by Mike Brooks
“Something to prevent my belly swelling with a babe.”
Kerrti couldn’t help it. She started to laugh, and didn’t stop no matter how Saana glared at her, or how red her chief’s cheeks went.
“You come to me, the day after you shout at me in front of everyone for holding a woman’s hand, and you ask for this?” Kerrti sniggered. “Oh, this is a gift from the Dark Father himself! Who was it? Otzudh? Did he finally lure you back?”
“Will you give me what I need, or not?” Saana demanded, her face flushed and angry.
“Why not carry another child, Saana?” Kerrti demanded. It was cruel, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself. “You’re not too old yet! I’m sure Zhanna would love a little brother or sister!”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve asked you for this, Kerrti,” Saana said, her voice low and dangerous. “Why are you doing this now?”
“Because I find it funny how I’m supposed to help you avoid the consequences of your actions, when you’re so quick to make me suffer for mine!” Kerrti snapped, feeling her laughter abruptly fade. She drew herself up. “Very well. Who is he? He won’t dare take issue with the chief, but if he was expecting your belly to swell then he may have words for me when it doesn’t, particularly now.”
“That won’t be an issue,” Saana said. Kerrti frowned at her, surprised at the certainty in the older woman’s tone. Then a startling possibility dawned, and she covered her mouth with her hand to stifle another snigger.
“You didn’t… It wasn’t a Naridan, was it?”
Saana’s deliberately blank expression and stolid silence told Kerrti as much as if the chief had nodded and given her a name.
“Oh, by all the winds…”
“Will you give me what I need, or not?” Saana asked again, this time through visibly gritted teeth.
“Was it the Blackcreek boy?”
Saana’s eyes flashed so dangerously that for a moment Kerrti was certain the other woman was going to strike her. “No, it wasn’t! For the last time, yes or no?”
For a moment, Kerrti wavered. There was a certain savage justice in refusing. Let the clan see their chief’s belly grow, with none of their men responsible. Some fine words were being cast around about how actually some of the Flatlanders weren’t too bad, but Kerrti would wager her best sheepskin those words would take on a different flavour once someone realised a Flatlander had gotten the chief with child. Let Saana feel the weight of the entire clan’s disapproval—and probably the Naridan townsfolk as well, unless Kerrti badly missed her guess. Let her see how it felt.
But it wouldn’t solve Kerrti’s problem. Saana might turn to herblore less skilled than Kerrti’s, or use other, more direct methods, either of which could end up killing her. And should the child grow, and be born without killing Saana in the process, what would come of it? Saana might come to love it, but she might not. The child could be unloved, and resented. Kerrti hadn’t learned what she’d learned to let lives be ruined through spite, tempting though it had been at times.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t set her price.
“I’ll give you what you need,” she said, scanning her walls for the correct herb. “But I’ll need payment.”
“How much?”
“You misunderstand.” Kerrti reached up, took down a large leather pouch and loosened the drawstring that held it shut. She sniffed the contents, to make sure she had the right one. “I need a promise. Your word, to Father Krayk.”
“… Go on.”
Kerrti took a deep breath and plunged on. “I need your word you’ll take the Naridan views when it comes to men courting men, or women courting women. That you won’t persecute me, or anyone else, for courting someone who wishes to be courted.” She hesitated, but there was no point stopping now. In for a crab, in for a krayk. “And you’ll hold the rest of the clan to this, too.”
Saana’s breath hissed through her teeth. “You ask too much!”
“I ask to be able to live and love as I choose,” Kerrti replied sharply. “No more and no less.” She turned back to Saana, and held the bag of herbs over the embers of the fire. “Well? Do you want your remedy, or shall I burn it? I can assure you, I’ll have no need of it.”
Saana ground her teeth, but finally she nodded. “Very well.”
“Your oath, Saana.”
“I swear to Father Krayk that I’ll do as you ask,” Saana bit out. “May he come for me should I prove false.”
Kerrti nodded. Something fluttered in her chest, relief or terror, or possibly both, but she fought it down. “You’re an honourable woman, Saana. I’m sure you’ll prove true.” She took up a much smaller pouch and measured three pinches of dried leaves into it. “Sprinkle these into a small pot of hot water and wait for the water to colour. Drink it all—”
“I’ve done this before, Kerrti.”
When Saana had left, her hood back up and the pouch tucked away, and the door barred once more, Kerrti sat back down in front of her fire pit. There were still faintly glowing embers deep in its heart. Something she could work with, at least.
She leaned forward and blew gently, scattering flakes of ash and a few sparks, but causing the embers to glow brighter. She took up the kindling and, slowly and carefully, began to build her fire up again.
DAIMON
“LORD, THIS STEWARD…” Osred sucked his teeth, a sure sign he was nervous. He’d never normally have displayed such vulgar behaviour, even in Daimon’s chambers. “This steward must ask: do you think this wise?”
“Wise?” Daimon paused in pulling on his finest robe, but he barely had to consider the answer. “Yes, Osred. No just wise, but absolutely necessary.” He resumed dressing himself, although he allowed his steward to help settle the heavy cloth across his shoulders and ensure the sleeves hung perfectly. He hadn’t dressed so finely even for the feast on that frantic, confusing day when the Brown Eagle clan had first appeared, when he’d betrayed his father and ended up slaying Ristjaan the Cleaver. He still felt something of a fool in the stiff, brocaded robes with the double-pleated sleeves, but some things needed to be done properly. Even if virtually no one else would recognise it.
“Necessary, lord?” Osred queried, smoothing the front. The steward’s face had always been thin, and increasingly lined with care and age, but the last two weeks in particular had not been kind. Daimon wondered how much he’d been lying awake at night, wracked by his conscience. Did Osred still wonder if he’d done the correct thing in supporting Daimon over his father? Would the steward make the same choice, if he had his time again?
“Traders will appear soon, Osred, and events here cannot be hidden from them,” Daimon said. “There is no way to prevent news from getting out, save by locking all the pedlars in a sheep pen.”
It was a poor joke, but even so Daimon was dismayed that it raised no smile at all from Osred. If anything, the steward’s concerned frown deepened. “As you say lord, but… this is a course of action from which there is no easy way back.”
“This lord has had no easy way back from the moment he lifted his hand against his father,” Daimon said softly. He reached out, took Osred’s shoulders and looked the man in the eye. He had no need to explain himself, of course, but Daimon found he had a desperate wish for someone to understand why he was doing what he was about to do, and maybe even agree with him.
“This lord must be bold, Osred. This action would not be his first choice under normal circumstances, but circumstances are far from normal. This lord will not sit here and rely on prayers to the God-King to deliver him, and his people, from the wrath of the northern thanes and the Southern Marshal. They will surely come, and this lord will not be caught unready. This is the only sensible choice.”
Osred’s face softened, and Daimon caught a glimpse of the man who’d taught him his letters and helped ease him into the life of a noble family; so very different to what he’d left behind. Daimon’s law-father had changed Daimon’s life forever by adopting him, the l
owborn orphan, into the Blackcreek family, and Daimon could never forget that, but Lord Asrel had not been a loving parent. At first he’d been too lost in grief for his late wife to provide affection, and then determined to bring his sons up to be hard, strong leaders, but the fact remained that Osred had been the gentle, guiding hand in Daimon’s youth. Darel had at least had a few years of Lord Asrel’s more gentle side, before the plague had taken it along with Lady Delil.
“This steward knows you to be a noble man,” Osred said, smiling, and if Daimon hadn’t known better he could have sworn the man’s voice cracked. “You have always been a noble man, whatever your birth. This steward understands why you are doing this. But he is selfish, and cannot help but wish for better for you. He cannot see you achieving happiness like this, and suspects only disgrace and death will follow.”
“‘Happiness is secondary to duty’,” Daimon quoted. “You see, Osred, this lord does recall some of his father’s lessons.” His robe was as settled as it was going to be. He took his sword belt from its rack and held the longblade in his hand for a moment, examining the bare white wood of the scabbard. It spoke to the world that he was untried, untested, had performed no deeds of merit.
“This lord wishes he could record his defeat of the Tjakorshi champion,” Daimon said, running a finger down the finely grained wood. “That was a deed of which he can be proud. But it seems a waste of effort, given the scabbard will undoubtedly be stained black.”
“You would know it was there, lord,” Osred replied.
“This lord knows it happened anyway,” Daimon said with a shrug, wrapping the belt around his waist and buckling it. “And besides, it might be seen as… overly provocative.”
Osred nodded. “You speak truly, lord. You are set on this course of action, then?”
“This lord is, Osred.” Daimon held out his hand. “The brooches.”
Osred picked up two circular brooches, finely worked gold and silver the size of his palm, fashioned into the crest of House Blackcreek. He fastened them to Daimon’s breast, left and right, then stepped back. Daimon saw the other man’s lower lip tremble for a moment before Osred smiled.
“Well, lord. Your steward cannot pretend he does not have misgivings, but you are truly the image of a Thane of Blackcreek.” Osred bowed, deeper than required by custom, the mark of personal respect. “May Nari guide you.”
“May He guide us all,” Daimon muttered. He fidgeted for a moment, trying to settle the robes more comfortably, then stepped forward.
As soon as he started walking, Daimon’s mind settled. He’d been sure of this course ever since the night before, but being certain of its necessity was not the same thing as being comfortable with going through with it. Now, as he descended the staircase of his adoptive family’s house, he felt at ease. Darel was the one who weighed all options to a nicety, and agonised over minor details; Daimon had always thought of himself as more instinctive, willing to decide based on what his gut was telling him. Once he’d made a decision, he found it hard to settle until he’d acted upon it.
Cloud had rolled in overnight, after the clear skies of yesterday under which the Wooden Man had burned, but if rain was coming then it hadn’t arrived yet. Daimon walked briskly through the gardens towards the women’s quarters, hoping Zhanna was ready. He’d sent on ahead this morning, but she didn’t answer to him in the same way as his own people did. By the Mountain, from what he could tell she barely answered to her own mother.
He needn’t have worried. Zhanna Saanastutar was sitting on the top step of the stairs up to the women’s quarters, dressed in the furs of her people and swigging what was probably water from a skin. She looked up at Daimon as he approached, her expression somewhat bleary.
“Early,” she managed, by way of what seemed to be simultaneous greeting and complaint. A scratchy hiss emerged from her deep hood, immediately followed by her rattletail, which in truth barely fitted in there anymore.
“It is not so early,” Daimon said. He would have gestured to the sun, but it wasn’t showing its face this morning.
“Drink lot. Head hurt,” Zhanna muttered at him.
Daimon nodded ruefully. He suspected there was many an aching head in Black Keep this morning, and he’d seen Zhanna consume a fair quantity of alcohol the night before. Daimon himself had behaved more moderately, as he felt befitted a thane—or at least, a thane with a few hundred ancestral enemies in his town—and so was merely rather tired, with a slight ache behind his eyes.
Zhanna took another rueful gulp of water. “Last night. Dance, fire. Do much?”
Daimon frowned. “Do you mean, do we do that often?”
Zhanna nodded, then looked like she regretted it.
“No,” Daimon said. “Not like that, anyway. The Festival of Life only happens once a year.”
Zhanna grunted in apparent disappointment, then frowned slightly. She looked him and his robes up and down, as though seeing him properly for the first time. Perhaps she essentially was, due to a hangover-induced fuzz.
“You look good.”
“This…” Daimon was momentarily taken aback by the girl’s boldness, but reminded himself that she was not only Tjakorshi, but the daughter of a particularly opinionated and forthright Tjakorshi chief. None of his own people would have passed such a comment, save perhaps a member of his own family. He decided to accept it at face value. “Thank you.”
“Dance good, too,” Zhanna added, taking another sip of water immediately afterwards. To Daimon’s astonishment, not to mention slight embarrassment, he felt his cheeks heat.
“Thank you,” he said again. He paused a moment, then added: “You danced well, also.”
It was true: Zhanna and the other younger Tjakorshi hadn’t exactly mastered the steps, but they’d thrown themselves into it with abandon and had certainly picked up the basics. Zhanna’s eyes widened as Daimon spoke, but when she went to reply she seemed to choke on a mouthful of water, and ended up coughing and retching instead. Daimon froze, unsure of what to do as the girl spluttered, bending double, while her startled rattletail jumped off her shoulders to land on the wooden steps.
“Sorry,” Zhanna wheezed, as her coughing gradually passed. She seemed to have exerted herself tremendously in the process, judging by the flush in her cheeks.
“You are well?” Daimon asked hesitantly.
“Yes,” Zhanna managed, with a surreptitious final cough. She looked at him, her eyes slightly wide and mildly watering. “Why this warrior awake early?”
“This lord must speak with your mother,” Daimon told her, feeling a flutter in his stomach as he said the words. “He feels you should be there.”
Zhanna wrinkled her nose. “Outside gate?”
“Yes,” Daimon said, nodding. “This lord must go to her.”
Zhanna looked at him very intently for a few moments, then gave a sharp nod of her own and got to her feet. As she began to descend the steps she held out one arm, and her rattletail jumped onto it and took up its usual position on her shoulders.
“It won’t be able to do that for much longer,” Daimon commented as she reached him. Zhanna grinned at him.
“Then should do now while can.” She reached up absently to stroke the little dragon’s muzzle as they began walking along the gravel path. “Your dragon?”
“It grows well,” Daimon said.
“And is friend?”
“Yes.” In truth, his pet had given him a slight nip that morning, but only out of eagerness to take food from his fingers.
“Not witch?” Zhanna asked, shooting him a sly, sidelong glance. Daimon saw the smile lurking at the corner of her mouth and couldn’t prevent one from reaching his face as well.
“Not witch,” he acknowledged, and Zhanna chuckled.
The castle yards were quieter than usual: the kitchens were cold, for there was still food from the feast to be eaten today, and the cooks had not risen as early as was their custom. The stable door was open, so at least someone was abo
ut their work there. Daimon had considered calling for a mount for this journey, but Zhanna had never ridden a dragon before and there was no telling if she would take to it as well as her mother. Besides, he was already going to draw plenty of attention, dressed in his most formal robes, and he didn’t want any more than necessary.
Especially if this didn’t go to plan.
If his guards were surprised to see him dressed so, no one mentioned it. Nor did they comment on the fact Zhanna was with him, her dragon still perched somewhat precariously on her shoulders. Perhaps Ganalel’s punishment was fresh in their minds, and they held some false notion he was quick to anger at present. Perhaps their heads were still muddled from drink and lack of sleep. It occurred to Daimon, as the drawbridge was lowered, he should appoint a new guard to take Ganalel’s place. Should he speak to Malakel about it? Osred? Should he offer suggestions, or merely instruct one or other of them to see it done, and leave them to it? What would his father have done? And in any case, was that what he should do?
Your mind is wandering, he thought, as they strode across the bridge and into the town square. Focus, lest you embarrass yourself.
The burned wreckage of the Wooden Man was still smouldering, and the tang of wood smoke lingered in the air. The ashes would be spread on the surrounding fields soon. Daimon had heard that in the north his countrymen called on Nari to turn the year and bless the crops, but that was not the way in the south. Nari had been a man, and was a god of men. The folk of the south knew it was the spirits of forest and field, river and rain that needed their honour.
It was strange, yet somehow appropriate, that the Tjakorshi had arrived just before the festival celebrating new beginnings and new life. The only question was whether they marked that new beginning, or merely the death of the old ways, and Daimon’s people along with it. The newcomers were undoubtedly an omen of some sort, but knowing what type of omen was work for wiser heads than his.
