by Greg Keyes
“What is that?” Leoff asked, gesturing at the nearest.
“First time in Newland, eh? It’s a malend. The wind turns it.”
“Yes, I can see that. For what purpose?”
“That one pumps water. Some are used to grind grain.”
“It pumps water?”
“Auy. If it didn’t, we’d be talking fishling right now.” Sir Artwair gestured broadly at the landscape. “Why do you think they call this Newland? It used to be underwater. It would be now, but the malenden keep pumping it out.” He pointed to the top of the embankment. “The water is up there. That’s the great northern canal.”
“I should have known that,” Leoff said. “I’ve heard of the canals, of course. I knew that Newland was below the level of the sea. I just—I suppose I thought I wasn’t that far along yet. I thought it would be more obvious, somehow.”
He glanced at his companion. “Does it ever make you nervous?”
Sir Artwair nodded. “Auy, a bit. Still, it’s a wonder, and good protection against invasion.”
“How so?”
“We can always let the water out through the dikes, of course, so any army marching on Eslen would have to swim. Eslen itself is high and dry.”
“What about the people who live out here?”
“We’d tell them first. Everyone knows the way to the nearest safe birm, believe me.”
“Has it ever been done?”
“Auy. Four times.”
“And the armies were stopped?”
“Three of them were. The fourth was lead by a Dare, and his descendents sit yet in Eslen.”
“About that—about the king—,” Leoff began.
“You’re wondering if there’s anyone left to sing to for your supper.”
“I’m not unconcerned with that,” Leoff admitted, “but clearly I’ve missed a great deal of news while on the road. I’m not even sure of the date.”
“It’s the Temnosenal. Tomorrow is the first of Novmen.”
“Then I’ve been on the road longer than I thought. I left in Seftmen.”
“The very month the king was killed.”
“It would be a kindness . . . ,” Leoff began, and then, “Could you please tell me what happened to King William?”
“Surely. He was set upon by assassins while on a hunting expedition. His entire party was slain.”
“Assassins? From where?”
“Sea reavers, they say. He was near the headland of Aenah.”
“And others of the royal house were slain with him?”
“Prince Robert, his brother, was slain there, as well. The princesses Fastia and Elseny were murdered at Cal Azroth.”
“I don’t know that place,” Leoff said. “Is it near to where the king was killed?”
“Not at all. It’s more than a nineday’s hard riding.”
“That seems a very strange coincidence.”
“It does, doesn’t it? Nevertheless, it is the case, and it doesn’t go well for those who suggest otherwise.”
“I see,” Leoff said. “Then can you tell me—who rules in Eslen now?”
Artwair chuckled softly. “That depends on whom you ask. There is a king—Charles, the son of William. But he is, as they say, touched by the saints. He must be advised, and there’s no lack of advice available to him. The nobles of the Comven give it most freely and at every opportunity. The praifec of the Church has much to say, as well. And then there’s William’s widow, the mother of Charles.”
“Muriele Dare.”
“Ah, so you know something, at least,” Artwair said. “Yes, if you had to pick one person to say rules Crotheny, she would be the best choice.”
“I see,” Leoff said.
“So you say you’re worried about your position?” the knight said. “Are positions for your sort rare?”
“There are other patrons who would have me,” Leoff admitted. “I am not without reputation. I last served the Greft of Glastir. Still, a royal appointment . . .” He looked down. “But that’s a small thing, isn’t it, in all this mess.”
“At least you have some sense, composer. But cheer up—you may have your position yet—the queen may honor it. Then you’ll be right in the thick of things when the war starts.”
“War? War with whom?”
“Hansa—or Liery—or perhaps a civil war.”
“Are you joking with me?”
Artwair shrugged. “I have a sense for these things. All is chaos, and it usually takes a war to sort things out.”
“Saint Bright, let’s hope not.”
“You don’t fancy marching songs?”
“I don’t know any. Can you sing some?”
“Me, sing? When your mule is a warhorse.”
“Ah, well,” Leoff sighed. “Just a thought.”
They traveled in silence for a time, and as evening came, a mist settled, made rosy by the waning sun. The lowing of cattle sounded in the distance. The air smelled like dried hay and rosemary, and the breeze was chill.
“Will we reach Eslen tonight?” Leoff asked.
“Only if we travel all night, which I don’t fancy,” Sir Artwair replied. He seemed distracted, as if he were searching for something. “There’s a town where the road crosses the canal up here. I know an inn there. We’ll take a room, and with an early start we’ll be in Eslen by midday tomorrow.”
“Is something wrong?”
Artwair shrugged. “I’ve an itchy feeling. It’s likely nothing, as in your case.”
“Were you searching for anything in particular when we met?”
“Nothing in particular and everything out-of-place. You were out-of-place.”
“And what’s out-of-place now?”
“Did I say anything was?”
“No, but something is—it shows in your face.”
“And what would a minstrel know about my face?”
Leoff scratched his chin. “I told you, I’m not a minstrel. I’m a composer. You asked what the difference was. A minstrel—he goes from place to place, selling songs, playing for country dances, that sort of thing.”
“And you do it for kings.”
“There’s more. You’re from hereabouts? You’ve been to dances?”
“Auy.”
“Minstrels might travel in a group as large as four. Two bowing on the croth, one on a pipe, and another to play the hand-drum and sing.”
“I’m with you so far.”
“There’s a tune—’The Fine Maid of Dalwis.’ Do you know it?”
Artwair looked a bit surprised. “Yah. It’s a favorite at the Fiussanal.”
“Imagine it. One crother plays the melody, then another comes in, playing the same tune, but starting a bit after, so it makes a round. Then the third joins, and finally the singer. Four voices as it were, all at counterpoints to one another.”
“I don’t know counterpoint, but I know the song.”
“Good. Now imagine ten croths, two pipes, a flute, an hautboy, a greatpipe, and every one playing something different.”
“I reckon it would sound like a barnyard full of animals.”
“Not if it’s written right and the musicians perform it fair. Not if everything is in its place. I can hear such a piece, in my head. I can imagine it before it’s ever been played. I have a fine sense for things like that, Sir Artwair, and I can see when someone else does, whether it’s for music or not. There’s something bothering you. The trick is, do you know what that thing is?”
The knight shook his head. “You’re a strange man, Leovigild Ackenzal. But, yes—this town I mentioned, Broogh—it’s just ahead. But what do you hear, with those musician’s ears of yours?”
Leoff concentrated for a moment. “Sheep bleating, far away. Cows. Blackbirds.”
“Raeht. By now we ought to hear children hollering, wives yelling at their men to lay off the ale and come home, bells and horns sounding in the field, workers. But there’s none of that.” He sniffed the air. “No smell of cooking, either, a
nd we’re downwind.”
“What could it mean?”
“I don’t know. But I think we won’t go in by the main road.” He cocked his head. “What use are you if there’s trouble? Can you use a sword or spear?”
“Saints, no.”
“Then you’ll wait here, up at the malend. Tell the windsmith that Artwair said to look after you for a bell or so.”
“Do you think it’s that serious?”
“Why would a whole town go silent?”
Leoff could think of a few reasons, all bad. “As you say,” he sighed. “I’d only be in the way if there’s trouble.”
After ascending to the birm of the dike, Leoff stood for a moment, mazing at what a few feet in altitude did to transform Newland.
Mist collected in the low places like clouds, but from his heightened vantage he could see distant canals dissecting the landscape, coral ribbons that might have been cut from the dusky sky and laid on those amber fields by the saints themselves. Here and there he could even make out moving slivers that must be boats.
Lights were beginning to appear, as well, faint clusters of luminescence so pale, they might be the ephemeral dwellings of the Queer-folk rather than what they must be—the candlelit windows of distant towns and villages.
At his feet lay the great canal itself, broader than some rivers—but indeed, it must be a river, probably the Dew, caught here in walls built by human hands, kept here by ingenuity. It was indeed a wonder.
Finally he studied the malend, wondering exactly how it worked. Its wheel was turning in the breeze, but he couldn’t see how it was keeping the water from drowning the land below. It squeaked faintly as it rotated, a pleasant sound.
A cheerful yellow light shone through the open door of the malend, and the smell of burning wood and fish grilling wafted out. Leoff got down off his mule and rapped on the wood.
“Auy? Who is it?” a bright tenor voice asked.
A moment later a face appeared, a small man with white hair sticking out at all angles. Age seemed to have collapsed his face, so wrinkled it was. His eyes shone, though, a pale blue, like lapis bezeled in leather.
“My name is Leovigild Ackenzal,” Leoff replied. “Artwair said to kindly ask if I might rest here a bell or so.”
“Artwair, eh?” The old man scratched his chin. “Auy, Wilquamen. I haet Gilmer Oercsun. Be at my home.” He gestured a bit impatiently.
“That’s very kind,” Leoff replied.
Inside, the lowest floor of the malend tower was a single cozy room. A hearth was set into one wall, where a cookfire crackled. An iron pot hung over the flame, as well as a spit that had two large perch skewered on it. A small bed was butted up against the opposite wall, and two three-legged stools sat nearer the fire. From the roofbeams hung nets of onions, a few bunches of herbs, a wicker basket, swingle-blades, hoes, and hatchets. A ladder led to the next floor.
In the center of the room, a large wooden shaft lifted in and out of a stone-lined hole in the floor, presumably driven somehow by the windwheel above.
“Unburden ’zuer poor mule,” the windsmith said. “Haveth-yus huher?”
“I beg your pardon?” Artwair’s dialect had been strange. The windsmith’s was nearly unintelligible.
“Yu’s an faerganger, eh?” His speech slowed a bit. “Funny accent you have. I’ll try to keep with the king’s tongue. So. Have you eaten? You have hungry?”
“I don’t want to inconvenience you,” Leoff said. “My friend ought to be back soon.”
“That means you’ve hungry,” the old man said.
Leoff went back out and took his things off the mule, then let her roam on the top of the dike. He knew from experience that she wouldn’t go far.
When he reentered the malend, he found one of the fish awaiting him on a wooden plate, along with a chunk of black bread and some boiled barley. The windsmith was already sitting on one of the stools, his plate on his knees.
“I don’t have a board just now,” he apologized. “I had to burn it. Wood from upriver has been a little spotty, these last few nine-days.”
“Again, thank you for your kindness,” Leoff said, picking at the crisp skin of the fish.
“Nay, think nothing of it. But where is Artwair gang, that you can’t go?”
“He’s afraid something’s wrong in Broogh.”
“Hm. Has been quiet there this even’, that’s sure. Was wonderin’ about it minself.” He frowned. “Like as so, don’t think I even heard the vespers bell.”
If that brought Gilmer any further thoughts, he didn’t share them, but tucked into his meal. Leoff followed suit.
When the meal was done, Gilmer tossed the bones in the fire. “Where’ve you come from, then?” he asked Leoff.
“Glastir, on the coast,” he replied.
“That’s far, auy? Mikle far. And how do you know Artwair?”
“I met him on the road. He’s escorting me to Eslen.”
“Oh, gang to the court? Dark times, there, since the night of the purple moon. Dark times everywhere.”
“I saw that moon,” Leoff said. “Very strange. It reminded me of a song.”
“An unhealthy song, I’ll wager.”
“An old one, and puzzling.”
“Sing a bit of it?”
“Ah, well . . .” Leoff cleared his throat.
Riciar over fields did ride
Beneath the mountains of the west
And there the palest queen he spied
In lilies fair taking her rest
Her arms shone like the fullest moon
Her eyes glimed like the dew
On her gown rang silver bells
Her hair with precious diamonds strewn
All hail to thee, oh my great queen
All hail to thee he cried
For thou must be the greatest saint
That ere a man has spied
Said she truly I am no saint
I am no goddess bright
But it’s the queen of Alvish lands
You’ve come upon tonight
Oh Riciar welcome to my fields
Beneath the mountains of the west
Come and take with me repose
Of mortal knights I love thee best
And I will show thee wonders three
And what the future holds
And I will share my wine with thee
My arms wilt thou enfold
And there beneath the western sky
She showed him wonders three
And in the after bye and bye
She gave him Alvish eyes to see
Oh Riciar stay with me awhile
Keep here for an age or two
Leave the lands of fate behind
And sleep with oak and ash and yew
Here’s my gate of earth and mist
Beyond my country fair
Of all the knights upon the earth
Thou art most welcome there
I will not go with thee great queen
I will not pass thy gate
But will return unto my liege
In the lands of Fate
If thou wilt not stay with me
If thou art bound to leave
Then give to me a single kiss
And I’ll remember thee
So he bent down to kiss her there
Beneath the mountains of the west
She pulled a knife out from her hair
And stabbed it through his chest
He rode back to his mother’s home
His heart’s blood pouring true
My son, my son, you are so pale
What has become of you
O mother I am wounded sore
And I shall die today
But I must tell you what I’ve seen
Before I’ve gone away
A purple scythe shall reap the stars
An unknown horn shall blow
Where regal blood spills on the ground
The blackbriar vines shall grow
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Leoff finished the song, Gilmer listening in evident pleasure.
“You’ve a fine voice,” the old man said. “I don’t cann of this Riciar fellow, but all he said has come to pass.”
“How so?”
“Well, the purple scythe—that was the crescent moon that rose last month, as you said. And a horn was blown—it was heard everywhere. In Eslen, at the bay, out on the islands. And the royal blood was spilled, and then the brammel-briars.”
“Briars?”
“Auy. You aens’t heard? They sprang up first at Cal Azroth, where the two princesses were slain. Sprouted right from their blood, it’s said, just as in your song. They grew so fast, they tore down the keep there, and they creep still. They spell the King’s Forest is full of ’em, too.”
“I haven’t heard that at all,” Leoff said. “I’ve been on the road from Glastir.”
“Sure the news has been up the road by now,” Gilmer said. “How did it miss you?”
Leoff shrugged. “I traveled with a Sefry caravan, and they spoke to me very little. This past nineday I was alone, but I was preoccupied, I suppose.”
“Preoccupied? What with the end of the world coming, and all?”
“End of the world?”
Gilmer’s voice lowered. “Saints, man, don’t you know anything? The Briar King has wakened. That’s his brammels eating up the land. That was his horn you heard blaw.”
Leoff stroked his chin. “Briar King?”
“An ancient demon of the forest. The last of the evil old gods, they say.”
“I’ve never—no, wait, there is a song about him.”
“You’re right full of songs.”
Leoff shrugged. “Songs are my trade, you might say.”
“You’re a minstrel?”
Leoff sighed and smiled. “Something like that. I take old songs and make them into new ones.”
“A songsmith, then. A smith, like me.”
“Yes, that’s more the case.”
“Well, if it’s a song about the Briar King, I don’t want to hear it. He’ll kill us all, soon enough. No need to trouble over him before it happens.”
Leoff wasn’t sure how to react to that, but he felt sure that if the world were about to end, Artwair would probably have mentioned it. “Very well,” he said at last, gesturing above. “Your malend. May I ask, how does it work?”
