Daughter of Lir (12 page)

It dawned on him, slowly, that he had suffered nothing worse
than injury to his pride. He still had his bow and quiver and his long knife,
though his hunting spears were gone with his coward of a horse.

He thrust himself to his feet. The idiot gelding was long
gone. He had no great desire to go after it. The path ahead was as deeply
fogged as ever, but his bones knew the way.

He walked, though it rankled in him, a prince of the
Windriders, to be forced to go afoot. He pressed on through the mist, amid the
crowding voices. They had stopped laughing at him, at least.

As much care as he had thought he was taking, he had let his
guard slip. He nearly fell out of the mist into a circle of dazzling daylight,
just barely catching himself in the concealment of the fog.

It was, after all, a grey and clouded light, but it was the
light of day on what seemed to be the living earth. It was a hollow in the
steppe, a deep green bowl. Stones rimmed it like worn and rotted teeth. Minas
had caught himself against one. It was cold under his hand.

Beasts gathered in the hollow. The stag with his horned
crown—though in spring he should barely have been in velvet. The bear, the
wolf, the wild boar, the lion of the steppe. Black ram and black he-goat. But
no bull. The lord of the tall grass was not here, nor had any part in this
council.

This was what the king’s war-council should have been. The
beasts spoke with the voices of men, back and forth in swift alternation. Their
language was the language of the People, though Minas could still hear, if faintly,
the crowding of spirits all about them.

They were agreed that there would be war. War was the
lifeblood of the People. But how it would be waged, and by whom—that, they
fought bitterly.

“The king is possessed,” said the ram. “The thing that lives
in him cares nothing for the People. It will drive him till he dies, and all
his people with him.”

“It is stronger than we are,” the he-goat said. “We have no
power to drive it out.”

“And so it drove us out instead.” The wolf lolled on the
ground, grinning as his kind were wont to do. “It won’t let us back in. We
hardly inspire it to fear, but it does find us tedious. Is tedium a weapon, do
you think?”

The boar grunted. “You were always too light-minded. We’re
going to fold our hands, then, and let that thing rule the People?”

“Do we have a choice?” the wolf inquired.

“It might not be so ill,” said the goat. “It’s a spirit of
war. If the People are warned, and if they fight wisely, they’ll suffer no more
than if a mortal man led them.”

“That thing won’t allow that,” the ram said. “It will feed
on the blood of conquered peoples, but when it tires of that, it will feed on
us—on the People.”

“The woman was a fool,” grunted the boar, “as all women are.
If she had taken thought for what she summoned—for what the price would be—”

“Men have no forethought,” the wolf said. “Women have too
much. Of course she knew what she was doing. She was using a man for her own
purposes, and paying her master in the blood of men. She will profit from it. I’ll
wager she won exemption for herself and her women, and bound the demon with
great oaths to protect her when it comes to devour the People.”

“And her son?”

The wolf shrugged. “The son, too, I suppose. If she can part
him from his brother, and dispose of the brother.”

The stag stirred. He had been silent, grazing while the
others spoke, but his head was lifted, his dark eyes intent. “That one,” he
said. “The prince. We can use him.”

“For what?” demanded the boar. “He’ll be dead before the
season’s out.”

“No,” the stag said. “You forget what else he is. Whose
lineage bred him. He has a god’s blood in him.”

“Metos is no more a god than I am,” the boar said.

“No?” The wolf rolled, laughing. “But men believe he is. And
belief makes gods. He’s taught his grandson much of what he knows. This is more
than a pretty prince. He has the arts of both war and peace, of both breaking
and making.”

“Little good it will do him among the dead,” the he-goat
sighed. “And when he comes back, the demon will be waiting, to drive him again
from life into life.”

“Its mistress hates him most cordially,” said the wolf, “and
his mother even more. And with cause. We’re of little enough account, but those
two—they are dangerous.”

“We should cultivate danger,” the lion rumbled. “Danger protects
us. Safety will swallow us all.”

“We should go begging to a woman and a callow boy?” The boar
tore at the earth with his tusks. “We are the lords of the worlds. He is not
even lord of this one.”

“He can be,” the stag said, “of all the lands under the sun.
But she who rules his father will give us only the dark and the mists of
forgetfulness.”

“And who knows?” grinned the wolf. “With us, the boy and his
mother might almost be strong enough to face the witch and win.”

o0o

Minas reeled to his knees. His head was spinning. He had
been listening to beasts speak in the tongues of men—speak of him. But there
were no beasts in that hollow. They were men, and not masked as dancers,
either; when he peered through a blur of mist and light, he saw them in the ordinary
garb of the People, albeit hung about with amulets and talismans and sacred
signs.

He had fallen for a little while into the world of the
spirits, but now he was back in the world he knew. He clung to the earth, to
grass and stone. The sky was clear overhead. The mist was gone.

They had only to look up, to see him. But they seemed intent
on one another. First one, then another swayed to his feet. They began to
dance, there in the hollow. The shaking of bone rattles set their rhythm. A
thin drone of chanting ran beneath it.

It was eerie, that dance, but it roused no awe in him. They
were dancing against the dark—for dread of what they foresaw, and for courage
to do what they must. The powers of earth took no notice. The powers of air had
no care for them.

It was more than strange to see the terrible shamans, the
speakers to spirits, the masters of the worlds beyond the world, and to know
that they were only men. Frightened men, set against a power that was stronger
than they.

One of them dropped, convulsed. The dance circled him,
centered on him. He thrashed, keening in a strange high voice. His fists and
heels smote the ground. His body snapped into an arc like a bow.

For a long and terrible moment he hung suspended. All at
once, with a sigh, he dropped to the earth again.

He lay in the midst of the dance, breathing shallowly. Minas
knew him—rather well, if he could be said to know any shaman. It was a young
man, a yearmate; but when the boys were taken away to become men, Phaiston of
the crooked foot disappeared among the shamans.

He was nameless now as they all were. Shamans guarded their
true names zealously, for in names were power. Insofar as anyone called him
anything, he was the Wolf.

He howled where he lay. Then swiftly he spun onto his belly.
His head lifted. His face was Phaiston’s familiar long-nosed face, and yet it
was the wolf of the council: white teeth, yellow eyes, pink tongue unrolling in
a lupine grin. “Ah,” he said. “Skulker in the grasses. Come out and let us
worship you.”

Minas’ hackles were up, but still he had no fear. He rose
under all those staring eyes, and walked down among the shamans.

They drew back before him, circling about him. He quelled
the urge to turn and turn, to keep every one in sight. He kept his eyes on the
wolf.

The wolf, who had been Phaiston, grinned delightedly at him.
“Bold is good,” he said. “Are you bold enough to make yourself a god?”

“Why should I dare to do that?” Minas demanded.

“Because you have no choice,” the wolf said.

“Tell me,” said Minas.

“Oh, no,” said the wolf. “You’ll learn as the gods see fit
for you to learn.”

“They sent me here,” Minas said. “They meant for you to
teach me.”

The wolf laughed, rolling, kicking, hooting with mirth. “Oh,
clever! Oh, wicked! You’ll make a marvelous god.”

“Teach me,” said Minas, though his heart beat hard. “Teach
me what I must know.”

Rather distantly he heard rumbling: the growls of the
shamans. They muttered against him, uninitiate, warrior and prince, trespassing
in the realms of magic. But the wolf had leaped up in a dance of glee. He spun around
Minas, whooping and yipping.

Minas waited him out. He whirled to a halt, panting,
grinning. “Very likely,” he said with great good cheer, “we’ll all die
regardless—and you in agony, for what you’ll be presuming to do. Then maybe the
gods will be less than amused, too, and torment you in the other-realm. But if
against all hope you win the battle—the prize is godhood, the world’s worship.”

“And the People?” Minas asked. “Will they be safe?”

“You care?” grinned the wolf.

Minas fixed him with a level stare. He wriggled under it,
but his wickedness was barely dampened.

“It won’t be easy,” he said, “or simple. You’ll be called
when you least expect it, and asked to do things that you never thought to do.
You’ll humble yourself even to death before you can be lifted up. And it could
all be for nothing. You could be broken in body and spirit, and bound in
slavery to your most bitter enemy.”

“Will the People be safe?” Minas repeated.

“Only if you win,” said the wolf. “Maybe not even then.”

“Then I had best win whatever battle this is,” Minas said.
“Now teach me what I must know.”

“In time,” said the wolf. “You will go now, and be a prince.
When we’re ready, we’ll summon you. Don’t look for us. Don’t wait. It will only
sap your spirit.”

Minas did not take kindly to such a dismissal from a man no
older than he was. But this was no simple man. This was the wolf-shaman, the
wicked one, the teacher and guide. Even Minas who was the sun’s child could
grant the power of this creature that lolled in front of him, grinning with
purest insolence.

“Be sure you summon me,” Minas said.

The wolf only laughed.

The People of the Wind broke camp and began the long drive
to the westward. It was still the first moon of spring, the skies still
treacherous, blustery with wind and a threat of snow, but the king was not to
be moved. They would ride. They would gather the tribes of their allies, seek
out new tribes, and conquer them. They would seize and master the setting sun
as they had mastered the morning.

They traveled as they had since the grandfathers’ time, in
the way of war. Scouts rode a day and more ahead, searching out the lands that
the rest would pass through. Then rode the warriors, well-armed men mounted on
swift horses. The women and children, the old and the baggage, all laden in the
wagons drawn to slow oxen, and the herds in their multitudes, made a great
throng behind. The farther they traveled, the greater their numbers became, as
more of the tribes and clans came to the muster. They were a mighty horde, a
storm sweeping across the plains.

The king led them all in his gold-sheathed chariot, splendid
in his panoply. His face, no one could see. The high headdress hid it. He might
have been the gilded image of a man, set in the chariot for men to worship.

The rest of the chariots rolled ahead of him, behind the
mounted warriors. They would not waste themselves in the vanguard. They were
for worthy battles and great conquests, not for marching across lands emptied
of people.

o0o

“Word goes before us,” Dias said. He was charioteer today,
while Minas rode in the warrior’s place.

The air for once was warm: very warm for spring. Dias was
naked but for the belts and baldrics of his weapons. He laughed as the horses
danced and skittered. They were fresh in spite of the heat, and eager to
stretch out and run. It galled them to keep to this sedate pace, no faster than
a woman could walk.

Minas balanced easily as the chariot rocked and swayed.
There was some hope of a battle in a day or two: scouts told of tribes
gathering, weapons readied.

A battle would be welcome. He had been at odds with himself
since he spoke to the shamans. They had not summoned him, nor had he expected
it. The king had spoken instead, and begun the long march into the west.

He needed a battle. He needed simplicity: a clear enemy, a
plain fight. Something to kill before it killed him, and no mystery in it.

He somersaulted out of the chariot. Dias’ squawk made him
laugh. He danced to his feet.

It was a goodly way back to the remounts, but he was in a
mood to run. The wind in his hair, the sweat streaming down his sides, was
blessedly clean. People called out to him. He flashed a grin at them, or the
wave of a hand.

On the march the women observed less seclusion than in camp.
Many rode in wagons, shut away from men’s eyes, but the poor and the bold
walked in the open. They were veiled, of course, but that was their advantage.
They could slide eyes at a man who ran past, and giggle behind their hands, and
offer pungent commentary on his fine young body.

He flushed as he ran, and not only with heat and exertion.
They remarked on that, too, as fair as his skin was.

It seemed an age before he was past them and in among the
herds. Tonight, he thought, in the darkness past the fires . . .

But not this morning. He found one of the horses he
favored—not the coward who had betrayed him before the shamans—and swung onto
its back.

He gained a following as he rode again toward the van,
others of the young men looking for amusement amid the tedium of the march.
They gathered weapons, provisions. It was, suddenly, an expedition.

He had only thought to ride apart for a little while. But
with a pack of rowdy followers, and the women laughing, Minas let the wind blow
him as it would. Westward, as they all went. Away from the People. Out on the
sea of grass, hunting tribes that were not the People.