by Kate Elliott
So what in the hells were two wildings doing here?
The male gestured with its hands, tale telling as vivid as speaking: a cloak flowed from its shoulders; folk hid their eyes; Shai did not hide his eyes; the cloaked one kills those who do not hide their eyes.
“Hu!” whispered Shai. “Did you follow me all that way? To get revenge? I didn’t betray them. I had no idea your friends were going to be attacked. Or that poor gods-touched girl would be murdered just for being veiled. Please help me get to a reeve hall. That’s all I ask—”
The male impatiently tapped its own chest, the female’s shoulder, and finally indicated Shai: Us. You. Together.
Far in the distance, a horn’s voice rose and faded.
Hurry.
24
THE NORTH IS a bitter world. Beyond the confines of the deep waters of the Elia Sea, a long spout of a bay connected to the northern ocean by a narrow strait, the coastline crawled north mey after dreary mey, violent ocean waves crashing at the base of rugged cliffs. In the pockets of shelter where safe anchorage might be found on a scrap of pebbled beach, fishing villages clung to the coast. Marit had never before seen houses in which folk nursed a hearth fire inside the same structure in which they slept, but the rock cottages breathed smoke as might any living body. Truly, it was as cold as the hells. She never stopped shivering. Who would want to live in this bleak landscape?
By the time she reached a wide oval peninsula the moon had blossomed to full and withered away. Here the land was rich in farm plots turned golden with harvest stubble. A pair of linked hills, steep enough to be called mountains, rose out of the peninsula’s central rise; at their peaks glinted twin altars whose view thereby spanned the coast, one facing north and one south. Was this “the Egg” described in the tales? She’d heard of the place but had never set foot here.
She landed in an isolated cove on the northern shore and released Warning. The craving for the altar’s elixir made Marit lick parched lips, but she resolutely took the last swig of musty souring wine and walked along the sandy shore looking for a fresh stream. Sea wrack littered the sand; a tree trunk had washed up many years ago and was now a haven to numerous tough plants. Pine wood grew beyond the high-water line.
“Heya! Honored Guardian!” A stout woman strode out of the wood, waving a length of cloth to catch her attention. “Greetings of the day!” The woman lifted both hands, palms open, to touch her forehead as a sign of respect before she extended her hands in welcome. She was smiling, her thoughts an unself-conscious tumult of astonishment, joy, and an old grievance over—Aui!—something to do with a pig. “I’m called Fothino. Please, walk with me to the village. We will be honored to host you for the assizes.”
Marit sensed no danger. Of course, she’d sensed no danger on the day she’d been murdered. And yet she could not bear to live forever in suspicion of humankind.
“You honor me, verea.”
The woman’s smile brightened. “If you will be waiting just one breath so we may gather our things . . .” She walked briskly back into the trees and shouted in a strong voice. “Ridarya! Malilhit!”
Marit followed cautiously. The woman had two adolescent daughters who prettily offered the same formal greeting. Like their mother, they wore not taloos but long jackets of rough hemp thread closed with a sash and apron and, beneath all, a length of cloth wrapped to cover the legs.
“Finish you up quick now,” scolded their mother.
They promptly set to whispering as they finished scraping resin into a barrel.
“She doesn’t look different than anyone else.”
“How could any ordinary person capture and ride a winged horse?”
The pine trees were being tapped, streaks of pale raw resin running down the wounded bark over a tin lip and into pots. The woman gathered up her cutting tools, wrapped them in burlap, and slung them over her back. “Girls! Run you ahead and tell the village of our good fortune. Let there be a proper greeting.”
The girls raced away, barefoot despite the cold weather. Marit accompanied Fothino at a more sedate pace on a path winding through the woods.
“It seems peaceful here,” Marit said.
“Eiya! Peaceful is as peaceful does. We’re a quiet place far from anywhere else, I grant you. But folk will quarrel and bicker. Me no less than anyone, I tell you honestly, Guardian.” The words she spoke were recognizable but accented, making her a bit difficult to understand. “I sent my good son all the way to Rulla Village just last year to live with his young wife’s family just because he and me, we quarreled so much after my good husband’s spirit departed through the gate. Girls are easier to raise, neh?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neh, forgive me if I’ve asked what I should not.”
“Ask me anything you wish.”
“Well, then, I will so. With your permission.”
“You have it.”
“According to the records kept in Sapanasu’s temple, a Guardian invokes an assizes every seven years. Yet we’ve seen no Guardian for ever so many years, not since my mother was a child. Folk they pretty much thought we’d never see a Guardian ever again.”
“That wasn’t precisely a question. How far back do the records of your Lantern’s temple go?”
“I wouldn’t know, me being apprenticed to the Witherer in my time. But my lad, the older boy, the one who died, he was a Lantern clerk for three years. He one time told me the records in the temple went back to the very first day folk built the temple here. So it surely is very very old.”
“Very old, indeed. I’m sorry to hear of your misfortune, losing the child.”
Her stride continued unchecked. “He was a good peaceful boy. But I’m fortunate, even so. I’ve birthed nine children and only lost three, and two of those before their first moon’s turning. So really, the gods have blessed me, nay?”
They passed a row of squat charcoal kilns built of earth and stone, empty and cold. Goats chewed at brambles grown around the brick. “There was a dispute over the ownership of these kilns,” added Fothino, sliding so smoothly into this new subject that it seemed of equal importance to the death of her children, and in the life of the village, no doubt it was.
“Was it resolved?”
“Nay. Now we buy from Mussa Village, so it costs us more. It would be good if we could get these kilns running, but no one wants to open the dispute. There was a killing done over it.”
“A killing!”
“A man died up on Curling Beach who was one of them arguing over kiln rights. Maybe he drowned, or maybe he was hexed, or maybe he was stealing from the trade offering left for the merlings—that’s what I think he was doing, for he was a sneaking sort of man. That was four years back. Those two clans involved barely speak to each other to this day.”
“A trade offering left for the merlings?” Marit had heard of this ancient custom in tales. “Do you folk still make such offerings?”
“Don’t all folk do so? How can the proper balance be held, if the trade offerings aren’t made to the other children of the Mothers? We share with each other, just as it says in the tales.”
The woods gave way to sheep pasture and orchard. “How often do you see outsiders?”
“Outsiders? Like outlanders? A fishing boat or two, every year, from up north-away. They are very ugly people, skin like a white-fish’s underbelly and—although I admit it is difficult to believe—some have red hair.”
“Red hair?”
“Like flames.”
Marit shook her head, unable to envision red hair. “What of folk from the Hundred?”
“There’s a regular trader what comes in from High Point off Little Amartya once a year. Sometimes fisherfolk bide over here in a storm.”
“You’re well cut off.”
“Are we? From what?”
They approached on a path through neat garden strips, the sturdy long houses rising beyond. The whole village had turned out, frail elders, wriggling little ones, restl
ess youth, and stolid mature women and men. Singing and gesturing in a talking line, they chanted the familiar closing scene from the tale of the Silk Slippers in which the innocent girl is welcomed at long last to her home.
come in, come in, we welcome you with garlands
come in, come in, at long last you return
food and wine we will bring you
sit with us, for we have been waiting
come in, come in
A girl child and boy child were urged forward with a bucket of water and juniper soap so she could wash face and hands. A second pair offered a ladle of fresh water to rinse her mouth. A third presented her with a garland of aromatic maile. The porch of the most prosperous family in the village—they were proud to tell her they were blacksmiths who worked metal for most of the peninsula—had been hastily garlanded with kuka nut and myrtle wreaths. A low eating table and pillow had been set out where she sat. An elderly man ceremonially wiped out a drinking bowl of fine white ceramic, small enough to cup in her hand, a piece of exceptional beauty in such an isolated village. A woman carried in a vessel of heated rice wine, and some rice cakes arranged on a wooden platter. A different woman, head shaved in the manner of the Lantern’s clerks, murmured over these offerings a blessing so ancient Marit had never heard it outside of tales: Let the breath of the Mothers enter. Let the breath of the Mothers invest all things. Had she walked into the past, through an unseen gate? The master blacksmith himself knelt humbly and poured out the wine. He stepped back.
“Let me not sit alone,” Marit said.
Aui! Everyone crowded forward; the frail elders were brought up onto the porch and helped to sit on frayed pillows brought by children racing away to other houses to fetch extra; children and youth hunkered down in a crouch, arms hooked over knees; the others stood or sat or crouched according to their wish. But she must drink and eat alone, regardless, their gazes intent on her in a way startling to her after all this time with folk avoiding her gaze. She was careful to look no person straight in the eye, and yet their fascination did not overwhelm her. Not that they were innocent; far from it! But they did not fear her. It was fear that made the intimacy of the exchange so invasive and horrible.
Their silence lasted as long as the rice cakes.
“Honored Guardian,” said the clerk, “we have sent runners to the other villages. Do you wish to visit each village separately, or meet at some central place? If I could recommend the Lantern’s temple in Mulla—”
“Nay,” objected the blacksmith, “the Devourer’s temple is more appropriate.”
“Only because your cousin is hieros there,” said the clerk.
“Begging your pardon, honored Guardian,” said Fothino. “What is your wish?”
“I have to go,” said Marit, surprised by their assumption that she had come on purpose to preside over an assizes. Yet why not? They knew no other story here, where they saw one trading vessel every year and, perhaps, a few flame-headed barbarians. Here came a Guardian, so naturally she would preside over an assizes.
“I have to go,” she continued, “in another day. Best call for the assizes tomorrow at a location folk can easily walk or ride to.”
“Begging your pardon, Guardian,” said Fothino, “but the folk from Rulla Village will take an entire day to walk even to Hasibal’s stone. Can you not preside for two days at the assizes?”
They watched so expectantly and with so much hope.
A company from Wedrewe must march overland to the port of Dast Elia before sailing up the length of the Elia Sea and along a coast known for its rocky dangers and intemperate seas.
“Two days.” She could say nothing else.
LONG INTO THE night the villagers chanted and danced, and golden mead and an amber ale with the essence of pears flowed as freely as if it were festival time.
WARNING RETURNED TO her at dawn, an event that silenced the merrymaking. Leading the horse, she walked with the entire village singing and clapping in procession along a path that wound inland through woodland. Before midday, they arrived in a meadow partway up the slope of the northern peak. In this vale of the Formless One dwelt an ancient stone sacred to Hasibal; flowers had been left as offerings on its flat water-pocked surface: a pair of fresh wreaths, withering bouquets, a desiccated necklace of blooms almost ground to dust.
She knew nothing about the rituals attendant on a Guardian assizes, but here the priests could recite the forms from memory. According to the gathered priests, the Guardian’s seating place must face south in the morning and north in the afternoon; those who came to watch must stand at a distance; those who brought their cases must enter in groups and wait their turn at specific stations according to the nature of their complaint and whether they were accuser or accused. For the aged, pillows to sit on under shade; for young people come in from distant villages who could expect to meet and mingle with other young folk, a discreetly blind eye turned to the usual activities of youth. A makeshift market sprang up under the shadow of the wood.
No offerings of any kind were allowed, to avoid the appearance of bribery, and every village was expected to contribute food and drink in proportion to the number of people attending from that village. Folk must eat! For herself, she sipped at juice and ale, nibbled at flat bread, white pears, and a fish stewed with barley and some spices for which she had no name.
A pig had broken into a garden one too many times, destroying several crops of tubers, and the gardener had finally in a rage killed it and eaten it. The owner wanted damages paid; the gardener blamed the owner for not penning the pig properly after multiple warnings and demanded damages equal to her loss of crops. Five years had passed in which the dispute curdled on like a sour taste.
“What would content you?” In the face of her piercing gaze they agreed it was foolish not to have settled the matter much sooner: a piglet delivered to the owner in recompense for the lost meat; a stout pen built by the owner to avoid another incident, together with two baskets of pears, fifty tey of barley, and a bundle of sourwort leaves in exchange for the produce lost.
The placement of boundary stones must be reconsidered. Accusations of theft years old, suspicion still festering. Two bolts of good dyed linen cloth filched a mere ten days ago. Inheritance squabbles were the worst; she knew that already from her years as a reeve. One group dragged on its self-serving arguments for so long she lost her temper and let them know in detail the scope of their manifold faults. How they then scrambled to seek a grudging solution, having lost face so nakedly before the entire assembly!
Night came on, and torches were lit, and still they came, patiently waiting their turn, more folk straggling in from distant villages to set up awnings as they accepted a place in line. Yet she did not tire. The pleas and arguments, even at their worst, were like nourishment.
A man was accused of hexing a fatal illness onto a woman’s three children; he had become outcast and yet he was innocent of the deed.
“There’s an old feud here,” Marit said as torches crackled, “that you are all covering up. I want the truth.”
The truth can be ugly. It was at last revealed that the woman knew who had poisoned her children: her husband had done it himself, because he knew that another man had fathered two of them and he did not want the shame and dishonor revealed as they grew into their adult faces. But his clan was powerful and wealthy—by local standards—and she was afraid to accuse him and yet must accuse someone—a man of no wealth and no connections—lest she herself be condemned.
“I wish I was dead with my little ones,” she sobbed.
So on through the night, so many grievances smoldering over the years and decades that folk did want, no matter the cost, to bring into the light. Marit wondered if the truth would ever be known about the man dead in the surf at Curling Beach. Maybe he was best left dead, his dying a mystery. Is this one of the truths that Guardians must learn? That the truth does not always bring closure?
Yet folk will go on with life, as a new day will
dawn.
“But I don’t want to marry him!” exclaimed the young woman, a strapping, beautiful creature with such an immense weight of self-satisfaction that it was like swallowing honey laced with garlic. “I want to marry his brother.”
“His brother does not want to marry you,” observed Marit, who did not even need to call for the brother’s testimony. He was a handsome lad, one she would have liked to have tumbled when she was younger, but his embarrassment was apparent. “He was a kalos at the temple, not a suitor. He slept with you in the courtyard of the Devourer.”
“Yes! Oh! Yes!” She gazed adoringly at the hapless youth. He looked away, helplessly, toward his disgusted family.
“Lust does not make a marriage.” Yet she thought of Joss as she spoke the words. Had it been only lust she’d nurtured for Joss? They had spoken of bearing a child together. That was cursed serious, especially for reeves who served the gods and the Hundred; they didn’t expect a normal life. “Daughter, you think too well of yourself. Refuse to marry the young man offered to you and have your clan look elsewhere. That is your right. But do not pretend that the worship shared in the Devourer’s temple is meant to be carried outside the temple walls. The gods recognize that we are human in our greed and our lust and our joy and our striving, in the ways in which we fight and hate and nurture and love, in the ways we tend our fields with hard work or steal that which belongs to others when we know it is wrong. The laws of the Hundred allow us to live in harmony when otherwise all around us might fall into chaos and conflict. Marriage is for the clan. Desire belongs in the Merciless One’s precincts, not in the village street.”
The young woman burst into flamboyant sobbing, aware of how fetching she looked in her misery. Her doting friends led her away.
“Make the marriage, or do not,” said Marit to the clans. “But I advise you to make your decision quickly. Seal the agreement, or make a clean break and go your ways without blame. This is a small matter. Don’t let it fester until it becomes a big one.”