“Are you well, Kulva?” Fremur asked his sister.

She stirred to life only slowly, as if she had been thinking of something or someone quite different than her surroundings. She wore the full curved headdress and veil, so that only her eyes were visible. Again, Fremur felt a quiver of superstitious discomfort: In her white blanket and white veil, his sister looked like a ghost. He thought she also looked bleary, as though she had been drinking, too. It was not impossible to imagine her female relatives giving her a few sips of yerut for courage on this important day.

“Is that you, Fremur?” she said at last. “How is our father? Is he happy?”

It seemed an odd question, all else considered. “I saw him. He appears no different than he did yesterday, or will tomorrow.”

“I was wondering what he would think. To see me married to Drojan.”

“He would be happy to see you given to a man with a brave future in the clan, I’m sure.”

“Would he?” She sounded weary, distant. “Perhaps. It must be nearly time.”

“The shaman will call you when the sun is at the top of the sky.”

“So little time left,” she said. “So little time!”

“Because you are married does not mean you will be a different person. You will still be Kulva, still gentle as the dove for which you were named.”

“And doves are often shot by men with bows. Brought home in a sack to the cookfire. Given out to the thane’s favorites.”

“Do not speak that way.” Despite the fact that her disquiet echoed his own, Fremur turned to his aunt and the other women. “Why do you let her go on like this? Isn’t it your job to prepare her for her wedding day, to bring her to her husband in good cheer?”

One of his female relatives made a noise in the back of her throat. “Oh, yes. Like a lamb to the sacrificial stone.”

“Quiet, you,” said Fremur’s aunt. “She will be well, Nephew. She will bring the family honor. Crane women are strong.”

“Strong,” said Kulva, and began to laugh quietly.

Fremur was taken aback. He had hoped in part that seeing his sister dressed in the old manner, in the company of women who had themselves been readied for their own weddings, would make him feel steadier, might even puncture the grim mood that hovered over him like a thundercloud. Instead it had made things worse, or at least it had revealed to him things he had not wanted to know.

“Are you unhappy, sister? But what you do is blessed. The Sky Piercer wants you to be fruitful. The Sky Piercer wants you to enlarge the clan. Are these such terrible things for a woman to do?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “Does not every woman wish to be married? Does not every woman want a husband, who can tell her what to do after she leaves her father’s house?”

“Girl, you walk on treacherous ground,” one of the women said.

“Leave us now, Fremur.” His aunt’s face seemed to show both amusement and concern. For a moment, and it was only a moment, Fremur had a vision of a world he had never quite imagined before, the world of women when no men were present. It felt as though a familiar path had suddenly turned to slip-sand beneath his feet.

He again asked for the Blessing of the Crane, although his sister was still laughing quietly to herself, and he felt sure she did not hear him. Then he went out into the strong, bold light of the sun again. No clouds hung in the sky, but he could still feel his own cloud hovering close.

•   •   •

Standing at the paddock’s gate, which was festooned in ribbons and draped with a fine carpet, the three callers lifted horns to their lips and blew—three short bursts then three long. They repeated the call, which hung over the paddock like something tangible, as if the hot air was too thick to allow the sounds to disperse entirely. Drojan and Odrig, who had gone out of the gate only moments before, now returned, Fremur’s brother dressed in the full finery of a thane, with a fur cape over his shoulders and the ancient signet of the Crane Clan hanging on a thong around his neck. Drojan, his mustaches extravagantly oiled, was wearing a bridegroom’s decorated shirt and a wide sash around his waist that were already rumpled and stained.

“We come for a bride,” said Drojan, slurring his words a little. “Are we welcome?”

“You are welcome in this camp,” said the chief of the callers, and then the three hornblowers led the groom and the thane toward the tent. They stopped under the canopy that had been erected in front of the tent door. Fremur envied them even that small patch of shade.

The shaman appeared from the tent so quickly and noiselessly that it was hard to believe he had lived almost eighty summers. He still wore his leather mask. Other than his eyes, the hanging mask revealed only the bottom of his almost toothless mouth.

“Who comes to this place?” the old man asked in a voice that seemed to have grown considerably stronger since the last time Fremur had heard him speak.

“A bridegroom, seeking his bride,” said Drojan. He whispered something to Odrig, but the thane did not respond, looking out across the gathered clansfolk as if searching for something or someone.

“And has the bride-price been paid?” asked Burtan.

“Seven fine horses,” Drojan said. “Damn fine horses, isn’t that right?”

Again, Odrig seemed not to be paying attention, but he nodded.

The old shaman began to chant in a tongue that none of the other clansfolk understood, a tongue that some said had been given to the first clansmen when the First Spirit had made them. As he did, Kulva was led from the tent by the women, out under the canopy. They were singing, a counterpoint to the shaman’s chant, with words that women had sung at grassland weddings since the sun was young.

May you have a son in front of you

May you have a daughter beside you,

May your hand be dipped in oil

May your hand be dipped in flour

May you hold your tongue

May you not blame your husband’s mother,

May you respect your clan elders

May you yield to younger ones in time

May you be modest and keep your wagon clean.

As the shaman finished, a breeze came up, the first one Fremur had felt all day, making the canopy and the walls of the tent flutter. Guests turned to each other with smiles at this sign of the spirits’ favor, and even Fremur felt himself relax a little as the shaman sprinkled more salt and ash in a circle around the canopy.

Drojan pushed himself in beside Kulva, jostling one of her older female relatives as he passed and earning a look that would have curled the hair of anyone less oblivious. “Is it not time yet to get to the binding, old man?” the groom asked loudly. “The day is hot, and I am waiting for my beer . . . and my bed.”

A few of the guests laughed, although enough looked on with flat expressions that it was clear Drojan was not the most beloved member of Clan Kragni. But before the irritated shaman could answer him, another voice spoke up.

“You do not need a bed, Drojan the Foul—you need a sty!”

Even as Drojan peered out into the surrounding crowd of guests in reddening fury, Fremur’s heart sank from behind his ribs down into his gut, then lay there heavy as an ancestor stone. He knew the voice. It was Unver’s, and worse, Unver sounded very drunk.

The tall man stepped out of the throng, the wedding guests parting before him. Unver’s garments were muddy and ragged, as if he had slept several days out of doors; but, as if in some horrible jest, he wore over them the long, spotlessly clean vest of a suitor, covered with bright stitchery of birds and flowers. Fremur was relieved to see that at least Unver’s long, curved sword still hung in its scabbard on his belt.

“What do you want?” Drojan cried, sounding genuinely surprised in his drunkenness. “You have no place here, halfbreed. Go away. This is my wedding day.”