by Mary Mackey
She held Akoah until she stopped shaking and wiped the tears from her eyes with the edge of her shawl. When she had calmed down, Marrah let go of her and turned to Dalish. It was time for the two of them to make a plan — not because a plan might work but because without one they would be as lost as Akoah. "Do you think Arang has enough power to stop the sacrifices?"
Dalish shrugged. "I'm not sure; I doubt it, but on the other hand maybe some of the more rebellious warriors would side with him if he tried. From what I've seen, Vlahan's universally disliked."
The two of them talked for a long time. After a while Akoah dozed, resting her head against the tent pole, but they stayed awake, creating impossible escapes and last-minute rescues. When they finally ran out of possibilities, they simply sat quietly, holding hands and looking at the fire. A sense of calm settled over Marrah. None of their plans had the remotest chance of working. Unless a miracle happened, they were going to die, but instead of frightening her as it had before, the thought of death brought her peace. She and Akoah and Dalish didn't believe in an afterlife like the nomads did, but they didn't believe in hell either. They might suffer a few moments of terrible pain as Changar strangled them, but then they would go back to the Mother. They would sleep in Her womb again, as peacefully as seeds or unborn children, and when their souls returned to earth, they'd be free of any memory of suffering.
She watched the shadows flickering across the walls of the tent. They reminded her of the dancing animals in the Caves of Nar. How long ago that day seemed! Perhaps next time I'll be reborn as a deer or a flower or a bird, she thought, and she imagined herself hovering above the Sea of Gray Waves looking down at Xori. Goodbye, Mother. Goodbye, dear friends. Goodbye, Uncle Seme. Goodbye, Great-Grandmother Ama. I'd always meant to come back to you, but now it looks as if I won't.
The shadows went on dancing, and Marrah went on watching them. Gradually her hand loosened and fell out of Dalish's, but Dalish, who had fallen asleep, didn't notice.
Outside on the steppes the nomad warriors were killing and gutting the fifty horses that would be stuffed and staked out around Zuhan's grave. Piles of bloody entrails lay steaming in the cold. Half a dozen women knelt in the mud, cutting the livers free and trimming the fat from the hearts. The horse guts would make a rich stew, one that would give the warriors strength to mourn Zuhan properly.
Not far away, the tomb builders were working by torchlight. It was snowing harder now, so several tents had been taken down and stretched over the hole to form a roof. Beneath the leather canopy, the stone walls of the grave were more than half finished. Women were already scrubbing out the burial chamber with ashes and cold water, while just over their heads young men were pounding stakes into the half-frozen ground. Each stake was a tent pole, donated at great sacrifice since wood was nearly as precious as gold. When the men were finished, the stakes would ring the tomb. There were thirteen in all: nine for Zuhan's Hansi slave girls; two for his concubines; one for Vlahan's unfaithful wife, and one — the strongest — for Stavan.
The young men thought a long time before they pounded in each stake. They had to leave enough room so Changar could stand between the sacrifice victim and the edge of the grave, but not so much that the body would have to be carried. When Stavan and the women were cut loose, they should fall gracefully into the Great Chief's tomb, not flop on the ground like cows butchered by some clumsy herdboy. The men inspected the possible sites from all angles. Changar was very particular, and no one wanted to offend him.
Marrah opened her eyes with a start to discover that light was pouring in through the smoke hole. Dalish and Akoah lay sleeping on either side of her, Akoah curled into a tight frightened ball, Dalish spread out comfortably with her head pillowed on her shawl. A thin layer of dry snow had blown in under one edge of the tent, and the fire had died down to nothing.
She sat up cautiously. Let Dalish and Akoah sleep. Today was no day to wake them early. She took a deep breath of cold air and exhaled. The smoke of her breath spiraled like a snake. Today I die, she thought, and she looked around the tent memorizing everything: the sun patterns on the rugs, the crudely thrown pots, the leather water skin that rested against one of the tent poles like an old dog. Life had never seemed so sweet before, or so precious. Even the stones in the fire pit looked beautiful. They lay at odd angles, each with a particular texture of its own. Some were cracked and some were streaked with soot and some lay pillowed in the soft gray ashes like islands. Why hadn't she taken more time to appreciate the beauty of ordinary things? She had let so much of life slip past unnoticed.
She was thinking of all the things she had always meant to do someday when she heard the familiar high-pitched warbling of the Hansi women. The singing seemed far away, but as she listened it drew closer.
"Dalish," she whispered.
Dalish sat up so quickly it was hard to believe she'd been asleep. "What is it?"
"Listen."
They listened as the singing grew louder. There were flutes, some small drums, copper finger cymbals, and something that sounded like a sort of tambourine. By now Akoah was awake too. She clutched Marrah's hand and stared at the tent flap.
"Are they coming for us?"
Dalish nodded.
"What are they singing?"
"A wedding song."
Akoah and Marrah were surprised. "A wedding song?" Akoah pulled her shawl around her shoulders and gripped Marrah's hand more tightly. "What wedding? What are you talking about?" But Dalish must have been right because the music wasn't funeral music at all. It was loud and joyful, and Marrah could easily imagine the women joining hands and dancing in circles the way they'd danced on the day they married her to Vlahan.
"Translate for us, Dalish."
Dalish was reluctant, but finally she did. "It's a traditional song the nomads sing only when a Great Chief dies. There are a lot of verses, but the chorus is always the same:
"Hail to the happy brides
who breathe the air of paradise.
Rejoice, rejoice,
soon you'll be with the gods.
"Today is Han's day.
Today is Zuhan's day.
Today is the best day to die."
When Dalish came to the word "die," Akoah cried out and put her hands over her face, and Marrah felt the cold terror grip her again. The peace she had found earlier disappeared. It wasn't going to be easy to face death with any kind of dignity. Would she plead and scream like Zulike when she saw the bowstring? Would the last thing she saw be Changar's satisfied smile? She dug her fingernails into the palm of her hands and tried to push the fear somewhere where it wouldn't overwhelm her, but the voices kept coming closer.
"No day is a good day to die," she said defiantly, but there was no reply, and when she looked up, she saw Dalish looking back at her with wide, frightened eyes.
For a few seconds they stared, each looking for reassurance and neither finding it. Then all at once the singing stopped, the tent flap was jerked open, and five women stepped across the threshold carrying buckets of warm water and baskets heaped with white wedding garments. One was redheaded Timak, who looked particularly satisfied when she caught sight of Marrah. Hiknak walked a few paces behind her, looking down at the ground as an obedient concubine should. Marrah didn't know the other three, although she had seen them around the camp, but they were all big, chosen no doubt for their ability to handle terrified victims.
"Good morning," Timak said. She smiled, showing her filed teeth. It was only the second time Marrah had ever seen her smile, and the expression didn't become her. It gave her a leering air like a hungry wolf. "We've come to dress you for the ceremony." She gestured to the women to put down their baskets.
The sight of Timak made Marrah feel defiant again. "What if we don't cooperate?" She folded her arms across her chest and glared.
Timak shrugged. "Suit yourselves. There are armed guards outside who will be happy to strip you and dress you if you fight us." Since it was clear she was
telling the truth, Marrah gave in. As Hiknak and one of the younger women stripped her and began to sponge her down, she stood in stony silence, glaring at Timak. Timak wasn't going to lay a hand on her. That was the price of her cooperation. Dalish also submitted silently, but Akoah screamed and shook so hard that two of the women sat on her, pinning her to the floor.
For a while everything was in an uproar as they wrestled Akoah out of one set of clothes and into another, and in that brief moment Marrah made one last attempt to save their lives. Hiknak hadn't once so much as looked her in the face, and for all Marrah knew she had sided with Timak against her, but she remembered how much the little concubine hated Vlahan, and that gave her an idea. Grabbing for her belt, she pulled off the pouch that contained the powder of invisibility and pressed it into Hiknak's hand so swiftly that not even Dalish saw her do it.
"Put this in the warriors' kersek!" she whispered.
She had no time to explain, no time to be sure Hiknak had understood. Akoah stopped screaming, and Timak rose to her feet. She looked at Hiknak suspiciously. "What's taking you so long? Get that slut dressed, or we'll miss the start of the ceremony."
"Yes, mistress." Hiknak knelt at Marrah's feet and began to tie on her white leather boots. Not a word or a look of acknowledgment passed between them. Once Marrah caught Hiknak's eye, but Hiknak only looked at her blankly as if she'd never seen her before. The packet was nowhere in sight, so presumably she'd slipped it into her robe, but there was no way to know if Hiknak had the slightest intention of doing what she'd begged her to do. Why should she? She wasn't in danger of being strangled for many years yet, and now that Vlahan was Great Chief in all but name perhaps her life would improve.
Bitterly disappointed, Marrah let Hiknak finish dressing her. It had been a stupid idea. She was lucky Hiknak hadn't raised an alarm. On the other hand, it really wouldn't have mattered. Even Timak couldn't do much to her at this point.
When the three "brides" were washed and dressed, the women picked up their old garments and tossed them into the fire pit. The fire was out, but no doubt they intended to come back later and burn them. Gathering up the buckets and baskets, they left as quickly as they'd come. Even Timak didn't take time to gloat. She just turned her back and walked away as if the three of them were already dead.
As soon as the tent flap closed, Marrah knelt down, pulled her old belt out of the fire pit, and wrapped it around her waist. It was the only thing that had come all the way from Shara with her, and she wanted to die with it on. She opened the drawstrings of her pocket, took out the Tear of Compassion, and tied it around her neck where it belonged. The butterfly looked pale in the dim light, but the stone was as golden as ever.
"Is that magic?" Akoah cried.
"Yes," Marrah said, "but it won't — "
She had no time to tell Akoah that the charm wouldn't save them, because at that very instant the armed guards came into the tent to tell them to prepare themselves for death. There were seven, all young warriors stripped to the waist despite the cold, and when Akoah saw the skulls painted on their chests and the black spears in their hands she went crazy with fear. Falling to her knees, she began to scream and cry and beg for her life. It was terribly unnerving, but Marrah couldn't blame her. She wanted to scream and cry herself, but pride held her back.
The guards pulled Akoah to her feet, tied her hands, and dragged her out of the tent. Then they came back for Dalish, who went like a queen with her head held high. When they returned for Marrah, they found her standing quietly in the empty tent with her eyes closed and her fingertips pressed together in the sign of the Goddess. They pried her hands apart roughly and tied them behind her back. She could have resisted, but she didn't.
If I have to die, let me die like a priestess, she thought. Let me die doing harm to no one.
One of the warriors shoved a spear tip between her shoulder blades and prodded her toward the open tent flap, and Marrah stepped out into the sunlight. It had snowed heavily overnight, and the whole world was white. Snow lay on the tall grass, bending it into strange shapes. The mound of earth that would be piled over Zuhan's grave was as smooth as a loaf of uncooked bread, and the flat horizon behind it glittered like the edge of a knife. In the pale blue sky a few long clouds curled before the wind, taking on scarflike shapes.
Marrah blinked and stopped for a moment, almost blinded by the brilliance, but the warrior prodded her forward. The snow made a faint squeaking sound under her boots. To her left a dead horse had been stuffed with grass and stuck on a stick like a child's treat. Its short black mane was gaily braided with brightly dyed bits of wool and its mouth was open as if it were about to whinny, but the beast's eyes were glassy and dead. To the left of the horse was another dead horse and beyond it still another and another, set in a great circle around Zuhan's grave. Inside the circle, the whole tribe had gathered, men on one side, women on the other. The warriors' brown tunics and leggings were ripped and smeared with ashes, but they seemed to be in a good mood. Skins of kersek were passing from hand to hand, and whole families of women were busy bringing more. Somewhere out of sight drums were beating, but Marrah was too short to see who was doing the drumming.
As she approached, the crowd opened up and made way for her. Curious faces stared at her. A young man with a wolf on his forehead smiled at her encouragingly, and an old woman in dangling earrings patted her on the shoulder. It wasn't that they were being cruel, at least not by their standards. They knew she was on her way to die, but as far as they were concerned her death was a public matter, so they crowded around her and pushed their faces into hers until she could hardly breathe. She was so close she could smell the cheese on their breath and see the chapped places where the wind of the steppes had burned their cheeks. A young woman held up a red-faced, squalling baby, and she realized she was being asked to bless the child. Somehow she'd become an object of veneration. It was unnerving.
"Take the child away," she pleaded, but she was so upset she spoke in Shambah. The young mother smiled, thinking no doubt that Marrah had given a blessing to the baby, poor thing.
More curious faces, more pats on the head and shoulder. Now she could see the drummers, sitting on a blanket with their drums between their knees. Their faces had been painted red and black, and their fingers were striped with yellow. As they drummed their hands flew like birds and they leaned back with half-closed eyes, already hypnotized by their own music. Sometimes one of them would reach out and shake a string of shells or small copper bells, and the crowd would break into song. Mostly it seemed to be about Zuhan and how great a chief he had been, but once Marrah was positive she heard Arang's name.
Every time she took a step, the drums got louder. Suddenly the crowd parted, and she saw Zuhan's grave gaping in the mud like an open mouth. The hole was twenty paces long, twelve paces wide, and four times as deep as a man was tall, lined with white stones. Around the rim, stakes stood at regular intervals like the posts of a half-finished fence, each carved from stout oak and topped by bunches of eagle feathers and bright red banners. The banners snapped gaily in the wind, but there was only horror beneath them. Two of the stakes held Dalish and Akoah, tied hand and foot like pigs trussed for slaughter. A third held Stavan.
The nomads had stripped him down to his loincloth, painted sun designs on him, and gagged him so he couldn't cry out, but they'd left on his boots and draped a cloak of fox pelts around him so he wouldn't freeze. He must have put up a struggle because his left cheek was badly bruised, his lip was split, and his hair was matted with dried blood.
For a moment Marrah just stood there letting the horror of the sight sink in; then she started screaming. In the end, that was how they took her to her own stake, screaming and fighting them every step of the way.
"You can't kill him!" she shouted. "He's Zuhan's son! Let him go, you murdering scum! Let all of us go! This is Vlahan's work! Vlahan killed Zuhan! I'm speaking the truth! This is a plot; this is — "
They silenced her by
jamming a wad of wool in her mouth, but she went on struggling, bruising her wrists on the leather thongs as she fought to free herself even though she knew it was hopeless. To her right, Dalish was staring straight ahead, her face twisted with grief. She too wore a gag. They hadn't gagged Akoah, but then they hadn't needed to. The little sailor had fainted; in fact, if she hadn't been tied to her stake, she would already have fallen forward into the grave. As for Stavan, Marrah couldn't see much of his face, but the look he was giving her made her wild with hatred for the men who had tied him to the stake. She looked at the nomad warriors and drought she would die hating them, and the Goddess would understand and forgive her.
She was just imagining how much satisfaction their deaths would give her when she heard a high-pitched wailing and Changar appeared, leading nine women tied together at the necks like a string of horses. The diviner was an impressive sight, cloaked from head to foot in wolf pelts, his face dusted with ocher, his eyes outlined in white, his hands painted blood red. As he twitched the rope, urging the frightened women forward, he sang a fierce song about the beautiful death Zuhan's slave girls were about to die, and the warriors all answered in a chorus, banging the butts of their spears on the ground.
The singing and pounding seemed to terrify the poor women even more. Clutching at each other, they wept and begged for mercy, but no one paid any attention to them. The youngest was a Tcvali girl of about twelve, the oldest a Hansi woman well into middle age, but neither age nor beauty was going to save them and the crowd knew it.
Marrah felt sorry for them. They were all going to die, she and Dalish and Akoah and Stavan and the slaves, but to die without courage, to die trembling and screaming like a trapped rabbit, was particularly horrible. She wished she had some way of telling them that the Goddess was merciful and they wouldn't suffer long, but there was nothing she could do but stand by in silence and watch them go crazy with fear.