Shifting Plains

by Jean Johnson

  A nervous luxury, because she still didn’t quite trust these Shifterai men. But even after she got out and dried herself with the toweling cloth, they left her alone, though she could hear sounds of the others settling down for the night. Not only inside the house, but outside as well.

  A cautious shift of the sheet draped over one of the shuttered windows gave her enough of a glimpse through the cracks to see at least three members of the warband shifting into the shapes of strong, muscular stripe-cats, the tigers of their Family name. They settled down on the trampled grass next to the little piles of their clothes, pectoral necklaces, and belongings, stationing themselves at regular intervals within her awkward field of view.

  Cats. Of course. The ideal animal to nap and rest, yet remain distinctly alert to anything unusual. Including my own attempt to escape, even if they’re one and all facing outward, wary of an external threat.

  Lowering the makeshift curtain back into place, Tava retired reluctantly to her bed. It looked like she wouldn’t be going anywhere tonight. Or possibly any other night, if they continued such a cunning, careful plan for guarding their encampments once they left the Valley. Not without being spotted as a shapeshifter.

  Tava didn’t know what the Shifterai would do, how they would react, if they learned that there was a female shapeshifter in the world. All she had were her mother’s words, of how the stronger and more multi-shaped the shifter was, the more powerful that shifter had been in the ranks of the so-called Family Mongrel that had captured her. Any shifter who could assume ten or more shapes was given the title of multerai, and there had been only three of them among the Mongrel men unwillingly observed by her mother.

  It was a rank that permitted a man to lord over his fellow shapechangers, to the point where any multerai who wanted a particular woman could rape her, without regard for the wishes of the one who had actually claimed her as his war prize. Multerai were powerful, arrogant, and cruel; they reveled in their authority over the others and took whatever they wanted. By contrast, women had no rank whatsoever. No power, no authority, nothing but the status of a thing. If Tava had been born among them, if it had become known that she was a shapeshifter, it might have been seen by her mother’s captors as the ultimate insolence. Worse than insolent, because Tava knew she could skillfully imitate a double handful of shapes.

  Maybe these shapeshifters were different. Maybe they wouldn’t beat her, or force her, or harm her directly . . . but they were still proud of their shapeshifting. They wore the same circular collars that their Mongrel brethren wore, with the same pride in how many rows each man’s necklace boasted, each row of beads carved and painted and shaped like the animal forms they could make. That much was the same between these men and the monsters of her mother’s captivity.

  They might be nice to me because of some cultural difference in how they treat women, but I’m still a woman, and women are not shapeshifters, she worried, pulling the covers up over her nightgown-clad body. Curling up on her side, she tried to relax. I don’t think any of these shapeshifters recognized me after all. Surely if one had made the connection between the shifter that helped battle the bandits earlier and my own self now . . . surely he would have mentioned it to the others?

  The only reason to keep silent would be to blackmail me somehow . . . but I don’t see what they could possibly want. They’re already taking my worldly goods onto the Plains, whether or not I choose to come with them. Unless it’s to put me in his power . . . but if their Truth-Stoned words are true, it wouldn’t be to force me into their arms . . . as hard as that is to believe.

  No. No, my secret is safe for now, she convinced herself, closing her eyes. If I ride with them to the Plains, I can either leave at the end of the bartered month . . . or I can leave sooner, if I don’t like how they treat me. All I’d need is an hour or two with their guard down, to give me enough time to flee . . .

  Her whirling thoughts slowed, settled, and stilled. Slumber crept up, dragging her into blissful, or at least restful, oblivion. For a while, Tava knew nothing more . . . until a pounding at the door woke her with a start.

  “Tava?” she heard the older man, Siinar, calling out. “Tava, wake up! We need the washtub! I’m coming in, just for the tub!”

  We need the . . . what? she wondered, automatically shifting her eyes to see in the dark. She heard the door open and caught a brief glimpse of the Shifterai entering the room. A moment later, she heard sloshing water and the creak of the floorboards . . . and saw a much stouter, heavily muscled version of the same man exit the chamber, carrying the washtub in his now-elongated arms like it was just an oversized bucket. Curious, she climbed out of bed and crossed to the door, but the front half of the house was empty. Tava shut the door, mindful of her nightdress.

  The sound of voices shouting outside was joined by stripe-cats roaring and a frightened, masculine scream. Worried, she hurried to the nearest window. She saw nothing and crossed to the one on her father’s side of the room. An orange glow off to one side gave her a clue, as did a crackling, rushing noise, though she couldn’t actually see the site of the fire.

  The ground shook, startling her with the thud thud thud of heavy footsteps. They ended after a few more moments, only to be punctuated by a roaring hissssss of water poured on the fire. The thud thud thud thud came back, and now she saw Siinar, stripped of clothes and clad only in a thick, dark brown pelt from waist to knees, barely preserving his modesty. He raced past the back of the house, shaking the ground with each step, for he was now nearly three times his normal size, and carried the washtub like it was nothing more than a large bowl, despite the fact that Tava could almost stretch out her legs when sitting in it.

  A commotion to the other side, of the goats bleating and the ducks squawking, had her racing toward the other window. It was a strain to see two-legged figures chased by four-legged ones, even with night-shifted eyes. Clouds had moved in at some point during the night, obscuring what little light shone down from the moons and the stars.

  A sploosh from the direction of the pond was quickly followed by the returning thuds of the enlarged Shifterai man racing back to pour more water on the fire. From the direction of it, the fire had probably been started among the logs and limbs stacked in the woodshed. Another long hissssss of pouring water extinguished the worst of the orange glow, though the enlarged Shifterai raced back to the pond for another load.

  Comprehension dawned. The Alders! They planned a diversion, to set the wood piles on fire in the hopes of making everyone dash for buckets to put it out . . . and while the shifters were busy with that emergency, they probably thought they could steal my animals! Tava smothered a laugh behind her hand. Foiled by the ability to shift their size as well as their shape! Oh, Father—why didn’t I ever think of trying that myself?

  . . . It’s just as well, she realized, lowering the makeshift curtain once again. I would have been tempted to grow myself so large, I could have snatched up the Aldeman and threatened to drop him on his stupid, stubborn, self-righteous head. That would’ve given him every right to thrash me senseless . . .

  The sounds of the shouting seemed to be more directed at containing the would-be thieves than at trying to make sense of the attack. Even the sound of Siinar racing back to the woodshed ended with more splashing than hissing from drowning flames. Returning to her bed, she waited to see if the middle-aged Shifterai would return the washtub, but he didn’t.

  He did eventually return to the door, and knocked softly upon it. “. . . Tava? Are you still awake?”

  “Yes,” she called out.

  “Some of the younger men of the village attacked. Two of them set fire to the woodshed, while the others tried to get into the barn. We’re holding them captive in the barn for now. In the morning . . . the village will be dealt with.”

  That alarmed her. Biting her lip, Tava struggled between her dislike for the men of the village, versus the fact that they were her fellow villagers. “You’re . . . you’re not go
ing to harm them, are you?”

  “No. But they will be fined, and some of their goods confiscated. This is not the village some of us remember from our distant youth ... and I think most of us will not be coming back for another visit anytime soon. Tava, one more thing,” he cautioned her through the closed door. “My younger son overheard a couple of them talking as they approached, whispering about how they hoped they could steal you away. At least temporarily . . . and only to treat you like you thought we were going to treat you.

  “My older son is very angry with them. Most of us are, but he is our leader on this trip. If he does not calm down by morning, this entire village will be lucky if he leaves them with enough food and clothes to see them through the winter—I do not tell you this to alarm you,” he added quickly, as if he could sense her shock through the door, “but to show you that we consider you one of us now. We will keep careful watch while you sleep, so that you may sleep safely.” He paused, then added gently, “Do try to sleep well, in spite of all this excitement. Good night.”

  “Good night,” Tava replied reflexively, though she stared across the night-dark room for several moments more, trying to absorb his words. They weren’t just after the goats and the chickens . . . but after me as well? Intending to do me harm? And now the Shifterai are going to punish them for it in the morning?

  ... Oh, Father, if I couldn’t tolerate staying here before, I cannot stay here now. I cannot stay, and I will never be able to return. Not if the younger men . . . no. No, I will never return. Better to take my chances among these Shifterai than to stay within the reach of men I used to be able to trust!

  Shuddering at the thought of not just being beaten for her insolence by the men of the village, but forced as well, Tava huddled under the covers. Soft, padding footsteps a few minutes later alarmed her. Rising, she returned to the window and peered out through the cracks in the shutters, only to just barely see the source of the noise. Someone in the warband wasn’t curled up taking a nap; instead, the tiger-shaped man was actively patrolling, furry head lifting and lungs sniffing the air at intervals, testing for foreign scents.

  The sight of such diligence didn’t bring the same disturbed disappointment it had earlier. Before, the thought of all the Shifterai on guard against any unexpected activities had felt cloying, even smothering. Now, it felt protective. Comforting, even. Retiring one last time to her bed, Tava curled up under the covers, deciding she would give these Shifterai and their offer a try.

  The restrictive, constrictive life of the Valley wasn’t very suitable for her anymore. The thought of subjugating herself to Alder rule for the rest of her life did not appeal, if it led them to discard all semblance of decency in selling her off to the Shifterai and permitting a destructive raid on her property and even her person. More to the point, the thought of submitting to their jurisdiction just because she was a woman definitely did not appeal.

  Trying to make a life for herself in some Mornai city wouldn’t be that much better, because she would still have to be a Mornai woman, bowing to the whims of Mornai men. She wasn’t Mornai. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be Shifterai, but she definitely wasn’t Mornai.

  I’m tired of being bound up by all these rules and expectations like . . . like a caterpillar trapped in the hardened shell of a cocoon, she thought as she slowly relaxed back toward sleep. I’m not a caterpillar. I’m not content to grub along the ground. I’m not meant to be some farmer’s wife, or some farmer’s servant. I am far greater than that, meant for far greater things. I . . . I don’t know what, yet, but I do know I will never know if I stay here in the Valley. Nor can I leave on my own, because I don’t know where to go.

  Moving to the Shifting Plains isn’t a direction I’d ever thought I’d go, but it is away from here. It’s a start. And . . . if it isn’t a good place to stay, I’ll just move on again. Like a butterfly, if I don’t like the flowers I find, I won’t rest long in any one place.

  I don’t know how to be a butterfly yet, but I refuse to remain a caterpillar , she decided, yawning and tugging the covers just a little higher for warmth. I’ll just have to learn as I go . . .

  “They’ll have to be dealt with, of course,” Deian muttered. A fellow multerai, he was only three years older than Kodan and had looked upon Kodan as something of a younger brother, having only sisters for his own siblings. Deian didn’t have to say who had to be dealt with; all of the Shifterai of the South Paw warband were upset with the vandals that had attacked the woodpile on one side of the farm and the barn on the other side.

  Mindful of the young woman sleeping in the other half of the cottage, Kodan closed the book he had been reading in the light of one of the glass lamps they had found in the cottage, and kept his response equally quiet. “My brother almost castrated them on the spot. I’m sorely tempted myself.”

  “But?” Deian prompted him.

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  Deian let out a mock-groan. “Again, with the thinking! What about, this time?”

  “About this so-called Family Mongrel for one, and about the treatment of her mother. And the fear of the Shifterai that this village has because of it.” Kodan glanced down at the brown leather and smooth-planed oak boards that formed the cover of the book he had found. A book filled with highly uncomfortable revelations. “Even by Plains standards, simply stating an intent to force a woman isn’t enough to justify castration . . .

  “Punishment, yes. But castration and banishment only if there’s an ongoing threat for the foreseeable future. Or an actual hands-on attempt. Which they didn’t get to do, and it could be argued that they spoke in the heat of their anger. That had they actually gotten their hands on her, they might not have followed through. But there’s not an actual, ongoing threat to her, mostly because we’re taking her away from here,” Kodan pointed out. “I may not sit on the Sister Council, but I do know the law.”

  “You’re right.” Deian nodded slowly, then shook his head. “But we can’t leave them unpunished. It’s bad enough they fear us, but we can’t let them think even tacitly that this kind of . . . wrongness . . . will be tolerated.”

  “Nor can we trample on their rights as citizens of another kingdom,” Kodan reminded his friend. “Which castrating them certainly would do. Not to mention solidify the idea of the Shifterai being nothing more than violent brutes. I don’t think our queen would be happy about that.”

  Deian winced. “No, she wouldn’t. Ailundra wants to emphasize trade over trouble when it comes to the services we offer to the other nations.”

  “Precisely. Not to mention, I have to justify everything we do here to both the Sister Council and the Shifter Council.” Dropping his head to his palm, elbow braced on the table, Kodan rubbed at his tired eyes. “I’ll get a better idea of just how much damage they actually did in the morning, when there’s enough light to see clearly. If they’re lucky, or rather, their families, I’ll only tax the village the equivalent in ruined lumber. Plus something extra for the trouble and the fright.”

  Bumping his elbow against Kodan’s, Deian gave him a wry grin when the younger man glanced his way. “There are days when being a multerai is a real headache, isn’t it?”

  “Thank you,” Kodan muttered. It wasn’t a statement of gratitude.

  Deian smiled again, rising from the bench. “Get some sleep. You’ll need fresh wits in the morning. I’ll sleep outside the front door, on the porch. You can join me if you want; there should be enough room, if we shift small.”

  Nodding to acknowledge the offer, Kodan didn’t comply. Once the other shifter left, Kodan was alone. Or at least, the only one awake. The large, sleeping bodies of Manolo and his father covered part of the floor, both sprawled out in stripe-cat form, fuzzy ears flicking at the creak of the floorboards under Deian’s feet and the clank of the latch as he left the cottage. Technically, Kodan shouldn’t be in the same house at all with everyone else asleep, not if a bedchamber was considered the same as a maiden’s geome. But it was
n’t an iron-clad law, it was more like a strong cultural suggestion.

  The book in front of him, unlabeled and unornamented, was too important not to read immediately. He knew it would give him nightmares if he weren’t careful, but he had needed to know. This was the book Tava had mentioned, the one containing her mother’s story, penned by her father the scribe. Or rather, by her next-father. Kodan had only skimmed it so far, and it wasn’t arranged in chronological order by any means, but rather as a series of conversations and confessions.

  But he had found the part where Ellet Sou Tred, the Zanthenai woman, spoke of realizing she was pregnant, after having endured two years of rapings and beatings, and seeing what happened to the children among this “Family Mongrel.” How the boys were praised and indulged, and how the girls were punished and beaten. Ellet had spoken fervently to the scribe, Varamon, how she couldn’t stand the thought of any child of hers being raised in such a way, even as she hated the men who had contributed to that child’s impending existence. She had spoken of hiding her pregnancy, desperate to figure out a way to escape that would elude the shapeshifted noses of the curs keeping her in their camp.

  The descriptions of how she had braved the grass fire, how she had stolen a pair of thick wool blankets and soaked them in the stream as the others fled on horses and in wagons, how she had hidden herself in the reeds before the shifters had given up trying to find her in favor of fleeing themselves, of how she had hunkered down in the stream under the blankets as the world itself seemed to burn—those gave him waking nightmares.

  Grass fires were a very serious threat to his people. Late summer might be the season of harvest for wild-growing foods and grains, of scouring the scattered remnants of old orchards for fruit and enjoying the last warm days of the year, but it was also the season for a burning heat that parched the land. Everyone was extra-cautious of how they built and watched their fires, and kept watch well into autumn, which had only now just begun.