The world began with rivers, filling the land as blood fills the body.
With the rivers came the gods, the great ancestors: Danus, the first mother, then others
who displayed the skills of living well and wisely to those who followed.
That was the tale told in deep winter when the longest night began. Every child learned
the story so they’d know where they came from and who deserved their offerings.
The land grew rich. The heroes appeared, thirty-three in number.
As a toddler, Emyn slept through the long list of names and deeds recited on holidays.
The warm fire, rich food, and the press of other bodies lulled little ones to rest and dream.
An age passed, and everyday folk who aspired to live honorable lives advanced along
the rivers to find the places meant for them. We followed the Samar to the very edge of
Viromanduan land.
The story got interesting when her own ancestors finally entered it. Emyn was five
years old before she could stay up long enough to hear of them. But the words sounded too
fancy; she liked the way her A’er told the tale better.
“Our family camped here, by those two poplar trees. They were smaller then, not much
taller than me. That night, we say that one generation ended and another began. Your
grandmother was born, but her mother died. Your grandmother shot out of a dying woman’
s womb, a Northern woman with golden hair and eyes like lightning.”
That was what A’er said. Long ago, that was what her great grandfather told his
children about their mother: she had eyes so pale and surprising they were like flashes of
lightning wherever she glanced.
The gods along the Samar River welcomed the little family. Great-grandmother was
sacrificed, but her brilliant eyes became part of the legend of a mighty ancestor, guiding
them to this life-giving river.
Emyn thought of many questions that neither A’er nor the story-tellers could answer.
Why did her great-grandfather wed a Northern woman with such startling eyes? Was she a
slave captured in a raid, or he an outlaw? What drove them to the untended border land?
The gods smiled on our homes. We are Viromandui, the people of the White Horse.
Ancient oaths bind us to the Nervi. In times of war and of peace, that alliance safeguards
us against other tribes who envy our pastures and fields…
On the longest night, Emyn leaned her head against her oldest brother’s leg and let her
mind wander. Most stories about the Nervi were much more exciting than this. Nervians
were fearless in battle and denied themselves many of the pleasures of life to remain strong.
It was even rumored that they didn’t drank wine or ale.
Emyn’s mother had been Nervian; a trader’s daughter who traveled far to marry A’er, a
woodworker of another tribe. Emyn knew no more about her than that; she hung on every
word about the austere warriors.
All very well. Where did she begin?
When Emyn was six, she followed her brother Esmios and his friend Almer as they
hiked to higher ground west of their village. Weeds but no grass grew there, and pits and
rocks were scorched. She picked up a stick and dug a few exploratory pocks into the
ground, exposing charred earth below.
The boys found charms here. They said they found bones once, but quickly covered
them with dirt. All children knew better than to disturb the honored dead or any spirit that
guarded their remains.
As Emyn crouched and scratched the loose dirt with her stick, Esmios whispered to his
friend of a place beyond this one, a place with ruined and smashed huts where metal had
been worked over fires and hammered into knives and jewelry.
“This was a road.” Esmios led Emyn and Almer down a slope and away from the dead
earth. A long stone marker lay between clumps of dandelions, carved on one side with a
horse, flecks of white paint still clinging to it. “That means that our people lived here,” her
brother said. “Viromandui. They put that up. Then enemies came and shoved it down.”
“And they killed the people who lived here. Slit them open and burned them.” Almer
swung an imaginary sword at Emyn. “I bet there’s more bones around. You’re probably
standing on some now. Are you scared?”
“No.”
Disappointed, the boy pivoted from her, jabbing and grunting. Emyn looked up at
Esmios. “Don’t take charms off the bones. Or they’ll come after you—“
“I know that,” Esmios scowled. “Everyone does. But I want to find out who attacked
this place. Was it the Ambiani? It was a long time ago. Maybe there’s an enemy we don’t
know about.”
Almer menaced them again, this time with an invisible ax. “Maybe they’re still around.”
Esmios rolled his eyes. “Iomat probably knows.”
Iomat was a tall woman who gathered plants and brewed potions for people when they
were sick. That Esmios named her confused Emyn; their father was the person who
answered their questions. “Did you ask A’er?”
“He doesn’t know. Will you ask Iomat for us?”
Emyn blinked at him. “Why don’t you just ask her?”
“You’re the one who’ll be staying with her.”
“I’m not going to stay with her,” Emyn protested.
“Yes, you are. A’er said so.”
“When?”
“In three nights, he said.”
“Liar!” She’d never lived anywhere but with her own Ater. Where would she sleep?
Who would feed her and sing to her? Esmios and his friend laughed and called her a baby,
so she picked up rocks to throw at them and ran away.
Another path branched away from the old road and wound into shadows. Emyn
followed it, watching the ground carefully so she wouldn’t trip on roots or rocks. The
boys’ voices faded. They stopped laughing and began yelling her name, but she didn’t
answer. People waited for her at the top of the hill.
How Emyn knew that, she could never say. As far as she remembered, that afternoon
was the first time she stood among the oak trees of the sacred grove; the first time she’d
seen the dead king and the white ladies. She felt she knew them and they certainly knew
her, so maybe they had met in dreams. She sat and listened as they told her wonderful
stories and showed her pretty things, magical things that she could never quite describe or
make sense of later.
“We will stay with you,” a silvery woman said. “We’ll sing you songs.”
Emyn rubbed her eyes. “I want to go home now.”
The ladies giggled and began to dance. Emyn dozed and when she woke, she was alone.
The sun had set and no moon was out as she stumbled back down the path in darkness.
Little sparks of light danced before her, showing the way; the display seemed funny, but not
impossible. She wondered if the new month had begun. That happened when the moon rose
too late for her to see. Esmios said the month was unlucky.
Emyn heard her brothers and neighbors call her name and ran toward the sound.
Someone scooped her up; by the light of a torch she recognized her oldest brother. “Tell my
father!” Nonicos called out as he squeezed Emyn tight. Water filled his eyes. “He’s at the
river—“
His voice broke. “You brat,” he muttered into her ear. She giggled at the hot air from his
mouth and the tickles of the little hairs of his new, golden moustache. “You worried us all!
Where have you been?”
Emyn stopped giggling. “Between the trees. I fell asleep.”
“We’ve been calling and calling.”
She hadn’t heard. More people joined them; Emyn had never seen so many torches
except on holidays. Everyone seemed anxious to give her a hug or a pat and then yell at her.
She and Nonicos were almost home before her Ater pushed through the group.
“She says she fell asleep in the trees,” Nonicos told him.
“In the trees?” A’er scolded. “Little girl, you know how dangerous that is! There are
wolves—did you think of that? You don’t go off alone!”
“The ladies said I could.”
“Prettiness . . . . “ Her father buried his face in her hair. “Don’t ever run off like that
again.”
Emyn’s father pulled a cask of ale around to the front of his house, and all the men and
women who’d been out looking for her—everyone she knew and some she didn’t—drank
heartily from bowls and cups. The moon smiled as it rose in the dotted sky. The fire pit
outside was filled with branches and split logs and the flames danced up to touch the stars,
sending out little red, glowing stars of their own. She and Esmios sat leaning against the
house as it grew late.
Esmios, she noted with satisfaction, was subdued and pale. But he hadn’t been lying.
The ladies had told her that she was going to live with Iomat at the headman’s house, and
Iomat would show her how to make medicine and read the stars.
“I know the name,” she said to Esmios. He’d been crying earlier and his eyes were red.
“Sadonu, the place we went. Men made swords there. They made swords for kings. I saw
some of them.”
Esmios wiped his eyes. “That’s wicked, Emyn. You’re telling lies and teasing me.”
“I am not. You wanted to know—“
“You are too.”
“Am not—“
“Can’t you two sit together without fighting?” Ater pushed himself between them. He
tried to glower, but the firelight danced in his eyes as he smiled. People would tell Emyn
later that she had her father’s eyes, large and quick to express emotion.
“Emyn’s making up stories,” Esmios said.
“I’m not. It’s true. I saw the king’s sword, and I saw where they made it.”
“And where was that, prettiness?” her father asked.
“At the forge, but it’s all broken now.”
“Then how did you see it?” Esmios demanded.
“The ladies showed it to me when I was between the trees.”
“You were dreaming, then, if you’re not lying.”
She opened her mouth to answer, but her father shushed her. “You should be dreaming,
both of you. That’s enough for one night. To sleep, now.”
Within three days, Emyn traveled with her father to stand on planks over the river. They
said prayers as A’er tossed two offerings into the water: a carved cup and a smooth rock
with designs cut into it. One to bless her new life with the healer and one to thank the gods
for letting her stay in this world a little longer. It was sad for a child to die too young to earn
a place of honor in the next world.
Emyn lived with Iomat in the headman’s large house after that. She followed Iomat on
walks in sunlight and darkness, reciting after her the names of flowers that they passed.
The woman showed her paths and hidden shrines that Esmios probably never dreamed of,
swearing Emyn to secrecy. Iomat chopped up plants and Emyn washed down the wooden
boards afterwards. Her hands were busy and her head full.
Her father’s home was near, and no one made a fuss if she picked up her softest fur and
walked back to A’er’s when darkness fell. Maybe they half-expected it; she was still very
young.
Before the moon got full, all the grownups went off to shear sheep. Those not old
enough to help were ordered out of the way. Esmios tried to follow their father to the sheds
but was sent back, so he wandered by the headman’s house. Emyn brought him inside and
pointed out the boxes and pots that held Iomat’s plants. The drying branches that hung
from the rafters were mostly hers as well. Her brother grinned when she whispered that the
headman snored.
“I wasn’t lying about Sadonu,” she told Esmios very seriously. “That’s what it was
called and you said you wanted to know. Robbers came down the river in ships. The
robbers burned the houses and workshops seven generations ago.”
Esmios rolled his eyes, but before he could say anything, Iomat’s voice rang out from
the other side of the half-open door. “Where did you hear that?”
“Now you’re in trouble,” hissed Esmios.
Emyn bunched up her skirt with her fist. “I’m not lying.”
“I didn’t say you were,” said Iomat. “Where did you hear that?”
“The ladies told me. When I was between the trees.”
“When she was sleeping between the trees,” Esmios corrected. “When everyone was
looking for her.”
“Well, I want you to tell me about that. What trees, to start with?”
Emyn described the tall oaks that ringed the top of a hillock beyond the dead town
where she’d run from her brother. Iomat asked Esmios if he knew the place, then took him
to the door and sent him home. Before he left, Iomat warned the boy in a hushed voice to
stay away from the hill with the tall trees on it.
“Is it a bad place?” Emyn asked when Iomat came back.
“For some. Not for you, apparently.” Iomat leaned against a post. The distaff that held
her wool was tucked in her belt as always.
“So.” The woman began to spin thread. “Tell me all you can remember about the ladies
and what they showed you.”
Iomat’s face bounced between amusement and concern as Emyn talked and the spindle
whirled. She told of the ladies and their sad sighs, and the embroidered edges of their gowns
that sometimes hung in tatters. “They had shiny metal circles. The ladies held them in their
hands, and I could see their faces, like water.”
“Mirrors.” Iomat gave the spindle a flick. “They made mirrors there as well as blades.”
Emyn spoke of the king who commanded the town and the forge. She jerked in surprise
when the king appeared beside her, but Iomat didn’t seem alarmed. The king whispered the
names of tribes who sent emissaries and reminded her of the ships that brought metal from
the islands down the river to the forge.
“Tell her this, too,” he ordered.
“Why don’t you tell her?” Emyn could see right through him to the sunshine outside the
door.
“You are my voice. You must do as I say. Tell her that soon this village will need help. I
will provide that help so that all will know my power.”
Emyn repeated the words to Iomat: when the village needed help, he would tell them
what to do.
“Oh, indeed?” Iomat sounded skeptical. The king didn’t argue or scold; he simply
vanished.
Emyn wondered what else she should say. “They were very nice, but they didn’t have
any food.”
“Of course not,” said Iomat, leaning down to catch up her spindle and wind the new
thread. “Dead people don’t eat.”
And that was when she began, really: the day she learned that she could speak to and for
the dead. That gift would carry her far from home to speak before the wise and the foolish
alike. After that day, Emyn heard the word Gutumaros whispered when she passed: Death
Speaker.