The Willow Branch

by Lela Markham

  “Oh, aye. I’ll be telling them that you’re a distant cousin from Denygal who chose a commoner’s life because you were the 10th child.”

  “Well and good, my lady. This is a sack of kitchen herbs with some exotic spices. That’ll cover things for today. Your tale should cover the rest. I’m staying at an inn called the Red Giant. It’s near the old market.”

  “I’m sure Traegyr can find it. Be careful, brother. What you seek, I sense danger may follow it.”

  “‘Tis true, my lady, that danger will stalk this prey. I thank you for your prayers. One thing, though, truly, how did you know that I had become an herbman?”

  Lydya laughed.

  “Lodiac, your master, came to me a year after you’d disappeared. He wanted a prentice fee. I sold a fine brooch to get the coin.”

  “Truly? I suppose that explains why he didn’t want a prentice fee from me.” Padraig laughed. “Now I know why.”

  “I think he liked you well enough, Padraig. He was an old man just trying to keep food on his plate.”

  “That I know. I thank you for being able to provide what I could not.”

  “No thanks necessary. I did it for love of my brother. I’d do it again without hesitation.”

  Padraig glanced out the window, noting the position of the sun.

  “I should go before there’s gossip. Remember what I told you.”

  “Aye, I’ll pass the information on to Traegyr as soon as soon.”

  “Let him know that I’m no fool and that I want solid coin.”

  “I’ll do that,” Lydya assured him with a mischievous grin. “Now off with you before someone does start waggling their tongue. I’ll scry you out when I need to.”

  They embraced briefly and she ushered him out the door. Padraig left the dun straightway, though he made a bit of a show of looking up at the dun as though it were some marvel he’d not seen before.

  He returned to the Red Giant just in time to help prepare the meal – spit-roast chickens and basted turnips with fresh baked bread and ale. Since he owed Annan for his help over the years, Padraig didn’t complain about chopping vegetables.

  “Did the lad decide to stay?” Padraig asked.

  “Aye, though Heledd isn’t at all pleased. She reminds me that freeswords attract trouble. She does not understand why I would take one in.”

  “You always have, though, haven’t you?”

  “Aye, since the day I opened my doors. The gods only know that I might have been one of them, but for a bit of luck on my first scrap after I was kicked out of the warband. I ransomed a lord’s son and got a fair bit of coin. Heledd doesn’t know that side of me, so she thinks we should be proper and safe and not take coin from the likes of Tamys of Mulyn.”

  “Is that where he says he’s from?”

  “Nay, he has not said, but his accent is from Mulyn.”

  “Where is he, anyway?”

  “He went upstairs to his chamber. He’d had a fair bit of ale and needed to lie down for a bit.”

  Padraig nodding, knowing of what Annan spoke. Just as dinner was ready, the patrons began to trickle in in ones, twos and threes – young merchants, mostly, a scholar, a traveling priest, a traveling bard. The bard was a nice boon, for he sang for his supper and bed. For a man four years free of the kingdom, Padraig found himself hearing news that he’d not heard before. When Padraig had left the kingdom, there’d been two main combatants for the throne – the Eagles of east Mulyn and the Hawks of west Mulyn. They’d been the two main combatants for the near-century of civil war that had held the kingdom in its iron grip. Recently, the Falcons of Fyrgal had thrown in their claim, which the bard seemed to think might be a bit stronger than either of the traditional claimants. He wove a pretty story, singing in his strong bard’s voice, telling of the kingdom’s life which for the people at the inn was interesting news they might not hear again for years.

  “Which shall it be, good people, which shall it be? Whether Eagle, or Hawk, or Falcon. Which bird of prey will sit the throne?”

  Padraig smiled secretly to himself, for the Lord’s own prophesy had promised that “no bird of a feather shall rule the aviary.”

  When the bard pled thirst a rain of coins followed and he sang another song, this one concerning the cormorants of the southern coast, suggesting the Maille of Dun Llyr might also have a claim to the throne. Padraig dredged around in his memory for a connection, but none came. Finally, when the bard could not be induced to sing another song, saying he’d entertain a bit later, Padraig followed him to the ale barrel.

  “Good herbman, would you like a tankard of dark?”

  “Nay, but I’ve had my fill for the evening. I’ll stand you a tankard, though, for a bit of information.”

  “Of course, so long as I don’t have to sing it. What do you want to know?”

  “You were suggesting the Maille might have a claim, weren’t you?”

  “It’s rumored, aye.”

  “Based on what?”

  “The Maille’s great-grandfather was married to a bastard daughter of the royal family. His claim on bloodlines is less strong than any of the others, but the fact that the city holds the river trade – well, it’s a right good rumor and makes a lovely song.”

  “Has he made noises to the claim?”

  “Not as far as I know, but the son who just ascended to the rule is a proud man.”

  “Son? Which of the sons?”

  “The bastard was legitimized last year, barely days before his father’s death. He’d like to shove it in the faces of those who have held him down, I’m sure. And, truly, there’s even rumor that he might have a claim on his mother’s side.”

  “His mother is common, isn’t she?”

  “She was, but there’s apparently a connection. I hope to hear of that connection when I journey to Dun Llyr this summer.”

  “You say the Maille is a proud man. What sort of man is that?”

  “As his father’s warband captain he was quite the hero, but one wonders about one who was not meant to rule becoming a vyngretrix. He was certainly never allowed at the councils until his father legitimized him.”

  “Why did he?”

  “The legitimate heir died in one of the wars. Now there’s a thing to consider. The Maille, Lord Howydd, was war leader against Fyrgal many times and his brother was killed in battle against Fyrgal. I have to wonder if he might throw in his bid simply to revenge himself against Fyrgal.”

  As he hadn’t heard of any of this before, Padraig really hadn’t formed an opinion. How does it affect my mission?

  “Why do you ask such questions, herbman?” asked Tamys, who had come to dip a tankard.

  Padraig startled out of his reverie.

  “Just considering my options for hire,” he replied. “An herbman makes his money best round war.”

  Sometimes the stock of sayings that Lodiac had bored him with came in handy like. Tamys accepted his explanation without questioning and moved away to drink his ale in solitude. The lad sat with his back to the curve of the wall and he looked toward the door whenever anyone came in. Padraig, watching from a discreet distance, didn’t think the lad looked hunted. He seemed more like he was used to being the hunter. Padraig doubted the lad had been a freesword very long. In fact, he’d be shocked to learn the lad had ever sold his sword. The very fact that he’d asked after Padraig’s curiosity showed that he knew somewhat about politics. Few freeswords picked up that sort of understanding, despite the wars they rode and the many duns they tarried in.

  The bard started singing again after a bit, but the mood of the crowd had turned bawdy, so Padraig retired to his chamber. He sat down on the comfortable clean bed and pulled a picture codex out of one of his saddle bags. The sound of music filtering up from the tavern room provided an eerie backdrop to the message the pictures conveyed. Drawn on stiff pieces of bark, tied at one end, the 10 leaves had four pictures each. To the unlearned observer, the pictures told a meaningless story, but to one who knew w
hat they meant, they served as a memory device for calling up the Scriptos. Padraig scanned the first one.

  The mountain of the Lord will be established as chief among the mountains. Many people will come and say ‘Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jycib. He will teach us His ways so that we may walk in His paths

  Go into the rocks, hide in the ground from dread of the Lord and the splendor of His majesty. The eyes of the arrogant man will be humbled and the pride of men brought low. The Lord alone will be exalted in that day.

  Men will flee to caves in the rocks and to holes in the ground from dread of the Lord and the splendor of His majesty when He rises to shake the earth. In that day men will throw away to rodents and bats their idols of silver and gold which they made to worship. They will flee to caverns in the rocks and to the overhanging crags from dread of the Lord when He rises to shake the earth.”

  Padraig hadn’t the slightest idea how this scripta matched up with his prophesy, but the Wise Ones had been certain of it. Certain enough that they’d bound the codex and sent it with him. Padraig assumed that the One True God would reveal the meaning to him a bit at a time, as He did most things.

  Padraig acknowledged how tired he was, his eyes beginning to tear and his head to nod as he prayed. Padraig closed the codex up in his saddlebag and lay down on the firm straw mattress with the clean sheets. He’d just dosed off when he heard rattling at his door. Sitting up in the darkness, his hand groping for his long knife, Padraig thought it ironic that trouble would find him so soon. Then the rattling stopped and Padraig heard someone muttering oaths under his breath. It sounded like young Tamys, though a fair bit past drunk. Padraig waited until he heard the lock on the door opposite his unlatch before he lay back down. The music had stopped downstairs, but there were still some sounds, as if the travelers were laying out their bedding and the like. Padraig uncurled in the heat his body had made under the blankets and started to dose off again. Human or elven, the sound of a community settling down for the night had a relaxing quality to it that Padraig doubted he might explain to anyone. Just as he was about to fall off into true slumber, a little voice inside his head asked him a rather interesting question.

  How does a dishonored soldier like Tamys, a man most likely turned out of a warband with only his gear and two coppers, manage to afford the luxury of a private chamber at the Red Giant?

  Padraig was too sleepy to wake up enough to answer the question, but he knew he’d have to deal with it in the morning.

  Fog

  Celdryans live short lives, so that they quickly lose the past in the fog of the present. They believe much that is questionable, yet they hold to their truths passionately. Among these truths is that Rune was not a settled land before they arrived. Such speaks strongly of their arrogance.

  Saroynan, scribe of the collegiate (FY 102)

  Founding Year 931

  High Celdrya - Spring

  Due to a childhood spent in bed, Donyl had exhausted the library at Dun Celdrya a long time ago. It remained his favorite part of the huge dun for the smell of old paper, ink and leather, but today he did not have time to linger for Perryn’s soon-to-be brother-in-law was reported to have arrived and Donyl wanted to speak with him. One should always thank those who saved one’s life, he thought.

  His bad leg protested as he climbed the winding stairs to the outer broch that housed the library. He’d been too long in the saddle on his journeys this summer. Despite the pain, he needed to walk, to stretch out the thickened tendon and keep the weak muscles limber. He assured the librarian that he could find his own way, which the man well knew, and set off through the shelves to locate his savior.

  Donyl found Blethry in the very back room, standing upon a ladder, examining a shelf of scrolls far above Donyl’s head.

  “You’re Perryn’s brother, then?” Blethry said when Donyl introduced himself. He was young, his head fresh shaven clean. In keeping with his order’s traditions, as his hair grew out, he would maintain a small tonsure, which would be gradually widened as his status grew. “I suppose you want a word,” he said, moving toward the floor immediately.

  “If possible, aye,” Donyl said, his cheeks growing hot. Both his elder brothers had taken advantage of the respect their titles commanded, but Donyl had never felt comfortable with such behavior wielded by himself. The thought that Blethry was climbing down just to speak with him proved embarrassing.

  “Shall we walk?” Blethry asked, indicating the nearby rear steps. “I hear there’s a nice view from the roof.”

  Donyl didn’t much care for stairs, but had a good head for heights so agreed. Soon they were standing on the flat roof, overlooking a portion of the great city.

  “What are those houses?” Blethry asked, indicating row upon row of tiled roofs just the other side of the dun’s defense wall.

  “Merchants quarter,” Donyl said. He had not noticed before that many of the merchants houses had generous yards behind their dun-like outer walls and that these were often filled with crates and barrels. “I was meant to be you, you know,” Donyl confided, looking over the city. A freshening breeze tousled his wavy front locks.

  “I am aware,” Blethry admitted. Donyl glanced at him. “A bookish prince is the one they’d offer to the temples,” the young priest explained. “Though I would assume your father wanted you to be a Lughan.”

  “Aye. That I’ve no interest in the priesthood at all and far less for the Lughan cause was not judged worthy of thought.”

  “Perryn explained such to me when I arrived. Truly, I am Old Faith and the Bel, though different from my experience, is a good fit for me,” Blethry explained. “I will strive to serve your brother well. You needn’t worry that I have been inconvenienced, for I have not been.”

  “Thank you. I did wish to thank you, and I do, though I am glad to hear that it is actually your calling. I think one should have that for the temple and I never did.”

  Blethry nodded. He might only have been a couple of years older than Donyl. His shaved beard was still soft and there were no lines about his eyes or mouth when he smiled.

  “Did you have more to speak with me about? I think you might.”

  “Aye. My brother Maryn -- have you heard the circumstances of his death?”

  “I have. Somewhat troubles you?” Blethry phrased it as a question, but his gaze was direct.

  “All the witnesses speak of the full moon, but that is now, not two weeks’ gone. At least, that is what I believe. I seek verification.”

  “The librarian ….”

  “Can verify the information, but not give me the Old Faith perspective on it.”

  Blethry cocked an eyebrow, then nodded.

  “There are Old Faith legends that talk about the full moon out of time. The dark of the moon favors a goddess called the Morigan. Her power can become so great that it manifests itself in the sky as a chariot that men mistake for the full moon.”

  “Is this possibly what happened?”

  “It is a legend, sir. Legends often have a basis in fact, but I cannot say with certainty that the prince was killed by an ancient Celt goddess. There are certainly other more reasonable theories.”

  “The Assassins Guild?” Donyl provided.

  “Truly.”

  “They cannot cause the full moon to rise out of season.”

  “To my knowledge, nay, but they are allied with sorcerers, so mayhap ….”

  “Sorcerers?!! Come, good man, you are not serious!”

  “Prince Donyl, sir, I know that the Lughans deny such takes place, but the Bel are aware that these men work within the kingdom. All that arises from the Old Faith such as this is usually brought from Gawl.”

  Donyl’s heart squeezed and for a moment it felt like an icy hand swept down his back. He shivered in the warm sunlight.

  “Do you have more specific information?”

  “Nay. I could send to my brother’s councilor and acquire some,” Blethry offer
ed.

  “Do so. I will share this with my brother as soon as I might and I thank you for your candor.”

  Blethry nodded, but then caught at the sleeve of Donyl’s siarc.

  “Understand that the Old Faith does not condone this. It is heresy. We just know of it.”

  “I do understand,” Donyl soothed. “As soon as you have more information, share it with myself or Perryn … King Perryn. Do you understand?”

  “I do.” Blethry cleared his throat. “Mayhap I could ask you … my sister … will Perryn be an attentive husband?”

  “Attentive? Are you asking if he’ll have mistresses? Rumor has it my father never did until my mother’s death. I don’t much remember myself, but Maryn spoke of it. Will that be answer enough for you?”

  “It assures me a bit. We’re close, you see. I want what’s best for her.”

  “I admire that. I want what’s best for Perryn as well. You speak well for your sister.”

  Blethry smiled at the compliment. They would be friends if given a chance.

  Founding Year 1028

  Clarcom

  Several days passed without hearing from the chirgeon of Clarcom. As luck would have it, a spring rain blew in and flooded the roads, keeping everyone indoors. Padraig found his mornings spent curing the aches and pains of the chilled and damp townsfolk and his afternoons spent in mind-numbing boredom. He began to wonder if his sister’s influence reached as far as she thought it did. There was naught to do for it, as the roads were unpassable. He used his time to good end in gaining a new friend, for Tamys was the only patron who remained in the inn the whole time and he was as bored as Padraig.

  Padraig found the young soldier a puzzle to study. His speech branded him a Mulyn man, but his features found Padraig sometimes wondering if he might have some Denygal blood. He had long, slender fingers and the full mouth that Padraig knew so well. He wore a rider’s clothes, plain blue breecs and an unblazoned shirt, but his manners and way of speaking indicated some court training. He might have been a servitor’s son, trained for the warband and turned out for some reason of honor. Certainly the lad had a taste for ale that might cause a point of honor to hinge upon his tongue, though he was laconic enough with Padraig. Padraig tried to puzzle out an age for him, but Tamys had the studied wariness of a seasoned soldier with the features of a much younger lad. Padraig finally guessed his age at 18, though he supposed he might be as young as 16 or as old as 20. From time to time, especially when he’d had a few tankards of ale, Tamys would let his guard drop with Padraig and let slip with a few bits of information about himself. Padraig though he was not so much taciturn as private and that deliberate silence intrigued him.