By the time the sky dimmed, the lands around the bluff were radiant with cooking fires, laughter, and many cheerful pronouncements. Flutes and stringed instruments appeared, and men uncorked jugs of a stout brown drink. A merry round of singing commenced. After several go-rounds, Iliff picked up the words to the chorus and joined in:
To seed, to plant, to harvest, to hail,
The crop is our life and our pleasure, its ale!
To feed, to pluck, to coop up, to range,
The fowl is our life and our pleasure, its egg!
To herd, to pen, to husband, to graze,
The stock is our life and our pleasure, its whey!
To build, to clean, to garden, to earth,
The home is our life and our pleasure, its hearth!
Before long a group of men snuck up to where Iliff was sitting. In a burst of laughter, they surrounded him and hauled him to his feet. “Time you were taught the Trotalog,” one of them shouted. The dance involved a rapid series of taps, kicks, and short leaps, which befuddled Iliff’s unpracticed legs, even after many rounds. Every time he stumbled into another dancer, the children outside the circle squealed with laughter. Soon Iliff was laughing too. The gaiety went on late into the night.
* * *
Labor began in earnest the following day. Though Iliff emerged from his tent with pinched eyes, his enthusiasm more than compensated for his few hours of rest. He volunteered for a crew tasked with constructing the town’s defensive wall. It seemed to him among the more menial jobs, so a good way to prove his commitment to the people, and perhaps challenge the continued rumors of him being royalty. Iliff and the twenty or so other members spread along markers and gouged the earth with pickaxes and shovels. Within minutes, Iliff’s shoulders burned with exertion.
At midday the foreman of the crew called a break. Children ran up with baskets of flatbread and steaming cups of lenk. Iliff retired onto his mound of freshly dug earth. He had watched members of the lumber crew file out earlier that morning, wending their way past farmers who had been in the fields with their plowing oxen since before first light. In the quiet around him, Iliff could now hear the faint echoes of axe strikes and the grinding of wood saws.
Straight ahead, he watched beasts hauling up carts heaped with dirt. A large crew shoveled the dirt to the base of the bluff and shaped it into what would one day be a ramp joining the township with the future keep.
As Iliff traced the bluff’s rocky outline, he was surprised to see the King alone atop the high table. He stood looking over the fledgling township, as well as to the lands beyond, it seemed—Iliff could not see his face well enough to tell. But what Iliff could make of his stance beneath the gray sky did not speak to his cheer of the night before, or even very much to contentedness. It suggested, rather, the weight and loneliness of one responsible for so many.
“You’re making good progress.”
Iliff turned in his seat to find a fellow member of the wall crew standing just behind him. He was small and spry, like the others, and had it not been for his faded hair and fading blue eyes, he would have appeared young. He stooped before the holes Iliff had dug.
“And that’s the depth you want. About a third of the post is going to be buried.” He pushed up the neat, folded sleeve of his work shirt and offered his hand. “My name’s Gilpin.”
“I’m Iliff.” He shook his hand and scooted over. “Would you like to sit?”
Gilpin glowed and sat beside him. As they ate and drank, they looked out over the plain where crews leveled off building sites and cored out community wells. Before the bluff, another crew had begun construction on the workshops.
Iliff lifted his face to the bluff’s table again, but the King was no longer there. He followed Gilpin’s gaze back to the woodland where, far away, lumbermen appeared with the first posts for the defensive wall. Each post lay crosswise on a sled pulled by a pair of oxen.
“Our people have long honored the trees,” Gilpin said, dabbing his mouth with a kerchief. “A shame we’ll have to use so many for the wall. More than a thousand posts, I would guess. But there’s no way around it. Timber’s stronger than baked brick. It lasts longer too.”
“What about stone?” Iliff said.
Gilpin shook his head. “Too hard to quarry stone. And it’s heavy to move. We Fythe are a small people, not big, like you.” He laughed. “It would take all of us to cut and haul a single block. No, it’s timber for us. But do you see there?” He lifted his chin toward a stretch of woodland apart from where the lumbermen labored. “That’s going to be the King’s Preserve. The wood there will remain undisturbed. It’s where we’ll go to honor nature’s bounty and heal our hearts.”
Iliff could not help but smile.
“Does this seem foolish to you?”
“No, no, not at all.” Iliff worried that his new friend had sensed his thoughts and misunderstood them, but then he remembered that only those of royal lineage possessed the ability. “It’s just that I’ve never heard anyone speak that way before,” Iliff said. “Heal your hearts. What does it mean?”
Gilpin smiled and tapped Iliff’s chest. “It means becoming whole again.”
At day’s end the men of the wall crew gathered their tools, and with picks and shovels over their shoulders, headed toward the tents. At their backs stood a line of posts whose faint shadow leaned eastward.
“Come along,” Gilpin called to Iliff, who remained on his hands and knees, packing dirt around one of the posts. “There will be labor for many months yet. Come and join the missus and me for some dinner and talk.”
But Iliff did not want to stop. Not yet. The wall was for the defense of a people he had sworn to protect. The sooner he could get it up, the more secure he would feel. But it was more than this. He was a member of a crew again and laboring. All through the day he felt that reality coalescing around him. He would do everything in his power now to safeguard it. He was not going to allow it to fracture and fall from him, as it had in the prison.
“Yes, my friend,” he called back. “Just a bit longer.”
* * *
By late summer the town began to assume a look of permanence. Rows of handsome cottages, most with gardens, abutted the well-trodden lanes that wound through town. The workshops near the ramp stood finished as well. With the farmland yielding produce almost to the far woods, the square before the workshops became a delightful market of color and exchange. High on the bluff, meanwhile, the Keep climbed a little more each day, taking bolder and bolder command of the township and surrounding lands.
The defensive wall had progressed as well. With Iliff leading the effort, the members of the crew set more than 1,200 timber posts. They built gates into the west and south walls, and were planning a gate that would straddle the ramp to the Keep. Each gate featured a guards’ platform to oversee traffic in and out. But though many Fythe complimented Iliff on the wall’s sturdy design, he worried over just how well it would hold up to an assault.
One morning a young guard hailed Iliff on his way to the wall. “The King wishes to meet with you,” he said.
“Indeed?”
Though Iliff had often spoken with the King as he passed through town, sometimes with little Skye and Stype at his side, this was the first time since their arrival that the King had requested an audience with him. Iliff became worried that he had done something to displease him.
He followed the guard up the steep ramp, which had been paved over with flagstones. The Keep, with its four levels and two square wings, appeared even more imposing to Iliff up close. As they approached, he peered up at the tiers of scaffolding, where scores of men still labored.
“It is good to see you again, Iliff.”
Iliff turned to find the King walking up to him, smiling in his grave way. He appeared thinner to Iliff, grayer.
“This is your first time up here, is it not?” he asked, placing his hand on Iliff’s shoulder. “Yes? This way, then.”
The King led Iliff to a s
mall promontory at the front of the bluff. A wooden platform had been built over it with stairs leading up. As Iliff mounted the platform, the view of the town opened beneath him. He caught his breath and moved his hand to his chest. He could hardly believe the neatness and symmetry below. From the expansive rectangles of farmland to the petite wood tiles on the roof tops, everything looked as though it were exactly where it was supposed to be. Even the flush and scatter of people appeared orderly from so high. For a moment Iliff forgot his apprehension.
“It’s splendid,” he said.
“Yes, and you’ve played no small role.”
“I don’t know about that, Sire,” Iliff said, trying a small laugh. “I wish my contributions could be greater than they are. You have many dedicated workers and I’m pleased to be laboring among them.” He studied the King for the least hint of his intentions. “I wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else.”
The King stayed looking over the township. “The palisade looks to be nearly done.”
“Yes, nearly so.” Iliff’s gaze followed the wall’s thin embrace of the township. “But be assured, Sire, I stand ready to work on other projects once the wall is finished.”
“The buttressing,” the King said. “I understand it was put in on your advice. And the beams that go across.”
“Um, yes, Sire.”
The members of the crew had been hesitant to use the additional timber, but Iliff convinced them that it would improve the strength and integrity of the wall. The trees were a necessary sacrifice, he told them. He wondered now whether his actions had upset the King.
“It is indeed a sturdy-looking palisade,” the King said after several more minutes looking over it. “And Horatio is pleased with the platforms. He said it is like standing on solid ground. I understand you had insights into their design as well.”
The King turned and looked at Iliff. “Tell me, where did you learn these things?”
“I once worked with stone walls,” Iliff said, “long ago. My job was to reinforce them, to help keep them from fracturing and falling. I find that many of the same principles apply to wood as to stone.”
“I see.”
The King descended the steps and began moving away from the Keep. Iliff followed, his stomach in a knot. It was not until they had reached the rear of the bluff, where the wide lake opened into view, that the King faced him again.
“We had a man like you once,” he said in a low voice. “Before the Garott came. He was our Master of Walls. He saw in them what others could not. Where they were most vulnerable, how they could be strengthened. Depar’s walls could repel even the most ardent of attacks. And they did, time and again. It was for his walls that we were able to bring the Garott to the table and broker a truce.” His laugh was hollow. “They were so tired of being shown up by his walls.”
“But they got past his walls,” Iliff said, before he could stop himself. “I mean, in the end?”
“Yes, but only because he allowed it.”
The words shot through Iliff’s gut like a sword thrust. The King’s eyes lingered on Iliff’s, then moved away over the gray waters.
“I still believe Depar was a good man,” he said. “But he fell under the shadow of his brothers, merchants who opposed my rule. They lied to the Garott, telling them that we planned to rout them from the Hinterlands. Depar’s brothers then collaborated with them to plot my overthrow. They appealed to Depar for help. Whether it was for deceit or remuneration or simple blood loyalty, I’ll never know, but Depar agreed. He weakened the walls. He made them easy for the Garott to breach.”
Iliff tried to hide the guilt that stung his face. Oh, but what is there to hide? he thought. He already knows of my past treachery. He must. Why else would he share this awful story?
“Depar is far away now, as are the Garott,” the King continued. “I bring him up at all to tell you that we are in need of a Master of Walls. It is no small role. The Master assumes a seat on the Assembly and acts as advisor to me.”
The King rested his gaze on Iliff. “It is a role I believe you to be well-suited for.”
“Me?” Iliff’s mind reeled with his sudden reversal of fortune. “Certainly there are others besides…”
“Our people are capable builders, as you have seen. But defensive walls are very different from the buildings they protect. They must stand taller and brace outward. They must repel anything that would threaten the order within. Until we reach a new understanding with the Garott, walls will be our most important guardians. You have worked with them before, Iliff, and I have seen your innovations here. You understand them.”
Yes, Iliff thought, but I also wished for those same walls to fail. I dug a hole through the rear of one, for pity’s sake.
“I’m honored, Sire,” he said. “But Lucious would never stand for it. He barely tolerates my presence here as it is. If I were to accept, if I were to join the Assembly, there would be no peace between you, and I could not bear that. Please, just leave me to labor as a commoner. I’ll do good work.”
“But you are not common and neither is the work that is most important here.” The King raised his silver eyebrows. “Need I remind you of your pledge?”
“Yes, Sire, but still there is Lucious…”
“Let me worry about Lucious,” he said. “But tell me, is it really Lucious you fear?”
The King looked long on Iliff then. It was a look of profound understanding. I know your trials, it said. I know your fears. The words moved through Iliff like waves, resonating, resonating, until something in his chest began to shudder. He felt the space there opening, felt both relief and anguish seeping inside. Before Iliff could turn and gather himself, he was met by the King. His embrace was firm, his smell calming. Iliff imagined that it was the way a father might comfort his son. And in this thought, in the King’s arms, Iliff found great solace.
Chapter 8
A year and a half following their arrival, the King declared the new lands settled. A week-long celebration commenced. There were plays and tournaments and much feasting and dancing. Colorful banners lined the defensive walls around the township and Keep. Iliff, who had never partaken in such a celebration, could not recall eating so well or laughing so heartily.
The festivities coincided with the conclusion of the fall harvest, and each night celebrated a different stage of the growing cycle: plowing, planting, growing, tending, and harvesting. On the final night, the continuation of the King’s reign was affirmed in a ceremony in the Great Hall.
On behalf of the Fythe, Iliff presented the King with his final treasure from the mines. He had polished the crown every morning that week, had buffed the red and white stones until they glimmered. He set the crown now on the King’s silver head. When the King stood and raised his arm in appreciation, the crown shone nearly white, and the great man, who had become like a father to Iliff, appeared more paternal than ever. A true sovereign.
* * *
The town held the celebration each year, and with each one, Iliff felt more at home among the Fythe. He lived in a cottage on the south lane, not far from the defensive wall. It was a small cottage, but had everything he could want: a kitchen, a sitting room with a fireplace, a cozy, comfortable bedroom, a separate room for bathing, a stoop out front, a small plot of land behind.
But partly for his role as Master of Walls and partly for the kindness of the Fythe, Iliff spent little time at his abode. At Gilpin’s insistence, Iliff breakfasted at his friend’s cottage each morning, which was only a few doors “to the Keep,” as the community members put it (or “to the wall,” if a cottage was in the direction of a defensive wall). There, Gilpin’s wife prepared bowls of hot porridge and fruit, and they sat around the table near the kitchen stove eating and talking until the windows began to pale. Iliff and Gilpin then planned their day over cups of lenk and elaborately drawn plans of the town’s defenses. Iliff’s first act upon his appointment was to make Gilpin his assistant. Gilpin was a discerning man who had a skill for takin
g Iliff’s instructions, which were often complex, and paring them down for the rest of the crew to follow. Besides this, Gilpin had become his closest friend.
Upon returning to his own cottage in the evenings, Iliff could scarcely get his face washed and his shirt changed before a neighbor would appear at his door with an invitation to dinner. As if by some prearrangement, the neighbors seemed to show up in turns, depending on the night of the month. Each time, Iliff could only smile and accept. It did not bother him to dine alone—and at times he preferred it—but the Fythe were a communal people who did not understand solitude.
Between breakfast and dinner, Iliff spent his days along the walls and in conferences with Assembly members and, quite often, with the King himself. Iliff looked forward to these last conferences most of all. At least once a week, he and the King would meet atop the gatehouse that stood astride the ramp to the Keep. From there they would stroll along the town’s wall walk and discuss the defensive projects in current works and those under development.
Iliff’s first project as Master of Walls had been to build a second timber wall just beyond the original. He coordinated with the brickmakers to fill the space between them with mud, gravel, and hot coals. The result was a solid wall, twelve feet high and six thick, with a broad, protected wall walk and additional guard towers. Iliff also had a defensive trench dug beyond the new wall and two oak drawbridges built to ford them. When the guards cranked them up at night, the bridges settled inside the walls and faced the roadways as daunting doors.
The King frowned whenever the subject of material requirements came up, for they were often substantial, but Iliff could see that the King was as pleased as he with the progress; for as the walls became stronger and better guarded, the easier became the King’s stance and the softer his voice.
Near the conclusion of their meetings, the King would draw Iliff near and ask how he was settling in, whether his cottage was comfortable and he had all he required. “And tell me,” he asked on one occasion, the lines of his face deepening. “Is my brother giving you any trouble?”
Lights and Shadows (The Prisoner and the Sun #2) Page 4
