Fate

by Mary Corran

  Asher began to scowl, more at her mother’s tone than her words, but she noticed an odd look cross her father’s face. Her mother saw it too, and her eyes kindled with life.

  ‘What is it, Erward? What are you keeping from us?’

  Asher’s father cleared his throat uncomfortably, refusing to meet her gaze, and his hand dropped from her hair. ‘Just a rumour, wife, nothing more.’

  ‘What is this rumour?’ Asher saw her own explosive anger reflected in her mother’s face at the obvious evasion. ‘What is it, Erward?’ her mother asked again. ‘Or are you afraid Asher and I are too frail to bear more ill tidings?’ Her eyes flashed a challenge. She was his equal in the affairs of the farm and beyond, and he knew it.

  With a sigh, he gave in. ‘No, wife. Never that. It was only — ’ and he shrugged, incapable of explaining to her his instinct for secrecy ‘— that it’s a rumour, not yet confirmed.’ He looked at Asher, hoping she would understand and share his desire to protect his wife from further pain, but she only stared stonily back. ‘There’s a tale that young Vallis has gone missing; that she disappeared from the palace in Fate at the same time the news from Omen reached the capital. They are saying it’s because of the prophecy, that Amrist has had her spirited away so she can do no harm to him.’

  There was a moment of frozen silence during which Asher saw her mother’s face grow blotchily white, the veins on her cheeks and forehead standing out vividly.

  ‘But Erward — surely it’s possible the Dominus himself sent her away, for her own safety, to protect her from Amrist?’ Erward merely shook his head.

  ‘Then it’s all a lie!’ Asher was shouting again. ‘The Oracle’s a lie, and the Kamiri won because they were stronger, and fought better! It’s true. Our luck has gone and nothing will bring it back!’ It was so obvious she could not believe it was not plain to them. She suddenly wanted to cry, to vent her unhappiness on the two people she loved most in the world. ‘It isn’t fair!’

  She turned and fled towards the door leading into the yard; as she passed the table her hand brushed against the basket and it fell to the floor, the eggs breaking in a sticky puddle of yolk and white and shell.

  ‘Asher — you come back!’ Come back and clear up this mess!’

  She ignored her mother’s angry summons, guiltily pleased with herself; she would not worry about averting the bad luck that came from spilling food. Such things had never troubled her; they were no more true than the Oracle, and the Kamiri had won, and Omen was gone.

  She ran across the cobbled yard and took the first path to meet her feet past the barn, stumbling on the rough grass and ruts of dried mud where wagons had gone by. She ran past the hayfields, hesitating briefly at the trail that led to the village, and at the other, which would take her across the common to the great house of Kepesake and her friend Callith. For a moment she was torn, unsure which way to go, with an odd feeling that some unspecified outcome hung on her choice. But Mallory, Callith’s elder brother, was home from his last voyage, and she was suddenly shy of intruding on their family reunion, newly aware of the distance separating herself, the daughter of a farmer, and Callith, daughter of an influential and wealthy merchant clan. Until this leave, Mallory, although five years older than she, had been almost as much her friend as his sister, but there was something different about him this time, as if he had crossed some invisible barrier and changed from friend to man. Asher did not feel at ease with this new Mallory.

  As she still hesitated, her father’s voice reached her, calling out angrily, and she carried straight on and the anxious feeling passed. A farm-hand called out a greeting from the ditch he was digging, but she ran on, with the energy of misery, until she reached her favourite secret place, a hollow ash tree with twisting roots that bordered the narrow river running through the farmlands. She threw herself down on the dry mud and grass, hot and panting for breath, wishing she could cry.

  After a time she recovered sufficiently to sit up, and her breathing grew easier as she stared, stony-faced, at the play of sunlight on the slow current of the stream. She thought of the changes coming to the farm. She hated change, especially that in her own body, the budding breasts that were sore to the touch, and the new, monthly nuisance her mother told her would be hers for most of her life. Her mother had said she should welcome her new self, but Asher wished, with all the angry passion of her heart, that life would stand still. She wanted everything to go back to the way it had been, before the tribute ships bearing Darrian’s gold sank in the storm the previous month on their way to Javarin, drowning the good fortune of the land with them; before Amrist had invaded and stolen their luck away.

  Even if her father was right and they were left in peace to carry on their work, the grey men would come and rule them; they would take the grain the farm produced, the coins they earned, with everything else. She knew what had happened in other lands taken by the Kamiri over the last half-century; it had been the subject of village talk for the past year and more. The Kamiri were slave-makers, brutal and vicious; they killed for pleasure, on the turn of a card or the dice. Or that was what was said.

  Only Saffra is free now.

  Saffra, the strange, frozen country to the north, a land of mountains and snow, a society where, it was said, the women ruled equally with the men, all together with no one man to command them. The Saff were safe, protected by an invisible barrier none could pass unless the Saff allowed it, using a magic they alone possessed. They were rumoured to own powers of the mind far surpassing those of any diviner, so that they could read not only the lines of Fate but even the hearts of men and women. Asher remembered a Saff girl she had seen once, tall and thin, with white hair and very fair skin. They were an alien people, too, but different from the Kamiri, for they were peaceful and despised slavery, refusing to trade with nations of slavers. Which would leave them isolated now. Gorm to the east, Asir, Baram and the rest; they were all countries of the Dominion, ruled by the grey-skinned men of Javarin and subject to their law.

  The Kamiri were unnaturally tall, too, like the Saff; Asher had heard it argued that they must share some bloodlines in common, despite the differences in the colour of their skin. But where the Saff were revered for their wisdom and gentleness, the Kamiri were universally hated and feared, even if some men admired their strict military discipline and blind obedience to orders, which they said was courage.

  Asher considered what her mother had said about the Oracle, and about Vallis. She’s wrong, Asher told herself angrily. Everyone knew the prophecy but Asher had always thought it silly, doubting one small girl younger even than herself could be the bearer of so much good fortune, even if she was the daughter of the Dominus. Vallis would be five now, but she had two elder brothers. She was only a child, and a girl child at that. ‘Unlucky to be born a woman,’ the saying had been repeated to Asher too often for her to question its truth, even if her own observation had not affirmed it.

  She drew in an angry breath. Even Mallory had begun to look at her as if she was a girl and of little account, or that was how he made her feel. Why had he changed? Or was the alteration in herself, that now she was growing into a woman she was somehow no longer a person? The thought brought a stab of misery. But what did it matter? If Vallis had disappeared, and their good fortune with her, then it was all a trick, a lie.

  They say the Oracle can’t lie, but it can. As proof, Omen is lost, and Vallis too. She burned with furious indignation. What was the good of prophecies, if nothing could be done to avert the disaster they claimed to foresee? Why had the Oracle not divined the sinking of the tribute ships and given warning? Then the subsequent invasion might never have happened, for the gold would have reached Amrist and Darrian would have been safe.

  Asher trembled with the force of her rage, swearing to herself with the most solemn oath she knew she would never be taken in again; even the village fortune-teller was false, a liar. What of the diviner who had looked into her own future when she was a baby, and for
eseen she would live and be lucky? Asher sneered mentally, her lips firming in a thin, determined, line as she deliberated, recalling occasions her friends had told her results of consultations with a visiting diviner. Sometimes the forecasts had been right, but they could just as easily have been lucky guesses as seeing. There is no way to divine future fate, she told herself coldly. She would not believe her life must follow one straight line from beginning to end, that there were no choices save those the Fates had already decided for her. She was Asher, and she would do whatever she wanted. She wished, with real passion, that she could be like Mallory and go away to sea, and knew a futile resentment because it was impossible. Women were not permitted to be sailors, or to work on board ship in any capacity, even as cooks. They, whoever they were, had decreed it was unlucky! Asher bit her lip and hated everyone impartially.

  Slowly, as the day drew towards its close and the stillness grew heavier, her turmoil died down, as if in coming to one small decision she had reasserted some form of control over her life. Asher was forced, reluctantly, to feel guilt at the way she had treated her parents, knowing it was not their fault Darrian had been invaded, that they were all to be slaves to the Kamiri in fact, if not in name. It was only an illogical conviction that they were old and should somehow have been able to prevent it happening, which had made her treat them as if they were the enemy. She sighed aloud, realizing she would have to go back and apologize; they would be hurt, as well as angry.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’

  The unexpectedness of voice and question startled her, and she whirled round, only to find Lewes standing by the ash tree only a few paces away. He was the nearest neighbour to Harrows Farm, six years older than herself, but at Carling’s he farmed only a modest hundred acres to their three hundred; she liked him well enough, but the fair good looks which made her friends cast longing looks after him Asher thought insipid, and she had never cared for the patronizing note in his voice when he spoke to her. She was wary of him, for he was said to have a mean temper, although her father, who liked him, always said that was only because of the mole on his forehead.

  ‘No. Why should there be something the matter?’ she said, haughtily because she was still cross with the world. She jumped to her feet, newly conscious of the way the thin material of her skirts clung to her long legs. ‘And I’ve got to get back to the farm, it’s late.’

  ‘You’ve heard the news then?’ Lewes displayed no remorse at breaking into her privacy, although he must have been well aware this was her secret thinking-place, where she hated to be disturbed. He leaned lazily against the trunk of the tree, muscular tanned arms crossed on his broad chest, his teeth very white in his sun-browned face. Sunlight glinted on his dark blond hair, turning it to a rich gold, and Asher saw he was laughing at her.

  ‘Of course.’ She was poised for flight, not wanting to talk to Lewes, least of all now. His unblinking regard made her uncomfortably conscious of her dusty skirts, of her braid of hair — as fair as his own — which had become unravelled and now lay in tangles down her back, and of her dirty face. Lewes always had that effect on her, as though he judged her on her appearance, not as a person with thoughts and feelings of her own.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll look after you. Don’t be afraid, my pretty.’ Lewes smiled down at her, as if, she thought touchily, she was a child, or a dog which could be soothed by a pat on the head. Asher found herself growing red, and was furious.

  ‘You?’ she said, putting as much scorn into the word as she could. ‘What can you do? And anyway, I’m not afraid.’

  The smile did not falter, but became fixed and ominously still; Asher was made aware that she had, unexpectedly, succeeded in stinging Lewes’ enormous self-conceit. She hesitated, not liking the look in his eyes; she wondered if she should say she was sorry, because there was something frightening about him as he stood watching her. She opened her mouth, then shut it stubbornly. Lewes should have left her alone; it was his own fault if she had angered him. She turned away, hesitated, then moved off at a run in the direction of the farmbuildings, wishing she had not met him.

  He was no longer smiling. He watched until she was out of sight, frowning a little, as though a problem troubled him, but not too deeply. Not far away, a falcon hovered on the air with wings spread wide, beady eyes searching the cornfields for movement. A water-rat plopped into the slow-moving river at Lewes’ feet. He stooped and picked up a stone, shying it at the beast, but he missed, and the stone splashed uselessly in the water.

  He began to whistle as he made his way back to his own, less fruitful, fields, his good humour quite restored. He, too, had come to a decision as he sat beside the river.

  Asher was right. It was a good place to think.

  Chapter One

  Fourteen Years Later

  The violent storm of the past three days had finally blown itself out, and there was now only a gentle easterly wind coming in from the sea as Asher ran lightly up the steps leading to the inn. A powerful stench of fish pursued her, hardly surprising since she was near the fish market, and mingled with other, more penetrating, odours from blocked gutters to either side of the steps. The steep lane was unexpectedly dark, clouds obscuring the stars, and Asher swore as her foot slipped on some carelessly flung refuse and she almost fell back down the long flight, barely catching a window ledge in time.

  The ground levelled out on to a flat cobbled space which in turn widened into a narrow street, and she was glad to see the lights of Carob’s tavern spilling out from half-opened shutters ahead. Ignoring the main entrance, Asher moved to the left and pushed at a narrow door set just below an inn sign depicting a large silver fish.

  Once inside, she took a quick look round the room, and felt an instant stab of disappointment: Mylla was not there. The scattered tables and benches of the women’s room were only sparsely occupied, mostly by poorly dressed women in well-worn aprons, although a few silent children were still in evidence. It was late, and the mothers with small babies had already left; Asher wondered whether she should go herself, for it seemed pointless to wait the short amount of time remaining until curfew.

  ‘Can I get you something?’

  The voice belonged to Cass, a slave from neighbouring Gorm, a small, dark-haired woman of thirty or so, with bright vivacious eyes and tiny hands. She was busy gathering up empty pewter tankards, piling them on a tray, but looked inquiringly at Asher as she worked.

  ‘Is there a message from Mylla?’

  Cass shook her head. ‘Not yet, but there’s still time. Sit down. You look tired.’

  ‘I am.’ Asher sank on to a bench, leaning wearily back against the wall. Without being asked, Cass brought her a tankard of ale, which she sipped slowly. As ever, her gaze slipped to the crescent-shaped scar branded on Cass’s left cheek, the mark identifying her as slave; that Carob, Cass’s owner, treated her more as a young relative than a possession did little to alleviate the shame Asher always felt at the sight of the mark. The rising number of slaves in the city was yet another of the indignities imposed on them by the grey men, a visible sign of the slow but inexorable weakening of their limited autonomy, won from the Kamiri at a high price: the tribute weighed more heavily each year.

  The room smelled of fish oil from the table lamps, as well as spilled ale and cheap coal, but the sum total was more appealing than its components. Trade was stable rather than brisk, for it was a cool spring night at the dark of the moon. At the next table sat three women, rather older than Asher’s own twenty-seven years, gambling heavily on the outturn of two twelve-sided dice; one had a high pile of copper coins in front of her. A little further away, two very young women were taking turns to pick fortunes from a pile of dominoes; Asher heard a squeal of pleasure from the darker of the two, a pretty girl in a red dress, as she uncovered her selection.

  ‘Five-four — a lucky speculation!’ Her companion scowled, making her rather plain face actively ugly, then selected her next piece, which she threw down in dis
gust.

  The taproom was warm, although the fire had died to mere embers. Asher kept her eyes on the door, but could feel an easing of her tension as she drank more ale and listened to the low murmurs of good-natured conversation around her. It was pleasant to sit still for a change, and she refused to contemplate disaster, or the long walk ahead. Cass’s neat figure in a blue dress of good thick wool whisked efficiently from table to table, collecting coins or depositing ale, a smile for each customer.

  ‘Give it back. It’s mine!’

  The shrill complaint came from a small girl who had been sitting beside the hearth, playing quietly with a stuffed toy of indeterminate species while her mother talked to a friend. Her brother, a year or more older, had grown bored with sitting and the lack of attention, and his thoughts had turned towards destruction. He was holding the toy perilously close to the sinking flames, watching his sister with gleeful malice.

  ‘Dora, Dora, won’t have it no more’a!’ he chanted.

  His mother roused, lifted a thin hand in protest, but was too far away to seize either boy or doll. Asher looked at the little girl, a plain-faced child, too pale and scrawny for good health, expecting to see her eyes fill with tears of frustration. The boy, too, was waiting for some such reaction. Unlike his sister, he was solidly built, rounded cheeks flushed with the heat of the fire and the expectation of easy triumph. Asher supposed that his mother — a worn-looking woman in a much-mended dress — gave him the best of the food and kept little back for her daughter or herself; old customs were hard to break. The booksellers near the slave market still sold copies of a fifty-year-old treatise encouraging parents to feed their daughters only meagre fare, so they would fit the fashionable mould of small, slender women with tiny hands and feet.