The Prize in the Game

by Jo Walton

  “Emer killed it, but it counts for all of us,” Conal said doggedly. “The same as it would in a boar hunt.”

  “No head,” Leary said briefly, looking around as if hoping to find one. “Supposed to show the head in the hall.”

  “They will have to take our word,” Emer said.

  Conal laughed suddenly. “Yes, they will. After all, would they accuse all of us of jumping in a duck pond to muddy our clothes and making up a story about it?” He bowed to Emer and took her arm to escort her out of the water, for all the world as if they were going in to dinner.

  Ferdia shook his head at Darag. “Will they believe us?” he asked.

  “They’ll have to,” Darag said fiercely.

  In the end, it didn’t matter, because a herd of deer crossed their path on the way out of the wood so they had venison enough to feast all King’s Hall.

  2

  THE FEAST OF BEL

  5

  (CONAL)

  Conal feinted high and thrust low. Emer blocked smoothly, then signalled a stop. They both stepped back.

  The grass behind the smithy was flattened in a rough circle. They had been coming here to practice alone for half a month now. It was as private a place as there was in reach of Ardmachan. Conal had found it three years ago. The willow-bordered stream ran out of the trees and alongside the low stone smithy. This patch was one of the very few pieces of land outside the dun bare of trees and not planted with crops. The smith kept a cow, but she did not mind her pasture being trampled. And the smith didn’t mind the noise, he always made enough himself. Conal had come to an arrangement with the smith. When the cow was ready, he would bring his father’s great bull down to her, and this kept the smith in milk and cheese and meat, or even profit if it should be a heifer that he could trade. The smith was well pleased with this bargain, always greeted Conal kindly and sometimes even brought him out a cup of milk on hot days. Amagien knew nothing about it, but it suited Conal very well. Inside the dun, there was plenty of room for practicing. But inside the dun, there were also the others.

  “What’s wrong?” Conal asked. She couldn’t be tired already. She wasn’t even breathing hard.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Just getting my balance a moment. You’re right about how different it is using the blades.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. He wouldn’t have agreed to it if he wasn’t sufficiently confident of his control of the sword. He had always been told never to practice steel against steel, but Emer had wanted to so much, and he knew he could stop in time.

  She laughed. “Of course not.” Conal felt a sudden wave of protectiveness, a desire not just to avoid hurting her but to keep her from being hurt by anything, ever. “But I suddenly realized I could hurt you. The next move after the block would be—” She mimed the upward strike, slowly.

  “Yes, and I would block,” Conal said, bringing his shield around equally slowly. “We’ve done this with the wooden swords. You’re fast, and you’re getting much smoother.”

  “But if you didn’t block in time, I could hurt you. With a wooden sword, that doesn’t matter.” Conal grinned wryly. They had both felt the force of the wooden swords in the time they had been training hard together. “Well, if you don’t count bruises, it doesn’t matter,” she amended. “But with this if I don’t stop, I could gut you. And I know I shouldn’t be thinking about stopping.”

  “You’re right, it’s the last thing,” Conal said seriously. He sat down and patted the ground beside him. For a wonder, the grass was quite dry. Emer sat obediently, quite close. “That’s what Meithin always says, and I see now how right she is. That’s why we always practice with wooden blades. If you learn to pull your blows, then you’ll pull one in battle, when you need to be gutting someone. And they won’t do the same and then you’ll be the one who’s dead.”

  As he was speaking the smith’s hammer stopped for a moment and the last word came out unnecessarily loud in the sudden silence. The sound of the stream came to him clearly, and a thrush singing in the woods.

  “Have you ever fought anyone for real?” Emer asked quietly.

  “Not with swords.” Conal didn’t want to think about the times he’d fought Darag. He wasn’t sure it counted anyway; real as those fights were, they weren’t trying to kill each other, only to win. “Only that thing in the water.”

  “That wasn’t at all the same,” Emer said, turning her sword in her hand. “It didn’t have hands or a head. It was a monster. I just wanted to stop it. It wasn’t like fighting a person. I didn’t use any technique until you told me to cut through it with you.”

  “We were very lucky, I think,” Conal said.

  The hammering started up again, louder than ever.

  “It felt different from practicing,” Emer said, raising her voice. “I think fighting people for real would feel different again.”

  “I think so, too,” Conal said. He hesitated, looking at her, still feeling strangely protective. “You don’t have to fight if you don’t want to,” he said.

  Emer looked startled. “Of course I want to! Do you mean you don’t think I’m good enough to be your charioteer after all?”

  “You’re better with the chariot than a lot of charioteers already,” Conal said. “Even my mother says so, and my mother never gives more praise than she need. I didn’t mean that at all. It’s what I want. But if you would rather not fight and kill, rather stay home safe, nobody would think any the worse of you, and I would defend—”

  Even as he found the words, he knew he was saying the wrong thing.

  “I think you are mistaking me for my sister,” Emer said, her voice very hard. She turned her face away, wiping it on her sleeve.

  “I’m sorry,” Conal said after a moment. “I wasn’t mistaking you for anyone else. I just—” Her hair was tightly braided, as if to go under a leather battle-cap; she seemed all eyes, as always. She wasn’t beautiful, not like Elenn. But she was unmistakably herself. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her. He wished she weren’t so young. “You are special, and I want to keep you safe.”

  She turned her head back, her eyes still bright with tears, but there was anger in her voice. “And how would you feel if I said that to you?”

  He thought about it for a moment, giving it consideration. “Treated like a child,” he admitted.

  “Well then!” she retorted, and threw a piece of grass at him. It landed on the leather practice coat around his chest. He looked at it for a long moment as it moved with his breathing. “I want to defend you, and be defended by you,” she said. “I want to be your charioteer and fight beside you.”

  Conal reminded himself again how young she was, almost a year younger than he was, not even seventeen yet. “Yes,” he said. “And later, not yet, later, in a few years’ time, we could get married, and keep on fighting together.”

  Emer didn’t say anything for a moment, and he thought he had spoiled everything. Then she put her hand on top of his where it lay on the grass. “It would be like a song,” she said quietly. “If my mother would let us.”

  “You said she wanted to marry you to Darag,” Conal said. He felt far more aware of his hand where hers touched him than of anything else. “There are no bloodfeuds between our houses. I am of the royal kin of Oriel. If she would consider Darag, I ought to do as well, if not better. Through my father, I am also of the royal kin of Anlar.”

  “Maybe we could persuade her,” Emer said. She ran her long fingers over the back of his hand. He shivered. “It isn’t blood she is concerned about, but alliances. Kings.” Emer frowned.

  “Darag is not bound to be king of Oriel,” Conal said. He felt as if his hand was his whole body, his whole existence. He wanted to move, to put his other hand on her hand, but he dared not. “And surely if you tell your mother your preference, she will take account of it.”

  “My father might,” Emer said, biting her lip. “My mother thinks that if Elenn is married to Ferdia and he is king of L
agin, and I am married to Darag and he is king of Oriel, then they will do what we say.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Conal said. “I mean, when my father married my mother, I am sure my Grandfather Ross of Anlar and everyone here meant it to be an alliance to bind Anlar and Oriel. But we go to war with Anlar whenever we want, and my father goes along and takes care not to kill his friends and then makes up songs about it afterwards.”

  “Maga’s plan is that we should make the marriages as alliances for Connat before anything else, and use our wiles to keep our husbands firm to our alliance,” Emer said, screwing up her face. “She is full of good advice about how to do this, and how to be a queen, all of which sounds the most vile nonsense. Not to mention that it demonstrably doesn’t work, or she and Allel wouldn’t fight so much. But she says that if we do it right there will be nobody to attack Connat except Muin.”

  “Or Anlar, or the Isles,” Conal objected. “But no, I suppose Anlar couldn’t attack except through Oriel, and the Isles would have to attack by sea, and I suppose that’s why she wants your brother to marry Atha.”

  “She doesn’t want him to!” Emer said, surprised. Her hand stopped moving, and Conal’s breath caught. “My father wanted him to, but Maga says that Atha is a famous warrior and will always want to be fighting someone.”

  “She would, you know,” Conal said, grinning at the thought. “I met her when she was here last year. She’s not happy sitting still. She had the champions racing and playing hurley all day and dancing all night. My aunt Elba kept threatening to take to her bed with exhaustion, and my mother kept forcing her to join in with dire threats.”

  Emer laughed and stroked his hand again. “I wish I’d seen that. Is Atha really as ugly as people say?”

  “No, nothing like. She’s not pretty, but she wouldn’t crack a plate either. Just like anyone. But I hear she always spikes her hair and paints herself ugly all over for battle.”

  “Does she fight naked, then?” Emer asked.

  “Apparently. Almost all the champions of the Isles do. I haven’t seen her in war paint. But that’s what my mother said.”

  “It shows great trust in the gods,” Emer said dubiously. “Our people paint their faces and arms and legs, but they wear armor where it will cover.”

  “Very sensible of them,” Conal said. “But you’re right that Atha fights in a frenzy, and your mother is right that she’d not be happy without fighting. Besides, I have heard that she might be going to marry Urdo ap Avren.”

  “Really? And go off to Tir Tanagiri and fight the Jarnsmen?”

  “Ah, that’s the snag. Urdo would like that, no doubt, but she’d like him to send her some Vincan horse-warriors to fight against us.”

  Emer rolled her eyes and took back her hand. “Marriage alliances!” she said. “This is getting like dinner conversation at home.”

  “I wasn’t talking about an alliance, except incidentally,” Conal said. Now that he was free to move he reached out his hand, meaning to take hers back, but she turned, and she was in his arms and he was kissing the top of her smoothly braided head. Her scent was stronger than the scent of the grass. He felt overwhelmed. “Emer!” he said. “Emer!” The hammering stopped again. “Emer,” he whispered into her hair.

  He knew exactly what he wanted to do, though he knew he wasn’t going to do it. She might be a grown woman before the law, but she was not seventeen yet, and she was his uncle’s fosterling. No matter what his father said, he wasn’t an irresponsible boy. He could master his desires. But she turned her face up and looked at him, and in her eyes was such trust that he almost wanted to close his own eyes. “Conal,” she said, very quietly.

  Then there was a hesitant cough, and they leaped apart as if they had suddenly grown red hot. It was the smith, bringing a cup of milk as he often did on warm days.

  He held the wooden cup out to Conal, who stood and took it awkwardly.

  “Shall I bring some more for the lady?” the smith asked slyly, looking at Emer.

  Conal’s first thought was to say no and get the man away as fast as he could, begging him not to tell anyone what he had seen. Then the things he had learned took over. If he acted guiltily everyone would assume that there was something to be guilty about. Nothing would make the man gossip more than him trying to stop him. Much better to act as if there was nothing unusual. “Yes, thank you very much,” he said casually, sipping at his cup. “How do you keep the milk so cool on such a warm day?” he asked. Emer was sitting down with her back to them.

  “Well now, I keep the bucket in the stream,” the smith said.

  “What a good idea. I shall have to tell my mother about that,” Conal said. “I suppose you have an iron bucket?”

  The smith laughed. “Iron fittings on it,” he said. “A bucket all of iron would be too heavy.”

  “Of course,” Conal said. “I was thinking you could have made one without the carpenter.”

  “Iron fittings, and the wood swelled to be watertight, for a bucket,” he said. “I’ll fetch some more milk for the lady now.”

  Emer looked around when he had gone. “How could you talk so calmly?” she demanded.

  Conal laughed. “I’m good at that,” he said.

  “I know, I’ve seen, but even so. My face was burning. It still is. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.”

  “We weren’t doing anything wrong,” Conal said, draining his cup.

  “My mother would scream for days,” Emer said. “Worse, she’d make me come home. She may anyway. She may not like my taking up arms.” She bit her lip again.

  “Surely she’ll take it all right?” Conal was alarmed. “Uncle Conary sent ap Usli to explain, and he’s good at explaining. She won’t really make you go home, will she?”

  “I’ve begged Elenn not to ask her to,” Emer said. “And she wrote as well. Maga takes more notice of her. But Maga didn’t want us to come away. Ap Usli could be back by now, if she had been happy. It’s only five days to Cruachan.”

  “They’ll have asked him to stay for the Feast of Bel,” Conal said. “I can’t see what Maga can object to, really, when it was a fortunate day.”

  The smith came back out with another cup of milk. Emer took it and thanked him seriously. They all bowed, then he went back inside and began clattering again.

  “It will be the Feast of Bel in three days,” Emer said, drinking her milk.

  “Yes?” Conal said. Then he remembered what that meant. “No,” he said in a different tone. The Feast of Bel had three meanings. The first was that the season of planting was over and the season of war could begin, between planting and harvest. The second was the renewal of the ancient ward that protected evil from coming to the island of Tir Isarnagiri. The third was the dance of fruitfulness. Everyone danced it once, around the relit fires, that the crops and the beasts should be fruitful in the next year. Then, after the children were sent to bed, it was danced again by men and women. Conal had heard that nobody ever asked where anyone had slept on the Feast of Bel. It was a time when the gods came into the world in disguise looking for willing partners, a time when women whose husbands had not given them enough children could seek a more fruitful coupling, and a time when many married couples would try to kindle children in the fields who had not come to the marriage bed. So many children were conceived at the Feast of Bel that the Feast of Mother Breda came exactly nine months later.

  “Nobody asks where anyone sleeps on the Feast of Bel, and we are adults now,” Emer said, smiling in a way that made Conal want to hold her again.

  “You are not done growing, you are too young to bear children yet,” Conal said. His voice came out almost as a growl. “Besides, if we go to war with the Isles this summer, you won’t want to be feeling sick as the chariot lurches.”

  Emer frowned. “But I’m not married, and unmarried women don’t have babies.”

  “They do after the Feast of Bel,” Conal assured her. “If the gods want them to. That’s what it’s all about.
”

  “My mother never explains things properly,” Emer said crossly.

  Conal had heard tales of what Maga did on the Feast of Bel. He didn’t like to think what she might have told Emer. “There will be plenty of other chances,” he said, stooping to pick up the wooden swords. “But not yet.” He tossed a sword to Emer. She caught it left-handed; she still had the cup in her right hand.

  “Not here,” she said, looking at the smithy and setting the cup down. “Not in the dun, not anywhere in the dun.”

  “No, there’s no privacy there unless you have your own house,” Conal agreed. “If we get married, we could have our own house. Next year, maybe.”

  “You could sleep in the king’s hall now if you wanted,” Emer said, picking up her shield and getting into position.

  “I’m not ready to fight that battle with my father,” Conal said. “I need to do it from a position of strength. He isn’t ready to see me as a man yet.”

  “Anyway, apart from the poetic side of it, it wouldn’t do any good. I sleep with Elenn and Nid.”

  “What poem do you mean?” Conal asked, taking his stance.

  “Really, for someone whose father is a poet anyone would think you never heard any,” Emer said. “Cian’s poem Spring. He’s in love with a woman and they both sleep in the king’s hall. ‘How can I sleep when your soft breathing fills the air of the hall, echoes through the whole island’.”

  Conal laughed. “Sounds to me as if she snores.”

  Emer looked horrified for an instant, then began to laugh so hard she dropped sword and shield and sat down abruptly.

  “I’m not very poetic,” Conal said apologetically.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” Emer said when she could speak again. “It’s Elenn who wants poetic. I just want you.”

  Conal put out his hand and pulled her to her feet. “And I, you know I—” Words had always come easily to Conal, but now there didn’t seem to be enough of them to say what he meant. “I want you, too,” he said clumsily, and angry with himself for being clumsy. “Now pick your sword up and let’s get back to it.”