There was a contest in which men had to heft a log above their heads, the victory going to whoever held it there for the longest count. There were some twenty brawny fellows competing, and at first it was done with goodwill, the crowd applauding winners and commiserating with losers. Contestants were paired in a series of man-against-man challenges. One by one they dropped out of the competition, wheezing, red-faced, slick with sweat.
The king leaned forward to speak to his official; the official held up his hands for silence.
“The king wishes this man and this man to meet in the final challenge.” He indicated a tall, dark-haired individual and a shorter, stockier fellow. The two of them looked pleased—there had been eight other men still left in the contest. The others made to return to the crowd, but there were Enforcers in the way now, and heavier logs were being wheeled in on a low cart. Much heavier logs; they looked far too big for one man to lift. “The king wishes the stakes to be raised,” the official said as a pair of Enforcers manhandled each log in turn off the cart, standing them upright on the ground. “He is sure you, Morr of Glenbuie, are keen to make amends for certain remarks that were brought to his attention, remarks suggesting some concerns about the Cull in the east of Glenbuie territory. Your chieftain has nominated you to be his champion in this contest, in recognition that a grave error of judgment was made. If you prevail, your kin will remain safe at the next Cull.”
Even across the distance, I saw that the dark-haired Morr’s face had blanched. After one quick glance up at his chieftain in the stand, he squared his shoulders and set his jaw, ready for what might come. He had not known, it seemed, that being chosen for this contest was anything but a recognition of his strength.
“And you, Dubhal of Scourie.” The official turned to the shorter, broader contestant. “You have a daughter who’s a fine spinner, don’t you? Living in Brightwater settlement? Known all across Scourie for her talents, or so the king has heard.”
I hugged my shawl around myself, knowing where this was headed. The folk next to me were hushed with anticipation.
“I have a daughter, yes, my lord.” Dubhal rubbed his hands on his tunic, stared down at his boots.
“Look at me!” The official nodded toward one of the Enforcers, who stepped forward and delivered a ringing blow to Dubhal’s jaw. He reeled, then steadied.
“Answer the question!” barked the Enforcer.
“What you said … it is correct, my lord.” A deep, shuddering breath. “But my daughter … Ana … yes, she’s good with her hands. A good worker. Nothing more, my lord, I swear.”
“Nothing more. That’s not what the king heard. Folk are saying your daughter is smirched. They’re saying no ordinary hand can spin so fine.”
“That is a lie, my lord. Ana comes from a long line of spinners; she learned young. It’s no more than that.” Dubhal’s voice was shaking now. With an effort, he looked the official in the eye. “I’d stake my life on it, my lord.”
The king’s mouth curved in a slow smile, and a sigh went through the crowd. My gut was churning. I wanted to run, to get out, to be gone before I had to see what unfolded. But there could be no running, with folk all around me and guards on the gate. Besides, there was a part of me that held me still, a part that whispered, Bear witness. In times when it’s hard to put the cause first, the memory of this will make you strong.
“You will pit your strength against each other,” the official said. “Three times, added weight each time. Outlast your opponent twice and victory is yours.” He turned toward the crowd, and people obliged with shouts of approval.
“Black Crow save us,” muttered the young man standing behind me, “look at the size of those things. They won’t last to the count of five.”
“Shh!” hissed someone else.
“Morr,” the official was saying, “you understand what is at stake for you here. Dubhal, win this contest and the queen will consider offering this daughter of yours a position at court, where her special skill can be put to appropriate use. Lose, and she will be culled.”
Dubhal opened his mouth as if to protest, then closed it without saying a word.
The contest began. They lasted a long time—far longer than I would have thought possible for any man. It was desperation, maybe, that gave them the strength to go on. Muscles straining, eyes bulging, feet planted square, the two of them stood facing each other with the huge logs up over their heads. The crowd was roaring encouragement: Hold on, lad! That’s the way! Keep it up, man, you can do it! And abuse: Your daughter’s smirched! What does that make you, big lump?
It could not go on forever. Morr’s legs began to wobble; he shifted his feet, his face scarlet with effort. His whole body was trembling. A moment later the log came down, thudding to the ground and narrowly missing his opponent’s feet. Dubhal had won the first round. He bent his knees, set his log carefully down. Pain was written all over his body.
“They’ll do it different next time,” said the young man behind me. “You’re looking a bit pale. Here.” He offered me a flask. “Honey mead; should do the trick.”
“Thank you, but no. I’m all right.”
“First time at the Gathering?”
The last thing I wanted was to get into a conversation, even with this apparently harmless person. I nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
“Takes a body that way sometimes. Change your mind, just ask.”
“Thank you.”
“They won’t last so long this time. Arms will cramp up. Just watch.”
He was right. Almost before the two contestants had time to draw breath, Enforcers came forward to push great iron rings onto the ends of the logs—two men to hold the wood, a third to add the extra weight. Surely neither Morr nor Dubhal, strong as they were, would be able to lift the burden at all, let alone hold it high. What would the king do if both failed—treat both as losers? Subject one man’s kin to the Cull and destroy the other’s daughter?
The king raised a hand: the signal to begin. The contenders gripped their impossible burdens, clenching their teeth, and lifted. Morr staggered. Dubhal was steadier. The weighted logs came up to chest height, then with a mighty heave were raised high. The crowd began to count.
But what now? Enforcers had come forward to sweep their staves about, at first only distracting the two burdened men, then, as Morr and Dubhal stood doggedly in place, tapping them on the ankles, the knees, the shins. Then hitting. Then striking so hard that Morr winced in pain and Dubhal let out an explosive breath, cursing. The counting became a chant, two chants from opposite sides of the crowd. Scou-rie! Scou-rie! And Glen-duie! Glen-duie! Even so might folk have cheered on their village teams at a game of ball, all in a spirit of fun, with the opposing sides sharing a few jugs of ale when the match was over.
But this was the Gathering, and such chants carried their own peril. The nearest guards turned their heads sharply toward the sound, and it soon died. In these games there was only one real player, and that was Keldec.
The staves were working in and out now, teasing the contestants who sweated under their loads, poking them between the legs, prodding them in the small of the back, rapping at their feet. And in an instant it was over, the two of them dropping their burdens at once, the logs crashing down, making the Enforcers jump back out of the way. Morr and Dubhal collapsed onto the ground, wheezing. If one had released his log before the other, I could not have said which it was. Indeed, I wondered if a moment had come when they’d looked each other in the eye and decided in silence, Enough.
There was a brief consultation: the official, the Enforcers, the king leaning over from his seat to speak with them.
“Second round goes to Morr,” the official announced.
“Convenient,” murmured someone in the crowd close to me, and was immediately hushed by others. It was indeed convenient; a drawn round would have required the men to lift twice more, most likely impossible, while this result made the third round the decider. The people around me were talki
ng about chains, whips, dogs. It took all my will not to crouch down and cover my eyes. Oh, Tali. What will it be when your turn comes?
For the third round, they used magic. A more powerful magic than I had imagined existed within Keldec’s household, for though we knew from Flint that he had canny folk there, I had assumed their gifts were similar to those I had encountered elsewhere in Alban: keen sight like Tali’s, acute hearing, a gift for music or handcrafts, or a knack with animals. The most unusual gift I had seen a canny human use was Sula’s: she was able to draw heat into water, which proved useful both for cooking in clay pots and for providing comfortable baths in winter.
What unfolded now told me there was at least one gift among Keldec’s folk that might be brought into play in a battle: a gift of fire. The third round began, the contenders crouching to lift their burdens, which now wore a second pair of iron rings. Morr and Dubhal gripped the logs, strained to rise, struggled up to standing. Facing each other once again, they lifted their burdens high.
“One thing I’ll say,” the man behind me murmured, “they’ve got bollocks, the two of them.”
“Here comes the fellow with the flame,” muttered a woman.
I saw no flame, only a member of the king’s household, a dark-haired man of middle height dressed in the robe of a councillor, stepping down from the raised seating to walk forward and stand a few paces from the burdened men, both of whom, miraculously, were still fairly steady. The Enforcers stood back; it seemed the staves were not required for this round.
The robed man raised his arms. His left hand pointed toward Dubhal, his right toward Morr.
“Here it comes,” murmured someone. There was no counting now, no shouts of abuse or encouragement. A profound hush lay on the crowd.
The robed man made a pass with his hands, very like the one I had seen Sula use to heat water at Shadowfell. For a few moments nothing happened. Then smoke began to rise from the two logs, threads at first, growing to small clouds. Morr staggered; Dubhal coughed. Then both shouted at once. Flames were licking the wood, catching at their hands. The logs were afire. It seemed a charm too powerful to be worked by humankind. But the Good Folk would not enter this place of iron, I was sure of it. That man out there was a canny human like me.
I could hear Dubhal’s breathing even from so far away, a desperate, agonized gasping. Morr was silent, his teeth clenched in a death’s-head grimace. Call a halt, I willed the official. Make it stop. Around me the crowd watched with appalled fascination.
I had thought Dubhal on the verge of collapse, but it was Morr who fell first, his burden rolling away to lie flaming on the ground. Dubhal did not drop his log straightaway, but held on long enough to be quite sure there was no mistake. Then, sobbing with pain, he let it go. Morr was curled up in agony. Tears ran down Dubhal’s face. Nobody stepped forward to help them, but the robed man made a quick gesture this way, that way, and the fires went out as if doused in cold water.
The king rose to his feet. He was smiling. “Dubhal, your effort has pleased me well. I will send my physician to tend to your injuries. A fine, strong man like you might even find himself among our Enforcers one day, who knows?” A pause, then, as he bent to say something to Queen Varda and to listen to her response. “The queen wishes to meet this talented daughter of yours. Is she here today?”
“No, my lord.” Dubhal’s voice was a desperate gasp; his hands were shaking as if palsied. What he needed was cold water, quickly—where was this physician?
“Indeed.” Suddenly Keldec was chilly. “Why not?”
“My lord, she is heavy with child and could not travel.”
The king bent to consult his wife again. Straightened to look once more at Dubhal. “The queen does not want a spinner with a squalling babe. Make arrangements for it to go elsewhere; then bring your daughter to court. We are not unreasonable; in recognition of the strength you have shown today, we will wait until our return to Winterfort in the autumn. Be there within ten days of our arrival, or the queen may not be so favorably disposed toward you.”
“Thank you, my lord king. You are most generous.”
“Take him to my physician,” Keldec said. As Dubhal was led away, the king’s gaze found the hapless Morr, who had got up into a crouch, his injured hands held out before him.
“Morr of Glenbuie. Stand up before your king.”
He forced himself up.
“As your chieftain’s champion in this contest, you have failed. What have you to say for yourself?”
Morr spoke. His voice was faint, and I could hear nothing of it.
“Speak up!” the king snapped. “Let all those gathered know your shame.”
“I did my best, my lord king.” He turned his head to look at his chieftain in the stand. “I did my best, my lord Sconlan. I regret …” He sagged at the knees and fell to the ground, apparently in a dead faint.
Keldec made an impatient gesture. Two Enforcers—one was Flint—stepped forward to pick the man up and remove him from the open area. They did not carry him into the fortress, but across to an outbuilding set against the wall, so close to where I was standing that I pulled my shawl up over my mouth and looked down at my feet, willing Flint not to see me. My heart hammered so hard as he went by that it seemed he must surely hear it, but he passed without a sideways glance. Not long after, he and his comrade emerged from the building without Morr and went to resume their places near the king.
The games went on. What we had seen was only the start of it. It became plain to me that there were few bouts or contests here that were not devised as punishment for those who had offended the king. The events grew more and more brutal as the day progressed, a sequence of cruelly devised entertainments that saw folk hobbling from the field with terrible injuries, the kind of hurts that would blight the whole of their lives. Craftsmen with fingers gone. Archers blinded. Horsemen crippled. It came to me that Keldec was not only evil, he was deranged. When I could no longer bear to look at the games, I watched him, and I saw how often he bent to seek the queen’s opinion, and only decided one way or another after she had whispered in his ear. I saw too that the man who had performed the trick with fire now sat on Queen Varda’s other side, and spoke to her often as if he were a trusted confidant.
There were other kinds of hurt on show, other kinds of atrocity. Taunting, humiliation, mockery. The requirement to insult or damage a loved one publicly in order to avoid a worse punishment. The requirement to stay quiet and compliant as a friend or family member was assaulted.
Eventually came a break for everyone to take food and drink. There were communal privies out in the camping area, and some folk were going out to use them. I was sorely tempted to follow them and run for the forest. Every instinct urged me to flee this charnel house. But there would be no escape; the river mouth was in full view from the sentry point in the Summerfort tower, and there was no way I could cross without being spotted. One woman heading in the wrong direction would be immediately noticed and brought back to account for herself.
The friendly young man offered me a share of his provisions, and I accepted some bread and cheese, but found I could not eat. After the meal, the official announced that the next event was a fight between two Enforcers. My tight belly relaxed a little. This, surely, would be a straightforward display of strength and skill, a reminder to us all of the power the king held in his fist.
I knew the king’s men were ruthless. They were dedicated to the task. I had seen them as they swept down on Darkwater, bringing death and destruction. I had not seen them pitted one against another like this. Their movements had an economy of style, a fluid control that made their bout a deadly dance. Short sword and knife flashed in the sunlight; it was both beautiful and terrible to behold. How had my brother, fourteen years old, untrained in fighting and armed with a homemade spear, managed to stand up to the king’s men even for an instant?
Both combatants wore the emblem of Seal Troop; they were comrades. Perhaps that was why the bout str
etched out so long, with the skill and strength of the fighters making it near impossible for either to prevail. Caught up in the excitement, the people around me shouted, cheered, groaned when one or the other combatant was forced to give ground or release a punishing hold. But not the watching Enforcers. I’d have thought fighting men might lay wagers on such a contest; at the very least, I would have expected them to be yelling encouragement with the rest. But they were uniformly grim and silent.
It went on and on, and as it progressed, the crowd grew quieter too. Both fighters were flagging; soon, surely, one must make a small error of judgment and lose a weapon or fall to his knees in surrender. They’d already stayed on their feet and in possession of their weapons for far longer than I’d expected.
The king rose to his feet; the combatants stepped away from each other, breathing hard.
“Set aside your weapons,” Keldec said.
A pair of guards came forward; the fighters handed over their swords and knives. It seemed common sense had prevailed, and the bout would be declared a draw.
“My people,” the king said, and spread his arms out as if to embrace all of us, “I am sad to tell you that even within the ranks of my own most loyal fighters, acts of disloyalty sometimes occur. This is rare; my Enforcers are the best of the best, warriors unparalleled, a force truly to be feared. I expect of them what I expect of every man, woman, and child in Alban: complete and unswerving loyalty. These men you see before you have erred since last we gathered here. Erred in small ways, perhaps; but small mistakes can lead to more significant blunders. If not unchecked, disobedience will spread its creeping evil like a canker through the community. My people, I do not tolerate dissent in any form. That it can occur within the ranks of my own fighting force is deeply troubling.