“I think it was a fine wish,” Suzanne said. “So the next time you want something, you’ll have to work for it instead. What do you want now, Lucy?”
I thought about it. “I think I want to show this two-bit high school how the foxtrot is supposed to be done.”
Suzanne offered me her arm, and we headed for the dance floor.
SPIRIT STONE
ELISE MATTHESEN IS a Minneapolis artist who makes jewelry. For a while she specialized in long bead necklaces on linked wire, then started experimenting with wandering wire and now makes these glorious creations she calls necklace-crowns (because they can be worn either as choker, or tiara).
At Wiscon in 1998 I splurged and bought myself an Elise necklace. Then, to retroactively justify the purchase, I wrote a story about it.
This story is not set in the same world as the Freedom’s Gate trilogy, but the world of those books came from the same set of ideas, developed in more detail.
SARAI RECEIVED THE necklace as a bride-gift. Laran’s other wives muttered about that—Sarai was only fourteen years old, plain of face and narrow-hipped. If she conceived a child, she was as like as not to die in the birthing. But Sarai had been the protégé of Inka, her old clan’s midwife, and her small hands were said to be able to turn the most difficult breech birth and stanch the worst bleeding. Laran had leapt at the opportunity to take her to wife, and counted her cheap at twice the cost.
Sarai was enchanted with the necklace. It was made of linked metal chain, rather than cord; even if it broke, it could be easily mended and no beads would be lost. Held up as a single loop, it was almost as long as she was tall, with glittering cut crystals making up most of the length. Occasionally they alternated with beads made of polished wood. Most fascinating of all was the bead made of spirit-stone—a single grayish-green bead of polished rock, homely until you looked at the right angle and saw the shifting, translucent blue running inside. Sarai remembered being told that spirit-stones brought bad luck, but she shrugged that aside—they were rare and valuable, and this necklace was a token of Laran’s esteem for her. She spent most of the wedding ceremony studying the shifting color, and had to be prompted to speak when it was her turn to give consent to the marriage.
Sarai did look up, hesitantly, when it was time for Laran’s fourteen other wives to give their consent. Their faces were veiled, because of the presence of Sarai’s uncle, and it was difficult to read their expressions, but Laran’s first wife made no secret of her feelings. Kara glowered at Sarai over her veil, and her voice was bitter. Most of the other wives seemed resigned; one or two even seemed pleased.
Several of the wives were pregnant. Laran’s fourteenth wife, Merel, was very pregnant; according to Inka, it was her first pregnancy. Sarai scrutinized Merel’s posture and tried to guess if she was carrying a son or a daughter. It was difficult to tell without touching her belly, and seeing her standing up.
When all the gifts had been exchanged, Sarai followed Laran’s other wives to his tent, pitched just beside the tents of Sarai’s own clan. Once the tent flaps were down, the women shed their veils and crowded around Sarai, examining her like a camel. Elia, one of the pregnant wives, stroked her hair; another peered at her teeth.
Kara shouldered the others out of the way. She was a tall woman, with buckteeth and a long chin. She looked Sarai over and pinched the flesh of her upper arm to see how fat she was. “I’ll bet my amber earrings that she’s barren,” she announced to no one in particular. Sarai held herself still, knowing that any reaction would only encourage Kara.
“Look at you,” Kara said. “You look like a spider, you’re so skinny. Doesn’t your clan feed you?”
Sarai stared down at the ground, not answering.
“Well,” Kara said, and her voice was now sticky sweet, “At least Laran won’t starve you. Even when you get old, I’m sure you’ll be taken care of. Everyone pities a barren woman.” She sauntered away, giving Sarai a last gloating smile over her shoulder.
The tent was arranged for the wedding feast; Sarai took her seat in the place of honor. Sarai’s girl cousins brought in roasted lamb on huge platters, with fried chickpea crackers to scoop it up with; they served first Sarai, then Kara, then the rest of the wives. The food was excellent, but under Kara’s withering smirk, Sarai barely tasted it. Her dry mouth made her thirsty; at least the other wives poured her plenty of sweet wine, encouraging her to drink as much as she liked.
Late in the evening, Sarai heard a drum struck three times. Laran’s other wives hastily veiled themselves; a few moments later, Sarai’s uncle came in. Mirel and Elia solemnly swathed Sarai in a veil, then pushed her gently towards her uncle. Sarai stumbled over the edge of her own robe, she was so tipsy, and everyone laughed. “Let’s go, little bride,” her uncle said, and took her by the arm to help her. He led her to a small tent that had been pitched some distance away from the others. Then he kissed her solemnly on the forehead and waited as she went into the tent.
Laran was already there, stretched out across the pile of cushions and sheets. Sarai sat down ungracefully beside him; her head was spinning from all the wine. In the lamplight, now, she had her first good look at Laran. He looked kind enough, but old; rather like her uncle. He was staring down at his hands, and she wondered if she was supposed to do something, or if he would.
It was Laran who broke the silence. “Good night, little one,” he said, and kissed her on her forehead just as her uncle had. Then he lay down on his side and went to sleep.
Sarai lay down next to him, a bit puzzled. She hadn’t been sure what to expect, but it had been something...more. Then she closed her eyes for a moment, and the wine and her exhaustion swallowed her into dreamless sleep.
***
KARA WOKE SARAI at daybreak; Laran was nowhere to be seen. “Rise and greet the morning, little spider,” Kara said. As Sarai sat up blearily, Kara drew back in mock-apology. “Oh, I’m so terribly sorry. Does your head hurt? All that wine, and for nothing, too.”
Sarai closed her eyes for a moment; her head did hurt.
“None of that,” Kara said. “It’s time to get up even if you do have a hangover. You’ve packed your things, haven’t you? We’re getting ready to leave.”
Sarai had, of course, packed her possessions. Kara trailed after her as Sarai fetched them. “Is that all you have?” she asked. “They really don’t like you very much here, do they?”
If I’d had more, she’d have told me I was loading the camels down too much, Sarai thought.
“Do you have a tongue, little spider? I don’t think I’ve heard you say a word yet.”
Sarai dragged her eyes up to meet Kara’s spiteful glare. “I have a tongue.”
“Oh, good. It wouldn’t matter if Mirel lacked a tongue—Laran married her for her face, not her witty conversation—but midwives sometimes need to talk. To say things like ‘push’ or ‘almost there,’ you know.”
Sarai stared down again, this time at her necklace. The spirit-stone rested just over her diaphragm. It was at just the right angle to see the blue translucence. As she stared into the stone, she thought she saw—for a heartbeat—eyes, looking back at her.
“—listening to me, spider?”
Startled, Sarai looked up.
“Are midwives in your clan traditionally half-wits, or are you special?” Kara asked. “Let’s go. It’s time to load the camels.”
Sarai tied her bundle to the camel Kara pointed at, then untied it and retied it to the new camel when Kara changed her mind. Sarai spared a last glance back at her old home as Laran’s clan mounted their camels. Kara’s lips twisted in disdain at that, and Sarai knew that she’d just given Kara more to torment her with.
The caravan moved slowly; Sarai closed her eyes against the desert brightness. She felt as knotted inside as a tangled thread; to calm herself, she softly crooned the song that Inka sang to laboring mothers. She rolled the bead of spirit-stone gently in her fingers; it was cool at first, but warmed slowly as she t
ouched it.
Then—
What service do you require?
Sarai stiffened and looked behind her so wildly that she almost fell off her camel. Even as she twisted in her seat, though, she knew that she wasn’t hearing this voice with her ears.
What, she thought. Who...?
I am the spirit of the spell-chain. The voice paused. Then: Yours to command.
The spell-chain. You mean the necklace?
That chain of attractive rocks that’s looped around your neck—yes.
I don’t understand, Sarai thought.
There was a sigh, or something very much like it. Then she felt a strange queasy dizziness, and a tickling in the back of her skull.
I see you’re aware of Khelsar-Renet war, though your people simply call it “the War of the Mages.”
Sarai had never heard the names, but of course she’d heard of the war. The war that destroyed the cities.
This spell-chain was left at the end of the war, unused. Someone must have picked it up, and it’s been passed around as jewelry ever since.
Sarai finally gathered her wits enough to ask a question. What do you mean, spell-chain?
Mages draw their powers from wind spirits, which they trap in what you call spirit-stones. The voice paused, as if to reflect for a moment. Or rather, mages used to trap wind spirits in spirit-stones. The spell-chain shapes my power, making it easily controllable. Easy enough that even a tribal midwife can use my power. The voice paused, and again, Sarai felt the tickling in her skull. Then: I see that you’ve wanted power before. Now you have it. What do you want to do with it?
Sarai stared into the spirit-stone again. If you’ve been in this necklace since the cities burned—why hasn’t someone else used your power?
You were the first mage to carry me since the cities fell, the spirit said.
Sarai wondered what the spirit could possibly mean. But I’m not a mage.
There was a sharp sigh, as irritable-sounding as Kara. That much is clear, but nonetheless, you know a novice spell, and so I was able to make contact. The spirit hummed something in her head; after a moment, Sarai realized that it was Inka’s song.
That’s not a spell, Sarai said; That’s just a song we sing to calm women in labor.
If that’s all it is, then you waste your talents, the spirit said. Regardless, you can hear me, and I can hear you. That’s all that necessary for you to use my powers. Ask, and I will do your bidding. Anything.
Sarai saw Kara looking at her with narrowed eyes, and hid her smile in her scarf.
Would you like to lead this clan? the spirit asked.
Sarai looked around at the caravan, each person robed heavily against the dry desert air. Kara was ignoring her. Merel sat uncomfortably on her camel, heavy in her late pregnancy. Again, Sarai found herself trying to guess the sex of the child, and reluctantly pulled her mind back to the spirit’s question. What do you mean, lead the clan?
I can make them do as you bid. I can give you the power of life and death over all of them—including your husband. You will eat the choicest food; you will sit in the place of honor each night; none will dare oppose you.
They will fear me. Me? Sarai asked.
Yes. They will fear you.
Let me think about it, Sarai said.
There was a sense of assent, and the spirit fell silent.
***
SARAI HAD GROWN up surrounded by whispers and covert glances. She understood at an early age that the pity of her family was the only coin she possessed, but not quite why. Her cousins had mothers, who had been brought from various tribes, as well as a father—Sarai’s uncle. Sarai herself had only a mother, and after her mother died, she had no one at all. Her mother had been married honorably—one of Sarai’s aunts had impressed this upon her—but had been dissatisfied with her husband, and had come home to live on her brother’s charity.
“Husband?” Inka spat, when Sarai asked her about this. “That camel’s ass tried to kill her. Your mother came here when she was pregnant with you, because with the beatings he gave her she was afraid she’d lose you. Don’t worry, Sarai. Your uncle is a better man than his father, or yours. He’ll find you a good man, not a jackal.” Inka herself had been married to Sarai’s uncle’s father; she was not Sarai’s uncle’s mother, but was welcomed to the clan for her skill at midwifery.
Sarai nodded, and edged a little closer to Inka. In the years after her mother died, it was a brother she wanted most, not a father. A brother would have defended her from the cousin who tripped her as she was gathering the camel dung, the cousin who threatened to push her in to the well, and the cousin who filled her own stomach with food stolen from Sarai.
A brother.
The spirit had been silent for a while, but now it roused itself with a rustled whisper. You don’t need a brother, it said. You have me.
You.
You can have anything you want. Do you want power?
Sarai fingered the necklace of beads gently, watching the sun catch on the facets of crystal. She had been frightened for months after Tanat threatened to push her into the well. She had taken care to fetch water when he was occupied with his own chores. After several months of careful watching she discovered that she was not the only one who feared him. For a while, Tanat had whatever he wanted—the tenderest meat, strongest wine, the fastest camel. But he was bitterly disliked by everyone but his own mother—even his sisters hated him. One day the young men went to raid a rival clan, and as always Tanat claimed the fastest camel. Sarai saw the faint smiles as everyone said, He’s yours.
When Tanat did not come back from the raid, everyone pretended to be terribly shocked, and desperately sad. “We told him to hold back,” the other cousins said sadly. “We told him it would be foolish to ride ahead of us, to attack the other clan all by himself. But you know Tanat. He always liked to be first.” Everyone but Tanat’s mother had a lighter step for weeks.
I don’t want to be feared, Sarai thought.
What do you want?
I’ll think about it.
***
THEY REACHED LARAN’S home territory after three days of riding. They met his flocks first, watched by his daughters; a little while later they reached his main camp. His eldest son came out to meet them. When he formally kissed Sarai on both cheeks, she realized that he was older than she was.
The women could take off their veils, now that they were home with only kinsmen to see them. It was Sarai’s first opportunity to see the women by daylight. Kara was even less attractive in good light; her buck teeth were mottled brown, and several were missing. Mirel, on the other hand—her long lashes and huge eyes had been visible over her veil, but her flawless skin and perfect bow-shaped lips had not. She was devastatingly beautiful, by far the most beautiful of Laran’s wives, and even the slight puffiness of late pregnancy hadn’t marred her. She helped to unload the camels, waddling a bit. She’s definitely carrying a boy, Sarai thought, studying her.
Mirel turned and beckoned to her. “You’ll sleep next to me when you’re not with Laran,” she said. “I’ll show you where.”
Laran’s wives slept in one big tent, along with most of their children. Mirel slept near the door, and she unrolled Sarai’s blankets beside hers. Sarai set her own little bundle down next to her. The other wives came in to put away their own belongings, then went out to help finish unpacking. Mirel sat down on her sleeping rug, picking up Sarai’s bundle to help her unpack.
“Kara said that you’d brought very little,” Mirel said. “She made it sound like you were coming with the clothes on your back and nothing else!” Mirel spoke lightly, but Sarai felt an odd shame anyway.
“Herbs,” she said, pointing to her bundle. “I’m a midwife.”
“I know,” Mirel said. “I was so glad when I heard that Laran was going to marry you—this is my first pregnancy.”
“May I?” Sarai asked, reaching towards Mirel’s belly.
“Of course,” Mirel said.
Sarai slipped her hand under the layers of Mirel’s robes, feeling her belly and the baby inside. It wasn’t a great big child, which was just as well; Mirel wasn’t a big woman. The baby wasn’t quite in the right position yet, but it felt like it would probably turn in time. And a boy—Sarai was certain.
“It feels like a fine healthy son,” Sarai said with a smile.
Mirel burst into sobs. “I’m so sorry,” she gasped after a moment. “You must think I’m crazy—”
“You’re no crazier than any other woman pregnant with her first baby,” Sarai said, stroking Mirel’s hand. She let Mirel cry for a few minutes, then asked, “Were you very worried?”
“Kara dreamed a few months ago that my child was stillborn,” Mirel said, when she could speak again.
“Does Kara dream with accuracy often?”
“I don’t know,” Mirel said. “I’ve only been Laran’s wife for a year and a half.”
“Has she had a useful dream in that time?” Sarai asked. Mirel shook her head. “And—please don’t take this the wrong way—does she like you?”
“She hates me,” Mirel said, with a little laugh.
“Is she the sort of woman who would tell you about that sort of dream just to upset you?”
“Honestly? She’s the sort of woman who would make it up completely.” Mirel shook her head. “I don’t know why I let her worry me so much.”
“Well, I know what I’m talking about,” Sarai said. “Your son will be born healthy and alive.”
Mirel wiped her eyes and smiled, clasping Sarai’s hand. Mirel was beautiful even with red eyes and a tear-streaked face, and touching her soft hand, Sarai realized with a certainty as cold as the night wind why Laran had treated her on her wedding night as if she were his niece, not his wife. Mirel, his newest and most beautiful wife, was pregnant—and frightened. He had heard that Sarai was a skilled midwife—and so he had asked for her as a wife, because it was the only way he could have her. Yet, like Kara, he thought Sarai too weak to bear children—and so he did not intend to give her any. She had been wed to deliver the children of other women, Sarai realized, looking at Mirel. Not to have sons of her own.
Comrade Grandmother and Other Stories Page 10