CHAPTER 

Spring Feast

The Geddy Valley, half a mile north of the small town of Albergeddy, on the northeastern border of Ealdihain. Two hundred forty leagues west of Bailryn.

The two men following Gialyn were a hundred paces behind, but even from that distance, he could tell something was peculiar about one of them.

"Is that a giant following us?" he asked his father while pointing over his shoulder.

"What's that, boy?"

Daric-a tall, dark haired man with a soldier's build-was walking in front of their horse and cart.

He squinted over his shoulder. "No," Daric said, shaking his head, "not big enough by far. Besides, giants have two heads. Stop pointing, it's rude."

Two heads...?

Gialyn knew his father was joking, he was sure giants only had one head-not that anyone had seen any of the Ulroch in three generations. Still, it served him right; it was a silly thing to say. He couldn't be a giant, could he?

"It's just a tall man," Daric said. "Enough now, stop staring." He waved Pepa-the family horse, a shaggy piebald mare-forward and, despite taking a last look for himself, urged Gialyn to pay attention to the road.

Gialyn couldn't resist another look, either....

The man on the right-the normal-size man-had a regular build. He appeared older than the giant did. A thin, light-coloured cloak covered his day clothes, and he held a long staff in one hand. His skin was dark, Gialyn noticed-not Toyan dark, but darker than a Surabhan. Maybe he's been out in the sun too long.

The other man was huge-if he was a man-well over eight feet. He carried a pack the size of a small cart. He also wore a light-coloured cloak. Maybe they were military cloaks, or perhaps the two men belonged to the same clan. On the other hand, maybe they just bought their clothes from the same merchant....

"I have seen tall men before, Father," Gialyn said, "but he is wide with it. And he doesn't look Surabhan to me."

Daric slowed until he was walking at Pepa's side. He surreptitiously glanced over his right shoulder, while pretending to straighten horse's harness.

"They might be here for the Spring Feast." Daric mused. "They're not local; I'd know a man that size if he was from the Geddy. My guess, they will have come up from Beugeddy, traders, most likely.

"Anyway, boy, pay attention to where you're going, how many times do I have to tell you? I don't want you leading Pepa into a rut. Today is the first time I have had something to sell at market, even if it is only beets and beans. I don't want them spread all over the road."

"Sorry, Father."

"Honestly, your head is in the clouds. Giants are much bigger. Even the women are ten feet tall, or more, not that I've seen any. If there are any left in Moyathair, they'll be a thousand miles south, well beyond the Eurmac Canyon. Giants..." Daric shook his head.

Gialyn eased Pepa's harness a little. He grabbed the waterskin from the cart and splashed some water over the horse's neck. Then took one last look as he placed the skin back in the cart.

Maybe he's not a giant, but he is big. I bet he's come to the feast to perform, one of those strongman acts. Now that would be something to see.

He turned to the front and tried not to think about the men following them.

* * *

It was hot. Gialyn was beginning to wish he had taken his mother's advice and worn his yellow shirt. Yellow would be cooler. Unfashionable or not, it would be more comfortable than the black one he now wore. He tugged on the collar and swept the sweat-matted hair from his forehead.

Spring Feast... more like mid-Summer Feast!

Holding his collar open with one hand, he guided Pepa with the other. They were barely ten minutes from home and already the poor thing looked tired. She was a young horse; this was her first time pulling the cart, and what with the heat.... Gialyn swiped the flies from around Pepa's eyes and, once again, tried easing her harness. It was the best he could do for her.

The track was hard underfoot. Spring had started early, and what little rain there had been had made no impression on the hard-packed dirt. The rising heat made Gialyn's feet itch with sweat inside his leather boots. He was glad the town green was only another mile away.

Gialyn wiped a bead of sweat from his neck and glanced across Pepa's back at his father. He chuckled to himself. Daric had resumed his previous position and was talking as though his son was paying attention.

Gialyn wondered how long Daric would keep it up. He wasn't trying to be rude; it was just hard to hear his father's muttering while looking at the back of his head.

"...can get the horse fitted... done, we will be able to plough the... Next year I'll be... Of course, Tanner keeps me... Damn that..."

The mumbling carried on.

Until...

"Are you listening to me, boy?" Daric barked.

"Yes, Father, uh... sorry... get the horse fitted... ploughing...."

His father gave him one of his sideways glances before walking on. It wasn't long before he started muttering again.

Unlike Gialyn, Daric seemed oblivious to the heat. Swinging his pack from one shoulder to the other, his father began to whistle while casually casting an eye over the fields. Now and then, Daric would pet Pepa, encouraging her to keep straight-the young horse had a tendency to wander if she saw something that interested her.

Gialyn knew his father wouldn't complain about the heat, the one-time soldier never grumbled about such things. Daric would turn anything into a lesson on duty or honour or responsibility. He might have left the guards,left Bailryn, to move to this backwoods of a village-it was a village, never mind what the council called it-but he was still the same man, still a soldier.

The green where they held the feast was on the outskirts of Albergeddy-although, in truth, it wasn't a green at all, it was just a field that fit the purpose. Gialyn led Pepa along the lane that splintered off from the main trail. After taking a final look at his giant, he guided the young horse through the narrow gates and into the field.

The green, which ran along the western edge of town, sloped gently to the south. A hedge of wildberry bushes made a boundary on three sides. The centre was fenced off into pens of varying sizes. Half already contained livestock, mainly goats. The Spring Feast organisers-most of whom were members of the town council-had pitched a dozen large, white tents around the boundary. Long tables had been set up in front of the tents, displaying local produce: mostly green stuff, like cabbage, but there were a few punnets of strawberries and the odd basket of apples to brighten up the displays. A play area, for the younger children, had been set up opposite the food stall. The shooting range was at the far end. The annual archery tourney was a local favourite, Gialyn had heard.

Groups of small children ran around Pepa's cart as Gialyn led her towards the produce tents. He laughed at their "tutting" and "arghing" when they discovered the cart was half-full of beets and beans. He laughed again, when Daric produced a basket full of sweetrolls that Mairi-Gialyn's mother-had prepared for the younger children. Daric gave them one each, there was just enough.

"Best move on before they tell anybody else where the free cakes came from," his father said, chuckling.

Vin, the local leather merchant, was eyeing Kiyn Bowland's goat. He saw their cart and, after making some off-hand comment about the goat's foot, scuttled over-Kiyn seemed relieved to see the back of him, which didn't surprise Gialyn one bit. Vin came up on Pepa's left, and then matched the horse for pace. For a moment, Gialyn thought the leather merchant was going to take Pepa's reins, but he only stroked her mane.

"If they're going to let children run about, then why bother building the play area?" the leather merchant said while pointing at a group of children playing tag between the goat pens.

For a moment, Gialyn wondered whether Vin was talking to him or his father.

"I'm sure Kiyn and the others don't mind," Daric told the older man. "And it is supposed to be a family day."

Gialyn knew his father was none-too-keen on Vin Calande. Daric had often mentioned how the old man was often too quick to complain.

They reached the alley that led behind the white tents, where they would unload their produce. Daric eased Pepa to a halt while another cart slowly made its way through the narrow gap.

"It's not right," Vin continued, apparently not hearing Daric's point. "They should do something about it. Now, if I were on the council..." Vin pushed his thumbs into his belt and rocked back on his heels as if his point was enough to end that argument. Vin continued, "Did you know they have a girl in the archery tourney this year?" He looked shocked. "Yes, Theo Tanner's girl, Elspeth. Have you ever heard anything so daft? What are the odds her father had something to do with it? So what if he is the emissary? That doesn't give him the right to change rules." Vin was prodding a stiff finger in Daric's direction, his face turning redder by the second. "It is just not proper, girls shooting arrows. There'll be women on the council next, you mark my words!"

"I didn't know there was a rule against girls competing," Daric said in a surprisingly even voice. "Are you worried she might win?"

Gialyn tried not to laugh.

"Well, it's just not-"

"Sorry, Vin," Daric interrupted, "we have to get the table set up in the shade before my beans sweat too much."

"Uh... oh... right. We will talk later, I expect."

"Not if I see you coming, we won't," Daric whispered. Although Gialyn suspected that his father wouldn't mind if Vin had overheard.

Gialyn led Pepa behind the tents. He unhitched her and handed the reins to Gobin Volt, the blacksmith. As usual, at events such as this, it was Gobin's job to mind the horses for the day while their owners manned their stalls.

"Has Vin been chewing your ear as well?" Gobin asked Gialyn. "The man will not shut up about young Elspeth and the bloomin' archery. If you ask me, I'd say good luck to her. What do you think, Gialyn?" Gobin laid a thick, calloused hand on Gialyn's shoulder and gave him a toothy grin.

"I don't know, Mr. Gobin. I thought the idea was to find out who is best, man or woman... or girl."

"Well said, lad."

Gobin turned his grin towards Daric. "You have the making of a council member here. He has a good head on his shoulders, this one." Gobin said, nodding approvingly at his own remarks.

Daric cast one of his sly, sideways glances over his shoulder at the blacksmith. "Ask him his opinion if it were anyone but Elspeth."

Gobin's round belly shook in silent mirth as he gazed wide-eyed at Gialyn. He looked shocked, for some reason, as though surprised by the revelation. "Ah, a bit of young romance blossoming, aye?"

Gialyn felt the heat flush his cheeks.

It wasn't the first time his father had embarrassed him over Elspeth. Bad enough Daric knew how he felt, but why his father had to share the news with everyone they met was beyond him. Whatever the reason, Daric seemed to enjoy humiliating him.

The blacksmith loosened Pepa's straps as he continued, "Thought she was too busy sharpening her knives to notice the boys." He laughed. "If you do end up courting, don't be getting into any arguments, my lad. With that one, you'll likely come off the worse for it."

Gialyn pulled the last crate of beets from the cart as Gobin led Pepa to the makeshift stable, still laughing to himself as he walked.

"Where do you want this?" Gialyn asked his father as he ducked under the flap that was the door to their tent.

The air was cooler under the white tarp, but still muggy and humid. Across the front, where the tent was open to the green, a wooden bench had been set up for displaying produce. There were two stools either side of a central pole. Gialyn rested the crate on one of the stools while he waited for his father to answer.

"They can go under there for now," Daric said, aimlessly pointing under the long table. "Keep them in the shade."

Daric had reserved his space in the tent. It had not been easy, so Gialyn had heard, frequently, over the past month. Apparently, newcomers to Albergeddy often had to make do with the back end of a cart or an upturned barrel to display their produce. Gialyn watched as his father placed their produce into small punnets and then neatly arranged them across the tabletop. But the proud look on Daric's face only lasted until he noticed his neighbour's stall. Mrs. Cawthorn's vegetables were easily twice the size, and greener.

"Oh well, it's our first season, shouldn't expect too much," Daric said while giving a friendly nod to Mrs. Cawthorn.

Mrs. Cawthorn answered Daric's nod with an amiable smile. However, she didn't look at his beets.

"Can I go now?" Gialyn asked.

He had a feeling a conversation might start up, and wanted to be gone before he would have to stay and listen. Gardening was boring. Beets were boring. As much as his father tried, Gialyn couldn't see the point. Not when there was a market-a very good market, by all accounts-not half-a-mile from home.

Too late...

"Good day, Mr. Re'adh," Theo Tanner bellowed.

Theo Tanner was a large man, tall and fat. He was the Royal Emissary for Albergeddy. Which, among other things, meant the fat man was responsible for running the mine and collecting taxes. Unsurprisingly, he wasn't very popular, although you'd never know it, listening to him talk. Standing in front of Daric's stall, Theo's broad grin split his round face and caused more chins to appear. The fat man was in his usual garb. Not even the unseasonably hot weather had stopped Theo wearing his coat of office. His thinning grey-brown hair lay plastered to his forehead and droplets of sweat trickled from his temples. Gialyn thought he looked ridiculous. None of the noblemen from Bailryn-the kingdom's capital, where Gialyn lived until a few years ago-would wear a coat like that in this weather. The man must be a fool.

"Afternoon to you, Mr. Tanner," Daric said, giving the fat man a shallow, just about respectable, bow.

"I see you made it," Theo said. "A bit late, but never mind that. Nothing much has started yet." He looked over his shoulder as he spoke, casting an eye over the rest of the goings on. "It would appear everyone is running late. Must be the weather, I expect."

Daric looked surprised, Theo was never this talkative.

Indeed, Gialyn couldn't remember the last time the fat man had said more than a quick hello to any of them. Apart from once, when Emissary Tanner had welcomed his mother to the town granary, on their first visit.

The fat man continued. "Did you know my daughter is in the archery tourney this year?"

Theo picked up one of Daric's beets, sniffed at it, gave it a squeeze, and put it back. He didn't look impressed.

"Yes," Daric said, putting the fondled beet back into the correct punnets. "Quite a fuss, so I hear."

"Really," Theo growled. "Who's making a fuss?" He folded his arms, pulled his shoulders back, and stared defiantly at Daric.

Gialyn was sure the emissary meant for his stance to look intimidating, but at best, the fat man managed to lose one of his chins.

"Did you think there wouldn't be, Mr. Tanner? First time a girl has ever entered for the archery prize, there was bound to be a fuss." Daric folded his arms, too, and stared right back.

Gialyn backed off a step. Gazing at the two men, he wondered who would back down first. He was sure it wouldn't be his father-Daric had that look in his eyes, the one he would use on drunkards cavorting around the palace gate or on guards who misbehaved under his command.

A long moment passed. Daric appeared to have turned to stone. While Theo, on the other hand, had begun chewing his bottom lip.

Finally, Theo broke. "Yes, I suppose you're right. A little animosity is to be expected, especially when she wins."

The fat man picked up another of Daric's beets. "Did you warm the soil before you planted these?"

Daric broke out of his guarded stance. "Sorry, what? Warm the soil?" He looked puzzled.

"Early beets, Daric," Theo said, in a lecturing tone. "You must warm the soil. Lay some hay down to drag out the last of the frost. Not saying they won't grow without warming, but they'll be more like Mrs. Cawthorn's if you do." Theo shot a smile and a shallow bow over to Daric's neighbour.

"Oh, I'll remember for next time." Daric snatched the beet from Theo's hand and gently placed it back in its punnet.

"Anyway," Theo said, "there is another reason I'm here." He clasped his lapel and began rocking back and forth on his heels. "I'm sure you've heard that there's a royal messenger in town?"

The fat man raised his chin while he waited for an answer. He smiled knowingly, as if he were the bearer of some long lost secret that would change their lives forever.

Daric cringed. A flash of anxiety filled his eyes. "Why? What's happened? Are we at war?"

"What?" Theo gaped wide-eyed at Daric and began waving his hand in front of his vast belly. "No, no, no, nothing of the sort, nothing for you to worry about." He took a step forward and leaned on the counter. The cloth covered table creaked in protest. "However, I'd very much like to have a talk with you, once the messenger has spoken. Or during, it won't matter if we talk while the man is on stage."

"And I suppose you already know what's in the message," Daric said, scratching his chin, and doing his best to look down on the emissary.

"Of course I do, he has to tell me first, it is the law."

Gialyn could see his father nibbling the inside of his cheek: he was getting angry.

"And the contents of the message," Daric said. "Is that what you want to talk to me about?"

"Have patience, Mr. Re'adh," Theo said, standing back up and resuming his lapel-grasping stance. "As I say, there is no need for concern, we are not at war, the palace still stands, and, as far as I know, the Salrians have not invaded. I'll come find you once the messenger is on stage." Theo took a final look at Daric's produce before walking off.

"That man!" Daric growled the words through gritted teeth as he straightened up a row of punnets that didn't need straightening. "What I wouldn't give to have him in my battalion for a week... a day. Small town bureaucrats, they are worse than city folk," he said.

And he meant it; Daric wasn't one for repeating himself, but if Gialyn had heard it once... "If a man can't look you in the eye and tell you straight"-Daric would say-"then best you just walk away." Conniving politicians were right at the top of Daric's list of "scheming leeches," as he called them. Indeed, leaving behind the bootlickers and sycophants of the Royal Court was one of the reasons why they had left Bailryn-likely the main reason. Although, in truth, Gialyn didn't know half of that story, nor did he want to.

"Can I go now?" Gialyn asked.

A distant, glazed expression had settled on Daric's face.

"Father!" Gialyn leaned forward, in hopes of catching Daric's eye. "Father, can I...?" He nodded towards the field, which was just now starting to fill with town's folk.

"Uh... oh, yes... yes, go," Daric replied, casually waving him off.

Then, as if remembering something, Daric put his hand in his pocket and fished out two silver Krun. "Here, and do not let me catch you buying ale with it. I don't care if you're old enough to carry a sword, I'll not have a son of mine drunk in public, and least not when I'm nearby."

Gialyn grinned: two Krun!

"Thank you, Father, thank you."

"And, uh... don't tell your mother I gave you that much. Go on, off with you, and keep out of trouble." Once again, Daric waved Gialyn away, then continued arranging his beets and beans.

It seemed strange, watching Daric organising the food they had grown. Not that Gialyn thought there was anything wrong with farming: it just wasn't Daric. His father was a guardsman-and not just any guardsmen; he had been the Captain of the Guard. A farmer? No.

Gialyn ignored the thought, bowed, and ran off towards the field. Best to go quickly, before Daric thought of something else for him to do.

The centre of the field was busy.

Ironically, there wasn't much in the way of farming in the Northern Geddy; the soil wasn't very good. Beets, beans, and a few hardy vegetables were the best most folk could manage-but then; Albergeddy was not a farming town. Indeed, it wouldn't be there at all, were it not for the Rundair Mine. Most of their food came from Beugeddy, shipped up the Geddy River once a week by barge. Despite this arrangement, the town's folk were prideful of what little they could cultivate, and the soil was no bar to raising livestock, there were plenty of pasturelands.

Men gathered by the pens, showing off their pigs and goats and chickens. A few had cows, but not many: the big animals ate too much. Women gathered around the stalls, discussing the best way to make country cake or the proper herbs to use in a stew. Foot races were already underway. Groups of small children ran half the length of the field to win themselves some sweetrolls or gum root. There was even a travelling minstrel prancing on a flat stage, playing the harp and singing old Ballads of Ealdihain-no sign of the giant, though.

Most of the men-those that hadn't brought pigs and such-gathered at one end of the field. The garden of the Lesgar Inn backed onto the green. Taft, the landlord, had set up an ale tent. Gialyn was surprised men would be drinking this early in the day, but given the weather he could hardly blame them. He settled on lemonade, bought for a copper from one of Manni Crocker's young daughters. Cheap enough, but he had to go back to the cart and fetch his own cup.

Gialyn heard a shout; someone was calling his name. "Gialyn, my boy, I thought that was you. Is your father here?"

Grady Daleman sauntered over from the ale tent with a mug in one hand and waving a casual salute with the other.

Grady was an old friend. Most likely Daric's closest friend-they had both served in the guards and both chose to move to Albergeddy to make new lives for themselves. Grady had dark, cropped hair-a style left over from his guardsman days-a strong, manly face, and arms as thick as a blacksmith's. He wasn't married, nor did he have any children. Daric would often tell him that he spent too much of his time in the Lesgar Inn, and he should "settle down."

"Yes, sir," Gialyn answered. "He is over in the produce tent showing off his beets."

"'Showing off his beets'!" Grady laughed uproariously, then slapped Gialyn on the shoulder.

Gialyn winced and rubbed the site of Grady's slap, wondering if the thick-armed brute realised how painful his friendly wallops were.

If he did, it didn't show. He just kept talking, "You're a funny one, lad. What are you doing all alone? Where's that big friend of yours? Are you competing in the hill climb this year?" Grady had a habit of asking three questions at once.

Gialyn chose the latter. "I don't think so, sir. I came seventh last year."

"Well, seventh isn't that bad, lad."

"Out of eight? And the only reason I beat Sal Reddish was because she stopped to pick up her hat."

Grady laughed again, and Gialyn managed, just barely, to move clear of another slap. "Lad, you should be on stage with the minstrel. You can't be any worse. Gods, I can sing better than that fellow." His broad shoulders shuddered, just as the minstrel-as if for effect-plucked a raw note. "Sounds like he's strangling a cat. Who told him he could play the harp, his mother?"

Gialyn laughed. "I don't know about that, sir. Standing on stage, telling funny stories, who would ever pay for such a thing? As for the hill climb..." Gialyn sucked the air through his teeth while seesawing his hand in a maybe-but-probably-not gesture. "I'll have to think about it."

"Well, you do that, lad. I'm going over to talk to your father, see if I can drag him away from his beets for half an hour."

Grady left, promising to come find him later. This time, he only gave Gialyn a light tap on the shoulder. Maybe he did realise.

Gialyn began to wander.

An hour passed, he had more lemonade, watched some of the races, and spent an annoying ten minutes listening to some of the wives talk about how tall he had become and how he would make someone a good husband, one day. Those that didn't pinch his cheek, ruffled his hair. He could do nothing but smile and offer the occasional polite mumble of thanks.

Some of the serious competitions had started. Men, six to a team, pulled at rope. Others threw a sack full of sand over a high pole. A small group were racing to see who was quickest at cutting through a log with an axe, while another threw horseshoes as far as they could into a neighbouring field.

The women were mostly in the tents. However, a few braved the sun and joined in with the men. It appeared Elspeth Tanner's exploits had given them the license to follow her example. Even Mrs. Balland was doing the sack toss, much to the chagrin of some male competitor. Then again, Mrs. Balland was half-again as big as most of the men. Still, the majority of the women folk were busy under cover, away from the worst of the heat. The largest group were watching the fiddle contest. They had made little picnics for themselves while sitting on blankets under an awning next to the ale tent.

Gialyn was about to go and listen, when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

Gialyn turned. Meric Volt-one of the few people of his age that Gialyn got along with-smiled at him in between large mouthfuls of sweetroll. Meric was Gobin, the blacksmith's, son. A big lad, as tall as Gialyn but twice as wide, his barrel-shaped stomach hung over his loose fitting breeches, and a white shirt the size of a small tent hung on his broad shoulders.

"Hello, Meric. Where have you been? I haven't seen you all day."

"Aye, my father had me helping with the horses. He let me loose ten minutes ago. I'm sure he'd have me shoeing half of them if mother hadn't turned up. You know what father's like, if I stand still for two minutes, he'll find me a job to do. Are you coming to watch the archery tourney? See if your Elspeth wins?"

MyElspeth? Gialyn tried not to flush. Eyeing the grass between them, he scratched fingers through his hair. Does everyone know? I don't remember telling anybody.

"I expect so," Gialyn said, trying not to look too enthusiastic, "if only to see her beat Vin."

Meric looked amazed. "Do you really think she can?"

"I have seen her practice in this field every day since last autumn. I'll be surprised if she loses... very surprised."

Abruptly, Gialyn realised he had told Meric that he'd spent the past six months spying on Elspeth. He waited for the sarcasm, or at least a joke.

Who cares if he knows, he's not one of Ealian's cronies.

Gialyn was surprised when Meric said nothing. Yes, he was a good friend.

"I must admit," Meric said, "I wouldn't mind seeing her beat Vin. Only problem I see is she's already a show-off. What's she going to be like if she beats all the men folk?"

Gialyn hadn't thought about that. Not that it mattered to him; he had never spent any time with her... except for school, and then not much.

"I suppose you're right." He nodded in agreement.

Changing the subject, Gialyn asked, "Meric, did you see that giant? Well, not a giant, just a really big-"

Someone grabbed Gialyn's shoulder and spun him round.

It was Grady.

"The hill climb is about to start, lad. Why are you still here? You should be over at Rosefall."

"I-I really don't feel like it, Mr. Daleman."

"Don't you Mr. Daleman me, Gialyn Re'adh. We can't have those Tanner children winning everything. Now get over there. I'll come with you."

Gialyn looked at Meric for support.

His friend looked confused.

He turned back to Grady and was about to say no, when...

"I think that's a grand idea," Meric said. "You're a good foot taller than you were last year, and I've seen you run up and down those fields for your father. You are fast, Gialyn, very fast." The annoying backstabber nodded at Grady, as though his comment had sealed the deal. How could he?

"There, you see,"-Grady gave Meric a hearty slap on the shoulder, which seemed to go unnoticed, it would likely have put Gialyn on his backside-"even your friend thinks it a good idea. Now come on. It'll be starting in a few minutes."