The Prize in the Game

by Jo Walton

  “So, though you are a man, you go to bed early on the Feast of Bel, like a boy?” Inis asked.

  “I’m tired,” Ferdia said, and was horrified to realize it came out like a whine, like the child Inis said he was.

  “This could be a night you would get strong sons,” Inis said.

  Inis knew that sort of thing. Everyone knew that he did. He was one of the three best reckoners of lucky days in the island of Tir Isarnagiri. The story was that years ago King Nessa had asked him what the day was fortunate for, and he had replied that it was a lucky day for begetting a king on a king. As he was the only man around, she had taken him to her, bed, for all that she had a husband and he had a wife, and the result was Conary. Nobody could deny that Conary was a king, and one of the best kings Oriel had ever had. But even if Inis did know it, what good would it do anyone? “I could beget sons maybe, but not sons of my house,” Ferdia said. “They would be neither heirs for Lagin nor grandsons for my father.”

  “No,” Inis agreed. “But children of your body. Heirs for Mother Breda. A son might come of this night who may not bear your name but who will take your face down the years.”

  “That would be a child denied to the wife I will one day marry,” Ferdia said.

  “Now there is the thought of a man who would live long,” Inis said. Ferdia stared at him again, the whole world narrowed to Inis on his stool. What did he mean? That he was going to die soon? Or that he wasn’t?

  “I have two sisters and a brother,” Ferdia said at last, as the thought came to him.

  Inis smiled sadly and gestured to the darkness. “Then you may deny a wife nothing, if you can find her here tonight.”

  Ferdia didn’t want a wife, or a child, not yet, not now, not like this. He just wanted to go inside and go to bed, and maybe later Darag would come back and it would be like every night. Or not. He didn’t want to do things Inis suggested, wide things without edges. He didn’t want to go to the hurley field and lie down with any of those laughing, kissing, teasing women. Yet, to go inside past Inis now would be like running away. Though to do something he did not want to do for fear of Inis was also cowardice. What Laig had said to him earlier came back. “The unwilling gift is no gift,” he said.

  “No, it could not be unwilling,” Inis agreed calmly.

  Then he stood up and walked away into the night, around the hall toward the lights and the dancing, leaving Ferdia gaping. He hesitated. Nothing constrained him now. He could go inside to bed. But he did not move. He stayed on the threshold, thinking it through. He shrank from the thought of doing it. Yet somehow it felt impious to turn aside from so clear an oracle. He wondered if this was how Darag had felt when Inis spoke of a fortunate day for taking up weapons. He took a step toward the door, then stopped again. No man was bound to have children. If he let this lucky time go, then the gods might never smile on him and bless his eventual marriage bed. Inis’s words came back to him, the thought of a man who will live long. That might have meant that he would die this summer. It was a chance any champion took. Leaving a child of his getting in someone else’s marriage bed would not make much difference. Did he want to leave a child who would grow up like Darag, fumbling at questions about the Feast of Bel? That was no legacy to leave. And yet, what if turning away now meant no child ever?

  He turned and looked up at the moon, who looked back at him, offering no counsel. “Help me, Nive,” he murmured. No answer came. Then around the corner of the hall came a woman. Ferdia knew her a little, though he didn’t remember her name or how to address her. She was one of the people who looked after the king’s dogs. She smiled when she saw him. He didn’t know whether Nive the Beautiful had sent her to him to make up his mind. But he decided he should make a willing offering, if she had. The woman came straight up to him as if they’d arranged to meet. She kissed him, and he embraced her. It felt strange. He could feel the softness of her breasts pressed up against him, and for a moment, he wanted to push her away in revulsion. Then she took his hand and led him down to the hurley field.

  3

  ATHA AP GREN

  9

  (CONAL)

  On the waking edge of sleep, Conal drifted a little, halfdreaming across the worlds. He held as tight as he could to place and time. Even deep down in sleep, he had known he was in Edar. There was a smell to the place, that particular mixture of burning peat and heather bedding and hams hanging from the roof that told him he was home. He always slept better here than in his father’s house at Ardmachan. Edar he knew as well as he knew anywhere. But this was not childhood. He could feel Emer curled up beside him, familiar and homely as his own heartbeat. Emer, in Edar, this place, this time, and no others. Drifting, he held to time and denied the gift. Asleep, he turned away and strove to close eyes closed already.

  He heard the door to the hall open, and came nearer waking. It could still have been any time, anybody coming in. He was warm and Emer was safe beside him. But two pairs of footsteps came hurrying toward the alcove where his bed was made up. Conal’s eyes opened, the struggle over, he was entirely and effortlessly there. When Old Anla and Garth came to the foot of the bed, he was awake, alert, and sitting up. Anla was the steward, responsible for Edar in Amagien’s absence, but he was getting old and frail. For a year or two now, more and more of the responsibility fell on his daughter’s husband Garth. If they were both here now, it must be something urgent.

  “Raiders,” Anla said, his voice quavering. “Folk of the Isles. Six ships, coming in down on the shore.”

  “I was going to wake the folk and go out to fight them, stop them stealing the cattle,” Garth said, sounding angry. “But your ap Gamal insisted we stay inside. She shut the gates. She demanded we get you.”

  “Thank the Mother of Battles that she did,” Conal said, pushing back his hair. “If a straggle of you had gone running down the hill, Atha’s folk would have picked you off at their leisure.”

  “Then are we to cower inside without facing them?” Garth asked. “The cattle are together in the near pastures; they were all brought in for the blessing last night. They will take them like reaping corn.”

  Conary had told him that no matter what good plans you thought you had, you almost always became alarmed when a crisis hit, which was why it was necessary to have everyone know the plans well in advance so they could stick to them instead of each going their own way. Conal didn’t have a plan made in advance; it was all coming to him now and cohering as he thought of it. He didn’t feel alarmed, though, he felt unusually calm. Emer, too, seemed calm. She rolled over and began binding back her hair. But he could see already how it would have been helpful for everyone else to have known the plan before.

  “Oh, no, we must fight,” Conal said, getting the order of things clear in his mind. “Anla, wake Nerva and tell her to get the paint ready. Garth, wake everyone who can fight and get them painted as quickly as you can.”

  Old Anla jerked up his chin and went off to find his daughter, who was in one of the other alcoves of the hall. Emer stood up, stretched carefully, and reached for her armor coat.

  Garth hesitated, looking at Conal. “I hadn’t thought we’d have time for paint,” he said sullenly. “Nor need to bother with it. We could keep them from the herd if we were quick. If they thought there would be easier pickings elsewhere, they might leave our cows alone and make for another farm. It isn’t as if we can hope to stand and fight them all.”

  “We can hold them off long enough for King Conary and the champions of Ardmachan to get here,” Conal said. “We can do it better if they think we’re a lord’s household and not just a bunch of farmers.”

  Garth frowned. “It won’t work,” he said. “They won’t come. They won’t know they’re needed. What do you know about it? You’re the lord’s son, not the lord, and even your father is only the lord because the king gifted him this land. He wasn’t born to Edar. You’re only a boy. Why should I take your orders?”

  Conal didn’t know what to do. He could
kill Garth for saying that, but that would not make him obey him nor keep Atha from the herd. Garth was a foot taller than he was, and twice as broad across the shoulders, so knocking him down was out of the question. It was essential that the people of the dun obey, or he could do nothing.

  “Conal ap Amagien is one of the king’s champions of Oriel,” Emer said, her voice as cold as steel. “He was armed by Conary himself this season. What you have said would be accounted treason in Connat, and my mother would have your head for it.”

  Conal blinked at her. He had never heard her sound the outraged princess of Connat before, though Elenn did it often enough. Garth looked at her in amazement. “In these parts, we speak the truth to our lords,” he said.

  “And here I am speaking the truth back to you,” Emer said. “Conal is young, true, but a king’s champion.”

  “What is a champion but someone who has a chariot to fight from and need not be down in the crush with the rest of us?” Garth demanded, thrusting his chin forward.

  “Someone who knows how to lead,” Conal said, the words coming from his dream, or from nowhere.

  Emer looked cross enough to spit. “Conal is your lord’s son, he is here, he has a plan to save you, and while you stand here arguing with him, time is wasting that might mean all our lives, or the loss of all your herds.”

  To Conal’s amazement, Garth hesitated only half a moment longer, gave a clumsy half bow and went off towards the door.

  “I don’t know how he dares speak to you like that,” Emer said, twisting her hair into place behind her head with both hands. “I suppose it is from having seen you grow up and not really realizing that you are a man now.”

  “No doubt,” Conal said, still a little dazed.

  “What is most needful for me to do first?” she asked. She was standing ready, looking at him expectantly.

  “I love you,” Conal said, surprising himself even as he spoke.

  Emer gave a little surprised laugh. “I love you, too, but—”

  “I know,” Conal interrupted. He stood up and buckled on his own armor coat. “Get the chariots harnessed. Find out where Meithin is and make sure she’s ready. I need to see exactly where they are and how many of them there are. Six ships could mean two hundred warriors, but not if they are raiding and planning to take cattle back with them.”

  She bowed in acknowledgment and headed off without a backward glance. Nerva came in as she went out, carrying a great cauldron of paint and followed by most of the people of fighting age of the dun, naked and clamoring. None of them were blue so far.

  Conal finished fastening his coat and went towards them.

  Nerva made an awkward gesture with her head when she saw him. “We wanted to know what to paint,” she said, swinging the big cauldron onto the hook over the fire. Nerva’s daughter Hivlian, who was surely too young to fight, blew on the embers and started to add some wood.

  Conal stopped. He had not the least idea. “What to paint?” he repeated stupidly, wishing Emer was still there. He was a champion of the king’s house of Ardmachan, but paint was not something he knew anything about.

  “Defense or attack, or which gods to call on …” Nerva said, stirring the paint. Then everyone started talking at once, each with their own suggestions and demands. Cevan slopped white paint onto the floor from the little pot he carried as he gestured too emphatically. Conal could not hear it all, and time was wasting in which he could be planning how to stop Atha.

  “Protection, of course,” he said. “And beyond that, victory. Paint yourselves to win, and do it as fast as you can, time is short.”

  That sufficed to create enough silence for him to leave, though he could hear their voices being raised again before he was quite clear of the hall.

  The dun outside was in an uproar. Meithin was standing at the gate holding a spear. Garth was beside her holding another and wearing an old armor coat. Another part of his plan came to Conal, and he smiled. Emer was harnessing the horses. Women and children were running everywhere, dogs were barking furiously, pigs and hens were loose and complaining. Conal ignored them all as best he could and went to the point of the wooden wall where, by long practice, he knew he could swing himself up to see down toward the sea.

  Six boats, Anla had said. How many people could Atha have persuaded to miss the Feast of Bel for this raiding?

  He was looking almost straight into the sun, he had to squint. He saw at once that they had brought no chariots. But there were more of them than he had hoped. He did not let himself be daunted, but counted them as Inis had taught them. He made it eight twelves, two threes, and two, a hundred and four, armed and on foot, but there might have been more. They were among the herd already, which made counting difficult. Still, that could work to his advantage. Few of them were painted; they were not expecting much opposition here. They would be about even for numbers, so he would need what advantage he could take. They would not all be champions; some would be farmers come for the raid, and many of them would have come to sail the ships. But none of his people were champions except himself and Meithin and Emer. He squinted harder, looking among the cows, wondering.

  He walked calmly over to Garth and Meithin. “Can you stand in a moving chariot?” he asked Garth.

  Garth frowned as if he thought it some sort of test. “I never have,” he said after a moment.

  “Practice a little, once they are harnessed,” Conal said. “I am not asking you to fight from one. That is a matter of years of practice. I just want you to stand in one until we are down there. Then you can get down and fight on foot. But you are the only one who has an armor coat and might convince them.”

  “Your lady was right to say I am no champion,” Garth said, scowling.

  “You are steward of this dun,” Conal said, holding his ground.

  “My wife’s father is steward,” Garth replied.

  “And shall we set old Anla bouncing down the hill to frighten Atha ap Gren and her chosen champions?” Conal lowered his voice. “I am not trying to punish you for insolence. I am trying to save the herds. We all want the same thing, Garth, and I know how to get it.”

  “I will stand in your chariot,” Garth said.

  “Very well,” Conal said and turned to Meithin. “Ap Gamal, when we are ready, take ap Madog here up behind you, go down the hill before the footmen, just a little behind me. At the foot of hill, let ap Madog jump out, then wheel as fast as you can and make for Ardmachan. Tell them what is happening and bring them here to our aid as fast as you can.”

  “As fast as I can is going to take an hour there and back, which will mean closer to two hours than one, even if Conary listens at once,” Meithin protested. “It’s better for me to stay here and fight. We can’t really use both chariots properly, but a chariot with a charioteer and without a champion is better than nothing. And I am a champion.”

  “They will come in time if you are quick,” he said. Meithin looked as if she would have liked to argue more. If they had been anywhere other than Conal’s father’s dun, he was quite sure she would have tried to take over. In some ways, he would very much have liked to take her advice, but everything screamed to him that doing so would be fatal to his already shaky authority. “Practice with ap Madog now,” he said and walked away.

  Naked people stained blue and painted on top in black and white were starting to emerge from the hall.

  A small child started to scream. Anla picked him up and tried to soothe him. Conal could not wait. “Where is Old Blackie?” he asked. “Have they taken him already, or wasn’t he with the herd?”

  Anla blinked and continued to rub the child’s back as his cries subsided into gurgles. “He is here,” Anla said. “He is in the calving house. He came up last night for the blessing and he couldn’t be left with the cows after, or they would all get in calf, and it isn’t time.”

  Conal could feel himself smiling. “We really can do this,” he said, and looked around.

  Emer had harnessed up both c
hariots. Garth was practicing standing still as Meithin drove hers around in a small circle. Emer stood by theirs, holding the horses’ heads. More painted people were coming out of the hall.

  Anla had been talking, but he hadn’t heard a word of it. “Where are the spears?” he interrupted. This wasn’t Ardmachan. There wasn’t a separate hall for weapons. But it wasn’t the barbarian countries either, where people would take weapons in where they ate. How strange it was that he’d never needed a weapon at Edar.

  “In the smokehouse,” Anla said. “Shall I fetch them? Or shall I send Garth to fetch them? He has his own already.”

  “You fetch them, and take some people who do not fight to help you,” Conal said. “Are there any weapons there besides spears? I know my father keeps most of his weapons beside him at Ardmachan, but did he leave anything here?”

  “There is one sword of Amagien’s, and there is another that belonged to Howel when he was lord here, and which his daughter did not want when she went to Rathadun. There are many slings besides, which we use for hunting, and a few shots for them, and plenty of stones.”

  “Does anyone here know how to use a sword?” Conal asked, knowing the answer would be no.

  “Lord, it is a champion’s weapon,” Anla said.

  “Bring the swords to me,” Conal said. “And share the spears out to those who are ready to fight. Give the slings to those who can best use them.”

  Anla hurried away and Conal walked over to where Emer was waiting.

  “He has two swords, but I have no idea what size they are,” he said.

  “Give one to Meithin. I have a knife if I need one for the traces,” Emer said, showing the little belt knife no charioteer would go without even on a peaceful summer’s night.

  “Meithin is going to ride for Ardmachan as fast as she can,” Conal explained.

  “Then I will take one,” Emer said, unruffled.

  Anla came back with an armload of spears and started to give them to those who were painted already. It seemed to be taking hours for them to get ready, though the shadows had hardly moved since Conal had come out.