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  She offered no response to that, but stared about, her eyes wide under the peak of her cap. I supposed she had never seen a town built all from wood before. Chorym and those few towns that dotted the Bright Kingdom’s valley were all of stone and brick and tile, with wood an ornamentation. Cu-na’Lhair—save for its walls—was only timber. The street was, given the summer’s heat, hard-packed earth, flanked to either side by pavements of planed wood polished by myriad feet, the buildings that rose two and three stories high were solid timber, with balconies on the upper floors and shutters and doors of ornately carved wood, all painted with bright colors depicting flowers and animals and birds. Folk milled about us, on horseback and in carts and afoot. They wore mostly the breeches and skirts and shirts of Highlanders, with the patterned cloaks that denoted their clans folded and pinned over their shoulders. The men were all armed, swords at their waists and shields slung on their backs, and most of the women carried daggers on their belts. No few stout staffs were tipped with metal, and it came to me that in Chorym only soldiers bore weapons and that it must seem strange to Ellyn to see every passerby armed in some way. I watched her carefully, afraid that she give herself away in some manner. But she did not, and we found the Lonely Traveler without incident.

  It was a tall, wide building, the first and second levels both balconied, with its broadest front facing the street and a timbered wall containing a yard behind. I dismounted and tethered the horses to the hitching rail and with Ellyn, all wide-eyed and agog, on my heels, went inside.

  The room was the full width of the building across, and almost as deep. The floor was of polished planks that gleamed despite the scouring of the boots that crossed it. Against one wall stood a stone hearth where a fire burned and the carcass of a pig turned slowly on a spit rotated by a child half Ellyn’s age. On the farther side was a long counter behind which stood racked barrels and shelves of wine bottles, gleaming glasses and sturdier clay mugs. Numerous tables, chairs, and benches made the navigation of the floor a labyrinth, and the place was loud with laughter and hearty conversation. Serving women in flounced skirts and low-cut blouses traversed the maze with practiced ease and ready smiles, trays of ale mugs and bottles of wine carried aloft past the clutching hands and ribald comments. The air smelled of roasting pork and woodsmoke, alcohol and sweat and tobacco. I noticed Ellyn frown, her nostrils pinching, and nudged her, whispering.

  “You’re a hire-sword’s son, remember? You’ve been in such places before—you’re at home here.”

  She grunted and hitched up her belt, affecting an expression midway between a scowl and a smile, and came with me to the counter.

  A man wide as he was tall stood there, busily wiping his hands on a once-clean apron. He was bald, but the lower part of his face was decorated with a luxuriant red beard, and from amongst its many hairs came a gleaming smile.

  “Well met, strangers!” His voice was deep as his beard. “What’ll it be?”

  “A mug of your best ale,” I said, “and a cup for the boy. After that, a room, and stabling for our animals.”

  He pulled a tankard for me and filled a half measure for Ellyn, named me prices and advised me that we might have a chamber on the upper floor. Food would be paid for as we took it.

  I gave him coin and asked, “Do you know Jerym Connach, the horse dealer?”

  “I do,” he said solemnly, then beamed again. “He’s my brother. You’ve animals to trade?”

  I told him my story and he commiserated with me on the dangers of the road in such troubled times, then asked about the war. When I told him, he said, echoing the gate-man: “The gods’ curse on Talan of Danant and all the Vachyn, and their blessings on the queen. But it’s not likely those whoreson bastards’ll bother us, eh? Now, as for those horses, why don’t you stable them with me—I’ll give you a special price—and I’ll send word to Jerym that he take a look.”

  I thanked him and drank my ale. It was good, that dark yellow hue that comes only from Highland hops. I drained the mug and called for a second. Then I heard Ellyn coughing, and turned to see her spluttering over her cup. It had not occurred to me that she was not used to ale, and I cursed myself for that lack of forethought.

  “The lad’s something of a fever,” I said, and complimented myself on my quick thinking: I thought that if Ellyn remained in the room it should enhance our chances of passing unnoticed. “But a night’s sleep in a decent bed shall cure him.”

  Ellyn wiped her mouth and favored me with a glare. “It’s that I’m not used to such fine ale,” she muttered throatily. “It’s weaker stuff in the Bright Kingdom.”

  Our landlord chuckled. “The lad’s got it right there, friend. Poor, prissy ale they brew down there. Not like our good, strong stuff. But you’re familiar with it, no? What are you, a Highlander come home? I didn’t get your name, by the way. Mine’s Jach.”

  Almost, I told him my true name, but in the nick remembered and so said, “Gavin, and the lad’s Elward.”

  Jach beamed some more and asked if I’d have a fire in our chamber for “Elward’s” sake—which should cost a little extra. I told him no, but I’d see our horses safely stabled, and likely take dinner in our room.

  “The lad’s not much accustomed to the road,” I said, “nor to bandits. He grew up in the south.”

  “The south, eh?” Jach nodded his bald head as if that explained all. “Soft there, no?”

  I said, “Yes,” and trod on Ellyn’s foot as I saw her about to argue.

  She gasped and spilled her cup over my boot. “My pardon, Father. But this is strong ale.”

  “No matter, you’ll get used to it.” I smiled and shook my foot. “Such ale, and the Highlands, shall make a man of you, eh?”

  She smiled, as does a cat about to pounce on a cowering mouse. I swiftly drained my mug and asked that we stable our horses and find our chamber.

  “And a bath?” Ellyn said gruffly. “Hot water?”

  “That shall be extra,” Jach said.

  I passed him another coin and roughly took Ellyn’s elbow. I thought that no one had much noticed us as I led her out and took the horses around the inn to the yard.

  “A bath? Hot water? This is not Chorym. Folk live harder here.”

  “But I’ve a fever, no?” She raised her cap to mop her brow. “I need a bath. The gods know, but you need one, too. You stink like … like … some …”

  “Traveler too long on the road?” I asked.

  “Yes!” she snarled.

  I chuckled. “It shall not be in some marbled tub with servants to soap you and dry you: it shall be a tub brought to our room. Which we share.”

  “In which case,” she answered with a terrible dignity, “you shall leave me to it and wait elsewhere until I am done.”

  “Leave me the water, eh?” I asked.

  We saw the horses stabled and found our chamber. It was comfortable enough for me; small and mean for Ellyn. There was a high window that opened onto the balcony, and a worn rug on the wooden floor; hooks were fixed to the walls, and a washstand stood beside the single bed.

  “Where,” Ellyn asked, “shall you sleep?”

  I looked at the bed and knew it should not be there. I pointed at the floor.

  “You must hang a curtain,” she said. “Have Jach arrange it.”

  “By the gods,” I said, “you’re supposed to be my son. I can’t ask for a curtain.”

  “Then use that.” Imperiously, she gestured at our gear, our folded tents. “I’ll not sleep unless you do.”

  I thought a moment to argue—the gods knew, I felt no desire for her; I did not even like her much—but then I thought that she was a child on the verge of womanhood, and must likely feel afraid to occupy this room with a man of my years. Indeed, with any man. Somehow, it was different to the open road, as if the accoutrements of civilization imposed a different consciousness.

  “I’ll do it,” I promised, “but only after the water’s delivered, lest they suspect.”

&nbs
p; “But before I bathe,” she said. “You’ll not watch me bathe.”

  I agreed. I waited for the tub to be hauled in and filled with hot water. Then I strung cords and hung the tents around the tub. I went out onto the balcony and watched the world go by as she bathed.

  By the time I got the tub, the water was cold.

  I took down the makeshift curtain—servants would come to remove the tub—and suggested to Ellyn that she eat in the room. She stared at me as if I were mad and shook her head.

  “You’d have me twiddle my thumbs here while you gallivant?”

  “Hardly that,” I said. “I must trade those horses and find out what I can of events in the Highlands.”

  “Then I’ll come with you,” she declared firmly.

  I sighed. The room was latched only from the inside, and even did I secure the door, she might still escape via the balcony, or set up such a fuss as must surely render us suspicious. “Very well,” I allowed, “but only on condition you draw no attention to us. Keep your mouth shut and play the part of my son, eh?”

  She promptly settled her cap on her head and hooked her thumbs in her belt, squaring her shoulders and assuming a slouch I supposed she considered manly.

  “As you command, Father.”

  I sighed again and quit the chamber.

  We went down to the common room and found a table in a shadowy corner. A servingwoman came to take our order and soon we were settled to platters of roast pork and steaming vegetables, mugs of ale at our elbows. Inevitably, because we were last come from the Bright Kingdom, folk came asking questions. I answered past mouthfuls of food, grateful that Ellyn kept her mouth shut.

  Then Jach came to us with a man who looked his twin and we settled to trading. Jerym had already examined our horses, and offered to buy both the chestnut and the bay at prices greatly in advance of what he’d offer for the brigands’ mounts. I refused that offer and settled on a reasonable sum for the others, save the soundest, which I thought to use for a packhorse. It was sufficient that we might purchase what supplies I thought we’d need without touching Ryadne’s gift. Jerym and I spat on our palms and clenched the deal; he gave me a small sack of coin and Jach celebrated our agreement with glasses of that liquor we brew in the Highlands, which is called brose. I was disappointed that Ellyn did not choke on it.

  Our meal and business concluded, I took Ellyn out into the streets of Cu-na’Lhair to find us winter clothing.

  Jach had recommended an emporium, and there I bought us sturdy sheepskin jerkins and heavy cloaks; gloves and fur-lined boots; two whole cowhides to floor our tents, and sufficient dried and cured and salted food to see us through several weeks. And then Ellyn surprised me again.

  “Do you not think it time I had a sword?” she asked mildly, adding, after, a casual “Father.”

  I gulped, taken aback. What new game was this? The merchant beamed, sensing more business, and before I had chance to argue, swept out an arm to indicate the weaponry on display.

  “Indeed the lad should have a blade,” he declared. “And a decent shield. But light, eh? He’s but a stripling yet, so nothing too heavy. Look …”

  Ellyn was already examining the blades.

  I said, “You’re young yet.”

  The merchant said, “Old enough to wear a blade.”

  Ellyn said, “Think of those bandits, Father.”

  From the look in her eyes I knew I was defeated, and so I said, “I’ll choose it, and the shield.”

  She agreed to that and I selected a light blade; a smaller version of my own sword, with a basket hilt and breaker-rings, double-edged with a fuller most of its length. For a shield I chose her a small buckler, leather on wood, with embossed metal plates at the center and around the edge. I also chose the scabbard and the belt.

  And as we returned to the Lonely Traveler, laden with our purchases, I asked her why she wanted a sword.

  “We go the gods alone know where,” she answered, “but surely into danger. What if you are hurt? Or slain? Shall I be then left all alone, without the means to defend myself?”

  There was sense in that, but even so I could not imagine this pampered princess wielding a sword. “You were disturbed,” I said, “when I slew those brigands.”

  “Yes, I was.” She nodded solemnly. “But I also saw that it was necessary. And might be again. In which case, I’d defend myself.”

  “What do you know of bladework?” I asked her.

  “Very little,” she said cheerfully, “but you shall teach me.”

  And so, it seemed, the matter was decided. I wondered who led our expedition now. Surely there was more to this girl than I’d first thought, and I found myself respecting her more.

  “It’s not easy,” I told her. “A sword gets heavy after a while, nor less the shield. And striking a man is harder still.”

  “You do it easily enough,” she returned from around the bundles she carried. “I’ve seen you.”

  “I’m old,” I said, “and stronger than you. And I’ve carried a blade since I was …”

  I broke off the sentence, but she finished it for me: “Younger than me?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “So you will teach me?”

  “I will,” I said, “but not here. Only when we’re on the road again.”

  “And when shall that be?”

  “Soon,” I said. “There’s no point lingering here.”

  “But I like this place,” she gave me back. “Can we not stay awhile?”

  I said, “No.”

  And when we reached the Lonely Traveler, I knew that I was right.

  We stowed our gear and found the common room again. Ellyn would have worn her new-bought sword, but I managed to persuade her against that. It was by now dusk, and the inn was filling up. I recognized clan colors in the room, amongst them those of the Devyn. A side of beef was turning on the spit, and I bought us ale as we waited for the meat to be carved. Ellyn demanded that I buy her a measure of brose, which she favored over the ale, and for want of peace I agreed, finding us as secluded a table as was possible in the crowded room.

  I sipped my ale and Ellyn sipped her brose. Then two men rose and came toward us. Both wore the Devyn colors, and I knew them both from long ago. One was Athol, the other Rurrid; they were both cohorts of my brother.

  They halted before us and Athol said, “You are Gailard, no?”

  I shook my head. “My name is Gavin.”

  “No.” Rurrid stared hard at me. “You’re Gailard the Exile. Colum banished you, and you return to the Highlands on pain of death.”

  From the corner of my eye I saw Ellyn tense. I prayed she not speak, but dared not indicate that need to her. I stared back at Rurrid and said, “You mistake me, friend. I am Gavin, out of Chaldor.”

  “You ran to Chaldor,” Athol said, “when your father exiled you, and Eryk would pay us well to bring you home.”

  “Eryk?” I could not hide my surprise. “Is Colum no longer clan chief?”

  “Colum died,” he answered. “Now Eryk leads the Devyn.”

  I was startled. I had not heard of my father’s death, nor known that my brother took his place. I suppose that I had assumed my father would live forever. I shrugged and said, “You mistake me for this other fellow.”

  Then Ellyn spoke. “Who are these men, Father? Do they speak of Gailard, the great warrior?”

  Rurrid glanced at her and dismissed her. Athol said, “Who are you, boy?”

  “Why,” she answered gruffly, “I am Elward, Gavin’s son.”

  “He’s not Gavin,” Rurrid declared, “he’s Gailard.” He was, I recalled, ever obstinate as some dog guarding a prized bone.

  Ellyn looked at him from under her cap. “Should I not know my own father? He’s Gavin, I tell you. Do I have it right, then this Gailard fought the Danant and, after, went away and has not been seen since.”

  Athol frowned as if almost convinced by her display of innocence, but Rurrid stared at her and said, “There�
�s something odd about you, boy.”

  He reached toward her. I set a hand on my sword and drew the blade a little way clear of the scabbard.

  “Do you lay hand on my son, I’ll slay you.” I raised my voice a little, enough that the folk around us—already interested in our dispute—should hear. “What are you? Some fancier of boys?”

  Rurrid blushed and snatched back his hand. “You lie,” he shouted. “I’ve no truck with boys.”

  Ellyn said, loud, “Protect me, Father!”

  Both clansmen touched their swords now, and I thought I might have to fight them, but then Jach appeared. He held a cudgel, and with him came two sheriff’s men, armed with swords.

  “What is this?” our landlord asked. “I’ll have no fighting in my inn.”

  Rurrid said, “He’s Gailard of the Devyn, and forbidden the Highlands.”

  Jach said, “This is Cu-na’Lhair, friend, not the Highlands. And do you draw that blade farther, I’ll crack your skull.”

  The sheriff’s men already had their blades out. Rurrid and Athol looked at them and sheathed their half-drawn weapons. Rurrid said, “We’ll find you later, Gailard.”

  I said, again, “Gavin.”

  “No matter the names,” Jach declared. “You two are not welcome here. Go!”

  They went and Jach turned to me. “I know not what that was about, but I think it best you also depart. By day’s break, eh?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Light ringed Chorym in an obscene halo. By night it was the glow of myriad fires, by day the glint of sunshine on polished shields and helmets and spearheads. But always light, and the sounds of siegement—the clatter of weapons and the rattle of chariots, the whickering of impatient horses, the shouting of Talan’s soldiers, and the thudding of axes and hammers and adzes as the siege machinery was built. Towers mounted on wheeled platforms rose ever higher, dwarfing the metal-decked battering rams; catapults took shape, arbalests and trebuchets, mangonels; and pickaxes and mallets hammered against outlying buildings, reducing them to such rubble as might be flung against the walls. Fences and hedges were stripped to construct protective barriers for the Danant archers. And all the while, drums beat a sullen rhythm even as trumpets sounded strident challenge.