by Angus Wells
“How can the land belong to anyone?” Lofantyl asked. “The land is itself, not yours or mine. We only share it, live with it.”
“I suppose,” Cullyn said, struggling with concepts alien to Kandarians, “that we have a different way of thinking.” He shrugged, seeking an explanation he was not at all sure he understood himself. “What if I could cross the Alagordar and find Kash’ma Hall? Could I walk in as you did to my home? Wander round and inspect the place?”
Lofantyl nodded. “Of course, and you’d be welcome.”
“And you’d let me go, after?”
“Í would. But”—he smiled—“I doubt my father or Afranydyr would. They trust you Garm no better than you trust us.”
“So I’d be trapped?” Cullyn wondered.
“Not by me,” Lofantyl answered. “But I was too young to fight in the A’sh im’whey.” Cullyn guessed that meant the Great War. “My father did, and Afranydyr is old enough to remember some of it. They’d not let you go.”
“What would they do with me?”
“Kill you,” Lofantyl replied. “Or set you to work.”
“Is that why no one has ever come back?”
The Durrym nodded his agreement. “Very few can find their way past the Barrier. Those who have …” He shrugged again. “Either they’re slain or become our servants.” He chuckled at Cullyn’s expression. “What do you do to us?”
“Those captured,” Cullyn acknowledged, “are executed.”
“We’re not so different then.”
Cullyn shook his head.
“I think,” Lofantyl said, “that I’d like to show you Coim’na Drhu. After all, I’ve seen your home.”
“And could I come back?” Cullyn asked.
“Aye, there’s the rub.” Lofantyl laughed. “Perhaps one day, eh?”
“Perhaps.” For all the Durrym’s easygoing manner, Cullyn could not help a degree of suspicion. The fey folk were, after all, known for their seductions, and perhaps this was somewhat of the same.
“But to other matters,” Lofantyl declared. “You say the woman is named Abra, and she’s this lord’s daughter?”
“Aye, Lord Bartram’s,” Cullyn replied, wondering which direction their conversation now took.
“And she lives in that great stone place on the hill?”
Cullyn nodded. “How else do you build a castle?”
“With trees,” Lofantyl answered, as if that were only normal. Then, “And she hunts these woods?”
“You know that.”
Lofantyl smiled and ducked his head. “Yes, I do.” He pondered a moment, then rose in a single swift movement. “I shall see you again, my friend. I trust we are friends?”
Before Cullyn had a chance to answer, the Durrym was gone, fleeting as a shadow into the forest. He made little sound and seemed to leave no tracks—it was, Cullyn thought, as if the woodland itself gave him shelter: hid him so that no human might see him come and go.
Cullyn picked up his deer and carried it back to his cottage, which no longer felt the same. It had always been a haven to him, and it now felt violated—by both Lofantyl and the hunters from the keep. It was as if his privacy were stolen, and he became privy to unexpected visitors, who came and went at will. Even did he feel an instinctive liking for the Durrym, still Lofantyl had entered his home uninvited.
He hung the deer beside the other and set the carcass to bleeding. Then, shutting the outhouse door on the eagerly squealing pigs, he went into the cottage.
Bright sunlight set motes of dust to dancing in the shafts that fell across the interior, and where one landed on the plain oak table, something glittered. Cullyn gasped as he picked it up: a dagger such as he’d never seen before. The hilt was some hardwood, a deep brown carved with intricate patterns that were both beautiful and securing, so that as he held it, it seemed to meld with his palm. The quillon was a span of similar wood that seemed less set into the jointure of hilt and blade than grown there. And from it extended a wide, double-edged blade that was manufactured of no material he could define. Certainly it was not metal, but when he touched it to a finger it cut him clean as any razor, and it shone bright as he raised it to the light. He wondered if it was a gift from Lofantyl, an apology for intrusion, and thought that if that were so, he’d received far less from the keep folk.
He took the knife and set to butchering the deer.
ABRA SAT FLANKED by Per Fendur and Amadis in her parents’ private chambers. It was a circular table, so that she faced her father and Vanysse, with Amadis to her right and Per Fendur to her left. No servants were present, having delivered the food and wine and departed. This was a discreet meeting. Indeed, so discreet that Per Fendur had suggested she leave. To which her father had voiced opposition, explaining that he had no secrets from his daughter, who would, after all, inherit the keep on his death.
“Save she’s trothed to Wyllym of Danzigan,” Fendur murmured. “So on your death—which I pray the gods delay for many years—this keep shall come under his command.”
And he, like his father, Abra thought, is Khoros’s man, and a weakling. She wished she might speak aloud, but that would only endanger her father’s position. Bartram had fought for Kristoferos in the war between the brothers—the War of Succession—and he held this castle only because he commanded the loyalty of the Border folk, and should Khoros look to replace him, the king would likely find himself embroiled in rebellion. So Bartram remained keep lord, but—Abra knew—Amadis was Khoros’s man, and so was Fendur; save the Church looked to its own ends.
She smiled politely back at Fendur, and then smiled brighter as her father said, “She’s trothed, aye. But when it comes to it, she’ll decide for herself.” He stroked his thick beard, winking at her. “The gods know, but Wyllym’s an ugly fellow.”
“Even so,” Fendur said, “it was agreed.”
“By Khoros, when they were both still children,” Bartram returned bluntly. “Never by Abra. Now she’s near grown, and can make up her own mind.”
“You’d go against the king’s wishes?” Fendur asked.
“No,” Bartram answered, “I’d do the king’s duty. But I’ll not go against my daughter’s wishes.”
Abra saw Vanysse scowl at that, touching her husband’s hand as if in warning. Amadis sat stroking his clean-shaven chin with one hand, the other hidden. Abra wondered if it touched her stepmother’s thigh. Fendur nodded, looking from one to the other.
“The marriage would please both our king and our Church,” he said.
“No doubt.” Lord Bartram smiled, teeth showing from under his moustache. He looked, Abra thought fondly, like some great bear, perhaps past its prime, but still powerful—muscle hidden under a weight of comfortable living, but nonetheless dangerous—and smiled at his answer. Vanysse favored her with an angry glance that she ignored.
“I serve our king and the Church, but my daughter comes first.”
“Of course. But … A promise is surely a promise, and your lovely daughter was promised to Wyllym. Trothed to Wyllym. Does that not bind both her and you?”
“Trothed on the king’s command,” Bartram said. “Not hers or mine. Nor her mother’s.”
“Her mother is dead,” Fendur said.
As Bartram nodded solemnly, Vanysse said, “I am her mother now, and I approve this betrothal.”
Amadis voiced his support, and Per Fendur beamed. But then Bartram said, “It’s for Abra to decide,” and looked at her.
She thought of her father’s future. Did he offend Khoros, who knew what might happen? But he had spoken out for her and left her to decide, so she said, “Does Wyllym wish to court me, I’ll consider his proposal. But I’ll not marry to order. I shall make up my own mind.” She looked toward her father, avoiding her stepmother’s angry stare. “With my father’s permission.”
Lord Bartram nodded.
Vanysse glowered, and Amadis held his expression in check—ever the diplomat. Fendur smiled his oily smile and said, “Then of cou
rse it must be so.”
Bartram laughed and said, “My daughter, eh? She’s a mind of her own.”
“And it would take me away.” Abra rose. “Do you forgive me, but I’d find my bed and think on all you’ve said.” She kissed her father on the cheek and bowed to the others. “Good night.”
Per Fendur rose from his chair to make the godly sign; Abra quit the room thinking that she was well done with such prevarications and politics. Did her father wish to marry some western whore, that was his affair. It had, after all, been a marriage of politics—to unite the eastern borders with the west—but perhaps her father loved the woman, for all Abra could not see how. But … She climbed the stairs from the chamber to her bedroom, thinking.
There were two images dancing in her mind like remembered dreams.
One was of a tall young man with long brown hair caught up in a tail … a beard … broad shoulders, and eyes that stared at her as if she were a jewel he could not properly comprehend. Cullyn, he’d said his name was.
And he lived in that sorry little shack in the forest, where she had rested and wondered how anyone could live so poorly.
The second was less distinct because it was far more akin to a dream: a matter of eyes on her as she rode the woodlands, aware of some watcher who seemed observant and benign, as if she were protected under the gaze she could not see, but still felt safe, as if nothing untoward could happen to her while she was watched. It was a feeling of utter safety, and at the same time a feeling of simplicity, as if the politics of Kandar meant nothing to the forest, and that she might enter it and find peace—as she thought Cullyn had—and forget Kandar’s problems, and hers.
She thought that would be a fine thing as she climbed to her chamber and prepared for sleep.
Save she could not: she felt too exasperated, thinking of how Khoros and the Church would decide her life for her, as if she were nothing more than some minor piece in a Game of Stones. Amadis would agree with them, as would Vanysse—if for no other reason than to rid herself of a troublesome stepdaughter. Only her father took her side, and no doubt even now Per Fendur and Vanysse were bent on persuading him to their wishes—and the gods knew, that woman could bend Bartram to her desires. Abra ground her teeth in frustration, and found herself not at all composed for sleep. She rose and poured a glass of wine, pacing her bedroom as she wondered if it would have been better to remain in the dining chamber.
Only that would have curtailed whatever significant conversation it was that Fendur sought with her father. Per had made it clear his words were not for her ears—as if she were some silly slip of a girl who would not understand.
But there were ways to circumvent the oily priest’s secrecy: the keep was well built, with fireplaces and chimneys that heated all the rooms, and ventilation shafts built into the stone, rising from the ground floor to the upper reaches. Sometimes, from her bedroom, she could hear conversation from below—if it was summer and the hearths not lit, so that she could kneel and set her head inside the fireplace.
Which she did now.
“… madness,” she heard her father say, his voice a whispery echo in the chimney shaft. “They offer us no threat.”
“They are always a threat,” came back Per Fendur’s solemn answer, incanted as if he spoke a catechism. “They are godless savages who’d steal our land.”
Abra heard her father splutter. Then: “Steal our land? It seems more like that you’d steal theirs.”
“They’ve no right to it,” Fendur said.
“As much as we’ve right to Kandar,” Bartram answered. “Remember, this was their land first. We drove them out.”
“That,” Fendur intoned, “was the gods’ will. Else they’d have won, and we would have been expelled.”
Bartram’s snorting was contemptuous, even muffled by the chimney. “I’d thought,” he said, “that it was more a matter of expediency and arms—we needed the land, so we went to war and drove off the original inhabitants. I fought in that war, and I can tell you that it was bloody. Far worse than the War of Succession.”
“My lord Bartram, you border close on heresy.”
“Do you threaten me?”
“Only point out fact. Your bravery is proven, but your loyalty—”
“Is to Kandar.”
“Which means to King Khoros and the Church.”
“And to the people, perhaps?”
“The people are guided and guarded by Church and king, who have only their best interests at heart.”
Abra heard a gust of humorless laughter as her father said, “And you think the people shall welcome another war?”
“They may not have any choice,” she heard Fendur say. “We need more land. Since we expelled the Durrym, Kandar has grown. There are more children born, more fields tilled; folk live longer. Kandar is greater than it has ever been, and we need more space. We need that land across the river.”
“You’ve seen incomers,” Amadis said in support. “Folk come from north and west, looking for land to settle.”
Abra heard Vanysse agree.
Bartram thought a while. Then: “We took this land from the Durrym. Shall we now seek what they found after we drove them out?”
“Neither the king nor the Church sees any other choice.”
Abra heard her father sigh gustily. “Another war?”
“Another chance,” Fendur said. “More land for Kandarians.”
“I see one problem here,” Bartram returned. “How do we cross the Barrier? How do we find a way past the Alagordar?”
“The Church works on that even now,” Fendur replied. “We believe we can overcome the savages’ magic and find a way into the eastern lands. We believe the land itself owns magical power that the Durrym have learned to use. We believe the river is a crossing point between two worlds.”
“That do not accept one another.”
“Save we find a way.” Abra heard Fendur snort triumphant laughter. “Which I believe we have.”
“And if you can? What, then?”
“We shall have all the land we need. We believe the eastern forest stretches across the world—we can hew it down and build farms and villages, keeps and castles. We can make the Durrym land our own.”
“And they’ll not fight?”
“Of course,” Fendur agreed. “But we defeated them before, and what are they, after all? Only savages.”
“I think your …”—Abra heard her father hesitate—“optimism is misplaced. I think you make a grave mistake.”
“It is written,” Fendur said. “Decided by the gods and our king.”
Abra lost the voices for a while then, but could hear the faint shuffling of feet, and guessed that her father paced the room, as was his wont when he pondered weighty matters.
Then: “Is this why you’d see my daughter wed to Wyllym?”
“It should be better,” Fendur answered, “that all the Border keeps are bound together. Indeed, Wyllym’s brother is trothed to Saryn of Andar Keep.”
Abra heard laughter gust up the chimney as her father said, “She’ll eat that little squit alive. The gods know, but she’ll make him dance, and throw him out.”
“Perhaps, but the keeps will be bound by marriage and loyalty. As would you be if—”
“I told you!” Abra heard her father’s voice ring loud and angry. “That shall be her decision. Not mine or yours; neither the king’s nor the Church’s—only hers!”
There was a long silence then, before Fendur said, “So where shall you stand when the blades are drawn?”
“On Kandar’s side,” her father answered. “And now this discussion is ended. I shall find my bed and think on what you’ve said.”
“I trust,” Abra heard the priest say, “that you shall make the right decision.”
There was shuffling then, and a loud slamming of doors. Abra withdrew from the fireplace to brush soot from her hair and pour another glass of wine as she considered all she’d heard.
There was much
to ponder, and outside her windows the night was very black. She emptied the glass and climbed into bed, wondering about her future. Wondering about Kandar’s future.
CULLYN SET THE TWO BUTCHERED DEER on his cart and started off for Lyth. He was determined that this time he would come back with a horse. He’d not wait for the Summer Horse Fair, but buy one now—even did it cost him more.
He reached the village and dragged his cart into the yard of the Golden Goat, where both Martia and Andrias met him with surprise.
“Two, you said, eh? And here they are!” He dropped the straps as they stared at him. “Now find me a horse.”
“Now?” Andrias asked.
Cullyn nodded.
“Eat first,” Martia suggested.
“And let’s talk,” said Andrias.
He went inside the hostelry to encounter Elvira’s … he was not sure whether it was smile or scowl. But he grinned at her and took the mug Andrias offered, and felt pleased with himself. After all, he had brought in the two deer Andrias had said would purchase him the horse. And he might see Abra again.
He drank the ale thirstily, then settled at a table to which Martia brought a venison pie.
“Yours,” she said, “cooked of what you brought us before.”
He smiled and waited for Elvira to bring another mug.
When she did she was not so friendly. She set the cup before him and stood waiting until he asked, “Shall I … see you tonight?”
“I don’t know.” She set hands on hips and tossed back her blond curls. “I’ve other friends.”
“I thought …”he said, and shook his head. “I don’t understand this.”
She said, “No, you don’t,” and walked away.
He called after her, remembering the pleasure they’d found, but she ignored him, so he ate his meal and drank his ale, thinking that he did not understand women. And when he was done, he found Andrias to ask about the horse.
“It’ll take all you’ve saved with me,” Andrias said, “but it’s a fine mount. And Jordia will throw in all the trappings, but you’d still be better off to wait for the Horse Fair. It’s not the friendliest of animals. Indeed—”
