Starfire Saga, page 19
Jemeret and Ashkalin faced each other directly, and I felt like an unimportant bystander in the confrontation. Neither man spoke for a moment as Ashkalin pulled his tivong more firmly around. Then Jemeret nodded, and Ashkalin said, “We got here a little late.”
“So I gathered,” Jemeret said. “My Lord Ashkalin, Chief of the Marl, this is the Lady Ronica, my claim.”
Ashkalin nodded to me. “An eventful acquaintance, my Lady Ronica.”
And I said steadily, “I thought you were Kray.”
“Crazy?” he repeated. “You’re the one who frightened my mount.”
I wasn’t sure how he had misheard me, but I didn’t get a chance to correct him. Jemeret’s hand tightened abruptly on my arm. “She didn’t say crazy,” he said carefully. “She said the name of someone she once knew and deeply cared for.”
Ashkalin returned his gaze to me and made a half bow. “In that case, my lady, you do me honor. I hope I may look forward to a touch of yours on the Day of the Clouds.”
He even sounded like I thought Kray would have sounded when he reached the age of forty. His face, deeply tanned, deeply lined, was Kray’s face made more complete, more fulfilled, with more of life in it and on it, but otherwise the same.
Jemeret realized I was not going to respond. “The lady would be pleased,” he said. He and Ashkalin exchanged another glance that seemed charged, nodded to one another, and then the leader of the Marl turned his mount’s head back and rejoined his train.
“How did you know who Kray is?” I demanded of Jemeret, pulling my arm free of his grasp.
“You persist in forgetting I’ve been inside your mind,” he said calmly.
I shook my head. “I’ve been inside minds,” I said, “and you don’t get names out of them.”
“I do,” he said. “Come back now.”
“And, wait, why did you introduce me to him as the Lady Ronica?”
“You’re a Boru now, and as my claim you carry that status. I thought you understood that.”
I had missed it somewhere along the line, in the tenday of training. But I had another issue to pursue. “I was in the camp of the Dibel,” I said to him as if he’d asked me where I’d been. “I could have been a Dibel.”
He smiled and gently shook his head. “Not you,” he said. “Not once you killed Evesti. Had you been a Dibel, they would have had to sell you or cast you out, because to harbor you would risk attack on the whole tribe.”
I remembered in a rush that in a very real sense I had been cast out. The only “tribe” I had ever known had sent me here. In the echo of reawakening to exile, my anger at him died away, following the unreasoning rage that had hurled me at Ashkalin. “Jemeret, would the Boru ever cast me out?” I asked him, suddenly worried, aware of how even this morning I had defied their rules without thinking twice about it.
He took my arm again, and I did not pull away. “I want you to think that I will never cast you out,” he said deliberately, “and I am the Boru.”
I wonder now why I didn’t wonder then where the rage had come from. It had washed over me and let me be, and I had simply let it go. Of my own volition, as we walked back toward the camp of the Boru, I gently, slowly, thoughtfully drew my arm out of his and took his hand. It was a concession, but it was not a conciliation, I thought then. It was a recognition that I didn’t know what was going on but that I did know, having become part of the Boru, I wanted to remain there.
The Day of the Sheaf
Bright sunlight moved from behind the morning clouds on the first day of Convalee. Jemeret had gone from the tent early to arrange for the transfer of the tivongs to the fields where they would be sold. He still slept on the furs, but we were both aware that I had started to miss his presence beside me. I thought that perhaps he would not reach for me again because he’d reached once and I had flung myself away from him. I thought perhaps he was waiting for the initiative to come from me, but that I couldn’t do. I had been able once to ask him to make love to me, and he had chosen not to. I knew I would never bring myself to ask again.
Instead of warrior garb, I had been left a bright blue talma edged in a soft, smoky silver. I put it on over the pale gray shift without hesitation. These were the colors of the tribe, and I was pleased to be wearing them. I was also very excited, for today I might be able to get myself a nomidar. While I was binding my hair the trumpets that heralded Convalee sounded, and I hurried out of the tent to join Variel and Shenefta, who were eager to begin exploring the marketplace. Morien had wanted to join us, but I wasn’t distressed not to see her. Shenefta talked on about this first Convalee as an adult, and perhaps I should have listened, for it was my first Convalee ever. But my mind was on the nomidar—getting it, cradling it, uniting with it to lose myself in the making of music.
Now that all the tribes of the Samoth had assembled, there were over two thousand people on the plains, in different costumes and different colors, but most wore their tribal colors somehow in their clothes. Variel looked flushed, bright, and lovely, and I envied her simplicity without realizing that it was actually the healthiest thing about her to envy.
There were guardsmen everywhere, in outfits of their tribes, and all three of us shied wordlessly away from the brown and red of the Ilto. They also seemed interested in staying away from me, but I barely noticed, just as I barely noticed that the three of us made our way very easily through the crowds that seemed to part for us.
Variel touched my arm as we neared the booths of the Elden. “Ronica, I need some cloth for a talma for the Day of the Fire,” she said.
Shenefta bounced excitedly. “You will be braceleted by Gundever!” she said. “We all guessed it.”
Variel’s color heightened and she seemed embarrassed, but she spoke with dignity. “We intend to ask, and we can only hope that the stars will find us worthy.”
I didn’t want to be drawn away from my quest for a nomidar, but I also did not want to be alone, so I went with them to the Elden booths, bright with heaped fabrics, finely woven rugs, cushions and drapes, from light materials to heavy knits and trappings for the tivongs. Variel and Shenefta headed along the booths chattering about the tribal colors until they reached a booth of blues. Then they stopped and held various shades of blue talma cloth across Variel’s creamy, high-colored cheek. I had barely paid attention until I saw Shenefta hold up an exquisite length of sky-blue edged with deep violet flowers. It made Variel look almost as beautiful as Sandalari, and I said, “Yes, that’s the one. You ought to get that.”
Variel smiled at me, her eyes alight, and then turned to the Elden manning the booth and asked the price. A long negotiation followed, during which I stood amazed. Though I knew they were for sale, it had never occurred to me that I would have to pay for the nomidar. I had no money, and had not thought to ask Jemeret for any. Now, as Variel concluded the negotiation, she drew a small bag from under her talma and gave the man a number of bead tokens.
Shenefta prodded me surreptitiously. “What’s the matter?” she asked in a hiss that nearly qualified as a whisper. “You look green.”
“I don’t have any money,” I whispered back. “I don’t think I can get the nomidar I want.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Let’s see what they want for it anyway.”
Variel had wrapped up the length of blue cloth and now she looked over at me. “Ronica, you should pick out some talma material for the Day of the Fire, too,” she said softly. “My Lord Jemeret will certainly seek to bracelet you.”
I shook my head automatically, but only said, “Everything he wants me to have he has someone bring to me. If he wants me to have a new talma, he’ll give me one.”
Shenefta and Variel exchanged a quick glance. Variel was gently insistent. “No, the talma for the Day of the Fire must be of your choosing. It’s a Boru custom.”
“I don’t have any money,” I said. “I couldn’t buy any talma material anyway.”
“I have enough,” Variel said. “Let me buy it for you. You can repay me after you get your settlement from the tivong sale.”
I thought of refusing, but both women seemed to want me to agree, and I was interested in getting to the booth of the Dibel Tendoro. So I reached for the lengths of talma material, but the Elden boothholder stopped me. “I have a length set aside.”
He bent down and picked up a small parcel, which he laid on the counter. I opened it. Inside were two lengths of fabric, a gauzy deep blue for the undergarment, and a metallic silver shot through with threads of five shades of blue, from pale to midnight. It was among the most beautiful pieces of material I had ever seen. I ran my hand lightly over it, almost afraid I’d injure it, but it was sturdier than it looked.
“Did my Lord Jemeret arrange this?” I asked him.
The Elden shook his head. “I have heard of the Lady Ronica,” he said. “The Elden, too, hope for the Foretelling.”
“How much for this?” Variel asked, reaching for her purse again.
He named a price and said, “There can be no bargaining on this.”
Variel paid, and I noticed that she used fewer tokens than her own talma material had cost. Shenefta rewrapped the parcel and handed it to me.
“Thank you,” Variel said to the boothholder, and I nodded to him, uncertain what to say. He shrugged a little and smiled as we left the booth and went back into the crowd.
I felt embarrassed and touched, and didn’t realize how far I had come from the time in which I felt reverence was expected and kindness no more than my due. “I don’t know how to sew. Who makes this up?” I asked.
“You do, despite your lack of ability,” Variel said, unperturbed. “We’ll make our talmas together. We better start when we get back this evening, because we won’t have much free time in the next couple of days.”
Shenefta skipped a little as we went past the booths of the Resni, who were selling drink. They were doing a good business, for many of the tribes could not make their own liquors, lacking access to the ingredients. I wondered briefly at some of the more exotic-looking bottles—another product of the Genda—but we didn’t stop to sample. Up ahead were the Dibeli booths.
The other women let me lead—and this area was not as populous as many of the others. It was a small tribe, and the most crowded booths were those that booked performing schedules, for all the tribes wanted singers, dancers, or showfolk to stop by and play for them during the year. Farther on, where the individual instruments were for sale, not that many people had gathered. I hesitated for a moment at a fine display of stigols, for I loved the rich, reedy voice of the instrument, but I played only at a base level of competency, and for me that wasn’t nearly enough. Then I looked ahead and saw Dirian standing in front of a booth, restless but obviously unwilling to leave.
He saw me just after I noticed him, said something to the man in the booth, and sprinted toward me. “There you are!” he said. “Come on. Tendoro’s been waiting to meet you.”
He gestured back toward the booth he’d come from. Shenefta pushed up against my side and cleared her throat loudly. I glanced at her, a little bewildered, and realized from the expression in her eyes that she liked the way Dirian looked and wanted to meet him.
I was getting better at reading people in the small ways they read each other, rather than with Class A talent. The process was subtle, and made easier by the caring I felt for Shenefta and Variel. Slowly, I was starting to understand what was possible without talent.
“Hello, Dirian,” I said, a little bemused. “This is Shenefta and Variel, both of the Boru.” I looked at the other two women and added unnecessarily, “Dirian is Dibeli.” They murmured hellos, and Dirian nodded hastily, barely seeing them. He half urged, half herded us toward the booth.
I saw the nomidars before I saw Tendoro. There were five of them, slightly different sizes, in different woods, all highly polished, each with a decoration of ribbons or flowers at its head. Tendoro was almost as old as Venacrona. His skin was pale, and soft with the softness that great age brings, and he seemed so fragile as to be easily broken. His hair was white and thinning, but shoulder-length at the back, and he wore the violet and yellow Dibeli colors with the kind of pride that indicated he felt a sense of ownership.
“So this is the nomidartist,” he said, his voice stretched and brittle, like parchment. “The other musician among the Boru.”
“I am Ronica McBride,” I said to him, but I didn’t offer to shake hands, out of fear of hurting him somehow. I wanted to be polite and keep looking at him, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the nomidars.
“Try them,” Dirian urged. “See which is for you.”
“I don’t have any money,” I said reluctantly.
Variel stepped up to the counter beside me. “The Lady Ronica can speak for the tribe’s debt,” she said firmly to Tendoro.
He smiled. “I would not be concerned with putting the Boru in debt for a true musician,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Here.” He handed me the nearest nomidar, and it did not waver in his hand.
It was heavier than I was accustomed to, and the first few notes showed me that it was tone-bound. The instrument would be fine for group work, but it would never stand alone.
I shook my head and laid it aside.
Tendoro gave me another. This was far above average in tone, but it lacked the rich undertones so essential to sympathetic melodies. For a moment or two I was tempted, knowing how weak I now was in sympathetic music, but just as I could not have seen Jemeret be lessened, I could not deliberately choose to lessen myself. I shook my head and gave it back.
Tendoro’s eyes glistened. He reached behind him for a nomidar made of a kind of richly dark wood I had never seen before. Its ribbons were the Dibeli colors, and its bowl and fingerboards almost sweetly curved to match one another. When I cradled it, it fit me perfectly. I ran a scale on its straight neck, and knew in an instant that this was the best instrument I’d ever touched. Its voice was rich and full, the sympathetic undertones powerfully available. In the higher ranges it had a brilliance that almost awed me, and its depths were sonorous.
I looked at Tendoro with astonishment and deep respect. “This is a master nomidar,” I said. “You must truly have been inspired.”
“I would like to hear you play it before I set a price,” the old man said, his voice less wispy than before.
I hesitated, not knowing if it was proper. Variel and Shenefta looked at one another, then smiled and sat down on one of the benches scattered throughout this market. Dirian bounced impatiently at the side of the booth, nodding. I wanted to play; I did not want to perform. I had never been a performer. My music had always been mine, revealed only to those I felt close to, except for Dirian, when I needed to play more than I needed to be private. But I wanted this nomidar, and I saw that I would have to earn it.
There was a nocturne I had taught myself while I was still on Werd, written by someone blind from birth, as my first teacher had been—blind in a way that would not lend itself to repair, for repair can only take place when the structure is there to begin with. I had never really been satisfied with the way I played it, for it spoke deeply of a sorrow I had not previously felt and a hope I had never thought I needed. I cradled the wine-dark instrument, closed my eyes, and began to play. It was not a piece to demonstrate technical virtuosity, but it was hauntingly beautiful. It was not a piece to demand great sympathetic power, because it was masterly in itself. Even as I lost myself in the delicacy of its growth and grandeur, I knew that I had never played it better.
It was not a long piece; I rarely chose to play long works, because I was uneasy about losing myself in them for too long. The nomidar was magnificent. In the silence of its last reverberation, I heard Dirian exhale, releasing such a burst of pent-up breath that I wondered if he’d stopped breathing the whole time I was playing.
Shenefta got to her feet. “Was that as good as I thought it was?”
Variel shushed her and pulled her back down, but Tendoro just nodded gravely at her. “It was superior,” he said, and to me, “My dear, I have set the price.”
“What is it?” I asked, my fingers tightening on the fingerboard in reflex against letting the instrument go.
“Tomorrow is the Day of the Laba,” the old man said. “The game of the Dibel will be the nomidar. You must enter, and if you win, the nomidar will be yours.”
“That’s not fair!” Dirian said hotly. “You know she’ll have to compete against—”
Tendoro raised his hand and Dirian fell instantly silent. “This nomidar,” Tendoro said, his voice now surprisingly strong, “will be the prize in tomorrow’s game.” He held out his hands for it.
I wanted just to take it and run, but that would have dishonored me, and my honor had somehow become the tribe’s honor. I looked down at my hand, which had not unclenched, and exerted my Class C skills to make my arms move the nomidar away from me. As he took it back, I asked Dirian, “Who do I have to compete against?”
He glanced at Tendoro, then shook his head. I guessed.
Variel gathered up her package and mine, and said to me, “I can tell you that, Ronica.” She and Shenefta rose, and the younger girl took my talma material from Variel, who added, “You will have to compete against my Lord Jemeret.”
I should not have been surprised. “Jemeret is a nomidartist?”
“He won the game twelve years ago,” Tendoro said. “It is not played every Convalee.”
“Is it against the rules for me to best the man who claims me?” I asked. All four of the people shook their heads no, but even as they did, I realized that if I beat Jemeret, he would, once again, be lessened. And then, belatedly, it occurred to me that I could not win a contest against someone whose sympathetic skills had to be so superior to my own. I felt many emotions in rapid succession—sadness, anger, self-pity—and then I looked straight at Tendoro.
