by Ru Emerson
Ylia stepped into the square, turned and stood, gazing astonished at the sight that fronted her. It was, as much as possible under the circumstances, a replica of Koderra's Tower. Not as high, of course, though it rose well above the one-story houses and barracks around it. And it was of plain unfinished wood, not rock, though the outer steps were roughly dressed stone. It blurred as her vision misted; she robbed tears away with the back of her hand.
“Ah. You like it?” She turned; Erken had materialized silently at her shoulder.
“Like it? Like it? I—I can't believe it! Where did they get the time?”
“They took it,” the Duke replied gravely. “It was a matter of pride and importance to them, that you have this. You weren't,” he added reproachfully, “supposed to have arrived yet. No one is here to meet you except me.” He smiled, bowed and ushered her forward. Nisana went off on an exploration of the tall grass beyond the barracks.
It took hours, for though there were only fifteen rooms in all, there was much wonderful hand work in each of them, and she wanted to see everything. The outer doors had been hand carved around the edges and someone had sacrificed brass plate to make fittings for them. Within, plain Narran tile covered the hall, and benches lined both sides of it. The wide stairs leading up from the hall were uncovered, but polished to a warm glow, as were the banisters. There was a large window of colored glass in the state dining hall—She would use that when the Narrans arrived for Midsummer—and a table of some curiously patterned wood. There was silver-edged plate, and wax tapers in smooth black Nedaoan pottery holders marched down the center of the table.
There was also a small dining chamber, its windows as yet glassless, the shutters unfinished. But Erken assured her this would not remain so for long. He fretted the least flaw, or imagined flaw, as she was certain those who had done the building and supplied the furnishings fretted. Her assurances that it was all beyond any hope she'd ever had were met with pleasure, but did nothing to change his unhappiness over things still not completed.
Down a narrow hall was the guard chamber, a mess for the guard, and beyond that, where odors would not penetrate to the rest of the building, the kitchens. “The open-air kitchens for summer should be finished by Midsummer,” Erken said. “We'd not want heavy cooking done inside for such a banquet. But there hasn't been time—”
“It's not a problem, Erken.” He shook his head, led her back through the dining halls, across the entry and into the Reception. There were half a dozen long windows running the length of the chamber, a smoothly polished wood floor. And at the far end—a goodly distance away indeed, the room would easily have matched her, father's ballroom—was a raised platform, covered in ruby-colored carpets. In its midst stood a high-backed chair, its intricately carved ruff shining with gold leaf. Above it were hangings in pale blue, white and gold: the colors of the House of Ettel. And behind it, a huge royal blue drape bearing her own arms. A shield: argent, a bend azure cottised, bearing a sword unsheathed, all within a double tressure flory and counterflory. She shook her head. “Erken—I don't know what to say.”
“Then you have said it,” he replied; his color was high. “Now, in that far corner, there'll be a musician's dais. Eventually we hope for a loft but at present it isn't practical.”
“Practical,” she echoed blankly. Erken laughed quietly.
“Come. You haven't seen the upper floor yet. There's still a lot.”
“A lot,” she repeated again, but let him wrap an arm around her shoulders and lead her from the Reception. They mounted the stairs, came into a broad hall that was windowed all down its south side, though the glass was only fired in half of them so far.
“It's been the very pit of the Seventh Hell, getting glass intact up that river? Erken said warmly. “But once the Narrans have their horse-paths cut we'll have a better way to transport it than water.”
“Erken, truly, I don't need—”
“Yes, you do,” he interrupted her, though mildly indeed for Erken. “Your people say you do.”
The rooms were smaller here: A tiny chamber for Malaeth next to her own, a wardrobe beyond that. In this last were hung two gowns, one pale blue and severely finished, the other a deep green with silver embroidery in a wide band around the hips and deeply at the sleeve hems. Ysian's work, the last. When and where had she found time for that? Beyond these were a sensibly narrow riding skirt and shirt of dark blue, and the tabard she and Malaeth had argued over: Her house colors ran down the sides and across the hem, her sword was embroidered in gold against the right shoulder. It was well padded and quilted, and would be warm.
These garments hung from pegs. There were three chests in the wardrobe, two new and the large one she had found at Aresada. That still held its cache of arms. The other two were presently empty. The jewel chests stood on a table under a shuttered window in her bed chamber.
There was a real bed, with high posts, though no hangings as yet. Dressed furs covered the mattresses: rag and grass-stuffed wool on a woven rope frame. Nearly as fine as her bed in Koderra, and compared to Aresada's rock with insufficient pine boughs, at least the equal of anything the Sirdar slept on in Yls. Across its foot lay a night robe dyed deep red and woven in the pattern that was Lossana's specialty.
Beyond her bed chamber was a study, two large rooms for her women—a pleasure room for embroidery and sewing, and music; a sleeping chamber with half a dozen beds.
It was going to be a change. A pity: she'd enjoyed the easy camaraderie she'd had with the men, and with Malaeth and Lisabetha when they came north. Even in Aresada, where it was borne upon her more often that she was Queen and not just another of the folk, it had been a relaxed thing: she moved among the people constantly, spoke with them, gave sword training to their daughters, worked occasionally with Marhan or Brelian or Levren and those they taught. Her surroundings, this wonderful present from her folk, would change that, however much she sought to keep the contact between herself and them as it had been. There would be more formality, more separation.
She brought herself back to the moment; Erken was apologizing for the hall flooring, which had been laid in patterns of three kinds of wood but not yet waxed. She finally wrung a promise from him to make no more such apologies when what there was was so excellently and lovingly done.
He stopped outside the next chamber: a small, light and airy room, unmistakably a nursery. Ylia felt her face grow warm. She turned to scowl at Erken, who hastily composed his face. “Long-range planning, of course,” he said gravely.
“Long range—indeed,” she retorted.
“It's not practical to add them later,” he protested innocently, but his eyes gleamed with amusement.
“Damn you, anyway,” Ylia said, and started on down the hall. Two last chambers there—guesting rooms, and a long balcony overlooking the market and the orchard completed the upper level. “I'd managed to forget that kind of thing!”
“You're not supposed to, Lady Ylia,’ Erken said formally.
“No, and now I won't be able to, either!” He shook his head, and she sighed. “All right. Give me at least through Midsummer Fest, and then bring out your maledictable lists again. We'll work on them, seriously.”
“It's for my own protection,” Erken said blandly as they withdrew from the balcony and he closed the doors behind them. “If you hadn't named me temporary heir”
“I know you better than that,” she broke in, as blandly. “You'd want me wed and be-heired no matter what.”
“Well, you know, you're properly of age. There's no real reason why not,” Erken began persuasively, but stopped as she held up a hand.
“There are a lot of reasons why not, and you know it. I've promised you, after Midsummer Fest. Not now. Let me adjust to this all of this—first.”
“All right.” They stopped outside her chamber doorway. “But you'd better take no more chances like you did against Kaltassa last month! My hair stood on end when I heard about it!”
“I'll keep m
yself alive,” she assured him dryly, but he shook his head.
“That's easy to say, and scarcely guaranteed when you do things like that. Ah well, it's not hard to see where you get it, Brandt was the same way. Stubborn, brave, skilled and reckless all at once. Sheer tuck and the Mothers’ love kept him alive as long as—” He stopped abruptly. “Gods, Lady. I'm sorry. Truly sorry.”
“It's all right, Erken.” But she'd gone still and small, and freckles stood out clear against a suddenly pale face.
“I—I am sorry.”
“Don't be. It's true, anyway. You know I want truth from my council on all things.’
“It wasn't necessary,” he resisted unhappily.
The mood was irretrievably broken. She attempted several conversations, as did he but they fell flat. Finally he bowed deeply, took his leave. “It's near noon-hour, I promised I'd eat with my men and help them with that roof. The women are cooking a noon-meal down in the square for everyone in the City, but I doubt they know you're here. I'll send someone to you.”
“No, I'll come out. I may not have many more chances to just wander out and eat where I choose, without fuss,” He merely nodded, bowed again, and was gone.
Watching her from my vantage point, where I was able to remain free of the tangle of emotions she fought—fear of the burden, her foreseeing, her dreams, the sword, and the strongest irritation I ever saw anyone bring out in beret seemed to me she was like one who stubs a toe against a rock: she is fated to stub the same toe again and again, and at least as hard.
19
The mountains were edged with a brilliant dark blue, at least eastward. To the west, the sun was nearing the tops of the ancient cedar grove, and only occasional rays worked through thick trees to touch the clearing, though the rock ledge at its northeast end was warm with afternoon light.
The hunter dropped his bags with a weary sigh. Damn, he thought. That rain the last two nights had left everything in this clearing unpleasantly damp. And there wasn't another place to camp, not nearby. Nothing he'd make before dark. And in these wretched mountains, a man of sense didn't walk late; a feeling of being watched, being followed, dogged his steps. He'd done so once or twice, when he was young to the Foessa, and still unwilling to admit there might be things in the world a man couldn't see or touch, things that could still do him harm.
At least his cache was unmolested, unlike the one two camps ago: something had dug down and torn out the triple-wrapped hide food bags. He hadn't gone hungry that night, but he'd eaten at least as, much dirt as food.
Fire's going to be difficult. There wasn't any place here to store wood, no cave, no rock ledge overhang—nothing. Inniva's Warp but I'm tired! This had better work, that's all! Even if it did, he'd have a bear of a headache to show for it. At times like this, he seriously wondered what had originally seemed so fine about the Foessa, about living alone and by his own wits.
Well, he let the thought trail. Old kettle first. He pulled the ancient, battered thing free of its wrapping: it was blackened, greasy with ash, and the bottom had rotted or been cut from it long since. He dug a little farther, found his knife. Narran, it was a seaman's tool, and more than useful to a mountain-hunter with its double-length and treble thick blade. He located the old place near the center of the meadow, nearer the northern side. The sun had at least dried some of the water, and the dew wouldn't hang on him past sunrise. He squatted down, cut around a chunk of turf four times the size of his kettle. It came away easily, having been cut free numerous times before. The dirt under was black, thick with ash. He dug down, freed the rocks from previous fires that were buried under the ash, edged the pit with them, dug out ash and a mound of dirt until he had a hole as deep as his hand.
He stood, stretched and went in search of wood. No, not much good wood here, though some of what he found was surface-wet only. And under a towering fir, he found a few dry needles, twigs, and one hanging branch that might catch if he could get any fire going at all.
Back to the pit then. He spread the leather that had wrapped the bottomless kettle, squatted on that, broke and cut the branch into pieces, dumped the handful into the pit. It wasn't much; he could only hope it would be enough. He stacked the stuff he'd found earlier at his elbow, where he could reach it if the fire did take. The kettle went in next, atop the half-dry bits of fir, and into it went two fists of needles, a crunched-up double handful of twigs. He filled the thing loosely, fished out flint and tinder.
It didn't want to start. Smoke moved for his face with what he swore was intent, set him coughing and burned his eyes. He turned away, caught his breath, rubbed the smoke from his lids, and turned back to try again. It caught, smoldered sluggishly, sent small flames up as he blew on it cautiously, but faded back to a tiny handful of red-edged needles and more smoke. All right. And, tiredly, Damn. He caught at the rocks on both sides of the pit, fastened his gaze on the kettle and concentrated.
It took time. He was tired and it wasn't easy to focus his thought completely on what he did when he was so worn. And nothing short of total concentration served. And he went totally by instinct here; no one had helped him define what he did, how it worked, how to control it, how to use it without draining himself. Harder, think harder, there's smoke, black hells, what's wrong with it tonight? The edges of his vision went as his concentration intensified, the ground at his knees, his hands blurred. With a loud snap, flame spat skyward, the kettle turned dull red, the wood under it began to crackle. He waited until the metal was nearly as bright as the sunset had been, gingerly caught at the handle with his knife and jerked it upward, pulling it free and sending a cascade of hot clinkers and burning wood onto the waiting stack below. The fire hesitated, took for good and settled in to burn properly. He stacked the wet wood close and turned to his second pack to bring out food.
It took enough of his strength to unnerve him. It always did that. But it worked. It still caught him by surprise that it did, as long as he'd done it, as many other odd things as he could do. It hadn't failed him yet, so long as he was within the mountains, though it never worked in Nar, and he'd needed it there badly a time or two. And it hadn't worked to the south either—at least, not when he went south and west. He no longer traveled south and east, though he didn't analyze that either. It would have angered him to have to admit that the southeast of the Foessa scared him.
But it was in the southeast that the Fire-Making had come to him. Strange things happened to a man near the Lake of the Falls.
It was cool in the tree-shade, not pleasantly so. He stopped to hold his hands to the fire more than once as he found the skewers, threaded meat onto them and set them over the fire. It wasn't until he'd finished he noticed the quiet.
“Odd.” He seldom spoke aloud, anymore, and the word echoed. No birds, not even one. The last time he'd been here, there'd been families of them, all around; they'd had him awake an hour before true dawn with their squawking. Bear? But there weren't that many of them so far north, and even so, they avoided men. He couldn't sense one, either: sensing bear was simple.
Unbidden, a reminder of the brief, intense fear touched at him, deep down; the shadow that had darkened more than the ground and had sent him fleeing back the way he'd come, not long since. The shadow she'd reminded him of. He savagely pressed that aside.
Check, while it's still light. He set rocks under his skewers, balancing the meat a little higher above the fire, shoved a good-sized log into the pit and rose to his feet. One hand sought and wrapped around his sword hilts.
The trees first. He felt nothing, but the sense wasn't always reliable after he'd pressed it so, starting fire. A man could walk through those woods and see nothing even if it was only six lengths away, Becoming aware of it—aye, but a man liked more warning than six lengths in thick wood, and he couldn't be certain he'd have that, not just yet. In an hour or so—but in an hour or so, it would be dark.
He eyed the rock ledge, calculated. He'd be able to look over the entire area from that height, if t
here was anything to see. And it looked climbable: steep, but not dangerously so. A man was a fool who'd climb something really steep, out alone like he was, a man could fall there and die of starvation, and likely even his bones would never be found.
He shuddered. “Damn, you're like an old woman tonight. What's wrong with ye?” All the same, he tightened his grip on his hilts and drew the sword as he stepped up. His boots scraped across slabbed granite and fallen bits of rock.
Another glance at the ledge towering over him suggested he'd be better not attempting it; it was steep and crumbly. He strode across the slabbed stone. Curious. He'd been here at least ten times and had never before noticed how the ledge dropped down on this northern edge. It was a regular cliff, with a narrow ditch of a gully below it. From the meadow, you'd never notice cliff or depth, more than he had. The far side of the gully reared up in a steep, black fir-covered slope.
He let his gaze sweep the slope, touched at it with what there was of inner sense: nothing. Full sun still smote the slope and the trees were spaced as though it were-a park. Nothing could hide there. He glanced over his shoulder. The fire was doing well; it would take just fine, and the wood around the edge would dry. A glance at the sky assured him he'd need to cover none tonight, once he'd dried it. No headache to go with breakfast. The smell of his dinner faintly reached him as a light breeze bent the upper branches and whispered across the low grasses.
