West of Coll, Muintir, Atsegena

5761 AI

Where had the puckling gotten to this time? Shawnahur clambered over rocks, wincing at a scraped shin, calling, “Cormac! Cormac, you could at least make some noise.” He wiped a hand over his sweaty face, but it only mixed into mud on his skin. 

“Ugh. Cormac!”

Rounding another bend, he shook his head at finding the creature paddling casually around a small pond, blithely heedless of his drover’s frustration.

“There you are!” Shawnahur waded in and plucked up the wooly duck, not minding the water that dripped from his clothes when they emerged. “You know, you’re as bad as your namesake—wandering off and leaving half the village searching for you.” He let his breath out in a heavy sigh and tucked the puckling under one arm, while it squirmed and spat, but Shawnahur had been droving long enough to keep clear of the smelly saliva. If ‘twasn’t for his vibrant green head, Cormac would have found himself on someone’s platter synods ago, but the green wool was a rarity and the duene paid gold for it. “Let’s hope the rest of the herd didn’t follow in your folly and run off while I was gone.”

Getting back to the pastureland didn’t take nearly as long as it had to find Cormac; the creature must have meandered around for a while before settling in at the pond. Fortunately, the rest of the wooly ducks, though more widely dispersed, were still nearby—though Shawnahur counted them off a second time just to be sure. As he set Cormac down, the puckling squawked and pecked at his boots before waddling off toward his peers.

Shawnahur went to wipe the mud off his clothes, but was dismayed to find that it only seemed to work its way further into the weave. Mother was going to scold him for sure for that; she sympathized with the dust and wool, but mud was something she suspected to be a careless affront to her labors, and she investigated accordingly. It could be exhausting 

Grumping a bit, he pulled his water skin from its rocky cleft in the lake, looking forward to a cool drink during the heat of Graen’s rays. Water ran down its sides in a steady stream, but ‘twasn’t until he loosened the top and tipped it toward his lips that he realized what had happened. Something had breached the leather, and the skin was as good as empty.

Shawnahur scowled at it and looked longingly at the cool, contaminated lake water. He knew better, but ‘twas tempting. While he was bemoaning the poor luck of this moonstep, Mahtoo, the torean herder, barked—a quick, alert sound accompanied by pricked ears and a low-waving tail. Company then, rather than trouble.

A few moments later Donovan rounded the end of a rocky escarpment, red-faced and puffing. He dropped his hands to his thighs and sucked in air. “Shawnahur… finally! I’ve been…” He took a long draught of air. “I’ve been looking for you for the last span. Father says to bring the smelly things home.”

“Now? Handi hasn’t set yet.”

“Stay out here if you want, then.” His seventh brother turned. “I’ll let Father know you don’t want to attend the feast.” 

“Wait! I didn’t say that. What feast?” At scarcely a synod older than Shawnahur, Donovan had always been a nuisance at the best of times, but now that he was eighteen and working an apprenticeship with Farlin, he was frequently utterly insufferable.

Donovan glanced back, a smile quirking the corners of his lips. “Yanof, Craig, and Logan are home for a few steps. Father made me leave off listening to their tales to get you, so I’m not waiting. You can get the woolbags home on your own. Show up when you can.” He sprinted back in the direction of the manor house.

Shawnahur whistled to Mahtoo, his annoyance taking second place to excitement. “Let’s go. This is going to be good.”

His older brothers had joined Rian’s army six cycles ago. They’d returned home only a handful of times, but when they did, they’d told of their exploits with the chief who’d rallied the clans to fight back against the Hameen. Their ambitious neighbor to the east had been encroaching on the Muintir clans’ land for the past ten synods. The Hameen raided farmlands, burned villages and towns alike, and left devastation in their wake. At least Coll was large enough that it hadn’t been a target, but many farms and lands east of Coll had been attacked. 

Shawnahur couldn’t wait until he was old enough to follow in his brothers’ footsteps. What was there at home but more mud, scraped knees, and straying pucklings? The world had better things to offer than that, and the moment he was old enough, he’d go chasing them. 

A Feast

Once the pucklings were in their pen, Shawnahur crossed the drive to the manor house, noting a couple of wagons parked near the barn, several neighbor’s horses grazing in the corral, and the servants scurrying about the courtyard. Best to take the back way to his room and not draw attention to his disheveled state. He slipped off his boots at the door and skirted the kitchen with a wave to Glasha who scowled and shooed him out of her domain. 

“Well, look who the pucks dragged in!” Brody called. “Better hurry if you want any roast.” His brother hurried down the hall, laughing as he went, leaving Shawnahur chafing under the latest in an endless string of teasing. Mayhap the drover’s life wasn’t so bad after all—at least the pucklings didn’t overtly mock him.

He often wished for a different place in the family—he was last in line for everything, even eating, it seemed. But lingering on that thought would only make the problem worse, so he bounded up the back staircase to the second floor and hurried down the hall past the many bedrooms, his stockinged feet silent on the wood. Once in his room, he slipped out of his tunic and trousers, but one whiff of his hands said that changing his clothes wouldn’t be enough. Maybe he could get away with a quick wash-up until he could get a proper bath; his mother’s soap would work to cut the smell. 

As he descended the main stairs, laughter floated up from the courtyard along with the scent of roasted lamb. Father must have gone all out, but ‘twas to be expected. After all, Yanof was the heir, and as such he tended to get the best of what their family had to offer.

Mother met him at the bottom of the stairs. “Here you are, Shawn. Come enjoy.”

“Lovely to see you, Mother.” Shawnahur hugged her, amazed again at her stamina.

She’d birthed eight sons and ran the household without any daughters. 

Shawnahur paused on the veranda and took in the scene as his mother made her way to the table where his father was already seated. The courtyard which normally was only used as a turnaround for carts and wagons, now had multiple tables set out with benches as seats. Besides his family, several neighbors sat around raptly listening to his oldest brother.

“You should have seen his face.” Yanof stood at the place of honor at the head table and enacted the scene, wielding a leg of lamb as a weapon. “I held a dagger to the Hameen’s throat. His smayden was out of reach. He’d allowed a Muintirian to get the better of him. He pleaded with me to spare his life.”

“You didn’t though, did you?” Donovan sat at the edge of his seat at another table.

Craig shook his head. “What do you think, Donovan? Those Hameen are animals. They deserve to die as such.”

“I spitted him like the cook did this lamb.” Yanof ripped the final hunk from the bone.

Shawnahur scuttled around some servants and several tables full of their neighbors and his other three brothers, then slid into a spare seat at a side table and filled his plate high with lamb, puckling, potatoes, and fresh bread. His stomach grumbled in greeting to the delectable aromas.

“So, Craig…” Brody waved a forkful of potato at the next-oldest brother. “Did you let Yanof take all the glory?”

“You think I’d do that?” Craig tossed his hair back with a thrust of his chin. “Nay, brother, I’ve saved the best for last. ‘Tis a tale of Carda.”

This would be good. Carda was Rian’s son, and if the stories were true, the most formidable warrior. Shawnahur placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward as he took another bite.

“Rian had camped in the hills, and the Hameen ranged out around us. Many a Muintirian fled before their might but not your brothers—and not Carda.” 

Craig was the best storyteller. Shawnahur forgot about food as he envisioned the setting. Why would they flee? Didn’t they know Jeeah would protect them? 

“Yanof here—” Craig slapped his older brother on the shoulder. “—stood his ground beside Rian, guarding our leader’s back, while Logan carried the chief’s banner. Meanwhile, Carda came to me with a special mission.”

A special mission? Shawnahur quit chewing so he wouldn’t miss a single word. 

“Aye, Craig, son of Tearan, was chosen by the chief’s son to accompany him—behind the enemy’s palisade. We wound our way through the hills until we spied the garrison standing above the valley, overshadowing us with high wooden walls and fearsome parapets—a sight to steal the heart of the bravest soldier.”

“But not you, Craig!” Donovan called.

The crowd chuckled, and Craig shook his head, unfazed by the interruption.

“Not me, nor Carda. He turned to me and asked me once more if I’d still go with him, having now seen what we’d face, and I told him that there was nothing of a coward in my heart, nor would I turn back having once put my hand to the plow. So together we approached the walls; we two against their hundreds.” He took a sip of his wine, allowing the suspense to build. “The Hameen spotted us and called to us, insulting scapwee, but Carda answered them not with words. He pulled his sword from its sheath and turned to me. ’Fear not, Craig. Jeeah will give us the victory.’

“What was there to say to that?” Craig looked to his audience for an answer.

“Nothing!” Shawnahur couldn’t help but call out. “Jeeah will give you victory.”

Yanof shifted in his seat. “If ‘tisn’t Shawn. Shouldn’t you be with the pucklings? Wouldn’t want them to be slaughtered by a wolf, now would we?”

“You just want the wool to make a scarf for Rosheen.” Shawnahur felt the familiar clenching in his stomach at his brother’s jibes.

“You’re too little to even know what you’re talking about!”

Shawnahur clamped his mouth down on a retort of his own. When Yanof had been seventeen synods, he’d seen many girls already, but Shawnahur hadn’t found one that suited him yet.

Craig cleared his throat. “Are we done?” Satisfied that Yanof was silent, he glared at Shawnahur as if the interruption had been his fault. “Carda ran up the hill with me close on his heels, ready to face down an entire garrison on our own!”

He Put a Foot in His Mouth

“Hey, Shawn.” Conor, the middle brother among Tearan’s sons, sat down beside him, draping an arm across his shoulders. “You shouldn’t have rubbed salt in Yanof’s wound. Snapping back at him was one thing but mentioning Rosheen…” Conor pursed his lips.

“Well, ‘tis true.” Shawnahur glared at his meat.

“Aye, ‘twas true.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’d planned to come back and discuss a betrothal with Rosheen’s father, but when he went to see her this step, he found out that her family had already announced her betrothal to Cathal.”

“What?” Shawnahur couldn’t believe his ears. “How? Cathal’s at least seven synods older than her.”

“And Rian’s right-hand man.” No humor traced Conor’s voice. “What’s a father to do with that prestige?”

Across the table, Craig was continuing his tale, but Yanof stared into his goblet, a sour expression on his face.

“I… I didn’t know.” 

“Well, now you do. Best stay clear of Yanof the next few steps he’s home.”

What must it be like to have your heart set on one person only to have another steal her away? ‘Twasn’t right. He remembered the way Rosheen had stared up at his brother. The two had made a perfect couple, and Shawnahur loved the way she’d softened Yanof’s temper.

Silent Contemplation

A cheer brought him back to the present; Craig had finished describing their exploits. As Logan bounded into another dramatic account of heroism and impossible odds, Shawnahur stood, his appetite stolen by compassion and guilt. With a final glance at Yanof, who was still intent on the innards of his wine glass, he left the celebration as quietly as he’d come. 

How could I have been so stupid? He kicked a pebble out the courtyard, followed it, and kicked it again. I always open my mouth before I think. If I’d used my brain like Yanof always scolds me, I’d have seen the clues. He’s usually so exuberant no one else can get a word in, and the way he was hanging his head when he thought no one was looking. 

Following the wall of the manor house around, he found his thinking rock looming in front of him and scrambled lightly up until he could see out over the valley and its farmland. But ‘twasn’t the lowlands he wanted to see; Shawnahur pushed his legs out in front of him and sat down, leaning his weight back on his hands and looking up into the blue expanse. 

Out of habit, his eyes started searching, but Tsiki was as elusive as ever. A whole synod he’d been seeking it, ever since he’d heard the story of the small Skymnan moon from a merchant selling ores and crystals from the darklands.  He hadn’t told his brothers, of course—they teased him enough as ‘twas without knowing he believed the exaggerated stories of some weak-eyed stranger who masked his face from Grean—but something about the way the merchant had described it had given him an aura of authenticity. Mayhap one moonstep, Shawnahur would be able to be like that—free to find fables and cross continents, quick-witted and smooth-spoken. Someone who wouldn’t spoil his brothers’ visit with careless words.

He let his air out in a deep exhale. “Jeeah, I don’t understand, but I know you do. Would you help me keep my tongue from running ahead of my reason?”

Wispy clouds drifted high overhead traveling to the south. He recalled one of his favorite thinking songs, and he hummed it as he watched the clouds. The winds would be here soon and with them colder weather. The pucklings would like it; their coats would grow thick and protect them, and they’d have all the swimming space they could hope for when the rains filled the lakes again. But what of his brothers in Rian’s army? What would their situation be like in the endless downpours and chilling gusts of wind?

He clasped his hands behind his head and lay back. No amount of anxious imagination would change what would be. But he knew that Jeeah held it all in his hands.