The Steerswoman's Road

by Rosemary Kirstein

  Also gone was Eden, Kammeryn’s aide, but not fallen in battle. She had been assisting Mander through the long night, and near dawn had lain down to rest beside her son Garvin, who had been slightly wounded. In the morning Garvin could not wake her; age and exhaustion had taken her in her sleep.

  Of the scouts: Zo was assumed lost until she staggered into camp the following day, suffering the effects of a blow to the head. She would be ill for days, but would recover. Of Maud, who had been ranging the area on nine-side, and whose disappearance had been the first sign of battle, there was no sign.

  Rowan learned this over breakfast, which she took early. Kree’s band had risen before dawn; they were scheduled to guard on six-side that day. Rowan had chosen to rise with them. Her dreams had been as full of visions of battle and blood as had been her restless hours before sleep. Rowan did not wish to prolong the experience.

  An exhausted mertutial, one of Chess’s assistants, told the news as he served them a cold breakfast. Kree thanked him, then turned to business. She counted heads. “Where’s Averryl?”

  “Here.” He approached from the center of camp. Rowan had last seen him assisting Mander; presumably he had done so all night. Kree disapproved. “I told you to get some rest.”

  “I did. For two hours, when things got slow. I’m ready.”

  “We don’t know how many Face People are still out there. We might need to fight again.”

  “Good. I’m looking forward to it.”

  Kree made a sound of disgruntled resignation. “And Fletcher?” He, too, had not returned to the tent the previous night.

  “He knew we were going out early. I expect he’s off for some early prayers.”

  “Off and back again.” Fletcher approached, his form a narrow shadow against star-dusted blue.

  “Good.” Kree settled down to give out assignments. “We’ll be short on the inner half, with Mare gone,” she began.

  “No, you won’t.” Bel emerged from the tent, rubbing her fists against still-sleepy eyes. “It’s been almost a year since I served on the circles,” she said, and yawned, “but I think I remember how to do it.”

  Kree paused long. Someone commented, “She doesn’t know our signals.”

  “That’s true,” Kree said. “Averryl, take her aside and show her some signals.” No one protested when Rowan moved closer to watch.

  The mertutial who had served them was gone. Rowan had not touched her breakfast. She passed it to Bel.

  Light slowly grew, the flat pastel of predawn. People and objects seemed to wear the pale colors like paint on their surfaces and skins. The only tones that held any depth were the sea gray of Averryl’s eyes; the rich earth brown of Bel’s; and the fragmenting, shifting blue of the jewels on Bel’s belt, glittering as she moved, testing the shapes of the signals she learned.

  Pieces of the fallen Guidestar, Rowan thought. She found herself gazing up at the Eastern Guidestar, Averryl’s lesson forgotten. The Guidestar stood in its assigned place in the sky, glowing brilliantly, reflecting the light of the unrisen sun.

  It came to Rowan that Kree was taking rather long to get her band in motion. She looked at the chief, at the moment the chief herself glanced up, sighting something toward the center of camp. Kree stood.

  “Fletcher.” He glanced up. She beckoned, and he rose to follow her. The members of the band looked at each other in perplexity, then trailed along behind.

  Kree led Fletcher to the fire pit, where Kammeryn stood musing over the fire tenders’ preparations. The seyoh nodded once to her in greeting, and to Fletcher, then adopted a studiously casual pose that caused all within sight to drop conversation to watch. The interaction that would follow was clearly intended to seem personal, while constituting a public display.

  Seeing this, Fletcher visibly shied, found an instant to send Rowan one bleak glance, then composed himself and stood waiting. Rowan became aware that Jann had joined the crowd and was watching with an expression that included a certain degree of anticipation of satisfaction.

  The seyoh spoke. “Fletcher, at the time of the attack, you were assigned to watch the steerswoman. Her presence here was meant to serve as a guarantee that Bel would not betray us to another tribe.”

  Kammeryn’s black eyes were carefully mild. Fletcher’s sky-blue gaze was held by them as if at swordpoint. He nodded mutely.

  “Your orders were that if we were attacked, you must kill Rowan, as payment for betrayal.” Kammeryn glanced about at the watching Outskirters, then turned back to Fletcher. “My orders were based upon the facts that I had at hand. They were good orders.

  “But when the attack took place, you were there. I was not. You saw what was happening. I did not. With what you saw, and what you knew, you decided to spare Rowan’s life.

  “Your decision was correct.”

  Fletcher’s tense posture slacked, and he stood loose-boned and amazed. At the edge of her vision, Rowan saw Jann’s face as a pale shape, her mouth a dark spot above a dropped jaw.

  The seyoh continued. “Had you followed your orders blindly, the result would have been a pointless loss of life. Your judgment in this was more complete than mine. I would like to believe that all my warriors use their intelligence when faced with the unexpected, that they consider all the facts at hand. Thank you for proving my belief correct.”

  Kammeryn turned and wandered away, returning to his musing. A mutter of conversation rose from the watchers, and Averryl let out a loud and delighted “Ha!”

  Kree clapped the still-gaping Fletcher on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  As Kree led her band away, Fletcher turned to Rowan as he passed. “Do you believe that?” But he did not wait for her reply. She followed the band to the edge of camp.

  As they were preparing to deploy, all the band members stopped short, almost simultaneously. “What’s that?” Kree asked. Toward position six, Rowan saw a thick band of smoke rising from beyond the hills.

  Fletcher spoke up. “I saw it when I was out at my prayers. I figure it’s Ella’s people burning their heroes.” The phrase sounded odd in conversation, like a line from an Outskirter song.

  Bel stepped forward and glowered at the horizon. “No. That’s not where Ella’s tribe is.” She did not provide the other tribe’s location; that information represented a trust granted to her.

  Kree looked for and found a relay; although the man was within earshot, she signaled to him. Rowan recognized the gesture meaning “investigation.”

  Fletcher spoke up. “Send me.”

  “You’ve had no sleep.”

  “I’m fine. But I feel responsible. I should have reported it as soon as I saw it.”

  She studied him, then smiled wryly. “Very well—since our seyoh puts so much store in your intelligence.” The compliment embarrassed him, and she laughed. “Take Averryl with you.”

  Two mertutials had been approaching across the pasture; arriving, they proved to be pulling a loaded train between them. An Outskirter cloak was draped across the load, concealing it from view.

  As Kree’s band departed, Averryl turned, indicated the train with a lift of his chin, and addressed the mertutials. “More dead?” he called.

  The reply came back: “Maud.”

  The report was received before noon. Owing to the terseness of Outskirter signals, the news was equivocal, both reassuring and disturbing: Enemy discovered, no danger, position secured. Unsurprisingly, the report was followed by a request to debrief. Rowan was not present during the debriefing, but shortly thereafter word of the findings began to circulate through the camp.

  Fletcher and Averryl had discovered what had once been the camp of the Face People tribe. It had been destroyed by fire in what must have been a surprise attack just before dawn. There were a great many burned corpses among the ruins, and a number of dead goblins who had been attracted by the fire; but no living Face People were found.

  The opinions of Kammeryn’s tribespeople, when they received the news, were mixed. No
one was sorry to see the Face People destroyed; but the method of extermination was not considered quite honorable. Nevertheless, it seemed that Ella’s people had completed their revenge.

  Rowan herself was neither pleased nor distressed, but simply thought: More dead.

  By late afternoon, there were few people about in the camp: the fire tenders; three cook’s assistants; people carrying supplies to Mander, who was still at work; a few mertutials engaged in only the most necessary chores. All others were either on duty on the circles, out among the flocks, or participating in the events taking place around the edges of camp.

  It occurred to Rowan that it might be useful for her to observe the casting rite, and that she might even be useful herself. She decided to assist. She wondered that she did not feel more disturbed at the prospect, or even pleased at the fact that she was not disturbed. She felt nothing at all. Even this did not disturb her.

  And yet, some minutes later, she was still sitting where she had been, just inside the entrance to Kree’s tent.

  She sat in gloom. A shaft of sunlight slanted in through the entrance, carving from the shadows a single canted block of illumination, lying across the bright-patterned carpet. Colors glowed, brilliant: sharp planes, intricate cross-lines. There seemed to be two carpets: a shadowy one covering the entire tent-floor, and another, smaller one lying before her, constructed purely of colored light.

  The carpet’s pattern consisted of huge red squares, decorated within by borders of white. Thin lines ran between, dark blue on a light blue background. The steerswoman sat unmoving, gazing. When the colors began to pulse, she realized that she was forgetting to blink, and did so.

  She decided then that she ought to be up and about her business. She remained where she was.

  It came to her slowly that the blue lines defined a second pattern, ranked behind the first: a complexity of cubes shown in perspective, their true nature obscured by the red squares. She wondered how Deely had accomplished this design, if he had woven the cube pattern completely first, then overlaid the red. She wondered if, should she lift and reverse the carpet, the background pattern would become foreground; or whether she would see only the first design, with the cross-pattern revealed as illusion. She reached into the light and studied her own glowing hand on a square of glowing red, lines below defining distant, possibly imaginary, forms of blue.

  She rose and found her way to where the corpses were being prepared, directing herself by the smell of old blood and intestinal offal.

  She arrived at the west edge of camp, where a group of mertutials were sitting quietly on the ground, around a recumbent cloak-covered form. Rowan hesitated. She wished to assist, but she could not tell whether or not the mertutials’ attitudes indicated that solemnities had commenced and ought not to be interrupted.

  Then Chess lifted her head and cocked an eye at Rowan. “Here to help?”

  The steerswoman nodded.

  “Got a good knife?”

  Rowan’s hand found her field knife; she displayed it. Chess saw, nodded, and beckoned with a jerk of her head.

  Parandys shifted his position in favor of Rowan. “Here, take the arm, it’s easier,” he said quietly.

  They resettled. Chess was sitting by the corpse’s head. “Well,” she said, then heaved a sigh. “Well,” she said again, almost inaudibly, and wiped a sudden flow of tears from her eyes, using the heels of her hands, like a child.

  Then she picked up her own knife; it was the same one she used to prepare food. With a gesture, she directed the others to remove the cloak. The form below was Eden. Chess leaned forward ...

  The steerswoman found herself far away, on the opposite edge of camp, on her knees in the dirt, coughing and choking in an uncontrollable fit of vomiting. It continued for a long time.

  Eventually she became aware that someone was supporting her shoulders. The arm across her back felt like ice through the cold of her sweat-soaked shirt, but it was steady, gentle, and patient. Rowan was weakly grateful for the assistance.

  Finally, she could raise her own head and straighten her back. She turned away and sat shivering, looking into the camp. Behind her, Fletcher used the edge of one boot to shove loose dirt over the mess.

  “Now, what brought that on?” he asked cheerfully when he had finished. “After-battle nerves? Chess’s cooking?”

  Rowan breathed slowly, deep breaths. “Casting,” she managed to say. It was the first word she had spoken that day.

  Fletcher’s brows raised, and he pursed his lips around a silent whistle. He dropped to a seat beside her.

  When she had regained control of herself, she found him watching her with complete sympathy and comprehension. She recalled that when Fletcher had found Kammeryn’s nephew dying alone on the veldt, he had executed an entire Outskirter funeral rite, alone. “How did you do it?”

  He understood her unspoken reference. “Wasn’t easy.”

  She became angry with her weakness. “It’s so foolish! I’ve seen dead bodies before; I’ve killed people myself. A corpse is just a shell, it’s just ... it’s just matter.”

  “Not if it’s someone you know.” He shifted in thought. “Our brains think faster than our bodies, Rowan. You can look at Mare, or Kester, lying on the ground, and know for a fact that they’re not really there at all, that they’re gone, and you’re just looking at where they used to be. Doesn’t matter. If you watch them being cut up, you find your stomach has a mind of its own.

  “I remember when I first came to the Outskirts, it took me forever just to see the land, clearly. My brain knew it all had to make sense, but my eyes figured differently.”

  Rowan nodded, remembering her own similar experience.

  “Well,” Fletcher continued, “you can figure out how things are, and tell yourself that’s the way it is. But you can’t always act the way you think you should, not right away. Sometimes you just have to live with it awhile first.”

  She shivered. The air was bright and empty. “Why casting?” she asked him. “Why do it that way?”

  He thought long. “Casting ... casting is the last victory.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Outskirters fight,” he began. “And there’s plenty to fight against—but not only other people.” He gestured at the quiet camp, referring to its present state, the result of specific enemies. “There’s more to it, more than this.”

  “Goblins,” Rowan suggested.

  “And other animals, and insects. But, see, they’re all part of the land, part of the Outskirts themselves.

  “And the plants—we burn down tanglebrush, tear down lichen-towers ...”

  “Destroy the redgrass, with your herd and your waste.”

  “Right. We’re fighting the land, in our way. The land wants to kill us. The whole of the Outskirts, with enemies, animals, plants, hunger, disease, even the shape of the land, with cliffs and ravines and too much water or not enough—it’s all of it, all the time, trying to defeat us.”

  “And it wins in the end. Because, eventually, you die. Everyone has to die.”

  “But that’s just it. You die ... but then your comrades cast you ...” He made a motion with his hands: out and around, spreading. “And there you lie. But the land, it can’t stand to have you there. And it can’t get rid of you.”

  Ghost-grass, Rowan thought. “Where you’re cast, the land—it dies?”

  “That’s it, then; you’ve won. It’s your last act, the last thing you can do—and you always win.”

  “But why cut up the corpse?” she asked, then answered herself. “To spread the effect.”

  “Right. The more you destroy, the greater the victory.”

  “But why does it kill the plants? In the Inner Lands, decaying matter helps things grow.” In her home village, the funeral groves were constructed far from the farms; years later, when farmland expanded, the people found green growth already in place, a fertile core about which the new farms could grow.

  Fletcher shrugg
ed. “Don’t know.”

  Rowan considered the destruction each Outskirter tribe laid behind it, as it traveled eastward, always away from the Inner Lands. There should have been a huge lifeless swath across the land, from north to south, a dead barrier between Inner Lands and Outskirts. But she had crossed only occasional areas of such desolation, and recalled her journey so far as an almost-smooth progression: from old green forests to thinner green forests, to brushland, to green fields with an ever-greater proportion of redgrass, to the redgrass veldt. “Apparently, the damage isn’t permanent ...”

  His mouth twisted. “Don’t say that to a born Outskirter. Their belief is that it is. Casting conquers the land. They say it gives the land a human soul.”

  Victory even beyond death. She found she admired the idea. “I wish I could do something,” she said. “Honor them, somehow, show the living the respect that I have for their dead ... but I can’t, not in the way they would wish.”

  He puzzled; then his face cleared. “Yes, you can. There’s more than one way to do it.” He rose and offered her a hand up. “Come with me.”

  He led her out of the camp, toward position twelve, where all day two lines of smoke had been visible on the veldt: funeral pyres, now extinguished.

  At one of the sites, only two people were present, sifting ashes into goatskin bags: Quinnan and Gregaryn, scouts.

  Rowan felt a rush of relief, and gratitude toward Fletcher. She could assist. She would need to handle no dismembered limbs, no segments of persons she had known in life; only clean ashes.

  But Quinnan was reluctant: scouts considered themselves a group apart. “She’s not one of us,” he replied to Fletcher’s suggestion.

  “Well, she’s no Outskirter,” Fletcher replied easily. “So, yes, she’s not one of us. But I think she’s one of you.”

  The scout was puzzled. “How so?”

  Fletcher spread his hands. “What do scouts do? Well, scouts live to find things out. Isn’t that what a steerswoman does?

  “Scouts travel alone. So do steerswomen. Scouts go and see what’s out there, so that other people can know—just like a steerswoman. Scouts look at things from the outside. They try to figure out what’s happening. That’s what Rowan does, all the time.