Terlys was a large, ample-fleshed woman with hair flowing so long it nearly reached her knees. Her lord, Rigon, I knew slightly from standing watch with him one night. He was a wiry, short man, spare of words as he was of flesh. But there was in his dark eyes a look that I had trusted from our first meeting.
Janos, their young son, circled me warily as any weanling colt, eyeing me measuringly, then, suddenly, he ducked his head and grinned. After Joisan had made me known to all of her friend’s family, she bent over a small saddle, picked up a baby. “This, Kerovan, is Ennia.” The small one blinked at me sleepily, thumb in mouth, then laid her head trustingly on my lady’s shoulder. Seeing her do so, then catching the soft light in Joisan’s eyes, pain twisted within me with knife force. I had not been mistaken—Joisan wanted children of her own—and those I could not give her.
I looked away, biting hard at my inner lip to control my reaction, then felt her soft touch on my arm. “Would you like to hold her, my lord?”
Shaking my head, I backed away, fighting to keep my voice unchanged—but it rang harsh in the stillness of the tent. “No. She’ll only cry if I touch her.” I cleared my throat, turning to the tent flap. “I am weary, my lady, and dusty from riding. I will see you shortly.”
Ducking, I left the tent, hearing behind me Joisan’s voice calling my name, then silence. I stood in the gentle wash of sunlight, blinking, while the old bitterness welled anew—why could I not accept that I would never be as other men? And now I must have hurt Joisan. I stood there, cursing myself, then turned suddenly at the sound of Guret’s voice:
“M’lord Kerovan!” He hastened toward me, dodging the path of an old woman carrying a huge platter of bread. I waited until he reached me, then voiced the question every soldier learns early on—be he Kioga or Dalesman.
“The horses? Nekia?”
“Rubbed down, watered, then turned loose for grazing, m’lord. She is fine. I checked her legs and hooves.”
“My thanks.” My eyes traveled around the camp, noting the excited bustle. “Are you ready for your part in the Festival this evening?”
Guret’s mouth stretched in a wry grin. “My ‘part’ so far seems to consist mostly of staying out of the way. My mother is baking and roasting, grumbling about how narrowly we timed our return, and my father is assembling the Council, on Jonka’s order. That has made my mother grumble even more, since she must lay aside her cooking to attend.”
“Why has Jonka called the Council together? Is that usual before the Festival of Change?”
“No.” He looked troubled for a moment, then shook himself, shuddering like a horse in fly season. Plainly he was uneasy about this new turn of events.
Striving to turn the conversation in a new direction, I motioned toward the camp. “This is a shameful thing for a warrior to admit, but I know not where I am quartered. It was dark the evening we arrived here and I spent but one night in your guesting-tent. Can you show me where it lies?”
“Of course.”
I followed him as he threaded the narrow spaces between the tent rows, until we came to the one I remembered. Joisan’s touch, I saw immediately, was evident, lending a sense of permanence to even this temporary dwelling-place. Spring flowers, carefully transplanted, bloomed along the horsehair “walls,” their perfumes warring with the sharp, spicy scents of the herbs hung up to dry, both within and without. Entering, I stripped off my mail, then my sweat-streaked shirt and under-jerkin. Guret reappeared in moments with a bucket of water, soap, and a coarsely woven towel. By the time I was washed, shaved, and had managed to tame the most unruly cowlicks of my hair, he had already laid out clean clothing from my pack.
Freshly garbed once more, I placed my pack within the sleeping area, glancing once at the pallet as I did so, feeling my blood stir. Tonight I would not rest alone…
As we walked back through the camp toward Terlys and Rigon’s dwelling, I noticed a large crowd of men and women ahead of us, dispersing rapidly, as though just dismissed from a meeting.
Guret looked up, surprise in his eyes. “The Council session is over. I wonder what is happening?”
I studied the faces of those closest to us, thinking that most did not appear pleased with the outcome—whatever it might be. Common sense told me that this meeting could have but little to do with Joisan and me, but even as I so reassured myself, Jonka appeared in the doorway of the tent marking our destination, with Joisan, a moment later, following her. My lady’s eyes were troubled, while the Chieftain’s normally round, good-natured features seemed pinched and fleshless. As we approached, she pushed past us with only a muttered word.
Hastening my strides, I reached Joisan. “What’s to do, my lady? Jonka is upset about something.”
“Was it the Council meeting? What happened?” Guret echoed, his voice strained.
Joisan twisted her hands in her flour-marked apron, half turning from us. As she did so, Terlys brushed aside the tent opening, the baby squirming in her hold, and answered. “It is Nidu, the Shaman. She has demanded—as is her right—the selection of a Drummer of Shadows tonight at the Festival.”
Hearing Guret’s soft, indrawn breath, I asked, “What does that mean?” I looked from one solemn face to the other, feeling a nameless fear stir coldly within me. “What is a Drummer of Shadows?”
Terlys’s voice was flat—too flat. “By right, the Shaman is entitled to a youth or a maid to serve as assistant. If the Drummer shows aptitude for the Shaman’s work, she may accept her assistant as an apprentice to learn her Craft. If not, the Drummer is released after a year, and another chosen by lot to serve her.”
“What does the Drummer do in this ‘service’ to the Shaman?”
“Whatever Nidu wishes.” Guret’s voice was dull. “Drums to call up the Dream Spirits, those Shadows who give her Power… collects and prepares herbs, sweeps out her tent, walks at her heels, brings her meals… offers blood, spirit, and life for her spellings—”
“We have no proof of that,” snapped Terlys, her obvious unease belying her words. “Tremon was never strong.”
“Which is why he never should have been forced to serve when his lot was picked.” Guret’s mouth thinned to an angry slash. “He was my best friend. Even though I was so much younger, we cared deeply for each other. Then, after the selection, I had to watch him grow even thinner, paler. Many times I asked him what was wrong. Shame was in his eyes—but he was too frightened to answer. Then… he was gone. I know not what happened, what caused his death, but I know that it was wrong. She should not be allowed another selection!”
“Why has she called for one now? How long has it been since Tremon served her?” I asked, putting a hand on Guret’s shoulder, feeling the tenseness of the lad’s body.
“Nigh unto eight years, now.” Terlys answered my second question. “As to why—” She broke off, shrugged. “I know not.”
But I had not missed the quick start Joisan gave, and within my mind I sensed guilt, quickly smothered. “What do you know of her reasons, my lady?”
“Your lady is not responsible, Lord Kerovan!” Terlys’s anger was well leashed, but her words held a quiet warning. She could do naught else but save Janos when he sickened.”
I nodded slowly. “I begin to see. So in saving your little boy, Joisan unwittingly usurped one of Nidu’s duties, thus angering the Shaman—who now feels she must assert her authority by calling for a Drummer to be selected.” I looked over at my lady. “This is an unfortunate turn for us, Joisan, but, as Terlys says, I suppose it could not be helped. Did you try to explain to Nidu that you meant no harm?”