Stillbright

by Daniel M Ford

  “You decent in there? Haven’t snuck a girl in or anything?”

  “No one in here but me, and I am clothed, Torvul,” Allystaire wearily replied.

  A long-fingered hand pulled the flap back and Torvul strolled in. “It wouldn’t hurt you to sneak a girl in once or twice. Unless you’re saving yourself for marriage, chivalry being what it is…”

  Allystaire sighed heavily, and the dwarf trailed off, peering closely at the paladin’s face. “Touched a nerve, eh?”

  “Leave it, Torvul. Let us discuss business.”

  “You’re pining over someone. Not Idgen Marte—”

  “I said leave it,” Allystaire insisted. Thoughts competed for space in his head. Auburn hair, highland winds, wildflowers. The Goddess, Her overwhelming presence, Her burning lips.

  “Well, what’s that about then,” Torvul said, instantly honing in on a sudden flush in Allystaire’s cheeks.

  “Not Idgen Marte, who is like a sister to me, and all that implies.”

  “Well, you’ve hardly slept since we got back, much less had time for courting, so I can’t imagine…” Torvul’s eyes suddenly went wide and he glared at Allystaire. “Surely not…I mean, you’re not pining over…Her.”

  Allystaire cut him off with a sharp chop of one hand in the air. “Stop. I cannot explain. I have not the words.”

  Torvul chuckled under his breath. “Well, I guess I can’t fault your ambition.” He ambled over to the stool and sat down, tapped a finger thoughtfully on his chin. “Did you ever marry? I’m assuming you didn’t leave a wife behind. Doesn’t seem like you.”

  “No.”

  The dwarf harrumphed. “Married to war, to glory in battle, n’that?”

  “In short, and so you will let it alone—the only woman I would have married I was forbidden to. By the Old Baron, by my father and hers. I followed their commands. When they suggested other candidates, I ignored them.”

  “Aren’t your father and the Old Baron dead many years?”

  “So is she,” Allystaire replied, clipped and cold. “Now I assume you did not come to see me to gossip?”

  Torvul grimaced. “I’m sorry, Allystaire. For bringing it up. I’ll let that alone from now on, till some night we’re both good and drunk. Fair?”

  Allystaire nodded. “Fair. Now, what have you come about?”

  The dwarf pulled a heavy, full-looking pouch free from his belt, and upended it on the table. What emerged was Allystaire’s gauntlet, the left-handed one, that Torvul had borrowed. “Finally finished what I set out to do with this. Nothing that’ll sink a tunnel through bedrock or shunt lava— that’s what dwarves mean when we say miracle in Dwarfish, by the way—but I think you’ll find it useful.”

  “What did you do?” Allystaire began pulling it onto his hand and immediately felt the difference. The palm had been cut away and the rest adjusted so that it fixed firmly around the tips of his fingers. He tested the fit, flexing his hand.

  “Thought it might be of use to be able to heal in the midst of a fracas without pausing to strip that off,” the dwarf said. “Figure the exposed skin is probably worth the trade, no?”

  Allystaire nodded, continuing to flex his hand, curl it into a fist. “Aye, it should be.” He nodded a thanks and said, “Well done, Torvul. Fits better than ever.”

  “That’s dwarfish craftsmanship you feel,” Torvul replied. “I’m no great smith, not among my folk, but I know my way around a common forge—they’re nothing like the old Great Forges in the Homes, mind you, or so I hear, anyway. Still, I did what I could.” He paused, then added, “Made the girl a sickle, too.”

  Allystaire frowned, stripped off the gauntlet, then set it down on the table with the rest of his armor. “Is that truly necessary?”

  “You saw the same vision I did. She carried one there. She’ll carry one here.”

  Allystaire put his palms down on the table and leaned over it, dropping his head and closing his eyes. “I do not like arming an eleven year old child, Torvul.”

  “Be willing to bet you armed enough eleven year old boys in your old life. Don’t see why it’s different except that she’s a girl, and we both know she’s a great deal more than a child anyway. But it’s not just about arming her. It’s about becoming more than we are. It’s a little bit like playin’ a part, I suppose, though we’re not trying to deceive anyone. She showed us what we could be, Allystaire—what we need to become. If we don’t take our own steps towards that, what are we doin’?”

  Allystaire stood up, wincing at the audible snaps his back made. “You are right. I never said you were not. I just said that I do not like it.”

  “Likin’ it isn’t the point, and you know it. That being said,” Torvul added, and pointed at Allystaire’s armor, “I need to borrow that. The plate. The best that you’ve got.”

  “Why? More adjustments?”

  The dwarf shrugged, his eyes shifting evasively. “Something like that. I’d rather not say just yet, till I know if I can do it.”

  Allystaire sighed. “In for a copper half, in for a gold chain, I suppose. Do as you must. Please do not damage it; I have no idea how I would replace it. The armorer at Wind’s Jaw worked weeks at it, made it to my fit.”

  “That plain suit was your best?”

  “Best in the way that mattered. I had fancier plate. My arms engraved on it, stones set in places. I think it would not have stopped a sling-stone, and I would not have bothered to bring it with me if I had left with a wagon train.”

  “Your priorities never cease t’disappoint me,” Torvul replied, before nodding to the armor. “I’ll send someone around to gather it up later. I’ve got a few points of the formulae to work out.”

  “Just do not—”

  “Damage it? Anything I did to human ironmongery could only improve it.” The dwarf headed for the flap, but even as he opened it, Mol was standing outside reaching for it. Her hood was down, and the morning light behind her made the sky blue of her robe nearly white.

  Torvul held the flap open for her. “M’lady,” he playfully murmured. The girl laughed, and in the moment was young again. When she turned to Allystaire, her face was once more a nearly ageless anomaly.

  It is like the face of the Mother joining with the face of the girl I pulled from the cold well, Allystaire thought.

  “We’re going to have visitors today,” she announced. “Coming on the westerly track. The first will arrive soon. We’ll need to greet them.”

  “Do you know any more than that?”

  The girl paused for a moment. “Dress well.”

  * * *

  Allystaire had chosen to interpret Mol’s words as dress in such armor as you have not loaned to Torvul to experiment on, so less than half a turn later, he was wearing iron bracers, his iron-studded leather gloves, and thick leathers. His sword rode on his back and his shield was slung off of Ardent’s pommel, with the hammer tucked securely against his right hip.

  The destrier was happy for the exercise and tossed his head against the reins, stamping his feet and resisting Allystaire’s gentle suggestions to relax. The horse wanted to run, so Allystaire let the reins go slack for only a moment. The huge grey gathered himself and practically leapt forward, thundering over the track that led through the village green.

  Allystaire felt his own heart leap as the destrier did, wishing, if only for a moment, to give the big grey his head and let him run as far and fast as he would. All too quickly, though, he saw a cluster of other mounts on the road beyond the green, and had to rein him in, a decision that Ardent fought for a few moments. Mostly, Allystaire thought, for the look of the thing.

  Mol sat atop a pony and Idgen Marte on her courser. He saw the warrior staring into the distance, her eyes narrowed.

  “What are we waiting for, exactly?”

  “She tells me we’ll know it when we see i
t,” Idgen Marte murmured from one corner of her mouth.

  “I do not want to color your reactions with prior knowledge,” Mol replied, calmly. “Shan’t be long, anyway.”

  Ardent gave up on running and was soon nipping at the frost-rimmed grass. Mol’s word was true, and in a few moments the early morning sun showed them a glint of metal that resolved itself into a party of three riders and a small crowd of men on foot.

  Two of the riders carried banners or standards of some kind, and when Allystaire saw them, his stomach tightened. One of the standards was simply a wheel, left loose and spinning, mounted atop a pole. The other was a long rectangle of gold-edged white cloth, its length taut against the pole. It showed a female figure, nude, but the glinting he’d seen was from the precious stones sewn into the fabric at her fingers and throat and hair.

  “Gemmary on a flag,” Idgen Marte said. “Oh, Freeze me…”

  “It would not do for the Goddess Fortune to go without Her Adornment, even on a standard,” Allystaire said. “From what I remember of my lessons, this must be a ranking priest.”

  Mol was silent, watching the party approach with unreadable poise.

  Besides the three riders, there were three pack mules and six armed men on foot. The riders to either flank held the standards. The woman carrying the banner wore a cloak lined with fox fur over a dress of a deep red hue. Her saddle was a leather Allystaire couldn’t identify on sight, and all her mount’s tack was tooled with silver.

  Meanwhile, the man carrying the wheel practically wore rags by comparison. Young and hardy, if thin, his clothing was carefully dirtied and rumpled, though hardly threadbare. Allystaire felt something in himself snarling at the intimation of poverty and hardship. His face has not got the look of a man going hungry, he thought. And there’s many a peasant this country over wearing worse things into the fields today.

  What really drew the eye, though, what demanded attention, was the Priestess riding between them. Where the standard-bearer’s saddle was set with silver, hers bore gold. She, too, wore fox-fur, only it was a rich and rare silver, and her dress, in slashes of white and gold, was richer silk. Her feet were slippered, rather than booted, and she rode side-saddle on a white palfrey that Allystaire estimated some men would pay as much for as they would for Ardent.

  Her face was covered by a golden mask with translucent topaz inset over her eyes. The mask was exquisitely detailed, showing the aristocratic, indifferent face of the Goddess Fortune, and was bound carefully with ribbons of silk.

  “I have come as a representative of She who bestows, withholds, and spreads the wealth of the world among men. I seek the man Alysander.” Her voice was muffled by the mask, but resonant nonetheless, with the unmistakably rich and smooth tone of the educated. Her intonation was theatrical, and even behind the mask Allystaire could feel her eyes sizing him up. A hand, elegantly gloved in soft white lambskin, pointed a beringed finger at Allystaire. “You are he. I can sense a power within you.”

  Allystaire snorted. “I am the man you seek, though my name is Allystaire. Tell me plainly what has brought you here.”

  “My Mistress Fortune wishes to satisfy Her curiosity about the rise of a new power in this world. As Her servants, it is our duty to understand the currents and eddies of power, and at the moment, power is swirling around your name. Even if the passing of that name from mouth to ear has rather garbled it. I apologize for having it incorrectly.” Her voice was honey, and her imperiously pointing hand lay demurely against her saddle.

  Allystaire merely shrugged, which had the unintended but not unwelcome effect of rattling the scabbarded sword hung across his back. He eyed the retinue, and the cynical, detached part of him that evaluated such things went to work. They look indifferent. Casual. Yet hard-eyed. They know their business. Weapons are well maintained, hilts are worn. None of them are trying for style. Though they wore light brown cloaks with hints of gilt running through them, and rounded, spiked helmets that looked as likely to stop a hammer blow as wet wool would, the cloaks were all kept carefully away from sword and dagger hilts.

  Two of them had wandered, nonchalantly, to the sides of the road, watching intently while trying not to appear as though they were watching intently.

  “We have no intent to ambush you, gentlemen,” Allystaire suddenly said to them. “Yet I commend your watchfulness.” His eyes flitted back to the masked face of the priestess. “I am not offended that you had misheard my name. I do admit to curiosity about where you heard it—and about your own name.”

  The two guardsmen Allystaire had addressed turned to him, but slowly. I do not like this at all, he thought, then was suddenly startled by Mol’s voice in his head.

  This may be turned to our gain. Be nice.

  “I am Cerisia, Archioness of the Goddess Fortune’s Church in Baronies Delondeur, Telmawr, and Innadan.”

  “Well met then, Archioness,” Allystaire said, scrambling in his mind for protocol he’d long since forgotten on greeting Fortune’s clergy. Her title sounds important. Why didn’t I pay more attention to lessons? “I am Allystaire, Arm of the Mother, Her Servant and Prophet, Revelator and Paladin. Welcome to Thornhurst.”

  She nodded graciously, the standard and wheel bearers bowed in their saddles, then all three began to edge their horses forward.

  Ardent laid his ears back and bared his teeth, lowered his neck and tugged at the reins. Allystaire kept his own face free from similar signs of aggression, even if he felt them. He did not scold Ardent, though he subtly tightened his fist around the reins in case he needed to pull the horse in. He did not, however, give any ground.

  “I am still unclear on your purpose, exactly,” Allystaire said.

  “To confer with you as the leader of this new faith, of course,” Cerisia said, the bright warmth of her voice doing little to defuse the situation. “There is certainly no reason that Fortune and the Mother cannot come to a good footing with one another through their mortal representatives.” There was an almost imperceptible hitch, the tiniest pause, before the priestess said “Mother.” With what Allystaire could only assume was an imperturbable smile beneath her mask, she said, “Are you going to introduce me to your servants?”

  “I have no servants,” Allystaire replied, rather more sharply than he intended. “However,” he extended his free hand towards Mol, “This is Mol, the Voice of the Mother, Her first Servant, Priestess, and Seer.”

  The girl’s poise very nearly matched that of the Archioness. Though Mol had only a homespun robe and shaggy spotted pony, she held her own against Cerisia’s golden mask and fine, snow-white palfrey. The older woman—though how old, Allystaire had no idea—had the accoutrements, the training, and the years of experience. But Mol had spoken, often and directly, to the Goddess Herself, and that had to count for something.

  Indeed, it must have, for it was Cerisia who spoke first. “Well met, Mol, Voice of the Mother. I look forward to speaking with you as one godly woman to another.” She turned then, distinctly back to Allystaire, and indicated Idgen Marte with one hand. “And she is?”

  That was too damn clever by half, Allystaire suddenly thought, even as he found himself clearing his throat and answering. “Idgen Marte, Shadow of the Mother.”

  “My, my. Such titles we give ourselves,” the Archioness tittered. “Arm, Shadow, Voice. And, of course, Paladin? That is a bold title for anyone to claim, even if it is on lips from here to Londray, and beyond.”

  “I have not claimed it. It was given to me, as the others were given to those who bear them,” Allystaire replied. “Now, as to your business…”

  “Certainly we shall not bar entry to those of other faiths,” Mol suddenly put in, turning to Allystaire, then back to Cerisia. “I suppose that protocol would have me ask you to produce your charter or warrant, but I think we can let that go, as breakfast-time approaches, and no doubt you are dry and hungry from the road.” />
  Allystaire cleared his throat and spoke up again. “I mean no offense, Archioness, but I will not have armed men I do not know or trust remain armed in a village that is under my protection. I will have their arms, to return upon your exit.”

  Cerisia turned to the guard standing nearest her horse, who gave a tiny shake of his head. There was no mark of rank to set the man apart, but his face was older, more heavily lined. Captain, Allystaire thought. There were heavy bags under his eyes, and Allystaire marked his face.

  “This is dangerous country, and we approach the season of deserters and banditry, do we not?” Cerisia’s voice was entirely reasonable, her head tilted to the side, though some of the effect was doubtless lost by the mask hiding her features. “You have my word that they will remain peaceful unless provoked and would aid in the defense of your village and people at need. They will also remain sober.”

  Mol spoke up. “We mean to cast no aspersions on you or your retinue, Archioness. We could accept your promise of good conduct.”

  “You will also accept the brunt of any consequences deriving from their actions,” Allystaire put in, and then thought, to Mol, On this, I will not budge. I mislike the look of these men; they are not lazy merchant’s sons playing at being guards.

  “They will be good. I do promise,” the priestess said, and Allystaire didn’t like at all the tone of faint mockery in her words.

  “Very well. One of us will go ahead to see that a proper reception is prepared,” Mol said. “I am afraid that space is cramped and we may have no roof for you.”

  “We brought our pavilions in case of need,” Cerisia replied, “though we may ask for fuel to keep them warm. It is growing chill.”

  Allystaire turned his horse, happy to leave the priestess behind, less happy to have her men where he couldn’t see them. Idgen Marte had already turned her courser and, he could see, was about to give it her heel. Find Torvul, Renard, and Ivar. I do not give a frozen damn if there is hot drink or bread for them, but there will be armed men about. And get Gideon out of sight.