If you are a new subscriber, you may wish to start at the beginning.
I felt drunk already and giddy, and I wanted only to feel the warmth of a fire and sit beside friends. But the feast was not to begin until the dancers had done whatever it is that dancers do. I tried to feign a polite measure of interest as a giggling bunch of young, unspoken-for girls were herded around in a circle, like cattle in a pen, and made to prance, flailing their arms absurdly as they went. Girls had no shame. Obnoxiously cheerful music played, in harsh contrast to the solemn beauty of what had just passed, and they made their sunwise procession as the people, especially the men, gathered round to watch. I should probably pity them, except that they hadn’t the sense to know they were being appraised as livestock. Or worse, they did, and they enjoyed it.
They seemed happy, the fools, and I thanked whatever thread of fate had let me escape their ranks as I hurried past. My stomach grumbled. Searching the crowd for Aric, I spotted him beside his father, upon the dais where the king and queen oversaw festivities. Standing on my toes, I tried to catch his eye in vain. Ariapaithi was pointing to one of the girls in the dance, though what the use was in pointing, I couldn’t imagine—they all looked the same. Nevertheless, Aric’s eye followed. He nodded.
The music rose to a trilling crescendo, and the dance was complete. As the squawking dancers scattered like geese before hounds, I fought through the crowd toward the dais to greet the king and speak with Aric. As I neared, I could hear them arguing, and immediately I knew I had made a mistake in approaching. They ceased when they saw me, and it was too late to turn and make my escape. I proceeded forward toward the dais and offered a polite curtsey before the king. About to offer a greeting, I was interrupted when another man, with a young woman beside him, stepped forward onto the platform and addressed Ariapaithi first.
The man, clearly someone of status and self-importance, eyed me up and down and smirked. “Ha!” he said to Ariapaithi, “you keep an oiorpata at court! What next? Man-Eaters to dispatch your enemies and gryphons to guard your gold!”
I opened my mouth to speak but was interrupted by Ariapaithi. “This, my friend, is the daughter of King Arianta of the Bastarnai and Princess Mahasara of the Rokhalani. She is my honored guest. Also, my betrothed. Anaiti,” he turned to me apologetically, “this is Spadak, King of the Boraetai.”
“Apologies, my lady,” Spadak said theatrically, “for, it seems you and I are soon to be family.” He raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “The royal prince will soon take my daughter’s hand,” he said, nodding toward Aric.
I tried to choke down my shock as I glanced at Aric. His arms folded across his chest and his jaw set, he breathed like a bull through his nostrils, but his face remained unmoved. My eyes fell anew on the girl beside Spadak. She was a dark-haired beauty with the sly, mischievous look that all men were unaccountably drawn to despite good sense. It must have taken three handmaidens just to dress her for the evening and hoist her preposterous headdress into place. I could smell her pungent, overly sweet perfume even over the three leather-clad men standing beside me. But this one was no foreigner and no fool. I knew the Boraetai were powerful. They were said to be rich in cattle and had long ago seized control of the southwest’s best grazing lands. Why should he refuse?
But sly and knowing though she may be, I caught the look on her face. I could see the quiet terror behind her eyes. I knew that fear: it wasn’t unfounded. When I first met Aric, I thought him a heartless savage. I soon learned the truth: he was neither—and both. There was no denying that, at times, he was more beast than man, more wolf than dog. The Marches wrung the tameness from us all, leaving Nature to work her sacred arts. Such instincts could be unnerving to behold… especially when I began to hear their voice within myself. Guile would not spare her nor prepare her for what followed.
“I wish you both good fortune,” I lied dutifully and, before the primal fire in me could rise, turned to fight my way back through the crowd.
I could say I avoided Aric for the rest of the feast. That was my intention. However, it wasn’t much of a feat, as he wasn’t anywhere to be found. Not that I cared what he did or who he did it with. The kara had feared I would weaken Aric, and perhaps they were right. If he lacked the guts to stand up to his father and reject this offer, could he ever fulfill his promises to me? Whatever hold Ariapaithi had over him was far more potent than any bond we two might share; that much was clear. Good. Let the Boraetai bitch follow him into the Marches to risk her hide, give him counsel, and salve his wounds. I was done with it all.
Now that the Hunt was upon us, I went in search of the kara. I had no real sense of what was to come, but I was eager for it, whatever it may be. Ready to throw myself into service, or ritual, or battle, I just needed a task, a purpose to set myself to, and I would not stop until it or I was finished.
I located them by their raucous laughter. I could always just listen for the sounds of mirth, ribaldry, and song and find them engaged in some kind of mischief. Nestled in a covert just below the rapids, the vazarka and some older kara gathered around a stout campfire. From there came the sound of the rushing waters defying the freeze. I came bearing a jug of wine and some cheese I’d liberated from a feast table, and Bornon and Olgas invited me to join them by the fire while they planned their ride for the Hunt.
“What are you playing at?” I asked. The men had spread a leather mat on the ground. On it was painted what looked like a four-spoked wheel. They were casting knucklebones onto it.
"This is no game," said Bradak. “We’re casting our lots to determine who will ride in the Hunt and what our stations will be.” Bradak clattered the bones inside his closed fists and rolled them onto the mat. He studied the scattered lots and nodded approvingly over the outcome.
“Should I wager, too?”
“The White Crow wishes to take a turn?” his brother Azarion asked eagerly. “To know what role the gods have in store for her…?”
“Give me the bones.”
I knelt with the others around the leather mat. Though I had no idea what I was rolling for, I cupped the knucklebones in my hands and rolled them across my palms. As the men’s voices grew louder, encouraging me with their cheers, I shook my hands harder. Then I raised my arms with a flourish and dropped the bones onto the wheel.
The crowd went deathly silent. The cheers all stopped. I looked at the bones, staring up from the mat. A sheep’s knuckle is different and distinct on its four faces, and each face holds its own value. The small, curved sides all faced up from the mat, each the same as the next. I’d rolled “ones.”
“Is that good?” I asked, searching the faces of the silent crowd. “What does it mean?”
“The Dog,” said Bradak.
“We should let her roll again,” Olgas said, becoming subdued, and glanced at Bornon nervously, whose broad, scarred face darkened as he folded his arms but said nothing. “It was her first time. No one rolls a dog on their first. She didn’t know.”
“Certainly not,” Azarion said indignantly. “Men have wagered and lost their freedom—their lives even—on their first roll. It stands. She’s gone to the dogs.”
“Gone?” I asked, beginning to worry now. “What dogs?”
“I suppose it makes sense,” Stormai said grudgingly. “She’s a woman, after all.”
“The Mistress Herself has chosen her. It’s fate,” Mourdag added as if settling the matter.
“No!” a voice roared from above our seated circle, and I looked up to see Aric standing over the gathering, his face contorted in rage. Panic spread across the faces of the men like a bloodstain spreads on snow. “What have you done? How could you trick her into this?”
“We didn’t trick her,” Azarion leapt up to defend himself. “She took her turn, same as we all.”
“She doesn’t understand the laws,” Aric barked at him, “or the consequences.”
“What’s happened?” I asked again, more forcefully now. I was no less confused, and my chest began to tighten.
“You rolled a spaka,” Aric answered for them. “A bitch. You lost. Now you must embody the Huntress.”
“The Mistress Herself? How is this a loss?”
“Think on it. Every misfortune of the coming year will be yours to own.”
“And every blessing,” I said.
“Trust me, they never remember you for the good things you bring them,” he scoffed. “But sure enough, they’ll blame you for every ill. The Huntress chooses the living and slain in the coming year. Prosperity and privation—the fate of the tribe—rest in Her hands. And tomorrow night, She will wear your face.”
He stared pointedly at me as if to frighten me, but the dread he hoped to instill in me never formed. Good, let them fear me. Let them finally have a reason to despise me.
Glowering, his eye swept slowly across the faces of the men, menacing each in turn. “These men know better. They should never have allowed this.” He exhaled and shook his head. “But it’s in the hands of the gods. Even I may be powerless to stop it now.”
“I don’t want you to stop it,” I snapped.
Placing his hand on my arm, he leaned closer to lower his voice to my ear. “I need to speak with you… alone.”
I flinched away from his grasp. “I have to make ready for the Hunt.”
He frowned. “Let me help you prepare.”
Prepare for what? A little ride around camp? His fervency was meant to frighten me—straight back into his arms. But I didn’t need or want a protector any longer. Not like that. “Like you said, it’s in the hands of the gods now.”
I hurried back to the wagons while the court prepared for more feasting. Night’s shadows came quickly, and the Warband’s camp was silent and empty. The supply wagon where I’d stashed my secret scalp was near. If I chose, I could announce myself here, after the Hunt, and simply not return to the Marches. I had a duty to become Ariapaithi’s one day if Aric wouldn’t convince him otherwise. But was this that dreaded day? Would Aric release me from my oaths now if I chose to stay? As always, I was at the mercy of another. I hated him for it.
In the wagon, while the feast began, I rummaged through my packs for the scalp and the secret gifts I’d cached. Carefully, I packed a leather satchel, telling myself I would be all right. This was not as bad as it seemed. But despite the stiffness in my spine and the hardness in my hands, I began to sob. I’d been a fool. Though I’d only been a child, my mother had cautioned me not to let my heart run ahead blindly, let it choose my path. That it was like an eager but ill-trained dog, likely to trip up its owner in its excitement. Laid out without a single blow, I’d been so easily undone. My body shuddering with grief and rage, I beat upon the bag, raining blows upon it, and threw its contents across the wagon.
Then gathering up my things one by one, I stuffed them in the pack and set it back in the corner, throwing a saddle blanket over it to hide its fullness. With my dagger, I pried up a deck plank at the front of the wagon, stashed the scalp beneath, and gently tapped it back in place. Not yet. I have unfinished business still.
I wiped my eyes and prepared to join the ceremonies.
Chapter Forty: Hunt