Check out this except from my upcoming novel THE STORM AT THE CENTER OF THE WORLD: BOOK ONE! Coming soon at jonconnington.com. Download a pdf copy by clicking here, and share it with the world!
Macsen dun Mocredd reckoned it began the day he helped Adag the undersider hide his crop from the tax man. At that time, on Perun, this was not considered unusual.
“Careful, there!” Adag shouted up, one hand gripping the rope, his good right eg jammed into a foothold. Macsen slowly lowered the basket, his feet braced
against a wooden post driven deep into the ground. “Down...down....stop! All right, tie it off!”
“Hold on.” Macsen wrapped the rope twice around the post, and picked up another coil. He looped the free end through the wooden ring at the back of his climbers
belt and moving to the edge. Bracing his bare feet on the rocky face he rappelled down the climbing line along the side of Perun, the ancient dark rock of the
land before his eyes. Below him was open sky, the Endless Blue, broken only by a handful of clouds. Anything that fell would plummet until it hit something,
or was taken by the Great Storm.
“Come here, boyo.” Adag had the lid off the basket. Inside were thirty gray mushrooms the size of a man’s fist, the stems below the caps dried and shriveled.
Adag took one out and inhaled it's aroma. “Ah, isn’t that lovely? Far to nice to waste on a Naurite thief.”
“This is the last one?” Macsen asked, shivering a bit. Winter wasn’t far off, the wind had a bite to it.
“Aye. Get in there.”
Macsen swung himself in feet first, stifling a curse as his elbow bumped against the side. He’d grown six inches in the past year and mossholes that had been
easy fits were now tight. Lanky with youth, he was only now starting to fill out with muscle. He had black hair, common on Perun, green eyes that people
claimed he got from his mother and a squarish chin they said came from his father. Both had died when he was young.
Wispy hanging moss brushed against Macsen’s face as he bumped his way into the mosshole. This one had been in use for generations and the growth was very thick,
to the point that that the monthly harvests were enough to feed a third of Erdenec, although few would relish a daily diet of moss soup. At the back of the cave
the growth was practically wall-like. Macsen moved in until his legs were bent up near his chest, turning over on his side. He felt around with his fingers
for the narrow cut in the moss bed, lifting up the thick green-gray carpet, exposing the rock below. A small chamber was cut in the floor of the tunnel,
half-filled with fundors from Adags patch. Macsen dumped the ones in the basket, adding them to the pile.
In two days the tax collector from Inisi would come. He would have little interest in moss, it was considered peasant food of little value, and hence was one of
the few things not taxed by Perun's foreign overlords. But fundor's were another matter entirely. The mushrooms grew only on the undersides of lands, or in deep
underground caverns. A good patch could produce several thousand with each harvest. Adag's lay twenty feet below the edge, an acre of craggy rock colored a deep
green with caps, pocked here and there by his mossholes. When harvested they were tasteless, the flesh almost impossible to chew. The caps and upper part
of the stems would be cut free, wrapped in cloth sheets and hung on racks to dry in the wind for up to a year. During this time the outer skins would turn
hard as stone, and could only be opened with a hammer. But when cracked the flesh inside would be soft and crumbly, with a deep earthy taste and smell.
Scooped out and ground into meal it could be baked into cakes that were reckoned a delicacy, gracing the tables of the rich. When mixed with certain spices it
became a medicine that was said to ease many ailments.
But for the Peruneks, ground fundors served another, far nobler purpose; as the main ingredient in osec, the fiery distilled spirit that their island was
known (or rather infamous) for. In the old days, before the foreigners came, osec was a valued commodity, drunk during the winter for strength, used in celebration
of the saints, even traded as currency. Peruneks would give osec as tribute to their clan chiefs; a gallon would buy a farmer a new shawl for his wife,
ten gallons for an ostot to pull his plow, or a fine carved spearhead from the woodshaper. For Peruneks, osec was the water of life itself.
But the Naurites who held this part of Perun had little use for the drink, considering it a foul concoction fit only for savages. But they did value the Perunek's
fundors...and wheat, and wool, and anything else they could extract. Twice a year the tax collector would take half of the village's produce. Some would
be sent back across the skies to distant Nauria, whose king welcomed the revenue, the rest kept by the foreign lords that had replaced the old chieftains. There
was no appeal, no clemency, the Naurites collected their due regardless of the consequences.
Therefore, hiding the harvest from the prying eyes of the tax men was a necessary skill on Perun.
Macsen hid the last of the fundors and pulled the moss back, making sure it lay flat and smooth. The tax collector wouldn’t likely climb down to look, but
there might be someone with him who knew enough to search. He unhooked a small water bottle on his belt and sprinkled the contents over the moss to keep it
from turning brown, then humped his way back out to the rock face.
“Good work.” Adag unhooked his wooden knife and cut loose a swatch of moss. “Here, as promised.”
Dinner for a week. Macsen stuffed the moss under his shirt. Digging his toes into the rock, he hauled himself back up to the top.
At the end of Erdenecs single, muddy street was a small cottage with new thatch on the roof. Macsen pushed open the door. A quiet voice greeted him. “There are weeds in the garden.”
“Yes sir, I know.”
“I take it you were helping the undersider. You mentioned something about that.”
“Er...yes, I was.” He took out the moss.
“No harm then.” A pen scratched its way across paper. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Macsen hesitated. There were two tables in the one-room cottage, both covered with books. Macsen was amazed, the first time saw lay eyes on them. It didn’t seem possible that so many books could exist in one place at the same time. That many books didn’t exist in the whole world. Now, after three months they barely drew his eye.
“Put the moss on the books. They won’t mind.” A page turned.
Macsen nodded, laying the swatch on the bound wooden cover of...he tried to make out the words, it was still difficult after three months....
“It's a treatise on the various plants and herbs to be found in Eastern Perun.” Agil the Skywatcher’s voice had a trace of an accent in it, through his Perunek was otherwise flawless. “Nothing there that would interest you, I should think.” A pause. “Isn’t there something you need to do?”
Macsen grabbed a two-pronged hoe by the door. A moment later he was the garden pulling weeds, working as quickly as he could.
Agil had come to Erdenec a few months back, arriving one day on a cart loaded with boxes, a youngish man with blond hair somewhere in his third decade of
life. When asked where he was from, Agil had replied, “Audran.” No one in the village had the slightest idea where that might be, although they guessed it was far, far away. That made him a foreigner, not the most welcome sight these days. It had been Adag the undersider who figured out the stranger was a Skywatcher-- he'd been a mercenary in Tamistal years ago, until the loss of his leg sent him home. “Fellow talks as fine as that, he’s either a noble or a Skywatcher. And no noble would live here.”
Ghelen, the village headman, rented out the empty cottage to the Skywatcher in exchange for a finely woven carpet. At first the people of Erdenec reacted to his presence the way any small rustic village would; with unthinking suspicion, especially given Perun's recent history. Two days after his arrival several of the village wives appeared at Agil’s door and demanded to know his business here. “I’m merely looking for some peace,” he’d replied in his quiet way. It didn't satisfy them
One of the women went to Ghelen, demanding that he do something about the stranger. “He’s a foreigner, she had said in a voice loud enough to be heard across the village, “and they always bring trouble!”
Ghelen listened to her view, nodding once in a while to show that he cared. But while he may have valued her opinion, he also valued the fine new carpet hanging on his wall. His wife liked showing it off to the other women when they came to visit. And he certainly wouldn’t appreciate having to give it back, or the domestic turmoil that would follow. So Ghelen ignored the complaints and let the Skywatcher stay.
Skywatchers. They...well, they watched the sky, the name said it all. Supposedly they studied the stars and watched the winds, and thus were able to plot the cycles of all the lands, the path they all followed on their endless journey through the skies. This was done, it was said, to help ships and other travelers find their way across the blue, and sometimes to predict if and when a collision between lands was imminent. That last bit sent the village into a stir, when it was mentioned. Maybe Perun’s cycle was about to send it into the path of another land. Eventually this got back to Agil, who went to the headman to explain that Perun’s cycle was safe, that no collision was imminent, and would he please make sure the villagers understood this.
After a while they came to accept the Skywatcher. A month after Agil arrived, Cial the woodshapers son was careless with a sharpening knife while putting a final edge on a farmers reaping blade. His arm was badly gashed, and though his father was able to bind the cut and stop the bleeding, within a day the wound was red and swollen. Three days later it was leaking yellow stinking pus, and despite the need Ceandin couldn’t bring himself to amputate his own son’s arm. Putting hot coals into the wound to cauterize it didn’t help, indeed seemed to make it worse, while prayers to the Blessed Ania went unanswered. By the fourth day Galliarg was ready to say the Prayer of Passage for the Dying, and usher the ailing young man into the glory of Heaven.
Then Agil very respectfully asked if he might have a look at Cial’s arm. After a brief examination he put some sort of ointment that smelled faintly of burnt bread on the wound. Within a day the swelling was gone and Cial was awake. By the following week he was back on his feet in his father's workshop, where he treated sharpening knives with greater respect.
Soon after, old Galliargs aching back didn't ache so much, again thanks to the Skywatcher, who showed the priest how to brew another ointment from some local flowers. Galliarg naturally became far better disposed towards Agil, and many in the village followed his lead.
What happened next was even more interesting. Lord Ondeleol, the Naurite lord who now ruled these lands, had heard that a Skywatcher was living in Erdenec. Curious--and eager for the status a resident Skywatcher would bring him--he came to the village and spoke with Agil. The conversation they'd had was in Perunek, since Agil claimed to have no Naurite and Lord Ondeleol, the younger son of a minor border lord who’d been rewarded for his service, spoke only his own tongue. An interpreter versed in both languages carried the conversation between them.
“A flyspeck hovel such as this is no place for a man of distinction such as yourself. Return with me to the castle. There you will be housed in a manner befitting your station.”
“With regret, my lord, I must decline.”
“What do you mean, decline?”
“I would rather stay here.”
“In this festering dung heap?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“These oafs need a Skywatcher like sheep need shoes!”
“Nonetheless, I would remain here. This place in important for my work.”
“And what would that be?”
“It concerns the passage of clouds.”
“Clouds?”
“To be more precise, their wings.”
“Clouds have wings?”
“Of course. How else would they stay up in the sky?”
“But...I’ve never seen wings on a cloud!”
“That’s not surprising. They’re invisible.”
“Clouds have invisible wings?”
“That they do, my lord.”
There was a long pause. “Are you mocking me?”
“Certainly not, my lord! I would never mock a man of your stature! Indeed, we Skywatchers are well aware of the respect men such as your lordship are owed!”
“As lord of these lands, I could compel you to obey me.”
“Actually, my lord, you do not have that right. The Terms of Aid between our Governing Council and your King state that Skywatchers in Naurite lands shall answer only to the Master of our Great House in Aleition, or to the King and his designated agents so long as their requests do not violate our oaths.” The standard response, which every Skywatcher was taught for situations like this. “The Master in Aleition is aware of my presence here. You have no authority over me.”
“I have two hundred men at arms! Words mean nothing against that!”
“Any interference with my work shall not be looked upon with favor.” Agils voice remained calm, but unyielding. “It would be brought to the attention of the highest authority. As I said, my presence is known here.”
“Are you...”
“The King in all his wisdom has placed the Skywatchers under his personal protection. Harm against one is harm against us all...and the honor of the King.” Another pause, and then, “This is a royal grant, these lands of yours, are they not?”
Lord Ondeleol left in a foul temper. The villagers were impressed. They had never seen anyone stand up to the Naurite swine, or see him rebuffed with nothing but words.
A few days later Agil was laboring in the little garden he’d planted behind the house, cursing in a sonorous language that was his native tongue. Macsen had approached him. “Can I help you, sir?” the boy asked.
“By all means,” Agil had replied. “I fear my talents do not extend to the mysterious art of planting beans.” Two days later, with the first green shoots poking up through the soil, Agil asked, “What can I offer you in return? I have very little to give, but....”
“I don’t want a rug or anything like that,” Macsen said.
“Then what do you want?”
Macsen paused a moment before answering. “Teach me letters.”
“To read and write?”
“Yes.”
Agil mulled that over. “Why not go to the priest? He seems an amiable sort, and he did raise you.”
“Galliarg doesn’t know how to do it very well. He says that’s why he holds a church here instead of in one of the towns. He has the scriptures in the church, but never opens it. He says he has all the important bits in his head anyway, so there’s no need.”
“Sounds like a practical man.” Another long pause. “To teach you your letters would require some time, weeks certainly. Those beans only took two days to plant.”
“The beans will need to be tended. And I can plant other things as well, onions or carrots...er, potatoes maybe. And I can help you with your work. Whatever it is, you could use another pair of hands....”
“So you would be my assistant? And I would teach you to read and write.” He nodded. “Very well, we have an agreement.”
And that’s how it started. He maintained the garden and kept up the house. Sometimes the Skywatcher would leave for a day or two, and Macsen to watch over his possessions. Three times Macsen accompanied him into the countryside, where Agil stared at the ground or dug up various ordinary looking plants, which he would carefully examine before tossing aside. Once the Skywatcher trekked out all the way to the Three Sisters, a trio of low mounds almost half a days walk to the west of Erdenec. He stood for a while, looking at the middle mound through a forked stick, before turning around and walking back, muttering to himself in his own language and offering no explanation. For his part, Macsen was thankful for the quick departure; the Three Sisters were supposed to be haunted, and it was best to avoid them at night.
And as promised, Agil taught him to read and write. They began with a piece of slate, tracing out the letters of the Codalian alphabet with a bit of charcoal, then whole words, and then sentences. And then onto the books, or rather, the book. Agil had brought many leatherbound volumes with him, but most were written in strange kanguages. Some were in Audran, Agils mother tongue, others in Codalian, the language of the Church. Some were in a tongue called Inra, the language of the Skywatchers. Only one was in Perunek; THE LIFE OF THE KING, by someone named Segius.
Agil had Macsen copy out each letter, each word and sentence. When the slate was full he would read it back, haltingly at first, then with growing confidence, while Agil checked it written against the book. The KING in the title was Donek dun Linek, known as Donek Stonehand, one of the few High Kings of Perun to actually have been High King in fact as well as name. He’d united the clans with strength, vision, leadership, and when all that failed with ruthless force. For a generation Perun had been united and at peace. But his heirs proved to be less capable, as was usually the way of things. Donek was the subject of legends, of songs and poetry sung by bards before the invaders had banned their sort. Even Macsen had heard of him.
One page a day, that was the rule. This day, after the weeds were done, it was page twenty-nine, the old parchment crackling slightly under his fingers, the charcoal scraping along the slate. “In the year 713 of the Blessed Messenger a...traveler came to the court of the...the High King, bearing gifts of metal and precious....He paused, frowned, and pointed at a words he couldn’t make out.
“Spices,” Agil said.
“...Spices. He begged friend....friendship of the High King, and asked only to be allowed to...con...con....”
“Conduct.”
“...Conduct his business in Perun. Such permission was granted and the stranger went on his way. Soon reports c...came to the High King about the merchant and various foul deeds being...com...committed. It was said that he approached the chieftains and proposed that they should sell....sell those being held in the strongholds for crimes into bon...bondage. The High King demanded that the stranger appear before him and a...account for his actions. The stranger offered to the king a gift...”
He paused, unable to believe what it said. “A ring of gold in re...re...recompense, to allow the stranger to continue his work on Perun. The High King took the ring and all the gifts had brought and....flung them to the winds, calling them things of the Deciever. He banished the stranger from the land, never to re...return.” Macsen looked up. “He flung the gold over the edge?”
“According to Segius.”
“But...gold....” Macsen tried to picture it and failed. All metals were precious, and none more than gold. An iron ring could buy a farm, a bronze ring a village. A gold ring.... He couldn’t imagine that kind of wealth. He had never seen gold, no one in the village had. It was the stuff of legend.
Agil looked at him. “Not everything can be bought, Macsen.”
“But with gold he could...” Again words failed him. What could a man do within something like that? What couldn’t he do?
“Perhaps he considered doing what was right more important.”
“I would have kept it.”
Agil nodded gravely. “As would I, perhaps, if faced with the same choice. We are but ordinary men. But for kings, such choices are never simple.” For a moment Macsen thought he heard a bit of an edge in the Skywatchers voice. “Right, best continue, we've a lot of work to do. Besides, in two days, you know what will happen.”
As if Macsen needed reminding.
Tax day.
Erdenec been dreading it. Farmers hid their grain in pits dug deep in out of the way fields. Sheep, goats and pigs were driven into the deep woods and high hills, fundors hidden in moss holes. All in preparation for this twice-yearly calamity that blighted their lives without fail, inflicted by those who took it as their duty and right to squeeze as much fat from the land as possible...while the Peruneks strove mightily to withhold as much of it as they could get away with. The whole affair seemed almost like a game, a childish hide-and-go-seek between the peasants who paid and their foreign overlords who collected...until one remembered the penalties involved and the punishments inflicted. Such as branding with hot coals, mutilation, even being hurled over the edge into the sky, what was known as being ‘thrown to the winds.’
But for the peasants it was no choice at all. This year the Naurites demanded one bushel out of every three, one pig out of every two, nearly all the fundors, more of this, more of that, more and more of more and more. Only the moss was left alone, and who knew how long that would last? Families needed to be fed, no one wanted to see their children go hungry. If you paid, you starved. It was the same everywhere across Perun. For fifteen years the land had been divided between Naurites in the east and their Albish rivals in the west. The old chieftains were gone, their strongholds garrisoned by foreign troops. The last High King was a permanent 'guest' in the Naurite court. The Peruneks had their pride, their clans had made the invaders fight long hard, but they still lost in the end, and the bitterness ran deep.
Even now some of the hotter heads muttered about showing those Naurite bastards that the sons of Perun would only be pushed so far. More than grain was hidden in those pits. The Naurites had done their best to disarm Perun, but in a land where everyone was expected to own a weapon and know how to use it, that was a hard proposition. Swords were hidden under floors, spears stuck up in the rafters. Revolts were an annual occurrence. The higher the taxes the worse the muttering, and the more nervous the Naurite garrisons.
But things were calm today, mainly due to Ghelen; the headman was weary of violence and his word still carried weight. All the villagers, men, women, and children, were gathered in a field before the church. Noontime approached and the Naurites were arriving.
Seven wagons came along the road, followed by an ornate coach bouncing over the ruts. Each wagon was pulled by a team of shaggy emroths, four-footed beasts with drooping noses that hung down and swished in the air as they walked and neatly-trimmed tusks jutting from their mouths. Sitting in the lead wagon was the familiar and not-at-all welcome sight of the tax collector, a clerk sent from Aleitian, doubtless the son a merchant looking to advance his station in life and just as routinely snubbed by the noble lord who ruled this place. The village was all too familiar with his type.
The carriage drew their eyes. The coat of arms was freshly painted on the door, a pair of crossed axes on a red field, split by a yellow fish for some reason. It was pulled by four horses, actual white horses. Lord Ondeleol was here. There was some muttering at that, the day’s business would be that much more difficult. And those fine horses, brought from Tamistal at great expense, paid for by the work of their hands....
The collector hopped down, his legs stiff. He was a young fellow with dispirited eyes, looking forward to the day he could leave Pereun forever. Ghelen bowed. “Your Honor," he said, "Erdenec offers its welcome.”
“Your hospitality is accepted,” the tax collector replied impatiently, his tone not matching his words. He was eager to be gone, nervous that Lord Ondeleol had, for some unfathomable aristocratic reason, decided to accompany this trip. He didn't tell the tax collector why. Noble lords rarely confided in the likes of him. “Let's get on with it.”
“As you wish, your Honor.”
The crowd parted as they went towards the church. A soldier followed with a battered ledger under one arm. "According to the records, the Royal Examiner was here two years ago and gave the following report." The tax collector opened a wax noteboard. “Concerning the village of Erdenec, there are two hundred and twenty-three souls, not including children of less than three summers. Head of cattle...none, head of sheep...four hundred and three, ostots...seven, horses...none, lebbens or geppeks...none. Bushels of wheat per harvest....” He rattled off the information, a detailed accounting of the village and what it produced. Setting it up was the first thing the Naurites did once the fighting ended. Examiners were sent out into the countryside to determine who held what, how much of it, and how much more could reasonably be expected. Every two years the accountings were updated.
As expected, the Examiners were greatly resented by the populace, facing threats and even armed resistance, to the point that they went their business under guard. Ghelen preferred a more subtle approach. His cousin, a peddler who sometimes visited Lord Ondeleol’s stronghold, told him that the Examiner in residence had gained a taste for fine aged osec. On his next visit the headman greeted him with several large jars. The following morning, and in a midst of a ferocious angover, the Examiner made his survey of Erdenec, which, as hoped, undervalued the worth of the village. It made the divine task of cheating the Naurites that much easier, sparing them the need to invent excuses as to why their harvests were poor every year.
Piled next to the church were the accumulated taxes for Erdenec. Even with all the hiding and burying the losses were still dearly felt. The villagers watched with frustration as the tax collector opened sacks of grain, inspected bales of wool, small bags of fundors, feathers gathered from pitries-those small, brilliantly colored birds who nested in the stone hives set along the edge...and more besides. The man worked quickly, knowing he was unloved and that the lord was impatient.
The villagers murmured, causing him to turn. The door of the carriage had opened and a pair of booted feet appeared, followed by the rest of Lord Ondeleol. He was of medium height, with long brown hair that hung just past his shoulders and was now thinning on top, a bare chin and a bristly mustache. He wore tight breeches and a green tunic with brown braid on the shoulders. A small brass ring was on his right hand, and around his neck a worked iron pendant hanging on a braided leather thong. After him came a tall, thin woman, noticeably younger than her husband, her blond hair worked into braids curled about her ears. Her blue dress seemed very fine to Erdenec's women, but would have been mocked as hideously rustic back in the courts of Nauria.
A third man stayed within the carriage. He looked young to those who glimpsed him, and pale as if recently ill. His hair was cut so close to stubble that it was hard to tell the color. His eyes and face remained hidden in the shadows of the carriage.
Lord Ondeleols wife fidgeted, bored and showing her distaste for the village. Her husband spoke with their companion in the carriage, their words to low to hear. The tax collector finished his inspection of the goods, and was deeply suspicious. He looked at Ghelen's friendly face, then at the impassive Perunek villagers, sensing their hostility. He went over to the carriage.
“My lord,” he said in the Naurite tongue, hand over heart.
“Are you done?” Lord Ondeleol asked.
“My lord, I am deeply troubled. This village is better off than the accounts claim. The Examiner may have been mistaken.”
"So?” The noble had the uncomprehending impatience men of the sword displayed for men of the pen.
"My lord,” the tax collector said, biting back his frustration. “I believe these peasants are hiding much of what they owe. I ask your leave to conduct a thorough search of this village and the surrounding fields....”
“Nonsense! The taxes are here, load them up and let’s be on our way!”
“My lord....”
“I've already spent to much time in this dung heap. My lady wife grows tired,” she flinched at his voice, “and the day wears on. I want to be back in Inisi come nightfall, not camped in some muddy field.”
“My lord, the King....”
“The King's not here, little man. I am.” His tone grew menacing.
The tax collector bowed his head. “As my lord commands.” He turned to the soldiers. “You lot! Load those sacks! Quickly!”
The soldiers repeated the order to the villagers in heavily accented Perunek. Sacks and bales were loaded into the waiting wagons, the tax collector supervising. As he passed the carriage he heard Lord Ondeleol say to the stranger, “So, do we have an agreement?”
He didn’t hear the answer.
“He came here,” Macsen said the next day, sitting with Agil. “The Naurite lord and his wife! I never knew men could dress so fine.”
“It must have been a sight.” Agil stirred his soup with a wooden spoon. He listened, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. The Skywatcherwasn't in the village when the lord came. He'd left that morning, alone with a satchel over his shoulder, not telling no one where he was headed.
Something was on his mind. Oblivious, Macsen continued babbling. “I wonder who he was, back where he came from. He must have been someone very grand....”
“Highly doubtful. Ondeleol is the younger son of a minor lord, likely a Marcher Warden on the Syllish border from his accent. When he reached his eighteenth year he was sent out into the world with his sword and armor to make his way.”
Macsen frowned. “You know him?”
“I know his type. Poor knights, hoping to carve a place in this cruel world. They commend themselves to the household of whatever lord will take them in, fight in the tournaments for honor and prizes in times of peace, and flock to battlefields like flies on rotting meat when war comes. When Berovan of Nauria invaded Perun a horde of men just like Ondeleol answered his summons with great eagerness. He must have done some singular act of slaughter to be receive a lordship. Oh yes, I know his sort well.”
Agil blinked, and rubbed his forehead wearily. “Right, enough of that. Start copying that page.” He went back to his soup.
There was silence in the cottage for a while. Then Macsen asked the question that had been on his mind for days. “Sir, what are you looking for?”
“Hmm?” Agil looked up. “What was that?”
“You go alone into the fields and woods and come back empty-handed. You go to hills like the Three Sisters. And you came here, to our village. I don’t think someone like you would come to Erdenec unless he had a reason.”
“And what would that reason be?” Agil’s voice was calm.
“I think you’re looking for something." For a dreadful moment, Macsen thought he’d gone too far.
Then Agil grinned. “I am,” he said. “It's called the Giant’s Mound.”
“What’s that?”
“Let me show you.” He reached over and turned several pages of THE LIFE OF THE KING. “In the middle of the page, the second paragraph down.” He pointed. “Read it.”
Macsen obliged. “In the late summer of the year 721 of the Blessed Messenger, terrible storms wracked this land of Perun. Much harm was done, and not far rom Inisi a ship was forced to the ground. All those souls onboard were slain, save one, a high noble of some distant land who claimed descent from the lords of long-dead Codal. He and his goods were brought to the King. In his possession, which drew the eyes of many, was a black box cut from an unknown wood, which he would not open. Cut into the top was the sigil of the leaping fish. The strange noble met with the King alone for many hours in private, letting none hear their words. When dawn came the man was dead. The King ordered him and his goods taken to the Giant’s Mound and would speak no more of it.” Macsen looked up. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither did I, at first.”
“Why are you looking for this place?”
“There's something in it I want.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, weary. “I’ve been here for months, trying to find the damnable place. ‘A great flat-topped mound, near Inisi,’ an old storyteller in Anunin told me that...vague, to say the least. Perun, I have found, is rife with mounds and hills, and every one has a ghost story associated with it.”
“What about the Gallows Pit?” Macsen asked. Years later he'd remember that moment.
Agil looked up. “What did you say?”
“The Gallows Pit, near the old Quarry Hill? That sounds close to what you said.”
Agil leaned closer very intent. “Macsen, tell me about this place. Leave nothing out.”
Macsen nodded, a bit nervous. “Its just...well, something old Magga told me.” He paused, trying to remember. “She was this old woman, died a few years back. Her husband passed long ago and she was a bit soft in the head, if you know what I mean...”
“Macsen!”
“I’m getting to it! She'd watch us when Galliarg was busy with else, and she would tell us stories. One was about the old Quarry Hill...”
“Is there a point to this, Macsen...”
“Magga said a hundred years back the quarry there was owned by two brothers. One of them began to fool with the others wife.” He blushed a bit, although no one who had grown up in a rural village surrounded by farms wouldn't know how living creatures reproduced. “The two of them killed her husband and took the land for themselves, only they were caught doing it. The chief at the time ordered hanged at the Gallows Pit. Seeing as how it was only a short walk from the quarry, it was only fitting.”
“How does any of this have to do with what I'm looking for?”
“Magga always told us to avoid the Gallows Pit, because it was haunted by all the men hanged there. Been going on for centuries. And the Quarry Hill is a flat-topped spot, except for where they been digging.”
Agil was silent for a long moment. Then he asked, “Do you know where this place is?”
“Er...yes.”
“All these months of searching, and the answer's been sitting here in my house every day... How far away is it?”
“Maybe a morning's walk.”
“Excellent.” Agil smiled. “We leave at first light.”
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Macsen dun Mocredd reckoned it began the day he helped Adag the undersider hide his crop from the tax man. At that time, on Perun, this was not considered unusual.
“Careful, there!” Adag shouted up, one hand gripping the rope, his good right eg jammed into a foothold. Macsen slowly lowered the basket, his feet braced
against a wooden post driven deep into the ground. “Down...down....stop! All right, tie it off!”
“Hold on.” Macsen wrapped the rope twice around the post, and picked up another coil. He looped the free end through the wooden ring at the back of his climbers
belt and moving to the edge. Bracing his bare feet on the rocky face he rappelled down the climbing line along the side of Perun, the ancient dark rock of the
land before his eyes. Below him was open sky, the Endless Blue, broken only by a handful of clouds. Anything that fell would plummet until it hit something,
or was taken by the Great Storm.
“Come here, boyo.” Adag had the lid off the basket. Inside were thirty gray mushrooms the size of a man’s fist, the stems below the caps dried and shriveled.
Adag took one out and inhaled it's aroma. “Ah, isn’t that lovely? Far to nice to waste on a Naurite thief.”
“This is the last one?” Macsen asked, shivering a bit. Winter wasn’t far off, the wind had a bite to it.
“Aye. Get in there.”
Macsen swung himself in feet first, stifling a curse as his elbow bumped against the side. He’d grown six inches in the past year and mossholes that had been
easy fits were now tight. Lanky with youth, he was only now starting to fill out with muscle. He had black hair, common on Perun, green eyes that people
claimed he got from his mother and a squarish chin they said came from his father. Both had died when he was young.
Wispy hanging moss brushed against Macsen’s face as he bumped his way into the mosshole. This one had been in use for generations and the growth was very thick,
to the point that that the monthly harvests were enough to feed a third of Erdenec, although few would relish a daily diet of moss soup. At the back of the cave
the growth was practically wall-like. Macsen moved in until his legs were bent up near his chest, turning over on his side. He felt around with his fingers
for the narrow cut in the moss bed, lifting up the thick green-gray carpet, exposing the rock below. A small chamber was cut in the floor of the tunnel,
half-filled with fundors from Adags patch. Macsen dumped the ones in the basket, adding them to the pile.
In two days the tax collector from Inisi would come. He would have little interest in moss, it was considered peasant food of little value, and hence was one of
the few things not taxed by Perun's foreign overlords. But fundor's were another matter entirely. The mushrooms grew only on the undersides of lands, or in deep
underground caverns. A good patch could produce several thousand with each harvest. Adag's lay twenty feet below the edge, an acre of craggy rock colored a deep
green with caps, pocked here and there by his mossholes. When harvested they were tasteless, the flesh almost impossible to chew. The caps and upper part
of the stems would be cut free, wrapped in cloth sheets and hung on racks to dry in the wind for up to a year. During this time the outer skins would turn
hard as stone, and could only be opened with a hammer. But when cracked the flesh inside would be soft and crumbly, with a deep earthy taste and smell.
Scooped out and ground into meal it could be baked into cakes that were reckoned a delicacy, gracing the tables of the rich. When mixed with certain spices it
became a medicine that was said to ease many ailments.
But for the Peruneks, ground fundors served another, far nobler purpose; as the main ingredient in osec, the fiery distilled spirit that their island was
known (or rather infamous) for. In the old days, before the foreigners came, osec was a valued commodity, drunk during the winter for strength, used in celebration
of the saints, even traded as currency. Peruneks would give osec as tribute to their clan chiefs; a gallon would buy a farmer a new shawl for his wife,
ten gallons for an ostot to pull his plow, or a fine carved spearhead from the woodshaper. For Peruneks, osec was the water of life itself.
But the Naurites who held this part of Perun had little use for the drink, considering it a foul concoction fit only for savages. But they did value the Perunek's
fundors...and wheat, and wool, and anything else they could extract. Twice a year the tax collector would take half of the village's produce. Some would
be sent back across the skies to distant Nauria, whose king welcomed the revenue, the rest kept by the foreign lords that had replaced the old chieftains. There
was no appeal, no clemency, the Naurites collected their due regardless of the consequences.
Therefore, hiding the harvest from the prying eyes of the tax men was a necessary skill on Perun.
Macsen hid the last of the fundors and pulled the moss back, making sure it lay flat and smooth. The tax collector wouldn’t likely climb down to look, but
there might be someone with him who knew enough to search. He unhooked a small water bottle on his belt and sprinkled the contents over the moss to keep it
from turning brown, then humped his way back out to the rock face.
“Good work.” Adag unhooked his wooden knife and cut loose a swatch of moss. “Here, as promised.”
Dinner for a week. Macsen stuffed the moss under his shirt. Digging his toes into the rock, he hauled himself back up to the top.
At the end of Erdenecs single, muddy street was a small cottage with new thatch on the roof. Macsen pushed open the door. A quiet voice greeted him. “There are weeds in the garden.”
“Yes sir, I know.”
“I take it you were helping the undersider. You mentioned something about that.”
“Er...yes, I was.” He took out the moss.
“No harm then.” A pen scratched its way across paper. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Macsen hesitated. There were two tables in the one-room cottage, both covered with books. Macsen was amazed, the first time saw lay eyes on them. It didn’t seem possible that so many books could exist in one place at the same time. That many books didn’t exist in the whole world. Now, after three months they barely drew his eye.
“Put the moss on the books. They won’t mind.” A page turned.
Macsen nodded, laying the swatch on the bound wooden cover of...he tried to make out the words, it was still difficult after three months....
“It's a treatise on the various plants and herbs to be found in Eastern Perun.” Agil the Skywatcher’s voice had a trace of an accent in it, through his Perunek was otherwise flawless. “Nothing there that would interest you, I should think.” A pause. “Isn’t there something you need to do?”
Macsen grabbed a two-pronged hoe by the door. A moment later he was the garden pulling weeds, working as quickly as he could.
Agil had come to Erdenec a few months back, arriving one day on a cart loaded with boxes, a youngish man with blond hair somewhere in his third decade of
life. When asked where he was from, Agil had replied, “Audran.” No one in the village had the slightest idea where that might be, although they guessed it was far, far away. That made him a foreigner, not the most welcome sight these days. It had been Adag the undersider who figured out the stranger was a Skywatcher-- he'd been a mercenary in Tamistal years ago, until the loss of his leg sent him home. “Fellow talks as fine as that, he’s either a noble or a Skywatcher. And no noble would live here.”
Ghelen, the village headman, rented out the empty cottage to the Skywatcher in exchange for a finely woven carpet. At first the people of Erdenec reacted to his presence the way any small rustic village would; with unthinking suspicion, especially given Perun's recent history. Two days after his arrival several of the village wives appeared at Agil’s door and demanded to know his business here. “I’m merely looking for some peace,” he’d replied in his quiet way. It didn't satisfy them
One of the women went to Ghelen, demanding that he do something about the stranger. “He’s a foreigner, she had said in a voice loud enough to be heard across the village, “and they always bring trouble!”
Ghelen listened to her view, nodding once in a while to show that he cared. But while he may have valued her opinion, he also valued the fine new carpet hanging on his wall. His wife liked showing it off to the other women when they came to visit. And he certainly wouldn’t appreciate having to give it back, or the domestic turmoil that would follow. So Ghelen ignored the complaints and let the Skywatcher stay.
Skywatchers. They...well, they watched the sky, the name said it all. Supposedly they studied the stars and watched the winds, and thus were able to plot the cycles of all the lands, the path they all followed on their endless journey through the skies. This was done, it was said, to help ships and other travelers find their way across the blue, and sometimes to predict if and when a collision between lands was imminent. That last bit sent the village into a stir, when it was mentioned. Maybe Perun’s cycle was about to send it into the path of another land. Eventually this got back to Agil, who went to the headman to explain that Perun’s cycle was safe, that no collision was imminent, and would he please make sure the villagers understood this.
After a while they came to accept the Skywatcher. A month after Agil arrived, Cial the woodshapers son was careless with a sharpening knife while putting a final edge on a farmers reaping blade. His arm was badly gashed, and though his father was able to bind the cut and stop the bleeding, within a day the wound was red and swollen. Three days later it was leaking yellow stinking pus, and despite the need Ceandin couldn’t bring himself to amputate his own son’s arm. Putting hot coals into the wound to cauterize it didn’t help, indeed seemed to make it worse, while prayers to the Blessed Ania went unanswered. By the fourth day Galliarg was ready to say the Prayer of Passage for the Dying, and usher the ailing young man into the glory of Heaven.
Then Agil very respectfully asked if he might have a look at Cial’s arm. After a brief examination he put some sort of ointment that smelled faintly of burnt bread on the wound. Within a day the swelling was gone and Cial was awake. By the following week he was back on his feet in his father's workshop, where he treated sharpening knives with greater respect.
Soon after, old Galliargs aching back didn't ache so much, again thanks to the Skywatcher, who showed the priest how to brew another ointment from some local flowers. Galliarg naturally became far better disposed towards Agil, and many in the village followed his lead.
What happened next was even more interesting. Lord Ondeleol, the Naurite lord who now ruled these lands, had heard that a Skywatcher was living in Erdenec. Curious--and eager for the status a resident Skywatcher would bring him--he came to the village and spoke with Agil. The conversation they'd had was in Perunek, since Agil claimed to have no Naurite and Lord Ondeleol, the younger son of a minor border lord who’d been rewarded for his service, spoke only his own tongue. An interpreter versed in both languages carried the conversation between them.
“A flyspeck hovel such as this is no place for a man of distinction such as yourself. Return with me to the castle. There you will be housed in a manner befitting your station.”
“With regret, my lord, I must decline.”
“What do you mean, decline?”
“I would rather stay here.”
“In this festering dung heap?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“These oafs need a Skywatcher like sheep need shoes!”
“Nonetheless, I would remain here. This place in important for my work.”
“And what would that be?”
“It concerns the passage of clouds.”
“Clouds?”
“To be more precise, their wings.”
“Clouds have wings?”
“Of course. How else would they stay up in the sky?”
“But...I’ve never seen wings on a cloud!”
“That’s not surprising. They’re invisible.”
“Clouds have invisible wings?”
“That they do, my lord.”
There was a long pause. “Are you mocking me?”
“Certainly not, my lord! I would never mock a man of your stature! Indeed, we Skywatchers are well aware of the respect men such as your lordship are owed!”
“As lord of these lands, I could compel you to obey me.”
“Actually, my lord, you do not have that right. The Terms of Aid between our Governing Council and your King state that Skywatchers in Naurite lands shall answer only to the Master of our Great House in Aleition, or to the King and his designated agents so long as their requests do not violate our oaths.” The standard response, which every Skywatcher was taught for situations like this. “The Master in Aleition is aware of my presence here. You have no authority over me.”
“I have two hundred men at arms! Words mean nothing against that!”
“Any interference with my work shall not be looked upon with favor.” Agils voice remained calm, but unyielding. “It would be brought to the attention of the highest authority. As I said, my presence is known here.”
“Are you...”
“The King in all his wisdom has placed the Skywatchers under his personal protection. Harm against one is harm against us all...and the honor of the King.” Another pause, and then, “This is a royal grant, these lands of yours, are they not?”
Lord Ondeleol left in a foul temper. The villagers were impressed. They had never seen anyone stand up to the Naurite swine, or see him rebuffed with nothing but words.
A few days later Agil was laboring in the little garden he’d planted behind the house, cursing in a sonorous language that was his native tongue. Macsen had approached him. “Can I help you, sir?” the boy asked.
“By all means,” Agil had replied. “I fear my talents do not extend to the mysterious art of planting beans.” Two days later, with the first green shoots poking up through the soil, Agil asked, “What can I offer you in return? I have very little to give, but....”
“I don’t want a rug or anything like that,” Macsen said.
“Then what do you want?”
Macsen paused a moment before answering. “Teach me letters.”
“To read and write?”
“Yes.”
Agil mulled that over. “Why not go to the priest? He seems an amiable sort, and he did raise you.”
“Galliarg doesn’t know how to do it very well. He says that’s why he holds a church here instead of in one of the towns. He has the scriptures in the church, but never opens it. He says he has all the important bits in his head anyway, so there’s no need.”
“Sounds like a practical man.” Another long pause. “To teach you your letters would require some time, weeks certainly. Those beans only took two days to plant.”
“The beans will need to be tended. And I can plant other things as well, onions or carrots...er, potatoes maybe. And I can help you with your work. Whatever it is, you could use another pair of hands....”
“So you would be my assistant? And I would teach you to read and write.” He nodded. “Very well, we have an agreement.”
And that’s how it started. He maintained the garden and kept up the house. Sometimes the Skywatcher would leave for a day or two, and Macsen to watch over his possessions. Three times Macsen accompanied him into the countryside, where Agil stared at the ground or dug up various ordinary looking plants, which he would carefully examine before tossing aside. Once the Skywatcher trekked out all the way to the Three Sisters, a trio of low mounds almost half a days walk to the west of Erdenec. He stood for a while, looking at the middle mound through a forked stick, before turning around and walking back, muttering to himself in his own language and offering no explanation. For his part, Macsen was thankful for the quick departure; the Three Sisters were supposed to be haunted, and it was best to avoid them at night.
And as promised, Agil taught him to read and write. They began with a piece of slate, tracing out the letters of the Codalian alphabet with a bit of charcoal, then whole words, and then sentences. And then onto the books, or rather, the book. Agil had brought many leatherbound volumes with him, but most were written in strange kanguages. Some were in Audran, Agils mother tongue, others in Codalian, the language of the Church. Some were in a tongue called Inra, the language of the Skywatchers. Only one was in Perunek; THE LIFE OF THE KING, by someone named Segius.
Agil had Macsen copy out each letter, each word and sentence. When the slate was full he would read it back, haltingly at first, then with growing confidence, while Agil checked it written against the book. The KING in the title was Donek dun Linek, known as Donek Stonehand, one of the few High Kings of Perun to actually have been High King in fact as well as name. He’d united the clans with strength, vision, leadership, and when all that failed with ruthless force. For a generation Perun had been united and at peace. But his heirs proved to be less capable, as was usually the way of things. Donek was the subject of legends, of songs and poetry sung by bards before the invaders had banned their sort. Even Macsen had heard of him.
One page a day, that was the rule. This day, after the weeds were done, it was page twenty-nine, the old parchment crackling slightly under his fingers, the charcoal scraping along the slate. “In the year 713 of the Blessed Messenger a...traveler came to the court of the...the High King, bearing gifts of metal and precious....He paused, frowned, and pointed at a words he couldn’t make out.
“Spices,” Agil said.
“...Spices. He begged friend....friendship of the High King, and asked only to be allowed to...con...con....”
“Conduct.”
“...Conduct his business in Perun. Such permission was granted and the stranger went on his way. Soon reports c...came to the High King about the merchant and various foul deeds being...com...committed. It was said that he approached the chieftains and proposed that they should sell....sell those being held in the strongholds for crimes into bon...bondage. The High King demanded that the stranger appear before him and a...account for his actions. The stranger offered to the king a gift...”
He paused, unable to believe what it said. “A ring of gold in re...re...recompense, to allow the stranger to continue his work on Perun. The High King took the ring and all the gifts had brought and....flung them to the winds, calling them things of the Deciever. He banished the stranger from the land, never to re...return.” Macsen looked up. “He flung the gold over the edge?”
“According to Segius.”
“But...gold....” Macsen tried to picture it and failed. All metals were precious, and none more than gold. An iron ring could buy a farm, a bronze ring a village. A gold ring.... He couldn’t imagine that kind of wealth. He had never seen gold, no one in the village had. It was the stuff of legend.
Agil looked at him. “Not everything can be bought, Macsen.”
“But with gold he could...” Again words failed him. What could a man do within something like that? What couldn’t he do?
“Perhaps he considered doing what was right more important.”
“I would have kept it.”
Agil nodded gravely. “As would I, perhaps, if faced with the same choice. We are but ordinary men. But for kings, such choices are never simple.” For a moment Macsen thought he heard a bit of an edge in the Skywatchers voice. “Right, best continue, we've a lot of work to do. Besides, in two days, you know what will happen.”
As if Macsen needed reminding.
Tax day.
Erdenec been dreading it. Farmers hid their grain in pits dug deep in out of the way fields. Sheep, goats and pigs were driven into the deep woods and high hills, fundors hidden in moss holes. All in preparation for this twice-yearly calamity that blighted their lives without fail, inflicted by those who took it as their duty and right to squeeze as much fat from the land as possible...while the Peruneks strove mightily to withhold as much of it as they could get away with. The whole affair seemed almost like a game, a childish hide-and-go-seek between the peasants who paid and their foreign overlords who collected...until one remembered the penalties involved and the punishments inflicted. Such as branding with hot coals, mutilation, even being hurled over the edge into the sky, what was known as being ‘thrown to the winds.’
But for the peasants it was no choice at all. This year the Naurites demanded one bushel out of every three, one pig out of every two, nearly all the fundors, more of this, more of that, more and more of more and more. Only the moss was left alone, and who knew how long that would last? Families needed to be fed, no one wanted to see their children go hungry. If you paid, you starved. It was the same everywhere across Perun. For fifteen years the land had been divided between Naurites in the east and their Albish rivals in the west. The old chieftains were gone, their strongholds garrisoned by foreign troops. The last High King was a permanent 'guest' in the Naurite court. The Peruneks had their pride, their clans had made the invaders fight long hard, but they still lost in the end, and the bitterness ran deep.
Even now some of the hotter heads muttered about showing those Naurite bastards that the sons of Perun would only be pushed so far. More than grain was hidden in those pits. The Naurites had done their best to disarm Perun, but in a land where everyone was expected to own a weapon and know how to use it, that was a hard proposition. Swords were hidden under floors, spears stuck up in the rafters. Revolts were an annual occurrence. The higher the taxes the worse the muttering, and the more nervous the Naurite garrisons.
But things were calm today, mainly due to Ghelen; the headman was weary of violence and his word still carried weight. All the villagers, men, women, and children, were gathered in a field before the church. Noontime approached and the Naurites were arriving.
Seven wagons came along the road, followed by an ornate coach bouncing over the ruts. Each wagon was pulled by a team of shaggy emroths, four-footed beasts with drooping noses that hung down and swished in the air as they walked and neatly-trimmed tusks jutting from their mouths. Sitting in the lead wagon was the familiar and not-at-all welcome sight of the tax collector, a clerk sent from Aleitian, doubtless the son a merchant looking to advance his station in life and just as routinely snubbed by the noble lord who ruled this place. The village was all too familiar with his type.
The carriage drew their eyes. The coat of arms was freshly painted on the door, a pair of crossed axes on a red field, split by a yellow fish for some reason. It was pulled by four horses, actual white horses. Lord Ondeleol was here. There was some muttering at that, the day’s business would be that much more difficult. And those fine horses, brought from Tamistal at great expense, paid for by the work of their hands....
The collector hopped down, his legs stiff. He was a young fellow with dispirited eyes, looking forward to the day he could leave Pereun forever. Ghelen bowed. “Your Honor," he said, "Erdenec offers its welcome.”
“Your hospitality is accepted,” the tax collector replied impatiently, his tone not matching his words. He was eager to be gone, nervous that Lord Ondeleol had, for some unfathomable aristocratic reason, decided to accompany this trip. He didn't tell the tax collector why. Noble lords rarely confided in the likes of him. “Let's get on with it.”
“As you wish, your Honor.”
The crowd parted as they went towards the church. A soldier followed with a battered ledger under one arm. "According to the records, the Royal Examiner was here two years ago and gave the following report." The tax collector opened a wax noteboard. “Concerning the village of Erdenec, there are two hundred and twenty-three souls, not including children of less than three summers. Head of cattle...none, head of sheep...four hundred and three, ostots...seven, horses...none, lebbens or geppeks...none. Bushels of wheat per harvest....” He rattled off the information, a detailed accounting of the village and what it produced. Setting it up was the first thing the Naurites did once the fighting ended. Examiners were sent out into the countryside to determine who held what, how much of it, and how much more could reasonably be expected. Every two years the accountings were updated.
As expected, the Examiners were greatly resented by the populace, facing threats and even armed resistance, to the point that they went their business under guard. Ghelen preferred a more subtle approach. His cousin, a peddler who sometimes visited Lord Ondeleol’s stronghold, told him that the Examiner in residence had gained a taste for fine aged osec. On his next visit the headman greeted him with several large jars. The following morning, and in a midst of a ferocious angover, the Examiner made his survey of Erdenec, which, as hoped, undervalued the worth of the village. It made the divine task of cheating the Naurites that much easier, sparing them the need to invent excuses as to why their harvests were poor every year.
Piled next to the church were the accumulated taxes for Erdenec. Even with all the hiding and burying the losses were still dearly felt. The villagers watched with frustration as the tax collector opened sacks of grain, inspected bales of wool, small bags of fundors, feathers gathered from pitries-those small, brilliantly colored birds who nested in the stone hives set along the edge...and more besides. The man worked quickly, knowing he was unloved and that the lord was impatient.
The villagers murmured, causing him to turn. The door of the carriage had opened and a pair of booted feet appeared, followed by the rest of Lord Ondeleol. He was of medium height, with long brown hair that hung just past his shoulders and was now thinning on top, a bare chin and a bristly mustache. He wore tight breeches and a green tunic with brown braid on the shoulders. A small brass ring was on his right hand, and around his neck a worked iron pendant hanging on a braided leather thong. After him came a tall, thin woman, noticeably younger than her husband, her blond hair worked into braids curled about her ears. Her blue dress seemed very fine to Erdenec's women, but would have been mocked as hideously rustic back in the courts of Nauria.
A third man stayed within the carriage. He looked young to those who glimpsed him, and pale as if recently ill. His hair was cut so close to stubble that it was hard to tell the color. His eyes and face remained hidden in the shadows of the carriage.
Lord Ondeleols wife fidgeted, bored and showing her distaste for the village. Her husband spoke with their companion in the carriage, their words to low to hear. The tax collector finished his inspection of the goods, and was deeply suspicious. He looked at Ghelen's friendly face, then at the impassive Perunek villagers, sensing their hostility. He went over to the carriage.
“My lord,” he said in the Naurite tongue, hand over heart.
“Are you done?” Lord Ondeleol asked.
“My lord, I am deeply troubled. This village is better off than the accounts claim. The Examiner may have been mistaken.”
"So?” The noble had the uncomprehending impatience men of the sword displayed for men of the pen.
"My lord,” the tax collector said, biting back his frustration. “I believe these peasants are hiding much of what they owe. I ask your leave to conduct a thorough search of this village and the surrounding fields....”
“Nonsense! The taxes are here, load them up and let’s be on our way!”
“My lord....”
“I've already spent to much time in this dung heap. My lady wife grows tired,” she flinched at his voice, “and the day wears on. I want to be back in Inisi come nightfall, not camped in some muddy field.”
“My lord, the King....”
“The King's not here, little man. I am.” His tone grew menacing.
The tax collector bowed his head. “As my lord commands.” He turned to the soldiers. “You lot! Load those sacks! Quickly!”
The soldiers repeated the order to the villagers in heavily accented Perunek. Sacks and bales were loaded into the waiting wagons, the tax collector supervising. As he passed the carriage he heard Lord Ondeleol say to the stranger, “So, do we have an agreement?”
He didn’t hear the answer.
“He came here,” Macsen said the next day, sitting with Agil. “The Naurite lord and his wife! I never knew men could dress so fine.”
“It must have been a sight.” Agil stirred his soup with a wooden spoon. He listened, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. The Skywatcherwasn't in the village when the lord came. He'd left that morning, alone with a satchel over his shoulder, not telling no one where he was headed.
Something was on his mind. Oblivious, Macsen continued babbling. “I wonder who he was, back where he came from. He must have been someone very grand....”
“Highly doubtful. Ondeleol is the younger son of a minor lord, likely a Marcher Warden on the Syllish border from his accent. When he reached his eighteenth year he was sent out into the world with his sword and armor to make his way.”
Macsen frowned. “You know him?”
“I know his type. Poor knights, hoping to carve a place in this cruel world. They commend themselves to the household of whatever lord will take them in, fight in the tournaments for honor and prizes in times of peace, and flock to battlefields like flies on rotting meat when war comes. When Berovan of Nauria invaded Perun a horde of men just like Ondeleol answered his summons with great eagerness. He must have done some singular act of slaughter to be receive a lordship. Oh yes, I know his sort well.”
Agil blinked, and rubbed his forehead wearily. “Right, enough of that. Start copying that page.” He went back to his soup.
There was silence in the cottage for a while. Then Macsen asked the question that had been on his mind for days. “Sir, what are you looking for?”
“Hmm?” Agil looked up. “What was that?”
“You go alone into the fields and woods and come back empty-handed. You go to hills like the Three Sisters. And you came here, to our village. I don’t think someone like you would come to Erdenec unless he had a reason.”
“And what would that reason be?” Agil’s voice was calm.
“I think you’re looking for something." For a dreadful moment, Macsen thought he’d gone too far.
Then Agil grinned. “I am,” he said. “It's called the Giant’s Mound.”
“What’s that?”
“Let me show you.” He reached over and turned several pages of THE LIFE OF THE KING. “In the middle of the page, the second paragraph down.” He pointed. “Read it.”
Macsen obliged. “In the late summer of the year 721 of the Blessed Messenger, terrible storms wracked this land of Perun. Much harm was done, and not far rom Inisi a ship was forced to the ground. All those souls onboard were slain, save one, a high noble of some distant land who claimed descent from the lords of long-dead Codal. He and his goods were brought to the King. In his possession, which drew the eyes of many, was a black box cut from an unknown wood, which he would not open. Cut into the top was the sigil of the leaping fish. The strange noble met with the King alone for many hours in private, letting none hear their words. When dawn came the man was dead. The King ordered him and his goods taken to the Giant’s Mound and would speak no more of it.” Macsen looked up. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither did I, at first.”
“Why are you looking for this place?”
“There's something in it I want.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, weary. “I’ve been here for months, trying to find the damnable place. ‘A great flat-topped mound, near Inisi,’ an old storyteller in Anunin told me that...vague, to say the least. Perun, I have found, is rife with mounds and hills, and every one has a ghost story associated with it.”
“What about the Gallows Pit?” Macsen asked. Years later he'd remember that moment.
Agil looked up. “What did you say?”
“The Gallows Pit, near the old Quarry Hill? That sounds close to what you said.”
Agil leaned closer very intent. “Macsen, tell me about this place. Leave nothing out.”
Macsen nodded, a bit nervous. “Its just...well, something old Magga told me.” He paused, trying to remember. “She was this old woman, died a few years back. Her husband passed long ago and she was a bit soft in the head, if you know what I mean...”
“Macsen!”
“I’m getting to it! She'd watch us when Galliarg was busy with else, and she would tell us stories. One was about the old Quarry Hill...”
“Is there a point to this, Macsen...”
“Magga said a hundred years back the quarry there was owned by two brothers. One of them began to fool with the others wife.” He blushed a bit, although no one who had grown up in a rural village surrounded by farms wouldn't know how living creatures reproduced. “The two of them killed her husband and took the land for themselves, only they were caught doing it. The chief at the time ordered hanged at the Gallows Pit. Seeing as how it was only a short walk from the quarry, it was only fitting.”
“How does any of this have to do with what I'm looking for?”
“Magga always told us to avoid the Gallows Pit, because it was haunted by all the men hanged there. Been going on for centuries. And the Quarry Hill is a flat-topped spot, except for where they been digging.”
Agil was silent for a long moment. Then he asked, “Do you know where this place is?”
“Er...yes.”
“All these months of searching, and the answer's been sitting here in my house every day... How far away is it?”
“Maybe a morning's walk.”
“Excellent.” Agil smiled. “We leave at first light.”
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