“And you will give me your blessing?”
“You have had my blessing since I conceived you, Dorrie. It is not something one can take back. But if you want it renewed, so be it. Have your Thrasne, child. To whatever extent you can. Take whatever password he gives you, and be grateful.”
The Queen brushed at her trousers and threw back the long tassels of her hair. “It is time we were done with this serious talk. All day has been full of weeps and moans. I cried this morning, thinking of all those who would not come with us to this River. How many there were who would not follow me! How many there were who stayed, to revenge themselves upon those who had persecuted us. How many there were who chose that, rather than this. …”
“The River is frightening,” Medoor admitted. “I was frightened by it.”
“They were not frightened of the River,” Queen Fibji contradicted. “They were frightened of going where there would not be any enemies to fight. These were the young men with battle in their blood. They thumped their spears on the ground and leapt high in a battle dance and sent their spokesmen to me to explain. They spoke of honor. Of glory. I tried to tell them what I have told you, but it meant nothing to them. I told them of my father. I told them the riddle he had given me as a child. ‘Of what good are dead warriors?’ I asked them. It did no good. They stayed behind. They did not see my world, child. They would not see my world. …”
She gazed out over the water, not seeing Medoor Babji’s eyes fixed on her, wide and terrible.
And she, Medoor, within herself but without speaking, said to her mother, “Mother. I found the answer to your father’s riddle. I sent a message to tell you. …”
She imagined that the Queen was silent for a moment, thinking. “Of course you did. And you told me you were pregnant. And that Southshore awaited. And those things drove the other from my mind. So. You have the answer. Will you tell it me?”
“It is the answer to your riddle of long and long ago. The riddle your father set you. ‘Of what good are dead warriors?’ I found the answer to that.”
“Where did you find it?”
“I learned it from the Trees, by chance.”
“So? Come, child. Why this hesitation? Tell me!” Medoor imagined herself delaying, knowing she was right, and yet the answer was a hard and hurtful one.
“Warriors are those who desire battle, Mother.”
“Yes?” The Queen would be puzzled.
“Warriors are those who desire battle more than peace. Those who seek battle despite peace. Those who thump their spears on the ground and talk of honor. Those who leap high in the battle dance and dream of glory. . . .
“The good of dead warriors, Mother, is that they are dead.” The Queen would stand staring at her for a long time. After that time, tears would begin to run down her cheeks. Medoor saw them clearly. If she told her mother the answer to the riddle, her mother would cry once more and there had been enough tears today. She would not tell her mother the answer. Not today. Perhaps not ever. It was a stony answer, a hard answer.
When all the warriors were dead, when they made no more children like themselves, then others might live in peace. She would not tell the answer, but she would keep it in her heart. “Let us go down to the River,” said the Queen. They walked together down toward the Gift, the ship that was to take them to Southshore.
There were some others who would sail aboard the Gift as well: Haranjus Pandel, the widow Plot, and two very old and feeble people, Tharius Don and the lady Kesseret. Tharius had sent word for her to meet him in Vobil-dil-go, and here he had begged passage for them both from Thrasne.
“I have not seen a flier in weeks,” the lady said, her voice quavering. “I think the last was a month ago.”