In the Red Lord's Reach Read online

  When he sang at night, he took care to do it far from the dance ground, in places where the call of drum and flute was too distant to interfere with his quieter kind of music. And often, among his listeners, he saw the flushed and sweaty faces that marked folk who had left the dancing for softer diversion—for the tales of love and sorrow, of sorcery and death, and only rarely of laughter, that were his wares.

  As the night deepened, the younger couples were usually the first to slip away, though not always the quickest, for they would dally at the edge of the crowd to hear the last lines of some sad song of love. And Alaric's gaze would follow them to where they lingered in the tent shadows, where sometimes they kissed before leaving his presence. And in that long moment, the frozen moment of embrace, they took on the semblance of graceful statues in some garden of ancient mystery; they became the emblem of something timeless and eternal, something that was a part of and also beyond simple desire. At last they would melt into the further darkness, and Alaric would find himself musing on his latest song, and on the one he might sing next. Now and again, his new choice would recount some greater sorrow than the one recounted before.

  Alaric had been at the calving grounds no more than a week when the first of the deer dropped their young. Days were busy then, as men and boys from every band sought out the babes of their own animals and notched their ears in marks of ownership. Alaric marveled at the ease with which the nomads found their charges; to him, not only the animals but the ear notches all looked alike. He caught sight of Fowsh one day, throwing a calf to the ground, straddling it and cutting its ears while his father calmed the nervous doe. He waved to them and called a greeting, but in the tumult of the herd they did not notice, and Alaric thought better than to go out among all those skittish beasts to exchange pleasantries.

  The deer had been calving for twelve days—and the nomads were saying that very soon the whole process would be done, and the bands would go their separate ways once more—when Simir the high chief sent for Alaric.

  ****

  SIMIR'S TENTS HAD been pointed out to Alaric more than once already. They stood on a rise at the northern edge of the herd, a few very large tents on the highest ground, surrounded by several circular tiers of smaller ones. Here the nomads went with disputes that could not be settled within their own bands, and here they paid their lord in kind for his judgment, in deer and leather and all manner of goods valued by the nomads. That, many told Alaric, was his only tax upon them.

  Well, he builds no castles, no roads, no bridges, the minstrel thought. What need has he for taxes?

  Alaric climbed the path of trampled grass that wound among the lower tiers of tents. Ahead of him walked the youth who had brought the high chief's summons. He was a tall lad, perhaps two or three years younger than Alaric, but already well muscled, and with a downy mustache just beginning to fringe his upper lip. His hair was much lighter than that of the other nomads, a chestnut brown to their black, and he wore it shorter, cut shaggy just below his ears. He had not given his name, but another man had called him Terevli, and Alaric's audience had parted to let him pass.

  At the crest of the rise, seated on a thick pile of carpets before the largest tent and surrounded by chattering people, was a man of great physical presence. Had he been standing, he would have been taller than most of those about him, and he was broader of shoulder, and thicker of arm and thigh; he was surely a man who had swung a sword for the greater part of his life. And he was a blond, with high color showing in his cheeks, the only true blond in all that company of dark-haired folk.

  Alaric's companion came to a halt in front of the man. "Father," he said, and he cocked a thumb toward Alaric.

  The blond man had been nodding, his head turned to one side while an elderly woman spoke to him. Now, as she hurried away, he looked to Alaric, and his wide mouth curved in a smile. "Ah, the minstrel everyone has been talking about. Welcome to Simir's fire." At his gesture, the folk about him fell silent and made Alaric the center of their attention. "I trust you have been treated well among our people."

  Alaric bowed low. "Very well, my lord. They are most hospitable."

  The man's smile broadened. "My lord," he murmured, and then he chuckled. "I can't recall ever being called so. It has a fine ring, minstrel, but I care not for its fit. Simir is my name; use that."

  Alaric hesitated. "You are the high chief, sir?"

  He nodded.

  The minstrel bowed again. "My apologies, then. I am from the south, as you surely know, and it is a custom of the south to give such titles to those in high office."

  "I know the custom," said Simir. "But we are in the north here, and no one will punish you for speaking my name. Now, I have been told that my cook is among the best of our people; and if you would consent to try her skill, I would ask you to sing for one who has spent a burdensome day in the judging of petty quarrels, and is therefore twice as tired as those who have spent theirs notching the ears of newborn deer."

  "I have heard some small word of your cook," Alaric said. "But even were she the least of all the cooks at this gathering, I would play for the high chief. It is, after all, an honor."

  "Have you sung for many high chiefs, young minstrel?"

  "For kings and princes, and many a lesser noble, good Simir. And for the poorest peasant, living in a hovel of mud and thatch. I have sung for many, many people. And if the food was bad…"He shrugged. "There was always another day, another hearth. One learns, when one is a minstrel, to accept the good and the bad."

  "A fair philosophy for one who travels in the north," said Simir. "Come, sit down." He gestured to the space beside him. "Give me a song, that I may judge what others have said of you. They tell me I am very good at judgment." And he smiled again.

  Alaric took a corner of the rug, the lute upon his thighs. He strummed a note or two, then decided on an old song, one well loved in the south, a tale of ancient and sorcerous tragedy.

  "The forest is deep and dark and still,

  Round the cave where the ruby lies,

  Yet once there was lightning within those walls,

  And flame in an old man's eyes,

  Though his heart was chill."

  When the tale was done—the evil sorcerer vanquished, the spells all rent to pieces, the lone survivor standing with head bared and sword bloodied—the high chief and all the folk about him clapped their hands and stamped their feet on the trampled grass to show their pleasure.

  "They did not lie when they said you were skilled," Simir declared. "We have none like you among us."

  Alaric inclined his head. "I thank you, good Simir."

  "They also said your store of songs appeared inexhaustible."

  "That is… a slight exaggeration. But I do have a good supply."

  Simir's eyes swept him up and down, head to toe, fingertip to fingertip, as a man might survey the lines of a horse or a dog. "Are you strong?"

  "Strong? I fear I don't know what you mean, sir."

  "I have heard that you seek the Northern Sea."

  Alaric gave a small shrug. "I am a wanderer, good Simir; new sights and new folk are to me as gold and silver to other men. In the south, the Northern Sea is more than half legend; I thought to make it real for myself."

  Simir tilted his head to one side, as if to see the young minstrel better from that angle. "It is a hard journey. I have made it, and I know. You do not look strong enough for it, minstrel, for all that you have crossed the great mountains to come here."

  "We do not all have arms and shoulders like yours, Simir. Yet I can wield an ax and bend a bow and lift more than my own weight. And I have made a hard journey or two in my life. Such journeys are sometimes the stuff of good songs. ''

  "If you survive them," said Simir. "What do you know of the north, minstrel? They say you've been here no more than a month."

  Alaric nodded.

  "Then you would do well to spend a few seasons among us, learning the northern way of life, before you decide to
venture onward. Southerners have died on these plains through inexperience. I would not care to see so fine a minstrel as yourself join their number."

  "Are you making me an invitation, good Simir?"

  "To come with my band, to sing for us, I am indeed. We go north, minstrel. You will not find a band that travels closer to the Northern Sea than mine."

  Alaric smiled. "Since we speak of an extended sojourn, first let me try your cook's skills. Then I'll give you my answer.."

  "Done," said Simir, and he beckoned to one of the men who stood nearby and gave orders for the evening meal to be served. He grinned to Alaric. "You'll be comfortable with us, minstrel, I promise that."

  "I hope so, sir. I sing best when I am comfortable."

  The group that gathered to eat at Simir's fire was large, a retinue to match the high chief's rank, perhaps a score in all. Most of the men and women who had listened with him to Alaric's song were there, and others as well, old and young, who had arrived later. The boy Terevli was joined by two other sons of Simir—Gilo and Marak—both nearer to Alaric's own age; tall, muscular youths who carried themselves with easy assurance. All three took places close by their father as soon as the food was given out.

  The meal was perhaps not quite as good as one or two that Alaric had enjoyed in great houses in the south, but it sufficed, the venison tender, the herbs pungent, the vegetables sweet and full-flavored. Of course, the season was spring; come winter, the fare might be thinner. Still, Alaric had never gone hungry since learning to hunt by his own methods; there would always be game from somewhere to put in his pot. More important to him, the company was lively, joking, laughing, talking with high animation, and including a wandering minstrel in that liveliness. That was much more important.

  When the wooden dinner bowls had been collected, Simir called for silence, his voice big and booming. "Our guest has a decision to make now," he said, stretching one arm toward Alaric. "I ask him to make it here, though I already know, as surely as my heart beats, what it will be. What say you, young minstrel? Shall you give the cook a grateful kiss?"

  Alaric rose to his feet. The cook, a stout matron with face reddened by the fire, stood beside the caldrons that had produced a meal for so many. She looked a trifle bewildered by the high chief's words, her gaze moving uncertainly from him to the minstrel and back again. Alaric grinned and made his way through the crowd to her.

  "You are an excellent cook," he said, "and I look forward to eating your suppers for a long time." And taking her by the shoulders, he bussed her loudly on one rosy cheek.

  "Here's to the minstrel who comes north with us," Simir called, raising his cup of milky spirits. "Here's to the nights when song will banish the sound of the cold wind, and our babes will rock to sleep to his lullaby."

  They raised their cups and drank, and Alaric smiled at them and took up his lute to give them a lively song to match their lively mood.

  ****

  SIMIR'S FIRE SANK to embers, red in the darkness, with fitful flames licking upward now and again. Some people drifted away, to that other, brighter fire in the distance, where the drums and the flutes played steadily, and the dancers leaped. But some stayed to hear Alaric's music, so very different it was, the lone human voice and the pure notes of the lute. Simir stayed, and bade the minstrel play on and on, till even that other fire was dimmed, and that other sound faded away. The stars were bright and cold above their heads, and the human noises of the huge encampment were quieting for the night, when Alaric stopped at last.

  "You shall have a place in my own tent, minstrel," Simir said. "You shall be my own personal guest."

  "Thank you, sir. But if you have no objection, as long as the weather is fine, I enjoy sleeping in the open air."

  Simir's shrug was just barely visible by ember-light. "As you will. There are carpets in plenty for your bed, and furs if you should become chilled." He rose from his seat, a bear of a man in the dimness. "I bid you good night."

  An old woman helped the minstrel make a pallet by the embers and then scurried away into the darkness, the last of his listeners to vanish. Alaric wrapped his lute against the night damp and settled comfortably upon his carpets. Fingers interlaced behind his head, he gazed up at the stars and listened to the soft grunting of the vast herd of deer. He could smell them, just barely, a musky scent. Soon the herders would be gathering up their animals, the bands would part company, and he would move north, into the unknown.

  He was just beginning to doze when he heard footsteps close by. He opened his eyes and saw a human shape looming over him. It knelt between him and the embers, a faceless shadow.

  "Hello, minstrel," it said. A woman's voice, young, light, not one he recognized.

  "Yes?" he murmured.

  "I heard you last night and the night before. It was I who suggested Simir send for you."

  Alaric peered into the darkness but could not make out her face. "Thank you, lady. I owe you much."

  "So you do."

  He felt her touch on his arm, felt her fingers slide up to his shoulder, to his neck. They were cool and smooth, the long nails like tiny daggers lightly scraping his skin. Then one hand slipped downward against the fabric of his tunic, against his chest, downward, till he caught it at his waist.

  "Who are you?" he said.

  "Ah," she whispered. "Does it matter?"

  "Of course."

  She laughed softly. "I doubt you even noticed me in the crowd." Her form blotted out the stars as she bent close, as she pressed her lips to his.

  He pushed her back, firmly but not roughly. "This is not seemly behavior with a stranger, lady."

  She laughed again, a deep, throaty laugh. "I am Zavia, and I make my own seemliness, minstrel." She took his hands in her own, then, and pressed them against the yielding softness of her breasts. When he tried to pull away, she let him go, laughing once more. "You think me ugly, don't you? You think some hag has come to you under cover of darkness. No, you never noticed me at all, though I stared at you well, minstrel. Oh, very well." She leaned away from him then, scrabbling at the fire, and a moment later he saw an ember flare as she blew it into fitful life. Laying a splint of wood against the flame, she lit a tiny torch and, turning back to him, held it close to her cheek. "You see," she said, "I am worth looking at."

  Indeed, she was a strikingly pretty girl, with high cheekbones, a small, pointed chin, and eyes that seemed to dance in the flamelight. He did recall seeing her this evening, sitting with Simir's three sons. She had smiled at his songs. Gilo's arm had been about her shoulders.

  She tossed the brand back into the fire and, lifting Alaric's coverlet, eased herself onto his pallet. Her hands touched him again, fingers curling, and he could feel the nails begin to bite into the flesh of his arms.

  "I remember you," he said. "You sat with Gilo."

  "So I did," she whispered, fitting her body to his side.

  "I would not wish to anger him. Your husband?"

  "I have no husband," she said, moving against him slowly, insistently. Her lips found his throat. "I am my own, no one else's. Why do you lie so still, minstrel? Have you never known a woman before?"

  "I do not know your customs, lady."

  "Zavia. My name is Zavia."

  The feel of her warm body against his, the touch of her mouth on his throat, was almost too much for him. With an effort of will, he gripped her shoulders with both hands and held her away from him. "There are many customs in many lands," he said huskily. "In some, this would marry me to you. In others, it would spur your brothers to hack off my head."

  Zavia's laugh was light now, teasing. "I have no brothers, fair minstrel. Not a one."

  "Even so, we travelers must be careful."

  "There is nothing to be careful of here, pretty boy, except perhaps my tender bones. Your hands are strong. Does that come from playing the lute?"

  He did not ease his grip. "And women lie sometimes, when passion strikes them."

  She was able to touch his
chest with one hand, just the fingertips, very softly. "You've had great experience of women, then?"

  "Enough to know that the sweetheart of the high chief's son should not share a poor minstrel's bed."

  She sat up suddenly, almost pulling him up with her. "I am not his sweetheart," she hissed.

  "Shall I believe you, lady? Shall I believe that his arm about your shoulders meant nothing? That his way of looking at you meant nothing?"

  "Nothing, and less than nothing. Just the same as yourself, minstrel!" With a sudden, sharp movement, she tore from his grasp and, flinging the covers aside, scrambled off into the darkness.

  For a time, after the sound of her hurrying footsteps had faded away, Alaric lay on his back, arms pillowing his head. He could almost feel her warmth yet, her softness, the touch of her lips. A less cautious man would have accepted her offer, he knew, even though they would be lying where anyone who decided to stoke the fire would see them. A less cautious man would not have asked any questions, would not have driven her away with his doubts. Alaric closed his eyes, relief and sharp regret mingling within him, and he sighed more than once before rolling over and going to sleep.

  Shortly after dawn, the chief's people emerged from their tents to begin the new day. This morning, as they ate a meal of cold venison, their talk was all of the coming dispersion. Already, they could point out early-rising herders moving among the deer, singling out their own animals and bridling them, and tying them to picket lines near their tents. The chief's men agreed to put their own efforts off another day or two, as a couple of their deer had not yet calved.