by Lela Markham
In the high mountains, we found an odd roadway driven through the rock. Most curious! The walls seemed polished and the road bed was spongy with moss that did make our feet laugh.
On the third day, we encountered daemons, short beings with dark hair and eyes who seemed to spring from the earth itself. Some of them men from the eastern tribes did call them trols. I suspect they are but one variety of peoples in this strange land.
Ryla, Druidess of the Krystan Celts, FY 39
Founding Year 931
Dun Celdrya
The donjon stank of piss and vomit. Cold seeped into Deryk‘s bones as some of those fluids slowly soaked his breecs. He scarce cared, barely noticed. He kept replaying the night of murder over and over, unable to block it out.
He’d liked Perryn! Truthfully, he’d scarce known him before Maryn’s death, but he’d found himself admiring how the young prince had handled the sudden ascension to a throne he’d been ill-prepared for. Why, then? Why would he leave a convivial atmosphere of mead and fine foods to plunge a dagger into his liege’s heart?
The blood remained on his hands where they lay in his lap, wrists held secure with iron manacles. He’d heard tales of men rubbing their wrists raw trying to get loose, but he’d scarcely moved since they’d thrust him in here. He’d not desired to eat the food they hadn’t yet given him or missed the water that wasn’t in evidence. He hardly noticed the weak sunlight shining through the high and small barred window. He’d killed the king and it no longer mattered to him what his body went through.
Why had he killed Perryn? It made no sense. It was if someone else were in control of his body, but that was impossible. Why kill a man he admired, a man who he might one day have called friend? Deryk leaned his head back against the stone wall and stared into the gloom.
He stepped from the stairs into the hallway and paused a moment before walking forward. He entered the antechamber where a guard dozed in a chair. The dagger slid like butter through his windpipe. Soft laughter filtered through the door.
Why am I here, he thought. The dagger dripped with blood. He eased the door open and watched the two upon the bed. The dagger skittered on one of Perryn’s ribs as he plunged it in, but Deryk knew killing as well as any warrior and the tip found the heart. The girl screamed and he killed her for it, her brains flying back into his face ….
Deryk jerked awake, chains rattling, heart pounding! The weak sunlight was even weaker. Night was coming. How long before the priests of Lugh would gather and let him die? How long before Donyl would know of his treachery? They had trusted him because he’d been Maryn’s bosom friend, yet he’d been there when Maryn died and that would seem suspicious. Mayhap he’d had somewhat to do with Maryn’s death, somewhat that he’d not known himself.
Why would you kill Perryn? You had naught against the man. He’d have been a fine king and he treated you with honor. Why would you kill Maryn? Nay, I did not kill Maryn!
Outside the cell, Deryk heard the guards changing the shift. He supposed it was the dusk watch. He knew who was on duty this time of night for he had detailed the guard.
Perryn trusted you and you betrayed him! I don’t know why I killed him!
Truth be told, it didn’t matter if he knew or didn’t. The Lughans would meet, they would discuss and they would find him guilty. He’d been caught with a bloody dagger standing over the king’s body. There was naught to debate. He’d killed the king. He deserved to die. The only question was whether they would release him from his guilt and anguish on the morrow or wait for Donyl to return from the wilderness. Deryk found himself praying to every god he knew of that the Lughans were feeling blood-thirsty and would let his at dawn’s light. He did not wish to face Donyl with guilt choking him and no explanation as to why he’d done such a horrible act.
I know not what gods control such … I suppose Lugh is judge … but I pray you hear my prayer and let me die without fanfare as soon as soon, for I am a worm and deserve no less.
Deryk closed his eyes and felt tears trickled down the grime on his face. Death would be a release.
Founding Year 1028
Mandorlyn
The rest of the trip into Mandorlyn proper was relatively uneventful. There were a few mining villages to stop at along the way, but they never lingered longer than a half day. They stayed at campgrounds between villages. It took another week to reach the only city in Mandorlyn, which was called Mandorlyn.
The settlement occupied the first real valley they’d seen since leaving Celconyn. Clustered around the east side of a large lake, the town was actually larger than a new town in the kingdom might have been. The houses were larger on the whole than homes in the kingdom as well. Yet the streets were unpaved and there was no town wall, though the repository occupied a well-guarded location in the center of town.
Duglas directed his caravan in the public marketplace where merchants he’d already arranged came to take their goods. Once the main part of the merchandise had been parceled out, Duglas set up a pay table and began to pay out the coin he’d promised.
“Will either of you be returning to Glenconyn with me?”
“I think I may,” Padraig said. “I’d like to look about before I make a decision, but I think I will be wanting to return and I might as well make coin while doing it.”
“Show up an eightnight from now and you’ll be welcome. I won’t find an herbman with bow skills this side of the Portal. What about you, Tamys?”
“I might be interested, but I want to look about a bit here, see if I can get hired on as a rider for the local lord.”
Duglas stared at him blankly for a moment, then looked sympathetic.
“Lad, there are no lords in Mandorlyn. It was founded by freemen and so far no lords have come to where they don’t appear to be needed. There’s lots of money to be had here, but the lords would have to own some of the mines to make it worth their time and there’s no king to give them titles patent, so ... I am babbling. Lad, I’m sorry. It’s a long journey to undertake for a disappointing end.”
Tamys stared at the ground, disappointment clearly visible on his usually court-trained face. Padraig drew him away from the line to express his own regret.
“I apologize. I might have investigated that a bit before I dragged you all the way here.”
“You didn’t know. How could you know? Even Denygal has lords, aye?”
“Aye, after a fashion Well, lad, there’s still time when we come back to Glenconyn. Summer won’t be over.” Tamys nodded. “Let’s see if we can find an inn to sleep in and then see what’s about to see.”
Tamys followed Padraig to an inn where the innkeeper didn’t question them, only gave a short speech about how he didn’t want his furniture broken or his walls damaged. He was already nearly full, having only one dormitory left. The dormitory, well up under the eaves of the three-story inn, consisted of two sloped roof-walls, a wall with a small window and a entry door that had to be entered in a full stoop. There was enough space for three men to sleep shoulder to shoulder, but since they were only two, they had room for their gear.
Right after spreading his bedroll and stowing his gear, Tamys announced he was going to “drink myself blind” then disappeared into the dusty streets of the town. Padraig sighed and let him go, knowing that he couldn’t force Tamys to do what was sensible.
Padraig spent some time looking about the town. Despite the unpaved condition of the streets, the unfinished appearances of many of the buildings, the town looked prosperous and well-kempt. Yards were neat, excepting timbers and building stones, sewage was taken care of discreetly and wells were far from midden heaps and privies.
Padraig found a tavern that sold the most delicious stew he’d tasted in a long while. A minstrel of middling abilities held forth in the public square as Padraig made his way back to the inn. The streets were filled with strolling families in good quality clothing. Padraig’s Denygal eyes noted the dirt beneath the fathers’ nails and sometimes the mothers. Thes
e people could afford the fine clothes and probably a nice house because they worked in the mines. It appeared it was a good life.
Padraig started his search for herb lore and spiritual direction at dawn on the morrow. Tamys had not returned and this concerned his friend, but Padraig knew that worry would not solve the problem. He left Tamys’ in God’s hands and went on the search he’d set before himself. He found the local herbfolk to be closed-mouth. They didn’t trust he was seeking lore in exchange for lore and he was taking what he learned back to the kingdom. It was late afternoon of that first day before he found Trynia, an older woman in a neat brown set of dresses who wore the black head scarf of a widow. She occupied a neat two-room cottage at the north end of town, one room stuffed to the rafters with every herb imaginable and a few that boggled Padraig’s.
“I’m willing enough to show you about in exchange for some of that elven lore,” she agreed. “A body can never stop learning, in my opinion. Don’t suppose I’m the first you talked to, though.”
“Nay, you are not. Whatever I can do to earn what you have to teach, I’m willing.”
“Oh, I can find plenty enough for a young, strong lad like you to do. Meet me here on the morrow.”
Padraig did just that, though he’d lost a bit of sleep over the fact that Tamys had not come in until just before dawn. The lad fell immediately into his blankets and Padraig didn’t have the heart to awaken him. Trynia waited for him on her porch, a stack of homespun sacks beside her. She smiled at him, showing strong teeth only slightly stained. Overall, this woman seemed quite strong and vigorous for her age.
“Let’s be off,” she began. And, thus began three days of hard work and much learning. Trynia knew much about the herblore of Mandorlyn, which was a new and growing area of knowledge. She’d heard of the red fever. “Aye, there’s some that think the dwarves left something in the soil to pay us back. It blinds and deafens, sometimes it palsies. But I’ve not found anything to treat it.”
“What about willow bark tea?”
“We’ve no white willow here.”
“You have shrub willow, what we call black willow in Denygal.”
“It’s a poor plant.”
“We make willow bark tea from it. It’s not as effective as the white, but it’s better than nothing. Mayhap you might mix it with feverfew. It’s worth the effort.”
“Feverfew has provided some relief, though not enough to make it worthwhile. Mayhap the two together ... Aye, well, I’ll try it next time.”
The third day brought them to a farm a bit away from the town where Trynia had helped birth a baby four days before. The farmwife, her golden-red curls caught back in a headscarf, sat on the porch with the baby in her arms. She quickly covered with a shawl when she saw Padraig following Trynia from her wagon.
“She’s so much better, Trynia,” the young lass enthused. “You’re a marvel!”
“Let me see her, lass. Beryna, this is Padraig of Denygal, who is visiting to learn a bit of our lore. How be you, Rhodda?” she asked an older woman with grey hair pulled back in a widow’s scarf.
“I am well, though short on sleep. The fool girl won’t listen to me.”
“She wants me to feed the baby cow’s milk so she’ll sleep, but you said to nurse her and I want to do what’s right for Liatha.”
“Aye, as you should, lass. Let me see her and I’ll have a bit of a look. Beryna, wasn’t your da from Denygal?”
“Aye, mayhap Padraig has news of your folks,” Rhodda suggested. She bustled after Trynia who took the baby to a basket to examine it. Beryna looked bereft, but tried to focus on Padraig.
“They’re just trying to keep me away in case there’s somewhat more wrong than jaundice.”
“Jaundice is bad enough. I’m glad to see Trynia knows about nursing in the sunlight.”
“Rhodda thought I would kill the baby that way, but she does seem less yellow.”
“Rhodda is your mother-in-law, then?” Beryna nodded, stopping short of rolling her eyes.
“She means well. I think I have somewhat for you, Padraig of Denygal. Do they do much fishing there?”
“Aye, much. And have you done any such yourself?”
“Aye, my husband and I enjoy putting our line in the water.”
Padraig crossed his fingers and placed them on his belt. She smiled, crossed her fingers as well, laying them against her kirtle.
“My mam and da came from Denygal, though I was raised all over the kingdom. My da won my husband to the Lord. As I said, I have somewhat for you. Do you know Morglen?”
“Tis south of Glenconyn, isn’t it? On the sea.”
“Aye. When you return to Glenconyn travel direct south. It’s not the usual way, but I’m sure you’re supposed to go the direction.”
“Thank you. You’ve given me the direction I’ve sought.”
Trynia returned with the baby and handed her back to her mother.
“She’s a fine strong lass and the yellow’s just about passed. A few more days nursing in the sun and she’ll be fine.”
“They’ll catch their deaths!” Rhodda protested. “Herbman, tell them this is folly!”
“It’s naught but a treatment for jaundice. We know it at home as well.”
The old woman’s annoyed look would have made Padraig laugh if it had any chance of being taken humorously. As it was he smiled at Beryna and left it at that. Trynia and he parted at her house for the last time.
“I want to thank you, lad, for your interest in the ramblings of an old woman. I’ve been out here since the beginning and I think I may know more than any other herbalist in the area, but the young ones don’t listen.”
“That’s their mistake. I wish I could remain to help you for a bit, but I have plans for the winter.”
“Aye, well, Mandorlyn’s a hard life. I’d not have stayed if I’d had the coin to return when my husband died, but now my children are here and I ... Well, a young man like you probably wouldn’t understand such a womanish thing.”
“I understand it well enough. This became home.”
“What about you? Do you have a home?”
“Aye, I do, far to the east.”
“Denygal must be a beautiful place. Why did you leave it?”
Padraig knew he must be careful here. Although Trynia seemed a wonderful old woman, she was faithful in the ways of Bel. Padraig had noted that on several occasions. It would not be fair to give her the burden of such a secret as his beliefs. It would test their friendship greatly.
“Lore,” he said. “The Denygal learned much from the elves who have their own system of doing things. They send a new journeyman out into the world to learn what there is to learn. He’s supposed to return with a body of knowledge to add to the existing lore.”
“Truly? What a novel and sensible idea! Do women have much say in Denygal society?”
“Aye, though less in Denygal than in elven society. Women are equal there with men.”
Trynia smiled at him in such a way that said she thought that a pleasant fantasy. Then they made their final goodbyes and Padraig returned to the inn. Tamys was asleep in his bedroll for the first night in three. The dormitory smelled of sour ale. Padraig crawled over to the window to allow fresh air to enter. Tamys burped loudly and opened a blood-shot eye to look at his friend.
“Mind if you blow out that light. We’ve an early leaving in the morn.”
“Aye, but I need to get some dinner before I go to sleep. What are you doing of the evening?”
“Laying here and listening to my head pound.”
Padraig might have offered willow bark tea, but he felt that Tamys would learn nothing from avoiding the consequences of his actions. He did put one of his water bottles next to Tamys’ bedroll and suggest the lad drink it all.
“You want hydrating, lad, to restore your watery humors.”
“You don’t believe in humors, remember?”
“It explains it well enough, doesn’t it?” Padraig blew out the c
andle lantern and crawled back to the door. “Do you need more ointment?”
“Nay, I did not – leave me alone,” Tamys said, rolling over and hiding his face in his arms. Padraig wished the lad would talk to him, but he knew better than to push in where he had not been invited. Besides, the inn they lodged at at had a good bard and arguing with Tamys wasn’t worth missing that.
Founding Year 1028
Dun Cenconyn - Summer Solstice
Reyn, rig of Cenconyn, leaned upon his elbows atop the parapet wall and looked upon the orderly chaos of the elven camp far below him. Truth be known, an ordinary man would not have seen too much at this distance, but Reyn of Cenconyn was not wholly human and his elfling eyesight was far better than that of the man who stood to his left. Reyn looked human enough with black wavy hair and strongly colored blue eyes common among the Denygal and handsome features that could turn any lass’ head. In Denygal they would have known him for a quarter elf by his tall and slender form and high coloring, but here in Cenconyn they were not so knowing.
“Rabble,” Nigyl, his new steward, muttered. Less than a moon on the post and already he had opinions and not ones that agreed with his new overlord. Reyn walked a thin line, though, for his mother’s blood marked him as cursed among his father’s people, of which Nigyl was one.
“Those rabble bring a lot of coin into the rigdon,” Reyn said pointedly. “Fine horses, the best wool in Dublyn, that coton you enjoy sleeping on, and Morikan goods as well. Nay, but they are the lifeblood of Cenconyn.”
“Why do you not simply ride into the mountains and seize their petty villages and take what is rightfully ours rather than being forced to pay for it?”
