by Mary Corran
Fate
Mary Corran
© Mary Corran 1995
Mary Corran has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1995 by Millennium, an imprint of Orion Books Ltd.
This edition published in 2015 by Venture Press, an imprint of Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
PART ONE
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
PART TWO
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
PART THREE
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
PART ONE
Auguries
Prologue
Billowing white smoke issued in gusts from the pit, then sank to lie heavily just above the dark marble of the floor, writhing leadenly in thick, impenetrable clouds, obscuring sight.
Lykon, Dominus of Darrian, the ruler and the luck of his people, was sweating despite the cold as he held his small wriggling daughter in his arms, an awkward and unaccustomed burden. Barely a year old, she was a dark-haired, dark-eyed child, whose expression suggested she did not greatly care for her present surroundings. Lykon waited, clearing his throat, sharing her opinion.
‘Stand closer,’ advised the other man present, an elderly priest garbed in a white robe. ‘Nearer the pit.’
Lykon complied, shivering, for the marble hall was chill, as if the stone itself exuded cold. The long, high building seemed to him unnecessarily large for what it contained, which was only the deep pit, wide and long enough to contain a human form, and behind it the vast statue representing Lady Fortune, her balanced scales held out at shoulder height, the chiselled features stonily impartial as befitted one of the capricious Fates. Sunlight entered the hall through narrow slits in the walls several feet above his head, but Lykon felt, as he had on other occasions, that they made little impression on the oppressive darkness. At thirty-two, he was a tall, well-built, man, aware that his sensitive face displayed his feelings too openly; he knew the old priest had already registered his present uncertainty.
This was the third of his children Lykon had brought to the attention of the Oracle of Venture; for neither of his sons had the auguries been favourable. It was painful for him, remembering his own far distant ancestor who had first stumbled on this place, who had slept and dreamed on this same hill-top and found his dreams came true, to have to stand and await the Oracle’s verdict.
‘On what day was the child born?’ inquired the priest.
‘The first of the new year, at the first hour.’ Lykon saw the elderly priest nod approvingly in recognition of the omen, for it was lucky to be born when both moons, Abate and Aspire, were new, attracting good fortune to the child. He stared towards the pit and hoped, fervently, that the Fates would be kind to his daughter. That she had survived her first year boded well; none of the children born to his lady after their second son had survived more than a month until this one, and they had both feared their luck was spent. The child’s survival to her present age had given them new hope.
‘And what is her name?’
For a moment, Lykon did not hear the question, all his attention centred on the coiling smoke. A cough drew him back. ‘Vallis,’ he answered hurriedly. ‘We named her Vallis, after my ancestress, wife to the first Dominus.’
The priest nodded again, permitting himself the luxury of an austere smile. ‘A most worthy choice,’ he opined, but Lykon was no longer listening.
‘Draw nearer, Hawk.’
The new voice issued from the pit; disembodied, it held an inhuman quality, neither low nor high, harsh nor soft, but cool and clear, reminding Lykon, for some reason, of the sound of snow falling on the sea. He swallowed at the unaccustomed form of address and took a step nearer.
‘Show me the child.’
Lykon obeyed, drawing down the woollen blanket in which Vallis was swaddled to reveal her face, which was round and showed surprisingly strong features for so young a child. His daughter stared up at him, but, seeing a familiar figure, decided not to cry, though her chin wobbled ominously.
There was a small sigh from someone in the hall. Lykon waited, unable to breathe for the fear clutching at his heart.
‘For you, Hawk, I say nothing.’ There was more than a hint of dismissal in the voice, as if Lykon’s destiny were of little interest or importance. ‘But to this one ... ’ There was a pause, then a sharply indrawn breath which was almost a hiss; then the voice came again, louder and more confident, as if reciting words already familiar:
‘The scales of Fate are finely poised;
The Jackal balances the Bear
Till one shall rise and one shall fall.
Then, shadowed child of earth and skies,
In whom is fortune favoured most
By blood, by birth, by name — though yet
Bright plumage dimmed by mask of grey —
Cast off your shroud; break wide the shell.
Spread wings that never felt the breeze,
And as the Lady of the Hawk
Return the Jackal to his lair.
The Shadow to its rightful bounds.’
Involuntarily, Lykon clutched the child too tightly, and she emitted a sharp squeal of protest.
‘She is your luck now, Hawk. She holds what you have lost. Guard her well — ’ Abruptly, the voice broke off. Lykon turned to the priest, who was now staring at Vallis with a look approaching awe.
‘What does it mean?’ Lykon asked anxiously, understanding only one word in ten of the Oracle’s prophecy. The Bear was a reference to Darrian, if he remembered correctly, and the Jackal was Amrist the Conquerer himself, Overlord of the Dominion which controlled most of the known lands. The Dominion must be the Shadow. But the rest of the prophecy made no sense to him. What was the mask of grey? What the shroud?
The priest shook his head. ‘I cannot be absolutely certain, Lord Lykon.’ He coughed apologetically. ‘Sometimes these things are not clear, even to those of us who serve here. We rely on repeated usage of common terms to be sure of their meaning — such as Bear for Darrian, and Jackal for Lord Amrist of Javarin. I would judge,’ and he looked down at the slate he held, on which Lykon could see a few hastily scribbled lines, ‘that the Oracle is warning us there is to be a change in the balance of luck between ourselves and the Dominion. Perhaps in our favour, perhaps not. But the rest refers to your daughter here. First that she is your child — the emblem of your lady’s clan is a serpent, the symbol of your office is the hawk, that is the meaning of “child of earth and skies”. I do not understand “shadowed” here.’ He looked worried, then brightened. ‘For the rest — perhaps we shall face Amrist and his Kamiri in battle, and we shall be victorious. For make no mistake: this child has the gift of good fortune, for herself and for us all in this land of Darrian. She is the true heiress of your line. That much I can tell you.’
Lykon wondered what the priest was keeping from him; there was something furtive in the old man’s expression that warned him the reply was rather less than the whole truth. Yet he had no power to command the man to speak; the priests of the Oracle held to no political allegiance, just as the Fates answered to no man, nor woman, bestowing their fortunes as they saw fit. And, as ever, the Oracle’s prophecy was ambiguous, except in the matter of his daughter’s luck: hi
s own, Lykon knew, was draining away, or so his personal diviner warned him. The man had the gift for seeing the lines of fortune for a man or woman as did few others of his calling, although he had been oddly hesitant in his reading of Vallis. With some unease Lykon recalled the man’s rare unwillingness to commit himself. Yet he could not doubt his fortune was reborn in Vallis; she would balance the scale with Amrist where he could not, and their land would be safe. Relief surged up in him. Nothing else mattered. He hugged his daughter, lying peacefully in his arms, oblivious to her new importance. She smiled back, her dark eyes wide and serious.
‘I will keep you safe, my daughter,’ Lykon whispered. ‘Whatever happens, you must live.’ He was hardly aware of his surroundings, his earlier apprehension dissipated, so that he no longer saw the dark hall as threatening, but as a theatrical effect deliberately engineered by the priests to enhance the power and standing of their Oracle in comparison with others in the Dominion; it was only a trick, if an effective one.
In the courtyard outside, his lady waited with their retinue. With a nod to the priest, Lykon made for the doorway, his steps lengthening as he considered the good news he had to break to them all. He could barely contain his relief that he did not, after all, have to warn them that Darrian, too, would soon become part of the Dominion; now the land and its fortunes were, through the person of his daughter, preserved from Amrist’s armies.
At the entrance, on impulse, he turned back, blinking in the sudden glare of winter sunlight on white walls. Vallis gurgled contentedly, echoing her father’s mood.
All that concerned him was that he held in his arms the luck of Darrian.
*
Summer, four years later
*
Asher looked up at the sky and thought there was a storm coming; the day was so very still. There was no breath of wind to stir the leaves on the trees in the orchard, nor the hedgerows, nor the blades of corn in the fields; even the birds that usually hovered hopefully over the growing ears of wheat were nowhere to be seen, their raucous calling silenced.
She gathered the eggs in her basket, reaching with a practised hand into the loose straw in the hen house, noting how few there were to be found. It was all of a piece with the rest; the cows’ milk was either sour or dried up, there were rainstorms just before haymaking. The whole country was going wrong, as if all the good fortune that had favoured Darrian over the centuries was draining slowly away; or at least that was the tale in the village. Hens scurried about her ankles and skirts, squawking frantically as she continued to search their nesting boxes, pecking irritably at the grains and grit strewn on the ground.
With a sigh, Asher shut the gate of the pen and carried her filled basket across the deserted farmyard, past the stone haybarn and the dairy and into the kitchen of the square two-storey farmhouse at the rear. The coolness of stone was welcome after the heat of the day; no one in the north of Darrian built in any other material because of the rare danger of firestorms in spring: even one every ten years could devastate a holding or village. But it was summer now, and that peril was past. Asher wiped her brow with the back of her free hand, feeling the sweat on her hairline.
‘Mother?’ she called, for the big kitchen seemed dark after the glare outside, and so still that at first she thought it empty.
A grey-haired woman stood motionless, her back to the hearth at the far end of the room; her hands were clasped together, her gaze fixed on a high point somewhere on the wall to her left, where hung pots and pans and heavy strings of onions. Her thin, high-boned face looked pinched and tight, as if she were struggling to hold back tears. On a normal day she would have been busy with any two or three of the hundred tasks that filled her life; instead, to Asher’s astonishment, she was doing nothing. The kettle still steamed away over the dying embers of the fire, but no preparations were underway for the evening meal, although it was well into the afternoon. There were none of the usually savoury smells of baking bread or simmering stew in the kitchen; the larder door stood shut, and the surface of the huge wooden trestle table that took up a third of the space in the long room was bare, still gleaming whitely from that morning’s scrubbing.
‘Mother?’ Asher ventured again. She put down her basket, suddenly frightened.
Father. It was her first, instinctive, thought. Something has happened to Father. But even as her heart began to pound, painfully, in her chest, she could not bring herself to voice her fear, which was fear for herself as well as for him. She knew a moment’s apprehension that had nothing to do with her father, which warned her to take care and say nothing, not to precipitate disaster.
‘Mother — what is it?’ Her voice was sharp in her anxiety, but the woman by the fire did not respond, although normally she would never have permitted her daughter to speak to her in such tones.
The door which led into the main part of the house opened, and her father came in. Asher started, but, for a rarity, he paid her no heed, going straight to his wife and wordlessly putting his arms round her; she relaxed against him with a quavering sigh, burying her face against his chest. Asher could not remember, in all her thirteen years, seeing her so frail and vulnerable; but even as the thought came to her, she knew that if her father was unharmed, then whatever was wrong was serious indeed. She stiffened, looking down at the eggs and counting them again, concentrating on the smears of earth and straw sticking to the shells, on their different colours and shapes, her mouth unpleasantly dry.
‘Asher.’
Her mother spoke her name. Asher found she was growing angry, hating to be shut out, the only one who did not know what was the matter, as if she were a child still.
‘What?’ she asked rudely.
‘Asher, come here.’ Her father released an arm and beckoned her to join the circle. Stiffly, she obeyed, filled with a deep wariness, no longer quite so sure she wanted to be party to their knowledge, as if knowing was a danger she had to fear.
‘Asher,’ he began awkwardly, ‘you’re old enough to be told.’ He stopped, and she read in his eyes, the same deep brown as her own, that he would have given anything to keep his news from her. She was conscious of the weight of his hand, of the brown calloused fingers — proof of nearly fifty years of hard labour on the farm — grating on the bare skin of her forearm. It was summer, and she wore only a thin shirt with short sleeves above her calf-length skirts; a child’s dress, not a woman’s, showing her ankles and the lower part of her legs. Did he see her, then, as only a child?
Her father cleared his throat and continued; ‘A messenger arrived in the village this morning. From the capital; from Fate.’
‘What did he say?’ She sounded grudging and cross, and hated herself for it. She knew her father loved her, his only child, and she adored him; it was only that at that moment she did not want him to speak.
Her father shook his head, looking suddenly weary and much older than his sixty years. ‘The city of Omen has fallen and the south is taken. The Dominus has submitted to Amrist. We are — Darrian is — now part of the Dominion.’
For a moment, the words did not sink in, as though spoken in a foreign tongue, without meaning for her. Asher felt herself as brittle as the thin ice that covered the water barrels in winter, as if she might break at the least pressure.
‘What will happen now?’ she managed to ask. ‘To us?’
‘The word is hostages will be taken from the cities and villages, to ensure the peace. Not us,’ he added hastily. ‘There’re only the three of us and the hired hands, and they’ll want farmers to farm; even the Kamiri need food. Amrist will put in his own governors, they say, but otherwise there’ll be few changes. The Dominus has agreed a higher tribute, so we’ll not be subject, only a tributary. He’s won us so much independence.’ He rubbed the skin of her arm with his thumb, trying to reassure her. She wrenched herself away, ignoring his distress.
‘So long as we can pay!’ she said shrilly, understanding dimly how little that freedom would prove to mean.
&n
bsp; Her mother spoke suddenly, her voice dull and without inflexion.
‘Omen was utterly destroyed. The city walls torn down, the buildings burned and crushed.’ She left Asher no choice but to face the reality, offering her no false images of hope; she had lost a young cousin and her two children in the city. ‘The people were slaughtered like cattle. It no longer exists.’
Her father absently stroked his wife’s grey hair, seeking to soothe an anguish he could not relieve. ‘That’s why the Dominus asked for a peace, Asher,’ he said softly. ‘His luck was gone so we could not win, and he could bear no more deaths.’
‘They didn’t have to fight. They could have surrendered. Why did they fight if they were going to lose?’ Asher was unsure why she felt so strange and unlike herself, filled to the brim with rage. ‘What was the point?’
‘Keep your voice down!’ For a moment, her mother was her old self again, glaring at her daughter. ‘When the Dominus sent to ask, the Oracle prophesied Omen had a chance for victory. If the city’s people had won, we’d still be free, and Amrist and his Kamiri would have withdrawn from Darrian. You know that. I remember telling you myself.’
‘Then the Oracle is wrong!’ Asher was glad to have found an outlet for her inner turmoil, something real to attack. The prophecy was a lie!’
‘No.’ Her mother lifted her head in reproof; her eyes were red-rimmed, but she was back in control. ‘I forbid such talk! It’s not for you to mock the fall of fortunes. The Oracle of Venture is never wrong and cannot lie; it follows the lines of Fate and speaks only what it sees. But no Fate is so certain it cannot be altered by even so small an event as a sneeze. The people of Omen spent their lives to give us a chance of freedom; they failed, but they tried, and we must honour them for it.’ Her expression was rigid. ‘And all hope is not lost. The Oracle has given us another chance.’
‘What chance?’ Asher demanded mutinously. ‘The grey men are here!’
‘You know perfectly well, Asher,’ her mother said sharply. ‘Vallis, the young daughter of our Dominus, will bring us good fortune. You know what the Oracle prophesied for her — she is our hope.’
