“There ye are, lad. We’d about given up on ye.”
Callan and Kinni and Black-Arse were waiting for me outside Callan’s tiny croft. It’s a strange thing, that croft. Callan is as tall as a house and as wide as an oak tree. When you see him outside, it seems as if he can’t possibly fit inside. But he can. He and his old gran both.
“Ah, likely his ma wouldn’t let her little boy come,” said Kinni.
I got fed up with Kinni sometimes. Most times, in fact. He was always going on at me about my mother, but I’d noticed that he lowered his eyes and called her “Medama Tonerre” just like everyone else—when she was around, at least. Kinni’s father was a merchant, and he paid Callan to teach him how to use a sword.
I liked Black-Arse better. Of course, that was not his real name. Really he was Allin, but no one ever called him that anymore. He loved anything that could go bang. One time he had got hold of some niter and a jar of petroleum, and boom! Suddenly Debbi Herbs had lost an outhouse. When she saw Allin running for dear life with a huge black spot on his singed trousers, she screamed at him: “Come back here, ye black-arsed bastard, and I’ll give ye what for!” And ever since, everybody has been calling him Black-Arse.
Black-Arse was the closest thing I had to a best friend here. If I had been born up here, we definitely would have been friends. But to Black-Arse and everyone else, I was still “the Shamer’s boy from the Lowlands,” and although everyone had been really helpful and nice and polite, they always somehow let you know that you were a stranger. A Highlander didn’t completely trust anybody he hadn’t known since he was in swaddling bands. The longer we stayed here, the more obvious it became to me that in their eyes, we simply were not clan, and never would be. And even though Black-Arse liked me much better, it was Kinni he would turn to if he was in trouble. Because Kinni was his great-great-cousin, and I was just a Lowlander. If I lived here for fifteen years, I would still be just a Lowlander. Sometimes it made me so mad I wanted to say the hell with it, the hell with them, and go back to Birches where I might still be the Shamer’s boy, but at least they had all known me almost since I was born. Sometimes I got so homesick for Birches that I would be about ready to cry. And that was just too bad, because we couldn’t go back. Cherry Tree Cottage, where we used to live, was a burned-out ruin, and Drakan’s men were still looking for my mother and my sister. And for Nico, who caused it all, in a way.
Every time we practiced, Callan found a new place for us. He was always saying that a good caravan guard must be able to fight anytime and anywhere—in the mud, on a mountainside, in a forest, or in a bog. Robbers lie in ambush where they choose. They don’t wait politely until you’ve reached firm, even ground.
On this particular day he brought us to a narrow dried-out gorge that had once been a riverbed. The bottom of it was full of round rocks and boulders, and the footing was terrible. If you forgot to watch your feet, down you went, and falling was a painful business on those rocks. But if you forgot to watch your opponent, it hurt even worse. Callan hit you hard for that. Most practice days, I took away quite a collection of bruises. Kinni sometimes complained, but Callan took no notice.
“Which would ye rather—bruises now or sword cuts later? If ye’ll not learn that block, ye’ll likely lose an arm the first time ye’re in a real fight.”
I listened, and kept my mouth shut. Bad enough to be a Lowlander—I had no intention of being a crybaby on top of it.
We trained until twilight. Some of the time we used heavy sticks, but in the end Callan let us use the swords, and the gorge echoed with a wonderful ringing sound every time the blades met. It sounded almost like bells, I thought. I sweated and stumbled and recovered, and not once did I think of my mother and her eyes, or of the stupid goats and their scraps. I just felt happy and warm all over, especially when Callan slapped my shoulder and said, “Well done, lad. Ye have the knack.”
The best thing about it was that I knew he was right. Even though I hadn’t been training long, I was already better than Kinni and Black-Arse. It was as if my arms and legs knew things that I didn’t: Hold the sword so to block that blow. Swing it just so or you’ll lose your balance. I loved my body at times like that, my clever body with its balance and strength and quickness.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the twilight: “Davin! Your mother is looking for you!”
For a moment, my body was not clever at all, but just an awkward collection of limbs. Kinni took advantage and slugged me on the shoulder, and I lost all feeling in my right arm. My sword fell to the rocks with a dull clank.
“Ye’re dead,” said Kinni triumphantly and prodded my chest with his sword. And all the joy and warmth and excitement certainly died.
“Running her errands again, Nico?” I rubbed my right arm sourly. “Haven’t you got better things to do?”
Nico stood at the edge of the gorge, staring down at me. His blue eyes were exceedingly cold, and he looked very much the noble, despite his commoner’s clothes.
“No, Davin, I haven’t, actually. You forget who your mother is. If not for her strength and courage, they would have flung my body on some middens long ago to feed the crows. I would have lost my head for three murders done by someone else. I owe her everything. And you owe her at least the courtesy to tell her how you spend your time. She worries about you.”
Kinni giggled. “Davin-baby,” he whispered, quietly, so Nico wouldn’t hear him, “Mama Shamer is so worried about her little boy.”
Angrily, I picked up my sword. I felt like clouting Kinni over the head with it. But I felt even more like flinging it at Nico and his stupid superior face. Who did he think he was, to preach about what I owed my mother? So I wanted to learn how to use a sword. What was wrong with that? What was wrong with learning how to fight, so that one day I’d be able to protect my mother against Drakan and all the other enemies Nico had made for her?
“Get along with ye, Davin,” said Callan. “We’re about done for the day. See ye in the morning, if ye still have a mind to join the hunt.”
I nodded. I had been looking forward to that hunting trip. Callan had lent me one of his bows, and I was getting quite good at hitting what I aimed at. But what if Nico told Mama about it, and she said I couldn’t go?
I climbed the edge of the gorge and started walking rapidly, hoping that Nico would leave me alone. No such luck. He waited until we were clear of the forest and could see the Dance, the great circle of standing stones on the hill just above our new cottage. Then he spoke his mind.
“Why don’t you tell her, Davin? You just disappear, and she has no idea where you go.”
“If she really wants to know, all she has to do is look at me. Then I’ll have to tell her, won’t I? Whether I want to or not.”
Nico seized me by the arm and forced me to stop. The twilight mist had made the air clammy and beads of moisture glistened in his dark beard.
“Why are you being so stupid? Don’t you see that that is the last thing she wants to do?”
What did he mean? I didn’t get it. But I was determined not to let my puzzlement show.
“Don’t call me stupid,” I snarled. “At least I do something. You just sit around, waiting for them to come and get you!”
Nico clenched his fists, and his eyes flashed beneath his dark brows. I almost wished he would go ahead and slug me so that we would have an excuse to fight. But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t—Nico prefers cutting people up with words.
“If you would get your nose out of your own backside for a moment, you might discover that she is trying to let you grow up. Has she asked why you have to wash that same poor shirt every week when you ought to have two other perfectly good ones to wear? And incidentally, you’ve been had. That thing is little more than a bar of pig iron. You’ll never get a proper blade from that.”
“If you’re so smart, why don’t you help me? You could train me much better than Callan can.” Nico was the son of a castellan and had had the best fencing masters his fath
er’s purse could hire.
It took a while before he answered.
“If I promise to help you,” he finally said, “will you then tell your mother the whole thing?”
“It’s no business of hers. Does she have to know everything?”
“Why not? Are you ashamed of what you are doing?”
“No!” But I knew Mama wouldn’t like it. “Can’t I keep one little thing to myself? Nico, you could help me. You know you could.”
He shook his head. “I don’t care for swords,” he said. “And your mother wouldn’t like it.”
“You and your fancy likes and dislikes! If it hadn’t been for you, we wouldn’t have lost Cherry Tree Cottage. If only you had had the guts to strike when you had the chance, then—then—” I couldn’t finish. Nico was staring at me, and his face was deathly pale. He knew I was right. Last autumn he had had the chance to kill Drakan. Drakan who had murdered his father, his brother’s widow, and his tiny nephew. But he had used the flat side of the blade instead of the edge. And a few days later, Drakan and his men had burned down our cottage and killed almost all our animals.
Nico spun on his heel and stalked off without a word. I knew I had wounded him as surely as if I had stuck a knife in him. It would have been easier for him if I had just lost my temper and slugged him. And easier for me too, I think. I felt bad about that white face, knowing it was my fault. But I simply did not understand him. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why he hadn’t chopped the bastard’s head off. If it had been me, if Drakan ever again caused any kind of harm to Mama or the girls… that was why I spent so much time practicing. Because I wanted to defend them. Because I wanted to kill Drakan.
Mama and the girls were already having dinner when I walked in. Dina threw me a furious look across the kitchen table. After what happened last year, she had become a bit of a mother hen where Mama was concerned. But then, Dina had been there, in Dunark, in the middle of the whole bloody business. A dragon had tried to bite her arm off. That was another reason I wanted to learn how to use a sword. The next time some monster wanted to take a bite out of my sister, it would be me doing the dragon slaying, not Nico.
I took my bowl down from the shelf and pretended not to notice Dina’s furious looks. She has Shamer’s eyes just like Mama, even though she is still only eleven, and when she is angry, looking at her is a really bad idea. That glare—it’s a bit like being kicked by a dray horse. Rose, Dina’s friend from Dunark, who lives with us now, ladled soup into my bowl with the big ladle she has carved for us herself. She knows how to use a knife. Actually, she stabbed Drakan in the leg last year. The only ones who hadn’t fought Drakan in some way happened to be five-year-old Melli… and me.
“Why is Davin so late?” asked Melli, in her most innocent-sounding voice. “Where have you been, Davin?”
“Out,” I said sourly.
Mama didn’t say anything. Dina didn’t say anything. The silence was loud enough to crack an eardrum. I blew on my soup to cool it, and carefully did not look at either of them.
DINA
Pheasants on the Slope
When we got up the next morning, Davin had vanished. Again. Before breakfast, even. I didn’t eat much either. I was so furious with my brother that I could barely swallow my food. How could he behave like that, and at such a time too, with Mama worried sick over that business with the child peddler. Didn’t she have enough to think about?
“Eat your porridge, Dina,” said Mama absentmindedly, setting aside a bowl for Davin and covering it with a clean dishcloth.
“I’m not hungry,” I muttered.
“Oh? Is there anything wrong with the porridge?”
I shook my head. “It’s not the porridge, I’m just not—”
“Well, stop moping and eat it, then! Or feed it to the chickens, I really don’t care!”
Rose looked up in surprise. Mama rarely raised her voice over little things like that, but here she was, yelling at me, as if the whole thing were my fault. The unfairness of it brought tears to my eyes. I pushed back my chair with a jerk and went outside and did exactly what she had told me to do. The chickens cackled around my feet, jostling to get their share of this unexpected tidbit. The early morning sun played along their backs, raising golden gleams. The chickens we had now were all much bigger than the ones we had kept at Cherry Tree Cottage, and they were a beautiful roan color, almost like copper. Apparently, that was what Highland hens looked like—at any rate, all the other chickens in the vicinity looked exactly the same.
I heard the door open. That would be Rose, I thought, coming to share my troubles. But it was Mama. Without saying anything, she put her arms around me from behind and rested her cheek on my hair, and for a while we just stood like that, watching the chickens pecking and scrabbling and fighting over the remnants of the porridge.
“Hmm… well, at least they like my cooking,” said Mama, but this time it was a joke. This time she said it to make me smile.
“Davin is stupid,” I said viciously. “Why has he become so—so—” I couldn’t even think of a word to describe him.
“He is not stupid,” said Mama, sighing, and I felt her breath against my neck. “He is just trying to figure out how to be a man. I think it’s best if we can leave him alone for a while. I think we need to give him… a little growing space perhaps.”
I didn’t feel like giving him anything at all right now—unless it was a well-placed kick.
“He hardly ever looks at me,” I said, and suddenly I was crying, without wanting to and without being able to stop myself. When there are only four people in the whole world who are willing to look you in the eye, losing one of them really hurts.
“Oh, sweetie,” Mama whispered and tightened her arms around me. “Sweetie, I’m so sorry. I hadn’t even noticed. I suppose I’ve been too busy trying not to mind that he’ll no longer look at me.”
“Why does he do it?” I snuffled. “Why does he turn away from us like that?”
Mama didn’t answer right away. “I’m not entirely sure what’s going on with him,” she finally said. “But Davin… once he was just a boy, and he knew how to do that. Now he has to become a man, and I’m not quite sure he knows what that is supposed to mean. And it’s hardly something you and I can teach him. He’ll learn, though. And when he does, he’ll come back to us.”
“Are you sure?” My voice shook, and I knew I sounded like a little kid, hardly older than Melli. Because what if he didn’t? I knew very few grown men who would look a Shamer in the eye. Nico tried, but it hurt him; he felt guilty about so many things. The only one who did it unflinchingly was Drakan, and that was because he had no more shame than an animal.
“Of course he will,” said Mama. “If our Davin does not become the kind of man who can look us in the eye, then we’ve done a poor job of raising him, haven’t we?”
Again, she meant for me to smile. But I couldn’t do it.
At that moment, there was a warning wroof! from Beastie, our big gray wolfhound. Mama let go of me.
“Go and wipe your face, sweetie,” she said. “We have company.”
The visitor was a Laclan man, a slim, dark-haired gentleman with very fancy manners. He was dressed fancily, too. His shirt was elaborately embroidered, and instead of a common leather belt he wore a slim silver chain around his waist. A wool cloak bordered with the red and yellow Laclan colors was slung dashingly over one shoulder. He looked quite out of place in our lowly farmyard, among the squawking chickens.
“Have you found the child peddler?” The question burst out of me as soon as I saw the Laclan colors.
He almost looked at me, but caught himself in time. “No, Medamina,” he said politely. “He is still on the loose. In all probability he has escaped into the Lowlands. No, unfortunately my errand is a different one. We have another task for the Shamer, if Medama is willing.”
I could see the tension hardening Mama’s shoulders immediately. The business with the child peddler had been
a strain on her; for almost two weeks, she had had to dose herself with an infusion of hops and allheal to be able to sleep at night.
“So soon?” I said with some bitterness. “Are there so many evildoers in the Laclan clan?”
“Dina!” Mama’s voice was sharp and reproachful, and I did actually regret the words as soon as I had said them. Highlanders are easily angered when the honor of the clan is at stake. But the man in the dashing Laclan cloak merely smiled.
“They say trouble breeds trouble. But this time, the case is fortunately less serious. Merely a matter of some missing sheep.”
That did not sound too horrible, and some of the tension left my mother’s shoulders. She still looked tired, however.
“Mama,” I said, “couldn’t I do it?” I could hardly bear to see her so pale and worried. “If it’s only some missing sheep…” I had been my mother’s apprentice for less than seven months, but such a minor task should be well within my powers.
The Laclan man opened his mouth to protest and then thought better of it. It was obvious, however, that he did not want to have to make do with the Shamer’s eleven-year-old daughter.
Mama caught his disconcerted look and smiled slightly.
“We can both go, Dina. If you need me, I’ll be there. Rose, would you take Melli down to Maudi’s? She’ll be glad to see you both. And she is so proud of the spoons you carved her—if you make her a few more, she’ll probably offer you one of those puppies you’ve been sighing over.”
Rose flashed her a smile, and blushed a bit. She was not much accustomed to praise. Back in Swill Town, the meanest and dirtiest part of Dunark Town, too many people had called her a bastard and a whore’s brat, her own brother included.
“What would Beastie do if I brought one of those home?” she said.
“Beastie is a sensible old dog,” Mama said. “He knows that one must be patient with the young.”
The Shamer's Signet Page 2
