o0o
He could scarcely believe it. Tarska! The highlands had been the subject of his favorite childhood fantasies ever since Heratinn first heard the story of his grandfather's journey there. Though events had forced his acceptance that Tarska was closed to him, he had never stopped imagining what the highlands and its people must be like.
Mystery and rumor had always surrounded the Lhant's desolate north. Its people were cannibals, incestuous, they turned themselves invisible and saw in the dark. Tall tales and fables were all he ever heard, the stuff to frighten small children. How could the truth be too much to ask?
He had done his best to unearth it. Books and scrolls, journals and tax records, maps and even songs--anything that might hold a clue as to how the secretive people of northernmost Lhant really lived. Yet always the answers eluded him. In over eight hundred years only two people not of the highlands had been permitted to go there. The first, nearly a century and two-score years before, had been Saire Fethzann. Her observations were few and brief, but then, the Tarskans had suffered her only to cross the river border into their land. Those highlanders that came had traveled there just for her Playing, and left as quickly as they arrived.
The second visitor had been his great, great-grandfather. Nedritinn spent months in those mysterious mountains; he had lived among the Tarskans, hunted with them, given one of them a name, lands and a noble title. His great, great-grandfather died in Tarska, but of that land and its people, both of which he obviously loved, he left behind only a few vague references.
So Heratinn had gone on to pursue the living.
"Tell me of your homeland, Count Val Torska."
"What is there to tell? Tarska is a place, Your Highness. Different for its mountains and its trees, but still a place, and nothing more."
"But the people--tell me, are they--?"
"They are people, Your Highness. Different, but still people. Your Highness will excuse me, the Queen your mother requires these papers. Her displeasure…"
Always the same old story, and always, damnably true. His mother or the council always had Val Torska on some errand. Heratinn had long suspected that the count was the true workhorse of the council, and must know more about Lhant past and present than any man alive.
He thought he might fare better with Castandra, when the count's young daughter had come to court. But even at thirteen the girl had been reserved and self-possessed. She said more than her father, but revealed as little, and was always on her way and nearly late to this tutor or another.
It took him months to corner the lady's elusive handmaids. Twin does at bay, they stared beyond him, as if they expected a pack of hounds to arrive snarling at his heels. At an unspoken signal they had laced their fingers tight together and fled.
After, he had tried to apologize to Olkor. How had he frightened the girls, he asked. What had he done?
For a time, the count's manservant had only leaned over him, bleak and accusing, a watchtower still standing sentinel over a castle long since crushed to rubble.
"Nothing," the Tarskan at last answered slowly, his words grating like stone against stone. "That is your way. You do nothing."
Not a pardon, but a reproach. And a dismissal. He had never approached Olkor or Castandra's handmaids again.
So, after so much secrecy, after so much evasion, it seemed beyond belief that he could finally be here, with the river border four days behind. Each day the land grew stranger, wilder, and yet, somehow, more lovely. This morning he had ridden beneath trees so tall and straight the trunks seemed more like columns. High above a forest bed of needles so smooth it might have been a floor of mottled marble, those mighty columns held aloft a greedy canopy of branches, which threw the wood into a solemn, ceaseless twilight.
He thought that they might never leave that wood; it felt as vast as any ocean. Yet later, at mid-day, they rested the horses in a wide, brown meadow. The sky had been bright and blue as a sapphire; below, a handful of tiny lakes caught the cold sun and flashed like scattered coins. Mesmerized, he forgot his meal, until the count pressed a steaming plate into his hand.
"You cannot fight cold on an empty belly," the count had warned him, "and the winds of Griffin Pass will cut through your cloak like a sword."
"Griffin Pass," he repeated, charmed by the title. "If the place is as fantastic as its namesake, I look forward to seeing it."
The Tarskan smiled--approvingly, he thought. "You would."
He had paused then, thinking before his reply. "I find your homeland wondrous, Count Val Torska. I know the others are somewhat… anxious; this place is so different. But I like the difference. I think --"
But he had paused too long. The highlander had gone, and he spoke to no one but himself.
And now he had no one but himself to speak to. The forest tangled, the trail writhed in the stranglehold of the choking undergrowth. Sometimes the track expired altogether, but Caldan, in the lead, must have known the way well. The party progressed without hesitation, each person alone with his thoughts as they pushed on single file.
Was it here, Heratinn wondered. He could not shake the feeling that he might not be the second, but the third of his house to pass this way. Suddenly he was glad of the ranks of elite that rode before and behind him.
Did it matter? Seventeen years before, his uncle, too, had brought his Royal Elite into Tarska. A full complement. All that a king could command. For he had just then become king, his mother's brother: King Nazril. Favored of Shador, they called him, though reputedly more for his generosity to the sea-god than for any consideration the deity had shown his "favored". To celebrate his coronation, Nazril promised the priests of Shador the far-northern toehold they had been so long seeking: a temple to be erected in the highlands, beside Castle Hawkshold.
The Tarskans sent him a message.
No lowlander comes here. That is the pact.
Nazril responded with bribes. Then threats. Yet each time the reply was the same:
No lowlander comes here. That is the pact.
Eight at the time, Heratinn sensed the strong undercurrent of building events; changes that would alter the course of his life. Though powerless to act, he still wanted to know. Little gossip is directed toward eight-year-old ears, but King Nazril had always been loud in his anger. Heratinn soon found excuses to play ever closer to his uncle's private audience chamber.
"You have been given dominion there!" He had thought then, and remembered now, how alike, in full bellow, were the voices of his uncle and mother. "They are your people. Make them obey!"
The door opened. The argument had possessed another side, but until then, one so quietly addressed the boy-prince had not heard it.
"My people." If contempt had been a dagger, the king might have died then. "Next grant me dominion of the wind. I am sure with your sanction it will obey me as readily."
Heratinn had feigned absorption in his tin soldiers and wooden horses as black heels clicked crisply toward him against tile. But two boots and eight paws had still stopped, and a finger lifted his chin.
"Perhaps not so far into the hall," said the highlander. A smile had softened his reprimand. "Curiosity is poor reason to be trod upon."
It was the last time he would see Count Caldan Val Torska in Sheldwinn while Nazril still wore the crown. The count claimed he rode to Hawkshold to attend his wife, ill and with child. It was also nearly the last time he would see his uncle. Or at least see him whole and alive.
That last time, his uncle rode away at the head of a small but formidable army, hand-picked and all volunteers. Ranks of elite, their reserves, Royal Guardsman, nobles young and old, eager to demonstrate their bravery or swordsmanship, and those of humbler birth, whose skill at arms had won them the chance to aspire to the same. It was not to be war, only a demonstration. They would ride up in splendor, make a few examples, and remind the Tarskans that their king would not be defied.
In due time the Tarskans sent back the king's head, Sheldwin
n's crown still upon it. Not one pearl or sapphire had been knocked askew. A tightly rolled message was placed between the regent's bloodless lips.
No lowlander comes here. That is the pact.
Tribute and taxes came that year as always. Deep in their own private war for the throne of Lhant, his mother and father could spare no time for reprisals. When the dust finally settled, the wounds were old and the highlanders' taxes and tribute--the mastwood--too valuable have their flow interrupted by conflict.
And here he was now, a "lowlander," four days into Tarska. He and the others rode here with the consent and in the company of the ruler of the province himself. Still, suddenly, he could not help remembering:
"Next grant me dominion of the wind."
He reined up. In a single bound, Petril's horse was beside his own.
"You saw something, Highness?" His eyes raked through the undergrowth, as if he would unearth like weeds whatever skulked there.
"Yes."
Twentysails' hand flashed for the hilt of his blade.
"No! No, Superior Twentysails, nothing like that. Just that fellow there."
From a nearby branch, an animal faced them down boldly.
"A squirrel?"
"Yes, but look at it," insisted Heratinn. "It's black, and look at those ears. Have you ever seen a squirrel like that, Petril?"
"Highness, with all respect, squirrels with tall, furry ears are the least of my concerns. I mistrust this place. You could hide an army in this maze of rock and bramble. They could be on us any moment."
And that suddenly, they were, materializing from the surrounding wood as noiselessly and without warning as stars emerging from a darkening sky. Petril's horse reared, his rider shouting orders. The elite were to their charges swift as falcons. Horses whinnied. Someone cursed. Swords chimed free of sheathes like bells.
The prince's eyes darted to the trees beyond the shifting crenellations of his living fortress. Surrounded. No time to flee. Grimly, he put his hand to the hilt of his sword. "Worthless play-pretties," he could almost hear his brother sneer. "You and your sword both."
Heratinn's mare tossed her head nervously. One man left the cover of the trees.
"Hai, Caldan!"
"Hai, Vitask!"
"Wind to your back."
"Meat to your camp." The councilor tossed his saddlebags in the direction of his near-mirror image. Vitask caught it with one hand, while to every side warriors stepped into full view.
Heratinn stared. Despite the rumors and tales, he had never believed. Still, there they were, each one the same: tall, slender, clean-shaven, pale skin with straight, raven hair--siblings seldom looked so alike. "I’ll tell you something about your precious highlanders. They prig their own sisters." The voice of his brother again. "That's not true!" Old accusations. Old protests.
"You keep excitable company," Vitask said to his lord.
"We are pleased you were entertained."
"Shador," breathed Heratinn softly as he fumbled for paper and pen. They even dressed all the same, soft leather leggings and shirts, long hair, like women. He squinted, marveling. Why, some of them were! Women, in breeches, and armed!
Vitask laughed. "Welcome," he said simply. "Our camp is nearby."
The highlanders sprinted away like deer. Heratinn urged his horse forward with the rest. Abruptly, the wood opened into a grassy clearing, broken up here and there with neatly placed tents and a few picketed horses.
The two elite superiors exchanged circumspect looks, confirming Heratinn's own appraisal. Organized, defensible, spartan, the camp might have been a military bivouac, though it could not be. Not with the dozen or so black-haired children running about, pointing and asking questions of their indulgent elders.
The highlanders' "greeting" had been wordlessly eloquent. Their welcoming party could have just as easily been an ambush.
Ahead, a small boy took the reins of the count's horse. Caldan tossed him onto Thunder's back, then gave the stallion a swat on the rear that sent him flying. Shrieking with delight, the boy disappeared into the trees to laughter and calls of advice from his elders.
Heratinn waited expectantly as the Saire's mount was led away, then Castandra's. Flustered, the prince fussed with his mare's girth as he checked to be sure no mud or debris had somehow obscured the royal insignia emblazoned on both sides of his horse's saddlepad. Beside him, Petril's scowl deepened. Did the highlanders slight him? Were they ignorant of who he was?
"Allow me, Your Highness." The reins slipped through his fingers as Caldan led his mare away, but the prince never answered. Instead, he watched the reactions around him speak volumes--eyes narrowed, glances exchanged and then gone, a smirk not quite hidden by a long-fingered hand. Deliberate, then. A dig? A test? An example? For whom? 'Next grant me dominion of the wind…' As with everything concerning the highlands, each answer provoked a thousand more questions.
o0o
Elzin struggled to catch Caldan's eye as she and her elite were surrounded by a diminutive, albeit well-armed, company.
The children looked at her, the ground, each other. A few flicked glances at a knot of adults, who continued to carve up the deer they labored over as if a prince, a Saire, and half an army rode into their camp every day. One girl, standing hip-shot with her hand on the hilt of a very real dagger, looked curiously up at Elzin. "Is that truly your hair?" she asked.
Elzin shifted uncomfortably, unsure if the question had been meant as an insult. "Well… yes."
"You have dyed it with something?"
"Of course not!" huffed the Saire. "It's naturally this color."
"Old then," the child said and stepped closer. To their left, a woman laughed as she accepted a haunch of venison. The girl, unadmonished, stepped closer still. "You do not look old."
"Well I'm not. I'm not old. I'm--I'm young," Elzin finished lamely.
"She's blonde, Ashili."
Ashili raised an eyebrow at the boy who had edged up beside her elbow. "Blonde," she said, tapping one fingernail against her strong, white teeth. "Huh."
"You were hunting," the boy said, "and we learned --"
"--this blonde is like the ermine in the winter, then?"
"No, it is for always--like Yvarha's horse."
"Ah."
"Yvarha's horse is very beautiful," the boy assured Elzin.
Elzin laughed. No one had ever complimented her with a comparison to a horse before. The children crowded closer as if attracted to the sound.
The boy reached out a hand. "Can—may--may I touch?"
"May I touch please," Ashili corrected imperiously.
Superior Gage growled a low warning. "Great Lady, those "children" are armed to the teeth."
"Of course you may," said Elzin.
"Me, too!" "And me!" "May I?" "I want to!" "Oh, yes!" "Let me!" Instantly surrounded by squealing, shouting children, she expected to be jostled, tugged at, or worse, but they treated her like porcelain and her hair like gossamer. In fact, the sensation was strangely, well, nice. Like being petted.
A sudden shower of pine needles and snow forced Elzin and her admirers to cover their heads. All eyes turned upward. Two faces, framed by branches, grinned apologetically down at them.
"Lisha," the older of the two girls complained, "you're as clumsy as a porcupine."
"Not," she retorted, then with a squeal of discovery pointed at the superior of Heratinn's elite guard, an action that sent another deluge of debris on the upturned faces below. "Isva! Look! That man has a caterpillar crawling under his nose!"
Petril Twentysails assumed an expression of such theatrical indifference the Saire whooped with laughter. "Under that nose? I'd like to meet a caterpillar so brave! If Superior Twentysails weren't so vain, he'd tell you that he's wearing a mustache. Men get it sometimes," she rolled her eyes merrily at the luckless elite, "when they don't eat their greens."
"No grass, mus-tash," tiny Lisha chanted, riding her swaying branch like a squirrel.
"Oh,
Lisha. She's not serious, you know."
"Hee! Hee! Hee! Hee!"
Lisha giggled herself crimson as, with a resigned sigh, her older sister slung herself upside down from a branch until the tips of her jet hair fell even with Elzin's eyes. "I made you something," Isva told her. "Lisha was supposed to find some colored stones for the eyes, but she slept instead." Lisha waggled her eyebrows at the Saire, as if to make sure no one would mistake her humor for contrition. Still upside down, Isva casually undid a small pouch at her belt and dangled her gift before the Saire.
It was a circlet of polished wood, wine-dark to near purple, wonderfully thin and light and carved in the image of a dragon. The beast chewed thoughtfully on its tail, as a man might rub his chin. "It's supposed to be an arm band," Isva said, sizing up the Saire doubtfully, "but I don't expect that it'll fit yours. You could use it for a bracelet, though."
Elzin took the carving carefully as Castandra simpered behind one hand. "Then I'll wear it as a bracelet, or a finger ring if I have to, when I play the Flute tomorrow. It's a lovely gift. Thank you."
"Amazing how the mouth that's open too long catches flies, isn't it, Isva?" one of the youngsters remarked.
"Oh, bite a pine cone," the girl snapped.
A deer carver put down her knife and clapped her hands once for attention. "Enough, children. Havakhi's tent."
Not one child argued. They all immediately trotted off, except for Isva, who dropped from the tree, knees bent to absorb the impact.
"Come on, Lisha," she coaxed as she stood beneath her sister and held out her arms. "It'll take you 'til high summer to climb out of there. Drop down. You know how. I'll catch you."
Lisha looked for a second as if she might do the sensible thing and refuse. Instead, she frowned intently, then her body went limp and she plummeted to earth like a bird struck by a sling stone.
Isva caught her, followed her down, arms, body, knees in a controlled collapse that spilled them both to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
The Night Holds the Moon Page 19