by David Hair
‘Wouldn’t know, Thom – I’ve not your experience of buggery,’ he called back, earning a general laugh and then clasping the old warrior to him to show it was all in jest. ‘Didn’t feel it, Thom – I’m a Corani, with snow for skin and ice for blood.’
They liked that, too. He made a point of circulating, making sure he shook every hand, then took the senior men into a private room and broke out the brandy. The toasts were for their ears only. ‘You know I would give my life for the Corani,’ he told them. ‘You know that the North comes first: that will never change. But five years in the Rimoni Wars down South taught me many things, chief of those being that Southern men are not to be trusted, not with your back, nor with your gold, nor with your woman. Rimoni . . . Silacian . . . Estellan . . . they’re all scum.’
They knew exactly who he meant.
‘Our queen has my loyalty, but she hasn’t married well,’ Takwyth told his commanders. ‘It’s not disloyal to hate the half-Estellan fornicator who seduced her. It’s not a betrayal of her, to bring Endarion down.’
*
Somewhere in Rondelmar
Maicin 935
‘Cora?’ Cordan Sacrecour whispered through the crack beneath the door. ‘Cora?’
No one answered. He pressed his face to the floor and tried not to cry again. The plastered stone room had nothing but a bed-pallet and a piss-pot, a water jug, a pile of books and a lute. Hours of raging and shouting had drawn no response and food was delivered only when he genuinely slept. He had no idea how many days had passed. He’d had to wash using the water jug, and smashing it elicited nothing but a fresh ewer next time he slept.
But the next time he woke, he wasn’t alone: a man robed in black wearing a Lantric mask was sitting in a chair beside the door. It was Jest, the prankster, and Cordan was almost sure it was the same man who’d ‘rescued’ them from the Bastion.
‘Greetings, my Prince,’ the man said, his voice muffled. ‘We must talk.’
Cordan scrabbled upright, rubbing his eyes, ashamed at his disarray – and angry, because this man had caused it. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded.
‘Only what is best for you, my Prince.’
‘Then why are you locking me up? Where’s Cora? If you’ve hurt her, I’ll . . .’ His voice trailed off as he tried to imagine what he would actually do. Something hideous.
‘Prince Cordan, I assure that this is entirely necessary. Lyra Vereinen has every resource of the Crown seeking you. We can’t take chances, my Prince; not until the day comes when you may ride openly into Pallas.’
‘Is Cora safe?’
‘Of course, and she sends her love. She understands, and is willing to endure these privations.’ Jest’s dark eyes glinted through the mask. ‘Believe me, the best thing you can do now is read, practise your music and pray. When the time comes, you’ll need to be rested and ready.’
‘When?’
‘It’s best you don’t know. There’s much to be done, but it’ll be soon, I promise.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Again, best you don’t know. For now, be assured that all that is being done is with your interests at heart. You will be emperor, Cordan. By the end of Junesse, you will be crowned.’
24
Sacred Union
Goddess of Love and Madness
Mater Lune is the Sollan Goddess of the Moon; in their mythology she is part of many thematically linked notions: love, insanity, fertility, poetry and music; the tides, of course, and the seasons. Whilst the goddess is clearly a myth, these entwined themes are highly instructive.
ORDO COSTRUO ARCANUM
Western Sydian Plans, Yuros
Maicin 935
The call of a Godsinger rose at dawn, wailing out across the valley in Eastern Sydia where Clan Vlpa was encamped, protecting their herds during the foaling season. There was an air of uncertainty that an outsider like Kyrik could sense: foaling usually happened well north of their current camp, in valleys where the snows had retreated and the lush spring growth could support the new stock until they were strong enough to continue the migration north.
But this year, the Vlpa were in new territory at the mouth of the Bunavian Gap, too close to where the Rondians patrolled, on arid plains where the grasses grew tougher and shorter. They couldn’t stay here more than a few months, and if they tried to go north, they’d find the trails eaten out.
They’re committed, in other words, Kyrik reflected, as he sipped from his water-flask. It’s Mollachia or perish. He looked about him, soaking up the daily routines of the huge camp. Riders still herded and hunted and worked the livestock. The women milked the cattle, washed the clothing, tended the fires and prepared the meals. Children ran naked through the tents, playing vast, endless chasing games, or stood just staring at him, the only white man most had ever seen. The young men practised archery and fought; the girls squabbled and giggled. And amidst all that, preparations were being made for a trek, and for a very particular marriage, one that touched them all. Tonight, Kyrik thought, a little unsteadily, everything changes . . .
He was sitting at the mouth of his tent amidst dozens of fox pelts: Vlpa tradition was for a groom to gift his bride a fox-fur coat. Hunting the pelts was supposed to be time the groom spent with his closest male kin, getting advice on entering the tribe fully as a married man. But Kyrik had no kin here, so he’d hunted alone, using the gnosis as much as the bow: at least she’d have plenty of pelts.
Then the alien wail of the Amteh Godsinger rose again over the sea of tents and he was again reminded of all that was in flux. Drawn by the thought of hearing Paruq speak for what might be the last time, he went to listen. The morning was changeable, light cloud scudding across the skies, driven by a fresh northeasterly. Some four dozen converts were gathering beside a small river where they’d built a little dom-al’Ahm from wood and hide daubed white. The carefully chosen lesson that morning was of forgiveness and tolerance of differences.
He waited until Paruq had dismissed the gathering, then greeted him.
‘Sal’Ahm, friend Kyrik! How are you this auspicious morning?’
‘It’s “auspicious”, is it?’ Kyrik grinned, knowing Paruq had nothing but disdain for auspices and omens.
‘Well, in truth, I haven’t consulted the stars, but the sunrise was pretty.’ Paruq clapped Kyrik on the shoulder. ‘What brings you here?’
‘A few final words, if you have the time. I need advice . . . or at least to know you don’t think I’ve gone insane.’
‘You know I’ve always tried to reserve judgement on that point.’
Kyrik chuckled. ‘This migration is madness, eh? What was I thinking? Once his marriage to Hajya had been agreed, he and Thraan had worked out a plan. As soon as possible, five thousand riders would depart with Kyrik, the most that could be spared and still keep the tribe secure. The rest of the tribe – twenty-five thousand souls, plus their herds – would follow as swiftly as they could.
‘And even should we defeat the Rondians – which I must believe we can, despite all logic – then I still have to get the clan settled in Mollachia without antagonising the whole of my people,’ Kyrik concluded. Another thought occurred to him. ‘What are you going to do, Paruq? Will you stay with the Vlpa and come to Mollachia?’
Although having his friend join the migration appealed, he knew there would be no welcome for a Godspeaker in Mollachia. But Paruq shook his head. ‘My mandate is to seek converts on the Sydian plains. When Clan Vlpa leave this region, I won’t be joining them. I’m sure it’s for the best.’
Kyrik exhaled, a little relieved. ‘Paruq, I have a question. Do you know what happened to Valdyr in the breeding-houses? He’s clearly traumatised – I mean, it was bad for all of us, but . . . well, you know what I mean.’
Paruq looked troubled. ‘The breeding-houses are an abomination, and he was very young. But I’m not aware of him being singled out. He did have a special tutor—’
‘Who?’
Paruq frowned. ‘Asiv Faridd
an, a man I’ve not met. People say he was very clever – one of the few Hadishah with a gift for scholarship. A half-blood, born in Gatioch. Very senior in the breeding-houses, I understand.’
‘Is it possible he abused Valdyr?’
Paruq’s face tightened in anguish. ‘I couldn’t say – and nor could I refute it.’
‘Dear Kore, if that’s what happened, I’ll kill this Asiv Fariddan, I swear—’
Paruq placed a hand on Kyrik’s forearm. ‘Peace, my friend. This is all supposition. There may be other explanations for your brother’s inner pain. I’ll make enquiries.’
‘Thank you – but please, be discreet. I can’t let it get out that such a thing happened to Valdyr – it would destroy him. I wish I could reach him, but he’s always hiding inside himself—’
‘That would be consistent with abuse,’ Paruq admitted, ‘but there are many forms of abuse. The breeding-houses were dreadful, but they’re a fact of life, I fear.’
‘I am forever grateful that you took me away from that,’ Kyrik said. ‘Though I do wonder if I will someday meet a half-Keshi who calls me “Father”.’
Paruq smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps one day you will.’
*
Kyrik’s wedding day passed in ritual. The shaman, Missef, clearly resented the union, but he nonetheless led the group of young acolytes in undressing Kyrik and painting him in red swirling symbols with stylised fox-heads at the centre. The shaman’s pavilion was smoky with some kind of drug that left his head spinning. His hair was caked in a buttery jelly and spiked into a strange crest and he was hung with necklaces of bones, all the while prayers were chanted over him. The Stallion God, Amazar, unsurprisingly associated with male virility and hunting, was invoked constantly. The words blurred and the dreamlike unreality grew as the hours drifted by, until finally he was draped in a full-length cloak of furs and led outside.
When he emerged from the hide tent, the cacophony stunned him, as did the sea of faces. He hadn’t realised, secluded in Missef’s pavilion, that all through the afternoon a festival atmosphere had been building. Everyone who had a musical instrument was blowing or hitting or strumming it, and everyone else was caterwauling at the top of their lungs. The noise was like a physical blow that staggered him, sweeping away all his complacency. Then he was hoisted aloft and carried, lying on his back, through a sea of people. This was suddenly very real, and he felt utterly unprepared.
Ahm be with me, he thought, but his God felt a very long way away.
Tribesmen wearing animal skins and masks poured out of the crowd, seized him and bore him aloft towards a central bonfire whose heat permeated the camp. Luna, rising in the East as the sun fled, was full and very bright. The rhythmic, pounding chanting enveloped him and he felt like he was adrift in a sea of half-naked men, many wearing animal masks, especially of the fox. But when they carried him to the fire, a great conflagration radiating intense heat, he saw a sea of woman on the far side, similarly masked, many naked to the waist, dancing and stamping their feet. Everyone seemed to inhabit some middle place between the kingdoms of man and animal, where base needs and desires ruled. He realised that this wasn’t an ordinary marriage, which Paruq had told him was normally a small, dignified affair: this was ceremony and ritual, the union of a king – the Sun-Father’s avatar – and a Sfera-mage, a Daughter of the Moon. It was at once uncharted territory and rich with tradition: Missef had spent all week creating the rituals to be performed tonight.
Kyrik had no idea what was going to happen.
The masses of bared flesh, the masks and the fires all boded ill, in his view. It was disturbingly pagan: heat, virility, fertility, blood, and all the time the sheer power of the drums vibrated through him, loosening his joints and making his legs quiver. As the men lowered him to his feet facing the fire, he felt utterly drained already, and realised he was shivering with apprehension.
Missef was waiting in a fox-mask and cloak and nothing else, but Kyrik barely noticed him, because on the far side of the fire, a group of woman had just borne someone in on their shoulders, someone lying flat as if they were a corpse, draped entirely in a white cloth – the colour of death in Eastern cultures, but meaning purity in the West. It’d been freshly speckled in animal blood. When they set her down, she planted her feet firmly and raised her hands skywards.
They’d told him to mirror her movements, so he did the same. The drums hammered and she spun left and so did he, keeping the fire between them. He remembered her dance the first time he’d come to the camp, the challenge she’d laid down and the contempt she’d exuded when he’d refused that challenge. This time he accepted, mimicking her movements as best he could, rolling his hips as she did, gyrating from the hips and the shoulders, though imperfectly, always a step behind. He saw her eyes catch the firelight as she stared at him across the flames.
This time he was dancing.
Reel her in, he’d been told, bring her to the shaman, so now he over-stepped with each movement, each time coming a little closer, until the fire only partly obscured her and he could see flashes of her muscular calves and arms. But she was drawing it out, letting him get a little closer, then swaying away – until he suddenly threw in a kinesis leap, making the watchers roar in wonder, and though she did the same, suddenly she was within reach and he grasped her shoulder . . .
. . . just as she spun back into his grasp, as if she’d been intending to be caught all along, and unexpectedly he was staring into her face, just inches away. Hajya was breathing heavily, her breath meaty and hot, but not unpleasant. She too was sweating from the heat of the flames, perspiration running into her thick brows, heat flushing her leathery cheeks. The moon tattoos of her Sfera rank had been renewed and gleamed black; her hair was a black cloud tumbling down her back, a stark contrast to the blood-dappled white cloak; her deep brown eyes stared intensely into his own blue eyes. She was naked beneath her cloak, just as he was naked beneath his.
‘Well?’ he panted, his voice low, ‘what now?’
‘Thrice around the fire, side by side, but not touching, then we kneel to the shaman,’ she told him. ‘There, he will offer me to you.’
Kyrik licked his dry lips. ‘And then?’
‘You take me . . . or not.’ She looked him in the eye.
He felt his back stiffen. ‘Will this involve one of your ceremonial mating rituals that everyone tells me no longer happen here?’
‘What do you think?’ She gestured regally. ‘Walk with me.’
So he did, watching her out of the corner of his eye as he fell into slow step with her, thinking that she wasn’t beautiful, but she was striking, compelling, impossible to ignore. Right now, he didn’t feel like her equal at all.
‘Will he also offer me to you?’ he asked as they moved in time to the slow boom of the drums and the rhythmic clapping of the endless sea of onlookers.
‘Of course not. A wife is just a possession. You and your “equality”,’ she sneered.
‘We will be equals,’ he vowed. ‘You’ll see. And for the record, I’m no keener than you about this – but it must be done.’
‘Well you’re going to have get keen, aren’t you?’ She laughed. ‘I hope you Western magi know how to fake an erection, hmm?’
For the thousandth time he wondered what he was getting himself into. But he managed to match her stride as they walked around the fire, then suddenly the three circles had gone in a flash and they were standing before Missef. Kyrik inhaled deeply, trying to find his equilibrium. He’d always known that when he married, it would be a family alliance to help secure the kingdom. He’d just never imagined it might be to a Sfera witch . . .
Just be grateful and thankful, he told himself. The fight to free Mollachia begins here.
The ceremony felt brief, as if all were impatient to see it done, but he suspected that was because his mind was wandering ahead, failing to hold onto the now in anticipating the next moment. In no time at all their hands were being ritually tied together and ble
ssings spoke over them. Red paste was daubed on their foreheads and Amazar entreated to fill his loins. The Stallion God’s female counterpart, Ponya, was invoked as well, and Hajya’s cheeks were painted with mare’s blood. A ring was placed on the third finger of her left hand: a concession to Rondian customs.
‘You are given leave to become one,’ Missef told them, before turning to Hajya.
‘Do you accept this man?’ he asked.
Her chin lifted. ‘I accept him.’ Her voice was truculent.
‘And you?’ Missef asked, his tone distant, almost bitter as he addressed Kyrik.
He swallowed. ‘I accept.’
The crowd broke their silence to whoop and ululate, a deafening shriek that went on and on as they were led before the bonfire and shown to the clan. If this had been a purely Sydian high-ceremony wedding, he would now lower her to the earth and plough her. But – Thank Kore! – he’d negotiated a compromise and instead, they made their way to a specially constructed marital tent, her steady, intimidating gaze locked on him as they walked slowly and carefully, their hands still tied together – and every few steps, someone would stop one or the other and force liquor into their mouths that burned his throat and heated his belly.
Then the tent flap was being opened for them and they were inside, and alone. Outside, huge cheers resounded and the hammering of the drums, still so alien to him, struck up again. In Mollachia, as in Rondelmar, music was slow, stately and elegant among the rich, jaunty and melodic in the low taverns. In the East it was all unnatural tones, complex rules and strange techniques. This was more primal, more dangerous. It pounded in time with his heart, faster and faster.
Then the flap was pulled aside behind him and a gaggle of beast-masked young women spilled into the tent. He jabbed an angry finger at them: ‘Out!’
‘No, they stay,’ Hajya snapped. ‘There must be witnesses.’
‘The agreement was that we would have privacy!’ He took a step towards the girls and they all tilted their masked heads upwards, defiant and unmoving. ‘Are they your daughters or something?’ he asked in exasperation.