by Jack Massa
“You are kind, great lady, and I am grateful.” Amlina was far from expert in the healing arts. But through the application of pure deepshaping techniques, along with a herbal remedy suggested by Buroof the talking book, she had managed to relieve some part of Meghild's chronic suffering.
Boisterous laughter erupted from the far end of the table—Penredd reacting to some jest. The prince was a loud, violent man in his late twenties, with a dark and predatory look. He nursed a simmering hostility toward Amlina.
She tilted her chin toward that end of the table. “Some in your keep, at least, will be happy to see me go.”
“Penredd?” The queen asked as she chewed her food. “Or others as well?”
“No, I was speaking only of your grandson,” Amlina replied. “The other princes, have been most courteous, as have all of your retainers.” Meghild's two sons were both currently away—Garm on a raiding expedition, Leidwith on a visit over the mountains to a neighboring tribe.
“Well,” Meghild waved the knife. “Penredd is young and proud, anxious to prove his mettle, as befits a warrior. He will learn courtesy in time…unless someone kills him first.” She chuckled at her own jest.
Amlina smiled wanly, caressing the rim of her wine cup. “I suppose that is the way with warriors.”
“Ha! And with witches too?”
“Oh, no. In Larthang we are drilled in courtesy from an early age. If anything, we are excessively courteous.”
Meghild's eyes sparked with amusement. “Aye, your manners are most refined, Amlina. And yet, you sail with a pack of barbarian pirates, and are locked in a death feud with the most bloodthirsty witch known in the world. I think beneath that Larthangan refinement, you are as tough and ruthless as any brigand—even myself.”
“Am I?” Amlina did not picture herself that way. True, she had always been strong-willed, compelled by exaggerated ideas of her abilities, of what she might accomplish. Those notions had driven her across the world, from Larthang to the Tathian Isles to Far Nyssan. Did that make her tough and ruthless? Could she be ruthless enough now, to follow the path open before her? Could it be the right thing to do?
Meghild was studying her, one eye cocked. “What is your plan then?”
“That, I am trying to decide,” Amlina confessed. “If I should retreat to Larthang and hope to find protection there, or if I dare to sail against my enemy, and risk the baneful magic I would have to invoke.”
The queen stared into her eyes a moment, then lifted her goblet and took a long drink. Setting the cup down, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Well, I know which I would choose—Any risk for a chance to face and kill my enemy. By the Three Sisters, what I would not trade for one more voyage! Were I not trapped in this ruin of a body, I would gladly sail with you against the Queen of Tallyba, though it meant my certain death.”
Hearing these words, Amlina felt a cold tremor in her stomach. The death of a queen in trade for the death of a queen. A fitting exchange to invoke the Mirror Against All Mishap. Sometimes the Bowing to the Sky gave a clearer answer after a day or two.
Would Meghild really make that trade? Could it be the right thing to do?
The tremor inside Amlina grew stronger, like the tone of a temple gong.
* O *
Across the hall, the Iruks had taken their fill of meat and bread and now sat quietly drinking ale. While normally they were merry, even boisterous in the feast hall, this night they were solemn. Glyssa sensed the awakened klarn-spirit hovering over them, turning their thoughts inward.
Earlier in the day, as they climbed the hill to return to the castle, Karrol had broached the subject that concerned them all.
“So the boat is ready and we can sail—tomorrow if we wish. It's time to decide where we are going.”
“We are waiting on Amlina,” Draven reminded her.
“I know that,” Karrol answered. “But how long will it take her to make up her mind?”
“We'll need to provision the boat,” Lonn said. “And a few more days of practice sailing would be wise. There is no need for hurry.”
“Fair enough,” Karrol said. “But after a few days, if we are still waiting, what then? I just don't like not knowing.”
The uncertainty troubled all of them. But for Glyssa, it was more that—an incipient terror she struggled to keep at bay.
Now, resting her chin in her hand, she pondered the faces of her mates and wondered what choice each of them might make. Draven was easiest to predict: he would want to follow Amlina. He was in love with the witch; all of them knew it. Lonn would choose whatever course he thought best for the klarn—he saw that as his duty as leader. Brinda said little, but Glyssa knew that she longed to go home, to hunt and sail on Iruk seas. Eben was harder to figure: He would weigh all factors carefully before deciding. As to Karrol, she felt a certain gratitude and loyalty to Amlina, but of course her loyalty to her sister Brinda must be stronger. The only thing certain about Karrol was that she would argue forcefully, whichever way she felt.
The feasting continued, many of the revelers growing rowdy, while others cradled their heads on the tables and fell asleep. The Iruks slept in an alcove off the great hall, so there was no point in retiring to seek quieter quarters. Besides, the servants continued to refill their tankards.
As an entertainment, a few of Penredd's crew staged mock duels in the floor space between the long tables. They fought with shields and wooden swords, stumbling at times, the worse for drink, while the onlookers roared with mirth.
But then Penredd himself leaped from his seat, took one of the swords, and challenged all comers. Now the combat took a more serious turn. Penredd showed no languor from drinking, and attacked his opponents with ferocity and rage, vanquishing one and then another.
The Iruks watched the duels with a certain derisive amusement. Eben suggested that the warriors showed only token resistance to their prince. Karrol muttered that, drunk as she was, she could take Penredd and two of his brigands at the same time. The Iruks were proud of their fighting skills and considered them superior. While the Gwalesmen did combat with long swords and shields, hacking and stabbing and relying on brute force, Iruks fought with subtlety and quickness. Their curved hunting swords were deadly at both point and cutting edge, and they never used shields. Instead their other hand might hold a spear or dagger, allowing them to parry or strike with either hand.
Suddenly, the hall was hushed. Looking up, Glyssa noticed that all eyes were fixed on her and her mates. From the center of the floor, Penredd stared at them.
“It seems that our Iruk friends mock us,” he announced. “I see them simpering behind their hands. Perhaps one of them would like to try me?”
“No, Penredd!” Queen Meghild called from the high table. “These warriors are my guests.”
“Just a friendly challenge, grandmother.” Penredd defied her. “We all know how they boast, claiming their dodging and weaving style is superior to ours. I merely offer them a chance to demonstrate. But there is no need … ” He turned his back on the Iruks, spread his arms wide as he faced his crewmen. “ … if they are afraid!”
As the brigands of Gwales roared with mockery, the Iruks bolted to their feet. Karrol was halfway across the table, before Glyssa grabbed her arm.
“No, let me,” Glyssa said. She had drunk less than the others. Besides, she feared Karrol might become enraged and injure the prince.
“Glyssa, are you sure?” Lonn clapped a hand on her shoulder. “One of us can—”
“No, I am sure.” She flashed him a grin. “Let the smallest of us go. I welcome the exercise.”
“Don't worry, Lonn,” Eben laughed. “Glyssa will take him.”
“I'm sure of that,” Lonn answered. “But we don't want to humiliate him.”
“Ha!” Karrol roared. “Don't humiliate the prince, Glyssa … Not too much!”
Glyssa strode across the table and hopped to the floor. “Ho, Lord Penredd!” she called. “
Are you ready for your lesson?”
Uproarious cheering sounded through the hall. Penredd turned to her, startled. But he recovered at once and gave a mocking bow. Glyssa glanced at the high table, where Meghild sat back now, relaxed and laughing—though Amlina watched with clenched jaw.
Penredd gestured to one of his men, who came forward and offered Glyssa a shield and wood sword. She took them, made a show of weighing them in her hands, then tossed the shield away.
“This will suffice,” she announced. Lifting the sword, she slashed the air, weaving a blurred pattern.
Penredd frowned, then threw aside his own shield and raised the sword. Glyssa crouched and stepped sideways, balanced on the balls of her feet. The hall had grown very quiet.
Iruks were schooled to the sword and spear from an early age. Aspiring to become a warrior, Glyssa had always applied herself fervently to those lessons, compensating for her lack of brawn with quickness and determination. By the time she came of age, her agility and daring made her the equal of any of her klarnmates in sword craft. Through the winter months, she had practiced daily with her mates in the castle courtyard, approaching those sessions with a kind of desperate ferocity, the exercise bringing welcome relief from her internal struggles. So now, as she faced this mock combat in the feast hall, her skills were honed.
She feinted, dipping a shoulder, drawing an overhead slash from Penredd that she easily dodged. She leaped back, avoiding his vicious backhand cut. From both tables came muttering, laughter, shouts of encouragement.
The combatants circled, the prince's eyes blazing with anger. Glyssa thrust low, toward the sword hand. When the response came she pivoted in a blur of motion, ducked behind the prince and slashed him soundly on the back of the thigh.
The Iruks cheered their approval as Glyssa danced away.
“Were this a real fight,” she called aloud. “Your leg would now be crippled. Do you wish to continue, my lord?”
Penredd spoke from his fighting stance. “A slight cut—hardly enough to slow a Gwalesman. We are far from finished.”
Glyssa crouched, the wood sword pointed. This time Penredd attacked with fury, two quick jabs that made Glyssa retreat, then a sweeping cut that nearly caught her head. But Glyssa ducked beneath it and thrust long, her limber body close to the floor as her point struck the prince hard in the groin. He bent with a grunt and stumbled backward. A gasp went up from his crewmen, while elsewhere cheers and applause sounded.
“I fear I might have injured your man-parts, my lord,” Glyssa shouted, “were this a real fight.”
Penredd snarled. “Aye, you are a tricky little fox. But had I my shield, that thrust would never have touched me. Once more!”
Glyssa shrugged and balanced herself again. Penredd stalked forward, feinted twice, then slashed at her chest. Glyssa lunged low, aiming for the groin exactly as before. But this time Penredd dropped his sword, grabbed Glyssa’s blade with one hand, then her wrist with the other. He yanked her arm high and back, wrenching her shoulder. As she tried to twist away he wrapped both arms around her middle. Glyssa was trapped, her back to his body as he growled triumphantly and lifted her off the floor.
“Now my lithe fox, you see this is a real fight. And you have lost!”
The Gwalesmen were hooting with laughter. At the far table, the Iruks jumped to their feet.
Penredd tightened his grip on Glyssa, holding her in a mockery of a lover's embrace, one forearm crushing her breasts.
“Oh. Have I damaged your woman-parts?” he cried, and squeezed harder.
Glyssa gasped with pain. She squirmed and strained, but the man was far too strong. Helpless rage welled up in her, black and dreadfully cold. Suddenly she was back in the icy place, back in Kadavel, trapped in despair. From far away she heard her own strangled cry.
With wavering vision, she saw that her mates had charged across the floor, ready to spring at the prince.
“Let her go now,” Lonn ordered, his tone deathly calm.
But Karrol did not wait. She stepped in without pausing and punched Penredd square in the face. His head snapped back and his arms flew wide. He staggered a half step and fell, sprawling on his back.
Five
Glyssa had collapsed to her knees, gulping for air, her mates hovering over her. Penredd's crewmen were shouting, scrambling over the table.
“Enough!” Meghild bellowed from the high table. “There'll be no brawling in my hall!”
Amlina stood beside her, relieved at how swiftly and forcefully the crippled queen took charge of the situation. Meghild was on her feet, glowering as she shouted to the assembly.
“Back to your seats, my lovelies. Now, I say! And two of you men conduct Prince Penredd to his chamber. I believe he's had enough amusement for one night.”
The prince was lifted to his feet, blood running copiously from his nose. He glanced about, angry and confused. Amlina gathered he was only partly conscious. His men stared furiously at the Iruks, but backed away as Meghild had ordered. Amlina was grateful for the queen's rule requiring that weapons be left outside the feast hall.
“Wilhaven, a song!” the queen commanded. “Something light and soothing.”
As the Gwalesmen returned to their seats, the Iruks relaxed. They had helped Glyssa to her feet. Lonn tried to take her arm, but she pushed him away. She staggered, then ran to the far doorway, fleeing from the hall.
* O *
Glyssa raced through the dark, up the winding steps of a corner tower. She emerged on a high battlement, alone under the stars. The despair that smothered her was horrible, worse than at any time since her rescue. She would never be the same again, she knew that now—as she knew in her heart she could bear it no longer.
She climbed onto the wall, in the space between the merlon stones. Far below, her eyes could just discern the boulders at the edge of the moat.
Just lean forward, and this agony will be over forever.
She hesitated, thinking of what her death would mean to her mates, to Lonn most of all. But what good was she to them now? They would grieve of course, but wasn’t that better for them than this—bearing with her this unending, hopeless misery?
She tilted forward. The wind sighed in her ears.
She was grabbed by the wrist, and then a forearm curled around her waist. She was pulled back and fell on top of someone. Twisting, she looked into Brinda's face.
“No, Glyssa. Don't you know how much we love you?”
Glyssa gave a piteous, keening cry. She sank against Brinda's body, sobbing.
“I am weak, Brinda. I am no good to the klarn.”
“Yes, you are. Dear Glyssa, you are our heart!”
“But I can't be that any more. You don't understand. My own heart is lost to me.”
Brinda soothed her like a babe. “We will help you reclaim it. We will find a way, I promise.”
* O *
When Wilhaven had played and sung for some time, and the atmosphere in the hall grown peaceful and languid, Meghild announced she would retire. Amlina and Wilhaven assisted her from the feast hall and up the dim corridor.
The queen's apartment consisted of a single broad chamber at the rear of the keep. Tapestries adorned the stone walls, and a dark velvet curtain opened on a dais where the queen slept. As Amlina closed the door, two maidservants stepped from behind the curtain.
“Set me down on the couch, my dears.” Meghild said.
As they guided her haltingly to the divan, the queen called to one of the maids to bring wine. Wilhaven lifted the queen's legs so she could recline, while Amlina arranged the cushions. Meghild settled back with a sigh.
“A song, if you please, Wilhaven—something to quiet my nerves. You stay too, Amlina, if you will.” The queen waved her to a chair. “Unless you have pressing matters elsewhere?”
“No, my queen.” The witch sat, straight-backed, at the edge of the armchair. “In fact, I have something I wish to discuss with you.”
“Oh, aye?” Meghild scrutin
ized her. “Are you concerned about your Iruk friend roughing up Penredd? You needn't be. He got what he deserved. Perhaps it will teach him a lesson … Or is it that you fear the Iruks are not satisfied, and may seek further redress for the insult?”
“What? Oh, no. I am sure their honor is satisfied. They are quick to anger, but not apt to hold grudges. I regret that the incident happened at all. Glyssa should have known better than to fight with Penredd.”
Meghild shrugged. “They are warriors. They could hardly ignore the challenge.”
“Yes, but Glyssa has … ” Amlina hesitated. “She is vulnerable. There is a rift in her soul that has not healed.”
The queen looked somber. “She did seem humiliated. I am sorry. Please express my regrets to them all for Penredd's behavior.”
“Yes. I will.”
Amlina took a cup of wine from a proffered tray and stared into the ruby depths.
“What did you want to discuss with me?” Meghild prompted.
The two maids stood nearby. Wilhaven sat at the foot of the divan, tuning his harp.
“It would be better if we speak in private, my queen.”
“Hmm.” Meghild gestured at her attendants. “Leave us, my dears. I will call when I need you. No, you stay, Wilhaven. I have no secrets from my bard.”
Wilhaven had set down his harp and started to stand. Now he settled back and, with Meghild, gazed inquiringly at the witch.
And so we come to it, Amlina thought. She was about to step off of a bridge, to fall into unknown depths.
“I was struck by what you said in the feast hall. That you would give anything for one more voyage, that you would sail with me against my enemy if you could, though it meant your certain death.”
“Aye?”
Amlina peered hard into the queen's eyes. “Did you mean those words, Meghild? Do you mean them now?”
The chamber fell silent, Meghild and Wilhaven both staring at the witch. When the queen's lips moved, her voice was hushed and eager. “Is there a way?”
“There is. But understand: your death would be certain.”
Absorbing these words, the queen hesitated, pondering for moment. Then her visage darkened, eyes glaring. “Explain yourself, Amlina. Tell me all!”
