The Great Alta Saga Omnibus

by Jane Yolen

  “When I was young you talked of that. Now it is all rumbling about war. The war that was, the war that will come.” Scillia’s voice was high and harsh.

  The queen’s white horse seemed to take exception to the tone of the girl’s voice and shied from it as if from a serpent on the ground. It took Jenna a moment to calm the mare down. When the horse had at last returned to its good ground-eating walk, she looked at her daughter with as mild an expression as she could muster. “You are still young and therefore I forgive you.”

  “I am thirteen. And the boys are nine and ten. Old enough, mother.”

  “Old indeed,” her mother said. Then, fearful of saying more, she kicked her horse into a canter, passing Scillia, the boys, Marek, and the small bodyguard with ease.

  THE BALLAD:

  THE TWO KINGS

  There were two kings upon the throne,

  Lonely, oh lonely, the queen rides down.

  There were two kings upon the throne,

  When one was gone, one ruled alone,

  The queen rides in the valley-O.

  The one ruled East, the one ruled West,

  Lonely, oh lonely, the queen rides down.

  The one ruled East, the one ruled West,

  And neither ruled the kingdom best,

  The queen rides in the valley-o.

  Ill fares the land where two are king,

  Lonely, oh lonely, the queen rides down.

  Ill fares the land where two are king,

  For names and swords and bells do ring,

  And blood flows down the valley-o.

  THE STORY:

  Lunch was a dismal affair, as they ate at a local farmhouse. Eating with the villagers—usually the lowest of villagers at that—was one of the things the queen always insisted upon. She would never eat at a Village Hall under the watchful eye of some magistrate or other. She considered it the mark of her reign that she cared for the poorest folk first. And she always paid for what food they ate. Unfortunately, that was no guarantee of the cook’s skill.

  Scillia toyed with the stew on her plate. It had not been a good winter; two months of deep frost had frozen even the deepest of root cellars. The vegetables in the stew were tasteless, the chicken clearly had starved to death. And the farm wife, a matronly woman with a half-cast in her right eye, had never been taught the use of strong spice. Scillia thought of the castle’s kitchen with longing.

  The boys ate it all uncomplaining. They even asked for seconds. The farm wife gave it to them cheerfully, chucking each of them familiarly on the cheek. She was unaware that it was sheer bulk they were after.

  The pudding was a swollen, pasty thing. Jenna smiled as she ate it, and the boys shared Scillia’s helping after she refused it. Marek ate his without complaint, used to such fare himself since a boy. The bodyguard had their supper of trail rations outside and when the farm wife brought them what was left over from the queen’s table, they were grateful for every bit.

  Once the farm wife disappeared outside with the scraps, Jenna turned to her daughter. “You must learn to disguise what you feel.”

  “Why?” Scillia toyed with one of her braids. “Don’t you always tell me to be honest?”

  “There is honesty—and brutal honesty,” Jenna said. “Something I have learned these last years on the throne. Villagers have quite enough of honest weather and honest frost. But if they believe you believe in them, they will follow anywhere a queen leads.”

  “I will never be queen, so what does it matter,” Scillia said. “I am not deaf; I have heard the talk. I am not your true daughter. I was the daughter of some warrior killed in the war. Jemson will be king.” Her face was bleak and there was the beginning of a line settling between her eyebrows, drawn in by anger or sorrow.

  Jenna was furious. “Who dared tell you that?”

  “Well, is it true?”

  Her mother was silent.

  “True, Queen Jenna. Without disguising what you feel. I am no farm wife to be cozened.”

  “Where did you hear such a thing?” Marek asked gently, seeing that Jenna was too stunned to reply.

  For once the boys remained silent, staring down at their bowls. Jem twiddled with his spoon, as if he could not will his fingers to be still, but young Corrie sat like a stone. When he dared look over at his sister, her face was white and hard.

  “Where?” Marek asked again, only not so gently this time.

  “Everywhere,” Scillia said. She shrugged but it was no casual gesture. “There is even a rhyme about it.”

  “A rhyme about it?” Jenna’s voice was barely a whisper.

  Jem’s voice sang out:

  “Jenna’s girl is nowt a queen,

  Hair is black and eyes are green,

  Only one arm to be seen,

  And she’s got no father!”

  Corrie kicked him under the table and the last word ended on a scream.

  “Toad!” Jem cried. “Stupid, sucking toad.”

  “Marek, take the boys outside,” Jenna said, and when no one moved, she added imperiously, “Now!”

  Marek stood, his eyes like flint, and ushered the boys out, though it was clear that neither one of them wanted to go. Jem even opened his mouth to protest, and Marek clipped him on the back of the head. That Marek would do such a thing to one of the princes so startled Jem, whatever he had been going to say was forgotten. He put his hand to the back of his head and escaped through the door like a hare through its bolthole.

  Jenna waited until the door closed behind them, then took a deep breath, and faced her daughter. Scillia’s eyes were clouded with tears, but there were no tears on her cheeks.

  “You are my daughter,” Jenna began.

  “The truth, mother,” Scillia whispered hoarsely.

  “That is the truth,” Jenna said. “Someone else gave birth to you, a fine warrior, murdered in the Gender Wars. You were strapped to her back. I took you from her and slew the man who had killed her. And from that moment on, you were mine.”

  “And what was my name?” One tear had started out of Scillia’s left eye and ran straight down her cheek. She did not bother to wipe it away.

  “Your name then—and now—Scillia.” Jenna did not move. The light coming in from the window lay across her shoulders like a shawl. She would have welcomed its warmth, but it seemed cold. So cold for a spring day. She shuddered with the chill.

  Only then did Scillia scrub at her face with her fist, leaving a dark smear where the tear had traveled. “Why was I not told?”

  “What was I to tell you?” Jenna asked. “You are my daughter. My only daughter. Nothing anyone says can change that.”

  Scillia’s shoulders trembled visibly.

  “Perhaps I should have said something. Your father wanted you to know. And Skada.”

  “Your dark sister and father agreeing on something?” That almost brought a smile from the girl.

  Jenna took that almost-smile and gave it back to her. “When it is about something I have left undone, they always agree,” she said. “Oh, my darling child, I would not harm you for the world.” She stood shakily and went over to Scillia. Kneeling beside her, Jenna encircled her daughter’s small waist with her arms.

  It took almost a minute before Scillia trusted herself to reach down and begin stroking her mother’s long white hair. It was stiff and wiry to the touch.

  They sat that way, not speaking, till the light from the windows dimmed and the cottage was dark with shadows.

  “Come, Mother,” Scillia whispered at last, “time to have the farm wife light the fire. You can tell Skada all.”

  “I am sure she knows it already,” Jenna said with a sigh. Then almost as an afterthought, she murmured, “And will never let me forget it.”

  “Neither will I,” said Scillia.

  Jenna could not tell if that was a promise or a threat.

  THE HISTORY:

  Memo: Dalian Historical Society

  For a biography of my late father, who was a past membe
r of the Society and two-term General Secretary, I am seeking anecdotal material as well as letters concerning his lifelong quarrel with certain individuals in the Society on the subject of the true history of the Dales.

  As you are all aware, he felt that history should remain uncorrupted by legend, myth, balladry, and folklore, considering them “cultural lies.” And while his own lens may have been somewhat shortsighted, I am not so sure that he was otherwise incorrect in his assessment of matters concerning the indigenous populations of the Dales.

  Because of his untimely and tragic death, I have taken on the task of organizing his papers and publishing what will be both a critical and yet loving book about his work, as only a daughter—and fellow historian—can.

  Thanking you in advance,

  THE STORY:

  The farm wife came back into the house to light the fire. Then bowing her way out again, she left Jenna and Scillia together.

  Once the fire had caught well enough to throw shadows across the grate, there was a low chuckle from the chair next to Jenna’s.

  “Sister, too late by half and too short for a whole,” Skada said.

  “And too cryptic by far for me to understand,” Jenna retorted. She pushed her fingers once again through the fringe of hair on her forehead and Skada imitated her. “I hate that kind of talk.”

  “She means, mother, that you should have told me years ago and you have not told me all of it now.”

  “She’s always been the brightest of your children,” Skada said. “Though Corrie’s a love.”

  “Don’t push me.” Jenna turned angrily to her dark sister.

  “I only say what you will not.” Skada glowered back at her. “And Jem …” Jenna’s face was suddenly drawn in on itself, like an apple left out all winter. Skada stopped whatever it was she’d been about to say.

  “Jem is going off to the Continent when we are back from this trip. A little less family and a little more schooling is all he needs,” Jenna said steadily.

  “Then I am not to be queen,” Scillia interrupted. “Nowt a queen.” Her voice was eerily like Jem’s. “He’ll learn about ruling with a hard hand there. I could never do such a thing.”

  “Of course you are to be queen,” Jenna said. “You are the oldest, and that’s all there is to it. Your brothers will make you excellent counselors.”

  “If they ever give up squabbling,” Skada added.

  “We never have,” Jenna said.

  She rose and Skada rose with her. They matched pace for pace to the door. Jenna turned suddenly, but not too quick for Skada. Their faces held the same concern as they gazed back at Scillia.

  “When I die …” Jenna began. “And your father as well. You will …”

  “If you die, mother. You are a hero. You are a legend. Such people do not die. They just … are no longer physically in the Dales. But they aren’t dead.” Scillia’s face in the shadow looked much older, as if a mask of age had suddenly slipped down over it. “They are always with us.”

  “Definitely the brightest!” Skada said.

  Jenna turned on her heel and flung open the farmhouse door. The afternoon light slanted down to outline her in the doorway. When she stepped outside, no one was by her side.

  “Mother!” Scillia called. There was pain in her voice but little hope. “Mother …”

  “We ride,” Jenna cried out. And without thanking the farm wife, she got onto her horse, kicking it hard enough to surprise it into a canter, leaving Marek to organize the children and guard to follow.

  They rode till past supper and into the dusk. As there was no moon to call Skada forth, Jenna rode at the forefront alone.

  She was tired. Thirteen years as a queen had exhausted her. She had long found the throne a troubling seat and missed being able to spend weeks off in the deep woods. On the other hand, Carum reveled in the details of the royal work: the sums and substitutions of a kingdom’s finance, the niggling judgments, the exacting language of the law. But Jenna hated it, escaping whenever Carum could spare her.

  This time he had let her out of a meeting with the mayors and aldermen of the northwest Dales. She had taken both the boys and Scillia with her, promising Carum that they would all stay with the guard. That promise was dragged from her, but she argued more from form than need. Both Jenna and Carum knew she needed the trip and they hoped it would be good for the children as well.

  “I will go back to Selden Hame,” Jenna had said. “Scillia has never been inside. It has been years since I’ve gone myself. Once we are safe within, the boys and the guard can stay in the village.”

  “I know how much you have missed Pynt and the women,” Carum had answered. The years sat more lightly on his brow than on Jenna’s, though his hair was now as white as hers. “And I know all the letters back and forth between you and Pynt have still not salved the wound of parting. You were friends long before I found you. Selfishly I took you from her. But it was for the kingdom. The people needed their Anna, their White One.”

  She had waited, not smiling, but knowing that he would say the words which, as ever, she could not resist.

  “As do I, sweet Jen. As do I.”

  “I will not stay at the Hame, Carum. I will return. I am like the old tale, the girl who could not stray from home.” She had smiled then, putting her hand on his.

  “But which is your home, I wonder?”

  She knew he asked the question to himself and so did not return him an answer.

  As they rode, Jenna remembered the scene with some sorrow. She bit her lip, guessing how Skada would have played it out. “But I am not my dark sister,” she whispered to herself, knowing full well that she had talked to Carum about the trip in the palace garden in daylight just so Skada could not intrude her sharp wit into their conversation. Just as Jenna always lay with Carum in the full dark of their room, the great wine-colored drapes pulled tight across the oriel windows and the fire burned down to embers. Skada might be her shadow, her other self, but there were some things Jenna preferred to do without her.

  She remembered suddenly the birth of her first son. Jem had arrived with difficulty, laboring thirty hours to creep from her womb. He had tried to make up for it ever since: walking early, talking early, fighting early, always at odds with both his brother and his sister, the uneasy in-between. She loved him the more for it, her difficult first-born.

  Skada had insisted on sharing the second birth and, as she predicted, the birth had been easier therefore. But then Corrie had always been an easy child. Easy and stubborn at once. Jenna could not sort it out.

  But of the three, Scillia was the child of Jenna’s heart, and she had always hoped that, woman-to-woman, they would live into old age together. More like sisters than mother and daughter; they were not, after all, that many years apart. And so it had been, until this last year when Scillia had changed beyond reckoning: critical, unhappy, listless—and always angry. Jenna could not remember having herself gone through such a change.

  “You spent your change-time fighting a war,” Skada reminded her. “With me by your side. Who had time for such drama when people were dying? Who had time for selfishness when there was blood being spilt?”

  But that did not explain it. Not at all.

  They entered the town of Selden in the dark. The Hanging Man hostel had been forewarned of their coming, and had warm food waiting.

  “Scillia and I will go on to the Hame,” Jenna told Marek. “We will not stop here with you.”

  “The guard will ride with you to the walls,” Marek said.

  “They will not.” Jenna yanked on the reins and her mare half rose on her hind legs, whinnying annoyance. “I am not a child to need a nurse.”

  “You are the queen and need safe passage,” Marek said, but found he was speaking to her back.

  Shaking her head, Scillia kicked her gelding into a canter. She caught up with her mother a half mile up the road.

  They went along in less-than-companionable silence until they came to a
bridge where they paused.

  “The water is not yet in flood,” Jenna remarked dryly, hoping to cut through the uncomfortable tension between them.

  “Unlike your temper,” Scillia said.

  “A woman’s mouth is like a spring flood? That is a Garunian adage,” Jenna said. “I would not have you speaking so.”

  “Then why are you sending Jem across the sea to the Garuns? That is the very sort of thing he will learn there, and he will be the worse for the getting of such wisdom.” Scillia’s voice broke in the middle, anger and sadness competing in it.

  “I send him for the peace,” Jenna said, “which you have so recently accused me of forgetting. And we are taking one of their princes into our court in his stead. It is a kind of exchange to guarantee amity between our lands. Besides, Jem is excited about it.”

  “What kind of peace is it, Mother, that takes little boys to hold it?”

  “I thought you didn’t like Jemmie.”

  The wind had begun puzzling through the trees. Jenna remembered that particular sound, such a part of her childhood in the Hame: trees, river, and the mountainside changing the tone.

  “He is my brother and I love him. Even when I cannot abide him.”

  “He is my son, Scillia, and though I cannot stand the thought of sending him away, it is what is best for our land. Once the Dales had little girls fighting a war. Surely a little boy can be charged with the peace.” She kicked the mare into a trot across the bridge and her voice threaded back through the clatter of hooves. “I am tired of talking.”

  But Scillia would not let it go, and she chattered for another mile up the winding mountain path before the thick, close dark finally stopped her.

  When Scillia finally quieted, Jenna relaxed into memory. Even though the forest had changed somewhat in the plus twenty years since she had wandered it alone—fourteen years as queen, the several years of war, the five years under the hill with Great Alta—by squinting she could still see the place as it had been. It was a palimpsest forest, with enough of the old growth left, the old turnings of the road, to remind her.

  But she could not get back the child she had been, who had played the Game of Memory so well, who could sort out the scratchings of coon and cat and bear with a single glance.