“I don’t know. Fifteen? Twenty? Dozens? Just because Jossis and his people located and explored a few does not mean there aren’t other worlds that other men might be living on—or creatures that are not men. But that is a discussion for another day! Jossis’ people have taken their conquests and their wars to five or ten other worlds, and they arrived on Samaria about six months ago, intent on overtaking us as well.”
Miriam nodded, for that much she had more or less pieced together. “And they have weapons we don’t have.”
“They have a great deal of technology that we don’t have,” Mahalah said. “And they could have easily destroyed us. But we have destroyed them instead. They are all gone now—all but Jossis.”
Now Miriam’s head was whirling again. Half of what Mahalah said made no sense at all. “How can you know that? We don’t even know where they have been in hiding. They can appear and disappear at will—did you ask him about that? They may have disappeared for now, but they will show up again with their fire sticks aimed at us—”
Mahalah put up a hand and Miriam fell silent. “They have been living on these machines I mentioned to you. Machines that can travel through the heavens. When they were not on Samaria, they were living in these machines above the earth. Last night,” she said, appearing to choose her words with exceptional care, “they attacked Velora. But Jovah was able to turn his thunderbolts upon their airborne machines, and he destroyed them all.”
“How do you know this?” Miriam whispered.
“Your friend Chloe arrived early this morning with a description of the battle, though she did not understand the story she told. But I knew it last night, because Jovah informed me as the action occurred. And Jossis, it seems,” she added, “has had, all along, a way to communicate with his friends. When I asked him to confirm for me that they were dead, he tried to reach them, but could not. He has been feeling some anguish as a result of this. I believe you know that he does not relish the life that his clansmen live—but he cannot help but care for some of them. And they are all dead now.”
Miriam nodded. She knew too well how easy it was to love someone who was not perfect. “I must go to him at once,” she said, but she stayed seated in her chair.
“Not only are all of Jossis’ friends dead,” Mahalah continued, “there is now no way for him to leave Samaria. These traveling machines are destroyed, and his communications devices will not range so far as to allow him to contact anyone in his home world. He is here now for the rest of his life.”
“Poor Jossis!” Miriam exclaimed, although she was not really sorry. Sorry for whatever sadness he might be feeling, but otherwise feeling no regret at all.
“I believe,” said Mahalah, “that there is much he can do for us on Samaria, if he chooses to embrace it as his new home. And there are indications that, once his grief passes, he will be happy to settle here. He seems, at least, genuinely attached to you. I do not wish to pry into the secrets of your heart—”
“I love him,” Miriam said instantly. “I will never leave him. I knew I could not follow him if he chose to go back to his own world, but for as long as he is on my world, I will stay by his side.”
Mahalah smiled and settled back into her chair. “Good. That is what I was hoping to hear. But such a decision will require some sacrifices on your part. For one thing, I do not think Jossis would do well in an angel hold. He—”
“We will live with the Edori,” Miriam interrupted. “The Lohoras will happily take us in.”
“That may do for now, for a short time,” Mahalah said meditatively. “But eventually, he must live in Mount Sudan. And in time, of course, he must live here.”
Miriam stared at her.
“There are things I know, as oracle, that no one else on Samaria knows,” Mahalah said. “As oracle of Mount Sinai, I know things that not even the other oracles have been taught. But Jossis knows these things. He understands them. And I want him to be the steward of this knowledge once I am gone.”
“How can he know these things?” Miriam whispered.
Mahalah waved a hand as if to convey that the answer was too complex to attempt to put into words. “He understands how to communicate with the god, for one thing,” Mahalah said.
“So do the other oracles!”
“Yes, but he—he knows things about the god that even they do not know,” Mahalah said. “About what the god is capable of. I cannot explain it any better than that. But I want him here when I am dead. And to learn to become the next oracle, he must study somewhere. And since I,” she said, displaying a small fit of temper, “have been forced to surround myself only with girls, I think I must send your Jossis up to Isaac for training. Where he can study among men.”
Miriam was rapidly making the corollary deductions. “So then I must go to Mount Sudan, too?”
“Well, you may visit there, but I do not think you’ll be allowed to stay. You could live nearby, I would think.”
“At Monteverde? I won’t! Neri is worse than Gaaron. And I refuse to stay with the Leshes or the Karshes. And even if you tell me to, I won’t do it. And even if Gaaron tells me to—”
Mahalah’s face grew very stern. “Miriam,” she said. “Don’t act the spoiled brat with me. You are a brave and intelligent woman who has it in her power to influence the next thirty or forty years of Samarian history. You have bits and pieces of knowledge that make you both powerful and dangerous. You could do so much good, you could do so much harm. Think a minute! Until this point in your life, you have wasted almost all of your energy in spite and childish games. Do you realize how much more you could accomplish? Do you realize the opportunity that lies before you? What kind of woman do you want to be when you turn my age and look back on your life? You are strong enough to shape your own destiny. I cannot control you, and neither can your brother. But choose wisely, or you will drag disaster in your wake.”
Never in her life had anyone spoken to Miriam like that. Never had she felt so small and immature—and never, at the same time, so filled with a sense of purpose and resolve. Indeed, she had always done just exactly what she wanted, and no one had ever been able to stop her—but until now, she had never really wanted something worth having.
“I will—I will do wise things—good things,” Miriam said, stammering a little because she was not used to having conversations like this. “I will go with Jossis, and I will make Gaaron and Neri understand. And I will do what you tell me to,” she added humbly. “Because I don’t really see my way clear yet.”
Mahalah smiled and laid a frail hand on Miriam’s shoulder. “You will,” she said. “Every day it will be more clear.”
They stayed that way a moment longer, Miriam with her head bowed, still in an attitude of supplication. “I should go to him now,” she said.
“I think you should,” Mahalah said, and dropped her hand, and wheeled her chair a few feet back.
Miriam stood up, surprised to find herself as shaky as if she had just witnessed a scene of terror. “Where is he?”
“Down the corridor that branches to the left by the kitchens. I told him to wait there this morning until someone came for him. All these bothersome girls! I can’t allow men to roam around at will.”
Miriam nodded. “Do you want me to bring him here?”
Now Mahalah smiled and gave Miriam a wicked look. “Oh, not right away,” she drawled. “I will not expect you for another hour or two.”
Miriam blushed and then she laughed. “And where were you raised, an Edori tent?” she asked politely, heading toward the door. “One would think it by your lack of modesty.”
“Miriam,” Mahalah called right before Miriam stepped outside. Miriam turned back. “Were you considering—had it occurred to you to think about whether or not you might want to have children? With Jossis?”
Miriam had literally never stopped to consider the issue one way or the other, when she had been with Jossis or any other man. “I suppose I will—I don’t know—I never thought—”
/>
“I think you should not,” Mahalah said gently. “Let Jossis’ heritage die with him, many years from now. I believe Jossis is a good man, but he was bred of violent stock, and the last thing we want to introduce to Samaria is trouble of that variety. You will make your own decision, of course, but that is my advice. There are always many children to care for if you cannot bear children of your own. You never need to be at a loss for love.”
“I’ll think about everything you’ve said,” Miriam replied gravely, because surely she was not expected to give an answer now. “And I will repeat nothing of what you’ve said. And I thank you for everything you’ve said. I will not soon forget this day.”
Mahalah nodded and turned away. Miriam ducked into the corridor and hurried quickly down a series of hallways. She was almost running by the time she arrived at the men’s quarters, a suite of four or five bedrooms that clearly did not see much use. She knocked on two of the closed doorways before a voice bade her enter.
She stepped inside to find Jossis standing at the window, looking out. He turned when she entered but did not cross the floor to take her in an embrace. His dark face seemed aged by five years or more; sorrow set creases between his eyes and his lips. Even his bright hair seemed scarred and grieving, even his brilliant eyes.
“Jossis,” she said and flung herself across the room. He was sobbing as he put his face down to hers and she could not understand his short, guttural cries of mourning. But she held him against her, rocking him as if he were a child, murmuring the words that every lover knew, that required no language and never went amiss. He leaned upon her as if there was no other support anywhere in the world, and she held him as if she would undertake no other task for all eternity.
C hapter T hirty-two
Susannah stirred the pot once, then brought the spoon to her mouth and tasted. Edible, but rather lacking in spices—which she could have said of the other five meals she’d had since arriving in the Edori camp two days ago. Thank the god they were on the ragged tail-end of winter now. Another few weeks and it would be time for the Gathering. A few weeks after that and it would be true spring. Then the game would be plentiful, the spices would be in bloom, and there would be other things to worry over than putting together a tolerable meal.
Although, these days, she was just as happy when the only real worry she had was whether or not dinner would taste good.
Ruth came up behind her with the sleeping baby in her arms and her almost-two-year-old at her heels. He had grown so much that he was a sturdy little storm of a boy, an inquisitive, insistent, cunning, self-centered creature of destruction. There was never a moment when he could go unwatched. “Now, that smells better than my stew from last night,” Ruth commented, setting the sleeping girl in a basket before the tent and picking up her son. “Where did you find marrowroot? Mine’s all gone.”
“I got some in Luminaux before I came to find you,” Susannah said. “They never use it at the Eyrie, and I missed it. That’s the last of it, though,” she said ruefully, looking down into the pot. “So you’d better appreciate it.”
“You shouldn’t have to waste your spices on us.”
Susannah gave her a lofty look. “Well, I plan to eat some, too.”
Ruth smiled but she did not look entirely amused. All the other Tachitas had been delighted when Susannah strolled into camp the day before yesterday, carrying only a few bundles of clothes and the handful of herbs she’d purchased in the Blue City. Her father had wept into her hair as he hugged her. Paul and Linus had nearly crushed her with their fierce embraces—Paul because he was so happy to see her, Linus to prove that he could, now that he had grown another two inches and gained ten more pounds. One by one the other Tachitas had come forward to kiss her on the cheek or hug her around the shoulders, and in those quick exchanges she had been told the story of the tribe’s last six months.
“Abi is expecting a baby.”
“Judith may follow the Morostas after the Gathering.”
“Micah is not doing so well—his foot, you know.”
But Ruth had put down the baby, and come over to hug Susannah, and then pulled back and asked, “What are you doing here?”
“I have come to see if my father and my brothers are safe,” Susannah had answered. “There has been such trouble in the three provinces, and I hoped the Tachitas had taken shelter near Luminaux. So I took a chance and came to the Blue City, and here you are. I am so relieved and happy to find you all whole and well.”
This was the truth, as far as it went. Chloe had come to Mount Sinai with the news that Velora was rescued, and Mahalah had—although in the most mysterious fashion imaginable—offered the revelation that Yovah had succeeded in routing all the invaders. Their war, if that was what it could be called, was over.
And Gaaron was still in Velora. Susannah was tired of thinking about what she would say to him when she saw him next, and so she decided to make him think about that a little bit, too. So she asked Chloe to bring her to Luminaux, because Chloe would do it and Nicholas might not, and she left a note behind to tell Gaaron where she had gone. And she had been lucky in that the Tachitas had been camped right where she most hoped they would be. They never roamed far from Luminaux during any winter. During this one, which had been bad for so many reasons, they had camped right outside the city limits. Susannah had bid Chloe a cheery good-bye and the Tachitas a tearful hello. She had been just as happy when the tribe pulled up stakes and moved out the very morning after she arrived. The Gathering was to be in northeastern Jordana in a few weeks, after all. It was time to begin the slow, drifting move in that direction.
But Ruth seemed to think there was more to the story. Although until this afternoon, they had had no chance to talk in private.
“You are certainly welcome to any meal at our campfire, whether or not you have helped cook it,” Ruth said now. “But I have to think there are other places you should be instead.”
“What other places?” Susannah said lightly. She handed the spoon to Ruth and took the toddler in trade. He squealed in her ear and then gave her his fat and happy smile.
“Aren’t you supposed to be marrying soon?”
Susannah gripped her nephew’s ribs and held him over her head, twisting him back and forth. That made him shriek even more loudly. “Why, Ruth, I didn’t know you listened to allali gossip.”
“Living all season in Luminaux, I have heard all manner of tales about the angels and their consorts,” Ruth said. “And your wedding date is set for ten days from today.”
“Is it?” Susannah asked. She folded her arms so suddenly that she gave the boy the sensation of a plummeting fall, but she caught his weight before he had reached the ground. That elicited another shriek and caused him to wave his bunched fingers. “Perhaps I don’t care that much about my wedding.”
Ruth took the child from her and rested him against her shoulder. This meant Susannah had overexcited him, and Ruth wanted him calm enough to eat his dinner. “You care,” Ruth said. “You are so angry that you must care even more than I thought.”
Startled, Susannah looked at her straight on. The quiet, determined girl had always seemed so shy but had proved, in the past few years, to be so strong. More than once, Susannah had envied this woman her place in the tent beside Paul and Linus and all the men of Susannah’s own family. Not begrudged that place to her, but envied her because of it.
“I am not so angry that I am disrupting the peace of my brother’s tent, I hope,” Susannah said.
“It is you I am worried about, not us,” Ruth said. “Did you quarrel with the angel? Is that it?”
The pot did not need stirring, but Susannah swirled the spoon through it again, just for something to do. “He does not want to marry me,” Susannah said. “So I do not want to marry him.”
“As I understood it, the marriage between the Archangel and his—what is that word—”
“His angelica.”
“Is not a marriage of love, anyway. It i
s a political union, arranged by the god. So perhaps it should not matter if he does not want to marry you.”
Susannah watched the whorls form in the bubbling stew, following the slow path of the spoon. “Wouldn’t it matter to you?” she asked.
“Only if I loved him,” Ruth said.
Susannah kept stirring and did not answer.
The meal was highly praised, despite its lack of flavor, probably because it was seasoned with so much contentment. Susannah sat between Linus and her older nephew, now nearly three and determined to speak whole conversations, though his vocabulary was small and his understanding of grammar only rudimentary. Between his sweetness and Linus’ jokes, she could not stop smiling through the whole meal.
Afterward, of course, there was music. “Sing with me, Susannah,” Linus commanded, pulling her to her feet before anyone else had a chance to rise. She obliged, placing her sure voice against his changing and uncertain one so that their harmonies were creative but well-received. Everyone applauded, and then everyone else had a turn calling out her name.
“Susannah—remember that lullaby about baby Emma? Can we sing that?”
“Susannah, I wrote this piece but I haven’t had time to come up with the harmony. Will you improvise?”
“Susannah, we’ve been practicing our duet for the Gathering, but won’t you sing the middle part?”
And so she did. It felt good, it felt wonderful, to be again among people who loved her without reservation. Who did not find it necessary to conceal the fact that they cared for her. Who knew that the best way to win love was to show it first.
She sang all night with them, but the music did not lift her spirits.
In the morning, a day or two before she had actually expected him, Gaaron arrived.
He came slanting down from overhead like late-spring sunshine, his wings extended to their fullest, most impressive reach. Even the Edori could not help staring a little and exclaiming out loud at his grandeur. He landed a few yards from the camp and came forward, his wings folded behind him and the expression on his face courteous, but he did not look like any ordinary man come unexpectedly to the Tachita campfire, hoping for hospitality.