by Aderyn Wood
Rayna put a hand on Yana’s shoulder. “Let’s be on our way, granddaughter. I'm eager to see the village. We can practice our Drakian all the way there.”
Rayna was right, just as she knew she would be – the day was proving to be a beauty. The sun hovered low on the horizon, but its golden rays cast a wondrous hue over the village that spiraled out below. Rondhus cookfires curled from smoke holes, along with the aroma of fried smoked ham, fresh bread and bubbling oats.
The various alleys were rather clean. With so many warriors away warring, there was less nightsoil and other waste.
In the village centre, a circle of paving stones held a number of permanent stalls for trading. Rayna followed Yana to a small shelter that housed a simple wooden table and the lass began arranging her goods upon it.
The market was already filled with people bustling about, bartering for goods or sharing gossip and grievances. Laughter rung in the air too. Rayna closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment to enjoy the sound of people, and commit it to memory for those times when her solitude in the mountains almost brought on moon-touched insanity.
A young woman with a babe in her arms entered the stall just as Yana had finished arranging her items for trade.
“Do you have some of your mother’s salve for night rash, Yana?” the young woman asked.
Rayna left her granddaughter to her business, and walked around looking for familiar faces in the growing crowd, and perusing the various wares.
She paused at a stall trading clay flagons of mead, and she took a moment to consider carrying one back to the mountains. Not for the first time she wondered whether she should take a mountain goat with her to transport such items, but such a creature would only slow her travels.
Further along, old Eruk was arguing with a young woman, probably a granddaughter, or great-granddaughter at his age, and Rayna took a step back to hurry down another aisle. Eruk was not even half the age of Rayna, but old nonetheless. Last time she’d seen him he’d looked at her with a gaze of familiarity. He was of an age when one’s mind grew clouded, but old memories gained clarity, and he’d told anyone who’d listen he’d known Rayna when he’d been a boy. The witch of the mountains he’d called her. No one had believed him. He barely remembered who his own children were. But Rayna believed him. He’d recognised her all right and she remembered him as a snotty-nosed little brat who’d she’d given more than a few tongue-lashings to. That was when Rayna had lived in the village for a while. The second time at least. People spoke about the old Rayna, the witch, who everyone assumed to be Rayna’s mother. They had no notion they were one and the same. There could never be two Raynas, she thought. Old gods forbid!
“Rayna ilt Corva. You finally decided to come back and visit us did you?”
Rayna turned. Hesna’s hair was pure silver now and deeper lines etched her face, but her eyes still shone with a bright blue, like a summer sky.
“Hesna, it is good to see you,” Rayna replied.
“It has been too long, my dear.”
Rayna raised an eyebrow. “I'm sure some among the clan would disagree. There are those who’d wish I’d curl up my toes and die. Fall off my perch like the robin who sings all summer.”
Hessna laughed. “Speaking of the khanax, I do hope you’ve made your presence known.” She stepped closer to whisper. “He’s grumpier than ever before.”
Rayna gave her a grin and opened her mouth to reply but a new voice interrupted her.
“No, she hasn’t.” The khanax approached. “Yet again she flaunts our customs.”
Hesna’s smile faded and she quietly turned and moved on.
Rayna shifted her attention to Krasto. His stomach had expanded, and more grey speckled his red hair, but his mouth still slanted in an ugly sourness. “There you are, Khanax Krasto.” She smiled. “I understand your wife is demonstrating her battle prowess once again. Wish you were by her side, I suppose?”
The khanax’s mouth slanted further, as he took a step closer to glare down at her. “Why have you not presented to the longhus?”
Rayna shrugged, resisting the temptation to step backwards. Power, and perceived power, was everything to this clod. She lifted her chin and held her ground. “I only arrived yesternoon. By the time I spent a little time with my granddaughter and—”
“You disrespect us. Again.” Krasto leaned closer. His breath smelt of onion. “I swear we will cast you out, and take your visiting rights. You will never be allowed to return.”
Rayna squared her shoulders. “You're a fine one for keeping formalities yourself I hear. My granddaughter tells me you murdered some of her ducks.” Rayna raised her voice and a few of the villagers now paused to look their way.
Krasto glanced around and took half a step backwards. “You play a dangerous game, mocking your khanax in public.”
“You’re not my khanax, you cast me out remember? All I demand is what clan lore dictates. Blood payment for my granddaughter’s stock. When will she be recompensed?”
“When you present yourself at the longhus and not before.” Krasto turned on his heel and stalked away.
A familiar squawk echoed over the market. Rayna glanced up to see a raven fly past. She turned her attention back to Krasto’s broad back as he walked away and switched her sight to the Otherworld. A darkness lingered on his aura. The shadows were all around, like tendrils of black smoke they hung in the air – dark and wrong. A shiver danced through her. Things did not sit well here in Varg Isht. But what evil, exactly, was at play? And how was the khanax involved?
Danael
Danael cut a portion of hard cheese and added it to the slice of pear before popping it into his mouth. The noon meal with his father, like all their meals, had been a quiet one.
That morning at breakfast, Danael tried to discuss an issue that troubled him. Since his mother had left with the rest of the warriors, there’d been no nightly watch set. It was a common enough practice in the warmer seasons to have two warriors walk the village alleys and the ramparts along the escarpments to look for unwelcome visitors that may arrive in the dead of night. The khanax had only shrugged his broad shoulders and told Danael they didn’t need a nightly watch in wynter.
“But it’s not yet wynter proper, Father,” Danael had replied.
“Close enough.”
“We’re far from safe with all our warriors gone warring,” Danael pushed his case. “What if the Halkans ventured further south? At least if we set a watch we’d have forewarning.”
“We’re safe enough until next summer and that’s the end of it.”
Danael now eyed his father who stared grimly into his cup of ale. Danael had half a mind to raise the matter of the watch again, but his father was as stubborn as a mountain yak, and Danael was eager to get back to the shore. They’d finished three new warring boats, but there was still much work to be done before the wynter, and he was keen to return to Fegarj’s jovial companionship.
He finished his tankard of ale, wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, and stood.
“Where do you think you’re going?” His father asked, crumbs spilling from his beard.
“Back to the shore.”
“I need you here. We have a clansmote.”
Danael exhaled a long sigh.
“You can groan about it all you like, but the mote is a part of a khanax’s life and you must learn it as much as any warring. Sitting on the seat of rule isn’t easy. It’s time you experience that for yourself.”
Not this old argument again. “There’s no guarantee I will be khanax. Not if I’m not elected, and—”
“You’ll be elected. Sidmon has foreseen it.”
Danael frowned. He’d only become khanax when his parents died. “When?”
“It doesn’t matter when. It will come to pass. The gods will it.”
Danael shivered. The death seer, with his strange white skin and black lips and eyes, always made him squirm, as though Vulkar had reached out with his bony hand to touch
him and turn his skin cold. “How can you be sure Sidmon’s right? How do you know his prophecy—”
“Because he is Vulkar’s eye here in Drakia, and his prophesying is always right.” His father thumped the table and stood. “Why do you always question me?”
Danael blinked. “Sorry, Fath—”
“The clansmote begins shortly. I want you ready.” His father stalked from the hall.
Perhaps his father had a point. Danael had little experience of the clansmote. He’d observed it more times than he could count, but he’d never sat on the seat of rule himself. Mayhap he should. He’d give fairer justice than his father.
Danael sat in his mother’s seat of rule, an oaken chair engraved with tree trunks on the legs and forest canopies on the arms and back. The wolfskins made it warm and cushioned, and its centre position at the front of the longhus hall gave him an easy view of those present. Clansmen and women began to arrive and take up bench seats around the tables. Some also lingered by the central fire.
Danael watched them trickle in, and tried to ignore the whisperings next to him. His father sat on his right in his usual seat, Sidmon next to him, poised like a vulture, leaning close to his father. His black lips whispered soft words.
The two big doors opened and a small group of clansmen walked through, bickering loudly as they did so – Jorat and Cajan with their sons. They were neighbouring farmers who each held a large stretch of land at the foot of the mountain ridge along the western shoreline. Their grievances against each other stretched back to the dawn of time.
“This will test you,” his father murmured.
The bickering stopped as Jorat stepped in front of Danael’s father. The farmer’s belly seemed to grow rounder with each summer, and his nose redder. It’d been years since he’d lifted a finger on his farm. He left the work to his children and grandchildren while he spent his days with his snout in the trough. “Khanax Krasto, last mote you ruled that—”
“I am sitting in judgement today, Jorat,” Danael interrupted. “As you can see by the fact that I’m in the seat of rule.” Danael gestured with his hands.
“Easy,” his father whispered. “This one’s as feisty as a mountain squirrel. He won’t like the mockery.”
The two farmers frowned in unison, glancing between the khanax and khanal.
“Krasto?” Cajan said. Unlike Jorat, Cajan was slender as a goat, but niggardly. He’d not part with the smallest grain without due recompense.
Danael’s father only nodded, and gestured with a hand to Danael.
Jarat and Cajan squinted at each other for a lengthy pause, before Jarat took a step towards Danael. “If you don’t mind, young Khanal, we’d prefer the khanax hear our issues, as normal. You see, your Da understands our matters and—”
“Sidmon,” Danael said, a little louder than he meant to.
The seer leaned forward and angled a dark look his way. “Yes, Khanal?”
“How old must a khanal be before he may sit in judgement in a clansmote?”
“A man grown. Sixteen summers.”
Danael leveled his gaze between the two farmers. “Next summer, I turn eighteen.”
Cajun bobbed his head. “It’s just that last mote, your Da ruled—”
“And I rule today. I will listen to your pleas last. Take a seat over there in the far corner.”
Their combined jaws fell to the ground and they looked at Danael’s father with bafflement in their eyes.
The khanax said nothing. Gradually the two farmers turned, throwing Danael a guarded look as they did so. They sat at the corner table with their sons, their backs hunched.
A rush of satisfaction flowed through Danael’s chest, and he realised the thrill his mother must experience at times like this when her rule was carried out. Power was exciting, though his mother never showed the gratification on her face. Unlike his father. Danael smoothed his features, and forced a neutral expression. He must keep that in mind.
He raised his hand at one of the clanswomen nearby. “Gisyl, come forward.”
Gisyl and Myrt stood and came to stand in front of the chair of rule.
Danael took a breath. Here stood another pair whose bickering had lasted a lifetime and took up too much of other people’s time. He forced a pleasant smile on his face. “Who would like to go first?”
Both women spoke at once.
Danael’s father chuckled softly.
Danael pressed his lips together. Don’t be dense, he told himself. He’d observed enough motes in his short life to know his mother never asked, she only ordered. He needed to put her lessons into practice.
He raised his hand. “Gisyl, I will hear your view of things first.”
“Well, Khanal,” Gisyl began. “It were this morn at the trading. Myrt asked for a sack of our oats and we agreed to a stretch of her goat wool in exchange. But when I lifted it, it seemed too light. So I had a look and she gave me less than half o’ what we agreed to…”
Danael forced himself to sit with the patience of a parent as he listened to the never ending grievance between the two women. He asked to see the wool and the oats, but they seemed a fair exchange to him. He was frozen by indecision and a yearning to ask his father’s advice pulled at him.
His father sat with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. The moment Danael asked the khanax for help he would have proven his father right. That he was nowhere near ready to rule the clan. It would also show the clan he held a weak authority at best.
Danael cleared his throat. His mother always ruled with apparent ease, but he was beginning to realise that was a mirage. Sitting in judgement was hard. She must have found this difficult too, though she hid it well enough. She was decisive, authoritative and fair. And the clansmen and women mostly seemed happy with her rulings. He had to be more like her. But how would she rule this quibble?
“I have heard enough,” Danael said. “This is a fair exchange. You have wasted my time in bringing this matter before me. Do it again and there will be a punishment for both of you.”
Like the farmers before them, the women’s jaws dropped and their pleading eyes went to the khanax.
“You’ve heard my ruling, now you may leave,” Danael said.
The women nodded, each wearing a look of dissatisfaction, as they lifted their sacks and left.
“You’ve been watching your mother too much,” his father whispered. “I’ve a secret arrangement with those two. Gisyl gets a penalty one mote, Mryt the next. Keeps them happy.”
Danael raised an eyebrow. He turned and held his hand up for the next dispute.
As the afternoon wore on Danael’s arse grew numb, and the seat of rule suddenly felt as hard and cold as a rock. He’d heard five disputes, each as trivial as the other, and the frustration from the wasted time was making him less patient. Still, he’d done a sound job for his first mote. And now there was only Jarat and Cajan left. He opened his mouth to call them when the hall doors opened and an old woman stepped inside.
The afternoon sunshine streamed through and Danael put his hand up to shield his eyes. The doors shut and he recognised the woman. Short, with long greying hair, black eyes, a fine nose, and a proud stance. Rayna. He hadn’t seen her for two summers at least, but she looked just as he remembered her.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Jarat was on his feet, his double chin wobbling. “It’s our turn.” He pointed at himself and Cajun. “We been waiting all bloody noon. You wait your turn.”
Danael ignored him and gave Rayna a smile. “Rayna, have you come to present yourself to the longhus?”
Rayna stepped closer. “You’ve grown up, young Khanal.” She bowed her head and returned his smile. “Aye, I do wish to present myself. However, I also have a grievance to present on behalf of my granddaughter.”
“She’s too late,” his father murmured. “She must wait till after the mote to present herself.”
Danael turned to his father, but the khanax had leaned over to whisper in Sidmon’s ear. The action ann
oyed Danael for some reason. He shifted his gaze to the farmers who waited expectantly. “Come here, you two.”
The two men stood and approached his seat.
Danael licked his lips. “I am tired of listening to petty bickering. I will not hear your woes today. Go and sort out your own issues. If you are not able to reach an agreement by noon tomorrow this is what I will rule: that a quart of your lands will be returned to the longhus for reallotment.”
“You can’t do that!” Cajun shouted.
“Khanax, will you allow this?” Jarat asked.
Danael glanced at his father. The khanax’s fury was rousing, his cheeks already red.
Danael snapped his attention back to the farmers and spoke before his father could. “That is my rule. You are both to return to the longhus tomorrow. I expect an agreement between you. That is all, you may go.” Danael gripped the arms of his seat as the farmers threw a look of appeal to his father. He waited for his father to intervene but he never did, and the farmers left the hall with begrudging glances over their shoulders.
Danael turned his attention back to the old woman. “You may present yourself now, Rayna.”
“I would prefer to voice my grievance first, Khanal,” Rayna said, lifting her chin.
The khanax tensed his hands into fists, and squirmed in his seat.
Danael replied, “Rayna, I give you my word I will hear your grievance, but in order to hear it, I must first acknowledge your presence among us, so that we know you are one of us. We must follow the formalities of our clan.”
“She will never be one of us,” his father hissed.
“Very well,” Rayna said. “I Rayna ilt Corva, formerly of Estr Varg, present myself to the clan as a friend. I agree to abide by the laws of the Khannan longhus, to contribute to the clan in any way I can, and in return, request the freedoms and rights enjoyed by all clan members during my stay.”
Danael nodded. “How long do you intend to stay with us?”
“For as long as I need to.”
