The Warrior's Path

  "Why are you here? Did the Lady send you to question me?"

  "No," I said. "She intended to talk with you herself. I convinced her to let me talk to you instead."

  "Why?"

  "It appears that I'm your only friend here."

  She gave a little shrug. She knew that without my saying so.

  "Tomorrow the council will hear what you have to say. I know you as no one else here knows you. I trust you, and whatever you tell me, I will believe it, and I will speak on your behalf before the council."

  "It would be better for you if you were not my friend."

  "It's too late for that," I told her.

  That made her smile a little. Then she took a deep breath, and her smile faded. "All I ask is that you convince your people that the news I bring them is true, and that if they disregard it, they will find they've made a costly mistake."

  "The Lady didn't tell me. What news do you bring?"

  "Do you remember the ravine?"

  I nodded. I remembered the place well. A day's walk south of Merin's house, the valley narrowed where a range of hills reached almost to the river. A stream had carved a deep ravine through those hills, and on the hottest summer days, Maara and I had scrambled down the steep sides of the ravine, to find relief from the heat in the cool air that rose from the water.

  "What lies south of the ravine?" she asked me.

  "Farms," I said. "The orchards. Granaries."

  She knew that as well as I did.

  "If you wished to keep the warriors here from going into that country, where would you try to stop them?"

  "Just there," I said, "at the place where the stream flows out of the hills. It wouldn't take many warriors to hold the strip of land between the hills and the river, and if anyone tried to cross the ravine itself, it would be so difficult a climb that a handful of people could turn them back."

  Maara nodded. "When the first snow falls, warriors will cross the river there. They will hold that narrow strip of land and take as much of the land to the south of it as they can. The granaries will supply them through the winter. In the spring, there will be a well-fed army to the south, and more warriors will come out of the northern mountains."

  Cold fear crept into my heart. "What will happen then?"

  "I hope none of it will happen. The Lady must act soon to prevent it."

  That explained what the Lady had said to me. If this news was true, we could send our warriors south to the ravine, to keep anyone who crossed the river there from gaining a foothold, but if the river crossing was a diversion, raiding parties from the north would find us vulnerable.

  Then I remembered what had happened to Maerel.

  "Aren't they afraid of the danger of a river crossing?" I asked.

  "Desperate people lose their fear."

  "How do you know so much about their plans?"

  "I spent some time among the northern tribes."

  Now I thought I understood where Maara had been all this time.

  "You were taken prisoner," I said.

  "No."

  I struggled for a moment with the only other explanation. "Did you go among them as a spy?" I couldn't hide my disappointment in her. It was both honorable and courageous to go as a scout into the country of one's enemies, but to turn a false face to them and walk among them as one of their own was a shameful thing to do.

  "No," she said. "I did not."

  I waited. She said nothing. She pulled her knees up to her chest and laid her forehead against them, so that I couldn't see her face.

  "I don't understand," I said. The skin on the back of my neck prickled with the fear of what she was about to tell me.

  After a little while, she raised her head. Still she didn't look at me.

  "Your people were wrong about me," she said. "I didn't return to my own people in the north. I have no people there. I have no people anywhere. In any case, I would never have betrayed the Lady's kindness. Nor did I intend to spy on the northern tribes. I learned of what they planned to do by chance. Then I had no choice. I couldn't let their plan succeed."

  As I listened to her, strange thoughts wandered through my head. While the surface of my mind heard and understood her, a deeper part played idly with the thought that on this one night she may have spoken to me more words than I had ever heard her speak at once in the whole time I'd known her. Then I noticed how careful with her words she was, and while it seemed that she was saying a great deal, there was much she was leaving out. Then I understood.

  "You weren't coming back here, were you?"

  "No."

  That one word took the breath out of my body. I couldn't speak. I could only sit and look at her. At that moment she was more a stranger to me than someone I had never met. I was the only one who had believed she was coming home, and I was wrong. I could not comprehend it.

  I stood up. I had to get away from her, but there was nowhere to go in that tiny room. If I beat my fists against the door, there was no one to hear me and let me out. Although I didn't cry, I wanted to. I wanted tears to dissolve the hot pain in my chest. I wanted time to flow backwards until those words were unsaid.

  "There was no place for me here," she said. "No one wanted me here."

  "I did."

  I laid my forehead against the door. I was trapped in that room with her, and all I wanted was to get out of it. I heard her stand up behind me.

  "You don't understand," she said.

  I believed I understood her very well. From the beginning she had kept me at a distance. If she never intended to stay in Merin's house, it was no wonder she hadn't wanted a companion. I could only have been in her way.

  She touched my shoulder, and suddenly I was angry. I whirled around and struck her arm away with my open hand. She stared at me, surprised, and rubbed her wrist where I had struck her.

  She was standing very close to me. There was hardly room for her to move away, but I didn't think of that. I reached out both my hands to push her away. She caught my wrists, and I struggled to free myself. I broke one hand free and struck her face. She caught my arm again, and this time she drew me to her and wrapped her arms around my body, pinning my arms against my sides. I struggled in her arms. Though I tried with all my strength to free myself, she held me fast.

  "Stop," she said.

  I stopped. She loosened her grip, but she held on to me for a few moments more, until she felt my anger leave me. Then she let me go.

  "Who is this wolf cub?" she said. "Why is she so angry?"

  She was trying to make things easier between us. I refused to hear her.

  "You never wanted a companion. I don't know why I believed you'd changed your mind."

  When I started to turn away, she took me by the shoulders and gave me a little shake.

  "Listen to me," she said. "If I had stayed, I would have kept you from having what you wanted."

  "I don't understand."

  "Aren't you already the companion of another warrior?"

  "Of course not."

  "Has no one asked for you?"

  "Vintel has asked for me."

  "Vintel is worthy of you," she said. "Vintel will make a warrior of you."

  "She hasn't asked me to be her apprentice."

  "She will."

  "Would you ask me?"

  "No."

  The tears that wouldn't come when I wanted them now spilled down my face. Maara let go of me and sat down wearily on one of the crates.

  "Who made you my companion?" she said.

  "The Lady did."

  "Yes, because she needed you to keep an eye on me, but she would never have made you my apprentice. Even if she were willing to bind you to a stranger, the ties of loyalty between warrior and apprentice are so strong that she couldn't have relied on you."

  "I couldn't have been more loyal to you if I had been your apprentice."

  "I know that," she said. "The Lady didn't understand your heart. By now I think she realizes her mistake."

  The lam
p must have been flickering for some time, although neither of us had noticed it. It sputtered and went out. I fumbled for it in the dark and found it empty.

  "There's no oil left," I said.

  "I can talk in the dark."

  "What else is there to talk about?"

  She didn't answer.

  "Sleep now," I said. "There will be time enough to talk tomorrow."

  Though I wasn't certain that was true, I could think of nothing more to say. I set the lamp down and felt my way back to her until I touched her arm. She put her hand over mine. I drew my hand away.

  We lay down together on the floor between the crates. We were careful not to touch each other. She was so tired that she fell asleep as soon as she lay down, but I couldn't make my thoughts be still.

  The most important thing was what would happen in the morning when we went before the council. I believed what she had told me about the intentions of the northern tribes. She had been safely away from Merin's house, yet she had risked her life by coming back to warn us.

  I didn't want to believe what she had said about the Lady. Perhaps it was true that the Lady would have made me an apprentice if she hadn't needed me to be her spy. She would certainly have made me Vintel's companion, and if Vintel were to ask for me as an apprentice, I doubted the Lady would withhold her consent.

  Too painful to think about was the knowledge that my warrior had abandoned me. I understood her loneliness. I had been lonely too in Merin's house. I still believed that, given time, the others would have come to know her and to value her as I did. And it hurt to know that my friendship had not been enough.

  Maara may have thought that what she'd done was best for both of us, but I could not agree. It was not the first time someone had done something for my own good that broke my heart.

  9. The Council

  In the morning Eramet came to bring us before the council. She looked past me at my warrior and raised her eyebrows in surprise. When I turned to look at Maara, I saw that her lip was swollen where I'd struck her and blood had dried at the corner of her mouth. I pushed past Eramet and brought some warm water to wash Maara's face. I washed my own face too and brushed the dirt of the armory floor from our hair and clothing. When we were ready, Eramet took us into the kitchen.

  The women of the council were seated around a large table. Although I knew each of them by sight and had spoken to one or two, at that moment they were a sea of grey heads and wrinkled faces. Only Fet and Fodla stood out from the rest. They were shield friends and had put away their swords and joined the council only the year before. Fet had taken to wearing a long gown like the others, but Fodla still wore her warrior garb of tunic and trousers. Neither of them looked old enough to be an elder, though they had been warriors in Merin's house when my mother was an apprentice.

  The Lady sat, not at the head of the table, but among the other women as their equal. The ovens had been fired early, so that the older women wouldn't feel the cold. There was no place for my warrior and me to sit, but we wouldn't have sat down in any case, out of respect.

  The women of the council had been talking quietly together. When we came in, they fell silent, and the Lady rose and addressed them.

  "I'm sure you all remember," she said, "that last winter this woman came to us asking for shelter, and I admitted her to my service. Last spring she was wounded so badly that no one believed she would survive her wounds. Only her companion believed her life worth fighting for. She refused to let her warrior die."

  I had been studying my bootlaces, but I looked up in surprise when I heard the Lady mention me.

  "When Maara left us at harvest time," the Lady went on, "no one here believed she would return. Only her companion believed in her, and now she too stands before you, a witness to her warrior's truthfulness."

  The eyes of all the women of the council turned to me. I suddenly felt very small.

  The Lady faced my warrior.

  "What have you to say to us?" she asked her. "Where have you been since you left us, and what news do you bring us?"

  "I bring news of a threat to the safety of your house," Maara said. "I've been among the northern tribes and learned something of their plans."

  My warrior's voice was calm and steady. While she spoke, she held the Lady's eyes. Then she paused and looked at each of the other women in turn, so that they could read her intentions in her face.

  "The northerners are hungry," she said. "Life has never been easy in the north, and the last few winters have been hard. You've seen for yourselves how boldly they have come into your lands and how many lives they are willing to exchange for what they need."

  Again Maara paused. Several of the women nodded in agreement.

  "Now they've made such a bold plan that you may find it difficult to believe. They intend to attempt a river crossing. Even now a hundred warriors are traveling south on the far side of the river. At first snowfall they will cross the river south of here, at the ravine."

  "How will they bring a hundred warriors across the river?" the Lady asked her.

  "The river there is wide and smooth. Small boats they can carry with them might bring them across safely. They will count on having all the time they need to make the crossing. The winter mists will conceal them while they're on the water, and when the snow falls, the country people will bring their animals indoors and stay home by their fires."

  Several of the women spoke among themselves for a little while. Maara waited for them to finish. She stood before them so patiently and with such dignity that my heart warmed with pride in her. While I might have stammered out a few ill-chosen words to the women of the council, my warrior spoke with ease and with an eloquent simplicity. If she saw my eyes on her, she gave no sign. She kept her gaze on the women of the council. When she had their attention, she spoke again.

  "If the northerners gain a foothold by the river, your warriors will have all they can do to dislodge them. The farms to the south will be at their mercy."

  She didn't need to tell these things to the women of the council. She was giving them time to consider the implications of this new threat.

  "How did you come to hear of their plans?" the Lady asked her.

  It was the question I dreaded.

  "I understand the language of the northern tribes," Maara said. "In an ale house I overheard a boast that one man made, that he would bring his wife a copper cauldron from this very hearth."

  Expressions of indignation erupted around the table at this bold boast, and the question of just how my warrior had chanced to hear it was forgotten, at least for the moment.

  When the women were quiet again, the Lady said to them, "I must tell you that I find it difficult to take this threat seriously."

  "Why is that?" asked Fet.

  Fet and Fodla sat side by side. They looked very much alike. Both were small and dark, but they were opposites in temperament. Fet was quiet, and she could speak to anyone and not give offense. Fodla was loud and blunt and gave offense constantly.

  "It seems a foolish plan," said the Lady. "River crossings have been tried before. None have succeeded. Why would they attempt something so dangerous? I'm inclined to think this plan of theirs is no more than a foolish boast, and many a boast never goes beyond the ale house."

  "Or it could be a trick," said Fodla, "and Maara sent to mislead us."

  "That is a possibility, of course," the Lady said.

  "If we send even half a hundred of our warriors south," said Fodla, "we won't be able to defend the farms along our northern border."

  The women murmured their agreement.

  Fet made a small noise in her throat, and the other women all fell silent.

  "What was Maara doing in an ale house among the northern tribes?"

  Fodla turned to look at Fet. The others turned to look at Maara.

  "I understand your doubts," Maara said. "You have no reason to place your trust in me. As the Lady said, when I left this place at harvest time, few believed that I inte
nded ever to return to it."

  All eyes were on her now, including mine. I knew what she was going to say, and I gave her a little shake of my head to stop her. She met my eyes and said, "The truth convinced you, little one. The truth will convince them too." Then she turned to face the council. "It is true that I did not intend to return to Merin's house."

  Now all the women spoke at once. The Lady had to raise her voice to make herself heard. "Let the woman speak," she said.

  "I'm grateful to you for giving me shelter when I had nowhere else to go," said Maara, when they were all quiet again, "but I don't belong here. I may never find a place or a people to belong to, although when I left here, I did intend to try. I followed the road taken by the caravans, far into the north. For a while I traveled in the company of traders who were glad to have another warrior with them. In a village where we spent the night, I heard of the northerners' plans. At first I thought, as the Lady did, that such boasts seldom go beyond the ale house, but I heard the same thing in more than one village, and I saw that they were making preparations to carry out their plan."

  "So you came back to warn us," said the Lady.

  Maara nodded.

  Fodla, too agitated to sit still, got to her feet and faced the women of the council. "Why should she do that? By her own admission, she wanted nothing more to do with us. Why should she care what happens here?"

  "If you can't believe I would repay your kindness if I could," Maara said, "then remember that I owe this child a life."

  Fodla gave my warrior an appraising look. Then she sat down.

  "I had forgotten that," she said.

  "I had not," said Maara.

  All morning the council argued. The Lady sent Maara back to the armory to wait. She told me to sit down on the hearth by the ovens in case someone wished to question me, but I think they soon forgot I was there.

  Lying next to me on her pallet was Gnith, a woman so old and bent that she could no longer stand, but had to be carried from place to place. Her bones always ached from the cold, and she made her bed by the ovens all year round. Although everyone treated her with great respect, it was the general opinion that her wits had left her long ago. The first time I saw her, I would have mistaken her for a pile of rags lying on the hearth, but for her eyes, like black beads, shining in her wrinkled face.