- Joined
- Feb 1, 2014
- Messages
- 168
(This is chapter three. "The Outcast" which I posted a few weeks ago, was chapter one)
On the far side of the Forbidden Mountains, the vast pine forests of Aegrainte extended for two hundred leagues westwards to the windy plains of Lethulonde. On a hillside rising from this forest, two men stood leaning on their long-handled axes, gazing toward a grey stone tower that rose out of the trees beneath them. They had noticed a wisp of scarlet coloured smoke, drifting from the tower’s slender chimney.
“She’s at it again! Gods, Derberyn, can’t your lady mother breathe without enchanting something?”
The man who spoke was about forty years old, broad-shouldered, with a long scar showing white against his sun-browned face. His hair and beard were blonde, matted thick as a lion’s mane, and flecked with bark chips and fragments of dry leaves. His companion was much younger, about sixteen years of age, but with a man’s height already, and lean muscles toned by heavy labour. His hair was black as a crow’s wing, and his skin had the olive tint of southern countries. Both men were bare-chested, their skin glistening with sweat. The young man raised his hand to shade his eyes, peering toward the tower.
“That’s a new incense,” he said. “It’s usually purple, for death magic. Red smoke’s for warrior’s magic.”
The older man laughed. “Your lady mother’s going to war?” he asked, incredulously. “Where’s her army? Me an’ you?”
Derberyn remained silent and tight-lipped at first. “It’s for me,” he said at last. “I’ve seen it coming. She’s been looking at me differently. She always used to try an’ baby me. Not any more...”
“Well that’s good ain’t it? You’ve grown a hand’s span taller in the past six months. Any mother would be proud o’ you. Filled out too… That’s the chopping an’ the heaving. You’ve me to thank for that, eh? An’ Tegriolde I guess… Blacksmithing’s a man’s work. All that hammering…”
“She doesn’t see me as a blacksmith. Nor a woodsman, neither…”
“Oho! Like that, is it? Well, princeling…”
“Don’t call me that!” Derberyn’s eyes flashed fiercely and the muscles rippled in his chest as his fists clenched. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. I’d rather be a woodsman, or a farrier, or a charcoal burner, anything at all, so long as I was free. But you know my mother. There was a messenger last week. From Corbulaine…”
“From your lord father?”
“He wore Imperial livery, an’ the scroll had the Emperor’s own seal. She didn’t read it to me, but she’s gone all thoughtful ever since.”
“The Emperor can count to sixteen. He knows you’re a man grown now. Probably wants to see how you’ve turned out.”
“He knows how I’ve turned out. Orobas sends him regular reports, an’ he has other spies. Remember that peddler last autumn? T’wasn’t by accident he came here. He’s not the first, either. They used to bring me toys an’ nuts an’ sweets. Then it was penknives an’ new boots. Last time it was a sword. They always look me up an’ down, an’ clasp hands, like they’re testing my strength.”
They stood for a while, watching the red smoke drift over the treetops. The older man waited for the smoke to dissipate before he broke into Derberyn’s fierce silence. “Well then,” he said, “if you’re soon gadding off to Corbulaine, we’d best squeeze the last few dregs of work out o’ you ‘afore you leave. Come on now. Let’s finish this one while we’ve light enough to see.”
He turned back to a great tree they had felled earlier, and commenced lopping off the side branches from the trunk. Derberyn came to join him. Their axes soon took up a satisfying rhythm. It was hard work, and it helped Derberyn not to think. He had had enough of thinking.
* * * * * * *
That evening he joined his mother in her room for supper, on the topmost floor of the tower. As usual the windows were shut tight, and muffled by heavy curtains hanging to the floor. The iron stove radiated heat, and bitter-tasting incense smoke lingered in the air, mingling with a multitude of other queer smells. The room was festooned with hanging baskets of exotic herbs and bunches of dried serpents. Every inch of wall was lined with shelves sagging under the weight of old books and mildewed scrolls, dried lizards, jars of pickles and fruits crystallised in honey, and bottles of rare tinctures. From the biggest jar a wizened head leered through the cloudy yellow fluid in which it was preserved. Derberyn moved his chair to sit sideways to the head. He had never liked its cynical expression, but he didn’t like to turn his back upon it either. He was sure that he had once seen the head’s lips moving, from the corner of his eye.
His mother had prepared the meal herself. It was a southern recipe, from Garisar, the long island in the Narrow Sea where she was born, and where the most part of her soul remained, while her body pined amidst the sombre pine forests of Aegrainte. Such a meal was meant for lazy golden evenings on an outside terrace, where red-brick walls exhaled the long day’s treasured heat, beneath trellises heavy with jasmine. Derberyn could smell spiced lamb with onions, garlic and tomatoes fried in olive oil. Side dishes of curd cheese sat ready on the table, with two great rounds of fresh-baked almond bread. Derberyn’s mouth was watering already. He wished his mother cooked more often. She generally took little interest in food, and made do with whatever plain fare was sent up from the kitchen. She was pouring wine for the two of them, another departure from her habits, and using the fine crystal glasses she had brought with her from Corbulaine, not the usual chipped pewter cups. It was white wine as always, the only gift she was permitted to receive from her father in Garisar. Orobas, the tower’s sour-faced old seneschal, always made a great show of holding each bottle to the light and squinting into it from all angles, as if expecting to surprise some demon swimming in the wine, then burning the straw packing, lest letters or charms be concealed in it.
On the far side of the Forbidden Mountains, the vast pine forests of Aegrainte extended for two hundred leagues westwards to the windy plains of Lethulonde. On a hillside rising from this forest, two men stood leaning on their long-handled axes, gazing toward a grey stone tower that rose out of the trees beneath them. They had noticed a wisp of scarlet coloured smoke, drifting from the tower’s slender chimney.
“She’s at it again! Gods, Derberyn, can’t your lady mother breathe without enchanting something?”
The man who spoke was about forty years old, broad-shouldered, with a long scar showing white against his sun-browned face. His hair and beard were blonde, matted thick as a lion’s mane, and flecked with bark chips and fragments of dry leaves. His companion was much younger, about sixteen years of age, but with a man’s height already, and lean muscles toned by heavy labour. His hair was black as a crow’s wing, and his skin had the olive tint of southern countries. Both men were bare-chested, their skin glistening with sweat. The young man raised his hand to shade his eyes, peering toward the tower.
“That’s a new incense,” he said. “It’s usually purple, for death magic. Red smoke’s for warrior’s magic.”
The older man laughed. “Your lady mother’s going to war?” he asked, incredulously. “Where’s her army? Me an’ you?”
Derberyn remained silent and tight-lipped at first. “It’s for me,” he said at last. “I’ve seen it coming. She’s been looking at me differently. She always used to try an’ baby me. Not any more...”
“Well that’s good ain’t it? You’ve grown a hand’s span taller in the past six months. Any mother would be proud o’ you. Filled out too… That’s the chopping an’ the heaving. You’ve me to thank for that, eh? An’ Tegriolde I guess… Blacksmithing’s a man’s work. All that hammering…”
“She doesn’t see me as a blacksmith. Nor a woodsman, neither…”
“Oho! Like that, is it? Well, princeling…”
“Don’t call me that!” Derberyn’s eyes flashed fiercely and the muscles rippled in his chest as his fists clenched. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. I’d rather be a woodsman, or a farrier, or a charcoal burner, anything at all, so long as I was free. But you know my mother. There was a messenger last week. From Corbulaine…”
“From your lord father?”
“He wore Imperial livery, an’ the scroll had the Emperor’s own seal. She didn’t read it to me, but she’s gone all thoughtful ever since.”
“The Emperor can count to sixteen. He knows you’re a man grown now. Probably wants to see how you’ve turned out.”
“He knows how I’ve turned out. Orobas sends him regular reports, an’ he has other spies. Remember that peddler last autumn? T’wasn’t by accident he came here. He’s not the first, either. They used to bring me toys an’ nuts an’ sweets. Then it was penknives an’ new boots. Last time it was a sword. They always look me up an’ down, an’ clasp hands, like they’re testing my strength.”
They stood for a while, watching the red smoke drift over the treetops. The older man waited for the smoke to dissipate before he broke into Derberyn’s fierce silence. “Well then,” he said, “if you’re soon gadding off to Corbulaine, we’d best squeeze the last few dregs of work out o’ you ‘afore you leave. Come on now. Let’s finish this one while we’ve light enough to see.”
He turned back to a great tree they had felled earlier, and commenced lopping off the side branches from the trunk. Derberyn came to join him. Their axes soon took up a satisfying rhythm. It was hard work, and it helped Derberyn not to think. He had had enough of thinking.
* * * * * * *
That evening he joined his mother in her room for supper, on the topmost floor of the tower. As usual the windows were shut tight, and muffled by heavy curtains hanging to the floor. The iron stove radiated heat, and bitter-tasting incense smoke lingered in the air, mingling with a multitude of other queer smells. The room was festooned with hanging baskets of exotic herbs and bunches of dried serpents. Every inch of wall was lined with shelves sagging under the weight of old books and mildewed scrolls, dried lizards, jars of pickles and fruits crystallised in honey, and bottles of rare tinctures. From the biggest jar a wizened head leered through the cloudy yellow fluid in which it was preserved. Derberyn moved his chair to sit sideways to the head. He had never liked its cynical expression, but he didn’t like to turn his back upon it either. He was sure that he had once seen the head’s lips moving, from the corner of his eye.
His mother had prepared the meal herself. It was a southern recipe, from Garisar, the long island in the Narrow Sea where she was born, and where the most part of her soul remained, while her body pined amidst the sombre pine forests of Aegrainte. Such a meal was meant for lazy golden evenings on an outside terrace, where red-brick walls exhaled the long day’s treasured heat, beneath trellises heavy with jasmine. Derberyn could smell spiced lamb with onions, garlic and tomatoes fried in olive oil. Side dishes of curd cheese sat ready on the table, with two great rounds of fresh-baked almond bread. Derberyn’s mouth was watering already. He wished his mother cooked more often. She generally took little interest in food, and made do with whatever plain fare was sent up from the kitchen. She was pouring wine for the two of them, another departure from her habits, and using the fine crystal glasses she had brought with her from Corbulaine, not the usual chipped pewter cups. It was white wine as always, the only gift she was permitted to receive from her father in Garisar. Orobas, the tower’s sour-faced old seneschal, always made a great show of holding each bottle to the light and squinting into it from all angles, as if expecting to surprise some demon swimming in the wine, then burning the straw packing, lest letters or charms be concealed in it.
). You've already described it as leering. That's enough reason for me to avoid looking at it while eating.
