ElvenSword

Volume 1 of The Tapestry of Life

RELEASE (6)

The Carnian royal family is the oldest in the empire, with a family tree that goes back a thousand years. Their submission to imperial rule has been reluctant, and they have always despised the occupants of the amethyst throne as upstarts. There was only one obvious way to unite the two houses.

Forath ys Jarain – History of the Emperor Vordath I

The next morning, Fluin woke with Steppan’s arm across his torso, and his body snuggled close. He told himself that it was because of the freezing air. The room was very cold, and the sky visible through the small window in the stone wall was grey with unshed snow. The fire that the servants had made the night before had died down. He tried unsuccessfully to slip out to use the pot without waking Steppan, but he woke anyway, with a yawn and a groan. The room was so cold that Fluin climbed straight back into bed after he had finished.

“Goddess, it’s cold! I thought rich people lived in luxury and warmth.”

“Not this one. She believes in asceticism. Anyway, we are unwelcome guests.”

“What will we do?” Fluin asked, frightened despite himself. At that time, he did not think himself brave. Afterwards he came to know that courage is the doing despite one’s fear, and though he didn’t feel it, he knew that he was brave. But he was often still afraid.

“Nothing. She will try to turn me to her side, and I will listen to her arguments. They have some merit, after all. Then we will mop and mow, and she will release us.”

“That simple?”

“Let’s hope so. We shall see.”

There came a knock at the door, and then the scrape of the key. Servants appeared with soft warm cashmere gowns and sheepskin slippers, and they were led through to the bathroom. Zbathon and another guard accompanied the house-servants. Fluin was amazed by the bath, with its taps and steaming scented water. He was used to bathing in a tub in front of the fire. The guards and servants left them, and the door was locked behind them. The water was blissfully warm, and they stood in front of the fireplace afterwards, to warm up.

Fluin could see that Steppan was worried despite his outward calm, which made him more troubled too. The servants and the guards returned with fresh clothes, and they were led downstairs. The Duchess was seated at the table, with a young man and a young woman. They all rose when Fluin and Steppan entered.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

“Thank you, Your Grace. And you?” said Steppan, just as if they were in a salon in the city, drinking cocktails or sipping hot chocolate from delicate Elvish ware, and not under arrest.

Fluin had eyes only for the girl. He had never seen anyone so beautiful. Her chestnut hair shone in the morning light. Her skin was satin-smooth, and her brown eyes gleamed with intelligence. She was an exquisite creature, and Fluin wondered what she was like. The village girls had a fleeting beauty and an earthy eroticism – and they had thoroughly despised him. But this woman was incomparable. Steppan noticed Fluin staring, and his eyes were amused, though his mouth hardly moved. Fluin was embarrassed to feel Steppan’s smiling, cynical eyes on him.

“Perfectly, thank you,” said the Duchess. “Allow me to present to you my daughter, the Marchioness of Bridie, and my son, Lord Crion.” Fluin and Steppan bowed, and the Marchioness smiled and inclined her head. Lord Crion stared at them both, making no attempt to acknowledge them. Fluin wondered what it felt like for Lord Crion to know that he would probably never inherit the ducal throne, that his sister would always have precedence. He supposed from his bitter, dissipated, self-indulgent face that he resented the secondary position that his gender brought him. Yet he was wearing fine clothes and had food in his belly. Fluin would have been happier with less.

Servants brought food, apples from the current harvest, dried apricots, grapes, oatmeal biscuits and cheese. Fluin and Steppan sat down, and they all began to eat.

“I have thought about what happened in the village. As it was an accident, and as they appeared to have attacked you without provocation,” said the Duchess, looking at Fluin – how had she known? – “ I have decided to release you provided you pay a blood-guilt to his family. I have set it at five gold pounds.” Fluin had no idea what to say. He didn’t even have one gold pound.

Steppan spoke. “The fine will be paid. I will give you a draft on my banker in Cappor.”

Fluin just looked at him. How would he ever repay such a sum?

The Duchess watched them both, a mordant contempt in her eyes. Her assumption of the relationship between them stung Fluin. That it didn’t appear to trouble Steppan made him angrier.

“Now, my lord,” said the Duchess, “perhaps we may have the truth of your journey?”

“I am visiting the two people who brought me up,” Steppan answered tersely. Fluin could tell that he was wondering how much to reveal. “You will be acquainted with the lady Nefta. She has cared for me like a mother.”

“Is that what she calls herself now? ‘Lady’ Nefta?” The Duchess’s voice was derisive.

“She has renounced her rights, as you well know, Your Grace. That is why she felt it politic to retreat to Bridgetown after the Panthron ascended the throne. This is my first visit, but I am sure you know that too.” She nodded. Fluin had the impression that there was another conversation taking place, one that he could not understand.

“Will you ask her in my name, to reconsider? I will speak plainly. We cannot allow Makala to become Panthra.”

“No,” said Steppan thoughtfully. “If we are to speak plainly – again I ask you, why are the other candidates not better, from your perspective? The Lady Nefta has her own mind, and her own interests. I – who better? – know how very stubborn she can be once she has made up her mind. As I am sure you have already considered – the Panthron has no wife, and the Marchioness is as yet unmarried . . . ”

“Enough! You mistake me, my lord,” she said, with a spark of fire in her eyes, “I am interested only in what is good for the empire, and my duchy. My personal ambitions are secondary.” Her son stirred, but said nothing. He obviously disbelieved her. Fluin did too. He could feel Lord Crion’s eyes on him. Fluin was so inexperienced that he didn’t know then that people might think him beautiful. To himself, he seemed misshapen and unattractive, his eyes too grey, his hair too curly, his cheekbones absurd, his body thin and fimbly.

Steppan sat lost in thought for a while. “Very well!” he said. “I will do my best. She will not like the hint of treason that attaches to this, and nor do I.” He shot the Duchess a hard look. “She and I are both concerned about what is best for Cappor and the empire. We will do what we think is right. But I will try.” The Duchess looked pleased. Fluin understood very little of what they were talking about, but he was determined to ask Steppan later, when they were alone.

After breaking their fast, the Duchess asked her stable-master to give them another horse and tack, and her housekeeper to provide them with a supply of road-food. When they left, she shook Steppan’s hand and even smiled at Fluin.

But for his part, Fluin could only look at her daughter, so beautiful, so unattainable.

They rode without talking for a while. Just the steady clipped thump of the hooves, the rattle of the harnesses and the breathing of the horses broke the silence. Fluin was still bitter that fate had made him dependent on this man. Yet his own sense of justice made his resentment seem petty and unfair.

At last, Steppan said, “A man may help another without expecting him to bed him afterwards, you know.” He too had seen the Duchess’s expression. He waited for Fluin to speak, and when he didn’t, continued, “There is no shame in accepting help from a friend.”

“Five gold pounds! Fifty silver shiles! How am I ever to repay such a sum?” Fluin had never in his life seen more than one shil at a time.

Steppan looked at Fluin’s fiercely averted profile, and discarded several things he had been about to say. “Perhaps,” he said, “it pleases me to help one who saved my life.”

“She thinks I am your paid bedfellow,” Fluin spat out. He was no longer sure whether his anger came from the humiliation of being even further in Steppan’s debt, or from Steppan’s lordly disdain for his attractions.

“’She’ is a vicious, narrow-minded, dangerous loony. She has no right to judge anyone.”

“Others will think it.”

Steppan considered and rejected several lines of argument. At last he said, “There is a long tradition of love between warriors. There is no shame in that.” Fluin started to speak, but Steppan interrupted him. “Though I have never . . . . . .” He stopped abruptly, then went on, “As for the money and the help, you will pay me back one day, or not. It doesn’t matter either way. I owe you my life.”

“As I owe you mine.”

“With such debts, only a small person would keep track of something as unimportant as money.”

“It’s such a vast sum. It doesn’t seem unimportant to me.”

“It will not impoverish me,” replied Steppan drily. “In any event, those who know us will make no assumptions. It is a gift between friends, from one who has much, to one who needed help at the time. It gave me pleasure to make it. And there is no obligation imposed by it.”

Yeah, thought Fluin cynically, not till I want to follow my own path. Then it will be thrown up in my face.

They spoke no more about the subject, but it was not far from Fluin’s thoughts as they rode.

Steppan’s thoughts kept returning to the sword and its bearer. When he had scried for the sword that morning, as he’d done morning and evening since he’d left Cappor, he’d felt it – or something like it – trembling on the edge of his awareness. This was the first time that this had happened. He was conscious, too, that the sword was close to its bearer. Perhaps the bearer was some knight from minor nobility, or a young sword for hire. For the first time, he began to believe that his quest might succeed.

Gradually, the silence became more comfortable and companionable. Then, without self-consciousness, Fluin started to sing – “The Miller’s Daughter”.

The miller had a daughter, as sweet as sweet could be.

A soldier found and caught her, and said, you must love me.

And I’ll love thee.

But she was not for lovin’, her heart was made of stone.

He left his cold-eyed beauty to wander on his own.

Alone, so alone.

But later, that cold beauty, who’d married just for gold,

Careless of her duty, recalled her soldier bold.

Her handsome soldier bold.

And money meant but nothin’, and happiness was gone.

For the soldier had another – on her his bright eyes shone.

Love for another, strong.

Her heart was justly splintered, to bits of broken stone

Now wanders she lamenting, weeping all alone.

Lamenting on her own.

See her in the evening, when Ithilion is blue,

While her soldier boy is happy, to his love keeping true.

And so should you.

His voice was pleasant, strong and confident.

There was a peaceful quietness, broken only by the birdcalls and the distant sound of a woodsman’s axe, and then Fluin started to sing again, this time one of the songs from an opera of ten or fifteen years ago. Steppan’s voice was not as good as Fluin’s, but at the chorus, he joined in. His baritone complemented Fluin’s tenor. It was an unexpected pleasure, to do something so simple and rewarding. The time and the miles passed quickly. Steppan kept a close eye on the road ahead, and on possible sites for ambushes, so he only really paid half-mind to the singing, and eventually, having forgotten the words he had to resort to dee-dah-dee-dah-dum, and he heard Fluin chuckle.

For no particular reason, Steppan felt happy and at peace with the world, which he hadn’t done since long before the Panthra’s death and Patrika’s vision in the mirror of truth.

He had been lonely on the road. Ilya had been difficult about him going away, and hadn’t believed his excuse – that he was going to see Nefta and Harith. She had always been jealous of how close Nefta and he were. She had all the insecurity of an unloved child, afraid that any attention devoted to others somehow diminished what was given to her.

“At this time of the year?” she’d asked sarcastically. She was so very beautiful, and with part of himself, Steppan knew that their relationship was mostly physical. But another part was drugged by her loveliness, by her sexual willingness and expertise. When he tasted her smoky breath and melded his body to hers, her legs wrapped around him, her muscles holding him tight inside her, he did not think of her character. He had never had as intoxicating a woman. Well, he thought wryly to himself, men are always making fools of themselves – our cocks are bigger than our hearts, and certainly bigger than our brains. He wondered whether she would have found someone else by the time he returned to Cappor. With her, it would be highly possible. In all her acquaintance, he didn’t think there was a man or woman who didn’t find her fascinating and desirable. It was probable that he had already shared her gorgeous body and erotic techniques with many.

To others, Steppan seemed self-contained, strong, admirable. Yet Steppan was embarrassed or ashamed of many of his traits. Among them was his loneliness. It appeared to him that it was a failing. Successful people had friends, and he had to admit to himself that though he had many acquaintances, he had only three real friends – Nefta, Harith, and Patrika. He felt that it was because he was flawed. He did not know how it had happened. Perhaps it was because of his different race, because he was a half-breed (there are politer euphemisms), because he was cynical about friendship, because he had not let sex into his relationships with men where it might soften the hard edges of his competitive disdain – who knew why? It seemed too late to change now. With Fluin, he felt that he had found another, like him in some deep way. He was aware of a strong, unfathomable connection between them, a connection that had no logic, but which was absolutely unmistakable. The blood-bond had something to do with it, he knew, as did their shared ancestry, but it went deeper than that.

Steppan accepted that he was grumpy and full of contempt for himself and most of those round him. In his heart he recognized that what he did was sometimes little better than murder. All at once, he found himself hoping that his bitterness and cynicism would not repel Fluin’s young and innocent spirit.

He observed Fluin covertly as they rode, wondering what would become of him, and how their friendship might develop. Fluin noticed Steppan looking, and quirked up the corners of his mouth in a half-grin. Steppan was pleased at this sign that he had been forgiven.

He was suddenly reminded, from the way Fluin was sitting that the youngster wasn’t used to riding, and that his thighs and butt must be getting painful.

“How sore are you?” he asked.

Fluin shook his head.

“I can see it,” Steppan said impatiently. “Is it muscular only, or is the skin chafing?”

“Just muscular, so far!” Fluin replied curtly.

Steppan ignored the tone. “I think we will ride on for another couple of hours and then stop for the night. Muscles will be sore, but get better quickly. Chafing will take much longer to right itself. Tell me when you feel that you need to stop.”

Steppan counted the days of their journey. Another two should bring them to Bridgetown, where Nefta lived, if the maps and Patrika’s directions were right. The countryside was more wooded than it had been, with the trees in their autumn dress, except for the falces with their narrow, flat dark green leaves, which lost their leaves in spring in a week, just before their sweetly scented pale apricot flowers and new leaves came. If they couldn’t find an inn, they could leave the road and sleep hidden in one of the copses around. Perhaps, with the unfocussed power of the boy, that might be best. Steppan didn’t want any more incidents in public in front of scores of observers. Until Fluin had learnt to control his powers, he decided that they should steer clear of taverns.

“What happened to your parents?” he asked when there was a pause in the singing, remembering his conjectures of the night before.

“I never knew them,” said Fluin. “Or at least I don’t remember them. Mama said that they were friends of hers, from Cappor. They got the wasting sickness, when I was still a little boy. Before they died, they gave her their money and begged her to look after me.”

You were lucky, Steppan thought. You would not have long survived the stews of Cappor alone. And if you had, you would now be a thief, quick with the knife, and destined for the gallows, or a whore, selling yourself to hideous old men.

“What did they do?” he asked, aloud, his thoughts disagreeable.

“Magda said they were singers – I suppose I got my voice from them,” (with a self-deprecating pride), “and she taught me how to sing. She was a singer in the opera.”

Steppan was intrigued. Why had Magda buried herself in this godforsaken backwater when she and Fluin could have stayed in the city – surely, even an aging singer would have found it easier to live there? There were always things to do around theatres and theatre people. It was, after all, common enough. Your voice might no longer be trusted, or the director or orchestror might get a new favourite. So you moved on into less glamorous and well-paid positions. It was better than destitution.

What had she been running away from, and why?

“What else did Magda teach you? Can you read?” As soon as he’d asked the question, Steppan was aghast at his tactlessness. But Fluin was not offended.

“Yes,” he replied. “Mama taught me. She used to read to me when I was little, and then, when her eyesight went, I used to read to her.” He halted for a while. Then he said, very simply, and with utter sincerity, “It was a comfort and joy to us.”

Steppan was not surprised that the local toughs hated him. A reader, a singer, slightly built, he had – despite himself, Steppan conceded it – an exotic beauty, a beauty more than enough to provoke the hostility of any young man struggling with the confused desires and strong feelings of that awkward period between childhood and manhood. Being the ward of a peculiar and intimidating wisewoman, who could probably see into your soul, couldn’t have helped. Like the Duchess, Steppan was forced to conclude that Fluin had been given at least the education of a noble. And since he had far more brains than most nobles, he’d made good use of what he learnt. But it made the mystery all the greater.

“Tell me more about your parents.”

“Well, what I know is from what mama told me. She said that they were beautiful, both of them, and it was a tragedy that their threads were cut short. She was sure my mother would have made it to the top, with invitations to the palace, and a huge villa and wealth, and servants and books and big rooms, and lots of parties.”

Steppan smiled ironically to himself. Tough and street-wise, this comment showed that Fluin was at heart still unsophisticated. A villa obviously epitomised incalculable wealth and prestige to him. As for ‘parties’! Steppan grimaced to himself, bitter and a little sad. Fluin would soon be sick of parties, he thought, and would long for a simple meal with his friends, of bread and cheese and pickled onion. But then again, perhaps he wouldn’t. Perhaps that was just himself – and his own distaste for others, for the excesses of the rich.

“What do you do?” asked Fluin. “You said you were a wizard.”

“I inherited some land,” enough to feed thousands, “so I don’t need to work. But to keep myself busy, I used to work for the Panthra. I am a free wizard, employed by different clients. Steppan ys Jorac for lights and fireworks, parties a speciality, truth-seeking while you wait, that sort of thing.” And a spy. And a killer, Mother forgive me.

Fluin might not have been aware of all the evasions and half-truths, but his next question came unerringly close to the nub. “Why are you here, so far from home? And what were you and the Duchess talking about, this morning?”

Clever little bugger, thought Steppan. Later on he realised that Fluin always saw to the heart of issues, and people. It was a knack he had.

“Nosy, aren’t you? I’m going to see two friends, whom I haven’t seen for months, who live in the next town – a few days’ ride from here. I’ll stay with them a few days and then go back to Cappor. And the Duchess was talking about the succession to the throne. The Panthron Nyal is weak, the Panthraska Makala strong and evil. No-one thinks he will last long against such a sister.” Steppan did not mention the real reason for his trip. But his answer satisfied Fluin.

Steppan could feel the power shining out of Fluin, like the warmth of a fire. Fluin himself seemed to have forgotten about it. Yet it was the most significant thing about him. Steppan suspected that Fluin wanted to pretend that it didn’t exist, and he didn’t blame him for that wish. All the same, power like that would be needed. Fluin could not remain a bystander in the battle that was to come.

An unwelcome remembrance of his father entered Steppan’s thoughts. How often would he do that, regret and – what? hatred? – tincturing his recollections? His father had taught Steppan about his own power, before Nefta took over. Steppan remembered his stern, intelligent, firm face as he tried to teach him, and how many disasters and near disasters there were, when his father had lost his temper and clouted him. He was dead now, but Steppan didn’t want to think about that, and all that went with it. He still hadn’t come to terms with that. He supposed that he never would.

Fluin must have noticed his silence, as he sank into his own thoughts, and after a while, began to sing again, but this time in Elvish, a ballad of warriors, unrequited love, and hopeless bravery. Steppan was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice, for a few minutes. But of course, why shouldn’t he know Elvish? It was on a par with everything else about him. Fluin spoke the language well, with a only a slight accent.

Steppan told him so, at the end of the song.

“Mama taught me. She said it was useful to know, with magnificent poetry. She said that my parents used to sing in Elvish at the theatre.”

Is that so? thought Steppan. Who was this woman? And who this youth? Elvish opera? Rare, as far as I know. Or did they sing at one of the bars in the Elvish quarter?

“Wasn’t it hard to learn?” he asked, in Elvish.

“Not that hard.” Fluin replied in the same language. His Elvish was smooth and grammatical, at ease. “The grammar is quite regular. The hard part was learning all those words! But it was worth it. Whenever I speak it, I think of my mother and father, and of Magda, too, and it makes me feel they’re close. I imagine them all in some room in Cappor, singing in Elvish, laughing a lot, and drinking too much wine. I’m glad that Magda really wanted me to learn – she would often talk Elvish at home, so that we could practise it. But I’ve never met any elves.”

Steppan laughed silently at this. “I have,” he said, continuing in Elvish. “One day we will visit the elf-havens, and thou wilt meet them.” He could see that Fluin did not believe him – obviously to him, the elf-realms were staples of fantasy and fable, not real.

Fluin snorted derisively to himself, but said nothing. He remained skeptical about the reality of change, of the world that Steppan was part of. He had been glad to leave his village, but was afraid that it would all end, like a dream, with him back at the tavern, scouring glasses, wiping down tables, cleaning up vomit and piss, and defending himself against the sometimes malicious patrons.

They found a hunter’s track through the woods, heading in approximately the right direction and followed it until sundown. They stopped in a relatively dry clearing sheltered by a large rock and floored with dead leaves and moss.

They sat and talked round the fire, while Fluin cooked beans and bacon and Steppan made spice tea. It was bitterly cold, with fine snow-flakes drifting out of a dull sky. After supper, Steppan built up the fire, and set wards all round their campsite. Then he pulled out a bottle of brandy from his saddle-pack. They crawled under the heap of blankets and pelts Steppan had arranged next to the glowing logs, and drank from the bottle. For a while they talked, and then they slept. Steppan’s night was disturbed by dreams, none of which he remembered when he woke up. He was left with just the vague recollection of strange dark-clad figures who represented some unknown threat.

He woke with his mouth furry and disgusting, and his head too. Fluin was awake, singing softly to himself. He had rekindled the embers of the fire, and the kettle was boiling. They sipped steaming scented spice-tea.

The sky was dark with heavy clouds and snow threatened. Steppan thought that it was a bit early in the year for heavy snowfalls, but the weather can be erratic when the seasons change, and they were in the far south. He wasn’t familiar with the climate in these southern regions.

They packed up, and set off. After a while, Fluin started to sing softly, again, and Steppan joined in where he knew the words. They made their way through the forest, following the track, and were startled once by a leopard crossing their path, and later by a family of warthogs, that snorted and grumped before moving away. Steppan placed wards on himself and Fluin and the horses to protect them from wild beasts. The next leopard they encountered might be hungrier. The only sounds were the chink of harness, the soft thud of hooves on the leafy ground, and a sporadic hrumph from the horse. After a while, snow began to flock the air, and it gradually grew heavier and the wind stronger. Even Fluin grew quiet and despondent.

“This is a bad time to be travelling,” he said, without inflection.

Steppan sighed. How true, he thought, but made no audible comment. As the storm worsened, he realised that they would not reach refuge that night. Even if they had come to a village with an inn, he suspected that it would not be safe. They would have to find shelter in the forest, in some thicket out of the wind, or some crack in the rock.

Just before nightfall they came upon a deserted village almost reabsorbed into the forest. The houses were of timber beams, mudbrick and thatch, which soon return to the earth they are made of. However, the chapel – scarcely a temple – was of bone-smooth stone, and mostly still standing, with almost all its roof intact. Steppan decided that they would stay there.

© 2010 Nigel Puerasch. All rights reserved.

Romantic m2m novels and short stories

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