Defiant Peaks (The Hadrumal Crisis)

by Juliet E. McKenna

  A dutifully generous trio were being ushered past two broad shouldered and thick necked acolytes by a prosperously plump priestess whose charcoal silk robe could have been sewn by Mellitha’s own seamstress. Even twenty paces away, Jilseth’s wizard senses told her that the rubies in the golden amulet hanging around the woman’s neck were of the finest clarity and colour.

  ‘May Poldrion see you safe to Saedrin’s threshold if that’s your fate in the year to come.’ The priestess peered into the bowl to see the suppliants’ offering. She looked up with a complacent smile. ‘May you see many more midwinters before Poldrion’s summons comes.’

  Jilseth approached, using another swathe of elemental air to muffle her footsteps on the white stone. Master Resnada’s words echoed in her memory. How long was she prepared to wait for a chance to slide past these mercenary guardians unseen when Kerrit was in sore of need of whatever healing lore might be held within by more genuine priests?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Halferan Manor, Caladhria

  Winter Solstice Festival, 3rd Evening

  AT THE FAR end of the manor compound, beyond the storehouses and the drying ground for laundry, Hosh rubbed at his face and grimaced. The cold gnawed at the deep dent beside his broken nose and woke the lurking ache on the toothless side of his jaw.

  He ran his tongue carefully along his gums. He could no longer feel the empty sockets where he’d recently lost two more teeth and he couldn’t taste or smell the foulness of pus. The chewing herbs which Doratine pressed on him were keeping such corruption at bay so Hosh was daring to hope he might yet keep his remaining teeth. If only the wise woman had something as efficacious for the pains he suffered.

  The only way to find any relief would be to go somewhere warmer. Where could he wait until his loving mum had eaten and drunk her fill with her friends in the great hall? The village women would still be sharing the burden of each other’s sorrows and losses as well as taking comfort in his mother’s joy at his unimagined return. It would be close to midnight before she would be ready to go home to the village beyond the brook.

  Hosh looked around the storehouses and contemplated their cellars, bins and lofts now filled with the season’s tithes from the farms which paid their dues in kind rather than coin. He liked to make these circuits of the compound, alone and unobserved, to reassure himself that this wasn’t some tantalizing dream. Every day when he woke, he still had to remind himself that he was truly safe home in Halferan where the manor had risen, better than new, better than ever before, from the ruination left by the corsairs.

  He walked past the well-house and the smithy and contemplated the barracks beyond the steward’s residence. A lantern glowed in the window of the wide hall and the door stood ajar. Doubtless a handful of troopers had retreated there to drink ale warmed through with white brandy while they shared choicely obscene stories.

  He wasn’t about to join them. Those who hadn’t shared in that final assault on the corsair island would pester him with questions about that terrible night. Those who had followed Corrain alongside the guardsmen from Licanin, Tallat and Antathele would be happy to relive their own elation at surviving what had seemed like certain death.

  Hosh could repeat himself till his tongue withered, insisting that he had no wish to remember that night. The other troopers still demanded to hear how he had cut down the black-bearded corsair who had murdered the true Lord Halferan. How he wrestled with the blind trireme master who had commanded that unconquerable raiding fleet, apparently by means of insights into heavenly omens, in truth thanks to the wizardly spells held within weapons and trinkets; magic which was anathema to true Archipelagans.

  He had tried telling them that he had only picked up a sword because he was so certain that his life was already lost. Until then he’d done all he could to stay alive, meekly serving the Mandarkin mage. He was no hero but none of them would accept that, insisting that he tell them how he had plotted his revenge and connived against the vile wizard from the outset.

  Since they didn’t want to hear the truth, Hosh now refused to be drawn into such conversations. He would answer for his deeds, for good and ill, when he finally stood at Saedrin’s door. Until then, he wanted to look to the future, not dwell on past horrors.

  He glanced at the shuttered dormitory windows above the barrack hall. Could he slip up the stairs unnoticed and lie quietly on his own bed? No such luck. A candle’s glimmer through the cracks above suggested some lucky trooper had persuaded his sweetheart to share a festival frolic.

  Hosh heaved an incautious sigh and winced as the cold air bit deep at the back of his nose. He couldn’t see a sweetheart in his own future, let alone the grandchildren his beloved mum silently longed for. Who would marry a man with a face ugly enough to sour milk, never mind one who refused to accept the accolades and surely the fat purse that should be his reward for slaying the true baron’s murderer?

  The manor’s maidservants had grown sufficiently used to his disfigurement not to let their revulsion show but Hosh still saw the pity in their eyes before they swiftly looked away. He heard the incautious comments and guessed at the whispers behind raised hands whenever he visited the village.

  He contemplated the gatehouse. The windows to the guest apartments up above were dark; Halferan had no noble visitors at this festival season. Only a couple of troopers would be sitting in the guard room beside the archway, to answer any knock at the heavy oak gates. They would be the most junior of the autumn’s recruits, too awed to ask him impertinent questions. They would also have a warm fire. Hosh could sit beside that until his mother was ready to go home.

  He walked quickly across the cobbles and knocked on the guard room door. As he opened it, he halted. Kusint sat at the table within. More astonishing, so did Lady Ilysh.

  ‘Hosh, fair festival.’ Lady Ilysh greeted him warmly. In her eyes, no mutilation could possibly signify after the service which Hosh had done her father by avenging him.

  ‘Come in and shut the door.’ Kusint invited.

  Hosh did as he was bid. There was no danger of the Forest man wheedling for some titillating tale of slavery among the barbarian Aldabreshi. Kusint had rowed in chains himself after being captured in the battles between Lescar’s rival dukes, lured to a mercenary’s life by tavern tales of high heroics and riches. So he knew all about the pain and fear which pervaded a slave’s every waking moment and which still plagued Hosh’s nightmares.

  Hosh took a chair and looked at the rune bones spread on the table. ‘What are the stakes?’

  He couldn’t see any coin waiting to wager on the roll of the three-sided pieces, not even the copper pennies cut into halves and quarters which the troopers were supposed to limit themselves to in their gambling.

  ‘We’re not gaming,’ Lady Ilysh quickly assured him. ‘We’re casting fortunes for the turn of the year, according to Forest lore.’

  She gathered up the nine stubby triangular bones, battered and scratched on their three oblong faces where the runes themselves were carved. Slipping them into a tattered leather bag, she tucked it into a pocket hidden in the side seam of her gown.

  ‘How do you read fortunes in runes?’ Hosh had heard about the new captain’s habit of seeking such guidance but he’d never had occasion to learn how it might be done.

  Kusint looked at him for a long moment before producing a wholly different set of runes. These were long wooden sticks as long as the Forest man’s hand and no thicker than his smallest finger. A leather thong tied them together, triangular shapes nested together to form a single larger triangle.

  The captain unknotted the leather and set aside the stick with the symbols for the sun and lesser and greater moons. ‘Each of the nine sticks has three sides to give us twenty-seven runes. Once we take away the heavens, that leaves twenty-four. Have you never considered how those divide into six quartets embracing every aspect of life?’

  ‘Air, Earth, Fire and Water, for the substances that make up all things. The Forest
, the Mountain, the Plain, and the Sea, for the places where we live.’

  Now Ilysh was nimbly sorting through Kusint’s runes to show Hosh each set of four symbols. The black lines seemed to have been burned into the wood with hot metal rather than carved.

  ‘Deer, Wolf, Eagle, and Salmon, for the creatures that live alongside us. Oak and Pine and Broom and Reed, for the growing things which shelter and feed us. Chime, Drum, Horn and Harp for music and all that delights us. The Storm, the Calm, the Cold Mountain Wind and the Warm Sea Breeze for the weather and such unseen mysteries.’

  ‘You’ve heard of Artifice?’ Kusint looked at Hosh. ‘Aetheric magic, not the wizardry of the mages? Among the Forest Folk, these weather runes also speak of such enchantments; of the strength to overrule what surrounds you, or to stand unharmed by an assault. Of Artifice to drive away foes or to lure them close, all unknowing.’

  Hosh looked at him, awe-struck. ‘Can Forest enchanters truly do so such things?’

  He’d heard the usual stories of Artifice’s lost wonders in tavern tales; how one adept could speak to another unheard over a thousand leagues or see through some unwitting dupe’s eyes. Like everyone else, he hadn’t believed half of what he’d heard. Besides, as everyone in the barrack hall agreed, such eerie magic was long lost amid the collapse of the Old Tormalin Empire twenty-five generations ago.

  Kusint smiled. ‘Forest lore has humbler ambitions. The enchantments which the Folk still cherish help secure food and shelter and keep the peace when families cross paths and mingle on their journeys through the greenwood. The true masters of Artifice are the sheltya who live in the far mountains, but they keep themselves to themselves and guard their secrets closely.’

  ‘The Forest Folk have lore enough to see what lies ahead for their kith and kin,’ Lady Ilysh said firmly. ‘Why not see what the new year will bring you, Hosh?’

  Her determined urging reminded him so powerfully of her fallen father giving an order that he reached for the rune sticks. The new manor timepiece rang the third chime of the night.

  ‘Oh, I hadn’t realised it was so late.’ Lady Ilysh sprang to her feet. ‘Mama will wonder where I am.’

  Before, she had been a self-confident maiden on the verge of womanhood. Now she was a child caught in mischief like little Esnina.

  Kusint was already on his way to open the door. She curtseyed a swift farewell. ‘Captain. Hosh. Fair festival to you.’

  ‘Saedrin send a fine year ahead for us all, my lady.’ Hosh watched Kusint linger in the doorway, watching Lady Ilysh all the way back to the great hall.

  As a slave among the corsairs, Hosh’s life had depended on his attentiveness to every shift in mood and expression around him. He hadn’t expected to find much use for such skills on his return home. As it turned out, being able to watch what went on around him without anyone noticing was an unforeseen benefit of everyone so diligently avoiding him.

  ‘The captain has been concerned that Reven is growing too fond of our lady.’ Hosh blotted insidious moisture from his skewed eye with his cuff. ‘Should he be concerned that she is growing fond of you?’

  He didn’t need to explain to Kusint. Corrain would always be Halferan’s captain as far as the two of them were concerned.

  ‘I know she is.’ Kusint carefully closed the door.

  ‘What of your feelings for her?’ Since Corrain wasn’t here, Hosh steeled himself to ask. After all, he and Kusint were both only a handful or so years older than their lady.

  ‘She is still a child.’ Kusint smiled affectionately nevertheless. ‘When she’s grown?’ He shrugged as he took his seat at the table again, his expression unexpectedly serious.

  ‘I’ll settle for seeing her grow into the woman she has the promise to become if she is allowed to think for herself, to read her father’s books of history and natural philosophy and to rule this barony in truth as well as in name. If she is allowed to look beyond this manor’s walls and beyond a life circumscribed by marriage and motherhood.’

  He shook his head, exasperated. ‘I cannot believe how little you Caladhrians value your womenfolk’s strengths. Perhaps it’s because your land is so fertile and so peaceful. We would never survive in Solura or in the Forest with half our people kept so idle and blinkered.’

  Kusint warmed to his theme. ‘It’s not as if there aren’t strong women closer to home so you can see their worth. When I was fighting in Lescar, the Duke of Marlier’s mercenaries were commanded by his concubine, the woman they call Ridianne the Vixen, and she proved a warrior to equal any man. Did you know that she was Caladhrian born? When your parliament’s unjust laws saw her thrown out of her home with no more than the clothes on her back, only because she couldn’t give her husband a son, she made herself a new life, using wits as sharp as the sword she took up!’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ Hosh wanted to argue with the Forest man’s assessment of his countrywomen but he was recalling what his mother had told him of Halferan’s helplessness when Lady Zurenne had been left widowed.

  Reared to manage a household and nurture children, their gentle lady had been left undefended and unprepared for the predators who had so swiftly circled the barony while her distant sisters’ husbands had placidly agreed that her dead husband’s barony’s affairs were none of their concern.

  ‘When Lady Ilysh is grown?’ Kusint smiled again, reflective. ‘I will stand at Corrain’s shoulder and see if any Caladhrian noble youth deserves a wife with her strength of will and character. If not, then we will see if she looks on me as a brother or something more.’

  Hosh looked at the wooden rune sticks tied tight with the leather thong. ‘Is that what you see in her future through your lore and these runes?’

  Though he knew what Corrain would say. That such fortune-telling could be nothing but wishful thinking and maybe even benign deceit, to persuade Lady Ilysh to follow her own natural inclination for independence.

  Corrain had dismissed the Archipelagans’ stargazing as folly and superstition only fit for gulling savage barbarians. But just as Hosh had learned that not every Aldabreshi was his enemy, he had come at least to respect their belief in portents. His beloved mum had always said that man or woman, one earned respect by returning it.

  ‘That stays between me and her.’ Kusint smiled to take the sting out of his words. ‘Do you want to see what the year to come might bring for you?’

  Hosh couldn’t deny that he was tempted. ‘How might I do that? Just for curiosity’s sake?’

  ‘Just out of curiosity.’ Kusint proffered the bundle of nine rune sticks, loosely held and end on, so Hosh couldn’t see any of the runes seared onto their long sides. ‘Take any six and lay them in two crosswise rows of three.’

  Hosh did so. Kusint laid his hand on the table beside the three sticks closer to him. ‘These upright runes offer insights into good things to come. These runes which are reversed should be studied for warnings.’ He reached forward to spread his fingers over the trio on Hosh’s side of the table.

  That made sense to Hosh. A tossed rune always landed with one face hidden, one carved symbol upright and the third one upside down. It was those upright runes which won a gambling throw and surely planning for the future was a series of wagers. ‘What do these tell you?’

  Kusint tapped each stick in turn. ‘The Wellspring for water promises a desire fulfilled and the Eagle counsels hope and confidence as well as speaking of a journey. The Chime hints at a new beginning but you should consider your decisions carefully. Once made, such a choice cannot be undone, any more than a bell can be unrung.’

  ‘I see.’ Hosh was inclined to think that Corrain would be rightly sceptical. After his unwilling sojourn in the Archipelago, Hosh had no intention of travelling anywhere ever again. He nodded at the second trio. ‘And these?’

  Kusint’s coppery brows drew together in a puzzled frown. ‘Surely these runes speak more of the year just gone. The Earth speaks of upheaval when it’s reversed and the Wolf’s counter me
aning is greed.’

  Hosh understood. Kusint had been with Corrain when the corsair island was torn asunder and the Forest captain had been one of the first to know of the Mandarkin mage Anskal’s avid search for ensorcelled artefacts.

  ‘What does this one mean?’ Hosh picked up the last stick, showing the rune symbolising the cold North wind rolling down from the mountains, upside down.

  ‘That is a riddle,’ Kusint admitted. ‘In the first three, it would have meant trouble ahead.’

  ‘Then surely that means good fortune if it’s reversed?’ If Hosh didn’t plan on trusting in this Forest lore, he would still rather not carry an ill omen into the new year.

  ‘No,’ Kusint rubbed his chin, stubble rasping at the end of this long day. ‘It’s still a warning, but I think it means that whatever fate lies ahead isn’t fixed.’

  He surprised Hosh by gathering up the rune sticks and tying them tight together. ‘I know little enough of Forest lore. My mother lost her family to Mandarkin raiders when she was little more than a child and Solurans took her in. A true adept raised in the wildwood would most likely find quite different meanings. Shall we share some festival ale in hopes of a prosperous new year here in Halferan?’

  The red-headed man rose and went to the sideboard, filling two tankards from the jug before Hosh had a chance to reply.

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’ Hosh was also unexpectedly content with that reading of the last rune. After all, stubborn hope that he wasn’t destined to die on the corsair island had sustained him through that ordeal, even if abandoning that conviction had goaded him into his final act of despairing bravery.

  He raised his tankard to Kusint. ‘May we see so many midwinters that our hair is white as snow before we hear Poldrion’s summons.’

  That was a more fitting wish for this festival than dabbling in half-understood mysteries of Forest Artifice.