“Oh, Lord God,” he said silently, “I’m back in the river again. You used it to bring me here, but it seems I still haven’t learned anything I can take back to Parangor. Thomas said I should let You teach me lessons here that would make me able to return and face Dunstan, to change things, and now all I thought I had learned and all I felt I was becoming is gone.”
“It is not good for man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him,” said a voice in his head, as clearly as if someone had spoken. Tristan sat down on the windowseat, overwhelmed at the thought that God was there, speaking to him through His Word, telling him that he had given Mayra to him for another part of his training.
Ever since he had come to his senses at Thomas’s fireside Tristan had thought he would very soon go back to Parangor. Each day he had taken the steps God had placed before him, working, helping, teaching, hoping he was learning the lessons that would prepare him to fix what was broken in Parangor as he fixed the thrush in a lame pony’s foot or a mistake in a slow-witted farm boy’s assignment.
It occurred to him suddenly that Mayra had probably been awake long into the night before, possibly prowled the house, planning how to teach him to “see” their bedroom, the grounds, his food at the table, everything that he had done that day. And he knew that it had helped him. In his head was a plan of the house that was now his. He knew where his clothes would be in the morning, how he would get to the front yard, that he could actually tell the growth of the grapes in the small fenced area where Gregor and Vancus had been testing new varieties.
God had given him Mayra to start him on these new steps in his training, but he knew it was time to begin helping himself. He sat in the window and lifted his head to the night breeze, concentrating and slowly beginning to separate different scents that came to him. Some of the grapes were musky and strong, some delicate and sweet. The wind from the forest beyond the plantation carried balsam, cypress and cedar to him. Close by, he located the herb garden Gregor’s wife had planted in her greenhouse, which was left open in fair weather. The dangerous plants Jerez had been over to root out, and her potions and poisons were gone as well. Several times during the day Tristan had heard servants comment on how glad they were that the hanging talismans and herbs the mistress had hung everywhere were gone. The oppressive smells and weird music would not be missed. But Tristan was sure there were good uses for smells and sounds as well. In the greenhouse there grew cinnamon, lavender, rosemary, mint, thyme, and other plants whose fragrances soothed his troubled thoughts and even called forth pleasant memories, such as the sweet rolls Yenscha had made in the kitchens of Kenborana.
Tristan smiled at the memory of the soothing touch of the ointments Jerez had applied to his myriad bruises after the trip down the river, and again to his burns. The taste of the fresh, warm milk, even splattering the wrong direction out of the poor cow in Thomas’s lean-to, had been sweet. Memories came rushing to Tristan’s mind now, smells that drew him or warned him, human touches of friendship and sympathy, or things that caused pain or great pleasure. He knew he could taste bitter and sweet, smell spoiled or sour. He could hear the rustle of clothing, perhaps know if it were leather or silk, gage how far away a man walked from him, know if it was a man or a woman by the weight of the tread, the sound of the clothing. He wondered how far this sort of thing could be taken. Slowly, painstakingly, he slid into his clothes and made his way around the silent house, stubbing his toe and bumping his head now and then, trying to see the house even more clearly than Mayra had shown it to him.
Something purred and wound between his legs, almost tripping him, and he found to his astonishment and delight that Mitts had come to live at the estate somehow. He picked her up awkwardly and counted all her toes just to be sure. She rubbed against his cheek and then bounced down to get on with her mousing. In the kitchen lingered the smell of strong soap, but faintly under it the roast pork they had dined on. In the study someone had forgotten to cork an ink bottle and Tristan almost spilled it searching for the source of the smell he did not quite recognize amid the litter of papers still lying there. He shuddered as he remembered Gregor had died in this room, and he found the lamp, still scorched and tarry-smelling, and felt the oily reside he knew would mark his fingers with black creosote. He traced the contours of the desk with his fingers, straightened the papers into a single pile, moved the thick leather blotter holder a little so it was straight and in the center of the desk.
Tristan found uneven spots in the floor, boards that creaked when he trod on them, a carving on the wall, a small table with a vase of heady-smelling flowers, faithful friends he knew would help guide him as well as counting steps. He had no way of judging time, so he could not tell how long this new “seeing” took him. He only knew that finally sleep threatened to overtake him and that he had been away from Mayra far too long for his liking. Carefully he made his way back, remembering the lessons of the day and the night, and experienced no bumps or stubs on this return trip.
He undressed and slipped back into bed. Mayra sighed and entwined herself about him, and he forgot about all the other things there would be to touch, to smell, to hear, to taste, and concentrated on the one he wanted most to “see.”
Chapter Eleven
And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, I am Pharaoh, and without thee shall no man lift up his hand or foot in all the land of Egypt.
Weeks passed before Lord Drokken of Gannes made his appearance at Larcondale. Afterward Tristan learned that Lord Drokken had wanted to impress the Prince of Parangor and so had brought a full complement of retainers to Gregor’s estate. Tristan was only impressed with terror at the sense that there was a positive herd of people with whom he must somehow deal. He received them alone on the terrace at the front of the house, after servants had distributed light refreshments and departed. Tristan turned his face to the fresh breeze blowing the scent of the early grapes all around him. The sun shed warmth on his face and hands and the highly-polished stones beneath his feet felt cool and solid.
He wore a new jerkin of smooth black leather, and his boots had been polished and pronounced almost as fine as new. His hair was gathered into a gold cord at the nape of his neck, and he had been assured that the scars from Gregor’s wife’s attack were nearly healed. He had worried about the effect seeing the burns would have on his guest, but had been assured none would regard them for long if all went as planned. Tristan could not imagine how all could go as planned, since the plan was for him to carry on the preliminary business with Lord Drokken unaided, completely alone, completely in the dark.
“My Lord Tristan, Prince of Parangor, I deplore this thing that has happened to you and ask forgiveness in the name of Larcondale, Gannes and all of Tarraskida.”
Tristan was horrified to realize that Lord Drokken was on his knees before him, trying to kiss his hand. Tristan was becoming used to standing straight and not swaying like a sapling. However, Lord Drokken had unbalanced him by crashing down at his feet and seizing his hand, and he almost fell over.
“Lord Drokken, please, rise,” Tristan cried, planting his feet more firmly as he guided his free hand to contact with Drokken’s shoulder and finished the monumental task of steadying himself. He let his hand slip down Drokken’s great, muscled arm as the nobleman rose, standing taller than himself, hoping it would seem like a friendly gesture, not another attempt to keep his balance.
Tristan forced himself to concentrate on “seeing” Drokken, rehearsing all the skills he and Mayra had practiced together. Drokken stood an inch or so taller than himself, he gathered, since he did not let go of the nobleman’s arm until his visitor had risen again to his full height. His clothing seemed to be mostly leather, with the chink of metal, and Tristan thought perhaps he actually wore some sort of ceremonial armor. He was a strongly-built man, and Tristan’s hand had brushed wiry shoulder-length hair and the edge of a full beard as he had withdrawn it. Tristan had made some study of the sound of peoples’ voices around Larcondale, and gue
ssed Drokken to be a man in his early forties. People in Gannes generally had fair skin and eyes, he had been told, so he presumed such might be true of Drokken. But this game had so absorbed him that Tristan had forgotten to attend to Drokken’s words.
“... Understand, as I am sure you must, that this woman was a foreigner, no citizen of Tarraskida,” Drokken continued. “We are innocent of wishing harm to your highness. Her husband was, I am told, ignorant of her true character, bewitched by her exotic nature and her beauty, as well as her noxious potions. He is beyond paying for his part in her crimes. I regret most sincerely that I cannot yet give you justice in the matter of the woman. We are searching for her, and will surely punish her if she is found. It is my honor to gift you with the estate of Gregor the wine merchant and all that was his. They are yours, but – “
“But?” Tristan echoed.
“But are you sure you wish to hold these lands, highness?” Drokken asked bluntly. “Perhaps you do not understand what this vineyard means to Tarraskida, what this whole village means.”
“Larcondale lies apart from most of Tarraskida,” Tristan began. Part of his speech was a lesson he had taught his students in the classroom, part what he had learned from Brentin and from Vancus to prepare for this interview. “On the one side are the forests that are the border with Parangor, and on the other mountains hard-crossed by narrow passes. Yet because this valley is so fertile, because the soil is like no other in Tarraskida, here Gregor’s family began to grow some of the rarest and most sought-after grapevines in the world. Gregor produced wines that brought princely prices, and he traveled everywhere and made Larcondale and Tarraskida well-known and respected. He also paid a handsome share of taxes into your coffers, which you in turn have used to enrich your king. Larcondale, and specifically this plantation, will be expected to continue to enrich Tarraskida, our king, and you,” Tristan finished. The answer to Drokken’s doubts had been the easiest lesson he had learned in the past two weeks.
“All you have said is true,” Drokken responded. “This must happen, Prince Tristan. So I must know if you will sell the plantation to me. It seems to me that you will find it beyond your ability to make it remain productive. Gregor knew his business since childhood, and his father and grandfather before him. Be assured that it must continue its production, and that, in fact, Gregor had plans to increase its profitability. We are counting on these plans of his coming into reality. I am prepared to take responsibility for the plantation directly, to move here to Larcondale and establish myself, so that this may be done.”
Tristan stood motionless for a full minute. “My Lord, I have consulted with all the men who are responsible for the town’s welfare, and prosperity, and security, and they have already impressed upon me that this plantation is important to Larcondale, and to Tarraskida. Indeed, they have talked of little else. I fully understand that the wine must continue to be produced, that its quality must remain as high as ever, that there must be more plantings and expansion. I am not unfamiliar with the concept that governments and their need for taxes do not grow smaller.”
Drokken chuckled. “Therefore I pledge to you,” Tristan continued, “that the plantation will continue to produce, and to grow, as the mountains and the forests permit, and that you will see plenty of tax money in your coffers from Larcondale.”
“May I ask bluntly how you intend to do this?” Lord Drokken demanded.
“I have discovered that in Pencarosa there lived a man who used to have a vineyard almost as respected as Gregor’s, though much smaller, and so not so worthy of your lordship’s notice,” Tristan said. “But a flood destroyed his crop two years ago. The erosion poisoned the vine-growing soil with salt. Vancus, as the man is called, found himself an expert grape-grower unable to grow any grapes. He was reduced to near bankruptcy, but now he is here, and I intend to make him head over the production. You may look into the history of his past production, my Lord, and I believe you will find that he should be more than satisfactory.”
“I am aware of the man Vancus,” Drokken replied. “In fact, I intended to bring him here myself if you agreed to sell to me. But how did you find him? I knew he was sold into slavery but through some oversight we could not learn where he had been sent.”
“My Lord, he was sent here,” Tristan replied. “Gregor was aware of his ability and had begun to make use of his talents. In fact, he accompanied his master on his last trip. Gregor no doubt had confidence in him, and I am sure he will do his work well. And so I accept the gift of Gregor’s estate, and I ask that I may repay your generosity by paying the price of redemption for all the slaves who were held for debt here. I have their papers here on the desk, and the money counted out.” He took a step to his left, came in contact with the edge of the desk that stood there, and then touched the stack of papers and bags of silver.
“I need to verify them, of course,” Drokken said. “Let them be brought before me.” Tristan rang a bell that stood on the desk, glad that he only had to grope for it a little. He listened as ten pairs of feet trod softly past him and stood before Lord Drokken. Lord Drokken had the papers in his hands by this time, and he shuffled and muttered a little.
“There are eleven records here,” Lord Drokken said after a moment. “But I see only ten slaves. This document says Vancus and his wife, who are here, had a daughter, one called Mayra.”
“My Lord, the record of Vancus’ daughter is there, but she has already been set free, I fear by a royal fiat of mine. I have made her my wife,” Tristan informed Lord Drokken. “Mayra, my Princess, come and meet Lord Drokken.”
And then the room breathed with sweet perfume and rang with faint music. Tristan felt something light and soft as a breeze come to his side. He caught his wife up and kissed her, burying his face in the soft, silky cloud of hair. “You can see why I could not wait for your permission, can you not, Lord Drokken?”
Lord Drokken cleared his throat. No doubt he did see, and Tristan could almost hear his teeth gnashing with envy. Tristan knew as exactly as it was possible for a man robbed of sight what his bride looked like that morning. She had told him every detail, made him touch the sleek peach-colored silk of her gown, jangled the trimming of tiny bronze bells along the fringes of the fabric, made him help her fasten the gold chains around her waist and over her shoulders. She had loosely bound her hair with jeweled combs and expertly applied the cosmetics her mistress had drilled her in the use of, especially a new concoction of perfume Mayra had created herself. Tristan did not have to see Mayra to know she was easily enough to make a lord forget he stood before a prince and his princess so he hastened to remind Drokken of the fact.
“And so, Lord Drokken, I believe our business together is concluded. I understand it has been many years since you were here, and I hoped Vancus and I could give you a view of our improvements and our plans for the future, and then we could enjoy the pleasure of having you dine with us. I will join you in just a very few moments.”
Servants whisked in to conduct everyone to the beginning of the tour, where Vancus would show the experimental yard. Tristan clung to Mayra for the moment they remained behind alone as a drowning man clings to a floating log in a vast ocean, an ocean of darkness that would never end.
“My poor Prince,” Mayra whispered in his ear. “You were so very afraid, and yet if you could have seen how Lord Drokken’s eyes showed his respect for you, standing there before him, straight and sure as any man with sight. He will carry the tale of your amazing strength all over the kingdom and no one will dare take advantage of the poor, helpless, blind Baron of Larcondale. For there is no such person.”
“It is all your doing, my magical wife,” Tristan murmured. “You have transformed this house into a place where a blind man can see.”
“You taught me of the smells and things to hear and touch, my husband,” Mayra reminded him. “We will always work together, and I will always make a way for you to see, my love,” Mayra replied. She stubbed her toe lightly on the sligh
tly raised mortar between the stones nearest the desk, which had guided Tristan to the place he needed to stand to get to the papers and bags of silver. “Was the anise on the bell not strong enough?” she asked, picking it up and sniffing delicately. “No, I see it was not. I didn’t think about the breeze bringing in all that grape scent. You had trouble finding it. I’ll take care of that. Now we must go be with our guests, but soon you can rest.”
“I wish to quarter soldiers here in Larcondale, Prince Tristan,” Drokken announced as the meal ended. “We keep hearing rumors that your mad brother is hacking his way here through the forest. He may decide that there is not enough wilderness for him to conquer, and try to annex Larcondale.”
“Aye, my Lord, I have heard rumors about my brother’s attempt at the conquest of the bogs and the raging river myself,” Tristan said with an attempt at lightness. “But I doubt he means to come so far. Still, I agree that Larcondale should be protected, if not from Parangor, certainly from other threats that might come. I have felt we relied too much on isolation to deter enemies. If this vineyard is so valuable, let us attempt to safeguard it. And we should speak privately on some final matters.”
“I am at your service, Prince,” Drokken said. Tristan led Drokken aside into the study.
“I wish to appoint a chaplain for my estate,” Tristan said. “Have you anyone to recommend?”
“That would be more the Bishop of Gannes’ place,” Drokken responded. “I am sure I can have him recommend someone to you.”
“What about this Thomas, who is the minister in Larcondale?” Tristan asked, trying to make his tone casual. “What do you know of him?”
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