Chapter 3
The mood in the room changed markedly. Pwyll and Blodwen retired to the back of the room, and the two saints moved forward.
“We need to tell you a story, Duncan corNial.” That was Saint Meurig, her round face now solemn, no glint of humor in her eyes at all. “We ask that you listen to all of it if you can before asking your questions. And you will undoubtedly have questions.”
Duncan arched his eyebrows, and felt them make contact with the bandage wrapped around his forehead. He pondered her statement, then spoke.
“All right.”
“A thousand years ago,” Saint Meurig began, “the land called Cantredd was the south reaches of a kingdom that stretched north and east of here. We think it was called Harlyn, and the king’s palace lay in a city called Harcourt.”
Duncan was really taken aback by what she was doing. Why did he need to hear this? Why would he want to hear this?
“That was a time of great unsettlement and migration and conflict,” the saint continued. “Eventually Harlyn fell, with the northern lands falling first to the Mydhiote tribes coming from south and east. That eventually became Myddym. The southern lands sometime later fell to tribes from the western desert area and, after some disagreement and inter-tribal fights, eventually settled down to become Cantredd.
“Prior to that migration, there were five federations among the desert tribes, each centered on a major oasis.”
“I know you said no questions,” Duncan said, “but what’s an oasis?”
“You do know that the desert is harsh wilderness, with very little water, right?” That came from Saint Fiona. Her tone was abrupt, to say the least.
“I’ve been told that, but haven’t seen it with my own eyes,” Duncan replied. So far, he was beginning to think that these two saints—whatever those were—were likely to be a more of a pain than the wound in his thigh, which right now made them a significant issue.
“Believe it,” Fiona said. “An oasis is a place where a spring or springs produce enough water to keep people and animals alive and maybe allow a little bit of farming to raise food. They are rare in the desert, and as you might imagine are highly prized.” She shut up and waved a hand at her fellow saint.
“So, yes, five major oases in the desert, each supporting a tribal federation,” Meurig continued with a glare at Fiona. “And then the water began to fail. Not equally, not at first, but within a generation each oasis was only producing half the water it had, and the flow continued to decline. The tribes were a bit unhappy, and began to look for reasons why and who could have caused it. The stories and records are not very coherent, but it appears there was a meeting of the chiefs of all the federations, out of which came a conclusion that one of the federations had offended the gods, and therefore they were all being punished.”
“I can guess what came next,” Duncan said a bit sourly. “Four against one aren’t good odds for the one.”
“Indeed,” Meurig said. “The four closed ranks against the one. Even in the fragments we have, the fighting was extremely bloody. There are hints of massacres occurring, and echoes of great heroes.”
“A lot of good that does if everyone dies.” Duncan’s tone was headed toward bitter. He tried to pull it up, but he wasn’t sure just how much change he effected.
“The one side wasn’t destroyed—quite—although again, piecing together the fragments we have, it appears that it was a near run thing. It came down to a final battle, and the battle leader of the one formed a desperate strategy.
“Both sides had taken horrific losses over the seasons of the struggle. The four had lost more both in numbers and in proportions than the one, but they could more easily afford to do so. The battle leader of the one could see that there was only one great fight left in his people, and so he laid his strategies.
“The younger women and the larger children were formed into companies under the warriors who were in the prime of their years. The older warriors and the striplings formed into a single column. When they located the main camp of the warriors of the four, they waited until a night when the moon was dark, and in the coldest hours of the night watch, they attacked.
“Their purpose was to disrupt, and kill, and destroy, so that it would be days before the four could send out hunting parties again. And they succeeded—they reaped a harvest of death greater than any that had gone before. It is bitter indeed when brother hates brother, when sisters’ sons cross blades. And the four had taught the one to hate; indeed they had.”
“Sounds like our kind of people,” Duncan said in a quiet tone. “We clansmen know how to hate when it is warranted.”
There was a moment of silence after that was said, during which it seemed that the phrase almost echoed around the room.
“Remember that thought,” Saint Fiona rasped.
“The column of the one took out the sentries around the main camp, then it punched into the camp and began slaying and burning as they ran. They spread out through the camp, killing men in their beds and setting tents and wagons on fire. A core group of the best fighters led by the battle leader fought their way to the center of the camp, where they killed or wounded all of the major leaders of the four before they fell.
“All of the men in that column died in that attack, but they took many lives before the last one fell. And none ran. Even when the full host roused and finally brought the survivors of the one to bay, none broke, none ran, all fought until they were killed. None survived, and the host of the four was furious.
“The companies of women and warriors ran that night, on foot and with what horses they had. They ran to the east, headed out of the desert. Their battle leader had seen that their only hope was to leave their land behind and make for new territory.”
“You said they took older children,” Duncan interjected. “Surely there were infants and small children.” It was not a question, but it demanded an answer.
Meurig sighed heavily. “Yes, even after seasons of warfare, there were still infants and younger children in the one. It was a harsh duty, but the battle leader ordered them left behind, in the care of the crones of the federation’s tribes and what priestesses had survived.”
“And?” Duncan said after another moment of silence.
“The blackest deed of the whole struggle. When a column of riders from one of the four found them, such was their rage at the aftermath of the attack on the camp that they massacred the lot of them. Babes were tossed in the air and caught on lance points, younger children were caught up by the heels and swung against rocks and walls until their heads split open. The crones were run down, run over, and raped as they lay dying. The handful of priestesses stood together chanting curses and imprecations at the warriors until their battle leader called forward his archers and had them filled with arrows.”
Duncan held up a hand, and Meurig fell silent. The clansman was filled with rage, and he could feel the coldness beginning to seep out of his heart. He welcomed it, now; oh, how he welcomed it.
Duncan took his sword in his right hand, then threw back the blanket that covered him. He had no care for whether he was naked or not, but the physicians had wrapped a short kilt around him. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, set the tip of the sword sheath on the floor, and levered himself first to a sitting position, then to stand on his feet. Pain flared in his leg, and his head grew light for a moment, but he locked his knees and leaned on the sword until the moment passed.
“Four federations based on oases,” he growled, looking around the room. “Four societies based on water. And you dare to tell me this story, to brag about it?”
“Not brag,” Fiona pushed forward. “Shamed. We expose our shame to you. But sit, young clansman, and hear the rest of the story. Please.” She dropped to her knees and bent forward to rest her forehead on the floor before his feet. Pwyll and Blodwen followed. Only Meurig remained on her feet to face Duncan.
The cold had permeated Duncan, as much as if he were facing the triad on the street again. He wanted to storm out of the room, out of the baths, back to the inn to saddle Swiftwing and ride out of Caldecauthe.
<Stay>
The sensing of that word shocked Duncan. He froze, trying to hear more words spoken without a voice. Nothing.
Duncan hesitated, then sank down to sit on the edge of the bed. He said nothing; simply moved the sword so that it stood vertically between his thighs, leaned it against his left shoulder, wrapped his left arm around it and embraced the hilt with his right hand. His clan knife lay just to his right on the bed.
The clansman stretched his right leg out to reduce the strain on the stab wound; took a measured breath. He said nothing; simply looked up at Saint Meurig from beneath lowered eyebrows.
“Most of the companies of the one passed out of the desert alive. Only two were caught up with by columns from the four, and they ended in death, albeit death by combat, somewhat cleaner than the other. The women fought as well, and would not be taken. The other companies, however many of them there were, passed beyond the border of the desert, passed to the east, out of the ken of the four.
“The four thought they had won. They thought they had purified the desert. They expected the water to return, and their way of life to be restored in all its richness.”
Meurig shook her head in obvious sadness.
“They were ruined. Whether it was because of their driving out of the one, or the slaughter of the innocents, or the imprecations of the priestesses, they were ruined.
“The water failed altogether. In five years, all the oases were dying. They had no choice but to band together and migrate to the east, oh so reluctantly following in the steps of the one they had driven away. And so they left the desert, and came into the land now called Cantredd, which means ‘a bitter dose’. And so they took it, and made it their own, and took in the people who survived of the original inhabitants, and learned how to live in this rolling green land where sand only occurs in the banks of streams and rivers.
“It was not until years later that they learned of the greatest failure.”
At that, Meurig nudged Fiona in the ribs with her foot. “Stand up, you old fool.”
“All of you, stand up,” Duncan muttered. Fiona and the others stood, her with some stiffness, Pwyll and Blodwen with limber grace.
Meurig stepped back, leaving Fiona in the focus of Duncan’s gaze. He continued to gaze out from under his lowered brows. The saint faced him squarely.
“For unnumbered generations before the great schism between the four and the one, the lives of the people had been guided by spokesmen sent by the gods.”
“Priests?” Duncan interjected.
Fiona shook her head. “Sometimes, but more often not. These would be men or women touched directly by the gods and called out, sometimes for a single specific purpose, sometimes for a lifetime. They wandered between the main oases, so all the federations knew them. Sometimes years would go by between the death of one and the appearance of the next; sometimes there would be three or more moving among the people.
“Some were warriors; some were herdsmen; some were farmers. There was at least one baker.
“Some would bring a message or prophecy; some healed; some just walked among the people and encouraged them. But they all had one thing in common.”
The saint raised an index finger.
“They all had marks--sigils.”
She pointed it at Duncan.
“Like those.”
Duncan was appalled. “What are you saying?”
Fiona ignored him and carried on.
“No one noticed that when the four federations turned on the one, the spokesmen began disappearing, until by the time the one was driven out, there were none.”
She started pacing back and forth. “Who would have known that when the fifth federation was harassed and assaulted and persecuted into fleeing for their very lives, leaving all else—even their small children!—behind that they would somehow take with them the secrets of enchanneling avatars. By the time the wiser among the four realized what had happened, well-nigh a generation had passed. For two generations, no one rose who could speak for the gods, and by the time it was clear to everyone what had happened, the fifth federation—the one—had passed beyond our ken. For over five hundred years there was silence—stark, cold, empty silence, no matter what we offered, no matter how we prayed. And for the following five hundred years, the only people who might have been or could have been avatars were occasional clansmen who wandered from their Highlands down to Cantredd.”
“The latest of which was Jamesh corAnuwn,” Meurig took up the thread. “He refused to see, refused to act, and left Cantredd when we . . .”
“Don’t mince words, Meurig.” Fiona whirled and faced her companion. “He fled, because we tried to force him to become an avatar, and he would have no part in it.”
Meurig’s lips tightened, but she said nothing more. Fiona stood for a moment, then her shoulders slumped and she turned back to Duncan.
The cold was so strong in Duncan that he felt icy.
“The markings on your arms are right out of the oldest complete scrolls that we have. The Sword of the Dawn and the Owl By Night.” Fiona pointed at Duncan’s arms, “two of the strongest sigils we know, done in a style that matches those old scrolls—a style much more elaborate than what we have seen on clansmen before. That alone tells us you are something out of the ordinary.” She placed her hands together and pointed them at Duncan’s chest, then slowly drew them apart. “But the Raven . . .”
The saint paused, and slowly drew herself up.
“There are very old scrolls back at the manteidd,” Fiona said almost in a whisper, “scrolls that are delicate, are decaying, that crumble into fragments when we try to open them. Who knows what we have lost in them? But some few of the fragments can be read, and one of them mentions Raven. Judge, Raven was, and sometimes nemesis.” She shivered. “The last battle leader of the one wore Raven.” She shivered again.
“We have not seen many clansmen, or clan markings, here in Caldecauthe.” Meurig’s voice was also soft. “But what little we know would indicate that Raven would not be common among your folk, friend Duncan.”
The saint left an expectant pause, and Duncan was drawn into it enough to respond with, “No. Common is what the raven mark is not.”
<Tell>