by CJ Brightley
If either of those things were true, then Anj wouldn’t need to bide her time until she could be promoted away to someplace more promising. She could make history happen here.
“You’re not really contemplating trading Tilia Songbird away for the phantom of a possibility of advancement for Cinnabar, are you?” Shen had perfected the art of remonstration: hard words, gentle tone.
Tilia, who sings mountain streams into small rooms, and wants me to know her. Anj shut the door firmly on that thought--tried to, anyway. “My duty out in this wilderness is to advance Cinnabar’s cause. Even if it involves sacrifices.”
Shen folded his arms. “Ruthless doesn’t suit you.”
“Weren’t you just saying something about thinking like the locals? You and I might think it extreme to condemn someone to death for unseemly behavior, but if. . .” It was no good. Shen was right; ruthless was a coat she couldn’t wear. Maybe cunning would fit better. “Maybe there’s a way to keep Tilia safe and still see if Worthy Siiar is more than empty talk,” she muttered. “He just needs to believe she’s dead; she doesn’t really have to die.”
“He’s not going to settle for your word on the matter. I’ve seen this sort of thing before--he’ll want to accomplish the deed himself. At the very least he’ll require incontrovertible proof.”
It seemed to Anj that at some point during this conversation an invisible band of metal had been fastened round her head, and now unseen torturers were slowly tightening it. She rubbed her fingers across her eyebrows, massaged her temples a little.
“I’ll figure out something. You work on the census totals for now. Commander Tak’s expecting them. I’m going to take one of the ponies and ride up the western road a bit. See what the way to Thunder Tribe territory looks like.”
It was good to be outside, to feel the breeze and watch the dancing light of the Cloud Mountains, always changing as the configuration of clouds passing over the sun changed. Yesterday’s rains had given the air a scrubbed-clean feeling, and in the ample valley that was the Freshet Tribe’s wintering ground, people were harvesting millet. Now that those who had traveled with the goats to the summer pastures were back for the winter, the village and the hillsides were more lively. Passing one homestead shortly after turning onto the western road, Anj found herself the object of interest and excitement for a knot of siblings, who ran up to the roadside.
“Look, it’s the outlander, the woman-man,” the tallest boy called over his shoulder to a brother and sister, who came running up, followed by a little one just in a shirt and bare feet, who toddled after the others, hands uplifted, calling, “Me too, me! Meeram too!” They waved, then ran off shrieking and laughing when Anj waved back.
Anj smiled to herself, but the smile faded as her thoughts turned to Tilia. What to do. She tried to array the elements of this problem in her mind: Siiar, his offers, Tilia. But at Tilia her thoughts veered off. A blue feather. A song like water. A song without words.
The world grew perceptibly brighter as a rack of cloud that had been covering the sun moved away, and with the sun came the liquid sound from Anj’s memory, following her up the road. Anj looked back, and there by the road, back at the homestead where the children had waved, stood Tilia herself, holding a chicken and singing. When their eyes met, Tilia smiled, singing all the while.
Anj turned the pony (named, wishfully, Fortune) around and headed back down the road. Tilia was handing the chicken to the smallest of the four children, whose siblings were nowhere in sight, but it fluttered out of the little one’s arms and back toward the house. The child’s eyes grew wide as Anj dismounted and led Fortune over to the tall poplar where Tilia was standing. He turned around and ran in the same direction as the chicken, calling his siblings.
“That hen won’t lay,” Tilia said, watching as the child tripped over it in his hurry to get into the house.
“Will your singing help it?”
Tilia shrugged. “Maybe. I held it, and a song came out. Maybe the song will heal it. I don’t know.”
A breeze caught at the poplar leaves; they flashed their pale undersides like a thousand signal mirrors. Tilia’s eyes were on them. Her hands moved away from her sides, fluttered like the leaves. A response.
“Tilia!” One of the older children was trotting toward them from the house, but slowed to a walk when he saw Anj. “Mama wanted you to have these,” he said, passing three grape leaf rolls to Tilia while staring at Anj.
Tilia popped one of the rolls into her mouth right away. “Thank you! Tell her thank you,” she said between bites. The boy grinned, waited expectantly, hopefully. She rested a hand on his shoulder and bent to kiss him on his cheek, right by his ear. His grin broadened, and he put his arms round Tilia’s neck and kissed her back, then dashed back to the house.
“Are you always so generous with kisses?” Anj asked.
Tilia laughed.
“That? It’s no more than what the wind does, is it?” she asked, gulping down the next grape leaf roll. “A light, light touch.” She tipped her head back, and the breeze pulled at her head scarf. She closed her eyes, smiled, then opened them again.
“So light,” she murmured. “Would you like one?”
“I--”
Tilia’s lips brushed Anj’s cheek, barely touched it, but Anj felt the touch in the pit of her stomach, and gasped.
Tilia popped the last of the grape leaf rolls in her mouth, swallowed, and sighed.
“Those were so good. I was so hungry all yesterday and today.” She looked back down the road toward the valley, then took a couple of steps toward Anj and Fortune.
“I promised I would watch Worthy Ezmah’s goats today,” she said, stroking Fortune’s cheek and letting the pony nuzzle her neck and chin. “Maybe his wife will have something for me too. She usually does. I’m still a little hungry.”
“Have you ever given Worthy Ezmah one of your kisses?” Anj asked, thinking of the morning’s conversations.
Tilia ran a hand along the edge of her scarf, tucking in a stray strand of hair.
“I sang for him once,” she said. “It was when his wife was very ill, this past spring, after bearing a third child so late in life. She could barely take care of the baby, and their daughter had just gone as a bride to Worthy Sunan. His wife couldn’t plant the fields, so Worthy Ezmah decided not to take their goats to the summer pastures or to go on any raids. When he announced his decision, the men all mocked him . . . They called him small, not much of a man. But that’s wrong. He’s small in size but big in heart. I went to see him, and a song came out from me--his heart called it, full of love for his wife and their new baby. No one calls him a small man now.”
“But no kisses?”
“Maybe one kiss. I don’t remember.”
“You may not, but other people do. Other people feel jealous.”
Tilia’s face clouded, and she hugged herself.
“I know,” she said, hunching her shoulders. “Why, though? The wind touches everyone’s cheeks, but they’re not jealous of the wind. The rain wraps people up with its wetness, but they’re not jealous of the rain. But a kiss . . . And the jealous ones don’t wait to be given one of their own; they just demand and take . . . I need to go watch the goats.” She started walking down the road toward the valley. Anj hurried after her.
“Here, you climb onto Fortune; I’ll take you to watch Worthy Ezmah’s goats,” Anj said. She got Tilia settled on the pony and walked alongside, holding the bridle. Three, four, five leisurely paces in silence. Time to broach the subject of Siiar.
“Tilia,” Anj said, “did you know that a man from your tribe has come looking for you?”
Tilia regarded her soberly but didn’t reply.
“You ran away from your husband, yes? The chieftain of the Thunder Tribe? He’s unhappy with the tales that travel back to him about you. Your songs and kisses--he feels disgraced. He’s sent one of his brothers to take you back, and from the way that one talks, I think he intends to have you pay
for his disgrace with your life.”
Tilia murmured something inaudible.
“What?”
“Which brother?” Tilia repeated, only slightly louder.
“Siiar. Worthy Siiar.”
Tilia nodded, startling Anj with a flash of a smile that dissolved into trembling lips and closed eyes, but no sobs, no tears. Just wet lashes when she opened her eyes again.
“Siiar is my true love, and I’m his. He wouldn’t ever hurt me.”
“What?”
“My father did give me to Chieftain Zara. He couldn’t very well refuse the chieftain’s request. It was a huge honor.” Tilia shrugged. “I don’t know why Chieftain Zara wanted to marry me. He already has a wife, a rich and beautiful one . . . But some people, you know, every small thing that takes their fancy, they want to have for their own, and they won’t be denied.
“I went to stay at his house, in the women’s quarters, before the wedding, so I could get to know Adayla, his first wife, and learn what my duties in the household would be. I didn’t like it. The servants had hard eyes and spoke coldly. I spilled tea and Adayla slapped me . . . soon there were almost no songs in me at all--just, sometimes, when I would see the homing pigeons coming back to the dovecote in the evening, I’d find a song coming. Their wings are like leaves in the sun.” Her hands moved like the poplar leaves again, and she smiled.
“The birds are Siiar’s. He trains both the hunting birds and the homing pigeons. One time when I was singing, he asked me if I wanted to help feed the pigeons, up in the dovecote. I went with him up there, and--“
“I can guess the rest of the story,” said Anj, quickly.
Tilia nodded. Her right hand drifted to her face, her fingers finding her jaw, her cheek, her lips, as if either the hand or the face were someone else’s. She came back to herself and looked down at Anj.
“I never knew, before, what ‘Tilia’ was. Before, there were clouds, rain, leaves, birds, wind, sun, blossoms. . . Those things, they have songs, and when I come near them, their songs come out of me, too--there’s no boundary between us. But Siiar traced the exact borders of me. When he put his hands like this, when he held me, it was Tilia, just Tilia, he was holding. He said, ‘You are so precious. I will always treasure you.’ It was to Tilia he said it. Me.”
Tears were running down Tilia’s cheeks now, but her voice remained steady.
“Chieftain Zara has a sharp nose and a sharp mind. I was sure he’d sniff my scent on Siiar or his on me. So I ran away. I came here and went back to being Tilia without any borders.” She wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands.
“Siiar can’t really mean to harm me.” A trickle of uncertainty dampened Tilia’s words. “I wish I could— maybe if I see him—“
“No, you mustn’t!” By rights I should find her and cut her down. Siiar’s words still rang in Anj’s ears.
“But if-”
“No! Listen,” said Anj. “Tonight, when you’re done helping Worthy Ezmah and his family, I want you to come back to the regional outpost--the house where I stay. All right? I’d like you to stay at the outpost, just for tonight and tomorrow. The next day Worthy Siiar will come back to see me. You sit in the back room while we have our conversation in the front room. If you feel like speaking with him after that, you may. All right?”
By now they were reentering the valley, and the fresh smell of the cut millet blew past on the breeze. Tilia didn’t respond; her eyes were on the millet.
“Worthy Nilma’s fields,” she said. “He takes his time and does things properly.”
“Tilia! Will you promise not to look for Siiar? And come to the Cinnabar outpost tonight, and stay there until I’ve talked with him?”
Still Tilia didn’t answer, or even meet Anj’s eyes. The splashing of Fortune’s hooves in the puddles seemed the louder for Tilia’s silence. Anj gritted her teeth. Trying to keep hold of Tilia’s attention was like trying to keep hold of water.
“Tilia? Will you promise?”
“I won’t look for him,” Tilia said at last. “And I’ll come to your house.”
Anj let out a sigh of relief.
“Look,” said Tilia, pointing. “There’s Worthy Ezmah, in Worthy Kehan’s fields.” She made a face. “He’s indebted to Worthy Kehan, and Worthy Kehan uses him for all sorts of labor. And see how Worthy Kehan’s already put millet straw in his barns. It’s because he always wants to be ahead of Worthy Nilma, but it’s been rainy, and I’ll bet the straw’s not all dry. It’ll molder, and then his goats will get ill in the winter.” She waved at Ezmah, who straightened up from his work and made his way over to the road, sickle still in hand.
“Look,” said Tilia, grinning. “His Excellency has put me on a pony!”
Ezmah smiled back. “You’re quite the fine lady.”
“Shall I take the goats to the meadow beyond the mulberry stand?”
“That would be a big help, Tilia. Thank you.” His voice was warm with affection. He glanced at Anj and frowned, hesitated, then spoke.
“The chieftain’s brother from the Thunder Tribe came to see you.”
“Yes.”
“I hope- I hope . . . whatever he asked . . . you’ll do nothing that would put Tilia in harm’s way.”
“I hope to ensure that harm doesn’t come to her, Worthy Ezmah.”
The man’s face relaxed. “Thank you, Your Excellency,” he said, then returned to work without so much as a bow or backward glance.
Somewhat further on, along a side path that climbed again into the hills, was Ezmah’s homestead. Tilia slid down from Fortune, waved a greeting to Ezmah’s wife, who was hoeing a patch of vegetables, her baby tied to her back, then went to collect the goats, several of whom she greeted with hugs.
Anj watched Tilia drive the goats up the slope behind Ezmah’s house, then mounted Fortune and headed back past the fields and houses of the Freshet Tribe, this time at a canter. She was nearly back to the western road when she became aware of hoofbeats behind her. She reined in, wheeled round, and was face to face with Siiar, who pulled in so close that their shoulders practically touched.
“Decided against helping me, then? Cinnabar’s ambitions can be put aside for a song? Or was it more than a song?”
“On the contrary, I’d still very much like to advance Cinnabar’s ambitions, and I’d even be willing to help you with your current predicament, if I could bring myself to believe the stories you wove this morning--after your disgraceful dishonesty.”
Siiar growled and lunged for Anj, who leaned into him with the aim of grabbing him by the sash and arm and unseating him--but Siiar threw his free arm around Anj’s shoulders and they fell together to the ground, where they rolled free of their startled ponies’ dancing hooves and into the roadside flowers. Siiar had the advantage of weight, but Anj moved quickly, and just as Siiar managed to fling himself across her chest, she brought her dagger up beneath his jaw, cutting, but not too deeply. Just enough to startle. Siiar gasped and fell back. Anj slipped free, and the two of them faced each other again, crouched and panting, Siiar with a hand pressed to his neck.
“You’re playing with me. You say you would be willing to help me--then why were you escorting Tilia through the valley today?”
“Who’s playing with whom? You neglected to mention to me that you were Tilia’s first indiscretion. You came to me as an aggrieved brother when really you’re no more than a jealous lover.”
Siiar looked as if Anj had struck him.
“Tilia’s behavior among the Freshet people is still wrong, still shames my brother,” said Siiar, voice unsteady.
“More wrong than yours? You betrayed your chieftain and your brother. Whatever she’s done since coming here, Tilia may well have saved your life by leaving your brother’s house when she did. She certainly could have ended it by denouncing you. Isn’t that worth anything to you?”
Siiar pressed both his bloodied hand and his clean one to his forehead, shut his eyes.
“I loved he
r,” he said, his fingers closing round his hair as he spoke. “And then one day she disappeared without a word. And later, the stories that came to us from the Freshet Tribe. . . I know my love is worth nothing to her. Even so, sometimes I fear I might still love her--but I refuse to! I refuse to. I can atone for the wrong I did my brother, wipe out the stain on our family’s honor, and cut out the disease from my own heart, all at once.”
Spoken like a general who promises victory in the face of an overwhelming enemy, thought Anj. Then, thinking on generals, she asked, “Your offer--access to the passes--was that Chieftain Zara’s idea, or yours?”
“Mine,” he muttered. “But my brother will honor my promises. He’ll understand what an alliance with Cinnabar means--but he’ll do it as much to spite Chieftain Rosan as for any other reason.”
“How did you know about the sea war? These mountains are months away from the sea.”
He didn’t respond.
“You would have to have seen the messages from Commander Tak . . . Tilia said you raise homing pigeons . . . and also hunting birds. That’s it, isn’t it. Somehow you were intercepting our messenger birds.”
Now a corner of his mouth quirked upward, almost a half smile.
“Yes. I trained one of my falcons to catch your birds without killing them. I read the messages, then sent the birds on their way.”
Anj nodded. “Clever. So you can read the Cinnabar tongue. I guess we’ll have to start using code.” She sheathed her dagger and sighed, gazing at Siiar.
“You have the wisdom to see the importance of Cinnabar’s plans and the perseverance to make yourself part of them. I won’t give you Tilia, but you don’t need Tilia to persuade your brother that the stain on his honor has been removed. A torn and bloodied headscarf, along with your testimony and mine, will be enough. If you can put aside killing Tilia, I can help you bring your brother true fame and glory, enough to make him forget any injury he suffered because of her.”