by CJ Arroway
Luda fidgeted uncomfortably on his stone seat as Evie continued.
‘No – you can listen. I used to wish so hard to not be magic that I’d wake up some mornings and I’d really believe it had gone. I’d be so happy, but then I’d find myself in some quiet place and suddenly I could hear it again and it would just break my heart. It would break my heart.
‘You weren’t the one whose own mother used to tell you that what you are isn’t real just so…’ Evie’s voice broke and Luda sat up to let her know he’d heard enough.
‘I’m sorry Evie,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ He went to move towards her, but then thought better of it. She waved a hand to indicate she was ok.
‘All I meant was I wish that we were just the same, all of us, that we were all in it together.’ Luda glanced across to Aldrwyn, who shrugged. ‘That’s all I meant. I don’t understand why it has to be different – why some people are magic and some aren’t.’
‘It’s The Feather, isn’t it.’ Aldrwyn piped up in a way that suggested Evie and Luda knew what he meant. Their expressions told him otherwise.
‘The Feather?’ he said, looking between them, shaking his head. ‘Really? No?’
‘What Feather?’ Evie said, wrinkling her nose in confusion.
‘You don’t know about the Two Brothers? And The Feather? The old story about how we got small magic?’
Evie and Luda shook their heads.
‘Well, I’ve got to say, Nan would never talk to you if she knew that; it’s her favourite story. I thought everyone learned that when they were kids? Some version of it anyway. Ask anyone here, or any Nix, they’ll tell you.’
‘It might surprise you,’ Evie said sardonically, ‘but we didn’t go big on stories about magic where we come from. Other than ones about all the terrible things that would happen to you if you did it!’
‘Ok then!’ Aldrwyn grinned, sitting up sharply and clasping his hands together. ‘Then I guess it’s story time.’
The Feather
Long ago the Grandmother made the world and all the plants and animals. But she was lonely so she made two sons and put them on the earth.
The brothers were never apart, they married two sisters and they lived in the same house and shared everything equally without quarrel.
One day, the men went out hunting but they could find no game. They wandered for days and were tired and hungry so that they thought they must surely starve.
Just when all seemed lost, they saw a crow sitting in a tree.
The First Man said: ‘Let us kill that crow and eat it.’ But the Second Man said: ‘No, let us follow the crow and it will show us where food is.’
The brothers fought and the First Man killed the Second Man. But the crow had been watching and she flew to the Second Man, and a feather fell from her breast and landed on the man’s heart and he returned to life.
Then the crow said to the First Man: ‘You wanted to kill me so you shall be hungry and always search for your food.’ And she said to the Second Man: ‘You would follow me, so I will give you my feather and you will never be hungry.’
And the crow gave the Second Man the feather, which was called True Magic, so that he never wanted for anything, and she told him that it should be shared with his children until the time of the unholy earth came to its end. But the First Man had no feather and so he and his children felt hunger and pain and must search always for food and comfort.
The Second Man had many children and they became a great tribe. Their fields were full and their cattle fat, and all the men and the beasts of the world, all the rivers and oceans, the wind and the rain, bowed down to the Second Man, as did his Children.
But the Second Man refused to share the feather and The Children grew jealous of the father and they said to themselves why should one man hold the feather and they not also hold it? So when he slept they killed him and took the feather. But soon they fought among themselves, each saying the feather belonged to him. All but one – the youngest child.
While The Children fought they left the feather, and the crow returned and took it back. The Children wept, but the crow said: ‘You would kill me also, so now you must go hungry too.’
But the youngest child, who had not fought, begged that the crow may leave the feather for them to share. So the crow tore apart her feather and to each child she gave just a single strand, so that they may each keep a little of it but no one would have it all.
To the youngest she gave the empty quill, saying: ‘Now you are my Daughter’ and the crow revealed herself as the Grandmother. And to The Daughter she said: ‘Take my quill so that one day each child may return their strand to you and my feather may be whole again.’
‘So there you go!’ Aldrwyn exclaimed, throwing his hands out wide. ‘Luda, your great, great whatever grandad must have been a crow killer, so you get nothing. Evie yours got a little bit of the feather, and that’s your small magic.’
‘That’s Nan’s favourite story?’ Luda grunted. ‘I mean, no disrespect, but it’s a bit – you know – rubbish. Where did the two sisters come from for starters?’
‘It’s a classic,’ Aldrwyn said, scowling.
‘I can see why she likes it,’ Evie smiled.
‘Well I don’t get it,’ Luda said, folding his arms. ‘So all the Cyl and all the Nix do magic, but only some Daw – but we all have bits of the feather? It’s a silly story.’
‘Not all Cyl and Nix do magic,’ Aldrwyn said. Evie and Luda both looked surprised.
‘I thought…’ Evie began.
‘Most of them do, but not all. It’s probably because they learn about magic here and you hide it where you come from. There’s probably lots more Daw who could do magic, they just don’t know about it because they’ve never explored that side of themselves, or they’ve pushed it down.’
‘So I might be able to do magic?’ Luda said, suddenly taking an interest in Aldrwyn’s story.
‘And you might not,’ Aldrwyn said. ‘You would probably know by now if you could, but either way, don’t get upset about it.’
‘I’m not upset!’ Luda barked.
‘Either way,’ Evie said, looking across to Luda, who was now glaring at Aldrwyn, ‘I would be at the bottom of the river if it wasn’t for you. And Aldrwyn, you’d be hanging on a gallows tree outside Wyrra. So magic or not, Luda, you’ve done more for us than we have for you, and we appreciate that.’ Evie kicked Aldrwyn’s foot as he rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t we Aldrwyn?’
‘Yes,’ he said, more genuinely now. ‘We do – don’t beat yourself up.’
‘Thanks, I–’
‘The Sea People will do that for you anyway when they get he– ouch! You kicked me again!’
Evie lifted her head suddenly and looked around, scenting the air.
‘What is it?’ Aldrwyn asked, scrambling to his feet as Evie started edging nervously towards whatever it was she had noticed.
‘Do you smell that?’ she said.
Aldrwyn shook his head, and Luda craned his neck around them to see what they might be talking about.
‘It’s them – I remember the smell.’
‘Sea People?’ Luda said, his eyes now darting around more urgently.
‘Yes. I think I can smell something else too.’
Aldrwyn squinted apprehensively at Evie. ‘What?’
‘Blood.’
A horn sounded from the northern gate.
‘What’s that?’ Luda said, his voice suddenly rising in pitch.
‘That’ll be one of the patrols returning,’ Aldrwyn said, jumping up to his feet. ‘And it sounds like they’ve found something.’
The Offer
Rachlaw had estimated two days until the Sea People arrived. In truth, they were already there.
Even as the war council had been meeting, Cyl warriors patrolling the eastern perimeter lands had come across a small group of Sea People scouts hiding in the gorse. There had been a brief fight, and they had returned with one of their
own dead and the heads of three enemy.
Along the road that led out of the valley and far away to the plains of Wyrra, 5000 more were coming, and they were bringing war.
‘Should we tell her, Rachlaw? She would want to leave. Perhaps that would be best?’ Nan was pacing the floor of her library, nervously brushing each bookshelf with her hand as she passed it, as if their wisdom might somehow rub off at her touch. She balled her hand into a fist and brought it down slowly but firmly onto the cover of a heavy book that rested on the table top in front of Rachlaw. ‘No she must stay in our protection. I just don’t know.’
‘She shouldn’t know. Not yet anyway.’ Rachlaw was seated at the high reading table, but the hammering of his foot against the stool braces signalled a similar agitation in him.
‘If she’s not here, maybe…’ Nan began.
‘Nan! You know better,’ Rachlaw chided. ‘They’re coming across oceans and half a continent to our door. What do you think would happen, even if we told them she wasn’t here? “Oh sorry – we’ll come back next week if that’s better for you”…’
Nan frowned and Rachlaw held his hand up in apology for his uncharacteristic sarcasm. ‘I’m sorry – it’s weighing heavy on me, on all of us.’ Nan waved away his apology as understood.
‘Besides,’ Rachlaw continued, ‘they have scouts in the mountains now – and as far as we know Skavan is still out there. Injured or not, he would find her. They will not rest until they have her, and our best chance is to hold them off and just hope we can last until the other lords get here.’
‘And when would that be?’ Nan asked, pulling up a stool to sit beside the table with Rachlaw.
‘If my message got through? If Rhuwan gets it? If Quist isn’t the coward I know him to be and releases the army to attack? A month. Maybe more. Probably more.’
Nan pushed her head back and drew in a deep breath. ‘And how long do you think we could hold out here? At best?’
‘At best?’ Rachlaw looked at Nan and saw she looked tired, her eyes clouded and her thin lips bitten with worry. ‘At best, here at the fort – a week.’
* * *
They heard the army long before it came into sight. The incessant beating of the war drums carried through the mountain passes almost as if they’d been designed to resonate the warning sound to all corners of the Cyl lands.
The Cyl had gathered in Cran Dar. Its long stone wall encircled the whole hilltop, creating a huge corral of stone and wood in which there was shelter to house and protect all the Cyl of the Western Mountains. But it also meant that in the battle that was coming, Cyl warriors would have to be spread far more thinly than any commander would feel comfortable with, in order to cover all potential entry points. To the south side of the fort, a great wall of stone, wood and earth hugged the contours of the mountain. The stonework was newly painted with lime pulled from the rivers of the valleys, so that as any attacker approached it from the road, with the sun in the southern sky behind them, it would shine as a vast white crescent carved out of the mountainside.
Below it were a series of defensive terraces – a maze, designed to slow and divert attackers, forcing them into and across the rain of arrows, spears and slingshot that would await them from behind the barricades.
It was a daunting sight for any approaching army – built to intimidate and deter. But it was all a facade.
Iynta had been right – this fort had never fallen, while Wyrra’s had. But this was in part because no one wanted Cran Dar enough to force its fall. The display of power it gave was enough to scare off the weak forces of the Borders, and The Home simply had no desire to send an army to suffer against its walls just to claim a barren mountain.
But Orlend wanted it. At any cost. Because he wanted what it guarded.
And so, as his vast army set up their tents and built their fires and palisades in the flat valley floor below, a group of horsemen rode up the twisting path to the fort gate with a message from the King.
‘We will speak with your leader,’ the leading horseman called out. He stood at the huge gateway that guarded the entrance to the fort – the stone wall pushing out to create a funnel guarded either side by firing platforms for the spearmen of the Cyl.
‘She speaks only to yours,’ a Cyl guard called back, as his comrades raised their spears in a show of intimidation that seemed to do little to daunt the messengers.
‘Then tell her this. She can speak to him as he pulls her head from her shoulders with his bare hands, after he has slaughtered all her people in front of her. There is no hope for your survival in this pitiful shepherds’ hut you call a fort.’
One of the Cyl warriors moved his arm back as if to throw his spear, but the Cyl guard who had spoken signalled fiercely for him to hold his arm.
‘But King Orlend is only your enemy while you hold what belongs to him,’ the messenger continued. ‘Give that up and you live. Give us the girl and he swears on the blessed earth of Fraxia that he will take his army and leave by first light tomorrow. Give us the Daw girl and you live; refuse and you die. You have until the sun touches the ridge of the valley to give your answer.’
The messenger raised his arm to signal his men, then turned and rode back to the encampment below.
The message had brought pandemonium to the fort. Word had spread quickly from the guards at the gate, so that almost as soon as the war council heard it a crowd of Cyl – warriors and civilians – gathered around the Great Hall. A small group of guards were pushing to keep their ground around the door as Nan came out to address them.
‘Why are they asking for that girl, Nan? What is going on? What have you been keeping from us?’ a young Cyl woman called out angrily above the melee.
‘Just give her the girl – what is the problem? Give her, or we will.’ The call from one of the older Cyl men drew calls of support and anger from the gathered throng and punches began to fly.
‘Silence!’ Dyfran roared as he stepped forward from the hall doorway – his powerful voice suddenly bringing the noise down to a few murmurs and hushes. ‘Nan will speak. You will listen.’
‘Thank you Dyfran,’ Nan said, resting her small hand on his powerful, mail-clad arm. She looked around at the gathered faces and saw anger, fear and confusion.
‘Bosyn,’ she raised her head to address the man who had just spoken. ‘Would you give your daughter to these animals? Or your granddaughter?’ The man shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but Nan held her hand up to silence him.
‘Would any of you? Because that is what you are asking me to do. Evie is kin, she is Cyl – she is daughter to us all. I will not give her up, just as I would not give any of you up. And nor should you.’
‘Why do they want her, Nan?’ One of the Cyl soldiers who had come down without permission from the parapets called out his question over the heads of the crowd.
Dyfran glared at him, but Nan signalled him to hold his anger, at least for now.
‘We do not know. Perhaps he is a madman, perhaps she knows something. She does not know herself why, but they have been hunting her. She never thought that she would bring them here and she herself has offered to leave, but I forbade it.’
The crowd burst into uproar again, but the spear points of the guard around the hall were raised to silence them.
‘I call another Assembly,’ one of the elders standing at the rear of the crowd called out, to approval from many.
‘It’s too late for that,’ Dyfran said. ‘We must give our answer by sundown. Nan will decide and we will follow.’
More spear guards now stepped in to disperse the crowd, though they kept their weapons shouldered and spoke calmly. One man called back to Nan with a voice of anger that she had betrayed the Cyl, but his companions led him away holding up their hands by way of an apology he was not making himself.
Dyfran turned to Nan and forced the closest his hard face could shape to a comforting smile. ‘These are just the noisy few – it will be fine when the time comes. S
ome of my men have left their posts, I need to go and put some discipline back into them and re-order the defences. I will join you later.’ Nan nodded and turned wearily back into the hall, where the rest of the war council waited.
‘So,’ Nan said, as she walked back into the hall and looked around the expectant faces of the assembled war leaders. ‘What in the name of the spirits do we do now?’
* * *
As sundown came a Cyl spearman tied a length of poplar to his spear and waved it high above the parapet of the gates. A small group of men rode up from the Sea People camp and waited as two broad wooden panels were pulled apart in the palisade that topped the wall. The small figure of an old woman, her face half covered with a hood and supporting herself with a gnarled wooden stick, appeared above them, and the men laughed to think this was the leader who faced the mighty Orlend.
‘Do you have your answer, woman?’ the messenger called.
‘We do,’ Nan Tabyn replied.
The Eagle
‘They want more time?’ Orlend barked, his spit speckling the face of a servant who had been massaging his feet with oil as the messengers entered his tent.
The servant cowed as Orlend stood and pushed her aside. ‘No. No, not one minute more. Tell the men we attack at first light this morning.’
The messengers bowed. The man who had spoken to Nan Tabyn was Harmul, the new leader of the Fah Hills tribe and a man whose allegiance Orlend had bought long ago.
Harmul coughed quietly: ‘My lord King, they did make an offer.’
Orlend’s broad chest expanded as he drew in a huge lungful of air. ‘An offer?’
‘They said they could give you the girl but it would not be possible without first putting it to their Assembly. They promised that if you gave them two nights, at most, then you would have their final answer.’
