Jiriki was somber. “My sister is even now singing against the wind, trying to convince Khendraja’aro that your concerns cannot simply be dismissed because he dislikes mortals. And now that I have heard your story of this strange Rimmersman who travels with Norns and the message he sent to you, I am more than ever convinced that Aditu and I have the right of it. But unless our uncle and the rest of our people change their hearts, we can do nothing. Tell our friends in the Hayholt that I am sorry, Count Eolair.”
Morgan thought it was bad enough to be rejected, but to be ignored too was almost more than he could stand. It made him feel like a child standing beside the table waiting for the grown people to finish their talk. “Whose baby does your sister carry, Jiriki?” he asked suddenly.
“Prince Morgan!” the count said. “Some tact, please.”
“Don’t pretend you weren’t wondering, Eolair. Don’t blame me because I wasn’t afraid to ask.”
“That is not—” The lord steward broke off at a low flutter of sound from Jiriki. It took a moment for Morgan to understand that the Sitha was laughing, which only irritated him more.
“Forgive me,” Jiriki said. “We should have spoken of this earlier. I forgot that among mortals such things are often wrapped in shame and confusion. This one time at least, Eolair, Prince Morgan is correct—it is not a question that needs to be swallowed. My sister is indeed chiru—ready to share with the river of our people. In other, less complicated days you would have celebrated it with us, Eolair of Nad Mullach, because it is a rare and fine thing.” He turned to Morgan. “And although your question is not as important as you think it is, it will be answered, young mortal. Yeja’aro, our clan cousin, is the father.”
“Are they married?” Morgan asked.
Jiriki smiled. “No, it was not—is not—that kind of pairing. We have only a few births each generation, and in our house this is the first in nearly a century, as you would reckon it, so of course everyone was pleased by the tidings.”
So these were his grandparents’ beloved Sithi, Morgan thought in disgust—the magical creatures they always talked about as though they were angels or even gods upon the Earth. Yet they lived in the forest like bandits, could not defend themselves against a small force of mortal attackers, and their royal women bore children out of wedlock without shame or care. He felt cheated. The whole mission had turned out as he had feared—just an excuse to get him out from under his grandparents’ feet for a while.
When they stopped at the edge of the clearing a cold breeze came to meet them. They could see sunset glow through the branches. “You have only a little way to walk to reach the open lands where your friends and soldiers must be waiting. Farewell.”
“Farewell, Jiriki,” said Eolair. “I wish our meeting had been happier.”
“Do not despair, Nobody, not even the wisest, can know all ends. We may meet again in a happier hour.”
Eolair smiled without conviction. “I do not think I have so many hours, Jiriki—we do not live as long as you Sithi. My gods have nearly finished with me on this earth.”
For a moment Jiriki stood silent. Then he extended a hand and clasped Eolair’s. “As I said, nobody can know all ends. I hope your gods spare you longer than you suppose.”
“I will pray for your mother’s return to health,” the count said. “And for the safe birth of your sister’s child.”
Jiriki nodded, then turned to Morgan. “Faith,” he said.
The prince was startled. “What?”
“Faith in others, Prince Morgan,” he repeated. “Faith, as Eolair has, that most of your fellow mortals mean well.”
“But you don’t believe that!”
“Oh, but I do,” said Jiriki. “And I believe it of my own folk as well. We would not be having this conversation otherwise.”
“The world is full of liars.”
“All the more reason to look for truth and value it when you find it. And do not forget faith in yourself! Faith is all you lack, I think, to make your grandparents proud. Good luck and farewell, seed of the Hikka Staja.”
Before Morgan could do more than stare and wonder at what his last words meant, Jiriki turned and strode away; within a few moments he had vanished into the forest as if he had never been there at all.
“What did he mean? What was the name he called me?”
“I do not know, Highness,” said Eolair. “But we had better discuss it later. Now we should make our way out onto the open grassland as quickly as we can while we have the light. We don’t want to spend the night in these woods.”
Morgan shivered, though he did his best to hide it. “I hope Porto’s made a fire, at least.”
• • •
By the time Morgan and the count reached the forest fringe, the only trace of the sun was a bright blush along the western horizon. As they emerged from the last tall stands of birch and oak and onto the shrubby slopes leading down to the riverlands, they could see a smattering of fires on the meadow before them and a tangle of smoke like scratches against the darkening sky. They hurried toward them, the long grass whispering around their knees, then slowed and stopped.
“There’s no one there,” Morgan said. “No one waiting. Where have our men gone? Why would they all leave?”
Eolair looked up and down the plain. “Perhaps they are out searching for us—time among the fairy-folk is said to be different. Perhaps we have been away longer than we suspect.” He leaned forward, squinting now. “My eyes are too old to make out much from so far away—do you see anyone moving?”
“Nothing. Nobody.”
As they drew nearer to the silent camp, Morgan felt himself go cold all over, though the summer evening was warm and there was scarcely any breeze on the meadow. He could hear the river just a short way ahead, though it was too dark now to see more than a dark line across the grass. Most of the fires had burned down almost to coals, but they were not, as Morgan had first thought, deserted cookfires or the abandoned campfires of sentry posts.
When they reached the first fire they saw the last flames were feeding wearily on splintered wheels and blackened poles. “That was the supply wagon,” said Morgan. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded like a dead man’s, a ghost in an old folktale predicting doom. “By the Sacred Tree, what happened here?”
Eolair walked to the far side of the burning wagon and stood looking down. After a moment, Morgan went to join him and almost stepped on the body lying at the count’s feet. “Oh, Aedon preserve us,” the prince said, then turned away. “His guts are out.”
“There are three dead men here all together.” Morgan was surprised by the steadiness of the old man’s voice—the prince felt himself only a step or two from madness and terror. All around them stretched the empty grasslands. “And a dead horse, too.”
“But who could do this?” Morgan asked. “These were Erkynguards.” It still did not seem remotely real. “And where are the rest?” But Eolair did not answer. After a moment, the prince looked up and saw Eolair was staring out across the grassland to the north. Morgan turned and saw a troop of armored men on horseback, several dozen at least, riding along the edge of the forest toward them.
“Are they ours?” said Eolair, but the count did not sound hopeful. “My eyes are not strong enough. Can you tell?”
Morgan squinted. He could feel his blood pounding in his head. “They have no insignia I can see—no banners, either. And all of them are wearing different kinds of armor.” Even as he looked, the nearest of the riders spotted them and suddenly the whole force was riding toward them, waving axes and spears above their heads.
“Bagba bite me!” Eolair cursed. “Thrithings-men—or bandits!” He grabbed Morgan’s arm and gave him a push. “Run, my prince. Run to the forest!”
“Are you mad?” Morgan had already drawn his sword. “I can’t leave you—”
“You can and will,
curse your stubbornness! You are the heir to the High Throne, young man, and it is my duty to keep you safe. My life is nothing to that. Run to the forest and hide there. If I survive, I will come and call for you. If I do not—well, try to find the Sithi again. Go!”
“No! I won’t!” The drumming of the attackers’ hooves grew louder as the horsemen swept toward like a thunderstorm, only a couple of arrows’ flights away and closing quickly.
Eolair shoved Morgan again, so hard that he almost stumbled and fell. The count had his own long, slender sword in his hand now. “By Murhagh’s bloody stump, if you do not run, Prince Morgan, I swear I will kill you myself before letting the Thrithings-men take you. Some of the clans burn prisoners alive!”
Morgan took a step toward the forest fringe, then another, but he could not imagine leaving the old man to die. “Come—we’ll both run.”
“I would never reach it,” the count said. “I am too slow. No, you must escape.”
“But I am a prince!”
“Fire does not care about such things,” Eolair cried, “and neither does a Thrithings spear.” Morgan could see little in the twilight but the count’s pale face. “Run, curse you, boy—run!”
Furious and terrified, caught between two impossible choices, Morgan at last turned and sprinted toward the trees.
At the edge of the forest, dodging through a stand of ash trees, he slowed and turned to look back. The grassy plain was all but dark now but he could see that the horsemen had almost reached Eolair. The old count waited almost patiently as they began to surround him, but Morgan could also see that several of the horsemen had broken off from the main group and were now heading up the sloping meadow toward where he stood watching.
For the briefest of moments he considered turning to meet them, contemplated a heroic although likely unknown and unsung death. Then a sudden thought of Lillia came to him, of her serious little face, and he could not imagine how she would bear the news. Born without a father, and now her brother gone too? He could not do that to her—not by choice.
Morgan turned and hurried on up the slope through the grove of ash trees, tripping on shrubs and tangling grasses as he reached the darkness of the forest. Within moments the light was mostly gone and he had to slow down to little more than a walk, but for all he knew the Thrithings-men who were chasing him knew the forest well, so he kept moving and did not stop until his legs and arms were so scratched and aching he did not think he could take another step.
As he stood trying to catch his breath without making too much noise he listened for the sound of pursuers, but could hear nothing except the pounding of his own heart. After a moment he realized he was standing beneath a large tree, its trunk many times wider than he was; from the knobbly feel of its bark, he guessed it was an oak.
If I can get up into it, I can rest, he thought. The men chasing me don’t have dogs—at least I didn’t see or hear any. They won’t find me if I’m hidden up in the branches.
He wondered what had happened to poor Eolair, alone against a company of mounted men, but it felt too freshly raw and painful, so he felt around for a suitable branch instead, then began to climb.
He had made his way a bit more than twice his own height off the ground when he reached the first great spread of branches. He worked himself a little higher up the tree, until he had found a wide place where several of the larger limbs came together, then seated himself with his back against the rough trunk. He listened again, but heard no sounds of pursuit, no sounds at all except the rapid buzz of a nightjar and the wind sighing through the treetops high above his head.
At last, frightened but exhausted, he dozed, dreaming of black butterflies in a cloud so dense it threatened to choke him. When he woke he could see the three-quarters moon high in the sky above, like a Midsummer mask peeping through the branches, and he wondered how long he had slept, and why he was in a tree. Then the entire, horrible truth came back to him, and for a moment he wanted nothing so much as to cry like a child and then be comforted. But there was nobody to comfort him. He was alone in the dark in the forest.
Something brushed the back of his neck and the side of his face—a branch or some leaves. It happened again, and he was about to reach up and push it away when he realized by its movement that it was not leaves or twigs but something altogether different, something alive. He went deadly still, fearing some venomous thing, spider or serpent. When he realized it was neither his heart did not slow, but began to race even faster, rattling like the nightjar’s call.
A hand was gently exploring his goose-pimpling skin—a hand with long, tickling fingers so thin and so cold they might have belonged to a starveling child.
52
Homecoming
“Where is my soup? Bring me soup!”
Despite the reedy thinness of his voice and the relative immensity of the wagon—it was actually two wagons joined together—the old man’s words seemed always to come to her from a mere hand’s breadth away. Hyara said a prayer for patience to the Grass Thunderer, and just to be careful, one to the stone-dwellers’ martyred Aedon as well. “It’s not ready yet,” she said. “It’s still warming.”
“I don’t care. It’s warm enough.”
“It is not warm enough. As soon as you get it you’ll be complaining, so you can wait.”
“I should have pulled that spiteful tongue out of your head long ago.”
It was all she could do not to reply with something really unpleasant. She no longer feared the old man, but she did fear her husband, who was quick with a blow or even a kick and always took her father’s side. Her older sister saw her frustration and nodded toward the wagon’s main door. “Go outside, Hyara. Take them more yerut and bring in the bowls. I’ll deal with the old fool.”
Grateful, Hyara wiped her hands on her rough apron and went outside.
Her husband was out checking the paddocks to make sure the animals were secure, but the rest of his men, relatives and hangers-on, had finished their work and were gathered around the fire waiting for the thane to return. Her husband’s cousin Cudberj, who for at least this moment was the most important man in the compound, was holding forth about something that Hyara felt sure he knew little about. Her husband might be a brute, she might dream of him being gored by a bull or killed in a raid on one of the Erkynlandish settlements, but at least he was not a blatherer like his cousin.
“There you are!” Cudberj shouted when she stepped down from the wagon. “Bring us more drink, woman. My friends are thirsty.”
“I’ve sent our son to fetch more,” Hyara said. “You and the others have drained what we have, and my husband will want some when he gets back.”
The trees around the camp were full of crows, more than Hyara had seen gather at once in a long while. She thought they were much like her husband’s men, useless and loud.
“Well, then,” said another man, a young idiot with mustaches that almost reached his collar bone, “if you’ve no yerut, give us a kiss!”
Cudberj laughed loudly at this. “You’d better hope my cousin the thane doesn’t hear you say that to his wife, or he’ll have your guts for stirrups.”
Hyara couldn’t decide which she’d enjoy more at that moment, not being the thane’s wife or getting to see the thane make stirrups out of the young fool’s innards. “When the boy comes back with the jug,” she said, “make sure you leave enough for my husband or he’ll spill the offal out of all of you.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Cudberj slapped his leg and chortled. “Didn’t I say she had a sharp tongue on her? And her older sister is worse. The women in this family are part snake, I tell you!”
Hyara didn’t say anything, but concentrated on picking up the bowls and spoons that had been discarded without a second thought all over the area around the fire. Everybody thought that because she was the thane’s wife, with the largest wagon and the largest camp, her lif
e must be enviable. But the largest wagon and camp needed the most work to keep them tidy, and her husband, his cousins, and her ancient father were like spoiled children, leaving messes and breakage behind them wherever they went.
As she thought of the heedless men she had to deal with every day, Hyara felt the darkness begin to flow over her again, as though clouds had swallowed the sun, even though the summer twilight was clear and cloudless. Sometimes the feeling was so strong that it was all she could do not to fall down and weep, to lie helpless and unmoving until the men dragged her away and ended her uselessness, as though she were a horse with a broken leg. Her sister knew this fearful, hopeless darkness too, although neither of them spoke of it. The two of them carried the secret between them, and if nothing made it stop, at least it was a tiny bit easier for Hyara knowing she was not the only one.
She stood up, stacking the bowl she had just found onto the others she had gathered, and saw that someone was approaching the camp—a man of good size, but too slender to be her burly husband. She shaded her eyes against the setting sun but still did not recognize him, though something about the way he moved caught her attention. The newcomer did not walk so much as he loped, body balanced, head steady, like a wolf calmly pacing a herd of deer.
Cudberj saw him too and stood up, his hand falling to the ax hung on his belt. A few of the other men saw this sudden movement and looked up. Hyara could feel a certain tightness in the air suddenly. A stranger was a rare thing on the High Thrithings.
The man stopped a dozen paces from the fire and calmly examined the half-dozen men sitting there. The stranger was tall and well-muscled but not as broad as Cudberj or the others, and certainly nowhere near as burly as Hyara’s own husband, the thane of the Stallion Clan. “I look for the camp of Thane Fikolmij,” he said. “Is this it?”
“Why?” Cudberj demanded. He had his ax out and was stroking it as though currying a prize horse. “Who are you, to walk into the March-thane’s camp so bold? I do not know your face, nor does any other man here, and you wear no clan badge.”