Lady of Horses (23 page)

She would prepare the fish and bury it in embers, then she
would tidy the tent, and after that she would spend a leisurely while making
herself beautiful for her husband. Her best tunic, her best ornaments, yes. She
would wash her hair and scent it with some of the herbs that she had set aside
in preparing the fish.

What would come of that woke a flutter in her middle. Much
of it was excitement. Some was fear. She was going to make another child, if
she could at all. She had asked old Mallard, the elder shaman’s wife, for
something to help make sure of it. Mallard had twitted her, of course, but
almost gently, and given her a clay pot full of something eye-wateringly
pungent. “Put a little of that in a cup of kumiss,” she said, “and drink it
just before you go in to him. Then say a prayer to Earth Mother and to the Lady
of Birthings, and let them bless you as you lie with him.”

Keen could do that, and gladly. It was better by far than
some things she had heard of, spells and incantations that required ghastly
substances and arduous rites.

oOo

She smiled at the thought as she rounded the camp and
approached her husband’s tent. There were a number of people about, more than
usual; but this was the gathering. Sometimes everyone happened to be in the
same place at the same time.

They were, she realized, crowding about her husband’s tent.
Her heart leaped. He had come back—he was receiving guests. She had seen such a
crowd about Drinks-the-Wind, people begging him for his wisdom or asking for
spells or simply paying their respects. Walker was the king’s shaman now. Of
course the crowds would come to him.

The people who came to Drinks-the-Wind were nearly always
men. These were all women. They were, what was more, women of the Tall Grass,
and none of White Stone or any other tribe. They came and went with great
intentness of purpose. Those coming carried bundles and baskets. Those
departing looked as if they were going to fetch more.

A few women of the White Stone stood about, staring and
offering commentary. When they caught sight of Keen, they flushed and made
themselves scarce.

Keen found that puzzling, but she was not apprehensive.
There was a perfectly good explanation. Of course there was. She held her head
high, firmed her grip on her basket, and walked to the tent as she well should,
as one who had every right to do so. One or two of the strangers seemed not to
like that very well—but that was no concern of Keen’s.

The tent was not small, in fact it had been overlarge for
Keen and Walker and their possessions. As Keen slipped into it, she nearly
barked her skin on a basket.

The tent was bursting with baskets, boxes, and bundles. They
were heaped by the flap and mounded by the tent-wall. The partition that
divided the outer room from the inner, women’s portion, which Keen kept
fastened out of the way—she had never needed it—was down and fluttering with
presence beyond.

Keen was beginning to be angry. Whatever invasion this was,
it came without her leave. She flung back the partition and stood face to face
with what, at first, seemed another great crowd of women.

It was only a few, she realized once her sight had cleared.
Three very young women or girls, a somewhat older woman, and one who must have
been both wife and mother: she was plump, her ruddy hair was shot with grey,
and she conducted herself like the mistress of a wealthy man’s tent.

It was she who faced Keen with arched brow and expression of
disdain. “And who may you be?” she inquired.

Keen stiffened. That should have been hers to say. This was
her tent. But habits of grace, hard-learned and sternly kept, overwhelmed her
temper. She answered civilly, “I am the shaman’s wife. How may I serve you?”

The Tall Grass woman looked her up and down. She was not
prepossessing, she knew. There was mud in her hem and her feet. Her hair was
caught back in a rough plait, and she carried a basket like a servant. She held
her head high and recalled who she was, whose daughter and whose wife.

The interloper tightened thin lips and sighed. “You’re
pretty enough,” she said. In her accent, which was broader and softer than the
White Stone dialect, it sounded lazy and faintly insulting. “I suppose he’ll
keep you, one way and another.”

Keen’s jaw set till it ached. “My name is Keen-Wind-in-the-
Grasses. I am the daughter of Flint, king’s brother, elder of the first clan of
the White Stone. My mother was a shaman’s daughter. Her brother is a great
hunter of the People. I was wedded in gathering to Walker Between the Worlds,
shaman of the White Stone People. This is my tent. I welcome you to it, and I
offer you hospitality, with all such grace as custom requires. Is it my husband
you wish to see? If so, you would do best to seek him out in the king’s circle.
He will linger there till evening.”

“Ah,” said the Tall Grass woman. “You’re a proud one. It
might serve you well to seek him out yourself. He’s taken a new wife, and
spoken no word of the old one.”

Keen held herself still by effort of will. This woman with
her rough tongue and her bold eyes must not—must not—see her tremble. She
managed the faint hint of a smile. “Indeed? Oh, that man! He never said you’d
be arriving so soon. Since it’s customary for marriages to be made at the full
moon, and it’s not even the new moon yet, I had thought . . .”
She trailed off sweetly, lifted her chin, and shrugged as her mother had taught
her, both to charm and to show off the excellence of her neck and shoulders and
breasts. She made a little dance of it, which in turn showed off her white
hands—somewhat smudged now, but of lovely shape, with long fingers. “Ah well,
it’s done, and I’d be greatly remiss to send you away. Come, is this the lady?
Come here, child, I won’t bite.”

There could be little mistaking which was the bride-to-be: she
was slender, her hair was a glorious deep red, and her eyes were as green as
young grass; but she had her mother’s round face and somewhat prominent teeth.
She was more than lovely, but time would bring her to her mother’s looks, or
Keen was no judge.

She met Keen’s stare as if she had only now deigned to
notice that there was a stranger in the tent. Her mother was rude and
forthright. She was haughty.

Here, thought Keen, was one who reckoned herself fit to lie
with a king. Was she perhaps a little disgruntled to have been given to a
shaman?

Certainly she was not pleased with the tent. “This is your
tent, you say? It’s barely adequate for one. I’ll require another, and larger.
See to it.”

Keen’s smile had a distinct edge. “Oh,” she said, “but that
would be an insult! Your father will wish, of course, to provide you with all
necessities, among them a tent of appropriate size and grandeur. At least,” she
said, “that is the custom of the White Stone. Among your people, then, it is
the senior wife who provides?”

“I am to be senior wife,” the girl said with more than a
hint of petulance. “I was promised. He never mentioned you. They said he had a
woman in his tent, but of course he would; every man requires a servant.”

“I am his wife,” Keen said as gently as she could, “and
senior by virtue of his having married me first. Come, are these your servants?
Let us send one to your father and inform him that there has been, perhaps, a
little confusion. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to enlarge this tent which my
father and my husband’s father combined to give us at our wedding. In the
meantime, if you will, I’ll borrow the rest of your servants, and see that your
belongings are arranged as conveniently as possible. I’ll send one when we’re
done, to fetch you from your father’s tent.”

The girl was speechless. Her mother bridled. “Are you
sending us away? How dare you!”

“Oh, no,” Keen said. “No, of course not! But wouldn’t your
lovely daughter be better served at home, while we ready the tent for her here?
I beg your forgiveness; I was not warned that you would come so soon. By
tomorrow, or the next day at the latest, all will be ready for her, in as much
comfort as she could desire.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” the girl snapped. “I came to be
senior wife here. I will be senior wife here.”

“Such confusion,” Keen sighed. “You—girl with the brown
braids, take your mistress home, if you please, then come back to me. If you
and your sister can bring the rest of the tent, then do it.”

For a stretching moment Keen knew that her will was not
strong enough; that these invaders would refuse. She had no strength and no
assistance to cast them out bodily.

The mother gave way, with no grace and nothing resembling
politeness, but it was a surrender. She swept her daughter with her in a grand exit,
trailing servants.

Keen yearned to collapse in tears, but she could not do
that. She called back the servants, all but the one whom she had ordered to
bear the message to the girl’s father, and was deeply relieved that they obeyed
her. She set them to work at once, shifting all their mistress’ possessions to
as small a corner as possible, and heaping in front of the tent those that
overflowed the corner. The girl’s father would provide shelter for them, or
not; that was not Keen’s concern.

Keen knew what anger was. She had a temper, though her
mother had taught her to master it long ago. But she had never felt what she
felt now.

This was rage. More than rage—wrath. It had no reason in it.
It had nothing to do with sense. It was born of Walker’s neglect and her own
grief and illness. It was larger than she was, and far stronger.

She would go to her father. Her mother had died in the winter,
and she was not close to the other wives. Flint was old and his mind tended to
wander, but he was still a very rich man, and very clever in adding to his
wealth through trading and favors and, rather often, wagers on this or that. He
was fond of Keen and proud of his son-in-law. He would not be the least bit
pleased to hear of this invader.

The Tall Grass servants were doing well enough. Keen laid on
them the terror of her husband’s reputation, the mighty curses that a shaman
could lay on those who stole from him or so much as looked at his belongings.
When they were suitably round-eyed and appalled, she left them to finish what
they had begun, and went to find her father.

oOo

Flint, by good fortune, was sitting in front of his tent
while two of his youngest wives combed and plaited his hair. He had been
drinking deep of the wild berry wine that his eldest surviving wife was
renowned for, and was wrapped in warm good humor. He greeted Keen with delight,
pressing a cup of wine on her till she took it to avoid offending him.

He watched her closely, so that she had to drink a sip or
two. Then, content, he sat back against the knees of his plump fair wife, while
the dark one wove a string of beads into one of his plaits. He was a vain man.
He never left his tent before he was properly dressed, his beard combed, his
thinning hair plaited.

He smiled at Keen and said, “Daughter, you’re as lovely as
ever I remember. Where have you been keeping yourself? Is your husband treating
you well?”

Keen’s anger, at least, burned away the tears. She was able
to return his smile, to shrug and say, “Well enough. He’s been kind to me, as
husbands go.”

“Good,” said Flint. “Good, good. And how’s that new wife of
his turning out to be? I hear tell, she refused every man of her own tribe and
most of the tribes round about, till her father threatened to give her to the
next man who walked into the camp.”

Keen sat still. She felt as if she had taken a blow to the
middle. When she looked for air, there was none.

At length she managed to find her voice. “You—knew that he
was—”

“Of course,” said Flint. “He’s been courting the girl since
he came to the gathering. I’ll wager he got her to accept him—he’s got a
honeyed tongue on him, that lad, and a smile to go with it.”

Keen stared at the cup in her hand. With a sudden motion,
she lifted it to her lips and drank it down. The wine was gaggingly sweet, and
strong enough to dizzy her. “The women haven’t talked about it at all,” she
said from somewhere remote and cold.

“Oh, they know, they know,” her father said with a sweep of
the hand that sent his cup flying. Wine splashed Keen’s skirt. She ignored it.
He, oblivious, said to her, “I suppose they keep their tongues leashed when
there’s a senior wife about. How does it feel to be that at last? Has the
girl’s father given you a nice big tent?”

Keen regarded him in despair. He did not understand at all.
Whatever hope she had had that he might prevail on Walker to send that insolent
child back to her father, vanished as Flint babbled on. Not only did he think
that she had known of this; he too obviously saw it as a good thing.

“It’s time,” he said, “that you had someone to wait on you
and look after the tent and do the things that servants do. Not that I blamed
you overmuch for not wanting servants when I tried to give them to you—a first
wife wants her man to herself for a while—but a year of that should be enough for
any woman. Maybe once the girl’s had proper training, she’ll give you time to
make a baby or two, eh?” He winked and nudged her in the ribs, nearly falling
over with the rush of wine to his head.

Keen steadied him without speaking. If she tried to say anything,
she would scream.

He staggered up, leaning heavily on her. He grunted, belched
richly, and patted her head. “You’re a good child,” he said. “Now I’d best go
and celebrate the bridegroom. Don’t forget: senior wife lays out the bridal
bed. A few flowers, a charm or two, he’ll do his duty for the nine days and
then come back to you—I’ll lay wagers on it. That’s a pretty girl, they say,
but nothing like my yellow-headed darling.”

She set her teeth at his clumsy stroking of her hair, stood
still and let him weave off in the direction of the Tall Grass camp, without
ever speaking the words that she had come to say.