by Lori Martin
Lindahne itself, thanks to Ennilyn’s good husbandry, was in reasonable order, but he now had their shattered enemies on his hands, as well as an uneasy host of Feimennas.
Paither’s newly formed Council debated, argued and shouted at each other for three long days, yet after everyone had had a say, he returned to his original thought. “I won’t sow the seeds of another war,” he said. “If we impose our own Oversettle on them, if we take revenge, we’ll pay for it in the end as they have.”
“But we can’t show mercy,” one of the older Councillors, a former Advisor, argued. “In the time of your great-grandfather, relas, we were the victors then, too, and we let them rise again – only to turn on us.”
Paither shook his head. “In the last four generations we’ve had three wars. I won’t have my son presiding over another one in his time. We’ll help them rebuild, under our eyes. No, now listen. Remember we have something we’ve never known before: an ally. The Feimennas are hoping to establish regular trading and exchange with us. And they’ve a good deal they can show us. They’re experts in squeezing the most from earth and water. Maybe their knowledge can put an end to the famines Mendale’s been subject to from the Valtah’s overflow. If the Mendales have a reasonable chance to support themselves and live comfortably, if we don’t make them desperate, they won’t need to think of war. And with a strong Lindahne on one side and Feimenna ever ready to land on their coast, they won’t dare.”
Matters to settle. The phrase began to haunt him, a low droning sound like far-off hoofbeats. Matters to settle, as the Mendale Assembly members were rounded up, some to get free pardons, some called to make their cases in a truth-seeking. Matters to settle, as displaced nobleborn submitted claims to win back their old estates...
Estates. He had performed burial rites for Nichos and Pillyn in one ceremony, as they had died together. It was of course only one such rite out of an untold number in those first few days. There was nothing left to show but Nichos’s abandoned estate – and Calli. Once she had been an affectionate and daring child, but now Paither was appalled at the change in her. She had become sullen and suspicious. The adults she had relied on in her little world had all, in some mysterious way, ceased to be hers; they had all abandoned her. All except Baili. She had watched him defend her in the Assemblage at swordpoint, and he had carried her all the way to Lindahne on the front of his saddle. Now she clung to his legs, his hands, the hem of his robe, following him everywhere, lest he should somehow vanish too. Matters to settle.
It was clear the three men would have to fight it out for themselves. Ennilyn and Mejalna sat quietly, like witnesses. Paither said, “She’s my sister. All right, cousin. What difference does it make? She should be with us. Mejalna and I will raise her with our son.” They were talking across her. She was fast asleep in Baili’s lap.
“You’ll do her no favors,” Temhas insisted, “by bringing her up in a royal palace when she’s not royal herself and can never inherit the Chair. Let me take her to the Third Hill.” He paused. He didn’t really feel equal to raising a little girl, but suspected it was his duty. “I’m going to open my father’s old house again, maybe start a breeding farm. The grass is good there, and she won’t be that far away from you.”
Baili said, “Her father’s estate is in Mendale. She’s entitled to it.” “What are you going to do with it, Paither?”
“Well,” he said slowly, “it is Calli’s of course, not mine. I’d like to
see it open again, I’d like it to produce the best flighters, just as it used to. You worked it, Uncle. Would you be interested now?” Temhas looked at Baili, then back. “I don’t want to live year-round in Mendale anymore. I like being back in Lindahne. But if Baili’s interested, we could manage the two establishments together, one here and one there.”
“I’d like that.”
“Good,” Paither said. “I wasn’t going to announce it yet, but I was hoping you’d take a post in Mendale anyway, Baili. You know the country, you accept their ways. I could use you in the transitional government. Samalas will be the head, but he’ll need a good deputy.”
Baili’s face lit up. For the first time in many long days he looked happy. Pillyn’s death had hit him hard. Paither, watching him, thought of a long line of enemy soldiers, and a weapon too heavy to lift. Baili said, “You have to give me Calli, then. She’s half-Mendale and the estate is hers, when she comes of age. And I’m sorry to rub this in,” he glanced down at the little sleeping form, “but I’m the one she won’t let out of her sight at the moment. You know I love her, Paither. I know you’re both concerned for her but... when I was a little boy, Pillyn and Nichos took me in and gave me a home. Let me do the same now for their daughter.”
Paither closed his eyes for a moment, and then finally nodded. When he opened his eyes he exchanged glances with his true sister, whose smile seemed to give a blessing. She had a new and imposing aura about her these days. Perhaps the divine possession was always with her now.
As mother priestess, Ennilyn accepted novices into the temple service: all the unsure young Nialians, grateful, joyful, took up their new duties. Their soft yellow robes moved like plays of sunlight across the Hillside. The first winter snow fell and the faithful pink of the relasii flowers pierced up through the perfect white. Ennilyn renewed the timeless Sunset Rites, singing each day to a close. The priestesses locked arms together and swayed behind her, their voices following her own. Every evening the crowd which came to join them grew larger. She seemed happy and glowing, ready to play her official role in the upcoming Festival in the proper way. Yet when Hajia spoke with satisfaction of the years to come, her face clouded.
“Mother? What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure yet,” she answered, her eyes distant. “I’m not sure.”
The day of the Festival came. It was possible that in all of Lindahne’s long history, the Festival had never been celebrated with such an outpouring of gladness. Flowers, wine, worked gold and polished silver, brilliant faces, swam by Paither on a river of excitement and happiness. Mejalna glowed beside him, also in the blue of the royals. They had fallen into their love with full accepting hearts (and were so besotted and content that Samalas had had to remind them that if Mejalna was to be queen, they’d better get married). The ceremony had been held on Festival eve, with only a handful in attendance, and was punctuated by laughter and Briahne’s gurgling. They felt the goddess smiling down on their revelry. And these shall be my people, the Mother had said. And they shall be mine.
A week later brother and sister sat like two little children, dangling their feet off a parapet. They were on the high roof of Marlos-An. Below them the valley glowed white and green, with snow and bengrass. Little more than two years before, she had been a source of irritation to a Mendale chilhi, while he had sat on the steps of a Mendale house and listened to rumors of far-off Defiers.
People passed below in the courtyard. Someone, exulting, was teaching a child a song. “When the royals return, when the royals return,” the child sang after, sweetly. “In the days of my son and my daughter.”
Ennilyn tossed off her hood, releasing her firedust hair. Her fingers traced, idly, the lines of the letter in her hand; they both knew it by heart; it was time to put it in the archives. It was the letter from their grandmother, Queen Ayenna, which Paither had found on Pillyn’s body. The top sheet was marred by a dark brownish stain. “To my daughter’s children,” it began. “As Dalleena your mother knew, all fates are decreed by the goddess...”
Ennilyn said, “Before our time, your birth was ordered, that our people would have a new king. A king touched by Nialia, who would also have the strength to free them. My birth was ordered too, but I, I don’t know. When will I know my purpose?”
“You’ve restored the Nialians,” Paither said in surprise. “You’re high priestess. Some would say that’s purpose enough.”
She turned probing eyes on him. “Do you say it? Or do you feel there’s so
mething else waiting for me? What are your commands, Sire?”
The king and the priestess looked at one another. Paither said finally, “It’s your choice. It’s between you and the goddess. I wouldn’t command you.”
She bowed her head in submission, to someone or something. He reached over and lifted her cloak around her. After a moment’s hesitation, he put his arm across her shoulders. She whispered, “I’ll be exiled again, out of place. I’ll never really know my homeland. I’ll never really know you.” Their eyes met again in sadness. Tears had pooled in the corners of her lashes.
He said, “I would know you, across the unending Sea. You are my blood and my flesh. You cannot be sundered from me.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder, seeking comfort. “Shall it be here or there?”
“The first-high has sent his blessing, but says it must be held there.”
She sat up. “You knew, then,” she said steadily. “You knew all along I’d agree to it.”
“No. But I hoped. You’ve no notion, yet, what it will mean to them.”
Her eyes flashed humorously, even as new tears started down her cheek. “At the moment,” she said drily, “there’s only one of them I’m concerned with.”
Epilogue
When they tore her robe from her, Ennilyn’s heart took a great bound and began to beat fiercely. Cool spring drafts slid across her skin like darting fishes. She stood naked in
the Great Cult, beneath the vault of stone. A thousand pairs of eyes, Feimenna and Lindahne, pierced her. Somewhere among them was her brother, seated as the guest of highest honor; a few moments before she had been able to see him clearly. She had seen the tall columns, arching up into shadow, and the Cult worshippers, wrapped in flying color-streaked cloth that dizzied her as they spun and danced. She had seen the first-high, speaking incomprehensibly; the smattering she had of his language did not extend to understanding this. His red withered eyes turned her way. Now her own vision had darkened. Had they doused the torches? Grey smoky mists were rising around her. It was a country of fog.
The pipers’ song soared higher. The whirling dancers came and went, before her, behind her, crying, shrill. Something was sprinkled on the ring of fire encircling them, and it roared up twice its height. Cymbals clashed.
Beyond the dancers’ line the Feimenna stood quite still. He was directly opposite her, also naked. She felt his intense probing eyes. Voices chanted, paused, and shrieked out suddenly: more a scream of fear, to her ears, than a celebration song.
Mother, help me.
The Feimennas had purified themselves through their alliance with the Lindahnes. The Missing One they would not name, the Weaver, the goddess of Fate, was returning to them once more. Once more they were worthy. The Great Cult of Proseras welcomed back the wife of Wisdom, its supreme mistress.
But there could be no worship of Nialia without Nialian women. There must be priestesses to hear and speak the words of the goddess, priestesses of prophecy. And Feimenna had none.
A gaunt sexless face appeared. The figure held out a little silver cup. She made to take it herself, but the figure shook its head and lifted the cup to her lips. The chill side pressed against her teeth, followed by hot liquid. She swallowed obediently.
Nhy too had drunk, never taking his eyes from her. It was all very well, the second-high’s son and the high priestess of Lindahne, to unite in the Eternal Marriage. Her daughters would be born Nialians, born Feimennas...
Her heart pumped even harder. Whatever had they given her? Her whole body was flushed and hot; she felt her skin engorge with blood.
Nhy’s face was darker. She saw his bare chest, covered with bristling hair, rising and falling with hard breaths. The first-high stepped between them. He raised trembling ancient hands and chanted. The dancers screamed and turned beyond the circle of fire.
As she watched, the first-high’s wrinkled, sunken face dissolved. Suddenly Hajia clung to her again, weeping. Do not cry, she said. You shall be the mother now. Others would follow her here: some of the novices had vowed to marry among the strangers. It was all very well. A new generation to restore the lost country to the goddess. (Lost country, lost woman. Lindahne lost to me.) I would know you across the unending Sea, he smiled. Do not cry.
Animal eyes looking into her own, hope and hurt on his face. The Eternal Marriage, tied in bonds greater than any mortal love or passion, never to be dissolved, as the immortal wedlock of Proseras and Nialia. Tied not just with flesh but with blood, spirit, soul. Yes, it was all very well. But after all, they were man and woman, too.
She blinked away the visions and concentrated on his face. The first-high took her right hand, then Nhy’s, and brought them together upright, palm to palm and elbow to elbow. At the touch desire flamed in her. Was it the drug? Their nakedness? Him? His eyes were deep, a fathomless burning sky to fall in forever. His arm trembled.
Her lips parted, moistened by her tongue. She might have spoken, but the first-high stepped up again. Others surrounded them. The music rose higher, faster, moving to climax.
Their hands were bound together with silken cloth. Nhy’s fingers clenched on her own. Figures knelt at their feet. She tore her look away from his and glanced down.
Nhy’s right leg was turned out. The worshippers were holding him. One ancient crone drew out something shining: a sharp jeweled dagger. Her cruel twisted fingers pinched along his flesh until she found the spot she wanted on his thigh. She inserted the blade like a key in a lock.
Unprepared and bewildered, she looked back at him. His face never changed. His hand in hers was steady. The worshippers held him, but he never moved. He stood transfixed as the crone carved down the inside of his thigh from groin to knee.
Then the hands seized her. Her right leg, limp and unresisting, was turned out. Another blade, clean and sparkling, appeared.
At the last moment she had the sense to look up, not down; she fastened on his eyes and knew that if she struggled or cried out it would be an omen of terrible evil on them. She mastered herself and was still. Her eyes did not fill with tears until it was finished.
Their bound hands were loosened. Their arms dropped to their sides. As the first-high prayed, as the singers changed, he stepped in towards her, laying the inner skin of his bared and bleeding thigh to hers, locking knee to knee. Their blood ran together and mingled in their wounds, pooling at their reddened feet.
The pain eased. She felt healed, and whole. They were husband and wife.
In the last moments of night Nhy awakened slowly in the great bed. The corners of the tent were lightening, faintly; as he watched things took shape and colors began to show. His mind was cloudy with half-memories, an effect of the drug and of blood loss. Yet an honored happiness had settled warmly in his chest.
His thoughts drifted at random, a play of light on water, striking glints. Somewhere outside a sweet sound...
He sat up. He was alone, but the sheets beside him were still warm. The sound came from just beyond the tent and its opened flaps, which gave on to wild flowing grass, a fresh wind, and rich cascading flowers. She would never live within walls again.
He smiled and settled back down on the pillows, one arm beneath his head. Great contentment filled him. The light grew, and he was at peace, listening to her call up the fire of dawn, singing the song of SunRise.