The King's Peace

by Jo Walton

Forthcoming in hardcover from Tor Books, October 2000

Copyright 2000 by Jo Walton

"I will have it so that though King, son and grandson, were all slain in one day, still the King's Peace should hold over all England! What is a man that his mere death must upheave a people! We must have the Law."

--Rudyard Kipling, Rewards and Fairies (1910)

"If I heed your words that is all
that I shall ever have.
If I have no sword
where then shall I seek peace?"

"A sword might win
a Peace's time from tumult;
no peace have the hungry,
and so the Peace is made
from the work of gathered days
the many's many choices."

--Graydon Saunders and Jo Walton, from Theodwyn's Rede (1996)

What it is to be old is to remember things that nobody else alive can remember. I always say that when people ask me about my remarkable long life. Now they can hear me when I say it. Now, when I am ninety-three and remember so many things that are to them nothing but bright legends long ago and far away. I do not tell them that I said that first when I was seventeen, and felt it too. Although only one person heard it then, of all the people I said it to. Nevertheless it was as true then as it is today. So I have been old by my own terms since I was seventeen, although that seventeen year old who had my name seems very young to me now when I remember her.

Yet now that I am fit for little more than telling stories to the children it occurs to me that my memories will be lost if I do not see them passed on. All of them are things that nobody alive but I remembers. Some of them are things that are truly passing into legend. In the legend there is no room for me. I was not important to the story they tell. My story has no drama; a land defended, vows unbroken, faith upheld. That is not the stuff of legend. I am nothing but an old woman, even if I am still lord of these few acres of land. Lord Sulien they call me still in courtesy but I could not defend my people now. It is my great-nephew's word that counts in the king's council, and that is as it should be. My king is dead.

Dead, long ago.

So long ago. Too long ago. I wrote those words, "my king is dead" and my pen stopped in my hand and I was lost again in dream. Fifty years and five it is, since Urdo fell and yet my memories of him are still very clear. The years I rode as his armiger shine brightest of all the memories of my long life. Yet to the children I tell stories in the autumn sunlight they seem like legends of another age. I suppose they are. The world has changed, and changed again. The king my great-nephew serves now is more Jarn than Tanagan. He follows the White God. The ways of the Jarnsmen are mingling with our ways and the customs and languages of the two people are becoming one. This was our dream of course, but I do not think we imagined how the world would be when that dream came true.

Now I shall write down my memories, but I do not know who will read them. Nobody can read these days but the priests of the White God and those they teach. My mother was old fashioned even in her own day in insisting that all her children could read and write. She was born in the days when the Vincans still ruled. When I was a child she was much given to praising the virtues of Civilization and Peace, two things the Vincans brought to our island and which my lord Urdo fought to restore. Which he did restore. The Peace we built in Tir Tanagiri lasted, despite everything. This is still our land, and I am still lord of these few families, these little fields. My people come and go in peace. The flocks safely graze.

So I do not write for my great-nephew and his friends, or for the children of the estate. These days lords' children learn honour and farmers' children learn the land, none of them can read. I do not write for the priests. I have been a worshipper of the Radiant Sun all my days and although I respect what my king did in accepting the White God into our land I have small liking for the priests and their ways. I do not write for the living who care too much and not enough, or for the dead who may care but who cannot reach me. I shall write for any in the future who care about us, our little kingdom and our ways. I shall write small, in neither the harsh Jarnish tongue nor the old language of the farmers which was my own first language. I have lived to see those languages change, and I do not think that change is over yet. I shall write in the clear Vincan I learned from my parents. It is most likely to last without changing and it is, after all, my mother always told me, the language of literature.

When I have finished I shall seal my writing in clay and set on it the holy seals of the Sun in Splendour, Lord of Light, and of the Shield-Bearer, Lady of Wisdom. Then I shall cast it into their protection for those to find who may. If you are reading these words then I pray that these two gods have guided you to them. Further, I pray that the names of those you read about in these pages will not, even after all that span of time, be entirely forgotten. I know he would have freely given all his wordfame to make the Peace. All the same there is a wistful hope in me that if there is any justice my King's name will still be a trumpet blast in a thousand years.

Chapter One

First came the Tanagans, hop along, hop along,
then came the Vincans, dance along, dance along
then came the Jarnsmen, run along, run along
the gold-headed Jarnsmen to chase you all home!

(Children's step game)

I was on my way home from one of the little farms that lay in those days inland about five miles, well within my father's lands. One of the farmers was ill and my mother had sent me with a healing potion and a hymn to sing over her bed. I had stayed to teach the woman's son that hymn, which was needful to help keep up his mother's strength. He had a liking for tunes, so while I was there I taught him a few other lesser hymns to the Radiant Sun, two of them my own translations into the tongue of the people. The farmers in those days had their own names for the gods we all worshipped, few indeed had heard of the White God then in Derwen or elsewhere in our part of Tir Tanagiri.

I was walking back singing across the fields. I was thirsty in the hot sun and thinking longingly about the little stream of good clear water that ran in the shade of the trees. I was looking up at the smoke rising over the wood from the direction of the house. I wondered who had put what on a bonfire to make such a billow on the wind. The wind was coming out of the south-west and blew the smoke away from me, the smell might have warned me. As it was the first I knew anything was amiss was the appearance out of the trees of half a dozen burly sea-raiders, yellow-haired, white skinned and ugly. I had seen a troop of them the summer before, but they still looked strange to me then. There were no Jarnsmen settled anywhere near this part of the realm in those days. They laughed to see me, showing their bad teeth, and shouted to each other in their own tongue.

I fell at once into a fighting stance. I shifted my grip on the bottle that had held the potion. It was baked clay, not a good weapon but all I had. They came on, bunched together. I held my ground and looked around for what there was to help as they closed in. It was a meadow, grassy, covered in buttercups and daisies, a pleasant place where the farmers grazed the cows. There was earth to throw in their eyes. I could see no stones. The trees were not too far away, if I could make their cover I should know the ground better than the men and be able to get home. There would be fallen wood I could use for a club. Somehow I assumed without thinking about it that the raiders had just come out of their boat, and that these six were all there were of them.

The first one reached me, only moments ahead of his companions. He carried a single-edged blade, typically Jarnish, it could be thought of as a short sword or a long knife, as suitable for cutting brush as slashing an enemy. It was loose in his hand. He did not think me much of a challenge. I kicked his arm hard, aiming for the elbow. My foot connected with an impact I could feel all through my leg. I spun, completing the movement. He dropped the blade and clutched his arm. The second man was on me then and I was facing him. I brought the bottle up in his face and brought my arm down hard on his knife arm. I wasn't fast enough, and his knife caught me a gash across my sleeve. It would have been nothing if I'd been wearing leathers; as it was the cloth tore and it cut my skin. I felt nothing then, although I saw my own red blood flowing. It was a shallow cut but it stung badly later. I never feel wounds in battle. Some say this is a gift of the gods, others have said it is a curse. Urdo always said I would die fighting of wounds I never noticed I had. I never did, though I suppose I may yet.

The third man was there, his spear pointed towards me. The first was reaching down for his fallen knife with his good hand. I stooped for it, ducking under the second man. I was lucky in that they were not trying to kill me, for he could have had me then easily, my throat was exposed. He did not try though, the Jarnsmen in those days did not kill young women. They saw me as not only their own sport but as booty. Women had a resale value on the continent even then when the market was glutted. They probably hoped to get as much for a strong girl like me as for a horse.

I had the sword, and as swift as thought I stabbed at the second man's knee. It was a good target from my position. These Jarnsmen wore leather tunics and leather sea-boots, nothing like as hard or as well made as my boots. The knees are unprotected in the old Vincan style, nobody is supposed to be that low in the line of battle. The sword was heavier than the short knives I had practised with. It had not the reach of even our short swords, let alone the long cavalry sword I was used to. He toppled, and I was drawing out the knife when one of the others grabbed my arms from behind. I brought my head up hard to jar his chin. I felt the force of the blow through my skull. He reeled a little but held firm, and the others were there. I had wounded two of them but four were whole and I was captured.

If they had taken me back to the ship then I should no doubt have spent the rest of a short unpleasant life as a slave on the continent in some Jarnish or other barbarian encampment. Maybe I would have escaped and found some other life in the parts of the continent that still clung to some shred of Vincan civilization. I have often wondered how I would have survived. I had skill at arms and languages, I knew a few useful devotional spells but I had few womanly skills such as they might expect. But they were greedy and wanted to taste their prize themselves. One of the men quickly cut off my clothes using a short sharp knife he had at his belt, ruining the good green cloth and leaving me quite exposed. I stayed limp in their grasp, hoping for an opportunity to escape. I had no body-shame, of course, though I had been told the Jarnsmen suffered from this badly. My siblings and I had always trained for athletics naked, Vincan fashion.

They jabbered in their own language. I understood no word of what they were saying. They poked at me, and dragged me, unresisting, back towards the trees. I was ready to fight at any moment there seemed to be any possibility of advantage in it. I ignored the irrelevancies of my nakedness and vulnerability, stayed limp and concentrated on tracking where they all were. This was Duncan's advice for being in a bad spot, and it came back to me now that I was in one. They were laughing at the ones who had been wounded, though one of them bound up his companion's knee. Looking at him then I thought that if that was the level of their treatment he would surely lose the leg. He never walked without a limp again even as it was; that was a good blow with my strength behind it, I had clean severed the muscle.

The loud laughter was a bad sign. They had no worries about being overheard, or they thought only their own friends were near. I remembered that rising smoke, and worried. I should not have called for help over that distance in any case, nobody would have heard me. But now I heard them laugh and shout out jests at each other I shouted too and screamed for help as loudly as I could. This was not only foolish but against Duncan's teaching, and I have found it hard to forgive myself for that. They gagged me with part of what had been my sleeve. I could taste the blood on it from the knife cut.

The trees' shadow was pleasantly cool. The sound of the stream trickling nearby was a torment. The leaves were green and fully out, all at their best, stretched wide gathering summer light to last through the winter. They tied me under a great oak, using cut strips from my clothes. They fastened my wrists and ankles to tree roots. They were careful never to let me have a chance to be free and hurt them. The bindings were very uncomfortable, especially on my wounded arm. The little roots and last year's leaves were hard and rough beneath me. I stared up at the three-fingered leaves, sending my mind up away among the pattern of twigs and branches, determined to ignore the pain. I tried to relax into it as Duncan had taught me, although it hurt like a vice. The leaves, the tree, I can see it now, the shapes the leaves made against the blue sky that did not care for me in my pain. People have told me they have taken pleasure in the act of begetting life, and some of them have even been women. That was the only time I ever did it, that thing which in most people's lives is so important, that thing for which, and for the lack of which, kingdoms fall and grown men turn into little boys. It hurt me worse than any wound I ever had. I believe there may be pleasure in it for some people but I was not made so.

The fifth of them had just begun his thrusting and I was staring up into the leaves and wondering if I would die of the pain when the man fell forward suddenly upon me and I saw my brother Darien's face between me and the light. I had thought never to see sight of those I loved again, and it was almost too much for me. I wept.

"Sulien!" he said. He dragged the body off me and bent to cut me loose. So it was that he did not see the last man, the man with the wounded knee, come up behind him, though I did. I tried to warn him, but I was gagged of course and could make no sound. He was bending down, and the Jarnsman took him from behind in the thigh with the knife. Poor Darien had no chance, he fell forward almost at once, quite dead beside me. The wounded man limped forward, pulling up his tunic. I was quite sickened and that time was the worst of all, both for pain and for violation. Darien's dead body lay only inches away from me and I could send no part of my mind away, all that happened happened to me. Worst of all I knew for sure that he would kill me when he was done, and Darien and I would lie together, unburied in the wood. I believed all the rest of my family were dead already. Nobody would say prayers for us to the gods of earth and sky, our names would not be given back and we would all walk the world as unavenged shades forever. He had to kill me. He was one injured man alone and he had sense enough to know he could not get me back to his ship if he untied me.

When he was done he pulled out my gag. I stared at him, sure I was about to die. I did not scream. I wanted to keep some dignity in my last moments.

"You know spells?" he asked, in broken Vincan. It was the most unexpected question I had ever been asked. I almost laughed hysterically but just managed to restrain myself. I raised my chin in cautious assent.

"You hurt my leg, you mend it," he said.

"Why?" I asked.

"You hurt, you mend," he repeated.

"Why should I if you're going to kill me after?" I asked.

"What?" he looked puzzled.

"Why mend if you kill me?" I said, slowly. His Vincan was not up to much subtlety.

"You mend, I no kill," he said. "Swear by One-Eye, Father of the Slain." This was one of their old gods. I had heard the name even then, enough to know it sacred.

"All right," I said. "If I can. Let me up," He shook his head.

"You up, you run," he said. I would have, too. I sighed.

"You give me water," I said. My mouth was unbearably dry. He took a water bottle from his waist and held it to my lips. Enough of it made its way into my mouth for me to choke, and some went down.

"Where sword?" I asked. He held up his own blade. "Where sword that did wound?" After some searching of bodies he limped back with it. "What your name?" I asked. His ugly pale eyes narrowed. I hated those pale Jarnsman eyes, they did not seem to me at all like human eyes that are dark and full of thoughts.

"Name secret."

"Need name to do spell." I said. He must have known that was true, however little his people knew about it.

"Ulf Gunnarsson," he muttered, reluctantly.

"Put knife against wound," I instructed. He did so, then knelt and touched me so that I could work the charm on him. With the most reluctance of my life I sang the charm of healing of weapon-wounds, an invocation both to the Lord of Light for healing and to the dark battle gods. Into the charm I wove Ulf's name, and by the time I had finished I could see that it had worked in as much as it could on such a wound--it was like a wound he had suffered ten years ago and not like a fresh wound. His leg would never be as it had been, and there was nothing anyone could do about that.

"Now let me go," I said. He smiled, showing his dreadful teeth again.

"Never said so," he said. "You know name, know spells. You dangerous. I not kill you. I swore. But you stay here, sacrifice to Father of the Slain, make corn go strong." I heard this with absolute horror. He took the sword that had wounded him and cut the ball of his thumb, then squeezed out a few drops of his blood to fall on my stomach. Ignoring my screams and protests and threats to curse him, and being careful not to touch me to give my curses a chance to work, he walked away, leaving me to die beside my dead brother. Ulf Gunnarsson, I swore, if I get free and we meet again you are a dead man. I knew no real curses, then.

Chapter Two

To the land of the dead in the dusk returning
all deeds done, time gone, life ending,
no more amending, this is what you are,
this is your name, you know it all at last.

We, who are left on life's shore, mourning
as you walk on, into dark, not turning,
we cannot go with you, this journey all make alone.
However loved, and you were loved,
however strong, and you were strong,
however brave, and you were brave,
however skilled, and you were skilled,
you will come alone to Lord Death's halls
speak there your name and deeds,
for them to stand alone, for what you were.

You go on, shine bright, begin a new life,
taking from this all of the beauty,
learning from this all of the mistakes.
Do not grieve for us, though we are sundered,
you were what you were, you will be remembered,
learn to be what more you can be,
and we will mourn with the name you left us,
on life's shore, bound by old choices,
go free ahead, on new paths, returning.

(From the Hymn of Returning)

The first thing I did was to walk to the stream and drink until I could hold no more. Then I bent down and washed myself, over and over. The cold water was soothing and it was good to wash away the blood. Hardest to scrub off was the dried blood on my stomach with which Ulf had dedicated me to the One-Eyed God. By the time I was clean I was chilled through. I walked back to the bodies. I had Darien's knife already, now I took his sword and his leather jacket. It had no bindings for my breasts such as my own leathers had, but it would do. It was unmarked, although the breeches were drenched with blood from the one slash, behind, where Ulf had struck so treacherously. I took them back to the stream and washed them as best I could, then pulled them on, still wet. They fit me well enough. Darien was close enough to my height--if he had lived he would have overtopped me soon. He was my closest friend, as well as my brother. We were equal in most ways, for though I was the elder he was the heir. Often enough we were rivals in prowess, but this only encouraged us both to strive the harder. I was better with the sword, having what Duncan, our armsmaster, considered an inborn skill for the weapon. Darien was a better horseman, and much better at aiming a lance at the target. He had had dreams of winning some great prize some day with his lancework.

All this I thought as I made his leathers mine. My thoughts turned to of those of his hopes and dreams he had shared with me, of the times we had practised together with wooden swords until our arms and shoulders were far past aching and then rubbed each other down with oil. I remembered the times we had lied for each other to Veniva, our lady mother, always so Vincan and proper, protecting each other's secrets. Well, Darien had come to protect me one last time. Without him I would be enslaved or dead. It was then that I realized for the first time what it meant to be old.

I knew it was foolish, but I stopped to build a pyre for Darien. I knew there might be other Jarnsmen around seeking their lost companions. But I could not leave my brother unburied in the wood. I built a pyre of fallen branches at the edge of the meadow. I put the weapons and gear of the men he had killed into the pyre. I set Darien upon the pyre in his linen underclothes and with his enemies' weapons beneath him, I left the Jarnsmen unburied for the dogs and birds to eat. All this took some time and I was only just finished in time to be ready at dusk.

I lit the pyre with Darien's flint and steel and sang the great Hymn of Returning, all alone beneath the twilight stars. I thought about Jarnsmen, but I had a sword now and it would have pleased me to kill them and add their weapons to Darien's glory pyre if they came. I was lucky. No Jarnsmen came. Nobody came at all. If anyone saw the smoke they probably thought it just more destruction. Alone, and not half a mile from home, I mourned my brother. At last, when the pyre was burning brightly and all the hymns were sung, I took his sword and cut off my hair in the Vincan mourning custom. It made a thick black double handful. I cast it onto the pyre where it flamed up with a singeing smell almost enough to mask the roasting smell of poor Darien. He should have had incense. He should have had sacrifices. He should have had his killer's arms beneath his feet. Swearing that one day I would bring them to add to his mound I turned away and walked back through the woods towards the house.

I was not sure what to expect as I came out of the trees. I could smell smoke and knew there had been a great burning. There was no sound at all, and the wood was as quiet as if even the night predators had fled the Jarnsmen. Part of me, it seemed, expected to be home at any moment where I could fling myself down on my own bed and weep until I felt better. The rest of me knew the Jarnsmen had done their usual trick and fired the house, and the dead with it. The shape of the stone walls stood yet, but the silhouette looked strange in the starlight. The concrete and tiles of the roof had cracked with the heat and fallen in.

Cautiously I scouted around the walls. There was no sign of Jarnsmen. There were no bodies, although I had little doubt there would be bones in the ashes inside. I had left the house not long past noon and had been away what was, by both sensible count and by the stars, not much more than seven hours. Yet it seemed months since I set out and the ruin of my home seemed something ancient and over with, as if it had been done by the Vincans when they first took Tir Tanagiri centuries ago. Certainly it was sad, but I could not feel it as I felt Darien's death.

When I had circled the walls I did not know what to do next. I thought of sleeping the night in a tree. There was a red pine I knew nearby that had one broad branch flat enough to lie on and well out of sight. I wanted to pursue Ulf and get my vengeance upon him and the other raiders. I had no idea where they had gone, or where their boat might be. In the morning I might scout the cliffs and inlets, but at night I would see nothing but shadows in the coves. I could go to one of the farms and sleep, but I felt a great weariness and horror come over me at the thought of company and questions. I leaned my face against the rough stones of the wall, unsure. At length I murmured a prayer to the Lord Messenger, Guider of Choices, to help me choose rightly. He must have been waiting to guide me because as soon as the prayer was out I knew I must go to the Home Farm, only a mile or so away.

I walked in the shadow of the trees as far as I could. As I crossed the fields I saw no living thing except a great white owl who gave me a fright gliding down close to me in complete silence to snatch up a vole almost at my feet. When I came to the farm I saw firelight within. I approached cautiously, and listened beneath the window. I heard the voices of the farmers and then, to my joy and amazement, my mother's voice. I rushed to the door, and scratched for admittance.

There was immediately silence inside, through which I could hear awkward snoring breaths. Then a farmer asked boldly who was there.

"It is I, Sulien ap Gwien," I said, "And I know my lady mother Veniva is within." The man opened the door a crack so he could see my face. His own looked drawn and frightened. He looked about cautiously, then let me into the house, barring the stout oak door with iron as soon as we were within.

The half of the room near the fire seemed filled with my father, sprawled unconscious on a heather-bed. His eyes were closed and he had a bandage round his head. It was his breathing I had heard from outside. Even felled he was a great man. Darien would have had his height. It took me a moment to take in my mother kneeling at his side. My eyes were full of tears.

"Darien is dead." I said. Veniva looked straight up at me. Her face was as calm as ever, although her greying hair was disordered as I had never seen it and her clothes were filthy and bloodstained. I would hardly have recognised her as my civilised mother. "Dead defending me from Jarnsmen. I set him on an honourable pyre."

"Are you all right?" she asked. I jerked my chin up affirmatively.

"Father?" I began.

"Your father is badly wounded. He took a blow to the scalp in the first fighting when the Jarnsmen came up from the boat. Duncan got him away here and then came to tell me--I was organising the defence of the house. Morien and Aurien are here. The Jarnsmen have left, taking some, slaying others, taking all the horses and valuables. Gwien will live, I think, but we must have help."

"Help?" I asked, stupidly. One of the farmers put a wooden cup of warm milk into my hand, murmuring a blessing to Coventina. I took a gulp, and then drained the cup. There was honey in it. The strength it gave me was wonderful. It was almost as wonderful as knowing that all my family but Darien yet lived.

"Someone must go to the king. There is nothing stopping these Jarnsmen from landing where they will and slaying and stealing as they please. We must rebuild, and where are the money and the hands to come from? Most of our troops and the people of the house have fallen, and now you say Darien too is dead." It was as if she was just now taking in what I had said. "Darien. We will mourn him later. There is no time now. Morien is the heir, then, and he is but thirteen years old. I will keep the few hands I have here and make a beginning. I cannot be sure if Gwien will live."

I wanted to go to her, to touch her, to weep with her and tell her what had happened, but the distance between us was too great. She was holding onto her calm and control hard and they were showing cracks around the edges. "Are you fit to ride, Sulien?" The thought of setting my thighs on a horse seemed agony. But I nodded. "Then as soon as it is light you must set off for Caer Tanaga. Gwien swore fealty to this young king, which was his free choice. Now we need help and the king must send it to us."

She had never sounded more Vincan. Yet even as she spoke she was lifting her hands and unbinding her hair. Soon it was hanging loose about her face in the old Tanagan custom for one who is mourning close kin. Then she stared at me, daring me to speak.

For all my life, and hers too, the country had been disintegrating. The Vincans had left us to govern ourselves. They had been over-run at home and could no longer look after Tir Tanagiri. We had sent to ask them for help time after time, before at last deciding to look after our own defence. Now she asked me to ride to Caer Tanaga for help from this latest in the series of kings who were trying to grab something for themselves from the wreck of the country. It sounded in my ears much the same as the way she had always told my father that we should send to Vinca for an army. His retort to her in such dinner table conversations was on my lips, but I bit it back. I could not stand there and say to Veniva now "As well send to ask the moon for help." Instead I simply shook my head. The farmers were hesitating in the door that led to the storeroom, clearly unsure whether or not they should witness this.

"He will be very sorry, mother, but what can he do?" I asked. I could not stop myself from saying the rest of what Gwien said to her so often. "He is so far away. We have to help ourselves, not ask others to help us." Veniva bit her lip and looked down. Then she drew a ragged breath.

"Your father went and swore to him. We sent troops, last year, to fight when the raiders landed near Magor. He owes it to us to help us rebuild. And we must have help, we must. If King Urdo will not, then go to Duke Galba. Galba's son is betrothed to you, he is practically family already, he will surely come."

This was not the time to tell my mother I could never marry, though my stomach churned at the mention of young Galba, who had seemed polite and personable enough three years before when my father asked me if I could bear him. It was a very good alliance for us. The older Galba was a Duke and a war-leader, and we held scarce enough land to be accounted noble were it not for our exalted bloodlines. Gwien could trace his family back to the kings who had held this coastline before the Vincans came and Veniva's ancestors had been Vincan nobles from the City itself.

I stood still, clutching the empty cup and staring at Veniva like a dolt. She knelt beside my father, hair unbound, quite composed. I was caught between obeying her and telling her she was being a fool. I had already said all I could fairly say as an objection.

"Go to sleep, Sulien," she said, with some softness in her voice. "You need not leave until daybreak."

I bowed to her, and followed the farmer to the hay loft, where I lay down beside my brother and sister and the children of the farm. I think I fell asleep at once, though I remember thinking, selfishly and half asleep, that if I left at least I would be gone, I would be in other places seeing other things, not dealing with the day to day difficulties that were going to be overpowering at home.

Chapter Three

Bear me swiftly over the land
long legs, nurtured with roots
turning ears tuned to my voice
gentle mouth here to my hand
warm flanks under my thigh
faster than eagles.

Bear me swiftly down on the foe
long legs, first in the charge
strong feet shod with iron
brave heart thundering down
driving home the lowered lance
stronger than lions.

Bear me swiftly home at last
long legs, ready for grain
at end of day when night falls
never complaining, carry me on,
smooth feet, shadow in shadows
best of companions.

(Greathorse Aneirin ap Erbin.)

"Apple!" breathed the farm girl beside me. I looked down at her. She was no more than a shape in the dimness, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old.

"You know that horse?"

"He's Apple. He's Rudwen's horse. She used to ride him down here and exercise him up on the sward. They'd always stop for a drink of milk and an apple for Apple."

If he was Rudwen's horse then he had come from our stables. I peered at him in the gloom. He did have a familiar look. All our horses had been taken. Either Apple had carried a Jarnsman here, or he had escaped them somehow. There was no sign of any human movement below. It seemed most likely the horse had fled and come alone to a familiar place. I could not imagine raiders having need of such a ruse if they wanted to attack us.

"Do you think Apple would come to you?" I asked, pulling on Darien's leathers over the woollen smock one of the farmers had lent me to sleep in. The breeches were still unpleasantly slimy. The girl whispered a quick assent. I took up Darien's sword and led the way down the ladder. I put my hand on Morien's shoulder as I passed him. I felt him tense under my touch but he did not speak. I moved on. He was only thirteen and had seen terrible things that day; it is no shame to the half-trained to want to avoid danger. The farm girl followed me, leaving the other children burrowed under the hay. At the foot of the ladder I paused among the warm bodies and fresh dung scent of the cows.

"I go out first. I am armed and armoured. If there is fighting I want you to close the gates and come back inside here and make as much noise as you can to wake Duncan and your parents and mine in the house."

"Yes," she agreed, definitely.

"In case something happens--you know my name. What is yours?" I asked.

I could not see her expression as she answered but her voice was steady. "My name is Garah."

"I will remember."

The shadows made the yard very dark. I made my way carefully in what light the stars gave. Garah followed me towards the gate. I opened it slowly, drawing up the bolts one by one. Then came the most dangerous moment as I pushed it open away from me. I stood ready, sword in hand. No attack came. I could hear the ring and creak of horse harness moving a little. At a single glance Garah was beside me. She stepped towards the horse, murmuring something soothing under her breath. It may have been a prayer to the Horse Mother or a charm, or just the way she always approached horses. Certainly it worked. Apple came towards her, harness chinking a little. He allowed Garah to take hold of his bridle and draw him past me into the yard. I closed the gate carefully and drew down the heavy bolts.

Starlight glinted on the iron of the harness. I could see Garah's teeth showing in a grin and I grinned back. We had a horse, a proper war-trained horse. I tried to make out details about his condition, but it was too dark. He was six years old, fully-trained. Rudwen ap Duncan had ridden him to the skirmish last year. Such a horse was worth more than gold. This was a loss to the raiders and a great gain to us. It would have almost made my journey to Caer Tanaga sensible, if only there had been help waiting there.

We took Apple into the barn. The cows shifted aside. Apple seemed glad to be among them. I went up to the loft and reassured the children in whispers that all was well and we had caught a horse. Morien lay as still as stone, and Aurien was breathing clearly and serenely as a child does who is deeply asleep. The younger farm children settled themselves down as I went back down the ladder. Garah stood soothing Apple. She helped me to take off the harness. She had much skill with animals but no idea how the complicated gear fit together. It was not an easy task in the darkness, but at last we had all the tack and harness safely off. Apple shied and kicked out when I touched his mouth, but let Garah remove the bit.

"I think his mouth is cut," Garah whispered.

"Perhaps he managed to pull free of a Jarnsman holding his bridle," I suggested. This suited me better than the other likely possibility, that he had managed to shake him off somewhere. Jarnsmen in general were poor riders. I did not want to think that the woods might be full of Jarnsmen. But now I had a sword and a horse the odds were much more on my side in any fight, and I was not afraid. I leaned my head a moment against Apple's warm and comfortable flank and deliberately did not think of Banner, the bay Darien and I had helped to train whom I had ridden all this last year. I fetched my blanket from the loft and rubbed Apple down and stayed with him until he seemed comfortable with me. When I went back up to the loft dawn was beginning, and even Garah was deeply asleep.

Everyone had good advice to give me before I left. Duncan gave me good clear directions to Caer Tanaga. He could not go himself, not only was he still weak from bloodloss but he was needed in case of any further attack.

"I think they will have fled to sell what booty they have collected," he said. "They were sea-raiders--in strength indeed, but no more than pirates for all that. In the East these men are coming to settle, driving the people off the land, but not here." The word he would not speak in front of my mother hung heavy in the air between us: not here _yet_. "All the same I think it would be safer for you to head North through the hills aiming for the road North from Magor, and crossing the river at the fords near Caer Gloran."

"There is a ferry across the wide mouth of the Havren at Aberhavren," put in Veniva, frowning a little. I did not think she had slept, or left my father's side all night. He had still shown no signs of waking. My mother's hair still hung unbound all around her face. "It cuts more than a day off the journey's length."

"The ferry may not be there, or may not be safe. And I do not think the coasts will be safe." Veniva set her lips, as if she would insist. I wondered for a moment if my mother was truly sending me for help or if she hoped I would die on the way. Then she shook her head.

"Very well Duncan, you are war-leader and you know the land."

It was mid-morning before I got away. From the farmers I took a blanket and a bundle of food. I embraced Veniva formally and Duncan gratefully. Then in front of everyone I knelt to Morien and made him my formal homage as my father's heir. I agreed with Duncan that it was wise to have this done now and openly in front of as many witnesses as possible. If Gwien died there might be those who said they needed an adult to lead them. I had little desire for such a thing, but if it was necessary I would do it in Morien's name for a year or two. It was best to make that plain. I wished to be the cause of no dissension.

Morien had dark shadows around his eyes. His hair hung loose about his face. He said the formal words by rote. He looked a little stunned and did not at any time look me in the eye. Still, he was the heir, and would be a man grown soon enough. In any case, Gwien might yet recover. I prayed so. I embraced Aurien and then on impulse embraced Garah who stood beside her. Garah had spirit enough to hug me back. I rode out inland into a fine rain just beginning, not looking back.

Apart from the pain in my thighs the next two days passed much as any ride through broken country passes--I saw trees on the hills and farms in the valleys. I avoided people for I had no desire for conversation. The peace and the silence did me good. As I rode along my head was full of daydreams of revenge and glory and of a noble death in battle.

I did not go far that first day. I was still tired and riding was painful, and I was still getting used to Apple and he to me. He was still a little nervous of me. I had to argue with him a little before he was happy to consider me an appropriate person to ride him. His torn mouth did not help in this, but he grew calmer as the ride continued. We stopped for the night in some woodland. One cannot hide a warhorse, and horses must eat. I did as Duncan said and I had practised. I tethered him where he could graze and slept in a tree, with Darien's sword near at hand. I slept just as well as one always does in such situations and was glad of the dawn and a good reason to move and stretch and set off.

The second day was much the same, though drier, and the pain in my thighs was somewhat better. The birds sang and the trees were in leaf, I saw only occasional distant farmers. The land was strange to me now, but I had little difficulty. With starting so early I made good time and struck the highroad towards sunset on the second day as Duncan had said I should. What he had not said was that I should strike it just as a battle was about to begin.

I thought it was a battle then. I should not in honesty call it more than a skirmish. The road there runs North-South through a narrow valley. I came towards it over the hill from the West. The Jarnish force were coming across country from the East. It seemed clear they had rowed up the Havren and landed nearby. They were not more than three full ships' companies, about two hundred men, armed with spears and shields. Where the other force in full array had come from was less clear. I thought they must have been heading South down the road from Caer Gloran. They were all cavalry, about sixty of them, armed and armoured bearing long lances and long swords. As I crested the hill they were just about to charge the massed ranks of the Jarnsmen.

I had hardly taken in what I was seeing when they charged straight at the massed Jarnish shield-wall. They seemed to be holding their lances in a way I'd never seen before, and to move them with a strange degree of speed and co-ordination. What I did then has often afterwards been called heroic, and equally often foolish. I will only say that I did not think at all. Apple smelled the scent of the excited horses, coming towards us on the breeze. He threw back his head in a loud whinny. He did not seem at all frightened. He had been trained for war, and here were other horses and something he understood. I did not stop and consider any more than he did. It was his decision and not mine to charge, but I did not even try to stop him. Once he began to move it felt like a good idea.

The cavalry hit with a great cry, and the shield wall broke. Some ran, others were fighting. As Apple bore me down upon them I drew my sword. Darien's sword. I remember thinking that my wrists were strapped as anyone's would be who was riding all day across rough country, not as tightly as one would do it for battle, and then that it would just have to do. Then I was on them, striking as I could. It is hard to remember the blur of battle or to distinguish one skirmish from so many others in those years. Sometimes the sweat of someone who has been riding hard will bring it all back to me now, excited horses and excited people, the chafing of the thighs, the force of impact, the delicate dance of the moving weight and edge that is the sword, round helms and pot helms and leather helms and the forest of spears and axs and the occasional sword coming up at angles that must be avoided.

Apple responded to me as if we were one being, moving to put all his weight behind my thrusts. That was only my second real fight. I was still a little surprised at both how like and how unlike it was from practice, how I struck at the spot under and to the right of a man's collar bone and an instant later he slid off my sword no longer a man whose snarling face and weighted club were a threat but only another obstacle on the ground. I remember laughing at the expression on one Jarnsman's face as Apple bit and worried off the man's nose and he dropped his spear clapping his hands over his face in surprise. I fought as well and as hard as I could, going from instincts bred from long training, remembering always what Duncan had told me that cavalry must always keep moving and never hesitate.

Although their line had broken as the lances hit them there was some hard fighting before they fled. They rallied to their leaders and made solid stands in small clumps. I found myself in a bad corner at one point, parrying two axemen at once. A horseman rode up to help me, a broad-shouldered man with a white cloak, so light skinned I would have taken him for a Jarn were he afoot. Our swords fell together, aiming and striking. Blood sprayed up. He grinned across the dead foes at me as Apple wheeled away, then frowned, realizing he did not know me. I laughed again and just then Apple reared up and lashed out at a Jarnsman. He went down but I was struggling for a moment to keep my seat and when I was steady again they were all fleeing and we were pursuing, keeping them running until they were flinging themselves down on the ground panting and puking in the mud. Most of them were dropping their weapons and pulling off their helmets in the Jarnish sign of surrender. I killed a few stragglers who were disinclined to stop running. The river was in sight by the time those of us following took out the last of these, a silver-glimmer ahead in the twilight. I could see the dreaded dragon-prowed shapes of pirate ships, two large ones and three smaller ones looming among the willows on the bank. This was a raiding party then, they were not coming to settle but for loot. The ships were a sign that they did mean to leave.

As I rode back a woman rode up to me. She had just sent a small group of a dozen or so riders off in the direction of the ships. I drew up Apple beside her. She was clearly a leader among the cavalry and she was wearing a white cloak embroidered with gold oak leaves on the shoulders. I had seen her in the very forefront of the charge. She was broad-shouldered and long-nosed and her skin was as pale as a Jarn's. Her eyes however were dark and human. Apart from the one man I had seen in the battle I had never before seen anyone who was not clearly of one race or the other, although I had of course heard of diplomatic marriages made with barbarians. She slid down from her horse, holding onto the reins and politeness compelled me to do the same. My legs were rubbery as I hit the ground, but it felt very good to be standing and not astride.

"I am Marchel ap Thurrig," she said, bowing. As she straightened I saw that she was not tall, perhaps a span shorter than me. "I am Praefecto of the ala of Caer Gloran. And who in the White God's name are you? And how did you come here to fight so fortuitously?" Behind her the man in the white cloak walked away from the prisoners. They were being roped together. He came towards us.

"I am the eldest daughter of Gwien of Derwen." The polite incomprehension on Marchel's face was a revelation to me. Lords must give their names and I had never thought my father's name would be unknown. "I am travelling to Caer Tanaga to see the High King." She snorted. There was a faint smile on the face of the pale-skinned man who was standing listening.

"Well there's no doubt at all that you fought with us and not against us -" Marchel began.

"Why do you seek the High King?" the man interrupted.

I looked at him. He had not identified himself. I did not even know who these people served, only that they had come from Caer Gloran. Nothing bound me to answer him. But for that moment we had shared in the fight I somehow trusted him.

"Raiders attacked my father's land at Derwen, and my mother insisted I go to Caer Tanaga to seek help."

"We may be able to help, depending on what sort of help you need." There was no smile on his face now. "How many raiders? From where? Jarnsmen? Derwen--that is down on the South coast, yes?" He frowned as if trying to remember. "Derwen--yes, Gwien ap Nuden, and his heir is... Darien?"

"Darien is dead," I said, feeling a lump in my throat as I said it as I had not had when I gave the same news to my mother. "And my father Gwien is badly wounded and may not live. The heir now is my brother Morien. Derwen is two days ride from here across country the way I have come. We need help rebuilding and also knowing what to do if the Jarnsmen come again, there are not very many of us." I tried to remember the rest of his questions as he stood there looking patient and worried in the fading light. "I think there was only one ship's worth of them, by numbers, but they took us by surprise. I did not see the battle myself, but I met some of them and they were definitely Jarnsmen. They took all they could take in goods and people and horses and left."

"Raiding season," said Marchel, as if continuing a long debate.

The man raised his chin absently, then looked at me straight."What is your name, daughter of Gwien?" He had no right to thus ask for proof of my words by asking me to put my name to them. His eyes were compelling, and we had spilled blood together and if he wished me harm he need not go to this trouble.

I raised my arms, palms open upwards, and then downwards. "I call all the gods of Earth and Sky to witness that my words are true and my name is Sulien ap Gwien."

He smiled again as I brought my hands back to my sides. "It is as well you found us. You would not have found any help in Caer Tanaga, there is nobody there but the townsmen and traders at this time of year. We do need to arrange for defences in the South. We will ride to Derwen and see what can be done." He turned to Marchel decisively. "Will we need to go back to Caer Gloran first?"

She considered a moment, glancing at the prisoners and around at the rest of the cavalry. The people who had been holding spare horses out of the battle were mingling with those who had fought, some were binding up wounds and singing charms to keep away the weapon-rot.

"Unless the report from the ships is other than I expect, it would seem to me most sensible to go back for tonight, have the wounded seen to and leave the prisoners there to be sent on to Thansethan. Then we can set off fresh in the morning with supplies and rested horses."

"Yes. We do that then. Arrange it." Marchel raised her chin definitely and swung back into the saddle. He turned to me.

"You fought well, Sulien ap Gwien. If they can spare you in Derwen I would be very happy to offer you an armiger's place with me." He clapped me on the shoulder and turned away, leaving me standing there open mouthed staring after him.

And that was how I met my lord Urdo ap Avren ap Emrys, High King of Tir Tanagiri, Protector of the Island, War-leader of the Tanagans and the best man of this age of the world.

The above is excerpted from The King's Peace by Joe Walton (copyright by Kelley Eskridge 2002). All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission from Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.