The Pity Stone (Book 3)

by Tim Stead

  Sara was not bound to Skal, not in the same way that Tilian was bound. She had been. The books made it clear that in accepting the position as his librarian she had owed him a duty of decency and honesty. Her conduct had become a reflection on her lord’s conduct. His gift of blood had elevated her to a degree where that was no longer so certain. Although she owed her blood to him as much as she had owed him her employment, it was quite different. Blood could not be withdrawn, save by judgement of the king. Lord Skal could not disown her. Indeed, as far as she could tell he was honour bound to support her in reasonable comfort for the rest of her life.

  Tilian was not so fortunate. His duty to his lord was much clearer. His will, his desire, was secondary to his lord’s will. His duty was absolute. If he had believed there was even a possibility that Skal intended to take Sara as a mistress he could not touch her, and would risk losing everything by doing so.

  So she had led him on in a most unfair manner. She wanted to apologise. She wanted him to see that she understood.

  Yet she still felt the same about him. She missed him. His presence, even miserable as he had been under such unfair pressure, had been a pleasure. Tilian was noble. His blood might be as common as ditch water, but he was filled with a natural nobility, a kindness, an understanding of right and wrong that both frustrated and excited her. She had never known another man like that. Not even Lord Skal.

  So now she must wait longer to apologise.

  She picked up her book, but she could not lose herself in the words again. It would no longer cast its spell. After a futile half hour she left the book open on the table and went for a walk to sit by the pond and feed scraps of bread to the ducks that lived there. It was cold and the sky threatened snow, but she sat there for an hour.

  * * * *

  Hearing Tilian’s story did not put her mind at ease. Brodan had been a delightful dinner companion. His tales had been told with gusto and a talent for the dramatic that quite surprised her. He was honest, too, and didn’t spare her the details. She heard the tale of the contest in the woods outside Bas Erinor, of Tilian’s promotion to captain by no lesser being than Wolf Narak, of Colonel Arbak’s rescue in the forests of the north, of their march through the White Road, leaving the rest of their army camped behind the temporary wall. She listened with bated breath as Brodan recounted Tilian’s own tale, the ambush of a Seth Yarra patrol, the lighting of the fires.

  It was not a tale of great heroism, but rather a story of a clever but cruel plan well executed. Fifty thousand men burned to death in the forest, the trees burned and the sacred forest desecrated. What touched Sara was not the heroism, but the loneliness, the image of each pair of men splitting off the main body as it dwindled southwards, sitting alone in the depths of the ancient forest, hiding from the enemy until the time came to do their duty. She thought the afterwards must be better than the time itself – something she had observed was true of so much of life.

  Her son, Saul, was walking now, or at least staggering around precariously on two feet. He put his hands into everything, and followed her around whenever she permitted it. Luckily he could not yet reach most of the table tops in Latter Fetch, but that time was not far off.

  Now she was settling back into her work, such as it was. She had been named a librarian, but Sara now thought of herself as a scholar. To begin with she had read the books in the library with pleasure, and for pleasure. Now she read them with intent. She sought out snippets of information. She studied subjects and looked for the truth.

  She had begun corresponding with scholars in Golt. To begin with she had merely replied to them, copying pieces of text into her letters, answering their questions, mostly about the Pelion Codex. But that had changed. Now she leavened her letters with opinion, ventured to suggest lines of enquiry. Manoc and Nesser had apparently spoken well of her, for she was never rebuked, and from time to time the scholars sought her opinion on matters.

  So it was not all vanity, her thinking that she was a scholar.

  The running of the great house was not as daunting as it had seemed. She put this down to the servants’ relief at being freed from the tyranny of Elejine, and to the fact that she had killed him. They were a little bit afraid of her still, and jumped to do whatever she desired. They seemed to know their business well enough.

  She checked on them from time to time, and if she found something that seemed wrong to her a frown was usually enough to put it right. Apart from that she left them to do their work and concentrated on scholarship and Saul. It was a happy, if lonely existence. There were times when she wished Nesser and Manoc were still here, or Tilian, or even Lord Skal.

  The serenity of her life was shattered by Brodan.

  She was writing a reply to a letter from Golt – someone wanted to know the wording of a description of Hellaree (Helari in the codex), and she was diligently copying it out. She knew that the place was mentioned many times in the book, but only three times in enough detail to be of use.

  Brodan knocked on the door and entered before she could invite him in. He was frowning, and he looked flushed – a sign of considerable agitation for the forester. He was usually the calmest of men.

  “My Lady, there is terrible news.”

  Her thought jumped to Tilian again. He’s going to tell me Tilian has been killed, she thought.

  “What is it, Brodan?” she asked.

  “Seth Yarra have landed men in the kingdom, there are several groups, and they may come here.”

  “Here? What would they want here?” she asked.

  “To kill,” Brodan said. “To burn and destroy. They did it before, My Lady, and were stopped at Henfray. There’s no reasoning with them, no cause they need.”

  “You had this from a messenger?”

  “Aye, My Lady. A man rode this way from Bas Erinor to spread the news.”

  Then Tilian would know, for Tilian was also in Bas Erinor, and Tilian would come back to Latter Fetch, knowing that there was danger.

  “What should we do, Brodan?” she asked. Brodan was a soldier, after all, and an officer. This was his sphere.

  “We must build defences,” he said. “If they come in numbers we cannot defend the house, but we may make them regret they ever found this place.”

  The house? Sara did not care about the house, but the books were housed within it, and she must find a way to protect them. The idea of the house burning shocked her. But where could they hide so many books?

  “Thank you, Brodan. I will leave you to take whatever measures you see fit.”

  She watched him go and then sat for a while among the books, the wood panelled walls, the ancient smell. If the room burned at least Elejine’s blood stain would be expunged. But it would not serve to think that way. She was librarian here. The books were in her charge, and she must do what she could to protect them.

  She left the library and went to the kitchens. First she had to find a place to hide the books, and then a way to protect them. There were many things apart from fire that could damage a book, there was dirt, damp, insects of a dozen kinds. She would have to think of everything.

  Sixteen – Tilian Rides South

  Tilian had collected the men’s pay on his second day in Bas Erinor, but he had not set out for Latter Fetch at once. He had rented a room in the Seventh Friend – he’d been lucky to get one – and spent some time getting used to the city again.

  It was a different city from the one he had left. The city had not changed. Oh, there were fewer people on the streets, and a tension in the air. Prices were a little higher, but it was not Bas Erinor that had changed. It was Tilian himself.

  He had left the city a warehouseman, a poor private volunteer in the Seventh Friend. He had shared a rough pallet in the warehouse, scraped by on the few coins he was paid every week. A couple of ales on a Friday night would have been an extravagance. Not that he didn’t have a couple of ales at week’s end, but it always left him short towards the end of the next week. You had to have som
e joy in your life, even if it was dependent on ale.

  Now he could afford to drink until he dropped. He was a knight, a captain. He carried a long sword and rode a horse, and people knew his name. The city had changed indeed. He walked on different streets now. He walked in places he would not have dared to walk a year ago. Men who would have passed him without a glance, who would not have deigned to speak to him now sought him out to shake his hand.

  In fact he didn’t need to buy a drink. They were bought for him more often than he cared to drink them. Indeed, it reached the point where he longed for the peace of Latter Fetch, and so it was time to go.

  He made the decision one dull afternoon. He’d gone to watch the new men train, trying to remember what it had been like, but his impressions were confused. It had been such a turbulent year.

  “Captain Henn?”

  He looked up. It was a major, a man he didn’t know.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “We’ve been looking for you everywhere,” the major said, a quantum of rebuke in his voice. “The Duke wants to speak with you. Will you come with me?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  Tilian followed the major back through the city, and they climbed the divine stair together. The major said nothing else, and Tilian didn’t ask, so they walked in silence until they reached the castle gate.

  The duty officer at the gate was more welcoming.

  “Sir Tilian,” he said. “The Duke is waiting.” The major was dismissed and the gate officer escorted him through the castle.

  “What’s it about?” he asked.

  “Seth Yarra,” the officer said. “They’ve made new landings, here in Avilian, but also in Berash and Afael. The army’s coming south, but we need to act as quickly as we can.”

  Tilian was shocked. Like everyone else he’d expected the war to resume in the spring. It was a radical departure for Seth Yarra to attack this way. They were creatures of habit, and this was something new. He wondered where his men were.

  “Where have they landed?” he asked.

  “East and west of here,” the officer said. Some are marching down the coast towards Golt, and others are heading inland. The Eagle is keeping an eye on them for us, but they seem to be moving without clear purpose. We can’t guess what they’re up to yet.”

  The gate officer seemed unusually well informed, but Tilian didn’t press the matter. They came to the duke’s audience ante-chamber, but he was ushered straight through, and found the duke in conference with several senior officers and a big man with a booming voice who he assumed to be Jidian, the Eagle.

  The duke knew him, of course, and greeted him warmly, introducing him with all his titles and battles to the others. Henfray, Fal Verdan, the Great Forest – it sounded like another man, an important man.

  “We need you to do something, Sir Tilian,” he said. He pointed to the map. “There is a force here that has split. Three hundred are heading north. They will meet the army in due course, and they will be settled there, but this other group is heading east towards us.” He pointed to a small town, Berrit Bay. Tilian knew nothing about the place. “Fifteen thousand Avilians live there, Captain. There’s no wall and no defences. It’s a fishing town. They’ll be wiped out of someone doesn’t stop the Seth Yarra.”

  Tilian didn’t know what to say. Were they asking him to do this? He’d commanded fifty men, but they’d been foresters, and some of them had been friends. He decided to be bold.

  “How many men will you give me, my lord?”

  The duke smiled, and one of the others remarked that he was keen.

  “You misunderstand, Sir Tilian,” the duke said. “We want you to take your men and delay them for as long as possible. We’ll pull together what we can of the men training here and send them after you. We want you to leave today.”

  “My Lord, most of my men – the best of them – are at Latter Fetch. The rest are scattered around the city.”

  “We are aware of this. The word has gone out. Those who can will be assembled on the training ground just after midday. You’ll have to make do with them.”

  It was worse than Tilian had imagined, worse than he could have imagined. The city men had come a long way, but a man like Brodan was worth ten of them, and he wouldn’t have all of them. What could he do with twenty men against three hundred? He looked at the map. There was no indication of forest on the coast either side of Berrit Bay. With no cover his men were just foot soldiers, outnumbered fifteen to one.

  The expression on his face must have been plain, for the duke asked him to step out into the ante-chamber with him. When they were alone he did not speak at once, but instead poured two cups of wine and offered one to Tilian. Tilian accepted it.

  “I’m asking the impossible,” the duke said.

  “My lord, I’m willing enough, but there’s no cover. I trained them to fight with stealth, to hide, to strike and not be seen.”

  “I’m not asking you to sacrifice your men, Captain. Do what you can. Cain spoke highly of you. I trust that. Go to Berrit Bay. Study the land. Find a way. All I ask is that you go there and see what can be done.”

  “I can do that, my lord, and I can promise to do my best, but I can’t see what that might be, not looking at a map.”

  “I will send Cain after you with as many men as we can spare. I have to send someone else towards Golt.” Tilian nodded. He felt that he had failed before he had begun, but the duke smiled at him and put a hand on his shoulder. “You will see a way,” he said.

  That was it. He left the castle feeling cursed. He should have gone to Latter Fetch the previous day, and then he would not have this burden. He wandered down the divine stair trying to bring the map back to mind. It was clear enough, the image of that coast. The high plateau that lay at the back of Bas Erinor continued down the coast as far as Berrit Bay and further. In places it was the coast itself, a cliff gnawed at by the hungry sea, and elsewhere it lay back from the shore, allowing a small, coastal plain to exist. Berrit Bay was such a place.

  The town lat at the end of a road, and that road crossed the small plain behind it and climbed the scarp, then dividing into roads heading east, west and north. There was a coast road, too, a track that allowed the passage of horses, carts, oxen, and rose and fell with the lie of the land. Most of that land, high and low, was grazed, treeless, as it was around Bas Erinor, and there was nothing to hide his foresters. They would be out in the open and plain to see. It was a death sentence.

  He went back to his room in The Seventh Friend and packed his few belongings. There wasn’t much to pack – a couple of spare shirts, spare boots, a dagger that he’d picked up somewhere, a heavy cloak that he rarely wore, even in winter. Most of the rest was with his horse in the stables. He ate a light midday seated by the fire in the main room. It would probably be his last easy hour for many days, even weeks, and he made the most of it, taking a midday ale and warming his feet by the flames until they grew too hot to bear.

  He could desert, he supposed, but that would mean losing everything. He would have to go back to being poor and worthless, and he would leave the men in someone else’s hands. That didn’t appeal. He dismissed the thought almost as soon as it occurred, but other unworthy thoughts pushed there way in. He could lead his men away from Seth Yarra, follow them, watch them, do nothing.

  But he thought of Berrit Bay. He knew nothing about it, but already it had a character in his mind. He imagined small houses clustered by the water, a mole or pier, probably earth or rock, thrown out into the sea to keep the worst of the west wind off the boats, and the boats themselves, brightly painted, proud possessions of the fishermen of the bay. Each morning they would ride the waves out to sea, full of hope and energy, and each evening they would return. There would be a night market, fish merchants from Bas Erinor and other large towns buying what could be shipped that night, and the rest would be mashed, salted and dried in the sun.

  Tilian didn’t know Berrit Bay, but he knew other places
just like it. He couldn’t imagine allowing the town to die if he could prevent it.

  He left the inn and saddled his horse, riding slowly out to the training grounds, wondering how many of his men had been found, how many he would have to do his impossible job.

  They were waiting for him. Every single one was there. They carried armour, swords, bows, each mounted, each looking like the professional soldier he was. Tilian was impressed. He was moved to see the trust and eagerness in their faces.

  They saluted him.

  “We’re ready, Captain.” It was Jackan, the man who’d known him before the war when he was a warehouseman, a trainee warehouseman. Jackan wore two stripes now, a rank mark and a veteran’s stripe. Tilian looked around the other men. There was not one man of higher rank here, and all had the same stripes. Brodan and the sergeants he’d chosen had all been from Latter Fetch.