Chapter Three: Initiation

Reading time: 25 min

If you are a new subscriber, you may wish to start at the beginning.

Ariapaithi’s anarei led me to a tent near the western edge of the encampment, though for what purpose I couldn’t imagine. But one had to be wary with holy men, especially those close to power. They often proved sanctimonious. And cunning.

Men scurried past, carrying amphorae of wine, skins of kumis, sacks of grain, and freshly slaughtered carcasses. Such a fuss to make for my arrival, I mused, before I remembered this was the Eve of Eramandin. There would be a celebration tonight having nothing at all to do with me. The start of summer and the first day of Pasture Month was an occasion for drinking and feasting, contracts and unions. Here, a hundred miles south of their capital at Gerrhi, the sprawling camp of courtiers—warriors and herdsmen alike—prepared to begin their northward journey in pursuit of summer pasture. But though the camp hummed with activity as countless Skythai strode about the grounds and rode by on their horses, I did not see a single woman among them.

The anarei labored to pull himself across the mucky camp with a thick staff, his right foot dragging ever so slightly. Under his left elbow, he’d tucked a cloth-wrapped bundle. As he walked, he splashed through the ruts left by cart wheels the way a child stomps through puddles after a rain shower, careless of his skirt hem and oblivious to the muck. I tried to guess what had left him lame. With no other signs of disease, I decided he was likely kicked or trampled. Nevertheless, he seemed to have prospered as seer to Skythia’s King of Kings. Unassuming though he looked, he must have been gifted indeed to earn himself so high a station at so young an age—another reason to be wary.

Two paces behind, I kept my eyes forward as I dodged mud puddles and piles of manure, conscious of the stares. What I wouldn’t give to be ignored for just a day. I was no stranger to attention, but it was not the kind of attention most women receive. I was not beautiful. Tall like a man and more interested in chasing game than mates, I was neither feminine nor flirtatious. I much preferred the feel of reins or a bowstring against my fingers than gold rings, and my hair was usually done in a simple plait on the days I wasn’t being betrothed to a king. I never managed to care much about such things. When a girl is too pretty, she’s disinclined to cultivate any of her other qualities—if she has any. 

I may not have been beautiful, but I did have a single grace: that peculiar to life on horseback. Each true horseman recognizes another by it. The inexorable forces of nature cannot move us, for we’ve ridden the winds. The horseman’s world is a secret society; its spells, rites, and rules are known only among its initiates. Most women knew none of its arts, and that was their misfortune.

A smaller felt-house stood beside the eastern banks of a shallow stream near the outskirts of camp. Beyond it, the sun descended over a deserted plain, empty but for the silhouettes of birds fleeing their shelters in the swaying grasses. Outside, we shook the mud from our skirts and scraped our shoes before entering. He set his staff inside the door, and I saw then it was no ordinary walking stick but the weaving beam of a loom. An impractical choice, cumbersome under the best of circumstances, not to mention in the slender fingers of an effeminate cripple. I removed my boots and placed them beside his soggy shoes of woven bast. His bare feet somehow emerged clean and dry.

We stood face to face. More slender than I, the anarei stood nearly my height. He was young. Or maybe it was just his clean-shaven face that made him appear deceptively boyish—or perhaps girlish? No, there was no mistaking the man beneath the dress, and he made little attempt to hide it. The anarei were men who shunned manly duties, never riding or hunting or fighting. Some claimed they were cursed by Artimpasa for some ancient offense, which deprived them of their manhood but imparted them with insight. Others whispered that they were eunuchs. No perfumes masked the scent of masculine sweat, though he did smell faintly of cannabis and honey. In the dim light of the tent, his pale skin, free of lead paints and kohl, gleamed so brightly I could think of no earthly substance like it. Perhaps fresh beeswax, like that from a new, clean honeycomb, buttery and sweet. His long hair was black as the rich, dark soil beneath the pastures across this country. And his eyes—those great, uncanny eyes—were the pure, bright blue of flax blossoms, at once beautiful and unsettling. 

“My lady, you may call me Erman,” he said in Suramatai, the language of my mother’s people, his voice resonating like the middle string of a fiddle. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“Thank you,” I replied in kind. I hadn’t spoken my mother’s language aloud since leaving my fosterage. It felt strange to speak it now. “Please, call me Anaiti.”

He turned his back to me as he smothered the dung fire burning in the hearth and raked the ashes over their clay base till they were smooth. Upon an altar against the western wall, he unbound the cloth bundle he’d carried under his arm. In both hands, he held a dozen dried willow wands about the length of a man’s forearm. 

Standing before the hearth, arms outstretched, he whispered an incantation to himself and dropped the twigs on end into the ashes. They dispersed with a scuffing clatter. A soft puff of ash whiffed over the hearth and enveloped them where they lay. He stood in silence, reading some meaning in their pattern of fall, or perhaps the marks they wrote in the cinders, or whatever signs seers place their trust in. 

He then stooped and arranged each one, examining it as if it told a story. Satisfied, he collected them one by one, brushed the ash from each with his fingertips, and smoothed the cinders again. Then he rekindled the hearth with a wooden fire drill instead of flint, whispering an unintelligible prayer.

The anarei were said to perform necromancy and to possess the two sights—all gifts gained through their strange form of devotion. I knew I should keep my distance from such a creature. But he was nothing like I imagined a shape-shifting sorcerer to be. 

“You understand what you are here to do and why?”

“I believe so.”

“Is there anything that might prevent you from fulfilling your duties?” He blinked hard, tilting his head inquisitively. 

I hesitated. “I don’t believe so.” There was nothing I dared speak aloud. 

“Yet you’re concealing… something.”

“I—I am?” Had he guessed? Or had he seen? I waited for him to speak, but he simply regarded me in serene stillness. The silence stretched between us. He knew. I didn’t know how, but by casting some sticks into an empty hearth, he’d seen it. Perhaps he had the sight, or spirits whispered in his ear. My throat tightened so that it became hard to breathe. 

One day, a girl in the village below our fort fell into a trance, speaking of an odor and strange visions before suddenly collapsing and writhing as if on fire. When she came to her senses, she could recall none of it. People thought it odd, perhaps miraculous, regarding her with both suspicion and awe. Some brought her gifts and sick beasts to heal; others begged for portents from spirits. Then, as harvest time approached, a sudden thunderstorm descended on the country. Half the wheat was ruined by hailstones. The villagers gathered, seized the girl, and drowned her in the lake. 

I don’t believe I have ever writhed upon the ground, and I knew better than to tell anyone about the other signs that plagued me. When I smelled the unearthly odor or felt the terrible presence of darkness approach, when time pulled the earth from beneath my feet, I fled far from the eyes of others. I hid for my life. But where would I hide now?

I cleared my throat. “This day has been a bit of a shock, that’s all,” I said.

“You don’t seem happy about being a wife—about taking the hand of a king.” 

That hardly required a seer to uncover, did it? “It’s an honor to unite our tribes,” I offered. “And I’ve always dreamed of returning to the steppe one day. This is the most wondrous country in the world.” 

“Ariapaithi repels you.” He smiled wryly.

Was that obvious too? I suppose I hadn’t thought about what wifehood would really mean and all it would entail until I saw the king. The way he looked at me, not even lustfully or cruelly, but like one more obligation or asset to be valued and managed among a hoard of others. A cow prized so long as the calves come each spring and the milk always flows. 

I chose my words carefully. “The king is legendary even in my country. The stories do him justice. And he does my family and me a great honor.” That wasn’t even a lie. Despite my noble birth and generous dowry, I was not in high demand as a wife. And, with twenty winters, I was long past my first flower. It was true that women of greater use were kept at home longer, while less valuable girls were sold off as quickly as possible. My family artfully maintained the illusion that they kept me because of my great worth and a lack of worthy suitors. An offer like this would come only once. They leapt at it, assembling horses, heirlooms, gold, and jewels for my dowry. Rumors flew that father even had to loot tombs to make a respectable settlement. But I never put much stock in such talk. 

“I understand,” he said solemnly, though the corner of his mouth curled upwards as he appraised me. “He can seem coarse. You’ll not get pretentious language and pompous displays from the Skythai; it is not our way. We speak as we live… plainly. But something deeper disturbs you.”

We stood in silence for a long while. I wound and unwound a loose thread from my sleeve around my finger. Was it a trap? It could do no good to speak up, and it might do harm.

“I have all day,” he said. “But, I doubt Aric or Ariapaithi have that kind of time.”

“I don’t know what you want to hear.”

“As you wish.” He clasped his hands in front of him and remained eerily still.

“There is something I don’t understand.” 

“Ask.”

“The prince Aric watched our approach. He saw me riding. Knew I was hamazon. Why did the king bother with the negotiation if it was bound to fail?”

“Aric mentioned you could ride; he never told the king you were hamazon.”

“Why not?”

“I guess you’ll have to ask him. Maybe he didn’t notice. I understand you didn’t notice him either….”

Unlikely. Aric did not seem like a man who missed things.

“There is more?” he pressed.

“Well, when my father told me I was coming to Skythia with a dowry of our finest horses, I suppose I envisioned a different life—a different place.”  

“What did you imagine?”

“It’s just,” I nearly whispered, as if it were a secret, “there are no others like me here.”

“And you thought there would be?” he frowned.

“I hoped,” I conceded, feeling foolish. “The Paralatai and Rokhalani are like cousins. Your manner of living is the same.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. My voice strained as I continued to speak. “I guess I just assumed that a woman like me would have a place here. Would be welcome. But not a single woman here shows her face in the sun. They all seem content to hide themselves away in their wagons. Do none of them ride, or hunt, or help with the herding? I can’t understand it.” It wasn’t until after I’d spoken that I knew I’d said too much.

“I see. I regret it’s not as you imagined. Truly, I do. It was not always so. Times change, and not always for the better.”

“Where have they all gone?” 

He lowered his eyes. His silence was worse than any story he might have told. Against all restraint, I began to sob.

 “Fear not, Anaiti. You shall find your place.” 

I forced a smile and wiped my moist eyes. “That’s all I wish.”

“Why then do you weep?”

“Because… I can ride and hunt, it is true. But raids, heads… scalps? I don’t know if I’m able.”

“Why not?” 

“I am no killer.”

“You don’t yet know what you are. What you truly love or hate. What you’ll kill or die for. Not until you’ve been out there.” He raised his arm and pointed through the tent wall toward the Dawn. “Until then, it’s all words.” 

I sniffled and nodded, staring at the empty spot on the wall. How would he know? 

His serene, gentle manner darkened, and his tone became stern. “Your heart is the fire; it must become the cauldron.” 

I nodded dubiously, pretending to understand. This was why people disliked poets and priests. They could never just say what they meant. 

Reaching forward, he seized me by the arms, his thin fingers biting into my flesh. Bright, calm eyes trapped me there as if sunk in a well, looking up at a small window of sky. “They are not like us,” he said.

He released me and turned to go, shaking out his skirts as he went. Limping to the door, he slipped on his shoes and grabbed his staff. Then, as the door swung open, he disappeared into a flash of light, leaving me in near darkness as it swooped closed. 

Us?

I assumed it best not to wander the strange camp alone, so I waited in the secluded tent where the anarei left me. But after some time had passed and no one came, my mind began to churn. Had I said too much? Was the seer conveying my words to the king? What did he mean by the things he spoke? Surely there was some knot I was meant to untie. I wandered the tent as if searching its contents might provide me answers. 

Above the altar, a felt tapestry caught my eye. A richly-dyed mosaic of layered felt depicted a horseman at the end of some quest—or maybe the start of one. A hero or king, he rode before his goddess, seated on her throne, and offered forth a drinking horn in hopes of receiving her blessing. In one hand, she held a round vessel, in the other, the Great Tree. Behind her, a sacrificial horse skull hung from a sun-pillar. On her shoulder sat a herald raven, and at her side sat a companion wolf. All around them, the world morphed into a swirling chaos of cavorting animals and warring monsters, songful birds and hungry vultures, blooming flowers and choking vines. 

Brightly dyed leather rugs and woolen carpets were arrayed over the floors. The walls were hung with more felt tapestries. Smooth leather panels, carefully stretched over wooden frames, were delicately painted with strange creatures locked in savage battles. They were the most beautiful things I had ever laid eyes on.

I brushed my fingers across the tapestry, every detail exquisitely made. Reds, blues, greens, yellows. Vibrant hues so rare, the dye alone must have cost a small fortune. And the delicate fringe of fine golden threads along the edge. Too fine to be horsehair, it had to be silk. Marveling at a master craftsman who could bind so many strands of silk, I ran my fingers through it. Then I saw the silk was fixed to thin strips of glistening white hide. I snatched my hand away, a chill skittered up my neck. Only one creature grew a pelt so fine and long. It was a scalp. My fingers were twined in strands of someone’s long, honey-blonde hair. 

Were there more? I scanned the room and spotted no other scalps. Instead, I found greater horrors. The decorated animal hides. Pigment penetrated both sides of the leather, and I should have realized that it was not paint but ink embedded deep in the flesh. These were not paintings, nor from animals. The flayed skins of men had been cured and stretched over frames to display their elaborate tattoos. 

I tugged at my collar as my skin began to prickle with gooseflesh. My mouth went dry, and I needed air. These people were bloody savages. The kind who drank from the skulls of enemies like all the stories said. Alliance or no, I couldn’t live among brutes like this, who displayed the hides of men like trophies and wore them like garments. Father would understand, and he would just have to make other terms. It wasn’t yet too late.

I have to get the fuck out of here.

The door-flap suddenly whooshed open, and I startled violently. Aric ducked through in a sweep of tawny hair, then stood, filling the entrance with his terrible bulk.

No longer sporting grimy clothes and crusty boots, he had washed, combed his hair and beard, and put on fresh garments of crimson summer wool, embellished with embossed golden plaques down the sleeves and outer seams of the trousers. He still wore his sword and warbelt, the broad central plate of bronze polished bright. 

“The sun sets,” he said gruffly. 

“Shouldn’t I—we—wait for the kings to finish their negotiations? Perhaps this can wait until morning,” I said, hoping to tease out some more time before the ceremony—planning my escape.

 “We leave for the Fields at dawn,” he said. “The day closes. You must be sanctified under the All-Seeing Eye. Less than an hour remains.”

“What must I do?” 

“One does not venture into the wilds without first seeking the blessing of the One whose domain it is,” Aric said. “There are rites. To join the fellowship of warriors—the kara—you must swear an oath to me, its daranaka, and to Goetosura to whom we are devoted.”

“What oath must I swear?”

“To be faithful to our order and to uphold our code of honor.” 

“That’s all?”

“It is everything. If you cannot swear to uphold these decrees, speak now. Deceivers, cheaters, false witnesses, and oath-breakers shall all wear the noose.”

“If I cannot swear?”

“You cannot ride.”

The massive stone lifted from off my chest, and I could breathe again. The answer had shown itself. If I could not take the oath, there would be no scalps and no union. Father would be furious, of course, but even he would not wish me to pledge falsely. Not at the risk of my life. And there was no way I could swear to any laws or oaths by which these cruel savages lived. 

“Time is against us,” Aric said. “Are you ready?”

I swallowed and bowed my head in something like assent. “I am.”

“Come, the day is fast closing its Eye upon us.” He ducked back through the door as suddenly as he came. I followed.  

Beside the tent, a broad, shallow stream flowed toward the Borysthenes River, still in flood. The western sky reddened as the sun prepared to set. Someone had lighted a fire within a ring of stones. Across the stream, on the opposite shore, another small bonfire burned. A dozen or so rugged, armed men, young and old, had gathered in a half-circle around it. Each warrior wore a wolf pelt draped over his shoulders. 

The eyes of the men were upon me—a living fortress of flesh, iron, and scowls. Should I smile and greet them, or would that be unseemly? Should I present an impassive face, or would that be haughty? What did it matter, anyway? I wasn’t staying. If I was lucky, I’d never see them again. So I turned away and held my hands over the hearth to stare into the fire, letting the heat and flames entrance me away from this moment into a thousand others before it when I stood staring absently into a blaze like this—when I was not here. 

Aric broke my trance as he began to speak. I looked to him, and the men did as well. “All the karik make a pact and pledge themselves to live by twelve sacred virtues.” Across the stream, the warriors removed their swords from their sheaths, pressing the hilts to their breasts. 

“Courage is the foundation of all other virtues. Courage is the mastery of the spirit, both on the field of battle and in the pursuit of truth; 

“Resilience: which is endurance of hardship, fortitude of mind and form, and sacrifice without self-pity; 

“Excellence: which is the pursuit of merit, especially at arms, horsemanship, and the composition and recitation of verses; 

“Honor: which is demonstrating integrity, honesty, and sincerity in all things; 

“Loyalty: which is allegiance to karadar, fellow karik, king, tribe, and clan; 

“Order: which is the pursuit of Arta and the faithfulness to both the divine and earthly law; 

“Duty: which is each man’s purpose in the maintenance of Arta; 

“Justice: which is opposing the cruel and deceitful, separating the destructive from the productive, and goodwill of the strong toward the weak; 

“Discipline: which is diligence, restraint, and forbearance; 

“Generosity: which is understanding that we are all at the mercy of others in our time; 

“Humility: which is recognition that none of us succeeds by his efforts alone; and, 

“Gratitude: which is the appreciation for gifts both material and spiritual, both earned and unwarranted.” 

The men lowered their blades but did not sheath their swords. Their expressions were serene, and their eyes remained fixed on the fire burning in their midst. A terrible dread surged up in me. I was expecting something bloodthirsty and depraved from a people who used the skins of their enemies to adorn their walls, some cruel decree to which I could easily object. There had to be something to fault, to dispute. Something that might disqualify me—or them—so I could walk away and forget I ever saw this place.

Aric towered before me. “Anaiti, I speak to you now as a daughter of a king and a future queen. You acknowledge that your station provides no immunity from loss of honor or punishment?”

I nodded. I pored over Aric’s words for something, anything, that would release me from the oath I was about to take; I couldn’t denounce a word of it. I was falling into a trap. 

 “Neither your name nor kin will win you pardon should you overstep the bounds of the law. Our nobility must be the example for all. We must be vigilant, striving to always excel in our wisdom, courage, and discipline. For if ever we prove undeserving of the rank bestowed upon us, everything you see around you falls.” He stared expectantly at me, the amber light of the sinking sun gilding the contours of his damaged face.

“I understand.”

“Will you swear to the gods to uphold this sacred law?” 

I drew a deep breath and held it long before exhaling. It didn’t stop the trembling. “I will.”

“Repeat these words after me: I will defend our altars and tend our fires. I will further Arta daily in my words and deeds. I will honor all covenants, keep all oaths, and speak only the truth. I will honor the rites of our fathers and the ground in which they rest. I will duly respect the wise rulers, submit to the established laws, and oppose any who would disobey or destroy them. I will not dishonor my sacred arms with use upon whims. I will not abandon my comrades at whose side I stand. I will not leave this land diminished but greater and better than when I came. Witness this my sworn oath, Oh Thagimasad, Oh Papahio, Oh Goetosura, Oh Eraman, Oh Artimpasa, Oh Tabiti, and the sacred bounds of this land.”

Tears welled in my eyes as I repeated every word of the oath back to him. My voice strained as my throat constricted. A roar swelled in my chest, and my eyes spilled over. They’d think me womanish for weeping, but I’d longed my whole life to say such things aloud. They were only words, but even as intentions, they were nobler than any purpose I had ever set myself to. “With all my form and will, I swear.”

“Then let it be so,” said Aric. He unwound the coil of hair at the back of my head, grabbed my long braid in his fist, and with his dagger, sliced it off at the nape of my neck. I gasped. Stunned, I didn’t move or even speak—a lifetime’s worth of my hair, gone in the swipe of a blade. With his dagger, he dug a trench in the earth, lay the braid in it, and carefully covered it over, mumbling some words silently to himself. The ragged remains of my one beauty lay in tatters about my face.

Aric then instructed me to strip off my skirt and caftan. My hesitation only provoked more glowering, so I shuffled my clothes off as modestly as I could, covering myself with my arms as I stood in my undergarments before the men. He waded into the center of the stream. Confused, wary, I followed into the icy water, no deeper than my ankles. 

“Now, place this over your head.” 

It was a hood of black wool. I looked at the men prowling the shore, feeling queasy, but I breathed in deep and slipped it on. It stank of sheep and made my nose itch so that I sneezed inside it. The water splashed and swirled around me as he moved, then looped something over my head and around my neck. Another sneeze was coming on when, suddenly, a rope tightened about my throat. It yanked me off my feet, and my toes strained for the streambed as I tried to pry it away with my fingers, clawing, kicking with my heels. Then a gentle voice whispered in my ear, “don’t fight,” and my mind’s eye closed. All went black. 

I looked up at a dim, starless sky. Nearly naked, I lay in the icy stream, soaked through, with my back to the pebbly streambed as the dark waters slipped over and around me. The rope still hung loosely about my neck. A rush of anger coursed through me. I shot upright, and my head began instantly to throb. 

How long had I been gone? It was hard to say. I stood slowly, testing my balance in the rushing water. The evening breeze was sharp against my wet skin without my clothes, and I began to shiver. My skirt and caftan lay only a few paces away on the eastern bank by the hearth. On the western bank, the grim warriors stood before the bonfire with their swords drawn—and Aric stood out among them like a bull among the herd. 

It was warm before the bonfire, despite their cold looks. I pulled the noose over my head and thrust it into Aric’s hands as he presented my new trousers, tunic, and caftan. The tunic was of finely woven hemp cloth resembling linen—the pants and caftan of soft buckskin. There was nowhere to conceal myself as I dressed, but the men all seemed to cast their gazes respectfully away. I could belt the caftan tightly as I needed, but the trousers, made for a man, were too loose in the waist and a bit snug in the hips. 

“The best we could do on such short notice,” Aric offered almost contritely as I tied them as best I could around my waist. 

The sun sank low, and the evening air crept in with a bite against my damp skin. I rubbed my arms for warmth and eyed the men warily. 

“Almost done,” Aric assured me under his breath, holding forth a large silver cup filled with wine. 

I reached out to take the drink, but he sliced at my wrist with his dagger, catching the drops of blood as they splashed into the silver cup. Holding it to his breast, he stepped back and set the cup upon a stone. I pressed the wound with my fingers to stop the bleeding and tried not to stain my new clothes.

“You shall wear this iron ring,” Aric said, lifting something from the same stone, “as a symbol of your bondage to the Lord of Hosts, Father of Inspiration, Light of Truth, Pourer of Haoma, Keeper of Oaths.” He slipped an iron torc, like the one that made me mistake him for a slave, around my neck. “With this girdle, you shall be bound to the fellowship of the kara.” He placed a stout rope of golden linden bast in my hands—the same one I had put in his hands only a moment ago. I looped its hangman’s knot around my waist. 

Next, he placed a single arrow in my hands. “Break this.” 

The men scrutinized me, their faces red with the flames of the bonfire. I handily snapped the shaft in two.

He handed me a bundle of a dozen arrows. “Now break these.”

I tried them over my knee. Hard as I wrestled the shafts, the bundle wouldn’t budge. 

“A single arrow breaks easily, but a bundle of arrows is unbreakable. You are part of a fellowship now, and nothing can break that.”

He lifted an akinaka on his palms. It burned in the light of the fire, and an orange glow flashed and faded over its mirror face. But it was the hilt that made my heart skip. A grip of antler from what must have been a massive hart set between a guard and pommel of gold. A doubly royal blade, waxed from years in storage but sharp and well-polished. I clipped its worn leather scabbard, lined in sheepskin, to the right side of my belt and tied it loosely around my thigh as the others wore theirs. Then Aric placed the blade into my outstretched hands, the blood nearly dry upon them. The heft of it was potent. Dangerous. The last rays of the sun turned the burnished blade red. 

“This is the first sword I was honored to carry. I have not the time to relate all of its deeds but know that it is a noble sword and a slayer of unjust men. Never unsheathe it without bathing its blade in human blood. May it bring you the strength and luck it brought me.”

His sword. Its demands filled me once again with dread. “You honor me. I pray I may do it justice.” It was a beautiful weapon. Well-forged and made, though smaller than the sword that now hung by Aric’s side. I wondered how much blood it had seen before retiring. How much he expected it should see again.

He carried the cup of blood and wine into the circle. One by one, the men dipped their blades into the mixture, wiped them lovingly with a cloth, and sheathed them. At last, he brought the cup to me and instructed me to anoint my new sword. I did as told and, wiping the blade, sheathed my akinaka. Aric cast the cloth into the fire. Then, he blew three times into the cup and whispered verses in a speech I did not recognize. Finally, he passed the cup to me, and with bloody hands trembling, I gripped it, and lifted the mixture to my lips. He nodded, and I drained it to the last drop. 

Aric stepped forward to place a wolf pelt across my shoulders. As the sun slipped below the horizon, he said, “Now you belong to Goetosura.”

---

Chapter Four: Feast

---