by Steven Poore
Cassia felt his other hand drop onto her hip. He had reached around her, she realised, to prevent her from standing up. To stop her from fleeing. She stared into his eyes and at last she recognised what she saw there. Hunger. Hetch was, after all, his father’s son.
Attis protested, but Cassia did not hear the words. She could see the days stretch out before her. She would be as much a slave to the Almouls as she had been to her father, but now confined to Keskor . . . and expected to be grateful for it. This was not how friends ought to treat each other. But perhaps Hetch had never truly been her friend.
“You, Attis? Buy the girl from us in turn?” Tarves barked with laughter, richly amused by what the moneylender had said. “Oh, but this is hilarious!”
Hetch no longer paid any attention to her, though his hand was firm upon her hip. “No, sir, she is not for sale.”
“Not until you’ve had your use of her, anyway.” Tarves grinned.
Cassia clenched her fists. Blood pumped through her veins with the rhythm of festival drums.
“This is no way to treat the poor girl!” Attis said.
Rann Almoul shrugged. “It came of your suggestion.”
“But it was not what I meant!” Attis snapped back at him.
Cassia pulled her hand free of Hetch’s grip. “I will not stay here,” she said. Her voice was close to cracking. “I’ll run. You can’t keep me here.”
Tarves grinned over her head at his brother. “A length of chain will solve that issue.”
She looked to Baum and Meredith, pleading silently with them. Please. You can see this is wrong. You can’t let them do this. Don’t leave me in Keskor!
“No,” Baum said at last, and it was as though he had heard her thoughts. “I will not countenance that. The North has been shackled long enough. Keep the promised amount of seventy-four bells, Rann Almoul. I will take the girl instead.”
The party erupted into noise. Meredith stood, his hands braced firm against the table. He cast a great shadow across them all, and the protests died as suddenly as they began.
“So,” Baum said. “I believe that settles everything.”
q
Her emotions were coiled too tight for her to remain at the table. She decided it might be best to get out of the way.
“I’ll see to the mule,” she muttered aloud to nobody in particular, and walked as calmly as she could toward the lean-to. Her legs trembled with every step and her vision was blurred by tears welling up in her eyes. When she reached the lean-to she could not hold them off any longer, and she buried her face in the mule’s foul-smelling hair, hugging the beast’s neck.
It wasn’t fair, she thought. It just wasn’t fair. How could the day have turned so ill, so quickly? Even their escape from Varro’s mob had not been so awful, not compared to this.
The mule tried to pull away. She was holding it too tight. She wiped away her tears and stared at the bags hanging from the beast’s back. The sum total of their lives, she thought miserably as she began to untie them, a task made harder by her quivering fingers.
“Girl,” a voice whispered quietly from the yard, making her drop one of the bags in fright. She peered around to see Attis at the gates leading from the yard, making good his intent to go home. Cassia was not certain she wanted to speak to him. After all, he had tried to purchase her too.
He glanced back in the direction of the table, making sure he was not observed. “Listen well, girl,” he told her. “The gods know your father for a damned fool. Normally I’d not waste my time helping him, but now he’s got you involved too.”
Attis paused and took a deep breath. “Baum is a dangerous man.” His voice lowered even further. “If you think that young swordsman of his is trouble enough, think again. I knew Baum fifty years ago. He hasn’t changed, girl. Not a bit. He’s more than he says he is. Tell your idiot father to keep his head down if he wants to keep it on his shoulders. And you – be careful, and stay away from Keskor. Rann Almoul will not forget this night.”
Cassia felt the trembling return, the muscles in her arms and legs threatening to betray her. She held tight to the bags on the mule’s back.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, her voice cracking. “I’ll tell him.”
Attis opened the gate. Halfway through he stopped, looking back over his shoulder. “If I thought you had even half a chance, I’d tell you to take that mule and run now.”
There were so many questions, but there wasn’t enough time. “Why?” she heard herself say. She wasn’t even sure which question she had meant to ask.
The old moneylender stared at her, and he seemed to shrink a little, bowed by an unseen weight on his shoulders.
“Because I had a daughter too. Once.”
The gate closed.
Chapter Three
In the end Cassia avoided her father completely, spending the night on the bench in Rann Almoul’s yard, huddled under her threadbare blanket. It was no worse than sleeping on the ground, as she normally did. The bench was so secluded that she felt safer there than she might have in the servants’ rooms.
Sleep was a different matter. She was too tense to rest, waking at the slightest sound. Several times she thought she heard somebody come into the yard, and she stayed as silent and still as she could. It could be Meredith, or Tarves, checking that she had not run off.
As though she had anywhere to run.
Panic eventually subsided into exhaustion, and she must have finally fallen into a deeper sleep, because suddenly the sky was lightening and Almoul’s ancient cockerel hoarsely called in the dawn. Her hands and feet were cold, and her blanket was damp with dew, but at least it hadn’t rained.
It was only when she peeled back the blanket from over her head that she realised she was not alone. Meredith stood perfectly still in the centre of the yard, his back to her, in the space the tables had occupied last night. He was bare-chested and barefoot, wearing only woollen breeches, his greatsword in its scabbard at his side. His arms were flung out wide, as though he had been crucified. Cassia could see the ridges and curves of the muscles across his back and shoulders, delineated as perfectly as any sculpture. The old man had picked his bodyguard wisely.
As she decided to swing her legs from under the blanket, the young lordling moved, with such alarming speed that she froze once more. He fell backwards, turning the fall into an effortless roll, and came back to his feet with sword drawn, held two-handed against some invisible enemy. He maintained that position for perhaps two heartbeats, and then the blade dipped, whirled and sliced through the air in a complex sequence of moves, his body following behind the weapon, twisting, crouching and jumping in counterpoint to every thrust and looping cut. Cassia could only watch, spellbound by his grace and athleticism. There were acrobats who performed these moves, perhaps, but surely not wielding such a blade at the same time.
He did not appear to have noticed her. As far as Cassia could tell, his attention was fixed on the air a mere pace in front of him. His muscles rippled as he drove the sword silently through arc after arc, lashing out to each side, both high and low. Whenever her father described swordfights in his tales, this was exactly how she imagined them.
After a minute or so, she became aware of the patterns and the rhythms within his movement. Meredith performed a dance of sorts, weaving seamlessly between long-practiced forms. She tried to imagine how anyone could stand against him, but she could only see bodies falling to the ground, life hacked and shorn away by the lordling’s sword.
Meredith did not tire, nor did he stumble. That amazed her more than anything else. How in the world could he be so constant? The heroes of her father’s tales were as nothing compared to this man.
And then at last, just as she began to wonder if he was truly human at all, Meredith stopped. He brought his sword around and down in a great two-handed chop that was clearly intended to decapitate a man, and dropped to one knee, the blade halting mere inches from the ground as though the weight behind the swing wa
s of no consequence. He laid the sword on the ground in front of him and bowed his head reverently. Several hairs had worked loose from his ponytail, and they fell forward over his face as he prayed. Now Cassia felt awkward. This was a private moment, she knew, and she didn’t dare move or make any sound.
His head still bowed, Meredith stretched out one hand, palm raised. “Girl, bring me water.”
She blinked, startled. Had he known she was awake all along? She pushed to her feet, too disturbed to even wince at the complaining twinge of her legs, and edged around the yard. An earthenware jug sat by the wall nearby. She guessed Meredith had filled it and brought it out with him. With her heart thudding – it wouldn’t be a great effort for him to pick up that sword and run her through – she tried to stop her hands trembling as she held out the jug to him.
Meredith took a long draught, water streaming from his lips down onto his chest. Then he solemnly upended the jug over his head, and Cassia had to step back quickly to avoid being soaked.
He rose, dripping, and handed her the empty jug before sheathing his sword. “Baum expects you to be ready to leave within the hour,” he said, looking at her for the first time. Just as before, his gaze was devoid of all but an odd hint of curiosity.
“I – I’ll tell my father,” Cassia forced the words out, clutching the jug tight. Meredith’s proximity was unnerving, intimidating, even.
“Good.” Meredith gave a curt nod, and turned abruptly away. He walked back into Almoul’s house, leaving her alone once more.
Cassia stood for a moment, listening to Keskor awaken beyond the walls of the yard, before shaking herself loose with a relieved curse. There was too much to do, and too little time to do it all. At least that meant she’d have no time to waste in thinking and worrying.
She found her father unusually subdued and withdrawn. He was also quite sober, as far as she could tell. Perhaps he’d had second thoughts about his hasty agreement to join Baum’s plot. After passing on Meredith’s message she fled back into the yard and set about repacking their bags. Better to stay out of his way than risk touching off one of his tempers.
The mule tried to bite her, treading on her toes and pulling hard against its tether, but there wasn’t enough room for it to manoeuvre under the cramped shelter. She got her own back by giving it a few sound whacks on its rump, as a small down payment on what she figured she owed the beast.
“It won’t respect you for that.”
Her hands stiffened in the mule’s fur and it brayed another complaint. She had been so focused on her own tasks that she hadn’t seen Baum come to the shelter.
The older man prepared his own mounts with the brisk, economical movements born of long years of practice, his strength undiminished by age. His bedroll was as tightly folded as that of a soldier, as were the leather-wrapped packs that he hung across the stallion’s haunches.
“Have you eaten?” Baum asked casually, as though nothing untoward had occurred the previous night. As though she was an equal, rather than a possession. Cassia found herself unable to answer, only shaking her head dumbly in response, one hand pressed hard against the mule’s flank.
“We have a long journey ahead,” he continued, “so make sure you have something to break your fast before we leave. Travel on an empty stomach is never pleasant.”
Cassia nodded and ducked her head as she backed out of the shelter, uncomfortable under his piercing gaze. There was something about his smile, she thought: it was hard and cold. Superficial. Attis’ warning echoed through her mind. He’s more than he says he is.
They made an uneven bunch, Cassia thought, as they waited for Hetch to drag the gates wide open. Meredith and Baum – her master and owner, now – with their great mounts and spares, clothed and prepared for a long journey, weapons covered but visible under their cloaks. Norrow shifted restlessly behind them, his boots worn bare by the years and the miles, a small pack containing his robes and purse slung uncomfortably over his shoulder. And his daughter of course, unwanted and sold away, leading the mule that carried the rest of their worldly possessions. An uneven and mismatched company.
Rann Almoul had come out to bid them farewell. He looked to have spent a long night deep in thought. He seemed older and more lined than he had the previous evening; strange, she thought, that such a change could be effected in only a few hours. But it was one thing to dream of escaping Hellea’s yoke. It was another matter entirely to actually attempt to raise the Northern lands against the Empire.
He passed a small, locked chest to the old man, and Almoul and Baum spoke in low tones for a minute or two, the words unclear but their meaning unmistakable. Build quietly, take your time. Watch and wait. Be ready. Word will come.
And then, a single whispered word: Caenthell.
A chill breath swept across the yard, like the curse itself, so quietly Cassia thought she had imagined it. But Almoul took a step back, the colour draining from his face before he managed to regain his self-control. At the gate Hetch twitched, glancing over his shoulder at the darkened shapes of the mountains to the north, his guileless face suddenly edged with fear.
Caenthell. Of all the tales her father knew, those of the ancient mountain kingdom were most rousing and inspiring. They were also the darkest and most dreadful. The Age of Talons was coming to an end, and the dragons retreated slowly from the world. With the blessing of the god Pyraete, or so it was told, Caenthell rose in place of the dragons. The High Kings of the North dominated the lands for hundreds of miles around, ruling from an impenetrable fortress filled with countless riches and treasures. The earlier stories were filled with impetuous heroism, incredible creatures and sorcery, and powerful and wise kings and queens.
But all that changed as the cycle of tales carried on. The golden optimism that suffused the stories became tarnished, the resolutions darker, the actions of the heroes no longer selfless or justifiable. Over time the High Kings lost their nobility, and the lands they ruled fell under Caenthell’s savage tyranny. Pyraete turned away from the mountains in shame, and at last Caenthell was broken, stone from stone, when the warlock Malessar cursed the entire kingdom as he savagely murdered the last High King.
Rann Almoul recovered his composure, and he stepped back, gesturing toward the open gate. “May you go with Pyraete’s blessing,” he said, “and may the road take you swiftly and surely home.”
“And may Pyraete send favour to your house and your family,” Baum replied, touching his forehead lightly with two fingers. It sounded more like a curse than a blessing to Cassia’s ears. Then Baum turned to Meredith, who watched the exchange indifferently. “To the road, my friend.”
Meredith nodded and led the way through the gate, turning left immediately to follow the alley onto the broad road on that side of the house. Baum and Norrow followed quickly, and then it was Cassia’s turn. She steadfastly refused to look at Hetch as she passed him.
For once the mule decided against pulling awkwardly away from her at every opportunity. Perhaps it had taken heed of the far more refined examples provided by the grand horses a few yards in front. Or maybe she had finally managed to beat the obstreperous attitude out of it.
Or it might just be that it saw no point in rebelling any further. Like me, she thought.
Even this early the streets of Keskor were bustling. This was one of the town’s busiest roads, even before it met the Emperor’s March. Traders pushed handcarts and larger wagons toward the market square, while bakers, blacksmiths, woodworkers and other craftsmen stoked ovens and furnaces or hung goods on rails over their shop fronts. Small gangs of men overtook the travellers, or crossed the street in front of them, some headed for fields and pastures beyond the town walls, others for quarries in the hills beyond that.
Baum and Meredith had already drawn ahead, even though they too were walking alongside their mounts. The mule wasn’t the fastest beast at the best of times, and Norrow tired quickly. Cassia wondered how long her new master would accept such a slow pace. And that
led her to wonder what he would do once he decided that she and her father were altogether too slow.
Her thoughts drifted back to the whispered mention of Caenthell. Although the kingdom had long since faded into history, its lands swallowed up by vengeful neighbours and, after that, Hellea, its name still had a double-edged potency. Mothers hushed their children with the threat of a visit from the spirit of the last, cursed High King, or from the warlock Malessar, who was said to steal infants from the crib. Cassia had heard that further south men thought of Caenthell when they spoke of the savage, treacherous north.
At the same time, however, Caenthell was a symbol of the independence and dominance that the North had once enjoyed. Such a powerful symbol could not fail to draw the hearts of men, as her father’s tales proved over and over again. The stories of the end of Caenthell always looked to revenge and to the breaking of the curse.
The North will rise again, long-dead men and women promised through Norrow’s words. Prophecies like that gave people something to live for. And they made the Helleans nervous. Baum had to know that.
The old man paused at the edge of the square that lay just inside Artrevia’s Arch, waiting for them to catch up. The legion had a guard post here, watching over the Emperor’s March as it descended into the hills, and collecting tolls from those who wished to travel the road. Norrow tended not to use the Imperial roads if he could help it, preferring to take the long, rough paths across the country. He claimed his purse could not stretch to such extravagances.
But there’s always enough for another drink, she thought bitterly.
Meredith crossed to meet them, leaving his horse with the old man. He was dressed as he had been the previous night, once more looking the part of a young noble lord, but this morning he also wore a thick shirt of hardened leather under his cloak, with a pair of gauntlets tucked into his belt. He ignored Cassia and made directly for her father.
