by Rob Scott
*
‘So what the hell were those monsters that attacked the horses?’ Mark asked Brynne as they walked towards Estrad Village. She ignored him, staring silently into the distance.
‘C’mon Brynne. I told you we never had any intention of hurting you. We just needed you to get away from the palace.’
Mark reached out for her, but she immediately turned away, ‘Don’t touch me.’
‘Leave her alone, Mark,’ Steven suggested in English. ‘She’s not going to help us. Let’s just let her go.’
‘I think we ought to hang onto her. She’s the only one who’s even bothered to try talking to us. Everyone else just starts shooting.’
‘There was that old man,’ Steven said, switching to Ronan. ‘He seemed to know we aren’t spies.’
‘Gilmour,’ Brynne muttered.
‘Gilmour,’ Steven echoed, as if trying out the name. ‘How do you suppose he knew we weren’t from Malakasia?’
Brynne appeared more willing to answer Steven. ‘He knows many things the rest of us don’t understand. We’re lucky to have him with us,’ she said quietly.
‘He’s the leader of your group?’ Mark tried again. ‘He’s organising the Resistance?’
‘There has been little resistance yet,’ she answered, still refusing to look at Mark, ‘but there has been too much oppression and murder. One day, hopefully soon, we will fight to rid our land of Malagon’s army, and perhaps even succeed in freeing all the lands from his occupation forces.’
‘All the lands?’ Steven enquired.
‘Rona, Praga, Falkan and Gorsk, four of the lands of Eldarn. Malakasia has occupied our homeland since Prince Markon died, nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons ago.’ She pulled at a strand of hair that had fallen across her face. ‘There was a terrible fire at Riverend Palace… you saw the damage it did, even though it was so long ago. And within the space of two Twinmoons, the royal families of Praga, Falkan and Rona had all been wiped out by a strange disease. Even today no one has any idea what caused it.’
‘What about Gorsk?’ Mark asked.
‘Gorsk has never been ruled by a royal family the way the rest of Eldarn is. King Remond controlled all of Eldarn except Gorsk, and his descendants – all taking the title prince or princess – took on the different lands; Markon, King Remond’s great-grandson, ruled here in Rona.’ She cast a sidelong glance at Mark and continued, ‘Gorsk was different: it was ruled by a congress of scholars called the Larion Senate. Legend has it they were all murdered in a grievous massacre a Moon before the fire that took the lives of Prince Markon’s wife, son and closest advisor.’
‘Why govern Gorsk differently?’ Steven pushed down on a sapling branch to clear a path for Brynne. ‘Why no prince or princess of Gorsk?’
‘The Larions had magic.’ Brynne paused, recognising the scepticism in their faces. ‘They used magic to bring scholarship, medicine and education to the known world. They were a community of servants, brilliant servants, who brought advanced knowledge and research to our hospitals and universities. Their genocide was the first in a long series of tragedies that destroyed the political and social structure of Eldarn. Nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons later, here we are, an occupied nation surrounded by occupied nations.’
Checking his watch again, Mark said, ‘You keep mentioning the Twinmoon. Is that what we saw yesterday, the two moons lining up over the ocean?’
‘That’s right,’ she answered. ‘That alignment occurs about every sixty days, one Twinmoon. We use them to chart time, our lives, the seasons. Gilmour sometimes talks of Eras and Ages, but we’ve got no idea what he means. We have a difficult enough time keeping track of what day it is.’
Looking between his watch and the sun, Mark said, ‘Now that you mention it, I don’t think a day here is the same as ours, unless my watch is broken.’
‘Watch?’ Finally she turned to look at him.
‘Yeah, my watch.’ He held out his wrist. ‘It’s a simple machine that tells what time of day it is.’
‘Why call it a watch? Does it only work when you watch it?’
‘No,’ he answered as Steven laughed. ‘I suppose a more accurate name for it would be timepiece. Look, it now reads four in the afternoon, and here in Rona it’s already growing dark. I believe your day has fewer-’ He stopped. There was no Ronan word for hour.
‘I think you’re right,’ Steven interjected. ‘I noticed this morning it seemed to get light much later than at home.’
Now it was Brynne who was sceptical. ‘I don’t know if I should believe you. This may be some elaborate ruse to get me to reveal details of the Resistance. It won’t work.’
Mark removed his watch and handed it to her. ‘Here, take it. It isn’t doing me any good anyway.’
Cautiously, Brynne reached out and took the watch. ‘How does it attach?’ Mark fastened the band and after a rudimentary lesson in telling time, they continued walking.
‘Thank you, Mark Jenkins.’ Brynne smiled for the first time all day.
‘Just Mark is fine, Brynne. Just Mark.’
The trio continued their journey towards the village, bypassing the road for a narrow path through oak, maple, dogwood, walnut and chestnut trees that were interrupted periodically by a particularly prickly and disagreeable type of cedar marked by thin strands of exfoliated bark. There were other trees as well, trees that didn’t belong in this sort of forest: white birch, rosewood, beech, and several species Steven couldn’t identify.
Steven had many questions for Brynne now that she was willing to talk with them, and the young woman complied as well as she could. So little about this experience made sense; Steven was surprised at how well he and Mark were handling their predicament. Magicians at work, huge ravenous beasts stalking the forest, a battle raging through a crumbling palace and all of it happening around them while he and Mark looked on: Steven felt as though he had fallen headlong into someone else’s dream. Now he was trapped. While the story grew ever more peculiar, he was helpless, unable to grasp, let alone solve, the problems that faced them. All he and Mark could do was to continue walking towards town and hope they would find someone with the knowledge to get them back through that mysterious tapestry and into their living room.
Rona’s southern region felt more like a bayou wetland than a Colorado mountain forest and the two foreigners were sweating openly. Hunger and dehydration were giving Steven tunnel vision. ‘I need to eat something,’ he said, ‘and soon.’
‘You’re right,’ Mark agreed. ‘I could eat health food, I’m so hungry.’ Turning to Brynne, he asked, ‘Is there somewhere we can find something to eat nearby?’
Brynne contemplated her choices for a moment before replying, ‘Greentree Tavern. It’s not far.’ She knew Greentree Square would be packed with Malakasian soldiers, all searching for the band of revolutionaries, but she hoped the confusion that would ensue when she brought the strangers into town would give her an opportunity to escape.
‘This tavern,’ Mark asked, ‘is it safe?’
‘It ought to be… I own it.’
‘You own a bar?’ Steven was incredulous. Brynne nodded. ‘Your own bar?’ he repeated. ‘Where were you when I went to college?’
‘How late is the kitchen open?’ Mark said, almost drooling at the thought of hot food and cold beer – even though he had no intention of going anywhere the young woman suggested once they reached the village.
‘Late enough,’ she said, coyly returning his smile. She resolutely continued her forced march, all the while considering how she might escape from the two foreigners. She hoped against hope that Sallax and her friends had survived the assault on the palace and would be waiting to ambush her captors somewhere between Riverend and Estrad.
Brynne had never known her parents. They had died while she was still an infant; she and Sallax had been brought up in an orphanage in Estrad. The elderly couple who ran the orphanage died fifty Twinmoons later, while Brynne was still a child, so Sallax found a job cl
earing tables and cleaning trenchers and goblets at Greentree Tavern. It did not pay much, but Sybert Gregoro, the tavern owner, had taken a liking to the siblings and they were given a small room of their own, behind the scullery.
When Brynne was old enough, she began working in the tavern kitchen, preparing food and baking bread for evening meals. She had never been to school and learned to read from an older boy who also worked in the kitchen. His name was Ren and Brynne was smitten with him: the first boy she had ever had a crush on. But Ren had other plans for her.
One night, a wealthy Falkan businessman caught sight of Brynne through the scullery doors. He stayed drinking near the fireplace until the tavern was about to close, then signalled unobtrusively for Ren. When the merchant retired to his room, Ren went back into the kitchen and called Brynne over.
She had no idea what was happening, but Ren grinned at her and gestured that she should follow him up the stairs. Sometimes, when the inn wasn’t full, he’d sneak her into one of the guest bedrooms so she could sleep on a luxury pallet. He was her friend and she had no reason to fear him.
When Ren arrived at the door to the merchant’s room, he knocked once, softly. Cracking the door slightly, the merchant handed Ren a small leather pouch and the boy promptly pushed Brynne into the room, pulled the door shut and disappeared down the stairs.
Brynne’s memory of the night that followed was still clouded by terror. She had spent her life trying to repress the violation; even now, many Twinmoons on, she was confounded by the fact that she had never screamed. Sybert would have heard; she knew he would have come quickly to help. Sallax had been downstairs sleeping in their small room; he might have heard her cry for help.
All she remembered was quietly repeating, ‘No, please,’ over and over again while the Falkan businessman held her tightly by the throat. ‘Let you go? Such a toothsome little morsel, just ripe for the plucking – I think not, my sweet little whore,’ he whispered, ignoring her pleas, and took his time abusing her until sunlight broke through the chamber window. Seeing dawn arrive, the merchant dressed, tossed her a silver piece and left the tavern.
Later that morning, Sybert found her. She had not moved from the floor where the man had thrown her after he had finished raping her. She was lying silently, staring up at the ceiling. Her dress had been ripped away from her body, revealing the depths of degradation her attacker had subjected her to: her slim legs were scratched from thigh to ankle, her barely grown breasts were torn and bitten, bloody toothmarks empurpling her pale skin. Tears trickled silently down her still-terrified face, which was as battered as the rest of her frail body.
The publican groaned out loud, then tore the coverlet off the bed and wrapped her gently in it. He summoned a village woman skilled in healing arts, who nursed her back to health over the next few Twinmoons. Sybert himself made sure Brynne was recuperating, refusing to let her take up her duties until he was certain she had healed.
Several days after Brynne’s rape, Sallax and Ren were sent across the village to purchase flour, eggs and venison for the evening’s meal. Sallax suspected Ren was responsible for taking his sister to the Falkan’s chamber, but he had no proof – until that morning, when Ren insisted they stop at the cobbler’s to look at a pair of fine leather boots displayed in the window. Sallax laughed at the older boy: the boots cost more than either of them made in three Twinmoons, but Ren brandished a heavy leather pouch and insisted on trying them on. When he was sure they fit well enough, he pulled out a handful of silver coins and paid the shoemaker.
As they left the shop, Sallax turned to Ren. ‘If you’ve got silver, there’s something else you should see.’ He led him down a side street to a secluded square, empty of onlookers.
Ren looked around. He couldn’t see what Sallax meant – then, for the first time, he began to wonder if he had been a little stupid pulling out his money in public. But it wasn’t silver Sallax was interested in. Instead, he pushed the older boy up against the wall and, before Ren realised what was happening, Sallax slipped his knife up under Ren’s ribs and into his lungs. Blood, deep red, almost black, flowed from the wound and Sallax sat for several moments savouring Ren’s laboured breathing as his lungs filled with fluid and he died there on the street.
Working slowly and carefully, Sallax removed the leather purse from Ren’s tunic and pulled the boots from the dead boy’s feet. He returned them to the cobbler, saying his friend was too embarrassed to ask for a refund, but the silver belonged to their employer. The cobbler was not happy, but he returned the fee, threatening to take the matter up with Sybert himself if either boy ever tried such a thing again.
When Sallax returned with the provisions, he told Sybert he’d last seen Ren disappearing into an alehouse. When he didn’t return for the evening meal, the innkeeper shrugged. He too had his suspicions about how the merchant had lured Brynne upstairs.
Seeing the look in her brother’s eyes, Brynne knew he was lying about Ren’s disappearance. Strangely, it didn’t make her feel better; she felt empty inside. The thought of Ren lying dead, somewhere in the village, left her a little remorseful.
*
Although she recovered physically, Brynne’s youthful innocence was gone for good. She never saw her rapist again, but in nightmares she remembered his thick, sweaty jowls, the long half-moon scar across his wrist, and an ugly brown, bulbous mole that grew from one side of his nose. A toughness emerged in her, almost overnight, and it wasn’t long before men throughout Estrad knew better than to proposition the lovely but deadly young woman. Twinmoons in the kitchen and scullery had made her quick with a knife, and more than one tavern patron had cause to regret reaching for her bottom as she served drinks. Brynne never maimed them: she just marked them, leaving a half-moon scar across their wrists, a permanent reminder of the man who had so violently destroyed her innocence and broken her spirit.
Thirty-five Twinmoons later, Sybert Gregoro died in his sleep. Brynne sent word to his estranged son, a farmer in northern Falkan, who replied in a careful script that she and Sallax should send along his father’s personal effects and savings but should consider the tavern their own. They kept the letter closely guarded in a strongbox under the bar and left Sybert’s chambers empty for seven full Twinmoons before they felt comfortable taking over.
It was a longer time before she and Sallax started calling Greentree Tavern their own. For many Twinmoons, Brynne expected Sybert’s son to arrive and claim his inheritance, but he never had, and the people of Estrad Village were glad the old man had left his business to the hard-working siblings he had fostered.
It was dark by the time Steven, Mark and Brynne reached the edge of Estrad Village. Steven was glad of the darkness: it would help camouflage their strange-looking clothing.
‘If we’re going to be around here for any length of time, we ought to get some other clothes,’ he observed. ‘Your red sweater stands out like a beacon among all this homespun fabric.’
‘You’re right,’ Mark said, appearing to notice his pullover for the first time all day. ‘But before that, we have to do something with her. Look for something we can use to tie her up.’ Steven pulled the belt from around his waist and, taking his friend’s lead, Mark did the same.
‘What do you mean?’ Brynne implored. ‘Are we not going to my tavern? I can get you food, and Sallax has clothing there that will fit both of you.’
‘Into the lion’s den, my dear?’ Mark asked sarcastically. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll find food and clothing and be back to get you. We need to meet Gilmour, because he’s the only other person who seems to understand we’re not here to overthrow the damned government, or to infiltrate your resistance efforts, but I certainly don’t trust you enough to follow you into town.’ Mark felt a pang of sadness as he watched her frown with disappointment. She was lovely. He fought the urge to gently push her hair back off her face.
‘I don’t want anything to do with you two either,’ she spat. ‘Why will you not trust me to take
you to Gilmour now?’
Steven said, ‘Because we don’t believe you know where he is. None of you were expecting that attack this morning, so I don’t suppose your friends are all snugly tucked in their beds. We’ll find food, steal some clothing and be right back for you.’ Brynne struggled against the bonds that held her firmly to a handy tree trunk. They were still several hundred paces from the edge of the village and although screaming would do her no good, Steven was taking no chances; he tore a sleeve from his shirt and tied it tightly across her mouth.
‘Try to relax,’ he whispered as he and Mark turned to make their way stealthily into the village. ‘We’ll be back in a tick.’
Unable to respond, Brynne’s eyes clouded with anger and she lashed out at the foreigners, but her kick sailed wide of its targets.
‘You think she was lying?’ Steven asked a short while later.
‘I’m sure she was lying.’
‘That’s too bad. I’ve always wanted to meet a woman who owned her own bar,’ Steven mused.
Mark chuckled. ‘Yeah, me too, but I was hoping mine would be on 17th Street in Denver.’
‘Maybe we can find Gilmour at Greentree Tavern,’ Steven guessed. ‘Why else would she want to get us there?’
‘Sallax,’ Mark commented dryly.
‘Oh, you’re right. He does tend to shoot first and ask questions never, doesn’t he.’ Steven spoke in hushed tones as they approached a row of single-storey stone buildings with clay-tiled roofs. ‘I say we risk it. Maybe he won’t try to kill us if he knows we have her tied up somewhere.’
‘Let’s find clothes first. We certainly can’t ask for directions looking like this.’ Mark crept alongside one of the buildings and peered through an open window to where a family was sitting around a fireplace, talking and laughing together.
‘Not this one,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s keep going.’ They moved to the next window, through which Mark could see a family making preparations for their evening meal.
