Daughter of Lir (58 page)

She would happily have walked, but as Minas pointed out, his
legs were longer. He could go faster. With him afoot and her astride, they made
their careful way back down through the narrow cleft of the valley. The mist
was thick. They could barely see the ground in front of them.

The dun grew more uneasy rather than less, the farther they
went. Even Minas’ hand on his bridle did not comfort him. Rhian crooned to him,
stroking his neck. He was sweating and trembling.

Minas stopped abruptly. “Wolf-shaman,” he said in his own
language. “Come out; you’re upsetting the horse.”

Nothing came, either wolf or man. Rhian held her tongue. She
knew Phaiston had come back—Minas had told her. But she had not seen him or
found trace of him, only Minas and the dun. Maybe his spirit had come to Minas,
and his body was still with the tribe.

Still there was no denying that something in the mist
greatly troubled the dun. They advanced slowly. Minas drew his sword. Rhian
strung her bow, though the damp made it harder to keep the string taut.

Even as wary as they were, alert and on guard, they walked
straight into the trap. It had closed about them before they were fully aware
it was there.

Shapes loomed out of the mist. Horses; riders. Dull gleam of
weapons.

All the riders were women. They were armed and armored.
Their helmets were high, ornamented with wings of birds. Their eyes were clear
and hard.

Rhian put on her most innocent face. “Not so fair a day,”
she said, “but a fair meeting.”

“Indeed,” said the woman who must be the leader: her helmet
was highest, and she wore an armlet of gold.

Rhian kept a smile on her face, urging the dun toward the
circle’s edge. “You’ll pardon us if we don’t tarry,” she said, “but we’re on
the king’s business. We—”

The circle closed about her. Swords and bows were trained on
her, and on Minas standing motionless at the dun’s shoulder.

“You may go,” the captain said to her. “Him we will take.”

“He is the king’s man,” Rhian said.

The captain swooped and plucked the mantle from Minas’ head
and shoulders. His hair was fire-bright in the grey light. He showed her his
teeth.

“Indeed,” said the captain. “Which king?”

“King of kings, lord of chariots, conqueror of the world,”
Minas answered her, sweetly.

Rhian kicked him. He grunted, but took no other notice. He
was in one of his wild moods, when he was as near a madman as made no
difference.

“You will come,” the captain said.

“Not,” said Rhian, “until I know whose warriors you are. I
don’t recognize your fashion. What are you and by what right do you take us
prisoner?”

“We serve the Lady of the Birds,” the captain said. “We have
no quarrel with the Lady of Horses. But with this man, we do.”

She said the word man as if it had a sour taste in her
mouth.

Rhian looked at her in dawning comprehension. There had been
rumors, whispers, but no surety, until now. “You belong to her. To Etena.”

“To the Lady of the Birds.”

“This man belongs to the king in Lir,” Rhian said. “Without
his leave, you cannot touch him.”

“We have his leave,” the captain said.

“You do not.”

The captain set her lips together. “We will take you to him.
We must bind this one—we are so ordered.”

“The king would never order that,” Rhian said sharply.

“We are ordered,” the captain said.

Minas held up his hands. His grin was wilder than ever. The
captain nodded to one of her women. The priestess—for she must be that—advanced
warily, but Minas offered no resistance. She bound him tightly.

He looked happy. It was not the hectic fever of despair.
Rhian looked for that. It was . . . relief, almost. As if he had
expected this, and was glad to be done with it.

She understood him no better than he understood her.

This much she did understand. The king and the temple for
once had joined forces. They could not let Minas go, either of them.

It was wise. It was heartening in a strange way: because if
they were to win this war, they must fight together, not against one another.

Maybe that was why Minas laughed, though he was truly a
captive now, truly a prisoner. Because he had done the impossible: he had
brought them to the same side. Minas had a fine appreciation for the gods’
humor.

The People swept like a storm across the river. There was
fighting, and plenty of it. These people were ready, armed and honed for war.

Warriors young and not so young welcomed it with howls of
glee. Many sought it out, luring the Goddess’ people into spats and skirmishes
while behind them, boats and rafts ferried the chariots and horses across the
water. There the enemy’s inexperience in war showed itself: they were easily
distracted. But they learned quickly. Later waves of the People did not cross as
easily as those that had gone before.

The sound of the war-drums and the skirling of the pipes
throbbed in Aera’s blood. She was with the horde, riding among the warriors—a
change that Dias had made. Most of the women and children rode behind in
wagons, and would camp on the far side of the river until this country was made
safe for them. But a few were suffered in the king’s company, women of wisdom
and standing, the chief of his wives and the wives of his vassal kings. And
Aera, because she was Metos’ daughter and Dias’ foster-mother, and because her
husband was the king’s charioteer.

There was no mistaking that one of all the lords of
chariots. He was taller than many and broader than most, and his black beard
was striking among so many fair-bearded or shaven faces. Not a few of the
vassals persisted in thinking that he and Dias were brothers, because they were
both dark broad-shouldered men; no matter how well it was known that Emry was a
prince of the west. If they two were kin, that kinship went back to the dawn
time.

Truly they seemed brothers in spirit. And that was well for
Dias. Dias needed to be one of two.

That was Etena in him, maybe: his soul was not complete. As
if, Aera often thought, he was the moon, and he needed a sun to grant him its
light. Etena devoured souls to feed her hunger. Dias only needed one, and that
he bound with the love of brothers. Etena was the dark of the moon. He was the
full, shining with white light.

o0o

The night before the whole of the horde crossed the river,
the king camped on the eastern bank. He had been across more than once already,
leading assaults against the defenses, but for this one last night he would
sleep on the shore of the sea of grass. His men were not feasting yet, but
there was celebration in plenty, small victories won and the great victory
ahead of them, and a splendid war to revel in.

Emry ate with the king because it was expected of him, but
he came early to the tent. Aera might not have known that he was troubled; he
smiled, spoke lightly, kissed her with a hunger that had not abated in a hand
of years. But he did not bear her backward into the sleeping-furs, and he stood
quietly while she undressed him. That was not like him at all.

When she sat him down in the furs to comb out his thick
black hair, he said, “It’s too quiet here. No magpies chattering. No baby
crying.”

Aera’s breasts ached, but no more than her heart. She had
weaned the baby when they came to the river. He was with Dias’ lesser wives,
being spoiled shamelessly, and being kept safe until the war was over. His
sisters were with him; his protests had been vociferous enough, but theirs had
been loud and long.

It was only Aera and Emry tonight, for the first time since
the twins came. She felt the same odd emptiness as he did, the same excess of
stillness. But more than that, she felt a stillness in him.

She knelt behind him, clasping arms about him, resting her
head against his back. He sighed, a gust of wind in her ear. His voice was a
rumble of thunder. “Dias gave me leave not to cross the river,” he said.

Her breath caught, then resumed its rhythm. “Will you accept
it?”

“No,” he said.

“Then you will fight your own people.”

“No,” he said again. “Aias will drive the king’s chariot.
I’ll ride with your father and the rest of the makers. I won’t be bound, unless
I give cause.”

He was very calm. This was expected, planned for. His word
was long since given. On the sea of grass, he was Dias’ man, his brother and
friend. Past the river, he was a prince of Lir.

Aera held him tightly. His ribs creaked, but he made no
sound of protest. “I don’t think I can bear to lose you,” she said.

He shuddered within himself, but did not speak.

Wind cooled their faces, sudden and briefly blessed. The one
who had brought it stood in the flickering lamplight. His eyes were wild. “He
lives. He is alive!”

Aera frowned at Dias. He was acting no more like himself
than Emry was. Dias never burst in upon anyone, never blurted out words as if
he had no power over his own tongue.

He was utterly beside himself. Both Aera and Emry rose, took
him in hand, sat him down and poured kumiss into him until he gasped and
spluttered and flung the skin across the tent. “Gods below take you! Are you
trying to drown me?”

“Ah, good,” Aera said, squatting in front of him. “That’s
better. Now tell us what brings you here. Who is alive?”

“Minas,” Dias said. “Minas lives. He’s here—there. With the
Goddess-worshippers.”

Aera sat heavily on her heels. Emry, she noticed distantly,
was not even feigning surprise.

“Who told you this?” Emry asked.

Dias raked fingers through his hair. It was snarled out of
its plait, tangled on his shoulders. “A shaman. He went spiritwalking, he said.
He found my brother alive in the city called Lir. And—he found—” He shuddered.
“He found
her
.”

“Etena?” Now that did surprise Emry, profoundly. “Etena in
Lir?”

“In the temple of Lir.” Dias’ lips curled back from his
teeth. “With the Goddess’ servants.”

“The king?” Emry demanded. “Does he live? Is he safe?”

“The shaman didn’t say,” Dias said indifferently. “Probably
he’s dead. Or his soul is. But my brother—he is alive. His soul is alive. The
shaman swore it. My brother is alive!”

Aera could not breathe. She could barely think. She knew she
must, but she could not find the way to do it.

Minas alive. He was dead, mourned, elevated among the
ancestors. He was a prince of the gods below, a great lord of the dead.

She began to laugh. Once she had begun, she could not stop,
even with three of them—three?—shaking and slapping her and calling her name.

It was the third man who recalled her to herself. She did
not remember him at all. His hair was wolf-grey but his face was young, thin
and sharp-boned. His eyes were pale brown, almost yellow.

As laughter shrank to giggles and faded away, she began to
understand who he must be. The necklaces of bones and shells and feathers, the
amulets woven in his hair—a shaman. He must be—

“You saw him,” she said. “You saw my son. Among the dead.”

“I suppose,” the shaman said, “that you could say that. He
is across the river, where the gods live. He is a prince among them. He makes
chariots for them, and tames horses.”

Was that satisfaction in Emry’s eyes? Dias was rapt, hearing
only that Minas lived. Nothing else mattered to him.

Aera was not as simple a soul as that. “You knew,” she said
to Emry. He met her stare steadily. “I knew,” he said.

Her heart went cold. “Tell me.”

“She traded him,” Emry said. “Etena. For me. They
wanted—needed chariots. She wanted to be rid of him, but hated him too well to
give him the gift of death. We had come to learn what we could and take what we
could. He was a gift of the Goddess, through that unlikely instrument.”

“They traded you—for—”

“She needed one of royal blood to do what she had in mind. We
needed one to teach us the ways of chariots.”

Aera looked at him as if she had never seen him before. This
man who had shared her bed and made children with her and kept her heart warm
for this past hand of years was altogether a stranger. “Do I know you?” she
asked him. “Did I ever know you?”

His face went white above the shadow of his beard. “I gave
you everything but that. That was I sworn to; I could not tell you.”

“I don’t know you,” she said. It was not meant to wound or
cut. It was simply the truth. She searched his face, that was as familiar, as
beloved as any in the world. Its lines were still the same. His eyes—his
beautiful eyes, the color of the sky at twilight, that deep and supernal blue.
Their son had those eyes.

He had not lied to her, no. Not except by silence. She could
understand that. He was what he was, a stranger in the camp of an enemy. And
yet she could not say, any longer, that her spirit and his spirit were one. He
had kept himself back. He had let her grieve for the first of her sons, had
stood without speaking while her heart was torn in two.

She could understand. But she could not forgive. “Go,” she
said to all of them. “Let me be.”

Dias protested. The shaman looked troubled. Emry bowed as if
to a king, and did as she bade.

o0o

The tears came when they had all gone. She was alone as
she had never been in all her years. Her firstborn was alive, but she knew no
joy.

A wise woman would have gone after Emry, called him back,
made what peace she could. Aera could not move. It was a warm spring night, yet
she sat frozen as if she had been naked on the steppe, whipped with icy wind,
lashed with snow.

She heard Dias outside, babbling with excitement. “We’ll go
direct to the city. We’ll rescue my brother. We’ll destroy her at last.”

“Oh, you will,” the shaman said. “She’s taken him
prisoner—he tried to escape, but she’s too strong for him. He had the king to
protect him before, but once he ran, he lost that. He’s in great danger, lord.”