The Crow's Cry

I've always liked watching the siblings in this story interact.

I wonder what my siblings and I will be when we're all grown up...
 
Two mornings later, Anlaida found Soldor on the western balcony. In the east, the sun was rising; but the land before them here was green and black with shadow. “So—” she said.

“Good morning might be more appropriate,” said Soldor, not looking at her.

She scowled. “I am in private with my brother. It’s appropriate enough.”

He turned around, leaning on the parapet. In the half-light his eyes were like dark holes in his face. But he smiled.

“Do you like Linnerill?” she said. “Now, I mean.”

“I don’t see what liking has to do with—”

“Disliking your wife is a bad idea.”

He sighed. “I don’t dislike her.”

“Does she like you?”

Soldor faced the west again. “That’s beside the point.”

Anlaida leaned on the parapet beside him. “Does she?”

He shrugged abruptly. “Perhaps. I don’t know. She’s not used to talking.”

“But she’s talked to you.”

“Some,” he said. “If you’re so interested in what she thinks, then why don’t you talk with her yourself?”

She lifted her head. “Perhaps I will.”

He looked at her, studying her face. “You should stop with your worrying. You’ll make yourself old, sparrow-foot.”

“I’ll be twenty this summer,” she said, looking down. Directly below them, in the shadowed courtyard, a groomsman shuffled toward the stable.

Soldor fell silent, looking toward the west. “I wish—”

A bird flew past. The groomsman entered the stables.

Anlaida turned to her brother. “You wish what?”

He raised one shoulder in a shrug and did not speak again. She rubbed his arm for a moment, and left.

Soldor spent the requisite amount of time with Lord Denath and his daughter that evening. It was nearing ten of the clock when he entered the sitting room, playing with the leather betrothal strap wound about his palm and wrist. “We’re to wed before I return to the Northland,” he said.

Anlaida dropped her sewing.

Mostaras raised her head. “You’ve made wedding plans, then.”

“At Denath’s house in Salenna.” Soldor backed into a chair and slumped into it. “Two months from today.”

“And the nuptial ceremonies will begin in a month?” she asked.

Soldor rubbed the strap between his left thumb and forefinger. “It’s what we’ve planned. Linnerill and her father will leave in three days to prepare. I plan to follow in a fortnight.”

“With Anlaida and Arran?” Mostaras said.

Soldor hesitated, but said, “They can do as they see fit.”

If Soldor was marrying wrongly, at least his assessment of Anlaida’s attitude toward Lord Denath was accurate. The month of nuptial ceremonies would be enough time spent in the overbearing nobleman’s house.

Bryn, at the game table with Arran, simply nodded. “If we can be of any help, only ask.”

“You’ve done enough,” Soldor said. “No good deed goes unrewarded, and housing Denath is beyond even the realm of good deeds. The barbarians will have you for a stargazer next.”

Arran winced.

“My heart lives with my own people,” Bryn said, setting a piece back on the game board. “And the barbarians have watchers enough.”
 
Good morning might be more appropriate,” said Soldor, not looking at her.

She scowled. “I am in private with my brother. It’s appropriate enough.”



Not the most affectionate of sibling relationships, if the brother is prepared to be grumpy just because the sister doesn't say "Good morning."
 
The fortnight passed quietly. Soldor laughed more than usual. He even laughed when Anlaida informed him that they would come to Salenna later, when Bryn and Mostaras arrived for the nuptial ceremonies.

“His last time for laughing,” Anlaida told Arran bitterly, when they were alone. “He’s spending time with us, and that’s not like him.”

Arran said little, knowing that there was little he could say. He divided his time between Bryn’s library, which was stacked with books that Uliath would never have approved of, and Bryn himself. That usually meant time with Soldor as well. Whether Arran’s half-brother was feeling the pressure of his coming marriage or not, Arran was feeling pressure of a different sort. He had never spent so much time with Soldor in his life. He had never wanted to.

Soldor packed on his own, at least, and left on a Tuesday morning. He wore a short cloak (another of the latest fashions, according to Denath), which the wind nudged back and forth, like a mother inspecting her child’s travel suit. It was during one such nudge that Arran caught sight of the dagger on Soldor’s belt. It was a small weapon only, but noblemen rarely wore weapons in peacetime.

“A safe journey to you,” Arran said, clasping Soldor’s hand.

Soldor thanked him, patiently bore with the embraces of his sisters, and climbed into the carriage. The axle had been repaired.

Whip in hand, the driver clambered onto his seat. “Up lads!” he cried to the horses. They lunged against their harnesses. The wheels of the carriage lurched, and began to roll.

When the gates shut behind the carriage, Anlaida leaned back against the door. “I wonder what his wedding suits will look like.”

Arran grimaced. “With Denath in charge, I hate to think of it.”

After Anlaida had gone to bed that night, Arran found his way to the balcony, where he stood, looking at the sky. There were no moon or stars that night. The day had been cloudy, and Arran guessed that it was cloudy still, although the sky as dark and smooth as ebon-wood from the South.

“Arran?”

He turned. “I thought you would have gone to bed already.”

Bryn stepped from the darkness of the castle to the darkness of the balcony. “Mostaras sleeps like a warrior—one fighting a battle, that is. After being kicked four times, I decided to wait to sleep until she settled down.”

Arran smiled. “She’s tamer than she used to be. Once, when I was a child, she came into my room after midnight. I thought she was a ghost. She sat down on my bed for five minutes—I was too frightened to move—and then she stood up and walked out. It wasn’t until two weeks later that I heard my stepmother talk about Mostaras’s sleepwalking.”

“Two weeks,” Bryn said, as if from a distant hill. “In two weeks, I suppose—” He leaned against the parapet and looked over it. A torch gleamed in the courtyard, but there was no other light. “Does Denath know of the Northland’s—marriage traditions?”

“It’s a political marriage.” Arran shrugged, a gesture that he knew Bryn could not see.

“Mostaras was glad to leave the Northland,” Bryn said. “I cannot blame her for it.”

“There is more to the land than the baron’s family dramas,” said Arran.

“The nobles see us as foreigners.” Bryn paused for a moment, thinking. “You—they see you more as—”

“As barbarians?” Arran asked, laughing.

“Well—yes.”

Arran smiled. “Given that opinion, I’m guessing that Soldor’s wedding festivities may prove interesting.”

“Having more than two nobles anywhere at a time is always interesting,” Bryn said drily. “I suppose that your people don’t consider themselves barbarians?”

“Northlanders look down on Axelarrain pride, but they have a pride all their own.” Arran shook his head. “They are the hardy ones, the pioneers, the only people brave enough to protect the northern frontiers against the Denna. Those in the south are weak.”

Bryn laughed aloud. “Perhaps not far from the truth. And stubborn, as well.”

“True.”

Below them, the torch flickered in the courtyard, and a guard called out. Arran moved restlessly, and Bryn pulled back from the parapet.

“I may be able to go to bed now without being maimed,” said Bryn. “Good night, Arran.”

Arran saw a vague shadow slip inside, but nothing more. He looked at the sky and turned away.
________________________

It was on a Thursday that they set out for Salenna. “We pass through the Low Provinces,” Bryn said as they left the gates of Creggan Bronn. He and Arran, riding backward, sat across from the two sisters. “But first we cross the Hills of Anaroc. If not for those hills, Iredail would have become like Axelarre long ago.”

One thousand, two hundred twenty-one years ago, to be precise, thought Arran. But time seemed to matter little in Iredail. One thousand years, and still Bryn spoke as if he were the last surviving chieftain of a subjugated territory. Such memories were not kept among the barbarians. It was dishonor to speak of the dead.

The roads were wide for some miles east of Corran, the capital, but soon they narrowed. Arran braced his feet against Anlaida’s bench to keep his seat, and Anlaida clung to Mostaras, who was clutching the window of the carriage.

“I suppose the roads improve after a few miles?” Anlaida shouted over the rumbling of carriage over stone and into ditch.

“Improve?” Bryn laughed at her. “Do you think we want Axelarrain coming to Creggan Bronn any more than necessary? These roads ensure that their visits are necessary.”

Arran looked out the window to his right. Before them, green hills rose abruptly from earth to sky, one behind another. “Is there a pass through the mountains?” he called to Brynn.

“A narrow one,” Bryn said, gripping the edge of his seat. “It won’t be visible until we’re nearly in it. The Axelarrans call it Udroth’s Way, but to us, it is the Benoduin.”

Arran braced his feet, gripped the window with both hands, and wished for a horse, or even his own two legs.

“If the roads from the north were this bad,” gasped Mostaras, “I would never have married him.”

“Oh, we like Northland folk,” Bryn laughed. “They aren’t busybodies, and the women toughen us up by kicking us in the middle of the night.” Then the carriage hit a particularly deep rut, and his teeth clacked together, hard. He grimaced.

Mostaras laughed at him. “That’s what you get.” But then the carriage turned up, abruptly, and she lost her balance, landing against Anlaida, who tumbled from her seat and landed atop Arran’s legs. Arran began to slide from his seat, but Bryn grabbed his shirt and held him back.

Anlaida looked up from the floor, where she and Mostaras were tangled in each other’s skirts. “Might I suggest a little less talk and a little more hanging on for dear life?”

Sighing audibly, Bryn offered his hand to her. “You may.”
 
Riding through Ulraine, Arran found, was far different than traveling in Iredail. It was a flat green country, and on either side of the road were square plots of newly turned earth. Sometimes they passed a woman dragging a donkey, or a man shouldering a load of wood.

“It’s so—tame,” Anlaida said, looking through the carriage window. She had never visited Ulraine before. “Like the rest of Axelarre, I suppose.”

“Tame isn’t the word I would use.” Bryn looked toward Mostaras for a moment. “Nothing’s truly tame,” he added. “That’s the danger of Axelarre. Their wildness is hidden deep, and many of them deny it is there at all.”

“Even Ulraine is less tame than it looks,” said Mostaras. “Ulraine borders the Southern Downs. I’m told the tribes from the Downs even trade in Ulraine from time to time. At times they are seen in Palladrim, as well.”

“Do they visit Salenna?” Arran asked. “It borders on the Downs.”

Bryn shrugged. “I’m told Lord Denath won’t allow it. Calls them heathen and refuses to permit them within his borders.” He laughed then. “He’s do the same with me, but that Iredail has a place on the Council of Nobles. The tribes are our cousins.”

Arran knew the story—how the Cian had been living in Orrinshad for over a thousand years when herding tribes from the south came and settled the country, from the forests of the west to the hills of Anaroc in Iredail. He turned his face to the window and watched the countryside pass.

In a few days, they reached Palladrim, to the east. It was a province much like Ulraine, but it was larger and more heavily peopled in the north. Villages, like brown chickens, seemed to have waddled everywhere—by the road, between woods and fields, and in the creases of the land. And, like chickens, most of the villagers spent their days scratching the land for corn. Already the corn crop was planted, and in places small green shoots poked through the earth.

“Lord Baroth struggles to feed them,” Mostaras said quietly, seeing Anlaida’s astonishment at the number of villages. “The land on which they live is rich, but not rich enough to provide for them all. Trade from the south brings wealth, but he uses most of it to buy food from Ulraine.”

Palladrim was a friendly enough land. Used to unusual travelers who came on Palath’s Road from the Downs, or the White Lands beyond, a carriage from Iredail was a cause for interest, not scorn. As they crossed the border into Salenna, the attitude of the people changed noticeably. Custom dictated that traveling lords be given lodging in private homes, particularly when women were included in their party. But the reeve of Joris explained that his wife was ill—had a terrible cold—and that he could not receive guests. And apparently no one else in the town had a house large enough. The four travelers ended up at the inn, which was not only cramped and loud, but also filthy.

“Give me a dugout any day,” Arran muttered, scowling at the brown stains on his pillow.

Bryn, who was sharing the room, looked over at the sound. “What?”

“Nothing,” said Arran.

By sundown the next evening they were nearing Mithras, the capital, and Bryn asked the driver to continue on. “Liefer not spend gold on an inn, as nice as the rooms are,” he said.

Anlaida grimaced.

As the last blue of twilight faded to darkness, the carriage rattled up a drive of broken white shell and stopped at the walls of a large castle, red beneath the light of the torches. A single guard slouched at the gate. “Name and number,” he said, sounding bored.

The greeting was not exactly appropriate, and their driver snapped as much at the guard. “Lord Bryn of Iredail is inside, and his wife, and her sister and brother, all kin of Baron Soldor who’s being married. Now open the gate!”

The guard called out to his companions behind the gate, still yawning. Arran guessed that the carriage had roused him from a comfortable half-sleep. But however slow, the oaken gates were raised, and the carriage rumbled through.

Arran looked back. “He’s not expecting to fight anyone, I assume.”

Bryn shook his head. “Denath built this place when he was a young man, for comfort. Its gates are sturdy enough, even if the guards are inattentive, but its walls are weak. Also there isn’t enough storage space to withstand a siege. Denath claims that Denaton is no threat—”

“But he’s on the border!” Anlaida cried.

The carriage reached the step of Denath’s castle, and one of the grooms heaved the door open. “Ladies?” he said, and helped Anlaida and Mostaras to the ground. Bryn and Arran climbed down in time to face the yawning steward, who had come onto the front step. Light spilled around him, leaving his face in shadow.

“Bryn of Iredail?” he asked. His voice was high, and almost shrill. “Mostaras of Iredail? Anlaida of the North, and Arran….”

Even in the darkness, Arran could see the steward’s nose wrinkle.

“Arran of the Barbarians,” the man finished.

Now it was Arran’s nose that began to wrinkle. Soldor had not made out the guest list, and Arran had not realized that his adventure, or misadventure as it might be, was known outside of the Northland and Iredail.

“Correct, but I believe your lord may have made a clerical error in creating the guest list,” Bryn said quietly. “The last name should properly be—” He looked to Mostaras for help.

“Arran Crow is the name among our own people,” she said. “But Arran of the North would be equally appropriate.”

“Duly noted,” muttered the steward, scrawling on the book he held. “Come this way, please.”
 
“Nothing’s truly tame,” he added. “That’s the danger of Axelarre. Their wildness is hidden deep, and many of them deny it is there at all.”


“Arran of the Barbarians,” the man finished.

Kind of like the Hobbits.

Ooh. What a way to be known.
 
They walked after the steward, passing through a hall paneled in a rich red wood that Arran did not recognize. Great paintings hung on the walls—paintings of Salennan lords in festal dress. He had expected paintings of battles, or at the least of hunters. Those were the sort of tapestries that hung at Jadoth Rock, and the tapestries of Creggan Bronn were similar. But clearly Denath had his own ideas about arraying his castle.

Yet this is no castle, Arran thought, looking at the paneled walls and tiled floors. This is a palace, for a man who is neither prince nor king.

Bryn and Mostaras were given a room in the eastern wing of Denath’s dwelling, where they would see the sun rise, and Anlaida was given the room next to them. But the steward led Arran to a western room paneled with the grey oak of Iredail.

I suppose it was meant as an insult, Arran guessed as the steward left him. But not to me.

He lay down on the bed and slept.
................................

Arran woke late. He was weary from the traveling of the past few days, and at dawn the western wing of Denath was covered in shadow. The sound of curled horns squeaking on the lawn was what eventually roused him. He stretched, realizing that he had fallen asleep without even pulling back the bedclothes. His trousers were badly wrinkled.

There was no knock at his door. Arran guessed that, in the midst of the wedding festivities, no one would care if he spent the entire day in bed. He had attended a few weddings as a boy, but they had been long ago, when his mother was alive. They had spent their time with her elderly relatives, talking. An old man—Bryn’s father, Arran guessed, or an uncle—told stories of Faddan, of Aurah Adair, and of the stars.

A few times he had played with the other children, but only a few had seemed enjoyable company to him then. He rolled from the bed and went to the window. The curtains had been thrown back, and he sat on the sill, looking out over the wide green yard within Denath’s walls. The horns still squeaked somewhere on the lawn. Curled horns were the delight of most Axelarrain, but it took great skill to play them well. Clearly whatever minstrels Denath had found lacked skill, and perhaps common sense. Everyone could hear how the horns squeaked—a poor sound, even coming from players who did not know their instruments well.

Arran drew the curtains shut, as if to block the sound, and turned to his bags, which he guessed had been placed inside the room after he had fallen into sleep. He pulled out a tunic and trousers, knowing that they would seem plain in Denath’s house, and put them on. Bryn, at least, was unlikely to be better dressed than he.

But Bryn was not to be found when Arran stepped out onto the lawn, and Anlaida stood with a circle of young women, laughing. He did not remember any adult etiquette, having had no need to know it in his boyhood, and could not recall whether the Axelarrain would expect him to introduce himself or to be introduced by a companion. So he leaned against the stone wall of Denath’s house, wincing at the horns, and wishing that he was with Ronag in the North.

The musicians laid down their horns, took up viols, and began a new song, measured and solemn without sorrow. They knew the viols better than they had the horns, for which Arran was thankful. His only regret was that they had chosen to do their horn playing in the morning.

He could not see Soldor, but he did recognize Corath of Valessa standing with a group of nobles, a cup in his hand. Arran did not recognize the others—yet another fruit of festivities spent closeted with elderly relatives. But the stories had been bread and meat to him in those days. And if not for the tale of Cordal Naevan, he might never have fled from Jadoth.

“Arran Crow, you rascal!” A hand suddenly slapped him on the shoulder.

Arran coughed, blinked, and turned to find Lirath of Nolarim standing at his side, grinning widely. “Lirath? I didn’t know you were here.”

“Of course not,” Lirath said. He was a slim young man of eighteen, as fair as Arran was dark, and one of the few that Arran had played with at the noble weddings of his childhood. “You’ve been huddled in a corner since you came out the door. I got tired of waiting for you to see me, so I came over.”

Arran flushed. “I’ve forgotten all my etiquette. Or more probably I didn’t have any from the first. Anyway I wasn’t sure whether—”

Lirath was looking at him in wonder. “Then it’s true, the talk among the nobles,” he said softly. “That you went to the barbarians after your mother died.”

Arran’s cheeks again burned. “They’re more civilized than some others I could name.”

Lirath raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Remember, Arran, Norarim is in the Midlands. To us all Northlanders are barbarians. So you can live however you want—in burrows or ditches or—”

“Dugouts,” Arran corrected. But he loosened his shoulders and leaned against the wall more easily.

“Or those,” Lirath agreed cheerfully. “And it makes no difference. At least you haven’t married two wives, so you’re a step ahead, even if you did sit on the ground and eat soup with your fingers.”

Arran shook his head. “Incorrigible as ever, I see.”

Lirath looked hurt. “If I changed, you would be as stiff as a board, and they’d mistake you for a statue and put you in the garden. Anyway,” he added, “most of the Axelarrain think socially unacceptable adventures are normal behavior for a Northlander, so they won’t care.”

Arran looked across the green to where Denath stood in his red coat, bellowing what he evidently thought a very intelligent commentary on life. “I think that one of the Axelarrain cares,” he said.

“Denath?” Lirath asked. “Oh, well—” He shrugged. “Denath is a special case.”

Arran watched as Denath swung a meaty hand to make some point and nearly bloodied the nose of the noble beside him. “Yes,” Arran said. “I would say that he is.”
 
Lirath managed to garner their escape from the stiffness of the lawn party. The two walked out a side gate and into the woods that Denath kept for his private use. They followed the path for a rod or two, and then stepped into a field of ferns that reached to their knees. The noise of the musicians and chatter of guests were gone.

Green fern, like tides of the sea, bent and rose as they walked. It was like no forest that Arran had known, but still he smiled.

“Salenna is a place of rivers,” Lirath said. “Or ferns like these would never grow.”

“I’ve never seen their like.” Arran watched a sparrow alight on the lichen-covered branch of a tree before turning to his old friend. “So, Lirath of Nolarim, what have you done with yourself these last years? Driven your mother mad?”

Lirath laughed. “Not yet. My tutor says that I should go to university—perhaps Tirthol, since it is the closest. Father wants me to go. He says that a baron should be well educated. Besides, I doubt whether he knows what else to do with me.”

For all Lirath’s banter, Arran knew that his friend had always been an excellent student. The announcement was hardly a surprise. “So, you studied for four years straight.”

“And watched my older sister get married.” Lirath smirked. “She’s a rebellious sort and insisted that her festivities last no longer than three weeks.”

“To whom?”

“The nephew to the lord of Theravaid. The old man never married, so the nephew is his heir.” Lirath stepped over the mossy trunk of a fallen tree. “It’s a politically advantageous marriage,” he said, winking. “She had been secretly writing the young man for months when Father found out. He would have been furious, but that she pointed out all the political advantages.”

Arran shook his head. “Knowing your father, I doubt that he was furious.”

“He actually had been trying to think of a way to broach the subject with her,” Lirath said. “Because he thought that they would be a good couple. When he found out whom it was she was sending secret messages to, he was delighted. And greatly amused. He tells the story constantly. If you run into him, I recommend that you avoid the topic.”

Arran laughed. “That is probably the only wedding that I wouldn’t gladly avoid.”

Lirath looked closely at him. “I gather that you aren’t thrilled about Soldor’s marriage?”

“Soldor is—confused,” Arran said at last. “And considering certain Northland customs, I wish that he would forestall the marriage, at least.”

“I don’t envy him Denath the Devious as father-in-law,” said Lirath.

“He is called that?”

“Behind his back,” Lirath answered. “Along with many other names. My father does not trust him.”

“Well,” said Arran, “if I recall, the other nobles have always considered Denath too friendly with his—neighbors.”

“Denaton, you mean?” asked Lirath, quickening his pace. “The border with them is long, and he crosses it often enough. But I think that my father has other reasons, even if he does not name them.”

Arran was quiet as they walked onward, the sea of ferns parting about their knees. “He visited Iredail while we were there, and he mainly seemed loud. What was underneath the noise I cannot guess. I spent most of that time avoiding his company.”

“Sounds like you.” Lirath chuckled, and then became grave. “My guess is that his loudness hides more than most of the Axelarrain suspect. My father suspects a great deal, but he has not shared his thoughts with me. When Denath is mentioned, he frowns and becomes silent. They knew each other when they were in university at Axtaroth—”

Arran coughed. “Denath? At university?”

Lirath smiled. “I heard that his instructors finally tired of his outbursts in class and sent him home. But in any case, my father knew him once, and now avoids him like Lady Death herself.”

“I always liked your father,” Arran said. “Not least for his wisdom. Is he here, by the way?”

Lirath nodded. “In order to keep custom. But he’s writing a book—on the alliance between Orrinshad and Axelarre against Denaton, long ago—and I expect that he’ll be spending more time in his room than out of it.”

“He ought to talk with Bryn,” Arran suggested.

“I’ll tell him that,” Lirath said. “Or you can tell him yourself. We could head back and barricade ourselves inside his room, and if Denath comes by wanting to talk, then we’ll tell him Father has a spreading rash, and ask for a plague sign. We wouldn’t want anyone to accidentally break quarantine, you know.”

Arran smiled and turned back toward Denath’s house. “You’re sure that your father won’t object to an invasion?”

“He doesn’t mind invasions, just certain invaders,” Lirath said cheerfully.

They walked back toward the house of Denath and slipped in through the side gate, avoiding the front lawn from which Denath’s booming voice could still be heard. But as they were about to enter the house itself, Arran heard a carriage on the drive, and a second booming voice.

“Oh, no,” he mumbled.

Lirath looked at him.

“Kalon,” Arran sighed. “My uncle. The barricade sounds like a wonderful idea, and may I suggest that we put up a plague sign ourselves.”
 
Anlaida, with only half her attention fixed on the girl chattering beside her, watched as Denath strode across the courtyard to greet Kalon, who was helping one of his wives from their carriage.

"I suppose the roads were poor," Denath called to Kalon.

"No," Kalon said, reaching to help his second wife. "It was a wonderful trip, but all too short. Blue skies, fresh breezes, and friendly people until we came to Salenna."

Denath grew red in the face, and Anlaida winced. Kalon was touchy at the best of times, and being in the Midlands generally shortened his temper. Denath's temper, hidden beneath layers of brocade, was, if possible, worse. She was prepared to watch an explosion when Kalon's first, and less favored, wife smiled at Denath.

"We've been looking forward to your daughter's wedding, Lord. There are few Axelarrain who know pageantry as you do."

Denath smirked at Kalon, as if to say At least your wife has some intelligence, but she may be the only one. In any case, when he did speak, his tone was relatively pleasant. "My steward will show you to your rooms."

Anlaida breathed more deeply as she watched Kalon and his family proceed inside. Kalon was at their head, followed by his second wife Fenla, whose son Gavon and daughter Marra followed her. Behind them walked his first wife Darienna and her fourteen-year-old son Rath, whose budding manhood was visible above his lip and along his jaw.

I wish he would shave, she thought absently, and then returned to face her companions. But Kalon had been around Jadoth Rock near the time the carriage axle had been damaged, and Anlaida could not forget her fear.
______________________

That night Arran passed Soldor on the green, and he noticed the bulge of a knife hidden beneath his half-brother's coat. Lirath saw it too and whispered in question.

"Later," Arran mumbled. Perhaps here at Mithras they would be safe. Denath would not want to lose his future son-in-law, and incurring Denath's fury would be a frightening prospect, even for an assassin.

After the night's festivities--more unfortunate music, rich food, and bland conversation--Arran sought out his half-brother.

"Does Denath know that your life has been threatened?" he asked. "With Kalon here--"

Soldor turned. "Yes," he said. "I told him. He promised that his guards would be careful, and that he would be cautious in how he spoke to them."

Arran coughed. "His guards? Careful? And is Denath even capable of caution?"

"I guess we will see," Soldor said grimly. "But I'm not unarmed. Anyone who tries to attack me will have plenty to regret."

Arran thought of the broken axle. A knife would have been little use had the axle snapped.

"Do you have a knife, Arran?"

Arran blinked. "I wouldn't have thought that you would want me to carry one."

"You've been attacked yourself," said Soldor. "And--if you do any harm to me, I don't expect it to be through violence."

"I'm not sure whether that is a compliment or an insult," Arran said dryly. "Anyway I don't have a knife."

"I'll get you one," said Soldor. "And about what I said--don't worry about it. When the time comes, we will see."
 
Slowly Denath’s guests settled into the monotonous schedule common to weddings. In the daytime the men rode or threw dice, while the women generally congregated about their needlework.

Arran enjoyed riding when he felt he had somewhere to ride to. Lirath, who loved riding, gave Arran a discourse about union of feeling between man and horse, but Arran did not respond as Lirath hoped.

“If you mean fall in love with the horse,” he said, “typically I don’t think it’s common practice to ride piggy-back on someone you are in love with. I’d walk beside the horse if I wanted to display my affection. And I don’t. We eat horses in the Northland.”

Lirath winced.

“Not thoroughbreds,” said Arran. “Just the wild ones. Myself, I’d prefer walking. Horses carry you too fast for you to see—to really see.”

Still, Arran and Lirath rode a good deal. Their interest in dice (not large, in any situation) was outweighed by their desire to avoid Denath and Kalon. Because of their youth, their absence was ignored. Lirath’s father, Perethor, was not so lucky. Social custom dictated that he should keep regular company with the other lords, which meant that he had to endure Denath’s overbearing presence for at least several hours every day.

In the evenings, there was always a gathering on the lawn, and music, and sometimes dancing in the smooth slow manner of the Axelarrain. But on the seventh evening, the atmosphere was different. The time had come for the cord to be cut, the ceremony of the first week.

Soldor stood with Linnerill beneath a white silken awning. They both wore the same deep shade of red. Denath made the expected long speech, which Arran ignored entirely, looking instead at the couple. Linnerill gazed up at Soldor as if waiting for something, although it was she who would cut the cord wound on his wrist.

At last Denath stepped aside, and Linnerill unsheathed the golden knife belted at her side. She took Soldor’s hand in hers and cut loose the cord of their betrothal. It fell to the grass beneath their feet. She returned the knife to its place, and Soldor reached for her hand, and took it in his. There were words to be said—of betrothal’s end and the beginning of marriage, of bonds stronger than cord and the union between man and woman. Denath stood by them, his head cocked as if he had just done something particularly clever. Arran shifted his weight and wished for the ceremony to end.

It ended to music. A group of traveling instrumentalists, thankfully better than their predecessors, launched into a tune on their viols after the last words were said. Soon many in the crowd were dancing on the lawn.

Arran had no one that he was interested in dancing with. Anlaida, though she looked bored, at least had a partner; and Mostaras needed none.

Lirath scanned the dancers and noticed a brunette standing to the side. “She’s from Palladrim,” he said. “And she doesn’t giggle. If you asked—”

Arran shook his head. “Ask her yourself. I need some air.”

“Well, air yourself out then. But if you decide you want a dance partner, come find me.”

“I will,” said Arran, and walked away. The front gates were open, and he went through them, white shell crunching beneath his boots. He reached the end and turned onto the road, with the twilit air blowing around him. Far away he saw fire.

It was the village. People called it Mithras and said it was the capital of Salenna, but it looked the same as any other cluster of common houses. In the field outside it, the people had set a bonfire. Its flames lunged high as an apple tree and cast a golden light on the villagers who stood about, laughing and talking and drinking.

A man thrummed a guitar of sorts, singing “Lona in the Dell.” He looked about thirty, and children, probably his, were grabbing at his knees. But his voice was strong, and Arran stopped beneath a beech tree to listen. He knew the people of the Northland and the Tablelands, and something of Iredail. He knew the nobility, the Axelarrain. But he had never been allowed out of the gates as a child, and so these people, common Midlanders, were a mystery. They did not remind him of their rulers at all.

A woman turned from the fire and began to look about the circle of trees, as if she had heard a noise. Arran stood still, unsure whether his presence would be welcome. But apparently it was, because the woman, her stained apron flapping about his ankles, waddled over to him. She was large, with a rosy and wrinkled face. “Come on, lad,” she said. “No need to stand under the trees. Are you traveling, then?”

“Yes,” Arran said, offering no more information.

“Where from?”

“North of here.”

“You have a place to stay the night?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered. “I just saw the fire and was curious.”

“Big lord’s daughter is being married,” the woman said, nodding. “Reason enough to celebrate. And I guess she’ll be glad enough to have a different lord over her!” Then her red cheeks grew redder. “I didn’t mean it that way—or—we’re happy for them all, anyway.”

Arran smiled, hoping that neither Linnerill nor Soldor would have cause to regret their decision.

“Well, sit down and have yourself a drink, lad,” the woman said to him. “No sense in letting good merriment go to waste, is there?” She shepherded him toward the fire, found him a seat, and put a cup into his hand.

Arran sipped from it, watching the laughing people around him. The drink was a cider of some sort, sweet, although it bit the back of his throat as he swallowed.

A huge farmer heaved down next to him. “What’s your name, stranger?”

“Arran,” he said, setting the cup on his knee.

“Sounds like Iredail to me.” The man raised an eyebrow, a gesture which caused him to unknowingly raise the right corner of his mustache as well. “But Malaine says you came from north of here.”

“Only my mother was Iren,” he said. “She left her people.”

The farmer frowned. “That’s not like them,” he said. “Iren are trouble anyway. Best not to mix blood.”

The woman, Malaine, was passing by, and she frowned at him. “That the problem with you men, Udor. It’s not the lad’s father left, it was his mother. The poor soul was likely in love with him, and she couldn’t help it.”

“Couldn’t help it! Couldn’t help it!” Udor snorted. “That’s the problem with women. They can’t take blame. Now, men, on the other hand….”

Arran turned his attention back to the musician. The children, two small boys, were wrestling by his feet, but he continued to sing. His deep voice carried above the noise of both people and fire.

“O there once was a sparrow who lived up in Yarrow
And he fell in love with a cow.
She was lovely, they say, in her own sort of way,
But no one can figure out how.

“She was lovely, they say, in her own sort of way,
Which must have been hefty and brownish.
So he hopped to the cow, where she stood at the plow,
And said, “Love, could you bend downish?”

“But the lady she said, as she lowered her head,
‘Though I’d like to be paid court,
And the down on your breast is as brown as the best,
I fear that you’re rather too short.”​

The singer went on to describe the courtship of the sparrow and the cow, as well as their wedding, but Arran turned his attention to a grubby ten-year-old who had plopped down by his feet. “Are you really from up north?” the boy asked. His hands and face were blackened from spending too much time near the fire’s edge.

“Yep,” Arran said. “Have you ever been up there?”

“No,” the boy said. “My da went to fish in the river once, though.”

Arran guessed that the boy meant the Noralis River, which was several days to the north on foot. “I was there, once,” he said. “But I come from farther north.”

“Where?” asked the boy.

“We call it the Northland,” said Arran, hoping that these Midlanders did not share the prejudices of the nobility.

The boy’s eyes widened. “Where the barbarians live?”

Arran nodded.

“Are you a barbarian?”

“Well—” Arran hesitated. “I’ve lived with them.”

“In underground tunnels, with dragons?”

Arran laughed. “They live in dugout houses, but there aren’t any passages connecting them. And they don’t live with dragons.”

“But are there dragons?” persisted the boy.

“I’ve heard stories of legless dragons—wyrms, we call them—that have found passages through the rocks,” Arran said. “People say that they lie in wait for anyone who nears a crevice. But the barbarians don’t live near the crevices. They are just to the south. I’ve never known anyone to be eaten by a wyrm, but wild dogs can be dangerous. Especially in winter. They roam in packs, looking for food. And if it’s a lean winter, and they can’t find a ranging mare to eat, they’ll come near the dugouts. During winters like that, it isn’t safe to venture out alone.”

The boy shivered with delight. “Don’t you eat horses?” he asked.

Arran smiled to himself. However wearisome it could be to explain to every stranger why Northlanders ate the wild horses, an evening spent telling tales to this peasant child was vastly preferable to one spent at Denath’s estate. He only wished that such an escape would be as easy for Anlaida.
 
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Anlaida saw Arran slip out the front gate, but she made no move to stop him. For one thing, she was currently clutching the sweaty hands of a Lenetaine noble’s son. For another, she felt rather inclined to do the same. She had hoped to marry her way out of the Northland, but the only male attention she seemed to be getting was from all the wrong places. She was more interested in security than in love, but she doubted that these young men could even provide security of the kind she wanted. Apparently marrying her way to the Midlands wasn’t enough.

Arran won’t run off anyway, she thought. If he had wanted to do it, he could have fled far more conveniently while they were still in the Northland. He simply wanted to be alone, or, at least, away from the nobility.

He would return to the barbarians someday, Anlaida knew. He had never fit among the Axelarrain, and he had no desire to do so. Her brother would become a leader as surely as had his ancestors, but the wildness in his blood would call him to places that they had not gone. Or perhaps it was the stars that called.

And me? she asked herself. Arran will find his path. But I’m not called by anyone, and I don’t know where to turn.

Apparently she was supposed to have turned to the right. At least, her dance partner did, and she stumbled, trying to keep up. She heard a titter behind them but ignored it. At last the dance ended. The couples turned three times and then stopped.

She murmured thanks to her partner and excused herself to get a drink. The young man followed her.

“Have you seen the gardens yet?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Anlaida.

He stepped closer. “We could look at them again. A walk might do you some good.”

He was tall. Some of the young women present might have considered him handsome. But he was sweaty, despite the coolness of the evening, and Anlaida did not want him to touch her again. “Thank you, but no. I’m really very thirsty, and I need to rest.” She turned away, relieved that the young man—she could not remember his name—was leaving her alone for the present.

She filled her cup with punch and sipped it, watching the dancers. They bobbed like a colony of hopping insects, and she raised her face toward the sky. A slice of moon looked boldly down at her, but the stars were barely visible.

“Then he left on business the first month they were married. In my opinion….”

Behind her was a chattering group of well-endowed matrons. Anlaida really did not want to hear their ruminations on life, and she moved back toward the dancers. Soldor was not dancing. He stood to the side with Linnerill, who was staring at the grass.

The tune changed. Soldor nudged Linnerill and seemed to mutter something to her, but she did not raise her head. He took her hand and gestured toward the drink table, where two silver goblets had been filled for their use. Anlaida watched them for a moment and then turned toward the garden. She was sick of the party, sick of all the pretense. Everyone knew the Northland marriage customs, and knew them so well that they were an object of scorn more often than disgust. Yet they all offered their best wishes to the bride and groom.

She stepped onto the stone path where it began at the side door of the house, hoping not to meet any amorous couples on her way. The evening was cool. Air brushed against her face. A stone tipped slightly beneath her right foot, but she did not slow her pace. That is the problem with the nobility, she thought. We are supposed to be best friends, but don’t see each other but a few times a year, if that. When we do see each other, custom dictates that we spend so much time together that we leave despising one another.

As a child, she had enjoyed the month-long celebrations. But she was a child no longer.

The garden was darkened. Clearly Denath had not intended for his guests to walk there this evening. But at present that was exactly what Anlaida wanted—faint moonlight, shadow, and silence. She stepped off the stone path and beneath an arbour. Vines with heavy heart-shaped leaves drooped around her. Anlaida leaned against one of the wooden posts, leaned back, and closed her eyes.

But then she heard leather clacking against the stones of the path. Lovers, she thought, wincing. Behind her the arbour opened into darkness. Squinting, she thought she saw the trimmed shapes of bushes—cover enough for the moment, until the couple passed.

Silently Anlaida crept backward, at last stepping into a hollow between two tall bushes. She gathered her skirts around her and waited. If the couple discovered her, she would be horribly embarrassed at the silliness of it—a young noblewoman hiding in the bushes because she was weary of human faces. But she wanted to be alone, and she doubted that they would find her. Any noble couple amorous enough to walk in an unlit garden would be unlikely to go rummaging in the bushes.

Both sets of feet were heavy, smacking against the stones. And then she heard a male voice—hushed, but fierce. “Are you mad?”

“The state of my mind isn’t any of your concern,” a second voice snarled. It was the voice of a second man.

“I’ll not have you poison him before the wedding. A fortunate thing I noticed what you put in that silver goblet. The trick was too obvious. You’ve tried it before.”

The second man drew a breath. “Fine. Go on, tell them. Hang me, but get on with it.”

Anlaida stiffened. Apparently lovers were not the only ones to frequent dark gardens. The voices of the two men carried clearly on the night air, but she could not identify them by their whispers.

“I’ll not have you hanged, so long as you keep your hands off of him before the wedding,” said the first voice. “After, as you please.”

“Liar,” snarled the second.

“You don’t think I’ve considered the same thing? I want the land as surely as you do.”

“Then we’re rivals.”

“Not necessarily. You have several problems—people in the way. But I could help you sidestep them altogether, if you’ll be patient.”

“I tried to avoid implicating myself,” the second man said, “by using second parties. That failed, and so I tried several times by myself. And failed. I cannot keep waiting. Soldor is carrying a knife.”

“Your problem,” said the first patiently, “is that you’re too squeamish. Second parties, broken axles, poison in goblets. Haven’t you learned to use a sword, man?”

“That would leave a lot of blood.”

“Precisely. Isn’t that the point?”

A sigh. Then the second man spoke. “I do not want strife between us. And if you can help—”

“You would doubt me?”

“No.”

“Good. I will speak with you again. Until then, please do not put any more poison beans in Soldor’s cup. If the wrong person drinks it, that could ruin both of us.”

“Those beans cost me a fortune.”

“Those beans,” said the first man flatly, “are juvenile. You’ll be a powerful man one day, if you can be patient.”

“You’ve never struck me as a patient man yourself.”

“A man can be many things beneath his skin. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Anlaida heard one set of steps clacking away on the stones. One man remained, shuffling in the grass. She pressed her hands against her skirt, fearing that the slightest noise would reveal her.

Then she heard a deep sigh, and feet clacking against the stones. They were leaving. Soon they would be gone.

The thin moon rolled behind a cloud and then out again to drop its feeble light into the garden. Anlaida looked at it, counting to herself. One. Two. Three…. When she had counted to fifty, she cautiously stepped from the bushes. She could see no one. The only human sounds were her own breathing and the distant noises of celebration.

She slipped into the arbour. Vines drooped about her head, but she still saw no one. Carefully, keeping to the shadows, she made her way to a side door and crept inside.

Her first instinct was to wait for Soldor in his room, but she feared such a move might give her away. Instead she went to her own room, where, if asked, she could honestly say that she had grown tired of the party.
 
Anlaida sat on her bed for an hour. She shook while her mind reviewed the conversation in the garden. Soldor would live--for a time. But she feared the reason they would postpone killing him nearly as much as if they had planned to kill him immediately.

Feet tromped down the wooden hall every few minutes. It seemed that the party was breaking up. Had Arran returned? Anlaida knew the general location of his room, but she wasn't sure which door on which to knock. She needed his help.

She lurked for another hour in the hall near his room. He appeared past midnight, smoke in his clothes and soot on his face. But there was a smile on his face, too, which quickly fled when Anlaida whispered her news to him.

"Someone tried to poison Soldor tonight."

Arran pulled her into his room and shut the door. "They were caught?"

"Soldor has more enemies than we knew. One who wanted to kill him immediately, and another who wants him dead after the wedding. The second one is older and got the final word."

"Do you know either of them?" Arran asked softly.

She shook her head. "I was in the garden. It was dark, and I couldn't have seen them even if I weren't hiding. In any case, I can't identify anyone by his whisper, except Mostaras."

"Who is a her," said Arran. "Have you gone to Soldor yet?"

"No," she said. "I was afraid of being seen. I thought we could go to him later tonight. But he'll latch his door, and knocking would be to loud, so I thought that you--"

"Could pick the lock?" Arran asked. He did not laugh--matters were too serious for that--but one corner of his mouth quirked upward.

"Precisely. You did it when we were children."

"I can try," Arran said. "But it's been a long time. The People don't even have locks."

"Trusting souls."

"Not really. All the men sleep with weapons close by," he said. "Though that is more for protection from the Axelarrain than from one another. They don't have many possessions, so there's little to steal."

"Let's wait a while here," she said. "Then find Soldor when the halls are empty."

Arran helped her sit down on his bed. "You're cold."

"Some," she admitted.

He pulled a blanket from the top shelf of the wardrobe and draped it around her shoulders.

"Thank you," she said, pulling it close. They did not speak for some time, until Arran's lamp was low for want of oil.

He had been rummaging in his dresser drawers, and now he produced a thin piece of metal. "Satisfactory?" he asked, then lit a candle and blew out his lamp.

They went through the halls silently, and Arran cupped his hand around the candle flame. Anlaida showed him the door to Soldor's room. Giving her the candle, he inserted the metal piece into the keyhole. He fiddled with it for several minutes, but at last the knob turned, and the door creaked open.

Arran edged inside, looked around, and motioned for Anlaida to follow. She shut the door behind her and locked it. "Soldor," she said.

He was in bed, curled on one side, with a pillow over his face. At her voice, he stirred. "Wha--" he mumbled from beneath the pillow.

Anlaida snatched it and pulled it off his face. "Soldor, wake up!" she hissed.

He opened an eye, saw her, and jerked in surprise. "Not supposed to be in here. Go away."

"Would I be in here for some minor reason? No. Sit up. We need to talk."

Slowly he pulled himself into a sitting position, and Anlaida unfolded what she had heard in the garden. As she finished, candle wax began dripping onto her finger. She wiped it off and watched his face.

"So," he said. "We have a Northland friend and a Midland friend, or I miss my guess."

She nodded. "Will you postpone the marriage?"

"I--don't think so," he said, rubbing his eyes. "But this exhonerates Kalon, at least. Clearly the Northlander is a young man, or at least a younger one than Denath. Kalon would never have allowed Denath to speak to him that way."

"Then we're blind again," she said bitterly. "But there's no one in the Northland with a real grudge against you."

"We don't know that," Soldor said. "I think the real question is why the Midlander wants me to live until my marriage. If he has it in for Northlanders, he might hope that Linnerill could be forced to take a Midland husband and that the rule of the Northland would pass to him."

"That would be illegal," objected Anlaida. "They would have to kill Arran--"

"Which they have already tried to do," Soldor pointed out.

"Arran, and Kalon, and both of Kalon's sons," said Anlaida.

Arran frowned, pondering the names, but said nothing.

"Who knows how they expect to do it?" Soldor asked. "But they clearly want me married to Linnerill, so that's my best guess.

"Then why not call off the engagement?"

"It would be a breach of etiquette," Soldor said primly, smirking at her. "But whether the engagement is off or not, I'll still have an enemy. Anyway, I wouldn't leave Linnerill with--with that--" He stopped.

She looked at him. "Soldor?"

"The marriage is on," Soldor said. "And so is my dagger."
 
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