White Mare's Daughter (53 page)

“But what if I want to be a
father
?” he said. “What if I want that?”

“How many uncles do you know who were mothers’ bedmates when
their children were conceived? I suppose they’re fathers, too. They raise the
children, teach them what they need to know, make them fit to serve the Lady.
Would you do anything different?”

Danu shook his head.

“So,” said Tilia. “What are you moping about?”

“Things are changing,” he said. “The life we’ve lived for
generations out of count, the ways we’ve held to, the very way we think—it’s
all going to be gone. Changed. Made different.”

She shivered herself; he saw her. But she betrayed no fear.
“If things are changing, then it’s laid on us to make sure that they change for
the better—or that if the worst does happen, it’s less terrible than it might
have been.”

He could not think of anything useful to say to that.

She struck him on the shoulder with a hard fist. “Look at
yourself! You’ve learned about war. You’ve learned about this thing called a
father. You’re riding horses. You’ve changed. And you’re still you. You’re
still Danu.”

“Am I?”

“As near as makes no matter,” said Tilia.

oOo

She left him with much to think on. Not all of it was
dark. That much she had given him.

He thought on it while he did his duties in the Mother’s
house, and while he practiced on the field, and while he crept toward mastery
of riding the Mare. He even thought on it while he lay in Sarama’s arms, though
she gave him little enough time for thinking.

She ripened with the summer’s coming, a bloom that one who
knew could not mistake. Her breasts were fuller. Her belly rounded. And one
night, while they lay side by side, he felt a flutter that woke in him a
sudden, incredulous joy.

He looked up into her startlement. She looked as if she
would retreat, coiling into herself, turning away from him. But he would not
let her go. “I’ve known,” he said.

Her hand sought her middle. He did not think she was aware
that she did it. “How—?”

“One knows,” he said, “if one can see. You were afraid to
tell me. Why?”

She shrugged. He thought she might not answer, but after a
long pause she said, “I was afraid it might die. And . . . you
might tire of me. And not want to—”

He shocked himself by understanding. “Is that how it is in
the tribes? A woman gets with child, and the man she chose—who chose her—turns
his back on her and goes elsewhere?”

“No,” she said. “No, it’s not like that. It’s . . .
she grows huge and unlovely, and he leaves her to grow the child in peace. He
has other wives. You—I suppose you have to get another woman to choose you.
Since—”

“That is the most appalling thing I have ever heard.”

She stared at him. He did not suppose she had ever seen him
angry before. He seldom was. But this—it gnawed at his belly.

He tried to make it clear to her. “When a woman is with
child, when she swells with the Lady’s gift, she is the most perfect that she
will ever be. She is the living image of the Lady. All that the Lady is, is
embodied in her. She is sacred; she is blessed.

“And the man whom she graces with her regard—he shares the
blessing. He stands beside her. He supports her when the weight of the child
grows heavy. When the birthing time comes, he is there; she bears her child in
his arms, and he takes it, and consecrates it to the Lady. Then he too is
blessed, and beloved of the Lady.”

Sarama frowned. “The man—the father?”

Danu shook his head. “No. The man whom she chooses. It may
be the one who was with her the night the Lady kindled a child in her. Or it
may not. She may choose that one for his beauty or his wit or his gift of
pleasing a woman. But the one who stands beside her, who will be uncle to the
child—that one she chooses for his gentleness and his strength. He will raise
the child, you see. Only the best and the most steadfast may do that.”

“I—can choose another man?” Sarama asked, as if she could
not believe such a thing. “I have to choose another? What if I don’t want to?”

“You don’t have to,” Danu said as patiently as he could.
“You can if you wish. It’s your right. Your duty to the child, to give it an
uncle who will raise it properly, chide it when it needs chiding, indulge it
when it needs indulging, teach it the ways of the people. That one need not be
the one who shares your bed in the nights. He is for your pleasure. The uncle
is for the child’s sake.”

“Like—” She was trying; struggling, but trying. “Like when a
man has a beautiful wife, but she has little skill for being a mother. So he
gives his son a nurse, one of his other wives maybe, or a sister, or a
daughter—someone who can raise it as it should be raised.”

“Only sons? What does he do with daughters?”

“Daughters don’t matter,” she said.

“Daughters are everything here,” Danu said.

“I hope it is a daughter,” said Sarama fiercely. “I want it
to be a daughter. Here of all places in the world—here she can be all that she
was meant to be.”

Unless the horsemen won the war, and only sons were allowed
to matter. But Danu did not say it. Saying it would give it too much strength.

Instead he said, “I’ve been asked often to be a woman’s
bedmate, but never to raise her child. I’ll not be wounded if you find
another.”

She took his face in her hands, tangling her fingers in his
beard, so that he could not move or look away. Her eyes burned on him, as if
she limned the lines of him in fire. “Why hasn’t anyone asked? Because you’re
beautiful? Does beauty forbid a man to bring up a child?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Do you think it does?”

“I think,” she said. “I think . . . I
wouldn’t know where to look for a nurse for this baby. You’ll have to do.”

“I could find—”

Her finger stopped him. “Don’t be ridiculous. I want you.
Maybe it’s a terribly ill choice, but it’s my choice. Are you going to argue
with it?”

“No,” he said. “Oh, no.”

“Why?” she demanded. “Because you were brought up never to
argue with a woman?”

“And because I want it,” he said. “Yes, I want it. I want
this child in my arms. I want to be its uncle. And—and its father. There’s
never been a father in the Lady’s country before. I’ll be the first. I pray
I’ll do it well, and not shame her or harm her people.”

She kissed his brow, his cheeks, his lips. “You will always
do well,” she said.

That was the Lady in her, speaking through her. He felt the
power of the blessing, the strength of that regard. It swayed him, buffeted him
as if it had been a great wind. It swept his heart clean, and emptied him of
doubts.

Those would come back. He knew that. And yet for this night he
was pure in his faith, content in the Lady’s arms, blessed and beloved.

After the time of the sowing, when the first green shoots
had thickened and begun to grow tall, just at the threshold of summer, a guest
came to Three Birds. Sarama had been in the temple, resting in the quiet,
content in the Lady’s arms. As she came out she met the Mother coming in, bent
on the same errand.

They paused on the threshold. The Mother’s smile was warm:
astonishing always after the coldness that Sarama had known in Larchwood. Here
Sarama was welcome. Here she was even, if not loved, then looked on with
affection. Maybe it was for Danu’s sake; maybe, after so long, a little for her
own.

They did not say anything of consequence, she and the
Mother. They seldom needed to. There was understanding between them.

The Mother was more like her son than maybe he knew. His
beauty he must have had from the father that no one here would acknowledge, but
the rest of him was hers.

Gentleness and strength. Yes. And a warmth that people came
to as if it had been a fire on the hearth. All that family had it, even blunt
uncompromising Tilia.

Sarama, whose spirit blew hot and cold in the winds of the
world, luxuriated briefly in that warmth. It made the day brighter. The true
wonder of it was that the more she shared it, the more of it she had.

The Mother went out about her business. Sarama went in about
her own.

She found Danu at the bread-baking. The flour was ground,
the bread made and set beside the hearth to rise.

He greeted her with a swift and brilliant smile, but he did
not leave his duties. Nor had she expected him to. She wanted to watch him,
that was all, and maybe lend a hand if he needed one.

She had learned some while since where one might sit or
stand and be out of the way. He was used to it now, no longer so
self-conscious.

The others, the menservants and the Mother’s acolytes,
reckoned Sarama a madwoman, but a harmless one. They were glad of another hand
now and then, and not inclined to object that it was Sarama’s.

It was a comfortable place to be on this bright morning. It
would be warm later, but it was cool still. The sun shone through the opened
shutters. The breeze that blew in was fresh, and sweetened the air inside. The
smoky closeness of winter was nearly all gone.

As she lent a hand with the cleaning of a fine catch of fish
from the river, one of Danu’s sisters called from the outermost room. She put a
lilt in it that spoke of strangers in the house, guests from elsewhere—traders,
Sarama expected; they all stopped here to pay courtesy to the Mother.

If these were traders, they had precious little to trade.
There were three of them, two strapping and silent women, and a third of less
bulk and even less volubility.

Sarama knew them all. The silent ones had come to Three
Birds with her in the winter, and had left as soon as they arrived, eager to
return to their own city. The one whose escort they were had not grown less
wintry in her expression since spring warmed the earth.

“Catin,” Danu said in what sounded like honest surprise. He
slanted a look at this servant, a brow at that. They moved quickly to lead the
guests in, relieve them of their packs and their walking-staves, ply them with
food and drink and every comfort that the house had to offer.

Then at last he could sit with them and ask the question
that had been burning in all their minds. “What brings you to Three Birds?”

Catin had not looked at Sarama past the first, sweeping
glance that took in the whole of her, and stopped and held at the swelling of
her belly. Yet as she answered Danu, her eye flashed sidewise at Sarama.
“News,” she said, “and a warning. With the new moon, a message came from the
forest people.”

“The forest people?” Danu’s brows were raised. “What, a
message from a myth?”

“They are real,” Sarama said without thinking, and before
Catin could speak. “Strange people. Their language is nothing like yours, or
ever like mine. They look—different. Like stones: heavy and solid, as if they
grew out of the earth.”

“Yes,” Catin said, as if the word had been startled out of
her. “How did you know them? Are they a legend to you, too?”

“I saw them,” Sarama said. “I was a guest in one of their
villages. Two of them guided me to your country.”

“No,” said Catin, and the almost-warmth that had been
between them, however briefly, was gone. “They would never do such a thing.
Their world is even more fragile than ours. The news they bring—they can never
have welcomed it. Horsemen massing on their eastern borders. Camps spread as
far as the eye can see. And more coming, day after day.”

Sarama had expected it. Had waited for it. And yet . . .

“So soon?”

“The forest people say,” Catin said, “that the gods from the
steppe sent out the call, and all the tribes have answered.”

So soon
. This time
Sarama did not say it. Catin sounded grimly pleased, as if she was glad to be
proved right; to know that Sarama had indeed come bringing the war behind her.

The others did not seem quite to understand what this meant.
Even Danu was much too calm. He said, “Gods can move quickly when mortals are
willing.”

“But,” Sarama said, “when I left, there was no—”

“You left,” said Catin. “What was to keep the rest of the
tribes from following you?”

“The Lady,” said Sarama.

“Did she promise you that? I saw
people learning to fight as I walked into the city. Why teach them, if she’ll
keep the tribes away?”

“You can,” said Sarama, “either castigate me for bringing
the war or condemn me for trying to keep it away. Not both at once.”

“Ah!” said Catin. “You speak well.”

Sarama gritted her teeth at the condescension in Catin’s
tone. “I have had good teachers,” she said sweetly.

“He is, isn’t he?” Catin sat back in the chair that was
reserved for guests and sipped the sweet mead, first of that year and very
fine.

In the uncomfortable silence, Danu said rather too brightly,
“The Mother should be here soon. Will you be staying long?”

“Long enough to sleep,” she said. “Then I have to go back.”

Danu nodded. He showed admirable restraint in not remarking
that her city would have great need now of lessons in fighting.

Sarama could hardly say it if he would not. She held her
peace therefore, and waited impatiently for the Mother to come and set them all
free of this uncomfortable gathering.

oOo

The Mother came at length with stately grace and freed
Sarama and Danu to escape to the inner rooms. The servants fled behind them.

“I don’t know why,” Sarama said when they had taken shelter
in the kitchen, “but I simply cannot like that woman.”

Danu sighed. “I think the dreams so overwhelm her that she
sees nothing else. And she thinks of you as the cause of them.”

“I am not,” said Sarama.

“Knowingly,” he said, “no. Nor willingly.”

Sarama opened her mouth, but shut it again.

He inspected the pot that hung over the fire, tasted its
contents, crumbled in a little of something dried, green, and fragrant. He had
not looked on her with hatred, nor did he seem greatly troubled.