by Jane Baskin
The smile, falling like a heavy stone.
A quick turn. Away from him. From anything. A sidelong glance at the fire. Then just staring at her feet. Nayan, letting the silence be. Waiting for her. Would wait forever, if necessary.
After a while, a whisper of a thought: Both of them? No hope?
No, my love. No hope. Both your brothers are dead. There are black flags flying from your keep. Your father –
What about my father? Desperate, now.
So far as anyone knows, he’s alive. But they say he quarreled with your mother, and left your home. He was recorded crossing the border north of the equator, on a train bound north. No one’s seen him since, although there are rumors he’s somewhere in Sauran City. I think my parents are going to go there, try to find him.
Gods alive, Nayan. Turning away again, staring at nothing. At first stiff, like a statue. Then … slumped.
Nayan, crossing over to her silently. Crouching beside her chair. At first just watching her, waiting. When she began to break: his arms around her.
No tears. Just wracking deep breaths, gasping for air. Held her tight until she quieted. Stroked her hair to help her calm.
“Zoren. Zoren.” Spoke the words aloud, for the sound of comfort. Held onto her, willing to hold her for years, until the day came that she could hold herself.
An hour? A few minutes? Pulled her head back, looked at him. Her eyes full of sorrow, but dry. You know, they were always harsh to me, my brothers. Made fun of my silly ideas, my protection of the barn animals. Laughed at me for having a seldig for a pet. Yelled at me if I tried to stop the whipping of a peasant. Told me no one on the planet would ever want to marry me.
I’m sorry, Zoren.
But none of that … is a capital offense. A shiver. Buried her face in his chest.
Still stroking her hair. Whispering to her. “It’s often harder … when the relationship has been less than ideal.”
Now, the tears.
Five days. How long it took for Dar-agan and Ilia-te to execute their mission.
Arriving at the train terminus, preceded by line message. Escorts and three ganthas waiting. Ilia-te’s miserable beast, trying to bite her at her approach, bucking when she mounted. She, bringing her fist down sharply, between his ears. The gantha, crow-hopping. Ilia-te, smiling absently toward Vel, as she smacked the gantha’s head with the reins.
Lord Vel watching; the first small smile they had seen from him in the two days they had carted him around, cleaned him up, told him his daughter was alive, readied him for reunion. To Dar-agan: “You let her ride that beast?”
Dar-agan, a grin. “They have an understanding.”
Then off overland, to the castle.
How to describe the reunion between father and daughter? How to find words for undoing death?
A silent embrace, when she met him in the library. An embrace like clutching at life’s very heart. That lasted as long as it took, to banish one death and use the unexepected life as balm for the others. Finally, sitting down.
Nayan, briefly introduced by his parents. Then all three, departing for the great hall for gell tea. All, exhausted. Sorrow, so taxing.
And Noar: gone.
Nayan’s decision. Despite the tensions between them, Noar: not a fool. Impulsive, but not stupid. To his father: “I sent him to Aurast. Rhymney as well. I told him to keep moving between the two.”
“Why?”
“Listen to me. There’s no way we can lie about what happened. Even if our neighbors back up the lie. She’ll tell him the truth.”
“She will?”
“They’re very close. They have no secrets.” Stopped short of saying that they could hear each others’ thoughts.
“Hmmn.” Passed a giant hand over his chin.
“We can’t predict his reaction. It’s best that Noar not be here. And me … I’ll face him honorably.”
“Hmmn.”
The chance for this, coming not an hour later, in the great hall. Fortunately, not a mealtime. Few people about. Only those wanting tea.
Lord Vel and Zoren-te, entering the hall. He, not as slumped as when they first found him. But not entirely straight, either. Zoren-te, showing him the tea table, fixing him a cup. Then crossing to the family table. Watched anxiously by Nayan. Did she just take a deep breath?
Nayan, rising to meet the Lord of Vel. Bowing from the neck once. Then just standing, meeting him eye to eye. His hands at his sides. Waiting.
“Is it true you tried to kill my daughter?”
“It is, Lord.”
The great fist shooting out before it could be seen. Connecting with Nayan’s jaw with a smack heard throughout the hall. The few tea drinkers, looking up.
Nayan, staggering backward with the blow. Managed to stay on his feet – just barely. Shook his head to clear it. Righted himself, standing with his hands still at his sides. Still meeting Lord Vel eye to eye. Lord Vel, drawing his arm back for a second blow. Nayan, just waiting.
Then Vel, a hand on his arm. Zoren-te. No words. Just a tender touch, a look. “Please Papa. Sit down.”
Finally, coaxed to a chair. Nayan, sitting across from him purposefully. So the Lord could look him in the eye. Could shed his rage directly into his face. The bruise, already blooming on his chin. But not a word out of him.
Silence for a few minutes, as Lord Vel sipped his tea.
Finally. “This tea is good. Not as strong as we make it. Probably for the best.”
Ilia-te: “Definitely for the best. Too strong, and you hallucinate. Not always pleasantly.” A smile.
“So. My daughter, who has been abused but is alive, tells me she’s in love with the man who tried to kill her. Where’s his pig of a brother, by the way?”
“Unknown. He probably guessed you’d come. He may prefer to be eaten by Cha-ning lions.” Another smile.
Lord Vel, unable to suppress a chuckle. “Although cowardly, that’s probably for the best.”
“My younger son is impulsive, and foolish at times. But he’s not an idiot.”
Dar-agan: “As your daughter has probably told you, we knew nothing of his rash action. Had we known, we’d never have permitted it. We rarely take hostages here. Only in raiding season, to get your people to leave. And even then, never a woman.”
“And do you kill the hostages?”
“You know we just send them home, once your raiders are gone.”
“But you tried to kill my daughter.”
Nayan: “It was my idea.”
Lord Vel, that terrible gaze again. A moment, to let it do its damage. Then: “So I was told. But I’d like to hear it from you. What were you thinking?”
A swallow. “I was thinking that she needed to disappear. I based that thought on your fearsome reputation. I assumed you would never just accept her return, or believe she hadn’t been harmed, but would come here seeking vengeance for her abduction. That we would be unable to withstand your assault, which is famous. We were weakened, you see, by a fever. We didn’t think we could withstand raiders, much less the Lord of Vel’s armies.”
Silence. Cold, unpredictable. A minute. Two. Then: “Good thinking, I suppose. I might have thought the same, under similar circumstances.” A nod to Dar-agan and Ilia-te. “Your son’s a good soldier. But – he did try to kill my daughter. When she was ill.”
Nayan, quickly: “I didn’t know she was sick. Had I known, I would never have challenged her.”
“Nevertheless. You tried to kill my daughter. Perhaps … you’d like to take a run at me? That would be just and fitting.”
Oh. Now the silence, like dancing on a the edge of a blade.
Ilia-te, her face beginning to flush. There’s no way Nayan can stand up to the lion of Vel. Even he, with his exceptional gifts. Gods …
But again, Zoren-te. “Please, Papa.”
“You don’t want vengeance?”
“No. I want to marry Nayan.”
A heavy sigh from her father. A head shake. “You a
re the most confounding young woman in existence.”
Ilia-te, into the breach expertly: “Women are known for their ability to confound, as you know, My Lord. They confound observers and themselves as well. But they’re at their best when they do so. Certainly, their ability to confound is often the basis of a solid marriage.”
Another sigh. Another head shake. “You may well be right, My Lady. I can’t say I know from personal experience, for my own match could never be called solid. But this one – a nod in his daughter’s direction – may indeed fulfill that promise.”
Dar-agan, a hard stare. “Then we have business to discuss?”
A final glare at Nayan. “If he lives ‘til the wedding.”
More than business. Changing history.
Discussions: proceeding for three full days. This: remarkable. Most marriage arrangements – the ones between aristocrats, to form alliances – only a few hours. But this: between enemies.
Between North and South. The two opposite ends of the culture of the planet. And not just between lesser aristocrats, as was not uncommon. This: between the two most powerful provinces of North and South. Between the heir to the lordship of the Cha-ning, and the favorite daughter of the lion of Vel.
South: more territory. Extending north beyond the equator, apart from the peninsula that held Sauran City and the bigger towns. More settlement, in the moderate climate regions. No culture of limiting family size, as in the North. Its sea: smaller; therefore more land mass. More people. Way more people.
North: temperate climates only in its southernmost reaches, the locales of the cities. Half of its population – the gell producing population – spread throughout the three northern provinces, each of them including a piece of the polar cap and a shore of the great northern sea. The sea that – aside from the hellacious straits between oceans – cut the planet virtually in half. That may have contributed to the cultural, as well as the physical, divide.
South: Twelve provinces, each of them ruled – not governed – by aristocrats born to the job. All other people, under their yoke.
North: respect for invention, practicality. People who had to live by their wits in climates that mostly wished them dead. Who sharpened their minds by sheer survival. Whose cities boasted centers of learning and research, hosted students from all over the planet, including the South. Whose polar ice fields yielded but one crop: the astonishingly profitable gell.
South: adoration of “the old ways,” disdain for change. Social order patterned the same as it had been for millennia. Mostly agricultural economy; the bread basket of the planet. Absolute rule by lords, minor aristocrats, and wealthy landowners. Cruelty, common. Invention – aside from instruments of war – rare.
North: where common folk had been blended with lords centuries ago; where the aristocracy served as a quaint fact of history, useful only in marriage alliances that would benefit political power in some way. Only three major aristocratic families anyway. Two of them, already related.
South: where ordinary people persisted in near slavery and were punished for attempting any measure of freedom. Where the aristocracy was a large, well populated, warrior class.
Into this setting: Dar-agan and the Lord of Vel. Two enemy families for as far back as records went. Now contemplating union.
What?
Their discussions, starting in the library. Occasionally wandering to the great hall, for tea or warm ale. Where the curiosity of the large numbers of people who inhabited the castle village bloomed.
“They’re talking a marriage contract between Nayan and the hostage girl, Zoren.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Not.”
“The two most powerful families on the planet. Or … well … Vel, anyway.”
“No such thing has ever been done.”
“Maybe should be.”
Word spreading through the villages. To Rhymney and Aurast, outlying settlements. People wandering by from all over the North.
While two middle aged men of influence tried to hammer out an agreement.
“My daughter was abducted against her will. Prove to me she wasn’t harmed.”
Dar-agan, angry at the suggestion. “My son is reckless, but he’s not a beast. He’d never harm a woman. His game is seduction, not rape.”
“How do you know he didn’t seduce her, then?”
“She’d kill him for trying. He already bears several of her marks upon him, including two ribs that never healed properly. She hates him, bitterly, and with reason. Besides, he left that task to his older brother – whose intentions are strictly honorable. She’s well trained, by the way. Moves like a Cha-ning lion.”
The compliment, softening the situation. “Trained her myself.”
“Well done.”
On and on. The conversation wandering often, from one topic to another. Sometimes the proposed marriage contract; but more often, the insanity of any notion of union, between such polar opposites.
“You people lie down with your peasants.”
“They’re not peasants. They’re People.”
“You’ve given up control, you idiot!”
“We’ve gained it, you fool. We don’t have to manage them. We’re all on the same side here. The castles and old mansions get heated, modernized. We’re over two thirds of the way to central heating right here, in this absurd monster of a building. And the gell gets harvested. Efficiently and quickly.”
“Speaking of which, if we do agree on a match, I’ll want seeds of my own.”
“Never.”
“No match.”
“What will you tell your daughter, then?”
Dar-agan, knowing the heart of a father. Knowing the great Lord of Vel: a loving father. Would not force his daughter into a match she did not want, or barricade her from one she desired. Lord Vel, running a hand through his thick hair. Grunting softly.
“She has always been … headstrong.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“How can she love your son? He tried to kill her. And it was his own goddamned idea. She told me, and he admitted it.”
A shrug. “I’ve lived most of my adult life with a woman, but damn me to all the hells if I understand the mind of one. I suppose the old saying has merit; that love and hate are horns on the same bull.”
“I’ve heard that, but I still don’t understand.”
“Have you never loved someone you hated? Or hated someone you loved? Especially of the opposite sex.”
Vel, thinking of his irritating wife. Had he ever loved her? Doubted it. A match arranged by their parents, to strengthen Vel and Darleigh through sharing of peasants and later, the manufacture of munitions. Couldn’t remember caring much about it. Had expected to be married off at a certain age; so he was. At least, she was pretty. The marriage bed, a little better than a chore.
And fruitful. Five healthy children she had borne him. Two sons, two daughters … and then his jewel, pretty Zoren-te. The last, the late. The different one; in every way a child could be different. Passionate about the most common barn animals, practically from birth. Would not step on an insect. Cried bitterly when ganthas were whipped. And when peasants were whipped …
A rare combination of ferocity and tenderness, his Zoren.
Of course she would fall in love with her own assassin.
Dar-agan, interrupting Vel’s reverie: “You know Vel, times will change. Even for you. You can’t stop it.”
Vel, sighing. Some sadness on that breath. “I know. I said that to Zoren, after I ordered her first and only lover shot.”
“Gods alive, man. What did she do?”
“She forgave me.”
Dar-agan, no answer. Understanding: this girl would be a good match for Nayan. A soul capable of forgiveness. A mighty thing, at her age. A soul capable of acceptance; of enduring love. “We should let them marry.”
“You’re probably right. But there has to be more than love.”
“For whom?”
&nbs
p; “They can have the love, the young fools. But you and I, we need to deal. Give me the gell seeds.”
“Free your peasants.”
Once, when this conversation took place in the great hall: a mob of witnesses. Echoing the sentiments of the Lord of Cha-Ning. Nearly drowning Lord Vel in their cries of agreement. Vel, feeling himself surrounded by biting insects.
Dar-agan, quieting the crowd. Motioning to Vel that they should leave, go back to the library. But then: a few brave - or foolhardy – souls approaching the great southern lord individually. Several, begging for the release of their kinfolk – if still alive – remaining in the South.
Then one, oh. Claiming to know him personally. “My Lord, I too am from the South. I came here as a refugee from your own keep, not wanting to lose what family I had left to the current war. I’ve made a home here, and would die for this northern lord – for all these people – if necessary. He does not need to compel me. He gave me and my family a good life. For that, I will be ever grateful.”
Lord Vel looking up then, to meet the eyes of Brenchen, formerly li-Vel.
A long breath. “Gods alive. Brenchen.”
“Yes. No longer li-Vel.”
“So I see.”
“But do you, Lord? Do you see how loyalty is made?”
Later, in the library: “So, Cha-ning. You even steal my peasants.”
“Rubbish. How can you steal a person? Brenchen and his family came of their own free will – free by our standards, of course. In winter, no less. They were half dead.”
“As I recall, he worked in my munitions factory. His young daughter was almost as bright as my own, at making guns.”
“She is, indeed.”
“She’s here?”
“He made it across with his wife and daughter, Luisa-te.”
“What do they do here, to earn their keep?”
“They all work at our new munitions factory. Weather permitting, of course. They help to make guns.”
When the Lord of Vel finally understood that his longtime enemy had the same weapons that made him so powerful … oh.
And when he learned that the chief engineer at the new northern munitions factory was his own daughter …