So long as Ahrmehnee had dwelt in the nearby valley this cave had been the abode of a Woman of Wisdom. Many said that this same one had been here since the time of the Earth-Gods; others, that she was but the latest in a succession of such healer-priestesses. Pehroosz could not say. She had seen Zehpoor but once—at the time when she and three other pubescent girls had been brought up to be admitted to the Women’s Mysteries—and her only memory was of an ancient, frail and withered face mouthing incomprehensible words.
Shivering now as much from awe as from cold, Pehroosz haltingly entered the outer chamber, knelt reverently before the altar of the Lady, then leaned forward to press her lips against the Skystone.
“What would you, Pehroosz Bahrohnyuhn?” The words seemed to come from above, from below, from all about the small, stone room.
Pehroosz scarcely recognized her own voice, issuing from the throat screamed raw yesterday and the lips swollen from buffets and brutal, forced kisses.
“Oh, please, Mother Zehpoor, I have been … hurt. I … I need healing before I can go back home, back to the village.”
After a moment, a slender column of smoke arose from a crack in the top of the small altar and that disembodied voice commanded, “Breathe you of the smoke, child. Breathe it deep, Pehroosz.”
Obediently, the girl did so. All at once, the icy stone beneath her knee became as warm as sun-baked rocks, the very air about her, balmy as summer. Gone was all pain, all discomfort, all remembered horror. Both body and mind seemed to be sinking slowly into soft, safe warmth. She closed her eyes, breathing a sigh of relief.
VII
Afterward, she could only recall a long period of waking slumber, wherein a formless blob of face flitted in to briefly float before her while hands pressed a bowl rim to her mouth and a half-heard voice urged her to drink substances ranging from nauseous and bitter to sweet and soothing. But, mostly, she simply floated, weightless, feeling nothing save comforting warmth.
At last, she opened her eyes unbidden. Above her, a ceiling of polished hardwood was almost obscured under untold layers of soot; beneath her body, she felt the warm softness of a feather mattress and, dimly, the feel of the rope supports. It was purest luxury. In the village, only her father’s greatbed boasted so fine and thick a mattress.
“So,” chuckled a remembered voice from her right, “my little chicken awakes at last.”
The turning of her head brought to her eyes the sight of Mother Zehpoor. The crone sat in a carven chair before a heavy table, on which was a huge stone mortar, surrounded by bunches and bundles of dried herbs and roots. Gently dropping the pestle back into the mortar, she arose from her place and padded lightly over to plump herself down on the edge of the bed.
Seeing her at close range, Pehroosz was shocked. The Mother Zehpoor of the rites—less than sixty moons agone—had been ancient and withered, while this woman, though very slender, looked to be little older than Pehroosz’s mother.
The woman’s lip and eye corners crinkled. “Oh, but I am that same Mother Zehpoor, child. You and the others, you saw what you saw because I willed that you see it. My reasons for deceiving your sight rest between me and Her I serve.
“But come, let us see your hands, Pehroosz.” Tenderly, she commenced to unwrap the linen bandages. “The Lady grant they are at last healed, for we must soon begin our journey, if we are to fulfill Her will.” She sighed. “It is almost a moon’s ride to the place wherein fates will be cast.”
“Journey?” Pehroosz interjected, wide-eyed. “Forgive me, Mother Zehpoor, but I don’t think my own mother would … how long have I been here? Surely, I have been missed by now. Have none come to seek me?
The woman’s face became grave and sympathy shone from her sloe-black eyes. “Pehroosz Bahrohnyuhn, you are descended of brave warriors and wise chiefs; you are descended, moreover, of a proud and most ancient race. Much have the Ahrmehnee suffered, child, yet have their pride and their valor ever sustained them. As you well know, this is not our original stahn. The Horse-devils and the Enleenee now squat upon the fertile lands which once were ours. But—and this you may not know, Pehroosz—there were still other stahns from which we were driven, long, long ago, in the time of the Earth-Gods. Many moons’ sail away, they lie, far across the Great Sea.
“Mighty were those stahns, large and powerful and very rich. But, corrupted by wealth, those ancient Ahrmehnee turned from adoration of the Lady to worship of other gods, false gods. From that moment did fortune depart from our race, Pehroosz. Race after race did harry and hound our ancestors, driving us from our lands and cities and villages, stealing our kine and our goods and our maidens. But, even in those dark times, did our inborn courage and pride bear us up.
“Your blood is as their blood, Pehroosz Bahrohnyuhn. You have suffered most cruelly. Now must I relate that which will cause you still more anguish, yet must you bear your woes as stoically as did your suffering ancestors, down through the ages.”
Drawing a deep breath, she stared levelly into the girl’s wide eyes. “Pehroosz, those men, the ones who attacked you, who butchered the goats and slew your brothers, were but part of a far larger raiding party. Only an hour after you were ravished, child, more than five hundred men assaulted the village. Those who escaped their cruelty fled northward. Those who did not lie dead among the ashes and rumbled stones.
“You may be as proud of your mother’s memory as you are of young Toorkohm’s. She directed what pitiful defense could be made and fought as bravely as any warrior could’ve until she was cut down.”
Abruptly, Pehroosz sat up and made to lower her feet to the floor. “Please, Mother Zehpoor. Please, we must bury my mother’s body.”
Firmly, the woman pushed her back down on the bed. “Pehroosz, you must not go to the place that was the village. It has been a long, hard winter, child, and game has been scarce. In the four days since the village was burned, the bears and the wolves, the treecats and smaller animals will have left very little of those folk slain there.”
“But … but it cannot have been so long,” protested Pehroosz. “I came to you only this morning.”
The woman shook her head of tightly coiled, iron-gray hair. “Not so, child. In less than an hour, the sun will rise on the fourth morning you have been with me. I thought it best that you remain asleep while your body’s hurts healed, that your mind not be forced to dwell upon the horrors you endured. But now you are once more hale and we must leave.”
“But why, Mother Zehpoor? Why must we leave? This is my home and soon my father will return and rebuild the village. And … and Hahkeeg, too—we are to be married soon.”
“Child,” said the woman, patiently, “we must leave because it is the Lady’s will. Whilst you slept, I did scry the future. To remain here is death. Far from here, far to the west, lies your fortune, Pehroosz—a fabulous dowry of long-hidden wealth, a strong and brave and gentle husband of another race who will give you a life of ease and comfort and will receive of you fine sons to bring fresh honors to his house and tribe. But we must leave soon and travel cautiously, for the mountains swarm with bands of low-lander raiders.”
The woman arose and smoothed down her skirt. “So, come you, child. You must eat now. I have fawn seethed in goat’s milk and oatcakes and honey wine. Then you must help me prepare for our journey. It is commanded that I go, too, for, somehow, my future is tied up to yours.”
Quite early in his westward dash, Bili found it necessary to place his command on meager field rations, since they were no longer assured of the superfluity of supplies which raiding brought. There was some grumbling, but most recognized the need to reserve the grain for the horses, who could not maintain their best form on the scant subsistence of the half-feral mountain ponies; not so, some of the young thoheeks’s more vocal, noble critics, however.