by Lela Markham
One day, while the rain dripped heavily from the thatch, Padraig and Tamys sat by an open window, dicing for splinters. Padraig wagered only splinters because it was against his principles now to gamble for coin and Tamys seemed not to care. Despite the friendliness of the game, Padraig noted an uncanny ability to guess the fall of the dice in his companion.
“Have you thought of what you’ll do, soon as it stops raining?” Padraig asked.
“Naught, truly,” Tamys admitted, taking an automatic swallow of ale. “It’s still new yet.”
“Aye, but you can’t remain here much longer. Caravans will be hiring soon and if you want a place in a warband, you’ll have to find one in the summer.”
Tamys flinched. Padraig did not stay his hand at honesty.
“I speak as one who knows what it’s like to be suddenly upon the roads with no plans for the future. Starvation lays that way, my friend.”
“No doubt,” Tamys agreed. He sighed, then let go with the most honest statement he’d made since his arrival at the Red Giant. “There’s just somewhat that galls about selling my sword.”
“True-spoken. You’re young enough you might find a place by saying your lord’s been killed. Certainly there have been many of them meet their end in the last few years.”
“You mean find an honor position by lying?” Padraig could sense Tamys’ injured honor rising to a sharp edge. The lad had not yet accepted what his new life meant in terms of honor.
“Unless the truth will do, but I think it will not.”
Tamys shook his head, admitting without words what Padraig had already known. The lad took a long draught of ale.
“I suppose I’m trying to ignore the situation. I know I can’t do that much longer, but herding mules doesn’t sound like much of a living, nor does lying, nor does selling my sword. Were you faced with the same at one time, herbman?”
“Somewhat. I ran away from page when I was 13. I wasn’t ready to join a warband and I had no other skills. An herbman took me in. You could likely find someone who might take you in the same way.”
“I’m a bit old for a prentice,” Tamys objected. “And, I don’t much fancy being a farmer.”
“Selling your sword’s a short life and a troubled one.”
“I know that.” Tamys’ mouth tightened. Padraig let him work out what he wanted to say. “Sword’s the only work I know. And it wouldn’t do to lie my way into another warband. Sooner or later, I’d be found out and hung for a dishonored lout.”
Padraig answered slowly, recognizing that a common rider, unless of unusual skill, could easily become lost in a warband a long way from the territory he’d come from. Tamys had all but admitted to being noble born.
“You’ll have to make your own decisions, of course. Just remember that freeswords never have honor. No matter what glory your sword wins you, no matter how sought after that skill may be, you’ll always be viewed as little more than a thief.”
“That I know, which is why I languish here in Pedyr’s hospitality. Soon enough, though, I’ll need to make my decision.”
The outside door opened and a man and a young boy came in with the rain. Padraig recognized the plaid of the man’s breecs, where they showed beneath his cloak, as that of Clarcom. The lad approached them after a moment of shaking the rain from his wool cloak onto Annan’s clean floor.
“I am looking for Padraig of Denygal, an herbman.”
“Who might be asking?” Padraig asked, just to be surly.
“Lord Traegyr of Clarcom,” the lad intoned as if speaking a prayer.
Padraig felt Tamys stiffen even from the other side of the table, so that Padraig glanced at him. Tamys stared at the man by the door, his pale eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“And what does Lord Traegyr want with this Padraig of Denygal?” Padraig asked.
The lad glanced at the man by the door. Padraig’s eyes had finally adjusted to the change in light since the door had been opened and he saw Traegyr now. Of middling height and squarely built, it was difficult to tell with the cloak if he was merely burly or fat, but he had jowls like a temple dog and a double chin.
“Herbs,” the boy squeaked. He stared at Tamys now, who stared boldly at the lord.
“Aye, well, I might be having what he wants.”
“You’re Padraig of Denygal, then?” The lad looked from Tamys to Padraig, unable to feign his relief that Padraig, not Tamys, was the sought-after herbman.
“Aye, I am.” Padraig swung clear of the bench and walked the length of the room to the spiral stairs. “Let’s discuss our business in my chamber, shall we, Lord Traegyr?”
The toil to the third floor winded the chirgeon, which was exactly what Padraig wanted. He closed the door and turned immediately to question the chirgeon.
“My cousin, Lady Lydya, tells me you’re seeking herbs for congestion of the blood.”
“Aye. Do you have such?” Traegyr wheezed, mopping his forehead with a finely made handkerchief.
“We wouldn’t have come up here if I didn’t,” Padraig assured him. “How much do you want?”
“All that you have.”
“Nay, I’ll give you a year’s worth, naught a jot more.”
Traegyr’s cheeks flushed red, but he stayed the hand he wanted to wield. It wouldn’t have ever landed, for Padraig had trained enough for the warband to be able to protect himself against any mediocre swordman and Traegyr was not armed.
“I’m willing to pay in hard coin for all that you have,” Traegyr clipped out.
“You’ll pay in hard coin for a year’s worth.”
“Now, see here – .”
“I see perfectly well, thank you. I have somewhat that you need, somewhat that it is very rare and only available from a source that will not deal with you. I can command the price, I can command the amount. I can chose not to sell to you at all. Others may have need of what I have. You’ll get a year’s worth, if you get any.”
Traegyr’s pig eyes narrowed even more, but he puffed out his breath and agreed.
“How much are you asking?”
“Ten silvers,” Padraig said calmly.
“Ten?! I could buy a cow for that!”
“No doubt, but you’ll give me ten silvers or you’ll get naught.”
Traegyr looked strangled and Padraig wagered the coin might walk out the door, but he didn’t really care. The sooner Cunyr died, the sooner Lydya and her children would be free of his influence. Padraig could always make more coin.
“I’ve eight silver and enough copper to make two silver.”
“I’ll weigh it out,” Padraig assured him, indicating Annan’s scale, which he’d borrowed.
Traegyr sighed and began counting out the coin. Padraig began spooning up the various herbs that created a blend that soothed the nerves and loosened the blood within the veins. He held back the pouch of herbs while he counted out the coin.
“You understand that the herbs don’t truly work alone. They require a change of life – quieter, less rich food, less drink.”
“I have made medicine my life’s study. I assure you I know how to use these herbs.”
“I know herbs, Traegyr. It’s my obligation to warn you of the side effects.”
“As I said, I know what I am doing. Your advice is not needed, herbman.”
The way he said herbman made it clear that he judged Padraig skills and training a poor substitute for his own. Padraig wasn’t insulted. He merely handed over the pouch and opened the door to usher Traegyr out.
Standing at the top of the stairs, waiting for Traegyr to exit the inn, Padraig felt a chill hand run down his back like a warning. When the chirgeon of Clarcom had left, Padraig returned to the tavernroom.
“I like that man naught at all,” Tamys announced when Padraig sat down at the table. He took a long swallow of ale. “The man creeped my flesh.”
“Mine as well,” Padraig admitted. “I’m moving on tomorrow,” he announced. “Why don’t you travel on with me? I fe
el the need of a sword at my back and I can pay a bit of coin toward your maintenance. It would give you a bit of time to decide what you want to do.”
“Where will you be going?”
“Initially, Dun Celdrya. I don’t know after that.”
Tamys nodded slowly.
“Aye, I’d like to travel on with you.” He shuddered suddenly. “Are you sure you don’t want to leave tonight?”
“Too wet, though it looks as though the rain has blown over. The roads will be a bit better on the morrow. And, I have a bit of business to conduct before I move on. In the morning, at dawn.”
Tamys nodded. Padraig excused himself, telling Tamys to let Pedyr know that he’d be back in time for dinner.
The ward of Dun Clarcom was properly cobbled, but all the side paths were a mucky mess and, despite the clearing of the rain, the denizens of the dun were still indoors. Padraig walked past a fort guard that remained huddled under the protective roof of the high walls. He contemplated whether he should go to the main hall and announce himself or try to find Lydya in her greeting chamber, when a side door of a side broch opened and issued forth his sister and a whirlwind of plaid and dark hair. The lad was chattering happily as he towed his mother toward the stables. He ran right into Padraig, so intent he was on his mission.
“Sorry, lad,” Padraig said as Lydya laughed at Danyl’s startled expressions.
“Who are you, sir?” the lad asked.
“Padraig of Denygal,” Padraig replied gravely.
“Are you a cousin then?” the lad asked. His eyes caught the dying light and Padraig marveled at the green of them.
“Somewhat of the sort, aye.”
Danyl frowned.
“My mam has a brother named Padraig as well,” he noted. He hunkered down to watch some ants walking among the cobbles.
“So she does,” Padraig replied, looking at Lydya for guidance; she merely grinned like a berserker. “What are you looking at there, lad?”
“My name is Danyl,” the lad announced. “And, I’m looking at ants.”
“What do you make of them?” Padraig asked, hunkering down beside him.
“They seem to know what they’re about, very workmanlike and all.”
Just then, Padraig heard the cry of a bird of prey on the hunt. They all three looked up.
“Bit late for that,” Padraig murmured. He felt Lydya shudder.
“‘Tis the night-hawk,” Danyl identified. Padraig felt a cold hand grab his stomach and jerk itself through his body. “Mam, may I go feed the horses?”
“Aye. Here’s the carrots we got from Cook. You run along now.”
When he’d disappeared into the stable door, Padraig cleared his throat to make whispering easier.
“He’s not Cunyr’s child,” he identified. Lydya’s eyes widened as she stared at him, suddenly wary. “There’s no judgment in that, my lady. I’m sure you have your reasons.”
“I did not put horns on my husband’s head,” she assured him.
“Were there only time for us to discuss it,” Padraig lamented. “When the night-hawk cried, I knew that Danyl might be important to both sides. Raise him well. Has the wild blood shown yet?”
“He’s a handful,” Lydya admitted.
“And likely to grow in that,” Padraig agreed. “Is he half? Well, more, considering our mother?” Lydya nodded. “Much exercise, outdoors, might help. He’s only a little lad, right now, so he needs to be a child for the time being. He’s a long way from the rule, so it won’t matter if he’s a bit wild. Cunyr will likely want to keep him for the warband, but have him trained to read.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ll not thank me when you learn that I’m to be on my way,” Padraig admitted.
“Truly?” Lydya asked, distressed.
“It’s time I moved on. I’ll leave on the morrow. I’ve just come to say my goodbyes.”
“Well and good,” Lydya said with a sigh. “You were honest that you were not staying. I’ll scry you out and get you the coin I owe you.”
“No rush. My skills net me a good living.”
“I’m sure they do,” Lydya replied with a brilliant smile. When Padraig glanced at her sharply, she laughed. “Traegyr returned a bit ago. He thought if he waited a bit you’d be desperate to sell. Instead, you got him over a barrel and near broke his back. Fair job, Padraig!”
“I warned you that I was far less than noble these days.”
“Aye, and I passed that news along to him, but he didn’t believe me. His mistake.”
“Mam!” Danyl cried. “The piebald has a new foal! Come see!”
“Be there in a moment, dear,” Lydya called back. “I must go as well. Every new thing is exciting at that age, and you’re certain it will fade away in a moment if you don’t share it.”
“I remember,” Padraig said with a smile. “Go with God, my lady.”
“You as well.”
“Mam!”
Laughing, they departed from one another, Lydya to return to her life as the Lady of Clarcom, and Padraig to return to his life as a missionary of the One in the guise of an herbman.
Night settled round the city and lights lit one by one. Cows and chickens were penned, lovers met in the lanes, and meals were served in homes and taverns. A man in a tower lit a candle to scry to a man on the southern coast, to tell him of one he had met who might turn the world on its top.
Viking Date 741 / Kindred Cycle 24573 – Founding Year 1023
Northern Coast (Five Years Past)
The pier Gil had departed from a moon past had settled into the sea, blocking the junque from entering the ancient harbor. The long boat had pulled alongside for Gil then slipped past the leaning block of salt-weathered dwarven flow stone to put in on the pebble shingle below the collapsed dome of lumina.
Nature had reclaimed the broken city to where it took a keen eye to see what it had once been. Trees grew out of the rubble of the dome, belying what lay in the cellars. Half of Erik’s crew had been here before and the other half had sailed past it, deeming it not worth their effort. They were mature men, masters of the sea and sword, sent to keep the heir safe on his maiden voyage. Still, they did as told when commanded.
Gil did not much like the sea. It seemed a treacherous conveyance. He silently rejoiced to have his feet upon solid ground, albeit wave-washed pebbles. When he met the junque here, he’d felt the broken city echo with disapproving ghosts who liked his worship of the goddess not at all, but today the burial place of Kin society was just an entryway to his future, a place from which to stage their reconnaissance. My ancestors hold no sway on me. I will crush them beneath my boots.
“Where is your ship going?” the Svardin youth asked, hand casually lain upon the hilt of his sword. The Vik were as turbulent as the sea they traveled so easily. Tall men with long ropes of blond and reddish hair and blue eyes in wind-burnt faces, they were given to quarreling among themselves and drawing steel. Too like the Celtmen in Gil’s estimation, but to carry out the goddess’s desire, he must needs make alliances and the Vik were the strongest alliance he could make. The sea was strong too … and you learned not to turn your back on it.
Gil glanced to see the junque sailing around the eastward headland.
“They’re about my employer’s business,” he lied. Perhaps the goddess was through with them. He’d left naught aboard, so no matter if it did not return. In comparison to the Vik, the Orental were quieter and more difficult to read. Gil had never guessed their thoughts and that worried him a bit. “We will not be needing it, as from here we ride.”
“Ride? Over those?”
The mountains stood leagues back from the shore, but the Roof of the World could not be diminished even by distance. They were enormous, a colossal wall of rock on the southern horizon that stretched as far east and west as the eye could see. The tops of them were clad in snow even in summer and most Vik believed them impassable, as they or their fathers had tried to breach them. Magnus had been
willing to consider this only because Gil had sworn he had a way through them.
“Not over them. Under them.”
Erik’s crew were detailed along the shore, two securing the long boat, the rest investigating the area. The rattle of pebbles as they ascended the slope would wake the dead … or at least the horse handler the goddess had provided.
“How do we go under a mountain?” Jarl, Erik’s second, asked. He claimed to have thoroughly searched this city in his younger years and found naught but mice and trees.
“The Kin have a saying – ‘The map of the world is laid upon the past.’” Erik and Jarl seemed less than impressed by old Kin sayings. “We see a shattered city, picked clean over the centuries, slowly crumbling to dust.” He gestured around to make his point. Only the eye of knowledge revealed this as a city, for the ruins were well fallen. “The elves left something behind,” Gil explained. “The city was a long way from the basketlands. They had a way to come and go and it has lain here dormant for all these centuries.”
“And you know it’s here?” Jarl demanded.
“I do, because it’s how I came to be here.”
He led the way up a ramp of broken stone through a twisting copse of trees that seemed to be growing out of a hill of rock. The citadel had not completely collapsed. Lumina only looked delicate. With effort, they wriggled through the boles and under the leaning curve of the wall until they stood in what had once been a massive open space that now felt about ready to bury them. In the dim interior, Gil picked his way through the scattered stones to touch one of the lumina globes on an inner wall. It slowly gained light.
