The Gate to Women's Country Read Online Free

she hadn’t had a tantrum for at least a year. Well, part of a year. She had been so guiltily miserable after the last one, she mightnever have one again, even though sometimes she desperately felt like screaming and rolling around and saying,
no
, she wouldn’t do whatever it was they expected her to do because they were always expecting her to do something more or be something more until it didn’t feel like there was enough of her left to go around. Still, it wasn’t really fair of Mother to bring that up now, and she longed to say so.
    Actor Stavia, however, kept her role in mind and merely held her face still as she moved at Morgot’s side. Myra was on the other side, holding one of Jerby’s hands as the little boy stalked sturdily along, taking two steps to Myra’s one. They stopped before the Gate of the Warriors’ Sons, and Morgot went forward to strike its swollen surface with the flat of her hand to make a drum-gong sound, a flat, ugly thum-hump.
    A trumpet blew somewhere beyond the gate. Morgot swept Jerby up into her arms and retreated to the center of the plaza as the gate swung open, Myra and Stavia running at either side. Then there were drums and banners and the crash of hundreds of feet hitting the stones all at the same time, blimmety blam, blam, blam. Stavia blinked but held her place. Warriors. Lines of them. High plumes on their helmets and bright woolen skirts coming almost to their knees. Bronze plates over their chests, and more glistening metal covering their legs. To either side, groups of boys in white tunics and leggings, short-hooded cloaks flapping. One tall man out in front. Tall. And big, with shoulders and arms like great, stout tree branches.
    Everything became still. Only the plumes whipping in the wind made any sound at all. Mother walked forward, Jerby’s hand in hers.
    â€œWarrior,” she said, so softly Stavia could barely hear her.
    â€œMadam,” he thundered.
    His name was Michael, and he was one of the Vice-Commanders of the Marthatown garrison. First came Commander Sandom, and under him were Jander and Thales, then came Michael—Michael, Stephon, and Patras commanding the centuries. Stavia had met Michael two or three times during carnivals. He was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen, just as Morgot wasone of the most beautiful women. When Stavia’s older brothers, Habby and Byram, had been five years old, each of them, too, had been brought to Michael. Beneda had said once that this meant Michael was probably Stavia’s father also, but Stavia had never asked Morgot about it. It wasn’t a thing one asked about. It wasn’t a thing one was even supposed to think about.
    â€œWarrior, I bring you your son,” Morgot said, pushing Jerby a step or two in front of her. Jerby stood there with his legs apart and his lower lip protruding, the way he did when he wanted to cry but wouldn’t. His little coat was bright with embroidered panels down the front. His boots were worked with beads of shell and turquoise. Morgot had spent evening after evening on those boots, working away in the candlelight, with Joshua threading the beads on the needle for her and saying soft words to comfort her.
    The warrior stared down at Jerby and Jerby stared back, his mouth open. The warrior knelt down, put his finger to the flask of honey at his waist and then to Jerby’s lips. “I offer you the sweetness of honor,” he whispered, even his whisper penetrating the silence of the plaza like a sword, so sharp it did not hurt, even as it cut you to pieces.
    Jerby licked his lips, then grinned, and Michael laid his hand on the little boy’s shoulder.
    â€œI give him into your keeping until his fifteenth year,” Morgot went on. “Except that he shall return to his home in Women’s Country during the carnival holidays, twice each year until that time.”
    â€œA warrior chooses his way at fifteen.”