The Tale of Oriel (22 page)

“Not build new,” Oriel said. “Or, mostly not. These walls could be moved outward, which would also bring the fishermen's houses within the walls, for their safety, and also that would strengthen the bonds between fishermen and city.”

Vasil drank deep and said no more, but at the next meeting he proposed that very plan, and he did not name Oriel as its source. Oriel knew it would be useless to argue ownership of such a thing as an idea, but he felt as if something had been taken from him. He understood that Vasil would like to keep him down, as a father does a son, so that the father can maintain the authority of his own higher position. But he thought, in his private mind, that Vasil would not be so concerned to keep him down did he not fear how high Oriel might fly, once Oriel moved on his own wings. That thought kept Oriel patient. He would have Vasil's lands, and a place in the city that was higher than Vasil would ever be able to claim. If it came to battle, Oriel would prove the best man. Also, if it came to peace. Also, Oriel added silently as Vasil accepted the praise and admiration of the meeting for his farsightedness, if it came to preparations for battle, or preparations for peace, to rebuilding and refortifying, or even merely enduring. In any chance, he knew himself the better man.

AS IF TO MAKE UP
for its tardiness, spring came suddenly. One morning spring thrust itself up from underground, loosening soil, loosing flowers into an air that overnight had become so sweet you could almost taste the summer berries ripening within it. The shoulders of sheep were heavy with wool, and everywhere young were being delivered, dog and cat and goat, fowl and swine and sheep.

Oriel awoke in darkness, but as if the sun had already risen in his heart. All in the house seemed made glad, even as they busied themselves wordlessly in the dark for the day's long labors to begin, once the sun had lightened the sweethearted world.

The labors themselves seemed light, although they were hard: Oriel alone watched over the salt pans, gathered and hung to dry the cones, and then packed the salt into the wooden saltboxes. Griff and Vasil worked the fields behind an ox, harrowing up, plowing to fineness, bending to remove stones that appeared like the wildflowers, every year; then while Griff held the ox to the track for a final plowing, Vasil walked behind to sow the seeds. Tamara meanwhile dug over her kitchen garden, and planted it with onions and turnips and parsnips, as well as the less sturdy garlic. She watched over the birthing of pigs and goats, and was sometimes called to one of her sisters' houses for a sheep or ox because her hands were strong and knowledgeable to pull out the young, when the dam was too tired to push any longer. Meanwhile, she baked breads and cooked up stews made out of fish she had caught in the earliest light, trolling a net over the boat's side. Meanwhile Tamara opened the shutters wide and washed over every surface of the house with hot water. She hung linens and bedding out in the fresh air. Oriel worked with her when he had the time, when he knew he had time while the salt pan steamed its water away.

As if there were not enough to keep men busy, Vasil was called away to a meeting in the town every second or third day. Oriel could not be spared in the rush of spring, but Vasil must answer the knock on the door at dawn or the exhausted runner at midday. Rumors rode up from the south on the soft winds, or in from the western hills. Rumors flowed down from the north with each evening's cool air. Phillipe was on the move, he had taken Celindon last autumn and held it over the winter, his soldiers were closing in on Selby.

The men of Selby nervously wondered if they should sue for peace, surrender without battle, or send to Karle who, rumor said, had an army encamped west of Celindon. Now, rumor said, Karle had taken Celindon but found it more in ruin than richness. The men of Selby feared choosing sides and they feared not choosing sides. They met together, and reaffirmed their choice to be independent. They wore neckerchiefs of all four colors, cleverly cut and sewn by the women, who bordered all the kerchiefs, including their own head kerchiefs, in a border of white.

The people of Selby wore their colors bravely, but their hearts often failed, and then they would call Vasil from his fields. They called Oriel, too, but Oriel couldn't be spared. The land couldn't spare both of them so it was the master who went, and spoke calming words to uneasy men, and led them in the drills of soldiery.

No sensible Captain would attack, once the seeds were sown, once the young were birthed and fattening. If he didn't attack when his chosen victim was weakened by winter, all agreed, then a sensible Captain would wait until the harvest. Why should he starve his soldiers when, if he only waited until high summer, he could bring full-bellied men into the quarrel, and know that the countryside would feed them, and know how much damage he would do to the countryside by waiting and burning what the soldiers couldn't eat or carry away. Men who watched their year's labor destroyed and knew that winter would find them unready surrendered more quickly than men who knew they already had nothing.

Every day that passed without alarm raised hope that the city was safe, at least until harvest. Every farm labored long and hard to plant its crops. The Saltweller's house was no exception. After the day's labors all slept deeply across the ever-shortening night. Oriel thought he had never been so tired, as day followed day and sometimes, if the fires under the pans burned too slowly, he stood alone into the night waiting the time when he could scoop up the clotted salt, hang it to dry, and go at last to his bed. On such nights, in early spring, it often happened that a messenger would arrive from the city. The dogs would bark and Vasil would be at a dark window. No man of sense opened his door at that hour, and the fire of the salt pans was hidden behind the house, in comparative safety. Oriel stood in firelight, straining his ears to hear in the darkness beyond, first the baying of the dogs and then whether Vasil would shout them down to silence or shout for assistance.

The Saltweller's house had its plan, just as the city had its plan in these uneasy times. The city planned to use the fisherboats to transport those who could not fight to an island, where they had food stored and shelter built. There was refuge for those who might need it, children and women and helpless old, or ill, and also those wounded in battle. The Saltweller planned, should need arise, to flee to their boat and go downriver to safety.

Plans were made; and rumors poured in as fast as seeds poured into furrows. These were rumors of bands of Wolfers and sudden raids that left no survivors, that destroyed for no more reason than a love of destruction. The cruelty of the tales brought tears to Tamara's eyes and robbed her cheeks of color. The Saltweller kept a bold front: “If there are no survivors, who spreads the stories?” he asked. “Aye, if there are such Wolfers, and as many of them as the tales say, even so they are no more than men. They can die, can they not? Especially when those who face them are trained in soldiery. As are the men of Selby,” he finished proudly. “I will not worry overmuch about the Wolfers. If they come so far to find us, they will find us ready.”

Oriel couldn't but admire the man's courage. His own courage was equal, he knew, but still he admired the Saltweller's.

Spring grew into summer, and the land prospered under sunlight and warmth and rains. Selby, at the Innkeeper's suggestion, named runners, who would carry warning from town to farmstead, so that the people might come quickly into safety. There were also runners named at the outlying farmsteads, who would bring to Selby early news of approaching danger.

The wheat swayed golden in its fields, fields of rye ripened, and the men of Selby began to say that no sensible Captain would take his armies to battle now. He would wait until the harvests were in. Oriel thought that the men of Selby secretly hoped as he did that this might be a fourth year of peace. Whenever hope grew too strong, however, there would appear distant smoke, dark on the horizon, as if from a giant's chimney, and people would look to it and wonder if Celindon was in flames.

Oriel lived in a state of constant alarm. He kept his coins, and the glowing beryl, always with him, hidden in his trousers. Whenever the dogs barked he reached for his dagger. He slept uneasily and was always conscious of his unprotected back as he bent over the salt pans. He was glad of the house and the companionship of its inhabitants; without those, he doubted he would have slept at all, under the constant threat of danger, under the constant promise of excitements. But all four could work together and all trust the others. They were bound together, for the well-being of all. One summer night, as they sat together on a bench by the door to watch the final fading of light, the Saltweller remarked, “We know who you would choose for husband now, Tamara, don't we?”

“How do you know?” she demanded. Her cheeks were pink and pleased, her eyes sparkled, and a little smile like waves playing at the foot of a boulder played around the edges of her mouth. “You can't know my mind. They say,” Tamara said, choosing Griff to smile teasingly up at, “that a maid's mind has more twists and turns than a fish fleeing the net. Griff told me that, didn't you, Griff?”

Oriel noted the smile that passed between the two of them. The girl was causing him to doubt what he was sure of. Then Griff looked to Oriel over her head, and it was as clear as if Griff had spoken the words aloud.
What girls get up to, how is a man to trust them? But you and I know one another,
Griff's look said.

“I would not have you be a minx, Daughter,” the Saltweller rumbled.

Tamara looked up, immediately solemn.

“I would have you name your choice,” the Saltweller said.

“Now?”

“Not if you are not yet ready to make it,” he said. “But otherwise, yes, I'd have his name.”

“I am ready, if this is the time. You are correct, Father, you do know, you all know it.”

“Oriel,” the Saltweller said.

“Him,” Tamara agreed.

Oriel's gaze was on the black sky, and the sight of the stars appearing; he felt the rightness of everything.

“If he will have me,” Tamara said, practically whispering the words.

Her voice recalled Oriel. “How could you doubt it?” he asked her. He had never doubted it. “Do you doubt me? You need never,” he promised her. “But I would ask as your father did in that earlier year,” he said, teasing her now, “why? Why would you choose me?”

He thought her cheeks flamed red, but in the dim light he couldn't be sure. He knew her eyes looked at him with a fire that struck him in the belly. “Oh—you know perfectly well,” she cried, and jumped up from the bench to run inside.

The three men sat on, peacefully watching the approach of night. “Sooner is better than later for this wedding,” the Saltweller said, as he rose to go inside to his bed.

“Aye,” Oriel answered.

In a little while he asked Griff, “Who will you marry?”

“Someone,” Griff said. “When you are wed and settled, then it will be time enough to look. When these dangers are past—”

“They may not pass so quickly,” Oriel warned him.

“Aye,” Griff agreed. “So I'll wed when . . .” He could not say. “Whenever the time and woman are right,” he finally finished.

Oriel thought that if he were to be wed, he would want Griff also to be a married man. “We must watch out for a wife for you,” he said. In his mind, he ran over the girls of the city, selecting the few among them he judged might suit Griff, and serve him well. Aye, and be faithful to him, as Oriel had no doubt Tamara would be faithful.

Rumors rode in by sea and land, and the Saltweller was called in to another meeting of men swept by the fears those rumors fueled. Summer was full upon them, the salt pans were newly filled with brine, which had just begun to steam, so Oriel worked beside Griff to pull the weeds out from the young onions. Tamara brought them cheese and bread at midday, and all three sat under trees at the edge of the woods, overlooking the bending river. The sun beat down and they were in no hurry to return to their labors. Insects were buzzing and birds—

The dogs at their feet growled.

Stood up to bark, baying—

Oriel was on his feet and had thrust Tamara behind him, had turned with Griff to face the woods before he saw that the dogs watched in the other direction, off across the field.

Oriel turned again. The woods were at his back. The dogs clamored and he drew his dagger, as did Griff beside him.

“We'll make for the boat,” he decided. The two dogs bounded off across the field, low and belling.

Oriel had never seen a Wolfer and was not sure he even believed in them, any more than, say, any other fabled thing, any more than the Kingdom. But these were Wolfers. He knew it without question, as the three stepped out onto the field. They were tall, lean, sun-browned. Their long yellow hair was tied back, and thin yellow beards hung down from their chins. They held short swords ready and seemed to have their mouths wide open as the dogs attacked.