by Mary Mackey
"Go to bed," he commanded, waving impatiently at the three women. Marrah scrambled to her feet and headed for Hiknak's pallet, sure he'd come after her and force her into his bed, but instead he sat down by the fire. Hiknak made room for her and they lay back to back under the blankets, waiting, but nothing happened. Vlahan just kept sitting by the fire. From time to time a strange expression crossed his face. He looked deeply satisfied about something, but perhaps that was only an illusion created by the flickering shadows.
When Marrah finally realized that he wasn't going to drag her out of bed and force her to have sex with him, she went to sleep. Later, just before dawn, she woke. The fire had gone out, but he was still sitting in the same place.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When Marrah woke a second time, Vlahan was lying on his own pallet with his face turned toward the wall, Timak was snoring, and Hiknak was sound asleep, curled in a warm circle. She got up carefully so as not to wake them, draped her shawl around her head, and went outside to find the ground sprinkled with snow. The eastern sky was red, and the tall grass looked cold and heavy. The great herd was only a collection of dark shadows, but she could hear the cows and milk mares making the low, rumbling noises that meant their udders were full and would soon need tending to.
She knelt beside the fire pit, blew on the banked coals, and fed them with bits of straw until they sprang to life. Carefully she piled little chips of dung on the flames and then larger ones. Around her, other women were doing the same thing; the crisp air of the steppes was beginning to fill with the smell of smoke and roasted meat. The flames licked at the dry fuel, and a small line of sparks rose straight up like a thread of dyed wool. Marrah sat back on her heels and wondered how long it would be before Timak woke up and came out to set her at digging the tent hole again. The ground didn't look frozen, but it was clear that yesterday had been none too early to begin. Winter had definitely arrived.
She stared at the melting snow and thought of the big storms that would soon sweep down from the north. Where would she be when the drifts began to pile up? She'd better be back in Shara, sitting beside the charcoal brazier in the Temple of Children's Dreams, telling the story of her adventures to her grandmother, because if she was trapped in the same tent with Vlahan all winter, she'd do something desperate. Perhaps today she'd be able to talk to Arang or get a message to Stavan. All they needed was a plan that would give them a head start before they were missed.
She was trying to put such a plan together when she heard a terrible shriek. She jumped to her feet and looked around for the source of the noise, but all she could see were lopsided brown tents. There was another shriek, followed by still another. Suddenly, the whole camp exploded into life around her: people threw open the flaps of their tents and staggered out half asleep; the women who were already up dropped their milk buckets, threw their food baskets to the ground, grabbed their children, and began to wail. Babies howled, dogs barked, warriors swarmed around half dressed, clutching spears and daggers. Thinking the camp was under attack, she looked around for something to defend herself with, but there was nothing in sight except a collapsible leather water bucket and a bit of frayed rope.
"Ai! ai! ai!" a familiar voice cried. Marrah spun around and saw Timak standing outside the tent with her hair unbraided and flying in all directions. In one hand Timak held her best shawl, and as Marrah watched in disbelief, she began to bite and rip it into shreds. Behind her, Vlahan stood with his arms folded across his chest, watching the whole performance impassively, while Hiknak peeked cautiously around the edge of the tent flap as if she knew what was going on but didn't want to be part of it.
"What's that terrible noise?" Marrah cried, pointing in the direction of the shrieking, but Timak just went on ripping up her shawl and Vlahan went on staring. By now, Hiknak had disappeared entirely, and as for their near neighbors, every last man, woman, and child appeared to have gone crazy. She could see other women tearing their clothing; some were smearing themselves with ashes and mud, and several of the older ones had fallen to the ground and were rolling about in what looked like convulsions. Most of the men were no longer running. They'd frozen in place expectantly, spears in hand, as if they were waiting for something.
The wailing of the women grew louder, but over it all the horrible noise Marrah had first heard rippled back and forth like the call of a strangled bird, coming closer and closer. Suddenly she saw an incredible sight: Zulike, Zuhan's wife, was running from tent to tent. She was barefoot and wore a torn shift. Every time she came to a new group of people, she would fall to her knees, stretch out her arms, and beg for something, but whatever it was, the people always refused her. A man — but if no man was present, a woman or even a child — would walk up to her and kick her, knocking her over. When that happened, Zulike would pick herself up, make the horrible sound, and run on to the next tent, where the same thing would happen all over again.
Marrah watched her progress with an equal mixture of repulsion and fascination. What kind of grotesque ritual was this? It looked as if Zulike was pleading for her life, but what could she have possibly done to get herself in so much trouble? Had she betrayed Zuhan? Not very likely at her age, but still you never knew. Had she taken some young warrior for a partner? If she had, more power to her. Marrah didn't like Zulike much, but she liked Zuhan even less. Give old Zulike another chance, she thought. Spare her life. But the Hansi just went on kicking her, knocking her over, and listening to her scream.
The bizarre ceremony was repeated time and time again. Finally Zulike arrived at Vlahan's tent, the last in the camp. Her knees were scraped, and her hair was full of straw and mud. Her nose ring and earrings had been jerked out, leaving bloody holes, and there were only pale bands of flesh where all her bracelets had been. Throwing herself to her knees, she groveled in front of Vlahan. "Take pity on me!" she cried. "I always thought of you as my son, always loved you the best." She crawled forward. "Vlahan the wise, Vlahan the merciful, take pity on old Zulike. I never cared that you were Zuhan's bastard or that your mother was a slave. I always thought you should be the one to rule the Hansi. Be merciful and spare me this disgrace."
Marrah felt slightly sick. It was horrible to see anyone — especially an older woman — so humiliated. She remembered how she too had pleaded with Vlahan and what it had gotten her. For the first time, she felt a sympathy for Zulike. May the Goddess spare her life, she prayed, and she thought of what Zulike might have been like if she'd lived in Shara: a grandmother, respected by everyone, and sitting on the city council instead of crawling in the mud.
Vlahan was silent for a long time. He just stood there, looking down at the old woman in a cold, thoughtful way. "Get up," he commanded at last.
Zulike rose to her feet and stood upright, swaying slightly from side to side with a dazed look on her face. Her gray hair hung in strings around her cheeks, and her eyes were bloodshot. She looked pathetic and a little frail, despite her hard, square chin and the muscles in her arms.
"Why aren't you dead yet?" Vlahan asked.
It was such a cruel, unexpected question that Marrah gasped, but everyone else, including Zulike, seemed to take it as perfectly normal.
"I've been a good wife," Zulike moaned in a small voice.
"Speak up."
"I said I've been a good wife."
Vlahan nodded. "Yes," he agreed. "That's true. Everyone knows your virtue has never been questioned. So why aren't you dead yet?"
Zulike began to tremble and bite her lips. "Because nobody would give me a blade."
"Why not?"
"They say I didn't watch Zuhan well enough, but what could I do? He was well last night — you saw him yourself. But this morning when I got up he was dead." She began to shriek again. "Give me my rights! I'm his first wife. I have a right to follow him to paradise! I'm the grandmother of the Heir! I won't be dragged to the Great Chief's grave like a common concubine! The law says I have the right to lie by his side. I know you poisoned Zuh
an; everyone knows it! You couldn't be Great Chief because you're a bastard, so you decided to rule through that dark-skinned boy who doesn't look any more like Achan than a toad. Well, rule and be damned! All I want is my death, and the law says you owe it to me!"
Vlahan's face had become absolutely impassive at the mention of poison, but his eyes narrowed. There was something yellow in the depths of them, something flamelike and ugly. He motioned to two young warriors who were standing nearby. "Send the wife of Zuhan after her lord," he ordered.
"Wait!" Zulike screamed. "I want to kill myself. I demand the right to die by my own hand like a faithful wife! You can't strangle me like a slave!"
Paying no attention to her, the taller of the two warriors stepped forward and unstrung his bow so quickly that the string was still vibrating when he wrapped it around her neck. Zulike's eyes bulged and her mouth opened, but nothing came out. For a second the old woman and the warrior stood face to face like two lovers locked in some horrible embrace. Then he released her and she fell to the ground.
Marrah screamed, but no one heard her. The instant Zulike fell, a cry of joy and approval went up from the nomad women. Singing and clapping their hands, dozens of wives rushed forward in a flurry of brown shawls and long tunics. Some bent down and picked up Zulike's body while others danced around it making high-pitched warbling sounds. Their ash-smeared faces were crazed-looking and their heads were uncovered, but no one seemed to care.
The Great Chief is dead
and gone to paradise,
they chanted,
and his good wife's gone after him.
Send his slaves and his concubines,
send a hundred horses.
Let Zuhan ride in glory
to the Palace of Han
where the God Himself sits
on His burning throne!
Passing Zulike's body from hand to hand, the singing women carried the dirty brown bundle away as Marrah stood looking after them in horror. She understood everything now: Zuhan was dead, and the nomads were about to send all his women after him. Vlahan ruled the Hansi, and Arang was in his power.
For a second she was so terrified she couldn't move. She saw the bowstring again, and Zulike's staring eyes, and heard the sound her body had made when it hit the ground, and she imagined what Dalish and Akoah would look like after the warriors finished with them. Fear crept up her legs and along her spine, turning her bones to water and her heart to ice. Putting her hands over her eyes, she turned away from the muddy spot where Zulike's body had lain.
Give in, the fear whispered. You'll never win against them. They have brute strength, and all you have are your wits. What good are wits against this wolf pack? Give in to Vlahan before he kills you too. Be a "good" Hansi woman; be an obedient wife.
At the thought of being a "good" Hansi woman, something snapped inside her. It was an odd sensation, like a wooden peg slipping into a hole, and where it came from was a mystery. I'd rather die! she thought. I'd rather go down fighting! I'm getting out of here, and I'm taking Dalish and Akoah and the women of Shambah with me. Better we all die out on the steppes than leave even one woman behind!
For a moment she just stood there, amazed, wondering where this crazy, stubborn courage had come from. Gradually it dawned on her that it was her own. Goddess born and Goddess bred, she thought, and not about to give up.
She took her hands away from her eyes and looked at Vlahan, who was standing with his arms folded across his chest, staring at a large crowd of men who had gathered in a semicircle around him. She saw a number of familiar faces in the crowd, including Slehan's, but Stavan was nowhere in sight. Behind Vlahan, a dozen heavily armed warriors had taken up position, spears held menacingly. Marrah recognized most of them as Zuhan's former bodyguards. They were young and fierce-looking, all scarred veterans of a dozen battles, and all clearly loyal to Vlahan. There was no doubt who now held power in the camp.
Several moments of uneasy silence passed, broken only by an occasional low muttering from some warrior at the back of the throng. Then a trumpet sounded in the distance, and Changar appeared, leading two horses. One was Vlahan's black stallion, and the other was Zuhan's pale gelding. Arang sat on the back of the gelding, looking frightened. He was dressed in a white wool tunic, white leggings, and an embroidered cape with a tasseled hood. A small gold crown encircled his forehead, and a chain of wolf teeth and gold suns hung around his neck. In one hand he held Zuhan's horse-headed scepter and in the other a small ceremonial dagger.
But Arang and Changar didn't come alone. Around them, enclosing them in a sort of armed box, rode six more bodyguards, all stripped to the waist as if they were about to go to war. They bristled with spears and knives, and three of them had their bows strung and trained on the crowd.
When Arang saw Marrah, his face brightened a little and he started to say something to her, but Changar stopped him with a glance and he sunk back terrified. The bodyguards parted, making an armed aisle from Changar to Vlahan. Without so much as a nod at the crowd, Changar walked up the aisle and handed Vlahan the reins of the two horses. Then he bowed stiffly and stepped aside.
Vlahan put one hand on the stallion's back, leapt up, and sat for a moment looking out at the crowd. There was a silence thick enough to cut. Beneath it, somewhere out of sight, the threat of violence rumbled like distant thunder. "Behold your new Great Chief," Vlahan said, pointing to Arang. "Behold the son of the hero Achan, grandson of the great Zuhan, whom I have promised to guard faithfully until he comes of age. Let any man who disputes this boy's right to rule the Hansi fight me now in fair battle or hold his peace."
No one came forward to risk the wrath of Vlahan and the armed men who stood around him. Satisfied, he tossed the reins of Arang's horse back to Changar. "Lead the little chief back to his tent," he said.
Changar bowed and took Arang away, and the six mounted bodyguards went with them, bows still ready.
Vlahan turned back to the crowd. "Today we'll mourn the hero Zuhan in the customary way." He spoke in a low, level voice, saying more than Marrah had heard him say in all the time she'd lived in his tent. "All fires will be extinguished, and everyone will eat cold meat; we will dig the Great Chief's grave, gather his treasures, and round up his horses. Today and tonight Zuhan's body will lie in front of his tent for everyone to see, and Zulike, his peace-weaving wife, will lie in honor beside him. Tomorrow we will have the funeral games and the sacrifices, but this is the time of darkness when Zuhan's soul is wandering through hell on its way to paradise, and we must lament and pray to Choatk the Terrible, Great Chief of the Underworld."
The crowd began to stir, and Marrah saw Slehan and several other warriors exchange angry glances. Vlahan began to describe the funeral games, but she didn't wait to hear any more. Grabbing a handful of ashes from the fire, she smeared them on her face. Then she simply walked into the crowd and began to push the men aside. On any other day, she would have probably gotten a good box on the ear or worse, but today the warriors paid no attention to her. Thinking she was off to join the other women, they made way for her, grumbling a little but never taking their eyes off Vlahan.
As soon as she was clear of them, she began to run. No one called after her. No one ordered her back.
She'd never been to Zuhan's tent before, but she had no trouble finding it. Most Hansi tents had four poles but his had eight, and its white sides were covered with sun signs and stars. Zuhan himself welcomed her. They had laid him out on a pile of rugs with a spear in one hand and a dagger in the other. The dead man was wearing nothing but a leather loincloth and a white cape, but his body was decorated with war paint and chains of wolf teeth; gold suns and other adornments hung around his neck. He made a strange sight lying there dressed like a young warrior. They had put bundles of fresh-smelling herbs around him, but a strange bitter odor rose from his body. His arms were thin and muscular, but his chest was hollow, covered with grizzled tufts of hair, clan marks, and old, ugly scars. As for his face, it
was like a mask — chalky white with blue sunken hollows where his eyes had been. But it was his lips that interested Marrah the most. Someone had obviously tried to compose his features and failed. Half his mouth was twisted in a death agony, and the tip of his tongue protruded slightly. He had clearly died a terrible death and had just as clearly been poisoned.
Behind him, six bodyguards stood with spears in their hands blocking the entrance to the tent. Marrah was relieved when she saw the armed men, because that meant Arang was probably inside. The guards looked at her without curiosity, but it was obvious they had no intention of letting her pass. One of them pointed his spear at her in a halfhearted fashion while the others passed around a water skin, which, from the look on their faces, might have contained something more than water.
She cupped her hands to her mouth. "Arang!" she called. "It's me, Marrah. Tell the guards to let me through."
At the sound of her voice, Arang immediately pulled aside the tent flap and stuck his head out. "Marrah, am I glad to see you! You can't imagine what's been going on!" He turned to the guards and ordered them to let her pass, and when they hesitated he ducked back inside, got the horse scepter, and pointed it at them with so much dignity that even she was impressed. His Hansi was perfect; he sounded like he'd been speaking it all his life, and it had the desired effect. Perhaps yesterday the guards would have taken orders only from Zuhan, but Zuhan was dead and Arang was the new Great Chief, at least in name. The moment they caught sight of the horse scepter, they waved her through with respectful bows.
As she passed them, she smelled the sweet-sour scent of kersek. So the drinking had begun already. What kind of shape would they and the other warriors be in by the time Zuhan was buried? She wondered if it would do any good to have Arang order the guards to saddle horses so they could escape, but no doubt if that had been possible he would have done it long ago. He might only be twelve, but he was nobody's fool.