Andre Norton & Susan Shwartz

by Imperial Lady

  The drumming grew louder, pulsing sluggishly as the rhythms in her blood pulsed.

  “Willow?” Silver Snow called. She knew that she ought to be shocked at how feeble her voice sounded. “Willow?” This time she had more breath behind the call, but it was so plaintive! That was right; if her husband had spent any part of the night with her, Willow would have taken herself elsewhere. Silver Snow was quite alone, except for that treacherous . . . no, the drumming was not treacherous; why had she ever thought so?

  It was soothing, pulsing now as her heart beat, allaying the alarm with which she had waked. If she lay back, perhaps its gentle rhythm would ease her back to sleep: this time a healing, true sleep free of Willow’s noisome herbs.

  But no, the drum cadence picked up, filling Silver Snow with a febrile energy that, somehow, she sensed came from outside herself. She rose, pulling garments loosely about her in the closeness of the tent, and went outside.

  It was the dark of the moon. Faint and far distant, as if it lay across the desert, she could see the shan-yu's great tent glowing from the fires that burnt within. The drumbeat picked up once again, inciting Silver Snow to walk. Perhaps she should go there, she thought. Yes, that would be best. Vughturoi would see that she was ill, would summon Sable and Willow to tend her and remain with her—or he would remain with her himself.

  So convinced was she that she was hastening, padding on bare feet, toward her husband and his warriors that she was not fully aware that her path led in a different direction altogether—toward the dark bulk of the shaman’s tent, from which the drumming came. She gasped as its flap opened, though by no human hand that she could perceive in the darkness, and tried to stop.

  Within sat Strong Tongue, stroking her spirit drum by the fire, bending over it with the same concentration that Silver Snow had always brought to her lute. Her head down, a smile of satisfaction glowing red in the light of the small brazier at her feet, the elder woman did not see her prey approach.

  No! Silver Snow cried silently. But the same compulsion that forced her to walk toward Strong Tongue’s tent, up to that entrance that gaped and glowed in the firelight, had seized her tongue.

  Cold washed over her. If Strong Tongue had indeed summoned her for her sorceries, Silver Snow could very easily die tonight; and who would know? She might have waked alone, abandoned by her faithful women, and—hard as it was to believe—staggered from her tent in search of succor, to be found by Strong Tongue. Who knows? The shaman might even pin the blame for her death upon Willow, who had sought only to gjye Silver Snow privacy. Let her return to her mistress from Sable’s tent (or from a night roving free in the deep grasses), and she would face charges of the blackest sorcery.

  She owed Willow better than that, poor Willow who had served her all her life, whose cheerfulness had taught her strength in adversity, and whose quiet mourning after the death of Basich had shown her more of dignity than all of the eunuchs in the Son of Heaven’s court. If she had learned to love from anyone, it was from Willow.

  As if aware that her victim was hesitating, Strong Tongue stepped up the beat on her spirit drum. It grew harder and harder to resist. Just let it happen, thought Silver Snow. She remembered how, that night at a riverside camp before she had ever set foot on the grasslands, Jade Butterfly was lured toward the river, how passively she seemed to consent to her own destruction. Strong Tongue would do anything to protect her son, even risk her own life.

  I too have a son to protect, thought Silver Snow. The thought swept over her like a torrent of cold water, and she found herself able to swerve one step, then two in the clutter outside the shaman’s tent. Ten more steps, though, and she would be inside. Nine . . . eight . . . sudden pain lanced up Silver Snow’s bare foot. The pain broke the spell that had forced her to obey Strong Tongue’s summons. With a presence of mind that she had only been able to summon once or twice in her life, she bit her lip against a gasp of pain, and turned her stumble into an opportunity to snatch up whatever it was she had trodden on.

  She held an arrow, its head curiously fashioned, its fletch-ing bearing the mark characteristic of Tadiqan. Even as she stared at it, the night wind rose, drawing a faint whistling from the arrow’s head. So, it was one of the terrible whistling arrows which, when Tadiqan fired, served as a signal for his loyal warriors to loose their own arrows at his chosen target— which could very well be her or her husband or any other enemy that Tadiqan might choose to kill, if he thought himself powerful enough to do so.

  He had been quiescent for too long, he and Strong Tongue. Silver Snow knew that she had been right to regret leaving the two of them alive. She would tell Vughturoi . . .

  “Come here, girl.”

  Strong Tongue stood at the opening of her tent, drum under one arm, silver and bone cup outheld in her free hand. Whatever it held steamed slightly, and Silver Snow no more wished to drink it than she wished to enter that tent.

  She had no strength to waste on words, on defiance, or on anything but flight. She whirled to flee, but she felt herself moving so slowly. Warmth trickled from her wounded foot. Had that arrow been poisoned as well as bespelled?

  “Come, girl.” Again the command. Strong Tongue advanced, as arrogant in her power, which was strong now at the dark of the moon, as Silver Snow had ever seen her. “Tadiqan will arrive before dawn. Though I cannot understand why he wants you, he may as well have his pleasure of you before I make an end. Come in and await him.”

  I too have a son's interests to protect! The thought fired Silver Snow’s blood, gave her the strength to stand her ground just a moment longer while her foot bled into the dust. But it was hopeless, she began to fear. Blood had strength; Strong Tongue would know how to use the blood she shed to call her back.

  A large fox ... a vixen . . . snarled and leapt at the shaman, who staggered back, then recovered in time to kick it strongly. It yelped in pain, and its yelp echoed across the camp. Yet once again it charged Strong Tongue, and this time it was not alone. Two other, larger, foxes joined it in harrying the shaman. The vixen broke its hold on her booted ankle long enough to bark sharply.

  Silver Snow did not need to see Willow in her human guise to know that the fox’s barks had to mean, “Run, Elder Sister.” Grabbing up her skirts, she fled from Strong Tongue’s tent, whether toward her own or to the great tent did not matter.

  Abruptly she blundered into the solid bulk of someone walking rapidly, and she screamed.

  * “You, lady! I left you sleeping,” Vughturoi accused. “And yet, here you wander ...”

  Bright light shocked her and she stiffened in his grip as the light neared her. Vughturoi squinted to make out its bearer, but as the torch dipped with each step, Silver Snow sighed with relief. It was Willow, limping across the trail of bloody footprints that Silver Snow had left, scattering something with her free hand. Her limp was so painful, so pronounced, that Strong Tongue’s kick must surely have left her with broken ribs.

  “Blood has power,” Willow muttered to herself. “I must prevent Strong Tongue from using that power against my sister.”

  “Get away from her, witch!” snarled Vughturoi. His face twisted in the sudden, inexplicable fury that made the Hsiung-nu feared wherever they rode. He thrust Silver Snow behind him and drew his knife on her maid.

  = 21 =

  Appalled by Vughturoi’s rage and the gravity of the charge, Willow recoiled. Her lame leg gave out, and she staggered. Heedless of the pain of her gashed foot, Silver Snow flung herself from behind her husband to catch Willow before she fell: mistress and maid clung together, a tiny island of Ch’in in a sea of grass, eyes wide with shock, pain, and fear.

  Vughturoi leaned forward and seized the torch from Willow before it fell from her weakened grasp; there had been no rain for many days, and all of the Hsiung-nu feared fire on the grassland. The flame cast a demon’s mask of light and shadow on his harsh features, making him appear doubly fearsome.

  What was the punishment for sorcery? One thing t
he Hsiung-nu had in common with those of Ch’in: a hatred of magic used for their despite. And another: both people had developed highly inventive and painful methods of punishment.

  Eyes wild, Willow stared at Silver Snow. Then, even as the maid leaned upon her, she shook her head slightly, as if enjoining silence upon her.

  What manner of woman are you, Silver Snow? she demanded of herself. For all these years, Willow has guarded you, tended you, loved you; and will you abandon her because your new lord calls her a witch?

  Had she boasted to herself just that noon that she had found happiness? What good was it if it came at the price of betraying an old and dear companion’s trust?

  “You accuse the wrong woman, husband” Silver Snow’s voice was as sharp as the arrow on which she had stepped. “Bring charges of sorcery against Strong Tongue, if you dare. She is the one who bespelled me when I was weak and ill.”

  “I drugged you,” Willow said faintly.

  “You gave me herbs to make me sleep—and not for the first time,” Silver Snow waved that objection aside. Fury as hot as her husband’s flooded her, burning away the cold of her earlier ensorcellment. Even the pain in her foot seemed to have receded. “You are blind, my husband, blind to nourish vipers in your camp yet threaten my oldest friend!”

  “Do you deny that she has powers denied to ordinary men or women?”

  She had only to say “yes” and be safe, a gentle, cherished creature too innocent to sense the presence of magic in her own household. Yet, she had been asked to repudiate Willow before, and had never done so—and she remembered her father, surrendering to this man’s father to preserve the lives of his soldiers.

  Her father’s surrender had been right and proper; hers would be the blackest treason.

  “Nothing Willow does is a secret to me,” she snapped. “Who aided me with that foolish girl at the riverbank? And who do you think helped us—us, husband—fight the white tiger? I tell you, if you send her away, if you punish her, you must also punish me, the mother of your only heir.”

  Because Vughturoi had claimed to despise the silent, passive obedience of Han ladies, Silver Snow had shown spirit before. Still, what was that but a form of obedience, of doing his will? For the first time, she sought to oppose him to uphold . . . not my will, but what is right, she thought firmly. This, not cringing and manipulative trickery, was the obedience and service that wife owed husband, or subject owed ruler: to uphold what was right even in the face of anger in order to protect the best interests of the one who must be served.

  “Test me,” cried Willow. “Test me to the death. I shall die vowing that I have done nothing, ever, in all my years of service to harm my elder sister!” Her voice was thick with tears and anger, and she spoke directly to the shan-yu as might a shaman or a prisoner who had nothing to lose.

  Vughturoi watched his angry lady as she eased Willow to the ground, as grateful for its support as her maid. She hated herself for the way the hot, ready tears ran down her face, though these were tears of rage, not of weakness.

  “Lady,” he spoke softly, but in that moment, his voice was that of the shan-yu, not the indulgent lord, “your word is your bond and an honor to our tents, but I must have proof before I move against a shaman and a prince.”

  “Then take this!” Silver Snow demanded, and thrust the whistling arrow at Vughturoi. “Look at this arrow and tell me that my Willow keeps such for her bow—or that she uses a bow at all!”

  “She need not,” Vughturoi said. “Not when she is mistress of herbs, spells, yes, and shape-change too.”

  He gestured both women to rise. Unsteadily, they obeyed. “Hold this,” he ordered Willow, and thrust the torch back at her.

  Silver Snow gasped, warmth flowing back into her hands and feet, despite a loss of blood that was turning her giddy.

  “One of those vile whistling arrows that Tadiqan has trained his men to obey, like beasts to a command,” Vughturoi muttered. “Lady, where got you this?”

  “I stepped on it,” Silver Snow told him. “Outside Strong Tongue’s tent as she stood watching. The pain broke the demon’s hold that she had on me, and I could flee.”

  The night sky and the tents were tilting slightly. She put out a hand and found it enfolded in a familiar grip.

  “Then that is the only time that such an arrow has done me service.” Again, Silver Snow felt herself falling.

  “You cannot even stand!” Vughturoi’s voice trailed away into words that Silver Snow was certain must be curses.

  “You,” he ordered Willow. “Take my little queen back to her tent and tend her well. Check that wound for poison!” Already he was turning to go back to the great tent, his stride long and decisive for a man who had spent most of his life in the saddle. “Yes, and there is this, too. Know that I accused you wrongly and that I will make it up to you.”

  Silver Snow looked up into Willow’s face, which mirrored her own amazement. With just those few words, Vughturoi had accused, tried, and acquitted the maid, and now he thought to make amends. She bit her lip against laughter and saw Willow shake her head. Not for the first time, however, the maid was quicker than she herself.

  “Favorite of heaven!” she cried at the shan-yu's retreating back.

  Vughturoi spun round, surprised at the tone of command in Willow’s voice. She held up the torch to illumine the blood-splotched path of Silver Snow’s flight.

  “Most noble shan-yu. ” Now that Willow had his attention, she spoke in a less imperious voice. “As the most sacred under heaven doubtless knows, blood holds great power; and that is the blood of your lady and the mother of your son. Grant that I protect her against . . . someone using that power to her despite.”

  Vughturoi nodded. “Sable!” he called the name of his minor wife, then shouted for his warriors.

  “When Sable comes,” he told Silver Snow, “let her take you back. You have done enough for tonight. And you—” he spoke directly, “work what magics you deem fit.”

  “What will you do?” Silver Snow called after him.

  Vughturoi shook his head. “What I should have done before, but I feared to shatter the unity of the clan. Now I realize that that unity was simply paint on ... on wood that has rotted,” he sought after and found an image from his days in Ch’ang-an. “Thus, now I shall bring fire to it—if I can. Give me your good wishes, lady, and I shall be the stronger.”

  Again, the remnant of the courtly speech that he had learned in the Middle Kingdom.

  “You have always had that.” Silver Snow smiled at him. “As well you know.”

  Willow held up a free hand, gestured in a sign of blessing that Silver Snow had never seen. To her surprise, Vughturoi nodded thanks. “Shaman,” he said, according her Strong Tongue’s title.

  Willow’s magics known now, she did not abase herself before the shan-yu any more than Strong Tongue had ordinarily done in the days of her favor. Days which, apparently, were to be ended at this very moment.

  Vughturoi glanced down at his hand, which still held Tadiqan’s arrow. With an exclamation of loathing, he flung it from him.

  Silver Snow shook her head, then regretted both the gesture and her lord’s rashness. “Fetch me that,” she asked Willow in a voice that was growing hoarse and feeble now. “He may need it for proof. I shall keep it safely hidden among my own arrows.”

  She shut her eyes wearily and opened them only as Sable cried out in dismay and knelt at her side. All around them now were angry men, stamping and muttering in response to Vughturoi’s words. Some held torches, which gleamed on their weapons and their harness in the darkness and streamed out almost horizontally after the men who ran toward their horses or those who hastened toward Strong Tongue’s dwelling. From time to time, flickers shed light on the bronze hair and stooped back of Willow as she bent to scoop earth over Silver Snow’s bloodstained footprints.

  Then Sable was easing her onto her feet and back toward her own tent. Weakened by loss of blood and her own passions, Sil
ver Snow let her awareness drift. How strange, she thought, to find oneself in the midst of what anyone in the Middle Kingdom would have called savages, to know oneself the woman of the chief among them, and to feel more safe and more alive than she had ever hoped to feel.

  “I must write to . . she murmured.

  “Elder Sister?” Sable asked, easing Silver Snow down onto the furs of her bedding. “This will hurt,” she warned, pouring wine upon Silver Snow’s slashed foot.

  It was the worst pain that she had ever felt in her life, but she bit her lips against it. Childbirth, when it came, would be worse; and she must not disgrace herself and her husband.

  “Sleep now,” Sable urged her after she bandaged the cleansed wound.

  Silver Snow shook her head. “I am queen,” she said. “He will need me with him. Help me up and robe me as a queen.”

  The warriors were shouting outside. Silver Snow could feel the beat of many hoofs as horsemen left camp. She nodded. Had she been the ruler, she would have sent her most trusted officers to apprehend Tadiqan.

  When Sable offered her a choice of robes, she waved both away. “Before I dress, fetch me silk, brush, and ink,” she told her. “No, I am not feverish, but I have thought of a way to help our lord, a way that he himself would not lower himself to take. And find me a man who will bear a message to the garrison.”

  Lowering himself was what a Hsiung-nu might call it, but Silver Snow, before she did aught else, would write to the garrison commander whose father had served her own and beg him to send troops out on patrol. If they looked like allies massing against rebellious Hsiung-nu, so much the better. Vughturoi would never ask for help where he had meant to bestow it, but she was determined, all the same, that he should benefit from it.