“What do you want?” he asks, curious now.
“I have birthed my daughters,” she says, “and one begins to harden now. Her ribs are stiffening and soon her time will come. These nests that are my laying you have scattered, and she will have few brothers to tend her fields and her pastures and to fight for Hakonin hall. I will lay no more eggs, but she has not yet begun. Promise me that when she has birthed her daughters and it comes time for her to breed her nests, of which she must have many in order to harvest a strong clan, I can send for you and you will perform the ritual with her. The Hakonin nests will be of your making.”
“Only a male who is named may perform the ritual with a YoungMother,” he replies carefully. But he feels the course of excitement in his blood. These words, this pledge, once spoken, cannot be taken away. It is dangerous to take for himself what is the prerogative of Bloodheart and the other, the very few, named males. But this OldMother knows as he knows that he intends to be one of them, in time. He must only be patient and ruthless.
“Many seasons will pass,” says Hakonin WiseMother, “before I must begin my walk to the fjall and before she will take the knife from me and seat herself in my chair. Promise me this, and we will seal our bargain: your breeding for our nests, our sons and brothers for your army.”
“I make this promise,” he replies. “I seal it with the blood of my brother.” He whistles one of the dogs to him, curses it as it snaps at his arm, and grabs its collar to wrestle it close. Its breath, weeping with the broken eggs it has feasted on, hits his face like the breath of fetid summer wind. He cuts its throat and its blood pours out onto the earth in offering. When it sags, dead, he drops it to the ground, into its own blood, some of which has spattered him, mottling his chest and the delicate faience and gold and silver links of his long metal girdle, a thousand tiny linked rings flowing like water around his hips and thighs.
The OldMother bids one of her SwiftDaughters kneel before her. Then she takes in her hand the wealth of the daughter’s deep gold hair and cuts it off with a single efficient motion. “With this token I seal our bargain. Spin this and smith this and wear it when I summon you.”
He nods, accepting her bargain. Her sons and brothers lift their throats and the chill winter sun glints on smooth metal skin, copper, bronze, gold, and silver, and iron-gray. In response, he grins, baring his teeth and the jewels studded there. Tonight he will add another. For as it is said among his people, jewels are like boasts, hard to keep once they are displayed.
The SwiftDaughter carries her shorn hair across the forecourt to him, stepping carefully over her dead sisters and the broken shells of eggs, her never-to-be-born brothers. She lays the hair in his waiting arms, and he is careful not to stagger under its weight. No gold as pure exists anywhere, not even in the mines dug deep into the earth by the goblinkin. With this gold, spun and beaten, he will fashion a new girdle, one of his own making, not one granted him by his father’s strength.
o;It signifies my understanding of their ways,” he replies. “I can walk through their dreams.”
“You are one who has spoken with the WiseMothers,” she says. “I hear it in your voice and I see with their vision for they have shared this vision all along the fjalls. They have shared this vision with the bones of the earth. That you have the patience to find wisdom, and that you think strong thoughts. But you have no name. Bloodheart is a powerful enchanter. He has taken a name, as only enchanters may.”
He bows his head respectfully. He knows better than to contest the old laws that govern RockChildren. He is nameless, as is fitting, and yet did Alain Henrisson not give him a name? Did the human not call him “Fifth Son,” thinking this was a name? He will remain patient. Patience is the strength of the WiseMothers, as it is the strength of the earth.
From the pouch of skin at her thigh, Hakonin OldMother draws the knife of decision. “If my sons and brothers fight with you,” she says, “if we let our dogs run with your army and our slaves labor for Bloodheart’s purposes, what will you give me in return?”
“I have defeated you,” he replies.
“With this knife I crack the eggs.” OldMother lifts the knife so that sun glints off its black blade, a sliver of obsidian so smooth it is depthless and so sharp it can cut both bone and the stone-sheathing of eggs. “With this knife I winnow the weak from the strong, as do all my sisters to the north and to the south. This knife is the choosing of death or life, and you cannot defeat death, for you are mortal. What will you give me in return?”
“What do you want?” he asks, curious now.
“I have birthed my daughters,” she says, “and one begins to harden now. Her ribs are stiffening and soon her time will come. These nests that are my laying you have scattered, and she will have few brothers to tend her fields and her pastures and to fight for Hakonin hall. I will lay no more eggs, but she has not yet begun. Promise me that when she has birthed her daughters and it comes time for her to breed her nests, of which she must have many in order to harvest a strong clan, I can send for you and you will perform the ritual with her. The Hakonin nests will be of your making.”
“Only a male who is named may perform the ritual with a YoungMother,” he replies carefully. But he feels the course of excitement in his blood. These words, this pledge, once spoken, cannot be taken away. It is dangerous to take for himself what is the prerogative of Bloodheart and the other, the very few, named males. But this OldMother knows as he knows that he intends to be one of them, in time. He must only be patient and ruthless.
“Many seasons will pass,” says Hakonin WiseMother, “before I must begin my walk to the fjall and before she will take the knife from me and seat herself in my chair. Promise me this, and we will seal our bargain: your breeding for our nests, our sons and brothers for your army.”
“I make this promise,” he replies. “I seal it with the blood of my brother.” He whistles one of the dogs to him, curses it as it snaps at his arm, and grabs its collar to wrestle it close. Its breath, weeping with the broken eggs it has feasted on, hits his face like the breath of fetid summer wind. He cuts its throat and its blood pours out onto the earth in offering. When it sags, dead, he drops it to the ground, into its own blood, some of which has spattered him, mottling his chest and the delicate faience and gold and silver links of his long metal girdle, a thousand tiny linked rings flowing like water around his hips and thighs.
The OldMother bids one of her SwiftDaughters kneel before her. Then she takes in her hand the wealth of the daughter’s deep gold hair and cuts it off with a single efficient motion. “With this token I seal our bargain. Spin this and smith this and wear it when I summon you.”
He nods, accepting her bargain. Her sons and brothers lift their throats and the chill winter sun glints on smooth metal skin, copper, bronze, gold, and silver, and iron-gray. In response, he grins, baring his teeth and the jewels studded there. Tonight he will add another. For as it is said among his people, jewels are like boasts, hard to keep once they are displayed.
The SwiftDaughter carries her shorn hair across the forecourt to him, stepping carefully over her dead sisters and the broken shells of eggs, her never-to-be-born brothers. She lays the hair in his waiting arms, and he is careful not to stagger under its weight. No gold as pure exists anywhere, not even in the mines dug deep into the earth by the goblinkin. With this gold, spun and beaten, he will fashion a new girdle, one of his own making, not one granted him by his father’s strength.
“Alain!” his father said, and he woke from the web of dream and struggled to free himself of its coils.
He sat up to see light pouring in through the open shutters of the sleeping chamber he shared with his father and the hounds. Another lord might sleep with many servants in his chamber; the counts of Lavas could not.
“You were dreaming,” said Lavastine, standing now and crossing back to close the shutters. It was bitter cold outside; three braziers, a sinful luxury, burned in the room. As soon as the shutters closed, darkening the chamber, Alain rubbed his arms and shook off sleep. He rose and began to dress. Rage scratched at the door, whining.
“You were dreaming,” repeated Lavastine.
“I was.” Alain bound his calves with linen bands and then pulled on an undertunic of wool over his shirt, and his thick winter tunic, lined with marten fur, over all.
“The Eika again.” Lavastine always wanted news of the Eika.
Alain laughed suddenly, a short, sharp laugh, much like his father’s. Much like Lavastine’s.
The memory of his last glimpse of Henri still hurt, but not as much, not after two months. He was too busy here at Lavas Holding. Life went on at the fortress at a more sluggish pace in wintertime, but it went on nonetheless. He trained at arms, though he knew himself a coward. Next time it will be different. Next time I won’t fail in battle. He sat with his father as Lavastine spoke with his chatelaine, with his stewards, with his clerics, and with those few winter travelers who lingered a day or two in the warm hall of Lavas fortress before continuing their journey. Alain learned what it meant to be a great lord, what gestures to make, what polite phrases to utter, how to judge a visitor and greet him according to his station.