“Last Harvest Moon.”
“Well, last Harvest Moon, I was just landing here on this world for the first time…”
And Marghe told her story. She had learned a great deal from Thenike: in those places where the pain was still too raw she told her story in a ritual cadence that forbade interruption, but most of the time she just talked, and now and again a woman would ask her a question, or add something.
It was not just Marghe’s story, of course. Much of the tale was news that these people needed to know: that there was tribe feud between Echraidhe and Briogannon, and it was probably dangerous to cross Tehuantepec for a while; a reiteration of the fact that Marghe, a woman from the other world, had been able to deepsearch and make soestre in her belly and Thenike’s, which held all kinds of interesting implications for the future; that these foreigners from another place had struck trata with Cassil of Holme Valley—there was much thoughtful rubbing of chins at that news; that the harvest of Ollfoss would be very good this year, which meant good opportunities for traders.
The moons were up when Marghe paused in the middle of a sentence to sip at her water, only to find the cup empty. She looked into the empty cup, letting the pause lengthen. The evening was chill with night breezes.
“I’m tired,” she said at last, regretful, “and near the end of my story tonight.” She did not want the evening to end. “There will be more tomorrow.”
After Marghe and Thenike left the courtyard, they walked for, a while quietly, both wrapped under the same cloak. Marghe watched the stars, listening to the far-off hiss and drag of waves on the shore and slapping up against the wharf.
She was a viajera. For the rest of her life she would travel and tell stories and judge disputes. It would rarely be as easy as it had been today, she knew, but she found she did not mind. She had found what it was she had been looking for; she had a place in the world, a place she had made. She touched the suke resting against her breast. She was Marghe Amun. The complete one. She felt at peace.
She stopped and kissed Thenike softly, slowly, running her fingers up through her heavy hair. “Come to bed.”
Chapter Fifteen
THE DAYS GREW warmer, and the nights soft. Marghe took turns with Thenike to tell the news to the new faces and old that gathered in the courtyard of the inn. Roth and her sailors said good-bye on the fourth day and left to sail east, to the Necklace Islands. Marghe did not know what happened to Juomo.
One hot day, their ninth in North Haven, Marghe and Thenike were in the kitchen getting cool water before Marghe resumed her drumming practice. Zabett found them.
“There’s a kinswoman come to see you. She’s in the courtyard.”
When they stepped back out into the heat of the courtyard, Leifin was sitting with one hand in the fountain, her two large hip packs by her feet, looking about. She was wearing a thin-strapped tunic and Marghe was shocked to see how much weight she had lost in so few days; the tendons in her neck stood out like cables. Leifin watched them as they approached, examining them first from one eye then the other.
Like a bird of prey.
“Leifin, what’s happened?”
“I was hunting,” Leifin said dismissively.
“What brings you here?”
“I’ve brought some trade goods, and a message.” She wiped her hand dry on her trews and opened the pouch at her belt, took out a message cord.“For you. I don’t think it’s good news.”
Marghe took it and read the knots one by one.
To Marghe Amun, and to the viajera Thenike, greetings. Danner, headwoman of the Terrene, has refused trata aid to Cassil of Holme Valley and thereby places herself in peril at a time when she most needs support against those who would seek to harm her and the other Terrene. Holme Valley and Singing Pastures are threatened: by the tribes Echraidhe and Briogannon, united under one they name Uaithne, the Death Spirit. If you have any influence over Danner, use it. May your children come into a peaceful world. By the hand of T’orre Na, viajera.
“What…” She read them again, carefully, feeling the knots one by one with her fingertips. Sweet gods. How could Danner be so stupid? And the news about Uaithne… Oh gods, please let it not be true.
“What will you do, sister?”
“I don’t know.” She handed the cord to Thenike. “Does that say what I think it says?”
Thenike read the message out loud. It did.
“Why’s Danner doing this, and what does T’orre Na mean by ‘at a time when she most need support against those who would seek to harm her’?” She paced. “I think Danner’s in trouble.”
“She will be, if she disregards trata,” Leifin said.
Marghe ignored her and continued pacing. “I think something must have happened to make Company react at last.” What, exactly, was relatively unimportant.
What mattered was that Danner was in trouble, and about to make it ten times worse for herself if she refused Cassil’s request. And Uaithne… Why didn’t the others, Aoife or the Levarch, stop her? She wiped her forehead. Damn this heat.
She had thought that, maybe, Aoife would see reason before Uaithne’s madness swallowed them all. She had hoped that her words had made sense to the fierce, dark tribeswoman, that Aoife would do something to control her soestre. Instead, it seemed the violence within Uaithne had ignited into a flame that was now sweeping across the northern continent.
“I have to go back to Port Central.”
Thenike looked troubled. “The journey’s long, and not easy.”
“Some of this is my fault: I made the trata agreement in the first place. It’s my fault that I didn’t make the importance of it sufficiently clear to Danner.”
“Perhaps.”
Marghe did not listen. “And it may well be that Uaithne’s madness might not have… That my presence there, feeding into that stupid, stupid myth… Thenike, I have to go. I might be able to do something.” She did not know what, but she had to try. She felt involved.
Thenike put her arm around Marghe’s shoulders. “Perhaps we could talk later,” she said to Leifin.
“Of course.” Leifin stood up. “When you’ve recovered from this bad news.”
“Speak to Zabett about a room. We’ll find you later, talk about how things go with the family, about your trade goods.”
“Yes.” Leifin shouldered her bag, turned to go.
Marghe forced herself to speak. “Leifin?” Leifin turned back, surprised. “I’m glad to see you.” And she was. Unfathomable motives or not, Leifin was kin.
Leifin nodded, and strode away.
They went back into the kitchen. It was too warm inside, but Marghe felt safer, more secure, indoors. Scathac was nowhere to be seen. They took their water to the table and sipped for a while without saying anything.
“I have to go, Thenike. Even if the family expects me to remain at Ollfoss. I’m responsible for what I set in motion.”
“Responsible, too, to your kin.”
”I know. But I have to do this.”
“If you feel you must, then you must. I’ll come with you.”
Marghe reached for Thenike’s hand. They were quiet for a moment.
“So,” Thenike said eventually. “How will you go to them? As Marguerite Taishan, the one who should have ‘done something,’ or as the viajera Marghe Amun, offering advice and mediation on a trata matter?”
Choose, Thenike was saying: choose who you are and where your loyalties lie.
Marghe held the suke that bumped gently against her chest. “How will we get there?”
Thenike seemed to accept the change of mood. “Find out who has a ship going south and is willing to go through the Mouth of the Grave, to High Beaches or Pebble Fleet.”