Grimenna

by N. K. Blazevic

  Varloga’s head was presented to everyone. It sat impaled on a pike in the middle of the hall for all to admire. Yulin approached the high table and bowed low to his Lord. He wore a fine red cloak, and it was fastened over his chest by his silver star-shaped brooch of a Master Warden.

  “My Great Lord of Grimenna, there are Wildermen here today whom are due for their pardons.”

  He straightened and looked to Pratermora, who raised his hand. “Bring them forth,Yulin. Let me see who it is who has come to claim this most worthy pardon.”

  Paiva watched as the crowd parted under Yulin’s gaze towards the great hearth before which the dirty, ragged ensemble of the Far Reach gang sat. Renn rose from his seat and stepped forward as whispering voices floated about him. He lifted his head towards his father and stood resolute and still. Paiva’s heart beat madly in her chest as she gazed at him.

  “Come forward, Wilderman, like the Wildermen of old before you, so you may ask for your pardon,” the Lord Pratermora said with a stern face. Paiva felt her heart leap into her throat as Renn stepped forward again. She did not know if Pratermora carried any residual resentment towards Renn. His voice was hard and empty, as though there was no joy for the return of a lost son.

  She looked to Yulin who stood calm with a contented gleam in his eyes. He did not clasp his hands nervously behind his back.

  “Come forward, boy, tell me your name,” Pratermora commanded.

  “They call me Black Renn,” he said, his voice muted. Paiva did not take her eyes from him.

  “And the name you wish restored to you?” the Lord asked slowly, his voice softening.

  “Rennik … Pratermora,” Renn said and held his father’s gaze.

  The room was hushed as Pratermora stared at him. His face was impassive, stern as stone. He reached for a silk napkin and wetted it in a bowl of water, then rose from his seat and came to stand before Renn. His blue eyes bore into Renn’s silver ones, and his face became awash with sadness. Gently he lifted the wetted silk and wiped the dirt from Renn’s face.

  Renn closed his eyes against his father’s touch, and Paiva saw him purse his lips as if to keep them from trembling. When he was done the Lord let the silk drop to the ground, and for a long moment he stared at the revelation before him.

  “Rennik Pratermora,” the Lord said softly, “I cannot grant you a pardon.”

  Paiva saw the surprise that started on Renn’s face as his eyes flew open, his lips breaking apart as if he were about to protest. But then he shut his mouth and dropped his head, his eyes burning into the floor at his father’s feet.

  “I cannot grant you a Pardon until I am Pardoned first,” the Lord said with emotion delved deep from his heart. “I ask you to forgive me, as a man and as your father. I have wronged you, and blamed you undeservingly. For that I am sorry, so gravely sorry. I can hardly find the strength to even ask for your pardon. I am so ashamed of myself to have fallen under the powers of … my own Dark Humors.” Then he reached out and laid a hand on Renn’s shoulders. Paiva saw a silver tear glimmer and fall through the air. Renn lifted his head to his father and smiled, his eyes liquid with silvery tears.

  “Of course I forgive you,” Renn whispered. Pratermora’s mouth trembled, his eyes shining. He lifted his hand and clasped Renn’s face.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, and bent his forehead to Renn’s. When he drew away, his eyes were aglow with happiness.

  “Yulin,” he barked. “Cast the brand in the fire.” The crowd murmured in excitement as Yulin shoved the long metal rod into the heart of coals. He returned with it when the end glowed hot and red, handing it to his Lord with a graceful flourish. Pratermora seized it and laid out his other hand in which Renn put his. He looked deep into his son’s eyes and nodded his head.

  “You are pardoned, for you have proved your valor and firmness in the dark of the woods. Welcome back, my most deserving son, Rennik Pratermora.”

  The crowd cheered as the brand sizzled into the meat of Renn’s hand. He hardly flinched, and when the hot iron was drawn away, he stared at his burning mark of freedom and forgiveness. Viviel, Paiva, and Kess all watched proudly from their seats and raised their wine in a toast.

  “To Rennik Pratermora, bravest man in all Grimenna,” Yulin cried. Every last person in the room found a cup and raised it, spilling wine and ale down their arms as they cheered. Paiva raised her cup and thumped her eating knife atop the table, yelling as loud as she could in cheer. Renn cowered under the assault of noise, but his eyes glowed with happiness and his lips parted in a joyous smile. Pratermora drew him into his arms and clutched him to his heart.

  “I remember you,” he whispered to his son. “And I love you. As you are, no more or less.”

  Then Pratermora drew him to the high table where he was given a seat beside his father and served a platter of the choicest meats and breads. He sat there in his ragged, dirty attire looking like a wild crow beside an elegant swan. The Lord turned his attentions to other Wildermen then, each one coming forth to be thanked and have a pardoning brand scorched into their palms.

  “Bear Jorn,” Yulin called, and Jorn arose from the back of the hall to limp forward on his stooped crutch. He opened his palm to the warden and as the brand sizzled into his hand tears flowed from his eyes.

  “You are pardoned,” Yulin smiled, and clapped him firmly on the shoulder.

  No sooner had his ledger been sealed and he had turned around to face the hall then he stopped short, frozen in his tracks. Paiva rose out of her seat to see who he stared at and found a group of people who had come forward from the crowd. There was a young girl with dark hair, clinging to a woman’s arm who stared at Jorn like she was looking at a ghost. Behind her stood two young men, each one with tears glistening in their eyes.

  “Sarsha,” Jorn breathed, his face crumpling as he stared back at the woman. Slowly she smiled and tears poured down her cheeks. The young girl was the first to step forward, her face pensive as she took in the Wilderman before her.

  “Father?” she asked.

  “Yes, love,” he replied hoarsely and then fell to his knee and opened his arms wide to her as she ran to him and threw her arms about his neck. It brought tears to Paiva’s eyes to see Jorn’s face break with such tenderness and love.

  “You’ve come back,” his wife wept and went to touch at his face and kiss his cheeks.

  “Sarsha,” Jorn choked. His two sons came forward as well. The crowd cheered for them and raised their goblets as Jorn leaned on one of his son’s strong shoulders and was helped back to the fire.

  When it was over and every man was accounted for, his ledger signed and sealed, and his name restored, the feast began.

  Voices clouded the air. Minstrels struck up their songs and sang the brave young Lord’s tale. Renn seemed to shrink back in his chair, overwhelmed by the magnitude of people gladly opening their hearts and pinning their newfound hope on him. His eyes wheeled around the room with a mild look of panic, until in the midst of the crowd they landed on Paiva. She returned his gaze and offered him a warm smile, and only then did he seem to relax and let go his breath.

  The Lord raised his goblet of wine to the crowd and in a deep, reverent voice said, “Let us give thanks, to the Spirits of Old who have guided us. Let us give thanks to the forest Grimenna, our mother and provider.”

  Paiva saw her father’s eyes shine as people raised their voices in thanks and in prayer. Viviel smiled contentedly and her mother reached out to grasp his hand.

  “Let us give thanks,” said Kess.

  Soon the air became hot and stuffy with smoke and the mingling of bodies. In the midst of it all, Paiva saw Renn rise and slink away from the hall. He wandered away from the crowd, disappearing up into the tower.

  Pratermora watched him go, then he lowered his drink and rose to follow.

  — «» —

  Renn ski
rted down the tall corridors, stopping when his shape reflected back at him in a window. He stepped closer, staring at the strange face that revealed itself to him. He felt the hairs rise on the nape of his neck as he studied himself, then reached up and touched the glass as if to somehow change or erase the mirrored image.

  How he had changed. The last time he had stopped to look at himself he had been but a boy. No wonder his father had refused to recognize him. His face had filled in with hard lines and coldness, a face he did not want to belong to him. He turned hurriedly away from the revelation and climbed the tower, stopping to look out over the ramparts from which his brother had fallen all those long years before.

  He stared down to the ground where visions of Odrik’s death assailed him. He turned away with an acid taste in his mouth and continued upwards to the top of the tower where he stopped at the charred ruins of the trophy room. Slowly he stepped inside and found the roof to be completely burned away, some of the walls crumbled and split. A wind blew through and ruffled his hair, scattering ashes out over the sweep of land below. There was no trace of any Folka heads. They were burnt and turned to dust.

  “Rennik?” a voice called out behind him. He gave a start and turned around in surprise.

  “Father.” His voice was raw, the word unfamiliar on his tongue.

  “What is wrong?” he asked, coming to stand next to him and stare out over the sweep of land below.

  “I can’t stay here.” Renn bent to scoop up a handful of ash. He rubbed it between his fingers thoughtfully and then opened his palm to the wind and let the ash blow away, hoping it would take with it his feeling of overwhelming panic. He stared at his hand, empty but for the swelling brand. He closed his fingers over it, and drew his hand away.

  “I understand,” Pratermora said. Renn smiled grimly, his eyes shining silver with the setting sun.

  “Seven years I lived in the woods and was hated by all those people down there. Seven years I carried blame and a heart filled with bitter memories,” Renn said.

  “You are loved again,” Pratermora confirmed.

  “Just like that?” he asked. “You do not even know who I am. I am not the boy you knew.”

  “Stay with me, let me discover who you are,” his father breathed. “I can’t face this world alone. I have become old and feeble. I need you to guide me.”

  “That was Odrik’s place,” Renn said, flinching as he said the name aloud. Quickly he looked to his father to ascertain he had not upset him. “I am still a Wilderman in my heart. The Forest became my home. I did not want a pardon to come back here. I only wanted you to stop hating me.”

  “Go then,” Pratermora said and lifted his hand to his son’s shoulder. “I release you. Go find what it is you need to make you happy. I will wait for you to find it. And I will wait for you to open your heart to me so I can try to be a father again. I have learned, at long last, that is the only legacy I wish to leave behind.”

  He turned away from his son then and headed down towards the Great Hall. But he stopped short, a happy thought making him laugh out loud. Renn turned to him curiously, cherishing the sound of his father’s long absent laughter.

  “Did you hear?” he asked. “Yulin is going to marry my cook.”

  Chapter 19

  When the Ibbies returned to Birchloam they found their homestead to be derelict. The house was hauntingly empty and lifeless, the eaves filled with birds’ nests, the windows clouded over with dust. Kess cried out at her garden tangled with weeds and when she walked into the house she cried out even louder at the absence of their belongings.

  Their flock of sheep had been auctioned off by Warden Lier along with many other implements from their home, but no sooner had they arrived safely back than the villagers began appearing at their door stoop to return what had been taken, giving it freely without reimbursement for the money they had spent to obtain them. Soon the pasture was dotted with sheep again, pots and plates returned to their places in the cupboards. Tools found their way back into the barn and books back to the bookshelf.

  Not only did they regain their property but they were showered with gifts. Rorna and her father the baker appeared with a sack of flour and crushed oats and corn. Mrs. Switch arrived in their yard with a barrel of ale on her shoulder. She set it down quietly and looked at Viviel, then touched her forehead with a gnarled finger and smiled to him knowingly. The most kindest of gestures that left Paiva nearly in tears was when Jekka arrived with a brown dog on a tether. She had been helping Viviel in the barn when she heard the excited yelps and came outside to find the two standing in the yard.

  Viviel’s laugh boomed out as Jekka released Elki and the dog hurtled himself towards them, so overjoyed to be reunited with his master and home that he could do nothing but bark and run around in circles while occasionally stopping to lick their hands and faces.

  “He’s a good dog,” Jekka said simply, her speckled eyes shining at them though her face was expressionless. “Guarded your flock until Ranger Lier tried to shoot him down. Then he skulked through the village looking for scraps until I took him in.”

  Paiva smiled happily to her and bent to scruff Elki’s ears. When she looked up again Jekka was gone. Paiva hurried out of the yard after her, finding her already headed down the lane way.

  Elki skipped happily beside her as she ran up to Jekka who stopped to look at her questioningly. “Jekka,” Paiva breathed. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” A small smile crept over her lips shyly. She was tall, and upon looking at her with a fresh set of eyes Paiva could see she was truly Ulrig’s daughter. She had his vaulted cheekbones and strange green eyes. She had a strange earthy beauty and serene manner, a sinewy, lean build with feet that turned slightly inwards as Ulrig’s did. Her hair was darkly coiled and flew about her face. Her eyes were not as dark as Ulrig’s, speckled as they were with flecks of rust. Their inner depths seemed to contain something brighter, more alive.

  “I did not know your story,” Paiva said. “I did not know your father was a Wilderman.”

  “The thing about secrets,” Jekka said, “is that that the less you tell them the safer they are.”

  “You crossed the Panderbank, all by yourself,” Paiva continued. “I want to know everything, if you’ll tell me. I can’t imagine how alone you have truly been all this time.”

  “That is kind of you,” she smiled. “If you want to know my story just ask the Stones.” She turned then and made to continue on her way, but Paiva followed.

  “Jekka,” she began again as she fell into step alongside her. “What about Renn?”

  “What about him?”

  Paiva blinked at her uncertainly, but Jekka’s gaze did not waver.

  “You must understand,” Jekka said. “It was the same for my father when he was pardoned. He came back and found the clamor and busy flow of society too much. He was overwhelmed after spending so long in the slow pace of the forest being his own master. He might have stayed, if I had been more loving towards him. Instead I shunned him, and he crept back into the sanctuary of the woods.”

  “But you followed him.”

  “Once I realized the only reason he came back was for me.”

  “But Renn hasn’t come back. He didn’t even say goodbye.”

  “Patience.” Jekka’s eyes sparkled and she turned away. “Patience is also a Virtue. He may be the Virtue of Courage, but he is very afraid of this world.”

  Then she was gone, darting down the lane to leave Paiva staring after her.

  — «» —

  Paiva was patient. She spent long days in the pastures waiting for some sign of him or for news to reach her from the Keep of his return. It never did, and she grew anxious and irritated, wondering if she should not go into the woods herself to find him.

  Her father came up to the fields to bring her lunch one day and he sat next to her on her favo
rite perch. “He’ll come back,” he said as he rooted through the basket and pulled out bread and a chunk of cheese.

  “No he won’t,” Paiva answered bitterly. “He told me once, when we were at the top of Far Fall. He said he would never leave the forest.”

  Her father squinted into the distance at a flock of birds scattering over the treetops.

  “Set a bird free and if they return they are yours,” he said, offering her food.

  “What do you think he’s doing out there?” she asked.

  “According to Yulin and Bess, there has been an uprising amongst the Wildermen. I don’t know what Renn is doing, but I imagine he is out there with his fellows he left behind. Whether or not he likes it, he is probably the only man in all of Grimenna the Wildermen will respect — an ambassador of sorts, between the lowlands and the Wilderlands. Yulin has begun to call him the River Lord.”

  “How can they send men to the woods now? How can they earn pardons if there are no Folka to hunt?”

  “Oh, there are still Folka, but they are not as terrible as they were. One by one they will be killed and then the Wildermen will have to find a new way to earn a pardon. Yulin is talking of implementing a new system. Instead of culling Folka they would be building, learning trades, hunting and gathering and learning to read, bettering them as men over all. We shall see what happens. The double brand of pardon may soon mean not that you have earned your freedom through killing a nightmare, but from becoming a better man.”

  “Wasn’t killing a Folka meant to prove that?”

  “Yes,” he chuckled. “But killing is a ruthless and wicked act. Forgiveness should not be earned in such a way.”

  “What of the women in the work pit?”

  “They will be treated better. Along with cutting stone they will learn other things. Word has it the Lord is rebuilding his tower, not as a trophy room but as a library. He has enlisted the Goddish monks to begin making him books with the help of the women from the pit. They will be scribes, not sculptors of stone. A much better way to rule the land, through knowledge and confidence rather than fear.”