Chapter Thirty-Eight: Wheel

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“Does it look like snow?” Aric asked, shielding his eye from the silver glare of the overcast sky. 

“If it snows,” I said, “it should not be much.” The air was crisp and dry, but the brisk wind made me think the clouds would blow over.

“We should have left two days ago,” Aric said, sounding unusually fretful. Perhaps he was just anxious, as I was. It would take at least a fortnight to reach the feasting grounds at Gerrhi, where the Rathadin festival took place each Midwinter.

“You said the festival lasts two weeks. We can surely miss a day here or there.” 

“We mustn’t be late.” He swiveled around in his saddle, looked back at the slow-moving procession and frowned. The vazarka rode at the head of a long train of wagons, cattle, and warriors. “Once Rathadin begins, no wheels may turn. Not a millstone, nor potter’s wheel, nor spindle….”

I turned to survey the line of wagons as well. Unlike the court’s wagons, we kept no runners to replace our wheels when the snow became deep, wanting no excess bulk to carry through three seasons. With Aric preparing to petition the king on our behalf, I’d never been so eager to reach court. The thought of waiting another fortnight before learning our fate seemed almost unbearable. 

Rathadin was the longest festival of the year. With the Midwinter solstice approaching, it was the most sacred festival in the Skythian calendar but also, I was warned, a fraught time. Since the night season began, the men spoke excitedly about a ritual nighttime ride. I never heeded ghost stories, but it was easy, on long nights when the wind howled, to believe spirits might be prowling about the places untouched by light.

“Tell me about it—the Hunt.” I said to Aric, hugging myself close against the sharpening winds.

“Ah, this will be your first?” he said. “Well, Rathadin is like two sides of a coin. The Sun has two faces, one light and one dark. The Sun’s dark face turns toward us more in this portion of the year than the bright. When He reaches the farthest end of the earth, He turns His face and travels back over the earth, casting His glow elsewhere and leaving us in darkness for a time. These journeys vary in span as the Sun traverses His realms, and we must await His return to ours when He will let fall His light upon us and bring life back to the land.”

“They say it is the most sacred season of the Skythai.” 

“I think of Rathadin as a dream. Time passes differently for the gods, the way the lifespan of a man is greater than that of a hummingbird. Our heart beats slower, so our days are longer. So it is with Goetosura. A day of ours is a single blink of His mighty Eye. And our Year is but His Day. At the end of that Great Day, He veils His tired eyes and sleeps. We are suspended for a time in His dream.”

“How can that be?” I asked. “The Sun still rises each day, even at Midwinter. And the Moon still follows its regular courses.”

“We live inside two years—One of Sun and one of Moon—like the two axels of a wagon—one wheel large and the other smaller—turning individually, but over the same ground. The wheels mark slightly different tracks, not in a line, but around two circles. And as the year prepares to turn over, between them lies a valley—a dream. And in this valley lies twelve days of chaos. A nightmare, perhaps. With no one to keep watch, the shades of that other realm rise up and cross the Volos River into our land. And there is nothing to stop them—no light to make them shy away, no order to rein back the hosts from beyond. The wheel of time stops, and, for those few days, we dwell inside the dreams of Goetosura. And the spirits, at times, may dwell inside us.”

“And what’s that to do with the Hunt?”

Aric tugged the long flaps of his cap down snug around his ears. “In some ways,” he said, “it’s the reason the kara exists. The Fathers return to the earth and stand vigil over its abundance. They decide whether we are worthy to receive its bounty. They return to the world they helped create to take stock of our stewardship. To see how we have honored all they’ve bequeathed to us. For, it is through us they are made immortal. Our prosperity hangs on their satisfaction. Have they been honored by our remembrances? Are they proud of our achievements? In these lie our strength, and it falls to the kara to safeguard what they have made.”

Flurries fell throughout our two-week trek, but the snow Aric feared never came to hinder our journey. The court was still being assembled when we arrived at the fort, and Aric went in search of Ariapaithi to make our plea. To keep my nerves from fraying as I waited for his answer, I went in pursuit of Erman, hoping perhaps to steal a few moments of his time. Maybe I could tell him? Like a cow waiting to be milked, I wanted to unburden myself of all my latest hopes and worries. 

Reaching out in the frosty wind just after noon, my hand toward his door, I listened in the solemn stillness for the distinct sound of his irregular movement, for the whisper of life. I knocked. Nothing. I took a deep breath and pushed the door aside to peer in.

Erman sat in meditation. His eyes were closed, but the lids, like his lips, were slightly parted. I studied him in wonder. What did he see in this half-dreaming state?

“Anaiti,” he spoke, motionless, “come sit with me.”

Stepping out of my boots beside the door, I tiptoed over. He fluttered his eyes open and smiled gently. “It’s good to see you. Are you looking forward to the celebrations tonight?”

“I suppose,” I said, sitting cross-legged before him on the carpet, the gaming board between us as always.

“That doesn’t sound like a festive attitude,” he sniggered.

“You know how I hate smiling for the courtiers.” 

“Well, I’ll be singing tonight. Hopefully, you won’t have to pretend.”

Strange, come to think of it, that I’d seen the lyres and fiddle hung on his wall but never heard him so much as hum a tune. “What will you be singing?”

“It’s a waking song to call up the dead from the beyond; to call back the Sun from the dark.”

“Oh, is that all?” I asked with a smirk. 

His deepened voice resounded as he lowered his chin and fixed me with a stern stare. “You’ll have to wait and see.” Tucking his hands into the sleeves of his caftan, he grinned cryptically. “But now I’ve been waiting to hear about your adventures since I last saw you. You have much to tell.”

I decided not to read too much into that. “Have you had any adventures since I left you?”

“Me? Ha! No, this,” he raised his palms to the ceiling of the felt-house, “is the extent of my world.”

“There has to be more to your days than sitting here in your tent? You are the seer to the king.”

“I hear the odd interesting story now and then...” he trailed off. “There are rumors that Aric consults you now as his seeress. That you’re a real soothsayer, and he scarcely makes a move without asking for your divination first.”

I stared into his black, cavernous pupils, wondering what they saw when they looked at me. “You certainly hear a lot of gossip.”

“Gossip is often true,” he smirked playfully.

“And more often, it’s horseshit.”

Clapping his hands together, he chuckled. “So true. But does he not place quite a bit of faith in you?”

“Is he wrong to do so? Is his faith in me misplaced?”

He shook his head. “My apologies.”

“No, you’re right. He places too much trust in me.”

“Aric may often be unbridled, but he is seldom careless. Have faith in his faith. Be humble but proud. Against many odds, you’ve earned the trust of worthy men. I know something of this.” 

Erman’s life fascinated me, but I had never dared to ask him how he ended up here, as an anarei of all things. It always seemed he did the asking. “How, if I may, did you come to be Chief Diviner to the High King of the Skythai?”

“The Skythai are not fond of priests generally and shun castes of men who would exert their influence through access to rites. You may have noticed there is no formal priesthood in this country. But we rely on seers for divining answers to vexing questions and for healing when men’s spirits wander or are attacked by sorcery. I am of the Agari, famous for our soothsayers. Though we’re best known for our knowledge of poisons and their antidotes,” again he chuckled to himself as if the novelty of the fact had just struck him for the first time. “My family were mere shepherds in a smallholding north of the Sea of Maeotis. It’s an unlikely road I have traveled to find myself here.”

“You seem young for one so accomplished and… influential.”

“I’m often surprised myself. When I had about nine winters, I helped to tend the sheep. A storm blew up from nowhere, and before I could flee to shelter, I was struck by one of Papahio’s bolts. I should have died, I suppose. When I was smitten by the heavenly fire, the entire camp danced around me in a circle where they found me, singing as I lay upon the ground, roasted like a lamb on a spit. I can still see them in my mind, hovering like vultures. Being soothsayers, my tribesmen were keen watchers for portents. Any man, beast, or tree so struck was forever deemed sacred—too sacred for contact with the camp’s profane affairs. Those left alive were sent into the wilds to dwell with Artimpasa, far from the taint of daily life.”

“That sounds more like exile than consecration,” I said. 

“Oh, yes, I was so bloody sacred I was untouchable. No one would look at me, much less speak to me, for fear of offending or incurring some moral curse. It is a plague worse than leprosy to be held so sacrosanct. No one wants the burden of something so precious, so inviolable within their midst. So, they set me on the road into the wilds with our flock, which I had been tending. These the priests marked, so none would harm them, either. With our stock barred from slaughter, milking, or shearing, my family was left destitute. We had no choice but to sell the sheep in the colonies—for a tenth of their worth—and go to the city in search of work. A traveling sage, Master Ohromasad, met us on the road.” 

“I know that name. Aric speaks of him sometimes.”

“He was Aric’s master as well. All the young karik must study with the masters during the night season.”

“Will I train with them?”

“No, that is doubtful,” he sat brooding as if he had more to say but thought better of it. “My mother offered Ohromasad what little she had left of her dowry and begged him to take me in fosterage. He refused payment, and we left that morning for the sanctuary here in Gerrhos. He called me Erman after the One whose pillar draws the Heavenly Fire.”

“So, Erman is not your given name?”

“It’s the only name I want,” he pressed his lips together and wiped his nose on his sleeve. 

“You might have done anything. How is it you took up this… manner of devotion?”

“It is through the Mistress that gods and men learned to divine. But I will tell you something I have never told another. I also chose this path because I saw a way to become both of great good to many and indispensable to a great family. Many masters come from learned families. They have great wealth, power, and influence. Like all men, they seek more. They seek to secure influence and wealth for their heirs. I have no heirs. And therefore, the king places his trust in me above all. For myself, I have no earthly ambitions or desires. I am a man, yet may inhabit a woman’s domain. And I live beyond the laws of both. I truly have nothing chaining me to this world. Nothing but wisdom and faith guiding my hand. I have the absolute trust of the king, the freedom to travel this entire kingly realm—and realms beyond, gods permitting. Small sacrifices; great gains. Do you see?”

“When you speak that way, it makes perfect sense.” 

I stared at the gaming board between us, its colored squares empty and meaningless to me. I’d looked at the board so many times, and it only now occurred to me that I didn’t know what the game was or how to play it. 

“How did you come to be at the court of Ariapaithi?”  

“You wonder why the king chose me as from among all the sacrificers, lawspeakers, and seers? The answer is simple. All the other priests prophesied that Spargapaithi would be the next king. Spargapaithi was a ruthless warrior with many victories but a reckless leader with foresight and no love for his people. The anarei feared his strength. I foretold that Ariapaithi would not only become king but that he would unite the tribes west of the Volosdanu. I was little more than a child then, but I was the only one who spoke in support of Ariapaithi—who saw what he’d become and what could be. The king’s brother was soon driven out, Ariapaithi was victorious, and what I foretold has come to pass. After that, he trusted only me to prophecy for him on behalf of the tribe.”

“Does what you foretell always come to pass?”

“It does. As you will learn, good prophecy is less about what is ordained by the gods and more about what is manifest in men. If you watch closely, speak prudently, and keep the company of predictable men, your prophecies will also come to pass. Tell me, Anaiti, about your own visions. What do you see when you look beyond sight?”

“Nothing. I see nothing. It is like trying to catch a fish with my bare hands. It always slips through my fingers before I can take hold of it.”  

He wrapped my hands in his long, white fingers. His delicate hands were rough and calloused for one who did no heavy labor or warcraft. He was a puzzle. “And what do you feel?”

“I feel… I feel I’ve been molded in too soft clay and can’t hold my form. Like all the world around me is new and unfamiliar; even my flesh is loose and strange on me,” I wanted to wipe my eyes, but he would not release my hands. “But soon, it subsides. Though for days after, I still feel strange, as if a darkness hangs over me or a shadow follows. Do you think it is a demon?”

“Not at all,” he assured me. "No, Anaiti, quite the opposite. What you feel is quite natural among true seers. You are blessed with a gift. Most must fast, drink potions, inhale vapors, dance for hours without rest, or perform painful rites to experience what you do. Now it must be harnessed and trained.” 

“This is also what Aric tells me. But to what end? What purpose does it serve?”

“None can tell you that. It’s your sign to interpret. It may serve no other purpose than to test you, strengthen your will, or pose you questions you might otherwise never ask. Be wary of those who claim to know what cannot be known. And, no more than you’d show strangers where you hide your gold, never speak the names of your fears to others.”

“Aric knows.”

“He’s… different.”

“Different how?”

He shrugged and released my hands. “For good or ill, he doesn’t fear the things most men fear. I suspect he’s also seen with other eyes himself.”

Erman invited me to share his bread, cooling beside the fire, and mead from the jars on his many shelves. That afternoon, my education in divination began in earnest.

We would feast after sunset in Ariapaithi’s Great Hall, under the massive tent I’d entered when I arrived here half a year ago. Erected on the high ground between the two smaller rivers, it sat beneath the king’s stronghold, secluded from the bustle of the fort. Its walls were lined with plush cushions, the great hearth roared between the four pillars which held up the roof, and honored guests of the king bowed themselves as they ducked through the door-flap and entered. As we waited for festivities to begin, I wandered around inside the crowded tent and found Olgas near the jugs of wine, looking unusually sharp in his new red woolen caftan and trousers. A tall, lanky man, his clothes usually hung awkwardly off his thin frame, but this suit was perfectly tailored. Even his shaggy black hair was tied neatly back for the occasion, and his thin black beard had been well-combed.

“Olgas, I nearly mistook you for a king! Look at you,” I smiled and gently shoved him. 

His face turned red as he suppressed a grin and offered to refill my drinking horn. “We’d better just bring the whole thing,” he said, grabbing a handled bucket and ladle as he led me toward the hearth. Around it on leather-slung benches sat Stormai, Gohar, Antisthenes, and Bornon, washed, combed, and dressed in all their best attire and adornments of gold. Aric had not yet arrived.

“Look who I found,” Olgas said as we joined the others.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” I said, sitting between Gohar and Antisthenes.

“We were just discussing news of the colonies,” Gohar said, flashing his luminous green eyes upon me as I sat beside him. “It seems war will likely break out between Athenai and Lacedaemon.”

“Most Hellenic colonies have ties to Athenai, do they not? What are their motherland’s prospects?” I asked.

“Thanks to us,” Bornon said, “and the grain and timbers from tribes like yours, and the iron, meat, cheese, and leather we provide, they should be well supplied to fight a war. But hopefully, it won’t come to that.”

“Do they really rely so much on Skythia?” I asked of Antisthenes, who’d spent his youth, at least, in Athenai and even longer in the colonies.

“The country is not a vast land like this,” Antisthenes said, his dry tone more somber than usual. “There are countless islands and long coasts. Summers are hot and dry. Many are sea people, as, beyond the city, much of the land is mountainous, rocky, and arid, unsuitable for plowing or grazing. Worse, it is overrun with people who spill out onto these shores. There will always be these petty wars—or threats of them, at least. Perhaps this one will come to nothing.” As he spoke, he cast his eyes toward the luxurious carpets, spinning his cup in his hands. “Much of their grain is imported from us—slaves as well. There are more slaves in Athenai than citizens, many of whom are captives of Skythai wars—too many to feed from the land and sea alone. I don’t know what will happen to them if food can no longer reach the city.” 

“Well, I am sad for them all,” I said, “Athenai and Lacedaemon. And I hope, if they must fight, the war ends quickly.” I didn’t know the causes or the politics, who was right or wrong—if anyone. I just knew a lot of people would suffer, including the Skythai. Should we support the colonies? Perhaps, for no other reason than our own interest. It was not our fight, yet it seemed inevitable that we, too, would pay a price—for choosing sides, remaining neutral, or trying to profit from it. There would be no right action, only a less wrong one.

“All this talk of war is depressing,” Olgas said, throwing more fuel bricks into the fire. In seeming agreement, we all drank in unison.

Before the feasting could commence, Erman, the other anarei, and the court bards gathered before the great hearth to perform music and sing. I’d never had occasion to hear Erman sing. Now he stood at the center of the circle formed by other priests and priestesses. Small oil lamps suspended from the high roof lit the dim, smoky tent. His clean-shaven face was painted with glistening white lead, and his long, dark hair hung loosely about his shoulders. He wore a white dress, the heavy skirt deeply pleated and stitched with swirls of gold threads. In place of his simple staff, he carried a pole topped with the bronze figure of a raven, its wings outstretched, and tiny bells dangled from it. The flames twisting behind him, slowly, he began to move, thumping a steady rhythm with his staff, the bells jingling faintly. Softly, Erman murmured a wordless melody to himself.

Another anarei took hold of Erman’s staff and picked up the beat, striking the bronze-capped butt on the hard-packed earth beneath the carpets. Several men stood to clap or slap their thighs in time to the drummer. I caught Aric’s eye as he stood beside King Ariapaithi, who clapped his hands in time with the beat. Erman cradled a simple wooden lyre, his fingers resting softly against the horsehair strings. He closed his eyes and rocked his head from side to side as he swayed to the rhythm of unheard music in his head. His feet began to stamp out a beat. He first strummed the four strings lightly, moving his fingers up and down along their length to change their notes. A hum rose from his throat, which morphed into words, and soon poetry formed on his lips as his whole form shook and swayed with the chanting of verses into what was both a song and a kind of incantation in a language so archaic I couldn’t understand. His clear, crisp voice was the swirling of pure water in a silver bowl, bright and clean. It rang through the room as he turned in his slow dance, spinning its light into every shadow.

Erman shuddered through a twisting dance like a flame blown by an unseen breath, like a fire stoked by unseen bellows. Like a curl of smoke rising on a still day, unhurried and formless. Delicate notes dropped slowly at first. Then built to a shower, pattering down. Over a subtle pulse, like a heartbeat, steady and strong, the melody danced all around it. Then the heartbeat stopped. Skipped a beat in anticipation. It fluttered, then stopped. The thrum of strings hummed on.

Misty and raw, the melody wore away an edge of me, and I began to erode, dissolve into the night. From the void into which the drumming beat, an echo began to answer. It picked up another beat as if joined by another heart and louder than before, steady as ever, it beat on; a flutter, a skip, then steadily on again; over and over the cycle repeat, until finally spent, the pulse gave out. It came gently to rest as the melody died down to a single note, hanging expectantly in the air, then faded into the night, like a final breath in our ears. I longed for it to go on and on, but there was only silence.

There Erman stood, thin and pale. His gently parted lips were the rim of an earthen jar, the mead of his words all poured out. Intoxicated, yet I wanted more. Belief had entered at my ears; the reverence these people showed him was genuine. Like the simple lyre in his hand, Erman was a humble instrument whose intrinsic beauty was only revealed when made to sing. 

With his painted face ghostlike in the hearth light, his dew glistening on pale skin, he was not what I could see, touch, nor even comprehend in words—he stood for something utterly arcane and immanently present. Something Nameless. As the last remaining echo faded, there was a silence like none I had ever heard in a crowd. A mob of drunken, rowdy warriors one moment became transfixed and mute supplicants the next. Some shook with sobbing and wept silent tears.  

Then, all at once, they broke loose. A roar shook the timbers of the tent and filled the room with more sound than its felt walls could contain. A shy, strange smile crossed the anarei’s lips as the gathering erupted in cheers and howls. He scratched his neck absentmindedly and lifted his eyes to mine for just a flicker, then lowered his head again and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

It is said that a bird’s territory reaches only as far as his song. I was convinced at that moment that Erman’s song penetrated all the realms, living and dead. 

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Chapter Thirty-Nine: Bride

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