by Paul Kearney
Behind Marsco were Lionan and Mullach, the two lords who had accompanied him into the Rorim that morning. Mullach was a low-browed dwarf of a man with a vast nose and a black moustache that curved in black tusks past his chin. His eyes glinted like flints lodged under an overhanging crag, and there was a battle hammer tucked like a pistol into his belt sash. Someone to watch, Bicker had said—someone who would abandon a year of intrigue in a moment of mindless violence. Riven could believe it. There was strength in his knotted shoulders and corded forearms. He thought that even Ratagan would have difficulty there.
And Lionan, beside him. Mullach was the hammer, and Lionan was the rapier. He was tall and thin as a young willow, with a spray of red-gold hair wreathing his head like a halo in the light of the torches. His skin was as fair as a girl’s, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork in his throat. Had he been a woman, he would have been pretty. As it was, he was disturbing, his fine hazel eyes hooded over by heavy lids, the eyebrows almost invisible. He was new to power, his father having died a year previously. He was latching on to the rising star he saw in Marsco, gleaning glory from his coattails. How had Ratagan described him? A white-fingered lady’s maid. But Bicker had told him that Lionan was one of the finest swordsmen in the Dale. His weapon, a reed-thin rapier, had claimed more than one life in duels.
Yet again, Riven marvelled at the things and the people he was witness to. He could stand here and pick out a dozen of his characters without turning his head. Mullach had been a brigand, a bandit who robbed travellers of valuables and women. And Lionan had been a court dandy, sweet-smelling and murderous. Strange to see them transmuted into other roles. But not unfitting ones, he thought.
And then he saw the woman.
She was raven-haired, grey-eyed, dressed in black. A silver fillet adorned her flawless brows, and she took a place beside Marsco like a brittle flower.
She was the woman of Riven’s dream, his dead wife’s double.
Oh, Christ.
He poked Ratagan with a frantic elbow, and the big man turned quickly.
‘Who is she?’
‘Who?’ Ratagan peered into the buzzing throng, puzzled.
‘Her—the woman beside Marsco.’
Ratagan clicked his tongue in chagrin. ‘Aha. You have seen her. That, my friend, is—’
‘Jinneth.’ He remembered. God help him, he remembered. It had been a joke at the time, a high-hearted prank to put his wife into one of his stories, to make a great lady of her. And so she was here, in this hall with him. Jennifer who had become Jinneth.
Mother of God!
But in his books she had been unmarried, unattached.
‘She’s married to Marsco,’ he said dully. But Ratagan shook his head.
‘She is the wife of Bragad, here out of courtesy; and to prove the peaceful intent of his mission.’
‘No one told me,’ Riven choked.
Ratagan frowned, and looked at him closely. ‘You are troubled, Michael Riven. What is amiss?’
Riven could feel Madra’s concern at his other side, her hand on his shoulder. He gritted his teeth.
‘Nothing. Forget it.’ Forget it.
So she was Bragad’s wife. Somewhere there had to be a logic to the way this world was unfolding.
There must be a reason.
But he was damned if he could fathom what it was.
He stared at her like a hunted animal, unable to tear his eyes away. She felt his gaze, and her brows drew together slightly. They met in the middle. When their eyes locked, she stiffened momentarily, then half smiled and looked away, dismissing him. He felt a surge of irrational rage, his fists bunching helplessly. But then it flickered out, leaving him sick and empty.
Nothing is sacred.
The double doors at the end of the hall opened with a bass groaning of wood, and the hubbub in the hall fell to a church-like whisper. The hundreds within turned as one to watch the entry of a group of men sashed in scarlet and green as they made their way up the aisle to where the high seats dominated the end wall.
They were led by a stocky black-haired man who walked easily with one hand on his sword hilt. He was clean-shaven, short-haired, and had the bearing of a blacksmith or a sergeant major. Or a war leader. His scarlet tunic sat well on his broad shoulders.
‘Bragad,’ Ratagan whispered. Riven gaped.
‘Hugh!’ he breathed.
His editor; the man who had been midwife to his stories when the world was young. He belonged in a London office, dressed in a suit that never looked at ease on him, smoking foul-smelling cigarettes.
He walked past, never giving Riven a glance, but drawing a wide smile from Jinneth, his wife.
Riven thought he might be going insane. He swayed where he stood, and only Madra’s support kept him from stumbling backwards.
‘Are you all right?’ she demanded urgently, but he could not answer. He could only stare at Hugh-Bragad’s back with fury and despair running circles in his brain. He seemed to hear Hugh’s voice from a long time ago: ‘You know how I felt about her, Mike. I adored her. She was a bewitching woman.’
She was my wife, damn it!
But he stood still, shaking Madra’s hand from him, ignoring Ratagan’s anxious glance. His sword pommel was a cold globe in his palm.
The embassy had reached the foot of the dais on which the high seats rested. The men halted, their boots booming on the boards of the floor, and bowed. Bicker and his father inclined their heads in answer.
It was Bragad who spoke first, irritably. The Warbutt had greeted him as a suppliant, not an equal.
‘To the Warbutt and the lords of Ralarth and its Rorim, greetings.’ His sweeping arm took in the occupants of the high seats, Guillamon and Udairn, who stood beside them, and the rest of the lords who clustered near the head of the hall. ‘My lords, I am Bragad, ruler of Garrafad Rorim. Here with me is Daman, sister’s-son of Mugeary, lord of Carnach Rorim. I speak for both of us here, for we are of one mind in this matter, and our strength counts as one strength this day.’ He paused, emphasising his last words. ‘I bear a message from our two Rorims, to be heard by all who are willing to listen in Ralarth. Have I leave to deliver it?’ There was irony in his smile. Bicker was frowning, but the Warbutt remained impassive.
‘Deliver your... offer,’ he said mildly.
Bragad turned to address the crowd running down both sides of the huge hall, and there was complete silence.
‘I say this,’ he declared loudly. ‘We of Garrafad and Carnach have seen our people slain, our flocks slaughtered or driven off, our crops ruined by a witch’s winter, our homes levelled by the marauding beasts. Carnach’s very heir has been slain. This cannot go on. Since the seasons have returned to their proper order, the summer has followed on with unnatural speed. Autumn will soon be upon us, with no richness of harvest to stave off the arrival of the winter that will follow—the second winter in half a year. There is sorcery abroad in the land. Evil magic has brought us to the verge of famine.’
Riven saw Murtach’s face darken with anger, and he exchanged a look with Guillamon, his father.
‘This cannot be allowed to continue, or the land and its people will be ruined,’ Bragad went on, his voice ringing in the silent hall. ‘Garrafad and Carnach have combined, because two fists strike harder than one, and friends may give each other what aid they can in a time of need such as this. The Dales must stand together through this thing, help each other and bring succour to their peoples. We must root out the source of this ruinous magic, and destroy it. We must drive the spawn of the mountains back to their old haunts so we may live in peace again.
‘I come here asking this: I ask whether the Warbutt may consider joining Mugeary and myself on this crusade, so that the western Rorim may act as one. United, they will prevail against these present troubles; divided, they are sure to falter. Let comrades fight shoulder to shoulder to rid the land of evil, and when it is conquered, let them remain comrades, united by the cause they fought for. Thus
may the Dales Rorim survive and prosper.’
Bragad bowed to the assembled people, and then to the high seats.
The Warbutt stood up. ‘You have conveyed your intent admirably, my lord Bragad. It will require much thought and discussion to answer your offer. I trust that you will remain to expound it in more detail, and while you do, you will avail yourself of the hospitality of this Rorim. You—lord Daman of Carnach, and your Hearthwares—are welcome here as guests for as long as it takes Ralarth and her lords to consider what you have said. And I trust that, this evening, you and your party will join our folk in a celebration to mark your visit.’
Bragad bowed deeply and said he would be honoured, then turned and left the hall with the rest of his party behind him, their empty sword scabbards slapping their calves. Only lords and Ralarth’s ’Wares wore their weapons in the Warbutt’s presence: another reason for the scrutiny Riven was now being subjected to from various corners of the hall. He was obviously not a Hearthware, since he wore no armour, and yet he had a ’Ware’s sash about his middle and bore a sword. Was he a lord, then? He could feel the questions in the eyes of Ralarth’s other lords, and he could feel the eyes of Jinneth, also, which he could no longer bring himself to meet. He was sick of surprises, sick of being stared at. He wanted to be left alone for a while.
The crowd milled about the hall, a steady stream leaving through the end doors as attendants came in and lifted the timbers from the fire pit, readying the place for the feasting that evening. It was very warm with the press of people there, and Riven thought of the bothy with an instant’s wistfulness, corrected the next instant.
Bicker came over to them with a frowning Murtach in tow.
‘A pretty piece of rhetoric,’ he said. ‘Those lords he has not already won over will see him as the very soul of reason. I foresee a difficult few days.’
‘I liked the part about sorcery and magic,’ Murtach said lightly, but his eyes were glowing amber in the torchlight. ‘Perhaps friend Bragad would like to taste some magic himself.’
Ratagan laid a hand on the little man’s shoulder. ‘Don’t trouble yourself. He casts about for scapegoats, is all. Bragad is the kind of man who likes to show results, even if they are the wrong ones. There’ll be no witch hunt in Ralarth, whatever may happen.’
‘And no combining of Rorims, whatever Marsco and his friends may have to say,’ Bicker went on. ‘That black-garbed temptress has him in her pocket, it’s plain.’
‘Swords and magic are not the only weapons,’ Ratagan rumbled.
He glanced at Riven. ‘Maybe it was not such a good idea to have the Teller here in his finery. I saw more than one set of eyes stray to him.’
‘Bragad’s lady will have her hands full servicing the needs of her lord and his allies,’ Murtach said, flickering with dark laughter. ‘The Teller at least should be safe enough from her wiles.’ And he looked at Madra with something surprisingly like bitterness.
But Riven suddenly seized a fistful of the shapeshifter’s tunic with his good arm, yanking him forward. His eyes blazed into Murtach’s astonished face. Then, as quickly as it had come, the anger left him. He let go, shutting his eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’ There was no way to explain.
The four stood looking at him for a few seconds amid the hubbub of the hall.
‘There is something behind this you are not telling us,’ Bicker said quietly.
Riven shook his head. ‘Not now, Bicker. I need some air.’
‘Later, then,’ the dark man said. ‘After the talks there will be this afternoon. Before the feast.’
‘I want a horse. I want to get away from the Rorim for a while. Can it be arranged?’ Riven asked.
Bicker raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘All right. Isay will—’
‘No. Alone, Bicker. On my own. I won’t go far.’
Bicker regarded him appraisingly. ‘Very well, then. Do not leave the Circle alone, however.’ He paused. ‘Can you manage a horse with that arm?’
‘I’ll manage. I’ve had worse.’ And he stalked away with their stares following him, their claims upon him pinned between his shoulder blades.
TEN
AUTUMN WAS COMING. He could feel it in the bite of the breeze, the faintly golden light of the afternoon. Summer seemed to have flitted by in a space of days. His shadow was strewn off to his right like a capering phantom as he kicked his steed northwards from the walls of the Rorim towards the ever-rising hills that surged out of the Dale into a heather-thick rampart of blue and purple heights beyond.
The Circle was almost empty of people. Most, it seemed, were in the Rorim itself or its environs—crowding the inns that squatted at its foot, making merry to mark Bragad’s visit. Hugh’s visit. Hugh and Jenny.
Christ.
He passed flocks of sheep and herds of cattle, and his mount nickered at other horses running free upon the common pastures. But the grass was stripped nearly bare now, and what was left was yellowing and cropped. There were houses of stone and thatch dotted in thorps and hamlets throughout the Circle, but there were also newer dwellings of hastily thrown up sod walls and heather roofs. And there were practice grounds where the Dalesmen were being taught to fight. He turned away from them, and rode onwards to where the Circle began to grow more empty to the north, and soon there was only the long bar of the outer wall between him and the hills.
Somewhere out there a facsimile of Jenny roamed, mute and afraid. And in here was her double—a black-garbed temptress, as Bicker had said.
What the hell was going on with this place? What is happening here? There were no answers, just agonising riddles he could not solve. Sourly, he wondered who would be next to pop up out of his former life. Doody, maybe—that would be a laugh. Or Anne Cohen—
He reined in the horse suddenly as an idea dawned on him. One that had gone even as he groped for it. Nurse Cohen...
No. Gone.
He cursed, and spurred his long-suffering mount onwards again.
WHEN HE REACHED the Outer Wall, he halted and dismounted, his cracked bones shouting at him. He grunted with annoyance and sat down in the sparse grass with his back to the worn stone and let the meagre sun warm him. It was quiet there; his horse grazed contentedly, its reins trailing on the ground. He pulled his awkward cloak about his shoulders and closed his eyes, emptying his head of preoccupations.
Autumn was not a bad season. There were gales, of course, but the bracken turned the mountainsides to copper, and there were mellow days scattered through it, like summer flotsam set adrift in the waning half of the year. The sea would start to roar at night, and the curlews would be hurled down the glen like dun-coloured bullets. That was a time for peat fires and firelit talk, with the wind a symphony to set stories to. Autumn on Skye.
‘Hello, stranger.’
He opened his eyes to see Jenny there, with a horse at her side, and he smiled. The sun picked the deep brown tints out of her hair and made her skin like honey. She raised her eyebrows and returned his smile, but there was something about it, something—
He scrambled to his feet, throwing his cloak aside and hissing at the stiff pain of his collarbone.
‘What are you doing out here?’ he demanded, his voice shaking.
Her smile faded. ‘I had thought to ask you the same thing. I felt like going for a ride, and when I saw you take horse, I followed, seeking companionship. It is not welcome, I see.’
He stared at her, mouth set in a bitter line. This world would not leave him alone, it seemed.
She went to remount her horse, but he stepped forward.
‘No. Wait.’
And she halted, turning to him.
‘Do you know me?’
She seemed puzzled. ‘We have met before?’
His eyes bored into her, glittering, searching her face. But no. He bowed his head, teeth clenched.
‘No. You don’t know me.’
She came forward, arm outstretched, palm down. ‘I am Jinne
th, wife to Bragad of Garrafad...’ He supposed he was meant to kiss her hand, but he did not move. He was frightened of touching her.
Her arm dropped and she frowned, the dark brows crowning her eyes. ‘Wherever you are from, courtesy is not one of your virtues,’ she said tartly.
‘I don’t belong here,’ he answered at once, stung.
She stared at him. ‘So you are not of Ralarth, then.’ And she smiled again. ‘And what are you? Lord... or Hearthware? You are no lord of Ralarth that I know of—and I know them all. But you are no Hearthware either, I think. You do not have the look of a warrior.’
Cheers.
She moved easily towards him, and he would have backed away but for the stone wall against his shoulders.
‘You have not yet told me your name, stranger.’
‘Michael Riven.’ He thought for a second, just an instant, there was something there, something in her eyes like a flicker of uncertainty, but it was so brief he was unsure if he had imagined it.
‘Michael,’ she said, testing the word. Her accent was strange. It was not the way his wife spoke. Had spoken. ‘A strange name. Are you from the north? From the cities, perhaps?’
He shook his head dumbly. He could smell the fragrance of her. Her nearness dizzied him. ‘You’re not my wife,’ he whispered.
Her hands caressed his cheek, brushed his beard, and he froze. ‘Why so stiff?’ she asked. ‘You are as tight as a bent blade. Are you afraid of the wife of a lord such as Bragad? Be not so. We have an understanding, he and I, and I am very discreet.’
‘What do you want?’ he croaked.
‘Your eyes never left me in the hall. What have you been told of me?’
‘Nothing. I know nothing about you.’ Except what he had made into a story. Except for whatever part of her that might once have been Jenny.
‘What do you do here in Ralarth?’ Her fingers touched his neck, the knot there where the linen sling supported his arm. ‘You have been hurt. How?’
