Young Warriors (23 page)

They had been a full cycle of Ut-sin-atha upon the road. He had gone down into the Halls of Death and been reborn victorious. In honor of his rebirth, two bulls had been sacrificed in the name of Tar'atha, and the people had feasted, though there had been no incense, no oil, and only brackish water to drink, mixed with the blood of the slain bulls.

Since the death of the Young Kings, Sais was in disgrace, and so she heard things that others did not.

The Court—the surviving Young Kings, the Lady of Saloe, the Priestess-brides, the shadow-women, the great nobles and all their slaves and households—all grumbled constantly about the privations of the journey, but they trusted in their hearts to the wisdom of the Lady of Saloe, she who was the Hand of Tar'atha, and went on as if Great Saloe would rise again.

The others—the herdsmen, the farmers, the craftsmen— those who did not eat from the first cut of every sacrifice, but must make do with what the Court left . . . they doubted. They wondered if Tar'atha was displeased with them, if She had sent the Salt to scour them from the face of the world.

Neshat was first among them. He had even dared to speak out against the sacrifice, saying that if it was done there would be no bulls to put to the cows in the spring, for they had been the last.

For that, the Lady of Saloe had had him beaten until the blood flowed, until he groveled for her favor and wept for her anger.

He had been foolish to speak,
Sais thought. It did not matter. There would be no cows come spring to stand to a bull. They would have eaten them all long since, just as they had eaten the goats and the sheep. The horses remained—for Tar'atha would not allow the killing of horses, or of dogs, even in sacrifice—but the horses were thin and sickly, and the dogs grew daily more anxious for meat.

And where Neshat had spoken and been rebuked, others would eventually follow. When there were no more cattle. When there was nothing left to eat.

Sais was in disgrace, so she had not been permitted to attend the feast of the bulls. She stood in the darkness and watched as the Court ate its fill, and then watched as the remains were dragged on flayed skins to the fires of the herdsmen and farmers.

She thought long upon the words of the Mother's Son. And as she waited in the darkness, she made her plan.

That which she bore, she carried wrapped in her shawl like a child, lest any see it. She walked boldly to the fires of the herdsfolk, though her mouth tasted bitter with terror.

“I come seeking the herdsman Neshat,” she said, stepping into the firelight. “I come to claim my bride-right, by the Law of Saloe.”

A Priestess-bride might claim any man she chose to be her lover. It was the Law.

“You have come to the wrong fires, little Goddess,” one of the men said, not unkindly. “Turn, and choose again.”

Almost, her courage deserted her then. But fear and her visions drove Sais onward. “I come to claim my bride-right. I come for Neshat,” she repeated, hugging her bundle tightly to her chest.

The men and women around the fire spoke among themselves, too low for Sais to hear. At last one of the women pointed. “He is there, little Goddess. He is yours.”

Sais did not bow or thank her—that would have been wrong—but her heart leaped with gratitude. She turned and hurried off in that direction.

She found Neshat lying facedown beside a fire upon a fleece. One of the other herdsmen was pouring water over his wounded back from a jug. Sais knelt beside Neshat, cradling her bundle carefully.

The herdsman looked at her in surprise—and then in more than surprise when he saw who she was.

“I have come for Neshat,” Sais said, summoning up the last of her courage. “I bring that which it is not proper for you to see. Leave us now.”

The herdsman leaped to his feet and bolted into the darkness, his eyes wide with awe and fear. Now Sais was alone with Neshat.

He slept—or seemed to. Carefully she unwrapped her bundle. The most important thing she set aside, out of harm's way. The immediately necessary items she took into her hand to use at once.

Even a virgin Priestess-bride knew the secrets of the Temple, and so she knew that the base of Tar'atha's statue was hollow. She knew that it was filled with those things that the Lady of Saloe treasured—not gold and jewels, but things more valuable.

Medicines.

Sais had plundered that store ruthlessly.

A wooden box held an ointment of lamb-fat, honey, and distilled poppy-juice: she had compounded it herself many a time. It was sovereign for all hurts, dulling their pain. Now she laved it gently over the weals the shadow-women's whips had left upon Neshat's back. He began to stir to wakefulness at her touch.

Into the sacred agate cup—which she had also stolen— she mixed poppy-juice, honey, and wine, adding a little water from the jug the other herdsman had left to thin it, and stirring it with her finger to mix it well. As she stirred it, she whispered the spells she had been taught, praying for the Mother's aid in healing—and for Her blessing upon what else Sais would do this night.

Neshat was awake now, watching her with glittering dark eyes.

“Drink this,” Sais commanded. “It will ease your pain.”

He sat up stiffly and reached for the cup, drinking its contents quickly. Then he reached for the water jug and drained its contents as well. When it was empty, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at her unspeaking for a long moment.

“Why do you come here, little Goddess?” he asked at last.

“I would claim you,” Sais said. “It is my right,” she added, when he said nothing.

“Are the Young Kings all dead, that you must come to me?” Neshat said. “Or have they cast you out of the Temple?”

“There . . . is . . . no . . . Temple,” Sais said. Suddenly she felt sick with despair. He spoke the words of the Young Kings, of the nobles, of the Lady of Saloe. Somehow she had thought he would understand what she herself did not.

“No,” Neshat agreed. “There is not. But woe to him who says there is not.” For a moment he smiled, then suddenly he looked past her, at the other thing she had brought with her, and his face grew very still.

“It is death for you to touch that which you have brought here,” he said, gazing at the Axe of Sacrifice.

“We are all dying,” Sais said simply. “Come. Be the bull to my cow. It is my right—and it is you I would have, above all the kings and princes of Saloe.”

I will raise you up—My Son, My Lover, My Consort—

The Voice echoed through Sais's mind. She felt as if she were borne upon the wings of the storm and did not know if she spoke the words aloud.

I will give birth to You, I will take You to My golden bed, I
will slay You in the harvest year—

Neshat rocked between her thighs. Sais's nails dug into his shoulders, reopening weals. His blood was on her hands.

The blood of sacrifice—

She felt the Horned One—near, so near—the Great Mother's Son, but sons grow to manhood. To father children, and to care for them. To teach them what they needed to know to survive in the world, no matter how harsh the world was.

His hand reached out to her, to lift her up. And in that moment she knew His Name—hers to call upon, to seal a new covenant.

If she dared.

“Nis! Your Name is Nis, Son of Tar'atha! Nis, help us!” Sais cried.

Afterward, when Neshat lay upon her, spent, Sais took his hand and clasped it about the haft of the Axe.

He did not die.

She Dreamed, and in her Dream, Nis came to her again. This time he did not come to her in Drowned Saloe, but in a great forest filled with beasts of every kind, and Neshat was beside her.

“Now I shall teach you what you need to know,” Nis said to them. “You know My Name and may call upon Me. The first meat of the kill is mine, as the blood is My Mother's, but the rest is yours, to nourish your bodies and your hounds. I shall lead you to a land of sweet grass and tall trees, and there you will flourish, but you must never forget Me.”

“We will always honor You,” Neshat said. “This I vow, upon Your Horns.”

Before the dawn, all among the herdsmen and farmers heard the story of Nis, Son of the Mother, from Neshat and Sais both. They hid the Axe carefully, for it had passed from the Mother to the Son.

It was too late now to return it to the Sleeping Goddess. Too many would see. The Lady of Saloe's wrath would be as bitter as the Salt.

And it was no longer hers to own.

The loss of the Axe of Sacrifice did not go unnoticed. At the beginning of Ut-sin-atha's feast, it lay before the golden statue of Tar'atha. When Ut-ash-atha took his brother's place in the sky, it was gone.

No one could say how it had happened. It was impossible that anyone should lay hands upon the Axe of Sacrifice and live. The shadow-women set up a great wailing, and the Priestess-brides added their lamentations, and the wives of the nobles and all their households howled like dogs.

In so much confusion, it was possible for Sais to replace the cup and the box and the medicines she had taken from the base of Sleeping Tar'atha's golden statue without being seen.

At last the Lady of Saloe gave her pronouncement: she had Dreamed, and in her Dream, Tar'atha had come to her and taken the Axe of Sacrifice, saying She would leave it for them as a sign in the place they were to build Her new city.

She lies!
Sais thought in shock.
She lies about a Dream of
Tar'atha! She puts words into the mouth of the Great Mother!

She had not thought it could be so. But it was.

The Court was quieted, but the Lady's eyes rested keenly upon Sais's face.

“Do you say I do not Dream true?” the Lady of Saloe said softly, for Sais's ears alone.

“You forbid me to speak of Dreams,” Sais said quietly, casting her gaze down upon the earth.
But Nis would have me
speak, and what I speak of is no Dream.

To hunt was a small thing for herdsmen who had tracked lost sheep and goats through the high grass. To kill with the sling and the stick was a simple thing for farmers who had driven cows from the field and shepherds who had driven wolves from the fold.

At first their attempts went unrewarded, but they quickly learned. For a time—a very short time—their successes went unnoticed by the Court.

Each night now Sais slipped away from the Court to go to her lover. Together they dreamed of Nis, and of the southern forests where they would raise His altar beside Tar'atha's own. From the horns and hide of the last bull of sacrifice, the artisans had fashioned for Neshat a Nis-crown, so that he might properly offer Nis His due portion of each kill. And Nis rewarded them, showing them new ways to reap His bounty.

But when Ut-sin-atha had gone down into the Halls of Death once more and the nights were dark and filled with stars, Sais was summoned before the Lady of Saloe's face.

“The dogs no longer howl with hunger in the night,” the Lady of Saloe said. Her voice was mild. In the red light of the fire, Sais could see her face, painted just as it had been in the halls of Saloe, though not even the shadow-women still painted their faces, nor did the Lady of Saloe paint her own face every day.

But tonight her face was as white as the face of Ut-sin-atha, and her lips and her cheeks were as red as the face of Ut-ash-atha. Her brows were as black as the hair of Tar'atha Herself, and the lids of her eyes had been carefully blackened as well.

“The dogs do not howl in the night,” Sais agreed, though suddenly her heart beat fast with fear.

“And the smoke of the cookfires of the herdsmen and farmers is black with fat and savory with roasting, though they have no meat to roast,” the Lady said.

Sais did not answer. Two of the shadow-women stood close behind her, and in their hands were knives of the red orichalcum.

“They grow sleek and full of flesh while we starve and dwindle. Why should this be?” the Lady of Saloe asked.

“It is so because I wish it to be so,” a new voice said.

Neshat stepped into the fire's light. Upon his head he wore the Crown of Nis. In his hands he bore the Axe of Sacrifice.

The shadow-women stepped back, gibbering in horror. The knives of red orichalcum fell to the earth.

Sais stepped to Neshat's side.

The Lady of Saloe stared at them both from behind her painted face, and her eyes were terrible to see. She stretched out her hand.

“That is mine. Give it to me.”

“It is not yours. It is not yours to give. It is not yours to take. It is the Mother's to give—and She has given it to Her Son: Nis.”The fear Sais had felt was gone now. She knew that she spoke Truth—and Truth had once been honored in the Courts of Great Saloe.

“I know of no Nis,” the Lady of Saloe said. But her voice quavered like that of an old woman, and she could not meet Sais's bright gaze.

“You know Him,” Sais said, and now her voice was as hard as the Lady's once had been. “He has danced for your pleasure with the bulls. He has lain with Tar'atha in Her golden bed, and gotten Ut-sin-atha and Ut-ash-atha upon Her. As a goodly gift, She has given Him rulership over the wild things of the world. It is He Who gives the duck and the hare into our sling and our snare. Now it is time for Him to lead us.”

A faint moan of fear escaped the Lady of Saloe's lips, and Sais knew that at last the Lady knew in her heart that Saloe was no more.

“But the Axe,” the Lady whimpered. “It is Tar'atha's Axe.”

“No,” Sais said, more gently now. “Now it is the Axe of Nis. Now it is an Axe for men.”

ROSEMARY EDGHILL

ROSEMARY EDGHILL'S first professional sales were to the black-and-white comics of the late 1970s, so she can truthfully state on her résumé that she once killed vampires for a living. She is also the author of over thirty novels and several dozen short stories in genres ranging from Regency romance to space opera, making all local stops in between. She has collaborated with authors such as the late Marion Zimmer Bradley and science fiction grand master Andre Norton, and has worked as a science fiction editor for a major New York publisher, as a freelance book designer, and as a professional book reviewer. Her hobbies include sleep, research for forthcoming projects, and her Cavalier King Charles spaniels. Her Web site can be found at
www.sff.net/people/eluki
.