The Birthgrave (20 page)

So fast now, and so dark. The speed incredible, everything a blur. But I ripped the shield off my arm, half my skin coming with it, and as I saw that bright orange dart go over us, I flung the shield and brought it and the arrow down, harmless, and in their path.

The shield jounced and broke under the horses' hooves, and slowed them as they avoided the Sogothan wreck. Now, on that fifth lap, we were ahead.

We broke from the smoke first, and the terraces pounded their hands and yelled. I saw the red flags waving—many more than at the start. Around, and near the String, wholly stretched now. But we must not go past that fire with them again.

Bellan, where do you sit? With your master Raspar, who is near the Warden? Give me your hate, Bellan. And I will do it. I must not hit the man, the horses, the archer—that is the law of the Sagare, though who would guess it? But the chariot, and the things of the chariot, are all mine.

Amusing—I noted dimly the Sollish car was so far behind, it was in front of us on the Straight.

I turned, and stared backward, leaning on the bar, the plain-flighted arrow already set.

One hope only. I am more than you.
Bellan, watch
—! I shot. The arrow ran up, silver against blue, dipped over, fell. I guided it more with the eyes than with the hands which had loosed it.

And it struck.

It
struck.

A scream, a roar from the terraces, men and women leaping to their feet, howling their savage joy, for I had it—the classic shot of the Sagare—I had sliced Essandar's reins in two.

It is possible for a man to save himself when his reins snap, but not easy, and now impossible. He was moving too fast, leaning out across his team. The thrust, which had held him steady, now pulled him forward. The one rein still wrapped around his fist dragged him up, over the boss, across the backs of his team, a tumbling, blue, shrieking thing, held a moment between the running horses, then down beneath their hooves, and after that, beneath the wheels of his own chariot.

The bays ran a while, then stopped, shivering, until the grooms came for them.

We rode that last sixth lap alone, fast for the joy of it, not because we must, and the crowd sang for us as we ran.

If there are gods of the Sagare, how they must laugh. Darros of Sigko, scarlet for Ankurum, the Victor. And his second, Gillan of Solls—second because there was no other left to ride for it.

9

MORTAL, NOW YOU ARE GOD

It is hard at first to believe you are not, after you are named Victor. They will not let you remember your clay. Naturally, it is the charioteer who is king, but I had leveled with Darak in my own way—with that last shot.

“Trust the bitch to undermine me,” Darak remarked, grinning, to Maggur, when at last we were free of the cheers, ovations, thrusting crowds, golden wreaths, and had come away with our prize money. Much had happened since the end of the race, but it was cloudy and unreal. Now Darak was taking me to one of the physicians' rooms—taking, for I did not want to go. I imagined there might be others there—the remains of them, groaning and shrieking, but in fact it was very private. We were, after all, the Victors. One empty clean room, and one physician. He peered at my left arm. The skin was already almost closed around the broken-off shaft, but the head was in deep. He frowned over the fast healing wound, and sterilized his knife. Strange, I had scarcely been a woman in that race, and had not felt the pain. I sat and held my arm for him quite thoughtlessly, and the moment the knife slit open my flesh the agony struck through my whole body like a white-hot spear.

I opened my eyes again, and found he was done with me, having bandaged both left arm and right, where I had ripped the skin tearing off my shield. Darak and Maggur were gone.

“I sent them out,” the physician said sternly. “They made more fuss than you, young woman. When it was bad, you, at least, had the good sense to faint and save me the trouble of holding you down.” He was straightening his things and washing his hands. “There's your arrowhead. You could sell it for ten silver pieces. And your hair, an inch or so would fetch a good price. The classic shot.” He grunted and did not look very approving. I suppose he had worse cases than I as a result of Ankurum's Games.

When he was gone, I lay still, in a kind of torpor, heavy, not sleepy, melancholy after the passion and fear. After a while I unclipped the left armlet, which was bothering me, and the little dry vine leaf fell onto the couch. I picked it up and at once it crumbled in my fingers. I had prayed to her in the manner of men, and she—had she heard? Was it she who had granted us the race, and granted me Darak's life? Yet I had killed—Essandar. I had known he would die. What did she think of me now, that little doll-goddess in the hills?

I got up, wondering where Darak had gone, anxious to shake off the fastening depression that had fallen on me in the aftermath.

I pulled aside the curtain and went out into the corridor beyond. There was no one there. Everything was very quiet. I was suddenly, irrationally afraid. I did not even recall the way we had come. Then footsteps. I tensed. Around the left-hand corner came a limping shadow, over its shoulder a fall of dark cloth.

“Here,” Bellan said, “take this cloak and put it on. I rejoice you're not ashamed of your body, but it causes some interest too much.”

I took the cloak and wrapped myself in it. His face was dry and closed and very weary; he seemed to bear the look I felt beneath the shireen.

“A good race. And you won your shot. I knew you would. The practice track is one thing, the Straight another.”

“Bellan,” I said softly, “I am sorry I took your man. He was not mine to take.”

Bellan shrugged awkwardly, for the shrug comes from the arms, and the hands too.

“I was glad to see him go—like that. Not even dead, I hear, but not much left. Even less—” He broke off. “For two years I have lived to see that man served as I was served by him, lived for it, lived because of it. And now”—he shook his head—“it's done.”

He began to walk, and I followed him.

“The streets are packed,” he said. “We'll get out as swift and quiet as we can. I sent your Darros on ahead. You'll have enough of the mob tonight—the Warden's feast for the Victors of the Games.”

* * *

We went to Raspar's town house, which was small, and not even particularly elegant. I bathed, and lay quiet while the giant woman from the villa beat the bruises out of me. Then I slept. Waking, it was sunset, the brassy red splashed all across the white walls. I had not seen Darak since the physician had cut into my arm, and I did not see him now. Three strange women came and told me they would dress me for the Victor's feast. I felt so tired and dull and empty, and it seemed as if I were going backward in time to the evening of the agent's supper, which had begun it all.

I must robe as a woman, it appeared, but in the chariot's colors. They had three dresses ready and wanted me in scarlet silk, but I took instead the black velvet—a new fashion, and beautifully draped. Besides, its long close sleeves would hide my bandages. They dressed my hair, curled and plaited it, and strung it through with bright red beads like drops of blood. The shireen they had brought was incredible—black silk, embroidered around the eyes with scarlet thread. They had been even quicker than those others with the white dress.

I sat for a while after they had gone, then left the room and went down the narrow stairs to the round hall. It was empty, except for Raspar, pouring himself a little wine at the porphyry table. He paused and bowed to me.

“Good evening. Pardon me, I have not yet congratulated you on the race. I hope the arrow wound is not bad?”

“Thank you, no.”

“That's good. Essandar is dead; did they tell you?”

I said nothing. He said, “Has Bellan informed you about the feast? Ah, well, you and Darros will ride in your chariot through the streets to the Warden's mansion, lit by torches. There you will eat and drink, and receive various quite superfluous honors, in company with the other victors, and show yourselves from time to time on the large balcony. The Warden's garden will be open to the people, and there will be free wine and meat. It will be noisy and probably tiresome. But there—” He came toward me, lifted my hand and kissed it as he had that first night. “Hard to believe this is the harlot-boy of the chariot—oh, forgive me, but how else can I express it? I know you are Darros' property, so I'll not press any flatteries on you. Besides, what would I do with a woman like you in my household?”

“I am not Darros' property,” I said, “nor he mine.”

“As well,” Raspar said, “he has been with a lady since the race ended. Still, bad of me to try to tempt you that way. You must know him by now. The white bird calls, and he flies into her tree. But you are the nest, tribal princess. I think you know it.”

His words seemed to make little sense. I was restless and uneasy. I crossed the room to one of its windows, and stared out, over the winding streets and leaning roofs, to the twilight.

At that moment Darak came into the house, Darak, Ellak, Maggur, Gleer, and a half dozen others. He was very bold now with his host, having won his race for him. I turned and looked at Darak. He, too, wore the chariot colors—scarlet, black, and gold. He looked a god still; he was not drained or staled. He strode to me at once.

“Did that sour-faced knife-monger get the arrowhead out?”

“Yes.”

“Don't you want to know what I've been at?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Well, then, with some silly bitch, but profitably so. Her husband has his racers, too, it seems, and there are other Games to come, in Solls and Lascallum. How do you like me as a charioteer?”

Was this some madness on him? Did he not recall what he was? And his men behind him, listening, hearing this threat of desertion—I glanced at them, but they grinned like stupid dogs. Perhaps this was some new game. His long black hair was a little shorter than I remembered. He sensed my eyes.

“They'll buy it,” he said. “Oh, but it wasn't sold. A woman sent begging for a piece of it.”

He took my hand, turned and saluted Raspar for the first time—yet it was the salute of the chariots.

“The torchbearers are at your gates, and the grooms have the chariot out.”

Raspar raised the cup, and watched us go with slightly narrowed eyes, out into the falling night.

Ten torchbearers, their brands flaring dull gold, the chariot, drawn no longer by Raspar's blacks, but by three ebony plodders dressed up to look the same, and escorting black horses for Darak's men.

“Tonight,” he said to me, “I'll get Ellak's brawling fools from the Warden's dungeons—as a Victor's boon.”

We were in the chariot, but it no longer had the feel of life to it. Its soul was gone, or asleep. Slowly we wound down the streets to other broader streets, and there linked with other torches and colored lanterns, and the procession of Victors on their mounts. In this glimmering, limping way, we coiled like a serpent, upward toward the fortress-house of the Warden.

More and more people, milling into the open squares before the mansion, and into the gardens at its back.

The laughter and shouts went through my body and brain like knives. I heard them roar for Darak, and the cries, “The tribal-woman!”

It was empty. No longer was I a god in that place.

* * *

There were ten pillars at the Warden's portico, and ten more inside, all marble, gilded at the capitals and bases, and inlaid with blue mosaic. There was a great sense of bright light, smoke, movement, and twanging music from little harps. We reached an upper-story room, enormous, running the length of the whole mansion, open at two ends, where massive pillared balconies leaned out, one over the squares, the other over the gardens. The room was golden—all gold. There were frescoes and paintings on floor and ceiling, but I do not remember them; their figures seemed all mixed in with the people in the room. Beyond the balcony hung the dark blue night, split occasionally by pale blue lightning, and below, a sea of colored lamps, torches, and roasting fires.

There are many victors in the Games at Ankurum; boxers, acrobats, fighters, but the places at the high table, where the Warden sits, go to the winners of the horse races, the chariot races, and the Sagare. The plates are enamel and gold, the cups black jasper set with semiprecious stones. What you eat off is yours to keep, and women in transparent gauze come by from time to time and lay little trinkets at your elbow—gold knives and pins—all useless toys, but pretty enough.

Darak was seated at the Warden's right hand—the place of highest honor! By his side was a beautiful woman with pure golden hair that seemed natural though one could not be sure of such things in Ankurum. On the Warden's left sat Gillan of Solls in his white, grinning to himself now and again, possibly at the irony of his position. I, as the archer who had taken the classic shot, sat beside Gillan, and Gillan was very wary of me, overgracious in a bluff, rough way, and silent for the rest of the while. Other charioteers and racers, and I suppose Gillan's archer, ranged down the table, interspersed with the beauties of the Warden's court. I do not remember any of them. To be courteous and appear to eat, while eating as little as possible, was preoccupation enough. I felt ill throughout the courses and was uncertain of the reason. The hall seemed burning and miasmic.

We sat along one side of the table only, and below us the other tables stretched out, noisier and less formal than ours. Darak's men, the few he had brought with him, were in among that throng, guzzling and gnawing. I hoped vaguely there would be no trouble, for the Warden's guard, as was usual enough at such a function, were arranged thickly around the walls, particularly at the Warden's back. I watched his fleshy ringed hands neatly skewering his food. The pains began in my stomach.