Ember and Ash Page 7

  The Last Domain

  Poppy’s next stop was Acorn, a village of only five houses, perched on the side of a hill which overlooked the deep woods. The people here lived from hunting on the outskirts of the Forest and from woodwork—“as fine as Acorn work” was a byword across the Domains for intricate and precise carving and marquetry.

  At least their work wouldn’t suffer from having no fire, Poppy thought.

  But the carpenters were appalled, and so were the hunters.

  “How can we make glue?” one complained.

  “I do poker work,” a woman said blankly. “Without fire, I can’t burn the designs…”

  “I’m not shagging going into that wood without a fire,” a tough, nuggety little woman dressed in men’s clothes said. “Can’t scare off a wolverine without fire.”

  “Or bear,” a man added.

  They looked a lot alike, these villagers, as remote townspeople often did: slight, light brown hair, flat cheekbones. Only one stood out—a woman with hair as red as Ember’s and a small, pointed chin. She was nursing a young baby, so Poppy invited her to go to the fort. But the man beside her scowled.

  “No wife of mine’s going to go live with soldiers!” he said, and there was a murmur of agreement. The woman herself looked undecided, but it wasn’t Poppy’s job to persuade people, only to give them the invitation.

  “Straw boxes,” the oldest woman there suddenly said, in a thick northern accent. “If we c’n put t’food out in t’midday sun and get it mostly hot, we can put it into t’straw box and it’ll keep cookin’.”

  “Fire!” a man said dubiously. “No woman here’s ever seen Him.”

  Poppy noticed a woman at the back, with darker hair than the others, look away as he spoke. A Traveler pretending to be one of Acton’s people? she wondered. She’d heard of them, although it was rarer since the Resettlement. But one woman, of the old blood, might well feel safer still if others thought she was a blondie.

  No business of hers, Poppy decided.

  “I swear to you, it happened as I told you.”

  “Can we, like, make sacrifices to Him?” a woman asked. “The local gods like young lambs and fawns. Maybe He would, too. Does He have an altar?”

  “Good idea, May,” someone said. They turned expectantly to Poppy, and she felt burdened by the knowledge that they would be disappointed.

  “He has never asked for sacrifices,” she said.

  “Still, can’t hurt to try,” May mused. “If’n we ask the local gods maybe they’ll let us use their altar.”

  “Fire might want more than an animal, if’n He’s so tough,” a man said thoughtfully. “The old gods, they liked human sacrifice, they say.”

  Silence fell. The woman with the baby hugged it tighter, and stepped forward.

  “I think I’ll come with you,” she said. “Go to the fort, like you said.” Her voice was high with nerves.

  “No you won’t!” her husband said belligerently. He wasn’t very bright, Poppy thought. He didn’t seem to realize why she was leaving. He took hold of the woman’s arm roughly, and the baby started to cry.

  Poppy looked at Larch. This was warlord’s business.

  Larch seemed to realize that at the same time. She stepped forward, her hand on her sword hilt.

  “My Lord Arvid will welcome your wife and my Lady Martine will care for her, be assured,” she said politely, but there was strength in her voice. She was taller than the man. He tried to stare her down.

  “I don’t shagging believe any of this,” he said. “Fire! Just some enchanter playing tricks, I reckon.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the others.

  “Some Traveler,” one of the older men said, with venom in his voice. There was still a lot of ill feeling toward Travelers among the older people, Poppy knew. It was so in Hidden Valley. The younger ones didn’t care, but the oldsters harbored grudges that went back decades. It had been a Traveler enchanter who had killed so many people before the Resettlement, and their relations and friends were slow to forget that. It might be so here, too.

  Time to show the strong hand.

  “Ash the Prowman has confirmed the existence of both Fire and Water,” she said. “It is not an enchanter.”

  That caused an uproar, and the husband let go of his wife’s hand to stare at Poppy blankly.

  “Ash is back?” he exclaimed. “Gods help us, things must be bad!”

  “I’m going to the fort,” the mother said firmly, and this time he didn’t argue.

  “Pack your things,” Larch told her. “Not too much. Do you have a horse?”

  She laughed bitterly, rubbing her arm. “I used to, before I came here.” She glared at her husband and hoisted her baby higher in her arms, rocking him.

  “You can use the pony,” he mumbled, looking at the ground, but her expression didn’t soften.

  “Good,” she said. She turned on her heel and went to one of the cottages, followed by two of the other women, including the tough little hunter, who hesitated, and then spoke directly to Larch.

  “Don’t you bother. I’ll take her straight to the fort,” she said. “Make sure my grandson is safe.” She glared at the man who must be her son. “If you’re lucky I might be able to convince her to come back!”

  Best to ignore that.

  “Our horses need a spell before we leave,” Larch said mildly, and a boy jumped forward to lead her to a stable. Poppy was left standing in front of the slightly smaller crowd, who inspected her with interest.

  “Lady Martine’s granddaughter, eh?” a woman said avidly. “You’d be that white woman’s daughter, then, the unchancy one.”

  She was used to this. They all were, all six of Elva’s children. Elva’s white hair and pale eyes had marked her out from birth.

  “Yes,” she said. “My mother is the prophet.”

  “What’s she say about all this, then?” the husband demanded.

  “She says that Ember must go to Fire Mountain,” Poppy said, matter of fact. “She has given two of my brothers to help guard her on the way.”

  They looked askance at her, but they let it be, walking away from her talking in twos and threes, leaving her standing there, feeling conspicuous and out of place. But she had done her job.

  Palisade Fort, the Last Domain

  Arvid and Martine stood together, looking at the innocent-seeming fire that had consumed Osfrid. It burned steadily, gently, without even crackling or snapping. Arvid felt a combination of anger and outrage—not just at Fire, but at Martine for keeping so many secrets from him for so long. He couldn’t bear to gaze at the flames any longer. They just reminded him of the terrible, awe-filled moments when the Power had risen up and demanded his daughter.

  He tilted his head back. Above the high wooden palisade which surrounded the fort, clouds were gathering. High, still, but gray.

  “Build a shelter over this fire. Now,” he ordered Cat, his steward. Cat was a wiry older man who had once served his father. He was known to relish change and disruption as both a diversion and a way to prove his competence, but today his face matched his gray hair and there were deep lines scored between his mouth and chin.

  Cat glanced up at the clouds and paled even further.

  “Aye, my lord!” he said, and ran to the carpenter’s workshop, calling, “Moss, Moss, come quick!”

  “That was well thought of,” Martine said. He scowled at her and marched inside. Not yet. He wasn’t ready to pretend that he forgave her yet; nor ready to discuss the situation. There was, in any case, too much to do.

  Arvid was a methodical man, and he kept methodical people around him. He had lists of every citizen in every village, including even the babies. His scribe, Reed, was ready with them in his workroom, and was totting up the number of women with children under one year old, as Arvid had instructed him to do.

  “There are more than I estimated, my lord,” Reed said, his quill scratching as he tallied the lists. “We will be hard pressed to
house them all.”

  Arvid nodded and turned on his heel, making his way back to the carpenter’s workshop. Cat and Moss, the fort carpenter, were there, with Swan, the girl who was Moss’s apprentice, gathering what Moss needed for the fire shelter.

  “After you finish,” Arvid said, “we will need more shelters. I am bringing the women with young babies here, and we cannot house them all. Make the shelters watertight. Get the thatchers to help. Send out boys to harvest the reeds. And Cat—”

  Cat stood straighter, ready for the order. It was good to have someone so dependable on hand.

  “Get privies dug. Outside the fort, past the sally gate. Well away from the stream.”

  Cat made a face, but he nodded. “We should maybe start bringing water in, too, my lord?”

  “A good thought. Do so, but we need salt before we need water,” Arvid said. “Send a caravan of carts to Salt. Poppy should be there by tomorrow and she has taken orders for them to supply as much as they can.”

  Salt was the northern town which got its name from the salt mine which supplied all the Last Domain with the precious stuff.

  Moss was frowning. He was a big man, with soft brown eyes and tough hands. A craftsman, but not a thinker. It was as though he felt his way through his buildings rather than planned them.

  “Salt, my lord?”

  “We can cure meat, even if we can’t cook it,” Arvid said, as gently as he could. “Bacon, ham, salt beef—they’re more appetizing cooked, but they are safe to eat. We can’t cook for everyone over one fire.”

  “Aye,” Cat said. “Eat raw meat and everyone here’ll have worms, if they don’t puke themselves to death.”

  “The same with fish, and eggs,” Arvid added. “We will need as much salt as we can get.”

  The men nodded, but the girl was frowning. He hadn’t survived as warlord in a domain full of Valuers by ignoring the small voices.

  “What is it, Swan?” he asked.

  “My da’s a farmer,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Our muck heap at home gets plenty hot.”

  Arvid blinked. Muck heaps. Compost heaps. Aye. He’d never worked with one himself, of course, but he’d seen them steaming as he rode by on cold mornings.

  “Might be enough to coddle eggs for the babbies,” Swan said.

  “That was well thought of,” Arvid said, the words bringing Martine to mind with unwelcome force. Swan flushed with pleasure, though, and Moss was regarding him with approval.

  Oh, they all loved it when the warlord acted like a humble man. Arvid wished, sometimes, that he was naïve enough not to notice it, not to use it as a way of binding his people closer to him. He was genuine enough—gods knew, he was no one special, and if he’d been born a merchant it probably would have suited him better—but like a merchant he noticed things about people, and he would have been a fool if he hadn’t sweetened the honey pot just a little from time to time.

  “I depend on you all,” he said seriously, and saw them swell, just a little, with pride and responsibility. Even Cat. He was full of affection for them, suddenly. They were so staunch, his people. So brave and loyal.

  He went back to his workroom and found Martine waiting for him, alone. Reed was gone, his lists still laid out neatly on the table, the tip of his quill resting on his inkstone, as he always left it. Arvid looked at the papers there—Reed hadn’t finished his count.

  She had ordered his scribe to leave. Interrupted his work. Countermanded his own orders.

  Fury overtook him. She opened her mouth to speak but he cut her off.

  “I gave Reed a task,” he said. “You have not the authority to rescind that command.”

  He’d never spoken to her in that way before. She swallowed, her pale skin reddening and her eyes, those green, green eyes, widening in shock. That was satisfying. He wanted to hurt her, to cause her heart to twist in the way his had when he had realized how she had betrayed him. And he could. He was the warlord, and he could do whatever he chose to a wife who had broken faith.

  “I wanted to explain—” she began.

  “There is no explanation which I would find acceptable,” he said. “You have withheld information of immeasurable importance from your lord, and you have done so over a period of many years. You have placed this domain, and the people of this domain, in mortal danger. You have set in chain events which may result in the death of my heir, and the destruction of everything which has been built in this land. This, by any assessment, is treason.”

  She gasped. Good. Let her understand the enormity of her crime. Her betrayal. At least she didn’t try to speak again.

  “You have placed loyalty to a dead culture over your sworn loyalty to your lord and…” his voice faltered a little, “to your husband.” He paused, and made himself breathe. He must appear calm. “I will consider what punishment is appropriate. In the meantime, you will continue your duties among my people and do what you can to ameliorate the burden you have placed upon them. Now, recall my scribe and allow us to do the work you have made necessary.”

  She bowed. Just bowed, silently, formally, with that lithe grace he loved so much, and then she left, closing the door quietly behind her. Arvid rested his knuckles on the edge of his worktable and let them take his weight, his head drooping. He felt as though his guts had been drawn out of him, as though the center of him were being pulled away, gone with her. But he couldn’t let himself feel like that, or run after her and pull her into his arms. He had work to do.

  A knock on the door made him stand up and straighten his back.

  “Come,” he said.

  It was Ash, the Prowman, his dark hair a reminder of Martine. They were thick as thieves, those two, even though it had been fifteen years since Ash’s last visit. He looked the same now as he had then. Exactly.

  “How long is it since I last saw you, in your life?” Arvid asked abruptly. Ash stopped just inside the doorway. He hadn’t been expecting that question, and Arvid could see he wasn’t sure he liked it. Good.

  “Three months,” he said. “The Lake moved me in time. She thought I was more use here, now, than then and there.”

  Arvid had heard stories about the power of the Lake. They all had, from the time they were children. But to see the proof standing in front of him just reminded him of how much he didn’t know. The warlords lived their lives in the sunlight, their actions open to everyone. Always observed, always public. That was how power should be: clear and honest. But these—these old bloods, they consorted with power in secret and used enchantment to bend time and place and life itself. It was wrong. It could not be allowed to continue.

  “Does She do that often?” he asked, seemingly just curious. If the Domains were to free themselves from these secret alliances, they would need information.

  The Prowman shrugged. “It was the first time for me. But She moved Baluch, the Prowman before me, from time into time for a thousand years. He said it was like being a stone skipped over water.”

  Arvid shivered. A horrible fate. Horrible.

  “There are things you don’t know,” the Prowman continued.

  Arvid motioned him to a seat, and sat himself.

  “Then tell me,” he said.

  Those keen dark eyes searched his face, and grew troubled, but he spoke willingly enough.

  “When Acton came over the mountains to invade what is now the Domains, the people of the old blood here had a long and complex relationship with the five Powers. Women to Fire, men to Water—that’s the way it had been for thousands of years. And the other Powers were part of life, too, She tells me, especially the Great Forest.”

  Arvid nodded. Women to Fire indeed. That must end.

  “Acton’s people cut the Forest down,” the Prowman said gently. “Instead of working with it, in clearings and glades, as the old blood had done, they just chopped it down. They’d never seen a forest before, I think. They had no idea what they were doing.”

  “So?”

 
“So the Powers withdrew from them, especially when the Five realized they were killing off the people of the old blood.”

  “That is very old history, and here in the Last Domain no forest has been harmed.”

  “Because the Forest learned its lesson, and knows how to protect itself. It’s just too shagging dangerous to do harm to the Forest now. Isn’t it?”

  Arvid sat still. That was true. The Forest guarded itself. Pain twisted his face. Ember was riding into that Forest; he had been forced to risk the most precious thing in the world, because these dark-haired fools had held on to their secrets too long. He stood up abruptly, and gestured to the scribe’s table.

  “Write it all down,” he ordered. “I will read it later.”

  The Prowman rose slowly, and Arvid was suddenly aware that Ash was fifteen years younger and in much better shape. He had been a safeguarder, they said, and he had killed more than once. He had saved Martine’s life, she had told him, by killing two trained assassins who had come after her with knives. Arvid tensed, his hand on his belt knife, aware of the anger in the dark eyes. He had killed a few times himself, defending against the Ice King. He wouldn’t be easy prey.

  “For a thousand years,” the Prowman said softly, “Acton’s people persecuted, murdered, raped and oppressed those of my blood. The only refuge we had was the Powers. The only loyalty anyone showed us was theirs. The only strength we had was the secret knowledge that we were valued by powers far greater than a petty warlord.” He paused. “And the price we paid was secrecy. Absolute secrecy. The penalty was death. If Martine had told you what she knew, any Traveler woman would have been right to kill her. Because it was only secrecy which saved us from complete annihilation.”

  Arvid felt anger bloom beautifully in him. Felt it fill him. How dare this pawn of the Powers lecture him on Martine? It was satisfying to shout, “Sandpiper!” and have his guard run to the door immediately. It was enormously satisfying to say, “Sandpiper, this man is going to write me a report. Make sure he doesn’t leave until he is finished, and I have read it.”