It was no use trying to avoid them completely; ignoring Odrig only made him more determined. And, in truth, Fremur himself was not entirely certain what it was that filled him with such unease and disgust today. Drojan was a pig, but as Odrig’s friend he would prosper and their sister would be well-kept, with thick blankets and a fine wagon. Kulva might not like him, but that was often the case among Thrithings brides, and more often than not the wife learned in time to care about her husband as well as care for him.
“I will join you in a moment,” he told Odrig. “I wish to give our sister a blessing.”
“I will give her something more than that tonight!” crowed Drojan. “Like the rabbit who married a bear, she will be limping tomorrow morning!”
Odrig seemed to find this even funnier than the others did. Again he gripped Drojan’s face with drunken fondness, wiggling his friend’s head from side to side like a father with a beloved child. “Unless the bear drinks too much,” Odrig said, “and can only offer his bride a limp willow branch as his wedding gift!”
More hilarity. Fremur waved, doing his best to smile, and continued on his way.
The wedding tent was a precious thing made of true Khandian silk, or so his mother had once told him. She had awaited her own marriage in it, as had her mother and grandmother before her. The outside walls were stitched in an ornamental pattern of blue rivers and lakes and green grass, a sort of map of their family’s history in the land the stone-dwellers called the Lake Thrithings. A red pennant festooned with crane feathers and daubed with the symbol of the Sky Piercer waved at the top of the conical tent, and ribbons fluttered from every corner and all around the doorway.
Two men called Bride Guards, clothed in leather armor and holding long spears, waited outside the tent on either side of the doorway. One of them tried to stop Fremur as he approached, but the other said, “He can go in. He is the bride’s brother, and the shaman is already there.” Fremur had guessed as much. Because the shaman was male, the women’s sanctuary of the tent had been pierced and legitimate male visitors were now allowed. Still, he stopped before the doorway and wiped the sweat from his face, then murmured his apologies to the Mother of the Green for entering her territory before lifting the flap to step inside.
It was dark within the tent, and hotter inside than out. In the moments it took his eyes to make peace with the darkness, he thought he saw a hunched, two-headed figure wearing a face out of nightmare. His heart sped for a moment before he realized it was only the shapes of his sister and old Burtan the shaman as he bent over her to perform the ritual purification with ash and salt. It was strange that Burtan, whom Fremur had known his whole life, should become such a fearsome figure with only the donning of a headdress and leather mask, but so it was. When he saw the priest look up at him, Fremur felt a moment of superstitious terror, though he knew that the old shaman only stared because he was nearly blind.
“The blessings of the skies upon you, Grandfather,” he said, as was expected, and pulled a small silver coin from his pocket he had brought for just this moment. “I would speak with the bride. I am her brother.”
“I know you, Fremur,” said Burtan, his voice reedy but his annoyance plain. “Do not think me so old, so foolish . . .” Only at that moment, as it came close to his face, did he notice the coin in Fremur’s fingers. “Ah, so. Of course. But do not take long. The horns will sound at sun-high, and that is not long now.”
How the old man knew that after sitting in a darkened tent all morning, Fremur was not sure. “You are wise, Grandfather,” was all he said. Even an old shaman with milky eyes should never be mocked or angered. In fact, as his sister had once pointed out, the older ones were closer to death and thus closer to the gods, and so should be humored whenever possible. Both gods and shamans could easily bring down bad luck on those who displeased them.
The shaman whispered something to Fremur’s aunt, who laughed quietly. She sat beside Kulva in place of their mother, who had died in the Year of the Autumn Floods, two winters before Odrig first became leader of the Crane Clan. Five other female relatives were also crowded into the small tent, which smelled of sweat and the scented oils burning in small clay lamps. The lamps were not meant to provide light—the top of the wedding tent where the poles came together was open to the bright sky—but to entice the spirit of the Sky Piercer to swoop low to smell their sweet odor and bless the coming marriage.
“Are you well, Kulva?” Fremur asked his sister.
She stirred to life only slowly, as if she had been thinking of something or someone quite different than her surroundings. She wore the full curved headdress and veil, so that only her eyes were visible. Again, Fremur felt a quiver of superstitious discomfort: In her white blanket and white veil, his sister looked like a ghost. He thought she also looked bleary, as though she had been drinking, too. It was not impossible to imagine her female relatives giving her a few sips of yerut for courage on this important day.
“Is that you, Fremur?” she said at last. “How is our father? Is he happy?”
It seemed an odd question, all else considered. “I saw him. He appears no different than he did yesterday, or will tomorrow.”
“I was wondering what he would think. To see me married to Drojan.”
“He would be happy to see you given to a man with a brave future in the clan, I’m sure.”
“Would he?” She sounded weary, distant. “Perhaps. It must be nearly time.”
“The shaman will call you when the sun is at the top of the sky.”
“So little time left,” she said. “So little time!”
“Because you are married does not mean you will be a different person. You will still be Kulva, still gentle as the dove for which you were named.”
“And doves are often shot by men with bows. Brought home in a sack to the cookfire. Given out to the thane’s favorites.”
“Do not speak that way.” Despite the fact that her disquiet echoed his own, Fremur turned to his aunt and the other women. “Why do you let her go on like this? Isn’t it your job to prepare her for her wedding day, to bring her to her husband in good cheer?”
One of his female relatives made a noise in the back of her throat. “Oh, yes. Like a lamb to the sacrificial stone.”
“Quiet, you,” said Fremur’s aunt. “She will be well, Nephew. She will bring the family honor. Crane women are strong.”
“Strong,” said Kulva, and began to laugh quietly.
Fremur was taken aback. He had hoped in part that seeing his sister dressed in the old manner, in the company of women who had themselves been readied for their own weddings, would make him feel steadier, might even puncture the grim mood that hovered over him like a thundercloud. Instead it had made things worse, or at least it had revealed to him things he had not wanted to know.
“Are you unhappy, sister? But what you do is blessed. The Sky Piercer wants you to be fruitful. The Sky Piercer wants you to enlarge the clan. Are these such terrible things for a woman to do?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “Does not every woman wish to be married? Does not every woman want a husband, who can tell her what to do after she leaves her father’s house?”
“Girl, you walk on treacherous ground,” one of the women said.
“Leave us now, Fremur.” His aunt’s face seemed to show both amusement and concern. For a moment, and it was only a moment, Fremur had a vision of a world he had never quite imagined before, the world of women when no men were present. It felt as though a familiar path had suddenly turned to slip-sand beneath his feet.
He again asked for the Blessing of the Crane, although his sister was still laughing quietly to herself, and he felt sure she did not hear him. Then he went out into the strong, bold light of the sun again. No clouds hung in the sky, but he could still feel his own cloud hovering close.
? ? ?
Standing at the paddock’s gate, which was festooned in ribbons and draped with a fine carpet, the three callers lifted horns to their lips and blew—three short bursts then three long. They repeated the call, which hung over the paddock like something tangible, as if the hot air was too thick to allow the sounds to disperse entirely. Drojan and Odrig, who had gone out of the gate only moments before, now returned, Fremur’s brother dressed in the full finery of a thane, with a fur cape over his shoulders and the ancient signet of the Crane Clan hanging on a thong around his neck. Drojan, his mustaches extravagantly oiled, was wearing a bridegroom’s decorated shirt and a wide sash around his waist that were already rumpled and stained.
“We come for a bride,” said Drojan, slurring his words a little. “Are we welcome?”
“You are welcome in this camp,” said the chief of the callers, and then the three hornblowers led the groom and the thane toward the tent. They stopped under the canopy that had been erected in front of the tent door. Fremur envied them even that small patch of shade.
The shaman appeared from the tent so quickly and noiselessly that it was hard to believe he had lived almost eighty summers. He still wore his leather mask. Other than his eyes, the hanging mask revealed only the bottom of his almost toothless mouth.