Fool's Fate ttm-3

by Robin Hobb

  Elliania was not there. Those gathered on the other side of the hearth were mostly women. Peottre was the only adult man in his prime. There were a few old grandfathers, four lads about the Narcheska's age, and then six or seven boys ranging down to toddlers clinging to their mothers' skirts. Had the Red Ship War so decimated the Narwhal Clan?

  The Boar warriors from the ship were present, but they stood in a group off to one side, witnesses to rather than participants in whatever was about to happen. The people who crowded the rest of the room were almost entirely Narwhal Clan, as evinced by their jewelry, clothing adornments, and tattoos. The exceptions seemed to be almost entirely males standing alongside women, and were probably men who had married into the clan or were partners in a less formal arrangement with a Narwhal woman. I saw bears, otters, and one eagle amongst them.

  Without exception, the women were strikingly arrayed. Those who did not wear jewelry of gold or silver or precious stone were still bedecked with ornaments of shell, feather, and seeds. The artful arrangement of hair had not been neglected, and added substantially to the height of several women. Unlike Buckkeep, where the women seemed to shift their finery in mysteriously feminine coordination, I saw a wide variety of styles. The only unifying theme to the beaded or embroidered or woven patterns of their dress seemed to be the brightness of the colors and the narwhal motif.

  Those in the first circle, I surmised, were relatives of the Narcheska, while those who stood closest to the hearth would be her most immediate family. They were almost all women. All of the Narwhal women shared an intent, almost fierce air. The tension in that part of the room was palpable. I wondered which one was her mother, and wondered too what we awaited.

  Absolute silence fell. Then four Narwhal clansmen carried a wizened little woman down the stairs and into the hall. She rode in a chair fashioned from twisty pieces of gleaming willow wood and cushioned with bearskins. Her thin white hair was braided and pinned in a crown to her head. Her eyes were very black and bright. She wore a red robe and the narwhal motif was repeated in tiny ivory buttons sewn all over it. The men set her chair down, not on the floor, but upon a heavy table where she could remain seated and still look out over all those who had gathered in her house. With a small whimper of complaint, the old woman straightened herself in the chair, sitting tall and gazing at the folk who had gathered. Her pink tongue wet her wrinkled lips. Heavy fur slippers dangled on her skinny feet. "Well! Here we all are!" she proclaimed.

  She spoke the words in Outislander, loudly, as old folks who are going deaf are prone to do. She did not seem as mindful of the formality of the situation, nor as tense as the other women.

  The Great Mother of the Narwhal Clan leaned forward, her gnarled hands gripping the twisted wood of the chair arms. "So. Send him out, then. Who seeks to court our Elliania, our Narcheska of the Narwhals? Where is the warrior bold enough to seek the mothers' permission to bed with our daughter?"

  I am sure those were not the words Dutiful had been told to expect. His face was the color of beetroot as he stepped forward. He made a warrior's obeisance before the old woman and spoke in clear Outislander as he proclaimed, "I stand before the mothers of the Narwhal Clan, and seek permission to join my line with yours." She stared at him for a moment and then scowled, not at him, but at one of the young men who had borne her chair. "What is a Six Duchies slave doing here? Is he a gift? And why is he trying to speak our language and doing such a horrible job of it? Cut his tongue out if he attempts it again!"

  There was a sudden silence, broken by a wild whoop of laughter from someone in the back of the room, quickly muffled. Somehow Dutiful kept his aplomb, and was wise enough not to attempt to explain himself to the incensed Great Mother. A woman from the Narcheska's contingent stepped to the Mother's side and stood on tiptoe, whispering frantically to her. The Mother waved her off irritably.

  "Stop all that hissing and spitting, Almata! You know I can't hear a word when you talk like that! Where is Peottre?" She glanced around as if she'd misplaced a shoe, then lifted her eyes and scowled at Peottre. "There he is! You know that I hear him best. What is he doing way over there? Get here, you insolent rascal, and explain to me what this is about!"

  There would have been a sweet humor to watching the old woman order the seasoned warrior about if his face had not betrayed such worry. He strode over to her, went down briefly on one knee, and then stood up. She lifted one rootlike hand and settled it on his shoulder. "What is this about?" she demanded. "Oerttre," he said quietly. I suspect his deep voice reached her old ears better than the woman's shrill whisper had. "It's about Oerttre. Remember?"

  "Oerttre," she said, and her eyes brimmed suddenly with tears. She looked around the room. "And Kossi? Little Kossi, too? Is she here, then? Come home to us at last?"

  "No," Peottre said shortly. "They're not here, neither one of them. And that is what this is about. Remember? We talked about it in the garden, this morning. Remember?" He nodded at her slowly, encouraging her.

  She watched his face and nodded slowly with him, and then stopped. She shook her head once. "No," she cried out in a low voice. "I don't remember. The alyssum has stopped blooming, and the plums may be sour this year. I remember we spoke of that. But… no. Peottre, was it important?"

  "It was, Great Mother. It is. Very important."

  She looked troubled and then suddenly angry. "Important, important! Important, says a man, but what do men know?" Her old voice, cracked and shrill, rose in anger and derision. Her thin hand slapped her thigh in disgust. "Bedding and blood-shedding, that is all they know, that is all they think is important. What do they know of the sheep to shear and the gardens to be harvested, what do they know of how many barrels of salt fish for the winter and how many casks of sweet lard? Important? Well, if it's important, let Oerttre handle it. She is the Mother now, and I should be allowed to rest." She lifted her hand from Peottre's shoulder and gripped the arms of her chair. "I need my time to rest!" she complained piteously.

  "Yes, Great Mother. Yes, you do. And you should take it now and I will see that all is handled as it should be. I promise." And with these words, Elliania emerged from the shadows at the top of the stairs and hurried down to us. Her lightly shod feet seemed to skim each riser. Half of her hair was pinned up with tiny star pins; the rest flew loose to her shoulders. It did not look intentional. Behind her on the stairs, two young women started to follow her, then halted in horror, whispering to one another. I suspected they had been readying her for her appearance, and she had bolted free of them when she heard the raised voices.

  I recognized her bearing more than her form as people parted to let her through. Like Dutiful, she had grown taller in the months since I had last seen her, and all her childish plumpness had melted away, replaced by woman's flesh. As she came past the row of her female relatives, I was not the only Six Duchies man who gasped. Her gown covered her shoulders and back but left bare her proudly uptilting breasts. Had she rouged her nipples, to make them stand so pink? I wondered, and felt my flesh stir in response. An instant later, I had flung up my walls and, Guard your thoughts, I chided Dutiful. He must have heard me, yet he did not flinch. He stared at the Narcheska's bared breasts as if he had never seen a woman's breasts, and in all likelihood, that was possible.

  She did not spare a glance for him and his gawking but went straight to the Great Mother. "I will deal with this, Peottre," she said in her new woman's voice. Then she spoke to the men who had carried the Great Mother's chair. "You have heard our Great Mother. She requires her time of rest. Let us all thank her for gracing our gathering this evening, and wish her calm sleep and easy bones."

  There was a murmur of response, echoing the Narcheska's good-night to the Great Mother, and then the young men took up the old woman's chair and carried her off. The Narcheska stood straight and silent, turning to watch after her until she disappeared into the shadows at the top of the stair. She took a deep breath. The Prince was now staring at her back, at the knob at
the top of her spine bared by her upswept hair and her graceful neck above it. The seamstresses had cut it well, I thought to myself. Not even the edge of her tattoos peeped over it. I saw Chade give Dutiful a tiny jab in the ribs. The young man started as if waking from a dream and discovered a sudden interest in Peottre's feet. Peottre was staring at him flatly, as if he were an ill-mannered dog that might steal meat from the table if he were not watched.

  I saw the Narcheska square her shoulders. She turned back to face us all. Her eyes roved over the assembly. The ornament in her hair was made from narwhal's horn. I have no idea how they had wrought that iridescent blue upon it. The tiny star pins sparkled around it, and I no longer had any doubt that the carving that Prince Dutiful had found upon the Treasure Beach had presaged this moment. I was no closer to knowing what that meant, and had no time to think upon it.

  Somehow the Narcheska had found a smile. It was a bit wry at the corners as she gave a small laugh and a shrug. "I've forgotten what I'm supposed to say now. Will someone speak the Mother's words for me?" Then, before anyone could reply to her request, she let her gaze come to meet Dutiful's. He had blushed before; now he burned as he met her eyes. She ignored his fluster and spoke calmly. "You see, we combine two of our traditions tonight. By chance, it is my time to show myself as a blooded woman before my clan. And on this very day you are come here, to offer yourself as mate to me."

  His lips moved. I think they muttered the words "blooded woman" but no sound came forth. She laughed, but the lightness had gone out of it. It was brittle as ice shards breaking. "Have you no ceremony among your folk for this? A boy bloodies his sword to become a man, no? In his ability to kill, he announces that he is now complete. But a woman has no need of a sword. Eda herself bloodies us, and announces us as complete. What a man can take with a sword, a woman can give by her flesh alone. Life." She set both her ringless hands on her flat belly. "I have shed my first woman's blood. I can bring forth life from within me. I stand before you all, a woman now."

  There was a muttered response of "Welcome, Elliania, Narwhal Clan woman." I sensed that she had stepped back into the ritual and taken up the words, too. Peottre had retreated into the row of her clansmen. Women came to stand around her, and there was a formalized greeting that passed between every woman of the Narwhal Clan and Elliania. A group of wide-eyed girls, hair loose upon their shoulders, stood in a cluster, watching her. One, taller than the others and close to being a woman herself, pointed at Dutiful and said something approving to two of her fellows. They giggled and drew closer to her, whispering and nudging one another. I sensed that these girls had been Elliania's playmates and companions, but that Elliania had stepped apart from them now and into the ranks of the women. The effortless way in which she had assumed command of the situation told me that she had, in many ways, been a woman amongst them for a long time. This ceremony was the formal recognition that her body was starting to catch up with her spirit. When every woman had greeted her, Elliania stepped back out of the circle of firelight from the hearth. A stillness came over the crowd, replacing the murmur of comment and welcome. For a brief time, I felt their awkwardness. Peottre shifted on his feet, then forced himself to stand still. Dutiful remained where he had been, and I sensed that these minutes were passing like hours for him.

  Finally, the same young woman who had whispered to the Great Mother stepped forward. A faint blush suffused her cheeks. Obviously, she felt she was stepping above her station, but no one else had offered to take charge. She cleared her throat, but there was still a tremor in her voice as she said, "I am Almata, a daughter of the Mothers of the Narwhal Clan. I am cousin to the Narcheska Elliania, and six years her senior. Unworthy as I am, I will speak for the Great Mother."

  She paused a moment, as if to allow time for someone to challenge her in this role. There were older women present, but none of them spoke. A few gave tiny, encouraging nods. Most looked heartsick. Almata took a deep breath, visibly steadied herself, and spoke again.

  "We are gathered in our mothershouse because one not of our clan has come among us, seeking to join his lines to ours. He asks, not just for any woman, but for our Narcheska Elliania, she whose daughters will in turn be Narcheska and Mother and Great Mother to us all. Stand forth, warrior. Who seeks to court our Elliania, our Narcheska of the Narwhals? Where is the warrior bold enough to seek the mothers' permission to bed with our daughter, and give her daughters to raise up as Mothers of the Narwhal Clan?"

  Dutiful took a shuddering breath. He should not have; he should have been steadier than that, and yet I could not blame him. All could sense that something was awry here tonight, and it was something more than foreigners intruding on an Outislander ceremony. I had a sense of people stretching to close a gap, of trying to mend a tragedy by retreating to tradition. Yet there was no space left for us to be cautious. Dutiful's voice was steady as he proclaimed, "I come. I would have the Narcheska Elliania of the Narwhal Clan as the mother of my children."

  "And how will you provide for her and the children that you will give her? What will you contribute to the Narwhal Clan, that we should let your bloodlines mingle with ours?"

  And suddenly we were on solid ground. Chade had prepared well for this. Riddle nudged me, and I stepped aside almost in rhythm with the other guards. Behind them was a canvas-draped heap. Longwick dragged the cover from it, and each guardsman in turn took up an item and brought it forward as Chade announced what it was. Dutiful stood silent and proud as his gifts were presented to both Almata and the Narcheska, as well he might be. Nothing had been spared.

  Some of the trove had come with us, hastily transferred from the Maiden's Chance to the Tusker. Casks of brandy from Shoaks, a bale of ermine skins from the Mountain Kingdom, and colored glass beads from Tilth, wrought into a tapestry that could be hung over a window. Silver earrings, Kettricken's own handiwork. Cotton, linen, and fine woolen cloth from Bearns were among the offerings. Other gifts were merely mentioned as promises, cargo to be brought from Zylig on the next trip. The reading of that list took some time. The labor of three skilled smiths for three years. A bull and twelve cows of our finest bloodlines. Six brace of oxen, and a team of matched horses. Hunting hounds and two merlins, trained to be lady's birds. And some things that Chade offered on Prince Dutiful's behalf were only dreams yet, trade and peace between the Six Duchies and the Out Islands, gifts of wheat when their fishing harvest was poor, good iron, and the freedom to trade in all the Six Duchies ports. It was a long list and I felt the day's weariness catch up with me as Chade catalogued it for them.

  But all weariness left me when Chade concluded and Almata spoke again. "This is the offer made to our clan. Mothers, daughters, and sisters, what say you? Do any speak against him?"

  Silence followed her words. It evidently expressed approval, for Almata nodded gravely. Then she turned to Elliania. "Cousin, Woman of the Narwhal Clan, Elliania the Narcheska, what is your will? Do you desire this man? Will you take him as yours?"

  The muscles stood out in Peottre's neck as the slender young woman stepped forward. Dutiful held out a hand, palm up. She stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and placed her hand flat upon his. When she turned to look at him, and as their eyes met, my lad blushed again. "I will take him," she replied gravely. A part of me noted that she did not reply as to whether she desired him or not. She took a deeper breath and said, more loudly, "I will take him, and he will bed me, and we will give daughters to the mothershouse. If he performs the task that I have already named to him. If he can bring here, to this hearth, the head of the dragon Icefyre, then he may call me wife."

  Peottre's eyes flickered shut and then open again. He forced himself to watch as his sister-daughter sold herself. His shoulders moved once in what might have been a sob denied. Almata held a hand out and someone placed a long strip of leather in it. She stepped forward and continued speaking as she bound Dutiful's and Elliania's wrists together.

  "This binds you as your words have bound you.
While she accepts you, bed with no other, Dutiful, or that woman's life is forfeit to Elliania's knife. While he pleases you, Elliania, bed with no other, or that man must face the challenge of Dutiful's sword. Now, mingle your blood upon the hearthstones of our mothershouse, in offering to Eda for the children she may send you."

  I had no desire to watch, but I did. First the knife was offered to Dutiful. He betrayed no pain as he sliced his forearm until it bled freely. He cupped his bound hand and waited for blood to trickle past the leather strip and into his palm. Elliania did likewise, her face grave and somehow impassive, as if she had transgressed into an area so far beyond disgrace that nothing could move her now. When each hand cupped a small amount of blood, Almata guided their hands into a clasp. Then they knelt and each left a palm print of the mingled blood on the hearthstone. When they turned to face the gathered folk again, Almata freed their hands of the leather cord, and offered it to Dutiful, who accepted it gravely. Almata moved to stand behind them, a hand on each of their shoulders. She tried to put a note of joy into her voice, but it sounded flat to me as she announced, "They stand before you, joined and bound by their words. Wish them well, my people." The murmur of approval that rose from the gathered folk was more as if they applauded a deed of great courage than if they had just witnessed the happy joining of a loving couple. Elliania bowed her head before it, Sacrifice for them in some way I did not yet comprehend.

  I'm married? Wonder, dismay, and outrage mingled in Dutiful's flung Skill-thought. Not until you give her a dragon's head, I warned him.

  Not until we hold the real ceremony in Buckkeep Castle, Chade comforted him. The Prince looked dazed.