Chapter 5
“Haven’t you done here yet? The twins have just arrived.”
Rothir looked up from the anvil. He knew how he must appear to his sister: over-busy, over-heated, aloof and stupidly obstinate in his desire to keep working till the last possible minute and beyond.
“I’m just finishing these arrowheads while the fire is still hot,” he told her.
Olbeth stepped inside the forge, shielding her face. “You said you were only going to do the sickles and shears. So why all the arrowheads?”
“We’re going to need them.”
“Not yet, Rothir. You’re acting like a man obsessed. Leave it all here and come into the house.”
Rothir sighed and counted arrow-heads. Twenty five. That would last a single archer about four minutes.
He was out of practice at blacksmithing. But he was getting back into practice now, and getting fit into the bargain; and staying warm. That last was an increasing bonus as the winter winds swirled in. Olbeth’s farm tucked in amongst the hills had drier pastures than those lower down, but also harsher weather.
Most importantly of all, here in the farmhouse forge he was staying solitary. He wasn’t normally unsociable, and winterfest at Wiln and Olbeth’s had always been enjoyable in the past. He just wasn’t enjoying it now. Too many things weighed on him. Empty farms, burnt-out buildings. Rows of captives, trapped and shackled, at the mercy of the stonemen while he galloped away free with Arguril – abandoning at least some of them to death by darkburn.
That and other things beat at his mind. The steady thump of hammer on anvil and the fierce heat of the fire seemed to match his mood. They were a reminder of all that he had failed to do; and all that was yet to come. Hence the arrowheads.
“Come on,” said Olbeth. She wasn’t going away. So he sighed again, put down the tongs and hammer and shovelled out some of the spent charcoal from the hearth before he took off the heavy leather apron.
“Wash,” commanded Olbeth, so he washed his hands and face in the basin by the door. “Now meet and talk.”
“You’re very severe for a younger sister, do you know that?”
“I know that. It’s the only way to be, with you. You’ve got soot in your hair. Goodness knows what your wife will do with you when you get one.”
“Don’t,” said Rothir, running his hands through his hair.
“Why not? You will get one. Forget poor Gwenna. You never really knew her anyway.”
“Evidently not,” said Rothir. He had told Olbeth about the change in Gwenna. Not all the details, obviously, although he probably could have told her even those and she would still have listened patiently with only the smallest grimace. She was an attentive listener.
“You look better since you had that haircut,” she said as she led the way back across the twilit farmyard through flickers of blue snow. “Try and persuade Parthenal to let me cut his too.”
“I won’t be able to.”
“Tell him he’d look just as beautiful with short hair.”
“Oddly enough, I don’t think he cares what he looks like,” Rothir said.
“No, he takes his looks for granted. But he’d care soon enough if he lost them. Boots off.”
He obeyed, again, stopping in the porch to prise off his boots and caress the two great dogs that raised their heads to him as they lay there. They preferred the porch to the noisy warmth inside the house, a preference that Rothir sympathised with. He envied them their quiet undemanding companionship; even with the wind blowing they were reluctant to come inside. Stubborn as donkeys sometimes. No, not donkeys. Stroking their shaggy ears he tried to make himself as placid as the dogs, content simply to be here. Yet he felt strangely hollow.
Through the door he pulled on the fur slippers that were waiting and stepped into the fire-hall which seemed already far too full of people. Half a dozen of them were sitting at the table while four men were gathered round the fire which crackled loudly in the old stone fireplace.
Despite the lamps in every corner, the hall was a constant shift of shadows, as restless as the wind. In the darkest corner was the cradle where baby Doval slept. The greater the noise the better he seemed to sleep. Olbeth hurried over to peep at him and give the cradle a gentle rock.
Rothir went up to the fire and nodded to Parthenal and Wiln, Olbeth’s husband. Then he greeted the newcomers.
“Sashel. Gordal. Good to see you both. How goes it?” He liked the twins, who were big, young, tough, uncomplicated men. If they had any complications they kept them to themselves – or kept them between themselves, for they shared a half-hidden communication system of looks and grimaces. They were keen on horsemanship, weaponry, hawking and eating, and excelled at all of them.
“So Olbeth managed to drag you away from the forge,” said Sashel with a grin. “Where’s the fine sword that you’ve been making?”
“I’m starting small,” said Rothir. “Arrowheads. I’ll work up to pocket-knives soon.” He found he was able to talk to them readily about bladesmithing, about the right edge for a sword and the best quenching methods to achieve it. Such a conversation suited him. It was interesting and useful, yet it touched on no emotions.
When they moved on to falconry and Parthenal joined in, with his decided views on the trainability of merlins, Rothir felt himself ease inwardly a little. Maybe he could get through this winterfest, if only all the talk would stay so practical. But despite the recent heat of the forge and the current heat of the fire he was still aware of a chilly emptiness inside him.
He looked over at the women seated round the table with Olbeth. They were shaping salops – the small fruit-dotted doughy cakes that would be griddled on the fire after dinner. A stodgy winter speciality. Olbeth and her youthful friend Durba were dextrous from long practice; Maeneb and Alburé, not so much. Maeneb looked faintly horrified as she tried to pull away the sticky dough that clung to her fingers. Alburé made ambiguous animal shapes and talked loudly and laughed a lot, with an occasional glance towards the fireplace. She seemed to have her eye on one of the twins, or possibly both.
But it was good to see Maeneb there and joining in. Olbeth had been her friend from childhood; she had adopted Maeneb, Rothir sometimes thought, when Maeneb had no other companion. And Durba seemed a little like Maeneb in character, although almost ten years younger; she was equally reserved. Olbeth was currently doing her best to make them smile.
Looking down on their doughy efforts were the two farmhands, Naileb and Calenir. They were also Riders of the Vonn, although when Naileb said gaily that she preferred a milkmaid’s life, he suspected that she wasn’t joking. Calenir was an awkward youth but good-natured enough.
It was Olbeth, he thought, who held everyone together. Her compact, capable figure was at the centre of the gathering, as briskly warming as the fire. Now she stood up and announced,
“All hands to the table! Parthenal, bring those large plates from the dresser, please. Sashel, could you carry the pot over from the stove? Wiln, you’re carving, I’m afraid.” She grinned at her husband, the lanky and taciturn farmer who was only person in the room not of the Vonn. Every time Rothir met him he felt for him an increased liking and respect, as a man who knew his business but never forced it upon others.
“I hope everybody likes their venison chunky,” Wiln said to the room at large, “as that’s the only way I carve.”
“He practises on tree trunks,” explained Olbeth, “with a hatchet.”
“Get Rothir on to it with one of his new swords,” suggested Parthenal.
“He’s not even on to knives yet,” Gordal pointed out.
“I can bring a nice sharp ploughshare over from the forge, though, if you like,” said Rothir. “Or a horseshoe.”
“Oh, that’ll do the job.”
“You should have seen the meals in Inner Kelvha,” declared Alburé. “A lark inside a partridge inside a hen inside a goose inside a swan! All decorated with feathers and carried to the table by two men in gilded gauntlets.”
“How did they carve that one?” asked Sashel.
“The servants carved it – very carefully. I got the impression that if they broke a slice they might just have been dragged out of the dining hall and whipped.”
“Now, how would you stuff venison?” mused Naileb. “Shrew, mouse, rabbit, badger, sheep, then deer?”
Rothir joined in the laughter. But he was reminded painfully of some moment – where was it? Eled back in Farwithiel, smiling as he tried unsuccessfully to repeat a sequence of animals he’d been told. Poor Eled. The hollowness inside him seemed to grow.
It appeared that Parthenal and Maeneb did not remember, or did not make that connection. For Parthenal sat sleek and smiling, while even Maeneb, a little separate from the others at one end of the table, did not look as uncomfortable as Rothir might have expected amidst the joviality. It made him feel increasingly alone.
When they began to eat there was plenty of talk about Kelvha, and gales of laughter from the twins, as Alburé, recently returned from Kelvha City with her mother Tiburé, described the customs there. She made fun of the bleached hair and heavy gowns and ornaments her host had been so proud of. She mocked the etiquette that had to be adhered to, and the stern looks if anyone tried to follow the procession in to dinner in the wrong part of the line.
Rothir joined in when he could. When he couldn’t, he pretended to. He didn’t take in many of the jokes he laughed at. What was wrong with him? Here he was at a well-laid board with family and good friends, a warm fire and the knowledge that no work needed to be done during the coming winterfest. Olbeth would drag him away from his anvil for the full four days of festival. Nothing to do but eat and drink and talk. He shrank from the prospect.
And after the meal, which seemed endless, people forever saying, “Oh, I’ll just have one more shred of meat, I’ll just have another spoon of gravy,” his face aching with the effort of smiling, there was more talking and smiling to be done around the fireplace while the doughy salops cooked. He hoped it would soon be done and they could have music: he could stop talking and smiling then.
Olbeth came over to him and offered him a griddled salop.
“What’s the matter?” she said quietly.
“Nothing’s the matter. It’s all very good, as always.” He made himself smile at her again. She didn’t look convinced.
But he could have given her no better answer. He’d tried to put the stonemen and the darkburns in a box. Set them aside, don’t think about them for the present. So he wasn’t thinking about them now; yet he still felt hollow and had no idea why. In previous winters he’d been appreciative of his stays here, had enjoyed the sense of shelter from the harrying winds with their load of blistering sleet. He’d thought of the sheep huddled on the hills and had been relieved and grateful.
In those days he’d been happy. But then so much of happiness was relief. He remembered thinking that not so long ago, with Eled…
Safe now, Eled. Warm in Farwithiel. No need to think about him either.
So why couldn’t he be happy now? Gordal was shouting in laughter at some joke, something to do with an animal shape that Alburé had made, impolite no doubt, and she was running to find spare dough to make another. The salops were browning on the griddle and the fire crackled heartily and yet he seemed to feel the chill sleet-laden wind run wild through the hall. The hearty fire held no heat and its noise was muted and winter filled the space around him with its roaring silence. Such an empty space. So cold. Voices were lost within it. What was wrong with him?
Then of a sudden the door banged open and winter entered in reality. With a snarl and a bad-tempered whine of the wind, a small tempest of snow was thrown across the hall. The cold air charged in and attacked him.
Everybody turned towards the open door. In the sudden silence the baby gave a wail.
But Olbeth did not move towards the cradle. She was staring at the doorway: and she was first to speak.
“Bruilde! Where have you been?”