Yesterday's Kings

by Angus Wells

  Martia sighed and he drained his mug, announcing his intention of finding his room. He had again drunk more than he was accustomed to, so he found his chamber and stretched on the bed, closing his eyes on hopeless memories of red hair and angry eyes.

  It was twilight before he woke, and his belly rumbled, so he went down to the common room and waited to be served.

  Elvira came to him with a mug of ale and asked what he’d like. He looked at her and thought of Abra, and asked that she bring him whatever was available. He dined on roasted beef and dumplings in thick gravy, and a bowl of vegetables, and then cheese and bread, and still more tankards of ale.

  After, he slept for a while, until Elvira came to him, stripping off her gown as he lay, more than a little drunk on the bed. He watched her, thinking that she was beautiful … but not like the girl—or was she a woman?—he’d seen that day. But Abra was beyond his grasp and Elivira was present: he smiled and welcomed her.

  But all the time he was with her, he thought of Abra.

  TWO

  ABRA SAT SULLENLY beside her father in the Great Hall. She was to his left, her stepmother to his right, and Amadis beyond her, whispering in Vanysse’s ear even as Bartram cut into his meat, all smiles and good humor. He seemed unaware of what transpired between his wife and his captain, innocent of their flirtation. Indeed, he raised his goblet to toast the captain.

  “So it was a good hunt, eh? My congratulations, Amadis. And to you, my love.” He ducked his head toward his wife, then turned to Abra. “And did you enjoy it, sweetling?”

  Abra forced a smile and nodded. What could she tell him? What should she tell him? That Amadis was likely Vanysse’s lover? Most folk believed that, and the pair gave every impression that it was so, but her father seemed to accept it. He seemed so besotted with his new bride, and—she was sure—would dismiss her suspicions. So she said, “It was a most interesting hunt, Father.” And smiled piercingly at Amadis. “And our captain was most brave.”

  Bartram nodded solemnly. “I hear that you faced the boar alone, Amadis.” He stroked his graying beard, absentmindedly wiping meat juices from fingers that he then stroked against his shirt. Abra saw Amadis smile, as if her father amused him with his uncouth habits.

  The fair-haired man shrugged negligently. “There were none others present, my lord, and it was not so large a boar.”

  “It was huge,” Vanysse declared. “A veritable monster. Amadis was a hero to slay it alone.”

  Abra winced. Her stepmother gazed adoringly at Amadis; less tolerantly at her older husband. Why, Abra wondered, had her father taken up with this trollop who flaunted her infatuation before him? Were his eyes blinded, could he not see what went on?

  Presumably not, save that he was besotted, or accepted the arrangement. It was, after all, a marriage of convenience: it linked holds, and Vanysse’s dowry had strengthened Lyth’s fortunes. Perhaps that was why he allowed it. Perhaps it was only convenience, and her father the wiser man. Accepting what he gained and willing to share it—her!—with another. Save she remembered, distantly, her mother and father’s devotion, and could not accept Vanysse.

  Lord Bartram beamed approval and raised his goblet. “To my captain,” he announced. “A toast to his courage.”

  Below the high table the soldiery of the keep dutifully raised their mugs. Abra saw Laurens, the master-at-arms, frown as he joined the accolade. “Amadis,” they shouted, but she thought that Laurens’s lips shaped different words.

  She studied his grizzled face, wondering if he shared her dislike of Amadis. He had served her father for as long as she could remember. Indeed, it had been Laurens who first set her on a pony, when her mother was still alive, and taught her to ride. It had been Laurens who first taught her to use a bow, and a boar spear. She was no longer sure how old he was, for he seemed ageless. His hair was as gray as her father’s, but he could still master the younger men in the practice yard, and ride with the best of them. He lacked Amadis’s fine-featured looks—his face was lined and his nose broken askew—but to Abra he was solid as the northern mountains. Trustworthy and loyal. She wondered if she should speak with him of Amadis and her stepmother.

  But then the priest spoke to her, and she was forced to answer him politely, as he asked: “You seem unhappy, demizzel.”

  She smiled courteously. “Why do you say that, Per Fendur?”

  She liked this priest no better than Amadis. He seemed an oily fellow, for all he was as handsome as the captain. And—like Amadis—there was something about him she could not take to. He was young, and the silver fillet that marked him as a churchman held back thick, black hair and accentuated his aquiline features. His dark robe flattered his slender body, and in other circumstances, she might have found his attentions welcome.

  But there was still something about him that she could not trust. It was not simply that Khoros had sent him here, although she was sure he was the king’s spy—or the Church’s. There was something else about him that made her think of lies and betrayals. But she held on to her smile: no point to offending the chosen of the gods.

  “I see your expression,” he murmured. “And wonder why you seem so”—he shrugged eloquently—“disturbed?”

  Abra felt suddenly cold. Per Fendur was not at all to her liking, but he was perceptive. Indeed, she wondered if he saw past her courtesy to what lay beneath. She took a sip of wine that she might find the time to compose a diplomatic reply, and said: “It was a small boar. I find my father vaunts Amadis overmuch.”

  “Such is the way,” Fendur replied, leaning toward her as if they spoke in confidence. “But still he slew the beast.”

  “And much impressed my stepmother,” Abra said.

  “Ah!” Fendur smiled at her. “But even so, is he not brave? Does he not make a fine captain?”

  “I suppose he does,” Abra allowed. “Surely he drills the men enough.”

  “Which is as well,” Fendur said, “should the Durrym come against us again.”

  “Think you they shall?” Abra was thankful that the conversation moved away from Amadis and Vanysse. “Surely they’re gone away behind the Barrier.”

  “Perhaps.” Fendur shrugged. “But who’s to say they’ll not come back? Or we seek to cross the Alagordar?”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “To own new lands,” the priest answered. “Kandar fills up with folk now. The Vakyr intrude eastward, and there are the Almyrian barbarians to the north, and perhaps someday we shall need more space. Where can we go, save across that river?”

  “But none can cross,” she said, intrigued despite her antipathy. “Any that have attempted the crossing have been tricked back by Durrym magic, or disappeared forever.”

  “So far,” Fendur said, “but now … the Church finds new powers. Perhaps before long …” He stroked his hands, eyes hooding. “I must not say more. Save that our domain might well extend.”

  “Kandar,” she asked. “Or that of the Church?”

  “Is there any difference?” Per Fendur returned.

  CULLYN WOKE EARLY, with an aching head and churning belly. Birds sang outside his window, and he heard dogs barking as the sky brightened into day. For a moment he thought he was home, back in the forest, but then reality impinged and he looked at the shape still sleeping beside him. For one insane moment, as he shifted from sleep to wakefulness, he imagined that it was the woman he had seen. Abra. But then Elvira’s blond curls tossed on the pillow as she turned to smile at him.

  “Come here,” she said, opening her arms.

  He did, and it was good. But still he imposed Abra’s face on hers.

  The dawn grew brighter still and she rose, businesslike, washing swiftly and gathering up her discarded clothing. Cullyn lay in bed, exhausted and confused.

  “I must go make breakfast,” she told him. “What shall you want?”

  “You,” he said, not meaning it; or did he? He was no longer sure. “Eggs and ham. Bread. And plenty of tea.” He rubbed his ey
es and his swirling skull. “I drank too much last night.”

  “Even so,” she said as she fastened her skirt, “you were …”

  She blushed, which surprised Cullyn. “What?” he asked.

  “Why do you live alone in the forest?” She laced her skirt in place and found her shoes. Pulled them on. “Why not here?”

  “Here, in Lyth?” He shook his head. “I can’t.”

  “You’d have me,” she said. “Alone.”

  He watched her button her bodice. The corset settled over her breasts, and he remembered the taste of her nipples in his mouth. And all else.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I …”

  She pulled her blouse into place, and rose.

  “I couldn’t live here,” he said.

  She said, “It’s not so bad.”

  “Could you live in the forest?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Then …”

  She shrugged and kissed him. “I’ll see to your breakfast.”

  HE LAY A WHILE, confused. Then he rose and washed and went down to the common room. He had achieved a goal—he had lost his virginity and found a woman who wanted to be with him—but that seemed only to render his life complicated. It seemed simpler—and far easier—to live alone. Save for the sensual pleasures of being with someone.

  He smiled at Elvira as he found a table, but she only set his food before him and said, “Decide. I wait for no man!”

  He nodded and set to his breakfast. He knew he’d not stay in Lyth, for all Elvira’s charms, and so he’d sooner depart as early as he might. He thought that another night here could confuse him beyond sorting, and he missed the forest. He pondered as he ate.

  Elvira’s charms were enticing, and he thought that were she willing to come live with him it could be pleasant. But she was not, and he was not willing to live in the village, so there was no hope. He felt sad and at the same time excited to be going home again … once Andrias paid him.

  Martia came to his table, scrubbing flour from her ample arms, and set a dusty, maternal hand on his head.

  “Have you chosen?”

  He nodded. “I’m going home.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I worry about you, living all alone But if you’ve decided …”

  “I have,” he said.

  “So be it, then. When shall you leave?” “After I’ve spoken with Andrias,” he replied. “All well, today.”

  “I doubt he’ll be long.” She stroked his head a while, embarrassing him, then bussed his cheek and went back to her kitchen.

  Andrias appeared, his face stretched in a smile, and took a seat across from Cullyn.

  “Good news,” he said. “Indeed, most excellent news.”

  Cullyn waited, but Andrias chose to draw it out. He turned and called for Elvira to bring him tea. She served him a mug, not looking much at Cullyn, who watched her walk away, wondering as he observed the sway of her hips if he had made the right decision.

  “I got you good prices,” Andrias said. “Two more deer and I think that come the Horse Fair you’ll be able to afford the animal you want.”

  “You’re sure?” Cullyn asked. “A good horse, mind. Not some hack!”

  “A charger such as Lord Bartram’s men ride,” Andrias declared firmly. “My word on it.”

  Cullyn said, “Thank you.”

  “Thank me? The gods know but you’ve worked hard enough toward that aim. Why thank me?”

  “For all you’ve done,” Cullyn answered.

  Andrias laughed. “Just keep me supplied with venison, eh? That’s thanks enough. Anyway, here are your takings.” He tossed a small bag of coin onto the table.

  Cullyn scooped it up, marveling at the weight: he could now purchase all the supplies he needed.

  Andrias said, “I got you what you wanted—the flour and salt, and the rest. You need only collect them.” Cullyn smiled his thanks. The bag sat heavy in his hand. Indeed, he thought there must be four or five coins inside, and he needed no more than Andrias had bought him. He pushed the bag across the table.

  “Hold it for me, eh? Set it toward the horse.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Cullyn nodded. “What shall I do with it, in the forest? Save it for me, please.”

  “As you will.” Andrias shrugged, scooping up the sack.

  “Thank you.” Cullyn wiped up the last remnants of his breakfast and emptied his mug. “I think I shall go now.”

  “You could stay a while,” Andrias suggested. “Are you in such a hurry?”

  Cullyn looked to where Elvira scrubbed the tables and nodded. “I think it best I be gone,” he said. “I’ll see you again when next I take a deer.”

  “You know that you’re always welcome,” Andrias said.

  “Yes, and I thank you for that.” They shook hands and Cullyn rose and went out, suddenly anxious to be gone.

  He wondered if Elvira watched him leave, but he did not look back. He could seldom stay away from the forest long, as if the woodlands called him home. So he found his cart, already loaded with those provisions he had asked Andrias to purchase, and took up the straps and set out.

  He was halted at the gate by Martia, who tossed a cloth-wrapped bundle onto the cart.

  “Some sustenance for the road,” she said. “Must you go?”

  “I must. But thank you.”

  She hugged him a moment, and then watched him go out through the gate and down the street to the village wall.

  It was a fine, bright day and he felt invigorated by the prospect of returning home. It was as if his feet bounced on the hard-packed dirt of the road, the earth itself propelling him onward. The sky was a hard blue, decked with drifting billows of white cloud like great ships sailing on some ethereal ocean. Birds darted there—swifts and swallows and skylarks—and the air was fresh and clean after the odors of the village. He thought a while of Elvira and her charms, and wondered if he regretted leaving them, but then decided not. The woods called him, and he knew he could never live the way she’d like, or she his way, so it was better that they part. He saw a hawk circling overhead, then hanging on steady wings as it studied the ground below. He watched it stoop and rise again, clutching some tiny animal in its talons before it dropped behind a hedge to eat its prey.

  He halted around noon, shrugging off the cart’s straps from his sweating shoulders, and opened the package Martia had gifted him. It held sufficient food for two days: roast beef and sweating cheese, hard bread, several apples. He ate enough to satisfy his hunger then marched on. He could see the forest’s margin ahead, hazy in the distance, and it called to him.

  That night he slept in a stand of birches that surrounded a freshet where he caught a trout that he charred over his fire, and settled happily to sleep under a sky all filled with stars and the pale light of a half-grown moon. The grass smelled sweet, and night birds sang, and he slept until dawn, when he rose and ate the last of Martia’s bounty before setting off.

  The next day he came to the forest and found his cottage and knew something had changed. He could sense it, even before he entered the small building.

  Inside, there was a difference: a pot misplaced, a book left out of place, a cup not where he’d left it. He saw that his bedding was disturbed, and as he examined the cottage he smelled a musty, leafy odor. For a while he wondered if the pigs had got inside; but they could not have closed the door behind them, nor reached up to the shelf on which he kept his few books.

  No—some two-legged creature had been here.

  He felt suddenly afraid, and drew his knife, inspecting the cottage.

  Nothing was missing—only the disarrangement of inspection—so he sheathed his blade and went outside. He sniffed the air and found it normal—all forest smells, and that of the chickens and pigs that came rushing to him in search of food. He stared around and felt as if he were watched, but he could see no one. He paced the margins of his holding, staring at the encircling trees, but saw nothing unto
ward. Save he felt that odd sensation that eyes studied him, invisible behind the woodland canopy.

  “Who’s there?” he called. “Shall you come out?”

  There was no answer, but still he felt he was watched. The short hairs of his neck tingled and he felt suddenly wary. He had not felt afraid before—not in the friendly forest—but now … He wondered who watched him. Or what.

  “Shall you meet me?” he called, thinking the while that perhaps he should purchase a dog. “Are you afraid of me?”

  No answer: only the rustling of leaves and birdsong.

  He shrugged and shouted, “So be it, then,” and set to unloading his cart.

  He stored his supplies and fed the animals, then fed himself and settled to sleep. But for the first time, he bolted the door.

  HE WOKE WITH THE DAWN light and the birds’ song and felt afraid. He rose and went outside—as much to prove to himself that he was not afraid as for any other reason.

  Sunlight wafted brilliant through the trees’ canopy, patterning the grass in dappled shades of green. The chickens clucked about their business and the pigs—those not already gone into the forest—snuffled at the ground around the cottage. All was normal.

  Cullyn gathered eggs and went back inside. He made his breakfast, thinking of Elvira and Abra, and then took up his bow. Andrias had said that two more deer would buy him a horse, and the sooner he took them down, the sooner he’d be able to ride.

  It was easy for him to find the deer trails. They cut through the bracken to the waterholes and grazing places, where he could follow them and wait and take what he needed, and today he decided that—no matter who or what watched him—he’d take at least one deer to buy his desired horse. So he checked his bow and oiled the string, then checked all his arrows and their fletchings, and went out into the woodland.

  He felt curiously uneasy, thinking of his unknown visitor.

  It was another sunny day, light drifting down through the canopy of overhanging branches to dapple the grass below with harlequin patterns of sun and shadow. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves and the ferns, so that their soft rustling was a whispered counterharmony to the trilling of the birds that filled the trees. It was a day that in other circumstances he’d have enjoyed for its beauty, but now felt somehow menacing.