‘It will take three to four days to get to my village. It depends on what we find there as to our next move. We camp with an hour of daylight left, haul the boats on to land and prepare a
defensive position in case the Malaac discover us.’
‘We have a lot of oil, if that happens,’ said Dennick, a typical grizzled professional soldier. ‘Though we may not want to use it all at once.’
Cygan smiled despite his sombre mood. ‘We do have oil ourselves you know. Besides you can’t use it on a river; it will just be swept away. Your steel will kill them as surely as
anything else.’
The porters pushed the boats out one by one. Once Cygan saw all the boats were treading water midstream, he dug his oar deep into the water and started the long journey back to his home.
The current was with them and they made good progress. They had not yet reached noon when they passed Eburg Town. Cygan afforded a glance at the sad neglected wattle-and-daub buildings clustered
by the water’s edge. Obviously, the news of the attack on Tath Wernig was common knowledge here, for a lot of soldiers were crowding around the jetty and peering nervously at the water. The
soldiers in the boats called out to them with playful insults, with the men on the shore replying in kind. In the gaps between the buildings Cygan caught a glimpse of the square. The scaffold and
its gallows were still there, looming dolorously over the town, and as they passed by Cygan hoped fervently that he would never see the place again.
Tath Wernig followed, as the pale sun started its slow descent into the west. It looked deserted aside from a couple of bored-looking soldiers playing dice near the jetty. Cygan had heard that
the place had been evacuated, with its surviving population moved to Eburg, so its desolate state came as no surprise. They made camp shortly after on a high bank of ground that fell steeply into
the river. The small barrels of oil and lime were hauled up first, then the boats. It was quite a laborious procedure and darkness was setting in by the time they had finished. It was an uneventful
evening – no Malaac or dragons, just the high-pitched sounds of the coots and the bellicose cries of the ducks. It was cold so they lit a fire, deciding that the risk of attracting enemies
was one worth taking.
The morning was colder still with even more fog than the day before. Shortly after dawn they were off again. Today they would be into the Marshes proper, today at long last Cygan would be
heading home.
For the first time in weeks, or maybe months, Father Sidden had an audience in his small house of prayer. Many of the barons had arrived for the council and, although most of
them normally eschewed his services, for some reason (possibly because of the imminent festivals of St Emmerenta and St Cabaras, two saints favoured in old Kibil) nearly all of them were here
today. The lady of the manor was here sitting next to her husband in the front row. Her shoulder was still bandaged, although she had told him earlier that she was feeling a lot better. He had held
a private service for her just the day before, one sacred to Elissa, in order to bless the baby. She was a sweet girl, but seemed to have an air of despondency about her, a melancholia that he put
down to her accident, though he couldn’t be sure that that was the case.
It was time for his sermon, and for the first time in an age he felt a frisson of excitement at the thought of delivering it.
‘Today, with me keeping such august company, I would like to talk about the evils of covetousness. In the Book of Camille, in Allegories 14, such a tale is related:
‘A man of middle years sat alone in his cold hovel, swathed in a blanket and huddled close to his meagre fire. His hands were twisted with arthritis, his spine
curved, giving him a permanent stoop, he could only walk with the assistance of a stout staff and even then his progress was shuffling and slow. And it so happened one day that Camille saw
this man in his discomfiture and pity filled her at his plight. She spoke to her husband, Artorus, who warned against open interference in the world of men, of changing the paths he had
already set for the mortals in this world. However, she resolved to help in whatever limited way she could. And so one night the man heard a noise behind him. Turning slowly, he was
astounded to see a beautiful white swan in his room, its wings spread, its neck held imperiously high. And the swan spoke to him saying thus: “I have been sent by the divine Camille
to make you an offer, that for one day only our souls exchange bodies, that you become a swan for that time and that I reside inside you. You are free to do exactly as you wish, to fly, to
swim, to feed for the full day and only one requirement is set upon you – that on the dawn of the following day you return here so our souls can return to the bodies Artorus himself
has given us.
‘Eagerly the man accepted the offer and the following day at dawn the exchange was made. The man left his hovel and took to the skies. Upward he soared, ever upward unto the
clouds. And he looked at the world wrought by the Gods in all its beauty, its rivers, its forests, its shimmering lakes, and he was overcome with emotion at the world and its glory. As the
day passed, though, a bitter resentment at his plight took root in his heart. I am a cripple, he thought; that is what the Gods have deigned appropriate for me. Why should I not partake of
the world even as a humble beast like this swan, for even he sees more, feels more than I ever will. And as the day proceeded he swam in the lake among his own kind, tasted the sweet air,
drank the honeyed water and by the evening he had decided to defy the Gods and live a life of freedom.
‘And so at dawn of the following day the swan in the man’s body waited to take his original form back. But the swan never came. Anguished at his betrayal, the man howled
his lamentations to the skies. Betrayed I am, abandoned and forgotten, cursed to live this destitute life for bestowing an act of kindness upon another. And so it passed that Camille heard
the cries of the man and saw that the person upon whom she had taken pity had proved false.
‘So she returned to the man, inhabited as he was now by the soul of the swan. She said to him, “I cannot undo what has been done to you but eat of this apple, a gift from
Meriel.” The man feebly took the fruit in his clawed hands and took the smallest bite from it. Instantly a great change was wrought within him. Blood coursed powerfully through his
veins, his spine slowly straightened and he stood as a man in his youth would, tall and proud. His fingers regained their old virility and he clasped and unclasped his hands, feeling vigour
and strength flow through them.
‘ “Meriel has granted you health,” said Camille. “You will have twenty to thirty years more life in you. Go now and use that time wisely, honouring the Gods
and helping your fellows.” And the man did just that – he built a house of Meriel and dedicated his remaining years to helping those sicker and more unfortunate than
himself.
‘And the swan? Well, as he sat on the bank of a river less than a full day after failing to attend his appointment and return to his old body, a terrible fate befell him. Unused
to the life of a swan, he did not know how to detect an enemy and so he did not hear the men approach him quietly, set upon him and twist his neck, breaking it. “You will look fine
served at the King’s table!” said one as the body was carried away. The soul of the man was brought by Xhenafa before the Gods and, known to them as he already was, he was
condemned to spend eternity labouring at Keth’s furnace, hammering armour for his demonic legions.’
Father Sidden scanned his audience. He was slightly surprised to see some among their number stirring uncomfortably in their seats. He was pleased, though; a sermon should always make its
audience think and reflect, otherwise it is a failure.
‘And so as you have heard, to covet that which belongs to another, to give in to jealousy and greed is to anger the Gods, to disrupt the path they have set for you. Most of those assembled
here are people of power and responsibility. You are privileged in the eyes of the Gods as you have more wealth, power and prestige than the average farmer, craftsman or artisan will ever see.
Accept your status, for it is a good one, and praise the Gods daily for the favour that has been granted to you. As it must be. For ever.’
The priest and his congregation then spoke the Prayer of Artorus, thus bringing the sermon to an end. The crowd then got up and left, some more swiftly than others. The Lady Ceriana, though,
came up to Sidden; he was not surprised for she often questioned him on aspects of faith.
‘Father,’ she said. ‘That was a most interesting sermon. May I ask you one thing pertaining to it?’
‘Of course, my Lady,’ the old man replied, ‘but not before I enquire as to the health of your shoulder and of the child you carry.’
‘Both are doing well, as far as I have been told.’ Too well, Ceriana thought; her shoulder was almost back to normal, a far speedier recovery than could be deemed natural.
‘Now, Father, you speak of not disrupting the path the Gods have set for us. Can you tell me exactly how much self-determination we have, for surely, if we cannot alter our destiny, if we
cannot attempt to better ourselves, why should we try to do anything? Why not spend all day in bed waiting for our inevitable fate?’
‘That is not the point here,’ said Sidden. ‘By all means educate yourself, promote yourself, try to excel in all aspects of your life. But in trying to do all these things do
not break the primary tenets of the Gods as the man in the allegory did with his betrayal. The tenets are there to guide us. We cannot break them, for, without a sense of morality, we are no more
than an ant colony or a swarm of fish. The Gods raise us above the common beast but only insofar as we continue to obey their directives. It could be argued that a man who kills a neighbour for his
land is in fact no longer a man, but just another beast or, even worse, an instrument of Keth and his demons.’
‘So as long as we obey the tenets of the Gods, we can act within our lives as a free person, able to do as we please.’
‘As long as your actions are not offensive to the Gods and act to the benefit of all, then – yes.’
‘Then even vengeance, in some circumstances, can have the blessing of the Gods.’
‘Only against those who have broken the tenets. No other circumstance deems vengeance appropriate.’
She smiled, happy to have the points clarified. ‘Then tonight I shall read all the tenets and test my memory to see if I remember them all.’
‘All ninety-seven?’ Sidden looked surprised; even he could only remember about a third of them.
‘By Artorus, no!’ She sounded appalled. ‘I will relearn the major tenets only, all twenty-eight. I have to confess I only ever loosely scan the minor ones.’
Father Sidden leaned close to her and whispered in her ear ‘I have to confess, so do I.’
She squealed happily at this disclosure, then gently took his hand and kissed it, the traditional gesture of both greeting and departure to a servant of the Gods.
‘Goodnight,’ she said. ‘Until prayers tomorrow.’
‘See you then,’ he replied happily; she was definitely the most attentive of his small congregation.
Ceriana turned and headed for her rooms, the last one to leave the house of prayer – excepting the priest, of course. Sidden watched her go, then doused the candles one by one before
heading for his cell and an early night.
Back in her rooms, Ceriana barely had time to say hello to Ebba before there was a firm rap on her door.
‘Come in,’ she called. She knew who it was; it was a distinctive enough knock, even though she hadn’t been hearing it for that long.
Wulfthram entered. He was dressed in northern finery, a long red velvet jacket trimmed with fur.
‘Are you recovered enough to join us for a late dinner?’ he asked. ‘The other barons are all rather keen to see you. Besides, we have musicians, singers, some theatrical
players and some tumbling dwarves, enough to keep all our guests happy, I trust.’
She groaned. ‘If I say no, will you accuse me of neglecting my duties?’
‘Most definitely!’ There was a playful tone to Wulfthram’s voice ‘But if you cannot attend, I will have to scan the lees of the barrel for an excuse I have not yet
used.’
‘No, I will attend; I am hungry anyway. I will need to visit the small room first, though, I once had a bladder of iron, now it’s as flaccid as a dried grape.’
‘Information I am sure my guest will be delighted to hear,’ Wulfthram replied with a smile. ‘I have brought him up here because I thought you might want to see him before
dinner.’
She was about to utter an embarrassed retort when a man strode into the room from behind Wulfthram’s shoulder. It was her father.
She gasped with surprise and delight, ran forward and threw her arms around him. ‘Father!’ was all she could say.
‘My girl!’ he said gratefully. ‘It has been a long journey over rough seas but it has been worth it just to see you. And you have some good news to impart, I hear.’
‘Wulf has told you already, I would imagine. Due in early spring. I am looking somewhat stocky, am I not?’
‘For you, yes,’ he said. ‘If I did not know the truth, I just would have said that these northern climes seem to suit your constitution.’
‘It’s all fish, meat, gravy and dumplings here,’ she said. There was a musical tone to her voice born out of happiness. ‘But I am very much used to it now. Has your fleet
arrived then?’
‘Not yet, just the flagship. The rest of the fleet is in Thakholm. Both they and Baron Skellar will be on their way very soon. I will be going back to the ship shortly; this was just an
informal visit to see both you and your husband. When the fleet arrives I will return at the head of a formal military procession with the army camping outside the walls of the manor house. That is
the way the Grand Duke wants us to be seen. We are to make an impression here. It is supposed to bring the country closer together, though personally I have my doubts about that.’