by Rj Barker
The hall quietened and Gamelon stepped forward, his gaggle of children and dwarves clustered around him, some clinging to his long gown, others shuffling along while hugging each other. The only person still making any noise was Boros, screaming abuse at his brother, who stood with his back to us, his Heartblade standing motionless by him with his weapon drawn.
“Blessed Rufra!” shouted Gamelon as Boros was hauled to his knees, highguard holding him there as he cursed them in the names of all the hedgings. “You know the rules of the hall! No blessed may be attacked on pain of death, and no man may bring a weapon into the hall without punishment.”
Before Rufra could speak, Barin interrupted, his voice soft and light. Not at all like the man I had heard shouting on battlefields as the innocent were put to the sword or tortured for his amusement.
“Gamelon, please, I beg you to forgive my brother. There is much bad blood between us and I do not pretend that my past is not a dark one. I served Dark Ungar, and gladly, but that is behind me now. I have found forgiveness in the eyes of the dead gods,” I saw Neander dip his head, as if in agreement, “and had come here hoping to reconcile with my brother. Do not take him from me.”
Gamelon managed to look sad, though his eyes shone with some inner glee at the chaos.
“That is noble of you, Baln ap Borlad, very noble. But I am afraid justice, as Blessed Rufra knows, must be done. Is that not so, Blessed Rufra? You have built your reputation on justice and the rule of law.” He looked over at Rufra and I hoped he would say something to stop them.
“Yes,” said Rufra. “It is so.”
“Good,” said Gamelon. “Well, the penalty for simply bringing a weapon in here is to be whipped.” As he spoke, Boros was screaming “no!” again and again but Gamelon ignored him.
“He did not bring the weapon,” I said. “He took it from me, I was careless.”
Gamelon stared at the floor, as if deep in thought.
“So, Girton Club-Foot, while you were acting honourably, struggling with the bonemount of your king which Boros had abandoned,” he raised his voice, “as you were trying to save your king from shame!” Gamelon’s voice filled the hall with faux outrage and he pointed at Boros. “This man took advantage of you.”
“No, that is not what I—”
“Do not speak, Girton Club-Foot. I understand how appalled you must be at this betrayal.” I started to walk forward but Dinay put her hand on my arm.
“You are making this worse, Girton.” I always thought of her as young but in the confusion someone had passed her the bonemount and now, standing there holding it, she looked much older.
Gamelon appeared to think hard for a moment, but as mummers and performers went he was a poor one.
“We shall cut out Boros’s tongue,” he said. “It is the tongue he swore an oath to Rufra with and he did not keep that oath. I shall make sure he can swear no more. That is fitting.”
“No.” Boros’s eyes flashed with hatred as he turned to me. “This is—” But his speech was stilled when one of the highguard grabbed him, using a gauntleted hand to force his mouth open.
“A criminal may not speak before the high throne,” said Torvir, captain of the highguard. “Keep him silent while Gamelon pronounces sentence.”
“Yes,” continued Gamelon. “The penalty for bearing a blade in the high king’s hall is a whipping, and the penalty for attacking someone in the high king’s hall is to burn on a fool’s throne.” Gamelon looked around, up and down the hall, and his eyes burned with excitement. I took another step forward and he raised a hand. “But,” he said, “I understand a brother’s wish for reconciliation, and I am torn.” He held his hand to his breast. “Torn! by Barin’s plea for clemency. To see a brother’s love is a powerful thing, for I have no brother of my own and have often wished for one. So yes, I am truly undecided.” He looked up and down the hall again, milking the moment for all the drama it was worth. “So I shall not order a whipping, and I shall have Boros moved to the dungeon. There he may stay for three days, and if he and his brother can reconcile then we shall reconsider the sentence of burning.”
“And his tongue?” I said the words, though it should have been Rufra.
“Oh,” said Gamelon, almost laughing. “Your honour shall be assuaged immediately, Girton Club-Foot. We shall remove his tongue now.”
I stepped forward and a pair of huge arms closed around me.
“Not now,” said Aydor in my ear. “Not now.” It had been years since I had felt such pure anger and I wanted to cast the entire court into a fire of magic, but we stood above a souring and the magic was very far away. I struggled against Aydor’s great strength, but he simply kept saying, “Not now,” his voice soft and sad. “We will have our time, Girton, but it is not now,” and eventually I gave up the fight.
Fureth walked forward, he held a pair of hot pincers in his hand and he lifted them, spinning on the spot so all could see the glowing claws. Barin stood, watching his brother. When the highguard let go of his mouth, Boros screamed out, his voice hoarse from effort, “You brought this misfortune down on me. You did this! You are cursed! Cursed!” To any watching it would look like he aimed his words at his brother but I knew better. He was looking over Barin’s shoulder, he was speaking to me.
“Wait!” Dinay stepped forward and Gamelon turned to her, his face twisting with distaste and I wondered if this was because he was addressed by a woman.
“I do not remember giving permission for any of Rufra’s common soldiers to speak,” he said. His crowd of children hissed and laughed. “But as you are the soldier who holds Rufra’s bonemount, you may speak.” Dinay bit down on her annoyance, any could tell from her decorated armour she was clearly more than just a soldier. When she spoke she did it without looking at Barin, who stood by, feigning distress.
“I only wished to say, Seneschal Gamelon, that if you wish the brothers to reconcile it will be a hard thing for them to do if Boros has no tongue.”
Silence. Gamelon stared at her. Boros stared at her. Barin stared at her. Then a smile spread across Gamelon’s face.
“They are brothers,” he said. “I am sure they will find a way.” He flicked a finger at Fureth, who took a step forward.
Boros opened his mouth to scream out his rage but was silenced by the guards holding him. Like a coward, I closed my eyes as the highguard behind Boros grabbed his ruined face, bent it back and forced his mouth open. I could not bear to watch the cruelty but there was no way I could shut out the sound as they ripped Boros’s tongue from his mouth. The only way to try and banish the terrible, guttural noise of his pain was to retreat within myself, into my mind, into thought.
They already had the pincers heated and ready.
They knew something was going to happen.
This was planned.
It was all planned.
Dead gods, I would make someone pay for this, but all I wanted now was to escape. Despite the huge size of the hall it felt claustrophobic and the animal scent of pain and terror filled my nose, making me feel as if I could taste Boros’s blood on my tongue just as his tortured screams made me feel like his pain was my own. When the screaming stopped I opened my eyes. Gamelon was smiling as Boros, thankfully unconscious, was dragged away to a dungeon leaving a smear of blood along the stones.
“Unfortunate,” Gamelon said quietly, then raised his voice. “It would be ill-starred to let such a hedging-cursed event end this ceremony,” he shouted. “An annunciation of the blessed such as this should be a joyous occasion.” I felt sure that, for Gamelon, it already had been. “There should be entertainment.” His gaze roved up and down the assembled blessed and the cloying silence seemed to have no effect on him. If he could tell people were in no mood for entertainment he did not show it. “It is fortunate that Rufra, the just king of Maniyadoc, brings with him the finest entertainment known to the Tired Lands.” I felt the impact of hundreds of eyes as they turned on our party. “Death’s Jester is among us!”
“He will be glad to dance,” said Rufra. “Won’t you, Jester?” His words echoed in the wide silence of the hall.
I stopped, my body at a strange and uncomfortable angle. Rufra’s expectation weighted his words, settled on my back. He needed to salvage something, anything, from what had just happened.
“Of course I will,” I said, but there was no joy in my voice and no wish to dance. My limbs were leaden. I raised my voice. “I would generally have time to rehearse, good people,” my voice filled the hall, even without recourse to magic, “and I am afraid you will have to take whatever I can remember at short notice.”
Beside me Rufra was frowning.
“Do not insult them,” he whispered, but I was already walking away to take my place before the assembled court of the high king.
“Blessed of the court,” I said, stepping over the blood which had pooled on the stone flags and taking up the position of the teller. “Be ready, for now, Death’s Jester will perform for you.”
Interlude
This is a dream.
This is where she finds the emptiness inside.
In the warmth, in the softness, in the womb of a place unknown. In a body that no longer feels like her own. Beneath covers that scratch her skin, in a room dark enough to make her wonder if she is blind. Her mind does not feel like her own either; it is fogged by a thick blanket that stops her thinking too hard, remembering too much. Her hands explore—is this body hers? She touches her face, moves down her neck, her stomach. Something is missing.
I can help you.
There is something cold inside her, something gone that once was. Push her hands further down her body. Every movement is an effort, an agony. Is it even her skin she touches? It feels like hers, smooth and warm, until she comes across a thick ridge of bandages crusted with? With something. But what? Blood?
Is it blood?
There was so much blood.
I can heal you.
A smell, something herbal, something calming and dulling. Something that stops her worrying. Stills her restless hands. Quietens that dark voice inside.
For now.
She wakes and she is throbbing, a line of ceaseless pressure across her stomach. She wonders what she will be like underneath the bandage where once she was smooth and warm and perfect.
Ugly.
She has seen the poor, the scarred. Seen the disfigurements common among the thankful and the living of the Tired Lands. She has turned away from them, mocked them with her servant, laughed at them and, secretly, been frightened of them—as if poverty and ugliness are something she could catch. But now she understands that you cannot catch poverty and ugliness. You have them forced upon you.
Like pain.
Like shame.
Like hate.
Little by painful little her fingers scrabble at the bandage.
She wants to see it. Wants to touch the line of hurt across her stomach, to know it.
“No, Merela.”
A hand, cold, firm, moves hers away from the bandage.
“Listen to your friend, girl.” A different voice. “Leave the wound alone, let the herbs dull your mind.” She tries to speak, manages only a croak. Water is dripped down her throat, strange, bitter-tasting water. A dark sea rolls in and turns her limp body over on the slack tide of exhaustion. She falls into the void.
When she surfaces, the pain is there again—sharper, fiercer—but it isn’t in her body this time, that pain is dulled. This pain is in her mind. And it isn’t for Vesin, not any longer—poor, poor, Vesin—it is for the emptiness inside where a small life had begun to grow and, before it could even really understand what it was doing, sacrificed itself for her.
She opens an eye—so bright—then the other. The world blurs as water flows down her cheeks. She is in a hut—a small, filthy hut of the kind the thankful build to try and shelter from the elements. Plants and dried meats hang from the rafters and a girl works a mortar and pestle on the floor before her. She tries to speak but can only manage a croak. The girl turns.
Adran. It is her father’s servant, Adran. She tries to speak again.
“Father.” The word struggles from her mouth, that one word that encompasses all she needs and wants. Father, the smell of him, his strength, his smile. “Father.”
Adran stands. Her dress is bloodstained, but the stains are old. Her face is stretched with misery.
“Gone,” she says.
“Father.” She says it again, this time with the strength of rising panic. “Father?”
“They killed them all, Merela.” Adran’s voice is devoid of emotion as she relives the horror. “The ap Garfin came on your father’s camp. Gloated about what they’d done to you. They cut everyone down.” Adran stood, tears rolling from her face. “They were asking where the coin was. They were mad, like men torn with grief. I ran, because they were taking the women and the boys and …”
Adran’s words are stilled by the touch of another woman, impossibly old, swathed in rags, her hair a tangle of grey and black.
“Hush your talk,” croaks the old woman and Adran, ever meek and quick to obey, bows her head.
“Sorry, wise mother.”
“It is early for her to hear this.” The old woman gathers her skirts, settling them around her as she sits on a stool. “But she must hear it, I suppose. First, she drinks more.”
Bitter liquid passed down her throat.
“Father?”
“Gone,” says the old woman, “you are all that remains of the Karn traders now.” The words are hard. They feel like they choke her. “And you would not have survived if the girl had not saved you.”
“Our servant.”
“She is a girl,” says the old woman. Her words are not harsh, but they are a rebuke. “And you are also a girl, and I am a woman. There are no servants here.”
“You are thankful.” Each word crawling out of her mouth. The old woman pulls herself up, grunts, and leans over her.
“Did being blessed save your lover from the knife, eh? Did riches save you? Did it save your child?”
Her child.
There is ice in her stomach. A coldness that spreads through her, a horror. A feeling of loss so enormous she cannot really understand it, only run from it.
Run toward the darkness.
Lose herself in the emptiness inside.
That voice.
I can help you.
“Not yet,” says the old woman. “Not yet.” And she feels a pressure on her neck, drifts away.
Later, she wakes again, in this strange place with its strange smells and strange woman. By her side in the darkness as she tries to sleep she feels the heat of a body, Adran’s body.
“I am frightened, Merela,” she says. “I am frightened of this place, of being alone.”
“I am frightened too,” she says. The words come more easily, the pain is slightly less.
“Remember how your father would tell us stories when we could not sleep?”
“Yes,” she says, in the smallest saddest voice—though she is glad that at least, if nothing else, she is not alone. “Do you remember the story Father would tell us?” she says.
“He told you many,” said Adran.
“Let me tell you my favourite.”
Under the covers Adran’s hand takes hers and she feels a little less alone.
The story begins.
This is a dream.
Chapter 11
The Tale of the Angered Maiden
In the time before the land soured, when all were equal, there was a girl called Gwyfher and she was daughter to the greatest bladesmistress the land had ever seen, Khyfer. Gwyfher herself had no interest in the ways of the weapon. She saw only beauty in the land and her mother, who had seen much pain, sought to preserve her daughter’s love of beauty.
It was Gwyfher’s dream to grow up and rule
her village well and wisely, holding the hands of the gods and doing their will. And in Gwyfher’s village no other wished for anything different; all could remember the days of war before Gwyfher’s mother had triumphed and none would welcome those times back for they were dark and bloody.
So Gwyfher’s mother trained with the blade to keep her people safe and Gwyfher watched but never joined in. Her mother spun the steel wreath and Gwyfher spun garlands of flowers and laughed and was loved by all around her. The village of Gwyfher’s people was calm and happy and hoped to be so for evermore.
But Torelc, the god of time, as all know, disliked the world. For even though time always went forward nothing ever changed. And he watched Gwyfher and her village and wished for change. So Torelc looked back along the life and time of the village until he found something that made him smile. Then when he looked forward along the life and time of the village he smiled even more for he knew what had been, what would be and how it would always be.
“Nothing happens to these people,” he thought, “except what has already happened. So I shall make what has happened happen again and call it change.”
Now, across the river from Gwyfher’s village was another village. And this village was as beautiful and small and happy as Gwyfher’s. And where Gwyfher’s village was ruled by a woman this village was ruled by a man. Torelc stole into this man’s mind and found a memory, for memories are the children of time as sure as hedgings are the lost servants of the gods. Torelc knew that the man’s memory was a bitter one, and Torelc spoke to his servant, Dark Ungar, and said to him, “Dark Ungar, go to this village and prod and poke this man’s memory until he acts. And then we shall see change and be happy.”
And Dark Ungar, who loved nothing more than strife, did as Torelc asked.
But Gwyfher knew nothing of the god who watched, or of how Torelc delighted in change, even for the sake of nothing but change. She continued in contentment and moved from a girl to a young woman and never knew a day’s misery. Until the day the men came across the river. Dark men, led by old memories. They stood at the edge of the village and shouted for Gwyfher’s mother.