by Craig Davis
Chapter VI
Domen sat perched upon his precipice, gritting his teeth as thoughts fermented. Perhaps no other ever took in his view, I know not, but often I imagined it: Seeing all at one time the island’s beaches to the west, the moors to the east, the vast expanses of northern timber and the waving grasses of the meadows, and Four Rivers as well winding through the breadth of the panorama. To behold the buildings to one hand and the quarries of their birth on the other — how could hatred grow from such a sight? And yet Domen’s foul eye drank in only objects of his wrath. Now his plan proceeded just as he had hoped: Divisions continued to grow among the people of the community below; conflicts emerging from petty greed roiled more deeply personal, pitting spouses against in-laws, parents against children, straining the ties that had once bound together the diverse families of townspeople.
The lack of charity among the people had driven me out of the streets. Hunger compelled me to enter my period of new esteem – cursed faith that depends upon self – and blend into the working folk. And well did my willing friend encourage me; whatever I did, he readily offered the praise or excuse I reckoned was owed me. I had lived hand-to-mouth, that is, from the hand of strangers, but quite firmly their averted eyes and turned backs forced me into servitude. Not only did the harsh world impel me to earn a living of sorts, but also the shelter of the stone buildings beckoned me out of the cold. Thus did respectability try its hand at me. And though I never crossed the line of law — much — though the world about me would not have bothered to frown upon my habits, I slid ever further into a pit of hopelessness. My search for belonging found me only more homeless at heart. I came to see the law of the stone as less a threat and more a mere mockery, barely recognizable to me in my hedonism. When one takes upon the finger a wedding ring to the world, she will return as much misery as she can. And so it was with me.
Indeed, my finger hung laden with rings, for in my attempt to fade into the culture, I took a wife. Certainly, I thought, thus can I refill the devotion lost with Astigan, and as well tame my lusts for the flying skirts. Pretty enough, her hair soft and golden, her eyes bright with prospect. However, the lovely lass of the hopeful engagement quickly came to demand those things a woman might expect from a spouse; why do these things surprise husbands? Yet the pressure applied upon me to seek out industry and income, then abandon it to devote myself to home, then to become spontaneously wealthy, drove me into dire anxiety. So did my household become a prison to me, and I returned to the skirts, seeking love where none exists except for the coin. And also did I in return make my home a bawd-house, filling it with the most paltry guests I could find, foisted upon my lovely bride without warning, many never leaving until the dawn. Not the least of these was my grizzled leech, Gastgedal as I called him after the ancient-speak, grinning and leering at my poor girl.
“Heigh!” I might say, loudly stamping at the doorframe. “Company for supper!”
“Again?” She would say, “and us with not enough for even one?”
“Not to mind. We’ll just have drink, if I know my lads,” I would cut a clever joke, my arm around old Gastgedal.
“That’s all you truly want,” he said. “Let it have its way. Bread only dampens the effect.”
“We’ll just take our bottle here by the hearth,” said I. “No need to dirty your pretty table,” and burst into childish fits of laughter.
“You’ve already had your bottle, I wager,” she sniffed. “You’ll not leave me alone at table, after all day here in the house by myself. You can at least give me a bit of your time before you’re laid unconscious.”
“But what about old Gastgedal here?”
“He can roll his fat rump into some other hovel, if he can find one with a master daft enough!”
“Oooo!” said I.
“Hardly are you one to speak of a heavy wagonload behind, good woman,” Gastgedal said, “though I often fancied a dip into that tart arse.”
Poor wife dropped her dishes, stunned at me more so than the words. “How dare you! In my own house! Before my own husband! And why do you just sit there?”
I sat there, and did not answer, having no answer.
“Oh, but miss, ’twas only a joke,” Gastgedal said soothingly. “I most surely do beg your pardon,” he smiled like he had a stomachache.
“Never should you be allowed in this house!” And she waved her spoon at me. “And the guilt you bear be a shame upon you! Let all your ancestors see, a man unwilling to cover his wife! If you will not defend my honor, let my shame be upon your head!” Her cries followed her as she ran out the back door.
“Really, should she talk to you in such a way?” Gastgedal asked discreetly. “The day comes when you will need to slap some manners into that woman. Listen to me.”
Yet even then did Ecealdor call out to me, gracious sovereign, to return my heart to him, to the satin jewelry case from which I stole, but deaf did I remain. So did the cares of life multiply upon me, until my attentions became totally divorced from my king, and then I was totally divorced.
But fortunes allowed some redemption even for this time, as I made weak attempt at job after job. For in these months I met Liesan, of whom I soon have much to tell, and a man named Cirice, jacksnape of the quarries, laborer of the distal winds who shared my own toiling, as much like me on the outside as different within. I knew him well, or better said I well knew of him, even before my final return to the quarries. His reputation went before him — that kind of man — and once a meeting was made, one still left wondering how much fiction had filled the air. A comrade to all, still he maintained a shroud of silence concealing his deepest desires and fears. Men do not pant at the lap like dogs, and not easily to be known; sometimes, though, they behave no better than a mongrel pack, and Cirice would offset his reticence with the rambunctious good humor of male fellowship.
One grand day at the quarries I slipped off a ledge as we hauled a load of slag up the side of the mountain. Cirice instinctively snatched a hand for me and caught my belt as I went over the edge. I faced a drop of only eight feet or so, and he could have lowered me gently to my hands and knees, but instead he gleefully shook and yanked me as my breeches slowly slipped off. I hung upside down, standing upon my hands, my feet twisted into my leggings, as all my good friends had a hearty laugh. Once my legs slid free, Cirice waved those pants over his head like a captured flag, as I sat in my smallclothes cursing him in every way I could think of, preparing to run in case he took me at my word and jumped down to my ledge. Instead he offered to piss a part in my hair.
Yet as well, I remember another evening, when work had passed into idleness and a group of quarrymen gathered unto drinking, Cirice among us. An unwary girl allowed her attention snared, and we drew her to our table. Mug upon mug passed her way, until surely she knew not who nor where she was. Cirice only gazed into his own cup, contemplating its contents and that of much else. Soon she slumped in her chair; then we promised each other to pass her around like a flagon as well, to quench our appetites. But Cirice had gone, without a word of judgment, without a word of farewell.
Thus did solid Andsæc Cirice stand, underneath his bluster and occasional baseness, a shrewd insight past pretensions of both the perverse and the cultured. Not that he would decline a glass of wine with his pheasant, but he knew a simple stein of mead washing down a leg of mutton to be equally worthy. A scrap of dried meat over a tiny fire sputtering in a persistent drizzle, shared with young comrades in the belly of battle — that had been the finest dining he ever enjoyed. He made as steadfast and stalwart a friend as one could want at the worst moment of one’s life.
So he left the debauched table, and I did not; gratefully now I remember little of what followed. Old Gastgedal attempted many a time to remind me, and I tried to remember and tried to forget. He remained encouraged at least in my solace within the bottle. Indeed, my love for drink soaked into my bones, shortly thereafter making me unable to work a steady job, so I took what I could
find, sweeping floors and moving garbage. And what better employer for me than the Boar’s Brew Tavern? I would take mead for pay, for all I cared; it would just save time.
A wreck being made of my homeland, not to mention of me as well, Domen knew Ecealdor would inevitably respond, but he knew not how.
A small voice only a few yards from the mountain’s foot caught his attention, and he squinted to make out the figure in the dusky light and scrabbly rocks: Begietan. As skillfully as he could traverse the island’s width and breadth, not even brash Begietan would try to scale the height of Domen’s treacherous mountain. Domen bridled at the inconvenience, certain to exact penance, climbing down to meet him.
“Have you stirred the pot? How cooks the stew?” he asked.
“Spicy hot,” replied Begietan. “The coopers now will not supply new casks to the cidermills, and old casks burst in the streets, the new cider running like Four Rivers. Bricklayers demand home builders supply their own quicklime. Husbandmen do not allow their masters’ flocks to mate; this season you will see no new lambs.”
“And what of your father?”
“The old fool — my father will bend his ways, or I will,” Begietan said scowling. “Still he talks of giving to the hungry, but we stop him, whether by force or ridicule, Mother and me. Hatan can only listen stupidly, afraid to speak, so sooner than later father will cease resisting as well.”
“Good enough, for now. Turn the screws.”
“And a stranger asks for you in the community.” Begietan braced himself in so saying, afraid of what might erupt from Domen.
“What bastard dares —?” Some man had slipped onto the island under Domen’s notice; never did he curse himself more.
“He calls himself Mægen-El — claims to know you. His speech sounds like that of a foreign land.”
“Mægen-El!” The storm in Domen’s face cleared suddenly, and he took a moment to think. “Just as I desired — excellent! Came he alone?”
“Yes.”
“Even better. Ecealdor sends his warning! Even now he falls into my will! I will see Mægen-El, and he will have much to report upon his scrolls!”
Domen clambered to the bottom of the mountain, crazed beetle scuttling into the community’s rolling, winding streets. Begietan followed like a pup on a rope. Stone buildings built tall and close together lined every path, steeply pitched roofs pointing like spikes into the sky. Stone benches and iron tables nestled beneath colorful awnings, and solitary trees sprouted here and there out of the pavement. Elevated granite sluices, grandly carved with ornate arches and spitting gargoyles, spanned the town in every direction. The two men brushed by many townsfolk, walking about with their staffs some three or four feet taller than they, and cast scorn upon their hesitant greetings.
Mægen-El sat waiting inside the Boar’s Brew, alone at table. All Feallengod, long bereft of any such intimidating visitor — for surely memories more sharp than mine so test themselves — left those who saw him hardly knowing whether to offer welcome or run home and hide. In wise concession, most gave him wide berth. Already, among those witnesses within the community walls, rumors flew about the shining man. “Did he come from Gægnian? Is he the king?” young children whispered to their mothers before being hurried away, strictly ordered to hush and keep their distance.
Thus did I first lay eyes on Mægen-El. What a magnificent sight, enough to wetten under-trestling — the very look of his face put the place quiet. He took no notice of me nor my broom, his eyes set upon the determination to fulfill his mission or die trying. Royalty bears about an air of superiority and privilege; Mægen-El’s character far surpassed simple lords and queens. His demeanor suggested that only by leaving his eminence unspoken could it be known: Words could only degrade it. What wicked humor of fate placed me in that same room, a filthy vagrant in and out, sharing the same air as the king’s knight? I stood in the corner, unconsciously so, hiding in the shadows alone except for Gastgedal.
Mægen-El quietly tarried, one foot propped upon the chair beside him, studying the simple metal goblet of his hand and considering what might come. A roaring fire popped merrily on the hearth, sparks skittling across the wooden floor, and sweet pipe smoke floated dreamily through the room and to the ceiling.
With bravado Domen and Begietan put their feet into the community together, but Domen still paled at intruding upon the king’s messenger. He took much care to peer into each building’s window, each doorway, before entering as he sought Mægen-El. Before long they found him, slowly unwinding from his chair as they approached his table. The other poor patrons, already keeping a foul odor’s distance, scattered at the appearance of Domen; my back rooted out deeper hiding.
“Mægen-El, the king’s squire,” Domen began with delicious rancor. “Returned to admire the polish of your stone? You haven’t changed. I trust you would say the same of me.”
“Good evening, sir,” Mægen-El said to Begietan, and I heard young Feohtan’s heavy step backward. Turning his attention solely to Domen, Mægen-El continued, “Domen, I come on the business of thy king, Ecealdor.”
“No doubt. So good of the king to communicate after these many years. I trust the time has done no harm to our affinity.”
“The king cares not about thy timepieces, nor do the reports out of the island Feallengod please him.”
“The king might have considered that when he placed this accursed land under my heel.”
“King Ecealdor has sent me as his messenger unto thee.”
“Well, blurt out, then, what does the king have to say?” Domen growled.
“What the king says to thee, ye will hear. The king would see thee in Gægnian.”
“In Gægnian?” Domen scarcely trusted his ears, so dried by the sun into crinkled leather. From the far corner, I watched him squirm with delight, forever the sneer frozen upon his face, all attempts to veil his putrid blisses failing badly. Suddenly he took an attitude of disbelief. “He banished me from Gægnian.”
“Ecealdor remains sovereign, and he would see thee in Gægnian. My transport awaits; we will cast off immediately.” Not waiting for sign of accord, Mægen-El briskly turned for the door.
For years Domen had schemed of his return to Gægnian, though never to a satisfactory end. An opportunity to leave this piece of dirt, home of his exile, even for only a moment, he would by no means let slip through his claws.
“Immediately? Ecealdor should not plot so eagerly — then let’s be off.”
I suppose Domen followed out the inn, but my eyes saw only Mægen-El. The door frame made way for his shoulders, and the ground reached to aid his step. I maintained my corner until the air, wafting smoke and redolence, stilled behind him. Begietan stood alone in the middle of the room, hips hitched like an oxcart with one wheel, not knowing what to do. I do not know how he finally left, as I bravely peered out from the edge of the front window frame at the royal visitor. For long moments I watched the two striding purposefully toward the back of the island, as long as they still appeared over the horizon. Mægen-El’s presence in the inn left a ghostly imprint upon me, and though what followed was my ruination, I forever remember those few minutes. Even the chuckling ribaldry of Gastgedal found no home in my ears until Mægen-El was far out of sight.
“Fop!” he mocked. “So the king sends his lackey!”
“I’ve never seen such a man,” I wondered aloud.
“Neither me, and perhaps not as yet. I suppose there’s paps under that armor.”
“No,” I said, not really listening, not yet.
“There’s bound to be a way to profit from this,” Gastgedal’s eyes shifted as he stroked his whiskers.
And indeed, no scoundrel such as I could leave the moment in sanctity. A glance about the room quickly revealed a way to cheapen it, and I took Mægen-El’s goblet from the table and slipped it under my waistcoat. A worthless thing of metal in the end, the stealing of it meant nothing. Later I decided the act signified only this: I thought I’d never
get as close again to Ecealdor.
But not Domen. Go, go he would, stand near would he in the rarified company of blessedness itself, he hated it so. Mægen-El’s spirits improved greatly upon this return trip to Gægnian, but for Domen the voyage grew more grim by each eternal second, upon a ship manned by citizens of Gægnian, people who lived in the eye of Ecealdor. Their conversation never turned from the king and the majesty of his courts. Crew members joined as one in their work, throwing their weight into hoisting sails or scrubbing decks or climbing lines, their voices blended in joyful song, anticipating the return home.
“Oh, to serve Ecealdor,
“To see the shores of Gægnian once more,
“Let this one desire of my heart be granted
“ ’Ere I walk through death’s open door.”
“For only the great king is worthy,
“And only is he to be praised.
“And only are Gægnian’s halls to be sought
“By those who hope to be raised,
“By those who hope to be raised.”
This sort of carrying on soon grew into a grievous burden for Domen. No longer enthralled at his return to Gægnian, this taste of simpering subjects loyal to Ecealdor soured his stomach. He quickly took the habit of coming on deck only in the night, best to avoid a noisome crew but also to soak in the gloom: The blackness of an overcast night at sea knows no equal; the darkness hung so thick that he fairly felt it. He suddenly realized an unwilling longing for Feallengod, never had he known before. Neither the land nor people called him, though — no noble thing might be considered in his heart. Only his growing control over the island drew his desire, a work yet unfinished. Still, his mind hewed at a plan to send the grip of infection still deeper into the greater kingdom, and the price to pay came at this insufferable rejoicing.
The crew itself planted the seed in his brain — if only they knew the injustice that Domen suffered, to be denied what Ecealdor freely gave to them. He would show Ecealdor to be fickle and cruel, and turn all of Feallengod against him. What praise then for a king who gives his men over to ruinous suffering, just as Domen suffered. And right his scheming may have been, then and now, but one must know the man whom one deals with.
After the interminable voyage, Domen’s legs weak with the sea and kicking at festivity, the longboat slid smoothly into port at Gægnian. As glad sailors embraced families, he slipped off board and skulked through the greeting mass. Immediately a chorus of voices magnifying Ecealdor hit his ear, coming from everywhere and yet nowhere, filling the air with angelic harmony, tinged with melancholy. “Must this nonsense vex me everywhere I tread?” he said aloud and looked about in the sky, hoping to find the music’s source, to know what to curse.
“Come with us,” he heard, and turning his head saw courtiers carrying the heraldry of the king.
“I need no help finding the palace,” he returned spitefully.
“You misunderstand,” the guard said. “We are not sent as escorts. You are under arrest.”
Domen sneered. “If I must walk under that banner, then, let it be by force.” Shuffling along the streets, he recalled the shining countenance of the structures and people, and a time when he tried to make this kingdom his. He hated it now for the sake of long miles and long years.
Inside the palace his guard made a quick halt, and he paced the semicircular foyer, one eye on each hallway in turn, impatient for someone to appear. At times he nearly dared enter one of the passages, flinching and drawing back, and the guards stood stoic. Soon Secanbearn emerged.
“The king beckons you now,” she said, indicating the passageway they would take. She nodded to the courtiers, and they disappeared.
“If he’s ready. And what about you, my dear?” Secanbearn was unknown to Domen, and he turned the energy of his impatience toward tempting her resolve as their steps echoed off the long walls.
“Sir?”
“How does the king see you?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Does he satisfy your desires, girl? Does he slake your affections?”
“The king is my desire, and he provides for my needs,” and she drew her hand from her heart to her stomach.
“So he provides a remedy for your rightful passions. You are married, then?”
“No.”
“A pity, a pretty girl like you. You’re young yet, for now, but the apple’s tasty flesh does not forever shelter its seed —”
“Perhaps I will marry. Perhaps not. Either way, the king will provide for me. So has he said.” And Secanbearn bowed her eyes and quickly backed out of the room that proved their destination.
Seeing his assault fail for the moment, but not really caring, Domen looked to the floor of the parlor, his feet left alone, and focused his putrid mind. The walls enveloped him with paintings by skilful artists from throughout the greater kingdom. A single chair rested upon the tiled floor, a tall throne ablaze with peacock feathers, situated directly beneath a central chandelier of wrought iron and polished brass. Behind the throne another entrance offered, double doors that presently swung open wide as Ecealdor, Gelic-El and well-ordered hand servants entered. The king silently took his seat, Gelic-El positioned a few feet to the left and back of the throne. His right hand rested upon his sheathed sword, and his left fist gripped firmly a familiar morning star. He said nothing, but with his eyes stilled Domen’s tongue.
“Domen,” the king spoke at last, “I regret having to call you before me under such condition.”
“You regret calling me here under any condition,” retorted Domen.
“Truly spoken, for a change. But hold your insolence.”
Domen stood in silence; his mind raced like a flooding current.
“You attempt to turn the people of Feallengod to rebellion. They have lost interest now in the law I left them. The people no longer serve each other, but instead seek only their own profit. They no longer wait upon me. You conspire against me, yet my destruction you desire not, but rather theirs. You will fail.”
Domen looked about him, beheld the grand appointments of the room, Ecealdor’s unyielding expression, and particularly the spoiling Gelic-El. “Come back to Feallengod — I will fight you there.”
“I will stand upon Feallengod soil again, but at my choosing. Neither will you know how I will return nor when. My concern lies only with the people, and the deadly persuasion you have wrought in their hearts.”
“If you would permit me to speak at length, oh King, perhaps I could rightly direct your attention.”
“Speak then.”
“I have traveled the borders of all Feallengod, I have walked up and down in it, and to a man the people want no king. Not I, but their own hearts guide them: They think they want their gentle monarch to return, and they overflow with sentimental pish. But in your absence they have learned life without you and don’t believe your return. They have had their fill of your laws and will live in the way that seems right to them.”
Ecealdor interrupted. “The ceiling drips deceit, but proceed.”
“The men will choose their own way as long as no one makes them obey. Rebellion stews in this people at their own fancy, and only a harsh law and harsh judgment will make them align to your will. Make me their leader, with power to bend them, and I could force obedience. Have you not given the island to me? Do you not remember? So you have said.”
“I remember well what I have decreed, and still too I choose Feallengod for my own. I grant you dominion over the island for a time, but never has it left the greater kingdom. You remain free to exact what you are appointed. Do your best.”
“Your chosen people do not want a king, nor any authority. I only try to keep the peace. They curse you even to my face now, though it pains me to hear. Let me discipline them, oh Regent! Grant me power to measure out punishment! They need guidance, like the counsel of a good father; they want to follow, but require leadership. They want me for their king.”
The room took on
a lightly reddish tint, and Gelic-El sensed an acid odor. Ecealdor’s face hardened even more grim. “Domen, your lies scatter about so, they confuse you more than me. The people don’t want a king, but they want you as king. They curse me, but long for me as kindly father. I see your ways change not since your departure from Gægnian.”
“You do not see from your exalted courts what the people do, nor do you hear. Every day I witness to their corruption, their stench right under my nose, and how greatly they pollute your law. I will tell you of their works!”
“I care less for their actions than desires, for some men persist to battle themselves. Surely I will deal with all who flout my patience, for they reveal their hearts. But those who set themselves upon my promise, should penalty descend? Who would endure the king’s wrath, in days of faithfulness? The day approaches when my law will flow from them, and no longer show itself as worn carvings upon a stone.”
“I tell you, all of Feallengod curses you and rejects you,” Domen croaked angrily.
“All of Feallengod?”
“All.”
“This you doubt not?” asked Ecealdor, his voice touched with bittersweet.
“All.”
“You venture even to judge my servant Liesan?”
Oh, my king! Your words do tear from my memory to my heart! The wound bleeds again!
“Liesan!” Domen thought. But does the fish bait the hook? He had hoped to goad Ecealdor into singling out some simple, innocent man of Feallengod, then to apply such pain and injury upon the unfortunate, to make a pitiable example before all the people. He made vile design to drive some victim into renouncing the king, a martyr to his rebellion. But Ecealdor had named Liesan, among his greatest friends, a cornerstone that broken might bring all the island down into rubble.
“Upon all Feallengod, you will find none like him — upright and shunning your evil, his devotion he gives gladly,” Ecealdor went on.
“Liesan? Why not? And why shouldn’t he lick at your boots? You anoint him with riches beyond Feallengod dreams. Why wouldn’t he bless the king?” said Domen.
“Do you say then, his fealty is rooted only in wealth?”
“I say more. I say rid him of his prosperity, and he will call down a treasure of revilings upon you.”
“What would you have me do, then?”
“Take away his riches, his lands, his holdings. Put him fully under my rule, and see his devotion wither.”
“Very well.”
Gelic-El’s eyes flickered toward the king.
“Awriten-El!” Ecealdor dictated to one of the servants, whose pen loudly complained against the parchment scroll: “King Ecealdor hereby grants direct ownership of all lands and property of Liesan of Feallengod to Domen, prince of Feallengod, so to command as he pleases. Witness the date and insignia of the king, to so enforce this order immediately.”
Wax dripped onto the parchment, and received the royal seal. “I make you free to do what you are appointed to, no more, no less. You will fail,” said the king. The servant held the cursed scrap before Ecealdor for approval, then to Domen. Domen snatched it away, clutching it like a twisting viper in his clinched fist.
“Mine! You barter your subjects easily! You give me victory, and easily! Liesan will curse you and the very air you breathe! Feallengod will see you now, how you betray those loyal to you! I will leave him destitute, then dead.” Domen’s words spewed from his throat, the maw of a snarling dog.
“I do not give you his life,” said Ecealdor firmly.
“A man will offer all else for his life,” protested Domen. “With fullness of breath, he may yet keep his trust in you.”
“Harm him, then, but not unto death.”
“Why not death? Is that not the end of every man?” Domen persisted.
“Can the grave curse me? If you kill him, will he speak against me?”
Domen saw the reason, his foul hope alone saving Liesan, but still conceded only reluctantly. “Very well, he will live. All the better — he will desire death and it will not come. He will curse you and the day of his birth, and find no comfort.”
“You take a disturbing glee in the suffering of men,” said Ecealdor. “Begone from my sight!” Domen needed no further urging, and exited the room like a prowling wolf.
“But, sire? We held him under arrest,” said Gelic-El.
“Yes, and so I sentence him.”
Domen scurried down the long hallway, laughing in his shrill cackle, lifting high the little scroll. Upon that fleeting moment, the clash of righteous scandal, I sold my life, and I did not know a moment of its passing.
