The Gates of Tagmeth (Chronicles of the Kencyrath Book 8)

by P. C. Hodgell

  Jame frowned, wondering why the girl was being so prickly. What she feared, of course, was that Must would use the occasion to press her demand for a place at Tagmeth. Pleading obviously didn’t suit her. As for this new note of defiant arrogance . . . For the first time, Jame wondered if the Caineron might have some Highborn blood.

  Sensing the tension between them, Gran Cyd gave the girl a warm smile. “I, too, thank you for saving the father of my baby. And when is your own babe due?”

  Must went white.

  Jame stared at her. “You’re pregnant? When did that happen?”

  Cyd spoke encouragingly, still not understanding. “Almost six months ago, was it not? By wearing such loose clothing, you make it hard to guess.”

  Jame felt her own face flush while Tirresian stirred uneasily in her arms. “If so, you were with child ever before I came north, and now you are here, intending to force my hand by any means available. When were you going to tell me? What is this, if not another attempt at blackmail?”

  Must looked ghastly. Unset as she was herself, Jame noted how thin the other’s face was in contrast to her bulky clothing.

  “I would never so demean myself nor offer such an insult to you. Accept your life at my hands as a gift. Good morning.”

  She departed stiffly, then, by the clatter of her boots on the stair, ran as soon as she was out of sight.

  Jame leaned back with a tired sigh. Tirresian was tapping at her face with minute fists. “Yes, yes, I know that that was wrong. Please stop hitting me.”

  “I do not understand,” said Gran Cyd, looking worried. “That young woman did you a great service. Is it not fitting to reward her?”

  “It’s not that simple.” Jame trapped Tirresian’s hands in her own, at which the child turned to glare up at her. “Kendar don’t even get pregnant without their lord’s permission. When a lord accepts a baby into his household, it has his protection and a place there for life. I can’t do that without my brother’s permission, and he probably already regrets giving me so much freedom in the first place. I hold Tagmeth at his pleasure. His displeasure can drive us all out and . . . and I think most of these people want to stay. It wasn’t so at first. They look to me, y’see, for their security. Can I risk that for one desperate girl who wants her own way, at whatever cost to others?”

  “Then it would not serve her either, to see you stripped of command.”

  “I know, I know, and so must she, but the need to belong drives her, all the more powerfully with a child on the way. The devil of it is that Kendar can’t control conception with Highborn. Whatever her latter plans, this wasn’t it in the beginning. Truly, I would help her if I could, and so many others as well.”

  Cyd regarded her with sympathy. “I see that many cords pull at your life, one way and the other. How can you behave as you ought, caught in such a weaver’s tangle?”

  Jame laughed, an unhappy bark that made Tirresian twitch. “It occurs to me that this is my form of honor’s paradox. I must obey my brother for the greater good, even when it forces me to act against my own instincts, perhaps even against my honor.”

  “Would he wish it so?”

  “Tori? Not if he knew. However, he is caught in his own snarl, and we don’t talk.”

  “Then you should. I tell you this, queen to queen: unless you do right by that girl, your efforts here are doomed.”

  Rue appeared at the door. “I was only gone a minute. Did that Caineron sneak up here?”

  “She isn’t a sneak, Rue. I invited her. And I shouldn’t have dismissed her with insults.”

  Rue snorted, as if to say There’s no accounting for tastes. “Well, here’s someone you will want to see.”

  Marc bent almost double to enter the room, the balding dome of his head first. He straightened, and his face lit up when he saw Tirresian. “Now, who is this little . . . lady?”

  “Here.” Jame rose, off balance as the bandage pulled at her side, and hastily gave him the child. “You decide.”

  The Kendar held his sudden charge gingerly, big hands almost engulfing it. “I haven’t cuddled one of these since Brier was a tot.” He turned Tirresian this way and that, too polite to probe. She giggled and reached out to seize his nose. “Oh-ho! Now there’s a strong grip!”

  Movement caused both Kencyr to turn their heads. Gran Cyd had dropped to one knee in a bow.

  “Cyd . . .” Jame said, uncomfortable.

  “I crave your pardon, Marcarn of Kithorn. My great-grandfather was one of those who slaughtered your family. All I can say in excuse is that it was unplanned and afterward deeply regretted.”

  Not least, Jame supposed, because Marc had come back to claim the blood price in full—a necessary thing but not to his liking. He had been slow to shed blood ever since.

  “Well, now.” He let Tirresian settle into the crook of his arm. “I haven’t rightly spoken to a Merikit since I was a boy, and then only to explain myself before I killed him. It was an unhappy time.” He drew a deep breath, as if pausing to consult with his slain ancestors. “Still, the price was paid. That should be the end of it.”

  “And will you let it be so?”

  Jame waited, her own breath baited. She still hadn’t asked him how he felt to be living so close to that old tragedy. As he said, a fulfilled blood price should lay to rest all debts, but he had lost so much and had continued to pay for it the rest of his life as a wandering yondri.

  “Ah well,” he said at last, bouncing Tirresian gently, to her crowing delight. “Let it go.”

  Cyd jumped up and stood on tip-toe to kiss him on both cheeks while he hastily juggled the child to prevent her from being crushed. He emerged from this embrace blushing furiously, and gave Cyd a bobbing salute.

  “Lady, you honor me.” Then, to Jame, “I came to ask what we should do about dinner, given that we have that monstrous great beast of yours to roast. Shall I also tell Rackny that the Merikit will be our guests?”

  “That would be a kind gesture,” Jame said, with a warm smile at him. Of course, she could count on her old friend to be generous. When he ever been anything else? “Gran Cyd, do you accept?”

  “With pleasure. That brings me to my original reason for playing this visit, other than to see how you fared. This is the equinox, and we are far from home. What say you that we celebrate it here, in your courtyard, before we dine?”

  Marc scratched his chin through his beard, looking dubious. “Truth be told, the garrison has been leery of letting Merikit into Tagmeth at all. They remember Kithorn too.”

  “But if you gave it your blessing?” asked Jame.

  “Well, then, I suppose they would agree. After all, if I don’t protest, why should they?”

  Cyd scooped Tirresian out of his arms and beamed up at him. “I knew coming here was a good idea, Chingetai’s hunt aside. Who knows: maybe the equinox and his role in it will satisfy him.”

  With that, she bustled off, Tirresian waving a tiny starfish of a hand over her shoulder.

  “Drat,” said Jame as her footsteps receded down the stair. “I never got a chance to explain about that wretched bull.”

  III

  BY NOW IT WAS AFTERNOON and most of the field-dressing was done. Their work completed, people began to stream back into Tagmeth, Kencyr and Merikit alike. The former looked a bit dubious as the latter took over the courtyard, but no one hindered them. The word, apparently, had gone out.

  Jame climbed up onto the tower’s flat roof and observed the preparations below through the parapet’s crenellations. Except for the kitchen staff, already hard at work, the garrison had retreated into the barracks and were also watching curiously through the windows that overlooked the courtyard, like spectators about to witness a play, which was partly true.

  First came the cleansing as brooms swished clean flags cleaner still. Then a square was painted on the stones with yackcarn blood, the keep’s well at its center. Tagmeth had no sockets for the ritual torches along the square’s sides, so the Merik
it used brackets already set in the surrounding circle of walls between the sealed arches. Jame wondered if that would expand sacred space, if they chose to invoke it. Here, before so many curious eyes, how authentic did they mean to be? The ceremony seemed adaptable, if only judging by the Merikit war maids beginning to fill the space between square and circle. Perhaps they had been allowed to turn their coats and become honorary men for this ritual usually reserved for a male audience.

  Boom-wah-wah! came the thunder of the drums.

  Some of the garrison made an instinctive grab for their weapons. On realizing that this wasn’t an attack, the rest laughed at them and craned out the windows to watch the approaching procession.

  Ching-ching-ching, rang the bells strapped to the shamans’ ankles.

  Tungit trotted into the courtyard wearing the feathered cape of the Falling Man. His was the southern corner of the square. A colleague followed him clad in silvery scales: The Eaten One, bound to the west. Next came Chingetai, naked except for tattoos, soot, and a good deal of hair, to the north. The last of the Four entered in her own clatter of hooves upon the pavement—Mother Ragga, the Earth Wife herself, wearing her doe-skin cape with its split skull crowning her own head and its feet tumbling at her heels. Everything beneath swayed and jiggled inside a voluminous dress. She waved to the audience as she passed, including the watching Kencyr at their window. Some of the latter hesitantly returned the gesture.

  Hatch followed in his red britches and vest, looking grim.

  Then came the four servants of the Four, wearing high leather caps a-flutter with black feathers and carrying long-handled forks.

  When all had entered the square, Chingetai raised his hands and everyone was quiet.

  “Hail, equinox!” he boomed.

  Around the walls, the torches ignited one by one with bursts of blue flame. Some hardly showed, but the afternoon sun had begun to decline and those in the growing shadow of the walls cast a faint, eerie light.

  “Balance bright day with long night,” roared Chingetai, waving his arms, shedding little clouds of soot. “Courage we crave to face the coming dark. Faith we have in the strength of our arms, in the favor of our gods. The harvest is done!”

  Above, Kencyr murmured. They couldn’t but remember that their own harvest hadn’t amounted to much.

  “Now the hunt begins! Days of daring deeds, nights of drunken song. Blood we crave, rich fat on the bone. Fire, bring us warmth and light. Air, carry to us the black swans of winter. Water, bring us your teeming young. Earth, yield your bountiful beasts. All hail the Earth’s Favorite, the Lord of the Hunt!”

  Boom-wah went the drums.

  Hatch stepped forth, holding a weighted net. The servants of air began to weave around him, flicking their spear points like beaks to draw him out. He cast his web but they dodged aside with jeering whistles. In passing, one slyly poked him in the butt. He whipped around and cast again. The net flew clean, spread, and wrapped itself about a bird-man, bringing him down. The others swarmed in, pecking Hatch with their forks. He caught one spear under his arm, turned, and threw its wielder into his mates, three of whom fell. The fourth staggered back to totter on the edge of the well which, unlike its equivalent at Kithorn, had no cover.

  “Our water supply,” said someone above, plaintively.

  Hatch jerked the man back to safety, and tripped over his flailing fork. All five of them ended up entangled on the ground, to laughter from outside the square.

  Hatch fought clear and rose, also laughing, his ill temper forgotten. The others likewise hastily sorted themselves out in a great scramble after hats and spears and dignity.

  Standing in the kitchen door, Marc began to clap.

  Hatch glanced at him, nodded, and picked up the rhythm with a skip and a kick.

  In a moment, they were all up, dancing.

  Clap, clap, clap . . . clap, clap, clap . . .

  Bird-men wove back and forth. Their spears clashed in patterns, tine to tine, while the net swirled over their heads. Back came Hatch through their midst, spin and jump, spin and jump. They retreated. He advanced. Flourished spears drove him back again. To and fro, to and fro.

  The upper windows took up the beat.

  Clap, clap, clap, stomp . . . clap, clap, clap, stomp . . .

  In his northern corner, Chingetai began to twitch. Jame leaned over the parapet, peering down. It seemed to her that she caught the hint of glowing threads where veins ran close to the surface of his skin. He might well be irritated that the rite was falling in farce. As for its deeper truth, it had never been clear to her whether the Merikit chief believed in the Four or not. She only knew that he couldn’t see them in their full truth. Ignorance, however, was no protection.

  Clap, clap, CLAP.

  As one, the bird-men fell down, leaving Hatch triumphant.

  Loud applause greeted this finale, below and above.

  A scramble followed: there was no backstage here. Off came the feathered hoods. Underneath were the upper halves of big fishes, hollowed out to fit as caps. It was the Eaten One’s turn.

  Hatch grabbed an abandoned fork and wove warily between the fish-men as they circled, going “Glub, glub, glub.” The hunter had unexpectedly become the hunted. Jame thought of Timmon’s half-brother Drie, who had joined the Eaten One as her chosen, but for how long? Hers was a carnivorous love, and he was only mortal. Were those pallid arms reaching out again, that eager mouth with its sharp teeth gaping for new prey?

  The courtyard began to fill with pale blue smoke as sacred space spread from wall to wall. From above, it was like staring down into hazy water. Those below tried unsuccessfully to wave it away from their faces and some began to cough.

  A cry rose from the sidelines. Chingetai had snatched Tirresian out of Gran Cyd’s arms and thrust the child into the square. There was a scuffle as others restrained the Merikit queen from following. The fish-men turned toward this new bait thrown into their midst. Their caps had slipped down to their shoulders so that they groped blindly forward with outstretched hands.

  “Glub,” said the gaping fish mouths that topped their heads. “Glub, glub.”

  After a startled cry, Tirresian remained silent, watching their stumbling approach with wide eyes. She, at least, could see only too well.

  Hatch dodged through the piscine ranks and scooped her up. Then he didn’t seem to know where to turn. Perhaps, from within the square, the outside had disappeared. He bumped into one of the Eaten One’s servants, who swiped at him with nails sharpened into spines, drawing blood. The others turned toward its scent. Hatch backed into the middle of the square, where he came up with a jolt against the wall that surrounded the well.

  The air seemed to breathe with a hoarse, smoky overtone: “The Eaten One’s mouth. Throw her in.”

  From far beneath the earth, in the depths of the well, came the resonant answer: “BLOOP.”

  Hatch tightened his grip, at which Tirresian whimpered but didn’t cry out. The fish-men groped toward them with webbed fingers.

  Something sailed through the air—a half-roasted bustard trailing a stream of its own juices—and plunged into the well. There was a disconcerting pause. Jame remembered, belatedly, that the actual water level lay below the subterranean stable, a drop of at least thirty feet.

  Splash. Gloop.

  The Eaten One, at least, had been fed.

  As if a cork had been drawn, the smoke spiraled down the well with a swoosh.

  On the far side of the square, at the kitchen door, Marc stood wiping greasy hands on his pants. Trust him to know what to do.

  The servants fumbled off their fish heads, panting, looking dazed. What did we almost do?

  Cyd rushed into the square to retrieve her baby from Hatch, casting a baleful glance at Chingetai as she passed. He also seemed dazed, as if to say, Whatever happened, it wasn’t my fault.

  Then it was his turn as the Burnt Man.

  Everyone else scrambled out of the square, except for Cyd, Hatch, and th
e Earth Wife, Tirresian having been entrusted to one of the war maids.

  Chingetai paced around the well swinging his arms and shaking his head as if to rouse himself from deep sleep. Jame noted, however, that these efforts only fanned his glowing blue veins to red. He made as if to grab Gran Cyd and embrace her. She held him off with a raised, warning finger.

  Three things we ask of fire, thought Jame: Light, warmth, and companionship. But woe to those over whom it seeks mastery.

  Cyd turned her back on Chingetai, and continued to turn as he circled her. His gestures spoke for him.

  Listen to me, said his big, eloquent hands. Be reasonable.

  He touched her shoulder. She spun to face him. They began to stride back and forth, back and forth, faces turned toward each other, glaring. Veins like threads of lava pulsed between the smattering of soot and tattoos down Chingetai’s heavy arms.

  A murmur of unease passed through the spectators.

  Mother Raga emerged from her corner. She flounced over to Hatch, waved a knobby finger in his face, and slapped him. He looked startled, then fell in with her performance to a nervous ripple of laughter from outside the square. As their principals paced, so did they, but stomping with exaggerated force, and with each turn they exchanged resounding blows, one two, one two.

  Jame was reminded of puppet shows she had seen in the streets of Kothifir and Tai-tastigon. Often they used exaggerated violence to ridicule their rulers, but in such a way that made their audiences laugh rather than look for stones to throw. More than one riot had been forestalled by a hasty display of puppetry, so that it was rumored King Krothen always kept a troupe ready to send out in case of domestic unrest. She wondered if it would work here.

  Chingetai and Cyd, at least, paid no attention to their mimics, nor to anything but each other. Their conflict resolved itself into a kind of angry dance, one trying to outdo the other. Cyd spun and swept her finger across the flagstones, drawing a line. Her housebond attempted to cross it but faltered, boot in midair. He drew his foot back and pawed the stones with it. Sparks flew.

  Not fair, thought Jame. He was drawing on the Burnt Man’s power, whereas Gran Cyd only had her own, considerable as it was. In doing so, however, he was opening himself to that elemental’s madness.