The Last Light of the Sun

by Guy Gavriel Kay

  He turned. Heard his father come out of the water behind him. He walked south, quickly, bent low, went in among the trees to get Gyllir. He shivered, doing so. Spirit wood. He knew Thorkell was watching him, to mark the place. He didn’t look back. Offered no farewell and, Ingavin knew, no thanks. He’d die before he did that.

  Gyllir whickered at his approach. The horse seemed agitated, tossing his head. Bern rubbed his muzzle, whispering, untied the reins. He left Ecca’s horse tethered, as instructed. It wouldn’t be for long. Emerged from the woods, mounted, rode, south under stars and the blue moon, pushing Gyllir. There would be mounted men following soon.

  The land stretched level, forest to the west, open to the east across the stream, mostly empty at first, uninhabited, then some dark farms over that way, planted barley, rye, the harvest coming soon. A line of low trees, cluster of houses, the ground beginning to slope towards the sea, and their ships. A long way to go. Men following. The bonfire still burning. After a time he saw another one, far off, and then, later, a third, sending its signals, which he couldn’t read. The moon was gone by then, behind the woods.

  He leaned forward over Gyllir’s neck to make his weight easier to bear. There’s a tale, I imagine, his father had said, learning of the horse. He hadn’t asked, though. Hadn’t asked.

  Heimthra was the word used for longing: for home, for the past, for things to be as they once had been. Even the gods were said to know that yearning, from when the worlds were broken. Bern was grateful, as he rode, that no one on the wide dark earth could see his face, and he had to trust that Ingavin and Thünir would not think the worse of him, if they were watching in the night.

  It was Hakon Ingemarson who had recognized Kendra by the stream.

  He’d called out to her immediately as he passed with a torch amid a crowd of others heading for the tents. She hadn’t wanted to ask how he’d known her so quickly in the dark. Was afraid of his answer. Knew his answer, really.

  She’d cursed, silently, the sheer bad luck that had led him past this point, even as she’d turned and achieved a tone of pleased welcome when he came hurrying over.

  “My lady! How come you here, unattended?”

  “I’m not unattended, Hakon. Ceinion of Llywerth kindly sent his own guard with me.” She had gestured, and Thorkell had stepped forward into the light. The dog, thankfully, was across the stream, out of sight. She’d had no least idea how she’d have adequately explained it.

  “But there’s nothing here at all!” Hakon had exclaimed. She’d realized that he was drunk. They all were. That might make things easier, in fact. “The gathering is over by the tents! Your royal sister and brother are there already. May we escort you?”

  Kendra had searched for and failed to find any way to decline. Cursing again, inside, with a ferocity that would have surprised all three of her siblings and utterly disconcerted the young man in front of her, she’d smiled and said, “Of course. Thorkell, wait here for me. I’ll likely just stay a short while, and I wouldn’t want these men to forgo their entertainment to take me back inside.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the older Erling had said, in the uninflected voice of a servant.

  Hakon had looked as if he might protest, but evidently decided to be pleased with what he’d gained so unexpectedly. She’d fallen in with him and the others and they’d made their way to the colourful village of tents that had sprung up north-west of the walls.

  When they arrived, they found a boisterous crowd gathered in a wide circle. Hakon pushed through to the front. Inside were two people. It came as no great surprise to Kendra to discover that these were her older brother and sister.

  She looked around. To one side of the ring she saw a skull, resting on the grass, a torch set beside it. Kendra winced. She had a fairly good idea, suddenly, what had happened here. Athelbert simply did not know when to leave well enough alone.

  Judit had a long staff, held crosswise with both hands. She knew how to use it. Athelbert carried a significantly smaller one, a thin switch. Nearly useless, good for swatting at leaves or apples, not much more.

  Judit was attempting, with grim purpose and no little skill, to club her brother senseless. Finish the task she’d begun that morning. Athelbert—who had had a great deal to drink, it was clear—was laughing far too much to be at all safe from his sister’s assault.

  Kendra, eyeing them, listening to the hilarity around her, was thinking about the Cyngael in the woods, and about his dog—the way it had stood on the far side of the stream, rigid and attentive, listening. She didn’t know for what. She didn’t really want to know.

  There was nothing to be done now, in any case. No way to turn around and walk away just yet. She had sighed again, fixed a smile on her face, and accepted a cup of watered wine from Hakon, busy on her behalf. She watched her siblings amid a rapturous, howling crowd and smoking torches. A late-summer night, the harvest looking to be good, the fair soon to begin. A time of laughter and celebration.

  The entertainment in the ring continued, marked by two pauses for wine on the part of the combatants. Judit’s hair was entirely and immodestly unconfined now. Not that she would care, Kendra thought. Athelbert was dodging and ducking without pause. He’d taken two or three blows, including one to the shin that had knocked him sprawling, barely able to roll away from Judit’s urgent follow-up. Kendra thought about intervening. She was certainly the only person who could. She wasn’t actually sure how much self-control Judit had left. It was sometimes hard to tell.

  Then someone shouted loudly, in a different tone, and people were pointing to the south, beyond the city. Kendra turned. A bonfire. They watched the signals begin, and repeat. And then repeat again.

  It was Athelbert who decoded the message aloud for all of them. Judit, listening, dropped her staff, went over to stand next to her brother. She began to cry. Athelbert put his arm around her.

  Amid the chaos that ensued, Kendra shifted from where Hakon had been hovering at her elbow. Then she slipped away into the dark. Torches were everywhere, shaping patterns in the night. She made her way back to the river. The dog was still there. It didn’t seem to have moved, in fact. Thorkell was nowhere to be seen.

  Nor was Alun ab Owyn. He ought not to matter now, she was thinking. Her mind was in a whirl. One of their own had been slain tonight, if Athelbert had the message right. She was certain that he had.

  Burgred. He had been in the marshes with her father, had fought at Camburn, both times, when they lost and when they won. And he had gone chasing a rumour of Erling ships while the king lay wrapped in fever.

  Her father, she thought, would be tortured by that knowledge.

  There was a movement across the stream. The man she’d followed came out from the trees.

  He stopped at the wood’s edge, looking lost.

  Kendra, heart pounding, saw the dog pad over to him, push his muzzle against the Cyngael’s hip. Alun ab Owyn reached down and touched the dog. It was too dark to see his face, but there was something in the way he stood that frightened her. She had been frightened, she realized, all night. All day long, really, from the time the Cyngael party had come into the meadow.

  There were noises, men shouting behind her, running towards the city gates, which were open now. Kendra heard a different sound, a footfall, nearer: she looked over, saw Thorkell. His clothes were wet.

  “Where were you?” she whispered.

  “He’s come out,” the Erling replied, not answering.

  Kendra turned back to the woods. Alun still hadn’t moved, except to touch the dog. Uncertainly, she walked towards the river, stood on the bank amid reeds and dragonflies. She saw him look up and see her. Too dark, too dark to know his eyes.

  She took a breath. She had no business being here, no understanding of how she knew what she knew.

  “Come back to us,” she said, fighting fear.

  The dog turned to her voice. Blue moon and stars overhead. She heard Thorkell come up behind her. Was grateful for that. She
was watching the other man by the trees.

  And at length, she heard Alun ab Owyn say, in a voice you had to strain to hear, “My lady, I have a long way to go. To do that.”

  Kendra shivered. Was close to tears, and afraid. She made herself take another deep breath and said, with courage that perhaps only her father was aware that she had, “I am only this far.”

  Thorkell, behind her, made an odd sound.

  By the trees, Alun ab Owyn lifted his head a little. And then, after a moment, moved forward, walking as if through water even before he reached it. He crossed the stream with the dog. His hair was disordered. He had no belt on his tunic, carried no weapon.

  “What … are you doing here?” he asked.

  Her head high, feeling the breeze in her hair, she said, “I am truly not certain. I felt … afraid, from when I saw you this morning. Something … ”

  “You were afraid of me?” His voice was drained of emotion.

  Again she hesitated. “Afraid for you,” she said.

  A silence, then he nodded, as if unsurprised.

  I am only this far, she’d said. Where had that come from? But he’d crossed. He’d come across the water from the trees to them. A little behind her, the Erling kept silent.

  “Did someone die tonight?” Alun ab Owyn asked.

  “We think so,” she said. “My brother believes it was Earl Burgred, leading a party south of here.”

  “Erlings?” he asked. “Raiders?”

  He was looking past her now, at Thorkell. The dog was beside him, wet from the river, standing very still.

  “It appears so, my lord,” said the big man behind her. And then, carefully, “I believe … we both know the one who leads them.”

  And that made a change. Kendra saw it happen. The Cyngael seemed to be pulled back to them, snapped like a leash or a whip, away from whatever had happened in the trees. The thing she didn’t want to think about.

  “Ragnarson?” he asked.

  Not a name Kendra knew; it meant nothing to her.

  The Erling nodded. “I believe so.”

  “How do you know this?” ab Owyn asked.

  “My lord prince, if it is Ragnarson, he will want to take their ships west from here. King Aeldred is riding out now, after them.”

  He was very good, Kendra was realizing, at not replying to questions he didn’t want to answer.

  In the darkness, she looked at the Cyngael prince. Alun was rigid, so taut he was almost quivering. “He’ll go for Brynnfell again. They won’t be ready, not so soon. I need a horse!”

  “I’ll get you one,” said Thorkell calmly.

  “What? I think not,” came a slurred, angry voice. Kendra wheeled, white-faced. Saw Athelbert coming across the grass. “A mount? So he can ride my sister and then ride home to boast of it?”

  Kendra felt her heart pound, with fury this time, not fear. Her fists were clenched at her sides. “Athelbert, you are drunk! And entirely—”

  He went right past her. He might jest and tumble with Judit, letting her buffet him about for the amusement of others, but her older brother was a hard, trained, fighting man, king-to-be in these lands, and enraged right now, for more than one reason.

  “Entirely what, dear sister?” He didn’t look back at her. He had stopped in front of Alun ab Owyn. He was half a head taller than the Cyngael. “Look at his hair, his tunic. Left his belt in the grass, I see. At least you made yourself presentable before getting off your backside.”

  Thorkell Einarson took a step forward. “My lord prince,” he began, “I can tell you—”

  “You can shut your loathsome Erling mouth before I kill you here,” Athelbert snapped. “Ab Owyn, draw your blade.”

  “Have none,” said Alun, mildly. And launched himself, in a lithe, efficient movement, at Athelbert. He feinted left, and then his right fist hammered hard at her brother’s heart. Kendra’s hands flew to her mouth. Athelbert went backwards in a heap, sprawled on the grass. He grunted, shifted to get up, and froze.

  The dog, Cafall, was directly above him, a large grey menace, growling in his throat.

  “He didn’t touch me, you Jad-cursed clod!” Kendra screamed at her brother. She was close to tears, in her fury. “I was over watching you and Judit make fools of yourselves!”

  “You were? You, er, saw that?” Athelbert said. He had a hand to his chest, was careful to make no sudden movements.

  “I saw that,” she echoed. “Must you take such pains to be an idiot?”

  There was a silence. They heard the noises from behind them, towards the gates.

  “Less difficult than you think,” her brother murmured, finally. Wry, already laughing at himself, a gift he had, in fact. “Where,” he said looking up at Alun ab Owyn, “did you learn to do that?”

  “My brother taught me,” said the Cyngael, shortly. “Cafall, hold!” The dog had growled again as Athelbert shifted to a sitting position.

  “Hold is a good idea,” agreed Athelbert. “You might want to tell him again? Make sure he heard you?” He looked over at his sister. “I appear to have—”

  “Erred,” said Kendra, bluntly. “How unusual.”

  They heard horns, from the city.

  “That’s Father,” said Athelbert. A different tone.

  Alun looked over. “We’ll need to hurry. Thorkell, where’s that horse?”

  The big man turned to him. “Downstream. I killed an Erling raider in town tonight. Tracked his horse to the wood just now. If you need a mount quickly you can—”

  “I need a mount quickly, and a sword.”

  “Killed an Erling raider?” Athelbert snapped in the same breath.

  “Man I used to know. With Jormsvik now. I saw him in the—”

  “Later! Come on!” said Alun. “Look!” He pointed. Kendra and the two men turned. She gripped her hands together tightly. The fyrd of King Aeldred was streaming out of the gates amid torches and banners. She heard the sound of horses’ harness and drumming hooves, men shouting, horns blowing. The glorious and terrible panoply of war.

  “My lady?” It was Thorkell. Asking leave of her.

  “Go,” she said. He wasn’t her servant.

  The two men began running along the riverbank. The dog growled a last time at Athelbert, then went after them.

  Kendra looked down at her brother, still sitting on the grass. She watched him stand, somewhat carefully. He’d had a painful day. Tall, fair-haired as an Erling, graceful, handsome, reasonably near to sober, in fact.

  He stood before her. His mouth quirked. “I’m an idiot,” he said. “I know, I know. Adore you, though. Remember it.”

  Then he went quickly away as well, towards the gates, to join the company riding out, leaving her unexpectedly alone in darkness by the stream.

  That didn’t happen often, being left alone. It was not, in fact, unwelcome. She needed some moments to compose herself, or try.

  What are you doing here? he’d asked. The too-obvious question. And how was she to answer? Speak of an aura almost seen, a sound beyond hearing, something never before known but vivid as faith or desire? The sense that he was marked, apart, and that she’d somehow known it, from his first appearance in the meadow that morning?

  I have a long way to go, he’d said, across the stream. And she’d known, somehow, what he really meant, and it was a thing she didn’t want to know.

  Jad shield me, Kendra thought. And him. She looked towards the trees, unwillingly. Spirit wood. Saw nothing there, nothing at all.

  She lingered, reluctant to surrender this quiet. Then, like a blade sliding into flesh, it came back to her that the tumult she was hearing was a response to the death of someone she’d known from childhood.

  Burgred of Denferth lifting her onto his horse, so far above the ground, for a canter around the walls of Raedhill. She’d been three, perhaps four. Terror, then pride, and a hiccoughing laughter, giddy breathlessness. Her father’s softened, amused face when Burgred brought her back and, leaning in the saddle, set
her down, redfaced, on chubby legs.

  Did you remember things because they’d happened often, or because they were so rare? That one had been rare. A stern man, Earl Burgred, more so than Osbert. A figure of action, not thought. Carried the marks of the past in a different way. Her father’s fevers, Osbert’s leg, Burgred’s … anger. He’d been with Aeldred, and had been loved, when they’d all been very young, even before Beortferth.

  An Erling had killed him tonight. How did one deal with that, if one was king of the Anglcyn?

  Her father was riding out. Could die tonight. They had no idea how many Erlings were south of them. How many ships. Jormsvik, Thorkell Einarson had said. She knew who they were: mercenaries from the tip of Vinmark. Hard men. The hardest of all, it was said.

  Kendra turned then, away from woods and stream and solitude, to go back. She saw her younger brother, standing patiently, waiting for her.

  She opened her mouth, closed it. Athelbert would have sent him, she realized. In the midst of chasing down his horse and armour and joining the fyrd amid chaos, he’d have done that.

  It was too easy to underestimate Athelbert.

  “Father wouldn’t let you both go?” she asked quietly. Knew the answer before she asked.

  Gareth shook his head in the darkness. “No. What happened here? Are you all right?”

  She nodded. “I suppose. You?”

  He hesitated. “I wouldn’t mind killing someone.”

  Kendra sighed. Others had sorrows, too. You needed to remember that. She came forward, took her brother’s arm. Didn’t squeeze it or anything like that; he’d bridle at obvious sympathy. Gareth knew the Rhodian and Trakesian philosophers, had read them aloud to her, modelled himself (or tried) on their teachings. Conduct yourself in the sure knowledge that death comes to all men born. Be composed, accordingly, in the face of adversity. He was seventeen years old.

  They walked back together. She saw the guard at the gate, white-faced. The one who had let her out. She nodded reassuringly at him, managed a smile.

  She and Gareth went to the hall. Osbert was there, amid a blaze of lanterns, giving instructions, men coming and going in front of him. Something he’d done all Kendra’s life. His face looked seamed and gaunt. None of them was young any more, she thought: her father, Osbert, Burgred. Burgred was dead. Were the dead old, or young?