Lady of Horses by Judith Tarr Read Free Book Online

his visions through the least regarded of his sisters. And she was not a
willing guide. Sometimes he had to threaten her before she would speak.
    In the winter just gone by, he had made a long fast. He had
emptied himself till his spirit was as pure as light through clear water, and
begged the gods for a new guide. They had answered him nothing at all, until he
went back to the camp, drifting light as a feather, and come face to face with
her. And there was the gods’ answer. This was his guide. He would have no
other.
    Now he needed a vision. His father had not had a great
seeing in more summers than most could remember; but Walker had been counting.
Nine. Nine summers. Little visions, small foretellings, Drinks-the-Wind had had;
and he was famously wise. No one seemed to notice that the great prophecies had
gone away from him.
    They had gone away. And in the way of the gods, they would
come back—must come back to the one who by blood and breeding was the old
shaman’s heir.
    The gods had made that clear, just as they had made it clear
that any vision Walker had must come through his sister. He could feel the time
running out. This summer was the ninth-year feast, the great gathering of
tribes, when kings were made and shamans chosen, and the great sacrifices were
offered up to the gods of earth and sky. To that feast, Walker must bring more
than his simple self. He must have a prophecy.
    He tracked his sister to one of her lairs, an eddy of the
river where sometimes the young men came to swim and play. There was no one
there on this day of bright and singing spring, except the one he had come
hunting for.
    She sat on a stone, seeming no more than a stone herself, in
her worn rag of a tunic, with her feet bare and her hair escaping its plait.
She was no guide for a shaman to boast of, but she was all he had. He had to
make the best of it.
    He could tell that she was aware of him: her shoulders
stiffened just perceptibly. But she did not acknowledge him. She was an odd,
wild, ill-mannered creature, and no one seemed inclined to teach her proper
womanly decorum.
    Someday Walker meant to, but not now. Not this moment. He
needed a vision.
    “No,” she said.
    He must have spoken the words aloud, for she was answering
him, still with her face turned away from him, staring out over the sunlit
water.
    “I will not give you a vision,” she said.
    “Of course you will,” said Walker, softening his voice as
much as he could, though he would dearly have loved to slap her. “You have
visions. I feel them in you. Give them to me.”
    “No.”
    He seized her arm and pulled her about. She came without
resistance. There was no fear in her face. “You must,” he said through gritted
teeth, “give me what is mine.”
    “I have nothing to give you.”
    “You must!” he cried. “I must have a vision. I—need—” He
stopped before he betrayed himself. “I must have a vision,” he repeated.
    “Invent one,” Sparrow said, so insolently that he struck
her. She cowered under the blow, but her eyes had no submission in them.
    He stood breathing hard, glaring down at her. She had grown
more defiant rather than less, the older she grew. Now even force could not
shift her.
    That much, her eyes told him. She was wise to his threats,
and aware of his fear: that if he harmed her, the visions would go away.
    It was time he found a husband for her. Someone strong, and
not to be swayed by a woman’s wiles. A man who would curb her tongue and teach
her proper obedience.
    As for inventing a prophecy . . . he
shuddered to think of it. That was blasphemy. A shaman’s power was in the
truth, though he might veil it in mystery for the people’s sake.
    She crouched at his feet, small huddled body, wide defiant
eyes. He could sense no yielding in her.
    In a passion of rage and frustration, he flung up his hand.
He would beat her till she bled; till she cried for mercy. She gave him no
choice. He must have his vision.
    A shriek rent the