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respected, she was Agelast, but Marghe never saw her smile, never saw her reach
out and pat someone s hand while they talked, or lean her head on another s
shoulder. None shared her bed. Even the Levarch and her family, Borri, and her own
daughters, Marac and Scatha, were kept outside, unable to reach through her
solitude.
Out on the plains with Marghe, Aoife seemed content. Marghe understood that,
too. Grief was not a spectator sport. After her mother had died, she had spent hours
roaming the Welsh hillsides, her only company the sheep that still lambed on the
bleak hills in spring. But Aoife s was a constant grief, a wound that could not heal:
Uaithne was still alive.
Once, when they were alone with the herd and the wind, Marghe cut out a limping
taar from the rest and dismounted to check its hooves. Aoife reined in and joined
her. Marghe lifted the beast s forefoot to look at the tender spot.
Tell me why he s limping, the tribeswoman said.
I think it must have been ice. Gone now. She let go of the leg and slapped the
taar on the rump. Aoife nodded approval and then went to her saddle pack and took
out a palo. She held it out to Marghe.
You know enough to have this.
Marghe hefted it in her hand. It was as long as her forearm and thick as a spear
shaft, made of polished hardwood. Near one end was a carving of a horse. Not a
shaggy Echraidhe mount: Pella.
You made this for me?
Aoife said nothing. Marghe flicked it experimentally; it snapped into a slender pole
almost two meters long. Another flick of her wrist telescoped it back in on itself. She
did not know what to say. Wood was precious, but it was not only that: Aoife had
made this, carved it, polished and stained it in secret. For her.
Aoife held out her hand for it, showed Marghe the tiny leather strap at the end.
This is to secure it for traveling.
Marghe did so, then fastened it to her belt. It hung to mid-thigh. She ran her finger
down the carefully stained wood. Aoife, thank you. But Aoife was already
swinging back into her saddle.
On their way back that afternoon, they saw a figure galloping away into the
stretching white at a furious pace. Aoife bowed her head, as at some old hurt, and
Marghe knew it must be Uaithne.
Where does she go at such a pace?
Aoife turned her face away as if she had not heard.
Chapter Seven
« ^ »
EACH DAWN BRIGHTENED later and later. Aoife started taking Marghe far out
onto the plains, past the grazing grounds, beyond the sight of smoke from the fires.
They used their palos to clear away patches of the hard-packed snow and the
tribeswoman showed Marghe a world she had never dreamed existed. A world of
frozen ice moss, of fist-sized scuttlers called ruks, of the snow worm. She learned
how to catch the worm, how to bite off the tail and drink down the viscous, sugary
fluid until all that was left was an empty, flaccid skin, like a lace. That could be
toasted and eaten, or used like a leather thong. They ate ruks, too, but these Aoife
had to catch. Marghe, though she was learning to use a sling, was hopelessly slow
compared to the hard-shelled snow crabs. Perhaps because they did always defeat
her, she disliked the taste: the flesh was greasy, acrid enough to bring tears to her
eyes. Aoife made her eat it because it was good for her bones. Marghe, remembering
the vow she made herself to stay as fit as she could, complied.
Sometimes they just rode, eyepits stained dark against the snow glare, while Aoife
told stories of Tehuantepec before the coming of the tribe. Tehuantepec, she said,
had long ago been a plain waving with grass, peopled by dark spirits. Marghe
wondered about climatic change. On cold nights, Aoife continued, when these spirits
still roamed, they might trick an unwary rider from her horse, then eat her, or the
horse.
Marghe asked about the stones.
They have always been, Aoife said, shrugging. They were there before we
came, will be there long after the plain has returned to a sea of grass. Every year,
she said, they went there to feel the magic, to thank the spirits that sang every spring
and made the grass grow and the taars quicken. The spirits in the stones sang all
year. Listening, Marghe remembered their electromagnetic hum.
Sometimes Aoife told stories of tribal honor, of raids on the Briogannon, another
tribe who dwelt on the plain; of raids on the herds of Singing Pastures and, in times
past, on the forest gardens of Ollfoss.
But why not just make trata with other communities? Marghe kept wanting to
know. You d both benefit. She had seen how small their population was. They
needed trade, cultural diversity. Genetic diversity, too, though she did not know how
that worked. Without the taking of strangers like herself, they might die out. They
might die out anyway.
Echraidhe do not stoop to trata.
Why not?
We take what we need, not bargain like farmers, Aoife would say. The old
ways work well enough.
Old ways are not always the best ways.
And Aoife would shrug and fall silent. Moments later, she would begin an
instructional tale about the Echraidhe code of tribe before self. In such a hostile
environment such a code was necessary for survival, Marghe knew; she had
encountered it on the harsh world of Gallipoli, in old Scottish clan ties of Earth. She
wondered what needs Aoife subjugated for the good of the tribe. She found the
complexities of such an honor code hard to sympathize with. Aoife was always
patient. Selfishness is for younglings, she would say.
Sometimes, when even Aoife admitted the weather was bad, they would sit in the
yurti. Marghe held the wool for Aoife while she wove, or helped her mix with water
the acrid powder that was stored in the foretent: Aoife told her it was made from the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]