Richney bowed and mounted his horse.
‘Think on what I have said – there are many ways to get vengeance for your sister.’
Dominic watched him go, then turned back to the lake where the fishermen started to haul in their nets for the last time that day.
‘It looks good, does it not?’ Nicholas Hartfield was back in Edgecliff Castle, admiring the newly hung family portrait in the great hall, a portrait bequeathed to
him by Felmere’s acting baron, for it depicted all four of his children and he had none of the same quality in his own castle. The picture it had displaced, one depicting a young Grand Duke,
lay forgotten in a corner where it was already gathering dust.
Sitting watching him with sad eyes were two women – the first, Doren, Ceriana’s maidservant of old, had barely stopped crying since the news of her mistress’s death had reached
them. She sat quietly in a corner, letter in hand, her hands trembling in her grief. The other woman, Margarethe, Ceriana’s mother, displayed a greater stoicism, one befitting her status, but
the truth of her feelings were still easy to read, for her face was ashen grey and lined with care and her eyes were sore and rimmed with red; her crying had obviously been done in private.
‘Yes,’ she replied, her voice sounding flat and broken. ‘It is good to see the family all together.’
‘Indeed,’ he said with forced cheer. ‘It is a fine depiction of her. We have others, of her on her own, but I would rather see us all together, as we were. There is no finer
family in Tanaren. Doren, have you traded the jewellery she bequeathed you yet?’
‘No, my lord, and I will not, not unless my need is dire. It is only that, and this letter, that connects me to her now.’
‘And our memories, Doren, and our memories. Did you know her handmaiden in Osperitsan married using the money Ceriana left her? And that she is with child already?’
‘I had heard, my Lord,’ Doren said quietly. ‘Her soul was always a generous one. I will never forget her, nor will any others in the castle who had the honour to serve
her.’
‘My husband,’ Margarethe said suddenly, startling the other two, ‘you know she took after you and not me. Oft you have chided me for my coldness towards her and I admit that we
never shared the same confidences that she did with you. But she is gone from us now and you must believe me when I say my heart is broken. I missed her from the day she left us and to think now
that I shall never see her again is ... is...’ Her words trailed off as she covered her face with her handkerchief.
‘I understand, my dear, I understand. And it seems the right time for me to tell you of a decision I have made. My months in the north helping to staunch the rebellion and bring order back
to its provinces taught me much. Baron Jon Skellar, who is currently acting protector of Osperitsan, taught me much of the situation there and of the high regard felt for our daughter, even though
she was only there for a few short months.’
Margarethe sounded confused. ‘What decision, my husband?’
‘Of my retirement from public life. Dominic will be coming here shortly, bringing our new grandchild, and I intend to formally pass on the title of Duke to him. We can divide our time
between here and Erskon House walking in the gardens in the summer. I no longer feel the desire to meddle in my country’s politics.’
‘But what of the Grand Duke? What if he needs you?’
Nicholas’s voice took on a harsher tone. ‘I am and will always be loyal to the office of Grand Duke. As to its current incumbent, though, my feelings are somewhat ... ambivalent.
Retirement takes me out of the circle of his advisors; it will be up to the younger men he so seems to favour to guide him from here. And, as for Dominic, well he is his own man; whatever he
chooses to do I support.’
Margarethe immediately understood what her husband was saying. She knew Dominic’s opinions on Leontius. Her husband was effectively withdrawing the Hartfields’ traditional support
for the Grand Duke; a further civil war was becoming a clear possibility. ‘I am happy that I will be seeing more of you,’ was all she said.
‘And now let us retire to the library.’ His cheery tone was back. ‘The harpist has composed an elegy for my daughter and I am eager to hear it.’
And so the three of them left the hall together where the bright sunlight shone keenly through the windows, on to the high table, the gilded coats of arms, and on to the newly hung portrait and
the slight girl within it whose actions had coloured the fate of an entire nation.
For Cygan, and the men of the Marsh, it had been a long winter. After the encounter at the Lake of the Eye they had returned to the village closest to it, only to find that
many of them were falling sick with the poison from the Malaac bites, Cygan himself included. To make it worse, Dirthen the elf, the only one who knew how to fully counter its effects, was one of
the victims. And so, as winter rolled into spring, they had remained there fighting the fever with only the poultices prepared by the local womenfolk to help them. Cygan remembered little of this
time. Like the other people affected, he had been moved to the great house and lay on a pallet of dry rushes, moving in and out of evil dreams as the fever took a grip on him. For weeks he sweated
and shivered, needing both blankets and a wet cloth on his brow. Finally, though, on a cold spring morning with geese honking in a nearby field, he awoke seeing a blurred figure sitting close by
scrutinising him.
‘Keth take me, it’s about time. I’ve worn out the bones in my arse waiting for you, and the nearest inn is hundreds of miles away.’
‘Barris?’ Cygan said blearily. ‘Have I been asleep?’
‘Comatose more like, just like everyone else here. Fortunately the Wych man Dirthen came to about a week ago and he has started to help you all. A couple didn’t make it but most are
recovering slowly, as you are.’
Cygan raised himself on to one shoulder. ‘The Malaac? Have they...?’
‘Not a sign. They appear to be happy in their big, salty lake, though I am amazed there is any of it left after the amount of water I swallowed there. Took me weeks to get the taste out of
my mouth, it did.’
‘Weeks? How long have I been here? Has anyone let the villages know that it is safe?’ Cygan felt terribly weak but his mind was racing.
‘Long enough; it is early spring. And all of your fellows who were healthy enough went home long ago; they all had to memorize the names of the dead, so all the widows could be notified.
The big ginger fellow went back to your Black Lake.’
‘Radu?’
Whitey nodded. ‘I believe that is his name, yes.’
Cygan nodded slowly. ‘Good, so Fasneterax’s family knows, too. And what of you? Why are you still here?’
‘Because some of my fellow guardsmen caught sick, too. The rest of us had no home village to go to, so we stayed here. Just twelve of us survived, I am afraid, and some of them carry
wounds.’
Cygan smiled. Colour was returning to him already. ‘And how have you passed the time here?’
‘By going slowly out of my mind. Every creature smaller than my fingernail wants to drink my blood, and if I eat any more fish I will start to sprout gills. Aside from losing money at dice
and going for long walks on the few bits of firm land ... oh and getting drunk on that same evil brew you once gave me ... there is nothing else to do here. People have been returning to the
village slowly, though, which is good, but I have to admit I am sick of living in a tent.’ Whitey would have continued rambling but Cygan stopped him.
‘Well, it sounds like we shall all be well soon, well enough for me to return to the Black Lake and for you to go home at last.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Whitey. ‘Soon we can all go home.’
Cygan was not wrong. In just over a week all those that could recover had regained sufficient strength to paddle a boat back to their own village. The weather on the journey
was fine with the odd light shower, something that Cygan found invigorating after having been cooped up for so long. As they gently glided over the shifting watercourses, with their clumps of
floating weed and small green islands covered in closely packed trees, Whitey realised that Sperrish’s plan to row all the way to Sketta, mostly at night, was a fool’s dream. The place
was bewildering; they would have been lost in hours, doomed to starve or die of some marsh fever or just to fall overboard and drown. Mind you, thought Whitey, dying in any of those ways was
preferable to the way in which Sperrish met his end.
When at last Cygan powered the boat through the neck of the river and into the Black Lake itself, he and the men with him could not but suppress a cheer. Within minutes the bank of the lake
where the main part of the village stood was lined with people and many more climbed into their boats and rowed out to greet them. Stepping out of their boats at last, every man was mobbed by
dozens of excited villagers, eager to thank those who had helped deliver them from the fear and terror of the last few months. Cygan finally found his wife and children among the milling throng.
Vaneshanda threw her arms around him and did not let him go for an age.
‘We have been waiting and waiting; they said you were ill and I have been beside myself with worry. You look so pale – you need feeding up and you have lost weight. A father of three
needs his strength; it is a lot of mouths to feed.’
‘Of three?’ said Cygan when she finally released him. He put his hand to her stomach. ‘I obviously used my time well when last I was here.’
‘You did, and you have this young man’s naming ceremony in a couple of months.’ She put her hand on her son’s shoulder.
‘Then it will be a busy year. I had better start my fishing rounds again as soon as possible. Let’s get back to my house. I fancy being spoiled for a while. I am sure there will be
quite a celebration at the great house later.’
Whitey hated crowds. As soon as he saw the press of people bearing down on them, he darted through them, trying to seek out a quiet spot to stretch his cramped legs. There was plenty of choice;
soon he was past the houses on the bank and was standing close to the reeds looking over the lake. It was full of life. Ducks, geese, swans, coots and moorhen all vied for space on the dark water.
The trees were full of blossom, their leaves green and supple. The sun felt warm on his exposed neck.
‘Barris!’ came a voice behind him. He turned around in surprise. It was young Emterevuanu. She was smiling at him and she had plucked some of the tree blossoms and put them in her
hair.
‘Hello,’ he answered.
‘Hello, brave Barris,’ she answered, using up nearly all of her vocabulary in his language.
‘Hello,’ he said again.
Then she came towards him and kissed him, clumsily, naively, but kiss him she did. ‘Brave Barris,’ she said again. Whitey cleared his throat.
‘You know I am leaving here, probably tomorrow. I am going north to my people.’
She looked at him dumbly, still smiling sweetly.
‘I am going tomorrow, girl, heading north.’ He tried to illustrate this with a couple of clumsy hand gestures.
She kissed him again.
‘Oh, by all the Gods!’ He raised his eyes skywards and walked away. She followed him. She tried to push her hand into his but he pulled away. Then she stopped and watched him walk
back into the crowd, not looking back at her. Finally she ran, ran into her family home close by, so that no one could see her tears.
There were very few sober heads left in the Black Lake the following morning as Dumnekavax, the Elder, gave his farewell speech to the twelve good men of Sketta along with
Dirthen the elf as they all lined up patiently in front of him. The entire village was there and Cygan as usual had the job of translating, although thankfully it was Radu who had volunteered to
guide them home.
Earlier that day Cygan had managed to catch Whitey as Dumnekavax was readying himself to speak. ‘I have spoken to the girl,’ he said. ‘She understands now. I asked her how she
would feel if she were told to leave her home and maybe never see it again. Home is important to her, as it is to us all.’
Whitey had grunted in reply. He thought of home and grunted again.
At last, the speech was winding down. In their alcoholic stupor many men seemed close to collapse.
‘And may I just finish by saying one more thing,’ said Cygan, translating the Elder’s words. ‘We have lost many menfolk in our village – should you ever decide to
return here and settle with us you would all be very welcome; you have earned the eternal honour and respect of our people as well as our gratitude. On behalf of the village, I thank you
all.’
There were a few shouts and applause but evidently Cygan had not finished translating. He spoke again:
‘As I said, should any of you decide to stay with us, you would be accorded the greatest respect here, for you are honorary tribesmen in our eyes, now and for ever.’
No one moved. Whitey quickly scanned the crowd. Sure enough he saw her, Emterevuanu, a small figure at the front of the crowd, her face red as she looked at the ground.
‘I...I would like to stay, if the tribe would have me.’ At first, he didn’t recognise the voice, so tentatively were the words spoken. But, of course, he knew really; it was
his own.
‘You wish to stay with us?’ Cygan asked Whitey directly.
Whitey found himself nodding. ‘Yes, yes, I think I would, if the guard can release me.’
Dennick, the guard captain, eyes bleary with booze looked across at him.
‘By the Gods, we might have found a purpose for you! As a guard you were useless but now you could be the um...’
‘Ambassador?’ suggested Cygan.
‘Yes, ambassador. If you stay here, Whitey, you stay with our blessing.’
He looked for Whitey across the line, but he was no longer there. Instead, he had walked up to Emterevuanu, who, looking downwards, had not noticed him at first. Not until Whitey gently took her
hands in his own. Then she looked up plaintively, her eyes brown and soft, though evidently still sore from crying. Then Whitey did something he rarely, if ever, did. He smiled. He hated smiling,
always thinking that screwing his face up like that made him uglier than he already was, but the girl did not seem to mind. She smiled back at him and the two of them embraced each other for a long
time, as all around them the villagers and guardsmen both applauded and cheered.