Chapter XXXII
“This demands our attention,” said Theodoric firmly to Artur, holding out the arrow.
A multitude of arrows stuck out of the stockade’s wall, and many others had fallen harmlessly to the ground. The fortress bore mighty scars from the giants’ attack, and Melic woodsmen immediately set to repairing the sections of wood that had suffered the most damage. Rufoux men worked on reinforcing ground that had been worked away from the posts by the tremendous strength and weight of the pushing Aoten.
“Do you see the stone arrowhead?” asked Theodoric, trying to impress Artur that he should give his full attention. “This must be a Raspar arrow, not at all like the Rufoux. And the feathers as well — they come from birds not seen in this part of Medialia. These feathers are from the lands east of the River Gravidas.”
“How do you know this?” asked Wyllem, more interested than Artur.
“I know what I have observed. Not long ago, I had nothing else to do.”
“So, it’s a Raspar arrow, then — what does that matter?”
“A month ago we saw the Aoten traveling east; they have returned with this. I have no doubt now they made for the Raspar city. If they entered into alliance with the Raspars, and received weapons in return for peace, we may well be doomed.”
Artur finally focused on Theodoric’s words. “Do you believe this has come about?”
“It hardly seems possible,” Theodoric replied. “To my ears the Aoten can barely grunt, and haven’t shown any desire to make treaties. Of course, the Raspars have not killed one of them. But neither have I ever seen a Raspar talk with any man from any other clan. I have never seen a Raspar at all. So a pact between the two would seem unlikely. But another possibility exists.”
“Being?” asked Wyllem.
“The Aoten could have stolen their bows. If they happened upon a secret Raspar weapons cache, or fought their way into a storeroom, that could be the source of the weapons. But if they can make their way through Raspar defenses, that would be cause for alarm indeed!”
“Why do you say that?” asked Artur.
“You will know when you see their city.”
“Who said I’m going to see their city?”
“You must. We all must. We must have all the clans of Medialia in order to defend Medialia. But the Raspars never step outside their walls; we must journey to their city if we hope to speak with them.”
Artur thought back to Andreia and the secret, revealed to Rufoux and Melic alike. Now they had a Bedoua promise to join, as well as Koinoni aid, questionable though it might be. The visions of Andreia and Pepin seemed to be coming about. But the Raspars; again Artur had to adjust his mind to accept this concept. Raspars had the reputation of a murderous, cutthroat people.
“We should ask Dungo,” he said weakly, hiding behind a show of deference to his newest ally.
“That must wait,” Dungo deflected counsel when Artur and Theodoric approached him. “Bedoua must see to their clansman first, see to the traditions of our people. Humus has lived and died honorably, and gloriously, in the service of Medialia, and we must give him proper honor as we send his body back to his family and his desert homeland. Rufoux and Melic, and Koinoni, will join we few Bedoua here to send him home.”
An orchestra of Melic reeds played low and soft as the body of Humus was laid out on Dungo’s sedan chair. A luxurious Bedoua blanket covered his body, up to his neck, and exotic flowers of the Rufoux territory lay all around him. The Koinoni again pressed their smallest ship into service, and the Bedoua bearers took the chair aboard. Aachen and Mienrade boarded too, as emissaries, and with instructions to seek out Bedoua to learn the healing ways. Yarrow appointed a crew to the vessel, six Koinoni, but he remained in the camp. To Artur’s surprise, Dungo as well stayed ashore, along with Sylva. The crew poled the boat into the waters of the Alluvia and slowly around a bend and into the horizon.
“Cursed Alluvia,” muttered Dungo.
“The waters will be going down soon,” said Yarrow. “Then the river will be impassible for our ship. They must expedite their return.”
“There will be time,” pronounced Dungo. “And time now volunteers itself for us to talk. Bedoua will bring mighty phalanxes of men with pikes, and we will lance the necks of these barbarian giants.”
“Even yet our weakness will ruin us,” said Theodoric. “We have built a defense, and we welcome the righteous anger of the Bedoua, but even your mighty spearmen leave us lacking. The stockade walls would have given out had the Koinoni not frightened the Aoten into retreat. We must find a way to fight even inside our defenses.”
“You’ve got that right,” Artur broke in. “I can’t stand around with a battle raging around me, just waiting for it to jump down my throat. I have to dance with Kylie.”
“They will be back,” Yarrow assured. “They will not scare so easily the next time.”
“We must court the Raspars to join with us as well,” Theodoric continued. “Their eternal city proves their mastery of defense, and the rumors tell of bloodlust within. A hard place may be cruel, but from it grows strength.”
“Who are these Raspars?” asked Dungo. “Why have they escaped my attention, and their might in war? How could they be so fearsome and still the Bedoua have never even known of them?”
“They remain untouchable within their city, and mix with no other clan,” said Theodoric.
“You can believe they are killers, too,” said Artur. “They murdered an entire clan generations ago.”
“You know this to be true?” asked Dungo.
“All the legends say so.”
“Were not the Bedoua legends about the Rufoux incorrect?” asked Wyllem, and Dungo nodded. “No signs that the Rufoux ever plundered the Bedoua survive, do they? What if the legends about the Raspars also prove false?”
“If you want signs, go into the Quaar caves at the foot of the mountains. There you will find evidence enough of the lives of the Quaar, and their deaths,” said Artur. He twirled Theodoric’s arrow between his fingers. Wyllem stared at Artur, aghast that he had wandered into the mountain range, so close to the scaled ones.
“Even so, we must have all the clans,” said Theodoric. “To have all the clans is the only way any one of the clans will survive. We must persuade the Raspars to join with us against a common enemy. To do so we must visit their city.”
“Let us go then,” said Dungo.
“It will be hard going, beyond the eastern bank of the River Gravidas.”
“Bother! And I don’t have my chair or bearers anymore,” said Dungo. “You know, our chief gleaner takes her name from the Gravidas. You must meet her. To insult the Alluvia, her mother named her Gravida. Fine woman.”
“Yes, but first we must visit the Raspar city, and quickly.”
Each of the clan leaders made ready a party of only a handful, to prevent the appearance of invasion: six Koinoni, as always; Artur with Geoffrey; Dungo and Sylva; Theodoric and Franken, who carried along his woodworking tools. “There may be a need to be making some gifts,” he chanted.
“We must all carry a shield as well, a stout one,” said Theodoric.
“Why so?” asked Artur.
“I only know what I observe.”
“I would speak a word with you, Theodoric, before you leave,” said Picta, coming up from behind.
“Yes, daughter?” returned Theodoric, and he followed her lead into a secluded place.
“Funny you should so call me, for surely you are not my father.”
“True, that, by blood at least. What word would you have with me?”
“Why did you never tell me?” Picta’s temper rose in her eyes, and she struggled to keep her voice from shaking.
“Tell you what, child?”
“That I am not Melic at all. I am not a Melic freak with four fingers and pink skin — I am half Rufoux!”
Theodoric bowed his head. A time he long anticipated had arrived, and perhaps he had desired to enter into the
Rufoux world in part to reveal this secret. With no children of his own, he truly loved Picta like a daughter, raising her as practically a foundling. Now he knew the time for the truth finally had come.
“Well,” he said, “Your blood runs half Melic. Your mother was a Melic woman. The Melic clan bears profound troubles: And so we have seen the fruit of Carolingia’s deeds. She is not unique; your mother also followed the conduct of Carolingia.”
“I never knew my mother.”
“No. She lost the clan’s favor long before you grew old enough to know. Her husband, her only brother, died years before, and soon she lifted her skirts for any man who wished. We tolerated her indulgence among the Melics, as our way instructs, and as you know many still practice today; but when it became known a Rufoux man had visited her, the clan rose up in anger. It is our law. The king, my father, banished her into the mountains, the penalty for mixing with the other clans.”
“They sent her to the mountains to die?”
“Yes, as the law clearly states. The same law would have condemned me when I first spoke to Artur, had I any children of my own. But the fear of losing their only leader protected me from my people. And now we can see the other clans as not necessarily evil. What is old always dies eventually. Your mother left many sons, raised by their various fathers, and you know them all. Your superior health — your pink skin that you hate, and that all your clansmen despise — proves me right to have not married: The desire for our sisters is killing the Melics from within. Our clan is sick, sick in its soul, sick unto death, and I see it. So none of your family would take you in, but I did. My father hated me for it, yet never did I have a regret, for you have been a great joy to me, Picta. A chilly, empty cave has much room for warmth.”
“But why did you never tell me my father was not Melic? All this time, I believed I had been cursed, an ugly, pitiful mistake made by Drueed. But I’m not — I’m just part Rufoux! Why did you let me believe I was not good enough for the Melics?” Her anger began to show itself in tears.
“Not good enough? You, not good enough?” Theodoric mused. “Picta, you cast shame upon the rest of us. A nobility resides in you, a love for decency and what is right, that your clansmen have completely lost. With much talk and much knowledge, we have turned to every side of every argument, and we no longer understand the simplicity of wrong. You deserve more than a Melic for a husband, for no Melic man can claim to be your equal. No Melic man should dare call you his; I should not presume to be called your father. You have your Melic side, but your honor, and your hot temper, they came from Geoffrey.”
“And what of Geoffrey? What about my father, and his so-called honor, bedding a Melic woman?”
Theodoric looked about the Rufoux camp. “We can hardly insist on throwing darts. Geoffrey is a man. The Rufoux treasure their families above all else. But he is a man, and he lost his lifelong wife at Artur’s birth. To reveal his sin now accomplishes nothing, unless he so chooses. He knows you, and now you know him.”
“Yes, I can see the wisdom in that. But I feel like such a fool, loving Artur, my brother.”
“Your Melic part peeks out occasionally. But your affections will pass child, and you will be better for it – there exists a healthy love for a brother. For now we must find a way to bend Rufoux customs, and then perhaps we can find you another clansman to marry,” and Theodoric nudged her toward Artur, whom they could see in the distance.
Picta picked her way toward the Rufoux chief, busy getting gear together for the traveling party. Andreia worked alongside at the same task, never far from Artur. Picta took Artur rather roughly by the arm and said simply, “Behold Andreia at your right hand. I have hated her. Now I bequeath her to you. Take her if you are not too stupid.” She walked away, and Artur awkwardly stared after her.
Andreia only smiled slightly, and continued her work.
“Have you dreamed?” Artur asked bluntly, speaking too quickly to hide his thoughts.
“That depends on what you mean by ‘dream.’ ”
“Your father refuses to take a shield,” Dungo informed Artur.
Happy to have a distraction, Artur said, “I know. He wants to die.”
“The thumbless one? Too bad.”