The Plains of Kallanash (5 page)

“Impossible,” Mia said, with a vehement shake of the head. “The Gods
never
tell anyone when they’re going to die. It’s one of the Fundamental Tenets. No one may know the moment of their own death. Even
you
must remember being taught that, Hurst.”

“I never listened to all that temple stuff. Well. It can’t be that, then.” Even as he spoke, Hurst realised there were other ways Tella could have known she was about to die. Could she have taken her own life? Or did she know of someone determined to kill her?
But he said nothing to Mia. “Put the letter away somewhere safe,” he said. “Don’t let Jonnor see it, it would only upset him.”

~~~

As soon as the month of mourning was over, there was a ceremony to raise both Mia and Hurst to active status, and thus make Mia the lead wife. The Karninghold Slave and his most senior acolyte brought their incense and chanting first to the living floor of the high tower, and then to the bedroom floor, after which they bowed low and left in as much haste as was decent. Even Slaves disliked such business, for what went on in a marriage was usually a private matter.

Jonnor immediately withdrew to his own bedroom, whisking behind the privacy screen. Had there been any door fitted, perhaps he would have slammed it. After a moment’s hesitation, Mia, head down, went into her own room. Hurst watched her go, wondering if she’d thought to change the furnishings, or whether everything was exactly as Tella left it.

He went into his own new room, and walked across to the window, gazing down to the training grounds below. How pleasant to have a decent view at last, instead of the narrow windows and drainage spouts at the rear of the family wing. And space, that was a novelty, too, after the tiny room he’d enjoyed downstairs. He looked around at the blank walls, working out where to arrange his pictures. There were already hooks in neat rows waiting for his books. Not that his were works of great learning, like Gantor’s, or sweeping sagas from plains history, like Mia’s, but his collection of illustrated erotica was extensive and much in demand amongst the guards and Skirmishers.

The room might be different, but his situation was just the same. He was still the third person in this marriage. Even if he and Mia had moved upstairs years ago, would it really have been any different? And what if they’d kept to the original arrangement, and he’d been paired with Tella? Could he have kept her happy? She was such a vibrant woman, so full of life, but perhaps he could have loved her, if things had been different. For a while, he had thought himself quite close to her. But she wasn’t made for the domestic life, not like Mia, so perhaps she would always have been restless in time. Perhaps it was just in her nature to wander, to be dissatisfied with life. But Jonnor and Mia… that would have been a good pairing, the right pairing.

No point in thinking about what might have been. Jonnor had got Tella, and although he was overawed by her at first, after Tellon was born he’d grown in confidence and started to assert himself both at home and on the lines. And he had wanted to keep Mia and Hurst downstairs, and they had tamely gone along with his wishes.

But now they were left with this peculiar situation, three of them upstairs and no clear arrangement. Given Jonnor’s grief over Tella, it was logical that Mia should end up with Hurst, but would Jonnor accept it? All was uncertainty, but it had to be settled, and soon.

After a while, Hurst heard Mia’s light feet cross the atrium and patter down the stairs. He walked over to Jonnor’s rooms and knocked on the wooden privacy screen, walking in without waiting for a response. Jonnor was huddled on the window seat, knees pulled up to his chest, head drooping.

“Brother, we have to talk about Mia,” Hurst said briskly. “We have to decide what approach to take.”

Jonnor looked at him bleakly. “Which of us will fuck her, you mean?”

Hurst raised an eyebrow. “Well… if you want to put it that way. Or we could share her. If she is happy with that.”

“Not her decision,
cousin
,” Jonnor said, turning to gaze out of the window.

Hurst suppressed his irritation. He’d grown used to Jonnor’s refusal to acknowledge him as a brother in marriage, and he was determined not to let it rile him now. “Have you talked to her about it? Asked her what she wants?”

“She’ll do what she’s told.”

Hurst took a deep breath. Getting angry wouldn’t help, and deep down he knew it was true
– Mia would accept whatever Jonnor decided. She would never say openly what she wanted. He knew her feelings, though, and he’d already decided he wouldn’t try to come between the two of them. And yet… if Jonnor was reluctant, perhaps Hurst had a chance, after all? His heart turned over in sudden hope.

“Look, I know how you feel about Tella, I understand. I can deal with Mia for you, if you like, it doesn’t have to be you, I can take that responsibility off your hands.” Was that too pleading, too desperate?

Jonnor turned to face him again, and now his expression was icy cold. “You have
no
idea how I feel, cousin, none at all. And don’t lecture me about responsibility. I’m lead husband, I will deal with Mia tonight, and after that… Well, we’ll see.”

Hurst’s stomach clenched violently, but he tried his best to keep his face under control. Not his voice, however; he didn’t trust himself to speak, so without a word he turned on his heel and stumbled out.

As he left, Jonnor called after him, “You can tell her.”

Mia had prepared a haunch of venison and a pair of ducks for meat. They were laid out on the pan for roasting, waiting for the oven to heat up. Most of the dishes came from the main kitchens below, but she liked to cook for the men. She was stuffing the ducks with herbs when Hurst came down the stairs. He looked very pale, and for a moment she thought perhaps he was ill. But then she remembered that he was grieving for Tersia just as Jonnor was grieving for Tella, and the change in situation must be just as difficult for him. She decided not to mention it.

“The rooms are nice, aren’t they?” she ventured. “What will we do with so much space?”

He gave her a wan smile. Scraping a chair across the bare marble floor, he sat down at the table, but he said nothing, so she chattered on as she worked.

She’d thought it would upset her, seeing Tella’s room again. The perfumes and brushes and pots of this and that were gone, but Tella’s furniture and cupboards still stood exactly where she had placed them
– the bed near the fire for warmth, several wardrobes for all her clothes, the large mirrors angled so she could check her rear view when she dressed.

Yet somehow it was comforting to be there, to touch the velvet curtains brought from the Ring, or the little writing table of exotic carved wood Tella had imported so expensively from the northern coast. In the cupboards and drawers, all her clothes, the silks and fine linens she liked to wear, soft rustling trousers and floating tunics, still exuding a drift of her perfume. Mia liked plainer, more practical, clothes but there were a few that might suit her, if she altered them to fit, and perhaps she would wear some of the delicate undergarments.

At length she ran out of tasks to occupy her hands. Hurst still sat, drooped over one end of the table.

“Can I fetch you some wine?” she asked.

He agreed to it, which she recognised as a sign that he was nervous. But when she had placed the goblet before him, he twirled it with unseeing eyes. She sat down opposite him and waited.

“Mia…” he began, and then stopped.

“Yes?”

“Jonnor and I have been talking…”

Again he stopped, but at least now she understood his discomfiture. A ripple of anxiety clutched at her. Perhaps Jonnor was not going to… Perhaps it would be Hurst. Part of her had always been prepared for that eventuality, but it was one thing to know it might happen and quite another to face up to the inevitability of it. She tried not to let her disappointment show.

He began once more. “Jonnor…”

“Yes?” she said again, willing him to get it over with, just wanting to know.

“Jonnor will come to your room tonight.”

The relief! It would be Jonnor after all! She could feel her face lighting up with pleasure, and tried as best she could not to insult him by showing it. But he was watching her, his face unreadable. He must see her excitement.

“And what about you?” she murmured, dropping her eyes.

“Jonnor hasn’t decided,” he said. Then he made an excuse and left.

~~~

The men were both silent over meat. Jonnor drank more than usual, Hurst nothing at all. Mia drank a whole glass of wine and felt wonderful – vivacious, witty, charming. She knew it wasn’t true, she knew she was babbling inanely, but she couldn’t suppress her emotions. She was the most even-tempered of people as a rule, yet here she was, with everything she had ever wanted finally coming to her. Despite her grief at Tella’s death, she couldn’t hide her joy.

They all lingered at the table, even Mia’s chatter fading to silence, but the time came when the moment could not be put off any longer.

“I’ll tidy up down here,” Hurst said, avoiding their eyes. “There’s some reading I want to do. You two go on up.”

Even in her happiness, she thought it odd that he should be so embarrassed. Surely he could not dislike the change in their relationship? He was her friend. Wasn’t he pleased for her? But she was too excited to dwell on it.

She skipped up the stairs, and into her room. She wasn’t sure how much light there should be, so she lit all the lamps, just in case. Her nightgown was already set out on the bed. She’d chosen one of Tella’s, much finer than anything she owned, to pay the occasion the proper respect. She shrugged out of her tunic and trousers, tossing them over a chair, and pulled the silk gown over her head. It was such a delicate fabric, she almost felt naked. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and waited. She heard Jonnor’s heavy tread on the stairs, crossing the atrium, entering his own room. There was silence for a long time.

After a while, she got up and hung her discarded clothes in one of the wardrobes. She waited again. Eventually, she realised she was shivering so she got into bed.

It must have been the best part of an hour before he came, although the bells had stopped so it was hard to tell. He had a wine goblet in one hand and a half-full decanter in the other. He stopped dead as he came into the room and gazed about, a bewildered expression on his face.

~~~

As soon as she went downstairs the next morning, she found Hurst waiting, sitting at the table pretending to read. He realised at once that something was wrong.

“Whatever happened?” he said, leaping up and putting gentle arms about her. To her shame, she wept, pressing her face into his broad shoulder. “Did he hurt you?”

“No, oh no. But… nothing happened. He sat on the window seat for an age, just crying. Then he left.”

“Oh.”

“It’s too soon. Too soon after Tella’s death. It’s the room – it’s more or less exactly as she left it, and… and it distresses him, naturally.”

Hurst made soothing noises and stroked her hair, and she was comforted, a little.

“You could use the other bedroom, I suppose,” he said.

“Oh no, that wouldn’t do!” Mia said. “The rooms are marked for the lead and second, it’s tradition. It wouldn’t be right to do things differently.” She sighed. “I can move the furniture round a bit, perhaps.”

Not long afterwards, Jonnor came down, stony-faced. They went downstairs for the communion ceremony, and nothing more was said.

Mia’s distress evaporated sooner than she had expected. Jonnor’s grief gave her an easy explanation for his reluctance. She had bided her time for ten years, and could wait a little longer. She was not lively or beautiful like Tella, so Jonnor was bound to find her less desirable. Each night she hoped he would come to her, and each night she was a little less surprised when he didn't. Then she had the normal routine of the household to steady her, and wrap her in its familiarity.

With the month of mourning over, the skirmishes resumed, and Hurst and three Hundreds of Skirmishers took off for the northern boundary line. Mia and Jonnor were left to deal with the daily affairs of the Karninghold.

“There’s another message from village Twelve Fifty-Six Eighteen,” she said, as they sat in the watch tower meeting room one morning. “Their swamp problem is getting worse, and they ask if one of us could visit to authorise drainage work.” She tried to keep her tone business
-like, and not remind him that this was the village Tella had set out to visit the day she died.

Jonnor gave no sign that he remembered. “I suppose it can’t wait, with winter not far away.” A heavy sigh. “I’m not sure I feel up to it. Besides, we have our own swamp problem here, with those blocked overflow pipes above the family hall. I’ve been keeping an eye on the builders’ work. You won’t mind dealing with the village, will you?”

“Not at all. I’ve been there many times before. It’s a recurring problem.”

“You’re so good with the villagers, too,” he said, with such a charming smile that Mia couldn’t stop herself from blushing.

“I can’t ride as fast as… I mean, I’ll have to stay overnight,” she said, cursing herself for almost mentioning Tella. “Do you mind?”

“No, not at all.” He looked down, straightening the papers on the table. “Just don’t go alone.” A quick glance up at her. “Don’t ever ride alone.”

Her heart fluttered. He was concerned for her safety! That was a good sign, surely?

“Oh no, I always take guards with me, I’ll have a couple of engineers, too, and one of my Companions. I’ll take Marna this time, I think. Ever since… I mean, she spends so much time with the children, it will do her good to get away.”

“She’s the only mother left here now,” Jonnor said sombrely. “She feels responsible for all the motherless little ones. But you’ll be a mother one day.” He reached across the table and took her hand, looking into her eyes. “It will happen, you know that, don’t you? I – I’ve needed a little time, but… soon, I promise.”

Warmth flooded her whole body, and she smiled widely at him. “I… I’ll leave for the village today, then.”

~~~

Mia was not a fast rider like her sister, but she was competent on horseback, as every Karningholder had to be, since few villages were conveniently situated beside a paved road. Her horse was a placid mare, capable of long journeys at a steady amble, as Mia preferred.

It was unfortunate that every step of the journey south reminded her of Tella, and that dreadful day. She had been found to the north of the Karninghold, so what had happened? Had she changed her mind, or had she never intended to go to the village at all? Why did she write that odd letter the day before? Impossible to know. And then there were the figures Mia had seen in the funeral tower… She shook herself out of her reverie. It was no good brooding. She and Hurst had talked all round the problems many times, without resolution.

It was well into the afternoon before the group reached the village, where Mia spent at least two hours walking around the worst of the bogs, and hopping nimbly from one dry hummock to the next. The whole Karningplain was prone to such swamps, which appeared and disappeared from one season to the next, it seemed at random. A village could be perfectly dry for a generation, and then be swallowed whole within two or three years.

She left her advisors considering options, and rode with her guards and junior Companion, Marna, into the village itself. Like most such places, it was a sprawl of tyholds, their hedge-defined fields tended by a single family group, together with larger communal lands for grain. Dotted about were ramshackle patched wooden cottages and barns, set in a criss-crossing web of muddy dung-spattered lanes. Chickens, sheep and children skittered aside as the group passed by. In a cluster to one side were the stone buildings of stables, smithy, mill, water house and alehouse, and, a little apart, the Slave’s house. The guards went off to the alehouse for the evening, but Mia and Marna were to stay with the Slave.

As a child, Mia had always been terrified of the Karninghold Slave, a very elderly man with a dried-up face. When she read stories of ancient peoples who left their dead out to shrivel in the sun, she had no struggle imagining the result. The swirling robes, the shaven tattooed head, the incense and chanting had given her nightmares. It was only after she began spending half of each year with the scholars at the Ring at the age of ten and understood the ways of the Gods a little better that she began to take comfort from the ritual.

But Mia knew this village Slave well, and found her a much less formidable matter. She only shaved part of her head, for one thing, rarely wore the traditional hooded robes and was much more pragmatic. She had to be, living amongst the relative poverty of the villagers. She was both leader and friend, dispensing advice and instruction, comfort and punishment in equal measure. The Slave was the only literate person in the village, the only one able to summon help from the Karninghold, the only one with any knowledge of history and politics and science and the law, the only one with healing skills. Like all Slaves, she was not allowed to have children or marry, but lovers were tolerated.

Mia had met this particular Slave several times before, and she was the first who had ever explained to her why she had chosen that path, forsaking even her name in submission to the Gods. It was not, she said with her throaty laugh, from any virtue or an excess of devotion. But she had grown up in a village herself, and decided that anything was better than grubbing in the earth for turnips all year round, surrounded by a whining cloud of children.

“Don’t you like children?” Mia had asked, rather shocked.

“I love them," the Slave had replied, "so long as they belong to someone else.”

At supper, they sat cross-legged on the earth floor, Mia, Marna, the Slave and the two acolytes, who, like all such, were not named, but identified by village and number. They were quiet young men, one tall, one short, both skinny, passing around bowls and spoons and tankards in silence. They all shared a solid stew, mostly vegetables with a little meat, and the dark unleavened bread eaten in most villages. There was no wine, just thick foamy ale which Mia rather liked, although Marna pulled a face.

After the meal Marna went off to the alehouse to be with the guards, and the acolytes disappeared. The Slave watched Mia in silence, her head tilted to one side. She was perhaps in her mid-forties, a well-rounded woman, gentle and sociable, whose ample flesh wobbled when she laughed, which was often.

“You are very quiet, Most High," the Slave said. "Do you want to talk about it? Whatever it is.”

“Do you want to listen, Most Humble?”

“Always, my friend,” she replied, spreading her hands wide in invitation.