by Lela Markham
“Ryanna’s youth is legend. Be careful to separate the myth from the real woman.”
“I will.” Sarala wanted to run to her horse, mount and flee, but she was 21 – too old to act like a petulant child. “I love you, mother! I would the feeling were reciprocated, but it’s what we have.”
“You’re wrong. It’s not that I don’t love you. I carried you inside of me for a cycle. There is no bond so deep. It is only that whenever I see you I remember and ….”
“And you blame me for what I did not cause.” Maryanara shook her head, but Sarala kept speaking. “Very well. It is as it has always been. Perhaps we can find common ground when I return.”
“Please!”
This time Sarala did not answer, but strode to her waiting horse, vaulted into the saddle and rode away … lest Maryanara see the tears that flowed down her own cheeks now that the decision had been made and the chains of family shattered.
Confluence of Healing Streams
“Of what importance to me are your many sacrifices?” says the One. “I am stuffed with burnt sacrifices of rams and the fat from steers. I do not want the blood of bulls, lambs, and goats. When you enter my presence, do you actually think I want animals trampling on my courtyards? Do not bring any more meaningless offerings; I consider your incense detestable! You observe new moon festivals, Sabbaths, and convocations, but I cannot tolerate sin-stained celebrations! I hate your new moon festivals and assemblies; they grieve me beyond endurance. When you spread out your hands in prayer, I look the other way; when you offer your many prayers, I do not listen, because your hands are covered with blood.
“Wash! Cleanse yourselves! Remove your sinful deeds from my sight. Stop sinning! Learn to do what is right! Promote justice! Give the oppressed reason to celebrate! Take up the cause of the orphan! Defend the rights of the widow!
Come, let’s consider your options,” says the One. “Though your sins have stained you like the color red, you can become white like snow; though they are as easy to see as the color scarlet, you can become white like wool. If you have a willing attitude and obey, then you will again eat the good crops of the land. But if you refuse and rebel, you will be devoured by the sword. Know for certain that the One has spoken.”
From the Scriptos of the One, Writings of Isayah
Recorded by Brethry, Priest of Bel, Moryn FY 941
Founding Year 931
Dun Llyr
Gilyan of Llyr stared out over the harbor of Llyr at the many colored sails and odd shaped ships. On the opposite headland stood the fortress tasked with defending the most important harbor in the kingdom, the sealink through which Mulyn iron and Celdryan beef flowed. She found the commanding view to be soothing. It reminded her that her problems were small compared to the world round them. She would hear from Celdrya soon and all would be well. Prince Perryn -- King Perryn -- was known as the more honorable brother. Not that she’d been upset over marrying Maryn. He’d been nice enough and would have been an enjoyable lover. It’s just that Perryn was known to act honorably above and beyond what his brother had been known to be. It concerned her that the message she’d sent had not been returned after a fortnight. Surely Perryn had received it and should have responded. Yet she still waited. Which was why she stood here on the top floor of the tower -- in what had once been the dun-jail for family members -- reminding herself that the world was so much bigger than her problems.
A servant entered the chamber where Gilyan stood at the open window and approached.
“Lord Braedyn wants to see you in his greeting chamber, my lady,” she said in a soft voice.
“Thank you, Meryla.”
Gilyan smoothed her overdress and checked her head-scarf with her hands. Technically she was in mourning for her betrothed, though they’d scarcely known each other an eight night. She wore black in deference to that, but still kirtled her dress in Llyr blue and yellow and her underdress was in the rich blue she favored. Of middle height and athletic build, Gilyan possessed a strong face with high cheekbones and a bold mouth coupled with large blue eyes and shining hair the same shade as honey. She would never be judged beautiful, but she was handsome and intelligent. At 22 she’d already been married and widowed and lost a child to fever, but she still enjoyed laughter and found life worth living. This unexpected pregnancy by a man now dead was not a tragedy, just a complication in her life.
The halls of Dun Llyr were their usual bustle of activity as she made her way down from the tower to the main broch where her father’s greeting chamber could be found on the third floor.
Braedyn ap Umhall of Llyr dismissed his councilor as soon as his eldest daughter arrived.
“I received a message from High Celdrya yesterday,” he began as soon as the door closed to leave them alone together.
Gilyan’s heart skipped a beat. Her father ordinarily was a pleasant fellow with a ready smile; today his lips hid within his dark beard and his eyes didn’t meet hers.
“Tell me the truth, lass. Did you and Maryn sport with one another when he came here at Beltane?”
She felt her cheeks grow warm, not with the idea of what she had done with Maryn, but with the notion of discussing it with her father.
“We are not children to mince about these issues,” she replied, mayhap a bit more curtly than she intended.
“Nay, and I do not fault you or him that. Unfortunately, Celdrya does.”
Gilyan’s heart fluttered in her chest.
“Whatever for?” she asked. “Do they think it’s not his?”
“Precisely. I quote King Perryn’s message. ‘She may be your daughter, but she is a liar. I have on good authority that no such coupling occurred, that Maryn was still mourning his wife and child and only marrying to please our father. I recognize this is a delicate matter for you, Lord Braedyn, but I must insist you put a stop to your daughter’s unfounded allegations. The Umhall has always been a trusted ally of the throne, but scandal such as this so early in my reign does not bode well for continuation of that.”
“But it is the gods’ honest truth!”
“Is it? Do I take your word or his?“ Gilyan opened her mouth to point out that she knew whom she had slept with and that there had been no others, but Braedyn cut her off. “You know what King Perryn did upon his father’s death -- burned an entire village just to put an end to the poisoners’ guild. How could you have risked writing to him without consulting me first?”
“I - I - It was my problem and my solution. I thought he’d acknowledge the child as bastard and set lands upon him. It’s what’s been done in the past.”
“By another king,” Braedyn reminded her.
An uncomfortable silence ensued. Braedyn stared at the table top before him. Gilyan stared at the rich tapestry behind him.
“What must I do now?”
“There is only one choice,” Braedyn replied with cold resignation in his voice. “Nalyna will take care of you.”
Nalyna had been Gilyan’s nurse as a babe and was still a trusted servant, for all her age now.
“I don’t mean my physical comfort, Da. I mean the legal status of my child.”
Braedyn frowned at her.
“Gilyan, there will be no child.”
She felt that admission like a blow to her white belly and instinctively put a hand over that area to protect the tiny life within.
“I can’t,” she said.
“You must. The message was short, but clear. He wants this scandal ended or he’ll have my head.”
“Surely not.”
“Gilyan, not every king is as fair-minded as Vanyn was and he clearly raised a man who will not see his will thwarted.”
“It cannot be as bad as killing my baby. I could retire to the hunting lodge for a time, not name Maryn as father.”
Braedyn stood abruptly, his face darkening behind his beard.
“You will do as you are told! Nalyna will take you there this afternoon.”
“No!” Gilyan replied firmly. “
I cannot lose this child. I will not kill it!”
Braedyn came around the table and caught her shoulder in one hand and drove his other fist into her belly. Gilyan collapsed to the Morikan carpet with an exhalation of air and stayed there. For a moment she couldn’t think, could only feel pain and fear. Her father had never hit her. As far as she had ever heard, he’d never hit any of his children. He reared back a foot and kicked her, again in the mid-section, sliding her across the carpet.
“You will end this pregnancy with medicinals or you will end it with a beating,” he hissed. Gilyan choked out a sob as answer. He grabbed her arm and dragged her to her feet. “You will go to Nalyna’s chamber now. She’s already been tasked.” Gilyan grabbed the edge of the table to keep standing when he let go and strode from the room.
My father has gone mad! What will I do?
Gilyan swallowed bile and held her stomach with her free hand, wondering if she would start bleeding soon. Pain roared through her hip as she took a step toward the door. She caught the door frame. The worst of the pain was easing. The time she reached the spiral staircase, walking upright was possible, though she feared for her baby.
Nalyna met her at the entrance to the stairs. The old woman had grey hair and wrinkles aplenty, but she was still spry and tart-tongued. She enveloped Gilyan in her arms and held her while the lass wept sorely. After a bit, she drew her away to her own small chamber in a distant half-broch.
“Take off your dresses. Let me have a look,” she ordered.
Gilyan wept while she removed her clothes all the way down to her skin. There was a bruise starting on her ribs and another on her hip. Nalyna probed her belly with practiced hands.
“You may not lose this child from the beating,” she announced. “This one, at least. There’s somewhat amiss with your da, though I’m not carrying surprise news to you, I suppose. This is a bad situation.”
“What should I do?” Gilyan asked as she pulled on her small breecs.
“Well, a noble woman would go to the darkwife with me and take care of this inconvenience.”
“No!” Gilyan clipped out.
“I thought as much. Don’t bother with the underdress, love. Where you’re going, women don’t wear such confining clothes.”
“Where I’m going? Where am I going?”
Nalyna opened a chest and brought out a set of brown dresses, which she laid across her narrow bed. They looked pretty much like what every servant girl in the dun wore.
“If you’ve got coin, I think you should try for your mother’s folks in Fyrgal.”
“My uncle might take me in,” Gilyan agreed. “I’ve a little silver and my jewelry. That should be enough for a carriage there.”
“I’ll go get it. You should rest. I’ll be a bit.”
Nalyna patted the bed, put the dresses on top of the chest and left the chamber. Gilyan gently fingered her stomach and wondered if her baby was okay. It was too early to feel it move, so there was no way of knowing.
I’ll never forgive you, Father!
Gilyan let tears fall unchecked down her cheeks. Nalyna returned almost a watch later, carrying a small bundle which she set upon the bed.
“Your father has your chamber guarded, so I couldn’t reach your jewelry or coin,” she announced. “But Lord Caedyn provided me with some silver and I’ve a sack of food.” Caedyn was the heir, Gilyan’s eldest brother. “It’s not enough to hire a carriage to Fyrgal, but he gave me information that was useful like. There’s a inn in the Bog, called the Golden Unicorn. Go there. Ask after Alyssa. It’s a sort of home for noble women who have bedded commoners.”
“But, I didn’t ….”
Nalyna thrust the brown dresses at her.
“It do not matter what you did or did not do, my sweet lass. It only matters the options you will have if you choose to keep this baby. Your father may forgive you in time and set lands upon the child. Bastards are useful like to the nobles, it seems. Caedyn says he’ll act honorably himself once he’s vyngretrix. But you must keep the child alive if you are to raise it.”
Gilyan wiped a brief scatter of tears from her eyes and resolved to dress. Her child meant more to her than it had when she stood in the tower seeking the harbor’s soothing rhythms. She would do what was necessary to protect it. Nalyna patted her shoulder and smiled.
“There are worse things than this in life, lass. The noble-born do not know the underbelly of life and I pray you will not learn it, but there are far worse things than being made to find your way in the world without a patron.”
“Aye, Nalyna,” Gilyan said because this was her nurse, the hand that had rocked the cradle, and she knew far more than Gilyan did about the world beyond the walls of her father’s dun.
Founding Year 1028
High Celdrya
Padraig spent the morning asking after westbound caravans looking for herbmen and freeswords, but he found none. He finally decided that he was looking in the wrong place and went for an idle walk through the city, wondering what the Lord wanted him to find.
As he traveled through the city, he climbed toward the dun and noted that the rot had entered the core of the city. The stately homes of the higher strata wanted white washing and some were missing window glass that had been there before. In the markets, Padraig listened to the talk and knew that the merchants were close to leaving for the countryside themselves. The constant cycle of siege and abandonment made it hard to make a living in Dun Celdrya and the merchants were starting to look toward Duns Llyr and Galornyn. The craftspeople were leaving this summer and the merchants would have to follow or they’d have nothing to sell.
About mid-afternoon he happened into an area of the city that he’d never been in before. There was a collection of round houses on a plateau about halfway up the market hill. There was naught to set it aside from any other neighborhood except mayhap that all the buildings were in a good repair and the cobbles seemed cleaner than in most of the other parts of the city. Padraig had noted the suspicion and isolation of the city folk, but somehow these folks seemed a bit friendlier. He won a smile from one man who passed by carrying a bucket and a child waved at him. Padraig rounded a neat yard and found himself in an alley between two round houses. He was about to turn round the way he’d come when he saw the apothecary’s sign hanging above one of the doors. The mortis and pestle were clearly prominent against a background of sworls and braids like the Celdryan nobles favored, but cleverly worked into the patterns were elven symbols. Curious, Padraig approached the door.
Typical of most shops in the kingdom on a fine spring day, the door stood open in welcome. Within a generous section of the round house’s main floor had been sectioned off with a wicker wall and set with shelves and barrels. Near the door to the rest of the house, a board set across two barrels served as a desk and counter for the proprietor, a tall, slender man with dark hair and strongly-colored blue eyes. He smiled pleasantly and asked if Padraig needed anything.
“A passing herbman, just looking about for the moment.”
“By all means. I’ll just continue with my accounts. Let me know if you need somewhat.” The man’s speech rang with the timbrels of the Denygal.
Padraig noted, as he pretended to look about the shop, that the proprietor was an uncommonly handsome man with the fine features that spoke of a lot of elven blood. He had long slender hands and a grace in the way that he moved of which Padraig knew that he should be interested. He sensed the proprietor watching him as well. Padraig had made sure that his elven boots with their lovely engraving were visible to him.
Padraig selected a few jars of things he was running a bit low on and he approached the counter, still a bit wary of the situation.
“I hear the tones of Denygal in your voice, herbman,” the propriety began.
“Aye. Yours as well.”
“My name is Andyr.” There seemed to be somewhat missing in the way that he said that, as if he’d grown up saying somewhat more or differently.
“Padraig.”
“Were you a herbman in Denygal?”
“My family are all fishermen,” Padraig replied.
To those who didn’t know Denygal, the reference to fishermen would mean little. There were no seas nearby, but some folks assumed there might be an inland sea or great lake for fishing. Among Believers, though, the fish stood for Jesu and Believers were called fishermen.
“I have done a fair bit of fishing myself,” Andyr said. He drew a seemingly random, curved line in the wax of the tablet he was using to tally supplies, then set the stylus he used on the table beside the tablet. “It’s what brought me to Dun Celdrya.” Padraig picked up the stylus and drew a second curved line that intersected the first – creating a simple fish.
Andyr grinned briefly.
“I’m going to close up early,” he announced. He went to close the door and turn the shingle. When he returned, he and Padraig embraced. Though they had never met, they knew each other as brothers.
“Let us break bread,” Andyr began. He ushered Padraig through the door in the wicker wall into the kitchen of his home. Occupying about a third of the main floor, it had a hearth similar to the one in the front room and a table with a wealth of three chairs as well as some benches. Andyr took a teapot and two wooden tankards from a cupboard and set them on the table.
“I’ve received a prophesy for you,” Andyr explained. “Do you want it now or after we eat?”
Padraig did not question how Andyr had known the prophesy was for him. It was a given among the elves that when one received a prophesy God would reveal the recipient.
“Now would be fine.”
Andyr continued making tea, preparing his own mind. Elven prophesies were a thing of the everyday, not grand pronouncements from the mountaintops, but that which was given over bread and tea.
“It’s too hot for a fire already and there’s little wood, so I’ll get water out of the pot in the central yard. Wait here a moment.”
Andyr went out of the back door, carrying his tea pot. A bit alarmed, Padraig looked out the window and watched him dip water from a small caldron in the backyard. Five round houses clustered around a central area, rather unusual and more so to see them cooperating like that. Beyond the fire, there were chickens and garden plots.