The Crow's Cry

The sun had slipped below the castle walls, its red-gold fingertips dragging behind, when Soldor rode through the gate. He swung easily from his horse’s back, landing in front of Anlaida, who had hurried down as soon as she saw his distant form through the hall window. He handed the reigns to a groomsman.

She greeted him. “How was your journey?”

He nodded. “A success. Are you well?”

“I am. Arran’s broken his arm again.”

Soldor halted. “Did he fall?”

Anlaida hugged her arms around herself as if against the cold. “The man who gave him those beans is dead.”

Soldor caught breath, stopped, and blew it out. “Who?”

“Hadoth,” she said. “He tried to push Arran off the roof. He almost succeeded except that I happened on them.”

“And?”

“We pushed him off the roof.” She bit her lip. “It was more me, really. Arran was down by then.”

Soldor blinked his confusion. “What were you doing on the roof? Which roof?”

Anlaida pointed.

“Are you serious?”

“Would I lie to you,” she said.

He sighed and pulled his horsehair cloak closer around his shoulders. It bore the stains of rain, wind, and a rather muddy campsite the previous night. “Anlaida—”

“Clentos was there when the body was found. He says that Hadoth was almost certainly hired.”

Soldor grimaced and knocked dried clay from his boots. “Fascinating. I find myself enthralled to be home again.” He trudged wearily toward the door. “If you prefer, you can take ‘enthralled’ literally.”

Anlaida caught his right hand. “Can I get you something hot to drink? Have you eaten?”

“Cider?” he asked.

Anlaida released his arm. She noticed that even his palm had been streaked with mud.

“Bread would be good. No noodles.”

“Soldor!”

“I’m tired. I don’t want noodles.”

“No—Soldor—!” She gestured wordlessly to the long strip of leather wound twice about his right wrist and palm. Even the mire caked across his hand could scarcely hide it.

“Yes.”

“When would you have told me?” she demanded. “Is that why you went to Salenna? To arrange a marriage?”

He leaned against the front door. “Twenty-nine years is high time for it.”

“Betrothed to whom?” she asked.

“Linnerill. Lord Denath’s daughter.”

“You love her?”

He wearily heaved the door open and stepped inside.

“You intend to love her, then.”

“My emotions are hardly your affair,” he said.

Anlaida recalled Linnerill only vaguely, from a long-ago noble gathering in Pirathol—a pale girl in a dark dress, hanging along the wall as others danced. “But why Linnerill, of all the women in Axelarre?”

Soldor trudged into the family dining room and slumped into his chair. Anlaida hurried to retrieve hot cider and bread. She returned five minutes later to find that he had hardly shifted his position at all. His chin rested on the backs of his hands.

She poured him a mug of cider. Tearing a chunk of thick bread from off the loaf, she set it before him.

“Her father is losing money.” Soldor sipped at his drink.

Anlaida, in distress, traced the lines on his face with her eyes. “No other Midlander would have you?”

“Probably no other noblewoman.”

“Why not one of our own people? Even one of lower status would be more enjoyable company than—”

“I am not,” he said, “marrying the woman so I can enjoy her company.”

“But you’ll get no money from it.”

“There’s always the second marriage.”

Anlaida froze, her hand on the bread. “Are you such a fool?”

“Don’t call me fool,” he snapped, more from exhaustion than anger. “A lot you know!”

“Soldor—”

“I told you,” he said deliberately. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’d like to become a second Uliath? Don’t you remember—”

Soldor slammed his mug on the table. “Cruel, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t—” she stammered, confused.

“I need to talk with Clentos.” He snatched up the bread and left.
 
Arran pulled his casted arm closer to his body as he stood with Soldor on the castle roof. The afternoon sun glared at them from the west.

“I was getting off the parapet when I realized he was there,” Arran explained, pointing with his good hand. “He came at me fast. I tried to get past him, but he was too fast.”

“Did he say anything significant?” Soldor’s brown eyes lingered over Arran’s face, measuring, judging.

Arran shook his head. “Just that he’d given me two weeks, but since I’d given the beans to you, I’d worn it out. But nothing else. He came for one reason.”

Soldor cast an uneasy glance over the parapet. “Can you think of anything he said that suggested he had been hired?”

“Anlaida thinks that he was. But no, nothing he said hinted toward it.” Arran allowed his gaze to trace the northern horizon. Blue hills blocked the heart of the Tablelands from view. Freedom is worth any price—or so they say. He sucked at his teeth, remembering.

Soldor massaged his lower back, considering. “And what do you think?”

Arran leaned against the parapet. “I don’t know any reason for him to kill you aside from money. What does Clentos think?”

“The same.” Soldor frowned at him. “How can you stand being so close to the edge?”

Arran shrugged.

“Why had you come up here in the first place?”

“To get away.” The answer was true enough. Any mention of star people or the Sky-lord would only convince Soldor that Arran was going mad.

Soldor nodded. The gesture communicated a depth of understanding that rather surprised Arran. “Be careful at it.”

“Is there anyone in particular that might want you out of the way?”

Soldor laughed shortly. “Probably you.”

“Soldor.”

Soldor’s bitter smile faded. “It would be easier, though.” He fingered the leather strap on his right hand, now cleaned from the grim of the road. “Kalon stands the most to gain. The Midland lords don’t care much for me. And the Denna-king would find his task easier without my presence if he wanted to invade Axelarre through the Northland. Then again, Hadoth might have had some sort of unspoken grudge against me. Who can tell?”

“Clentos questioned the guard. None of them mentioned his complaining about you in particular.” Arran shifted his bad arm.

“I’ll fight any man who’s man enough to issue a challenge.” Soldor turned toward the trap door. “And that without regret. It’s this waiting that I can’t stand. I’m having Clentos question the village people about Hadoth’s comings and goings.”

“Worth finding out.”

“I hope.”

Arran followed Soldor down to the family dining room. Anlaida sat at her place, waiting, her hands folded primly on the snowy tablecloth. Her eyes were a fearful thing to behold. Arran attempted to meet her gaze with sympathy, but her neck remained high and stiff.

A dish of beef noodles graced the table’s center. She immediately passed it in Soldor’s direction. The corner of his mouth quirked unpleasantly, but he spooned a small amount of the stew onto his plate. She then handed him a large bowl of cooked greens. His lips twisted as he spooned an even smaller portion onto his plate.

Arran looked at Anlaida. Her brown eyes might have been the core of the earth for their heat. He shook his head slightly.

Her eyes blazed a message toward him.

He raised a skeptical eyebrow.

She made a small, defiant nod.

He rolled his eyes and scooped noodles onto his plate.

She frowned at him. He ignored her.

Conversation at the table was spare that evening. Anlaida could hardly be moved to speak, and Arran felt awkward attempting to talk with Soldor, whose company had been unfamiliar even in his childhood.

Anlaida soon excused herself to perform some household errand. Ruefully, Soldor watched her pale skirt vanish through the doorway. “Do you want the rest of this?” he asked, gesturing to his nearly untouched plate.

Arran only shook his head.
 
“Allim,” Anlaida sighed, “I know you want to meet him, but really—”

The cook’s young aide quietly folded her hands against her gray cloak.

Anlaida attempted to summon firmness. “Jaron is a fine young man from all I’ve heard, and I certainly have no problem with you seeing him. But you’ll have to let Olaine know before you leave. She’s managing an entire kitchen, and there are times she cannot do it without your help. The mining village is five miles off, and there’s no easy way to send for you if you are needed.”

Allim’s blue eyes blinked dimly. “I’m sorry, Lady.”

Anlaida felt the heat on her face. “I’m really not upset with you, Allim. It’s just that Olaine is.”

Allim nodded.

“She’ll not be needing you tonight. You might as well rest. I’m sure you’re tired from the walk.”

Allim, after attempting a smile, turned and hurried in the direction of the women’s quarters.

Anlaida could almost envy the girl for being a commoner. She moved toward the stairs.

“Anlaida?”

Arran. She frankly did not want to see him. “What.”

“We need to talk.” He stepped from the doorway of an adjacent room, silent-footed as ever.

“Do you need help with something?” she said.

He attempted to cross his arms over his chest, remembering his cast after striking his knuckles against it. He winced. “No. Can we sit down somewhere?”

“Are you feeling lightheaded? Tolar has a medication for that.” She knew what Arran wanted to discuss. It was a sore subject at the moment.

He dropped onto the third step and waited.

She could have walked off, but she came beside him, standing, arms folded.

“You’re not going to win him that way.” Shadows played on his face, darkening it.

She stepped back. “I have to do something. Bring him to his senses. I—”

Arran set his chin in his good hand. “Bring him to his senses. With noodles.”

From his mouth, the idea sounded ridiculous. Anlaida flushed. “He’ll not listen to anything I tell him. If I’ve only one way to get his attention—”

The torch that hung beside the stairs, bound to the wall with an iron bracket, began smoking. She sighed, looking at it.

“It won’t do you any good,” Arran told her softly.

“So you’ll sit and do nothing? Do you even remember Linnerill?”

“I take it she’s not the most dazzling personality on the continent.”

“She’s like a sink of tepid dishwater,” Anlaida said. “And her father would never have offered her hand to Soldor if the man hadn’t lost money on an addle-brained shipping scheme.”

“That’s all beside the point.”

“She’d never make it in the Northland. It’s no place for the weak.” Anlaida lowered herself onto the step beside Arran. “Soldor wants her—fate knows why—and he plans to marry again—”

“Tradition,” said Arran. His face was like a stone. Anlaida could see nothing behind it.

“He’ll make himself miserable. At least he could—perhaps—”

“Perhaps what?” Arran asked. “He wants two women. He’s not looking for a love story, Anlaida.”

Anlaida drew herself up. “Pardon me for thinking that you might sympathize. I forgot that you liked the idea. If you ever start looking for wives, there’s a few poor men I know of who might be willing to give their daughters away—for a price, of course.”

Arran’s silence over the next moments caused Anlaida to wonder whether he had comprehended her meaning. She gathered her skirts, about to stand.

“Just who do you think I am?” he said, softly.

She stopped.

“If you want to keep him from marrying Linnerill, you’ll not manage it by making a show out of your opposition to the match. How would you respond if Soldor responded that way to a choice of yours?”

Anlaida set a hand to her cheek, listening.

“If you want them apart, and if Linnerill is as disappointing a person as you say she is, then the best thing you could do is push them together. Encourage Soldor to spend as much time as possible with her before their marriage.”

“And if he doesn’t change his mind?”

“At least he will more fully know what he’s entering into. And you’ll avoid alienating your only full brother.”

“I’m furious, you know.” Her quiet voice belied the emotions raging behind her face.

“And Fury is Fate’s mother,” he said. “Isn’t that how the Midlanders tell it? or have I forgotten?”

“That’s how they tell it.”

He looked at her. Something in his crow-dark eyes recalled the sky that night he had nearly lost his life. He studied her as if she were a text to be read.

Anlaida’s fingers twitched. “I had best go to bed. It’s late. Good night, Arran.”

He nodded. “Sleep well.”
 
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Anlaida requested that Olaine cook a beef stew for their supper the next night. After ladling baked apples, glazed carrots, and a rich gravy onto his plate, Soldor seemed in a decidedly better mood than the previous night. “This,” he said, happily, but pointedly, “is the way every meal ought to be.”

Anlaida nodded. “Carrots for breakfast, then,” she said.

Soldor frowned.

Arran drooped a left-handed spoonful of stew onto his plate.

“Do you need help with that?” Anlaida asked him.

“I can take care of it,” he said.

“Kalon sent a messenger today.” Soldor slathered butter on his bread. “He plans on coming tomorrow to discuss business. Best take that into account with your meal planning, Anlaida.”

“He just announced that he was coming. That’s all?” She paused, laying her fork down on her plate.

“You know Kalon,” Soldor sighed. “He’s no diplomat.”

“To say the least.”

Arran pondered the information, chewing carefully. A would-be assassin should want to escape any special notice.

“Do you know the size of the party that he will be bringing with him?” Anlaida asked. “For the sake of planning.”

“Probably five guards or so.” Soldor sunk his teeth into the bread, white inside but perfectly browned on its crust. Olaine’s breads were perhaps her best culinary skill. “But having them fed in the barracks should be no trouble. As for others, the messenger was unable to answer me. I did ask.”

She nodded her gratitude.

Arran noticed that Anlaida’s eyes strayed often to the strap wound about Soldor’s right hand, but her self-control was impeccable.

He slipped up to the roof that night and asked a question. The stars continued their dance. Still, he leaned against the parapet, shivering in the fall winds, until the stars slipped away. “Another night, then,” he said softly, and went downstairs.
 
Arran, strategically positioned at the hall window, raised an eyebrow as the miniature cavalcade burst through the gates and pulled to a rough halt just short of the front door. “Not over-eager, are they?” he said to the dust particles that were aimlessly flicking through the sunlight around him.

Kalon’s bold red-brown hair looked no grayer than Arran remembered. The Third Heir had thrown on his customary jerkin, roughly sewn from horsehide, and a winter cloak hung from his shoulders. With meaty hands he threw the reins at a stable hand and flung himself to the ground.

As the messenger had predicted, five soldiers had accompanied him, along with a gray-bearded man that Arran assumed to be either Kalon’s steward or a village elder of some sort. A young man, perhaps twenty-five, dismounted from a brown gelding beside Kalon’s own mount. Although he wore a sword at his side, his cropped red-brown hair distinguished him from the similarly-armed guards. Kalon’s son? It had been some years since Arran had seen any of Kalon’s family, but the young man’s face suggested Gavon, Kalon’s oldest son, although borne by his second wife.

Anlaida, he saw, was hurrying out the door to greet them. Faintly, he heard her call of warm greeting. Arran shook his head. The acting women in Denaton might be lovely on a stage of raised stone, but his sister played her act upon the stage of the world.

The groomsmen led away the horses of Kalon, the bearded man, and the young red one, while each of the guards tugged his own horse toward the stables. Anlaida led the three official guests into the front hall. They crossed from Arran’s line of vision.

“Well.” He backed away from the window. Soldor had conveniently needed to inquire into a complaint at a gold mine nearly ten miles distant, so Anlaida would be forced to entertain the men on her own.

Arran’s instincts demanded that he find Anlaida and provide at least moral support, but sense kept him upstairs. Whether Kalon had heard of Arran’s defection and capture, he would soon know, and Arran did not expect his uncle’s reaction to be a pleasant one. Likely adding his presence to the gathering on the first floor would only create tension.

Of course, he would meet Kalon at supper, if no sooner, but Arran saw no reason to make the initial meeting unpleasant. Kalon’s forceful personality would certainly cause him to say whatever was on his mind at the moment. Better Soldor be present the first time that occurred.


“Where is that girl?” Olaine, wringing her long hands together, looked in frustration toward her employer. “Lady, I thought that you—”

“Likely there has been a misunderstanding,” Anlaida said, surveying the scene in the kitchen. Olaine had slopped food everywhere in her haste to prepare the evening meal—floor, table, cupboards, herself. The tall woman bore a streak of gravy from shoulder to hem.

“I’ll never have the supper you requested complete unless Allim shows herself within the quarter hour,” the cook warned politely.

Anlaida sighed. Appropriateness dictated that she leave the cook to the mess and lay blame where it belonged as she excused herself to Kalon’s party. Appropriateness also dictated that the meal not be late.

Her dress was not old, but the trim had gone out of fashion in the Midlands, at her last knowledge. She pulled Allim’s apron over her head.

“I never meant—” the cook stammered, but Allim ignored her and checked the kettle of potatoes boiling over the wide fireplace.

“Have you added salt?” Anlaida asked.

Olaine shook her head.

Anlaida pulled the sack of salt from the overloaded table, took a handful, and dropped it into the pot. The heavy wooden spoon rested on the table across a sugar sack and a grease-spotted bowl. She snatched it, pushing it into the potato-loaded mixture.

“My thanks, then, Lady,” the cook said, rushing to turn the spitted ham. “But that girl should be let go. By the skies themselves, I—”

“I’m sorry, Olaine. I was only on a walk, but I met a woman—”

Olaine jerked to find a chastened Allim standing in the doorway, still dressed in her cloak. “You—you—” she managed, long fingers clutched to her chest. Then she pulled herself to her full, and considerable, height. “Get your apron from the lady, then! Met a woman, indeed. Why—”

Allim retrieved her apron from Anlaida, a silent apology on her lips. “The woman was in labor, and the midwife was tending another woman with birthing fever in a village several miles off. It took time for her husband to fetch help, or I’d have returned sooner. I hurried as quickly as I could.”

Truth to tell, Allim’s light hair was ringleted at her temples by sweat, and the day was cold. Olaine nodded, somewhat pacified. “You did well, I suppose. Add thyme to the pot.” She nodded to Anlaida. “Entertain your guests, then. An hour and the supper will be ready.”

Anlaida smiled her thanks and hurried from the room, only partially thankful that her dress had escaped staining. She needed one more current. Belaine and Avess might have known little else, but at least they understood how to dress to their best advantage.
 
Belaine and Avess might have known little else, but at least they understood how to dress to their best advantage.
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There are plenty of people in my life that I could say that about. ;)
 
Soldor returned from his mining trip with dusty clothes and a foul mood. Apparently the mine was being mismanaged, and badly at that. No miner had seen pay for three weeks; assumedly the money had disappeared into the overseer’s pocket. Soldor had threatened the man, and would have preferred to fire him, but he knew no one else competent enough for the job.

Discovering Kalon and Kalon’s entourage waiting for him did nothing to improve Soldor’s outlook, but he masked his distaste and managed a civil greeting. Anlaida directed the three guests into the small dining room. Soldor and Arran followed, Soldor wearing a decidedly grim expression. Arran had arranged his own face carefully.

The six sat down at the table, and Allim had only begun to bring the food in when Kalon spoke. “Do you realize that your workers have been disrupting the mine in Karnath?”

Soldor looked at him. “I wasn’t aware of it, no. Which workers, and what disruption?”

Kalon launched into a thirty-minute description of the problem, complete with verbal reenactments of several altercations between his overseer and the workers in question. Soldor sat stabbing at his potatoes, nodding every so often.

While Kalon continued his rather dramatic presentation, the older man—briefly introduced as Nathar, a counselor—gazed around the room. He stared at Arran, who stared back, and he played with the corner of his linen napkin.

Anlaida, freed of any conversational duties, chewed her potatoes and looked at the stone wall across the table from her. She counted forty-four and one half stones across the wall, and then she began counting up from the floor.

“My overseer knows men, too,” said Kalon. “He saw the three of them come over and he knew they were trouble. So he stands up, and he says—” Kalon half stood himself, one arm driving above his head.

Anlaida counted twenty-nine stones and wondered when a courier would come with news from Mostaras. Someday in the near future, she expected word of a child. Retaine, always flighty, was uninterested in children, and Thessalim’s husband had been badly injured in a riding accident as a boy; whether he could beget a son at all remained an open question. Bryn would want a child. Anlaida pictured him, blond and solid, with his arm around her sister’s small shoulder. Among her brothers-in-law, he was the only one whom she unreservedly liked. Being with Bryn and Mostaras was her favorite pastime in the world. If Soldor marries, she thought, then maybe he would let me live with them, or at least visit more often. Someone else would have charge of the house.

Soldor yawned, rudely; but Kalon paid no mind.

Arran scraped the last of his potatoes from his plate. His eyes flickered from Kalon to Nathar to Gavon.

Anlaida sipped from her goblet and made mental inventory of Arran’s wardrobe. Four new pairs of pants, five new shirts. Enough to stand him here, but were Soldor to actually marry, Arran would need twice that. No Midland nobles would mock her family while she had a needle in hand.

Kalon ended his discourse with a demand that the troublemaking miners be punished by the next sunset.

“List their names, and I’ll talk to them,” said Soldor. His brown eyes, like mounds of earth, made no move.

Kalon banged a fist on the table. “Talk? You had better do more than talk. Do you know the problems that I—”

“Yes, you told me.” Soldor stood up. “Rather reasonable discourse we had over supper. I’ll deal with the problem, I assure you.”

Anlaida, Arran, and the other two guests rose as well. “Shall I see you to your rooms?” she said pleasantly.

“We’ll be fine on our own,” Gavon replied. Turning his six feet of stature toward the door, he flanked his father on the way out. Nathar nodded respect to Anlaida and followed them.

Only then did Soldor grimace.
 
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Arran had assumed that their guests would still be abed at the sun’s rising, but he found himself unfortunately wrong. As he rounded the corner of the kennels, three dogs on his heels, he nearly stumbled onto the hooves of his uncle’s gelding. He backed against the wall and waiting for Kalon and Gavon to pass with their horses. But Kalon squeezed his legs against his mount’s belly and halted. “Up already, nephew?” he asked, looking down.

“No,” Arran said. Dogs bumped against his heels.

Kalon laughed and leaned forward in his saddle. “Gavon and I ride before breakfast most mornings. Care to join us?”

Arran stammered. “I—can’t until my arm heals.”

His red-haired uncle shrugged. “Suit yourself, then. Enjoy playing with the dogs.” He wheeled his horse and trotted toward the gate, flanked on the left by Gavon.

Arran dug his heel in the dirt and looked at the three hounds crowding his legs. Kalon certainly knew at least some of Arran’s recent history, but whether he was also aware that Arran was not permitted past the courtyard remained unclear. At least he had spoken the truth: he was in no shape to ride at the moment. Yet the dogs seemed less appealing. He shrugged and slid to the ground, tickling their underbellies.

Allim, the kitchen aide, scuttled across the courtyard like an errant beetle. Arran watched her, cloak-wrapped and quiet, as she darted through the gate after the horses.

The top of the eastern wall glowing red, Arran waited for the sun to pull above it and light the courtyard, now a cavern of brown, black, and gray. Lohar strode by, raising a hand in greeting. Arran called out to him, and a laugh tumbled from the stablemaster’s chest.

Hunter, the largest of the dogs, flopped his brown body across Arran’s legs. Arran ruffled the dog’s fur. Olaine would cook a hearty breakfast, he hoped. Meat and eggs and bread. After four years of wild game, he was growing attached to the tenderness of Olaine’s beef.
_____________________________________________

Soldor and Kalon spent most of the day sequestered in Soldor’s study, arguing about the details of the mine troubles. Trouble had certainly occurred, but Kalon was clearly no spymaster, and he could offer no specific names. Soldor occupied three hours of the day simply convincing Kalon that he ought to return home and investigate further before Soldor could take any direct action.

The tension between the two men seemed to leach under the study door, spreading through the rest of the castle. Arran occupied himself in his room with a set of history books from the library; and Anlaida kept herself to the weaving room. Gavon, Nathar, and the five escorting guards had a tendency to appear at unexpected times, and neither Arran nor Anlaida found their company particularly pleasant.

Supper that evening proved quieter than that of the night before—rather unfortunately so. With both Kalon and Soldor weary from the day’s negociations, Nathar talked. He discussed water leaks in the mines, and the inferior gold of the far west, and the dangers of poorly bound record books. Anlaida counted bricks on the wall. Arran thought about winter hunts in the Tablelands and nodded his head every few minutes. Neither was properly sorry when Gavon shoved away from the table without saying a word.
 
There is always more than one way in which a society can go wrong. If my impression is correct, the miners in your story-world are the victims of abuse and fraud, and they deserve to have something like a labor union to uphold their human rights. That is perfectly, diametrically opposite to my scenario in "The Possible Future of Alipang Havens," in which (hardly any different from actual conditions NOW) labor unions are really organized-crime gangs, enjoying far more power than they deserve to have.
 
Glenburne said:
Kalon laughed and leaned forward in his saddle. “Gavon and I ride before breakfast most mornings. Care to join us?”

Arran stammered. “I—can’t until my arm heals.”

His red-haired uncle shrugged. “Suit yourself, then. Enjoy playing with the dogs.” He wheeled his horse and trotted toward the gate, flanked on the left by Gavon.
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I hope he didn't know. That would have been cruel if he did.

Glenburne said:
Supper that evening proved quieter than that of the night before—rather unfortunately so. With both Kalon and Soldor weary from the day’s negociations, Nathar talked. He discussed water leaks in the mines, and the inferior gold of the far west, and the dangers of poorly bound record books. Anlaida counted bricks on the wall. Arran thought about winter hunts in the Tablelands and nodded his head every few minutes. Neither was properly sorry when Gavon shoved away from the table without saying a word.
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Sounds fascinating.:rolleyes:
 
Glenburne said:
Arran dug his heel in the dirt and looked at the three hounds crowding his legs. Kalon certainly knew at least some of Arran’s recent history, but whether he was also aware that Arran was not permitted past the courtyard remained unclear.
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Why is Arran not allowed past the courtyard? :o I'm sure you mentioned it earlier, but I don't remember. I'd try to find out myself, but I don't know where in the thread to look.
 
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