Kurnt looked at both of them. "I'll take care of you, Cel. Yothan too. No need to give Syliva extra work."
"Thank you, Kurnt," she said, trying not to sound too surprised. "That's very generous. Oh, and one more item. We'll have to keep a fire watch. The roof of the meeting lodge seems the best place. And I think this would be a good job for the youngsters, the ones old enough not to fall off. As long as we give them short watches, say an hour each, they should have fun doing it and do very well. Maybe Haron would like to be in charge of this."
Kurnt nodded. "I think that's a good idea, Syliva."
As the men turned away, Celvake lecturing Kurnt on the intricacies of bucket making, Syliva called to her son, who was telling the story of the fire to some late-coming girls. "Jonn, I'm going home now."
He grinned. "Okay, I'm staying here."
The scent of wood smoke, mixed with the coppery odor of blood, crossed the farmyard as Syliva opened the gate. Not the smoke of the wildfire. She hung the shovel on its hook in the tool shed and saw that the newly-sharpened tools had all been returned to their proper places. The chopping block glistened from a fresh washing, the dirt around it freshly raked over.
He had been here, butchering a goat while they fought the fire. How could he have not heard the great horn?
She wanted to know which one Aksel had slaughtered, and looked for the hide, but it wasn't hanging in the usual place or anyplace she could see. Maybe it wasn't a goat. Maybe it was just a couple of rabbits. She walked over to the smokehouse and tugged on the door. It didn't budge. She pulled hard, but it was solid as a stone wall. Then she saw.
He had nailed it shut. Not with just one or two nails — he had used dozens, along the top and bottom as well as the side. She knew what he was trying to do; he wanted to keep the yeggmen out. But it seemed, like everything else he did these days, to be too much. It would take half an hour of nail-pulling just to check the meat.
Not finding her husband in the house, Syliva went to the barn and called for him. He didn't answer. She wandered past the empty pens, patting ol' Nels, their ox, on the head as she paused to listen. Something creaked in the loft. Probably the cat, she thought as she climbed the ladder, and so she started in surprise seeing Aksel there, hunkered down by the loft doors, bow and arrow in hand.
"Didn't you hear — what are doing up here with your hunting bow?"
His eyes took up the squint. "Watching for them."
"The thieves?"
"Anyone who would deny us. And I'm going to take other measures as well."
"They're not going to strike in broad daylight while we're here," she said slowly, trying to look past the hardness of his face. "Are you feeling well?"
"I'm not going to starve, Syliva. I know what it's like to be hungry. Once when I was young, my father wouldn't let me eat for three days just because I pinched some apples from the neighbors." His voice rasped with fury, as if he lived the punishment again. "I got so hungry. All that food was there, and I was hungry!" She went to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. His breathing slowed, and he came back to the present, but his eyes remained steely.
"No one is going to deny us," he said. "I heard what Taila Keyvern said about Jonn. They can't force us to give up food, or drive us away from our home. If anyone tries," he brushed past her, unable to meet her stare, "I'll kill them."
She followed him out into the yard, but he just kept going and didn't look back, vanishing into the forest at the foot of the mountain.
The next day was her visiting day. Lovisa looked glum. The young woman had apparently not bathed in a fortnight as well. Jasperwort tea would help that a little, but what she most obviously needed was Farlo's return. And she would not leave her house, even when Syliva pleaded with her, refusing to come live under Syliva's care for even one night.
As she crossed the center of the village, Syliva waved at Krissa Barlsen, who sat rigidly atop the meeting lodge in her brother's trousers, keeping a studious watch on the surrounding forest. Krissa would be seventeen on the day after Midsummer. Not so far away — she had better start making gifts for the grandchildren. What kind of festival would that be? It was supposed to be the greatest of the year. How could she keep it from turning into a disaster?
She found Kestrin waiting for her outside her house. Kestrin's dad had suffered stomach pain all the day before. An extra dose of starseed hadn't really helped, so she told Kestrin not to give it to him anymore.
Kestrin walked a short way with her as she went. "I'm going cook up some essence of alseflower for him," Syliva said, not as pleasantly as she would have liked.
"That will ease the pain, and he should be able to eat."
Kestrin looked directly into her eyes. "Do you know what it is?"
Meeting her gaze levelly, Syliva answered, "No. But I am getting good ideas about what it is not. Eliminate the common causes first — "
"Then work on the more rare possibilities," Kestrin said with mock tiredness, quoting an old lesson. "Speaking of rare possibilities, here comes Kevas. He's with his dad."
The two men strode up the path. Kurnt touched the brim of his straw hat and said, "Good morning." His son stood behind him, holding a heavy staff like a hiking stick. Syliva saw that his business was serious.
"What is it, Kurnt?"
"Oh, nothing really, just lost a goat in all the excitement over that fire yesterday. I don't know how it could have got out, but one did."
Kestrin turned to Kevas. "What is that you're carrying?"
He shrugged. "It’s only a walking stick."
"No it isn't; it's too thick — and look it's iron-shod. What were you going to do if you found your goat here? Knock me on the head with it?"
"Don't be stupid."
"Your the one who's stupid, carrying something like that."
"Oh yeah? Well there are yeggmen about, and they're clever. You should know that better than most folk. And that goat was penned. You know what I think? I think the fire was started by whoever stole our goat and old Plinna's turnips."
"That's enough of that," Kurnt said to his son.
Syliva looked at him; Plinna was his neighbor. "Plinna had turnips stolen?"
"Two sacks full. While he was away at the fire."
She stared at him in silence.
"You've got a fairly big flock, Syliva. Would you do me a favor and take a head count, see if the stray jumped in with yours somehow? He's a black with white legs." She nodded. "Sorry to bother you, Miss Kestrin," he said, touching his hat again.
They watched the two men until they were out of sight, then Kestrin muttered, "I should have broken that stick over his head."
The sun floated in a clear sky, as directly overhead as it ever did in the Pallenborne, by the time Syliva got back to her house. Jonn tended goats in the far yard, the one with young firs and leafless scrub brush, and he was letting them gnaw the lower branches off the firs.
"Why are you letting them eat my fir trees?" she called out.
"Dad says to let them eat everything in this yard."
"He does? Well, Dad didn't ask me if they could eat my young trees, and it looks like they've had enough for now. Why don't you move them to the south yard."
Jonn shrugged. "Okay."
"Wait a minute." She counted the flock, not seeing a black one with white legs. "They're all here, aren't they? Did dad slaughter a goat yesterday?"
"Not one of ours," Jonn said. "They're all here."
"Well what's in the smokehouse then?"
"I don't know, but it smells like goat meat to me. Maybe dad found a stray one."
"A stray one. . . . He better not have," she mumbled to herself. "Jonn, where is he right now?"
"Still inside, I think. I've heard hammering from inside the house all morning."
"Hammering?" Syliva shook her head. "Just take the flock to the south yard," she said to Jonn. Then low, to herself as she turned toward the house, "I need to find out what's what."
Inside, the house was da
rk and hot. "Aksel," she called, but only quiet, punctuated by the creak of the floorboards answered her.
All the shutters stood closed and barred. When she tried to open one, she found the bar wedged tight. No, nailed. He had nailed the shutter down, with dozens of nails, more than the smokehouse door. She went to the next window — nailed tight. And so was the next window. And the next. And every shutter on the ground floor.
She went down the stone steps to the cellar door. It, too, had been spiked shut. An enormous iron nail had been driven so deep into the solid oak that the head lay buried.
Her pulse quickened with her racing thoughts, and she felt her stomach tightening. She heard a near silent footfall on the step directly behind her.
"Mother?"
Syliva whirled with a gasp. "Oh Jonn, you scared me."
"Are you okay?"
"Yes. Fine. Say, would you go and get something to pry this door open."
Jonn nodded. "I know what." He ran up the steps and returned a minute later with an iron file. He slipped it between the door and the frame and heaved. The spike came out like a thorn from flesh.
Syliva opened the door slowly, suddenly afraid, suddenly sure of what she would find behind it.
And it was all there.
Kegs of cheese, barrel of flour, basket of dried fish, sacks of turnips.
She whispered to herself, "How could you? How could you?" then blinked away tears and turned to her son. He looked at her plainly; he hadn't yet figured it out.
"Jonn, would you go see if your father is anywhere upstairs. I need to talk to him."
He jogged up the steps, and she turned back to the looted foodstuffs. The turnips. The spirit-damned turnips! Did he set the fire in the forest? Shivering in the slight cool of the underground room, she could no longer hold back the tears. This wasn't right. This was a bad dream.
She heard Jonn padding back down the steps in his quiet way. What was she going to tell him, that his father is worse than a thief? But when she turned, Aksel stood there.
He wore only a pair of leather walking-shorts, with a large butchering knife thrust through the belt, and he carried a two-pound hammer gripped in one hand. His chest looked terribly sallow.
Then she saw his eyes and knew, all mysteries vanishing quick as fog struck by hurricane winds.
The whites of his eyes had turned yellow. Fenwolf fever in its last stage. How could she have been such a fool? Had she been so worried about everyone else that she missed it in her own husband? That didn't matter anyway; Aksel was mad now. Yes, she had to make herself think it — he was insane and had been for weeks.
"My own wife," he said with a grim smile, giving her a nod before swaggering down the last steps.
That smile was a monstrous thing, terrible to behold. Her stomach turned over as she backed away, deeper into the stone-lined cellar. He advanced, pausing in the doorway to look at the place where the spike had been.
Syliva braced herself to speak calmly and soothingly, but as the first words formed, her tears began to run fast, and she could not keep the cry out of her voice.
"I want you to listen to me, Aksel — " She thought it important for him to hear his name. " — and think about what I say. You are very sick, and the sickness is making you believe things that are not true."
He leaped into the room, striking the near wall full force with the hammer. The sudden violence of it made her jump. Fragments of stone whizzed through the air like musket balls, one imbedding itself in a flour barrel, another in Aksel's face. He didn't seem to feel it.
"So now I don't even think right, do I?" Blood trickled down the side of his face.
"It's the disease. It has hold of your mind."
"Do you want me to take some more medicine?" he said, suddenly calm.
She was getting through to his real self. "I have to cook it. It will take a little — "
"You witch!" he screamed, stepping forward to smash in the lid of a barrel with a single blow from the hammer. "I know what you've been doing. You've been poisoning me with those teas of yours. Oh yes, I noticed it the first time."
His mouth grew small, his face twisted with secret amusement. "I poured them out the window when you turned your back. So I know, you see. But no more. No more for you, and no more for me." He raised the heavy hammer, looking at it then at her.
He took three quick steps before she could move, the hammer whistling past her ear, grazing her shoulder as she dodged away, somehow putting an empty barrel between the two of them. As he recovered from the missed blow and tried to turn his momentum toward her, she pushed the barrel over and rolled it at him. But he easily hurdled it, raising the hammer once more.
"Dad?" Jonn stood inside the cellar door, blinking in confusion.
"Jonn, your father is sick," Syliva said desperately. "He doesn't know us — he thinks we're bad people. Run. Go get help at the — "
But Aksel had already crossed the room, the hammer falling in an arc aimed at Jonn’s forehead. Instinctively Jonn threw up his arms, the heavy wooden handle smacking into the fleshy part of his hand. Aksel gave him no time to recover, swinging again and again, Jonn now blocking with his forearms, blurting out short low cries, almost moans, more from dismay than his bruised wrists.
"Grab the hammer, Jonn," Syliva yelled, "take it away from him." But he only cringed. He stood a full head taller than Aksel and had twice the bulk, but the man was his father, and, faced with that, he could only back away defending himself.
Syliva quickly looked around. Only an old broom — no good. Wait, the shattered barrel-top. She tore half of it loose. At the sound of splintering wood, Aksel paused to glance at her.
"You'll not blind side me, old woman," he snarled, turning on her.
The broken piece of wood, now in both of her hands, came up, seemingly on its own, as the hammer came down. The makeshift shield cracked as the impact drove her down and away, onto her backside. Her hands went numb.
He stood over her, his eyes unreasoning. Then Jonn was behind him, his hand shooting out to take hold of the hammer.
Syliva crawled away on her back. "That's it, son. Get it."
A quick scuffle, then Jonn had the hammer to himself. "You idiot," Aksel said, backhanding him across the face.
Jonn slid back, tears welling in his eyes, and tossed the hammer aside as if it had bit him. Syliva found herself on her feet, dashing for the steps. Jonn could not fight his father; they had to get away.
"Run," she called to Jonn, as Aksel went after the hammer. "Hurry, son!"
Throw the door closed behind them, up the stone steps, a right through the front room then out. No, the front door held fast — nailed shut. The back door would be open. That was the way she had come in.
She heard Aksel at the top of the cellar steps. Now they would have to get past him to get out. She cursed herself silently for not going out the kitchen when they had the chance.
"Upstairs," she gasped at Jonn, "to your room." She doubted that Aksel had nailed shut the upstairs windows. Jonn took the steps two at a time, dragging her along with him. She heard the wooden steps groaning behind her as they pushed into Jonn's small bedroom. She slammed the door closed, but had no way to lock it. They had no bolts on the interior doors.
"Push your bed up against it, hurry, Jonn." He did it with one shove. "Good. Now hold it," she said, going to the window. The shutters stood drawn, and she had a sick feeling.
She saw the nail heads in the wooden bar that lay across the window sill. Not too many. She pushed hard but they held tight. She and Jonn were trapped.
A sharp crack of thunder from the bedroom door froze them in place. Loud as a gunshot came the second blow, the dark iron of the hammer breaking through the thin sheet of white pine. Jonn covered his ears, forgetting to keep his weight against the bed. The hammerhead fully pierced the door on the third blow, throwing splinters into the little room, forcing the door open a few inches. It seemed that Aksel tried to withdraw the hammer, but it was stuck. Then t
he door wedged open a foot, pushing back the bed, and Aksel slipped through quickly, drawing the butchering knife.
Jonn stood there crying, unable to move, but Syliva no longer had tears. She was too frightened.
"Jonn," she said, her voice too high, "you have to hurt him. To help him you have to hurt him."
Aksel knew the boy in a man's body would do nothing. He took a step toward Syliva.
"You have to do it," she pleaded. "You have to do it now, Jonn." Fear took her. She screamed. "Now!"
Jonn screamed with her, and leaping forward, grasped his father's knife arm with both hands, twisting the wrist backward with all his strength. Aksel yelled in pain, but punched Jonn in the ribs left-handed. The knife fell to the floor. Aksel jabbed into his son's rib cage again, hard, and a sudden fury seized the young man. He grabbed Aksel in a huge bear hug, lifting him off his feet, swinging him sideways into the wall, driving him into the corner, still swinging him side to side, Aksel's head whipping into one wall then the other. Then, feeling him go limp in his arms, Jonn let him slide to the floor.
Still weeping, Jonn looked at his father's thin body lying crumpled on the floor. "I killed him. I killed him. Oh, I killed him."
Syliva knelt next to him and lifted her husband's head, pulling back an eyelid and running her hands across the scalp. "It's not broken — you didn't hurt him badly. I can heal him now, son. I can heal him now."
4th INTERLUDE: The Retainer
He kept a quarter step behind Libac, as he always did, never meeting the nobleman's gaze directly while they traversed the length of the west hall. The highly-polished marble floor reflected blurred images of the statuary lining the passage, standing in niches like guardsmen. Ephemeris was always careful to maintain propriety in front of the other servants. He smiled inwardly. If only those fools knew who was the master and who the servant, he would get more than hateful looks from old attendants, more than simple jealousy for being elevated to a position of prime retainer after but a few weeks of service. Only when he was sure they were alone would Ephemeris speak to him familiarly, calling him by his first name, patting him on the shoulder in a brotherly way.
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