The Shaman Read online

  Ohaern did not ask what had been done to them; he was fairly sure he knew.

  “These have not been caught, and have not fled,” Grakhinox finished.

  “That is because we travel east, and the Vanyar came down from the north. Do you think we can trust these people?”

  Women came running down to the landing, waving and calling. Most were young and wore only skirts. Lucoyo’s breath hissed in as he watched.

  “They seem friendly enough,” said Grakhinox, “and I have heard nothing against the farm villages that give Cashalo its food.”

  The young women were beckoning now, gyrating their hips as they moved in a dance. Drums and reeds had begun to sound.

  “Oh, they are friendly indeed!” Lucoyo said. “Surely we will be safe here, smith—safe, and more! Let us stop for the night!”

  “Safe? You only wish to be at peril! Of your virtue, that is.” But Ohaern nodded and turned the canoe’s nose toward the shore. “They look soft enough, at least.”

  “They do indeed!” Lucoyo breathed.

  “If they seek to trouble us, we should have no difficulty winning free.”

  “Who would want to?” Lucoyo replied. “Surely being free of such as these would not be winning!”

  “Does he always speak in riddles?” Grakhinox demanded.

  “Only when he wishes to be understood,” Ohaern explained.

  As their prow plowed into the mud, a dozen willing hands laid hold of it and pulled it high up on the bank. At least half of those hands were female, and Lucoyo gave a glad cry as he leaped out of the canoe. The women responded with trilling mirth and closed about him, caressing his shoulders and chest and pressing his hands to their own. Lucoyo gave an even gladder cry, and the women laughed gaily, echoing his delight.

  Grakhinox gave them a jaundiced eye. “I will disappear awhile, I think, O Smith. Call me at need.”

  Ohaern turned to protest, but the dwerg was gone already—he might have been speaking from the sand beneath the boat! Ohaern had no chance to look, though, for another half-dozen women surrounded him as he stepped from the canoe, and there were hands, nothing but hands all about him, touching, stroking, caressing. He was alarmed to feel a ravening hunger awaking within him, and he caught their wrists with more brusqueness than he should have—but at the looks of astonishment, he forced a smile. “You honor me, good women, but I am a man who has wedded.” He chose the words for strict truth. The young women frowned and shook their heads, puzzled, and Ohaern tried again in the halting phrases he had learned in Cashalo. This time the women understood, and lifted their heads, mouths forming O’s, and they stepped back—but only a little, only enough for an elder woman to step forward. “Your wife will never know, stranger,” she said in the tongue of Cashalo—accented, but recognizable.

  Her skirt covered her down to the ankles and up to the shoulders—rank, Ohaern wondered, or modesty? Or perhaps aesthetics . . . “It is nonetheless not the way of our tribe, Grandmother.” Ohaern hoped the term was an honorific here, as it was among his own people.

  “I am a grandmother, yes, but I am also the priestess Labina,” the old woman said.

  “I am Ohaern, a simple hunter.” He wondered at the jaundiced look Lucoyo gave him. “I intend no disrespect, priestess, but I must live as I have been taught.”

  “Well, we would never press a man who thought it wrong.” Labina gestured to the girls, who lamented, but turned away quickly to Lucoyo. Most were as tall as he, and some taller; their circle parted for a moment, to show the half-elf locked mouth to mouth with a pretty lass, and desire clawed up inside Ohaern again.

  Labina saw. “You need not stick so tightly to the ways of your people, young man. You are our guest, and should try our ways.”

  “But it is not a thing I can undo,” Ohaern said, as if each word were being forced out of him. He understood, in some way he could not have explained, that for him, accepting the favors of women he did not know would make him less than himself—and he needed all his strength of soul just now, especially when he was among strangers.

  An old man came up—older than the farmers, at least, but still straight and limber, though his beard and hair were white. “You stare at our simple village as if it were something rare and new, young man. Have you never seen a farmers’ hamlet before?”

  “No, I have not,” Ohaern admitted, “nor has my friend. I am a hunter, and my wife gathered the fruits of the earth while I sought game. My friend is a nomad, whose people followed the great wild herds of oxen. We worship the gods of the hunt, though we worship Lomallin the human-lover above all.”

  “I have not heard of Lomallin.” Labina frowned. “Did you worship no goddesses?”

  “Oh, yes, as many as our gods. Rahani was foremost among them.”

  The woman shook her head. “I do not know of her.”

  Somehow, that troubled Ohaern—but he assured himself that he would find they did worship the goddess, though under another name. “She is Lomallin’s friend, war ally, and councilor.”

  “But not his mate?” Now it was the old man who frowned.

  “Not his, no. Lomallin has no mate.”

  Labina stared, visibly shaken. “A god without a mate! How immoral, how wrong! How wasteful!”

  “Lomallin is a wizard,” Ohaern explained, “one forced to be also a warrior.”

  “Ah.” The woman’s face cleared. “He shall mate when he has won his reputation, then. Enough talk of gods, young man. You look hungry.” She took his arm. Both elders smiled and nodded. “Come.” They led Ohaern away.

  “What goddess do you worship?” Ohaern asked as they led him toward the center of the village. Somehow, from the last interchange, he was sure their highest deity was a goddess.

  “Alique, the Great Mother,” said the woman, “Alique, and all her children.”

  Ohaern frowned. “I do not know of Alique. Tell me about her.”

  “We worship her in two aspects,” said the woman. “The one is young, the other mature.”

  “Ah!” Ohaern nodded, recognizing two familiar goddesses rolled into one. “The maiden, and the mother.”

  The old man gave a single laugh that never quite opened his mouth, and Labina said, “We do not worship her as a maiden, but as a young woman who receives many lovers.”

  Ohaern tried not to look shocked. “And bears many children?”

  “Yes, though we do not worship that in her as the love goddess, but as the mother. She feeds her children with the bounty of her breasts, then with the fruits of plenty that she draws from the land.”

  “And heals them, and gives consolation?’

  The old man frowned as if at a new thought, and the old woman said, “She must do that, too, I suppose. Surely she is the giver of all good things, with all her little children about her.”

  “If we worship her with full ardor,” said the old man, “she gives us a good harvest.”

  Ohaern glanced past the village to the fields of green shoots that stretched out as far as he could see. He remembered his own northern forests and the game that was there year-round, with the host of berries and fruits and roots in the summers. “If you do not have a good harvest,” he said slowly, “you die.”

  “Even so.” The old man nodded. “The harvest is vital to us, young man, absolutely vital!”

  Now Ohaern glanced at the village and realized how many more people it held than his own tribal camp at the edge of the great wood. “Surely, though, even with so many people, you cannot eat all the food you grow!”

  “No, we do not.” Labina looked up with a smile. “That is the source of our wealth, though, in all things other than food.” She swept a hand toward the village. “See the fine ornaments our women wear, the soft fabrics of their skirts and the fine woods that adorn our doorposts! When you dine with us tonight, you will taste wines from far-off lands, and fruits and spices that never grow in this country!”

  “Surely your fields do not bear such delicacies!”

  �
��No, but we give our surplus grain to the traders of Cashalo, and they give us jewels and spices and rare foods in return.”

  Ohaern was amazed with himself, that he had never before wondered where Cashalo obtained its food. Surely he should have realized that so many people could not all be fed by fish from the river, or even from the two seas! And the sea could not grow grain. But that opened another possibility, one that might be very unpleasant, for he realized that where Cashalo’s luxuries went, Cashalo’s beliefs must follow. “I must warn you,” he said slowly, “that the cult of the scarlet god Ulahane is growing rapidly within Cashalo.”

  “Is it indeed?” Labina looked keenly interested. “But why is that a warning?”

  “Because,” Ohaern explained, “if all of Cashalo should turn to Ulahane and his ways, they may try to take by force what they now gain by trade.”

  Labina threw back her head and laughed merrily. “Oh, I think not! You are a worrier, young man—I knew it the moment I saw you!”

  “Cashalo is Cashalo,” said the old man, grinning, “and it has many gods. No, lad, I thank you for your warning, but I doubt that the Scarlet One could expel all other gods from so great a city.”

  Ohaern wished he could share their certainty.

  He looked about, suddenly realizing that Lucoyo had disappeared completely, and alarm shot through him. “Where is my friend?”

  “He has gone with the young women,” Labina told him. “They will treat him well, I assure you. You shall see him at dinner.”

  “Treat him well!” Ohaern turned to her, puzzled. “Why, what do they do?”

  “They seek to imitate Alique,” said the old man with a knowing smile, “in her younger aspect.”

  “They shall welcome you, too,” Labina told him. “We have many huts that are small temples to the young goddess. Come, I shall show you.” She took hold of his arm.

  But Ohaern pulled back, alarmed as he felt desire flare. “I must see my friend.”

  “He is a man grown, surely.” The old man frowned. “He can care for himself.”

  “I am never wholly certain of that. Where is he?”

  Labina gave him a sour look, but a burst of shrill laughter came from a large hut near them. She pointed with her cane. “In there—but do not enter, for you might put him off his stride. Let me see how earnestly he gallops.” She went inside, then came back in a moment. “No, he has run the first course, and bathes. Go in and talk to him, young man.”

  Ohaern brushed past her and through the curtain, alarm cooling to dread. Inside, the hut was dim after the blaze of the sunset, but lamps already flared around a huge pit in the floor, lined with tile and filled with water—scented water, and in it wallowed Lucoyo, naked and leaning back against the bosom of a pretty young woman who held a drink for him to sip, while another rubbed his chest and shoulders with oil, and two more, naked in the pool with him, raised his leg and rubbed the oil into it—oil that foamed as they rinsed the leg and rubbed it, slowly and gently.

  Ohaern felt desire boil up within him, and stood mute, holding fast against its tide.

  Lucoyo raised his head from the goblet with a sigh of pure pleasure—and saw Ohaern, standing rigid and wide-eyed.

  “Hunter! Welcome! You have found your quarry!” he cried. “I am amazed it took you so long! Girls, did you not bid my friend be welcome?”

  “No, for the priest and priestess were talking to him.” The woman who spoke was older than the others, old enough to be a mother of a dozen, but still supple, slender, and fully curved. She came toward Ohaern wearing only a strip of silk about her hips, tied in one loose knot from which a tassel hung down to her knees. “Be welcome among us, handsome stranger!” She reached up to caress the huge muscles of his chest, breathing, “Very welcome.”

  “Aye, strong outlander!” another breathed in his ear. “Come with us!” husked another. “We must wash off the dust of your journey.”

  The alarm was almost panic, but Ohaern fought to be civil even now. “I thank you, gentle beauties,” he stammered, “but I had only need to be sure my friend was well! I must speak further with your priestess!” He turned and blundered out, moans of disappointment and mocking, delighted laughter ringing in his ears. He could scarcely see for the red haze that darkened the evening, but he stumbled away from the hut, down toward the shore, and plunged into the heaving water, letting it cool his skin, cool his ardor—but still the desire wracked him. He sank down into the ripples, letting its saltiness wash over him, cleanse him. He would not be untrue to Ryl! He would not!

  When the longing had ebbed enough, he climbed out and let the wind cool him further as the last rays of the sun dried him. Then he walked through the village in the dusk, chatting with everyone he saw, doing all he could to appear relaxed and easygoing, though he felt anything but. The young women who passed gave him looks of reproach, but did indeed pass by as he talked with the men about weather and crops and what farming entailed—but when the men had all moved on, one young woman came up to him with an inviting smile. “Why do you have so great an interest in farming? You are a hunter!”

  “Because it is new to me,” Ohaern said frankly. “I have a hunger to learn all that I can, about all that is strange to me.”

  She stepped closer. “I could teach you a great deal, about matters that seem strange to you.”

  Ohaern stiffened; his skin seemed to vibrate over every inch that faced her. His answering smile felt false even to him. “I thank you for your kindness, but those matters are not so strange as you might think. My wife died only months ago, and I still mourn within.”

  “Oh!” The woman’s allure disappeared as if a door had shut on it, and she stepped back. “Your pardon! I did not know!”

  “Nor should you,” Ohaern returned, relieved. “I do not think my friend Lucoyo had time to tell you of it.”

  She smiled, a little reassured. “No, surely he did not.” Then she stepped closer again. “Still, grief must be assuaged, and what is broken within can be healed without.” Her allure seemed to wrap about her again, like a garment of spider silk. “If you have need of consolation, be sure that I ache to give it.”

  Ohaern managed a fond smile. “It is very good of you.”

  “It is the kind of goodness that I long for,” she breathed, “for our goddess Alique has shown me the way. Nay, hunter, if you seek your quarry, I shall not be hard to find.” She gave him a slumberous look, then turned and strolled away, rolling her hips.

  Ohaern stared after her, then managed to tear his gaze away, drawing a deep and very ragged breath as he sent a wordless prayer of thanks to the Afterworld. Even dead, Ryl protected him.

  As they gathered for dinner in the village’s central circle, though, Ohaern was surprised to see that the young women glanced at him almost with reverence, though desire was still there beneath it—and some of the men even told him, “It is wrong to refuse consolation in your grief, outlander—but I cannot fault you for keeping faith.” Even the old priest told him, “You have the self-restraint that fully becomes a man, O Hunter. Still, I beg you to set it aside; the time for mourning is surely past.”

  It was a thought that gave Ohaern pause. He consulted his heart, though, and found it was not true.

  Still, the desire the young women had raised continued to course through him and make his skin tingle at every touch— and there were many touches of hand and soft shoulder and firm breast, all brushing by in the throng, all quite possibly accidental, but more than enough to set Ohaern burning. He began to long for the meal to be over.

  The old priest led him to the seat of honor beside Labina, who was dressed now in rich clothing that made her look much more the priestess than she had during the afternoon.

  Ohaern had scarcely sat down when Lucoyo strolled up, with two giggling girls holding his arms to keep him upright. He joked with them and kissed them elaborately. He was wearing a villager’s kilt, and a wreath of flowers about his head. The girls lowered him down to sit beside Ohaern,
who wondered how deeply his friend had drunk—but the gaze Lucoyo turned on him was clear, though abstracted, as if he were elated and still not quite believing his good fortune. “Ah, Smith!” he said, grinning. “I hope your evening has been as pleasant as mine!”

  “In its way,” Ohaern said carefully. “I confess that I am finding more and more pleasure in learning of new ways and new gods and peoples, Lucoyo.”

  “So am I.” Lucoyo turned away to follow a lissome lass with his eyes. “Yes, I must say that I have learned a great many new ways this afternoon, Ohaern, and I have taken great delight in it.”

  Oddly, Ohaern thought Lucoyo meant that sincerely. He began to wonder if the half-elf saw more than he did.

  Then, suddenly, Lucoyo turned to stare directly into Ohaern’s eyes. “The young men tell me you must be mad, Ohaern.” Sudden concern shadowed his face. “What is wrong? What pains you?”

  Oddly touched, Ohaern smiled gently and assured his friend, “They speak so only because I refuse the women’s favors, Lucoyo.”

  “They are right—you are mad!” Lucoyo’s concern deepened. “Perhaps their priestess can show us a way to cure this, before it grows worse.”

  Ohaern was tempted to laugh at his friend’s sudden seriousness, but only closed his eyes and shook his head. “It is only grief, Lucoyo—grief for my dead wife. I thought I had purged it by going up against Byleo, then by fighting the Klaja, and now the Vanyar—but I find there is a great deal of it left.”

  “Why, that is a madness of its own sort,” Lucoyo said, low, “but one that is enough akin to my own hatred so that I can understand it. But the women tell me their goddess is one who cures, Ohaern—cures the heart as well as the body. In truth, I could believe her devotees may cure even my bitterness!”

  Ohaern stared in surprise. “Why, I pray that is so!”

  “Do, and I will thank you,” Lucoyo said gravely. “So if a goddess offers you healing, Ohaern, I pray you—do not refuse it. That would be wrong, that would be very wrong!”