She considered whether that might actually be preferable to her present life. Is it always better to be alive, no matter the circumstances? So many of her books had put the heroine through the most dreadful ordeals, but of course she always triumphed in the end and everything worked out happily, and that was just not possible for her. She was trapped in her tower like the daughters of the Petty Kings, but she wasn’t a princess, she was a whore. Real life was a great deal more bitter than works of the imagination.
~~~
For a week she was alone, sleeping dreamlessly in the big comfortable bed, but then he came back, as she knew he would. The women had warned her that he was always difficult after a battle, but she found him difficult all the time so she didn’t know what else to expect.
She went down to the compound to watch him arrive with all his Captains. She wasn’t sure whether he expected that or not, but she had often gone to meet Hurst and Jonnor when they returned from the Skirmishes, so it seemed fitting. After a brief nod in her direction, he disappeared, no doubt to discuss everything that had happened with his Captains.
But when he came upstairs for the stillness, she saw the change in him. Instead of lying at ease on the bed, he moved about restlessly, from room to room, from chair to window to bed and then to a different chair. And he talked – that was different too. Not about the battle, but strange things, as if his mind were disconnected somehow and left to hop about like a rabbit.
“I suppose you’re sorry I’m back.” His voice was flat, lifeless. “You’ve had a nice restful time without me, no doubt.” What was she supposed to say to that? “That gown is very plain. Have you nothing prettier? I’d like to see you in something stylish.”
“I like plain garments,” she said, “but I’ll see what else there is.”
“Has any fresh meat come from Supplies yet?”
“I don’t know… we’ve had hare and moundrat.”
“There was rain again yesterday. Heavy at first, but it cleared.”
She had no idea how to talk to him. She had already offered him food and drink, but he wanted nothing, it seemed. She picked up her sewing and set to her work, leaving him to prowl about the room.
“Your hair looks better.”
“Thank you.”
Then, unexpectedly, he punched the wall. “Fuck it, I hate this war.”
“Did it go badly then? The battle?”
“Badly? No, actually. It went well…” And he laughed, an odd mirthless sound, not quite sane, somehow, as if he were on the verge of hysteria.
“It must be a dreadful business…” she said tentatively.
He rounded on her at once, crossing the room to lean over her. “And what would you know about it, you with your dainty Karning ways and your protected life?” he hissed, his face inches from hers, so that she leaned away in alarm. “What can you possibly know of blood and death and men screaming and dying in agony?”
Before she could reply, he had veered away again, standing by the window gazing out across the plain. After a moment, in a flat voice, he said, “There’s a huge herd of kishorn to the south. They’re gathering for the rut already.”
She was beginning to be frightened by his strange mood. He was not an easy man, as a rule, but at least he was usually calm, controlled – that was it, he seemed out of control. Jonnor used to get fidgety and angry sometimes after a skirmish went wrong, but Tella had known how to manage him, at least in the early years she had. With sex, usually, Mia recalled. Tella had laughed about it. “Men are so simple,” she had said, “so easy to distract.”
Mia put down her sewing and walked across to the window. “Do you want to go to bed?”
He spun round to face her. “Bed? No, why…? Oh, you mean…?” Another mirthless laugh. “You think sex will help, that I’ll instantly forget everything I’ve seen, the men who’ve died?”
“My sister said that sex makes everything seem better.”
“You sister must be a whore, then, to see only the smile of the moment on a man’s face and not the burdens he still carries.”
In desperation, she dropped to her knees and began to unfasten his trousers. She half expected him to push her away, to stomp off, to shout at her, but he didn’t. He told her to stop, several times, but he stood still and let her unbutton him. He was already erect, she found, and when she took him in her mouth he gave a long “Oh!” of surprise, and then a shuddering groan, and after that there were no more protests. He was noisy this time, she found, gasping and moaning, his hands gripping her hair, but he didn’t move, he simply stood while she worked on him.
But then he suddenly said, “No, no! Stop, stop! Wait, stop…” He was panting heavily.
When she pulled away from him he hauled her roughly to her feet, fumbling urgently with her gown. She held it up for him, and then he was pushing into her, thrusting hard and crying out, head thrown back. It was over very quickly. They stood wordlessly together for a long time, his hands still on her buttocks, his head sideways against hers so that his cheek rested on her hair.
Afterwards, he lay on the bed, as he usually did during the stillness. She took her sewing through, and sat on her box under the window. He lay stretched out, his fingers laced across his chest. His eyes were closed and she began to think he was asleep, but after a long time, he said, “That thing that you did – what do you call it?”
“I don’t know a name for it. Does it matter?”
“It’s just that if ever you should say to me – would you like me to do that – I would be able to say yes.”
She chuckled, thinking that it was perhaps the nearest he’d ever come to making a joke. “You enjoyed it, then?”
He opened his eyes, and something approaching a smile flitted across his face. “Yes. I enjoyed it. No one’s ever done that to me before.”
“Really?”
“Women here – they don’t do it. Tonguing, the men call it, but it’s not allowed. They’re not allowed to ask for it, that is. They do it to each other, sometimes, but the women don’t. Where did you learn it?”
“One of my husbands taught me.”
“Well, it’s good that you’re getting to enjoy your work here.”
“Enjoy it?”
“Well, why else do it? I didn’t ask for it, you wanted to.”
She put her sewing down on her lap and stared at him. “I didn’t want to, but you were frightening me and I thought it would help you calm down.”
He rolled onto one elbow, and glared at her. “You’re frightened of me?”
“A little, yes.” Her heart was thumping now, but it did no good to lie to him.
“You did that out of fear? You were so frightened of me that you did something you disliked and I hadn’t asked for, and hadn’t even thought about?”
“I don’t dislike that, I mean, it’s not the sex I dislike, I’m used to that, it’s just…”
“Just me, I suppose? Am I so dreadful to be with?”
“No! You’re better than the alternatives…”
“Better than Bulraney, you mean, which isn’t saying much.” He was angry now, she could see that. He stood up and loomed over her. “You’re an ungrateful woman, you know that?”
For a moment she was too astonished to speak, but then suddenly she was fired by anger. She tossed her sewing aside and stood up too, glaring up at him, too angry to be intimidated.
“I’m supposed to be grateful, am I? Grateful for what? For losing a husband I loved, my family, my place in the world? For being dragged here for no reason I can discern? For losing my baby, any possibility of a baby? For being owned – owned – by a man who’s a stranger to me, who can trade me like a horse, and just as indifferently? Grateful for being alive, I suppose, because I don’t see any other reason for it. It’s not the sex I mind, it’s being expected to provide it for a man I barely know. I still have a husband living, he’s still there in his Karning, grieving for me, and I’m here grieving for him. And I have another husband who might have c
ome through the tunnel. I had three Companions with me, but I’m not allowed to see them, I’m not even allowed that small comfort. Instead I’m surrounded by strangers, and my only value is in providing sex whenever required. Do you wonder I’m ungrateful? And everyone here must have gone through something similar, you must have done too, can’t you at least try to understand? Maybe in ten years or even five, when the memories have faded, I will know you well enough and like you well enough to be with you from choice. But it’s too soon. It’s far too soon.”
She saw some strong emotion cross his face as she spoke, but she couldn’t read it. Was he angry? No, it was something else, but she couldn’t tell what. Shock, perhaps. Dismay, maybe. But then the mask returned and he left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.
She couldn’t breathe. Where had all that come from? So much rage, and it wasn’t really his fault, he was caught up in this against his will, just as she was. He had his own grief, his own loneliness.
She sat down again suddenly, for she was shaking and her legs had no strength in them. Misery washed over her like a rainstorm, and she shed a few tears. Why had the Gods sent her to this desperate place? Why couldn’t they have left her with Hurst and her baby, to live out her days in quiet happiness? Hurst, who had loved her for so long, yet she’d never appreciated him, never loved him until now. What had she done to deserve this punishment?
No point thinking about the past. This was the life she had to deal with now, however difficult. She needed to cope with the Warlord as best she could, to satisfy his whims, keep him content. That was stupid, raging at him that way.
Now she would be sent back to Bulraney, she supposed. Would that be worse? At least Bulraney, for all his crudeness, would be simpler to deal with. He would tell her straightforwardly what he wanted, and she would be required to do it. There would be no skirting round the issues, and he wouldn’t care at all whether she was frightened of him or if she enjoyed what she had to do. It would be unpleasant, of course, but he wouldn’t expect anything from her but the obvious. The Warlord was just too complicated; she had no idea how to keep him happy.
~~~
That night there was a feast, with a dozen or more different meats roasted on spits, and strange vegetables and fruits. The ale flowed freely for once and there was wine, too, for the select few, although Mia thought it a sour kind of wine, as if it had been kept too long. Dethin said nothing to her unrelated to the food and drink, in fact he said very little altogether, but sometimes she caught him watching her, his face expressionless and blank. Everyone else got louder and drunker and merrier, while he sat stony-faced. Eventually he said, “I’m going to bed now, but there’s no need for you to leave. Stay and enjoy yourself.”
After he had gone, there was music and singing and even dancing, but no one tried to get Mia involved. They tiptoed round her as if she was fenced off from the rest of them. Occasionally, when some new delicacy emerged from the kitchen, it would be offered to her first, but otherwise she was left alone and as soon as she decently could, she left. He was asleep when she reached the bedroom, or at least he was lying, eyes closed, as if asleep, and didn’t stir as she undressed and got into bed.
For three days after that she waited to be told that she was being sent away, back to Bulraney or perhaps, if she were lucky, to another Warlord or Commander. That was the best she could hope for. He was unfailingly polite to her, in his dour way, when he had to speak to her, but that was seldom, and he didn’t touch her, even in bed. Each night, he simply undressed and lay down, turning away from her, and slept.
But then one night she woke to find him gone from the bed. She wasn’t sure what had woken her, perhaps a noise or simply the fact that he was not there, but she was fully awake and aware of something wrong, although she couldn’t say what. The moon was up, and although it was past full, there was still enough light to see him, sitting hunched up on the box by the window, his arms around his knees, head down, wrapped in his cloak.
She got up and put her own cloak around her, to cover her nakedness, and went across to him.
“Are you all right? Do you need anything? Something to drink?”
He shook his head, not looking at her.
“What is it? Is something wrong?”
He lifted his head then, but he still didn’t look her in the eye. “I don’t know what to do.” There was something, some tone in his voice, that she’d never heard before. “I can’t give you back the life you’ve lost. I can’t give you a baby. I can’t give you the happiness and freedom you crave. But the one thing I can do, the one thing that’s within my power, is not to force you into sex against your will. And it’s driving me insane. I don’t think I can lie with you every night and not touch you.”
Mia was astonished. “I thought you would send me back to Bulraney and find yourself someone more – compliant.”
“I’ll never do that!” he said fiercely, turning to her, and she was surprised at the anger in his eyes. “Bulraney’s an animal, you deserve better than that. But if I can’t send you away, and I can’t go away myself…”
“I could sleep on the floor again…” she began hesitantly. “Would that help?”
“I don’t know,” he said miserably. “I don’t know.”
She was silent for a moment. He had turned away from her again, his chin resting on his knees. She was perplexed by him, for had he not forced her to sleep with him? Yet now he was drawing back from that. He seemed to be offering her a choice, and yet she knew there was really no choice at all. How complicated he was!
“Dethin,” she began, “when you first came here, you must have felt angry about it. Resentful, maybe, or rebellious. You were forced to fight, whether you wanted to or not. But you accepted that, didn’t you?”
He looked sideways at her for a moment, then he nodded once.
“Well, I’ve accepted what I have to do, too. We’ve both been torn away from the safe, familiar world and brought here unwillingly, but we’ve both come to terms with our roles here. Yours is to wage war, and mine is to share your bed. I may rant about it sometimes, but I won’t fight it.”
“But you’re afraid of me.”
“Only now and then, because I don’t understand your moods yet. But you’ve never hurt me, or mistreated me in any way.” Not like Bulraney and his henchmen, with their crudeness. And not like Jonnor – it pained her to admit it, but he hadn’t behaved well towards her. And that led her to Hurst, and a fresh burst of grief – Hurst, who was more than just a husband to her. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to speak calmly. “I know you don’t like to talk about yourself,” she went on, “but it would be easier if I knew you better. Maybe in time we can even be friends?”
“Friends?” He seemed bewildered by the very idea.
“Yes – like a husband and wife. Talking to each other. Sharing a life, not just a bed.”
He was silent for so long that she began to wonder if she should creep back to bed and leave him to his solitary brooding. But then he sat more upright, and in one motion let his knees fall so that he was sitting cross-legged.
“I was sixteen,” he said, staring straight ahead, almost as if he were talking to himself. “I was very full of myself then, made a Higher when no one expected it of me, and a year of skirmishing under my belt. When I went to the Ring for my first winter quiet as an adult, I was up for any sort of mischief. There were five or six of us, showing off, trying to outdo each other. One of us – it wasn’t even me, I don’t think – had the idea of sneaking into one of the Women’s Houses. There was a woman there – a year or two older than me – who promised me a kiss if I could do it. Well, it was a challenge, and at that age – you don’t think much. So we told her when, and we climbed over the wall, and went through the gardens, and there she was. And I got my kiss. But she must have told someone, because suddenly the place was full of guards. We ran and the others got away, I think, but I was caught.”
His had kept his voice even, but sudd
enly it cracked very slightly. In the moon’s dull glow, she saw the emotion on his face as he struggled to compose himself. He took a deep breath.
“I don’t remember everything they did to me. Some foul drink that made me gibber uncontrollably. A kind of smoke in the room – I was sick, over and over. They forced me to eat, and it just came straight back up. Waking me up whenever I fell asleep. And the flogging – I remember that. Well, most of it. The next thing I knew, I was in the tunnel. And that was it.”
“For a kiss?” she said, appalled.
“Yes – the only one I’ve ever had. But at least I know what I did, unlike you,” he said gently, turning to look at her. “I knew it was wrong. I just – didn’t expect such a permanent punishment.”
“Dethin – that’s terrible!”
“Crannor,” he said, and there was the faintest hint of a smile. “My name is Crannor.”
She smiled back at him, she couldn’t help it. He was so different like this, so human and vulnerable. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would be inscrutable again, or angry, and all her fear of him would return in full, but tonight he was just a man who needed comforting. On impulse she leaned forward and kissed him full on the mouth. He froze, his lips rigid under hers, but gradually he relaxed and let her kiss him. When she pulled away, he looked stunned.
“Crannor – let’s go to bed.”
32: Challenge (Hurst)
The battle was over, the dead and injured collected and the warriors were setting out for home before the sun had even reached its zenith. Hurst had seen one or two battles drag on until all light was gone, and skirmishes could sometimes last for days, so the quick finish was a good result. Again the lack of organisation was evident, for each Captain simply gathered up his own men and set out for home when he wished, making his way by the shortest route.
Ainsley’s group was in high spirits. They had not lost a single man, had only two relatively minor injuries and had acquired eight new horses. They headed east with half the group mounted, singing as they went, with the fort still smoking behind them. Bulraney had disappeared, but Hurst saw the Warlord still riding tirelessly up and down, helping out where needed. He was encouraging others to find riderless horses, Hurst saw, something not usually possible after a battle but most of the Karningers were currently preoccupied with the fires.
The Plains of Kallanash Page 32