Nadia Williams

         Syllen swung around and punched Tanar as hard as he could.  Shaking all over, he clenched his teeth, face white.  Tanar fell over without a sound. 

         "Oh, crementia, what have I done?"  The anger vanished.  Syllen tried to imagine the things Tanar would do to him when he woke.  He kept anxious eyes on his fallen master, ready to bolt for safety when he stirred and woke.

         Wetness spread over the front of Tanar's pants.  Syllen noticed his eyes.  For a moment he thought, hoped, that Tanar had just passed out with his eyes open and staring.  He managed to ignore the drop of blood that had slipped from Tanar's ear. 

         The moment passed, Syllen covered his face with his hands.  He cried a little, shouted, beat his head with his fists.  It couldn't be.  He was just tasting adulthood, and now he'd done this. 

         Bring in the animals, draw water for the night.  These tasks, urgent minutes before, now seemed trivial.  Syllen's mind fought its way from the numbness of shock. 

         Andreh was due to pick up a basket of apricots in an hour or two. That, at least, was the excuse.  Andreh would have stayed the night, drinking with Tanar.  This time, Syllen wouldn't be cleaning vomit from the floor in the morning. 

         Syllen pictured himself explaining about the beatings, the abuse, the hungry nights.  Who would listen?  Seeing himself hanging from the judgment tree, he ran.  Through the golden fields of wheat he went, over the grassy plain, up the slope of the faraway hill.  He thought of Tanar's bloated body, the face more grotesque in death than it had been in life.  He clutched at the sudden cramp in his stomach. 

         He forced his thoughts to his options.  Option, he corrected himself.  His only chance lay in Baneg.  From what he'd heard, one could lose one's identity in the bustling streets there.  He'd never been to Baneg, but he knew it was to the east.  He kept the sun's failing rays on his back. 

         Syllen had to rest.  He turned for a last backward look and gasped, fell flat on the ground.  No amount of air stilled his feeling of suffocation.  So soon?  He'd hoped for a bigger head start.

         From in front of the barn where Tanar's body lay, a horseman looked straight at him.  It wasn't Andreh.  He seemed to shine in the rays of the setting sun.  Syllen crouched even lower, feeling naked to the faraway eyes.  "I didn't mean to," he whispered, scrambled to his feet and ran on.

         That night was a cold, hungry one.  Syllen didn't sleep.  Tanar's face was in every shadow, his voice in every whisper of the wind.  Before the sun had had a chance to show itself, Syllen drank from a cool, clear stream, trying to ignore his hunger.  All that day he walked as fast as he could, running sometimes when he remembered the judgment tree.

         His mind went over the events leading to his attack on Tanar.  Tanar had deserved what he'd got.  He'd been asking for it for years.  Anyone else would have done the same in his place.

         Wouldn't they?

         Mid-afternoon he stumbled and fell.  It was almost too much effort to get up again.  He'd have to take time to find food.  Tanar had helped train him for his flight: irregular meals taught you to find food in the wild.  Some time later, stomach scarce appeased by the roots and leaves he'd found and eaten, Syllen was on his way again. 

         How far would the townspeople go when they found the body?  How far would they chase him?  Even questions as worrying as these were not enough to keep him awake that night.  He had made a proper bed under a bush, and slept until bright daylight woke him.

         Another three days of eating roots and Syllen couldn't stand it any more.  He was tempted to knock on the door of a house he passed, but common sense prevailed.  He would somehow get a meal in Baneg.  Another thing to look forward to.

         Familiar grassland gave way to a forest of huge old trees the next day.  Syllen stopped.  The trees stood shoulder to shoulder, a woody regiment that might have trampled the field the day before, it ended so abruptly at their feet.  He followed its edge to where a path slithered among the trees like a brownish-green snake. 

         Syllen hesitated.  He'd never seen a forest before.  What would it be like without plains stretching to the horizon all around? 

         He looked back east and gasped.  Strength left him.  He staggered.  Fear drained sense from his mind.  The horseman had found him.  Syllen snapped from the shock and ran.

         The forest closed behind him, it seemed, but it was scant protection.  The hoof beats of the great warhorse would soon be upon him.  He should have slept less, rested less.  He should have...

         He should have never hit Tanar.  Though the heavens knew the pig deserved it, he shouldn't have.  Syllen had always known his own strength.  An orphan, no matter how clever, had no easy life. 

         Syllen ran because he thought he should, not because he had any illusions of outrunning the horse.  The man had been no more than twenty paces from him when he‘d seen him, close enough for Syllen to see the rich clothes and well-made saddle. 

         Think.  The trees towered over him, closed in on him.  He stopped, covered his head with his arms.  Run.  He forced his quivering muscles on.  He'd seen someone hung once, when he was a boy. 

         He left the path and ran, throat closing, this way and that.  A clump of bushes grabbed him, scratched, held him back.  Syllen pushed and turned, thorns gouging, twisted branches snapping.  It was no use.  He backed up, reason shining through the clouds of panic.  Under.  Hide.  The bushes' clawing turned to an embrace, their unyielding mass covered him, welcomed him inside. 

         Be still, heart.  Oh, why did his chest scream for air?  He opened his mouth wide to quiet his breathing, clenched his shaking hands between his knees.

         No one came.  Could he go?  Did the horseman lurk just out of sight, waiting to grab him? 

         He dared to move a twig that poked into his side.  He counted his ever-slowing breaths.  The welcome hideaway became a prison.  Syllen crawled out.  Nothing there.  He'd eluded the pursuer. 

         He walked back the way he'd come, picking at thorns, rubbing scratches.  His clothes were torn. 

         Syllen stopped.  The path was not where it should have been.  The trees stretched brown-green arms high over him, hiding the way out.  Syllen stopped.  The sides of his throat seemed to stick together when he swallowed.  He shook his head, closed his eyes.  Fear would kill him now. 

         He picked up a stick and scratched at the green moss on a tree.  He walked twenty paces in one direction, went back to the tree, walked twenty paces in another, until he'd explored in three directions from the marked tree.  Twenty paces in the fourth direction, he marked another tree, searched twenty paces to its left and right, then marked another tree twenty paces on.

         An hour later, Syllen sat down on the ground and cried until he had no more tears, glad that no one could see him.  It was too dark by then to do much more than crawl to the foot of the nearest tree.  He curled up in a hollow among its roots, and fell asleep.

         Syllen was a baby in his mother's arms.  So that's what you look like.  She smiled, didn't answer.  There was his father, his kind face familiar.  Syllen reached out, touched the bearded face.  He opened his eyes.  How much the moss-covered tree felt like his father's cheek.  Half asleep, Syllen knew it had been a dream, knew he was stroking a tree, yet still he found comfort in the touch. 

         "Would you like some breakfast?"

         Syllen twisted round, froze.  The horseman had a fire going, over it on a stick sizzled two rabbits.  Syllen's heart sank to his toes.  He sat up, tried to stop himself drooling when he smelled the meat.  "Yes, please, Sir."

         "Come and sit closer.  Would you like to wash?  You picked a good spot, I must say.  There's a stream just there."  The horseman pointed behind him with a thumb.

         Syllen rose, hands opening and closing at his sides.  He could pretend to go and wash, and follow the stream out of the forest.  He'd have a bit of a head start.  The horse was nibbling some grass a few steps away, unsaddled.  The horseman's pack was open, his blankets still unrolled where he had spent the night.

         Who am I fooling?  He nodded, went in search of the stream.  The ground was damp under his knees, the water cold on his skin.  He watched the dirt of his mad flight fade.  If only he could do the same to his soul.

         "No such luxuries as bread, I'm afraid," the horseman said when he returned, "but I have a knife here for you."  Syllen took it and cut a chunk of meat.  He felt the sharp edge, glanced at the horseman, blushed deeply.  He might have killed a man, but he was no killer, even if he stood a chance of succeeding. 

         "I am Ahjud, and this," the horseman said and pointed to his steed, "is Uhnegg."  Syllen nodded and chewed on.  Ahjud. The name rang a bell.  Where had he heard it before?  Another thought occurred to him.  Perhaps he had a chance.  The horseman might not know who he was, what he'd done.  He swallowed.

         "My name is..."

         "Syllen, I know," Ahjud said.  Syllen nodded, his hope dashed.   

         "What did you put on this meat?" he asked between bites.

         "A bit of salt, I always carry some with me.  The leaves of that bush over there are edible.  They taste vile on their own, but they're fantastic for flavoring meat."

         When his stomach could hold little more, Syllen drank from a flask Ahjud offered him.  It was filled with wine, better tasting than anything he'd had before. 

         "This is amazing," he said.

         "Thanks.  I made it myself."

         "Really?  Where did you learn?"

         "From my father.  We have endless vineyards at his castle."

         "His castle?"

         Ahjud shook his head.  "Don't you know who I am?"

         Syllen didn't reply.  So that's where he'd heard the name, from the crazy soldiers.  He tried not to smirk.  Folks from around Vilstrek would not have kept their tongues.  Were the towns not each ruled by its own magistrate?  Magical men, if tales were to be believed.  And tales were all that he'd ever heard of Ahjud.

         He thought of the soldiers who told them.  They wore mail shirts.  Their silver shields were engraved with strange letters, and a silver sword hung in a scabbard at their sides.  They went from town to town, talking of some distant king everyone should pledge allegiance to. 

         They also tried to recruit soldiers for his army.  The magistrate hated them.  If this king wanted their allegiance, he'd always say to them, he'd have to come get it himself.  He dismissed their warnings of a brewing war. 

         The magistrate in Vilstrek had been there for as long as Syllen's father could remember.  Ulderk's grandma, the oldest person he had known, couldn't remember when the magistrate had come to Vilstrek.  The old woman had been cross with him for asking.  She'd become ill shortly after, and died.

         The few people who listened to the soldiers, were ostracized.  Ulderk was one of those who fell victim to their lies, a few years after his grandmother‘s death.  He left Vilstrek with one of the soldiers.  No one ever saw him again.

         Syllen took another mouthful of the wine.  He looked up at Ahjud, met his gaze and found some leaves on the ground to study.  Syllen fingered his clothes.  Yes, they were still there.  Would ten sets of clothes make me feel less naked?

         "What now?" he asked, turning his mind back to the reason they were both there.

         "You have to face what you've done.  You can‘t outrun your guilt."

         Syllen bit his lip, remembered he wasn't alone and stopped it.  "Is there any chance I could convince you otherwise?"

         "No, Syllen.  You have to go back to Vilstrek with me."

         Ahjud got up, stretched, and rolled up his bedding.  He tied it with a leather belt, tidied away other odds and ends. 

         "I think Uhnegg wouldn‘t mind all three of us walking.  Would you now?"  He stroked the horse's nose, and it whinnied softly.  Syllen had never seen a horse nuzzling a man as if it loved him.

         They set off, Ahjud leading the great beast.  Within a few steps, they were on the path.  Syllen thought of his search.  How could he have missed it?  He looked around.  There, scratches on the trunk of a tree.  It was right next to the path.  Ahjud glanced at him, but said nothing.  It took them less than an hour to get out of the forest.

         Syllen stopped.  Something heavy was on his chest.  The man he'd seen hung as a boy, had died slowly, his hands scrabbling at the rope. 

         "Come, Syllen," Ahjud said.  Syllen followed on wooden legs.

         The days wore on, Syllen making and discarding one escape plan after another.  It was no use: he knew Ahjud would never stop his pursuit.  He wished he could open his head and air his mind, it felt stuffy and sluggish.  What would the rope feel like around his throat? 

         Ahjud called at a farmhouse, bought some bread.  They ate it with cold rabbit's meat until that ran out, then Ahjud bought some lamb from another farmer.  Always they washed the food down with more of the exquisite wine.  The flask seemed bottomless.

         When they rested, he kept his eyes on Ahjud's clothes.  The cut of the shirt, jacket and trousers was simple, but the fabric softer and more beautiful than anything Syllen had seen before.   

         "What is it like at your father's place, Ahjud?"

         "It's wonderful.  There's always music.  I love him deeply, he loves me, and we both love life.  We love the countryside, the mountains, the sea.  His castle is perfectly situated; we can enjoy all of these things."

         "Are you married?"

         "Not yet."

         "So why were you at Tanar's farm?"

         "I'm recruiting soldiers.  We‘re at war."

         "Why have we never heard of your father and this war?"

         "Haven't you?  He has sent many messengers to keep the people of these lands informed."

         Syllen's ears glowed.  He'd once joined a group of kids hounding a soldier out of town.  His father's rebuke had been hardly necessary.  The man had looked sad and noble as he rode away, and Syllen had been ashamed of himself.

         "You can't expect people to pledge allegiance to a king they've never seen just on the word of a bunch of soldiers."  Syllen regretted the words.  He sounded like the magistrate. 

         "Why not?  My father's army is coming.  When it goes through here, the magistrates and everyone who serves them will be destroyed."

         "The magistrates?  What have they got to do with anything?"

         "They're agents for Adaz, my father‘s enemy."

         "Oh.  Don‘t worry, not many people serve the magistrates."

         "But they do.  Adaz doesn‘t get people to take sides, he just gets them to not take my father‘s side.  That way he hopes to weaken my father‘s army so he can defeat him.  Serving no one is serving Adaz.  Why should such people share in the peace that others fought for, when the war is over?"

         Ahjud got up and packed the leftover food away, leaving Syllen to grapple with what he‘d heard.  Should he believe Ahjud?  His gut told him he should.

         Ahjud changed the subject to foxes and their ways.  Syllen shook his head and got up to go.

         Days passed, they walked on, unhurried.  They spoke of the land, the animals, the weather.  Ahjud showed him hidden worlds among the tufts at their feet.  They stopped for hours to watch antelope or rabbits.

         "I never knew all these things were here," Syllen said.

         "Yet, they are," Ahjud said.  "You know, I can't understand it.  This mystery was hidden right at your feet, yet you claim to know enough to dismiss the king."  Ahjud shook his head.  Syllen searched his mind for an excuse, but found none.

         At night he wept bitter tears, knowing that he'd have no more than the few days of the journey back to Vilstrek, to enjoy his newfound knowledge.

         Yet the journey was stretched as long as it could be.  They had been traveling for eight days, should have reached Vilstrek long ago. 

         "Tell me about yourself," Ahjud interrupted Syllen's thoughts that night.  Syllen took another bite of food to buy time to think.  If Ahjud could know what had led to his deed...  No.  The thought of weaseling sympathy from Ahjud sickened him.  He would tell his story, but only because Ahjud had asked.

         "My mother died giving birth to me.  If I had not been there to care for, I believe her death would have killed my father.  He was the town scribe.  I can read and write, you know.  He taught me."  Syllen's face lit with the glow of the memory, then darkened as he remembered more.  "When I was ten years old, he fell ill and died.  He gave me this."  Syllen felt at his neck, pulled out a leather thong.  It held a small pouch, and from inside, he fished a brooch.  "My mother's."  He showed it to Ahjud in the firelight. 

         "I had no other family in Vilstrek or anywhere close.  The magistrate said I was cursed, because both my parents had died in their prime, and they had been good people.  No one wanted anything to do with me.  One of those crazy soldiers came by and... Oh.  I'm sorry."

         Ahjud smiled, shook his head. 

         "The soldier did his usual thing, but he singled me out later, invited me to come with him," Syllen said.  Ahjud kept looking straight at him, and Syllen wished he had a change of clothes.  "I was too scared.  I was only a little kid, Ahjud.  I'd never known anything but Vilstrek."

         Ahjud said nothing.  Syllen picked at the piece of bread in his hands. 

         "Tanar offered me work.  I was starving by then, and I'd lived in the rubbish dump outside the town for weeks.  I accepted.  He didn't pay me anything, just gave me a roof over my head and food to eat.  Well, most of the time he gave me food to eat." 

         Syllen tried pushing the mounting dismay from his mind.  Another soldier had come.  And another, and another.  He had been so tempted to go.  Once, he had been on the verge of accepting the invitation, but Tanar had come out of the house.  He had shouted abuse at the soldier, asking him why his king never showed his face.  The soldier told Tanar he was welcome to join the king's army, too.  Tanar nearly had a fit.  Syllen had been embarrassed, and scuttled away. 

         The night fell silent, even the breeze holding its breath.  Syllen cleared his throat.  He described the beatings, the hours of backbreaking work, the insults. 

         He knows already, Syllen thought, though he didn‘t know why.  He stopped talking.  In his mind, it was as if someone was pushing open the door of a windowless house, bit by bit.

         "That last day on the farm," he spoke again, the words grating on the silence, "I had been up since before dawn.  I'd slaughtered a sheep for Tanar, cut it up, salted the skin, cleaned up, scrubbed the paving.  I'd only interrupted my work on the meat to go and clear away his breakfast dishes and clean his bucket.  Tanar didn't like going out at night."  He was surprised at his own bitterness, and when his eyes met Ahjud's, ashamed.

         "Go on," Ahjud said.

         "I'd finished with the slaughtering, I was clearing out the old straw, sweeping the barn floor.  He came and screamed at me for not clearing and cleaning after he'd had lunch.  Then he said..."  Syllen swallowed.  He opened his mouth, closed it again.  He shook his head.  The words would not come.  Ahjud kept his eyes on him.

         "He said it was to be expected of the son of a whore," Syllen squeezed out.

         "Oh, Syllen," Ahjud said softly, his voice a warm embrace.  "If only you had joined my army when you had a chance.  You would have avoided all of this."

         "If only I could.  If only you'd take me."

         "You are still a murderer, Syllen, no matter what Tanar did to deserve what he got.  Close your eyes."

         Syllen was too tired to argue, and did as he was asked.

         He felt himself drift off, though he was still awake.  He was dreaming.

         In his dream, he stood in Tanar's house, watching Tanar look through the window.  He heard a vague voice, as if someone was whispering constantly.  He could feel what Tanar felt, what he thought.  Hatred.  Deep, dreadful hatred.

         Tanar was hating him.  And the voice, though Syllen couldn't hear its words, was feeding the hatred, blowing on its flames.  Tanar turned, but didn't see him.  He went to draw water from the well to wash his face, irritated that Syllen hadn‘t done it.  He saw his reflection in the bucket, and hated what he looked like without knowing it.  He thought of Syllen's soft blonde curls, his bulging muscles and blue eyes, resolved again to never let him go to town where a young girl might see him and give him hope.

         He went back into the house, cut some bread and cheese.  All sorts of thoughts tumbled through his mind.  He thought of Andreh visiting that night, of drinking, of cooking some fresh meat.  He was pleased.  Then he thought of Syllen coming in in the morning, of the look on his face when he saw the mess, and he hated Syllen because he felt ashamed.  Syllen felt his anger, like heat or cold could be felt.   

         Tanar left the knife, the breadcrumbs and the cheese on the table, took a basket and went outside, around the house to the apricot tree.  He filled the basket with the sweet fruit, eating as he went.  He looked down at the ground at the foot of the tree, and was angry.  The ground there was damp, he knew Syllen had watered the tree that morning when Tanar was still asleep.  He was angry with Syllen for not forgetting, for not giving him an opportunity to point out a weakness, for being diligent when he was lazy. 

         Tanar lifted the basket with difficulty, and as he went into the house, he glimpsed Syllen carrying a heavy load of meat with ease.  He hated Syllen.  He hated himself even more, Syllen could see, though he doubted Tanar's thoughts were as clear to himself as they were to Syllen. 

         Tanar's eyes fell on the remnants of his lunch and he felt a pang of guilt for being such a slob.  He dropped the basket, turned and stormed to the barn.

         Syllen was fascinated for a moment to see himself as someone else would.  He saw himself turning, saw the disgust in his face when his eyes fell on Tanar, felt Tanar‘s wave of shame fuel his hatred.  He couldn't hear the words Tanar said, just felt his thoughts, heard the whisper more urgent now.  He saw his hand touch the pouch at his throat, and felt the stab of pain through Tanar's heart, brief memory of a mother sneaking out of the house in darkness never to return, a father beating and insulting him, telling him how worthless he was.

         He heard two whispering voices then.  He saw the hatred contort his face.  He saw Tanar fall.

         Syllen opened his eyes.  He didn't surface slowly as he did when he'd been sleeping.  He knew somehow that he hadn't been. 

         "What have I done?" he whispered.  "He was just a miserable, hurting drunk.  What have I done?"  He covered his face with his hands and wept.  "Let's not waste any more time.  I want to get this over with.  I‘m so sorry.  I deserve to die."

         "Now," Ahjud answered, "you're ready to become one of my soldiers."  Too caught up in the enormity of his deed, Syllen didn‘t hear.  More loudly, Ahjud continued: "Sleep now.  In the morning, take Uhnegg into Vilstrek and see what you will find there." 

         When Syllen woke, Ahjud was gone.  Uhnegg was still there.  Ahjud never tied him, and he never strayed.  Syllen washed and waited.  Ahjud's bedding was rolled and ready, along with his pack. 

         Syllen felt drained and weak.  He saw his whole life clearly for the first time: the missed opportunities, his hatred of Tanar.  It made him as bad as the stinking, disgusting man he‘d killed.  He was at peace with his fate. 

         He ate some bread, drank some more of the wine.  Ahjud had said they would go to the town in the morning.  He wanted a last taste of it before...

         What had it been that Ahjud had said?  Not that they would go to the town in the morning.  That Syllen should take Uhnegg into Vilstrek.  Why is he doing this? Syllen wondered.  Perhaps to give you a chance to change your mind and escape, the answer came to him.  Syllen pursed his lips, shook his head.  He packed Ahjud's things on Uhnegg's back and mounted him for the first time ever.  The ground looked far away from the big horse's back.  He was much bigger than any horse Syllen had ever been on.

         If Ahjud came back and found his things gone, he would know where to go and look.  Syllen would ask the innkeeper to store his pack and keep Uhnegg until his master came for him.  He worried for a while about how he could pay the charge, then decided that Ahjud would have enough money to pay for Uhnegg's keep. 

         He was, after all, a prince.  The thought came to him naturally; he didn't dwell on it.  He believed Ahjud. 

         Syllen passed the big judgment tree.  Old pieces of rope hung from it still.  The body of a hung man would stay there as warning to others until it was old and dried, then it would be cut down and buried.  He shivered and kept his eyes on the road.

         As he rode into town, people stopped and stared.  Children pointed and ran after him.  Men shook their fists at him.  Syllen didn't care.  He kept his mind on Ahjud.  Ahjud would be pleased with him for doing the right thing.  He wanted nothing more than to please the king's only son, though it meant losing his life.

         By the time he reached the magistrate's house in the town square, a small crowd surrounded him.  Syllen dismounted.  The old magistrate, clothed in grey velvet, came out to him.  His hair was grey, too, as were his eyes.  His face was beardless; his hands thin and white.

         "What do you want, murderer?" the magistrate spat at him.  Syllen felt calmer and more at peace than ever before.

         "I've come to pay my debt," he said.

         "What debt?"

         Syllen frowned. 

         "You mean," the magistrate sneered, "that over and above your despicable crime, you also owe someone money?"

         "No, I... I've come to pay for killing Tanar.  Here I am.  Punish me."

         "I say we hang him," a man shouted from the crowd, but no one else took up the call. 

         "No," the magistrate said, looking Syllen up and down in disgust, "that cannot be done."

         "How do you want to kill me then?"  Syllen felt a pang of fear.  Whatever other fate they had in mind for him, he hoped it would be over quickly.

         "He doesn't know," an old woman croaked.

         "How can he not know?" a man asked.  Everyone started talking.

         "Know what?" Syllen shouted above the noise.

         "Silence," the magistrate roared.  The crowd hushed.  He turned his attention back to Syllen.  "Of course he doesn't know, though it shouldn't surprise him.  The curse on him has taken another life.  The Ancient Law has drawn him back here to hear what has transpired."

         Syllen wanted to cower.  His mind was filled with the picture he must make with his filthy, torn clothes.  He wanted to cover his head with his arms and hide his face from them all.  He thought of Ahjud and matched the magistrate's gaze.

         "A man came through town the day you killed Tanar.  He had found the body.  The terrible sight unhinged his mind.  He claimed to be the king's only son."  The magistrate turned to the crowd: "We know there is no king.  Only the insane or the possessed believe there is."

         There was a murmur of approval.  Syllen tried to make sense of it all, thought of Ahjud.  "No, you're wrong.  There is a king.  His armies are coming, you must pledge allegiance to him before it's too late."

         "Shut up, murderer!" someone shouted.  "He should be flogged for saying that," another yelled.

         Syllen opened and closed his mouth.  The king's only son.  So Ahjud had come here before following him.

         "He knew the Ancient Laws, unfortunately," the magistrate shook his head.  "The poor man insisted on invoking the Law of Exchange."

         "The Law of Exchange?"

         "He was hung in your place."

         "What?  No.  That's impossible.  Ahjud was... I didn't see his body on the tree!  You couldn't have hung him, he was..."

         "Ahjud, yes.  The poor soul called himself that," the magistrate interrupted him.  He turned his eyes to the crowd.  "Listening to the soldiers' stories must have already made his mind unstable.  Is his body gone?  Well.  Someone must have cut it down."  The magistrate blinked a few times, pulled his cloak tighter about his thin shoulders.  Syllen lifted his hands, let them drop.  Why did the magistrate look scared?

         "Now," the magistrate said, his gaze pitying, "you don't have to accept the exchange.  The price is high.  It may be better to be hung."  The crowd seemed to shuffle back half a step, as if discovering Syllen had some disease.  "If you accept the exchange, your life belongs to the family of the one who was killed in your stead.  To your death and beyond, Syllen.  The Ancient Laws hold sway to eternity.

         "You cannot run away from an Ancient Law.  Nothing can save you from what will happen if you accept the exchange and you don't honor it.  Think carefully, boy.  Accept, and you will be a slave for the rest of your miserable existence.  Hanging will be over quickly.  Now, make your choice."

         Syllen's mind reeled.  How could Ahjud have died here if he was with him?  It didn't make sense.  Was it magic? 

         In a sense, he felt someone whisper in his heart.  He remembered Ahjud's face, the days they spent together. 

         "I accept the exchange.  I give myself to Ahjud's father, that was the only family he mentioned." 

         Syllen felt something the moment the words left his mouth, like a thousand little pins just touched his skin all at once, all over.  Someone screamed.  The crowd fell back.  The magistrate's face paled.

         "Your debt may be paid," the magistrate said, "but that doesn't mean we welcome you here.  Get on your horse and go.  Go!"

         Syllen reached out to pull himself onto Uhnegg's back, then stopped.  His shirtsleeve.  He looked down.  His rags had changed into fine clothes.  A silver shield hung from Uhnegg's saddle, engraved with strange letters.  He put a hand to his chest and felt the rough texture of mail.  In a scabbard at his side hung a silver sword.

         Would his heart burst with the emotion that coursed through it?  Tears streamed down his face unheeded.  He pulled himself into the saddle. 

         "There is a king," he said to the townspeople.  "His armies are approaching, there isn't much time.  Listen to me.  Save yourselves, pledge allegiance to him."  Some started turning away, others shook fists at him.  In a few faces there was curiosity, hunger.

         "The talk of a madman," the magistrate hissed.  A sheen of sweat was on his brow.

         "All these lands belong to him," Syllen insisted.  "His son lives.  I was with him last night."

         "We saw him hanged!" the magistrate shouted shrilly.

         Syllen shook his head.  Something flashed in the sunlight.  There, behind the crowd, Ahjud, clothed in golden armor, smiled at him, turned away and disappeared.  Syllen patted Uhnegg's neck and rode away.

 

 

Copyright 2006, Nadia Williams

Nadia Williams was born in South Africa, but now lives in Ireland.  She is a happily married, homeschooling mom of three.

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