Rosemary Kirstein

 CHAPTER ONE

The steerswoman centered her chart on the table and anchored the corners around. A candlestick, a worn leatherbound book, an empty mug, and her own left hand held the curling parchment flat. The lines on the paper seemed to be of varying ages, the ones toward the center drawn with cracked, browning ink, those nearer the edges sharp and black. Extent of detail also showed progression. A large body of water, labeled “Inland Sea,” dominated the central portion. The northern shore was depicted with painstaking precision. Farther north and farther east lines became more general, and there was a broad blank space on the right-hand side of the map.

The innkeeper regarded the woman a moment, then turned his attention to the chart. “Ah, look at that, now, all laid out just like we were birds and all.” He tilted his head for a better vantage. “Here we are, then.” He placed a chubby finger down on the parchment, on a spot north and east of the sea, midway between precision and vagueness. “Here’s this very crossroads, see, and the town, and the tavern itself.” The last was not depicted. The steerswoman made no comment.

The finger moved northeast, leaving a faint, damp mark. “There, that’s where me and my brothers used to live. Right there; I know that river, see.”

“And that’s where you found the jewel,” Rowan the steerswoman said.

“Yes, lady, that’s right. Felling trees, these great big ones here.” With a sweep of his arm he indicated a vast supporting beam visible in the ceiling of the narrow sitting room. “There we were, cutting these great things down—they  did the worst of it, I’m not so strong as my brothers.” The innkeeper was an immense square block of a man, of the sort whose padding generally concealed considerable muscle. “So I spot this smaller one, more in my range, like. And I heave back my axe, give it one great bash—and there it was.”

Rowan reached across the table and picked up the object that lay there, an irregular lump of wood about the size of her two fists. As she turned it over in her hands, something glinted inside the hollows and depressions carved into its surface: rich colors that fractured and shifted as the light shifted, opalescent—now blue-black, now sky-blue, now a flash of purple, recalling amethyst. The surface was laced with tiny veins of silver. Rowan touched one of the visible faces and found it perfectly smooth, far smoother than a jeweler could have cut it, and with a faintly oily feel.

Putting the object down on the chart, she reached into the neck of her blouse and drew out a small pouch, hung by a leather cord. She slipped the cord over her head, opened the pouch, and slid its contents out onto the table.

The innkeeper smiled. “Ah, you’ve got one, too, though not so large and fine as mine.” He picked up the blue shard, about half the size of the thumb he rubbed across it. “Oh, it’s the same, yes.” But it seemed less a jewel than a slice of a jewel. It was flat and thin as a knife blade. Only one surface showed, the other sheathed in some rough-textured, silver-colored metal, as if it had been pulled from or broken from a setting.

The steerswoman made a vague gesture. “We can’t tell how large yours is, imbedded in wood. All the others I’ve seen are like my own, small and one-sided. I suspect that what you have is actually several jewels, nestled together.” She turned back to the map. “Can you recall which side of the tree it was found in?”

He was surprised. “Side? No side, lady. It was inside like I said.”

“Yes, but wasn’t it closer to one side than the other?” She tapped the object. “It wasn’t directly in the center, or the pattern of the grain would run around it in a circle. It was off-center. I need to know in what direction.”

“Ten years back? Who can tell one side of a tree from another, ten years back?”

Rowan leaned back in her chair, contemplating a moment. She was an unprepossessing figure, of average height, and of average build for her height. Her traveling clothes, a rough linen blouse and trousers, were dusty and perhaps a bit tattered. Her hair, cut short for convenience, was the color of dark wet sand, save where the sun had bleached pale streaks. She possessed no outstanding beauty, and yet her face fascinated, not by any great perfection of feature but by its intelligent, constantly shifting expression. It seemed as if the actions of her mind were immediately reflected on her face, giving her a strange air, part vulnerability, part arrogance. One could not tell if she was helplessly incapable of guile, or if she simply considered it beneath her.

“The jewel showed at the first strike of your axe?” she asked the innkeeper.

“Yes, lady.”

“Which way were you facing? Were there landmarks about? What did you see?”

“See?” He was blank a moment, searching his memory; then his face lit up. “I saw the Eastern Guidestar. The sun was just setting, see, the stars just showing, and as I get ready to swing, I look up and see the Eastern Guidestar shining through the branches like an omen. I remember thinking that.”

Rowan laughed, slapped her hand down on the table, and rose. “Does that tell you something, lady?”

“Indeed it does.” She had gone to where her pack lay against an armchair, and was opening her tubular map case. She pulled out another chart, smaller than the first, and brought it back to the table. “Here.” She pushed the lump to one side and spread the new chart on top of the first. “Do you see that this is a more detailed map of this small area?” She indicated the land around his finger-smudge.

“Yes . . .”

She nodded. “Here’s the river, as you said, and it must have been around here that you felled the tree.”

He squinted along her finger. “Could be, yes . . .”

“Were there any other landmarks? What did you pass on the way there?”

“We crossed a brook. . . .”

“Could it be this one?” With a series of questions she narrowed the possibilities until both she and the innkeeper were satisfied. She marked the position with a small star. Next she questioned him closely about the terrain and the other types of vegetation nearby, adding symbols and notes. At last she said, “And you were facing the Eastern Guidestar, which is southeast from there,” and drew a small arrow by the star, pointing southeast. The innkeeper saw that there were perhaps a dozen such stars on the map, three of them accompanied by arrows. All the arrows pointed southeast.

The steerswoman picked up the wooden shape again, giving her attention not to the jewels but to the wood itself. She ran her fingernail lightly along the grain. “Did you use the tree that held this in constructing any part of this building?”

“Why, yes. The great mantelpiece over the fireplace in the common room.”

She tossed the lump to him. “Show me.” The terse command was tempered by her evident delight. The innkeeper could not imagine why the prospect of examining a mantelpiece would please her so. He led her down the short paneled corridor, passing a wide-eyed chambermaid who hastened to get out of their way, either out of respect for her master, or for the woman who followed him.

The common room was a wide low chamber that ran the entire length of the inn. In the far corner, a door led to the kitchen and service area, with kegs of various brews and wines nearby. Rowan and the innkeeper entered from another door in the same wall. A massive fieldstone fireplace filled the area between the two doors. The opposite wall held the entrance and a rank of windows, all flung open to admit the weak spring sunlight. As an attempt to dispel the native gloom of the chamber, this was a failure, and only served to offset the dark comradely warmth that prevailed.

The confluence of several bands of travelers had provided the inn with a crowd of surprising size. In one corner, a caravan guide was regaling a merchant who had three lovely young companions—daughters, by the merchant’s evident disapproval of their bright-eyed attentiveness. Nearby, some of the other caravan members were conversing with five soldiers in red surcoats, apparently in the service of some or another wizard currently aligned with the Red. Close by the fire, a group of pilgrims were receiving an impromptu lecture from their leader; a local wag stood close behind his chair, parodying the man’s pontifical gestures and expressions, while the pilgrims watched in a dumbfounded fascination that the unknowing leader seemed to attribute to his own rhetorical brilliance.

Far to the left of that group, Rowan identified a band of no less than a full dozen Outskirters. War-band size, she realized with some concern. But they seemed, at the moment, cheerful and unthreatening, oblivious to the ring of silent watchfulness around them, a ring that was slowly being frayed by the friendly, the brave, and the simply curious.

Seeing that nothing undue was about to transpire, she turned her attention to the fireplace and the mantelpiece, which was high up, safely out of casual arm-reach. It held a display of oddments and fancy mugs.

Rowan found a tall stool by the fire. She tested it with a fingertip, and it wobbled perceptibly. Seeing her intent, a local farmer leaped up. “Here, lass, I’ll give a hand.” He moved it to where she indicated and patted the seat, saying, “Up you go, lass, be glad to hold you,” with a grin and an overly familiar wink.

“A little respect, man. That’s a steerswoman,” the innkeeper protested. The farmer backed off in surprise.

“It doesn’t mean I couldn’t use a hand,” Rowan said, half annoyed, half amused. She climbed to the top of the stool while the farmer carefully steadied it, his friends chortling at some expression on his face, invisible to Rowan.

Ignoring them, she turned and carefully examined the squared-off end of the mantel, her face close to the wood, her hands moving over the grain.

The innkeeper watched in perplexity, then eyed the group around the fire, as if debating whether to betray his ignorance with a question. His quandary was solved by a serving girl, who, bustling by, noticed the steerswoman for the first time. “Here, what are you doing?” she called.

Rowan looked down. “Counting rings,” she said with a grin, then returned to her work. The innkeeper’s flapping gesture sent the girl back to the customers, and then he cleared his throat experimentally. His comment was forestalled by an explosion of loud voices from the near corner, and heads turned in the direction of the Outskirters.

One of the barbarians, a particularly burly specimen with a shaggy red beard, had risen and was leaning across the table to reply to a local who had joined the group. But he spoke with laughter and had leaned forward to pour more wine into the man’s cup. “Ha! Stories! We’ve tales enough, and more than enough. I shouldn’t wonder you’d ask, living in these soft lands. Sit in a tavern with good wine and good ale, and hear someone else’s miserable adventures.”

The band of Outskirters was becoming more infiltrated as surrounding people edged a little nearer at the possibility of a story.

“As for us,” the barbarian continued, sitting down, “when we want something unusual we come to small taverns and sit under dry roofs, drink wine, and gawk at the local dullards.” He spoke good-naturedly; certainly none of his comrades seemed to find the present company objectionable. One Outskirter woman at the end of the table sat shoulder-to-shoulder with a handsome field hand. He spoke to her in quiet tones; she gave occasional brief replies, a small smile on her face, eyes looking now to the left, now to the right.

“We’ll bring a goblin, next time,” a second barbarian volunteered, speaking around a mouthful of roast venison. “He’ll have stories, or perhaps he’ll do a clever dance.”

“I’ve seen the goblins dance,” said a farmer with brooding eyes. “I don’t care to make closer acquaintance.”

“Nasty beasts,” the first Outskirter agreed. “Singly and in troops. Only last month our tribe was beset by a troop, and at night, too, the worst time to deal with them. Garryn’s pyre, remember?” His friends nodded. “We had to burn him at night. Ha, there’s a story-” He received a shove from his comrade. “What!”

“Let Bel tell it.”

The man was outraged. “I was there!”

“For only part.”

“I never left!”

“You slept.”

“Never! Well, yes, with the help of a goblin’s cudgel . . .” But the cry had been taken up by the other Outskirters. The woman at the end of the table rocked indecisively a moment, then rolled her eyes and got to her feet. Somewhat shorter than expected, she climbed to stand on her chair so she rose above the listeners, her head up near the low rafters.

She gazed up at the air for a while, as if choosing her words. Though small, she looked strong and able. She kept her balance on the chair easily, feet planted wide in shaggy goatskin boots which were met at the top by leather leggings. Her sleeveless shirt was equally shaggy. Her cloak was made of the unmatched skins of seemingly dozens of very small animals, crudely stitched together. Rowan wondered if she was not too warm.

With a gesture that commanded instant silence, the barbarian began to speak.

 

“Silence and silence; the battle stilled.

The outcome delivered, foes dispersed:

Garryn’s gift. His was the guidance,

Warrior’s wisdom, and heart of wildness.”

 

Distracted, Rowan returned to her counting. The innkeeper finally spoke up. “What does it tell you, lady?”

“A moment.” She finished, then gestured for him to pass the wooden lump. She placed it on the edge of the mantel and turned it this way and that, comparing it to the beam. “It tells me the age of this tree.”

“The age?”

A grizzled elderly local spoke up. “One ring every year, on a tree.” He was seated on a stool by the hearth’s edge, his hands busy knitting a large square of off-white wool. Beside him, in a deeply cushioned armchair, an even older woman worked at needlepoint, her nearsighted eyes perilously close to the flashing needle. The old man grunted. “Don’t need a steerswoman for that. One ring a year.” The woman nodded, her work nodding with her.

“You can see the center of the tree, here. I can count all the way out to the edge: forty-three rings.” The innkeeper and the farmer peered up. “And this—” She turned the glittering wood object again. “See how close the grain is? It came from about this area. Where the tree is perhaps fifteen years old.”

Across the room, the quiet grew deeper as more people turned their attention to the Outskirter.

 

“The sun sank, urging us speed,

For in deep darkness, fire calls to Death,

To furies fouler, more fearsome than Man—”

 

Goblins were attracted by fire, Rowan remembered, only half listening. She clambered down from her perch, thanked the farmer, then settled on a lower stool. “Forty-three years old when it was cut down, ten years ago. And the jewels appeared at the fifteen-year mark, about. Roughly, then, thirty-five years ago, these jewels and the tree came together.”

“Came together? But surely they grew there, magic and all?”

She smiled. “Possibly they grew there. Likely they were put there, that is, driven into the bark, just at the surface. Later, the tree grew outward, and the wood engulfed the jewels.”

“The tree didn’t grow them, then?” The farmer spoke up, indicating the innkeeper with a thumb gesture. “Like he’s always telling?”

Rowan looked apologetic. “I have one, found in a spadeful of dirt from an irrigation ditch, far from any tree. If trees grow them, then the earth does, as well.”

The old man spoke to the farmer. “She’s going to find out about them. That’s what they do, you know. Always asking questions, the steerswomen.”

“I thought they answered questions.”

“Of course!” He laid a finger aside his nose. “You and me, we ask the steerswomen. And they ask themselves. Answer themselves, too, they do, in the end.”

Rowan made to speak to the innkeeper, but found him distracted by the Outskirter’s poem. Apparently the goblins were attacking:

 

“The cries of the crazed ones, hefting cudgels,

Driving from darkness, drawn by fire,

Hunting heat, and knowing no hindrance

Of men, matter, arms, or means . . .”

 

The steerswoman went to the innkeeper and got his attention. “Might I possibly borrow this piece of wood for a time? It would be good if I could show it to some people at the Archives.”

He was dubious, but reluctant to deny her. “Well, lady,” he said, “I’d hate to part with it. I mean, how I found it and all . . . I’m sure it must be magic, and as it hasn’t done any harm yet, I suppose it must be doing some good.”

“I don’t really need it,” she admitted. “But it would be helpful.” A change in the reciting Outskirter’s voice made Rowan glance her way.

“Faltered finally, felled by this sword—” Bel stood straight and slapped the hilt with a gesture that tossed back one side of her cloak.

Her movement revealed, below the edge of her shaggy vest, an eye-catching belt of silver, decorated with flat blue gems.

Rowan handed the jeweled lump back to the innkeeper blindly and forgot about the man as completely as if he had vanished. Edging her way through the tables, she approached the crowd around the Outskirter woman.

“—held by this hand. So passed horror.”

Bel paused, then shifted her weight slightly, and the informality of the movement made it clear that the tale was over. There were murmurs of appreciation from those gathered and some table-pounding on the part of her Outskirter cohorts. She hopped down from the chair, with an unnecessary but clearly welcome assist from the field hand. He made a comment that Rowan could not discern but that made Bel laugh with plain happiness.

Rowan approached them, torn by reluctance and necessity. “Warrior?” she called, using the barbarians’ preferred form of address. The woman turned to her, curious, not annoyed by the interruption. “Might I speak to you?”

“You’re doing it.”

“I’m curious about your belt.”

Bel looked down at it herself, appreciating it afresh. “My father made it himself, a long time ago. So, there’s not another one like it, if that’s your interest.”

“Not quite. I wonder about those jewels, where they came from.” She saw suspicion rise in the other’s eyes. “I’m a steerswoman,” she hastened to explain.

Suspicion changed to interest. “Ha! I’ve heard of such before, though I’ve never met any. It means I can ask you anything I please, can’t I? And you have to answer?”

“If I know the answer, I have to give it,” Rowan admitted.

“That’s not always sensible. There are some answers one may need to keep to oneself.”

Rowan laughed. “The situation arises less often than you might think. Still, I’ll answer anything you like, but I’d first like to ask, if I may. Can you—” She tried not to glance at the field hand. “Can you spare some time?”

The barbarian considered, weaving minutely. Then, with an apologetic look toward her friend, she led Rowan to a table to one side.

Rowan briefly recounted her interest in the jewels and displayed her own shard. “I noticed the first as a charm in a witch-woman’s hut in Wulfshaven. She told me where she’d found it; I was only interested because of its beauty. But when I came across another, in some arid farmland on the western curve of the Long North Road, I became more curious. There’s no similarity in the types of terrain where they’re found, as there ought to be. And they’re never found in a natural state; always polished, with some metal setting.”

Bel listened, then, with a new curiosity of her own, removed her belt and studied it. Rowan leaned forward.

The belt consisted of nine jewels shaped as rough disks, thickly edged with silver and connected by large silver links. The whole was finished with a heavy clasp in back. The jewels themselves varied more widely than any Rowan had seen before. Some had silver veins running from a central vein, as a leaf might; others had the same fine parallel lines as Rowan’s. There was one type totally new to her: not blue at all, but a solid rich purple, with rough veins so thick as to stand in high relief on the surface. “How old is the belt?”

The Outskirter calculated. “My father gave it to me some ten years ago, when he joined a war band in another tribe, for love of the woman who led it. I heard he was killed in a raid later. But he had it before as long as I can remember, which I admit is not many years. Twenty-one.” Something occurred to her. “No, here; there came a man looking for my father some years ago. He named him as the Outskirter with the blue belt, and said he’d heard of him from a tribe we had passed.” She paused, then shook her head. “Many years ago, well before I was born, my kin told me. So that he had it twenty-five, perhaps thirty years ago.”

“Did he say where he found the jewels? I have some maps; perhaps you can point it out?”

“I’ll be glad to try.”

Rowan led the barbarian back to her chamber, then drew out and displayed her charts. The small-scale map proved useless, as no part of it was familiar to Bel. The large-scale map was of limited use.

“My father told me he found them on Dust Ridge, out on the blackgrass prairie,” the Outskirter said. “But I don’t find that here.”

“What direction does it lie from where we are?”

“Due east. At a guess, I’d say three months’ march.”

Rowan measured out a distance with calipers. The location was situated in the vaguest part of the map, solidly in the Outskirts. She had no information about the area.

She sat back, silent. Bel watched her with interest, making no comment. “I’ll have to go there,” Rowan said finally.

“My war band returns tomorrow, in that general direction. They won’t take you all the way, but you’ll do well to travel with them as far as you can. It’s no place for casual visitors.”

Rowan proceeded to put away the charts. “A good idea, but I have things to attend to first.” She gave a small grimace. “I’ll have to return to the Archives and tell the Prime my plans. I’ve neglected my usual route as it is, following the lead on that charm the innkeeper keeps.”

“This Prime is your leader?”

“Not in any usual sense. She doesn’t command. She’s . . . central. She keeps things in order; she’s a final source. Her opinion carries weight, and her suggestions are usually followed. But she doesn’t completely control me, or any steerswoman. Still, I don’t think she’ll be happy to hear I want to spend all my attention on this one problem . . .”

Bel watched as Rowan organized her possessions with practiced efficiency, packing away those things not necessary in the morning. Presently the Outskirter spoke. “Where do these Archives lie?”

“West,” Rowan said. She discovered a clean mug and with a gesture offered Bel some wine from an open jug. “North of Wulfshaven.” She poured for herself also, and sat. It came to her that Bel probably had no idea where Wulfshaven was, or what lay to the north of it. “I’m sorry, did you mention that you had a question?”

“Yes,” the Outskirter replied. “You’re going back? Farther into the Inner Lands?”

“That’s right. Four weeks’ journey, perhaps, considering the spring rains I’m likely to meet. Or, I may do better to go south on the Long North Road, to the sea. I can halve the time, if I happen to meet a ship traveling in the right direction.”

The Outskirter sipped. “I’ve never seen the sea.” She raised her cup a little. “Nor tasted wine as good as this. None has made it out as far as my tribe’s lands.” She looked at Rowan, her head tilted to one side. “What’s it like, the sea?”

Rowan settled herself into an explanation. “Large,” she began, but Bel spoke again before she could continue.

“May I travel with you?”

Rowan was taken aback. “That’s not your question?”

“No. I’m curious, the Inner Lands sound so different. I was going to ask you what life is like there, but if I travel with you, I’ll find my own answers.”

The steerswoman looked at her again, studying her anew. Dark eyes, large eyes full of intelligence. An Outskirter with curiosity.

Rowan considered her usual displeasure in traveling with company. She had done it before, for convenience or added protection in difficult regions, but she had never found it comfortable. There were always compromises, the need to consider the other’s personality and quirks. Such things tended to accumulate, eventually requiring major adjustments in Rowan’s natural behavior. It became irksome.

But this barbarian, this warrior, seemed somehow cleaner, more direct than other people Rowan met. But not uncomplicated, not without depth. Rowan considered the improvised poem. A woman with such a talent was certainly no common barbarian. Also, she seemed genuinely friendly and was manifestly no fool . . .

Her request made sense; an Outskirter, even traveling alone, would be considered a threat by any people she might meet. Steerswomen, on the other hand, were usually welcome everywhere.

Rowan found herself intrigued, interested, and suddenly pleased with the idea. “We leave in the morning.”

Bel laughed happily, an honest, cheerful laugh. They spent the evening discussing routes.

 

In the morning the innkeeper breakfasted with them, resting from the duties that had roused him well before dawn. “Feast or famine, see. A week of good business, then they all leave at once. Those barbarians were out early.”

“It’s a long march back to the Outskirts,” Bel said, examining her gruel as if she had never before seen the like. “It’s best to cover as much ground in the morning as possible. It makes for a longer rest in the evening.” With a discerning eye she studied the row of little condiment jars on the table, experimentally combined two on her meal, and seemed pleased with the effect.

“Did everyone leave?” Rowan asked the innkeeper.

He jerked his head in the direction of the back rooms. “The pilgrims are snoring—and making an unholy racket of it, as well. The caravan was gone before light, and the soldiers just left. Scattered every which way, they did, on some wizardly errand, I suppose.”

They stood at last before the door. The air was cool with mist, and the sky was white with the cloud-diffused sunlight. The road south was deserted, the few shops and houses just beginning to come to life. The jingle of a donkey cart could be heard, hidden by the mist, and the air was still in the way that always presaged furious heat for the afternoon.

The yawning serving girl handed them packages of trail food, and Rowan reached in her pocket for some coins for the innkeeper. He pushed back her hand. “No, lady, business has been good; and I’d have to be doing poorly indeed to make a steerswoman pay for lodging.”

Embarrassed, she thanked him quietly and put her money away. She was always disturbed by such moments, always gratified and always vaguely ashamed. She felt she would never get used to it.

Bel stood expectantly silent a moment under the innkeeper’s gaze, then resignedly pulled out a small silver coin and handed it to him. “Tell your cook to put tarragon in the stew,” she advised, then ambled off without a backward glance. Rowan hurried to catch up, then fell in step beside her.

 

copyright 1989 by Rosemary Kirstein