Chaosbound (17 page)

“Did father start the fight?” Sage asked. “Draken said that it was ‘all his' fault. Father started it.”

Sage had lost so much in the past day. She still needed a father. So Myrrima decided to let the girl hold on to the illusion that she still had her father for as long she could.

Myrrima asked, “What do you think?”

“Draken said that when Daddy first found the Walkins, he insulted them. He called Rain a ‘tart.' So father started it, and Owen Walkin tried to finish it.”

Myrrima traced the logic. “It wasn't Aaath Ulber who started this,” Myrrima said, “it was the Walkins. They're the ones who were squatting on our farm. We thought it was the birds eating our cherries, but now you and I both know better.”

“Draken was letting them live there.”

“Because he loved their daughter,” Myrrima said. “But Draken didn't
have the right to let them squat. It wasn't his farm. You wouldn't go give away our milk cow, would you? That is what Draken was doing. He should have come forward and asked your father's permission. Nor should the Walkins have allowed it.”

Myrrima did not want to say it, but she half-wondered if the Walkins had thrown Rain at Draken. Perhaps they'd hoped that the two would fall in love. Perhaps they'd encouraged Draken's affection, knowing that his father was a wealthy landowner who might provide a parcel for an inheritance. It was, after all, a time-honored tradition among lords to increase their lands that way. But in Myrrima's mind, it was also damned near to prostitution.

“Your father was in the right to throw them off,” Myrrima said. “We've had this talk about squatters before. It isn't a kind thing to do, but it is needful.”

“But the Walkins had children in the camp,” Sage said. “Some of them were just babies. They shouldn't have to starve just because . . . their parents make mistakes.”

“That's the way of it,” Myrrima said. “When parents make mistakes, children often suffer.” She thought of Erin, and even of Sage. What would her children be called upon to bear because of her actions?

She dared not say it, but now she was reminded of how much she feared Aaath Ulber's plan. He was going to take the whole family back into a war.

“The ship doesn't really belong to Father,” Sage said. “It doesn't belong to anyone. Father shouldn't be able to just take it.”

“Aaath Ulber is a soldier at war,” Myrrima pointed out. “When a lord is in battle, he often finds that he may have to commandeer goods—food for his troops, shelter for his wounded, horses to draw wagons. He takes a little in order to help the many. That is what your father was doing with the ship. Owen Walkin knew that. He was a soldier, too. Baron Walkin broke his oath.”

Sage peered into the barrel. It was nearly full, and light reflecting from the water's surface danced in her blue eyes.

Sage was aptly named, for even as a babe she had seemed to have a thoughtful look to her. “Father has changed,” Sage said. “I don't know who he is anymore. He doesn't think like we do, or else how could he do what he did to Sir Owen?”

“I suspect that you're right,” Myrrima said. “Aaath Ulber's people have been at war with the wyrmlings for thousands of years. In that war, his people lost everything—their lands, their friends, their freedom to roam. On Aaath Ulber's world, he had a choice of only a few women that he could wed. He was expected to marry a woman from the warrior clans, a good breeder. In his world, he was expected to give up everything in the service of his people—even love.”

“I think that people who give up love,” Sage said, “must be a different kind of people. A person who would give up love for the war effort would give up anything else. I think he just expected Walkin to give up the ship. He didn't think to ask for it, because in his world there would have been no need to ask.”

Myrrima studied her daughter, surprised at the depth of the girl's insight. “I think you're right. You should remember this. You and I both know your father, but we have yet to learn what kind of man Aaath Ulber really is.”

Rain still loved Draken; that much she felt sure of as she walked away from the Borenson camp, using a wad of grass as a poultice to stanch the wound to her arm. The cut wasn't wide, but it was deep.

Yet the image of her father's death hung over her, blinding in its intensity, so that as she plodded down the uneven trail, she often stumbled over rocks or tree roots.

Her thoughts were jangled, her nerves on edge.

There was a road of sorts here along the rim of the mesa—uneven and narrow. Teamsters sometimes used it in winter, Draken had told her. But there were no houses here, no other sign of life. Instead ragged bluffs of rock—sometimes iron red and sometimes ashen gray—rose all around in
a jumble; in places the rock lay exposed for mile after weary mile. The soil was so shallow that little but rangit grass could grow in the open, and most of the shade could be found only beside the occasional stream.

I love Draken, she kept thinking, and she wanted to return to him. But she couldn't bear standing in the presence of Aaath Ulber. His actions had driven a wedge between her and Draken, and Rain feared that she had lost him forever.

Just as importantly, she couldn't bear the thought of abandoning her mother now. The Walkin clan was so poor. Rain was the oldest of seven children. Life would be hard enough here in the wilderness, but without her father, it would be much tougher now. Rain felt that she owed it to her mother to stay.

Which left her only one choice: She had to convince Draken to stay.

She found herself walking slowly. The Walkins soon became strung out, Rain's mother leading the way, her back stiff and angry, her strides long and sure.

The mothers carried their infants, the fathers the toddlers, and every child above the age of five had to walk. But the little ones could not travel in haste, and could not go far. After a mile, they began to lag.

So Rain kept up the rear guard, making sure that they were safe. There were wild hunting cats up here on the bluff, she knew, cats large enough to take down a large rangit or run off with a child. She'd heard them not two nights ago snarling in the dark as she tried to sleep.

So she lagged behind. Her aunt Della soon came to walk at her side. Della was ten years Rain's senior, and already had five children. Her tongue was as sharp as a dagger, and she felt compelled to honestly speak any cruel thought that came to mind.

“You're not thinking of going back to Draken, are you?”

“No,” Rain said. The word was slow to come from her mouth.

“You can't go back to him. It's because of
you
that we're in this mess.”

The notion seemed odd. “What do you mean?”

“If you hadn't gotten caught by Warlord Grunswallen, Owen never would have had to kill to defend your honor.”

Rain felt determined to defend herself. “As I recall, I was churning butter in the basement when I got ‘caught.' It wasn't my fault. Someone—one of our neighbors—reported me.”

“But why?” Della demanded. “Obviously, you offended someone. They wanted to see you gone.”

Rain knew that wasn't true. “I had no enemies, only faithless townsfolk who hoped to gain some advantage for themselves.”

“Or maybe someone just disliked the way that you always go around with your nose in the air, acting like you're better than they are! Here I am, the pretty little lady—to the manor born.”

Della wasn't the most pleasant woman to look upon. Nor was she ugly. But it was plain that she felt ugly inside. Her father had not had a title, though he was a respected cattleman.

“I've never done that,” Rain said. “I've never been a snob. Mother taught me to hold my head up high, to look others in the eye. That isn't the same as being proud.”

Della opened her mouth, and then stopped, a sure sign that she had something truly devastating to say. “Going back to that boy would be a poor tribute to your father. He died to save your honor.”

That was the problem, Rain decided. He hadn't died to save her honor. She'd seen the look in his eyes before the fight began. He was willing to kill Aaath Ulber—and Draken, and anyone else who got between him and his money.

“Father saved my honor,” Rain said candidly, “but took little thought for his own.”

“He was trying to feed his family,” Della said. “You'll understand what he was going through someday, when you've spent enough nights awake worrying about how to feed your little ones.”

He could have tried to work it out, Rain thought. Della's trying too hard to defend him. Suddenly she understood something. “You think it's my fault that my father is dead?”

“He died to save your honor,” Della insisted. She stumbled over a root and caught herself, switched her babe to the other shoulder and patted
its back, trying to soothe it to sleep. The babe was only nine weeks old. It was a colicky thing that spent most of the night crying. Now it raised its head, as if to let out a wail, but instead just lay back down to sleep.

I'd be colicky too if I had to drink Della's sour milk, Rain thought.

She tried to track Della's logic. When Rain had been caught and taken to Warlord Grunswallen's manor, Owen had waited for the man to leave his home, and had then ambushed him in the market, overpowering his guards.

He'd tried to avenge Rain's honor, but he'd struck too late. The fat old warlord had already bedded her.

Still, Owen had known that his deed would bring retribution on him and his family, so the whole family had fled that day, taking boats downriver for thirty miles, reaching a town in the full night, and then creeping overland for days.

They hadn't stopped to purchase food for a week, hadn't met with a stranger. They'd traveled only at night.

When they did resurface, two hundred miles from home, they heard rumors of how Owen Walkin's entire realm had been “cleansed.”

At first, Rain imagined that it was their fault, that Grunswallen's men had taken revenge upon the entire realm. But all of the bards agreed—the lands were cleared in the morning, and new tenants began to arrive by noon.

That could only have meant that Grunswallen had sold their lands months earlier—perhaps as much as a year in advance.

He'd simply become more rapacious as the time for the cleansing neared. Taking her as his slave was simply one last mad act among a long list of crimes.

So Rain's father had saved her. In fact, he'd saved his entire family, and Rain felt grateful to him. But she did not feel guilty about the manner of his death.

She hadn't wished it upon him. She hadn't sensed it coming. She would have averted it, if she could.

“You say that my father died for my honor, but it seems to me that he died for all of us—just trying to get by.”

“
You
shouldn't have stepped in!” Della said. “Your father couldn't fight that giant—and you!”

Now Della's true feelings came to the fore. Rain felt angry. She'd tried to talk her father down, stop him from committing a senseless murder. She'd hoped to remind of him of his honor.

But now she saw the true reason for Della's rage. She suspected that Owen had been slow to react precisely
because
he feared hurting his own daughter.

Maybe she's right, Rain thought.

She halted a moment, feeling ill, overwhelmed by the questions that raced through her mind.

Della's youngest boy was trudging along ahead. He turned back and whined, “I want some water.”

“There's water ahead,” Della urged.

The road before them wound over a long stretch of gray rocks that could not support even a gorse bush or a blade of rangit grass. The sun beat down mercilessly. Rain's mother had forged far ahead of the rest of the group, and was now approaching a line of gum trees and wild plums, a sure sign that there was a creek. They had come perhaps two miles from the Borenson camp.

Suddenly Rain's mother burst into a sprint, stretching her legs long as she pounded down the road. She looked as if she was breaking free, running from all the troubles of her past.

“There she goes,” Della said, as if she'd been expecting her to run. “Off to town. That mighty Lord Borenson is going to hang when she gets through with him.”

Rain's mother was heading toward Fossil. It would be a long run—twenty miles—but she could make it in a few hours.

The blood burned in Rain's face, shame and rage warring in her.

She worried how her mother would twist the tale. She couldn't hope to gain much sympathy if she told the truth, so she'd have to lie: tell the townsfolk how a giant had killed her husband, a cruel beast who was intent on robbing a bit of salvage from her poor family. She'd neglect to mention what her husband had done.

But there was one thing that Rain felt sure of. No matter what happened, Aaath Ulber would not get a fair hearing. People would see his size, his strange features, and cast their judgment based on that.

Most likely the law would demand that he hang. Whether for the killing or for the robbery, it did not matter. The penalty was the same for both. Justice here in the wilderness was stark and sure.

Rain hurried her pace until she reached the line of trees.

They came upon a relatively broad creek, perhaps eight feet across. White gum trees grew along its banks, as did wild apples and plums. Rain crossed it and looked beyond—across a broad expanse of more gray rock, interspersed with fields of rangit grass. She studied her surroundings.

The fruit trees were the same breed as found in the Borensons' old orchard. Most likely, burrow bears or borrowbirds had eaten the fruits in ages past, and then shat out the seeds here on the ridge. In this manner the fruit trees had gone wild along the creeks.

“This looks like a good place to camp,” Bane said. He was now the oldest of the Walkin brothers. So he urged the families to set camp beneath some trees, while the children went about searching for food.