Moon Called (8 page)

This female of the mountain valley could not be many years older than herself. But Thora saw her bleakly as one who wore a mask beneath which lay no liking for the Chosen. She was—soft—

Thora chose that word scornfully. The slender body was curved voluptuously here and there, her hands small, white, the feet in the ornamented sandals had never trod any trail. Her robe seemed to consist mainly of a number of nearly transparent strips or scarfs, rainbow colored and caught on her white shoulders with brooches which gave forth the glint of gems. Beneath her thrusting breasts the flowing garment was drawn in by a tight mesh belt in which more gems were set. The robe strips floated out freely as she moved,
splitting now and then to show her ivory skin provocatively.

Her face was round, with a dimpled chin under a mouth pursed into a tight bud of deep pink, her nose slightly turned up at the tip. While her eyes were as brilliantly green as those of the men, her hair was not trimmed into the skull-tight cap, but hung long and loose. It was not entirely black either. Some strands were dark blue, others silver white— artificially colored, Thora guessed. There was a jeweled band across the top of the woman's head confining the locks to the back, and from that a second band protruded forward, dangling a small cluster of metal bells just above the forehead, bells which matched others edging the belt she wore. It was the strangest clothing Thora had ever seen, and one she found vaguely disturbing, for it emphasized so plainly the body of she who wore it.

More bells braceleted the wrists of the woman, and these rang as she held out both hands to Martan, he advancing eagerly to take what Thora decided were disgracefully soft and ineffectual fingers into his.

“My lady!” he bowed over those hands.

Thora stiffened more. To give that sacred title to this house dweller was a profanation. She felt blood rise warm in her cheeks as she longed to burst out with words which she had prudence enough to realize that she must not
say. Other places—other customs.

“My lady,” he repeated almost caressingly—as if the female in her veils and jewels was as important as a Chosen! “Good fortune to this house, and to its mistress. You are gracious to welcome us yourself.”

The woman's lips arched in a smile Thora read as superior. There was even a faint lisp in the voice answering Martan:

“Always are you welcome, Windrider. Even as our brother is—” She half withdrew her hands from his hold and inclined her head towards Makil. Now she turned about again, setting all her bells tinkling, to face Thora. Though she still smiled there was little warmth in that stretch of the lips.

“You bring a guest, Martan—”

He started, flushed as might a child called to order. That, too, Thora found distasteful. There were currents of feeling here which she sensed but did not understand. The open manners of her own people were familiar—here she had no straight trail to follow.

“Lady,” he was looking at Thora and she believed he might be comparing all the ways in which she was unlike the valley female whom he so plainly admired, “This is Thora, the Chosen. She is from the east, of another people, but one who saved our sister-blood—thus having claim on us.”

“Thora,” the woman inclined her head a bare fraction. The green eyes measured,
probed. Thora blanked her face to meet this subtle assault. “And what may ‘Chosen’ mean, Thora?”

The girl leaned back in her chair, allowing herself a small smile in return, a stretch of lips as meaningless as that of the other.

“I serve the Three-In-One, born with the Lady's sign,” she returned. Now she looked to Martan. “What name does this—this house-ruler bear?”

Two could play the game of making Martan remember that manners were manners. She was glad to see him redden once more.

“This is the Lady Sara,” he said shortly, and she detected a flash of anger in his voice.

Thora raised a brown, briar scratched hand. At least her stubby nails were clean. She sketched the sign that the Chosen might use to a trader's woman, a subtle insult which this other might not recognize.

“May
Her
bounty serve this roof, house-ruler,” she intoned as if she were one truly initiate. Nor did she believe that the Lady Herself would have found such pride ill in her. For the Mother was jealous for her servants—and surely this one could not draw down any power.

Sara had continued to smile, now she also added a graceful inclination of her head.

“Your fair wishing is kind, Chosen. I see you must have been many days roaming.” That edged glance swept swiftly across Thora.
“Therefore let me take you into the inner chamber for refreshment.”

Thora arose, caught up her backpack. “Well offered, houseruler,” she returned brusquely. Kort moved over to her and the woman stared at him.

“There is a place outside for animals—” she began.

Thora interrupted. “We two are trail comrades, houseruler. Kort sleeps guardian for me, and I am ready to raise weapon,” she touched her slinged spear, “for him. Perhaps it is not so among your people. But in this matter I must abide by the custom of mine.”

That was a challenge and Sara recognized it, Thora was sure. The valley woman did not rise to it, but still smiled as she said:

“Let the hound accompany you then, Chosen. There are all too few good friends in this world for us to forget any. Come now, there will be rest and refreshment for the both of you.”

Thora was reluctant. She knew too little of these people, and while it was true that the traveler must fit himself as well as he might (without betraying his true beliefs) to the customs of others there was something here which made her distrust being drawn into close contact with the valley woman.

Yet there was no other way. She raised her hand in trail salute to Martan who watched her with an odd shadow on his face, nodded to
Makil, who still held Malkin, and followed the soft woman behind the curtain.

They crossed a second room, where there was a table on which a servant was setting forth food, and passed behind a carved screen, Thora going ever more reluctantly.

On the other side of the screen the girl found herself in another world—one which bore no resemblance to any quarters she had known. Traders had sometimes brought scraps of fine, soft weaving from the south—but such were not in full favor with the Craig people. They preferred their own wool and linens, their supple and well-cured leathers. Thora had worked in the fashioning of all three into garments, hangings, bedcovers. Here however were drifts along the walls of the same sheer stuff which failed completely to cover the body of her hostess.

Also the girl's nose was assaulted by many scents. The whole room seemed to be the same pearl pink as the inside of a shell from the distant sea—and that pink steeped in perfume.

There was no closet bed such as was common in the Craigs—possessing sliding doors to shut out the room if one would be private. Instead a mound of cushions, some the same pink of the walls, some a deeper rose, one or two, in contrast, bright blue-green, were piled on a long ledge along the far wall. Flanking that ledge were several small, stub-legged tables, so that those who used them must
squat on the cushions. Some of these bore vases with a spray or two of flowering branch, on others were boxes of metal or clay painted in bright colors. A mirror of polished metal set on a rod so it could be held in the hand lay on the nearest of those tables, beside it a dish from which curled a thin trail of scented smoke.

On the floor were deep-furred animal skins—but not left in their natural colors. Instead they were dyed deep rose or bleached white, while everywhere were piles of mats. On two such sat other occupants of this room who turned startled faces to the newcomers. They were very young girls, hardly past childhood. Their plump bodies were clothed in simple white sheaths belted by cords, and they had none of the belled jewelry which Sara wore. Both of them rose quickly, their mouths O's of astonishment as they stared at Thora and Kort.

8

“This is Elsana, Dorotra—” Sara nodded in the direction of the girls. “Now, Chosen—”

But Thora's eyes had lighted on something which, for the first time, gave her a small feeling of security. The far wall was hung with a single long strip of cloth, and on that was stitched, by the finest of needlework, the orb of the Mother surmounted by the Crescent of the Maid. Thora's hand at once sketched the proper salute of reverence. Then she looked at Sara with a slightly different feeling. Though this woman might wear such clothing as seemed hardly decent to Thora, and though she dared to take to herself that title which was
Hers
alone among the believers, still Sara paid this much homage to the true faith. Now
Thora herself spoke the word which was that of greeting from one Moon server to another.

Sara's large eyes narrowed and her smile was gone. When she spoke her voice was cold, no longer so soft.

“That is no longer our way, Chosen. Long ago we made another choice.”

Thora stiffened once more. “You may not recognize the greeting of the Mother, you may have no Three-In-One—yet there—” she pointed to the wall, “is
Her
own sign!”

Sara glanced from Thora to the two girls.

“That Sign is an old one, we still pay it honor.

But we have our own way. You speak of yourself as ‘Chosen'—that once meant one of the Grove—”

“Grove?” Thora repeated. “I am one with those who draw the Moon—though I was not yet brought to
Her
as one of the Three. Our Maid, Matron, Elder, still held full power and it was not time for them to relinquish it. But I bear the Sign on my flesh and have since birth. Thus I was of Her House and of no homestead.”

Sara looked puzzled. “It seems indeed that we speak of different things. But this is no time for such talk. You are our guest and you are weary, hungry. You shall be cared for—”

She must have made a gesture of which Thora had not been aware, for now the two girls closed in on either side. Her backpack was swept out of her hold, her weapon's sling
with it. Before she had time to protest she was urged through another doorway into a bathing place where there was a basin in which waters washed sunken in the floor. One of the girls kilted up her short skirt, stepped quickly down to plug up both entrance and exit of a stream, while the other dived into a woven basket chest to bring out towels which she dropped nearby and then scurried off—to return with a pot of perfumed soft soap.

Thora shed her trail-worn clothes unhappily—wishing that she was to enter instead some woods pond. Free of her leathers and the linen body drawers and shirt she wore beneath (and which now shamed her by their soil), she stepped down into the bath. To her surprise the water was warm, as if that flow which had filled the basin had come straight from heating pots. She seated herself and proceeded to wash with vigor. Her hair she lathered, rinsed, and lathered again. Against the skin of her body her hands and arms looked very dark, as must her face—sun browned and wind burned.

Sara was gone, and, when Thora arose, Elsana had also gathered together the girl's discarded clothing and disappeared before she could protest. She was left with Dorotra. The younger girl, as Thora accepted the towel she held out, stared at the silver chain with the dangling moon gem.

“What is that?” she asked with the frankness
of a child as Thora vigorously rubbed her hair. “Why do you wear it so?”

She could not take offense at such ignorance. It was plain that the child meant no harm, though among her own people any one hardly past the crawling stage would have known a priestess's girdle and been awed by the sight of it. Thora dropped the towel and cupped the gem in her hand as she would do to draw strength from it.

“It is the jewel of those drawing Moon power.”

“Drawing power? But why do
you
wear it? You are a woman.”

Thora caught her breath. Indeed these people must have strayed far from the true path if any could ask that question. Only among those lost to the truth was there ever any doubt of fact that the Lady worked only through the Three-In-One. The Hunter might come to the altar in his own time, but only a daughter could call the true power.

“Only a woman may call
Her,
do you not know that?” She must have spoken more sharply than she had intended, for the girl took a step or so backward, and looked frightened.

“You speak of things I do not understand, Lady—”

Thora's frustration forced her to answer that with nearly the same sharpness:

“There is only one
Lady
—none else may use
Her
title. There are the Three-In-One—the Maid, the Matron, the Elder. There are the Chosen, who will in proper time, take their places.” She let fall the gem she had hand warmed, and raised her right hand to point to the mark on her breast. “Those who serve
Her
directly are marked thus while still they lie within the womb. Then there are Singers of Power who raise voices sweetly, also by Her gift—all these are women—but there is only one
Lady!"

Elsana backed another step, shaking her head slowly from side to side. “Never have I heard of any of these, Lad—Chosen. Your people must be very different—”

Suddenly Thora saw a chance to learn more about the valley people. She tossed back her damp hair and wrapped the largest of the towels about her, sitting on a small stool Elsana had drawn forward. She smiled at the girl as warmly as she could.

“Yes, it would seem that we are different. Now I would learn how different. Tell me of your people, Elsana. If they do not call down power from the Lady through her Chosen— how can they live? For I am sure that they
do
follow the Path of Light.”

Elsana spoke slowly at first, but, as Thora continued to smile, asking a question now and then, the younger girl gained spirit and at last spoke freely. There was indeed a difference here. As Martan had said, women were few
and very highly prized, so much so that they were virtually prisoners within their homes and never went out of the valley at all. Though within the dwellings they were completely deferred to.

There were many men with no wives. A “uniting” was a temporary matter at the whim of the woman, and in her lifetime she might have a number of mates. In the ratio of births it was one female to five males and all of those did not reach womanhood. The ritual of worship lay in the hands of the Elders—three men. The women had no true bond with
Her,
but they held their house power jealously. There were, Thora sensed quickly, intrigues and struggles within inner chambers of which perhaps the men were never aware.

Men were allowed only a certain number of years in which they could hope to attract the interest of any “lady.” Then those considered past their prime for breeding strong children were given a “second name” and went to man the defense posts or become explorers who ventured into the outside world. The population within the valley was never very large and many of the males were away for long periods of time.

All learning and “remembering” was in the control of certain women—unless that dealt with war. Such a subject was treated with contempt and left to the men.

The more she heard the less Thora believed
that she could fit anywhere into the valley life. It would be better for her to go on her wandering way, out of such a closed world, back on the trail once again with Kort.

As if he had caught her thought, she now heard the dog she had left in the outer room bark and she arose—wondering where Dorotra had taken her clothes. That girl returned even as Thora gave a last rub to her hair, carrying in her arms a fluttering pile of colored drapery. Thora surveyed that before shaking her head firmly.

“My pack—” Winding a towel about her, she pushed into the other room to open the bundle, shaking out its contents. There was indeed a clean shirt and underdrawers, wrinkled, but smelling of the sweet bits of herb she had twisted into them. She pulled these on and then ordered Dorotra.

“Bring my clothes!”

“These—lady—” the maid held out the fripperies she carried.

Thora shook her head. “I wear only what is mine, girl. These are no proper robing for a Chosen.” She flipped a finger disdainfully and a long streamer went fluttering through the air.

Dorotra looked to Elsana, back at Thora, and then turned to go. As she vanished, Thora spoke once more to the younger girl:

“You have spoken of your “ladies,” but who are the furred ones—much as Malkin—and
what part do these play in your lives?”

“They are the blood-kin—” Elsana looked more and more uncomfortable. “There are some men who can make blood-bond with them—then they are closer than a brother or a sister. For they take into them the man’s blood, and he takes theirs—so they think with one mind and are never at fault with one another. When one dies the other deeply grieves—and sometimes the one left follows to death. I have seen it so.

“When a boy becomes a full man, he goes to the Forest and calls. If there is one among the Kin who is drawn to him in spirit that one comes. They drink each other’s blood from that day forth, for, once bonded, the forest people depend upon blood for their life. Then those two are as one—tied together.”

“But they do not ever come to a woman?”

Elsana looked shocked. “No! It is not fit—They choose only men, for us they do not care,” her voice dropped to hardly above a whisper. “There was Hilba who would have a blood-sister and she went forth secretly. But our people found her wandering days later, and she was sick a long time. Thereafter she would never say what had happened. It may be the blood is a poison when it is drunk by a woman—”

Thora remembered Malkin’s blood which had burned in her mouth, but had made her free of whatever barrier had closed the wood
path. Certainly the burning might have made one believe it poisonous. But she had no ill effect.

“How—” she was beginning when Dorotra returned. Behind her was Sara. The woman was plainly not in the best of tempers.

“Is it right, Chosen, that you asked for these?” she indicated the leather breeches, jerkin, and boots which the maid carried. “Surely Dorotra must have been mistaken—”

Thora stood up. “Not so, householder. I asked for my proper clothing. I am not used to such splendors as you wear.” She was willing in so much to placate the other. “Among my people I am a ranger of woodlands, for so is
She
when
She
chooses, knowing the bear, the wolf, the stag—calling upon them when
She
would go to battle. I have spent my time of training in the wilds and, since my people are now gone, I would remain still as I am, not losing my heritage.”

“I do not understand you. But guests are not to be denied their desires. If it will suit you to do so—” Sara flung up her hands in irritated dismissal. “When you are dressed we have food—” She turned abruptly and went, leaving behind a firm impression that Thora was an awkward burden which must be borne.

For a moment the girl was abashed. Had she indeed offended against courtesy? But no, she could not yield to these valley ways. There was a stubborn core within her which made her
feel that even to submit a fraction would lessen what the Lady intended her to be.

Dorotra had flounced off after Sara, the rejected robe bundled up under one arm. But Elsana remained, watching Thora draw on leggings and boots, latch jerkin over shirt, make sure the belt was securely buckled, that her knife rode easy on her hip.

“I do not understand—” said the valley girl in a half whisper—”is it with you that women are as the Windriders, the swordhanded? What are you, man or woman? For you have the body of one and you act as the other. It is not proper—”

She backed away as Kort arose to rub his head against Thora.

“There are many ‘rights’,” Thora replied. “Some exist for your people, some for mine. The rights do not matter, it is important that we face the same wrongs. Your guards have told me that you war with Set. Him also do all who serve the Lady call enemy. Therefore, after a fashion, we can be battle comrades—if not kin-friends.”

Never in her far wanderings had Thora felt as alone as she did now, even though she was surrounded by those who wore the semblance of her own kind. She ate quickly and in silence of what Elsana put out on one of the small tables. Nor did she attempt any more conversation with the girl who had dropped down on a cushion some distance continuing to watch
her closely. In her own mind Thora was trying to sort out her impressions, make some plan for the future.

That she would remain here in this peaceful yet alien valley—No! There was too much wary restlessness in her. Better to be away—on her own—seeking to answer that nebulous compulsion which had plucked at the edge of her consciousness for days. That she was part of some pattern she no longer doubted, but the manner of the weaving—no, it was not to be found here.

Sara did not return. When Thora had finished the food—well cooked, more tempting then she had eaten in months—she looked to Elsana.

“Who is your chief speaker? If you do not own the rule of Three-In-One, then whose orders carry weight?”

“There are the Silent Ones—” Elsana seemed confused. “But they do not rule within the household. They give orders for the Windriders—the outgoers—”

“They are men,” Thora finished for her sharply. “Very well, I would speak with those who give orders. This is not my place—I do not abide with you—therefore I would go to seek my own way.”

Fatigue weighed upon her. Inwardly she wanted nothing more than to curl up among these cushions and seek sleep. Still she distrusted this scented room which was so disturbing.
Let her go with Kort—camp out in the meadow lands as she had done for so long.

Arising, she reached for the pack which she had laid to hand, and made sure her weapon sling was adjusted. Elsana, hand to mouth, watched her with troubled eyes.

“But—you must rest—this—” she waved at the room about them, “is for your guesting—”

Thora shook her head resolutely. She motioned to Kort.

“I am not of your people, your ways are not mine. I do not think that your mistress and I can deal well together.”