Tears of the Dead (36 page)

They looked to Aizarg, who nodded. The ropes went limp and the giant slumped coughing to the deck.

Always touching his arm, Su-gar spoke softly, as if addressing a child, “Promise me you won’t get angry like that again.”

He wouldn’t look at her.

She lifted his chin. “Promise me.”

Atamoda marveled at how Su-gar controlled him, absorbed his rage like a poultice draws venom from a wound.

“He touched you.”

“Promise me!”

“Spako promise.”

She removed the ropes and he stood, towering over the Lo.

Aizarg approached. “Spako, we can’t have any more of that, do you understand?”

“Spako promise Su-gar. Spako promise Uros.”

Ezra meekly walked around the mast. “Spako...? Are we friends now?”

A low growl rumbled in Spako’s throat. “Ezra is quick.”

Ezra grinned. “Spako is strong.”

Spako looked at Su-gar. “Friends?”

Su-gar beamed. “Friends!”

Spako turned to Ezra with childish glee and nodded enthusiastically. “Friends!”

Spako lifted the log in one hand and handed it to Levidi who, with both arms,
humffed
under its weight.

“Sorry, Levidi,” Spako shrugged sheepishly.

Okta laughed and slapped Levidi on the back. “Come on, let’s see if we can fix it.

Ezra and Su-gar took Spako’s hands and led him away.

“Spako is strong. Spako is hungry,” Atamoda heard the giant say as they vanished through the rain curtain.

The waves roared, the wind blew, and the rain pounded as Atamoda’s family sat down to finish their meal.

A few minutes later a sharp cry, followed by a moan, rang out from beyond the rain curtain. Atamoda and Aizarg rushed to Levidi’s raft to find Sahti lying on the deck, her head in Alaya’s lap. Xva knelt over his pregnant wife as blood gushed from between her legs.

“Atamoda, help her!” Xva pleaded.

Gods and mortals share an equal disposition for self-delusion.

T
he Chronicle of Fu Xi

***

A Day of Rains.

Atamoda knew a calm sea would make the task easier.

“The boat is small, but it will do.” She tried to ignore the faint rotting smell drifting up from the boat as she lined the bottom with handfuls of salvaged reeds.

“I need more reeds,” she remarked to herself, hands frantically flattening fronds across the slimy bottom.

“Levidi says there are no more.” Sana passed her a small handful of yellowed stalks.

Atamoda looked up, trying to focus across the empty Supply Barge where they knelt around the little boat Okta pulled off the storm wall. Kol-ok tried to donate his boat, but Atamoda would not hear it.

“Where is Alaya?” Atamoda asked.

“In her boat. She won’t talk to anyone, even Levidi,” Sana whispered.

Alaya had helped Atamoda as she tried to deliver the baby. She last saw her standing over Sahti, arms and torso covered in blood.

“Su-gar?”

“Washing and preparing the bodies.”

“Kus-ge?”

“I don’t know.”

Emptiness invaded Atamoda’s spirit. “Mother delivered Sahti; it was the first birth she let me assist.”

Sweat dripped from her brow as she stuffed more reeds into the boat, slapping them down and trying to make the yellowing strands lie flat.

But she couldn’t cover the rot.

“I couldn’t move her to the water. It happened so fast.” Atamoda snatched another handful of reeds. “I couldn’t turn his head. I’ve never delivered a child out of water before.” She shivered and wiped the sweat from her eyes. “I need more reeds. Sana, find me more reeds.”

“There are no more.”

Atamoda ignored her, scraping the deck with her fingertips for bits and pieces.

“I should have had Aizarg carry her to the Lagoon. In the water, I could have turned the baby’s head. I could have stopped the bleeding.”

“The baby was dead, Atamoda. There was nothing you could have done for either of them.”

“What do you know about birthing, girl?” Atamoda snapped.

Sana lowered her head.

Atamoda looked about, searching the decks. “Where are my people? I need reeds. More reeds. We can’t put them in here.”

Sana placed her hand on Atamoda’s shoulder.

Atamoda stared at her trembling arms, still covered in Sahti’s blood and then into the boat. She’d unknowingly smeared blood in the bottom.

Atamoda turned her gaze to Sana. “Where are my people?”

“They are here. You are not alone.”

“I can’t put her in there. It’s rotting. We need more reeds.”

“I will find more reeds.”

***

Sana knew nothing could have saved Sahti or the baby. In her young life she’d known several famines, when hunts and raids did not yield enough food for expectant mothers during the long winters. The following spring always brought a plague of stillborns.

“I will find reeds and finish the boat. Go lie down. If I need you, I will call you.”

Atamoda didn’t answer.

“Please, Atamoda.”

“You don’t know how.”

“I will find Su-gar. She will help.”

“It is my duty.”

“Let others share the burden.”

“So much blood. We must wash the deck.”

“The deck can wait.”

A scraping sound rose from the Minnow side of the Spine. Okta emerged from the rain curtain, closely followed by Spako dragging a boat. Kirabol limped behind.

Spako rested the good boat next to the rotting hull.

“Kirabol donated her boat for the funeral,” Okta said. “She’ll take up residence on Levidi’s raft. This one is longer and in better condition.”

Okta pointed to the old hull. “Spako, grab that boat and help me secure it to the storm wall.

Spako scooped up the little boat and lifted it over his shoulder.

“Su-gar has prepared the bodies. Summon us once it is ready, and Spako and I will carry it to the water. Aizarg is assembling the people around my raft for the funeral.”

Atamoda stared at the boat, not acknowledging The Master of Boats.

Sana looked up. “She will be alright. I won’t leave her. We will summon you when we are ready.”

Okta nodded and led Spako back through the rain curtain.

Kirabol stepped around the hull and picked up the bloody blanket used to birth the child. “Don’t wrap the baby or the mother in that.” She handed it to Sana. “Toss it overboard. Find a blanket, maybe two, to wrap the dead. I will stay with the patesi-le.”

Sana took the blanket. “All the other blankets are used by the living.”

“Go to Levidi’s raft and look next to the place where you sleep. You’ll find my blanket. Bring it here.”

Sana opened her mouth, but the hag’s expression deflected all argument.

***

Sana stepped lightly over others’ sleeping places until she came to hers. Other than Alaya, sobbing a few feet away under her boat’s canopy, Sana found herself alone. She briefly thought about consoling Alaya, but knew she must complete her task.

Sana found Kirabol’s blanket rolled tightly, Lo style, with both ends neatly tucked to keep water from penetrating and soaking the inside.

She imagined the old woman shivering at night without her blanket. It baffled her why Kirabol insisted on surrendering her blanket to the dead.

Sana sighed and reached for her own blanket, folded square and proper as if ready to be thrown over a horse’s back.

I am young, and Scythians are used to cold nights.

“It wasn’t mine anyway,” she whispered, remembering when Atamoda gave her the blanket shortly after she saved Ba-tor.

A hand grabbed her wrist. Sana whirled about, ready to strike, and came within a breath of Ghalen’s red rimmed eyes.

Ghalen placed a tightly rolled blanket in her arms. “Use this.”

He vanished through the rainwater curtain.

Sana examined the blanket, wondering where he found a spare. She pulled the cord and unrolled a small portion. For some unknown reason, she sniffed it.

It smelled like a man.

It’s his.

Sana made sure no one watched before completely unrolling it. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, buried her face in the warm, roughhewn flaxen, and deeply inhaled Ghalen’s scent.

She rerolled the blanket in Lo fashion as best as she could before sacrificing it to the dead.

***

Arms folded, heads bowed, Okta and Spako waited patiently as Atamoda prepared Sahti and her baby for their final journey. A fold here, a tuck there; Atamoda doted over little details as she molded the blanket over the mother embracing her child.

“I helped do this for her mother,” Atamoda said to no one in particular.

“We must take Sahti to the water.” Okta touched her shoulder. “Everyone is waiting.”

“She must be completely covered.” Atamoda would not be hurried.

“Others grieve, too. Xva stands in the cold rain. Kol-ok won’t leave his side,” Su-gar said. “Xva needs to see his wife and baby off to Heli-dar. Let Okta and Spako take the boat.”

“So much death,” Atamoda whispered. Su-gar embraced her from behind and helped Atamoda stand.

Atamoda gestured for them to take the boat. Spako shuffled to one end, Okta to the other.

“Careful, whatever you do, don’t tip it. Lift on three,” Okta said.

“What is this?” Kus-ge’s voice emerged behind them. She stepped forward and inspected the funeral boat.

“Go to my raft, Kus-ge,” Okta said in a low voice. “We’ll honor our dead there.”

“Yes, of course. But why, I ask, are we wasting a perfectly good blanket on the dead? Isn’t that a Minnow boat, too?”

“Go away!” Su-gar hissed.

“It’s a legitimate question.” Kus-ge ignored her. “I mean, there are so few to go around as it is.” Kus-ge reached into the hull as if to take the blanket.

Atamoda next found herself standing over Kus-ge, breathing heavily with balled fist. “Don’t...touch...her!”

The Minnow Patesi-le rubbed a red cheek, staring up in shock.

Like a cat, Kus-ge sprang so quickly Atamoda didn’t have time to bring up her hands. Kus-ge slammed Atamoda’s head against the deck until bright lights flashed in her vision. The Minnow woman fell upon her, pinning Atamoda’s arms down with her knees, and raining blows across her face and chest.

“Kus-ge!” Okta shouted.

Through blinding pain Atamoda saw hands reach for Kus-ge. Spako fell into a ball, holding his groin.

Atamoda tasted blood as the beating resumed.

A shadow darted to her right. Kus-ge’s leg snapped out again, and Okta landed flat on his back.

Kus-ge clenched Atamoda’s neck with crushing force, dark fire dancing in her eyes. “Never strike what you’re not prepared to kill, stupid bitch!”

The world faded, and then the pressure around her neck vanished. Air, sweet and cool, filled her lungs as light returned to the world.

Atamoda blinked, wondering why Kus-ge looked so surprised. Then she saw a thin black dagger drawing a crimson bead at Kus-ge’s jugular. Sana clenched a wad of Kus-ge’s hair, pulling her head back as far as it would bend. Kus-ge’s eyes bulged in shock.

“Touch her again, I beg you,” Sana whispered into Kus-ge’s ear like a lover. The wicked edge sank almost imperceptibly deeper as Kus-ge held her breath.

A drop of Kus-ge’s blood fell on Atamoda’s abdomen.

“Sana,” Okta held out his hand. “Let her go.”

“Yield or die.”

“I yield,” Kus-ge sputtered.

Sana’s next words were so faint Atamoda could barely hear. “Raise a hand against her again, and I will finish this.”

Sana threw Kus-ge to the deck and stood, licking the blade before sheathing it against her thigh.

Kus-ge staggered up, rubbing the bloody streak. “Atamoda struck first! I only wanted to teach her a lesson.” She pointed accusingly at Sana. “The Scythian is dangerous. You saw what she did to me!”

Okta pointed to the Minnow side. “Go to your boat, Kus-ge. We’ll deal with this later.”

Su-gar helped Atamoda up and examined her. “A few cuts and scrapes. Are you hurt anywhere else?” She looked up at Spako. “Go fetch Aizarg.”

“No.” Atamoda waved her off. “We must commit our dead.”

Atamoda turned to thank Sana, but the Scythian had vanished.

Okta and Spako picked up the boat. Supported by Su-gar, Atamoda led the pallbearers through the rain curtain toward the waiting mourners.

The final dagger given a Scythian Maiden is Death, with which she will defend her last breath and deny her body to her enemies. Vengeance and Death are the Black Blades, common to all daughters of Scythia.

The other three daggers, known as the Silver Blades, the maiden names herself. Forged to protect what she loves, in these she instills her secrets.

T
he Chronicle of Fu Xi

***

As the Lo mourned Sahti, Aizarg held council deep into the night with Kus-ge and Ba-lok. Dawn brought another Day of Rains and vows of reconciliation from the Minnow leaders. Atamoda had her doubts, but survival demanded she concentrate on the needs of the moment. This morning began Sana’s training as patesi-le of the Turtle and Isp of the Lo people.

Atamoda’s throat still ached; yellow and black bruises testified to Kus-ge’s rage. She tried not to think about Sahti or the fight as she attempted to focus her thoughts on Sana’s training.

“This presents a difficult situation,” Atamoda scanned the jumble of odds and ends scattered in front of her; strands of frayed rope, a few bits of reed, leaves, and a handful of dried herbs from her healing pouch. “I’m not sure where to begin in your training.”

Sana stood with her back to her, arms folded and leaning against the mast. “Where did yours begin?” she asked absently, staring across the Arun-ki.

Atamoda sensed rage still smoldering behind the Scythian’s glare.

“I am not the daughter of a sco-lo-ti, so I started late. Setenay formally took over my training as a patesi-le when I was about your age, after my father arranged my marriage to Aizarg.” Then a thought occurred to Atamoda.

“What do you know of healing lore? Perhaps that is a good place to start.”

Sana turned around, eyebrow raised as if Atamoda had asked perhaps the most ridiculous question possible. “Unlike our men, most Scythian women learn to both kill
and
heal. I’ve stanched enough blood and fought enough infections to know the uses of weed and root, both of the steppe and
Limita
. I’ve seen your bag of herbs, most of them are known to me.”

I see it now, so clearly. The way she folds her arms, the arch of her brow, the fire in her eyes. She is undoubtedly Setenay’s blood.

“Of course. Well...” Atamoda struggled to find a place to begin. “We can’t very well take a stroll along the shore, can we?”

“No. We can’t do that.”

Her easy manner with Sana evaporated in the wake of the Adoption Ceremony. Everything had changed, and now Sana had built a wall around herself, one Atamoda didn’t know how to penetrate. The confrontation with Kus-ge only aggravated matters.

“Healing and midwifing is at the heart of being patesi-le.”

“As it is for a Scythian
kotiama
.”

“I...I didn’t know.” Atamoda had heard many terrible stories of the
kotiama
, the Scythian witches.

Sana’s expression turned icy. “The steppe is a hard life, our lore and craft acknowledge this fact. Food does not swim up under our tents, begging to be caught. The grasslands deliver death to our yurt, not fresh water and cool breezes. The weak die, the strong thrive. Still, there is a place for mercy...” Sana paused. “…or
was
.”

She paced back and forth like a caged animal, nervously fiddling with a hem of her thigh length loin cloth. “Unlike the Lo, who throw about their mercies without thought or consequence, the Scythia believe mercy must be
earned
.”

Atamoda lowered her head, knowing her words unwittingly struck a raw place in Sana’s spirit, a place that hadn’t begun to heal.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone you were Setenay’s granddaughter?”

Sana frowned, as if the answer obvious. “I am a captive, a slave taken in conquest. My name has no honor.”

“But you are Setenay’s granddaughter! That alone gives you great honor for both Lo and Scythia. The Uros himself chose you to marry a sco-lo-ti, and be his Isp. There is no greater honor.”

Sana spun around, throwing her hands up in the air. “
Honor?
” She clenched her teeth and tugged at her hair. “I do not understand you Lo! I never will. What do you know of me other than The Lady of the Water gave birth to my father?

“I am not Setenay. I am not Lo.”

“You
can
be.”

“You cannot change the scales of a snake by calling it a worm, nor a fox by calling it a dog. You can call me an Isp, and marry me off to a man who likes himself more than most, but it won’t change who I am.”

“By the Lo right of mercy, you are one of us now.”

“Mercy will be your undoing.”

“Mercy is part of who we are, as much as the sea.”

“Atamoda!” Sana shouted, making her jump as if she’d been lashed. “Wake up! Open your eyes. Even the sea is trying to kill you. Your sultry lagoons are gone, the isolation among the tall reeds vanished. The sea is the new g’an. It is wholly unmerciful.”

“I don’t...” Atamoda stammered.

Sana knelt. Heads turned to watch them from the edges of the Supply Barge.

“Do you not see the poison festering in your Arun-ki? Aizarg brought perhaps the vilest man on the steppe among you. Virag is wholly unmerciful.”

Atamoda didn’t like the Scythian questioning her husband. “He did what he thought best.”

“He is a fool!” Sana turned her back to Atamoda.

Drawn by raised voices, people began to rise and approach the two women, including Aizarg and Ghalen.

“My husband is not a fool.”

“If your husband had been thinking, he would have let Ghalen slit Virag’s throat the minute we found him.”

“It is not our way.”

“Make it your way if you want to live.”

After a long pause, Atamoda finally said, “He spared you, didn’t he?”

The Lo encircled them, spectators to an unexpected drama. Ghalen looked on, grim faced. Aizarg stood impassively, hands resting on his staff.

Sana stood, stepped back a few paces, and turned to the patesi-le. “What do you know of me, Atamoda?”

It occurred to Atamoda she knew very little about Sana. She had been an empty vessel, quietly accepting whatever expectations Atamoda poured into her.

“You are Setenay’s granddaughter and the woman who saved my child. You have shown mercy.” Atamoda tried to sound confident, trying to convince Sana and herself her expectations were reality. “You protected me.”

Sana’s arms dropped to her side, shoulders suddenly relaxed. She became like stone, flesh without so much as movement or quiver. Her breathing seemed to stop entirely. Sana transformed into something alien. The girl had made a decision, though what decision Atamoda could only guess.

“Do I frighten you?” Sana whispered.

“Yes.”

Atamoda shuddered as Sana glanced at Ba-lok and gave a wicked little grin.

Aizarg brought a she-wolf among us.

Sana whirled about. Blades flashed like the lightning.

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

Two daggers sank into the deck a hair’s breadth to either side of Atamoda’s thighs, the third between her legs so close to her groin she felt the air flee from the blade.

Sana’s cold eyes provided a terrifying backdrop for the fourth blade as it hovered inches from Atamoda’s face.

“Ba-lok has seen me like this, haven’t you...
cousin?
”

Atamoda glanced at the Minnow’s sco-lo-ti, who sneered back at Sana. Sana’s mirror image, Kus-ge breathed heavily, lustfully.

“Sana,” Ghalen held out his hand pleadingly. “Don’t do it.”

From behind Aizarg, Levidi and Kol-ok appeared, spears in hand; but the Uros pressed their spear tips down.

“Is this how you repay our kindness, Sana?” Aizarg said. Atamoda didn’t hear fear in his voice, nor urgency, only a strange calmness.

Sana ignored him, eyes locked on Ba-lok. “Do you know what we were doing when we found Ba-lok on the steppe?”

Atamoda barely shook her head, each shallow breath bringing her flesh in contact with the icy blade. All vestiges of Setenay had vanished. Before Atamoda crouched a killer, a she-wolf ready to tear her throat out.

A Scythian.

“I accompanied my brother, Prince Tuma, on a raiding party. Scythian women accompany men on raiding parties for only one reason.”

“You were to be married!” Kus-ge exclaimed in breathless epiphany.

“Before I could feel a man inside me, I had to slay an enemy of my tribe.

“While searching for my brother and our horses, we found this fool sleeping exposed under a tree on the highest ground for miles. We were taking him to my village, where I would sacrifice him with
this
dagger on my wedding night.” She waved the tip terrifyingly close to Atamoda’s eyes. “With
Vengeance
I would cut his throat, spilling his blood under a full moon.”

“Sana,” Aizarg spoke slowly, softly. “Come away from Atamoda.”

“Do you still want to grant me mercy, Atamoda? Am I still worthy?” She looked around at the surrounding crowd. “Will you accept me as your Isp now that you know who I am?”

“I know who you are,” Atamoda whispered. “You are Sana, the woman who saved my son’s life and granddaughter of Setenay. You said you trusted her wisdom.”

“See, she is dangerous.” Kus-ge pushed her way forward. “Someone kill her!”

“There will be no killing,” Aizarg said.

The heat ebbed from Sana’s glare as an almost imperceptible tremble shook her knife hand.

“I am
Vengeance
, a burning fate thwarted by a Nameless God.” She withdrew the blade from before Atamoda’s eyes and returned it to the thong.

Atamoda began to breathe again as Sana yanked a knife from the deck.

“I am
Hatred
, relentless in the pursuit of my people’s enemies.” The blade slid into its appointed place.

The blade between Atamoda’s legs, buried deep in the wood, would not pull free so easily. Sana twisted it, gritting her teeth and spitting out her words as if they were sour bile. “I am
Honor
, for which I am now bound to a strange god, a strange people, and a strange man.”

The blade came free, leaving a splintered gouge in the deck. She glared up at Ghalen. “For Honor,
Death
is denied me. For Honor, I am a captive and slave.”

The blade joined its companions.

Sana reached for the blade to Atamoda’s right, but it was gone.

“Sana,” Ba-tor whispered, holding the dagger in both hands. “You dropped your knife.”

She took the knife and placed it in her thong. Tenderly, she caressed Ba-tor’s cheek and kissed him on the forehead. “I am
Love
. It is for love that I will lay down my life for my tribe, and for my family.”

Desolate, she turned to Atamoda. “Who am I? I am the last daughter of Scythia, and I mourn my family and people whom I love, every bit as much as you love yours. There are not enough ashes in the Arun-ki to ease my pain.”

The Lo silently stepped aside as Sana walked away.

Aizarg knelt beside Atamoda. “Do I need to intervene?”

Atamoda couldn’t quit shaking. “No. If she wanted to kill me I’d be dead.”

“Mommy, is Sana sad?”

Atamoda embraced Ba-tor. “Yes, baby.”

***

Mesmerized, Ghalen watched the woman he would soon call his wife pass by towards the Lagoon.

Levidi nudged him. “Is Doinna looking better now?”