by Ila Mercer
‘Show me how you grip it when you write.’
He picked up the pen and dipped it into the pot of ink, tapped it lightly and then proceeded to copy the smooth flowing letters.
When he set his pen back in the pot, Katarin said, ‘You would have more control if you held your pen like this.’ She picked up the reed between her thumb and index finger. ‘Just hold it lightly. You don’t need to strangle it. Here let me help.’ She took his fingers and moulded them around the shaft of the reed.
He was suddenly conscious of her scent, of the smooth warmth of her smaller fingers against his and it set his heart racing again. ‘Thankyou,’ he said.
‘Now show me how that works for you.’
This time the lines flowed more easily, and he found he had greater control of the shaft. He laughed in surprise.
‘See, much easier. You’ll be writing entire books in no time.’
‘It’s the reading I must master first,’ Ari said, turning slightly to catch her eye.
‘Do you read in your own language?’
Ari shook his head. ‘We don’t use pen and parchment.’
‘Oh.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘How do share what you know with each other?’
‘We tell stories by the fire at night and we leave signs for each other in the forests.’
She nodded and picked up a book. ‘How far have you got with Lars?’
Suddenly he felt embarrassed. Did she think his people were primitive because they did not make the symbols? ‘Not far,’ he replied.
‘Then perhaps we should go back to the very beginning. It will be less confusing that way.’ She must have noted how awkward he was feeling for she added: ‘But you speak with such elegance that I can tell you will be a fast learner.’
For the rest of the afternoon they worked solidly on learning the Dracodian alphabet and learning the sounds that each letter made. By the end of the afternoon Ari could read and write his name, and a good many other things. Katarin was patient and encouraging. Not once did she make him feel foolish and he began to see that reading the symbols was not so different to reading the signs that his people made, except that it offered a much broader palate from which to work.
As the light faded in the room, Mika yawned and put her sewing away. Ari had forgotten she was even there. ‘Aren’t you two planning to stop for dinner?’ she asked. ‘We have those mushrooms on promise, remember?’
‘How can I stop now?’ Ari asked.
‘At this rate, you’ll be reading the Cartal by midnight,’ Katarin said with pride.
‘If I do, it is because I have an excellent teacher,’ he replied with a grin. He felt so light, so buoyant, as though he could conquer any task set by Brother Sneet. Surely they would have to admit that his people were their equals.
At that moment, the door burst open. Worrel, Lars’s brother, stood in the open doorway.
‘There you are,’ he cried. ‘I’ve been searching for you all afternoon.’
‘I was here all the time,’ Katarin answered, her voice measured and cool. ‘Didn’t Lars tell you?’
‘Lars is hunting.’ Then his eyes flicked briefly over Ari. ‘What have you been doing all this time?’
‘Teaching Ari to read. He has made astonishing progress in one afternoon.’
‘Good for him,’ Worrel said, but his eyes never wavered from Katarin. ‘Well. It’s almost dinner time and you’re not even dressed.’
‘I’m fine as I am,’ Katarin replied.
Worrel scowled. ‘I’m certain you wear those common shifts to vex me. At least make an effort with your hair. In the city they would laugh at your simple ways.’
‘They already do, don’t they Mika?’
Mika nodded.
Worrel twisted his lips. It was evident he wanted to say more on the subject but thought better of it. ‘I will see you at dinner,’ he finished with a curt nod and then left the room.
‘Why do you bait him so, Katarin?’ Mika asked, once the sound of Worrel’s footsteps had faded.
‘If he thinks he can tell me what to do when we are married, he has another thing coming.’
‘Oh, Katarin,’ Mika said. ‘You are under your father’s protection until that day. He will not do anything to harm that alliance. But once you are married…’
‘What?’
‘I have told you before, and it is something that should not be spoken about in present company.’
Ari shrank in his seat. He pretended he was concentrating hard on the page before him. He had felt very uncomfortable during Worrel’s exchange with Katarin. Did the man not see what a precious jewel she was already? She did not require any further adornment. To do so would only detract from her loveliness. But he was not a subtle man; he would never see it that way. Everything about his being was coarse. He moved with no regard for others around him – like a boar crashing through the undergrowth. His clothes were garish and drew too much attention, and his features, as though reflecting the spirit within, were hard and sharp.
‘Come to dinner with us,’ Katarin said, placing her hand on Ari’s. ‘You can always come back to the books later and I want you to be there when I gloat about your progress to Lars.’
Oh yes, she had all the radiance of firelight, he thought. And only a fool would fail to see it.
Yaron’s Burden
On his return to the Downs, images of the little she-Beast haunted Yaron. She stole into his dreams and into his thoughts, coming sneakily by association. One time he was pulling back the curtain in his chambers and the soft velvet drapes reminded him of her muzzle. Another time the smooth dark wood of his desk reminded him of her eyes. Then there was the time the hunting scream of an owl reminded him of her stricken cries.
It was worse at night. Soon after he closed his eyes for sleep, he would see the black brute snap her withers, grab her throat and tear into the softness of her belly. He always woke from these dreams shaking and sweating, too afraid to shut his eyes again in case the awful images recurred.
His fear drove him to the comfort of his books. At all hours of the night, he could be found in the library curled up in an armchair, with a book on his lap. On the first night, he had grabbed the first thing that came to hand. He had not cared what it was - only that it kept his mind occupied, but after a few nights he realised the books on the highest shelves were filled with haunting facts about Dracodia’s past association with the Beasts. At first, he could not bare to read these books, because they reminded him too much of the little she-Beast and then his conscience got the better of him, for he felt he owed it to her to read them. Somehow, he felt sure these books would reveal the truth of his country’s past and how the Beasts came to be their slaves. In one book, he found a reference to Dracodia’s first contact with the Beasts. It was many generations previous and the Beasts had become partners in trade. Not slaves as they were now. Then something had changed – but what this was, the books had not revealed.
And so it was, many days after his return from Fallengrove, that Yaron dozed in the overstuffed chair, his neck bent at an odd angle with an open book on his lap. A spoke of light moved slowly across the back of his chair, travelled a snail’s pace across the crown of his head, and finally passed from his brow to eyes. He woke with a sour taste in his mouth and a crick in his neck.
He rubbed his shoulders and neck and thought of calling for some breakfast when somebody knocked at his door.
‘Come in,’ he called, and a servant entered with a letter on a tray.
After dismissing the servant, Yaron turned the letter over and over in his hands. It bore the seal of Fallengrove, and his heart beat faster as he wondered what it might say.
Had Senna Globbet beaten an admission out of Fraya and then informed Sia Fallengrove of his part in the she-Beasts escape, he wondered? Was the Sia writing to tell him that she had notified the Order of his actions? Did she want reparation for the death of her she-Beast?
With trepidation, he tore open the seal.
>
He read the words – and at first could make no meaning from them. Then once they had sunk in, he crumpled the parchment into a tight ball and threw it into the empty fireplace.
So, Fraya had not betrayed him, he thought. The realisation only added to his burden.
He tapped his fingers rapidly on the arm of his chair and stared at the crumpled letter. For a moment he thought of confessing his crime to the Sia but then rejected the thought almost immediately. Confessing his actions would help no-one. Least of all the Beasts.
He grabbed a pen and parchment, rejecting the Sia’s invitation for a second visit. He could not imagine why the Sia even requested his presence. He had been cool and distant on their final parting. But his Uncle had not. They must really want an alliance with the Downs, he thought.
He softened some wax, sealed his letter, and was about to call for a messenger to take it to Fallengrove when another thought occurred to him. He slid his chair next to the bookshelf and climbed onto its arm. His fingers ran across the spines of those books in the highest reaches. Where was it? Where was it? And then, with a smile of satisfaction, he grasped the book he was seeking and pulled it from the shelf.
He wrapped it up in brown parchment and tied it closed with neat brown string and addressed it to the Sia’s brother. He hoped Captain Wright would understand his intent when he read the archaic book, for deep in the text the author described, in meticulous detail, the path he had forged across the ranges between Dracodia and its neighbouring country Libria. Who knew, perhaps it might help those few Beasts who escaped the mines to find their way to freedom and if there was anyone who could pass on this knowledge to the Beasts, he felt sure Captain Wright would know how.
It was a small act of rebellion, nevertheless Yaron felt pleased that he was doing something.
*
At dinner that night, Yaron’s uncle asked, ‘So, what was in your letter from Fallengrove?’
‘You knew of that?’
‘Of course. I sent the messenger to your room,’ his uncle replied, as he attacked a particularly tough deer steak with his knife and fork.
Yaron chewed his meat slowly, vying for time.
‘Well?’ his uncle said, sawing away with his knife.
‘They’re having another hunt.’
His uncle glanced up at Yaron, an expression of delight on his face. ‘When?’
‘A week from now,’ Yaron replied.
His uncle nodded. ‘Good, good. Everything has worked out, despite…’ he glanced at the servant. ‘Anyway, we’ll have two days, before we must leave again.’
Yaron put down his knife and fork, wishing he could avoid the quarrel he was about to start. ‘I sent word that I won’t be coming,’ he told his uncle, as he motioned for one of the servants to clear his plate away.
His uncle released his grip on his knife and fork and pushed his half-eaten dinner away too.
‘Take mine too,’ he told the servant. Turning back to Yaron he said, ‘We’ll discuss this in my chambers.’
Yaron followed his uncle down the passage and into the horrid room where they’d always had their most heated arguments.
With the door closed, his uncle turned on him. ‘You should have discussed the matter with me before you sent word.’ His uncle raked a hand through his hair.
‘But then you would have bullied me into going,’ Yaron replied.
‘Sit,’ his uncle commanded.
‘I’d rather stand,’ Yaron replied, trying to keep his voice even and calm.
His uncle shot him a fierce look but did not press the point. ‘You do realise that Fallengrove is our best chance to save this Keep from total ruin.’
‘So you keep telling me.’
‘Because it is,’ his uncle spat. ‘For Heaven’s sake, Yaron, sometimes I think you are glad our Keep is sinking into ruin.’
Yaron stared at an empty hook on the other side of the wall.
With a sigh his uncle said, ‘A short while back I sent word to every Keep this side of Lancor city, inviting their nobles to attend a ball at the Downs, this midsummer. It was meant to be a celebration of your ascendency to your title. I’d hoped to surprise you.’
‘I am surprised,’ Yaron replied. For a moment he felt a kernel of warmth towards his uncle, but then something his uncle had said some weeks before, surfaced in his mind. ‘You said we had barely enough to get our folk through the winter, how are we to afford such an extravagance?’
‘Sia Fallengrove offered.’
‘And what did she make you promise in return?’ Yaron said, his cheeks flushing.
His uncle waved Yaron’s insinuations aside. ‘It was an offer of generosity. She asked for nothing in return and I thought perhaps enough time had passed. I thought the other Keeps might have been willing to forget, at last.’
‘What do you mean?’ Yaron said.
‘All the Keeps have declined the invitation. None, it seems, are willing to forgive your father for his actions. So, you see what this means?’
Yaron shook his head.
‘You will have no choice about whom you marry, Yaron. Fallengrove is our only ally now, and if you want to save your folk from a future of starvation, you need to accept what they have to offer.’
‘What do you mean?’ Yaron said, feeling as though the room had gone into a sudden spin.
‘We need to forge an alliance through marriage with them.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You will,’ his uncle replied. ‘Because there are no other options.’ He held up his hand, as Yaron started to object. ‘You do not have the luxury of choice, Yaron. It’s time you understood your obligations.’
‘I’m still not going.’
For a moment, Yaron thought his uncle might strike him, and he braced himself, never letting his gaze drop.
But then, after a few moments his uncle turned away and sat at his desk. Picking up a fresh parchment and quill he said, ‘I will go to the hunt in your place. I will say that you were too ill to travel, and I will not return from Fallengrove until we have come to an agreement.’
‘You can’t make me marry either of those vixens,’ Yaron said, his heart thumping madly in his chest.
His uncle merely raised one brow. ‘You’d rather watch your folk suffer hardship and hunger?’
‘No,’ Yaron replied, with resignation.
‘I know you could never let that happen.’ His uncle said, dipping his quill into the ink pot. ‘And I’m sure you’ll make the right choice in the end.’
Life in a Keep
Lita woke to the sound of barking hounds. Sometime during her sleep, she had become a girl again. Once again, she wore the first collar that Tipple had fastened around her neck, as well as her dress, boots and shawl. The map lay neatly folded between her skin and her tunic.
After she removed the collar that had re-appeared during her transformation, she threw it into the dirt. When she tried to stand, pins and needles prickled her legs and her body ached as though she had been trampled by a herd of wild goats.
The barking grew louder, and the sound of a single gunshot shattered through the valley. ‘Stay out thief!’ a voice yelled.
Three dogs leered at her from the lip of the pit, yipping, snarling and loosening the soft dirt. Fearful that the dogs might leap in and tear her apart, Lita cowered in the corner.
A moment later, two men with skin like deeply tanned leather peered down at her. ‘Hello, there,’ one said, ‘looks like we caught us a girl. Funny, but I didn’t know Tipple had a daughter. Wonder if she’ll try and come back for the mite? Perhaps we should leave her in there. Whadda you say, Jim?’
‘Tipple is not my mama!’ Lita called out.
‘Ha! Knew I was right. It was Tipple at it again.’
‘No,’ said the other. ‘It’d be cruel to leave her down there. You right, dear? No broken bones?’
‘A twisted ankle, I think,’ Lita replied.
The men dangled a rope with a loop into the pit and hauled her
to the surface. Tied to a nearby tree, the dogs yammered and pawed. Lita glanced anxiously at their long snapping teeth, the bristling fur along their spines, and the froth on their tongues.
‘Hush there,’ one of the men said. The dogs became still but continued to snarl. Lita turned towards the men who stood shoulder-to-shoulder peering at her through identical slanted brown eyes. Each had a long bow, slung over the shoulder. Their faces were long and deeply lined as though the wind and rain of their outdoor life had etched gullies and canyons into their dark skin. They continued to stare with more than passing curiosity.
Lita self-consciously brushed her cheek and smeared it with dirt.
‘I could swear I’ve seen that face before,’ one of them said.
‘Yes. Something familiar about the set of her mouth,’ the other said nodding, ‘and the cast of that chin. The delicacy of her brow.’
‘Bah,’ the other said. ‘No need to write a sonnet. Come now, let’s get you back to the Keep. You can walk, can’t you?’
Lita stepped forward and found she could bear weight on her ankle though it was sore. She limped between the men. One wrapped an arm about her waist and helped her to hobble along.
As they progressed, the hem of Lita’s dress grew wet from the dew. Her shawl did little to insulate her against the cool morning air and her teeth chattered like bones in a pot, by the time she caught sight of a tattered flag fluttering above the Keep’s highest pinnacle. From a distance, the Keep appeared grand however as they drew closer, it became evident that it had fallen into a state of disrepair. Stonework crumbled in places, salt damp rose through the mortar, and weeds sprouted from cracks.
To the left of the Keep, near a gnarly orchard, there were several cottages with black windows and barren chimneys. A loose shutter banged in the breeze. Nobody tramped back and forth, the poultry pens lay bare, and the woodpiles were empty. Where were all the folk, Lita wondered? Had they all packed up and moved into the Keep?