Sharon Green: The Crystals of Mida

I stood in the center of the cold stone room and gazed down upon the bodies of my warriors. The three of them lay upon the rounded cobbles, grotesque in death as they had not been in life. The clan colors worn by all Midanna, about their hips and thighs, had been torn away and scattered about the room, leaving my warriors completely bared to their attackers. Life signs, worn on leather strips about their necks, had been left on two, but the third no longer wore hers. Perhaps its leather had been severed when the blade of the dagger was brought to her breasts, possibly in an effort to have her cry out in pain. I had known that warrior well in life. She would not have cried out.

Three strong warriors, dead, though not in battle. Their attackers had come with stealth; overwhelming them with surprise and numbers. The Keeper’s Attendants, who had also been in the Tower, had been quickly put to the sword, yet my warriors had been kept the while, to be used for the sport of those who had come to steal the Crystal of Mida. My proud warriors had had their wrists bound tightly with leather behind them, had been thrust to the bare, smooth cobbles of the Tower floor, had had their clan colors ripped from their bodies, had been forced to stare up at the raftered heights of the highest Tower room as their bodies were taken and used by the scum of city thieves. And when their shame had at last given the thieves satisfaction, their throats had been cut where they lay, their wrists still bound, their clan colors no longer upon them. To take a warrior’s clan colors, to cut her throat as though she were an animal to be slaughtered, stealing from her forever the honor of dying in battle—these things were the most unforgivable. Should any of the thieves be taken alive when the Crystal of Mida was recovered, they would pay for their crime many times over, seeing the light of as many hands of feyd as possible before being allowed to die. Only in such a way might the souls of my warriors find rest.

I looked next at the Keeper’s Attendant where she lay upon the sleeping leather, her long, graying hair crushed beneath her, her breathing loud and harsh in the silence. She had taken the sword of the thieves as had the others, yet clung to life till they had gone, and still longer yet, awaiting the relieving warriors’ arrival. Her clan colors, worn long to the ankles as befitted one of her station, were damp with the red of her blood, yet she was able to relate the coming of the thieves, guessing that they came from the city of Ranistard, far to the north. One had mentioned the city, she thought, and she would have the war leader know. Now I knew.

Slowly, I walked to her where she lay upon the sleeping leather, gazing through the window at the brightening of the fey. Well she knew that she would not see the coming of dark again, and wished to remember the feeling of life upon her body, to carry with her to the Realm of Mida, where she would be made young and strong again, where she would again know the pleasures to be had with males of worth and valor equal to hers. Yet would she never again be warrior as she had been in her youth, for she had given up the glory of death in battle to Attend the Keeper of the Crystal of Mida. Now the Crystal had been stolen, and her life as well, and what had been done could not be undone.

“Remad,” I said quietly, and she turned to look at me.

“I hear, Jalav,” she whispered weakly. “How may I serve the war leader?”

“Already have you served truly and well,” I said, stroking my life sign. Hers lay upon her slowly rising breast, a near mate to mine. We shared the sign of the hadat, that fierce, furred, long-toothed, sharp-clawed messenger of death sent by Mida to smite her enemies, though our symbols of that sign were not identical. Each warrior must, upon reaching her womanhood, carve her life sign from the wood of the tree that has been marked as her own at her birth. Should her tree die before she reaches her womanhood, she is taken to the dwellings of those who follow males, and left to be made a slavewoman to them, for should a warrior enter battle without her life sign upon her breast, her soul would surely be lost.

“Remad,” I said, “I would have you look upon one who was captured a short while ago. Are you able to know if he is one of those who took the Crystal of Mida?”

“I shall know,” she whispered. “Long did I gaze upon the faces of each of them as they fouled our warriors with their touch,” she rasped. “I shall know.”

“Bring him,” I ordered, and two warriors ran to do my bidding. The fury I felt at what had been done in the Tower of the Crystal was a terrible thing, and my sword would drink well before my vengeance was fulfilled. I thirsted for blood to pay for blood.

I turned at the sound of struggle and beheld the captive, he who had been taken just as word had reached us of the theft. Six of my warriors surrounded him with spears at his throat, and still he attempted to resist them. Lofty, indeed, was his height, a full head greater even than mine, and his wide, muscled body was encased in the garb of one from the cities, a brown cloth which covered all but his arms from neck to mid-thigh, as though his body would be shown to his shame. He wore neither clan colors nor life sign, for those of the cities have no souls to be lost, and also his feet were encased in leather, to keep him from the touch of the sweet ground of Mida. His red-gold hair was of a decent length, bound by leather at the back of his neck as though he were prepared for battle. His arms were bound, each wrist to the opposite elbow behind his back, leather stretched between his ankles, leather pulled tight across the cords of his throat, yet still did he struggle. Should he be proven innocent of the crime in the Tower, it would be wise to detain him, so that my warriors might be allowed to take his seed for themselves. Not many of the males who travel our land are found fit to mate with a warrior.

The captive fought to free himself as he was drawn forward by the warriors. He shouted to the air the oaths of city males, mistaking my warriors for their pale sisters of the cities, swearing to do upon them things which would never be borne by them. Forward did they draw him with difficulty, till his eyes fell upon my dead warriors, and then his struggles ceased as though he had been touched by the hand of Mida.

“The deed was not mine!” said he harshly to Remad. “To take the lives of mere girls in such a manner....”

“Silence!” I commanded, and struck him full across the face as he knelt before Remad. In fury, he attempted to rise, yet was held in place by my warriors, and I turned to Remad. “Is he one of those who came, Remad?” I asked. “Study his features well and then speak.”

“It was not he,” she whispered, gazing up at the captive. “Had he been among them, war leader, I would have remembered.”

“Look again and be sure,” I said to Remad. “The journey north may be shortened, should we find one to speak to us.”

“He was not among them, Jalav,” Remad whispered as I pressed the point of my dagger to the throat of the captive. Surely he saw in my eyes my need to spill bloods and therefore he remained silent.

“So be it,” said I, resheathing my dagger. “The journey to Ranistard must be taken without sight. We shall have the words of the Keeper this darkness, and begin with the light that follows.”

“Ranistard?” said the captive, with a frown of displeasure. “No man of Ranistard would perform so senseless a deed. Ranistard was badly touched by the hand of Sigurr with a fever of death, and few are the females now left to tend to the men. Had men of Ranistard been here, the wenches would have been carried off with them.”