by Joseph Lallo
Thock!
The arrow drove home into a previous split in the bark, and he frowned in annoyance. The shaft was vibrating with the shock. He raised his bow and waited for it to cease. The moment it did, he released another arrow to strike the target.
Unbelievably he missed.
He gaped at the tree, ready to accuse it of moving! He couldn’t believe he’d missed. What by the God had happened there? He never missed! Rather than repeat his error he went to investigate. He pulled both arrows from the tree and examined them side by side. He cursed when he found that one arrowhead had been badly affixed to its shaft. Shoddy work was intolerable to him; his meticulous training, perhaps over-training some might say, had turned him into a perfectionist. Not in everything, but certainly where his own martial disciplines were concerned. Should he make his own arrows from now on?
He frowned thoughtfully, but he decided to examine each shaft before filling his quiver in future. There were thousands in the armoury. It would be quicker to choose the best from among them than to make his own. With that in mind, he went through the remaining arrows in his quiver. He snapped three, annoyed at finding them flawed. He dropped the arrowheads next to the first one and went back to his practise.
Thock!
He smiled in satisfaction, the tree hadn’t moved this time! He chuckled at his whimsy. He fired and fired maintaining an even rhythm between shots. The fourth arrow drove home and obscured the target. He retrieved his arrows and made his way to his final position. At two hundred yards, the centre of the target looked smaller than a gold. He knew that it did, but he couldn’t see it no matter how hard he strained. The white outer circle was his only guide this time. One shot only would obscure the target. He held his breath, but the moment to fire was fleeting. More than once he felt it approach then recede. He waited but it didn’t come. He relaxed his quivering arm and panted.
Jezy continued cropping grass; she hadn’t seen his failure.
He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and breathed deeply. The sun was well up now, flooding the clearing with its light. The fortress would be fully awake, making ready for the judgement and the other things required for governing Malcor’s lands. He scowled at the thought of Athlone’s justice.
“The man wouldn’t know justice if it rose up and bit him!”
He raised his bow. The target beckoned almost demanding that he release the shaft. He delayed waiting for the right moment. In his mind’s eye he saw Athlone appear before him. The moment arrived at the same instant and he released his shaft.
Thock!
He smiled grimly. At least his father was good for something. The arrow had struck dead centre of the target. He estimated the height of the sun and sighed regretfully. It was time to go back. He went to pack up and saddle Jezy.
He rode back to Malcor thinking about the judgement, and wondering how he could avoid it. He could pretend illness, but no, that wouldn’t work. He was never sick. He could just be unavailable. That had worked in the past; Malcor was large—easily big enough to hide from the guardsmen. He scowled at the thought of hiding from anyone. He would not be a coward. No, he had to stand with Athlone in judgement of their people and hope for the best. With that settled, he urged Jezy to a fast canter.
Once inside the fortress, he saw Jezy stabled and rubbed down before going to his room to change. He did not often wear his padded coat and armour inside. Not since Yannis and Cowan, his instructors in the sword, had left had he felt the need to go fully armoured through the halls. He quickly washed up and changed into lighter clothes, and then took a moment to settle his weapons back into the sash around his waist. His sword and dagger went everywhere with him.
He left his room and prowled the halls waiting for the appointed time. Any other day he would have stayed away from the fortress until well after midday, but not on Tenday. This day of all days he could not afford to anger Athlone. If he did, a punishment to rival all the others his father had ever set would be forthcoming.
Jihan scowled and prowled the corridors in silence.
He ignored everyone he met, and pretended not to hear the mutters and fearful curses at his back. The whispers followed him everywhere he went in Malcor, but he gave nothing away of his own thoughts. He had long since learned to apply his father’s coldest mask to his features. It had the benefit of halting flapping lips—at least to his face, but it distressed him to resemble his father in anything, even in so small a thing as his expression.
“He makes me shiver to look at him—”
“…not cross him, no way—”
“Just like his father—”
The last one hurt, and he nearly snarled something back. He managed to abort the instinctive urge to whirl on the girl. He kept to his normal pace as if he hadn’t heard her. He was nothing like his father! By the God, couldn’t they see? Obviously they couldn’t, or they would never say such things about him. Did the differences seem so minor? Were they essentially the same? No! He wouldn’t accept that. His father was a sadist. If he’d ever had honour, he had it no longer.
I will not be him! I won’t allow myself to become him!
He stopped before a door without a handle. By what trick of fate had he been led here? The women’s quarter lay beyond with all its mysteries. He made to turn away but then he hesitated. How long was it since he’d been through that door? The last time was the day he saw his mother’s badly beaten face. Almost eleven years ago that was.
He hammered a fist on the door before he could change his mind. It opened to reveal Opina. She was one of the serving girls. Her face froze in shock when she saw who had come calling. She instinctively backed away to allow him entrance, perhaps not even realising in her shock that she could have refused him. He stepped through into another world, a quieter more peaceful world. It all came back to him. The dim lighting, the smell of perfumed ladies, and the scent of flowers, it all harked back to the better days of his childhood.
Without speaking, he wandered through the labyrinth of corridors, his only concession to courtesy an inclined head to the women he met. It was a strange reversal, he now thought. Outside of this place everyone—man or women—bowed and curtsied to him, but here he was an interloper and bowed instead of they.
He found the room he wanted without difficulty. He knocked automatically and entered. Dust cloths covered everything and he breathed a sigh of relief. He had hoped for this. He closed and locked the door then prowled his mother’s suite of rooms. Under the covers, everything was as it had been. He pulled a cover off the wardrobe and opened it.
His eyes burned at the sight of his mother’s dresses awaiting her return. Nothing had been disturbed. He carefully lifted one from the rail and buried his face within the folds of lace. He breathed in and thought he detected her scent, but when he did it again there was nothing but a slight aroma of dust and old lace. He replaced the dress and closed the door. He looked around but there was nothing for him here. He threw the cover back over the wardrobe and left the bedchamber.
The windows in the sitting room were dusty, but a swipe with his hand allowed him to see the view. He could see Malcor Town roughly a league distant with the Athinian Mountain range a vague purplish haze on the horizon. How many times had his mother looked out of this window and yearned to be on the other side of those mountains?
He turned away and the portrait above the fireplace caught his eye. It harked back to the day of his mother’s wedding. She had posed in a chair wearing her wedding gown. Athlone was standing behind and slightly to one side of her, with his right hand resting lightly upon her left shoulder. They were both smiling and obviously happy.
What had gone wrong? All he could think was that his father’s love had been a sham. He’d been well known for attracting the ladies in his youth. Thank the God that was no longer true. He didn’t know what he’d do if Athlone did to another woman what he’d done to his mother.
He unlocked the door and left the room to find c
urious women waiting for him. Whispers surrounded him again, but this time there was some quiet laughter mixed in. He inclined his head to them but didn’t speak. He locked the door and pushed the key into his sash for safekeeping. His mother’s room would remain undisturbed.
He left the women’s quarter, and navigated the tower steps to emerge on the ground floor. He could hear the murmur of conversation coming from the great hall as he approached. The proceedings had already begun. Two of his father’s cronies opened the doors for him as he arrived. He didn’t acknowledge the courtesy and marched straight into the hall. He stopped just inside, and the doors clicked shut behind him.
Conversations ceased and heads turned in his direction as people noticed his arrival. Elbows nudged neighbours causing more heads to turn. Athlone glared down at him from his position on the dais. He was in a bad humour, but then, when wasn’t he? Vadin, Malcor’s seneschal, was standing upon the second step of the dais holding a sheaf of parchment detailing the names of the petitioners and their requests. Jihan ignored him and climbed the dais to join his father. He would have preferred to be somewhere else.
Anywhere else!
“You’re late, boy,” Athlone grated.
He didn’t answer.
“Where were you?”
“Practising the bow,” he said, keeping his words to a minimum.
If he hadn’t answered, his father would have set some kind of punishment later—mucking out the stables was an old favourite for insolence. He wasn’t bothered by his father’s pettiness really, but he preferred to avoid wasting time.
“You don’t need it,” Athlone grunted.
They both knew he was a master of the weapon, but practise was the only way to keep his skill. Besides, he enjoyed it and was skilled in many weapons. His teachers had all been masters in their chosen fields. After teaching him the basics of each, they had demanded that he choose just one discipline and follow it to the exclusion of the others, but he enjoyed them all and couldn’t give any up. He wasn’t being contrary, no matter what they thought when he said sword, dagger, bow, lance, fists, feet… and on until he finished their list.
They hadn’t been amused, and they’d used his lessons to torture him, but he wouldn’t be forced no matter how much abuse they heaped upon him. They were very creative, but they hadn’t broken him. Instead, they fostered in him a deep hatred and determination to turn the skills they taught back upon them.
Yannis and Cowan were the only ones among his instructors who understood his love of weapons, but even they failed to realise where his determination came from. Although he did enjoy practise for its own sake, he simply wanted to become good enough to kill them. He suspected they’d learned his motivations just before they left, and it was why they ran. Nowadays, if asked his preference he said sword, bow, and dagger in that order, but secretly he always chose the weapon best suited for the task. That, in his opinion, was just common sense.
Vadin called for quiet and proceedings continued. The usual things came before Athlone. Things such as so and so the farmer was said to have allowed his cattle to stray into another’s fields causing this or that amount of silvers in damage. Athlone ordered the cattle butchered and the resulting money given to the aggrieved party. It was a harsh judgement. Without cattle, the man would lose the farm, but it was his standard penalty for such cases. The owner should have ensured proper fencing, but Jihan thought that half the money should go to the owner. He would have ordered it so if he were lord.
Petty cases came and went, but near the end a man was brought forward in chains.
“This man, one Celek by name and a farm labourer by trade, is accused of the murder of a girl named Nerina late of Bluefield village,” Vadin announced.
Bluefield was roughly two days easy riding to the south. It was named Bluefield because its main industry was linen. The flax plant had blue flowers, and fields of the stuff were needed to produce sufficient fibre to make the linen. The fields looked as if a blue tapestry had been laid upon the ground.
“Who speaks for this man?” Athlone said in a bored voice.
A peasant wearing clothes that had seen hard use stepped forward and made his bow. “I do, m’lord. Kelda is my name, please you. Celek has worked for me for many a year with no trouble out of him. He lives on the farm with my family and don’t ever leave.”
“Never?” Athlone said. “I find that hard to believe man.”
Jihan nodded; so did he.
“Does he not go into the village to buy ale?”
“Never, m’lord. He’s a good boy. Besides, we make our own.”
Athlone turned to Vadin. “What do we know of the girl? Was she a tease, a wanton?”
Vadin glanced at his notes. “Nerina was quiet by all accounts my lord. She was young—barely fifteen. She helped her father serving tables at the inn. She was found dead, naked in a ditch—raped and tortured, my lord.”
Jihan gasped, and even Athlone paled. Murmurs sprang up around the hall. How could anyone be so vile?
“Quiet I say!” Vadin shouted. “Listen to the lord’s judgement!”
“Hang him!”
“Foul murderer—”
“Disgusting animal!”
He couldn’t help but agree. Women were protected in Deva. They weren’t living in Tanjung with their disgusting brothels or in Japura with their slaves. How could he do it? Why did he do it?
“Quiet I say! Shall I call the guard?”
“No—”
“…see him hang—”
“…send him to the God—”
The sound died away to whispers then to nothing as the guardsmen stepped forward in readiness.
Athlone switched his glare from the audience to Celek who had tears running down his face. “Step forward.”
Celek shuffled forward clanking all the while.
“Did you murder Nerina?”
“No m’lord. I would never be doing such a thing, I swear!” Celek said, and tried to make the sign of the God over his heart.
Jihan noted the attempt, but the chains limited the movement. What resulted was more like a semicircle rather than the full one of the God, but the attempt had been made.
“Why are you in chains?” he asked, and fear flashed upon Celek’s face.
“I found her m’lord. I was walking the fence and I found her.”
“That’s no reason for your village council to chain you.”
“No m’lord. I was drunk when I found her, yer see? They thought I did it, but I never! I carried her to the village, but the folk saw me and hit me on the head. When I woke I was like this.”
There were more murmurs, but they were confused ones this time. If Celek had killed her, why take her home? Surely only an innocent man would do so.
“I think he’s telling the truth,” he whispered to his father. “No one would be stupid enough to do that to a girl and then take her home.”
“He was drunk, boy,” Athlone said dismissing him and turning his attention to Celek. “How did you know to take her to Bluefield inn? If you’ve never been there, you shouldn’t have known where she lived.”
“Kelda doesn’t know, m’lord, but I sneak out to the village sometimes to see my sweetheart.”
He groaned. The fool should have told Kelda before he testified! Now it looked bad. “A sweetheart you say? Not Nerina?”
Please make him say no!
“No, m’lord. Her name’s Adaira. I’m going to marry her… I was.” He hung his head. “Nerina is her friend. That’s how I knew her.”
He’s innocent. He felt it, but he was also a fool. His father was leaning toward guilty and he could well be right, but for this feeling that said no.
Athlone decided. “Guilty. Death by hanging and body to be burned the next day.”
“No!” Celek screamed in horror. “I’m innocent, m’lord! I swear by the God I’m innocent. Don’t hang me… not the noose.” He sobbed.
“
Take him—” Athlone began.
“No!” Jihan burst out.
“What now boy?”
“I—”
Celek was begging and pleading with anyone who would listen, and he didn’t think he was guilty. There was no proof that he wasn’t, and more that he was, but the feeling was so strong. It could have been the God whispering to him. He stepped down from the dais and approached the sobbing man.
“Look at me.”
Celek looked up. “Please don’t let them hang me—”
“I can’t save you. We have no proof. If only you had told Kelda about your trips to the village it wouldn’t look so bad but—”
“I’m innocent m’lord!”
“I know you are,” he said sadly. He felt the truth of that, but there was nothing he could do. “I can stop the hanging, but not your execution. My father’s word is law. Do you want the grace?”
Celek braced up and stopped his tears. He nodded jerkily. “I… yes. Anything but the rope.”
Jihan drew his sword.
“I forbid you, Jihan!” Athlone roared. “No mercy for this man!”
He didn’t hesitate. He struck Celek’s head from his body in one smooth motion, his form economical and perfect as if at practice. Blood fountained high into the air and the women screamed. He stepped nimbly back to avoid the blood as the body fell away to lie twitching upon the floor.
“May the God watch over and comfort you at journey’s end,” he prayed, and shut his eyes to avoid the sight of his first murder.
Oh God, please forgive me. I had no choice. Please… please… please forgive me!
* * *
13 ~ The Gift
Julia marched into the entry hall looking for Brian. He was on guard there sometimes, but not today. She paused just inside the citadel’s doors to scan the courtyard outside, and found him on the battlement. He was on watch. Keverin and Renard were in the courtyard talking with a mage in yellow robes. Haliden she thought his name was. He was one of Mathius’ friends. She had posed her question about returning home to Renard, but he’d been unable to help her. He didn’t know how and wasn’t strong enough anyway. Although the strongest mage in residence, he wasn’t near as strong as Darius had been. Frightening as the prospect of leaving Athione was, it might be the only way she had of finding a way home.
