“I must report to the fyrra and will most likely stay the night. There will be time for a tale or two first. The others will keep for another day.”
“Petyar will be pleased to see you in the barracks. He received his sword while you were gone.”
“Petyar my cousin?” Fyodor echoed incredulously. “Little Petyar?”
“He is taller than you now, and eats as if he means to be every bit as broad before the tenday is done.”
Brother and sister continued to chatter happily as Liriel rode off. She was intrigued by this strange reception. Fyodor had told her that in Rashemen family was important. That was clear to see. In a few moments, she had added as much to her knowledge of Fyodor as she had learned through months of travel, shared battle, and an intimacy deeper than the drow had ever dreamed possible.
His roots ran deep in this land. He had enough family to fill the Baenre stronghold, friends who welcomed him with foolish joy, and a place in the community. Clearly he was a favorite among the children. From a distance Liriel could hear his deep bass voice lifted in a silly song.
She could see him growing old here, becoming the much-loved village elder and storyteller. And family …
For the first time she considered this particular implication. She and Fyodor were lovers, yes, but children did not necessarily follow. Every drow female with any access to magic at all chose when she would conceive. This was a choice Liriel had never considered. There was nothing in her own family to make her look back with pleasure on childhood or anticipate parenthood with longing. What life could any child born to her and Fyodor know? Half-drow children would never find a place here or anywhere else that she could imagine.
Her pony lowered its head and plodded up the increasingly steep street. Liriel put aside these strange thoughts and focused on her surroundings. At the top of the hill was a large, long building of unpainted wood, a simple design made elaborate by huge carved panels. A steeply slanting roof crowned the building.
“The barracks,” Zofia said softly, pointing to a long, low building to the left of the witches’ longhouse. “The berserkers form groups known as fangs. Each has a name. Fyodor belongs to the Black Bear lodge.”
“That’s appropriate,” Liriel murmured.
In the courtyard were a dozen or so warriors, stripped to the waist despite the chill air. Some of them wrestled, while others shot arrows at targets propped up against bales of straw. There was much laughter and loud boasting, but none of the men drew steel or turned their bows upon each other.
“I suppose you have questions?” the old witch prompted.
Thousands, Liriel thought, but she began with one of the newest. “The males …” She caught herself and corrected. “The men of Rashemen amaze me. How can they compete so vigorously without creating blood feuds?”
Zofia chuckled. “You have been too far to the west, and too far to the south. The hot sun addles the brain. Too much is made of too little. Here we know what is important, yes?”
The drow nodded sagely. In truth, however, she had never heard a question spoken whose answer seemed so far beyond her grasp. How could she possibly know what was valued in this strange place? It was not a question she had asked herself under familiar circumstances!
That realization hit her like a stone dropping into the pit of her stomach. How odd. She had lived for more than forty years—probably longer than the careworn Wanja—and it had never occurred to her to wonder what was truly important.
Oh, she’d privately scoffed at the constant striving and plotting that was Menzoberranzan. The intrigues that so absorbed her fellow drow held little interest for her, but what did matter?
Survival, obviously. Magic, certainly. Life without adventure was unbearably dreary. Power …
Her mind slid uncomfortably away from that notion. She’d had enough of that on Ruathym to last her a dragon’s lifetime. Fyodor set great store by honor, and she had to admit that her faith in his steadfast ways had become a touchstone in her life. Liriel treasured the unexpected joys of friendship. These things she knew. What else could there possibly be?
“There are many kinds of truth-testing,” Zofia said softly, breaking into Liriel’s thoughts with uncanny timing. “Sometimes the answers matter less than the questions.”
This was too much for the pragmatic drow. She threw up her hands in disgust. “Life was less confusing when I was dead.”
For some reason, this amused the witch. “Welcome back, Sylune,” she said with a wry little grin. “I suspect that this visit will be as interesting as the last!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BLACK WOLF
Later that evening, when Vastish’s brood had been spoiled by one too many stories and far too much honeycake, Fyodor made his way up the hill toward the residence of the witches and berserkers. His progress was slow for at nearly every house he was stopped by neighbors he had known since childhood. All celebrated his return with rough embraces and affectionate insults. All produced flasks of jhuild or mugs of scrump—a fermented cider that was nearly as potent as the Rashemaar liquor—in hope of prolonging Fyodor’s visit and coaxing from him news of the wider world.
There was news to be had, as well. The old Iron Lord had stepped down. Word was that he had taken ill and that he was being cared for in the forest retreat of the witches. In his place ruled Thydrim Yvarrg. A good choice, most agreed, provided that he did not expect his impulsive, hard-drinking son Fyldrin to succeed him. There was lesser news, too, ranging from tales of hauntings and monster attacks to the happy birth of twin boys to the village cooper and his wife.
With one thing and another, the evening swiftly passed. By the time Fyodor reached the barracks of the Black Bear lodge, a waning moon peered over the summit of Snowcat Mountain.
It was custom for any returning warrior to report to the village fyrra. Fyodor made his way to Treviel’s cottage. The door stood open, revealing a blazing fieldstone hearth before which sat a stocky but powerful man of an age and size that Fyodor’s father might have known, had he survived the Tuigan hoard. The old warrior hummed to himself as he polished his boots with goose grease. His feet were clad in stockings of a highly singular nature. They had been knitted to look like gloves, with each toe a different bright color. Narrow bands of the same colors marched up the man’s thick legs, and matched the bright embroidery on his boiled wool vest.
A faint smile touched Fyodor’s face. Few men dressed in clothing that so clearly proclaimed their nature as did Treviel. The man was as cheery as his garb, and Fyodor had long considered him a valued friend. Yet the young warrior stood where he was, deeply reluctant to begin this interview. Fyrra had been his father’s title and these his rooms. Treviel was a good man, but it pained Fyodor to see another in Mahryon’s place.
Certain proprieties must be observed. Fyodor cleared his throat and delivered the expected insult. “How can a warrior be a leader of men when he cannot persuade his own toes to agree upon a color? Is Sashyar angry with you, or did you knit those yourself?”
The graybeard looked up from polishing his boots. Pleasure lit his eyes, swiftly followed by caution.
Fyodor understood the man’s concern. His last memory of the new fyrra was colored by the haze of uncontrolled battle frenzy. He was not certain, and no one would tell him yes or no, but he suspected that he might be responsible for the deep, puckered puncture scar on the old man’s brawny forearm.
“Sashyar is always angry with me,” Treviel said complacently, “and that is a good thing for a warrior. You could do with such a wife. Too many hours spent dallying with sweet-tempered maids softens a man’s spirit and leaves him unprepared for battle.”
An image of Liriel in full dark-elf fury came vividly to mind. Fyodor chuckled. “I have become guardian to a wychlaran outlander who possesses the temper of a drow and the sweet reason of a pack mule. Will that suffice?”
“A guardian, eh?” For a moment the fyrra looked sincerely impressed, then he shrugged. “This woman mig
ht be all you say and more, but she’s still a pale shadow of my Sashyar,” he said proudly. “Even so, I will allow myself to hope that she may yet make a fighting man of you.”
“As to that, I am not such a fool to challenge a yeti to snow racing or think I might wrestle the wood man into submission,” Fyodor said dryly.
“Then I am hopeful indeed, for I could say as much about Sashyar,” Treviel confided in a droll whisper.
The men shared a chuckle. Treviel beckoned Fyodor into the room and pointed to the chair opposite him. His keen-eyed gaze noted the dark sword at Fyodor’s side, and his face grew serious.
“It is said that Zofia Othlor sent you after a great magical treasure. You found this?”
“That and more,” Fyodor said.
The man’s face brightened with the expectation of grand tales to come. One shadow remained, however, and they both knew it well. “You are whole, my son?” ventured Treviel.
“I am.”
“Then all is right with Rashemen,” the older man said briskly. He nodded to the porcelain samovar on the nearby table. As befitted its owner, the tall, lidded pot was brightly painted: Red and yellow unicorns cavorted on meadows of emerald green. Lid, rim, and base were ringed by entwining runic designs rendered in unsubtle shades of blue and purple.
“The tea is hot and nearly strong enough to strip the hide from a bear. You will drink?”
There were things that must be spoken, and Treviel’s choice of words provided as good an opening as Fyodor expected to get. “Perhaps I should save some of your tea in a flask. If the change is slow to pass, it would peel off the bearskin swifter than a hunter’s knife.”
Treviel gaped, then his smile stretched his thick gray mustache nearly from ear to ear. “Is it so? You have become chesnitznia?”
This was an accomplishment sought by all of Rashemen’s berserkers and achieved by few. Although the title “berserker” came from an ancient word for “bearskin,” the literal transformation of human warrior to bear was in these days more a legend than a reality.
“They call it hamfarrig on the island of Ruathym. Shapestrong.”
The village lord grunted with satisfaction. He was something of a scholar as warriors went, and Fyodor could see him tucking these new words away to savor at a later time.
“Word of the battle there has reached us. A sea battle,” he added wistfully, this warrior of a land-locked nation. “Your darjemma, it would seem, was more interesting than most.”
He poured tea into wooden cups. Fyodor took one sip and understood why. The acidic brew would no doubt eat right through pewter. He threw back the contents of the little cup and accompanied his swallow by slamming his fist on the table. This ritual completed, he set the empty cup down. Treviel refilled it and nodded expectantly at the young man, clearly waiting to hear the story of this wondrous battle.
“I have just come from my sister’s home,” Fyodor said apologetically.
The commander threw back his head and let out a deep, belly-shaking roar of laughter. “No need to say more! Even the village storyteller must rest his voice, yes? Sit, then, and drink your tea. Your story can wait until after the Mokosh games. You will go to the mountains with the others?” he asked, noting the strange look that crossed the young man’s face.
“In truth, I had forgotten.” The thought of leaving Liriel alone so soon after their arrival left him profoundly uneasy. Who knew what sort of mischief she might achieve in his absence? “Perhaps I should wait for the next holiday.”
Treviel snorted. “You will go, and you will win. See to it!” he said with a teasing wink.
Fyodor knew an order when he heard one, and a dismissal as well. He managed a wan smile and rose. “No stories, no tea,” he surmised.
The older man let out a guffaw and slapped one beefy thigh. “You should live to be so lucky. Drink!”
Fyodor obligingly downed the rest of the bitter brew and took his leave.
A chorus of grating snores greeted him at the barracks. As was custom, most of the warriors had retired early in anticipation of the grueling holiday ahead. Fyodor toed off his boots at the front door and studied the parchment tacked to the doorpost. With sorrow he noted the names no longer listed: Mahryon, his father; Antonea, the sword-smith with whom he had apprenticed; several cousins and boyhood friends. Some of them had been alive when Fyodor had entered his last berserker frenzy against the Tuigan. He hoped that none had died following him on his suicidal charge.
His cousin Petyar’s room was toward the end of the barracks. He made his way quietly down the long wooden hall. A thin ribbon of light underlined the door. Fyodor tapped the door faintly then pushed it open.
Two cots filled the room with the scent of fresh hay and dried angelica flowers, excellent for repelling both insects and unwanted dreams. One of these cots was filled from head to foot—and beyond—with the longest, skinniest excuse for a Rashemi warrior Fyodor had ever beheld.
A face still soft from yesterday’s childhood regarded him with a mixture of hero worship and welcome. The boy’s upper lip was decorated by a faint shadow that looked more like a smudge of axle grease than a mustache. Fyodor sternly resisted the urge to tousle his young cousin’s hair. Instead he seized one of the oversized feet that hung over the edge of the cot and raised it for closer scrutiny.
“If you were a pup, I’d suspect that your mother befriended a bear,” Fyodor said. “Of course, if you were a pup, I’d have to drown you or risk weakening the kennel. Who would have thought my Uncle Simaoth’s litter could produce such a runt?”
Petyar grinned and tugged his foot free. “The cobbler complains that if I grow any more I’ll be wearing boots of unmatched leather. He’ll have to slaughter two rothé cows to get enough for a pair!”
“If you wish to provide the cobbler with a single piece of leather, there is an easy solution,” Fyodor teased. “Those feet were made for dragonhide boots.”
The boy chuckled delightedly. “Easy enough, now that you’re back home! You’ll go snow racing with us tomorrow?”
“Why? Does a white dragon await us in the mountains?”
The gleam in the boy’s eyes darkened. “Worse,” he said flatly. “A black wolf.”
Fyodor received this news in silence. Petyar had been born the same spring as Vastish’s firstborn, and the boys had grown up like brothers. The death of his favorite cousin had cast a deep shadow over young Petyar’s life, and left him with an indelible and unreasonable hatred of wolves.
“Has this wolf done any harm?” Fyodor asked at last.
“Not yet. It has been seen lurking near the village.”
“How near? The refuse hill? The fields?”
“The forests,” the boy admitted.
“Petyar.”
The young man responded with a defiant shrug. “Do not say you haven’t been warned. The snow race should be a contest, not a hunt! If you are content to be a wolf’s prey, so be it. I at least will keep close watch.”
“That you will watch closely I do not doubt,” Fyodor said somberly, “especially if Treviel’s daughters join the race.”
A grin edged its way onto Petyar’s face. “What of it? There is no harm in looking.”
“I will pass that thought along to the fyrra,” Fyodor suggested. “Perhaps he will have it carved upon your coffin.”
The boy chuckled and reached for the oil lamp. “Time for sleep, or tomorrow morn we won’t know whether we’re looking at wolves or women.”
Fyodor settled down on his cot and sent a wry smile into the darkness. “Sometimes it is difficult to tell.”
“Aye,” Petyar agreed, in a tone that suggested he had vast experience in such matters. After a moment’s silence, he added, “You have met many such women in your travels?”
The wistful tone in the young man’s voice was familiar to Fyodor. He had heard it this night from his sister’s children, fully two-score neighbors, and even the fyrra. Now he had no heart for more stories and scant voice left
to speak them. Instead he offered, “I have known Sashyar all my life.”
Petyar let out a hoot of amusement. “Now I have no fear of the fyrra’s wrath! Go on, tell Treviel that I admire his pretty daughters. I have a weapon to match yours.”
Fyodor thought of the blunt, black sword resting against his cot and prayed with all his heart that the boy’s words would never come to pass.
Liriel’s tour of the Witches’ Lodge was not quite what she had expected. For one thing, the complex was more extensive than she’d gathered from first impression. It went on and on, covering the top of the hill that crowned the village and stretching down much of the back slope. In addition to the great hall and the warriors’ barracks, there was a temple to the Three, the goddesses who formed the center of Rashemi worship. The temple was a lovely thing, with a rounded domed roof guarded by a trio of towers. Still, how was such a thing possible?
“One temple for three goddesses?” Liriel demanded.
“One goddess, if you prefer. We worship the triple goddess: maiden, mother, and wise woman,” Zofia explained. “They are called by other names in other lands. We of Rashemen also have our names for them, but these are our own and must not be spoken to outsiders. Come – I will show you the bathhouse.”
This proved to be a small, round, windowless building constructed of stone and roofed with slate. The old witch pulled open the door. Steam escaped, along with a sudden, rushing energy that was more than air.
Liriel peered inside. In the center of the room was a well filled with rocks that glowed with heat. A large bucket had been suspended over it with ropes running from it to the wooden benches built against the walls. Liriel saw the purpose of this at a glance. Anyone desiring a steam bath would pull a rope and tip a bit of water onto the hot rocks. The drow had similar steam houses, albeit magical ones, in Menzoberranzan.
Fyodor’s sister sat on one of these benches, a linen sheet wrapped around her. She gave them a pleasant nod—and vanished.
Windwalker Page 25