The Plains of Kallanash

by Pauline M. Ross

  If only Tella hadn’t died. Since then, everything had come crashing down around her, and the worst was yet to come. Mia’s fears weighed her down, as if she were buried under a mountain of rocks, deep underground, with the closeness, the dark stifling her, clutching at her throat so that she couldn’t breathe. Whichever of her husbands died, how could she carry on as if nothing had happened? Her marriage, her life had shattered into a thousand pieces and she wasn’t sure it could be mended.

  As always when she felt distressed, she turned to the Slaves for support. The temple was her place of refuge, where she could meditate and clear her mind, while the acolytes chanted and incense filled the air with heady scents, a different one for each hour of the day. She found herself drawn there often, usually after the stillness, and on days when the men were all on the training grounds and she could settle to nothing in dread of hearing the death alarm.

  Sometimes there were groups there, families come in from their village to celebrate a birth or mourn a death, or to make offerings to the Slaves for a request to the Gods for help. Sometimes one or two of the traders who brought fresh food to the Karninghold each day would sit in the temple for a while before beginning the return journey. But mostly it was quiet, the acolytes circling and chanting, a scattered handful of the kitchen workers, heads bowed, and the Silent Guards in their gold armour, immobile and watchful.

  Quite often the Karninghold Slave would appear while she was there. He would sit in the half-light, his hood shading his face, but his eyes glittered whenever she glanced his way, and she suspected he was watching her. One afternoon, not long after Hurst had received his arrows, the Slave met her at the door as she rose to leave, a little unsteadily for the incense was heady.

  “Would you perhaps come to the meeting room, Most High?”

  “Of course, Most Humble.”

  The Slaves’ meeting room was large and airy, its white-painted walls and sparse wooden furniture, also white, making it seem empty. Mia’s slippers shushed on the tiled floor. There was a table spread with papers against one wall, and some hooks with a few books hanging on another. In the centre was a carved wooden bench with a strip of carpet for padding surrounded by half rings of wooden boxes for seats, where the acolytes received their instruction.

  The Slave waved her to the bench and hung his gown on a peg by the wall before joining her. His simple tunic and trousers made him look quite ordinary, although with his bald head and large bony nose, he was distressingly like a cadaver. He had deep set eyes under hooded lids, which stared unwinking at Mia.

  “You are distressed, Most High. It is natural, of course, but perhaps it might help if we talk about it.”

  “If you think it best, Most Humble.”

  “I wondered, Most High, if you have thought at all about the possible outcomes to this tragic situation?”

  “I… try not to,” she whispered.

  “Indeed, that is understandable. But you might perhaps nurture hopes? It might seem to you that, on balance, one outcome might be preferable? Have you thought along those lines at all?”

  “You mean…?” For a moment she was shocked. Could he really be asking which of the two she wanted to survive? “No, I have not. It seems to me that all possible outcomes are bad.”

  “Indeed, indeed, Most High. It is most distressing. A little wine, perhaps?”

  He fetched her a glass, and she sipped it obediently. He watched her, eyes glittering, face impassive, his bony fingers fiddling with his rings, one which bore the same three Karning stones as her torc, and another with a single large amber stone.

  “What you might not have understood, Most High, is that the Gods consider such cases very carefully. The outcome is not pre-ordained, you know. It depends to some extent on chance, but it depends on other considerations, too. Such as the best arrangement for the future. For all parties, if you understand me. So once the eyes of the Gods are drawn to the matter, they will make the best decision for everyone, so far as they can be aware of all the circumstances. Now as to that, we can help, in our humble way. We can ensure that they are fully aware of all the implications of their decision, that they understand the consequences for all parties with an interest. You might like to ponder the idea.”

  Mia frowned, unsure what he was suggesting. It almost sounded as if he would ask the Gods to decide on the basis of her personal preference, but that could hardly be so. Such matters were decided for higher and more abstruse reasons than her feelings, surely?

  “The Gods have our ultimate happiness in mind, Most High,” the Slave said unctuously.

  That took her breath away. “If the Gods had wished me to be happy, Most Humble, they would have kept my sister alive and spared all of us this nightmare.”

  ~~~

  Jonnor had been hit twice by Hurst’s arrows, but survived. Then he got his own arrows, and two of those were used up, and still both Mia’s husbands lived. Yet two more arrows remained, one on each side, and there could be no relief from the worry until the matter was resolved one way or the other.

  The constant tension affected everyone in the Karninghold. The children were clinging and fretful, the adults were short-tempered. Hurst’s trip to the lines gave everyone a respite, and to Mia’s relief Jonnor began to come to her room again, a practice he had abandoned during the early days of the crisis.

  While Hurst was away, Gantor’s oldest brother and his wife arrived. They had visited before, for as scholars of high standing they had the freedom to travel where they wished. Drantior and Missandra were almost fifty, the one tall and thin with a little pot belly, much as Gantor would have been without constant training to build his muscles, and the other small and round like a dumpling.

  Mia greeted them with pleasure, for any distraction was welcome, but it seemed a curious time to visit. Usually they came when Gantor had a long spell away from the lines. But perhaps they had a professional interest in the blue arrows procedure. Or, more morbidly, perhaps they were there in case Hurst died and Gantor was also consigned to the flames.

  They waited patiently for Gantor to return from the lines, mixing with equal ease with Mia and her Companions, with the Slaves and with the servants. They loved to spend time with the children, too, for they had none of their own, fondly guessing which of them might possibly have been sired by Gantor, and wondering where baby Jinnia got her white-blonde hair when her parents were both so dark. Only the guards and Skirmishers made them uncomfortable.

  The day Hurst, Gantor, Trimon and Walst were scheduled to return with their three Hundreds, Mia was very much on edge. After several days safe in the knowledge that neither Jonnor nor Hurst was at risk, she knew the deadly duel would now be resumed. She could not have guessed quite how soon that would happen.

  When the arrival alarm sounded, she went to the receiving yard with her Companions, the servants and guards, to await the procession. Jonnor should have been there too, but his absence was hardly a surprise. The lines of horses trotted in through the gates in a cloud of dust and circled round the yard, the leaders drawing to a halt close to the steps where she stood. Hurst smiled at her, dismounted and turned to make some adjustment to the reins. Then he turned to face her again.

  He was just about to speak when the arrow flew and thumped into the horse, making it startle. To her astonishment he just crumpled and fell. He was mere feet away from her, lying immobile on the ground.

  For an instant she couldn’t understand, confused by the horse, which skittered about, snorting. Gantor was shouting something, trying to grab the horse, people rushed forward to help, others were telling everyone to stay clear. There was shouting, noise, confusion, a whirl of people and animals.

  In the middle of it, Hurst lay as if dead and icy fingers of fear gripped her. Was this it, the end she dreaded? Was it Hurst she would lose?

  She started to rush to his side when several Slaves appeared and began moving everyone back. Where had they all come from, she wondered? It was not usual for so many to receive a r
eturning Karningholder.

  A clear space expanded around Hurst and then it was obvious what had happened; not far away was the arrow, lying on the ground, shaft and feathers both a deep blue.

  Mia stood immobile, watching it all happen as if in a dream. More Slaves appeared, gave orders, strode about with arms waving. Horses were led away to the stables. People drifted back to their chores. Gradually the yard cleared until only a few small knots of spectators remained.

  Two Slaves knelt down beside Hurst, loosening his clothes, checking him. They looked at each other across his corpse-like form and one gave the tiniest shake of his head. Fear clutched at her.

  But one of the Healing Slaves came over to her. “He is well,” she said. “His breathing is normal, his colour is good. We must wait, now.”

  Hurst was lying in the sun, so when they deemed that the miasma had dispersed and it was safe, the Slaves allowed Gantor and Walst to carry him to a stone bench set in a shaded alcove nearby. It was not permitted to take him indoors, it seemed, but this was acceptable. Someone – Morsha perhaps – brought out a cushion for his head, and they waited.

  Mia knelt on the ground beside him, stroking his hair and face, tears cascading unheeded down her cheeks. His weather-worn skin was rough under her fingers, his chin prickly with stubble. As she watched over him, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and even, she was reminded of the mornings she had woken beside him in his bed. With all his lack of beauty or symmetry, his familiar face was so dear to her. She could not bear to think of him dying. She had never known such exquisite agony as she waited, helpless.

  At some point she became aware that Jonnor was there. When she turned to look at him through her tears, his face was pale, anxious, as if Hurst were suffering from some unexpected illness rather than a deliberate attempt to kill him. Then he saw her watching him and his face closed. He turned abruptly and, pushing people aside, vanished through the circle of spectators.

  Time passed, and still she wept over Hurst’s immobile form. The sun began to sink in the sky and the shadows lengthened, chilling her to the bone, but she never moved. People came and went behind her, she heard occasional whispers, and once or twice the Healing Slave came to check on Hurst, and then went away again. No one spoke to her.

  Then a tiny cough, an intake of breath and his head moved. A sudden spasm of fear – was this the end? Then he opened his eyes and gazed at her. A little smile twitched.

  “Mia…” he murmured.

  The Healing Slave rushed over. “Well, the Gods have decided to spare you, Most High,” she said, and beamed at Mia. “They are merciful today.”

  “Kind of them,” said Hurst, his voice no more than a dry croak.

  Gantor and Walst helped Hurst inside one of the healing rooms, while Mia fetched water for him and the Slave chased everyone else out. It was cool inside, despite a small brazier in one corner, and Mia shivered again and pulled her scarf closer round her head. She was stiff from sitting in one position for so long, muscles sore, and her head ached from crying.

  “Are you all right?” Hurst said.

  “I’m supposed to ask you that question,” she said, laughing from relief. “How do you feel?”

  “Not bad, actually.” He sounded surprised. “Like I just woke up from sleeping in an awkward position. A bit cramped, slightly woozy. How long was I out?”

  “Couple of hours,” Gantor replied. “Bit more, maybe.”

  “But that was the last one, right? He’s done, now, isn’t he?”

  “He’s done,” said Gantor, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. “Now it’s up to us.”

  “And the Gods, Most Respected,” said the Slave. “And the Gods.”

  ~~~

  As soon as he felt well enough, Hurst disappeared into the evening gloom with his Companions, and also Drantior and Missandra, who had waited patiently throughout the afternoon’s events. “I’ll see you later, at meat,” was all Hurst said as he left. Mia looked at the Healing Slave and raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, that is one of them I don’t have to worry about. Unless the Voices send an agent.”

  “Unlikely, I should think,” the Slave replied. “They rarely do that, unless the situation remains… difficult. Let’s see what happens with the final arrow before we start worrying about agents, Most High.”

  Mia’s own Companions were also waiting, and Marna gave her a big hug.

  “There!” said Morsha. “Hurst is safe, at least.”

  “You should rest for a while,” said Mista. “You’ve missed the afternoon stillness.”

  “We all have,” said Mia. “That’s a good idea. I’m exhausted.”

  The walk to the high tower seemed even further than usual today, and Mia began to wonder if her legs would carry her so far. Through the great hall they trooped, guards in front, Companions behind, a cluster of servants and yet more guards at the rear, then into the middle hall, the inner hall and the guest hall. Then on in formation up the broad stairway to the family hall and the door to the high tower, where she could finally leave them all behind.

  Relieved to be on her own at last, and exhausted after the climb up the stairs, she went into the cool room set into the southern wall to find some fruit juice. As she opened the door, she almost bumped into Jonnor, wine decanter in hand. He flushed a little, and dropped his eyes, squeezing past her without a word. But when she emerged with her drink, he was waiting for her.

  “Are you… feeling better now?” he asked.

  “I… Yes. Thank you.”

  “You’re fond of him,” he blurted, and then flushed again.

  “Well, of course! He’s been my husband for more than ten years, and he’s always been a good friend to me.”

  “You didn’t cry over me when I was hit.” It didn’t sound like an accusation, just a statement of fact.

  She felt guilty anyway. “I didn’t know! No one came to tell me. I only found out afterwards.”

  He hesitated, and then looked her straight in the eye. “I’m glad he survived.”

  “Are you?” she said, surprise making her blunt.

  “Yes,” he said at once. “I’ve never killed anyone, and I don’t want to kill Hurst. None of this is my doing, you know, none of it. We had an arrangement, everything was fine. But once he made his choice, that was it, I had to give it a go, didn’t I? I couldn’t let him shoot at me without at least trying to get him first. But it looks like the Gods want me, not him.”

  “Maybe they don’t want either of you. Let’s hope, at least.”

  “And where would that leave us? No, one of us has to go. I just hope he gets it over with quickly, that’s all. Will you miss me, little Mia?”

  But she couldn’t answer, for the tears were flowing again.

  18: The Last Arrow (Hurst)

  Hurst was euphoric after his escape from death. He had the last remaining arrow and could take his time and pick his moment. He was a little concerned, however, that Jonnor had been knocked out twice now and yet he had survived.

  They were all sitting around in Gantor’s library, as Trimon passed around the wine, and Walst handed out cakes. Gantor’s brother Drantior and his wife Missandra were also there.

  “Two clean shots, and he’s survived both,” Hurst muttered. “Maybe the Gods don’t want him?”

  “That is unusual, certainly,” said Missandra. “As a rule, it only takes one good shot. What happened, exactly?”

  Hurst did his best to describe the events surrounding both the arrows Trimon had fired so far, with the others adding their memories as well.

  Missandra listened carefully and nodded. “So the first time, Cole and Torman were kneeling beside Jonnor. What did they do, can you remember?”

  “Well…” They looked at each other, puzzled.

  “Did they touch him at all?”

  Trimon shrugged, for he’d been too far away to see details.

  “I don’t remember,” said Gantor. “I was too annoyed with them for buzzing round him at all. Th
ey were supposed to stay well clear, we all were.”

  “They were checking for a pulse,” said Hurst. “You know, the usual thing when someone’s hurt – get the helmet off, make sure he has air, check for a pulse, turn him on his side. They must have touched him.”

  “Did they take his helmet off?” Missandra asked.

  “Wasn’t wearing one,” said Gantor. “He was all geared up, but he was instructing that day, so no helmet, just the usual protective gear. Is it important?”

  “Did they remove any of his clothing?” she persisted, reaching for another cake.

  “They took off his gorget and unfastened everything round his throat,” said Hurst. “So he could breathe. It’s what we’re all trained to do when someone falls like that.”

  “Is it important?” Gantor asked again.

  “It’s interesting,” Missandra said, dropping crumbs. “And the second time, no one was around at all?”

  “Just me,” said Trimon. “I got Walst to watch him while I went to find a Slave. Took forever. Fucking Slaves, they just disappeared. Can’t get rid of them most of the time, but as soon as you need one, they all vanish. Waste of time, anyway, cos he was waking up by the time they got there.”

  “But no one came near him,” said Walst, “I can vouch for that.”

  “Interesting,” said Missandra, her eyes gleaming.

  “Is it?” said Walst. “What do you know about all this that we don’t?”

  “Oh, it’s part of my research,” she beamed. “Karningholder family law, history of. Fascinating, actually.”

  “Take your word for it,” Gantor said, draining his goblet and reaching for the decanter.

  “Oh but it is! This whole business of a wife dying– it’s just so interesting. Did you know, for instance, that originally the husband was burned with his wife? They were in strict pairs in those days. Then it was poison. But marriages became – well, more fluid, shall we say, over the years, and husbands got a bit rebellious about dying for a wife who had perhaps been off with the other husband anyway. And when the Companions were introduced, things got even more muddled. So then it was combat – the two remaining husbands would settle it with swords. I’ve always thought that was a very appropriate way to do it – two warriors fighting to the death for one woman. But it was messy. Sometimes they both died, and sometimes they cheated, and sometimes they didn’t want to do it at all. That idea didn’t last long! So now we have the blue arrows, with all its arcane rules. So tell me, Hurst,” she said, turning abruptly to face him, “what do you think makes the difference? Why does a man survive one arrow but not another?”