by Mike Brooks
Standing in the doorway, Shefal took in Darel’s stance and raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“Shefal?” Darel asked, perplexed. He lowered the bolster, but kept it in hand. Neither he nor Daimon had ever liked the arrogant young freeman, and usually Darel would have quite happily struck him for entering his chamber uninvited, and with something considerably harder than a bolster. On this day, however, curiosity stayed his hand for now.
“Lord Darel,” Shefal said, bowing a shade too late and a hair too lightly. “Your man is relieved to see you are well.”
Darel had no time for pleasantries. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, edging round to peer past Shefal. Two guards stood in the doorway, Nadar and Yoon, as well as Kelarahel the reeve, but there was no sign of Daimon. “Where is this lord’s brother?”
“Lord Daimon is in the square,” Shefal replied, still in his bow. Darel eyed him, suddenly dubious. That was the posture of a man with bad news to share.
“He is about to wed the Raider chief.”
Darel grabbed Shefal by the throat and hauled him upright with a violence that surprised even him. Shefal’s eyes bulged, and his hands flew to Darel’s wrist.
“If you are lying—” Darel began, through gritted teeth.
“It’s true, lord!” Nadar said urgently. “The proclamation went out two days ago!”
Darel’s mind whirled. What in the name of the God-King was Daimon thinking? Had he been smitten by that straw-haired sea witch? Had he taken leave of his senses completely? Had he been threatened into this, or blackmailed?
“Did Daimon send you to bring this lord to him?” he demanded of Shefal, releasing his hold on the man’s throat. Shefal rubbed his neck and eyed Darel, but passed no comment on it.
“No, lord,” he said instead. “But your man could not stand by. He felt he had to free you and your lord father, to see if you could talk some sense into Lord Daimon.”
Father won’t talk to Daimon, he’ll try to kill him, Darel thought bleakly. Perhaps he could persuade these men not to release his father, or command them to give him the keys. He could talk to Daimon, certainly, try to find out what his law-brother was thinking—
“Darel?”
Darel’s heart sank as his father strode into view, cheeks darkened by two weeks of beard growth and eyes hard with fury. His blades were already belted to his hip, and he was carrying a white-scabbarded longblade and shortblade that he threw to Darel. Darel managed to catch them, which was just as well, since letting your blades fall to the floor was great shame for a sar. Not that this man’s shame can get much greater anyway.
“Father,” he said with a bow. “Your son is relieved to see you are well.” The same words Shefal had used, and probably about as truthful. Darel wished his father health and happiness, but Asrel Blackcreek with a blade was the very last thing their family needed at that moment.
“Prepare yourself,” Asrel told him, his nostrils flaring. He looked in a more ferocious temper than Darel had ever seen before. “We are going to find the traitor who assumed our name, and kill him.”
Careful, now. Darel looped his sword belt around his waist. “Father, what of the Raiders? Daimon—”
“Do not speak his name!” Asrel snapped, spittle flying from his lips.
God-King have mercy, this is going to go badly. “Father, the Raiders are surely allied to… the traitor,” Darel said carefully. “How will we even get near him?”
“If there is any honour remaining in his veins, he will hear this lord’s challenge to single combat and respond,” Asrel said. “If he does not, and he sends the savages against us, we will die as we should have done when they first befouled our shores. Either way, son, our story will likely end today, but we shall leave any who witness us in no doubt as to our honour.”
He spun away, heading for the stairs. Darel finished buckling his belt, and eyed the four men around him.
“Where are the other guards?”
“In the square,” Yoon replied scornfully.
“Where did you get the keys?”
“The captain,” Nadar said.
Darel frowned. “Malakel? He is with you in this?”
“He’s not with anyone anymore,” Yoon said, his eyes flickering to Nadar for a second. “Called us fools and traitors, and was going to call for Lord Daimon. Nadar had to knife him.”
Darel gritted his teeth. “Congratulations. If this lord is to believe what his brother has told him, you have just killed one more Naridan than the Raiders have in the space of the last two weeks.”
“Lord?” Shefal said, his expression abruptly blank. Darel hesitated for a moment, very aware that if the man told Darel’s father what he’d just said then Lord Asrel would probably try to take Darel’s head too. The thane of Black Keep wouldn’t mourn the death of a guard captain who’d had the means to free him but hadn’t done so, and he’d already shown he wouldn’t hesitate to wish death on a son he considered to have abandoned honour.
“Never mind,” Darel muttered, stepping forward. “Give this lord the keys, and let us catch up with his father.” And while we do, this man need to work out exactly how he’s going to prevent everyone he loves from dying.
DAIMON
THEY’D TAKEN THEIR first vows in the Tjakorshi style, kneeling in front of each other in Saana’s house. Osred had been Daimon’s witness, doing his best to look solemn and composed as his thane spoke oaths of commitment and responsibility to a wild woman from across the ocean. Saana’s witness had been a captain called Inkeru, hard-faced and with a fierce smile, who’d apparently taken the news her chief was wedding the thane of Black Keep with stolid equanimity.
The problem, of course, was each witness could only understand one person’s vows. Daimon hadn’t even considered this might have been a problem, but judging by Saana’s frustration the evening before, it definitely was.
“Both witnesses must know all vows,” she’d explained in Daimon’s study, pacing back and forth. “Else this man’s witness cannot hold you to yours, and yours cannot hold this man to hers. Of the two of us, this man alone speaks both languages. It would give this man too much power, for her to translate what you say to her witness.”
“This man trusts you would not do that,” Daimon had said, and found that he’d meant it.
“It would not be right,” Saana had said, shaking her head. “It must be done properly, even if the outcome would be the same.” She’d cast a glance at him and smiled slightly. “It is like your god watching.”
Daimon had coughed awkwardly, feeling his cheeks flush. “Perhaps your daughter?” He’d asked, eager to change the subject. “She knows at least some of this man’s tongue, and—”
“No!” Saana had snapped, holding up one hand. “Zhanna… This man will talk to you later about Zhanna. But she would not do.”
“If this servant might make a suggestion,” Osred had put in, “the man Nalon speaks both languages.”
Daimon had looked at Saana and had seen his own irritation mirrored, then turn into reluctant acceptance as they’d both realised the steward had the right of it.
“Very well,” Saana had muttered, rubbing at her forehead. “Nalon will translate for both our witnesses.”
Which was how Nalon of Bowmar had ended up also being present at the oath ceremony, despite the fact that no one, including himself, really wanted him to be there. His eyebrows had climbed at Daimon’s assertion he would work to get his people to treat women as equal to men, and they’d risen even higher when Saana had made her corresponding oath about people courting the same gender. Inkeru had been taken aback as well, judging by her grunt of apparent surprise, but she hadn’t stormed out or started shouting, so Daimon judged Saana had chosen her witness well.
“You’ve put the razorclaw among the sheep, s’man will say that,” Nalon muttered to Daimon as they walked through the streets to the town square for the Naridan half of the wedding. The bell of the God-King’s shrine was ringing, calling all t
o come and bear witness.
“This lord does not recall asking your opinion,” Daimon replied coldly, not looking at him.
“S’man’s opinion may not matter to you,” Nalon said, his shoulders moving in a shrug in Daimon’s peripheral vision, “but for what it’s worth, he likes the sound of these oaths.”
Daimon blinked in surprise. “You do? This lord thought you had little good to say about anything.”
“Little, perhaps, but not none,” Nalon replied firmly. “S’man’s lived with both peoples, which is more than anyone else can say. He’s seen good people in both places who’d have been treated badly by the other. If you and the chief can make this work, s’man thinks there’ll be many a soul living happier.”
“And yet you think this will be disruptive?” Daimon asked. Nalon snorted.
“For sure. People who’ve had it good don’t tend to like it when others suddenly start having it good too, or don’t have to beg and bow to get it.”
“You speak as though you are a great authority on such matters,” Daimon scoffed. “Have you been reading the same books as this lord’s brother?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Nalon replied as they reached the square. “But s’man has noticed how you don’t expect the Tjakorshi to bow to you or pay you respect, yet it still irritates you that s’man doesn’t, even though he was never of your town. Imagine how you’ll feel if the rest of Black Keep starts speaking to you the way the Brown Eagle clan speak to Saana. Enjoy your marriage, Lord Blackcreek.” He turned and disappeared into the gathering crowd.
“What was that about?” Saana asked from his other side. She’d been speaking with Inkeru, and didn’t seem to have caught the conversation.
“Nothing,” Daimon muttered. “Just Nalon being himself.” But what if he’d been right? Daimon had imagined that over time, the Brown Eagle clan could be taught proper manners and would come to speak to him with the appropriate respect. But what if the opposite happened? What if their uncivilised, irreverent ways rubbed off onto his people?
“We must teach more of our people each other’s language,” Saana said seriously, and Daimon shunted his thoughts away for the moment. “Perhaps this man should get Nalon to do it. He will not like it, but perhaps he will see it will make it easier for him.” She smiled conspiratorially. “And then we will not need to deal with him so often.”
“Perhaps we should take a young person from each of our peoples as pages,” Daimon suggested rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“Pages?”
“Aye; a personal servant, of a sort. They would learn our speech from serving us.”
“They would learn yours, but how would they learn this man’s?”
“The same way this man will,” Daimon said with a grin, “by listening to you speak it. This man should not rely on Nalon to learn his own wife’s tongue.” It was a strange thing to give voice to, having a wife. By Tjakorshi customs, of course, he already did; he was only still unwed by Naridan customs. It makes no sense, to have two parts to the thing. Perhaps we could find a way to combine it somehow, in case others wish to take this step…
They’d reached the shrine, set back from the square a little way, on the opposite side to the castle’s front gate. It was a simple affair, but Daimon still thought it beautiful; a small building, with a traditional splayed roof supported by a pillar at each corner, in which was housed its bronze bell. The external walls of wood were carved to resemble the stems of a climbing rose, with small gaps between to let the sunlight in.
Aftak was waiting. He opened the slatted wooden doors and hooked them back, allowing the gathering crowd to watch and witness from outside, but only Saana and Daimon entered the shrine itself. It was dim inside, patterned with the shade cast by the sun through the walls, with a faint wobble to the shadows from the tallow candles in each corner that Aftak had undoubtedly lit not long before. Daimon knelt on the rush matting before the low, two-tier marble altar, the top level of which flowed into a carving of Nari sitting in meditative pose. The God-King’s head was fully shaved, his robes were half open to reveal a muscular chest, and his longblade—a genuine, minute steel replica, fashioned to fit with the rest of the statue—was laid across his knees.
Saana dropped to her knees beside him and held out her right arm. Daimon did the same with his left and clasped his hand with hers, threading their fingers together. He felt his mouth dry slightly at the touch of her skin on his, and the pressure of her shoulder on his through their clothes. The Tjakorshi ceremony had, if anything, been more formal: an agreement between equals. The Naridan one felt more intimate.
Aftak stepped forward and handed them a thin length of leather, which Daimon wrapped around their wrists. He and Saana then took one end each in their free hands and, not without some fumbling, managed to knot it.
“The betrothed are bound to each other in flesh,” Aftak intoned, speaking the words of the ceremony, “now let them be bound to each other in the sight of the God-King.” He handed Daimon and Saana a beeswax candle each, and gave Daimon a lit taper. “Lord Daimon Blackcreek, Thane of Blackcreek; Saana…” He paused, and Daimon glanced up to see his mouth moving uncertainly. Four syllables, and the man has forgotten them already.
“Sattistutar,” Saana muttered, also realising the problem.
“… Sattistutar, Chief of the Brown Eagle clan,” Aftak continued, as smoothly as he could, “are you ready to take your vows?”
“We are,” Daimon said.
“We are,” Saana echoed him. Daimon placed the beeswax candle on the altar next to the stubs of rancid tallow that was all most of the townsfolk could afford when they made their own prayers, and lit it with the taper. He passed the flame to Saana, and she did the same.
“Lord Nari,” Aftak intoned. “Guide your servants’ thoughts, words, and deeds as they enter into this marriage. Give them the courage to be true, the strength to be honest, and the judgement to be wise.” He raised his hands, palms outwards. “Do you, Daimon Blackcreek, swear to honour your wife, to cherish her, to protect and provide for her?”
“This man does,” Daimon said, managing to keep his voice steady with an effort. There was a tiny part of his mind still yelling that this was an awful idea, that he should draw his shortblade, cut the leather and flee, but he blocked it out. The next few moments were critical, however.
“And you, Saana Sattistutar,” Aftak continued, managing not to stumble over her name this time. “Do you swear to honour your husband, to cherish him, to protect and provide for him?”
He did it. They’d told Aftak to make the vows equal, as he would have for two men or two women marrying, and may Nari bless him, he’d done it.
“This man does,” Saana replied, giving Daimon’s fingers a squeeze as she did so. She knew what had just happened was important.
“Stand,” Aftak intoned, and they did so, only slightly clumsily as they both used their bound hand to help push themselves up. “Now, follow me.”
He led them back out of the shrine into the sunlight, although in truth he could have spoken from inside and it would barely have made a difference to anyone’s ability to hear him, the shrine was so small. Then he knocked the butt of his staff on the flagstones three times and raised his voice.
“People of Black Keep! This man and this woman stand before you today, ready to be joined in marriage! Is there anyone here who knows of good reason why they should not wed?”
Daimon couldn’t prevent himself from looking around, although he tried to do it surreptitiously. He honestly wasn’t sure what objection someone could raise, other than the somewhat spurious argument that Saana didn’t worship Nari, but he still felt some of the tension drain out of him when no one stepped forward and raised their voice. He’d half-expected Shefal, at least, to try to disrupt proceedings, but he couldn’t even see the freeman anywhere.
“There are no objections,” Aftak said, and his voice betrayed his own relief. “This priest declares you wed. You may now kiss.”
She was very close, close enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath. Her eyes were swallowing the world. Daimon hesitated, the excited tension in his gut warring with rapidly melting walls of ice in his head. He wanted to… and he knew he should… but should he actually…?
Saana tutted once, reached her free hand up to the back of his head, and kissed him.
Daimon felt a thrill run through him as her lips touched his. When he’d been younger, and learning his letters, Osred had fed his eagerness with written tales of legendary warriors and their great deeds. Those heroes who survived their own tales would often marry beautiful women, who were also often described in great detail. Daimon distinctly remembered one whose lips had been compared to the soft smoothness of rose petals, which had occasioned an embarrassing incident when he’d been but seven or eight years old, when his father had found him in the garden pressing a rose to his mouth in an attempt to work out what kissing such a woman would be like.
Saana’s lips were not rose petals. They were warm, and firm, and slightly rough, yet tantalisingly yielding. His right hand had come up automatically as Saana had grabbed his head and he caught her shoulder, then held her as he kissed her back. The crowd started to cheer, and Daimon began to wonder how long this kiss was supposed to go on for—
“Traitor!”
DAREL
DAREL’S FATHER SHOWED no signs of having been confined for two weeks, but Darel couldn’t say the same. He’d not stretched and exercised as a sar was supposed to do even in captivity, in order to stay in fighting condition should the opportunity arise to free himself. He tried not to show the twinge in his left calf muscle as he kept pace with his father, but he had the nasty feeling Lord Asrel had already noticed the slight wince in his face. Barely out of our rooms for the first time in two weeks, and already a disappointment again.
