The last moment of light quavered, resonated, the vuthloven glowing. The muuren went dark. I touched the fire to the lamp and felt the colored light pour outward like a caress, bands of fire, silver, ice-blue. As I sang the Evening Song the light dressed me in richness, coloring the faces before me in the gauzes of sunset, blood-reds, fiery golds, royal blues and crimsons striving with one another. It took one’s breath away. For this reason the deniire must be burned sparingly, Mordwen told me later; the lamp-lighting should not become a spectacle. But that moment was perfect, even Mordwen agreed, I could see it in his face. I finished Kithilunen and felt everyone’s breath go out. I closed my eyes for joy, the rhythm of breathing engulfing me like a sea.
A moment later I was behind the shrine, leaning against the high bronze base, my mind a blank, too full from the day to care.
Footsteps approached and I drew myself erect, expecting Mordwen, maybe come to tell me something I had done wrong. I tried to pack away the exalted feeling, to clear my mind, to set myself on a more businesslike, less rapturous base. But when I turned there was Kirith Kirin.
“You’re a treasure,” he said. “I’ve never heard better singing.”
I said thank you, using the High Speech word. He raised a brow at that. “Well spoken. You’ve had your first lesson.”
“Yes, all day, after the ride. My head is swimming in words. I wonder if I’ll remember any of it tomorrow.”
“Puzzle it out. It’ll be good to hear you speak like a Jisraegen.”
His stern tone made me feel like a child again, after the exhilaration of the first moment.
A shadow appeared beyond the shrine. Imral stepped into the narrow lane. “Mordwen thinks he should come behind, Kirith Kirin, for propriety’s sake. Most of the lords are still waiting for you to come out.”
Kirith Kirin never stirred. He smiled at me. “Tell Mordwen I’m on my way. Tell him to stay where he is.”
Imral glanced at me, skeptically. For some reason the glance made me feel furtive, and I was troubled till Kirith Kirin said, “You’ll have to get used to people watching, too, won’t you? All kinds of people.”
When I raised my eyes he was gone.
I went into my room and sat down on the cot. Mordwen found me sitting, staring, just that way.
1
Prince Imral’s naming feast took place that evening, far from the shrine tent within which I remained, with only the sentries for company. Yet, in the end, I joined the feast, though not as an invited guest. Late in the evening, without warning, Uncle Sivisal came to fetch me, accompanied by the Ordinary, Gaelex.
“The Prince has asked to see us,” Uncle Sivisal said, and something in his face frightened me. “Do you have a coat? Get it.”
I slipped the sleeved garment over my arms and we hurried along the path. Gaelex and my uncle preceded me without conversation, and I kept the proper silence of a child.
We were led to the Prince’s pavilion from behind, to avoid disturbing the celebration, still in progress. At the rear entrance, Gaelex stood to the side and said to Uncle Sivisal, “Kirith Kirin is waiting.” I followed Sivisal through the tent flap.
He was two chambers beyond, in a small room fitted for a council meeting, cushions strewn about the floor, low writing tables here and there, a clay lamp burning, dim light for late evening. He was dressed in a tunic of rich blue. His dark skin shone. At first he did not look at me. He said, “Thank you for coming, Sivisal,” without moving, and Sivisal bowed his head. We three were alone in the chamber. A breeze stirred the tent walls, and Kirith Kirin’s voice rose over me, deep and firm. “Sit by me here, Jessex. The scouts have returned from your home.”
He indicated a place on the cushion close to him. I sat quietly, saying nothing. From his face I knew he had bad news. I was afraid to move or make a sound. I could feel the tension in his body next to me. I knew I had begun to cry, I could feel the liquid on my face. But I felt a distance in myself. He watched without knowing what to do. At last Uncle Sivisal sat next to me and embraced me, as Kirith Kirin muttered something in High Speech. Then, in Upcountry, “But you don’t know what that means, do you?”
“No, Kirith Kirin.” I watched him stupidly, without a thought in my head.
Trouble filled him, his face darkening as I watched. “Your farm is burned, Jessex. Your family is dead or vanished.” He swallowed, watching me at first, then looking into the shadows of the chamber. “My scouts found some bodies. One girl was still alive in part of the barn that was left standing. She died before the village doctor could reach her. Her name was Mikif. She told my soldiers what she could remember.”
The words echoed in my head. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and got my breath. “The witch killed them?”
“The soldiers killed them. The witch looked on. Later she questioned your mother. The girl, Mikif, could not remember much after a point. But my soldiers said your mother was taken south.”
He had said all he could say. For a moment I was too stunned to feel. I remembered the story of Commiseth and his daughter Sergil. My poor Mikif. I pictured her as I had heard Sergil described, her face broken, her back a mass of welts; I hardly knew I was still crying or that Uncle Sivisal was still near me. “Jessex,” he was saying, “Jessex,” he whispered it like a chant in my ear. I gave way entirely, leaning against him, hugging him fiercely. I quieted after a while. Uncle Sivisal asked, “Why would they take my sister?”
“I’m not sure,” Kirith Kirin said. He clenched his jaw muscles, and his gaze hardened. “We’ll know soon enough, though. Two of my picked guard are trailing the party south.” He spoke to me now. “If anything can be done for your mother, it will be, Jessex. But it’s likely she’s being taken to Drudaen.”
I closed my eyes. “What would he want with her?”
“I don’t know. But he hasn’t sent Julassa Kyminax so far for no reason.”
“We only had a farm. My father paid his taxes, high as they were. Mother made good cheese. What does the Wizard want from us?”
He shook his head, and Sivisal bowed his. “There is you, Jessex. You were called to Arthen, to my service.” Kirith Kirin went on soberly. “Julassa questioned your mother about magic. She suspected your mother of witchcraft.”
He fell silent then. He was as puzzled as I was; and as afraid. After a time he said, in a voice full of feeling, “Will you forgive me for this, Jessex?”
“Forgive you, Kirith Kirin?”
“This happened because you were called here. Will you despise me because of that?”
I remembered the necklace spinning in the light of my mother’s room. Her face, slightly troubled, as it passed from her hand to mine. I said, “God sent the dream to Mordwen. My mother wanted me to come where I was called.”
After a while he prepared to return to the naming feast for Prince Imral. He had left his guests to give me this news himself. He went to the flap, saying to Sivisal, “The party from the farm is waiting to talk to you, if you want to question them. I’ve told them to answer your questions without concealing anything. You and the boy have the right to know as much as you wish.”
“I’d like to talk to them now,” Sivisal said.
He turned to the door and spoke to Gaelex again. The soldiers entered within moments.
2
Uncle Sivisal made them recount the whole story. When they seemed reluctant to describe any particular fact, he questioned them closely until he was certain they were sparing no detail.
Smoke was still rising from the ruined farmyard when the soldiers found the place. Our neighbors had not found the courage to visit; the Queen’s troops had only been gone from the village a day. Kirith Kirin’s people rode through the farmyard, finding the bodies of my father, Sim and Lise, cut apart by swords, partly eaten by carrion birds. Some of the soldiers built a pyre to burn the bodies while the others searched through the ruined farm buildings. They found Jarred, Histel and Vaguath hanged in the orchard, within sight of the house. Mikif had identified the bodies. Sim’s wife and child were burned in their house; the soldiers found charred bones and naming necklaces, scant remains. Mikif was found in what sounded like the milking shed, though it was hard to tell. It took them a while to find her; she had heard them ride in but had been afraid the Blue Cloaks were returning; when she saw one of the soldiers in a red-trimmed cloak she called out for help. She was in a bad way when the soldiers found her; they sent a member of the party to Mikinoos to bring the physician, but Mikif did not last that long. The soldiers questioned her through her last moments. They said she seemed eager to talk.
She gave them the few details they knew about the raid. The Blue Cloaks appeared a few days after I left, at sunset, when Father had already come in from the fields and everyone was in the house. The Kyminax witch rode into the yard and called out my mother’s name. Mother went outside, not knowing who the woman was. The soldiers had immediately tried to drag her off, and my father rushed at them, flanked by Histel, Lise and Sim; the soldiers cut them down where they stood.
Julassa questioned Mother for a long time. Mikif only heard a little of that; the Blue Cloaks had dragged Mikif into the barn by then. The witch asked again and again, where had my mother learned magic? Where was her youngest son? When Mother refused to answer either question, the witch ordered Jarred hanged, and then Histel and Vaguath after him, when Mother still refused to speak.
Mikif remembered nothing beyond that, and died soon after she finished telling what she knew. She spent her last moments describing the size of the Blue Cloak war party, their uniforms, their weapons, the few names she could remember. Twenty soldiers had ridden into the farmyard. None of them were from the regular northern detachments, as best Kirith Kirin’s soldiers could tell. The Blue Cloaks had worn Drudaen’s crest, the black raven against storm clouds. He had sent the raiders himself.
The Red Cloaks had ordered the dead burned and mounds raised over the places where their smoke went up. I need not picture carrion birds feasting. A hound had been found wandering about the farmyard, obviously a family pet. They had brought the beast to Arthen, to me.
“Where is he?” I asked, hoping against hope; there were several dogs on our farm. Gaelex answered, “I’ve asked for it to be brought here. Do you have more questions?”
“No, ma’am. Thank you. Thank you all.”
I found myself singing Kimri under my breath, as I had on the morning when I rode into Arthen, when the witch all but had me in her grasp. Uncle Sivisal heard me, and came to sit with me again.
Gaelex returned to say the dog was too big to bring into the tent. A sudden gladness possessed me. “Axfel!”
In the yard I saw nothing at first, then the outlines of trees, then a huge blur leapt on me with its paws on my chest, and a wet tongue found my face. I embraced Axfel for all I was worth. In his damp, shaggy fur was the smell of my home; memory flooded me and I could not move. I was lost in the hills around our farm, Axfel dragging his tongue through the grass, Jarred running toward me with the news that a stranger in a red cloak had ridden into our farmyard.… I finished my crying there, quietly, and nobody bothered me till I was done. I dried my eyes and sat still on the ground for a long time. At last I asked, “Will they let me keep Axfel at the shrine tent, Gaelex? Do you know?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know of a kyyvi who ever kept a dog before.”
“Kirith Kirin has dogs.”
“Most folks do,” Gaelex admitted. She frowned. “But they don’t live in the shrine tent. You can’t let a monster like this anywhere near the lamps.”
“He wouldn’t have to come inside. He would live wherever I told him to live. Isn’t that right, Axfel?”
The hound stared at Gaelex solemnly, and Gaelex contemplated him with equal fervor. She said, “I imagine you’ll be able to keep the dog with you.”
Axfel quietly sat with me, and we watched the moons over the trees. Distant voices threw their echoes over us but no one found us. I was picturing horses riding in darkness, twenty followed by two. I was picturing my mother on her horse, lips pursed with secrets, the witch’s eyes on her. At fourteen I had no notion how I should feel. Now as I am writing, many years beyond fourteen, the image comes on me with fresh bitterness.
3
Later, in my cot, I dreamed I was lying in my father’s barn. A fire was burning and I could hear screaming outside. Through the open barn door I saw my father sprawled in the dirt, arm crooked over his head at an impossible angle, a hint of red in his mouth, a red gash in his shirt. Soldiers were shouting in the yard and some of them called my name.