The King's Peace

by Jo Walton

  “All right,” I said. “If I can. Let me up.” He shook his head.

  “You up, you run,” he said. I would have, too. I sighed.

  “You give me water,” I said. My mouth was unbearably dry. He took a water bottle from his waist and held it to my lips. Enough of it made its way into my mouth for me to choke, and some went down.

  “Where sword?” I asked. He held up his own blade. “Where sword that did wound?” After some searching of bodies he limped back with it. “What your name?” I asked. His ugly pale eyes narrowed. I hated those pale Jarnsman eyes; they did not seem to me at all like human eyes that are dark and full of thoughts.

  “Name secret.”

  “Need name to do spell,” I said. He must have known that was true, however little his people knew about it.

  “Ulf Gunnarsson,” he muttered, reluctantly.

  “Put knife against wound,” I instructed. He did so, then knelt and touched me so that I could work the charm on him. With the most reluctance of my life I sang the charm of healing of weapon-wounds, an invocation both to the Lord of Light for healing and to the dark battle gods. Into the charm I wove Ulf’s name, and by the time I had finished I could see that it had worked inasmuch as it could on such a wound—it was like a wound he had suffered ten years ago and not like a fresh wound. His leg would never be as it had been, and there was nothing anyone could do about that.

  “Now let me go,” I said. He smiled, showing his dreadful teeth again.

  “Never said so,” he said. “You know name, know spells. You dangerous. I not kill you. I swore. But you stay here, sacrifice to Father of the Slain, make corn go strong.” I heard this with absolute horror. He took the sword that had wounded him and cut the ball of his thumb, then squeezed out a few drops of his blood to fall on my stomach. Ignoring my screams and protests and threats to curse him, and being careful not to touch me to give my curses a chance to work, he walked away, leaving me to die beside my dead brother. Ulf Gunnarsson, I swore, if I get free and we meet again you are a dead man. I knew no real curses, then.

  2

  To the land of the dead in the dusk returning

  all deeds done, time gone, life ending,

  no more amending, this is what you are,

  this is your name, you know it all at last.

  We, who are left on life’s shore, mourning

  as you walk on, into dark, not turning,

  we cannot go with you, this journey all make alone.

  However loved, and you were loved,

  however strong, and you were strong,

  however brave, and you were brave,

  however skilled, and you were skilled,

  you will come alone to Lord Death’s halls

  speak there your name and deeds,

  for them to stand alone, for what you were.

  You go on, shine bright, begin a new life,

  taking from this all of the beauty,

  learning from this all of the mistakes.

  Do not grieve for us, though we are sundered,

  you were what you were, you will be remembered,

  learn to be what more you can be,

  and we will mourn with the name you left us,

  on life’s shore, bound by old choices,

  go free ahead, on new paths, returning.

  —From “The Hymn of Returning”

  When I was quite sure Ulf was gone I began to test the bonds. The one Darien had started to cut was frayed partway through. I craned my neck to look at my wrist, then saw what I had hoped to see. Darien’s knife lay near it, in a large clump of fungus that sprouted beside the root my wrist was tied to. I could slowly force my wrist and the twisted linen down on the blade, which was lying sideways rather than point up. Because of the angle of my arm and the tree, I could either see what I was doing or do it. I alternated between doing and looking, with no thinking. It was a long time, and I did not know whether the cloth or my wrist would be sawn through first. If it had been my wrist it would have been a quicker death than Ulf would have wished on me. I cannot say how long it was before my wrist was free. After that it was a short time before the rest of me was free. The cramps when I stood and tried to walk were agonizing.

  The first thing I did was to walk to the stream and drink until I could hold no more. Then I bent down and washed myself, over and over. The cold water was soothing, and it was good to wash away the blood. Hardest to scrub off was the dried blood on my stomach with which Ulf had dedicated me to the One-Eyed God. By the time I was clean I was chilled through. I walked back to the bodies. I had Darien’s knife already; now I took his sword and his leather jacket. It had no bindings for my breasts such as my own leathers had, but it would do. It was unmarked, although the breeches were drenched with blood from the one slash, behind, where Ulf had struck so treacherously. I took them back to the stream and washed them as best I could, then pulled them on, still wet. They fit me well enough. Darien was close enough to my height—if he had lived he would have overtopped me soon. He was my closest friend, as well as my brother. We were equal in most ways, for though I was the elder he was the heir. Often enough we were rivals in prowess, but this only encouraged us both to strive the harder. I was better with the sword, having what Duncan, our arms master, considered an inborn skill for the weapon. Darien was a better horseman, and much better at aiming a lance at the target. He had had dreams of winning some great prize someday with his lancework.

  All this I thought as I made his leathers mine. My thoughts turned to those of his hopes and dreams he had shared with me, of the times we had practiced together with wooden swords until our arms and shoulders were far past aching and then rubbed each other down with oil. I remembered the times we had lied for each other to Veniva, our lady mother, always so Vincan and proper, protecting each other’s secrets. Well, Darien had come to protect me one last time. Without him I would be enslaved or dead. It was then that I realized for the first time what it meant to be old.

  I knew it was foolish, but I stopped to build a pyre for Darien. I knew there might be other Jarnsmen around seeking their lost companions. But I could not leave my brother unburied in the wood. I built a pyre of fallen branches at the edge of the meadow. I put the weapons and gear of the men he had killed into the pyre. I set Darien upon the pyre in his linen underclothes and with his enemies’ weapons beneath him; I left the Jarnsmen unburied for the dogs and birds to eat. All this took some time, and I was only just finished in time to be ready at dusk.

  I lit the pyre with Darien’s flint and steel and sang the great “Hymn of Returning,” all alone beneath the twilight stars. I thought about Jarnsmen, but I had a sword now, and it would have pleased me to kill them and add their weapons to Darien’s glory pyre if they came. I was lucky. No Jarnsmen came. Nobody came at all. If anyone saw the smoke they probably thought it just more destruction. Alone, and not half a mile from home, I mourned my brother. At last, when the pyre was burning brightly and all the hymns were sung, I took his sword and cut off my hair in the Vincan mourning custom. It made a thick black double handful. I cast it onto the pyre, where it flamed up with a singeing smell almost enough to mask the roasting smell of poor Darien. He should have had incense. He should have had sacrifices. He should have had his killer’s arms beneath his feet. Swearing that one day I would bring them to add to his grave, I turned away and walked back through the woods towards the house.

  I was not sure what to expect as I came out of the trees. I could smell smoke and knew there had been a great burning. There was no sound at all, and the wood was as quiet as if even the night predators had fled the Jarnsmen. Part of me, it seemed, expected to be home at any moment where I could fling myself down on my own bed and weep until I felt better. The rest of me knew the Jarnsmen had done their usual trick and fired the house, and the dead with it. The shape of the stone walls stood yet, but the silhouette looked strange in the starlight. The concrete and tiles of the roof had cracked with the heat and fallen in.

>   Cautiously I scouted around the walls. There was no sign of Jarnsmen. There were no bodies, although I had little doubt there would be bones in the ashes inside. I had left the house not long past noon and had been away what was, by both sensible count and by the stars, not much more than seven hours. Yet it seemed months since I set out, and the ruin of my home seemed something ancient and over with, as if it had been done by the Vincans when they first took Tir Tanagiri centuries ago. Certainly it was sad, but I could not feel it as I felt Darien’s death.

  When I had circled the walls I did not know what to do next. I thought of sleeping the night in a tree. There was a red pine I knew nearby that had one broad branch flat enough to lie on and well out of sight. I wanted to pursue Ulf and get my vengeance upon him and the other raiders. I had no idea where they had gone, or where their boat might be. In the morning I might scout the cliffs and inlets, but at night I would see nothing but shadows in the coves. I could go to one of the farms and sleep, but I felt a great weariness, and horror come over me at the thought of company and questions. I leaned my face against the rough stones of the wall, unsure. At length I murmured a prayer to the Lord Messenger, Guider of Choices, to help me choose rightly. He must have been waiting to guide me because as soon as the prayer was out I knew I must go to the Home Farm, only a mile or so away.

  I walked in the shadow of the trees as far as I could. As I crossed the fields I saw no living thing except a great white owl, who gave me a fright gliding down close to me in complete silence to snatch up a vole almost at my feet. When I came to the farm I saw firelight within. I approached cautiously, and listened beneath the window. I heard the voices of the farmers and then, to my joy and amazement, my mother’s voice. I rushed to the door and scratched for admittance.

  There was immediately silence inside, through which I could hear awkward snoring breaths. Then a farmer asked boldly who was there.

  “It is I, Sulien ap Gwien,” I said, “and I know my lady mother Veniva is within.” The man opened the door a crack so he could see my face. His own looked drawn and frightened. He looked about cautiously, then let me into the house, barring the stout oak door with iron as soon as we were within.

  The half of the room near the fire seemed filled with my father, sprawled unconscious on a heather bed. His eyes were closed, and he had a bandage round his head. It was his breathing I had heard from outside. Even felled he was a great man. Darien would have had his height. It took me a moment to take in my mother kneeling at his side. My eyes were full of tears.

  “Darien is dead.” I said. Veniva looked straight up at me. Her face was as calm as ever, although her greying hair was disordered as I had never seen it, and her clothes were filthy and bloodstained. I would hardly have recognized her as my civilized mother. “Dead defending me from Jarnsmen. I set him on an honourable pyre.”

  “Are you all right?” she asked. I jerked my chin up affirmatively.

  “Father?” I began.

  “Your father is badly wounded. He took a blow to the scalp in the first fighting when the Jarnsmen came up from the boat. Duncan got him away here and then came to tell me—I was organizing the defense of the house. Morien and Aurien are here. The Jarnsmen have left, taking some, slaying others, taking all the horses and valuables. Gwien will live, I think, but we must have help.”

  “Help?” I asked, stupidly. One of the farmers put a wooden cup of warm milk into my hand, murmuring a blessing to Coventina. I took a gulp, and then drained the cup. There was honey in it. The strength it gave me was wonderful. It was almost as wonderful as knowing that all my family but Darien yet lived.

  “Someone must go to the king. There is nothing stopping these Jarnsmen from landing where they will and slaying and stealing as they please. We must rebuild, and where are the money and the hands to come from? Most of our troops and the people of the house have fallen, and now you say Darien, too, is dead.” It was as if she was just now taking in what I had said. “Darien. We will mourn him later. There is no time now. Morien is the heir, then, and he is but thirteen years old. I will keep the few hands I have here and make a beginning. I cannot be sure if Gwien will live.”

  I wanted to go to her, to touch her, to weep with her and tell her what had happened, but the distance between us was too great. She was holding on to her calm and control hard, and they were showing cracks around the edges. “Are you fit to ride, Sulien?” The thought of setting my thighs on a horse seemed agony. But I nodded. “Then as soon as it is light you must set off for Caer Tanaga. Gwien swore fealty to this young king, which was his free choice. Now we need help, and the king must send it to us.”

  She had never sounded more Vincan. Yet even as she spoke she was lifting her hands and unbinding her hair. Soon it was hanging loose about her face in the old Tanagan custom for one who is mourning close kin. Then she stared at me, daring me to speak.

  For all my life, and hers, too, the country had been disintegrating. The Vincans had left us to govern ourselves. They had been overrun at home and could no longer look after Tir Tanagiri. We had sent to ask them for help time after time, before at last deciding to look after our own defense. Now she asked me to ride to Caer Tanaga for help from this latest in the series of kings who were trying to grab something for themselves from the wreck of the country. It sounded in my ears much the same as the way she had always told my father that we should send to Vinca for an army. His retort to her in such dinner-table conversations was on my lips, but I bit it back. I could not stand there and say to Veniva now “As well send to ask the moon for help.” Instead I simply shook my head. The farmers were hesitating in the door that led to the storeroom, clearly unsure whether or not they should witness this.

  “He will be very sorry, Mother, but what can he do?” I asked. I could not stop myself from saying the rest of what Gwien said to her so often. “He is so far away. We have to help ourselves, not ask others to help us.” Veniva bit her lip and looked down. Then she drew a ragged breath.

  “Your father went and swore to him. We sent troops, last year, to fight when the raiders landed near Magor. He owes it to us to help us rebuild. And we must have help, we must. If King Urdo will not, then go to Duke Galba. Galba’s son is betrothed to you; he is practically family already he will surely come.”

  This was not the time to tell my mother I could never marry, though my stomach churned at the mention of young Galba, who had seemed polite and personable enough three years before when my father asked me if I could bear him. It was a very good alliance for us. The older Galba was a duke and a war-leader, and we held scarce enough land to be accounted noble were it not for our exalted bloodlines. Gwien could trace his family back to the kings who had held this coastline before the Vincans came, and Veniva’s ancestors had been Vincan nobles from the City itself.

  I stood still, clutching the empty cup and staring at Veniva like a dolt. She knelt beside my father, hair unbound, quite composed. I was caught between obeying her and telling her she was being a fool. I had already said all I could fairly say as an objection.

  “Go to sleep, Sulien,” she said, with some softness in her voice. “You need not leave until daybreak.”

  I bowed to her and followed the farmer to the hayloft, where I lay down beside my brother and sister and the children of the farm. I think I fell asleep at once, though I remember thinking, selfishly and half-asleep, that if I left at least I would be gone, I would be in other places seeing other things, not dealing with the day-to-day difficulties that were going to be overpowering at home.

  3

  Bear me swiftly over the land

  long legs, nurtured with roots

  turning ears tuned to my voice

  gentle mouth here to my hand

  warm flanks under my thigh

  faster than eagles.

  Bear me swiftly down on the foe

  long legs, first in the charge

  strong feet shod with iron

  brave heart thundering down

  d
riving home the lowered lance

  stronger than lions.

  Bear me swiftly home at last

  long legs, ready for grain

  at end of day when night falls

  never complaining, carry me on,

  smooth feet, shadow in shadows

  best of companions.

  —Aneirin ap Erbin “Greathorse”

  I woke in the night to a desperate clatter of hooves, followed by silence. Morien was awake beside me, rigid in the straw. Aurien still slept. I eased my way out of the hay towards the wooden upper door. Two of the farm children followed me. I peered down between the slats. Down on the cobbles of the outer yard was a black horse, a shadow among the shadows, nosing at the closed gate. There was no sign of any rider. As was usual when a farm had more than one building the barn and house stood at right angles to each other, forming two sides of a square with walls enclosing the other two sides. From the hayloft we could not see all the way round.

  “Apple!” breathed the farm girl beside me. I looked down at her. She was no more than a shape in the dimness, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old.

  “You know that horse?”

  “He’s Apple. He’s Rudwen’s horse. She used to ride him down here and exercise him up on the sward. They’d always stop for a drink of milk and an apple for Apple.”

  If he was Rudwen’s horse then he had come from our stables. I peered at him in the gloom. He did have a familiar look. All our horses had been taken. Either Apple had carried a Jarnsman here, or he had escaped them somehow. There was no sign of any human movement below. It seemed most likely the horse had fled and come alone to a familiar place. I could not imagine raiders having need of such a ruse if they wanted to attack us.

  “Do you think Apple would come to you?” I asked, pulling on Darien’s leathers over the woollen smock one of the farmers had lent me to sleep in. The breeches were still unpleasantly slimy. The girl whispered a quick assent. I took up Darien’s sword and led the way down the ladder. I put my hand on Morien’s shoulder as I passed him. I felt him tense under my touch, but he did not speak. I moved on. He was only thirteen and had seen terrible things that day; it is no shame to the half-trained to want to avoid danger. The farm girl followed me, leaving the other children burrowed under the hay. At the foot of the ladder I paused among the warm bodies and fresh dung scent of the cows.