Another contraction, and another, this one longer, pushing the shoulders out. The shoulders came, all in a rush, as always, and the wet calf lay still a moment, hind end still in the cow. Then the rest of the body followed. The cow made a noise Gird never heard save in those moments after calving, almost a murmur. The calf's ear flicked. With a lumbering rush, the cow heaved herself up, and the cord broke. She shook her head at Gird, who went on chanting until the wildness left her eyes. The cow nosed around the calf, licking it clean of the birth sac, licking it dry, murmuring, encouraging. The dun cow was a good mother cow. The calf shook its head, waggling both ears, and tapped its tiny front hooves on the ground as it tried to figure out how to stand. The cow licked on, still murmuring. The calf pushed one front leg out, then another, and heaved itself to a sitting position, then fell over. But it tried again, and again, its ridiculous little ears flicking back and forth with each effort. And it was a heifer, the year's good luck, for he could keep it.
Gird was never sure what made him look away from the calf, to glance between the knotted limbs of creek plum and hazel, but there across the meadow walked a creature of grace and light. Tall, lithe, so inexpressibly lovely that his throat closed. What was it?
The creature turned, as if feeling his glance, and looked toward him. A voice came, bell-like but slightly discordant.
"And what are you thinking, human, alone before dawn on this unlucky day?"
Gird could find nothing to say, only then remembering that it was the spring Evener, the day and night of equal length, when the creatures of night ruled until truedawn, and the creatures of day could not wander the dusks unscathed.
"The cow called," he said finally. The black-cloaked figure came nearer, hardly seeming to touch the ground.
"The cow called. Cattle to cattle: as your masters would say of you. Less than cattle, we think you, worse."
He could see the face now, inhuman but beautiful with a beauty that called human hearts and eyes. Pale against the black cloak, wide eyes starry bright. Was this a treelord? He had heard tales of them but no one he knew had ever seen one.
"No, I am not one of those dreamsoaked lost singers," the figure said. Gird shivered. He had said nothing; it had picked the thought out of his mind. "I am what they were, and should have stayed, had they any pride or wit at all. Your kind, when they know us at all, call us kuaknom."
He had never heard that word. Kuak, that was the old word for tree—and the nomi were the windspirits that hated order and served chaos. Kuaknom: that would be—
"Old lords," said the being, now just outside the thicket. "Very old, human slave. Firstborn of the elder races, lords of power and darkness—"
"The fallen treelords," Gird said, having finally put it all together. The treelords who had quarreled with Adyan the Maker, so the tales went, and turned against their kin, and riven the forests that used to cover the land in a great battle.
"Not fallen, little man," said the kuaknom, with a smile that sent ice to Gird's heart. "Not fallen—but
changed
. And on this night, until truedawn, those witless enough to wander abroad are our lawful prey. You, little man—"
Gird flinched as the kuaknom reached for him. The cow grumbled, in the way of new mother cows, and rattled her horns against the hazels. And a shaft of red sunlight, sharp as an arrow, stung his eyes; he flung up his hand, and the kuaknom backed away, muttering in its own language. Then again, to him:
"You are safe, human, by that one gleam of sun, but I curse you for it. May your loins wither, and your beasts fall sick, and the strength of your arm fail when you need it most." Even as Gird squinted against the sunlight, it was gone, a shadow across the field.
He sat a long time, bemused, until he heard Raheli's shrill voice calling for him. Was such a curse dangerous? Would he die, lose his manhood, his cattle, his strength? The cow continued to groom and nurse the calf, who showed all the sturdy life of a healthy young bovine.
Nothing befell to make him think the curse had force until the following winter. He had consoled himself that it was, after all, delivered in sunlight, which ought to make the words of the dark powerless. He had given more than his usual share to the rituals of Alyanya and even contributed freely to the lords' offering to Esea. Esea was, after all, a god of light, who might be expected to offer protection against the powers of darkness. When the rest of the year went well (the other two cows also calving heifers), he counted himself lucky.
But that was the winter of the wolves, the worst that had been seen since Gird's childhood. It began even before Midwinter. They had heard the wolves howling night after night, but none of the stock had yet been touched. The headman had gone to the steward, asking the guards' help to hunt the pack, but the steward had refused. Some of the men had gone out to the more distant folds, to help the shepherds watch. Arin went, over his mother's objections, twirling his long staff and grinning at Gird as he walked away.
Gird was hauling dung to the pile when he heard the shouts. He hauled himself to the top of the barton wall. There they came, across the snow, a cluster of men moving awkwardly. Carrying something—no, someone—he slid down, and went through the cottage without stopping to speak. His father was already out in the lane. Together they moved toward the group—and then he could see it was Arin they carried, Arin whose blood stained his clothes and dripped scarlet on the snow.
They got him into the house and stretched on the table. Gird felt his own heart pounding, slow but shaking his whole body, as he saw Arin's wounds. Then his mother pushed him aside.
"Go fetch water," she said. And to Arin's wife, "Get those children out of here—into the kitchen—"
Gird went out to the well; the men stood around silently, shoulders hunched against the cold. He lowered the bucket into icy black water and drew it up. As he turned to carry it in, Amis turned to him. "Is he—?"
Gird shook his head. "I don't know."
"Kefs gone for the steward," Amis said. Gird nodded and went back inside with the bucket. Coming in the clean air, he could smell the blood as if it were a slaughterday. He gave the bucket to Mali, who reached for it, and went to stand behind his father.
Arin had long bleeding gashes on his legs and arms; one hand was badly mangled. "He was trying to choke one of them with it," offered Cob, one of the men who had carried him in. Gird's mother said nothing; she and Mali were cleaning the wounds with one of Mali's brews, and wrapping them with the cloths the women kept. Arin looked as white as the snow outside against the dark wood of the table; he did not move or speak. "He bled all the way back," said Cob, into the silence.
Gird's mother gave him a fierce look. "You might have tied these up then," she said.
Cob spread his hands. "We had nothing but our dirty clothes; I would not give him woundfever."
Gird's mother opened her mouth and shut it with a snap. Gird could imagine what she would have said to him. But Cob had done the best he knew, and Cob was not her son.
The door opened, and someone coughed. Gird turned. The steward was there. No one said anything; the steward came nearer. In the dim light his face was stern as usual, but Gird thought his eyes softened when he saw Arin's wounds.
"Wolves, or folokai?" he asked.
"Wolves, sir," said Cob. "At the sheepfold, they were, and Arin come to drive them off—"
"Alone?" asked the steward.
"No, sir. But he went first, and it seemed the wolf drew away—just the one, that we could see. He went to chase it a bit, and that's when the pack ran at him, and then the rest of us ran out with torches, and drove them off him."
The steward moved closer yet. Gird's mother put out a hand, as if to stop him, and drew it back. The steward laid his hands on Arin's shoulders.
"Heal him, sir?" asked Gird's mother in a choked whisper.
The steward looked startled, then shook his head. "No, I can't do that—I have not the power." He looked closely at Arin's wounds. "I doubt he'll live—he looks to have lost too much blood—"
"No!" Gird's mother grabbed at his sleeve. Gird felt his heart contract with pity for her and Arin both. "It's not fair—he alone against the wolves—"
The steward pulled free. "I'm sorry. It's a shame—I'll take his name off the work rolls—if he lives, he'll be unfit to work until well into summer. If he dies, I'll remit half the death fee; he deserves that much."
"And more," someone muttered behind Gird. The steward's head came around, but the mutter had been too low to identify. Even Gird had no idea who it was.
"And I'm sending down a sheep," said the steward. "He will need meat broth to mend, if he can."
"Thank you, sir," said Gird's father. His mother nodded. The steward glanced around the room, as if looking for an excuse to say something else. His gaze lit on Gird.
"At least you have another son, a strong one. And this one—Arin, is it?—has sired already, hasn't he?"
A wave of hot fury rolled over Gird. He knew the lords considered them cattle, but the steward rarely made it so clear. Arin had bred; Arin's children lived; Arin himself—the laughing, steadfast, honest brother who had saved his own life more than once—that Arin did not matter to the steward, and even less to the lord who ruled the steward. He himself was just another bullcalf; if he died, the steward would shrug as easily. By the time he'd mastered his anger, the steward had left, and the other men not of the family. Gird's oldest living brother, a cottager in his own holding, had come; he and Gird stood beside the table.
Arin opened his eyes and stared vacantly at the ceiling for a moment. Then his eyes roved until he met his mother's. "Lady bless you," he said. "This is home?"
"Home," she said. "We'll soon have you well . . ."
"Not so soon." His voice was so weak Gird could hardly hear it. "If I die—"
"You will not die!" Arin's wife had come back in, and clasped his hand.
"If—you will take care of the children?" He looked at Gird, not his older brother or father, and Gird answered, feeling in an instant the weight on his shoulders.
"I will, as my own."
"Good. The wolf—I was—frightened." His eyes sagged shut, and his head rolled sideways.
It was late that night before he spoke again. By then the sheep had come, a carcass already cleaned, and Mali had a broth cooking, rich with herbs as well as meat. By then, too, they knew the old tracker and the guards had already gone after the wolves. Too late, Gird thought bitterly. But he held his tongue. Arin roused briefly, asked for water. He could not lift his head to drink; Gird put an arm under his shoulders and lifted him. He could feel the heat through his shirt. Was it a good sign, that Arin was warm again, or a bad sign of woundfever? He didn't know. He felt the trembling of Arin's muscles as he drank; when his mother had wiped Arin's mouth, Gird let him down as gently as he could, and pulled the blanket straight. Arin's eyes were bright, but not quite focused.
"Issa?" His wife moved up and took his good hand. "I will try, but—I am afraid the wolves have done for me."
"No—" she breathed.
"Yes. You will have a place here. Gird will take care of you."
"Arin—" began his father. Arin interrupted him, talking in broken phrases, without heeding any of them.
"I saw—a place—the Lady's garden. Flowers in the snow. Gird. Little brother—remember what I said."
"Yes, Arin," said Gird. He had no idea which of the things Arin had said over the years had come to him now, but he would forget none of them.
"You are more a soldier than you know. But don't give up the Lady's bounty, Gird."
"I won't." His vision blurred, and he realized he was crying. It felt strange to be looking
down
at Arin. Arin's eyes roved, and found his father's.
"You—told me not to go—" he murmured. His father shrugged. Gird looked at him sharply. Could he say nothing? But the firelight glittered on the tears that ran down his face. Although tears were nothing unusual among the village men, Gird was still surprised. His father cried rarely; now his shoulders shook with silent sobs. "Don't cry," said Arin, quite clearly. "I chose, or the Lady chose my time—" He said nothing more; his eyes closed. Gird watched the blankets for the rise and fall of breath.
In the hours of watching that night, in the flickering firelight, as their words to each other gradually failed and all was silence but for the snoring of Arin's oldest and the thin wail of Gird's youngest when he woke hungry in the turn of night, Gird felt the weight of manhood settle on his shoulders. He looked from face to face, seeing in the exhaustion of his father's the truth that he was now—must be now—the head of their family, in fact if not in law. Here, in this room: all that his father had made was now his to protect, support, defend.
When Mali had fed the baby, she came to sit beside him, her hand on his. He looked into her eyes, and saw her absolute confidence that he could do what he must, that they were safe with him. It was not true. He felt simultaneously the cold menace without, all that winter stood for, of famine, wolves, cold, even the lords' ravaging taxes, and the cozy seeming security within. How could he stand between, one mortal man? Cold sweat came out on his face; he felt himself shiver as if someone had poured a bucket of icy water over him. Mali squeezed his hand. Her warmth, her strength leaned against him. He was not alone, then—there was another pair of arms, another strong back. Enough? It had to be enough. He could feel through his skin her awareness of his feelings, and her impossible joy that fought all his despair with laughter. His fear did not frighten her, nor his weakness weaken her.
Arin was still alive at dawn, when Gird and his father began the day's work. Gird eyed his father, noticing what he had not before—how weak his father had become in the past few years. That great frame had bent; the broad hands that had frightened him were stiff, knobby with swollen joints. His bush of yellow hair had gone gray. Had this begun while Gird was sulking, before his marriage, Gird wondered? Not that it mattered; somehow his father had become an old man.