The Gate to Women's Country Read Online Free Page A

Michael was thundering once more. He had a voice that would bellow across a noisy battlefield.
    â€œIn that year he shall choose,” said Morgot, stepping back and leaving Jerby there all alone.
    The little boy started to turn, started to say, “Mommy,” but Michael had seized him up, lifted him high, high above his head, high above his dark eyes and laughing mouth, high above his white gleaming teeth and cruelly curving lips as he cried, “Warriors! Behold my son!”
    Then there was a wild outcry from the warriors, a hullabaloo of shouts and cries, slowing at last into a steady, bottomless chant, “Telemachus, Telemachus, Telemachus,”so deep it made your teeth shiver. Telemachus was the ancient one, the ideal son, who defended the honor of his father, or so Joshua said. The warriors always invoked Telemachus on occasions like this.
    Stavia scarcely noticed the uproar. One of the tunic-clad boys was watching her, a boy about thirteen years old. It was an eager, impatiently sulky look with something in it that stirred her, making her feel uncertain and uncomfortable. Somehow the boy looked familiar to her, as though she had seen him before, but she couldn’t remember where. Modestly, as befitted anyone under fifteen, she dropped her eyes. When she peeked at him from beneath her brows, however, he was still looking at her.
    There was another rat-a-blam from the drums and a rattle of shouted commands. The warriors moved. Suddenly the white-tunicked boy was beside her, staring intently into her face as the plaza filled with wheeling warriors, plumes high, guidons flapping in the breeze, feet hammering on the stones.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” he asked.
    â€œStavia,” she murmured.
    â€œIs Morgot your mother?”
    She nodded, wondering at this.
    â€œI’m her friend Sylvia’s son,” he said. “Chernon.”
    Then someone took him by the arm, he was pulled back into the general melee, and the marching men hammered their way through the gate, drowning out Jerby’s cries. Stavia could see her brother’s tearful little face over Michael’s shoulder. The white-clad boys boiled through the opening like surf, and the Gate of the Warriors’ Sons closed behind them with a ring of finality.
    Chernon had eyes the color of honey, she thought. And hair that matched, only a little darker. He had looked familiar because he looked like Beneda, except around the mouth. The mouth looked swollen, somehow. Pouty. As though someone had hurt him. His hair and eyes were just like Beneda’s, though. And his jawline, too. This was the brother Beneda had mentioned! Why did he never visit his family during carnival? Why had Stavia never
seen
him before?
    Morgot and Sylvia had turned away from the plaza to move up the stairs that led to the top of the wall. Staviaclimbed behind them to find a low place where she could look over the parapet into the parade ground outside the city. The ceremony of the Warrior’s Son was continuing there.
    Michael’s century came marching out through the armory doors, Jerby high on Michael’s shoulder while the men cheered. As they came through, the trumpets began a long series of fanfares and flourishes, the drums thundered, the great bells near the parade ground monument began to peal. At the foot of the monument was a statue of two warriors in armor, large and small, father and son. Before this monument Michael went down on one knee, pushing Jerby down before him so that the little boy knelt also. There was a moment’s silence, all the warriors pulling off their helms and bowing their heads, then the drums and trumpets and bells began once more as the procession swept away toward the barracks.
    From the tail of the procession, one of the white-clad boys looked back and raised a hand toward Stavia.
    â€œWho are those statues?” asked Beneda.
    â€œUlysses and Telemachus,” said Sylvia