by Lela Markham
Tavoran didn’t exactly frown at her, but something in his eyes said he resented her direct questioning. An icy hand slid down Ryanna’s back. One never brought a Kin’s past sins up after the time of repentance was past, but Ryanna wished she knew what Tavoran had done back when she was a baby. Something that had required time in goi’tan grey to make the community forget. She wagered it was something truly dark.
“Yes,” Tavoran replied.
“Some of us should have a look at those. If there’s a scale, we might be able to determine a timeline.”
“And, once we’ve determined that, what do you think we should do about it?” Melor asked.
“Well, long term, but as quickly as possible, prepare defenses, building upon what Gil taught us to repel the Celts. Of a more short-term concern would be to send news to Padraig.”
Melor did frown, but Gly spoke to prevent any sort of confrontation.
“We should contact the Mountain Folk before we contact Padraig. We need to have information to give to him. It’s a grave responsibility to give a man, to seek the True King and to also try to warn the Celtmen of something a herbman should not know.”
“That is true,” Barana, Gly’s wife who served as secretary, said. “It’s not like in the holts, is it? He can’t just speak at a public meeting and have the news carried through the larger community. How will he get this warning to those who should order the defenses?”
“Padraig was selected in part because he has familial ties to the nobles,” Shanara explained. “Ulryen was clear on that. Gly, do you know if he’s been in contact with his family yet?”
Gly glanced at Ryanna, who was in the process of taking a seat to the side in grateful deference to Shanara taking center stage. Ryanna shook her head ever so slightly.
“No. We’re not watching him all the time. I do know he traveled to Clarcom, the capital of the most eastern region, Dublyn, and I believe that is where his sister lives. I’ll scry to him later and directly speak with him.”
“Shanara, if I may,” Farana asked. “What, if anything, was communicated by the dragon?”
“Nothing,” Shanara said. “I saw it at a distance; it appeared to have a deer in its talons.”
“Why would the dragon give a vision to Ryanna rather than you?” Tavoran demanded.
“Glynansyntavoran, you must give up on this,” Shanara snapped. “This is similar to you and others who wanted to reject the prophesy because of the one tasked with carrying it out. Ryanna is Kin. Dragonkind has, for reasons we do not understand, chosen to reestablish contact with Kin. Who are we to argue with them about their choice of contact? No, do not answer that lest you decide to argue the issue further.”
She’s defending me?! My goodness! Miracles do happen.
The conversation continued for a bit longer, but it was growing late and Gly wanted to scry to Padraig to ask him about his family while Ryanna was to scry to Overstahl’s contact concerning the northern lands. Gly caught Ryanna as they were leaving the chamber.
“You chose wisely,” he whispered. She raised an eyebrow. “Not to set them on fire,” he reminded. “It would have been a mess and I might have been singed.”
They smiled at one another and went in opposite directions to be about their distant communications.
Dragon Speak
The Believers teach curious customs. For example, the following property law exists in Denygal, established from the sacred text of their One True God:
In the year of jubilees (which is the 50th year), every citizen must return to the property that they own. They do not – indeed, cannot – sell property. They may lease the production of property up to 49 years, but in the 50th year, the lease closes and the use of the property returns to the original owner. Newcomers into the community may open unused and unclaimed lands and these become theirs by right of use after seven years. If a family die out, the land must remain fallow for seven years and then is added to the list of unclaimed lands. Those already owning land may not claim unused lands, but may for a period of seven years produce from that land. All produce owes a 10% tax to the sectarian temple, and a 5% tax to the common weal, typically administered by those selected by the majority for a period of service.”
Curiously, this system appears functional within their society though how they maintain order without a stable nobility is a matter of some confusion.
Nolyn, priest of Bel, Dun Moryn, FY 978
Founding Year 931
High Celdrya
The city had a lot of strangers in it and most of the inns were filled with those from outside. Some were there for the wedding, some for the Lughnadsa celebrations and tomorrow’s market faire, others were there because the whole country suspected there’d be war.
The Golden Tankard stood in the lower town, almost near the new wall that was being built round the houses that had overflowed the city and crossed the river in the last decade. This was a tradesman’s tavern, not the sort with harlots, but there were games of dice and a barrel of cheaper ale at the ready. Most of the men gathered here worked on the wall or the portcullis that would protect the river. The rest were laborers come to the city for the work, seeking employment.
The man Deryk met with was neither a mason nor a laborer. He was a metallurgist from Mulyn who had agreed to speak with Deryk for coin. They’d taken a corner booth, a bit from the nearest dice game, and ordered better ale. They spoke in lowered tones, though nobody seemed much interested in these two men. Mayhap this was because Deryk had worn plain breecs and a siarc without blazons. Owing to the warm weather, he had forgone a cloak.
“What can you tell me of Burcan and his brother?” Deryk asked Llewys. “You said you know them.”
“Aye, I do. Mine is a larger smelter, so they are there a good bit.”
“What is all the iron for?”
“Weapons, of course. Swords, spears, shields. Nothing your army uses does not contain Mulyn iron.”
“That I know. How many of these weapons go to Mulyn lords?”
Llewys narrowed his eyes. He had a wide face and a prominent beard of strawberry blond. His hair was light as flax.
“You’re asking me if Burcan seeks war with Celdrya?”
Deryk nodded.
“Nay,” Llewys insisted. “Burcan and Joran are loyal to the kingdom if not Lord Perryn himself and they will soon respect him as well.”
“You sound certain,” Deryk observed.
“I am, my lord. It’s not just that he’s their brother-in-law. It’s that he’s the king and they’re loyal to the crown. They swore fealty to him.”
Deryk sat back, drinking down his ale while mulling over the report.
Truth be told, Deryk was beginning to lose his own loyalty to Perryn. Somewhat had happened these few weeks since Donyl had slipped off to Denygal. Perryn seemed to have lost his interest in finding his brother’s killer or his father’s poisoner. It would have been well and good if he’d been distracted by the impending nuptials. Maryn had been quite beside himself before his wedding. Nay, but Perryn seemed hardly to care about his bride at all. Deryk would not be surprised to hear that he’d not actually spoken to her yet. Perryn instead spent a great deal of time in his chambers and did not communicate with anyone beyond what was absolutely necessary. There were rumors about that he was abed with Vanyn’s mistress, but that seemed unlikely.
Deryk was still thinking these unsettled thoughts when he exited the tavern. He paused in the sweltering evening to look up and down the street. Torch smoke drifted lazily in the muggy heat. A group of men passed on the far side of the street. Deryk idly noted that he recognized a face. Where did he know that man?
The serving man from the day Vanyn died. Hmm, I’d forgotten about him. Why was he never questioned?
Deryk decided he should catch the man up and ask him to report to him on the morrow. Mayhap he had noticed somewhat Deryk had missed that day. It was well worth the question and a slight jaunt through the evening heat. He turned bout to catch u
p the man and saw him disappear round a corner into an alleyway. Upon reaching the entrance to the alley, Deryk hesitated a moment.
Odd place for a king’s servant. Mayhap I’ve spied a similar face. But, nay, I saw the livery. He’s the one I seek, if only I could remember his name.
Deryk eased his sword in its scabbard just to be on the safe side as he forged into the alley. This was the territory of harlots and footpads. The walls of the buildings were closer than he liked and there were doors that would open in those walls at unexpected intervals. He stepped round a pool of suspicious smelling spew and startled when a dog barked at him from a narrow space between two of the buildings.
Suddenly darkness moved and resolved itself into three thugs with short swords and cudgels. One swooped in and aimed a blade for Deryk’s ribs. The captain slipped sideways and drew his sword in a single movement. He swung round and caught a blade on his sword. Another of the thugs moved in for a feint and Deryk smacked him hard across the shoulder and sent him stumbling. He swung his long sword in a flat horizontal arc and reminded these malcontents that he was a trained soldier with a quality weapon when he sliced the siarc of one of them and nearly scored flesh on the other. They stumbled back and, scooping their companion to his feet, fled the scene.
Deryk stared about in frustration, for he’d lost track of the serving man and now stood alone in the deep dark of the alley. Sighing, he resolved to return to the dun and leave his investigation to another time.
Deryk caught an otherwise unoccupied carriage to the dun and spent a pleasant half-watch enjoying the slight breeze as the horse carried them uphill through the curving streets, past the opulent houses. The fort guard on the evenwatch were use to his nocturnal journeys into the town, so that they simply glanced him over as he came in the mangate. He headed toward his chambers in a half-broch closer to the stables and barracks than the great hall. A lesser man might have resented the slight, but Deryk preferred to be where he could keep an eye upon his men. The other nobles could take care of themselves, he thought.
What was that man’s name? He told it to me that day. I’m sure of it!
Deryk stepped up on the landing at his floor and was surprised to find Malona standing there. The king’s mistress had always twisted his gut in the past, but now her smile filled his heart with such warmth that he scarce remembered the suffocating night. He thought he smelled narcissus as her beautiful golden eyes captivated him and drew him in.
“May I help you, my lady?”
“The question is, my young sir, can I help you?” she said.
And that was all he cared about for a good long while that night.
Founding Year 1028
Celdrya Proper
The journey through Dunmaden and into Celdrya proper was more or less uneventful. They stopped at villages for Padraig to nurse ills and then moved on. They slept under the stars and in haylofts, eschewing the taverns and inns with their dirty straw and flea-bitten dogs. Spring was slow to develop. They woke most mornings to ice on the bucket and frost on their blankets. Padraig mentioned occasionally that an herbman wouldn’t usually be traveling so early in the year, hoping that Tamys might begin to recognize that he didn’t want the life of a freesword soldier.
Padraig had hoped to reach the High City by Beltane, but fell short by one day. They spent the night in a hayloft of a tavern that had seen better days, with thinning thatch and thinner dogs. The hayloft was the cleanest part of the place and even Tamys didn’t complain about sleeping there after seeing the tavernroom floor. Late in the night, well before dawn, Padraig had an odd sort of dream. He dreamt that he stood naked in the silver light of the moon in the same hayloft watching himself and Tamys sleep. As he stood there, he saw a woman lean over the sleeping figures in the straw. Somewhat about it made Padraig’s heart start with fear and, with that, he awoke.
The chill air upon his nose cleared his head immediately and Padraig wondered why he was awake, the dream already fading. He lay listening to the night for a moment, but heard nothing that would account for his sudden awareness.
When his hearing couldn’t ferret out the cause, Padraig sent a line of thought to Joy. The mare stirred drowsily against his mind and remarked grumpily that humans ought to grow fur so they wouldn’t be so afraid of the cold.
He knew what that meant and reluctantly reached out of the blankets to drag his cold breecs into him. Carrying a blanket with him and ignoring the cold on his feet so he wouldn’t waste time with boots, he crept down the ladder and let himself out of the stable. Standing in the tavern yard, cold mud squeezing between his toes, Padraig began to pray for the tavernman and his family, for the villagers and travelers, for his newly-found friend asleep in the hay above the stable. He didn’t stand there half-naked in the dark for long, but he finished his list and waited on God to tell him more. When more did not come, Padraig returned to the hayloft. For a moment, as he stood in the hay wiping mud off his feet, he almost remembered somewhat from his dream, but it got away from him before he remembered any details.
His blankets had grown cold in his absence and he spent a few minutes arranging them so that none of his heat could escape. He found himself growing drowsy almost immediately after his toes warmed up and was soon as soundly asleep as if he’d never woke.
Padraig awoke again to the pearly gray of early dawn and the sound of bells ringing. Tamys groaned and pulled his cloak, which he’d been using as a pillow, over his head. The bells continued. Tamys rolled over onto his back, growling. The bells continued. Tamys began to swear like the soldier he was and he reached for his shirt, swearing more loudly when he felt the shock of the cold on his arm.
“We’re in no rush,” Padraig assured him. “I’m not moving from these blankets until it warms up.” Tamys hesitated, thinking for a moment. “Unless you’d like to go to the festivities.”
Tamys glanced at him.
“I – you wouldn’t mind?”
Padraig felt hair tingle on his arms.
“Why would I mind?”
“I thought Believers wouldn’t hold truck with such.”
Padraig took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He’d not really been discreet with Tamys, hoping to talk with him of his beliefs, but he’d thought he’d been more careful than that. Tamys noticed his discomfiture and spoke hastily.
“There’s no one about and I’ve my own issues with priests of Lugh, so you needn’t worry that I’ll run to the local lord and have you hung,” he assured Padraig.
“I wasn’t worried about that. I won’t be going, but I’m not going to keep you from your worship,” he replied. “I didn’t think you were that devout.”
“I’m not!” Tamys admitted. “My father – well, he didn’t raise us to be devout, but the faire is usually somewhat interesting. I thought I could find a lass to spend some time with – after the dancing round the pole is through, of course.”
“You’re not interested in wedding then. There’ll be a bit of excitement in Dun Celdrya, to be sure, if you care to wait.” Tamys said naught. “Well, you can do whatever you want. I’m going back to sleep.”
Padraig rolled onto his side and snuggled down into his blankets. Tamys sat there, his shirt half on for a moment, before stripping it off and sliding down into the warmth of his own blankets. The bells continued to toll. Tamys groaned.
“Now that I’ve decided not to go, I wish those cursed bells would stop.”
“They will in God’s good time,” Padraig murmured.
Less than a breath later, the bells stopped abruptly, as if someone had cut the ropes. Tamys lifted his head from his cloak, listening, waiting for them to resume. When they didn’t, he laughed.
“Almost as if they were listening to you.”
“Not me,” Padraig assured him. “Go to sleep.”
They drowsed off, finally awaking to the full golden sun of true morning. The day proved good traveling, though the road wanted repair badly. They reached a small village in the shadows of the w
alls at midday. Estimating they had at least another two hours of travel, Padraig stopped at the tavern for bread and ale so watery even he would drink it. This tavern looked even poorer than the one they’d stayed in the night before. Outside a man worked to repair a cart filled with children and goods. Padraig watched a bit as he and Tamys ate their lunch, then admitted that the man was never going to be able to set the cart on the repaired wheel by himself.
Padraig approached the man while Tamys was drinking ale. The man wore threadbare breecs and a much-patched siarc and the children were little better clothed. None of them looked like they’d eaten well over the winter.
“Greetings, traveler,” Padraig haled. The man gave him a suspicious look. “You look as if you could use some help lifting the cart onto the wheel.”
The man looked him over with as much suspicion as before. Padraig waited. The man rubbed his jaw and then shrugged.
“You’re right enough in that, truly. What will it cost me?”
“Naught. I’m offering free help, which is truly the only that a man can offer.”
“Don’t know if the two of us can settle this on our own, but I thank you for the offer.”
Tamys wandered over at that point.
“I can help too,” he said, surprising Padraig, who’d thought he’d not be interested in such.
“Well and good then. If you two can do the lifting, I can get the wheel on the axle.”
“On your count, good man,” Padraig assured him. He turned to put his back against the side of the cart on one side of the axle, gripping the underside of the cart with his hands. Tamys set his shoulder against the cart side on the other side of the axle and got ready for the signal. The man counted to three, the two heaved the cart up and the man settled the wheel on the axle.
The man smiled and began to crank on the hub, while Tamys and Padraig settled their clothes back in place.
