Lady of Horses (35 page)

For an instant, with that sacred thing pressed against her
bare skin, she was the horse, the fine grey mare whose hide this had been.

Pain brought her back to herself. The pot was dye, deep
blue. The bundle held needles. Old Woman had pricked Sparrow’s breast and set a
drop of blue dye there.

Sparrow still had no power to resist. She lay, gritting her
teeth until they ached, while Old Woman pricked swirling signs in her skin.
They wound around her breasts and down her belly, spiraling above the thick
black hair of her sex.

With the pain, as it went on, came not outrage but the same
strange sensation that she had known in the cave—but greater. These signs, each
one marked in tiny drops of blood, were like the opening of eyes to see.
Breasts that in their time would swell with the milk of life, belly that would
grow great with children, dark tangle of curls that guarded the opening of the
womb—where a man would go, and set the seed that would grow into a living
creature.

Old Woman took most of the day about it, working tirelessly,
exactly, never wavering, never wandering astray. Sparrow surprised herself by
sleeping a little, but mostly she lay in a kind of dream, open to the sun and
the wind and the voice of Mother Earth beneath her.

As the sun sank low, Old Woman pricked the last intricate
spiral. Sparrow’s body stung, and yet it was not so much pain as a tingling, an
awareness of something new, something powerful.

She could move at last. She sat up gingerly, trying not to
touch skin on skin. Old Woman put away the needles and lidded the pot, stood up
and walked away without a word.

Sparrow had expected that. In any case she was not
particularly minded to talk to anyone. She felt strange. She looked strange.

She still did not feel like a shaman. Only the painful
beginning of one.

oOo

Sparrow rode out the morning after Old Woman set the
shaman-marks on her, put on her coat with flinching care, took the mare and
went away. Old Woman did not seem dismayed, nor did the stallion, who was
grazing high up on the hill.

He lifted his head and called to the mare. The mare ignored
him. He went back to cropping the sunburned grass.

“She’ll be gone a while,” Old Woman said. “And so will we.
Come, child. We’re going walking.”

“Would you rather ride?” Keen asked, mindful of Old Woman’s
long labor the day before. She looked tired this morning, Keen thought; thin
and a little transparent, though her voice was as strong as ever.

Old Woman shook her head. “We’ll walk. Unless you’re too
tired?”

Keen almost laughed. Her belly was swelling, she could
swear, from moment to moment, but she was as strong as she had ever been. She
put on her coat, for the wind was brisk, and plaited her hair tightly, and took
up the basket that Old Woman had filled with an interesting assortment of
things. Old Woman had her own burden: a filled waterskin and a smaller basket,
the contents of which Keen did not see.

So laden, in bright sun but, with wind, far colder than it
had been the day before, they walked out of the camp. They followed the stream
that watered the foot of the hill, until it led to a larger river, and then one
still larger. This guided them for a goodly distance.

It was somewhat past noon when Keen saw what they must be
going to: the smoke of campfires, and sounds so familiar her heart ached.
Cattle lowing, a horse’s whinny, human voices both deep and shrill.

There was a camp in the bend of the river, tents and branch
shelters spread across a broad level. The herds grazed up and down the river,
spotted cattle and flocks of goats, and not far from the camp itself, a herd of
horses.

Keen regarded them in astonishment. There were duns and
blacks and bays, but most of them were greys, like the royal herd of the
People. Just like: sturdy, solid-footed horses with surprisingly elegant heads,
and eyes that would meet hers if they caught her staring. Their stallion was
the largest horse she had ever seen, a great white creature like a mountain of
cloud.

She was glad then that they had left the king stallion at
home with the goats. Royal he might be, but he was young, and by no means ready
to challenge a stallion of such size and strength.

oOo

As they approached the camp itself, children came as
children would in every camp, shouting greetings, calling to their elders that
there were visitors—or so she supposed; she did not understand their language.
They were small dark people as she had expected, with black curly hair and
bright black eyes. Their elders were much the same, the women plump and
full-breasted, with broad hips; the tallest men not even as tall as Keen, but
thrice as broad, with heavy shoulders and thick black curly beards.

They all stared at her. To them she must have looked like a
young birch-tree, tall and narrow and pale.

A woman strode toward them from among the rest, not the
tallest or the broadest but easily the most imposing. Her greeting was in
trader-tongue, her smile warm, welcoming Keen as well as Old Woman to the camp
of the Grey Horse People.

It seemed she was, of all things, a king. A king who was a
woman. Remarkable. Her tent was not particularly large; this was not a rich
tribe. But it was comfortable and its appointments were of good quality, and
the food and drink she offered were excellent. Children served them,
dark-haired boys and bold-eyed girls, looking as if they were sore tempted to
giggle when Keen looked at them. She must seem very strange, with her yellow
hair and her blue eyes. One or two of them managed to touch her hair, trying to
be unobtrusive, but she could hardly be unaware of them.

They made her smile. She had missed seeing children; how
much, she had not known until she came here. Indeed it was like rain on dry
land to see people again, even strangers with dark eyes and round brown faces.
They all looked like Sparrow, after all.

Old Woman and the king spoke in trader-tongue, out of
courtesy, Keen was sure. It seemed mostly to be talk of small things, the
doings of the tribe, the weather, the state of the hunting. Keen ate roast
venison and stewed roots and bread finer than any she had had before, and drank
warm milk laced with honey, and listened in a kind of white contentment.

The tent’s front was rolled up to let the light in and let
people passing by see who sat with the king. Many people did pass, too, with
open curiosity.

One came in, a young woman who sat and dipped from the pot
and joined in the conversation as if she had every right to do that. Her name
was Rain, Keen gathered. She was close kin to the king, and of high position—a
shaman, or something like it. Keen was fascinated to notice that she was with
child, round and rich like the moon, but she walked about as freely as a man,
and made no effort to conceal herself in a tent.

Not long after Rain came, a man joined them. Like Rain, he
acted as if he belonged there. He was young, perhaps no older than Rain, though
it was not easy at first to tell: his beard was thick, and made him seem a man
of some years. But his eyes were youthful, and the cheeks above the black
curls. Keen tried to see the face under them, the broad cheeks and square jaw.
It was Rain’s face, strengthened into a man’s, she decided: not outrageously
beautiful but distinctly good to look on, and warmed by those bright dark eyes.

He had caught her staring. She flushed and looked away, but
she could not help herself: she glanced quickly back. He was smiling at her.
There was no mockery in it, only warmth.

All sense and courtesy would have bidden her lower her eyes
and keep them there, but his smile was irresistible. She had returned it before
she thought.

He left the others, who went on talking as if he had not
done anything remarkable, and came to sit beside her. She could not shift away
without seeming terribly rude.

He at least did not press too close. A man of the People,
seeing such a bold stare as hers, would have been either terribly offended or
unsuitably attracted; and she had not meant to do it at all.

He certainly was not offended. He did not try to rape her
where she sat, or to kiss her, either; in fact he offered nothing improper
except his presence.

“A fair day to you,” he said in a lovely deep voice. It
turned the trader-tongue to rolling music.

“And to you,” she murmured, almost too late for politeness.
Her cheeks were hot. Except for Wolfcub and her father, and Walker after he
chose her for his wife, she had spoken to few men, and never in such
circumstances. Would he be thinking that she was a wild woman, free for the
taking?

“My name is Cloud,” he said. “Old Woman calls you Keen-Wind-in-the-Grasses.
Yes? That’s a lovely name.”

“I thank you,” she said, more faintly even than before.

There was a silence. It was terribly uncomfortable. Keen
wished she could leave, but he sat between her and the tentflap. She would have
to climb over him to escape.

Then he said, “It must be terribly dull to sit here
listening to gossip of people you’ve never met. Would you like to see the
camp?”

Keen started to shake her head, to decline, but Old Woman
said heartily, “Yes! You go, child. Cloud will bring you back when it’s time.”

They were all smiling and nodding, as if it were nothing
improper at all for a man to play host to a woman not his wife. Cloud had risen
and drawn her to her feet before she could say a word, holding her cold hand in
his warm strong one, and leading her out like a child.

When they were in the sun, Keen slipped her hand from his,
as politely as she could. He did not seem offended. In a cloud of curious
children, they walked through the camp.

oOo

It was a small tribe, and not rich, but it had enough to
eat this season. No one was sick. The animals were in good flesh, the young
ones lively, and there were a good number of them, cattle and goats and horses.
Even the camp dogs were not remarkably ribby, and more than a few of them
seemed to have places beside fires or near tents.

It was a warm place, Keen thought, like the man who led her
through it. He was the king’s heir; not that he said so, but the way people
spoke to him, and the air he had of pride in these people and concern for their
welfare, told her clearly what he was. They paused more than once to meet this
person or that: a woman weaving grass mats, a man making a pot of rolled clay.
They were all gravely courteous.

None seemed surprised to see her, though her bright hair
made them stare. Keen might not have dared to ask, but Cloud was a comfortable
companion—almost too much so. Before she had thought, she said, “Everybody seems
to know who I am.”

Cloud smiled. She rebuked her heart for leaping when he did
that; he had a wonderful smile, that lit his whole face and sank deep in his
eyes. “We all know about Old Woman’s guests. Everyone is delighted to meet you
finally. It’s been a struggle to keep the children from running off and doing
it themselves.”

“I would wager,” Keen said, “that some of them have been
spying on us for days.”

“A few of them have,” he admitted. “So you knew?”

She shook her head. “It’s what I would be tempted to do.”

He laughed. It was infectious: Keen found herself smiling.
He blinked as if dazzled. “You should smile more often,” he said.

She bit her lips and looked away.

“There,” he said in quick regret. “I’ve insulted you.”

She should have kept quiet and found a way to escape, but he
was so contrite and so troubled that she said, “You haven’t insulted me. It’s
only—I don’t know how to talk to a man. We don’t learn, you see. I had a
friend, he was like a brother, but when I grew up and married, we weren’t
supposed to be friends any longer.”

“That is sad,” Cloud said.

“It is the way it is.”

“Not here.” He slanted a glance at her. “How horrified would
you be if I told you that you are beautiful?”

She must have been blushing scarlet: her cheeks were afire.
“A man never tells a woman such a thing! Unless—”

“Unless?” he asked when she did not go on.

“Unless he has . . . intentions.”

“Wicked ones? Kindly ones?”

“Wanton ones.”

“Well,” he said, “I do. But only if you share them.”

“Oh!”
It was a
gasp, trying hard not to be laughter. She was not supposed to laugh at such
terribly wicked words. And yet the way he said them, the brightness of his eyes
under the strong black brows, the smile just revealing itself through his
handsome curly beard, made her want to do and say things that were absolutely
improper.

And she a married woman with a child in her belly. Men were
not supposed to see such things, but he would have to be blind not to mark the
shape of her. Did it not matter to him?

He was certainly aware of his own attractions. Those were
considerable. He walked like a stallion, light and proud, and with the same
conviction that the world was made for his pleasure. And, even more, that he
was made for women’s pleasure.

She had not met a man like him before. Among the People, men
were either properly restrained or given to falling on women without regard for
honor or civility. A man who looked on a woman with frank desire, but did not
leap on her immediately thereafter, was unheard of. And for him to say as
much—outrageous.

Worse, she did not turn her back on him and stalk away. She
stayed, there on the edge of that alien camp, and let him admire her. She knew
she was beautiful, she had always been told so. Her hair was yellow, her eyes
deep blue; her face was pleasing to men’s eyes.

These eyes were more direct than any that had ever rested on
her, even her husband’s. Walker had looked at her often, but never entirely
seemed to see her. She was a face to him, a form, a pair of eyes. This man saw
beneath them. His warmth touched her heart.