could record things, she still had a professional persona. She was Marguerite Angelica Taishan, the SEC rep; she was not lost and alone, helpless as any other savage on a horse.
Aoife had the power to take away from her that so-slender thread of identity any time she wished.
She touched the compass function key. It seemed to be working. Good. She turned a casual circle in her saddle. She had horse, vaccine, map and compass.
Aoife’s spear was strapped down securely and her small, shaggy mount was probably no match for the longer-legged Pella at full stretch.
Aoife was watching her. She tapped the sling at her belt. “I can kill a ruk with this at nine nines of paces. You—” she looked Marghe and her mount up and down,
“you I could bring down before that summer mare lengthened her stride.”
Marghe said nothing. Perhaps, if it came to it, Aoife would hesitate to kill.
“A stone can stun a rider, as well as kill,” Aoife said.
Marghe turned her face away, winced as the wind bit into her raw cheek.
“Here.”
Frustration made her angry, and stubborn. She refused to look at what Aoife offered.
“Grease for your face.”
Marghe ignored her. Aoife swung her mount in front of Marghe’s and wrenched them both to a halt. She pulled Marghe’s face to hers by the chin. Her eyes were flat and brown.
“You will take this grease.”
Marghe stared at Aoife’s broken nose, the thick white scar that writhed over her cheekbone, nose, and mouth, and made no move to take the small clay pot.
Aoife sighed and pulled off a glove. “Hold still.” Strong blunt fingers smoothed the grease delicately over Marghe’s face. Nose first, forehead, chin, then cheeks.
Marghe flinched, then relaxed. It did not hurt.
“Close your eyes and mouth.”
This time she obeyed, and Aoife stroked the thick, milk-colored stuff onto her lips and eyelids. Then she stowed away her pot.
Marghe touched her lips, the sore place on her cheek; the grease was a kindness.
“Thank you.”
Aoife nodded. “The others are far ahead.” They kicked their mounts into a gallop.
Marghe checked her compass and saw that they galloped northwest. Ollfoss, and the forest, lay northeast.
They rode hard for three days and Marghe began to understand Aoife’s contempt for Pella. The mare looked gaunt and dull-eyed, while the shaggy horses seemed tireless. They ate on the move, strips of dried meat, and drank a sour, half-frozen slush called locha. It was made from fermented taar milk. Marghe hated it, but she drank it; it put warmth in her gut.
As they neared the main camp, the tribeswomen seemed to relax. They talked more among themselves. Marghe listened and learned: the triple handful of riders were returning from the annual ceremony at the ringstones.
“Did I interrupt your ceremony?” she asked Aoife as they swung back into the saddle one afternoon.
“It was finished. The Levarch was showing us the southern pasturelands. We were on our way home when Uaithne found you.”
She remembered Uaithne’s threat. Intrusion in some religions carried an automatic death penalty. “Have I disturbed the… rightfulness of the stones for you?”
“No.” Aoife paused. “It’s happened before. Twice.”
Marghe’s heart thumped. Winnie? She licked her lips, swallowed. “What happened to the women?”
Uaithne galloped past. Aoife shook her head and would not answer any more questions.
At the end of the third day, they came to the winter camp of the Echraidhe.
Chapter Five
« ^ »
DANNER TURNED AWAY from the lists on her screen and looked instead at the tapestry on the wall behind her. It was an abstract of blues and golds about a meter square, a present from her deputy, Ato Teng, about a year ago. She wondered if Teng had made it herself, this marvelous picture that made her feel hollow inside, like homesickness. Or had the artist given it to Teng? In exchange for what? It bothered her that she did not know the answers to these questions, that
Aoife had the power to take away from her that so-slender thread of identity any time she wished.
She touched the compass function key. It seemed to be working. Good. She turned a casual circle in her saddle. She had horse, vaccine, map and compass.
Aoife’s spear was strapped down securely and her small, shaggy mount was probably no match for the longer-legged Pella at full stretch.
Aoife was watching her. She tapped the sling at her belt. “I can kill a ruk with this at nine nines of paces. You—” she looked Marghe and her mount up and down,
“you I could bring down before that summer mare lengthened her stride.”
Marghe said nothing. Perhaps, if it came to it, Aoife would hesitate to kill.
“A stone can stun a rider, as well as kill,” Aoife said.
Marghe turned her face away, winced as the wind bit into her raw cheek.
“Here.”
Frustration made her angry, and stubborn. She refused to look at what Aoife offered.
“Grease for your face.”
Marghe ignored her. Aoife swung her mount in front of Marghe’s and wrenched them both to a halt. She pulled Marghe’s face to hers by the chin. Her eyes were flat and brown.
“You will take this grease.”
Marghe stared at Aoife’s broken nose, the thick white scar that writhed over her cheekbone, nose, and mouth, and made no move to take the small clay pot.
Aoife sighed and pulled off a glove. “Hold still.” Strong blunt fingers smoothed the grease delicately over Marghe’s face. Nose first, forehead, chin, then cheeks.
Marghe flinched, then relaxed. It did not hurt.
“Close your eyes and mouth.”
This time she obeyed, and Aoife stroked the thick, milk-colored stuff onto her lips and eyelids. Then she stowed away her pot.
Marghe touched her lips, the sore place on her cheek; the grease was a kindness.
“Thank you.”
Aoife nodded. “The others are far ahead.” They kicked their mounts into a gallop.
Marghe checked her compass and saw that they galloped northwest. Ollfoss, and the forest, lay northeast.
They rode hard for three days and Marghe began to understand Aoife’s contempt for Pella. The mare looked gaunt and dull-eyed, while the shaggy horses seemed tireless. They ate on the move, strips of dried meat, and drank a sour, half-frozen slush called locha. It was made from fermented taar milk. Marghe hated it, but she drank it; it put warmth in her gut.
As they neared the main camp, the tribeswomen seemed to relax. They talked more among themselves. Marghe listened and learned: the triple handful of riders were returning from the annual ceremony at the ringstones.
“Did I interrupt your ceremony?” she asked Aoife as they swung back into the saddle one afternoon.
“It was finished. The Levarch was showing us the southern pasturelands. We were on our way home when Uaithne found you.”
She remembered Uaithne’s threat. Intrusion in some religions carried an automatic death penalty. “Have I disturbed the… rightfulness of the stones for you?”
“No.” Aoife paused. “It’s happened before. Twice.”
Marghe’s heart thumped. Winnie? She licked her lips, swallowed. “What happened to the women?”
Uaithne galloped past. Aoife shook her head and would not answer any more questions.
At the end of the third day, they came to the winter camp of the Echraidhe.
Chapter Five
« ^ »
DANNER TURNED AWAY from the lists on her screen and looked instead at the tapestry on the wall behind her. It was an abstract of blues and golds about a meter square, a present from her deputy, Ato Teng, about a year ago. She wondered if Teng had made it herself, this marvelous picture that made her feel hollow inside, like homesickness. Or had the artist given it to Teng? In exchange for what? It bothered her that she did not know the answers to these questions, that
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