As the weeks passed and winter hardened its grip on the land, there was less for me to do. I guarded the women at the morning's trip to the river—a task necessitated by the loss of a woman to a bear, a few seasons back, I had discovered—and when they went out to gather firewood. I took my turn guarding the sheep, but the young wolf had not been seen again. Audo welcomed me on his daily checks of his snares, too; he was simple, and I often could not follow his rambling talk, but his snares were meticulously constructed and maintained. He usually gave me a rabbit or a squirrel, too.
Living with Cillian was easy, an adaptation of our routines on the long walk across the mountains. He built the morning fire while I did water watch and brought back our own full buckets; I did most of the cooking and most of the chores that were considered woman's work in the village, at least if they could be observed. Cillian had argued about that, but I had prevailed. “Wash dishes and clothes if you like,” I had said, “but not publicly. Ask Fél about it, if you think I'm wrong.”
I didn't know if he ever had, but he restricted such activities to the hut. I knew from Kaisa that Fél sometimes helped her with women's work, as well, particularly cooking, but he kept it quiet. He'd been a cook before his exile. The Kurzemë men had not known what to make of that, but his training with sword and spear had been enough for them to forgive it. But it had been a long time before they fully accepted him. Fél was not his real name, but a Kurzemë word meaning 'half': half-man, they had called him, instead of Oran, his real name. “Try to fit in, as well as you can,” he'd told Cillian, early on. “I know you're not staying, but it will be easier for you both.”
Cillian seemed content enough. Ludis, the aging headman, and Aivar, the vēsturni, were always happy to talk to him. New ears for their old tales, I assumed, but from what he told me, they also liked to hear what he could tell them, not the facts and history of Linrathe or the Empire, but the danta, with their magical beings and fierce beasts. In late autumn, he started to tell them to all the men, around their communal fire in the evenings. I was happy for him, but I missed our xache games and conversation, and there was no welcoming woman's fire for me.
But he did not join the men every evening, and even if he had, he would return to talk to me under the furs of our bed for a while before we slept. He probed their stories for mention of the Eastern Empire, but other than a few faint memories of a people they called 'the builders', they had no concept of an empire that had once ruled them. Eastward they never went, past the meeting place where all the villages congregated at midsummer. Beyond that, Ludis told Cillian, the plain went on endlessly, arid and almost devoid of life, inhospitable to travellers.
“I am curious about the meeting place, though,” Cillian said. “Both Aivar and Ludis describe it as a ring of carved white stones. The track out to it is the obvious place to start our journey east, though, so I suppose we will see it, in good time.”
“What happens at this midsummer meeting?” I asked. We'd finished eating, rabbit stew and oatcakes, a frequent meal. As on our journey over the mountains, Cillian ate sparingly, but he never complained about what food we had, to my relief. He also cooked the morning porridge while I was out on water watch, and probably better than I would have.
“I would say its real purpose is for young men and women to find a partner,” he said. “Some trade, and family news. The vēsturni search for apprentices, too, I know that. Children suited to it are rare in these villages.”
The vēsturni filled a role similar to the Linrathan scáeli: Aivar was the village's teacher and historian, keeper of the Kurzemë stories. He settled disputes, presided over marriages and death rites, and advised Ludis. As the Kurzemë had no written language, all the stories and songs had to be memorised and kept alive by frequent telling or singing.
“Aivar doesn't have an apprentice, does he?”
“No. He had one, but the boy—young man, really—drowned last year. A bad omen for the village, and possibly in more ways than one.”
“What do you mean?”
“Aivar is not well. His lips often look blue and he coughs too much. They will look for a new apprentice this summer. Ludis tells me they might be able to convince another vēsturni to part with an older boy or even find someone fully trained, but there is a price for that. If Aivar dies without having trained a successor, the village will struggle with decisions and leadership.”
“They need a council, like Tirvan.” I suggested.
“Three leaders, rather than two? It would help. So would teaching the lessons embedded in the stories to more of their boys, but it isn't their way.”
“And girls,” I said. “Are you going to the fire tonight?”
“No. There is some decision to be made, a dispute to be settled, and Ivor complained loudly the last time I was present. Ludis knows not to expect me. So we can play xache.”
“Why does Ivor hate us so much?”
“Precisely, Lena, he hates neither of us. He wants you, and is jealous of me.” I wish there was a reason for that jealousy, I thought, watching his graceful, deft hands laying out the xache pieces.
“But he doesn't like me. He treats me like I am worthless.”
“For some men, wanting has nothing to do with liking or valuing a woman. It is about power and possession, and Ivor perceives you as having power, and therefore he wants you,” Cillian said. “But not to share that power, but to control it, or even end it.” He finished arranging the pieces. “It is why I dislike ever suggesting I have any right to tell you what to do,” he added, “but if Ivor thinks you are not mine, then I lose any power to protect you, in his mind. It is a dilemma.”
“So you have power over Ivor because he thinks you control me?”
“And because I am older, and nearly a vēsturni, and he has some respect for that position. Speaking of which, I think I have devised a ritual for the two boys who will come of age at midwinter. One you can perform without insult to you, I hope.”
“What is it?”
“Make them each an arrow fletched with feathers from a bird you have killed yourself. Present one to each of them at the midwinter fire. You may have to kiss the two boys, as you proposed, although I expect on the forehead would suffice.”
“Cillian, that's brilliant! I could kiss you, for that suggestion.”
He glanced up at me. “Best not,” he said, but I noticed the tiniest hint of smile. “Are you ready to play?”
Chapter Three
I walked along the river the next morning, my bird bow in hand. The trail the hunters used to leave the village was hard-packed: no snow had fallen for a few days. Even so, the going was difficult.
A good distance along the path, a large black bird, red-capped, flew from one tree to another, clinging to the trunk. Perfect: woodpeckers had stiff tail feathers, ideal for fletching. I aimed and shot, and the bird fell.
I picked it up, turning to go back home. “A good shot,” a voice said. Ivor. “But what do you want with a woodpecker, devanī?
“For a ritual, at midwinter,” I said. “Do not delay me, Ivor.”
“I go to hunt grouse,” he said. He carried the wood-and-sinew lϋmike on his back, ready to slip his boots into when he reached deeper snow. “Give me your blessing, devanī.”
“Hunt well, Ivor,” I said, hoping that would placate him.
“More than that, I think,” he said. He took a step towards me, and grabbed my upper arm. “A kiss, at least.”
I dropped the dead bird and slapped him hard across his face. He made a sound of pain and surprise, but he let me go. I had my secca out in a moment. “You dare insult me?” I said. “Touch me again, Ivor, and the huntress will guide this knife into your ribs.” I picked up the woodpecker, the snow stained red where it had fallen, and pushed past him. My heart pounded. He laughed, a deep, horrible sound, but he did not follow me.
I plucked the wing and tail of the woodpecker, taking care not to damage the feathers, and found a place to hang them where they would be u
ndisturbed. I had arrow shafts drying already: we needed to replenish our supply on a constant basis. I checked the ones I had; not ready, quite.
What to do with the body? I put my outdoor clothes back on, and walked over to Audo's hut. He sat at his fire, skinning rabbits. His dogs came to me, tails wagging: they knew me well, now. I patted them.
“Is this any use to you?” I held out the woodpecker's body.
“I can bait a snare with it, for fox or weasel,” he said. “Thank you, Lena. You can have a rabbit, if you like.”
“Thank you, Audo,” I said. Rabbit stew again.
“Will you come with me tomorrow? I am checking the high snares.” I knew he didn't like to climb the rocky slopes to the west of the village alone. I wondered, not for the first time, how old he was; his face was unlined, but his body was twisted around one hip. Perhaps he'd been born that way; perhaps it was an injury. He didn't remember.
“I will,” I said. “In the morning.” What would he do, next winter? What had he done, prior to my arrival?
Cillian's bow was missing, I noted when I returned to the hut. Maybe he was guarding the sheep; I couldn't remember what he'd told me. Or maybe he and Fél had gone hunting. I prepared the rabbit and fed the fire, standing the pot in the centre. With no warning at all, I suddenly remembered the feel of Ivor's hand on my arm, and the secca in my hand; then it blurred and blended with the fisherman in Sorham grabbing at my breast, his mouth on my neck, and the resistance of his flesh as I had stabbed him. I could see blood; the bird's blood in the snow becoming the man's blood on my knife. I stumbled out of the hut and vomited.
I used snow to rinse my mouth and face before going back inside. I forced myself to make tea, my hands shaking. What had just happened? I sat at the hearth, using one of the two furs we kept there as a shawl, wrapping it as tightly as I could around me, and sipped at the tea.
Cold air blew over me as the door opened. “What's wrong?” Cillian said sharply. “Did you get chilled?”
I shook my head. “No.” I waited for him to remove his outdoor clothes. “I don't know exactly,” I said. “I met Ivor, out on the trail. He grabbed my arm, and I slapped him. That's all. And then when I was cooking, I remembered, and then it wasn't Ivor but the fisherman, in the spring—and I could see blood.” I started to cry. I stood up, letting the fur fall. “Will you hold me?” I asked.
“Are you sure you want to be touched?” he asked gently.
“By you, yes.”
I leaned against his chest, still crying. I wrapped my arms around him, feeling his around me, lightly, and then more firmly. One hand began to stroke my hair. I felt completely safe, and comforted. My tears stopped. I wiped my face with one hand and stepped back. “Thank you,” I murmured. “Forla, Cillian.”
“It is fine, Lena,” he said. He still held me, his hands light on my back. “I have never seen you cry before.”
“I don't, very often. I didn't know I was going to.” I had no desire at all to move away from the security of his arms, but I knew I was asking a great deal of him. “I'm all right now. You don't have to hold me any longer.”
He didn't move for a minute. Then he let his hands drop. “I will talk to Aivar and Ludis,” he said. “Ivor needs to be curbed.”
“Won't that make things worse for both of us?”
“Not if I don't mention names. Is anyone else bothering you?”
I shrugged. “Karel makes comments, suggestions about what I do with Audo. No one else.”
“Good. But two is enough: I will just say that some of the young men are mistreating you. I imagine they can work out who. Grêt may be tolerant of her youngest son, but I believe Ludis is less so.”
A few weeks before midwinter, the day dawned to cloud and heavy rain, not snow. “There better be no bears today,” I complained to Cillian as I dressed to go out. “My bowstring will stretch quickly, in this.” I did my watch, water streaming down my hair, and lugged two full buckets back to the hut.
“Get changed,” Cillian said, as soon as I was back. “The porridge will stay warm.”
“Can we eat a little bit later? If I'm going to change, I might as well wash at the same time. And don't even think about going out,” I said, seeing him glance at the door.
He settled at the hearth, his back to me. We'd worked out small matters of privacy in the first weeks. The hut had a latrine a few paces behind it, accessed though a second door, so that issue hadn't arisen. The Kurzemë valued cleanliness, and both men and women swam, separately, in the river until it became too cold to do so. From jokes Kaisa had made about washing Fél's back I knew bathing continued through the winter in the relative warmth of the huts. Cillian and I just left each other alone when either of us wanted to wash.
But that was not feasible today. I moved a bucket over to the far wall where a square of cobbles meant splashed water did not turn the floor to mud. Stripping off my sodden clothes, I washed in the cold water quickly. Heat from the fire hadn't warmed this part of the room. I dried equally quickly and dressed again, joining Cillian at the hearth.
“You're shivering,” he observed.
“I'm fine,” I said. “I'll be warm in a minute.” He got up, returning with a drying cloth. Kneeling beside me, he began to rub my hair.
“Cillian,” I protested, “I can do that.”
“So can I,” he said. I smiled, and let him. I relaxed into the gentle strokes on my hair, the fire warming me. “That should do,” he said after a few minutes.
“Thank you.” I turned my head to look at him. “That was kind, Cillian.” Impulsively, I kissed his cheek, rough with stubble, a quick, light kiss. His eyes flickered.
“Sorry,” I said. “Too much?” There were still boundaries.
He looked indecisive. “Perhaps not,” he said. “I am not sure.”
“Tell me when you are,” I answered, lightly. “Breakfast now? I'm hungry.”
We played xache by the fire, and I fletched arrows, teaching Cillian how to glue the feathers onto the shafts. The rain fell, steadily. “Tell me a story?” I asked Cillian.
“What would you like?”
“Wait,” I said. “I'm stiff from sitting here too long.” I stretched out on the fur, propping my head on one hand. He stayed sitting, cross-legged on the second fur. “Anything,” I said.
He thought for a moment. “This is a poem by Halmar of Sorham, translated to your tongue.”
War in winter sends sorrow soaring,
Hunger hurts, cold kills:
Ravens rejoice. Wolves wait;
Men moan, women wail:
Death in darkness, glory gone.
What manner of man chooses war
Over waiting, in winter
When wind can kill. Sunshine
For warfare; spear and sword
Flashing brightly, glory comes...
I listened to the words, and to his soft voice, becoming slowly aware I was, just then, oddly happy, and a moment later when his fingers began to stroke my hair again, even happier. Glancing up at him, I wasn't sure he even knew he touched me; his eyes were distant, remembering the words to the poem. I stayed still, until the poem was done and a cramp in my arm insisted I move. I sat up. His hand dropped away.
“Thank you,” I said. “Does it have a name?”
“Just the first few words: War in Winter. It's a cautionary poem, meant to remind impetuous young men about the perils of winter wars. Donnalch didn't listen.”
“No,” I said. I didn't want to talk about that. “It was in Linrathan, originally? Why was it translated?”
“An exercise. I wanted to see if the verse form could be rendered in another language.”
“You translated it? Cillian, is there no end to the things you can do?”
He laughed. “Yes. For example, I couldn't put it to music. I can pick out a simple tune on a ladhar, and nothing more.”
“Did anyone else?”
He became serious. “Yes. As a gift to me. It was well-meant, and how does on
e refuse music, once it is written?”
“Why would you want to?”
“Because the boy who wrote it wanted more from me than I could give him at the time,” he said softly.
“Oh,” I said. “I remember you said something about that, once. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked.”
“Lena, you don’t have to apologize. You should know by now that if I do not want to answer a question, I will tell you. He has been on my mind, recently, that is all. He was from Sorham, and I wonder what Fritjof has done there.”
“War in winter sends sorrow soaring?” It was clear to me why he had chosen this particular poem.
“Exactly. But we will never know, Lena.”
“I suppose not,” I said. I put my hand lightly on his. “I wish it could be different.”
“As do I,” he answered. “But while I may be able to change some things in my life, that is not one of them.”
The rain stopped, the temperature dropping quickly, so that puddles froze to ice in half a day, and walking became treacherous. “Eryl says this will drive the gemzē down off the hills,” Cillian told me. “We'll go out for them, in a day or two.”
Audo's snares would all be frozen, I thought, and that proved to be the case. He and I took axes to the ice freezing them in place; one held a rabbit, coated and stiff, and one a weasel, gleaming white except for the black tail tip. Once the ice was shattered at each snare, we worked the knots until the snares slid fluidly again. It took us much of the day to do the eastern snare line. The western, on its rocky upland, would have to wait. I thought I might try, in a day or two, but the snares were beyond Audo's ability to reach.
Snow fell overnight, a heavy, wet fall that meant difficult walking, but covered the ice. Eryl took most of the men out after gemzē, soon after first light, leaving the oldest boys and the oldest men to guard the sheep. I went to free Audo's western snares.
I convinced his black dog and his brindle bitch to accompany me; they knew this routine well and would find the snares for me, I thought, if they were buried. They leapt and pushed through the snow, showing me where to go, waiting for me with lolling tongues. I had decided not to wear lϋmike: I found them awkward, and I had rocks to climb.
Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy Page 68