The Barrow (14 page)

And so that day began like every other that she could remember in a long, long time. She spent that morning going over the household books of account with Malia and the master of kitchens, Tomas, reading aloud as she entered notes into the ledgers about the morning's deliveries from the various merchants and vendors beholden to her father's house. Reading was a rare skill amongst Aurian noblewomen, even for the lady of the house; but after the scandal, her scandal, they had found it impossible to retain a chief steward of any quality. And so she had taught herself to read and write, with the help of Tomas and a tutor from the University that she had discreetly hired. She still had to whisper the words aloud, even when by herself, but reading was perhaps her only remaining pleasure in life.

She broke from her work only to wish her brother and his knights a speedy return from their duties at Court and about the city. She felt the cloying darkness lift off of her shoulders as they rode out through the rear stable gates, and for the first time that morning she felt like she could breathe. The house itself seemed lighter, and brighter, as though the windows had suddenly grown larger. Sirs Lars and Colin Urwed and their squires were the only ones to remain behind as the House Watch; she knew their duty was as much to be her minders as it was to protect the household of her father, but she did not begrudge them their dual mission, for it was not due to any fault of theirs, and for the most part they left her to her own devices.

Annwyn returned to her day chamber and was working there with Malia when she heard the commotion at the rear gates and knew without having to ask that her brother Harvald had suddenly returned. She raised her head, listening to his voice in the rear courtyards talking to Sir Colin, and she took a deep breath, feeling that familiar oppressive darkness settle upon her once more, and she tried to calm the troubled knots in her stomach before standing and smoothing the folds and pleats of her dress and bodice. Malia barely looked at her, simply standing and falling in behind her as she walked out of the room and toward the great hall. Malia's face was a smooth mask, much like her own.
And so this house makes all of us such great actors and dissemblers
, Annwyn thought.
That is the inevitable price to be found, when you live in a prison of despair.

She walked down the rear steps of the house into the rear courtyard, passing several porters carrying small bags and boxes, presumably intended for Harvald's chambers. Groomsmen were already stabling Harvald's horse, and her brother stood talking with Sir Colin and his squire, Herefort Hrum. She chose to stand and wait for him at the bottom of the steps, seeing no need to interrupt the warm welcome he was receiving, while Malia lingered several steps up behind her.

But finally Harvald spotted her waiting, and excused himself to come and greet her.

“Annwyn. Dearest sister,” he said, clasping her hands and bringing them to his lips so he could kiss each in turn. He leaned in and kissed her once on each cheek. “My heart is gladdened to see you brightening the steps of our father's house.” He looked past her to take in her chief handmaiden. “And loyal Malia, my greetings to you as well.”

“Dear brother,” Annwyn said softly, as Malia gave a slight curtsey.
I did not know you had a heart
. She took in the dust and mud splattered across his boots and breeches, the state of his hair and the stubble on his chin, and the knot in her stomach grew tighter. She willed herself to blankness, and said nothing about his appearance. “Welcome home to our father's house, and to our fair city. I thank the King of Heaven that he watched over your safe return.”

“I have traveled far, dearest and most beloved sister, and hopefully return with a prize that may help reinstate the fortunes of our great family,” he said with a grin. “I gather that Father is in the field? I suppose that's well enough. My news should remain a secret for the moment, as he would think me a foolish dreamer, as he always does.” He paused, contemplating her, and she waited for his game to begin. “You know, I was originally thinking there was too much to do, but seeing you here, so fresh and beautiful, has reminded me of how poorly the road has treated me. I think perhaps a bath is in order. I hope you do not mind the burden of my company?” he said as he placed a hand on her elbow and steered her back toward the house.

“Your company is never a burden, dear brother,” she said quietly, as they walked up the stairs into the dark hall, Malia trailing in silence and sorrow behind them.

For what were once a sea-going people descended of Heth, God of the Sea and the Deep, Aurians had a decided aversion to water in large volumes. For where once they had sailed out of the Far North on their longships and spread terror to the shores of the
Mera Argenta
, they were now landlocked, cursed at sea by their own ancestor-god for their hubris and their crimes, and so they had abandoned his worship for that of the Divine King. Annwyn had never seen the curse take effect, though she had heard the stories in her youth, and the Bay of Guirant outside the city was supposedly littered across its bottom with hundreds of ships and the bodies of thousands of her countrymen, called down into the Deep by their ancestral god. And so they were now country lords, who turned their backs on the sea and instead only traveled where their feet or horses could take them.

Over the centuries that fear of the sea had permeated into their culture as a general distrust of water. The more ancient cities of the eastern Middle Kingdoms, Therapoli in particular, had been built in the age of Düréan expansion, and echoed the architecture and achievements of their Great Palace culture, which included aqueducts, underground cisterns, fountains, waterworks, and baths. Any house of quality in the city had pipes that brought water from the city cisterns; but whether they were actually used for household baths was a separate matter of taste and culture. Aurians tended to avoid the bathhouses of the city, or even the use of a filled bathtub in their own home; rather, they washed using a washbasin, towels or a sponge, and hand soap, and then anointed the body with perfumed oils.

And so the household servants had brought a basin of hot water for his bath up to his chamber from the kitchens, and set it on a table beside a polished, full-length mirror, and then mixed the water with rose petals. They arranged the soaps and towels and sponges by the basin, and then Annwyn dismissed them. Malia lingered, the last of them, and then stepped outside the chamber. Annwyn knew she would be there, listening, as did Harvald.

She turned away as her brother disrobed and stood in front of the mirror, looking at his reflection. She began to wet the bar of soap and the sponges, rubbing them in the water until foam started to appear.

“Things will be different soon, dearest Annwyn,” said Harvald, as she started to wash his back. “I can't tell you the details yet, can't talk about it until the time is right, and you probably wouldn't understand anyway, but if what we've found is what we think it is, and we are successful in our next endeavors, then things will change for all of us very soon!” He seemed positively giddy.

“We?” she asked politely, running her hands and soapy sponge over his skin, rubbing away the dirt and grime of days of hard travel.

“Oh, yes, Black-Heart and me and some others we know,” he said. “You know, Stjepan, son of Byron, a man of An-Athair. I think I've told you about him before, we went to the University together.”

She nodded, as she knelt behind him so that she could wash his buttocks and his legs. “Yes, the one that Father doesn't like,” she said.

Harvald laughed. “Well, you know Father,” he said. “He hates the Athairi worse than he hates the Danians. Can't stand that I'm friends with one of them. And it doesn't help that he blames Stjepan for causing all that nonsense back in the War of the False Book. Quite unfair, really. I mean, Stjepan was hardly the worst offender back then, even if he became one of the most infamous. And we all know I was never going to get higher than a clerkship at the High Court anyway, so that can hardly be Stjepan's fault; I know Father was hoping for the Lord Chamberlain's office, but we'd fallen too far from favor for that, and whose fault is that?”

Harvald turned around. His penis was erect and swollen, jutting angrily toward her face.
My fault
, she thought. He paused, waiting to see if she would react, but as always her face remained an expressionless mask, and instead she soaped the front of his legs and then his erect member, as though it were just another part of him. “No, if this all works out, Father will have to be thankful for me being just a clerk in the Chancery,” Harvald said, his eyes never leaving his sister's hands. “It's always about being . . . in the right place at the right time, if you know what I mean.”

Yes, I know what you mean
, thought Annwyn and she felt as if a dagger had been plunged into her womb. But she did not allow herself to show it. “I'm sure it will all make sense when you get the chance to explain it to me, dear brother,” said Annwyn, rising to wash his chest.

“I'm sorry to be so mysterious, dear sister,” said Harvald. “You know that normally I would confide in you utterly, as you once confided in me, in happier times.” He smiled at her then, and she felt as if he had stabbed her again. She didn't allow her expression to change at all as he searched her face with his gaze. She knew the game was about to start in earnest. She broke eye contact with him so she could turn to the basin. There was a ladle there, and she started to pour water over his body, rinsing away the soapsuds.

“I so miss your singing from when we were all younger,” Harvald said softly as she worked. “You never seem to sing anymore, and you had such a beautiful singing voice. Everyone thought so, even the High King. I think especially the High King. What was that Athairi song you used to sing? You know the one.”

He waited as she finished rinsing his body. Finally, she said, “The
Chant Amora d'Afare y Argus
. The Love Song of Afare and Argus.”

“Ah, yes, that's the one, such a lovely song, so tragic and yet so moving. The Athairi had a beautiful language in those days. It's always impressed me that you mastered the song so well,” he said, handing her a bottle of scented body oil from the table, then pausing, looking for any sign of her misery. “Can you sing it for me now, dear sister? Please?”

She remained expressionless as she nodded, refusing to give him any satisfaction. “Of course, dear brother,” she said.

And so she turned away a bit, and cast her eyes at the floor, and began to sing as her brother turned back to the mirror. Her voice was perhaps not what it once was, fallen ever so slightly out of tune by years of disuse, but that would be like saying that a rose was slightly less beautiful on the second day after it had freshly bloomed. She sang in old Athairi, which she was not sure her brother fully understood, but not knowing the meaning of the words would not have made the song any less beautiful to listen to. And as she sang, she anointed her brother's back and buttocks with the oil, her hands sliding and slipping over his skin. She sang of Afare, the beautiful young mortal princess of the Court of the Golden Wood, and her True Love, Argus, the Knight of the Green Star. She sang of the disapproval of Afare's father, the
fae
King of the Golden Wood, and his banishment of the knight beyond the Erid Wold of An-Athair.

Her brother turned around and faced her, and as she sang of the undying love of Afare and Argus, she anointed his chest with oil and then slowly sank to her knees before him. As she sang, she slid her oily hands over his erection and his scrotum until his member glistened in the light from the windows. As she sang, his hands closed firmly around hers, and he started moving her hands slowly back and forth along his turgid length. As she sang of the trials and tribulations of the separated lovers, she stroked his member under his guidance, the rhythmic wet sound of the oil under their fingers an accompaniment to her lovely voice, and one of his hands went to the top of her head, tilting her beautiful face up to look at him. Expressionless, she sang to her brother, looking up at his face, seeing it flushed red with anger and seeing the hate in his eyes, the hate he bore her, the hate he bore their family, the hate he bore their father. His mouth open and jaw thrust forward, his nostrils flared as her hands worked faster and faster on the erection before her, and she sang of the star-crossed lovers finally reuniting, their passion and love bright enough to light the sky.

And as she sang of the final doom that overtook them, her brother started to moan, and she stroked him harder and harder until at last he grunted and strings of his seed shot from the head of his swollen, glistening member to splatter down upon her upturned face. She didn't blink or flinch as he ejaculated upon her, didn't miss a note or a word, but sang until he was finished and the song was over, and Afare and Argus were dead.