Sword of Hemlock (Lords of Syon Saga Book 1)

by Jordan MacLean

  Pegrine slipped out through the open window at the far end of her chamber and faded into the first pink streaks of dawn, promising to visit Renda another night. After closing the window the knight returned down the stairs to her father’s audience chamber.

  Ten

  The sheriff climbed the last of the crumbling stone steps leading to the castle’s eastern battlements and pulled his mantle close about his shoulders while he waited for Sir Waydon to join him. He truly hoped the boy was jumping at shadows, but he had never known Sir Waydon to show an abundance of imagination.

  Clouds had gathered just before sunrise, thick and dark gray against the usually fair skies of the Gathering, and with the chill winds, the day had never quite warmed. Daerwin’s mouth thinned to a grim line. This was none to the good. A few days spent beneath the clouds, especially if the nights cleared, and the frosts would come early this year. They could lose most of the harvest if what Waydon had told him was true.

  “There, you see?” Sir Waydon’s voice rose above the whipping of the knights’ banners at the gatehouse. The sheriff’s gaze followed the knight’s own, into the valley just west of the river. “But three of each four are afield today, fewer still than yesterday.”

  The sheriff sighed. Unfortunately, Waydon was right. Truly, no more than three quarters of the families harvested their crops today. From the parapet they seemed no more than tiny specks of dark cloth, and a twilight sky of sun sparkled steel blades slashing through the gray ripples of grain, specks and movements so small he could see them move only through the corners of his eyes. Many Gatherings spent watching over them for fear of Kadak’s armies attacking had trained his eye. Besides, if he had had any doubt of what he saw, he had only to look at the rest of Waydon’s fields. These stood abandoned, great even stands of amaranth and wheat rippling evenly in the cold wind. At the roadside, scythes and wagons lay just where they had fallen, as if those families had simply retired at the end of a day of harvest and not returned. He could all but feel the grain rotting as he watched, and the thought filled him with dread.

  “I fear the tenday shall see no one out at all.” He gestured to the nearest portion of his lands and spoke with wearied resignation. “From here, you can see only a few of my fields, but they show what is true of the whole.”

  “Aye.” But Lord Daerwin’s gaze had already turned away, toward the lands of Sir Teny and those of Sir Forin, the knights whose lands neighbored Sir Waydon’s to the north and northeast. Like Waydon’s lands, theirs rolled away over the horizons north and eastward, and only the nearest of their fields were visible. Daerwin could see that all of Teny’s and Forin’s farmers and their families gathered feverishly against the coming cold. Praise the gods, he breathed with relief. Waydon’s grain might be lost, but with luck, they would have enough even so. No one would starve.

  Presently, he directed Sir Waydon down the stone steps and inside the castle that they might speak together without shouting over the noisy banners flapping on the battlements or shivering in the cold wind of the afternoon.

  “How now,” Daerwin spoke at last, having removed his cloak and settled in at his own desk with the young knight seated before him. “I’ve known you these many years, Waydon, and your father before you. Ever your farmers have trusted you; I assume you have not taken to abusing their good will.” He deliberately kept his tone gentle, but when Waydon only gave him a blank and almost guilty stare, he pressed the point. “Overtaxing them, punishing them without cause, taking liberties with the women, so forth...”

  Sir Waydon adamantly shook his head. “Oh, never, my lord. To my knowledge, they have no complaint against me. To all appearances ere now, they have considered me a fair lord.” He cleared his throat and sat forward most earnestly. “In faith, when the first of them failed to work his fields for some days on end, I said not a word, thinking his new bride to keep him engaged at home.” The knight laughed weakly. “I count it quite the act of generosity on my part to grant him such liberty.”

  “More generous than wise.” The sheriff stroked his beard, considering. Waydon was almost cowering, not from the sheriff’s words, since he had not spoken them in anger; more as if he feared his own farmers somehow. But why?

  “Yes, my lord. As you see, yon farmer did not return to the fields as I had thought he might, and thoughts that some…ill might have befallen him came to me.” Neither of them had to say the words. None of the sheriff’s farmers had fallen to the plague yet, but it was only a matter of time. “I did at once ride to his home and knock upon the door, but he told me only that he was at prayer. He’d not so much as open his door to me.”

  “Prayer?” Daerwin had expected almost any other answer. “Are you sure?”

  “Aye, my lord, and in the midst of the Gathering, no less.”

  “What feast day did he claim to mark? No god of Syon interrupts the harvests with a feast day.”

  “None, sire.” He stopped himself and shook his head. “Rather, let me say in all honesty, I had not the mind to ask him. Far be it from me to stay a man from his piety.”

  “Piety, indeed. The Gathering is short enough without losing days to idleness, and idleness it is. The gods simply do not plague us with obligation during the Gathering. He simply makes an excuse for lying abed the season.” The sheriff sat back and crossed his arms. “So you did not confront him, then.”

  The knight’s eyes met his lord’s before he turned away. “I did not,” he admitted. “In faith, so taken aback was I that I found myself quite lost for words.”

  “So you did nothing.” Lord Daerwin rose and paced to the window, counseling himself to patience. Shouting would only make matters worse, he told himself. “Go on.”

  “There is more,” Waydon said, lowering his gaze. “My lord, I was of no mind to vex them, not having just refused them—”

  The sheriff looked at him sharply.

  The younger knight sighed. “They were demanding a larger share of their crops, something touching how the noble houses no longer needed so much of the grain to feed their armies. But to this, I held fast. I’ve my own lord to pay as well, after all.”

  Daerwin nodded. “You could not make such a decision without speaking to me first, so that was the correct decision.”

  “Aye,” Waydon replied weakly, looking away.

  Daerwin watched him for a time, wondering why Waydon was still groveling. Something else within Sir Waydon ached to be said, ached to be let into the light, but Lord Daerwin only stood silent, letting the knight wrestle with himself until at last he spoke.

  “It’s true,” he said at last. “I refused them in this, but...” He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable under the sheriff’s gaze. “My lord, the priests’ disease lies at our very doors, and well the farmers know it. It was their concern, or so they spoke, that should a farmer fall to it, should his lands fall back to my demesne, then the crops would be lost since I’ve no one to harvest, myself. Their answer seemed sensible to me.”

  “They would have you divide the lost land between the neighboring farms. In the interest of saving the grain,” spoke the sheriff grimly, quietly. “Such was their proposal, aye?”

  Sir Waydon swallowed hard and nodded.

  “And you agreed.” Daerwin tapped the ends of his fingers together, considering his words carefully. Now it all made sense. The refusal to harvest, Waydon’s groveling…“You set aside the law for them, Sir Waydon, and in so doing, you broke faith with them and with me. With the House of Damerien itself!”

  “My lord!” gasped Sir Waydon.

  The sheriff’s rage exploded. “These laws have stood for nearly four thousand years, and with an afternoon’s thought, you set them aside? It is no wonder that your farmers do not heed you now. And now people will starve because of your rashness! You would break faith with us; what keeps you from breaking faith with them?”

  “Breaking faith!” Sir Waydon rose, pleading. “Sire, their argument had merit!”

  “As it has every time farm
ers have made it since time immemorial, and ever at harvest! Do you think their arguments had less merit during the war, when farmers were dying in battle? And still we refused them.” He leaned heavily on his desk. “The law is clear: When no rightful heir presents himself, the property reverts back to demesne lands that it might be granted anew.”

  “But, my lord Sheriff,” said Sir Waydon, visibly trying to control his temper, “perhaps they make petition time and again because the law does not—”

  “It does not let one farmer take his neighbor’s lands by murder and mishap!” Daerwin thundered. “The lands revert back and are granted anew at the lord’s discretion so that no man is assured gain by another’s loss. By the gods, can you not see your folly?” He pointed out the window toward the empty fields. “And now, see the contempt they hold for one who does not keep the law!”

  Sir Waydon watched the sheriff fearfully for a time before he looked away. “First one, then another of the other fields stood the same from dawn to dusk.” He shut his eyes, still stung by the sheriff’s anger.

  “Did you let lie these idlers as well?”

  Waydon recoiled as if struck. “Hear me, sire. Having seen three more farms go untended, naturally, I rode to their homes, ready to hear their excuses, or that they, too, were at prayer or some such. Perchance the priests’ disease had spread among them, or the fear of it.” He drew himself up. “Or perhaps, as I thought, it was but a single hair of some new pique that the four had taken up against me. Regardless, I went to smooth what I could and see them back to their fields ere we lose the season.” But then, Sir Waydon fell silent and stared at the deep burls of wood in the sheriff’s desk.

  “At prayer were they?” the sheriff prompted impatiently.

  Looking up, the knight stammered, then sat back in his chair. “Not just as I came to them, no. But to my questions, they spoke not of prayer nor to the matter of their deserted farms, but only of visions and divining and of Chatka.”

  “The old Verdura fortune teller,” the sheriff laughed suddenly. “But she is harmless! Were she any less skilled at matching husbands to wives and naming the sex of unborn babes, they should have driven her out years ago, these farmers. Sensible, practical folk, they are.”

  Sir Waydon nodded and licked his lips. “Aye, my lord, so they are,” he began uncertainly, “save that the priests’ disease fills their hearts with desperation and dread just now, and so with nowhere else to turn, they look to her visions.” He shifted in his seat again. “It’s but mine own thought, my lord, but if they cannot bring themselves to trust their priests against it, and they cannot find protection from it in their lords, they will take what solace she offers, cold though it be. But with her solace, methinks she sows discord as well. That she pronounces it all as the will of the gods...”

  “I’ve heard naught of her but in scoffing tones from the farmers.” The sheriff crossed his arms.

  “Aye, ere now.” He shook his head. “But look you, she foresaw the disease, my lord, or so they believe, and now they speak of her with naught but reverence.” At this, he saw the sheriff’s brow rise, and he sat forward in his seat to continue. “These three farmers, my lord. They spoke of prayer, aye, and chaff and vigilance, and in the most hushed and humble tones. To mine ear, the farmers made no sense, but the matter is this: they refuse, these people, to harvest grains belonging to Brannagh,” and here he leveled his gaze at the sheriff, letting the echo of his words linger a moment, “and no argument of mine could sway them.”

  “They said as much? You mean to say that they’ve taken it into their heads that they should starve the winter rather than harvest for Brannagh?” He stood, rubbing his brow in astonishment and concern. “Did they say why?”

  “No, my lord.” The knight’s lips tightened. “But they were most adamant.”

  Daerwin’s mind raced. “You reminded them, of course, that they serve your household and not mine.”

  Sir Waydon looked down. “In the interest of having them harvest their grains ere the cold fell, aye. I reminded them that they were bound only to my house, not to Brannagh, lest your house and mine should fall afoul...”

  Lord Daerwin looked out the window. “This made no difference to them, or you would not be here now.” It was not a question.

  “No. Since the trade grain comes to your storehouses, they would not be swayed. By law or no,” Waydon said with a cracking voice, “they say the lord of their lord is their lord.”

  “All right, then, by their own word, they harvest for Damerien, for the duke himself. What say your farmers to that, then?”

  The knight shook his head impatiently. “Such words only fanned their ire, my lord. Apparently, whatever their worries are, they extend beyond Brannagh to Damerien.”

  Lord Daerwin turned to Waydon, no longer hiding his frustration. These families had farmed the same lands for the same noble houses for centuries. Why this sudden disdain for Brannagh and Damerien? What argument could they have with the duke? Trocu Damerien had just taken the throne only two seasons ago upon his father Brada’s death; he’d not had time to anger them yet. Was the young duke bearing the blame for half a millennium of terror and loss under his predecessors now that the farmers were safe from harm? The irony might have amused him if the situation were not so dire. But perhaps the farmers were not as simple minded as he gave them credit for being. Perhaps the reason for their anger was more concrete, more immediate. He looked up sharply.

  “Does she speak sedition against Brannagh and Damerien to them, this Chatka?”

  “Truthfully, I cannot say, my lord. I’ve heard no word of hers. But I know only that each night at sunset, they gather at her doorstep, and as I’ve watched by night from my own castle, more gather to hear her visions by each night that passes. But I have no doubt that she speaks to them her own mind and makes of it the will of the gods.”

  “But to what end?” The sheriff sat once more behind his desk. The knight shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “They would not speak to me of it, not to tell me her words.” He rubbed his eyes anxiously. “My lord, it’s my own sense of it, no more. I know only that the farmers began staying away from their fields soon after they began gathering at her door. Of course, without proof...”

  “I see.” Daerwin sat back in his chair and tapped the ends of his fingers together. “I see.”

  * * *

  The young woman moved easily in the ebb and flow of the roadway, meandering aimlessly and yet making her way forward through the milling farmers and merchants, hoping to catch a stray bit of conversation here or an exclamation there, anything that might be of use. But the crowd seemed to drift and eddy from stall to stall in a thick silence. But no, they were not silent at all. They spoke in an almost constant babble, yet oddly enough, none of it touched on Chatka.

  The streets still glowed with the copper of the mid-Gathering sunset, and those who had come tonight would take advantage of this Marketday atmosphere to bargain and barter until the last possible moment, trading livestock, fruits and vegetables, tools, even sweets and brews they’d brought from home. Soon, right before the sun disappeared, they would close their stalls and follow the rest to the witch’s door.

  The village of Belen was no more than a tiny central marketplace, one of several throughout Brannagh lands that had grown up along the lords’ property boundaries. Belen boasted a tanner’s shop and a forge round the year and market stalls, usually empty, for traveling merchants and for the farmers come Marketday. Farms and houses clustered here and there nearby and moved outward from the village along the roads toward the knights’ manors and castles. Belen also had a few small shrines and humble sanctuaries, the largest two belonging to Didian and B’radik, and both were curiously dark and empty to her eye.

  Yet tonight the little road was alive with farmers and their kin. From their numbers alone she was sure they came, not only from the nearest farms of Sir Waydon’s lands but a few from the neighboring knights’ lands as well, some score of families. A
ll gathered here, just as the sheriff had told her they would, all to hear the Verdura’s word, though sure he did not expect so many. The woman touched the edge of her thick hood with an unusually long nail and quickened her pace.

  Somewhere near, a dark-skinned boy wearing threadbare breeches and a woolen cloak drawn up about his face likewise moved through the crowds, not with the usual grace and speed of his kind but with the bobbling, noisy step of the other farm boys his age. He stopped occasionally at the stands along the way to sample their wares and nodded amiably to any who hailed him as he passed. Like the woman, he moved relentlessly along the roadway, sometimes staying just ahead of her, sometimes dropping behind, sometimes at her very elbow, just as she had taught him.

  She gestured “warning” to him and saw his slight nod.

  No word of Chatka, nor the least trickle of what she might speak tonight. Not from a single soul. Frustrated, the young woman sidled in beside some old farmwives who were picking over the apples from a nearby orchard, hoping to engage them in conversation. “Early for apples,” she offered, taking up the accents she heard around her. “I’d not have thought they were ready yet.” She picked up one of the reddest of the apples and bit into it.

  “Aye,” spoke the man at the stall, who had just put a few apples in another woman’s basket. He looked the young woman over cautiously before he accepted her coin. “Bit to the tart but fine for pies and breads.” He saw her bite to the core and was suddenly very concerned, much more concerned than he should have been. “Mind you save the seeds, now.”

  “Aye,” breathed one of the old women beside her. “Or if you like, you can give them to me. I’ve never enough, it seems.”

  Save the seeds? Why would an orchardman be telling her to save seeds, save to give them back to him? But he did not seem interested in them for himself, she saw, and she was even more puzzled. She drew breath to ask, but something in his expression told her that she would do better to keep her silence.