by Lori Martin
He soon found a position. He had to acknowledge the years he’d spent in Mendale, which did him no good with the stable workers, but the mistress of the farm, once convinced of his ability, took him on at servant wages.
The work was heavy but welcome to him. He sweated and strained his body until his muscles loosened. With each day of breathing in Lindahne air something else in him relaxed and loosened, too. He drank clear stream water instead of wine.
Soon he reminded himself that he had come for other purposes. Hoping for information, he tried to contact an old friend, but was told he was off visiting kin. It was difficult to hear any news from any other source. His fellow workers were suspicious of him, and fell silent at his approach. He worked even harder, and spoke ever courteously. Slowly they began to unbend. They didn’t ask why a nobleborn was doing commoners’ work; the War had unsettled many old families, and they supposed him dispossessed by the Mendales. Soon he was able to explain his time in the enemy’s country by hinting at the driving necessity of poverty, and of relatives to care for. (To own that he actually had Mendale marriage kin would never do.) Finally, casually, he was able to mention his War service. When he stripped to work in the heat they could see his old wound. “Did you hear...” they began to murmur, trusting him. “Do you know what they’re saying...?”
Soon he heard every flying rumor, and there were many. New Oversettle restrictions were being posted every day, strenuously enforced by the occupying soldiers while, secretly, survivors of the attack on the Defiers’ camp sill struggled home. Temhas had been crammed with information during his brief reunion with Nichos and Pillyn; so when the name of Samalas was whispered, he recognized it. He was surprised that this famous Defier rebel was back in Lindahne. Perhaps Paither was with him.
The rumors of a new relas, clung to by some, dismissed as wild wishes by others, were spreading everywhere. Many claimed the stories came from Samalas himself. Temhas knew that less than half of what was being said could be true, and each new story contradicted the last, but there were facts to be had, too.
The Mendale soldiers were routing out rebels, hauling men and women off to holding-houses; some were even put to the sword. Yet the people they had worked so long to subdue had a strength and loyalty they had never touched. Not a single Mendale in all the Five Hills heard so much as a whisper of where leader Samalas was headquartered. Yet any Lindahne who needed to know soon found out.
Temhas requested two days of holiday, and saddled up his horse. Samalas was operating from the backroom of a little cobbler’s, in the valley. All this time, it seemed, he had been less than a morning’s ride away.
The woman with no name crouched in the bushes, smiling to herself. Up here the air was brilliant with light. In the clearing before her a temple rose in soaring white marble: the timeless home of Mother Nialia. The graves of the shrine’s last priestesses, who had fought to protect it, could be seen beside it, where the enemy, honoring their bravery, had lain them during the War. Now the enemy’s children, in the form of Mendale soldiers, kept formal vigil before the entranceway. They knew they were posted there to keep the knee-bowing lins out. They never asked themselves what might remain within.
The singing voice she had followed was louder now, sweet but strong. She thought it was silly of the soldiers to turn their backs on it.
She had slept out somewhere on the slope. In the morning, stopping at a stream, she had seen her own reflection. Black glimmering waves cascaded around her; innocent wide eyes flashed in answer. But there was bramble and grease in her hair, grime on her face, and dirt beneath her nails: it would not do, for this special day. So she had bathed herself in the chill water, combed out her hair carefully with her fingers, even beaten her blackened robe on the rocks, and dried it in the sun. Now, crouching, she was careful not to trail the hem on the earth. She must be clean today. She must be undefiled.
The temple guards were bored with their task. Their Band had been stationed here some time, and these four had drawn sentry duty for the second moon in a row. Apart from marching up and down, there wasn’t much to do, though from time to time the lins – stubborn as they were – still persisted in trying to enter the temple. On one famous night two years previously, a group of them had even tried to start some kind of service. But mostly they had given it up; even the fool lins knew well enough that their efforts could be easily subdued. These days, there wasn’t much work here for a good Mendale soldier.
The four men had even run out of conversation. The last excitement
– the news about the deserter from the Twelfth Archery Band – had grown stale. No one had found her yet. The two soldiers guarding the front of the temple, who hailed from the same town, fell into a desultory discussion of home news. The other two continued their steady march around the building.
She was patient and very still. Her eyes blinked, owl-like. She had been waiting; the voice had chosen this time to call her; so there would be a reason. The way would be cleared. The song thrilled along her nerves and vibrated within her, a luxurious secret.
The hours passed. The soldiers changed duties, from guarding to marching, from marching to guarding. At dusk they shared a supper. They shuffled tired feet, looking westward down the Hill. As the dark came on torches bobbed up, lighting the arrival of the new shift.
Another set of four took up their places. Neither hungry nor thirsty, unmoving, listening to the lovely and unceasing song, the woman watched them. When the first stars came out she was aware of a change.
Someone was approaching off to the right, somewhere in the trees behind her. She smiled a little. They were friends. It was full night now, too dark to see them.
Three Lindahne women looked out, as she did, on the temple, which was deep in the shadows of the tall standing torches. In daylight it would have been seen that all three were young, and wearing the Nialian yellow. The leader was Hajia, the Nialian who had supported Pillyn at the Defiers’ truth-seeking. She had fought well in the attack on the camp, and then escaped, returning to Lindahne only two days before. Heartsick and weary, she was determined beyond reason to reach the Mother’s temple. But it is said vigilance flagged, and the sacred writings were lost... Still Nialia does not forsake her people. Here, if anywhere, she could renew herself – and pray for their relas, wherever he now had gone.
Her companions were nervous. Hajia had no intention of rousing the soldiers; she’d said they’d just sneak past them. Once in the temple they’d be safe. No Mendale actually went in. But how did she know? they wondered. No one had ever gotten that far.
The two girls gripped each other’s hands in the dark and hissed at her. “What can we do?” “We can’t get by. We’d better go back.”
“Hush,” Hajia said impatiently. The guards in front were talking, yawning, not very watchful. When the other two guards marched back around the building, she could –
She crept forward a little, and then halted suddenly. Her friends, coming timidly up behind, banged into her. “What is it?” they gasped together.
The young and untrained priestess looked to the left, eyes straining in the dark. “Do you...” Her voice trailed away.
“Hajia, is something wrong?”
“Can’t we go back?”
She gave herself a shake. “No. Come, and be quiet.”
The woman hidden in the night stood up. She stretched her stiff limbs, taking her time, letting the blood run in her veins. The night was cool and lovely. For the first time the voice’s pure melody formed into words. Forever past, the singer sang to her alone, forever to come . . .come... come to me.
Tilting her head, listening with her whole being to the song, she was only vaguely aware of new, discordant sounds. Hajia and her friends had failed. The soldiers were shouting to one another. A girl shrieked. Running feet crashed through the growth.
In his haste one of the guards knocked over a standing torch. It spluttered on the ground, still burning. He ignored it. “Here, wait!” he shouted to his c
ompanion, and waved towards the temple. “What about our post?” “Leave it!” the others shouted back, already giving pursuit to the women. The first hesitated, and then shrugged: well, there was nothing really valuable here to guard, after all. Surely the ranking would rather have them catch the rebel lins. He joined the chase, and the temple was left unguarded.
Silence settled on the clearing. The far-off noise of the hunt went down the Hill. The song had ended. And the singer waited.
The woman with no name stepped out into the shafts of moonlight. She lifted the spluttering torch from the ground, and it rose again into flame. With careful feet she patted out scattered sparks on the summer grass. Crossing under the curving arch of the temple’s entrance, she entered the outer court. Her bare feet kissed inlaid mosaics, which flashed color as the torchlight passed. Old and dusky hangings were before her. Her hand parted them gently, as slivers of time-worn threads slid along her fingers. Raising the torch, she entered the inner sanctuary.
Light blazed. Thus did it shine, an infinite brightness, before the beginning of time: so it is told, in the Book of the Gods.
The hard sleek walls around her shimmered, radiating whiteness, like shifting clouds shot with lightning bolts. In this unearthly place, set on a Hill, set among the gods, the woman spoke in the voice of a thankful child. “Mother? I’ve come home.”
And she, who had suffered in blindness in her darks, was taken in a seeing: possessed by Nialia. As the generations of priestesses before her, she was brought beyond herself, to a witnessing of the goddess, held, cradled, in immortal hands. She saw the mistress of Fate, the weaver of the threads of life, and for the first time she knew what force had protected and always pursued her. Voices rose, chanting. Light and jeweled mist enfolded her.
When the clouds began to disperse she found herself lying face down on the cold floor. Yet she couldn’t have fallen; nothing hurt; she had no bruises. The torch, burnt out, was somewhere behind her. It was still night, but she could see all about her. The bursting light had faded to a red loving glow.
She struggled to her knees. The sacred altar, where offerings had once been brought daily, waited before her. Some word must come from her. Though the goddess claimed her, such a blessing must be accepted by her mortal heart. She must surrender her own will.
“My mother,” she whispered. “I do acknowledge thee. Take me as thy follower.”
Something, someone, drifted fog-like behind her, a mere rippling presence in the air. She knew it; somehow it was familiar. She didn’t turn her head. It seemed to float around her, turn to face her. Her mortal eyes saw nothing, but she was aware of it as an invisible cloud of emotion – human emotion. She was under scrutiny. The presence reached her. Feelings washed over her, bathing her in an encompassing love of which she had no remembrance. “Mother,” she gasped. This time she did not mean the goddess.
A memory from before her own consciousness came to her: not of death or destruction, but of new life. The royal woman, firedust hair shimmering, raised a kicking bundle to a winter sky and called the ancient words of the name-receiving ceremony. In the sight of the immortal gods, by the word of Nialia, I do name thee.
She saw the crystal stars, glinting down, while cold air nipped her tender eyes and ears and cheeks. Warm soft fabric swaddled her tiny limbs; firm hands supported her. I do name thee... She was the child, lifted by Dalleena, relas of Lindahne, on the first night of the second moon of her life. And the voice – her mother’s voice, the singer’s voice – pronounced her name. “Ennilyn Saila.”
Ennilyn, daughter of Dalleena-relas and Rendell Armasii, emerged from the temple just as first dawn touched the Hill’s peak. She stood on the threshold and watched the rising light. The departing shade of her former false life crossed the sun and dissolved.
She knew exactly who she was, knew, too, that she had a brother. In her falseness she had once raised a sword over his disfigured face. From now on she would be true kin to him... If she could find him.
The Mendale soldiers hadn’t returned; she spared no thought to them. Her birth had been made clear but her future days were far from certain. Where would he be now? Still in Mendale perhaps. How could she reach him?
She was walking on solid ground. It was time to be practical, though a pulsing ecstasy was nearly robbing her of her senses. The first thing to do, she told herself sternly, the first thing to do would be... What? Well, I have to move, I have to travel, I should...
I should find a horse.
Well, at least it’s an action to take. I can’t stay here, lovely here.
She turned to the eastward slope and started down, humming a little. A cluster of trees suddenly gave way to green smooth earth. The grass waved in the wind. Pink relasii flowers lifted sweet blossoms of scent. It was her old vision, pure and finally complete.
Joy burst again in her, too great for containment. The new high priestess of Nialia let out a whoop like a little boy’s, flung herself on the grass, and rolled down the Hill, shrieking and laughing.
Temhas urged his horse along the Hill trail. It was reluctant, almost as if it knew that their return to the farm where he had been working was several days overdue. He clucked at it.
His interview with Samalas hadn’t gone well. As the reports had said, he was holed up in the valley. There was no doubt he was a master of organization; already he was pulling together the scattered, beaten-down Defiers and raising them up again. More importantly, he had gone to considerable trouble to prepare the way for Paither. He was sending scouts out regularly to the agreed-on meeting place beyond the woodlands. The area was thick and untamed, and though no word had yet come back of Paither and Mejalna’s arrival, he wasn’t disturbed. There was a great deal to do in the meantime.
He received Temhas with hostility. Clearly he considered him that “horse breeder” who’d once refused to help them reach the queen.
“That was nine moons ago,” Temhas said. Here again he had to overcome distrust. “Things have changed. Now I’ll do whatever I can for you.”
“Why?” Samalas demanded. “Why are you bothering?”
Temhas said impatiently, “By the gods, he’s my brother’s son.”
“Ah, yes. Yes. And you loved your brother.” This was a blind shot. He was secretly surprised to see it hit and draw blood.
Through white lips Temhas said, “I’m offering you whatever help I can give. Will you take it or not?”
Seeing that he already knew so much, Samalas had spat out the rest of the story. Temhas heard of his nephew’s attempted river trip with silent alarm. After a time he volunteered to join the scouting parties in the woodlands, but Samalas suddenly had a different plan for him: he would send him to find Paither’s sister.
“She’d be your niece, after all,” was the way he put it; Temhas thought he detected a malicious gleam of amusement. Samalas had found this search to be the hardest to follow of all Paither’s instructions – though he had, Temhas admitted, made faithful efforts. Samalas handed him a batch of reports from all over the valley; they were sightings of incoming Mendale archers who answered to Scayna’s description. “Not that we’ve any reason to think she’s even in Lindahne,” he added, “though the relas seemed to think she would be. You’re welcome to try.”
Temhas took the challenge, and the reports. He suspected Samalas was trying to get rid of him. Perhaps he’d be able to show him a thing or two anyway.
He followed up each of these unpromising leads, not sure himself how he’d even know if he did find the right woman. He’d been on Nichos’s estate throughout Nichos’s abduction. He’d never set eyes on her. Samalas, who had not paid much attention to her at the time, had some vague idea that she might have had firedust hair, though she’d kept a wrap over it. Would anything else distinguish her?
He grinned sourly, picturing himself tearing at each woman’s robe to expose her shoulder. What sort of Oversettle punishment would there be for a random crime like that?
Today he was traci
ng a new lead (and probably a useless one at that). In the alehouse last night they’d been speaking of a strange girl, someone who’d been taken in by a local; she seemed to be the butt of town jokes. Firedust hair was mentioned, but they said she was out of her head. Surely a Mendale archer couldn’t have ended up here.
But after mulling it over later, he shrugged, and finally decided it was no worse to go on than any of Samalas’s reports. He’d found the woman who’d cared for her, and been pointed in the direction of the First Hill.
He yawned. The path ran straight before him, rising gently, not yet steep, and vanished beyond a turning.
A bright figure appeared around the bend, coming on foot. Temhas drew up, startled. He hadn’t seen the pale yellow of a Nialian robe in years. Strange that she was wearing it midday, in public, when any Mendale soldier could see her. Surely that was dangerous.
She came closer. The path was narrow, so he pulled the horse over to let her pass. I never asked them what she wears, he thought fretfully. Is this the madwoman?
The woman came abreast of him.They glanced at each other, casually, as passing strangers will. Then both stopped.
Temhas never knew what she saw in his face at that moment. He was too caught up in his own sudden frantic conjectures. A Nialian running about on the First Hill. And her hair, like tiny jewels flung across black velvet. He remembered another woman – that same intensity of look –
– and the strong, precise features of Rendell.
Her eyes were wide and glowing. To them he said slowly, “I am Temhas, son of Boessus and of Meyna of the Third Hill. And I am the brother of Rendell Armasii, who was called a criminal.” Within him a shrill voice said, Are you mad? Who are you saying these things to? Why are you exposing yourself?
She took a step closer. He looked down from the horse’s height into her face. A smile of welcome curved on her lips. As if it were an ordinary thing she said, “Then you are my uncle. I am Ennilyn Saila. Good morn to you.”