The Willow Branch

by Lela Markham

  “You don’t expect me to rub this stinking witch salve on myself, do you?”

  “If you want to continue pain free urination, aye.”

  Tamys growled, but did as he was told, hissing as he slathered on the ointment.

  “It stings,” he announced, sounding a bit indignant.

  “Aye, that’s where it’s touching the bites.”

  “Bites?”

  “You don’t just get bugs from the mattresses in this city,” Padraig assured him. Tamys’ shudder told him he understood Padraig’s meaning. “It’ll cool in a bit and you’ll be able to sleep. In the morning, when you wash it off, it shouldn’t be a bother at all.”

  Tamys looked skeptical, but he finished applying the ointment, then slid between his blankets and tossed his small clothes to the side. Padraig picked it up and dusted it with some of the yellow powder.

  “I’d better find a fire mountain to replenish my supply of this,” he murmured. “Thanks for the food,” he said aloud.

  He began to eat with a heartiness that he rarely exhibited. Tamys took a bit to get comfortable, so they talked while Padraig ate.

  “The militia plans to hold the city next time someone wants to take it. They’ve grown tired of being like a piece of meat between wild dogs.”

  “Can they manage to hold the walls?”

  “I doubt it. They’re typical militia, poorly armed, poorly trained. They’re determined, I’ll give them that. My accent almost got me thrown from the ramparts.”

  “That’s a vexed situation. Why’d they let you go?”

  “Their captain knows a freesword when he sees one. Suggested I stay on and join the fray. Said I might win a place in some new lord’s band that way. The fool doesn’t understand nobility at all.”

  “Few commoners do. I’m for bed,” Padraig said, stretching. “Do you mind if I blow out the candle?”

  “Nay, it’ll merely hasten my falling asleep.” Tamys yawned as Padraig blew out the candle. “An army could just sail up the river. Those southern gates don’t work anymore.”

  “That’s too bad. The time I spent with the elves makes me rather relish the idea of commoners casting off the nobility, though I never did think it would work.”

  “Aye. The noble born have too much in their favor. And certainly the lords of Mulyn aren’t going to give up their claim anytime soon.”

  “Not likely.”

  They tried to settle down, but Tamys apparently had somewhat on his mind.

  “You know, I never thought I’d feel uncomfortable with a harlot. My father favors them highly.”

  “Some men do and then there are those who think with their brain rather than their baser parts.”

  Tamys chortled nervously as Padraig fumbled for his blankets.

  “It wasn’t my first time or anything,” Tamys announced in the darkness as Padraig settled into his blankets. “I had my pick of serving lasses in the dun.”

  “Hmm,” Padraig hummed non-committal.

  “It never bothered me before.”

  Padraig took pity on the lad, since he sounded honestly bewildered.

  “The serving lasses, you knew them a bit, most like. At least kissed them or traded a few jokes before you lifted their skirts. The harlot, you exchanged coin. Somewhat that’s different from serving lasses. They at least fancied you a bit. The harlot fancied only your coin. Do you see the difference?”

  “Aye, I see what you’re reaching for, I think.” Tamys was quiet for a bit after that, long enough that Padraig almost dozed off. “So, why was the ale tasteless?” he asked.

  Padraig remembered praying somewhat about that, but he knew that Tamys wasn’t ready to hear that his friend had spoiled his carouse.

  “Mayhap your life’s turn has changed your view of things, made you more circumspect.”

  “Aye, mayhap. Aye, that could be.”

  Padraig waited for Tamys to say more, but the lad never did. When Padraig awoke with the light of the morning he realized he’d fallen asleep.

  Founding Year 1028

  Dun Clarcom

  When the disturbing black shadow that followed his father everywhere developed the face of a daemon, Bryan ap Riordan of Clarcom knew he needed to have a private conversation with his mother.

  Lord Darryl had fairy-like beings floating all around him that twittered at his jokes. They seemed harmless enough, though Bryan was not fooled. He didn’t dislike his betrothed’s father, but he was under no illusions that the spirits he entertained were as sweet as they seemed.

  As Darryl finished a joke, Bryan looked toward Cunyr to see if he was laughing. He’d begun viewing auras last summer and understood that it was a gift of the elven blood that ran in the veins of almost every Denygalman. He’d seen the shadowy being following his father then. Tonight, as he looked at his father, however, the shadow took on substance and grew a face – beautiful and awful at one and the same time. Bryan sipped watered ale and tried not to look too closely.

  “Then the lad fell over right onto his back, this deep in mud, toes to the sky,” Darryl concluded. Bryan laughed as was appropriate, though truth be told, he’d not followed the story. This new gift was more than distracting in a room full of people.

  Lydya was at the other end of the table, surrounded by her ladies and socializing with Lady Elora, Darryl’s bride. Bryan had rather hoped that they’d bring their daughter Gwendolyn along on this trip, but it seemed that they were not to meet prior to the wedding. Well and good. He’d liked her well enough when they’d met many years gone, when they’d been mere children. And, he supposed they’d need to make the best of it, as noble heirs rarely had a choice in whom they married.

  Elora had a pleasant aura shot with green, which was supposed to indicate that she struggled with jealousy. The streaks were faint; Bryan hoped that bode well. Lydya had met Gwendolyn last year and said her aura was pleasant with faint hints of red, suggesting (since she wasn’t a warrior) a woman with a slight temper. Bryan couldn’t read his mother’s aura. She guarded herself from more than just his eyes. He wondered if she could read his aura. She’d sent a tutor to him in Trevellyn who had taught him shielding, but Lydya’s skill at reading auras was apparently quite strong, according to the cousin who’d trained him.

  Bryan blinked as a scantly-clad fairy appeared on the shoulder of Elora’s youngest lady in waiting. It turned and blew a kiss at Bryan. He truly needed to speak with Lydya, the sooner the better.

  That proved more difficult than imaginable. Lydya of Clarcom was a busy lady, chatelaine to a large dun, mother of six children, rig of Denygal in absentia. For Bryan’s part, his time at Clarcom was to be only an eightnight and his father seemed to think it wise to spend time with him. He didn’t seem interested in teaching Bryan anything about ruling, but he made the lad follow him round the dun and demesne for three days. For that reason, Bryan and Lydya finally met late the evening before he was to head back to Trevellyn.

  Lydya heard him out without outward reaction, simply just sat on the divan in her greeting chamber, eyes averted. By this time, Bryan had a whole host of visions to share with her and it took half a watch to tell them all. By that time, Bryan had screwed up enough courage to ask the truly important question.

  “Just how much elven blood do I have?” he demanded. “And, don’t lie because that’s becoming a gift of mine too.”

  Lydya flicked a glance at the door and Bryan felt his skin buzz. She’d cast some sort of warding, he supposed. Two years ago, he’d not have felt it. Now it felt almost commonplace.

  “You know my mam was secretly a half-elf,” she told her son. That had been knowledge imparted when he was 13 and had begun to sense her gifts in use.

  “Which would make you a quarter and should mean that I would have no appreciable gifts at all. Mam, it’s time to be honest with me. I suspected it last year. If you’re worried I’ll not take it well, I’m just asking for confirmation of my long-held suspicion.”

  Lydya sighed. He hated having
to do this to her, but he could no longer live with the question and was certain the answer would not hurt overmuch.

  “The sort of honesty you seek does not lie with me, but with your father,” she murmured, her blue eyes meeting his directly. “I can tell you that I’ve been faithful to your father in keeping with his wishes.”

  Noble families kept many secrets and Geran of Trevellyn had taught Bryan that the wise son learned to distinguish when a deep truth was being imparted obliquely. Bryan rubbed the chin where a beard refused to grow. Most lads by 15 had a soft downy beard coming in, but he didn’t even have a shadow.

  “He was married before,” he noted. Lydya raised an eyebrow and waited to be judged. “And he put her away as barren.” The bloodlines and marriages of the nobility were common knowledge to the women of the duns and Geran’s mother, Ysolla, had shared it with him once in a very off-handed manner. “How many years were you married before I was born?”

  “Three.”

  Bryan nodded, numb. Bryan had benefited from tutors from both Denygal and Clarcom. He had mayhap the most cosmopolitan education of any heir in the kingdom. He remembered a discussion of how noblemen sometimes had their heirs fathered when they themselves could not. With that memory, Bryan felt rising anger.

  “There’s six of us. Do we each have different …?”

  “Nay. When it became clear that he was going to have me raped if he couldn’t produce an heir, my Mam helped me find a surrogate – somewhat like a kinsman redeemer. He was a groom here for many years, until he married Lisbet and they moved back to Denygal. I suspect Culyn mayhap be actually Cunyr’s.”

  “How?”

  “The usual way between man and wife, Bryan,” she said, her cheeks blushing pink. “Some men ….”

  “Nay, I am familiar with it from horses,” Bryan assured her, sparing her embarrassment. “We’re quarter or a third then?”

  “Aye. Donyvan is more than I, most-like.”

  “Donyvan, who now lives in Denygal.”

  “He’s the equerry at Dun Moryn now.”

  Bryan nodded. He doubted if he’d truly ever meet the man who had fathered him, but knowing that he could made him feel better. His fears that his mother had been unfaithful to the man he called father assuaged, now Bryan was curious concerning the man who had actually produced him.

  “Is he a Believer?” Bryan asked.

  “Aye. In Denygal, when a man dies without leaving heirs, it’s common for a kinsman-redeemer to provide his wife with heirs and a living until the child is old enough to support her. On that premise, Donyvan agreed to come here and be Cunyr’s surrogate. He is a kind man and he stayed until Cunyr had his fill of heirs. Do you remember him? You remember Lisbet, I’m sure.”

  Lisbet had become nurse to the children just as Bryan had left the nursery. He did remember her, in the vaguest of ways. He remembered a groom who had been, come to think of it, unusually solicitous even with the heir of the rule. It might have been only his imagination in retrospect, but he’d had dark hair and a Denygal way of speaking.

  “Does Father know?”

  “Of course, he knows, Bryan. Why do you think he’s so cold to you?”

  “I thought that was just who he is, but I was asking after Culyn.”

  “Nay. If I let slip what I suspect, he’d have you killed in favor of the son of his body.”

  That thought had not occurred to Bryan. Fear struck him head to foot like a lightning bolt. He stood there shaking like he had the day before his first battle. He rubbed the back of his neck and took a deep breath. The fear stepped back, leaving only a mild anxiety.

  “What if I abdicated?”

  “Nay, it would not save you and Dublyn and Denygal need you. Some men are meant to rule, Bryan, and you are one. You’re kind and compassionate, you understand the common man a bit, and you think before you do somewhat.” She held up a hand, indicating he should wait a moment. He turned to the window to look down into the ward while she took a deep breath and released it slowly. He could feel the buzzing of her warding spell just a span from his face. “Also, it would be a red flag,” she warned. “Cunyr is a deeply paranoid man and any unusual behavior by you will be suspected.”

  Bryan swallowed, mind racing, but trying to force himself to quiet.

  “I could abdicate and take the rule in Denygal. You’ve said you wished to send one of your children there.”

  “Cunyr would purge Denygal to punish us, Bryan.” She stood, gliding up behind him and placing her hand on his back. Tall for a woman, she barely topped his shoulder. “Bryan, if it bothers your honor, I understand, but you must weigh it against the greater good.”

  Bryan continued staring out the window. The sky above the ramparts had just about lost all light, leaving just a sparkling streak of dark blue on the western horizon.

  Lord God Jesu, help me to see the way through. What path would you have me to walk?

  “You didn’t think beyond your duty as a wife, did you?”

  “Nay, I had no choice in the matter. He’d have turned me over to the warband and that would have dishonored me sorely. He’d have gotten his heirs at my expense. My mam thought clearly to avoid such terror. I did as was needful, as noble wives have done in the past. You are right, though. I did not expect that he would be so cold and suspicious of the heirs he demanded I produce. Cunyr is a horrible man, Bryan. You know what his father did to his siblings. Cunyr was a second son. Do you suppose his brother died of natural causes?”

  Bryan shivered, took a steadying breath and turned to his mother.

  “Can I cast a warding such as this?” he asked, indicating the window.

  “Mayhap. With elflings gifts are often a matter of taking what your blood has given and enhancing it with practice. I will try to show you.” She stepped away, indicating they should sit on the divan.

  “Good, because if I’m to survive to be Cunyr’s heir, I think I’ll need to keep a lot of secrets.”

  Lydya managed a tremulous smile as he joined her to learn survival skills that Cunyr could not control.

  Kin Cycle 24578 / FY 1028

  Blue Iris Holt

  Sarala dismounted in the small yard outside the cave her mother shared with her mate. Brennan looked up from some tack he was repairing. He stood up and came out from under the lean-to, smiling as if he were happy to see her. Perhaps he was.

  “How are you keeping, wren?” he asked. He had laid that play-name on her early in their knowing one another. She supposed it was for her brown hair, but she had never asked him.

  “I came to speak with Maryanara.”

  “She’s sewing. Do I need to take the young ones for a wander?”

  “Perhaps,” Sarala said. Despite his Celtic name, Brennan was more elf than not and looked thoroughly elven, with midnight black hair and striking grey eyes with purple vertically slit eyes. “I’m planning a walkabout.” He said nothing. “In the basketlands,” she added after a moment.

  His breath caught.

  “I suggest you and she go for the wander then. There’s much misery in that news. I’ll get her.”

  Sarala waited in the yard. This had never been her home. Her mother had raised her in the heart of the holt until she’d given her to the Wise when she was five. Brennan had come after and this was his home. Because he was a drover, he lived on the route to the horse valley, in a small steading hemmed in by mountains.

  Maryanara knew Sarala had hard news when Brennan came to her, so her eyes were suspicious when she came out of the dressed cave that served as home. Sarala had heard all of her life that her mother was beautiful beyond what was normal even for an elf. She supposed it to be true. She’d born Brennan two children thus far, but she and Sarala looked an age. Her huge vertically slit eyes were corn-flower blue and her hair was spun gold.

  “Sarala,” she greeted, composed, reserved.

  “Brennan suggested you show me your garden.”

  They didn’t speak as they walked over to where Brennan had built u
p the ground above the stone to allow for planting.

  “Strawberries are coming in,” Maryanara said. “What brings you here?”

  It’s best to rip the bandage away and not lengthen the pain.

  “I’m walking about in the basketlands after the solstice.”

  Maryanara’s full pink lips tightened. She breathed in slowly and let it out.

  “They kill beautiful women there.”

  “I know,” Sarala assured her. “But it is something I must do.”

  “Why?”

  “To know what my name should be.”

  “Then walk a cycle as goi’tan. Don’t go where men are wolves.”

  “I’ve nothing to be ashamed of, mother. I will do this and I will know both sides of me and then, perhaps, I’ll be content.”

  “And if you never return?”

  “Will you notice?”

  “That’s unfair!”

  “No, mother, it isn’t. I know you were traumatized, but I didn’t cause that. I am the product of it. I am the victim of it. And, you ignore me to avoid the pain, but I will move on.”

  “I forbid it.”

  “I’m 21 cycles. You cannot forbid me anything.”

  “Gly will support me on this.”

  “Gly knows and while he doesn’t approve, he is not standing against it. I’m a free female, mother. I will go as I see fit and I will discover what I must to know my name.”

  “And you will be destroyed,” Maryanara cried. Her voice echoed off the mountainside.

  “Or not,” Sarala said calmly. Maryanara’s cheeks were, surprisingly, wet with tears. Sarala felt a tug of sympathy that she resisted. “I just wanted you to know so that you could pray for me. It’s a big decision, but it’s a good one.”

  “No!”

  “Yes! I will travel as far as Cenconyn with the caravan. There’s rumors afoot that Ryanna may be going into the basketlands. I’ll travel with her if I can.”