Prince of Malorn (Annals of Alasia Book 3)

by Annie Douglass Lima

  Ernth had to admit he had mixed feelings about the arrangement. Of course he still hated Lowlanders, but when he stuck his fists into his pockets, his scrap of trash was no longer there.

  Korram hiked down the slope toward the little village, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable without a weapon. The family had urged him to bring one, and Thorst had even offered to lend him his spear. But if he didn’t show the villagers he was coming in peace, how could he expect them to respond favorably to anything he asked?

  Of course, he might wish he had a weapon in the event that Rampus had made arrangements with anyone here to harm him. But Korram reminded himself that there were hundreds of little settlements scattered throughout the foothills, many too small to appear on a map or even to have a name. Not even Rampus could possibly have contacts in all of them.

  It was easy to identify the house that was his destination. Three apple trees stood beside it, their branches heavy with fruit. On the other side stood a sturdy wooden shed. Just beyond, row upon row of coffee bushes marched down the slope out of sight.

  So these people were coffee farmers. The soil of the Impassables’ southern and eastern foothills was ideal for growing coffee, and Korram knew that hundreds of farmers made their living that way. Besides gold, coffee was the most important product in Malorn’s economy.

  As he approached the house, a shutter on one of the windows drew open a few inches, and he saw a little girl’s face peering out. Then there was a sharp gasp.

  “Mother, Mother! It’s one of the Mountain Folk! He’s coming this way!”

  “Quick, run and fetch your father,” a woman’s voice ordered. “Take him his bow.” The shutter slammed.

  Korram’s heart jumped at the mention of the bow, but surely that was just a precaution. They wouldn’t shoot as long as he did nothing threatening. Unless Rampus assigned them to. He pushed the thought away, slowing his steps to give the father – presumably the man he was there to meet – time to show up.

  From somewhere on the other side of the house, a door banged. “Father, come quick!” called the child’s voice from the top of the steep coffee field.

  Faces were beginning to appear at the windows of some of the neighboring houses. Korram was thankful that his Mountain Folk friends were waiting out of sight and earshot over the ridge behind him. If they were here, they would surely be gripping their weapons and staring around nervously, and that would only make things worse.

  Approaching the house, Korram saw acres and acres of bright green coffee bushes flowing across the slope below him. Thatched cottages sat nestled here and there among the lush rows, most surrounded by fruit trees or vegetable gardens. Moving spots of color marked the workers walking back and forth with large baskets, picking the ripe coffee berries.

  Nearby, a man was hurrying up the hill toward Korram, fumbling to fit an arrow to the large bow he held. The little girl running along beside him grabbed his sleeve and pointed. “There he is, Father! He’s coming this way!”

  “Stop where you are!” the man yelled, far louder than necessary. “Don’t take another step!”

  Korram stood still, spreading out his hands to make it obvious he was weaponless. “Good afternoon,” he called back, smiling, as the two approached. “Beautiful weather today for harvesting coffee, isn’t it?”

  Panting, they stopped about ten feet away from him, both looking startled at his greeting. The little girl, who couldn’t have been much older than Thisti, was peering out from behind her father.

  “What do you want in our village?” the man demanded. “You can’t have anything of ours, so go away! Your kind isn’t welcome here!”

  Korram chuckled. “I’ll choose not to take that personally, friend. Perhaps you’ve mistaken me for someone else. Since I assume you and your neighbors are honest about sending in your taxes every year, I don’t actually require anything from you just now.”

  He held out his left hand, the one on which he wore his signet ring. It suddenly occurred to him that he ought to have washed his hands, which he now realized were grubby from helping to gather firewood earlier. Come to think of it, he hadn’t thoroughly washed his face – or the rest of his body, for that matter – since Nilvey. He must be filthy once again, and he probably smelled like ….

  But there was no point in dwelling on what he couldn’t change now. “Prince Korram,” he introduced himself in his most regal voice. “I’ve been traveling in the area with some friends and thought I’d make a brief stop at your village. I trust my presence isn’t an imposition?”

  Both of their jaws dropped open. The man and his daughter turned to each other, trading astonished looks, and then, as one, stepped forward to peer at the jeweled crest on his ring.

  “Your Highness,” gasped the bowman. He dropped his weapon and fell to his knees while his daughter stood gaping at Korram. “Forgive me, please. I thought you were one of the Mountain Folk, or I would never have spoken to you like that!”

  Korram smiled graciously and gestured for him to rise. “Please, think nothing of it. I’ve spent the last couple of months with a Mountain Folk family, and I know I must look like them by now.”

  “You’ve been living with Mountain Folk?” exclaimed the little girl in wonder. “And they haven’t killed you or stoled your things?”

  It was a Lowlander who stole my things. Korram chuckled again. “No; they’re my friends, and they’re willing to be yours as well. Wouldn’t you prefer to trade peacefully with them and not have to worry that they’ll hurt you?”

  “Please, your Highness, won’t you come inside?” urged the child’s father, suddenly remembering his manners. “My wife and our other daughters would be honored to meet you. Then if you have advice for dealing with Mountain Folk, we’d be grateful to hear it. Goodness knows we’ve seen our share of trouble with them.”

  A little crowd had begun to gather, curious neighbors edging shyly over to stand at a respectful distance. Korram smiled around at them even as he shook his head at the bowman. “Thank you for your offer, but I’d actually like to talk to your whole village. Perhaps we could all sit down out here?” Plus there’ll be less chance of anyone making a move against me if I stay out in public.

  “We’ll call a village meeting,” suggested one of the neighbors, overhearing this remark.

  “If you please, Sire, let me at least fetch you something to sit on,” the first man urged. “And would you like some coffee?”

  They bustled around nervously, summoning friends and families. Korram, who had never enjoyed making small talk with strangers the way his mother did, forced himself to walk among the gathering villagers, clasping hands and asking names and telling everyone how glad he was to meet them. Someone offered him sliced fruit from a dented tin plate, and one of the women brought him a bowl of warm water to wash his hands. Then the bowman – Lantil, a neighbor called him – reappeared with a chair and begged Korram to make himself comfortable. Finally his wife, curtsying nervously, handed Korram a cup of coffee, thick with cream.

  By this time most of the village had gathered, perhaps two hundred people altogether. Children stared wide-eyed and whispered about how excited they were that the Prince of Malorn was visiting their village, while their parents shot Korram more discreet glances and murmured to each other, speculating about why he might have come.

  “Thank you all for your kind hospitality,” Korram began, and the voices stilled. They were all standing around him, waiting expectantly, and he wanted to stand up so he could see more than just the people in front. But that would only emphasize the fact that he was a good deal shorter than most of them. And as Mother would have pointed out, it was regal to be the only one seated anyway. So he simply gazed around at what he could see of the crowd, trying to make eye contact with as many people as possible.

  “I’m here to help you address the Mountain Folk problem,” he began.

  Murmurs broke out again, and troubled expressions appeared on many faces. Korram sipped his coffee, noting the
strong taste of goat milk, and raised his voice once more. “I’ve heard how the Mountain Folk often steal from you and threaten you. It’s a problem in all the foothill towns and villages. But believe it or not, they make the same accusations against Lowlanders, as they call us.”

  There was a moment’s startled silence, and then a babble of voices rose in indignant protest. Korram gave the villagers a moment to exclaim at the injustice of such an accusation while he sipped his coffee again.

  “Their ways are different from ours,” he began when his audience had quieted once more. “But I’ve come to understand them over the last couple of months, and you can too. For example, they consider anything that grows to belong to whoever picks it. You see it as stealing your crops; they see it as using what the mountains provide. I’ve been trying to help them understand our people and explain that it doesn’t work that way in Lowlander communities. But for anything to change, both sides have to be willing to trust each other and treat each other fairly. From what I hear, most of the problems are due, at least in part, to misunderstandings.”

  He turned to Lantil, who was standing nearby, frowning over his own cup of coffee. “As an example, I know that two years ago, three young Mountain Folk ventured into your village and helped themselves to some of your apples. They saw it as foraging for food; you saw it as stealing from your winter supply.”

  Lantil’s face had turned pale. “You know about that, Sire?”

  “You shot at them to scare them off,” Korram went on, ignoring the question, “not intending to actually harm them. But one of them was injured, and another, fearing for her life, turned and threatened you with her spear.” He remembered that from Ernth’s pictures on the rock.

  The crowd had grown completely silent. Korram could see that they all knew about the incident and were waiting, breathless, to see what he would say about it. Perhaps some of them wondered if the prince would charge their neighbor with murder.

  “Fearing in turn for your own life and your family’s safety,” Korram went on, still addressing Lantil, “you panicked and shot another arrow. Though you had never imagined you’d ever kill anyone, the girl dropped dead in front of you. Her friends and family saw it as cold-blooded murder. You saw it as a terrible mistake made in self-defense.”

  Lantil was twisting his hands in front of him. “It was awful,” he whispered, anguished. “I’ll never forget the expression on her face. She was so young; just fifteen, sixteen years old. My own oldest daughter’s age at the time. I couldn’t believe I had killed her. I still dream about it some nights – the arrow, the blood, the look in her eyes –” His voice choked off.

  “You were afraid her companions would turn on you and take their revenge,” Korram went on softly after a moment, “and they were terrified you were about to kill them too. When they had fled, you did the only thing you could to try to atone for the girl’s death: you gathered up the goats you found nearby and shut them in your shed for safekeeping. Her family thought you had stolen them. You carried the girl’s body to where you knew they would find it and wrote a note explaining about the goats. They thought you had simply stuffed a piece of trash in her pocket.”

  “My wife and I talked it over later and realized they might not be able to read it,” admitted Lantil. “But we thought maybe they’d take it where they could get someone to read it for them.”

  “Well, they didn’t,” Korram told him. “But one of her friends – the one whom you accidentally injured – kept the note, and I read it to him just yesterday. It gave him his first inkling that you aren’t the villain he once thought. If you’ll stand by your word and give the goats back, that would go a long way toward convincing him – and the rest of his people – that Lowlanders are decent human beings and that we’re willing to get along with Mountain Folk.”

  There were more murmurs, and Korram let them turn to each other and discuss this while he took another sip of his coffee. The taste made it obvious that Lantil and his family had been benefiting from the goats they were keeping. Would they be willing to give them up now?

  “I will stand by my word, your Highness,” Lantil assured him anxiously. “But need I give all the goats back? There were just seventeen when I got them, but they’ve been breeding, and now I have thirty-nine, including the kids. Shall I show you?”

  Thirty-nine? Korram did the math in his head while he and most of the crowd followed Lantil to the shed on the other side of the man’s house. An increase of twenty-two seemed amazingly large for just two years, but Korram knew that goats could give birth every year and usually had twins. Given that they were old enough to reproduce before they were a year old, and that the Mountain Folk regularly culled their flocks to keep mostly females for milk production – yes, thirty-nine was realistic, though probably far above what Ernth or anyone else expected.

  Lantil drew back a bolt and pulled open the top half of the shed door. Leaning over to peer inside, Korram saw dozens of speckled goats lounging on the dirt floor. They were plumper than the goats Ernth’s family kept, probably because they didn’t have to trek up mountain slopes every day to graze.

  “We share the milk with all our neighbors,” Lantil’s young daughter volunteered shyly from Korram’s elbow. “And everyone takes turns helping milk them and bring them over to the pasture. I even know how to milk a goat now!”

  “So, must I give them all back?” Lantil repeated worriedly. “We’ve tended them a long time now, and there weren’t near this many when I got them.”

  And it would be hard to live without the milk they provide now that the whole village is used to it, Korram finished silently for him. “Well, it wouldn’t be fair to give back only the original seventeen,” he pointed out, “since the flock would have grown in the Mountain Folk’s keeping too. But you’ve obviously invested a lot of time and work into their care, and I think it’s reasonable you should keep a few for your trouble. Suppose you choose four – perhaps three does and a buck – and in time you’ll be able to breed a decent-sized flock of your own.”

  The man nodded, though a little reluctantly. “I suppose that’s fair, Sire. It will be worth losing the rest if that will really mean we don’t have to be afraid any more when we spot Mountain Folk in the area.”

  “And speaking of that,” Korram told him, turning and raising his voice to include the other villagers in his announcement as well, “my friends want to meet all of you. They’re waiting nearby to help me bring back the goats and take them to their original owners, and they’re excited at the thought that they won’t have anything to fear from people in your village anymore, either.”

  Well, excited may have been stretching the truth a little, but it was close enough, Korram told himself.

  The villagers exchanged nervous glances. “You want to bring Mountain Folk here – now?” someone questioned.

  “I do,” Korram replied imperiously. “It’s an extended family of fourteen, and I’ve grown to be friends with them. Their only experiences with Lowlanders so far have been negative, so I’d like them to meet you and see that you’re all friendly and decent and harbor no ill will toward them. If they bring a good report to the rest of their people, it’s quite possible that this will be the start of a new era of peaceful trade between Mountain Folk and Lowlanders.”

  There was an uncomfortable shifting, followed by reluctant nods. “As long as you’ll guarantee none of them will try to hurt or rob anyone here, Sire,” the same man ventured.

  “Of course,” Korram promised, filling his voice with certainty. “You have my assurance that no harm will come of this visit. But they’re as nervous about it as you are, and they’ll want the same assurance from me about you. You must promise to treat them with respect, as welcome visitors, and do nothing to make them feel disliked or scorned.”

  He stared around at the crowd, sternly holding the villagers’ gazes until they nodded their agreement.

  “Good, then I’ll go and call them.” He glanced at Lantil. “Would you brin
g the goats out, please, so they’ll see them immediately?”

  About to turn away, Korram paused with one last thought. “You all might consider if you have any goods you’d be willing to trade today. Fruit or vegetables, perhaps.” He would have to see what the Mountain Folk had on hand to barter. They had spent most of the day hunting rabbits and drying the meat to use for convenient meals on their travels, but perhaps they could part with some of it, or with a few extra rabbit skins. And he knew several of them had gone fishing this afternoon, and others had gathered lumjum. There were possibilities.

  Ernth fidgeted, twining his fingers in and out of the strands of Hungry’s mane. It might be necessary to visit this village, but it certainly wasn’t necessary to like it, and he didn’t.

  The family stood restlessly on the hillside around their grazing goats and horses. They had left their tents and most of their other possessions down by the stream where they had camped last night, but Korram had absolutely insisted that every member of the family be here, ready to meet the Lowlanders. With no one to guard the goats, they had brought them along, but it felt odd to just be standing on the slope with their animals. It would be even odder bringing them into the Lowlanders’ village. What if someone tried to steal them?

  And why hadn’t Korram come back? Had he run into trouble? Ernth told himself he didn’t care, but at the same time, he wondered if someone should try to sneak closer and see if the Prince of Malorn was all right.

  But the thought of sneaking close to the village reminded him too much of the last time he had been there, and he felt himself breaking out into a cold sweat. That man – the arrows whizzing past – the sharp pain in his shoulder – the horror he had felt when Jenth was hit – the terror, as he fled, that he and Rith might be killed too –

  Ernth swallowed hard and rubbed both hands along Hungry’s neck so no one would see how they were shaking. He didn’t want to go back down there. Message or not, he still hated the man for murdering Jenth.