Part Nine
Gabrielle arrived at the central fire to find Oromenes and Malache sitting with Nzinga and her daughters. Her eyes darted around, seeking the form of her lover. There, standing with Azarnes, behind the royal family, was the Greek hero, her arms crossed over her chest. She was frowning at something Azarnes had said, her dark brows drawn down. Then - sapphire eyes rose and met her, across the fire circle, with a heat that shamed the sun. Gabrielle just stood still, locked with those eyes, letting everything else fade out. She was alright, she'd made it back. Nothing, not the war, not the coming ceremony, not the interference of the gods, could stop her.
Captain Musu stood behind the Greek Queen as she stared at her consort. They were like lovestruck girls, speaking with their eyes in front of the nation, as if anyone couldn't see that they were lost in one another. She snorted, and pushed the Queen in the back, gently. "Go on, we all know she's waiting for you." Musu rumbled, in Dahomey.
Gabrielle looked up, startled, when the Captain pushed her toward the circle, then said something to her. The brawny woman was smiling at her, inclining her head toward the royal family, and Xena beyond them.
"Oh. That obvious?" Gabrielle asked, with a shy grin. Guess Oseye and Malika don't have anything on us- Gabrielle thought. The bard thought about what she'd told Tanit, then looked back at Xena. Definitely when you aren't expecting it.
Captain Musu escorted Gabrielle back to the royal seat, and presented her to Nzinga. "The Queen Gabrielle is finished with her stroll." She said, deadpan, to Nzinga.
The Queen of Dahomey raised her eyebrows at the stalwart Captain, sure that there couldn't be a trace of humor coming from Musu. That would destroy her reputation as a tree trunk, Nzinga thought, but there was an odd glint to Musu's eye. Maybe.
Gabrielle had gone on to greet Malache and Oromenes, and was currently being hugged by both. "It's wonderful to see you both here. I wasn't sure you'd make it." Gabrielle said, when they pulled back. Oromenes did a fine impression of an offended Harrian prince.
"You imply that the Great King of Har might fail? That Malache might not be clever enough to make the impossible happen? Truly I am disappointed, Gabrielle. You are the consort of a hero, you have seen the impossible done offhand."
"And that hero would like a word with you." The voice came from behind Oromenes, the tone plain enough even to royalty. Oromenes stepped aside.
Gabrielle felt Xena's arms sweep her up, felt her feet leave the ground. She hung there, between earth and sky, suspended in the arms of her lover. The scent of leather was as comforting to her as the press of the armor against her cheek, things not associated with comfort, but belonging to the only home she knew. She felt her feet lower back to the ground, but the embrace didn't loosen. She stayed pressed against Xena, heedless of the watching eyes, the royalty gathered, the nation of Dahomey ringed around the fire. Enough had separated them, and for long enough. The world could wait.
"They treat you right?" Xena asked, brushing her lips against the top of Gabrielle's head.
"You'll kill them all if they didn't?" Gabrielle asked, suppressing a smile.
"Every last one of them. The nation will be a smoking ruin. I might just knock off Egypt, because I'm in such a bad mood." Xena said, in her best warlord tone. The Amazons standing nearby flinched, not knowing the words, but recognizing the menace. Gabrielle tugged Xena's head down and kissed her.
"Don't do that. It'd ruin the reputation we've worked so hard on." The blue eyes were feral in the dark planes of Xena's face.
"I mean it. Did they treat you right?"
"With perfect dignity. I had a very interesting talk with someone, I have to tell you all about it."
Gabrielle turned to Nzinga, pulling Xena along by the wrist. "The trial is set for tomorrow?" She asked the Queen of Dahomey. Nzinga nodded, a look that might have been sorrow coming over her face.
"It is, and cannot be changed."
"Then let me have her for the night." Gabrielle said, taking Xena's hand. The sorrow was plain on Nzinga's face now.
"I would not deny you that, whatever you may think of me. Go with my blessing, sister. We will see you in the sun's open light."
Gabrielle drew the unprotesting Xena away from the main fire circle, across the camp, to the edges of the dun hills where Agassou's fire still burned. Xena had expected something different when Gabrielle started dragging her off into the night, and was frankly stunned to find herself standing in front of an ancient Amazon, who sat before a small fire on a camp chair. Two teenagers sat on the ground on either side of the ancient woman.
"This is Xena. Xena, this is Agassou the Panther, chief griot of Dahomey. The girls are Oseye and Malika." Gabrielle said, brightly.
Xena scowled. "What's going on? I thought-"
Agassou laughed, the sound exploding out of her. She waved at Oseye to translate for her.
"You will get what you thought, hero. But a little moment longer, linger here. I will tell you what you must do tomorrow, and how you may succeed."
Xena reluctantly sat cross-legged, facing Agassou's chair. Gabrielle sat next to her, her hand resting on the warrior's thigh.
"All right. I'm listening." Xena said, her voice dark as thunder. It seemed to amuse Agassou, the menace the warrior projected.
"The Ceremony of the Ancestors is your trial. We of Dahomey know that wisdom is the accumulation of all the mothers who have come before us. They who are beyond the veil can see the past and the future as one, they know, where we might only guess. So they tell us, when we seek their aid, when a person is innocent, or guilty of crimes against the nation." Agassou said.
"How? Signs, divination? An oracle perhaps?" Xena asked.
"No. Not like Har, with their snakes. In Dahomey we have no class of priestesses, apart from the people. The gods may speak to any, no? We invite the eggun, the dead, to speak through us. Sometimes they do. And sometimes the orishas - the emissaries between the gods and the nation, do so. It is called Mounting the Horse. The seeker invites in, and they deign to ride. If you are fortunate, you are ridden by one who will speak well for you." Agassou gestured at Xena with the gourd she was holding.
"Hera's tits. Invite a god to possess me? Not on your life." Xena said, her knuckles showing white as she clenched her fists. Gabrielle put her hand over Xena's, and the fists relaxed back into hands. A tremor went through the warrior, that only the bard caught. She tightened her grip, reassuring.
"I know little of the gods of Greece, they show themselves to you, do they not? In Dahomey, they speak through us. They must be enticed with songs and drumming and sacrifices, offerings. Anansi the Trickster sent the spider dream to your Gabrielle to start this whole mess. Would you let a god endanger your consort, because you hate the immortals too much to stand against them?" Agassou said, slyly.
Pure fury blazed up in Xena's eyes, a rage that shamed the stories the Amazons had heard of the bloody handed Ghoul. It was a rage that Oseye, warrior though she was, flinched from and looked away. Malika was fascinated, and looked into it, trying to memorize it. She might never again see a rage as pure, and wanted to be able to speak of it ever after. The fate of nations hung on it, on the love that sparked it into life. Malika looked through the veneer of blood and carnage, and saw the fire of Xena's heart, given life by the gentle Queen at her side. She gasped, and touched Agassou's hand. The old griot patted her, letting the moment pass.
"No one harms Gabrielle. Not man, nor god, nor demon."
"Then so it is. You must call down Oya the Warrior, she who rides to battle with Shango, she who keeps the gates to the cemetery. She is the guardian of the Amazons, and she can put Anansi in his place. But there is danger. Oya might become enraged at Anansi, her anger is terrible for a mortal to hold. You must be ready to endure agony, the anger of a god."
"I can handle anger." Xena said, simply.
"The anger of a god, of the Warrior?" Agassou pressed.
"Anansi took Gabrielle from me, made me think she was dead. I bathed the sand in the blood of men who sought to keep me from her body. You think one god can break me?"
The face was calm, the voice was calm, but howling whirlwinds spun in those sapphire eyes. Agassou nearly smiled, at the scenes of battle and madness promised in the Ghouls' clear gaze.
"So, and so. You entice Oya. When she is done, and you yet stand, ask for one more. An eggun, one of the dead. A clay cup will be passed to you. Break off a portion of the rim, this will call the dead, a broken vessel as their bodies are broken. You will wear a token from this eggun, she will seek you. If she Mounts the Horse, I think the nation will be healed."
"Who." Xena said, in a clipped tone. None of this sounded good. At best, it sounded painful, exhausting, dangerous, and possibly fatal. The thought of giving up her body for the whim of a god chilled her to the bone.
Gabrielle seemed to know what she was thinking, and caressed her face. "Are you up for this? I won't have you hurt."
Xena took her hand, and kissed it. The green eyes soothed her, put her fears back down into the darkness where they belonged.
"I can do it. It's for your Amazons, right?"
"The Amazons don't matter, if you're injured.
"You are always reminding me that I'm a hero. This is what a hero would do." Xena said, looking into the face of her lover, the Queen.
"Don't let it be about revenge. Don't let the anger be what takes you. I couldn't bear that."
Xena kissed Gabrielle's hand, her eyes worshipful. "Not revenge. Love. Your love for your Amazons, no matter how far flung they are. The love you taught me to live by."
"You must be clearly tied to life, to your self, to be ridden by a god, then by the dead. It is Mazena, wife of Nzinga, who you must entice. Are you able to do this thing we ask of you, able to undo the web of the Spider?" Agassou asked.
Xena barely glanced at her, the brief blaze of sapphire eyes in the dying firelight was answer enough. The hero had accepted the challenge. Agassou understood, better perhaps than the Greek warrior and her lover, what had been promised.
"Good. Go then, hero and Queen. Go, and bind one another to life."
Agassou watched the Greek warrior rise, and lift her lover to her feet. They walked into the darkness, holding on to one another. The griot smiled, in her way, at their retreating backs. Life finds its own way, its own balance, no matter how strange it may appear. Agassou felt the air change, felt the dead gathering. They knew they'd been spoken of, knew that the ceremony was coming. She felt them, around the fire, around the heat of the living forms.
"Malika. Oseye. Go, children, into the tent. The night is a long one, I have much to do. It is a good night to be in one another's arms."
In Gabrielle's tent, Xena threw the armor from her body and pulled her lover in. Too much had been between them for too long, they needed to speak blood to blood, skin to skin. They led one another along the path, until the separation of their flesh was agony, the union of their souls complete. In the heat of the sun the black eagle melted, pinions bleeding away into the white air. There was no separation then, only one, all together. Words sparked and faded, the speaker and the listener one and the same. One soul closed the circle, turned in the balance.
The small gods of the desert, the hill gods of the wasteland of Baluchis, the spirits who lived in that place took notice of the hide tent that glowed in the mortal night, shaming the stars. They gathered around it, thick as fleas, basking in that light, drinking it down like wine, getting giddy on it. It was a gift to them, a sacrament of life in that barren place. They felt a tug of envy and of joy. This was the sacred gift of mortals, that the gods might not know, this agony of reunion, the making again of one soul from two.
Off across the camp, the familiar light of a Harrian balance called to them, the night haired youth and the blood haired wife came together. They remembered these two, from nights in the hills, from afternoons in a gray fortress. There was a perfection to them now, the pain that had colored their infrequent unions was gone, passed over. It was delicious, and familiar, and Harrian, this balance, a meal of a thousand courses, a blend of spices on the palate. Yet the spirits and small gods lingered around the hide tent, drunk on the raw, primal energy of the hero and the Queen. The Harrian balance was like pure music, a flute played note by note on the night air. The Greek bonding was the roar of the earth, the grinding of stones, the music of chaos and order, water crashing down against the rocky lip of the land. It did not let up until the dawn, when the drunken spirits staggered back to their places under the hills. They had never seen anything like the mating of the untamed spirit, with one so civilized. They would speak of it, under the dun hills, for many years after.
The sun came up. Gabrielle thought she might be able to hold it back with the strength of her kiss, with her passionate embrace on her warrior, but the sun envied them, and flooded the valley. There was a story that Agassou might have told Gabrielle, about the Sun and her lover, the Moon, and why she is often jealous of mortal lovers, but Gabrielle didn't think to ask, and Agassou didn't offer. The Greek Queen et her energy rest, and lay in the arms of her hero, her lover. Xena kept one hand resting on Gabrielle's hip, covering it possessively.
"Are you afraid?" Gabrielle asked, speaking from the shelter of Xena's shoulder. The warrior looked up at the roof of the tent, as if she could stare down the sun beyond, make it slink behind the dun hills for a few hours more.
"Yes. Not of the pain, not of the ceremony."
"What then?" Gabrielle asked, thinking that she was the only person in the camp, perhaps in that part of the world, who would believe that Xena, Lord Chabouk and Ghoul, might ever be afraid.
"Of being apart from you. I lost my mind in the wasteland, when I thought you were dead. The trickery of the gods made that happen. My anger made that happen. The snake in Har's temple never said you were dead, only that you rested in a tomb in Kemet. I became the Ghoul, the Drinker of Blood. You wouldn't have liked me then."
Gabrielle trailed kisses from Xena's throat, down to her heart. "Open up, my love. Feel me, feel what I'm feeling right now." She held her hand over Xena's heart, remembering what Malache had taught her, until the warrior gasped and blue eyes turned liquid.
"That for me?"
"You. Of all the world, you." Gabrielle affirmed.
"Then I'm not afraid. With that, nothing can touch me." She held her hand over Gabrielle's heart, not sure she could do what the bard had learned to do. The bard closed her eyes, tears running from them.
"For me?"
"You. Of all the world, you." Xena said, reverently. "That's Elysia. Not the gods, not the afterlife. That. I've tasted it, and no one can take it from me." She took Gabrielle's hand in hers, that light contact completing them.
A scratching came at the tent flap. "Gabrielle? Xena? I've been sent to fetch you." It was Oseye, sounding very embarrassed and apologetic.
"We're coming." Xena called out, sitting up. "Let's get this over with."
"Let's invoke the gods, heal the nation, prove your innocence and cement ties between warring kingdoms. Then we can have breakfast." Gabrielle said. There was nothing left to do, but laugh.
Oseye was surprised to hear the laughter from the tent of the Greek Queen. She had spent the night in Malika's arms, the close brushing of sorrow, of the delicious thrill of fear for another pair of lovers touched them as it often touches the young, making them seek comfort in one another's arms. The thought of Gabrielle losing Xena, the thought of her mother's grief at losing Mazena, had Oseye clinging to Malika nearly till dawn. Love, when new and still forming, can be as solid as gravity, binding two bodies together. The balance of space between lovers is something learned over years together. The sweet melancholy of the night hadn't lent itself to humor, the laughter of these two women, who obviously loved one another beyond reason, was beyond her understanding. It would be many years into her marriage, when the first of her daughters was caught destroying the beer stores, that Oseye would look at her wife and learn to laugh that way. It was the laugh of a woman enough in love with life that she might see the humor in it, despite the pain.
Xena unfolded her height through the tent flap. She had considered her armor, her weapons, but from what Agassou had said, this was a battle to be fought on other ground. She lay them aside, and went out in her leathers, fighting down the feeling of nakedness without her sword or Chakram. Is that all I've become, a carrier of steel? - the warrior wondered. The bard came out of the tent and took her hand, and the feeling passed, buried in the warmth she felt from her lover's small hand taking hers. Xena smiled at her in thanks, knowing the bard would understand. She had always understood.
The ground before the central fire had been cleared, the dirt swept free of stones. The dust of Baluchis was not like the good, rich soil of Dahomey, the small gods of the hills were not the emissaries of the nation. The Amazons would have to work to entice their gods and ancestors, and they prepared themselves for it. Before the fire an altar was constructed, draped with cloths of nine different colors, the maroon of Oya, the yellow and black and red of Shango. Guardian's masks of black wood were set on the edges, sleepy eyed and open mouthed. Food, and beer and wine were set in dishes and gourds, ribbons and strings of shells and stone beads were entwined.
It was a setting for a party, a celebration, an invitation to the dead, to the emissaries. The talking drums were brought forth, drums tuned to the tonal language of Dahomey and played only to speak during ceremonies. Only certain rhythms were ever played on each drum, dedicating it to the orisha it spoke to. Griots strolled through the crowd and acted as praise singers, reminding the people of their heroic ancestors, telling family stories, calling out in rich, laden tones to the listening dead. The drumming had begun before dawn, dancing was now underway. Singing would start when the Greeks arrived.
Nzinga, Queen of the Amazons of Dahomey, had spent the night alone in her tent, hot eyed and sleepless. The look the Greek Queen had given her, when she asked for a night with her consort, had scorched her. What sort of woman had she become that a Queen of another nation would approach her with defiance on such a topic? Had she become known as so lost to love, she wouldn't understand the request? There had been no lack of understanding. Any Amazon knew that look that passed between the hero and the Queen. Any warrior who had to leave her wife to go off to battle knew the urge to join with her until dawn, to cement their union before the vagaries of fortune tore them asunder. Nzinga knew that feeling. The last time Mazena had left her, to go off hunting lions with her soldiers, she'd felt it, but she was a Queen, not some junior wife left behind for the first time. So she hadn't given in to it, hadn't taken her handsome, laughing young wife in her arms and pleaded with her not to go. And Mazena hadn't kissed her, hadn't said good-bye. She'd hefted her spear, made boasts to her soldiers about the lions she would kill, and given her wife a wink and a broad grin.
"When I return in triumph, you may greet me as a warrior deserves." She had said to Nzinga, irreverent as only she had ever been with the Queen. Nzinga, conscious of Tanit and Oseye watching them with great round eyes, had fought down her need to kiss her wife.
"Go then, your boasting is getting tiresome."
Hard words to live with, for the last ones. Nzinga had eaten herself alive with them, for a year. Why had she not given in to her premonition, and made Mazena stay? Why had she been flippant with her, when all she felt for her was love, and gratitude for her, for the way the warrior made her feel? With Mazena and of her wives only with Mazena, was she able to stop being the Queen, and be only Nzinga. When Mazena had died, that part of Nzinga had died, too. What was left was the Queen. She'd thought that was enough, for herself, for her nation, for her family. Now, looking into the defiant eyes of a young, foreign Amazon Queen, mad with love for her consort and facing danger with her, Nzinga got a glimpse of who she had become. Gabrielle of Greece held up the mirror, and the reflection blinded Nzinga.
They came into the fire circle together, the Queen and the hero, clasping hands. Side by side, they presented a fearsome whole, the small blond Greek projecting a wary protectiveness of the tall, fierce warrior. She walked as if she were ready to throw herself between the Greek fighter and all mortal danger, and looking into her face, it did not seem absurd. Love such as that could stand between flesh and the grave, between destruction and the beloved. For her part, the hero seemed aware of the protective aura the Queen cast, and stayed within it, proud of the shield of the small woman. Perhaps, Nzinga thought, that Mazena had seemed so, when walking with me, protective of her wife, even though her wife was royal.
Gabrielle escorted Xena to the royal seat, and Nzinga rose to meet them.
"You've been told what will happen?" Nzinga asked, in a quiet voice. The sheer vitality of the Greek hero seemed unthinkable, in the face of the trial. She glowed with it, life sparking from her hair, her hands, her eyes, whenever she came near to her lover. Nzinga might have sworn that she saw the energy dancing between them, but she was a Queen, and such things belonged to griots. The Greek hero's mouth stretched in the parody of mirth.
"I've been told. Let's get this over with."
"So be it." Nzinga walked to the center of the fire circle, the drumming dimmed, but didn't die. She addressed her gathered tribes, the nation she ruled, her women, her sisters.
"Amazons! We witness the trial of one accused of crimes against the nation! Let the Ceremony of the Ancestors prove her guilt, or innocence. As it has always been in Dahomey, let it now be, as we have always been, let us now be, as the foremothers bring us wisdom, let us heed it. Dance, daughters of Oya! Dance, followers of Shango! Call in the dead!"
The singing began. The strongest warriors from each of the tribes had formed the circle, dancing to entice the orishas and the eggun, and also to give them a playing ground. If trouble began, if someone went mad while being Ridden, they were there to keep the peace. A woman Mounted by a spirit, either the dead or the emissaries, was holy, and must do as the spirit directed. It was up to the guardians around the circle to see that no one got hurt. Gabrielle reached up and kissed Xena, not letting her go. She kept her arms around her lover's neck, whispering to her.
"You have it?"
"I have it." Xena said, touching her right bracer.
"I love you." Gabrielle said, letting that speak for everything else she wanted to say. It was the end, and the beginning, of all else between them, and when the time wore down, it was all that needed to be said.
"I love you." Xena said, in echo, in response, in her own assertion. It was the one truth she could carry, into the face of angry gods, in the teeth of the dead, it was her anchor and her balance. She invoked that truth like a charm or warding, then leapt into the center of the circle, giving her battlecry. The Amazons echoed, with a roar like Hevioso's thunder, and the trial began.
Xena danced. The talking drums spoke, calling down each orisha, Oya the warrior, Shango, Hevioso the Thunderer, Oshun of the sweet waters. Elegba, owner of the doors and roads, messenger between the worlds, was called and invoked, the passageways were opened. Xena danced, and the veil grew thin, shredded by the drums, by the singing of ten thousand spearwomen. The earth rocked on its bed, the power gathered, enough to shake down the sky. Nzinga felt the dirt roll like water under her feet, Gabrielle saw the glow start around her lover, like the aura of Har, when the Goddess had come down on Xena. The singing grew louder, in response to the groaning in the earth, the stretching and yawning of the natural world. The small gods cowered in their holes under the dun hills, afraid. Powers greater than they stalked the land, summoned recklessly by the mortal women. Xena danced on.
Geb, desert chieftain and acrobat, friend and follower of the ghoul, watched from the edge of the fire circle. He had heard that the Greek killer had submitted to this Amazon madness, to free her woman, and make peace between the warring kingdoms. Disgust rippled through him, at first, to think of his proud Ghoul humbled by this barbarism, but he saw her dance, and felt ashamed. It was not barbarism, it was a calling of the gods- even he, who cheerfully avoided all gods save Fortune, who could not be worshipped, only acknowledged, could feel the powers gathering. The Amazons knew how to invoke their deities, and have them come. Xena was as regal as a Queen, walking into the fire circle, shielded in the love of her small woman. But when she vaulted into the center, she became fire, and the Amazons gave ground, that she might not burn them. She danced, and the world danced with her, the air moved to the rhythm of her limbs, the breath of the wind and echo of her breath. The warrior called forth the emissary of War.
The warrior danced a battlefield, danced corpses piled thigh deep, danced congealing blood on the cracked earth, weapons fallen from dead hands, the sky filled with vulture's wings. Geb saw the bloody field, heard the wings coming down from the sky, smelled the charnel house scent of slaughter. She was now the Ghoul, the Drinker of Blood, as he had first seen her, all passion and madness, no direction, no thought, only the most basic and violent reaction that a riven heart could spew forth. Like a maddened lion she danced, lost to reason. Geb felt the chill running from the center of the fire circle, where no chill should be, the cold of the absence of life, of a wind blowing across the fields of the slain, of the keeper of the gates to the cemetery. From across the killing ground, footsteps echoed. Oya had heard her name, and was coming.
The drums were louder than the beating of Gabrielle's heart. Her eyes stayed with Xena, never leaving her lover, as if she could bind her with the force of that gaze. So it was that wide green eyes first saw Oya coming down on the hero. It was like a swarm of bees, the swirling, angry noise that cut across the drumming. Xena, even in her frenzy, fell to her knees, knocked down with the power of the Warrior. The hero's head drooped, the drumming stopped, silenced all at once, as if by a single hand. The black hair brushed the ground, mingling strands of jet with the yellow dust of Baluchis. Then- the head snapped back, rolled about on the column of the hero's neck, the blue eyes wide and unseeing. Xena staggered to her feet, but it was not Xena, not the tenant of that well-known and occasionally beloved form. The hero took a step, then another, like a drunkard relearning gravity.
The Greek stood on weaving legs in the center of the circle of silence. Something showed in those eyes, something more powerful than the normal inhabitant, a stretching of the muscles of mortality to hold its essence.
"Who calls Oya?" The voice came from something not intended to speak through human vocal cords, it burned and thrummed on the air. Gabrielle flinched, knowing that Xena must be in agony, containing that essence.
Of all the Amazons, only Agassou the griot had enough strength in her legs to propel them forward, to speak with the orisha the Amazons worshipped. The griot, leaning on her stick, walked into the circle.
"Hail and welcome, Lady of War. We called you, your daughters, to speak for this one - she is accused of crimes against the nation of Dahomey."
Xena's body took a step, finding the balance of its limbs, finding the strength in the mortal muscles that held it upright. Gabrielle knew that body as well as she knew her own, knew the scars that creased the tall frame, the places Death had barely passed by, the look of it in the abandon of love, in the frenzy of war. In every moment, she knew who lived in it, knew her as the other half of her soul. But now, the body of the tall, black haired woman was a stranger to her, and the bard realized how much of her self was bound up in the soul of the hero. She felt weak, as if her blood had been drained from her veins with a thousand cuts. She swooned, and felt a muscular arm catch her. Blurry green eyes looked up into the scarred face of Captain Musu, who called out in Dahomey. Oromenes and Malache were by her side, holding her up, her arms across their shoulders.
"Easy. I feared as much - your balance makes you share her experience. Easy. She will need your strength."
In the circle, Xena's body faced Agassou the Panther. The voice of the orisha came again, like the swarming of bees, like the thunder rolling across the grassland, like the cough of a lion in the dark.
"This one never harmed the nation of Dahomey. This one risked, to give back to the nation her own. This one is not your enemy."
"Tanit, daughter of Nzinga, Queen of Dahomey, was taken, great Oya. Who then did this thing?" Agassou asked, formally. Oya, in the Greek's body, frowned. She closed the blue eyes, weaving, examining things beyond mortal sight.
The body reeled, the eyes snapped open, the hands of the warrior clenched convulsively, as if on the neck of a mortal enemy. The voice roared forth, in a fury that made Xena's throat bleed to carry it, the anger of Oya.
"Anansi!" The roar came, and the air trembled in abject terror. The Amazons fell to one knee, some fell face down, before the anger of the Warrior.
Again, the ground rolled like water under their feet, the small gods gibbered in their hiding holes, the dust groaned in a voice of brass. Oya strode and the air was filled with the play of lightning, the crackle of heat, the spark and hiss of her power meeting the edges of the mortal world. The fire circle had become a place apart, a way station, the ground between the gates of the cemetery and the gates of life. The dead heard their mistress' heavy tread on the mortal earth and came forward, lulled by her presence. The eggun, the ancestors, the dead, joined the circle of the nation.
"ANANSI!!!!!" The Warrior gave tongue to a yell that split the skies, the ears of the Amazons rang under it, the ravaged voice of the mortal woman housing the orisha shredded and broke.
There came a barking laugh, a hyena like coughing, a burbling and yodeling like the voice of a camp dog, all woven together. It was the sound of madness and challenge, and it came from outside the fire circle. Gabrielle felt the hairs on her neck raise with ghost walking fingers. Oya, in her lover's body, strode the diameter of the circle, growling, the cold wind off the killing grounds driving back the dust of Baluchis, the ashes cast forth from the fire.
"Anansi!"
Gabrielle flinched at the broken voice, supporting the immortal's vibrating roar. Xena might never talk again, her throat sounded ravaged beyond repair, from channeling Oya's voice.
"Anansi, you are undone. Show yourself, Spider, or I will catch you. And when I do, I will pluck your legs off one by one!"
"Great Oya, who has slandered me? Who has raised you against me?" The voice was ended with the bark of a jackal, the pleading whine of a village dog. The speaker came into the circle with a yodeling, a wailing, a laugh, turning cartwheels as he came, kicking up clouds of yellow dust. He landed with a flourish and a bow, his stunted limbs moving in a spidery pattern, combing the air. It was Geb, or his body at least, but even the Amazons who had seen but a fraction of his acrobat's skill knew that this was not he. The Nubian moved in way that mortals do not move, his body giving the sense of many legs moving all together. He genuflected to the towering Greek, groveled in the dust, kissing her feet.
Oya grabbed him up and held him midair, her muscles writhing like eels under the Greek hero's skin. The Nubian's eyes bugged out, his tongue distended from his mouth as he struggled in her grip, thrashing his feet in a desperate search for the ground.
"I see your weaving here, Anansi. I see a bitter man, a slaver and a slave, given a dream that will earn him his freedom. I see soldiers of a foreign nation, a fool and a schemer, both under the spell of the slaver. I see a plot to bring my nation to war, with the nation of Har. I have spoken with the orishas, Anansi. You overstepped yourself, Spider, when you set hands on the royal house of my Amazons."
She flexed her hands and Geb's neck snapped like a rotten branch. The sound pierced Gabrielle like nails driven through her ears. An immortal had used Xena, to slay her friend. The bard knew that her lover would never forgive herself for this. The Nubian's body flopped into the dust. Gabrielle started forward, horrified, but Musu's brawny arm across her chest restrained her. She struggled with it, wanting only to get to Xena, to help bring her back from the control of the orisha. Musu didn't even acknowledge the struggling Greek Queen. She held firm as a tree trunk, and let Gabrielle flail against her. One person had been slain, the circle was not a safe place for anyone to venture. Oya was enraged.
Oya threw back the Greek hero's head and roared her unspent fury, threatening to shake down the stars. She stamped, and the earth shuddered, the hills ground down lower into the dust. Gabrielle clapped her hand over her ears, the sound of the Warrior's anger driving her down like hammer blows. How could Xena possibly bear that anger, and walk upright? Why was she not torn asunder by it?
Oya vented her fury, the mortal form she Rode unable to sustain it. Xena's voice gave out and Oya slowed, panting in the center of the circle, feeling the mortal weariness bring her fury down. A movement came from the dust at her feet. She cocked the Greek's head, curious, and watched.
The Nubian pushed himself upright. He shrugged his shoulders, setting his head back on the column of his spine.
"You are harsh, Radiant Warrior, to treat a mortal so who is not even one of yours." Anansi said, through the velvet voice of the dwarf. The laughter and madness had retreated, into the tones of a well-groomed courtier, used to the deflecting the rages of royalty. Oya, her fury spent, merely gazed at him.
"You sent the dream that began this madness. The Amazons are mine, trickster. I will not have them toyed with."
"Oh mighty Lady of War, I have done you a favor." The dwarf said, bowing low.
The air crackled around Oya, the wind blew cold across the mortals gathered around the fire circle. Her voice was a whisper, but it carried off to echo against the dun hills.
"You have done a favor for me?"
"Most assuredly, magnificent Oya. Have not your Amazons been...somnambulant, this last mortal year? Think on what I have done." Anansi said, fawning at Oya's side.
"I am doing so, fool. And I will have your head for a drinking cup for what you have done." Xena's voice was in ruins, barely enough to carry the harsh whisper of the orisha.
Anansi bowed himself double at the sound, kissing her feet. "Ah, to speak so harshly, to one who loves you so well! True, I set a few events in motion, a harmless series of events."
"Harmless? Dahomey went to war!" The blaze in the Greek fighter's eyes was beyond the range of her normal frenzy. It made Anansi smile to see it.
"Are you not Lady of War? Are your Amazons not followers of the Lady of War? What is a better death for an Amazon than a noble death in battle, in the service of the Queen and their Goddess? Look around you, Oya! Here gathered are the flower of your soldiers, in their pride, with a fresh victory to return home to boast of. The ten thousand spears have not gathered in generations. These days will be remembered in song and story, passed from mother to daughter, become a part of the nation's culture. The daughters in times to come will speak of the love Nzinga had for her daughter, to raise the nation to seek her! The soldiers will speak of their victory, the griots will sing of the wisdom of the Queen, to make peace with Har, when Dahomey might have crushed it into the dust. All the virtues of an Amazons have been illustrated, for the generations to come. Fire has been returned to your nation. Nzinga has her daughter back unharmed, Har and Dahomey have made peace. I have given you such gifts out of love for you, great Oya. Where is the crime?" Geb had never sounded more persuasive, more reasonable, his voice caressed the towering warrior, flattering and pleasing in his fawning.
Oya frowned at him, nettled.
"These things are true, but only because your web was unwoven by the Greeks."
"Did I not send the dream to the Greek Queen, and bring her to Tanit's side? Did I not send the hero in her madness to the yellow valley? You wrong me, Oya. Who else among the emissaries dared to confront you, as I have done, from love? Your nation languished in lethargy. I have given them life again." Anansi said, most reasonably.
Oya was silent, the hero's body was still. The wind that blew across the circle faded down, and died. Geb and Anansi grinned, teeth bared like salt. The warrior's hand shot out and grabbed the dwarf by the throat, lifting him again. He was held up to the hero's face, where she snarled at him.
"Whatever has been done, you forget one thing in your cleverness, Spider. They are my nation. I do not welcome the interference of any other god. You must pay for that crime, no mater the eventual outcome. There are ways that I may kill you, and not just the mortal you ride. You are aware of them."
Anansi grabbed onto the warrior's arm, pleading with her.
"Oya, Oya, it was but a jest! No harm is done. Let me make amends to you!"
"Amends? You cannot undo what has happened, Anansi. No, I think I will simply kill you. As you say, I am Lady of War."
"Radiant Oya! Vengeful Oya! Would not the blood of the mortals who took your princess be better to slake your hate? I am one poor, skinny old spider, not worth the trouble of killing. How much more satisfying to let your Amazons blood themselves against their foes."
Oya held Anansi up in one hand, considering. She narrowed the mortal's blue eyes, staring off into gulfs unguessed by the silent mortals watching the play of the gods.
"No, Anansi. If my nation rises to war against the garrison of Rome, then that nation will be bound to sweep down on us with fire and blood. I care not to have my women slaughtered in a fool's errand. I will kill you." She tightened her grip.
Anansi, eyes standing out from his head, grabbed again at her powerful hand.
"There is another way! Oya, Oya- I sent dreams to bring this web into weaving. I might send dreams to lure out only those three who harmed you. You might then do with them as you will, and not go to war against the nation of Rome. I will give into your hands the Roman fool and the schemer, and the slaver who dreamed of drowning the world in blood." He babbled to her, straining to hold back the closing of fingers like steel on his neck.
Oya opened her hand, and dropped him to the dust. "Do so. I will not speak with you again about this, Anansi. Do not give me cause to." She said, in the echoing whisper. Anansi kissed her feet. The wind jumped up with a howl, ran across the circle, driving with it dust and flame. It vanished, the gates to the cemetery rang shut. Oya was gone.
Xena collapsed headlong in the dust. Gabrielle cried out her lover's name, and heard no response. She threw off Musu's arm, only to be caught by Oromenes and Malache.
"Let me go! She needs me!" Gabrielle cried, her stricken eyes not leaving the prone form of the warrior. Malache looked at Oromenes, then at the uninhabited body of the hero.
"She's right. Let her go, beloved. Xena isn't there."
Concluded in Part 10.