I will begin with the dogs.
Thirty days after the soldiers’ departure from the valley, the nádor arrived. I could not say exactly how many people had gathered in the valley camp, but I would guess it was in the thousands. An unfathomable number. Our situation had become very difficult and food was scarce. Yet no one complained, and, as far as I know, nobody gave up and went home. Of course, we were all very conscious of the possibility that we might not have homes to return to. Who knows what the nádor has done with our deserted farmsteads?
We were on our guard; we had been the whole time. Yet the sound of a bugle early one morning took us by surprise. This was three days ago now. Nothing could have prepared me for the events of the past three days. I have had nothing to hold on to, no good advice to follow. I have acted entirely on instinct, and I still cannot be sure whether I have done the right thing, or if I could have done better. We all came out of our shelters and log cabins and looked to the southern mouth of the valley. High above us, against the white of the snowy hills, was the outline of hundreds of figures on horseback. Weapons glinted in the sunshine, and there was a brilliant display of colours: bright red; deep green; midnight-blue; gold and silver on banners and shields.
I turned to my people, poised to instruct them to herd the children into the cabins, as we had agreed long ago. But before I could utter a word the bugle sounded again, and its note rang out loud and clear through the valley. And then another sound: dogs.
They came surging down the slopes, fifty dogs or more, with gaping jaws. The snow crust held firm beneath their swift, light paws. I had no time to react, no time to act, my heart was beating so hard that I could barely hear their baying, and my mouth was too dry to speak a single word. The hounds were streaking towards us, I could see their wide-open red mouths, their long, sharp fangs. I heard screams from behind me as mothers tried to usher their children inside or up into the trees. I thought about my nieces. I thought about my pregnant sister. But mainly I was thinking of myself, Sister O, and the feeling of those teeth sinking into my flesh.
Thankfully, not everybody was as helplessly dumbfounded as I. Fathers, brothers and sons rushed forth to the barricade, armed with bludgeons, rocks, clubs or even just silverwood branches. They would not let the dogs near the women and children without a fight. Women were among them too. Grandmothers with nothing to lose, with long grey braids and home-knitted cardigans, stood wide-stanced and determined, awaiting the attack armed with bludgeons and brooms.
The dogs spilt around the barricade, slipping and sliding on the snow. Our barriers were built for men and horses, not dogs.
“Stop,” I whispered. Where I found the strength to speak is a mystery. It was an effort to utter that single word. I had no comb, no staff, no sword. Only my own voice.
The dogs halted. They all turned their muzzles to me and regarded me with shiny black eyes. They stared at me for a long time. Then they changed direction, padded over to me and sniffed at my hands. Their tails were calm and still. Then they simply lay down, rested their heads on their paws and whimpered softly.
Standing in a sea of dogs, I looked around. There was a dense silence. Not even the birds were singing. I saw the men waiting up on the ridge, with their bright colours and shining weapons. Nobody knew what to do next.
They had hoped the dogs would chase us away. They had not planned on a mounted attack, for it is too difficult to ride down into the valley on the precarious snow crust. Our defence was not great, but they could not see our preparations from up there. They must have seen that we were a large gathering, from the many smoking fires, shelters and people, though most were hidden behind the white-leaved canopies of the trees. Nevertheless, they surely understood that we were ordinary folk and no warriors.
The soldiers and brightly coloured riders retreated. We paused to breathe and regroup: we got the children to safety as far as possible, armed everyone who was willing to fight in a possible battle with whatever weapons we could find: clubs, axes, a few bows. The dogs remained lying in the snow, following my every movement with their dark eyes. It was deeply unpleasant. I was in conversation with Uvas about what to do next when the message came. A messenger was skiing his way down into the valley.
As I walked towards the barricade I saw my family among the people preparing to fight. Only Náraes and the children were not there. Father gave me an anxious look, but then smiled encouragingly. Akios raised a hand. His pale eyes flashed with anticipation. I saw Kárun too. He watched me climb up the barricade and station myself at the top next to Uvas. I stood up tall.
The man on skis was a soldier, but bore no weapon. He stopped before the barricade in a flurry of snow. Then he spoke with a loud voice that carried through the valley.
“His Grace Kendmen Thuro, nádor of Rovas, and Queen Voranne of Urundien cordially request the leader or leaders of their insurrectionary subjects for an audience in their camp.”
The Queen! Uvas and I looked at one another in bewilderment. What was the Sovereign of Urundien doing here, at the very outskirts of her most insignificant province? The messenger was awaiting a reply.
“Inform His Grace and Her Majesty that we accept the invitation.”
The messenger appeared to be expecting more. I glanced at Uvas. He cleared his throat.
“Inform them that Uvas Hammeirsson, woodcutter and fur-trapper, comes.”
He looked at me. I took a deep breath.
“Inform them that Maresi Enresdaughter, banisher of frost and tamer of beasts, she of the red mantle, who speaks with goddesses and opens the door to death’s realm, comes.”
As the messenger skied back up the hill I smiled at Uvas. “Best to make it sound impressive,” I said. “So they don’t know what to expect.”
He grinned at me through his beard. “You, Maresi, are like no other here in Rovas. If I had a son I’d be trying to get you two married.”
“I am never getting married,” I said, mainly out of habit.
We climbed down. Father, Akios and Náraes came to me. Náraes’s cheeks were flushed.
“So you are to meet the Queen herself,” she said.
For a moment I thought she was about to braid my hair or straighten my clothes, but instead she passed me my staff. Akios handed me Mother’s sword. I had my comb tucked into the belt that Mother had woven. Then my sister, father and brother took it in turns to press their forehead against mine, ever so briefly. They said nothing more. Then came the others, not everybody in the camp but everybody from our villages and those whom I had got to know during our time in the burial grove. They patted me on the shoulder, pressed their foreheads against mine and murmured: “Blessings on your journey.” Marget leant her forehead against mine for a long time. It was almost like having my Abbey sisters with me, Sister O. And then Kárun came. His breath hung around him like a cloud of smoke. He stood before me and looked me straight in the eye, and my heart was pounding nearly as hard as when the dogs attacked.
I took one step forward and leant in close to whisper to him.
“Kárun, you are unlike any man I have ever met. No one is as thoughtful or kind or strong. I just want to tell you that I love you.” He took a deep breath and his eyes grew large and very dark. I smiled a shaky smile. “I expect nothing. I make no demands. I know that I have a difficult path to walk, and I cannot ask anyone to walk it with me. But I just want you to know what is in my heart.”
“Maresi,” he said in a voice so deep it vibrated inside me. He said nothing more, and seemed unable to move. I turned quickly around and pulled at the straps that held the sword on my back. Maybe he did not share my feelings as I had thought he did.
Uvas and I attached ourselves to borrowed skis. I used my staff as a ski pole. He had his axe. I had my sword. Before we set off I turned to look at the waiting dogs.
“Come,” I said, and they rose at once, almost silently, with hanging tongues and eyes fixed on me. And, followed by fifty hunting dogs, we skied out of the valley.
&nb
sp; Twenty soldiers with drawn swords met us up at the mouth of the valley. With dark eyes and furrowed brows they looked at the dogs quietly following me, and at my red mantle and my carved staff. They said nothing, but surrounded me and Uvas, and drove us along the path into the forest. It was a quiet, windless day with a grey sky. The forest was brooding, dark and secretive around us. I was afraid, but I reminded myself that this was my land. The nádor and Queen had come here to my land. The power of the earth was mine to employ. This thought kept me somewhat calm.
The snow swished softly beneath my and Uvas’s skis while the soldiers marched hulkingly through the snow. Uvas peered at me from under his hood and I gave him a nod. I was thankful for his company, though I knew that whatever must be done would fall to me and me alone. This was my task. I had to make the nádor leave the burial grove in peace, now and for all.
Only I did not know how.
After a while we arrived at a glade that had been artificially enlarged by clearing trees. There was a low wall around it, as defence from wild animals, or robbers, or us in the valley—I could not say which. Soldiers in full armour moved between practical shelters made from spruce sprays and animal skins. Then, in the middle of the glade were two large, opulent tents surrounded by striding courtiers in thick, fur-trimmed mantles and fur hats. When we entered the compound—I, Uvas, the soldiers and all the hunting dogs—everyone in the camp fell silent. All eyes were on me. We were led to the largest tent, where two soldiers held the tent flap to one side to allow us to enter.
“Lie down,” I said to the dogs, and they lay down together to the right of the tent, watching me all the while. I saw many men and women make the sign against the evil eye. We removed our skis and went in.
It was warm inside the tent. There was a small iron stove by one wall and a pipe to funnel out the smoke. I have never seen anything so efficient. I wonder if there is a smith in Rovas who could build such a thing? But how would they ensure that the metal could stand such heat?
Around the stove were a number of elegantly dressed men and women. I could not guess who was the nádor out of three men with long mantles and high, soft-leather boots. They looked confusingly similar with their close-trimmed beards and hooked Urundian noses. But there was no mistaking who was Queen. She was wearing a long, moss-green dress of the finest wool and a black mantle edged with ermine. Her hair was as black as a winter night, braided and coiled like a crown around her head, and adorned with jewels that glittered in the lamplight shining from a number of tables around the tent. I knew who she was from her posture, and how the others stood in relation to her, always aware of where she was and never taking their eyes off her, even when they did not appear to be looking directly at her.
“Your Grace, Your Royal Highness.” The soldier bowed low. “Presenting Uvas Hammeirsson, woodcutter and fur-trapper.” He hesitated and glanced at me. “And Maresi Enresdaughter, banisher of frost and tamer of dogs, she of the red mantle, who speaks with goddesses and opens the door to death’s realm.”
We bowed low.
“So, these are the Rovasian commoners that you failed to subdue, my good Kendmen.” The Queen gestured at us to come closer. One of the hook-nosed men puffed himself up.
“Your Majesty did not give me permission to subdue them,” he said indignantly. I saw now that his garments were somewhat more extravagant than those of the other two, and that he wore a thick chain of gold around his neck. “There is no reason for Your Majesty to interrupt her hunting trip for this mere…”—he searched for the right word and waved his hand in the air—“triviality,” he concluded.
“Practically the entire province has gathered in a valley of rare silverwoods,” said the Queen, “despite your assurances that it was only a handful of people.” She was looking at me the whole time she spoke, not at the nádor. “They are hindering my governor’s men from felling the woodland he has ordered them to fell. They have left their farms and homes unattended to protect this woodland. I should not call that a triviality. I should call it a most remarkable occurrence. And I am curious, dear Kendmen. This is far more interesting than deer-hunting.”
The Queen inspected me so openly that I ventured to do the same. She was neither young nor old, perhaps ten years or so older than Náraes. I was ignorant of the fact that Urundien had a queen at all, so she could not have been in power very long. As I stood there listening and being watched, I searched my mind for everything I knew about the history of Urundien and its sovereigns, and particularly about its very few female sovereigns.
“So, Maresi Enresdaughter. And Uvas Hammeirsson.” The Queen twisted one of the rings on her left hand. “Why are you hindering the royal emissaries in their work?”
“Your Majesty,” I said. I hoped that was appropriate—what did I know about addressing a queen? I gripped my staff firmly in my hand. “We are your loyal subjects. We have never risen up against any nádor that the Crown in Irindibul has appointed to govern us. We keep to the forests where we may hunt and gather wood, and never touch the Crown’s land. So has it been for generations. But this valley, it is beyond sacred.” I gestured towards the nádor. “He has laid waste to our offering groves, where we make sacrifices to the earth and the air and all that makes up Rovas. These are the places where we have honoured the changing seasons, and said prayers and given thanks for good harvests for hundreds of years. Though they are situated in our part of the forest, we did not raise our voice when he ravaged them. But this—this is the burial grove of the whole of Rovas. It is death’s realm. The nádor orders the woodcutters to raise their axes against the holiest of holy. Under these white trees lie all the dead who have ever been buried in Rovas. And our dead…” My voice faltered.
“Our dead are us,” Uvas said crisply. “We would just as soon die as violate the graves, for what people would allow their mothers and fathers to be violated?”
“Is that why you have summoned all your people there?” asked the Queen. I shook my head.
“I made no summons, Your Majesty. It was the dead themselves.”
“Nonsense,” snapped the nádor. “Utter nonsense! Do not listen to the babbling of this mad witch, Your Majesty.”
“She can read too,” came a voice from one of the darker corners of the tent. I did not look. I could not let myself be provoked. I knew in any case that it was the soldier from the market who had spoken. The Queen raised her eyebrows, but the nádor ignored the interjection and continued to speak, more heatedly now.
“Permit me to lead a mounted attack. We have men enough to wipe out every one of these rebellious peasants.”
“Is that so?” The Queen directed her gaze briefly at the nádor. She pressed her lips together before continuing to speak, as if to keep a hold of herself. “You propose to slaughter all men, women and children in your own province? Who do you foresee working the land, dear Kendmen?”
The nádor glared at me, because he dared not glare at his Sovereign. And that was the moment when I first realized that there was hope. There was hope through negotiation, without bloodshed, for the Queen was neither foolish nor bloodthirsty. However, she was proud. I had to find a way to untie this knot without the Queen losing face, because I knew that if she did she could turn against us in a second. I fingered the skull that Akios had helped me to carve on the knob of my staff, and said a silent prayer to the Crone that her wisdom might guide me on the right path.
“What did you do to the dogs?” asked the Queen, turning back to me.
“I do not know, Your Majesty. I told them to stop and they stopped. I told them to come and they followed.”
“And the avalanche, did you do that?”
“Yes, with help. From the women of Rovas, from the First Mother, and Rovas itself.”
“What else are you capable of?”
I looked at the staff in my hands. What am I capable of? I have no idea. But I knew that I could not say so. Not there in the royal tent.
“I can do whatever must be done,” I said, looki
ng the Queen straight in the eye. She looked back at me, weighing my words. The nádor scoffed.
“Empty words. The avalanche was a natural phenomenon, and the dogs have been badly schooled.”
“My own dogs, badly schooled? Is that what you are saying, dear Kendmen? And you hurried here personally when the message of this magical avalanche interrupted our hunt, when we were having such a merry time in the forest.”
Every time the Queen used his first name he closed his eyes for a split second, as though it caused him great displeasure to hear his name uttered with such familiarity and obvious superiority. I was starting to see that this nádor was indignant about having a woman as monarch and leader. From the frequency of the Queen’s use of the epithet “dear”, I supposed that she was far from fond of her nádor either.
The nádor turned to the Queen.
“Your Majesty, I beg you, permit me to take care of these insurgents. There is no reason for you to interrupt your hunt. Whatever happens, whatever this witch can or cannot do, I shall take care of it. There is no reason for you to trouble your pretty head with these concerns. I know a forest nearby that is absolutely brimming with deer and wild boar. I believe there is a large pack of snow-white wolves as well. Should that not be quite the trophy to bring back to Irindibul, white wolf skin for all the ladies of the court?”
The Queen looked at him, and her expression of contempt did not go unnoticed by anyone in the tent.
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