Diadem from the Stars

by Clayton, Jo;

  Aleytys smiled tenderly as the tiny animal sat up on its hind feet, draping its delicate forefeet over its mottled green stomach fur.

  The caravaner reached down and lifted the mikhmikh. It nestled in his hand like an animated ball of fur, changing color to the sunburned brown of his flesh. As it settled, its long fluffy tail curled neatly around his wrist. After a minute he set the mikhmikh back down on the ground and released it.

  The timid animal scrambled to its feet and scrurried across the path.

  Aleytys reached out and soothed the terrified mikhmikh. She coaxed it back to her hand. Nervous feet pricking across her palm delighted her and she stroked the trembling body with gentle fingertips. At first the tiny heart beat wildly, knocking against the palm of her hand. Then it gradually slowed and the mikhmikh closed its eyes, purring with pleasure, an almost inaudible minuscule sound that enchanted her, as she rubbed her fingers along the knobs of its arching spine. Moving very carefully, she set the mikhmikh on the ground and watched it scamper off. Then she stood up.

  “You leaving?”

  “I’d better.” She hesitated and scraped the toe of her sandal across the sand of the path. “I … I suppose I’d better warn you. Don’t talk about me. Not if you want to stay out of trouble.”

  “I thought …” A vague puzzlement sounded in his hoarse voice. “I don’t understand. The last time I was here I lay with a valley woman. Other valleys the same. Your men don’t care who your women play with.”

  Aleytys laughed, a hard bitter sound. “You probably found Kahruba. She’s a very pious blesser of the Madar. Never misses a chance. Me, I’m different.” The corners of her mouth dragged down in an unhappy grimace. “Damned different.” She examined him curiously. “I suppose your people are different even more so. We bless the Madar, but you don’t really understand, do you? I suppose there’re others like Kahruba, but most share joy only with those they have affection for. It’s a part of our beliefs. The deeper the joy, the better our beasts thrive, our fields produce, the better the Madar is pleased with us.” She shrugged. “We bless the Madar, you slice the throats of women who wander. I think I prefer our way.”

  “Your men, they have no pride to let another man take what’s theirs?”

  “Theirs?” She frowned. “Nobody owns another person.”

  He lowered his eyes. She examined the stiffness of his muscles. “Nobody,” she repeated firmly. “You don’t believe that?”

  “What about those you call asiri?”

  “We don’t own them. They’re part of the clan. Just like … I was going to say just like me. But that’s wrong. More than me.”

  He said nothing, but his disbelief was almost palpable.

  She sniffed. “What’s it matter, anyway? Like I said, don’t tell …”

  Before she could finish her sentence, a pebble came flying down the path and bounced off the caravaner’s shoulder. He jumped to his feet.

  A small boy—about Kur’s size, Aleytys thought—popped out of the zardagul bush near the bend in the path and stood grinning at them. A catapult dangled from one hand and a small sack of stones from the other. Aleytys was startled and revolted by the malicious cruelty in the small face.

  “Gryman’s gotta gurrul, gryman’s gotta gurrul.…” Over and over again, like a knife worried back and forth in a wound, he chanted those words, punctuating them with more catapulted stones.

  Aleytys waited for the caravaner to do something, waited for him to grab the boy and teach him some manners.

  The caravaner bent his head and seemed to shrivel as she watched.

  “Ai-Aschla, caravaner!” She stared at him in disgust. “You going to let him get away with that?”

  He looked silently at the ground. Another stone bounced off his cheek, leaving a pinkish stain in the pallor. Aleytys shook her head.

  Then the boy missed his aim and one of the pebbles grazed her cheek. She leaped at him. Alarm chased the mockery from his face and he scrambled backward toward the bush, but Aleytys was too fast. Her hand closed on his thin shoulder and jerked him back into the middle of the path. He yelled angrily, struggling to pull free, wriggling, scratching, biting, cursing viciously. Aleytys dropped to one knee and upended him over the other. She heated up his behind with a series of good healthy smacks, ignoring both his wails and his curses. Then she set him on his feet again, keeping a firm hold on one wrist.

  “You don’t need these, little rat.” She flung the catapult and the bag of pebbles into the river.

  The boy twisted his head and spit into her face. She slapped him hard. “Mind your manners, rat.” Using his shirt sleeve, she wiped her face clean.

  “I tell me father and he’ll kill you.”

  “Are you finished?” she asked coolly.

  He glowered at her.

  “Then shut up.” She tightened her fingers on his wrist and kept her voice soft and deadly. “You’ve the manners of a half-witted maimun. Until you’re old enough to defend your right to be obnoxious, learn to control your baser impulses. Tell your father what you damn well like.” She laughed, blue-green eyes glinting fiercely—or so she hoped. “But remember this.” She bent over him and breathed the words into his face. “I’m a witch and I’ll put such a curse on you, you’ll get a crooked neck looking over your shoulder for the rest of a miserable life.”

  “Witch? I don’t believe you.” He tried to speak defiantly, but his voice cracked and he was no longer pulling away from her. Wary respect began to replace the fury in his face.

  Aleytys sensed a qush flying overhead and smiled again. She reached out and touched its tiny brain. To her delight the bird responded instantly. She flung up her free hand and snapped her fingers. As if in response to her summons the qush came slipping down in a long fierce glide. It landed beside her on the sand and fixed feral yellow eyes on the boy.

  “Look,” she said softly. “If I say, he’ll rip the eyes from your head.” She fluttered a hand and the qush leaped up, driving its wings hard. As the boy cringed back, terrified, it landed on a branch above his head. “Whenever you see a qush circling overhead, young rat, remember I can look through his eyes.”

  He gulped.

  “Well?” She raised her hand.

  “N-no. No! Don’t!” He pulled away from her loosened grip and began sidling toward the bushes.

  “Mind your manners to your elders. Or you’ll get some more unpleasant surprises.” She gestured and sent the qush soaring free into the sky.

  “Y-yes, zaujeha.” He whirled and dived into the bushes. They could hear the crashing of his frantic progress slowly fade as he ran toward the common.

  “There.” She put her hand on the caravaner’s arm. “By the way, I never asked. What’s your name?”

  “Tarnsian.”

  “Do you see, Tarnsian? You’re not alone. Use your gift, don’t let it use you. You have allies everywhere. Fight, caravaner! Doormats are fine for wiping muddy feet on, but you’re a man.”

  He backed away from her and sat down on the bench, his face creased into a bland smile.

  Aleytys ran her hands through her hair and squeaked with frustration. “Ai-Aschla, I give up.”

  9

  Whistling softly under her breath, Aleytys padded down the hall while rubbing briskly at her damp hair. As she turned the corner by Azdar’s room, she heard quarreling voices. She slowed and listened. Qumri and Azdar. Arguing. She stopped walking and let the towel fall around her shoulders. The purple door was open slightly. Maybe if I get a little closer, she thought, I can hear.…

  “… can purge the valley, get rid of her!” Qumri apparently was forgetting caution in her angry obsession, letting her voice grow too loud in her urgent need to convince. Aleytys didn’t wait any longer. Running lightly on her toes, she crossed the square and plastered herself against the wall beside the door. Nervously holding her breath, she stretched up and pinched out the night candle over her head, then, more secure in the shadow, she sank down on her heels and listened hungril
y.

  “… the curse. No stone on stone in the house of Azdar. If you touch her …” Azdar’s growl sounded unusually tentative, as if he wanted deeply to follow her advice but was afraid, Aleytys thought. My father. Phah!

  “The Sha’ir says there’s a way.”

  “Ghair fi’ll What’s that snake doing crawling around my house?”

  “Listen, Azdar, I sent for him. No. No.” She seemed to be placating him. Aleytys ached to see inside, but she didn’t quite dare. She could only imagine the consternation on his face.

  “Listen,” Qumri went on tensely. “There is a way. The Atash nau-tavallud.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You know. Don’t play games with me, Azdar. Stupid games. The last time the valley called on Aschla in the Atash was two hundred three-year ago. At least, that’s what the Sha’ir said. You know the herdsfolk, they’re closer to Aschla than the houses.” Qumri’s voice sank into a low persuasive croon.

  For a minute there was a tense silence in the room. Aleytys stirred impatiently. A cramp seized her calf and she massaged the leg, bitting her lip at the pain.

  “Atash? Burn her?” Azdar’s voice broke the stillness. “She’s outclan, I know, but she’s still my blood. What would the houses think? How can I face the mard?”

  “Don’t think of it that way.” Her voice was soft, cooing, enticing. “You want to get rid of her. She’s like a bomb in the house. The mard won’t condemn you, they’ll bless you for getting rid of the danger she represents. Trust Aschla.”

  “Chalak …”

  “What’s he? You’ve said it yourself a hundred times. Nothing!”

  “He’s my son.”

  “Nothing!”

  A hand closed on Aleytys’s shoulder. She swallowed a yelp and stood up slowly. Heart bumping in her throat, she turned to face the man standing beside her. “Chalak,” she breathed.

  He laid a finger on his lips, then pointed down the hall. She nodded and padded rapidly after him. He waited beside her bedroom door.

  “May I enter, sabbiyya?”

  “Be welcome, abru sar.” She swallowed hastily and walked past him to sit down on the end of the bed.

  He stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him. “Well, Leyta?”

  She shrugged. “Well, brother?”

  “Eavesdroppers seldom hear pleasant hews.”

  “Yes, but they find out things they need to know.”

  “Perhaps. What will you do with what you heard?”

  “Do you know what I heard?”

  “A little.”

  “Tell me something.”

  “What?” He folded his arms over his chest and smiled gravely at her. “Will you listen to me later?”

  “Yes.” She patted her hand on the bed beside her and molded the quilt into a series of narrow ridges. Eyes fixed on her handiwork, she said, “What’s the Atash nau-tavallud?”

  The sound of breath sucked in hard jerked her head up. He looked grim. “I missed that,” he said. “I had hoped … You’re sure that’s what he said?”

  “What she said. Qumri.” Her chest felt oddly constricted so she stretched out her arms and pulled the air in deep, then exploded it out again. “Atashi. That’s an old word for fire.”

  “Aschla is the dark daughter,” he said slowly. His cool reserved face was suddenly filled with pain. “Leyta …”

  “Don’t,” she said hastily. “Just tell me.”

  “It’s an old rite, born out of man’s terrors, used when fear is stronger than reason, than humanity.” He looked down at his strong short-fingered hands. “The isan dana initiate the ritual. They gather and ask permission of Aschla to hold the Atash nau-tavallud and purge the vadi of the ruh kharab, the demon infecting it. They summon the Sha’ir, the Khohin, and the shura’. With the shura’ standing guard, the Sha’ir and the Khohin perform certain secret ceremonies over the body of a slaughtered stallion. After this, as an outcome of these ceremonies, a person is chosen out of the valley people.” His voice hoarsened. He cleared his throat and looked over her head toward the window.

  “Please finish.”

  “May I sit?”

  “Abru sar, be seated. I beg your pardon for forgetting this courtesy. Now will you please get on with it, brother?”

  He laughed and patted her hand. “Leyta, you always were the impatient one. Now is when you want things, right now. I think now was your very first word.”

  “Now’s a good word. So they choose a person. What happens then?” she shuddered. “You understand, I have a personal interest in this.”

  With a tired sigh, he said, “This is hard for me, Leyta. I can’t speak against the Madar, but I find the Atash rite difficult to accept.” Abruptly his voice grew harder. “And I won’t be a part of it!”

  She stared at him, surprised.

  He stood up and started pacing back and forth past the end of the bed, almost stepping on her feet. “After the person is chosen, with their own hands the Khohin and the Sha’ir set up an ’asa in the finjan Topaz and lay bundles of chub, hizum, and himeh around it, topping them with three handfuls of qua. In front of the entire vadi population—and not one is allowed to stay away, even the dying and women in labor—the chosen is taken in procession to the ’asa and tied there. The fire is lit and fed until all … until all is consumed and become ash. Then the ashes are carefully collected and divided into five parts. The first part is taken to the gates of the Raqsidan and buried where the two roads cross. The other four parts are taken east, west, north, and south and scattered to the winds with chants to Aschla. This, it is said, will purge the Raqsidan of the ruh kharab.” He leaned against the door and folded his arms across his chest. “Now you know.”

  Aletyys shuddered. “This time she’s got me.”

  He nodded. “With the Sha’ir and Azdar backing her the Khohin will have to follow.

  “Ziraki says the guilds will back me.”

  “It isn’t enough. You know that.”

  “What am I going to do?” Her words fell dully into the little silence.

  “What you’ve already decided to do, Leyta.”

  She looked up at him, startled. “What …”

  “Time is past for playing games.” His thin intelligent face creased into a smile. “Don’t name me fool, sister. I said I wouldn’t be part of this and I meant it. But …” He turned his head and gazed somberly at the east wall in the direction of Azdar’s bedroom. “He’s still the Azdar while he lives and I’ve got little direct authority.”

  “Chalak, I’m frightened.” She held out her shaking hands and he took them into his. “I don’t know anything out there. I don’t know anything but the valley.” She pulled her hands free and clenched them into fists. “I don’t want to go,” she muttered unhappily.

  “Have you a choice?” He dropped on the bed beside her. “You’d better try for the cities on the coast. But don’t tell me where you’re going. I’ll put food and other things you’ll need in the stables. Tomorrow …” He sighed and gently touched the top of her head with his fingertips. “By tomorrow night you’ve got to leave.”

  “No.” Her hands clenched into fists until her knuckles turned white.

  “Leyta.”

  “No.”

  He frowned impatiently. “Leyta, you’re being silly. You haven’t time to be stubborn.”

  She twisted her fingers together and stared numbly at them. “I’ve never been out of the valley, Chalak.” She twisted around on the bed to face him. “How do I act? What do I do? What do I say?”

  His fingers closed hard over hers in a comforting grip. “When there’s a choice, sister, between a painful and certain death and a chance for living, however slight …”

  “There’s ho choice.” She sighed. “You’re right, dammit.”

  “You take life.”

  “Every time.”

  “A long life, sister. And a happy one, I hope. Somewhere.…” He gently freed his hand and stood up. “I’ll put some bolts
of avrishum in the pack. That should help you live when you reach the Cities.”

  “Thank you, brother.”

  He bent toward her and once again gently touched her hair. “Madar bless, sister.”

  A shaky smile on her face, she nodded. “Madar bless, brother.”

  The smaller moon was an egg-sized dot on the edge of the world while the larger was a coppery melon, the hare standing on his head crowded into one corner of the almost-full oval. The thief sat in the shadow of the tent and watched the circle of witches moving purposefully through an incomprehensible ritual. Their voices came to him musically, clearly, in the still night air. In the center of the revolving group the diadem lay gathering in the light from the two moons.

  Her face stern and pale, Khateyat whispered, “The moon dancer. We will summon Mowat.” She looked down into N’frat’s wide awe-filled eyes. “We’ll spin the get hanat around this troublesome burden we have in our care so tight Myawo’ll find no chink to dig through.” She sucked in her breath. “Bring the man. He’s tied to the burden and must share the spell. Raqat.…”

  The warm-bodied nomad girl, the oldest of the young ones, walked hip-swaying and confident to the place where the thief was sitting. He looked up at her.

  “Come with me.” She held out her hand and helped him rise, then led him to the others, the chains on his legs clanking dispiritedly in the clear still air of the night. His pale eyes-glinted with curiosity as he turned his head from side to side, staring in turn at each of the women. Khateyat glanced at him, a slight smile curving her lips in tribute to his coolness. She moved to stand beside him while the others formed a circle around the two of them, each Shemqya one arm’s length from the other.

  “I have summoned Mowat only twice in my life,” Khateyat said, her voice a mere thread of sound. “One of you will be moon dancer. For all, this warning. Hold your souls strong and steady. Hold. Or you will be consumed.” She blinked. “You, thief.” She rested her hand on his shoulder. “You must sit very still. There.” She pointed to the bare ground beside the diadem, frowning at the covetous glitter in his eyes. “Your role is silence. Do you understand?”