In any confluence, tribes sited their camps according to an unspoken order. A tribe as weak and poor as theirs had to set up their tents on the fringe of the confluence grounds, well away from the well-connected and rich tribes around which the councils and settlements and marriage offers would pool. They had to tramp through tall grass for quite a ways, passing well-guarded herds of sheep and horses, before the sprawl of the major encampments came into view, and then they had to trudge through the lesser granddaughter tribes and the tribes losing position owing to raids or famine in their herds and inward to the positions of greater importance.
Each tribe had roped off the ground it claimed for its own, leaving wide strips of grass separating camps. They circled in spiral-wise, to get a good look at the banners and rugs and young men of the many tribes assembled so far. There were plenty of banners, and beautiful rugs, and attractive young men laughing and joking and embroidering and practicing with their sabers and whips. Showing off, as young men did in such company.
Of the Vidrini tribe they saw no trace.
Young men kept their eyes lowered as the two girls passed, but masculine gazes brushed them, and heads turned after they had gone by to track their passage. Mariya had that effect on men. Kirya smiled wryly, aware that she was like a stone point placed next to an iron-tipped arrow: serviceable enough, but not the first thing you would reach for.
Two Singers had traveled to this confluence, their presence marked by tall poles wound with streamers. They dared not approach the Sakhalin tribe, whose headwoman's tent stood at the center of the huge encampment. The least of the Sakhalin servants might count herself higher than the Moroshya headwoman. But the Singer out of the Konomin tribe had a humbler station, and anyway they had made offerings to him before and gotten blessings from the holy man for two of their arrows. He was old, no longer in the full flush of his power, and because all of his sisters were dead, he lived in the tent of a niece, its awning visible from here.
They approached the gap in the rope where a pair of jaunty young men stood guard with sabers swinging casually at their side, and took a place at the end of the line already formed by folk fortunate enough to have less far to walk. Everyone carried offerings. A good-looking man wearing a beautifully embroidered shirt swaggered to the front of the line. After a muttered discussion with the guards, he and his armed followers were admitted into the camp.
'I like that,' said an old woman, bent and weary, who stood in front of them. 'That's the Vidrini for you, eh?'
The man strode up to the awning, made his courtesies, and was offered a pillow to sit on while his followers hung back with arms crossed. From this angle, Kirya could not see the Singer, but at least a dozen people stood or sat in attendance under the awning.
'Was that the war leader of the Vidrini tribe?' Mariya asked, a little too eagerly.
The old woman raised an eyebrow, looking over the two girls with a gaze that measured their worth and station. With a snort, she turned her back on them.
Mariya leaned into Kirya. 'I told Mother I should wear jewelry. Then people wouldn't treat us as they do.'
The haunch weighed too heavily on Kirya's shoulders for her to shrug. 'It doesn't matter. Aunt means to marry you to Oliski.'
'I mean to put her off until I discover what's become of the Vidrini,' muttered Mari with a black look. 'I don't want to marry an ugly old man!'
'Women have no choice in marriage, you know that. You can take lovers afterward, if you're prudent about it. Or I'll marry him.'
Mari was close to tears. 'Mother says they asked for me specifically. We're so small in their eyes that even an old, useless man can demand to marry the next headwoman rather than her cousin. It's hard to imagine what manner of man Mother believes we can find for you if that's the case!'
Kirya winced.
'I didn't mean that as it sounded.'
'The bruise doesn't get any less sore if it keeps getting poked. Let's just leave it, eh?' She was used to having nothing much to expect, not even a Flower Night with a decent fellow, someone she could choose. Maybe this confluence would be her only chance to taste a piece of joy just for herself, not for the sake of the others, before the cold truth blew over them like winter's blizzard. But the thought of offering her Flower Night to a stranger who would not otherwise look at her twice was too grim to contemplate.
'Hey! Hey!'
Mariya grabbed her elbow, shaking her back to earth.
Four armed men crossed out from the Konomin camp, pointing at them. 'Yes, you two! Get out of here.'
Under the stares of every woman within earshot, Mari began to snivel.
'Are you talking to us in such a rude way?' asked Kirya. 'We're here to make an offering to the Singer.'
'The Singer doesn't want you here. Says you're cursed. Now get out.'
The old woman spat on the ground by Mari's feet and pointedly moved away, as did everyone else in the line. By now, all movement within eyeshot had come to a halt. The men did not threaten them directly; that would have gone against the gods' sacred laws. But words were enough, even if no saber was drawn.
Kirya knew her face was hot with shame. People in the distance were whispering and pointing. 'How can we be cursed? How can the Singer even know we are here, or who we are? We only came with an offering to ask for a marriage blessing.'
' 'Ghosts of a dead tribe, be gone,'' said the man in the lead, without looking them in the eye. ' 'The gods have cursed you. You've been touched by the breath of demons.' The Singer's words have been spoken. There is no taking them back.'
Mari tugged on her sleeve. 'Let's go, Kiri. Please!'
The gathered people parted to make a path for them to retreat. No one wanted to chance the taint of demon's breath spreading from their nostrils. Head bowed, sucking down sobs so she would not disgrace them further, Mari strode back the way they had come, but Kirya, following behind, kept her head high. What did the Singer know, anyway? Yet when she thought of the cloak, and the dead woman she had touched, she shuddered.
Coming at last into their own camp, sweating and hot, they passed a woman who strode past them without a greeting. Aunt sat in the shade of the awning, shoulders bowed and face so wan and weary that Kirya choked down fear, wondering if the sickness that had struck down her mother had attacked her aunt.
'Mari! Kiri!'
Beyond the tent, Yara and Uliya were whispering, and the men stood in a huddle like sheep, Feder's cart pulled out to join them. The children cowered at the entrance to the tent, Kontas with his head in his hands.
'What did you say to insult the Singer?' demanded Aunt. 'Now Mother Oliski has sent word that under no circumstances will she consider the marriage. We're ruined!' Her words were punctuated by the rhythmic slap of Edina whipping the churn. Cheese and butter could not wait on disaster.
'We didn't even have a chance to talk to the Singer.' Kirya heaved the leather sack to the ground and stood there, panting.
'I knew that orphan was trouble!'
Mari said, 'Orphan?'
Kirya clenched her hands. 'Orphan? What has he ever done except work hard to please us?'
'His eyes are demon eyes!'
It was true enough, but Kirya was too angry to keep silence. 'This isn't his fault. How the Singer could even have known we were coming to see him I can't imagine.'
'The gods see everything.' She looked old, broken. 'We have to leave at dawn tomorrow. Orphan cannot come with us. That's the end of it.'
'Just one more day, surely-' cried Mariya. 'Just one more day.'
Aunt turned a cold gaze on her daughter. 'Do you think I don't know your hopes about the Vidrini boy, Mariya? Put them aside. We must go quickly. Trouble is coming. We must run before it catches us.'
Mari covered her face with her hands.
'Maybe that cloth I found is the trouble,' said Kirya hesitantly.
'Pack up everything. Orphan may take some meat, a pair of wooden bowls, some sinew, a sack, and knife with him. He's a strong young man now. He can find a place in a war band.'
