Yesterday's Kings (2 page)

He was aware of that. For all he loved the forest, he knew its dangers. There were savage boars in the woodlands, and bears, and forest cats—all of which would slay a man for presuming to enter their domain. It was no easy life, but it was what Cullyn loved, and it was all he knew.

He cleaned his knife and worked his arrow loose and then took up the deer and began the trek back to his cabin. The corpse was heavy, but he was strong, broader of shoulder than most men of his age, and taller, worked hard by all his years in the forest. His arms were muscled from hewing wood, and his legs from chasing down prey. His hair was brown as oakwood, and long, drawn back in a tail for want of trimming, and a thick beard grew around his mouth and cheeks. There had been young women in Lyth who’d called him handsome, but he was
too shy to heed their calling, and was not at all sure what he looked like, save himself. He knew only that he enjoyed his life, and were he sometimes lonely, there was always the forest, with all its wondrous sights and sounds.

And the mystery of the Durrym.

He carried the deer back and hung the carcass in the butchering shed, where he bled it and carved it, taking enough for himself to cure and keep, the rest to trade. He hacked off the head and set the skull to boiling. Someone in Lyth would likely buy it. Cullyn had no time for trophies: they seemed pointless to him, like keeping one’s own stool preserved for memory.

He thought that when the skull was bleached he’d go into the village. The meat would surely be ready by then, and he could trade sufficient to afford a jug of ale, which he enjoyed no less than the attentions of Andrias’s serving wench, who seemed particularly fond of him. Surely she served him sooner than others, and bent lower over his table, and smiled at him so fondly that he felt himself stir. Perhaps this time, he thought, he’d not collapse into embarrassment and turn his face away. Perhaps this time he’d accept her offer and follow her to her room. Perhaps.

He set a small portion of the venison on the fire and began to cut vegetables, and when they were done he ate, and settled to sleep, listening to the sounds of the forest. As ever, they lulled him into slumber, even though he felt both apprehensive and excited by the prospect of visiting Lyth again. It was like another country, mysterious and enticing, albeit frightening. He was not much used to people.

W
HEN THE VENISON
was properly cured and the stag’s skull bleached dry, he packed his gear and set out
for Lyth. The horse that had carried his parents into the river was long dead, and he had never been able to afford another, so he loaded a cart he had built himself and set the traces about his chest and shoulders and began to trudge the forest paths until he came to the road leading to the village. It was a journey of some two days by foot, but he had no qualms about sleeping on the roadside, and he had sufficient to eat, and water to drink from the freshets that fed the Alagordar. He wore his finest clothes: a linen shirt woven by his mother and breeches that were not entirely stained with animal blood and leaf mold. He had also combed his long hair and tied it with a strap of leather; even trimmed his burgeoning beard as best he could with a hunting knife. He felt ready to face civilization.

The road stretched across rolling farmland after the forest ended, where dales and vales ran toward the plateau that held Lyth and the great keep. Cullyn felt somewhat uncomfortable there, for he was more accustomed to enclosing timber than this open landscape, but he pressed on, contemplating the reward for his burden, and when farmers offered him shelter, he thanked them and continued, preferring to sleep in the open. At least, until he came on the village.

He found that on the fourth day, by which time even his strength was waning. He halted at the open gate and shouted his name, but no one answered and so he went through, wondering why the villagers maintained their wall if no one guarded it.

Past the empty gate the road narrowed, running through the center of the village. It was flanked by houses, most plain cottages, but some larger, offering hospitality or stabling. Alleyways ran between, out to the walls, like the spokes of a wheel, and at its center was the village square. There was a pond there, on which sat fat
ducks and two graceful swans; a weeping willow draped its branches over the water, and grass surrounded it. All around were the finest houses. None stood higher than a single story, but their windows were glassed and their doors set with metal, their porches intricately carved and painted in bright colors. They spoke to Cullyn of wealth, and he halted, his wonder at such extravagance reawakened.

And then, as ever, his eyes were drawn to the keep. That stood atop a knoll that overlooked the village like some immemorial guardian. It seemed to brood over Lyth, like a mother over a vulnerable child, stern and demanding, but ever watchful and protective. Cullyn wondered what it might be like to live there, behind walls. He could not imagine it.

He gathered up his strength and hauled his cart to the hostelry named the Golden Goat, dragging his burden to the rearward yard, where a gate gave access to a paved area that contained a well and the odors of cooking emanating from the kitchens. He felt his mouth water and his belly rumble as he ducked clear of the cart’s straps and went to the back door. He knocked and waited.

After a while a buxom woman of indeterminate age appeared. Her face was round as a cherry, and near as red, girded with a circle of graying auburn hair that was gathered into a bun surmounted by a white cap. She was brushing flour off her hands as she came through the door, wiping them on the voluminous apron that she wore over a long blue dress. The latter matched the color of her angry eyes.

“What, another tramp?” Then she started as she saw Cullyn, and her expression shifted to a warm smile. “Cullyn, by all the gods! How are you, lad? Come in. What have you brought us?” She stepped somewhat
ponderously off the porch and flung her hefty arms around him. “Are you well? Gods, but you’ve grown!”

Cullyn felt himself engulfed in her weight and warmth, and for a moment enjoyed it; then he stepped free and gestured at his cart.

“The better part of a good deer, Martia; and the skull for selling. It’s a twelve-point spread.”

“Well, that shall fetch a handsome price.” She surveyed the antlered skull with professional expertise, then hefted the weight of meat in the cart. “And this, too. Come inside and take a cup.”

Cullyn followed her through the kitchen, listening to her shouting orders that the meat be taken from his cart and stored, and the skull set aside. Her helpers ran to her commands as Cullyn went with her into the main room.

“Hey, Andrias, see who’s here?” Her shout cut through all conversation, and her husband turned from scrubbing glasses. He smiled and came out from behind the bar.

“Cullyn, lad, it’s good to see you. How are you? What shall it be—ale or wine? Brandy?”

Cullyn felt embarrassed as the occupants of the hostelry turned their eyes his way. He shrugged and said, “Ale, if you will.”

“I shall,” Andrias said with great enthusiasm, “and welcome a friend. Here.” He drew a full measure into a pewter mug and passed it to Cullyn. “Drink deep on the house.”

Cullyn said, “My thanks,” and swallowed.

The ale tasted good. It was dark and clean, bitter on his tongue, then warmer in his belly. It had been a long time since he’d tasted ale, and Martia’s arm was around his shoulders as he remembered his mother’s, and Andrias was beaming at him and already pouring another
measure as he asked, “You’ll be staying, no? We’ve rooms enough.”

Cullyn nodded, more than a little embarrassed. “If I can …”

“Silly boy.” Martia hugged him closer, deepening his embarrassment for all the pleasure he felt. “Of course you can. You know you’ve always a place with us. Did we not know your parents before—”

“They died,” Cullyn supplied pragmatically.

“They were our friends,” Andrias said, “as are you.”

“And I worry about you,” Martia added, “living all alone in the forest. What life is that for a young man?”

“I survive well enough.” He’d have shrugged had the weight of her hefty arm not rested across his shoulders. “I’ve brought you meat, no?”

“Surely,” Martia said. “I’ve no doubt at all that you’re a great hunter. But what of friends? What of … women?” She loosed him long enough to cast an eye over the room. “See Elvira there? She fancies you, and always has. You could do far worse than bed with her.”

Cullyn blushed and said, “I know. But—”

“Ask her,” Martia said. “Take her upstairs, eh?”

“And then?” Cullyn asked. “Would she come live with me in the forest?”

Andrias snorted laughter. “I doubt that. Elvira’s a taste for tavern life.”

“So there’s no point to it,” Cullyn said.

Andrias laughed again, joined by his wife. “There’s always a point to it. It depends what you do with it.”

“I think,” Cullyn said nervously, “that I must think about it.”

“So be it, but don’t strain your bow hand.” Andrias laughed, joined by Martia. “Now, are you hungry?”

Cullyn nodded.

“Then find a seat and we’ll bring you food.”

He found a table and sat, feeling awkward. He thought that all the folk in the place stared at him, and talked about him: the forest strangeling, his parents dead and he a hunter along the edge of the fey folk’s barrier. Not one of them.

He was grateful when Elvira brought him a bowl of soup, and bent low across the table so that her flounced blouse exposed her cleavage, and smiled at him, as if she knew some secret they shared. Save he was not sure what secret that might be.

He sat, drinking another mug of ale as she delivered a platter of roasted pork, with bread and vegetables, and all the while wondering what her smiles meant. Promise or only enticement? He could not be sure; neither of her intentions nor what he wanted. He felt curiously afraid.

The hostelry closed. Folk quit the place, leaving Cullyn alone with his wonderings. Andrias and Martia came to him, suggesting he find his bed, for he was more than a little drunk now. Then Elvira suggested that she take him to his room, which he thought a fine idea. He rose from his seat to fall into her strong arms as the hall spun around his eyes and he felt his legs weaken.

He was vaguely aware of standing up; of throwing his arm about her shoulders as she held him upright. He could smell the sweet scent of her, perfume and kitchen smells mingled, and knew that she was strong. He kissed her ear and said, “I love you.” She tossed blond hair against his face and said, “You don’t; you’re only drunk.”

He said, “I do. I swear it.”

She said, “You’ll think different come the morning. They all do.”

“No!” He shook his head as solemnly as he could. “I shall feel the same.”

“We’ll see,” she said.

H
E WOKE THICK-HEADED
and alone.

She was gone, and he lay stranded on an isolated bed that stank of sweat and booze and sex. He could smell what they had done together and regretted his drinking, which had made it less than his expectations, and lay a while wondering why they had come together, save they had both wanted it. But then they found it did not fulfill their expectations, and so she had left him.

He rose and bathed his face. He felt somehow sad, and not at all eager to meet her again, for he was no longer sure of his feelings. He had wanted her, but now he was no longer certain, as if the accomplishment of the promised act had taken away the pleasure of anticipation. But still he went down to the hall, because he was hungry. He wondered how he should greet her—as a lover or a serving wench?

She made it easy for him. She was clearing tables and met him with a cheerful smile and a hearty “Good morning.” He wondered if he should kiss her, but she seemed too busy, so he only gave her back the same greeting and found a cleared table to which she came when she’d cleared the last of the others.

“Breakfast?” Her smile was wide and cheerful—as it always was—and he wondered if the last night had meant anything to her other than the satisfaction of a purely carnal appetite. “Are you hungry?”