CHAPTER ONE
The twenty-sixth day of December in the 940th year a.g.l.
The city physicians, after a final clucking of their tongues, have said that Carle and I may leave their house tomorrow. Carle and I have been restless to go since the day before yesterday, for we have no one here to talk with; the other guards left long ago.
Hoel and Payne and Devin were released on the first day back, into the care of their fathers, who had taken temporary housing in the city when they learned that their sons were trapped in the mountains. Quentin stayed only two days longer, though he looked as if he was one step into the gates of the Land Beyond. Although the rest of us had been carried back to Emor on blanket-muffled stretchers, Quentin had insisted on walking back, in order to assist with the navigation through the pass as only a borderlander could. He had seemed well during the journey, but the moment we reached within sight of Emor, he quietly collapsed and remained unconscious throughout the journey to the city.
Nor did he awake once we reached the warmth of the physicians’ house. The physicians looked grave and refused to offer any prognosis. Devin, giving way finally to the strain, left here in tears, certain that he would never again see the lieutenant alive.
The only cheerful person was Quentin’s grandfather, who had been awaiting us at the entrance to the pass, and who apparently had caused Malise a great deal of last-minute trouble by insisting that he must help with the rescue effort. Malise had finally placed him in charge of the carts left behind at the entrance to the pass. All the way back to the city, Quentin’s grandfather distracted us from our worries about his grandson by telling us entertaining stories of his own days in the patrol.
The stories continued when we arrived here, so that Carle and I had no thoughts left for our painful healing. While we were sleeping or trying to sleep, though, Quentin’s grandfather would go sit by Quentin and hold his hand silently. As far as I could tell, Quentin’s grandfather never slept himself.
This lasted until Quentin awoke on the third day. His grandfather waited just long enough for the physicians to confirm that Quentin had taken one step back from the Land Beyond; then he announced that Quentin was well enough to go home.
This caused an uproar among the physicians. “Not again,” I heard one of them say. The lieutenant eventually ended the argument by getting up and walking away. He only made it to the door before crumpling to the ground, but his grandfather had his way with the physicians after that. The physicians made him swear, though – on a freeman’s blade, no less – that he would keep Quentin in bed for the next fortnight. “Not like last time,” said the head physician, giving Quentin’s grandfather a piercing look.
It was all very odd. I wish that I could have spent more time with Quentin’s grandfather, to gain further insight into the lieutenant’s upbringing.
o—o—o
The twenty-seventh day of December in the 940th year a.g.l.
Carle and I left the physicians’ house today to find only a thin sprinkling of snow upon the ground. While the patrol was dying amidst blizzards in the mountains, Southern Emor has been enjoying a late autumn, with occasional dustings of snow that soon melt. Though the weather has chilled during the last few days, Carle says that it will be at least a month before the country roads become blocked to travellers. That’s just as well, given the journey we’ve decided to undertake.
Our first duty, once we’d left the physicians, was to report to Wystan. He had dark circles under his eyes. Hoel reported to Wystan two days ago, and since that time, Wystan has spent his time with the families of Iain, Jephthah, Gamaliel, and Chatwin, explaining how their sons died. The interview with Chatwin’s family was particularly painful, the only bright point being Hoel’s announcement at the start that he would care for Chatwin’s betrothed from now on. Chatwin’s betrothed, having heard of Hoel through Chatwin’s letters, wept on his shoulder for the remainder of the interview, and they left Wystan’s tent together.
Wystan had nothing but praise for those of us who had survived, which Carle and I found embarrassing. Eventually, to our relief, Wystan passed on to other business.
“You two are planning to reside in the city this winter, I understand,” he said, gesturing Carle back into his seat. Carle had been trying to rise when the captain did, though we’re both still weak from our ordeal.
“Yes, sir,” replied Carle, sinking down. “We hope to attend the city court as often as possible and to visit these headquarters daily in order to sharpen our sword skills.”
Wystan nodded as he returned to the seat behind his desk. After a moment’s silence in which Carle scrutinized the captain’s face, Carle added, “Why do you ask, sir?”
Wystan flicked him an unreadable look before reaching over to pick up a folded and sealed paper on his desk. “I was wondering whether you intended to visit your family.”
I did not have to look to see that Carle had gone rigid. The stiffness was in his voice as he said, “I had no plans of that sort.”
Wystan gave him a look then that was all too readable. “Your father came to these headquarters the moment word reached him of your trouble. He stayed here for a week, to the neglect of his business at home, and only returned to Peaktop when word reached here that you had been rescued. Yet you have not asked after your family since your arrival back.”
Carle’s silence filled the tent like freezing snow. Wystan sighed and placed the paper back on his desk. “Sublieutenant, I know that you joined the army against the express wishes of your father. It is natural that there would have been tension between the two of you during the first year or two. Yet as far as I can tell, you have made no attempt to heal the wound between yourself and your family. Now your father has made an attempt of his own to reach out to you; I would hate to see his effort go wasted.”
“Are you ordering me to return home, sir?” Carle’s voice sounded as though it had been chipped from a block of ice.
“You know better than that, sublieutenant; I cannot interfere with your private life. I am simply offering you advice, as someone who also joined the army against the wishes of his family and remained estranged from his family for far too long. Believe me when I say that such matters become trivial over the years, in comparison with the memories of love and comfort one received as a child.” Wystan took up the paper again and offered it to Carle. “Your father left this for you. It is a letter from your sister.”
o—o—o
“I didn’t know that you had a sister,” I told Carle afterwards.
“Yes, a younger sister. And you?” Carle looked up from the letter. We were sitting in the mess tent, having eaten our noonday meal. After a diet of nuts and bread and snow-water, even army food tastes good to us.
“Two sisters, aside from the ones who died as babies,” I said. “Leda is the eldest of us; she’s married, with a son. My sister Mira will be coming of age soon – or she was, when I left. She’s been insufferable for the past two years, telling Hamar and me how much more she’d enjoy the company of a husband than our company.”
“My sister came of age late last winter, around her twelfth birthday,” Carle murmured; his gaze had returned to the letter. “I remember her writing me about it at the time.”
I nudged closer to him on the bench. “Does she say anything interesting in her letter?”
Carle shook his head. “She never does. The village blacksmith burned his hand . . . My mother was ill with stomach pains for a while but is better now . . . A noble came to visit this autumn – old and sharp-tempered, she said. ‘Old’ undoubtedly means my father’s age,” Carle added with one of his half-smiles as he folded the letter closed. After a moment, he opened it again.
“And what else?” I prompted.
“Nothing else,” Carle said. “That’s all she has written, aside from her usual threats to flay me alive if I come within a day’s ride of her. She still hasn’t forgiven me for leaving without saying goodbye to her.” He started to fold the letter, re-opened it, and remained moti
onless for a while, reading the letter once more.
“There’s something more,” I said finally.
Under the loud chatter of the soldiers nearby, Carle said, “Yes, there’s something more. I don’t know what it is yet, though.” He raised his eyes to me.
“We’re taking Captain Wystan’s advice, then?” I said.
Carle nodded. “I think I’ll have to go home, at least for a while. You needn’t come, though. You can search us out a city house in the meantime.”
“Don’t be foolish,” I responded. “Of course I’ll come. Unless—” Belatedly, it occurred to me that Carle might not be eager to introduce a southerner to his family.
I suppose that, if I ever die, Carle will be able to read my final moments from the look in my face. He gave another of his crooked smiles and said lightly, “Your presence is what will make the visit bearable.”
The odd thing is, I think he was serious.
o—o—o
The twenty-ninth day of December in the 940th year a.g.l.
It’s early morning. We rested overnight at an inn that’s north of the city. Although Carle’s village is apparently only half a day’s swift ride from the city, neither Carle nor I wanted to go swiftly. We have just enough energy left to stay seated on the horses we borrowed from the army headquarters.
The inn is one of the new-style lodges, with individual chambers for each travelling party, in addition to the common chamber for single men and for travelling parties which can’t afford the individual rooms. The beds in the individual chambers are so broad that they could easily accommodate three men. Since Carle and I have slept in the same room together for over two months now, I was surprised that Carle paid for separate chambers for the two of us. I didn’t realize the reason until I jerked awake last night, as if to the sound of a danger whistle, and heard Carle crying out.
I rushed for his room, of course, but the door was barred. I hammered on it, and the cry cut off. After a moment, Carle spoke in his normal voice.
He did not even ask why I was at the door, but apologized immediately for waking me, saying that he’d been dreaming. I lingered at the door, expecting him to let me in, but after a while I concluded that he was so exhausted from the ride that he’d fallen asleep after his explanation. I was likewise weary, so I returned to my warm bed next to the hearth-fire and fell asleep soon afterwards.
I awoke to Carle’s voice, crying out. Again I rushed for the door; again I found it barred; again my hammering elicited an apology from Carle, but nothing more. Puzzled, I returned to my room and sat by the fire, waiting.
The cry was not long in coming. I tiptoed up to Carle’s door and pressed my ear against it. I could hear snatches of what he was saying. What I heard chilled me more than the night wind whistling down the corridor.
Carle was dreaming that he was being tortured. From what I could make out, it appeared that his captor was a vicious border-breacher; I could hear Carle begging his torturer to stop. I strained for the name of the torturer, but even in his torment, Carle followed patrol custom in calling the breacher ‘sir,’ so I could not tell whether the torturer was Emorian or Koretian.
I stood uncertainly outside the door. Eventually, after far too long, the cries died down. I spent the remainder of the night sleepless beside my fire.
When I see the lieutenant next spring, I must ask him whether this was something real that happened to Carle. If it was, and if the man who tortured him was Koretian, then it’s a wonder that Carle ever spoke in friendship to me, much less shared wine with me.
o—o—o
The thirtieth day of December in the 940th year a.g.l.
Peaktop, Carle’s home village, is located atop the southernmost of the signal-fire mountains. It is sprawled across the flat top of the mountain and is a little larger than Mountside. Its income derives mainly from horses and from orchard-fruit, the latter being more valuable than the former, as there are so few trees in Emor.
I learned all this throughout the course of yesterday. My first impression of Carle’s mountain home was that its slopes are far too slippery.
I discovered this because Carle, having evidently decided that we were growing lax in our exercise, left our horses to be escorted to his home by some local country boys he knew, leaving the two of us to climb the side of the mountain, rather than take the easy road up.
I had thought that I knew how to climb mountains, but I’d never before climbed a mountain with snow on it. The last part of the journey, which required us to climb over a sheer rock with icicles hanging off it, nearly lost me my life, but Carle’s hand grabbed me and hauled me onto safe ground. Then, before I had had a chance to decide whether I would ever breathe again, he demanded my impression of the village.
It was certainly a beautiful sight. Snow clung in soft clumps to the peaked rooftops of the village houses, lined all in a row along the curving road, but for an enormous house jutting up on a mound – the baron’s hall, I supposed. Below the house was a vast orchard, lined on one side by a graveyard, and beyond that was a pasture with horses kicking the snow into the air as they raced to and fro.
I took a step in the direction of the village, but Carle smiled and shook his head, then led us down the shorter path to the pasture. As we crunched our way through the snow – soldiers’ boots come in handy in Emor – I saw that the horses were being watched by a young man about Carle’s age, who called out to them as they rode past, causing them to swerve their path in a seemingly ordered manner. Sitting at his feet, peacefully watching the horses’ hooves thunder just paces away, was a dog with golden-red fur.
It caught sight of us at the same moment that the young man did, and bounded toward us, barking fiercely. I hesitated, unsure whether to draw my sword against this attack, but Carle merely went down on one knee and held out his hand to the dog. She leapt upon him and, in the next few moments, tried to drown him with her tongue.
The young man followed close behind. He skidded to a halt, churning up snow against his winter breeches, and smiled down at Carle and the dog. “She remembers you,” he said.
“I had hoped she had forgotten me by now,” said Carle, giving the dog a final rub behind the ears as he rose to his feet. “She belongs to you now.”
The young man shook his head. Like Carle, he had a touch of red to his hair, though his complexion was darker than Carle’s snow-white face. “Forget the boy who raised her from a pup? That’s not likely.” He gave a shy grin and added, “Only you’re not a boy now. I hear you’ve been fighting snow demons in the mountains.”
“They fled at the sight of my sword,” said Carle with mock ferocity. “And you? How have you been, sir?”
Something flickered in the young man’s expression, and I thought for a moment he would voice his thought. Then he shrugged his hands and said, “Well enough. I’m to be married, you know.”
Carle’s smile grew broad. “Felicitations! I had not heard; my sister never tells me the important news. Do I know the fortunate woman?”
A blush touched the cheek of the young man. “It’s Almida.” Then, hastily: “It’s all right; you may laugh. I know that I’ll be the hen-pecked husband that bards sing about. I really don’t mind. After everything I have to do in the village, it will be nice to come home and be ordered around.”
“I firmly agree with you, sir,” said Carle, who showed no signs of laughing. “There is nothing I despise more than a woman who impotently allows herself to be bullied about by her husband. When I am married, it will be to a woman of character, like Almida.”
The young man’s look of gratitude could have spread to the far borders of the empire. “I’ve missed you,” he said frankly. “Are you planning to visit long? You could stay at the hall if you like. We were always able to find room for you in the old days.”
“Offer me no temptations.” Carle shook his head. “I would like nothing better, but . . . Well, if nothing else, you would not have room for my partner here.” Then, as the young man turned
his shy gaze toward me, Carle added, “I apologize for the lack of an introduction. Sir, this is— No, wait, I see your father coming. I will make my introductions once he has arrived.”
I turned toward the pasture gate and saw a man striding across the fields, seemingly immune to the danger of being trampled by the prancing horses. Unlike the young man, he had tossed his cloak back, and I could see the silver glint of his tunic’s border. He was smiling even before he reached us. Putting his arm around the young man’s shoulders, he said, “Carle, this is a welcome sight. Your letters to Myles are hardly fair exchange for the pleasure of your presence. I suppose you have come because of your sister’s betrothal?”
Carle, who had been on the point of gesturing toward me, grew suddenly still. After a moment, he said in a voice as controlled as though he were on patrol, “No, sir. I had not heard.”
“Ah.” The baron’s arm slid from his son’s shoulders, and his face grew serious. “Yes, your father has been searching for a suitable match since last winter, and he has finally made up his mind, I understand.”
“Do you know the man, sir?” Carle’s voice continued to be steady, but I could see a bump in his cloak-cloth which suggested that, underneath his cloak, he was gripping his sword hilt.
“I have met him on a few occasions. He is Vogler, baron of a prosperous village in the Central Provinces. Because his first wife died without issue, he has been looking for a young wife to bear him heirs. From the point of view of the bloodline, it is an excellent match.”
“And from the point of view of character?” Carle continued to stand as stiff as a sentry.
“His character . . .” The baron hesitated for a moment, then said quietly, “He is a man much like your father.”
Myles’s gaze passed from Carle to the baron and then back again; otherwise he remained silent. Only the dog seemed immune to the atmosphere and chose this moment to start bounding toward one of the horses. Myles quickly called her back; by the time she had returned, panting happily and nuzzling Carle’s legs, the baron was saying, “But I see that you have brought a guest with you.”
“Yes, sir.” Carle turned toward me with a gesture so easy as to suggest that he had discarded all other thoughts from his mind, though I knew him better than that. “Sir, may I present Adrian, Soldier of the Chara’s Border Mountain Patrol? He has been my partner this autumn. Adrian, I present you to Gervais, Baron of Peaktop.”
“I am pleased to meet you, sir,” I said, touching my hand to heart and forehead.
Myles’s smile dropped away, followed by an expression of uncertainty. He looked toward his father, who was so far from smiling that I expected him to call for soldiers at any moment. Beside me, Carle said hastily, “Sir, I ask that you forgive him. He has only recently emigrated, and he is still learning Emorian ways.”
The baron’s gaze continued to pierce me like a spearhead. “I would have thought,” he said slowly, “that showing respect for one’s betters was the custom in all of the Three Lands.” He glanced over at his son, who was looking mutely unhappy, and his gaze relaxed. “Carle, we must go; Myles and I have business this day to tend to. I hope that you will join us for supper before you leave.” He gave me one final, dark look and added, “You are welcome also, Soldier Adrian. I suggest, though, that you become better acquainted with the customs of your new land.”
I mumbled something that I hoped sounded properly submissive as the baron and his son turned their backs. They had gone a spear’s length forward when Carle’s hand closed upon my arm with a grip like a jackal’s jaw.
He marched us grimly toward the north gate of the pasture. The dog tried to follow us for several paces, but Carle shooed her back, and we left her at the gate, wagging her tail as she watched us leave. I waited until we were well into the orchard before asking, “What did I do?”
“What did you do?” Carle blasted me a look that matched the baron’s. “Adrian, you gave him the free-man’s greeting! Have you forgotten you’re a lesser free-man?”
Actually, I had, but this didn’t seem the moment to mention that. “I know I’m only supposed to give the free-man’s greeting to my equals,” I said, “but surely your baron must have realized I was only trying to be friendly. In Koretia—”
Carle sighed, tossed back his cloak, and drew his sword. “Do you see this?” he said.
His sword looked all too sharp in the winter light that fell through the trees. I swallowed and nodded.
“If we lived in Koretia, I would have had to fight a dozen duels on your behalf by now, just to keep you from being killed by all the men you’ve insulted since arriving in this land. Be grateful we live in Emor, where people show more patience.” With a grin, Carle sheathed his sword, then turned to catch the bundle of brightness that had flung itself upon him.
After a moment, I identified the scarlet-cloaked bundle as a girl. She had no sooner kissed Carle than she hit him on the side of his head with her fist. Then she stood back and contemplated him with furious eyes.
Carle rubbed his ear. “I’m glad to see you also, Erlina.”
“You took your time getting here,” she responded, glaring at him as she placed her fists against her slender hips.
“I’d have arrived here sooner if you’d been less subtle in your letters,” Carle rejoined, scooping snow off the ground to place against his ear.
“I told you last winter that I’d come of age. You should have known what that meant. What else did you expect me to say, with him reading all my letters?”
“I didn’t foresee him moving so quickly—”
“I’m of age,” she said firmly. “I’m a woman, though unlike you I didn’t run out the door the minute I reached adulthood, leaving everyone else in the household to deal with him. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“So you’ve told me many times,” said Carle, giving her one of his spell-binding smiles.
Erlina seemed unmoved by such charms. “And you don’t write enough. You don’t write enough even to Myles; he’s told me how much he misses hearing from you. He says you’re even calling him ‘sir’ now, which he thinks is so foolish, though of course he’ll never tell you, because he thinks you’re much too wise to be—”
“Erlina.” Carle took hold of the young woman’s hands and held them lightly. He said quietly, “Have you signed the betrothal papers yet?”
Erlina continued to frown at him, but she bit her lip before saying, “I had to. He was blaming Mother for my stubbornness.”
Carle sighed and released her. “I’ll talk to him.”
“It won’t do any good.”
“I’ll talk to Gervais also. Perhaps there’s a law we can use to annul the betrothal.”
“If there was one, you’d have thought of it by now,” she said directly. “You know far more law than Gervais does. You’re too late, Carle. And you’re rude, too; you haven’t introduced me to your friend.”
Carle rolled his eyes toward the leaves above us. “This extremely difficult creature that you see before you is my sister, Adrian. I’d present her to you, but she’d probably claw your face to pieces.”
“Don’t be silly.” Erlina spread the skirt of her gown and gave me a low curtsey. “Is Carle this much trouble in the army? You have my permission to hit him if you want,” she told me hopefully.
Carle groaned. “One of these days, Erlina, I’ll teach you the Law of Army Rank. Until then— Heart of Mercy, he’s coming.” His voice grew suddenly low. “You’d better go, Erlina. He’ll want to be the first to greet us.”
She was gone then, as quickly as she’d come, like a bright-winged bird fled to her nest. For a moment, all that I could hear was silence. Then, with no warning of his approach by sound or sight, a man emerged from the trees.
The first thought I had was how much he looked like Carle. Though his hair was beginning to silver over like frost, his short locks were the same shade of red as Carle’s, and he even had Carle’s crooked smile. The charm was there too; I felt it
even before he turned to gaze at me. Then, evidently feeling that his son deserved the first welcome, Carle’s father said, “I knew that you would come home in the end.”
His voice was warm. By contrast, Carle’s was as chill as the ice on the bark as he said, “Yes, sir. I have brought a guest with me.”
“So I see.” Carle’s words caused his father’s smile to deepen. The older man turned to me and touched his heart and forehead, saying, “Verne son of Carle. You are welcome, young man. You are one of my son’s friends, I take it.”
My hand was halfway to my breast by the time he finished speaking – after all, there was no question here about rank – but something made me hesitate. Perhaps it was only the remembrance of Gervais’s dark look. Quickly I turned the greeting into a bow. I was rewarded – I saw upon raising my head again – with an approving look from Verne.
“Well,” he said to Carle, “I see that the army is not short of courtesy. You’ll have learned many useful skills in the patrol, I’m sure. I am eager to learn of them.”
Coming from a man who had opposed his son’s entrance into the army, this could be nothing other than an apology, but to my surprise, Carle did not follow up on his father’s words with his own apology for having departed the family home without leave. “Yes, sir,” he said in a flat voice. “I am permitted to visit, then?”
“Have I not made that manifest?” The smiling man embraced the orchard with his arms, as though he would offer all its bounty to Carle. “You are most welcome, Carle; I have been looking forward to seeing you and talking with you. Now, as to your guest . . . The guest chamber is taken at the moment, I’m afraid. Your friend will have to stay in your main bed-chamber. I’m sure you remember the way to your extra chamber.”
A hiss that might have been an indrawn breath or the whisper of a blade against its sheath came from the direction of Carle. “I do, sir,” he said in a voice as taut as a rope around a bound breacher’s wrist. “Shall I show him to the house now?”
“Yes, that would be wise; our dinner will be ready in an hour. I’ll just go now and tell the cook of your arrival. Your mother,” he added as an afterthought as he turned to go, “will be glad to see you. She has much to say to you, as I’m sure you know.” And he gave another of his deep smiles and walked away, as silently as he had come. It occurred to me, as he disappeared between the slender trunks, that Verne had not asked my name.
It was a while before I could think of what to say. As we walked slowly through the orchard, ducking snow-laden branches, Carle had an expression on his face as unrevealing as at my trial. Finally I said, “He is very gracious to guests.”
“Yes, he usually is,” replied Carle, his eye on the building that was beginning to loom above the tree-line. “I counted on that in bringing you here.”
I was tongue-tied for a moment more, then said, “Your house must be large if you have two chambers to yourself.”
The red in Carle’s hair seemed to flow in that moment to his face; his ears grew scarlet. After a moment, my gaze followed his to the great house above us, perched atop a mound.
I stopped dead, my gaze rising up the four floors and taking in the number of windows in the stone building. Some of them, I now saw, were covered with glass.
I turned back to Carle, who was avoiding my eye so assiduously that I laughed. “No wonder you were comfortable at Neville’s home. And this orchard . . . ?”
“Is my father’s.” Carle was still struggling to control his blush. “It’s quite embarrassing. We have more money than Gervais does, which isn’t how it’s supposed to be.”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “I seem to recall you telling me how good you are at keeping to the proper order in rank—”
He swiped at me with his hand then, and we fell to laughing. It seems a good omen that we were still laughing when we entered Carle’s house.
o—o—o
The thirty-first day of December in the 940th year a.g.l.
Carle’s bed-chamber, where I am staying, has a beautiful view of the black border mountains. I imagine that, as a child, he must have spent many hours dreaming at this window about becoming a patrol guard. I can also see the Chara’s palace from here. It glows white at night, lit by flames that have burned, Carle tells me, for near to a thousand years. Even during the terrible civil war of Emor’s early history, the flames were never doused.
The bed here looks as though it were made for the Chara. It’s finely crafted Arpeshian work and is so wide that Carle and I could easily sleep together on it. I was therefore surprised when Carle told me that he would stay in his extra chamber. I was going to protest, then realized the likely reason he wished to room separately. I really must question the lieutenant about the mystery of Carle’s dreams.
But I have mysteries enough to occupy me here. One is where Carle is staying in this house. He has put off my questions in that regard, except to say that he is well used to his extra chamber. Apparently the room I’m staying in was often used as a second guest chamber when Carle was growing up. So enigmatic is Carle about this that I almost have visions of him hiding himself away in order to carry on a secret love affair with one of the slave-women.
The slaves are a second mystery. I don’t mean, of course, that I am mystified by such things as would astonish a Koretian who had just arrived in this land. I have grown used, through my visits to the city, to the sight of slaves walking about naked-faced, talking as boldly as any free-man. Yet Verne seems to treat his slaves with greater generosity than the average Emorian. His slaves don’t wear special clothes that distinguish them from free-men, and Verne always addresses them in the same soft, gentle voice he uses toward the rest of us. I cannot reconcile what I see with Fenton feeling so ill-used that he fled from his master. But Fenton never told me the full story of what happened. Perhaps Verne was not at fault at all; perhaps Fenton was being bullied by some of the other slaves here. Certainly the slaves have a sullen look, not in keeping with the considerate treatment they are receiving.
But the biggest mystery of all is this: Why is Verne hosting a barbarian prince?
“Prince” is the title Verne has given him. Alaric tried good-naturedly to explain to me his status on the mainland, but all I could gather is that his father rules over a territory, and that he is his father’s heir. He is a mainland noble, at any rate, though much younger than the noble that Erlina is to marry: he is not much older than I am.
Even so, the prince already has a wife and two young daughters. He revealed this last night as we were sitting at the dining table, waited upon by an army of servants.
“I married very young,” he said, smiling. “Too young, perhaps. You know, sir, how family duties can restrict the direction of one’s life.” He bowed toward Verne, as he is in the custom of doing every few minutes, confounding my preconceptions of barbarian manners.
In appearance, though, he is every bit a barbarian. His face is painted – I suppose for battle purposes – and his hair is as long as a boy’s and is tied in braids. It’s hard for me to imagine how any mainland woman could stand to be courted by someone looking like that, but I suppose barbarian women have lower standards.
“My wife has known how restless I am,” he continued in good Emorian, “and so she finally tells me: ‘Alaric, my cherished one, what you want is not to be found in our tribe. You must search further – search even the Great Peninsula, where I think you will find your heart’s desire. And when you have found it, return here and be happy.’ She is a very wise woman, my wife.”
Verne, sitting with ease in his chair at the head of the table, said, “And have you found what your heart desires, here on the Great Peninsula?”
“I believe I have, yes.” Alaric continued to smile. “And so I will start my journey back to the mainland soon, since my quest is finished.”
Carle exchanged looks with me. Only a fur-covered barbarian, we supposed, would travel north during the winter. Well, I suppose that if my father could see me now, sitting in a hou
se surrounded by snow that won’t melt until April, he would think that I’d gone mad as well.
“Oh, but you must stay until the wedding.” Erlina leaned forward. She had ignored her father’s signal earlier that the after-dinner talk would be for men only, though this was the first remark she had addressed toward the oddly garbed barbarian. “I am sure that you have never seen such festivities on the mainland, not even at your own wedding. And my husband will be so eager to meet you in the spring.”
Carle, who had been swallowing some wall-vine wine, was suddenly taken with a fit of coughing. As I pounded him on the back, Alaric said serenely, “The warmth and kindness of Emorian women never ceases to amaze me. You and your mother are like bright flowers peering out of the snow. Yet I, who have taken so much already from your father, cannot impose on his graciousness further.” And he bowed again toward Verne.
“There is no imposition.” Verne flung his courtesy whole at the barbarian, smiling back at him. “We would welcome your company until spring. Perhaps you can persuade my son and his friend to stay as well.”
Carle managed at that moment to still the last of his coughing. He said nothing, which gave me hope. Could it be that, if we stay the winter, I can succeed in reconciling Carle to his father? I would so much like to give him that gift.
o—o—o
The first day of January in the 941st year after the giving of the law.
The village held celebrations today in honor of the founding of the laws of Emor. I could imagine my own family gathering today to offer up sacrifice to the gods in thankfulness for the creation of the gods’ law at the turn of the year. I am filled with gratitude that I’m here rather than there.
Carle spent much of yesterday and today showing me around the village, where he is, it seems, much liked by the inhabitants. He also showed me his family’s graveyard – a body-cemetery rather than an ash-cemetery. It lies upon a beautiful part of the mountaintop that overlooks the Chara’s palace.
Carle has demonstrated greater reluctance to guide me around his home, though I have explored on my own during the periods when Carle and his father are closeted away together; Verne is evidently keeping his promise to listen to Carle’s accounts of what he has learned in the army. The only section of the house barred to me is the slave-quarters, which are located in the basement. Nothing was explicitly said to me, but Carle made clear that Emorian views on rank do not allow for such mingling.
The rest of the house is beautiful and ancient, filled with carvings and decorations that date back to the early years after the civil war. One of the more recent tapestries evidently shows the family tree, though it is so filled with woven names that it is hard for me to read them. I will have to ask Carle about it.
I spent this evening talking with Verne. He was curious to know about my family background, and I found myself telling him the whole, terrible story of the blood feud. He was very sympathetic. Carle was angry at me afterwards when he learned that I’d spoken to his father about this. He reminded me that Quentin had advised me against telling this story to any but my intimates. Surely, though, Quentin never meant to suggest that I shouldn’t tell the story to Carle’s own father.
o—o—o
The second day of January in the 941st year a.g.l.
Carle was with his father all of this morning, and Erlina was invited to spend the day with Gervais’s family, so I whiled away my time with Alaric. He tells me that he learned Emorian as a boy from a traveller who was mauled by a snow leopard and who was forced to spend many months with Alaric’s family while he was healing. Alaric was surprised to learn during his travels here that Emorian can be voiced through symbols on paper. Apparently he had never seen a written word before he arrived in Emor, so I spent the forenoon teaching him the Emorian alphabet. He told me that he would continue to practice his letters until he was as good at writing Emorian as he is at speaking it, and he thanked me at such length that I was nearly yawning by the end.
He really is quite clever, for a barbarian. I feel as though, for kindness’ sake, I ought to drop him a hint as to how unattractive long hair on a man looks to women.
o—o—o
The third day of January in the 941st year a.g.l.
I see that I haven’t written anything about Carle’s mother. This is because it’s hard for me to know what to say about her. She is the shyest woman I have ever met; she never speaks unless Verne gently coaxes her into doing so. He is all kindness to her and often puts his arm around her in an affectionate manner.
Because of this, I am beginning to see that the disagreement between Carle and his father must have been serious indeed to cause the two of them to be estranged. Verne is not the sort of man who would ordinarily distance himself from his blood kin. On the contrary, he is always involving himself in his household’s activities, flitting from chamber to chamber in his quiet manner.
Carle’s mother I scarcely ever see, and I think that is by her wish. I came across her today, dressing the face of one of the slaves; he had evidently been in a fight with another slave, for his flesh had been laid open in a manner I’ve only seen among duellers. When she saw me, she was so startled that she fled from the room. I finished mending the slave’s face, trying to converse with him, but to no avail. Eventually I realized that we were being watched by Verne, who smiled and thanked me for the assistance. He says that his slaves often get into such mischief as this. I fear that Verne shows too much softness toward the members of his household. Perhaps that is why Carle has leaned the other way and is keen on army discipline.
o—o—o
The fourth day of January in the 941st year a.g.l.
Carle and I spent this afternoon exploring the contents of his main bed-chamber. We found many old writings by him about the patrol; the writings made us laugh, since they showed a boy’s view of what the patrol is like. We also found a copybook filled with Fenton’s handwriting, which stung my heart.
Carle was just pulling an old tunic out of a chest when I heard a barking from under the window. Looking out, Carle said sharply, “Home! Go home, girl!”
There was a puzzled whimper from the dog, but Carle’s tone of voice evidently permitted no disobedience, for when I looked out the window, the red-furred dog was gone. “Couldn’t you have let her come inside?” I asked.
Carle shook his head. “She’s Myles’s dog now. Besides, my father never allowed my dogs inside the house. —Ah, I’d been thinking about this tunic.” He held it up to the firelight. “I wore this in the last year I lived at home. I’d guess that it still fits me . . .” He glanced over toward me, then back down at the tunic again.
I quickly rose and voiced a desire to use the lavatory. (So luxurious is Carle’s house that it even has a chamber that is filled with nothing other than a chamber-pot and washbasin.) In actuality, I simply wanted to give Carle the opportunity to undress in private. He is still modest about his body, even in my presence.
When I returned, he was gazing with satisfaction at the most peculiar tunic I have ever seen anyone wear. The cloth is made all of one piece and wraps around him; the belt too is attached to the tunic, so that when it is untied, it remains with the tunic rather than separating.
“I wanted to show this to Quentin,” said Carle, tying his belt. The belt was naked of weapons; here in Emor, I’ve learned, even soldiers and nobles walk unarmed when they’re at home. I can’t imagine what men here do when they’re challenged to a duel.
“I had an idea that a uniform made in this style might come in handy during the summer months,” Carle continued. “Patrol custom is to sleep in one’s uniform, in case a danger whistle is emitted, which means that we sweat like dogs in that closed-in hut during the summer months. This tunic, though, can be quickly donned.”
As he spoke, he unclasped his honor brooch, unfastened the belt, and swung the cloth open for me to see. He had not bothered to put on his winter breeches underneath or even to retain his breech-cloth, which surprised me, given what I knew
of his shyness about showing his body.
He turned so that I could see how the cloth wrapped around the back. I asked, “Where did you find such a tunic?”
“Oh, I asked my mother to make it; I designed it myself. I got tired as a child of taking my tunic on and off several times a day. I decided that I might as well make matters easy for myself.”
I was going to ask him then about the swimming basins at Peaktop – for that is what I assumed he was referring to – but we were called to the table then. I did mention the tunic to Verne at supper, and I’ve never seen him smile so deeply. I think he must be very proud of Carle’s inventiveness. If only I could make Carle recognize how warmly Verne loves him.
o—o—o
The fifth day of January in the 941st year a.g.l.
Trouble has arisen, but not from Carle or his father. During my exploring today, I stepped into a dark corridor and discovered Alaric and Erlina in the shadows, kissing each other.
As instinctively as though I had sighted a breacher, I stepped back into the doorway through which I had entered. The kiss was evidently not long, for Erlina soon walked down the corridor, past where I was hiding. She was looking from side to side, as though worrying that someone might see her – as well she might. I waited until she was beyond sight, and then I stepped into the corridor.
Alaric sighted me at once. For a moment he stood frozen, reading from my expression what I had seen. After a bit, he came forward, a smile across his painted face. “Ah,” he says, “we are discovered. I had expected that it would happen eventually.”
His easiness about what he had done made me uncomfortable. How do you explain to a barbarian the notion of honor? “Sir,” I said, falling back on my patrol politeness, “I know that you are merely visiting this land and cannot be expected to adopt the customs of the people here. But surely, even in your own kingdom . . . I mean, your wife . . .”
“Ah, yes, my wife.” Alaric’s smile did not waver, though his voice was discreetly low. “I have been interested during my travels through the Great Peninsula to learn of your customs of marriage. You come from the south originally – tell me, do they practice divorce there?”
“It’s not as common as in Emor,” I said. “It’s against the gods’ law, actually, but sometimes a priest will give a dispensation—” I took in suddenly what he had asked and said, “Do you mean . . .?”
He shook his head. “Divorce is a custom that we mainlanders find – I pray you to forgive how I express this – barbaric. The idea that I, after joining my body and life with a woman and sowing children upon her, should discard her and say that she is no longer my wife . . . That is hard for me to understand.” He smiled at my puzzlement and added, “Yet I find it hard also to understand the view in the Three Lands that if a man and woman marry too young and discover that they do not love each other as a husband and wife should, their only other choice is to keep up the pretense that their marriage is fulfilling, so that they continue to live a loveless existence. Surely the gods within us would not be so cruel as to demand this.”
I have my own views on what gods, Koretian or barbarian, might demand, but I confined myself to asking, “But what other choice is there? If you are divorced, you may decide to take a second love, yet if you are married—” I stopped, abruptly seeing the gulf between civilized life and barbarian life.
“You see how much wiser our gods are,” said Alaric, his smile growing bright. “My wife and I live apart now, though we retain affection for each other. I have even allowed my wife to take a lover, which many husbands would not permit. Yet I think it is only fair that she should be allowed a love, since she has urged me so strongly to seek a second wife for myself. ‘Go to the Great Peninsula,’ she tells me. ‘You are not drawn to shy women such as me; bold-speaking women are who you desire.’ She knows me best, you see, since we are married. And so I have travelled many miles through the Great Peninsula, and I have sought far for my heart’s desire. Finally, when I am close to giving up hope, I find my desire – but she is already promised to another man. And so I must return alone to the mainland, for I know now that I will never find another woman like her. Yet, though it pains me further to stay here and know that she will never be mine, I cannot help but desire to bring her happiness in this period before her marriage, for I fear that this is the only chance she will have to know what it is like to find happiness and love in the company of a man.”
I had no notion what to say. Alaric, I was sure, could not recognize the full harm of what he was doing. Raised with romantic barbarian views of love, he did not see how even an arranged marriage, such as Titus and Chloris had enjoyed in my old village, could be blessed with happiness if the husband and wife gave love to each other – and such love, I am now sure, Erlina will receive from any man selected by her father. Yet it really wasn’t my place to offer Alaric lectures on his conduct. The only question that arose was where my own duties lay.
Alaric must have sensed this, for concern finally entered his face. “You will not tell him?” he said. “For Erlina’s sake, you will remain silent?”
“Carle is my partner,” I said, struggling to make the barbarian understand. “I can’t keep this from him—”
“Oh, Carle.” The lines of worry in Alaric’s face disappeared, leaving only the swirling paint. “Carle you most certainly must tell, but not our host? You will not leave Carle’s sister naked to her father’s hand?”
o—o—o
“Yes, I knew,” Carle said that night when I told him. “I’d guessed, from the way that she avoided speaking to him during meals. That’s not Erlina’s usual manner of treating guests.”
“And you don’t mind?” I said with surprise. We were standing next to the window in Carle’s main bed-chamber – Emorian windows are too small to sit on – and were feeling the winter wind scurry over our skins. Beside us, though, blazed a generous fire that frightened away the cold.
Carle shrugged his hands. “It’s as Alaric said: this is Erlina’s last chance for happiness before her marriage. Alaric strikes me as an honorable man, for a barbarian – and what is more important, he strikes me as a man with too much desire for self-preservation to risk impregnating the daughter of his host. I’m sure he’ll be careful not to take matters too far with Erlina.”
“But Carle,” I said, “surely any man honored by your father with your sister’s care—”
Carle turned abruptly away from the window. “It’s cold tonight,” he said. “I’d best go see that the slave-servants are well supplied with fuel.” And he left the room without saying farewell.
How I wish that Fenton were here. Carle’s hatred of his father is so great that it is poisoning his most elementary judgment. I’m tempted to go directly to Verne with this problem, but I suppose that I shouldn’t give up so easily on awakening Carle to how blind he is being.
Fenton, I’m sure, would have found a way to show Carle his father’s true character.