by Holden, Ryan
“You're right,” she said, at length. “I am sorry. Let me tell you my story, then, or at least part tonight. The reason I told Enda and Kerdae is because they need to know. It is an invaluable benefit to falling so precipitately in the world: you find out who your true friends are. And we all need friends, Brian.”
She sighed. “Especially now. I hid my past because I wanted to protect you. Some knowledge is not for the faint of heart.”
“But I want to know,” Brian said, then regretted speaking. Did he? Could he face the truth?
“I know, and I will tell you. You are old enough to deal with it in your own way. But come, the night grows chilly. Few tales are hurt by having a fireside nearby, true?” They arrived at their camp. Devlin made the rounds of the kardja while Brian built up the fire from last night's coals. Soon the exiled family was in place. With thick blankets around him, Kerry to lean against, and a fire burning brightly in front, the chilliness of the night was quickly forgotten.
Ramona, likewise situated except that Devlin sat right next to her, twirled her ring around her finger. “My father gave this to me. It is as dear to me, perhaps, as Myra is to your father. Priceless, yet not to be compared with how we value you, the son of our love.”
“I lived in Avallonë, yes; perhaps it is better said that I lived with Avallonë. I grew up in the palace and was never far from the shadow cast by those stories. Yes, they are history and taught in all Arcadian schools: but for us, for me, it was also tales of our predecessors, my kin. Avallonë was almost her own person, the pulsing harmony of the Tree and Avgerini in the heart of the land.”
Brian was spellbound. Predecessors? “So—you're a princess?” he asked. Devlin smiled for the first time that night.
“Yes, a princess of the court. Not like the princesses you read about, though, for my father was no king. Avallonë has no king—we are led by the Queen and Master. My cousin Sophia, daughter to the Queen, was the princess, the princess royal. She was my best friend.
“So there I was, Astra, a daughter of the most beautiful city—”
“Astra?” Brian asked.
“Yes,” Ramona or Astra, his mother at the least, said. “That was my name. I left it behind when I left Avallonë.”
“Why did you leave?”
“The King required my hand in marriage for his son, the crown prince. It did not feel right so—”
“King? What king? You just told me there was no king.”
Devlin laughed. “No king in Avallonë, all the rulers are women there. But there's another city, farther away, called Kyriopolis where a real army-leading, queen-marrying old drone still rules.”
“Devlin, respect your elders,” Astra smiled. “I decided then to run away.”
“And the king just let you?” Brian asked. He knew that much about kings from the stories.
“No.” Astra's voice rasped out like rocks scraping on tree bark. “Neither his honor nor office would not brook such an insult. I swore on point,” she teared up, “that I would never marry any save him, the Heir of Westernesse—for such is the crown prince called—and Kyriopolis relented. I did not have to marry.
“But Avallonë lost its taste for me, and I for it. I was an outcast, a widow yet without a corpse, a faithless wife without a paramour. I had disobeyed the King and disgraced my house.”
Devlin's arms encircled Astra. “Shh, shh,” he murmured.
“I fled east, seeking Selene's tower. I knew of nowhere else to go. A long time ago it was a refuge for women like me, distressed. I could not find it.”
Brian stared at his mother. This Astra whom he was beginning to know was so like and yet unlike his Ramona. He delved into every corner of her face, reading the old familiar lines anew. “What happened then?”
“She found me. And that is the best thing that has ever happened,” Devlin said.
Brian thought it strange how he said it—as if he were speaking to her and not to him.
“I thought so, at the time. It seemed a gift. But now I know the truth.” Her voice, if rocky before, now became as hard as steel. “I am accursed.”
“Do not say so!” Devlin said. “Who of the accursed could live as you do? Love as you do?”
“What other path is there? How else can it go? Is he one to forget? If the King of Westernesse cannot brook insult, why should he ignore false faith?
“I fear the end. Who am I? Ungrateful. Cowardly. Trusting my own feelings over the wisdom of my family. The death of my daughter,” her voice rose like waves breaking upon the shore.
“Oathbreaker! I swore on point, Devlin, on point!” She buried her face in his chest and sobbed.
Devlin held her and stroked her back. The fire burned low and still father and son sat opposite, watching the red embers on the edge fade to black.
“Father,” Brian braved the silence, “what is 'on point'?”
“It is the oath sworn on the Unicorn's horn. One who breaks such a vow calls upon him or herself all the curses of the cup.”
“Unicorn?” Brian wondered. They still exist? Or was there only one? “Mother swore on a unicorn's horn?”
“Well, he—the unicorn I mean—has not been seen since the time of Apollo. But the Spear of the Kyrian is also called the Horn, for it is from it that the first Kyrian, Apollo, was granted kingship. It is one of the great treasures of Westernesse.”
“So mother could have been queen but she decided not to?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” He thought about this for a while. All the things he thought she loved in her stories—fancy dresses, dancing, soft beds, large houses—to these she had said no.
“Do you think there really is a curse?” he asked after a time.
“I do not know what to think, son. Your mother is the noblest person I have met: I cannot think it so. It goes against the very fabric of nature.” He yawned. “Yet I know little of these things. Who is a man to challenge the Unicorn? He is far older than us. Some things, maybe, we cannot understand.” He smiled. “Especially at this time of night.” He picked his wife up and walked to the old cabin.
Brian made himself move, willing the sleep out of his legs. The words themselves were confusing enough: the thoughts behind them—princess, oath, Unicorn—vaster still. How could Astra bear it—even blaming herself for Adara's death! And now the lost kardja, too, he supposed, though those two losses could not be weighed on the same scale.
When he was building the fire he thought his questions would be answered. Well, perhaps some. But now there were other questions. What was this curse? Was he cursed too? Would he die like his sister? Rather, why wasn't he dead yet? The questions swarmed him like a hive of wasps.
How could his father have known for so long and not made his mind up one way or the other? Brian settled into the strange cabin, familiar when compared to the new thoughts darting through his head.
Six
Paris awoke. He had chanced sleeping in cart and profited from the risk. Much better than the hard ground. He paraded through the village, calling out his goods. Not a single sale.
He stopped opposite the blacksmith's house. Was she still there with her brute of a husband? And that boy—the height of a man but none of the breadth. He hadn't seen a black-haired child this far east. Something odd about him struck Paris that he couldn't quite place.
Never mind. The key thing was, she was here, she had it, and he could wait it out. He had more time than she did. It was annoying that she didn't sell it to him yet, but what could he do? One doesn't just kill a princess to take her treasure. It was perplexing—at least with dragons in the old days you didn't have to worry about such niceties. Ah, but she would be easier to deal with in this vexing way than a dragon.
But why not? A thought began to form in his mind. Of course he wouldn't outright kill her—that wasn't his style, despite being a Kyrian. He was a Paris and that meant cunning. At any rate, the two heavy blokes she tended to be around, that blacksmith and her husband, were annoyances that co
uldn't be overlooked.
But the boy. Paris figured him to be exactly the sort that would be picked on should he have the good fortune of noble parents. Say, the Kyrian Martial Academy as a boarding school. Paris laughed at himself, pleased to find a subject to pass the hours with. Yes, and full of interesting nuance. His slight frame—no defense against the sturdy sons of warlords. His eyes—they seemed to promise some intelligence, at least, Paris thought, as compared to the usual empty-headed nincompoop he had to deal with in the country.
But what would draw the bullies like maggots to rotting flesh? His features were a little different. Paris mostly saw his mother's in him. That probably was it, why he had classed him that way. Too much of the womanly in his features. If not womanly, definitely avallonean. Nothing of the peasant father.
Illegitimate? No, too much to hope for. Avallonë was enough for Kyrian teenage boys. Imagine, living in a city run by a woman? Surely there were no real men in Avallonë.
Suddenly Paris jerked upright. Was he that much of a fool? The years of his quest had not worn well on him. He thought too much like a merchant, a petty swindler. A merchant would try to buy a valuable piece for less than its worth. A merchant would travel to the right buyer for such an article to rake in his profits. And that, ever since he saw the Princess—for whom else could this be?—that was all he had thought about.
Stupid, bumbling idiot.
The boy was the key. The two men—minor problems the moment he returned to civilized lands. Even her: she would be nothing at all.
He was Paris. Not one of those pathetic, patronizing patricians who flocked about the prince, seeking his favors like the light of the sun. His family were kingmakers, power brokers—they didn't seek favors, they reveled in them. Kyrians who did not consider the House of Paris did not fare well, and that included the Kings.
To think that he was waiting for her to sell. That he would happily hand over what she asked, travel his way back to civilization, and meekly hand over a Treasure of Westernesse for a finder's ransom. It was wrong on so many levels. A Paris didn't take terms; he made them. She would sell because he would make her. And the others? Why, they'd be no trouble at all.
Well, maybe a tear would be shed when Avallonë heard their exiled, disgraced princess had come to a tragic end. With his help.
The boy was the key. She had violated her oath: no one, now, could stand in his way.
Three days later Devlin and his family were still fixing up the cabin. Brian vaguely remembered living here long ago. He thought of it as his grandparents' house even though they had never met. He felt like suggesting they make a new cabin but held back, following Devlin's orders and waiting to see what would turn out. They made good progress on the cabin, unlike Brian's attempts at finding work with the weavers: at the moment small matter, though still troublesome, in Brian's mind. He knew they would figure something out.
The kardja cropped the cabin clearing short and began ranging into the woods, trying out ferns and bushes. Devlin, Astra, and Brian in turn would lead them through the forest to the meadows they came about.
“Dad, what causes the meadows here? Why isn't it all forest?” Brian asked about the fifth day.
“Why do you ask? It isn't all forest on top of the mountain.”
“There the wind fells them if they get large enough. And the soil is not so deep. Nor the air so full,” he promptly replied. “But there is no wind here and the ground is lush.”
“I'm not sure. But the meadow I took them to yesterday was cleared by neighbors of mine for their cabin, long ago.”
“I don't recall a cabin there.”
“I tore it down for slabs soon after meeting your mother.” He laughed. “Perhaps ten, twenty years from now after living elsewhere I will return once again, to repair this old place. Can't seem to get away from it.”
“There must have been a lot of people in Darach, then, for there are dozens of meadows.”
“Not as many as you would think. Men are not the only loggers—beavers, too, turn forest into meadow. It's one of life's delights, seeing a beaver at its work. Many left when we left. 'It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good,' as they say, and that was an ill wind.”
He spoke no more that morning.
A few days later they awoke early. Ramona began boiling water for breakfast and Devlin stirred the kardja up. He took them to a secluded meadow an hour's walk away and left them. All but Kerry, who Brian had haltered up to a skid. She had just reached her full strength as a four-year-old.
Brian took her into the forest and began hauling in the last of the wall poles. He was proud that his kardja was the strong one,
On his third trip back Brian saw Kerdae standing in front of the cabin, meaty hands on his hips. The blacksmith hallooed at him and Brian grinned. He untied the load from the skid and began leading Kerry back.
“Brian, take Enda with you,” his mother called, “and bring back a bucket of berries. Remember where I showed you?”
“Yes, I remember. Hi, Enda.”
“Hi Brian.” She ran up the path to Kerry. “Is this yours? He's a cutie.”
“It's a she. Her name is Kerry.” Brian grinned.
“Oh, oops. Sorry, Kerry,” she said, stroking her neck. “It's been a long time since I petted one. Most of the ones we see are dirty old things or look horribly skinny right after shearing.”
“Come on,” Brian said and led Kerry up the path. Pretending it was an everyday matter he led her next to a fallen log. With a step and a jump he was on her back. She shimmied about. He leaned forward and petted her. “Shhh, shhh.” He tried to avoid thinking about what Devlin would say that.
Enda didn't know better. “Wow, you can ride her? I thought only horses could do that!”
He turned around in his seat. “Of course I can. She's a kardja. You hear the stories, don't you?”
She blushed at the edge in his tone. “Look, Brian, about that night, I—”
“Don't—I didn't mean it. I mean, sorry. You haven't heard about men riding kardja? Like Liam?”
“Who's Liam?” she asked.
“You really don't know?” She shook her head. “Well, there's only one way to find out. How much do you weigh?”
The look of shock on her face was priceless. He'd never seen her at a loss for words before with him. “Brian Devlinson, you don't ask a girl her weight!”
“You do if you want to take care of her.”
“Well, I don't feel taken care of. And Kerdae takes care of me, not you. Good thing, too,” she spat.
“Not you, her.” He tilted his head at Kerry. “Father will only let her carry eighteen stone, and I'm ten by myself. Though he does say riders are better weight than most things one puts on a kardja back.”
“Oh... what! You'll let me ride her?” Her face melted.
“Yeah, and it's easier riding second than solo. So, how much?” he smiled.
“Seven.”
“Okay then. Stand on that log. Here,” he held out his left hand and she clambered up behind him. Kerry sidestepped with the added weight. “Steady, girl. Okay back there?”
“Yes.”
“You can stop pinching my hand.”
“Oh, sorry.” She slipped it around his waist.
“Let's go.” He nudged Kerry with his heels and she started walking forward. He repeated words Devlin had told him long ago. “Now, the only way to hear about Liam is to feel the story. The only way to do that, is to mount a fine kardja.” He could still feel the wind rippling around him, stopped by his father's broad back, his whole body swaying up and down with the quick, smooth pace of Myra's loping. His father had taken hours to tell the story to him that day.
Today the short version would have to do.
Paris's frustration grew. He had seen nothing of them—lady, husband, or child—for almost a week. Who knew where they had gone off to? Or how long it would be until their return? His hate grew against the woman for slipping from his grasp so easily. He hated himself,
too: how could one spend years in such a pursuit and fail on so trivial a matter? A quick flick of the wrist, a slash to the halter, and he was riding free, his annoying cart left behind for good. He drank every bottle he could find.
The next morning he awoke to the beat of the blacksmith's anvil. He screamed, his head splitting apart at the noise. He grabbed at anything cloth to drown out the noise. Throb, throb, throb. He hated the blacksmith, the town, everything. But most of all that awful noise. Would it ever stop?
Surprisingly, it did. And soon. He cringed, awaiting its return. He listened for all he was worth for the next blow—would it be a dull crash or the sharp, bell-like ring? Slowly his throbbing lessened. He could almost ignore it. Gritting his teeth he got up and woke to see the blacksmith and the redheaded girl walking into the wood. She had something in her hand, a basket of sorts.
Paris slumped over to the creek and washed his face in the chilly water. His mind cleared, a little, and he sat there, a rare spot just out of reach of the morning's long shadows. A slight tickle of sunlit air reached him. Not much to warm up with but a promise of more.
He trudged back to his cart. The blacksmith's path came into view clearly marked, for the dew hung heavy on all the untrod grass.
His mind clicked like the gate to the palace garden in Kyriopolis. Maybe the Ring was still nearby. He moved swiftly to the cart and, after a slight change to his wardrobe, crept after the blacksmith.
The path winded through the light forest, avoiding thick underbrush. It steadily progressed eastward. Paris was rounding a thick clump of oak when a raven screeched at him. He jumped, tripping into the branch that lay dead right in front of him. A few stumbling steps in desperation and he was down beside it, his head mere inches from a protruding rock.