Diadem from the Stars (6 page)

“Haia!” She was silent a minute. “You dreamed … did you sing that at the mulaqat?”

“The important parts. Leyta, I'm dream-singer for the Raqsidan, what could I do?”

“I understand.” She sighed. “That's not going to make my life any easier.”

“You're at a node point in your life, Aleytys; you've a decision coming up. There are too many in the valley like Qumri.” He shifted, his body rippling under her. The straw rustled slightly. “I think you'll have to leave the Raqsidan.”

She shivered. “Vajd, I'm afraid.”

“I know.”

“No!” She jerked away and sat up. “I won't! Aschla's bloody claws, what
can
they do to me? I've got my rights. Clan law …”

“Aleytys.” He shook his head, negating all she was trying to say. He reached out and touched her cheek. “Even as my consort you wouldn't be safe. You see, Leyta, you don't really count as one of the clan.”

“Huh?” She stared at him, astounded.

“Your mother wasn't clan. I can feel the hate and anger growing. And the fear. The fireball stirred it all up again like a storm wind stirs the sludge at the bottom of a stagnant pond. Soon, too soon, it's going to explode and burn you to ash if you're still here.” His deep voice dropped into his compelling persuasive mode and he continued to explain, but she wasn't listening any longer. Her mind kept going back to the word
consort.
Even the news of her outclan status paled as delight, joy, and triumph drove away anything else. She interrupted him. “You want me as consort.”

He laughed and hugged her. “Leyta, Leyta.…”

Excitement exploded in her. “Then … then that's the answer.” She leaned back tautly against his encircling arms. “If we were wed, no one could touch me.”

He shook his head. “You haven't been listening, Leyta.”

“But …” She tugged at his arm. “I wouldn't be outclan then. Would I?” She scanned his unresponsive face. “Would I, Vajd?”

“You would be safe then. Except for one thing, Leyta. And that one thing negates all the rest. Your mother, Leyta.”

“My mother.” She broke out of his arms and sat back on the straw, her hands falling loose in her lap. “I keep hearing about my mother. You. Qumri. And Ziraki was shaking to the bones afraid I'd ask him about her.”

“I'm breaking oath even to say her name.”

“You've already broken shura' law by loving me. What's an oath? Anyway, you already said you'd tell me.”

He laughed. “Trust a woman to see the practical.” Crossing his legs, resting his hands on his knees, he let his face go slack, his eyes blank as he sank into the Mutrib's memory trance. His voice was quiet, remote, as it recounted the history of the curse.

“It was in the year of the Azdar in the Yarazur month of high thaw in the red days when Horli occluded Hesh. In that hour of subsurud when Horli's disk had just cleared world-edge the sky spat forth a ball of fire. It whistled over the valley and skimmed the teeth of Dandan, where it split into two pieces. The larger disappeared behind the mountains and the smaller skimmed the ridges southward.

“We huddled in our houses muttering to each other in whispers, too frightened to speak aloud. The day passed. The night passed. On the third morning we ventured out, creeping through our work with necks permanently bent upward. Badr, my master, tried to dream, but the shapes were so twisted he couldn't read them. I tried. Nothing. But the Sha'ir of the herders came ranting about evil and doom. He read it in the smoke. He tried to stir the shura' to the Atash nau-tavallud. But we weren't quite that afraid.

“Day faded in today and our necks straightened; even the aches passed away as nothing happened. Then, in the month Gavran, the caravan came to the valley.

“That night Aab and Zeb rose early, kissing, and the clouds piled high around Dandan were whipped to rags by dry and roaring winds so the night rains were aborted before they were born. On the common the bonfire leaped red and gold into the silver-sprinkled sky, painting warm highlights on the tawdry fair booths and the posturing slave women and the drovers selling their flesh to the curious mardha.

“Azdar, heated by his ever-ready lust, strolled between the wagons and watched the slave women dance in the firelight. I wandered about by myself watching everyone but was too shy to join the revelry. Finally I came around the end of one of the wagons. It was set off to one side and I was curious about it.

“A woman dressed in black and white sat on the steps of that caravan. Her hair was long and straight, curling only at the ends, shining like avrishum fiber in the light of the small silver lantern that hung just above her head. I stared and stared, feeling utterly bewitched.

“She was a glowing woman with eyes like greenstone, glittering with fever. Her hair was redder than the crackling fire, red as Horli. Her bones were delicate as a bird's, but she was richly curved. And she was beautiful.… There is a beauty that catches you in the throat, stirring your whole being until each beat of your heart calls out in answer.

“She sat very, very still, looking at nothing, her hands, long fingered and slim, resting in her lap. I edged along in the shadow, but before I got courage to speak to her, Azdar came. He stared at her, the pale tip of his tongue moving around and around his lips.

“I crouched in the shadow of a second caravan—I think it was one of the fodder wagons—and watched them. I had leaped puberty seven months before and found my dreams. I had left my father's house, broken my ties with my brothers and sisters, and gone to sit at the feet of Badr. It was a lonely, difficult time for me and I was terribly vulnerable to her then. Azdar saw her hair and her body and wanted her. I saw something else, some strange wild thing in her that drew me with cords stronger than life.

“Azdar stopped in front of her. She looked him over coolly, then dropped her eyes. As the lantern struck fire from that glorious hair I saw her riding fire between the stars, riding fire down to the turning surface of Jaydugar. While I was still shaking under the impact of that vision, Azdar reached out and caught the woman's head with his big hand.

“‘What's your name?' His voice was a fierce growl, more like a beast than a man. Without waiting for an answer, he said, ‘Come with me. I pay well.'

“She hardly seemed to see him, even when he wound his fingers in her glorious hair and forced her head to tilt up to him. Her hands lay still in her lap and her eyes looked through him as if he weren't there. I shivered, suddenly cold from head to foot. Danger whirled around the three of us like smoke oppressed to earth by coming rain.

“He jerked on her hair to pull her to her feet. Her arms came up. I stared. A thin steel chain was wound around and around her wrists and locked with a heavy padlock. I knew that steel. What was she that she required chaining strong enough to bind a tars? But Azdar was sunk too deep in shavat to do more than grunt in surprise and frustration. He pulled her off the steps.

“She fell sprawling at his feet and her skirt came up past her knees. I saw that her legs were chained together too. Azdar growled in rage.

“A man came into the circle of light cast by the silver lantern, a short dark man with hard black eyes. He was muscled like a bull gav and had a soft fleshy mouth that was small, tight, and greedy. He smiled. If I'd been Azdar, I'd have killed him on the spot for that smile alone. Shavat-blind, Azdar ignored him and tugged futilely at the chains.

“‘The key is for sale, if you have the price.' The voice of the caravan man was oily and smug. Azdar wheeled around and surged to his feet in a single fluid movement. His hand on the knife stuck in his belt, he glared at the man.

“‘Her key is for sale.'

“Azdar straightened, relaxed. When he spoke, his voice was thick and hoarse. ‘How much?'

“‘Twenty horses and ten full bolts of avrishum.'

“I almost betrayed myself then, but swallowed the exclamation in my throat. The price was ludicrous, would have bought a score of women. It would have brought this caravan clan twice over.

“Azdar hesitated.

“The caravanman let two keys tied to a twist of risman dangle and clink suggestively. The woman sat up and smoothed her skirt. She folded her hands in her lap again and stared past the two men into the darkness. The silver lantern cast its light on her cheek and slid down over her shoulder onto the soft mounds of her upper breasts. Her skin was strangely fair, milk white. She sat without a word, without even a sound, without a movement other than the slow rise and fall of her breasts.

“‘Can she talk?' For a moment the trader-blood in Azdar cooled his lust. ‘A mute's no use to me.'

“The man stepped around him to stand in front of the woman. From his belt he pulled loose a sharag. He dangled the jagged strands in front of her face. ‘Speak, woman,' he said softly. ‘Tell this fine gentleman your name.'

“The indifference left her face and the fever glitter in her eyes turned to red-hot hate that sent shivers up and down my spine. He was a brave man—or a very unimaginative one—for he didn't flinch from that burning gaze. The change that animation made in her was startling. Suddenly, instead of a marble and copper goddess, she was a vital passionate creature. She was magnificent. Azdar's breath groaned out of his throat while the shavat brought sweat glistening on his face.

“The man of the caravan bent forward slightly, the evil oily smile coming back to his face. ‘Speak,' he whispered to the woman.

“‘Shareem Atennanthan di Vrithian.' She spit the words at him. Each husky syllable of her dark-toned voice caught at my ears and enchanted me. Azdar pushed past the man. He picked the woman up and slung her over his shoulder. Turning to face the man, he held out his hand for the keys. ‘Done,' he said hoarsely. ‘Collect the goods tomorrow. Word of Azdar.'

“The man flipped the keys casually into Azdar's palm. ‘Take my warning, noble gentleman. Don't unchain her hands. I might find it difficult to get her price from your heirs.'

“Azdar grunted and marched off into the darkness. The man sauntered away, whistling contentedly. I crept to my room and wept for her, watching the night away in my misery and pain, sick to my stomach from the black wings of foreboding that hovered around my soul.

“In the morning Azdar sent the cloth and the horses.

“That morning Shareem lay deep in fever, screaming in delirium, shaking with chills. The women were frightened to tend her but even more frightened of Azdar's hard hand. He kept Qumri away from her altogether. He had just sense enough left to know the bitch would have poisoned her. He'd bedded her, but he wasn't fool enough to trust her. Anyway, he was through with her. He couldn't see any woman but Shareem. Whispers ran through the house that she was a witch who put a spell on him to get herself free of the caravans. Though I said nothing of my vision, another whisper followed the first—born out of the Sha'ir's festering hatred—linking her with the fireball, calling her demon-born, a bane on the valley.

“She lay almost dying for three months. In the middle of high summer she opened knowing eyes for the first time and found that Azdar that first night had got her a child. She lay in that bed, little more than brittle red hair and milk-white skin stretched over bird-like bones, looking fragile as a desiccated leaf. Azdar visited her daily. He would drag a chair beside the bed and sit staring at her, hands planted on his knees. And he would ramble on and on at her and stroke her thin dry arms and fumble with her hair, while she stared at the wall and ignored him.

“She kept putting him off, refusing him, pleading her frailty. But the flesh came back on her bones, her skin softened, her hair regained its glow, so he didn't listen to her any longer. Once more he bedded her. He came again and again, night after night. She was a thirst that grew each time he drank. She bided her time, waiting for her full strength.

“I remember she used to stand for hours on the bridge staring down into the Raqsidan. If anyone tried to speak to her she turned blind unheeding eyes on him for a minute, then returned to her contemplation of the dancing water.

“The months passed and the child grew. Still Azdar wouldn't let her alone. He seemed to hate his own child because the time was coming fast when Shareem would go into tanha and when that happened she would be barred to him.

“I watched her when I could, but she didn't seem aware of my existence until one day when she was standing on the bridge as usual. It was early morning, the air cool and clean and clear … one of those days when a man's blood itches to create things. I was sitting by the old horan, letting my fingers walk the barbat to sooth the itch. She followed the sound. Without a word she lowered herself onto the rock beside me and listened to the music. I trembled and rejoiced. Glory flowed into my hands.

“After a while she leaned over and put her hand on mine, stilling the music so I could rest my aching fingers. We sat together listening to the sound of the wind shifting the leaves and the gentle susurrus of the water speeding past our feet. For the first time I felt peace blooming in her, a resolution of the conflicting mélange of emotions that had been pulling her around and around in an endless vortex.

“We sat there for a long while until we heard voices coming down the river path. She put out her hand again and I helped her to her feet. She smiled at me and said, in that dark velvet voice of hers, ‘Give you grace, my friend.'

“As the days passed, she came often to hear me play. At first she just listened, but in time she came to trust me and we began to talk, little things at first, the kind of trivia that turns strangers into friends. The days of summer mellowed and slid off the high fire down the gentle slope to fall.

“When the month Chang came, it was time for tanha. Late one night Azdar came sneaking into the Mari'fat. I woke with a nervous chill and followed my itch to Ikhtshar the doctor's room. I heard Azdar's growl alternate with the doctor's tenor in a low-voiced argument. I listened. Azdar coaxed and threatened. In the end he won. The doctor agreed to abort the child.