The Mapmaker's War (10 page)

Raef visited the village when I was on my quest.

How do you know?

He told me.

And?

He found them suspicious.

Of course he did, you thought. You said no more. You knew Raef had some fodder under him after what Wyl said about the hoard.

Then you were called to a secret Council meeting. So were the steward, the oarsman, Raef, and four other men.

Your father presided in his role as the King's most trusted adviser. He said that there was curious activity across the river as of late. The Council wished to speak again to those who'd been to the other side.

First, the steward told the same tale as he had to you and Raef so many seasons before. He handed his piece of the gold road to your father, who passed it among the members.

Burl the oarsman faced the Council next. He clearly didn't wish to be there, although he didn't appear nervous. He answered with polite Yes, sire, No, sire, to the Council's queries. All other responses were terse. Burl kept to the facts. He was asked if he had a last statement, and he did.

I felt as if I'd been to a place where I belonged. That is the manner of their peace, said he.

Then you learned of Raef 's visit. He had asked the kingdom's best miller, smith, woodcutter, and farmer to join him. No envoy of guards, no officials of the King, except for himself. The Council asked what they had seen.

The miller said the people used water, not yoked animals, to turn their mills. Beyond the settlement was a tall structure bridging a clear rapid stream. Outside, a giant spoked wheel with paddles dipped into the water. Its movement powered a shaft and gears inside the building. Connected to the mechanism were the millstones which rubbed together to grind the grain. A large bin dropped grain to the stones, and a chute under that led the ground meal to waiting baskets. The miller surmised they produced more grain than the settlement's people could eat.

The smith spoke of a tremendous forge built of stone farther down the stream. He listed the well-crafted tools hung on pegs and lying on tables. There was a blazing fire kept alive with the split logs piled nearby. The smiths were teaching young people that day, two of them girls. In a storage structure there were pieces to be mended or melted and chunks and ingots of metal yet unused.

The woodcutter described a forest with trees larger than he had ever seen. He and his fellow visitors weren't shown vast empty spaces where the wood had been cleared. Sparse areas had been planted with saplings. Where trees were felled, care seemed taken to disturb few others. He mentioned the store of heartwood timbers and firewood.

The farmer told of the black soil that smelled sweet and crumbled with ease. The vegetable crops were prosperous, the orchards well tended, the grain fields full. The oxen grazed nearby, the sheep and goats not far. Even within the settlement, fruits, herbs, and vetches grew near the dwellings.

The men all agreed that they had been treated most graciously.

Raef addressed the Council. He affirmed what the four men said they had seen and how they'd been hosted. He stated that while the miller, the smith, the woodcutter, and the farmer visited with others of their respective trades, he visited within the settlement. Through the course of the day, Raef noted they possessed cloth, furs, leather, and jewelry fine as any he'd ever seen. Everyone adorned themselves with these items. They claimed to make and grow most of what they had, and traded on occasion. The elder hosts, a man and a woman, said their people wished to live in harmony with each other and with that which surrounded them. Raef said he found their wealth and behavior odd. They were a rich people, although he couldn't discern who owned it all. No one would confess or confirm.

Then you spoke. In all the reigns of your people's kings, never once had there been a confrontation with those across the river. You took them at their word that they wanted peace. You noted they carried no weapons, not even the Guardians on the border.

You risked a conjecture of your own.

You said your long-ago visit to them resulted in knowledge of a dragon's treasure. The people chose its discovery as your husband's quest. You chose to follow to learn for yourself. What Wyl and you saw confirmed that a hoard existed. However, not one among you knew what the treasure suggested or represented. It was so far away that it would be impractical and difficult to move its stores. For all each of you knew, it might be the spoils of a lost civilization or the repository of a great one. Regardless, you thought it reasonable to leave the stores alone.

My brother showed me the amulet he carried on his quest. How interesting its image was the same as the one on the lovely interpreter's pendant. This symbol must give mysterious entry, said Raef.

How can you be sure? you asked.

There is no other explanation, said he.

You could think of several but said nothing. You wanted to ask the obvious but held your tongue. Was there intent to strike the settlement? You knew the answer somehow. You received it when you watched Raef 's eyes narrow.

We know of their treasure now. They will want to protect—or move—it, said Raef.

He looked at his father when he spoke. The King tapped his fingers together. The Council muttered among themselves. Your father asked Wyl his opinion. Wyl said that he noticed a similar design on the amulet and some of the hoard's objects. This, to him, meant there was an undeniable connection. However curious that may be, it was not necessarily cause for alarm.

Well, then, we shall wait and see, said the King.

Raef 's expression collapsed into an angry pout. He looked at his father and brother, then at you.

You dared to look at him. You expected to meet him with disdain. A jolt flashed through your limbs. The darkness in his eyes you understood. You felt what he felt in that moment, although you couldn't name it. The recognition frightened you. You closed your lids against it. When you looked at him again, he sneered and walked away. You turned to watch the other men, unnerved.

You liked the King, to tell the truth. For a man of his position, he was a pragmatic, decent fellow. You recalled what he had said when you thanked him, years before, when he ordained your apprenticeship. His reply: This is a boon for the kingdom. It is practical to train you, unusual as it may be. That you may enjoy it is a stroke of luck.

Wyl remained on the Council's dais while Raef kept his distance. No one urged the younger prince to join the conversation.

You understood quite well, even then, that the event was rooted in something other than concern for the kingdom's safety. There was, of course, mere greed for the riches seen and assumed. You sensed another greed, and it was Raef 's alone. He was constantly ignored or set aside in Wyl's favor and opinion. Wyl was the firstborn son, in line for the throne. What else need be said? The younger prince vied for attention, for recognition, and received little. You had no affection for Raef. His meanness disturbed you. But nevertheless, you had some pity for him.

You knew that you and Burl felt protective of the people you'd met. When the steward told his story, you realized his interest was self-preservation. He wanted to protect himself, and to him, telling the story of what he had seen was a cooperative act. He wished to appease those in power. The steward had little, but even that was too much to lose.

WYL TOLD YOU SOME OF WHAT HE AND HIS BROTHER HAD SAID PRIVATELY. This was how you knew Raef intended to push for confrontation. Perhaps an invasion. There were comments about what Wyl had given up of the kingdom for you, now less territory, fewer resources. Raef understood that more land meant more wealth. That meant more men granted favor to tend, till, tax the land, more men beholden to him. It was a twisted logic, you thought. It wasn't danger but greed and neglect that fueled Raef, his influence stirring Wyl.

You pointed out with stark plainness that a river separated the kingdom from the distant settlement. If he feared unrest, place guards along the bank. No reason to cross. It was a natural barrier, wide at parts. But Raef twisted him, twisted his goodness. He told Wyl he had children, an heir. He would have the domain over many children. Protect us, Wyl. Tell Father to protect us.

When you could see that Wyl was losing his discernment, that his goodness was about to be turned, you decided to warn the Guardians. You regretted the circumstances, but not the reason, for crossing the river again.

You knew you must travel by yourself. You required a direct route, safe shelter, and kindly hosts. You entered the castle archives, where your life's work was kept under guard. Beneath candlelight, you reviewed the maps. You had drawn memory traces of your travels on the parchments, where you'd been fed honey cakes and savory pies and told wondrous tales. You sketched an alternate path, where no one would know how to follow.

Of course, first, you offered to serve as an envoy. Under cover comfort, in pillow talks, you suggested this to Wyl. It was reasonable to meet with them. They had an excellent interpreter. He stroked your hair, your hands. Don't worry yourself, said he.

Then you thought to tell a ruse. Tell Wyl you had a childhood friend who lived away. She, too, had babies. You would so like to visit her. You'll miss him. You don't know how long you will be gone. Not long. You'll take your nursemaid. But you couldn't bring yourself to do it. This wasn't easy to arrange. This was like planning an escape. A cart, a driver, a good horse. Maps to direct the way. Then what would you do when you reached the border?

You decided to go alone. Then you changed your mind and decided to take the twins. They were still small, breast-fed. You weren't certain they'd accept strange milk. You couldn't justify the risk they would go hungry.

Since they were newborns, the girl and the boy traveled well in the pouches you stitched to a cloak's back. A trotting horse bounced them to silence. In the forest, you would leave them sleeping in a shelter under a bush. You hid them as any wild mother would hide her young. For hours you would sit, sometimes blank, sometimes in thought. Sometimes a child again watching a spider build its web. How did it know to do that? When the twins were awake, you let them roll around naked on a clean cloth. When they soiled, you rinsed them in a stream and held them at arm's length to feel the water's full flow.

You were attentive to their creature needs. Still you knew you didn't love them, not as a mother should. Duty is not love. You had the strange thought it was your responsibility to bear them but not to raise them. The latter was not necessary, in fact. A nursemaid could take over their full care once they no longer required your body for nourishment. Your mother had been tended by a nursemaid from infancy through childhood. I hardly remember my mother, said your mother. Her mother, so often cautious and quiet, would babble and sing to herself when strained. Then she would be sent away on respites. Your mother was told that she and her siblings were nerve-wracking handfuls and their mother had to leave to rest.

You knew your disappearance would worry Wyl and everyone else. You intended to be quick as possible. There seemed no other way. Unfortunate that you couldn't be direct. You believed Raef, even Wyl, would have found a way to stop you from going. Pathetic that you had to resort to lies and manipulation, but there it was. The world seemed built on lies and manipulation.

One autumn morning, you kissed Wyl awake in his bed. The twins were in their pouches on your back. He sat up, spun you around, and spoke to his babbling children. Then, as you had before, you left for the day with saddlebags filled with food. You rode like a shadow, a gray figure on a gray horse, steady as mist, fleeting as a phantom.

On the first night, you stayed with an old woman. You had met her years earlier when you were somehow turned around in the forest and lost your way. She found you, took you in. You were not 
lost this time. Again, she fed you, and told you a rhyme different from one she shared before. In her strange accent, said she:

What is for dinner, my woman, my wife?
Tender stew of the stag you slew
With bread and ale and honey cakes
What of the wider world, my man, my mate?
Peace abides where all reside
Which leads to the pleasures of life

What is for dinner, my woman, my wife?
Hearty stew of the beans I grew
While our new babe turned on its stalk
What of the wider world, my man, my mate?
Unrest in the distant west
Far from the cry of our young boy

What is for dinner, my woman, my wife?

Thick stew of the sweet lamb we knew

The one our child begged to be spared

What of the wider world, my man, my mate?

Some discord with the threat of swords

Not near your round belly or bed

What is for dinner, my woman, my wife?

Plain stew of large birds that once flew

Until arrowed through by our son

What of the wider world, my man, my mate?

The drum of war strikes no man numb