And that last was all that was required. Chief Dik Krooguh of Krooguh clasped an arm protectively around the girl, announcing loudly to all, “No, Uncle Milo, she will wed my nephew, Tim Staiklee ol Krooguh. The rite will take place immediately. You, Djahn Staiklee, hold your peace! That is a chief’s order. You mean well, I know, but I’m thinking that you fret needlessly in this matter.
“Tim, boy, come closer, stand right there. Now, Bettiloo Hansuhn, would you be a woman of the Horseclans?”
Telepathically coached by Ehstrah, Morai, Bettylou replied with a simple head-nod and softly spoken, “Yes, Honored Chief. I would become such.”
Chief Dik returned her nod, smiled broadly, briefly took her swollen body into his arms and kissed her on each cheek, then full on the lips. Stepping back, he announced in a loud voice—a voice of such pitch as to rise even above the tumult of battle, as it often had in times past—Kinsfolk, this woman here beside me is Bettiloo Hansuhn of Krooguh. Although she was not born of the Kindred, still is she your kinswoman. Defame her, and you will feel my whip; offer her injury, and you will feel the edge of Clan Krooguh steel.”
Turning back to her, Chief Dik said, almost conversationally, “Bettiloo Hansuhn of Krooguh, you no longer are a war captive. You are a freeborn clanswoman and, until wed, you are as one of my own daughters. My yurt and all things within it are free to your use.
“But Sacred Sun does not like to shine upon women without men or men without women, for such is not natural or proper. Male needs female and female needs male that both may survive in a world which though often warm and comfortable is just as often harsh and pitiless. Also, as neither the bull nor the cow, the ram nor the ewe, can alone increase the herd or the flock, neither, alone, can the clansman or the clanswoman add to the figure strength of the clan.”
Still lightly holding her with his one arm, the chief laid his other hand on Tim Staiklee of Krooguh’s shoulder. “Now, my nephew Tim here would have you as his first wife, which is a position of honor in the clans. Unless you, yourself, will it otherwise, you will never be less until Wind takes you.
“Tim is seventeen or eighteen winters—I forget exactly which and it doesn’t matter anyway. He’s a good mind-speaker, a proven warrior and a skilled hunter, and he’s no novice bedmate—I’ll warrant he’s sired a few babes of his own already, were the truth known and did anyone care.
“He owns some loot from his raidings, and I’m told that he’s an inborn skill at arrow-making and fletching, so even in his dotage he should be a real asset to his family and clan.
“He’s not ill-featured, as any can see, he makes regular use of the sweat yurt, shaves his face and usually affects clean clothing.
“Life is rarely easy, child, but it is less hard for two than for one alone, even less hard for many than for few; so I now ask you, Bettiloo Hansuhn of Krooguh: Will you here and now become the first wife of Tim Staiklee of Krooguh?”
“I … I w … will, Honored Patri … Chief,” she replied.
For a moment, all things—the figures of Tim, her new husband, the short, stocky chief, the folk gathered around, the outlines of the yurts beyond them—seemed to shimmer, then the trodden, dusty ground rushed up at her face and all of the world became a roaring, red-black nothingness, spiralling tightly and ever more tightly around and around with a pressure that would have been unbearable had it lasted a heartbeat longer.
When she again opened her eyes it was to behold the inside of the roof of a yurt, but not the now-familiar Morai yurt. This new yurt appeared somewhat larger, more commodious. Gear and clothing and many other items hung from the roof supports, while some dozen or more of the wood—and-leather chests were arrayed around the circumference of the dwelling. Beyond the sleeping-rug on which she lay, she observed the floor to be covered in nothing more than the withered stubs of brittle dried grass.
Not too far away, she could hear raucous voices raised in song and the sound of harps and drums and some wailing instruments she never before heard. When she made to prop herself up on her elbows, a brisk but not unkindly voice spoke from the shadows.
“Stay there, girl.” said the deep-pitched female voice. “Don’t try to get up yet—you’re weaker than you think. You were ill treated and malnourished for far too long, and then that Ehstrah tried to work you to death today. Who can wonder that you fainted?
“That half-wit husband of mine won’t come near to you, won’t allow any of the rest to. But despite his obsessions, he damned well knows better than to gainsay me. Ill you certainly are, but not a bit diseased or my name isn’t Lainuh Krooguh.
“My husband’s concubine is skilled at brewing herbal teas, and that is what I have set her to. When she brings it, you drink it, all of it, for all it’s bitter as gall; then, when you waken, tomorrow, we’ll see to putting you to rights, else you’ll run the risk of dying along with your babe at the birthing.
“I must now get back to the celebration, but the slave, Dahnah, will watch over you in my absence. Goodnight, my newest daughter-in-law. Drink all the tea, now.”
Bettylou’s second awakening was to a bustle of activity all around her, with men and women and children rolling up sleeping-rugs and carrying them out of the yurt, then returning to lift down hanging items, pack and bear out chests and trunks and otherwise strip the dwelling down to the grass-stubble floor, Finally. Tim Krooguh came to squat by her side. When he had slipped one arm beneath her shoulders and the other under her knees, he stood up easily and bore her outside, while the woman who had brewed the medicinal tea for her rolled the rug and followed him, replacing it outside that Tim might once more stretch Bettylou upon it.
“T … Tim …?” she quavered, and he turned back to her, smiling.
“Yes, wife?”
“What is happening? Is there something wrong? Have I … did I bring trouble to you too?”
He laughed lightly. “Now how could you possibly bring on trouble, silly? No, Mother has just decided that the yurt has been in one spot for long enough. This happens at least once every moon, sometimes twice. You’ll get used to it.”
A nude woman strode over to the two of them, the ever-present wind tugging at her still-dripping black hair. For all that Bettylou was certain she must be at least as old as the girl’s own mother, the body looked far more youthful, radiant in health, with little sag to the breasts and skin that, where wind and sun had not had their way with it, was even fairer than Bettylou’s own.
She came to a stop between Tim and Bettylou and, while squeezing rivulets of water from handsful of her long hair, began to speak in a voice that the girl remembered from the previous night.
“Well, you all woke her up, did you, despite my admonitions? Ah, the more fool I to expect that any of you know what working quietly means. You make more noise than a cattle stampede, I’d swear. I could hear you all thumping and bumping and huffing even while I was inside the sweat yurt!”
“But, Mother,” said Tim, “my wife would have been awakened in any ease when I bore her out of the yurt.”
Lainuh Krooguh sighed. “Did I not clearly recall the birthing of you, Tim, I’d wonder if you truly were my son, at times like this, anyway. What need was there to carry your wife out of the yurt at all? All that was needed was to have lifted the yurt from over her, carried it to the new location marked out this morning and refurnished it. Then you could have come back and fetched Bettiloo here, and she would have had much more sleep. Did no one of you think of so doing the job?” She sighed again, gustily, and shook her damp head, adding resignedly, “No, I suppose not. I thank Sun and Wind I’m here to think for you all.”