What has there been, to this Man’s life of yours,
but war
upon Woman?
Anonymous
Kasara’s Plea
They left Dulcet’s under a gunmetal sky. Sleep, food, baths and clean clothing hadn’t dispelled the gloom that had settled over them. Dulcet had been restrained with Angorman, pitying him; the incident had underscored an earlier rift in their lives. She said her good-byes with determined reserve, and went to see to the burial of her nephew, and the summoning of the justiciary.
Going south, the party ran into increased traffic, commercial and military. They threaded their way past carriages and around boat-bodied wagons, and saw a column of light cavalry that had halted while its rittmaster bartered with a food vendor for rations. The brassard of the Order and transit letters got them by unimpeded. A wide river valley brought them to the borders of Glyffa where, as Gil had heard it, women ruled.
The frontier guardpost contained only two sentinels. They were helmeted women in ringmail hauberks covered by blue tabbards. They carried cross-hilted hand-and-a-half swords, and one held a glave, the other a bow. Both bore themselves in martial fashion with a succinct, no-nonsense air. There was a wooden gate blocking the road, but the women made no move to lift it. Gil had expected Andre to parley, but the pudgy wizard hung back.
“This border is closed to all,” announced the glave carrier.
“And might one inquire why?” asked Angorman.
“War. It has overrun Veganá, and come into Glyffa. The men of that nation were driven into our territories by invaders from the Southwastelands.”
“And what will Glyffa do?”
“My own opinion, you mean? Make common cause with them, most likely. As may be, this border is sealed.”
“It’d be a cakewalk to sneak in or out by staying off the road,” Gil pointed out.
“Those who attempt it will find it risky business. We have our safeguards. But enough; you cannot pass, and must perforce turn back.”
“Our avowed way lies ahead, to Veganá,” Angorman replied.
The bow was drawn, the polearm raised. “Your chosen path has led you on hazardous ground, stranger,” said the archer softly.
Gil broke in, “Hold it, whoa. Isn’t there somebody we can talk to? It’s really important.”
It was enough like concession to placate them. The arrowhead lowered a degree. “Our High Constable, administrator of the region, is due here later today. You may make your plea to her if you will. But heed: On that side of the barrier must you remain.”
The travelers tree-hitched their horses, then made themselves comfortable on the grass at the side of the road. The guardswomen re-entered their station house, peeking out often to check up on them.
As the party passed waterskins around, Gil noticed autumn hadn’t touched here yet. Angorman sat cross-legged, drawing a hone across his axe blade with the patience of years. The wizard sat like a Buddha, staring out over Glyffa. Ferrian went aside a few paces to lie down and study clouds, head pillowed on his arm. Woodsinger took the child and suckled her.
“How’s it happen to be women in charge here?” Gil asked Andre. The honing stopped a second, while Angorman gazed at the wizard. Gil hadn’t caught what had passed between them.
Andre was a storyteller, always enjoying it, but now he had a distracted, unwilling look. Gil had heard that Andre’s mother was from Glyffa, but he’d never asked either of the deCourteneys about it. Glyffa was just one more obstacle between Gil MacDonald and Yardiff Bey.
Andre got started. “This was a place not much worse or better than most, over a century ago. Its king paramount was young and headstrong, named Sunfavor. Handsome, vain, doughty fighter, he thought himself irresistible to women. His fancy lit on a courtier. Promised to another, she refused him. Her name was Kasara.
“He grew wroth. To his own end, he instituted legal sanctions against the rights of her sex. To him rallied men who concurred with him, or stood to gain by his new laws. Soon, a woman couldn’t own property, choose her own mate or cite any birthright. To travel required consent of father, husband or brother. She was forbidden reading, writing and numbers. Aye, and speaking out in public, too; that pleased many men.
“Women who resisted and men who objected were squelched. Kasara escaped with her fiancé, who was a resourceful fellow, I suppose. She might have changed things with a word and a brief surrender, but did not. Well, she was in love, you see, and her lover could not bear the thought any more than she.
“From her exile she reviled Sunfavor; that provoked even greater excesses. Suppression became slavery outright. Two aborted insurrections led to mass arrest and wholesale slaughter. Women were chattels, as cattle would be. Old evils appeared, the piercing Virtue Ring, the locked chastity belt, whispered moronisms about women’s cycles and life-change. Punishment was meted for the simple misfortune of infertility.
“Worship of the Bright Lady was, of course, outlawed. Even the Brotherhood could not alter that. Sunfavor left his mark forever, making his name and country an obscenity on the lips of any sane person.
“Late in life Kasara reappeared at the direction of dreams sent by the Goddess. She declared that neither sex could rule the other, any more than the right hand could chain the left. Kasara went unhindered, protected by unseen powers. A day came when she entered Sunfavor’s courtroom.
“She bade him end his crimes. He blanched with fright, and struck her down with his scepter. A funeral pyre was built. The King lit it himself. Her husband lay in chains, proscribed from interfering, though it might have been within his ability.
“Flame blossomed. The final wrong was done.
“When it was finished, the Bright Lady made herself manifest to all of Glyffa. They shrank from her in sudden anguish. All her glory was made into blinding fury.
“Sunfavor’s mind snapped. He threw himself on the pyre and was consumed. The Bright Lady mandated that for one hundred years, men of Glyffa were to meditate on what they had done. They would bear no arms, hunt no game, eat no meat, own no property and do no harm to anyone. They were never to ride, nor take a wife. They could engender children, but never know them.
“So that is the Mandate of Glyffa, and why its men are monkish and withdrawn. But when the Mandate ends, and men have searched their consciences, they will reveal what form they think life here should take. That is called the Reconciliation. Until then, women conduct the country’s affairs.”
Something occurred to Gil. “Wait, you’re from Glyffa, aren’t you? How’s it you’re not under that Mandate?”
The wizard’s face closed up. “My sister and I have our own destinies to follow, given long ago.”
Gil rolled over on his back, sucking at a blade of grass. How much of that was legend, how much verbatim truth? In the Crescent Lands, bald-faced lies and unlaundered gospel were equally likely.
Ferrian correctly saw the dust cloud to be cavalry. A troop came at the trot, drawing up to the checkpoint. Its leader alighted.
She was taller than her two sentinels. Like them, she wore a long hauberk, but her helmet was a brightly polished bascinet with white, spread wings fixed to its sides. Throwing back her billowing sky-blue cape, she uncovered a wide belt of tooled leather with bronze filigree. From it hung a hand-and-a-half sword and gleaming dagger sheath. Removing her helmet, she asked her guardswomen questions while they pointed to the party from Coramonde. Her skin was a light olive, her face open and high-cheeked. A dark birthmark spilled down from the hairline over her right ear to her collarbone.
She gave her women permission to dismount and rest, then came to the travelers. Her blue-black hair was pinned in mounds to pad her bascinet, Gil saw, and as she scrutinized them her face creased, flashing white teeth. Her brown eyes had a heavy-lidded look, but her posture was unsparingly correct.
“What is your business in Glyffa?” she asked.
Once more it was Angorman to the barrier. “Our endeavor enjoys the auspices of the Crescent Moon.”
She inspected the brassard on his slouch hat. Her mouth pursed in thought, lips fuller than when she’d narrowed her eyes at them. She tugged off mailed gauntlets and leaned her elbows on the gate. Her hands were graceful, and slim. “What bona fides do you offer?”
“May I ask to whom I speak?”
“I am High Constable of Region Blue, this Region. Yourself?”
A deep bow from the Saint-Commander. “Angorman, of the Order of the Axe.”
Her eyes widened. “I thought you might be. We have only had tales of you here. Is that Red Pilgrim then? The original one?”
He smiled benignly. “There is only one. But I am unused to your warm clime. If we might continue our conversation inside—?”
She straightened and gave a thumbs-up behind her. The gate swung away. They all trailed her into the checkpoint building. Andre had Blazetongue, wrapped, on his shoulder.
There was a spare sort of mess hall there, built for more troops than used it now. She seated herself at a bench, inviting them to do the same, keeping her dark birthmark to the wall.
“We have spread ourselves thinly along the border. I suppose that much is evident. Most of my troop strength had been reassigned southward. I am going there myself, directly.”
Gil spoke for the first time. “Your—your guardswomen said there’s been some kind of invasion.”
She checked him over frankly. “The men of Veganá have been thrown back over our border by Southwastelanders. We have made common cause with Veganá, not a moment early. Now, what errand takes you through Glyffa? I must have the tale.”
“We are on our way,” Angorman said, “to bring this child back where she belongs.”
“And why is she so important?”
“Because she’s connected to this,” Gil answered, taking Blazetongue from Andre. He unwrapped it and held it out. Andre had assured them they could trust the women of Glyffa; they might as well find out.
She didn’t try to take Blazetongue, but ran her fingertips down the rune-written blade, perhaps seeing if it would burn at her touch. She whispered the sword’s name.
Gil nodded. “They used to call it Flarecore in Coramonde. This goes home too.”
She looked from weapon to child. “We had heard the last survivor of the Royal House of Veganá had been spirited away months ago. A baby girl, she was. This is the same?”
“Without question,” Angorman stated.
“Then, there will be jubilation in that beaten army.” Her brow furrowed in thought. “But this transcends my authority. You cannot be turned back, and I certainly shan’t allow you to go unaccompanied with Southwastelanders abroad. Ah, Red Pilgrim and Blazetongue side by side, when they are most needed. What a goddess-sending! I live to see interesting times.”
“The way to Veganá is closed?”
“Veganá is occupied soil. Still, the tide of battle will ebb after it carves its sea-marks. We Sisters of the Line have withdrawn and withdrawn, beckoning the Southwastelanders onto ground we chose. The battle will begin soon; I go there with my contingent.”
“Do the Southwastelanders not overextend themselves?” Angorman asked.
“We think so, for they have moved up every man for this coming fight.”
“What about Death’s Hold?” Gil interrupted.
She shrugged. “What of it?”
“We heard it was reoccupied, that Yardiff Bey was there.”
“No. Or rather, not now. Death’s Hold had been cleared of enemies in years long gone by. Months ago, activity began there again, but we were too busy to go in and dig the troublemakers out. Then, less than a week ago, the Mariners landed in strength. Our news is that they cleaned it up, dispersing the evil there.”
So, the Mariners had made good their promise to pursue their enemies wherever they had to. Gil wondered if that meant Dunstan had been taken somewhere else; it didn’t sound as if Yardiff Bey had been located. The High Constable knew nothing of his whereabouts nor had anyone sighted his demon-ship, Cloud Ruler.
Gil pondered. Did it mean Bey had never been in Death’s Hold? He’d hidden out with Newshield after his flight from Barthfast, failing to find the secret he’d hoped to uncover in his copy of Arrivals Macabre. Where had he gone from there, back to Salamá? But what about the insights of the Dreamdrowse? Muddled, the American tried to rearrange the new data to make some sense.
The High Constable was saying, “You must continue your commission under my protection. Whatever is left of the government of Veganá will be with my Liege, the Trustee. Thus our two paths are one.” She stood, tucking her gauntlets through her belt. “We leave in short order.”
Everyone concurred, glad for escort. Gil thought about going off on his own to Death’s Hold, but she’d sounded definite, telling him it was now empty. Besides, there was the Faith Cup.
Andre was watching him, knowing what he was thinking. “If Bey is hidden, should you not look for him where his minions are most numerous? If a Southwastelander army is assembled, his attention must bear on it somehow. Your direction still lies with ours.”
Woodsinger and Ferrian were puttering around the child’s rack, talking about rigging a dustcover for her since she’d be in the cavalry column. The High Constable gauged the light as her troops scurried to their horses.
“We have another three hours’ light before we must stop,” she judged. To the two sentinels she commanded, “This border’s clear to the west; do your duty here as best you can. Do not throw your lives away foolishly if numbers are against you; you are a watching detail only.”
They lifted their hilts in salute. She turned, slipping an arm through Angorman’s elbow on one side and Woodsinger’s on the other. “By the Lady, but the men of Veganá will be delirious with these tidings!”
The travelers got their horses, joining her at the head of her column.
“Excuse me,” Gil remembered to ask as they moved out, “what do we call you?”
“I am Swan,” she threw back over her blue-caped shoulder.
The ride was punctuated with clinking accouterments, tintinnabulation of bits, beating hooves on the Tangent and the slap of scabbards. It was interspersed with walks to rest the horses, and occasional stops for water. Swan had a single-minded approach to her job.
They camped as the sun was setting. Swan stood to one side, hands clasped behind her back, to insure that her troops were fed and squared away to her satisfaction. The Sisters of the Line, regular soldiery of Glyffa, were as proficient as any Gil had seen in the Crescent Lands, but made less banter than most.
That night, Angorman conducted a ritual of worship to the Bright Lady. Woodsinger joined Swan and most Sisters of the Line. Against his habit, Gil lingered near, watching along with Ferrian and Andre. The service was subdued, much given to silent prayer and meditation, but there were sweet songs too.
It ended with each worshiper going off to spend time alone. Gil went to check Jeb Stuart and found Swan standing by the picket line, blue cape pulled around her. Memories jumped up in his face of the Lady Duskwind, whom he’d met under similar circumstances. Where he’d been about to talk to Swan, he turned away, propelled by recollections and brooding.
Their breakfast was hard biscuit and strips of dry, plastic-tasting jerky. Gil used a stiff little pig-bristled brush he carried to clean his teeth, but the brackish taste remained in his mouth. He decided not to shave; he usually let his beard go for a few days before using the sliver of a straight razor he had. But he never let his beard hide the powderburn on his cheek, and kept his hair trimmed back from the scar on his forehead. Seeing them in his reflection was a regular reminder he wished to maintain.
He knuckled his eyes, and saddled Jeb, yawning. Rubbing the scar, he tried to estimate how much closer he was to Yardiff Bey today than yesterday.
“Which way’s Death’s Hold?” he asked Andre.
The wizard pointed westward. “There, along the shore of the Outer Sea. We’ll be going away from it soon.”
Gil gnawed his lip. Andre added, “If Bey’s at Death’s Hold, he will be there for a time to come. But if he is behind enemy lines, he may not be there for long. You have set the most likely course.”
“Why should he be with the army? Why wouldn’t he sneak through in one of his disguises or use magic? Or even fly in, in Cloud Ruler?”
Andre averted his glance, muttering. “His arts are less efficacious here. Rely upon it; he will not use his demon-ship, nor wish to employ spells.”
Swan came to them. “We link up with my Liege in four days, but there is a stretch of ground to cover.”
Gil watched the sunrise. Time and distance from home, hanging over him from the service of the preceding night, descended without warning. His parents’ faces were hard to summon up, his brother’s impossible. Had the transition to this Reality deadened him down inside, where his feelings lived? Or did it have to do with his single-mindedness, hunting Bey? He fingered the chain that held the Ace, shook the mood off and mounted.
The day’s ride took them down through a forest of venerable old lindens that hadn’t heard an axe in generations, then across a dry, arid plain of red earth and brown scrub. Toward evening they came into a string of shallow valleys where narrow streams moved quickly. They saw lumbering supply trains bound southward, weighted with supplies for the war effort. It was odd to see a sweating teamster cuss out her horses, and have a broken strap on Jeb’s headstall repaired by a handy-woman quartermaster sergeant.
He drew no conclusions about the men of Glyffa, because he met none. They were there to be seen, usually in groups, cowled and cloaked, walking silently along the side of the road, but they eschewed contact with anyone but themselves.
They moved hard again, all through the next day. Terrain became drier and weather hotter. On the third day they passed once more into lands that were well watered. They pitched camp in a stand of pine where beds of dead brown needles muffled hoofbeats, their mounts kicking up clots of them packed with black humus.
The American had seen to Jeb. Passing a large boulder up-cropping in the middle of the bivouac, he noticed a man sitting on it. Gil was sure the guy hadn’t been there when they’d stopped, but couldn’t understand how he’d gotten through the sentry cordons.
A young man, the stranger sat on the rock, slightly above the American’s head, resting buttocks on heels with hands on knees, like a judoka waiting for a match. He wore a simple green robe and torque of weighty, twisted gold cable around his neck. He was lean, with the olive skin and straight, coal-black hair of Glyffa, trimmed at his shoulders. His feet were bare, used to constant walking. He was somehow familiar, but not in a way Gil could pin down. He exuded inner calm.
Gil found the Browning had gotten into his hand. He put it away with chagrin. Though others had noticed the man now, there wasn’t any outcry. Presently, Swan arrived. The visitor slipped down to sneak to her. Gil figured out what that vague familiarity had been.
“Jade,” she said, “brother, how good in my heart to see you.”
“Sister, it is good.”
“What brings you here, Jade?” Swan’s brother was the first Glyffan male Gil had seen up close, aside from Andre, who was obviously the all-around exception. He stuck around.
“I saw your troop as I meditated in the hills, and came down, thinking it might be you. What has come to pass? Your aura is of battle.”
“You know that is not for you to ask, brother. The hour for men to enter everyday affairs is not yet.”
“Yet we may think, Swan. What will we find?”
She answered, “When the Mandate is done and you men have made your decision, what shall we women discover?”
His eyes were veiled. “The last of the old have died, or will soon. The Mandate will be complete, and you will know our minds.”
His glance caught the American. Gil had been puzzling over his last remark, thinking it might have something to do with Andre; now he held himself carefully, watching Jade.
“You move in rarefied circles now, Swan,” her brother told her. “Here I see a restless Seeker, who outdoes us all.” He backed away, only half talking to Gil. “You have come a far way, and have even farther to go.” His right hand went through a rapid, intricate Sign. Then he went to Swan, who presented her cheek for his chaste kiss. He strode from camp.
“Odd dude,” Gil remarked to fill the silence.
She made a sound, neither agreement nor objection. She had half-turned from him, used to keeping her birthmark from the sight of others. He moved casually to stand to her left; she relaxed perceptibly.
“Not like yourself at the very least, eh?” she replied. “We are permitted little contact with male siblings in Glyffa, but Jade searched me out from curiosity about our mother. She died birthing him, when I was young, but I remember her well. He and I have spoken, oh, five times or more now. A very close relationship, in Glyffa.” She clasped her hands behind her back, head tilted down, debating whether she wished to finish. She did.
“I brought the column by this route, some small measure from its way, because, for some reason, I wished to see him. I knew he would probably be up among the hillsides; his favorite places are there.”
“What was that hand-signal thing he did to me before he went?”
“It was a blessing of sorts, but—” She hesitated. “It means he wishes the pity of the Bright Lady for you.”
He looked to where Jade had disappeared into the gloaming. “I’d like to know what they’re coming up with, Jade and the others.”
“I, too. Whatever their decision, it is Mandated that we abide by it. We hold the country in trust, until that tune comes. That is our learning Trial.” Her face shone, but Gil retained his conviction that all final solutions were suspect.
“Are they all as remote as Jade?”
“Many. Their paths lie deep within themselves. Others are not, doing what they can to aid and sustain their fellows. Some are formed in mendicant or praying orders, but many operate vast retreats where they care for anyone who is sick or injured. They set aside chambers where a woman may come and conceive a child, but she must depart when it is accomplished, and never see the man again.”
Gil chewed that one over. “The population’s down since a hundred years ago, right?”
She confirmed it. “But not dangerously so.” Mischief crept into her face. “That will change with the Reconciliation.”
Sadness retook her. Gil wanted to ask why, with a battle looming, she’d detoured to have a word with her brother. To see him a last time? He dismissed the question; her own affair. As he often did with profundities, he changed the subject.
“We get to your boss’ camp tomorrow?”
“Aye. There may already be fighting. The Southwastelanders are in great array.”
“Who’re they anyway, these Southwastelanders?”
“How can you not know? They are enlisted of Shardishku-Salamá, a broad term for many tribes from lands south of the Central Sea. They ward the Masters against invasion, and used to make the occasional raid into Veganá. But now they aggress in hordes, mustering a mighty corps for this enterprise.”
“Wait a minute; Salamá’s mounting major campaigns in the Crescent Lands?”
“You are not the least perceptive of listeners.”
“I’m a dipstick.” He’d never thought the Masters could mass that much manpower, or why would Bey have spent decades weaseling control of Coramonde? Apparently they’d just wanted to save their best shot for the main event. Gil knew he was spitballing. His attention went back to Swan. “You, however, aren’t. You’re about a pure talent.”
She inclined her head in mocking gratitude. He colored in embarrassment. She laughed. “And what uncommon fellow are you? Old Sir Angorman, with his far-northern accent, still speaks with less novelty than you. You are altogether odder than your companions.”
He couldn’t think of a pat way to explain alternate Realities. He swiped a line from Van Duyn. “I, uh, I hail from different probabilities than you.”
She shrugged, “As you like.”
“Hey, no offense. It’s tough to run down for you. I’m outside my own place and time. Yeah, I guess that’s it.”
“Seeking what?” He didn’t get it. “Jade said it; what are you seeking, seeker?”
He thought hidden thoughts feeling the Ace against his chest. She stretched and yawned. “You are a mystery, open and yet closed. Do not speak from social grace, but I should be interested in hearing what you have to say, when you are truthing.”
She made prompt departure. He went to find his campfire. Angorman and Andre were gone; they’d been spending time off on their own in earnest conversation since they’d hit Glyffa. Woodsinger and the baby had been allocated a bigger tent, ringed by guards, close to where Swan bunked. That left Ferrian reclining by the fire. Gil eased himself down.
“We have gone from skirmish to battle,” Ferrian said, not turning from contemplation of the flames. “Shall we then go from battle to war?”
“Looks like.”
The disquiet in Ferrian was finding its way out. “When I was Champion-at-arms of the Wild Riders, always I counseled against war. I thought, If I am strongest, no man dare deride my rede; the Horseblooded will stay at peace.” He put his hand to his empty sleeve, “No man has that strength. I grow to hate the sword and spear, Gil MacDonald.”
Gil said nothing. Ferrian rolled over to sleep, but his despondency was infectious. The American pulled the chain up, held the Ace. He tilted the tarot and watched firelight lick across the sword, the firmament. It was as if a universe were burning.