Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar (39 page)

Nara did not look up, but she smiled as well. Then Latya entered the room, her arms full of laundry. I looked away from my underwife, but not before Latya saw my lingering gaze. Latya’s frown made that clear enough.

I see you don’t understand. You know only that a holder is free to do as he will. And he is; the God made that clear long ago. But the God lives in His Heaven, with only His one Goddess. I have four wives, and Latya is first among them. She oversees the work of hearth and hall, waking before dawn to do much of that work herself. I value my firstwife, and I would not have her think otherwise.

So I decided I would be more careful. But my gaze drifted to Nara again before I left the room.

And again, it was Latya, not Nara, who saw.

 

One stormy afternoon, Latya changed all the tasks she set before me.

She did it abruptly, without warning or reason. At once my work was entirely indoors: scrubbing rooms, tending the fire (but not gathering the wood), mending clothing (but not mending tack). I saw Latya’s displeasure clearly enough, though I did not know what I had done to earn it and she did not explain.

I did not complain of this. Instead, I turned to my new work and to a song, determined to regain the firstwife’s favor. I sang of how the Goddess urged the sun to rise, in the God’s realm, of how she coaxed golden wheat from the hard soil, to ease her loneliness far from home.

For the first time, Latya frowned at my song. “Dear Nara,” she said, “I know you’ve been lonely, away from your home, and so I’ve not spoken of your singing until now. But in truth, it is not proper, and it disrupts the work. I must ask you to stop.”

I opened my mouth to protest; closed it again. I was a new wife, a young wife. I’d vowed before the Goddess to obey my elder wives, as surely as I’d vowed to obey my husband.

You look troubled by that. Is it true that in the north, a woman has only her one husband to obey, and no other wives?

In truth, I was troubled, too. I had not understood that obeying my other wives—obeying other women—might be harder than obeying my husband.

I told myself there was time enough for things to change. Latya’s displeasure—whatever its cause—would wane, and I would be assigned other duties, performed in places where I could sing unheard, and trouble no one. I told myself I could wait. I reminded myself that the Goddess never gives us tasks we cannot handle.

Yet as the weeks went on, I felt as if my unsung words were choking me. My only comfort came the nights Garen visited my room, but that was a fleeting thing, gone once we parted, leaving me alone in a room that felt smaller every day.

 

Nara stopped working outside. She stopped singing inside. I didn’t know why; I knew only that the days felt longer, without her voice. And the nights I went to her room, she seemed far away from me, even when I drew her close.

I asked if anything troubled her, more than once, but she just shook her head. Yet I knew something was wrong, knew it in a way that went deeper than reason.

Fall gave way to an early winter, though not before we got the harvest in. Silence and cold settled over my Steading. I had good offers on the geldings I brought to saddle, not only from Holderkin, but also from the villages to our north, who are learning that Holderkin horses bear work and bad weather with less complaint than their own.

I offered you one of those horses, but you wanted this story instead. A holder would have taken the horse and been long gone.

But what you need to know is, my Steading was prospering. Yet my fourth wife was not content, and I did not know why. I knew only that because of this, I was not content either.

It was with these thoughts that I set out with my oldest son, Ari, to fix fences on Midwinter Day. Understand that. I was worried about my wife.

Not about myself.

 

No one knows when the world will change—when an offer of marriage will come, or a woman grow heavy with child, or an early frost damage the crops and turn an easy year into a hard one.

I was uneasy all Midwinter Day. Once, I stopped at a jabbing pain in my leg, and nearly dropped the mugs I was carrying to the table. Latya asked if I was well, and I assured her I was, but my uneasiness grew even as the pain faded. I knew something was wrong.

So I was the only one not surprised, when the pounding came at the doors. I think I even shouted Garen’s name—before those doors were opened. I don’t remember clearly.

What I do remember is that Ari and a stranger in white carried Garen inside. Garen’s clothes were splattered red; a raider’s arrow jutted from his thigh.

Later I would realize that you were a Herald, and a woman, and that though you came upon the raiders by chance, you fought alongside my husband and his son. You broke three ribs doing it; you were injured, too, and would need time here to heal. Later, it would surprise me that a Herald would fight for Holderkin.

But just then, I knew only that I ran with the others to Garen’s rooms. I kept thinking about the brothers I’d lost to raiders, and of how losing Garen would be so much worse. It would be like—like losing wind and sky.

I know that sounds foolish. I am sorry. I have no better words for such things.

Isa removed the arrow—her mother is a midwife, and taught her some doctoring—whispering thanks to the Goddess that the point was not barbed. She cleaned the wound and bandaged it. Blood soaked through the white linen, far too fast.

I don’t like to remember this. The coppery smell of the room, my husband’s pained breathing, the unsteady beat of his pulse. I knew I could not lose him.

I knew I could not leave him. Latya argued with me; then she set me to watching over him instead. “But you are to call me the moment you see any change,” she said, and I saw her own care and worry clearly enough.

You seem surprised. I don’t see why. Do you think Holderkin women don’t care for their husbands? If what you tell me is true, perhaps what Latya felt was not what I felt. But she would have mourned Garen’s death, just the same.

For a time I sat by Garen’s side. His eyes were closed, and I called his name, as if that would open them. Then I fell silent, chiding myself for thinking he might wake, just because I bid him to. What man had ever done anything because of a woman’s voice? Instead, I took his hand in mine. I wondered how I would survive the long years ahead, alone.

I thought that: alone. In a thriving Steading, among many men and wives, I would be alone, without this one man. The walls of his bedchamber seemed very near. I thought perhaps I would go mad, indoors, alone all my days. I remembered Jania’s ride, and for the first time, I understood its end. I understood the despair that led Jania to take her own life, and I knew that her fate could be my own. In that moment, there was only one thing I could do.

I sang.

Did you expect otherwise? I had not forgotten Latya’s command. But disobedience could be punished and forgiven—later, when I stood safe beneath the light of day. Even if Garen were meant to die, I could not believe the Goddess wanted my life, too.

I sang Jania’s song, softly at first. I lost myself in wind and rain, in the pounding of hooves. I forgot the ceiling and walls around me.

I did not forget Garen, though. When it came time for Jania to take her life, my voice faltered. I heard again my husband’s ragged breath. I felt his clammy hand in mine. I couldn’t sing of death, not with death so near.

But then Garen squeezed my hand, though he shouldn’t have had the strength for it. “Sing,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and fierce.

So I sang. Not of Jania’s death, but of a second escape: of how she knew she could not remain with her family, dishonored; so instead she retreated to the barren ridges and narrow valleys she loved well, and rode there all her days. A foolish ending, I know; it would not happen that way. But I have sung no other ending since.

My voice rose; I barely noticed. Garen’s grip remained tight—remained strong. I sang the song through again, and again, my voice gaining strength with each repetition.

I did not hear the door open. I knew only that when at last my voice fell silent, you and Latya both stood in the doorway, watching me. I looked down, face hot, avoiding your stares, leaning over my husband instead.

His pulse was strong, his breathing even. He still held my hand.

“You—” Latya began.

“I am sorry,” I said swiftly. “I was tired, and the watch was long—”

“You saved him,” Latya said.

Again you are surprised. Yet Latya is not foolish. She understands what needs understanding. She knows, now, that my song was needful, and she will not forbid me song again. Holderkin women are practical. More practical, perhaps, than those who let white horses decide their fate.

That was disrespectful. I am sorry.

At any rate, you know as well as I what you said next. Your words were strange to me, are strange still.

“I did not realize,” you said, “that there were lifebonds among Holderkin.”

You said you wished to know our story.

I do not know how to tell a story.

 

Her song saved me. There is no other way to tell it.

I was ready to leave this world. No more, for me, the dizzying pain of broken flesh and lost blood. I wanted the God’s peace. I knew I could face His judgment without shame. The raiders were dead, after all, by my hand and Ari’s and yours. I knew we owed you a debt, and that was an uncomfortable thought—but it was also a matter for others. I was done here.

Until I heard Nara’s song, reminding me what it was to live, to ride beneath the sky. I knew, then, that whatever else was finished, there was something between Nara and me that was not yet done, something new and incomplete, something I was not free to leave. You call it a lifebond—call it what you will. What matters is that, though I am a man, I was not—am not—free.

I held to her song. I held to her. As if she were my only wife, the only woman in all the world.

So I lived. Through that night, and through the nights after, to this day when you say you have healed enough to be on your way. I asked how we could repay you, for I know Ari and I could not have killed those raiders alone. You told me what payment you would accept.

Now that payment is delivered, and I need not say more. I walk slowly with this cane, but I can walk, and since I can walk, I can work. I have three geldings ready to sell, and two mares in foal, and the fences still need fixing. There is much to do, and if Nara’s song makes the work go better, that is for the good. It is as the God intended.

A man has many wives—many people—in his care. Nara and I are bound, but not only to each other. The God places many obligations upon us. We are not Heralds. We seek more than simply to be free.

You are not Holderkin. You do not understand.

Nothing has changed.

Everything has changed.

 

I am bound to Garen, yes. But I also serve the Goddess, and my elder wives. I have not been put in this place by chance; it is the Goddess’ will. It is for a reason, even if I cannot always see that reason for myself.

You say this troubles you. Yet I think maybe Heralds know how to serve, too. I think you know about having your fate decided by powers beyond your understanding.

And I think perhaps the story you asked for ends here.

I can tell you this, though: last night, it was my turn to look after Garen. His wound still troubles him, and will for some time. I gave him medicine to numb that pain, and because it was late, and the day’s work was done, he accepted it. As he grew sleepy he asked me, “Would you ride from this place, if you could?”

His words startled me. I thought he spoke of Heralds. “This is my home,” I said, because it is true, and because it says all else I would have said.

“You wouldn’t ride as Jania rode, then?” Garen’s tone was light, but his gaze was not. If not for the medicine, he wouldn’t have spoken thus.

“Jania rode these ridges,” I said, “and these valleys. She did not ride in some stranger’s land.”

Abruptly, Garen grabbed my hand. “Nara,” he said, “You must not be silent again. I must always hear your voice.”

“Always?” I laughed, trying to make it a joke. “If the God and Goddess grant us years enough together, you might regret that.”

“Always,” he said, and he did not laugh.

Garen will not tell you this. Perhaps I should not tell you either.

But his serious voice made me feel strange, shy as the day we met. “I will not be silent,” I promised. And then, shyer still, I said, “I wish something, too.”

“What do you wish?” Garen asked, even though he need not do anything on account of my wishes.

“I wish to hear your voice. I wish—to hear you sing.” He never had, you see, in all the months I’d been here.

“My voice is no gift from the God,” Garen said.

“I wish to hear it, just the same.”

So he sang the hymn from our wedding day. His voice was rough, and off-key, and perfect. I added my high voice to his low one, and as we sang together, I knew there was in truth a bond between us, and that it was not like other bonds.

You say the gods have put this thing between Garen and me. I do not know your gods. I know only one Goddess, who is lost and seeks a way home; and one God, who has offered her shelter and longs to keep her forever by his side. Yet nothing is forever; one day the Goddess will return home. One day Garen and I will be parted, for a time at least. If Garen leaves first, my only comforts will be my songs and my land, and even they will not be enough. Yet that parting will not be this day, and that matters more than any story can say.