by Lee Ramsay
“That might explain why the Meridan are said to have better technology, but not far beyond our own.”
“How so?”
“They were too busy trying to survive to spend much time on anything else, especially since they refused to interbreed with the indigenous people like nearly everyone else did in the Second, Third, and Fourth Migrations.”
Anthoun nodded slowly. “Which nation shares philosophical and political commonalities the Kingdom of Merid?”
“The Duchy of Anahar,” Tristan said, tapping a country in the lower right of the map. “Mihelic is vague about this country, other than to say it rose from the Kingdom of Bayeren – which was founded during the Third Migration.”
“Bayeren was a Second Migration nation, though its founding straddles the division with the Third. Anahar formed at the end of the Third. What else is notable about Anahar?”
“It is a matriarchal society ruled by a Grand Duchess of Anahar. Families retain a form of their original patronym, but the bloodlines are matrilineal,” Tristan said, sitting back in his chair. “Didn’t your book say the current ruler is a woman by the name of Anasha?”
The sage shrugged. “She was the grand duchess fifteen years ago. Anahar is rather insular, like Merid. Not much word reaches us, despite their being our neighbor.”
“Well, Merid and Anahar are aligned. Or they were, at some point.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It’s implied in your book. You describe the Anahari as retaining much of their ancient bloodline in a near-pure form, despite some crossbreeding with the indigenous peoples they encountered. If they are a society established before the Fourth Migration and value a purer bloodline, it makes sense that they would have some contact.”
Anthoun leaned back in his chair. “I’m impressed.”
“Tinstafel was boring. Mihelic’s writing – and yours – were more interesting.” Tristan leaned forward, his finger touching different countries on the map. “Caledorn was among the first kingdoms founded at the beginning of the Fourth Migration, settling the lands along Merid’s eastern border. Troppenheim occupies the flood plain between the River Ernhesh and the River Ossifor. Though called a Fourth Migration nation, they are a splinter nation formed after the fall of the Kingdom of Bayeren.”
He slid his finger further to the north and east. “The Reesenat settled here somewhere around Year 140, their arrival signaling the end of the Fourth Migration. Tinstafel says they resisted adapting to the economy established by the Council of Mytoos, but eventually did so.”
Anthoun’s lips acquired a smirk as the silence grew between them. “I see a question forming.”
“The books you gave me list the different kings of Troppenheim, Caledorn, Reesenat, and the five countries which comprise the Hegemony of Ravvos. They even list the Grand Duchesses of Anahar.”
“Yet there is only one name for the king of Merid – Seban Terador. Why do you think that is?”
“It’s either an oversight or a hereditary name,” Tristan said after a moment’s thought, “though you’d think they’d have ‘the Third’ or ‘the Sixteenth’ to differentiate one ruler from another.”
Anthoun said nothing for a moment. “Suppose, for a moment, that it is neither an oversight nor a hereditary name.”
“You mean he’s immortal?” Tristan scoffed.
“Why not? The Meridan are rumored to practice black magic and worship dark gods.”
“You persuaded me as a child that magic is a fancy way to explain the unexplainable. You pulled a half-Arch from my ear when I was six, then showed me how you made it appear. Magic does not exist, except as a way to swindle fools into parting with their coin purses.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a direct quote.”
“It is. You have said it enough, though usually about religion.”
“We’ll discuss religion another day, if you don’t mind. Now, tell me what you learned about the Hegemony of Ravvos.”
Tristan looked down at the map, his finger running across the names of the five kingdoms forming the hegemony. He did not, however, say anything.
Anthoun sighed and rose, then moved to one of the nearby bookcases. “You skipped those chapters, didn’t you? Distant lands sounded more interesting?”
The youth’s lips twisted in an apologetic half-smile. “I was going to read them. Eventually.”
The sage placed a thick book on the desk and added several more to the growing stack. “A History of the Kingdom of Shreth. Read that first, as it is our country. After that, there are the histories for the kingdoms of Fershan, Torrahd, Kothos, and Ravvos itself. It should take you two days to read each if you did nothing else. You have chores to attend, as well as those runs and smacking things with farm tools with Dougan, so I’ll give you four.”
“So, after the first of spring?”
Anthoun nodded and thrust his chin toward the library door. “Twenty days should be sufficient. Now, off you go.”
Chapter 7
The New Year Celebration passed with little fanfare, as it always did at Dorishad. A barrel of whisky put away to age twenty years earlier was rolled from the distillery and tapped, with each family receiving three bottles to celebrate the new year’s dawning.
Why the fourteen-year calendar was divided into seven-year winter and summer cycles was a mystery to Tristan. Anthoun bored him with a complex astronomical lecture involving axial angles, rotational cycles, and gravitational forces exerted by Theragus’ ovoid orbit.
After seeing the youth’s eyes glaze for the third time in an hour, the sage sighed and simplified the explanation. “It has to do with the moon. You have not noticed, being so young, but Theragus changes size depending on where it is in the sky. As it does, it causes seasonal shifts over fourteen or fifteen years. At one time, the years had names; why remains a mystery. I’d say ask the indigenous tribes, were there any to be found; their lore was obliterated before anyone bothered to write it down. Like as not, our people adopted the cycle as they tried to blend cultures.”
It was a mystery he was willing to leave without further explanation or study – particularly when Dougan handed him a bottle of whisky with a stern frown. “Go easy with that. Anthoun wanted to wait until you passed your birthingday, but since we don’t know when that is—”
“I’ll try not to overindulge,” Tristan said as he took the bottle and tucked it under his arm with a grateful smile. Dougan snorted and resumed filling the bottles as the youth slipped out the distillery door.
Since the alcohol’s sharpness bit at his throat, he meant to take no more than a drink or two of the whisky. He coughed as his eyes watered from the sting, but the sensation passed swiftly enough for him to enjoy the pleasant mix of smokiness and sweet, buttery smoothness. Propped against the wall as he lay on his bed with a warm quilt draped over his lap, he drank half the bottle before passing out.
The aroma of sizzling bacon woke him, and brought a thundering headache with it. His eyes felt as though someone had poured molten candle wax in them, then walked across his tongue with muddy boots for good measure. He attempted to stand and failed. The world spun around him as he sat on his bed’s edge with his head in his hands. Two more attempts brought him to his feet, and he glared at the bottle lying beside his bed.
“You can stay right there. I’ll fall over if I try to pick you up,” he said, glowering at the bottle as he made his way toward the kitchen.
Tristan winced at the sunlight pouring through the kitchen’s window and dropped himself into a chair at the table. Anthoun sat in another chair in front of the fire; a book lay open on his lap as he held a half-eaten biscuit stuffed with eggs and bacon with one hand and a cup of steaming tea in the other. Dougan hummed contentedly at the cookstove built into a counter running the length of one wall, bacon sizzling in one skillet while he scrambled eggs in another.
“I wondered if you were going to grace us with your presence. I thought it’d be nice to make breakfast and allo
w Karilen to sleep late,” the veteran said, scooping the eggs onto a plate and sliding bacon next to it. He clapped the young man’s shoulder as he set the plate on the table. “Well, eat up! It’s your favorite!”
The youth groaned and closed his eyes as the smack jostled his head. He swallowed the bile souring his tongue as he squinted at the sizzling bacon and the yolk pooling beside runny eggs. Dougan’s expectant mien made him reconsider pushing the plate away as his stomach turned. Splitting off a chunk of eggs with the edge of his fork released a runny yellow-white streamer of yolk into the pooling bacon grease. The smell washed over him, and it took him a moment to spear the sectioned bit and lift it to his mouth. He forced himself to chew and swallow, and tried not to gag as the egg slid down his throat and sat like a rock in his belly.
The whisky is toying with the flavor. Setting the fork aside, he picked up a piece of bacon and winced as the crisped meat singed his fingertips. He took a hesitant bite and spent a moment chewing. A flow of grease preceded the bite on its way to his stomach.
Tristan’s stomach rebelled, and he bolted for the door leading to the commons. Retching sounds drifted back into the kitchen as the door swung on its hinges.
“Was that necessary?” Anthoun asked as the balding man chuckled. “You didn’t need to salt the eggs so much or let the bacon sit in its grease. You’re a better cook than that.”
“It’s his first drunk, and I did warn him to go easy.” Dougan chortled as Tristan retched again, somehow more violently than before, and dumped the abandoned plate into the pail that would go to the pigs later in the day.
“It’s not funny,” the sage chided. “Quite mean, in fact.”
“It’s damned hilarious. You wouldn’t be smiling if it wasn’t.”
Chapter 8
Spring 1414
Within days of the New Year, signs of an early spring were growing apparent. The nights were still cold and the mornings crisp, but the sun was warm and bright by midday. From all around Dorishad came the sounds of melting snow. Water dripped from trees to patter in the mud or splashed into puddles as it ran from shingled roofs. Trees appeared barren save for a few budding leaves, but they bore a greenish cast at a distance. Wild geese returned with raucous honking, inciting their domesticated cousins to bleat territorial challenges from their pens in the barn. The lonesome songs of the first wrens, finches, and other birds grew more complex as more arrived and added their voices to the chorus.
Tristan wondered why the stragglers remaining at Dresden Township had not yet returned. He doubted the road remained impassable, though it was surely muddy from the melt. His green eyes flicked to the hamlet’s northwest corner; returning wagons would be visible once they emerged from the forest, but there was no sign of them on the road. “They had better return soon. We’re going to have to start plowing and seeding soon.”
Ten days into the new year the others returned, though he was not on hand to welcome them; he was in the south orchards with Dougan, practicing the swing of an axe on a pine felled for firewood. The veteran did not allow him to use a saw to split the trunk into usable pieces and instead required him to alternate between his left and right hand every twenty strokes. As the veteran instructed him to follow through each blow with as much strength as he could muster, it was difficult work. Though his shoulders and back burned from the strain, the accuracy and depth of his blows were improving.
“It takes time,” Dougan said, sitting with his back against a tree as Tristan loaded cut wood into the small cart pulled by Murphy, the hamlet’s sole donkey. “You should have seen me trying to learn the right way to use an axe. I’d miss more often than hit, and nearly buried the bit in my leg more than once. You’re already better than I was.”
“Didn’t you know how to use an axe when you joined the duke’s army?”
“I did, though not for much more than splitting wood. The forests around Caer Pender, House Riand’s ancestral seat, were cleared long ago for cattle grazing.” Shifting to a more comfortable position against his tree, the older man smoothed his beard with his thumb and forefinger. “I understood what you were thinking this autumn; I had the same ideas when I was young. I didn’t want to spend my life with my boots covered in shit as I followed cattle or tended the other livestock. You see plenty of wealthy and influential people when you live near a lord’s castle, and soldiers in fine livery and arms as well. Wrestling muddy pigs lacks the same appeal.”
Tristan tossed split pieces of wood into the cart and paused to stretch his back. “How old were you when you joined Riand’s household army?”
“Twenty,” Dougan said as he climbed to his feet. He slapped his hands against his rump to clear dry mud and pine needles from his britches. “See, I had a younger sister, and our parents died back when I was about your age. I waited until she married, then sold my share of the ranch to the baronet whose lands we were on. Bought me a decent soldier’s rig and the rank of corporal with the money I got, not that I knew anything about soldiering. Spent near fifteen years in the old duke’s service before he died.”
“Did you see any fighting during the War of Tenegath?”
“More than I wanted to – and before you ask, I’ll not be telling you many stories about it. I’ve spent the last twenty years trying to forget what I witnessed.” The older man picked up split logs and tossed them into the cart. “Has Anthoun got you reading about the war, then?”
“He said it’s the war that matters most in recent history.”
“All wars matter to the men fighting them, and there always seems to be a war going on somewhere. They are usually about one nobleman fighting another over some petty point of honor, which often looks a lot like outstanding debt, or over a few miles of land that nobody is doing anything with.” The veteran leaned his palms against the cart and spit off to one side as though clearing foulness from his tongue. “Fighting against Tenegath of Troppenheim was just the largest of the wars that are always going on. It started small enough, over some land at the River Ossifor’s mouth, and kept escalating. It drew in armies from the Hegemony of Ravvos, Troppenheim, Caledorn, and even some mercenary bands from Reesenat.”
Tristan leaned his elbows on the cart’s side as the older man ran his hand across his bald pate and stared off into the distance. “And?”
“And what? It was a long war, a lot of people died. In the end, it was for nothing; nobody got any more land. Anthoun said it was a proxy war, with Merid goading Troppenheim to keep fighting while weakening everyone’s armies. Maybe it was, and maybe it wasn’t; I didn’t care at the time. All I cared about was killing dirty Troppenheim soldiers.” Dougan slapped the cart’s side and turned his back to Tristan. “I’m sure you’ll read plenty about it, and Anthoun will doubtless fill your head with this political theory or that economic motivation. I am done talking about it. Let’s take the wood back to houses before people start thinking about cooking dinner.”
They led Murphy along one of the paths passing the pond and stream at the hamlet’s heart. Reeds along the shore were already losing the dead brown of winter in favor of spring green. A pair of ducks quacked as they moved toward one of the small bridges crossing the flow.
Dougan grunted, gesturing toward the cluster of homes. Through the spaces between the buildings they saw wagons being unhitched, the horses being led to a paddock near the barn to wait for feeding and currying. “The wayward have returned. How long have they been gone now?”
“Since mid-autumn. Almost five months.”
“Which of the girls is the one you think being a soldier will impress?”
“I am not trying to impress anyone,” Tristan said a little too quickly.
“Right. I’ll give you another bottle of whisky if I can’t figure it out by summer’s dawn.”
“Please, don’t,” Tristan said with an embarrassed laugh. After a moment, he slid his narrowed eyes toward the older man. “How about a sword?”
The veteran snorted. “I doubt you’ll be able to hide
your stiffening pecker enough to make that a worthwhile bet. At your age, the wind stirring my hair was enough to make me want to go behind the barn and drop my britches.”
THE PAIR CROSSED THE bridge closest to the houses and led the donkey toward the stable. Tristan unhitched Murphy from the cart and took him to the paddock while Dougan went to help unload and store the wagons.
He found his shirt sleeves no longer reached his wrists as he dropped the latch in place. It was something he had noticed but not given much thought; not only were the sleeves shorter, the shirt’s fabric tightened across his shoulders or pinched his armpits depending on how he moved. His britches, too, were snugger in the groin and did not stretch as far down his calves. He had been forced to take an awl to his belt and cut another hole for his buckle. Though Dougan rushed his eating, he still managed to put away good-sized meals and had added almost two stone in muscle.
He stopped at the commons’ edge and looked down at himself, and pulled the front of his leather jerkin closed. He left the garment undone more often of late, and he realized why as he reached his breastbone; his breath felt like it was being squeezed out as he fastened the carved antler toggles.
The leather hinges on the privy house creaked open, and the door closed with a bang. “You look like a man with a problem,” said a feminine voice from his side, amusement making it break upward. “You grew a bit over the winter.”
“Jayna,” Tristan said, undoing the togs and facing the young woman with a broad smile. Daughter of Sasha and granddaughter of Karilen, she was several months his elder and one of his few peers who did not torment him. She was shorter than he; her head reached the middle of his chest. Before departing for the Harvest Festival, she stood at shoulder height. “You grew a bit, too.”