Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1

by Daniel J. Rothery

  This very evening, in fact, he was expecting the reeve for a visit. The village reeve often dropped by one or another of the dozen farmsteads in his district unannounced. Sayri’s father, however, had cultivated a friendly relationship with the lordsman (through many an evening’s generosity of wine and feasting), so that the reeve had begun to plan his visit ahead of time, and often arrived carrying fresh game long before the feast for Sayri’s mother to roast.

  Sayri tried to stay out of the way on feast nights. The reeve was loud, overly fond of his position above that of his fellows, and prone to excessive drinking. The result of which was nearly always an endless torrent of incomprehensible stories at the crux of which was the reeve’s great intelligence, courage, or both. He also stunk when he drank, as many men did, not only of wine and bad teeth, but also of old sweat. The reeve was not a lean man by any definition, and regardless of the weather he seemed to perspire at the merest slight of exertion—or drink.

  Sayri sighed. The sun was creeping down toward flat clouds on the horizon, and she had managed to escape for the entire afternoon after completing her daily chores (which were, admittedly, fairly easy, with two well-muscled brothers available to deal with the hard labour). The reeve would be arriving soon, though, and her mother would look for Sayri to handle most of the cooking while she and her husband welcomed their guest. Sayri didn’t mind working in the kitchen, especially since it allowed her to avoid the reeve’s occasional lecherous gaze. Just fifteen summers, she had suddenly begun to fill out in all the right places, and village boys had not been the only ones to notice. Suddenly Sayri had to take care to avoid being embarrassed, or—so Ma warned—worse, though Sayri was comfortable with her knife and the locals knew it. She wasn’t overly concerned about protecting herself, but there was nothing to be done about wandering eyes, so the kitchen was preferable until the reeve took his leave or became drunk enough to ignore her.

  The afternoon shadows were growing long, however, and she still had a good walk home. With the sun’s fingers suspended in a dusty summer haze before her, Sayri began picking her way down the rocky trail to her home.

  ・

  “Have it as y’ will then, Davoy,” the reeve slurred. Wine had escaped his fat lips, and was forming rivulets down the front of his bare chest. It had found its way through a forest of greying hairs to pool in his distorted belly hole, but he seemed oblivious. The metal cup in his hand—the only one Sayri’s father owned, and surely worth more than any other of their meagre kitchen ware—he swung about grandiosely, as though to demonstrate his graciousness in granting Davoy his request. The grassy dirt around him was probably wet with his spills, and Sayri appreciated that they had chosen to table dinner outside in the setting sun; it would make cleanup easier. “I see not the value o’ this new waterway, but clearly y’ve set your mind, and so may y’ proceed. Far be it from this poor vassal,” he elaborated, leaning across the table to Davoy in what Sayri knew certainly exposed her father to eye-watering breath odour, “to stand before the grandish ambitions of his most plofitable—ah—profitable tenant.” He smiled a crooked, demeaning grin that Sayri hoped she would never be on the receiving end of. Surely her father understood that the reeve would, in his false generosity, make him pay dearly for the reeve’s cooperation, likely with free labour on his own plot for years to come.

  “This will double our village supply, and shall extend our season of growing by some fair margin,” her father said in his carefully dignified tone. He leaned back on the bench and laid his arm across the table in a seemingly casual gesture, most likely intended to distance himself from the reeve’s foul emanations. “It will bring about greater profit for Lord Perrile, and greater favour, I do say, for you, good sir.”

  The reeve waved his hand back and forth in a dismissing gesture, looking up at Sayri standing at the edge of the firelight, jug in her hands. “Yes, you’ve all explained all that to me, of all that. We shall then shee—ah—see, if it progress as so y’ say. Wine, girl,” he breathed at Sayri, a sickly familiar smirk curling his upper lip; he thrust his prickly chin out and peered through narrowed eyes when she advanced to pour for him. It wasn’t so horrible as the grin he used for her father, barely, but seemed to be distinctly reserved for her when her brothers were not around, though she did not entirely understand why.

  Markel and Bress had excused themselves shortly after eating to see to the animals in the barn, and close the shutters in case of a sudden night storm. Summer storms in the Lower Valley could be quite intense, despite lying nestled between the two plateaus of Red Rock and Wellam’s Bluff, but the sky had been clear and still this night so far. Sayri suspected that her brothers had simply bored of the reeve’s blithering and sought any escape that could reasonably be afforded them. Not that the reeve had any interest in them at all; he seemed fully focused on her father, and even completely ignored her mother on his visits, though she sat ever dutifully through dinner and any discussions to follow.

  Vollori was a quiet woman, if strong. She had ever taught Sayri that a wise girl took advantage of a man’s tendency to ignore her, in order to place herself where she could hear and see all. Sayri did not truly understand the advantage of this—she was mostly uninterested in what her father and brothers talked about, and even less so the reeve when he chose to ‘honour’ her family with his presence. Talk invariably focused on crops and weather.

  Only her father’s words ever held much interest for her. He was a simple tenant farmer, albeit a skilled one valued by his lord, but his talents and intelligence ranged far beyond such a humble life. Besides his art in the wood medium, creative and often stunning in itself, he was also a consummate problem solver and inventor. The water wheel on Longhorn Creek had been his design, and that alone had nearly doubled milk production when the cows stopped spending half their days cranking the mill, not to mention the ease of watering crops that necessarily followed. He had also built the Kite’s Perch (named by Sayri). Standing ten paces tall and strong enough to withstand the valley’s worst storms, it served as the village’s grand lookout for boxcats and sprinter packs that sought to prey on the cows, allowing them to be chased off. Just as importantly, it had become home to family of gazers, great brown-and-yellow mottled flying lizards measuring an armswidth across. These predators, named for the directionless stare they could hold endlessly when focused (Sayri imagined they were seeing something no one else could) were acclimated to man’s presence, but rarely seen in croplands. They hunted blackbirds diligently, and their arrival had made Davoy the village hero (again); blackbirds devoured the crops ferociously at summer’s end and were impossible to stop, since they were nocturnal. With the gazers present, the blackbirds vanished overnight. The villagers believed that the gazers frightened them away, but Sayri knew better. She wasn’t permitted to go on one of her wanderings at night, but once when she he had gingerly stepped outside to relieve herself, a gazer had whispered past her ear in the inky blackness at no more than an arm’s length. It had picked a blackbird off a leafy tree branch a moment later, knocking a meal right out of its open beak. Somehow the gazer could see perfectly in the dark, and its attack was nearly soundless. Sayri had dreamed of flying over the village at night, emerging from a blanket of darkness to neatly seize a blackbird in her talons, as the gazer had done, for days after.

  The conversation had shifted while she was lost in reverie. “She has fifteen,” her father was telling the reeve. Then, as if suddenly remembering her presence, Davoy turned to his daughter. “Clear this table, Sayri,” he said. “And then, to help your mother clean. This day has been long for her, whilst you wandered as y’ do.”

  Taking her cue, Sayri’s mother stood and bowed to the reeve formally, warmly reaffirmed her welcome, then turned to march quickly up into the house. Sayri quickly stacked wooden plates in her arms, then followed her in.

  “Many a fine young man in the village,” the reeve was saying as she walked off. “Had y’ someone in mind?”

  ・
・

  Bress was already sitting at the small table near the hearth when Sayri and her mother arrived, sipping from a wooden mug, likely filled with ale. Davoy didn’t normally allow his sons to drink the stuff, but when the reeve visited all rules were ignored and Bress, being the eldest, was always quick to take advantage. His parents were already quietly discussing suitors for him later in the evenings, but Sayri suspected he had someone in mind and intended to challenge their choice. Sons had that option if they had a reasonable alternative to offer, as did daughters, though they were far less likely to exercise it. Bress, though, was tall and wiry, with tussled fair hair that well framed a strong if innocent face, and village girls often followed him around the fairs when he ran errands. Sayri was certain he had dallied with more than one local girl a midsummer back, not to mention his occasional disappearance this year on quiet afternoons. He was probably in love, and simply waiting for his parents to broach the subject before staking his claim.

  Markel, shorter and wider and by far the stronger of the two boys, was quieter, and more his father’s son. He entered the house behind Sayri, nudging her with his shoulder playfully as he passed her on his way to the bench before the hearth. Markel had massive hands, a furrowed brow, and swarthy dark hair. His beard was already thicker than the one Bress sported for days without trimming, and Markel preferred his cropped close, before it started to curl and become unmanageable. Sayri sometimes played with the whorls of his hair, and liked to do so with his beard when it too grew long enough to curl; Markel hated it, and he would rush to trim it when she tried. Sayri knew he took the teasing good-naturedly; Davoy treated his sons fairly and with even hand, but he clearly had a soft spot for Markel, the only one in the family who shared his skin and hair colour. Sayri and Bress were the image of their mother, which Davoy would never complain for, since he often bragged of her being the most beautiful woman for days’ travel, and rightly so. However, he was openly pleased that at least one of his children carried his own Coastdweller countenance of dark hair, square jaw, and heavy bones. If anything, it provided a counterpoint to the good-natured ribbing he often received in the village tavern, that perhaps another man was visiting his wife while he traveled, explaining their stunning children.

  Markel sat heavily on the bench beside Bress with embers of the hearth at his back, and pulled a mug from the shelf beside him. He lifted an eyebrow at his brother, who shrugged and poured half the ale remaining in his mug into Markel’s. They tapped cups on the knarlwood surface with a smile and drank deeply, looking all brothers in that moment, ignoring the feigned displeasure from their mother as she scrubbed down plates at the table’s opposite end.

  “What of your day’s wanderings, Saychi? See a thing new?” Markel’s use of his pet name for her drew an exposed tongue, but Sayri didn’t really mind. He was her big, fluffy, boxcat of a brother, and she would forgive him almost anything. That in sharp contrast to the relationship she shared with her eldest brother, which had always been polite but distant. Only four years older, Bress somehow had always seemed like one of the adults, an image he cultivated among his siblings. The warm smile he was famous for amongst the village girls always appeared somewhat condescending towards Sayri, and she received it as a signal to keep a healthy distance. He, in turn, rarely inquired of her long walks, and she volunteered nothing.

  Markel, in contrast, was always eager to hear of the goings on beyond the valley. “Pepper doves,” Sayri answered, a sense of pride filling her in having news of note to share, “flying south. An absolute drove, a hundred on or more, to be certain. They were soaring low across the flats when I saw them, looking to settle for the night, I’d imagine.” When she made such reports to Markel or her parents, Sayri always tried to let her voice ring with eloquence, as though she was a teacher addressing students. It brought a soft smile to Markel’s lips, which she would usually interpret as fraternal pride; later, she would realize it was probably humour.

  “Pepper doves, you say?” Vollori had stopped scraping the wooden bowls, and her eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Outside the Lower Valley? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Ma,” Sayri said. “They were surely on their way south. It’s very rare, being still in summer, isn’t it?”

  “More than rare, Sayri. Unheard of.” She walked absently to the table, and slowly sat on the bench beside Bress, the bowl and stone still in her hand. “Early flights in autumn are a clear indicator of a cold winter.”

  “But it’s mid summer,” Markel said.

  Vollori didn’t reply, but she stood again quickly and walked over to the cooking counter. She quietly placed the half-cleaned bowl down on the table’s heavily peened wood surface, then gazed absently out the window. Outside, Sayri’s father and the reeve were standing at the near fence, Davoy speaking rapidly while animating his hands, the reeve shaking his head. After a few moments, Davoy turned and walked toward the house, leaving the reeve at the fence gazing out over the valley.

  “Sayri, go out to the barn and prepare the cot for our guest,” Sayri’s mother said. “He is too drunk to ride home. And see to his horses,” she added, noticing the two animals chewing on tall grasses at the trail’s edge, still tied to the wagon the reeve had arrived on.

  “Yes, Ma.” Sayri curtsied before leaving, a formal courtesy she rarely made use of in their home, which was more open and free than most. It seemed appropriate to her mother’s mood. As she pushed the door open and let it swung freely shut, she heard her brothers’ hushed voices, as though they didn’t wish to disturb their mother . . . as though they might know more of what worried her. Sayri nodded to herself, deciding that she would interrogate Markel at sleep time, and discover what this could mean.

  The sun was long set outside, and the sky was darkening. Sprinters were yelping in the distance, probably at passing farmers on their way home from the village tavern. Sayri trotted the dozen paces between the house and the barn, her mind already on what she would ask Markel. She unlatched and swung open the heavy barn doors, then turned to unhitch the reeve’s team and lead them in.

  ・・・

  Sayri had seen to the animals and laid out the reeve’s cot. The wind had begun to pick up, so she was latching the shutters, already beginning to bang in their frames, when the reeve entered the barn. He had her father’s metal cup in his left hand, what looked like a leather bound book in his right, and the wine jug in the crook of his right elbow.

  Leaving the barn door wide open, he staggered over to a round wooden table and chair near the tool wall, where he sat heavily with a sigh. Sayri crossed the room quickly to catch the door swinging in the wind; the air was chilling outside, so she closed and latched both the top and bottom. A horse snorted uneasily and one of the ducks rasped.

  The reeve placed the book of the table, tapping it with the middle finger of his left hand, deep in thought. He pursed his lips for a moment, then reached for the wine jug, knocking it from the table, and cursed as red wine surged onto the yellow straw. Sayri moved quickly to pick up the jug before it was empty, and wiped it on the apron at her belt. The reeve suddenly became aware of her, as though she had been standing there all along waiting for his cue; he motioned for more wine, so Sayri poured into his outstretched cup.

  “Your father, girl, he be a different man—ah—difficult,” the reeve grunted, shaking his head. “Always to ‘is projects. Always thinkin’.” He slurped from the cup.

  “Indeed . . . young man,” Sayri replied after a brief hesitation. It was polite to address any stranger as such, but she wasn’t sure of the proper etiquette involving a lordsman. She had never been alone with a man not her father, much less a man of the reeve’s stature, and drunk at that. “He has many wonderful ideas,” she added, and curtsied as she spoke. “I’m sure that all are intended to make my reeve’s job easier and his . . . lord happy,” she went on, confusing herself with her honorifics.

  The reeve didn’t seem to notice; he was blinking repeatedly, looking down at the straw beneath her
feet—or at her leg? “He doesn’ always see the big f’ a little.” Then, motioning suddenly around him grandly, “The wind f’ the storm!” His gaze drifted downward again, and his right hand reached out to touch the seam of Sayri’s apron. “S’ important t’ stay focus on wha’s at hand,” he droned.

  Sayri frowned. The reeve wasn’t making sense, but she didn’t know how to extract herself without bring rude. Finally, she ventured, “Would the young man like something more to eat?”

  “Come, have y’ seat here, girl.” The reeve held out his left hand as his right placed the metal wine cup on the table, spilling it and staining the heavy knarlwood dark and red. For a moment Sayri considered turning and running, but that would be rude and her father would scold her. So she took his hand, and when he pulled her closer, she tried to laugh, though no sound came out. Seconds later she was on his thigh, and he was running his thick meaty fingers through her hair. His breath was murderously thick with wine and the stench of rotten teeth, and her mind raced as she considered excuses to push him off and go back to the house.

  “Such fine art, y’ are,” he was muttering, tracing the backs of his fingers along her reddening cheek. “Married off t’ a farm lad, to be plowed on drunken nights at ‘is whim? As would ‘e, the fields . . . might he even appreciate such . . . delicate beauty?”

  Sayri didn’t understand what he was talking about. Her father hadn’t spoken of marrying her off, of any boys at all. She had barely begun to notice the local villager’s sons . . . did the reeve know something he hadn’t told her? If her father was planning to see her married soon, she needed to find out!

  She froze, her thoughts dashed, when she realized that his mouth was on her neck, and his hand was on her breast. Suddenly she understood what was happening. With a hand on his shoulder, she stood up, or tried to; the reeve seized her by the hips, and spun her around in a complete circle then, disoriented, she was dropped on her back in the straw. He fell to a knee between her legs, fumbling blindly at his breeches beneath the mass of his belly fat.