Two Queens (Seven Heavens Book 1) (3 page)

“H— are you?” in the midst of the child's bawling.

“Fine, thank you. How are you?”

She smacked him on the cheek with her free hand. “That'll teach you to be pert with me.”

“I didn't—”

“Don't interrupt, neither. Answer me: who are you?”

Enough words made it through the baby's vocal avalanche this time. “I'm Brian, Devlin's son.”

“Say ma'am, you rude boy. What do you want?”

Two minutes later Brian staggered away, hand to his sore ear, his fear of a grizzled chin answering a door quite vanquished. Anything but a human mother bear.

“Have to be careful with that one,” a man said. Brian looked up, not realizing that anyone had noticed his flight. The man held a walking stick in his left hand which, contrary to its occupation, was leaning against him at the moment. His right held a single oak leaf, clasping it as if he were the first man in the first garden and no one had ever seen a leaf before him. He stood tall, his straight gray hair darting down past his shoulders to crown his forest green cloak. Eyes a shade darker gray than his hair peered from under craggy eyebrows at Brian.

“She can't see the good in any but her own children and nothing but that with them. Pity it has not brought out any good of her own.”

Brian didn't say anything. Who was this old man? Gossips spoke of other persons and let loose with their own opinions. But they didn't sound like this man. His father would never make so free with his words to a stranger but the way this man declared it—slowly, evenly, without hesitation—somehow fit. Like when Devlin took a look at an injured kardja then pronounced its injuries, probable causes, and the care prescribed.

Brian tried to think what to say to this, feeling as if some acknowledgment should be made on his part, but the man walked away, looking again to his leaf.

Brian walked on.

He passed a group of women standing in the middle of town. Hastening his gait he kept his eyes trained on another weaver shop a score of yards away.

The women fell silent as he passed them. Then whispering began. Brian couldn't make out the words nor was he curious to.

He reached the threshold and summoned up his courage to knock. The women, freed of the immediate presence of his intrusion, had no fear in speaking aloud again, though the distance was quite small.

“Devlin's boy,” an alto-voiced woman said.

“Ramona's brat, you mean,” a soprano-voiced woman replied.

“Ooh really?” several of the women cooed. Not that they knew any less than the others.

“Yes, plain as the nose on my face. Just look at him,” the soprano said.

“Very plain indeed, isn't it?” the alto countered.

More tittering. By this time Brian had quite forgotten to knock, forgotten even that a door stood in front of him.

“Humph. Why don't you tell them, then, what is so very plain? How it all happened, how that-” here the soprano's voice grew quite soft and Brian's straining ears missed the next phrase. “Well good day,” came next in clear tones, and Brian heard a swish of clothes mark her passing.

The little concord broke up, voices going this way and that, calling a reminder out to a neighbor or speaking further with a companion on the way. Brian heard no more of interest: indeed, heard nothing, not the birds overhead nor the wind through the trees.

His mother... bearing a brat... what? There comes a time in a child's life when the implicit trust given to parents is struck at the roots. For some the trust falls at the first blow; for others, it is merely chipped away in the long years of a splintered life. Some recover to greater strength. None, however, pass unmarked.

“Ramona's brat,” the woman had said.

Brian, for all the hurts life had meted to him, had not yet seen the ax blow that would hurtle him away from the child's faith in his parents. Not until this day.

“Just look at him,” crashed in his ears. Like leaves blown on his face during a windstorm in the fall he saw himself, in this pool or that lazy bend of a creek. Dark-haired. Dark-eyed. Dark-skinned. Like his mother. His father? Blonde. Blue-eyed. Skin so light it reddened every year at the return of the sun. Like everyone else in Darach.

“Well, don't mind me,” a woman said, swinging the door open. She had a water pail in each hand. “It's not like this is my own home or anything.”

“Sorry,” Brian said. He grimaced and stepped aside.

The woman laughed. “'Tis not a crime, boy, needn't be so white-faced.” She walked away.

Brian's feet led him away from the house. Away from the village of Darach. His mind fluttered and spun and his feet staggered. He reached out his left hand to rest himself against a tall oak on the edge of the clearing.

Unbidden his parent's faces flashed upon him, faces they wore when it was time to go to Darach on market days. His mother—excited, flustered, telling Brian all the wonderful things that would be there, the same things he'd seen several times already. His father—jaw clenched, quieter than was his wont, a bit sharp in his instructions. Could it be true?

Impossible.

But could it?

Two

Brian decided to keep his ears open. Surely he hadn't heard all there was to hear. But how could he make the women talk? He expected they'd talk anytime he was nearby so long as they thought he couldn't hear. How could that be done, though?

Despite his few trips to town he knew enough to know that those who spoke most weren't likely to be those who knew most. But who would know?

His mother, of course. He didn't like the feeling of talking to her about this at all. He was sure she could explain it, yet... it would be so painful to ask. How did one ask that of a woman? Of one's own mom?

His father might know. Brian dismissed the thought as fast as it came. That was the worst idea yet. Not only would he be very closely connected with the issue but there was a chance... Brian shuddered to think of it. A chance that there was a secret and his father did not know it.

It would be too painful regardless. Devlin would respond to Brian's question with other questions. In the worst possible case, Brian would be the cause of his father finding out and the poisoning of his family forever.

No, not his father. Beside him his mother seemed a downright easy choice. No, not easy. Just direct. Besides, he might be able to lead up to the subject without, he breathed,
accusing
her.

It was easy enough to think this since his mother was on the far side of mountain. His impatience, however, made him throw that strategy aside for the time being. He wouldn't see her for a few more days and—who knew?—maybe he'd know a lot more by then.

Anyways, he didn't have much to go on if she were here. He was sure to get better answers if he asked better questions. There had to be some way to get-

“Where's my firewood?” the pock-marked man bawled at him.

“Sorry, I'll get it right now,” Brian sputtered. He was halfway to the dusky half-light underneath the forest canopy when he realized he hadn't agreed to gathering anyone firewood. He groaned. Embarrassment kept him from speaking to the man without delivery and pride would not let him walk away.

He didn't mind the shade under the trees. It was a different sort of stuffy and vastly preferable to a cabin's interior. He wandered along the creek that shouldered the village with its lazy flow. Without meaning to his feet walked just as slowly, not avoiding the afternoon's doorways on purpose but taking his time for the armful of sticks.

It still couldn't compare to the mountainside. Up there, the sun on your face, the wind at your back. A score or two kardja ranging about, clipping at the undergrowth of a steep meadow.

His arms full he returned to the door. The man was nowhere to be seen—what to do now? Knock and risk his ire or just leave the firewood? If he just left it he gave up his claim for payment. Recognition, at least, and perhaps another job on the way to being taken on.

Life in the mountain was simpler: there was father and mother. Father decided, son did. Mother overruled in a few cases, mostly relating to things inside the house, but her word was likewise inviolate. The kardja were pets, only dangerous to those who did not know them.

The mountain storms and weather could surprise you, but for one born and bred in its shadow, what was that? If it did step in and disrupt life—like drowning a herd—that was just what one expected sooner or later. Or so Brian's mind told himself. Hard but not complicated.

He didn't even know who was in charge in the village. Was there a leader? A few old men, a couple wealthy craftsmen? Some loud women whose henpecked husbands caused the village to follow their opinions in all but the most extreme of cases?

And money. This was a trading town filled with tradesmen. A khardjin helped whenever needed for he knew none could survive the mountain alone for long: seasons came and went and sooner or later help would be needed. So help was freely given, at least so far as did not involve the giving away of one's own kardja herd.

Brian walked around behind the house and, seeing a wood pile, added his portion to it. He turned around and walked on, each moment awaiting another squawk to tell him to get more or complain of the pieces brought. But none came and he was soon back on the footpath.

He looked over at the next door ahead. He couldn't bear the thought of dealing with that now, not with his mind presently occupied. He walked back into the forest for more wood.

Little progress was made that day in any matter excepting the wood pile. The pock-marked man berated Brian's work but invited him back the next day. He yelled at Brian when Brian said he was going up the mountain and wouldn't be back for several days. So much for the man's favor.

Supper that night was a repeat of before, only less talking. Brian feared that they knew what the women did. What if they did? What if they inwardly despised him and just feared offending his father? I'm not just homeless and destitute, I'm the illegitimate offspring of a foreigner. It would be a long time before he called someone “bastard” again.

He rose early, breakfasted quickly, and went on his way. Finally, Brian thought, enough of that town. He strode on, his mountaineer's feet stretching into an easy gait on the grassy footpath. The thought arose that this was a temporary retreat, that the same problems still faced him, but he brushed it aside. He was heading back to his parents, back to the mountain: things always looked better from there.

After a few hours of steady progress he diverged from his upward windings to drink at a nearby stream. Removing his boots he washed his feet: dirt and what little weariness the morning jaunt had accumulated flowed away. He sank into the springy heather near the water and drank his full. Spinning around he lay on his back and looked at the clouds for a moment. No rain to fear today, he thought. He got to his feet, grabbed his boots, and found his way back to the path.

Darkness was descending when he came in sight of the cabin. His pace quickened towards the light streaming out of the solitary window. Voice inside arrested his approach.

“I won't have it,” his father declared.

“Please, please think about,” his mother asked.

Devlin's boots thumped around the cabin. “I have thought about it.”

“Sit down, my love. Hush, sit.” A chair scraped against the floor planks. “You've thought about it, and I've thought about it. But we haven't thought about it together. Talk to me.”

“I told you: I won't have it. I believe one of your gentleman wouldn't force you to sell it or keep it against your will. It would be a point of honor like their”—here Devlin laughed—“like their silly dresses.”

Who was, who were his mother's gentlemen?

After a slight silence he finished. “But I'm not one of your gentleman.”

“I know. You must know, my love, that I don't mind. Really and truly. I walked away from that.”

“That's what I used to think. But over the last year I'm not so sure.”

“What? Why?” she asked.

“I've seen how you look at your son. As if you and he aren't here, are somewhere far off. Besides, I would think you'd want to keep it, with how much time you spend twisting it around your finger and touching it.”

“Our son, Devlin,” she chided gently. “He's more important than any ring.”

Brian heard nothing for what seemed like several minutes. He realized he'd been holding his breath and forced himself to slowly exhale, hoping they wouldn't hear them.

“Our son? The one you have great plans for? That you tell stories to every night about your home you don't miss?” The chair scraped the floor and fell over as boots stomped.

“You mock my love, Devlin. It is 'our son' that I would give it up for, to keep him from hunger and cold. The kardja have kept him and us for many a cold winter. But what now? They have gone the path of all living. Is it not fit that now, since your treasure lies scattered across the mountainside, mine should depart from me too for the sake of our son?” Ramona wept.

Brian sat there, trying to regulate his breathing. The image of his mother's ring kept flashing across his mind's eye—a simple silver band with a single stone. He imagined what she looked like now: eyes red with weeping, as when his sister died.

“You're right, I'm sorry, love. That was cruel of me.” His voice sank and Brian could barely catch the words. “You must understand all will change. This is not the end. We will survive, we will find a way. If you sell it the home you wish for here but a breath, a word, from...” Brian heard the murmur continue but no more words. A horrible feeling, cold as darkness, clutched him in the stomach.