by Jane Yolen
“The time will not be wasted. We have to build ourselves a withy ladder,” Sarana said.
“A ladder? A single ladder to scale a castle held by hundreds of Garuns?” He spit expertly to one side. “Pah! Woman, you may have had Jano and the young queen fooled, but I think you have broth for brains.”
“We are not going to scale the castle where we will be seen. We are going around the water’s edge. It will be a low tide at the night’s middle. There is the window into the wine cellar that I wiggled out of. What goes out can go in. With luck …”
“We have had no luck so far,” another man pointed out.
“With luck,” Sarana continued, “the window will still be open. Without luck, we shall have to bash the boards away which will likely give away any element of surprise. But if the Garuns are still using the place as a dungeon—and I cannot see why they should have changed their plans—we will be helped by the prisoners themselves.”
“Hah!” Malwen said. “And become prisoners ourselves. If we can squeeze through, that is.” He patted his stomach which was rather girthy.
“Those of us who can get through will. The rest will guard the ladders down below. But if we become prisoners, it will not be to the Garuns’ pleasure, for we will be well-armed prisoners,” Sarana reminded them. “And trained fighters. There were but a few such in the dungeon when I left. My guess is that, with luck, there will be more by now.”
“With luck, with luck, with luck,” Malwen said. Some of the others were nodding with him and it looked as if his sourness was going to carry the day.
“Have you a better plan?” Sarana asked pointedly.
He had not. He was a masterful complainer, but he never had any better ideas. Complaint was his one tune, though he played many variations on it. But because he was silenced by Sarana’s question, whatever support he might have had was quickly leached away.
“Then we will go with my plan for now. Back there, before the last turning, we passed a stand of alder and willow, by the river’s edge, close to where the river opens out into the sea. We’ll retreat there. It will make good cover for the day and we can work on the ladder. We’ve no nails so we will need to bind the rungs with leather. That will mean stripping reins, belts, whatever, then wetting it down and letting things dry tight in the sun.”
“And with luck,” Malwen added, his mouth still puckered with bile, “there will be sun.”
Someone slapped him, not at all jocularly, on the side of the head. It was the last thing anyone said until they were back in the copse of alder and willow, cutting what they needed for the making of the withy ladder. So Malwen’s sentiment did not change what they did but it set a sour mood.
The man designated as the king’s dresser, a middle-aged Berikian named Halles, had come to Jemson’s bedroom reluctantly. The smell in the hallway was still overpowering, worse than the run-offs in the streets after a great celebration when men and women alike thought nothing of spewing their entire night’s drink on the ground. Halles wanted to put a cloth to his nose, but the cook had forewarned him.
“Do not let the king think there is something wrong,” Cook had said. “Just humor him and get out as quick as ever you can.”
But it was not that easy. Jemson wanted not only to be fully dressed himself, but that his brother be dressed as well.
Halles had not always been at the court. As a young man he had fought alongside the old king—not Carum but his elder brother—had held the king’s head as he lay dying in the field. He had seen what a week or two did to an unburied corpse. There had been many such in the Gender Wars. And this body, he knew, had lain at least a fortnight on the king’s bed. Will there still be flesh? he wondered. Will there still be eyes? Will the maggot worms have burst through the clothing, through the skin? He shivered. He was not yet an old man and he had hoped to grow gracefully into his age without any more bad dreams.
“Your Highness, Gracious Majesty,” Halles said, “I can see that you will want to be dressed in the very height of fashion for this feast. But may I point out that your brother, the good Prince Corrine …” and here he nodded vaguely in the corpse’s direction, “is already beautifully attired. His caftans are his signature and he has always worn one to the royal parties.” It was only a slight exaggeration. The caftan that Corrine had on was of painted silk, brought over from the Continent, but he knew it was now filthy from the prince’s days in the dungeon, and the stones that were his death. It would also have been wet and dry and wet again from those effusions that come with dying. Halles understood the king was mad; he hoped that the king was mad enough. “You have no way of knowing this, of course, having been so long at the Garunian court.”
“Ah, I see,” Jemson said, as if he really understood. “Well I will not impose my will upon my brother. We are both princes together. He may wear what he has on if that is his pleasure. But come, good dresser, you must help me chose what I should wear. As you do, you must remember—I am as much Garun now as Dales. We are more fashionable on the far shores. Perhaps …” and here he giggled “… perhaps I will teach you rather more than you teach me.”
“I am always keen to learn, Your Majesty,” said Halles. Which was true. But what was truer was that he was relieved not to have to handle the corpse. “Show me what you will.”
Jano and his troops reached the coast in less time than they expected. The crossing of the fens had been accomplished in one long morning after their night on the isle. The horn of land that led around the coast to Berick had been empty of Garuns and they had managed to get to Josteen a full two days ahead of schedule. A few of the men were from the town and wanted to see their wives and mothers. But Jano would not let them go.
“When we are done with what we have come to do, you can stay in Josteen forever for all I care,” he said. “But we need everyone to stay here. And we need not put your loved ones in danger by letting them know what we plan.”
The last part of his argument settled them and they waited the two days in a small forested area east of the road till the night that had been settled upon. Then they waited some hours more, till half past the midnight low tide, when the waters were already high enough to sail out into the bay. At that point, Jano split his hundred into two groups.
“You into Josteen,” he said, putting a Josteen man in charge. “And we will go on the extra to Southport.” It was the sister town and only one cove away. “Set five men to the oars of five skiffs.”
“He means a sculler,” called out a Southport man.
“Skiff or sculler,” Jano said quickly.
“We ’uns call ’em skelleries,” said the Josteen man he had set in charge.
“Never you mind, captain,” the Southport man put in laughing. “The Josteen lads never did know how to talk. Bottom feeders every one!”
“We’ll show you what bottom …” called the Josteen men.
The Southporters turned, bent over at the waist, sticking their bums toward the Josteeners. “These bottoms!” someone shouted.
Jano growled at them. “Leave these town quarrels alone. We have work here. Save your fighting for the Garun soldiery.”
The Southport man straighted up, turned and laughed. “Just a bit of funning, captain. To get our blood up on a cold night. Trust us. We fisher folk will not let you down.”
Jano nodded, not certain of the townies but knowing they had no time to waste. “We must trust that Sarana’s crew will make the diversion we need so no one of the Garuns in the castle is aware of what we do. You know the plan.”
“Aye,” came a dozen voices.
“But I will repeat it now to be sure.”
A Southporters laughed and one said, “True—the Josteen lads need reminding.”
Jano ignored him. “Take the largest ships you can find and sail them to the Skellies. Once nestled between the stone hands, scuttle those ships. Stay with them till they go down to be sure. The skiffs and scullers and skelleries or whatever other bloody name you want to call them
will be out there to pick you up from the sea.”
“And make it fast!” a Josteen man said. “That water is as cold as Lord Cres’ cock-a-doo.”
“And the fish won’t mind picking at our bones,” a Southporter added.
“I do not like that she rides alone, with only that child with her,” Seven whispered to her dark sister. “Queen or not, she could use a bodyguard, someone who knows the roads, the woods, the ways.”
“Then,” Tween said slowly, “we must go after her.”
Without a word to any of the older women, they mounted their grey gelding, kicking him into a trot. It was his fastest gait because he was too old for anything else, especially with two of them riding. Once into the cover of the trees, however, Tween disappeared and, lightened, the grey went faster.
Even in the dark it was easy enough to follow where the queen had gone. There was only one path through this part of the woods. But Seven could have found her trail off the path as well. She had learned well the art of tracking at Selden Hame under the guidance of the old singleton Marget.
“What we learn here is for hunting game,” Marget had often said. “It is not for war. Never for war.”
It was well then, Seven thought, that Tween and I left the Hame. She had loved the old woman and would not have wanted to disappoint her. But the training got there would serve for war as well as game, and she said a small prayer to Alta that the women at Selden remain safe during any fighting.
Seven had no idea how long she rode in the woods because the grey slowed to a ground-eating walk that swayed so continually, she fell asleep in the saddle and did not wake again until morning was already creeping though the lacings of leaves. Still, she trusted her horse. It had been trained at the same time she had been and, besides, they were still on the one track.
The path ahead was brilliant with sudden sunlight and opened onto a meadow dappled with early spring flowers, the place known as Greener’s Hollow. There was the queen’s own black and the queen herself—Scillia, Seven reminded herself—lying under the horse’s belly curled around the child.
Fallen or asleep? Not knowing which, Seven rode over and dismounted even as the grey was stopping. But before she could reach the black horse, the one-armed queen was awake and on her feet on the far side of the horse, her sword in hand, the child cowering behind her.
“Not dead then,” Seven said.
“Not even close,” came the reply and then a laugh. “I do not know who is more frightened, girl. You or me.”
“I am not frightened,” Seven said. “Now.” It was clear from her voice that this was no idle boast.
“Alta’s hairs! You should be,” Scillia said, sheathing the sword. “I might have spitted you, had it been night and not day with the sun shining on your innocent face.” She sheathed the sword and stroked her horse’s neck. “See how Shade’s flesh crawls with fright. My heart is racing still.”
“Mine, too,” said Sarai.
“Truly, I did not mean to fright you.”
Scillia came around the front of her horse. “Then, young Seven, why are you here before time? I said evening at Greener’s Hollow. We had hoped to sleep till all arrived.”
“To serve you,” Seven said.
“There will be plenty of time for that.”
“And Tween thought you should not be left alone.”
“Sarai is with me.”
Seven looked down at her feet. “Nevertheless,” she said, “we are here.”
“Indeed you are,” Scillia said, taking pity on the girl. “And in a way I am glad of it. You and Sarai can take the horses down to the stream over there.” She motioned with her head toward the north end of the meadow. “I will find us something to eat.”
“I have journeycake,” Seven said. “We could share it.”
“So have I. And I am mightily tired of it. Besides, we should save what we have for those times when nothing else can be found. We have many miles still to go to get to Berick, and the Garun forces will be difficult to overcome once we are there.” She was careful not to mention what they might meet along the way. “Journeycake will not shorten the road, no matter what the songs say.”
THE SONG:
JOURNEYCAKE HO!
Into the meadow and out of the woods,
Carrying nothing but bartering goods,
Running so fast, there is nothing to take
But a skin full of wine and a good journeycake.
Journeycake ho! Journeycake ho!
Make it and take it wherever you go.
Traveling swiftly or traveling slow,
It will keep you filled up in the morning.
This wasn’t a trip I was planning to make
As I fled through the door with some good journeycake.
But my horse was all saddled, so off I did ride
Thankful I still had my head and my hide.
Journeycake ho! Journeycake ho!
Make it and take it wherever you go.
Travel on water, on ice, or on snow,
It will keep you filled up till the morning.
The master was after me, likewise the noose,
I had to go quickly and lightly and loose.
So I grabbed what I could and I let the rest be;
I didn’t have much—but at least I had me.
Journeycake ho! Journeycake ho!
Make it and take it wherever you go.
And if you’ve no money, you’ll still have the dough
To keep you filled up in the morning.
THE STORY:
Seven took up the reins of her horse, Sarai led the big black, and together they walked across the meadow toward the stream. Scillia let out a deep relieved sigh. A sound answered her, and she listened for a moment before realizing it was just a song thrush. She forced herself to relax, but at the same time she listened a moment more. Just because the sun was out did not mean they were safe. Sarai’s mother’s face came back to her. That had all been done in the daylight.
She glanced around the meadow. It was awfully quiet, except for a lone squirrel busy at the near end of the field. Squirrels, she thought, could mean buried nuts. And nuts would be a wonderful change from journeycake. She went over and scraped about with her foot, but either the squirrel had already found his wintered-over nuts, or he was as hungry as she. All she found was an owl pellet, old and brittle, with a shrew’s skull inside. She made a face. Not much eating in shrews, even if she could catch one. They were not worth the effort. This wood, she told herself, is but a meager larder.
There were a few new ferns, but she did not want to start a fire to boil them. The less attention she brought to the Hollow before nightfall the better. But on a mossy path, she found three different kinds of mushrooms and that—at least—was promising. One kind had an inky top and she knew it was especially good eating. The others were chancy this time of year. Still there were enough of the blackcaps for Sarai and Seven to have a meal. And perhaps further along some for herself as well. She was bending over to collect them and heard a muffled yell and then the high scream of a girl.
Without stopping to think, she straightened up and was running across the field in a single fluid motion, unsheathing her sword as she ran. When she came to the crest of the hillside leading to the stream, she saw there were two men in leather face masks—Garuns—more intent on having their way with Seven than killing her.
Anger rather than fear steadied Scillia, and she gripped her sword hilt tightly.
The men did not notice her, for Seven’s screaming masked other sounds. And, since there was no sign of the black horse, it might mean the men didn’t know there was more than one girl at the stream. The one man atop Seven was holding both her hands over her head with one massive paw, loosening the leather string on his pants with the other.
Scillia knew which one to tackle first. The more dangerous one was on his feet still; the other would be too busy for the moment, and with his pants around his ankles would be effectively bound. She hal
f ran, half slid down the grassy slope and came up silently behind the standing man. At the last minute she coughed and, when he turned at the sound, spitted him expertly. His face as he died was full of surprise as much—she was sure—that he had been killed by a woman as that he was dead.
When he fell, she braced her foot against his chest and pulled out her sword. She made a face at the sound. Suddenly she was a girl again and the sword slicing through the man’s chest felt like a knife through venison. She shook head, then turned, throwing herself atop the second man.
“Wait your turn, Brun—” he cried, thinking it his friend. He was dead before he could finish the name. Scillia pushed him off Seven who was still screaming.
Throwing her sword to one side, Scillia gathered Seven to her, saying, “There, hush, girl. They are both dead and can no longer hurt you.” But Seven continued to scream, pushing Scillia away, and it took a minute to understand.
“Three,” the girl was screaming. “Three. One finished and went after your horse.”
The sword was too far for her to reach and besides, it was already too late. Someone had caught her hair up from behind, jerking her backward.
“Carnes!” came a man’s voice, straining through the leather mask. It was the Garunian word for a female jackal.
Scillia let herself go slack against him, a trick her mother had shown her. She was ready to fling herself forward and catch him off guard, when the man cursed and dropped his hold on her hair, for a thrown rock had caught him in the back of the head. Scillia seized the opportunity and pitched forward.
Seven screamed again, a cry this time of fury not terror. She stood and picked up the sword, then flung it at the man’s head. It struck point first between the eyes of the mask. It did not sink in terribly deep; the mask’s leather was too stiff for that. But it was deep enough to kill him. He tumbled backward slowly, like a mountain falling, his head resting finally on Sarai’s feet. She had a second rock ready to fling. When she saw he did not move she dropped the rock and threw herself onto Scillia’s chest.
“I did not save my ma,” she sobbed “I could not let him take you, too.”