by Hilari Bell
“Thank you,” said Edoran. “I needed to know that. To know how it happened. To know…” To know that his certainty had been right. That he wasn’t crazy. “Well, to know. So I thank you.”
Sandeman’s face, in the firelight, was troubled. Had he seen the same visions Edoran had? Or something different, that spoke specifically to him? The old gods had clearly granted their spokesman an amazing amount of withe.
“I suppose that answers my question too,” Sandeman said. He didn’t sound happy about it.
“Your question?” Edoran frowned. “Oh, you mean about taking me back.”
He’d almost forgotten about that, but Sandeman nodded.
“I can’t take you back to the palace. If the old regent could murder a king and get away with it, then it’s not safe for you, either. Holis may have taken over the government, but most of the servants are still Pettibone’s people, aren’t they?”
“They are,” Edoran confirmed. “They all detest me too.”
Of course, that had been mutual. Now that he knew how his father had died, could he at least eliminate the maidservants from his suspicions? The hands on that hoe had been a man’s. But that was a problem for the future. For the present…
“Will you help me look for the Falcon then? Help me rescue Weasel?”
“I’ll look for the Falcon,” Sandeman told him. “And I’ll either find some way to get Weasel away from her, or I’ll bring you there to negotiate for his release. When there’s an army present, to keep you out of her hands!”
Edoran thought this over. He wanted to go after Weasel himself! But with every guardsman and villain in the realm looking for him… Sandeman and Arisa were right. At best he’d get in their way, and at worst they’d have to waste even more time rescuing him. And Weasel might not have time to spare.
He had to admit he was relieved at not having to confront the Falcon alone. Arisa could be crazy and bossy, but her mother was downright frightening. He was tired, and bruised, and dirty. He wasn’t cut out for wandering around the countryside on his own, much less for heroic rescues.
“All right,” said Edoran. “I’ll stay somewhere safe till you need me to negotiate. But I’m holding you to that part!”
Sandeman nodded gravely. “If it looks like the Falcon is going to be captured, I’ll do all I can to get you there in time.”
The words had the ring of an oath, and Edoran nodded acceptance. Previously, Sandeman had refused to make promises he wasn’t prepared to keep. “Very well. Where will you take me?”
Some shareholder’s country mansion would be nice, but even the home of a wealthy merchant might be acceptable. Edoran could all but feel the water of a hot bath covering his aching body.
“Hmm. Yes. I think that would be as safe as anywhere you could go. Certainly no one would look for you there. And it’s closer than the palace, though in the opposite direction. Yes, Caerfalas it is.”
“What’s Caerfalas?” Edoran asked. Many of the larger country houses had names.
Sandeman smiled. “It’s a fishing village, just a bit down the coast.”
Edoran’s jaw dropped. “A fishing village?”
CHAPTER 7
The Eight of Waters: solitude. A time of aloneness. The need for aid.
Sandeman said they should keep off the main road because that was where Giles was most likely to look for them. They plodded down the back roads, passing farms and going through this tiny village or that one. Edoran eyed the houses skeptically. They weren’t dirty, exactly, but none of them were large enough to have even a proper guest room, much less a suite.
The place they stopped for lunch was a decent-size town, which held several larger buildings, including both a town hall and an inn. There was even a statue of one of the old kings, with two courtiers holding the sword and shield for him, in the central square.
Sandeman told Edoran to wait there while he purchased lunch, so Edoran watched the peasants pass back and forth, smiling and nodding at one another. The men usually wore kerchiefs around their necks, instead of lace cravats, and the women wore the same kerchiefs covering their hair. But a few men were better dressed, in tailored coats and vests.
Sometimes the peasants smiled and nodded at him, and since he didn’t dare speak to anyone, he turned his gaze to the statue. He didn’t know which king this was, though if he knew the date the town was founded, that might have told him. Two men were holding the sword and shield here, though in some of the old statues a woman held the shield, or even, on rare occasions, the sword.
Edoran was smiling cynically when Sandeman returned.
“What’s amusing you?” The Hidden priest set out a couple of hot pastries, biscuits and jam, and a pot of pickled cabbage. It was the best meal Edoran had seen since he’d left the palace, and his mouth watered.
“I was wondering what they’d done to get themselves sculpted there.” Edoran took a bite of the pastry. It tasted even better than it smelled.
“What they’d done? One of them was king.”
“I know that,” Edoran mumbled around a full mouth, and then swallowed. “But after we found the sword and shield, some of the courtiers began talking about those statues. They said the people who were granted the honor of holding the sword and shield for the king were his favorites, and they were speculating about what they’d have to do—or pay—to get themselves up there. So I wondered what those two did to earn it.”
Sandeman was gazing at the statue now. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”
“What do you mean?” Edoran asked.
The thoughtful eyes turned to him. “What do you know about the history of the sword and shield?”
Edoran shrugged and swallowed another mouthful. “The same things everyone knows. According to the legend, there was a terrible drought or something, and Deor, who had united the warring chiefs to become the first real king we ever had, offered his life in sacrifice to the old gods if they’d end it. And they took him up on the offer.”
He suddenly realized that he was talking to the head of the church that had accepted that sacrifice, and put down his pastry.
“They hung him upside down and cut his throat,” Edoran went on, more carefully now. “His blood spilled into the earth and the drought—or whatever it was—ended. But his heir, King Brend, was lonely and grieved for his father, so the gods offered him the crown of earth, the sword of waters, and the shield of stars to ease his burden.
“And the legend says they did,” Edoran finished. “Though I can’t see how any of those things could make him less lonely. The crown was lost, but the sword and shield survived as symbols of the gods’ favor to the king and the land, until Regalis lost them, too. And now Weasel and Arisa have found them again. Some people think that’s a portent too,” he added. “Though no one’s willing to say what it’s a portent of. But you might actually know…. Is any of that old legend about King Deor true? Was he really willing… I mean, ah… Did he really die like that?”
“Yes.” Sandeman’s voice was soft; his gaze returned to the statue of Deor’s descendant. “Our teachers’ memories of that time are more detailed than the legend most people know, but that part’s true enough. They say the first teacher wept as he wielded the blade, but Deor had willingly offered his own life, that the crown of earth might come to his descendants. He never bore it himself, you know. It went directly to Brend upon his father’s death.”
“What did the crown look like?” Edoran asked. “The sword and shield are in the oldest portraits, but there was never a picture of any particular crown.”
Sandeman smiled. “No one has a picture of the crown of earth, Highness. Your version of the rest of the story is fairly accurate, except that the gods didn’t actually give Brend the sword and shield; they gave him the ability to recognize them when he found them. I’m surprised you know that much. The fisherfolk have forgotten less of our teaching than the farm folk have, but the townsmen remember almost nothing of the old truths.”
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sp; It was Edoran’s father who’d told him about the old legends and taught him where to look for the secret pattern of stars, hidden in the shield’s embossing, and the distinctive ripple in the water pattern on the sword. He’d described them so well, and so often, that when the true sword and shield had been recovered, Edoran had been able to identify them instantly. And they hadn’t done a thing for his loneliness. Though Weasel had become his friend soon after that, and Arisa had started to do the same, so he hardly cared what happened to the sword and shield. If Arisa could trade them for Weasel’s freedom, Edoran would wish them good riddance.
“How long do you think it will take to locate the Falcon?” he asked.
“How could I possibly know that,” Sandeman replied, “considering that I have no idea where she is? But the sooner I get you settled, the sooner I can start looking.”
That was sufficient motivation for Edoran to bolt down the rest of his meal, and they set off again.
Roughly two hours after they left the town, Edoran started to smell the sea—a fresher version of it, here in the countryside. They turned onto a track that paralleled the coast, and in the gaps in the brush and dunes Edoran caught glimpses of sparkling waves, and sometimes the beach with its crashing surf. He began to hope that Caerfalas might not be so bad, but when they finally reached it, the fishing village was the most wretched huddle of huts he’d ever seen in his life.
The streets were a sea of mud, not even paved with cobblestones, much less brick. The houses—not one of them more than two or three rooms!—were made up of weathered gray boards, and even the thatch that topped them was a dirty gray-brown.
Edoran eyed those roofs uneasily. Hadn’t someone told him that mice, and even rats, lived in thatched roofs?
Several people called out and waved to Sandeman, their voices barely audible over the crash of the breakers. The beach was visible from the main street—the only street, Edoran corrected himself. There were boats pulled up on the sand and men working around them. The men wore drab, dirty-looking sweaters over their britches and shirts, as the poorer sailors in the city sometimes did; they looked as shaggy and anonymous as sheep to city eyes.
The man who stomped through the mud toward them now looked even more like a sheep, Edoran thought. He had pale, curly hair and blunt features, the kind of face Edoran had always thought made people look stupid, but this man didn’t look stupid.
And after the way his tutors had convinced everyone he was an idiot, maybe he shouldn’t be so quick to judge.
“Sandy!” The blunt-faced man held out his hand. “It’s been a long time.”
His accent wasn’t as country-rough as Edoran had expected. Or perhaps his ear was growing accustomed to it.
“Too long,” Sandeman agreed, as the two men clasped hands. “Togger, this is Ron. He’s my cousin’s boy. The cousin who moved to the city to scout for us.”
Togger’s brows shot up, almost touching his hair. “That was a bit of a risk!”
“Too much risk, as it turned out,” Sandeman said. “He got out in time, but only barely. Can you hide young Ron till my cousin can establish himself somewhere else and send for him?”
The implications of this speech set Edoran’s mind reeling. Were all the people in this village of the Hidden faith? He’d been taught it had nearly died out! Would he have to pretend to be of the Hidden faith too? He didn’t even know who the old gods were, much less how they were worshipped.
“Ah…” His voice trailed off. How could he phrase his objections without giving himself away?
Sandeman shot him an amused glance.
“Don’t worry, lad. Not all here follow our faith, those who do are discreet about it, and no one will care either way. It’s not like the city. You’ll have no trouble here.”
“I like the city,” Edoran protested.
Togger eyed him askance, but Sandeman laughed.
“He was raised in the city for most of his life,” he told the fisherman. “This is going to be a bit of a shock for him, but he’ll probably survive. I want you to pass him off as one of your own. Better yet, take him out on the boats—that’ll keep him safe from any inquiry.”
“They’re hunting him?” Togger asked. His expression, turned on Edoran, was softer now. “He doesn’t look like a working lad. Can he even swim?”
“I certainly can,” Edoran told him. What did the man mean, he didn’t look like a working lad? He was as dirty as anyone here—dirtier than most!
“My cousin’s a merchant,” said Sandeman. “That’s what the lad was training for.”
Togger sighed. “He’ll have to keep his mouth shut if a search comes through. That accent never came from around here.”
“So you’ll keep him?” Sandeman asked.
“Oh, aye,” said Togger. “We owe you that much. But only men go out with the boats.”
“He’s fifteen,” said Sandeman.
“Huh. He’s small for it. Well, we’ll see. Grab your gear, lad, and I’ll take you to Moll’s and get you settled.”
“I don’t have any gear,” said Edoran. For the first time since he’d been robbed, that lack of possessions embarrassed him.
Togger cast him a sympathetic glance. “Had to leave in a real rush, I see. Don’t worry, Moll will find something that will fit you—something sturdier than those rags!”
Sandeman nodded, so Edoran slid down from the horse’s rump.
He felt utterly deserted, but Sandeman leaned down to lay a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be back as soon as I find something.” The hand tightened in promise and then let go.
He was going after Weasel. Edoran stood in silence as the Hidden priest rode away. The man was doing what he wanted, so he could hardly whine about it.
Another warm hand descended on his shoulder. “He’ll be back for you, lad,” Togger assured him. “The teacher never breaks his word.”
Teacher? Edoran almost said it aloud, but just in time he remembered that Sandeman had referred to the Hidden priests that Regalis had executed as “teachers.” Pretending to be of the Hidden faith was going to be harder than Sandeman had assumed.
“Who’s this Moll you’re going to lodge me with?” he asked instead.
“She’s m’ sister.” The fisherman’s hand on his shoulder steered him down the muddy street. Edoran’s boots were already ruined, so he made no protest. “Her husband was a rover—he took off for the towns, finally, and left her here. She’s got no children of her own, but there’s a hired boy, Mouse. He’s a bit older than you,” Togger added. “He can show you how to go on.”
As if he needed a hired boy to teach him manners. But most of Edoran’s attention was taken up by the house they were approaching. It was a little smaller than most of the huts, and made of the same weathered wood and thatch. It looked as if in the summer it had flower boxes below the windows, and maybe flowers in the muddy beds in front of the house as well, but now it was all drab and barren in the late-winter sun.
Togger rapped on the door. The woman’s voice within hadn’t even finished replying when he lifted the latch and led the reluctant prince inside.
It was dark, despite the fire crackling on the hearth and the sun that came through the thick glass circles that filled the windows.
Edoran looked around, paying little attention as Togger explained his presence to the fisherwife. The furniture was sturdy and graceless, though not as rough as he’d expected, with patchwork cushions on the seats. This was clearly the hut’s main room, used for both sitting and casual dining, like the central room of Edoran’s own suite in the palace. The other door probably led to the woman’s bedchamber.
Edoran suddenly realized that Togger had fallen silent, and both of them were looking at him.
“Where do I sleep?” he asked. “And might I have a bath soon? It’s been some days since I’ve been able to clean myself.”
The woman was all faded—clothes, blue eyes, and her long, graying hair. She blinked in surprise, though Edoran couldn’t underst
and why. Togger had just told her that he’d been on the run from the guard, so his unwashed state shouldn’t astonish her.
“I can see why you’d want one,” she said. “And you can sleep in the loft with Mouse. By the time you get back, I’ll have found you some better clothes than that ragged stuff. I’ll heat some water, and you can be clean in clean clothes for your dinner. How does that sound?”
That sounded wonderful, except… “Back? Where am I going?”
“Nowhere bad. Gart brought in a pakkie catch last night, so everyone’s down at the gutting shed today, earning a share of the profit. I’ll take you there next.” Togger’s hand fell on his shoulder once more. “When your pa sends for you, you’ll be able to take him a bit of coin!”
He sounded as if this was a wonderful thing, and Edoran cast him an appalled glance. “You want me to gut fish? I don’t know how!”
“That’s all right.” Togger’s hand felt more like the grip of a jailer than the support Edoran thought he intended. “I’ll teach you. It’s not hard, once you’ve the knack of it.”
He was already leading Edoran out of Moll’s house and down toward the beach. The gutting shed wasn’t something Edoran would have considered a shed, for it had no walls at all, only a thatch roof supported on poles. There was a long table beneath the roof, however, surrounded by fisherfolk with assorted barrels between them.
The barrels would hold the fish, Edoran guessed, either those the crowd had finished with or those still in possession of their guts. He had often eaten fish and enjoyed it. Preparing them to be eaten shouldn’t be too hard. The smell wasn’t as bad as he’d expected; the catch was clearly fresh, and the cold wind that blew off the sea, cutting through his britches and creeping up under his coat, also dispersed the stench.
The table, Edoran saw as they drew nearer, was covered with small, silvery fish. The men and women around the table—all of whom eyed him curiously, as Togger once more explained his presence—were to gut the fish and then pass them to someone who would sprinkle them with salt and pack them into one of the large barrels that mingled with the smaller ones. Simple. Edoran could do this.