The Crow's Cry

They swept from the village and into the moorlands. Anlaida burst into song, unable to help herself. The cold air thrilled through her veins.

“Lona, sitting in the dell
(Hey-ho, in the fall-gold dell)
Saw a red boar running well—”

Arran snuggled more deeply into his horsehair cloak and hide robes. Naked trees, tufted with snow, scattered themselves by the road. The runners of the sledge swished with the muffled tramping of the two horses.

Anlaida suddenly broke off. “Do the barbarians sing much?”

“Depends on the person, I suppose. But yes, they sing.”

“Sing something, then. One of their songs.”

Arran flushed. “Anlaida, I—”

“I don’t care how you sound. I’m no minstrel either. Please?”

At the look in her brown eyes, he relented. “Don’t laugh.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” she insisted.

He sighed and began, softly, awkwardly. “Snow gleams coldly on the bluffs, hard in moonlight, face like stone. Hunter finds a dying dog, but he turns and lets alone.”

Anlaida blinked. “Rough-sounding.”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t sound so rough in the Tablelands, I suppose. Most of our songs are what your poets would call occasional verse. There are songs for seasons, birth, marriage, death. That was a verse from a winter song.”

“They dislike winter,” she said.

“It can be a hard time.”

“I think I prefer the songs of the Oran.”

He smiled, eyes running to the north. “They are descended from the People, you know.”

She adjusted the reins. “They seem so different.”

“It was a long time ago—thousands of years. But hearts are slow in these northern lands. They still think of themselves as cousins.”

“Orrinshad is more temperate,” Anlaida said. “I would hardly blame them for leaving.”

“It wasn’t climate alone. It’s a long story, though.”

“And we can make this a long ride,” she said. The runners swished through a drift, and snow sprayed into their faces.

Arran swiped the snow off of his chin, suddenly glad that—dead of winter or not—he was here, in the free air, with the pale sun peeking at them. “The year of the Great Cold proved as terrible for the People as for those in Axelarre and Orrinshad. Only during the summer months was hunting even possible. Oran, the Watcher in those days, had seen the star Anaroc’s warning, and the People had stored sufficient food; but, cramped in their dugouts, many grew ill. Those taken by the North Wind that year numbered nearly a fourth of the People.

“Of the elders, over half had died.” Arran looked across the frozen moorland to a mining village huddled against the western hills. “With so many of the People taken, determining which kinship lines were closest became—complicated. The genealogies were not always clear; and about half of the surviving people began arguing that kinships were worthless in their new circumstances.”

Anlaida flicked the reins as Lista stalled. “Get,” she commanded. The mare stepped up beside her companion, nickering a protest.

“Stubborn one,” Arran said.

“Aye.” Anlaida leaned against the seat. “Go on, then.”

The horsehide robe was sliding; he tucked it about his legs again. “The other half violently objected, as you can imagine.”

“I can’t,” said Anlaida. “I don’t know them.”

Arran offered a half-smile. “Well—they violently objected. The genealogies were important to them; you can still see the ancient lists carved into stone all over the Tablelands. The argument went unsettled for three years, with tempers heating like a smith’s tongs. Finally, some of the impatient on the opposing side defaced several of the stone genealogies, and the ancestral faction fairly spat in fury. A time of council was called; but neither side could bring itself to agree with the other. Half held that ancestry was everything; the other half held that it was nothing.”

“Both were mad, then.”

Arran nodded. “Oran was a moderate man. He had no interest in the extremes of either side, though he had family in the ancestral faction. Sitting around the fire with the other men, as their voices grew louder and echoed from the rocks around them, he feared that the two sides would come to blows.

“And did. Two of the leading men began yelling in one another’s faces and one leaped on the other. The council turned into a brawl. By its end, there were enough minor injuries, but one man’s ribs had been kicked in, and the skull of another completely crushed. With one man dead and another barely clinging to life, Oran offered to lead the ancestral faction to another location, perhaps in the south. The People, crushed by the destruction they had brought upon themselves, agreed to his proferred settlement; those of the ancestral faction who refused to accept any other solution followed Oran’s leading out of the Tablelands, out of the North, into the wild regions west of Axelarre.

“But Oran—” Arran’s voice wandered for a moment; he cleared his throat. “He found a good place for them. A village round a high hill, near a small river. Fertile soil, fresh fish. Kinder winters. The stars, though—they were small and distant and cold. Oran had watched the stars all his life, had known them better than himself, and now he saw them white and hard. It killed him a year after he and his arrived in the land. They buried him beneath the highest tree on the highest mountain in the land, and built their homes and families around his grave.”

“Orrinshad,” Anlaida murmured. “Oran’s shade. The old song makes better sense.”

“Oran’s song?” Arran asked.

She nodded. “I had them put one line of it—‘The Sky-lord ever watches’—on your mother’s stone. Nothing else fit—I’m sorry.”

“No,” he muttered. “No, you’ve no need to apologize. I—thank you for caring. It—fits—well enough.”

Snowflakes sprinkled Anlaida’s nose, and she looked up into a sky again pregnant with winter. “I suppose we had best head back. Another storm is starting.”

His eyes wandered to the north again. “Ronag hated storms.”

Silence rose between them. They swept through the village, into the courtyard. Inorr took the sledge; Arran stumped off to return his wrappings to Lohar; but Anlaida slipped inside and upstairs. In the library, she found their little book. “Oran’s song,” she whispered, reading.

“I stand on Fallad’s Mountain
And look toward the sky—
The Sky-lord ever watches
But beneath these heavy branches
I am condemned to die.

“What hurts you, stars of heaven,
That you hold your eyes away?
I live my life in sorrow
Where my sons will live tomorrow
And I long to die today.

“Mor, Eliane, and Rhonan,
Lossyr, Ardall, and Cuirr—
The messengers of heaven
Their guidance long have given
But in this land defer.

“When I lie down and wander
The heart dead in my chest
I’ll find the path of silver
The Sky-lord walks forever—
The road his stars have dressed.”

Anlaida rubbed the book with her thumbs, and thought about supper.
 
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I ran across the word in an electronic Gaelic dictionary, and I thought it fit well, especially since it reminded me of Lossy. ;)
 
Yay! I have a star half named after me. :D

So what does it mean in Gaelic? (And where on earth did you find a Gaelic dictionary?)

EDIT: (Silly me, I completely did not see the word "electronic"... *facepalm*)
 
:eek: Unfortunately, I have no idea what it means in Gaelic. I just looked up words like "star" and "forest" and "river" and took whatever likely words I found on the page. Unscrupulous, I know.
 
Anlaida examined the servants, but she only discharged one, a porter known in the village for his dishonesty. Olaine’s new hire, named Onna, passed examination, but not due to her culinary expertise. Perhaps the girl would do; Anlaida certainly hoped that Olaine’s judgment had been sound.

Clentos privately questioned the lieutenant over Kalon’s men, being careful not to mention the possible connection of the murderer with Soldor’s attempted assassination. With the possibility of Kalon’s involvement, Clentos thought caution wisest. The lieutenant, however, offered no good solutions. “I know of violent men,” he told Clentos. “Hard ones, miners that might do such a thing. But none that have any reason for traveling to Jadoth. Though I can give you names, I doubt that any of them are responsible. I am sorry.”

The captain questioned the five men that Kalon’s lieutenant listed; but the lieutenant had been right. All but one had unquestionably been working that day, and the fifth man claimed sickness. His wife swore to his every word, though her tight face and shadowed eyes whispered that all in their home was not well.

Clentos questioned the neighbors and heard the same tale more vaguely told. His instincts corroborated their story, but he kept the man’s name. Morath Cold-eye. Certainly his sign name did not bode well for his character.

Soldor piled his study with paperwork, only leaving it for the stables. He almost seemed to have forgiven Arran; but Anlaida was no expert on the inner workings of her brother’s head. He kept his own council. Retaine, her oldest sister, had grown up with him and better understood the intricacies of his nature. Unfortunately, Retaine was wearing painted silk in Bonarvaid at present.

If Soldor marries that—paper doll of a noblewoman, at least I should be able to purchase a scarf or two. Particularly considering that Salenna borders Denaton. Anlaida scrutinized the label on every missive that Soldor either sent or received. Over the winter, at least ten made their way to Salenna, all addressed to Lord Denath and not to his daughter.

Snow fell on snow. Spring uncovered the hills, opening the gravestones to sky. “I can show you—“ Anlaida began, and Arran nodded.
 
As spring brightened the ground, Arran rode more frequently with Anlaida. They usually followed a familiar track, riding only in habited areas. Somewhere a killer lurked, and he was unlikely to be moved by the sight of blue day-flowers on the hillside.

Sometimes he and Anlaida would end their ride at the cemetery, where Anlaida would lay bread in the cups of both her mother and his. Custom dictated that a woman—the sister, daughter, or daughter-in-law—of the deceased be the one to honor him. Arran’s mother had none of these, so Anlaida, out of deference to her half-brother’s feelings, would play the part.

Arran returned her favors in his own way. He saw to it that her mare never wanted for anything, and he did much of the heavier household labor. And he spoke almost freely with her—an enormous gift from someone of his nature.

Anlaida received a package from Mostaras, sent by courier from Iredail. In it her sister had carefully packed two hand-painted scarves, one a pale blue, the other a dark green. Not quite like those worn by Belaine and Avess, the scarves would better complement Anlaida’s complexion. Mostaras, though no lover of fashion herself, had excellent taste.

I do hope, Mostaras wrote, that our brother comes to his senses and breaks off the betrothal. As offensive as that might be to society, he would be better for it. He thinks that he could live with someone like Linnerill, yet I rather doubt it. The women of our family have been many things, not all of them good; but none of us can be called “limp.” Soldor is not used to the careful handling needed for that sort of woman. It would drive him mad. In any case, however, Arran is right. Soldor will decide for himself, wisely or foolishly. Any attempts of yours to intervene will only make the situation more difficult. Cultivate peace to harvest peace—is that the saying? Keep well, sister, and visit if you can.

Arran thought about spring in the Tablelands—delicate tufts of new grass breaking out from the muddy cracks of rock—and read less than usual. His concentration seemed permanently broken. He dreamed of Ronag and asked after him to the stars, but they were Nyn-aer’s messengers, not Arran’s, and they answered nothing. Yet Anaroc, the star of warning, remained quietly in his place. Arran thought that Ronag must be alive.

He told Anlaida of the time when they had first met—Arran, thirteen years old, thin and filthy from wandering, facing the elders, who would determine whether he might remain in their lands. Barbarians though they were, they had looked more reputable than he. Ronag had been the first to speak in Arran’s favor. “Eliane showed her favor last night,” Ronag had declared. “The boy stays.” And so Arran had come to Ronag’s fire.

The stars faded earlier every morning, while little red nollies clustered with yellow earls along every roadside. Anlaida filled the house with them: heart-shaped nollie petals mixed with the bright cupped earls, and blue day-flowers popping through that gold-and-scarlet canopy. Children played in the dooryards now, their small toes shredding the tender grass. Hill swallows returned from the south. The skies brightened; winds laughed over the fields; miners whistled.

Soldor received one letter from Lord Denath, followed by another from Mostaras’s husband Bryn, and announced to his sister and half-brother that they—all three of them—would travel to Iredail, where they would be properly introduced to Soldor’s future bride. They would commence their trip the next morning; the servants could carry on by themselves for several weeks. Anlaida held her tongue, only consoled in that she would see Mostaras for the first time in two years.

Arran, too, said nothing. Quietly, he packed his things—all of them—for the journey. The servingman who lifted it thanked Arran for packing lightly. “Makes life easier for the lot of us,” he said. “Liftin’ your sister’s trunk is no small matter.”

He lingered on the roof that night. Even though his personal freedom had increased, he could hardly ask for the gates to be left open of an evening so that he and Anlaida could stare at stars that were perfectly visible from the courtyard. And the People of the Stars were beyond Soldor’s comprehension.

He murmured softly:

“One star sings a silver song,
Two stars sing the gold.
Warm-wrapt winds dance through the sky.
Earthen plains lie cold.”​

If the Tablelands lay cold, sheltered as they were by the stars, what must Iredail be? His mother had loved that place. She spoke of its green river and the blue hills that stretched to the horizon. Yet she had never watched the stars.

He stretched back on the roof, looking upward. Soldor meant to ride inside the carriage tomorrow. According to Anlaida, propriety demanded it. Arran could not remember whether she was right. They would spend several days in travel, at least. And all in Soldor’s company.

A voice spoke, beyond the heavens. Arran jerked upright. Nyn-aer. And nothing else mattered.
 
No, I've just been without internet for a month. I start the new semester pretty soon; then I'll be on more, and hopefully will be able to post more updates.
 
The carriage ground to a halt only ten rods past the castle gate. Soldor muttered an indistinguishable phrase and pushed his head through the window.

“A good morning, nephew?” Kalon’s voice boomed through the window. Anlaida winced.

“Well enough,” said Soldor shortly. “So long as we reach Volaris by nightfall.”

The insinuation did not ruffle Kalon. “Your betrothed won’t mind waiting a little longer, I’m sure,” he said. Arran thought he was attempting a joke.

“And what are you doing in this part of the Northland, Uncle?” Anlaida asked, sweet-voiced as possible.

“Hunting,” he declared.

“Hunting,” repeated Soldor. “In the spring of the year?”

“The dogs are wilier.” Kalon patted his spear. “But no match for my hunting party.”

“Hunting party—?”

Kalon called out, and leather-clad men trotted horses to the side of the carriage, surrounding Kalon on three sides.

Soldor looked at them and rolled his eyes. “You mean to eat wild dog? You’re like to fall ill, Uncle.”

“For sport, not meat,” said Kalon. “Gavon—where is that boy? Gavon? I’ll leave you to your journey, nephew, and to the wonders of your betrothed. We hear of her qualities even in the Northland, aye?”

“Drive on,” Soldor bellowed at the coachman. “A good hunt, then, Uncle.” He leaned into the leather seat, and the carriage wheels ground into motion. Arran thought he could still hear Kalon bellowing for his son as they drove away.

Anlaida pulled her knitting needles from a handbag and drew a slip knot down the left one. “Uncle is odd.”

Soldor grunted. “If this carriage crashes, you’ll stab us to death with those things.”

“Your betrothed will expect you to use more appropriate humor, brother.” Her needles clashed together with the jolting of the carriage.

“My betrothed,” Soldor said, eyeing his sister, “is unlikely to object.”

Anlaida alternated knit and purl stitches across her first row. Soldor watched closely and cluelessly. Arran, riding backwards opposite his two half-siblings, leaned back and closed his eyes. Not five minutes passed before he was breathing heavily.

“Sleep?” Anlaida murmured. “How does he do it? I have enough difficulty riding backwards without becoming nauseus.”

“He stays up late, doesn’t he?” Soldor said, staring at her knitting. “How did you ever manage to learn that?”

Anlaida told him, but by then he was staring out the window. “Kalon never comes without a reason.”

“I expect he was testing you,” Anlaida said mildly. “That last comment about your betrothed—he wants to know what he’s dealing with.”

“He won’t be dealing with her,” Soldor muttered. “At least, she had better not try to sell him that Easternrill mine.”

Anlaida shook her head and purled another stitch. The carriage jolted, and her yarn toppled to the floor in a flight of scarlet. Soldor picked it up and set it in her lap.

“Soldor, are you sure about her?” she blurted.

“Now that you mention it, she probably is the one who hired Hadoth,” he said. “She’ll settle down once she’s used to the idea.”

Anlaida gently spanked his knuckles with her knitting needles. “Soldor, marriage is no jest. Twenty years from now, will you be able to tolerate her?”

“As long as she doesn’t hire any more assassins,” he said, but his voice was hard, and he turned his face toward the window.
 
Anlaida has a sister in Maryland! The lady I met in Maryland explained to me how she carried large knitting needles when riding on a subway, so as to stab anyone who harassed her.
 
Quietly, he packed his things—all of them—for the journey. The servingman who lifted it thanked Arran for packing lightly. “Makes life easier for the lot of us,” he said. “Liftin’ your sister’s trunk is no small matter.”

Wow.

Anlaida gently spanked his knuckles with her knitting needles. “Soldor, marriage is no jest. Twenty years from now, will you be able to tolerate her?”

“As long as she doesn’t hire any more assassins,” he said, but his voice was hard, and he turned his face toward the window.

You're not being wise, Soldor.
 
Lake Turath shone darkly at right of the carriage, and the shadowy beginnings of hills purpled its left; but Arran, riding backwards, saw them in reverse. The grass, too, seemed the opposite of what it should have been: it blossomed blue, tapping gently at the wheels of the carriage.

“They could put in a road here,” Soldor said, but with little conviction.

Anlaida retrieved a leg of cold chicken from the basket by her feet.

Arran leaned his head on the side of the carriage and closed his eyes, feeling the moist air breathe in his face. Rhynn Turrad, his mother had called the lake, speaking in the old language. The People knew a form of it still.

Anlaida nudged him with her foot. “Not even supper yet, and you’re sleeping?”

He cracked an eyelid. “Not even supper yet, and you’re eating?”

“I ate less than you last lunch,” she said, lifting her chin.

“Hardly appropriate for a lady to eat without offering food to her companions,” Soldor enjoined dryly.

She flung the chicken leg at him.

“A lady never gives way to displays of temper. She always behaves with grace and decorum,” Soldor said.

Arran smiled. Anlaida scowled.

They passed the night in Tulac, a small fishing town on the south shores of the lake. As the region had no inns, they were lodged by the village smith.

“A more appropriate place for a lady to stay than in an inn,” said Soldor. “Inns are meant for men and horses. Homes are best for a lady of consummate grace.”

“And he even knows what ‘consummate grace’ means,” added Arran.

Anlaida glared at them both.

Another day of traveling brought them to Riastair, which had an inn. Soldor expressed his grievances that Anlaida would be forced to stay in such a place, and offered to express their needs to one of the the local tradesmen. Their sixth night they reached Rhonad, a trading center on the banks of the green river Kirac. Soldor expressed more grievances, and Anlaida offered him noodles. At the ending of the seventh day, they came to Korath, called Corran by its people. Though capital of Iredail, its streets lay empty beneath the evening.

They clattered through the streets of the town into the dark groove of road that led to Creggan Bronn, the high castle, grounded on a hill several miles eastward. Hewn of Iredail granite, the fortress—for it truly was a fortress—glowed scarlet under the setting sun. A guard watched them lurching up the hill, and then called for the gate to open. They were expected.

As soon as Soldor swung the carriage door open, Mostaras rushed toward them, her pale green eyes—their mother’s eyes—shining. “Soldor! Anlaida! Welcome!” She flung herself on Anlaida’s neck, laughing and crying. “So long—it’s been so long—”

Soldor embraced her then, bending over his sister; for Mostaras was small. “It’s a grand country you’ve got here, sister.”

She smiled at him across Anlaida’s shoulder. “There’s few places can match Iredail for beauty. Even her sisters across the water.” She wrapped her arms more tightly about Anlaida.

A warmth touched Arran’s shoulder, and a voice spoke. “And you, too, are welcome. Mostaras spoke of you, and I thought I might never meet you. Yet here you are.”

Arran turned to face Bryn of Iredail, broad of shoulder and bright of eye. The hand on his shoulder was corded with a gentle strength, and Arran knew why Mostaras had chosen this man. “I’m glad to meet you too, lord. Anlaida speaks well of you.”

Bryn wrapped his arm about Arran’s shoulders and led him toward the master door, while Mostaras, encircled by her siblings, followed, talking. “You all three have rooms in the eastern wing,” he said. “On clear days, my father said a man can see the Kirac from its windows. But I’ve never seen it.”

“You sound like my mother,” Arran said, smiling.

“A cousin of mine.” Bryn opened the door and led him through the hall, stones echoing beneath his feet. “I remember her—vaguely—from when I was a boy. No more than three, I expect. I had pulled out a fistful from one of her wedding cakes. She washed my hand from the glazing, and never told.”

Arran laughed.

Bryn showed him up two staircases, and then led him down a passage to their right. He then drew a key from his pocket. “If anything’s not right, lad, or if you need anything, let me know.”

Arran thanked him; the door unlatched; and he stepped into a spacious room, furnished in green and red. “Thank you,” he said again, and moved toward the high bed. Sleep held more charm than a thousand fists of wedding cake.
 
>> Soldor expressed more grievances, and Anlaida offered him noodles.

For some reason, that stuck with me as particularly funny.
 
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