The Firebrand (18 page)

Thus encouraged, Kassandra began, detailing every moment of her vision, ending with her confusion that neither the Maiden, nor Earth Mother, nor Serpent Mother had appeared among the Goddesses. Imandra listened intently, even when Kassandra, momentarily overcome by the memory, let her voice sink to a whisper.

When she finished, Imandra asked quietly, “Was this your first encounter with any of the Immortals?”

“No, Lady; I have seen the Mother Goddess of Troy speak through my mother’s mouth, though I must have been very small indeed at the time. And once”—she swallowed, lowered her head and tried to steady her voice, knowing that if she did not she would break into wild weeping without knowing why—“once . . . in His own Temple ... Apollo Sun Lord spoke clearly to me.”

She felt Imandra’s gentle fingers rest on her hair.

“It is as I thought when first I spoke with you; you have been called as a priestess. Do you know what that means?”

Kassandra shook her head and tried to guess.

“That I must live in the Temple and care for the oracles and the rites?”

“No, it is not as simple as that, child,” Imandra told her. “It means that from this very day you must stand between men and Immortals, to explain the ways of the one to the other. . . . It is not a life I would choose for my own daughter.”

“But why have I been chosen?”

“Only Those who called you know the answer to that, little one,” Imandra said, and her voice was very gentle. “On some of us They lay Their hand in a way we cannot mistake. They do not explain Their ways to us. But if we try to escape Their will, They have ways of forcing us to Their service, forget it not. . . . No one seeks to be chosen; it is the Gods who choose us, not we who seek to give our service to Them.”

Yet,
thought Kassandra,
I think I would have sought this service. At least I do not come to it unwilling.
The snake seemed to have fallen asleep in a heavy puddle on her arm; Imandra leaned forward and scooped it up still sleeping, letting it slide as if melting down the front of her dress.

“When next the moon shines full, you shall seek Her,” she said. And Kassandra felt an omen in the way she spoke.

“I KNOW so little of being a priestess,” Kassandra said. “What must I do?”

“If the Goddess has called you, She will make it clear to you,” said Penthesilea, “and if She has not, it does not matter what you do or do not do; it will be all the same.”

She patted Kassandra on the head and said, “You must get yourself a snake, and a pot to keep it in.”

“I would rather keep it inside my dress, as the Queen does.”

“That is all very well,” said Penthesilea, “but any animal must have a place that is all its own, as a refuge.”

Kassandra could very well understand that. And so she went to the market with her kinswoman, seeking a pot for her snake; tomorrow, she told herself, she would go into the countryside, seeking a snake for herself. It did not seem suitable to buy one at the market for money, though she supposed she could speak with the people who raised snakes for the Temple. Perhaps Imandra could be persuaded to tell her what she should know.

She searched among the pot-sellers in the marketplace, and finally found a vessel tinted blue-green and decorated with sea creatures; on one side stood a priestess offering a serpent to some unfamiliar Goddess. It seemed to Kassandra that this was the perfect pot in which to keep her snake, and she at once bought it with the money that Penthesilea had given her. There were many pots decorated exactly like it, and she wondered if they were all put to the same use.

That evening as the sun set, she stood with Andromache on the palace roof, looking down into the darkness of the town as, one by one, lights were kindled in the city below.

“You cannot go before the Goddess in leather Amazon breeches,” said Andromache. “I will lend you a robe.”

Kassandra frowned. “Is the Goddess a fool? I am what I am; do you think I can deceive Her by changing my garment?”

“You are right, of course,” Andromache said soothingly, “it cannot matter to the Goddess. But other worshipers might see and be scandalized, not understanding.”

“That is another matter,” Kassandra agreed, “and I understand what you mean; I will wear a robe if you are kind enough to lend me one.”

“Certainly, my sister,” said Andromache, then hesitated, saying almost defensively, “You will be my sister if I marry your brother, and when I come to Troy I will have a friend in your strange city.”

“Of course.” Kassandra slipped her arm around the younger girl, and they stood close in the darkness. “But Troy is no stranger than
your
city.”

“Stranger to me, though,” said the young girl. “I am accustomed to a city where a Queen rules. Truly, does your mother Hecuba not rule the city?”

Kassandra giggled a little at the thought of Hecuba ruling over her stern father.

“No, she does not. And your mother—has she no husband?”

“What should she do with a husband? Two or three times since my father died, she has taken a consort for a season and sent him away when she was tired of him. That is what is right for a Queen to do if she has desire for a man—at least in our city.”

“And yet you are willing to marry my brother and be subject to him as our women are subject to their men?”

“I think I shall enjoy it,” Andromache said with a giggle, and then cried out, “Oh, look!”

Across the sky a line of brilliant light slashed and was gone.

Another followed it swiftly, and another, so brightly that for a moment it seemed that the earth itself reeled as the sky displaced itself. Star after star seemed to lose its moorings and fall, as the two girls watched. Kassandra murmured, “ ‘. . . there remain until the spring’s stars fall.’ ”

In the darkness a shadow separated, became two, and Queen Imandra and Penthesilea appeared on the roof.

“Ah, I thought perhaps you were here, girls. It is as She told us,” said Penthesilea, looking up at the shimmering heavens, as star after star appeared to detach itself from the sky and shimmer downward; “a shower of falling stars.”

“But how can the stars fall? Will they all fall out of the sky?” Andromache asked. “And what will happen when they are all gone?”

Penthesilea chuckled and said, “Never fear, child. I have seen the star-showers every year for many years; there are always plenty left in the sky.”

“Besides,” Imandra added, “I cannot see how it would affect us here on earth if they all fell—except that I should be sorry not to have their light.”

“Once,” said Penthesilea, “when I was a very young woman, I was with my mother and her tribe—we were riding on the plains far to the north of here, among the iron mountains—and a star fell close to us, with a great crackling and sizzling noise and light. We searched all the night, in the smell of the burnt air, and at last we found a great black stone, still glowing red; that is why many believe that the stars are molten fire which cools to rock. My mother left me this sword, which I saw forged of the sky-metal.”

“Sky-iron is better than iron ripped from the earth,” confirmed Imandra, “perhaps because it is not under the curse of the Mother—it has not been torn from the earth, but is a gift of the Gods.”

“I wish I could find a fallen star,” murmured Andromache; “they are so beautiful.”

She was still encircled in Kassandra’s arm, and her tone was so wistful that Kassandra murmured, “I wish I could find one and give it to you as a gift worthy of you, little sister.”

Penthesilea said, “So we are free to return to our own plains and pastures; we do not yet know why the Goddess sent us here.”

“Whatever the reason,” said Imandra, “it was my good fortune; perhaps the Goddess knew I had need of you here. When you go southward, you shall ride with my gifts. And if some of your women choose to remain and instruct the women of my guards, they shall be well paid.” She looked upward, where the stars were still tumbling and dancing across the sky, and murmured, “Perhaps the Goddess has sent this as an omen for your journey before Her, Kassandra. There was no such omen for me when I sought Her far country to offer my service,” she added, almost enviously.

“Where must I go?” asked Kassandra. “And must I journey alone?”

Imandra touched her hand gently in the dark. She said, “The journey is of the spirit, Kinswoman; you need not travel a single step. And although you will have many companions, every candidate journeys alone, as the soul is always alone before the Gods.”

Kassandra’s eyes were dazzled by the falling stars, and in the curious mood of the night it seemed that Imandra’s words had some profound meaning stronger than the words themselves implied.

“Tell me more about the metal from the sky,” said Andromache. “Should we not search for it, since it is falling all around us? Then we would not need to mine it, nor send for it on the ships from the northern lands.”

Imandra said, “My court astrologers foretold this star-shower, and they will be watching from a field outside the city, with swift horses, so if a star should fall nearby, they will go out and search for it. It would be impious to let a gift of the Gods go thus unclaimed or to let it fall into the hands of others who would not treat it with due reverence.”

It seemed to Kassandra that hundreds of stars had fallen; but looking into the dark light-sprinkled heavens overhead, she saw quite as many as ever. Perhaps, she thought, new stars grow when these fall. The spectacle was beginning to seem quite ordinary, and she turned her eyes from the sky, sighing.

“You should go to bed,” Penthesilea said, “for tomorrow you will be taken with the others who are to seek the Goddess in Her country. And eat well before you sleep, for tomorrow you will be required to fast the day through.”

“She will sleep in my room this night,” Andromache said, “because I have promised to lend her a robe for tomorrow, Mother.”

“That was a kindly thought for your kinswoman,” Imandra said. “Get you to bed, then, girls, and do not lie awake long talking and giggling together.”

“I promise,” Andromache said, and drew Kassandra to the dark staircase leading down into the palace. She took Kassandra to her own rooms, where she called one of her serving-women to bathe them both and bring bread and fruit and wine. When they had bathed and eaten, Andromache leaned on the windowsill.

“Look, Cousin, the stars are still falling.”

“No doubt they will do so all the night,” Kassandra said. “Unless one falls through the window into our chamber, I cannot see that it makes any difference to us.”

“I suppose not,” said Andromache. “If one should fall here, Kassandra, you may have it for a sword like Penthesilea’s; I have no desire for weapons.”

“I suppose I have no need for them either, since it seems I am not to be a warrior, but a priestess,” said Kassandra, sighing.

“Would you rather be a warrior for all your life, Kassandra?”

But Kassandra set her teeth and said, “I do not think it ever matters what I would rather; my destiny has been set, and no one can fight Fate, no matter what weapons she may bear.”

When both girls lay side by side in Andromache’s bed, and even the intermittent light of the falling stars had dimmed toward morning, Kassandra sensed through her fitful sleep that someone stood in the door; she half roused to murmur a question, but she was still held in sleep and knew she made no sound. Drowsily she knew that it was Penthesilea who stole quietly into the room to stand looking down at them in the moonlight for a long time, and then reached down to touch her hair for an instant as if in blessing. Then, although Kassandra did not see her leave the room, she was gone and there was only moonlight there.

THE DAWN was just paling in the sky when a woman entered the room, unannounced, and flung open the draperies. Andromache buried her head under the blankets against the light, but Kassandra sat up in bed and looked at her. She was a woman of Colchis, dark and sturdily built, with the self-confident bearing of one of Penthesilea’s warrior women; she wore a long robe of bleached linen, pure white and unadorned. About her wrist coiled a small green serpent, and Kassandra knew she was a priestess.

“Who are you?” Kassandra asked.

“My name is Evadne, and I am a priestess sent to prepare you,” she said. “Is it you or your companion who is to face the Goddess this day? Or, perhaps, both of you?”

Andromache uncovered one eye and said, “I was initiated last year; it is my cousin only.” She shut her eyes and seemed to sleep again. Evadne gave Kassandra a droll smile, then became very serious again.

“Tell me,” she said, “all women owe service to the Immortals, and all men too; do you mean that you will do Them service when They ask it of you or that you will devote your life to serving Them?”

“I am willing to devote my life to that service,” Kassandra said, “but I do not know what it is that They ask of me.”

Evadne handed her the robe Andromache had laid over a bench. “Let us go into the outer room so we will not disturb the princess,” she said. When they were in the outer chamber she said, “Now tell me, why do you wish to become a priestess?”

Kassandra then told the story again of what had happened to her in the Sun Lord’s House, for the first time speaking without an instant of hesitation; this woman knew the Immortals, and if anyone alive could understand, she would be the one. Evadne listened without comment, smiling slightly at the end.

“The Sun Lord is a jealous master,” she said at last, “and it comes to me that He has called you. All the same, the Mother owns every woman, and I cannot deny you the right to face Her.”

Kassandra said, “My mother told me that Serpent Mother and the Sun Lord are ancient enemies. Tell me, Lady”—the term of respect came naturally to her lips—“she said that Apollo Sun Lord fought Serpent Mother and that He slew Her; is this true? Am I disloyal to the Sun Lord if I serve the Mother, then?”