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Post by Eurydice on Mar 10, 2012 23:33:47 GMT -5
A single firefly landed on her finger, and that was special. It was the first she had seen this season.
The little girl felt it tickle her skin while her mother brushed her hair. Her hair was too thin to be truly luscious, too light brown to be truly rich and remarkable. Still, she liked the way it felt when it was wet and just starting to dry with every stroke of the comb in Mother's nimble hands.
Under the balcony, the palace gardens stretched out, verdant and rich. Wide-mouthed white flowers opened themselves up to the starlight that was just starting to peek through the dusky night. The last flecks of what had been sunbeams caught in the blue-black gems set in the high walls. By the pond, crickets sang, an eerie, discordant buzz that was at once lovely and disconcerting. The girl peered down at the labyrinthine garden path disinterestedly. She was eleven years old, and this was all very routine for early summer.
Resting her chin on her folded arms, she kicked her feet, making the smooth fabric of her long skirt ripple. There was very little you could see over the wall, just the faint curves and domes of neighboring roofs. Sometimes, you could see dark smoke rising from between the houses.
"My perfect little girl," Mother said, catching the water drops that wept from the comb. "My angel."
There was a knock on the door. "Diyan," came a voice from the hall.
Mother frowned. "Not now."
"It must be now, Diyan. The riots are worse. There is word that the Fiends may even be on the march..."
The firefly parted its wings, held itself in suspension for a moment, and was gone. The little girl watched it speed away into the growing darkness, blinking its yellow-green light.
Mother rose, shushing the servant by the door and folding her fingers around the comb. "Darling. Sulima will help you finish washing."
"I’ll be good, Mother." It was always so, when Mother or Father was called away. Sometimes, she would sneak away to hide in the curtain of vines by the pond, but only when it was very warm, and only when she thought she could get away with it. For the most part, she did as she was told.
Mother kissed her forehead with smooth, dry lips. "My angel." The door closed behind her.
Sulima glided forward from her silent post. Her hair was pure white and very long, but she was only a little old—maybe five-and-thirty, the girl guessed—and so it must have gone white some way other than age. The girl sat very still and let her hair be combed out, even if it was not the same as when Mother did it. Cool drops soaked through the back of her dress. Sulima's fingernails were cut shorter than Mother's, and her skin wasn’t so soft. She ran the comb decisively through the girl's hair, like a plough cutting furrows in the ground.
"Does milady wish for a story tonight?"
The girl nodded. She was not yet too old for stories, and Sulima always had good ones. "Tell me another star story."
Sulima nodded. "With milady’s permission." The serving woman knelt beside her and pointed up and to the east. "Does milady see that little one there? As if the spire of the chapel is pointing to it."
"I see it." The girl frowned. "But 'tis very dull."
"It is." Sulima rose and crossed to the wash room, fetching the little jar of sandalwood-scented lotion. "But that star is Ryd, and he does not have to be bright. He’s a dark warrior, milady."
"I should think that a warrior would be bright."
"Not all warriors are, milady." Sulima's eyes glinted slightly, wearing her secret smile that she only wore when Mother wasn’t looking. "Ryd is a predator, and he prowls the horizon looking for his prey. Because he's so dim, you see, it is easier for him to sneak up and catch his foes unawares. In fact, the brighter the other stars shine, the easier it is for him to take them down. Only Aster the Sun is bright enough to chase Ryd away without having to fear his wrath, and that he does every night."
The girl shivered pleasantly as Sulima massaged the sweet-smelling cream into her hands. "Mother says I mustn’t listen to such stories, when I’m a priestess."
Sulima laughed. "Milady will not be a priestess for some years yet."
"Still, a novitiate at least, next year. I must study and pray, and I shan't have time for stories, especially not stories about dark warrior stars."
"And milady is looking forward to that?"
The girl frowned. She didn't know, not really. This was her role and her duty, to be sure. She was a third child; Anya was being raised to lead and practice politics, Noah to fight and manage armies. Both of those were very important things. If she had not been prophesied to have god-touched gifts, she probably would have been a marriage present for a lordling, a seal on a treaty or alliance. That would have been important, too, but she didn't want to get married.
On the other hand, some people said that serving the priesthood was like getting married, except you got married to god. She wasn't sure if that was any better.
"Milady is very quiet."
The girl scowled. "I was thinking."
"Of course, milady." Sulima knew her place and knew better than to ask what her young charge had been thinking. "Would milady like to get into bed and hear the rest of her story?"
The bed was deep purple, so dark that it looked black if the lights were dim. The girl snuggled down in her silken sheets. Out on the balcony, more fireflies were gathering, flaring up incidental light like the stars. "You said that the sun could chase Ryd away. Does that mean that they're enemies?"
"Milady is very clever." Sulima knelt a respectful arm’s reach away from the bed.
"But if they're enemies, and the sun can beat him, why doesn't the sun just beat him instead of chasing him away every night?"
Sulima smiled. "Because, milady, although Ryd is too small to ever conquer Aster the Sun, Aster is so bright and Ryd is so dim that whenever they get too close, Aster cannot see Ryd. And so, all they can do is maintain the chase. Ryd flees with the night, and Aster chases with the morning. Their natures do not let them take their rivalry any further than that."
The little girl sighed up at the canopy. "They’re both warriors, like Noah... do you suppose that Noah is more like Ryd or more like Aster?"
"With your permission, milady, I would venture that your noble brother is like Aster."
"Because he's always bright and dressed in shining armor?" The girl pursed her lips impetuously. "Or because he cannot always tell where his enemies are?"
A rustle of laughter. "Milady. I would not presume to say such things of your noble brother. I will only say that milady is very clever, and she knows her noble brother well."
Night had properly fallen now. Sandaled feet padded along the garden paths, lighting lanterns and giving the outside a gentle glow, contained by the garden wall like lamplight was contained by glass. They would not be able to see the fireflies as well now. All the insects in the garden were keeping their quiet distance, as they would until the lamps had all been lit and the servants were back inside.
Because the cricket song was quieter now, the girl heard it. "What was--"
Sulima held up a hand; she'd heard it, too.
The girl lay still. Only her eyes moved.
Something landed sharply on the open balcony, something close and heavy and distinct, and as if knowing it had been heard, it stayed still for a long time before it began to move again. The girl tried to listen hard, tried to see with her ears, but she didn’t know the sounds that she was hearing. Something like cloth moving over stone, but rougher. Something like a person breathing, but labored. There was a smell, too, but it was like sweat and dirt—nothing that belonged in her bed chambers, where everything was silken and scented. Something was not right.
With a start, she realized that Sulima was no longer there.
The little girl pulled the purple, silk sheets up to her chin. Her fingers smelled of sandalwood from the lotion.
From beyond the canopy, she saw a shadow moving across the room, unsteady and uncertain. Short, ungraceful movement. Short, panicky breath. It looked at her. It floated closer. A face came into focus—someone dirty, a long and unkempt beard, wide eyes locked on her wide eyes. The wide eyes became dark and angry eyes, and the shadow reached out a hand to push back the netted curtains around the canopy bed to see her better.
"Little rich bitch," the shadow breathed.
The girl felt as though her stomach were swallowing her heart. She shrank back against the pillow, as if it would keep her safe.
A white blur detached from the wall. Sulima. Her bare hands flexed, and then she sprung, and with an awkward cry, the shadowy man tumbled to the floor.
"Milady-- are you hurt--"
The girl sank back against the pillow still further. She hadn't even realized that the hysterical breathing was her own.
"Milady Amannya, hush... he cannot hurt you."
The girl nodded, her teeth knocking against each other. She couldn't take her eyes off the crumpled, dirty figure at the foot of the bed. He was so coarse, so unkempt. He had looked at her with such anger, as though he hadn’t been able to think of anything else. "Is he dead?" she hiccupped.
Sulima shook her head. "Milady’s honored father and wise mother will want him questioned. With your permission, I will summon someone to take him away."
The girl nodded again. "You hit him," she said. "You disappeared, and then you hit him and knocked him down."
"I would not let him hurt you, milady."
"But you hit him," she said. "I hadn’t thought-- how could you know how to fight?"
Sulima had pulled a length of cord from the curtains and was binding the dirty man’s hands and feet with it. Knelt beside him, she looked up at the little girl, her eyes glinting again with that eerie, secret smile. "Because, milady, humbly-- if your brother is a bright warrior such as Aster the Sun, I am a dark warrior such as Ryd. I may not shine so brightly as he, but I am no less able for it."
The little girl watched the serving woman drag the body away toward the door, where it would be less upsetting. A bell was rung, and lower ranked servants arrived, gaping and gawking when they saw the bound, unconscious thing.
"One of the dissenters seems to have made it over the wall," Sulima told them calmly. "Please take him to the dungeon and inform the Mirza, so that I can finish putting milady to bed."
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Post by Eurydice on Mar 17, 2012 21:46:45 GMT -5
Airy golden sun made the dust sparkle as the girl in novitiate's robes swept the open stone halls. A holy ornament, a perfect silver sphere, inscribed with the names of old and new gods, dangled from a leather cord around her neck, and it caught the rays of the sunset as well. Gold and silver shone around her, as if she had a halo all of metallic light.
She had been surprised, coming here a year ago, to discover that she was expected to do such menial chores-- she, daughter of a Diyan-- but so it was, and so she had come to expect. She had even begun to enjoy it, some days; there was something very solid and satisfying to be found in the act of cleaning, because you could always see what you had done, afterward.
Her hair was a neat braid behind her. That was something she'd learned, too. A year ago, bathing herself and cleaning her own hair had been shocking. That was what servants were for.
But I am a servant, now, she reminded herself. A servant of God.
She had cried over that, her first few nights here. A Diyan's daughter was not a servant, she had told herself-- surely, there had been some mistake-- but one of the senior priests had spoken to her kindly, assuring her that there was much honor in serving God thus, and that even nobility had always been glad to take on such a role. He had held her hand while she cried, and he helped her find her way in the winding hallways of the temple.
He was dead, now, that priest. Amannya felt badly; she no longer remembered his name. He had died in the same sickness that had taken Father and Anya and the seneschal and Sulima and too many others, late last year.
It had been a busy time at the temple. Even those with no gold had come to their door, begging treatment-- a foolish, desperate request-- but some priests took pity and let poor mothers and children and elderly men come in and take shelter, have a spot of floor to sleep on so they could die with a roof over their heads. That kindness had been given at a cost; many of the temple's ranks had fallen ill from exposure to these dirty urchins, some even beyond the means of god-gifted healing. Amannya had been lucky-- she was the Diyan's daughter, and she had her own bedroom and wash basin. The worst cases of the sickness had spread through communal areas for eating and bathing.
Still, that was months ago. They had sung prayers for the fallen, honored their names, and lit their bodies to rise as smoke, up to the heavens.
The girl looked over the hallway as she finished, fingering her holy silver sphere as she watched the dust settle and gleam.
Footsteps approached from the corner. Amannya frowned, knowing that footsteps meant an intruder who would tramp all over her clean hallway, but she straightened when she saw High Priest Amir approaching, followed closely by a few well-dressed men and-- her mother?
Amannya gasped, delighted, but she stopped herself from running. That would have been improper, she knew. She could not stop her smile, though.
"Novitiate," the High Priest said with a quiet chuckle and a nod of permission.
"My little angel," Mother greeted her, taking her face in both hands and kissing her forehead.
Amannya clasped Mother by the wrists. She looked very tired, a little pale, but she wore her fine robes of gold and purple thread, embroidered with little peacock feathers along the hem. It was dress for formal occasions, Amannya knew. Well, why not? A visit to temple was surely a formal occasion.
The High Priest escorted them to his small office and rang for refreshments while they made small talk. An acolyte brought them a small plate of figs and dates, which Amannya chewed happily. She was practically glowing; she had never been invited to the High Priest's office. It all felt very adult and important. It didn't even occur to her to question the reason until the High Priest sat at his desk and said, "Novitiate Amannya, you are probably wondering why it is we have brought you here."
"Yes, Holiness," she lied, glancing uncertainly at her mother. She still had her broom, she realized. She set it carefully beside her. Was something wrong?
He seemed to recognize her look of panic. "You're not in trouble, novitiate," he assured her. "Quite the opposite."
Mother beamed, clasping her hands. Amannya could feel her mother's bracelets nipping her skin at the clasps. "My sweet girl. Holiness Amir tells me that you've recently flowered to womanhood."
Blood rushed to her cheeks. The girl suddenly became intensely aware of the strangers in the room.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of, darling," Mother laughed. "It's a blessing. A blessing."
"Novitiate," the High Priest asked, his kind eyes serious. "Have you ever heard of a Dal-Diyan?"
She had not, but she had always been happy to study the old languages, the mother tongues. "Dal means divided," she said with certainty, sitting straight and tall in her chair. She could remember what the character looked like on the page, like a thing divided. She had always liked that, when the symbol for a word was somehow reminiscent of the thing it meant.
"Exactly so. Thus, a Dal-Diyan is one whose rule is divided into two realms: the mundane, and the holy." He inclined his head, as if this explained everything. It did not.
Her confusion must have shown. "It's an honor, my darling," Mother said, squeezing her hands.
This still explained nothing.
One of the strangers spoke-- an older man, older than mother, with a pointed beard, lightly flecked with gray. "Your mother lacks an heir, child."
Amannya stared at him. "Angel," Mother interceded. "You remember Caliph Yoram, don't you?"
"Yes, Mother," she lied, glancing uncertainly at the Caliph. What was going on?
"It is as he says," said Mother. "Anya is gone and at peace-- God rest her--" (Amannya touched the holy symbol at her neck and murmured the same) "She would have succeeded me-- you know this, darling-- and there must be one who will take her place, now that she has passed."
"But I'm to be a priestess," Amannya said, her voice sounding hollow in this strange, unfamiliar room. "I am to have no husband except God. And Noah--"
"...Noah will lead armies and win great victories," said Mother, "unless you should pass, may God forbid it. Daughters inherit lands before sons-- you know this, my sweet. And the tradition of a Dal leadership allows for you to serve both roles."
"It is a blessing," agreed the Caliph.
The room was becoming very strange around her, like the walls were humming or padded or closer than they had been when they first came in. Amannya felt certain that she could hear her heartbeat in her ears. This was all wrong. She was a Diyan's daughter, to be sure, but she was a third child-- third children didn't rule-- and marriage was an honor that she did not dream of. She did not want to be Dal-Diyan. She wanted to serve God, to sweep marble floors and watch the sunset sparkle off of holy silver.
The Caliph nudged the other stranger, who had been silent.
Mother put an arm around Amannya's little shoulders and turned her to face the Caliph more fully. "Even a Dal-Diyan must have someone to sit beside her. Caliph Yoram's third son Yusef serves the temple at Faddil--"
Amannya's brow wrinkled. "Faddil-- near Falla? Where the Fiends come from?"
Mother shushed her. "He will be a good match for you, sweetling. Now that you are a woman."
The Caliph's son stood. He was of middling height, olive skin, and his wide, dark eyes seemed alien to her. Amannya felt like she was sinking into her chair. She wondered how old he was. She guessed he was at least five-and-twenty, if not fully thirty. "Milady Amannya," he said formally. "I hope this match will be pleasing to you."
She should have said something-- any pretty, perfumed words that she had learned from her lord father and lady mother would have served, and they had taught all their children formal phrases since they could talk-- but she could not make them come out, for all that she tried. "I am sorry," she finally managed, voice taut, jaw clenched. "I am overcome. Speechless. Forgive me."
Mother squeezed her. "She is too happy to speak! I know this union will be well-favored."
They were all talking now, chatting as conversationally as though they had been discussing the weather or the recent shifts in the political climate. It all sounded like an insect buzz to Amannya. She clutched the broom beside her, wishing she could fly away on it, like a magi in one of Sulima's stories. "When?" she asked, when there was a lull in the talk.
"Not for several months," the High Priest assured her. "It has been a long time since we have had the privlege to bless the crowning of a Dal-Diyan, and we must make proper preparations. And you will want to get to know your betrothed a little, I'm sure. But I think the first day of autumn will be suitable."
It was late spring, now. "And after?"
"You will continue to serve and learn," said the High Priest. "When your training is complete here, you will return to your lady mother to learn more of ruling. Lord Yusef will have apartments set up in your mother's palace, and you will join him there."
"But there will be time to worry on such details later," the Caliph said, standing to join his son. "In the meantime-- Holiness, we beg your blessing on this union."
"Happily. Come." High Priest Amir gestured them forward, the Caliph's son and her.
They knelt, side by side, flanked by their respective parents.
Amannya glanced sidelong at her husband-to-be. He was not looking at her, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He was only middling tall, and yet he seemed to tower over her, from so close, as if her were a giant. His arms and torso were thick. He smelled very faintly of spices and wine. And up close, she thought he looked more like five-and-thirty.
"Benevolent one," the High Priest intoned. "These blessed two come before you, to honor and serve both gods and men, to make a promise of union. Let it be so."
"So let it be," they echoed.
"Share with them the wealth of your blessings, O bountiful one. Repay them in kind, for the service they have given you and the service they have promised you. Let it be so."
"So let it be," they echoed.
The High Priest gestured for them to take hands. "Just as their hands sit now entwined, let their lives be so as well, growing together in love and joy and splendor. Let them honor you, their families, and themselves as husband and wife. Let this union be a blessing."
"Now and forever, so let it be."
Amannya spoke the words with the others. She mimicked Yusef's posture, staring straight ahead and not at anyone.
That midnight, she took a small bundle of clothing, stole some bread and cheese from the kitchen, and tiptoed down the clean hallway. With one hand one the door and one hand clutching her holy symbol, she stepped into the murmuring city streets and ran.
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Post by Eurydice on Mar 24, 2012 23:06:30 GMT -5
It had not been a very good plan.
Amannya had not considered that she should bring coin with her. When she was little, that was something for servants to worry on, and when she was older, it was something that the priests looked after. She was not even sure how much was enough, or a lot, or sufficient to live off of.
Monstrously hungry the first morning away from the temple, she ate almost half of the bread she had taken, before it occurred to her that she should save it. It tasted different out here than it did inside and at a table. It tasted more real, out on the streets, more solid and primal and satisfying. She knew that out here, it would be as treasure. She would have to savor it, make it last. She had no way of knowing when or how she would obtain more.
Later that morning, a pack of dirty urchin boys knocked her down and stole what was left of the bread.
She had always heard Mother and Father talking about the lower city streets, down where the river flowed and the bridges stretched as wide as houses. This was where the dissenters gathered, down by the dirty riverside where they preached their treasonous blather-- she had heard it from half-overheard whispers, amidst the servants in their hallways, from the petitioners that came to beg the favors of the Diyan. This was a bad place, a place that they as good children should never think on, let alone approach.
Amannya had always listened to these warnings with apathy and inattention. She had assumed there would never be a reason for her to be out in the city, let alone out in the city on her own, let alone down by the river and the bridges and the lower city.
Yet here she was.
The urchins-- she thought they were the same, but they were so dirty that she couldn't really tell-- came back when they found her nibbling on hard and salty cheese, tried to wrestle it away from her, but Amannya caught one of them, pulled his hair until he squealed, kicked him hard. They left her alone for easier prey.
That was three days ago. Since then, she had sold her silver holy symbol for a few coins, used it to buy flatbread and olives and a skin of cold, sweet water-- she had tried drinking from the river, but it had made her stomach rebel and left her feeling sick and hungrier than before. She only ate when she was sure she was alone now, and she kept her food carefully wrapped in the brown paper in which it had been packed. Now, even that food was almost finished, and she was contemplating which of the clothes she had packed might sell for the most coin when she heard the stamping of hurried feet across the ground and across the road.
Eyes widening, Amannya scurried to the overhang of the bridge-- the cover it afforded was narrow, but it had become her frequent hiding spot of the last few days, and most eyes that fell upon this part of the bridge went right to the dissenters preaching at the river. Mother had sent the guard out looking for her twice, now, and she was determined to stay out of reach.
But what could she do? At some point, she would run out of things to sell, and then she would have no coin for food. Amannya huffed quietly. She did not understand how common people did such things. The world made more sense when she was daughter of the Diyan.
I cannot think like that, she told herself uncertainly. If I am the Diyan's daughter, then I am to marry the Caliph's son and bear his children and rule as Dal-Diyan when Mother dies. If I am not the Diyan's daughter, then I am free to do as I please, but I have to find coin and food and mind myself. That is how it is now. I mustn't complain.
It was so hard, though-- she hated having to hide, and she felt so filthy, and she never remembered feeling this hungry before, not ever. It took all the self-control she had not to devour the last of the flatbread, even though it was not as delicious as it had been the first day.
She exhaled relief as she realized that the footfalls were not the guard on another hunt for her-- too many together, and not organized enough.
Poking her head out cautiously, Amannya saw a huddle of common men, following a figure in sleek hunting furs. Usually, furs were a sign of barbarians, as broad as they were tall, great brutish creatures made even larger by the pelts they wore-- she had occasionally seen such men, though always from a distance-- but the man at the head of the crowd moved quickly, like a fish darting in and out of the current, and his furs only seemed to accentuate his slender figure. Amannya craned her neck to see better. The man had short swords strapped to his back and a streak of silver-white in his coal black hair. When he looked back over his shoulder, something in his gaze chilled her, from her scalp to her toes. She hoped he did not see her.
The Man and the small crowd behind him were approaching one of the dissenters at the riverside, a yellow-haired man with a bushy beard and a frantic disposition. Like most of the dissenters, he had a small crowd of his own, gathered around him, but the crowd peeled away like onion skin when the Man approached. The yellow-haired dissenter faltered in his speech, seeing the Man approach.
Amannya felt herself leaning forward involuntarily as the Man raised his hands and spoke, the wind whipping his thick hair.
"Brothers, hear my words. You are not meant to bray in the streets like animals of burden."
Some grew quiet. Others spat and walked away, muttering superstitious oaths. The yellow-haired man looked unsure, perhaps wanting to reclaim his pulpit, perhaps wanting to listen, perhaps wanting to slink away.
"There are those of you who will call me savage. I cannot change the minds that are closed. But to the rest of you, know that my word is good, and my words are truth. Hear my words."
In among the crowd that had followed the Man in, Amannya saw others, similarly dressed in fur and leather. Sweat shone on their brows, and to wear those furs in the heat must have been unbearable, but they held themselves proudly in spite of it.
"You have heard tales of us, and you have trembled. Maybe your mothers told of us, and we were bogeymen to snatch you up in the night. Maybe your teachers told of us, and we were ignorant barbarians. Perhaps your friends and clanmates told of us, tales in your cups, of impossible feats of strength. Wherever you have heard us spoken, it has been for strength of arms and valor in battle. You have heard of us as monsters. You have heard of us as beasts. But we are proud monsters, and we are proud beasts."
Amannya realized she was out of her hiding spot, inching toward the edge of the crowd. Happily, no one seemed to be giving her a second glance. "Who is that?" she whispered to the least-threatening commoner she could find.
The commoner looked at her askance, as if something was wrong with her. "One of the Fiends," he whispered back after a moment. "From the camp outside the city gates."
"A Fiend of Falla? Here?" Amannya stood up on tiptoe to get a better look.
Someone in the crowd seemed to have had enough of the Man; a piece of rotten fruit sailed through the air, struck him in the chest, but he didn't even flinch. "This is behavior of lowest animals," he growled, not looking for the one who had thrown it. "Pawing among your own filth, feeding on crumbs and table scraps, jabbering in the dirt among your own kind, complaining and licking your wounds and fixing nothing. You play at revolt against your decadent rule, and you pretend you have a hope. You do not have a hope. At least, not in this way."
Amannya shivered. For some reason, her clothes felt too thin, or the night cooler than it truly was.
"So you may stay here in your river mud and refuse, if you wish. But among our ranks, a man may have whatever he is strong enough to take. He does not grovel and bend knee to painted, perfumed kings and queens. He stands tall and proud, so long as he is able. He lives free."
Another item was thrown-- a glass bottle this time. The man moved away easily; he was swift as a falcon. "Too many of you," he spat, "are too stupid to hear my words and hear them well. But there are some of you, and you know that this is true. You need not be slaves and serfs. You need not lie awake at nights, worrying about whether you should live or starve. This I tell you truly: we mass to march, brothers. We will have you, if you join us. And you will live a better life than your painted, perfumed kings and queens."
By now, some of the uniformed patrolmen had seen that this was more than just another wild dissenter and began to make their way over; the crowd took the hint and moved on quickly. Most had homes to return to or business to be about. The Man scowled and muttered something that sounded like a curse before nodding to his fellows.
But Amannya only drifted back into her hiding place, sucking on one of her few remaining olives. The Man's words were stuck in her head as permanently as blue-black ink.
She watched them, the figures of leather and fur, as they strode toward the city gates.
And she followed.
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Post by Eurydice on Apr 21, 2012 20:26:37 GMT -5
"No," the Man said. "Definite no."
Amannya squirmed; he towered above her, from this close.
When they had gotten outside of town, when it had become clear to them that she was following, they had shouted her away, as if she were a stray dog. It hadn't stopped her following them. This was the farthest she had ever been from home. She hadn't ever visualized a world outside the city walls. She knew that such places existed, to be sure, but that was for reading about in books.
This was real. This was terrifying.
She had followed them to an encampment, stakes in the ground and skins stretched for tents, a sea of figures mostly dressed in red-brown and silver-black furs. She realized, to her surprise, that a few other commoner men who had heard the Man talking in town must have followed as well, for they stood out from the rest of the crowd in their pale leathers and stained silks. She could only imagine how much she stood out.
There were two of the figures in furs staring down at her now-- the slender man who had preached in town was filling in a broader figure with a wiry beard and small, dark eyes. They were speaking a tongue she didn't know.
"You said to join," she insisted, rocking back on her heels. "I want to join."
Both men turned to her, eyes smoldering. The slender man with the streak of white in his dark hair spoke first. "To the men and the women searching for a better life, I spoke. Not to little baby girls who do not want for anything."
"But I am searching for a better life. And I am not a baby," she scowled, wishing she were taller. "I'm old enough to be married off. That makes me a woman grown."
The broad man put a question to the slender one, and they both laughed, with a twinkle of something dark and uncomfortable that Amannya didn't recognize. "Woman grown, woman grown... do you have a name, little woman grown?"
Only the slender man had addressed her thus far, and it made her all the more worried for the broad man. Still, she mumbled her name with a small curtsey.
"Again, little woman grown."
She repeated herself, straightening.
"Ama," the slender man said, when it was clear that he would not get her full name, "Little Ama, what strength would you bring to the Fiends? Are you quick and clever with a sword? Are you strong with a tall bow? Do you favor the long, barbed whips or curved daggers native to the cities?"
She shook her head, her heart sinking.
"Not all who would reave with the Fiends come to us as seasoned fighters. Perhaps you have another skill. A smith? A baker? A farmer? The one who stitches the clothes back together, perhaps? What is it you do?"
Amannya flushed. "I'm a novitiate at the temple. I was going to be a priestess."
The broad one frowned. "Pris-tes..."
"A holy woman," Slender nodded. "A holy healer. You have this skill?"
"I-- a little. I'm still training. Was."
He was being patient with her, Slender was. It hadn't occurred to her before, but he could have just taken a sword out or hollered at her until she left. Broad probably would have done that. "Little Ama. We are warriors. We will not want only 'a little' healing. If a man's arm is cleaved from his shoulder, he will need more than 'a little' healing, or he will die. That is so. Now I ask again: do you have this skill? Holy healing?"
It was as if her face was on fire. "I'm learning! I am improving constantly, and I will be able to heal better when..."
Slender snorted a half smile. "But you see why it is that we would not take you."
Amannya felt embarrassed tears prick her eyes, but she kept them at bay. It wasn't fair-- it had been like a sign, when she had been almost out of food and things to sell, and the Man had come to talk, about people going to a new home, and now to have it snatched away from her-- it wasn't right. There must have been a mistake. This where she had to go now. Why couldn't they see that?
But it was obvious, as she looked around. Everyone here was big or strong or doing something, like stripping the meat from game or sewing skins together for a tent or sparring with their long, straight blades.
The slender man let her look for a moment. "You see how we live, Little Ama. We have our purposes. Those who do not fight support those who do. We do not have room for a princess passenger."
"I'm not a princess!" she cried. "I'll work! I promise!"
"Yes? And what work will you do?"
Desperately, Amannya wracked her brain. "I can sweep and scrub and clean, wash the dishes, polish the silver... I can speak almost all the mother tongues... I know the prayerbook by heart, and history, and common garden plants, and... and stories, lots of stories..."
(A stupid detail-- they wouldn't want to hear Sulima's stories)
"Stories are good," Slender nodded, much to her surprise. "But the rest is not. We do not need plates washed, and we already know one of your languages, and we will be going far from your back yard gardens. Now run home, Little Ama. The daylight is going, and your parents will start to worry for you."
Broad, who had been watching the exchange with growing annoyance, suddenly straightened, punched Slender in the shoulder to get his attention. "Hrolfsdottir," he said curtly, and Slender straightened, too.
Another savage, bedecked in furs, lumbered over, and it was all Amannya could do not to gawk. The face would have been a handsome one, once, but a scar split it from ear to chin, and it had clearly healed badly. What was lacked in beauty was made up for in long, muscled arms and legs under the heavy furs. There were at least four blades under the furs as well. And the figure, with its close-cropped chestnut hair, was a woman.
"Wulf. What is this?" The woman's voice was more heavily accented than Slender's.
Broad, who was called Wulf, scowled down at Amannya. "Little faydottir girl. Try to follow us away."
Slender chimed in. "She says she is old enough for marriage; I take it by that, she means she has had her first blood and could bear sons. And she claims to have healing skills," he added, "though I think I would trust to Onundson's healing skills first." By way of explanation, he turned to Amannya and said wryly, "Onundson brews our ale. It is very potent."
She wasn't sure whether to be insulted at his joke or encouraged that he had bothered to include her.
The woman Hrolfsdottir regarded Amannya the way a butcher might regard a piece of meat. "She is skinny."
"She is," Slender agreed. "I do not know why these nobles do not see fit to train and defend themselves. The politics in the city would not be so unstable then."
"She's a noble?"
"Of course. Look at her skin."
Slender poked at her with the hilt of his knife until she turned her head involuntarily. "I am not!" Amannya yelped helplessly. "I am not a noble!"
More heads were starting to turn their way, from the crowd of savages. Amannya saw to her distress that, besides human faces, a handful of elves, and a few pack mules, there were also great, shaggy wildcats, yellow of eye and sharp of tooth, prowling amongst the people as casually as a house cat might do. There were long, straight blades being sharpened and traded and clashed, and there were strange, coarse words being spoken that she didn't know. She didn't know which piece it was specifically that made this place and these people seem so alien, so frightening.
Amannya wanted to hide her face, but she couldn't do that now; there was nowhere to hide, and even if she could hide, it would make her look weak to them. All she could do was stand straight and not run, and maybe they would see that she was brave enough to learn and fight and stay with them.
"I am not," she repeated sullenly.
Hrolfsdottir chuckled. "Little faydottir. The day Olaf Hamondson cannot sniff out a lie is the day that the moon rises in the day and the sun lights the night. He says you are noble, so you are noble. Can you read?"
"Of course I can read," she blurted.
"Keep her. We need eyes that can read. Find something for her to do in the meantime, so she is not dead weight." Hrolfsdottir turned, barked a command at Wulf, and the two of them pushed back into the crowd of furs and faces.
And as fast as that, the discussion was over.
Slender, whose name was Olaf Hamondson, snorted and shook his head. "And now for my trouble, I am a nursemaid. Excellent well. Come."
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Post by Eurydice on Jun 12, 2012 22:43:38 GMT -5
Her brow furrowed in concentration. "Fire."
"Yes. Banamaðr."
"Killer."
"Yes. Barn."
"Child."
"Or baby, yes. Blóð."
"Blood." Almost all the words she was made to learn in the tongue of Falla seemed to be about violence and killing and destruction. It was not, she considered, entirely surprising.
"No."
She frowned. "Yes it is. Blood."
Olaf Hamondson gave a thin smile. "You are only listening with your ears, Little Ama. You must hear with your eyes as well. Blóð."
This time, she caught it, the turn of his hand, the flicker of his fingers. She scowled, cross with herself for having missed it the first time. "Blood money. Pay for killing."
"Yes. Brynja..."
Amannya, now called Ama, shook out her hand. The blisters from the first few weeks had turned into hard skin, but her fingers still cramped and hurt from the work. No one had wanted a skinny little noble girl for a helper, and so Olaf Hamondson again took pity on her and taught her some simple tricks for repairing chain mail. It was apparently one of many talents he possessed. After the first day of twisting tiny metal ringlets, her hands had felt like they were on fire. When she asked for a potion to take her pain, she earned a rap across the knuckles. Wasn't she supposed to be a healer? Ama wasn't stupid. She did not ask again.
"I don't know that one," she protested after giving the word careful consideration.
"Now you are not listening with your brain. Who do you work for?"
"Well-- you. The Fiends?"
Olaf shook his head and gestured emphatically with the cowl of chain he was repairing. "This work. Who oversees it?"
Ama's brow furrowed. Everyone looked alike in the camp-- all ragged and covered in summer furs, with stiff, unshining hair and sharp eyes. She was supposed to be learning names and faces, as well as words, but it was so difficult when everyone looked so very alike! You could sort of tell from what people wore, sometimes-- you could see that Hrolf Shieldson wielded the biggest hammer, for he was chief-- but most of the mass was just an indistinguishable collection of fur and fury.
"Bryn," she managed finally. "Bryn Brynjsdottir."
"Yes. And Bryn is named like her mother, for the both worked the same trade, which is..."
"Armoring. brynja is armoring?"
"Chain armor. Yes. Better. And like this--" He added a fluid gesture, a stroke with his thumb across the chest. "Armored men and women. Fighters. Warriors."
Ama nodded, determined. "Brynja." She imitated the gesture and promptly dropped her chain work in doing so.
Someone passing them laughed. "Careful now, little faydottir. Big, heavy chain."
It was a jibe at her. The chainshirt was not heavy; she had dropped it anyway. Ama scowled. "Why does everyone call me that?"
"Faydottir?" Olaf grinned and shuffled his work-- considerably larger and heavier than hers-- onto an armor stand and took a few steps back to survey it properly. "Because you are a skinny little princess. You look like a... how do you say the word? Fairy. A little fairy girl. A faydottir. You did not give us a family name to call you by, so we give you the one that seems to fit you and seems to stick."
"I do not look like a fairy!" Ama exclaimed. "I'm dirty. I cut my hair short. My hands are all hard."
Olaf shook his head, not unkindly. "When we see some muscle on your arm. When we see you cut a man in battle. When we see you do incredible. Perhaps you earn a different name then."
Ama's scowl deepened. She did not think it was right, that he could speak so frivolously of a Diyan's daughter.
You are not the Diyan's daughter anymore, she chided herself silently, for what must have been the hundredth time. You left her back in the city. You left her before you got to your hideout under the bridge. You are Ama Faydottir now. The Fiends don't care who your parents were. You mustn't think that way anymore. You cannot fall back on those words. You must earn, earn your place. There is no other way forward.
And besides, she had always been slender. Maybe she did look like a pixie, covered in dirt and sweat though she was.
"Can you do that?" she asked, after a moment. "Change your name?"
"If you earn," Olaf nodded. That was his answer to almost everything, it seemed. Everything, here, you got what you earned. "A man's family or friends will give him his first name, but sometimes wyrd gives him another, if he earns it well. That is so."
Then that was what she would do. And until then, she would just have to put up with what she had.
"Faydottir!" A red-bearded man with long arms was striding through camp toward them, a wildcat companion at his side.
Ama set aside her chain work and straightened nervously. Olaf saw her dismay and understood-- he seemed to understand everything, without having to ask. "Hamdir Ketillson," he supplied quietly, "a scout. Do you remember the word for what his partner is called?"
He meant the cat, she knew. "It's a gefera." Ama knew that one. She had asked it almost as soon as she'd been taken into camp. "...does a gefera have a name?" she added uncertainly.
The question made Olaf frown slightly.
"Yes," said Hamdir Ketillson, who had overheard the last. "But his name--" He pointed to the shaggy, dull-colored cat at his side, with its lashing tail and long teeth, with its yellow eyes that seemed most appropriate for peering out of nighttime shadows at small, helpless prey. "--only for me to know. Name is not for the speaking. Names have power. Eh, feydottir?" He nudged her with his elbow, and it took her breath away a little, almost knocking her over, although she was fairly sure that he had only mean it teasingly. Maybe she really was a faydottir.
"Need to borrow." Hamdir pointed to Ama, and Olaf nodded.
"You could ask me," Ama said pointedly.
Hamdir laughed and steered her by the elbow.
It was early afternoon, and camp was still lazy from their midday meal. Ama watched a score of young boys and girls, half naked and roughhousing with a well-used leather ball. A wildcat, presumably a parent's gefera, followed them at an unhurried pace, yawning hugely, its large, flat tongue flicking out to lick its chops. The action startled Ama. Hamdir laughed again. "Little faydottir want her own gefera, yes?"
Ama's eyes widened a little. "Can I?"
"Maybe. Maybe." Hamdir sized her up. "Until then, can ride mine, like horseback."
"...really?"
"No," Hamdir grinned. "He throw you off and eat your legs, I think."
Ama stuck her chin out defiantly. "Maybe I'll eat his."
The red-haired scout burst with laughter and again clapped her on the back, hard enough to send her stumbling. "Good, good! Good spirit. Wyrd likes spirit like that."
They stopped before one of the tents, and Ama stiffened a little at seeing where they were. It was the largest tent, and some things, you could tell by looking. "What does Hrolf Shieldson want with me?" she asked, trying to sound casual.
"There are letters. Words. You read him."
Hamdir Ketillson deposited her inside. Thora Hrolfsdottir was there, with her terrible scarred face, deep in conversation with her father. She paused when Ama came inside before gesturing her over to the desk. "Here," she pointed to the page. "Do you know this word?"
Ama scanned the letter briefly before determining that she had absolutely no idea what any of it meant-- a lot of military-sounding words that she didn't know-- before focusing on the spot on the page where Hrolfsdottir pointed. "Yuradis," she said. She recalled it from her geography lessons. "It's a country, across the sea. It's an island, with lots of ships, for trade and for battle."
Hrolf Shieldson grunted. "Yuradis," he confirmed.
"An ill-fated name," Hrolfsdottir murmured.
Hrolf nodded agreement. "These words." He pointed.
"They're places in Yuradis," Ama reported. "Vyrios. Krios. Krios is the military capitol. It's in the south."
Hrolf grunted and gestured to his daughter, who briskly thrust the papers at her with a charcoal pencil. "Read, Ama. Where it talks about places in Yuradis, circle the words or make a note. When you are done with the letters, you tell us what you have read."
It was like a book report, almost, but the strangest one she'd ever been called on to do. Ama dutifully took the papers and sat with them on her lap, underlining here and circling there. "Why did you say that Yuradis is a bad name?" she asked, not sure if she was allowed to speak.
Hrolfsdottir regarded her. Ama imagined that the scarred woman saw only the little faydottir princess. "Do you know the story of Orfeo the King?"
Ama shook her head, keeping her eyes on her writing. To her pleasant surprise, she had discovered that almost all of the Fiends were masterful storytellers, as good as Sulima.
Lazy afternoon sunlight lit the furs in and on the tent, and Hrolfsdottir sat back on one of the furs on the ground. "A wise and skillful king, was Orfeo," she began. "Just and strong and true, or so it is said. Not only was he blessed with a fine kingdom and the means to rule it, but he was also possessed of a nimble tongue, ever ready with the proper phrase or a stirring word, or even a rousing song. A wife, he had, too. A beautiful lady named Heurodis." Hrolfsdottir paused and looked at Ama. "You see? It sounds as 'Yuradis.'"
Ama nodded.
"Lady Heurodis, one cursed morning, took her servants out to the gardens and the fields to walk and see the sights, and before long, the lady grew tired. She found a fair ympe-tre and decided that its shade would be pleasing to sleep under. So while her ladies kept watch, she lay down and slept all through midday. But as she slept, the ladies saw something queer. They saw her twist and thrash about, as if she were being attacked, and when she woke, she was in such great distress that it took many strong warriors to restrain her, so great was her passion. She told her husband, Orfeo the King, what she saw.
"'My lord husband,' she said. 'The wicked Fay Fylking, the king of the Fairies and the Otherworld, he came to me while I slept beneath that cursed ympe-tre. He told me that I would come back to that very spot, and he would take me away, to be beside him in the Otherworld until the stars went cold.'
"King Orfeo did not wish for this to come to pass. He ordered his warriors to follow his queen wherever she went, and they were strong and able, and they obeyed. But still, the next day, Lady Heurodis again went walking, and although the warriors were brave and strong, they could do nothing when the earth opened, and the sky darkened, and lightning rent the sky, and the Fairy King appeared to drag the good lady away to the Otherworld.
"King Orfeo knew that he must follow, and so follow he did, down into the earth, through dirt and swamps and strange forests, inhabited by the dead, until he came to the palace of the Fairy King. And the Fairy King scolded him for coming into his house uninvited, but King Orfeo soothed him with honeyed words and pleasing phrases, and he took out his harp and sang for the Fairy King. The song pleased the Fairy King so well that he told Orfeo he could have a gift. King Orfeo, of course, picked his Lady Heurodis."
Hrolfsdottir stopped, stretching out on her back, on her sun-warmed fur, one leg folded, the other crossed over top. She looked like a lazy predator, lying like that.
"What happened then?" Ama asked.
"It's a story," Hrolfsdottir shrugged. "It changes. Some tellers say that Orfeo and Heurodis had a long journey home, and when they arrived, no one recognized them. Some say that Orfeo survived the trek back, but Heurodis did not. Some say that the Fairy King refused to let her go. No matter who tells it, though-- an ill-fated name."
Hrolf Shieldson grunted. "Story sounds better in the proper tongue."
"Well, she does not know the proper tongue well enough yet."
Ama squirmed. She was most of the way done with the letters, but she wanted to hear more. Still, if she spoke too much, she would probably be scolded for insolence. "Why are we stealing letters about Yuradis?" she asked.
Thora Hrolfsdottir looked to her father. "Because that is where we are going, little fay princess," said Hrolf Shieldson. "We go to reave along shores of Yuradis. With luck, Fay Fylking will not greet us there."
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Post by Eurydice on Aug 8, 2012 9:55:07 GMT -5
"You cut me!" Ama cried indignantly, sucking on her knuckle.
On the sidelines, Hamdir Ketillson grinned, one hand idly stroking the fur of his gefera. "Is good, faydottir. Blood and bruises, they good teachers. Cannot ignore them like you can ignore talking teachers."
Ama felt her brow furrow, wanting to make a smart remark or say that she never ever ignored her teachers, but that wasn't the point right now. She wasn't supposed to be paying attention to Hamdir. Instead, she turned her attention back to Olaf Hamondson, who was idly shifting his grip on the left-hand short sword, the one that had just bit her hand. Even as fast as he was going, as sharp as his swords were, she could plainly tell that he was holding back considerably, and it was the least she could do to pay attention to him. If she didn't, he was likely to cut her again, if only to remind her how much more soundly he could have been beating her.
She squeezed the sword; for a grown man, it would have fit into one hand, but Ama was not a grown man, and so both her fists held it. It was not like the elegant, curved blades that Noah wore-- this was straighter and scarred, with a handle wrapped in leather.
But what was important was that it was a real sword, real enough to kill a man. It was the first time they'd given her something other than a wooden pole for sparring.
She was-- to her great embarrassment-- deeply jealous of some of the children, the ones who seemed to have grown up with a weapon in hand, since the day they were strong enough to close their fingers into a fist. They twirled their blades, juggled daggers, all the while giggling like it was no more difficult than sweeping the floor. Ama didn't dare spar with them; at least Olaf was willing to pull his blows.
There were several more "teachers" decorating her hands and arms by the time they were done. Ama Faydottir sat on the sidelines with a grunt, peering at the cuts with keen eyes. Her less-injured left hand floated over her slightly swollen right one, and with a faint glow, she eased some of the pain. She was improving at that, too. She had occasion to practice every time they sparred.
Hamdir's gefera, with its great yellow eyes the size of tea cups, watched with interest, nose twitching in the warm afternoon air. "Likes that," Hamdir noted. "Likes when you do that. See?"
Ama nodded cautiously. She had noticed before that Hamdir Ketillson's gefera often wandered closer after training matches, when she took the time to tend to her hurts. In fact, she had noticed that there were several among the Fiends who watched with interest when she practiced her healing arts. The Fiends didn't seem to have many god-healers-- shamen, like the witch doctors in Sulima's stories, not proper priests-- and only one at present, Geir Fornson, who was very old and gray.
The gefera finished sniffing the air and lay down again, resting its shaggy chin on its paws. "Does it know what I am doing?" Ama asked.
"Maybe," said Hamdir. "I do not know what you doing, faydottir. Only that the bleeding stop. But gefera much smarter than Hamdir Ketillson." He laughed.
Gingerly, Ama extended her hand to the gefera, who sniffed and then retreated. None of the tawny cats prowling the camp got much closer to her than that, but Olaf told her it was important that she do it all the same, so that they knew her smell and would not mistake her for a foe, when battles came. She was jealous of the men and women with their gefera, just as she was jealous of the boys and girls who had grown up with steel in their hands. No one would chuckle and call her faydottir if she had an enormous, long-toothed cat prowling at her side.
Hamdir poked her arm above a bruise, making her scowl. "Hrolfsdottir calls you, I think. Not make her wait, go."
Ama Faydottir scrambled to her feet, crunching her knuckles a little and stretching her sore muscles. On her feet, she could see Thora Hrolfsdottir, by her father's tent.
There were more people in camp than usual. Ama knew that this was because there had been a skirmish, yesterday, along one of the towns that they'd passed. The Fiends were moving to the coast, not looking for fights, but they had prevaled anyway. Those who were willing and useful-- perhaps ten or fifteen of them-- had agreed to join the band, as brothers and Fiends. Those who were not willing... well, some had been killed, others merely plundered for any valueables and sent on their way. Some of the Fiends had taken women and girls for prizes to share their tents. It made Ama uncomfortable; tents were close to one another, and you could hear them carrying on at night.
Thora pointed Ama inside and to her desk, where there were new papers for her to review. Every few days now, she was called to read the papers that had been found, bought, or stolen. Most of them were about trade ships, cargo manifests and invoices and other boring things, but once or twice she had found little details about the naval capitol of D'tane. Hrolf Shieldson had liked that, and Thora Hrolfsdottir had given her an extra tender cut of the roast with dinner that night.
It was Hrolf's tent, that they were working in, but he was elsewhere. Ama suspected that he was busy with the young woman that he had claimed after the battle-- he had first pick of the spoils, as chief, and he'd chosen a pretty girl with black hair, unusually white skin, and a terrified look in her big eyes.
Ama wondered if any of the Fiends would dare to take Thora Hrolfsdottir into their tents, like they did with the captured women.
"You started your sword training," Thora commented as Ama worked.
Ama nodded. "Olaf Hamondson is too fast," she grumbled as she worked. "Even when he's going slowly, so that I can keep up, 'tis too fast."
"So?" Hrolfsdottir settled on her furs. "I am faster than Olaf Hamondson. My father the Shieldson is stronger than me. His second, Wulf Hreidmarson, is better at defense. When you have learned how to hold your sword, you will find what it is you do better than others."
"I'm too little. Hamdir Ketillson says so. Everyone still calls me faydottir. How am I supposed to fight?"
The woman on the furs frowned, her face wrinkled with scarring. "Don't whine. Little is hard to hit. You can heal yourself and keep fighting. You will figure out other things, too. No one is the same at fighting."
Like Aster and Ryd, Ama remembered, from when she had been Amannya the Diyan's daughter and listened to star stories at bedtime. Sulima said that not all warriors were bright and shining. Sulima snuck away into the shadows and almost killed the man who snuck into my bedroom. She was stronger than him. And Sulima had died in the fever, when it came to the city. She was not stronger than the fever.
But these were thoughts for later. Right now, she was to focus on the papers.
Ama so wanted to ask why they were going to Yuradis. It was a very long way away; Ama had never been on a sea voyage before, but she was sure it would take months, and that seemed like a great deal of time and risk for the Fiends to be taking on a job. They wouldn't have reinforcements there. There might be strange plants and animals, and they wouldn't know what to eat. The ports might be too well defended. Still, she was less than a baby, here, and one did not speak of battle plans to babies.
"Will we be at the coast soon?" she asked after a time. That seemed a safe question, at least.
"Another week," said Hrolfsdottir. She seemed to be tallying something, although Ama was fairly sure that the warrior woman did not know her letters very well. "Two, perhaps. If wyrd favors travel."
"Do you think it will?"
A stern look. "Not for me to say."
"Then how will you know?"
Hrolfsdottir sighed, making a superstitious gesture with her left hand, even as she continued working with her right. "Hard to know. My father the Shieldson will consult with Geir Fornson, when we are at the coast. Perhaps a sign will be given. Perhaps a sacrifice will be needed before we depart. Perhaps there will be no boat, and that will be the sign. We will see."
There was a definite disparity, Ama had seen, between those who had been with the Fiends for a long time, those who had come from farther up north, and those who had only joined recently. A strong respect for signs, superstition, for indicators of wyrd's presence, was a marker of those native to Falla. Ama thought it was crazy, relying on patterns of runestones and changes in the wind for signs of fate at work. Then again, the temples back home in the city prophesied, too; she would not have been sent to learn the ways of god-healing otherwise. Perhaps it had been wyrd that had sent her to train at the temple and wyrd that had prompted her to flee.
Something that Hrolfsdottir said clicked. "You think it will be a sign, if there isn't a boat?" Ama blurted. "Does that mean that you don't think we should go to Yuradis?"
Thora Hrolfsdottir scowled, repeating the superstitious gesture. "Not for me to say, Ama. Do your reading."
Ama did as she was told, but she noted that the warrior woman had not said no.
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Post by Eurydice on Aug 8, 2012 9:57:03 GMT -5
Being asked to sit in on Hrolf Shieldson's council meeting was not the birthday present that Ama would have expected.
I oughtn't think of it as my birthday, she reminded herself. It is Lady Amannya's birthday. I am Ama Faydottir, a Fiend of Falla. As far as she had seen, the Fiends didn't pay any special attention to birthdays or anniversaries; she was not even sure that they followed a calendar beyond watching the cycles of the moon. That was not to say that they skimped on festivities-- great deeds were celebrated, great defeats mourned, and any supper where the drink flowed had potential to turn into impromptu revelry.
There had been a turning point, in the last month, when she had stopped thinking of the Fiends as a they and begun thinking of them as we and us. It had happened at sparring, as they finished for the afternoon.
"Good," Olaf Hamondson had told her, accentuating the word with a fluid gesture.
"Thank you," she had replied, with a flick of her wrist. The gesture came to her without her even realizing she had done it.
As simple as that, with no fanfare at all, the gap had been bridged.
She had come to love her sword, heavy and scarred as it was. Olaf Hamondson made sure that she trained at it every day, until her arms ached and her hands were cut, and then he made sure that she was speaking the tongue of the Fiends at least as much as she was speaking the common tongue. Thora Hrolfsdottir occasionally praised her for her work with the letters, for that was why she had been accepted into their ranks in the first place. Bryn Brynjsdottir showed her how to fashion a chainshirt light enough for her to wear, until she was stronger. Hamdir Ketillson taught her how to swear and spit and make unfavorable hand signs at her enemies.
She had counted every day since she had left the temple. It was her fourteenth birthday.
It was crowded inside the tent. Hrolf Shieldson had no throne; he and his advisors sat in a circle on the ground, furs stretched out for comfort, with a padded stool to accommodate Geir Fornson, too old to easily sit as the others did. She recognized others in the circle as well. Wulf Hreidmarson sat to the Shieldson's right, Thora Hrolfsdottir to his left. Grim Onundson moved amongst them, pouring drinks, but he too took his place in the circle. One man, with a bushy beard of brown flecked with gray, was in charge of the scouts, although she couldn't remember his name. Three in the tent were gefera, seated at a distance from their bond mates and stretched out like house cats in the lazy golden sunshine.
Hrolfsdottir spied her first and gestured for her to come and sit.
Geir Fornson was speaking; his voice was reedy and thin, although Olaf Hamondson had told her that once, the old shaman's voice had been as clear as a falcon's cry, and even though she had been practicing every day for months, she had to listen closely to understand the Fiendish tongue. "The stones speak of blood and salt, Shieldson. Blood and salt, they say, and the sign of a shield for your name. There be no clearer sign for sailing for war."
"Mind what you read from your damned stones," said Grim Onundson, who was looking over his cup with moody eyes. "That blood to be shed can be ours, too."
Geir Fornson huffed, wrinkling his old brow. "Be you so wise, Onundson, to read the signs for this clan? My task it is, and I know what I read. Wyrd has spoken. If we do not heed what is spoken, we will be left to curse what might have been, here on our home shores." The old man's hands spasmed, and he reached up to wipe a line of spittle from his beard. "Shieldson, you ask me where the signs have pointed, and I so report. It is to you to take what wyrd has spoken and make it manifest."
"If that is what the signs are, then our path is plain," the bearded scout master said, watching his gefera's tail flick slowly back and forth. "Why delay?"
"Because the path is not plain," Hrolfsdottir said bluntly. "Shieldson, you must reconsider..."
"I 'must' reconsider," Hrolf Shieldson uttered, shaking his head ruefully. "My daughter, my blood, she tells me what I 'must' do."
"Must, Shieldson. The risk is too much. We have never pushed our reach this far, and we lack the resources to do so prudently." Thora Hrolfsdottir gestured to a stretched canvas on the floor in the middle of the circle; it bore no writing, only rough drawings and symbols that Ama didn't understand. "It may be as we think, as we plan, and we may be able to take the cities we have been instructed to take. But if it is not as we think, we have no point of retreat and only forward to go."
A grizzled woman sat forward. "Are you too afraid to risk, Hrolfsdottir?"
"I am not. Are you too stupid to plan prudently, Thornsdottir?"
Wulf glowered at the other woman with his small, dark eyes, as he sometimes did when Hrolf Shieldson or Thora Hrolfsdottir were challenged. "Enough," said Shieldson, looking annoyed. "I will hear your council without you squabbling like babies. Do you have more to add, daughter?"
Hrolfsdottir shook her head, knowing that she had given her words and could do no more.
"Good. Ama the fay princess-- come sit closer, there by my daughter." The Shieldson gestured her into the circumference circle, and she squirmed forward.
If the men in the circle thought it unseemly for a skinny little faydottir girl to join them in their deliberations, they had the grace not to show it, though Geir Fornson peered at her through his milky eyes and nodded deliberately, as though that settled it (she didn't know what "it" might be). The warrior seated next to Hrolfsdottir pulled the furs a little thicker for Ama to sit on, and all gazes were on her. Ama felt very strange and grown up and important.
After he saw that she was seated comfortably, Shieldson said, "Now tell us, Faydottir, what you have read in the letters and papers we have taken from the Yuradisian merchants."
When he said faydottir, it was spoken like a true name, not an insult.
Ama sat up straight. She remembered how Olaf had told her of Geir the Shaman and his ringing voice of old, and she took a deep breath, filling her lungs so that she might sound the same.
She spoke not only from the letters, but from her history lessons as well. "The Southern coast of Krios is the greatest naval power, my lords. There is a school for the navy there, where they train to be sailors and soldiers. Most of the papers we got, though, were from Levinia. Some from Rygelia, too. Levinia is where there are the most merchant ships sailing, though, all along the southern coastline. The southern coast cities are really rich, I think-- they're the ones we have the most receipts from, the biggest orders-- but they're also close to the navy school, so they're likely to be better protected."
"And to the north, Faydottir?"
Ama bit her lip. "We... we didn't get much from the north, Lord Shieldson." Lord was not an exact translation of the Fiendish word, but it was as close a translation as her mind had managed.
"This I know. Tell me what you think. You have read books, yes?"
She had. "The books don't have much to say about the north..."
"Then tell me what you think."
She was fourteen. She had been the Diyan's daughter. She had been a novitiate priestess. She had marched with the Fiends. She had as much right to speculate as anyone else in this tent; the Shieldson had invited it. "Well... 'tis said that the cities in the north are farther apart. I believe they are smaller, too. Vyrios-- that's to the north-west of the continent-- there are some mines there, for metals and precious stones, but I think most of them are inland. Sylios and Bria-- they'd be farther for us to go, but the cities-- just rocky farms and fishing villages-- are even smaller and farther apart."
Some of the men were nodding slowly, as if she were not a child and an outsider, as if there were something of value in what she said. Hrolf Shieldson's eyes crinkled slightly with what might have been humor. "You know what we debate, Ama. What would you see the Fiends of Falla do?"
"Well... that depends on why we go, does it not?"
Geir grinned, his teeth crooked and yellowed. "A good answer."
"It does," said the Shieldson. "But what say you now, without knowing?"
Ama looked down at her lap, considering. Perhaps at the same time that she had stopped seeing herself as an outsider to the Fiends, they had stopped seeing her that way, too. "I think..." she managed after a moment. "I think that an attack to the south would be very risky. Too risky, too bold, like my lady Hrolfsdottir said. But if we could find a ship to take us around to the northern coast-- they're only fishermen and farmers, my lord, and so far from the naval school. I think they would not be so well defended, for they are not really worth defending. If we landed fast and moved fast, I bet we could manage an attack from the north. If we could get where we needed to go from there."
I want us to succeed, she realized giddily. I want us to go and fight and be victorious and come back with stories.
Shieldson nodded. He seemed deep in thought. "You can go now, Faydottir. The council thanks you for your words and skills.
Outside, Ama found that she did not want to wander far from the tent. The sun had sunk past the line of the horizon, and she could see the first few stars emerging, only three but enough to mark the sky as belonging to night. The ground under her bare feet was still warm from the light of Aster the sun, and she sat, enjoying the feel of warm earth below her, remembering a time when she had to sneak out of her bedroom balcony to sit out at night. She wondered what the council would decide, still marveling that they had listened to her. She had never spoken thus to her honored father and wise mother thus, yet she knew that they would not have listened to her as the Fiends had done.
The sky had filled with stars, her friends from Sulima's stories, when the Shieldson's advisors began to filter out of the tent. Geir Fornson patted her on the shoulder with his knobby, leathery hand before shuffling back to his tent. Thora Hrolfsdottir solemnly told her that she had spoken well, which Ama found surprising, for Hrolfsdottir had been against the journey. Wulf just grunted as he passed, but that was as much as Wulf usually said. The scout master, whose name she had heard was Sturm Fornson, said nothing to her, but his gefera sniffed her outstretched hand and seemed to find it acceptable and let her touch his furry shoulder.
She wanted to ask Hrolf Shieldson what had been decided, but if he wished to talk to her, he would send for her, and so she wandered back to her tent. Hamdir Ketillson was there, drinking ale and speaking with Olaf Hamondson. "Faydottir had good talk at Shieldson?"
He was one of the few who still spoke the common tongue at her most of the time, Hamdir Ketillson was. His grasp of the language was not so good as Olaf Hamondson's or Hrolf Shieldson's, but he had travelled much, listened to many, and could always make himself understood.
Because Olaf was there, she answered in Fiendish-- he always scolded her when she took the easy way out and spoke her old language. "It was a good talk. He asked me to tell the advisors what we had found in the papers, and what I thought it meant. And Hrolfsdottir said I spoke well, and Geir was nodding and making strange faces."
Hamdir grinned and waved dismissively. "Geir always making strange faces. Very old." He gestured for emphasis. As an afterthought, he nodded her closer and held out a hand; Ama saw rough bandaging and went to tend the cut beneath.
"Is there word yet?" asked Olaf. "Do we sail?"
"I don't know," said Ama. "They kept talking after I left. Hrolfsdottir thought we weren't ready, though. And I think Onundson agreed. And Wulf, he wanted to sail, but he defended Hrolfsdottir, too."
"Wulf always stand by Hrolfsdottir." Hamdir gave Olaf a knowing look. "If decision made, Shieldson announce it soon, I think. If not... we sit on asses for another week?"
"I hope not," Ama frowned. "We should sail."
Olaf's eyes glinted. "This is what you counseled, Little Ama? With your wyrd-touched words?"
The cut on Hamdir's hand was deep and dirty, but nothing important had been severed. Ama cleaned it and eased it closed with the golden light of god. Hamdir's gefera sniffed and chuffed as she did so. "I don't know why Shieldson wanted me to speak," she said. "I already told him and Hrolfsdottir everything I read in the papers they had. They could have just said it themselves."
"Is it not obvious?" Olaf watched her work with the wound. "If the Shieldson wants thoughts on troop composition, he will ask Wulf Hreidmarson to share them, for that is his job. If the Shieldson wants a clue as to the workings of wyrd, he asks Geir Fornson to speak, for Geir is shaman. You are book-learned, his reader of words on pages, so if there are things to report from the words on pages, he will ask you. When we share our knowledge, it must come from many voices. That is the way of things."
"I'm not book-learned," Ama protested.
"Have you read books?"
"Well, yes..."
"Then you are book-learned. You are what we have for book-learned, our book-learned fay princess. That is your place, and that is the way of things." Olaf Hamondson took a long pull of his ale, his eyes on the stars that littered the inky sky above.
Ama felt very powerful and very small.
She bid Olaf and Geir a good night and slipped into her tent, tying it shut behind her.
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