My lady’s eyes held a spark in their depths that I had seen but once or twice before. “In following the tenets of my Craft, I owe apology or explanation to no one, Kerovan. Not even to you, most certainly not to Nidu.” Lifting the flap of the tent, she disappeared therein.
I sighed. “I can see that was not well said. I did not mean to imply that Joisan had done aught wrong…”
Terlys gave a quick nod. “She knows that, Lord, as do I.” She cast a swift glance at the tent. “She will be all right.”
“Has she been well, Terlys?” I asked, and at her swift, inquiring look, I continued. “Her eyes… they look dark-shadowed, as if she is tired. And she seems… different…” I trailed off, uncertain myself of what I wanted to say.
“Joisan is fine, Kerovan,” Terlys said, then smiled suddenly, as though at some private joke. “I had best see to my baking.”
As though Terlys’s words had been a signal, the clash of a gong rang through the afternoon air. I turned, saw each of the young candidates emerging from his or her tent, dressed in their finest riding clothes, carrying weapons. I turned to Guret. “Are you ready?”
“No… I…” He glanced around at the others and several of them called and waved to him. Guret’s expression foretold panic. “What will I—”
I took his arm, began hurrying him back in the direction of his parents’ tent. “Then we have no time to lose!”
After speeding the young man through dressing and donning his weapons, I escorted him to the field that lay to the south of the camp.
The Kioga had set up areas for the young people who were the Festival candidates to demonstrate their expertise with the bow, lance, short spear, and throwing of the knife, both mounted and afoot.
“Stay here, hold your place in the line,” I hissed to Guret, pushing him into the waiting group. “I will bring your horse.”
The lad’s stallion, Vengi, grazed unconcernedly in the western field. Fortunately I had ridden enough with his master that, when I called to him, he came willingly. Hastily I bridled him, then vaulted onto his back. Guret would do well enough without a saddle—many of his people never troubled to use them unless they had packs to transport.
Vengi, in spite of his hard run earlier in the afternoon, was well rested, snorting eagerly as he scented the other mounts, heard the shouts of encouragement from the crowd.
After seeing Guret safely mounted and ready for his trial, I looked up at him, giving him a warrior’s salute. He grinned at me, brushing his dark hair back out of his eyes, before he returned it. “My thanks, m’lord. And when the time comes for me to offer blood and be accepted, will you stand with me? Tremon would have done it, but he…”
I nodded. “I understand. I would be honored.”
As he rode away, I stepped back into the crowd, watching the young men and women. After a few minutes, I felt a hand brush my arm, turned to find Joisan beside me.
Hesitantly I touched her hand, then took it in mine. As we watched the candidates perform, our minds touched. I summoned thoughts:
I am sorry my words hurt you. Her fingers felt small and callused within my own, and her mindsharing was a tiny, warm spark inside me. They were ill considered…
Her answer came swiftly. Think not on it, my lord. You were tired, and have not witnessed… Her mental “voice” faded as her thoughts turned elsewhere, into pathways I would not follow with my so-limited abilities.
Witnessed what? Has aught happened since I left? I strained my eyes against the lowering sun to watch Guret cast his short spear at a target of horsehide stuffed with hay, then cheered when the barbed head sank true, nearly transfixing the dummy.
… will speak of it later, my husband. I gave a guilty start, realizing my attention had wandered from my lady’s words. But her mindsharing was warm and rich with understanding. The boy… Guret… you have become friends. I am glad…
He is a fine young, man… You should meet his little sister, Nita. She would make you laugh. … In swift mental flashes I told her of the girl’s rescue from the river.
Her mindsharing in return was touched with such admiration and approval that I felt as if I had been praised as a Hero-of-Battles. I raised her hand to my lips, still keeping my eyes fixed on Guret’s marksmanship trial. She did not turn either, but for a butterfly moment, her fingers touched my cheek.
As the sun fired the western plains before dipping beneath them, we gathered for the Ceremony of Acceptance. I stood beside Guret, with his father, Cleon, and his mother, Anga. Jonka and Nidu presided, taking position on either side of an ancient, many-stained horsehide. In her right hand the Shaman held a crescent-shaped blade. Group by group we advanced. Finally it was Guret’s turn. Leaving the rest of us behind, he stepped forward, stood alone.
Jonka’s voice was solemn. “Guret, son of Cleon, son of Anga, do you offer your blood that the Kioga may flourish? Will your life from this day onward be lived as a barrier between any ill and the good of your people?”
“It will.”
Stretching forth his hand, the boy held steady as Nidu moved the knife across his right wrist, the blade flashing quicksilver. Crimson flowed, dripping with a faint spattering upon the ancient horsehide, mixing with the red trails left by the previous candidates.
Nidu began to chant, her fingernails tapping upon the small drum swinging from her belt. Her sable sleeves flapped in the evening breeze, seeming suddenly to resemble huge wings. I remembered Obred’s description of the harpy, then shivered as the Shaman’s eyes met mine, almost as though she could mindshare.
Just then Jonka stepped forward, pressed a clean pad of linen to Guret’s wrist, then embraced the young man. “Be welcomed, then! May the Mother of Mares favor you with wisdom in our Council!”
Cheers rose from the crowd surrounding us, and hastily I broke that eye-bond with Nidu to join the well-wishers. Minutes later we were seated on the ground, Kioga-fashion, enjoying a meal that completely erased from my mind the boring sameness of trail rations.
Joisan, freshly garbed in a linen dress that laced across the bodice and was brightened with many-colored embroidery, sat beside me. Her hair hung loose down her back, after the fashion of a maid. Watching her over the rim of my wine goblet, I thought that I had never seen her look more desirable. Even as I gazed so at her, she raised her eyes to meet mine, unsettling me further as I realized she was again mindsharing… that she knew my thoughts were of her, knew also the nature of those thoughts…
It was hard to tell which warmed me more, her answering smile or the wine. Even as I thought of pleading tiredness after the long scout as excuse to retire, Jonka rose to her feet. The Chieftain’s face bore a cold, impersonal mask in place of her usual good-natured expression, and watching her, I remembered suddenly Nidu’s demand for a Drummer. She raised a hand for quiet, and the noisy, chattering crowd immediately stilled.
“Tonight is a night of celebration for us, but even in the midst of our festivities we must not forget our duty. Tonight Nidu has requested that we select for her a Drummer of Shadows to serve her in her service to us. Will all of the Chosen between the ages of fifteen and nineteen, who are unwed, stand, please.”
The torches cast flickers of yellow-red across the somber faces of the young men and women. Aided by Obred, Jonka moved about the crowd, handing each a strip of dressed skin. After every candidate had marked his or her name, she said, they were to fold their strip and drop it into the basket in the center of the clearing.
Nidu herself stepped forward when this was accomplished, her bony wrist and thin fingers doubly light .gainst the dark of her garment. Closing her eyes, the Shaman thrust her arm into the basket, fingers searching, searching…