Through the Darkness

by Harry Turtledove

  Hestan’s smile quirked up only one corner of his mouth. “Sometimes difference is enough to make you notice something. Things don’t always have to be louder. Softer often serves just as well.”

  “Maybe,” Leofsig said. After a moment, he went on, “I wish you could convince Sidroc of that.”

  His father sighed. “Hengist is still living here. And, apart from him, we’re the nearest kin Sidroc has left. When he got leave, where else would he go?”

  “To suck up to his redheaded pals?” Leofsig suggested. “I don’t know why he loves them so much—if it weren’t for them, his mother would still be alive and his house would still be standing—but he does. As far as I’m concerned, they can have him.”

  Hestan sighed again. “I can’t very well slam the door in his face, not with Hengist living here. And I don’t want to turn my brother out. That might be . . . dangerous. You know why.”

  “On account of me,” Leofsig said.

  “That’s right.” His father nodded. “And so we’ll put up with my charming nephew as best we can for as long as he’s here. It’s only three days, I think. We can manage.”

  “Aye, he told me he had to go back then,” Leofsig said. “Then the Algarvians teach him more about murdering Kaunians or terrorizing Unkerlanters or whatever they intend to do with Plegmund’s cursed Brigade. The king would sit up in his grave if he knew what the redheads were doing to his name.”

  “I won’t say you’re wrong, because I think you’re right,” Hestan answered. “But having Sidroc off in the west somewhere far, far away won’t be the worst thing in the world for us, no matter what he ends up doing here.” He cocked his head to one side and waited to see how Leofsig would respond to that.

  Seeing his father eyeing him made Leofsig think before he spoke. “No matter what happens to him there, you mean,” he said slowly.

  Also slowly, Hestan smiled. “Hauling rocks hasn’t taken your wits away, anyhow. The Algarvians wouldn’t be recruiting Forthwegian soldiers if they didn’t intend to throw them into the fire. And the fires in Unkerlant burn hotter than they do anywhere else.”

  From the kitchen came Elfryth’s call: “Supper’s ready!”

  Leofsig grinned at his father. “The fires in Unkerlant burn hotter than anywhere else except under the supper kettle.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right,” Hestan answered. “And a good thing, too, says I. Come on.” They headed for the dining room together.

  When they got there, Uncle Hengist did what he’d started doing again this summer: he waved a news sheet at Hestan. “Here, did you see?” he asked. “The Algarvians are driving everything before them down in the south.” Sounding as cheerful as if he were discussing a football match, he talked about soldiers and behemoths captured, soldiers and behemoths slain, provinces seized, and towns afire from eggs dropped on them from on high.

  Beside Hengist, Sidroc sat listening to the recital with a broad grin. As Hestan and Leofsig sat down, neither of them said anything. That seemed to irk Sidroc, who growled, “No stopping the Algarvians. They’ll smash Unkerlant to powder.”

  “If they were having everything their own way, why would they need Plegmund’s Brigade?” Leofsig asked. Sidroc didn’t answer him, not in words, but his scowl was eloquent. Leofsig smiled back as nastily as he could. Like most Forthwegians, Sidroc was swarthy, but an angry flush darkened his cheeks above the edge of his beard even so. Leofsig’s grin got wider and more provoking yet.

  Before anything could come of that, Conberge and Elfryth brought in olives and bread and olive oil for dipping to start the supper. No matter how much Leofsig enjoyed baiting his cousin, he enjoyed eating more. A day on the roads always left him feeling empty. He noticed that Sidroc displayed the same sort of wolfish appetite, and wondered how hard the Algarvians were working him in the encampment they’d set up.

  Both young men also dug into the mutton stew. There wasn’t quite so much mutton in it as Leofsig would have liked; times were hard. His mother and sister had stretched the stew with beans and turnips and parsnips. After two big bowls, he sopped up gravy with a thick slice of bread cut from the loaf. He drank three cups of wine, too.

  He still had plenty of room for cheese and candied fruit afterwards. He could have eaten more than he got, but his belly had stopped snarling at him. “Enjoy it while you can,” he said to Sidroc. “When you head for Unkerlant, you’ll be lucky if you get barley mush.”

  “We’ll do fine,” Sidroc retorted. “If there’s any food at all, well take it. That’s what being a soldier is all about.”

  “That’s what being a thief is all about,” Leofsig said, ignoring his father’s warning look. “And if they send you down south, you’ll find out all about snow, the same way they did last winter. Good luck stealing when everything’s frozen up.”

  This time, Hestan did more than send a warning look. His tone sharper that usual, he said, “Leofsig, what were we talking about before supper? Sidroc’s father dwells here, and Sidroc himself is a welcome guest.”

  “Aye, Father,” Leofsig answered, but his face betrayed him—it showed exactly how welcome he thought Sidroc was.

  Seeing that, Sidroc half rose from his chair. Breathing hard, he said, “I know you all hate me. Do you know what? I don’t care. Do you know what else? Every stinking one of you can kiss my arse.”

  “Son—” Uncle Hengist began.

  Sidroc cut him off. “Aye, you, too, Father. You were screaming at me to stay out of the Brigade as loud as anybody else. And you were wrong, you hear me, wrong!” His voice rose to a roar. “Best lot of mates I’ve ever found. So you can kiss my arse, too. Just like them!”

  “Just like me, Sidroc?” Leofsig got up, walked round the table, and kissed his cousin gently on the lips. “There.”

  For a moment, Sidroc simply stared. He wasn’t too bright. But then, with a bellow of rage, he realized what Leofsig had done. He swung on Leofsig without any shift in his eyes to warn what he was going to do—sure enough, the Algarvians had taught him a thing or two.

  Leofsig saw stars. He reeled backwards, fetching up against the table. Sidroc swarmed after him, fists flailing. From furious, his cousin’s face had gone deadly cold. He’ll kill me if he can, Leofsig realized.

  He threw a punch at Sidroc, but his cousin blocked it with a forearm. His father and Uncle Hengist were brawling, too, but he could pay them no heed—he was indeed fighting for his life.

  Conberge screamed curses as vile as any Leofsig had ever heard in the army, but Sidroc flung her back onto her mother when she rushed at him. Conberge and Elfryth went down in a heap. Leofsig grabbed a bowl and hurled it at Sidroc. He missed. The bowl shattered against the wall.

  Sidroc kicked Leofsig. Leofsig kicked, too, trying to put Sidroc out of the fight with a well-aimed foot. But Sidroc twisted, quicker and smoother than Leofsig remembered him being, and took the kick on the hip, not between the legs.

  Panic surged in Leofsig. What can I do? He reached for the bread knife. At the same moment, Sidroc grabbed one of the chairs. He swung it as if it weighed nothing at all. His first swipe knocked the bread knife flying from Leofsig’s hand. The next caught Leofsig in the side of the head.

  He sagged to the floor. I have to get up, he thought, but his body didn’t want to hear him. I have to . . . Sidroc hit him again. The lamps seemed to flare red, then guttered toward blackness. He never felt any of the blows that landed after that—or anything else, ever again.

  Five

  Vanai heard what she thought were Ealstan’s familiar footfalls coming up the hall toward their flat. But when the knock on the door came, it was several harsh bangs, not the coded raps Ealstan always used.

  Ice shot up Vanai’s back. Had someone betrayed Ealstan to the redheads? Had someone betrayed her? Heart thudding, she waited for the harsh cry: “Kaunian, come forth!”

  She wondered if she would do better to come forth or to go out the window headfirst. It would be over in a hur
ry then, and it wouldn’t hurt much. Who could guess what the Algarvians did to Kaunians in their labor camps before they finally slew them? But while Vanai was wondering, the knock came again—the right knock, this time.

  Cautiously, she approached the door. “Who is it?” she asked in a low voice.

  “It’s me,” Ealstan answered. “Let me in.”

  It was unquestionably Ealstan, but he didn’t sound right. Were a couple of Algarvians standing behind him in the hall, one maybe holding a stick to his head? What disaster would descend on her if she opened the door? She didn’t know, but she knew Ealstan wouldn’t have left her to face disaster alone. That decided her. She unbarred the door and pulled it open.

  Ealstan stood there alone. Breath whooshed out of Vanai in a long sigh of relief. Then she saw the look on his face. She gasped as involuntarily as she’d sighed. “What is it?” she demanded. Ealstan didn’t answer. He didn’t move, either. She had to grab him by the arm and tug him into the flat and then tug him again so she could close the door. Once she’d barred it, she spun round to face him. “What is it?” she repeated.

  Ealstan still didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, he thrust a sheet of paper at her. She hadn’t even noticed he was holding it. Of themselves, her eyes went down to it. The Forthwegian script was exceptionally clear, but she hadn’t read more than a couple of lines before it seemed to blur. “Your brother,” she whispered.

  “Aye. My brother. Dead.” The phrases jerked from Ealstan one by one, as if from a clockwork toy that was running down. But then, unlike such a toy, Ealstan somehow found the energy to say more: “My stinking cousin killed him. Beat him to death the way you’d beat . . . you’d beat . . . I don’t know what.” Tears started running down his cheeks and into his beard. Vanai didn’t think he knew he was crying.

  She made herself keep reading the letter Ealstan’s father had sent. “They didn’t do anything to him,” she said in disbelief. “They didn’t do anything to him at all.”

  “To Sidroc, you mean?” Ealstan asked, and Vanai foolishly nodded, as if she might have meant someone else. Ealstan went on, “Why should they do anything to him? Leofsig was just a Forthwegian, and Sidroc’s in Plegmund’s Brigade. They’ll probably pin a medal on him for it.”

  “Didn’t you tell me Plegmund’s Brigade was training outside of Eoforwic?” Vanai answered her own question: “Of course you did. That singer you like went out with his band and performed for them.”

  “Ethelhelm.” Ealstan sounded amazed he’d come up with anything so mundane as the musician’s name. “Aye, the Brigade is here—or some of it’s here. Some of it’s gone off to train somewhere else. I found out about that from him.”

  “But . . . won’t the soldiers do something to your cousin?” Vanai was faltering, and she knew it. “They can’t want somebody who’s nothing but a murderer . . . can they?”

  “What do you think soldiers are?” Ealstan answered bleakly. “Especially soldiers who fight for King Mezentio. But it doesn’t matter anyhow. Look at the date on the letter.”

  Vanai hadn’t. Now she did. “That’s—three weeks ago,” she said. “And it just got here now?”

  Another foolish question. Ealstan, fortunately, took it as a matter of course. He said, “Aye. What do the Algarvians care about how the post runs in Forthweg, or even if the post runs in Forthweg? We’re lucky it got here at all—if you call that luck. But you’re right, or I hope you’re right—I want to go out and see if I can get the Algarvians to do something about Sidroc. If he’s still here, I mean. He’s liable not to be.”

  “Don’t do that!” Vanai exclaimed.

  “Huh? Why not?” Ealstan asked, as if he intended heading for the encampment of Plegmund’s Brigade that very moment. Shock had to have dulled his wits.

  Patiently, Vanai answered, “Because you still might be wanted in Gromheort, that’s why. Do you plan to show up there and have them arrest you?”

  “Oh.” Ealstan sounded astonished. No, that hadn’t crossed his mind at all. When it did, he nodded. “You’re right, curse it. Well, he might not even be there. Powers above, I hope he’s not there. I hope he goes out and the Unkerlanters kill him first thing. I wish I could do it myself. I wish I had done it, back there in Gromheort. A million Sidrocs aren’t worth one of my brother.”

  “I’m sorry.” Vanai went to him and held him. They clung to each other for a while. Vanai hoped that did Ealstan some good. She doubted it would do much. But maybe if he thought she thought he felt better, he really would feel a little better. She shook her head. She wasn’t used to needing such convoluted thoughts.

  “Oh,” Ealstan said again, this time as if remembering something. “There’s a piece of the letter right at the end that’s meant for you.”

  “There is?” Vanai hadn’t read the whole thing; the crushing bad news that headed it had been enough. Now she pulled back so she could look at the rest. Sure enough, Ealstan’s father wrote, Your friend’s grandfather has been asking after her. We have said that, so far as we know, she is well. We shall say nothing more without your leave and hers. Vanai said, “I don’t want him knowing any more than that. I don’t even want him knowing that much, but it can’t be helped.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ealstan told her. “My father knows how to keep his mouth shut—a bookkeeper has to. And my mother and sister won’t blab, either.” Thinking about her kept him from thinking about the rest of the news—but only for a moment. Then his face crumpled, for he went on, “Leofsig won’t say anything. Leofsig ca-ca-can’t say anything, not any more he can’t.” He started to weep again.

  Vanai went into the kitchen, took down a bottle of spirits, and poured a full glass for Ealstan and half a glass for herself. “Here,” she said, handing him his. “Drink this.”

  He knocked it back as if it were so much water. Vanai blinked: he didn’t usually drink like that. She sipped her own, letting the spirits slide hot down her throat. When Ealstan spoke, his voice held an eerie calm: “Maybe Ethelhelm can find out for me whether Sidroc is still in the camp near here. If he is . . .”

  “What could you do?” Vanai asked. She held up her hand, palm out, as if to stop him from doing whatever he was thinking, and she feared she knew what that was. As if to a child, she said once more, “You’re not going out there yourself.”

  “All right,” he said, so readily that she looked at him in surprise and sharp suspicion. But he went on, “I’m a bookkeeper, too, remember? If you read the romances, bookkeepers don’t do their own dirty work. They hire somebody else to do it for them.” He plucked at his beard. “I wonder if I’ve got enough to have a man killed. Maybe Ethelhelm would know.” He still spoke very clearly. The spirits certainly weren’t affecting him much.

  “Are you sure you want to ask him?” Vanai could feel what she’d drunk, which was a good deal less than what Ealstan had put down. She had to form her words with care: “He did go out and play for the Brigade, remember.”

  “Aye, that’s so,” Ealstan said unhappily. “Don’t know who I can trust any more. Don’t know if I can trust anybody any more.” He sounded on the edge of tears again. That might have been the spirits working in him, but it might have been simple grief, too.

  “You can trust me.” Vanai set down her glass and took his hands in hers. “And I can trust you. You’re the only person in the world I can trust, I think. You have your family, anyhow.”

  “What’s left of it,” Ealstan said, and Vanai bit her lip. But then he nodded. “Aye. I know I can trust you, sweetheart.” This time, he reached for her.

  He didn’t use endearments very often, which made them all the more welcome when they came. If he’d wanted to take her back to the bedchamber, to lose himself in her flesh for a little while, she would gladly have given herself to him. But he didn’t. He held her, then let her go. “Can you eat?” she asked, and he nodded. She went back to the kitchen. “I’ll fix something.”

  Bread and olives and cheese and salt fish in oil weren�
�t very exciting, but they filled the belly. Ealstan methodically ate whatever Vanai set before him, but gave no sign of noticing what it was. She might have fed him earth and ashes and sawdust, and he would have disposed of those the same way. She gave him more spirits, too. Again, they could have been water by the way he drank them and for all the effect they had on him.

  After he’d finished eating, he said, “I wish I could have been there for the memorial service. I can’t believe it’s done—it’ll be a long time done now. Curse the miserable slow post.”

  Had he been able to go to the memorial service, he would have gone without Vanai. She couldn’t go out on the streets without fear now, let alone step into a caravan car. But Ealstan wasn’t even thinking about her. The only person on his mind was poor dead Leofsig.

  She couldn’t blame him for thinking of his blood kin first. She kept telling herself that. He’d known them all his life, and her, really, only a few months. But she wished he would have shown a few more signs of recalling what her special problems were.

  And she cursed the useless, worthless, hope-lifting, heart-breaking author of You Too Can Be a Mage. Had he really known what he was doing, she could have made herself look like a Forthwegian instead of turning Ealstan into a counterfeit Kaunian. She wondered if her curse would bite. She hoped so. She had been able to work some sorcery, even if it hadn’t turned out the way she wished.

  “Do you want anything else?” she asked Ealstan. He shook his head. She got up and carried the few plates to the sink. Washing them took only a handful of minutes. When she turned back to Ealstan, she found him slumped down onto the table asleep, his head in his hands.

  She shook him, but got only a snore. She shook him again, and roused him to a sludgy semiconsciousness, but nothing more: all the spirits had caught up with him at once. Half supporting him, she got him into the bedchamber. It wasn’t easy; she was as tall as he, but not much more than half as wide.

  And when he landed on the bed, he sprawled diagonally across it, still wearing his shoes. That left no room at all for her. She thought about rearranging him, but decided not to bother. Instead, she took her own pillow and curled up on the sofa. It was cramped, but on a warm night she didn’t need a blanket. After a while, she fell asleep.