“So you shall be broken by history, by family, by love,” quoth Great Alta. “And when you are repaired, you shall be greater than before.”
two
Hostages
THE MYTH:
Then Great Alta took the boychild to place him in the oast of her gaze. But the boychild twisted and turned and managed to slip from her grasp. He ran across a great bridge that spanned an ocean and was gone from sight.
“The farther you run, the nearer you stay,” quoth Great Alta.
THE LEGEND:
Jess Hamesford of New Moulting has an iron figure that has been in his family for generations. The figure is in the shape of a ginger-bread boy. The top half is painted a light color, the bottom dark.
It is said by the Hamesford family that the figure was one of twenty handed to the men—ten Garuns and ten from the Dales—who accompanied the Two Princes when they were exchanged at the port of Berike. The captains of each accompanying force got the same, but their figurines were made of pure gold.
THE STORY:
The day the princes were exchanged was one of those cold, grey days in late winter when there was a skim of ice on the ponds, and both horses and humans breathed out a moist mist.
King Carum had insisted the family have red robes lined in ermine for going down to the dock, ostentatious for the Dales but necessary for the occasion. And warm, he reminded himself as a sop to his conscience. Their inside wear was just as ornate. Jem and Corrie wore green and gold cottas, and stockings of green embroidered with gold leaves. Jenna and Scillia were in dresses of the Garun courtly style—low in the bosom and high in the waist, with ribbands below the bodice bound round to the back and tied in a false bow. They looked beautiful and uncomfortable in equal measure.
Jenna did not complain but held her head in a manner that suggested—to those who knew her well—pain and distance. It looked to outsiders like royal disdain.
However Scillia voiced her dis-ease and unhappiness at every opportunity.
“Papa,” she told Carum, “they are all staring at me.”
He knew she meant that people were staring at the one empty sleeve, so apparent in the formal dress.
“They see me next to mother and know I am not …”
Not whole. He knew that was the bald statement beneath her plaint. Not entirely whole. So he did what any father would have done: he wrapped his arms around her, no matter the councillors gaped at it, and whispered, “You are the loveliest girl in the room. Lovelier even than your mother.”
The last was too blatant a lie for Scillia to stomach. “Oh, papa—not you, too!” She pulled away from him and would have fled the room except that the first of the Garuns chose that moment to arrive in full regalia and with trumpets—trumpets!—blaring.
Carum looked over at Jenna and for the first time she raised an eyebrow at the proceedings. Holding out his hand, he said: “Come. We will see their trumpets and raise them.”
Jenna, who did no gaming, looked slightly puzzled, but took his hand anyway. He led her away from the children to the twin thrones on the raised dais. A dais just new-made for the occasion, he reminded himself, careful not to move awkwardly as he took the high step up. He held Jenna’s hand firmly to keep her from turning around too soon, their backs to the Garunian delegation almost—but not quite—an insult. Then just short of the full snub, he turned them both in place and slowly he sat onto his throne.
Jenna sat on her throne at the same time, holding herself upright, aloof. Partially—Carum suspected—to keep from weeping at the prospect of letting her son go across the ocean. But partially because the low bodice of her dress embarrassed her.
Their three children stood slightly to the right of the platform, backs to their parents, all in a line. The privy council—three men and two women—stood slightly to the left. It made an imposing picture.
There were no candles or torches ablaze near the thrones. Carum had been quite specific about that. He would rather be in the half-shadows than have Jenna’s dark sister Skada with her brutally honest tongue mixing in the final negotiations. Honesty had its place, but Carum knew its place was neither in horse trading nor treaty talks. This, he thought with sudden bitterness, is a bit of both.
For all that he disliked the Garuns—a silly, contentious people—Carum had his son’s welfare to consider. He had no illusions about his children, though he loved all three with equal fervor. Corrie was a go-along, content to follow anyone else’s lead, but with a sense of humor that made him a good companion. Scillia was a moody questioner, never content with easy answers, especially for herself. And Jem was an occasional bully and a frequent blusterer. But he had a core of fire. Like my own brothers, Carum thought. Still he was only a boy.
But he was also a prince. Carum knew that it was imperative that the Garuns be reminded that all the Dales held the child—son of the Anna—in the highest esteem.
He sighed, a sound so quiet he thought that no one had noticed. Just a soft expiration into a noisy chamber. But Jenna, always alert to such changes in him, reached for his hand. He is my son, Carum thought angrily, and all I can think of is esteem. His anger was all turned inward and for once Jenna’s touch did not help.
The actual words of the exchange treaty had been worked out months before between councillors on both sides. Carum and Jenna had held themselves apart from the meetings, as had the Garunian king, Kras. But nevertheless, they knew every word of the pact.
As if they were burned into my heart, Carum thought.
Today was to be the public reading of the document and the exchange of tokens: bejeweled figures of the two boys made by craftsmen from both sides of the waters. Carum shook his head at the waste of labor, at the expense. The figurines were pretty baubles, but he would rather have spent the money on the farmers in the Maulten District who had had too little rain in the spring and torrents of it in the fall.
Tomorrow on the tide, both boys would set sail from their homes, Jem in a Garun ship and Kras’ son Gadwess in a ship from the Dales. Somewhere midsea the ships would pass, flags would be lowered, then raised again. A silly bit of business when smooth sailing and a stiff wind were all that were wanted or needed. But Kras had insisted on it, and it had given them another bargaining chip with the Garuns. Carum hoped he could use it wisely.
Glancing over at Jem, Carum wondered if the boy had any misgivings about leaving home and family. If he did, he hid them well. His color was high and his eyes sparkled. Carum suspected that Jem, who liked being the center of attention, would play The Prince to the hilt. I should have said to Scillia that no one would be looking at her or any of the rest of us today, that it was all Jem’s moment. But it was already too late to salve that particular wound.
“Papa,” Jem said, without turning to look at Carum, as if he feared he might miss something, “Why don’t we have any trumpets?”
“Because,” Jenna said before Carum could answer, “they separate the kings from the people. We do not do that in the Dales.”
Jem muttered, “I like trumpets.”
“You would!” Scillia spat at him.
Only Corrie looked sad and a bit uncertain. He tugged at the back of his cotta.
“Stand straight, Corrie,” Carum warned quietly.
Corrie stopped fiddling with his cotta but his fingers still twitched, as if he did not know quite where to put them.
At that moment the Garunian delegation stepped forward and bowed, a long, slow, elegant, and—Carum thought—somewhat mocking bow to the royal family. It was certainly a grander bow than any used in the Dales court. Full leg extended, a flowing hand movement that went down to the ankle of the extended leg then seemed to flutter and flow back up to the waist.
Jem clapped his hands in delight and the chief Garun, a man with a moustache that waterfalled on either side of his mouth and ended in twin points, smiled indulgently.
Nodding briefly at the bowing delegation, Carum signalled them with a pronouncedly languid hand to come closer. Only the man with
the moustache left the protection of the group, walking toward them as if he were sailing through the space. When he arrived at the foot of the dais, standing so that his left shoulder nearly touched Jem’s, he bowed again, if anything more extravagantly than before.
“Enough!” Jenna muttered, sounding like Skada in the explosion of that one word.
“Your Majesties,” the Garun said, still bowing. “My name is Sir Rodergo Malfas.”
“Rise, Sir Malfas,” Carum commanded, and the man straightened up smoothly.
“My bonfis,” he said, handing Carum a scroll.
“Thank you,” Carum answered, keeping his voice low and controlled. “I am sure they are in order.” But he glanced at the scroll anyway. It is my son, after all, he told himself. I should know something of the man he sails with.
The scroll was an ancestor-line, males writ in large, gaudy, gilt-lined letters, the females in a smaller but still precise hand. Carum glanced at it quickly. Malfas was well-connected; Carum recognized many of the names. There was even a line, on the sinister side, that went directly to the king.
“I am impressed,” Carum said in his still-careful voice, though he was not impressed at all. He measured a man by his actions, not his ancestors. Still he knew the Garuns counted a man differently. And a woman not at all! “Your bonfis …” he used Malfas’ own pronunciation: bon’fees. “Your bonfis are sterling indeed. You seem remarkably close to the throne.” He guessed that mentioning the bastard line would be both a compliment and an insult, and meant it to be.
“Too kind,” Malfas responded, a bit coldly.
A hit! Carum thought, feeling the bite of it. He wondered suddenly if that indulgence had done his little boy any good. He promised himself to be more careful.
Jenna had remained absolutely still throughout their exchange. If she had any desire to look at the scroll or talk to Sir Malfas she did not communicate it by the slightest movement. Carum knew her dislike for the Garuns exceeded his own, but he also knew that the exchange of princes was a necessary evil for continued peace between their two countries, a peace hard-won scarce thirteen years earlier. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps her silence will not be read as anger or sorrow or hatred, all of which he was sure she was feeling. Perhaps the Garuns would read it through their own lenses as the silence of a woman who knows her place. No sooner had he thought this, than he regretted the thought.
“Sir Malfas,” Carum said, “may I present Queen Jenna, called The Anna by our people. And these are our children—Scillia, Jemson, and Corrine.” He was taking a chance naming Jenna that way, though the Garuns knew they shared the throne in equal rule. He had not mentioned that Scillia was heir to the throne. This, too, the Garunians surely already knew and disapproved of. But it was simply not tactful to rub the fact in. Not here. Not now. There was much to diplomacy that irked Carum beyond measure; he knew it bothered Jenna even more.
Sir Malfas bowed again, to each of them in turn, but it was to Jem that he held his bow the longest.
Jem grinned, squaring his shoulders.
“And now,” Carum intruded on the last and longest bow, “please join us for a feast, Sir Malfas. I have put you between Jemson and myself, that we may all get to know one another.”
“Know one another?” Sir Malfas’ voice held a disapproving note.
“In the Dales,” Jenna said suddenly, her own voice distant and cold, “we prize that kind of intimate knowledge.”
“Then, madame,” Malfas said carefully, not calling her either Highness or Majesty, “as I am in the Dales, I shall endeavor to know you as well.” But it was clear he was referring to Jemson and Carum, not Jenna.
Jem giggled and only with an effort kept from clapping his hands.
Carum led the way with Jenna a reluctant step behind. They came off the dais, passed between Malfas and the children, split the Garunian delegation in two, and went through the door into the great dining hall where a feast, indeed, awaited them.
THE SONG:
FEAST SONG
Bring in the pheasant, so pleasant to eat,
Bring in the grouse and the lamb.
Bring in the capons and salmon and geese,
Bring in the sucklings and ham.
Bring in the butter and cheese and the beans,
The porridge, the barley, and oats.
Bring in the ale and the red wines and white,
Bring in the milk from the goats.
Fast day to feast day to fast day again,
We feed down from castle to cottage.
One week we’re ample with courses to spare,
Next week we dine upon pottage.
Bring in the black breads, the brown breads, the gold,
Bring in the honey-Sweet beer.
Bring in the onions and garlic and cloves,
Bring in the cup of good cheer.
Bring in the berries, red, purple, and black,
Bring in the caramelized candy.
Bring in the fruit pies, the cakes, and the tarts,
Bring in the possets and brandy.
Fast day to feast day to fast day again,
We feed down from casde to cottage.
One week we’re ample with courses to spare,
Dining on venison, wild pig, and bear,
Finishing off with both apple and pear.
Next week we dine upon pottage.
THE LEGEND:
There is a stone at the entrance to Berike Harbor called “Prince’s Landing.” It is a large grey boulder with a foot-shaped hollow in the top.
The men of Berike say that stone was the site of the Prince Gadween’s first step on to Dalian land.
The women say rather it was the last place the Anna’s son Jemuel stood before embarking for the Continent. Further, say the women, the hollow is always filled with salt water. It is not salt from the sea but from the tears the Anna shed at her son’s leaving. When Jemuel returned a man, he was changed beyond all measure. And so, the women of Berike say, the hollow holds her tears to this day.
THE STORY:
The dinner was a long drawn-out affair, with too many courses and toasts to both sides of the ocean. Never any good at such festivities, and tongue-tied when it came to making toasts, Jenna longed to excuse herself, to take Jem out for a walk under the familiar stars.
She had so much she wanted to tell him before he left, so much to remind him of. Stories of his birth, his first steps, his first word—which had been “crown.” She wanted to tell him again about how she and his father had met, parted, met again in the midst of battle. She wanted to warn him about the Garunians’ softness toward warfare, their hard-heartedness toward women. It would be her last chance to talk face-to-face with Jem for many years to come. She did not doubt that her letters to him would be routinely censored, or read first by the stone eyes of Kras and Malfas and their like.
She had given Jem a small satchel of gifts she had put together, but privately, not in view of the Garunian delegation. They would certainly have made mock of her offerings. A packet of his favorite dried blackberries, so delicious on porridge, like a burst of late summer on the tongue. A leather-bound copy of Blessum’s Book of Wisdoms, with her own favorite sayings underlined in red ink. A book marker woven of marsh-rush and dyed purple with madder, with his name and a crown embroidered with gold thread; Scillia’s handiwork, all the more to be prized because it was so difficult for her to do. A pillow potpourri with rose petals from the castle garden, as well as lavender, orris root, and other spices from an old receipt she had found in the archives. If he slipped it under his bed linen, the bed would keep fresh for days on end. A ginger chewing ball in case he had more problems with his back teeth. And his old stuffed bear, resewn and rehatted by her own fingers. Jem had put the bear away only last year, but she thought that a boy in a new place would want to be surrounded by some of his familiar things.
She remembered when she had traveled away from Selden Hame her first time. She’d been older than Jem, but had lived a mu
ch more restricted life, a life that was both more sheltered and yet harder than her own children’s upbringing. Four girls—she and Pynt and two others—had been sent off together on their year’s mission, parting at the confluence of two rivers. She—like Pynt—had carried a corn dollie in her pack. It had meant a great deal to her at the time.
Jem’s bear—Brownie—could serve as his blanket companion in the foreign court. If, Jenna thought suddenly, the Garuns let him keep it. He had certainly seemed pleased enough with the things in the satchel, giving her a little hug and a half smile as he looked at every item.
“Jenna!” It was Carum, calling on her for the next toast.
She raised her glass reluctantly and looked around the long table, at Carum at the far end, his face slightly flushed with the wine. She looked at the Garun, Sir Malfas, who was so like one of her old enemies, she had trouble focusing on him. Then she looked at Jem beside him, his little face bright with the watered wine and the excitement, rather more the second than the first, she imagined. Then her eyes strayed to Corrie next to his brother, in whose mien pleasure and sorrow were mixed together. She let her eyes track widdershins around the banquet feasters until they rested, at last, on Scillia to her own right.
Scillia was staring down at her plate.
Jenna stood. She stood very straight, lifting her chin and looking as regal as she could. And looking as well—if she had but known it—like the goddess the country people thought her. She willed her voice to betray nothing.
“I give you—my son,” she said, deliberate in the play on words. Then knowing she would have to say more, added, “We have a saying here in the Dales: What you give away with love, you keep.” She lifted the glass to her lips and drank the wine down quickly. There was little left in the bottom of the goblet anyway, and what remained was warm and slightly sour.
“Jemson!” Corrie cried, leaping to his feet and holding his own cup aloft. “To the great adventure!”
All around the table the feasters likewise rose. A few had clearly been refilling their cups to the brim for each toast. Marek seemed to have the most trouble getting up.