Ruin

  ‘I’m not, I swear it,’ Farrell said. Cywen paused in the act of bandaging the leg of a Jehar warrior she was treating and looked up at Farrell.

  ‘If this is a jest I will get my own back on you, Farrell. The chances are that someday I’ll be wrapping a bandage around some part of you, remember. I know how to ease pain, and also how to increase it.’ She raised an eyebrow at him.

  ‘I would swear an oath if it helped you believe me,’ he said, looking worried now, and also slightly hurt by the level of Cywen’s mistrust.

  ‘You really mean it, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Farrell burst out, looking relieved. ‘Dath and Kulla are to be wed. He’s walking around with a grin on his face that the Kadoshim couldn’t remove.’

  ‘Well, I never,’ Cywen murmured.

  ‘Idiot boy,’ Brina said from over by another cot.

  Maybe it’s not so stupid, Cywen thought. This war has us all standing on death’s doorstep. It reminds us how precious life is, and how much it should be lived.

  And of course the joy of victory had swept through Drassil like a summer wind, warm and pleasant, spreading relief and great joy. Cywen could already hear the celebrations beginning elsewhere. It took longer for that to seep into the hospice, where the harsh and stark reminders of the battle’s cost were still all too plain to see.

  ‘Good for them,’ Cywen said.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ said Farrell. ‘After I stopped laughing, anyway.’

  Brina shook her head, muttering.

  ‘You haven’t heard the best bit yet,’ Farrell smiled.

  ‘Oh, and what’s that?’ Cywen asked, going back to her bandaging.

  ‘Dath wants Brina to perform the ceremony.’

  ‘What?’ screeched Brina.

  Cywen stood with a smile on her face and a tear in her eye, soft spring sunshine breaking through branches above them to bathe the courtyard in sunset’s amber glow.

  The closing part of the handbinding ceremony of Dath and Kulla was taking place in a part of the fortress that was rarely used, chosen by Kulla because of the magnolia tree that grew within it. It had flowered early with the first flush of spring, huge pink petals hanging over the couple as they stood hand in hand before Brina.

  Dath getting married. The boy who loved collecting gulls’ eggs with my little brother. Seems like a lifetime ago. Guess we’re all growing up.

  The courtyard was full to overflowing, people crowding on the steps that climbed the walls, hanging out of windows, standing on flat roofs, every single person who now lived within Drassil come to the handbinding of the Bright Star’s friend.

  It had been a long and happy day, the first part of the handbinding ceremony beginning that morning with the first rays of dawn, Dath and Kulla’s hands bound together for them to spend the day intertwined, a taster of the rest of their lives.

  Not that it will be much different from a normal day for them; they are never far from each other.

  It had been a beautiful ceremony, Brina managing to say words that made Cywen cry, even if the old healer had told Cywen a hundred times that she had no time for ‘the nonsense of youth’, but Cywen was convinced Brina was secretly as happy for Dath as the rest of them were. Cywen had smiled more than she remembered in recent memory, and so had Corban, she’d noticed. In fact all of them had, even Gar. And now they had gathered at sunset for the closing of the ceremony.

  Brina raised her hand and the courtyard fell silent.

  ‘Kulla ap Barin, Dath ben Mordwyr,’ she cried in a loud voice. ‘Your day is done. You have been bound, hand and heart, and lived the day as one. Now is your time of choosing. Will you bind yourselves forever, or shall the cord be cut?’

  Dath and Kulla both grinned at one another, their joy infectious.

  ‘We will be bound, one to the other, and live this life as one,’ they said together.

  Brina took their bound hands in hers.

  ‘Make your covenant,’ she said.

  ‘Kulla ap Barin,’ Dath began, ‘I vow to you the first cut of my meat, the first sip of my mead . . .’

  It had been a ten-night since the battle, the first five days spent tending to the wounded and building cairns over the dead. As heart-breaking as that was, the numbers of the fallen had bordered upon the miraculous. One hundred and fifty-seven dead from amongst the various peoples that populated Corban’s warband and one thousand six hundred of Isiltir’s warband dead, another seven hundred warriors from Isiltir surrendering and joining the people of Drassil, as they were starting to think of themselves.

  And we have learned from the survivors of Isiltir’s warband that two more warbands are building roads through Forn, trying to find us, as well as Nathair’s own force of Kadoshim. The odds seem overwhelming, and yet I don’t feel scared as I used to. I don’t have that feeling in the pit of my belly that something bad is just around the corner.

  It had been seeing Corban slay the Kadoshim, then escape in such dramatic fashion from twenty shieldmen bearing down upon him, and then watching him lead a warband against an enemy that dramatically outnumbered them and win, with minimal losses.

  It was inspiring, and Cywen knew she was not the only one who felt that way. Everybody did. There was an atmosphere at Drassil now of quiet confidence. That Elyon was perhaps guiding her brother after all.

  We are going to win.

  She smiled to herself and focused back on Brina and the happy couple.

  ‘Peace surround you both, and contentment latch your door,’ Brina sang the closing words of the benediction. Then she held up a wide cup for Dath and Kulla to grip with their bound hands. They drank together, then Brina cast the cup to the ground and stamped on it.

  ‘It is done,’ she cried, and the crowd erupted into cheering, Kulla grabbing Dath and kissing him fiercely.

  ‘Good, now let’s eat,’ Brina announced.

  The great hall had been transformed, long rows of tables set with trenchers of steaming food, a score of spitted carcasses turning over fire-pits; barrels of mead found on the abandoned baggage wains of Jael’s warband stood in a long line.

  Cywen sat and watched it all go by, just enjoying being still and watching, when mostly life felt like one long rush of doing. As the evening wore into night and the fire-pits began to sink low she found herself feeling reflective, thinking over the last year as she sipped at a cup of mead.

  It is almost a year ago to the day that I was in the great hall in Murias; when Corban and Mam came for me . . .

  Surprising her, tears swelled in her eyes.

  I miss you, Mam, and you, Da. You would be so amazed if you were here. So proud of Corban.

  Someone sat next to her, the bench creaking with the strain.

  Laith. She had a cup of her own and was smiling, her eyes shining.

  ‘Tonight, life is good,’ Laith proclaimed, raising her cup.

  Cywen nodded and touched her cup to Laith’s, wiping the tears from her eyes as she did so.

  ‘Your arm,’ Cywen said, pointing at the dark tattoo that now curled from Laith’s wrist to elbow.

  ‘It is my sgeul, my Telling,’ Laith said sombrely. ‘The record of the lives I have taken. The vine is my journey, my life, the thorns, each life I take.’

  Cywen studied it, gently brushed it. The skin was ridged and peeling, hints of green and blue beneath the scabbed skin. She tried to count the thorns, reached fifteen and then lost count.

  ‘It is a serious thing,’ Laith said, ‘taking a life. A sad thing, I think, though better to take another’s than to lose your own. Many of my kin consider the thorns a badge of honour. I suppose it is that as well.’

  ‘It is,’ Cywen said. ‘But something can be many things, or can mean many things, not just be confined to the one. Like us.’

  Laith looked at her intently then. ‘You are right. I used to think that you were just angry,’ she said, ‘but there is far more to you than just that. And you are wise as well.’

  ‘Hah.’ Cywen snorte
d and sipped from her cup. ‘The wisdom of mead, maybe.’

  Laith grinned. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ she said, and did. ‘Now,’ she continued, smacking her lips. ‘Where’s that fine-looking Farrell gone?’

  ‘Farrell?’ Cywen spluttered into her cup.

  ‘Aye, Farrell,’ Laith said with a shy look. ‘He’s big and strong, got good bones, not like the rest of you. I’ve been thinking on him for a while now, and what with spring in the air . . .’ She shrugged and smiled mischievously.

  ‘You know he’s sweet on Coralen,’ Cywen said.

  ‘Oh aye, everyone knows that. But everyone also knows that she’s sweet on someone else.’

  Y e s , w e d o , Cywen thought. Apart from the one she’s sweet on!

  ‘So perhaps he just needs the way things are explained to him. I was talking to Balur about it—’

  ‘Balur!’ Cywen spluttered again. Try as she might, she just could not imagine the giant warrior dispensing advice about love.

  ‘Aye – and can you stop doing that? Balur said to me that sometimes people can’t see things as plain as the end of their nose, but once it’s been pointed out to them they don’t know why they went so long without seeing a thing.’

  ‘That’s very wise,’ Cywen said. ‘In fact, Laith, you’re very wise. How old are you, exactly?’

  ‘I’ve seen forty-two summers,’ Laith said with a wave of her hand. ‘But we mature slowly, us giants, or so I’m told. Like usque. Ah, there he is.’ She pointed at Farrell and stood, swaying ever so slightly. ‘Any advice?’ she asked.

  ‘Try arm-wrestling him,’ Cywen said. ‘I hear he likes that.’

  Laith smiled. ‘A man after my own heart. Will I have to let him win, though?’

  Cywen was still laughing when Laith disappeared into the thinning crowd.

  The bench creaked again.

  This time it was Brina.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ the healer said.

  ‘Feel free,’ Cywen said with a wave of her hand.

  Brina frowned. ‘Are you sober?’ she asked, then her hand darted out and she pinched and twisted flesh on Cywen’s arm.

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Well, you’re still feeling pain, so that’s good enough,’ Brina said. She stood up and walked away, then paused and looked back. ‘Well, come on then, what are you waiting for?’

  Muttering, Cywen rose and followed.

  Eventually they ended up in Brina’s chamber, small and sparse, a bed and chair, a table with a half-melted candle upon it and a jug of water.

  Only one cup, though.

  ‘I don’t get visitors,’ Brina said with a shrug, seeing where Cywen was looking. She dug around in her cloak and pulled out the book.

  ‘Isn’t that heavy to carry around all the long day?’ Cywen asked.

  ‘Of course it is,’ Brina snapped, ‘but I’m hardly going to leave it lying around for someone to just come along and take, am I? A book hundreds of years old, containing wisdom both wonderful and terrifying?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Sit down and pay attention,’ Brina said. She sat on the bed, Cywen on the chair, and Brina opened the book at the back and started to read.

  When she finished they both looked at each other. The worry and concern on Brina’s face, she knew, was reflected in her own. ‘We need to tell Corban,’ Cywen said.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

  CORBAN

  Corban knew the place well now, this part of the Otherworld that seemed to call to him when he slept. The green valley, a lake such a deep blue that it was almost the purple of the sky as it darkens, just before full night. The red-leaved maple that he hid beneath, and of course the beat of Meical’s wings, high above, like a heartbeat, sweeping him to the cliff face that he always landed upon, and the cave that he always entered.

  And again as always, he remembered Meical’s words to him, about Asroth hunting him, about the Kadoshim flying abroad in the Otherworld. Promise me if you find yourself there again, that you will hide, do not move. Asroth’s Kadoshim fly high and they will see you before you see them. And they are not the only dangers in the Otherworld. There are creatures, rogue spirits that would do you harm if they found you.

  Always he had obeyed. And yet, this time, he did not want to. Without knowing or even understanding why, just feeling that he must, he left the shade of the maple tree and began to climb the cliff. It was remarkably easy, the rocks not cutting into his palms, no sweating or straining of muscles, no dangerous up-draughts. Just a steady, constant motion, taking him up.

  And then he was there, standing on a rock shelf, the entrance to a cave before him. It was a high, perfect arch, much higher and wider than it appeared from the ground, runes of the old tongue carved around it. Carven steps led into it, the flicker of torchlight within luring him on. He walked along a damp, curving corridor, down, curling in a deep looping spiral until the corridor opened into a great underground theatre, huge torches bathing the room in a flickering orange glow, a semi-circle of stone-tiered benches on the far wall full to overflowing with the white-winged Ben-Elim. And, standing before them, a small, fragile figure in the depths of the theatre; Meical.

  ‘When?’ a voice boomed from the massed Ben-Elim.

  ‘I do not know,’ Meical said. ‘Soon.’

  ‘It is always soon,’ the voice replied.

  Meical shrugged, a distinctly human gesture in this chamber, this world, so full of the other.

  ‘We have waited aeons, brother, how much longer?’ other voices called.

  ‘How much longer?’ a thousand voices reverberated around the chamber.

  ‘We have waited aeons,’ Meical echoed the speakers. ‘A little longer will not hurt.’

  ‘How much longer?’ the voices demanded.

  ‘Soon,’ Meical repeated.

  Corban woke with a start, looked about, a sharp pain in his neck and his hip. He was sitting in an alcove in the great hall, fires burning low. He shifted his weight, adjusting his sword hilt from where it was digging into him.

  What am I doing here?

  Then he remembered.

  Dath has been handbound with Kulla. He smiled, a gentle joy seeping through him at the memory of his friend, at the depth of his utter, transparent joy. And then, as they seemed to do frequently and almost of their own accord, his thoughts drifted to Coralen. In truth he had thought of little else since the battle had ended. Or more specifically, of her kiss. He had wanted to talk to her, every day, had decided that he would, had steeled himself, practised the words, and then gone dry-mouthed and weak-kneed as soon as he’d seen her.

  How is it that I can fight Kadoshim but I cannot talk to a woman?

  Today. I will talk to her today. That gave him a pleasant feeling in his belly, part the flutter of fear, part something else.

  The chamber was mostly empty now, the fire-pits a glow of embers. He stood, thinking of his bed in his chamber, then saw a figure standing before Drassil’s tree, before the spear and skeleton of Skald.

  Balur One-Eye.

  Corban walked over to him, stretching his neck, blinking the sleep from his eyes, came to stand beside the giant, for a moment enjoying the silence.

  Eventually the burning question had to be asked.

  ‘Why did you kill Skald?’

  Balur did not look at him, said nothing. Then he sighed, put his big slab of a hand over his face and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘It was a terrible thing. I was his guard, his high captain. I seized his own spear from him and slew him upon his throne.’ He said the words as if each one were a punishment.

  Corban thought about that, nodded slowly. ‘Aye, that is terrible. A great trust to betray. What I know of you, though . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I cannot conceive of you doing such a thing.’

  Balur raised an eyebrow at that.

  ‘He ordered Nemain killed. Ordered her strangled – here, before him, whilst he sat upon his throne.’

  ‘But Nemain was his Queen,’ Corba
n said.

  ‘Aye, she was.’

  ‘Then why would he do such a terrible thing?’

  ‘Because she was with child. And it was not his.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Corban looked at Balur; deep grooves were etched in the folds of the giant’s face. He was ancient.

  ‘It was your child, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Ethlinn?’

  Another sigh. ‘Aye.’

  ‘So she is your Queen, then. Queen of the Benothi.’

  ‘She is. Some would say she was Queen of all the Clans, even though she is bastard born.’

  ‘And that is her spear, then.’

  ‘Aye. By rights. But she will not take it. Will not claim it. One day, perhaps.’ He looked down at Corban, his face full of melancholy.

  The whisper of feet echoed down to him, and Corban turned to see two figures at the great doors. Brina and Cywen. Brina gestured to him impatiently. He reached out and squeezed Balur’s hand and then he strode to Brina and Cywen.

  ‘We’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ Brina hissed, as if it were his fault that she couldn’t find him.

  ‘What time is it?’ Corban asked.

  ‘Late. Time to talk,’ Brina said.

  ‘It feels more like bedtime,’ Corban muttered. ‘Can’t this wait until daylight?’

  ‘No,’ Brina said. ‘We need somewhere private to talk.’

  ‘My chamber, then,’ Corban suggested. ‘It’s close, and I will not have to walk far to my bed afterwards.’

  Brina tutted but did not argue so they made their way through Drassil’s stairways and corridors to Corban’s chamber. Storm was curled asleep at his door. She was starting to spend a little time away from her cubs now, and they were becoming braver and more adventurous, wandering from their den for short spells. Haelan, Swain and Sif never seemed to be too far from them.

  Corban opened his chamber door, lit a candle, though a glance at the window showed the darkness turning to grey.

  Dawn, then.