In the time before the land soured, when all were equal, there was a girl called Gwyfher and she was daughter to the greatest bladesmistress the land had ever seen, Khyfer. Gwyfher herself had no interest in the ways of the weapon. She saw only beauty in the land and her mother, who had seen much pain, sought to preserve her daughter’s love of beauty.
It was Gwyfher’s dream to grow up and rule her village well and wisely, holding the hands of the gods and doing their will. And in Gwyfher’s village no other wished for anything different; all could remember the days of war before Gwyfher’s mother had triumphed and none would welcome those times back for they were dark and bloody.
So Gwyfher’s mother trained with the blade to keep her people safe and Gwyfher watched but never joined in. Her mother spun the steel wreath and Gwyfher spun garlands of flowers and laughed and was loved by all around her. The village of Gwyfher’s people was calm and happy and hoped to be so for evermore.
But Torelc, the god of time, as all know, disliked the world. For even though time always went forward nothing ever changed. And he watched Gwyfher and her village and wished for change. So Torelc looked back along the life and time of the village until he found something that made him smile. Then when he looked forward along the life and time of the village he smiled even more for he knew what had been, what would be and how it would always be.
“Nothing happens to these people,” he thought, “except what has already happened. So I shall make what has happened happen again and call it change.”
Now, across the river from Gwyfher’s village was another village. And this village was as beautiful and small and happy as Gwyfher’s. And where Gwyfher’s village was ruled by a woman this village was ruled by a man. Torelc stole into this man’s mind and found a memory, for memories are the children of time as sure as hedgings are the lost servants of the gods. Torelc knew that the man’s memory was a bitter one, and Torelc spoke to his servant, Dark Ungar, and said to him, “Dark Ungar, go to this village and prod and poke this man’s memory until he acts. And then we shall see change and be happy.”
And Dark Ungar, who loved nothing more than strife, did as Torelc asked.
But Gwyfher knew nothing of the god who watched, or of how Torelc delighted in change, even for the sake of nothing but change. She continued in contentment and moved from a girl to a young woman and never knew a day’s misery. Until the day the men came across the river. Dark men, led by old memories. They stood at the edge of the village and shouted for Gwyfher’s mother.
“Khyfer! Khyfer the bladesmistress! Come and talk to us.” And Khyfer, who knew the look of trouble when she saw it, knelt by her daughter.
“Daughter, who has known only beauty, run from this place and never look back. Know my love for you is for ever and if you love me too you will do this thing.” And Gwyfher nodded and turned and she ran and ran, but, before the village was out of view, she was stopped at the edge of the forest by an old woman.
“Where do you run to, young Gwyfher?”
“Away, as my mother has told me to. And I must never look back, wise mother.”
“Are you not curious?”
“Yes, wise mother.”
“Then look back. What can it hurt?”
And Gwyfher, who had never known pain, did not know that to look back always brings hurt. So Gwyfher looked back, and saw the man stood before her mother, and behind him more men.
“Who are you that comes to my peaceful village?” said Khyfer to the man.
“You should know who I am, for I have waited for this day, and trained for it, long on long,” said the man.
“How long for?” shouted Khyfer. “A day? Or maybe a week?”
But the dark man had no time for the exchange of insults. His mind was fired by the whispers of Dark Ungar.
What Gwyfher saw then she could never not see. Her mother, fast and strong, fought the men. She fought hard, she fought well, but there were too many for her and in the end she fell and the leader of the men cut her head from her body.
“See,” he shouted, holding the head of Khyfer aloft, “the face of the woman who slew my father!”
And Gwyfher ran away, ran far and hard into the forest, her face wet with tears and her body stonestruck with grief. When she finally tired the wise mother found her once more and laid upon the floor two shining blades.
“Here, girl, do you not wish to avenge your mother who was slain by these men?”
“But I know nothing of blades,” said Gwyfher. “I know of only beauty.”
“But you are the daughter of Khyfer, the bladesmistress; the blades are in your blood. You require only time to learn and I, daughter, can give you time and tricks aplenty.”
And Gwyfher took the wreath of flowers from her neck and laid it on the floor by the blades.
“Then give me time and tricks, wise mother. And Khyfer shall be avenged.”
Years passed, as years will. And Gwyfher learned all the tricks of the blade her mother had known and many she did not, for although she did not know it she learnt her trade at the hands of Dark Ungar, servant of Torelc who wished for nothing but change.
And one day she walked back into the village she had once called home, and she was arrayed in the clothes of war—the wide helm, the metal greaves, the enamelled shirt—and she saw men and women, many whom she had once known, and others whom she had not. Among them she saw the man who had killed her mother: saw him older; saw him kneel by a boy and speak some words to him. Saw him point to the river and she watched the boy run away without looking back.
“Who are you that comes to my peaceful village?” said the man. And around him gathered his warriors, strong men with sword and spear.
“This is my village,” said Gwyfher, “and it is you who came here when I was a young girl.”
“And I that slew your mother, who took this village from my father.”
At the mention of her mother Gwyfher drew her blades.
“Enough talk,” she said. “I have trained for this day.”
“For how long?” shouted the warrior. “A day? Or maybe a week?”
But Gwyfher had no time for the traditional exchange of insults.
Forward she came, angry and righteous. Her blades cut left; a man fell. Her blades cut right; a man fell, and soon only Gwyfher and the man who had killed her mother stood.
“Maybe I trained for two weeks,” she said, “as time does fly when you are doing something you enjoy.” Gwyfher’s blades came down for the last time and blood danced across the floor and the people and the land cried out for Gwyfher’s victory.
“My mother avenged,” she shouted, and cut the head from the dark man, lifting it aloft, “and our village shall know only peace now.”
But in the bushes a small boy watched, and by him stood an old woman. And far above them all, Torelc, the god of time, who could see what had been and what would be, watched and smiled at what he had wrought and would wreak again.
I finished in the position of the teller: my feet together, hands held palms together in front of my chest, my elbows sticking out to show the white lining of my suit against the black: I became a skeleton, a symbol of death and as still as any corpse. Despite the blood on the floor, despite the horror of what had gone on just before, I had danced well and knew it. I could feel the appreciation, even if no one spoke or applauded.
Gamelon stared at me, his head to one side as if he were considering what I had done. He opened his mouth to speak but I did not intend to let him. He had brought Death’s Jester out and Death’s Jester would not be upstaged by him. I turned on my heel and walked away, striding down the aisle between the blessed of the Tired Lands, and I did not look back as I knew what I would see. I had walked through the pool left when they had cut out Boros’s tongue so I left a trail of bloody footprints leading back to Gamelon, the high seneschal of Ceadoc. Whatever game he played here, I would not play it.
I was not the only one uncomfortable with Gamelon’s capricious attitude to death and punishment. I heard the jingle of armour followed by footsteps as many of the blessed took my leaving as an excuse to make their own exit. There was no talk, no laughter as may have been expected for what was meant to be, largely, a social gathering for people to get to know the new candidates for high king. The atmosphere, as people filed out the hall, was that of people leaving a corpse to be claimed by Xus.
I did not look back. Instead I walked to the stables and found my own Xus, my mount, already saddled. I left a coin in thanks and lifted myself into the saddle. Xus leant his head back and tried to catch the side of my head with his antler, a new trick that I had quickly become wise to. I caught the end of his antler and used it to steer him round, then drove him at speed through the town, scattering the sad people of Ceadoc before me, and although Xus enjoyed such chaos, I felt small and petty for it. To them I must look like some terrifying hedgelord, clothed in black, face painted like a skull. When I reached the Low Tower, the portcullis was raised for me and I ignored the greetings, riding Xus straight to the stables. It was there Rufra found me, much later, brushing a purring Xus down.
“A child’s story, Girton?”
I turned. He was still on his mount so he could look down on me. With him was Prince Vinwulf, also mounted.
“It was all I could think of at short notice.”
“I liked it, Father,” said Vinwulf, his eyes sparkling. “I liked where he danced killing. It was like watching a swordfight.” He paused. “The way he slid from move to move, and became each character. Girton showed us the beauty of the blade, do you not think? I—”
“Be quiet, Vinwulf.” Rufra shot his son a venomous look that robbed the sparkle from the boy’s eye. “What you did, Girton, was an insult to them.”
“Death’s Jester makes its own choices. All know that.”
“And all know you are my Heartblade!” Suddenly he was roaring. “What you do reflects on me!”
A moment of silence. Vinwulf looked from his father to me.
“Father could have you killed,” he said with a sly grin, but he had badly misjudged the mood and his father turned on him with a roar.
“I said be quiet.”
He hissed the words and smacked Vinwulf on the shoulder, pushing him backward so he fell from his mount, landing with a clatter of armour. Rufra stared at Vinwulf, his mouth moving without making sound. Then he jumped from his mount, wincing with pain and bringing his hand to the wound in his side as his feet hit the floor. He rushed round to Vinwulf, who was pushing himself away from his father using his elbows, his face full of alarm.
“I am sorry, Vinwulf,” said Rufra. “I did not mean to—”
“You never mean anything,” said Vinwulf, standing and brushing hay from his skirts. “Go be king, Father,” he said, turning away and walking out of the stable.
Rufra followed him, but before he walked out of the stable he shot me a look, as if to say, “This was your fault.” I stood, angry, ready to chase after him, tell him how he was wrong.
But I did not because he was not.
I had chosen that story exactly because it was a children’s story and it insulted our host. I took a step toward Balance, she would need unsaddling and so would Vinwulf’s mount, a son of Xus’s called Ranit. As I took off Balance’s bridle I heard the familiar sound of my master walking—the thud of her stick, the fall of her foot—and with her came Aydor’s booming voice. They swept into the stable, Aydor leading his mount, Dorlay.
“I see you have fallen out with the king again,” he said.
“I would not say that,” I said. “You have to fall in to fall out.” Aydor gave me a gap-toothed grin and my master stumped over, placing her hand on the small of my back.
“I will see to the mounts, Girton. You should find somewhere else to be for a while, let Rufra cool down.”
“He will not.”
“He will. You may have insulted Gamelon with your dance but many of the blessed will agree with what you did. To send a man to his death and demand a jester dance in his blood, it is poor manners.”
“Poor manners?” I said, unable to hide how incredulous I was at her choice of words.
“At the least,” she said. “People now know Rufra stands against the way Ceadoc has been run for generations. If anything, your show of disdain is likely to make him more popular.”
“At the cost of Boros’s life.”
“Boros made his own decisions. You are not responsible for them.” Behind my master Aydor nodded, though he did not look happy.
“He is my friend,” I said.
Her face clouded over, because she knew he was not—not since his discovery of the magic within me.
“Friendships end,” she said, then before I could reply she changed tack. “Of all the children’s stories, Girton, why did you choose that one?”
“The Angered Maiden?” I shrugged. “It just came into my head. Maybe because it was the first one I learned?” A strange expression crossed her face, almost dreamy, and she smiled, placing a cold hand on my cheek.
“You are a good boy, Girton.” She patted my cheek. “Now, Voniss says the Festival Lords have asked for you. Go see them, get away from here for a few hours. It will be good for you.”
I was about to argue because what I really wanted to do was go after Rufra and tell him that this wasn’t really my fault, make him see he was wrong. But before I could put my case forward Aydor spoke.
“I wish I could come with you,” he said, taking my arm and leading me out. “Always fancied seeing a Festival Lord.” My master watched me leave and I knew there was no point arguing. They worked together in this, as they so often did, and I had been outmanoeuvred.
Besides, I wanted to find out what the Festival Lords wanted. They were secretive and few ever got to meet them face to face. I was curious, and just a little nervous, about why they had asked for me.