The Cry of the Marwing

by Unknown

  The winds were freshening and Kira shivered and drew her cape about her, haunted by the fear that there might not be fireweed anywhere in the north. It hadn’t been on the list of Queen Kiraon’s plantings that she’d finally found in the Writing Store, but still Kira searched, not knowing what else to do. Her only small hope was that one of the many strange herbs on the list might serve the same purpose. Sun-stripe perhaps, or torch-flower. The names seemed promising.

  Ragged veils of rain began to gust across the Wastes and the Guard huddled stoically under their capes, their faces carefully neutral. They should be grateful they weren’t being soaked from the legs up too, thought Kira, as she struggled through the sodden growth. Her hands were numb but she harvested two plants unfamiliar to her – one with white flowers and the other with orange – not entirely sure they weren’t simply pretty weeds.

  Clouds built and finally the failing light meant that she couldn’t see well enough to gather. Cursing, she trudged back to the Domain with her wet Guard.

  Niria, her server, was building the fire when Kira entered her rooms, and looked up as Kira deposited her soggy harvest on the table.

  ‘You’ve found bressil-white, Lady,’ she said, fingering the white-flowered plant.

  ‘You know it?’ asked Kira, dragging off her cape.

  ‘It’s used to reduce fever. Bressil is the Illian word for chill.’

  ‘Is nasen an Illian word too?’ asked Kira, recalling another strange name she’d found in the list of plantings.

  Niria nodded. ‘There’s no real Onespeak or Terak equivalent, but the leaves are used as a salve for cuts and scrapes. It’s a pretty purple colour.’

  ‘And is this torch-flower?’ asked Kira, indicating the plant with orange flowers.

  ‘Oh no, Lady,’ said Niria.

  ‘Well, what does torch-flower look like then?’ asked Kira.

  ‘Why, like a flaming torch – especially when it’s ripe,’ said Niria.

  Kira stilled, then sucked in her breath. ‘Where –’ she began excitedly, but at that moment the door was flung open and Laryia and Farid burst in.

  Seeing their expressions, Niria hastily curtseyed and left.

  Laryia caught Kira’s hands. ‘Kira, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

  Kira’s gaze flicked between her anguished face and Farid’s, a macabre bargain starting up in her head. If the Terak gods were to grant her a single life, whose would she choose: Tierken’s, Caledon’s or Tresen’s?

  ‘Who?’ she whispered.

  ‘Healer Tresen,’ said Farid.

  The room receded and Farid lowered her into a chair, Laryia crouching in front. ‘He’s at the Haelen, Kira.’

  ‘He’s here?’ gasped Kira.

  ‘He’s terribly wounded Kira. He can’t be saved.’

  Kira lurched out of the chair and stumbled from the room, picking up speed as she ran along the balcony, across the courtyard and down the dark, rain-slicked Domain path. Rain stung her face and by the time she reached the Haelen she was drenched, her ribs screaming.

  Tresen lay on a pallet, soaked, absolutely still, his face the colour of wax.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lady,’ said Jarvid, muddy and hollow-eyed. ‘We travelled fast and without rest. The Feailner gave men to bring him. We’ve done what we could.’

  Tresen had no pulse, but Kira tore open his jacket and shirt, and laid her hands on the cold skin of his chest.

  She had expected empty blackness, but found a torrent of fire; he was already in the heart of the flames. Kira clawed her way after him, screaming his name.

  Either we’re together in life or we’re together in death.

  Tresen turned, but there was no peace in his face and no beauty, just the agony of the flames. Kira was burning now as well, and the part of her that wanted to live shrieked at her to be gone. But too much had already been stolen from her by the Shargh. She refused to relinquish Tresen to them. And even as the flames burned bright, seeking to consume her, her love burned brighter, pulling Tresen back, pulling them both back to life. Abruptly, she was no longer in the tunnel, but nor was she fully in the Haelen – she was somewhere grey. Laryia and Farid moved in the distance, as if underwater, gradually drifting away . . .

  Kira struggled to open her eyes. She could feel the warmth of a gentle fire, and she saw Laryia, but in a different gown. The shutters were open and sunlight streamed in, catching Laryia’s hair as she leaned over Tresen. The effort was too much.

  Time seemed to have jerked forward when Kira next became aware of her surroundings; the sunlight was gone and she could smell lamp oil.

  ‘Is it late?’ she asked, surprised that her mouth had delivered the words in her head.

  ‘Thank Irid!’ exclaimed Laryia, leaning over her. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Is Tresen dead?’

  ‘He sleeps.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘He sleeps, Kira. And you should sleep too.’

  Laryia’s suggestion was like a draught of sickleseed sending her thoughts into a slow, swirling drift. Kira’s eyes closed.

  As Kira’s pulse slowed and she slipped into a sleep that seemed more normal, Laryia turned her attention back to Tresen. According to the escort, Lord Caledon had sent Tresen north on captured Ashmiri horses and somehow Tresen’s escort had found Tierken. Once on Terak horses, the journey had been quicker, though no less dreadful. Tresen’s survival still seemed impossible, despite what Kira had done – whatever that was.

  Laryia gazed at the wounded man who lay face down on the pallet. He was only the second Tremen she’d seen, and though he didn’t look like Kira their build and skin colouring were similar. His hair was darker, but it might be lighter once the mud was washed out. He had been too close to death to cleanse till now.

  Laryia drew some water from the pan beside the fire and cleaned the side of his face she could reach, deciding that it was a kind face rather than handsome, although he might be handsome if he had nice eyes. But he was filthy. Laryia fetched pillows and used them to prop Tresen on his side so that she could ease him out of his blood-stained jacket and shirt. The bandage was stiff with stale blood as well, and to her horror, she saw that new blood seeped through.

  The bandage needed to be changed and she glanced worriedly at Kira, but Kira’s face was almost as white as Tresen’s. If only Kira were awake, and well, and able to take charge, thought Laryia. But she guessed that wouldn’t be the case for at least another day, and Tresen needed care now.

  Tentatively, Laryia peeled away the bandage, trying to prepare herself for what she would see. But nothing could have prepared her. She clung to the pallet retching and struggling to stay upright. It seemed that all the tales of Terak’s glorious victories were suddenly reduced to this – the blasted body of a young man.

  Laryia sobbed as she cleaned around the wound, glad that no one was there to witness it. She left the pink paste intact, and applied sorren where raw flesh was exposed. Then she covered the wound with clean bandages, wiped her face dry with her sleeve, drew a fresh pan of water and continued to wash away the sweat and dirt from Tresen’s shoulders and belly. The mundane act of cleaning him calmed her. She noticed that he was more slightly built than a Terak, though his shoulders and torso were well muscled, and that despite his hands being calloused, they were almost as fine as Kira’s. Like his clanmate, he wore no rings. Having seen the wound on Tresen’s back, Laryia understood why metal was hated in Allogrenia.

  She didn’t remove his breeches, flushing slightly at the thought, but eased off his boots and washed his feet. Once that was done, she brought another cover from the store and tucked it over him, then settled on the seat between him and Kira, tired but knowing she daren’t sleep. They both needed to be watched, and there was no one else.

  Kira had once said that it was pointless having a Haelen without herbs, but now as Laryia eased her aching shoulders back against the wall, she realised that it was also pointless having a Haelen without helpers. Rosham a
nd his followers barely tolerated the Haelen, and then only because it remained little more than a modified stable, tucked away in the shadow of the wall.

  But if the fighting came north and wounded flooded in, the Haelen would need to draw upon the full resources of the Domain. And this, Laryia knew, Rosham and his supporters wouldn’t tolerate, or ignore.

  11

  Despite her best intentions, Laryia slept. When she woke at dawn, she was horrified to see that the cover over Tresen was still. With a shaking hand, she pushed the shutters open to let in the early morning light, then gasped at his wide, staring eyes. Tresen blinked and she all but collapsed with relief.

  ‘This can’t be death,’ he whispered. ‘Death has no beauty and you are beautiful.’

  ‘You’re in the Terak Kirillian city of Sarnia, in our Haelen,’ said Laryia. ‘Are you in pain?’

  ‘There’s no pain in death,’ said Tresen, then closed his eyes.

  ‘You’re not in death,’ said Laryia mechanically. ‘You’re in the Terak Kirillian city of Sarnia.’

  Tresen made no response and she laid trembling fingers on his neck; his pulse was weak but steady. She shut her eyes and exhaled slowly. ‘Thank you, Irid,’ she whispered.

  The sun was well up and the sounds of Sarnia floating in the Haelen window when Farid returned.

  ‘Surely you haven’t been here all night?’ he said.

  ‘Where else?’ said Laryia, made irritable by weariness. ‘Kira must have someone with her since she’s made herself ill in Tresen’s saving, and there’s no one else.’

  ‘In his saving?’ gasped Farid.

  ‘I can’t say he’ll live,’ said Laryia, ‘but my heart hopes he will – for Kira’s sake.’

  In truth, Tresen looked closer to death than life, and the hope that had fired with his waking had since faded. But he’d spoken, and was now sleeping, rather than unconscious, and surely these were good signs.

  ‘Has Kira woken?’ asked Farid.

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘Tierken will be angered when he hears what she’s done to herself.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell him,’ said Laryia, looking at Farid sideways.

  ‘You know I have to report what happens in his city,’ said Farid. ‘Those who come here for smaller ills will soon spread the tale. And it’s better Tierken hears the truth than a twisted version of events from the gossips.’

  ‘If we start receiving wounded, Kira and I are going to need help, Farid,’ said Laryia. ‘We can salve and stitch but we’ll need people to wash the injured and sit with them.’

  ‘The Haelen has been authorised, but I haven’t been instructed to send the Domain servers here.’

  ‘Tierken probably hasn’t thought of it, that’s all. The server’s role is to serve the Feailner’s family. I don’t recall that it had to be within the Domain’s walls.’

  ‘They are the Domain servers,’ Farid pointed out.

  ‘Only because that’s where the Feailner and his family live. If I were to fall and sprain my ankle on the Domain path, would they render me aid?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, I’m at the bottom of the Domain path, and I need their assistance to alleviate my tiredness, and my hunger, and my lack of clean clothing,’ she said, yawning and rubbing her eyes for good measure.

  ‘I will instruct them to render that assistance then,’ said Farid with a smile. ‘But I will need to inform the Feailner.’

  ‘By all means,’ said Laryia. ‘We’re also going to need a place to prepare food, and somewhere for Kira and I to sleep – and for those who help us.’

  ‘As the Haelen has now been authorised, I can arrange that without sending message to the Feailner,’ said Farid in relief.

  Laryia watched him go. Farid did have to carry out Tierken’s instructions to the letter, she reminded herself, as she settled on the seat between Tresen’s and Kira’s pallets. Outside the Haelen, Guard shouted orders, children cried and men and women called to each other as the people from the Rehan Valley poured in. They needed to be billeted throughout the city, and their animals housed in the lee of the wall. The whole operation was a massive organisational task, but one she knew Farid would accomplish with his usual efficiency.

  Laryia couldn’t imagine the Rehan Valley burning, having enjoyed many pleasant rides along the banks of the Steelwater, and through the orchards of fruiting trees. And if the valley came under attack, it would mean that the Shargh were little more than a day from the walls! To distract herself from the terrifying thought, she began to review what she knew of salving and stitching wounds, preventing fevers, setting bones, and ensuring the injured took water and food.

  Growing with Eris in Kessom meant Laryia had watched her at work many times, and had helped to minister and to gather. She’d also prepared potions and pastes. But all this had been before Darid’s death and her coming to Sarnia. She’d barely thought of healing since. Tierken had been forced to put aside his Kessomi ways, and she’d followed suit.

  Laryia frowned, wondering why she’d ever accepted that so many women died birthing in Sarnia, that sufferers of broken bones continued their lives with crooked or weakened limbs, and that children carried the scars of their scaldings and burnings into adulthood. Surely the people of Sarnia were as deserving of cure as the people of Kessom?

  Rising wearily, Laryia went to the Herbery, scanning each pot and drying bunch, and dredging her memory for their preparation and uses. She should offer Tresen beesblest, not water, she realised in dismay, and quickly mixed a batch. But on her return, Tresen looked so awful that she touched his cheek to see if he still lived.

  Blinking away tears of relief as he stirred, she settled beside him, determined to remain awake to give him the bees-blest as soon as he woke. But that wasn’t the only reason she wanted to stay wakeful, she admitted to herself. When she had glimpsed his eyes before, she’d noticed that they were the brown of river pebbles seen through water, and she wanted to see them again.

  Laryia was rewarded for her persistence by Tresen rousing twice during the day, not speaking, but swallowing small amounts of beesblest. Laryia’s hope grew and she gave herself permission to imagine him hale again, laughing and joking with Kira. But Kira still slept almost as deeply as Tresen. And when Kira finally woke at dusk, Laryia was disturbed to see that the gold in her eyes had been replaced by a dull green.

  ‘When is it?’ asked Kira.

  ‘Almost night again. You’ve slept another day.’

  ‘And Tresen?’

  ‘Sleeping. I changed the bandage and he’s taken beesblest.’

  Kira stared at her in surprise.

  ‘Was that the wrong thing to give him?’ asked Laryia anxiously.

  ‘No – you’ve done well. But . . . he might still die, Laryia.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll allow that.’

  ‘I won’t allow it without me,’ said Kira. ‘But I won’t have the strength to bring him back a second time, nor myself.’

  Laryia clenched her hands to stop their shake. ‘What is it you do when you take pain?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know what I do,’ said Kira. ‘I find myself in a burning tunnel with a wall of flame at the end.’

  ‘Doesn’t it hurt you, this tunnel?’

  ‘It feels like I’m burning too, which is why I’m sick when I come back. But the feeling passes.’

  ‘How horrible! You mustn’t do it!’ exclaimed Laryia.

  ‘You’re suggesting I let Tresen die?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then you’re telling me to let the children of others die? Or their mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters?’

  ‘I’m frightened it might kill you,’ whispered Laryia.

  ‘So am I,’ said Kira, trying to smile.

  There was a long pause. ‘But it doesn’t have to be all one thing or all another, does it, Kira?’ said Laryia, steadying. ‘We have herbs to still pain, and I’ve organised servers to come here to help, so you can res
t more.’

  Kira was doubtful that the taking of pain could be replaced by anything, but she didn’t want to discourage Laryia. ‘If we’re to have servers, we’ll need more trade, won’t we?’ she said.

  ‘Not for the servers,’ said Laryia firmly. ‘Their role is to help the Feailner’s family and, by implication, our guests. And as Tresen’s your kin, that includes him.’

  Tierken set camp at the mouth of the Rehan Valley, relieved that the evacuation was well advanced. There was little he needed to do now but wait for Adris and Caledon to join him. It was the lull before the storm, a brief moment in which to rest after the desperate flight to the Breshlin Ford. He guessed that the Shargh would be regrouping too, preparing for their murderous assault on the Rehan Valley, and perhaps on Sarnia itself.

  Tierken prowled up and down, his muscles crawling both in anticipation of the coming fighting and in frustration. He was barely a day’s ride from Sarnia, from Kira – the woman he intended to marry. He wanted to see her, to see Farid and Laryia, but he might as well be south of the Azurcades, for all the good it was to him.

  He stared up at the Silvercades, considering how strangely things had turned. On the rare occasions he’d contemplated finding a wife, he’d imagined she would be the daughter of one of the trader leaders or even of the Marken. Or perhaps a Kessomi girl he’d played with as a child. The Tremen of the southern forests were as unknown and alien to him then as the feelings of love and longing afflicting him now.

  At least the fighting had given Kira’s people – exeal or not – an opportunity to build honour. And the friendships forged between his men and the Tremen would seed goodwill and acceptance into Sarnia. In some cases the friendships were so strong that Tierken guessed some Tremen might remain in the north after the fighting had ended. He hoped they would, to provide company for Kira.

  On his return to Sarnia, he would take Kira into the Silver-cades, to the Kristlin and the Foaling Fields. He wanted them to be like other courting couples, suspecting that much of their discord resulted from things happening too quickly, and out of order. He’d known her body before he’d come to know her mind. Once the fighting was finished, there’d be time to build trust. And then she would marry him and take her rightful place by his side, as his consort in the Domain – whatever the Marken thought. And any objections the Marken held would be silenced by the arrival of an heir. For whatever their thoughts on a gold-eyed woman from the south – or on himself for that matter – the Marken didn’t want a repeat of the long uncertainty of Darid’s solitary and childless rule.