The Willow Branch

by Lela Markham

  “I’ll have the steward show you to your room and provide you with a bath and a meal. While you are here, you are simply Gilyan. It’s unlikely anyone will ask more than that, but if someone does become curious, it’s best to say you come from a merchant family, let’s say from Galornyn. Discretion is one way the Golden Unicorn serves its patrons. You understand, of course.”

  Gilyan started to shake her head, but then realized that she did understand. The Golden Unicorn protected the identities of its customers and its courtesans and continued to be useful to both because of that secrecy.

  “Aye, I think I do.”

  “Good then. We will talk more tomorrow when you’ve rested. I know that the prospect of this life does not often occur to noble women, but often, by the end of their confinement, they see the advantages.”

  Bradlyn entered the room once more.

  “You may take Gilyan to the room prepared for her. See to a bath and a meal and a fresh change of clothes for the morning when she will start her new life.”

  Gilyan hesitated only a moment, then stood and followed Bradlyn out to what would be her home for several months, if not the rest of her life.

  Founding Year 1028

  Dun Celdrya

  Duglas, it turned out, had hired quite a few guards for the caravan. They all met at the postern gate, which opened bare inches from the Rock of the Founding on the road that lead south and west round the Rock. Padraig had to admit that Duglas was prepared. He had hired guards late in the season primarily because the wars were leading many away from him and because he’d expected to find more in Dun Celdrya. He’d prepared for a speeded journey by providing a string of horses to share the weight of the men. An army without a baggage train might manage thirty to thirty-five miles in a day, but Duglas wanted to manage fifty miles a day and he set the sort of pace that accomplished such. By the end of the first day, only Joy and the pony, mountain-bred as they were, still had energy for more travel. Duglas explained that he needed to leave for Mandorlyn in one week’s time and that meant they needed to reach Dun Wllean within five days. They rode from shortly after dawn, took their midday meal in the saddle and stopped traveling just before dusk. Duglas provided rations of flatbread, ale and cheese, but there were no campfires and no cooked meals. He apologized for that and said it would be made up on the actual caravan journey. Padraig wondered how many of the men believed that. They were a hard lot, cold as a winter day, nearly every one. A couple were younger than Tamys, probably not having been pushed out of a warband onto the roads, but looking for adventure more than a place to settle down. Others were freeswords, the sort of men who had left the warband just shy of the end of a rope. They were dangerous men, and almost as dangerous to those they might call friend as to those they called enemies. All of them would switch sides in a scrap if the pay were high enough. Padraig trusted none of them.

  On the way to Dun Wllean, Tamys kept his distance from the others, weighing his options. Padraig thought it a wise choice. Whatever had pushed these men onto the roads, the road had shaped them into somewhat less than honorable.

  Galconyn lay west and north of Dun Celdrya, a wide stretch of prairie with a deep forest at its south. To reach it, the band traversed Fyrgal territory. Padraig remembered farms and towns that stood in neat prosperity reminiscent of Dunmaden. This was good farm country. At its eastern edge it was bounded by the Avergal, which was one of the great rivers of the kingdom. The Avergal, though a great river, flowed into the Avercelt about 20 miles before it reached the sea, which lead to Fyral’s historic conflict with Dun Llyr. Dun Llyr wanted to control the trade to and from Fyrgal and did. Fyrgal resented it, knowing how rich their land was. There’d been several middling wars fought over this situation during the last 50 years, and these had increased after Fyrgal’s vyngetroi in Dun Blaedd had asserted a claim to the kingship. Until recently, until the change in the Maille, Dun Llyr had claimed allegiance to Dun Manahan and the vyngretroix of east Mulyn. Padraig wondered little to see farms and towns near the Avergal burned, for Dun Manahan had raided this area just the autumn before. It seemed the civil wars grew in scope with each passing year.

  Farther west Fyrgal remained prosperous. They crossed the Averglas, a slow, wide river that nevertheless was too shallow to be considered a true great river, and entered into Galconyn. Things were rougher in Galconyn where settlement was still rather new. It had only been 120 years ago that the last king had opened Galconyn to settlement. At the time the population of the kingdom had warranted it, but now people mostly lived there because it hadn’t been ravaged by war yet. There were few towns in Galconyn, mostly just villages with farmsteads surrounding and only two large towns -- Dun Praedd, the vyngretrix’s city, which lay just beyond the river crossing and Dun Wllean, which sat at the far west and controlled the road to Mandorlyn. Dun Wllean was Duglas’ city.

  Dun Wllean had been built in the foothills of the Mountains of the Western Portal. None quite remembered why they were called that and some suspected it had been borrowed from an elven name. Elven tradition had it that it was a dwarven name. Padraig wondered if the dwarves would attribute the name to another source. The foothills seemed middling compared to the mountains behind them, but they stood above the rolling prairie of the rest of Galnconyn. Dun Wllean had been built tight against the cliffs that the Portal spilled out from and that was at once its greatest weakness and its primary salvation.

  Fifty years ago, Dun Wllean had been a prosperous town without a wall, enjoying a lucrative trade with the dwarves who inhabited valleys far back in the mountains. Far from the kingdom proper and with no near neighbors, Dun Wllean had never felt the need to protect itself, though it had been in existence for about 50 years by that time. Then the horrible day came when the dwarves spilled out of the Portal, chopping everything with their double-bit axes and laying waste to the town. The noble family had been killed down to the last infant, except for the youngest son, a lad of 16 who’d gone hunting that day with his retinue and had returned to find devastation. Enraged by the murder of his family, he’d raised an army like none had ever seen before and he sent them through the Portal to exact revenge on the dwarves. When they’d reached Mandorlyn, however, they’d found it deserted. The mining works were still there and there were many signs that the settlements had been recently inhabited, but they’d found not a single soul alive. Lord Wllean had rebuilt his town and dun with fine defenses that rivaled those of Dun Celdrya before its continual devastation. He’d allowed any freemen who wanted to travel to Mandorlyn to take over the mining works. He controlled the trade with Mandorlyn with an iron fist, Duglas said.

  “He was a fine lord and his son has proved most capable since he’s died. Aye, those of us who live there find him most generous, so long as the gold keeps flowing,” Duglas explained.

  “Is there any chance it won’t?” Padraig asked. Were those true dwarves or trolls?

  “Mandorlyn’s gold seems endless, lad, but ‘tis a long way from Dun Wllean. I pay so well because ‘tis a dangerous thing, the Mandorlyn Pass.”

  “Thought it might be,” Padraig murmured.

  They arrived at Dun Wllean two days before Duglas’ planned departure. The east wall of the town was lightly armored, though the gate could have held against siege and the walls were well-built. The heavy defenses were toward Mandorlyn in memory of the dwarves. Occupying the highest of the three hills of the city, the dun itself was said to be built as a killing-field with murder-holes aplenty and traps that no man would escape from. They wouldn’t be having a chance to see the dun, however, as the preparations for the caravan were already underway when they arrived.

  Duglas’ estate occupied a large area of the town, a veritable small dun, with barracks for his men and stables for his horses and warehouses for his goods. He turned the newly hired men, Padraig included, over to his captain and strode off toward the three-story broch that was his home.

  “Welcome,” greeted the captain, Braeden, a tall blond man with da
rk brown eyes who looked every inch a swordsman. “I’m Braeden of Llyr,” he introduced himself. “I’ll be in charge of every one of you baseborn bastards this trip and don’t be thinking I’ll be letting you off easy. We’ve a caravan of food and goods to see safely to the people of Mandorlyn and then we’ve a precious cargo to return with. I’ll not have any incipient drink, no lifting of the village lasses’ skirts, no swinging your swords at one another. Any man who draws cold steel in this caravan against one of our own will face me.”

  Several of the older freeswords nodded solemnly and moved off to find themselves bunks in the barracks. The younger ones laughed, but Tamys’ ice blue eyes narrowed and he elbowed one of them.

  “That’s Braeden of Llyr, lads. We want to pay him the honor he’s due,” he said.

  “What’s to honor about an old guard?” asked Aethan, one of the young freeswords, a laugh bubbling in his throat. He was dark-haired with deep blue eyes. Though slender, the muscles in his forearms suggested practice with his sword.

  “Braeden of Llyr is considered the best swordsman in Celdrya,” Tamys explained calmly. “Certainly he’s the most famous freesword in 50 years. He was hired once by the Lord of Manahan and it’s said the lord offered him an honor position to stay on.”

  Aethen and the others looked at the middle-aged captain a bit more respectfully at that. Padraig wondered yet again just how close Tamys was to the rule to know the doings of the pretender’s court.

  “You’re a wise young cub, aren’t you?” Braeden noted of Tamys. “Have we met?”

  “Nay, you would not have known me,” Tamys assured him.

  Braeden seemed to weigh and measure Tamys, then shrugged.

  “Mayhap not,” he agreed. “And I certainly won’t be asking why a Mulyn man might be on the roads. None of my business, you understand. I’ll be going along now. Herbman, if you’d rather, there’s a nicer bit of barracks across the way.”

  “This is fine, my thanks. Finer than one expects for guards.”

  All of Duglas’ broch compound seemed fine. His walls were high and thick enough to hold off an army if it were dying of hunger in a siege and inside the ward was paved and kept cleaner than many a dun Padraig had seen. The barracks were fresh swept and the bunks all had new ropes and ticking stuffed with fresh straw. The windows were flung open to let in light and air and there were new blankets folded against one wall for any who did not have enough.

  “Duglas treats his people well, even if the hire is for one journey, or for a summer, or for many a year,” Braeden explained.

  “Is that why you decided to stay on?”

  “Aye. I hired on for one caravan three years ago and I decided to stay. Pay’s good and Duglas treats me like I’m not the honorless scum that I am. When he’s looking for guards again, you remember that. Some of these youngsters won’t be able to see the good in a place like this, but you seem a wise young lad.” He spoke to Tamys, not Padraig, probably knowing that Padraig’s skills would be honored anywhere.

  Tamys shrugged, keeping his options open. Padraig thanked Braeden for his time and let the man go. Padraig turned toward arranging his gear under his bunk as Tamys was already doing. As they worked, Padraig became aware that Tamys seemed less at ease with this process than he’d ever seemed uneasy about anything. He stole peeks at what Padraig was doing to find the best way of doing this. Noble-born, for sure, Padraig thought.

  With the preparations for the caravan underway, there was plenty to do. Padraig spent the day asking after the ills that had been encountered on previous trips. The men mentioned “the bowels” and Padraig checked his stock of teas and the like. Reasoning that they would be climbing over the mountains, he thanked the One True God for causing him to buy ginger at Andyr’s shop. He’d been unable to reason out why he wanted such, but he’d felt a strong compulsion to do so and now he understood why. It was sundown of the second day, the day before departure, before Padraig felt his preparations were in hand.

  The sun was setting to the west when Padraig climbed the town wall to look into the Portal. The canyon came out of the cliffs at the postern gate and this time of evening looked like a throat of some great long-dead creature. Padraig shivered despite the warmth of the late-afternoon. He did not have eyes for the future, but he knew that danger lay along that road to Mandorlyn. His skills would be needed beyond his herbcraft. With that, Padraig began to pray, but he received no answers and the militia were beginning to give him the odd look, so he climbed off the wall to check his other supplies.

  Tamys was in a foul mood that night at the evening meal. Padraig rather wondered why since Duglas set a fine board for his men and the dun had sent its own bard for the entertainment. The priests of Lugh came for to give the caravan a blessing, which might have had somewhat to do with it, Padraig supposed. Tamys stopped short of walking out on the blessing, but he downed his ale fast and left as soon as the prayers were finished. Padraig followed him. The lad was uncommonly sure of himself in the dark of a compound he’d never been in before, but Padraig finally found him atop Duglas’ walls, staring toward the west.

  “Somewhat the matter?” Padraig asked.

  Tamys didn’t answer right away. To Padraig’s elven eyes, there was light enough to see him grimace and chew the inside of his lip.

  “I’m truly selling my sword and while I may have to do it, I don’t have to like it.”

  “True-spoken. What are you thinking?”

  “That I have a future as cold as a winter night and not half as long,” Tamys admitted.

  Padraig nodded, looking down into the ward. For some reason his stomach jumped at the height, the like of which had never bothered him before. For a brief moment, on the edge of his consciousness he heard a scream and saw in his mind’s eye a body laying on the ground. Then it passed, evaporating like fog in the sun.

  “There are alternatives,” he reminded Tamys.

  “Oh, aye! Prentice to a farmer. Sounds a good one to me,” Tamys mocked.

  “There’s more than that, if you’ll but open your eyes and have a look round.”

  “I was raised as a soldier. It’s what I know.”

  “So was I,” Padraig reminded him.

  “I’ve had a few more years along that road, you know.” Tamys spat, then stood up from the rampart and stared down into the ward as Padraig had done. “The alternatives don’t tempt me,” he said softly. Then he turned and strode away to the ladder that would lead him down.

  Padraig shuddered. For some reason he couldn’t be sure of, he’d felt as though Tamys might jump. Surely not! An honor-bound man did not do such, considering suicide tantamount to hanging. Yet, there’d been that instant. Padraig shuddered again and fled the wall. By the time he reached the barracks, Tamys lay rolled in his blankets and seemed asleep. Padraig decided his imagination was playing tricks on him.

  Founding Year 1028

  Galornyn, the Bottom

  There was plague in Galornyn and Sawyl wished he had time to do somewhat about it. He’d heard of infant’s palsy, though why they called it that when it was mostly adults who lost use of their limbs was curious making, but he had never seen it. It had devastated Hanolan when Sawyl had first left the island for the later stages of apprenticeship. There’d been plenty of ships coming to Galornyn from the islands carrying news of fever and palsy. Sawyl’s instructor in herb craft had been most interested in the palsy, mostly in how to transmit it so that he could give it to people and then hoping to cure it, to ingratiate him with the right sorts of people. As far as Sawyl knew, Melchior had not achieved his goal. Galornyn’s bout with this illness had no doubt come as bad humors from off a ship.

  Fog shrouded the Bottom at midday. Sawyl sniffed the foul smelling air as he ducked under the lintel to the Black Crow tavern. The standard passerby, probably raised in the southern coastal city, would not recognize the bird on the sign as a raven and those who frequented the tavern were careful to call it “the Crow”. Most folk would never guess that thi
s was the portal to a society of black mages like Sawyl himself.

  The tavern man, polishing tankards, didn’t act as if he knew Sawyl, but the boy washing dishes at the back of the tavern room slipped out the back door. Sawyl tossed two coppers in the jar and dipped himself a tankard of dark. Custom was slow this early in the morning. A couple of men spoke in low terms in the shadows; otherwise Sawyl had the tavern to himself.

  He’d just seen the bottom of the tankard when the lad returned and signaled subtly that Sawyl could go forward. He set his empty tankard on the board, thanked the tavern man and slipped out into the fog.

  There were various ways to the dark chambers; Sawyl took the journeyman’s route, fading into a alleyway that opened to a door that led down dark stairs, through a series of store rooms and then into a long winding corridor of ancient witch stone. There was somewhat about it, even buried where only the light of candle lanterns touched it, that creeped a man’s soul. Sawyl tried not to think of the magicks required to create the luminous rose colored stone.

  Eventually, he reached a plain wood door of inch-thick walnut and spoke an incantation that was the only way to open it. Beyond were three more doors requiring different incantations. And then another long corridor, leading forever downward, until Sawyl knocked on a door deep set in ancient walls. The voice within intoned an incantation that ended abruptly. Sawyl completed it and the door unlocked.

  Naranddal waited within, seated at a dark wood table on the only chair. Sawyl could stand or sit on a stool. He chose the stool.