Our Father, who art in heaven . . .
Where had those words come from?
Lynn had said them in the forest when they had come upon the smallholding that had been crushed by the earthshaking. She had summoned her god from across the portal to help the forest god lay the dead to rest.
He had to summon . . . he had to summon his own god. But he had no god. Not the forest god of Red Gold Bridge, or the sky god of Wessen. Nor the gods of any lowly captains . . . Crae scrabbled for his remaining crossbow bolt and drove it upward, catching one of his attackers in the thigh. The man screamed and dropped back.
Three. I can take three. He pushed himself backward and grabbed the maul by the middle of the shaft. He could hardly lift it, one-handed, but the crows fell back.
“I am Lord Crae,” he said. He pushed to his feet, balancing on his good leg, shaking with effort. “This is my land. Mine!” He lifted the maul over his head, barely able to control it, the weight almost taking him over backward. He roared again, as wordless as the crows. “I am lord of Trieve! I summon the lord’s god! I am Crae of Trieve!”
Something happened. Something changed. The light was different. The crows were different. A blazing went through him. The pain faded, though he knew that was just the blood pumping hard in his veins. When he had been raised by the Council and given lordship over Trieve, they had told him, “It is the will of the high god.” He had felt nothing then.
Now he felt it, the high god’s will, like a light going on inside his head. Trieve was his, but more, he was Trieve’s.
Had Stavin ever felt this? Had Jessamy?
He roared again. “This is my land! Begone!”
They backed away and fled, leaving behind their two dead and one maimed. The man he had hamstrung tried to crawl off, and Crae watched his laboring progress. He lowered the maul and let it drop, and looked with dazed disinterest at the blood dripping between his fingers.
As he stood there, a thundering of hoofbeats rose up behind him, and Trieve’s men—his men—galloped down the terraces to his rescue. They saw the crows, and some gave chase, shouting. Another went to kill the man still crawling, his sword raised.
Crae held up a hand. “Wait.”
They all turned to look at him, at the bloody, ruined figure of their lord. “Bring him to the house. I want to talk to him.”
Then everything went black.
When he woke again, he was in his own bed in his own chamber. It had been the one he had been used to when he guested at Trieve as Captain Crae, Lord Stavin’s common friend. It had not seemed right to move into Stavin’s chamber, even though it was his now. And he and Jessamy, though married, did not share a bed. She had been near to giving birth to Stavin’s son at the time of their wedding for one, and Jori was still a babe. Crae looked around, awareness of the present coming back to him. The horse doctor Truarch was there and Calyne, Trieve’s housekeeper. His arm was bandaged and splinted. He used his other hand to feel his head. Bandaged as well. The horse doctor bent over him when he saw Crae move.
“Stay still,” he ordered. “You almost got killed.”
“I know,” Crae whispered. It was all his voice could do. He turned his head. “Tevani?”
Calyne came up to him, putting a cool, careworn hand against his cheek.
“Fine, fine, Lord Crae,” she said, her eyes wet. “She was frightened, but she rode straight home and told us you needed help. She’s been begging us to let her see you.”
His mouth moved tiredly in a smile. “Tell her in a few days.” He didn’t want her to see him like this. He remembered something else. “Does the crow live?”
Calyne and Truarch exchanged glances. The horse doctor replied. “He lives, Lord Crae, but we don’t understand . . .”
Crae hardly did himself. “Where is he?”
“In the storeroom by the kitchen. It has the only lock, and Vanar, the blacksmith from the village, gave us a stout chain as well.”
Crae nodded. “Keep him as well as you can.” He fought the weariness, managing to ask one more thing. “Jessamy?”
“She wants to let you rest,” Calyne said, a little tremulously.
“I need to talk to her.”
“She . . . the baby . . . Lord Crae, you are still not well, and she is still tired, and her brother is coming . . .”
“Send her in.”
It would enrage her to be summoned, but he needed to talk with her. Enough of this pussyfooting around. Trieve will suffer if I do not take up my lordship. He remembered little of the battle, but he knew what had happened. He had called on the high god, and the high god had answered.
He slept a bit then and was roused by voices and the crying of the baby boy. Crae opened his eyes, and there was Jessamy sitting by his bed, hushing the baby and studiously not looking at him.
He waited until she looked up. Her color rose, and he saw that her kerchief was askew. She never could keep it right as a good lady should. Her shining brown hair peeked out over her forehead. Her brown eyes met his, her mouth straight with displeasure.
“Well, are you satisfied?” she snapped. “Taking her out there with you, then leaving her to ride home by herself for help? She’s four years old, Crae! You endangered her life. You have no idea of all the things that could have happened to her.”
“Do you want to go home to Favor?” he said. He still could only whisper, and she had to lean forward to catch his words. When they struck home, her lips parted. She paled.
“Are you sending me away?”
The baby squalled, and she looked down at him, soothing him with a broken whisper. Crae made an impatient movement with his good hand, though he couldn’t do much.
“Not . . . what I meant,” he managed. “I meant . . . is Trieve your home? Or is Favor?”
Her brother was lord of Favor. He had been on the other side of the Aeritan war, siding with the Council. Jessamy’s husband had sided with Lord Tharp and Red Gold Bridge. The rift had driven the family apart.
“Trieve is my home, Crae. You can’t—you can’t mean to send me away. The Council—when we married, that voided the Council resolution against me.”
“I’m not sending you away. Listen.” He was losing his strength. “Something happened when the crows attacked. I called on the high god—and he came.”
Her voice was impatient. “Of course. When the Council elevated you, you took the high god as your god. That is what the summoning is.”
“No.” He struggled to speak. “This was different. I felt nothing when the Council named me lord.” He couldn’t explain to her what he felt, and not just because he had no strength. “Tell me of the summoning.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “When we are called, or summoned, we become lord in the place of our father—or sometimes our mother, though that is rare. Lady Wessen, I believe, is the only one of her generation. Regardless. My brother became Favor. I did not. If I had been, I would have been Lady Favor. But, Crae, you know this, because when the Council called you, that was the same as being summoned.”
No, it was nothing like. The Council ritual had been nothing like being summoned, if his battle with the crows were any indication. And Stavin, who would talk about anything, had never once mentioned his summoning. Crae’s head hurt, and he struggled to keep awake. He was not naive. He knew all men nudged their gods along sometimes and made sure they moved in the right directions. But he had to get to the bottom of this.
“Did Stavin . . . ever speak to you of his summoning?”
“Oh, Crae, for goodness’ sake. Why would he?”
His eyes closed, and he sank closer to sleep. He tried one last time. “Jessamy, which of the children will be Lord of Trieve after me?”
She was silent for a long time, and he opened his eyes and peered at her. She had the grace to turn away from him when she saw he was looking at her.
“Of . . . of course, if you have . . . a child, perhaps that child . . .” Her voice faded away. He knew what she meant without her
having to say the words out loud. To protect her own children’s right, Jessamy would see to it that he never had children. He had been elevated to lordship, but it was a sham, or supposed to be. The lords expected that he would die without issue and leave no legacy.
His weakness was a mercy, and he gave in to it. He heard her get up and the door close behind her, and then sleep overtook him, drowning his bitterness.
At length he healed, but slowly. It took days for the headaches to fade and the bruises to turn from violent purple to green and yellow, and weeks more before his leg began to heal. Truarch had set his leg in a complicated cradle of bandages and splints, keeping the bone straight so it wouldn’t reknit awry. Crae knew it would never be the same, despite all of Truarch’s good care. He would be the crippled lord ever on. Well, he could still shoot a crossbow. That was his strength. So long as he could still shoot, he could still lead.
Tevani came in to see him, brought by Calyne. The little girl ran to him and buried her face in his side.
“I’m sorry, Lord Crae,” she said tremulously.
“Tevani! Don’t take such liberties—” Calyne scolded, but Crae raised his hand and shushed her.
“You did well, chick,” he said. “You were very brave. Did you ride hard?”
She lifted her head and nodded, her cheeks wet. She looked so like Stavin. She is the closest I will ever have to a child, Crae thought. So I will raise her as I see fit. “Hero is your horse now. See you take care of him well, and he will take care of you.”
The little girl stared at him, her tears forgotten.
“Yes, Lord Crae,” she said.
She cannot call me father, he thought. So it will have to do.
It didn’t take long for Jessamy to hear what he had done. She came in as he was helped to his feet by the horse doctor, her kerchief and her skirts flying.
“How dare you,” she said, and her voice shook with her anger. “How dare you make such a decision! She is my daughter! You cannot do this!”
Crae looked at the doctor and the housekeeper, and with a gesture he motioned them to leave. They hesitated, looking from him to her and then backed away, hastily gathering up the doctor’s draughts and nostrums.
“That is well,” Jessamy said. She rolled up her sleeves. “It is time we had this out.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ve overlooked you spoiling her, because high god knows—” She caught herself at the invocation but then went on. “High god knows with the death of her father, she could use some extra kindness. But this. This? First you let her ride out with you, with no men, no weapons to speak of, nothing to protect her with, and now you give her her father’s warhorse?”
“He’s not a warhorse,” Crae pointed out mildly.
“What are you thinking?! She barely comes up to its knees. And you give it to her!”
“She proved she could ride the horse. He’s worthy of her. A lord’s daughter . . .”
“But not your daughter.”
The words rang in the chamber. He let them settle between them like the dust motes slanting in the window. The sunlight fell over his bed, across the floor, and over the large chest that held his gear. Jessamy looked around, and he saw that she could see the mean chamber for what it was.
“So. You’ve made it clear, you are lord here now. But the children are mine to raise.”
Crae began to feel dizzy again, so he sat on the bed. He doubted the weakness was lost on her.
“I am lord,” he agreed. “And it is time I take up my duties. I left it too long, out of respect for Stavin and you. But the land—Trieve—doesn’t care about the lords who’ve gone before, Jessamy. It only cares about the now. I wonder . . .” He stopped for a moment, lost in thought. What if Stavin had not died? Would he ever have been summoned, perhaps to another land? Favor, or Kenery, or even Red Gold Bridge?
He looked at her, his unwilling wife. It had been long since he had been with any woman, and the last time he had so much as kissed one had been Lynna. And they had both known, even then, that they could never be with one another, and their love would be for nothing.
Now he wanted to bed his best friend’s wife—no, his own wife—with as great an urgency. And he had no doubt she had a revulsion of him that was as equally great as his desire. But they had to come together. Trieve demanded it. They could not rule together if they could not pull together.
“If I were not Crae, could you treat me as lord?” he said.
“I treat you as I would any lord,” she replied stiffly.
“No. You treat me as if I am still the upstart captain, your husband’s disreputable friend. For that alone you cannot forgive me, let alone live with me.”
“I told you, I cannot love again. Not like that. Not the way I did with Stavin.” She said it quickly, as if she had practiced it for this moment. He expected that she had prepared for a lifetime of rejections, at least until he stopped asking. And then she could scorn him for seeking love elsewhere.
“I’m not asking it of you.”
She stared at him. “Then what are you asking, if not—?”
He lifted his shoulders. “True. I am asking you to bed me, but not as Stavin’s replacement. Not even as Captain Crae.”
“You know that it—that’s impossible.”
“As your husband. Lord of Trieve.”
She bit her lip. He waited, watching her war with herself. She could not be happy with her lonely bedchamber. She was young still, and Stavin had often been indiscreet about the secrets of his marriage bed.
“What of your wounds?” she said finally.
“They will heal.”
“Now?” she managed, swallowing.
“Jessamy.”
“I just—I need more time.”
“We don’t have a lot more time,” he said, emphasizing the we. “We have a holding to rule. As husband and wife. Why do you think the crows came here, Jessamy? They are lawless men, lordless men. They seek lordless lands. If we are at odds, Jessamy, what of Trieve?”
She hesitated and then finally said, “I—can’t. Not right now. Or even soon. But I will think about it.”
He watched her rush off, and he sighed. He couldn’t force her, nor did he want to. I didn’t choose you either, he thought resentfully, as she fumbled the door closed behind her. Alone, he lay back on his bed, resting. The pain had come back, and he wanted to let it ebb before he walked down to visit the captured crow.
The captured man’s accommodations were a bed of straw in a storeroom off the kitchens. He was shackled to the wall and given food and water and a chamber pot. From the smell of his small prison, the chamber pot had not been emptied in a while.
One of the kitchen boys opened the door when he saw Crae coming. Crae still walked heavily with the aid of a stick. He nodded to the young boy, but inwardly he cringed.
I need a proper guard, such as I had in Red Gold Bridge, he thought. He had been neglecting his duties as lord, and now he needed to make up for lost time. Crae ducked into the small storeroom. The smell of waste and unwashed prisoner came over him. A window high above let in some light, and a few candles burned on the wall. Not a prison such as in Red Gold Bridge, but a bad one nonetheless.
The man was crippled from Crae’s crossbow bolt, but no one had been able to come near him to tend his wound, and it festered. He stared sullenly at the lord through fallen tangled hair, his face narrow and pinched under a wild beard. It was hard to tell how old he was.
“Do you have a name?” Crae asked.
Nothing.
“What brought you to Trieve?”
Silence.
“Why did you attack me?”
Again, silence.
“Who is your lord?”
The man raised his head. His eyes burned in the dim light. His face had a sheen of sweat under the beard, the sign of a fever. The wound would take him if he didn’t get help. “The lord of all Aeritan is the lord of crows.”
Aeritan hadn’t had a high king for more than three hundred
years. The man raved. Crae tried again.
“But someone leads you. Who is he?”
“The god of crows.”
There is no god of crows, Crae almost said but held his tongue. Were these men called, as he had been? To what purpose would a god call forth lawless men?
“Were you summoned?”
The man grinned, his teeth a crooked, mashed mess. It was why it was so hard to understand his words. “He whispers to us, tells us we can do what we want to all the pretty lords and ladies. And we do. We kill and we ravage, and our god laughs.”
Crae looked down at his prisoner, sickness in his gut. He had kept him alive almost on a whim, to find out something about the lordless men. Now he wasn’t sure if that hadn’t been a mistake.
Still, he had to find out the secrets of the crows. He waited, and the man stopped his tormented giggling. He is a man, Crae thought. Not a creature. But he acts like a creature of the dark tales. High god, help me uncover this thing. Feeling as if he were groping in the dark, he said, “Will you let our surgeon treat your leg?”
The man looked up, surprise in his ravaged face. His lips parted as if he meant to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Yet there’s intelligence there, Crae thought. He stumped backward to the door, and said to the boy, “Fetch Truarch.” The boy ran off.
While they waited, the man was silent, his eyes on Crae. The wait seemed an eternity. At length the horse doctor turned up, carrying his kit. He looked at Crae with surprise and no little respect.
“He says he will let you treat him now,” he told Truarch.
“Lord Crae—” Truarch swallowed what he was about to say. Instead he knelt next to the crow. Crae knew the bravery that took. The crow, though, never attacked, not even when Truarch cleaned the wound, as excruciatingly painful as that must have been. When Truarch finished, wrapping a bandage around the leg, the man’s face was gray with pallor, but he had neither fought nor screamed nor tried to bite.
Truarch stood, and the crow fell back, exhausted. Crae himself felt as if he had just run all of the terraces to the house, so intent he had been on Truarch’s work and the crow’s pain.
Red Gold Bridge Page 5