The Season of the Plough Page 3

  The others nodded with mixed appreciation. A few were already looking uneasily toward Venser, who was if anything more shocked than the rest of them.

  “None here doubt your word,” said Tsúla.

  “I have been challenged,” said Toren, “by this girl. By Robyn, of no right name. Twenty-four summers old, by our best guess. Most of you will recall when we took her on, some two years ago. And all of you, I think, will recall the circumstances.”

  The men were murmuring, and Toren paused to give them space to do it. Some had known Venser planned to challenge the old man when the easy summer came, but none had expected Robyn to vie for command. A few of them snickered under their breath. Venser cleared his throat.

  “She has the right to boast her own credentials,” he said, “as you’ve boasted yours.”

  Toren raised his eyebrows but stepped deferentially away from her.

  “I am Robyn,” she said. “You all know me. I’m—twenty-four summers old, as he says.”

  There was silence until one of the men coughed. Bram cocked his head at her, and she searched her wits for more words.

  “I’ve no right experience,” she admitted. “I’ve never served, nor been blooded anywhere. I’ve no proper name and no right to command. I challenged Toren for First Spear for one reason only: to save the life of that child. The foundling girl, whoever she is. The girl Toren had every mind to kill in cold blood.”

  “She’s not human,” Toren spat back, cutting off the unease of the assembled men. “She’s a fell creature of some kind—a fae, or worse, a Horror of Tamnor. I felt it the moment I laid eyes on her. My old wounds ache when one of their kind is about.”

  “She’s safe now,” said Robyn. “The Reeve and the town widows will decide her fate, as you will decide mine. Toren is the more capable leader; that you know. I am content to follow him again. But I could not follow him this afternoon, not into what I am sure was the briefest lapse in judgment.”

  “That is not how the Code of Veritenh operates,” warned Toren. “You can’t simply invoke it as a civil substitute for mutiny. It’s not a tool for disobedience. It’s a declaration that I’m unfit for command. That I’ve failed to uphold the Vigil itself. That you would do a better job of it.”

  “I would uphold the Vigil with mercy,” said Robyn.

  “We’ll see,” said Toren. “All of you, remember your duties to the Havenari, and to the Vigil. You are more than a glorified town militia—at least, I’ve always said so. You are the spiritual descendants of the first vigilants, chosen to secure the outlands themselves from Horrors unnumbered. Do not be fooled by the peace we’ve kept in these villages—by these petty poachers, dowry disputes, pickpockets and deserters. You watch and wait with a higher purpose, and you have a duty to stand the commander who will best fulfill that purpose.”

  Venser met Robyn’s eyes, then glanced at the men. But she shook her head.

  “I’ve done all I meant to,” she said, and backed down from speaking further. There were tears in her eyes when she turned away from them, to Bram.

  “I’ll get our things together from the cottage,” he whispered. But big Venser laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Hold on,” he said—and Bram held on.

  The men were dividing—evenly, at first—into two lines, one before Toren, and one on the side of the moot-hall door where Robyn stood. The lines they formed were more or less the lines they expected, but there were a few surprises as they shuffled into place.

  Tsúla made his stand at the head of Robyn’s line and cast a scornful glance at the man across from him.

  “Really, Hendec? For Toren?”

  The other young soldier sighed. “He’s the stronger leader. You know it. He’s proven. But I’ll follow whoever commands the Havenari.”

  “Well, I won’t,” snorted the older man behind him. “I’ve two daughters in the Iron City older than her. I’ll not call a rover like her First Spear, not now, nor ever.”

  Tsúla looked to the back of the lines. “You may not have much of a choice.”

  Every man was accounted for now. The two lines stood in uneasy parallel as the men cast troubled glances at one another. Most were hardened veterans who had served under men like Toren their whole lives. Many had been men like Toren. But there, at the great door of Widowvale’s moot-hall, ten men of the eighteen who stood muster before Toren and Robyn had chosen another path.

  Toren looked down the two columns in disbelief. His mouth played at forming words. Venser shook his head, but not unhappily.

  “I’m a little surprised,” whispered Tsúla. “But not, you know, a lot.” Robyn, stunned into silence, acknowledged him but could not speak.

  “Betrayal!” Toren spluttered at last. “Mutiny! I’ve built this—”

  “We have a new First Spear,” said Venser, who could speak over nearly anyone when he chose to. The chaotic clatter of spear-hafts striking the ground served well enough for applause, but they did not drown out the mutters of discontent from Toren’s line.

  As the clamour died down, Venser leaned close to Tsúla.

  “Go inside,” he said softly. “Tell the Reeve what’s happened.”

  Tsúla slipped away past Robyn, whose face was a mask of trouble and confusion. Toren’s face, as he approached her, was tight with anger.

  “They’re all yours,” he conceded. “As a veteran of this order, it is my duty to tell you, Captain, that you’re making a grave mistake with that so-called child. Lead them any way you will. You’ve doomed this company already—though I won’t be around to see it.”

  Robyn, nearly lost in panic, found her focus in his disrespect. “Am I to accept your resignation, Toren?”

  Seething, he threw his spear to the snowy ground. “You are.”

  They stared each other down for the briefest of moments. Standing this close, her eyes were above his. She was still thin in those days, underfed and not well-muscled, but she had never been a small woman.

  “Count out the price of your horse,” she told him. “You leave tonight, and it’s a long way up the Serpent Trail, to Aslea or Seton or wherever you’re going.”

  Toren stuffed a heavy purse of unrefined silver into her hands. “Why wait?” He backed away from her, then paused.

  “That’s a fair price for a good riding-horse,” he said. “A parting word of wisdom: be sure to collect what’s due every time another man deserts you. I have a feeling I won’t be the last.”

  Some of the Havenari were muttering to themselves and each other. Some, watching the two captains settle formalities, kept their distance. But Venser, eyeing them with the eyes of experience, came to put his big body almost between the two.

  “You’re paid out,” said Venser. “It’s time you were gone.”

  Toren looked up sharply. “Venser, did you just—”

  “You’re not my captain anymore either,” he said. “I don’t know what happened up there, but I know bad blood when I smell it. Through it all, I’ve been loyal to the First Spear. Loyalty and honour compel me to follow the order of command. But now, you see—now you’re not my captain. You’re just the little shit who’s giving my new captain some trouble.”

  Toren spluttered for a moment, suddenly realized where he stood without his mantle of command, and backed away.

  “You won’t last a month,” he called. “These men will turn on you, just as you turned on me. We’ll see if mutiny serves you any better than it served me.” With that, like an ill wind, he was gone to collect his things. Robyn’s eyes were cloudy with tears, but the storm in her had not yet broken. At her side, Bram was in his own world, staring away to the horizon with haunted eyes. He had done too much today, Venser knew. He’d be lost in a jug of Grim’s wine as soon as the business with the child was done. The veterans were looking at her now with anger and confusion, some muttering quietly to each other. Before they could approach her, he leaned down to her ear.

  “Don’t you dare cry,” he whispered. “Don’t let them
smell it on you. Tonight, when all’s settled, you go off into the woods and wail yourself hoarse. But if you keep face now, if you own your First Spear for even an hour, that’ll be the end of it.”

  She looked up at him. “This is only the beginning,” she said. “I’m twenty-four. I’m no commander.”

  “Not yet, maybe,” said Venser. “But you’re no beggar either, Lady Fane.”

  For a moment, that shocked the tears out of her eyes. “How did you—”

  “I’m smart,” said Venser. “That’s how. I’m more clever than Toren ever gave me credit for. I’ve been doing this since I was a lad, and I see things the proper way. A woman who knows her way around a sword, fleeing west out of Creslyn Wood? I was born in Creslyn. Figured the two of you for Elgar’s children from the beginning.”

  She was turning white. “Please don’t tell the others.”

  “Hush, now,” he said. “I only raise it to tell you one thing. You’ve got good blood for this. You’ll be better suited to it than you know.”

  “The men won’t stay,” she whispered.

  “Not all of them,” Venser conceded. “But those that do—they’ll help you. Whatever you said to him up on the trail, you’re an impulsive fool for saying it. You both are. You’ve got a lot of growing up to do. But you have long years to get better at it, now. I’m afraid a fool’s the best he’ll ever be.”

  Robyn shook her head. “This is the worst thing he could do to me,” she said. “To all of you. I’m so sorry.”

  “Here’s what you fail to understand,” said Venser. “What neither one of you understands, you because you’re too green, and he—well, because he’s too damned full of himself. Every man here knows how to fight, how to ride. There’s paying work for men like us back east.”

  “The Mages’ Uprising?” she asked.

  “To begin with, aye,” he answered. “The border vasilies are getting restless now that word’s out the Mage is still alive. I could go home to Travalaith, and be an officer in a fortnight. Most of these men could—yet here they are, glorified militiamen to a handful of villages for little more than the food in their bellies. Men brought up in the hierarchy of war don’t take a step down the ladder without good reason. Maybe a few of us are criminals. I haven’t asked. Maybe they’ve seen so much war and bloodshed already that wrestling a poacher over a fat sheep is all they have the stomach for. What we all have in common is this: we’ve spent our lives taking orders from hard men like Toren. Every one of us is here because we’re sick of it, whether we know it or not. That world—it’s not for us. We needed a change.”

  Robyn looked back at the men, who had settled their chattering and begun, slowly, to look at her expectantly.

  “It might be that you’re the change we need,” Venser finished. But meeting their eyes, the Havenari started to surround their new captain, and there was no time to say more.

  Hendec had a sour look on his face as he approached—but true to his word, approached with deference. “Is there a reason now, Captain, he asked, “that we’re still freezing our tails off out here?”

  With a look to Venser for encouragement, Robyn nodded toward the moot-hall doors.

  “Get your tails inside, then,” she said. “I want us to have a voice in what’s done with this child.” To her surprise, with a steady string of grumbling, the men began to move.

  “We’ll help you,” said Venser. “Most of us.”

  Robyn smiled at last. “You’ve a good heart as well,” she said. “Now I know for certain you should have been made Captain.”

  Venser beamed as the others shuffled past him toward the door of the hall.

  “It’s kind of you to say so, sir,” he said. “But you’re my First Spear now. And I think no man is fit to lead who’s too proud to serve.”

  He held open the heavy door of the moot-hall as the outriders began to stream into the council. At a silent nudge from her brother, Robyn took her place at their head as they entered the main hall. She heard the hushed murmurs as Tsúla recounted, more or less, the story of how they had come by the girl.

  Tsúla, to his credit, was a fine storyteller. He was never fully at ease speaking the Merchants’ Tongue, and the traces of an accent made even his mundane tales and jokes sound a touch exotic to her. Coming into the firelight, she thought back to the travelling skalds who came and went in her childhood, filling the tall keep of Draden Castle with song and story in trade for food and safe passage. She thought of the Blind Riders, the stewards of the Hanes, who still roamed the outlands keeping their mysterious chronicles of town records. She wondered what they would make of this day in the end: whether her story was an epic or tragedy, or nothing more than a note in the margins of some greater adventure. The way Tsúla was telling it, though, he could not have been blamed for the latter.

  “Here Toren lunged for the girl,” he half-whispered, eyes blazing in the firelight. “But Robyn met him at his strength—turned his wicked blade with a flash of her own! Steel rang in the glade, and her voice rang out over the steel. ‘By my life,’ she swore, ‘you shall not harm this child!’”

  The townsfolk gasped and muttered among themselves. Startled by the story, the little girl hugged the Reeve close and hid her face in his great beard. Robyn smiled a little, in spite of herself, though her stomach was hot and sick with fear for the difficult season that lay ahead.

  The Serpent Trail, if it could be called a trail, was interminably long. There were other and older ways through the heart of the old forest, and Toren knew them still. But there was darkness in those woods, now. He felt it in his bones; it chilled him worse than the wind, and the old scars ached in ways that had saved his life more than once. In his hot youth he had discovered an uncanny sense for the unspeakable dangers that still throve in the Travalaithi outlands—and those instincts had never been wrong before. It was almost painful, going through brush and broom, leading his horse through the thickest paths, searching for the ancient trails. For this reason alone, and certainly for no reason to do with his fear of the deep woods at night, Toren had come to the Serpent Trail, determined to ride it all the way to Aslea alone in the bitter cold of a moonless night.

  Toren’s story ends here. As the plain-speaking sagas of Silvalis dryly observe, “he appears in none of the later tales.” It was a single fateful day in the deep wood above Widowvale that brought the end of Toren’s story, the uneasy middle of Robyn’s, and the beginning of Aewyn’s. Unlike the heroic songs of the Hanes, the sagas have no heroes. They have no right beginning, and no proper end. And the saga in whose tapestry these three were woven does not rightly belong to any one of them. The people of this saga are many, their threads are small, and their tales are made large only in the weaving.

  It was not until the light was lost and the cold had set in that Toren allowed himself the weakness of tears. Mostly they were the tears of a fallen man, once mighty, who had come in the end to meekness, and had never been taught how to shoulder its burden. But there was fear in him, too. On a high coil of the Serpent Trail, doubling nearly back on itself to look over the valley, he stopped long enough to watch the plume of smoke rising from the moot-hall and wondered what decision, if any, they would reach about the little girl.

  There in the dark where none could see, he unlaced his collar and filled his gloved hand with frigid water from a waterskin nearly frozen through. Gritting his teeth against the cold, he slapped the pure water over the deep purple scar that skirted the edge of his neck. The chill did much to shock him from drowsiness, and to numb the queer ache that had come back to the scar. It had pained him most of the day, like the burning of a hot coal. Toren did not fancy himself a religious man; but there on the trail, his joints aching with age and cold, his neck and shoulder throbbing with an old and evil pain, he touched his fingers to his forehead and made the sign of the white crescent. As if in answer, the forest grew still. His horse nickered at the bit, tossing its head.

  “Steady,” he whispered. He prodded the animal�
�s flank with his spur. “Don’t you turn on me too.”

  The trees were silent, at first.

  Then, the crack of a branch. Crisp leaves rustled.

  Toren’s neck burned fiercely. His hands were clammy. His horse was frozen in place, trembling helplessly beneath him.

  “Mother of Sorcery, protect me,” he whispered. He drew his old sword with the reluctant sigh of a man too full of despair for fear to keep a home in him for long.

  With haunted eyes, Toren looked into the darkness. It returned his gaze.

  “Lay on, then,” he said. “Have done with it.”

  As the sagas say, no more was heard of him after that.

  TWO

  GRIM HAD COME DOWN FROM the far North for reasons some called mysterious. Unlike most of the villers and hillers, drawn out to the frontier by Widowvale’s sudden and recent prosperity, Grim had been there from the very beginning—since the first huts were built, since a few miners with an overwhelming lack of imagination simply called the place “Silver.” Those men had moved far into the hills now; the town that remained was almost wholly made up of women. Nearly all of them came from lands where men were afforded greater authority in political matters—but even so, it was Grim’s seniority among the villagers that earned him respect when he spoke at moot.

  It did not hurt his authority that his wife Karis, who was from Travalaith, was the Reeve’s sister. As the village’s only purveyors of ale and wine, the two of them held a tight grip on Widowvale’s good cheer whether they meant to or not. The effect of it all was that when Grim talked, people listened—even though the name Grim, in the old language of his people, meant “mask,” and he was known in Widowvale and many other places as a spinner of tall tales, unmatched in his talent for telling lies. He was a weighty man, too, and when the true-widow Oltman sat down and he replaced her at the fire, his presence filled even the vast moot-hall. He cleared his throat and waited for silence.