Shadow of the Horsemen (Kalie's Journey) (12 page)

 
“Basha raised me since my mother died,” Nika said loudly into the silence. “She even nursed me. Of course I value her, but she’s still only a slave. My father was a chief and my mother his favorite wife.”

They don’t know, Kalie marveled. None of them. Can’t they see when they look at the two women next to each other? She murmured, “Of course. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I…”

But it was too late. Now everyone saw, and Basha’s fear-filled eyes, her face bone white in the moon’s glow, only confirmed it.

“Perhaps if we all take a vow that whatever is said in this place, stays in this place, Basha will tell us her story,” said Sarika.

Danica nodded. “Promises made beneath the full moon are binding to our people. I can only imagine the curse breaking a moon oath would bring among Kalie’s people.”

“Worse than anything you could imagine,” Kalie said quickly.

“Basha?” asked Nika, her eyes begging the slave to deny it.

But Basha shook her head. Some of her color had returned as she gazed proudly at her daughter. Then she faced the curious onlookers.

“My tribe was destroyed by the Warriors of Aahk before I was a woman. My older sister and I were the only of our family to survive. She had been married and was pregnant with her first child. She died a few days later, when the man she was given to struck her stomach so she would lose the child. I was alone, you see.” Basha’s eyes begged Nika to understand.

“I was given as slave to the chief of my new people. An honor, of course, but it did little to ease my fears, or the loneliness that I ached with every night. I became pregnant before I even knew I was a woman. My master’s favorite wife was with child as well, though for all the fine food and easy work she was allowed, it seemed to go far harder for her than for me. I gave birth to a beautiful daughter, but few who lived in our tent took a good look at her, for my mistress began her labor at the same time—and hers was a long and terrible ordeal, lasting four days.

“I remember that the midwife belonging to the king himself came to help with her birth. And as I lay ignored, nursing my precious child in peace, I wondered what life lay in store for her. If she had been a boy and found favor in my master’s eyes, I might have gained status; perhaps even become a wife. But a daughter…” Basha shook her head and once again sought the eyes of her audience. “She could well be my only child, since my master had already grown tired of me. And even if I could give him a son, what of it? He already had three by his first wife! For all the joy that any new mother feels when she nurses a healthy baby, I sorrowed at our future.

“After four days of labor, my mistress died, leaving behind a weak and sickly daughter. The women of the tent were exhausted, and collapsed into a deep sleep as soon as my master left to drown his sorrow in kumis. When the dead woman had been borne away by her sisters to be prepared for burial, I found myself left to care for the chief’s new daughter.”

It was clear enough to everyone listening what had happened next, but no one spoke. “I sat there,” Basha continued. “Thinking of what a waste it all was—and then the thought came to me that it didn’t have to be. So I wrapped my daughter in the ermine blankets that lay waiting for the chief’s daughter, and covered the other baby in the felt rags that were to have been your destiny.” For the first time, Basha looked directly at Nika, who sat mute, as white as her mother had been just moments before. Nika’s young daughter froze in her play with Yarik and Barak, all three staring in wonder at the sudden seriousness of the adults.

“My dead mistress’s baby died that night, and her body was thrown in the midden, as would be with any slave’s bastard. And while no one spoke of it aloud, there was relief at how things worked out: a wet nurse was now available to give not just milk, but undivided attention to the motherless girl. So my lot improved more than if I had given the chief another son: I was nurse to his only daughter, freed from his demands on my body, and eventually, the highest ranked slave in the household!”

“And no one suspected?” Mavra asked. “No one thought it strange that a sickly newborn was suddenly healthy?”

“Or that a healthy baby suddenly died?” Kalie asked.

“That last happens often enough,” said Basha, while several of the other women nodded. “Besides, no one had ever asked after my baby’s health.”

Sarika nodded. “I have attended many births like Amara’s—that was her name, wasn’t it? When a woman dies after such a long labor, no one has energy to spare for the baby. They were probably so glad to have something to rejoice over, they didn’t ask questions.”

“Was it hard for you?” Kalie asked suddenly. “Being a slave to your own child? Watching her grow into an arrogant princess who ordered you about?”

Nika’s white face flushed a sudden angry red at Kalie’s words, but Basha jumped in before she could speak. “I loved every moment of her life. To see her grow strong and tall…petted and spoiled by her father as few girls are! And it was to me she ran with her sorrows and joys, as any daughter does. And she was never taken from me! Even when she married, and moved to a different clan, I went with her. How many mothers are granted that?”

“But it was all a lie!” cried Nika, finding her voice at last. “All my life, I’ve believed I was royal! Chief Gorrik’s only daughter! His sole link to his beloved Amara! People even say I look just like her!”

“People see what they want to see,” said Sarika.

Nika shook her head furiously. “No! It cannot be! I am not the bastard of some worthless slave girl…”

“And you are not,” Kalie said softly, but with an edge that silenced the younger woman. “You are the daughter of a courageous woman who took a grave risk to give her child a better life. You have the blood of heroes in your veins, Nika. And that is a great legacy to pass to your own daughter. And the child you now carry.”

At the mention of her own children, Nika went still. Her hand flew to the gentle mound on her belly. “My husband!” she whispered. “If he were to learn of this…”

“He won’t,” Kalie said, even more softly.

 
She met the gaze of each woman present. Each acknowledged, in some small way, the pledge of silence.

But Kalie wondered how long such a promise could hold in this place where gossip and scandal were the only outlets for women confined to dark tents and the capricious rule of men.

She felt a little better, later that night, when Basha and Nika slipped away from the camp to talk, for the first time, as mother and daughter. But they would be in danger from now on. It seemed like one more piece in a great puzzle; a reminder to Kalie that she had to do more than find the weapon that would save her people.

She had to take half the tribe with her when she left.

The next morning, the women were startled out of their routine by the early return of the men.

King Ahnaak was dead.

As word spread throughout the camp, the women began to wail, tearing their clothing and smearing their faces with ashes. Kalie followed their lead and tried to ascertain what had happened. It was hours before any solid news reached the women, who seemed far too busy with funeral preparations to care.

The king had collapsed the previous night while conducting the sunset rituals. His spirit had departed soon after, finally ending his journey through a long and wasting illness. All that remained was to determine whether his death during such a sacred ceremony boded well or ill for his people, and to send him to the next life with ceremony befitting his rank.

Kariik seemed in shock as he was rushed from place to place, bathed, dressed, asked what his commands were—and then told what they were by Haraak or one of Kariik’s new advisors, all loyal to Haraak. Kalie could almost feel sorry for him.

She needed to learn what Haraak’s plans were and what this change in leadership would mean for her people, but Maalke’s tent was as busy as all the others, what with Maalke needing an entirely new set of fine clothes and the best food and kumis his women could provide as his funeral offerings. Altia bellowed orders every other moment. It was especially hard with only Irisa, Kalie, and Varena able to do most of the work, and for once, Altia drafted her daughters to work beside the slaves.

The only good thing to come out of all this, Kalie reflected as she and Varena worked the sheepskin for Maalke’s new cloak, was that mundane business—like the trading of slaves—was suspended for a time. There would be four days of fasting and purification while the old king was prepared for burial, then four days of feasting and celebrations as the new king was raised. Varena would not be going anywhere until all of that was over.

The burial, when it finally arrived, was nearly anti-climactic after all the stress of preparations.

First, a litter bearing Ahnaak was carried through the camp by the high priest and his assistants. While the king’s gray and wasted body surely added little weight to the litter, the gold ornaments and jewelry he was decked in certainly did. The royal household followed behind, and behind them, ten of his horses. The warriors stood in two long lines, creating a broad avenue for the litter to travel between. The women stood behind the men, keening their grief. As the king’s body passed, each warrior, hair hacked short for mourning, cut his arm or his face, spilling blood onto the path of his king’s last journey. While the women wailed, the men remained eerily silent.

 
Not until late in the afternoon were the people of Aahk summoned to the gravesite of their king.

Kalie watched with detachment as Ahnaak’s senior wife, dressed in her finest robe and veil, covered in jewelry and disdaining the offer of assistance from a young concubine, walked proudly to the stone cairn where the king’s body now rested. There she was strangled by the high priest and laid in the place of honor beside her husband. The king’s three favorite concubines were dispatched with far less ceremony and laid at his feet

Kalie couldn’t help wondering, as she realized they were probably the oldest and ugliest of the concubines, who had decided they were Ahnaak’s favorite. When she caught sight of Kariik gazing at the dozen or so of the king’s women who now belonged to him, she knew the answer. At least some decisions were being made by the new king, rather than Haraak.

Last of all, the ten horses were sacrificed on top of the human bodies, sealing the grave for all time.

The funeral over, it was time for the coronation—and feasting—to begin. Kariik looked pale and small inside his splendid robes of red and blue linen, and the heavy gold crown seemed far too big for his head.

Not everyone agreed, however, given the number of women who gazed longingly at the young king. Kalie noticed Yasha among them, pushing boldly forward through the crowd, allowing her veil to slip just a little when the king’s gaze fell her way, until her mother dragged her back to her tent. Riyik stood speaking with a group of warriors near the royal tent. If he noticed his betrothed’s behavior, he gave no sign.

The next day, Kalie sat in the shade of the awning Altia had raised beside Maalke’s tent. Most of the other tents sported something of the kind. It made the searing summer heat more bearable, and allowed the women to watch the celebrations of the men in relative comfort. Kalie gnawed a goat rib and reflected that food had been unusually plentiful lately. She wondered how much would be left for the coming winter if it turned out to be as bad—or worse—than the previous one.

“He will be born early, but he will live.” Cassia’s words brought Kalie back to the present.

“What do you mean?” Kalie asked. Cassia had been quiet lately. Or perhaps, Kalie thought, she herself had been too busy mingling with powerful women, trying to convert the female population of the steppes and planning the rescue of her people to pay much attention to Cassia. She felt guilty for that; a normal reaction, she realized, for a slave raised in this world. Cassia was her mistress; therefore her reason for being.

“I had a dream last night,” said Cassia. “I saw my mother.” Kalie nodded. She knew from her own experience that funerals often brought dreams of deceased loved ones. “She told me the baby would be here soon. When I grew afraid, thinking she had come to tell me he would be born too early and die, she said that he would live.” Cassia glanced around warily and lowered her voice. “She said he would be grow to be a great warrior—a great hero, even! That he will be remembered in song and legend.”

“That’s…wonderful,” Kalie said, trying to sound sincere. When she sensed Cassia was waiting for something more she asked, “Did your mother’s spirit tell you the child will be a boy?”

“No.” Cassia’s gaze traveled to her belly. She stroked it gently. “I’ve known since the beginning that I carry Maalke’s son. And that he will be the only child I bear.” She paused. “My mother said he would be remembered in song and story. Long after Maalke’s other sons were forgotten.”

Kalie nodded, wondering why Cassia was repeating herself. Then she understood. “You want me to be the one who tells his story?”

Cassia blushed. “I know it will be many years. Who knows if either of us will live to see my little warrior grow up? But if you do, I hope you will tell his story. You tell stories so well, and, whatever his great deeds turn out to be, your words could make him live forever.”

Kalie wanted nothing more than to tell Cassia that she would be happy to tell of her son’s “great deeds”—like how many women he raped, how many people he murdered and how many friends he betrayed—just as soon as her people were safe from him. But Cassia was not finished.

“You’re a good storyteller, Kalie,” she repeated. “But I think it would be best if, from now on, you told only the stories of this land. Stories of your home are…interesting. But I fear some of the women here might take them the wrong way.”

“Like believing them to be true?” Kalie asked innocently. “Or perhaps, even believing that the freedom I once enjoyed could be theirs as well?”

Cassia jerked her gaze away from her unborn child and sought Kalie’s own. “No decent woman would desire such…freedom,” she said. “Any woman who did would bring shame to her family. Such a woman would be better off dead. Do you understand?”

Kalie certainly did, but she was spared the need to answer when an older boy—or perhaps young warrior, he was about thirteen or fourteen summers—ran up to the tent shouting, “Maalke has commanded his slave girl Kalie to come and tell stories for the men! Which one is she?”

He waited impatiently for Kalie to rise to her feet then set off, clearly anxious to return to the festivities. As Kalie hurried to keep up, she grew excited. Everything was in play now: Haraak’s puppet now wore the crown of the Twenty Clans of Aahk. Events could begin moving very quickly, and at last, Kalie was in a position to learn about them.

She watched the men engaged as they were in bouts of eating drinking, dicing and boasting. They looked strange with their suddenly short and ragged hair. Most had rubbed a noxious smelling paste into the cuts they had made on their arms and faces. Soon, each would have another fearsome scar to frighten their enemies, and proclaim the strength of their love for their dead king. Kalie decided she would look at Haraak’s whenever she needed a good laugh.

Although it was only the second day of Kariik’s coronation feast, nearly every man she saw was already drunk, or working hard to get that way. This would certainly be an ideal time for another tribe to attack. While an attack on a tribe in mourning for the death of a king was universally forbidden in this land, Kalie knew how easily such conventions could be overlooked when someone like Haraak was in charge. She half hoped an attack would come. If another tribe could wipe out this one, the plan to invade the West might well die with them.

Unfortunately, Kalie’s storytelling went poorly, and she learned nothing of any value. The men were too drunk to pay attention to anything she said, and a fight broke out in the middle of her first story. While her audience hurried to surround the two combatants, and begin betting on the outcome, Kalie slipped away before she could become a prize for the winner or consolation for the loser.

She moved slowly through quieter crowds, unwilling to give up after her first try at seeking information. There were groups of men everywhere. Some of them had to be speaking of the future. Or perhaps she should simply risk assault and spy on some of the drunks. Drunken men often spilled secrets that sober ones would not. And if they did attack her…it wasn’t anything she hadn’t endured many times before.

Kalie had just attached herself to such a group, when she noticed Riyik walking away from the festivities, wandering aimlessly toward the tents. For no rational reason, she decided her time might be better spent seeing what he was up to instead.