It was time again to move the sheep and goats to another mountain, a different
pasture. Most of the adults of the Sanctuary were on the hills, shifting the
herds, separating out the ewes and lambs, combing the new slopes for bees'
nests and snakes and dens of the predators that might prove threats to the new
herds. Merra had charge of the children this day, and had brought them to play
in the ruins of the temple down by the stream. In fact, at the bustling
suggestion of Lismene, eldest of two orphan girls adopted by Eusobeus from the
town in the valley, they were making a game of clearing away the broken tiles,
glass, and debris from the floor of the open shrine.
The marble and moss of the quiet place were disturbed by the unusual sound of
laughter and of song, for Merra's chief gift was her voice, and the children
never tired of begging her for more stories, more music. She taught them
ballads and snatches of hymns whose origins she could not remember; they taught
her the silly songs and nonsense rhymes of the villagers and of their own
design. Every time Merra paused for breath, the little ones clamored for more.
"Enough, enough!" she cried at last, laughing. "We will wake up the whole
forest. My voice may have hurt the birds' ears, I sing so shrilly. Hismone,
don't look so sad, I'll tell thee a story."
Lismene, perched regally atop the mountain-column to direct the work of
clearing the temple, nudged her quiet sister polishing a carving below her bare
feet. "Now, Hismone, don't fret. Thou'rt irking the Lady."
From the grassy space before the temple one of the boys let loose an excited
cry. "Io! Oi! Come see what I found!" The swarm quickly stampeded out of the
covered area and onto the lawn, leaving the little shrine deserted.
Merra arched an eyebrow at Hismone, who remained where she was, continuing to
pick halfheartedly at the moss in the cracks of the carving with a stiff reed.
"What's wrong, child? Thou'rt as silent as a cloud this day."
Before Hismone could speak, the other girl answered for her. "It's only silly
love. Hismone has eyes for the master's grandson, the new boy, but he's always
with his father and will not play with her."
The dark girl's hands stopped, and she hid her eyes under a mop of mud-colored
curls, not looking up at her sister nor at the familiar yet frightening veiled
face of their odd warden.
"Lismene," Merra chided. "`Tis not all who can keep so wise and moderate a
temper as thee. Let her be. Perhaps thou couldst watch over the little ones
for us for a while. See that Tomi hasn't found anything of harm."
Bursting with responsibility, the elder girl immediately abandoned them,
picking up the hem of her tunic, hopping to the floor, and pattering out and
down the steps to the grass outside. Her quiet sibling relaxed a little and
peeked back at Merra with a drab smile of thanks. While the girls seldom
quarrelled, it was only because of Hismone's patience.
Merra crouched down with a rustle of skirts to be on level with the younger
girl. "She is right, though; thou'rt not thyself these days. Is it Tavian? Or
art lonely again? Thou and she have been here longer than any of the other
children, two years now, and yet sometimes I think thou art but newly arrived,
still shy of strange Merra and these wild men and women who live on the
mountain."
Hismone shook her head and mumbled, "I'm not scared of you anymore, Merra, you
know that." Unlike her sister, she had never adopted the formal turn of speech
that the master and a few others still used in memory of things that mattered
to them. "I guess it is Tavian. I don't know. But why did she have to go and
tell all the other children? He'll hear, and he'll think I'm simple."
"The younger ones don't care and don't remember. And if a word does come his
way, and he does not dismiss it as more of thy sister's own foolishness, what
harm's there? Perhaps he will take notice of thee. He is a newcomer here too,
remember; he only follows his father's footsteps because he doesn't know any of
us. He could use a friend."
Hismone's round features puckered in a doubtful frown. "I don't know. He
hunts, he herds the sheep: he's almost a man. And I'm just a girl."
Merra gave a short little laugh. "Oh, but he was leaping for the stars with the
rest of thee! He is thine own age, and thou'rt a growing girl too. Do I not
see thee helping with the stores, and taking thy turn at tending the fires and
the pens?"
Hismone flushed, wrinking her hands in her coarse-woven dress. "I like watching
the sunrise, before everyone else is awake," she explained shyly. "So do you.
I see you coming back to the house every morning."
The thin white cloth covering Merra's face crinkled in what Hismone knew was a
smile. "Sharp-eyed little dove. But come! I will speak to Tavian for thee,
if thou wishest. He likes to help me with the gardening, and sits by me many a
day."
"Oh, please don't, Merra, please. I'll... it's okay." Hismone looked
alarmed.
Merra rocked back on her ankles and said soothingly, "As thou wishest. But
come help us sometime with the weeding, and perhaps I shall leave the sooner so
that thou mayest speak with him. And so--"
Lismene's shout for Merra interrupted her thought. The young woman looked up
with a sigh. "And so shall we rejoin the others?"
Hismone nodded meekly and reached out to take her hand, before remembering
Merra did not often suffer to be touched. The younger girl quickly altered the
movement to reach towards the pillar for support as she stood, head coming
barely to Merra's elbow when she followed her out to the forest's edge. The
children there were all clustered around one corner of the clearing, clumped
near a tangle of low bushes and whispering excitedly. Merra sailed through
the small crowd with the ease of a skiff through reeds as they sensed and moved
aside for her. Hismone, following, saw that Tomi, one of the youngest, was on
his hands and knees with his face against the ground poking at something in the
shadows with a stick.
"It's a rockfisher," Lismene announced promptly, standing behind him
watchfully.
"It's a cat," the boy said proudly, as a black paw swiped at the stick. Merra
felt a chill prickle the small of her back, and heard a faint growling sound
almost drowned out by the children's chattering.
"Leave it, Tomi," she ordered. "I have an idea. All of thee, go to the stream,
and wait for me to call." She clapped her hands.
Thinking it was another game, most of the children obeyed, murmuring like
bees. Tomi stayed where he was, however, and Lismene too, stooped beside him
and peering into the bushes curiously. Then he pulled his hand back with a
yelp. "It bites!"
"Let me see," Lismone said briskly, but Merra stepped forward and scooped up
the boy in her arms, dragging him back. "Lismone, do come away. It might nip
thee next."
"Down!" Helga cried suddenly behind her. "Down!"
Merra crumpled to the grass with the squirming boy cradled under her body as a
dark snarling shape burst out of the bushes before her and hurtled over her
back. She gasped as something sharp just caught one shoulder as it passed over
her. She lifted her head at Hismone's stifled scream, and saw the sinuous
black shape of the bristling predator, a ytrix, looking from one to the other
of them with unblinking silver eyes, and at those terrified children who had
not already started back for the river scattering across the grass. Lismene
had already fled with them, out of harm's immediate grasp. Her sister, feet
frozen fast, stooped to reach for a branch, but halted stone still as the
hunting cat uttered a low snarl at the movement. Merra made a curious growling
sound in the back of her throat, both in fear and trying to distract it, and
then threw her head and arms again over Tomi as it spun to face her, long thick
tail lashing. With a thump, the springing animal rammed into her hip, but the
expected claws did not come, and it uttered a pitiful keening mewl. There was
a soft whoosh and plunk, and Merra opened her eyes to see two feathered shaft
buried in the huge cat's neck as it fell in a heap beside her.
Merra uttered a silent prayer to the Mother of the woods as she stumbled away
and rocked Tomi in her arms, now sniffling and crying with his hands in his
mouth. A sandy-haired head emerged from the denser trees leaning against the
far side of the temple, and Tavian came running and slipping over the broken
tiled floor, bow in hand and another arrow nocked downward on the string.
"Are you hurt, Lady?" he asked anxiously, coming to a halt and panting hard.
"Nay, only shaken," Merra replied gratefully. "My thanks, both of thee. And
Tavian, that was a shot worthy of the Moon's bow. Shhh, Tomi, it's dead now,
it's all right."
Tavian blushed and ducked his eyes, then stepped over to kick the warm flank of
the cat with his bow half-drawn over its side, making sure it was dead.
Hismone gave a little gasp and pointed at the bushes again, to the ground where
Tomi first had discovered his dangerous plaything. "Oh, get back, there's
another," the girl urged plaintively.
"Nonsense," Tavian asserted boldly, stepping towards the rustling leaves. "They
always travel alone." Nevertheless, he pulled the arrow back to his ear as he
drew close, peering fixedly at the undergrowth.
"Tavian!" There was a bellowing shout from the woods behind them. "What are you
doing? I told you to keep away from the children!"
Merra's hold on Tomi's shoulders relaxed a little at the voice. "`Tis well,
Dagus," she called quickly. "Do come here, and have thy knife. There is an
animal. Children, go to the river, now! Please."
Lismene, standing frozen among the others at the edge of the grass, finally
shook off her trance at Merra's plea and started herding away the others, some
now crying like Tomi in their fright. Meanwhile, it seemed to take a day for
Dagus, puffing and panting, to come through the temple, hunting spear in hand
and a great shapeless lump slung over his shoulders like a huge yoke. This
proved to be the body of a stag, which he set down on the foot of the broken
steps with a heavy grunt. As he straightened he spied he body of the predator
crumpled in the grass near Merra's feet.
"Not just any animal!" he exclaimed, striding over to join them. He bent to
touch one of the arrow's fletchings and then glanced up at Tavian, a proud
smile on his square face. "Not bad, son. Try to get the first shot right, next
time." Then he followed Tavian's gaze towards the bushes, forehead wrinkling
in puzzlement. "What is it?" he asked briskly, drawing his knife belatedly.
"It's a cub," Tavian said suddenly, lowering his bow. "That's what it is."
"Kitten?" Tomi asked, breaking off his whimpering and lifting his head from
Merra's breast. By this time Hismone had come over too, and was stroking his
hair silently.
Dagus released a deep breath. "Yes, but it could still nip a finger. Tavian,
watch it," he said, but sounding far less worried. "Watch it." Then he turned
to look at Merra. "You all right? The children?"
Merra nodded again, giving the silent girl a sidelong look. "I think so."
Hismone was staring at Merra's left shoulder. "Merra, you're hurt," she
mumbled, low and indistinctly. "Here, let me take Tomi. I'll go to the stream
with the others, make sure they're all right." She sounded almost more afraid
now than before, but reached out firmly to take the little boy's hands. Tomi,
by this time, was no longer squirming but still sniffling, and was quite happy
to be carried.
"Thanks," Merra said, standing quickly with her back to the bushes. "Go on,
Tomi, go with Hismone. Tavian, couldst thou go with her and see them safely
home?"
Tavian blinked and glanced up and over at his father, distracted from his
diligent vigil. Dagus nodded, and the boy lowered his bow again, giving Merra
a wistful glance. Then he turned towards the trail, not looking at Hismone as
he started off. "All right, then, come on."
Merra bit her lip watching them go, then turned back to Dagus, interrupting him
as he opened his mouth to question her further. "Stand back," she ordered
abruptly, in a sharp, clear tone which he had never heard in her voice, the few
times he had heard her speak.
Baffled, but instinctively obeying the veiled woman, Dagus rose to his feet and
retreated. Not sparing him a glance, and indeed as calm now as if none of the
past few minutes had happened, Merra knelt, reached into the undergrowth over
his startled protest, and drew forth a wriggling bundle about half the size of
the boy she had just relinquished to Hismone's care a moment ago. The
purple-spotted cub mewed and scrabbled at her sleeve, tearing it. She
murmured something under her breath, and it settled a little, wobbling in her
arms and sniffing her neck and the cloth swathing her face.
Dagus, shaking his head in amazement, let out a held breath as it began to suck
on her fingers. Bearing the cub in her arms as naturally as a baby, and veiled
head to foot except where her black hair spilled free of her cowl, Merra looked
as if she had stepped new-formed from the crumbling sculptures on the temple's
intricate columns. "Spirit," he muttered, echoing his son's assessment of her
only half-jokingly. Then his brows knitted, belatedly realizing something he'd
seen out of the corner of his eye while she was retrieving the cub. "Lady!
You didn't say it had actually attacked you! You're bleeding. I think," he
stammered, as she swung her head up to face him, expression hidden behind the
veil as usual.
"Yes," she said absently, stroking the kitten under its chin. "Dost thou
suppose goat's milk will suffice for it? It's not yet weaned."
Dagus opened and shut his mouth. "You can't be serious. It's a predator. The
children--"
"Will be kept away from it. Dagus, for shame. Thy boy slew its mother before
the shrine of the Lady of Beasts. Now She cannot fault him for protecting us
and the children, anymore than I fault the ytrix for trying to protect its own
cub. But 'tis not meet for us to abandon the cub before the very altar of the
forest-folk. It is orphaned now, too. It is my charge."
Reasoning and words always melted like clouds before the noon suns when he
faced her for any length of time, and the man, after a long pause, simply
nodded. "As you wish, Lady." He moved back towards the deer-carcass.
"And we should add the meat from the body of the mother to our feast this
evening, but also leave some of it here as an atonement-offering."
"Done," he grunted, shouldering his burden, trying not to stare in fascination
at the baffling young woman toying with her new pet, "As soon as I'm finished
skinning this. Or, I'll send Tavian back, since it was his arrow. Right?"
"Very good," she replied softly, letting the animal chew on her hair. "That
will do well. And thank him again for me. I thought thou and he wouldst be on
the mountain helping with the flocks; I forgot this is thy hunting-day. If he
hadn't come so timely, I fear matters would have gone ill for the children."
He shook his head with a slow smile; maybe it was just another symptom of her
madness, that she was terrified of adults, and serene as a swan with children
and with beasts. "And you," he reminded her. "Now go on, get you home too,
Lady, and let me find a pen for your little monster. Have Naone or your father
to see to your back; they'll want that tended to, and will be wroth with me if
I let you bleed." His voice shook a little on the word; old fears were still
hard to break, and he was grateful that the too-dark stain seeping through her
dress was out of sight from where he stood. So he was quick to stride towards
the path, lest he end up behind her on the way home. He could not hear her
footfalls at all as she paced silent as a cat behind him all the way back to
the bridge.
Lydia once again could not find their temperamental guest, but was no longer
quite so concerned, only exasperated, as she searched from room to room. None
of the servants had seen Lyra come or go, but the girl seemed to take great
pleasure in creeping soundlessly just past someone's back in plain view as if
she were getting away with some trick. Finally, although it was just past
midday when the team Lyra liked to watch would be taking their meal and rest
period, Lydia slipped out to the enclosed columned courtyard where Apheratos
usually held his lessons.
Lyra was indeed there. Lydia held back in the shade of the porch, clutching a
fine linen bundle in her arms and watching. The girl was spinning, leaping,
dropping to a one-legged crouch and then shoving off to twist up and away,
slashing at the air with her hands flat or curved like claws, even snarling.
Lydia, who had not seen her performance in the theater, was disturbed anew.
The darkblooded young woman seemed to her to be closer kin to ytrix than human.
The matron raised her head to call out to her, but took a hasty step backwards
as Lyra pivotted and leapt again, right onto the steps before her with knees
bent, body lowered, hands flat on the steps and elbows jutting up and out like
a spider's before she sprang again to her feet, hands flat and angled like
blades poised to fall. Lydia did not budge this time, merely gazing patiently
and steadily.
Lyra dropped her hands with a barking laugh and shook out her arms at her
sides, stretching the arch of one foot absently on a step. "Stout nerves, if
not wisdom," she observed. "What is it?"
Lydia shook her head. "I have something for you," she said, adjusting the heavy
bundle in her arms. "Lyra, what are you doing?"
The girl moved to the other foot, stretching it out slowly. "What does it look
like? Keeping my old skills vital."
"For what reason?" Lydia asked quietly. "You will not need them anymore."
Lyra looked pained. "Ah, so I should resign myself happily to sweeping floors
and carrying slop for the team and dodging boiling pots in the kitchen. I
think not. I don't plan to stay here forever, you know." She glanced absently
at the white cloth Lydia was holding, catching the colorful glint of patterns
woven into the panels and borders. "What is that, anyway?" She jerked her chin
roughly towards it.
"A present or three I've made for you. Some clothes of a better fit than my
boys' old hand-me-downs."
A flash of anger bolted across Lyra's face, but for once, she did not speak her
disagreeable thoughts. She took the first garment and let the hem fall loose,
actually smiling a little at the beautiful but fantastic figure of a blue
dragon coiled around the tunic's hem. "It's lovely," she said dubiously.
"What's wrong?"
Lyra shook the dress in her arms. "You! You might have been a priestess, a
star-watcher, a healer. So many things. Yet here you are, better than a
servant only in that your sons are not considered bastards."
Lydia drew herself up with quiet dignity. "Loom and managing the household are
quite enough of a duty for me, thank you. I need no office to take pride in my
work. Nor are humble tasks to despise."
"Yet your lord would not touch them, and you have no other choice. You are
wife, slave; there is no other garb for you."
Lydia smiled. "Perhaps in other's eyes. I keep my hand in with herbs and
prayer, however."
"For what reason?" Lyra shot back. "Apheratos killed the gods."
Hismone met them at the foot of the hill leading up to the Sanctuary carrying a
dark brown woollen bundle. Her eyes widened as she spotted the kitten in
Merra's arms, but she held out the cloak to the taller girl, stammering, "I
thought maybe you'd want this."
Merra's hands tightened a little, causing the cat to mew in protest, but she
nodded. "Yes," she replied shortly, stooping slightly so that the girl could
reach up to drape it over her shoulders. She scooped one hand around the
kitten's paw as it made a swipe for Hismone's hair, ignoring its squeak of
indignation. "Dagus, I see the Weaver coming down the hill even now. While she
chides me, thou shallt take my cub and put him in the old swine-pen behind the
kitchen."
"Of course," he answered, thinking this was hardly a matter of course as he
held out his arms gingerly to secure the animal. He was careful too not to
touch Merra's hands, which, he noticed, were longer than his own. The kitten
squirmed a little more, but a firm grip on the nape of its neck served to keep
it secure. He nodded to the two girls and cut his way up through the trees,
giving the weaver, Naone, a wry smile as he passed the stout woman trundling
determinedly down the path.
She winked back with a shake of her head. "Children," said she, and kept going,
intercepting Merra halfway.
Merra flinched as the small, stocky woman accosted and embraced her, smiling up
at her with a round face that wrinkled good-naturedly around the edges.
"Lismene says you've been playing games in the forest again, child," Naone said
lightly. "Found a new pet, have you? Or it found you. At least there aren't
bees in your hair this time. Come, let me see. Ah. Yes, we'd better get that
cleaned, just to be sure." Here she had gently shoved aside the cloak Hismone
had just thrown over Merra's shoulders, and was carefully smoothing Merra's
torn dress to peer at the gouges in her pale skin. "I'll have to see if your
father's got any vervaine tucked away somewhere; I haven't had time to go
herb-gathering since last harvest. Hismone, thank you, dear, why don't you
run along to the other children and find some other trouble for them to get
into? Else they'll be fawning our knees like puppies wanting to know all the
tale, and you know the Lady's mind when it comes to her own matters, hmmm?
Good girl."
Hismone beamed shyly, her own rounded features mirroring Naone's, then turned
and scrambled away up the lip of the hill ahead of them, passing under the edge
of the wall of trees that surrounded Merra's home. Merra and Naone followed
at a more relaxed pace, circling around to the far side of the complex rather
than cutting through the main yard where the children, at least, were sure to
be gathered, so that the private girl might not be troubled with questions
about herself. And so they went inside one of the many long, low buildings
undisturbed, hearing faintly the clamor of the young ones talking excitedly out
by the stone bench.
Shortly, Naone had gone to fetch hot water while Merra changed in the safety of
her own small room. Soon after Naone left a peculiar three-beat knock sounded
on the door, and a moment later it opened and shut quietly. Merra, waiting for
Naone on her cot with the sleeping furs piled around her, did not flinch at the
intrusion. For the knock was a special sign old Silenus always used to warn
her of his entry, and she did not fear to be caught unveiled or undressed
before his blind eyes. Although he could not see her, he came immediately to
her side, seating himself on her cot and setting down a small cloth packet of
some pungent-smelling herb.
"Naone keeps forgetting to go herb-gathering; she'll probably be wanting to rob
my stores again," he smiled. "I suppose the weaver has everything in hand?"
Merra did not reply, busy now with folding up her clothes, even the torn
dress.
"It was a good deed, taking the cub," he continued, well used to her subtle
moods and silences, "although thou shallt take care to keep children's fingers
from it, lest we have further need for Naone's talents. And she is leaving us
now; it's been a year since her master's caravan last came by, and `tis to be
hoped he is not returning."
"Leaving?" Merra protested in sharp dismay, folding her arms across her body
and shivering a little in the cool room. "Where is there to go? How can she
leave?"
He laughed. "The world is not walled, M'ra," he reminded her affectionately,
"not even to us. But she is returning to the village. Ah, she'll still come
by, no doubt, during shearing-time to pick out the best wool for her work. But
the villagers need a herb-wise healer, and we have thine own skills and mine on
the mountain."
The girl's voice grew a little less steady, and she jerked her head to one side
at the mention of walls, but she held onto her train of thought. "Her
children?"
"Hush," he chided. "Eusobeus claims them for now, remember, and they shall not
know otherwise. 'Tis to be hoped that Naone's master the trader will not be
passing by this way again, but a runaway slave is yet a runaway, and her
children are not her own. Perhaps someday truth shall be restored to its
proper place. But come. Thou must promise me thou shallt watch over thy pet
and see that it in no wise harms the little ones."
"It will grow," she replied, running her fingers through her dark hair as her
attention drifted elsewhere and inwards again. After a long pause she drew
herself a little straighter. "It will not touch them. I will raise it by my
hands. Tavian will help me."
"Good," said he, rising to his feet again and moving towards the door. "I
shall reassure Eusobeus that we have not brought a serpent into the nursery."
He paused with his hands over his staff, not facing her. "Merra," he asked in
a quieter tone, "hast thou gone often to the temple? I was surprised and
pleased to hear it."
"Temple?" she asked blankly.
"The ruin which is for the Lady of Beasts," he reminded her. "I go there with
Eusobeus on the first of each moon. Thou hast come with me, at whiles."
"I don't remember," she murmured, confusion beginning to cloud her eyes, and a
glassy singsong her voice. "There is a broken stone, beyond an arching bridge
of bone, in the midst of twelve trees, where the moss drips from the rocks like
blood--"
"Merra!" he interrupted sternly, mouth twisting into a rueful frown as he gave
the plaster wall three sharp raps with his staff, the same sign he had used to
warn her of his entrance. She fell silent again.
The door came open with a burst of steam, and Naone, filling the doorway
holding a large copper ewer by its wooden handle, nearly stumbled over the old
man. The cheerful woman burst into a laugh. "Well, don't stand there
knocking, good master, come in. Or rather, get out, so I can do my work.
Build the grainhouse large and the bedroom small, as they say, but that makes
for close quarters. What's that frown, Merra? Sunstruck again? Go, go on,
Master Silenus, I'll tend to your little lady."
Silenus chuckled, turned sideways, and slipped out slowly, trusting Naone to
let him pass by. "My thanks, weaver," he called over his shoulder. "See that
she sleeps until mealtime; the cat did not do her much hurt, but I think
thou'rt right; she has a trace of the sun again."
Merra gave a melencholy little laugh as the door closed, a smile hovering at
her lips as she slipped off the bed and furs and knelt to clear a space on the
floor for the water-jar. "Only the moon," she confided to the herb-woman in a
low voice, "only the moon."
"Right you are, beautiful dove," Naone chuckled, taking her elbow and directing
her firmly to sit on the stool beside her cot. "White girl, white lady, white
bird, and it's a mercy with your moon-skin that the white star does't burn you
red as its older brother! I swear I'm going to dip you in one of my dye-tubs
someday; I don't know what the gods were thinking of when they made your
people. Silly thing to have forgotten. Don't you think you'd look fine,
Merra, as green as grass in the spring?"
Merra laughed again, more cheerfully, as the woman had intended. "What, and
have the goats think I'm a choice mouthful? Have mercy, friend."
Satisfied, Naone began putting Silenus' herbs into the jug, and soon was
tending Merra's less serious injury, the scratches from the cat, which were not
half so deep as Dagus' and Hismone's fears had made them out to be. But the
weaver made quite sure Merra was asleep before she left, minding the old man's
bidding.
The last ridge lay above them like the swaybacked yoke of two great oxen, a
sward of sparse green stubby grass interrupted only occasionally by twisted
wispy trees tattered to ribbons by the unceasing winds. All was in shadow, and
the sky above an eerie pinkish-gray from the suns hidden behind the mountains.
Here, to Mercius' irritation, they pitched their first camp, in the last stand
of hardier trees where the lush forests ended. He helped unsaddle the horses
and tethered them to a long line stretched between two trees so they had room
to stretch their legs, then, stubbornly, he headed up the trail on foot,
ignoring Tulli's quite serious warning that if he broke a leg the master would
kill him.
It seemed farther than it was, and the mountains' undulating smoky-gray
silhouettes stood out sharply against a sky the color of flames before he
reached the pass. The wind rushing against his face was dry, sharp, tinged
with a faintly acrid smell that reminded him of pine but was more savory and
more bitter. Th air was neither hot nor cold, which felt somehow disquieting,
as if some of his senses had been stripped from him. Then he was walking on a
path of travel-worn rocks and dirt that snaked in a gold line through a meadow
whose tiny leaves and blades of grass were black on one side, orange on the
other from the late light. A second black band of mountains, far upon the
northwestern horizon, seened slowly to rise out of the ground. Off to the
right, glorious and terrible, the elder of the two suns had come into view
above that distant rim, burning through clouds that seemed unimaginably remote.
No clouds at all lay between it and the high place where now he stood, so that
he imagined the gusty and fitful breezes were blown off of the roiling disk
couched in flame-laced clouds and clawing balefully at the northern highlands.
It looked as if it had already devoured its benign companion, although he knew
the whitestar must merely have set from view. Below and before his feet,
ruddy and brown bare rocks and precipices tumbled away like broken potsherds to
the great smooth featureless expanse of desert. A dark line like a ripple or a
snake cut across the plain, with veins spreading out in a fan on this side and
a narrow notch in the mountains marking the gorge's opposite end.
Mercius sank to his knees on the grass beside the trail, shielding his eyes
with both hands and staring at the half-disk of the redstar with awe and a
shiver of defiant belligerance which he did not understand. "The enemy is
blood," he murmured, "the angry blood that gives us life but begs to be
spilled, and the burning blood in the sky which gives life but someday will
consume us."
Then he burst into a chuckle at his own nonsense, shaking his head and averting
his eyes. The familiar world of green and blue was behind him sunk into
shadow, the world ahead a somber tapestry of sorrels, reds, blacks, and dusky
browns, its barrenness a silent challenge. He would learn this land too, where
sunlight ruled instead of rain, and silence instead of the decrees of men. He
smiled, thinking more of adventures than danger in that wild country, and of
the tales they would have to tell Laeca when they came home. His sight was
suddenly darkened as the second sun disappeared behind the mountains, leaving
only a thin ribbon of fire limning the streaky clouds. The gritty wind picked
up its force, battering at his eyes and face, and he thought he felt and tasted
fine grains of sand.
Food. Licking his dry lips, he turned his back on the desert and sky with a
sigh and began trudging back down the trail. The others would be waiting
impatiently for him, and he might not eat tonight if he did not pitch in with
the work.
"What are you doing, Lyra?"
The girl rose with a start from the shadowy corner of the courtyard, shielding
the unpaved ground there with her body like a wary bird guarding its nest.
Blue eyes hooded over. "Nothing worthwhile."
Lydia peered at the dirt on the girl's hands and her knees, and caught a
glimpse of a pattern of lines sketched in the dust. The woman's brows knitted.
"Not writing."
"No, nor drawing either, it seems." Lyra turned back to dash a handful of dust
over the scrawls, obscuring their lines. However, Lydia's first glimpse caught
a roughly-scratched portrait of a face, eyes closed, perhaps a man's, though
the workmanship was too crude to guess for certain. Lydia kept guesses to
herself, but wondered if it might have been the girl's precious father.
As if reading the stray thought, Lyra muttered, "No. It's Daidalos. I
shouldn't have tried."
Lydia drew in a quick breath at the name, old instincts of awe still with her.
"The Master," she added reflexively.
"Grandfather," Lyra replied possessively, then hunched her shoulders and
crossed her arms before herself. "The Master," she said begrudgingly, but with
a trace of the same awe. Defensiveness unloosed her tongue in a sudden soft
torrent of words. "Your people called him that, but they didn't know.
Couldn't. In the mountain, carved in stone, metal, glass, things your language
doesn't even have names for--he bent them all with his will into marvels. I
remember lights that burned no fuel, doors that locked or opened with a word,
paths that bore a person more swiftly than a flooded river, wheels that made
wind, or sound, or spoke in their own tongues. The false gods had given him
secrets when he was a boy, but he mastered and surpassed them all. He knew
everything about this world: the water, the land, the sky, how it was shaped
and made for us to live in, how the animals and trees were brought and changed
by the gods so they could flourish on strange soil. He even knew what this
world looked like before it was made into our home. He had seen so much. He
did not look as old as Father, but you could see all those memories stamped in
his face like a feather's imprint in wax."
"You really knew him, then," Lydia whispered. "Was he a god?"
Lyra clapped her hands against her knees, sending up a small cloud of dust.
"Knew him? No! He went to sleep before I was born. I used to crawl up all
those stairs to the highest chamber in the mountain, just to sit at his feet
and look up at him. I thought surely he'd wake up, to see his own
granddaughter. I told him stories, I wove silly songs for him; I kept him
company for hours. But he never stirred. Sometimes I imagined I could hear
him breathing. Sometimes I dreamed the echo of his voice. Sometimes I thought
he was just a statue, put there by the gods to tell us of our failure."
Lydia frowned at the words. "How did you fail?"
Lyra snorted. "Ask Apheratos."
"You said he was sleeping. Why? The stories say your father killed or
enchanted him, to steal his daughter. But I believe no such thing," she added
quickly, before the heat could build in Lyra's face.
"He was old," Lyra replied softly, "and tired. So he told my mother. He
missed the firstcomers who came with him on that terrible journey. He missed
Ariadne's sharp tongue, and Kassandra's wild one. He missed their old world,
whose memory he kept alive after they died. Yet when he travelled back to it
for the last time with his magic, he found it had grown into a very different
place. And so had this one. So he waited until my mother was skilled enough
to carry on his work in the Mountain. Then he put himself to sleep in a shrine
of glass, until he was needed again. Gods, we needed him."
"And he never woke?"
Lyra sighed. "No. My mother thought something was wrong with the shrine that
held his body, but it was beyond her skill to discover the flaw. Or perhaps
he was mortal after all. I don't know. I think my father lost a year of his
own life with each empty prayer, trying to call Grandfather home. It was like
giving water to a statue. Maybe we just weren't worthy of his company." She
laid her grimy fingers flat on the ground, bowing her shoulders again.
Lydia set her hands very lightly on Lyra's back, and the girl at last did not
pull away. "I cannot think that. He loved Ikaros all the more for his folly,
and I'm sure he loved his other children too. He would have come back to see
the wonders you'd made. He would have come back to see how you'd grown." She
added in low tones, "Maybe the gods were jealous of him as well for flying too
high."
Lyra shook her head slowly. "Maybe. Now all the rest of his children are gone,
and he rests high in the Mountain, somewhere beyond the sunset, while the world
he won falls apart piece by piece. If he ever wakes again, he will be
angry."
Naone embraced Merra, having to stand up on her toes to reach the tall girl's
shoulders. "Now mind you bring me vervaine, and all the good greens that grow
on the high slopes. I'm depending on you, Merra." The weaver combed her
fingers through Merra's black hair, spilling out of her cowl as usual.
"But the Master bids me not to go down to the village," Merra returned in some
dismay. "I must send thee herbs with the pack-trains. Will I not see thee?"
"Shhh, don't worry, I'll come up here with my wares sometimes. I promised you
a new cloak for the winter, remember? Only you'd better stop growing; you
already want more cloth than a ship's sails."
Merra smiled down at her, though as always her expression was hidden from the
bright rays of sun. "All right. No, it is a promise I will hold thee by. Now,
safe journey."
"For all your fuss you'd think I was headed beyond the mountains, the desert,
and the sea." Naone chuckled and then released her with a shake, turning to
dash across the court to the pony Tavian was holding for her. "Stop fiddling
with the straps, Dagus, my cloth's not that heavy!" she called cheerfully as
she climbed up and astride. "Let's go."
The sandy-haired man reluctantly pulled away from his masterpiece of ropes,
knots, and leather, moved to the lead pony of the string of well-laden
packbeasts, and started coaxing them forward. "Yes, but you don't want your
looms catching on a tree halfway down the mountain. All set now. Keep a bit
of supper for me, Tavian."
"Yes, sir," the boy replied, handing the woman the guide-reins and stepping
back. "Take care, Naone."
"You too, lad." She leaned down and ruffled his hair, then nudged her pony into
a walk. "Keep warm and fed, children. Goodbye, everyone. Thank you, my masters!
Eusobeus--"
"Always welcome shallt be, my friend," the older man replied, standing among
the handful of children sprawled around the bench. He set a hand on Hismone's
shoulder, watching which way the woman's gaze lingered briefly. "Do not worry.
We shall take care of all matters on the Mountain. You look to the Valley."
She grinned at him, nodded, and took the lead out of the courtyard, ducking the
lowest branches of the sheltering trees. Dagus followed, all her fabrics and
weaver's tools and possessions making for a chaotic and colorful pack-train
behind.
"Tell us a story, Merra!" one of the children said, after the sound of
hoofbeats had faded and died away and only the sound of fluttering wind played
among the evergreens.
"Sorry, Teos, it's time for me to look to the garden. Later, perhaps." The
firmness in her voice forbade dispute, and she seized the children's rare
moment of silence to make good her escape, passing around the corner of one of
the long log-shaped houses.
She did not, however, go to the small vegetable garden nestled against the
shelter of the common-hall, nor take the well-worn footpath through the
encircling wall of trees to hike up to the open fields. Slipping in among the
trees themselves, she pushed her way through their low-sweeping branches to a
small fenced enclosure hidden some forty paces away from the cluster of
buildings. The pen was fashioned of wooden posts set firmly into the ground,
most of them old and bleached from years of winter snows. Some had been
recently replaced, and over them had been lashed a makeshift roof of boards,
treebranches, and wooden slats. Merra, approaching, answered a scrabbling
sound from within with soft coaxing noises. She stooped almost double to
unlatch the door of the pen, took up a small bough with a spray of tattered
pine needles in order to ward off her pet's exuberant lunge as she crawled
inside, and quickly pulled the door shut behind her. Immediately the spotted
kitten began crawling into her lap, purring and growling and tumbling over her
arms as she tried to stroke its fur.
"Art well-fed?" she queried it in a low voice, ruffling its neck with her
fingers. "Art a little lonely, with thy mother gone away? Yes, kitling, I know
how that can be." She rubbed her cheek against its muzzle, confiding, "Naone
the Weaver went away today. Not my mother, nay! Just a good friend."
"She said she'll be back to visit," a boy's voice put in quietly from behind
her.
Merra peered out between the slats with the wariness of anyone on the wrong
side of a cage with a door that locks. Tavian was pressed against the pen with
his hands grasping two posts and his face wedged in the gap between them,
watching her play with the kitten.
"She did," Merra replied. "But 'tis a long uphill journey to make merely to
visit the owl-eyed girl who will not herself come down into the valley to see
her."
"She has other friends," Tavian pointed out with the bluntness of youth. "My
father's gotten close to her too, you know."
His tone brought a faint hidden smile to her face. "Yes. I had noticed that."
She took up a frayed bit of rope that was lying loose in the pen, and began
dragging and twitching it as a lure for the ytrix to stalk. "And thou?"
"Oh, she's okay," Tavian shrugged carelessly. He shifted his position so he
could see the growling kitten pouncing on the tempting toy. "Merra, why can't
you go down to the village?"
She turned her head away sharply, causing the ytrix to puff out its fur and
bounce back from her with a comical hiss. "Because I might frighten them."
"Sometimes people like to be a little frightened. It gives them stories to tell
and things to gossip about while they're working in the fields." The boy
lowered his voice and added, "You don't have to be afraid. Nobody cares about
your people anymore; the war was a long time ago."
Merra sighed. "Maybe 'tis so. Maybe they have forgotten, even more than I. It
has been so long." She gathered the kitten back into her lap, ignoring its
indignant squeak of protest, and clutched it to herself. "Oh, Tavian, she is
going out and making her own house, her own life. And always I am standing
still. I've huddled behind these walls since before thou and the children were
born, and I will see her children, maybe even thine, full-grown before I have
strayed a wing's distance from this nest."
"You could go on the valley road. You could." A thought occurred to him, so
that he added confidently, "My father would go with you, to make sure you were
safe."
"No, Tavian. When I step onto that road, I know in my heart I will not return
here again." Abruptly, she twisted around and reached through the slats to
unlatch the door, shoving it ajar with her palm. The cat sprang from her lap
and bounded outside, wiggling over to Tavian's feet to sniff at the startled
youth's toes while Merra crawled after.
She clicked her tongue as she stood and straightened, and after a halfhearted
swipe at the boy's boots, her pet dashed back to bat at her skirts. "Let's see
if our growler is ready to come out of his cage, hmm?" She set off towards the
houses at a swift pace, with the ytrix and Tavian trotting after.
The salty air lofting through Lyra's window was stuffy, sickeningly hot, so
that she dreamed she was drowning in a sea of blood. She flailed awake with a
snarl and rolled out of the alcove, landing groggily on the floor. Even that
was no help: the stones felt sticky and warm under her bare feet. Cursing the
red star and the long summer yet to come, she shook on a tunic crumpled over
the wooden chest, pulled open the heavy wooden door separating hers from the
small wash-room, and listened carefully for the sound of snoring. What?
Silence. The Commander wheezed like an old boar in his sleep; maybe his flinty
heart had given out in this accursed heat?
"Too much to hope for," she muttered, pushing open the second door and peering
coolly into their bedroom.
No. Apheratos was gone, the sleeping furs tossed over the bed's sole occupant.
Lydia was sleeping fitfully with mouth drawn taut into strained lines and lids
squeezed tight against the the tresspass of some nightmare. Lyra could see her
hands and eyelids twitching slightly. Her long black hair, usually carefully
bound back, had come unravelled and was tangled behind her head against the
covers like a snarled cobweb. Lyra started to pass by and head for the
stairwell, but a soft sigh from the older woman checked the girl's steps more
than any sharp word from her husband. Lyra turned and stood irresolutely, then
crossed over to the bedside, taking the covers in her hands and turning them
aside slowly and carefully.
Lydia stirred half-awake, murmuring, "Is he gone at last? Come to bed,
Apheratos. It's late."
Lyra couldn't make much of a reply, but whispered hoarsely, "Shhhh. Go back to
sleep." She gingerly smoothed some of Lydia's hair back beside her head which
had caught across her mouth and throat. The woman's hand moved to touch Lyra's
fingers in a light caress, then went still against the pillows. Her breathing
slowed again to a gentle, even rhythm, and her face muscles loosened into what
might be a smile.
Lyra observed all this with a peculiar expression, eyes narrowed in wistful
envy. Yet she was not frowning as she thoughtfully resumed her nocturnal
prowl.
Her plan to take a late-night paddle in the pool in the great hall was abruptly
curtailed by the sound of Apheratos' voice echoing from the very room she was
headed towards. He was speaking quietly, but the irritation in his tone was
plainly making it difficult for him to maintain a whisper.
"Has the Presidian taken leave of his senses? They're boys, children!
Well-trained, to be sure, but they're barely strong enough to split shields
with a sword!"
"Which is all a man needs to fight."
Lyra slipped a quick glance around the lefthand column of the archway, long
enough to spy Apheratos and an unfamiliar but uniformed man conferring at one
end of the long table, with only the light of a single oil lamp.
Apheratos snapped, "What about the town garrison, or for that matter some of
the soldiery in the capital? Our good king could surely spare a few of his
well-trained troops for such a cause."
She recognized the thump of a finger jabbing against the heavy oaken table. "I
told you already. The safety of Minoquo cannot be compromised. What if the
Tygellians attack here? And likewise with Gemerelda. We cannot afford to lose
a town in the reclaiming of Aero. The Presidian has assured us that your
trainees are ready to fight."
"Ah. So he can keep his seasoned warriors at home and hide behind them, sending
our sons out to die."
"Commander, contain yourself. You're starting to sound like that mob-fop
Jelvas. The orders have already been sent; your lads leave in five days. You
have that long to make sure they're combat-ready."
There was a lengthy silence; Lyra could feel the anger seeping through the
stifling air. At last, Apheratos spoke again. "One condition."
"Name it," the other man said drily.
Through clenched teeth, Apheratos declared, "I am leading them. I go to Aero,
as captain in charge of this campaign."
His fellow officer sounded faintly smug, as if the request had been expected
from the beginning. "As you wish, commander. Surely your presence will be an
inspiration to all."
"Or a royal terror," Lyra muttered, craning her head around again to spot
Apheratos slumped with his elbows on the table and his forehead braced against
his fists. He couldn't have heard her, and yet for a second he lifted his head
and turned his face slightly to glare in her direction. She beat a hasty
retreat back towards the stairs and upper levels of the house.
She had nearly fallen asleep when she heard his clumsy attempts at stealth:
boots being unbuckled in the nearby bedroom, bare feet plodding across the cold
tiled floor of the washroom, the slow creak of her room's door. She
concentrated on keeping her breathing slow and loud. She heard nothing for a
time while he stood just inside the door, then there was a soft scrape as he
turned to go and pulled it shut behind him.
There were many nights she had slept with a blanket wrapped around her head and
cursed the god who gave her ancestors sharp ears. So she tensed each time she
heard him putting clothes away in chests and bumbling about the room like an
ox. There was a soft rustle of skin on fabric, Lydia stirring.
"What are you doing now? I told you to come to bed."
"Not I," he grunted, with the sound of creaking ropes as he climbed in beside
her. "Must have been our prowling ytrix. I saw her up and about."
"Is she all right?"
"Sleeping at last."
Lyra smiled to herself. Old fool.
"Unless," he mumbled into his forearm, "that's another one of her tricks. I
wouldn't be surprised."
"Husband," Lydia whispered reproachfully. "Isn't there ever a moment when you
trust? Have you no faith in anyone? Besides me, of course."
"That may be the point," Apheratos grumbled, twisting around trying to get
comfortable in the blasted heat. "I've trusted her so much. It's fine for me
to risk my life believing she's got some honor, but yours?"
Lyra winced. "All right, Commander," she muttered to the wall. "In that,
you're wiser than my father."
Lydia's reasoned tones were always soothing. "My husband has told me about the
need and right of a captain to commit those under his command to a dangerous
mission, when the cause is just. And a wife has her choice of commander,
unlike a boy soldier."
Their snide eavesdropper could not help but snort. "What choice? He captured
you; I'd wager my eye on it. Anyhow, you've given up choice, if you call him
captain."
Apheratos sounded even more troubled, when he at last replied. "That is not an
easy thing either. The hinge of the matter is that I've been letting you sleep
alone, defenseless, two doors away. I've let her wander the grounds freely,
trouble you when and how it suits her fancy, while I'm busy with the school or
away on errands. What was I thinking?"
"That justice is worthy. Or that you might take a turn with her now and then.
But as for the rest, how can you think you ever risk your life alone? We're
joined. If you fall, how shall I fare? If it has taken her to teach you
this, then bless her."
He kissed her. "I'm sorry." There was weight behind those words, but she spoke
first before he unloaded all his thoughts.
"Apheratos. I dreaded it when you went off to war; I hated being helpless.
This is one campaign of yours which I can share."
"Lydia," he started heavily.
"Hush." There was force behind the quiet command. "That man could not have
said anything worth fretting over before morning. Whatever it is, let's face
it rested. I for one will not be pleased if you are cranky at our guests
tomorrow from lack of sleep."
There was a very long pause. Then: "You're probably right, Lydia."
"Of course I am. Now hush and go to sleep."
"Tell us about Ariadne! And Theseus! And the Master!"
Silenus froze in the doorway, but Merra's voice came sure and soft. He listened
with head cocked and a faint sad smile as she spun the tale's thread. She
looked at him for approval from time to time, as if to say, Am I speaking it
rightly? Was it so? But he was blind, of course, and pretended not to notice,
although he could hear her voice change volume as she looked his way, and was
adept at reading her subtlest moods.
"So then Theseus' men came running. `We were set upon by savages!' they cried.
`They fought us with clubs!' And Theseus looked back towards the grove where
she must be doing her vigil and was torn. `But I cannot leave the Queen.' `You
cannot save her,' said they, `for the natives have carried her away, and
shouted that she had profaned the grove of a God. She is to be sacrificed! And
we will be too, if we stay here!'"
"Did he rescue her?" the children asked breathlessly. "Did he go back?"
Merra shook her head slowly. "Nay. Theseus loved his wife less than love
demands, and his fear was stronger than love. Or else, in fairness, love to his
men took first place before that of a woman. So he set said. And Ariadne was
led to the Rites."
Merra pointed to the flickering flames of the hearth. "They brought her to the
shrine, garlanded like a heifer, right up to the basin that catches the blood.
Her eyes stung at the smoke of the altars, but she forced tears back, for she
would not have it said that the daughter of the king wept before she died. And
her heart was cold inside, since she had seen Theseus' black sails dip over the
horizon.
"But then Daidalos came sailing, sailing on his wings of silvery-white, and his
arms were strong, and his body golden, and his eyes flashed, and all fell to
the ground swooning. Even Ariadne was dazzled, at first, not recognizing the
man."
The children gasped gratifyingly as she raised her arms, mimicking the Master's
wings.
"So they hailed him as Dionysos, the god in whose grove she had chosen to
sleep. He took her by the hand and called her Queen. Then he commanded that
from that time forth, they should sacrifice a few prized animals each year,
that none might hoard wealth for wealth's sake more than food, and so that all
might share in the bounty of the feast. And with Ariadne as his holy bride, he
flew on."
"From now on they outfoxed Minos together. You have heard how he threaded the
shell with an ant, and made the honeycomb of wax, and left his likeness to
deceive the king's soldiers. You have heard of the feast of lambs where she
dressed her father in a sheepskin and put him out to pasture. Ariadne and
Daidalos had many other adventures too. At last they parted in friendship, for
the priestess had a yearning to seek the female tribes of the north sea, the
nomads who lived among horses and worshipped the Mother. There she trained and
grew fierce and strong, a Queen in a new country. But it is also said she
became a weaver, and spun her thread once more, no longer needing Daildalos as
guide to her skilled hands. And so Grandmother--"
One of the children laughed. "Grandmother?"
"Yes indeed. Grandmother spider, as she is honored by none other than Naone,
the Weaver."
"That's Arachne!" Tomi sang out. "Arachne the spider! Grandmother Spider! Not
Ariadne. "
"Ariadne," Merra wondered, faltering over the name. She looked towards Silenus,
troubled, a wary wildness growing in her face as her voice grew unsteady.
"Grandmother?"
"She is Grandmother to us all," he replied firmly. "For as Daidalos is
Grandfather to all the people under the two stars, it was her counsel that
brought him back to save the slaves of her father, our ancestors. She stood at
his side and defied the false gods, and her courage was his shield through the
terrible journey of night. Without her he could not have shepherded us to this
new world, nor overthrown the false gods who ruled our fate."