by Ila Mercer
‘There are worse fates for a Beast,’ Senna Worrel said, his tone light and dismissive.
Could anything be worse than taking someone’s freedom away, Yaron wanted to say. It was how he felt about his own life. This necessity to marry for the good of the Keep. So that others might have their freedoms and happiness. Where did his dreams and wishes come into it? What of love? Not that he’d ever been in love and now it seemed he never would be. Still, it was not as bad as the fate of the Beasts. Yaron had heard that a Beast rarely lived longer than three years once sent to a mine. A slow, but sure death sentence for those unlucky beings.
Yaron did not voice his thoughts. There was no point. When it came to Beasts, his uncle’s mind was made up.
‘I think we should go to Fallengrove’s hunt,’ his uncle said. ‘We owe them the courtesy of a visit. Especially since they sent the pickers. Without that kindness, our stores would be much lower. Besides that, it will give you a chance to meet Fallengrove’s daughters.’ He held up his hand when Yaron started to object. ‘You should at least meet them before you write them off.’
*
It was unmanly, travelling by carriage - fine, perhaps for women, children and invalids -but not grown men and that’s what they would think too, when he and Senna Worrel rolled into their courtyard. Yaron, the boy. But in the end, he had to admit it was the most practical way to travel to Fallengrove, especially with the number of gifts his uncle had brought. The alternative was riding on horseback, but Senna Worrel had been against the idea, saying it was too unsafe, now that there were rumours of bandits in the region.
‘You look as though you’re deep in thought,’ Senna Worrel said.
Yaron shrugged.
Senna Worrel’s brow furrowed and he cleared his throat. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to say.’
‘Oh,’ Yaron said, gazing past his uncle. He hoped it would not be another lecture about marriage.
‘At Fallengrove, we must distance ourselves from the past.’
Yaron turned to face his uncle. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I think this is a sign that the Counties are prepared to forget what happened, at last.’
‘But I won’t,’ Yaron said, his brow furrowing with memories.
‘It’s years since your father died, Yaron. Time you let it go.’
‘Died? Murdered, you mean.’
‘It’s just as well we are alone in the carriage. That’s exactly the sort of thing you musn’t say. Especially when we’re at Fallengrove.’ Senna Worrel’s jaw tightened and his face grew grave. ‘Perhaps it was a mistake for us to come. They’ll be watching you very carefully. Looking for any sign of your father’s madness.’
‘Is that what you think? That he did it out of madness?’
‘What would you call it?’
Yaron did not respond. He was perhaps the only one in the Keep who understood why his father had done it. ‘So, I’m to pretend. Say nothing that might offend or put them off a marriage deal. Because the Downs is for sale and its heir is going cheap.’
‘Now you’re speaking like a spoiled brat. As if you are the only one who’s ever had to deal with the mess left by your father.’ Senna Worrel raked his fingers through his hair. It was a gesture that Yaron knew too well. It meant his uncle was frustrated to the point of anger. Well let him be angry, Yaron thought. In truth, Senna Worrel’s words had stung him.
Yaron turned to gaze out the window, trying to put his uncle’s words out of mind.
They rolled past fields of stubble and acres of orchards draped in shades of rust. After that they passed through a village with newly whitewashed cottages - Yaron counted roofs – about twenty in all and every window sparkled with light and movement. For of course their interiors had grown too dark though the countryside still glowed. In the absence of a breeze, heavy smoke hung about the eves. This, combined with the aroma of hearty stews, seeped into Yaron’s carriage, making his stomach growl. He reached across the seat for the bag holding the apples, but then decided against it. He’d eaten five already and could wait despite his hunger. Their hosts, he was sure, would try to impress them with something lavish.
It was his first visit away from the Keep in a year. Before this there had been occasional forays to Yawmouth and Tanglewood but only rare trips to other Keeps. Trade trips, not social visits. Yet it had not always been this way. Everything changed with the burning of the Fleet. Well, no, that was not true, Yaron thought. Very little had changed for the kingdom of Dracodia while the Downs sank into disgrace.
Yaron knew why his father burned the fleet. He knew this because his father had told him. It had been late at night, or so it had seemed to Yaron, who was just a small child at the time. He remembered his father sitting on the edge of his bed. With grave eyes, he’d told his son what he planned to do and Yaron remembered he had asked his father if he’d get into trouble. His father had nodded sadly and kissed his brow. ‘No matter what happens,’ his father had said, ‘know that I love you and I am doing this because I must. Because it is wrong to make anyone into a slave.’
A week later his father was dead.
Yaron could not remember the part when he first found out that his father was dead, but he could remember that he had spent a lot of time with the Jims, hunting and fishing. He also remembered that when they returned to the Keep in the late afternoons it had been very quiet and nobody would look him in the eye.
Over the years Yaron had pieced the story together. He now knew that the Order’s sentence had been lenient and that they had pardoned Lars, imposing an embargo on the Downs instead. If the Head Brother understood the true intent behind Lars’s actions, he had not admitted it. Instead, he declared that the burning was an act of madness brought on by grief due to the loss, first, of Lars’s wife, and then his father, Senna Jogan. Lars was allowed to return to his Keep but on the ride back he had been bludgeoned by someone and left to die on the highway. Whether the murderer was a common bandit, a brother of the Order, or an assassin hired by the merchant guild, nobody learned. However, it amounted to the same for Yaron and the Keep and, as Senna Worrel had pointed out on numerous occasions, Senna Lars’s deed had been in vain. Less than two years after the fleet was destroyed, a new flotilla had been built and the Beast Trade began again.
Yaron glanced at his uncle. Senna Worrel sat slumped, hands folded in his lap, his balding pate shining where the hair thinned. He stared at a spot about eye-level, right through the wood of the carriage, unaware of his nephew’s scrutiny. He looked particularly old today, Yaron thought. The lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened, and his once jutting chin appeared to have been swallowed by an excess of skin and fat. Yaron had always counted on the strength of his uncle’s chin. A silly thing to count on really, and yet Yaron had come to think of it as an outward sign of his uncle’s inner fortitude. Now for the first time, he realised that he may have misunderstood his uncle’s constancy as a sign of strength.
Senna Worrel was no visionary. His regency had been about making sure there was food in the cellars, coins in the treasury, the wheat reaped at summers end, and fruit picked when it was ripe. Having never been invited to court, Senna Worrel did not need to present views on any matter to do with the running of the realm. It was only in the privacy of his library, he unleashed his abhorrence of Beasts but exactly why his uncle harboured such sentiments, Yaron had never quite fathomed.
In nearly all regards, his uncle outwardly accepted the fate imposed upon them. Appearing humble and self deprecating the few times high ranking dignitaries of the Order swooped on them to conduct audits and inspections, ensuring they’d kept to the conditions of the embargo. It was only in the last couple of years these visits had ceased altogether. Dracodia, it seemed, was starting to forget the past and now his uncle was planning his first strategic move, hoping to edge them back into Dracodian society.
Though they had not yet spoken about what would happen if the embargo was lifted, Yaron knew what his uncle�
�s position would be. He’d have no qualms about joining the trade again or sending Beasts to tunnel their hills. So, to Yaron’s mind, it was as well the embargo remained. Yaron wanted no part in the Beast trade and was secretly glad the embargo shielded him from having to take a formal stand against it. He only hoped it would remain when his reign began. Trouble was, their fortunes were dwindling by the year and the only solution – marriage – led back to the use of Beasts. All the major counties had a hand in the trade. Yaron knew it was going to be near impossible to maintain his neutrality. Something would need to change.
He turned to gaze out the window again, troubled by the future.
The wheels of the carriage rolled past the last of the cottages, past an old cart, past a grazing horse and a brimming water trough.
A large byre caught Yaron’s eye. Only once before had he seen such a gathering of animals at the saleyards of Yawmouth. Fallengrove’s pens must have held at least two hundred sheep, in various shades too, of brown, black and cream. He began to imagine the yarns their weaver might make from such a variety of shades and decided he would suggest a trade – perhaps some bolts of cloth in exchange for several bales.
In the next byre about two dozen cows milled about waiting for their turn to be milked. Next to the byre, five young women sat lined up on stools with milking pails wedged between their thighs. Steaming milk squirted from the heiffers pendulous teats. Nearly all the girls – cheeks ruddy with exertion, armpits stained with sweat - turned to regard the passing carriage.
The light began to dim quickly now. But it was still possible to see the outline of barns bursting with hay and woodpiles stacked high. It was a land of plenty and for the first time in his life Yaron understood how poor his own folk had become. It shocked him. He could not help but compare the Downs depleted stores with Fallengrove’s abundance and they had not even entered the stronghold. Imagine the stores they must hold behind those walls! Before he had time to wonder about the sentries Fallengrove must logically employ, a contingent of soldiers galloped past the carriage, whipping up the dust, capes flapping behind them like useless wings. Off to patrol the borders, he thought, because bandits would be drawn to a land such as Fallengrove.
He wondered how it was they made their wealth so easily when the Downs struggled to get enough labourers to till their fields and harvest their crops. The number of cottages seemed too few to farm the entire county. So how did they do it? And if they could do it – was it possible for the Downs to accomplish the same? He resolved to find out. For a moment he thought of asking his uncle if he knew, but then decided against it. It was something he would learn for himself using his eyes and his ears. From now on he had to start thinking for himself.
He let the curtain fall and settled back into his seat, pondering on all he had seen until they entered the gates of Fallengrove.
When Yaron stepped from the carriage, lamplight dazzled his eyes. In a sudden reflex, he turned aside and shielded his eyes with his inner elbow. Sia Fallengrove, who was nothing more than a pair of shoes to Yaron, sharply admonished her guard for placing the lamp so close to the door. Yaron felt a surge of embarrassment sweep through him.
Sia Fallengrove grabbed him by his other sleeve. ‘Are you right now?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he answered, slowly pulling his arm away from his eyes. He blinked several times and hoped that his watery gaze would not be mistaken for tears.
She seemed to sense his discomfort and dropped her hands. Her fingers swept the sides of her ridiculously large skirts. ‘How was your journey?’ she asked, but before Yaron could reply she had already turned to Senna Worrel, who was just emerging from the carriage. ‘Ah, Senna Worrel. How pleased we are that you decided to come after all.’
Over her shoulder, Yaron noted two maidens. Sia Fallengrove’s daughters, he guessed. They returned his gaze with much fluttering of the eyes and whispered giggles to each other. Plain, they were. But not hideous to the eye. They each wore dresses with fabric enough to clothe half the Downs female folk and Yaron wondered how they moved under the heaviness of it all. He knew it was wrong to judge on first impression, but he could not help it. There was something course about their manners. The way they ogled and giggled made him feel like a bull on show at the saleyards. Still, he supposed he should be fair and give them a chance. He had promised Senna Worrel he would do no less.
Yaron turned his attention to his surrounds. Fallengrove, he realised, was three, perhaps even four times the size of the Downs and grander than he could have imagined. The walls of the Keep were smooth, without a trace of mortar, such that a foreigner might think the Keep had grown straight from the earth, however Yaron knew it was made from cleverly carpentered wood because he’d heard tales about how Senna Fallengrove felled an entire forest to build his fortress.
Lanterns slung on thick ropes hung above their heads so that faint orange lights swooned across the carriage, the folk and the cobbles. Yaron recognised a sharp scent of lemon and myrrh which reminded him of funerals, as this was the only time his Keep could afford to burn the cloying resin.
When Yaron turned his attention back to Sia Fallengrove and her daughters he noted that a tall man with a flowing, ginger beard had joined the group. Nobody Yaron knew wore a beard, except for troubadours and wild men, but never the nobility. Suddenly Yaron remembered that his own father had worn a beard now and then and this made him even more curious.
‘My half-brother, Captain Wright,’ Sia Fallengrove said when she caught Yaron gazing at the strange fellow. Her expression was one of annoyance as she wedged her great flouncing skirts between the men.
‘Former Captain,’ the strange fellow corrected his sister. ‘That is no longer my trade.’
With a slight shake of the head she said, ‘This is Senna Yaron and his uncle, Senna Worrel. From the Downs.’
The former Captain became alert with mention of the Downs, and his eyes fell on Yaron with penetrating intensity, causing Yaron to feel completely disarmed. He knew he had been measured, but wondered, by what standard.
An hour later, after all the guests had arrived, they gathered in the hall for dinner. Yaron turned from face to face. Eleven folk were seated at the long table, including Sia Fallengrove’s mysterious half-brother. He sat at the far end of the table next to a pretty young woman and Yaron wondered if she was his wife.
Ten chandeliers hung from the ceilings, like heavy bunches of grapes, but all the candles remained unlit. Instead, the hostess had lit a few strategic candles along the walls – lending a flattering, warm light to the room. Sia Fallengrove had appointed herself to the head of the table. Beside her elbow, a hound rested his head. Its eyes were fixed on her dinner, and whenever she turned away to speak with a servant, it lapped or nibbled from the rim of her plate.
During dinner, Sia Fallengrove’s two daughters, Dodo and Deidee, sat either side of Yaron like ornamental bookends. For the event they had changed into larger, heavier costumes. The girls could hardly lift their hands to their mouths due to the density of their brocaded sleeves. As soon as he sat down, he felt their eyes on him. He tried to converse with them, asking questions that any normal maiden would have found unchallenging such as whether they planned to join the hunt, whether they thought the weather would be fine for the event… what type of meat had been served for their dinner... In response, they gave one-word answers. He thought, perhaps they found his questions too dull and so he tried to talk to Deidee about their methods of farming. However, she coughed slightly and turned away when he asked how they managed such vast tracts of land with a hand full of folk, and when he asked again, thinking perhaps she had not heard the question, she sighed. As if this was a reasonable answer! In the end, he gave up. Ignoring them, he turned his attention instead to the others at the table.
The Keep’s priest, Brother Lodorus, who sat diagonally opposite Yaron, was a tall thin man with a severely twisted spine and two withered legs and had to be carried to his seat by one of the servants. A
t first Yaron had felt pity for the man, but soon realised though Brother Lodorus had lost his ability to walk, he seemed content with his lot. He tucked into his meal heartily, swigged two tankards of ale before the end of the first course and made expansive statements about the Dracodian way of life. He was a man of progress, he uttered repeatedly.
At one point, he turned to Senna Worrel and asked, ‘How is Brother Be?’
‘He is engaged in a very important study of our soil, at present,’ Senna Worrel replied.
Yaron nearly choked. He could scarcely believe his uncle’s brazenness. How long, he wondered, would they get away with hiding the fact that Brother Be had passed away?
‘He was always keen on farming,’ Brother Lodorus said, as he slurped the last of his soup.
From the far end of the table Sia Fallengrove’s brother, Wright, looked up from his plate and said, ‘I met Brother Be once. A long time ago. He was outspoken for a man of the cloth.’ Brother Lodorus nodded and raised his brows. ‘In his earlier years,’ Wright continued, ‘he too was captain of a slave ship. It’s what drove him to a secular life. He said he was haunted by the souls of those who died in his holds. It has been many years since he petitioned the court to end the trade. Do you know the reason for his silence?’
Senna Worrel reddened visibly. ‘His health has declined in recent years.’
‘A pity,’ Wright said.
‘If Brother Be’s health is ailing,’ Brother Lodorus cut in, ‘perhaps a novice should be sent. We are, after all, mere mortals and a Keep without a Brother is like a ship without a rudder.’
‘Yes, perhaps I’ll send word to The Order on our return home,’ Senna Worrel said. Though, to Yaron, he appeared less than happy at the prospect. Neither Yaron nor Senna Worrel were particularly pious, but Brother Be’s brand of piety had suited the Keep. Short prayers and blessings for those who sought him out, and observances of the most holy days. Brother Be had preferred thoughtful action to sermons and had often been found helping Sal with her mending, raking muck with the stableboy or chopping up vegetables in the kitchen. It gave him a chance to talk with folk in a more personal manner, he had said more than once to Yaron.