"I suppose we don't need this now," she said, and handed the coiled thong to me.
As I took it from her, I felt a pang of regret.
"Do you know the story?" she asked me.
"What story?"
"The story the Lady was talking about."
I nodded. "I was the one who reminded her of it."
"I thought so," she said. "The Lady told me her plan was your idea."
"She did?"
"She spoke to me this afternoon. She seems to think I know all about these people."
"Don't you?"
"I have some knowledge of the northern tribes, but I don't believe these men are northerners, although I think they have been used by them."
"What did the Lady say to you?"
"She asked me what I thought of your idea."
"I never thought she'd pay any attention to my idea. What if it's a mistake? What if they come back and do us harm?"
"The Lady must bear the responsibility for that," she said. "The Lady and the council. It was their decision."
"But it was my idea."
"It was a good idea. What made you think of it?"
"I don't know," I said. "They just didn't seem that dangerous to me."
"They are very dangerous, but your plan will make them much less so."
Her approval reassured me. All the same, I resolved not to be so quick to open my mouth the next time someone asked me for advice.
Maara settled herself on her bed. "Tell me the story," she said.
In ancient days, when only women were warriors, lived a race of magicians and sorcerers who wielded great power. To defeat their enemies, they had no need to resort to arms. Their seers saw from afar any army that marched against them, and their sorcerers wrapped their lands in a mist in which their enemies would wander, lost and afraid.
But when strangers came in peace, the people made a feast for them. Venison from their forests and game birds from their meadows filled the bellies of their guests. Then singers and poets and musicians entertained them, until, overcome by these delights, they closed their eyes and slept. When they awoke, they would find themselves encamped on the borders of the lands from which they'd come, and by each of them would be a gift according to the deepest wish of each one's heart.
In a far country lived a queen whose lands were rich and prosperous and whose people never lacked for any of life's necessities or comforts. Her own wealth was great. She ate from golden dishes and drank from silver goblets. Around her she kept things of beauty, so many that she never wanted for something to delight the eye. She too had musicians to fill her ears with sweet sounds and poets to fill her heart with stories of love and war.
One day a woman and her two daughters came to the queen's household. They asked for hospitality and were made welcome. The queen invited them to dine with her. She served them the best she had to give. Meat and bread and fruit and wine she offered them. After they had eaten their fill, the queen had her musicians and her storytellers entertain them. When her guests grew sleepy, she showed them to a room in which there was a soft bed for each of them and bade them each good night.
In the morning the queen and her guests broke their fast together. Before they left her to continue their journey, the woman and her daughters thanked the queen and praised her generosity, saying that with only one exception they had never enjoyed such hospitality anywhere.
The queen wished to know whose hospitality surpassed her own. Her guests assured her that none but a mysterious race of magical people could rival her. They told her of the strange land that vanished from the sight of those who intended to do harm, but whose people practiced the greatest generosity toward all who came in friendship. They told her of the wonders they had seen there, and they showed her the gifts they had been given. The elder daughter had received a sword. The younger had received a bow and a quiver of arrows. Both of these weapons were enchanted, for the sword moved on its own and would prevail over the most skilled opponent, while the arrows never failed to find their target. Their mother had been given only a dream, but she was the most pleased with her gift, because the dream promised that her wish for grandchildren would come true.
The queen asked her guests where she could find this enchanted land.
"Follow the setting sun," they told her. "It is farther than you can imagine, but nearer than your heart's desire."
After her guests had gone, the queen thought about what they had told her of the land of sorcerers. She saw that she could spare her people much grief in time of war if her warriors possessed enchanted weapons. And if dreams that could foretell the future were within the gift of these magicians, any threat to her people could be foreseen and perhaps forestalled.
The queen had her servants make preparations for a long journey. Then she called together the warriors of her household. She told them of the enchanted land and asked which of them would accompany her there. All of them were eager to go with her, and the next day they began their journey.
They traveled for many days, until they came to the land of which they had heard such wonderful tales. They were invited to a feast, and it was all they could have wished. Dishes were served to them that they had never before tasted, and sweet wine was given them to drink. Songs were sung and stories told that spoke to each of them and brought back into memory the enchanted tales of childhood and the heroic deeds of youth. When their hearts were so full that they could listen no more, they fell asleep. In the morning they awoke on the border of the queen's own lands, and each of them had received a gift. Although there were no enchanted weapons among them, each one was delighted with the gift she had been given.
The queen's gift was a mirror of polished silver set in a golden frame. When she looked into it, she saw a faithful image of herself reflected back. The queen was not pleased with her gift, for she already possessed mirrors just as fine. She asked her warriors to show her what they had received, and not one of them had been given an enchanted sword or bow. None had had a vision of the future or any other thing the queen had hoped for.
When she thought of the long journey they had made with so little to show for it, the queen almost regretted having gone at all, but her warriors were happy with their gifts, and it had been a good adventure, so she hung the mirror upon the wall of her private chamber, to remind her of her own foolishness.
The next year the queen's daughter wished to marry. She had come to care for a man who cared very much for her, although he had little else to offer her. The queen wanted a better alliance for her daughter, and she refused to consent to the marriage. When next she passed by the golden mirror, she thought she saw, out of the corner of her eye, not the familiar features of her own face, but the beaked face and the cold eye of a bird of prey. When she stopped and looked again, her own familiar face looked back at her.
Not long afterward, a neighbor with whom the queen had had a long alliance asked to share in the bounty of one of the queen's forests. The forest lay far from the queen's household, and her people seldom hunted there. Nevertheless it had belonged to her family for many generations, and she was reluctant to allow others to hunt there, lest they come to regard the forest as their own. The queen refused the request, but she sent a gift of game to her neighbor's household, to lessen the sting of her refusal.
That evening, when she prepared for bed, the queen caught a glimpse of the golden mirror. She thought she saw within it the image of a bear, its belly full, standing over the body of a deer, unable to eat more but unwilling to allow another bear to eat. When the queen turned again to the mirror, she saw only her own familiar face.
The following year an army marched against the queen. She sent her warriors out to meet it, and they fought well, but in the end neither side could prevail against the other. She called upon her neighbor to send warriors to her aid. Her neighbor refused her request but sent a dozen fine swords back to her, to lessen the sting of her refusal.
Knowing that she was not strong enough to drive the
invaders out, the queen offered to come to terms with them. They sent a young man to speak with her, the very man her daughter had wished to marry. He asked for gifts of grain and cattle and swore that she would then be left in peace. That much the queen was prepared to give, but he asked also for her daughter, and to that request the queen would not consent. They talked long into the night without coming to an agreement, so the queen offered him her hospitality, and he accepted.
Late that night, as she prepared for bed, the queen conceived a plan. She convinced herself that the young man had dishonored her daughter by asking for her as if she were no more than property, and that this dishonor released the queen from the obligations of hospitality.
As she turned her treacherous plan over in her mind, a flash of light flew out of the golden mirror. It blinded her for a moment, and she shielded her eyes against it. When her sight returned, she looked into the mirror and beheld the image of her home and all her lands on fire. She rubbed her eyes and looked again, but the mirror reflected back to her only her own familiar face.
The queen thought about the vision the mirror had shown her, until at last she convinced herself that the flash of light must have been only the reflection of a momentary flare of torchlight and the images of fire the product of her own imagination. She gazed again into the mirror, but she saw nothing more to alarm her.
The next day the queen met with the young man again. This time she consented to the marriage. She asked that the wedding take place within her household on the following day, and she invited all the warriors of the invading army to attend it. Protected, as he thought, from treachery because he was her guest, the young man came the next day to be married, bringing with him the warriors of the invading army. The queen's warriors, who were unarmed, met them and made them welcome. They invited their guests to relieve themselves of the weight of their own weapons, and this they did.
The wedding took place, and the feast began. When their guests were in their cups, the queen's warriors took up their arms from where they had been hidden in the hall. The wedding guests fought back, but they were quickly overpowered, and every one of them was put to the sword. The floor of the hall was covered in their blood. It ran out the door of the house and soaked into the earth and still more blood flowed. It ran like water over the queen's rich farmlands and through her forests and into her lakes and streams and rivers. Then a flame sprang up from the heart of the dying man who loved the queen's daughter, and the blood began to burn. The fire spread in all directions, even to the crops in the fields and to the trees in the forests. Flames danced upon the water in the lakes and streams. When it reached the borders of the queen's lands, the fire spread no farther.
When she saw her home and her lands on fire, the queen remembered the vision in the mirror. She ran to her bedchamber to look within it one last time. She saw her own familiar face reflected back to her, and as she watched, the flesh softened and fell away, until in the enchanted mirror she saw the face of death.
For a hundred years, nothing would live in the land that had once been the queen's. No crops would sprout; no trees would grow. Fish would not spawn in the lakes or streams. Animals would not thrive there. No child would be born there. No living thing dwelt in that place again until the queen's name had been forgotten.
"I think I'm beginning to understand your stories," said Maara.
"Maybe you could tell me what it means, then."
The story troubled me. When I mentioned it to the Lady, I was thinking only of the part about the blood of the slain, of those whom the queen's warriors had murdered. I had forgotten there was so much more than that in it.
"How had the queen received her heart's desire when she received the mirror?" Maara asked me.
"She didn't understand its power," I replied. "She wanted dreams that would foretell the future, but she failed to read the future in her own face."
"If the Lady had such a mirror, would she have the wisdom to use it well, do you think?"
"I don't know," I said. "The Lady is clever, but I'm no judge of wisdom."
Maara's eyes held mine. She had a strange expression on her face, as if she was seeing something unexpected.
"The Lady may well have such a mirror," she said.
15. Midwinter's Night
Our prisoners were sent away with the Lady's gifts of grain and cattle. Maara found a few among them who spoke the language of the northern tribes, although, as she suspected, these men were not northerners. I would not soon forget the expressions on their faces when she made them understand that they would be taken to our northern border and allowed to find their own way home. Vintel and her band of warriors escorted them. She didn't ask my warrior to go with them.
As I had hoped, the warriors of Merin's house began to take notice of Maara, and a few of them offered her their friendship. Laris, Taia's warrior, sought her out more than once after the evening meal and brought her into the circle of warriors gathered around the hearth. While apprentices were tolerated in these gatherings of warriors, companions were not. I tried not to mind too much.
Sun's light. Moon's light. Lamplight and firelight.
Love's light. Light my way through the longest night.
On midwinter's night we sang the song that every one of us had known from childhood -- everyone but Maara. The singing surprised her. From where I sat with the other companions, I could just see her, sitting beside Namet, who had drawn her out of a dark corner and seated her among the other warriors. Maara had once said that no one told her stories when she was a child, and now I suspected she had never heard a group of people sing together. Her eyes, wide with wonder, went from face to face. I'd never seen her look so young.
We had no poets in the household, no bards or singers, no one who played the pipe or harp. At holiday times we made our own music, as my family had done at home. Some of the elders had lovely voices. Fet, who was ordinarily so quiet, had a fine, clear voice that fell over us like a gentle rain. Her shield friend, Fodla, had to be urged to sing, but when she did, her deeper voice supported Fet's and wound around it, until their two voices blended perfectly into one.
Long night. Soft dark. Sleep, sleep in Mother's arms.
Silence holds us. Love enfolds us. Safe from harm.
Sun's light. Moon's light. Lamplight and firelight.
Love's light. Light my way through the longest night.
The rich smell of nuts roasting in the ashes of the fire mingled with the scent of hot cider and the pine branches that hung all around the great hall. I sat with the other companions on the floor, while the warriors, both women and men, sat on benches or stools close by the hearth. Outside the night was cold. Inside we basked in the warmth of firelight and friendship.
Days longer. Light stronger. Nights warmer. Hope clearer.
Life longer. Love stronger. Hearts warmer. Day nearer.
Sun's light. Moon's light. Lamplight and firelight.
Love's light. Light my way through the longest night.
I closed my eyes and thought of home. This midwinter's night was the first I had ever spent away from my family. I missed them, and in my mind's eye I pictured them around me. I saw the faces of my mother and my sister, and I saw too the faces of the dead. I saw my grandmother's face and heard her voice, singing a song she used to sing. I saw my father's face, although I thought I had forgotten it. I felt again as I used to feel while we watched together through the night. I was safe within the circle, as long as I had my mother's arms around me.
When I was a child and afraid of the dark, my grandmother once told me, "In the dark we were made. In the dark we rest as in the Mother's womb, and there she recreates us before she brings us out again into the light." After that, when I lay in my bed in the dark, I would fall into sleep believing that I fell into the Mother's arms. Midwinter's night was a night to fall into the dark.
We fall, trusting, into sleep, believing that morning will come and we will wake again. We fall, trusting, into the endless dark of mi
dwinter's night, believing that light will come again into the world.
All around me the companions slept, their heads pillowed on their arms or on each other's bodies. Sparrow lay beside me, fast asleep, her head in my lap, and I lay back against Taia's shoulder. The last thing I saw before I slept was Maara's face.
The drum woke me. Steady as a heartbeat, I almost mistook it for the beating of my own heart. The lamps had all gone out, and the fire had burned low. The room was dark. The girls around me began to wake. So slowly we hardly noticed it, the drum began to beat a little faster, a little louder. Before long everyone in the great hall was awake and stirring.
Pah pom. Silence. Pah pom. Silence. Pah pom.
This time the silence remained unbroken.
We made ready to go outdoors to greet the sun. The Lady and the elders went first, then the warriors with their apprentices, then the companions and the servants. Wrapped in cloaks and blankets, huddled close together, we faced the east and watched the mountains' silhouette emerge against the lightening sky, until at last the rim of the pale sun peeked over the earth's edge. We watched as the whole body of the sun revealed itself, and the light of the midwinter sun fell over us like a blessing. Then we hurried back indoors.
The Lady knelt by the hearth and struck a spark into dry tinder to make a new fire. The first spark caught. It was a good sign. With her breath, the Lady encouraged it to grow into a bright flame. From that flame, she lit a torch to carry the new fire to every hearth in the household.
Sparrow and I sat side by side at the companions' table. The feasting had gone on all day, and we were too full to move. Around us people talked quietly together or listened as someone told a story. Sparrow handed me something wrapped in a piece of cloth.
"What's this?" I asked her.
"Look and see," she said.
I unwrapped her gift. It was a brooch, made of dark wood, carved to look like a circle of braided cord, with a pin of lighter wood to fasten it. It was beautiful.
"It belonged to Eramet," Sparrow said.