Brian Ruckley - Winterbirth

Lekan’s mouth moved. There was no sound. The blow fell, and he plunged towards the Sleeping Dark.

The second day’s ride was easy going and Orisian and his shieldmen made good time. From the Dyke down to Glasbridge the road was well maintained. The flat ground close by the river was good cropland, and there were countless small farms. A chilling rain that fell for most of the day kept all save a few people off the road, though. Two or three riverboats drifted by. Orisian and the others could easily have found a boat to carry them down to Glasbridge, but few horses tolerated such a journey with equanimity and Orisian preferred, in any case, to stay in the saddle.

By mid-afternoon they were approaching the northern gate of Glasbridge, Lannis-Haig’s second town. It was a bustling port, and the scent of the sea and the screeching of gulls filled the air as they rode down towards the harbour. The quayside was swarming with people. Kylane grew animated at the sight of the largest of the dozen boats berthed along its length: a long, fat sailship riding high in the water.

‘Look,’ he said, patting Orisian on the arm. ‘She’s a merchant-man out of Tal Dyre.’

The young shieldman had once told Orisian, when somewhat the worse for drink, that he had dreamed as a boy of taking service with the ships of Tal Dyre. Fanciful tales were told of the exploits of that island’s sea captains and of the wealth of its merchant lords. Orisian was disinclined to believe such stories now, but three or four years ago they had stirred in him the same yearnings Kylane described. There had been times when he would have given anything to escape the confines of Castle Kolglas and the memories it embodied. Then, as he had looked out over the great expanse of the estuary from his high bedchamber, to ride the waves as the Tal Dyreens did, to leave everything behind, had seemed an enticing prospect.

‘The harbourmaster is waving to us,’ Rothe said with a touch of despondency.

Orisian looked towards the harbourmaster’s rather ostentatious residence a short way down the waterfront. Renairan Tair dar Lannis-Haig was indeed leaning—somewhat recklessly, given his girth—over the edge of a balcony, waving vigorously and hailing them. Passing through Glasbridge on his way to Anduran a fortnight before, Orisian had promised to visit with the harbourmaster on his return. He would have preferred to pass the night quietly in the fine house Croesan kept here, but the harbourmaster was a difficult man to refuse. Given time, his remorseless jollity could have ground down the most obstinately doleful rock.

‘Orisian!’ Renairan was shouting. ‘Here, here!’

‘I suppose we cannot pretend we did not hear him,’ murmured Rothe as scores of heads amongst the crowds turned towards the harbourmaster.

‘This’ll be a long evening,’ said Kylane under his breath.

Kylane’s prediction turned out to be accurate, though not for him and Rothe. Orisian was respectfully paraded before the guests Renairan had invited to dine with them, like a trophy from some polite hunt. The harbourmaster hardly needed to prove his importance—his line had long carried great influence in Glasbridge—but the presence of a member of the Thane’s family in his house had been too great a temptation to resist. Orisian’s two shieldmen, much to their relief, had not been expected to attend. There was a trace of vanity in Renairan that excluded mere fighting men—even the guardians of his Thane’s nephew—from a gathering such as this. Rothe had protested, but even he could not credibly claim that Orisian might be in danger amidst the great and good of Glasbridge.

The dining hall was decked out with holly, juniper and sprigs of pine: traditional decorations for the coming Winterbirth celebrations. In the grate at one end of the hall, pine logs were burning, filling the air with their sharp scent. The smell touched upon raw memories for Orisian, and cast a shadow across his mood. Some of his clearest recollections of his mother Lairis were of her glowing presence at the Winterbirth feasts in Castle Kolglas. Those images were wreathed about in his mind with the poignant scent of pine. She had been the heart of those festivals, her voice their sweetest music.

Orisian did his best to play the honoured guest. He gave a report of the festivities surrounding the birth of the Thane’s grand-son, and Naradin’s killing of his boar. Curiosity satisfied, the conversation drifted to the sort of matters that always preoccupied the people of Glasbridge: the fishermen’s catches in the last week, the promise of storms on the season’s breath, and the prices obtained by the last merchant to sail south to Kolkyre. They were things, in the main, that Orisian knew little about. He had to concentrate to avoid overlooking any of the moments when a smile, a nod or some approving remark was required of him. Before long he was wishing he was with Rothe and Kylane, hidden away in the kitchens or wherever they had found themselves.

As the evening progressed Orisian became convinced that Renairan’s wife, Carienna, and his young daughter were talking about him. Now and again, across the landscape of wine jugs and meat and bread, he noticed Carienna watching him with an unguarded, penetrating gaze. For no reason he could name, it made him uncomfortable and he tried to keep his eyes on other things.

The one guest who caught Orisian’s interest was the captain of the Tal Dyre merchant ship, Edryn Delyne. He had met Tal Dyreens before, when they stopped off at Kolglas and paid courtesy visits to his father, but this man was the most impressive of the breed he had ever seen. He was tall and fair-haired and boasted the short, pointed beard that, in the tales at least, was the mark of every Tal Dyre adventurer.

Delyne regaled the party with stories of the fighting far away in the south. Many men of Lannis were there, fighting under Gryvan oc Haig’s command against the rebellious Dargannan Blood, and the interest around the table was keen. Delyne assured his audience that the fighting would soon be over and Igryn, the recalcitrant Thane, dead or taken. Renairan and his guests, Orisian included, received this news with only muted enthusiasm. There was no love lost between the Lannis Blood and that of Haig. Orisian had heard it said more than once that the two thousand men Taim Narran had led south in answer to the High Thane’s summons would be doing better service if they were marching against Gryvan’s palace in Vaymouth, rather than the mountain forts of Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig.

Orisian’s eyes grew ever more heavy-lidded as the evening crept on. Though he watered his wine carefully, the heat of the fire and the heavy scent in the air combined with it to lull him towards sleep. Renairan’s booming voice caught him unawares. He attempted an alert expression. The harbourmaster’s laughter told him that his efforts were in vain.

‘Too much good food and wine for our young guest, I think!’ Renairan said.

Orisian smiled apologetically.

‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Two days’ riding takes its toll.’

‘Of course, of course,’ cried Renairan. ‘You must retire, Orisian. You have another day in the saddle tomorrow.’

‘Thank you for a fine meal,’ said Orisian as he rose. The other guests stood up as well, acknowledging his departure with small bows or nods. He found Renairan’s wife and daughter closing upon him as he headed for the door, and he had to resist a powerful urge to spring forwards and make a dash for the sanctuary of his bedchamber. As the meal was noisily resumed behind them, Orisian was held by Carienna’s cheerful, yet somehow insistent, gaze.

‘Such a shame that we did not have a proper chance to speak,’ she said, ‘but you must spare a word for my daughter Lynna before you retire.’