Lady of Horses (22 page)

It was not Walker who did that filial duty. Walker stood
beside Linden, gleaming with satisfaction, and watched the old king’s burial as
if he had wrought the whole of it.

Very probably, thought Wolfcub, he had. Walker’s star was
rising fast, overwhelming the elder shaman’s. Drinks-the-Wind was wholly in his
power, or else cared too little to stop him.

Wolfcub stood on Linden’s other side. He could not protect
the king if Walker chose to stab him with a knife, but Wolfcub did not expect
the shaman to do that. Linden was too perfect a tool in Walker’s hand.

While the rite and the burial stretched toward a grey dawn,
Wolfcub studied the men about him, the priests, the shamans, the king’s
companions. As he would in a hunt, he considered paths, discarded some, and
came to a clearer sense of what he could do, or would. He did not waste time in
recalling that he was young and had little by way of either wealth or power
among the People. He was the boarslayer, the king’s companion. That should be
enough.

When at last the old king was closed up in his barrow with
his escort of wives and concubines, Linden rode nine times round the barrow,
mounted on the stallion who had killed his father. He sang the final song, the
departing-song, which entrusted the king’s body to the earth and his spirit to
the gods. Then in the grey light before sunrise, he led them all to the camp,
to sleep as they could before the sacrifices began, the great rite and festival
of the ninth year.

oOo

For all those nine days Wolfcub kept his counsel,
performed the rites as he was asked, and kept watch over the young king. Thrice
they sacrificed the Hound, thrice the Bull, and thrice the Stallion. Nine times
they feasted, till even the lustiest of them was heavy and sated. Nine nights
they danced and drank and sang.

There were women, too. Unmarried women whose fathers and kin
were oblivious or willfully ignorant, even a few married women who dared defy
their husbands, haunted the shadows about the circles of the dance, and lured
dancers away to celebrate the festival in the most pleasant wise.

There would be children born in the spring, hasty marriages
made and wives protesting that their husbands must have forgotten in the fog of
kumiss—of course they had coupled together in the festival. Offspring of this
rite whose secret was known were called the gods’ children. It profited them
little enough, granted them no power or magic, but they seemed more blessed
with good fortune than some.

Wolfcub was much sought after. His place near the king, the
legend of the boar, and this new face that he seemed to have grown into without
knowing it, made the women come seeking him. He lay with one or two: a girl of
the Dun Cow who was as sleek as an eel and as noisy as a heifer in heat, and a
woman of the Tall Grass people who lay with him silently but sang to him after,
a sweet wandering song that maybe had magic in it. It did not weaken him,
whatever it was. It sent him back to his king’s side refreshed and alert for
any threat to the king’s life or spirit.

He never saw Sparrow. She was not one to go hunting young
men in shadows, and she was not among the women who served the men in the
feasts. There was never quite time to go in search of her.

oOo

The tenth day was a day of great quiet and, in no few
instances, roaring indisposition. Wolfcub woke in the king’s tent, which was
now Linden’s, and concluded that he was not as badly off as most. He had drunk
relatively little, and eaten not much more than he needed. He would live.

It was full morning already when he emerged from the tent.
The women were out and about as always, tending fires, baking bread, looking
after children. For the most part they ignored him as he went to the trenches
to relieve himself. There was no other man in sight, there or in the camp,
except for a figure or two snoring in the shade of a tent.

Wolfcub did not return at once to the king’s tent. He went
to his father’s instead. Aurochs, as he had had hoped, was up and eating a bite
of breakfast, washing it down with Willow’s potion. They both greeted Wolfcub
with a smile, and Willow fed him as she had his father.

Wolfcub fully intended to speak his mind to them. But
somehow he could not do it. He ate, drank, spoke of small things. He basked for
a while in their pride. He reflected that Willow was wise and Aurochs one of
the elders, when he chose to be.

But when he had spent an hour with them, he left with the
words unsaid. This was not a thing for the elders, or for his mother, either,
though she might argue otherwise.

Some of the other companions were awake when he came back to
the king’s tent. Linden was in the inner room, but it was clear what he was
doing: whoever the woman was that he had taken to bed with him, she made no
secret of her pleasure in his company.

Wolfcub had to wait an annoying while before he could speak
to Spearhead, whom he had settled on as best for the purpose. Spearhead,
fortunately, was more or less awake and aware, and not too prostrate with the
aftermath of the feast. A dose of Willow’s potion restored him most of the way
to himself. When he went out to the trenches, Wolfcub went with him.

oOo

As Wolfcub had hoped, there was no one there. They did
their business together, then as Spearhead turned to go back into the camp,
Wolfcub said, “Walk with me for a bit. I’m all fuzzy-headed with camp smoke and
kumiss.”

Spearhead shrugged and consented. He was not a particularly
amiable man, but he was shrewd and he was not afraid to speak his mind. He was
also, Wolfcub thought, fiercely loyal to Linden, though he would have denied it
if anyone had asked.

They followed the track past the trenches, up over a low
hill and down toward the herds of cattle. The camp was not visible from there,
nor was there anyone in sight but a boy who watched over the cows. His eyes
went wide when he saw who walked on the edge of his herd, but he did not
trouble them with his presence.

They halted on the outer edge of the herd. Spearhead
squatted in the grass, marked out a bare spot, produced a handful of bones. He
held them up with an inquiring look. Wolfcub nodded.

They played at cast-the-bones, quietly, for no wager but the
pleasure of winning. After a while Spearhead said, “Now then. Tell me what’s
bothering you.”

Wolfcub raised a brow. “You think I’m troubled?”

“I know you are. You’ve been as twitchy as a bitch with
pups. What is it? Afraid Linden can’t be the king he needs to be?”

“Are you?”

Spearhead shrugged. “He’s not the brightest star in the
heavens. I’m not sure he’s suited to ruling anything greater than his own flock
of women. As to whether he can be king enough for the purpose . . .
who knows? If he picks his advisors well enough, it won’t matter that he’s not
much more than a pretty face.”

“He is more than that,” Wolfcub said. “Not a great deal
more, but his heart is good. He wants to do well by his people.”

“And you’re not sure he can.”

“I’m not sure he’ll be allowed to.” Wolfcub drew a breath.
In it, he cast the bones. He clapped his hands. “Victory!”

“I’ll top that,” Spearhead said, and did. He left the bones
lying where they were, looked Wolfcub in the face and said, “It’s the shaman,
isn’t it?”

“Which?”

Spearhead spat. “Don’t play the fool, wolfling. You know
which. He’s been hovering over Linden like a vulture since the day we met the
boar.”

Wolfcub nodded. “I think,” he said, “it wasn’t accident that
the old king died.”

“I know it wasn’t,” said Spearhead. “I looked after the
stallion when Linden was done with him. He had a thorn in his rump and another
in his neck. Whatever was on them was long gone and he was himself again, but
someone put them in him. Someone maybe with a blowgun and a quick hand.”

“It might not have been Walker,” Wolfcub said. He was being
cautious. His heart was beating hard. When he chose Spearhead to confide in, he
had never imagined that this of all the king’s companions would have stumbled
on what he needed most to know. The gods’ hand was in that, surely.

“Maybe it wasn’t the shaman,” said Spearhead, “but I’ll
wager it was someone in his power. He’s got the hunger. He wants to rule.”

“A shaman can’t be king,” Wolfcub pointed out.

“No, and should he want to be? There’s more pure power in
what that one is than in anything Linden can hope to be. He’s making and
breaking kings. I wonder, what will he find to do after this?”

Wolfcub shivered. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

“And you’re afraid you do.”

“Yes.” Wolfcub scooped up the bones and cast them moodily.
They fell into a pattern that they seldom fell into. That pattern, in the game,
was called War.

He stared at it. War was not a thing to be afraid of. Young
men loved it. And yet when he looked at the fall of the bones, he saw darkness,
and Walker’s white and pitiless face.

“He’s going to do something,” Wolfcub said, “that maybe no
one’s dared before. Or he’ll hark back to something that the old people did,
that was too terrible or too wasteful to keep.”

“Or both.” Spearhead scattered the bones with a sweep of his
hand. “It’s not really what he’ll do, is it? It’s how he’ll elect to do it. He
loves himself too much and the People too little. And he’s a great deal more
powerful than wise.”

That was so like something Willow would say that Wolfcub
loosed a snort of laughter. “Make a pact with me,” he said. “We’ll keep Linden
as safe as we can. We’ll protect the People if that’s possible. And if we can,
we’ll pull Walker’s fangs.”

“How,” Spearhead inquired, “do you intend to do that?”

“I don’t know,” Wolfcub said. “The gods will show us a way.”

“Unless he’s tricked the gods into feeding his power, too.”

“Then,” said Wolfcub, “we’ll let them know what he’s done—and
stand back from their wrath.”

“Oh, they’ll be angry,” Spearhead agreed. “They will indeed.”
He gathered the bones and tipped them into their pouch and tucked it back in
his belt. “Well then. I’ll play this game. Do we tell anyone else?”

Wolfcub shook his head. “Not unless there’s someone you can
trust.”

“I trust most of the companions,” Spearhead said, “to be
loyal to the king, to fight as well for him as they can, and to be completely
incapable of keeping a secret as great as this. Even if they believe it—and
most of them probably would—they’re inclined to chatter to whoever will listen.
Best they not know what creeps in the shadows.”

“Yes,” said Wolfcub in something like relief. “Yes, best
they not know.”

They clasped hands over it, a clasp that turned into a test
of strength, and then a contest, and at last a wrestling match that fetched
them up laughing against the feet of a placid cow. Wolfcub had won, but
Spearhead had given him a fair fight.

He sprang up under the cow’s nose, held out a hand, pulled
Spearhead to his feet. Side by side they went back to the camp.

Keen saw the two young men walking back from the herds,
grass-stained and rumpled and content with themselves and their world. It was a
moment before she recognized one of them as Wolfcub.

By the gods, he had changed. His hair was sleek, no longer
as untidy as a winter field. His shoulders were broad, his arms and legs
matched to the length of his body. And his face—no wonder all the girls were
giggling over him. Who would have imagined that Wolfcub would be a handsome
man?

He was a man of consequence, too. He stood beside the new
king. No doubt, now the sacrifices were over, his mother would set about
finding him a wife and a tent of his own.

This was the time for it: the time after the festival, when
the gods were propitiated and, in such years as this one, kings were made and
unmade. The gathering would go on for another round of the moon, confirming
alliances, settling feuds, and making marriages within and among the tribes.

That was on her mind of late. A year ago, Walker had brought
gifts to her father’s tent, bargained for and won her.

She had been too happy to speak. Beautiful Walker, Walker
the shaman, wonderful and powerful, had chosen her of all the women in the
tribes. He had taken her into the tent that her father and his father combined
to give them, full of all needful things, and discovered with great joy what
she had kept for him. She had not, like others of the women, given her
maidenhood to strangers during the sacrifices. She had waited and been patient,
in spite of temptation.

It had hurt. There was blood. She wept a little, but he
dried her tears and kissed her and told her she was beautiful, and promised her
that the next time would be better.

And so it had been. And each time after, better yet, till
she knew no greater joy than his coming to her in the evening after a long
day’s labors.

He had not come to her since the People left the spring
camp. She kept his tent, prepared dinners for him that he never came to taste,
made certain that she was clean and dressed becomingly. He would come back, now
the festival was over and the king was made. It was his tent she lived in and
his possessions she looked after, among them no small quantity of things that a
shaman needed for his magics.

As Wolfcub and his companion strolled back arm in arm from
wherever they had been, Keen was coming up herself from the river with a basket
of fish and a harvest of green herbs. Walker loved fish rubbed and stuffed with
herbs and baked in clay. It had taken her most of the morning to catch the
fish—she had had to go far up the river to find an eddy with life in it, with
so many people camped by the river and fishing in it. Then she had tarried to
dig up the clay and to gather the herbs.

It was nearly noon when she came to the camp. Her heart was
lighter than it had been in a long while. Today, surely, Walker would remember
her and come to her.