Jo Clayton: Changer’s Moon

She’d always been jealous of the younger ones: Sanani, Tuli, Teras, even little Dris who could be a real brat. They all seemed to share a careless charm, a joy in life that brought warmth and acceptance from everyone around them, no matter how thoughtless they were. Life was easy for them in ways that were utterly unfair. Easier even from conception. Her mother had had a difficult time with her, she’d heard the tie-women talking about it, several of the older tie-girls made sure she knew just how much trouble she’d given everyone. She’d been a sickly, whining baby, a shy withdrawn child, over-sensitive to slights the others either didn’t notice or laughed off, with a grudging temperament and a smoldering rage she could only be rid of by playing tricks she knew were mean and sly on whoever roused that anger. She hated this side of her nature and fought against it with all her strength-which was never strength enough. And no one helped. Her mother didn’t like her. Annic was kind and attentive, but that was out of duty, not love. Nilis felt the difference cruelly when the other children were about. Sanani was shy and quiet too, but she was good with people, she charmed them as quickly and perhaps more effectively than Tuli did with her laughing exuberance. Year after year she’d watched the difference in the way people reacted to her. She was quiet and polite, eager to please, but so clumsy and often mistaken in her eagerness that she put people off.

She stared at the opaline shift of the moonlight, sick and cold. Try and try. Fight off resentment and anger and humiliation and loneliness. And nothing helped, no one helped, nothing changed the isolation.

Soдreh caught her on a double hook, offering her the closeness she’d yearned for all her life and a chance to pay off old scores-though she’d blinded herself to the second enticement. The old fault in new disguise. The tiluns left her exalted, warmed, enfolded in the lives of the others there as the Maiden fкtes had not, had only made her feel all the more left out. She was the kind deed, brought into the celebration by a generosity that was genuine and not at all mocking, but it was a generosity that she bitterly resented. She burned at the careless kindness of young men who swung her now and then into the dance but never into the laughing mischievous bands of pranksters winding through the crowds. She convinced herself she despised such lawlessness even as she gazed wistfully after them.

As the years passed and the disappointments piled up, she grew mean and hard and resentful, renouncing the fruitless struggle to fight that wretched spiteful side of herself. But she hated what she’d become.

Then Soдreh and then Floarin’s edict and then her rivals were swept away. Sanani and Tuli and Teras, they were swept away. Father and mother swept away too. She regretted that but would not let herself grieve for them, told herself it was their fault not hers. At first she watched the changes at the tar with triumph and satisfaction. There was calm and order within the House. Tie-women were grave and quiet and submissive; there were no more resentful glances, mocking titters, no more flirting with tie-men and wandering day laborers. No more groups that closed against her.

As the months passed, she gradually realized that she was still outside of everything. The groups never closed against her but never really incorporated her. She had no friends. It was all fear. It took a while for her to acknowledge this but she was neither stupid nor blind and certainly not insensitive to atmosphere. She could fool herself only so long. Then the rebels turned the Agli into a dangling clown doll and another was sent to replace him. The new Agli merely tolerated her and avoided her when he could. The tilun became a kind of agony for her. She no longer went to the confession fire, and because she did not she soon realized that the exaltation was born from drugged incense and the Agli’s meddling. She saw in the faces around her all that she despised in herself and felt a growing contempt for them. And for herself.

There was no laughter left in Cymbank or at Gradintar. The fist of Floarin and the Agli closed so tightly about her she choked.

She stared at the shifting shadows and pearly light and saw the clouds being stripped from the face of Nijilic TheDom as a paradigm of the way illusion had been stripped from her. It was hard, very hard, to admit to herself she could no longer submit to Soдreh. It meant she could no longer deny her responsibility in the betrayal and outlawing of her family. During the last passage she’d flinched repeatedly from this admission. She looked out at the naked face of TheDom and let the last of her excuses blow away like the winds had blown away the clouds.

This morning (the Agli standing beside him, hand on his shoulder) Dris had called the tie-men into the convocation Hall. She had watched from the shadows high up the stairs, forbidden to be present, forbidden to speak. Watched as Dris read names of tie-men from the list and told them they were being sent to Oras to fight in Floarin’s army. Fully half the men. Rations would be continued to their families as long as they were obedient and fought well for the manchild, in the cradle in Oras. They were told to rejoice in their calling as their absence would serve their families as well as Soдreh’s son-on-earth, Floarin’s child, since they would no longer be eating at Gradintar’s tables, and those left behind would be less apt to starve. Nilis watched the still faces of the chosen, the still faces of the not-yet-chosen. This was the second levy on the already culled tie-men. No one knew if or how soon another levy would come.

When the Hall was empty, both sets of men filing out without having uttered a single word, the Agli turned to Dris, “Halve the rations for the women and children of the chosen,” he said. “Order the torma to see that none of the other families give from their tables. The men must be kept strong to serve Soдreh should he require that service.”

Hearing this, she knew what was going to be required of her. Prying into larders, visiting the tie-houses to make sure there were no extras at table, more… and if she refused, she’d be turned out herself. She could go into the mountains after the outcasts, or be forced into the House of Repentance. Either place was death for her now; in spite of everything she did not want to die. The load of guilt she carried frightened her. There had to be some way she could redeem herself. Had to be.

Something moved in the corner not far from her. She heard the rustle of clothing, the soft scrape of a sandal against the stone. She swallowed hard but didn’t move.

An old woman walked around her and groaned as she sat down facing Nilis. She leaned forward, held out a broad strong hand. Nilis reached out, hesitantly, not sure why she did so. The old woman’s hand closed about hers. Warmth flowed into Nilis, a love greater than any she’d known to yearn for. She smiled and wept as she smiled. She laughed and the old woman laughed with her. They sat as they were a timeless time. The Jewels rose, crossed the open arch, vanished. Somewhere a hunting kanka vented a portion of its float gas in a hungry wail. Finally Nilis spoke. “What must I do?”

“Cleanse the Maiden Shrine.”

Nilis licked dry lips. “That sounds such a little thing. Can’t I do more?”

The old woman said nothing; her large lustrous eyes were warm and encouraging, but gave Nilis no more help than that.

Nilis fidgeted. Then she bowed her head. “Forgive me.”

“Forgive yourself.”

“I can’t.” The words were a broken whisper. Nilis stared at hands twisting nervously.

“Look within.”

“I can’t, I can’t bear what I see.”

“Learn to bear it. You are no more perfect or imperfect than any other. How can you bless them for being if you can’t bless your being?” The quiet voice became insistent. “Daughter, you asked for something harder but you did not know what you were asking. Cleanse the shrine. Make a sign for the people. It won’t be easy and it won’t come quickly; it may take the whole of your life. But a sign can be far stronger than many swords.