The Warrior's Path

  "Keep this by you," she said.

  I thought she meant that I should use it if I needed to cut the thong. I set it down beside my bed.

  As I lay in the darkness with the thong around my wrist, I believed I understood Gnith's spell. The thong was more than long enough, but every time Maara moved, I felt it move with her. It kept me constantly aware of her, and if a person's thoughts are with someone, how can she break away to go with someone else? When I slept, my warrior walked in my dreams, and in my dreams, the thong that bound us was not from wrist to wrist, but from heart to heart.

  When I woke, the first grey light of dawn was sifting through the shutter. I lay still and listened to the household wake. A winch groaned as one of the kitchen servants drew water from the well. Outside, the shouts of goatherds, muffled by fog, mingled with the anxious bleating of the goats waiting to be milked. In the room next door, Namet let out a grunt as she hoisted herself up out of bed. I needed to use the privy. When I slipped the thong from around my wrist, instantly Maara was awake.

  "What is it?" she said.

  "Hush," I told her. "Don't get up. I'll be right back."

  I slipped on my trousers and boots, and as an afterthought, gathered up a pile of our dirty clothes to take with me. Hostage or not, I still had chores to do. On my way to the privy, I stopped by the lean-to outside the kitchen that served as a laundry and put the clothes to soak. When I returned to her room, Maara, still in her sleeping shirt, was rummaging through her chest, looking for something to put on.

  "What am I supposed to wear?" she asked.

  "You might as well go downstairs like that. No one pays any attention to you anyway."

  "They would if I went down in my nightshirt. Maybe I could put my armor on over it."

  My mind made a picture of my warrior eating breakfast in that outlandish costume. I had to laugh, and she laughed with me.

  Namet appeared in the doorway. "What's going on?" she said.

  The thought of telling her what we were laughing at made me laugh all the harder. Maara tried to achieve the look of dignity that was proper in the presence of an elder and failed. I collapsed on my bed and laughed until the tears rolled down my face. Namet began to laugh too, though she had no idea what we were laughing at. She shook her head at us and went back to her room.

  Maara had no choice but to stay in her room until her clothes were clean and dry, so I went down to the kitchen, to bring her some breakfast. The porridge that morning looked grey and pasty and didn't taste much better than it looked. A few bites of it were enough to satisfy my appetite. Then I filled a bowl for Maara. In one of the storage rooms I found baskets of dried fruit and a crock of honey. I stirred a few slices of apple and a handful of berries into the porridge and poured a thick layer of honey over it.

  I brought Maara's breakfast to her room. I was surprised to see Namet sitting at the foot of her bed. When she saw the bowl of porridge, she raised her eyebrows.

  "No one ever brings me meals like that," said Namet.

  "Shall I get you something, Mother?"

  "No, no, child. I'm going down to the kitchen in a minute." She turned to Maara. "Let us get to know each other better, shall we?"

  Maara nodded, and Namet got up and left us. I took her place at the foot of the bed.

  "She was talking with you," I said.

  "Yes."

  "What did she say?"

  "She said she was sorry I felt unwelcome here."

  At that moment, Namet became dear to me.

  While Maara ate her breakfast, I went back down to the laundry to wash our clothes and hang them up to dry. Then I took a pail of warm water and a cloth upstairs. As I expected, Maara's face and hands were sticky with honey. She let me wash her hands, as docile as a child, but when I tried to wash her face, she recoiled from my touch and took the cloth away from me. She held the warm cloth to her face for a moment. When she took it away, I saw that she had a lump on her jaw where I had struck her the night before, and the skin below her eye had begun to bruise.

  "I'm sorry I hurt you," I said.

  "I'm all right." She smiled. "Just don't make a habit of it." She reached out and touched the side of my neck. The skin felt tender. "Your friends will wonder what we've been doing to each other."

  Ordinarily I would have enjoyed her teasing, but today it only made me sad. I felt as if I were in mourning, and in a way I was. I was mourning everything I'd lost. I had felt safe in Merin's house. Now that feeling was gone. I had felt safe with Maara. Now I didn't know if she intended to stay in Merin's house or if she meant to leave me again. I started to ask the question, then stopped myself, in case I wasn't strong enough to hear the answer.

  I took Maara's bowl back to the kitchen and brought her some hot tea. Then I swept her room and took her blankets downstairs to air. Nothing else needed doing, but I was reluctant to go back upstairs. When I understood that I was avoiding talking with her, I returned to her room and sat down at the foot of her bed.

  I had expected her to wait for me to speak. Instead she said, "How can I protect you?"

  I tried to reassure her, as Sparrow had tried to reassure me. "No one here will hurt me," I said. "I know you told the truth to the council. I trust you won't run away. Even if you did, how could the Lady harm the daughter of her dearest friend?"

  I hoped I sounded more convinced than I was. In spite of Sparrow's reassurance, I was beginning to believe that the Lady was capable of almost anything.

  "All the same," Maara said, "if something should go wrong, I want you to stay close to me."

  A shiver of fear ran through me. "What could go wrong?"

  "The worst thing would be a raid from the north. The northern tribes don't always act together. Just because some of them plan to cross the river doesn't mean that others won't do what they've always done before. A raid on the northern farms is what everyone fears, and when people are afraid, they'll do things they wouldn't do if they took the time to think it over."

  She saw that she had frightened me.

  "Or perhaps nothing will happen," she said. "Perhaps the northerners will change their minds about crossing the river once they're faced with actually doing it. The Lady will be unhappy that she sent her warriors out in winter weather for nothing, but she can't accuse me of treachery."

  Although I feared the answer, I had to ask the question. I needed to know if it was safe to care for her again.

  "When all this is over, will you stay in Merin's house?"

  "That may not be possible."

  "Then take me with you."

  I hadn't intended to say it, though I had thought it more than once since the council meeting. Every time the thought came into my head, I pushed it away. It was too terrible to think about. It made me a traitor, as much to my own family as to the Lady. I had just asked for something that would cost me the only place the world would ever make for me.

  "I can't do that," said Maara. "I won't. It would be the worst thing for you to do."

  I was close to tears. I had frightened myself with my own boldness, but once I'd said it, I refused to take it back. "When can I choose what's best for me to do?"

  "When you can choose wisely."

  I clenched my teeth on my anger. "I would leave a household where I'm held as a hostage by those who should protect me. What's so unwise in that?"

  I had never heard my voice sound as it did then. My words were brittle with resentment.

  Maara lost patience with me.

  "Stop," she said. "You have cause to be angry with the Lady, but don't be so quick to throw away everything you have."

  At that moment I was aware only of my own grievances. I gave her my most sullen look. "I am a free woman. No one can force me to stay here."

  "The life of an exile is not the life of freedom you imagine."

  The meaning behind her words chilled me. "Are you an exile?"

  "We're not talking about me," she said. But of course we were.

  My fear and my resentme
nt had kept my thoughts centered on myself. Now I considered her position and saw that it was much more difficult than mine. I started to tell her so, but she spoke first.

  "If I can stay," she said, "I will, if only to save you from your own foolishness."

  It was what I had wanted to hear her say, but I knew I was wrong to ask it or to try to keep her in Merin's house against her will.

  "No," I said. "I won't hold you to a promise you may regret."

  I wondered what I did have the right to ask of her. The only thing I thought of was that I had the right to hear the truth.

  "I ask only that you tell me before you leave Merin's house again."

  She shook her head, but before she could say no, I said, "I give you my word I won't try to keep you here. I won't follow you if you don't want me to. And I won't betray you."

  She considered that for a moment, then nodded.

  "All right," she said.

  11. Battle

  The next morning Sparrow woke me at first light. The thong around my wrist felt lifeless. I glanced at Maara's bed and was relieved to see that she was in it. She was awake and sitting up. The thong was no longer around her wrist.

  "We leave in a few minutes," Sparrow said.

  I was still gathering my wits together. "Who?"

  "Vintel is taking half a hundred warriors to the ravine," she said. "Eramet is going, and she's taking me with her."

  I heard the pride in her voice, that she had been asked to go.

  "Take care," I told her.

  "I will."

  Sparrow touched my cheek. She hesitated a moment, then leaned over me and lightly kissed my lips.

  The day was stormy. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, bringing squalls of driving rain. Our warriors would have an uncomfortable journey, and when they reached the ravine, they would find little shelter there. Ox-drawn wagons followed them carrying tents and supplies, but they traveled more slowly than the warriors, who would have to camp for at least one night in the open.

  I worried about Sparrow. I also envied her. This encounter with the enemy would not be just a skirmish with a raiding party. If the northerners carried out their plan, there would be a battle when they came across the river. I wished I could be there to see it.

  Maara was silent all day. I soon gave up trying to get her to talk with me. She would make some reply, but she was distracted, and her mind wandered. I had forgotten neither her hunger nor her weariness. I fed her until she complained I was going to make her sick. She was too restless to sleep, so I took her downstairs, where we could enjoy the warmth of the fire in the great hall. Even with so many of the warriors gone, there was a crowd gathered by the hearth. We found a quiet corner, where we sat for several hours listening to scraps of other people's conversations.

  When the servants set out the tables for the evening meal, Maara stood up. "I'm not hungry," she said. "Stay and eat." Then she went upstairs.

  At supper the companions were so full of talk they forgot that not long before they hadn't known what to say to me. Some complained that their warriors had not been asked to join Vintel. Others hoped they might be sent out to the farms along our northern border. It was the first I'd heard of plans to send warriors out to the farms. The Lady was guarding against every possibility.

  Some of the companions questioned me, thinking that my warrior must have told me all about her journey north. I had to tell them I knew no more than they did, but I don't think they believed me.

  After supper I went to Maara's room and found her asleep. The thong was around her wrist.

  The longest fortnight of my life went by. Then one morning I awoke to find Maara standing at the window, gazing out at the first snowfall of winter. I got out of bed and joined her, and she stepped back so that I could stand in front of her, to watch the world turn white.

  Snowflakes wafted gently down in the still air. Sometimes the lightest breath of wind would send a flurry of them dancing for a moment before they drifted down again. I remembered how silent winter is.

  When we went downstairs, I felt the tension in the air. Everyone knew that the northerners had chosen the first snowfall as the time to carry out their plan. There was nothing to do but wait for word of whatever might happen, but today there were more whispered conversations, more furtive glances at my warrior, more sudden silences when we approached, than there had been since she returned to Merin's house.

  The Lady kept to her chamber. Every morning messengers left the household, going both north and south, and every evening the messengers who had left the day before returned with news. From time to time a warrior or an elder would be summoned to the Lady's chamber, but she never asked for me, and I never asked to see her.

  We all knew that, even if the northerners had crossed the river, word wouldn't reach us until the next day. All the same, no one could do anything but wait. After breakfast people lingered at the tables, reluctant to leave the hall. An older man whose name I didn't know picked nervously at his fingernails. His brow was furrowed with worry, and when the man next to him made an offhand remark I couldn't hear, he gave him a sharp answer. One of the younger warriors furrowed her brow with impatience. She could not sit still, and her fidgeting annoyed her neighbors.

  Fet and Fodla sat at a table near the kitchen. Fet gazed into her bowl of tea, while Fodla carried on several conversations at once with the people around her.

  I thought everyone might sit like that all day. At last one of the men got up and said, "I'm going to have a look around. Who'll come with me?" and several of the men got up and left with him. After that, the people drifted in and out of the great hall. No one wanted to be too far away in case something happened, but the waiting set their nerves on edge.

  Maara touched my arm and stood up. I was getting up to follow her when I heard a man's voice speak loudly enough to be heard by all the people in the hall.

  "Not much longer now," he said. "Soon enough we'll know what this stranger has brought upon us."

  It was the man who had looked so worried. When Maara turned to face him, he stood up.

  I was furious.

  "Soon enough you'll owe her more than just an apology," I told him.

  "Hush," my warrior said.

  Fodla got to her feet.

  "Sit down, Lorin," she said, "and hold your tongue. We may soon have enough to do without also fighting among ourselves."

  Lorin sat down.

  It snowed all day. In the short winter twilight, I watched from Maara's window as blue shadows deepened quickly into black and a few stars twinkled out between the clouds. I loved the coming of winter. My mother used to tell me it was because I had been born in wintertime and my first glimpse of the world was still hidden deep inside my eyes.

  "Close the shutter," Maara said, "before you catch your death."

  She was sitting up in bed, huddled under a blanket. I put the shutter up.

  Nothing is more tiring than waiting. Worry had worn me out, but my thoughts would not be still, and I lay awake for a long time. Winter had come, and we should have been preparing for the celebration of midwinter's night, looking forward to the feasting and merrymaking, the singing and storytelling. Instead many of our people were making a cold bed in their winter camp while we waited anxiously for news.

  My warrior and I were sitting in the great hall when a messenger arrived at midmorning. He spoke to no one, but went directly to the Lady's chamber.

  Maara tugged at my sleeve and gestured to me to follow her. She found us another place to sit, by the hallway that led to the kitchen. She leaned toward me and said in a low voice, "If we hear bad news, run into the armory and bar the door." When I opened my mouth to object, she frowned and shook her head.

  Word traveled quickly in that household, and soon everyone had gathered in the great hall. We waited in silence to hear the news the messenger had brought. At last the Lady came out to speak to us. She came halfway down the stairs and looked out over the assembled crowd.

  "Wher
e is Maara?" she said.

  All eyes turned toward us. Everyone knew where we were.

  "Come forward," she said.

  Maara stood up and went to the foot of the stairs.

  "We are in your debt," the Lady told her. To the people in the hall she said, "Yesterday everything happened as this woman said it would. Hidden by the snowfall, warriors of the northern tribes crossed the river. Our warriors too were hidden by the snowfall, and they captured the boats of the northerners as they came across. After a dozen boats made the crossing, we had taken two score of their warriors. No more came. We may have captured all of them, or perhaps the rest awaited a signal that it was safe for them to cross, or perhaps they had no more boats. Some of our warriors will remain there until the river starts to freeze, but most of them will be here this evening, and their prisoners with them."

  She paused. For the briefest moment, all were silent. Then everyone began to speak at once. Lorin came forward to stand at the foot of the stairs.

  "Lady," he called up to her. "Has anyone been hurt?"

  The Lady looked down at him.

  "My son is with them," he said.

  "Two of our warriors were wounded," said the Lady. "Neither of them is your son."

  The people grew quiet again when she mentioned the wounded.

  "Breda has a head wound," she said. "Eramet was struck in the side by an arrow. One of the wagons will bring them home."

  That afternoon many of the warriors sought Maara out to thank her for the warning she had brought us. No one apologized for having doubted her. It was prudent of them to doubt her, but once her loyalty was proven, their gratitude was sincere. Lorin gave me a little smile as he made an elaborate apology to my warrior for his hasty words the day before. I will admit that I enjoyed hearing it.

  It was late that afternoon when we heard that our returning warriors were in sight. Maara put on her armor and took up her sword and shield. When we went downstairs, I saw that the other warriors had also armed themselves. Even a few of the apprentices bore arms.