The Tale of Oriel

by Cynthia Voigt

  Griff, pale, and sad, was lifting his shirt over his head. Griff looked right at him to say, “I’m sorry.”

  He knew what Griff meant to say. Griff understood the choicelessness and was sorry to make things harder for him.

  “You hear? Did you all hear? Griff admits it,” Nikol said. “But he’s just saying it now so he’ll get fewer strokes. Are you going to let Griff get away with that?” Nikol asked the Damall.

  He felt anger raise his heart, until it seemed that he was soaring on wings of anger above the hall. From up there, he could see the Damall’s purposes, and see Nikol’s purposes, and see a way to save himself.

  He handed the whip back to the Damall, who held it out to Nikol.

  He made his accusation. “Griff isn’t the one who should be whipped. I accuse Nikol.”

  Nikol’s eyes narrowed, briefly. The whip was between them, ready. “You, I’ll whip you first, until you beg me—”

  “You’ll whip no one.” The Damall had risen in his chair. “Not until I tell you. Besides, he accuses you. Have you no answer to make to the accusation?”

  “I deny it,” Nikol said. “He has no proof.”

  He had proof ready, and as soon as he started telling it, the Damall’s glittering eyes told him he had chosen well. “I think Griff saw you,” he said. “I think Griff had gone out to the privy and left the soup unguarded. I think you had the corms. I think Griff saw you dropping something into the soup and I think he asked you what you were doing and I think you told him he made a mistake, you weren’t doing anything. I think Griff believed you. I think you are the boy who only pretended—”

  By then, Nikol had hurled himself forward.

  He was ready, feet apart, hands in fists. He felt nothing, when Nikol slammed into him, he felt no pain of fingers groping for his eyes and cheeks, there was no more than a temporary blackness in front of his eyes. He threw Nikol off, threw Nikol onto the ground, threw himself down on top of Nikol.

  Hands grabbed him, to haul him up. Nikol scrambled to his feet.

  “Let’s do this properly,” the Damall said.

  The Damall held him back by the arms, until he agreed. Then the Damall said, “Take the whipping box out of the way. These two will fight without interference, until . . . one of them begs for mercy. Yes. Then we can be sure who the guilty person is, and we will deal with him. Understood?”

  The boys murmured agreement.

  “No boy is to try to help in the fight. No one. If any boy does that, he’ll be punished as many strokes as the guilty person. Is that understood?”

  They understood. Four boys carried the whipping box out of the way. They made a circle around the space in front of the fireplace. The Damall sat in his chair. The main hall was dark behind the ring of boys, even though it was morning. Firelight played in the air and fell over the faces, as if it were evening, not morning.

  He didn’t think. He couldn’t think. He held himself ready.

  Nikol, too, across the empty space, awaited the Damall’s word. The packed dirt floor made a kind of penned area, like a corral for animals or the slave market in Celindon. The fire burned behind its hearthstone. Nikol’s eyes burned. He hadn’t understood how much Nikol hated him.

  He shifted, waiting. Firelight made shadows on Nikol’s face.

  At the word, they began.

  This time they were cautious, with circlings and fingers clenched. There was a roaring in his ears, like fire. He could hear his heart beating, he could see Nikol’s eyes and the red blood oozing down from Nikol’s nose. His feet scuffed along the floor in their soft-soled boots as he circled, wary, ready.

  Then there was a time of feinting and false starts. He jabbed a fist out, to draw Nikol’s guard. Nikol rushed forward and he just stopped himself in time from ducking backwards, off balance. They feinted and drew back, circling. He began to sweat, salty sweat running into his mouth. He was aware only of Nikol’s burning eyes and the dark moving shape beneath the eyes that was Nikol’s body.

  With a cry that was half a groan, Nikol broke the circle and threw himself fists first into the fight.

  There was a confusion of blows and jabs and pains. He moved his hands and legs, moved back and forward, to protect himself against fists, and clawing fingers, teeth, and hands that pulled his hair back, against jabbing knees and kicking feet, and he had to maintain his balance. He was shoving and hitting, clawing, biting at Nikol’s ear—it tasted vile—and biting at the hand that Nikol had over his face, with Nikol’s fingers up his nose. He jabbed his knee at Nikol’s parts. He shoved Nikol’s chest with his shoulder and Nikol’s face with his elbow and knuckles. Nikol’s nose spurted blood, and he had Nikol’s blood all over his face. Unless it was his own blood.

  He wiped his eyes, because he couldn’t see for the blood, and sweat. The sweat stung.

  He jabbed backwards, because Nikol hung on his back.

  Nikol fell off and he stumbled for sudden lightness.

  There was a sound, the boys making some kind of noise. The sound had been going on for a while, he thought.

  The Damall’s eyes glittered. The Damall might have been about to smile.

  He got up onto his feet, but his knees felt wrong, and he was struck from behind the legs and his knees buckled. He fell over backwards like a tree and heard his head strike on the hearthstone. Stunned for two blinks of his eyes, as he tried to clear his vision, two more blinks—he shook his head.

  Nikol knelt on his chest, a knee in his neck, choking him. Nikol had a dagger. The dagger Nikol had was his, the one he had been given years earlier, the one that had disappeared. Did Nikol carry a dagger in his boot every day?

  Nikol lifted the dagger up, to bring it down into his throat, or chest.

  To cut his throat, like a pig’s. To—

  He held Nikol’s hand up, his arm stiff. He bucked and arched, like a fish on the hook, to knock Nikol off. He brought his knees up. Nikol rocked, but didn’t fall. Nikol’s hands and legs held him down. The dagger descended and only his own left hand slowed its progress.

  He wondered which would prove stronger: the hand that wrapped around the dagger’s hilt and drove it down, or the hand that wrapped around the other hand’s wrist, to push it back away.

  From behind Nikol’s head, behind Nikol’s bared teeth, the Damall’s blanket swirled. The Damall reached down to take the hands that held the dagger. The Damall pulled the dagger free. Nikol groaned, cursed, wiped tears away.

  He gathered all of his strength, and bucked Nikol off. He surged up onto his feet, staggering a little until the floor steadied under him.

  Nikol lay on the ground, on his side.

  He took a minute to pull his lower lip free of his teeth. The blood that followed, he swallowed.

  Nikol lay on his belly, on the ground. His back heaved.

  “I think I’ll keep this dagger for the boy who wins this fight. I think,” the Damall said, “that the boy who wins this fight is the boy who should be my heir. Don’t you agree?” the Damall asked the circle of boys, who responded excitedly. “Isn’t that a good idea? Whichever of you two is the winner—the one who makes the other boy cry out for mercy, he has to say that word, no other word will stop it—that boy gets the dagger. That boy will be the seventh Damall. Yes, I do like that.” The Damall backed into his seat, and gathered the blanket about himself.

  He was already standing.

  Nikol struggled up onto his knees, because tears were running out of his eyes. Tears of frustration and anger.

  He knew he shouldn’t let Nikol get up. He knew he didn’t know how much strength of his own he had left, in his legs that shook and his hands that hung on the ends of his wrists, somewhere. He couldn’t think. It was harder to fight if you were standing, swaying. He dove onto Nikol.

  They rolled, punched, grabbed. Nikol rolled over on top and pounded with his fists.

  He felt wrong—in his mouth and cheeks, his ears rang and there were hands around his throat trying to keep air out.


  He rose up, and the arms fell back. He rose free and grabbed Nikol’s hair. He was sitting on Nikol’s chest and Nikol’s head rose in his hands and banged back onto the ground, it rose and banged. He couldn’t tell if the blood was coming out of Nikol’s ear or going into it.

  “Stop,” Nikol cried. “Stop, please.”

  Nikol’s mouth was bleeding, and Nikol’s whole nose followed the blood sideways over his cheek. The hands that lifted Nikol’s head and slammed it down kept at their work.

  “All right!” Nikol cried out. “Mercy!”

  The hands kept on, and he could feel his heart thudding in his chest. He had been breathing fire.

  “Mercy!” Nikol screamed. “Mercy! Mercy! I beg—”

  He heard the voice. Nikol’s head fell down onto the ground. Nikol lay screaming, like a pig at the slaughtering. He lifted his hand—and his shoulder hurt, too—and backhanded Nikol across his bloody cheek. The screaming stopped.

  The boys were crying out something behind them. The Damall put the dagger into his hand. “Nikol wanted to let Griff have twenty-five strokes,” the Damall said. “Twenty-five strokes will—I’ve seen a boy die after nineteen. Nikol wanted Griff to die.”

  “I didn’t,” Nikol cried. “I didn’t, I didn’t.”

  “He was lying about Raul, too, just to get Griff. That was a lie, wasn’t it, Raul?” the Damall asked. “Didn’t Nikol make you lie?”

  “I didn’t,” Nikol wept. “I didn’t do it, I’m sorry.”

  He sat on Nikol’s chest, the dagger in his hand, but he couldn’t understand what to do next.

  “You said,” the Damall reminded him, “that for the guilty party there would be twenty-five strokes.”

  “But I’ll die!” Nikol cried. Nikol’s swollen eyes didn’t know who to look to, for help.

  He held the dagger in his hand, and the fire burned in front of him. He had won the right to be seventh Damall. He had won what had been already given to him. It wasn’t a whipping Nikol needed.

  He swallowed, and tasted blood.

  “You tried to kill me with the dagger,” he said to Nikol.

  “I didn’t, I wouldn’t have, I’m sorry.”

  “This wasn’t a fight with daggers,” he said. He knew what he was going to do now. He had his fingers wrapped around the dagger, and he brought it down to Nikol’s throat, like a pig’s.

  Nikol’s eyes showed white. He couldn’t back his head away from the dagger.

  “I don’t trust you,” he said to Nikol.

  The boys behind him murmured.

  “I’m not afraid of you. But you’ll do things behind my back,” he said to Nikol. “So you have to choose. I could cut behind your knee so you’ll never walk straight and I’ll always be able to hear you coming. That’s one choice.” Nikol’s head rocked from side to side in fear. “Or I can hold your hand in the fire. Like the pirates did to the fifth Damall. Until the whole hand is burned off, so you can’t hurt anyone again.”

  “No.” Nikol moaned now. “No, no. Not fair. Please. No.”

  “Choose,” he said.

  Nikol shook his head. Nikol opened his mouth but no words came out.

  The Damall crouched down and put his face close to Nikol’s. “You have to choose. If you don’t pick one, I’ll let him do both.”

  “I can’t say. I don’t. All right! The leg! I choose—no, don’t, please don’t, I’ll take the—no, please don’t, I’ll do whatever you say. Forever, until I die, I will. I’ll tell you everything I know. I know the Damall’s secrets, where he hides things away, what he’s afraid of, I know where there’s meat—”

  The Damall’s hand came down over Nikol’s mouth, and squeezed until Nikol screamed again.

  He felt sorry for Nikol, who didn’t even have the courage to pick his own pain and punishment. Nikol was nothing now, not even as much of a creature as the pale lusks that backed down into the mud when your fingers chased them.

  He looked around, over his shoulder. All the boys were looking down at Nikol, and some of them were laughing at Nikol, and none of them felt sorry for Nikol.

  He stood up, without a word. The Damall tried to stop him, but he eluded the man’s grasp. He left Nikol on the floor and walked across the main hall, away from the fire. He walked out of the door, out into the yard. He held the dagger.

  Rain sleeted down onto his bare head. It cooled his body and his face. His head was already cool. The boys followed him and the Damall followed the boys and he was not surprised when they followed.

  He crossed the yard and went through the narrow gate, down the path to the harbor. The rocks underfoot were slippery, but he didn’t lose his balance. He held the dagger up, aloft, as if it were a light to follow. At the water’s edge, he waded out to climb up onto a huge boulder, and waited for all to gather on the shore behind him. Without a word, he pulled his arm back and hurled the dagger up, out, over, and then it cut sharply into the grey water. It sank and was gone.

  He turned around to let them see it in his battered face: He needed no dagger to rule.

  Chapter 4

  HE HAD ONLY BLINKS OF an eye to escape losing everything: He felt the wateriness of his knees and waist at the same time that he heard a buzzing in his ear and—just for an eyeblink—saw the boys gathered on the shore, the Damall tallest of them, although there was one boy there who might be trusted—to see them all, there, and boats, too, although not all the boats—as if they were behind a cloud, now, or behind—

  He took a breath and fell backwards. It might look as if he were diving into the winter sea, in a show of strength.

  He fell like a stone into the water. It was so cold that he opened his mouth to gasp a protest. Icy water poured in through his teeth, filling his mouth and choking his throat. His heart, he thought, stopped.

  The sea bottom caught and held him and he rested there, until numbness seeped into his skin—face and arms and legs, belly. When he gathered his feet beneath him and stood up in the chest-high water, the boats bobbing around him, the pains of the many parts of his body had been dulled by the cold. He could smile, although it pained his cheeks to move, and his lower lip. He could smile in victory and mastery. He could walk out of the water and stride back up the path, with the others behind him as if they were a procession. It was not until he was ten paces from the doorway into the main hall, where Nikol stood waiting, watching, bleeding from a nose that seemed to have moved under his right eye, that the seventh Damall felt in danger again of collapsing onto the ground, into the soft bed of senselessness that reached up for him.

  He made himself walk on. Made his knees bend. Nikol moved back before him, and that was luck. Through the doorway to the fire.

  There, Griff took him by the arm. “I’ll use wine,” Griff announced, “lest the cuts fester.”

  All eyes were on Griff, who dared to say such a thing. He was glad all attended to Griff, because what little strength he had left was draining out of him.

  “And salt,” Griff announced, maneuvering the two of them to the doorway into the kitchen.

  The boys all looked to the Damall, to hear how he would respond to this. The Damall hesitated.

  Meanwhile, Griff carried and pushed him into the kitchen. Meanwhile, Griff lowered him onto a stool beside the fireplace, carefully, so that his back rested against the warm stones.

  He closed his eyes. The numbness had entirely worn off, and his body and face ached and throbbed, worse in the fire’s warmth. When he breathed in, there was pain waiting, and when he breathed out. His legs trembled.

  “Drink,” Griff said.

  A bowl was put into his hands. “Blood?” he asked, but even he had difficulty understanding the word as it came out through his swollen mouth.

  “Wine,” Griff said.

  Between them they lifted the wooden bowl and got wine into his mouth. The wine was sharp, and bitter; it lay warm on his belly. He drank a second bowl unassisted, and the warmth of wine worked like the cold of the sea, to numb.

 
; Griff washed him off with water, washed his face with wine, which stung, and then rinsed it again with cool water.

  He leaned back against the warmth of the stones and dozed. When he opened his eyes, he could see only Griff, bending over the cauldron of soup. “Griff?”

  Griff moved to the wine vat, ladled a bowlful, and brought it to him. “It’s time for the meal,” Griff said.

  That made it late in the day. He swallowed wine and felt his head clear. “The Damall—” he said, staring into the wine.

  “You’re the next Damall,” Griff reminded him.

  “The seventh Damall.” He lifted the bowl to his mouth and emptied it. He had the right, now. “I had better go into the hall and sit at table. And dine.” He stood, swaying, and then righted himself, waiting until the ringing in his head ceased. He moved slowly to the doorway, and was not sure where he was going.

  Wine fuddled the brains. They had all seen it often enough with the Damall. That thought went through him like flame through straw, and he straightened up, to walk strongly into the main hall.

  When he entered, the faces of the boys turned to him and conversation halted. He didn’t know what they saw. He saw a half circle of boys, sitting cross-legged or leaning back on their elbows, drawn back from the warmth of the fire because the Damall’s chair sat up close to it. He saw the Damall in his chair, a tankard of wine in his hand, a little smile on his face as he listened to Nikol. Nikol stood behind the half circle of boys. His nose still slewed off to one side and one of his eyes had swollen to a slit. Nikol stood stiffly, as if all movement would be pain.

  The Damall stood to greet him, with a raised tankard. “This boy is the next Damall, the seventh Damall. I name him my heir.” The Damall was saying the sentences just the way the Great Damall had written. “I name him next to rule over the Damall’s island and the Damall’s boys. I name him master of the treasure. Gold and silver and the beryls—all of these are his, because he is the seventh Damall,” announced the sixth Damall.

  The seventh Damall didn’t speak; as the ceremony required, in the Great Damall’s book, he remained silent. The faces of the boys were turned up to him, now, and the first shadows of fear joined the shadows the fire left on their cheeks and in their eyes.