Daughter of Lir (6 page)

Did she know what she had done, or what had taken her for
its servant? The mare seemed earthly enough, standing there in the sunlight,
hipshot like an ancient nag. Rhian sat not too badly on her back, no fleece or
saddlecloth, and for bridle a rope that Emry knew rather well. He had plaited
it himself.

He could not burst out laughing. They would all think him
reft of his wits. He fixed her with a flat stare instead, and waited for her to
speak.

She obliged him. “Prince,” she said. “You come in good
time.”

“But not before you,” he said. His voice was as flat as his
eyes.

Her own were dancing. She took a peculiar pleasure in
tormenting him. And he—his grief was no less. But he was aware of the sun
again.

He had meant to send her away without compunction. But she
was mounted on this of all horses. That gave him pause.

“Prince,” she said, “here is a messenger. His name is Conn.
He was a trader, wandering in the east.”

The trader from the east looked as if he had traveled hard
and long. The cut of his leather tunic, the devices branded and embroidered on
it, marked a tribe not remarkably far from the river. And the look in his eyes—this
man had seen terrible things.

Emry glanced about. The road was not greatly crowded, but
there were ears enough to hear whatever he said. “Come,” he said. “Come to
World’s End.”

o0o

The garrison at World’s End was prepared for Emry’s
coming. The commander had set aside her own house for the guests, and furnished
it with aught that they might be expected to need.

When they were all settled, she took them out of the
fortress to a place some distance up the river. It was a sacred place, a grove
that had belonged to the Goddess since the dawn time: a smaller image of the
great grove in Lir, that most ancient and most hallowed of her holy places.
Here as there, the trees were gnarled and twisted, but leaves still showed
green on the branches. Flowers grew about their feet, and a spring bubbled into
a basin in the grove’s heart. It seemed a fitting place for such a gathering as
this.

Emry had brought all his men there. They were much subdued
by the sanctity of the grove. It was not a men’s place. They were there on
sufferance, by the Goddess’ goodwill.

Conn the trader sat on the grass. He had revived visibly
since he had rested and eaten and been brought to this sunlit place.

Rhian had begun beside him, but she seemed beset by a spirit
of restlessness. She prowled among the trees, treading lightly on the flowers.
Emry’s eyes kept straying toward her while Conn told his tale.

“I was a trader,” he said, “among the sunrise tribes. For
some years I had lived most often with the people of the High Tor, as blood
brother to one of its warleaders and consort to his sister.”

Rhian stiffened at that, but she did not pause in her rambling.

Conn went on, unaware of her, for she was behind him. “There
were rumors from farther east, tales that came westward with the traders and
wanderers and the young men of the tribes. A god had risen, they said, among
the eastern tribes. He was a great god, a strong god. He had brought a gift
from beyond the horizon. That gift was a terrible thing, a mighty power in war.

“Chariots,” said Conn, making of the word a curse. “We
reckoned the tales but rumors, the babbling of fear before, at most, a new
tribe with a new and potent leader. But as the seasons went their round, the
rumors grew to a roar. Then came tribes into our hunting runs, fleeing some
horror in the east. A god, they said; war as swift as fire in the grass.
Battle-cars advancing with irresistible force, overwhelming any who ventured in
their path.” He stopped. His face was pale. His eyes were staring at a vision
none of the rest could see; though Emry wondered if Rhian might have the power.

When Conn spoke again, it was with the air of one who has
gathered the last of his strength. “Yes. Yes, they came at last—did you doubt
they would? All of us did. Surely they would stop, we had said. Invaders always
stop when they find wealth enough—and the tribes to the east of us were rich in
furs and copper, and much blessed in the fighting prowess of their young men.

“But a man on a horse is no match for two warriors in a
chariot. They overran the east in a short season. Then before the winter came,
they came to us.

“We heard them long before we saw them. It was like thunder,
a long rolling beneath our feet. The hooves of their horses, the wheels of
their chariots, shook the very breast of Mother Earth. She cried aloud under
the weight of them.

“They swept over us like a storm in the grass. They mowed us
down as if we had been a field of grain. They trampled our men, our women, our
children.

“I had gone wandering that dark of the moon, trading the
spotted hides of the High Tor cattle for the marten and ermine of the northern
forests. I came back as the battle was ending. I saw the chariots. I saw their
men making cups of High Tor skulls. I saw—I saw—” He broke off. He was rocking
where he sat, tears streaming down his face.

Rhian was there, though Emry had not seen her come. Conn
wept in her arms, clinging like a child.

The others waited. Some of Emry’s young men were inclined to
fidget, but his glare held them still. Britta the garrison commander frowned.
She could not be liking her thoughts any more than Emry liked his own.

At length Conn mastered himself. He sat up and drew a
shuddering breath. He said, “I saw too much. I wanted to fall on them and kill
them all—I, who grew up in the Goddess’ country. But my heart was too wise. I
knew that I had to ride with all the speed I could, to warn my blood kin. Because
rivers won’t stop them. The boldest of the tribes will barely slow them.
Only—only walls can stand against them.”

Britta’s glance crossed Emry’s. Neither said it. Walls could
be broken or passed by. Warriors would still have to ride out, still have to fight.
After a moment Emry said, “Go now. Rest. Find what peace you can.”

“And you will do what?” Conn was fiercely, furiously awake,
freed from his dream of horror. “You should be building forts, not riding
across the river. What do you fancy you can do? Raid those kings of raiders?
Steal the thing they guard above all?”

“The Goddess will guard us,” Emry said.

“Not even she can guard you,” said Conn. That was a terrible
thing to say here, in her own place, but he was beyond any simple fear.

“We are sent,” said Emry, “by the Mother and the king of
Lir. They know what comes. They move to protect the Goddess’ country. I,” he
said steadily, “I and my hellions here, am the vanguard of that defense.”

“You’ll die,” Conn said.

“That may be the Goddess’ will,” said Emry. “You are safe.
When you’ve rested and healed a little, Britta will see that you are taken to
Lir. My father should hear the tale you told us, and every other thing that you
can or will remember.”

“And you go to your death.”

Emry lifted a shoulder in a shrug. His glance caught the
most restless of his men. Young Dal leaped up eagerly. “Come, sir,” he said
with his quick light courtesy. “Come back to the fort and rest. I saw a very
nice bed in the commander’s house, and a jar of wine, too. And I’m very good at
coaxing dainties out of cooks.”

He had the trader well in hand. Emry dismissed the rest of
his men. Britta followed, still deeply preoccupied. But Emry lingered. He
needed the sun and the scent of the flowers and the whisper of wind in the
leaves. The Goddess’ voice spoke there. He had never quite understood it, but
that it was hers, he had no doubt.

He had thought Rhian gone with the rest, until she planted
her feet in the grass in front of him and glared down. He frowned up at her.
“You need new trousers,” he said.

That caught her beautifully off' balance. He watched her
grope for words, caught between bafflement and temper.

Alter a while he took pity on her—after a fashion. He said,
“I’ll see that you have a pair that fits. A coat, too. And—”

“I have a coat! My trousers fit. I—”

His glance took in the worn leather that strained across her
hips; the sprung seams; and the threadbare knees. He watched the blush spread.
It began with the sweet swell of her breasts and climbed swiftly to her
forehead. It made him think of the flush of dawn coming up over the river.

Such a song that would make.

“Stop grinning at me,” she snapped.

“Grinning? I?” He stretched out in the grass, propped on his
elbow. She was still standing over him. He struck another blow. “Do you know
where the grey mare comes from?”

She dropped down, boneless as a child. “I didn’t steal her.
She came to me.”

Emry laughed. “Oh, certainly you never stole her! No one can
steal that one. No, not even a god.”

Her eyes were wide. She did not understand. Not yet. Was she
so poorly taught, then?

“This is the White Mare,” Emry said to her. “The living
goddess.”

Rhian gulped air. “But isn’t she—doesn’t she have—”

“This is a black year,” he said. “Both the mare’s servant
and the Mother of Lir have died without heirs.”

She did not start at the word of the Mother’s death. He had
not thought she would. She knew, he thought. She would have dreamed it.

“Then I have no right to her at all,” she said. “I was
supposed to go to Lir. But not—to—”

“Were you, then? Are you sure of it? She came to you. She
brought you here.”

Rhian knotted tight, but her eyes were bold still. If she
was afraid, she was not giving in to it. “So she did. She must want me to get
killed.”

“Or to carry the Goddess’ power across the river.”

“She is the Goddess,” Rhian said. “And I didn’t know. I
didn’t see—”

“She didn’t mean you to see.”

“I should have,” said Rhian.

Emry was silent.

After a while Rhian said, “I won’t take her away from her
own place. I’ll go afoot, or borrow a horse.”

“There is no taking the White Mare,” Emry said. “She’ll go
if she’s minded to go. And if not, no force in heaven or earth will compel
her.”

“Can she make me go with her?” Rhian demanded.

“Would you resist her?”

“If I had to.”

Emry lay on his back, laced his fingers beneath his head and
rested his eyes on the dance of sun and cloud.

Leaves whispered. Bees hummed in the flowers. They were
building a hive in one of the dying trees. There was a great army of them,
warriors innumerable.

His spine prickled. Bees were a good omen in Lir. They
brought blessing to the place where they built their stronghold. They fed their
hosts with honey, and lulled them with their droning song.

And yet the dying tree, the swarm of bees, the sun’s burning
eye, roused Emry to something like alarm. In war, omens could have two edges,
like a well-forged dagger.

He said nothing of that to Rhian. When he looked, she was
gone. He was alone with the sun and the bees and the buzzing of his fears.

Rhian had never been in a temple. Long Ford had none.
Other, larger towns did, but she had never been in those, either. She had
traveled very little before she walked out of Long Ford.

She could, out of spite, have spat on the doorstep and shown
this temple her back, but it was not the fault of this place that a priestess
from Lir had scorned her. She went inside instead, because she was curious, and
because maybe, a little, she wanted to see what had been denied her.

It was dark. It smelled of old stone and sweet herbs and the
faint pungency of lamp-oil.

Slowly her eyes focused. A lamp burned not far from her. It
illumined a shape of stone, which must be the Goddess. Walls curved behind it.
Except for the Goddess and her lamp and a garland of herbs and flowers, the
sanctuary was empty.

Rhian stood in front of the stone image. It looked
remarkably like the priestess from Lir: squat, ugly-beautiful, and strong in
power.

It had no face. It wore the mask that she had seen in the
choosing, blank, without living features. The eyes were mere hollows in the
stone.

She looked into the darkness there.

It stared back. Her hackles rose, but she stood her ground.

“So,” said the voice of the priestess from Lir. It echoed
faintly, as if it came from a great distance, but she heard it clearly. “You
have as much power as that. I knew; I told them. But they let you live. They
thought they could keep you caged. Fools that they were. As soon cage the fiery
bird of heaven as keep the likes of you in bonds.”

Rhian did not understand her at all. Except for the last of
it. The bird of fire. The cage.

“How do you know—” Rhian broke off. “I’m dreaming you.”

“You drew me into your dream,” the priestess said. “That
takes great strength. But you don’t know what you have, do you?”

Odd: the prince had said something similar. Out of that memory,
Rhian said, “I have the White Mare.”

She felt the priestess’ shock as a blow to her own body. The
Goddess’ image swayed in its place. “You cannot!” the priestess cried.

“I am told,” said Rhian, “that it’s never a matter of can or
will or should, with that of all mares.”

“This should never have happened,” the priestess said. “You
should never have lived.”

“Why?” Rhian said. “Because I'm nobody? Because I come from
a village so small it doesn’t even have a priestess? Because you turned away
from me when the Goddess chose me?”

“You were not chosen.”

Rhian’s lips drew back from her teeth. “Don’t lie to me. I
may be nobody, but I know what you did. I felt it in my bones.”

“You could not be chosen,” the priestess said. “For the sake
of the city, for the sake of our world—you could not.”

“But I was,” said Rhian. She was not listening to the
priestess’ ravings, which meant nothing to her. She heard only the simplest
fact. “You couldn’t stop the mare, could you? She came in spite of you.”