FOUR
65
The Fourth Year After the Fire Mountain: Midsummer Solstice
The day before the midsummer Giving was set aside for the blessing of the new monuments to the fallen Annids.
The procession formed up in the great Hall of the Annids, deep within the Wall. The grand folk in their fine robes and cloaks of office circulated, murmuring as they got into their rank order. Voro found Milaqa, and here was Mi, blushingly dressed up in a costume not unlike that Milaqa had worn when she had been sent to seduce Qirum’s heart, and poison his body.
A blast sounded, on a very ancient deer-bone horn.
Riban took the first steps on the flight up to the Wall’s surface, leading the procession. The young priest wore an ornate deer-skull head-dress over purple-dyed hair, with holy words in the circle-and-slash Etxelur calligraphy painted on his cheeks, and his mouth bulged with the ancient wolf’s jaw pushed in there in place of his own extracted teeth. He looked the part, Milaqa thought. Riban was head of the House of the Wolves now, somewhat to his own surprise, but he was the most senior priest to have survived the plague, and now here he was leading the holiest of all Etxelur’s ceremonial processions, the commemoration of the Annids.
Riban was not the only young Northlander to have stepped up in rank. Possibly thanks to Kilushepa’s stern advice about cleanliness and isolation, Hatti taboos imported to Northland, few in Northland beyond New Troy had died of the disease. But even deep within the Wall’s recesses some of the oldest and the very youngest, the highest to the lowest, had been taken by the plague. And so many of the great old Houses of Etxelur were led now by representatives of younger generations, and glancing around Milaqa saw that many of those wearing the ornate cloaks were no older than she was. The gathering had a youthful, refreshed feeling about it, she thought.
Even if she would never feel young herself again. Not with all these deaths, in Northland and in New Troy, all of them coming from the opening of the box she had carried to Qirum’s chambers: her ‘black crime’, as Erishum had called it. Few knew what she had done, even here among the senior folk of Etxelur. But she felt as if it must be obvious, as if one of Caxa’s great Words had been carved into her chest.
Amid these young people, however, the new Annid of Annids was older than her predecessor, Raka: Noli, who might have taken the post earlier if not for Bren’s manoeuvring, and who had now reluctantly accepted the responsibility. Today Kilushepa walked with her, the Tawananna as grandly dressed as Milaqa would have expected.
And Caxa the sculptress walked ahead even of the Annid of Annids, even ahead of Kilushepa, with the priest at the very head of the procession. A proud young woman of the Land of the Jaguar with her big polished mirror- stone hanging over her chest, she looked awed, even nervous. Milaqa knew she preferred to be alone, working steadily at her art. But she seemed to find the patient presence of Riban at her side reassuring. And at least, Caxa knew, she did not have to die today; the plague had taken Xivu, that fretful conscience of the Jaguar kings, and after her work in the war Noli had promised the sculptor her protection.
Behind these principals came other senior figures, Northlanders walking side by side with Hatti. There were many other embassies: wolf-like Albians, priest-like Gairans, warrior-like Greeks, exotic Egyptians with painted faces and towering crowns — even a party from across the Western Ocean, from the Land of the Sky Wolf, proud warriors with tremendous feathered headdresses and snake tattoos.
There were more Northlanders than usual too, hailing from Wall Districts from the Albian terminus to the World River estuary. The great and ancient community of the Wall itself had almost crumbled under the pressure from the Trojan, and there were apologies to be made, relationships to be rebuilt. But in the end those who had fought in the war had come from end to end of the Wall for the common cause, and that was the foundation for the future.
And towards the rear of the column walked the likes of Milaqa, Voro, Mi and others, too junior for their order of precedence to matter.
They emerged into the air on the parapet of the Wall, before the gleaming new sculpted heads. Out to the north a bank of thick black cloud loomed over a steel-grey ocean, threatening bad weather later.
A breeze blew up, sharp, surprisingly cold for midsummer.
Nuwanza shivered visibly and drew his thick woollen cloak tighter around him. This frail elderly Hatti was the second cousin of Kilushepa who had done so much to secure the Tawananna’s successful rehabilitation in the court of the Hatti king. He had rarely travelled outside Hattusa itself before, and had now made a gruelling trek across the Continent all the way to Northland and the Wall. And now this fragile old fellow was to be the husband of Mi, a seventeen-year-old warrior.
‘So,’ Voro said to Mi, ‘how’s the boyfriend?’
Mi walked between Voro and Milaqa now, her cheeks painted bright red, her muscular archer’s arms folded over her bare breasts. ‘Shut up.’
Milaqa tried not to laugh. ‘You’re a woman who wrestles three-man war chariots. Look at him! You’ll probably break him on your first night.’
Mi scowled, pursing brightly painted lips. ‘Everybody says it’s my duty to marry him.’
Voro nodded. ‘It is. Sealing alliances with marriages. It’s what they do, out east; it’s what they understand.’
‘Yes, but why me? I’m no more a princess than she was,’ she said, glaring at Milaqa.
Milaqa sighed. ‘Maybe not. But I admit you look better in the costume than I ever did. Look, Mi — you’ll survive out there. You’re tough. Everybody saw that in the war. It’s the reason you were chosen, I think. And the old man won’t last for ever.’ She grinned. ‘Not in your bed!’
Mi scowled again. ‘Well, I’m taking my bow, and my iron-tipped arrows. Nuwanza has said I could help train their army’s archery corps. I think he said that. My Hatti still isn’t good.’
‘There you go,’ Voro said. ‘Women have a strong role in Hattusa. The Hatti aren’t like the Greeks. Kilushepa herself is proof of that. You’ll find a place.’
‘And it’s warmer in Hattusa,’ Milaqa said. ‘Besides, you won’t have to walk around like that all the time.’
‘Good.’ Mi looked down at her bare chest. ‘I prefer to be strapped down, frankly. Helps with the bow action. I hope it’s all worth it,’ she said, more uncertain, suddenly seeming much younger. ‘Worth me giving up my whole life like this. I hope this alliance of Hatti and Northlanders will work, though I can’t imagine how.’
‘I think it has a chance,’ Voro said. ‘I was involved in some of the negotiations, with the other Jackdaws. Under Kilushepa and King Hattusili the Hatti empire seems to be stabilising. They are establishing treaties of trade and mutual aid with us. They have done this kind of thing before, as their records show — treaties with Egypt, for instance, sealed by royal marriages. Now they’re also talking to the new rulers in Egypt, and in Assyria. And they are sending military missions west into Greece.’
‘ “Military missions,” ’ Milaqa said sourly. ‘That’s one translation. “Invasion” is another.’
Voro shrugged. ‘But the Greek kingdoms have all but collapsed. There are already children whose parents were clerks and scribes, growing up in the forests like bandits. Order needs to be imposed from somewhere. We have agreed that we will each have our own domains of influence on the Continent. We will have Albia and Gaira, for instance, and also the Land of the Jaguars and the other countries across the Western Ocean.’
‘That’s nice of them,’ Milaqa said, ‘since the Hatti have no ships that can reach those places anyhow.’
‘But the Greeks had never sailed into our Northern Ocean either, before they blockaded us. Who knows what the future holds? Milaqa, this is a moment of flux, of change — a pivot of history. Oh, the Hatti are not perfect, but Kilushepa herself remembers how it is to be a booty person. Maybe we can come out of this with a better world, a better way of living.’
‘If only we all believe it can be so,’ she said cynically.
‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘If only we believe.’ And he looked directly at her, as if trying to reach her.
From the boy so mortified at being unable to have prevented her mother’s death, Voro had grown. He was stockier, graver than he had once been. And he seemed stronger too — or maybe it was just that so much of her own strength had been dissipated by her brush with the plague. He had always cared for her; she had always
