The Prize in the Game

by Jo Walton

  The lower gate stood open, with no guards. Emer had expected they’d need to talk their way out. “Where’s the guard?” she asked.

  “Nobody would attack on the Feast of Bel,” Conal said. “We leave it open for the gods to come in, if they choose to visit, and the farmers. It doesn’t seem worth making someone miss the festival to guard it. It worries me less than leaving it unguarded in the daytime when it’s quiet, really. If an enemy isn’t stopped until the top gate, we’d have given away a lot of ground for free.”

  “Have you said this to Conary?” Meithin asked.

  They turned westward around the hill, to meet the northern road. It was lighter than Emer had feared. The moon and the stars were bright. She could easily tell the road from the fields. The horses were eager, but she kept them at the pace Meithin set beside them.

  “He won’t listen to me,” Conal said. “He said I’d soon learn how much champions enjoy guarding gates when there’s no war.”

  “I suppose he does have to manage his champions as well as his enemies,” Emer said.

  “He’d have heard it if Darag had said it,” Conal said.

  Then they came to the northeast road and turned, and Emer let the horses have their heads for a little, and Meithin did the same with hers, and for a while, they raced down the road. Meithin would have won, having less weight, but they pulled up after a little and went on more sedately, talking sometimes but mostly in a companionable silence. There were no other chariots, no sign of anyone else at all. Only the fires on the hilltops told them that they weren’t the only people left in the world. It felt peaceful and exhilarating to go along through the dark like this. Emer would have been happy to have traveled on like that forever, Conal close beside her and the horses eager under her hand.

  Edar turned out to be bigger than Emer had expected from Conal’s calling it a farm. There was a ditch around the bottom of the hill, almost dry after this very dry month, and a palisade around the top of it. The night was completely dark by now, but the moonlight was sufficient to show them that the way up was too steep to drive.

  “Should we unyoke the horses?” Meithin asked.

  “But then there’s nowhere to put the chariots except just leaving them out here,” Conal said, biting his lip. “I think we’d better leave them yoked and lead them up. It’s not too steep if we’re careful. If I drove out here more often, I’d suggest we ought to build a stable at the foot of the hill like at Ardmachan. But I always walked before.”

  As they neared the top of the hill, the wind changed, taking away the scents of hot ale and cooking meat and bringing Emer the scent of saltwater and tide-wrack. “Are we so near the sea, then?” she asked.

  “It’s just two miles east of us here,” Conal said.

  They led the chariots up and were met at the top by a cluster of delighted farmers. Emer gathered that they loved and honored Conal and had not seen him for some time. She soon found herself plied with marvelous hot ale and, not long after, with roast lamb and palm-sized griddies hot from the pan.

  “I haven’t had griddies since I left home,” Emer said, thanking the smiling farmer who had brought them. “I thought you didn’t make them in Oriel. I like them so much better than bread.”

  “We always make them on special occasions,” the farmer said.

  “You couldn’t have said anything better,” Conal murmured when the farmer had moved on to share the griddies with everyone. “Ap Anla prides herself on her griddies.”

  Emer ate seven griddies and felt ready to burst. After they had eaten, everyone was needed for driving the animals around the fire. Emer had never seen this done; she had always been sent to bed long before. The animals were garlanded and driven around while everyone sang to Rhianna, the Mother of Beasts, and danced with them. There were no instruments, and Emer found herself thinking that next year she would bring a harp, if she could. Meithin threw herself into the celebration, drinking and dancing and laughing. At last, she went off with two of the young farmers, one on each arm.

  “Do you think she’ll feel better about Orlam?” Emer asked, watching from where she sat with Conal near the fire.

  Conal put his arm around her, and she leaned back against him. “Not really,” he said. “But at least she hasn’t had to stay in Ardmachan with Orlam there and not with her. I’m glad we brought her.”

  “I’m glad we came,” Emer said. “Maybe we could come every year. I really like the people here.”

  “You really like the food,” Conal said.

  “Maybe we could live out here,” Emer said. “Your father isn’t using it, and he isn’t here, and we could be in Ardmachan if Conary needed us.”

  Conal hesitated, and Emer wondered what she’d said wrong. “I need to be under Conary’s eye, and where all the champions know me well,” he said. “If they’re to choose me king over Darag, I have to be in Ardmachan.”

  “You don’t have to be king,” she said. “It isn’t the only good thing to be.”

  “Anything else is a failure,” Conal said decisively.

  Emer bit her lip and didn’t say anything. There were so many things to be, why did he have to set his heart on that one? It was his father insisting on it, she knew it was. She couldn’t say so, she could never make him see it. She just sat there and watched the dancing and the people going off together in pairs.

  At last her eyes started closing, and she and Conal staggered off to lie down in the hall. They kept all their clothes on, except for their armor coats, but lay all night curled up very close together, sharing the warmth of their bodies and feeling each other breathe. Soon, Emer thought sleepily, but for now, this was enough, this was marvelous, she didn’t want anything more than just to lie together like this for as long as they possibly could. She drifted between sleeping and waking, feeling happier than she ever had.

  She must have slept at last, because she was woken at dawn by one of the farmers coming to tell them that ships from the Isles were landing troops down on the shore, and they wanted Conal to tell them what they should do.

  8

  (FERDIA)

  Ferdia’s father Cethern, the king of Lagin, had told his son there was no point in drinking to drown your troubles, because troubles can swim. It was just as well Ferdia knew this, or he would have been very tempted to try it. He kept out of the way, leaning on the wall of the Speckled Hall, and looked at the reflection of the lights in his ale. Everything had gone wrong. First he had unwittingly said something to offend Darag. Then he’d been unable to get Darag alone to talk about it properly. Leary had stuck to them like a leech, and Darag had seemed, as so often lately, to want Elenn ap Allel to be with them.

  Ferdia understood why, of course. Elenn was beautiful. He knew how beautiful women liked to be talked to, and he was always polite. He had two older sisters, and there were other girls his age at home in Ernachan. He knew what they liked, and Elenn wasn’t any sillier than the rest of them. Besides, Darag was right—she was nice to look at, and it did make a difference. Conal’s father had made up a poem about how beautiful she was, which he hadn’t liked much. Leary had made up his own afterwards, and then Darag had wanted to, so they sat down to it together.

  The best Ferdia could come up with was to say that the way she looked reminded him of the smell of snowdrops. Darag didn’t understand, and asked how a look could remind him of a smell. Ferdia wished he were better with words so he could explain properly. It was something about the fragrance in the cold air, with the loam smell and the green growing smell. He was thinking especially of a wood near home where he always found the first snowdrops in the early spring. That’s what she looked like to him, not how they looked, the smell. She looked nothing like them, the green shoots in the dark earth and the nodding white blossom, but there was something about the smell. Or maybe the taste of the very first blackberries of autumn. Something like that. Darag laughed and said he’d never be a poet. Ferdia knew that already.

  All the same, he quite liked Elenn. So
oner or later, he knew, he’d have to marry somebody, and if not for who her parents were, he wouldn’t at all have minded if it turned out to be Elenn. It would be nice to have her around to look at, her manners were very good, and a queen everyone thought was beautiful was an asset to any kingdom. As it was, with her being Maga of Connat’s daughter, she wasn’t even on his father’s list. Leary’s sister Orlam was, and from what he’d seen of her today, she would probably do well enough, though she was a lot older than him. That wasn’t so good. But a queen who was a lawgiver would be a good thing for Lagin. Orlam seemed to be quick and clever, which would also be useful.

  It was such a pity Darag didn’t have a sister. Then he could marry her and Darag could marry his sister Locha. Or his sister Moriath, if Darag preferred her. It didn’t matter which one. If they could have done that it would make them brothers twice over. But Darag could marry one of his sisters and be his brother anyway. Unless Darag insisted on marrying Elenn. That would spoil that plan. He sighed and drank another mouthful of ale. She had been with them all spring. She would be here until next spring, and he would have to go home at midwinter. He had been hoping Darag might come with him and spend a year in Lagin. But not if he wanted to stay with Elenn. She wasn’t so bad. She was always polite, and she seemed to like him. He didn’t usually mind having her around at all. He didn’t even mind Darag liking her. Usually.

  Today it was different. He just wanted to talk to Darag about what he’d said, and apologize. He doubted very much if Darag’s mother had done anything she shouldn’t. In any case, she was dead, and it was no reflection on Darag. He just wanted to say sorry, but he couldn’t get Darag on his own, even for a moment. It wasn’t as if Darag wanted to be with Elenn as well as Ferdia; it was as if he wanted to be with her instead. The only way Ferdia could think of to deal with this was to act as if he really wanted to stay with Elenn, too. Leary was doing the same, as usual. So they had ended up in a nonsensical wrangle about who Elenn was going to dance with, which Ferdia realized halfway through he could only lose, whatever happened. What he wanted was to dance with Darag, and they couldn’t do that. This wasn’t a dance men could do together, the dances of Bel were men and women dances. Conary had taught them that when they realized the thing they wanted wasn’t on the table, it was time to stop negotiating. Unfortunately, as so often, life turned out more complicated.

  He danced with Elenn. She danced very well, in the southern fashion of Connat and Lagin and Muin, quite unlike the way it was done in Oriel and the Isles. He could feel Leary shooting him jealous glances as they danced. He hoped Darag wasn’t doing the same. He tried not to look. After the dance, he took her safely back to the Red Hall, with the children. Elenn hadn’t taken up arms with the rest of them, so she had to go inside. She said she wanted to. Ferdia smiled and said she was taking the light inside with her. He had heard his father saying that. There was a guard on the door of the Red Hall, to stop the children coming out again. It was gray-haired Senna, leaning sleepily on her spear. He supposed she had grown too old to mind missing the rest of the feast.

  He had come straight back, and he couldn’t find Darag. He had found Nid, who had danced the first dance with Darag. She had drunk more ale than was good for her and insisted on kissing Ferdia for luck. And after that, she didn’t even know where Darag was, only that he had been dancing with Orlam when she had last seen him.

  The dun was crowded. There were people and animals everywhere, all moving. It was impossible to find anyone. The music never stopped; when one player got tired they handed their harp on to another. Ferdia realized after a while that as everyone was moving, he had more chance of finding Darag if he stayed in one place. So he had been leaning against the Speckled Hall, watching the crowd. He had seen lots of people, but not Darag. He hadn’t seen Conal either.

  Then he spotted Laig. Laig was drunk. His clothes were disordered and his hair was rumpled. Ferdia thought almost everyone looked better with their hair tied back. He didn’t know why keeping it loose at festivals was a sign of respect for the gods. If he was a god, he’d prefer people to stay tidy. If there was ever a chance to mention it to Inis ap Fathag, he thought he might, because it would be interesting to know. Just looking at Laig made Ferdia want to straighten and smooth down his own hair. Elenn’s hair always looked smooth; he wondered how she did that.

  “Have you seen Darag?” he asked.

  Laig stopped and ran a hand backwards through his hair, which might have accounted for the state it was in, except that it also seemed to have grass in it. “Yes, he’s down by the hurley field,” he said, his voice slurring a little. “But don’t go and disturb him. Tonight all the young married women are looking for dancing partners. Darag’s got his hands full. Even I have had offers. More than offers.” Laig leaned towards Ferdia confidingly. Ferdia shrank back a little from the ale on his breath. “That’s where I was,” Laig said. “Pressing the grass flat. Plowing the fields. And with a champion, too. I won’t tell you her name, that isn’t the thing to do, but definitely not one of the ugly ones.”

  As Ferdia remembered Conary’s champions, that left two possibilities, and one of them had three children already. Though Laig might be counting charioteers as champions, being a charioteer himself, which left much more scope. Not that Ferdia wanted to guess, but how could anyone avoid it when he said things like that? “Well done,” he said, because Laig was definitely expecting some such response.

  “You should try it yourself,” Laig said. “Plenty of them would want you, being a king’s son. You’d be even more popular than Darag, and Darag is very popular.” He laughed.

  Ferdia shook his head, absolutely certain. “I don’t want to,” he said.

  Laig giggled. “You might find you liked it if you tried it. But it’s up to you. The unwilling gift isn’t a gift at all, better a gift unoffered than a gift spurned, and all that. Well, I’m going to find more ale and then see what other dances I can learn tonight.”

  He wandered away unsteadily. Ferdia set down his own cup in sudden disgust. There wasn’t anything here for him. He wished he was back home in Lagin. He wished he were still a child to go to bed after the first dance. He thought he might as well go to bed anyway as stand here watching the people dancing in the firelight. The only thing that stopped him was the thought that it wouldn’t be quiet enough to sleep for hours yet. Standing here wasn’t good, but being inside awake listening might be worse. Ferdia hesitated, then decided he could always stuff his blanket into his ears. He set off through the press towards the Red Hall.

  Everyone seemed to be laughing and touching. Several women, some he barely knew, insisted on kissing him for luck. He realized that Laig was right, he would have no trouble finding partners if he wanted them. He was quite sure he didn’t, not at all. He was glad to win safely to the shelter of the Red Hall. He made his way to the other side of the building, where the door was, away from the crowd.

  Old Senna had left the door, there was nobody there now but Inis, who was sitting on a stool by the door, rocking to and fro a little. He did not look up until Ferdia was almost up to him. His eyes seemed very bright in the lantern-light.

  “Well met on the Feast of Bel, son of Cethern,” Inis said.

  “Well met, ap Fathag,” Ferdia said uncomfortably. He wanted to get past Inis and go in to bed. He hated the necessity of being polite while making sure to ask no questions, even the most innocent.

  “Not dancing?” Inis asked.

  “I’ve had enough of it for tonight,” Ferdia said. “I’m tired and ready for my bed.”

  “Seeking your lonely bed,” Inis said.

  Ferdia didn’t know if he was making a comment or quoting something. It sounded like a quote, but it wasn’t from any song he knew. He didn’t know if it was something he might reasonably be expected to know but had never heard. With Inis, it could be something really unusual, or something from another country or even another world. The worst, the absolute worst, would be if it was something from anot
her world written about him, now, and Inis knew that. The problem with Inis was that he was both very mad and very wise, which made him just impossible. Most people were limited in what they would say by politeness, but never Inis. Sometimes Ferdia thought the Vincans were right to kill all the oracle-priests or drive them out of their empire. But then, Inis was especially rude even for an oracle-priest. It might have been because he was the king’s father. Nobody even dared reproach him.

  Whatever Inis meant about the lonely bed, Ferdia didn’t want to talk to him about it. He realized he’d just been staring at him for a long time without saying anything.

  “I don’t mind if it’s lonely as long as I can lie down,” he said, and faked a yawn.

  “Darag won’t be there,” Inis said plainly.

  Ferdia wanted a god to swoop down from the sky and catch him up to the clouds. He wanted the hill to open so he could dive inside. He felt his cheeks heating so much he feared that Inis would see. He swallowed and tried hard for a casual tone. “No, he’s still dancing. He’ll probably get to bed late. Or maybe not until tomorrow.” He tried to sound amused rather than distressed, and thought he did quite well.

  “I wish you could stay boys forever,” Inis said, and he sounded really sad. What did that mean?

  “Too late,” Ferdia said. “We are men already and have taken up arms.”

  “He has killed the deer and the swan. Soon he will add a man. All of my grandsons will, and you will fight, too, son of Cethern.” Inis rocked again and closed his eyes. Ferdia bit back questions. “Soon” must mean this summer, it had to. He didn’t want to know more than that. He didn’t want to know anything. He knew he would have to deal with oracle-priests all his life, but he just wanted to do things without it all being doomed and prophesied. Often enough if you listened to them, you ended up worrying about things that didn’t happen anyway. His father told him that. He took a step toward the door. Inis’s eyes shot open again. Ferdia froze.