Most of the men – those who had not brought pigs and such – gathered at one end of the field. The garden of the Lesgar Inn backed onto the green. Taft, the landlord, had set up an ale tent. Gialyn was surprised men would be drinking this early in the day, but given the weather he could hardly blame them. He settled on lemonade, bought for a copper from one of Manni Crocker’s young daughters. Cheap enough, but he had to go back to the cart and fetch his own cup.
Gialyn heard a shout; someone was calling his name.
“Gialyn, my boy, I thought that was you. Is your father here?”
Grady Daleman sauntered over from the ale tent, holding a mug in one hand and waving a casual salute with the other.
Grady was an old friend; most likely Daric’s closest friend – they had both served in the guards and both chose to move to Albergeddy to make new lives for themselves. Grady had dark, cropped hair – a style left over from his guardsman days – a strong, manly face and arms as thick as a blacksmith’s. He was not married, nor did he have any children. Daric would often tell him he spent too much of his time in the Lesgar Inn, and that he should “settle down.”
“Yes, sir,” Gialyn answered. “He is over in the produce tent showing off his beets.”
“‘Showing off his beets’!” Grady laughed uproariously, then slapped Gialyn on the shoulder.
Gialyn winced and rubbed the site of Grady’s slap, wondering if the thick-armed brute realised how painful his friendly wallops were.
If he did, it did not show. He just kept talking, “You’re a funny one, lad. What are you doing all alone? Where’s that big friend of yours? Are you competing in the hill climb this year?” Grady had a habit of asking three questions at once.
Gialyn chose the latter. “I don’t think so, sir. I came seventh last year.”
“Well, seventh is not that bad, lad.”
“Out of eight? And the only reason I beat Sal Reddish was because she stopped to pick up her hat.”
Grady laughed again. Gialyn managed, just barely, to move clear of another slap. “Lad, you should be on stage with the minstrel. You couldn’t do any worse. Gods, I can sing better than that fellow.” His broad shoulders shuddered just as the minstrel – as if for effect – plucked a raw note. “Sounds like he’s strangling a cat. Who told him he could play the harp? His mother?”
Gialyn laughed. “I don’t know about that, sir. Standing on stage, telling funny stories – who would ever pay for such a thing? As for the hill climb…” Gialyn sucked air through his teeth while seesawing his hand in a maybe-but-probably-not gesture. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Well, you do that, lad. I’m off to talk to your father; see if I can drag him away from his beets for half an hour.”
Grady left, promising to come find him later. This time, he only gave Gialyn a light tap on the shoulder. Maybe he did realise.
Gialyn began to wander.
An hour passed. He had more lemonade. Watched some of the races, and spent an annoying ten minutes listening to some of the wives talk about how tall he had become and how he would, “make someone a good husband one day.” Those who did not pinch his cheek, ruffled his hair. He could do nothing but smile and offer the occasional polite mumble of thanks.
Some of the serious competitions had started. Men, six to a team, pulled at rope. Others threw a sack full of sand over a high, horizontal pole. A small group were racing to see who was quickest at cutting through a log with an axe, while others threw horseshoes as far as they could into a neighbouring field.
The women were mostly in the tents. However, a few braved the sun and joined in with the men – seemed Elspeth Tanner’s exploits had given the other women license to follow her example. Even Mrs. Balland was doing the sack toss, much to the chagrin of some male competitor – Mrs. Balland was half-again as big as most of the men. Still, the majority of the womenfolk were busy under cover, away from the worst of the midday heat. The largest group were watching the fiddle contest. They had made little picnics for themselves while sitting on blankets under an awning next to the ale tent.
Gialyn was about to go and listen, when someone tapped him on the shoulder.
Gialyn turned. Meric Volt – one of the few people of his age Gialyn got along with – smiled at him in between large mouthfuls of sweetroll. Meric was Gobin the blacksmith’s son. A big lad – as tall as Gialyn but twice as wide – his barrel-shaped stomach hung over his loose-fitting breeches, and a white shirt the size of a small tent hung on his broad shoulders.
“Hello, Meric. Where have you been? I’ve not seen you all day.”
“Aye, my father had me helping with the horses. He let me loose ten minutes ago. I’m sure he’d have me shoeing half of them if mother had not turned up. You know what father’s like; if I stand still for two minutes, he’ll find me a job to do. Are you coming to watch the archery tourney? See if your Elspeth wins?”
My Elspeth? Gialyn tried not to flush. Eyeing the grass between them, he scratched fingers through his hair. Does everyone know? I don’t remember telling anybody.
“I expect so,” Gialyn said, trying not to look too enthusiastic. “If only to see her beat Vin.”
Meric looked amazed. “Do you really think she can?”
“I have seen her practice in this field every day since last autumn. I’ll be more surprised if she loses.”
Abruptly, Gialyn realised he had told Meric he had spent the past six months spying on Elspeth. He waited for the sarcasm… or at least a joke.
Who cares if he knows; he’s not one of Ealian’s cronies.
Gialyn was surprised when Meric said nothing. Yes, he was a good friend.
“I must admit,” Meric said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing her beat Vin. The only problem is, she is already a show-off. What’s she going to be like if she beats all the menfolk?”
Gialyn had not thought about that. Not that it mattered to him; he had never spent any time with her, except for school, and then not much.
“I suppose you’re right.” He nodded in agreement.
Changing the subject, Gialyn asked, “Meric, did you see a giant? Well, not a giant, just a really big—”
Someone grabbed Gialyn’s shoulder and spun him round.
It was Grady.
“The hill climb is about to start, lad. Why are you still here? You should be over at Rosefall.”
“I-I really don’t feel up to it, Mr. Daleman.”
“Don’t you Mr. Daleman me, Gialyn Re’adh. We can’t have those Tanner children winning everything. Now get over there. I’ll come with you.”
Gialyn looked at Meric for support.
His friend looked confused.
He turned back to Grady and was about to say no, when…
“I think that’s a grand idea,” Meric said. “You’re a good foot taller than you were last year, and I’ve seen you run up and down those fields for your father. You are fast, Gialyn, very fast.” The annoying backstabber nodded at Grady, as though his comment had sealed the deal. How could he?
“There, you see—” Grady gave Meric a hearty slap on the shoulder, which seemed to go unnoticed. Such a slap would put Gialyn on his backside, “—even your friend thinks it a good idea. Now come on. It’ll be starting in a few minutes.”
CHAPTER 3
Rosefall
It only took a minute to trot over to Rosefall Hill – they were already by the footbridge. Grady wanted them to run, but Gialyn was having none of it; competing in the hill climb would be embarrassing enough – he did not want to add apparent eagerness to his shame. They came upon a large group of people gathered together on a flat stretch of land at the bottom of the hill path. The crowd was much bigger than Gialyn had expected. They could not all be here to watch the race, to watch him. Gods! He made his way through the throng and raised his hand when Seth Garriner called on the competitors to make themselves known.
Fool; all you had to do was keep your hand down.
Ealian was there with his fath
er, Theo Tanner.
The emissary’s son was a few months younger than Gialyn – he was also Elspeth’s twin, although you would not have guessed; they looked nothing alike. Ealian was running on the spot while his father rubbed his shoulders and whispered into his ear, doubtless giving his son instructions on how to win the race. Ealian would nod and make fists each time Theo slapped him on the back. They seemed to take the game very seriously.
Gialyn lined up on Ealian’s left.
The emissary’s son shot him a haughty glance. “I didn’t think you would bother, Re’adh; not after last year.”
A heckling chorus rang out from the group standing behind Theo Tanner. Astin Barrair and four of Ealian’s “friends” were pointing fingers and laughing – Gialyn had long believed the four only pretended to like Ealian because he bought things for them; the spoiled twolloc always had money to spend.
Seth Garriner, the lanky assistant from the Lesgar Inn, gave a loud whistle, then began to explain the rules. “No kicking, pushing, pulling or tripping. You start at the last of three whistles. The first to raise the red flag on the hill top wins. Three silver for the winner, two for second place, and one for third. Any questions?”
Gialyn heard shouts of encouragement from Grady, Meric and a few others he did not recognise, but nobody asked any questions. He wished someone would – just to put the whole thing off for a few moments longer.
What am I doing? I could be watching the fiddlers.
Maybe he could skulk into the background while everyone focused on Seth.
Too late.
Whistle…
Gialyn felt nerves biting at his stomach as he looked down the line. Ealian gave him a contemptuous snigger.
Whistle…
He stamped the floor to make sure his boots were—
Whistle…
Gialyn started at a hop, almost tripping over his own feet. He was dead last by the time they hit the base of the hill. Leaning forward, he cast a wide stance. Kicking his heels into the hard ground, he pulled at the long grass while thrusting down with his legs. The first half minute passed quickly. Looking around, he was surprised to find himself in fourth place. Steady breaths shortened into hard panting. Despite the hot sun, the air felt cold in his throat. One after the other, and in a steady rhythm, he planted a foot and pushed off… planted a foot and pushed off… planted a foot… “Balance first, speed second,” was what Grady had told him on the way to Rosefall. The strategy seemed to be working: three-quarters of the way and he was solidly in second place.
That’ll do; second place is good enough. Now, don’t go acting the fool and trip over again.
Gialyn flinched as a rock hit him on the shoulder. He looked up. Another was heading towards his head. He ducked, but the rock hit his hip instead.
What is the fool doing? The cheating twolloc! Curse you, Ealian Tanner – kicking rocks at me!
Gialyn dug in. Head down, he barrelled up the hill, focusing on his next handhold, heedless of the pain in his legs. He had doubled his pace by the fourth stride, going faster now than at the start. He eyed Ealian and overtook him. A quick look up the hill – he still had thirty or more paces to go. Wheezing heavily, his vision blackened at the sides, but there was no quitting, not now; and no slowing down, either. His legs felt fat from the blood coursing through his veins, and yet numb – the same as when he sat on his foot for too long. He gripped so hard at the tufts of grass he struggled to open his hand to take the next hold. Finally, he pulled himself onto the hilltop.
Legs shaking, he stood, turned and raised his arms in the air. Ealian was still a good ten paces down. Gods, I won. I have won! Waving, he shouted to those down below.
Grady, Meric, and a few others he did not recognise from this distance shouted back. They were pointing south.
“Get the… the fla…”
What are they all shouting about?
Then more people joined in.
Gialyn stopped waving his arms about and tried to listen.
“Get the flag! Get the flag!”
The flag. Gods!
Gialyn turned on his heels. He kicked off so hard he slipped. Ealian had reached the summit. Gialyn darted towards the red flag. A hand grabbed his elbow. He pulled free, almost falling. Another hand grabbed at him. Ealian was pulling at his waist now. He swiped him away, almost falling again. Ealian’s growling cry was too close. No you don’t, Tanner – not now! The last few yards were steep. Gialyn wrenched at the grass in front of him as he scrambled to the peak. Finally, with his left hand outstretched, he yanked the pole out of the ground and raised the red flag in the air.
Ealian fell at his feet, rolled over on his back and covered his face with his hands.
Gialyn could clearly hear the cheers from below; maybe a few laughs as well – and booing; likely from Ealian’s cronies.
He raised the flag high and shouted, “I won!” in a half-celebratory, half-disbelieving voice.
“You were lucky,” Ealian grunted.
Gialyn looked down at him. “Why did you try to cheat? Why do you always do that?”
“What are you moaning about? You won, didn’t you?” Ealian scoffed as though winning was all that mattered.
Gialyn ignored him. He revelled for a moment in the cheering of his supporters, before starting back down the hill.
The descent took considerably longer. Gialyn had to sit three times and wait for his legs to stop shaking. Once on flat ground, he found himself surrounded by folk patting him on the back and congratulating him. Grady put an arm around his shoulder and shook him so hard Gialyn thought his legs would give way. Meric just gave him a hearty pat on the back. “Well done, my friend!” he said.
The crowd parted and Theo Tanner pushed his shuffling frame to the fore.
Ealian followed his father, head bowed, gazing at the ground. Seemed the emissary was none too pleased by his son’s failure. I wonder if Theo told him to cheat.
“That was well done, Master Re’adh; a very determined performance.” Theo said the words, but the fat man would not look him in the eye. Instead, he gazed over Gialyn’s head.
“Thank you, sir.” Gialyn bowed respectfully. At the same time, Grady said, “You’re lucky that boy of yours did not get a thump on the ear, kicking rocks at Gialyn like that.”
Theo shot Grady a dark look. He made no reply to the accusation and fixed his eye of Gialyn. “Be on the stage in half an hour to receive your prize, Master Re’adh.” The fat man gave another quick, sideways glance at Grady before walking off.
Grady laughed at Theo’s back and then took Gialyn by the elbow. “Come on, I want to see your father’s face when you tell him you beat the Tanner boy,” he said, loud enough so Theo would hear.
Grady continued, “Don’t let people like that get the better of you, my lad, or you’ll be bowing for the rest of your days. They are no better than we are. Most are a lot worse.”
Gialyn nodded as they turned towards the path and crossed the footbridge into the town green.
Grady opened his mouth to say something more, but what was happening on the small stage drew his attention. The messenger Theo had spoken of was reading from a long scroll…
“…of the population can apply. The tax holiday on transported wheat will continue until Midsummer’s Eve.” A muffled cheer rose from the crowd. “Thereafter, the rates will return to their previous level of one bushel in twelve.
“And the final order of business, a note from His Royal Highness, King Vierdan, Sovereign of the Most Exalted Order of the Empire of Moyathair, Leader of the House of Eidred, High Seat of Bailryn and Aleras’moya.
“His Majesty sends greeting to all, and a warm invitation to attend the capital on this Midsummer’s Eve. Upon which time, the Master at Arms shall choose candidates for the position of Palace Guard. Any citizens wishing to apply for the post, who meet the criteria, should appear in person before the Master at Arms no later than Mia’tirdis – Monday at noon – the week of Midsummer’s Eve. Those
who wish to apply for officer training will be selected from that group. Gods save the king!” The messenger rolled up the scroll and bowed to those gathered.
“Gods save the king!” the crowd replied, albeit somewhat muffled by other chatter.
The crowd began to thin, many making their way back to their stalls. Many more huddled in groups and talked in varying degrees of interest over what they had heard from the messenger. Some seemed pleased at the tax cuts, while others complained there should not be a tax at all. No one mentioned the palace guard recruitments. Which was hardly surprising; the position was open to any Surabhan between the age of eighteen and twenty-one. Which, in the case of the Geddy Vale, would be no more than five or six people.
“Strange he would bother coming all this way for that,” Grady muttered. “Why not just send a scroll? Forty leagues on a barge for a couple of tax announcements and a guard recruitment? Makes no bloody sense.”
Gialyn heard Grady’s mutterings but made no comment. He was still too excited over his victory to give a thought to such things as taxes or guarding the palace.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” a girl’s voice said.
Gialyn’s heart leaped. He could not have been more surprised if Elspeth had jumped out from behind a tent. His tired legs very nearly gave way at the sight of her.
The girl was all Gialyn had ever imagined beauty should be. Under her gaze, he was utterly helpless. But however much she made him feel like a fish out of water, he would gladly endure the feeling for a moment of her attention. A welcome terror.
Half a hand shorter – though she held herself in such a way which made her appear taller – Elspeth stood squarely in front of him. She was clad in her hunter garb as if back from tracking a pack of wild boar, rather than competing in a town fair. The curve of her hip made him want to put his hands in his pockets, but he settled for straightening up his shirt and folding his arms.
The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1) Page 3
