Authors: Angus Wells
“You own a fiercesome horse, stranger,” she said. She seemed not at all afraid, only sensibly wary. “Do you tether her secure, I’ll bid you welcome. We’ve ale, and food enough to spare.”
I said, “Thank you,” and climbed down.
I led the mare to a pen where hogs snuffled and lashed her reins to the fence.
The woman said, “Tyr, do you fetch a bucket of fresh water and see her turned out. But be careful of the beast.”
A boy darted from behind her skirts. He was a sturdy lad, his head a thatch of fine brown hair. I said, “Perhaps best I tend the mare. She’s a temper, as you’ve seen.”
“No matter,” the woman said. “Tyr’s a way with animals, and he’ll not let her harm him.”
She seemed so confident I saw no reason to argue. I looked at her and smiled. I said, “I am Daviot, a Storyman.”
“Well, the day’s greetings, Daviot Storyman,” she returned. “I am Pele.”
She was tall as I, and slender, her features delicate. Strands of silky, honey-colored hair escaped from beneath a headscarf. I saw that her eyes were green and somewhat slanted and realized with a shock that she was Changed, a cat-bred female. I hid my surprise behind a courtly bow, at which she chuckled and said, “We’ve little ceremony here, my friend.”
She showed none of the deference the Changed customarily granted Truemen. I let my eyes move past her to the others. I saw that of the seven women, three were Changed. Yet it was Pele who spoke for all, and she who named the Trueman females. It was as if, in the absence of their menfolk, all there regarded her as leader.
Pele brought me to her cottage and poured me a mug of very good ale. It was the midpart of the afternoon and I had eaten, but from courtesy and a desire to avoid affront I accepted
the platter of cold pork and a wedge of bread she offered me. As I ate, she busied herself with domestic tasks, talking the while. Her daughter, who was named Alyn, assisted her when the child was not studying me with huge eyes that made me think of kittens. The cottage was small but built sound. It would hold off the cold of winter; now the single window and the door stood open.
“So what brings you here?” asked Pele. “We see few strangers in these wild parts, and never a Storyman before.”
“I was at Thornbar Keep,” I said. “I thought to wander the hinterland awhile.”
She nodded, as if this were not at all strange. She said, “Sometimes the Truemen go in to Thornbar.”
“To sell your produce?” I asked.
She said, “Yes, and to buy such tools and stuff as we cannot make or grow.”
“It’s a lonely place,” I said.
She laughed at that, reaching up to brush an errant strand of golden hair from her eyes. She was kneading bread, and she left a white smear of flour on her forehead. She said, “There’s company enough. But still—a Storyman shall liven the evening, do you elect to stay.”
“Do you offer such hospitality,” I said, “I’ll gladly accept.”
“’Tis yours for the asking.” She gestured at our surroundings. “You’ve the choice of a room shared with Tyr and Alyn, or the hearthside.”
“The hearth is good enough for me,” I said.
“Then be welcome. Save …” She paused a moment. I thought her, albeit on only short acquaintance, unusually hesitant. “Not all approve of us. Perhaps you’d best reserve your decision until Maerk returns.”
I asked, “Your husband?”
She answered, “My man. We’re not wed in the Church’s eyes.”
I laughed then and said, “That matters nothing to me. I’ve not the niceties of some mantis.”
“It’s not that,” she returned me, and looked me straight in the eye. “Maerk’s a Trueman.”
I could not conceal my surprise, and she saw it. Her fine features darkened a fraction; not, I thought, with embarrassment,
but with defiance. I swallowed a mouthful of ale. Alyn studied me solemnly.
I said, “Is that why not all approve of you?”
Pele nodded. “And why we seldom visit Thornbar. There’s some would see us punished. It’s why we live here; in part, at least.”
I shall not tell you I was not taken aback. That would be a lie. It was not unknown for Truemen and Changed to consort casually. Indeed, there had been establishments in Durbrecht that boasted the exoticism of Changed cyprians, and I had heard tales of women who enjoyed the services of Changed lovers. But it was not a thing done openly. It was a thing denounced by the Church, furtive, and marriage was unknown. The slurs Barus had cast my way were indicative of the common feeling: a couple such as Pele and Maerk must inevitably find themselves outcast. I could not help but glance at Alyn.
Pele saw the direction of my gaze and shook her head. “I was wed before,” she said softly, “and widowed. My babies are both Changed; Maerk bought us after.”
My brows must have risen at that. Certainly the thought entered my mind that Maerk had purchased himself a cyprian of a kind. I think it did not show, but Pele was quick as any feline, and as good at gauging mood. She reached beneath her blouse and drew out a disk, held around her slim neck by a leather thong. Silently, she held it toward me: it was such a disk as freed Changed were given, stamped with the marks of authority. I had seen such disks in the hands of beggars.
Pele said, “He was a carpenter then. He saved and borrowed until he was able to buy me. Then he set me free. His family cast him out for that.”
Her voice challenged me to object. I said, “He must be a good man.”
She said, “He is. And more—he loves me; and I him. Can you understand that, Daviot Storyman? Do you know what love is?”
I said, “I know what it is. In Durbrecht …”
I shrugged, and could not help the sigh I vented. I had believed my memories of Rwyan under tighter rein, but this story brought them back. I thought that we might have found some refuge such as this hamlet, some lonely place far
from our duties. Then I thought of the secret I carried and knew that once duty is accepted, it cannot be escaped. I said, “She was a sorcerer. They sent her to the Sentinels, and me here.”
Pele nodded as if she understood. I suppose she did. She said, “Perhaps you’ll find her again.”
I said, “I think not.”
She drew me another mug and stood before me then. “We are not the only ones,” she said. “Of the families in this place there are two Changed and three Trueman. Two are of mixed blood—Maerk and I, Durs and Ylle. Durs is of canine stock.”
Perhaps she anticipated outrage, or criticism, but I felt none. I was, as I have said, surprised, but I had witnessed stranger things of late, and to express disapproval of such arrangements would have been a betrayal of my belief that there was, in truth, no longer very much difference between my kind and hers. Still, she seemed to expect a response. I am not sure why I said what I did; the words sprang unpremeditated from my mouth: “I had a friend in Durbrecht of canine stock. His name was Urt.”
She said, “A friend?”
Her tone was casual, neutral. Perhaps purposefully so. She looked at me with her head cocked slightly to one side. That I was Trueman and she Changed meant nothing, and everything. I do not believe she judged me, but I felt a tremendous need to explain: I told her of my friendship with Urt.
When I was done, she nodded and returned to her bread. After a while she said, “He was a good friend.”
I said, “Yes. Perhaps the best I’ve known—he risked much for me.”
“And was rewarded with exile.”
She glanced up as she said that, watching me with enigmatic eyes. I did feel judged then, as if I stood in place of all my Trueman kind. I answered her, “That was not my choice. I argued it.”
Again she nodded. Then she smiled and said, “I think Urt found a good friend in you, Daviot.”
I returned her smile, but mine was cynical. “It seems my friendship brings poor reward,” I said.
“The same might well enough be said of Maerk and I.”
Pele shrugged. It was a lazy, feline movement. “This world deems us different and would not see Trueman and Changed together. Save as master and servant.” “Or dragon bait,” I said.
“That was long and long ago.” She chuckled. “So long ago, none but you Storymen remember those old ways.”
“And yet,” I said, “Ur-Dharbek still stands a barrier between this country and the land of the dragons.”
“Old habits die hard,” she said. “And Ur-Dharbek is not much different now to the Forgotten Country, I think.”
I said, “Save the wild Changed dwell there in freedom.”
I looked to cast a hook in the waters of her knowledge. This was no sorcerer, but a woman of the Changed who appeared to me entirely open and honest. I thought perhaps to land a catch of information.
Instead, I got a laugh, a shrug, and, “So it is said. But I’ve no idea.”
“Should you and Maerk,” I asked, “and all these others, not be received better there?”
She said again, “I’ve no idea,” and then: “Why should it be different? If Ur-Dharbek is indeed a kingdom of we Changed, then should attitudes not likely be the same? Save in reverse? I’d not see Maerk reviled by my kind.”
I digested this. It had not properly occurred to me that the Changed would indulge the same prejudices as Truemen. I had thought, albeit vaguely, that if Ur-Dharbek harbored a Changed society, if it was now a country in its own right, then it should be a free society, a country without such partiality. In this, Pele was wiser than I. Why should Ur-Dharbek be different? Indeed, the wild Changed must have greater reason to detest the Truemen who had made them to be prey for the dragons and now used them as servants. As slaves, in fact, for the Changed of Dharbek had few enough rights. That should surely be a weight of suffering’s memory. I found no ready answer.
“No,” Pele said as I sat silent, “I think we do better here. We are left alone, and we’ve a good enough life. Besides, Ur-Dharbek is a very long way off.”
I said, “That’s true,” with such unconscious solemnity that we both laughed.
Then Tyr came in. He carried my saddlebags and my staff, which he set at my feet. He faced me with that dignity
only children can command. “I’ve seen your horse settled,” he told me. “She’s
very
ill-tempered. When I took off her saddle, she tried to bite me.”
“I apologize for my disagreeable horse,” I said, “and thank you for tending her. Perhaps I’d best look to her needs from now on, though.”
He thought about this a moment, then nodded solemnly and said, “If you wish. Besides, if you’re to ride her, you’d best learn to handle her.”
I said, “Yes, I had,” trying very hard not to offend him by laughing at his earnestness.
Pele rescued us both with the suggestion that he go select a chicken for our dinner, and he ran out with Alyn hard on his heels.
“You’ve fine children,” I said.
“Yes. It’s a pity I can have no more.” She looked a moment pensive, then shrugged and said, “But the seed of Changed and Trueman mixes no better than that of cat and dog.”
I could think of nothing to say to that and so held my tongue, watching as she set her bread in the oven and began to prepare vegetables. It was a scene of such domesticity as I had not encountered in some time. I had been mostly in the keeps and towns of late, and there such things were done out of sight by Changed servants, whose offices I accepted unthinking. Sitting here, I contemplated again what life with Rwyan might have been like, had we not been born with our respective talents. I began to feel nostalgia for a life I had never known, nor likely ever should. Melancholy threatened—I pushed it back: there were far greater events afoot.
I watched Pele’s deft movements, thinking how graceful she was. I thought she could not know of Changed dealing with the Sky Lords, for if she did, surely she would not make me so welcome. Unless … an ugly notion imposed itself … she sought only to lure me into a false sense of security. And then? Would Maerk appear, and others, and look to slay me? I shook my head: what I had seen and what I had failed to do surely seduced me into mistrust where only honest welcome was offered. These people could not know my secret. Nor were they likely to consort with the Sky Lords—Changed and Truemen living together in harmony, wed in all eyes save those of the Church? No, surely they would not.
Rather, this was an idyll of a kind, an indication of how things could be, were inbred prejudice denied.
I grew the more convinced of this when Maerk appeared. He was a blunt-featured man, swarthy and hairy as any other westcoaster but with a ready smile that lit his face as he came in.
He cried, “Day’s greetings, Storyman,” as he crossed the room to plant a resounding kiss on Pele’s flour-smudged cheek, holding her close a moment before drawing himself a mug of ale and pulling up a chair. I saw that his forearms were corded with such muscle as a carpenter or a forester develops, and his shoulders were wide. When he took my hand, his grip was powerful.
“I found Tyr and Alyn amidst the wreckage of a chicken,” he explained, “and they told me we’d a visitor. Pele’s made you welcome, I trust?”
“Most welcome.” I flourished my mug. “My thanks to you both.”
Maerk made a dismissive gesture. “The God knows, we see few enough strangers here that we’d turn a man away,” he said. “And a Storyman, to boot? No, never. But you’ll earn your bread, I warn you.”
I said, “Gladly.” I felt my random suspicions dissipate.
“No doubt you’ve tidings aplenty,” said Maerk, but when I began to speak, he hushed me, telling me to save word of the greater world for later, when all might gather to hear it. “We manage well enough without,” he said, “that I can wait awhile; and you not delay your storytelling with twice-told news.”
I agreed. He said to Pele, “We took a deer. We’ll dress the meat tomorrow.”
She nodded, smiling at him, and in both their eyes I saw a devotion warm as any hearthfire. She went outside then, to check her children’s labors, and Maerk grew serious awhile.
“You understand our situation here?” he asked me. “Pele’s explained things?”
“She has,” I said.
“And you’ve no”—he paused, shrugging his broad shoulders so that I feared his tunic might burst—“objections?” “None,” I assured him.
He said, “Good. Then we speak of it no further.”
Nor did we. Instead, he brought me to their well, where
we washed, and then sat down to drink more ale as Pele set the chicken to roasting. She was an excellent cook: I ate well that day.