“You’ve noted our proclivity for distinctive names, no doubt. Perhaps you’ve even ridiculed them. Ofttimes, they deserve ridicule. Yet a great deal of thought goes into the choosing.
“Generally, our children don’t receive their name until they’re old enough to manifest some unique quality. A trait that defines them, whether the color of their hair or the spirit of their disposition. Or even the way they make one feel.
“You also know that girls are favored above boys, aye? The harpa have learned that women make better leaders. Nay—better people. Men are not unimportant, once they’ve accomplished something with their lives. Yet baby girls are celebrated, and boys are a disappointment.
“There is another reason we wait to name them. My people are merry, but practical—the scorn of the empire has made us so. Many children are born on the road, where conditions are less than optimal. No small number die as infants, and we find the grieving less severe when they are nameless. In the grander outlook, the loss of a baby boy is perhaps less significant than the loss of an ox.
“But a beautiful scion of a prosperous family? As valued as the stars. And as coveted. Few besides the wealthy men of the cities dare to pursue such women. For a mere caravaneer—pure folly.
“You think I speak of my own pursuit of Summer, aye? Nay, I do not. Instead I speak of an heiress named Heavenlark Purejoy, whose moods were as mercurial as her wit piercing. Many of the harpa’s wealthiest and bravest courted her attentions, and the list of wounded egos was long, indeed. Yet one man, an awkward but happy driver named Rory Lowspark, was finally able to win her heart for his own. In the end, his love was the greater for its humble beginnings.
“Her family was of Chissenhall, and rose to prominence by way of trade with Falkenreach and Nurosterlend. Your land, that last. You might be pleased to hear that she adored it.
“Her family naturally expected her to remain in the city, but she chose the way of the caravans for her new life with her new husband. The hard work was liberating and intoxicating. She continued the life even after becoming pregnant with their first child. It was born on the way to Varborg, in the midst of a brutal blizzard. She nursed it through a particularly nasty illness brought on by the cold, an illness which affected the poor child’s constitution for years to come.
“Heaven was thrilled that the babe survived the ordeal. Rory was less sanguine. He took one look at the sickly boy and castigated her for risking herself unnecessarily, and for becoming too attached to what would only be the first of many fine children. Her mood turned sharply again, for she was never one to give up anything easily. That conviction was part of what had drawn him to her to begin with, of course. And in the end his love for her was such that he only grew to respect her all the more.
“The baby only made it through the first year due to her constant attentions, and the bond between mother and child grew stronger. She hoped it would gain strength from her ministrations and love, yet to its father it seemed only to grow more fragile with each passing month. His heart accepted its inevitable death even as hers did not.
“She took it along on every excursion, through spring, summer, and autumn. And so she was on a wagon to Kleinricht when the first storms of winter came prematurely.
“One wagon lost its wheel on the poor forest road and became stuck in a ditch. As the leader of the caravan, against the protests for the greater good, Heaven elected to risk all to save the wagon rather than leave it behind. As I said, she never gave up anything easily.
“During the delay, the snows came down even harder, and soon the whole caravan became stuck in the mounting drifts. Food and blankets were scarce as it was, and she was again urged to act for the greater good. And again she refused. When a rescue party arrived, they found that she had given her own food and blankets to the babe. Evidently, the milk of her breasts had stopped even before she froze to death.
“The child—the boy—somehow survived not only this second ordeal, but eventually grew out of his weakness. When, grudgingly, the father accepted that the boy would live and needed a name, his decision betrayed the resentment buried within. He named his son Bitterjoy Widowwind, perhaps not knowing how the name would serve as a constant reminder to the boy that he caused his mother’s death. Or perhaps knowing and not caring.”
Patrik took a long breath, for the story had lasted quite some time. And an unwanted quivering had slipped into his voice.
Why he had spoken this tale aloud, Patrik did not know. And why to this man, who is as indifferent as the mountains? Far better for everyone that I keep my own emotions in check—
“The child is blameless,” Yohan said.
“Aye? Summer said so, as well.”
Although the night was dark and heavy with mist, Patrik looked down lest the disobedient tear be visible to the soldier. Thus he was caught by surprise when Yohan’s firm hand squeezed his shoulder.
“The child is blameless. It’s clear to all but one.”
Sympathy was not at all what Patrik expected when he began. Yet unexpected was not the same as unwanted. It may not be as good as having the soldier’s respect—but it was far, far better than nothing.
Too many days had passed for Jena to hold out much hope that their pursuers were still behind. Yet she refused to believe Yohan could be fooled by such a simple ruse.
For the first few days of captivity—when thoughts of escape and vengeance consumed her soul—Jena had listened closely to the talk of the savages. Hoping to learn enough of their language to glean useful information, and give those desires substance. But the dialect was primitive and harsh on the ears, and she quickly changed course. Ever since, she had taken to glaring at them, pretending to understand every word and letting them see her hate.
By contrast, the other prisoner—a harpa named Summersong, as the traitorous Redjack called her—seemed to pay the barbarians no mind at all. Imperturbable despite the bonds, the young trader might have been passing through a field of spring flowers rather than shuffling toward an imminent demise.
For most of their confinement together, their relations had been as frosty as the ground. Jena did not trust this harpa woman, and suspected the other felt the same toward her. The complacence was certainly a mask. If nothing else, the calm exterior must surely bely a tormented soul—for torment was their daily existence.
The only thing that made this existence tolerable was the confusion and angst of the tribesmen at the loss of their scouts. The first few words spoken between Jena and her companion had been affirmation of hope, for the harpa confirmed what before had seemed only wishful thinking. Yohan was alive, and in pursuit.
For a while that had been enough to keep her going. The tumult and anger all around was like a salve to bleeding wounds. She reveled in the chaos, counting the missing and dead like a merchant counted coins.
Then, when she watched a small contingent of raiders break off from the main group, she saw readily enough what card they had up their sleeve. She also assumed that Yohan would see it, too. That assumption had led to these past long days of disappointing peace.
The pace slowed as anxiety amongst the tribesmen diminished. For the prisoners, hope ebbed away, and resentment set in.
Resentment that the bastards were going to get away. Not fear for her own fate. A princess and commander had no room for such pettiness. But every one of these barbarians—and the evil devil-worshiping Chekik who led them—deserved to pay for what they had done to the soldiers of Jena’s squad. It would be worth dying herself to see them meet their end.
Several of them glared at her now. The change in their attitude was palpable. Each passing day without a sign of pursuit restored more of their cruel confidence. Emboldened, it was only a matter of time until the taunts and persecutions began anew, despite Redjack’s tepid warnings. Ostensibly, Jena was protected property, though she knew not to what end. In reality, she doubted much would curb the tribesmen’s violent appetites forever.
The observers looked back and for
th between the two prisoners. Then one mumbled something incoherent, spat in the direction of the harpa, and walked away.
Seeing him so unhappy cheered Jena for a moment.
Her own hatred stood in sharp contrast to Summersong’s indifference. Such apathy in the face of atrocity served only to exacerbate Jena’s anger. And so she preferred to keep a cool distance when it came to the fellow prisoner. Just like I did toward the Oster, until it was too late.
That was completely different. A different time, a different person. I didn’t understand him at first.
The reassurances were not convincing. Disappointed in herself, and knowing not why, Jena brought herself to address the harpa directly.
“He means you ill,” she warned.
If Summersong was surprised at the sudden broaching of conversation, she made no sign of it. Glancing once at their captors, she dismissed them with a shrug. “Many of them do.”
“That one in particular.” Jena nodded toward the spitter, who ducked inside one of the dark tents pitched on the grassy plain. Made of animal skins and lacking the finishing treatment of Imperial tents, she imagined how bad it must smell inside.
“Which?”
“The one with the crooked mouth. I call him Snarl.”
“Yes, I know the one.”
Jena found the calmness of their exchange after days of silence more than a little surprising, as if the harpa had been patiently waiting all this time for the other to make herself available.
Even more surprising was the use of High Imperial, the words and manner of royalty and courtiers. Not to be expected from a lowly trader.
“He was close with the first one who died, the one you cursed. They were friends.”
“Lovers,” Summersong said. “You could see it in their faces.”
“If you say so. Lovers, then. He blames you, naturally.”
“I cursed no one. I haven’t such power.” The harpa laughed. “I simply meant to scare him away for a time. The rest is coincidence.”
“Well, they all believe you can. Curse them, that is.”
“They did once. I suspect that belief is wearing thin. See how boldly they stare now, when once they viewed us only from the corners of their eyes.”
Jena nodded agreement. As bad as things already were, she sensed that they would only get worse.
The displeasing feeling continued all eve and on through the next day’s march. The pace of the band was noticeably slowing, which only provided more evidence that pursuit was a thing of the past.
To reassure her anxious mind, Jena began reaching into the slender pocket of her tunic with increasing frequency. Yohan may no longer be following in person, but he was always with her in substance. Her most valued possession, an inexpertly carved horse figurine given to her after the ordeal in Soul’s Pass, meant more now than ever. Losing her squad and her sword was all she could bear. Now this small piece of wood was all she had left.
“I’d be careful not to do that so often,” Summersong said.
Jena glared at the other woman. The familiar silence had settled back over them after their brief conversation the previous eve. Just now, the commander was not sure she welcomed the return of banter. She preferred her own thoughts and her own counsel to that of others. “Your pardons?”
“The pocket.” Summersong continued to stare ahead while she spoke. Their legs were tired, their gait uncomfortably shortened by the loose bonds tied to the ankles. Jena was a soldier, long used to marching, and even her muscles were tight and uncomfortable. She wondered how bad it must be for the trader, whose life was spent driving a wagon. “Whatever you carry in your pocket, I’d be careful not to call attention to it.”
When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.
A quick glance at the raiders all around revealed nothing to worry about. They paid the prisoners little mind during the days, occupied as they all were with their own weary legs. Only the Chekik himself rode on horseback, leaving the others to walk. Or, in the case of that vile beast that marched with the group, lope on all fours.
So far as she could tell, no one was watching her. Yet Jena withdrew her hand casually.
As usual, scraps from the eve meal were tossed to the two women. Like their feet, their hands were loosely bound just enough to make every act uncomfortable. Jena ate her own pitiful portion quickly, without satisfaction. Her companion ate far more slowly, then finished with a look to the sky and a few inaudible words.
“I thought your people didn’t believe in the gods.”
Summersong smiled, although not toward Jena. “That’s not exactly accurate…but close to the truth, I suppose.”
“You looked to be praying.”
Now the harpa did look back, and shook her head. “No, I was attesting.”
Jena’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Attesting?”
“It’s a ritual. Not completely unlike your prayers. Symbolic to some, meaningful to others. A daily acknowledgment of what we are appreciative.”
Jena could not suppress a scoff. What do you have to appreciate, harpa?
The other woman smiled patiently. “You need not speak your question aloud, My Princess.” She glanced at the sky. “This warming of the weather, for instance. Though it gives me cause for concern, my body is glad to be free of the cold.”
Jena had not given the weather much thought. An early spring made little difference in the grander outlook. “Prayers of thanks, really? At a time like now?”
“A time like now is when we need attesting the most.”
Perhaps you have a point there, woman.
“For the song in my head,” the trader continued, “and the other in my heart. Music is a part of the harpa soul, and no imprisonment can deprive me of that.
“But more than anything, for memories. Of those I have known, those who brought joy. There are faces I see in my mind’s eye that cannot but fill me with happiness. Were life to end this day, I’ve known more blessings than most.
“Which is fortunate, because I fear we have few days remaining.”
Both women turned their heads at a visitor’s approach. Jena scowled, even more than usual.
“I thought to inquire how you are doing, Commander,” Redjack announced. His typical good humor contained an extra note of jocularity.
“Give me my sword then ask me again.”
“Aye? Would you cut down twenty strong warriors and make your escape, then?” He laughed. “I don’t doubt you would try.”
“They don’t look strong to me. Nor do you, Private. But I challenge you to prove otherwise. I will gladly fight any one of you. You can even leave my hands bound. Just give me my sword, coward.” She stared into his black eyes, hoping to see her insult sting.
Instead, his face registered naught but enjoyment. “You are prettier than ever when angered, Commander. How I wish…” He looked wistfully at the Chekik’s tent, far larger than any of the others.
“You remind me of Pleasance,” Summersong interjected, her tone no less jovial than his. “He could be friendly, too, when he wanted. But it was wise not to trust him, for his moods were quite…volatile.” She paused. “On second thought, he was much smarter than you.”
Redjack crouched, grinning toward her. “Who was Pleasance? Was he the fat one with the lute?”
She shook her head. “One of our dogs.”
The man stood back up. “Sweet harpa, I like you more and more. I can save you, you know. I only need a reason to. Perhaps you will come around to me, in time.”
In this unpopulated stretch of the empire, one could go days without seeing another living soul. The prospect of war and the terror of raiding certainly added to this isolation by driving most folks away and keeping others sheltered indoors. Nevertheless, as growing signs of civilization reminded Jena that they were nearing Threefork, she grew ever more concerned about the impunity of her captors.
“Something is wrong,” she said.
“Just the one?” Summersong replied.
&n
bsp; The more they spoke together, the less impressed Jena was with the other woman’s etiquette. She might know how to speak like royalty, but without the polish. The formality was there, but not the deference.
Ignoring the sarcasm, Jena continued to voice her thoughts aloud. “We’re nearing the towns of the east. There should be people about. Where are the farmers, the other traders? If not them, where are the patrols? Gothenberg had no small army of its own. They should have found these raiders by now, and slaughtered them.”
“I see the truth in your words, My Princess. But there are many things wrong, of which that is but one. And not the one which concerns me most.”
“What else?”
“As I have said before, the weather. The rising temperatures, this early thaw. We are much too early for spring, yet summer’s heat will be here in a tenday or less.”
Jena nodded. Just in the last two days, the change was even more profound. Yet she sensed more was troubling the harpa.
“What else?”
“There is a new star.”
“A star? We march toward our doom, and this is what worries you?”
“Aye,” Summersong replied, slipping back into her natural informality. “It first appeared many days ago, a solitary point of light where none existed before. This may not sound worrisome to you, but given the events happening in the empire… I trust it’s a sign of great import—for good or ill, I know not. But much greater than the suffering of two women.”
Jena did not like being belittled. You mean a woman and a princess, harpa. The loss of a princess is no small thing. “Unless it helps us escape, a star is of no value to me. The Chekiks are invading my homeland, in case you haven’t noticed. Dealing with these savages…” She looked around. “…and the others that follow is the only thing that matters just now. If the Goths—or anyone else—aren’t going to free us, then we must free ourselves.”
Empire Asunder BoxSet Page 49