Spear Mother: A Tale of the Fourth World by Brandon M. Lindsay
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The shelter was worse than it looked. The raindrops may have lessened in frequency, but the drops that did get through seemed twice the size. The wind, unable to harry the six of them further, howled all the louder as if in frustration, though Sandrena knew it was just how it blew across the lip of the gouge that made it seem that way. It was barely an improvement, but Sandrena was learning to get by with much less these days.
Only Korilia, who had grown up in Canterell, seemed unaffected by their conditions. She sat on a moss-covered rock, water beaded up on her fat-treated hides, whittling a stick she had found a few days back with her iron knife, focusing on the task as if it was the only one that had ever been set before her. It was a stick of brush wood; not real wood, as she had said. Sandrena assumed she meant tree wood. Trees were damn near sacred in these heathen lands.
Dormaun, the Wyrricswoman in their band, had built a small fire with the horse chips she had found earlier today. It wasn't entirely pleasant-smelling, especially since it was difficult to keep them dry.
Still, it was better than nothing.
As was the case most nights since they had met, none of them spoke much, though the silence wasn't as strained as it had been at first. While it wasn't exactly companionable, it wasn't openly hostile, either. None of the other women seemed as tense now, and Sandrena noticed that Korilia was sleeping with her knife sheathed rather than in her hand.
Sandrena glanced around at each of their faces, briefly meeting their eyes one by one. What a strange group they were. She still couldn't fathom this situation. Each of the six clans was represented here. As far as Sandrena knew, such a group had never existed in all of history. Half their respective clans had only ever seen the other half as enemies to be slaughtered. That they should be bound together in this task was incredible. That they should share the same roof without killing each other was amazing enough.
The dreams, though, were clear about what would happen should they fail in their task.
Sandrena shuddered at the thought. Lady, but how she wished she were home! Not only did she miss her parents, but being so far from the mists that gave her people their strength made her feel vulnerable. If she ran into trouble, she couldn't call upon the powers that made her clan nearly invincible. She would be weak.
Well, she thought, brushing a finger against the bone-white shaft of Motherspear, lying across her folded legs, not as weak as I could be, I suppose.
She had never seen such a weapon before. The shaft, made of sturdy but light bamboo, was as white as bleached bone. The perfectly smooth head of Motherspear tapered from round base to its deadly point. It, too, was white, as white as any snowcapped peak in Tokkarint, and Sandrena had no idea what kind of material it was made from, though it certainly wasn't metal or wood, and it seemed doubtful that it was made of stone. It was too light. When she ran her fingers across, Sandrena often thought of it as bone, or a tooth, but even that didn't quite explain the sensation of its texture.
Even though it didn't look like much, it emanated power. Just touching it made the hair on the back of Sandrena's hand stand on end. Though she sometimes found herself wondering what it could do, she almost feared to witness such a thing.
She had no doubt that this strange weapon was connected to what was happening to the rest of them. From the moment Sandrena woke from the first of those dreams, the day when she had found what would become Motherspear, she noticed the change. Her skin had begun to lighten. By the fourth day, her family had noticed the washed-out color. Even her hair had been affected, and then, increasingly, the clothes that she wore. It wasn't a week later that Sandrena had been completely drained of color, looking like a living, breathing statue of calcite. Her mother had confined her to her rooms to quash the rumors that were beginning to spread of a pale ghost haunting the household.
And it wasn't a day after that when Sandrena snuck out of her window, a pack over her shoulder and Motherspear in her hand, in obedience to her dreams. She tried not to let the sorrow of remembering that terrible moment, when even her mother had looked at her with fear and uncertainty, overcome her.
Thus she began her travels, finding the other five women where the dreams said she would. They, too, had begun to have the color bleached from them. Now, each of them looked as if they had been painted from head to toe with whitewash. Even the irises and pupils of their eyes, even the buckles of their belts and other bits of metal, were purely white. Perhaps that was another reason why talk was so infrequent between them. They would be forced to see in each other what had become of themselves.
Sandrena never could stand the absence of human voices for very long. Often, when she was alone in her rooms back home, she would sing softly to herself. Her mother always told her she had a lovely voice, which Sandrena always suspected was just one of those motherly things to say, though many others had always complimented her on her ability to carry a tune. She loved music and always had, but that wasn't the main reason she sang. She did it more just to hear a voice, even if was just her own. That way, even if she was alone, she didn't feel lonely.
Now, even though five other women crowded the shelter with her, the silence between them was smothering. It reminded her that even though they were united in this task, they were still strangers. It made her miss her family.
So Sandrena began to hum.
It was a jolly little tune, bouncing and skipping, playful and happy, a perfect counterpart to the dreariness of their situation. Sandrena didn't know where she had first heard the song—she knew she hadn't written it herself, but no one else seemed to know what it was. It wasn't like other songs she had heard, and she had heard many. For as long as she could remember, that mysterious little song had been with her.
A couple of the other women looked up at her briefly when she began humming. By now, they were used to this odd habit of hers. Sometimes, some of them even seemed to relax when Sandrena would hum or sing, as if they, too, needed the sound of a human voice to comfort them while they were away from home.
The song served another purpose, Sandrena knew, and not just for herself. It distracted from the thought of why they had been bound together on this quest in the first place. The Lady, one of the Fourth World's two stewards, had come to each of them in dreams and told them what they were here to do.
They would kill a god.
And most of them would likely die in the process.
The details beyond those were shrouded in mystery. The Lady had said only so much in those dreams. Unconsciously, Sandrena glanced down at Motherspear lying in her lap. The song faltered briefly, but she tore her gaze away and the song continued on, almost as if she hadn't stumbled at all.
A bird called shrilly over the sound of the rain and her gentle humming. Sandrena cut off her song and cocked her head, puzzled. What kind of bird would be out in this weather?
Korilia stood, brow furrowed, and stalked to the opening, knife still in hand. When she threw open the curtain of vines, a man's voice muttered some words in a shocked tone, though Sandrena couldn't understand what he said. Korilia stood holding aside the vines, letting the rain pummel her already soaked hair, seeming to study the man who had called.
"Come in out of the rain, you fool," she said before turning to head back to her seat. Her jaw was set in anger as she began to whittle again, but Sandrena didn't know why. Perhaps that was just Korilia; she seemed to be in a perpetual state of unfettered rage. Sometimes it was exhausting just looking at her.
A young man covered in hides like Korilia's—though his still held their color—pushed the vines aside to peer into their shelter, his eyes wide. If his garb wasn't enough indication that he was a Canterellsman, then his light complexion—light compared to anyone but the six of them, that is—and the slave markings scarring his face were. Besides, very few outsiders ever decided they had business in Canterell worth pursuing.
Aside from us, apparently, Sandrena thought with a hint of self-deprecation.
The man
"For you, Daughters of the Lady," he said, keeping his eyes lowered. Deference seemed natural for him. Sandrena shook her head; she still couldn't get over the fact that Canterellsmen believed that people could be property.
He continued speaking. "I was told in a dream that you would be here, needing food." He hazarded another glance, this time at Dormaun, before fixing his gaze hurriedly back on the ground. Sandrena could understand; Dormaun, by any clan's standard, was beautiful, and the fact that she looked sculpted of alabaster only enhanced her striking looks.
Except for Korilia, who seemed more interested in her whittling than ever, all of the women eyed the bundle hungrily. It had been days since they had had a proper cooked meal. Only Korilia seemed suitable to hunting in the plains, and there was little enough hunting to be had. The few Canterell camps they had come across had either met them with fear or hostility. It was now their policy to stay away from people as much as they could, but it was a policy that was difficult on their stomachs.
Despite that, no one moved to open the bundle. Doing so would reaffirm the power of the dreams that compelled them all as it was a dream that brought the food before them.
Setting aside Motherspear, Sandrena bent down to open the bundle. It was filled with cabbages, tubers, and sun-dried meat. Briefly, she wondered how old the meat was, as she hadn't seen the sun since she set foot in this clan's lands, but quickly decided she didn't care. It was food.
For some strange reason, she found herself moved nearly to tears for the gift the young man gave them, even if it wasn't his own idea. She stood, staring at bowed head, and decided she had to do something to repay him. With a finger she gently lifted his chin up so that she could meet his eyes.
"Blessings of the Lady upon you," she said. Sandrena wasn't exactly sure if it was appropriate to confer such a blessing, but she was at a loss as to what else to say.
The man had a kind answering smile. "Thank you, Spear Mother."
"A slave has no possessions," came Korilia's voice. Dropping her hand at her side, Sandrena turned to face her. She had stopped her whittling and was now facing the slave, elbows propped on her knees. She gestured at the bundle with her knife. "Where did you get this?"
The slave bowed his head in her direction, but not before a spark of defiance flashed in his eyes. "They are a gift from my master's stores, Daughter of the Lady."
"So you stole it?"
"No," replied the slave. "For stealing assumes unlawful ownership. And as you said, a slave owns nothing. Therefore he cannot steal. Only move things around."
Under better circumstances, Sandrena would have laughed at the slave's cleverness. Now, all she could manage was a smile. It was a genuine smile; she liked his spirit. He showed that a man's body could be enslaved, but his soul was something he could keep as long as he wanted.
Her smile faltered. Was the same true for her? Could she really turn her back on the dreams that the Lady had been sending her? Or was she a slave to them?
Korilia stood, gripping the white knife tightly. Her eyes narrowed. "How quickly did you yield to her promises, slave? How quickly did you turn your back on the Iron Gods?"
The slave straightened then, all playfulness gone from his expression. He met Korilia glare for glare. "You're right," he said. "A man like me has much to thank the Iron Gods for." With that, the slave nodded once at Sandrena and stepped back out into the rain, striding forth with all the dignity of a Kahn.
Korilia tossed her stick into the flames, sending up a shower of sparks, and sheathed her knife. "Every life he lives will be as a slave," she muttered.
When the food was passed among them, Korilia refused.