Notes on Heortling Dyarchy

This is yet another excerpt from Mianmo's journals, where she noted down a conversation that (as far as we know) she had with Mesyllandre Otoros, an Etyries cultist from Peloria, about the nature of Orlanthi leadership as it was practiced in the Kingdom of Sartar.

Most scholarship on Orlanthi leadership practices has hitherto focused on the Orlanthi Book, which was written by a Lunar officer gathering intelligence on the tumultuous then-province of the Empire. Within, Dagius Furius notes that, among other things, a clan's chieftain must "know men's magic," can be removed from office by either the council and the people he represents, "must know all customs of giving and gifting [... and deliver] all gifts [...and] lead the defense of the clan against any foe. He must schedule, open, and oversee all clan markets, celebrations, battles, sacrifices, and movement. He must oversee food harvest, storage, and distribution. He must interact with all strangers and foreigners who enter clan lands." (Quotes here derived from G.S.'s foundational translation in the anthropological textbook King of Sartar: The Mystery of Argrath, or, How One Man Became a God.)

Dagius Furius was an outsider looking in on the Heortlings of Sartar. Mianmo, here, speaks as a relative insider with a distinct pro-Earth agenda. Perhaps further research will confirm the assertion here that Heortlings aspired towards mutually-beneficial dyarchic gendered power structures, despite the cultural pressure to define themselves strongly as Storm-aspected and reject the domination of Earth that characterized Esrolia.

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“It’s all Dara Happan bullshit to me,” Mes said, and gave me that Look, gesturing meaningfully with the cup. “Sure, the dicks here actually talk to you, but it’s so that you can be all ooh and aah over their muscles and the neck rings and the war dye. Your Ernalda-botherers are as unfree and unliberated as the poor Dendarans back home. I don’t get it, I really don’t. Deezola was a queen in her own right, wasn’t she?” I concede that she was. “Think I’ll be sure to donate to the Sev-Ems when I hit that mountain town, then, help show them the way out like they showed me.”

“Look,” I say to Mes, “that’s because you’re an outsider, right? You’re talking to the outside leader, the chieftain. The entire job of the outside leader is to be loud and impressive. Well, all right, it’s more than that: the chieftain’s also supposed to be quick on their feet.” I count on my fingers. “Warleader. Work crew leader. Emergency response. Handing out prizes. That very active spiral, that’s the chieftain. But the women actually own the land here.”

“I don’t follow,” Mes says.

“They do the Lodril cycle,” I say, spinning one finger. “And the cows and the rings are big things among the men because that’s the wealth they own. The steadhouses, the lockboxes, the hearth magic, that all belongs to the women and the earth. That’s the way that Heort split it, and the men thought they had the better of it back then, and I think some of them still fall for it. Ernalda’s magic is about planning, ripening, and her mother is all locks and safety. You aren’t one of them, so you don’t deal with the inside leader, their earth priestess, who’s thinking twelve seasons in advance about what needs to be prepared.”

“So the women are actually the real rulers? I thought that was down south.”

“W-e-ll,” I say, rolling it around my teeth. “It’s more-- it’s that they interlock. You need both leaders, or things go shit, right? If the chieftain’s so loud that he does whatever he wants, and he forces the women to use their keys whenever he yowls at them, then he won’t have the long slow magic, or the calming rug magic, not in the ways he’ll need them. And believe you me, we’ve got a serious problem with that these days. Something about seeing all the red-and-blacks tramping down the road makes a lot of men feel like they need to whip it out and measure it, and if they don’t feel big enough, they’ll take it out on the people who they’re supposed to be leading. But if the earth priestess cuts the chieftain down to size whenever he acts without running home and asking Mommy for permission first, then the cows will vanish and fires will spread and nobody will respect them at all. That’s deadly, right? Deadly. Up here, out here, there’s a need for quick decisions and shows of strength, and that’s their magic. Orlanth and Ernalda aren’t Yelm and Dendara; they interlock. But everyone’s had thunderclouds in their head, and that’s how His Redness knocked them all down.”

Mes gave me a long look, and I know I'm rumbled. I flutter my eyes cutely.

“You would say that, wouldn’t you? You’re practically Ernalda’s pet yourself,” she said, but not to start a fight, so I don’t give her one. “There’s no way that that’s what the people here really do. I know the difference between the Moon and a plate when I see them side by side.”

I shrug and reach for the amphora. “I don’t think there’s a single tribe that has the balance exactly right, let alone a clan, and in some ways they’re all still arguing with the earth-dominance down south, where the men aren’t even allowed to fight over cattle and rings and status to prove their worth. But that’s our magic down here. Orlanth speaks with the Strange Gods, steals the cattle, raises the steadhouse; he turns the field, gives out the prizes, and unleashes War out of his scabbard when it’s needful. But Ernalda weaves the rug named Peace, knots and unknots tallies of the cattle, stakes out the space for the steadhouse and kindles the homehearth; she tells Orlanth where and what to plant, unlocks the treasure-box and counts out the prizes, and gives birth to the world which will be every year. Orlanth kills the tiger and Ernalda skins it; Orlanth knows the men’s dances and Ernalda knows the women’s dances; Orlanth pours the drinks and Ernalda brings out the food. They literally cannot do the Dara Happa bullshit, Mes, or their magic doesn’t work. And that’s the reason that you deal with the chieftains and their dicks instead of the daughters of the earth when you show up, because you aren’t part of the clan; and that’s the reason that almost every chieftain you’re going to meet is storm up to their eyeballs and fronting the whole time, even the ones with tits.”

“So who led Starbrow’s Rebellion?”

“Starbrow,” I say, and drink deep. It beads on my chin. “But when ve went off into exile, the Kheldon still had a leader to turn to, even as they turned inwards. They still haven’t replaced vim as their King, and that’ll bite them harder as the seasons keep turning; no one to lead them in the storm sense. Just keeping the hearths lit and the crops growing and the spearheads keen, waiting for the storm king to return.”

“And what about Sartar, the trade-prince?”

“Vingkot’s dick, Mes, don’t get me started on Sartar.” I may roll my eyes. “He was both and neither at the same time, and every prince since has been chasing what he had. They say, and by they say I mean that I say, that he could make anyone feel like they were a member of his ring, just by listening to them and weighing their words seriously. Didn’t matter if they were a chieftain or a priestess, a cottar or a stickpicker. He was a lot like Sedenya that way, too. And-- look, between you and me, if you go to Jonstown you can see a fantastic mural of Sartar of the Nandans, and I think ne had to prove nerself capable of dealing with both men and women in order to unite the tribes when ne arrived, and that necessitated making the same sort of choice that Kallie made. Storm is for kings, Mes; storm is for kings. But princes can still be more.”

And it was this point in the evening when Halik showed up and we got sidetracked and didn’t come back around.