The Season of the Plough

by Luke R J Maynard

  Castor Stannon was of barely average height, but seemed immense on the back of his tall black horse. His hair was black and his beady, darting eyes blazed with the cold blue of the far northern ice. He had a strong jaw but a soft, womanly mouth, and there was something altogether unsettling about his comportment—precise, logical, almost lifeless. Although he was armed for the occasion, the impression he gave off was that of a man of numbers, not of steel. Aewyn watched him through the crowd as Robyn, too, was brought to meet him, with most of her men in tow.

  “Welcome,” said Castor.

  “We don’t feel it,” snapped Robyn.

  “Come now,” Castor said with a precise smile. He might as well have not bothered smiling. “It’s harvest time. Everyone is welcome in Widowvale in the autumn, isn’t that right?” He looked then to one of his mounted men, who nodded approvingly.

  “Yes, everyone’s very welcome here,” he continued. “Miners are welcome. Freemen are welcome. Deserters, why, they’re especially welcome. Widows and maidens, just as welcome as the men…though I see we have fewer widows than our records would suggest, after all. Many more wives, though. So many more—and even a karach. Derec, you handled the census this year. How did you miss an entire karach?”

  The one called Derec identified himself by shifting uncomfortably in his saddle. Castor ignored him.

  “For fifteen years,” he shouted, turning back on the gathered crowd, “the town of Widowvale has been recognized by Travalaith, though not always by that name. Silver, you were called once; I can see why. And since that time, Silver has been taxed not by its fortunes, nor by the Imperial land so generously shared with the Protectorate, but by the head. That kindness has been to your advantage.” He rode through the muttering throng with measured confidence, pointing to them in turn as if counting.

  “But that kindness has been abused,” he continued. “There was no plague. The town was never hit by the rot. Your husbands did not die out after all. They grew rich. I’m very happy for you. But they grew rich beyond their due, glutted on the kindness the Empire has shown toward their wives, their children, their poor widowed families. I see now one of two problems before us. Either the head tax has been too low—or else, there are simply too many heads.”

  At the urging of three soldiers—they took no chances with her, which she took as a compliment—Robyn suffered herself to be led out onto the green with the others. She became at once Castor’s new target.

  “Surely,” he said, “the Havenari would have noticed so many tax fugitives in their regular patrols.”

  “The mines are far from town, and I know not where,” Robyn said, with a straight face that would have made Grim proud. “The miners seldom pay us a visit here in Widowvale.”

  Castor’s blue eyes gleamed cold. “And yet the town is named for their work. And two dozen of them at least were roused, this morning, from the beds of these poor widows.”

  “Loose morals, nothing more!” someone—perhaps Darmod Pick—shouted defensively from the crowd, bringing a nervous laugh among even the Travalaithi soldiers.

  “I don’t think so,” said the Censor sourly. “But a proper inquiry will out the truth. I would not have come this far out into the thick to level accusations without due procedure.” He dismounted from his horse at this, and motioned two men toward the moot-hall.

  “Unlock that hall,” he said. “And who will speak for the town?”

  “I will,” said Robyn. Her purposeful step forward was met with a laugh.

  “The Havenari are soldiers of the Empire, too,” warned Castor. “At least, those Havenari who have not forgotten their place. I will not put Imperial soldiers on both sides of a charge, only to have my verdict thrown out on grounds of travesty. Where is the Reeve?”

  “He has fallen ill,” said Alec Mercy, who had been led to the green like the others. “He is resting in my house, though I say he will be in no shape to speak for the town today.”

  Castor rolled his eyes and took no pains to hide it. “Very well,” he sighed. “How long must we wait in this insufferable little hamlet for a sick spokesman to recover?”

  “What say you, Master? Another day or two?” Alec cast an inquisitive look to Celithrand for an answer, given his role in Marin’s care. The druid was closely hooded and averting his gaze, and Alec, a moment too late, wondered why. His gesture of seeking the old man’s attention was not lost on the Censor.

  “Who is that man?” he asked, icy eyes narrowing. “Bring the old man here.”

  The rest happened nearly too fast to follow. Celithrand, with surprising agility for his age, made to run for the treeline, but the crowd, suspicious already of the stranger, slowed the stranger’s passage enough for the Censor to witness his flight. He was already motioning for the soldiers to pen in the errant old man when Aewyn cried out in shock, completely forgetting herself and any pretense to secrecy:

  “Celithrand!”

  Castor hesitated at the name, but not enough to lose the advantage. “Seize him,” he ordered, forcefully but with measured calm. The soldiers, who had anticipated no trouble when they were dispatched to enforce a simple tax dispute, were slow to react. Celithrand threaded through the crowd and was nearly free of them when one of the Imperial soldiers rode him down and caught him by the edge of his cloak. The soldier dismounted without letting go and cuffed the stranger once with a mailed fist—not hard enough to loosen teeth, but hard enough to make the point clear. A second soldier seized his arms, and his flight was ended.

  Poe jerked on his feet, and might have gone to Celithrand’s aid but the sight of the soldiers brought a choking, long-buried fear back into his gut, and he felt rooted in place. When Aewyn darted for the druid, heedless of her own safety, Poe seized her protectively, as he had seen Grim do at his own trial. She struggled in the grip of his clawed hand, but he lifted her gently until her feet could find no purchase on the ground.

  “No one moves,” Castor shouted to the throng, more exasperated than angry. “No one leaves.” He looked to some of the Havenari, who had drawn steel during the commotion.

  “Thank you for coming to our aid, my lady, but the Grand Army has things well in hand. I hope your own blades won’t be necessary.”

  “I suppose that’s up to you,” Robyn replied. They shared a wary glance, like two predators sizing themselves up.

  “Put up your swords,” Robyn ordered at last. The Havenari, in equal parts relief and resentment, began to sheathe their weapons. As Castor relaxed and turned his attention toward Celithrand, Bram leaned slowly toward his sister.

  “Where’s my wife?” Bram whispered. She smiled at him, but her face was tight with emotions hard at war with one another.

  “Sweet boy,” said Robyn softly. “She’s still in bed, fast asleep. I don’t need her today.”

  “I’ve let you down,” said Bram. He was shaking. “I should have gone for her. I was here when they came—”

  “No, no,” she whispered, putting an arm around him. “You couldn’t have—you did right.”

  “I’m here,” said Bram. “If you need me.” His dark eyes stared away into another place, but the trembling in his hands had gone. She held him close, glad for his company, but did not take her eyes from the Censor.

  The prisoner was held by no fewer than six men as Castor approached him and pulled back his hood with a gentle, fastidious hand. Despite the mask of wrinkles, the old aeril’s face shimmered in the morning light, and there was a starlight in his eyes that was not quite human. Castor rubbed a hand over his smooth chin with concern. No one was more surprised than he to find the old druid there in the flesh.

  “Unmistakable,” he said. “In the name of the Imperator, Valithar the First and Only, I order you bound and stayed.”

  “You are making a grave error,” Celithrand said softly.

  “I have heard those words before,” said Castor, “but not as often as you would think. I am a bookkeeper, my lord; I make few errors, and I have only come here to set
tle old accounts. I did not expect to settle yours. The arrest of a fugitive does not normally fall to me, but to…lesser agents.” Here he cast his eyes to a fuming Robyn as the manacles were brought.

  “In point of fact,” he continued, “in Haveïl, that duty falls most often to the Havenari. Strange, then, that you are here to enjoy the village fair, my lady, yet would not dare to trouble a fugitive from the Empire.”

  “Who is this man,” Robyn asked, “and what has he done?”

  Castor cocked his head. “Truly?” he asked.

  “Truly,” she replied with a shrug of feigned ignorance.

  “He is Celithrand, of no other name, druid of Nalsin, Companion of the Owl. He was of old a person of some renown, as I’m sure even you must know. By Imperial edict he is now a traitor to the Empire.”

  “I have heard no such allegations,” she warned.

  “I need not repeat them, nor prove them anew,” said Castor. “The sentence is already passed. Some months ago, he was found guilty of betraying the sorcerous secrets of the Stormguard to Jordac of Travalaith.”

  “Never have I heard that name,” she lied.

  “You will hear it soon enough,” Castor warned. “His rebellion in the East is growing. They call it the Mages’ Uprising, now—thanks in no small part to this traitor.” He gestured to Celithrand, who was being searched and bound at the edge of the green. The assortment of bags, stones, strings, teeth, bits of fur on his person was astounding.

  “It is not true,” Celithrand called. “But there are worse things to be accused of than treachery against this debased Empire.”

  “He is condemned by decree of the realm,” said Castor, his voice perfectly measured. “His trial is past. The matter is not under dispute.”

  Robyn scoffed. “Even you don’t believe the charge.”

  “Belief has nothing to do with duty,” Castor replied. “Derec, search him to the very bones. Walk with me, Robyn.”

  He led her away from the others for a moment. The men and women of Widowvale, at first panicked by the spectacle and the intrusion of the soldiers, relaxed into a nervous murmur at the disarming of Celithrand, content for the moment that the eye of justice was off them. It was true, of course, what the Censor had said: the miners were as much a part of the village as anyone, though they lived throughout the year away from their proper homes. Many hoped, and perhaps even believed, that the discovery of such an important fugitive would cause the matter of the head tax to be forgotten. The miners who had wives and children stood close to them, fearful now for the families they had forgone for the sake of prosperity.

  When he had gone some distance from the soldiers, Castor affected a sigh. For a moment, a shade of regret seemed to pass over his face.

  “You cannot imagine, Captain,” he began, “what an uncanny stroke of luck has come to me. I am no Master General. I hold no post in the Cerulean Guard. I am merely the chief clerk in the West from the crumbling, overgrown swamp of Haukmere. I process coin for the lowest and rudest of the old vasilies. The sigil of my office may as well be a reeking bogflower. By chance I am in command, for a span of mere days, of a handful of Imperial soldiers. By chance, I have apprehended the second most wanted man in the Empire nearly by stumbling over him. ‘What good fortune,’ my wife will say. ‘How lucky you are!’ And yes, I will be well rewarded for doing my duty to the Empire. But I wish to Tûr I had not found him all the same.”

  The soldier called Derec approached them with a delicate, gently curved sword in hand. He drew the blade an inch; its steel gleamed with an unmistakable touch of reddish gold.

  “He was armed with this alone, milord,” said Derec.

  Castor eyed the sword with a knowing awe.

  “The sentence was passed in his absence some months ago,” he said softly and coldly to Robyn. “All that remains is to know beyond doubt that we have the man who was condemned. And that will not be hard to prove, now. Not with this weapon in hand. Half the soldiers here, and anyone who’s been to the Spire, would recognize it from the mosaic at Cîr-Valithar.” He wandered back toward the prisoner with Derec at his side, leaving Robyn cursing softly.

  “It would be a shame,” he called back as an afterthought, “to discover Widowvale had been harbouring him.”

  In his absence, the conversation had grown a little unruly; the crowd was uneasy, and the soldiers had grown uneasy along with it.

  “Is the count finished?” he asked.

  “And the town otherwise empty,” said Derec. “The Reeve is asleep in the beekeeper’s house, just as they say.”

  “Line them up,” said Castor. “Count them again, be sure of the score, and then send them back to their homes, or set them free. The taxes can wait until the execution’s done. We don’t want a mob on our hands.”

  Celithrand was bound and tied over an empty barrel, with many of the villagers looking on. Aewyn stood near him, having settled down somewhat; Poe was behind her, but not so far behind that he could not grab her again if she attempted something foolish. Castor hoisted the sword and drew the blade. Aewyn gasped but did not move.

  “It has a nice heft to it,” he said. “The weight of history, perhaps. Tell me, what is its name?”

  “Niurwyn,” said Celithrand.

  “Bird-friend,” Castor smiled, brandishing it at arm’s length. “A curiously tame name, for a blade of such renown. But that is, indeed, what the songs call it.” He sheathed it gently, with care but not with reverence. “And what would you have me do with it?”

  Celithrand was careful not to let his gaze stray from his captor’s face. “It’s mine,” he said.

  Castor seemed almost bored with this answer. “That’s why it is yours to bequeath,” he clarified. “Do you think me so corrupt that I would steal a priceless heirloom from your heirs? Your death sentence, as I recall, included no clause of forfeiture. It is your right under law, dead man, to name its inheritor.”

  “It belongs with the Havenari. They will know what to do with it.” He looked then to Bram, who shook his head and glared back with unexplained anger.

  “It belongs with my sister,” Bram said coldly. “Her alone. I’ll sell that for wine if you put it in my hand, first chance I get. I swear it by eleven scars.”

  “Give it to Robyn, then,” said Celithrand. Castor nodded.

  “As you will,” Castor said. “By naming this sword, Celithrand, and by claiming right of bequest to it, you have also named yourself. I appreciate that you have made my work easy. If you like, I can set the men rummaging through their purses for some old coins, just to be sure. But I have handled a lot of coin for the vasily of Haukmere, and were you not the Rider for whom the little silvers were named? I am certain silver riders issued prior to the Annexation capture your likeness perfectly—though you are taller in person, perhaps, than you were in my purse.”

  To that Celithrand had no answer. A long silence descended, as Castor considered the logistics of execution, a business which had never before fallen to him.

  “Arrange for the execution of the sentence,” he said at last to one of the soldiers, who shrugged noncommittally.

  “Hanging, sir?” asked the soldier. Aewyn cried out in horror; the muttering of the crowd intensified even as the other soldiers began to push them into rows and columns.

  “However it’s done,” Castor said dismissively. “There’s a fine tree at the end of the green. Get on with it.”

  “You can’t!” Aewyn shouted at last; Poe’s grip on her shoulder did nothing to silence her mouth. “He’s done nothing wrong! He’s no sorcerer! He’s no criminal!”

  Castor Stannon turned to her, then, as if noticing her for the first time. He looked up to the karach, his cold eyes wide and keen. Poe, though he towered over the Censor, took a step back from that stare. Memories of fire and steel, of his mother’s fur set ablaze, were quick in his mind then. He clutched Aewyn to his breast, but he was not angry. He was afraid, and although he towered over this soft little man he felt suddenly very
small.

  Confident in his safety, the Censor approached the girl, slowly and calmly. He moved a step at a time to deny the frightened karach an excuse for action. But he felt the tension just the same as he bent forward slightly, lowering his eyes to the level of hers.

  “And what is your name, young lady?”

  “Aewyn,” she whispered.

  “Aewyn,” he said, turning the word over in his mouth. “Aewyn. And how do you know this man?” Behind him, Celithrand’s face was lined with worry.

  “He’s my friend,” she said, quivering, but sure of herself. Castor’s weird unblinking gaze was intense as lightning. It was impossible to tell if her answer pleased or displeased him. He ran a tongue thoughtfully over his soft lips.

  “From long ago, you mean,” he said at last. “Before he betrayed the Empire.”

  Aewyn trembled, but did not speak.

  “Say it,” Castor said. “He was a friend, long ago.”

  Aewyn nodded. “Long ago,” she said. She felt her guts twisting into knots under his gaze. But the Censor stood and turned, suddenly civil.

  “Of course,” he said. “Long ago, I am sure he was as innocent, as you are even now.”

  She caught Celithrand’s gaze as Castor turned around, and the druid jerked his head up from the barrel so that she could see his mouth.

  “Dær Móran,” he mouthed to her silently. At his side, Castor turned to a soldier who had returned with some scrounged rope.

  “Take those two and send them away from here,” he said quietly. “She’s overly fond of the traitor, and she’s not much older than a child. There’s no need to make her watch him dance his last jig.”

  “And the rest of them?”

  Castor looked out on the crowd. Even those who had been turned loose still surrounded the green, peeking around barrels and tents in confusion and alarm.