His look unnerved Corinn. Why did he seem frightened? He feared Hanish, that was obvious, but the look he had briefly set on the princess was a different sort of alarm. She could not entirely get his expression out of her mind, although the experience of touring the lodge largely pressed it to the side. It was strange listening to Peter lead the entourage through rooms that she already knew. He spoke as if all of it had been created especially for Hanish’s pleasure, as if the memory of former inhabitants was a distant thing indeed.
The interior rooms were cramped and somewhat dark, lit by lamps hung on the walls and by fires in the fireplaces. Some of the old trappings were in view: a wall hanging of a hunt that ran the length of the dining room, a candelabra into whose ornate silverwork the tale of Elenet was carved, the bubbling glasswork pots of fragrant herbs and spices. How she had loved that scent. Inhaling it threatened to flood her with emotion. She tried to breathe shallowly and note the things that had been added or changed to suit the new masters. Fur rugs and furniture coverings in the Meinish style; a few low, stout-legged tables; the Mein crest stained on the stones of the floor before the dining hall fireplace: there were plenty of new touches, superficial as they were.
Larken, the Acacian Marah who had betrayed her years before, walked beside Hanish, puffed up by his status and talking almost as much as Peter. With Maeander gone, Larken was nearly always at the chieftain’s side. Corinn still hated him, though she tried not to let it show.
She heard the other women talking, commenting on the things they saw, finding this or that object quaint, charming. Rhrenna kept running her fingers across the tabletops, checking them for dust. They wore their new gentility so garishly it annoyed Corinn, though she did not let this emotion show either. The main weapon she had against these people was an inward defiance. Disdain nourished her, and she tended it like a gardener cares for the prickled beauty of a rosebush.
The greatest feature of the lodge was the view that its placement afforded. Each room overlooking the King’s Preserve had an open-air balcony from which to stare at a lush canopy of broad-leaved trees that stretched into the northern distance, disturbed here and there by other granite outcroppings. Wind brushed through the treetops in places, much as storm breezes ruffle the seething sea. The rough beauty of it stunned her. This part of it seemed nothing at all like her childhood memories. She recalled only the ominous fear of the greenness of the place, the shadows beneath the trees that seemed to everywhere hide ogres, wood ghouls and wolver-bears. True enough, she could still sense the threat of all of these things, but she found it invigorating. It reminded her of the images she had conjured of Igguldan’s northern forests.
That evening she dined at Hanish’s table in the main room. All told, the company numbered about thirty, with about the same number of servants busy behind the tables, rushing in and out of the hallway leading to the kitchens. The food was somewhat too gamy for Corinn’s tastes, all venison and boar, blood cakes and fattened livers. She did little more than move it around on her plate. One of the things she hated about such occasions was the ever-present possibility that she would be called into conversation as some sort of representative of things Acacian. Early on she had risen to the bait and worked herself up, recounting the accomplishments of her people, but this had never achieved what she wished. Either she felt a fool because her knowledge did not match the verifiable facts others answered her with, or she ended painfully aware that she had only made the Mein triumph over her people seem that much greater. Tonight she found herself again and again the focus of conversation. Larken could have answered any of the questions directed at her better than she, but no one seemed to remember that he had ever been an Acacian.
“Corinn, that mural in the hallway, what story does it tell?”
“Which one?”
“The one that’s like-that’s like the entire world, so large and detailed. But it all centers around one boy-looking person. You know the one I mean.”
Corinn did. She answered that it was a depiction of the world in the days of Elenet. She gave no more willingly, but after being probed she said that it dramatized the moment just after the Giver had turned away from the world. That, she said, was all she knew about it.
“Such a strange belief system,” a young woman named Halren said. “It’s built into your faith that your god abandoned you, right? He loathes you. He spurns your devotion, and for centuries your people went on halfheartedly worshipping him. On one hand you say, ‘God exists and he hates me,’ and the next instant you shrug and carry on your life, without even trying to win back his favor. Do you not see the folly in this?”
Corinn shifted, glanced at Larken, shifted again, and mumbled that she had not thought much about it.
“Why even ask her?” one of Rhrenna’s maidens said. “She’s not a scholar-are you, Corinn?”
The princess was not sure if this was meant as a friendly gesture or as a slight. Either way she felt her blood rise to her face.
“If I’d lost the favor of the Tunishnevre, I’d do anything to win it back,” Halren said, looking furtively at Hanish. “Fortunately, though, I feel they’re quite content with me. With all of us, really, thanks to our chieftain.”
This did nothing to lower the red from Corinn’s cheeks. She turned her gaze to Halren, to the silvery sparkles on her forehead and her pale features. “You’ve been ‘blessed’ for what? Nine years? That’s a sneeze compared to the Akaran reign.” Corinn might have said something even sharper-something she would have regretted afterward-except that Hanish chose that moment to become the center of attention.
“The princess makes an indisputable point,” he said. He seemed to consider this for a moment, his gray eyes thoughtful. “Corinn, have you heard the tale of Little Kilish? Little Kilish was a giant of a man, named ironically, you see. He was a farmer who made for himself a scythe so massive only he could wield it. He loved to swing it in great swathes, cutting free grains of wheat by the millions. He crafted a second scythe and danced through the wheat fields slicing circles and patterns, each stroke like the work of ten men. He became famous all around the countryside. He had a contest against others to test who could cut the most wheat, but he always triumphed without question. Soon nobody would even contest him.”
Hanish paused as a servant replaced his used plate with a clean one. He went on, explaining that one day a stranger arrived, a small man with dusky skin and mischievous eyes. He was a soul harvester. He had built some sort of machine that had already felled the greater part of the world. It was a great frame that stretched across an entire field from edge to edge, attached to wheels to move it about. At a hundred different points all across it he positioned mannequin figures, hinged and intricate like true humans but made of oak. Each of them gripped a sickle. When the people saw this they laughed. What sort of massive toy was that? What use are people made of wood? But this soul harvester knew some of the god’s talk. He whispered spells that stole souls out of those who were laughing at him. He placed one soul in each of the wooden figures. This brought them to life. They began to swing their tools just as real people would. The soul harvester slapped his mule and the beast pulled the contraption down the field. All the wooden people worked for him, and in just a few moments he had cut down more than Little Kilish could have managed in an entire day.
Another servant tried to refill the chieftain’s glass, but Hanish brushed him away, impatient, it seemed, with the constant attention. “The people were amazed,” he said. “They praised the stranger. All agreed that he had won the contest and to him went the honor. Little Kilish, however, hated that machine, hated the man who’d built it. All the fuss annoyed him greatly. Why were people applauding so vile a thing?”
“For a moment they forgot their own souls,” Halren said.