by Richard Nell
This thought, at least, calmed her. Now she had to face these women and overcome their complaints and objections, all the while with Valda and Bukayag waiting, and watching. But she had survived worse.
She looked to the angry eyes of the matriarch, the old woman so much like Valda, perched on the twin of the holy rock at Alverel. She sat next to a bench covered in stones and counting bowls and a box Dala knew to be stuffed with peat for burning if a new matriarch was chosen. No doubt it was several years old.
The strangeness of the moment seemed close to broken. The matriarch looked ready to rise and speak, and Dala knew the time was now, or never. She had to seize control of the room, and quickly. Valda turned to her.
“If it is alright with you, priestess, I would like to address the gathering first. You are welcome, of course, to interrupt. But I think what I have to say will please you.”
Dala’s mind raced. Every instinct told her not to cede control. But then, this woman was her ally. She had agreed, and with great peril to her own position and wealth, and had brought her sons here and obviously challenged the Order.
So what would she say? Only God knew for sure. There was so much at risk, so many unpredictable things. Dala couldn’t decide. Send me a sign, Goddess, I need you now. I’m so close. Is this to be? Will she betray?
At last Dala nodded, tight-lipped, because time was short and she could think of no better solution. Valda dipped her head in thanks, and stepped to the edge of the lowered, angled benches. She gestured for Bukayag, who now stepped behind her and clearly into view. The women gasped, or cursed, or stood.
“We are here for the elections, cousin,” Valda shouted as she leaned on her cane. The matriarch rose, veins stretching across her red face.
“I hope for your family’s sake you are that man’s prisoner, Valda. You are not welcome here.” Her tone rose with every word. “You have no authority. You have no right.”
Valda extended a hand as if to acknowledge this and calm her kin. “I am no man’s prisoner. But I tire of having no vote in this room, cousin. So now I’m going to speak, and you’re going to listen, or else I’m going to let my mad, heretical dog here slip his leash. As I understand it, he doesn’t much like priestesses.”
Bukayag smiled to reveal his teeth, playing his role all too well. Dala wondered for a moment what the real man was like beneath it all, what drove him, and how he’d been made. He stalked behind his great-grandmother as if he could barely contain his violence, and Dala wondered if that were true.
The matriarch’s jaw clenched in rage but she said nothing. No doubt she wanted to know very much where her guards were, and how exactly Bukayag had gotten inside. Valda sat on a near-by bench, forcing the priestesses to give her room. She groaned at the exertion and removed a wad of orange root from the pocket of her dress.
“An old habit,” she said, as if in apology, stuffing it in the corner of her cheek. She spoke casually, like a conversation between kin. “I must tell you, sisters. I’ve not been very happy with you. Not with the farming quotas,” she spit orange saliva to a clean, white step, “Not with your unwillingness to go South, with meddling in matron pairings, with politics and chief-making.” She spat again, this time alarmingly close to a woman’s feet.
The matriarch looked like she might interrupt, but delayed at a look of pure malice from Bukayag. Valda kept on as if she hadn’t noticed.
“Yes, yes, I know, most of it is to prevent a king, or was. Such a waste. So terrified you all are of a man with power! God knows why. I have known many men who would have made fine kings, and I’ve had children with three of them. But sisters, and you must listen to me, men…they are not like us. They want a king. It is quite natural for them. Always men are asking who is strongest, who is best. That is what drives them, sisters. You have no children or mates and so you don’t see this. How could you? They are not interested in your bland unity. They don’t want your forced peace and harmony. And sooner or later, with or without you, they will have their king.”
She took a moment to glance about the gathering, as if to let that sink in.
‘With or without you, sisters,” she said, as if she didn’t believe it had. “And why shouldn’t they? We are not their enemies. Are we not their mothers, sisters, daughters, and matrons? Is the moon goddess not the partner of Volus? Does he not fear her wrath and jealousy even as he turns his eye to Zisa’s beauty? Why would he fear her if she is not his equal?”
“Spare us ancient stories. Imler taught us what a king will do,” growled the matriarch. “The chiefs will destroy themselves, and all of us with them. It must be prevented.”
“What will they destroy?” Valda rolled her eyes. “All around you my men build and maintain this world. They build your houses, they grow and hunt your food, they fight the cold, the waves, the weather, nature itself. Why do they do this?”
“Because they are born to do it,” said the matriarch, “but like dogs they must be trained, or become dangerous.”
The old matron sighed, and spit juice, lowering her voice. “I pity you, Ellevi, truly. They do it for their families. They do it for their matrons and children and gods. For me. And yes, for you. And yet here you stand, protected by a ring of such men, one of whom just died for your cause, and you stand in judgment. How can my sons be my enemies? Have you all gone truly mad?”
“You think that man is our ally?” The matriarch pointed at Bukayag. “You think he is yours, cousin?”
The old woman craned her neck to look at him, and a smile spread across her toothless jaw. “He has discovered a new world, cousin, and for reasons beyond my understanding, he has returned to take us there, despite our treatment of him. So yes, he is our ally. Perhaps he is the greatest ally we will ever have.”
Dala looked at the shaman and saw the crinkled brow of surprise and perhaps emotion, the mask of the crazed dog slipping.
“There is no world except this land of ash,” said the matriarch, eyes hard in contempt. “You have been tricked by a monster, a son of chaos. Only God knows why he does what he does.”
Valda released a wheezing breath. “Ah yes, your precious book. It has less use than you think, and this son of chaos has already proved it wrong. Accept it. I am rarely tricked, cousin, because I cling to few illusions. I speak plainly and not in endless riddles like you and your ilk. So let me be plain now.” She spit, then groaned to her feet and pointed her cane.
“Your order has taken its last daughter of Valdaya. I and all my family—all my men and land and matrons—are going to join this heretic.” She smiled, perhaps at the shock in the room. “And then we are going to set your world aflame.”
Most of the priestesses rose at this, shouting vulgarities or exchanging words Dala couldn’t possibly hear. Valda struck the stone with her cane, and the room quieted as the sound echoed. She spoke again, the menace clear, old voice rising above the growing din at every word.
“We will kill your brothers, and your fathers, until Orhus runs red with their blood. And when all your men are dead, we will burn your holy places, and we will destroy you.”
By the end of her threat the gathering had silenced again, such madness beyond all imagining to be uttered by a matron as eminent as Valda. She shrugged.
“Or, you can vote Dala, daughter of Cara, as your new matriarch. You can do it right now.”
Dala blinked, and almost flinched as every eye turned to her. She looked back at Bukayag, who grinned.
“Do this,” said Valda, “and I will trust Dala to begin a new era of Galdric leadership—a leadership that accepts the chiefs and matrons will decide how they will be ruled, assisting us as possible. If elected, girl, can I believe that?”
Dala nodded because she didn’t trust her voice, trying to keep her chin high enough to seem confident, but not too high to seem proud. The old woman winked.
“Good. Now, while I’m here, I will also be taking my grand-daughter. Talia, come girl.” She held out her arm, and a young woman with a fie
rce look stood instantly from the back of the hall. She cast off her shawl as if it were nothing, and stepped with a wide smile towards her grandmother.
“And the daughters of Noyon,” Bukayag added, his deep voice rolling about the rafters. “They were taken against their will, and belong with their father.”
The old woman glanced at him with a raised brow, but nodded, and two more girls rose from the servant ranks at the edge of the circle, shyly coming forward towards Valda. “Come girls, let’s leave the priestesses to their business.” She glanced one last time about the circle. “I await your decision. We’ll be just outside.”
With that she turned and limped towards the broken entrance with her granddaughter’s shoulder as a crutch. Bukayag raised a brow at Dala as if to ask ‘should I stay?’. She shook her head, despite secretly wishing he would. He nodded in respect, and followed his kin.
Dala stood alone at the edge of the circle, some small murmuring sounds and whispers moving about the priestesses. The matriarch had turned a shade of purple.
“This is blasphemy,” she hissed. “The Order will not be strong-armed by matrons and their lapdogs. Every one of you will burn for this. Do you think us powerless?”
“Yes,” Dala said, not worrying about the many whispers. “But power is not the role of the Order. It is guidance—true guidance to God through Her prophet. A role you have forgotten.”
Dala glanced around the room. She saw some familiar faces, but no allies. Then she saw Priestess Amira—the woman who had been in charge of Dala’s conclave when she’d become a priestess. She had helped her then, and as she saw her eyes, believing more than ever Amira and maybe others were true servants of the goddess. The woman smiled, and stood.
“I believe we should do what she says. For the Order, and the Ascom, we must bend.”
Some of the women around her made at least weak noises of agreement, though others scoffed or looked away. Dala had intended to convince them—to make them see the great future more suited to the aims of all. But sometimes, perhaps, Bukayag was right. Sometimes words didn’t do much of anything, and the women already understood their peril.
They knew Valda could rally enough support to plunge the Ascom into civil war, and probably win. Their whole existence depended on preventing such a thing, for why else did the chiefs and matrons provide for them?
“Perhaps we should begin the vote,” Dala called over the voices, then descended slowly towards the old woman on the lawstone. She abandoned all pretense of humility, head high as she met the woman’s eyes as an equal. She thought back to the spring festival, knowing even then the old priestess failed to understand the change happening all around her.
“No need for tablets,” Dala called, “a show of hands will do.” She stepped onto the stone, crowding the matriarch who seemed ready to push her away, but looked in Dala’s eyes, and at the seax on her belt, and changed her mind.
Dala stared at the faces that had intimidated her as she entered—the women she thought together understood the message and teachings of God, and helped guide Her flock. She saw their fear—the very mortal fears of loss of power and position, and not the fear that perhaps they might have failed in their duty. She lost all anxiety and concern for winning their loyalty, then. They would serve, or she would go to God’s true servants and her allies, and start the cleanse.
“Time to vote,” she said, with as much brutal threat as she felt. The matriarch looked about the room as if hopeful, as if failing to understand her time and everything she believed were at an end. “Who chooses Dala, daughter of Cara? Raise your hands.”
Dala felt she was at her ceremony again, standing before her peers waiting to be judged. Then, as now, she had brought men with cold iron. And then, as now, she would not hesitate to use them.
One by one, the women looked to each other and raised their hands. Dala knew as they did that it was truly over—that Dala the Noss-touched, the waste of beauty, the scarred up Southron prude, would be the holiest woman in the Ascom. It was her time, and she would do God’s will. And woe to those who stand in my way.
She spared a glance at the pale-faced, now former matriarch, whose jaw hung slack to reveal only a few, yellowed teeth. Dala stared until the old woman stepped away from her lawstone. She glanced to the matriarch’s attendants.
No, she corrected herself, my attendants.
“You wouldn’t want our allies to get the wrong message,” she said. When the girls didn’t move, she raised her voice. “Burn the damn peat.”
The attendants blinked and looked frantically about the room. Seeing no objection, support, nor any sign of other orders, they hurried for the dusty box.
Chapter 63
After Orhus, Ruka returned to Kormet, and prepared for war.
Despite Valda or the Order’s words, he knew many chiefs would not agree without a fight. Many would not yield unless to a warrior. And so they would come, and he must be ready.
He left Orhus alone and quickly, returning to the trenches to find far more men than he expected, and far more progress.
“It’s the nightmen,” said Folvar outside the hall in report. “Birmun brought them. They dig like animals, working even in darkness.”
Ruka smiled at this. Birmun must have moved quickly to gather them. With Dala’s obvious support, he no longer worried about the nightman chief’s loyalty. But still, he felt uneasy, and it did not take long to figure out why.
He wanted the priestess, that was the truth. But he banished the thought instantly as foolish nonsense. Dala was his ally, and perhaps even friendly with him, but no woman with any kind of choice could want him as a mate. His humor worsened at the thought, and dropped more as the chief went on with his report.
“Some of the foreign women have died, shaman. Most recovered, though, or have at least improved.”
Ruka nodded and followed him behind the hall to the few shallow, unmarked graves. Some of the other women wept near-by.
“I thought you might wish to see the bodies,” Folvar explained. “But…we will burn them now, unless you say otherwise, or, would they want some other ritual?”
Ruka shook his head. The Pyu buried their dead but made little of it except for their kings. He uncovered the women’s corpses so he could mark which had perished, and asked the other women for their names. In his Grove the dead dug graves and made signposts with Pyu symbols, then he let the men burn their bodies.
Perhaps they would not appear in his Grove, for he had not killed them, and did not wish them dead, but still they had died because of him. One day he would grieve, and accept the price for all the lives snuffed for the great cause of the future, and suffer whatever came. But not today.
He checked Sula and found him well-fed and bored, then greeted Aiden who had returned from the peninsula. The mighty chieftain of Husavik grinned and took Ruka’s arm with a respectful nod.
“The farms are secured, shaman. They had few guards, and fewer ships. Now they have none. I left Altan with some guards to work the land.”
Ruka nodded. The raider-turned-farmer would do what was right. He would have time to re-unite with his children later, and until then, Ruka would keep them safe in Kormet. He met with Tahar and his men next, who had been busy chasing Northern scouts and Arbmen near the border of the fertile ring.
“Nothing yet in force, lord.” The ex-chief came stained with sweat, dirt and blood, his eyes rimmed with bruises. “But we have seen many tracks. And a man looks first where he means to go.”
Ruka agreed. “Rest. Eat. Then return to the hills,” he said. “You’ve done well, Tahar, though I expected nothing less.”
The capable warrior withdrew with pleasure in his eyes—though perhaps less than Ruka hoped. It took recognition and reward to bind men like Tahar, but Ruka could provide both soon enough. A foreign bride would be a fine start.
Eshen soon followed in silence and became Ruka’s shadow. He had never had a bodyguard, but found with so much on his mind it did put him at ease.
He reminded himself that ambush and betrayal was most possible, and that if he died now the dream of paradise and a future for the Ascom would crumble to dust in the wind.
“How did they receive my gifts, and message?” he asked Egil later as night fell, when he returned from his errand to the chiefs.
“Well enough.” Egil grimaced, and drank water from Folvar’s table in large gulps. “The number of rune-blades now in Orhus has hurt the worth of each, but still they are very valuable, and the risk of owning them at least has reduced.”
Ruka nodded, and waited, caring more about which chiefs would wait, as requested, and which would try and seize glory.
“I don’t know is the short answer,” Egil glanced to ensure they were alone, then shrugged. “If I must guess, I would say Valda’s kin will obey her and give you time. So will most of their allies. But this is a chance for many others who hate the Valdaya to undermine them. Chief Balder and Hoden in particular. They will come, I think, with like-minded men. They may even band together in the attempt.”
“No, they will try alone.” Rula looked away as he imagined the best ground between him and Orhus to fight. “How many men do they have?”
“A thousand between them. More, maybe. I don’t know.”
Ruka felt his jaw clench. With Aiden, Folvar, Dala, and even the nightmen, he had only half that.
“You’ve done well, Egil, now as ever. Go to your family tonight. I have but one last task for you, then you are free from all of this.”
His first retainer’s eyes widened, his hands frozen on unbroken bread.
“Go back to Orhus. Tell every influential man and woman, chief or priestess, to gather at Alverel. Tell them in ten days I will speak on the mountainside like the heroes of old. Tell them to bring their warriors, if they wish. But they must hear. I will speak of the future. I will speak, and then together they will decide if I lead them to it, or if I die instead on the cliffs. Whatever they say, I will obey.”