by Lori Martin
Someone, something, was attacking his mother. He heard her cry out. He ran on his slender boy’s legs. There was a great company, perhaps of soldiers, perhaps of corpses, ugly helmeted skulls, and only he to help her. A grahl appeared in his hand: the immense fighting spear of the Mendale army. It was his father’s and he could barely lift it. The grahl was a weapon for a large man. The hard wood shaft stung his small hands. The enemy army was advancing. His mother, so brave, stood out to meet them. He tried to rush to her side, dragging the grahl along clumsily, tears of frustration burning his eyes. Then he saw it was not his mother at all but an older woman. She raised regal arms, weaponless, as if she could hold back the death tide by sheer will; he thought he recognized Queen Ayenna, but the white-streaked hair turned black, brilliant with pinpoints of light. He cried out in delight and fear. The woman turned to him smiling. Before he could touch her hand, her face gently dissolved, her body shriveled, shrinking until she was no more than his own height, a girl his own age.
The solders came on. Mendale soldiers, Mendale killers. He yanked desperately at the grahl, and suddenly it was a sword, with a Lindahne hilt. He had never handled real weapons before, he was still too young, but he knew the stance to take. He balanced on the balls of his feet, knees slightly bent, braced for impact. A huge hulking soldier loomed up from the dream-mist. He raised the sword, taking two hands to it, but it dragged at his shoulders; he would never have the strength to wield it.
Arms came around him from behind. Comforting hands of strength took the hilt, clasping his own hands beneath it. His father was here. His father would save them. In relief he leaned back, seeing his father’s confident fingers wrap around the sword; all was well. Fair-skinned masculine hands, pale gold hair on his arms –
He had woken abruptly, to find his parents bent in concern over him. A servant was hovering in the doorway; he must have made quite a noise. “It’s all right,” his mother said, stroking his forehead. When his father asked, “What did you dream of?” he raised his eyes to the dark face. “I don’t remember,” he had blurted.
Since then the dream had recurred, sometimes nights running, though once it had gone for more than a year and he had forgotten it, until it came back. It had taken him some time to notice that the dream’s return seemed to be connected to Nichos’s many comings and goings.
He pulled up the blanket and shook away recollections. His days held enough choices and questions: he needed none in his nights. He willed his body to sleep, his mind to quiet. After a little while both obeyed him.
A day or two later he was once again at the isolated stable. He stood patting the colt’s side, but the animal remained with head down, eyes leaking a sticky white substance. This one was on the way to recovery, and they had no new cases; things would be getting back to normal.
It would soon be time for the evening meal. The stable workers had already gone, and in this tucked-away corner of the estate he could listen to the silence. But to his surprise he heard someone approaching outside. A man whistled a greeting to the horses; the colt lifted its head.
“Master Temhas,” a woman’s voice suddenly said, just beyond the closed stable doors. “May I speak with you?”
“Well, so it’s you again,” Paither heard his uncle answer. “How did you get here?”
“I’ve been waiting for you. The servants have gone. No one comes here at this hour, but you’ve been visiting the sick horses the past few days.”
Paither moved to the doors, with a thought of opening them and revealing himself. He supposed he was trespassing on some tryst of his uncle’s. Temhas’s next words stopped him.
“A spy as well as a Defier, are you, Mejalna, if that is your real name? Yes? Well, may I ask why you’ve gone to all this trouble?”
“Has Mistress Pillyn changed her mind about helping us?”
“You’d better ask her.”
“Meaning no?”
Paither shifted his position slightly and crouched down. He could see his uncle now, through a space between the boards.
“She has her reasons,” Temhas said.
The Defier came into Paither’s view. He was already shaken, and her astonishing beauty came as a further shock.
“Are they your reasons, too?” Mejalna asked. “Will you help us?”
Temhas narrowed his eyes at her. “Why should I?”
“Because you are a Lindahne. Or are you? Have you become a Mendale, then, living here on this comfortable estate, breeding horses?”
“I fought against this country in the War, girl, before you were even born.”
“I know.”
“Oh?”
“We’ve been asking about. It’s part of my duty to find out all I can about you and your family.”
“Then perhaps you know I can’t help you get to Queen Ayenna. I’ve never visited her.”
“Yes, but why not?”
He smiled, a sardonic look Paither recognized: it held back his anger. “Let’s just say she probably wouldn’t like me. Besides, we’ve told you, thanks to your little group no one’s allowed to visit her.”
“My little group has brought our fight on to Mendale soil and into Mendale homes –”
“So I’ve been told. Murder, they call it around here.”
She advanced on him, but he held his ground. “I ask you as a Lindahne: do you believe in what we’re doing?”
He was silent. Mejalna persisted, “Do you care about the Oversettle? That the Mendales live off our backs and our toil? That they’ve crushed the very words of Nialia and –”
“I can’t do anything about it. I can’t help you.”
“You can get in to see the queen, can’t you? Ask your brother by marriage. Don’t tell me he can’t – they’re about to make him Third Tribune.”
“You do hear things, don’t you? What of it?”
“You’re on good terms with him. Ask him to get you a visit to the queen.”
He gripped at the belt of his cloak, hand kneading the leather. “You want me to use Nichos, his position, and turn it on him and on his country –”
“Yes,” she said with calm.
“He took me in when I was a war prisoner. He’s trusted me with everything – the entire running of the estate, sometimes. He’s good to my sister –”
“I understand. But one’s personal loyalty doesn’t count against –”
“No!” he shouted, startling her and their unseen watcher. “Once before in my life I turned my back on my personal obligations – my family’s holds on me – I –” He tried to recover himself. “Do you know that part of my history? No? Well, let me just tell you it didn’t turn out very well. I won’t do it again.”
”Then you will be called traitor, by every Lindahne who ever learns of it.”
His emotion subsided. He said blankly, “I’ve been called that before.”
She did not seem to know what to make of this; nor did Paither. She said, “The other afternoon, with your sister, you said the day might have come. What did you mean?”
“Defier, I admire your courage. And I wish I could help you. I can’t do what you’re asking but maybe somehow... I’ll speak to Pillyn again. She – if I can change her mind about something, it will be more help than you know. The queen isn’t the one you should be fighting for.”
“What do you –”
“Do you know, when I was quite young, I was in love with a woman who had nearly the same coloring you have? Red gold hair. Hers was a little darker. And of course she didn’t have your kind of beauty, few mortals do, but she did have courage. I wasn’t able to help her, either.” He added in formal farewell, “May Nialia hold you beloved.”
After a pause she gave the response, in a tone of wonder. “May her grace light your path.”
Temhas turned and vanished from Paither’s limited sight. A few words of advice floated back. “– off the estate before someone sees you!”
After a time he put his hand on the stable door’s latch. The Defier w
as standing still, her cloak fluttering in the wind, apparently deep in thought. He slid his fingers under the hook, pulling slowly. Then, in one burst of motion, he yanked the doors open.
She had heard, and was already fleeing. He stumbled over the threshold, hands flung out, and in three long strides caught hold of the edge of her swirling cloak.
The garment’s catches were tied across her neck. She gave a forced half-cry as they came taut across her throat.
“Wait,” he shouted, thrashing about in the bulky material, unable to get a hold on her. Her hands tore at the cloak. It ripped down from her shoulders but would not release her.
He clutched her left elbow. Her right fist blurred across the air and punched into his neck; he shouted out but kept his hold. When he looked up she was holding a thin silver blade to his heart.
“Let go,” she hissed.
His fingers released. She seemed to think that ended it. She drew in her damaged cloak, still showing him the knife, and turned to go.
“You do and I’ll knock you to the ground,” he said.
She turned back, eyes fierce. For the first time he felt their full impact.
“What do you want, Mendale?”
“Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”
She twisted the knife in the air, threateningly, level with his breastbone. He waved a hand in contempt.
“I’m not frightened of Defiers. Or of young women trespassing on my father’s estate.”
“I should kill you.” A hidden note of fear came through. “You’ve seen me – heard our plans –”
“Why do you want to see Queen Ayenna? Who are you?”
Suddenly she leaped at him, but her aim was uncertain. It was easy for him to grab both her wrists; he could feel the doubt shivering in her muscles. He twisted hard, and she dropped the knife.
Her dark look loomed up at him. Her fiery long hair fell over their locked arms. “Denounce me, then. Turn us in. Warn the Mendales, let them kill me, kill the queen, destroy the Defiers. I know who you are, Paither Mendale. Halfer! A traitor to your mother’s people, living your life with your horses!”
“I won’t,” he gasped. “I wouldn’t –”
“Then let me go, in the name of our gods. Let me go!”
He did not know what he wanted of her. Her ferocity overcame him. For the second time he released his grip.
She staggered backwards, pulling up the hem of her robe. Then she was running, rushing across the muddy ground, and with a small thought he traced the route she would probably take, across the back fields of a small neighboring farm.
His mind whispered, She’s so beautiful . . .
He bent down for her fallen knife. The blade glittered. He tested the point against his palm.
Deadly.
Dark anger exploded in his chest. He roared into the wind at the vanishing form. “You won’t hurt my father!” he screamed. “I won’t let you hurt my father!”
Chapter 5
The city of MenDas neither welcomed nor rebuffed them. It was indifferent. Newcomers could come or go, or stay and join its busy life; but the capital would change for no one.
Wide markets and small homes, trading centers, and the tall blue buildings of the artisans jammed together on the side streets. The main avenues were laid with real brick, neatly joined; they were clogged with horses, carts, wagons, and people of every age and occupation. Scayna had traveled more than most of her fellow archers, and seen many large towns, but MenDas was different. The stern presence of the seat of government was felt everywhere.
The Assemblage House was large and active enough to be a sight in itself. As Mendales build only for utility, the building was impressive in size and stone but offered little beauty. The Trio, the Tribunes who ruled the country with the support of the Assembly, each had spacious apartments and gardens for private use, but Scayna was unlikely to see these.
In any case she and her Band had little time to explore and enjoy the city. Rumors had been wrong. They were not to be housed in the Assemblage itself – that would have inconvenienced the Trio. Instead they were walled up in a rundown housing area a few streets over. Scayna found it hard to sleep in the dark airless rooms. She felt even worse when put on sentry duty in the winding halls of the Assemblage; the inner passageways were windowless and crowded with people at all hours. She thought this new life would prove to be a misery, until her luck changed.
They were given new duties. Scayna, her friend Pirri, and the others were sent to patrol along the great connecting rooftops of the House. She was immediately relieved. It was cold, but open; she was free of restricting walls.
They looked down on the welcome-yard and Main Gate. There were guards below, checking visitors, but she could see farther than they, and was in position to fire her arrows at any intruders or potential assassins: the skittish Assembly members feared Defiers everywhere.
“I like it better up here than inside,” she said.
“The chilhi’s the one who convinced the Second Tribune to change our duties,” Pirri answered. They were on watch together. “You know our ranking, she wouldn’t raise a finger for us. But the chilhi pointed out that archers can’t do much trapped inside.”
“Of course not. You could only do hand to hand fighting, if it came to it, in those hallways. I couldn’t understand why we were posted there at all.”
“Who knows? But at least she convinced the Tribune. They’re putting the foot soldiers inside instead.”
“Good luck to them. And how did the chilhi manage to get the ear of a Tribune?”
“Oh, she’s good at that. When the Tribune came to inspect quarters, she poured out the flattery. Her tongue must be made of honey.”
Having only received the rough side of the chilhi’s tongue, Scayna found this hard to believe, but Pirri was usually right about these things. Scayna’s friends in the Band were few, but Pirri was wellliked and heard all the gossip.
Scayna shifted the weight of her heavy bow. They were not permitted to sit or even lean on the cold stones of the roof; their straight-backed visibility was meant to discourage trouble. One small anxious thought flitted again through her mind: What if she had a dark up here, in full view?
A group of riders approached the Main Gate. Two of them wore the Assembly chain of office, bright pendants with the ancient symbol that meant “Lawmaker.” Pirri complained, “I don’t recognize either of them. How does the chilhi expect us to get to know them all?”
The guards spoke, bowed, and passed the group through the gates. Scayna smiled at her friend, not really listening. Lawmakers. So far she had no reason to think very highly of them; they always seemed to be quarreling amongst themselves, even outside of proper Assembly sessions. Still, someone had to be relied on; someone had to create and amend, rule and administer... Yesterday she had seen a lin on the street. A horse cart had cut too closely by him; he had shouted out to his goddess for protection. The lins have gods to rely on, she thought, not recognizing her own vague envy. Immutable words, fixed for eternity. We have lawmakers. And they can change
– break – anything they want.
“– of course we’ll be back inside that day,” Pirri was saying.
“What? Why?”
“Just for the ceremony,” Pirri said impatiently. “We don’t get a new Third Tribune every day. They say he’s arriving soon. He’s a listtel too, like the Second Tribune, but she’s not supporting him. They say...”
Scayna, losing interest again, never heard her mention the new-coming Tribune’s name. It didn’t matter. After all, he’d just be another lawmaker, like all the rest.
Mornings and high-suns belonged to Fiyas-town’s center, where the farmers and traders argued and drove bargains above the noisy riot of children, chickens, lambs, goats, and dogs. But dusk belonged to the ale-house, which stood just beside the blacksmith’s yard. The smith, Fanae, worked and pounded over his glowing anvil with unceasing energy during the day, but when the sun faded his f
ires died too. Transformed into prosperous host, he moved next door and flung wide the doors of his ale-house. Every evening the tired, thirsty crowd plunged in.
Temhas pulled the cart up to the doors. “Ale or wine?” he asked over the heads of several shoving farmers. “Be sure that’s secure,” he added. “I’ll meet you inside.”
Paither was struggling with the last two sacks of meal. The burlap scratched his palms as he secured the cords to the cart boards. “Rentar,” he answered, choosing an innocent herbal drink more likely to revive him than his uncle’s suggestions. Temhas shrugged: his nephew never knew when to relax. He pushed into the ale-house.
Paither, annoyed, made clumsy ties. Temhas would be one drink down before he himself had even crossed the threshold.
Fiyas-town was even more hectic than usual. The weekly farmers’ market had been held that morning, and by coincidence a traveling harpers’ group had also arrived, drawing an enthusiastic audience that had now fetched up at the smith’s. A newscrier was rumored to be on the way, too. In all this crowd thievery would be a popular occupation, and their own supplies, he knew, would be a particular target. The less honest among the locals would think one sack of meal more or less wouldn’t matter much, to such a rich estate; they’d think nothing of helping themselves to what was in the cart. “Think of it as part of our town patronage,” his father would say, tolerantly, but Nichos had not spent a hard day bargaining in the cold.
The cart was piled high. This would be their last supply visit before he and his mother left for MenDas. He pulled a thick canvas cover across the top. Hayseed was crumpled in the cart’s shadow, shivering. Paither watered him and the two horses, then hauled him to the top of the canvas. The dog planted himself on the unwieldy mountain of sacks and looked fierce: he was a proud guardian and knew his mission. Paither patted him.
Inside he found his uncle shoved in the far corner, having somehow secured part of a bench. The smell of spilled ale was already strong in the room. These first conversations were of work and trade; music and tales would come later.
