Waterborn

palms against the resilient mass of dough.

'You helped me already,' Qey said. 'Just the other day you beat some eggs for me.'

'I mean really cook,' Hezhi said, careful not to sound cross. There had been too much trouble today already.

'No need for that, little one,' Qey replied. 'There will always be people like me to cook for you.'

'Suppose I want to cook,' Hezhi countered.

'And suppose I don't?' Qey retorted. 'Neither of us chooses what we do, Hezhi. It's all decided, and you'd best get used to it.'

'Who decides?'

'Everybody,' Qey replied. 'The River.'

And that was that. If the River said, it was.

'Did the River decide about D'en?'

Qey paused. She hesitated a moment, then brushed her palms on her apron. She knelt near Hezhi and took her hands.

'Hezhi, dear,' she said, 'I'm sorry about him. He was a good boy; I liked him.'

She took a deep breath; to Hezhi it seemed that she was trying to somehow steady herself by filling up with air.

'Hezhi,' the woman continued, 'what you must understand is that Tsem and I… we are not like you. We cannot speak and do whatever we please. There are people who watch us, all of us, and even when they aren't watching, the River is. So Tsem and I cannot discuss everything you want to discuss. Do you understand that?'

Hezhi looked at Qey, trying to see what was different. Because the woman who had raised her was different somehow. Smaller? Different.

D'en was of the Blood Royal. If something could happen to him, how much easier would it be for something to happen to Qey or Tsem? Hezhi did not want that.

'I understand, Nama,' she answered. Qey gripped her hands, then went back to her bread. She seemed happier. Hezhi turned her gaze back out to Tsem.

I shouldn't force him, either, she considered, remembering their earlier conversation. But she had to. Besides, who or what could possibly take away Tsem?

II

A Gift of Steel and Rose Petals

Perkar held his new sword up toward the sun, delighting in the liquid flow of light upon its polished surface, in the deadly heft of it in his hands. He crowed aloud, a great raven war whoop, and the curious cows in the pasture around Perkar turned briefly to accuse him with their mild cow-eyes of disturbing their deep meditations. Perkar disregarded them. He had a sword.

He cut the air with it, once, twice, thrice, and then returned it reluctantly to the embroidered scabbard that hung on his back. Yet there, too, it pleased him, for he could feel the new weight, the mark of his manhood. A man at fifteen! Or man enough to receive a sword, anyway. He reached once more joyfully for the hilt of his sword, delight sparkling in his gray eyes.

No, his own hidden voice told him. You were given the sword because you have shown yourself to be trustworthy. Tend to your father's cows!

Even reminding himself of his mundane duties made Perkar feel good today. After all, that was what an adult —man or woman—did. They looked after their obligations. Dutifully Perkar crossed the low ridge in the pasture. The sun was halfway from noon to sundown, scattering gold upon the otherwise verdant landscape. Forest bunched thickly at the borders of the Cattle-Field, wild and dense as the forest at the start of the world. The pasture itself rolled on east, dotted here and there with the rust-red cattle his father preferred. Between two hills, a thin line of willow marked a stream leisurely crossing the pasture.

Perkar stopped first at the shrine on the brow of the high ridge. It was a modest affair; an altar of stone that came up to his waist, a small roof of cedar and cane sheltering it. On the altar rested a bowl of plain design. He took a cowhide bag from his waist and withdrew an incense brick, and with tinder and his bow-drill ignited it. The faint scent of cedar wafted up, and he sprinkled tallow onto the hot ember, smiling as the fat sputtered and flared. Clearing his throat, he sang, clearly and distinctly:

Once I was a glade

A part of the ancient forest

When Human Beings came

With their fourfold axes

With their tenfold desires

I kept to myself

Ignored their requests

Turned them away with

hard thorns…

Perkar sang on, the short version of a long story. It was the story of how his father's grandfather had convinced the god of the forest to let him cut trees for pasture. Because he was humble and established this shrine, the spirit had eventually relented. Perkar's family had maintained good relations with the Lord of the Pasture, and with the spirits of the surrounding land.

Leaving the brick smoldering, he moved on to a second shrine just inside the edge of the woods. This invocation was a bit shorter; they owed less to the Untamed Forest, and even let deer and other creatures graze at the edge of their pasture to mollify him.

The sun was well toward the horizon when he reached the stream.

The stream had cut deep banks, etched into the pasture; the cattle had likewise worn deep trails down to it. Perkar loved this part of the land the best; when the sun was bright and straight overhead, he often came here, to cool himself in the water, to chase crawfish, to throw crickets on the surface of the water and watch the fish snatch at them from below. Humming, enjoying the feel of the sword flapping against his back, Perkar moved upstream, away from the cow-roiled waters, to where the creek flowed clear and cool from the forest. He paused there, savoring the transition from the smells of grass and cow to that of dark, leaf-strewn soil. He reached down and cupped a handful of water to sprinkle on himself. Then he took out the sacrifice he had for the water: rose petals from his mother's garden. He started the song:

Stream Goddess am I

Long hair curling down from the hills

Long arms reaching down the valley...

Perkar finished the chant and smiled, sat down on the bank, combed fingers through short, chestnut hair. He removed his soft calfskin boots and dangled his bare feet in the water. Up the pasture Kapaka, the old red bull, bellowed, triggering a musical exchange of lowing across the hills.

Now, at last, Perkar took his sword back out. He laid it across his knees and marveled at it.

The blade was slim, double-edged, about as long as his arm. The hilt was made large enough for both hands, wrapped in cowhide, a round, polished steel pommel its only decoration.

'I know who made that,' a girl's voice said.

Perkar nearly dropped the sword, he was so startled. Instead, he stared, gape-mouthed, at the person who had spoken to him.

She stood waist-deep in the creek, wearing no more than her dark, wet hair. Her face was pale, the color of ivory, her large almond eyes golden as the sunset. She looked to be a year or so older than he, no more.

Perkar was not fooled.

'Goddess!' he whispered.

She smiled, twirled around in the water so that her hair fanned out across it. He could not see where the silken strands ended and the stream itself began.

'I liked the rose petals,' she told him.

'It's been a long time since I saw you,' Perkar breathed. 'Many years.'

'Has it been so long? You have grown a bit larger. And you have a sword.'