‘One thing,’ – it was the grey-bearded Baron Tragsmann of Vihag – ‘something I should have mentioned earlier maybe. Baron Fyram of Clutha, the next town north of mine, is dead. He has been replaced by Vorfgan, his cousin.’
‘And the significance of this is?’ questioned Farnerun.
‘It might be of no significance at all,’ said Tragsmann. ‘Fyram was killed in a hunting accident pursuing boar in the northern Morrathnay Forest. His brother, the next in line, died six months ago in a boating accident in which there were no survivors. Vorfgan still isn’t the next in line but Fyram’s son, who is thirteen years old, has not been seen since the accident. The version Vorfgan is telling us is that he has taken sick and is confined to bed. A bed in Vorfgan’s mansion. As I say, no one outside of Vorfgan’s immediate circle can claim to have seen him and Vorfgan has claimed the protectorship until the boy gets better.’
‘It sounds suspicious but I am guessing there is no proof of foul play, and in all honesty it could all just be coincidence anyway.’ said Wulfthram.
‘Indeed, but then Vorfgan is a very ambitious young man, one who needs to be watched. And did I mention the arrow that killed Fyram by accident belonged to one of Vorfgan’s men? I am not suggesting he should be deposed ... yet. But as I said he should be watched, intently.’
‘Thank you for that, Tragsmann. If I can find the time next year, I might just pay a visit to Clutha. What is Fyram’s boy’s name?’
‘Dekkan, a quiet lad, easy to manipulate.’
‘I shall write to Vorfgan enquiring as to the health of young Dekkan then, see what he has to say for himself, and let him know I am watching him. Now let us conclude this council. Thank you all for your time and we shall reconvene in three months after Winter Festival Day. Syvuhka watch over us.’
‘Syvuhka watch over us,’ they all solemnly echoed before rising from the table. Ceriana had heard the name before but didn’t quite know what it signified so when she had the opportunity she asked Einar.
‘Syvuhka?’ he said. ‘It is all to do with keeping our history and traditions. In Kibil we had the same gods as you but we knew them by different names. Syvuhka is the old Kibil name for Artorus and we invoke it when we want to remember who we once were. Ironically, hardly anyone in Kibil uses the name now. It has been part of the Empire for so long that its gods are now their gods. In fact, if you want to see how Kibil used to be, your best bet would be to watch us. We keep some of the old language, religion and festivals. In fact, the festival of Logammasnat, when we set fire to a wooden boat on the ocean, will be observed in a couple of weeks’ time. As with all great Kibil festivals, we all get drunk to insensibility afterwards.’
‘Drink is an important Kibil tradition, I take it?’ she laughed.
‘Well, it can get arse-numbingly freezing up here. Sometimes it is the only way to keep warm.’
‘You never got round to discovering fire then?’
‘We did, but lighting a fire is nowhere near as much fun.’
The barons mingled and talked until the sun had long gone down. They would all stay in the mansion house that night before journeying home the next day. Ceriana tired quickly and excused herself early on. On retiring to her rooms, she asked Ebba to bring her some bread and milk and resolved to have an early night. Once she had eaten, she dismissed Ebba, put on her nightclothes, blew out the candles and climbed into bed.
She couldn’t remember her dreams; she felt so warm and woozy. She had been so cold since her arrival; it felt like such a pleasant change. She felt like she was melting into her bed, dissolving into the sheets, into nothingness. Just her and the warmth she felt within her...
Elissa’s breath she was hot! She sat bolt upright in her bed. Her chest and the back of her neck were soaking. Outside she could see the moon, its pale light filtering in through her window. It was the dead of night. She had slept for hours. She drew her knees up to her chin, noticing that the fire had gone out. How could she feel this warm without the fire? She went to put her face in her hands when she stopped. What was it this time?
She looked at her pale forearms in turn. The only light source in the room came from the moon. But there was no doubt about it. The thin tracery of veins in both arms was glowing, shining luminously through her milk-white skin. She groaned. It must be that Keth-accursed stone! She hadn’t looked at it since she left Edgecliff but she knew exactly where it was. Getting out of bed, she went to a drawer in her dresser, pulled out the jewellery box and opened it. She already knew it would be glowing before she looked at it and, sure enough, there it was, pulsating exactly like before. Trying to keep her panic in check, she went over to the full-length mirror next to the room where her clothes were stored and pulled off her nightclothes. What she saw only compounded her nausea.
It wasn’t just her arms; she could see the pattern of veins in her body travelling through her arms, her shoulders, and her torso and into her legs. The only places they weren’t shining through her skin were at her extremities, hands, face and feet. She was sweating profusely, both through the unnatural heat and through the fear she felt rising within her. A drop of sweat collected at the tip of her nose before falling and splashing on to the wooden floor. It was followed by another. And another.
‘Dear Elissa, help me, dear Elissa help me, dear Elissa help me!’ she whispered to herself again and again. She had no idea what to do so; she just watched herself, naked and translucent, glowing with an inner light that came from Elissa knows where. Her hair was plastered to her back and forehead, and sweat dripped over her nose and chin before sliding between her breasts and on to the floor, where a pool of tiny droplets were gathering.
Then, just like before, everything stopped abruptly. The stone’s light went out and she was just an unclad pale young woman again. She squatted slowly on to the floor, shivering in the cold air as the sweat dried on her skin.
‘I need help,’ she said to herself. ‘I need help now.’
Shortly after dawn, Ebba found her still on the floor, staring into space and shivering. Suspecting a fever, she sent word to Wulfthram and the mansion’s doctor. She carefully lifted the girl up, put her nightdress back on her and placed her gently back into bed. In all this time the stone in the box went completely unnoticed.
14
The storm had blown over, leaving the morning bright and crisp. On the bank of the lake, just past the last dwelling that bordered it on the south-eastern side, the land broadened out into a small circular plain. It, too, was fringed by dwellings and it was here that the whole tribe, well over one hundred strong, now assembled. They waited patiently for the Elder to arrive by boat from the great house. When he did, he was accompanied by his fellow elders and some younger men, one of whom beat a solemn tattoo on a drum held in the crook of his arm while others blew through pipes fashioned from wood and reeds. In front of all of them, though, were the bereaved couple, the stocky Fasneterax and his wife, her face pale and drawn. Between them they held a small bundle wrapped tightly in white cloth. They walked ahead of the rest of the group and down a dirt path leading directly away from the village, the elders and musicians walking behind them. Keeping a respectful distance everybody else started to follow.
The slow procession continued for a mile or more, winding along through small knots of trees and past extensive beds of reeds and bodies of still water covered in lilies, iris and marsh marigolds. Eventually they stopped at a lake almost circular in shape whose waters were as black as ink. Built on to the water was a large wooden platform constructed on piles driven into the water. Trees had been cleared from this section of the bank, though they surrounded the rest of it, pressing close to the water’s edge. The elders, musicians, Fasneterax and his wife stood on the platform while the rest of the village took up positions on the high bank overlooking the deep, impenetrable waters.
The elder addressed the crowd, telling them that they had arrived at the sacred lake, one of the few places where Ukka, god of the underworld, could acc
ess the land of mortal men. He then stated that today would mark the joining of the child’s soul with those of the Gods and the beginning of his journey along the Great River. He then threw some woody sticks on to the brazier, which smoked heavily and gave off the sweet smell of incense. He raised his arms to the crowd, entreating Ukka to accept the child to his side.
‘Ukka, accept the child!’ the crowd responded.
When this was done the Elder gestured to Fasneterax, who moved forward gently placing the bundle at the Elder’s feet. Two of the musicians then placed it on a small wicker raft and took it to the water’s edge. Some women holding baskets then stepped forwards scattering flowers and garlands on to the lake. Dumnekavax then made his final address.
‘Oh great spirits, ensure that our grief is assuaged by the certainty of your acceptance of this innocent child into your world. Protect him for eternity and ensure that he is there to greet his parents when they, too, are called to your side.’
The two men then placed the raft on to the water. Taking a large pole each they gently propelled it out on to the surface of the lake. The drummer and remaining musicians played a slow, solemn tune as the raft and its contents got smaller and smaller until, finally, the water overcame the raft and both it and the child it held disappeared silently under the surface.
Everyone stood still for a moment, showing their respect, then the Elder, head bowed, left the platform, to walk slowly back to the village. The other villagers walked behind him until at last only the bereaved couple were left. They held each other and stared silently at the sacred lake, lost in their thoughts and memories, until at last even they turned from the lake and began their walk back. Behind them two swans swooped low over the water landing on it almost noiselessly and began craning their necks against each other.
The great house was a hive of activity. At its centre, space had been cleared and wooden bowls of varying sizes were being placed there by the village’s womenfolk who were scurrying around like ants. There were bowls of goat’s milk, cheese and flatbread, of edible seed pods and rough cereals. A goat had been killed earlier that day and its cooked remains formed the centre of the feast. Elsewhere, there was every type of denizen of the river, small fish pickled in a local vinegar, fish cooked in wild garlic, prawns and crayfish boiled till they turned pink, and some ducks and geese plucked and cooked in their entirety. Children milled around trying to steal titbits, before they were caught and cuffed around the ear. The men stayed away until the summoning horn was sounded giving the signal for the feast to commence.
A lot of them were on Cygan’s island, starting the work required to put up the stockade. Some had already started to dig a ditch using crude picks while others were sharpening stakes.
Cygan was not assisting them. Rather, he was sitting outside his house working on a small fire, which was heating a pot containing a black, viscous liquid. When he was satisfied with the fire, he went to inspect the rest of his equipment – a water skin; a leather bag containing strips of dried fish, hard cheese and berries; a flint and some light tinder; his bow, quiver and some twenty hunting arrows; along with his bone knife and spear. He had his thicker shirt on, along with a cloak which could double as a blanket and his shoes that had been freshly oiled and waterproofed. His wife, wearing a blue shirt with her skirt as befitted the colder weather, was behind him.
‘Vengefarak and the others have left for Jagged Hill,’ she said. ‘Your party will be waiting for you at the great house by now.’
‘I just need to finish this,’ he indicated the fire and pot in front of him. ‘Then I will join them.’
She went and stood in front of him. ‘Please be careful.’
‘I will. I will be back within the week.’
‘You shouldn’t make promises you may not be able to keep.’
‘No. No, I shouldn’t. Look after the children. And my brother. His leg pains him, though he would never admit it.’
‘I will. I have my knife and my sling if required. I should go and join the children. They are already at the great house, probably trying to steal food.’
‘Yes, you go. Tell the others I will be there shortly.’
‘Dumnekavax walks in the spirit world tonight. It troubles me greatly. It is said that he could see the spirits of the dead and those about to die. What if ... if he sees you there?’
‘And what if he doesn’t? I will return. And that is a promise I will definitely keep.’
She looked at him intently, her large brown eyes conveying more in a glance than a thousand words could. Then she turned away, climbed into her round boat and was gone.
Cygan’s eyes followed her for a moment, and then resignedly he turned back to his pot. Satisfied with its contents, he lifted it from the fire, wrapped it in a soft goatskin and prepared to leave his house behind.
A funeral feast was always a happy affair, a celebration of the life of its subject, however short, and it was against a background of laughter, the highpitched voices of excited children and the banter of men well into their grain beer and honey mead that Cygan and his three companions pushed off from the jetty in their longboat expertly fashioned from a single log.
None of the men spoke as they made their way, almost silently, out of the lake and on to the black river heading southward. Before they had left, Dumnekavax had presided over a traditional ceremony. ‘Here is Genexetan, wisest of the Elders – may he guide you in uncertain waters!’ With that he placed a skull on the prow of the boat, fixing it on to a wooden prong that had obviously been carved there for that purpose. The long-dead elder would be the fifth member of the crew, there to impart his knowledge to them as they dreamed.
Cygan was second oar on the boat behind Fasneterax, a stocky dour man at the best of times, but whose intense stare seemed to have magnified tenfold since his son’s death. Sitting directly behind him was the elder Tegavenek, rowing as assuredly as the rest of them despite having at least twenty years on them all. Behind him, by contrast, was the youngest member of the party – Cerrenatukavenex, or Cerren, as he was known, a young lad of barely eighteen years. Despite that, he was big and strong, taller and broader than the others, and a lad who always seemed to have a smile on his face. This was his first major trip out of the village.
As they paddled on downriver, the river, which by normal rules should have grown broader, grew narrower and narrower until the high banks of reeds almost closed in upon them completely. It also got more and more sluggish until one could see the clouds of midges hanging in the air, buzzing in their ears as they drove the boat through them. At one point Cygan inhaled at exactly the wrong time, causing him to choke and splutter uncontrollably as he took in a lungful of the little monsters.
Despite the slow pace of the river, they made good progress. In the early afternoon they stopped for a brief meal before continuing their journey. Shortly afterward the river opened into a broad shallow lake choked with lilies, marigolds and pondweed. After casting around for a little while, Tegavenek extended his arm.
‘There!’ he said.
Following his instructions they came to a narrow creek, one of the lake’s outlets, and into it they rowed. It was barely ten feet wide, and its banks grew higher and higher, almost blotting out the pale sun. Many birds nested in these banks and they saw dozens of swallows and kingfishers as they progressed. Cerren was getting impatient.
‘Is there an end to this stream? It doesn’t just disappear under the earth, does it?’
‘Patience,’ said the Elder. ‘We will be out of here soon enough.’
He was as good as his word. Shortly afterwards, the creek veered eastwards and, with the sun behind them, they entered another river, as broad as the black river but with clearer water and higher banks. Tegavenek spoke again.
‘We will be staying on this river until we arrive at the Twin Snake. We will camp shortly, away from the bank to avoid the mosquitos, and should arrive at their village before late afternoon tomorrow.’
And this is what t
hey did. Before dusk arrived and the midges and mosquitos came to hunt, they hauled the boat on to the bank and looked around for somewhere to camp. The ground was extremely marshy, however, and they had to be content with settling down inside a small knot of trees where, although the ground was still spongy, at least it wasn’t sodden. The mosquitos were still a problem, though, so Cygan pulled what looked like a gnarled root out of one of his storage bags, cut off a piece, divided it into four and shaved off the barky skin. He handed a piece each to his companions and all proceeded to rub the exposed areas of skin with it. It gave off a faint whiff of citrus. Tegavenek ate the root once he had finished. ‘It will sweat through all of my pores,’ he said.
So as not to sleep on damp ground, they cut some branches off the trees and laid their boat on them. The boat was big enough for four of them to lie in with reasonable comfort. They also managed a small fire, although once their tinder had burned off it was quite smoky and gave off limited warmth. They ate some of the supplies they had brought with them and settled down for the night. Cygan took the first watch.
Cerren, the biggest of the four of them, was having difficulty getting comfortable. Eventually he sat up straight and sighed with exasperation.
‘Can’t sleep?’ Cygan said.
‘It is not easy; my legs are too long for the boat. Perhaps I should try the ground.’
‘No, it is too damp; you will end up with fever and find parasites have laid their eggs in your skin. We would have to burn them out of you.’
‘Suddenly the boat seems very cosy indeed,’ said the young man. ‘Cygan, may I ask you something?’
Cygan nodded. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Why do you not have a moustache? We all have them, or at least try to grow them.’ It was true, Cerren was very proud of his long moustache that drooped down past his chin.
‘Well, I used to, just as you did. But then my father, who didn’t have one, took me to trade with the Taneren. He used to scout for them in an old war and had learned their language, which he then taught me. They are very different, the Taneren. Their homes are dry, by which I mean they can be nowhere near water, and they ride animals over long earthen roads. Unfortunately, they regard us as barbarians, uncivilised creatures whom it is their spirit-bound duty to short-change when bartering. And one of the things they have contempt for is our moustaches. They call us the ‘‘long faces’’; it is a joke to them. So, after my first visit to them, I shaved it off. When I returned to their country the following time, they knew that I knew their opinion of us and any attempt to leave us the worse off after any trade would not work.’
The Forgotten War Page 23