He led Aram back up the street to the low, dark building from which he’d appeared earlier. Inside there was a long bar along one wall and scattered tables with chairs. Findaen lead the way to a table with four chairs in the back. He held up five fingers to a stout woman carrying a tray while Wamlak brought another chair.
Findaen turned to Aram. “Do you drink, my lord?”
“Water.” Aram answered dryly.
“Oh, this is better than water, my lord.”
“What, exactly, is it that is better than water?”
Findaen grinned. “There are various names for it—rotgut, panther piss, sludge—but for the sake of the moment—and because we can’t prove otherwise—we’ll call it whiskey.”
“Whiskey.”
Findaen nodded and narrowed his eyes. “And you’ve never had any, my lord?”
Aram shook his head.
“Well, then, we’ll go easy for today. And we’d better get some food into you as well.”
The stout woman brought five glasses filled with an amber liquid. She stared admiringly at Aram the whole time until Findaen shooed her away, advising her not to return to the table without a plate for the tall stranger. As she left to get Aram’s lunch, citizens of the town began to file in, filling up the available seating. Mallet had evidently been generous in his reporting. By this time everyone knew that the man who’d sent the “Black Rider” was in town.
Aram tentatively held the glass containing the amber liquid up to his nose. It smelled strong and bitter like the pools of black mud he sometimes found oozing from certain veins in rocky hillsides. He tasted it and found that it burned his tongue like it was on fire. And it burned going down. It was all he could do to keep from gasping.
“Well done, well done.” Findaen nodded at him approvingly. He leaned across the table and looked narrowly at Aram. “How do you feel, my lord?”
Aram frowned at him. “Why, is it supposed to have an effect?”
“Oh, it will have an effect, even on such a man as yourself, never fear.”
Aram’s frown deepened. “What ‘effect’?”
Findaen grinned. “It makes you happy—like me. Unless you’re like Mallet there. Then, if you have too much of it, you’ll get all morose and want to fight everything in sight—even the women.”
“I’ve never laid hands on a woman.” Mallet protested.
“Really.” Wamlak cut in dryly. “Then where did all those little Mallets come from over at your house?”
The big man bristled and Aram half-expected violence to break out but then Mallet grinned sheepishly. “You know what I meant,” he said.
Aram looked around the table at them, the dry-humored Wamlak, the tall, blustery Mallet, the solemn Jonwood, and the ever-smiling Findaen, and decided that he liked these men. And, after a few more sips, he decided that he liked the whiskey as well.
The afternoon passed in this agreeable manner until Aram was feeling quite mellow from the drink. Findaen finally decided it was time for them to go up to the house but when Aram stood, he found that his feet had become a bit unreliable. Findaen took his arm.
“It’s okay, my lord,” he said, and he grasped Aram’s elbow, “whiskey takes a bit of getting used to. We should probably have taken it a bit easier. I’ll get you settled into a room in my father’s house and then we’ll go down to supper. You can meet my father and my sisters.”
Aram looked at him. “Sisters?”
“Yes,” Findaen replied. “I have two of them—Ka’en and Jena. Great pair of girls—you’ll like them. I don’t suppose you have any sisters?”
Aram scowled as he stepped out into the bright sunlight of the evening. “I had a sister once. The servants of Manon took her away long ago.”
Findaen stared at him a moment. “I’m sorry.” He said quietly.
The room that Findaen put him in was at the back of a long exterior veranda on eastern side of the building’s topmost level, reached by navigating three flights of stairs. They entered it from the outside, although in the opposite wall there was another door that opened from it into an interior hallway. After Findaen got Aram and his pack settled, he went through this door and into the interior of the house, promising to return within an hour.
The room was large, entirely composed of wood, and it was furnished with two chairs and a wide bed, which had cloth blankets. And there was a basin filled with water that had a washcloth near it. After he unpacked and laid his old clothes out in a corner, Aram chose the finest sword from those he’d brought, the one with the jewel in the handle, and put it on the bed. This he would give to Findaen’s father.
Then he went out and stood on the porch and looked over the valley. His room was on the east of the house and most of the town was to the south, so he had a fine view of the surrounding countryside. The valley which contained Derosa was lush and green with spring grass beyond the river and dark brown squares of newly-plowed farmland across its center on the near side of the stream. The valley was almost perfectly circular. The hills that surrounded it were not tall but they were rugged, with spires of rock, and they were thickly wooded.
The town was laid out in neat rectangles of buildings separated by flat straight streets. It was a town made of wood and appeared to have stood for some time. There were no buildings out among the farmland. The valley was not overlarge and open arable land was precious, so the Derosans had built their town on the rocky northern fringe of the valley and left the good ground clear. By walking to the south end of the porch to the top of the stairs that they had come up earlier, Aram could see obliquely down the main thoroughfare of the town.
Findaen returned as promised dressed almost entirely in blue, except for his shirt, which was startlingly white. He flung the door wide and gestured toward the hall beyond.
“Let’s go down, my lord, they’re waiting.”
Aram felt his stomach tighten. He was not used to so many people, or the familiarity with which they addressed one another, having never spent time in anything resembling civilized society. He wanted to ask Findaen about the woman he’d seen on the plain and whether she would be at supper, but ignorance of her identity and situation prevented it.
They wound down through many hallways to the second level and then down a broad staircase to the first. At the bottom of the staircase, Findaen turned to his right, toward the west side of the house. After crossing through a small gallery, they went through two broad doors, which were standing wide, and entered the dining room.
Aram stopped. The room was filled with light and noise. And people. He had expected three or four people but, at first glance, it appeared as if the whole town was present. Mallet appeared from the crowd and grasped his hand.
“Hello again, lord Aram.”
“Yes, yes, Mallet, but he’s here to meet my father,” Findaen said impatiently, pushing Aram forward through the crowd.
As they passed people crowded near, women lowered their heads to him and man after man shook his hand. There were round tables covered with cloth everywhere, encircled by chairs. Finally they came to an open area in front of a long rectangular table lined with chairs on either side and there she was.
The woman from the plain.
XIX
She was standing behind the table beside the same tall, gray-haired man she’d stood beside on the day of the battle. Aram froze and felt his knees buckle at the sight of her. She was astoundingly, achingly, unbelievably beautiful. Her hair, which had appeared dark in the noonday sun that day upon the plain; here in the artificial light of the lamps, seemed alive with color, chestnut, auburn, and gold.
She was slender and dressed in a wine-red gown, trimmed with black fur that showed the contours of her body. But it was her face that was stunning, with skin that glowed like snow blushed with the rays of the setting winter sun. Her eyes were large, dark, and set deep under long eyelashes. Her nose was perfect and her mouth was red like the petal of a rose.
Surely, she must be the queen. Probably, th
e tall, older man beside her was, in fact, her husband.
Dimly, Aram became aware that Findaen was speaking. “—my father, Lancer, Prince of Derosa.”
Aram yanked his eyes away from the woman and found the grace to acknowledge the tall, gray-haired man. The Prince was dressed in velvet finery and bore himself in a stately, dignified manner. His face, though lined with the care of years, was still handsome. Aram bowed low.
“I am honored, my lord.”
“No,” the tall man said quietly. “The honor is ours. My son tells me that you are the one that aided our cause and won the day last fall by sending the Black Rider.”
Aram hesitated. “I did not—send him, my lord. I asked him to aid us and he complied.”
“Well, we are grateful beyond bounds. It was, I am not ashamed to say, our salvation that rode upon the field that day.” He frowned as if remembering something. “Tell me, was he or the horse badly injured by the evil device of the enemy?”
“Both were injured.” Aram answered. “But both have recovered.”
“Thank the Maker for that.” The room had grown silent as everyone listened to the exchange, and Lancer stared at the floor and seemed to struggle with what he wanted to say next. Finally he looked up at Aram. “Forgive me, lord Aram, but might we know the identity of our champion?”
Again Aram hesitated. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I’m certain he would rather remain anonymous,” he answered truthfully.
“As is his right.” Lancer acknowledged and nodded slightly. “Suffice it to say that you have powerful friends, lord Aram—for which we are ever grateful. Come, meet my daughters.”
Ah, thought Aram, and his heart soared, his daughter.
Taking the woman by the hand, Lancer brought her from behind the table. As she came close, Aram became painfully aware that his heart was pounding so loudly that he could barely hear. He suddenly developed a measure of difficulty breathing and it seemed to him that his muscles, and even his bones, trembled.
“My daughter Ka’en, lord Aram.” Lancer said and she held out her hand.
Findaen leaned close to his ear. “Take it and kiss it,” he whispered.
As Aram hesitated, uncertain, Findaen whispered again.
“For heaven’s sake, man, take her hand and put your lips on it.”
Numbly, Aram complied. The skin of her hand smelled wonderful, like grass and flowers in a mountain meadow after a spring rain. He thought in that moment that he could be content to get lost in her scent and the nearness of her presence, but Findaen was tugging him erect. He looked up into her eyes. She smiled, softly, wrecking him further.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, lord Aram,” she said, and her voice matched in its tone and quality the vision of her loveliness.
“The honor is mine.” He croaked out and his voice sounded distant and harsh to his ears.
“This is my other daughter, Jena,” Lancer said then, forcing Aram’s attention away from Ka’en, and the spell was broken to the extent that he could acknowledge the Prince’s other daughter.
This woman was younger, barely more than a girl, and reminded Aram of his own sister. She was pretty, with golden hair like summer wheat. Aram took her hand and kissed it.
“My pleasure,” he said.
“You’re getting good at this.” Findaen whispered, chuckling.
“Now, then,” Lancer said, raising his voice. “Let us sit and eat, my friends. Come, lord Aram, sit across from me at my table.”
Lancer, Ka’en, and Jena sat against the wall, a daughter on each side of their father, with other finely dressed people on either side of them. Aram and Findaen sat opposite with their backs to the room. Ka’en was to Lancer’s left, on Aram’s right. Jonwood sat next to Aram. He was accompanied by, and entirely occupied with, a plump and pretty young woman with red hair who sat beyond.
The food came, served on platters. Metal utensils were placed beside each plate, the use of which seemed obvious, but Aram watched surreptitiously until he was certain of the protocol. Except for meat that was clearly venison, he didn’t recognize anything on the tables. Nonetheless, he helped himself to a portion of everything offered.
One item in particular he found to be wonderfully delicious. A whitish vegetable with a dense texture had been cut into small pieces and browned in a pale yellow sauce. He had never tasted anything like it. He looked up at Ka’en, intending to inquire of her as to what it was, but Lancer anticipated him.
“Is everything to your liking, lord Aram?” He asked.
“It’s very good, my lord,” he answered, and he indicated the portion of white vegetable. “This, in particular, is wonderful. What do you call it?”
Ka’en leaned across the table toward him, smiling. “Have you never had potatoes, lord Aram?” She asked in her soft voice.
“I do not think so—I would have remembered something this good.” He answered.
“Those are potatoes, fried in butter.” She laughed quietly, a marvelous sound to him. “We call them, obviously, butter fried potatoes.”
He smiled back at her, wanting to hold her attention. “But what are they, my lady?”
“They are a root crop, grown in the ground, one of our staples.” Findaen interjected, rounding on him with a surprised expression. “You’ve never seen them?”
Aram was disappointed in the interruption but curious, nonetheless, to discover the nature of this tasty treat. “Could I grow them in my valley?”
“Sure.” Findaen replied. “When you go home, I’ll send some seed portions with you. It’s getting a bit late in the spring to plant them now, but you could store them in a cool place until next year.”
This offer reminded Aram of the swords he’d left in the room. He looked across at Lancer. “My lord, I brought you a gift. It’s in my room. Perhaps I could retrieve it later this evening?”
Lancer inclined his head. “There is no need for a gift, lord Aram, but I am honored to accept it. The young people will dance later. Then will be a good time.”
Findaen laughed aloud at the insinuation in his father’s remark. “I know he doesn’t look it, father, but lord Aram is as young a man as I am. He may wish to dance also.”
Ka’en caught Aram’s eye. “Yes, lord Aram, you must dance.”
Aram knew nothing of dancing and the prospect of attempting it in such a large company, no doubt with the result of disappointing the lady, made his insides grow cold. There was nothing to do but admit the truth. “I’m sorry, my lady, but I—know nothing of dancing.”
A slight smile touched her perfect mouth. “I will teach you, my lord.”
It was at this moment, gazing transfixed across the table at her that Aram noticed the young man sitting next to her. He was husky and broad-shouldered with blonde hair and as he studied Aram, there was undisguised dislike in his eyes. He tended to lean, rather possessively, toward the princess.
Aram wondered about their relationship and was surprised to discover that, while knowing nothing at all about the light-haired young man, he disliked him intensely as well. He decided to ask Findaen later, point-blank, about his sister’s domestic situation in life.
In the meantime, the meal wound to its conclusion, a delicious drink called wine was served, and the younger men began to push the tables, except for Lancer’s, to the walls. It was time for the dance. Aram was treated to another novelty in his young life—music.
Four musicians with curious stringed instruments took their places along one wall and within moments, the hall was filled with music. Young men led young women out onto the floor and began twirling in time to the meter of the melody. Jonwood took his plump companion out onto the floor while Findaen went in search of a suitable partner.
Aram was petrified at the idea of attempting to dance, even with the beautiful Ka’en, so, to hide his discomfiture, he turned away and looked out at the couples and smiled slightly, as if happy to just be a spectator. In truth, he wished he were miles away, alone with her. But the ruse backfired
. When he turned his head slightly to look at Ka’en, she was gone.
Startled, he glanced around for her and then he saw her. The broad-shouldered young man had usurped her and the two of them were dancing in the middle of the floor, surrounded by laughing couples. Watching them, he felt a curious constriction in his stomach. And anger. He hated the way the young man was holding Ka’en and tried to look away but couldn’t.
Finally, he swallowed and gained control of himself and studied the other couples. Wamlak was dancing with Jena and on the other side of the room Mallet was dancing with a surprisingly small blond woman. She no doubt looked smaller than she was, wrapped in his giant arms. He turned back to the table and found that he and Lancer were left alone. The elderly Prince was gazing absentmindedly out toward the dance floor, tapping his fingers on the table in time to the music.
Aram felt a desperate need to escape. He stood and bowed to Lancer.
“My lord, would this be a good time to present you with my offering?”
“If you wish, lord Aram.” Lancer said pleasantly.
Aram bowed again and left the table, working his way around the wall to the double doors. Once out of the hall, he glanced up the staircase toward the building’s interior, and then decided to go outside and up the exterior stairways to his room. It was a pleasant spring evening, the sun had set and there were a few of the brighter stars already in the sky.
Aram stood gazing out over the valley, glad to be away from the tumult in the hall. He thought of Ka’en and the possessive young man. What were the circumstances of their relationship, he wondered? He hated to think of her in the young man’s arms, whirling to the music, even though he had no rights where it concerned her, or any expectation of them. Fighting a curious gnawing in his stomach, he turned away from the night and went into his room.
He wrapped the jeweled sword in deerskin and returned to the hall and slipped around the walls to Lancer’s table. Findaen was again seated with his father when Aram laid the weapon down before the Prince of Derosa.
“My gift, my lord. It was made long ago by—my fathers.” Aram slid the blade from the deerskin and set it on the table before Lancer.
Kelven's Riddle: The Mountain at the Middle of the World Page 29
