Child of a Mad God by R. A. Salvatore
“Then might be that you’re losing your talent,” Tay Aillig threatened. “Might that Seonagh’s fading into her days as a crone. Might that being without a husband for so many the year has left Seonagh forgetful of the ways of Usgar.”
Seonagh did not like where this rant was leading. “Oh, but I can control a girl,” she said, but admitted, for Aoleyn’s sake and not her own, “but not so much this girl.”
“You admit failure?”
“No.”
“Oh, but did you not just claim to be unable to tame her?” said Tay Aillig, letting the doubt hang in the air. “What use left for Seonagh, then?” he asked, and that wicked smile returned. “Might that you should be given to Craos’a’diad, after all, to serve again in your proper place as consort to Hew in Corsaleug. Aye, as you should have joined him a score of years ago.”
Seonagh scoffed, but was dismayed to see the other elder tribesmen nodding, and of course, Raibert was giggling with dark amusement.
A long moment of uncomfortable silence dominated the small group then. Seonagh turned to Mairen for some support, but the Usgar-righinn wouldn’t even look at her, wouldn’t match her stare. Not there. Not then.
“I remember Hew!” Raibert exclaimed suddenly, as if just catching on to the conversation, surprising everyone. “Been dead a long time!” He looked at Seonagh and seemed perplexed, pausing as if his mind was trying to catch up with the stream of memories. “But you’re still here, are you? Hmm. Might that it’s time we seek another teacher for this unbroken filly, so that you might go to serve Hew.”
Seonagh fought hard to maintain her composure, though surely her eyes widened at so blatant a threat. She understood, of course, that such violent talk was common among the men, particularly the older ones whose lust had long turned to impotent frustration. She knew that such talk often centered on her, especially when Tay Aillig was part of the conversation. Of late it seemed that the powerful man had come to profoundly hate her.
Fionlagh’s failure and humiliation had happened on one of Tay Aillig’s earliest raids, and the vicious warrior had been one of Fionlagh’s harshest critics. Fionlagh’s death at the claws and maw of the fossa hadn’t sated his anger at the man, and Seonagh’s subsequent attempts to rehabilitate Fionlagh’s reputation, and to protect her sister Elara, certainly hadn’t pleased Tay Aillig.
Seonagh had believed then, and still did believe, that the young warrior had lusted after Elara, who was much younger than Seonagh and only a few years older than him. In fact, as far as Seonagh knew, she was the only woman who had ever piqued Tay Aillig’s interest.
She winced at recalling that suspicion now, given the man’s obviously intense interest in the fate of Aoleyn, who possessed her mother’s unusual beauty. Perhaps Tay Aillig was being driven by more than his hatred of her, Seonagh thought, and the implications of that scared her more than the thought of being cast into Craos’a’diad.
And now hearing the venerable Raibert laying bare the threat of violence against her staggered the woman, and reminded her just how precarious her—and by extension, Aoleyn’s—situation truly was.
“No,” she replied to Raibert, her voice as calm, strong, and steady as she could manage. “I have much teaching left in me.”
“She’s a woman!” Raibert snapped back at her. “We must learn her purpose. Are you a worthy inionnsaich or not?”
“I am,” she flatly replied. His use of the old title for women whose entire lives had been devoted to teaching girls in the way of Usgar had touched Seonagh’s pride and stung her sensibilities, harking back to a time when there were many more Usgar and women were much more valued than now.
“Then make young Aoleyn ready,” the Usgar-forfach warned, seeming frighteningly cogent then. “This very season Aoleyn must walk the crystal caverns so that she is fully measured. We must know. The Usgar-righinn must know and choose. The girl must learn what it is to be a woman.”
“She’ll be married at next summer solstice,” Ahn’Namay said, and sniggered. “Oh, but then she’ll learn what it really means to be a woman.”
The men all laughed.
Seonagh did not; she stared hard at Tay Aillig and got the feeling that he was laughing more because it was expected of him than because he thought it funny.
“She is willful,” Seonagh warned them, aiming her words at the War Leader, who alone might be able to turn this decision the other way.
“So is Brayth,” Tay Aillig replied coldly. “A fine warrior, strong and powerful.”
The others nodded.
“Be warned, Seonagh. Brayth will teach the girl her place if you do not,” said Tay Aillig.
Seonagh caught it then, clearly so: Tay Aillig didn’t want Brayth on top of Aoleyn.
“And if you do not,” said Raibert, “or if you cannot, then…”
He left the threat hanging there, but Seonagh mentally finished the thought for him: if you cannot, then you will be cast into the Mouth of God.
She bowed to the elders, cast a glance at a clearly mortified Mairen, and took three steps backward away from the fire, as was required of a woman leaving the presence of such men. Then she turned and strode off determinedly into the rising dawn, to find her student and prepare the willful young woman for the dangerous trials ahead.
* * *
Brayth intercepted Seonagh as she crossed the encampment. She and the fierce young man had rarely spoken a word to each other, so when she saw him approaching, she felt a mix of curiosity and of fear. The young warrior had developed quite a reputation among the witches of the Coven, none of it good. Few women in the tribe weren’t married, and a warrior was not to betray the husband of a woman by cuckolding him—indeed, such an act was counted among the worst offenses of Usgar law.
From what Seonagh had heard from many of her friends, the fact that they had husbands hadn’t stopped the overly amorous Brayth from making aggressive advances. Never had he been overt enough for the woman to get her husband involved, but enough to make the women whisper that it would not surprise them if something terrible eventually happened.
The slave women had been less fortunate. Brayth was well known to never shy about mounting them or beating them. Seonagh had little regard for the uamhas, of course, but even she had winced more than once at seeing the aftermath of Brayth’s nocturnal visits: the bruises, the cuts, the fearful look in the eyes.
Seeing his approach now, seeing him at any time, made Seonagh glad of her advanced age. She had no husband whose honor would be assailed if Brayth attacked her; her protest would be but a whisper to the tribal leaders.
Still, the former witch was not without recourse.
She reached into a pouch on her belt, felt the tingling of her fingers as they ran over the cylindrical crystals in there, especially the one flecked with dark gray, the thunder stone. Seonagh was confident that she would need no husband, no man, none of the leaders even, to ward Brayth away if he attacked her. Nay, he’d get a jolt of lightning that would put him shivering on his back, and then he’d get more than that.
A lot more.
No doubt the tribe would admonish her, perhaps even cast her into the Mouth of God—some powerful voices among the men obviously wanted to do that anyway—but the smoldering corpse of an arrogant debaucher would remain quite dead.
And Aoleyn would be safe from him.
That thought caught Seonagh off guard, and had her looking askance as Brayth completed his approach, for it surprised her to admit to herself how much she actually cared for her niece. She wanted to protect Aoleyn, and she knew that the spirited lass wasn’t ready for marriage to any man, and particularly not to this one.
Yes, if Brayth pressed her, she meant to kill him, and then it would be at least another year before the tribe selected a new husband to take Aoleyn.
The young warrior stood before her, his expression full of confidence, of bravado, but also with trepidation.
How often the mixture of those two emotions could be seen together, Seona
“Why do you smile, hag?” Brayth asked.
“Should I not smile upon seeing such a strong young lad?” she asked, counting on his ego to prevent him from seeing through the sarcasm, though she did put a bit of extra emphasis on “young.” Not that the self-absorbed Brayth noticed.
The warrior shook his head. “I would ask something of you,” he said.
Seonagh waited a long moment for the question, before recognizing that the man was waiting for her permission.
The woman crinkled her face, taken off guard at his unexpected politesse.
“Do tell,” she said, trying to convey some measure of wisdom and experience in her tone, to remind the fierce young warrior that his deference was wise and had been earned. “If I’ve an answer, I’ll give it.”
“About my bride.”
Again that long, pregnant pause, and Seonagh was unused to such respect from a man. “What about her?”
“There are some who say she spends a lot of time with the uamhas.” Again, Seonagh noted, a statement, not a question.
“She does.”
“This troubles many.”
Seonagh tried to keep the exasperation off her face. Was he meaning to actually ask her a question, she wondered, and so she asked one of her own. “Does it trouble Brayth? Look about you. You live on a mountain of gossip and unearned certitude. Everything troubles many.”
Brayth grew suddenly animated, his face locking into a sneer. “If Aoleyn lies with the slaves, she is impure and unfit to marry.”
Seonagh stifled a laugh, but couldn’t resist a bit of a snort, at least. “She does not lie with the slaves!”
The young man stared hard at her, and she snorted again at the preposterousness of his accusation.
“She doesn’t even know fully what it is to be a woman, foolish Brayth. Aoleyn has no desire, and would not sate it with any of the uamhas, in any case. She is free of mind and full of curiousness, but she is not an animal.”
A wave of relief washed over the young warrior, visibly so. “Good,” he snapped, nodding, and turned to walk away.
Among the Usgar, the women knew well to let a man have the last word, and so Brayth’s turn should have been the end of the discussion. But Brayth had shown her deference, respect even, and Seonagh’s curiosity got the best of her, and she couldn’t resist.
“What does Brayth think of his intended bride?” she asked.
He turned back to her, clearly caught by surprise.
“You’ve barely met her,” Seonagh pressed, “but seems you’ve heard rumors of her ways. So, you’ve clearly been looking and listening, young Brayth, so tell me, what thoughts have you of Aoleyn?”
Brayth seemed pensive, unsure even, and he didn’t respond for many heartbeats. He was out of sorts, Seonagh realized, particularly given his reputation. Was she wrong about him? Were the rumors of his debauchery and disrespect overblown?
“They say she is willful,” Brayth finally answered. “Disobedient, even.”
In her reflexive desire to protect her niece, Seonagh considered lying to him. Before she began to respond, though, she decided that the truth might prove to be Aoleyn’s best defense here, particularly if it unnerved this preening bull and made him a bit less sure of himself.
“Willful and disobedient?” she answered. “Aye, Aoleyn’s both, and clever and quick when she wants to be.”
“Wants? It’s not a woman’s place to want,” Brayth replied, recovering a bit of his bravado—and indeed, Seonagh saw a cloud of danger flash across his undeniably handsome and angular face, reminding her of all the whispers.
Seonagh nodded and bowed.
“You’ve your job.”
“I’ve taught Aoleyn as much on her place, but the lessons have not taken root of yet.”
Brayth narrowed his dark eyes, and it occurred to Seonagh that her compliance might have given him too much confidence here. “Then teach her better,” he said. “By your words or my hand, she’ll know her place when she’s my bride.”
“She’s not the first…” Seonagh started to argue, but the boy’s wicked smile coming back at her forced her to change tactics. “Many the young woman have I taught,” she replied, letting the tiniest bit of an edge creep into her voice. “I know my part.”
“Yet, she has not learned,” Brayth said.
“The child is immune to any lesson she does not wish to learn,” Seonagh said with exaggerated exasperation, trying to inject a little levity.
Brayth didn’t take it that way, though. “From you, perhaps. But hear me, old witch, if Aoleyn’s not to learn macantas from you, she’ll learn it from me.”
Seonagh winced at the mere mention of the word. Macantas was the demand of complete submission from a woman, the tradition that forced from them meekness, the sacred and unbending word of the god Usgar that man should rule and woman should serve. The very core of Usgar law that would allow Tay Aillig to throw Seonagh into Craos’a’diad if he so chose.
Macantas, the tradition that had sent Seonagh’s sister, Elara, flying to her death.
“I’ll be glad to finish Aoleyn’s lessons,” Brayth ended, his dark eyes sparkling, his voice flat, inflection wholly passive.
He would matter-of-factly beat the spirit out of Aoleyn, and Seonagh understood then that Brayth would enjoy every moment of it.
A chill ran down Seonagh’s spine, and she warmed it only by firming up her resolve to teach Aoleyn the truth of what it was to be Usgar, what it was to be an Usgar woman. She had to break the spirited lass or Brayth would destroy everything about Aoleyn that made her a daughter worthy of Elara.
Again, Seonagh was surprised to learn how much she cared.
When Brayth turned once more and started away, a shaken Seonagh did not stop him.
* * *
By the time Seonagh returned to her tent, Aoleyn had washed, dressed, eaten her breakfast, and completed her chores. Aoleyn was often energetic in the morning, but the level of this day’s ambition surely surprised her teacher. Seonagh was more surprised, still, to find Aoleyn greeting her with a smile.
She met that smile with an openly skeptical look, but that didn’t seem to diminish the mood of the beaming woman. Already, Aoleyn had heard the news, Seonagh realized. For years, the young woman had been begging for more training with the magic of Usgar, and she knew it was now coming.
“Whispers put you with the uamhas many times,” Seonagh said with a rather nasty edge. “With the stupid one.”
Aoleyn rocked back on her heels, her smile vanishing in a gasp, obviously taken aback by the bluntness of the accusation. It was true enough. Aoleyn always did her foraging near the slave quarters, and spent many hours in the company of Bahdlahn, who was nearing his fifteenth birthday and becoming quite the strong and tall young man. The slavers worked him hard, and his hard muscles showed it.
“Then it’s true.”
“My tasks take me near…” Aoleyn started to reply, but Seonagh wasn’t listening.
“Why is that one even still alive?” she asked, more to herself than Aoleyn. “Were he Usgar, he’d be raiding and hunting this very year.” She snorted derisively. “The whispers circle you, girl,” she warned.
“From who?” Aoleyn asked, straightening her shoulders defiantly.
“The man who’ll take you for his wife, for one,” the older witch replied. Seonagh noted the sour look that crossed Aoleyn’s face at the mention of Brayth, and that expression almost broke the older woman. She was glad of Aoleyn’s obvious distrust of the man and even more obvious distaste of the whole arrangement, but she couldn’t let anyone, particularly Aoleyn, know that she was glad of it. Especially not with mod-garadh, the trial of the crystal caverns, so near at hand!
Aoleyn shuffled from foot to foot nervously, and Seonagh thought her properly humbled.
“The man who will beat you until you bleed,” the old witch added, but then heaved a sigh, letting it all go. “Sit,” she said. “
Aoleyn stared at her for just a few moments longer, then moved for her chair. “Baskets or blankets?” the young woman asked, making no attempt to hide her sarcasm.
“No,” Seonagh replied.
Slowly, Seonagh brought forth her hand and opened her fingers to reveal three small crystals sitting in her open palm. “Crystals. Today, the lesson is Usgar.”
Aoleyn’s black eyes sparkled and her beaming smile returned tenfold as she stared at the tantalizing items, reflecting a pinkish hue in one crystal, gray in another, and the clearest of the three, shining magnificently in a slanting morning sunbeam. The deep, inky darkness of several small flakes stood in stark contrast to the brilliance in that one, for it was thick with wedstones.
Seonagh knew she held Aoleyn rapt.
“You know these?” she asked, though of course she knew the answer. Still, she wanted to judge how fully Aoleyn understood the potential revealed before her in this moment. In truth, Aoleyn should not have known much, but Seonagh suspected differently. The girl was too observant and clever—Aoleyn had studied carefully the ceremony when the weapons had been blessed, and had witnessed the levitational powers of the malachite at the cliff, of course.
Aoleyn nodded eagerly, and the sparkle in her dark eyes gave it all away. “The children of the god,” Aoleyn whispered reverently. “Magic.”
“The source of magic?” Seonagh asked, and Aoleyn wagged her head eagerly in the affirmative.
“No!” Seonagh corrected, and that shocked Aoleyn out of her seeming trance, her eyes lifting to regard the surprising Seonagh.
“These are Usgar’s instruments, but not the source of the song,” Seonagh explained. “She who holds the crystal is the source. Here.” She brought her hand to her chest, to her heart. Aoleyn did the same, touching a hand to her center, but where Seonagh expected a look of intrigue and wonder, she saw instead the slightest cloud pass across Aoleyn’s eyes.