by Angus Wells
But as the spring approached the days lengthened, and in direct proportion the time left before I should depart shortened.
When the time came, it was very hard. Nor is it a time on which I care to dwell overlong, and so I tell it brief.
The ceremonies celebrating the coming of age of both Tellurin and Coram preceded mine, and both were followed within days by their betrothals.
My own ceremony approached, midway through that spring. I waited on word from Rekyn. I grew somewhat surly when none came, wondering if the commur-mage had forgotten her promise. The day dawned bright, and I rose early, before my parents even, walking out alone through the village to the Cambar road, where I climbed a tree to peer nervously northward. Tonium found me there, sent by my mother to bring me back for the ritual preparations, and took great delight in my discomfort until I reminded him that did Rekyn fail to come and I remain in the village, his own hopes of advancement must be dashed. That was small satisfaction as I trudged homeward to bathe and dress in the breeks and tunic my mother had lovingly stitched for this propitious day.
Dressed, I went at my father’s side to the cella, where the mantis waited, clad in his ceremonial robe, no longer my plump tutor, but the representative of the God. As was customary on such days, no boats put out, but all the villagers stood watching outside the cella. Alone, I followed the mantis inside. There he spoke to me of manhood, of its responsibilities and duties, of the God and our debt to him. I gave the ritual responses and drank the sacred wine, ate the bread and the salt, he drew back my hair and tied it in manhood’s tail; and all the while my ears were pricked for the sound of hoofbeats, the jangle of harness.
Then, the ceremony completed, the mantis led me out and cried, “Welcome, Daviot, who is now a man.” I followed into the cool spring sunlight, blinking a moment as all shouted in answer, “Welcome, Daviot, who is now a man.”
I felt not at all like smiling, for I feared Rekyn had forgotten me, forgotten her promise. I saw my father, an arm about my mother’s shoulders, his face proud, hers a struggling admixture of pride and grief. Delia was beaming, waving enthusiastically, and even Tonium managed a grin. Battus and Lyrta stood beside them, and grave-faced Thorus; Tellurin and Corum with their betrothed; all White-fish village. Then I saw her, Andyrt at her side, both smiling, and I shouted for joy and in that instant entirely forgot my fear.
My parents approached to embrace me. I saw tears on my mother’s cheeks. I hugged them, hugged Delia, and looked to Rekyn. Commur-mage and jennym both came close, and Rekyn said, “Did you think I had forgotten?”
I blushed and toed the dirt a moment with my new-polished boots, then shrugged and answered, “I was afraid you had.”
She smiled. The sun struck blue-black sparks from her hair as she shook her head. I studied her face and asked her bluntly, “When do we depart?”
Andyrt laughed at that and said, “Are you in such a hurry, Daviot? May we not sample the feast before we go?”
I looked at him—there was a little more gray in his hair now, and a recent scar on his chin—and past his shoulder saw my parents. Almost, I said that I had sooner go on the instant: it would have been easier. Instead I smiled and shook my head in turn and answered him, “Of course, and welcome.”
The crowd was a boon then, surrounding me as I walked from the cella to the village square, where Thorym’s tables were augmented by an array of planks and trestles, all set with food and barrels of ale and wine. I thought that, despite the contributions all made to such festivities, this must have cost my father dear. I went to the head of the appointed table—places set there for my family and the mantis, two more for our honored guests—and faced the crowd, and cried, “I bid you welcome and ask you join me.”
That was as much formality as Whitefish village countenanced: the tables were rapidly occupied, the feasting soon begun. I was intent on Rekyn and Andyrt, on the myriad questions that filled my mind.
“You’re in a mighty hurry,” the commur-mage remarked when I again asked when we should depart. I could only shrug, embarrassed, as Rekyn’s finely arched brows rose in mute inquiry.
Then she added gravely, “Do you change your mind, Daviot?”
“No!” I shook my head vigorously, embarrassed afresh as my answer sent crumbs of new-baked bread spilling across the table. “No! I’d go with you to Durbrecht still.”
Rekyn ducked her head once and smiled. “We take you only so far as Cambar Keep,” she said, “to present you to the aeldor. From Cambar you go on alone to Durbrecht.”
That took me a little aback: I had not thought to make so great a journey alone, but in company of my sponsors, Rekyn must have read my expression, for she added gently, “We’ll see you safe aboard a vessel, and you’ll carry an introduction from the aeldor. You’ll be met in Durbrecht.” Then, after a moment’s pause, “We’ve duties of our own in Cambar.”
“The more with these new Comings,” Andyrt muttered, “the God condemn the Kho’rabi.”
“What does it mean?” my father asked.
“I cannot say,” Rekyn told him honestly. “Only that the Sky Lords come unseasonal. Seven of their craft have passed north of Cambar this year alone; more up the coast. Two grounded last year in Draggonek. The Kho’rabi were slain, but the fighting was fierce.”
My father nodded, digesting this. My mother gasped, her eyes finding my face, fearful, as if to the sadness she knew at loss of her son was added the fear he might fall to a Sky Lord’s blade. Rekyn said, “None close to Durbrecht, Donia. Nor likely to come there—the Sorcerous College lies there, remember.”
My mother nodded and essayed a wan smile, her eyes finding mine, troubled.
I had not thought overmuch of my parents’ feelings in the matter of my advancement, being far more enwrapped in my own. Now, in that single instant, I recognized the pain I gave them. Oh, they were proud that I should be so singled out, and pleased for me, but still they saw a son lost to them. We had not spoken of it much—that was not our way—but we knew that at least one year must pass before we might meet again, and—should I remain in Durbrecht—we could not know how many more. Perhaps this would be our last time together.
But I was young, and now a man, and set that burden aside. I drank ale to which I was not accustomed and asked again, “When do we depart?” wishing it might be on the instant, without sad farewells, and at the same time that it might be never.
I believe Rekyn understood, for she chuckled and said, “Certainly you are in a mighty hurry,” making a jest of it. “But in your honor we came by sea, and the return shall not take long.”
I nodded and emptied my mug, and after a while pipes and a gittern were brought out and the dancing began. I drank more ale as Tellurin and Corum, all my friends, came to shake my hand and bid me farewell.
Then, as melancholy threatened (much aided by the ale), Rekyn suggested we depart. My mother presented me with a change of clothing bundled in an oilskin and the admonishment I look after myself, and she held me so close I feared my ribs should break. My father shook my hand, man to man, then himself embraced me and gave me a purse that jingled with the few coins he could afford. Delia flung her arms about my neck and wet my face with kisses and tears in equal measure. Tonium, unusually subdued, clutched my hand. The mantis called the God’s blessing on me. Battus and Lyrta said their good-byes, and taciturn Thorus presented me with a knife held in a leather sheath he had decorated himself. I thanked him and gravely set the scabbard on my belt. I was close to tears myself and grateful for Andyrt’s touch on my shoulder, his calm reminder that the day aged and we had best catch the tide lest we need row our way to Cambar.
We went down to the beach, where a little single-masted cutter waited. I slung my bundle on board and turned to survey Whitefish village.
It seemed now the day had passed in the blinking of an eye, that the last four years had flown by. The feasting had lasted well into the afternoon, and the sun now stood above the headland. The pines there were stark a
nd black, limned in sunlight. The roof of the cella shone white, its bell gleaming. The village looked very small; the world beyond seemed infinitely large. I clambered into the boat after Rekyn. Andyrt took the tiller; I went to the mast, raising the sail to catch the offshore breeze. I stood there as Andyrt took us out, all the time looking back to where everyone and everything I knew, all that was familiar to me, lay, growing steadily smaller as I went away.
We came to the mouth of the river Cambar as dusk gave way to night. It was not a long journey; but then it was the farthest I had ever been from home, and it felt to me a very long way indeed. The half-filled moon stood pale at our backs, flinging shards of silver light over the quickening swell that marked the river’s mouth, where fresh water met the salt sea between two headlands topped with windblown pines. Andyrt swung the tiller over, and I sprang unthinking to the sail. It did not occur to me that Rekyn must have taken this duty before, and she said nothing, leaving me to my task. I believe it was a kindness on her part, that I might begin these steps along the new path of my life with some sense of usefulness, not merely as a passenger. I caught the sail before it luffed, and we rode the last of the wind a little way upriver. Then it was oarwork, and that, too, Rekyn left to me, so that I faced Andyrt’s shadowed form as we proceeded up the Cambar. In consequence I did not see the keep until we docked.
There was no beach here, but a stone-walled anchorage, fishing craft bobbing on the tide, moored neat along the harbor. Nimbly (my racing blood and the wind had dispelled the effects of the ale) I sprang to the stone, tying the painter to a metal ring. Then I stood, staring inland.
The cliffs that flanked the river were low, and about the harbor there was a wide cleft, gently sloped and covered at the foot with cottages akin to those I had left behind. Higher, I saw what seemed to me very grand houses, with tiled roofs that glittered in the moonlight, some even sporting balconies about their upper stories. They were set about either side of a broad avenue that ran up to the clifftop, ending at a structure that trapped and held my eyes.
The keep, from this low angle, seemed a single vast column rising atop the ridge, a great stone cylinder set all around with bright-lit windows, a beacon blazing in the night. I stood gape-mouthed, a country bumpkin confronted with a dream. The houses along the avenue were dwarfed, dismissed into insignificance by this wondrous tower. This was the home hold of the aeldor Bardan: this was the gateway to my future.
I started as Andyrt thrust my bundle at me and clapped a cheerful hand to my shoulder. “Save you’d spend the night here, do we go on?” he chuckled. “The sea edges my appetite, and all well dinner will be served soon.”
I nodded, still staring upward, and fell into step, Rekyn on my left. She said mildly, “This is not so great a hold, Daviot. Wait until you see the towers of Durbrecht.”
I nodded again, lost for words; it seemed to me no place could possibly be grander than this. I shouldered my bundle and went with them across the cobbles of the harbor to the avenue. Now I tore my eyes from the great keep and stared instead at the marvelous houses, their windows paned with clear glass, not the yellow membrane of sheepgut, their woodwork carved and painted for no reason other than decoration. Robus and the mantis had sometimes been persuaded to speak of Cambar—as best I knew then, they were the only men in our village who ever came here—and I had wondered at their tales, but they did nothing to prepare me for this fabulous place, and I walked with eyes and mouth wide, dumbstruck.
And then the avenue ended at a wall, and I saw that the keep was not a single column but was surrounded by this dry-stone barrier, and through the open wooden gate that lesser buildings huddled about its foot.
I thought there should be guards there, but I was wrong. The only sentries were three enormous gray hounds, all shaggy hair and flashing fangs, they seemed to me, that came barking up, to be rebuffed by Andyrt with a shouted command mand that sent them trotting back to the shelter of a stable where horses nickered and stamped. I took my hand from my knife’s hilt and pretended I had not been afraid as my two companions brought me across the yard to the keep’s entrance. Rekyn motioned me forward, but I hesitated, struck suddenly by a new concern: “Do I meet the aeldor now? How should I address him?”
“‘My lord’ will do,” she told me, “and you’ve no reason to fear him. Bardan’s no ogre, and you come as welcome guest to this hold.”
I swallowed, took a deep breath, and nodded; we entered the keep. I saw how thick were the walls, marveling at the builder’s skill, then frowned as I realized we did not stand in the great hall I had expected but in a kind of cellar, a huge, circular chamber, dim and stacked all about with casks and barrels, firewood, sacks, haunches of meat hung from hooks set in the wooden roof. Rekyn touched me gently, indicating a broad stairway that rose around the curve of the wall. She moved ahead of me then, and Andyrt fell in behind, and we climbed toward another open door, light bright there, and noise.
On Rekyn’s heels I went in and gaped anew despite myself. This chamber was as large as the one below but set with deep-cut embrasures and circled by sconces in which candles burned, augmenting the blaze of the fire in the massive hearth and the lanterns that hung from the beams overhead. The floor was wood, scattered with rushes, long tables and benches occupied by more men than women, the latter sex emerging from doorways, carrying platters of meat, bread, steaming vegetables, pitchers of ale. Off to one side a minstrel—I had neither seen nor heard one before, but I knew from the kithara he plucked that was his calling—fought the roar of the diners. He stood behind a table set a little apart from the others, three men and two women seated there.
“The aeldor,” Rekyn murmured in my ear. “The Lady Andolyne is to his right; the other woman is Gwennet, wife of Sarun, who is heir. The other man is Bardan’s second son, Thadwyn.”
I nodded in thanks and acknowledgment, committing the names to my memory, eager to make as good an impression as I might, and walked with the commur-mage and Andyrt to stand before the table.
Andyrt sketched a casual bow; Rekyn ducked her head and said, “Lord Bardan, this is Daviot of Whitefish village.”
I bowed, my eyes fixed on the floor. I saw a bone there, and then another of the great gray hounds snatch it up. The room grew silent save for the soft strumming of the kithara, and then a deep voice said, “In the God’s name, Daviot of Whitefish village, will you stand up and look me in the eye, or are you bent-backed?”
I felt my cheeks grow warm. I stood, mumbling, “My lord aeldor, Lady Andolyne … No, I am not … I—”
Bardan laughed, the sound rumbling from his broad chest, and I met his gaze. I saw a rotund face, ale-flushed and dense-bearded, streaks of white in the russet, the eyes large and brown, twinkling with amusement. He was a heavy-set man, past his prime, but yet muscular. The sleeves of his tunic were rolled back, revealing forearms corded thick. He smiled at me, beckoning me forward.
“So you’re the one,” he said. “Rekyn speaks well of you—Andyrt, too—and I trust their judgment. You’d be a Mnemonikos, eh?”
“Does it serve you,” I said, and thought to add, “my lord aeldor.”
“Me,” said Bardan, “the Lord Protector, Dharbek. Aye, have you the makings of a Rememberer, then you shall serve us all.”
“And does that not work out,” said Andyrt, with what I then thought was massive presumption, “I’ll have him for the warband.”
Bardan laughed again, not at all put out, and shouted for places to be set at his table, ale to be brought us.
As we waited I took the opportunity to study his kinfolk. His wife, the Lady Andolyne, was of an age with him, which is to say old in my eyes, but like the aeldor she seemed hale, if not so beautiful as I had thought so elevated a personage should be. Her hair was not yet touched with gray, but its brown was somewhat faded, and though her eyes shone bright, they nested amongst lines. Gwennet’s hair was a soft gold, and she was pretty in a vague way. She was clearly some few years younger than her husband, and the
smile she bestowed on me was friendly. Indeed, they were all friendly, even Sarun, who was a hawk to his father’s bear, lean of feature, with the same brown eyes but those more piercing—appraising me, I thought. Thadwyn was not much older than I and favored his mother. Much to my surprise, it was he who pushed a filled tankard to me when we sat.
After the ale I had already drunk, I had poor appetite for more, but I deemed it ungracious to refuse and so smiled my thanks and sipped. Bardan saw my caution and exaggerated a frown. “What’s this?” he demanded. “A would-be Mnemonikos who’s no taste for ale? In the God’s name, young Daviot, that’s a thing unknown.”
“Perhaps,” said Andolyne with a smile, “Daviot shall set a new standard, and introduce sobriety to his calling.”
“Unlikely,” said Sarun. “Have you ever met a Storyman without a taste for ale?”
“Or wine,” said Thadwyn.
“Or mead,” said Gwennet.
“Or fire-wine,” said Sarun, and studied me with hooded eyes a moment before grinning as if we were old friends. “I suspect you’ll learn in time, Daviot. The Storymen have a certain reputation, you know.”
“In your own time,” Andolyne said kindly. “And as I say—do you choose to introduce new ways …”
Then, basking in their ready friendship, I felt only put at my ease, grateful to them, and to Rekyn, Andyrt, that I, a plain fisherman’s son, should sit so welcome at their table.
And so, as my confidence grew, I ate, and drank more ale, and found my tongue. And as I talked, my mouth grew dry and I supped more, until I swayed in my chair and their faces began to blur, and I found the words become harder of finding, and harder still to speak.
Andyrt, I discovered, carried me to my bed, and Rekyn had the keep’s herbalist prepare a decoction for which I was later mightily grateful, though it tasted bitter and I fought it at the time. Thanks to that I passed the night in sound sleep, waking to the sounds of the rising hold, unaware at first of where I lay. This was the first morning of my life I had not woke in my parents’ home, and I experienced a moment of wild panic as I opened my eyes and wondered where I was. Then I remembered and sprang from my bed, only to totter, my head spinning, needles seeming to pierce my skull and eyes. I groaned and sat back, pressing hands to my throbbing temples until I succeeded in focusing my eyes, and examined my chamber.
