Two Queens (Seven Heavens Book 1) (2 page)

“I can hold her as long as you like. What is her name?”

“Enda.”

“What a beautiful name. Enda, Enda. You pretty little robin.”

Kerdae wiped his hands on the felted back of his apron.

“Well, in the market we sell our kardja's wool. And they sell us cloth of many colors, but smooth and superior to our felt. For some uses.”

“What's that got to do with me?”

“I have seen the tool they use to make cloth from wool. If you know who made that article on the wall, let me know. The man that could do that could make a weaver's loom if he wanted. But I don't wish to interrupt you any more.”

She kissed the girl.
“Good bye, Enda.” She left the smith and walked Brian back to his father.

One

“Away, boy! We don't want your kind.” The oak door slammed an end to the raspy voice.

He stood facing the rough cut panels. Water droplets cascaded down, the whorls and knobs interrupting the ripples like rapids. He imagined the tailor falling down the water wall with his precious felts. Spoil all his work in the wet and good riddance.

“Ungrateful bastard,” he said under his breath. He slicked his wet hair back and replaced his cap before stepping down into the mud that ran between the shops in the small town of Darach. Mother never would have guessed this would happen, not even a year ago. He wished she were here to hear the insults—none of them remembered her gift.

He smiled at himself. Maybe it was better she wasn't with him. She hated crudities of any sort and words coming from him the most.

“But they call me that all the time,” the ten-year-old version of himself had said.

“All the more reason for you not to. You know how it hurts, how it's wrong. We must be clean in our hearts and a clean heart means a clean mouth,” she said, tears filling her eyes.

He swallowed. That was the worst part. Punishment's pain lasted but a moment; the look—mingled disappointment, sorrow, and pain—burned on.

He trod in the mud, more of it caking his pants. It was dirty. Cruel. People died. His mother shouldn't have to live like this. She didn't fit. Her stories didn't either—a Golden Age long ago when sickness was unknown. No armies, no crimes, no children dead before their time. No stupid rain.

Well, maybe rain.

One last door on the edge of town. His feet slowed their pace. He knew who was behind the door .To be kicked out by a stranger was one thing: the shame of begging from someone who knew you was another matter. Much worse.

He screwed up a blank expression on his face. No big deal, he thought, just this left and I'm done. He raised his hand to knock and froze. There would be another door—his father's. Having to tell him he failed. That there was no place for them.

His heart sank.

He took a practice run at the door. First and second knuckle? Or last three? Come to think of it, how did he do it? Or the butt of the fist? That seemed rude for some reason. He gulped in the night air.

“Brian!” a voice called. He jerked.

“Go on in. I just stepped out and haven't barred the door yet.” Kerdae set a metal rod down and joined him at the door.

Brian pushed the well-hung door inwards and stepped in. Kerdae followed behind. “Well don't just stand here, boy, off with your cap. Stand by the fire and get warm.”

Brian pulled his cap off and held it against his chest. The rain drummed on the roof while a low fire crackled with the occasional loud snap. A redheaded girl knelt in front of it, stirring the kettle.

“Enda, we got company! Though what Devlin's blood is doing here outside of market day this late is beyond my ken.” He shuffled through the small cabin.

“Hi Brian,” she smiled up at him.

“Hi.” He looked at her green eyes. They always surprised him —no one else had green eyes, not even her father. His own black eyes darted back to the cap in his hand.

“Well, what is it?” Kerdae asked. “There's always a reason for a visit to Darach.”

“I—” Brian turned to answer. He felt as if he were in a closet. His shirt was tight on his neck. “We—we might be coming to Darach.”

Kerdae raised his bushy eyebrows.

“I mean, to live.” Brian looked at the floor.

“Oh.” Kerdae fumbled at the table, scraping his fingernails against a rough knot.

“What happened?” Enda asked.

“Our herds— a flood— in a ravine— father's tending to some— most drowned—” Brian glanced at their faces then back at the floor. His hands wrung at his cap.

“Oh.” Kerdae said, again. His fingers stopped.

“Oh Brian, that's awful. Whatever are you going to do?” Enda said. Suddenly she stepped forward and hugged him. He just stood there. In a few moments she broke away.

The tears that he'd fought at every slammed door burst forth. “That's why I'm here. Seeing if any of the shops need extra hands. I know I'm no good at the trades but I'm strong-” his voice cracked.

“Of course, anyone would be happy to have you, Brian. After all, most of them only have a trade on account of your mother. I'd take you in a moment if I didn't have hardly enough to keep me busy this time of year. But for now let's eat.”

Brian gulped. “They don't,” he whispered hoarsely.

“What? None of them?”

“None.”

“Those thieving miscreants, ungrateful bastards—”

“Father!” Enda shouted. Kerdae's mouth froze. Brian's face twitched.

“It's true,” Kerdae said. “It was her idea, her skill. She took that back from the Lowlanders. Gave me a bit of business keeping them looms going when I had naught. And not a pennyworth sent her way.” He clenched his massive hands together until they were just splotches of red and white.

A silence fell over them. Enda brought the pot over to the table and ladled out servings. Brian's ears burned as she gave him his.

“I don't want to be beholden,” he said.

“Nonsense,” Kerdae spouted out, the rest of his speech lost in breaths and shaking fists.

“You won't be, Brian,” Enda said. “You're our friend and friends stick together. Right, father?”

“Right. We'll just have another talk with those weavers tomorrow, won't we?” He spoke more words into his soup.

Enda's smile froze. Not helping, her eyes said.

“Yes, yes, I'm sure something will turn up. Maybe one of them will break a loom. Better yet, an arm,” Kerdae brightened up. “Have some soup, Brian, while it's still hot.”

Brian lay awake. Something was wrong. The heather-filled shuck scratched his legs when he shifted position. It bunched up next to him, promising comfort, only to leave gaps where his weight drove him to the rough-hewn slabs beneath. But that wasn't what was bothering him.

He sighed. Turning on his side he wriggled to find a better-stuffed spot. He longed for his felt sleeping roll and wondered why he hadn't brought it with him. But there was something else the matter, something he couldn't quite place.

He sighed again. That was it—the sheltered valley had no wind. Home on Mount Finola never lacked it, especially at night. A gentle west wind rode up the feet of the mountain, dropping back down like the waves tickling a seashore. And sometimes a strong north wind marched down the peaks from which Mount Finola was but a hill. And the bitter east wind too.

There's trouble enough without the east wind. The spring's flash floods came fast when the mountain streams broke their bonds and cascaded down the mountainside. Most years there was a kardja or two with a broken leg. The thin topsoil didn't have much to hold on to against the sucking waters.

This year it was bad luck. The herd had chosen the wrong place, a narrow wedge between two spurs of the mountain, arms uplifted around them to draw in death's waters. If only they'd moved them further away.

Brian flipped over in his makeshift bed. He groaned as his weight came down on a knot that hadn't been planed down. Gingerly he slid off the outcropping and rubbed his rib.

His eyes teared up. He was glad for the dark, glad no one noticed. He'd been strong all day and he was tired. He whimpered softly to himself.

Enough! I'm a man now. If they won't give it to me, I'll just go and take it. The fools. Darach—what was it but a collection of misfits belched up from the fertile plain? Ungrateful bastards, he said, and laughed at himself.

Such an outlaw. Feeling like a villain over a few words. What chance is there of forcing my way? No thief could survive long here. He knew what would happen to him: he'd seen it before. Women would put some of their hard-earned bread out on the doorstep, pretending to have forgotten it, disgracing the would-be thief with beggary. No, there was nothing here worth stealing.

And that brought him back to himself. What he wanted to avoid. Without the herd he was useless. His family's wealth was destroyed in a night. No lands, no crops, no shop like the Lowlanders. A Khardjin without his herd was like a snake with no teeth. A bird without wings.

No coin laid aside in the dark places of the earth. Why did his mother have to torment him so with the myths of a faraway kingdom where the wind sang but never howled? Where the sun's rays themselves became gold and rain was but silver landing in your pocket? Not small spears that from clouds brought death.

A light rain thrummed on the roof. Brian paused, listening. How could something be so beautiful and so deadly at the same time? The strongest force and the gentlest touch? His mind spun as he grabbed at threads of reason and folly indiscriminately. His mind throbbed forth thoughts like a snake in death throes. Not able to finish a thought yet too restless to stop. At length fatigue's anesthetic overpowered it and he lay quiet.

Brian woke, eyes reflexively peering around him. His ears made better progress—the rain had stopped and, most likely, woken him up. His head twisted and wheeled about trying to collect the remnants of last night. He felt as if he were trying to remember a dream.

Pictures came together. The dying herd. He and his father, soaked to the waist, hauling the straggling kardja to safe ground. His mother snatching up food from the flooding home. The cheerless walk to Darach. Acres of mud. A door, and another door, and yet another shoving him back into it.

He took a deep breath. More doors today, he thought. Perhaps better luck in broad daylight. What else was he to do?

Other pictures entered. Hot soup at Kerdae's. Enda's green eyes. His father's broad back. His mother's wan smile. “Friends stick together,” he heard as a whisper's echo from the depths of a cave. He'd get it figured out, he knew that. He was Devlin's son—when did his father seek something and not attain it?

His dream world collapsed into the world's sunrise. Fake light fled as life's light entered. He made himself get up and, one foot at a time, made his way out of the attic. Why can't it be tomorrow? Or, better yet, a week ago?

Breakfast was no comfort this morning. He stood, hands at his sides, willing himself to be thin. Seemed like wherever he stood he was blocking something: the fire, oatmeal that was boiling over, the door as Kerdae came in from building the forge's fire, the cupboard for the bowls.

He tried to help Enda. He set about stirring the oatmeal but when he stopped to let her by the spoon fell in the pot. After that he just stood. He never got in the way with his mother in the kitchen. What was different?

He thought he should say something. That's what visitors did, talked. Gossiped. What gossip had he heard? She would know it all by know. He'd said everything last night—what else was there to talk about?

At last the oatmeal was ready. He bolted it down despite its lack of flavor. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten oatmeal without cream. The ever-useful kardja were milked in season, their milk's creaminess ensuring that any the foals didn't consume made its way to their human masters: no self-respecting herder would touch plain oatmeal. He sighed.

He trudged outside after muttering thanks. It felt good to be out in the brisk air. No more being cramped and stuffy. He paused and watched the last of the sunrise reds yellow out.

Oh well, the day has to start sometime. Brian set his face to the village. It was a rare shop whose owner wasn't awake and at his work by this time.

He wondered what it was like to live in town. Never have your own space. Always see your neighbor's house and his neighbor's, both up and down the boot-beaten path.

A baby started crying. It seemed to be coming from about two houses down. Nothing else changed. What kind of mother was that? he thought.

He reached the first door. His nerves settled somewhat, to be in the task and no longer dreading it, but they remained tender. He knocked.

“Good morning, sir, how are you?” he said to the pock-marked face that answered.

“What's it you're interrupting me for?” a voice matching the pock-mark said.

“I was wondering—.,Would you—,” he said.

“Out with it, boy, I don't have all day,” the pock-marked man said.

“I want to work,” Brian blurted out. “I mean, can I work for you?”

“Hmm. Want to work. Where I come from that's called a lie. Strange you should say so, why just last night some fool was banging at me door looking for work too.”

Brian reddened. “I'll tell you this. If I had work—or, like as not, pay—to give, I'd choose you over him. He was a foul-looking bloke, looked to be a stone rolled down the mountainside. But I've naught like that.” He paused, then leered at Brian. “If'n you're really wanting work, bring me some firewood.”

He shut the door and disappeared.

A woman opened the next door. Her left arm had a baby snagged under it. The cherubic face looked up at Brian breathlessly, then bawled. So that's who it was, he thought. Her right hand propped the door partway open.