Chapter Two: Arrival

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Androktones.   

Mankiller. It was the first word I ever learned in Greek. I had also learned to expect the spitting that followed, as if the word itself was poison in the mouths of men.  

Holding my skirt, I leapt from the deck of the chariot with a splatter. Cold slurry dripped down my legs as the sodden grass gave way and mud enveloped my feet. Blinking against the wind, I grabbed hold of a wheel-spoke to steady myself as I locked eyes on the spitter.  

He was no Hellene, though he loudly proclaimed the word with a perfect Greek accent so all nearby could hear. The shortest ones were always the loudest. Perhaps they worried they’d be overlooked otherwise. But there was no missing him. Not his caftan armored with gold plaques flashing in the noon sun. Nor his gold-sheathed sword dangling by his right thigh. Nor his dark hair curled in ringlets after the fashion in the colonies. And somehow, despite the wind, mud, and manure, there was not a speck on him. 

He glared back at me through dark, heavy-lidded eyes. But no matter how practiced his accent or smartly styled his hair, his trousers betrayed him as Skythai. No self-respecting Hellene dared dress that way, not even in this climate. Deeper even than the Greek contempt for barbarian custom was their anxiety about trousers strangling their balls. 

I prayed this was not the Skythai king. But it would at least explain the awful choice of gift.

Behind him, two more men emerged from the nearby felt-house. Tall, fair, long-haired creatures, and as fit as racing steeds, they were just what I envisioned when someone said “Skythai,” whether in tones of admiration or insult—usually a mix of both. Short swords and axes hung from their warbelts, and bowcases hung at their hips. Horsehair dusted their loose trousers, and mud crusted their short boots. 

“Oiorpata?” asked the redhead as he raised an eyebrow at the pseudo-Hellene. 

Skythian wasn’t my native tongue, but I’d heard my fill of that word as well. At least he didn’t spit.

Father had gone ahead to conclude his negotiations. But as I washed and dressed in preparation for this moment, my misgivings had grown. He had insisted I stuff my tunic, claiming that a woman should always show herself to her best advantage. I defied him. After all, did a woman’s chief virtues reside in her ability to delight men’s eyes—or other parts? Besides, deceptions were ignoble, and I had nothing to hide. Consecrated through fierce rites and training, I’d earned standing few other women had, and I bore the scars upon my breast to prove it. Through these long weeks of travel, it was the trust that these kindred people would embrace me because—not in spite—of what I was that brought me comfort.

Father should have warned me.

To make matters worse, the red one was also pretty for a man. Good rarely came of that, either. But, if one of these two men was the king, I hoped it was him. His hair and beard were like a soft bed of fallen pine needles, neatly trimmed and combed, with his cheeks clean-shaven in the style of the Thrakes. Regal, with a knowing smile, his blue gaze was calm, yet constantly searching.

I fought a twinge of envy at the sight of his bright hair, my own dull as barley straw. This world relegated women to the whims of vanity, while nature bestowed its true brilliance upon men. It made the best formidable, daring, and brave. What virtue of consequence did nature allot to women? For what feats did the ages ever remember us, if they remember us at all? Achievements beyond the birthing of consequential men….

I did not, however, envy the third man. He stood taller than the redhead by a hand and his eyes were set deep—or they would have been if he still had both of them. Below his tall, fur-lined cap, an oiled leather strap crossed his brow suspending a pad over the hollow of his left eye. Around his neck, he bore the iron torc of a slave. A bodyguard or bondman, perhaps, though his gaze was terribly direct for a servant. 

Rolled sleeves of the slave’s buckskin caftan revealed forearms writhing with tattoos. A plaited rope of bast hung about his waist alongside a grubby suede pouch and a leather-bound mirror—a curious tool for an unkempt man. No comb or shears had touched his tawny hair or fox-colored beard in some time, though he might have been a handsome man had fate been kinder to him.  

Indeed, the Skythai were not the squalid, abject vagrants some claimed them to be. Not the monsters, fanged and fed on gore I’d heard stories of my whole life. Up close, it was clear they were just men like any others. Except for their eyes… their eyes were like a summer sky. 

“Hamazon,” the slave then growled to the others from the side of his mouth while his eye remained on me. 

No one but father honored me with that name, not even back home. That a slave of all men should do so here left me rattled and confused. I wished to speak up, acknowledge him in return. Embarrassed, I just looked away, swallowing my giddy grin. 

The redhead, paying the slave no heed, smiled warmly at me and spoke in Skythian. “Anaiti, daughter of Arianta, of the Bastarnai—”  

Still in shock, I could only nod. 

He blathered through some formal greeting and then gestured ceremoniously toward the hulking domed tent from which they had just come. “Our father, King Ariapaithi, awaits.” 

Our. Only princes, then, and thankfully neither was my betrothed. But I’d been summoned, so terms had been reached. Acid rose into my throat. I blinked and breathed deeply to steady myself.

The two princes reentered the looming felt-house. But the grim man with the iron collar removed his worn cap, pressed it to his breast, and drew back the hide draped over the doorway. Strands of hair the color of winter grass swept over his face in the brisk wind. A scowl lurked behind his rusty beard. 

My vision blurred. Pounding in my skull drowned out all sound as I shrank before the doorsill. Though I willed it, not a muscle so much as twitched, and I could command nothing, not even my thoughts. 

Eastward of camp, a sea of grass waved and shimmered under the noon sun beyond the ominous figure at the door. Not yet the green cloak of summer, embroidered with wildflowers, the pastures were but a thin shawl thrown over the bare shoulders of the earth after the snows had melted away—a patchwork of sparse shoots still fighting frost and flood. But beyond the pitched tents and resting wagons, an unbroken expanse of ripening green rippled in the breeze as far as the horizon. An equally infinite sky of blue, cloudless and crisp, spread overhead. Not since I was a child had I seen such a paradoxical land—so vacant, yet so full. A stiff, chill wind blew in off that prairie, pulling invisible fingers through my hair, rifling through my clothes, bringing tears to my eyes. The air was keen—spicy and sweet with scents unfamiliar.  

A generous sun shone down on us, and a bracing wind blew steadily from the east. Around us spread unbroken grasslands as far as my eyes could strain. The riverside was dotted with white domes of felt linked by muddy tracks. Wagons sat at rest, unhitched and chocked in neat rings like skeletal forts. Horses, cattle, and flocks of sheep scattered themselves over the bright green of emerging pasture. And as I stood transfixed, staring into the plain, that deep, incisive eye never left me—studying, unyielding, expectant.

Time flowed thick and slow around me like honey. Why wasn’t I moving? How long had I kept them waiting? I had nothing with which to measure the passage of time but the pounding in my temples. The drumming tamped down all attempts at thought. If they had called, would I have heard?  

Wresting my gaze from the horizon, I turned to the door, daring myself to meet the eye of its sentry. The slave. How he prickled the hairs on the back of my neck. Lifting my soggy skirt, I drew myself from the mud and stepped forward. Only two paces remained between us. Looking up into his rough-hewn face, I gazed into his eye the way I would with a rogue horse, showing no fear. His eye—that single eye—was as deep water, blue, yet somehow also black. It narrowed beneath a jutting brow, fixing me with a cold stare—a wolf who’s sighted a wounded doe. If he was trying to frighten me, it wouldn’t work. I stood my ground, though my heart bucked against my ribs.  

He returned my gaze in stony silence. 

But, I could not keep my host waiting any longer. I flinched away and focused toward the dark opening before me. Inside, I could make out nothing in the blackness but wisps of curling smoke in a single shaft of light. Shivering my tall frame to its full height, I braced my quivering muscles. Then I drew a long, full breath to hone my will and, bowing my head beneath the guard’s outstretched arm, stepped over the doorsill and entered.   

The slave let the flap drop behind us with a crack. At last, a break from the relentless wind. The sudden stillness was grave. The two princes stood just inside the door while a dozen royal guards stood post around the bounds of the immense felt-house, their eyes fixed forward. The slave loomed behind me as I threw back my cloak, the weight of his stare pressing the back of my neck. He was close. So close, I could hear his breathing. Smell the pine tar, beeswax, and charcloth in his field kit.

I began to sweat. The air, though still, hung heavy and thick with incense. Four towering wooden pillars propped the bulk of the tent’s domed roof high above. A great central hearth nestled between them, and the stale-sweet smell of a dung fire filled the vast room. The wind groaned, and the massive tent crackled in its joints like an old woman rising to greet her guests. Above the square formed by the colossal posts, a circle opened to the sky. I followed a curl of smoke as it traveled up into the heights of the dome to dissolve in a single shaft of light, which beamed down over the blazing hearth, blinding me as I peered into the otherwise dark room. Suddenly faint, I slipped my hand inside my sleeve and gouged my fingernails into the flesh of my arm. 

Florid carpets met my muddy shoes at the door. I tried to scrape off the filth with as much grace as possible, but it was no use. Giving up, I began to tread gently across the sea of fine tufted wool and hides. Behind me, the princes and the slave all stooped to remove their boots. Shit. Too late to turn back, I kept walking.

As my eyes adjusted, vivid tapestries of layered felt and stitched hides came into focus. Wolf and bear skulls, stag and elk antlers, leopard and antelope skins hung high upon the beams. Imported pottery, gold and bronze sculpture, and objects carved from wood all lined the floors and tables. Images from nature, wondrous idols, and hybrid creatures I couldn’t identify. I’d never seen so much gold in all my life, let alone all in one place. 

Over the broad hearth, frankincense burned in a bronze censer hung from a man-sized iron tripod. I recognized the odor with a surge of bitterness. The infamous amphora sent by the Scythian king had been filled with the exotic resin. Now the pungent smoke obscured my view and choked my lungs. Behind its veil, upon a gilt throne, sat the man who held the tethers of all Skythia’s unruly chiefs and clans in his thick, gnarled fist. King Ariapaithi. He motioned for me to approach.

What I knew of Skythia came mainly from stories. Huddled around the hearth at night, the people whispered of a wilderness with no towns nor even huts, but only endless, empty plains. They took a year to cross if one could survive the journey. And the savage people who dwelled there never set foot indoors. Instead, they lived on horseback, in tents and wagons, never settling in one place for long, never rooted to one spot. To outsiders, the Skythai lived a cursed existence. The steppe was an unbreakable horse—it would not be tamed or enclosed behind walls. Nor would its wild people. The greatest armies and empires on earth had all tried and retreated in shame, defeated. Nothing permanent took root here but inedible grasses and noxious weeds. And, perhaps fittingly, their only lasting monuments were to the dead, in the form of ancestral tombs in great manmade mountains which towered over the plain. All else was desert, uncultivated and unsettled, as the gods had made it. And the Skythai dwelt in this wilderness among the spirits, undaunted.

Mighty rivers that bound the countries east to west flowed down from ancient northern forests into the Skythian Sea. Beyond the easternmost of these, called the Tanais, dwelled my mother’s people—the Rokhalani—warlike and wandering like the Skythai. Only, among them, noblewomen were the equals of men. As hamazon, they rode, fought, and died with equal honor. Further toward the Dawn, they said, lay an impenetrable desert inhabited by gryphons that guarded hoards of gold. Above that, a land of ice and falling snow that never thawed.  

Only, this was no fireside tale. This was the world in which I now found myself. In this, my tribe’s time of need, my father had asked if I could ever live in such a wilderness. My own father asked this of me. Truly, who wouldn’t wish to see such a place? I’d dreamt of little else since I was a child. Though, that wasn’t the reason I gave to him when I agreed. 

Our Bastarnai people, primarily tillers of the soil, lived on the northwestern border of the nomads’ steppe kingdom for generations, trading wheat and timber to them for salt, leather, and iron, among other things. Much of that wheat made its way to the Greek colonies along the Skythian shore for export—and made us rich. But when the Agathyrsi chose to disrupt our trade with brutal raids, the Bastarnai and Skythai found themselves with a common enemy.

I skirted the hearth to approach the throne, but the princes and the slave remained behind. There was father, seated beside the king. He smiled and nodded to me, which I took well. A herald held the king’s red and gold trident standard. Opposite them sat a stately, unsmiling silver-haired woman. In the shadows stood what I thought was another woman, but soon realized was a young, beardless man in a skirt rather than trousers. He propped himself upon a thick wooden staff and stared into the flames of the hearth, blind to me as I passed before him. I took my place in front of the king as the woman raised her head and let her eyes pass over and beyond me.

The king, grey-bearded with watery grey eyes, winced as he heaved himself to his feet. A snarl flickered across his lined face as he fought to straighten his back and his joints rebelled. Then, as he stretched to his full, imposing height, serenity overtook his ire. But his wispy hair, his thin skin, his bleary eyes belied his heroic reputation. I had conjured a young and vigorous man consonant with the many accounts of his might on and off the battlefield. Now my heart slumped. He was old. Far too old for me. 

Why him? Why not one of the princes, at least? Did father not even consider that? It wasn’t fair. The thought of an old man laying so much as a shriveled finger….

The silver woman arose with ease beside him, squaring her broad shoulders and clasping her elegant hands before her. I waited for the king to speak, but it was the young man in women’s dress who roused himself from his trance and broke the silence.

 “Honored guest,” he said in a light voice, “welcome. In good faith, we offer you, Lady Anaiti, a place beside our fire. May the gods grant you peace and good fortune so long as you reside among us.” The curious figure handed a small golden cup to the woman.

She turned toward the king, cupping the vessel in her palms, and spoke, her voice deliberate and deep. “Benevolent king, welcome this honored guest into our home and before our hearth. Show her hospitality as is befitting of our greatness.” She handed the cup to him.

“Welcome, Lady Anaiti,” the king said, “Daughter of King Arianta of the Bastarnai, to Skythia. For as long as you desire it, you will have a place by my fire.” His weathered face hardened then as he let his cold grey eyes slide over me, not lewdly, but as one might appraise the value of bruised fruit. 

“You honor me,” I said and bowed a little, though it felt somehow deficient. I had no idea what I was supposed to say. “I am most grateful, Sura,” I said as sincerely as I could and held myself upright with all the discipline I could muster. I began to understand my father’s constant pleas to spend more time at court and less time in the stables.

“I am Ariapaithi,” he continued, “Son of Argotas, son of Idanthyrs. King of the Paralatai, High King of the Skythai. And,” he opened his hand toward the woman, “Opoea of the Skolotoi, Queen of the Skythai.” She took back the cup and also drank.

The queen stepped forward and brought the gilded cup to me, filled with kumis. I hadn’t drunk fermented mare’s milk since I was a child, and the memories were less than fond.

I nodded to them both. “I am honored by your welcome, and I thank you humbly for your hospitality.” I raised the drink to my lips. It smelled revolting and fizzed on my tongue, like a mixture of spoiled milk and vomit. I held my breath and swallowed a little while doing my best not to gag. Administering kumis must be how nomads tested foreigners for weakness.

“Please sit.” Ariapaithi waved his hand before him and slumped back into his throne. I looked around me, but there were no benches. I clumsily hitched up my skirt and sat cross-legged on the floor atop my crusted shoes. All my life, I had shunned a woman’s skirts for trousers. One did not ride a horse in skirts. But here, surrounded by the world’s broadest plains, its richest pastures, and its finest horses, it finally struck home that I would never ride again. 

The king’s cupbearer now poured out undiluted Greek wine, for which I was desperately grateful. It was more potent than anything I’d ever drunk before. I savored every sip, letting the warmth spread down my chest and through my limbs like sudden rays of sun on a cloudy day.

“You bring the rain, Anaiti,” Ariapaithi said in his gruff monotone.

I’d hoped to learn my future now that the pleasantries were fulfilled. Apparently, we would continue with nonsense. “If that’s true, then I beg your pardon.” The river looked to have flooded its low western banks and swamped the pastures. Everything was a soup of mud and manure.

“A blessing. Maybe you bring good fortune.”

“I hope so, Sura.”

“You also bring surprises. My son says you ride well. And carry a bow.” He cocked an eyebrow.

“How would he know that?” I blurted. I hadn’t ridden since we crossed to this side of the river. 

“He was your escort throughout Skythia, though he has a gift for remaining unseen. Dangerous country for foreigners, I’m afraid. Can you use it?”

“Use what, Sura?” I glanced at father, my ears and cheeks burning. Father glared back at me. I couldn’t tell if he was upset with me for embarrassing him or with the Skythai for spying on us. I set down my cup of wine.

“Your bow.”

“Oh, um…” I stammered, now steeping in sweat as I groped for an answer. Words—any words. Shit. Think! Why had Father not told them? Did he suspect they too would reject me? He must have had some reason, and I worried I might say too much. But it was best they knew now, or how could I ever live among them in harmony? There was no shame in the truth. I stiffened my back and boldly met the king’s eyes. “In my youth, I was fostered by my mother’s people, the Rokhalani. They taught me to ride and hunt.”

“Hmm,” the king trailed off, stroking his grizzled beard. “So, you’re oior—hamazon?” He leaned back, lifting his gold cup to his lips with a giant, gnarled paw.

“I am, Sura,” I answered, with a sudden swell of defensive pride. 

“That wasn’t mentioned,” he said, casting an accusative glance toward father.

“I never imagined it would be an issue,” father parried. 

“A surprise.” Ariapaithi slowly turned his head back to me: “My grandfather spoke well of them.” He smiled and stroked his beard. “Worthy allies. Helped him win a war... ages ago. How many scalps have you got?”

Scalps? I chanced a glance at father, but he looked as surprised as I. “None, Sura.”

“A hamazon with no scalps? Why not?”

I could think of many reasons why not. “Sura, when my mother died, I left my fosterage with the Rokhalani and returned home to my father’s people in Bastarnia before I could complete my training.” It was partly true. When I returned home, my father forbade me to train or fight alongside his warriors. “But I am good with a bow, can hunt, and I have trained my father’s best war horses.” 

The man in women’s clothing briefly met my glance, then quickly looked away. His expression was impenetrable—earnest and unsmiling. As his gaze moved through the room, his eyes seemed distant, unfocused. Of course I’d heard of the anarei, the “unmanly,” but I’d never seen a real one in the flesh. Unlike all the other men here, his pale face was clean-shaven, framed by long earrings of gold and amber. His dark hair hung down his back, and he wore a simple white linen caftan with a long skirt beneath instead of trousers. Given the rumors of the power possessed by such men, I was a little let down—until he spoke.

 “The hamazon,” the anarei began in a voice high and clear, pausing for the attention of the king to settle upon him before proceeding, “are not permitted to become wives until they have killed an enemy in battle. Among some tribes, it is three.”

“Ach,” Ariapaithi spat and grimaced like he’d just eaten a fly. He struck his fist against the arm of his chair. “Damn the law,” he grumbled under his breath. “We stopped this nonsense years ago.”

“Perhaps, but the hamazon are consecrated to Artimpasa. The Suramatai gods are our gods. Their ways are our ways,” he said gently. “It is a sacred duty. I mention this only because I know a wise sovereign would never wish to offend the Mistress.”

“I am ever vigilant of our sacred duty. Of course, if we knew this before….” He glanced sidelong at father again. Then his stony face collapsed into a withered pile of flesh.

Father, too, would be despondent. I couldn’t look at him. Many long nights, he agonized over this choice to place our tribe within the auspices of Ariapaithi’s great confederacy. To save face, it was called an alliance, but in practice we’d become subjects. His lengthy negotiation was now for naught, and the commitment of five hundred archers of Ariapaithi’s famed cavalry for our western border would be gone with it.

I glanced from face to gloomy face. Was that it? Was there no solution? No compromise? On any other day, I would thank the gods for releasing me from this miserable fate. But I was now the reason my people would be raided and ravaged and finally overrun by our enemies. The thing of which I was so proud had once again proved a curse. 

The queen lifted her eyes to me and leaned over to whisper something in her husband’s ear. His brows arched, and his tired eyes drifted to the circular opening in the roof as she spoke. A gust of wind drummed against the felt walls. Ariapaithi bobbed his grey head as he listened. Then his eyes fell upon me.

“King Arianta,” he began with renewed vigor. “We still desire this union.”

Father leaned forward in his chair. “We also desire this union.”

“The gods may yet smile on the covenant between us.”

“If my friend Ariapaithi sees a way to proceed, we’d be pleased to hear it,” father replied guardedly. Ariapaithi needed us, too. Perhaps it wasn’t over yet.

“Like our warriors,” the king cleared his throat, “your daughter cannot be wed until she slays an enemy in battle.” He stroked his grey beard. “There’s a simple solution.”

“Indeed…?”

“Let her fight.”

“Fight?” He raised his hand in protest, but Ariapaithi was quicker.

“She’ll ride with our men as they patrol the marches and return when she has a scalp. When she makes her kill, I’ll make her my wife.”

I rose slowly to my feet. Could this be happening?

 “Every Skythai must earn his honor before he may take a wife, inherit property, share in spoils, or one day take a seat on the Assembly. Let her also bring me the head of an enemy. Only the worthy make their place among us.”

“And the unworthy?” father asked.

“Some do fail.” Ariapaithi gave a weak shrug.

“You mean they never wed?” I asked, working to conceal my mounting excitement. 

“Some die. Some grow old trying.”

Some grow old trying. 

“Anaiti, do you wish to keep the rites of our men—of your mother’s people?” Ariapaithi asked.

“I do,” I said. “Though I don’t know if I have the skill.”

“You’re good with the bow, you say. You ride. Can you use an akinaka and sagaris?”

I’d never had cause to use a sword or battle-axe. Mostly, I hunted in the woods and fields around the fort. “I can handle a spear, sling, and lariat. The rest I can learn.”

“Hmm…” Again he stroked his grey whiskers. “Arianta, my friend, what say you?”

“I don’t like it.” Father shook his head. “She’s already a young woman, far past the age to learn such things now. It’s too dangerous.” He leaned back in his chair, eyes shifting between Ariapaithi and me.

“Life is dangerous. Soon, even your homeland will not be safe.”

Was it a taunt, or a threat? Either way, Ariapaithi knew where to stick his dagger and twist it. Father looked at me like a man about to slaughter a calf. I nodded. He looked away and withered into his chair ever so slightly. He’d decided. 

“Who will look after her? Train her? Safeguard her… chastity? A woman, among so many men? If I am to agree to this, I need assurances.”

“Come, my sons.” Ariapaithi raised his hand and waved over the men standing behind the hearth. They came forward and stood beside the fire. “My dear friend, it’s in both our interests to see she’s well-guarded. Before this holy fire that burns perpetually upon my hearth, I swear by all the gods that I—with my own faithful sons as my agents—will be her protector, wherever she travels throughout my vast realm.” He lifted the cup of wine still in his hand and drank.

“My eldest son, Skyles.” He gestured toward the one with ringlets in his dark hair and oil in his black beard. The spitter. “Warden of the South March, he oversees trade with the colonies.”

A glorified merchant. No wonder he was such an arrogant prick. Father had always warned about allowing merchants influence in the court. 

Skyles acknowledged my father with a curt nod but did not look my way. “Couldn’t she just kill a slave,” he asked, “and be done with it?”

“Good gods!” the anarei exclaimed and thumped the end of his heavy staff on the floor. “It must be in honorable combat, by hallowed law. Flouting this would surely bring affliction upon us all.”

“Too late,” Skyles mumbled.

The king sighed deeply, ignoring their bickering, and turned again to me. “My second son, Oktamasad.” He gestured toward the redhead. “Warden of the West March. Thanks to him and his seasoned army, your tribe’s grain, furs, and timbers make it to the southern markets.” 

Thanks to him, it would seem, they were also heavily taxed. But then, with the addition of his men to our border, we might just repel the next Agathyrsi assault.

Oktamasad lifted his cup to me. “My sword is yours.” He sipped his wine and smiled warmly. I stood up a little straighter and nodded back to him. It could be far worse. If I were to ride out with his forces, maybe I would be close to home, helping defend my own tribe. I liked the thought of that.

“My third and youngest son, Aric, is Warden of the East March and Kara-Daranaka of the kingdom’s most sacred Warband.”

There was a third son?

All eyes turned to the last man, the one with the iron ring—the slave. 

What an idiot I’d been. How blind. But how could this creature be the son of a king?

Ariapaithi stroked his beard thoughtfully as his eyes shifted between grinning Oktamasad and glowering Aric. I held my breath.

“Her experience is… limited,” the king mused. “Novices should train among the Warband. Aric, you’ve seen her ride?”

The third son stepped forward and stood over me. His thick, marked arms folded across his chest, his drinking horn gripped in his large hand. Pinched between his brows, a chasm formed itself as he stared down at me with his solitary eye. I stared back at him unwavering, though my legs swayed beneath me like boughs in a gale.

He said nothing but only clenched and unclenched his jaw. 

He appraised me like an eagle sighting its prey. Its ability to flee or fight; its frailties and strengths. That single glance from him seemed to measure me fully. There was something chilling in that—and fascinating. What did his hunter’s eye see? The tent creaked around us in the waiting silence.

“She smiles too much,” he finally said, a rumble of thunder from a dark cloud. 

Did I? Every muscle in my face fell slack. Surely I would never smile again. For an agonizing moment, I was suspended somewhere above the earth—the hare in the eagle’s talons. I held my breath. His keen eye, now shining, remained locked on mine.

“But if she will, she may ride with us and fight like the men do.” He held his hand over the fire. “And, by Goetosura, with my own life, I will shield her from death and dishonor.” Raising his drinking horn, he drained the rest of his wine in a single swig, wiping his red-bearded mouth with the back of his hand. 

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Chapter Three: Initiation

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