Morningstar (11 page)

It was a feast as fine as any I have tasted, the meat rich and full of flavor, the broth divine, the wild onion soup without peer. At last replete, I sat back against a tree and took out my harp.

The giant approached me as I tuned the strings. “You are a lover of music, eh? Good! After a fine meal there should always
be music. My name is Piercollo. You play and I shall sing. Yes?”

“I would be honored,” I told him. Wulf joined us and from his small pack took a flute. He smiled self-consciously. “I have heard you play, Owen, and I am not as skilled. But if you will bear with my lack of talent, I would like to take part.”

“What shall we play?” I asked them, and we discussed the merits of various songs until at last we decided upon “The Forest Queen.” It is not performed much in these more enlightened days, but it was a good song with a simple chorus. You know it?

It was a song of the Before Times, when the land of the Ikenas was said to have been peopled by an elder race who knew great magic. The last queen was Elaine, who, betrayed in love, walked through the forest, becoming at last a restless spirit whose song could be heard in the rushing of the streams and the wind whispering through the branches of the trees.

I set a slow and haunting melody. After several quavering, uncertain notes, Wulf joined in. Then Piercollo sang. The children gathered around us and, after a while, began singing the chorus.

It was more beautiful than you could possibly know: the sun shining on the hollow, the whispering of the stream, the harp, the flute, and the majestic voice of Piercollo ringing out in the mountains. I remember that day more brightly than any that followed, for it was full of enchantment that not even Cataplas could have duplicated.

We sang and played for more than an hour until dusk. Several of the children were asleep by the fire trench, and I saw Jarek Mace stroll away from the hollow to walk to the brow of a nearby hill.

I joined him there and sat beside him. “Thank God all that wailing is over,” he muttered. “It was driving me insane.”

I felt a great sadness come over me then. For all his charm and courage, Mace had no concept of the beauty of music; nor,
indeed, had he taken any joy in the comradeship and the closeness the music had generated He was a man apart.

“What are you looking for, Jarek?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “There is a castle I want to own. It stands on the cliff tops overlooking the western sea, far down in the south.”

“Why that castle?”

“Why not?” he answered, looking away.

Changing the subject, I mentioned the wrestling bout and the incredible balance and dexterity he had shown when thrown into the air.

“I used to be a tumbler,” he told me, his smile returning. “And a juggler and a walker upon the high rope.”

“You have had an interesting life.”

“Have I?” he said with genuine surprise. “Yes, I suppose I have. Tell me, Owen, are you happy?” The question surprised me, and I looked into his eyes, seeking any sign of mockery, but there was none. He was genuinely—at that moment—interested.

“Yes,” I told him. “Very. You?”

He shrugged and turned away. “I will be when I have my castle. You know, I used to think that music was some sort of trick, that people only pretended to enjoy it. For me it is a meaningless series of discordant sounds. I hate it, for its beauty is denied to me.”

“It is a great loss,” I agreed, “but did you not find the companionship agreeable? The children sitting around the fire, the wood smoke, the security?”

“Ah, the romantic in you again, eh, Owen? It was just a roast sheep, my friend, on a warm afternoon. Nothing more.”

“I think you are wrong. I think I will remember this day all my life.”

“You should eat roast sheep more often,” he said, thumping my back. Then he stood, took his bow, and wandered off into the forest.

I helped Piercollo clean the pots and scrape the animal fat from the disassembled spit. He gathered the iron rods, bound them together, and carried them to an enormous pack he had left under a tree.

“You are a cook?” I asked him.

“Not just a cook.
The
cook. I was known as the finest food
maker in Tuscania. I should have stayed there. But no, when the Angostins visited my duke, they clamored for my services Great golden coins they laid under my nose. Come to Ikena, they said. Serve us and become rich. Foolish Piercollo! He listened, and he liked the touch of their gold.” He shook his great head. “I should have stayed in my own land.”

“It is not so bad in Ikena,” I told him. “I grew up there, on the southern coast.”

“No, it is not so bad,” he agreed. “But the weather? Rain and fog, drizzle and mist. And the people! Pigs would have a better understanding of food. They bring me across the continent, across the ocean, and for what? Burned meat and soft vegetables. There is no skill in such meals. Even that I could have borne, but not Azrek. Oh, no. Not him.”

“Tell me of him,” I urged Piercollo.

“Believe me, Owen, you would not wish to hear.”

“Tell me.”

“He is a torturer. Every night the screams could be heard from the dungeons. Men and women … and even little ones. Very bad, Owen. I think he likes to hear people scream. Well, I do not like it. One day I look for my implements, they are gone. I ask where they are. I am told the count has them. You know what he does? He is roasting a man on my spit! That is enough for Piercollo. I left.”

“Sweet heaven! But surely anyone roasted like that would die swiftly.”

“Yes, but not this time. The count has a sorcerer, a vile man. He kept the prisoner alive for hours, alive to suffer as no man should suffer. I am glad to be free of such a lord. All I wish for now is to return to Tuscania.”

“Where did you come upon the children?”

He smiled, his teeth startlingly white in the gathering dusk. “They hear Piercollo sing as they are wandering in the forest. The women tell me their village was attacked some days ago. Now they head for the town of Lualis. I, too, will go there; it is a river town, and rivers lead to the sea. From the coast I shall find a ship to take me home.”

“You have family in Tuscania?”

“I have a sister. A good woman—big, well made. Eight sons she has borne and not a single daughter. I will stay with her for a while. What of you? Where are you heading?”

I spread my hands. “Everywhere and nowhere. I live in the forest.”

“It is not so bad a place. Many deer and wild pig, rabbits and mountain sheep. Good onions and herbs. I like it here also. But it will not be peaceful for long—not now that the rebels have made it a stronghold.”

“Rebels?” I inquired. “I have heard of no rebels.”

“I was in Ziraccu when the news came in. There is a rebellion here, led by a hero called Morningstar. He and a hundred men attacked a convoy led by the count’s two brothers. One of them was killed. Azrek has offered a thousand crowns’ reward for Morningstar’s capture. And an army is being raised to rush the rebellion.”

I said nothing as my mind reeled with the news, but Piercollo continued to speak. “I would like to meet this Morningstar,” he said. “I would like to shake his hand and wish him well.”

“Perhaps you will,” I whispered.

5

T
HERE ARE FEW
still living who remember the old river city of Lualis, with its round castle, its wharves and lanes, its timber yards and stock paddocks, and its profusion of building styles—Angostin brick, Highland wattle and clay, timbered roofs, tiled roofs, thatched roofs.

In those days, before the Deeway had become full of silt, seagoing ships could moor at Lualis, putting ashore cargoes of silks and satins, ivory, spices, dried fruit from the Orient, iron from the Viking mines of the northern continent. The city was filled with sailors, merchants, farmers, horse breeders, mercenary knights, and street women who would sell their favors for a copper farthing.

There were several inns on every street and taverns where drunken men would gamble and drink, argue and fight. Very few of those taverns did not boast fresh bloodstains nightly on their sawdust-covered floors.

Lualis was a glamorous place, so the stories would have us believe. And they are correct. But it was not the bright glamour that shines with golden light from all great sagas. It was the kind that attaches itself to acts of violence and men of violence. The city was dirty, vile-smelling, lawless, and fraught with the risk of sudden death.

Jarek Mace loved it …

We arrived on the first day of the spring fair, when the city was swollen with revelers. Three ships were moored at the wharves as our small party trooped in from the forest. The women and children bade their farewells to us and made their way to the more sedate northern quarter, where some had relatives.
Mace, Wulf, Piercollo, and I strolled to the nearest tavern, where we found a table near an open window and ordered meat broth, fresh bread, and a huge jug of ale.

All around us people were talking about the fair, the contests to come, the prize money to be won. I saw Piercollo’s dark eyes brighten with interest at the mention of a wrestling tourney and the ten gold pieces waiting for the winner. He ate with us, then said his good-byes and wandered out of the tavern in search of his fortune. Mace watched him go, then ordered more ale.

“What will we do here?” I asked him.

“There is always an archery contest,” he said. “Wulf and I will win some money. Then we’ll rent a couple of women and relax for a few days.” He smiled. “We’ll get one for you, too, Owen.”

“I do not need such a companion,” I told him rather too primly.

“As you wish,” he answered.

I was ill at ease in the tavern, surrounded by men with loud voices, and I left them to their drinking and strolled through the city streets to the meadow where the fair was under way. There was a dance pole set at the center, hung with ribbons, and a dancing bear was performing for a small crowd at the western end of the fairground. Tiny ponies were tethered nearby, awaiting their child riders, and there were stalls of sweetmeats, sugar apples, lard cakes, honey loaves, and the like. The day was bright, the sky cloudless. People were enjoying themselves.

Several magickers were exhibiting their skills, but the crowds were thin as yet, and the performers either lacked any genuine skill or were saving their efforts for later in the day.

Carpenters were busy building a long raised platform where the knights and their ladies would sit once the entertainments commenced. A canvas canopy, painted red and hung with white streamers, was being raised above the platform. No sudden shower would be allowed to dampen the enthusiasm of Angostin nobles.

There were soldiers everywhere, strolling through the meadow, moving in groups of three or four. I counted at least fifty on the fairground alone, and I had seen more in the city itself. Their presence made me uncomfortable, though in truth, I should have had little to fear.

Toward dusk I made my way back to the tavern. Mace had
booked a room for us on the upper floor, and I mounted the stairs, thinking only of sleep. The moonlit room was small, with three pallet beds set against the inner walls. A rough-hewn table and two chairs completed the furniture, and there was a single tiny window with open shutters. The room smelled musky and damp, but I did not care. The two larger beds had been claimed by Mace and Wulf, their longbows laid upon the single blankets. I moved to the third and stretched out, not even bothering to remove my boots.

Sleep came swiftly, but I awoke when Mace and the hunchback returned after midnight, drunk and laughing. Mace tripped and fell upon me as he tried to remove his boots. Wulf made a gallant effort to fall upon his own bed but missed and sank to the floor, where he curled up happily and slept.

“Not … a … bad night,” said Jarek Mace with a lopsided grin. “I like this place.”

“There is blood on your hand,” I told him, sitting up.