Daughter of Lir (26 page)

“Oh, no,” she said. “I’m not my sister wife. I’ll not fall
to that temptation.”

“She falls to every temptation,” he said. “For power; for
desire. For whatever strikes her fancy.”

“If she were that feeble,” Aera said sharply, “she would
never have come as far as she has. She is dangerous, child. Believe it. Guard
against it.”

“I do believe it,” he said, though never strongly enough to
set her heart at rest. “Great ambition, stunted spirit—I see her clearly enough,
lady, though you reckon me an innocent.”

“Then you see that you should go,” she said. “Go tonight.
Take your caravan and whatever you can carry that will not slow you, and escape
while you can.”

“It’s too late for that,” he said gently. “We’re already
under guard.”

“Tonight,” she said, “the guards can be called off. That
much power I do have.”

“How long will you keep it, once she learns what you did?
No, lady,” he said. “We will go, but not tonight, and not in any way that
compromises you.”

“You do not understand,” she said. She clenched her fists to
keep from hitting him. “If you don’t leave, she’ll keep you here. She’ll enslave
you. She will never let you go.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she said, “what she wants, she keeps. She wants
you.”

“She wants what she thinks I am: king’s son of a far
country. She doesn’t understand that a woman can rule the world without the
shield of a man.”

“If she does understand it, then the world is even less safe
than before.”

“Maybe,” he said, “but there are women who have ruled since
the dawn time, Mothers and priestesses of cities old beyond your farthest
beginnings. Goddesses, you would call them. She’s nothing to them.”

“Does she need to be?” Aera demanded. “She has the People.
She has this.” Her hand swept over the makers’ circle, the chariots that even
half-formed had a deadly beauty.

She saw how he shivered. So: he was not blind in his
boldness. “If she goes too far,” he said slowly, “if she loses the king—what
then? What will she do?”

“That is nothing that should matter to you,” Aera said. “You
will be long gone. Pray your gods then that you never see any of us again.”

“I don’t pray for what the gods won’t grant.” He was as
somber as she had yet seen him; indeed he was grim.

“We may not come to your country in your lifetime,” she
said.

“You will.” He spoke with perfect certainty.

“Have you come to spy on us, then?”

He slid a glance at her. She saw no fear in it. “We were
curious. And we had treasures to trade.”

“All the more reason to fear Etena,” Aera said.

“She has a great love of things that glitter,” he said. “I
thank you for the warning. The Goddess will bless you for it.”

“My gods may not,” Aera said a little wearily, “but that’s
no matter. Look to yourself, and guard your caravan as you may. Trust nothing
and no one. No, not even me! For this little time I may tell you the truth, but
in the end I belong to the People. Remember that.”

“I will not forget it,” said Emry.

“We should do as she says,” Bran said.

He waited till they were away from the chariotmakers to say
it, till they had gone back to the traders’ camp and sat to the day’s meal.
Hoel the caravan-master sat with them, and one or two of Emry’s warriors from
Lir. They had all heard the story, how two of the king’s wives had singled out
Emry that day.

“We should go,” Bran said, cutting through the laughter and
lighthearted mockery: the women, it was well known, always cast their eyes on
Emry. But Bran was not a man who laughed at trifles. “There is real danger
here. No one wishes us well. Even she who warned us—what did she want of us?
She’ll send her son and his warband, I’ll wager, and order them to seize us.”

“Not that one,” Emry said. He did not know how he knew, but
he knew it in his bones. “She meant exactly what she said. The other one—yes,
she’s as treacherous as a river in flood.” He narrowed his eyes, searching
Bran’s face. It was never easy to read, and no more now than ever. “Are you
ready to go? Have you seen all you need to see?”

“Yes,” Bran said.

“We can make chariots?”

“No,” said Bran.

Emry sat back on his heels. “Then you’re not ready at all.”

“I am,” said Bran. “I’ve seen enough to know that if there
were a dozen of me, and we apprenticed to the chief of the makers for a year,
we would have just begun to understand the art and its secrets. What he does to
make the wheels, how he cures and shapes the wood and wicker, the length and
balance of the pole, the harness, how it’s made, and as much as anything, how
the horses are trained—we were fools to think we could steal all of that. Even
if we steal a chariot and team, we’ll only have the one. To make others, enough
of them to fight against these warriors trained to the art and skill from
childhood—they’ll be upon us before we’re well begun. We can't do it. It can’t
be done.”

It was the longest speech Emry had ever heard from that man
of few words. It struck them all dumb, and struck the laughter out of them,
too.

A new voice spoke in the silence. It was light, easy,
unafraid. “All very true, and as wise as a man can be. But you’re not thinking
as you should think. We can do it. It can be done—if we steal not only a
chariot, not only the horses, but a maker and a charioteer. We can’t invent it,
but we can learn. We can be taught.”

“And how,” Bran demanded, “do you propose to do that?”

Only a man who had known Rhian from childhood would speak
so, with no awe of what she was. She did not bridle at it, either; it was
familiar, and maybe the more welcome for that. “Do you remember old Anni’s
potions? There was one, it was very simple. The herb grows in this country.
I’ll find it, brew it. I’ll give it to the one I have in mind. When he’s deep
asleep, we’ll take him. We’ll be far away before he wakes.”

“And how long will it be,” Emry asked mildly, “before the
whole tribe comes seeking its prince?”

“Long,” she said, “if it thinks him gone on a hunt.”

“You really would do it,” Emry said. He did not know whether
he was impressed or appalled.

Rhian squatted by him, accepted a bit of meat rolled in warm
bread, grinned and bit into it. Of course she would do it, her expression said.
She had meant it all along.

Women, thought Emry, were wonderful, terrible creatures. And
this one was his sister. She was very like their mother, but like their father,
too: keen-eyed, clear-headed, and quietly implacable in whatever she set
herself to do.

“I thought,” Emry said, “that you were besotted with him.”

“I am,” she said. “That doesn’t mean I can’t think. I had
thought we could steal the old man, the first of the makers, but he would never
leave his circle. The young one comes and goes. He’s even been known to go out
alone, sometimes for a day or two or three. By the time he’s missed, we’ll be
far away.”

“That could work,” Conn said from the other side of the
fire.

“Maybe,” said Hoel. “But it would need more speed than our
donkeys can muster. What will you do? Leave us behind for the tribe to devour?”

Rhian shook her head. “No. Of course not. You will go on
eastward, as if to trade in the sunrise countries. Most of the guards will go
with you. As few of us as possible will run westward with our quarry.”

“That won’t stop them from killing us when they fail to find
you with us,” Hoel said.

“It will if, once you’ve made it clear that you’re heading
east, you turn north or south and do everything in your power to conceal your
tracks. Surely you can vanish into the steppe. Or didn’t you think this would
happen when you insisted on coming with us? We never pretended that it would be
either easy or safe.”

“We can vanish,” Hoel said a little grudgingly. “We knew
there was danger when we began. But if you abduct the king’s heir, you’ll bring
down all the wrath of the tribe. Might it not be wiser to steal one of the
makers from the circle?”

“The makers, like their master, never leave. Only the prince
comes and goes.”

That was true enough to give Hoel pause. But Bran said, “If
we wait long enough for you to concoct your potion, it may be too late.”

“If we leave tonight,” Rhian said, “we’ve done all this for
nothing. We’ve learned too little to be of use.”

“Then how long?” Bran demanded. “How quickly can you do what
you need to do?”

“Three days,” she said, “or four. Hoel, can you be finished
with your trading a day or two before that? If we all seem to leave, and a day
or two later the prince goes hunting, it will be less suspicious.”

“Well enough,” Hoel said, “if we’re allowed to leave. From
what the prince’s mother said, we may not be.”

“There will be a way,” Rhian said.

The Goddess would find one, she meant. It was hardly Emry’s
place to argue with that. He set his lips together and held his peace. So did
the rest of them, good men of the Goddess’ country all. Rhian smiled at them,
well content with herself and her power.

o0o

Rhian had gone ahead of Minas, riding the white mare back
to the People. Minas lingered till the sun was nearly set. The horses ate their
fill of the grass by the river. They were glad enough to see the harness again,
and to be yoked to the chariot. As alluring as grass might be, the lure of the
herd was strong; and they were far from their kin and kind.

The sun was full in his eyes as he rode back. He drove by
feel, trusting the horses’ sure feet on the trackless steppe. All he could see,
all his eyes knew, was light.

He did not know precisely when he rode out of the world.
Grass still rolled away under the chariot’s wheels. But the sky was all light,
and there was a wolf trotting beside and somewhat behind him. It was a very
insouciant wolf, with a wicked yellow eye and an insolent loll of tongue.

The horses seemed unaware of him. They continued their
steady pace; even the young one was quiet. It seemed he had learned obedience.

“Good evening, cousin wolf,” Minas said after a while. It
might not be wise, but he was not in a wise mood, just then.

The wolf grinned its white fanged grin. “Good evening,
cousin fool,” he said. “Is that a mare’s scent you reek of?”

“Is that any concern of yours?”

The wolf yipped with laughter, rolling and tumbling in the
summer-ripened grass. “Is it? Is it? Cousin, do you know what mare that is?”

“I know she is a goddess,” Minas said.

“Then maybe you’re only half a fool,” said the wolf. “Guard
your back, cousin. Trust no one, not even yourself. Your road stretches far,
and darkness covers much of it. You will go down to the river of souls. If you
cross it, if you walk in the lands that are beyond it, you will never see this
country again.”

Minas’ back was cold, but then the sun had nearly set, and
he was naked. “All men cross that river,” he said. “All men die.”

“Not all men die apart from the People, sundered from them,
traitor to them.”

That truly was a shudder in his bones. Still he kept his
voice light, his face untroubled. “Certainly I shall not do that.”

“Will you?” The wolf snapped at a fly. “Ah well. Maybe your
sight is clearer than mine. What am I but a shaman, after all? And you are
king’s heir of the People.”

Minas refrained from bridling at that mockery. “I am
warned,” he said, “and you have my thanks for it.”

“Thank me if you live to a ripe and untroubled old age,” the
wolf said.

“I do intend to,” said Minas.

The wolf grinned and spun and leaped into the darkening air.
It swallowed him as if in mist. Or it was the mist that took Minas, lifting him
out of the spirits’ world, back again into the world of the living.

The sun dipped beneath the horizon. And there below him,
though he had reckoned himself still some distance away, he saw the campfires
of the People.

He had come home. And so he always would. He would never
betray them; never turn against them. He would die before he did such a thing.

It seemed the Goddess would indeed provide. The caravan
was still alive and still intact come morning, nor had any threat come upon
them in the night. When they laid out their wares to trade, there was already a
crowd waiting.

Emry began to wonder if they could give Rhian her three
days. The trinkets and small baubles were nearly gone. The richer things were
much depleted. They had already begun to trade things that had been traded for
their wares, in a circle of exchange that Emry the prince found rather amusing.
He had never given much thought to traders’ ways until he found himself
guarding this caravan.

Hoel did not seem concerned. This was a quite ordinary way
of doing things, his manner said. Emry decided not to fret over it. His task
was to guard the traders. That art he knew, and well.

Toward midday one of the king’s men approached Hoel. He
looked a great deal like the heir, who must be his brother: tall and narrow,
with hair that might have been ruddy had it not been whitened with lime. His
brows were copper, and his lashes, and the freckles on his cheeks.

He was not there to trade looted gold for outland treasure.
Emry sharpened his ears. “The king’s wife summons the woman from the west,” he
heard the boy say.

“For her I cannot answer,” Hoel said.

The tall boy bridled. But he must have been instructed: he
bit his lip and said, “May we know where we may find the woman?”

“She goes where she pleases,” Hoel said.

That was more than the boy could bear. Emry intervened
before the thunder in his face could erupt into lightning. “I’ll help you find
her,” he said. “Come, follow me.”

The boy looked perfectly startled, but by the time Emry had
set Mabon on guard in his place and set off toward the camp’s edge, the king’s
son had recovered. He followed a little stiffly, as if for some reason it
affronted him to be in Emry’s company.