owner’s mind were moving too quickly for her to follow.

  Rowan was pleased to find herself understood. “Yes. There ought to be four, as far as I can calculate, with the other two hanging above the opposite side of the world. The way the fragments found are distributed, all in a line from the Inner Lands to the Outskirts, the speed that would be necessary to send them so far so quickly, the fact that the Outskirts jewels lie imbedded in the face of a cliff—all these things tell me that they must have fallen from the sky. And the only things that stand in the sky are the Guidestars.”

  “And the true stars,” the eldest woman said.

  “True stars are distant suns,” someone put in. “They’ll never fall.”

  “And what does this have to do with us?” another asked.

  “We have to help them, if they need help,” the young man told the speaker with awkward dignity; he was new to his position in the circle. “They risked themselves to save Averryl.” And he traded a careful glance with the red-haired woman, who nodded as if in confirmation—the matter of Averryl, it seemed, concerned her particularly.

  Kammeryn assumed the floor again. “And what help do you want from my tribe?” he asked Rowan and Bel.

  “Bel has told me, and I’ve learned that it’s true, that traveling alone in the Outskirts is dangerous and difficult,” Rowan said. “If your movements are going to take you east, then all that we ask is to travel in your company, for as long as our route lies near your own.”

  “For as long as that’s so,” Bel stressed, then added, “Even if it will be more than seven days.”

  Rowan turned to her, surprised. “Seven days?”

  Bel did not explain, or look at her; her gaze held Kammeryn’s.

  The seyoh studied Bel with narrowed gaze, then spoke to Rowan. “We must help you, that’s true,” he informed her. “But there is a limit to our obligation. A seyoh can extend the tribe’s hospitality for seven days, but no duty can force us to keep strangers among us beyond that time.”

  Rowan was taken aback. “I didn’t know that.” She looked to her companion again, for explanation of the omission of this information.

  Bel ignored her. “It will have to be for more than seven days,” she reasserted to Kammeryn. “It will have to be for as long as you’re going in our direction.”

  The seyoh’s eyes narrowed. “You cannot demand this of us.”

  “You’ll want to do it.”

  “How so?”

  Be
l turned to the steerswoman. “You didn’t tell him the rest.”

  “The rest?”

  “Tell him about Slado,” Bel instructed.

  Kammeryn was as perplexed as the steerswoman. “Slado?”

  “The master wizard of the Inner Lands,” Bel told him. “He works in secret, and the other wizards follow his orders, even when they don’t know his motives.”

  “Why should we care what wizards do? They’re far away from us.”

  Bel paused to scan the circle, meeting each gaze individually. She pointed up. “Because their things are hanging in our sky.” Abruptly, she turned to Rowan, and addressed her in the Inner Lands form. “Tell me, lady, what’s a Guidestar?” In the past, Bel had used the form only in half jest.

  Rowan was taken aback; but the answer spoke itself. “A magical object, created and lofted into the sky by wizards, long ago. It moves, from west to east, and the rate of its motion is the same as the speed of the world’s turning. For this reason it seems to hang forever motionless above the land.” Rowan became fascinated by Bel’s face: the Outskirter’s expression was identical to that she had worn while in wild battle, slaughtering goblins.

  “What is it for?” Bel prompted.

  “The wizards use them in certain spells, to effect purposes beyond my knowledge.”

  “Why did one fall?”

  Possibilities were three. “Either it was made to fall, or it was permitted to fall, or its fall could not be prevented.”

  “Why did Slado know it had fallen, when no one else did?” Possibilities were two. “Either he has sources of information his fellows lack, or he caused it to fall himself.”

  “Why would he want it to fall?”

  “I don’t know.” But possibilities were two; the same two that lay behind every human action. “To make his life better, or to prevent his life from becoming worse.”

  “Why would he hide the facts from the other wizards?”

  Two. “Either he does not trust them to understand the benefits, or they would not benefit, but suffer.”

  “Thank you, lady.” Bel turned back to Kammeryn, dismissing Rowan so completely that the steerswoman felt she had vanished. There was only the wide, rippling chamber; the bold, primitive pattern of the carpet; the ring of faces, warriors and past-warriors; and the empty squares of sky above, humming in the wind.

  “Don’t you wonder what a wizard likes?” Bel asked Kammeryn. “What he feels makes his life good? I do. And I keep thinking: power. And what does he think will make his life better? More power. If Slado wants more power, when will he stop? When a harmless steers-woman did nothing more than ask questions about pretty gems, he sent his underlings to hunt her and kill her. I know, I was there, and we barely escaped with our lives. And Slado is spreading his power: he’s been making new holdings in the Inner Lands, and if he keeps on doing it, so that his puppet wizards are everywhere in that country, what do you think comes next, Kammeryn?”

  Kammeryn spoke without hesitation. “No wizard can reach us here. They are far away.”

  Bel held his gaze; she did not speak; she pointed to the sky.

  A man to the left of the circle indicated a desire to speak. Kammeryn was long in recognizing him; his eyes were still on Bel’s, but they were shuttered, shielding the thoughts moving behind them.

  “Perhaps,” the old man began after receiving permission, “perhaps, as the steerswoman said, this wizard couldn’t stop the Guidestar from falling. Perhaps he’s growing weaker, not stronger.”

  Bel turned to him. “Then, what does a person do when he’s losing his strength and doesn’t want anyone to know?”

  And it was the seyoh who answered, thoughtfully. “He uses what strength he has more often. More forcefully. And more visibly.”

  “Whether he’s growing or fading, for us, it’s the same result,” Bel said. “He’ll come here; or he’ll send his minions; or he’ll send his magic. We have to be ready.” She drew a breath. “This is what the steerswoman needs from you: to travel with this tribe, as long as it moves her nearer to the fallen Guidestar, and to be free to leave when it doesn’t. And this is what I need from you: to come and go, leave and return freely, anytime I choose.”

  There was a stir. Several persons wished to speak, requesting permission by glance or gesture.

  Bel spoke louder, as if the flurry were audible as well as visible. “If we come near another tribe,” she told the council, “I need to speak to them, and tell them everything we’ve just told you. It’ll do no good for only one tribe to be prepared. I have to tell them all.”

  Kammeryn waited as the requests slowly subsided, until only one member persisted.

  It was a dark-haired man past middle age, his face and neck crossed by scars. “That’s too dangerous. We don’t know if we can trust you. You might betray us to another tribe, and bring them down on our herds.”

  “I won’t.”

  “They might follow you back to us.”

  “I won’t let that happen.”

  “How could you stop it?”

  “I’m very good.”

  “If you stay among us, then your duty is to this tribe, and no other. You follow our laws, abide by the words of our seyoh, and do nothing that risks our safety.”

  “There’s a higher duty than duty to the tribe.”

  “No.” The man showed no emotion. “It is the only duty. If this tribe suffers, if our people die, then what does it matter what happens to strangers?” He turned to Kammeryn. “Let them stay for seven days, then send them away. For anything else, you need a consensus. If you call for a consensus, I will not agree.”

  Bel slapped her hand down forcefully on the carpet. “My people are in danger, or they will be, all tribes, all Outskirters. If not soon, then one day, and who can say when?” She faced Kammeryn. “If you don’t help them, you’re hurting them. Your tribe. Yourself.”

  “Can Outskirters fight wizards?” Rowan was surprised to hear herself asking.

  Bel looked at her: the first acknowledgment of Rowan’s presence since Bel had finished asking questions and cuing answers from a steerswoman. “It doesn’t matter if we can. We will.” Then she seemed to speak to herself, but clearly, definitely. “Everything I know about Slado and his wizards, I hate. Everything I know about my people, I love. And this is what I love best about them: They fight.”

  20

  Dismissed, Rowan and Bel left the council to continue its deliberations. Rowan felt dazed by the turn of events; distractedly, she gazed around the camp.

  A spit was turning over the fire in the center, tended by an old woman who spoke to a child as she worked, the child squealing laughter. The two mertutials who had dug the fire pit were standing to one side of their creation, prodding the ashes with a stick and shaking their heads in vague dissatisfaction. A group of warriors lounging outside their tent were engaged in a discussion that alternated quiet words with bursts of hilarity. Garvin sat on the bare ground by Averryl’s tent, deep in conversation with the small blond boy who had guarded the rain fly during the invasion of goats. In the distance, someone was blowing a series of breathy notes on a flute, with much experimentation, very little skill, and a few frustrated curses.

  The Outskirters were dressed much as Bel was and spoke in accents little different from hers. To Rowan, they seemed each to carry a similar air: a combination of confidence, straightforwardness, humor, interest, and hidden, surprising subtlety.

  Like Bel herself. They were her people.

  Rowan turned to study her friend. “It seems,” the steerswoman said, “that you have a mission of your own.”

  Bel nodded broadly, but did not meet Rowan’s eyes. “I’ll travel with you to the Guidestar, to see what’s there; and I’ll see that you get back to a place you can reach your country from, or help you find a tribe to take you. But after that, I’ll leave you, and go north, and try to talk to the tribes there.”

  “I’ll be sorry when you go.” She was sorry already. “I didn’t think,
Bel; I didn’t consider what all this might mean to the Outskirters.” Bel gave an easy shrug. “They’re not your people.”

  “No, but they’re yours, and you’re my friend. Now I’m worried about them.”

  The Outskirter looked up at her. “Rowan, you can’t worry about everyone. I’ll take care of telling my people; you find your Guidestar and figure out what Slado’s up to, so I’ll have more to tell.”

  Rowan laughed, shook her head, and clapped Bel’s shoulder. “I consider that an excellent division of labor.” They went out into the camp together.

  Garvin waved them over to Averryl’s tent. “He’s livelier, but confused,” the warrior said of the injured man. “He says he doesn’t remember walking to the camp. I can’t convince him that he’s stayed put.” The women joined Garvin on the ground, and Rowan found herself being calmly scrutinized by the boy. She introduced herself; he responded with “Harramyn.”

  “Only one name?”

  “I’m too young to name myself like an adult. But my line is Mourah, and my mother is Kree.” He spoke her name as if expecting an appreciative reaction.

  “So you’ll become Harramyn, Kreeson, Mourah.”

  Harramyn nodded, and Garvin made a deprecating sound. “Hari.” The boy corrected him patiently. “No, I’m too old for ‘Hari.’”

  “Are you a friend of Averryl’s, or perhaps a relative? You seem very worried about him.”

  “I’m not related. My mother likes him, but he’s not my father. She wouldn’t want anything to happen to him. I’m going to help Man-der.”

  “Who’s Mander?”

  “You know.” He tucked one arm behind his back, and wiggled the other enthusiastically.

  Garvin gave him a thump. “Don’t make fun of Mander. He can do plenty of things that you can’t. And never will.”

  “Ha. I’ll never have to. I’ll never cross the line; I’m going to die with my sword in my hand.”

  Another voice spoke. “Yes, and sooner rather than later.” The boy was hefted up by strong hands, then settled down again into the lap of the red-haired woman from the council meeting. Harramyn frowned and wriggled in her arms, as he tried to decide whether her comment was a clever jibe or a dire prediction.