Laughing, his face spattered with the boy’s blood, Tay Aillig turned to stare at her.
“Not going with you,” Sandashae said with as much resolve and defiance as she could muster, and she inched away a step to feel a spear tip against her back, for one of the Usgar who had chased down the fleeing hunter had returned.
“Oh dear, ugly, stupid girl,” Tay Aillig replied, and he flicked his arm and sent the dead Dunen Bloch flying away, then lifted his crystal-bladed axe and turned fully upon the girl, eyes wild, teeth shining, “we know that.”
* * *
As dawn broke over the dark heights of Fireach Speuer, Aghmor glanced back in the direction of the destroyed camp, marking its location by the handful of buzzards circling, waiting patiently for their turn.
The Usgar war party had left the runaway girl alive, tied down, naked and spread-eagled, her belly cut open from ribs to crotch, with the skin peeled back to invite the carrion eaters.
The last thing Tay Aillig had promised the doomed uamhas was that she’d be alive still when the first bird pecked out her eyes.
Aghmor thought of her.
He blocked out the whoops of joy and savage glee from the four warriors moving up the mountainside just before him, and he thought of the girl in her last pose, certain that it would haunt him forevermore.
PART 2
THE ILLS AROUND HER
As I wander the ways of the western Wilderlands, far beyond the Barbican Mountains, I have found cultures and creatures far more varied than those I knew in my days within Honce-the-Bear. Perhaps this was how the land I viewed as home had once been, before Bannagran the Bear united the feudal lords into a singular kingdom, before the followers of St. Abelle had created a church that would become dominant and far-reaching, although I suspect one would have to look further back in time to find a level of distinct tribal identity as I’ve encountered in the wider and more wild lands.
The people I have found here are separated into smaller communities, remote from each other, suspicious of each other, often warring with each other. The only common perspectives come from the traders, mostly frontiersmen who have left Honce behind, who pass from village to village, whose wares grant them passage where others dare not tread.
I believe that many of these tribes follow some form, some varied path, of the Samhaist religion, though I have never heard any identify it as such. To them, the world around them is replete with gods, and they revere death and life equally, and will often incite violence over others for the satisfaction of proving their power over death. To me much of it seems both simple and pragmatic. It makes sense, though, as I consider it, for the lands are too wild still for any to sit back and ponder deeper meanings and deeper causes for that around them. While Abellican monks peer at the night sky and try to unlock the pattern of the heavens and so find deeper truths about the seasons and the length of days, the tribes of the wilderness look at the sky only to discern the weather they’ll soon face.
This might be the similarity I see to the older Samhaist religion. Perhaps these folk merely adhere to older cultural rituals and superstitions, similar enough to what I have found in my readings of the Samhaists to make me suspect a connection.
That would be an interesting question to explore, but I expect that the answers have been lost to the turning centuries. The men of the wilderness tribes to whom I have spoken claim no knowledge of the Samhaists, and the few remaining Samhaist enclaves would not take credit for them, I am sure.
The harshness of these traditions—torture, sacrifice, self-flagellation—harken to more primitive and desperate times, with death ever-present, looming and leering. Torture and sacrifice give to these people some measure of power over suffering and death itself, perhaps, as they are all intimately touched by death on a regular basis.
Even among those tribesmen I have encountered who smile more than they frown, there is an edge of danger and a measure of severity I ignore to my deepest peril.
My armor, my weapons, and my magic are all superior to anything I have encountered, but I remain vigilant, always, or surely I will be buried—nay, not even buried, but simply left for the vultures!—hundreds of miles from any place I ever called home.
I wonder, am I to judge these peoples of these wild lands? Or am I to excuse their traditions as just that, once necessary and perhaps still valuable to their survival? I can understand the brutality somewhat in the face of the leering specter of death, but understanding is not excusing. For surely these brutal rituals are not acceptable in the modern mores of Corona. Not in Honce-the-Bear, where Midalis is King and Father Abbot Braumin Herde leads the Abellican Church. Under their civilized conduct and laws, it would be easy for one to look upon these wild tribes with judgment and disdain.
But what if Marcalo De’Unnero had won the day in Honce-the-Bear? What if I, his errant puppet, had remained upon the throne? I am sure that I could have justified acts no less brutal than those that now give me pause—nay, that now cause me to recoil!
Does that not make morality itself a sliding scale, dependent upon tradition and level of enlightenment?
Or is it just a very human thing, even among the races that are not human, to justify our own actions and condemn those of others?
Aye, for I have witnessed brutality no less wicked in those lands I called home, in the land I once claimed as my kingdom.
And woe to any who venture near Andur’Blough Inninness, the valley of the elves, for they will be caught in the deceptive web of Lady Dasslerond and led to danger, perhaps even death.
Woe to any who cross onto the steppes of To-gai, for the untrusting and severe horsemen will run them down and fill them with arrows.
Woe to any who cross into Alpinador carrying the ways of a culture contrary to the teachings of the savage barbarians, for those travelers will surely find the blade applied slowly and repeatedly.
Woe to any who traverse the deserts of Behren, with its merciless nomads and trained murderers.
Woe to any who venture too near to Tymwyvene, for they will be cast into the bog and raised as servile zombies by the brutal Doc’alfar.
These are the truths I carry, and so any feelings of superiority I might hold over the peoples of these unnamed lands are tempered with humility. I look at their rituals, their parochial (and often brutally patriarchal) and insulated views, their prejudiced intolerance, and feel as if I can offer them better paths in resolving their distrust, and many truths about their commonalities to their neighbors. In my heart, I know that I can show many better ways, many better roads, the generosity of mercy, the oneness of humankind.
But, I was once a tyrant king, mentored by a man so full of anger that he could physically transform into a tiger, and in that form tear apart any who crossed him.
All that I do now must be tempered with the truth of who I was, with the judgment I must put upon myself, and with the constant reminder that my entire life now is one of atonement, freely offered, and that I am greater for it.
I have known the demon, without and within. We are all possessed of it, and in that knowledge, so too must we be possessed of humility and generosity.
Yet still, I cannot easily excuse the brutality of the rituals and traditions I encounter here in these wild lands, and their being based on ancient fears and superstitions does not make them acceptable in the face of continuing barbarity, even depravity.
But my judgment must remain internal. I am a visitor here, come to find myself, to find my truth, but uninvited.
And so I am not the arbiter of redemption.
Aydrian Wyndon, “In My Travels”
8
THE YOUNG WOMAN
(The last day of the fourth month, Toumanay, God’s’Year 852)
Aoleyn fidgeted, as usual. The sixteen-year-old could not sit still on the best of days, and today was worse than normal. Though four decades removed from that age, Seonagh understood the girl’s impatience.
Great turmoil roiled within Aoleyn, both physical
and emotional. Her breasts were evident now, and that hadn’t sat well with the energetic young woman, who was more at home running about in rough play with the boys than in being ogled by them. And though she had begun to bleed more than a year earlier, only now had it become a predictable occurrence. Her days considered as a child in the tribe neared their end now. Soon enough, the Usgar-righinn would formally declare her a woman.
It was clear to Seonagh that Aoleyn wanted to savor her remaining time as a child, and this day was proving especially trying. For spring had come to Fireach Speuer, and the wind had shifted, bringing the warm from the desert far below. Truly the weather had blossomed gloriously this particular day, with the sun shining brightly, the breeze full of springtime aromas as the eager scent of the mountain flowers washed across the camp. This was the kind of day where the chores proved especially difficult for all the children of Usgar.
Seonagh watched Aoleyn carefully at her work. She was the oldest girl-child in the tribe, and so the oldest of any still considered as a child. For the boys were declared as men after their fifteenth winter, even if some still sounded more like chattering songbirds than Usgar warriors when they spoke.
Now time was short, and so Aoleyn had much to accomplish. She had to learn all the chores of an Usgar woman, and master them. Only then could the Usgar-righinn decide if this one was worthy to be considered for the next opening in the limited ranks of the Coven. The old crone who had long taught Aoleyn had insisted that the daughter of Elara, like her mother, was quite powerful with the magic of the Usgar and would prove a worthy witch.
Aoleyn blew a frustrated sigh and uncrossed her legs to stretch them. “I cannot feel my foot!” she complained.
“Because you can never sit still,” Seonagh scolded.
“Why would I want to? I want to feel the wind. The streams are running fast.”
“Their water will freeze your blood,” said Seonagh.
“It is wonderful!” Aoleyn replied. “It makes you feel … everything. It makes your skin happy and alive!”
“It numbs your legs.”
“Not as much as sitting here cross-legged, weaving this stupid basket.”
Seonagh shook her head. “You will never be a proper woman.”
“I’m not even knowing what that means.”
“Aye, you do’no. And to think that you’ve the Coven’s eyes upon you!”
That got her attention. Aoleyn put down the basket and hopped up, shaking out her sleeping legs. As she had been all along, Aoleyn remained quite small by Usgar standards, barely above five feet. Nor was she lithe, like so many of the tribe’s willowy women. Even at her still-tender age, Aoleyn’s body was shapely, and muscular. From all that running and tree-climbing, Seonagh knew, and even Aoleyn’s penchant for wrestling with the boys—and beating them. A couple of the women had remarked favorably upon seeing the girl tackle a boy and pin him to submission, but only a couple.
She even preferred to still wear shirt and pants instead of the simple long dress more typical for the women.
“Always thinking to be what you’re not,” Seonagh whispered, and with obvious disdain and disappointment. For Aoleyn’s antics drew more frowns than nods among the women, and almost universal scorn among the men. She would be tamed, Seonagh had heard more than once, and by warriors who would happily do it.
Aoleyn shook her head, her thick hair flying all about, her black eyes sparkling with the promise of the spring wind.
“Back to your work,” Seonagh told her.
“Let me go and feel the wind,” she pleaded. “Then I will finish.”
Seonagh’s switch came down hard against Aoleyn’s hip, drawing a grimace.
“You could have just said no,” Aoleyn said, rubbing the sting, then shifting to the other side as Seonagh snapped off a backhand on Aoleyn’s other hip.
“You’re to stay until you’ve finished,” the older woman explained, her tone level and final. “And when you are done with your basket, then and only then will you begin your other tasks this day. And if you give me another word, I’ll add a second basket-weaving to your chores, and you will be working until late into the night.”
Aoleyn plopped down and crossed her legs, assuming proper form for her task. She lifted her unfinished product—it was beginning to look like a basket, at least—and scooped up a strip of birch, then dropped it back and took up some silver-pine bark instead, nodding as she brought it up before her eyes. Her hands moved rapidly, deftly, weaving the strands of bark together tightly. She nodded and smiled. As much as she hated these mundane tasks, she knew that in the end, she would make a fine and pretty basket. All of her baskets were good enough, if not superior, and had been since the very first one she’d woven.
Despite the whipping, Seonagh couldn’t help but smile (even as she shook her head) as she watched her niece at her work. Even in the tasks Aoleyn most hated, she performed with pride and skill. This precocious child—nay, young woman!—didn’t like failure, and seemed to take it as a personal insult. Seonagh surely understood, given her own tumultuous history, but she also surely remembered that such a headstrong attitude would land Aoleyn many beatings over the next few years.
The older woman thought of her sister, then, who had been very much like Aoleyn. Yes, Elara would be proud of her daughter, if also a bit concerned.
Seonagh rubbed her face and muffled a sigh. The girl could not sit still, even as she worked. She sat cross-legged, her basket in her lap, but her leg continually twitched, moving the basket up and down. How that motion didn’t ruin the basket, Seonagh didn’t know.
That constant expression of an abundance of energy bespoke power, Seonagh understood, but also threatened abject failure. Yes, Aoleyn’s basket would, as always, be an acceptable one, even a good one, but the quality of the basket wasn’t the point of this exercise. An uamhas could be trained to make a basket. This task was more a way for a proper Usgar woman to learn to temper her energy. The crystal magic required power and strength, yes, but also a level of pure meditation, an ability to sit still and fall into the power of the crystal, to give oneself over to the magical song and let it flow through one’s body. Simply put, a woman worthy of the Coven needed to learn to sit still, and Seonagh feared that Aoleyn was fully incapable of that, even more so than Elara had been.
The switch came down hard, across Aoleyn’s knuckles. She stopped weaving—and stopped fidgeting—and turned to glower at the older woman.
“Sit still,” Seonagh commanded her.
“I was sitting still,” Aoleyn countered.
Seonagh said nothing, just sighed helplessly, and Aoleyn went back to weaving. She kept her legs silent for barely a count of ten before the twitching began again.
This time Seonagh did not wait. As soon as Aoleyn’s leg twitched, the switch came down again, with a sharp thwack, harder than before, this time striking at the bare skin showing just above Aoleyn’s knee. Aoleyn let out a slight whimper of pain and looked up with surprise, for that strike had raised a welt.
Aoleyn shoved her half-finished basket off her lap and leaped to her feet, spinning to face her teacher and tormentor. Her black eyes flashed with rage, her little hands balled into fists at her side. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a snarl came out.
Seonagh returned an unimpressed stare as she readied the switch again.
“Sit down,” Seonagh ordered.
Aoleyn took a half step toward her.
Seonagh brought the switch down again, stinging Aoleyn’s shoulder. Aoleyn did not acknowledge the blow, even as another welt rose where she’d been struck. But she did stop her advance and stood there, glowering.
“A woman does not rise threateningly,” Seonagh said calmly.
Aoleyn continued to glare.
“Be thankful that I am no man,” said Seonagh. “For if I were and you behaved such, your pain would be coming from more than just the bite of a switch.”
Aoleyn did not appear impressed or particularly afraid, but her han
ds remained at her side, clenched in fists though they were. After a long moment, she collected her basket, sat down, and resumed her work.
“More basket-weaving,” she muttered under her breath, but loudly enough for Seonagh to hear—intentionally, Seonagh was sure. “When it’s not basket-weaving, it’s cooking. It is cleaning. So much foolish cleaning as if the dirt would burn like acid.” Her voice rose with each word. At last she turned back to Seonagh. “When will I be free of this boredom? When will you teach me the secrets of the Coven? Of the crystal magic? When will these foolish chores be done?”
Seonagh was upon her in an instant. The switch came down again, hard. Startled, clearly not expecting such a harsh reaction, Aoleyn tried to pull away from the older woman, but Seonagh grabbed her by her thick black hair and yanked her to her feet.
“When will they be done?” the older woman echoed, the frustration in her voice only partly due to Aoleyn.
“They’re never done,” Seonagh shouted in Aoleyn’s face. “You will always find boredom as your companion, as your place until the day you die. You’ll do these tasks for me, then, if you are fortunate, for the Coven. And soon enough, for your husband. You’ll do for him as he demands, and without your endless whining. Learn that lesson well.” She tugged hard on Aoleyn’s hair, pulling her head to the side, ripping out a clump as she did. She dropped the switch and slapped the stunned girl hard across the face.
Seonagh understood that she was striking as much from her own frustration as with any anger toward Aoleyn. She also understood that this one had to be broken, fully, if Aoleyn was ever to have a chance to find escape from her place as a woman in the tribe within the beauty of the Coven.
Aoleyn yelped in pain, and Seonagh released her and shoved her away. Aoleyn tripped and fell to the floor, but only for an instant, springing right back to her feet. Her fists once again clenched, but this time she did not hold them at her side.