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Ketha's Daughter
a Mushroom eBooks sampler
Copyright © 2008, Suzanne Francis
Suzanne Francis has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the Author of this work.
First published in United Kingdom in 2008 by Mushroom eBooks.
This Edition published in 2008 by Mushroom eBooks,
an imprint of Mushroom Publishing,
Bath, BA1 4EB, United Kingdom
www.mushroom-ebooks.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a sampler of Ketha's Daughter by Suzanne Francis. If you enjoy reading these sample chapters and would like to read the rest, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual bookshops online, or find more details at www.mushroom-ebooks.com.
Prologue
The Linnun
Appendix IIGlossary
Appendix IIIThe History of the Fynära
Author’s Acknowledgements
For my parents —
Bob and Christine,
with a world of love.
Geya sits before her silver mirror, outside of time and space.
One sister appears before her. Her beautiful, moonlit eyes are troubled. I joined with my vessel and healed her husband, as you said to, Geya. You were right. He is not the son of Shiqaba.
Geya sighs. Is he one of us?
No.
Then who is he?
Dai! He is Dai, Geya. After everything he said to us about leaving the humans alone, he goes and becomes one!
Geya is angry. He has betrayed us for the last time! Carry a message to Raven. She will deal with this.
Moonlight shakes her lovely head in horror. You would give Dai over to Keth Dirane? Geya, you know what she will do to him. His end will not be a pleasant one. Even if he is a traitor, he is still our brother Amaranthine.
He was Amaranthine, you mean. Now he is only a man. But when he is reborn he will truly be one of us, Moonlight. He will be a traitor no longer.
But my vessel loves him. You would take her husband from her?
Now Dai has became human he could die at any time, and Death would feel no remorse, so why should I?
I wonder though...
What, Moonlight?
Why he decided to become human. Perhaps he has some plan to stop the Angellus. Perhaps we should not interfere.
He is the one who has meddled. She was meant to marry the son of Shiqaba. Only Moera knows what difference it may make to this turn of the Gyre.
The Numen might know.
You are right, Moonlight. I will go to her.
Lutyond’s Leviathan
An old woman sits by a fireplace, and rattles a skin pouch filled with round stones, worn smooth by the action of the waves on the beach. She closes her eyes and places her hand inside, then stares at the stone she retrieves. It has been carefully incised with a stylized iceberg symbol.
Turning to her companion, who also sits close to the warmth of the fire, she says — Look, Hieronymus, it is Lutyond’s Leviathan.[1] That means Raven is on the move at last.
* * * *
“No! I am not going and that is final. You cannot make me, Mother, and you know it. So why do you continue to argue?” Gwenn Benet angrily stamped her booted foot and glared at her mother.
Katkin sighed. The girl was right — she could not force Gwenn to do anything she did not want to do. She tried to reason with her stubborn daughter. “Listen, Gwenn. I have been Queen for sixteen years, far longer than I originally thought I would have to keep the position. Beaumarais does not need me anymore. The country is at peace with all her neighbors and trade is more profitable than ever. What is more, your father...”
Gwenn interrupted sarcastically, “My what? Call him Jacq. He means nothing to me.”
The Queen gave her an angry glance. “Jacq, then. I promised him many years ago I would not stay in the City any longer than I had to. I know he is weary of being the Queen’s consort, Gwenn. He does not complain, but I see the unhappiness in his eyes. It is time for us to move to the country and go back to the life he loves best. He has been more than patient.”
“And you expect me to give up being a Princess, and go and live in some disgusting... hovelin the back of beyond just so you can make him happy? Why should I? I like it here in the Citadel, with Jessamine and the rest of my friends.” Gwenn’s stormy expression left Katkin little doubt her carefully rehearsed arguments had fallen on deaf ears.
“Acorn is not a hovel. You saw that for yourself when we rode out there last week. When I instructed my men to rebuild the house your father... I mean, Jacq, and I used to live in, I told them to expand and refurbish it. They even added indoor plumbing.”
Gwenn gave her mother a withering look. “Indoor plumbing? My Gods, Mother, get a grip on yourself. Why did you not have Tintaren Manor rebuilt instead? That might be a decent place to live.”
“Tintaren Manor burned down long ago, and I don’t have any desire to live in my family’s old mansion anyway. My father made his fortune by exploiting the cottars who worked for us. How would it look if I retired and took up residence there? It is out of the question. Anyway, I have already had Acorn rebuilt as a surprise for Jacq, and I intend to tell him tomorrow at your birthday banquet. I know he will be pleased.”
“Are you planning to tell him any other secrets?” Gwenn said poisonously. “I know one which would not please him at all.”
Katkin took a deep breath, determined to keep her temper in check now Gwenn had begun her favorite game. She said, firmly, “That is in the past and it needs to stay there.”
“Oh yes, my Mother, and it will, as long as I get what I want. And what I want is to stay here in St. Valery.” Gwenn looked at her mother and Katkin felt a sudden urge to slap the sneer from her face. Still, she did nothing.
“If you could stay here and go to school, as I did in my younger days, then I would not mind. Since you have managed to get yourself thrown out of every educational institution in St. Valery that is not possible. What happened at the last one? Beating up the headmaster, was it not?”
Gwenn’s sneer turned into a pout. “Because I threatened to slice up that awful François Besson after he tried to kiss me, the headmaster took my sword away and told me to go to my room. Faugh! I challenged him to a duel and he laughed at me. I had to crush him; my honor was at stake.”
“You have been listening to too many of Jacq’s tales. Young ladies are not supposed to behave like warriors. What am I going to do with you?”
“You are not going to do anything with me. I don’t have to listen to you. Ketha says...”
Katkin felt her grip on her temper slipping. “Leave that venomous snake out of this conversation. None of this would have happened if not for her.”
“What do you mean, Mother? Ketha is my best friend in the whole world. She has given me powers you can only dream of.”
“She has made you quarrelsome and unkind and I rue the day I ever let you near her. But that, too, is in the past and I cannot change it. Now listen to me, and listen well. You are going to leave St. Valery and move to the country with me and Jacq, and that is final.” Katkin held her daughter’s intense blue eyes in a challenging stare.
“No! Stop ordering me about or I will tell him the truth.” Gwenn gave a satisfied smile, sure this threat, which had served her so well in the past, would come to her defense again. This time her mother surprised her.
“Go ahead and tell him,” Katkin said bitterly. I have lived with that secret for sixteen years. I am too tired to fight any more.”
She thought back to the day long ago when Gwenn had come to her, full of questions, carrying a braid of blond and chestnut hair carefully twined together and tied with a ribbon. Katkin had hidden it away in the bottom of a locked chest in her personal dressing room, and she had no doubt the troublemaking Keth Dirane had sent the girl to find it. The blond hair woven into the braid belonged to Captain Tomas de Vigny — Gwenn’s true father. Katkin had once allowed him to make love to her, in return for a visit with her incarcerated husband, Jacq Benet. Unbeknownst to her, Tomas later made the braid — using a lock of her hair wound together with his — as a memento of the assignation that created Gwenn. Jacq knew nothing of Gwenn’s true parentage, of course. Katkin had sworn on the heart of the Goddess Lalluna she would never tell him, on the day Tomas de Vigny died.
“Fine, maybe I will!” Gwenn snapped back. “Then you will be sorry.”
“So will you, one day,” Katkin spoke quietly now, with regret. “Jacq loves you so much. I only wish he felt as proud of Tristan as he does of you.”
“Of course he is proud of me. Even if he is not my real father, I am still the true heir of the Dinrhydan[2], the greatest swordsman in the history of Beaumarais. That baby Tristan cannot come close. Ketha made me strong, and Jacq taught me the ways of the warrior. There is no man who could vanquish me now.”
Katkin wearily shook her head. “Such skills belong to a different time. Now the world is at peace. When will you understand that?”
“Ketha speaks of a place where the accomplishments of the warrior are still valued, and someday soon I am going there. I will have such power, no-one will tell me what to do, ever again.” She gave her mother a meaningful glance. “I will make you pay dearly for all your lies.” With this, she turned and ran from the room. Katkin watched her go. After brushing the tears from her eyes, she called for her equerry to ready her pony, Alys.
* * * *
As Gwenn strode through the Citadel passages on her way to the blacksmith’s shop, Ketha’s voice echoed hollowly in her mind. “Are you going to tell him our secret? You said you would.” She sounded hopeful. As Gwenn stepped on to the grassy parade fields, she paused to admire a detachment of Queen’s Guard practicing close order drilling. She spoke out loud, though there was no-one near her.
“No, of course not. I love Jacq, even if he is not my real father. He is the only one who understands me. Not like her. I hate my mother!”
“You told your mother he meant nothing to you.” Ketha’s disappointment sounded plainly in her voice.
“I just said that to make her angry.” Gwenn sighed. “I suppose I will actually have to do as she says this time.”
“When are you going to learn, my dear? You must not allow your mother to dictate to you. That is not the way to freedom, child. Make her pay, Gwenn, as you threatened. Let us leave tonight, and make our way north. You can make new friends there, friends with real power. Later we can come back and crush her, as you have always wanted. Then we can have Jacq all to ourselves.”
Gwenn listened to this in surprise. Had she always wanted to crush her mother? If Ketha said so, she supposed it had to be true.
She came in to the blacksmith shop and greeted her stepfather cheerfully. Jacq grinned at her as he hammered a red-hot horseshoe. Gwenn had been helping in the smithy since she was just a little thing, barely big enough to lift the heavy metal implements. Now she watched with interest, ready with the tongs to plunge the finished shoe into the cold water. Jacq nodded to her when it was ready and the shoe joined the others in the bucket with a brief hiss of boiling water and steam.
Jacq labored at the Citadel ironworks several days a week, making horseshoes or other handcrafted metal implements as needed. Of course, as the Queen’s consort, he did not really have to work at all, but it made him feel useful to be making things with his hands. He felt very proud of his famous wife, who had saved the City from certain annihilation when she became the Avatar of Lalluna. Though she had been terribly maimed in her efforts to heal Hythea, the volcano Goddess, and now had only one arm, Jacq still thought her as beautiful as the day they met. Then she had been six years old and he ten. He had never loved another woman, could not even imagine it, until his little girl had been born and stolen his heart. Of course, he loved his son Tristan as well, but the boy could not compete with Gwenn, who shared Jacq’s fascination with sword fighting.
They toiled together in companionable silence for a few moments and then she asked, “Do you have any swords to work on today, Jacq?”
He shook his head and she sighed regretfully. This use of his first name no longer troubled him, for she had been calling him that a few years now, for some reason he could not fathom. Katkin had assured him their daughter was just going through a phase and would grow out of it — but she had not.
“Are you almost finished?” she asked him eagerly. “Let’s go practice for a while. I think I almost had you yesterday, you know. If only I had done a half turn to the left instead of the right, you would have been at my mercy.”
“Of course we can. And you may turn whichever way takes your fancy today,” he added drily. Jacq smiled and placed his sledgehammer with the other tools on the rack above the workbench. Though he had more work to do, he always made time for Gwenn and her sword fighting lessons. He began teaching her the day she showed an interest in his long, two-handed sword, d’angwir,[3] when she was six years old. Over her mother’s strenuous objections, he had forged a tiny blunt-tipped metal blade for her. She had taken to swordplay with such determination and skill he continued to make her weapons as she grew and they spent many hours a week practicing. Other than tumbling, it was her only interest. Certainly, school had not held her attention, but that did not bother Jacq at all.
“But wait a moment. I have something to give you first.”
He walked back to a dark corner of the smithy, behind the big forge, and returned with a long, bulky object wrapped in a dirty cloth. This present had taken him six months to make, and in it he had placed all the love and pride he felt in his heart for his warrior daughter.
Gwenn looked baffled as he handed over the bundle. He said, “I know your birthday isn’t until tomorrow, but I want you to open this now, in private.” Jacq smiled and shrugged sheepishly. “Your mother wouldn’t understand, and I did not want there to be an argument at the banquet.”
She unwrapped his present eagerly and gasped at the contents. There, in her hands, lay the most beautifully worked sword she had ever seen. Her stepfather had executed every detail impeccably, from the finely shaped damascened steel blade, to the wrist guard made of twisted gold and silver wire with inset jewels. Gwenn held it up to the light, a look of wonder on her face as she admired the detailed engraving that flashed with glints of fire from the forge.
“Oh, Papa, it is a most magnificent sword! Did you truly make it just for me?”
Jacq smiled happily and nodded — pleased he had shocked his daughter back into calling him by his title again. She held it before her and executed some rapid slashes. The perfectly balanced weapon performed just like a living extension of her arm.
Gwenn gave a whoop of sheer delight. “Come on, let’s go and practice, right now! You had better watch out. Now you have given me this, I think I might be able to vanquish you at last, my Papa.”
He handed her a matching scabbard and baldric, crafted with equally loving attention, and said, “First we must consecrate your new blade and give it a name. It might take you some time to think of the right one, and you should not use it until then. Today you should use your old sword.”
She shook her head decisively. “I already know what name I want. My sword shall be called keth’fell.”
“Keth’fell? Are you sure?” Jacq thought the name, which meant “death crow” in the old tongue, seemed a strange one for her to choose.
“I am sure. What do I have to do to consecrate my sword?” She waited impatiently as Jacq explained she must draw her own blood with the sword and smear it onto the blade.
“Then you must repeat the name of the sword three times and call upon the Goddess to protect you from harm. Will you do the bloodletting yourself, or do you want me to do it for you?”
Gwenn seemed unsure, so he took her hand in his huge rough one. “Ready?” he asked, and gave her a worried look.
She nodded confidently and said, “Do it, Papa.” He drew the edge of the blade across her palm, making a shallow cut that bled freely. Gwenn blinked once or twice but did not make a sound. Jacq looked on proudly as she dabbed the puddle of blood in her left hand with her fingertips and anointed the blade.
“Now say keth’fell three times and call on Lalluna,” he instructed her.
Gwenn did as he said, but instead of petitioning her mother’s Goddess, the peaceful Lalluna, for protection, she silently prayed to Keth Dirane. Ketha’s voice came to her in her mind, saying, “Of course I will always protect you Gwenn.”
Once they finished the ceremony, Gwenn followed Jacq out of the smithy into the bright spring sunshine. She chattered exuberantly about her new sword as they made their way across the parade field towards the special fighting apparatus Jacq had built for them. It consisted of many individual platforms on several levels, with connecting stairs, ramps, and swinging bridges. Jacq spent a few moments rearranging the platforms into an unfamiliar configuration as Gwenn happily did back flips, cartwheels and somersaults on the grass. Her bright blond hair flashed in the sun.
Jacq placed his own sword with the blade pointing diagonally towards the ground. Gwenn joined him on the platform and crossed his sword with her own. She felt a shiver of pure delight when she saw that keth’fell was the equal of her father’s mighty weapon, d’angwir. He locked eyes with her, grey into blue, and forgot he looked upon his daughter. Now she was only his opponent, and he focused completely on her. He held up his hand, and barked, “En garde!” Gwenn nodded and the fight began.
Their lessons almost always drew a crowd. Passing Guardsmen stopped to watch the Dinrhydan’s magnificent skill with d’angwir, as he fought off charge after tireless charge from Gwenn. Though Jacq had seen his fortieth birthday this year, he still moved with the easy grace of a dancer as he ran backwards up a flight of steps and then jumped down to the lower platform. Gwenn executed a front somersault and landed before him. She swung in a vicious arc and Jacq ducked quickly to avoid losing his head. He thrust forward and she did a one handed back flip, the landing perfectly balanced. The crowd before them cheered, but neither heard the cries. Only the flashing of swords and the movement of the opponent’s body occupied the fighter’s attention. Neither gave or asked the other for quarter.
The contest continued for thirty minutes, until Jacq’s face dripped with sweat and his breathing became ragged. Gwenn watched him carefully, waiting for the moment when he would tire and drop his guard for a split second. Never had she felt so invincible. Keth’fell made her into the warrior she had always dreamt she would be. Whirling sideways, she sent Jacq staggering with a swift kick, and watched triumphantly as he fell backwards. In a split second, she had hooked his wrist guard with the point of keth’fell and disarmed him. He gazed up at her in surprise. Her eyes hardened, and she touched the wickedly sharp tip of her sword to the hollow of his throat below the Adam’s apple. Seeing the pulse beating in his neck gave her a curious thrill of power. The crowd below her murmured in consternation. Jacq lay very still, resting on his elbows, and his heart hammered as he waited for Gwenn to release him.
“Why don’t you finish him?” Ketha hissed to her. “Now is your chance to prove you are mightier than the Dinrhydan.”
Gwenn backed away, shaking her head, and dropped her sword. She cried out, “No! Not him. I won’t do it.”
Jacq stared at his daughter. “Who are you talking to?” he asked her.
She hung her head in embarrassment. “No-one, Papa. I just got confused for a moment.” Gwenn held out her hand and helped him to rise.
He picked up keth’fell and handed it to her carefully, saying with a smile, “Well, I guess the time had to come, my daughter. You are the victor today, and I could not be more proud of you. Happy birthday, sweetheart.” He gathered her up into his arms for an embrace, and Gwenn put her head on his broad shoulder, and managed to wipe her eyes surreptitiously on his already soaked shirt. As a true shield maiden, she did not want to be seen crying like a little girl.
After a moment, she said, “If I am a warrior truly worthy of respect, it is because of you, my Papa. Thank you for keth’fell and all your patient lessons. I will never forget this day. I love you, Papa Bear.”
Jacq smiled and unashamedly wiped the tears from his own eyes. She had not called him that since she was a little girl. “I love you, too, Goldilocks.”
The crowd around the platform broke up now that the show had ended. Father and daughter walked back towards the Citadel tower, arm in arm, animatedly discussing the finer points of the battle.
Fourteen-year-old Tristan Dinrhydan Benet watched them approach from his bedroom window. As it always did at these moments, his mind festered with jealousy and rage. His father and Gwenn had something special that Tristan knew in his heart he could never share. He had practiced and practiced with his sword, but it was clear he would never be his sister’s equal in that department. Papa would always love her more. Turning away from the window in disgust, Tristan went to find his mother to tell her Gwenn had been fighting again. If he could get his sister into trouble, it might make him feel a little better.
Gwenn met him coming down the stairs. “Hello, little Shrimp. Where are you going with such a stormy face?” she taunted him.
“None of your business, Longshanks. Get out of my way.” Gwenn towered over Tristan, and could easily best him in any physical contest, from racing to wrestling. He took some comfort in the fact he excelled at school. But though his father pretended to take pride in this, Tristan could tell it did not impress him nearly as much as his sister’s dazzling swordsmanship.
Gwenn stepped aside saying, “Go on, Brat. Run to Mummy and tell her I have been practicing with Jacq.” She smirked at Tristan when she saw by his expression that her guess had hit the mark.
He gave her a black look, and then noticed the sword she wore strapped to her back with the baldric Jacq had made for her. “Holy Goddess! Where did that come from? Did you steal it?”
She gave him a haughty look. “Of course I did not steal keth’fell. Papa made her for me, as a present for my sixteenth birthday.” Gwenn produced the weapon with a ringing flourish and showed it off to her brother.
Though Tristan tried hard not to look impressed, his jealousy showed plainly on his face. He said, “Mother will not be pleased. You know she hates it when you and Father fight. The last time the surgeon had to stitch him up, she shouted at him for ages afterwards. Both of you are going to be in trouble now.”
Gwenn laughed in his face. “I don’t give a damn what she thinks. Soon, I will bring her to her knees and make her beg me for her very life. She will be the one in trouble, not me.”
He looked at his sister with wide, shocked eyes. “You should not talk that way! Our mother is the Queen, remember? Such threats are treason. It is my duty as a citizen of the realm to tell her what you said. They will send the Guard for you.”
“Tell her. I don’t care. No-one can catch me where I am going,” Gwenn said smugly.
“Are you leaving?” This unexpected news made him feel happier than he had for some time.
“Yes I am, and don’t go running to Mummy with that piece of news. If you do, I’ll cut your heart out and feed it to the cat for dinner.” She glared at her brother.
Tristan smiled cunningly at her. “Don’t worry, big sister, your secret is safe with me. Where are you going?”
“I am not telling you, little boy. But when I come back, you had better watch out. All of you.” She said nothing else, just brushed past him up the stairs. Tristan watched her go, and he could not hide his hopeful expression.
Gwenn went into her bedroom and lay down on the ornately worked metal canopy bed her stepfather had made for her long ago. “A bed fit for a princess,” he had laughingly said to her, on her eighth birthday.
Back then, she had been happy, for she had not known about her mother’s lies. Reaching under her pillow, she removed a pearl-handled dagger and studied it closely. It had once belonged to her real father, Tomas de Vigny. Gwenn had kept at her mother for ages until she gave her the knife, saying it was the only thing of Tomas’ she owned. Besides the hair, of course, but Katkin had refused to give her that. Tomas had been Jacq’s sworn enemy. Gwenn still did not understand how her mother could have done such a terrible thing to her beloved Papa, and she hated her for lying to them both.
Ketha’s voice rang in her head. “The sooner you leave here, the sooner you can make her pay.”
“He is supposed to be coming back here to St. Valery,” Gwenn said earnestly. “I want to see him before we depart. Jessamine told me he sent a letter.”
“We cannot wait forever. He is months late already. We need to go now so we can make our way north in good weather. Perhaps we will meet him on the way.”
“Do you think so? Could you find him, in all this wide Yrth?”
Ketha cackled. “Of course I can find him. Am I not a Goddess? But you must not tell him your real name or your destination. He might try to stop you, or come back here to warn the others.”
“But Ketha, I...”
“No! Heed me, or I will punish you. Do you understand?” Ketha’s voice was harsh, and Gwenn knew this was no idle threat. Her hand instinctively strayed to a long ragged scar on her upper thigh.
“Very well. I will do as you say.” Gwenn heaved a sigh and stood up.
“That is better. Now start packing. We leave tonight, after the moon sets.”
Gwenn moved slowly around her bedroom. Though she had been saying for months she could not wait for the day she could leave home, now the moment was at hand she felt curiously reluctant. She examined her collection of stuffed animals on the shelf, next to the books optimistically given to her by her mother that she had never even opened. There were prizes for tumbling pinned to the walls, and pictures she had painted as a child. Her first little sword, that Jacq had made her all those years ago, had pride of place over the mantle piece. She ran her fingers along the dulled edge regretfully. Her eyes filled with tears as she recalled his proud expression today after she had defeated him.
Ketha said, “What is this? I thought you were a shield maiden. You cannot afford to be sentimental. You want power, do you not? And freedom? Jacq has taught you everything he knows. He can be of no more use to us. Now we must move forward and find a race of warriors for you to command. That has always been your dream, has it not?”
Gwenn wiped her eyes and nodded. Ketha was right, as usual. She began stuffing some old clothes into a leather shoulder bag while looking with distaste at the beautiful dresses her mother had bought for her. She left them untouched on their hangers in the armoire, along with the dainty slippers and luxurious stockings. At least her mother would never force her to wear such things again. She pulled on her over-the-knee leather boots, and placed the dagger into the top of the right one. Suddenly, she remembered she could not slip away until it was dark, and that meant dressing for dinner. Gwenn felt sure another meeting with her stepfather would make her change her mind about leaving all together.
With a look of grim determination, she placed the scabbard and baldric belonging to keth’fell over her head, and shouldered her bag. After creeping along the deserted hallway, she went to her mother’s dressing room, reached into the back of her wardrobe, and pulled out a small wooden coffer. Deftly, she picked the lock with a hairpin and removed the keepsake that had once belonged to her real father. Underneath it, she saw a curious amulet. With a sly smile, she placed it around her neck. She snapped the chest shut again, placed it back in the wardrobe and went back to her own room. After hastily rolling up one of the woolen blankets from her bed, she tied it with some rarely used hair ribbons.
Although her room stood on the third floor of the Citadel tower, Gwenn often exited through the window to avoid whatever tedious duty her mother wanted to impose on her. She scanned the parade field below. The mess hall bell had just rung, and all the Guardsmen were inside having dinner. Gwenn stepped over the sill and found a good handhold on the ivy clinging to the brickwork. After one long last look at her bedroom, she swiftly climbed down the wall and left her old life behind.
Orlinir Flow
The Numen sits quietly by her fireplace, in an old rocking chair. Hieronymus stays with her, as he always does.
As he makes a little sound, she looks towards the door. Someone coming eh, Hieronymus? Who might it be?
Hieronymus blinks his golden eyes at the Numen.
* * * *
Arkady Svalbarad rode south, down a rutted and little used track. He urged his horse forward at the best speed the tired beast could manage. Ajax lifted her proud head and neighed, her chestnut flanks glossy with sweat in the late afternoon sun. The sand dunes on either side of the track sent up wobbling waves of heated air and blocked the cooling breeze from the ocean. Arkady retrieved a water skin from his saddle and took a long drink, and poured a little of the water over his head in a vain effort to keep cool. The heat of the southern summer bothered him now, though as a boy he had labored outside for hours on hotter days than this. But it was many years since his wanderings had taken him this close to the land of his birth.
Arkady had been traveling for many months — still he rode easily in the saddle. Once he had learned everything he could at the university in St. Ekaterina, he had taken the road as his companion and teacher. For four years he had been an itinerant scholar, and had seen much. Now, he felt called by his homeland, Beaumarais, and the desire to see his family again. He had written, ages ago, to say he was coming, but spring storms in the Gulf of Angar’et made it impossible to get passage down the coast on a trading vessel. But Arkady was nothing if not patient, and he bided his time on the coast working as a fisherman’s jack, hauling in nets and checking lobster pots. Such hard physical labor contented him, for his mind could roam freely where it desired, while at the end of the day his body was pleasantly ready for food and sleep.
Ajax stopped, having spied a patch of tempting looking grass off to the side of the track. “All right, girl,” he said, lightheartedly. “I am ready for a break too. How about if we set up camp, here, in this shady spot?” He dismounted in the lee of a high dune and stroked Ajax’s ears fondly. “Tomorrow we will rise before the sun, and make up the lost time in the cool hours of the early morning.”
In the distance he heard the whistling cries of sea birds, a familiar sound after so many days aboard ship. Arkady smiled ruefully, remembering how long it had taken him to get his sea legs. The blond sailors of the Dalvolk had laughed at him as he spent unhappy hours those first few days at sea with his head over the side of their wooden, two-masted Knar[4]ship, his face pale and sweaty. Nevertheless, they quickly befriended him once they found he could speak their tongue. Arkady helped them make trades as they made their way down the coast, for he spoke five different languages well, and had a smattering of others. In the end they had been sorry to see him go, but he politely refused their offer of a full time position on the boat, wanting only to feel the steady land under his feet as he made his way home on Ajax.
He still had some distance to cover, another two weeks at least, before he would see the familiar high purple hills marking the boundary of Beaumarais. Then he would truly be home. The thought pleased him. His four brothers, all older than he, had wives and children, some born since he left on his travels. His younger sister would be a teenager now. Arkady liked children, and doted on his nieces and nephews. But he had no wife or child of his own, for the road had become his mistress, and he was satisfied with that.
His last teacher, Dawa Tinley, of the mountainous country of T’Shang, had taught him much about satisfaction and illusory yearnings. He had learned more from that wizened little man in a single year than all of his illustrious professors in St. Ekaterina taught him in his four years as a student there. All the hours spent sitting completely still, trying to silence the incessant chatter in his mind, had eventually paid off. Dawa had sent him on his way, saying laughingly he could teach him no more, and why did he not find a student of his own?
Arkady sat now on the warm sand, with his legs crossed and his hands resting lightly on his knees. Hunger fretted away inside him, but he ignored it, intent on having an hour’s meditation before giving way to his desire for food. Now, in the shade of the dune, he could feel a cool breeze, and he removed his sodden shirt, throwing it over the oat grass nodding in front of him. It would be dry by the time he finished his meditation. The sunlight, still bright in the late afternoon, made a red haze in front of his closed eyes. Arkady focused on the redness and began to repeat his mantra. Soon he slipped into a deep state of relaxation, and there were no more thoughts of hunger or home. Just the endless rushing sound of the blood in his ears, like the pounding waves of time in the universe. Arkady did not notice when a small sea bird passed almost right in front of him on the sand, hunting for tiny insects. The bird paused, completely unaware of the motionless figure before it. A second later, it flew away, frightened by the girl that had appeared from behind the nearest dune.
She stood and watched Arkady for a long time. His stillness confused her and she wondered if he slept, though she had never heard of anyone sleeping sitting up like that. Stepping softly back, she found a pebble and tossed it carefully. It hit him on the thigh. The girl ducked quickly out of sight behind a low hummock of sand and grass. Nothing happened. The man before her remained as unmoving and silent as a rock. Frustrated, she threw a larger pebble a little bit harder and was rewarded.
Arkady felt the pebble hit his leg, and unhurriedly brought himself back into the present moment. He felt no distress at this sudden interruption of his meditation. It seemed obvious someone was trying hard to gain his attention. He did not rise, just sat quietly, thinking perhaps some child was playing a game with him. A few seconds later, he heard a hastily smothered giggle from behind the dune. He saw blond hair mixed in with the strands of oat grass, just on the other side of the mound in front of him. A little girl then, perhaps belonging to one of the Dalvolk. But what was she doing here, five miles from the coast?
He spoke to her in their language, “Don’t be afraid, little one. Come out and say hello to me.”
She did not answer right away and Arkady wondered if she could be lost or frightened. Moving cautiously, he rose, and walked over to where he thought she was hiding in the grass. He saw only a depression in the sand and a trail of blurry footprints leading off between two larger dunes to his right. Arkady scratched his head, wondering if he should pursue the girl, or go back to his meditation. He called out once more, and received no reply. Hunger finally persuaded him to give up on both and he turned away.
Presently, a song drifted over the oat grass towards him. Arkady listened with growing interest, for the tune was a familiar one, and the words were in the patois of Beaumarais, his homeland.
Intrigued, he followed the girl’s singing along a winding path between the dunes. He had no doubt she meant the song as an invitation, for the words were too apropos to be a coincidence:
Where do you travel, where do you go?
Clever little bird, take me along.
Fly up high, fly down low,
Clever little bird, sing me a song.
I would travel too — I would like to go,
If I had wings to fly like you,
Fly up high, fly down low,
Clever little bird, up to the blue.
The path rounded a corner and he came upon the yellow-haired girl. She sang as she knelt before a small fire tending two skinned and gutted rabbits on a spit. Arkady stopped, not wishing to alarm her. He said reassuringly, “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.”
She laughed merrily. “Why would I be afraid of you, pretty man?”
Her unexpectedly confident reply confused him. Obviously this was no young girl, wandering the dunes. Arkady studied her face. He thought her sixteen or perhaps seventeen years old. She had the bluest eyes he had ever seen, fringed with very dark lashes, despite her blond hair. They were set wide apart above her high cheekbones. Her nose was straight and fine, though not overly small, and nicely balanced by a generous mouth and strong jaw line.
He asked her, “Are you lost? Where are your companions?”
“I am not lost, nor do I have companions. But I have these rabbits and I would share them with you in return for a tale or two. Will you stay and sup with me?” He looked down at her in surprise. She acted as though she had been waiting for him to arrive.
Her eyes studied him with shameless curiosity as she asked, “How old are you? Your chest looks like a black bear but you have hair like a grandfather.” Arkady had inherited prematurely grey hair from his father. He had begun to go grey in his late teens and now his hair was almost completely silver. After his year in T’Shang, he had taken to wearing it in braids, woven with colored yarn and bits of turquoise. With his high cheekbones and light hazel eyes, it made him look quite exotic.
He said, smiling, “I am twenty-seven, and not yet a grandfather.” Then, prompted by her brazenness, he asked, “How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” she lied.
Arkady looked at her skeptically. “You should not be out here alone. The Fynära raiders use these dunes to stage attacks on the coastal villages. I would hate to think what would happen if they caught you. Have you not heard of them?”
She shrugged non-committally, so he told her what he knew of the Fynära[5].
The young woman, who had remained squatting by the fire during his talk, abruptly rose to her feet. She moved with agile grace. Arkady stepped back in surprise. He was tall, just over six feet, but this girl stood taller still, and her shoulders were broad and obviously well muscled. She was dressed in a linen tunic, leggings tied with thongs of leather, and boots. Across her back she carried a long sword on a baldric. He suddenly found the tip at his throat.
But if she meant to frighten him, she was disappointed. Death held no sway over Arkady, for Dawa Tinley had taught him of the endless wheel of existence. He stood still, waiting to see what unexpected thing she might do next.
“I am not afraid of the Fynära,” she said harshly. “When we meet it is they who will fear.” Slowly she lowered the sword and put it back in the scabbard. Her blue eyes gazed at him fearlessly, and he could see the flicker of interest there. Immediately embarrassed, he remembered he had left his shirt drying by his meditation spot and excused himself to retrieve it. Her merry laughter followed him back down the track.
Arkady returned a moment later, dressed, and leading Ajax by her halter. He said, “I would be pleased to share your food, Miss, and I have many tales I can tell in return.” He paused, looking a little discomfited. “But I still don’t know your name.”
“Do you not? Then I will tell you. But first you must tell me your name, and where you are bound,” she replied.
“My name is Arkady Svalbarad and I am going home to the City of Isle St. Valery in Beaumarais. Is that where you are from?”
She glanced away over the dunes before speaking and Arkady felt sure that whatever she answered him would not be the truth. “My name is Krikka, and I go now to my father’s homeland, Danica.”
Now he knew she was lying. Still, he smiled at her, determined to play along with her game. “Krikka is an unusual name for a girl, is it not?” In the language of the Dalvolk, her name meant “crow.”
She smiled back. Her very white teeth and sharp canines made the grin look feral, like an animal baring its fangs. Krikka said softly, “Oh, but I am a most unusual girl, Kadya.”
“I can see that.” Then he gaped at her, taken aback by the realization she had just spoken his childhood nickname. No-one, except his family, ever addressed him as Kadya. “Why did you call me that?” he asked her suspiciously. “Have we met somewhere before?” Her face did look vaguely familiar, but Arkady was positive he would have remembered seeing her, because of her height.
She shook her head. “Krikka knew another Arkady, long ago, and Kadya was his name too. I just got confused. But you don’t mind, do you, if I call you that? It seems to fit.” Arkady smiled and said he did not mind at all. She turned away from him and produced a long pearl-handled dagger from the top of her boot. The sun picked out the gold highlights in her hair as she squatted before the fire and tested the meat. “The rabbits are cooked. Are you ready to eat?”
Nodding, he turned to his pack, and retrieved his tin plate and a small knife. He was hungry, and the rabbit smelled good, though it had been a year since he had last eaten any flesh. That was another thing he learned from his teacher in T’Shang — respect for all living creatures. But Dawa had also impressed upon him the importance of kindness to others, and that meant accepting any gift without complaint or reservation. So he ate the rabbit with pleasure and shared what food he had in return. There was a little blue-veined cheese left over from the last port the Dalvolk ship had visited, and he offered it to her along with some ship’s biscuit. She sniffed it suspiciously and tried a small bite. Her eyes went wide and she quickly consumed what he gave her and asked for more. Arkady looked at her in amusement. He had never met anyone who appeared to be such a curious mixture of innocence and menace.
“Who caught the rabbits? Was it you?”
She seemed offended at this. “Of course it was me. I told you I have no companions, did I not? I set a snare by their burrow and waited patiently. Later, when I saw you sleeping in the dunes I thought to share them with you. Why do you ask so many questions?”
He laughed. “You ask plenty yourself. But why should I not want to know about you? You must admit it is a little unusual to meet a girl in the middle of nowhere who looks like a shield maiden out of one of the old tales. I am just curious about you. And I was not sleeping, not at all. I was meditating, and that is a very different thing.”
She sniffed derisively. “It looked like sleeping to me. But now, what of the tale you promised me in return for dinner? Tell me of the places you have seen.”
Arkady smiled and settled back on his blanket. The long light of the late summer evening gave the oat grass a quality of sharp relief against the darkening sky. Everything, including the girl who sat next to him on the blanket, seemed bathed in a golden aura. He began his tale this way: “I left my home in Beaumarais when I was eighteen years old, and headed north. My father’s family lives in St. Ekaterina, in the principality of Ruboralis, and I wanted very much to meet them. I also wanted to study languages at the University there.”
She interrupted him, asking, “You wanted to go to school? No-one made you go?” This struck her as funny and Arkady had to wait until her fit of giggling had passed before he continued.
“Yes, I liked going to school, as strange as it sounds, and I was pleased to have the opportunity. The University in St. Ekaterina is very famous. I studied there for four years, and I lived with my grandparents. They have a big house on Karador Prospekt.”
“How big?”
“Thirty or forty rooms. I don’t think I ever went into all of them.”
“My house is much bigger than that!” she boasted.
Arkady peered at her with sudden interest. “And where is this house, girl who calls herself Krikka?”
She smiled and shrugged, embarrassed at almost being caught out. “You are telling me the tale. Please continue.”
“St. Ekaterina has many beautiful palaces and churches. On winter days, when I did not have to go to school, I used to walk all over the city. I talked to as many people as I could, to practice the language and learn about the culture. It is very different than my home. St. Ekaterina is much bigger, for one thing. Almost seventy-five thousand people live there. There were so many interesting things to do. Sometimes, my grandmother, Irina, and I used to go to the symphony at the Victory Palace.”
Krikka wanted to know what a symphony was and he patiently explained. She listened with rapt concentration. Everything he told her about St. Ekaterina seemed to interest her and she asked many questions.
He continued, “One day, my grandfather Nicolai took me to the open market in Gueroi Square. I saw things from all over Yr for sale in the stalls. We were passing by a quiet corner of the market and an amazing painting caught my eye — of a beautiful woman, with green skin. Many other bright colors filled in the background. I went to have a closer look and asked the stall keeper where he had gotten it from. He was a small dark-skinned man with curious almond-shaped eyes. He told me it came from his home, T’Shang.”
Her eyes went wide. “Where is that?”
“A country full of the biggest mountains and the bluest skies you have ever seen, far to the east of here. All at once I was struck with a desire to go there. Over the next few weeks I found out everything I could about it. There was not much to discover, for T’Shang has been closed to foreigners for many years.”
“What about the green woman?”
“I found out about her too, after I bought the painting. Her name is Hana, and she is a Goddess of the East. Would you like to see?”
She nodded her head enthusiastically. Arkady rose and went to his saddlebag. He retrieved a rolled-up length of heavy silk and spread it out on the ground in front of the fire. Though the sun had sunk almost completely below the horizon and shadows crept over the dunes, the colors still shone luminously. The girl stared at the picture for a long time without speaking. She said softly, “Your Goddess has a very kind face. I would like to know her. But some Goddesses are not so nice.”
Arkady gave her a curious glance but she said no more. He carefully rolled up the painting and replaced it in the bag. Then, in the gathering darkness, he went on with his tale. Krikka rose and threw more wood on the fire so that it blazed up in a rising ribbon of sparks.
He said, “I finished my studies at the University and started on my journey to find the lost country of T’Shang. My grandparents did not want me to go because I did not even have a proper map, only a book I had stolen from the library. It took me many weeks and months of riding to the east to reach the mountains. When I arrived there, I found that I had to wait for summer so I could cross the high passes. I spent my time learning to speak the language of the people I found myself with. They were yak herders and lived in tents of skin they could take down and move with them as they followed the animals from winter pasture to summer meadow. At first, they were shy with me, but once I could speak their tongue, I found them to be kind and very warm-hearted. When I could, I went up into the mountains and came down into T’Shang. It is the most beautiful place I have ever seen. I stayed there a year, in a village called Khalama, and I learned many things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Like meditation. What you saw me doing this afternoon.”
“Sleeping?”
He laughed. “Not sleeping. I told you already. I was awake.”
“Why did you not move when I threw the stone at you?” She looked at him in confusion and he smiled.
“It is hard to explain. I close my mind to the things outside in the world and listen to what is inside.”
She nodded her head as if she understood perfectly. “I do that too, sometimes.” Then, thinking perhaps she had given too much away, she rapidly changed the subject. “Where is your weapon? I would like to see it.”
He smiled and shook his head. “I have none, only the little clasp knife you saw me eat with.”
“How did you travel so far without a sword? Did you not fear to meet bandits on your way?” she asked, clearly amazed at his admission.
“I learned a few things about fighting without weapons in T’Shang. Only in self-defense, of course.”
This caused her to howl with laughter. “You could not defend yourself against me without a weapon! I would make short work of you.”
“Let us put that to the test, if you are willing?”
She shrugged and said carelessly, “All right, but don’t blame me if you get hurt.” Standing abruptly, she drew the dagger from her boot and assumed a fighting stance.
He stood more slowly and brushed the sand off his breeches, saying, “We should move further away from the fire. Otherwise you might get burned when you fall.” She raised an eyebrow at this and took a couple of steps backwards, toward the darkened dunes. Then she lunged towards him, as swiftly as a snake. The dagger flashed in the firelight.
Arkady sidestepped rapidly, caught her behind the thigh with his knee and pushed her down into the sand. She looked very surprised, and scrambled to her feet immediately. Another quick lunge brought the same result. This time she stood up more slowly and thoughtfully circled him, the dagger held loosely in her hand. She feinted several times and watched his reaction carefully. Arkady knew he would not be able to use the same move on her again. When she thrust the dagger at him he caught her by the wrist and twisted hard. With a cry of pain, she dropped the weapon and Arkady kicked it away across the sand. Now she furiously threw herself forward and tackled him. He let her momentum carry him backwards and flipped her neatly over his body so that she landed hard on her back. She lay there, panting, as he rose and brushed the sand off his clothes.
Arkady stood above her and offered his hand. “Have you seen enough?” he asked.
She reached for his outstretched hand and then quickly kicked out, catching him on the shin with her boot. Arkady felt his legs go out from under him and he landed awkwardly on the sand next to her. Krikka dropped on his midsection and drove the air from his lungs in an explosive rush. He rolled over and tried to extricate himself from her grasp, but she had her legs around him in a scissor lock. Arkady could not believe how strong she was. Obviously, she did not intend to give up without a prolonged battle.
After trying once more to gain the upper hand, he suddenly found himself on top of her. She stopped struggling immediately and looked up at him, her eyes glinting with fire in the dim light. Her hair spread out on the sand like a golden halo around her face. Abruptly, desire raced through him, setting fire to every nerve before settling like a blazing inferno in his belly. A second later she fastened her mouth to his with such abandon he could hardly breathe.
The disciplined part of his mind told him in no uncertain terms to stop at once. He barely knew her, or anything about her — not even her real name. Those thoughts were obliterated by the drumbeat of wanting that pounded in his temples and groin.
He was half-disappointed and half-relieved when, a moment later, she tore her lips from his and rolled out from under his body. She stood and walked back over to the fire without speaking. Slowly she turned back to face him and pulled her tunic off over her head. The firelight gilded her smooth skin and flickered on the shapely curve of her breasts.
“Krikka, what do you...?” Arkady began, uncertainly, but she was already bending to unlace her breeches.
When she had finished undressing, she stood before him silently — waiting... breathing. Her form was breathtaking, taut and finely muscled, like a long-distance runner. Arkady knew then he had long passed the point of no return. He stood and shed his own clothes as quickly as he could and fell with her onto the blanket next to the fire.
The prolonged and intense lovemaking that followed made all of his other sexual experiences seem arid and clumsy. They coupled almost immediately in a torrent of passion that spent itself quickly, and hardly diminished the hunger they felt for each other. Twice more he took her, as her nails raked his back and she sank her teeth into his shoulder like a wild animal, before he felt he had satisfied her desire and his own.
Later, resting on the blanket, the night breeze cooled the sweat on her skin and she shivered in his arms. The fire had died down to glowing red ash and he could barely see the outline of her face in the darkness. Arkady whispered, “Who are you? Will you not tell me your real name, my beautiful crow girl?”
She turned to face him and her voice sounded bleak. “I cannot, dear Kadya. She would be angry with me.”
“Who would be angry?”
“Ketha. I must do as she says.” She sighed deeply. “Sometimes I wish I did not have to.”
Arkady rolled onto his side and rested his head on his hand so he could see her face more closely. He said, “I don’t know much about you, but I can see you are in some kind of trouble. You don’t have to tell me anything else if you don’t want to. Let me help you. We can both ride from here right now on Ajax, and by tomorrow we can be far away from this place. Trust me, I will make sure, whoever this Ketha is, she cannot find you.”
She shook her head miserably. “Ketha will always find me. There is nothing you can do to stop her.”
He begged her, “Please, I want you to stay with me. What hold does Ketha have on you? Will you not say?”
“Don’t ask any more questions!” she cried in frustration. “We have so little time to be together before she returns. There is only one thing you can do for me this night.” He could not see the tears clinging to her lashes but he tasted them as she turned her face to his and sought his mouth once again.
Afterwards, utterly spent, Arkady fought a losing battle to try and stay awake. But as her fingers lightly stroked the hair on his belly, he felt his eyes closing, and forced them open again. He knew instinctively she would be gone when he awoke, so he whispered, “Don’t go, Krikka. Please don’t leave me.” She said nothing in return, just waited patiently for him to fall asleep. Then she rose very cautiously and dressed herself. She located the pearl-handled dagger in the sand and shoved it back down into her boot.
Ajax rested quietly in the lee of a dune and made no sound as Krikka saddled her. The girl carefully unpacked the rest of Arkady’s food and the water skin and left it by the fire. She placed the rolled silk painting of Hana next to it. Krikka wore a periapt tied with a leather thong around her neck — a withered crow’s foot clutching a green crystal. Thoughtfully, she slipped it over her head and dropped it on top of the painting. She walked slowly back to where Arkady slept on the blanket and said, very quietly, “Farewell, Uncle.”
A large black crow flew down and landed on her back. For a few seconds it looked as though the girl had sprouted a pair of black wings, and then the crow disappeared. Krikka bit her lip so the pain would not make her cry out. Then she led Ajax away through the dunes and headed north towards the coast and the Fynära.
“What took you so long?” Ketha croaked angrily. “I told you we should have just killed him and taken the horse. We could have been miles away by now.”
“I am sorry, Ketha. You promised me I could see him before we left. I don’t want him to die because I care about him. Do you understand?”
The battle crow laughed harshly. “He will die soon enough, when the Fynära pay a visit to Beaumarais, my pretty girl. Ketha will have plenty of carrion to feast on then.”
When Arkady woke the next day, the sun was already high in the sky. As soon as he saw the pile of things she had left, he did not bother to look further for Krikka or Ajax. Spying the crow’s foot, he picked it up and gazed at it for a long moment. Krikka’s face came back to him, and her eyes. As blue as the skies of T’Shang. He shivered slightly, thinking of their feverish encounter of the night before. If she hadn’t stolen his horse, he might have thought it all some wild, fey dream. As he placed the charm around his neck, Arkady wondered if he would ever see her again. He shouldered the satchel that held the food and his water skin and turned away from the ashes of last night’s fire, sighing deeply. It would be a long, slow walk to Beaumarais.
That's the end of the sampler. We hope you enjoyed it. If you would like to find out what happens next, you can buy the complete Mushroom eBook edition from the usual online bookshops or through www.mushroom-ebooks.com.
For more information about Mushroom Publishing, please visit us at www.mushroompublishing.com.
Suzanne Francis believes the genesis for her inventive Song of the Arkafina series lies in her chronic travel sickness as a child and young adult. While growing up in England and on the Continent, she happily participated in many family and school trips, though riding in the back seat of a car often left her suffering from nausea for hours on end. To help pass the time, she began telling herself stories, serialized over many days and weeks, often featuring the landscapes through which she was traveling. These imaginary adventures, along with a life-long love of reading good books (but only when sitting still) sparked her interest in writing. Since then she has penned many fantasy short stories and sonnets, as well as two novels.
After earning her BA in Geography, Suzanne worked for several years as an urban planner in the USA, before retiring to have children. A series of part-time jobs followed, everything from migrant farm worker to dishwasher, retail manager to massage therapist. Her appetite for voyaging has taken her to such far-flung places as the Cook Islands, Mexico, across the deserts and Deep South of America and on many adventures through the capitals of Europe. She has drawn on these life experiences to amplify and embellish the unique characters and settings of her novels.
In addition to writing, her passions include neo-paganism and playing a perversely difficult musical instrument called the hurdy-gurdy.
She is a member of the Troth, and the Otago Writer’s Guild.
Presently, Suzanne lives in rural Dunedin, New Zealand with her husband Michael and four children.
Yrth... a place of ordered beauty — and undreamed of terror. A magical realm where winged Amaranthine hide in the shadow of humankind, while selfishly exploiting them. A universe of countless dimensions; where an unwary sideways step might carry you to Death’s silent Kingdom — or beyond, to the very heart of the rising Gyre.
Now into this world comes Katrione Estelle du Chesne, a born healer. The Amaranthine need her, for she is destined to become the Vessel of the Goddess Lalluna and a pawn in the battle against their enemy, the dark Angellus. And Katrione’s fellow citizens, in the nation of Beaumarais, are also desperately in need of a healing touch, as they suffer through an endlessly bloody civil war.
The difficult choices that Katrione must make — between humankind and Amaranthine — true love and responsibility — sworn oath and unhappy truth, make for compulsive reading.
Heart of Hythea is the first book in the “Song of the Arkafina” series.
ISBN 978-184319-637-2, Mushroom eBooks, 2007
More info about "Ketha's Daughter"
