Ghost in the Yew: Volume One of the Vesteal Series Read online

  I asked Fana, “Have you ever?”

  She shook her head. “You need half of one each moon, right?”

  The dame withdrew the root, broke it in two and gave us each a half.

  “What? No, I—” Fana’s protest ended there. We didn’t have a choice. She began to tremble and tried to smile. “Like sisters now, right?”

  I nodded and tried to smile back. In an effort to delay, I asked the Dame, “Can you find any more?”

  She nodded and tears sprang from Fana eyes. “If we take too much, can it be permanent?”

  “No,” I said but it was a lie. I had heard the conversation at Dagoda too many times. The lives that waited for those who could and could not have children were very different. The worry alone could drive girls mad. I could keep Fana from that much at least.

  The look on the Dame’s face said that she knew the truth, but she did not correct me. She gave us each a hug instead and left us alone to our task.

  With nothing left to say, we ate the ugly roots. It tasted like dirt. It was hard not to scream, I was so angry.

  Fana hugged me after, and we cried.

  27

  Alsman Leger Mertone

  The First Twenty Days of Winter, 1194

  The day Gern declared the armory livable, he rode north with Thell to find the men Sahin had recommended. The day was also the first of winter, though you could not tell it. I didn’t believe the stories I’d heard of Enhedu’s mild winters until Urs told me it was even money whether we would see snow at all.

  Barok, meanwhile, spent every waking moment with Sahin, learning about his craft. It was almost as if the ghosts were there but the prince was not. It was troubling, but I concluded that any day in which Barok went to bed exhausted from lively engagement instead of Yentif wrath was to be counted as a good one.

  Gern returned four days later with his new men in tow. Each of them had broad shoulders and broad faces, the same thin brown hair, and farmer’s hands. The oldest of the bunch carried himself the best. I was quickly convinced he was Chaukai. If it were true, I hoped he had skill with either sword or spear. The new men would need plenty of training.

  But something happened early the next morning that put the training off for many days, and I will never forget the sight. I had just built up the fire in the great hall against the morning’s sharp cold when a movement drew my attention to large flakes of snow falling so thickly I could not see the wall below the window.

  It fell through the morning and slowed only a little. It was the only topic at breakfast, and the consensus was that the snow would melt by the end of the day. I was not so sure. I had spent many long and bitter winters at Bessradi. The chill in the air told me otherwise.

  Sahin could not chance it and left quickly for his village in the north before the snow got any deeper. He worried like I did that the unprecedented winter had come to stay. His departure left Barok without a plan for the day, and late in the morning, he and Dia started a snowball fight atop the keep. I learned this from Gern—his clothes and hair wet from the pelting he had received.

  The event was troubling. Some days the prince was stately and demure, but others saw him full of odd humor. Dia and I talked about it but decided his trial in the trees was more behind him each day. I let the oddities of behavior pass.

  The snow had not stopped when we finished the afternoon meal, and the air picked up more of a chill. My mood soured. We were not prepared for such a winter. I put an end to everyone’s fun by ordering the keep into shape. They grumbled at first, but the growing chill added weight to my voice. Barok’s antics also stopped. Bessradi winters chilled the palace, too.

  The extra wood I had chopped each morning was a blessing, but I decided it would not be enough and sent the garrison out to cut and chop more. It was horrible work, but the snow was only going to get deeper. Everyone else worked to seal windows and hang what extra blankets we had upon the walls.

  The most grumbling came when I ordered snow piled around the base of the keep. None of the natives understood why. The prince did, and I was glad to see the situation finally grab his full attention. He led the group down and even helped move the snow. The white mass piled quickly up the sides of the keep, and when more fell on top of it, I was certain there would be no draft at all in the kitchen and stores. If we could keep the wind out, even the coldest winter could be survived in comfort. Urnedi’s walls were thick.

  The snow was still falling when the next day dawned, and it filled everyone with new intensity. Barok ordered the cranky old drawbridge closed and the entrance hall sealed tight. Everyone would have to enter and exit through the thin sally port on the north side of the keep, behind the kitchen stores. The rusty iron door had to be wrestled with, and the women were distressed at the prospect, but the gales that cut up through the drawbridge needed a remedy.

  Urnedi had never worried too much about its walls. The draft in some places was terrible. I ordered the arrow-loops packed with straw and the shutters closed tight, but the cold still whistled through, so I taught them another old trick. Chopped straw dipped in melted wax could be jammed anywhere a draft seeped through. I did not need to tell any of them about the proper and careful use of flame around so much wax and straw. The air eventually stilled, and the heat from the kitchen stoves moved up into the dark entrance hall and then up through the floor of the barracks. I slept well in my own warm room.

  It stopped snowing during the night, but it was colder in the morning. It was decided the shacks were inadequate and we moved all the men into the barracks, the old weapons into the entrance hall, and the women into the armory. They and the children were especially happy to make the move and by the end of the day, with lanterns hung and the contents of the shacks moved inside, the space was cozy—a little crowded perhaps, but warm. We all slept well that night.

  Mild winters indeed.

  I woke later than usual the next morning and found my way down to the hall. Someone had already stacked fresh logs on the fire.

  “Morning, Alsman,” Barok’s voice surprised me.

  I turned to find him in one of the bench alcoves along the southeast wall, sunlight beaming in across the book he leaned over. I was glad to see him so engaged but even happier to see the sun again. It was just as cold outside, but the light did wonders inside. The space Barok had found appeared its biggest benefactor. I sat across from him to enjoy the light as well.

  “What are you reading?” I asked.

  “A thief just broke out of prison and joined the army to escape the bailiffs.”

  “Any good?”

  “Not sure yet. He is a clever thief, but I can smell the military career that is to come, and I don’t buy it.”

  I had seen such stories performed. I found them all rather contrived, and I was surprised a work of such low fiction was at Urnedi.

  “He is in love of course,” I mocked.

  “With the princess whose necklace he stole. I am sure he will save her and the kingdom, reveal himself in the end by returning it, and win her heart.”

  “I have not seen you read before. What made you come down?”

  “Dia was annoyed with me for talking about my first bow all the time. I wanted to open the window and shoot an arrow out. She thought I should try to do something else.”

  It seemed more likely he had opened the window and she had kicked him out for doing it, but I did not voice my suspicions. He had been moving with much greater purpose, and the continued focus was good to see. I was almost ready to conclude that he’d at last gotten hold of himself. Only his choice of book left me wanting.

  I’d never read such books. They were far too expensive. But the shelves above Barok’s bench, as well as the ones behind mine, were lined with titles such as The New Jailor, or Trust in our Fine Officer. Some were popular plays but most seemed the same kind of vulgar prose Barok had selected.

  He turned a page and said, “The last Urnedi arilas to live here was utterly mad, the way Urs tells it. All of the
titles in this and the next alcove are the same sort.”

  “I thought only the richest men at the capital collected books. I knew there was quite a library here but didn’t think it would contain books like these.”

  “Me either. Apparently, the madman was also quite wealthy. I was expecting rotten copies of reeves’ diaries and wardens’ logs, but it is a rather impressive collection. The books in the next alcoves are more what you would expect—histories and essays. I intend to read some of them next. Did you do much reading at Bessradi? Plenty here to choose from.”

  I took a look at the first title on the small stack he’d collected. The Superior Prediction of the Unruly Tides: A Study of the Orbits of Bayen’s Fiery Eye. Instead of telling him what I would rather do with that book than read it, I replied simply, “Only from books one and two.”

  He chuckled. “Oh yes, the Manuals of the Hemari. I cannot say I enjoyed either of those. I am sure you could find copies somewhere if you need to refresh.”

  Barok had a grin on his face, and I furrowed my brow at him. I did not care how many tutors he’d had or how many wine bottles I had crawled into, no one could best me on the Manuals.

  I said back, “I have a set with me if you think we should quiz each other.”

  His grin diminished. “Maybe another time.” He found his place upon the page. I chuckled silently, and he read a sentence or two before saying, “I think we will have some time on our hands this winter, and I know I have found a good spot to spend it. You should join me.”

  The idea seemed foolish. I had never read to pass the time. Then I remembered what had kept me so busy through so many long Bessradi winters, and the old thirst began to tug at my tongue. The distraction of an axe, ghosts, and new duties had proven strong, but the contemplation of a long, cold winter made the twist in my guts a torture. Memories of heavy red wine that could warm away any cold and erase any memory made my mouth water.

  I sat there while Barok quietly turned page after page, and I slowly grew angry. Dia had gotten rid of every drop of liquor at Urnedi.

  Damn her. Oh, how long the winter is going to be.

  “You might as well try one,” Barok said. “Staring out the window all winter will make you crazier than the man who collected all these books.”

  I glowered at him. My thirst was ugly and deep. He noticed me, slammed his book shut, and glowered back. “What is your problem, Alsman? I am in too good a mood for you to have a bad morning. Read a book or get outside and chop more wood.”

  I considered throttling him.

  I felt a hard slap of shame. Such a wicked thought had no place in any man’s mind. I did not want to upset him and going outside was less appealing still. I grabbed the book about the jailor and opened it to the first page.

  * * *

  When the sickness blinded my right eye, the warden dismissed me. When I told my wife, she left for her family’s farm. When the landlord heard, he threw me out. When I asked Bayen above what else could happen, a cold rain chilled me. So when I made it to the tall bridge upon which I had been married, I stepped to the rail and threw myself over.

  * * *

  “Poor bastard. Page one, and he has already jumped off a bridge.”

  Barok did not look. “That would make for a very short book.”

  I relaxed my hands upon the book and held it open to read some more. We had breakfast in the alcove and continued there for the rest of the morning.

  Barok looked up at one point. “They just made him a general. I think the king is going to have him tried for sedition, though. He does not believe in Bayen.”

  “My jailor is a fisherman now. He just learned how to make nets. I had always wondered how they did that.”

  “Let me guess, a fisherman pulled him out of the river?”

  “Perhaps you’ve read too many books.”

  He shrugged. “My old alsmen and tutors loved to make me do it. I had such hatred for those men it never occurred to me I rather enjoyed turning pages.”

  “I’m still supposed to be finding tutors for you every morning, aren’t I?” I asked. He nodded, so I decided, “Well, I will be your tutor then. Get reading.”

  “You are a very bad alsman, Leger.”

  I tapped my finger on his book.

  The afternoon passed while I plodded my way through the early pages of my book, and Barok finished his. His thief-general, it turned out, saved the kingdom in a great battle and declared his undying love for the princess. But his sedition became his undoing, and priests burned the lovers upon separate pyres. Neither of us commented on the ending, though Barok did toss the book into the fire.

  As promised, Barok sat back down with a thick history. Suddenly it was time for the evening meal, and when I woke the next morning, I was excited to find out what would happen next.

  We spent several days in that warm space. Urs and Gern would distract us from time to time, seeking approval for one labor or another. We quickly decided to defer to Dia. She was the matron after all. I also decided to assign our good lieutenant some reading and gave him a copy of Book One with instructions to teach it to his troops. He walked away with his eyes fixed upon the thick military manual.

  We took a break from the books each afternoon—Barok to practice his rapier drills atop the keep, and I to go down into the archers’ hallway with the guardsmen to teach the basics of both sword and spear. We built a pair of straw dummies, and I soon had their wild lunges better directed. Barok asked about their progress often, and I was happy to report my high opinion of Gern and the single Chaukai. The rest were average men and would be average soldiers, but I was confident they had a good lieutenant. Gern demonstrated his discipline and ability again and again, both by the accurate lunge of his spear and by his men’s recitation of the Hemari Rules. He recommended the Chaukai be promoted to sergeant, Barok agreed, and it was not long before we had the men practicing basic formation drills upon the wide square of roof atop the keep surrounded by the tall battlement and parapet.

  Barok woke early enough one morning for his practice to coincide with our own. He politely offered to accept any challengers, in hopes perhaps of some good swordplay, but none of us came close to winning a touch against him. The lads cheered me on mightily but to no end—he slapped my forearm three times in a row. In all my years of services, I had seen only a handful with such form and speed and none more aggressive in their style. His skill was simply terrifying. There was much about fighting and killing he did not know, but within the safe confines of the rules of a duel, he was a match for any man alive. We left him to practice alone.

  The rest of our time passed in our alcove, and in the days it took for me to read half of my book, Barok pounded his way through a tall stack of histories. After each, though, his face hardened, and a growing frustration darkened every word he spoke. He also began to stab at his food as if it were somehow to blame for what troubled him.

  I began to worry that the ghosts were leaving him and that Yentif petulance was taking a new hold. If true, there was no way we could get him back beneath the yew through the snow. I tried to set my concerns aside.

  If not for the story of the fisherman, those winter days would have been endless.

  28

  Matron Dia Esar

  Lieutenant Furstundish

  As the days passed in our pleasant winter prison, the Dame and I were able to get back to our afternoon review of Bessradi cutlery and dining decorum. The kitchen and stores reflected her staff’s increased skill and dedication. The descent into the space was lit by refurbished copper lantern boxes, the wall-length stove and timber rafters were free of soot and cobwebs, the storeroom was reorganized, and its chicken coop rebuilt. Gone were the musty, mysterious smells.

  It was still quite a dungeon, but the girls had fixed their posture, knew well the proper order and presentation of a meal, and no longer giggled at the clucking of the chickens.

  Fana joined us one day, though she did little but watch. We giggled at her a bi
t for knowing nothing at all about the kitchen or cutlery. I wondered why she had joined us. When we were done, she lingered until it was just she and I.

  “I’ve been counting the days,” she said very meekly and pulled free a length of string with knots tied all along it. I was momentarily furious with her, but followed her to our hiding place in the corner, pulled out one of the terrible little roots, and broke half off for me. We ate in silence and after only a few tears went back about our day.

  Three floors above, my prince had busied himself with reading yet again, so I withdrew to the converted armory to spend time with Urnedi’s four children. Barok’s mood, unfortunately, was very susceptible to their presence. I am sure he did not mean to glare at them, but around them, he became very quickly Yentif—as if they reminded him of his younger brothers. Leger suggested, and it was roundly agreed, that if at all possible, Urnedi’s children and Barok should not cross paths. The converted armory was, therefore, where the four of them spent most of their time and my reason for doing the same. They were a delight to see. That wide dark room, though, was certainly no place for the one little girl who spent too much time being picked on by the trio of rowdy boys who ruled the space. Her name was Lilly, and she liked to touch my clothes. I had to wipe her hands and nose to keep the drip of it off my Bessradi silk, but I could not say no to her.

  I found her one particular morning sitting on a cot with a very large book held open on her lap. She had it upside-down but scanned the lines as ardently as Fana did within her gallery alcove. I suspected the girl had been sent away with the book by our scribe in training.

  “What do you have there, dear?”

  “Histories and essays,” she said sternly, mimicking Leger as she pointed at the words. The title of the book was From the Tundra ~ The Tales and Legends of Berm.