20
Vows
It was the silence of the forest that she loved most of all.
The deep quiet of the glades between the soaring Uygas was not silence at all, if one paid close attention to it. This quietude was a blend of rustling leaves, gurgling waters, singing birds, and the sighing of wind between the branches. Yet after so many months in the cities of Men, and so many nights in the clattering, noisome camps of war, the forest was a golden dream of silence.
The days flowed one into another, a stream of unbroken solitudes. Dahrima hunted the shaggy elk and the tusked pigs of the wilderness whenever she grew hungry. She walked by day beneath the titan trees, rediscovering the hills and grottoes of her youth. Once, while she sat dreaming atop a windswept hill, an eagle landed on her shoulder. It must have mistaken her for a crag of yellow stone. When she turned her head it flew away, yet she saw it later flying above a meadow with the sun at its back.
After the first few weeks she spent most of her time near the Falls of Torrung, where the water plunging into the lake replaced the forest’s silence with its own gentle roar. She had come to the falls with her cousin Chygara many times as a girl, hunting the wily tigers that came down from the White Mountains in summer to stalk the elk herds. It had been three centuries since she had seen the place, but it was much the same. A hundred colors of leaf and blossom adorned the cleft hillside and the high cliff beyond it. The great leaves of the Uygas had begun to fall; they floated across the lake in shades of red, yellow, orange, and brown.
At the edge of the lake, at the foot of the ancient falls, she found the peace that had eluded her for so long. She continued roaming the forest, hunting when she felt the call, but always she returned to the sweet thunder of the Torrung. A shallow cave across the lake from the torrent became her sanctuary. She slept there more often than not, on a bed of elk hides and brown reeds.
When the Udvorg had returned to the northlands, she had marched with them across Vod’s Pass. Vireon and Alua had ridden upon fine Uurzian steeds at the head of the procession, gifts from the new Emperor of Uurz. Dahrima had not spoken with Vireon since the day he requested that she join the war council, but the promise of his suspended judgment hung over her head during every league of that northward journey. She had never answered for killing Varda of the Keen Eyes, though her spearsisters spoke of it only as a duel of honor. Dahrima herself was no longer sure of the reason for the fight, or the killing. She remembered only the burning rage in her breast and the blue blade of Vireon in the witch’s fist. Had she killed Varda to protect Vireon from the witch’s influence, or because she was jealous of Varda’s closeness to the Giant-King?
Dahrima could not answer that question if Vireon were to ask it. Nor could she answer it in her own heart. Vireon was King of both Uduru and Udvorg now, and he must uphold the laws of the blue-skins. Dahrima’s crime had placed him in a precarious position: Pardon her and offend his new people, or punish her and risk losing the loyalty of the remaining Uduri who served his house.
Dahrima knew that she could not bear the chastisement of Vireon, or the loss of her station at his court. So she had done the only thing she could rightly do. When the legion of Men and Giants came down from the pass onto the wide, rolling plain of Uduria, she fled into the night as she had done before. Yet this time she spoke first with her sisters and made them understand. They must stay to serve the King as she could not. She explained her reason, and they grudgingly accepted it. Vantha wanted to come with her, but Dahrima forbade it.
“You have taken the vow,” she reminded Vantha. “You must serve Vireon.”
“You too have taken the vow,” said the Tigress.
“And I have broken it,” said Dahrima. “I must be the last one to do so.”
Vireon had camped in the shadow of the mountains, within a day’s march of Udurum. In the morning they would enter the city gates to cheers and celebrations of victory. Then would come days of memorial services and feasts to honor the fallen Men, Giants, and Uduri who had died for their King. Vireon would bury the red diamond deep in the vaults of his palace. Yet Dahrima would see none of these things.
She ran north while the camp was asleep, and entered the deep forest of the Giantlands well before sunrise. For weeks now she had wandered these wilds alone, regaining the calm that her spirit had lost, and trying to put Vireon’s judgment from her mind. She had spared him from a painful decision, and spared herself from humiliation and heartbreak. Yet she had rediscovered the ancient ways of her people, the sweetness of northern rains, the freedom of the untamed woodlands, the scents of bark and leaf and Narill blossoms alive with honey.
The Uygas rising tall in every direction made her feel small as a child again. The walls of moss on their trunks faded from bright green to blue and orange as the summer waned. Beneath their endless canopy of leaves she forgot the bloody slaughters of Khyrein swamp and Sharrian valley.
When winter came full upon the forest, she would find some deeper cave in which to shelter. There would be bears, wolves, and great cats to hunt in the highlands for their thick furs. For now she wore a simple tunic of Uurzian fabric, green as the Stormland grasses, cinched at the waist by a belt of black leather. Her feet were bare against the tufted earth, and she enjoyed the touch of moss and leaf as she walked. Her axe lay forgotten in the shadows of her modest cave, and she carried her longspear when she hunted. There were no enemies to vex her in the forest of Uduria. This, too, she enjoyed.
She was at peace, and completely unprepared, on the day that Vireon found her. She was bathing in the falls when he emerged from between the twisted Uyga roots, his long black hair tangled with leaf and thistle. He wore no crown, but he carried a hunting spear in his fist and a greatsword across his back. He wore his Giant aspect that day, and at first she thought him some lone Uduru huntsman wandered south from the Icelands. She walked from the misty torrent, one arm covering her exposed breasts, the other wringing water from her hair, and saw his face clearly.
“Forgive me,” said the Giant-King. He turned away from her like a shy boy who had stumbled upon his first naked girl. “I will wait for you to dress.”
Dahrima waded to the lip of her cave and pulled on her tunic and belt. She walked about the rim of the lake to where Vireon sat perched atop a mossy slab. He stared into the evening gloom of the woods. She wondered if he was alone. There was no sign of other Men or Giants. No sign of his fiery Queen either.
Did he track me to this place, or discover it by chance during one of his hunts?
The latter seemed unlikely.
She sank to one knee before him as he turned to face her. He pulled a leather bottle from his belt. “How long has it been since you’ve had good Uduru ale?” he asked. He offered her the flask. She stood up and drank from it long and deep. It was cold and refreshing, bright on the tongue. She sat on the boulder next to him.
“I am sorry, my lord,” she said, her eyes on the purple moss at her feet.
“For what?” asked Vireon. “Drink as much as you want.”
“No,” she said. “For leaving you. For not returning to Udurum with my sisters. I only wished to… spare you a difficult decision. Yet I know that I must answer for my crime.”
Vireon sighed. He shed his purple cloak and unlaced the front of his black tunic. “I need a swim,” he said. His bare chest and shoulders were unscarred, solid as sculpted bronze. He kept his leggings on but kicked off his boots, then dove into the lake.
Dahrima nursed the ale, finishing half the flask while Vireon swam to the falls and let its chill wash over him. The dirt and bits of foliage were gone from his wet mane when he returned. His hair glittered black as onyx in the sunlight, his eyes blue as midday. He rejoined her on the rock and finished the rest of the ale in a single gulp.
“I love this place,” he told her. “I used to stop here on the Long Hunt with my uncle Fangodrim. The sunfish in this lake are fat and tasty.”
“I came here with Chygara,” she said. “Long, long ago.”
She made the sign that honors the remembered dead, and Vireon did the same.
“There are many places like this in the forest,” he said. “I’ll wager you know more of them than I do, since you hunted here well before I was born. Perhaps you’ll show me a few?”
Dahrima forced herself to meet his gaze. “Where is your reborn Queen?” she asked.
Vireon looked toward the falls. Fragments of rainbow glittered there as sunbeams intersected the white flow. “Alua has gone north,” he said. “Beyond the Icelands, into the Frozen North. That cold land is her true love.”
Dahrima blinked. “But I thought…”
“You thought that what I had lost was returned to me,” said Vireon. “Or at least part of it. So I thought, too, at first. Yet it was not so.”
Dahrima did not quite understand. “You love her. She loves you.”
“At one time, yes,” said Vireon. “That was true. But our love died with Maelthyn. Or, like our daughter, it was never real. I am no longer certain. Yet together we brought the Claw and the Kinslayer to justice. They will trouble us no more.”
“I am sad to hear that you are… alone,” said Dahrima.
Vireon looked directly at her face. “Do not be,” he said. “Alua died and was reborn. I also experienced death of a sort and returned from it. Yet neither of us is the same.”
They sat for a while listening to the steady voice of the falls. A fish leaped from the silver lake and splashed back into its depths.
“What of the Udvorg?” Dahrima asked. “Do they demand justice for Varda?”
Vireon shook his head. “Varda should have known better than to take up a sword against a spearmaiden of the Uduri. The Udvorg have mostly returned to their high plateau. All but a hundred or so, who chose to remain in Udurum. I have welcomed them, as I welcome all Men and Giants into the city.”
“Why have you followed me here?” Dahrima asked. She held her breath a moment.
Vireon laughed a little and stood up to face her. “You have awaited my judgment for a long time now, Dahrima the Axe. So I have followed you all the way to the Falls of Torrung to deliver it. Are you prepared at last to hear it?”
Dahrima swallowed. She rose to her feet and squared her shoulders. “I will abide by your decision, whatever it may be.”
He will pardon me, but I can no longer serve him.
My vow was broken on the coast of the High Realms.
“Then here is my judgment upon you,” said Vireon. His eyes locked hers in a steel-bright grip. “I judge that you are loyal and fearless and valiant. A great warrior, a keen hunter, and a born leader of Giants. My fiercest ally, and my best friend. And the most beautiful of all the Uduri.”
Dahrima could find no words. The waterfall’s roar filled her ears, and the sun’s heat filled her face in the dim cool of evening.
Vireon took her hands into his own.
“I grant you pardon for the price of a kiss,” he said. “If you will allow it.”
She could not move, but her limbs trembled. A flurry of red and golden leaves fell about them as the wind caressed the high branches. At last she nodded.
The beating of her heart drowned the waterfall’s song, and his kiss was gentle. She opened her eyes, and his face was still so very close to hers. Uduri were known for choosing their mates with violent passion, yet this tenderness was a new discovery. Now she was the one being chosen. This was not the way of Giants, but of course Vireon was half human. Therein lay his greatness, and his worthiness to rule both races.
“The King of Men and Giants needs a Queen,” said Vireon. “I would have you, Dahrima.”
She pulled away from him, wrapping her arms about herself. Once again she felt naked before him, although still fully clothed.
“It cannot be,” she said. “I bear the Curse of Omagh. Do you forget this? A King must have heirs, and I can give you none.”
Vireon walked around to find her face again. “I do not care about that,” he said. “I never asked to be King of Udurum. It was my duty when Tadarus died and my mother abdicated. Then again, when Angrid died, another kingship was forced upon me. When the Long-Arm’s son has grown of age, I will give him the Udvorg crown. As for Udurum, I am bound by no laws but my own, and I will have no other wife. I will rule alone, and still childless, should you refuse me. You have followed me across a continent. Do not abandon me now to loneliness.”
Dahrima looked into the blue of his eyes and saw truth glistening there.
She fell into his arms as he fell into hers.
Together they made a new song to rival the harmony of falling waters.
The marriage ceremony was held in the great hall of Vod’s palace, where Men and Giants gathered to see Dahrima replace her old vow with a new one.
Lyrilan came from Uurz with a coterie of green-cloaked noblemen; Vaazhia the Lizardess came with him, arm in arm, a splendor of jewels and gold upon her limbs. Khama the Feathered Serpent arrived alone in his cloak and headdress of crimson plumage.
Vireon’s sister brought their mother Shaira home by ship and carriage all the way from Yaskatha. Shaira declared her joy at Vireon’s choice. Alua had been a stranger to Shaira, but Dahrima was a long-trusted friend and guardian. The wife of Vod had lost none of her wits as she had grown older. At the banquet it was Shaira who professed the irony of Vireon’s path: Vod was born a Giant but took the form of a Man to win Shaira; Vireon was born in the shape of a Man but took the form of a Giant to win Dahrima. There was much laughter as this observation made the rounds between heavy-laden tables and found its way into the crowded streets.
Two weeks of festivities marked the joining of Vireon and Dahrima. When it was done the visiting dignitaries returned south to resume the business of their own kingdoms. The repelled Armada of Zyung had left a great, unfinished temple-palace in the Sharrian valley. Vireon dispatched a company of Uduru and Udvorg to demolish the abandoned edifice. They hauled blocks of its pale stone back to Udurum for use in public works. From that stone the city’s best sculptors crafted effigies of Iardu, Tyro, and Undutu to stand along the Avenue of Idols beside those of Vod and Tadarus.
A contingent of Udvorg brought the son of Angrid south to meet with Vireon. The boy’s name was Olgrid, and he was eleven years old. He stood tall as a Man already, but still a third the height of a full-grown Giant. Some of the Udvorg had taken to calling him “Olgrid the Arrow” in honor of his great skill with a hunting bow. Vireon spoke with Olgrid regarding Angrid’s bravery and wisdom; the two went on many Long Hunts together. Dahrima saw Vireon begin to think of the blue-skin lad as his own son, and she did as well.
Dahrima found happiness in Vireon’s house and in his arms. Yet often she woke late in the night, lying next to him in their great bed, and caressed her flat stomach. She had heard the whispers of palace attendants and advisors; they all spoke of Vireon’s lack of an heir. Surely Olgrid, Son of Angrid, would return north when he came of age to wear the Udvorg crown. Udurum would need a new King on that far distant day when Vireon were to pass from the living world. The people of Udurum did not understand that sorcerers were immortal and could not truly die. Yet this misunderstanding did not comfort Dahrima. She thought of her barren womb as an abiding lack within herself. Vireon might be immortal, but she was not. So she dreamed of a child born from their honest love.
Dahrima never spoke to Vireon of this matter. Like any Uduri, she bore her sadness in silence. In all other things, she was joyful. In her darkest hours she reminded herself that she was a warrior and a hunter. She did not need to spawn offspring to be whole. Yet the laughter of children running in the courtyards of Udurum was never far from her ears or her heart.
At the end of her first year of marriage she dreamed of the white flame. Inside the dream she lay in the pillared bedchamber next to Vireon, as she did in the waking world. Yet in the dream white flame poured like water from the window casements, spilling across the marble floors and gliding up the columns and walls. Her dreaming eyes opened while her true eyes remained closed. A woman’s figure glided through the window like a pale ghost.
The bed now floated upon a sea of white flame, yet there was no heat or smoke. The ghost-woman hung above Dahrima, who could neither move nor speak.
Alua.
Even asleep Dahrima recognized the Mistress of the White Flame whose long blonde tresses flowed and burned upon the silk of the bed. Alua’s dark eyes scanned the sleeping face of Vireon, then turned upon Dahrima with a smile both warm and gentle. There was no fear in this dream, only strangeness.
Alua’s hands touched Dahrima’s cheeks, and the white flame coursed through Dahrima’s body like a cool and pleasant wind. It gathered in the space between her hips, churning and burning there with sudden heat. Yet there was no pain.
Dahrima awoke sweating in the dark silence of the bed-chamber. There was no trace of flame or sorceress. Vireon’s slumber had remained undisturbed. Dahrima laid her face upon his shoulder and returned to sleep. No more dreams came to her that night.
She forgot the dream of white flame until many weeks later, when she discovered her stomach had swollen into a soft yet firm mound. The palace physician, well schooled in the medicine of the Uduru, examined her and confirmed what she already knew.
A child grew in her belly. Nor would it be her last.
There was much rejoicing in the City of Men and Giants.