Meir inhaled long and loudly through his nose. “Was it trying to speak to you? Was it telling you to go to Albann Bràghad?”
Voada pressed her lips together, then finally nodded. She picked up the knife again and began scraping at the straw once more. “Yes. I think so. Did … did the Voice realize that?”
“The Voice doesn’t seem to remember doing anything at all. Voice-wife Dilara, though …” His voice trailed off.
“You don’t have to tell me. If her stare could have poisoned me, I’d be dead already. What did she say?”
Fermac had settled around Meir’s feet, lying with his muzzle on top of Meir’s sandals. Meir took another long breath, sitting up in the chair. His pale eyes, pouched with grayish skin underneath, found Voada’s own as she paused, scutching knife in hand, woody scraps on her dress and piled on the ground beneath the stand.
“Dilara said very little, actually. Mostly she was complaining about how much the botched ceremony had cost them, having to throw the coins to distract the crowd. She was angry with Maki …” He stopped at the impoliteness of using the Voice’s common name here in public, where one of the servants might overhear, and corrected himself. “I mean Voice Kadir for not being able to remember what happened or explain to her what he was saying or who he was saying it to. But …”
“… she knows who he was looking at when he spoke,” Voada finished for him. She set down the wooden knife on the arm of her chair harder than she intended. It clattered loudly, and they both looked at it. Fermac lifted his head and dropped it down again.
Meir’s lips tightened. “Yes.” Then, after a moment: “Do you know why the ghost was telling you this?”
Voada shook her head mutely. That seemed to mollify him. She didn’t tell him what she was thinking: He said I belong in Albann Bràghad; in the north is where the free clans still roam. It must have to do with our people there, with the Cateni the Mundoa haven’t yet conquered …
“I think,” Meir continued, “that you should stay away from the temple for a few days. There’s no sense in reminding either the Voice or the Voice-wife about this day when the gossip around the town will do that all too well.”
“And the ghost?”
“No one else can see it,” he answered. “So as far as they’re concerned, it’s not there.”
Orla saw it. But again she didn’t mention that to Meir. “This hasn’t put you in danger, has it?” Voada asked him. “Would Maki—Voice Kadir—name someone else as Hand because of this?”
“I don’t know, but I doubt it. He’d have to make a report about the incident to the Great-Voice in Trusa, and that would reflect badly on him. He might find himself replaced too. As for replacing me, well …” Voada saw Meir glance around the courtyard again to make sure no one was within earshot, but he lowered his voice anyway. “Voice Kadir’s reputation—and especially the Voice-wife’s—might make it difficult for him to find another good Hand from the Cateni community. I think we’re safe enough as long as none of this gets back to the ear of the Great-Voice.” Meir bestirred himself, disturbing Fermac as he rose from the chair and kissed the top of Voada’s head. “I need to rest.”
“Then go inside and lie down,” she told him. “I have to finish this, and then I’ll come in. Tell the house servants not to let the children disturb you.”
“Come on, then, Fermac,” Meir said, patting his thigh. Voada watched Meir and the dog shuffle toward the portico and enter the shadows of the house. Picking up the scutching knife, she attacked the flax straw once more as vigorously as if she were cutting away this day from her memory.
3
Faring at the Market
TWO DAYS LATER WAS MARKET DAY.
The market square of Pencraig was near the river, where crops could be brought in either by flatboat or along the Yarrow Road that roughly followed the river’s course. The stalls were mostly temporary: open-sided tents or rudely erected shelters with sagging wooden planks set on logs serving as tables for the produce.
For Voada, market days were always busy, noisy, and full of wondrous scents. Vendors called out their wares and bargained loudly with customers over their prices; neighbors chatted and gossiped as they walked the square. Freshly slaughtered chickens, ducks, and geese hung by their legs; the smell of roasting meat, freshly baked breads, and exotic spices wafted through the air; the nearby taverns were kept busy providing ale and wine. Bolts of brightly dyed woolen and linen fabrics burdened the tables of a cloth merchant next to a stall featuring painted and carved wooden toys and utensils.
Market Day. It was as much a regular social gathering as a time for shopping.
Voada had sent the kitchen staff down to purchase what they needed. She and Meir often came to market themselves just to stroll the narrow lanes between the stands, talk to their neighbors, and see if there was anything unusual being offered. Theirs had been a slow walk down Pencraig Bluff with Orla and Hakan in the wake of the kitchen staff and Una. Meir was obviously still not feeling well but had insisted on accompanying Voada despite her protestations that he should stay home. Even now, as they strolled down the lanes, Voada could see sweat beading along his hairline despite the fact that the day was cool and the sun hidden. She kept her arm linked with his, not for companionship but because she could sometimes feel him lean his weight on her.
“We don’t need to be here, my love,” she whispered to him as they stopped at one stall to look at their display of tic beans and vetch. “You should be resting at home. You should take a carriage back up the hill.”
Meir only smiled at the farmer’s wife, who was watching them from the other side of their stall. “It’s market day. The people should see their Hand,” he answered Voada softly. “Look, there’s the Voice and Voice-wife.” He nodded down the crowded lane, where Voada could see Kadir and Dilara conversing near a stand for leather goods, dressed in bright Mundoan finery as if the Great-Voice might pay a surprise visit. Meir started toward them; Voada had little choice but to follow him.
It had been two days since the ceremony for Emperor Pashtuk. Voada had heard nothing from either the Voice or Voice-wife, but she had caught the whispers of the servants and the people she passed in the village. Everyone was talking about the Voice’s strange words and behavior at the temple, and some had noticed that his attention seemed to have been on Voada. Some even intimated, cautiously and with much circumspection, that despite the odd message he’d spoken, the Voice had been addressing Voada because he and the Hand-wife were lovers.
No one mentioned the ghost, the taibhse. No one had seen what she had seen, what her daughter had also seen. That, at least, was some small comfort.
“Voice Kadir,” Meir said loudly. He waved to the couple as both Kadir and Dilara glanced their way, then said quietly to Voada, “No sense in trying to avoid them.” He smiled and, putting his arm around Voada, began walking toward the two, threading their way through the people between them. Voada tried to match Meir’s nonchalance and his smile, feeling that she failed at both.
Voice Kadir returned Meir’s smile, if somewhat tentatively. Dilara’s mouth remained set in a tight-lipped frown. “Hand, Hand-wife,” Kadir said as they approached. The tanner, who had come to their side of the booth to talk to the Voice as he admired one of the man’s hides, slid away discreetly, busying himself in the back of the booth and rearranging the piles of finished hides on the table there. “It’s a fine day for the market, I think. How have you been feeling, Hand Meir? Still suffering from lack-breath?”
“I’m afraid that’s always with me anymore, Voice. It’s the burden the gods have given me to bear.”
Kadir frowned. “Let me send you my archiater. She can mix a potion from her herbs that would help, I’m certain. She did wonders for Dilara when she was having trouble with headaches last year, didn’t she, dearest? I’ll have her come to see you this evening.”
“That’s very kind of you, Voice Kadir.”
Voada was silent during the exchange, trying to k
eep the smile on her face and nodding at the Voice’s offer. She tried not to meet Dilara’s gaze, pretending instead to examine the tanner’s wares, though she could feel the woman’s dark stare on her. The sour scent of imperfectly cured hides hung around them; Voada thought it a fitting accompaniment.
“Think nothing of it,” Kadir continued. “Why, just yesterday the archiater gave me a potion so that I wouldn’t have another of those, well, episodes.” He placed a finger against his long nose. “You know what I mean. She believes I inhaled a passing evil vapor in the temple, which now can no longer touch me.”
Voada shivered at the words, so close to the actual truth.
“I believe you suffered from a deliberate curse, my husband,” Dilara interjected. “An evil spell that some jealous enemy cast on you.”
That brought Voada’s head around, and she found Dilara’s gaze directly on her. The Voice-wife’s fingers were stroking the long golden links around her neck, set with small jewels that flashed in the sun. The woman’s kohl-enhanced eyebrows were raised, daring Voada to contradict her.
“Who would wish to harm our esteemed Voice or his reputation?” Voada asked Dilara as sweetly as possible.
“Indeed, that’s the question,” Dilara answered quickly. Her head tilted slightly. “One of those mad northern sihirki perhaps. Why, weren’t your family once sihirki, Hand-wife?”
The words dripped sweet venom. Voada smiled as if she didn’t notice. “They were, Voice-wife. Though they called themselves draoi; ‘sihirki’ is a Mundoan word. But that was in my great-grandmother’s time and before.”
Dilara gave a laugh through her nose. “You would know, I suppose. Still, you have to admit that there are Cateni who consider us to be nothing more than invaders, even when we’ve brought all the gifts of the Empire to Bhreatain and brought you—” She stopped and smiled without showing teeth. “I mean ‘them,’ of course. Brought them out of the dirt in which they wallowed.”
“I’m sure most Cateni below the River Meadham are grateful for what the Mundoa have done for us,” Meir told her before Voada could form an answer. “Anyway, I’m certain that the emperor’s soldiers will soon subdue the tribes beyond the river so they may enjoy the same gifts.”
“Let us pray for that outcome,” Kadir agreed. He glanced at the tanner watching them from the other side of his stall. “Well, we’re blocking this poor man’s customers from getting to him. Hand Paorach, care to walk with us down toward the fishmongers?”
“I’m afraid we’ve already been, Voice Kadir,” Meir told him. “We were walking the other way.”
“Ah.” Kadir shrugged and took Dilara’s arm. “Then enjoy the rest of your day. We should talk soon, Hand. The Great-Voice has sent me a message suggesting that we raise the tribute here given the continued unrest in the north, and I’d like to discuss how we can accomplish that.”
“Certainly, Voice Kadir. Enjoy the market day, and I won’t forget your kindness with your archiater. Voice, Voice-wife.” Meir gently tapped his chest in salute to Kadir and bowed his head to Dilara; Voada gave a quick courtesy to the two as they moved into the throngs between the stalls, the shoppers shifting aside to give them room.
“You lied,” Voada said quietly to Meir.
“I did. Did you mind?”
“Not at all. Come, I smell bread baking, and it’s making me hungry. And there’s a silversmith near the edge of the market whose work you should see.”
Voada took Meir’s hand. They moved up the hill, pursuing the scent of bread.
“I’ve bought some fresh-baked bread, new cheese, and ripe apples from the market,” Voada said to Orla. Una and the children had returned to the house from the market well before Voada and Meir. “There’s wine from the mainland as well.” She set the tray down near the chair where Orla was sitting. She noticed Orla staring at her neck.
“That’s pretty,” Orla said.
“This?” Voada lifted the silver pendant on a necklace of leather: a single silver oak leaf wrought in miniature. “Your father bought this for me today from the silversmith. Do you like it?” Orla nodded, and Voada laughed. “Good,” she said, and handed Orla a small linen pouch that was sitting next to the plate of cheese on the tray. “This is for you. Go on, open it.”
Orla stared at the pouch for a moment, then unknotted the string at the top and poured the contents into her palm. A string of soft leather, capped at the ends with a silver hook and eye, pooled around an oak leaf identical to Voada’s own. “Oh, Mother …” she breathed.
“You’re old enough to have such things now,” Voada told her. “Here, I’ll help you put it on.” She took the leather from Orla’s hand and let the pendant slide heavily to the middle of the necklace. She stepped behind her daughter, putting the hook through the eye, then came around in front of her again as Orla stroked the pendant with a forefinger. She nodded in satisfaction. “It looks beautiful on you.”
“Thank you.”
“You should thank your father when you see him. It was his idea, too.”
“Did you get something for Hakan? He’ll feel left out.”
Voada smiled. She crouched down in front of Orla’s chair and tucked an errant strand of Orla’s sun-golden hair back behind her ear. “It’s good of you to think of your brother. Your father bought him a wooden sword and shield, just like the soldiers carry.”
That caused Orla to sigh. “And he’ll be attacking me with them.”
“If he does, take one of your father’s walking staffs and remind him why the Cateni prefer the reach of a spear to a short sword.”
Orla grinned at the comment, still stroking the silver leaf at her throat, but the smile dissolved and the corners of her mouth tightened. “Father looks so tired lately, and he spends a lot of time lying down.”
“It’s the lack-breath, dear one,” Voada told her. “It’s just bothering him more lately. Don’t worry. Why, Voice Kadir said that he’d send his archiater to your father, and she’ll brew up a potion for him.”
“Good,” Orla said. She lifted the pendant so she could see it. “I love this. Thank you again.”
“It’s to remind you of your heritage,” Voada told her. “You can see the ghosts, as I do and as your ancestors did.”
“Does Father see them also? I know Hakan can’t; he wouldn’t have been able to keep quiet about it in the temple if he could.”
“No,” Voada told her. “Your father knows that I see them, but he can’t see them himself.”
Orla nodded slowly, as if thinking that over. “Una says that the draoi can cast spells. She said she’s seen them do it.”
“That’s what Una is telling you, is it?” Orla nodded again, and Voada resolved to talk to Una about filling the children’s heads with tales.
“Can you cast spells too, Mother?” Before Voada could answer, there was a knock at the courtyard door, and Voada saw Una hurrying to answer it.
“We can talk about this later,” Voada said to Orla. “I think the archiater might be here.”
She was. Una returned to the courtyard escorting an old woman, who bowed her head as she approached Voada. “Hand-wife, this is the Voice’s archiater, Boann.” Boann lingered behind Una in the shadow of a trellis. Voada could see rheumy, wrinkle-snared, pale eyes regarding her from under the hood of a plain mud-brown bog dress. A long scarf in red and blue plaid was knotted around the archiater’s neck. A well-worn leather bag was draped over one stooped shoulder, and as Boann stepped forward into what was left of the sunlight in the courtyard, Voada saw a long-fingered and thin hand atop the gnarled head of a crude wooden staff. The archiater moved slowly, deliberately, and there was a scent hanging around the woman: must, ash, and herbs. As she passed Una, the servant bowed to Voada again and left, shaking her head.
Boann made no courtesy toward Voada; she only stared, one eyebrow lifted higher than the other.
“Archiater,” Voada said, “it was good of you to come.”
The woman sniffed. “Voice Kadir gave m
e little choice.” Her gaze traveled from Voada’s head to her feet; she leaned forward, her nose wrinkling as if she were sniffing the air around Voada. “You’re Cateni. Could the Hand not find a Mundoan woman willing to accept him as husband?”
Voada heard Orla, behind her, give a breathy gasp at the comment. Boann heard it too, and a low chuckle emerged from deep in her throat. “Oh, come now, silly girl,” Boann said to Orla. “That’s just the way things are in our world, and you should get used to it. A Cateni as high up as the Hand might have managed to marry the disposable third or fourth daughter of a Mundoan noble. Now you … A Cateni woman can never marry a highborn Mundoan man—the best you could hope for is a soldier who’s willing because there are so few Mundoan women to choose from, and you’re at least comely enough.”
“Archiater Boann,” Voada began warningly, “I don’t think—”
“You don’t have to think,” Boann snapped, interrupting her. “All you have to do is know. As I know that you’re draoi, even if you’ve never been properly taught. I can smell it on you, and on your daughter as well.” Boann tapped the end of her walking stick on stone flags of the courtyard into Voada’s silence. “Where’s my patient?” The archiater grunted. “My feet hurt.”
“Why don’t you fix your feet, then?” Orla asked. Voada turned her head to see Orla giving the old woman a defiant stare, her fingers scissoring over the silver oak leaf on its leather thong. Boann gave her a gap-toothed grin.
“There are some things can’t be fixed,” she answered. “Like our being Cateni, and you being draoi. Now, where’s the Hand?”
“I’ll take you in,” Voada told her. “Orla, find Una and tell her to go ahead and serve you and your brother supper in the south room. Go on now.” Orla gave Boann a last glare and walked away into the house. “We’ll go this way, Archiater,” Voada said, leading her toward the northern wing.
Voada (and the dog, Fermac) watched Boann’s slow, silent examination: dangling a hawk’s feather tied to a leather thong over Meir’s mouth as he breathed; pushing on his stomach as he exhaled; having him spit into her hand, then smearing the sputum across her palm with a claw-like forefinger while she peered at it. She wiped the mess uncaringly on the hip of her bog dress.
A Fading Sun Page 3