seemed friendly enough, they were called the Fierce People, and the Pagatsu were the fiercest of all Doreni.
Ydalle seemed to share the same suspicious nature as Mam, and she hovered protectively about me as I took the honored place in the Gathering Room of the longhouse. This longhouse was not like those we live in now. In those days, a great chief’s longhouse was a fortress of stone and wood, and the circular gathering room where matters ceremonial and mundane were discussed was like a king’s throne room. Clan elders and their wives from near and far were present to examine me, but my prospective bridegroom was nowhere to be seen. Nor was his father.
All around the room, servants busied themselves. Although they all wore the stylized clothing of their respective clans, the edges of their leggings, breechcloths, undergarments, and tunics were embroidered with clan markings indicating they were in the service of the Pagatsu clan. Some were mixed-caste; others were warseed whose mothers had been raped by Angleni soldiers. Many warseed roamed the world in those days. Many begged in the streets, or were enslaved. Those in Taer’s Golden House were especially blessed.
Weighted down with jewelry, expectation, and doubt, I sat cross-legged on a pillow, as Taer’s clan questioned me about religion, philosophy, history, herbs and medicine, currency, etiquette, farming and agriculture. I answered well, I think, but who can truly judge such things? Loic was the headman’s son. Those who questioned me knew that to thwart a Doreni chieftain in his youth was to regret it when he was older. They therefore dealt gently with me.
All but one. The cold eyes of a silent beautiful brown-haired Doreni woman aimed daggers at me. Her gold-threaded dress—she was more richly dressed than all the others—indicated she was a noble in the clan. I realized as I looked at her that she made me tremble.
So rude was she that Mam whispered in my ear—a breach of etiquette, “I’ll tell you later why that one hates you. But what does it matter what a ghost thinks? She doesn’t even exist.”
I looked carefully, perceived. Mam was right. The captive women and servants eyed the noblewoman scornfully, and showed much disdain in their required duties towards her.
“Watch her,” Mam whispered. “She might be your future torturer, the one who makes it her goal to destroy you.”
A subtle flicker of her eyelid turned my attention to the slight auburn-haired boy sitting beside the woman. The only child in the room, he appeared to be about twelve or thirteen. He seemed so shy and fearful that I thought, If not for that red hair of his, he would disappear into thin air.
“That’s your husband’s ‘brother’.” Her tone implied he was no real brother at all. “Even so ... he’s here and not with the other children. Taer is a noble one.”
I twisted uncomfortably on my pillow. Suddenly so much needed to be known and understood.
The servants carried the ceremonial food into the room: barley, bala, and pomegranates for fertility, sunflower seed for prosperity, rose-jam for joy. Mukal and distilled pine sap flowed lavishly into goblets large and small; a feast lay on the large mosaic table—a garden of delights my husband and I could not touch until the appointed time.
Suddenly Mam’s elbow was digging hard into my side, and her eyes shone as if a bright star had appeared on the horizon. “Ah, your illustrious New Father has just entered.”
I looked in the direction she was gazing and saw a tall man about forty, athletic and sturdily built. I had expected the great Treads Lightly to dress in a war bonnet, bone hair-pipe breastplate, furs, and gems for the half marriage ceremony, but he wore a simple green tunic made of common hemp fiber and leather leggings. No dagger hung at his side.
“Not what I’d expect of a warrior celebrating his first son’s half marriage,” Mam complained in a low whisper. “But look!” She returned to her happier mood. “He honors you by perfuming his hair with carmi oil. That’s a month’s wages for the likes of you and me. Yes, that’s it. He wants you to shine, not himself.” Her eyes roamed his face. “The scar mars his face, but you can see how handsome he used to be.” She sounded wistful, but if Father was jealous, he didn’t show it.
Mam was right, though. How beautiful Taer was, how masculine compared to Father. The scar only added to his beauty. Father had no scar and it seemed a great pity he had none.
“New Daughter,” Taer said as he walked towards me. He almost sang the words, and the soft playful musicality of his voice surprised me. Seductive it was, and it put me at ease. Yet, it seemed strange to me that such a great warrior would speak so gently. He sat on the pillow to my right. “With her dying breath, Loic’s mother reminded me of my promise to your father. I have waited many years to keep it.”
I smiled beneath my veil, half-hoping the fabric of the altvayu would tear suddenly and bring an end to all pretence.
“Promised One of my son,” he said, bending towards me, “what do you think of this proposed marriage? I hope the old promise is not a burden to you.”
The question was etiquette, of course, and the right response should have humbly and quickly fallen from my lips. Yet, I didn’t immediately answer. A grievous fault, because it made me appear vain and ungrateful. Like armed warriors forcing an unruly enemy into a prison cell, Mam’s eyes threatened me if I challenged the marriage.
However, an old man sitting beside Taer nodded kindly in my direction. “Yes, Thesenya, tell him all your heart.” I would learn the man was Pantan, Taer’s uncle, and he was nicknamed “Thousands” because of the thousands he had killed. “Although the promises of parents bind children, we would not want an old promise to put a burden upon you, especially if your heart already belongs to another.”
“My uncle is right,” Taer agreed. “He was headman of our clan before he handed his vialka to me. I promise you no curse or vendetta will be laid on you or your children if you refuse my son.”
“My heart belongs only to myself, New Father. I hesitated speaking because throughout the land of the three tribes, women younger and more beautiful than I can be found. Good women of higher status and more worthy than I to marry one who wears a jade bracelet.”
Pantan grinned. Around me, others smiled. My directness mixed with my diplomacy had clearly impressed the Pagatsu. But Mam and Ydalle both slapped their right hands on their thigh so loudly and in such perfect unison, I almost believed they shared the same soul.
“Daughter,” Taer answered, “do not wrong your beauty. But hear me. I know only too well how cruel and bloodthirsty the hearts of women can be.” From the corner of my eye, I noticed a smirk flicker across the face of the lavishly dressed woman. “Cold hearts become even colder when wealth and innocent men are involved. What use, then, are beauty and wealth if they hide a cold heart? Were not Salba and Aroun cuckolded and poisoned in their beds by young rich beautiful wives?”
“Old wives can poison too, New Father.” I answered. The old man, Pantan, laughed. But Mam squeezed my forearm tightly and an exhalation, like the startled breathing of a bison, flew out of Ydalle’s mouth.
Taer turned to Ydalle and, lips in a conspiratorial smile, and took her hand gently. “Ydalle,” he said, “you’re a good soul, but don’t worry so much. Satha and I understand each other.” He turned to me again, smiling. His smile honored me greatly, because the Doreni never smile at strangers. “Daughter, it was because your father was so honorable that he lost all his fortune. No one else stayed to feed the poor after the Angleni salted the fields. I can trust my son to the daughter of a poor and honorable man who gave all in his store to feed those who could not repay him.”
