ONE
AMONG OLD FRIENDS
In the mellow sunshine and cooling breezes of a gentle afternoon, Klamath rode without haste among the billowed hills of southwestern Belleger. He had always liked these rides. They pleased him. At heart, he was a man of fields and farms. He loved seeing Belleger at peace.
The purpose of his journey was another matter.
He had left the camps of the army outside the Open Hand two fortnights ago, wending first to the south, then gradually turning eastward, visiting villages, hamlets, and farmsteads as he went. In the early hours, the sun reached his eyes uncomfortably, but when it did, the broad brim of his slouch hat protected them. Now his shadow led him on his way; and he rode with his hat pushed back, enjoying the warmth and air on his face, the hints of cooling weather in the winds, the vistas around him.
This was sheep-grazing country, fertile enough for crops, and well fed with streams wandering through the shallow valleys, but too hilly for wheat or barley, millet or hay or sugar beets. The only signs of cultivation were occasional olive groves and vineyards. As a result, thickets of scrub oak and rhododendron grew wild, and flowers sprang up where they willed. But the soft slopes dipping here and there into wooded hollows or marshy swales were ideal for sheep. Animals almost ready for shearing wandered wherever their shepherds and dogs allowed them, cropping the sweet grasses in contentment.
From time to time, a distant shepherd hailed Klamath. More than once, he saw a sheepdog lose its head and chase a rabbit into a thicket. But he did not pause to speak with the shepherds or watch the dogs frighten their quarry. He was in no hurry, but he did not dally. He still had a long way to go. His manner and his gait may have been casual, but he took his duty seriously.
He had come far enough from the Open Hand and Belleger’s Fist to see the Realm’s Edge Mountains high on the horizon to the south. Even now, the tallest peaks remained wrapped in their cloaks of snow and ice, vestments white with dazzles when they struck reflections from the sun; and even the lower slopes were clotted with winter among their granite bluffs. The sight of them used to lift his heart whenever he rode this way. Now they made him uneasy. They held secrets he could not have imagined in earlier times.
Ever since Belleger’s new army had begun to take shape, he had required these rides of himself every three years or so. Despite his new instructions from his King, and his more recent awareness of the dangers of the Realm’s Edge, he still relished the ride itself. The beauty of the countryside, like the increasing health and prosperity of its people, and the open air in every kind of weather, refreshed his spirit. The effects of peace wherever he went—the growing families, the better farms, the new abundance of staples, fabrics, and tools supplied by the merchantries—touched him where he lived inside himself. And this was especially true since sorcery had been restored to the realm. The benefits of theurgy were everywhere. The weather could be wet or dry, according to the needs of the region. Diseases were rare: fires, rarer. Before his eyes, Belleger was recovering from its long war with Amika. The new vitality of his homeland made him glad.
Apart from his two mules and their diminishing burdens, he had no one with him. He wore the homespun shirt and trousers of a farmer. At need, he could wrap himself in a canvas rain-cape. Hats like his were worn by half the men in south Belleger, and by a good number of women. Even his saber was packed away. Only the rifle slung over his shoulder, and the satchel of ammunition at his saddle-horn, marked him as a soldier: only those things, and the high moccasins rising to midcalf that he had learned to wear during his time in the eastern desert with Prince Bifalt and Elgart, searching for the Last Repository. To any cursory glance, Klamath looked like a farmer riding to market, or returning home.
But he was not truly alone. He had an escort. Years ago, two men were enough. Now, at his King’s command, he was guarded by a squad of ten. Oh, they stayed out of sight among the hills; even out of earshot. They camped without him, rode on without him. But his path and his stopping-places were well known to them, and they followed a parallel track. He could summon them with a shot. They would reach him in minutes.
The King of Belleger considered Klamath too valuable to lose.
His purpose was an awkward one. Often unpleasant. Sometimes cruel. Being too valuable to lose was not a status that Klamath had ever wanted. He considered himself a common man, despite his uncommon experiences. He belonged among other common men. Yet it was only his elevated status that allowed him to insist on rides like this when his King argued against them.
The halloo of a shepherd reached him from a far-off hillside. Dogs barked, seconding their master. Klamath waved to them and their flock, and rode on. He was nearing his next destination. Under other circumstances, he would have been eager to reach it. Now he could imagine the distress it would cause. But it was his duty, and he did not delay facing it.
After another league, he rounded a hill near its crest and came in sight of the place where he expected to spend the night. Below him lay a dell that cupped a flourishing copse of birch and sycamore beside a languid stream; and across the water stood the cottage he sought. Sunlight still held the tops of the trees. It gilded the tall chimneys of the house. The rest of the farmstead—the barn and sheep-pens, the cottage itself—lay in the spreading shadow of the hill.
It was a welcome sight. The cottage was unharmed. Under its meticulously thatched roof and the high peak of its rooftree, its walls were snug and sturdy. The windows on all sides had only sheets of canvas for shutters, but they were open to catch the softer evening air. The smoke curling from the kitchen chimney became spun gold in the light of the setting sun; and when the breeze brought the smoke to Klamath, he smelled clean wood and mutton.
In the south, the flock he had noticed a short time ago was coming closer, herded homeward by its sheepdogs. Now he recognized the shepherd. And as he started down into the dell, a child who may have been playing or hiding or doing chores among a cluster of bushes beside the stream stood up and looked in his direction. Then the child gave a squeal and ran for the cottage.
A young girl, Klamath saw. Knowing the family, he did not have to search his memory for her name. It was Mattilda. And she did not sound frightened. She sounded excited, announcing a visitor. A visitor her parents had learned to expect in this season every third year.
Trotting down the slope, Klamath smiled as an anxiety left him. The family here was one of his favorites. He did not think that they were close enough to the Realm’s Edge to be in danger. Being who he was, however, he had feared they were. That fear did not leave him entirely now. He knew too little about the secrets hiding in the mountains. But for one night, at least, he could let himself relax.
His visits here were always awkward. This one would be more than unpleasant. But despite his gentle disposition, he was a veteran of Belleger’s battles with Amika. He knew killing and savage sorcery. He did not shy away from unpleasantness and hurt.
As he made his descent, a woman came out onto the porch. Stout and strong. Flaxen hair raddled with grey, just like her husband’s. Hands and forearms red from washing dishes or cooking. She did not smile when she recognized Klamath; but he did not expect that. Her wave was welcome enough.
“Matta!” he called in answer. “My blessing on this house, and the King’s as well! You are a sight to make a weary man glad.”
Her reply was a scowl, but she did not turn her back.
In a moment, her husband, Matt, joined her on the porch. He was a tall man, upright and solid, with a frame made for heavy lifting and sturdy construction. The sun had baked his face bronze. His hair and beard were the same mixed hues as his wife’s, showing his years. But his eyes were an unclouded blue, while hers were a stormy grey.
His daughter, seven-year-old Mattilda, the youngest child, accompanied him. She stood close beside him, staring at their visitor with wide eyes. He rested one broad hand on her head as if she needed his protection, although of course she did not.
“Matt,” said Klamath with pleasure. “You look well. And your home”—he glanced around the front of the cottage—“looks strong enough to withstand the Decimate of earthquake. The King will be relieved to hear it.”
“Klamath.” Matt did not smile. His smiles were rare. But when they came, they lifted his face like a new day. “Be welcome in our house. While you stay, it is yours.”
Sternly, Matta corrected him. “General Klamath. He commands an army now.” Her gaze held Klamath’s like a challenge. “He may have a hundred men nearby at this moment.”
Klamath did not look away. If he did, she would distrust him. “Now, Matta,” he said kindly, “you know better. I am Klamath, nothing more. A title is only as good as its power to command. No one here has ever obeyed a command of mine. And you know as well as I do, your husband has never obeyed any command since he was released from the King’s guard. Nineteen years ago now, that was. When Belleger and Amika finally found peace.”
“When King Bifalt married Queen Estie,” piped up Mattilda, eager to show what she understood.
At the same time, Matta objected, “But you took—”
Matt silenced her by putting his other arm around her shoulders. “Now, Matta.” He almost smiled. “Mattwil left by his own choice. No one took him. And Klamath is more than our guest. He is an old friend. We know why he visits us. He does it because he must. But if we treat him well, he may give us the news of the realm. He may even give us news of our eldest.”
Still scowling, Matta forced an unconvincing smile. “Then be welcome, Klamath, general or not. Our home is yours. Mattin is out with the sheep. He will return at sunset. But Mattson does chores in the barn. He will settle your animals. When you come into the house”—she wrinkled her nose—“and wash, you and Matt can tell old war stories while I do what I can to ready a meal.”
Klamath was slow to answer. He was remembering the last time he had tried to convince King Bifalt that he was the wrong man to command the combined armies of Belleger and Amika. With his usual curtness, his air of suppressed impatience, the King had replied, No one who wants command should be allowed to have it. Then he had added, I will not command them. I am not trusted.
He may have meant, Not trusted by the Amikans. Or by the Magisters of the Last Repository. Or even by Queen Estie. But Klamath suspected he meant that he did not trust himself.
To cover his lapse of attention, Klamath swung down from his mount. Smiling as well as he could with King Bifalt on his mind, he replied, “I remember your cooking, Matta. You will give us a feast.”
Then he turned away, leading his horse and his trailing mules to the barn.
Most of his memories of his King troubled him. Something deep inside King Bifalt had been changed by his time in the great library. Klamath had heard the tales, but he did not understand them. Prince Bifalt would not have hesitated to command any army.
Klamath spent a few minutes chatting with Mattson, Matt and Matta’s third child, now around twelve years old. Klamath understood the similarity of the names. After the long depredations of the war, Matt and his wife had sought to renew or reinvent their sense of family by giving their children names that belonged together, names like their own. For a boy his age, Mattson asked piercing questions; but Klamath gave them inconsequential answers. The time would come when he would have to confess the truth about his visit, although Matt and Matta understood it already. But Klamath was in no hurry to arrive at that moment. As soon as he could without being rude, he left his animals with Mattson and went to the cottage.
When he crossed the porch and opened the door, he saw—as he had seen before—that the front room was more spacious than it appeared from outside. It reached from wall to wall, with the kitchen at one end to his left, a cluster of chairs and stools near the hearth on his right, and a large table for dining in the middle. Doorways in the back led to the bedrooms.
Matta was in the kitchen, working. With Mattilda beside him, Matt sat in a chair at the dining table instead of near the low flames wavering in the hearth. With summer lingering in the air, no one needed the hearth for warmth. But Klamath did not greet them, or walk into the room. He knew better.
Inside the door stood a washstand, soap, small towels, and a jug of water. Matta was imperious about cleanliness. Smiling for her sake as much as for his own pleasure, he leaned his rifle and ammunition against the wall, stripped off his shirt, and made himself presentable with liberal amounts of soap and water.
From her place by the stove, Matta scowled at his gun and bullets. While she watched him wash, however, her expression softened into a frown. He would have liked to think that she felt compassion at the sight of his various scars. But they were old now, faded, practically invisible. No doubt she was simply gratified by his respect for her wishes.
He did not need her to tell him that she would never forgive him for the departure of her eldest son.
As soon as Klamath finished washing, while he was buttoning his shirt, Matt waved him to a seat at the table. “Sit, old friend. You have had a long day in the saddle. Be comfortable.”
Klamath murmured his thanks. So that Matta could watch his face while he talked with Matt, he sank into a chair at the end of the table.
Glancing at his wife, the sheep-master said casually, “Matta expects war stories. But in truth, old friend, I am not in a warlike mood. Nor, I suspect, are you. What shall we discuss? Shall I tell you how the sheep are faring? Are you interested in the weather?”
Klamath would have listened to talk like that happily for an hour. But Mattilda announced, “I want to hear about Mattwil.” Apparently, she felt daring in Klamath’s presence. “I miss him. Ever since he left, Mattin and Mattson are too busy to play.”
Matt squeezed her shoulder. “Hush, child,” he said softly. “Our guest is tired. He will speak when he is ready.”
“I am tired,” admitted Klamath. He feigned a groan. Then he winked at the girl. “But not too tired to talk about Mattwil.”
The sparkle in her eyes and the flush on her cheeks was more reward than he deserved.
Matt’s expression froze for a moment, then resumed its usual grave calm. Abruptly, Matta turned her back on the table, busied herself over one of the pots on the stove. But Klamath was not misled. He knew she could hear every word, and every word made her tremble. She turned away so her face would not betray her.
“He is well,” said Klamath to ease her. “I spoke with him the last time he was given leave to visit the Open Hand.” That had been a year ago, but Klamath did not say so. “He sends his love, and made me promise to tell you he is well.”
Mattilda clapped her hands, and Matt nodded. Matta’s shoulders slumped an inch—but only an inch. She was waiting to hear more.
“He is not a soldier,” continued Klamath, the unwilling general. “As soon as he arrived, he was commandeered for work as a stonemason.” Mattwil had his father’s frame, his father’s strength. “And he does not work with the crews that fortify the coast. For reasons of his own, King Bifalt fears an attack by sea. But if there is an attack, Mattwil does not stand in its path.”
Matta’s shoulders slumped farther. Grabbing a dish towel, she wiped her face.
Wincing in anticipation, Klamath finished, “Instead he works in Amika.”
At once, Matta flung her towel aside, whirled away from the stove. “In Amika?” she demanded. “In Amika?”
“Now, Matta,” her husband murmured, trying to soothe her. “Now, Matta.” But she ignored him. Hot with fury, her glare was fixed on Klamath.
The General spread his hands as if he were helpless. With a tinge of sadness in his voice, he said, “We are allies, Matta.” Her reaction was all too common. Common and dangerous. “Belleger and Amika stand together because they must. We are bound to each other by treaty, and by the King’s marriage, and by fears he and Amika’s Queen share.”
“But Amika!” retorted Mattwil’s mother. “Killers! Butchers! They made war on us for generations. We have peace now—you say we have peace—but twenty years without bloodshed do not restore the men we lost. It does not comfort the families left fatherless, sonless. It does not heal the people made homeless, driven into poverty, because they were not enough to tend the crops, raise the cattle, herd the sheep. It does not make us forget.
“Amikans made the war. They have no right to my son!”
“Matta!” said Matt more sharply. “None of this is Klamath’s doing. Mattwil left because he chose to go.”
“Because,” snapped his wife, “General Klamath chose to visit us. Because he chose to speak of his need for men.”
“Still,” insisted the sheep-master, “the choice was Mattwil’s. He was not commanded. Klamath does not command here.”
Then he addressed his guest. There was iron in his voice. “What use does Amika make of Mattwil?”
Klamath sighed. “Queen Estie desires a road to connect the Open Hand and Maloresse with the Last Repository of the sorcerers. King Bifalt does not approve. His distrust”—Klamath could have said, His loathing—“of those Magisters endures. He wants no contact with them. But Queen Estie supports his fortification of the coast. He cannot refuse to support her road.
“Mattwil works with the teams on that road. Already it extends from the Open Hand to Maloresse and more than seventy leagues eastward. He is skilled with stone. He shapes blocks of granite and places them to bear the weight of horses and oxen, heavy wagons and marching men.”
While Klamath spoke, Matta slowly recovered her composure. Matt watched her until she turned back to the stove. Then his own manner eased. When Mattilda squirmed away from him, he released her. He may not have realized how tightly he had gripped her.
“But why?” protested the child. “They say Queen Estie is the most beautiful woman in both realms. Why does she want a road?”
Trying to ease the tension of his hosts, Klamath asked Mattilda, “What will you want? When you are the most beautiful woman in both realms?”
The girl blushed; but she did not hesitate. “A crown,” she said promptly. “And a fancy gown for special. And men who kiss my hand. And—”
“And,” put in Matta sternly, “a good husband who loves you and can be trusted and does not think of war.”
Klamath nodded. “All of that, yes.” Then he said to Matt, “But Queen Estie wants a road to speed contact with the Last Repository. She wants to be able to send aid, or receive it. She wants caravans to include us in their trade routes. And she wants our Magisters, Belleger’s and Amika’s, to visit the great library, where they can grow in knowledge and usefulness.
“Also she hopes the Magisters of the library will visit us, so that we can learn to understand their purposes.”
Klamath had not been there when those Magisters had forced Prince Bifalt to approach Amika and try for peace. He had heard the tales, however, both King Bifalt’s terse version and Elgart’s more elaborate account. He knew that the Prince had won Elgart’s heart there. But he also knew that no one in Belleger or Amika truly understood why the sorcerers of the library did what they did. The King had his own explanation, and feared it. Only his closest advisers shared his certainty.
Breathing against his own tension, Klamath waited for Matt’s next question. He knew what it would be. Why does King Bifalt fortify the coast? It is impassable. Men who want to sail there have tried too often. Too many of them have died. They cannot survive the reefs and rocks, the turmoil of cross-currents.
But before the sheep-master found the words he wanted, he was interrupted by the clatter of boots on the porch. Mattson came in from the barn, hurrying. “Are they telling war stories?” He did not try to mask his eagerness. “I want to hear.”
Peremptory with her rules, Matta reminded him, “Wash!” Then she muttered darkly, “If they are not war stories now, they will be soon.”
Ducking his head, Mattson turned to the washstand. While his mother watched, he brushed the straw from his hair and shirt, splashed water on his face, scrubbed the dirt and droppings from his hands.
Klamath used the distraction to glance over his shoulder at the hearth, where Matt’s rifle hung from iron pegs set into the chimney near the ceiling. As he expected, dust coated the weapon. Despite her attention to cleanliness, Matta refused to touch the rifle. And clearly, Matt had not handled it, although he must have heard that the Realm’s Edge had become dangerous.
The soldier returned his gaze to the family as Mattson passed Matta’s inspection. At once, the boy scooted to the table and took a chair. Sharp with anticipation, his eyes flicked back and forth between Klamath and his father.
At the same time, Klamath heard the bawling of sheep and the yips of their dogs, the mild commands of their shepherd, the low rumble of hooves. The herd was being driven into its pens. Mattin, the second of Matt and Matta’s three sons, would come to the cottage as soon as he watered the sheep and gave them grain to supplement their grazing.
Privately, Klamath sighed. He was running out of time. Soon—after the family had eaten at the latest—he would have to talk more seriously. Of course, Matt and Matta knew the reason for his visit. Mattin probably did as well. But they knew it from the perspective of their own lives, lives far from the more populous regions of Belleger and the threats King Bifalt feared. Klamath was here, at least in part, to make them look at a larger picture.
“Mattilda,” said Matta from the stove. “Set the table.” She managed a more comfortable smile for her daughter. “Mattin is home. He will be hungry.” Then her frown returned. “And our guest has come a long way. He will be hungry as well.”
Perhaps for Klamath’s sake, the girl seemed to be on her best behavior. At once, she jumped up from her chair, went to a cupboard near the stove, and began taking down plates, bowls, and mugs with a child’s care.
Speaking to be overheard, Klamath said, “She is a fine girl, Matt. And Mattson gave me good help in the barn.” He was entirely sincere. He hoped it showed. “I trust you and Matta to be proud of them.”
Matt almost smiled, but he spoke gravely. “We are. They are a great comfort to us. Mattin is also.” After a pause, he added, “But we will not be whole, old friend, until Mattwil returns.”
That, thought Klamath, would not be for a long time. Queen Estie’s road still had to cross the eastern gorges of the Line River, and her need for men increased constantly. So far from Maloresse and the Open Hand, desertion by workers who resented the primitive conditions and long absences was a growing problem. Queen Estie had been forced to keep her laborers under guard. But Klamath only nodded to Matt, and did not answer.
Without question, his visit was going to be difficult.
To cover his reluctance, he called, “Hells, Matta! Your stew smells wonderful. I am hungrier than I knew. And is that the scent of baking bread?”
Matta nodded, but did not shift her attention from the stove.
Her husband frowned at her manner, then gave a small shrug and left her alone.
Soon heavier boots thumped the boards of the porch. With more circumspection than his younger brother, Mattin opened the door. He confirmed Klamath’s presence with a quick glance and nodded once to his father before moving to the washstand. He was a young man now—only seventeen, by Klamath’s reckoning—but he moved with his father’s calm dignity: a way of carrying himself that made him look older than his years. Only the openness of his face and the thinness of his beard betrayed his youth.
When he had made himself as clean as he could without a full bath, he went to the stove and kissed his mother’s cheek. Looking at her work, he asked, “Almost ready, Ma? The whole herd is not hungrier than I am.”
“Soon,” she replied. Klamath heard affection in her tone. “When you have greeted our guest. And asked your brother and sister if their chores are done. Our guest’s arrival may have distracted them.”
Mattin patted her shoulder, then came to the table. Before he seated himself, he gave Klamath a nod as formal as a bow. “General Klamath, sir. Ma and Da have welcomed you. So do I. We have too little excitement.” With one hand, he tousled Mattson’s hair. “And Mattilda tires of teasing mere brothers. Your visits stir us up.”
Klamath answered with a more casual nod. “It is good to see you, Mattin. You have become a man in my absence. You wear it well.”
Matt pointed at a chair. “Sit, Son. You have not missed much. My old friend has only had time to tell us Mattwil is well. He works with teams building a road for Queen Estie.”
There was relief in Mattin’s eyes as he seated himself. But he did not question Klamath further. Instead he looked around the table. “And your chores are done?” he asked his siblings. “Mattson? Mattilda? All done?”
Clearly, the girl adored her older brother, “Yes,” she said, deliberately cheerful, as she put plates, bowls, and mugs for six in their proper places on the table. Then she returned to the cupboard for utensils: spoons and forks of tin, a sign of the family’s renewed prosperity.
Mattson was more self-conscious. “Of course,” he muttered past the hair hanging in his eyes.
“Very good.” Mattin smiled more readily than his father. “And you, sir?” he added to Klamath. “How can we make you more comfortable until Ma feeds us?”
Klamath scratched his whiskers. “You can start,” he offered, “by not calling me sir. Your father and I have been friends since the war. And my title is a reluctant one.” He grimaced wryly. “I would abdicate, if soldiers had the freedom of Kings.” King Smegin of Amika had done so after his daughter Estie had married Bifalt—and after old King Abbator of Belleger had passed away. “I am Klamath.”
While Klamath was speaking, Matt whispered to Mattilda, “Not the ale. Our guest prefers water.” But the reluctant general chose to ignore this. After all, it was true.
Almost tottering under the weight of her pitcher, Mattilda brought fresh water from the kitchen cistern. With exaggerated care, she filled the mugs on the table. When she came to Klamath, he drained his mug as soon as she filled it, then held it out to ask for more. Smiling, she complied. He thanked her with another wink.
“Klamath, then,” conceded Mattin. “What is the news of the world? We are remote here. We hear too much of our own doings, and too little of anything else.”
“When we have eaten,” commanded Matta. In her reddened hands, she brought a stewpot to the table. “Whatever else he may be, he is our guest. We will talk later, no doubt for hours. Your questions can wait.”
Obedient to his family’s rituals, Matt moved to sit at the head of the table. Now Klamath remembered that he was in Matta’s chair. While Mattilda set another pot beside the stew, this one steaming with stewed greens, he shifted to sit across from Mattin and Mattson. When the girl finished her duties by delivering a tray of warm bread redolent from the oven, accompanied by a plate of butter—another sign that the family prospered—she seated herself between Klamath and Matt as if she were claiming a place of honor.
Matta remained on her feet until she had ladled stew into the bowls, and had passed around the pot of greens. Then she took her seat opposite her husband.
“A feast,” remarked Klamath. He felt almost reverent. He had eaten field rations too often on his trek. “As I predicted.”
Matt watched Matta until she was ready to meet his gaze: another of their family rituals. While they regarded each other, he gave her a nod as formal as the one with which Mattin had greeted Klamath.
At once, Mattilda and Mattson began to eat like children who had not seen food for weeks. Mattin made a show of approaching his meal with his father’s dignity, his mother’s care; but soon he abandoned the charade as hopeless. Attacking his stew, greens, and bread, he had devoured his first helping and was reaching for seconds before Klamath had finished spreading butter on a slice of bread with the back of his spoon.
Klamath was slow because he had to suppress laughter. His pleasure demanded an outlet; but he swallowed it so he would not seem rude—or worse, scornful.
No one spoke until Klamath’s plate and bowl were empty, and he had accepted more stew. Then, with an obliqueness Klamath recognized, as if the question were inconsequential, Matt asked him, “Did you take your usual path on this ride? Did you pass through the village?”
He named a place Klamath had visited two days ago.
The soldier groaned to himself. He was not ready. Without looking up from his stew, he answered, “I did.”
“Then you have heard what happened.”
“Happened?” This was the news Klamath had come for. He knew the outlines, but he wanted more details.
“To sheep-master Lessen,” said Matt.
“And to his wife,” added Matta sharply.
Matt nodded agreement. “And to his seven children. Six of them girls. And to his farmstead. Even to many of his sheep.”
Klamath put down his spoon, wiped his mouth, and faced his host squarely. With a hint of command in his voice, but softly, he said, “Tell me.”
“Matt,” his wife warned him. “Mattilda is too young.”
Mattin sat straight in his chair, his gaze fixed hard on Klamath. Mattson had his elbows propped on the table and his fists knotted in his hair. He looked nauseated.
The sheep-master frowned. “She will hear gossip, if she has not already. The tale will do less harm if she hears it from us.”
Matta scowled back at him; but she did not argue.
Matt held Klamath’s gaze steadily as he answered the soldier. Behind his mildness, he had as much courage as any man Klamath knew. He was the underlying reason for Klamath’s visit.
“It was seven”—Matt consulted the ceiling with a glance, then met Klamath’s eyes again—“no, ten days ago. Evening was near. The sheep were wandering home. The boy was their shepherd, but he did not hurry. He was not late. The rest of the family, Lessen himself, Abiga, his wife, their six daughters—all were in or near the house, busy with their chores. Only the boy survived.
“Men came out from behind the shelter of a hill. They were mounted. The boy counted eighteen or twenty. He had never seen garb like theirs. Garments like nightgowns head to foot, loose and flowing, open only for their faces. White cloth marked with black streaks like shadows. Short spears—he called them short spears, but I think they were javelins. And silent. If any of them spoke—ever—they did so in whispers. Only the sound of their hooves warned the boy to hide and watch.”
Without pausing, Matt picked Mattilda up from her chair, pulled her onto his lap, wrapped his arms around her. Wide-eyed with fright and incomprehension, she stared at Klamath.
“Riding hard,” said her father, “they surrounded the farmstead. Lessen was brave or foolish. Or maybe he could not believe he was in danger. He went to meet them. They gutted him. Abiga and her girls ran into the house. No doubt they barred the door. But a man threw a flaming brand onto the roof. Another followed, and another. Other men dismounted. The boy heard Abiga and her girls screaming. When fire and smoke drove them outside, they were taken.”
Abruptly, Mattilda squirmed in Matt’s arms, twisted to hide her face against his shoulder. For a moment, he gave her his attention. Stroking her hair, he murmured, “Lessen was never a soldier. He was helpless. I am not. I will protect you better.”
When he felt some of her tension ease, he faced Klamath again.
“Men entered the house. They took as much food and drink as they could before the roof collapsed. They made Abiga witness while they had their way with the girls, all of them. One by one, they slaughtered the children. Last they used and killed Abiga. Then they feasted.
“After the house burned down, and their feast was done, they fired the barn, the outbuildings. Then they mounted their horses and rode a sweep around the farmstead, killing any sheep they found. Soon they were gone.
“The boy watched all this. He was helpless. He did his best by hiding. But the shock was too great for him. When the signs of fire brought help from a neighboring farm, he could not utter a word. Days passed before he was able to say what he had seen.”
While Matt spoke, Mattin breathed deeply to contain himself. He studied Klamath with thoughts of fire in his eyes. Pulling at his hair, Mattson bent slowly forward until his nose almost touched the table. Matta sat like a woman carved in stone until her husband was done. Then she spat one word.
“Raiders.”
Her vehemence seemed to break a spell over the family. Matt lowered his gaze. Mattilda turned to look at her mother. Mattson slowly raised his head, blinking as if he had been asleep.
With care, Mattin placed his hands flat on the table. “Raiders?” he asked in a strained voice. “I do not understand. They took nothing. They came from the Realm’s Edge, destroyed a farmstead, and rode away. Taking nothing? Why would raiders do such a thing?”
He kept watching Klamath.
Klamath spread his hands. He was not sure of his answer. “To provoke us? To probe our defenses?”
“Defenses?” snapped Matta. “We have no defenses. Our King ignores us. General Klamath does nothing.
“We are Bellegerins. Are we to be sacrificed because we live in the south? Are we too far from the Open Hand to deserve protection?”
“Now, Matta,” said Matt without lifting his gaze. “These raids are too recent. They did not begin until the first of summer. Klamath is here to learn the extent of the danger. He has not had time to respond.”
“Will you send the army?” asked Mattin at once. “Will you defend us?”
Klamath squared his shoulders. “No.” He had feared that this would be unpleasant. He did not shirk it. “Our border along the Realm’s Edge is too long. And we do not know where these raiders emerge from the mountains. Our whole army is too small to guard every farm.”
“Then,” insisted the young man, “will you give us rifles? Will you arm the farms? The villages? The towns? Will you make us able to defend ourselves?”
Again, Klamath said, “No.” For the first time, he told this family a lie. He hoped devoutly that it would be the last time. “We do not have enough.”
In truth, Belleger had more rifles than the army could use. Making them had been the realm’s primary industry for at least a decade. But they had been forged and assembled behind screens of other activities. And they were stockpiled in hidden vaults among the foundations of Belleger’s Fist, the King’s high keep. As for the bullets, crates of them were concealed in rooms and cellars around the Open Hand. Guns and ammunition were King Bifalt’s most severely guarded secret. He refused to release them.
Preserving that secret was another of Klamath’s duties.
To forestall a further question, he added quickly, “But I will send companies of scouts and trackers.” That King Bifalt would approve. “They will search until they learn where the raiders come from, or where they go. Then I will know how many men I must commit to prevent more raids.”
Matta snorted her scorn. “And while your men scout and track, we have to die. Our only recourse is to abandon our home. Our home.”
“Matta,” said Matt more sharply. “Enough. General or not, Klamath cannot do more than he has promised. He does not send raiders to kill us. He cannot oppose them in an instant.”
His wife made a sound like a snarl; but she did not say more. Stamping to her feet, she began to clear the table.
Matt gave her a moment. Then he said gently, “Mattson, Mattilda, help your mother.”
Mattson jumped up immediately, snatched his plate, bowl, and mug from the table. Klamath suspected that the boy had already heard too much. He might not come back when the task was done.
Mattilda responded more slowly, but she, too, obeyed. While she moved back and forth between the table and the kitchen, she did not look at Klamath; did not so much as glance in his direction. So far, he had said almost nothing—and yet he felt that he had already betrayed her. Her and her mother both. He was here for more reasons than news-gathering, but he had not spoken of them.
When all the dishes and utensils were in the sink to be washed, and the remaining food had been put away, Matta hugged Mattson and Mattilda. With a kindness she reserved for her family, she suggested, “Mattson, perhaps there is some game you and Mattilda can play in your rooms? What you have heard is not for children, and there may be worse to come. I will not refuse if you want to hear what your father’s friend will say. But I encourage you to avoid it.”
In a small voice, Mattilda asked, “Can Da really keep us safe, Ma?”
Keeping her back to Matt and Klamath, Matta said stoutly, “If a living man can do it, your father can. There is no one better.”
During his time in the wars, in the aftermath of his rides into hell, and on other occasions as well, Klamath had wept easily: a reaction to the shock of swords and killing, the horror of terrible sorcery. But he had not shed tears for many years. Now he had to fight them back.
Like Matta, he believed there was no one better than Matt.
For a moment, Mattilda gave her father a pleading look. Then she left the common room, no doubt heading for her bedroom at the back of the house.
Mattson hesitated beside his mother. Like Mattilda’s, his face had a pleading cast. But his gaze was fixed, not on Matt, but on Mattin.
At a nudge from his father, Mattin turned in his chair. Over his shoulder, he told his younger brother, “Go with Mattilda, Mattson. You are old enough to reassure her. Later, I will tell you as much as you ask to hear.”
Klamath said nothing. He did not trust his voice.
The way Mattson bowed his head as he followed his sister made his relief plain.
When the boy was gone, Matt patted Mattin’s shoulder. “Well done, Mattin,” he whispered. “Thank you.”
Matta was wiping her face with a dish towel again. Her voice muffled, she said, “They are good children. They deserve better.”
Klamath knew that she meant, Better than what he could do for them. Better than the reasons for his visit.
While his mother began to wash the dishes, Mattin faced Klamath again. Pressing his hands on the table, he said in a tight voice, “Now, sir. You have our news. Perhaps you will tell us the news of the realm.”
Klamath pushed back his chair so that he could stretch the tension out of his legs. He made an effort to appear relaxed. Loudly enough to be heard over the noise of running water and washing, he said, “A feast, Matta. You have my gratitude.”
When she ignored him, he allowed himself another inward sigh. Then he looked, not at Mattin, but at Matt.
“Some of what I say,” he began, “you have heard before. It has not changed. But I must start somewhere.
“Twenty years ago, Prince Bifalt returned from the Last Repository with Commander Forguile of Amika and faced the challenge of forming an alliance with King Smegin. Now nineteen years have passed since the marriage of Prince Bifalt and Princess Estie sealed peace between Belleger and Amika.” He did not need to assemble his thoughts. He had made this speech many times. “A season or two later, old King Abbator passed, and Bifalt became King in Belleger’s Fist. At once, King Smegin of Amika abdicated his throne, making Estie Queen in Maloresse so that her rank and authority would match her husband’s.
“After the Prince and Princess had married, Prince Bifalt and Commander Forguile went back to the Last Repository. There Prince Bifalt demanded the knowledge that would restore sorcery to Belleger, and to Amika also. When they came home, the Prince and his companion brought with them a sorcerer, Magister Facile. Her aid reawakened in the Magisters of both realms their inborn gift for theurgy. Belleger and Amika had been equally deprived. By her efforts, and Prince Bifalt’s, they were equally restored.”
Klamath grimaced. “And still, after so many years, there is discord between the realms. It seldom flares into serious conflict. King Bifalt and Queen Estie are open in their disagreements—and open in how those disagreements are resolved. They do what they can to set an example for their people. There are no pitched battles. Discontented brigands do not prey across the border. But the peace remains uneasy. Disputes are common. Insults often lead to brawls. Belleger and Amika were at war too long, and the land heals faster than the people. Families do not forget their losses, and what they do not forget, they do not forgive.
“You know all this.”
Ruefully, Matt commented, “You have told us often enough.”
With a hint of tartness, Klamath replied, “It is necessary. I cannot explain more recent events without it.”
Matt’s expression did not change. “No doubt.”
Mattin had been containing himself while he waited for an opening. Now he asked, “What are their disagreements? King Bifalt’s and Queen Estie’s?”
Klamath turned his attention to the young man. “I have told your parents of one. You know there is much rebuilding to be done in both realms. Belleger provides Amika with wool and fabrics and meat, which Amika repays with timber and carpenters. But in addition, King Bifalt works to fortify Belleger’s coast. He has won Queen Estie’s support. She has promised to supply cannon made with knowledge given to Amika by the King. For her part, she desires a road to join the Open Hand and Maloresse with the Last Repository. The King wants no dealings with the library and its Magisters. Nevertheless he has relented. He allows her to claim Bellegerin stonemasons, and also other workmen who are either unwilling or unfit to be soldiers. Mattwil is among them.
“On other subjects,” he added after a pause, feeling his way, “our rulers stand together. They are united in their desire to foster peace. Also they seek to increase the size and skill of their combined army.”
From the kitchen, Matta remarked sharply, “An army you now command.”
Grateful for the interruption, Klamath nodded. “And I am not a commander by nature. I need counsel. Amikans are willing soldiers, but they resist serving with Bellegerins. And our people do not trust Amikans.” Matt was a former rifleman: he knew the harm that fighters hostile to each other could do. “I struggle to combine them, but I fail to make them effective.”
Matt considered the matter. In a musing tone, he suggested, “Then keep them apart. Make them compete against each other. Contests of archery. Marksmanship. Riding for parade and for hell. Sword-work. Combat without weapons. A company of Amikans against a company of Bellegerins. Allow the winner to keep the captain responsible for its training. The losing captain must accept a place in the other army. The losing company must accept a captain from the other army.
“Or if the competition is only one against one, the loser’s teacher must become a student of the winner’s teacher. The loser is given a new teacher, again from the other army.”
Motivation, thought Klamath with a grin of relief. Familiarity. Respect. All acquired in small increments. Even with a Bellegerin captain, an Amikan company would not lose deliberately. Those soldiers were proud of their own skills. And if they lost, their next captain might be worse. Only a winning captain would be able to keep his own people.
From the heart, Klamath said, “Thank you, Matt.” Already the sheep-master had justified his visit. “That is good counsel. I will try it.”
But Mattin was not deflected. As soon as he could, he asked, “Are there other disagreements?”
Hoping to soften the young man’s stare, Klamath tried a smile. “There is this. They have no children. After nineteen years together, none. That surely causes some unpleasantness.”
He knew his King. And he had seen how the Queen watched her husband. He believed that their childlessness was Bifalt’s choice, not hers.
According to Elgart, who in his weak moments sometimes disclosed secrets, the marriage was still unconsummated. The King refused to bed his wife, the loveliest woman in both realms—and perhaps the cleverest as well.
Elgart and Klamath had shared the ordeal of Prince Bifalt’s search for the Last Repository. They were friends. Elgart knew he could trust Klamath’s discretion. However, Klamath did not always appreciate Elgart’s revelations.
Clearly, the subject of King Bifalt’s childless marriage interested Matt. But thinking about the King’s burdens and decisions was uncomfortable for Klamath. When his attempt at a more lighthearted reply failed to ease Mattin, he resumed his duty.
“Also we are troubled by priests,” he said with a shrug in his tone. “They have come to Belleger from Amika, but they are not Amikan. Rather they passed through Amika from some unknown land. They preach peace, but their preaching spreads confusion. They speak of god or gods, one god or several or many, to people who have never imagined such beings. People who also cannot understand why gods need priests.”
This appeared to surprise Matt. His eyebrows came up. His attention intensified. But he did not interrupt.
“King Bifalt and Queen Estie disagree on this,” said Klamath, still addressing Mattin. “She has no interest in priests and their religion, but she sees no harm in them. He does not trust men from strange lands. He has met many foreigners, and few of them did not mean harm to both Belleger and Amika.”
“A moment, old friend,” put in Matt. “I do not understand. What are ‘gods’? For that matter, what are ‘priests’? You did not speak of them on your earlier visits.”
Klamath confessed his uncertainty. “They are recent in Belleger. I do not understand them myself. The whole matter baffles me.
“I have been told that gods can be considered living sorcery.” That was Elgart’s explanation. “Or personifications of sorcery. Or perhaps sources of sorcery. They may or may not be alive as we know life. But they are mighty beyond comprehension. Their influence and wishes cover the world.
“Priests, I am assured,” he went with more confidence, “are not gods. They are mere men, the ambassadors of gods, or the interpreters. The spokesmen. They travel from place to place, building places of worship they call ‘churches,’ and they teach”—honesty prompted Klamath to modify his assertion—“they say they teach how to live in harmony with their god or gods, so that people everywhere will have peace.
“That is as much as I know. It all confuses me. To my mind, sorcery is a natural force, as natural as wind and lightning.” He had his examples ready. He had made this speech before. “Wind is destructive in one place and gentle in another. Lightning strikes where it wills—or where it can—without discrimination. The talent for sorcery is the same. Every talent is the same. One man is naturally gifted to train horses. His neighbor struggles to control them. One man adores his wife. Another fears his.
“I do not understand the need to talk of gods, or to become priests.
“But”—Klamath returned to Mattin’s question—“the disagreement between King Bifalt and Queen Estie is more specific. Some of our folk want one of the priests, their archpriest, given a place among the King’s advisers. The Queen agrees. If this archpriest, she reasons, speaks for a portion of Belleger’s people, and of Amika’s, his voice should be heard. But the King refuses.”
And he seldom gave his reasons. Privately, however, Klamath had heard his King say that in troubled times, people were like sheep. They scattered and became easy prey. Or they bunched together and ran into peril. Then he had said, I will not trust my flock to strangers. Especially to strangers who do not think for themselves. Their god or gods are too much like the library’s Magisters.
For a while, both Matt and Mattin were silent. Matt’s troubled gaze roamed the room from the hearth to the kitchen stove, from Matta’s back hunched over her washing to the doors leading to the rear of the house. Whenever his glance touched the neglected rifle above the fireplace, the small muscles around his eyes winced.
While Klamath spoke, Mattin had lowered his stare. Now he seemed to study his hands on the table. His shoulders bunched as he pressed his palms hard against the wood. He watched them as if he wanted to see them turn pale under their sun-brown hue.
Klamath used his opportunity to finish answering the young man’s question.
“In addition, the presence of priests gives our King and Amika’s Queen another source of disagreement.” His tone hardened as he prepared for the most hurtful of his duties. “By their coming, they remind us that Belleger and Amika are small in the world. We are a little people sharing a large continent with many other races speaking many other tongues. And this continent itself is only one among several. The world beyond us now seems as vast as the heavens, and we are made smaller because we did not know our own smallness.
“King Bifalt and Queen Estie argue about what we who are small must do in a world that is large. She believes that we must ally ourselves with the Last Repository. Only there can we find the knowledge we lack. He insists that our allegiance must be to our own people alone, our own survival.”
Over her shoulder, Matta snorted, “Survival.”
Like an echo, Matt asked, “Survival?” With a deepening frown, he faced his guest again.
Klamath braced himself.
“How are our people threatened?” continued the sheep-master. “How are Amika’s? We have told you what we know of raiders. We are in danger, certainly. But a raid on a farmstead—or a dozen—or even a few villages—does not threaten the realm. Raids do not threaten both realms.”
The big man leaned forward. “Tell us, old friend. I think I can grasp Queen Estie’s reasons for wanting a road to the Last Repository. And I can imagine the uses of a combined army, if Belleger and Amika are not at peace. An army may serve to make the more warlike men into comrades. But why—?”
He put his palms like Mattin’s on the table. “Tell us. Why is King Bifalt determined to fortify an impassable coast? Make us understand that. Make us understand before Matta loses patience entirely, and I begin to question our long friendship.”
Klamath did not hesitate. “Because,” he replied in a tone like falling gravel, “our King expects a war that will make our rides into hell against Amika look like skirmishes. Why else did the Magisters of the Last Repository abuse him until he agreed to attempt an alliance with our old foe? With King Smegin, who proclaimed his desire for our destruction?”
Matta whirled away from her dishes, gaped at Klamath openly. Mattin jerked up his head. In the hearth, an ember cracked, spilling a small spray of sparks. Matt sat like a stone, expressionless and waiting.
Klamath wanted to hide his head, but he refused the impulse. He had chosen this task. He and Matt had been friends for a long time.
“King Bifalt,” he stated, “expects war because those Magisters fear it. They have an enemy, and they want Belleger and Amika to defend them. But they do not fear the deep south past the Realm’s Edge, or the far north beyond Amika. If they did, they would not need us. And they are defended in the east by their own mountains.”
While Matt, Matta, and Mattin watched him as if he were a poisonous snake, Klamath explained, “Those Magisters chose us to be their barrier, their buffer, because they believe their enemy will come from the west. But in the west, there is no conceivable approach except by ship against Belleger’s coast.
“Yes, we call that approach impassable. The cliffs are high. All are sheer. And even the most accessible of the rare bays are barricaded by reefs and rocks like jaws. In addition, only one offers a break in the cliffs, and even there the turmoil of currents alone is enough to swamp any vessel our people have tried. Hells, Matt! Even dry planks are torn apart and scattered beneath the waves.
“But King Bifalt believes an enemy mighty enough to threaten the high fortress of the Last Repository will have power enough, and knowledge enough, to impose a harbor on our coast. Therefore he fortifies—”
“But the raiders!” protested Mattin, aghast. “They come from the Realm’s Edge. You said they probe our defenses. They must know the passes. An army can find a road. Why does the King believe the enemy will not come through us”—he slapped the table—“here?”
Klamath met the young man’s distress without flinching. This was an argument, not a battle. It caused fear and pain: it did not shed blood.
“King Bifalt does not discount that threat. But he asks himself what he would do, if he were a sorcerer of unimaginable might, with an army of inconceivable size and a vast relish for slaughter. There may well be passes through the Realm’s Edge. But if the enemy comes that way, his movements will be restricted. His army cannot march in a mass. He may find himself made vulnerable. If we can discover his road, we can prepare for him.
“In his heart, the King expects a more direct assault. He expects the same careless arrogance he met in the Last Repository.
“That is why he fortifies the coast. And it is why the soldiers of Belleger and Amika must become a unified force, ready to plunge into a hell that exceeds their worst nightmares. Without that force—without rifles and cannon—without every man we can find and train—we may all be lost.”
The family’s silence made Klamath’s face feel burned, but he did not look away. Mattin’s eyes were full of terror and pleading. Matt sat with his arms locked, appraising his old friend. No one moved except Matta.
Leaving the kitchen, she came to stand behind her son’s chair. With both hands, she took hold of the knots in his shoulders and began to massage them. She did not glance at Klamath; but the way she avoided his gaze made her defiance plain.
Abruptly, Mattin groaned, “Why did you tell us? It would be better if we did not know. We could live as we are until we were killed. We would not spend the rest of our days afraid.”
“Mattin,” said his mother: a gentle reproach. “You know what this is. He has made his purpose plain. He needs men. He is here to gather them.”
The young man twisted against Matta’s hands to face her. “Does he think I will ride away with him? To become a soldier? A sacrifice in a war that has nothing to do with us?”
“Foolish boy!” Without much force, Matta slapped the back of her son’s head. But her scorn—her suppressed fury—seemed to light up the room. “General Klamath is not here for you. Oh, he will not turn you away. He will not turn any able body away. But he aims higher, or worse.
“He is here for your father.”
Klamath only nodded. What else could he do? She was right.
General was an Amikan title. Klamath had left his First Captain, his lead commander, in charge of the army. The man was a brilliant fighter and a capable teacher; but his heart was not in it. He was no leader. He dreamed of solitary contests, one champion against one antagonist, with all the world at stake. He would abandon his command as soon as King Bifalt gave permission.
Klamath wanted Matt.
Still suppressing herself, Matta finally looked at her guest. Her voice shook.
“Do you expect to command us, General?”
Leaning back in his chair, Klamath allowed himself to sigh aloud. “Of course not, Matta. Who would obey me? I am only here to tell you. Tomorrow I will ride to tell someone else. In a fortnight or two, I will return to the Open Hand and resume the task my King has given me.
“I can only do what I can. But what I can do, I will.”
His quiet promise silenced the family. Matta bent to kiss her son’s head, a soft apology for her slap, then continued rubbing his shoulders. She did not look up. Mattin turned away from her to study his hands again, as if their emptiness or their littleness dismayed him. Matt appeared to contemplate the air above the table. With one hand, he reached out to add his clasp to his wife’s on Mattin’s shoulder. His expression was oddly blank. It revealed nothing.
Whatever their answer was, or might become, Klamath accepted it. It could have been worse. He had been spared Matta’s blistering outrage. Matt had not spurned his appeal—or his friendship. Given time, they would be able to reassure Mattin. They might even be able to explain Klamath’s visit to Mattson and Mattilda in terms that did not frighten the children.
Without speaking, Klamath rose to his feet and went to the door. There he paused to offer the family a bow. But none of them seemed to notice it. Not even Matt—
When he had reclaimed his rifle and ammunition, Klamath went alone into the night.
In the barn, he unpacked his bedroll from one of the bundles his mules carried for him. With straw for a mattress, he made a comfortable place where he would be able to rest. Everything he had said and heard gnawed at him. He wished that he had handled this visit better. He wished that he were a better man—a better spokesman for Belleger’s plight—a better servant of his King. But whatever else he was, or was not, he was a soldier; a veteran. He did not waste any chance to sleep.
He thought that he had roused himself in time to be gone before the family in the house began to stir. But when he sat up in the first gloom of dawn, he found that he was not alone. Matt was working quietly nearby.
With some chagrin, Klamath saw that the sheep-master had already fed and watered his horse and his mules.
Refusing to embarrass himself further by hurrying, Klamath climbed out of his blankets, adjusted his clothes, and repacked his bedding. He did not speak to his host until he had settled his bedroll among the burdens his mules would bear. Then, awkwardly, he said, “I did not expect to see you again, Matt. I am grateful for your care. Please assure Matta that I am grateful for hers as well. And tell your sons and daughter that I understand why you are proud of them.”
Matt came closer until he was near enough to clasp Klamath’s shoulders. Even in the dimness of the barn and the new day, Klamath could make out the big man’s smile.
“It is always good to see you, old friend,” said Matt. “Matta considers you a wolf among chickens.” His smile became a grin. “I think you are more like a hound trying to chase too many wolves away.
“We are as small as you say. But we share one occupation with King Bifalt and Queen Estie. We agree—and disagree. Together, we will think what to do.”
Klamath answered the sheep-master with a quick hug. Then he went to one of his bundles and took out two new rifles, two full satchels of loaded ammunition clips. With both hands, he offered them to his old friend.
“Teach Matta to shoot,” he said hoarsely. He could not control his voice. He sounded like a man who had spent the night weeping. “You are a fierce defender. She will be fiercer.
“And teach Mattin, if you think it wise.”
Matt nodded. Gravely, he accepted the guns and bullets. He did not speak again.
When Klamath rode away, he was alone once more. Matt had already gone back into the house; back to his family.