Rollback...

This story first appeared on Alternate Species in 2001 and was also published in the Alternate Species Print Magazine.

Hneftafl
by Dan Radlett

Part One of Three

Sometimes, I have soared across this country like a hawk, balancing on the edge of the wind. More often, I have blown like the wind itself, across scrubland, through valleys, around stark grey crags. As a gentle breeze, I've caught and carried pollen from spring flowers. In autumn's gales, their howling, I've hid and cried my sadness. I've walked the fells in summer beneath a blazing sun, remembering it once gave warmth. I've huddled between rocks in the bitterest of winters, shivering, though I no longer feel the cold. I am well acquainted with this land, bound to it by my bones, lying somewhere in its earth. My eyes have watched long enough to see the river change its course, saplings grow to mighty trees. I have not always been alone. Many have lived here, and I have seen. Man has scarred the land, torn it, used it, but never finally taken it. I have the time to see that happen. It happens to us all.

The carriage came at dusk, as the attackers did so long ago. For a moment, I thought it was them returned, and made to run, to hide. Then I remembered, and waited beneath a barren ash, watching as the carriage made its course. Blazing torches picked its way as it came slowly up the hillside. It did not like the passage, the magic that moved it growling and whining. Few such wagons favoured this way. I looked on, wondering who it carried. I guessed their destination: the cottage the book man calls old, and where he reads in summer. Old it is, I suppose, although I saw it built, and it's not one tenth my years. As they closed on it, I drew nearer, floating with the snow awhile, then walking, keeping out of sight. The wagon halted beside the building, its blazing torches dying with its growl. Then they alighted, and I peered to see their faces.

#

Jenny got out of the car, the wind catching her long dark hair and blowing it in all directions. She brushed locks out of her eyes, and sheltered her face, with her other hand, against the flakes of snow. The sky was a dark blue. She could see the evening star. Soon it would be dark, full night. She looked around for lights or signs of life, but couldn't see any.

"I think I've buggered the clutch," Colin said, slamming the driver's door shut. He turned up his collar, and went to open the boot. Jenny joined him, walking around the car against the wind.

"I thought you said it was next to the village?" she said as he handed out her large duffle bag.

"It is." He unloaded his own bag. "Just over that thar hill, about a mile as the crow flies. Though not, I'll grant, as he walks. Or you can follow the road round. That's about four miles, I think. You saw the map."

"I didn't realise." She spoke as quietly as she could while still being audible. Colin flashed a torch into the distance, and slammed the boot shut .

"That's the way it goes," he muttered, dryly, without looking at her. He picked up his bags and headed towards the cottage. "Come on, let's get inside before we catch our deaths."

Jenny felt her fingers freezing around the handles of her bag, and with some reluctance she followed him. She hadn't appreciated how totally alone they'd be, up here. When the foursome had collapsed, something he hadn't told her until she was in the car, she'd consoled herself that other human beings would at least be close by. But there was nothing wrong with Colin. Mark said he was fun, and Laura that he could be trusted, and he'd been perfectly pleasant all the way up. But she felt uncomfortable, as if some unseen tide were carrying them along.

They stood by the car, Jenny holding the torch while Colin struggled with the keys. She looked around at the darkening landscape. So peaceful, so timeless, she supposed. And very Christmassy, with the snow blowing across it.

"Success!" he said, and pushed the door open. He groped inside and flicked on the hall light. "Shall I carry you over the threshold?"

Picking up his bags, he caught her expression, and feigned a look of pain.

"Come on, loosen up!" he said, stepping inside. Jenny followed, shivering, and not just from the cold.

#

We'd thought we were safe. In fact we were just where they wanted us. They must have been shadowing us for the better part of the day, waiting until the time was right. When they struck, it was sudden, well timed, and decisive. I think I even saw admiration in Fasnier's face, just before they cut him down. I was in their hands by then, my arms and legs gripped tight. There was a cool confidence in their laughter that taunted me, emphasised the speed of our defeat. I searched for Gretnal, and saw the Roman scoop her up, the girl too stunned even to cry out. Mirrigan screamed, though, thrusting herself to the rescue of her youngest charge. Then she was silenced, his sword in her belly. The Roman looked as shocked as she did, in that second before she fell. Only an old woman, grey haired, not even sure that she'd the strength for this journey.

In the time it takes for the eagle to strike and carry off its prize, the others were down, our guardians defeated. A short while passed, our attackers stepping over the wounded, dead and dying. Stabbing the writhing bodies, slashing the moaning throats. One who'd evaded them, a baggage lad, they dragged whining back, bent forward, and beheaded. Then all were dead, save Gretnal and me. I stopped struggling. The daughters of Chulran would not make Tintmol now. The wedding of Helspath would not take place. We would not be spared. But there was no point in wasting strength in further struggle. Not yet. The man they called Gathalwyn strode through his men, among the corpses. Now the battle was done, he'd donned a crimson cape over his battle furs. He stood before me, called for a torch and lifted my face.

I could smell blood on his fingers. He grinned, then smiled broadly as he looked at me, his deep brown eyes glinting in the torchlight. I saw his hair, shoulder length and jet black, as sure a sign of his bastardy as anything he wore. He turned to his men, and screamed of victory. Then, he marched proudly away, followed by them all, Gretnal and I dragged with them .

This girl could not have been much older than I was in those days. As I looked into her eyes, staring as the snow blew straight through me, it seemed that I saw all my years in her. She had clear blue eyes. Her hair hung around her shoulders loose, as we would wear it at feast days. Her lips were thin and tightly pressed, and her thoughts plainly not in this place. I touched the pane of glass between us, wanting to touch her cheek and ease her sadness. Behind me, the night, the cold, the open country. Behind her, a table set and a fire burning. Her back was turned against the comfort of that room. The glass need not have been a barrier between us, save that there are laws firmer than the laws of nature. They say that time is right or not right; they said I should not touch her yet. She seemed to sigh deeply. Then she turned away from me, and stepped back into that room. Her fingers were slipped into her pockets. Her gaze perused the carpet on the floor.

#

"Dinner is served," Colin announced dramatically, entering the dining room with a plate balanced on each hand. Jenny half laughed, trying to relax, and joined him at the table. He grinned broadly at her as she sat, and then poured some wine into long stemmed glasses.

"Cod fillet a la micro wave." His words helped her to identify the white mess he'd set before her. As he seated himself, Jenny picked up her fork, and prodded at the fish. A thin sauce speckled with green oozed between the parted flesh.

"To..." He raised his glass by way of a toast, and smiled. "A merry Christmas."

Jenny wondered for a second what he'd meant to say, but then took her own glass delicately between her fingers, and clinked it against his.

"Merry Christmas," she said, softly, and took a sip.

Colin began to tuck into his meal. Jenny sat for a moment, studying a glint on the rim of her glass. Then she let it rest back on the table, and picked once more at her food with her fork.

"Not hungry?" Colin said. She smiled, realising she'd been caught.

"Not very." She made the reply without looking up at him, and took a mouthful of fish. She chewed slowly.

"It's hardly haute cuisine. We can get some stuff in tomorrow. Or there's tins in the cupboard, if--"

"It's fine," Jenny cut in, trying to sound more enthusiastic. "I've not much of an appetite. Maybe I'm tired."

"We'll have an early night." He laughed slightly.

"Yes." Her reply was almost inaudible. She ate some more of his preparation, for the sake of it, at least trying to give an impression of eating. She didn't want him to think his efforts totally wasted. She drank some more wine, killing the taste of the sauce, which she didn't particularly like.

"Is there a phone?" she asked, then, resting her head on a clenched fist, playing with her food with her fork. "I'd like to call my folks, tell them I'm here. No signal on the mobile."

Colin continued eating, his gaze fixed on his plate. He shrugged.

"Nearest box is in the village. I could take you there if you like. But if I have broken the clutch, I don't fancy breaking down halfway. Specially in this. Could be stuck for the night. Fancy that?"

"No," Jenny said, though it occurred to her that outcome might actually be easier than this, somehow. She sipped from her glass again, to hide such thoughts.

"It's a bit late, but if you insist I'll drive you. You might pick up a signal further out."

"No, it's all right." She shook her head, and set her glass gently down again. "It'll do in the morning."

"I'm sure the car will make it, really."

"It's okay." She wasn't going to mention it again. Couldn't he let it drop?

Colin finished eating, set his knife and fork together, and started dabbing at his lips with a napkin. Jenny took this as a sign that she needn't keep trying with her own. Colin smiled at her, splashing some wine into his glass.

"More?" he asked, refilling her glass before she could reply. She laughed slightly, slid her fingers into her hair, and took a taste. She wanted it to have been funny, and to laugh was polite.

"Not bad stuff, is it?" he said. Jenny smiled in agreement.

"When are Mark and Laura coming up?" she asked, casually.

"Depends upon Mark. Tomorrow, I expect. If we don't get cut off."

"Oh, please." She shivered suddenly, a draught catching her.

Colin seemed to notice. He sat back in his chair, tipping it to rest against the wall. She noted his large hands, their veins prominent and tendons tight as he clasped them in his lap.

"Do you not feel comfortable, my dear?" The dry irony in his tone barely hid his contempt.

"Just a chill," she responded truthfully. Then she scowled. What the hell, if that's what he thought. "I don't think my folks would approve."

The explanation was offered tentatively. Colin's smile almost disappeared, and became decidedly tight lipped. He leaned forward to pick up his glass.

"You're a big girl now," he said, and then sat back, and sighed, as if weary of trivial difficulties. "Are you afraid of something?" He laughed. " Do I upset you?"

"Of course not!" She looked away from him, feeling her cheeks glow red. Quickly, she took more wine to cover her embarrassment, trying to compose herself. Setting the glass down again, she shrugged. "It's just different, that's all."

She was still not looking at him, lest he see something in her face.

"I mean, I was expecting the four of us, and fun, now suddenly, it's you and me, and..." She made small circles in the air with her fingers. "Intimate dinners." The explanation drifted and dissolved. "It's different."

Colin didn't appear impressed.

"If you like, I'll try and find some sheep," he drawled, scratching at the side of his glass. "Conversation might be limited, but..."

Jenny let her head roll back, and closed her eyes, for a while. She wished he wouldn't make light of how she felt. It was hard enough for her to explain. She took a deep breath, and brought her head back up to stare him in the eye.

"I'm tired and a bit confused. That's all." But she could only hold his gaze for a second. She felt so foolish. She picked at the edge of the wooden table with her fingernails.

"What's wrong with just you and me?"

"Oh, Colin!" She laughed aloud. Why couldn't he even try to understand? She held her hands up in despair, and laughed some more.

"All right. All right." Her giggle was awkward. "I'm miles from anywhere, with an attractive man who, with respect, I hardly now. Possibly about to be cut off from the world till spring. My father, who's barely accepted me living on campus, would go spare if he knew one tenth of this. But there's nothing wrong. Nothing to make me uncomfortable. Nothing whatsoever!"

She slapped her hands flat on the table. Plates, knives, forks and all rattled sharply in response. Then there was a moment's silence.

"Okay?" It was quiet pleading. He stared back at her, his thin smile broadening somewhat.

"I thought we'd got to know each other rather well, what with the drive up and all," he said, gently, again in a teasing monotone. Jenny slouched and sighed slightly.

"Yes," she agreed, softly. "We have."

They had travelled in one direction. She felt as if they were still travelling, and still in the one direction. It disturbed her. She wondered if it disturbed him. He leaned forward once more, curtailing their dialogue, and started gathering the table things together.

"I think I saw some tinned peaches." He was rising to his feet, the plates in his hands. Jenny brushed back her hair, and tried to adjust to this sudden change of plane. She felt cheated. Or caught. But yes, she also felt relieved that the round had ended.

"That would be nice."

#

In a thousand years or more I'd seen a flower bloom same patterned twice, sparrows mirrored in their bloodline, clouds shaped identically through happenstance. I hated him! I tried to warn her, but she was too caught by her own inner voices to note my counsel. Too confused by what was just a game of Hneftafl. I could not condemn her, though I begged for her to listen. Him I damned. I damned him at the first and I will damn him until the end of time.

We were marched most of the night, and reached their encampment as the new dawn broke. We passed the eyes and iron of those who guarded, our captors hooting triumphant cries. The raiding party was greeted, prizes shown and shared with those who'd waited. Except for Gretnal and I, we were not passed around, not yet. We were bound and left to sit against each other in the mud, away from the grand fire, the centre of their congregation. A few looks or leers were tossed at us in passing, but we received no other attention. My sister didn't cry, but spoke no words. I too kept my peace, having no comfort to offer either of us.

Soon the air was thick with the aroma of roasting meat as stolen pigs were cooked over open fires. All here was either stolen, booty bartered or a bribe. The men who held us were little more than bandits, paid by the Romans to keep the peace, and by villages to stay away. There was nothing here that wouldn't pack or burn. The raiders rested nowhere long. They had no tribe, no people, were just the dross drawn from under many banners. Skins both dark and pale, hair that was red and black and blond. The Silures, Dorbuni, Ordovices, Loritani, Gathalwyn had taken from them all, and some of theirs had followed. And then, of course, there was the Roman, who in Gathalwyn's disparate band had apparently found a place to hide.

No tribe, perhaps, but they were feared enough. Kings traded with Gathalwyn. They bargained, parleyed, and forged alliances that briefly held. He was treated with the same respect as any chief. Indeed, Gathalwyn himself had eaten at my father's table but a year before, sat at his right hand. He'd stood, and toasted the king's daughters for their precious beauty. I'd blushed, hushed Gretnal, and smiled for quite a time. So, not always from the first: I'd thought him handsome then, his trite fancy winning a young maiden's heart. As I shivered in the wind and in his clutches, one thing was sure. Gathalwyn knew what he had done. For politics. For fear of unity between two peoples.

Meat and ale were passed around. I watched them eat, and despite myself felt hunger. One as scared and cursed as I should not feel hungry. I closed my eyes, determined neither to beg nor even ask.

Except for Gretnal.

I would ask for Gretnal, when the time came. And it seemed to me that moment was near at hand. I fought back tears, and won that battle. Not yet. Our defeat was still too close. Ravens called to each other in the sky above us. I hoped that they would take word to my father, and felt for Gretnal's small fingers with my own. That was all that was left to us: superstition, a hope in birds, and that we were together. The beasts on wing above us seemed to pay no heed to my petition.

Hands dragged me quite suddenly to my feet. I swore at the men who had done it, cursed them as they held me. One of them was the Roman. I spat on his battered tunic, and he glanced down at the froth that marred his costume. Then he looked into my eyes. I stared back fiercely, and with no regrets. But it wasn't hatred that I saw in him, and I felt no need for fear as he drew his sword. As the other held me, the Roman cut the bonds at my hands and feet. Then he walked away, and left it to his cohort to frog march me across the camp to the largest tent of all.

"In," my escort ordered, and pushed me through the cloth wings. I stumbled, but recovered without falling.

As I'd expected, I stood before Gathalwyn. He sat at a rough hewn table, a plate of meat in front of him, a servant standing at either side. He barely glanced at me, but cut another pink grey chunk from the bone in his grasp. Then he sat back slightly on his stool, pushed the meat between his lips with his fingers, and stared at me, chewing noisily. I stared him back as good as he gave. Behind him were his sword, shield and spear, the symbols of his authority. All Roman, which said much about him. I'd rarely seen him carry them.

He and I studied each other for what seemed a long time. I stood straight and proud. He seemed almost unconcerned, but curious. He briefly considered the bone he was picking from, then tossed it at my feet.

"Eat," he said.

"Like a dog?" I responded, defiantly.

"You are a dog, aren't you?" His voice was raised to a shout. "An animal! Or do you try to tell me you are something more?"

Letting my anger fester, I glared at him, keeping my courage.

"I am not a dog."

Gathalwyn let his chin rest on the flat of the knife blade held between his hands.

"Then do not eat like one," he said, softly but firmly. "Bring her a stool and sit her down. Or will you seat yourself?"

His servants moved on the instant of his command, and a place was quickly readied. I took a stool across the table from him. He pushed his plate towards me.

"Eat."

"What of my sister?" I said, careful that he should not see my mouth watering.

"What of her?" he said.

I looked into his eyes again, the brown eyes from his father's side. The skin pale, from his mother of the Cornovii.

"Give this to her." I pushed the plate slightly back towards him. He turned his knife in his fingers, pondering, it seemed, then glanced to the servant at his right.

"Feed the chit. And leave us. Both of you."

The servants exited, and we were alone together. Still he turned his blade, over and over in his hands. I recognised the handle as one crafted by my people, and wondered if he knew the irony.

"Now eat if you wish," he added, eventually, and I did so. There seemed no true reason not to.

#

"No more for me, thanks," Jenny said.

Colin shrugged. She expected him to fill his own glass, but he didn't. He sat back in the old armchair, and set the Scotch bottle down at his side.

"What's the name of the chap who owns this place?" As she spoke, she was casting her eyes over the rows of books on the shelves above the writing desk.

"Dorkind. Professor. Mathematics. University of Durham. Used to be my tutor."

"That explains it." She saw him looking at her quizzically. "The books." She laughed, lightly. "Most of them are by him. I thought maybe it was a favourite author."

Colin smiled, and nodded.

"True in any case," he said. "That's him all over. I expect I'll be the same one day. Maybe even have a summer retreat like this."

"Why?"

"It's another world. Separate. Uncomplicated." He frowned, and Jenny waited for some elaboration, but none came. He rubbed his face, and looked at her. "What's it like, being an undergrad, these days?"

"I don't know." She stretched, lazily. "One term's not enough to judge. Interesting, I suppose."

"Interesting?" He laughed. She scowled at him. It had seemed the appropriate word. He shifted his position, as if on to something. She could see it was a pose intended to give just that impression.

"What is it?" he enquired, with obvious irony. "The study?"

"Hardly."

"The drugs?"

"Oh, all the time."

"The freedom? The boys?"

"Hundreds," Jenny said, dryly. "Don't make fun. It's not nice."

"Ah, nice," Colin said, running a finger round the rim of his glass. " S'pose I'm not too good at that."

Jenny rested her head on crossed arms over the back of her chair. She couldn't make him not. Not fully.

"You're not bad at it."

She wanted to reward his fishing more than anything. He laughed again, perhaps at a private joke he wasn't prepared to share. She puzzled over it, before suddenly realising she was once more being scrutinised by his brown eyes.

"Boyfriend?" he asked.

"No." The question disturbed her, a little.

"Ever had one?"

"What kind of question is that?" she replied, curtly.

"The kind with a yes or no answer." He was unruffled. "From which we may proceed to conversation. I'll tell you for free." Dramatically, he opened his arms. "I've never had a boyfriend."

Jenny giggled, appreciatively, and beamed the smile she felt he'd earned. Chin still on one arm, she rested her ear against her other hand, and stretched her legs towards him.

"I'm still not going to tell you," she said.

Colin got to his feet, surprising her, and took a few steps to reach the centre of the room. Then, he turned on his heels to face her, and pointed at her, briefly.

"I'll tell you. No, you haven't. Not ever. Strange, but true. And that's why you feel so strange now." He reached for his glass, took a sip, and then shrugged. "I think it's quite sweet, as it happens."

Turning his back on her, he went to the opposite end of the room, and started paying attention to a painting on the wall. Jenny sat up, pulling her legs back under her chair.

"You're wrong," she essayed, trying to get back to the silly, if flirtatious, game, which had been okay by her. Sudden analysis wasn't.

"No, I'm not."

With this simple declaration, he turned back to her, a smug grin on his face.

"Coffee?"

"Please." She was glad he'd changed the subject.

She shivered again, feeling the distinct draught that was bothering her more and more. Wherever she sat, it seemed to be there too. Colin didn't even seem to notice. He left the room. Jenny sat for a while. Maybe, she thought, he'd recognised something of himself in her. That was harmless enough. She got up, and ambled out to the kitchen after him, finding him bent over the sink rinsing mugs. The light from the humming fluorescent strip was very white compared to that in the dining room. The kettle was hissing on the stove.

"Fancy not having to plug it in," she said, and saw him glance over his shoulder at her.

"Fancy," he agreed, not unkindly. Then he was concentrating on the mugs once more. Jenny leaned against the fitted cabinets, brushing her hair back over her shoulders with both hands.

"I can't get used to the silence. It's weird. No radio, no tv. Not even traffic. No...no...just, well, nothing."

"Only the sounds of thee and me to say that we are still alive."

His hamming made her smile as it was meant to. She was glad they were friends again. He took the mugs over to the table, and spooned coffee into them.

"White, one sugar. Please."

"I know," he said, with mock reproach. "The service station. Remember?"

"Sorry." She stepped over to lean on the edge of the table.

"That's okay." He fetched the kettle, seeming, as ever, to move anywhere he liked in two strides. He poured hot water into the mugs. "Black." His tone seemed to be mocking her. "No sugar. As it was meant to taste." He poured some long life milk into the mug destined to be hers. "You should try it sometime."

"Not today," she said, watching him spoon in the sugar. There was a gentle ringing as he stirred her drink, metal against china. With a shrug, he tapped the teaspoon on the mug's rim.

"It's only coffee," he said.

Jenny picked up the mug, and blew softly across it, watching as Colin took up his own, and drank immediately.

"Doesn't it burn your tongue?"

She saw him smile, looking down into his mug.

"Doesn't it just!" he said, and took another sip.

Jenny shook her head. Hers was too hot, and she set it back down. Again, the flaming draught caught her.

"Shall we decorate?" she suggested. Colin looked around.

"The woodwork's a bit shaky, but the walls are okay."

When she nudged him, he put his mug quickly down, the hot liquid splashing his hand. So? Wasn't that part of the aesthetic experience?

"Deck the halls with boughs of holly," she said, scornfully. "For Mark and Laura. For 'tis the season. Remember?"

"Oh, yes." Realisation appeared to have dawned. He blew on his red skin. Jenny refused to feel much sympathy.

"I've already started," he said, briefly glancing up. Jenny followed the direction of his gaze, and saw a sprig of mistletoe Sellotaped to the ceiling above her. She laughed, and looked at him in disbelief.

"You're blushing," he observed, with a grin.

"I'm not!"

She could feel the blush spread over her whole face. She looked away from him, but then did not resist as his finger lightly drew her head back. She tensed, but did not stop him raising her chin to look into her eyes. She stared back, and saw his smile, and waited.

"It is tradition." He sounded almost apologetic, as he let his hand drop to his side. Jenny half sighed, then pinned his arms, stood on tip toe, and pecked him on the cheek.

"There." She let go of him. He pushed one hand into his mop of black hair, and turned away from her.

"No boyfriends," he said, stepping towards the window, stretching.

#

Gathalwyn rose, and I stopped eating. It was only instinct, but nonetheless I cursed myself for showing such propriety. I sat straight, not watching as he walked behind me, but staring at the tokens of his authority. I could not wield his sword, though the spear held possibilities. In my schemes, escape would be welcome, but incidental. It was his death I aimed for, and opportunity I sought.

"Fasnier was a fine man," Gathalwyn said, his voice soft but resonant. "One of the bravest. I regret his death, and that it was not at my hand." He paused. It was a tribute, sure enough, and I did not doubt the truth of it.

"You know why you are still alive."

"To bargain with."

"No." His laugh was light and mocking. It came as no surprise. "Were you your father's son, perhaps. Maybe you'll have value. But that's not my rationale. You know why you yet live."

Once more, it was not a question, and I chose not to dignify it with a reply. To my chagrin, my silence seemed to satisfy him. He came and sat close against the table. I still declined to look at him, but listened to the whisper of the blade twisting in his hands.

"It is a time for honesty." He spoke almost gently. "Helspath of Cioran, daughter of Duggan, untouched bride to be of Mithnayl of Tintnol."

"Untouched!" I cut across him, laughing loudly, mocking him with incredulity. "Poor Gathalwyn, you are far too late for that! My, the many hands that I've been 'touched' by! And willingly!" I spat venom into my words, and fixed him with a glare I wanted fierce. "An hour earlier, sir, and you'd have seen the truth of it. Fasnier, great warrior, and great, great lover. You'd have found me melting in his hands, crying for his touch. Oh, that prize is gone! I threw it long ago!"

I laughed again, and at the same time watched his face. It didn't change, and nor did mine. I held his gaze and maintained my smiling scornful countenance.

"Are you finished?" he said, at last, with just a trace of anger. "Shall we examine?"

I glanced just a jot away. He looked down at his knife, which glinted as it turned.

"That was a pointless lie. It matters not to me, even less to them out there." He used the knife to point towards the tent flap. "They may draw lots, but one of them will be the second."

I looked down at my hands, and fought the urge to cry. Maybe I had hoped, after all. Maybe it was simply the certainty, now that he had said it. Whatever, I would not let him see my feelings, more than I could help.

"My father will come," I whispered, vainly.

"Not in time. By tomorrow he may hear, and weep. Expect no more than that."

Again, I fought hard against the tears that waited in my eyes. I breathed deeply through my nose, and ground my teeth, as I struggled to keep control. He went on.

"What I offer, what I wish to see, is for you to face fate like brave Fasnier. They are out there, waiting for you. I give you the chance to walk alone and meet them, with no barked command from me."

I tried another scornful laugh, but my heart was not in it.

"You want me to enjoy it, then?"

"Frankly, no. And I doubt the possibility. But that is up to you."

So something was left to me, then. I found anger, and stared at him, into that face so calm and calculating. I hoped my eyes burned with the hatred, glowed with the contempt I felt for him.

"If I'd only had a knife like Fasnier, you'd not have me now," I snarled, once more defiant. He looked away, and smiled, almost to himself. "Oh, no, I'd not have beaten you. But we are taught what you are, and how to die to evade your hands. The thought of you, of anyone of yours, taking hold of me, would have opened my veins in an instant. Don't think I lack the courage, or the nausea at seeing you, I only lack the blade...."

The knife clattered, then was still on the table in front of me.

My heart quickened. He didn't believe me. His mistake. The knife was instantly in my hand and at my other wrist. Its edge bit the skin, but not the vein, and I stared boldly at him. I held my arm out, ready to complete the act, wanting him to see.

"But then," he said, and as he spoke I realised it. "We'd only have the chit."

The blade my people had crafted bit deep, drew blood that trickled red into my open palm. But there was no pumping gush, and my fingers gently clenched into a fist as the escape of death flew from me.

"You'll spare Gretnal, then?" I said, as he recovered the blade. He took my hand, and with a corner of his tunic, dipped in wine, cleaned away the blood I'd drawn.

"I make no bargain whatsoever." His words were as gentle as his touch. "You may obtain benevolence. It's in my power to let your sister walk unharmed, or shorten her ordeal. There may be no difference, or it may be that you will walk away from here with her."

I shook my hand from his fingers, and drew it to my chest.

"Don't taunt me." I spoke softly.

"I don't. That last was listed last with reason."

As he returned to his throne, before the symbols of his power and his lineage, across the table from me, I thought I saw him tremble. He studied me, I felt it, with a puzzled look on his face. Had it been easier than he'd expected? I hoped not. Perhaps he was simply wondering what I was thinking, now he could not see hate, or anger. All my feelings now were buried deep, even the overwhelming sadness. It held no solace, and was no use.

"You think me sick?" he added.

"I know you are not alone."

Yes, I thought him sick, as close as could be to cursed. But there were dozens of his men as sick as he, who would not hesitate with me, or my child of a sister. And for every one who was demented, there were others who would do his bidding simply for he asked it. I smiled thinly, watching his expression, seeing that was what he would have said. I felt glad to have denied him that clever blow.

"Do you wish time to consider?" He sat back, his chin across his knuckles. The knife lay before him, within his reach, but out of mine.

"You know there's no point," I said, my calmness the equal of his. It was a time for honesty. "Give such orders as you will, then tell me what you wish of me."

And thus I tied the final note that sealed my fate.

I felt a certain peace, now that it was over. I saw him control a smile that struggled to appear. He did not need to. I felt no fear of that which made no difference.

"But I would have some water first," I said. I saw him nod. Kindly.

Copyright 2001 Dan Radlett