The Birthgrave

by Tanith Lee

  I opened my eyes again, and found he was done with me, having bandaged both left arm and right, where I had ripped the skin tearing off my shield. Darak and Maggur were gone.

  “I sent them out,” the physician said sternly. “They made more fuss than you, young woman. When it was bad, you, at least, had the good sense to faint and save me the trouble of holding you down.” He was straightening his things and washing his hands. “There’s your arrowhead. You could sell it for ten silver pieces. And your hair, an inch or so would fetch a good price. The classic shot.” He grunted and did not look very approving. I suppose he had worse cases than I as a result of Ankurum’s Games.

  When he was gone, I lay still, in a kind of torpor, heavy, not sleepy, melancholy after the passion and fear. After a while I unclipped the left armlet, which was bothering me, and the little dry vine leaf fell onto the couch. I picked it up and at once it crumbled in my fingers. I had prayed to her in the manner of men, and she—had she heard? Was it she who had granted us the race, and granted me Darak’s life? Yet I had killed—Essandar. I had known he would die. What did she think of me now, that little doll-goddess in the hills?

  I got up, wondering where Darak had gone, anxious to shake off the fastening depression that had fallen on me in the aftermath.

  I pulled aside the curtain and went out into the corridor beyond. There was no one there. Everything was very quiet. I was suddenly, irrationally afraid. I did not even recall the way we had come. Then footsteps. I tensed. Around the left-hand corner came a limping shadow, over its shoulder a fall of dark cloth.

  “Here,” Bellan said, “take this cloak and put it on. I rejoice you’re not ashamed of your body, but it causes some interest too much.”

  I took the cloak and wrapped myself in it. His face was dry and closed and very weary; he seemed to bear the look I felt beneath the shireen.

  “A good race. And you won your shot. I knew you would. The practice track is one thing, the Straight another.”

  “Bellan,” I said softly, “I am sorry I took your man. He was not mine to take.”

  Bellan shrugged awkwardly, for the shrug comes from the arms, and the hands too.

  “I was glad to see him go—like that. Not even dead, I hear, but not much left. Even less—” He broke off. “For two years I have lived to see that man served as I was served by him, lived for it, lived because of it. And now”—he shook his head—“it’s done.”

  He began to walk, and I followed him.

  “The streets are packed,” he said. “We’ll get out as swift and quiet as we can. I sent your Darros on ahead. You’ll have enough of the mob tonight—the Warden’s feast for the Victors of the Games.”

  * * *

  We went to Raspar’s town house, which was small, and not even particularly elegant. I bathed, and lay quiet while the giant woman from the villa beat the bruises out of me. Then I slept. Waking, it was sunset, the brassy red splashed all across the white walls. I had not seen Darak since the physician had cut into my arm, and I did not see him now. Three strange women came and told me they would dress me for the Victor’s feast. I felt so tired and dull and empty, and it seemed as if I were going backward in time to the evening of the agent’s supper, which had begun it all.

  I must robe as a woman, it appeared, but in the chariot’s colors. They had three dresses ready and wanted me in scarlet silk, but I took instead the black velvet—a new fashion, and beautifully draped. Besides, its long close sleeves would hide my bandages. They dressed my hair, curled and plaited it, and strung it through with bright red beads like drops of blood. The shireen they had brought was incredible—black silk, embroidered around the eyes with scarlet thread. They had been even quicker than those others with the white dress.

  I sat for a while after they had gone, then left the room and went down the narrow stairs to the round hall. It was empty, except for Raspar, pouring himself a little wine at the porphyry table. He paused and bowed to me.

  “Good evening. Pardon me, I have not yet congratulated you on the race. I hope the arrow wound is not bad?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “That’s good. Essandar is dead; did they tell you?”

  I said nothing. He said, “Has Bellan informed you about the feast? Ah, well, you and Darros will ride in your chariot through the streets to the Warden’s mansion, lit by torches. There you will eat and drink, and receive various quite superfluous honors, in company with the other victors, and show yourselves from time to time on the large balcony. The Warden’s garden will be open to the people, and there will be free wine and meat. It will be noisy and probably tiresome. But there—” He came toward me, lifted my hand and kissed it as he had that first night. “Hard to believe this is the harlot-boy of the chariot—oh, forgive me, but how else can I express it? I know you are Darros’ property, so I’ll not press any flatteries on you. Besides, what would I do with a woman like you in my household?”

  “I am not Darros’ property,” I said, “nor he mine.”

  “As well,” Raspar said, “he has been with a lady since the race ended. Still, bad of me to try to tempt you that way. You must know him by now. The white bird calls, and he flies into her tree. But you are the nest, tribal princess. I think you know it.”

  His words seemed to make little sense. I was restless and uneasy. I crossed the room to one of its windows, and stared out, over the winding streets and leaning roofs, to the twilight.

  At that moment Darak came into the house, Darak, Ellak, Maggur, Gleer, and a half dozen others. He was very bold now with his host, having won his race for him. I turned and looked at Darak. He, too, wore the chariot colors—scarlet, black, and gold. He looked a god still; he was not drained or staled. He strode to me at once.

  “Did that sour-faced knife-monger get the arrowhead out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you want to know what I’ve been at?”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “Well, then, with some silly bitch, but profitably so. Her husband has his racers, too, it seems, and there are other Games to come, in Solls and Lascallum. How do you like me as a charioteer?”

  Was this some madness on him? Did he not recall what he was? And his men behind him, listening, hearing this threat of desertion—I glanced at them, but they grinned like stupid dogs. Perhaps this was some new game. His long black hair was a little shorter than I remembered. He sensed my eyes.

  “They’ll buy it,” he said. “Oh, but it wasn’t sold. A woman sent begging for a piece of it.”

  He took my hand, turned and saluted Raspar for the first time—yet it was the salute of the chariots.

  “The torchbearers are at your gates, and the grooms have the chariot out.”

  Raspar raised the cup, and watched us go with slightly narrowed eyes, out into the falling night.

  Ten torchbearers, their brands flaring dull gold, the chariot, drawn no longer by Raspar’s blacks, but by three ebony plodders dressed up to look the same, and escorting black horses for Darak’s men.

  “Tonight,” he said to me, “I’ll get Ellak’s brawling fools from the Warden’s dungeons—as a Victor’s boon.”

  We were in the chariot, but it no longer had the feel of life to it. Its soul was gone, or asleep. Slowly we wound down the streets to other broader streets, and there linked with other torches and colored lanterns, and the procession of Victors on their mounts. In this glimmering, limping way, we coiled like a serpent, upward toward the fortress-house of the Warden.

  More and more people, milling into the open squares before the mansion, and into the gardens at its back.

  The laughter and shouts went through my body and brain like knives. I heard them roar for Darak, and the cries, “The tribal-woman!”

  It was empty. No longer was I a god in that place.

  * * *

  There were ten pillars at the Warden
’s portico, and ten more inside, all marble, gilded at the capitals and bases, and inlaid with blue mosaic. There was a great sense of bright light, smoke, movement, and twanging music from little harps. We reached an upper-story room, enormous, running the length of the whole mansion, open at two ends, where massive pillared balconies leaned out, one over the squares, the other over the gardens. The room was golden—all gold. There were frescoes and paintings on floor and ceiling, but I do not remember them; their figures seemed all mixed in with the people in the room. Beyond the balcony hung the dark blue night, split occasionally by pale blue lightning, and below, a sea of colored lamps, torches, and roasting fires.

  There are many victors in the Games at Ankurum; boxers, acrobats, fighters, but the places at the high table, where the Warden sits, go to the winners of the horse races, the chariot races, and the Sagare. The plates are enamel and gold, the cups black jasper set with semiprecious stones. What you eat off is yours to keep, and women in transparent gauze come by from time to time and lay little trinkets at your elbow—gold knives and pins—all useless toys, but pretty enough.

  Darak was seated at the Warden’s right hand—the place of highest honor! By his side was a beautiful woman with pure golden hair that seemed natural though one could not be sure of such things in Ankurum. On the Warden’s left sat Gillan of Solls in his white, grinning to himself now and again, possibly at the irony of his position. I, as the archer who had taken the classic shot, sat beside Gillan, and Gillan was very wary of me, overgracious in a bluff, rough way, and silent for the rest of the while. Other charioteers and racers, and I suppose Gillan’s archer, ranged down the table, interspersed with the beauties of the Warden’s court. I do not remember any of them. To be courteous and appear to eat, while eating as little as possible, was preoccupation enough. I felt ill throughout the courses and was uncertain of the reason. The hall seemed burning and miasmic.

  We sat along one side of the table only, and below us the other tables stretched out, noisier and less formal than ours. Darak’s men, the few he had brought with him, were in among that throng, guzzling and gnawing. I hoped vaguely there would be no trouble, for the Warden’s guard, as was usual enough at such a function, were arranged thickly around the walls, particularly at the Warden’s back. I watched his fleshy ringed hands neatly skewering his food. The pains began in my stomach.

  I must leave this place. The thought came sudden and ice-cold. At once I saw the room as though it had been frozen, paler, almost transparent. I forgot the dictates of etiquette. I was about to get up and say— I was not certain, perhaps I would simply run down among the tables to the door. But the Warden’s jeweled hand went up, a lordly flick, a horn sounded, and he rose. Comparative silence fell. He was about to toast the Victors. Impaled by the moment, I sat still and did not move. A sea of faces, nodding a little, touched gold by light, smiling, laughing, harmonious. The Warden lifting his silver cup again and again as the Speaker cried out the Victors’ names and towns, and the horn echoed him, and the shouts and cheers. And then the trained voice with its slight overemphasis, “Victor of the Sagare: Darros of Sigko.”

  The great roar and clapping, the Warden bending smiling toward Darak. And then that fleshy hand, waving the sound gently down.

  Still standing, the Warden lowered his cup to the table.

  “Darros of Sigko,” he repeated, his rich voice carrying. “We know him well, do we not? The courageous merchant who brought his caravan safe to Ankurum, a feat unparalleled—and then rode to win the empress of our races, the Sagare.” Cheers beat up like birds, and gently again he waved them down. Smiling still, he leaned out toward the tables now. “And one more thing our Darros had done. He has deceived us all.” The silence grew closer. The Warden laughed a little. “The Victor of our Sagare is, in fact, nothing more than a thief, a murderer, and a bandit—Darak, the gold-fisher, the scum of the northern hills.” He turned to Darak and nodded. “Your little game is over, charioteer.”

  The guards started forward from the walls behind us, ten men straight toward Darak. There was uproar below now, and some women were screaming. We had brought no weapons into the hall with us; it was not etiquette to do so. I could not seem to move. I saw Darak standing, leaning back against the table, grinning at the ten who had come to take him. I am not sure how I saw, for Gillan and the Warden were between us. I saw Darak’s hand reach back onto the table and pick up one of those toy golden knives they had given us—useless, it would bend, not bite—yet one of the guard saw that movement. The iron guard-sword licked out and forward. I heard Darak gasp. His hands fell to his sides. He looked at the man, almost lazily, his mouth still curved, not knowing quite yet that he was dead. Two guards caught him between them as he fell, hoisted him, and began to carry him out. They had been very quick, no blood even spilled on this golden table. Two of them had my arms, had had them, I realized now, since the Warden first spoke his accusation. They were pulling me up and away with them. I think they had put something in my cup, in Darak’s too; my legs were like heavy iron as they dragged me. And Darak’s men had been so quickly subdued in the body of the hall. Yet they had not kept it so tidy there. Ellak and another man lay dead. One guard was dying, several bloody. Women’s white faces stared at us as we passed, like a funeral procession, following Darak’s corpse.

  His head hung back, the face very still, his mouth firmly closed, solemn now in death. His scarlet cloak trailed behind him.

  Scarlet for the vine. Little doll-goddess, you took your offering after all, then—death for death, little goddess of the scarlet vine.

  10

  “Karrakaz!” I screamed down the black places of the mountain. “Karrakaz, et So! Et So—Sestorra!”

  A hand clamped my mouth. I was shaken from one dark to another. Maggur’s eyes, red-shot in the gloom.

  “Ssh, Imma, who do you call out to?”

  Strange, he did not know the old tongue, yet he seemed to know what I had said. I lay quiet on the rank filthy straw of the prison room.

  “What time is it, Maggur? How long now?”

  He shook his head. “Sun looks low from the grating. Near sunset.”

  There were other men in the stone chamber—all they had caught from the hostelry. Those that had been brought here before the feast of Victors, after their brothel brawl, we neither saw nor had any word of.

  We had been here two days now, and to begin with they had laughed and jibed at the guard outside, throwing out bones at them from the door hole. They had told stories: “Yes, Slak’s lot got away, took a few pieces of these pigs’ hide with ’em, too.” Now their spirit was burned out in the dank black hole, stinking with their own excrement and fear. We were all to be hanged—publicly. And we were to go to it three a day. You were not sure when they would come for you, or who they would pick. The first time the three had gone with a salute and a swagger. Men climbed up to the grating high in the wall and saw them dangle in the square. The second time it was less bold, that going out. That second day, too, there had been a fourth man strung up. They had hung Darak’s dead body with the rest.

  How the crowds had roared at it, in the square, loud as they had roared in the Sirkunix. Louder. Life loves to look on death.

  A man at the window—I cannot remember who—spat out of the grating.

  “On you, you sty of a stinking town.”

  Yet I had not been dreaming of Darak, but of the Mountain, and I had run toward the altar crying, “Here am I! Here am I! The Accursed One!”

  I sat up. My hair was tangled with the straw, and the red beads still hung in it.

  “How long, Maggur?” I whispered. “Will they leave me until last, Maggur, because I took the classic shot?”

  But it would come. The reins around my throat, the running horses. I would hear the crowd yell as they broke my neck.

  Maggur put his great arm around me, and I leaned on him in the darkness.

 
* * *

  The next day, the footsteps came at noon.

  Door rasping, spill of ocher torchlight from the night-dark passages outside. Six guards, with drawn swords, and two jailers.

  “Out. You, you, and the black one.”

  Two of the men rose—one of them was Gleer. Maggur got up more slowly, his hand lingering on my arm. Gleer began to whistle, a brothel song; the other man made a little lunge at the guard that brought all their swords up in a knot, and laughed at them.

  “Come on, you, the black one. You won’t be losing your girlfriend yet awhile, she’s coming too.”

  I took Maggur’s hand and let him draw me up. The four of us walked toward the door. I do not think I was afraid. There must be substance to breed fear, and I was hollow. The door clanged shut behind, and we were herded through the pitch-black runnels of that foul warren, guided by the jailers’ murky brands. After a time there were stairs, and at the top a corridor stretching to left and right. Two of the guard suddenly swung me aside from the rest, pulling me right while Maggur and the others were marched left. Maggur halted at once, ignoring the prodding swords, the cuffs and curses. He was a giant of a man. Here, in this narrow place, he could throw two or three of them off his back like a wild dog, shake them and throw them, until they had hacked him to pieces. I shook my head at him. I knew what he thought, what I thought too, that I was to pleasure some of the guards before they took me out. It was nothing. Only one more thing to accomplish before death. He seemed to sense my lack of concern. He let them turn him around, and was led away, into the darkness behind the worm-tail of receding torchlight.