It was times like this, when he was standing in the breakfast chamber of the lady of the hold and hoping to change her mind, that Dreyvin truly wished he still had his right arm. Holding his left hand respectfully behind his back became that much harder without its right counterpart to clasp.
“Lady Areshinn, I don’t think we ought to send every fighting man in our hold out on the Sovvan hunt. The Treehill gang is going to see it as an open invitation to attack.”
Lady Areshinn smiled and waved at the second chair beside her breakfast table. “Sit, Dreyvin. You know very well I won’t have you stand in my presence. Have you had any more letters from Simen lately?”
Dreyvin clamped his teeth against the inside of his cheeks, awkward as always with his Lady’s mothering affection toward him since she became aware of the relationship between her son and himself, but he complied with her request. His leather jerkin creaked with the stiff motion. “Simen is an avid correspondent. He sends his love, along with the latest piece he wrote for his coursework. I think it’s a Sovvan Feast ballad, but I’m not the expert on these things.”
“Well, give it to Temara, and she’ll let us know if it’s fit to sing at our feast tonight. The men will enjoy hearing something new after we hunt.”
Dreyvin dug his fingers into his knee under the table. “My lady, please consider leaving at least a small contingent behind to protect the women and children.”
Lady Areshinn’s smile remained in place, but the hardness in her eyes brooked no argument. “I appreciate your concern, but there’s no reason for it. The Treehills are going to be licking their wounds from last week’s scuffle for some time. They didn’t even manage to carry off a single bushel of grain from our shipment to Haven.”
Her voice rang with pride, and Dreyvin couldn’t help feeling an echo of it in his own chest. He’d been drilling some of the younger fighting men in defensive tactics for months now, ever since he recovered enough from the loss of his arm to make himself useful. Their victory defending the shipment last week was his victory, too, despite him not having been there.
The death of Lord Areshinn five years ago might have weakened Areshinn Hold’s defensive edge against the various bandit gangs that roved the surrounding hills, but with rigorous training they were rebuilding their strength and gaining ground little by little, one shipment at a time.
But it might all be undone in a single night if the fears that had Dreyvin’s missing arm tingling with phantom itches were justified. The hold couldn’t bounce back if the Treehill gang decided to act on the opportunity the Sovvan hunt would present to them. All the fighting men gone? Only the women left behind to prepare the feast for when the men returned in the evening? Even bandits still nursing bleeding wounds wouldn’t hesitate to try it.
“I still think we ought to be prepared for the worst,” he said.
“The worst,” said Lady Areshinn. She didn’t even twitch her eyes toward the corner where her fallen husband’s armor was displayed, but the lines of her face drew tighter. “Our hold has been prepared for the worst for years now. It is a lifestyle that puts a heavy strain on those who live it. My husband and I used to talk about our responsibilities to our people often, of how our duty did not stop at making our people safe, but continued ever onward, driving us to ensure our people’s prosperity and, perhaps most importantly, their happiness. There’s been precious little happiness in our hold these past few years, Dreyvin. Will you deny any of your men the chance to earn themselves a bit of well-deserved luck through the Sovvan hunt?”
“Not by choice, my lady. But if the Treehills should attack—”
“We cannot always be looking for the next attack, lad. And we couldn’t have asked for a better chance to relax our guard as we have now. You should listen to more of the men’s boasts from last week. They aren’t all exaggerations for the kitchen girls!”
Her laugh flowed easily, her head thrown back and her eyes crinkled now with mirth. Simen looked the same when he was at ease with his joy.
Dreyvin bit back a sigh. If Lady Areshinn was so confident of their momentary safety, then perhaps he was being over-defensive. But it was hard quieting the tactical part of his brain when he’d been relying on it near constantly for the past two years. Even when he was delirious with the pain of his severed arm, he’d been working out lines of defense from his bed.
Maybe her point about the strain of their harried lifestyle had some merit. “Very well, my lady. I trust you still mean to ride with the men?”
“Of course. I want some of that Sovvan hunt good luck, too. And who knows, if I do well, perhaps Lord Areshinn will honor me with a visit from beyond.”
Now her gaze turned to her husband’s armor. The autumnal morning sun slanted in through her windows to glint off the burnished edges, giving it an ethereal look that made Dreyvin’s breath catch.
There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t feel the absence of the man who had, for a time, been like a father to him.
“If we could have him back even for a moment,” he said, “it would go a long way to alleviating the melancholy of the hold.”
“It would indeed,” said Lady Areshinn, before lightening her attitude again. “As would Simen’s return, if he was able to escape his classes at the Collegium for the festival. Tell me how he’s doing, Dreyvin. He never writes such long letters to me as he does to you. Is he making more friends since that Herald Trainee went on her internship?”
Dreyvin recounted what he could from Simen’s latest letter, though he kept some things to himself. His lady didn’t need to know how her son had waxed poetic to him about what a perfect hideaway the forest behind the Companion’s Field made, or about the detailed fantasy Simen had described of the two of them making use of it.
Areshinn Hold was a different place without the menfolk around. Even though Lady Areshinn did much to help the women under her protection feel at ease, there was no denying the fact that most of the kitchen girls kept their thoughts to themselves while the men might hear.
They’d gotten used to Dreyvin hanging around since his injury made him too much of a burden to accompany the fighting men, though. And, if he was honest, he enjoyed the few times he’d been left completely alone with the kitchen girls. They were less worried about making him feel the loss of his arm.
“Teela, pick up your pace, girl! Old One-Arm has peeled more apples than you in the last ten minutes, and that’s just disgraceful.”
The girl sitting beside him at the prep table, Teela, stuck her tongue out at Temara, the woman who had berated her. “That’s because he’s not distracted like I am. I’m trying to think of the best way to get Gerren’s attention tonight. Do you think he’ll look my way if I wear orange leaves in my hair? It worked for Sira last year.”
“I think he’ll look your way if the applesauce is perfect. Imagine the look on his face when he finds out Dreyvin’s the one who made it so sweet!”
Peals of high laughter mingled with the sweet and savory aromas throughout the kitchen, and Dreyvin didn’t bother hiding his own smile. He reached across the table for another apple to affix to his peeler.
“By the way, Temara,” he said when the giggles died down enough. “Simen sent me another song. Lady Areshinn wanted you to see if it was fit to sing at the feast tonight.”
“Have you got it with you?”
“Of course.” Dreyvin carried one of Simen’s letters everywhere with him. It helped him feel the distance between Areshinn Hold and the Collegium in Haven just a little less.
He pulled the letter from a pocket inside his shirt, an easy motion as he had removed his leather jerkin. Getting out of even the scant armor he usually wore around the keep was helping him stay in the “relaxed” state of mind his lady had suggested. He had to admit, losing the tension in his shoulders was a nice change of pace.
He separated the song from the rest of the letter—taking a moment to silently preen over the improved dexterity in his left hand—before handing the song to Temara.
Temara had studied music for a time under a master before Lord Areshinn’s death, but as she lacked the Bardic Gift, she had never gone to study at the Collegium. But she knew how to read music, and it made her an indispensable member of the hold, beyond her strong skills at running the kitchen.
She hummed softly as she read through Simen’s song.
“This is good,” she said when she finished. “Haunting, melodic. Really brings out the spirit of the season. He’s branching out these days. I’ll have to change my lute’s tuning before the feast.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him he’s given you a challenge when I respond.”
“Oh, I didn’t say it would be a challenge,” Temara said with a grin. “And get back to peeling. The sauce won’t cook itself.”
“Just giving Teela a chance to catch up,” Dreyvin said. Beside him, Teela huffed and picked up another apple.
A clamor rose outside, loud enough to be heard over the chaos of the kitchen. Dreyvin’s hackles were immediately up, and he’d half-risen from his stool before the door leading out to the yard flew open and the stablemaster’s daughter stumbled in. Her cheeks were flushed from running, her braids coming unwound in wisps. Dreyvin had put her with the small group who were to watch from the walls until the men and Lady Areshinn returned.
“Movement on the south hill,” she said, panting.
The lady and the men had gone hunting to the west. South could mean only one thing.
Dreyvin reflexively went to draw his sword, only to recall too late that he never wore one anymore, and that the arm he was trying to move no longer existed. A sour wave of grief, unwanted and unhelpful, cascaded down his throat as he swallowed forcefully.
To their credit, the women of the kitchen didn’t set to wailing or crying, though they were clearly frightened. They turned bright eyes toward either him or Temara, wringing their hands, but otherwise awaiting their orders.
They’d been harried too many times by the Treehill bandits to waste time with useless tears.
The picture of calm, Temara turned to him. “How long until the hunters return?”
Too long, he thought but did not say. “They won’t ride for home until after dusk falls. That’s still an hour away.”
“Have the girls bar the gate, light the watch fires. Make it look like we’ve got men on the wall. You’ve still got sparring weapons in the practice yard, right?”
“Yes, but subterfuge won’t help. The bandits know the calendar as well as we do. They know we’re undefended.”
Dreyvin regretted the words as soon as they were said. The women began whispering among themselves, and a few moans underscored the miasma of fear.
But there was no time to berate himself. “Temara, take the women to the cellars and barricade the door from the inside.” The cellar door was made of stone, so the bandits would have a hard time burning the women out if they discovered the hiding place. There was enough food put away in storage to last at least a few days, if not a whole week. With Temara’s good management, they’d be able to hold out until Lady Areshinn could mount a counterattack to retake the hold.
He turned the situation over in his mind a few times, until he was satisfied that he’d prepared for the worst.
That left only the question of what he was going to do with himself in the interim.
As if she’d read his mind, Temara frowned. “I think I see where you’re going with this, but you can’t mean to simply let the bandits in without any resistance, can you?”
“I don’t see how I can fend off even a small faction of the Treehills,” Dreyvin said, shrugging the shoulder that still had an arm attached and grinning with grim humor. “I’m a bit short-handed.”
Nobody laughed at his joke. Beside him, Teela rose from her stool. Gone was the daydreaming kitchen girl; in her place stood a woman with inner steel to rival that of Lady Areshinn herself.
“I don’t want to let those bastards take our hold,” she said. An answering murmur of assent rose from the gathered women.
“I commend your bravery,” said Dreyvin. “But you are none of you trained to take on the dirty fighting tactics these hill men use.”
“If they’re going to fight dirty, we’ll fight dirtier!” cried a woman by the butcher block. She pulled a knife from the collection and brandished it. It was clean, unused yet today as the kitchen awaited the bounty of the hunt to prepare the main course for the night’s feast.
Other women were taking up the cry, picking up kitchen implements and tying their aprons tighter about their waists as if that would help them fight more effectively.
Dreyvin felt his control of the situation slipping rapidly away. If he put up much resistance, he might well find himself locked in the cellar while the kitchen girls took matters into their own hands. He couldn’t think of a surer recipe for disaster.
“All right, all right!” he yelled, holding his hand up to quiet the women. “All right. Those of you who would prefer to defend the hold may do so, but ‘fight dirtier’ is not a viable plan of attack on its own. We need some way to stretch our defensive power as far as we can.”
He glanced at Temara, hoping to find her, at least, prepared to be rational. Maybe she could even convince most of the girls to go down to the cellars.
But he found her wearing a positively wicked grin. She held the page with Simen’s Sovvan Night song written on it between two callused fingers.
“I have an idea. You said yourself the Treehill gang know their calendar as well as we do. I think, with your cooperation and a little borrowing from the lady, we can give them a Sovvan Night they’ll never forget.”
A chill ran down Dreyvin’s spine at the dark look on her face, and it tingled all the way to his extremities. The itch was strongest in the missing fingers of his lost sword hand.
If Temara noticed the effect she’d had on him, she gave no indication of it. Instead, she turned to the woman who had pulled the butcher’s knife from the block. “Go and fetch a chicken. I’m afraid we’ll have to break tradition and slaughter a domestic animal tonight, but I think our hold’s spirits will forgive us the transgression.”
The dark blush of dusk was creeping up from the eastern horizon, and a heavy scent of cook fires laced the crisp air above the yard.
From his hidden vantage point on the roof of the Areshinn manor, in the shadow of the south tower, Dreyvin could watch the approach of the Treehill Gang toward the hold’s southern wall. He had a fine view of the scattering of ladies down in the yard, too, as well as the pots, pans, and other kitchen devices they had moved outside in order to receive the bounty of the hunt as soon as the men arrived. Temara was waving her arms, directing four of the strongest women of the hold in arranging the long tables for the feast.
Dreyvin’s palm itched with nervous sweat. His real one, not the phantom of the one he’d lost. That one, for once, was quiet, as dead and gone as the once-mighty lord of this hold. He hoped it wasn’t a sign that Temara’s plan was not appreciated by the spirits on the other side.
He tried desperately to shut off the part of his brain that incessantly prodded the plan for weak points. There was no time for revision. The dark shapes in the hills were nearly upon them. He had to be ready to play his part to the best of his abilities.
His left hand twitched awkwardly around the tinder box he held. He felt clumsy, and naked without a shield on his arm, despite the armor he wore.
His first job was to signal when the bandits came close enough to disappear behind the rise of the wall. The moment he lost sight of the first of the dark shapes out there, he wet his lips and blew a fair imitation of a white-faced stable owl, an appropriate call-signal for a Sovvan Night scheme.
In the yard below, Temara perked at the sign and began to sing.
Dreyvin had never heard her voice sound like this before. It was sharp, keening, and yet the falling tones of the song gave her a mournful sound, as if she’d lost someone who made her life worth living. The lyrics heightened the image. It sent cold fingers walking down Dreyvin’s spine to hear.
Simen wrote this, he thought. He couldn’t picture his bright, happy lover sitting in a fancy room at the Collegium and putting these notes, those words, on the page.
Other women had joined their voices to Temara’s now. The song twisted through the yard just like the smoke from the fire pit, until Dreyvin was ready to see ghosts in the writhing mists.
But he had no idea if the tune was creating a similar effect among the bandits as they drew closer, closer, close enough to storm the unbarred gate any moment now.
Dreyvin couldn’t help scanning the darkening eastern forest one last time, hoping for even a small sign that Lady Areshinn and the men were returning. He got nothing.
A great crash and a splintering of wood had him tensing for action. The bandits had struck at the gate.
The women set up screaming, some tripping over their skirts as they ran for the shelter of the manor.
It set Dreyvin’s teeth on edge to sit back and do nothing as the Treehill gang swarmed into the heart of Areshinn Hold, but he made himself do it. His fingers gripped his tinder box so tight they went numb.
As Temara had had to wait for his signal to begin singing her eerie song, so now he must wait for the next signal.
He quivered, bowstring-tight, and kept out of sight as the chaotic cacophony came up to him. He could no longer tell whether the high screams of the women were genuine or put on for the sake of the plan.
May Lord Areshinn’s vengeful spirit slay me if I’ve made a horrible mistake, he thought. May Lady Areshinn curse my Havens-be-damned name.
At last, the clamor died down, and the Treehill bandits began to gloat over their victory.
“Get your hands off me!” came the clear, youthful voice of Teela. There was a masculine grunt of pain, and Dreyvin smiled to imagine one of the self-assured bandits doubling over with a sudden affliction in his groin.
Teela heaped more abuse on her captors. “A lot of filthy hill dogs you are, and cowards to boot! Oh, you think I’m only spitting words, do you? Well, we’ll see the color of your bellies soon enough, oh yes. You interrupted our Sovvan Night ritual, but we’d nearly completed it anyway.”
She drew a breath, and Dreyvin pictured the dramatic way she must have thrown her head back.
“Oh, spirits of Areshinn! If ever you loved your home and your people, come now in our defense. Find these mongrels a worthy sacrifice.”
That was it, the signal. Dreyvin’s heart thundered like always at times of action, but his left hand remained steady as he managed to strike a spark one-handed into the brazier he’d dragged onto the roof. He knew that at the same time, the hold children were doing the same at each brazier along the hold wall, all keeping out of sight so as to make it appear as if the fires were springing to life of their own accord.
“What the—”
“The fires!”
“What have you done, woman?”
The bandits continued their questions in gruff voices, but Temara had taken up Simen’s Sovvan song again, and the other women joined in one by one, until the eerie sound filled the yard.
Dreyvin checked the sky. The dark band of dusk had spread over halfway across the sky, and a sprinkling of stars winked in and out from behind a shredded curtain of clouds and smoke.
It was as perfect as he could ask for.
He almost forgot to take the time to empty the bowl of chicken blood over the front of his armor before he rose from his hiding place, but he remembered at the last moment.
Lord Areshinn’s armor had been enshrined in the lady’s room in exactly the same condition in which it was last on the lord’s body. A great rend in the breastplate showed the line of the fatal strike which the lord had taken as he himself cut down the previous leader of the very gang of bandits who had hounded the hold ever since.
It was a little big on Dreyvin, but Temara had insisted that the cobbled-together effect helped forward the idea that he was Lord Areshinn’s vengeful spirit returned to defend his keep once again.
Dreyvin rose to his full height and planted one foot firmly on the downslope of the roof. He let the heavy crimson cloak bearing the Areshinn crest flutter in the smoky breeze, but he ensured that it continued to hide the fact that his right epaulette and gauntlet hung empty at his side.
He was in full view of the women and the Treehills now. Some of the women wore expressions of fierce victory despite the bruises and mussed hair from the rough treatment the bandits had given them.
The bandits stared slack-jawed and glassy-eyed up at him. For a few thudding heartbeats, Dreyvin saw in his mind’s eye what they must see: a figure wearing the armor of their once-defeated enemy, cape flaring and embers flying about him as if conjured up by the deepest rage of the afterlife.
He gripped the hilt of the sword that hung at his right hip and pulled it out with what he hoped, hoped, hoped looked like the practiced ease of a warrior lord and not the fumbling of a one-armed man about to lose his balance.
Dreyvin pitched his voice as low as it could go. “I am the Lord of Areshinn Hold! I loved my home and my people. I come now in their defense. And I find these mongrels a worthy sacrifice!”
One of the bandits shrieked, flung his weapon to the ground, and fled toward the broken gate.
The others looked around, perhaps for assurance from their fellows, but found instead the women whom they had thought pacified holding an array of butcher’s knives, meat forks, or heavy cast-iron pans, pulled from where they’d been hidden in the their skirts. The flickering light of the burning braziers all around the hold reflected like ghost fire from the makeshift weapons.
And from the darkness of the eastern forest came the baying of hounds, the pounding of hooves, and the trumpeting of hunting horns.
The bandits turned tail. Some of the women gave chase, Teela among them brandishing an apple peeler like a dagger. Temara led a cluster of kitchen girls in heading off a few escapees. Everywhere, the sound of Simen’s Sovvan Night song rose in scraps and shreds.
Once again, chaos reigned below Dreyvin. His body hummed with the desire to go down there, to join the fight, to make himself useful as he used to when he was whole.
But he held his place on the roof, keeping up his spectral appearance both to intimidate their enemy and to embolden those who fought to defend Areshinn Hold.
Outside the walls, the hunters who had returned just in time to rout the fleeing Treehills made short work of mopping up the stragglers. Lady Areshinn’s clear, commanding tones rolled like thunder, keeping the men from celebrating a victory too early, but she couldn’t quite mask her own elation as she rode through the broken gate and into the yard.
The lady of the hold tilted her face up to the roof, pure awe and hope nakedly displayed for Dreyvin to read.
He saw the moment she registered his true identity and the way her brow drew downward in pain.
Feeling self-conscious and ashamed of having hurt his lady, he lowered his borrowed sword. The muscles in his arm thanked him for it. He’d never get used to holding a weapon in his left hand. He would just have to find some other way to continue to be useful to his lady, provided she still wanted him to be useful to her.
But Lady Areshinn showed her grace and shook the confusion away with a twitch of her shoulders. “I suppose you’re entitled to say, ‘I told you so’ now, Dreyvin.”
“And yet, so could you, my lady,” he called down. “We don’t seem to have needed the fighting men on hand to get rid of the bandits, after all.”
Lady Areshinn surveyed the yard from atop her horse, taking in the efficient way the kitchen girls were cleaning up the mess of the fallen bandits. Over by the splinters of the gate, Teela was flipping her suspiciously stained apple peeler and smiling at Gerren as he rode through. At some point, a scuffle had affixed a tangle of twigs and orange autumn leaves into the mess of her braids.
“Let us simply say the spirits of our hold have smiled fondly upon us on this Sovvan Hunt,” said Lady Areshinn. “Now, how many times do I have to say I won’t have you stand in my presence before you comply with it? Come down here and let’s have ourselves a feast.”
My Dear Drey,
Imagine my little Sovvan song playing such a pivotal role in the defense of our home! Your description of the skirmish, though admittedly a little lacking in poetic flourishes, puts me in such a state of mind as I fear I’ll rush off to write ten more such pieces the moment I’ve finished this letter. Next time you write me, you must include a more detailed explanation of your own role in the scheme. I would have loved to see you all fitted up in my father’s armor. If only my Herald friend Marli had been able to peek in on you at just the right moment! But speaking of when I’ll see you next, I’m working on a little scheme of my own. I won’t say more now, but just you stew over it, won’t you?
All my love,
Simen
His heart full and warm, Dreyvin carefully folded this latest letter back up, removed the previous one from his breast pocket, and slipped the new one right in.
Just now, he meant to spend some time preparing for the best.