The Sundering

“My lady Janistor, I would be the most honoured man in the world if you would consent to take me as a troth.”

“I’m sorry... do I know you?”

Zanthred choked a little. Of all the possible responses that had gone through his mind, this was not one he expected. The little grey feather wobbled in his hand.

“Er, yes. I am Zanthred. We danced here not two nights ago.”

Janistor’s features settled into a smile.

“Ah, I am sorry. I dance a lot.”

There was a titter of laughter from the group around her. One young man raised a scented handkerchief to his face to conceal the broad grin that had formed. It did not do a very good job.

“So tell me Zanthred, I have heard nothing of your deeds. Are you perhaps famous in the lands across the sea? In Delfuri or Lansissari where the world is yet wild?”

“No my lady, I am from a village north of Icknel, I have never journeyed out of Quri.” There was a peel of laughter from the room at the response.

“Are you perhaps a great artist, who has taken me to be your muse?” asked Janistor.

“No, though you are muse enough, I am but a humble amateur in all the arts.” Another round of laughter. The man with the handkerchief was virtually having to stuff it in his mouth to keep quiet.

“Dear Zanthred, are you here in Serra to compete in the athletics games and win fame across the land?”

“No my lady, I am here to do my civic service. Twenty years tilling the fields for the emperor.” The hilarity multiplied with each utterance. The crowd were no longer disguising their amusement. Zanthred could feel his face flush with heat and he began to sweat.

“Do you have a rare gift for me to show your fortune, maybe a fine mare? Or perhaps something won with courage and skill? A scale from a blue dragon or the pelt of a shadow panther?”

“No my lady, I only have this simple goose feather and my devotion to offer you.”

The room erupted in fits of glee. Zanthred had never heard such a spontaneous outburst from an entire room of people before. Even Janistor was joining in with a slight chuckle. But with an eye to propriety she forced herself back to a serious demeanour and signalled for the rest of the room to calm down.

Once there was quiet enough to speak she delivered her verdict. She took the little grey feather and held it in her hands. Not for the first time, Zanthred was awestruck by the number she already wore in her hair. No less than twelve – twelve troths, twelve men who were content to share her and perhaps call her a ‘lover.’ Twelve rivals from
who she would eventually pick a single husband. Zanthred had known his chances of joining them were slim, but after the dance...he had just got a feeling that something special had passed between them. He was starting to doubt that intuition.

“Dear Zanthred, I am sorry, I cannot accept you as a troth, but I consider it an honour to have one so...bold...devoted to me.” She took the feather and tied it to a band at her wrist. That was meant to dull the blow; the wrist meant ‘I can’t see myself loving you, but I’m happy to have you as a friend.’ It was small consolation. There were already about thirty other feathers tied to that band.

Zanthred got up from his knee and planned on saying something expressing gratitude, like he had practiced in his head. However, his embarrassment was so deep that just wanted to get away from her and her friends as fast as possible, so he automatically beat a hasty retreat to the other side of the inn, chased by howls of laughter.

“Zanthred! Did you just do what I think you did, or am I hallucinating?” asked his friend Mille. Pure shock radiated from her face.

Zanthred sighed as he sat down at his familiar table, “no Mille, you’re not hallucinating. Get me some more mead will you, I need to drink.”

“I can’t believe you just tried proposing to Janistor! Look at her!”

“I don’t want to look at her. That’s the very last thing I want to do. In fact, I think I want to see if I can slowly melt through this wall and leave without anyone noticing me.”

“Stop being such a child, it was your choice. You can’t sit here sighing all night going ‘aye me’. Look at her!”

Zanthred slowly pulled his head round. She was in high spirits, giggling at what just happened. And every time she came to the punch line one of the crowd around her would shoot a mirthful glance in Zanthred’s direction, leaving him in no doubt as to what they were finding funny.

A hundred years of life had resulted in little more than Zanthred learning the name of every star in the heavens, absolutely everything there was to know about sheep tending, and almost everything about geometry. It was this last facet of knowledge he could use to analyse Janistor’s face. Every aspect conformed flawlessly to the ‘perfect ratios’ his master had taught him to analyse the structure of natural objects.  There was a mathematical continuity in the placement of her eyes and the width of her nose that every work of art aspired to. The two halves of her face were perfectly symmetrical, something he had seen on no other woman before her.

But that was not really what went through his head when he looked at her. It was more like: Phwaar, she’s gorgeous!

“Zanthred, you see that long red feather in her hair?”

“Yes,” he droned.

“That was given to her by Malichar ap Sunnar, son of the lord of Sunnel. He climbed to the top of a mountain and plucked it from the tail of nesting eagle. And you see that green and purple one?”

“Yes.”

“That came from Callin ap Elsiren, a distant relative of the emperor. He personally went to the spice colonies and had to fight off an attack by the tribals to get that feather from a rare parrot. Rumour has it he would have challenged her last would-be suitor to a duel to the death if she had not intervened. And you see that black one?”

“I get your point Mille.”

She thumped the table. “The point I’m making is that some of the best men in the empire have done some of the most romantic things imaginable to get her attention. And you offered her a grey goose feather.”

“I thought it said something like ‘forget the hype, I like you, you like me, that’s all that matters’.”

“A hundred years old, and you don’t know the first thing about wooing,” tutted Mille in her big-sisterly way.

“I’ve not had much practice. Fifty of those years I spent on a hillside with sheep.”

“Yes, and I spent the same amount of time doing the same thing in the valley next door, but I know damn well not to go making a fool of myself in public. I wish you’d run this past me before you tried that. I’d have stopped you.”

“I know you would have. But I wanted to take the risk,” insisted Zanthred.

“Risk? You really don’t get it do you! You can spend a hundred years building a good reputation, but you can lose it all in one misjudged action. By the morning everyone in Chepsid will know who you are and what you did.”

Zanthred groaned, put his head flat against the table and pointed to his empty beaker.

“Mead! Or wine if they’ve got it.”

Mille consented and got up to ladle some more drink into their beakers.

At least this happened in Chepsid, thought Zanthred.

Chepsid lay across the great river from Serra. It was a town on the outskirts of a city where all the young cherno went for entertainment. It was full of cheap hostels and wine parlours where labourers performing their civic service could unwind or look for a mate. Actors, comedians, acrobats, singers and poets all flocked here practice their acts
before taking them to the market square in the centre of Serra. The township had a reputation for raucous behaviour and much of what would never be tolerated in the proud and duty laden world outside passed by here unnoticed. Zanthred just might get through this episode if he could convince people it was a moment of Chepsid madness.

Mille returned empty handed.

“Baytee, our host wants to talk to you,” she said.

Zanthred looked up to see the woman who ran the establishments looming over the table. Baytee was in her six-hundreds and had grown broad from all the cooking she did and all the wines she tasted. She had her arms crossed about her bosom with a jug held temptingly in one hand.

“My good host, how can I serve you?” said Zanthred.

“You’ve done me more good than I could have asked already, young one. That was quite a laugh you gave us! I thought I would bring this wine for you and your friend. It is one of our best. From the Emerald Coast.” She placed the wine down. It was a large quantity; more than two could drink in the night and retain their senses.

“Thank you! I am only sorry that I currently lack the means to repay your kindness. Perchance you have work you need doing around your household?” offered Zanthred.

“Work and workers aplenty I’m afraid. But if you could bear to separate from your blue cowry, I would be greatly pleased. Such a token would carry no little weight in Chepsid, now you have made a name for yourself.”

Zanthred’s hands shot to the little blue cowry shell at his neck. It was the first time someone had asked for one of his cowry; he just wished it was for a different reason. Although everyone in the inn wore one or two of the shiny cowry shells about them – as earrings, beads or toggles on clothing – the blue cowry they wore around their necks was special. It signalled “I’m available and looking for a partner.” Janistor still wore one, despite the twelve feathers in her hair. It had been all Zanthred had been able to focus on when he had been swirling around the room with her in his arms. That little shiny jewel on her long brown neck, telling him he had a chance.

Collecting cowry from notable people was something everybody did and giving them was a good way to discharge your debts. Only, Zanthred felt awkward about giving his blue cowry away before having found a wife. He had had visions of it being some kind of solemn occasion. But what choice did he have?

“Of course, I consider myself blessed to know it is in your good care.” He untied the pendant and handed it over.

“Thank you. I don’t know where you are lodging, but I have a few spare spaces in my hostel. You are welcome to stay until you begin your civic service.”

“Really?” squeaked Mille. “It’s an honour. We shall come over tomorrow.”

The Perched Sparrow was not so much an exclusive establishment as a notorious one. It had a reputation for attracting the best poets and musicians among Serra’s youth and was always busy. If you were serious about musical appreciation, as Mille was, then you did not turn down the opportunity to stay there.

The room went deathly quiet for a moment and the three of them at the table glanced to the door. There was a man in respectable garb holding a chest at the threshold. He looked very sour faced.

“I wish to speak to Baytee, the host of this inn,” said the man. “It is I,” said Baytee.

“I am come from the palace. After today’s terrible events the great banquet has been cancelled-”

“...Terrible events?” interrupted Baytee.

“You have not heard? No one came to tell you?”

“There have been high winds all day, perhaps no one dared cross the river. The waves come up to the breast of the bridge. But what is this event?”

The palace porter drew a deep sigh, “the emperor Kirrie is dead, slain by the hand of her cousin Tisenin. The nobles elected Duarma the new emperor. Tisenin has fled to sea.” There was a general gasp of disbelief, then a clamour of questions where thrown at him. “I will tell all I know! But first I must speak with Baytee.”

“Then speak,” said Baytee.

“This is a gift from Duarma.” The palace servant opened the box and revealed what looked like a series of white cocoons, each as large as a man’s fist. “These are a rare ingredient to be used in a dish that was to be served at the banquet tonight. Duarma wishes that one of the talented composers in this establishment might scribe an elegy for Kirrie.”

Baytee motioned for one of her residents to take the box over to her stove.

“It will be an honour to serve what was meant for the emperor’s table at our own. I cannot speak on the behalf of any of my guests, but I know their creativity is boundless, and I think it is likely they will have a composition ready by morning.”

“Why us? Why not the palace laureate?” whispered Zanthred.

Baytee overheard, but addressed her reply to the whole room, “This generation is too young to remember, but a paltry two hundred years ago, Kirrie, yet to be emperor, sang in this hall and danced with her only troth.”

An audible flutter of excitement went round the room; to compose for the dead emperor was one thing, but to know that you and she shared a common bond made it even more compelling. Almost straight away the patrons gathered together in small groups and started making notes on scraps of paper or strumming experimental bars on their instruments. Baytee began following the recipe provided with the box of white cocoons and people crowded round to ask the place servant questions about the terrible
murder.

“I can’t believe it,” muttered Zanthred. “I can understand being scared of the Ban, but murder?”

“I know,” said Mille.

It was not long before the Baytee was dishing up, ladling a bowl full of soup in front of each person. They spooned it into their mouths in silence. Any other time and Zanthred might have enjoyed the salty taste and sticky texture, but that was impossible with what they had in their minds.

When everyone was done, Janistor picked up her lyre and stood in the centre of the room. She began singing the Lay of Finasa. It was a song about lost love and wasted life, and popularly held to be the saddest song every written. Her fingers barely touched the lyre and she let her voice carry the full weight of the words in long sonorous notes.

Her soft voice cut right to Zanthred’s heart and he was not surprised when tears started streaming down his face. Mille was also crying next to him; in fact, everyone in the Perched Sparrow had water on their cheeks.

When the last lonely notes of Janistor’s lyre had been plucked and her voice came to rest, one of her follows joined her in the centre of the room. It was the man with the handkerchief, now using it to dab his eyes.

He addressed the whole room, “my friends, I propose that whoever should write the elegy for Emperor Kirrie, Janistor should be the one to perform it.”

There was a clamorous ascent of pots ringing on tables and shouts of ‘aye.’ Janistor looked well pleased and smiled eagerly at her advocate.

A thought struck Zanthred; a plan to make Janistor his, perhaps the only shot he had. “I know what you’re thinking Zanthred,” said Mille. “I can see it on your face. You can’t write a song by the morning and you can’t make Janistor love you for it.”

The plan shattered before his eyes.

“No, I suppose you’re right.”

“We’ll find you a new blue cowry in the morning, and hopefully a new girl to go with it. Until then, let’s drink and talk sheep.”

They drank as much of the wine as they dared to retain their senses and occasionally danced when a lively troop took to the floor. Their fun was only spoilt when some raised voices on Janistor’s side of the inn seemed to indicate a fight was about to break out.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU AGREE WITH TISENIN!?” The man with the handkerchief seemed to have cornered a young man against a wall and was shouting right against his face. His words were slurred as if heavily weighted with alcohol.

“I didn’t say I agreed with him killing the emperor, I said I agreed with him that something radical needs to be done to stop the Ban. If we are going to act, it has to be now, before our powers are reduced too far.”

“You are an insult to our race. We should stone you to death where you stand!”

Shouts of thuggish agreement sent a chill down Zanthred’s spine. Luckily Baytee pushed her way through the crowd and raised her voice over either of the antagonists.

“We’ll have no more kin-slaying today. If you can’t argue civilly, get yourselves a table at either end of the inn.” There was a good deal of force in her voice and she was held in high esteem by the patrons. So, sluggishly, they pulled themselves away from the confrontation and the cornered man slunk out of the door. Baytee interposed herself at the entrance just in case anyone decided to follow him and continue the argument.

The man with handkerchief begged leave of his friends and wondered around to cool his temper. Unfortunately, he wondered straight over to where Zanthred and Mille were stood. When he recognised Zanthred from his earlier exhibition, he paused.

“Ah, you are the latest love rival, yes?”

“For Janistor?” asked Zanthred.

“Of course, who else?”

“And you are?” interrupted Mille.

The man pointed to Janistor, “you see that purple and green feather in her hair? That is mine. I am Callin ap
Elsiren.”

“Oh,” said Mille flatly. “I’ve heard of you, by reputation.”

“Yes, I forget that newcomers might not know me in person. You may have gathered I have quite the hot temper.” He dabbed the handkerchief to his mouth and took a breath of whatever scent was infused on it, presumably in order to calm his nerves.

“Yes...” said Mille, recalling the story about the threatened duel.

“I just wanted to let you know Zanthred, that although Janistor may consider it an ‘honour’ to have ‘one so bold’ as a suitor, I find it rather insulting that a pleb like you would hold yourself to be my equal.”

The insult bit deep in Zanthred. In cherno society such comments were rarely used without the malice implied. He did not know what to say back, so he just held his tongue.

“I think in future Zanthred, it would be better if you found a different place of recreation so we didn’t cross paths again.”

Zanthred was about to make for the door when Mille placed a hand on his shoulder to hold him back. “Oh dear Callin, you see what you’ve just done?” she said. “You’ve just made it impossible for Zanthred to spend his evenings anywhere else! Has already made a fool of himself this evening, so he couldn’t possibly be made a coward as well. One flaw is quite enough to mar a man’s life.”

Callin starred down at Mille for a pregnant couple of seconds. Zanthred grit his teeth.

“Humph, well quite. At least you, my dear one, have sense enough for the both of you. Goodnight.”

He turned to leave, but Mille called him back.

“Callin, how does it work? The twelve of you with Janistor?”

Callin turned again with a scowl on his face. “Adequately. We nobles are often called away on hunts or to do deeds worthy of our stations, so we time matters so that there are rarely more than three of us in Serra. Still, as to the matter of who goes home with her at night...that is up to Janistor.” He looked over at where she was laughing and
frolicking with her friends; there was one handsome man she was staring deeply in to the eyes of, giggling coquettishly at his every comment. Callin did not look pleased. He no doubt suspected it would not be his turn this particular night. “Still, it is not like I am without obligations of my own.” Callin stroked a hand through his hair, drawing attention to the three feathers perched there.

Zanthred and Mille distinctly felt the lack feathers in their own hair and got the feeling that Callin had won this round. He left and Zanthred breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thanks Mille, you saved my rep there.”

“I know, you can thank properly some other time. For now, I’m taking this wine of yours. There’s a frightened looking girl by herself over there and I’m going to see if she is open minded about which gender she beds.”

Zanthred looked over and saw a short mousey girl sat by herself with a quill and some parchment. She was splitting her time between furiously scribbling and nervously looking up towards Janistor and her clique.

“Need some help wooing her?”

Mille shot him a look of pure scepticism.