‘I think you will be safe here, if you are strong enough?’
I glanced towards Norda, before I answered. She had slumped forwards, and was struggling to hold her head off the ground with one supporting arm. There was a string of spew trailing from her mouth.
‘Yes…’ I said to Lowly Crows, though I knew it to be a weedling lie. ‘Go, and do what you must.’
‘There are rumours to be cast upon the wind…Have you not heard them, Rogrig? Your Graynelord is dead, his final rule a deceit, and the conspiracy of his Council is unmasked…The graynes must be told of this treachery, and a bird can more quickly spread the tale than a man’s word of mouth alone. Eh?’
‘Then, give your story wings…’ I said, forcing a smile.
Lowly Crows spread her own wings as if in response. ‘Say something often enough, spread a rumour wide enough, hear it repeated back, and it is amazing how easily – how quickly – it is believed.’
‘And if it also happens to be the accepted truth?’ I said.
‘All the better for that, my friend…Just not essential!’ She turned herself about, looking quietly between Norda and myself as if to satisfy herself of something.
‘It will be easier for our greater company to travel unnoticed behind the shadows of a rising war,’ she said. ‘When the whole world is out upon a Riding, no one is going to notice a little extra dust upon the road…Eh?’
‘Not even Faerie Dust,’ I said. Our sudden burst of laughter was real.
To her word, the birds’ respite was short enough.
Lowly Crows took off, still weary; she had to beat her wings hard to lift herself into the sky. She was quickly followed into the air by the last of her kin. The Lonely Trees emptied with a great flourish. And the fell rapidly cleared. I would have lost sight of her among the body of her fellows if I had not come to recognize the distinctive shape of her wings…and heard her voice, calling back to me. I watched the crows until they were quite distant.
Only, not all of the black shapes on the ground had roused themselves to flight. There were as many that had not moved at all, were done for. As she flew higher, Lowly Crow’s birdsong grew distant and faint, until there was nothing at all.
Inside my head, as if in sympathy, the shadow-voices too drew silent. The only sounds were the waving branches of the Lonely Trees, groaning again, and the cuss of the wind as it caught the broken flight feathers of the black shapes left behind, forlorn, upon the fell.
I gave in then, to my sorely body, and I lay my head down upon the cool grass. I closed my eyes for just a moment’s rest…for just a moment.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Debateable Land
The Crows flew, and they told their story, they spread their tale upon the air. And the ears of all Graynelore slowly turned toward them, began to listen and to take heed.
The death of a Headman, more, the death of a Graynelord, was doubtless a tragedy. It was also a series of unique opportunities. For some graynes, it was the opportunity to take their main chance, and to assert themselves and their authority over others; to attempt to gain a ruling influence. For many lesser graynes, it was simply the opportunity to make mischief, while their more powerful neighbours were temporarily looking in someone else’s direction. Witless cowards were suddenly brave adventurers when, for a few short breaths, traditional enemies, old adversaries, were off making war. What better time to steal your neighbour’s stock, their coin, their wives and their chattels…or take your cold revenge?
It was almost like an extended holyday.
A brief respite from the constant repression of a stronger grayne meant you could do some repressing of your own. It was a time to settle old blood feuds, and get your own back.
A shift in status, a change in leadership, was bound to cause havoc all across Graynelore (especially if the deed was contested or foul play suspected – and it ever was). The effects were immediate. It left the world out of kilter. Its balance momentarily shifted, teetering on the brink of the abyss – requiring a swift redress.
For certain, the chaos, the unrest, would be short lived: a matter of days only, weeks at most, before a new order was imposed by the strongest arm. Always the strongest arm.
It was a perfect time for a strange gathering of faeries to go about their secret business. There would be no coordinated attempt to find them out, no general cry of ‘Wych! Wych!’
It was also a dangerous time, for of a sudden every man was an enemy. There would be no safe houses now. Keep apart, to yourself, eyes fixed upon the ground. Do not look a man in the face for fear it offends him. Do not be seen unless you mean to be seen. Do not draw attention to yourself until the matter is settled.
All claims, no matter how trivial or outrageous, became valid claims; every issue, debateable – and Graynelore, the Debateable Land. All justice, absolute; rough and ready, rude and bloody…
A man might have wished for some sort of celestial collusion, to help us out. Perhaps some did. Even the weather began to understand the change in our circumstance. An already watery sun stopped shining. Moody bruised clouds hung low in the sky, draped the landscape, and left the greater part of Graynelore beneath a layered shroud of constant rain or early winter sleet. Fog rolled in across the fells and heavy mist clung to the bottom of the hillsides and would not let go again; like frightened women drawing their skirts tightly about them against the threat of a violation.
The greater trails became deserted, and constant travellers a curiosity. Men mostly stopped travelling, in case their movement was seen as a threat or an intrusion worthy of a fight. And a fight always meant a death. The few tavern keepers stopped asking questions of their guests. It was not healthy to be too inquisitive. Across all Graynelore, the Strongholds rang out their iron bells, called in their close kin, barred their doors, took away their ladders, broke up their wooden stairs, and waited – hopeful that the rising storm would soon pass off and leave them be.
I felt a shadow fall across me, blotting out what my waking eyes saw as the light of the sun, and its warmth.
‘Notyet?’ I called out, sleepily. Hers was the first name to come into my dozy mind.
I opened my eyes fully, and thought I saw the dark outline of two figures standing across me. One was a lopsided Norda Elfwych, still visibly carrying the pains of our endeavours. The other figure, a stranger to me, was most definitely that of a hardened man. He held something in his hand – like a sword. I reached for my own, tried to raise myself up, only to feel the weight of a wooden staff pressed hard against my chest, pinning me back to the ground.
‘Rest easy, Big Man, do not fuss so. I know you…’ The stranger spoke through gritted teeth, and with conviction.
‘Eh?’
‘We do not want any misunderstandings here,’ he said, leaning more heavily upon his staff. Though I took the sudden extra weight, felt the stab of pain, without revealing my discomfort. ‘Let me be clear. I know you both…and I know what you are.’ His voice was strong and it was steady. The man knew what he was about.
‘It is all right, Rogrig,’ Norda’s anxious voice intervened. ‘This man is a friend.’
‘A friend you say? Ha! I fear…we have no friends!’ I said.
‘Begging your pardon, you will still be wanting some supper though?’ said the stranger. As he spoke he took away his staff and allowed me to sit up. I lifted my hand away from the hilt of my sword, let my arm rest. He had not pressed his advantage when he might well have done, was worthy of a second thought.
I guessed the hour at early evening. It seemed I had slept away the remains of the day. There was a newly made campfire close by. (It was the warmth of the fire I had mistaken for the sun.) As he stepped aside, the firelight fell upon the stranger…
He was grinning at me, and it was an inane grin, which displayed a row of broken teeth. On another occasion, it might have inspired me to hit him. I…did not. I recognized him – not the man, but the breed, the profession – he was a Beggar Bard, no less.
They are all broadly alike in manner and custom. Whatever their age, old or young, they wear the same garb, carry the same broken relics, and speak with the same tongue. (And yet here was a curious thing: in all my life I had not once seen two together. At the same place perhaps, but never together. Never a pair! They are solitary creatures who appear to shun contact with their own kind.)
There was a makeshift spit set across the fire, with skewered meat roasting upon it; small birds it seemed…Crow…? I could not blame a man for taking advantage of an unexpected windfall. And I had not eaten in more than a day, let alone fresh meats. I was hungry.
Did we truly consume the flesh of our own rescuers? Of course we did! Forgive our savage ways, my friend. The birds would certainly have eaten our remains in their turn. I would have expected it. And if, at our backs, the Lonely Trees groaned just a little louder and complained just a little more as we fed, they surely understood.
Afterwards, I watched the Beggar Bard busy himself, gathering up the plucked feathers. It was done to stuff a makeshift pillow, to soften up his bed or the like. He offered a handful of feathers to Norda, which she readily took and tied together in three small bundles. One – the smallest – she gave to me (I still have it). The second she returned to the Lonely Trees, tying them carefully to a lowly branch. The last she pinned to her shift, not to prettify herself, but as a remembrance – a keepsake.
It was an unusual interlude, that time we spent with the Beggar Bard, waiting upon the return of Lowly Crows. Norda Elfwych and I felt content to stay where we were, and in his company, for a second night. We were both in need of some respite. Norda had been sorely wounded, nay, brutally abused in her captivity, and the Beggar Bard appeared to give her some relief, succour; even a little healing I could not afford her.
We talked very little in that encampment. Not even the Beggar Bard. Mind, he did give us his name and called himself Ringbald. I was aware of him habitually fingering the relic that hung about his neck. When he caught me watching him, he only clasped the thing more tightly, as if to disguise it in his hand. I resisted the temptation to handle my own relic; rescued from the Council, returned to its clasp, and now bound tightly to my wrist beneath my cloth. Though I could not see how it was possible for him to know it was hidden there, I fear I still flushed a little, as if my secret hoard was found out.
I look back at all the Beggar Bards now and think I do not see true men, nor even true fey, but creatures of a different breed entirely, perhaps.
In that time, Ringbald made no attempt to explain his first words to me; if I pondered them often enough. How could he know what we were? It was a simple fact he had placed between us three. It was a truth that bound us faithfully together.
Neither did he give us his Bard’s tale. He only ever offered us up a simple rhyme… It was on the second evening. He bade us to come and sit close by him, next to the fire, and he recited a short poem:
You cannot have love without hate,
You cannot know joy without first knowing sorrow,
You cannot have wrong without right,
Nor the light of the day without the darkness of night.
‘Your words are quite beautiful,’ said Norda Elfwych, adding, somewhat perplexed, ‘What do they mean?’
I shrugged. What sense a Beggar Bard?
Ringbald only looked between us and grinned; his inane grin displaying his broken teeth. He nodded his head ever so slightly, as if in affirmation, but without further explanation. Then he settled himself down among the grass with his head upon his pillow of crow’s feathers and slept.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Night Sounds
I was awoken in that night, with a draft of cold air. Norda had fallen asleep at my side, and close too, as an animal might have done to keep itself warm. She was not there now…Something had disturbed her. She was standing some way off, her back turned, her face lifted towards a black sky and a thin moon.
Where to now, Norda Elfwych? I thought.
I stood up. I left the Beggar Bard sleeping by the fire, upon his pillow of crow feathers.
Had I really rescued Norda from a torment, or had I simply stolen her away? Replaced one bitter trial with the beginnings of another? When she realized I was awake and beside her, she spoke.
‘Do we have to live in this way, Rogrig? I mean, in a world where men are forever clawing at each other’s throats, seeking only their own advantage?’ It was an unexpected conversation.
‘You mean; could we not all make a simple agreement and live together in peace and harmony?’ I said, deliberately trying to make light of her question. ‘We could write ourselves some common laws, perhaps. Sign a treaty, make our covenant. Set some men above us, always above us: to be our government. Do then, only as we are bidden to do, grateful subjects…and, for ever more.’
‘Well yes, something of that sort, Rogrig. Why ever not?’ she asked, suddenly sullen, as if resentful of my slight. ‘It sounds perfectly reasonable to me. Would it be so very difficult? It is better than hate. It is, surely, better than this…’
She turned towards me; held out her hands. They glistened, black, under the weak moonlight. I knew blood well enough…One of her private wounds was bleeding afresh.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘The Graynelore works, if in its own peculiar fashion.’ I was attempting to justify myself. ‘Each grayne looks out for its own. We none of us trust our neighbours. But then, we do not have to. That is the simple beauty of it. When we need something we each fight for it. When we are contented, we leave each other be. Our strength is our success, and our assurance. It may not be a peaceful existence. But there is no pretence. No false diplomacy. No bloody lies.’
‘Only bloodshed.’ Norda Elfwych closed her fists. She lifted them to her brow; and in doing so, left her own blood mark upon her face. ‘Only killings…And an ever withered soul!’
‘You know where you are with an enemy,’ I said, roughly. ‘There are no politicians, with their poisonous words; sticking their subtle knives into your back, twisting the blade.’
‘No there are not!’ she said, fighting back. ‘But only because your neighbour is too busy sticking his dagger into your chest. Can you not see it, Rogrig?’
Our words, if spoken lightly, had suddenly become a fierce argument.
‘The graynes have always survived,’ I said.
‘And for you, survival is enough for the man?’
‘I did not say that!’
‘Well, it is not enough for me,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Ask any imprisoned old man that same question. It is what you do with life that matters. I will not measure the quality of my life in years alone. I wish to live!’
‘Oh, I have lived!’ I said. ‘There is no doubt of it, Elfwych. I have lived!’
‘Ah yes…And what then of civility, eh? What of that?’ she asked.
‘I did not take you for a fool, Norda Elfwych. Civility, ha! It is just another fine word! Show me a civilisation – show me just one – that was not built entirely upon the force of its arms, and the repression of another.’
‘That is the reiver in you speaking,’ she said.
‘I am a reiver! At least, I am a reiver when I need to be,’ I said. I truly wanted her to understand, if my voice grew harsh. ‘And it has suited me well enough. I know where I stand.’
I reached for my sword and drew it out. Not to hurt her – only to explain myself.
‘It suits you to kill, then?’ she asked.
‘I have seen you in the frae before now!’ I said.
‘And that makes it right? Oh, the pitiful, arrogance of men!’ she said. ‘I have never known a sword do anything yet, but cruel damage.’
‘Can you protect yourself with your tongue alone?’ I asked.
‘You might be surprised, Rogrig.’ She paused, though only to suppress some other distant memory she would rather not bring to mind. ‘Can you undo the work your sword has done?’
‘I know what to do with this sword,’ I said, bran
dishing it between us, letting it sing through the air. ‘If I want something—’
‘Want?’
‘Need then. If I need something, with this sword I can take it.’
‘Oh you can take all right,’ she said, scornfully. ‘And would you take me, reiver?’
‘Take, from an Elfwych! Can you take what is always so freely given away?’ The insult was…unnecessary. My anger had suddenly the better of my argument. I was sorely sorry for it, only never expressed it.
‘Oh please,’ she said, in rebuke, ‘put that bloody sword away before you damage yourself—’
‘And if you did not want me for what I am, what would you have me be, Norda Elfwych?’ I asked, plainly enough. And I sheathed my sword, if somewhat noisily.
‘Only what you truly are, Rogrig Wishard…’
‘And what is that?’
She turned her back against me, before she answered. ‘Be at ease with yourself, Rogrig; do you not see it yet? The shape we each take on, whether it is a common form or fey, is neither our curse nor a thing to be despised. It is our greatest joy. For it belongs solely to us alone. We are each of us a single universe—’
‘Indeed!’ My slight was scornful.
‘A universe no other, man or woman, can ever know for certain, can only catch the glimpse we choose to reveal to them. They will never walk upon its solid ground or see its distant shores.’ Norda turned to face me, eye to eye. ‘You have carried your name around with you for long enough,’ she said. ‘It is past the time for you to own up to it.’
‘Ha! Names!’ I returned. ‘Upon Graynelore, it is our names that have forever kept us divided.’
‘Why then did you come to find me out again, if not for this; if not to finally bring us together?’
‘We are on the same road,’ I said. ‘We are at least travelling the same way. In the same direction—’
‘Ah! Are we the same then? Is that truly what you think?’
‘I see we are of a kind, you and I,’ I said.
‘Aye, of a kind…’ she repeated the words slowly, letting them hang upon the air between us. ‘Only, you are my heart’s ache – and its worst! Just as surely as I am yours! A Wishard and an Elfwych…I fear there is never a meeting place for us two. And it seems to me, if we are moving in the same direction, you are always trying to run away. While I am running home…’
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