Spear Mother: A Tale of the Fourth World by Brandon M. Lindsay
* * *
The frustration Sandrena felt about their situation soon forced her to push the memory into the back of her mind. In less than an hour's walk from their shelter, she had already forgotten what her baby sister's face had looked like.
Four more days passed with nothing to mark them save the nights. The endless plains were mind-numbing. Occasionally a small tree, twisted and stunted, peeked up over the top of the grass. Sandrena found herself staring at the little trees whenever she passed one, as if the sight of it were a lifeline to sanity. All of Canterell had been like this, without exception. Just grass, grass, and more grass. It was no wonder that the people of this clan were as strange as they were. They'd all gone mad living here.
They finally came to a roundhouse, made of stone and sod, settled down in a shallow basin a short distance off. Sandrena had learned that an entire tribe typically lived within a roundhouse. She hadn't believed that when she first heard it; her own mountain home in the Mist Clan was larger, and it only housed her family and a handful of servants. And her family was by no means extravagant. Why people would choose to live this way, she would never know.
"I don't understand it either, Spear Mother," said Dormaun, stepping up next to Sandrena, nearly giving her a fright. Sandrena studied the Wyrricswoman, whose beauty only seemed to grow now that she was somewhat dry. The sun broke through the dark clouds at that moment, as if only to shine on Dormaun's long, wavy white hair, falling over her shoulders. Sandrena imagined herself looking rather shabby at the moment, but found herself not caring. She was glad to have Dormaun by her side, speaking with her. The silence was almost as bad as these endless plains.
"While they lack for resources," Dormaun continued, "they could live better than this if they wanted. The Shannodsmen live in a desert where the sandstorms burn away everything not hidden under a rock, yet they manage to live in palaces." She gestured to the roundhouse, which looked very un-palace-like. "These Canterellsmen, they choose this life."
"Maybe their Iron Gods command it," Sandrena said. There was little else for her to say; Dormaun was right.
Korilia walked over to them then, and Sandrena found her face burn from embarrassment. She was almost glad that Korilia wouldn't be able to see her cheeks flush. Sandrena was suddenly all too conscious of the hides Korilia wore and the bone-hilted knife sheathed at hip. Why did she dress that way?
"Spear Mother," she said as she approached, nodding to Sandrena. A quick glance at Dormaun was all the acknowledgement she would get. Korilia turned her attention back to Sandrena. "Let me scout ahead to see which tribe this is. I think it's the one that the slave came from, but I'm not sure." The provisions the slave had left them the other night were already running low. Sometimes they had to abandon their policy of avoidance; it was either that or starve.
Sandrena frowned. "I thought you were from this area." The roundhouse looked ancient; it must have stood here for decades, if not centuries.
"I am, but the roundhouse does not always house the same tribe. Tribes come and tribes go." She shrugged. "I haven't been here since before I died last, nearly two hundred years ago."
"Do you think they'll trade with us?" Dormaun asked.
Korilia stared at the Wyrricswoman then. "If they are a weak tribe and they fear us, they may trade with us. If they are a strong tribe, they will try to kill us and take what little we have." Her tone betrayed what she thought of people who traded, which was something Wyrricsmen did freely.
Dormaun turned to Sandrena. "Spear Mother, what of Semorie? She could scout the roundhouse without being detected."
It was a good point. Semorie was from Faceless Clan, which meant she could easily infiltrate the tribe, even if no one there knew her and they were likely a closely-knit community. That ability came from her clan's power to trick a person's mind into thinking it could determine what she looked like, when in fact their mind was really just filled with vague generalities. They would look at her and would recognize she had some sort of hair, some color of eyes, and some other set of facial characteristics, and would simply leave it at that. Only when pressed would the mind determine that it was being tricked.
This power was what made the Faceless Clan such a strong adversary. If an army marched upon Faceless lands looking for war, that army would find itself torn apart from within. Not even the highest echelon of officers was safe from Faceless infiltration. It was because of this that few of the other clans bothered to declare war on them.
Most deadly of all the Faceless Clan were the boshail assassins. Though all Faceless had the innate ability to blend into any community, boshail were trained in the art of stealth and killing. Sandrena had heard that the only telltale of a boshail was a left arm severed just below the elbow, thus removing the only other thing that could betray them as Faceless—their clan mark. Yet despite such an obvious telltale, they still managed to be masters of infiltration. Sandrena couldn't fathom it. The Faceless Clan would always be a mystery.
Sandrena unconsciously rubbed her own Mist clan mark, obscured beneath the left sleeve of her dress. It was the only part of her body that had not turned white. That was how clan marks were; there was no way to alter them. Not even the best tattooist could—the mark would somehow bleed the ink out of the surrounding skin, thus making itself obvious again. Other than clothing, the only other known way to hide your clan mark was to cut it off.
Just thinking about it was enough to send a shiver down Sandrena's spine.
She didn't understand how the major disadvantage of losing an arm could be offset by the meager advantage of not having a clan mark. But then, if she knew everything there was to know about boshail, they wouldn't be very good at their job, now would they? Besides, they could trick people into believing they were someone, yet no one in particular; what difficulty could it be to hide a missing arm?
Sandrena glanced over at Semorie then, who was even more taciturn and stand-offish than the rest of them. The Faceless woman wore a loose-fitting, homespun wool robe that barely covered her knees, cinched with featureless leather belt. A strange, close-fitting head covering revealed only her eyes. She seemed to have little or no hair beneath it, but no one knew for sure; she refused to take the covering off in front of them, and always bathed in private. Tall and lanky, she looked like an albino mantis, crouched as she was with her elbows resting on her knees and her eyes peering out over the waving tips of the grasses.
Only when Semorie turned to face her did Sandrena realize she had been staring at the woman's left arm. Semorie said nothing, yet did not turn away.
The fingers on her left hand, the tips of which dangled out of the edge of the loose sleeve, did not move.
Sandrena quickly glanced away. I'm just being paranoid, she thought. She is no boshail.
Yet when had she seen Semorie actually do anything with her hands? Sandrena couldn't think of a time when she had. Could the left one somehow be a fake?
Semorie stood then and slowly walked over. As if sensing Sandrena's discomfort, and seeking to aggravate it. "Yes?" she asked. Her deep voice always surprised Sandrena, so rarely was it used.
Luckily for Sandrena, Dormaun spoke. "Can you go into that roundhouse and see if they have any supplies that we need?"
Semorie stared at her. The only motion she made was the narrowing of her eyes. "I'm no thief, if that's what you're asking."
"No," said Sandrena, stepping in. "We're not asking you to steal anything. Just scout for us."
Another moment passed, and some of the firmness drained from Semorie's stance. "I... I can't. I'm no use to you in there."
Dormaun frowned. "Why not?"
"What color are my eyes?" Semorie asked.
"White."
"And my skin? My clothes?"
"White. Everything about you is white." Dormaun gestured to encompass their little company. "Just like the rest of us."
Semorie nodded. "Exactly. You know what I look like. So would they. They would know I'm different and probably cu
But she was right. Semorie now had features that were definite. The power of her clan seemed to have been lost with the task put upon them by the Lady. Sandrena couldn't imagine how crushing such a loss of identity would be—that is, if a member of the Faceless Clan could even have a sense of identity.
"Spear Mother," said Korilia in a low voice, leaning forward, "let me do this. I may not know this tribe, but I know Canterellsmen. I'll find out if they will help us."
"And if they don't want to?"
In answer, Korilia grinned darkly and started trotting down the basin, crouching low even though a blind man could see her from a mile away, white as she was. Still, no one was outside the roundhouse that Sandrena could see, which she thought odd at this time of day. In a matter of a few short minutes, Korilia was little more than a snowflake in a sea of green.
Sandrena decided to follow Semorie's example and sat in the damp grass, legs folded with Motherspear lying across her thighs. Briefly she worried that her dress might become stained, but then chuckled softly to herself. She had nothing to worry about. Any grass stain on her dress would likely turn white by nightfall.
A faint fog began to creep around them as they waited. Seeing it made Sandrena think of home with a pang of longing in her heart. Not because the mist reminded her of her home and family, though she did miss those things. No, it was because it reminded her again just how powerless she was here, in these foreign lands. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dormaun eyeing her expectantly, as if waiting for Sandrena to reach out and touch the mist.
Sandrena did not rise to the bait. She had more dignity than that.
Though the temptation was strong. After all, what would it hurt? What if she could use this mist, even though it was in another clan's lands? The worst that could happen if she did was she would be disappointed and perhaps lose a little face, but what did she care what Dormaun thought?
Sandrena was Spear Mother.
She rose, closed her eyes, held her breath, and stepped forward into the dampness of the mists.
And released herself into them.
Nothing happened.
She opened her eyes and exhaled deeply. So much for that plan. She looked down at Motherspear in her hands. It seemed like that would be her only weapon going forward. She had better get used to the idea.
Dormaun turned back toward the roundhouse. "Korilia's coming," she said. "And she looks..." She trailed off.
Frowning, Sandrena turned to see.
With no regard for stealth, Korilia tromped up the slope of the basin towards them. While she was difficult to see from this distance, her posture indicated anger, or maybe fear, or anxiety. Or all three.
Only when Korilia was closer did Sandrena see the blood red on her hands, and the tears trailing down her cheeks like drips of whitewash. She stood in front of Sandrena, chest heaving with ragged, trembling breaths, lip quivering with barely-contained emotion. She met Sandrena's eyes unflinchingly, betraying depths of pain.
With barely a rustle of the grasses, Semorie stepped up next to Sandrena. "So were they a strong tribe then?" There was hint of laughter in her tone. "And you took care of them?"
Before Sandrena could blink, Korilia had crossed the distance to Semorie. Her knife blade was pressed against the Faceless woman's throat. "They were not my tribe, but they were my clan. They will not be mocked by a No-face like you." Korilia's voice dripped with rage.
Semorie made no move save to fold her arms, elbows brushing Korilia as she did.
After several tense moments, Korilia let her knife hand drop to her side and turned her devastated expression to Sandrena. "They are... all dead. Butchered. It wasn't as if they were attacked by warriors, killed in battle. This was... simple brutality. Whoever killed them didn't use swords or axes. It looked like they were sawed to pieces with... I don't even know what. Chains, maybe. They weren't killed; they were destroyed. Iron Gods, the children!"
Korilia collapsed to her knees, clutching her face with her bloody hands, unable to contain the wail of agony trapped within her any longer.
Chains. The children. The second memory, the one Sandrena dreaded to remember, flashed through her mind then like a lightning bolt. A wave of nausea swept through her, and she had to lock her knees to keep herself from joining Korilia on the ground. She forced herself to be strong for the five women watching her.
And for the sister I couldn't save, came an alien, distant thought from somewhere deep within her.
"Spear Mother," said Semorie in a soft, gentle voice. "Perhaps we should bury them. The children at least."
Yes, Sandrena thought. Bury them. Put them in the ground where they could be forgotten, so the memories of their death would not haunt anyone anymore. She quelled the cynical thought and shook her head. She wouldn't let that memory control her. But Semorie was right; burying them was the right thing to do. "Yes. I will bury them."
From where she knelt, Korilia seized Sandrena's wrist. "Spear Mother, let me. You are not responsible for them; I am. They were my people."
Sandrena smiled softly and laid a hand on Korilia's. "And in this, we are your people, too." She turned to the others. "If any of you are willing to help, I'm sure our sister would appreciate it."
Korilia pulled Sandrena's hands to her cheek. A new tear rolled down it onto Sandrena's thumb. "Thank you," she said. With Semorie's help, Korilia rose and hesitantly nodded her thanks to the Faceless woman.
Sandrena led them down the slope towards the roundhouse. Behind her, she heard someone say, "I guess that's why the Lady made her Spear Mother." Sandrena smiled, but that smile faded when she contemplated the grim task before them.