The High Elder, who had been as stunned as everyone else of Kenlahar’s refusal, nevertheless quickly gave the old man a chance to rescue his apprentice from the mob, if he could.
“High Elder,” the Healer Coron said hurriedly in the ensuing grudging silence, “I have often told you of my need for an apprentice. It is past time I made my choice of a successor. In accordance with the laws of Lahar, a healer’s past must be free of bloodshed. I have observed the young man, Kenlahar, for many years and I know him to be the best possible choice. It was I who encouraged my apprentice to decline the Axedelve—not out of disloyalty, but for the benefit of the House of Lahar.”
The High Elder could not keep his relief from showing. He nodded briefly. “The healer is indeed free to choose his own successor,” he acknowledged, and swiftly turned his attention to the next on the list. As the High Elder called out the name of another candidate, Kenlahar found himself letting out the breath he had been holding. A few people sent angry or pitying last glances at Kenlahar, but when the rest of the ceremony of the Axedelve passed without incident they seemed to forget his presence.
Finally, the last of the young men rose and turned from Alcress in defeat. The Elders slumped back again in their thrones and a ritual wail of despair emerged from the women and children. Kenlahar shivered at the weird keening. As usual, the family had been certain that the presaged and immanent potency of the Star Axe would be aroused. Surely this time, they had thought, one of them would consummate the tryst and lead them into battle against the Warlord. But they had failed, just as every other generation in Lahar’s long lineage had failed.
Thus did Kenlahar attempt in vain to deny the power of the Star Axe, and defy the plans of the Raggorak—the Five Starborn who guided the fates of all the peoples.
CHAPTER II
A few hours later Kenlahar stumbled through a changed world. The crowded Courtyard of Moons was no longer quiet, no longer solemn. Far above, brightly colored rain canopies had been raised, flapping noisily in the wind. Bonfires burned on the bare stones of the square, and the smoke found exits where rain was somehow frustrated. The people danced in a jumble—alone, paired or in groups, it didn’t seem to matter.
Only Kenlahar was still unhappy. He was borne by the ebb and flow of this mass toward the central spit. First, a young girl greeted him with garlands in her hair, but wearing little else. She handed him a goblet of wine, spilling half and laughing and vanishing into the crowd. Then another girl, also with garlands in her hair but dressed more modestly, whirled by him, kissing him briefly before she too disappeared. Sensing his sobriety, the people seemed intent on making him as befuddled with drink as they were themselves. They seemed to have forgotten, or no longer to care, that he had refused to Axedelve. Tossing back goblet after goblet of wine, Kenlahar soon forgot to aspire to the central spit, or to his original goal of feasting on the tantalizing roast pig.
Without much surprise he found himself dancing with Sanra. He had always been struck by her sculptured face, slender frame, and calm manner. There had always seemed to Kenlahar to be an ethereal quality to this girl.
Now that image of Sanra was broken forever as he danced with her in the pandemonium. Her ivory skin was flushed and her blue eyes glittered. With a careless grin and a blood red flower in her blond hair, she didn’t at all resemble the sedate girl he remembered. “Sanra!” he found himself shouting with pleased, gladdened tones and in his drunken state he felt he said much more, though actually he only repeated her name, and then again.
Neither of them made any attempt to stop, or move on, or change dancing partners. But finally—reluctantly—they both had to submit to their exhaustion. They wandered idly toward a gate almost overgrown with vines, set in the east wall. The night was now dark and murky as they slipped out of the Courtyard of Moons and ventured into the forest. The brilliant skies were hidden by rainclouds. The two lovers wended their way through the woods, talking and laughing nervously in the dim light. The undergrowth glowed ghostlike from the little sliver of moonlight. The trees seemed to be spaced by some god’s design, yet they kept stumbling into branches hidden in the gloom.
The small forest was more a nursery and farm than a natural wild, for every inch of the valuable land was utilized. Concentrated plots of garden straggled along one narrow edge of the island, and grew anyplace else where a few feet of land was left unoccupied by the spreading structure of the House of Lahar. Downriver, there was one small patch of grassland, reserved for the few, precious head of livestock. The Needle of Lahar, a pinnacle of granite, was visible from every vantage point, towering over the northern end of the island, and separated by a narrow moat formed from the encroaching river. One end of the island was entirely taken up by an elaborate series of docks, and on most mornings a fleet of fishing boats would venture forth from there.
Kenlahar was only a little surprised when he felt his hand taken in Sanra’s soft firm grip. He said nothing, but returned the clasp, tenderly counting the fingers of her hand. After a while, he dared to gently break her hold, and instead he hesitantly wrapped his arm around her waist. He did not look down as they continued on in silence, but he hoped that when he did her face would not be calm, emotionless. They passed a patrol of the Watch, who smiled knowingly at them both.
Finally, he found a private turn in the well-worn path, hidden from all onlookers. Now silent and unwilling to break the spell, they waded into the deep underbrush at the side of the narrow trail. Soon they heard the sound of a swift creek, buried beneath the heavy undergrowth. A huge, decaying log, a last remnant of the old forest, created a bridge over the brush-choked stream. On the other side they found a grotto, cut into the bank of the stream, silent and carpeted by a soft moss.
Gratefully, Sanra sank onto the thick and surprisingly dry carpet of growth. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed, and Kenlahar realized that he had been wrong—her words did not destroy the spell, but enhanced it.
“I discovered this grove while exploring, when I was a child,” he said. “I have always come here when I wished to be alone. Of course, I have no hope it is truly secret—but I have never seen anyone else here. I pledged to myself that I would never show it to another.” “Why have you shown it to me?” she said teasingly. “When I vowed that, I was too young to realize that someone like you could even exist. I still find it hard to believe.”
“What would convince you?”
He turned to her, pulling her against him, and found her waiting for his kiss. Later, as they lingered dreamily in the cove, he asked, “Why did you stop coming to the Archives, Sanra?”
Few of Kenlahar’s brothers and sisters ever deigned to visit the cavernous Archives, but for a little while Sanra had come to the old room almost every day to read.
But then, only months before, she had abruptly stopped coming. It was only after she had left that Kenlahar and realized how little he really knew about her. He had not been able to find her again.
For the first time that night, an unhappy expression passed over her face. “I have not visited the upper levels since my husband…” She couldn’t finish, and began to cry softly. Kenlahar coaxed her head onto his shoulder, feeling the dreamlike spell slipping away from them.
“Husband?” he said, dismayed. “Why did you not tell me?”
“It would not have mattered. I could only see you by coming to the Archives. I was afraid that if I told you, you would avoid me, or follow me to the tunnels. My husband would have killed you if he had found out.”
So that is why she had never told him anything of herself, he thought. That is why she had not allowed him to get close; why she had quit coming to the Archives. He had not even known.
“When my father found out I was seeing you,” she continued unhappily, “he forbade me to see you anymore. He threatened to tell Jakkem. My husband is a cruel man. If he ever believes that I have betrayed him—he might do anything.” Suddenly, she pulled away from him, noticeably putting on a bland, masklike expression
—that calm look that Kenlahar had always noticed first, but had never known the reason for.
“Now—” she said. “I don’t care. My father was a Quarrier. Last month he died in one of the flooded mines.”
Kenlahar said nothing, but suddenly felt very wet and miserable from their stroll through the damp brush. Even the land under the House of Lahar is not wasted, he thought. The Quarriers risked drowning in the constant floods to tunnel for precious metal ore deep beneath the island—sometimes even under the river itself.
It was left for Sanra to say what he also was thinking. “I feel somehow that we should not be in love. Not so soon after…” Her voice trailed away again. “We shouldn’t be here alone.’’
“Very well. We’ll go back.”
Above the leaden skies were passing into another dark day. The muted light seemed to intensify the dull colors of the forest. Above the tops of the trees they could see the shimmering lights of the Courtyard’s fires beckoning them back. They once more entered the yard’s boisterous confines, and saw that the revelers would not soon relinquish the area.
When Sanra’s eyes widened in fear he looked involuntarily over his shoulder. He sensed instantly that the huge man approaching them meant harm. The man’s eyes bulged in a round, florid face, and his lips were curled in a malevolent smile. His bulk required aggressive elbowing for him to make any progress in the crowded jumble.
Kenlahar heard Sanra scream, “No, Jakkem—” and felt himself become sober as the blood rushed to his head. The people surrounding them fell silent, though most of the crowd continued celebrating, uncaring or unaware of the impending fight.
Jakkem stopped only inches away from her. “How can you dance with this man, Sanra?” he demanded. “Your father died as a Quarrier, strongest and bravest of the Axe-Kith, and yet now you dance with this coward! Come along, Sanra.” He grabbed her arm.
“Let her do what she wants,” Kenlahar said.
Jakkem turned to address the nearest revelers belligerently, “Are we going to let the spawn of an Outsider celebrate with us? We fight the Qreq, but what about the enemies within our House? Have you forgotten that he declined the Axedelve? This traitor’s mother was exiled because of her loose ways, and now he is trying to steal my wife, as well!” He threw his wine goblet viciously against Kenlahar’s chest.
Kenlahar was stunned by the mention of his mother. As his face flushed with anger and shame, he knew that he must react or be thought a coward.
Before he could bring himself to move, Balor was there. With blinding swiftness the warrior entered the circle of watchers and threw Jakkem onto the stones of the square. Kenlahar was ashamed of the sudden sense of relief that coursed through his body at the sight of his friend.
As children, Balor and he had been chosen by the Healer Coron to be his apprentices. But where Kenlahar had come to the worlds of the Archives and the Hospice and had fallen in love with their secrets, the old man had had to let the combative Balor free after merely teaching him to read and write. Balor had joined the Axe-Kith at the last Axedelve.
Yet the two boys had remained strong friends. Kenlahar knew that he had always been protected, to some extent, by the respect in which Balor was held. From those first days, the friendship had shielded him from the countless blows and cruel jokes of the other boys.
Tall and muscular in his light armor, Balor loomed over the other men. At his side a huge sword was sheathed in battered leather, and his dark blue cloak was torn and stained from many battles. His hair was long and blond, as was characteristic of the family, and tied in a knot behind his neck. He was clean-shaven as was the custom, but instead of the usual blue eyes, he had clear brown eyes of the same tint as Kenlahar’s.
When Balor allowed Jakkem to get to his feet, Kenlahar saw that though Balor was as tall as the other man, his friend now seemed dwarfed by the size of Jakkem. The leer was gone from Jakkem’s face, but the two men had not yet given in. The two men began to circle each other warily. Then the bigger man lunged at Balor, his arms spread wide to crush the fight out of his opponent.
Balor backed away and then struck out. A cut opened over Jakkem’s eyes. Blinded, he lunged again and again at Balor, trying vainly to close with the quicker warrior. Finally, Balor stepped aside and clenched his hands, bringing them down hard on Jakkem’s back. The big man flopped to the ground and did not move again, but lay there weakly cursing them.
“Why did you have to get in the way?” he shouted. “I didn’t want to fight you, Balor! It’s the Outsider I want to teach a lesson to.” He pointed at Sanra. “That is my woman!”
“She is free to do what she wants,” Balor said. “But when you attack Kenlahar, you had better be prepared to fight me. Do not go near my friend again, or I will kill you!” he added in a menacing and ugly tone.
Kenlahar was still standing as though rooted to the spot, stunned by the fight. Sanra pulled urgently at his arm, but he would not move. He listened to Jakkem’s flow of curses with a withdrawn, haunted look. Only when Balor pulled at his other arm, were his friends able to lead him from the still raving Jakkem.
Kenlahar was humiliated. He doubted that he would have ever responded to Jakkem’s challenge. Once again his friend had saved him. But it would not always be so! Again and again he glanced sideways at Sanra, trying to somehow gauge her reaction.
Sanra revealed only her anger. “I have refused Jakkem my love, but now it seems he has followed me. I owe him nothing, Kenlahar. There are no bonds between us. He is jealous and spiteful and he was trying to hurt you. Don’t let him succeed.”
“You could not risk violence, Kenlahar,” Balor added. “You are a healer. To strike back would have debased your Atima.”
“I was not thinking of my Atima,” Kenlahar said miserably. “I was simply frightened. I had thought that once I chose the life of a healer I would never be faced with violence again.”
“I fear it is a dilemma you will always face, Kenlahar,” Balor said. “As long as you live in the House of Lahar, there will be people who will want to fight you. But there is no need to dirty your hands on scoundrels. You come to me if anyone threatens you again.”
Kenlahar turned his face away. Nearby, the Elders still sat on their thrones, now watching the festivities with paternal smiles on their faces—they no longer appeared stern and forbidding. The Star Axe was also on harmless display, now appearing as nothing more than an ordinary battleaxe. Awe kept most of the dancers at a distance from Alcress, and in this space people clustered, watching the revelers or talking softly. Once again Kenlahar stared at the battleaxe in fascination.
With wine still running through his veins, Kenlahar could almost believe that by simply reaching out and touching the Star Axe, it would perform magic in his hands. He found himself daydreaming again of adventures beyond the swamp—a battle with each of the Five Raggorak hidden among the Five Peoples—and a triumphant return to the House of Lahar. Again, he shook his head at his foolish fantasies.
As if Balor could read his thoughts, the blond warrior smiled and said, “The family would never insult you, never harm you again, if you would just leave the House of Lahar with me.”
“Leave?” Sanra said, feeling the first pangs of fear. “Where are you going, Kenlahar?”
“Don’t worry, Sanra,” Kenlahar said. “It is just an old dream—an old argument.” As children, he and Balor had explored the island, looking for secret passages and hideaways, hatching their childish plans to explore the Outside.
Only Balor had not yet given up on his dream, he thought. He looked down at Sanra’s pale worried face and smiled. “I am not going anywhere, Sanra. Not now.”
“Why not, my friend?” Balor’s eyes were gleaming in the dim light of early morning. “Kingdoms are waiting for us—the two of us. Think on what you could learn, Kenlahar! Herbs and medicines. New magic and old science!”
Kenlahar felt himself being caught up in Balor’s dream despite himself. Outside. To most members of the family the “
Outside” was beyond the swamp, at legendary Swamp’s End—both a beacon of hope and a symbol of danger. The family both feared and scorned the Outside; feared it because few ventured Outside and returned, and because it was from there that the Qreq had come; scorned it, because they felt themselves to be the last bastion of civilization. Still, legends of its fabulous treasures drew some young men away. On the other hand, tales of its terror kept most young men at home. Kenlahar himself had always suffered from this fear and scorn because of the rumors about his mother.
“We don’t really know anything about Outside,” he said. “All we have is old hearsay and older legends.”
But Balor dismissed this objection with a wave of his hand. “Don’t you want to see Swamp’s End, Kenlahar?” He went on in a different tone, and it seemed to Sanra as if he was trying to assuage all of Kenlahar’s doubts.
“You will never know what the family is really thinking about you if you stay, Kenlahar. Jakkem may have been voicing what they are all feeling. Do you want to spend the rest of your life healing people who will feel no gratitude, who will hate you instead? I intend to leave, Kenlahar—with you or without you. But after what the Elders did to you mother, you should be convincing me to leave instead!”
Kenlahar felt the wave of pain he always suffered at the mention of his mother’s fate. But he had learned long ago to ignore the hurt—or it would end by overwhelming him. “No, Balor,” he said firmly. “I will not leave.”
Yet, for some reason, Sanra did not believe him. She suddenly knew that she was going to somehow lose the man she loved, so soon after she had found him. It was at that moment that she vowed not to let Kenlahar leave without her—a decision that was to lead her far beyond the swamp.
Suddenly, they realized with surprise that the Courtyard of Moons was almost empty. They began to drift back to their rooms and their beds—there would be no work done that day. Kenlahar said goodbye to Balor at the door of the Great Hall, not acknowledging the question in his friend’s eyes. At the junction of the women’s rooms Sanra did not turn aside, but continued on—trembling at having so boldly invaded the men’s quarters. With Sanra sleeping in his arms, Kenlahar thought no more of leaving the House of Lahar.
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