Chapter Eighteen: Midsummer

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The wild meadow flowers were just now in full bloom and the first haymaking of the season was underway. As we made our way west, herdsmen and farmers alike waded into the meadows with their long-handled scythes to cut the tall grass and let it dry under the broad, clear sky. Others already raked theirs into windrows, soon to be stacked as a bulwark against the snow through which the sheep and cattle could not graze. Like our Bastarnai farmsteads, they too fought to hold their own against the unknowns of ever-coming winter.

Aric was determined to make the journey to court for the Tardin festival with the cattle and horses the band had garnered from raiding and the sheep and goats we’d lifted from the Mard-Khwaar. In truth, they were a liability to us in the Fields and cost us pasture and time to herd. If they were not brought to Gerrhi now and exchanged for gifts from the king, it would have to wait several months until the next festival.

We left three days early and took our time, driving nearly a thousand head, I reckoned, through the lands of various smaller tribes and clans along the way. We wore our wolfskins and carried our arms all along the route, more in procession than expedition, as there was little prospect of attack here. But I was grateful for the leisurely pace. Sakha remained at camp with his swollen tendon mending, meaning this would be Vatra’s first long journey.

As we rode through the territories, each clan raised a cheer for us, spreading flowers before us as we passed. They brought us kumis to drink and meals of cheese, smoked meat, and bread. In return, Aric bestowed upon each chief a curious gift: a small pouch of pinkish salt over which he first spoke a blessing. A pinch sprinkled over the food of any creature promised to ward off sickness and make it thrive. The chiefs all revered this gift like a holy treasure and guarded it like a sack of gold. The tribes also received an unofficial tax in stock as we passed, Aric generously granting each chief their choice of fifty goats or sheep for the privilege of passing through his lands.

“Isn’t your father king of these tribes?” I asked him as we rode away, confused by the odd extortion I’d witnessed from the chiefs. “You are the protector of these lands, yet you must pay a toll to cross them?”

“Ariapaithi is King of the Skythai,” Aric said, “not King of Skythia,” he explained. “We are not tyrants. We rule by their leave… and would keep it so. These are men we may yet need to fight beside us. If our presence in their territory damages the grazing, we repay the loss with interest. The trust and fidelity of one’s countrymen are worth far more than any riches.” He grinned wryly and crooked his eyebrow: “Certainly more than a few sheep.”

On the last of these long summer days, we arrived at Gerrhi, the seat of Ariapaithi near the marshes of Gerrhos, the Paralatai's ancestral burial ground. Gerrhi was a twelve- or fourteen-day journey from the mouth of the Volosdanu to this spot. Court was wherever the royal camp and its followers happened to be, but the festivals were often held in the capital. Since we'd left them at the last festival, the court had been slowly pushing their herds northward, halting to camp and graze as it made its way toward the semi-fortified camp on the low dawnward banks of the Volosdanu. At a bend in the river, ramparts comprised of banks, ditches, and timber palisades created an island of defense at the confluence of the Volos, two smaller rivers, and a large salt lake. Wagons, tents, and even livestock by the thousand had space to shelter within its massive 3,000-acre enclosure. Beside the ford rose great sand dunes like those of the sea. Above these lay the grand rapids where, upriver, the broad Volosdanu became impassible for a stretch of some fifty miles.

Here, the king had made himself something like a citadel at the site's southern edge, on the highest rise overlooking the river and plain. Simultaneously, the fort below enclosed great ironworks where the countless weapons, armor, and cauldrons that maintained his innumerable soldiers were forged. A semi-permanent residence of farmers, herders, and craftsmen seemed to occupy the site, supporting this production. Less than forty miles away, across the river, were Skythia's abundant iron mines, where quality ore lay close beneath the surface. They were skilled excavators, having practiced on the many tombs and barrows that graced the countryside. They were also skilled carpenters, crafting some of the most sought-after wagons and chariots not only on the steppe but also exported across the known world, as well as the frames of countless felt-houses that clustered about the plains. Timbers were floated down the rivers from the nearby lowland forests to keep the wheels turning and the forges burning.

Artisans from across the steppe and even the colonies came to ply their crafts for King Ariapaithi, not least because his court had a reputation for its wealth in gold. And, of course, it drew the country's best fighters—some for the same reason. With the billows of smoke from furnaces, forges, and cooking fires rising from the busy camp, we rode toward the sounds of clashing hammers and bleating sheep in the tent-filled fields between the rivers.

Standing beside a small stream beneath a willow, the anarei’s felt-house stood atop the deck of a wheeled oxcart, which meant it never needed to be disassembled for travel. The door open, I peered inside. Sparsely outfitted but spacious, the place smelled strongly of coriander, artemisia, and something spicy I couldn’t name. His thick staff stood propped beside the door. A small fire smoldered near the center of the room. Against the wall, a low, narrow table bore a three-legged altar of bronze. A weighted loom held a half-finished multi-colored cloth. A meager pallet of dry grass and blankets lay upon the floor. From pegs in the latticework hung sundry clothes and robes, and beside them, jars and bottles of various tinctures and potions lined shelves and cubbies.

“Aric said you wanted to see me?” 

“I do,” Erman said, raising his dark head briefly to acknowledge me before returning to folding a pile of washing in a reed basket near the hearth. “Come in.” 

His invitation lacked the formality and ritual I had come to expect, so I hesitated, waiting for more. When nothing else came, I stepped tentatively over the doorsill and into the spacious room. As I ducked through the low door into the dim space, something dangling from the ceiling brushed against my forehead and over my hair, sending a chill down my spine. Flinching away, I gave it a swat.

“Don’t!” the seer shrieked. “It’s for luck.”

I stood back and tried to focus on the thing that had struck my face as it finally came to rest on the end of its cord. A dried horse phallus dangled in the doorway like a solitary windchime. Lucky or not, I gave it ample clearance as I turned to remove my weapons. Suddenly, Erman stood before me, smiling. Beneath our feet was a carpet, the richest item in the room, tufted with a pattern that seemed to be a kind of gaming board. I pulled off my boots and placed them beside his bast shoes by the door.

Erman poured a cup of mead for each of us and gestured to a place on the carpet. “Please, sit,” he said, wiping his palms against the front of his white linen skirt. With legs crossed, the gaming board between us, we sat regarding one another in silence for a long, agonizing moment. “It’s good to see you well… and whole. I heard reports that you’d been eaten by cannibals.”

“Did you really hear that?”

“They say a Mokhsa chewed your arm clean off, and then it miraculously grew back, good as new.” He smiled mockingly. “You are quite the wonder. And there’s talk about other arts you have been practicing in the Wild Fields.” 

My cheeks warmed. Gossip seemed to cross the steppe with ease for such a vast and empty space. “I train. That is all.” 

“I hear differently. They tell me that you saved Aric from a poisoned blade.”

“Anyone would have done the same.” Who exactly were “they”?

“But not everyone could. Where did you learn such a cure?”

“It’s just a poultice I’ve used on the horses.”

He raised his brows. “You used horse medicine on a royal prince?”

Shit. I stared at him, dumbfounded. If there was a correct answer, I didn’t know it. A burning rose in my chest and ears. I must be glowing red before his eyes.

“It’s all right; it was clever.” He chuckled, his blue eyes glistening with impish glee. “I see no harm. Unless you find him in the fields munching grass and fucking mares.”

“I hope not,” I said, stifling a giggle at that image in my mind. “I don’t know a cure for that.”

“Indeed.” He smirked. “This sounds like a miraculous medicine. You must teach this formula to me.” 

“Of course.”

“He says you saved his life twice—first when the Mard-Khwaar came for him, then with your potion.”

“He’d have done the same for me.”

“Perhaps, but it took mettle. It took skill. You proved your worth. You’re to be marked.”

I gulped involuntarily. “Marked?” 

“Tattooed, as one of the tribe.” 

I wasn’t sure if he meant right then, but he chatted idly as he prepared some equipment. “And the others? Antisthenes is well?” 

“He speaks little to me. I think he’d rather I had not come.” I caught myself. I should not complain about Aric’s steward to this anarei, however much the Hellene might despise the hamazon. “Not that I blame him… It is crowded, the three of us in one tent. He limps a bit when no one is looking and rubs a wild cabbage oil into his knee at night. I think it must pain him terribly. But otherwise, he seems well enough.”

He reached for a clay jar on one of his shelves and carried it to me. “Give this to him for his aching knee. Don’t tell him you mentioned it to me.” He flashed a conspiratorial grin and returned to his preparations as I set the sealed jar aside, wondering what I would tell the aloof steward about the anarei’s gift. 

Erman turned to me and indicated for me to bare my right wrist. He spoke a verse over me, then dipped a sprig of myrtle in a bowl on the altar and sprinkled me with drops of mead. Next to me on the carpet, he laid out several iron needles, pots of pigment, and hemp cloth.

“What are you going to mark upon me?”

“First is the sign which every Paralatai bears.” He pulled up the sleeve of his tunic. There was the trident symbol I had seen upon many of the men already. “Raised to the sky, it is the scepter of Papahio himself. But I will tell you a secret only spellcasters and seers know…” he grinned as he thrust his hand outward to hover over the earth. “Cast over the ground, it becomes the Crow’s Foot. Use it wisely. Shall we begin?”

With this tattoo, I would become indelibly Skythai, for good or ill. If given a choice in the matter, what would I choose? I nodded. 

He handed me a long white robe of bleached linen. “Wear this.”

“Can I not just pull up my sleeve? There will not be much blood, I think….”

“For a rite sacred as this?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Abashed, I took the garment he offered and looked around for a place to undress. The room was open, with no place to hide from his gaze. I turned my back to him as I removed my trousers, tunic, and vest, clutching the loose garment tight to my chest. I told myself it was proper to show modesty. In truth, I’d never let anyone look upon my chest and couldn’t bear being made to feel a freak, not even by a cross-dressing eunuch.

“I am a healer; I’ve seen scars before,” he said.

“Perhaps,” I said as I slipped the robe around my shoulders, “but men may bear their scars with pride; women must rue theirs.” 

“Why do you say this?” He seemed offended.

“We’re but the vessels of men’s desires; we’re meant to be pristine.” I tried to keep the bitter sarcasm from my voice, but I could practically taste it. I cinched the belt and turned to face him.

He shook his head.

“You deny it?”

“Ideals are lies.”

“Are they not the gods’ truth… or something like that?”

“An ideal, by its definition, can never be true. It is a mirage. Only the truth is perfect—it needs no enhancement. It is our perception that is flawed. Those who create ideals above Nature worship not the Order of Arta but themselves. They hunt gryphons for gold.”

When people spoke around the edges of things, it was usually to avoid being candid. “You’re horrified.”

“No, surprised.” He smiled. “I have never seen a living hamazon. The masters told us stories, but I wondered if they were legends. Fuel for the Hellenes’ nightmares.” He chuckled.

“Ha, a worthy cause,” I said, sniggering, imagining the demented mind that would concoct such a tale just to torment the Hellenes. 

“In their paintings, you’re always whole.”

“As if they’d show us otherwise… our reality could never meet their godlike standards.”

“I never thought of it that way.” His smile fell, and his brows drew together. “The Hellenes who keep their markets and workshops in Tyras, near my birthplace, have a temple within the city walls. We traded wool, milk, or cheese with them each market day. When I was stricken, my mother brought me to ask for their god’s blessing. But she was forbidden to enter the temple with me. They don’t allow anyone with a defect inside their holy places.”

As if one needed more reasons to dislike the Hellenes. Though it wasn’t only them. Many harbored an intolerance toward the infirm and crippled, believing it to be proof that they’d been born of sorcery or corrupted by malicious spirits. “It’s just like them to be cruel. But who has more cause to address the gods than the afflicted?” 

“It’s all right. Later, I snuck inside,” he said, “just to see what was so special about their fastidious gods. But they were nowhere to be found: all was silent and empty. When the priests discovered me, they came throwing stones, chanting, and fumigating the place.” He grinned his mischievous smile once more.

I couldn’t help smiling with him. “We are the lucky ones.”

“Ready?”

I nodded. He gripped my wrist tightly and dipped the tip of his needle into some pigment. “This will hurt.”

I gritted my teeth as he began stabbing away at my skin in small strips. I was determined not to show any sign of weakness, no matter how much it hurt. And it did hurt. He stopped only to wipe away the blood and excess dye. In time a pattern took shape. As he worked, we talked a little.

“How are you finding your time in the Fields? I hear you’ve run into a bit of trouble….”

He really had collected every scrap of gossip, hadn’t he? “That was regrettable. But I will manage.”

He stopped working and rose gracefully to his feet, then shuffled to the wall where he kept all his potions. He stood motionless before the shelves as if transfixed by the shapes and colors. I stared too. Suddenly, like a snake striking its prey, his hand snatched a vial from a cubby, and he shuffled back over to his place on the carpet beside me. 

“If any man should ever succeed,” he paused, allowing his meaning to take hold, “drink this,” he instructed, depositing the small wax-sealed bottle into my palm. “Such mysteries are not for men’s eyes. Keep it… secure.”

I cupped my hands delicately around it like a hen’s egg. “I will. And, thank you,” I said, carefully placing it aside.

He nodded and resumed working.

“When I first arrived,” I wondered aloud as he focused on his design, “you said: ‘They are not like us.’ Why do they despise us so?”

He set down his needle for a moment to hold me in his gaze. “There is something you must understand, Anaiti. Like me, you are a white crow. Something rare. Unexpected. In you and me, a man or woman may see something that seems familiar, yet is not, but which longs for some voice in them. It is but a whisper in some dark corner of the mind. And when they look upon us, it recognizes its reflection. The forces that order this world have erected barriers to keep mankind from knowing the gods, the mysteries of life, our purpose, ourselves—invisible boundaries between the realms of earth and sky, night and day, life and death. But, what are these borders to emissaries such as us, who unify all in our very being?”

I barely understood his words, but they quickened my pulse and stirred my mind. “I wish to learn about these things.”  

“Aric said you would be a worthy apprentice. But these are not practices one takes up lightly,” he said, resuming his work with the needle, punching away at the delicate skin of my wrist, “out of passing curiosity or boredom. They are a life’s work—a commitment. If, when you are done with your time in the Fields, you still have a keen interest, I will teach you whatever I am able.”

I didn’t want to wait. I was hungry to learn now. Not only to better fulfill the promise I made Aric, but because I was curious about the strange wisdom of the anarei. 

“Won’t my duties as wife of Ariapaithi prevent my studies then?”

“Ah,” he tapped his needle against the inkwell without looking up, “but isn’t that what secrets are for?”

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Chapter Nineteen: Court

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