A Song for Arbonne

by Guy Gavriel Kay

  But Blaise, too, was used to watching men closely, especially in a situation such as this, and out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the archers lean forward with the question, as if hanging upon the answer.

  Blaise temporized. He had no real idea what was happening here. Outlaws on the roads were one thing, but these men were clearly trained and just as clearly asserting control over this part of the road. He wished he'd studied a map more closely before leaving Baude. It would have helped to know whose lands these were. He ought to have asked more questions at last night's inn.

  He said, "I am traveling in peace on an open road. I mean no trespass. If such is your complaint, I will gladly pay a fair toll."

  "I asked a question," the Arimondan said flatly. "Answer it."

  Hearing that tone, Blaise felt his mouth go dry, even as a familiar anger began rising in him. He had his sword, and his bow was ready to hand in the saddle quiver, but if the three men behind the Arimondan knew how to shoot there was little hope in trying to fight. He considered cutting the rope that tied the pony to his grey and making a run for it, but he hated leaving his armour behind almost as much as he hated fleeing from an Arimondan.

  "I am not in the custom of detailing my affairs to strangers with bows drawn," he said.

  The Arimondan smiled slowly, as if the words were an unexpected gift. He gestured with his left hand, a negligent, graceful movement. All three archers loosed arrows. An instant later, with a queer, grunting sound, Blaise's pack pony collapsed behind him. Two arrows were in its neck and one was just below, near the heart. The pony was dead. The archers had already notched three more arrows.

  Feeling the colour leave his face, Blaise heard the Arimondan laugh. "Tell me," the man said lazily, "Will you preserve what you call your customs when you are naked and bound face down in the dust to serve my pleasure like a boy bought for an hour?" The two other men, the ones without bows, had moved without visible instruction in opposite directions, cutting off both paths of flight for Blaise. One of them, Blaise saw, was smiling broadly.

  "I asked a question," the Arimondan went on softly. The wind had dropped; his voice carried in the stillness. "The horse dies next if I am not answered. In whose service do you ride, Northerner?"

  It was his beard, of course; it labelled him like a brand marked a thief or blue robes a priest of Corannos. Blaise drew a slow breath and, fighting hard to hold down his anger, sought shelter in the shade of the great—as Rudel had more than once put it.

  "En Bertran de Talair has hired me for a season," he said.

  They shot the horse.

  But Blaise had had his clue from the one archer's straining manner the first time the question had been asked, and he had kicked his legs free of the stirrups even as he spoke. He landed on the far side of the screaming stallion and pulled his bow free and the dying horse downwards towards him in the same motion so that it offered protection when he dropped behind it. Firing from an almost prone position he killed the northernmost coran and, turning, shot the one guarding the southern path in the neck before the three archers could loose another volley. Then he dropped flat.

  Two arrows hit his horse again and the third whizzed above his head. Blaise rose to one knee and fired twice, at speed. One archer died, screaming like the horse, and the second dropped in silence with an arrow in his throat. The third man hesitated, his mouth falling open with dismay. Blaise notched his fifth arrow and shot him calmly in the chest. He saw bright blood stain the dark green tunic before the man fell.

  It was suddenly extremely quiet.

  The Arimondan had not moved. His magnificent black thoroughbred was still as a statue, though with nostrils flared wide.

  "Now you have given offense," the dark-skinned man said, his voice still silky and soft. "I see that you can shoot from hiding. Come now and we will see if you are a man among men with a sword as well. I will dismount."

  Blaise stood up. "If I thought you a man I would do so," he said. His voice sounded oddly hollow to his own ears. The too-familiar pounding was in his head and his rage was still with him. "I want your horse. I will think of you with pleasure when I ride it." And with the words he loosed his sixth arrow and took the Arimondan through the heart.

  The man rocked violently backwards with the impact, clinging to his last seconds of life under the brilliant sun. Blaise saw him draw a dagger then, one of the wickedly curved, bejewelled blades of his own country, and plunge it, even as he began to topple from his saddle, deep into the throat of his black stallion.

  The man hit the ground as his horse surged high into the air on its hind legs, screaming in rage and fear. It came down and rose again immediately, trumpeting, lashing out with its hooves. Blaise notched a last arrow and let it fly, with passionate regret, to put the glorious creature out of pain. The stallion dropped and then rolled on one side. Its legs kicked out one more time and then were motionless.

  Blaise stepped forward, moving around his own dead horse. The stillness in the clearing was eerie, broken only by the nervous whickering of the archers' mounts and the sound of the breeze picking up again. He realized that no birds were singing now.

  A short while ago he had imagined that the wind of Arbonne in the leaves and vines whispered of refreshment and ease, of easy grace here in the warm south. Now there were six dead men in the grass by the side of the road. Not far away, looming in silence at the end of its avenue of elms, the massive arch looked down upon them all, keeping its secrets, bearing its own grim friezes of battle and death carved long ago.

  Blaise's anger began to drain away, leaving behind the disorientation and nausea that seemed always to follow combat. Battle seldom fazed him now after so many years of it, but the aftermath left him vulnerable for a long time, trying to come to terms with what he was capable of doing when the fury of war swept over him. He looked across the grass at the Arimondan and shook his head. He had wanted, for a moment, to walk over and cut the dead man into pieces, to make things easier for the carrion dogs when they came. He swallowed and turned away.

  As he did he saw a small boat with a white sail pulling up to the stony shore of the lake on the far side of the road. There was a grating sound as the craft grounded itself, and Blaise saw two men help a woman to alight. His heart thumped once, hard. The woman was tall, robed in crimson fringed with silver, and she had an owl on her shoulder.

  Then he looked more closely, and with a second glance, undistorted by memory or fear, he saw that this was not the High Priestess from Rian's Island in the sea. This one was much younger and brown-haired and, manifestly, she had eyes with which to see. Nor was her bird white, as the one on the other island had been. She was a priestess, though, and the two men with her and the one other woman were also clergy of Rian. The boat was the one he'd seen tacking into the wind before. Beyond them, on the isle, the three plumes of smoke still rose into the summer sky.

  "You are fortunate," the woman said, walking steadily across sand and gravel to stand before him on the grass beside the road. Her voice was mild but her eyes, appraising him, were steady and unreadable. Her hair was heavy and hung down her back, not covered or pinned. Blaise endured her scrutiny impassively, remembering the blindness of the High Priestess who had seen right through him nonetheless. He looked at the bird this one carried on her shoulder and felt an echo of the anxiety he'd felt in the forest on the island. It was almost unfair; the aftermath of combat left him susceptible to this.

  "I daresay I am," he said, as calmly as he could. "I could not have expected to prevail against six. It seems the god has favoured me." That last was a challenge of sorts.

  She didn't rise to the bait. "And Rian as well. We can bear witness for you that they attacked first."

  "Bear witness?"

  She smiled then, and that smile, too, took him back to the High Priestess in her night forest. "It would have served you better, Blaise of Gorhaut, to have been more curious about affairs in this part of the world."

  He didn't like her ton
e, and he didn't know what she was talking about. His uneasiness increased; the women in this country were unimaginably difficult to deal with.

  "How do you know my name?"

  Again the secretive, superior smile, but this time he had expected it. "Did you imagine that once having been allowed to leave Rian's Island alive you were free of the goddess? We have marked you, Northerner. Thank us for it."

  "Why? For following me?"

  "Not following. We have been waiting for you. We knew you were coming. And as to the why… hear now what you should have learned already for yourself. A fortnight past, the countess in Barbentain had an edict proclaimed that any further killings among the corans of Talair or Miraval would result in property of the offending party being ceded to the crown. The troubadours and the clergy are carrying the tidings, and all the lords of Arbonne have been cited by name and formally bound to impose the edict by force if need be. You might have cost En Bertran a part of his land today had we not been here to give a report in your defence."

  Blaise scowled, in part with relief, in part because this was indeed something he should have made a point of knowing before. "You will forgive me if I do not express dismay," he said. "I must admit I would not have valued his vineyards over my life, however much he proposes to pay me in wages."

  The priestess laughed aloud. She was younger than a first impression had suggested. "Our forgiveness hardly need concern you… in this, at least. But Bertran de Talair is another matter. He might have fairly expected an experienced coran to avoid giving provocation before even arriving at his castle. There is an eastern way around the lake if you hadn't noticed, one that does not pass by the vineyards of Miraval."

  The situation was, Blaise had to admit, becoming belatedly clear. And indeed, had he known these lands belonged to Urté de Miraval—or taken some pains to know—he would certainly have gone the other way. It was no secret, even to Blaise after a short time in Arbonne, that for reasons that apparently went years back into the past, the present lords of Miraval and Talair had no love for one another.

  Blaise shrugged, to cover his discomfiture. "I have been riding all day, this path seemed easier. And I thought the countess of Arbonne stood surety for the safety of the roads in her land."

  "Barbentain is a long way off, and local hatred will usually overmaster larger laws. A wise traveller will know where he is, particularly if he rides alone."

  Which also was true, if arrogantly spoken by someone so young. He tried not to dwell on the arrogance. Clergy of all kinds seemed to have it as a collective quality. One of these days, though, he was going to have to try to sort out why he was so reluctant to pay more attention to the gossip, or even the geography and divisions of land here in Arbonne.

  Behind the priestess he saw three other small boats being drawn up on the shore. Men and women in the robes of Rian disembarked and made their away over the grass to where the dead were lying. They began lifting the bodies and carrying them back to the boats.

  Blaise glanced over his shoulder to where the Arimondan lay beside his slain horse. He turned back to the priestess. "Tell me, will Rian welcome such as he?"

  She did not smile. "She waits for him," the priestess said calmly, "as she waits for all of us. Welcome and grace are other matters entirely." Her dark eyes held his own until Blaise looked away, beyond her, past the isle in the lake, to where a castle could be seen on the northern shore.

  She turned and followed his gaze. "We will take you if you like," she said, surprising him. "Unless you want one of their horses for yourself?"

  Blaise shook his head. "The only one worth having was killed by its rider." He felt a sour amusement suddenly. "I will be grateful for passage. Doesn't it seem apt… that I should arrive at Talair Castle in a craft of the goddess?"

  "More apt than you know," she said, not responding to his tone all.

  She gestured, and two of the priests moved to collect Blaise's armour and goods from the dead pony. Blaise himself took his saddle from his mount and, following the tall, slender form of the priestess, walked over grass and stone to her boat.

  They put his gear on board as well, and then the craft was pushed free of the shore and with the west wind in the one sail and the sun low now behind them it went skimming across the waters of Lake Dierne.

  As they approached the castle, Blaise registered with a practised, approving eye how well defended it was, poised on a crag above the lake with the water coming around on three sides and a deep moat carved to the north. A cluster of men had come down to the pier to wait for them. There was another boat already there, with two priests and a priestess in it; tidings would have preceded them then. As they drew near Blaise recognized Valery, Bertran's cousin, and then, surprisingly, Bertran himself stepped forward to neatly catch the rope thrown by the priest at the prow.

  The duke of Talair crouched to tie their craft to an iron ring set in the wooden dock, then he straightened, looking expressionlessly at Blaise. There was no hint in his gaze of the eerie, late-night intimacy of their last conversation. Twenty-three years, Blaise remembered, suddenly. The last thing he'd heard this man say, in the dark of a stairway, speaking of a woman long ago: So much longer than I thought I would live.

  "Welcome to Talair," Bertran said. The scar on his cheek was prominent in the clear light. He was dressed much as he had been when he came to Baude, in a coran's clothing made for the outdoors. His hair was uncovered, disordered by the wind. He smiled thinly, a crook of his mouth. "How does it feel to have made an enemy before you even report?"

  "I have my share of enemies," Blaise said mildly. He felt calmer now; the ride across the lake and the memory of that dark stairwell in Baude had taken away the last of his battle mood. "One more or one less should not matter greatly. The god will take me when he is ready." He raised his voice slightly on that last, for someone else's benefit. "Do you really think the duke of Miraval will bother hating me for guarding my life when attacked?"

  "Urté? He could," Bertran said judiciously. "Though it wasn't him I was thinking of, actually." He looked for a moment as if he would explain, but then he turned instead and began walking towards the castle. "Come," he said over his shoulder, "there is meat and drink inside and after we will help you choose a horse from the stable."

  Broad-shouldered, greying Valery stepped forward and extended an arm. Blaise hesitated a moment, then grasped it, pulling himself forward onto the dock. His gear had already been lifted up by three other men. Blaise turned back to the boat. Already the line had been untied and the small craft was beginning to glide back out over the water. The young priestess had her back to him, but then, as if aware that he was looking, she turned.

  She said nothing, nor did Blaise as the distance between boat and shore slowly increased. Her hair gleamed in the still warm light of the setting sun. The owl on her shoulder gazed away to the west. More apt than you know, she had said on that western shore, responding with weighty sobriety to an attempted irony. He didn't understand what she'd meant, he didn't understand it at all, and within him a spark of rekindled anger blazed. He'd meant to say goodbye and to thank her, but instead he watched for another moment and then turned away impassively.

  Valery was waiting for him. Bertran's cousin had a wry expression on his face.

  "Six men?" he said. "Fair to say you aren't arriving quietly."

  "Five, and a catamite from Arimonda," Blaise said tersely. His anger was mostly gone though; he felt tired more than anything else. "I was riding quietly enough, and on the road. They shot my horse."

  "The Arimondan," Valery murmured, looking out to sea after the withdrawing boat. "Remind me to tell you about him later."

  "Why bother?" Blaise said. "He's dead."

  Valery glanced curiously at him a moment, then shrugged. He turned and began walking. Blaise fell into step beside him. The two men went along the length of the pier and then up the narrow, increasingly steep path towards the castle of Talair. They came to the heavy doors, which were open,
and they passed within to the sound of music playing.

  PART II—Midsummer

  CHAPTER 4

  Walking briskly through the crowded streets, calling cheerful replies to people she knew and to some she didn't, Lisseut was reminded over and again why the Midsummer Carnival in Tavernel was her favourite time of the year. Colours and crowds and light, the knowledge of a season's touring ended with time before another began, the hinge and axis of the year. Midsummer was a time between times, a space in the round of the year where all seemed in suspension, when anything might happen or be allowed. After nightfall, she thought, that would certainly be true in a variety of ways.

  A masked figure clad in green and bright yellow sprang in front of her, arms outspread; in a mock growl that clashed with his birdlike costume he demanded an embrace as passersby laughed. Sidestepping neatly, Lisseut pirouetted out of his grasp. "Bad luck to kiss a singer before sundown!" she called over her shoulder. She'd made that one up two years back; it seemed to work. And by sundown she was usually with friends and so shielded from anyone coming to assert a deferred claim.

  Not that the claims would ever be a serious problem. Not here, and not for her—too many people knew who she was by now, and even among the wildest of the students, the joglars and troubadours had an exalted status in Tavernel, even more so during Carnival. It was a debauched season, but one with its hierarchies and rules nonetheless.

  As she crossed Temple Square, where the silver domes of Rian's principal shrine faced the square, golden towers of Corannos's, the south breeze brought her an almost forgotten tang of salt from the port. Lisseut smiled, glad to be back by the sea after a long winter and spring touring inland and in the mountains. Reaching the far side of the square, she was suddenly overwhelmed by the smells of cooking food and remembered that she hadn't eaten since midday on the road. Easy enough to forget to eat in haste to be in town, knowing how many friends she'd not seen for a year would be arriving that day and the next. But the smells reminded her that she was ravenous. She nipped into a cookshop and emerged a moment later chewing on a leg of fried chicken, careful to keep the dripping grease from staining her new tunic.