by Aderyn Wood
“You haven't yet greeted your father.” Danael’s mother stared at him. She was a tall woman and her eyes were nearly level with his own. A neutral expression dominated her face, her fine nose and high cheek bones giving her an air of high dignity. Neutrality was a habit, her way of putting people at ease, and concealing her emotions. Her ice blue eyes bored into his own, awaiting a response.
“I haven't yet seen him, Mother.”
“He will be here shortly. You should have sought him out on the shore.”
Danael nodded. “Of course.”
“After your bath you’re to help with the preparations. There is much to be done before the feast and it is not fair to leave it all on your father's shoulders.”
Danael sighed. He’d hoped to rest after his bath but that would have to wait, along with his reunion with Hiljda.
“And about Hiljda,” his mother said, eyebrow arching again.
Danael held his breath. If his mother commanded him to stop tupping with her it would be a sorry loss indeed. Hiljda had awakened him to the joys of manhood during the long wynter, when he'd celebrated his sixteenth year, and left childhood behind. He was keen to pick up where they’d left off. “Yes, Mother?”
His mother looked at him, her eyes glancing over his body. She seemed weary. “Do not get her with child. If such an outcome eventuates, be sure you seek out Ana and remedy the situation with a potion.”
Danael blinked. His mother wasn't going to stop them. He took a deep breath, as he nodded.
“There you are, son.”
Danael turned to the hall’s grand entrance. His father stood at the threshold of the large double doors. His tall solid body seemingly filling the space, blocking the view of the village below and the shimmering waters of the bay. His red beard appeared to burn like hot coals in the hearth as the sunshine streamed through.
“Hello, Da.”
His father strode to him, his arms wide, and they embraced. Danael noted he was of a height with his father now. He also noted the colour of their hair as his braid rested against his father’s. His own hair was a fiery red whereas the Khanax's was flecked with more strands of grey.
His father released him and stepped back. “You’ve grown over the summer.” He reached out and put a meaty hand on Danael's shoulder. “You were successful. Your first warring, a victory.”
Danael could not help a proud smile that spread like a sea breeze on his face. “Aye.” He glanced at his mother. “Thanks to our Khanassa’s strategizing we managed to drive the Halkans from Uthalia Isht. Though I fear not for good.” His hand touched the hilt of his sword. “I admit to being afraid at first, in spite of my knowledge of battle gore. It was different being amongst it, but the others egged me on. Taught me. Petar especially.”
A shadow deepened on his father’s brow as he cast his gaze toward the hearth.
“It was different to the sagas,” Danael added quickly. “But you always told me that would be so.”
His father smiled at that. “You bring dignity and respect to our clan. You will make a fine khanax one day.”
“No need to give him airs, husband.” The khanassa now reclined by the hearth. Rachella, their cook, entered and gave her a cup of broth. “Danael may have proved a worthy warrior,” his mother continued as she caressed the clay cup. “But right now he stinks. He needs a bath.”
Danael winked at his father. “I've left the blood of my first battle lingering on my skin – a proud reminder.”
“And a smelly one,” his mother added.
His father laughed, slapping his son's shoulder. “I understand, I was the same at your age. But I will need aid with this blasted feast. After your bath seek me out. There's wood that needs splitting, and skins that need beating. There's much to be done and by Vulkar’s hairy arse, we're going to get it done. This will be a feast to remember!”
Danael took a breath as he gazed diagonally at his father. “I understand there will be duck meat served?”
The khanax snatched his hand away, his mouth slanted down. “Aye, what of it?”
Tension tightened his father’s jaw. There’d been an altercation between him and Simple Yana, but was that the extent of it? There'd always been an unspoken rift between his father and Petar, perhaps that rift now extended to Petar’s daughter. “I saw Yana when I came off the jetty.”
His father’s mouth slanted further as he protruded his jaw and lifted his chin. “You spoke to that pond scum before seeking your own father? Here I am arranging a feast in your honour—” His father shook his head.
Danael had crossed some line. His father's temper was easily roused. “No, Da, it's just—”
“It's about time the people of this clan respected my position! I’m the bloody khanax! I must be obeyed!”
“Father—”
“Husband,” Danael's mother looked up at them, weariness drooping her shoulders.
But his father spoke over her. “I don't have time!” He turned and stormed out, a flame flashed in his hair as it caught the sunshine on the way out.
Danael let go a heavy sigh.
“What trouble befell Yana?” his mother asked.
Danael licked his lips, his eyes still on the entrance where his father had just exited. The sun shone on the deep green canopy of the large oak in the village circle. It looked so peaceful down there, so different to the bloodied shore they’d left in Uthalia. “It's a small thing.” He shrugged, trying to convince himself. “I believe father asked Yana for some ducks for the feast, but I think she refused him.”
His mother nodded, her gaze on the reed floor. Without her heavy leather battle cloak she suddenly seemed fragile, and far from the formidable strategist who held the respect of ally and enemy alike. “And your father took what he wanted anyway, I assume. Well, we shall organise some small recompense.” She lifted her chin. “Off with you, son. Bathe then work. We shall talk later.”
“More talk of my romantic interests?”
“Nothing so sordid.” His mother sipped her broth. “We must discuss that chalice, you haven’t mentioned it to anyone?”
Danael shook his head.
“Good. I also want to examine our errors in strategy.”
Danael frowned. “But we drove the Halkans back.”
The khanassa’s ice blue eyes found Danael’s and he was struck once more by the cold neutrality in his mother’s expression. “There are always errors. A lesson you should know well by now.” She turned to face the fire. “There's always lives that could have been saved. Now leave me.”
Danael nodded and left his mother to her comfort.
Yana
The rich aroma of mint, thyme, rosemary and sage filled the air the moment Yana opened the door to their rondhus. Her mother stood at the hearth, right in the middle of their circular stone home, stirring a pot on the fire. At this time of year, Ma was always busy making healing potions ‒ an important task, for Dark Wynter would follow the summer. Many would grow ill and even face death.
Yana’s father hurried inside and dumped a pack on the floor before rushing to Ma. “Wife, you’re a sight for weary eyes.”
Yana grinned as she ran to the steps that led to her parent's sleeping quarters in the loft above. She let her father's heavy satchel fall to the floor before hurrying back down.
Ma’s cheeks were flushed, and sweat beaded on her forehead, but she smiled as she wiped her hands on a cloth. “It's good to see you, husband.”
Da threw his arms around her waist, picked her up and spun in a circle making her laugh. Then he nuzzled her neck. “You smell good, woman.” He released her and cupped a hand under her chin. “Why didn't you come to the jetty?”
Ma flung a hand to the scarred wooden table. Herbs, jars and potions filled its top. “I've got all this work, and I knew you'd come straight to me.”
“Oh, did you now?” Da grinned and drew her closer.
Yana rolled her eyes. She'd best leave her parents alone for a while. They always seemed to forge
t she was around when they got smoochy like this. She stepped out the door and closed it behind her. The daylight had turned a deep honey colour. It was time to attend to her ducks, or what remained of them.
Yana released a slow breath as she recalled the day's events. She’d failed to protect her flock. It’d been a long time since a predator, like a wolf or an eagle had claimed one of them, but never before had one of the clan been a threat. And to think it was the khanax himself. Anger flared as the image of Khanax Krasto flicked through her mind, blood on his hands, duck heads scattered, nests abandoned. Her cheeks flushed and her heartbeat thumped like a drum in her ears. But what could she do?
She squinted, thinking hard as she stepped along the stone path toward the duckyard, and through her mother’s large herb garden that surrounded their rondhus.
Her grandmother would return soon. Yana’s dreams had told her so, and when it came to Grama, the dreams never lied. Yana had looked to the sky often over the last few days, for any sign of the raven, Grama’s constant companion.
Yana paused her step and tilted her head to the sky. The bright blue of summer had transformed to a darker shade, almost purple as the sun sank further beyond the horizon.
No bird hovered above. No eagle, no hawk, not even a sparrow, and certainly no raven.
“Grama? I wish you'd return soon,” Yana said in her secret language, before stepping through the gate to the duckyard. Her father had built a double enclosure. The inner stalls housed the ducks at night – they slept on a bed of leaves that Yana maintained every morning. The outer yard was divided into four sections in which Yana would rotate the ducks through, allowing the meadow grass and flowers to grow before setting the ducks onto each section in turn. Ducks weren’t the only creatures they kept. The goats had a cozy yard and stone goat-hus next door. She’d best tend to them too before nightfall.
Yana fetched her herding staff and rounded the flock through to the inner enclosure, or tried to. They were flighty and restless and refused to be herded.
“It's all right.” She tried to calm them and encourage them to their beds, but they were reluctant to enter the inner enclosure and scattered. Perhaps they could still sense the blood. Yana had done her best to clear it and to scrape it from the walls. But some would have lingered. There’d been a lot to get rid of for the khanax’s slaughter had been a clumsy one.
She gritted her teeth with the thought of it. The ducks would have been frightened. “The meat will be tainted,” she whispered.
When Yana slaughtered her ducks for meat, they never knew it was coming. She would cover their heads with a stretch of cloth, hold them and talk to them, then, placing a thin dagger to their neck, she’d thrust upward to pierce the brain, killing instantly. The blood would pool in a bowl, rather than spray about the enclosure. It was peaceful, quiet and done with a whispered word of thanks to Haether.
“It's perfectly safe. I promise no one will harm you. Not ever again,” Yana told her flock, hoping the promise was true, that when she told Grama about the khanax and how he’d murdered her ducks, her dear old grama would ensure he could never cause such damage again.
But the ducks kept scattering and quacking, refusing to enter the inner stalls.
Yana threw the herding stick down and brushed hair from her face. She took a breath, focused her mind and called to Patch. “Patchy.”
Her pet duck looked up, head at an angle.
Yana lowered her chin and gazed down at Patch, focussing on the little blue eye. “Tell the others it’s safe. No harm will befall you tonight, nor any night. Lead them to their beds. All is well.” A familiar tingling quivered down her spine. She broke her gaze and Patch snapped her head away, flapping her wings as though a spell had been broken.
“Go on, Patchy.”
Patch quacked as she waddled into the stalls. After a moment the others followed.
Yana shook her hands and feet. Communing with animals always left her feeling funny – like she’d overslept or had strong ale. It made her limbs heavy and sometimes she yearned to lay down and nap.
Once all the birds were safely within the enclosure, Yana bent to inspect the two nests with the eggs still resting within. Her heart sank. She should really deal with the eggs, but she didn't have the energy, or the will needed to take them away. To bury them as though she made an offering to the death God, Vulkar. It would have to wait until tomorrow. The eggs would be cold now. The ducklings inside would already be dead.
Yana stood, brushing straw from her knees, and glanced at her flock who were busy settling in for the night. “Well, good night, friends.”
She raised her chin and studied the moon – a perfect crescent. Soon it would be the Long Summer festival, and she could make an offering to Haether, Goddess of the forest. Right now she sent a request to Laraen, goddess of the moon. “Please look over my flock tonight. They have suffered enough today, they need to feel safe.”
Yana opened the gate and latched it behind her, then closed and barred the outer gate checking it twice. She then attended to her other chores, ensuring their three goats had returned to their pens, giving them a bucket of oats and locking them in for the night. Finally, she made her way back to the rondhus.
The summer flowers in her mother’s herb garden gave off a heady perfume. Their honeyed scent hung in the air and Yana recognised the sweetness of moonflower that bloomed only with the moonrise. She inhaled deeply, the fragrance a true sign of summer.
Inside the rondhus, duck-fat candles and lamps cast a dull light through their small home, and Yana wished they could all stay in. Playing a few rounds of Vrakken stones with her father and listening to his stories of battle would be an ideal way to spend the evening.
Yana's mother was shaving her father who sat at the table, a bowl of water in front of him. Ma had changed into her best dress and had combed and plaited her hair, though her hands still bore stains of green from the nettles she'd been boiling. Her father wore the new breeches Ma had sewn for him while he was away warring. Yana's shoulders slouched. Her father would want to attend the festivities at the longhus, and it would be an awful night of celebration.
Da slanted a look at her. “Don’t slouch, Yana.”
Yana straightened her shoulders but allowed a frown to show her displeasure.
“She doesn’t want to go to the festivities,” Ma said.
“Why so? It will be a grand celebration tonight. I understand there’ll be some very fine meat to be had too.”
Yana lifted her chin. “No. Not. Taint,” she managed to say. Frustration bit again as she wished she could speak properly, to explain why it was so wrong what the khanax had done.
Da narrowed his eyes at her. “There’ll be honeyed plums and apples, and we brought a sagast back from Westr Varg who’ll tell us stories all night. Not to mention the mead the khanax has had squirrelled away since before last summer.”
Yana pursed her lips. “The khanax—is—murderer.”
Ma rinsed the blade in hot water and dried her father's face with a cloth. “Yana, what happened to your ducks, it was—”
“It was wrong,” Da said. “And it wouldn’t have happened if Krasto wasn’t so idle and got off his red hairy arse to do some hunting in the forest.”
Yana couldn’t help a small smile.
“Come here, my little warbler.” He reached out and Yana stepped in to his warm embrace. “You're right. The man is an oaf. He had no right to take your stock. It was wrong. I am glad to hear Patch is safe and well.”
Yana nodded. “Eggs – gone…” Her throat tightened as a hot rush of moisture blurred her vision.
Her father squeezed her. “The gods have witnessed what happened today. Soon enough, the khanax will get his gaeshna. Now—” her father patted her back and pushed her gently away. “Get dressed, we will eat and we will drink, and we will celebrate. For Vishtna has smiled on us, and it is bad gaeshna to leave the goddess’s gifts ungratified.”
Yana nodded as she wiped the tears fro
m her eyes and ran to her nook under the loft where her bed and trunk nestled behind a woollen curtain.
“Tell me, husband. You think there’ll be more fighting next summer?”
Yana listened to her parents as she pulled the sleeveless goat-wool smock from the trunk.
“Aye. The Halkans continue to press south. If we take back Kania we would send a clear signal and return the isle to the Kanes, and Drakia.” Her father paused. “In fact, there’s talk of returning to battle this very summer, before the Long Summer festival.”
Yana glanced at her mother through the curtain as she untied her day tunic. A crease crinkled Ma’s forehead.
“And you believe the khanassa will allow it?”
“It's not so much the khanassa I'm concerned about.”
Ma tilted her head “You mean Krasto.”
“Aye.”
“Well, I'm inclined to agree with him. I don't like all this fighting, this killing.”
“Ana, you must try to understand. If we send back the horde of Halkans we’ll bring peace. Eternal peace!”
Ma was chewing her lip. “And what of our own battles? Battles of Drakian against Drakian, clan against clan?”
Da shook his head. “There’s been no such battles in our lifetime.”
“But there will be. It is in Drakian blood to go warring.”
“You sound like Rayna.”
“Mother is wiser than the oldest seer and you know it.”
Da rubbed a hand along his newly plaited braid. Da wasn’t as tall as most Drakian warriors but he was lean and handsome, with hair the colour of forest soil, and sea-blue sparkling eyes, a fine long nose, angular jaw and a perpetual smile that Ma said melted hearts. Yana often wished she'd inherited her father's looks. Then, perhaps, the village boys would notice her. But just now Da's brow creased and the smile faded. “Let’s not talk of your mother.”
Yana squirmed into her dress, tying the knot at the side. She then went to the rondhus door where she reached for her cloak on the hook and put her head through the hole .