by Jane Baskin
Certainly, when he thought three of his children had been taken on the field … certainly when he thought his favorite child had been blown to bits by his own weapons cache … certainly when the peasant armies just kept coming and coming at them without end … certainly at these moments, he may have wondered.
Something drove him from his home.
So whatever Zoren-te may have said to him, this: fell on fertile ground.
Almost a week, after their conversation. A week of fine weather. Blue skies, warmth, yellow flowers appearing on the meadow. The ground, dry now. Talk of reopening the munitions factory. Talk of helping to build its siblings in the other two northern provinces.
But Gwildan, still roaming the great hall, still rubbing salt into the wounds of northerners who had lost family in the South.
Dar-agan, finally speaking out against the idea of sending the peasant hero home with a convoy of weapons. Arguing with villagers over the potential results of furthering the war. “They’re already winning. They beat back the lords at every encounter. The lords will be ready to negotiate. Try talking.”
A few people listening. But the young, still in high temper. Che and Colwen, chafing at the bit.
Nayan, having decided this war was not his war. Love: a reason to care for living. To cherish life like a rare flower; to keep it safe above all else. Everything so different now. Possibly, about to change. Yes, that. Knew: everything was about to change. So, trying to talk to Che.
Listen to me, Che. I know there’s a wall between us, now. But in the name of the friendship we’ve had all our lives, just consider.
We’re still friends, Nayan. It’s just that ...
I know. I’m a lord and you’re a Person. I don’t have relatives dead or dying in the South; well, some. But none I’d care to acknowledge, anyway. I’m – sorry for that. But Gwildan’s war is more than the Peoples’ war. It’s his war. Don’t get caught up in it.
What are you saying, Nayan?
Haven’t you ever ridden into battle excited? Almost joyous? We like the fight. We like cheating death. But in the name of all the gods, Che: this war is different. We’ve known it was different for months. It’s a slaughter, on both sides. You’re not defending the lords.
Of course not. I despise southern lords and always have. They’re butchers. But the only way to stop the dying is to stop this damnable war.
How?
Listen to my father. Don’t indulge Gwildan. Talk.
While Gwildan agitated for his weapons. While Dar-agan stood firm, in the midst of all his agitation. While the village headwoman, Scilla-ye, could not deny his caution. While the People of the North felt themselves torn between the two polar ends of this argument. Wanting to rescue their relatives, see them free. But unable to ignore the words of their headwoman, an old woman of great wisdom. And also the wisdom of the old bear who was titular head of the province, and who had always guided them well.
And whom … they loved.
Into this: Vel.
Releasing himself from his sequestration. Striding one morning into the hall for breakfast. Serving himself, then sitting down heavily at the table … facing Gwildan.
He: known as the lion of Vel for good reason. Something so big, so imposing about him … especially his stare. Legend: the lion of Vel could stare a proud soldier into pissing himself. Now, meeting Gwildan eye to eye. Bringing his tea mug to his mouth, never flinching in his stare.
Even the loquacious Gwildan, cowering before those eyes.
Finally. “If you want to start negotiations, I can set it up.”
Gwildan, his voice carrying not quite so far as it had these past days: “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Really, hero? How much death is enough?”
“Enough death to win us our freedom.”
“That’s the point of negotiations, you moron.”
Silence; oh. Gwildan, caught in the old lion’s stare. The engine of his mind whirling madly, almost visible through his skull. Something wrong, here. Disbelief, most likely. The inability – or the refusal – to believe there was any pathway to his stated goal except the bloodiest of choices.
Silence enduring for a full minute. Two. Five.
The great hall: entranced by it. By the two leaders, mortal enemies, locked in the most vicious of battles – that could not be seen or heard.
Suddenly Gwildan, bursting out of his seat. His voice, like a bell: “Never! You lie, southern lord! You lie!”
Whirled, burst from the room.
17.Hope Springs Infernal
Dar-agan’s firm position; his conviction. This, beginning to sway the villagers. At least, those who knew him best. Those who had trusted him for so many years, and had not been disappointed. Headwoman Scilla-ye, becoming his ally. An important ally. A woman of the People. A Wise-Woman. Getting many to pause and think (no mean feat, that). To consider: death. To consider: no more death.
Still the young: burning with strange fire. Needing to find their own way.
Dar-agan: “Why do people never learn? Why do they have to make the exact same mistakes, over and over again?”
Ilia-te: “Maybe that’s just how life is. Young people never believe their elders. Until they mature, and discover that most of what their parents told them is true.”
“If they live to mature.” Dar-agan, sighing heavily, sitting deep into his saddle, goading his massive gantha into a canter.
The two of them, just out for a ride through the meadows bordering the edge of the forest. Just to enjoy the bright day. Just to try to find some cheer in the summer trying so hard to birth itself.
Nayan, watching them ride off from the wooden bridge. At that moment, admiring his parents. Still proud and strong in the saddle. Still beautiful. Still exuding a kind of power that derived from character, experience ... from the habit of thought. Wise, them. Nayan, wondering if he himself would ever radiate such a powerful presence.
His parents, working the villagers hard, now. Countering Gwildan, who was to leave soon. Would he go with a convoy of weapons? Or would he go alone?
Villagers, seeming to diverge along lines of age. Older people: coming to believe he should go alone, as he had come. And among them, a startling convert. To the surprise of many – Ania-te.
This: mostly because of the night Ilia-te had seated herself beside Ania-te in the great hall – as had been their custom, before Ania-te’s downward swing. Late in the evening, when people often trickled in for a mug of warm ale before bed. Ilia-te, once again sharing ale with her friend, her sister-in-arms during raiding season. A welcome return to at least an imitation of normalcy.
The two of them, watching their sons gather with some other young people by the empty fireplace.
Just watching.
The young men, absorbed in conversation. Heated conversation. Much gesturing, head nodding or shaking. Didn’t need to wonder what they talked about.
Just watching – their youth. Their strength and beauty. Their thick hair moving about their faces as they shook their heads. Their health. Their pride. The bright spark in their eyes, the look of intelligence. Loving them, yes. Loving them because they were their sons.
Ilia-te, saying only one thing: “They’re so beautiful. I think the northern climate breeds beautiful children, don’t you, Ania? I wonder what they’ll look like, dead.”
Oh. A terrible thing to say, of course. But purposeful. Deliberate.
Ania-te, forced to see something she would never be able to get out of her head, ever again. That stamped itself on her mind for as long as that mind would live. Not only the death of her beloved twin sister. The death of her beautiful sons. Suppressing a quiet yelp of pain.
“That wasn’t fair, Ilia.”
“I know, Ania. I said it on purpose. Not to hurt you. To make you think. Before you decide anything, think carefully. Think fully. Think of every possibility.”
How much is enough death?
Ania-te, tears coursing from her eyes. Even
tually, a strangled voice: “I couldn’t take that, Ilia. After all that’s happened … I know that. I couldn’t take it. Not that. Not my children.”
So Ania-te – of all people – standing up in the middle of the hall at breakfast the next day. Climbing onto a table, calling for attention. Fixing her eye on Gwildan.
“Enough, sisters and brothers. Enough! Let this man go home as he came, with only the weapons he carried at the time. My sister is dead. No amount of vengeance will bring her back. What relatives I have left, may be dying. And that’s enough. I will not throw my sons into that fire. I will lie down in front of their ganthas, I will slit my own throat before them, before I let them go. I will not lose another family member. Not one.
“And you” – pointed directly at Gwildan – “You are a sower of death. Needless death. Dar-agan is right. The People have beat back the lords at every encounter. The lords were fools to breed us like farm animals. We outnumber them, and we will always win. So enough fighting, just for the sake of fighting. Just for vengeance. Is it fun for you, Gwildan? Because it’s not for the rest of us, who lose family to your recreation. It’s time to sit down and negotiate. No weapons!”
The last, shouted with all the fury of a person who has suffered more loss than is bearable in one lifetime.
Oh. Dead silence in the hall. Ania-te, glowering like the lion of Vel himself. Seeming to catch Gwildan’s eyes in a snare. He: unable to break the contact until Ania-te climbed down from the table, crossed over to the serving table and poured herself a mug of gell tea. As she turned, passed Gwildan: bent toward him. A sound coming from deep in her throat, her mouth twisted into a wild animal snarl. The sound: a terrible hiss. Like a snake. Like – a Cha-ning lion, just before it roars.
Dar-agan, just watching. Not a word. Watching the great hall, seeming to be caught in a dead moment in time. As if time had stopped itself.
How long? Perhaps a few minutes. Maybe five. Maybe ten. But a terrible silence.
Somebody speak. Please.
Finally. Gwildan, rising to his feet. “I see you will let your brothers and sisters in the South rot on the lords’ pikes, Madam.”
Ania-te, whirling to face him. Her voice, like a harpy’s shriek. “No! You will let them rot on the lords’ pikes. You will put them there! Enough!”
Suddenly, the little rip in time, sealing itself. The great hall, bursting with hundreds of voices, all speaking at once.
Dar-agan, taking Ilia-te’s hand.
Zoren-te, eye to eye with her father. Taking Nayan’s hand.
Che and Colwen, staring at their mother.
A remarkable breakfast, that one.
So it was, that the hero Gwildan went home as he came.
And the lion of Vel, the lord of war, made plans to set up negotiations between the peasants and the lords.
The engagement of Nayan and Zoren-te: announced a few days later. At dinner in the great hall. People, rising to their feet. Cheering them.
Despite their youth. Especially the tender age of Zoren-te. No matter now.
Because everyone needed to have something to celebrate. To dispel recent shadows. Perhaps to usher in summer, which seemed to be holding its breath, not daring to enter while people remained divided.
The weather, becoming fully warm now. Pleasantly cool in the evening, but warm days. Warmer afternoons. People napping on balconies. In the meadow. Lovers, trysting in corners. Even making love in the tall grasses bordering the forest. One pair, nearly trampled by Nayan’s gantha, as he and Zoren-te rode outward. The two of them, laughing.
Of course, putting them in a loving mood. Racing their ganthas back to the stables, putting them up hurriedly. Throwing water on them. Begging a boy working the stables to walk them down. The boy: a knowing grin. A nod. Then inside: taking the stairs at a run. Bursting into his rooms, tearing off their clothes in the anteroom. Falling to the cool stone floor. Yes, right there.
Oh, great mysteries. Nayan and Zoren-te, discovering facets and faces of love neither had known existed. Riding a razor’s edge of delight, exploding into a maelstrom. Like a great bird had ripped them with its talons, opened them and left them to bleed into each other for as long as time ran on.
Plans being made. Dar-agan and Vel, hammering out the details of the marriage contract. Not much different than their original discussions. But Dar-agan: maybe. Maybe … just a hint. That if all went well, if negotiations proved fruitful, the alliance established by the marriage might result in sharing gell seeds.
Maybe.
For Vel, enough. Truth be told, sick of it. Wanted to get home.
Munitions factories: humming along when the betrothal party left. Factories in the other two provinces: up and running. Luisa-te, supervising at all three. Hugging Zoren-te goodbye, as she, Nayan and Vel prepared to leave for the South. Going by train … and gantha. Put the ganthas into box cars for the long journey to the village train terminal near the Vel keep. Then ride home on gantha-back. Like heroes, like warriors.
To talk about alliances.
And peace.
Ride right up to the Vel keep, gantha hooves clattering on the wooden bridge. Announce the contract boldly. No need for anyone else to agree, not even Zoren-te’s mother. In so many ways, the South: still archaic. Still patriarchal. Marriages: arranged by the male head of the clan. Zoren-te’s mother, having no say in the matter.
Just as well, for when she heard of the match by line message: oh. Shrieked, so it was said, for two days straight. Inconsolable. Rage enough to knock down the highest towers. Wanting to fly black flags from the tower turrets.
“Are you not happy to learn your daughter is alive?”
“I would rather see her dead, than married to a northerner!”
So when the party rode over the bridge into the courtyard of Castle Vel, Mother: refusing to come out of her rooms.
Zoren-te to Nayan: “It’s just as well. You’re not missing anything.”
Was that a sidelong smile from Vel himself?
This: the tradition of aristocratic marriages, all over the planet. The would-be bridegroom, going alone to stay for a week or two, with the bride’s family. To see if he would meet their expectations. To see if he could earn their respect.
And, it was understood without saying, to see if he could stand them.
So Nayan, already rejected by his would-be mother-in-law, spent his time with other young lords and the peasants who had not scattered to join the war.
Lots of time in the practice yard. Besting lord after lord in old fashioned swordplay, hand-to-hand contests. Out shooting them. Even without using his gift (had planned to not give the slightest hint at his real ability) Outriding them. But not with flourish. Quietly, just with native skill. Never crowing, never exulting in victory. Always extending a hand up, a smile. Listening more than talking. Slowly, earning respect.
Important, this. Because the collection of young lords: not only attached to Vel. Also to Darleigh, and other southern provinces. At Vel, to welcome home the Lord. Also to find out, for their fathers, what the hell was going on with these peace talks it was rumored he wanted to hold.
“We’re getting our asses whipped.” This, from Vel one night at dinner in his huge dining hall. Where he dined with formal pomp, with the young lords and whatever ladies cared to join them. Waited upon with torturous detail by formally dressed peasant house staff. Made Nayan uncomfortable. But hid it well.
Vel went on: “Yes, we’re slaughtering them, but there are plenty to slaughter. We bred them like animals; now they come upon us like barn rats. They can afford the losses. We can’t.”
The young lords, reminded of family and friends lost to this awful war. Darleigh’s brothers, two of them. Vel’s sons. Others: brothers, fathers. Even a few warrior sisters. The Lady of Sansea, shot dead in her own courtyard, when she came out – armed – to confront a horde of armed peasants wanting to besiege her home.
Even atrocities. Ladies, raped by sweaty peasants. A few lords, shot in the
ir beds in sneak attacks. Aritocratic children, murdered and set on pikes on their parents’ moat bridges or in mansion courtyards. A three year old girl, skewered on a pike like a rabbit for the fire, at the front door to her parents’ mansion.
All of it, culminating in rage that could not be measured.
Into this, Vel: wanting to propose negotiations.
Really?
“You’re out of your mind, Vel.” This, from Darleigh, who had come from his own keep to confer with Vel. Ostensibly to evaluate the proposed bridegroom. But really, to find out what the old lion meant to do.
No fool, Darleigh. Understanding that if Vel backed out of the war, others might follow. Already, the lords’ enthusiasm: flagging. In some places, failing altogether. Sansea, returning home after his Lady was shot. (Rumor: they were actually quite fond of each other.)
Sansea, roaring from gantha-back when he was given the news: “I have no stomach for this! Enough! Give the bastards whatever they want! I … no longer care.”
Then turning his back on the battlefield, galloping off toward his home. Eventually followed by his very confused army – what was left of it. The peasants, of course, taking the day.
Sansea, never again seen on the field.
Darleigh, worried by such things. “Look Vel, we can’t let ourselves be overrun by rabble.”
A terrible smile from Vel. More like a grimace. “Don’t you see? We already have been. How many more sons and brothers do we have to lose before they bring us to our knees?”
“You’d let them do that?”
“Of course not. But they’re doing it, you hopeless fool, whether I permit it or not. Better to negotiate from a position of at least partial strength, than on our bellies.”
“What in the name of all the gods could you give them?”
“Their freedom.”
“Vel, you’re insane.”
So Vel, telling him of a place where peasants were free and still loyal unto death. Darleigh, of course, unable to get his mind around it. But Vel, persisting. Bringing Nayan into the discussions. Nayan, taken aback. Not yet feeling wise enough to feel confident in discussions with elder lords. But answering questions, as truthfully as he could.
