The Crippled God

lost the man she loved. She too was wounded. Maybe even broken. Of course, she couldn’t show it, couldn’t indulge in it, because while wife she may no longer be, mother she remains.

What of me? My pain? His arms are the wrong arms, but the embrace is still warm, and strong. His shoulder has taken my tears. What am I to do?

So she held back, and the others looked at her, and whispered things to each other.

‘Her courage has failed her,’ murmured Shelemasa.

Hanavat sighed. ‘Perhaps tomorrow, then.’

‘I don’t know what she thinks she can say,’ the younger woman said. ‘To make this right. Cast him out is what she should do.’

Hanavat glanced across at Shelemasa. ‘So that is what everyone is saying, is it? That hard tone, those hard words. The most plentiful coin, spent so freely, is also the most worthless one.’

Shelemasa frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘When you are judgemental, all the paint in the world cannot hide the ugliness of your face. The viciousness inside pushes through and twists every feature.’

‘I–I am sorry, Hanavat. I was thinking of you-’

‘And you would take what you imagine to be my feelings and speak them back to me. You proclaim yourself the warrior at my side, the line standing firm, to give comfort to me — I understand all that, Shelemasa. Yet what I hear from you — what I see in the eyes of the others — has nothing to do with me. Have I asked for pity? Have I asked for allies in this hidden war? Is there even any war at all? You presume much.’

‘She will not speak to you-’

‘And how brave would you be in her stead? Her father-in-law has seduced her, taken her to his bed. Or she him, either way makes no difference. Do you think I do not know my own husband? He is difficult to resist in the best of times, and now in his pain and his need … well, not a woman or man here could defeat his will. But you see, you are all safe. From him. Freeing you to cast judgement upon the one woman now in his snare. Not upon my husband, however — for what might that say about me? Do not speak to me of sides in this. There are none. There are but people. People of all sorts, each doing what they can to get by.’

‘And if what they do hurts others? Hanavat, will you martyr yourself? Will you weep for Jastara, too, who hides every day in his arms?’

‘Ah, see how I have stung you? You in your cruel judgement. My husband in his need. Jastara in her weakness. They are one and all acts of selfishness. Acts of pushing away.’

‘How can you say that? I despise what they’ve done to you!’

‘And it tastes sweet, yes? Listen to me. I too am a widow, now. And a mother who has lost her children. Have I need for an embrace? A stolen moment of love? Should I feel hatred for Gall and Jastara, for finding what I cannot?’

Shelemasa’s expression was appalled. Tears streaked down through the white paint on her face. ‘Is it not your husband you should look to for that?’

‘While he still faces away from me, I cannot.’

‘Then he’s the coward!’

‘To look into my eyes,’ Hanavat said, ‘is to see all that we once shared, and have now lost. It is too much to bear, and not just for my husband. Yes,’ she added, ‘I carry his last child, and if that child is not his, well, that is for me to know, in my heart, but never to be spoken. For now, I have that much — I have what I need to hold on, Shelemasa. And now, so does Gall.’

The younger woman shook her head. ‘Then you stand alone, Mother. He has taken his son’s widow. That is unforgivable.’

‘Better, Shelemasa. Much better. You see, Jastara does not deserve your hate. Not those looks, those whispers behind her back. No, instead, to be true sisters to her, you must go to her. Comfort her. And when you have done that — when all of you have done that — then I shall go to her, and take her into my arms.’

Henar Vygulf remembered the day he acquired his first horse. His father, whose shattered hip five years earlier had ended his riding days, had limped at his side, using his cane, as they made their way out to the pasture. A new herd had been culled from the wild herds of the high mountain plateaus, and twenty-three of the magnificent beasts now moved restlessly about in the enclosure.

The sun was high, shrinking shadows underfoot, and the wind swept steady down the slopes, combing the high grasses, warm and sweet with the flavours of early autumn. Henar was nine years old.

‘Will one see me?’ he’d asked his father. ‘Will one choose me?’

The tall Bluerose horse-breeder looked down, dark brows rising. ‘It’s that new maid, isn’t it? The one with the watermelon tits and wide eyes. From the coast, yes? Filling your head with all sorts of rubbish.’

‘But-’

‘There’s not a horse in the wide world, Henar, happy to choose a rider. Not one beast eager to serve. Not one is delighted at being broken, its will beaten down. Are they any different from you, or me?’

‘But dogs-’

‘By the Black-Winged Lord, Henar, dogs are bred to be four-legged slaves. Ever seen a wolf smile? Trust me, you don’t want to. Ever. They smile right before they lunge for your throat. Never mind dogs.’ He pointed with his cane. ‘Those animals are wild. They have lived in utter freedom. So, see one you like?’

‘That piebald one, off to the left on its own.’

His father grunted. ‘A young stallion. Not yet strong enough to contest the ranks. Not bad, Henar. But I’m … well, surprised. Even from here, one animal stands out. Really stands out. You’re old enough, have been around me enough, too. I would’ve thought you’d see straight off-’

‘I did, Father.’

‘What is it, then? Do you feel you do not deserve the best out there?’

‘Not if it means breaking them.’

His father’s head had rocked back then, and he’d laughed. Loud enough to startle the herd.

Recalling that moment of his youth, the huge warrior smiled. Remember that day, Father? I bet you do. And if you could see me now. See the woman walking at my side. Why, I can almost hear that beautiful roar of your laughter.

One day, Father, I will bring her to you. This wild, free woman. We’ll step on to that long white road, walk between the trees — they must be big by now — and up through the estate gate.

I’ll see you standing by the front entrance, like a statue commanding the stone itself. New lines on your face, but that hooked grin still there, in a beard now gone grey. You’re leaning on your cane, and I can smell horses — like a flower’s heady scent on the air, and that scent will tell me that I’ve come home.

I’ll see you studying her, noting her height, her lithe confidence, the boldness in her eyes. And you’ll wonder if she’s broken me — not the other way round — you can see that. Not the other way round. But then you’ll look into my eyes, and your smile will broaden.

And you’ll tilt back that majestic head. And laugh to the heavens.

It will be the sweetest sound in the world. It will be the voice of our triumph. All of us. You, me, her.

Father, I do miss you.

Lostara’s calloused hand found his own, and he took some of her weight as she leaned one shoulder against him. ‘Bless Brys Beddict,’ she said under her breath.

Henar nodded. ‘I suspect a streak of the sentimental in my commander.’

‘Be glad of it. I am.’

‘It was … unexpected.’

‘Why? I fought for you, Henar. Not the Adjunct. You. He understood-’

‘No, not all that, beloved. All … this. Where we have found ourselves. And how we have found each other, for that matter.’

She looked up at the Strangers in the night sky. ‘So, he gives us what time there’s left to us. Less sentimental, then, more … pity. You’ve a dour streak, Henar — I think I prefer Brys’s sentimental one. Maybe I’ll get rid of you and ride back to him.’

‘You’d have to fight Aranict for him, I should think.’