by Diana Rivers
Strange to say, but then maybe not so strange—maybe only sad—what I could do for others I could not do for myself. I found myself ending everyone’s troubles but my own. As Pell was frequently away and I was second there, it mostly fell to me to settle those disputes and conflicts that so often arose among us now. Truth be told, I enjoyed doing it and even gained some skill at it. I think it reminded me of the gentle, caring child I had been before bitterness began eating up my heart. I would shut my eyes and listen intently to each person’s story with some inner sense. When they were done I would see the solution as if written before me on a wall, a solution that would bend to both needs and blend them, leaving no one the loser. Others went away well satisfied. They praised my fairness and my skill. But for myself, in this painful conflict with Rishkazeel the Muinyairin, I saw nothing when I asked for guidance but a blank wall.
***
Spring had turned into summer. The heat had become oppressive, especially in the middle of the day. Even in the shade of the great trees we sweated and complained. Most of us were grateful for the chance to go shirtless in the camp, glad for that time at least not to have to pretend we were men. Not Rishka. I never saw her shirtless, not once, at least not till that day when I came on her accidentally by the little stream that flows below Alyeeta’s clearing. The sound of running water must have masked my approach. She was undressing to bathe, bending over to take off her boots. Her back was covered with a crisscross of scars and welts, some still crusted I sucked in my breath. She must have heard my gasp, for she whirled on me.
“What are you staring at, you fool?” she snarled, catching me openmouthed. “Have you never seen lash marks before? Why do you always go about gawking and gaping like a country girl in the city streets? Did they send you here to spy on me? If so, you may have seen more than you bargained for, eh?”
I stepped back speechless before her savage questioning, a hot flush rising into my face. We stared at each other for a long moment in hostile silence. At last, with some attempt at calm I collected myself enough to say, “I am no spy. I came here to bathe, hoping to be alone and out of the clutter of the camp. Since this place is already taken, I will go elsewhere.” I tried to keep my voice steady, but inside I was shaking, wanting to turn and run from so much rage.
“Are you afraid?” she sneered at me. “Do my scars make you ill? Let me tell you how I came by them, since you are so curious.” Her voice was like oil. I was trapped by her stare. I could no more move my feet than if I had stepped knee deep into swamp mud. “All this that you see,” she went on, “happened before I had fully came into my powers. By the Mother’s Tit they came slowly, those powers, different ones at different times, the power of self-defense last of all. This last beating, this one that is not yet healed, was because they could not bend my will to marry some fool twice my age. They wanted this match because he was rich in goats and horses and so would do honor to my family. Why he wanted me I will never know. I certainly gave him no encouragement—just the opposite. But there I was, about to be sold for horses like a pile of trade goods. Not only did they want me to go with this horse-tick and lie beneath him for the rest of my life, they wanted me to go willingly, to be polite and submissive. And since I showed no sign of that, after they struck their dirty bargain they thought to soften me with the lash.
“It was my older brother who was doing the beating, as I had worn out my father. I had just rudely told this brother where he could stick a horse’s cock. He was in a thundering rage. Among Muinyairin men it is considered a disgrace if they cannot control their women. He was laying on the lash with a vengeance. Suddenly this great flame of fury rushed up in me. Through that haze of red I could see my brother lying on his back, streaked with blood. His arm was bent above his head at an unnatural angle. I ran, leaving him there screaming in pain. I have not seen him since, but I hope I haunt his dreams as he haunts mine. It was on his horse that I fled my people as soon as I could gather the others.”
She went on, the words flowing out almost as if she had forgotten me, raw pain in her voice in place of anger. “All my life it has been that way. I was raped by my uncles when I was little, to teach me submission. For as long as I can remember, I was beaten by my father, mostly for not being a proper woman, sometimes for being a Witch, and always with my mother’s encouragement. She would say his hand was too light. ‘Harder, husband, harder, you are too kind. No wonder she strays.’
“You wonder why I did not leave? I did, I ran off many times. Always other tribesmen returned me to my father, tied me up and brought me back as if I were his goods. Even those who were my father’s enemies did this, for they counted themselves honorable men, not thieves. Of course, that always meant another beating. And in truth, where was there to go in the Drylands that was not some tribe’s marked territory? And where else is the child of the Muinyairin to go in a world that despises us so?”
The despair in her voice tore at my heart. At that moment I did not hate her. I could have cried for her instead. Her face twisted with pain as she said, “No one will ever touch me that way again.” Then she looked straight at me as if suddenly remembering that I was there listening and snarled, “But why am I sharing these things with a chaka?” This last word she spat out between her teeth with disgust. I had never heard it before. Later I discovered it to be one of the Muinyairin words of insult for the Koormir. A polite translation would be horse droppings, no worse, I suppose, than the words of insult the Shokam and Koormir heap on each other and both of them use for the Muinyairin.
Later I got a small jar of ointment from Alyeeta. I took it to Zari and put it in her hand. “Some of Rishka’s wounds are beginning to fester. Use this on her back. It may save her from a bad infection.” She looked at me in surprise, but I was gone before she could question me.
After that moment of openness, Rishka was even more hateful than before, as if to ensure that there would be no more such moments. From then on I was far more cautious of where I went, and actively avoided her when I could. Of course, it was not always possible. We all had work to do and things to learn. One evening some of us, Rishka and myself among others, were sitting in Alyeeta’s shelter around her little fire, listening to the Witches speak of the uses of charm and illusion and even trickery if needed. Shalamith was talking, holding forth at her shining best, when suddenly Rishka jumped to her feet, shouting, “Sometimes all this stealth and subterfuge seems like cowardice to me. I would rather use the skill of my sharp sword, draw blood, and be done with it.”
Shalamith turned her radiant smile on Rishka. “Such a shame that your powers deny you that pleasure.”
Alyeeta looked up from the other side of the circle. “And what would that gain you? A head to display on the end of a pike in the manner of the Muinyairin, some bodies to be disposed of by others later. I wonder if the heroes of great battles ever think of those who must follow after and cart away their bloody leavings. Swords are messy. Besides, what you call stealth and subterfuge are also skills, not to be scoffed at. There is nothing pretty or glorious in heaps of dead bodies left lying about, flesh rotting in a cloud of flies. Believe me, I have seen it all and more. Besides, if you had not the powers that stop your striking hand, the death you court so avidly might be your own.”
“I am a Muinyairin. My sword and training will not fail me,” Rishka said haughtily.
“Indeed, girl,” Alyeeta answered with amusement, “you think you would only come up against clods and butchers and fools with no training of their own?” With that the Witches burst into loud laughter. Even Hamiuri joined them.
Rishka turned deep red and whirled around to leave. Tzaneel, Renaise’s friend, who had been sitting next to Rishka, put out a hand to block her way and said to Alyeeta, “We have all come here bitter and in pain, hated and hunted by others, denied sometimes by those who bore us. Why should we not want to taste blood on the end of a sword? What gifts of love can we possibly bring to the world, or to each other, for that matter?”
>
“Somehow you must.” To my surprise it was Shalamith who spoke. Her glow seemed to be dimmed by sadness. “If you cannot find your way to that love it will all end the same, all go down in fire and blood and death. There has been more than enough of that already.” It was the first time I had ever heard Shalamith speak a serious word.
“Ask the Goddess for healing,” Irdris said softly, almost in a whisper. “She heals all our wounds when we let her.”
“No gods for me!” Rishka shouted, whirling on Irdris now. “I will worship no gods. I would tear down all their altars if I could.”
Filled with quiet power, Hamiuri’s voice came to us out of the darkness. “The Goddess is different from men’s gods. She does not force you or demand your worship. Instead, She invites you to join the dance. The only punishment for your absence is your absence. And you cannot tear down Her altars, child, because the whole world is Her altar—yours as well, if you will have it.”
Rishka had turned back to face us. “Mother,” she said to Hamiuri, anguish in her voice now instead of her usual mocking arrogance. “Mother, this is no childish anger. I saw my lover killed before my eyes. Men of my own people thrust their swords into the ‘sacred’ fire then held them high for the blessing of their gods before they cut her throat. After that they hacked her body half from half. They would have done the same for me with their god’s blessing and told me so, save that they had already bargained me in marriage to some old man. That is what I know of gods. There is no worship left in my heart, and precious little love.”
Hamiuri seemed about to answer, then shook her head and turned away. “Humans!” Alyeeta spat out in disgust. “Always humans.”
Rishka’s pain burned in me like a fire. It was my own story told again. At that moment, in spite of all she had ever said to me, I wanted to go to her and give her comfort. Of course, she would not have let me. She would not have let any of us near her. Very slowly, as she was speaking, she had been unfastening her shirt. Now she said, “I do not do this for pity, only that all of you should understand.” Then she dropped her shirt, turning slowly so that each of us in turn could see the ruin of her back by the flare of the fire. There were gasps and then a long, shocked silence. No one dared voice a question. Finally Rishka picked up her shirt and went out.
At last Alyeeta said slowly, as if to no one, as if to the night itself, “Goddess have mercy on us all.”
Chapter Fifteen
Rishka’s moments of openness seemed often to be followed by more bitter rage, and so it was after that time around Alyeeta’s hearth. A few days later I chanced to come to Alyeeta’s shelter one morning in search of a book or some advice on healing. Instantly I saw that I had stepped into a fierce argument between Rishka and Alyeeta. Irdris seemed to be the subject of it. I heard her name mentioned several times.
I was about to step out again as quickly and quietly as I could and leave them to it, but Alyeeta spotted me. She raised her hand, saying, “Wait, Tazzi, I need to speak with you. Rishka and I will soon be done here.” I stood there feeling trapped. There were at least a hundred places I would rather have been at that moment than caught between Rishka and Alyeeta.
Rishka, for her part, appeared glad for an audience. Her anger, in fact, seemed fueled by it. She burst out with malice, “Irdris is like a soft white slug, boneless and gutless. Why should I be the one to teach her to ride, her and her two Shokarn friends? Why not Zenoria or Tzaneel or another of those chaka?”
“We have already been over this ground three times at least,” Alyeeta said tersely. She was plainly out of patience and wanting Rishka gone. “Why argue this with me? Go take it up with Zenoria or Pell.”
“You only like Irdris because she can read your moldy books,” Rishka shot back.
I saw Alyeeta bristle at this. “Who I like and why I like them is my own affair and none of yours. Talk to Pell if you are dissatisfied. She is the chosen leader here.” That much she said aloud. In her head I heard her say, Go back where you come from, demon-brat, if you do not like it here. I heard it as clearly as if she had spoken aloud. Rishka, however, seemed to take no notice. She had the bit between her teeth and was running fast with it. “No use to talk to Pell. She is worse than you are with this Irdris. She tells me Irdris is my ‘sister’ and I must treat her as such, that in fact all women here are my sisters. Let me tell you, that one is no family to me, that Shokarn slug. I might hate the men in my family and wish them all painfully dead and soon, but they are more kin to me than those soft white things, those girls of Eezore. They cannot even hold a horse between their knees. They have to be taught to ride like unweaned infants. I was riding before I was five and had my first horse by six. I can fight and ride as well as any man. What are they good for, those Koribi? I will never call such women sisters. They are no kin to me.” I could tell from this ugly outburst that Pell was no longer the revered ‘Chief,’ but had become common clay like the rest of us.
Alyeeta was gathering herself up. When she spoke, her words were thick with sarcasm. “Those are all good skills such as are useful to us here, but I think you will find there are other skills among us just as useful. In such close quarters sometimes even silence is as useful a skill as good horse handling, though it might prove hard for you to learn. I doubt if any here would have the patience for trying to teach you. Now I am done with this. Enough!” She turned to me as if to make clear that she was finished with the matter.
Angered at this dismissal, Rishka shouted, “You are not so special. There are many like you in my tribe. You are nothing but an old Witch. You even...”
“Indeed,” Alyeeta said menacingly, turning back toward Rishka. There was a look on her face such as I had never seen before on any human—more like a fox or a hawk, perhaps. She narrowed her eyes in a threatening way. Her smile froze my blood. Stretching out the first two fingers of her left hand, she slowly raised her arm to point at Rishka while intoning words I did not understand. This clearly was a spell. There was a moment of frozen silence at the end of it. Then Alyeeta dropped her arm and said in her normal voice, as if she had just taken care of a piece of business, “Enough of words. That one needs some time for thought.”
Rishka, meanwhile, had fallen silent in mid-sentence. Though her mouth moved and her eyes bulged with effort, not another word came from between her lips. Considering all the harm she had done me with words, I might have been tempted to laugh at her plight, but the look on Alyeeta’s face made me keep my peace. I had no wish to be silenced in the same manner.
Alyeeta now stood, hands on her hips, looking back and forth between us with something clearly working in her head, while I stood rooted to the spot, helplessly wishing myself elsewhere. Then, flashing her demon smile again, she said very slowly and clearly, “If you wish to regain your speech, Rishkazeel of the Muinyairin, you will make yourself subject to Tazmirrel and do her bidding here. Follow where she goes, do as she does, and obey her in all things. Pay heed to what I have just told you and remember it well, else next time it may be a month before you favor us with speech again. Now go! Take yourself out of my space and out of my sight!” With those words Alyeeta stretched out her arm again. Her hair lifted and coiled about her head, and blue sparks seemed to flash from it. Once more, she was pointing her first two fingers at Rishka.
Seeing Alyeeta thus occupied, I took my chance of escape and slipped out by another way. Whatever she wished to tell me would have to wait. Much as I loved Alyeeta, I could not face her at that moment. Also, I had a terror that she might try binding Rishka to my side by some further spell.
Once free from there, I ran all the way to the stream as if pursued by a pack of demons. Clothes and all, I threw myself into the water. After that I lay on the bank for awhile, basking in the sun and trying to forget all that I had just seen, or at least to lessen its hold on me. I have often wondered how different my life might have been if Ashai or Amelia had gone to Alyeeta’s shelter that morning instead of me.
For the rest of
that day I occupied myself as far from there as possible, working for Renaise, washing clothes and bedding down by the stream. I had hoped to stay well out of the way, but Zenoria found me easily enough. She came riding up with an anxious look on her face. “Do you know where Rishka is? I was told you were the one to ask.”
“Not here, thank the Goddess,” I answered, more sharply perhaps than I had meant to. The last thing I wanted to do at that moment was to think of where Rishka might be or, in fact, to think of Rishka at all. What I wanted was to have Zenoria and her questions gone. I longed to be left alone again with my washing. Instead, she slid off her horse and came over to squat by me where I was scrubbing on the rocks.
“Please, Tazzi, I am worried. No one seems to know where she is. She has not been to teach the new ones their riding.”
I cringed at those words, put down my soapstone, and turned to face her. “Zenoria, listen to me. You must not let her teach riding, at least not to those three new Shokarn. She hates them, hates them with a fury, especially Irdris. I fear she will do them some harm.”
“Not teach? But she is the best rider among us.”
“Zenoria, you must believe me in this.”
“Tazzi, what happened today? There is such strange talk in camp. Something about Alyeeta...”
I sighed and sat down. Plainly I was to have no peace from this, so I told her all I knew of what had happened that morning in Alyeeta’s shelter. At the end of it, much to my surprise, she shook her head and said, “Poor Rishka.”
“Poor Rishka, indeed!” I exclaimed. “She provoked Alyeeta unmercifully and brought it all down on her own head.” I answered all the more hotly for feeling forced to defend Alyeeta where I myself found her indefensible. Worst of all, I felt in some way tainted by this, as if I had had a part in it instead of doing my very best to avoid it. I knew Zenoria already distrusted the Witches, thinking them strange and frightening, though she had often said that Alyeeta was the least strange of them all. All this would do nothing to gain her trust.