White Mare's Daughter

by Judith Tarr

  “Be quiet,” she said. And when the woman would not obey, she slapped that bone-white face.

  The cursing died to a hiss. Sarama shook her till that too stopped.

  “Rudira,” Taditi said. Her voice was flat.

  Sarama’s eyes widened a fraction. This was the woman who had so bewitched Agni, the woman who had betrayed him because she wanted to be a king’s wife?

  She had a certain beauty, Sarama supposed, if one’s taste ran to milk and water. For all that she had killed the Mother of Three Birds and wrought the gods knew what in consequence, she had no more power in her than is in a snake that slithers in the grass. Just like a snake, she had struck out of hiding.

  And the Mother was dead, with no warning, no foreseeing. Not even a premonition.

  Tilia had won free of Taditi’s grip, or been let go. She plucked Rudira out of Sarama’s hands, nor did Sarama try overly hard to keep her. If Tilia had killed her, Sarama would not have wept.

  But Tilia did no such thing. Clearly Rudira expected to die: she lifted her chin, bared her white throat. Tilia ignored her; set her aside, lifting her as easily as if she had been a child, and left her there, and knelt at the Mother’s side, half in the light, half in the darkness of the tent.

  Sarama held her breath. No new death fell out of the shadows. There were people inside: Sarama could hear them breathing. None of them moved to come out.

  Nor did Rudira move to kill the daughter as she had killed the mother. She stood rubbing the wrist that Sarama had gripped so hard, whimpering a little as if it pained her. Sarama did not doubt that it did, nor doubt at all that she whimpered as a clever child does, to melt its nurse’s cold heart.

  Sarama’s heart would never melt. Not for this one. She turned her back on Rudira, contemptuously, and braved the shadows.

  oOo

  It was only dark for a little while. Then it was dim, the dimness of a tent lit by lamps, odorous and close. Women’s world, Sarama used to think when she was younger; but it was no world that she had ever submitted to.

  Nor would she now. “Yama-diti,” she said, clear and cold. “Do you know what your son’s wife has done?”

  Yama’s mother remained where she had been sitting, illumined by a cluster of lamps that with a shock Sarama recognized. She had seen it in the Mother’s house in Larchwood, seen and marveled at it, for its branches were made of copper.

  She must not be distracted. She focused her mind and set herself to hear that Yama-diti would say.

  It was not so much, but it was enough. “She thought she defended us.”

  “So she did,” Sarama said. “Straight into the bitterest blood-feud of them all. That was the Mother of this city—the king of this country. The one you see out there, kneeling by her: that is her heir, who is now Mother. Who is wife to my brother. Who is king above the kings who are in this land.”

  Yama-diti heard her out in silence, in a stillness that made her think of Mothers; but Mothers were serene. This was not serenity.

  She was afraid, Sarama thought. That terrible old woman—all her haughtiness was fear.

  And yet fear could make a person deadly. Fear had killed the Mother, and might well kill the rest of them before this day was ended.

  Yama-diti spoke at last, in a dry cool voice. “So. It’s true. He’s alive.”

  “You hoped that he wouldn’t be?”

  Yama-diti shrugged slightly. “It would be convenient if he were dead. That’s his wife out there, is it? Wise of him to marry the king’s daughter. Does he know where she is now—she and the baby in her belly?”

  Sarama held herself still. Tilia had power enough in her to turn aside a curse, and certainly to keep her baby safe. And yet Sarama’s back prickled. Her hackles were up like a dog’s.

  “You lose an advantage in this country,” she said. “Nobody here doubts a woman’s ability to think. People will know who rules in this army.”

  “Then I won’t need to pretend, will I?”

  “Except to your son.”

  Yama-diti permitted herself a thin smile. “He serves his purpose.”

  “And when he no longer does? Will you kill him yourself, or have someone do it for you?”

  “I am sorry that my son’s wife was such a murderous fool,” Yama-diti said, “but I am not another.”

  “No,” said Sarama. “You think before you kill.”

  “So do you,” said Yama-diti.

  Sarama looked her full in the face. For a wonder, she returned the stare. Sarama said, “I will advise my brother to kill you.”

  “Why not do it now? I could commit any number of treacheries before I come to him. Or he may die in battle.”

  “Or both?” Sarama shook her head. “I don’t think so. He’ll win. And he’ll want to be the one to judge you. You harmed him first, long before you harmed any of us.”

  “You’re a fool,” said Yama-diti.

  “Maybe,” said Sarama.

  92

  Agni rode headlong into battle. It was not too great a distance, but far enough; and Mitani was fresh, and had exhausted his patience.

  Even amid the clamor of so great a battle, the thunder of that charge overwhelmed the rest. Agni howled as he rode, howled like a wolf.

  He did not care at all if he died. He cared that he should die well—and that he should take Yama with him.

  Poor wretch of a king Yama might be, but his men were loyal. They were Agni’s blood kin, his brothers, young men who had grown up with him in the tribe. But it was his tribe no longer, and they had turned their backs on him. They had cast him out.

  Bitterness drove him. It strengthened his spear-arm. It made his long knife the more deadly.

  Men fought him. He was barely aware of them, except that they stood between himself and his prey.

  Yama was in excellent flesh. The others had eaten well since they came to this country, but they had still the look of men who had lived too harsh for too long: a greyness to the skin, a haggardness in the face. But not Yama. He had never lacked for anything.

  An axe whirled in Agni’s face. He struck it aside with the butt of his spear.

  His arm rang with the blow and went briefly numb. He took no notice.

  He was wounded, maybe. There was a sensation like pain, somewhere far away. It did not matter.

  He broke through. His men, his yearbrother Patir, defended his back. He stood in a circle empty of aught but Yama. It was a surprisingly large circle, and the grass in it astonishingly green. It was only a little trampled.

  Yama regarded him without fear; with nothing more potent than exasperation. “By the gods,” he said testily, “you don’t even have the decency to be dead.”

  “What, you didn’t know I was alive?”

  Yama scowled. “There was supposed to be a king here. Not you.”

  “It was always said,” said Agni, “that I was born to be king. Even your mother couldn’t keep me from it.”

  “What does my mother have to—”

  “Oh come,” said Agni. “Don’t play the fool. We all know who tells you what to do and say and think.”

  “I decide what I will think,” Yama said with a haughty lift of the head.

  “After your mother has told you what it should be,” said Agni. He bared his teeth. It was not a smile. “Or is it someone else who rules you? Is it one of your sisters? A wife? Which of your women teaches you to play the king?”

  Yama growled in his throat. “My women stay safe in my tent. Where are yours, little brother? Or do you even have any?”

  “At least,” said Agni with poisonous sweetness, “I can get them for the asking. They come willingly, and stay willingly. I’ve never had need to force a one of them.”

  “And for that you were exiled,” Yama mocked him.

  “That was a lie,” Agni said. “And well you know it. It was you who raped that girl, wasn’t it? The oath she swore was the truth. She was forced by a prince of the White Horse. The rest was lies and distortions and misdirecti
on—but its core was true.”

  Yama laughed. He had no remorse, no more than Rahim had had. “So you guessed it, little brother. I’d not have thought you had it in you.”

  “I know your mother,” Agni said.

  “And my youngest wife,” said Yama. “You know her very well indeed. Don’t you?”

  Here on the field of battle, outcast and condemned, Agni could laugh aloud, freer than Yama had, and with more genuine mirth. But he sobered quickly, and tilted his head, and regarded his brother with half a frown.

  “You know,” he said, “I never did understand why you didn’t denounce me for that and have done. It would have finished me just as completely, and a great deal more simply.”

  “Oh, no,” Yama said. “That would have brought me down, too. This way I got my revenge, or as much as the tribes would allow. And you knew the real reason. Did it hurt, little brother? Did it burn your heart?”

  Agni did not dignify that with a response. All at once, and quite completely, he had had enough of chatter. It was time to end it—one way or the other.

  He freed his knife from its sheath. He dropped his spear. Madness, yes; but it was too long. He wanted to press in close, to feel the life ebb from that body. To know that this one of all his brothers, this one who had betrayed him most grievously, was dead.

  Yama suffered from no such yearning. He shortened his spear and stabbed.

  Agni just barely evaded it. Yama stabbed again. Agni ducked behind Mitani’s neck and sent him sidling away, slipping from his back when the stallion was apart and safe, and leaping upon Yama.

  They crashed to the ground together, Yama beneath, Agni atop. Yama lashed like a snake, flailing blindly.

  His fist caught Agni above the ear and nigh stunned him. But Agni’s weight was enough to hold him. Agni drove it downward. Yama grunted.

  He looked down at a face that he had known since he could remember. There was nothing familiar about it at all.

  This man had taken everything that he was, or allowed it to be taken. He was sweating, scarlet, but there was a pallor beneath. He was afraid.

  Agni was sweating, too. He had forgotten that he still wore the kingly coat that he had meant for defiance, and for a reminder.

  Yama heaved upward. Agni lurched and nearly fell. But he held on. Yama began to fight in earnest.

  It was an ugly, dusty, bruising fight. Yama dived for his knife. Agni hammered it out of his hand and kicked it far away.

  He scrambled for it. Agni lunged after him. They rolled on the bloodied earth, hammering at one another, pure blind animosity. It was years broad, years deep.

  Yama clawed at Agni’s eyes. Agni struck him half senseless. And hauled him up and held him, shaking him furiously till he stood on his feet: not steadily, not with dignity, but when Agni let him go, he did not fall.

  “Now fight!” Agni raged at him. “Fight like a king, damn you. Fight like a man!”

  Yama growled and lunged. He had a knife, smaller than the other, which had no doubt been hidden in his coat.

  Agni ducked aside. He felt it pass, so close it hissed in the leather of his coat; but it never touched skin.

  He groped at his belt. Sheath—no knife. His knife gleamed on the ground, close and yet impossibly far, with Yama between. Yama saw him empty-handed, and laughed, and taunted him—words that blew away on the wind of battle, but Agni saw the mockery in his face.

  Yama stabbed. Agni stumbled back. The blow to his head had struck harder than he knew. It slowed him. It made his mind wander.

  While Agni wavered, a shadow leaped out of the sun. It was small and very quick. It might not have been there at all, except that it had Agni’s knife in its hand.

  A name spoke itself in Agni’s mind. Mika. He had forgotten the child completely; had, if he thought at all, trusted Mika to stay out of the thick of the fight.

  Never trust a boychild who fancied himself a man. The thought was wry, edging toward appalled. Agni had no power to move, and no strength, either.

  Not so Yama. Yama laughed and batted the boy aside. It was an easy gesture, effortless, and utterly contemptuous.

  The soft snap that followed on it did not strike Agni at first with its meaning. But as he saw the body fall, saw how bonelessly it fell, he knew. He did not believe it, or want to believe it. But there was no mistaking it. Yama had broken the child’s neck.

  A great howl welled up, but it never escaped. Agni would not give Yama the satisfaction.

  His sight had cleared a little. Enough that he saw the knife glinting beside Mika’s body.

  The knife—he must have the knife. He danced clumsily aside as Yama leaped yet again.

  Yama was playing. Drawing out the kill. He was sure that he had it. Oh, indeed. Most certainly sure.

  Fool.

  Agni ducked, rolled, dived—missed. But his hand, groping desperately, felt the bite of a blade. He set his teeth and twitched it to him, found the hilt, came up in a graceless surge.

  He met Yama turning to strike the killing blow. Bore him back. Thrust deep—and, for Mika, twisted.

  Such surprise on that face. Such sudden lack of malice.

  Agni looked down. The hilt was in his hand, clapped close to Yama’s side. And no blade—no blade at all to see.

  Yama slipped out of Agni’s grasp. He dragged the knife down with him, sunk deep in his breast, piercing his heart.

  Agni stood swaying. This unsteadiness should be passing. Yet it seemed to be growing worse. He was not wounded. Was he? Just—tired. Yes.

  And there was Mika. Agni wanted to carry him into the city, but this was a battle, and he was deep in it. He laid the body out as comfortably as he might, and covered it with his coat, the coat that he had thought so splendid before he saw the weavings of the Lady’s country.

  It was still beautiful. It wrapped all of Mika, covered him well. It would keep him warm even in death.

  oOo

  With the broad blade of a broken spear, with both of Yama’s knives, Agni dug a grave for him. It was not deep, but deep enough. Nor was it large, nor need it be.

  Mika had always slept curled in a knot with his head pillowed on his hands. Agni laid him so, nestled in earth, and turf laid over him for a coverlet.

  “Sleep well,” Agni said to him. “Sleep in your Lady’s arms.”

  He staggered up. His face was wet. He was filthy, smeared with earth. He scrubbed it off as best he could, slipping in and out of clarity. Sometimes he saw very clearly. Sometimes he saw nothing at all.

  He was in the middle of a battle. He could not sleep now, or fall into a stupor. There was not even time to mourn for Mika.

  He found a spear somewhere—white horsetail hung from it, lifting in the wind. It was Yama’s spear. The royal spear. The spear that only the king could bear, that was the battle-standard of the White Horse people.

  It held Agni up. And there was Mitani, looking as if he had been waiting for a long time, and fretting unregarded: eyes fixed on him, ears up.

  His nostrils flared, fluttering with a soft inquiring sound. Agni was on his back, no memory of getting there, but Mitani was much steadier on his feet than Agni had been on his own.

  Agni lifted the spear, because he did not want to drag the horsetail in the dust. There was a strap on the saddle-fleece to hold the spearbutt in place. It slipped in easily, and the spear was suddenly much less unwieldy.

  Mitani had never had a spear hanging thus above his head before. He snorted and danced sidewise.

  Agni could not see very well and could not seem to think at all, but he could ride in his sleep. He took Mitani in hand.

  The stallion was unwontedly headstrong. He wanted to dance; to circle snorting, tossing his head.

  It was remarkably quiet. There was still clamor away somewhere, but not close in. And yet there were people. Many and many of them. Eyes staring at him: dark eyes and light, people of this country and men of the tribes. No one was fighting.

  A face swam toward him out of a dazzle o
f sunlight. Agni smiled in great relief. “Patir,” he said.

  “My lord,” said Patir, who only talked so when he wanted to be exasperating. But there was no lightness in his voice, or in his face, either.

  Agni peered at him. “Patir. Have we lost the battle?”

  Patir looked startled. “My lord! Don’t you—” He stopped, peered closer, and said in a tone much more like his own, “Agni, are you hurt?”

  Agni shrugged a little. “I’m dizzy. I keep wanting to fall asleep. It’s just a headache. We have lost, haven’t we?”

  “You are hurt,” Patir said.

  He came in close, calling out to others of the White Horse exiles, but Agni slapped them off. “Stop it! Get back to the fight. It’s still hours to sundown. We’ll win it yet.”

  “We have won it,” Patir said sharply. “Or you have. Who hit you? Yama? You hit him back, it seems. He’s dead.”

  “Mika’s dead,” Agni said. “He died. Yama killed him.”

  “And you killed Yama,” Patir said. “You killed the king.”

  Oh, Agni’s wits were slow indeed. He had only thought of killing Yama—of taking vengeance for Mika; ending the fight that had been between him and his brother since they were children. He had never stopped to think of what it meant.

  A king who killed a king won all that was in that king’s possession. Which, since it was Yama, was the whole of that army. All the tribes and clans. All the horses and the herds. The women, the children. The spoils that they had won. Everything.

  Agni had known this. He had hoped, prayed for it. But when it had come upon him, he had been too fuddled to notice.

  Agni’s head was clearing a little, with Patir’s eyes on him and the others crowding behind. The noise of battle had receded even further, as word traveled outward. People had only to look up to see Agni on his red stallion with the white horsetail floating over him.

  He looked out over a field of slaughter. Grass stained red with blood. Cries of the wounded, and keening of women over the dead.

  This was glory. This was kingship. Blood bought it. Blood paid for it.

  The gods of war were sated, and their servants the gore-crows thronged to the sacrifice.