There was no fire in her camp that night and the cold chill of the desert bit through the thick, woolen cloak that wrapped around Zarzhi like a second skin. In the distance, there was the sound and sight of revelry, little multicolored dots that spun and danced and sang with abandon in front of a large bonfire. The night air carried the sound of festivities far beyond its gathering, beyond the dunes of sand to rattle in Zarzhi's head both as sting and balm.
She knew the songs they sang, resisted with all her will to hum the traditional melodies under her breath. Instead, she pet her hawk, Sih, who was perched beside her, the feathered head twitching to and fro under Zarzhi's attentions. The dancers leapt into the air, the raucous cheers of the families in attendance howling louder than the winds that blew over Zarzhi's ears.
"They will bring the bride out soon." She told Sih, eyes following the elegant motions of the dancers- women with blades in their hands, the weapons glinting gold under the heat of that giant bonfire as they swayed to the beat of Aard'ah. "They will be shaving her head right now. Her sisters will hold her head over a bowl and wash her hair with goat's milk. They will thread their hands through the strands and shear the longest ropes away with their father's dagger." The only time a woman was meant to hold a man's weapon.
It was an end to her old life, a child's life. "Her mother will run her oil-warmed hands through her daughter's hair and cleanse the scalp before setting the blade to the nape of her neck. She is careful, there will be no marks but she will chastise her daughter for moving so much. 'Be grateful' she will say-"
Her fingers tightened in Sih's soft downy feathers and she didn't hear the hawk's almost distressed chirp.
" -and the cold press of that blade will follow her words. And why should her daughter not be grateful?There was little hope for her, for she was so old and scarred and overripe - who would take her? But their clans have been warring for so long and after so many years of bloodshed- a marriage is brokered. A peace. Her daughter alone is chosen despite everything she is. A girl who practiced with her blades far longer than would be proper. A girl who spoke too often and refused to braid her hair. A girl who followed her father into the Hotlands, watching from afar as he taught her brothers how to hunt and catch falcons. A girl who scarred herself trying to do the same. A wild, untempered girl. A damaged girl."
Before the hour is through, her daughter - a child before- will be almost-a-woman. Her old life shed like her hair and offered to the fire during the ceremony. " 'Ummi,' her daughter will plead, head over the bowl 'what if I do not like him?' She has never met the boy but she knows he is so much younger than her- barely a man." Zarzhi's voice was softer, reedier, eyes unfocused even in the face of such wild revelry, the sounds of music and laughter a constant thrum in the back of her mind.
"Her mother will shush her, tell her to put such childish questions from her mind. She and her sisters and grandmother will bathe her and they will tell themselves that it is simply water and goat's milk that stains her face." Zarzhi catches the scent of it on the wind, though she knows that there is no way for her to smell such a thing- as far away as she is. The girl will shed her clan-name, will take his as a sign of submission.
Her chest tightens in response- "They will dress her in their finest garments. Her grandmother has spent weeks sewing the shift that she will present herself to her husband in. But they cover that with a fine gown of silk and cotton- embroidered with a bead patterning the bride came up with herself. They will paint her head and entomb her in jewels and gift her a noose of expensive silvers. Then, when the mother leaves the betrothal tent, the music will stop and it will feel like death."
The bride and groom will meet one another in front of the fire, and the boy is so, so, so young- barely of age while she is old enough to be his mother once over. She is like aged milk- too old but she was the only unmarried woman in their clan. They had no choice. "The shame of it is in his eyes." Zarzhi says bitterly, "And it will follow her no matter where she goes- she will hear their whispers every time she closes her eyes. She will see it in their actions and when her boy-husband lays atop her and opens her gown without a single care for how he damages it and scatters her beads everywhere-"
Zarzhi takes a moment to quell the rage that chokes her. "She will stare at the patterns on the tent while he pushes and it will be over- quick- the prick of her sword a more fitting one than his." A snarling, vicious smile at her own joke. She looks to Sih and unravels her fingers from her feathers, petting the bird gently as an apology.
"But that once isn't enough-" She tells the hawk sadly. "Perhaps they are right? Perhaps she is too old to bear? What medicines will they give her? What does her mother-in-law force down her throat while she speaks at her in clipped, angry tones? 'rotten fruit' She'll say, as she holds the bitter bowl to her mouth and the now-woman, now-wife, will struggle to drink it all without crying. But no- they are wrong and the coming month she is with child."
The cry of a baby girl- so sweet and soft, her large green eyes shining with the radiance of the most beautiful oasis. Then another, a boy's. Zarzhi's voice quavers- "They are beautiful children. Sweet and loving, smart and so talented. The daughter is so beautiful and the son is everything the father is not. The wife will feel blessed for the first time in years. They are her refuge and when her mother-in-law and husband sleep, she lets her daughter dance with her blades and her son practice along-side her with his hawk."
Sih utters a soft sound more fit for a human than a bird, a mournful noise that echoes the grief in Zarzhi's heart. "The son grows to be a fine young man and even though he will be only 10 arcs, he will wield a longbow better than any man. And the daughter, she is so beautiful that entire caravans stop to catch a glimpse of her. They are their mother's joy- and she will never see them chafe as she did."
Zarzhi looked to the distance again and the smell of meats and spices were strong enough to waft even to her spot. She inhaled deeply and missed the taste of her mother's cooking on her tongue, though she could barely recall the flavors anymore. Fading embers danced in the dark sky, glowing red stars among the real ones in the sky. "But peace is not man's way." She continued, tracking the burning sparks as they flitted through the air in wild arcs. "There is always a looming shadow- and there is the glow of a knife's edge in the darkness."
Her green eyes flick to Sih, "And peace can burn so slowly- and the death of it can cloud the air like incense. No one can see in the smoke- and the mother will only have a nagging sense that something is wrong- will have read the warnings in her tea and in her daughter's coffee. But that sense has been hounding her for years, she will pay no attention to it. She will fall into an uneasy sleep, as she always does-"
The sound of curtains being pulled, the soft shift of cloth as it is brushed to the side. "She will dream of her father's knife at the back of her neck, cutting down instead of shearing her hair, but she will wake up just in time to startle her husband's hand as he slices her throat. The shock of her eyes will stray his path and she will bleed for the first time into the sheets of their marital bed before she grasps his tunic and pulls him down atop his own blade."
Zarzhi's voice wavers, a note that harmonizes strangely with the singers below. " There is fire and shouting in the distance- war has come again between their clans. She fears and rightly so. She will run to her children, will-" The words crack with grief, "-will find her beautiful daughter dead in her room and her son choking on his own blood as he holds his throat, his hawk tethered and screeching in agony at the sight. She-she will press her husband's dagger to his neck and end him. It will be quick and merciful and the mother will leave her soul with her children while her body dies slowly and painfully. She will escape into the smoke, her son's hawk the only reason she will ever be able to find her way through the thick of battle."
The singers in the distance continue their songs, but all Zarzhi can hear is the clang of steel and the sound of shifting sands under her feet. "Murderer. That's what they will call her. Child-killer. A wicked witch who slew her husband and children." It is the reason they will use to slaughter her clan, to end her sisters and family, to seize their grounds as their own. "And they will hunt her, they will follow her to the ends of the world- to finish what they started. They will send scout and hunter and with every man she kills, her own death will be assured. Every night she will close her eyes and feel her husband's weight atop hers, will see her son's eyes crinkle in gratitude when she grants him release- though there will be no rest for her." Not now, perhaps not ever.
The music suddenly stops and the silence is as damning now as it was back then. She stands and Sih takes to the air at her command. "Go, Sih. Beloved. Choose a path and I will follow." His hawk will lead her to escape now as it had before, though there was only the far-reaching, unknowable darkness instead of the smoke of war. She would leave these lands for now, but she will return- whether to exact revenge or to thrust herself upon their daggers and join her children, she did not know.
The dark haired woman made no move to look behind her to see the bride as she clambered atop her horse. The slow, unfolding silence was one Zarzhi knew well- the tense chord of anticipation that preceded a kill. And Zarzhi had no desire to see the her death.
