It was almost dusk when Lark saw a spiral of smoke weaving into the air, and a little while later the low buildings of a small town built on the banks of a shallow river, no more than ten feet wide. Beyond the buildings stood some cattle in pens, while a dog slunk around the fence. Lark followed the Rhymer into the town, along a narrow road that wound between houses built one on top of the next. The houses were painted a multitude of colors, with dark red roofs of clay tile. There was a slight shabbiness to the town that Lark could not help noticing – the paint on more than a few window and door frames was starting to peel, and some of the roof tiles were cracked and broken. Children played in the streets as their mothers chatted nearby, their skin olive in the lowering light and their black, glossy hair worn loose. Neta, thought Lark, would be horrified at the sight. They wore the cheerful colors that Rhymers preferred – bright reds, blues, and yellows.
They continued to follow the narrow road as it wound through the town, until suddenly, a large circular hall rose up before them. Lark knew that in days gone by, all Rhymer towns and villages had been built around a large Gathering Hall. The custom was falling away, but many of the smaller towns still had a Hall that stood at the center of the town’s community life, a place where people were entertained and justice was dispensed. Painted a dark blue, with the same clay roof as the houses, it stood at least two storeys high, with high windows. A large wooden door stood open. The Rhymer turned to Lark, and taking the binding that he had used the previous day, he grasped her wrists and tied them together as a feeling of dread washed over her. Had he brought her into this town to execute her before the other Rhymers?
“Like a lamb to the slaughter,” she said bitterly.
He frowned. “Keep your mouth shut,” was all he said before leading her into the hall.
Chapter 9
The hall Lark and the Rhymer stepped into was large. Although she had seen it from the outside, it was only when she stepped within that Lark realized its full extent. Wooden tables were placed all along the rounded edge, while above their heads ran a balcony, accessed by a number of wooden staircases. Two men were laughing as they played a game of cards at one of the tables near the door, while others chatted around the room. Opposite the door was a raised dais where a woman reclined on a large wooden chair. Her long thick hair was liberally sprinkled with gray, which contrasted with her bright yellow blouse and crimson skirt. A crown of feathers lined her brow, while her hand rested on a carved staff. Seated around her, some on the floor, some on small stools, were several people of varying ages.
The hall fell silent at their entrance as all eyes turned to them, but the Rhymer fixed his gaze on the woman on the other side of the room as he made his way across the hall, tugging Lark along with him.
“Wise Woman,” he greeted. The woman nodded before turning to Lark, where her gaze rested for a moment. The lines on her face spoke of much laughter, but her expression now was angry.
“What is this, Drameara?” she said. “Not only do you bring this Cambrian into Springdale, but you taint our hall with her presence.”
“This woman travels with me.”
“Who is she?”
“That is of no concern of yours. But your fight is not against her.”
“And yet you have her bound.” She studied Lark for a minute before turning her gaze back to the Rhymer, who returned the gaze evenly. “Very well,” she finally said, “I will tolerate her presence.”
“As I knew you would. I’m here to talk to you and your scouts; we have business to discuss and there is something I need from you. But these are not matters for her hearing. I’ll take care of her and then we’ll talk.”
He turned away, yanking the rope as he did so, and led Lark to a dimly lit area of the room where she could just make out a wooden post. As they drew closer, she saw that the post was actually a square pillar that extended from the floor to the ceiling. On one of its sides, a pair of iron hoops had been driven into the wood and Lark suppressed a shudder.
“Is this where you’re going to kill me?” she demanded.
“Here? No, I’d prefer a much larger audience than this.”
She glared at him angrily, but his attention was not on her but on a young woman who was making her way towards them, her black hair swinging down her back as her hips swayed provocatively.
“Drameara, I was wondering if I’d ever see you again!”
“I told you that I’d return this way again.”
“So you did.” She ran her fingers down his chest as she leaned closer. “I’m sure you’re ready for the company of a real woman.” Her gaze flickered to Lark for a moment, her intended insult clear, but Lark felt only a faint flicker of disdain which she quickly dismissed. The woman was no different from those with whom Val kept company. The Rhymer turned to study Lark for a moment, and she lifted her chin as she returned his gaze. The Rhymer turned back to the girl.
“I have some business to conduct, but I’ll find you later,” he said.
She smiled, watching as the Rhymer yanked Lark toward the pole and tied her to one of the iron loops.
“This is so you don’t try and escape,” he said. He tested the knot, then dropping the rope, turned back to the woman and slipped his hands to her waist, drawing her closer. He lowered his lips to hers and began to kiss her deeply as Lark started to turn away in disgust; but as she did, his gaze lifted, meeting Lark’s, even as he continued to kiss the woman in his arms. A shiver went through Lark and she quickly looked away, infuriated at being forced into the role of voyeur. She turned to look across the room as the Rhymer stepped away from the woman, ignoring her protests.
“A few hours, Addie,” he said. “And in the meantime, you can do something for me.”
“What is it you want?”
“To tend to this woman.”
“What?” She turned to glare at Lark. “You can’t be serious! Isn’t she your prisoner? Not to mention that she’s also Cambrian! Why would I do anything for her?”
“Because I asked you to. And because you want to see me later.”
“I must tend to this bitch in order to see you?” Addie spat out. She stared at him, her expression incredulous as Lark turned back to look at him, just as shocked.
“Perhaps I can find someone else to do as I wish,” he said with a shrug.
He met the woman’s glare with a look of indifference, and after a moment she dropped her gaze. “I suppose I can spare a few moments.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said. “I want you to tend to her feet. And once you’ve done that, find her a more suitable pair of walking boots.” Addie frowned, but he gave her an unamused smile. “The last one is strictly for my benefit, as her ridiculous footwear is slowing my pace. And while you’re at it, get her a decent blouse and get rid of that thing she’s wearing before all the buttons pop off.”
“Where are you taking her?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“What makes her so special?” Addie asked with a pout.
“Absolutely nothing. Now go find the things I asked for.” He patted her backside and she gave a little giggle before sauntering away, but as soon as she was out of sight, the Rhymer leaned down over Lark, his mouth at her ear.
“Hurt her in any way, or attempt to escape, and I will see you drawn and quartered. You should know what that means, since it’s a favorite pastime of your father’s.”
“She’s not the one I want to sink a knife into,” she hissed.
“I have no fear that a weak and pampered thing such as yourself would ever succeed in killing me when your father’s best men have failed.” He pulled back and turned away, striding across the hall as Addie returned with a basin of water, which she dumped onto the floor, splashing Lark’s legs in the process. Kneeling beside the basin, she looked at Lark in disgust.
“Lift your foot,” she ordered. Lark did as she was told, holding the post for support as Addie pulled off her boot
with a look of distaste and flung it to the side.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
Lark ignored the question as she looked across the room to where the Rhymer had joined the older woman on the dais. “Is his name Drameara?” Lark asked.
“Don’t be stupid,” Addie said. “He is a Drameara.”
“What’s a Drameara?”
Addie looked at her with a smirk. “I thought Cambrians were supposed to be so intelligent and all. The Drameara are marked by the Ancient. They serve the Shadow Warriors. You know about them, don’t you? They’ve killed hundreds of Cambrian Guardsmen.”
Lark was silent as Addie washed her feet. So the Shadow Warriors did serve the Ancient, as Pip suspected. The realization brought about more questions: what was their association with the Rhymers? And why did they hate the Cambrians? She watched as Addie covered her feet in a thick layer of salve before leaving with the bowl. She returned a short while later with the ugliest pair of boots that Lark had ever seen and dropped them to the floor beside her, along with a bright yellow blouse, and left without another word. Made of leather, the boots were thick soled with raised, rounded toes. A farmer’s boot. Or perhaps a tradesman’s. The size, at least, seemed right for her feet.
Tied to the post, Lark shuffled her feet uncomfortably as the hours passed. She was hungry and thirsty, but no-one paid her the slightest attention. A group of children played nearby, their shrieks and laughter echoing through the hall as they ran circles around each other. They stopped once to stare at her, whispering amongst themselves, before running away.
A few hours had passed when a man approached, carrying a stool which he placed beside her. “I thought you might like to sit a while,” he said.
She sat down slowly as she looked at him; she guessed that he was a few years older than her, with dark hair that curled loosely down to his shoulders. He wore a loose-fitting tunic, with a red scarf tied around his neck.
“It’s not a common thing, to see a Cambrian held prisoner.” He cocked his head slightly as he looked at her. “You’re fairer than most Cambrians, like a ghost. I can see why the Drameara is so fascinated with you.”
“Fascinated?” She gave a soft snort.
“You don’t think so? Oh well, that’s probably because he’s tied you to the prisoner post.”
“Yes, that’s probably it,” she said dryly.
He smiled. “You have some spirit, I must say, although I can see that you’re really no different to every other Cambrian. Haughty, proud, arrogant.”
“And I daresay you’re like every other Rhymer. A lazy, thieving scoundrel.”
He laughed. “You think I’m a thief? I’m actually a scribe. I write down the stories of my people.”
She looked at him in surprise. “You write?”
“Of course. Did you think I was ignorant as well as a thief? I would’ve studied in Lenora if I’d been allowed, but higher learning is only for Cambrians.” There was a note of bitterness in his voice.
“Nonsense,” she said briskly. “Anyone who can prove they have the necessary skills can study at one of our universities.”
“Who told you that? I was not even allowed through the front doors to submit an application, never mind prove my skills.”
She looked away. She did not want to argue with this young man who had so kindly brought her a stool, but if he had not been allowed to submit an application, there must have been a reason. She could feel his gaze on her.
“Why exactly does the Drameara have you captive?” he asked.
“He’s my guard. In actuality, I’m the Shadow Warrior’s captive. Until he kills me,” she added when his eyebrows rose.
He shook his head wryly. “Perhaps I’ll write a ballad about you,” he said.
“Will I be the hero or the villain?”
He laughed. “Well, we’ll have to see, won’t we? I’m Avard, by the way.”
“I’m …” She paused. “Nice to meet you, Avard.”
He gave her a grin. “How about I tell you a story to pass the time? As I told you, I record the stories of my people. I have one that might interest you.”
“Have your people grown so tired of your stories that you feel you need to tell them to me?”
His eyebrows rose in surprise, and he gave an ironic laugh. “Actually, this story concerns your people as well.”
“Oh?”
“It’s a story about Rhymers and Cambrians, and where we both came from.”
“I already know the story of where Cambrians came from.”
“Perhaps. But I am fairly certain you haven’t heard this version.”
“The Rhymer version?”
“The historical version.”
It was her turn to raise her eyebrows and he smiled wryly. “I’ll just fetch another chair before I begin.” He was back a moment later with a stool, which he placed a few feet away.
“Many years ago,” he began, “long before the war, the only inhabitants on this land were the Ancients. They lived in the mountains, quite content, I believe. But one day, a man and his wife arrived on the shores of Valoria. They had traveled from one of the northern kingdoms in search of a new land. Their names were Nox and Luna.”
“The ancestors of the Cambrians.”
“That’s right. They brought with them their son, Josiah.”
“You mean Mettle.”
He raised an admonishing finger. “If you don’t mind, I’m telling the story. Now, as I said, their oldest son’s name was Josiah. Once in Valoria, Luna continued to bear children, and in due course, she had a second son whom she named Mettle. She bore nine children in total, two sons and seven daughters.”
Lark sighed. She knew the story of Mettle, but it was clear that she was about to hear an adapted version of the Cambrian story.
“The two brothers were as different as night and day,” Avard continued, ignoring her sigh. “Josiah was a farmer who spent all his hours outdoors. He loved the good things in life – food, song, and dance. Mettle, on the other hand, was far more serious. He had a brilliant mind that was both methodical and creative, and he would spend hours in his study, poring over plans and designs, searching for ways to irrigate the fields, or heat the bathing pools. The two brothers also differed in appearance; Josiah took after their father, with dark features and a certain ruggedness, while Mettle favored their mother, whose features were fair and refined. The sisters were a mix of both parents, but the most beautiful was Raven, the youngest of the sisters. Her hair was as black as night, and while her skin was fair, her eyes were dark pools. Like Josiah, she loved to dance and sing, and her laughter would ring through the house.
“Both Josiah and Mettle were enamored with her, but Raven preferred lighthearted Josiah to stern Mettle, and she allowed him to take her to bed. In time, it became clear that she was with child, and Mettle raged in jealous anger. In an effort to keep the peace, Josiah and Raven moved away, setting up a household half a day away. Mettle, in the meantime, turned his attention to his other sisters, but his attraction to Raven had turned to disgust and he rejected those sisters who resembled the dark-haired beauty. Instead, he singled out the fairest and took each one to his bed.”
Lark glanced down at her lap. Her version of the story had nothing about Josiah and Raven, but Avard’s details about Mettle and his dealings with his sisters seemed pretty accurate.
“Mettle favored Pearl the most,” Avard continued, “and soon she gave him a son, who was as fair as his parents. But when his second son was born, he bore the darker features of his uncle, Josiah. Luna, knowing that her second son was a hard man, and fearing for the sake of the child, smuggled him away with the help of the child’s mother before Mettle laid eyes on him, and delivered the child to Josiah and Raven, who raised him as one of their own.
“In time, the darker-featured sisters joined Raven and Josiah, and Josiah had relations with each one. More children were born, some dark, some fair. Luna, who fe
lt guilty that she had not given Mettle a chance to know his child, convinced Josiah to allow the fair children to be raised in Mettle’s household. She also confessed her wrongdoing to Mettle, explaining that she had brought the fair-haired children to make amends, and suggested that the darker children be surrendered to Josiah.”
“That’s a ridiculous story,” Lark interrupted. “What parent would give up their child because its features were dark or fair?”
Avard shrugged. “They lived in different times. You could ask what man would sleep with his sisters?” Lark bit her lip. She had wondered that herself. “Perhaps the sisters felt that they were all one family, and it didn’t really matter in which household the children were raised,” suggested Avard. “They may have arranged to spend time together when the brothers were not around. But eventually they became two different peoples, the Rhymers and the Cambrians, dark and fair, easy-going and serious.”
“Well, I think the whole story is nonsense,” Lark declared. “I’ve never heard of Raven, and certainly never heard of a brother named Josiah!”
“As I said at the start, I did not think that this was a version you would be familiar with. And yet it is the most accurate. Perhaps that’s the reason I was not accepted into Lenora’s university,” Avard mused. “They knew they would not like my stories!”
Rising to his feet, he gave Lark a sardonic smile before swooping up the stool and striding away. Lark watched him with narrowed eyes, then turned to look out over the room. The story had unsettled her, although she could not say why. Perhaps it was the suggestion that the Rhymers and Cambrians were related, an idea against which her mind rebelled. Or maybe it was Avard’s assertion that his version was the most accurate. She scowled in annoyance. The Rhymer was an ignorant fool who knew nothing of events of the past.
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