The Three Lands Omnibus Part 2

This had not occurred to me; I had thought of myself only as a special sentinel for this coming battle, not as withdrawn from battle for all time. But I dared not express my doubts to my father; I said only, "That is farther away even than the death of Hamar's murderer. Surely you have better things to worry about at this time. Have you whetted your blade?"

This turned our conversation to easier matters a ways to trap and kill the murderer a and so, in the end, I escaped further rebuke from my father. As for my mother, I think she is relieved that I will be in no danger from the coming feud, though of course she cannot say this openly, with my father so angered by my decision. And Mira is too young to fully take in all that is happening; she still cries every night from Hamar's loss.

But I ... I have a difficult role given to me by the G.o.ds, and I have a blood brother who will help me to keep my promise.

CHAPTER THREE.

The sixth day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

My father left for Cold Run early this morning before any of us had awoken except Fenton, who gave his blood brother the blessing for safe killing before sending him off a or so everyone thinks, but I now realize that Fenton must have given him only a prayer for his safety.

Leda packed a food-bag last night for my father, in case he should need several days to find a suitable prey. I'm staying at the house of Lange and Leda and Drew at the moment, since there isn't room enough for more than my father and mother and Mira in the sleeping-hut they have moved into since the fire. My father says that the village's first task after this is all over will be to build a new hall.

Lange came up to me somewhat hesitantly this morning and said that he knew I must still be upset over what had happened to Hamar, and would I like him to take care of matters in the village until my father's return? That was a nice way of saying that he didn't think I could handle the job yet. I gave him my permission gratefully. Now that Hamar is dead, Lange is next heir to my father after me, and he has much more experience in these matters than I do. He has been on the village council for twenty years now, and I have only attended one meeting since coming of age.

This set me thinking, though, of what Hamar's death would mean for me. I had almost forgotten, amidst the pain of what happened, that I am now the heir. Before this, I had planned to do some travelling in order to help me decide what sort of work I wanted to do. Of course, I could live at home as long as I wanted, and my father would support me, but I am not the sort of man to be a blood-worm to my parents. The money for my travels was my father's second birthday gift for me, but now there is no question of what work I will do.

I don't really mind. I think I will enjoy working alongside my father, though Hamar, who liked to elicit pity, always tried to make it sound as though he was training for the worst job in the world. Most of all, I will enjoy being able to attend village council meetings. For the last few years, Drew and I have been eavesdropping on the meetings by listening through one of the windows. (Drew is only nine, but he likes to pretend that he is as old as I am.) Now that I am of age, I would be able to attend the meetings anyway, but it will be different sitting at the right hand to my father and presiding over the meetings when he is away.

I will try not to remember that Hamar should be doing that instead of me.

The eighth day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

My father still has not returned, and I am trying not to worry. Perhaps the Cold Run villagers are simply being cautious, as well they might. Anyway, if my father is killed, Cold Run's priest will send word.

Drew is so excited about the feud that I nearly slapped him today out of frustration, though I felt the same before this all started.

The tenth day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

Still no word. Surely they would not have killed him and kept the news to themselves? It would be their victory, after all. Lange says that if we do not hear from Cold Run by tomorrow, he will send Fenton over to discover how matters stand.

The eleventh day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

My father returned at noonday. He drew blood a Nathaniel, whom I vaguely remember as giving me rides on his pony when I visited Cold Run as a child. Everyone here is now tensely awaiting Cold Run's hunter, and all of the boys have long faces because they are not allowed to wear their daggers until the blood feud is over. My father spent a long time this evening reminding me that I must not wear my free-man's blade or even hold it in my hand as long as I am determined to stay out of the feud. I think he said that in order to shame me into taking my blood vow to murder, but I have remained steadfast to my promise to Fenton.

My father was delayed in returning because he hunted in Cold Run for several days before picking his prey. He had hoped that one of the villagers would say something that would reveal who Hamar's murderer was, but everyone there kept quiet about the subject, no doubt knowing that they might be overheard by our hunter.

My father was also delayed because it took him several minutes to bind Nathaniel, and during that time he got a lot of blood on his only remaining tunic a mainly Nathaniel's blood, fortunately. So my father decided to travel south to Border Borough to buy new clothes, not only for himself, but also for my mother and Mira and me, since we lost all our goods in the fire. (Our money is safe, since my father always kept that with the town bankers.) While he was in town, my father informed Lord Ellis of our feud, and Lord Ellis says that he will send word to the King, though I cannot imagine why the King should be bothered with such a matter. There must be several dozen blood feuds going on in Koretia right now, and none of them is likely to go beyond the village or town where it began. But since the King is head of our blood line, he has to know about even a small feud like this, since he may be called upon to defend us.

My father took two days to travel to Border Borough and back a of course, it would have taken less time than that to go east to Blackpa.s.s, but Blackpa.s.s's baron is Blackwood of the old n.o.bility, and my father will not do business in a town that is run by our enemies' kin.

The twelfth day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

I had Fenton read over the above entry, and I asked him whether there was anything in it that an Emorian was unlikely to understand. He laughed and said that it would all be incomprehensible to an Emorian. One of these days, he said, I will have to explain in my journal about blood lines and blood debts and why the King is obliged to defend us in the feud if it grows serious, and why Blackwood must do the same for Cold Run, and a dozen other matters that I would have thought would be perfectly obvious.

I had no desire to argue with Fenton; it was the first time I have seen him laugh since this blood feud started. These days, he spends most of his time in the sanctuary, praying, and all the rest of his time with me, cramming me with knowledge of the Emorian language as though I had only hours to live, though of course he and I are the only men in this village who are safe.

My father gathered all the men in the village square today and warned everyone not to wander off alone, since Cold Run's hunter is no doubt hiding near our village at this very moment and waiting to make his kill. I heard my father tell Fenton afterwards that he expected the others to follow his advice for no more than half a day before forgetting it.

I changed into one of my new tunics today. It feels odd to be wearing a tunic with silver trim, just like my father and Hamar. All I am missing now is a sword, but my father says that will have to wait until we go together to Border Borough and have one custom-made for me. The delay is of no importance; I will only wear the sword on formal occasions, and I cannot even wear a dagger right now, as my father keeps reminding me. I think he is puzzled that I am remaining so obstinate.

The thirteenth day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

Despite our efforts to stay alert, Cold Run's hunter made his kill today. His prey was t.i.tus.

I went over to see Chloris this evening. She was still weeping in her hut, refusing to see anyone, but she let me in; she said it was because I had refused to take part in the feud.

"I tried to persuade t.i.tus to do the same," she said as I handed her a face-cloth because her own was soaked through. "t.i.tus thought the blood feuds were foolish; he said that in Emor, Hamar's murderer would have been brought to judgment, and that would have been the end of it. But he said that he had to abide by Koretian customs, or n.o.body here would believe that he was truly loyal to the G.o.ds. As if anyone could have doubted that!" She exploded into another shower of tears, and I put my arm around her.

After she had calmed somewhat, I asked, "How would the Emorians have brought Hamar's murderer to judgment? Cold Run refuses to surrender the man."

"I keep trying to remember," she said, gulping between sobs. "Not that it matters to me, but it mattered to him a it was all he kept talking about during the last few days. He said that Cold Run refused to surrender the murderer to us because their baron was sure that the murderer wouldn't receive fair judgment here, and that Roderick was right. t.i.tus said that there ought to be someone who could judge the murderer without any bias."

"Like a priest, you mean?"

"No, t.i.tus said that even the priests are allied with the villagers they minister to. He said that, in Emor, the law would stop the blood feud. That's what he kept saying over and over a that if Koretia had the law, there would be no feud. And now he's dead." She flung herself face-down onto her pallet, and eventually I had to leave because I saw that I was only making her more upset by having her talk about this.

So I went to Fenton to ask him about the nature of Emorian law, and how it differs from the G.o.ds' law. I found him in the dark sanctuary with his fingers on the Jackal's mask a that seems to be the only G.o.d he prays to these days, I suppose because the Jackal is the hunting G.o.d.

He pulled away from the mask when he saw me, though. After I had asked my question, he said, "I wish that I had had time enough to explain Emorian law to you, but it seemed a lengthy enough task just to teach you the Emorian language. And now-"

He turned away suddenly, and for a moment I feared that he would ask me to leave, as he does sometimes when he feels he must speak with the G.o.ds. But instead he went over to the altar and stood there for a moment with his head bowed, looking down upon the grey slab of stone. With his back to me, he seemed like a stranger. I could not see his face or his hands, and only his robe told me who he was a his robe, and the fact that he bore no blade.

A blood-fly buzzed past his head. The weather has not yet turned to autumn mildness, and so the blood-flies are still thick in the early evening. Fenton waved his hand, and at first I thought he was trying to kill the blood-fly before it settled upon him. Then I noticed that other flies were in the room a house flies, attracted by the drying blood on the altar.

He turned then, beckoning me over, and by the time I reached his side, his robe sleeves were pushed up to his elbows and he was scrubbing the blood with a brush. I found the other brush without needing to ask where it was; he rid himself of his a.s.sistant last year, after I offered to help him with his menial work. Together we dug away at the hard blood. There was a great deal of it. Usually, at his daily worship, Fenton sacrifices small animals: birds on feast days, and on other days, the rodents he traps in our houses. My mother said once that a priest in a village is as good as a cat. When the blood feud started, though, my father offered up to the G.o.ds our entire flock of goats. Our hired hands were happy at this news of less work, until they realized how long the feud might last, and that there might be no goats left in the end for them to watch.

Fenton said finally, "Why should we serve the G.o.ds?"

I was ready with an answer; we had talked about this many times. "Because they are good, pure good; anything good that we have, we received from them. If we serve them, the good in us will be increased. If we turn our face from them, the G.o.ds will curse us a not because they want us to suffer, but because they can no longer help us, unless we turn our face toward them again and ask their forgiveness."

Fenton pushed his right sleeve further toward his shoulder. For a moment, I caught a sickening glimpse of what he keeps hidden under his robe; then he pushed his sleeve back down to his elbow. "And how do we serve the G.o.ds?" he asked.

"We serve them by thinking of what they want, always, before anything else," I replied promptly. "We serve them by being willing to sacrifice everything we have and are, for their sake. We serve them by following the G.o.ds' law, as given to us by our priest a you." I ended with a smile.

Fenton smiled back, but said, as he pulled a bowl of water toward himself. "And what if I say the G.o.ds want one thing, and Cold Run's priest says the G.o.ds want the opposite? Whose law do you follow then?"

I wanted to say that I would always follow his commands, no matter what any other priest said, but I knew that was not the answer he wanted, so I said reluctantly, "I would follow the G.o.ds' law as proclaimed by the High Priest a when he finally comes. Do you think he will come?" I looked over at Fenton, who was now washing the altar with as much tenderness as a mother might wash her child.

I thought his smile wavered somewhat, but he said only, "In your time, perhaps. I don't think he will show himself to the Koretians while I'm alive."

I looked with concern at the wrinkles next to the sides of his eyes. It had never occurred to me before that he would die before I did. "Are you very old?" I asked tentatively, not wanting to add to his pain.

He laughed then, a light, soaring laugh, and threw a dry rag my way. "As old as the black border mountains," he replied. "I celebrate my thirtieth birthyear next spring."

That sounded quite old to me, but I had no wish to offend him, so I said quickly, "You didn't tell me about the Emorians' law."

"I didn't have to," he said as we wiped the altar dry. "You told me yourself."

My expression must have been as blank as my thoughts, for he smiled again and said, "I've heard many people say that the Emorians have no religion, but they're the most religious people in the world. They have a G.o.d whom they serve with duty and sacrifice. They have priests who tell them what the G.o.d wants them to do. They have a High Priest who serves as the living presence of the G.o.d whom they worship. They even have their own G.o.ds' law."

I stood back from the altar, watching the last drops of moisture glisten in the ruddy evening sun. Finally I said, "The Emorian law a that's their *G.o.ds' law.' And the *priests' a they have people who tell them how to follow the law?"

Fenton nodded. He had brought out the brush again and was rubbing at a bit of blood we had missed. The flies, disappointed, wandered out the door. "They have men called judges who decide when their law has been broken. And the Emorian *High Priest' is their ruler: the Chara. He is High Judge of the land, and he makes final decisions on the law. The Emorians even call their law the Chara's law, believing that the Chara is the living embodiment of their G.o.d."

"And who is their G.o.d?" I asked with curiosity.

"The law itself."

I gave a laugh of disbelief as Fenton finally stood back, satisfied that the altar was purified for the morrow's worship. "That makes no sense," I said. "The law is what the G.o.ds give us a the law isn't the G.o.ds themselves."

"The Emorians may have seen it that way in the past," said Fenton. "Some of their old doc.u.ments refer to a Lawgiver, as though something stood behind the law a but you won't find many Emorians talking that way today. To them, the law itself is worthy of worship and sacrifice, and they are as ready to lay down their lives for it as we are for our G.o.ds."

I shook my head. "Somebody should tell them the truth," I said. "Somebody should teach them that the G.o.ds are the only ones that are purely good, the only ones that they should worship. The G.o.ds are pure goodness, so the G.o.ds' law is pure goodness, unlike the Emorians' law."

"Is it?" Fenton had been looking down at the altar all this time; now he raised his eyes. I could see them clearly in the light, bright blue like a newly forged blade. "It is the G.o.ds' law that tells men to murder each other," he said softly. "In Emor, this blood feud could never have happened. The Chara's law would have forbidden it."

I was so astonished that by this time I had forgotten my original question: of how the Emorians' law accomplished this feat. Just the fact that Fenton would speak of the G.o.ds' law in such a way made my heart beat fast, as though I expected a G.o.d to bring down his vengeance on us at any moment.

Finally, I swallowed the hardness in my throat and said, "But ... you worship the G.o.ds."

Fenton nodded. His gaze had drifted past me toward the door, and I realized from this that he did not wish his words to be heard by others; he was telling me a secret no one else had heard. "I pay honor to the G.o.ds with my life, but we men are imperfect; we see only glimpses of what the G.o.ds want. You said a while back that I give you the G.o.ds' law, but I have never done that. I have given you my own understanding of what the G.o.ds want, an imperfect understanding. And sometimes, when men's hearts turn evil, and they wish to follow their own wills rather than those of the G.o.ds, they pretend that the G.o.ds want what they want. They create rules for murder and execution and enslavement, and they call these rules the laws of the G.o.ds."

Now my heart was beating so hard that I felt the blood throb at my fingertips. What Fenton was speaking was blasphemy; I was old enough to know that. Nothing less than a terrible death would satisfy the G.o.ds who heard such words spoken ... and yet I could not believe that the G.o.ds, good as they were, would ever want to harm Fenton. I stood bewildered, not knowing what to say.

For a moment, I thought that Fenton would speak more, but his eyes flicked to the side again and he said, "The Emorians' law is hard to explain in one lesson, and surely it is time you were home and helping your father with your family's evening worship."

I turned around and saw standing on the threshold of the sanctuary my father, his brows drawn low as he looked, not at me, but at Fenton. For a moment, I feared that he had heard what Fenton had said and that he would denounce Fenton for his blasphemy. Then I remembered with relief that my father is blood-sworn not to harm Fenton, and that anything he had heard he would keep locked in his heart.

So I went home, and we worshipped the G.o.ds together as we have done since I was a baby, but this time I stared at the mask of the Jackal, wondering what the Emorians know that we Koretians do not know, and wondering how their law brings them closer to the G.o.ds' will than ours does.

The fifteenth day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

Our hunter returned today. Now that the blood feud is begun in earnest, we no longer wait out the period of mourning before we send our hunter. Digby, who is my great-uncle's cousin, killed Angus the shopkeeper, whose wife I remember: she used to give me sweets when her husband wasn't watching. My father is angry that Hamar's murderer has not yet been identified, but he congratulated Digby on a fine kill. Now we await Cold Run's hunter.

The sixteenth day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

Every man in the village is on edge. I tapped Lange on the shoulder today as he was lathing wood, and he leapt as high as a funeral pyre flame.

Fenton continues to tutor me but has not spoken again about the Emorians' law. I am quite glad. Fenton is such a good man that I know that the G.o.ds would never punish him for anything he said against their law, but I fear that the G.o.ds will punish me if I listen to such talk.

The seventeenth day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

My cousin Rosa woke this morning, turned over in bed, and discovered her husband Warner lying in a pool of blood. The flies were feasting on his neck.

Her screams must have been heard all the way to Cold Run. Everyone has been saying that it was Warner's fault, for wearing his dagger to bed. No hunter can kill a man unless he wears a blade at his belt or carries it in his hand.

Lange has been sent to Cold Run. Drew is in a very bad mood and refuses to play with me.

The eighteenth day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

I have been having a hard time keeping from thinking about the G.o.ds' law, so I allowed myself to think about the law today a I mean the Emorians' law, but I find myself thinking of it just as the law these days. I suppose that is impious.

If I were creating a law, I decided, I would make a law where the innocent need not die in the place of the guilty. It is not Warner's fault, or t.i.tus's, or even Nathaniel's or Angus's, that someone at Cold Run killed Hamar. Why should all these men be killed to satisfy the G.o.ds' vengeance? It would be better if the G.o.ds were to pick priests who would have the power to say, "This man is guilty and must die for what he has done." And something would have to force those priests to follow the G.o.ds' will, rather than simply follow the desires of the villagers whom they served.

I just read the above paragraph and am now cold with fear for what I have written. I am tempted to blot out my words, but the G.o.ds already know that I have criticized the law that they gave us, and so I can do nothing except go to Fenton and confess to him my impiety a my blasphemy, rather. But he has said words harsher than mine against the law, so I do not know whether he will consider what I did to be wrong. I am very confused.

The nineteenth day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

I had no chance to ask Fenton what I should do yesterday, for Lange brought back exciting news in the evening: he has killed Cold Run's baron.

My father says that Lange must have had great skill to accomplish such a feat; a baron is always especially wary during a blood feud, and Roderick was an accomplished swordsman. Lange, who is modest, says that he is lucky Roderick didn't kill him, and that Roderick's death is a sure sign that the G.o.ds wish for Mountside to win this feud.

Everyone has been celebrating tonight, sitting in front of the fire and making toasts to the G.o.ds in thanksgiving for their blessing upon Mountside. I had to leave the fireside before I was sick. When we visited Cold Run when I was young, we always stayed at Roderick's house. Roderick was like an uncle to Hamar and me, bringing us gifts from far-off villages when he went travelling.

Is something wrong with me? My father has begun to imply that I am nothing more than a coward, and I think he must be right. I ought to be rejoicing that Mountside is so close to winning the feud, but instead I feel as near to weeping as a woman.

I wish I could speak with Fenton, but he has gone to Cold Run. My father sent a message that we would observe the three days' mourning in honor of Cold Run's baron.

The twentieth day of September in the 940th year a.g.l.

Again I had no chance to talk to Fenton, for when he returned to Mountside he was accompanied by Cold Run's priest, Felix, and by Cold Run's new baron.

Griffith I remember even better than Roderick. He and my cousin Emlyn swore blood vows of friendship when they were children, and Hamar and I used to go to Cold Run to play with Emlyn and Griffith and Griffith's younger brother Siward. Sometimes the Cold Run boys would come here, and we would all play Jackal and Prey in the woods; Emlyn usually won, but Griffith was almost as good at the game. He and Emlyn were the best pranksters among the boys in either of our villages. My father used to say with a smile that it wasn't safe to become enemies of those two.

All this was back in the old days, before our feud started with Cold Run.