Andre Norton - The Duke's Ballad

He rode out with them, almost every man of his who could sit a horse riding in double file behind. Over them waved the banner of the dukes of Kars, taken quietly by Aisling before she and Keelan had left the city. On Jam’s arrival at the Kars gate, Franzo formally raised siege. By the time it sank into citizen minds that this wasn’t their old duke giving the orders at the palace now, they didn’t care. Shastro had caused the siege, given them over to fear and death. This new duke had opened the palace warehouse so that they had something to eat and drink again.

With the siege lifted, many of those who’d fled were already returning, bringing with them in some cases coin to aid those they’d been forced to leave behind. Old Lady Varra was in the forefront of these in a horse litter. Her eyes and tongue were busy as she swept her kin up to her suite and saw to it that they settled in. She herself sought out Aisling for a good enjoyable gossip. She’d always been first to know the news, and dead dukes and sieges were grist to her mill.

Trader and merchant caravans were arriving almost daily now as an early spring contributed to the city’s relief. The markets were filling with fuel, food, wine, horse fodder, and other essentials. The low quarter watched to see how much of the inflow was portable. They’d lost almost three-quarters of their number and all of such scraps of goods as they had ever owned. They settled very happily to repairing their loss of numbers as well.

Jam announced that since so many had suffered they should have a chance to rebuild. Taxes would be remitted by one half for all families who had been present during the siege. In addition, if they could prove to the duke a genuine inability to pay, ducal estate would be kept to a minimum for five years and the taxes halved for that period also. For the next five years they would rise by half of the announced reduction. After that they would return to the original level. Those merchants and tradesmen who believed themselves ruined rejoiced.

Jam saw to the funeral with Aisling’s advice. It was long, boring, and pompous. The feasting and flow of wine afterward was phenomenal. In the end Shastro slept in the tomb of the dukes of Kars. He lay richly clad, the tiny grace knife in his clasped hands. At his right lay the disinterred bones of Paran, his kinsman and friend. At his left, Sharna, cousin and beloved. Aisling stayed as the others left. She looked at those who lay in eternal silence now.

“I’ve done as you wished, my Lord Duke. I hope you all find peace together wherever your spirits wander.”

She grinned in rueful amusement. In the way of people, tales had started circulating in Kars ever since the duke’s death became known. The population had heard that it was Shastro who’d killed Kirion and been spelled to death in return. The people had made from this their own stories. It looked likely that in a short time Shastro would be remembered as the man who’d died saving Kars from sorcery. Well, everyone needed heroes, and, remembering their discussion on how the people saw their dukes, she thought it would have made Shastro smile.

But Kirion, sorcerer, evil puppet master, was not so easily disposed of. Aisling felt that his body still held danger. Wind Dancer, brought in as a test, had spat again, so vigorously his whiskers shook. He’d performed his waste-covering actions, and his tail quivered angrily. Jam wasted no time after that.

“Burn him. Fire cleanses. Use any ceremony you like, but it’s to be public so all can be satisfied how it was done and that he is truly gone. Have priestesses of Cup and Flame there so the people are certain all was done properly.”

Called in, the high priestess from Kars Shrine was adamant. “I do not know the powers with which that fool trafficked, but in some way they hold him even now. Evil resides within him. That binding must be broken.” She made suggestions that met with the approval of Aisling and Keelan.

Kirion’s funeral pyre was in the city square. It was laid with a base of logs of sun-dried wood. Over them Aisling and the priestess laid herbs. Illbane, wound-scour, feverfew, and the tiny delicate flowers of the goddess-love, which always grew about Gunorra’s shrines. Then more firewood, this time drenched in oil. On top of the man-high pyre they laid Kirion’s body. Over it Aisling placed a wall-hanging. It was sent from Aiskeep, one Ciara had made so many years ago. Foolish and evil though Kirion had been, Aiskeep was still his birthplace.

When the time came, four came forward to send Kirion home. Aisling, Keelan, Hadrann—now officially betrothed to her—and, bringing applause, gasps of awe, and gentle laughter from the crowd, Wind Dancer, showing his true size and carrying a smaller flaring torch carefully in his mouth. The high priestess moved with them to pour wine across the bier.

“Go to the goddess, Kirion of Aiskeep. In her light be redeemed.” Fire was applied, and the pyre blazed up. In the heart of Cup and Flame evil howled and then died. The pyre burned for twenty-four hours, until there was only gray ash. That Aisling scattered to the winds of the hills. She had privately burned all her brother’s books, tools, notes, and other items of sorcery.

She rode out of Kars with Hadrann and their three guards a ten-day later. Keelan rode between them, insisting it was only proper they should have a chaperone. They rode joyously, laughing, teasing, talking. Mind Dancer, in his carrysack over Aisling’s shoulder, was sometimes bounced more than the road justified, but he merely growled softly, accepting that his human had her occasional faults. Once at Aiskeep Hadrann called for the finest lightest grade of paper, ink, and quills.

“Why?” Aisling was curious.

He grinned cheerfully at her. “I think someone over-mountain might be interested in events, don’t you?”

“Flames, yes. I’d almost forgotten. I was asked to send a message if the geas was accomplished.” She laughed. “Not that one would have been needed. I felt it when Shastro and Kirion died. Hilarion is an adept and many in the valley have more of the Gift than I do. They’d have known at once as well. But write; they may only know we won, not how we succeeded.”

Hadrann nodded. “I’m sure Estcarp has spies here and there. They’ll know Jam rules Kars. We may even have someone appear here to collect our account. I’ll write twice: once for Hilarion, once for Estcarp if they ever come to claim it. Your grandmother has said she will copy twice more: once for Aiskeep records and once for us to take to Aranskeep.”

He finished the accounts after two days’ hard work and stood, shaking stiffened fingers. At the window a hawk cried softly, a messenger from Hilarion. He tucked the scroll into a firmly tied ribbon, then bound it gently to the bird’s leg. The hawk watched with interest. Hadrann offered refreshment, and stood guard as it ate and drank. Then he watched as it launched from the window. The other finished scroll he laid on the table. Ciara would deal with that.

Once he’d had a brother, one who had loved him and been loved with all the strength of a small boy’s heart. That brother had died ill. Now those responsible were dead in turn. It was done. Over. Aisling brought him another brother and love again. In time he would rule Aranskeep and its people. He would not forget his brother nor cease to love him, but life was for the living and roads must be traveled. He and Aisling had their own path to walk. He remembered the feel of her soft lips against his, and his heart warmed.

Below in the main hall Keelan was uncomplicatedly happy with his grandparents. Ciara was demanding the tale of how they had helped the noblewomen and children to escape. She’d heard it once but wanted to hear it again with old Hannion and Harran. Keelan was delighted to oblige. Trovagh listened, nodding approval. The boy would make a good lord to Aiskeep when the time came.