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You are here: Home (fiction) --> Novels --> Chords --> Part I (chapters 1 to 10)
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“Our lives are works composed by an unseen, unknown composer; our bodies the instruments upon which that music plays; our actions and those of the people who share our lives the chords and harmonies of the symphony. Some rewrite the score now and again, but in the end, we must remember: it’s not our hands that shape the larger music.”—unknown pre-Exodus author
Chapter 1: Bram
Chapter 2: Gareth
Chapter 3: Margrethe
Chapter 4: Bram
Chapter 5: Gareth
Chapter 6: Margrethe
Chapter 7: Bram
Chapter 8: Gareth
Chapter 9: Margrethe
Chapter 10: Bram
As I crested the long, steep mountain path, the castle I’d seen from afar rose into view, gilded by a sunset that carpeted my path with my shadow. I stood a moment, leaning on my staff and catching my breath. It had been a pleasant but long uphill climb. As my breathing slowed, I enjoyed the play of soft pastel light on the slopes, a more pleasant task than following instinct and analyzing the number of towers and errors in their spacing. Gradually, the tightness in my chest eased.
Behind me, stone clattered under an incautious foot, and I spun, gripping my staff in both hands, to face the newcomer, eyes moving past him to confirm he was alone. But there was no harm in politesse. “Good day, fellow traveler.”
He pushed a lock of glossy, raven-black hair from his eyes, which were the blue of a deep mountain lake beneath the sun. He stood gracefully, hands raised and opened towards me to show them empty, his fine features unperturbed by the taxing climb that lay behind. He had smooth hands, save for callused fingertips on his right hand. Not a warrior, then, nor a laborer. He wore a townsman’s clothes, new enough to be unstained by the road’s dust and sweat, and he carried what seemed likely to be a harp bag, but no weapon. Oddly ill-equipped, given our distance from the nearest town. An enigmatic smile lit his face as he observed my scrutiny, and when he replied, his voice was mellow. “My thanks, and in my turn I offer you the good will of a fellow traveler. An auspicious invocation when the shadows lengthen. Do you also head for yon castle?”
“I do, and I’d be grateful for a minstrel’s company. These roads aren’t always friendly for one alone at night.” I thought of an earlier escape, but relaxed my grip on my staff. No sign of anyone at his back, nor ahead of me despite evidence horses had passed this way shortly before. He’d an open, honest look, and I’d once reckoned myself a good judge of men; I felt no ill will in him. I beckoned him to join me. After bowing, at once courtly and mocking, he glided the last few paces upslope.
“Lead on, friend, for we’ve a ways to go if we’re to arrive before they close the gates for the night.”
That ended our conversation for a time, as we needed our breath for walking, then for running the last few hundred paces as they began preparing to raise the drawbridge for the night. There looked to be a chill night coming, with the deep, clear sky showing the fragile clarity that only a mountain night possesses. When I’d begun my climb earlier, there’d been a hint of rain clouds, and knowing how fast mountain weather changes, I felt twice fortunate at the prospect of lodging. It proved a pleasant surprise when the gatekeepers welcomed us. Mind you, wandering minstrels are rarely unwelcome, and my strong back’s appreciated where there’s work to do.
And there’s always work.
A cluster of horses, still sweaty from the trail, stood by the stables at the courtyard’s far end, held by men at arms while grooms worked to dry them and ward off a fatal chill. Our hosts had guests, likely the same riders who’d preceded me along this trail. Sadly, my bed and board would be well-earned. My companion and I were separated before I could ask his name, and when they learned I’d worked with horses, I soon had work enough to occupy me. I’d hoped to find rest and comfort, an unaccustomed luxury, but I confess I’d also been too long without companionship. Though I’d needed time alone, a man must occasionally fill other needs.
I next met the minstrel while wrestling an ale cask into position in the great hall, which had filled with the castle’s notables and their guests; my ease, it seemed, was not to be purchased solely by a few hours in the stables. As I rose, mopping sweat from my eyes, the room overheated and airless, conversation ceased. A darker shadow emerged from an archway by the high table. Light gleamed from midnight hair and black satin garments as my erstwhile companion strode to the hall’s center, fingers wandering across harp strings and calling forth echoes from the vaulted ceiling. His harp was of an antique and ornate style, with a deep tone that resonated in my bones when he brushed the bass strings. He bowed towards the high table, then all semblance of diffidence vanished, and he played.
The reverent silence was richly deserved: he was a master of his craft. Even before I’d taken to the road, I’d never heard the like. His fingers built shimmering tonal patterns, flowing runs of sound. Between the chords wove his voice, merging with the harp, complementing it, coaxing forth echoes from the chamber’s walls and harmonies from the music. Through it all ran a gentle melancholy, waxing and waning in counterpoint to his words. When he finished, the final chords fading reluctantly, he stepped back into the shadows. We mortals, kissed by the mystical, returned slowly to the mundane.
There was no applause. Such would have been scant praise. Conversation resumed gradually, tones hushed. The keep’s lord and lady, clad in worn finery, returned to their dining and their guests, attended by watchful servants in shabby homespun. Gemstones dripped transformed lamplight from fingers and ears, but the light seemed subdued, as if in defiance of some inevitable fading. The lord’s men-at-arms stood here and there amidst the hall’s faded grandeur, grey-silvered in tarnished armor, lightly armed, boredom in every uncomfortable line. I shook my head to clear it, remembering how much brighter the hall had seemed earlier, then returned to my work, hoping to lift the mood. Uncomfortable memories had reawakened.
A gentle hand touched my shoulder, and I found myself facing the singer. “Look,” he whispered, eyes sad and voice wistful. “They’re unaffected by what they’ve heard.” Proud words, yet somehow not wounded pride. He appraised me a moment, then nodded as if he saw something. “Yet you were touched, and for that, I give warning. There: at the hall’s entrance? Our host’s men have company.” I followed his gaze and saw a score of men from the courtyard taking up position by the men-at-arms. “Our host has offended someone, perhaps, or proven inconvenient. Now would be a good time to leave.”
I felt a chill, despite the oppressive warmth, for there was certainty in his words. “How could you know this?” I scrutinized him, seeking signs of treachery.
In that same mellifluous, melancholic voice, he replied. “You must trust that mine is not the way of the sword, and that I serve other masters.”
He said those last words strangely, but I’d no time to ask, for a bellow of pain at the main door punctuated them, followed by clashing metal. In the momentary silence as the first guard fell, bedlam entered the hall, screams of outrage and agony sounding from walls that had recently echoed different music. The struggle at the doorway was over, replaced by chaos as people fled or tried to defend themselves. At the high table, daggers that had served as cutlery and less formal weapons were no longer being used for dining. Those newcomers not engaged with the remaining guards were hacking at anyone within reach.
I backed against the wall, and drew my dagger. Images of other battles rose before me, and I fought them down, sweating. The minstrel was gone, though he’d been standing beside me an instant earlier. Unarmored and out of practice, I had little hope of righting the situation, and this wasn’t my fight. I began edging toward a side exit. But an eddy in the crowd left me facing a blood-splashed newcomer, who turned on me, grinning, seeing what seemed an unarmed servant. He rushed incautiously, sword held too wide, and before he realized his error, I caught his sword arm, stepped inside his swing, and buried my dagger in his throat, wrenching it free as he fell.
Dodging a screaming servant, fear and anger keeping me in the moment, I tried for the man’s sword, but a comrade saw him fall and would’ve slain me before I could pry free the blade. The second man approached more cautiously, wanting to avoid his companion’s fate. I edged towards a table as he stalked closer, and caught up a pewter mug in the seconds his caution granted. He was almost on me, and in the moment’s clarity, I saw blood flecks in the coarse beard that lay projected from his chainmail coif. I hurled my impromptu weapon at his teeth. It missed, but following close behind it, I didn’t. The natural reflex to dodge my missile delayed his thrust long enough for me to grasp his wrist left-handed, pull, and twist to sink my knee in his stomach. Chainmail would’ve deflected my dagger, but not an impact; he lost his breath and his interest in fighting. I gave him no time to recover. I stepped back, still holding his wrist, and used my momentum to swing him against the wall; he struck headfirst and dropped in a jingle of chain links. I took the sword from his weakened grip.
Sword in hand, blood still dripping onto the rush-strewn floor, I sought my next opponent, my desire to flee subsumed by knowing I’d just become an actor in a struggle I didn’t comprehend. Atop the high table, our host and his guest rolled over and over amidst the remains of their feast. I didn’t pause any longer—outnumbered as we were, I did the only thing that might save us. I ran for the high table, arriving just as the two men crashed to the floor. Before either could recover, I wrenched the ungrateful guest from our host and onto his feet. His struggles ceased when I wrapped my arm beneath the line of his jaw and lifted him onto his toes. With the pommel of my sword, I smote the table. The noise turned all eyes towards me. With the sword at my prisoner’s throat, I shouted into the momentary hush.
“I’ve got your lord. Drop your weapons and surrender!”
To my dismay, the soldiers only laughed. The nearest mocked me. “Fool! Think you our master would risk himself here?”
The fighting resumed, and my reward was the attention of the speaker, who broke off pursuit of a wounded servant and came for me. Reflexes won over thought, and I pushed my captive into our host’s arms. I advanced to meet my assailant, waiting by the table’s end and catching up a serving platter in my free hand. As he drew near, I flung it at him, following closely—but this time my ploy failed. The man was a veteran, and deflected the projectile with his dagger and braced his sword to impale me. I met his sword in a desperate stop-thrust that backed him off, and leapt backwards to evade his counter. My reflexes were good enough to save my life, but the sword felt awkward, and unarmored, I’d be hard pressed to fend off a skilled attacker. Reluctant but not stupid, I gave ground before his disciplined attack, noting as I did that the fighting was dying down and the survivors, mostly soldiers who hadn’t left to pursue the castle folk, had begun slaughtering the wounded. At that moment, backing, I slipped on something and fell backward.
I deflected his reflexive lunge with an awkward parry that disarmed me and left me open for a second, final blow. But as he began that stroke, my host jumped him. The collision threw both to the ground, the soldier’s dagger buried in my savior. I gave his killer no time to untangle himself, and stilled him with a kick to the head, all I could manage from the ground. In the stillness that was replacing the moans of the dying, I appraised the scene.
My former captive had fled. In the rest of the room, nothing stirred save our assailants and guttering tapers; by sheer luck, none had toppled and started fires. Far off in the hallways came sounds of further conflict. I had moments to act before someone came after me, so I retrieved my fallen sword and crept behind the tapestry that backed the high table. As I’d hoped, it concealed an exit, and I stepped through, not knowing where it led but having no alternative.
There was no immediate pursuit. I eluded detection through luck and instincts honed by traveling alone in hostile lands. I eventually reached a walkway overlooking the courtyard, encountering none but the dead, and peered from concealment on the scene below. Most of the attackers still stood, surrounded by the corpses of the castle’s guard and several dying horses. I saw no prisoners, not even the castle’s women. Clearly, I could expect no mercy were I caught. The drawbridge remained up, leaving no escape that way, and a fall from the sheer walls into the empty moat would cripple me.
I withdrew into the shadows to think as the post-battle reaction took hold and I began trembling.
***
By the time the drawbridge lowered, I’d stopped trembling. I watched, unmoving and stiff, as a man mounted and rode into the night. As I’d expected, the remainder divided into small groups and separated to sweep the castle for survivors. I stretched cramped muscles, then crept to the narrow stairs nearest my position, smiling grimly as four men began climbing towards me. As the leader reached the topmost step, I flung myself on him, hitting him high to overbalance him and sending both of us into the men behind him. Narrow as the stairs were, the others couldn’t get out of the way, and our combined weight was irresistible.
Armor clattered against stone as we five tumbled to a jarring stop at the base of the wall. The impact winded me, but I was on top; those below were less fortunate. I got to my feet and recovered my sword. The topmost man had begun stirring, and the shouting from soldiers atop the far wall would soon bring help. I stilled him with a kick, then ran for the stables, across the courtyard. Several horses stood unguarded and already harnessed, so I cut the nearest one’s tether and swung into the saddle. Shouts warned me men were drawing near, and two men from the stairs were already on their feet and moving towards me. I cut the other horses free, took a deep breath, steadied myself, reined my horse around, and put my heels to his flanks.
Even without my spurs, the horse leapt forward. Steering with my knees, I turned him into the others, driving them before me. We fled towards the men trying to cut off our escape. Not being warhorses, the smell of blood and scent of their dead fellows maddened them. They fled across the drawbridge, scattering their owners, the drumbeat of hooves filling the night air. Crouching low across my steed’s back and hoping the dim light would confound any crossbowmen, I fled across the moat and into the night. I knew I could escape beyond earshot before any pursuit could be mounted. And I was fortunate; none were able to saddle the remaining horses or ride them bareback after me.
Tomorrow would be another matter. To conceal my tracks, I followed the other horses for a time before slowing to a walk and striking cross-country along a ridge beneath the new-risen moon’s light. I let the horse feel its way along. My proficiency at riding returned quickly enough—it’s one of those things you never forget—and I found the motion soothing. I’d seen forests east of the castle, and hoped the experience from my wanderings would keep me ahead of pursuit even if they had a tracker. But I doubted they did, and the soldiers wouldn’t feel enough at home in the wild to pursue me by moonlight.
By the time I reached the woods, the moon that had lit my way was dipping below the surrounding peaks. Several times during my flight I paused to listen for pursuit. Nothing reached my ears save the horse’s breathing and, now and then, the squeak of a hunting bat. Just outside the forest’s edge, I dismounted. The horse chuffed and stamped its feet, an owl hooted nearby, and a mosquito whined past my ear. Otherwise, nothing.
I led my mount beneath the trees. Rich leaf mold cushioned our steps, filling the air with a spicy aroma that mingled pleasantly with my horse’s pungent sweat. Leather creaked and twigs snapped as we walked, picking our way among deepening shadows. When the last of the moon slipped behind the peaks, leaving us in near-total darkness, I stopped. It would’ve been foolhardy to proceed further. I tethered my companion to a tree, removed his saddle, and wiped him down as best I could with the saddle blanket. Then I moved aside so he wouldn’t trample me while I slept, lay down, and closed my eyes.
I was more fatigued than I thought, for I remember naught else.
***
I awoke, stiff, sore, and cold, to a changed world. Gentle rain drizzled through a broken green canopy, and the horse tossed his head in silent reproach. I rose and stretched away the worst of the stiffness, yawned until my jaw cracked, and combed hair out of my eyes with stiff fingers. Not having eaten last night, I was starving. The saddlebags revealed a soft blanket, a coil of thirty or so feet of thin but strong hempen rope, a cake of stale waybread (which I ate as I completed my inventory), flint and steel, a half-full water skin, and a curry comb. These, the clothes on my back, my knife, the sword, and the horse were the sum of my resources.
I draped the blanket over my head to keep off the rain, then sat to ponder my circumstances. Memories of the night’s work returned, despite my best efforts to suppress them. I summed up my situation: I knew nothing of the lands I’d entered, apart from childhood rumors, and the only person I could ask had disappeared. (I felt certain the minstrel had escaped.) To the east lay unknown lands; at my back was nothing I could return to. It didn’t take long to choose. At least motion would keep my thoughts at bay. I considered discarding the sword, but as I’d been unable to retrieve my staff, and had reason to believe I’d need to defend myself again, I couldn’t bring myself to do so. Reluctantly, I cut enough of the rope to form a loop, tied it to my belt, and hung the weapon through it.
As the rain began tapering off, I followed my back-trail to the forest’s edge, then struck off at an angle to rejoin the road well east of the castle. As I swayed along, still stiff from a night on the ground, I wondered whether my problems might be more serious than I’d initially realized. In my land, anyone who could afford a horse could ride one; indeed, it’d long been necessary for survival. But the new lands I was entering followed older customs; riding was likely a right reserved for the nobility and their officers. I had no demonstrable right to my horse, and as horse thieves were despised in any land, I risked being hanged were I discovered on horseback. Not without justice, I admitted.
These thoughts led to the uncomfortable realization that last night’s killers must have been authorized to ride, and that I’d interfered with an officially sanctioned lesson... though that rang false given my failure to end the fight by capturing the apparent leader. Either way, that bade ill for my future in the lands ahead. Prudence won over my desire for mobility. I reined in, dismounted, and, resenting the necessity that forced my hand, gathered my few possessions in a saddle bag. Then I drove the horse down the road, hoping it would find its way back to the castle.
On foot again, I moved onwards at a pace I could sustain all day, knowing there’d be a village ahead of me at some point and that I must avoid it and other travelers. There was no telling what might follow the massacre, and I couldn’t risk stopping before I was safely through the next valley, at earliest.
As I walked, wary of pursuit, my thoughts returned to the fight, worrying at fragmentary images like hounds at a deer. Something about the men, their armor, and their horses clashed with what I’d heard of the Eastcountry. Pondering this took my mind off the familiar pattern of violence I’d fallen into last night with so little regret.
Cold rain ran down my neck every time I looked down from the wall. Things aren’t going well when you lose a tooth, your rank, and a fight, all the same day. But earlier promotions hadn’t lasted much longer, and the days leading up to the fight hadn’t led me to expect this one to last the month. The promotion’d already been feeling stale, and most days, I preferred just being one of the men.
I consoled myself with a sip of barracks-brew. Fiery liquor burnt its way down my throat. Having lost rank’s privileges, I’d gained a solo midnight shift at the western gate in the rain. Early summer was feeling an awful lot like early spring—a fair match for how things’d been going ’til then. I took another sip, and when I looked down again, feeling warmer and more philosophical, someone was standing in a puddle below the gate.
I looked him over best I could in the lantern light. Fancy black clothes, satin head to toe, and soaked to the skin. Glossy black hair, plastered flat to his skull. A shade too pretty for a man. A sack over one shoulder, its contents looking the only dry thing about him. We stood there a time, him and me, neither wanting to speak first. But eyes tell you lots about a man, and when I got a good look at his, I shivered: it was like looking at someone who’d woken from a bad dream. But then he gave me a sheepish smile and just looked embarrassed.
Well, I gave him a grin at that; just two poor bastards sharing the bad luck of being stuck in the rain and no one in the wide world caring. He recognized it too, and his smile widened.
“Good evening, brother guard. Might you find it in your heart to lower a half-drowned, half-frozen traveler a rope?” The voice was smooth as his looks, but male enough.
“I wouldn’t leave a dog out in this weather. C’mon up.” I lowered the knotted rope we kept on hand for visitors who arrived after we’d barred the gates for the night. He swarmed up the rope with surprising strength, and stood beside me on the wall, grateful and amused.
“Thanks, friend.”
“No problem. But if you don’t mind my asking, where might you be coming from in those fine clothes this time of night?”
“You’d never believe me.” His grin vanished. “But if there’s anything else I can do?”
I shrugged. “Just doing my job, not that those bastards care who I let in. Just show me what you’ve got in the sack.” I should’ve pressed him harder, but wasn’t feeling all that loyal. More to the point, he hadn’t walked far in those fancy shoes, with no cloak. Someone out avoiding a husband who’d come home early? A thief? The way he’d climbed the rope said he was nimble enough, but he looked wrong for that line of work. I shrugged. He looked cold, so I offered him my flask. He waved it off, so I took another swallow.
“I’d prefer not to uncover my harp, as the rain will damage it. But if you want to see it, come to the performers’ yard west of the palace at noon and you’ll hear me play like you’ve never heard before.” He cocked his head as if listening, but his eyes never left me. “Well, thanks again for your courtesy, Gareth, but I’ve pressing business at the palace. Have a good watch.”
I wished him good night and watched as he slid down the street-side rope like the thief he probably was, and I was just annoyed enough with life to let him go. He dropped the last bit, landed like a cat, and vanished into the shadows, black swallowing black. Just like a thief, except: What thief would be escaping into town?
Then I raised an eyebrow, ’cause I surely didn’t remember telling him my name, and I surely didn’t know his. And even feeling the way I’d felt, I’d never have let a stranger with things to hide come over the wall on a dark night without a lot more reason or a lot more liquor.
I’m not stupid, but I’d seen enough strangeness to be sure magic existed and that maybe someone had just worked some. So I took a little more warmth from my flask and went back to watching, checking the shadows a tad more carefully than before, hoping no one’d seen anything, and hoping no more strangers would appear out of the night.
***
Funny thing—that black-haired guy was the first thing on my mind when I woke next morning. That and my headache made me wonder if I’d drunk a little more than I’d thought, ’cause the dreams I mostly remember are drinking dreams. The only way to be sure would be to get to the palace, and if I didn’t manage, I’d spend the next month wondering. I haggled with my new sergeant, a drinking buddy from when I had his rank and he had mine, and got myself transferred to the midtown barracks. He shook his head like I was crazy, but he owed me a favor. An hour later, I arrived at my new home.
You can always tell when an officer’s around. All you do is drill, or worse, do makework too lousy for the common laborers. Before I even had time to locate the still, I was out on the parade ground with my new mates, slogging up and down the pavement. Lucky for the Baron, he doesn’t pay by the mile. As we wore ruts in the pavement, out came the sun. I don’t mind marching in rain, ’cause it cools the blood, but the sun’s another matter. It was a toss-up between whether we could sweat faster or the sun could dry us faster. The sun lost, though it was a near thing, and we spent the better part of the morning dripping sweat across the nice, clean parade ground, while people began gathering in whatever shade they could find. News had got around of the performance; the town crier must’ve had a busy morning. A few bastards cheered us on for a while from the shade, sipping drinks, but they eventually lost interest.
After enough years at this job, you learn to just do what you’re told while your mind’s off elsewhere. So that’s what I did while I watched the preparations. Several lackeys in livery were setting up a platform with a canvas roof by an entrance. It didn’t take much brain to figure out these were the expensive seats and that the crowd wasn’t here to watch us drill. That last night’s visitor was involved seemed a fair bet. Around noon, a commotion began on stage, and our officer emerged from the shade and told us to make ourselves comfortable. I was farthest from him when he gave the order, and he hadn’t learned my face yet, so it was easy to slip into the crowd when he headed back to his cold drinks. If he was typical officer material, he couldn’t count high enough to know one of his men was missing, and none of my new chums would enlighten him.
With the townspeople crowding ’round and the sun in my eyes, I couldn’t see much. Since nobody’d noticed I was missing, I found a better place to watch. There was a store with a balcony overlooking the platform, and I sweet-talked my way into a fine seat. In fact, the shopkeeper and his family weren’t much inclined to keep me company, so I had the balcony to myself. The way I smelled after half a day in the sun, I couldn’t find it in my heart to feel offended. I set my pack down by the railing, unbelted my sword, and settled back to watch.
Time passed, the noon bell sounded, and the crowd grew restless. I just sat back, put my feet up, and closed my eyes; in the soldier business, you learn to catch sleep when you can. When the muttering stopped, I sat up and peered over the balcony’s edge. The Baron’d arrived, and stepped forward to speak. He pointed at an old guy sitting to one side, said something about an emissary from the west, spoke a few words about difficult negotiations, thanked us for our patience, and promised a reward. There were cheers after he’d done speaking and stepped back to rejoin his personal guard. Then the minstrel appeared.
He’d changed clothing, and now wore a blue cloak so dark it almost matched his hair. Judging from how it caught the light, must’ve been velvet. The crowd murmured as he opened the sack I’d wondered about and produced a harp. It was pretty enough, all gold and glittery in the sun, but didn’t seem particularly worth the wait. But after the trouble I’d gone to getting a good seat, I figured I’d stay to see if he was any good.
I didn’t regret it.
I’m no great fan of court music, but this guy was good. I could hear every note perfectly, layer upon layer of them, and sadness underneath it all. I’m not sentimental, but something in me responded anyway. You could see it in the crowd too; they stood or sat there, mouths gaping, collecting parade-ground dust, barely breathing ’til he finished. My mouth was dry, and it was painful to swallow, so I must’ve been doing the same. I took out my flask and when I put it down again amidst the loud applause, the minstrel was gone like a dream, as if he’d never been there. A low, excited muttering began and I got ready to return to duty before the officer noticed my absence.
The Baron walked to the front of the stage and the crowd hushed. He raised his hands for silence, like he was going to make another speech, and the silence spread. But just as the last murmurs died down, there came the snap! of a bowstring nearby, and a crossbow bolt buried itself to the fletching in his chest. The Baron toppled from the stage without a sound.
Panic ensued.
Everyone was yelling and running about, and the few who weren’t were being jostled by those who were. Townsfolk were fleeing, my friends in the guard were drawing weapons and looking around, and far as I could tell, I was the only one doing anything halfway sensible. That’s because I’d spotted the bowman’s position, on the roof next to my balcony. I got myself moving before I was quite sure what I was doing. Stepping as far back as I could on the balcony, I took a running start, used the railing as a takeoff point, and jumped for the roof where the assassin’d been. I caught the roof’s edge, braced against the shock, and held on. I hit the building’s side hard, but my leather armor cushioned the shock. I pulled myself over the roof’s edge and landed in a crouch, ready for trouble. A big crossbow and two loose bolts lay there. Judging by the bow’s size, I didn’t want to meet this guy barehanded. I drew my sword, but the only sign of the killer was an open trap door by my feet.
If I were him, I wouldn’t be waiting around, so I pursued. Holding my sword against my side, I jumped down through the door, folding at the knees and rolling onto my left side when I hit, just in case I’d guessed wrong. My time hadn’t come yet, ’cause he wasn’t there. But I heard heavy running footsteps down the stairwell. I got up and ran after him.
This time, I guessed wrong. A blade licked out, nicking my ear as I leaned aside. My own counterthrust took the bastard in the chest, tearing through his leather cuirass. He screamed, and went on screaming as I kicked him off my sword and he rolled down the stairs. Then I spotted the guard crest, and I turned and ran, cursing.
Guess I wasn’t the only one who’d seen the assassin.
My luck held. The guardsman’d been alone. From the noises downstairs, that wouldn’t last long, so I ran deeper into the building, looking for a back exit. I saw a window ahead of me through an open door, and ran for it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw what the assassin’d left of the owners, an old couple and their daughter. I didn’t much want to end up the same way, so I kept going. The window was just above head height, so I jumped down, hit the ground running—and lost my balance, going ass over elbows into a trash heap.
I was down for maybe a couple breaths, but that was enough for two guards to round the corner. Things were going from bad to worse. The guards didn’t look to be in any mood for explanations, and since I couldn’t talk my way out of this one anyway, that left me only one choice. The first one was bloody young, and I was on him before he could react; then he was just bloody. His partner was tougher and managed to pink me a few times before I downed him. Then I was off and running again.
I managed to find a nice dark cellar before my breath ran out or any other would-be heroes found me.
***
Night again, and more rain. It suited how I felt, and it was the only thing that’d get me out of town alive. I slipped out of the cellar, sword in hand and leaving my armor behind, and catfooted it towards the main gate along the quietest route I could think of. Not a great idea, maybe, but I hoped they’d think so too, and would look elsewhere. Anyway, it was the best I could come up. There were extra patrols out, meaning I’d become just as popular as I’d feared, but I knew the patrol routes as well as they did and had no difficulty avoiding my former friends. When I reached the gate, I slipped into the shadows to wait while the dozen men on watch stubbornly refused to get careless enough to let me slip past unobserved.
It began looking like I was in real trouble.
As I began reconsidering my plan, I felt icy fingers creeping along my spine. The instincts that’d kept me alive through a mis-spent life drew my eyes to a dark alley leading to the walls. From out of the dark, starting off almost like normal night sounds, came a weird humming that vibrated in my bones, chasing those cold fingers up my spine. The guards on the wall didn’t notice—in fact, they weren’t noticing anything much at all. Then, between blinks, he was there, walking towards me, fingers crawling across the harp strings like pale spiders. But spiders don’t wear blue velvet and probably don’t talk as pretty when they come for you.
“Good evening, Gareth. I’ve come to repay my debt. I’ll hold the guards enthralled long enough to get you over the walls. But you’d best hurry; strange things are afoot this night.” He met my gaze, but his eyes weren’t all there, as if he were concentrating on something and didn’t have much attention left for me. I started to speak, but before I could, he frowned, and added something to the strumming. My feet moved on their own and carried me towards the wall. Needing no more encouragement, I broke into a run, caught the dangling rope, and hauled myself onto the wall.
On top, I brushed a guard, but he was frozen, unaware of my presence. I was almost too shook up to notice the music was still playing, driving me on. I looked back, but the minstrel was invisible in the shadows. I had just enough independence left to reach past an immobile guard and help myself to the pack containing the watch’s rations. I waved it back at my helper, slipped it over my shoulder, then slipped over the parapet and down the rope into the night. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I wanted to get there fast.
I’m recording my story in Volonor, in the far east, which is nominally the safest place to be right now. We hear increasing rumors of Goblin invasions in the far west, of the fall of kingdoms, and of vast slaughter, but in my experience, men exaggerate such things. Nonetheless, the stream of refugees that has begun arriving here, weeks’ travel from the source of these rumors, gives the rumors credibility. We make room for them, strive to house and feed them as best we can, for they’re our distant kin. No matter that they rebelled against us generations ago and carved out their own kingdoms in the West; they’re human, not Goblin, and that’s enough for us. My sources in the palace, and other intelligence, suggest things are very bad indeed, and that we must all pull together, as we should have done years ago after the war with Amelior.
The problems are no longer those of the Westcountry alone; they’ve become our common fate.
I’m simultaneously reassured, and terrified. Two of my loved ones have gone west to do what they may to avert this fate, and on the one hand, their grim competence tells me that if anyone can save us, they can. On the other hand, the part of me immune to logic listens too well to the wildest and most terrible of the rumors, making it hard to sleep without a draught from the palace surgeon.
But I’m getting far ahead of myself.
I’ve written this account because this is a man’s world, and all the stories that are told are those of our men. In fairness, they’re the ones who carved us a new home in this dangerous new world after the Exodus bore us across an endless sea. They fought and died to create what we now have, and no one can take that achievement from them. Our continued survival would have been impossible without their sacrifices. I leave to the historians the question of whether they were also primarily responsible for the destruction of our old world, and therefore reaped the consequences of their actions.
Yet on the other hand—the distaff hand, presumably—they were not alone in their efforts, though a student of the written history might be forgiven for thinking them alone. Yes, a few women fought openly at their side and died with them; I’ve learned over the years that many more undoubtedly fought disguised as men. And yes, some of their stories are known to us. But they are few, and their songs are sung less often than those of the men. So I’m recording this story—my story—to remind posterity, if there will be any posterity, that they were not alone. We broke our backs in the fields and in our homes, laboring in different ways, while they cleared us a space in which to live. Later, when they played at war rather than taking on a share of our burdens, we raised their children, and we put up with their arrogant certainties while clearing our own spaces in which to live.
Our stories have not been told, for they are not “heroic”.
In this chronicle, I make no claim that I fully and truly represent their struggles, for I was raised in a time of relative peace and prosperity and, despite humble origins, I rose to possess far more material things and liberties than most of my sex. Thus, I can only tell you my story, and hope that others have somewhere recorded theirs. I harbor no illusions our stories will agree, for we come at this tale from very different directions, with different priorities. Instead, I welcome you to my story.
I hope you’ll forgive me my early naivete; I was much younger when this tale began.
Night in the mountains has always been special. The thin air cuts with the sharpness of a freshly honed knife and intoxicates like strong wine. The stars dance on high for me alone. Now and then, when I’m exhausted and lonely, it even seems like something unseen, something older and stranger than mankind, is present, watching over me as I sleep.
Sometimes, but not this night.
Perched beneath a rocky overhang, gazing down on the lights of the unfamiliar city far below, I felt myself in the grip of my past. Memory, which had formerly honored its truce with my conscience, was back again in force, taking me to another night like the this one, before our attack on Kardmin. That night, I’d camped in the foothills above the city with my comrades gathered around, each wondering who among us would live to celebrate our victory the following night.
That was the night before we broke their resistance and took the city. The same night I broke my bloodoath, severing myself from the company of all who’d known me and setting foot on my present path. You could say something in me broke too that night. It was this fracture with myself and with my past that led me, after the final sword was sheathed and the last wound tended, to this mountain slope in a strange land. But tonight, there was dried blood on my sleeves, undeniable evidence that old habits had lain just below the surface, ready to awaken with appropriate coaxing. I found myself once more with sword in hand, though I’d never intended to serve any cause again.
I came back to myself, gazing downslope, and felt hot tears of frustration in my eyes. The night in the border keep was still with me, sharp as Kardmin would always be, and a week later, I still woke at night, images of slaughter and my part in it banishing any hope of sleep until exhaustion claimed me. No matter how well you think you’ve buried your past, the truth always surfaces. I’d learned to feel revulsion upon slaying a man, yet when a sword was drawn, couldn’t control the reflexes that led to his death. So there I lay, my back against cold rock, not daring to light a fire—but less from fear of what it might attract than from fear of my response.
By my side, colder still, lay the sword I’d carried for a week and that I dared not leave behind. The greater fear was of lacking its protection, not of being forced to use it. I took the grip in my hand, cradling it and feeling the comfort of worn leather, shuddering at how… right… it felt. I laid it down, and turned my eyes back to the city a traveler had named Arden. A prosperous town, with no ties to the keep behind me and knowledge neither of me nor of my past. I closed my eyes, and kept the thoughts at bay long enough for sleep to come.
***
I woke and opened my eyes, then closed them again, blinded. During the night, I’d rolled onto my side away from the sunrise, and my hand had curled instinctively around the sword’s hilt, holding it where it would catch the sun. I moved my hand, then opened my eyes again, more cautious this time. I sat up. The view was breathtaking, the sun peering over eastern mountains blithe with the promise of a new day. It was still early enough for the valley below to remain in shadow. As I sat, relishing my small, cold breakfast, surrounded by the near-silence of the heights, the sharp line dividing sunlit hilltops from shadowed fields receded faster and faster towards the valley’s floor as the sun rose. Finally, in one last rush, the concealing cloak of night was whisked from the land, baring all to my gaze.
Arden’s grey-brown stone slumbered in the light of dawn, plumes of smoke rising straight from rekindled hearths. The morning air was so clear, so free of the far city’s taint, I fancied I could reach out and collect the streamers of smoke in my hand. Yet the town was far enough away that no sound reached my ears, and I had at least two more days of walking downhill before I reached its walls. And even though I could almost see the first servants walking its streets, I knew the slopes before me were deceptive in their length and difficulty.
The sun’s rays warmed me as they forced back the night’s chill. Wheat fields beckoned below, still a long way from harvest, but there was cold dew on the ground around me. I sat still, basking like a rock lizard, while all around the pale ground mist rose. I sat in appreciative silence until the last dancing veils of vapor were banished by an awakening breeze and my bones had warmed. I smiled at the cloudless sky and rose to my feet, wincing as cold-tightened muscles stretched. I packed my scanty belongings, passed my sword through its belt loop, and begun my descent, careful to avoid patches of dew-slicked rock.
***
A day later, I’d reached the foothills. Gently rolling, mostly bare of vegetation, and clad in scattered taluses of the grey-brown local rock, they differed little from the steeper slopes at my back save for warmer nights. As I descended further, plants became more abundant until the bare rock was concealed other than along the well-kept road below me. The road wound past on its way to Arden, hedged by great banks of stone or earth. Farther from town, a lone traveler strode towards the walls. Perhaps the morning sun blinded him to my presence, for though he scanned around him as he walked, he gave no sign of having seen me. I quickened my pace, noting that our paths might intersect and eager for the company and a chance to learn about my destination.
But I misjudged his pace or mine, for he’d drawn almost level with my position by the time he came within hailing distance. Nonetheless, I filled my lungs to shout—then stopped and crouched behind a bush. From my elevated vantage point, I saw what the traveler had missed: three men, in ambush behind a stone outcrop. A short distance away, a fourth man lay in the ditch, sword in hand. While I pondered my choices, the traveler spotted the three ahead of him, but despite a hasty glance over his shoulder, missed the fourth. I hesitated a moment—this was no business of mine. Yet I couldn’t in good conscience leave him to his fate, and he’d owe me a favor if we chased off the ambushers together.
If I were fortunate, they were hill bandits, likely to flee when opposed by half their number of determined men. If not... Well, I would handle that as necessary. My best course of action would be to attack the three men from behind, with the advantage of surprise, and even the odds quickly. As I thought this through, the traveler went to bay, back against a rock wall, sword in hand. I found myself hoping the ambushers had no crossbows, that the solitary man could hold them off long enough for me to reach him, and that my presence would be enough to end the fight. Freeing my sword, I maneuvered so my shadow wouldn’t alert them, and moved downslope as fast as the ground and the need for stealth permitted.
If you’re going to be hunted, pick a large crowd to hide in. Despite my size, I don’t stand out that much and crowds provide good cover. So I headed east to the nearest big town after fleeing Kelfan, three days’ walk through the mountains. Nice thing about mountains is that they provide good cover and places to hide. Unlike a crowd, they’re quiet enough you can hear your pursuit before it gets too close. They also don’t mean a comfortable bed and good drink are nearby. On balance, I liked the prospects of bed and drink more than the extra warning—enough so, I chose the crowds.
I walked the road whenever possible, keeping an eye behind me so I could leave the road in a hurry if a group of armed men appeared. There was a better chance of being spotted, but I wanted to get as far as possible, fast as possible, before my hunters learned I wasn’t in town anymore. Besides, staying on the road looked less suspicious than skulking in the bushes like a bandit. The traffic was light, but twice after the first day, fast-moving riders rode past—probably couriers. They were moving fast enough they couldn’t have been looking for me, so I didn’t try to hide. Even if their messages were about me, there were more people I didn’t want to meet again behind me in Kelfan. So I kept on, wary of ambushes, and that saved me.
I was being more cautious than usual, ’cause the rocky banks that had risen around me gave plenty of cover for attackers and a tough climb to safety if a group came up from behind. Worse, the rising sun was in my eyes, making it hard to see the tops of the banks. On the other hand, it was the glint of sun on metal that warned me, and then all at once, three armed men waited ahead on the road. I put my back to a wall, drew my sword, and grinned, friendly as could be. But I glanced back along the road, and that’s why I saw the fourth man clambering from the ditch.
Three or one? I was just about to charge the loner when I realized I’d let the others get too close. If I ran, they’d stick me in the back. Worse, if they’d been waiting for me, they’d be more rested and I wouldn’t outrun them for long.
“Throw down the sword, traitor, and we’ll bring you home alive.”
I just grinned. Four on one wasn’t my idea of a fair fight even if I wasn’t the one. I relaxed, knowing that if they weren’t used to fighting as a team, I could kill at least one before they learned to stay out of each other’s way. Possibly two, and then it was a fair fight—particularly if there was a larger reward for me alive than dead. I drew a dagger left-handed, raised it to my lips and blew a kiss at the speaker.
Enraged, he charged, sword held too high. I waited ’til the last possible instant before I leaned aside, parrying. His wild swing, aided by a light touch from my own blade, connected with the rock at my back and jarred the sword from his grip. I stepped into him, sword circling to parry the next man’s cut, and buried my dagger in his chest. Even as the second man’s blade slid downwards to strike my hilt, I threw the dead man backwards with a grunt and wrenched my dagger from his falling body. Following him, I brought the dagger up to cross with my sword hilt, just in time to catch an overhand blow and trap the blade.
Things got busy for a time. I stepped hard over the first man’s body, barging into the attacker whose blade I’d trapped. He gave ground, but I took a shallow cut on my sword arm from his neighbor—the kind of wound that would eventually disable me if I’d been fencing, but my leather gloves would keep the blood off my fingers for some time yet, and this was hack-and-slash melee, which required and permitted less finesse. I was standing free again, blood running down my arm and dripping from my elbow, and by this time the rearmost of their company had joined us. Three angry men now faced me.
I’ll grant them this: they’d paid attention to their drillmaster. Might even’ve been me who trained them. They fanned out, enough so I wouldn’t have to confront all of them at once, but close enough I couldn’t face any less than two at a time. I gave ground grudgingly, backing down the road so none of them could circle behind me, and they followed. I kept my cocky grin, though the confidence behind it was slipping. They knew they had me now, even if I wasn’t going to admit it, and they were in no hurry.
Then the odds changed in my favor. A pack struck one of my foes from above, staggering him. It was followed by someone who landed badly, sprawling forward on hands and knees. I was just as surprised as the others, but the surprise hadn’t happened at my back, so I recovered faster. I closed with them, kicking one in the groin—he dropped with a strangled whimper—and ringing my blade off another’s helm. My new ally was on his feet again, facing the man he’d hit with the pack, who’d turned to face the newcomer. That was all I had time to see, ’cause I was too busy with the others to pay attention to his fate.
As I advanced, I trod hard on the downed man’s throat. I was rewarded by a satisfying crunching noise and a stinging slash across the chest from his buddy. But then I had only one opponent left and I relaxed. I left my last foe lying, dying, as I turned to see how the newcomer was doing. He’d already finished his man and was standing over him, bar-rigid and with a look of shock. Behind me came a gurgling noise from the man with the crushed throat.
My ally’s voice was quiet, and sounded just as appalled as he looked. “Why couldn’t you yield?” I said nothing. Not everyone’s comfortable with killing, but it surprised me anyone willing to risk his life for a stranger would be bothered by having to kill to do it. Either he was an idiot, a wandering knight who’d had one too many blows to the head, or both. I bandaged the wound in my arm with a dead man’s shirt, pausing only to finish off the dying guy and have a look through his gear. When I’d done, my ally was wiping his blade on his dead foe’s cloak, distaste plain. I was glad to see he wasn’t going to go to pieces on me before I learned who I was indebted to. I cleared my throat, and when he faced towards me, I pulled off my leather glove and stuck out a bloody hand.
“Gareth. Thanks.” He paused a moment, then reached out to take my hand. He had a firm swordsman’s grip and all the proper calluses, even if he let go a mite too soon.
“Bram.” His voice matched the grip, and there was no tremor. My guess was he’d turn out to be a good man to have beside you in a fight, once he’d gotten over his fussiness about death. Now we had time, we took the chance to size each other up. He stood half a foot shorter than me, slim but built strong; if I was a bear, he was a wolf, all whipcord and lean muscle. His face was soft and cleanshaven, framed by ragged, shoulder-length black hair caught up in a leather band. But his skin was burned by sun and wind, and his eyes were a piercing green and held a look that belied his softness. If I’d thought he was a kid, I was wrong—there were lines around those eyes that implied his years, and a quiet strength I’d seen before in professional soldiers. But he looked away first, cocking his head as if to hear better.
Taking in his shoddy kit—he didn’t even have a sword belt!—I bent to remove a sword belt from one of the ambushers. “Here... you look like you could use this.” He caught it easily, but as he belted it around his hips, a sound distracted him and he glanced back over his shoulder. I set about gathering what money the men had carried, dividing it into equal shares. By the time I’d finished, I heard hoofbeats, racing up the road in good company. We both had the same idea, and climbed into the rocks above the road.
When the horsemen arrived, we were hidden and ready, more than head height above them. There were four, and fear grew in their faces when they discovered their friends’ bodies. As one dismounted, they began cursing and looking warily around. After kneeling to examine the nearest body, the leader shot to his feet and drew his sword. “Blood’s still wet. He must be close!”
Bram stirred, but I put a finger across my lips. Below, the leader remounted and stood in the stirrups, craning his neck for a better view. I smiled, loving their fear. I was the hunted one, was I? I saw no sign of a bow or crossbow, a large mercy. Confidence surged, and I got to my feet. The horses shied back in surprise and all eyes turned my way. I motioned to Bram to stay down.
“Looking for me, gentles?” I crossed my arms on my chest and planted my feet, savoring the moment. Apprehension grew on their faces. After all, there’d been four ambushers and only one of me. My grin widened as one of the men at the back mumbled something and took a firmer grip on the reins. Gathering his courage, the leader rode forward to confront me, forcing him to tilt his neck even further backwards to meet my eyes.
“We’ve orders for your arrest, Gareth. Surrender, and we’ll take you back alive.”
“Funny, that’s just what they said.” I nodded towards the corpses. “Come and get me, if you dare—I know what mercy an assassin can expect.” Bram gave a startled grunt and got to his feet, face drawn in indecision, hand gone to sword hilt. Out of the corner of my mouth I hissed at him. “Patience… I’ll explain when these offal are gone.” To the riders, in a much louder voice, “Better leave now before we come down there and send you after your buddies.”
That was enough. The rearmost two backed away, then fled at a fast trot, looking back over their shoulders. The third man followed. Seeing the odds turn against him, the leader spat a curse and wheeled his horse. He rode off, back stiff with fear, but too proud to look back. Braver than I’d expected, and even if I’d had a crossbow I’d have let him live. I laughed aloud and turned back to Bram, who was watching me, eyes narrowed.
“Well, Bram, they’ve seen your face now. Welcome to the brotherhood of assassins.” His look hardened, and I softened my tone. “Sorry. Bad joke. And I’m innocent, believe me.” In my most sincere voice, I added, “I was in the wrong place at the right time for someone else to get away, and I left without explaining.” He still looked dubious, so I seated myself on a rock, sheathed my sword, and gestured for him to join me. He didn’t sit, but he relaxed and let me tell my story, right from the first time I’d met the minstrel.
I hadn’t really expected the story to help, but his eyes narrowed when I described the music and he took his hand off his sword. I’d have to remember to ask about that later, but I didn’t want to give him any more time to get suspicious, ’cause frankly, I was still having problems with the story myself.
“We’d best be going. They’ll be back soon with reinforcements, and you won’t want to try to explain what you’re doing here with me.” I gestured back at the bloodstained road and he nodded. “And Bram? Sorry. Not the best way to repay you for your help.”
Without a word, he turned his back and began climbing the rocky slopes behind us, moving at an angle to the road. With a shrug, I followed. If he was willing to stay with me, I wasn’t going to turn away another sword.
I can forgive my mother for fostering me to the palace. She scarcely had food to feed herself, let alone a child, and she could have followed the example of many others and left me at the door of the brothel down the street from our hovel. I don’t remember my father, and my mother never spoke of him that I recall, so I can’t say whether he deserves forgiveness. Sadly, I remember little of my mother and less of where we lived. I was too young when we were parted.
As far back as I can recall, I trod the hallways of Volonor’s enormous palace, trying to stay out from underfoot and remain unnoticed. The Mistress of Household Ladies was a stern but, on the whole, decent mother surrogate, and took pride in regimenting our days and making us useful to the royal family and the many, many hangers-on at court. Early, when I was too small to carry much, I bore messages—and woe betide me should I get lost and a message go astray. Then she’d cane me, though in fairness, no more than a stroke or two and never on bare flesh. I learned quickly, not being fond of the cane. When time permitted, she taught me reading and writing, a gift I’ve always been grateful for, and gave me access to scrolls both old and new. There were so many new words to learn that I pestered anyone who I could hold still long enough until they taught me the meaning.
As I grew, I began to carry heavier burdens and took on other duties, such as reading scrolls to bored Ladies in Waiting to entertain them during their embroidery. Many of these tales were too scandalously adult to have any meaning to me, though as I grew older, one Lady or another deigned to explain things in ways that caused me to blush red to the roots of my hair and look on men with a jaundiced eye. More practically, I learned the rudiments of a woman’s arts: embroidery, darning of torn clothing, and work in the kitchen—something for which I had no talent, so that I was soon dispatched elsewhere. But I also learned to navigate the complex tides of the society of palace servants, in which each jockeyed for a better position and the chance of real advancement.
My world was circumscribed. From the time when I arose before dawn to long after sunset and the quenching of the oil lamps, the only time I saw the sky was through a window or those times when I accompanied my betters into the gardens at the heart of the palace, so I could clean away the defecations of their lapdogs. Sometimes, they indulged me and let me play with the bunnies, cats, and puppies that infested the gardens until I grew past the age where that was cute. Despite these limited horizons, it wasn’t a bad life. I was fed, clothed, and healed when necessary—a far better fate than most who lived outside the palace walls, I later learned. I acquired useful skills and some friends. And I kept my wits about me, and thereby learned to see and navigate the currents that run through a court, though I lacked sufficient connections to fully grasp where some currents originated and others flowed.
On the whole, I worked too hard to be bored and was too isolated to know aught of the larger world, though I heard tantalizing scraps from the wives of visiting nobles who gossiped with the Ladies in Waiting I sometimes served. I was abused verbally—rarely physically—when I erred or performed too slowly. But again, I learned fast, and those abuses dwindled. And for all the work, there was time that could be stolen for luxuries such as reading. Fairy tales and legends of the Exodus were my favorites, for they spoke of a much larger world I vowed someday to see.
Things changed for the worse—or at least more complex—when my menses began. The Mistress of Household Ladies took me aside and taught me what was necessary, but she also had a warning: “Beware child. Now that you’ve flowered, many men about the palace will begin thinking of you as more than a child and seek to pluck that flower.” Having read scrolls that told of such things, this came as no surprise. What came as a shock was the understanding that it might apply to me.
“Try not to find yourself alone in a man’s presence,” she continued, “and you’ll be glad you took that precaution.” She mistook my shocked look for incomprehension, and elaborated in detail that made me blush crimson. Yet at the same time, there was a certain excitement to the notion. The people in those scrolls seemed to be having an enormous amount of fun, and pursued such activities with a single-minded determination that bemused me.
“One last caution, child: Should the worst happen, come see me immediately. I have remedies to ensure that if nothing else, you’ll at least not find yourself carrying the man’s child.”
Excitement notwithstanding, I took her advice to heart and was careful, whenever I left the company of women, to be sure that no man followed. Indeed, I armed myself with a small but well-honed knife I stole from the kitchen and concealed in my kirtle. Twice, I used it to good effect to warn off aggressors when my care came to naught and a man had the chance to lay a hand upon me. After a time, I’d established enough of a reputation that most left me in peace. In hindsight, knowing what I now know about men of war, I completely misunderstood how little protection that knife provided in the absence of any knowledge of how to use it.
My life changed when I attracted the attention of a certain Edmund, a member of the lesser nobility. He had a reputation among the servant women as a rake, as they listened quietly and collectively heard everything that passed within the palace, but he was too charming and me too naïve to credit it. Things began innocently enough.
“Lady?”
I rose from the chamber pot I was replacing in the guest room to find myself facing a stranger: a man past the first flush of youth, yet still young and handsome. He had flashing blue eyes, chestnut hair, a slight fringe of beard, and clothing cut to show off his fine masculine figure to best advantage. I felt my cheeks flushing and a certain warmth growing in my belly as his eyes ran down my body and back again to meet my eyes. Remembering the Mistress’ warning, I put my hand to my knife.
“Forgive me.” He bowed deeply. “Your beauty demanded that I appreciate it. But I’m done taking liberties, and will now focus on you. My name’s Edmund.”
His smile disarmed me. “Margrethe,” I responded, before I could think the better of it.
“I know you must be busy, but it would give me great pleasure to walk with you some time when you’re free.”
“I’m never free,” I responded, but seeing the disappointment bloom in his face, I relented. “But perhaps in a few days, when the current crop of visitors has left, I shall be.”
“I shall wait in breathless anticipation.”
In subsequent days, he made a point of seeing me each day, delivering a compliment and sometimes a small gift such as a fruit from the orchard. He was always scrupulously polite and correct, right up to the point when I began wondering whether he would ever move beyond that and attempt something incorrect that I could respond to enthusiastically. At night, those ribald scrolls haunted my dreams and sometimes made it difficult to sleep. Looking back, I feel shamed by how easily he deceived me, though I’ve learned to forgive my youthful self. And it’s also true that Edmund was well practiced at the art of seduction, and took his time to ensure that I trusted him fully. Suffice to say that when I finally relented and granted him what he wanted in his room, it was both exhilarating and, despite the warm glow, ultimately disappointing. Edmund clearly knew what he was doing, but only for his own benefit.
I have no heart to rehearse the details. Suffice to say that when it was over, and he’d left—which he did quickly, with a casual suggestion that I close the door when I left his room—I cleaned myself on his bedsheets and hastened to the Mistress’ chamber. There, she brewed me the foulest concoction I’d ever tasted, before or since, laid me on a blanket atop her bed, and held my hand—though I nigh crushed hers at times—as the cramps went through me, worse by far than my menses. Hours later, when it was over, she gently washed my face, disposed of the soiled blanket, and bade me be more cautious in future. Then she waved me out of her room. Years later, I learned there are simpler and less harsh remedies, and in hindsight, suspect that her remedy was delivered more in the way of punishment and warning than as curative.
Needless to say, I never heard from Edmund again, other than formally polite greetings those rare times our paths crossed thereafter and his rigorous maintenance of the pretense that nothing had happened between us. I recall the heartache that weighed upon me in the following weeks, but in the end, I replaced it with anger, and a burning desire to revenge myself upon him. That revenge would take some time to achieve, and contrary to what you may have heard, that did not sweeten it any.
For the remainder of that day, we traveled in comfortable silence, moving mostly away from the road but west of where they’d expect us to go. I appreciated the quiet, for I had much to think on. Gareth’s story rang true, as it was so like my own, and it helped draw my thoughts from the fact I’d been obliged to kill again, and this time someone performing his lawful duty. Yet once, long ago, I’d dealt with assassins, and Gareth was stamped from a different mold. True, he’d been ruthless and efficient in the fight, but he was too big and fought too well to fit the pattern. Moreover, I’d taken his measure afterwards when we locked eyes and I was convinced I could trust him—at least for the moment. I’ve been forced to judge a man often enough, with scant time for error, and my survival bears witness to my success.
By nightfall, we’d reached a ledge I’d seen earlier, where various signs indicated we might find a stream. The stream turned out to be nearer than anticipated, and surrounded by a screen of low-lying scrubby bushes. Gareth laid himself flat to drink, careless about exposing his back. As the sun touched the western peaks rising above us, the light waned and I felt a touch of uncertainty. Suddenly I wasn’t nearly so confident my companion was worthy of my trust. We’d be unable to light a fire lest it attract our pursuers, and I resolved in that moment to be sure I could sleep in peace. I had an idea, and drew my dagger.
Gareth was less trusting than I’d thought, for he rolled aside in an instant, rising in a crouch with sword in hand. Facing me, rough face gone cold, features shadowed by his coarse beard, I felt myself near death. He straightened, standing well above my own height, yet looking twice my size in the gathering gloom. Before my courage failed, or he could misinterpret my gesture, I reversed my grip on the dagger and poised it above my palm.
“Do Easterners still honor the custom of bloodoath?” His stance relaxed, and he sheathed his sword, nodding. I drew the dagger’s point across my left palm, relieved that this ancient custom survived, for I’d been unsure. He approached, wordless, as blood began welling from the cut, then took the dagger and made a matching cut in his own palm. Then we clasped hands, blood flowing slick and warm across our palms, squeezed out by the force of our grip. As initiator of the ceremony, tradition required that I speak first.
“By our mingling blood are we bonded, companions in all adversity, oath brothers henceforth.”
His paralleled those words prescribed by tradition. “Sword-brothers, by spilled blood of self and foe. While together, let neither fear his back unguarded; while apart, let no wrong to one go unrighted by the other.”
As he said the final words, I felt heat surge in my hand and flow into my arm, and when we unclasped our hands, the blood was gone, leaving only a thin scar. There was a pause, and his deep voice held a note of amusement. “And now you can sleep, knowing I won’t slit your throat. That is, if you feel you can trust the oath of an accused assassin, who might not fear the magical and mystical consequences of breaking a bloodoath. But you’ll live to regret it in coming weeks.” He grinned fiercely, then turned back to the stream.
Embarrassed at how well he’d read my thoughts, I turned away and began making camp as the sun settled behind the mountains and darkness flowed across the land.
***
I took the first watch, too thoughtful to sleep. My palm ached, though the closed wound was trivial. Gareth had no such problem and was soon snoring, face turned to the sky. After a time, the moon rose. I sat cross-legged amidst the dew that had begun forming, sword naked across my knees, watching his sleeping form. He looked even bigger now, though the moonlight was gentle on his face, hiding its lines and scars, making him look closer my age. As I watched, an old, familiar peace descended on me, that same contentment I’d last felt guarding sleeping comrades half a world away. The bloodoath came to us from the times of chaos long ago, before the Exodus that had led the survivors of our race to this land to make it our own. Legends told of the fate of those who’d broken such oaths, and fear of the consequences had haunted me since I left Kardmin behind. Though magic had all but passed from our lives, one thing was certain: every generation spread new tales of those who broke such an oath.
I shook off the mood and returned my attention to the job at hand, remembering how close we remained to the corpses of his pursuers. Every now and then I rose to scan downslope, pause, close my eyes and listen. Occasionally, I would sniff the night air for the scent of torches or horses, though I was unlikely to smell either before I saw or heard them. I’d done this for several hours when sleep began to weigh upon me. I rose, then began pacing to stay awake, and so it was I saw a light.
An indeterminate distance across the slope, previously concealed by a fold in the rock, there hung a faint illumination. So faint I was unsure, despite the darkness, I was seeing anything other than reflected moonlight. I averted my gaze, relying on the keener night-sight of indirect vision. The light remained, pale and diffuse as the reflection of torchlight on low-lying clouds, but it was there nonetheless. I crouched down, and the light vanished. Moving behind a bush, I rose until the luminescence reappeared. Then, using the pommel of my sword, I scratched a line through the shallow soil, pointing in the direction of the light. As I repeated the same process from a foot away, at a different angle, Gareth’s deep voice sounded from behind me.
“Trouble?” Moonlight glinted on a drawn blade.
“Company, farther along the slope. I’m marking it so we can avoid it in the morning, though from the position, it seems unlikely to be pursuers.”
Silence for a moment. “Where to head, you mean. We’ve got to know if they’ve spotted us.” There was a hard edge in his voice that I didn’t much like. “All right, then. You take your turn, and I’ll watch for a while.”
***
I awoke, well rested despite my earlier trepidation, sun streaming down on me and my mouth drier than old pine needles. Without opening my eyes, staying still and breathing slow and deep, I listened. I heard nothing save the stream’s quiet gurgle and my companion’s breathing. I opened my eyes then, just enough to peer through my lashes. Gareth squatted to my left, half turned away from me with a frown of concentration on his broad face. Near as I could tell, he was watching the slopes I’d marked last night. Yawning, I sat up and stretched prodigiously.
Only a tilt of his head suggested he’d noticed; his eyes still kept watch. I started to wish him a cheery good morning, for indeed it was such, but his vigilance warned me. Crouching, legs still cramped, I moved to join him, staying low. He anticipated my question, speaking softly and stifling a yawn.
“Cave mouth, no signs of life, no fire. But something’s down there, sure.”
“You’re certain? This deep in the hills it could be a wil’o’wisp or...”
A snort of mirth. “Wil’o’wisps? Next you’ll be warning about witches!”
“Or spell-casting minstrels, perhaps?” That shook his composure. “Are you still set on seeing what we’ve found?”
“Of course I am! Or should I say we, brother?” He rose, looking down at me, half-mocking. Again, our eyes met and I strove to read what his face hid. He looked away first this time, but I’d had the chance to glimpse a little more of his nature, confusing though that glimpse was. I grinned. It felt good to be needed again. I knelt by the stream to wash and wake myself. The water was ice cold, and refreshing.
Before setting off, I took a moment to scout a path towards the cave, noting the patches of cover that would screen us from the road. Traveling by day was not the best plan, but we still had time before the hunt was organized, and I preferred the risk of discovery to a bad fall in the dark. I led us upslope, Gareth following. Every so often we paused to scan the road and look towards the cave mouth (now hidden) for any signs of motion. We moved silently save for the occasional scuff of a boot on stone, and the sun rose higher. The cave wasn’t distant, but my caution delayed our arrival until midmorning, still having seen nothing more threatening than some small furry thing that fled across the slope before we could catch it for dinner.
The cave mouth was fronted by a pit sunken nearly a tall man’s height below the surrounding ground and filled with water of an indeterminate depth, bordered at the near end by a fringe of rock just wide enough to stand on. Across the water, an erratic swath of water lilies traced a path into the cave, maybe fifteen feet distant. Perhaps ten feet high and half again as wide, a rock overhang warded the morning sun from the entrance. The darkness was so absolute beyond that point we could see no more than a foot past the entrance. The darkness remained every bit as impenetrable when we descended to the water’s edge for a better look.
Kneeling by the water, I took the rope from the saddlebag and tied one end to a small rock. I lowered the weighted end until it would sink no further, then withdrew the rope. The water was a dozen or more feet deep.
“Well, brother, we shall have a small swim before us if you want to continue.” He muttered something I missed as I laid the rope on the sun-warmed rocks to dry, but made no move to comply. I stood, and once more surveyed the scene before us. The pond surrounded the cave mouth and the rock overhang made climbing impossible without hammer and chisel. Swimming appeared our only choice. Then, reluctant to swim blind into who-knew-what, not convinced it was necessary in any event, I had a thought.
I hadn’t initially noticed that the lily pads were unusually large for such plants. Furthermore, I’d never seen lily pads growing in a spring-fed mountain pool. So I leaned precariously over the water, noticing as I did that the plants formed a close-spaced pathway into the darkness. Leaning closer still, I observed a small clump of mud clinging to a pad that grew beneath the overhang. I detached the rock from my rope, and dropped it onto the nearest large pad—which supported the weight more easily than it should have. I prodded it with my toe, and it didn’t move an inch. On a hunch, and evading Gareth’s startled grab, I stepped onto the first lily pad. It wobbled, sinking slightly under my weight, but supported me. With a delighted chuckle, I took several more steps, and, in mid-pond, I turned, swaying to keep my balance, to face an incredulous Gareth.
“Then again,” I grinned, “perhaps we shall keep our feet dry after all.” I beckoned to him to follow, then turned, wobbling, my curiosity kindled, and moved into the cave. Behind me came the sound of flint on steel as Gareth struggled to light a piece of wood we’d collected and wrapped with cloth to serve as a torch.
I didn’t venture farther, for I could see nothing within the cave, and my bobbing green stepping stones vanished into the darkness. Close to the unknown as I was, could there be something lurking near enough to sweep me from my perch into the water? Unbidden, thoughts came once more of the wil’o’wisps that border scouts assured me lurked in such dark and abandoned places. I drew my sword and waited for Gareth’s torch. As I balanced there, waiting, my nostrils began to tell what lay ahead.
There was no powerful musk, so it was doubtful this was any large animal’s den. Neither was there the dank, mildewy odor one might expect from a wet cave. Rather, subtler scents awaited me, some pleasant and familiar, others bitter and outside my experience. There was nothing truly unpleasant, which was a good sign despite hill-folk legends of monsters luring unwary travelers to a perfumed death. Light washed across me as Gareth arrived. He passed me the torch, which helped reveal my path but did little to dispel the hovering dark. I stepped slowly onto the next pad, Gareth at my heels.
As we passed beneath the overhang, the torch flared and all at once the cave’s interior was revealed. A handful of paces ahead, the trail of water plants ended against a wide rock ledge. Beyond that lay a firepit and pallet of fresh-cut pine boughs. To our left, carved into the smooth stone walls, were shelves covered by dozens of small earthenware jugs and leathern sacs.
Other curious equipment stood in the shadows cast by our torch, as well as the commoner implements a hermit would need to survive. I said as much to Gareth, then stepped onto solid ground. Gareth brushed past me, then set about using the torch to light oil lamps positioned in shallow notches in the walls. This done, he cast the torch into the fire pit. The dim, pleasant light that suffused the cave revealed a tunnel mouth leading into the mountainside. I moved to stand by it, sword still drawn, ready to listen for signs of the cave’s denizen. From behind me came the splash of water and the hiss of the torch, and I looked back over my shoulder. Gareth stood with his back to me, legs spread, relieving himself into the fire pit. The torch went out, and ashes splattered onto the clean-swept cave floor.
“Ashes in the pit, full oil lamps, and fresh boughs in the bed,” he said, calm voice echoed by the now intermittent stream of ‘water’. “Someone was here last night. They’re probably still nearby.”
At that, a tingling feeling spread through me, as if my limbs had gone to sleep, and a voice came from the tunnel ahead. “Perceptive,” said a rich female voice. I turned to face her, or at least, I tried to: I found to my horror that I was stuck in my twisted pose, unable to move. Footsteps approached and I felt a warm, callused hand caress my neck. I shuddered, strained to shift myself in any manner whatsoever—and failed. The voice went on. “It seems old Grace has guests after all this time.”
Gareth stood unmoving, though I could see muscles bunching at the back of his neck in his vain effort to face our captor. Then the footsteps moved around my blind side, and I steeled myself for what I might see.
Caught with my breeches down! When I heard the voice, I tried to turn and found out I couldn’t even move a finger... much less anything more exposed. So I stood there straining every muscle and going nowhere as the footsteps came nearer. Then she moved in front to where I could see her: an old woman in a patchy, much-mended robe. She must’ve been twice my age by her look, a foot shorter, and had the look of someone confident she had the situation well in hand. I could move my eyes, so I stared over her head rather than meeting her gaze. I felt madder than a sergeant fallen into the latrine and twice as embarrassed. It didn’t help that she was so cool, or that I could see her from the corner of my eye, giving me a slow once over.
“Fie, sirrah! Is this how you greet a lady? Gracey, how the world has changed since you were a girl!” She stood there trying to look stern, shaking a gnarly finger at us, but she couldn’t hide her smile. “Well, gentlemen, have you no manners whatsoever? Who be you?” She was the only one who could talk, and was gloating about it. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”
As she spoke, a skinny grey cat stepped from the shadows, giving me a wide berth as it moved over to its mistress and began rubbing against her legs. “Well, Precious, have you indeed stolen their tongues away?” The cat gave a spiteful yowl. “Tell me then, Precious, what shall we do with these fine... gentlemen?” The cat moved a little bit away from her and squatted down by my feet. It gave me that same head to toe inspection, and despite myself, I blushed like a virgin. ‘Precious’ gave a loud sniff, then vaulted into the woman’s arms and began purring.
“Well indeed!” said the woman. “Precious has good taste in men,” she went on, “so I guess I’ll be letting you go.” She reached into a pocket and pulled out what looked to be two lumps of wax with scraps of leather and metal stuck in them. Long fingers began pulling at the scraps and as they did, a burning feeling passed through me and my muscles unknotted. I did up my breeches while footsteps told me Bram was moving again too. I cleared my throat, but he spoke first.
“Forgive us, Lady, for our rude entry into your abode. I’m Bram, and my large companion is Gareth. And who, if I might be so bold, are you, Grace?”
“Merely a simple mountain witch, gentlesir, merely that. But what brings men of such obvious breeding to my humble home?” She looked meaningfully at me and I glared back. I put my hand on my sword, but didn’t draw since Bram had gotten her talking. Besides, though I was angry enough to feel no fear, I wasn’t fool enough to dare a witch’s magic without better cause.
“Hunted men find it inconvenient to worry overmuch about the nature of their actions. But you need fear nothing from us. Forgive my friend, Grace—you have, after all, caught us in a rather... awkward... position.” I saw the bastard holding back a smile. “Last night we spotted your fire, and came to ensure we weren’t being followed by our enemies, and that we’d not be reported were we seen. Please accept our humblest apologies for any damage we’ve done.”
“A glib tongue, and courtly. Very well, I’ll forgive you. Hunted, are you? You at least lack the look and sound of a common criminal, first impressions notwithstanding.” She shot me a sideways look in case I’d missed her point. “Well, then. Tell me what you’ve done to offend our masters.”
“I’m an assassin,” I spat, “or so they say. Bram here was unfortunate enough to associate with me before he knew why I was running. Then he was unwise enough to make the association more permanent.” I showed her the scar on my palm. “Any more questions?” My defiance back, I was almost my old, bold self again.
“Oh, yes, my fine lad, questions aplenty, and not just on the magic you invoked so carelessly. But I’ve a faster way of answering them if you’ll trust me.” She looked calmly at Bram, then beckoned us to be seated by the hearth. I sat instead on her pallet. She didn’t miss the gesture, nor did her cat, which hissed. She shrugged and sat beside Bram, taking his hand in two of hers. “This will be simple, and not unpleasant if you relax and don’t resist me. Merely gaze into my eyes, hold my hand, and relax.”
I stood up, unsheathing my sword. “No. I won’t let you bewitch him.”
Bram smiled, confidence in his eyes, and it occurred to me we didn’t have much choice in the matter. “Come now, Gareth. We were wholly in her power a few moments ago and yet she did us no harm.” Which was true, yet made me no more comfortable.
I sat again, feeling awkward and not a little worried. If he’d been trapped in a spell, I didn’t dare slay the witch in case he remained trapped, and my oath wouldn’t let me risk that.
“Watch if you like,” Grace added. “Kill me if I do anything suspicious.” Then she turned back to Bram, ignoring me.
Bram met her gaze, and their eyes locked. The fingers on his free hand began clenching into a fist, but “soft, soft” whispered the witch, and he relaxed again, with an obvious effort. There came a silence that dragged on too long, and the cat crossed over to place a paw on their linked hands. I tried to shoo it away, but it ignored me and I wasn’t going to mess with obvious magic. After a moment, my oathbrother shuddered and turned away from us. For a moment, I saw Bram in the witch’s eyes when she faced me, and it put the wind up my back.
“So,” she said. “So and so.”
I glared at her, feeling a comfortable scowl settle into place. I resheathed my sword, reminding her what she could expect if she played us false. All the same, I made sure I didn’t meet her eyes, just in case. Bram had recovered and was watching us with a guarded expression. The cat minced over to him and curled up in his lap and, without thinking, his hand drifted down and began stroking it, making it purr. I bared my teeth at it, thinking that if it’d come to me, I’d just as soon have strangled it.
“Well then, my lads, well then. What will you be doing with yourselves now, being so popular with the locals?” Absently, she began scratching at an itch.
“Ankur,” I grunted. “Far enough from here to be safe. And I hear their lord needs good swordsmen.”
“Aye,” she said. “Safe for the moment. But these hills are no place for roaming right now. You’d not get far before the next ambush, and this time they’d have bowmen or slingers and you’d not escape so easily.”
Despite myself, I felt a chill. How’d she know that? I looked to Bram, trying to ignore her knowing smile, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. His face was closed tight, looking like mine felt, and you could tell by the way the lines sat there his face wasn’t used to it. The cat stared right back, and that scared me—animals aren’t supposed to look at you that way. I scowled at Grace.
“Meaning, maybe, that you’re looking for us to stay for a few days. Good—so long as you remember we’ll be watching the whole time so you don’t invite anyone. Understand me?” She shook her head dismissively, then rose and walked over to her shelves, gathering up some sacks and pots. Taking a small knife in one hand, she turned back to me.
“Do as you desire. I must return to my caverns to collect certain things, for if you found me this easily, my wards must be nearly spent. Since you don’t trust me, I’ll take your friend along to keep me from mischief.” She winked, then beckoned to Bram, who shrugged and rose, spilling the cat to the floor. He dusted himself off and began to follow her.
I caught his arm and spun him around. “You’re all right? You’ll be all right alone with that witch?” He looked me in the eye, sober, and nodded. Good enough. I let him go, and without a word, he stepped through the gap at the back of the cave, the cat following close behind. I saw a torch flare up, and in its flickering light, saw the cat staring back. Its look gave me the creeps, and I spat into the fire pit. The cat wrinkled its nose in a silent snarl. Then it turned and leapt through the gap, following the torch.
***
They’d been gone a long time, and I was getting itchy for something to do. There’s only so many times you can clean a sword before you’re just doing makework, and there wasn’t enough room to do any proper drills. I prowled around a while, found nothing interesting, and eventually decided to walk back across the water to see what was going on outside. A dim sort of light filtered into the cave, enough to reveal the lily pads but not enough to let you see outside. More witchery.
After a few careful steps, my head emerged into bright sunlight, blinding me a moment. I sheathed my sword, wobbling around on the plants, and hoped no one had seen the light glinting off it. Then I stepped onto the pond’s narrow shore, looking and listening for any signs of life. There was nothing, so I carefully climbed out of the pit for a better look around.
Far below, the road was easy to see. I couldn’t make out anything beyond a dust cloud headed west, so I let my eyes adjust to the bright light before trying again. I knew they were out there, so I wasn’t too surprised to see sun glinting off steel. Now I could see tiny forms crawling over the rocks far below, picked out by occasional sunglints. Eventually, I counted four groups of men, scouring the hills for any trace of us. Nobody was near enough to indicate they’d found our trail, so I let myself relax and watch their progress.
They showed a clear talent for missing our trail, or else maybe Bram had been a better scout than I’d thought. I watched for a couple hours as the sun slid westward. When I got bored, I crept back to the water’s edge. I stuck my head deep into the icy water and held it there as long as I could, letting it cool me. When I could bear it no longer, I pulled out and shook my head, water spraying everywhere. Too late, I found myself hoping the splashes would dry before anyone wandered past. Wiping wet hair from my eyes, I stepped out onto the lily pads again.
There was no problem until I reached the overhang. I could have sworn I’d left the oil lamps burning, but they could have gone out left it darker than a latrine at midnight. Though the dark didn’t bother me, not being able to see my next step did. Balanced on one leg, using the other to grope around for the next step, I moved into the darkness. Then all at once, the lights turned on. That surprised me enough I missed my footing.
I came up spitting water, glad I wasn’t wearing armor, and it was pure luck I came up with my head in the light. I drew a deep breath, sank again, then began floundering my way to shore, spitting water and curses. Echoes bounced from the walls and ceiling, adding to the ruckus. I was hauling myself out of the pond when I heard running feet. Bram came out of the gloom, torch in one hand, sword in the other. Seeing only me, he skidded to a stop, eyes darting back and forth in search of trouble.
When he realized what’d happened, an ear-to-ear grin split his face. I glared at him with such malevolence he should have died on the spot, never mind our oath. Instead, he couldn’t hold back any longer, and burst out laughing, sending more echoes bounding about the cave. I flushed and put my hand on my sword hilt before I realized how funny it would have been if Bram had fallen in. I smiled sourly, watching his face redden with laughter until at last he stopped, out of breath.
Grace came out of the darkness and entered the cave more slowly, preceded by her cat, fingers glowing. “Look, Precious, at this rude man, bathing in our only water supply without even removing his harness. He must be modest indeed to fear exposing himself to our gaze.” There was unmistakable malice in the last line.
I stood in an expanding puddle, and drew my sword. Bram had stopped laughing, and sheathed his own sword. I pointed my blade at Grace, who put her hand to her breast in mock fear. The pale light on her hand faded.
“You have some explaining to do, witch. How is it no light leaves this cave, yet we saw your fire last night?”
“Put your weapon away,” she replied distastefully. “Have you forgotten I’m a witch? My enchantments and conjurations require open skies, not dusty caverns. No,” she continued, reading my thoughts, “I didn’t summon you and your friend; ’twas your curiosity did that. You saw my witchlight. With the wards grown old, it escapes. But the spells still work against those dull and unsubtle of mind. Such as the searchers now outside,” she added, almost as if she hadn’t meant the comment for me. “Well, then, will you be slaying me where I stand, or are you just drying your sword?”
I felt like a fool. She turned away and moved over to the shelves. Bram came over, blanket in hand. “You’d best shed those clothes, brother, before you catch your death of chill. I’ll dry your gear for you.” I hesitated, then began undressing as Grace called back over her shoulder.
“Don’t let modesty hold you back. After all, you’ve got nothing I’ve never seen before.” Bram grinned again, not the least bit sympathetic.
In a fury, I began tearing off my gear.
I’d hoped to move on, let what happened be a lesson that would never happen again, but it turned out not to be in my nature. The wound I’d been given festered, and made me eager to make Edmund hurt the way he’d hurt me. But I was realistic enough to know I could never match him strength for strength, neither physically nor socially. So I bided my time, awaiting an opportunity to return hurt for hurt. This took months, during which time I found the Mistress’ remedy had been effective and so, did not follow in my mother’s footsteps.
Months later, the king announced a feast to celebrate the arrival of emissaries from the west. I had no access to the councils of the powerful, but I’d learned to listen, as had most of the other women among my fellows in service. Indeed, the things we learned were a delight and an education. Together, after the lights were extinguished, we whispered in our dormitory what we’d heard, often second- or third-hand and often mutually contradictory. But by knowing the women I lived with, day in and day out, and by paying most attention to first-hand testimony, I learned to give appropriate weight to what each said. It seemed the emissaries had indeed arrived from the west, from a kingdom whose name meant nothing to me and that I therefore did not remember until much later, seeking assistance in some war. It seemed unlikely our king would accede to their requests, but that didn’t mean he was unwilling to host them graciously and send them on their way with a full belly.
At the feast, I deliberately spurned Edmund in a way I now consider painfully immature. Most likely, I only amused him, and my clumsy flirting with other men at his table undoubtedly caused me more harm than benefit in the long run. It certainly brought disapproving looks from the other women—some because they had their own ambitions, but in hindsight, mostly because for every man I allowed to pinch my buttocks, two more attempted the same with the other women.
As I say, I was young and had no notion of what I was doing.
As the night wore on, more and more of the men below the high table fell asleep by their cups, smitten by the ale they’d consumed and weighted down by immense quantities of food. Those at the high table were more moderate in their consumption, and remained awake and in deep conversation, though I was far too low in the women’s hierarchy to be allowed to serve them or indeed, to even come close enough to overhear their words. So I contented myself with waiting for Edmund to fall—made easier by ensuring that his cup never stayed empty for long—thereby giving me a chance at revenge.
By the time those at the high table had left, only the most dedicated drinkers remained. I found Edmund slumped below his table, having fallen from his chair and pissed himself when he hit the ground. The lamps had burned low, and the other servants were busy with their own tables, so inspired by his condition, I found a moment when my fellows were otherwise occupied. Shifting my smallclothes, I squatted low over him and relieved my own painfully full bladder at great length. If I’d had it in me, I’d probably have defecated on him too, but it was not to be. Still, it was immensely satisfying.
Sadly, I hadn’t been nearly so clever as I’d thought, for at least one of my fellows had seen what I did. Mistress called me before her the next day, and yelled at me until her voice nearly failed, threatening me with banishment into the streets should such behavior ever happen again. She ended on a softer note.
“Margrethe, I know you’re young enough that you think you know how the world works. You don’t. You have no power in this world, and must accept that. If you’re caught in such behavior by those we serve, I won’t be able to protect you. So accept your lot, and suffer, if necessary, in silence. Do you understand?”
I nodded my head. I took her lesson, though not perhaps in the way she’d intended. I resolved that rather than treading the path of silent suffering, I would instead take care to never again be caught.
In the following years, I engaged in various romantic dalliances, but always remaining firmly in control of my head and my heart. Listening to the other women, I learned that there were ways to pleasure a man—and to take pleasure myself—that did not risk motherhood. But most of all, I guarded my heart carefully, having learned that true love was not to be my fate so long as I remained a palace servant. Only once more did I require Mistress’ horrible remedy, so I remained free both of a child and of the horrible diseases I’d heard rumors of.
And so the years passed, on the whole without any events sufficiently remarkable to recount. I grew wiser in the ways of the women I served, and could at times guide them in ways useful both to themselves and to me. And I watched, and listened, and slowly grew wise in the ways of the men they served, something that would prove helpful in future. Though I had no reasonable hope of advancement beyond my station, I’d read too many legends of the Exodus and later years, and so, dreamed of meeting a man who would set me free. Perhaps the son of a wealthy merchant or a knight’s squire, who would notice my outer and inner beauty and take me for his wife. But so long as I was imprisoned as a palace servant, there seemed little hope I’d ever meet such a man. Still, one could always dream, and my dream was more practical than those of the other women, which usually involved princes or great knights and becoming the lady of a great house, with their own flock of servant girls.
On top of Gareth’s humiliation, he had to tolerate most of a week of inactivity: the searchers remained in the hills below for days, obstinate beyond my expectations. Grace’s new “wards” kept them away, and remembering the unease we’d felt while she restored them, it was no wonder. But it left Gareth impatient and grumbling. I tried to coax him along when Grace and I went on our expeditions into the caverns, but he soon grew bored and took to lying outside by the pool, watching the searchers. Meanwhile, I got to know Grace and to learn some of her abode’s lore and what I could of the country we’d entered.
If one looked past the patched and worn cloak, the grey silk hair, the gnarly hands, the wrinkled face, one found a vital personality, spirit burning as brightly as when she’d been a girl. It was there in her brown eyes, and you felt it when she looked at you, as you’d expect of a witch. You could hear it in her perpetually amused voice. When she jested, never missing an irony, it was easy to forget her age. When we were alone, talking about nothing in particular, I found myself regretting our age difference.
But Gareth never looked, rankled by their first meeting. Grace never let that wound heal, constantly sparring verbally, but I suspect she hid a secret fondness for the big man. I’m certain Grace knew how much she intrigued me, though she never admitted it. When we walked through her caverns, collecting mushrooms, pallid and odd-shaped plants, and the blind fish that swam in subterranean lakes, she would pause to explain what she’d taken and how it related to her craft. The latter was beyond my understanding, though I learned much about the caverns. With varicolored rock everywhere, they had an unusual beauty.
Such was the manner of our existence, talking when the mood fell upon us or staying silent, wrapped in our own thoughts. I found the time pleasant, a chance to retire from the world and be at peace, alone with my thoughts when I chose to be. Grace also appreciated the company—even Gareth’s. But Gareth grew increasingly restless, and I began to share his discomfort; it wasn’t as if we were great friends yet, but something beyond our oath had begun to bind us.
Once the search had moved beyond sight, the time had come to leave. But as we sat by the fire, bellies full of mushroom and fish chowder, I realized it was time to ask Grace about something that had bothered me since we met.
“Grace,” I said, laying aside my earthenware bowl and licking a last drop of soup from my lips. “You know many things obscure to ordinary men, which is only to be expected of a witch. But I suspect you also possess lore once known to many, lost though it be, now.” I collected my thoughts, Grace and Precious watching closely. “When you looked into my mind and drew out our recent history, I felt your surprise—recognition, almost—when you learned of the minstrel. It seems more than coincidence that death followed soon after Gareth and I met him. What do you know of him?”
Silence fell save for the murmur of the flames. Grace’s eyes were distant, and a small mewling sound emerged from the cat. Then, quietly, the old witch spoke. Even Gareth sat straighter and listened.
“Too much for the answer to please... but not enough to satisfy your curiosity. Long ago, when I was young and foolish, my mistress told the story of a man from a vanished time, a handsome youth named Dariel. From her voice, I thought the story to be merely a faery tale told to enchant a young girl and keep her mind on her lessons. I remember, for in those early days I was never sure which ramblings were stories, and which were lessons in the craft. For the discipline it afforded, I learned to commit everything she said to memory. But your experience suggests this was more lesson than story.
“Dariel became the greatest musician of his age, though few but minstrels know him today. How long ago? So long the oath of blood-bonding you and your ‘brother’ over there swore didn’t yet exist.” Our eyes met a moment, her expression grave. “Be warned: an oath sworn in blood cannot be lightly set aside. There’s power in the life force of blood. You may have known this when you rashly invoked that ancient magic, but you were no less foolish to do so.”
She paused and licked her lips. “Of one thing I am sure... The stories of oathbreakers we hear as children are, if anything, simplified and made more pleasant than the truth.”
I shivered. Gareth noticed, but maintained his silence. If Grace noticed, or understood my unease, she chose a diplomatic silence. “There are ever fewer of us who have studied the ancient lore. Most was lost when we crossed the great ocean to escape the doom that fell upon our ancestors—or that we brought upon ourselves, some say. Precisely what the oath meant to our ancestors is lost. I know only that the need for it was greater than the need to bind men together to survive in the face of disaster. The oldest tales hint that many things once part of our lives are gone forever, but reading their hints is like trying to explain castles by describing a moat. Nonetheless, the fear inspired by even those diluted tales has made the bloodoath rare these days.” She met my eyes. “At least in the Eastcountry.
“Be that as it may, Dariel was mortal and grew old. Other minstrels preserved his lesser songs, but none was capable of the greater ones, the songs of power. Dariel saw that the beauty—indeed, the magic—of his songs would be lost forever when he died. Some philosophers believe each man’s life is one small group of chords in a greater symphony, and that fate guides each life by how it plays our chords. Legends say that Dariel’s music had fate’s power to change lives. To preserve his music, Dariel sought the greatest sorcerer of his age, a man as skilled in magic as the bard was in song. And he asked: How may I keep my vision from fading?
“Folk today lack knowledge of true sorcery; they think we few remaining witch folk are sorcerers, and are ignorant of the power and danger of true magic. This sorcerer had grown wise in his study, and could evoke the greatest conjurations as easily as Gareth there sends men to the grave. He explained that such a boon as Dariel sought could only be had at the greatest of prices. He was right, wasn’t he, Precious?” The cat had shrunk back against its mistress, eyes wide.
“But such was Dariel’s need, he’d pay any price that his songs not be allowed to die. The sorcerer repeated his warning, and seeing it ignored, made his preparations. Sorcery follows laws we cannot imagine, but summoning the power required for such a spell would have been difficult even for a master. Even one such as Precious nearly took more than I had to offer. Does this startle you, Bram? I see it disturbs Gareth. One cannot always control what one summons, and precautions must be taken to ensure it does not control you. So Dariel chafed at the bit and moped, even as Gareth does, until the summoning could begin.
“The legends don’t tell what power was summoned or its cost. Many sorcerers practiced before the Exodus, but Dariel was no sorcerer and whatever restored his youth and vigor undoubtedly carried a heavy price. Some tales say the sorcerer also paid a price, but that price is lost to us.
“Why have you never heard of Dariel? Part of his price was to pass beyond mortal ken and become part of the great symphony until he’d faded from our memory. Part of the answer lies in the tens of generations that separate us from that age, and part lies in the magic that saved us from the cataclysm, though at the cost of leaving so much behind to be lost forever. My mistress speculated that we were forced to forsake our memories of the old lands, save for such grimoires as we preserved, from which my kindred pick and learn... and from which we die should we stray beyond the safe limits all witches set for themselves.
“Some suspect Dariel paid his price by bringing about the cataclysm. Don’t squirm, Gareth. The Exodus was when the battles of legend were fought, the legends all warriors such as yourselves feed on throughout your youth. But the greatest battles of that time were fought in ways beyond what we can imagine, and much that was mystical perished with the sorcerers who strove to control the magics they’d unleashed.
“If it’s true our world is some vast and mystical symphony, with each life forming but one small part of the larger score, then perhaps Dariel gained immortality by becoming part of that symphony... so that in the end, the musician became the song, or something stranger. And in doing so, perhaps Dariel attained the power to change that song. If this is true, then Dariel can change the chords of any life, reshaping them and bringing changes as violent as the strongest storm... or easing that life into silence and erasing even its echoes. Some stories tell that a great minstrel, perhaps Dariel, appeared before the worst of the Exodus, harbinger of what was coming, as crows and other carrion birds gather before great battles.
“That, Bram, is what I know of your minstrel. That, and the knowledge that he seems to have entered our world once more.” She wet her lips, firelight softening her face and restoring a youthful gold to her hair. Gareth looked more thoughtful than was his wont, and I felt the turmoil of my thoughts graven on my face.
Grace’s tale sat heavily, bringing implications I wasn’t yet ready to consider. Had my broken bloodoath...? Mastering that fear with an effort, I sat in silence, pondering long after the others rose and began their preparations for sleep. I sat on after they said their goodnights and the fire burned down to coals. I watched their light shifting ceaselessly, and remembered melancholy music in a border keep.
Sleep claimed me at last, bearing strange dreams. In one, Precious confronted me, staring into my eyes as if he had a message to impart, then left, frustrated.
***
When I woke, there was no sign of Grace save a wax-sealed earthenware jug of soup. While Gareth collected our gear, I walked a short distance into the caverns, calling her name. There was no answer save the echoes. I returned to Gareth, wondering whether a lonely old woman might prefer not to say farewell in person. Casting a last glance back, I took from a chain about my neck a ring I hadn’t worn since Kardmin, and set it on her bed. Then I followed Gareth out of the cave.
The day was overcast and smelled of rain. A warm, moist breeze snapped at our heels as we descended towards the road. It was risky to travel by road, but the time we would save made the risk worthwhile. By now, the hunt had slackened, and it had been more than a day since we last saw searchers. So we descended, pausing now and then to scan the road. If they’d left watchers on the heights, they were skilled beyond my ability to detect.
In late afternoon, we reached the road. Apart from occasional sprinkles, the rain held off, but it grew colder as the sun dipped beneath our jagged horizons, and far-off thunder spoke amidst the peaks. It was time to find a camp. Gareth was first to spot the overhang above the road, and we reached it shortly before the storm began. We had time to eat, soup warmed by a hasty fire and bittersweet from the memories it awoke, before the clouds opened up. The warm, playful morning breeze was chased away by a colder wind, then this too died away.
In the ensuing stillness, every sound had an acute clarity. Thunder spoke once again, shaking the rock on which we lay, and without further preamble, the skies filled with curtains of falling water. There was an audible clap, gone almost at once, as the water struck the tight-packed earth of the roadbed and began rushing in angry, swirling torrents across the land.
The storm lasted a day, but was subdued after its initial furious salvo. Gareth and I remained dry in our shelter. When the steady wall of water tapered off into a light drizzle, and light once more walked the land, we drew our cloaks tight and headed east beneath a leaden sky shot through with washes of silver. Arden, no longer a safe port for us to call in, fell behind us a day later, and our path bent once more uphill, through the mountains to Belfalas.
The first long leg on our journey to Ankur.
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