It would have been so different with you… Carlina, Carlina!
He rode away at midmorning, taking leave of his father and Alaric with embraces and regrets; but he was young, and he knew that he was bound outward into the world to seek adventure. He could not remain cast down for long. They could call it exile, but for a young man with experience in war, there was adventure and the hope of gain, and he could return in seven years.
As he rode the mists cleared and the weather became fine. Perhaps he would ride into the Dry towns, and see if the Lord of Ardcarran had need of a hired sword, a bodyguard who spoke the languages of Asturias and the western country, to instruct his guardsmen in swordplay and defend him against his enemies. He must certainly have many. Somehow that made him think of his soldiers’ rowdy song:
Four-and-twenty leroni went to Ardcarran,
When they came back, they couldn’t use their laran.
They must, he thought, have been like Mirella, leroni kept virgin for the Sight. Why, he wondered, should it be so, that only a maiden could exercise that particular form of laran? He knew so little about laran, except to fear it, and yet it could have been different, he could have been chosen, like Geremy, to become a laranzu, to carry a starstone rather than a sword in battle… He whistled a few more verses of the improper ballad, but his voice died away alone in the vast spaces. He wished that he had some friend or kinsman, even a serving man, riding with him. Or a woman; Melora, riding at his side, on her little ambling donkey, to talk with him about war and ethics and ambitions as he had never talked with any living woman, or even a man… no. He wouldn’t think of Melora. When he thought of Melora he thought of her shining red hair, and that made him think of Melisendra, limp, struggling in his arms…
Carlina. If Carlina had agreed, as a wife should, to follow him into exile. She would have ridden at his side, laughing and talking as they had when they were children. And when they dismounted to make camp at night, he would hold her gently in his arms and fold his blankets around her, so tenderly… it made him faint to think of it. And then it made him dizzy with rage, to think that King Ardrin would lose no time in giving her to some other man, perhaps to Geremy Hastur. Savagely he wished Carlina joy of Geremy, crippled, with his withered leg… but the thought tormented him. Carlina, giving herself to Geremy as she would not to him! Damn them all, what did he want with women, anyway?
He stopped at midday to breathe his horse, tethering him to a featherpod tree, taking hard-baked journey bread and meat paste from his saddlebags, and munching while the horse cropped the new spring grass. He had food for several days—Domna Jerana had been generous with her stores— and he would not risk trying to buy food, or grain for his horse, until he was across the borders of Asturias. And he would fill his water bottles from springs, rather than at the wells in the towns; he was under a writ of outlawry, and they would have every right to refuse it to him. He was not really afraid he would be killed; King Ardrin had put no price on his head, and as long as he kept out of reach of Geremy’s kindred, who might well declare blood-feud, he had little to fear.
But he felt very much alone, and he was not used to it. He would have enjoyed the company of someone, even a serving man. He remembered that once he and Beltran had ridden out this way, on a hunting trip. They had been thirteen or so, not yet declared men, and some trouble at home had made them talk of running away, of riding into the Dry towns together to seek employment as hired mercenaries. Even while they knew it was half a game, it had been very real to them. They had been good friends then. A sudden snowstorm had made them seek shelter in one of the ruined barns, and they had shared blankets and talked very late, and before they slept they had turned to each other and given one another the pledge of bredin, as young boys do… why, in the name of all the gods, had he quarreled with Beltran about something like that? It had been that damned girl Melora, he had been raw-edged about her refusal, and it had caused him to fall out with his foster brother. Why should any woman come between the bonds between men? None of them was worth it! And because Melora had refused him, he had quarreled with Beltran, and spoken the unforgivable, and that had led to this… even if he had outgrown such boyish games, he should have remembered the long years of friendship with Beltran, his brother and his prince. Bard put his hands over his face, and for the first and the last time since his childhood, he wept, remembering the years of closeness among them, and that Beltran had become his enemy and that Geremy was lamed for life. The fire burned down, but he lay exhausted, his head in his arms, sick with grief, despairing. What had come over him, to fling away ambition, friendship, the life he had made for himself, for the sake of a woman? And now he had lost Carlina too. The sun set, but he could not make himself rise, wash his face, get on his horse again. He wished he had died at the battle at Moray’s Mill, that Geremy’s dagger had found him instead.
I am alone. I will always be alone. I am the wolf my foster father named me. Every man’s hand is against me and my hand is against every man. Never before had he been fully aware of the meaning of the word outlaw, even when he stood before the king and heard his doom declared.
At last, exhausted, he slept.
When he woke, coming up out of sleep all at once like a wild animal, feeling his face stiff with the salt of the tears that had dried on his face, the tears of his last childhood, he knew suddenly that he had slept too long; someone was near him. He caught up his sword before his eyes were even fully open, and leaped to his feet.
It was gray with dawn; and Beltran, wrapped in a blue cape and hood, his hand on a naked sword, stood before him.
“So,” Bard said, “you are not content with having me exiled; you felt that even seven years would not make you safe, Beltran?” He was sick with hate and weakness; had he wept himself to sleep last night over the quarrel with his foster brother who would have killed him in his sleep?
“How brave you are, my Prince,” he said, “to kill a sleeping man! Did you feel that even seven years could not make you safe from me?”
“I won’t chop words with you, Wolf,” Beltran said. “You chose to idle your way out of this kingdom instead of making all speed; now the doom is on you that any man may slay you unpunished. My father chose to show you mercy; but I do not want you in my kingdom. Your life is mine.”
Bard snarled, “Come and take it,” and ran at Beltran with his sword.
They were evenly matched. They had had lessons together, from the best arms masters in the kingdom, and they had always practiced together; they knew one another’s weaknesses too well. Bard was taller, and his reach longer; yet never, before this, had they fought with real weapons, but only with blunted practice swords. And always before his eyes was the memory of that accursed midwinter night when he had fought Geremy, and maimed him for life… He did not want to kill Beltran; he found it impossible that Beltran, despite their quarrel, would try to kill him. Why, in Zandru’s name, why?
Only that he might give Carlina lawfully to Geremy, that Carlina would be widow before she was ever a wife? The thought enraged him; he beat down Beltran’s defense, and, fighting like a berserker, managed to knock the sword from his hand. It fell some distance away.
He said, “I don’t want to kill you, foster brother. Let me go peacefully out of this kingdom. If after seven years you are still ready to kill me, I will call challenge and fight you fair at that time.”
“Dare to cut me down unarmed,” Beltran said, “and your life will be worth nothing anywhere in the Hundred Kingdoms!”
Bard snarled, “Go, then, and pick up your sword, and I’ll show you again that you are no match for me! Do you think, little boy, that you’ll make yourself my equal by killing me?”
Beltran went slowly to pick up the sword. As he stooped to pick it up, there was a noise of racing hooves, and a horse dashed toward them at full gallop. As it jerked to a halt between them, Bard saw, stepping back in amazement, that the rider was Geremy Hastur, white as death. He flung himself from his saddle and s
tood, clinging to the saddle straps, unable to stand alone without support.
“I beg you—Bard, Beltran—” he said, breathlessly. “Will nothing amend this quarrel between you but death? Don’t do this, bredin-y. I will never walk again; Bard must go outlaw into exile for half a lifetime. I beg you, Beltran—if you love me—let this be enough!”
“Don’t interfere, Geremy,” Beltran said, his lips drawn back in a snarl.
But Bard said, “This time, Geremy, I swear by my father’s honor and my love for Carlina, the quarrel was none of my making; Beltran would have killed me as I slept, and when I disarmed him, I forbore to kill. If you can talk some sense into the damned little fool, in God’s name, do it, and let me go in peace.”
Geremy smiled at him. He said, “I don’t hate you, foster brother. You were drunk, beside yourself, and I believe it, if the king does not, that you had forgotten you were not carrying that same old blunted dagger you had cut your meat with since we were boys. Beltran, you idiot, put away that sword. I came to say farewell, Bard, and make peace with you. Come and embrace me, kinsman.”
He held out his arms, and Bard, his sight blurring with a mist of tears, went to embrace his foster brother, kissing him on either cheek. He felt that he would weep again. And then the world blurred in rage and hate as over his shoulder he saw Beltran rushing at him with a drawn sword.
‘Traitor! Damned traitor,“ he shouted, tore himself from Geremy’s arms and whirled, his sword flashing out. Two strokes beat down Beltran’s sword, and even as he heard Geremy cry out in horror and dismay, he ran Beltran through the heart, felt the other man crumple on his sword and fall.
Geremy had fallen, striking his lame leg hard, and lay moaning on the ground. Bard stood looking down at him, bitterly.
“The cristoforos tell a tale of their Bearer of Burdens,” he said, “that he too was betrayed by his foster brother while he stood in kinsman’s embrace. I did not know you were a cristoforo, Geremy, or that you would play such a treacherous game on me. I believed you.” He felt his mouth twist in a weeping grimace, but he bit his tongue hard and betrayed nothing.
Geremy set his teeth and struggled to rise. He said, “I did not betray you, Bard. I swear it. Help me up, foster brother.”
Bard shook his head. “Not twice,” he said bitterly.
“No,” said Geremy. Clutching at the stirrup, he managed to struggle to his feet. “Believe it or not, Bard, I came to try to make peace.” He was crying. “Is Beltran dead?”
Bard said, “I don’t know,” and bent to feel his heart. There was no sign of life; and he looked at Beltran in despair, and at Geremy. “I had no choice.”
“I know,” said Geremy, and his voice broke. “He would have killed you. Merciful Avarra, how did we come to this?”
Bard set his teeth, nerving himself to wrench the sword out of Beltran’s body. He wiped the blade on a handful of grass, and sheathed it. Geremy stood weeping, no longer making any attempt to conceal his tears. At last he said, “I know not what I shall say to King Ardrin. He was in my care. He was always so much the youngest of us—” He couldn’t go on.
Bard said, “I know. Long after we were men, he was still a boy. I should have known—” and fell silent.
Geremy said at last, “Each man must ride the road of his own fate. Bard, I hate to ask this of you; but I cannot walk alone. Will you set Beltran’s body on his horse, that I may lead it back to the castle? If I had paxman or serving man with me—”
“But,” said Bard, “you wanted no witness to treachery.”
“Do you still believe that?” Geremy shook his head. “No, to weakness, for I was ready to plead with Beltran to make his peace with you. I am not your enemy, Bard. There has been enough death. Do you want my life too?”
Bard knew he could have it easily enough. Geremy, as befitted a laranzu, was unarmed. He shook his head, and went to catch Beltran’s horse and lead it to where he could lift the prince’s lifeless form and tie it across the saddle.
“Do you need help to mount, Geremy?”
Geremy bent his head, unwilling to meet Bard’s eyes. He accepted, reluctantly, Bard’s hand to help him into his saddle, and sat there, swaying, shaking from head to foot. Their eyes met, and they both knew there was nothing more that they could say. Even a formal farewell would be too much. Geremy pulled at the reins, taking the reins of the horse which bore Beltran’s lifeless body, and slowly turned on the trail and rode away toward Asturias. Bard watched him go, his face set and drawn, until he was out of sight; then he sighed, saddled his own horse, and rode away without looking back, out of the kingdom of Asturias and into exile.
* * *
BOOK TWO
The Kilghard Wolf
* * *
Chapter One
« ^ »
Half a year before the seven years of his outlawry had passed, Bard mac Fianna, called the Wolf, had news of the death of King Ardrin, and knew that he was free to return to Asturias.
He was far away in the Hellers then, in the little kingdom of Scaravel, helping to hold Sain Scarp against the assault of bandits from beyond Alardyn; a little time after the siege was lifted, Dom Rafael sent word to his son with news of the kingdom.
Three years after the death of Prince Beltran, Queen Ariel had borne the king another son. When Ardrin died, and the infant Prince Valentine succeeded to his father’s throne, the queen had prudently fled to her kinsmen on the Plains of Valeron, leaving Asturias to whatever hands could take and hold it. The principal claim was being made by Geremy Hastur, whose mother was a cousin of King Ardrin, and who claimed that in times past all these lands had lain under the dominion of the old Hasturs and should still be under their wardship.
Dom Rafael had written: I will never again bow the knee to the Hastur kindred, and my claim is better than Geremy’s; Alaric is my rightful heir, and the heir to Ardrin, after Valentine. Come, my son, and help me take Alaric from Geremy’s warding, and hold this kingdom for your brother.
Bard pondered the message, standing half armored in the guard room of Scaravel, where it had reached him. In seven years he had served as mercenary, and later as captain of mercenaries, in as many little kingdoms; and he had no doubt at all that the fame of the Kilghard Wolf had spread beyond the Hellers and into the lowlands, even to Valeron. In those years he had seen plenty of fighting, and he read into the message the subtler news that there would be more fighting ahead; but at the end of that fighting there would be peace and honor, and a place near the throne of Asturias. He looked, frowning, at the messenger.
“And my father gave you no more message than this, no private intelligence for my ears alone?”
“No, vai dom.”
No news, Bard wondered, of my wife? Has Geremy had the effrontery to marry Carlina? What else could give him the effrontery to claim Ardrin’s throne, if not that he is wedded to Ardrin’s daughter? All that talk of old Hastur kin is so much stable sweepings, and Geremy must know it as well as I do!
“But I bear you a message from the Lady Jerana,” the messenger offered. “She bade me say to you that Domna Melisendra sends you greetings, and the greetings of your son Erlend.”
Bard scowled, and the messenger flinched at the angry gesture.
He had all but forgotten Melisendra. There had been women enough in the time between, and it was likely that he had a son or two, scattered about the kingdoms. In fact, he gave one camp follower money, when he had it, because her son was so much like he had been as a child, and because she washed his clothes and trimmed his hair when it wanted cutting, and her cooking was better than he got in the guard room. He thought now with distaste of Melisendra. Whimpering, whining baggage! That encounter had left a bad taste in his mouth. It was the last time he had used his gift to lay compulsion on any woman to come to his bed. Well, she had been a maiden, right enough, and it was likely that the foolish girl had known no better than to tell her mistress all that had happened. Lady Jerana’s knife had been sharp for him ever since h
e was a boy, and his brother Alaric had preferred him to any other companion. Now Jerana would have one more evil deed, or so she would certainly say, to hold over his head.
Melisendra’s presence would be a good reason to avoid Asturias. And yet, it was not entirely unpleasant, to think he might have a son by a girl of good family, a son gently reared as a nobleman’s nedestro son. The boy would be six or so. Old enough for some training in the manly arts; and no doubt Melisendra would try her best to make him into a milksop out of her grudge against his father. He wanted no son of his reared by that whimpering whey-faced wench, nor by her sour mistress. So if Lady Jerana thought she was warning him off, with the news that his mishandling of Melisendra was common knowledge, well, she had better think again.
“Say to my father,” he said to the messenger, “that I will ride for Asturias within three days’ time. My work here is done.”
Before he left, he went down among the camp followers to find the woman Lilla, and gave her most of the money he had earned at Scaravel.
“You should, perhaps, buy yourself a little farm somewhere in these hills,” he said, “and perhaps a husband to help you to care for it, and to rear your son.”
“By that,” Lilla said, “I take it that you will not be coming back when your business in your homeland is done?”
Bard shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said.
He saw her swallow hard, and flinched in anticipation of a scene; but Lilla was too sensible a woman for that. She stood on tiptoe and gave him a hearty kiss and hug.
“Then Godspeed you, Wolf, and may you fare well in the Kilghards.”
He returned the kiss, grinning at her. “That’s a soldier’s woman! I’d like to say good-bye to the boy,” he said, and she called the chubby boy, who came and stared up at Bard in his shining helmet, ready for the road southward. Bard picked him up and chucked him under the chin.