Lady Cherusay's Daughter, Book I: The People

The leaves, cabbage and grape, were tender and juicy, filled with slivered baby beets and young pea-pods; she polished them off, and three more, before even beginning to think about conversation, or of offering a tidbit to the hound snuffling at her bare foot. Beside her Caltern worked steadily down through his pile; to the other, Kahan picked delicately at an amount that would, she thought, scarcely feed little Persli.

Persli. She had spared her family scarcely a thought since Floodholding. What, and how, were they doing, while she was dressing in silk, sleeping on down, and stuffing herself on luscious dishes beyond the compass of fantasy?

Heartsick, she leaped to her feet—and froze in puzzlement with the Horsemaster’s big hand heavy on her head. She sat again. Caltern looked at his hand.

“Huh! Some wish,” he grunted. “Oughtn’t’ve made it off your seat!”

The strength of Arngas had thwarted him. She started to babble an apologetic protest, but he cut her off. “Big rush’ll keep till morning. Won’t help them, your running off all redeless into darkness.” He pinched at her ribs and, catching only cloth, plopped his chunk of honeyed bread onto her half-empty plate. “Eat.”

“But, Master—”

“‘Cal.’” As the informality stunned her, the Horsemaster poked her nose again and said firmly, “You belong here.”

She shut her jaw, pondering. That might be true, now; but they were still her family, and she loved them. “Mas—ah . . . but it isn’t fair, my having all this while they are cold and hungry,” she objected.

Caltern shrugged. “Don’t know about ‘fair.’ Family? Who, exactly?”

As the Horsemaster slowly cleaned his laden plate and another, Rothesay told him all about her people in Harrowater, about Brannar the bold, winsome Meryth, and sickly, spirited Persli, all brain and no body; Thyrne, the good mother; and Alrulf, whose character took on truly heroic stature in her paean.

As she was about to start in on neighbors, beginning with Pinnar, Caltern glared her to silence. “Think the best move is to go back and starve with them?”

She had no answer. Put like that, it did seem empty; but neither could she stay in bitter luxury at home in Colderwild. Caltern watched her inner battle for a moment; then, rummaging among the many necklaces tangled in the thick red hair on his chest, he pulled up a long crystal, a pillar of tourmaline, and held it out to her. She took it gingerly, careful not to tug the silken cord still looped about his neck, uncertain what this meant.

“Magic fairy elf wand,” he said. “Go on, wave it. What would you wish for them?”

She laughed, a trifle giddily between homesickness and enchantment with the big man’s whimsy. “Oh! Well, well, we’ll have to start with a farm of his own for Alrulf. A big, stout house with no drafts, and a flock of the best sheep in the north.”

“Sheep, not cows?”

She flashed him a puzzled look. “Sheep eat peas, the vines and all.”

“Wouldn’t know. Next?”

“A fishing boat, all white. Ponies for the girls, and fine woollen gowns, so red and so green, and linen shirts, and copper pots. A housekeeper—Gyrna would be perfect: she’s a young widow, or not so very old, and her babies all died, and she likes the girls.”

“Go on.” He tapped the crystal with a thick nail. “Unlimited wishes here tonight.”

“Right! More land, better, too, for Mat and Thyrne, and better stock: they’ve had naught but grief from their present lot, or what’s left of it. And a boat for Mat, and woollen cloaks, and a copper kettle for Thyrne. And—and a colt for Matkin, that he might grow up with it.”

“That’s it?” he growled when she stopped. “No castles, or chests of gold and jewels?”

She laughed, rather darkly. “Ow, nay! They’d not be happy with all that—hard to gossip over the back fence of a castle, and with the neighbors all jealous, at that!”

“Aye—and neighbors’ feuds are called ‘war,’” Kahan chuckled.

“Good girl,” said Caltern, retrieving his crystal from her grasp. “Hey! You, almost a knight!” he barked at Kahan. “You get all that?”

“Yes, Master,” he grinned back.

“Do it.”

“Yes, Master. By Lightsolstice?”

“That’ll do. But subtly.” He stuck a finger under Rothesay’s jaw and shut it for her.

“B-b-b-bu-! I’ve done nothing worthy of all that!”

And the master grinned hugely, wickedly, and spread his big arms wide. “You will!”

Then they were rising, clearing away the dishes in a twinkling of artful hands, and piling tables and most of the benches back against the forested walls. A few benches remained at the ends of the hall, for those who still lingered over their supper, though they had to hold their plates like picnickers. Someone started a dancing beat on a deep-voiced drum, and was swiftly joined by others, till the very stones throbbed to a chorus of passion. Men began to clap and stomp, steadily at first, then faster and faster, the drums thundering after, exploding at last into a demoniac crescendo, yipping and howling like a blood-crazed wolf pack. ‘Stuffy’?

Steel crashed on stone. The wolves subsided; the drums flowed together in a hot, sensuous sound that entered her body like a possessing spirit, and tried to lift her flesh in dance. Kahan plucked her sleeve, interrupting the possession, and led her around a widening circle of people to the front dais. The high table was now hidden under a burden of pies, cakes, creams and sweets, and Kahan’s long, deft fingers snared half a dozen golden sugary nuggets, more than he had a right to be able to hold, slipped her three of them, and pointed her back towards the center of the circle.

The steely crash had been somebody’s sword: as she looked, a second was flung across the first. Someone was dancing there, dancing like flame’s flickering, if flame were ever so black. Looking up from the brown feet flashing gay and unharmed about the cold blades, she saw it was Dav. And a third sword rang to the challenge.

He danced as he had wielded her sword on the hill after the Nancaras, as he had mounted or dismounted Winddancer, or simply walked: to move was to dance, to feel the suppleness of his body’s power as an act of nature, as a thing that happened as a leaf unfolded or lightning burst. And the thing-that-happened was his will: she would thrill to joy or grief, hope or fear, love, laughter, or peace, at the bidding of the least gesture of the master.

“Well,” Kahan murmured almost apologetically, “he is Master of Dance.”

“What?”

“A Runedaur House has five Masters and five Mistresses. Ours are Arms-master, though it’s the Arms-mistress at Kingscroft; Dance-master; Horse-master, or Ship-master at Windhome; Lore-master; Healer-mistress—or -master, again at Windhome; Music-mistress, Magic-mistress—that’s Carialla; can you tell?” he grinned, “Hunt-mistress; and two are the Open Hand. One each are the Master and Mistress of the House, and two of those are Master and Mistress of all. Usually both of those live here at Colderwild, like Dav and Carialla, but it isn’t necessary. You’ve met all our Masters except the Lore-master, but if you wait by this table long enough, you’ll amend that!”

“You mentioned him; he likes to eat?”

“Passionately! The only thing better than eating is learning. I really don’t know where he ranks women.”

“What’s that other one?” she asked still unable to look away from Dav, with five and then six blades to play among. “About a ‘Hand’?”

“Oh, the Open Hand? You might call them Masters of Service. In Colderwild, they’re Nessian and Sothia.” A seventh sword rang down, and Kahan laughed. “Six is my limit! So far. Dav’s gone to eighteen before.”

Then a dozen boys launched a sortie upon the sweets table, an orchestrated military effort with flanking maneuvers and feints to imaginary defenders. They carried the victory, and attempted to carry the table, but the ancient oak and its sweet burden defeated them. Rothesay thrust her two remaining cookies in her sash and leaped to join them.

“Get the other end!” she shouted, pushing the nearest six that way. She heaved, they heaved, and the table rose, somewhat higher on her end. The pastries trembled as the war band, now in possession of a prize they never seriously expected to take, struggled to a consensus of where to go with it. Too late.

Drumbeats pounded an urgent alert. Perceiving the marauders, the rest of Colderwild surged to the defense: though any two of them could have overpowered the young raiders and many of them could have done so singlehanded, they were not about to leave all the fun to someone else.

Rothesay dived for cover under the table, but a swift, powerful arm seized her about the waist and flung her into the air. Six hands caught her and held her aloft, and with bloodcurdling howls of triumph bore her at a run down the length of the hall. Her struggles to escape availed her nothing, despite her power, for her captors offered no resistance to her efforts and often aided them—well past what she wanted, to the point of uselessness, and her great web of hair betrayed her, tangling about her. They opposed only her descent to the floor, and Arngas’s strength could not abet the strength of earth’s desire for earth. And she could no more catch hold of their arms or sleeves than of so much smoke.

The hall whirled: they flipped her head over heels onto her feet in the corner. She caught her balance against the wall and spun around, fighting free of her hair, as they upended a table to block her in.

The thickset fellow with the greying raven beard grinned. “This,” he announced, pointing into her corner, “is prison. You are the prisoner of war. We go to claim your ransom!” He tossed a cookie high into the air, caught it in his teeth, and winked saucily. Then he exploded in a back flip with half-turn, landed on running feet, and ran yipping back to the melee. His cohorts followed, as silent and slinky as shadows.

Rothesay stood, stymied and laughing, watching them go. Her late compatriots: would they stage a rescue? Were there any left? Then she saw knight battling knight: the adults had fallen into factions, warring gleefully among themselves; or, quite likely, it was every man for himself. Watching eagerly for Kahan, she fished in her sash for her cookies, and found nothing.

Thief! She shook helpless fists after Ravenbeard. He had to be in his fifties, she thought, and ought to be jouncing a triple lapful of loud, strong grandchildren, rather than outplaying the whole nursery. Well, he should have the courtesy to bring her some replacements: it was a gaoler’s duty to tend to his prisoner’s needs, especially a prisoner worthy of ransom, and she needed a tart and some seedycakes, and more tea, for a start.

She danced impatiently in her corner, watching the strange games of the Runedaur knights and wondering whom to cheer. A curious figure caught her eye, a strange island of calm in the sea of uproar. He moved placidly about the contested table, making his choices with the care of a gem merchant. Then with a small plateful of goodies in one hand, and a mug in the other—very full, for she saw him sip from it without tipping it—he made his tranquil way among assaults and brawls towards the great doors. Bodies flying in attack swept before him, blades—real steel! she realized with a shock—flashed behind him, and he might have been alone in all Colderwild for all the notice he took.

He wore a faded blue tunic, frayed at the dangling corners, sleeves rolled serviceably to his elbows, and his stained leather apron reminded her of Dufgar the Harrowater tanner. She thought of the smith who held her sword, and considered that the servants of the Runedaur must be well accustomed to their masters’ lunacies. This fellow was lanky and slightly stooped, with the rigidity of seaweed; large bony hands carried their burdens delicately; thin mousy hair strayed into pale, preoccupied eyes deep-set above a narrow, broken nose and a slack jaw that hollowed his cheeks. Not yet thirty, she thought.

Just before the doors, his gaze drifted her way. The absently-parted lips lifted in a sweet smile, revealing tall front teeth, twisted and chipped but clean. He changed course with his next step and ambled over to her.

“Hullo, I’m Rothesay,” she said kindly, after a time in which he merely stood and gazed interestedly at her.

He nodded and bobbed his head towards the dais. “So Davi sayed, come to make more our loves.” He proffered his plate and she accepted a beautiful tiny swan carved of sugar-paste, with thanks. “Tha’rt not playing,” he observed, looking her barricade over.

“I’m in prison!”

“Guess tha art, at that,” he mused. For all her travel, his accent was new to her. He took a drink of his cup. “Er, what is’t imprisons tha?”

She pointed back towards the battle. “Ravenbeard and his two liegemen. They went to ransom me,” she replied, licking sugar crystals from her lip.

The tanner stared vaguely at the crowd and his jaw dropped further. “Ravenbeard?”

“Him; the one in the gold shirt and the red sash, the one fighting with—” she stopped short: it was Nessian. She had thought him too urbane for these follies, but there he was, and by his elegant smile, enjoying himself hugely. Yet he puzzled her. Runedaur were supposed to be the finest warriors in several lands. Dav, now, moved a blade with a surety that let one understand without question that if he missed, he was only toying. Nessian moved gingerly, even uncertainly, and held his sword as if he were not altogether sure which was the business end.

Nonetheless, Ravenbeard was making no headway at all.

“With Nessian?” the tanner caught on, and laughed. “Ravenbeard—aye. ’T was raven once; long agane.” His eyebrows wrinkled together, and he looked worriedly from the overturned table to the knight and back. “How doth he confine thee—from oot there?”

“It’s part of the game,” she explained patiently.

“Ah! Tha’rt a prisoner of rules,” he nodded, apparently reassured that no strange new magic was at work. “Why does he get to make them?”

“Did he make this up? I thought it was a regular piece!”

“And if it were, what of it?” Before she could devise a reply, he went on thoughtfully, “There is a courtesy called ‘honorable confinement.’ The prisoner—especially a ransomable one!—is made free of his captor’s demesnes by day, by honor bound not to escape. But by night he must be properly locked up so that he hath an honorable time to try his bars and escape of his own wits.”

“Yes?”

“Seems to me, if they meant to keep thee from the play, at least they could set th’ a guard to enforce it—if he could. What wouldsta do, if tha wert truly so imprisoned?”

Put like that, the good sense was clear to see. Rothesay put her hands to the table’s edge and bounded out. “Thanks!”

The tanner grinned back. “Na, seest that nothing held thee here but theyne own fancy. I did nothing to free thee—look, my hands are too full—except ask th’ a lot of fool’s questions. Likely tha’lt have to ask them theyself next time.”

“Likely,” she laughed. “What is your name, O Releaser of Fools?”

The tanner’s jaw dropped further than ever, and the pale eyes went round. Rothesay froze, stricken: ‘the Releaser’ was a title of the Lord of Death.

But the tanner began to laugh gently, and his sweet foolish smile returned. “Well, I’m honored!” he murmured, shrugging loosely. The movement was too large, lifting and rippling the whole of his fluid body like weed in the tide, and the tea sloshed high in his cup, giving him an anxious moment as he swooped after it. He smiled again in happy pride as he caught the stuff and the liquid settled in peace at last. “Merrithorander.”

“What?”

“My name. Tha asked.”

“Right! Thank you,” she smiled. It figured that the Master would have a simple name, while the simpleton had a tongue-twister as long as his gangly legs. She made him a flowery bow, her dark hair shadowing her round. Merrithorander grinned and bowed back, almost lost his tea again and threatened his pastries, too.

“Guess I’ll go before I lose them all,” he said ruefully. He cocked his head, almost to the horizontal. “Go thee and play, then, my new friend.” He waved his cup in salute, turned and drifted away like ambulatory kelp.

Rothesay ducked, bobbed and slithered her way past leaping, dancing, sword-juggling combatants, back to the dessert table, eager to try something of each delicacy. Tonight was better than Harrowater’s Lightsolstice Fair. Come to think of it, it should be just about Summersgate, what she supposed Raian had meant by “Sowingfest”; maybe this was some part of that high holy day’s festivities. In which case it seemed the Runedaur forsook the rituals for the blessings of the Mother of All and went straight to the feasting. It figured. Equally they surely did not do without the more private and personal invocations of fertility traditional to this festival, though. She would be wary.

Kahan lay sidelong on a nearby bench, hand propped to cheek, watching the mayhem; he flashed his white teeth in a joyous smile as she drew near, and sat up. Rory drifted silently up beside her. “Hullo,” she said, a little shyly, and offered him a choice from her plate. “All done work?”

“Yes; thanks,” he murmured. “Here.” He gave her one of his two mugs of tea.

“You look idle,” she said to Kahan, offering him a choice as well.

“Me, idle? No! I’m killed,” he explained, picking a small piece of candied violets.

“A prisoner of rules,” she suggested, remembering the tanner’s words. “Suppose I invoke necromancy, and declare you a witch-corpse, and send you back in to fight?”

“Now there’s a new idea!” he laughed. “Did you get that from Master Merry, or are you naturally inventive?”

“Master Merry?”

“The Lore-master—the one you were having such a chat with from behind that table.”

Rothesay gaped. “Lore—that bubblepate?”

With a wild peal of merriment, Kahan toppled backwards off the bench, legs in the air, helpless with mirth. Rothesay’s green eyes narrowed, and she leaned out over him to deliver the killing blow: “I also thought he was a tanner!”

Kahan shuddered, unable to draw a breath. Maybe he would have the grace to pass out. Glancing back, she found even Rory succumbing to a smile.

“That apron? It’s to keep the ink off of him,” he explained. “Don’t blame you for mistaking him, and Hawkman oughtn’t laugh, because getting someone to underestimate you can be better than armor sometimes. You’re going to have a powerful advantage that way, Sugar.”

Two knights, strong fingers locked gaily about each other’s throats, abruptly turned the scuffle into a shuffle, and, still strangling each other, began a goat-footed dance. A nearby drum picked up the rhythm, and more dancers leaped in as pipes cried out gay and abandoned. Rory spun, extending an invitational hand to Rothesay.

“But I can’t dance!” she protested, laughing, delighted in the asking as she had never been in Harrowater.

Rory shrugged cheerfully. “Doesn’t matter—just shuffle along in the right direction. The steps’ll come to you sometime or other.”

So she accepted the hand, let herself be swept away into the Runedaur dance like thistledown in the laughter of the maelstrom. The Order danced in changing sets, intricate and vigorous; by the time the first breathless dance ended, she must have done a turn with everyone in the hall over three feet tall, many of them, like Caltern, wearing only jewelry and knives. The musicians changed; singers joined them, mingling human voices in strong polyphonies, telling tales noble and bawdy, heroic, tragic, gay; and Colderwild danced.