It was the prayer as much as anything which halted Laintal Ay. Normally he loved to be in this room, full of his grandmother’s mysteries. Loil Bry knew so many fascinating things, and to some extent took the place of Laintal Ay’s father, who had been killed while on a stungebag hunt.
Stungebags contributed to the foetid honey smell in the room. One of the monsters had been caught recently, and brought home bit by bit. Broken shards of plating, chopped from its back, helped fuel the fire and keep the cold at bay. The pseudo-wood burned with a yellow flame, sizzling as it burned.
Laintal Ay looked at the west wall. There was his grandmother’s porcelain window. Faint light from outside transfused it with a sullen orange glow, scarcely competition for the firelight.
‘It looks funny in here,’ he said at last.
He came up one more step, and the bright eyes of the brazier gleamed at him.
The father unhurriedly finished his prayer to Wutra and opened his eyes. Netted among the compressed horizontal lines of his face, they were unable to open far, but he fixed them gently on the boy and said, without preliminary greeting, ‘You’d better come here, my lad. I’ve brought something from Borlien for you.’
‘What’s that?’ He held his hands behind his back,
‘Come and see.’
‘Is it a dagger?’
‘Come and see.’ He sat perfectly still. Loil Bry sobbed, the dying man groaned, the fire spat.
Laintal Ay approached the father warily. He could not grasp how people could live in places other than Oldorando: it was the centre of the universe — elsewhere there was only wilderness, the wilderness of ice that stretched for ever and occasionally erupted in phagor invasions.
Father Bondorlonganon produced a little hound and placed it in the boy’s palm. It was scarcely longer than the palm. It was carved, as he recognised, out of kaidaw horn, with a wealth of detail which delighted him. Thick coat curled over the hound’s back, and the minute paws had pads. He examined it for a while before discovering that the tail moved. When it was wagged up and down, the dog’s lower jaw opened and closed.
There had never been a toy like it. Laintal Ay ran round the room in excitement, barking, and his mother jumped up to shush him, catching him in her arms.
‘One day, this lad will be Lord of Oldorando,’ Loilanun said to the father, as if by way of explanation. ‘He will inherit.’
‘Better he should love knowledge and study to know more,’ said Loil Bry, almost as an aside. ‘Such was my Yuli’s preference.’ She wept afresh into her hands.
Father Bondorlonganon squeezed his eyes a little more and enquired Laintal Ay’s age.
‘Six and a quarter years.’ Only foreigners had to ask such questions.
‘Well, you’re almost at manhood. In another year, you’ll become a hunter, so you’d better soon decide. Which do you want more, power or knowledge?’
He stared at the floor.
‘Both, sir… or whichever comes easier.’
The priest laughed, and dismissed the boy with a gesture, waddling over to see his charge. He had ingratiated himself: now, business. His ear, attuned by experience to the visitation of death, had caught the sound of a change in the rate of Little Yuli’s breathing. The old man was about to leave this world for a perilous journey down along his land-octave to the obsidian world of the gossies. Getting the women to aid him, Bondorlonganon stretched the leader out with his head to the west, lying on his side.
Pleased to be released from inquisition, the boy rolled on the floor, fighting with his horn dog, barking softly back at it as it furiously exercised its jaw. His grandfather passed away while one of the most savage dogfights in the history of the world was taking place.
Next day, Laintal Ay wished to stay close to the priest from Borlien, in case he had more toys hidden in his garments. But the priest was busy visiting the sick, and in any case Loilanun kept firm hold of her son.
Laintal Ay’s natural rebelliousness was curbed by the quarrels that broke out between his mother and his grandmother. He was the more surprised because the women had been loving to each other when his grandfather lived. The body of Yuli, he who was named after the man who came with Iskador from the mountains, was carted off, stiff as a frozen pelt, as if his last act of will was to hold himself rigidly away from his woman’s caresses. His absence left a black corner in the room, where Loil Bry squatted, turning only to snap at her daughter.
All the tribe were built solid, buttressed with subcutaneous fat. Loil Bry’s once renowned stature still lingered, though her hair was grey and her head lost between her shoulder bones as she stooped over the cold bed of that man of hers — that man loved with intense passion for half a lifetime, since she first beheld him, an invader, wounded.
Loilanun was of poorer stuff. The energy, the power to love, the broad face with seeking eyes like dark sails, had missed Loilanun, passing direct from grandmother to young Laintal Ay. Loilanun was strawy, her skin sallow; since her husband died so young, there was a falter in her walk — and a falter too, perhaps, in her attempt to emulate her mother’s regal command of knowledge. She was irritable now, as Loil Bry wept almost continuously in the corner.
‘Mother, give over — your din gets on my nerves.’
‘You were too feeble to mourn your man properly! I’ll weep. I’ll weep till I’m taken, I’ll bleed tears.’
‘Much good it will do you.’ She offered her mother bread, but it was refused with a contemptuous gesture. ‘Shay Tal made it.’
‘I won’t eat.’
‘I’ll have it, Mumma,’ Laintal Ay said.
Aoz Roon arrived outside the tower and called up, holding his natural daughter Oyre by the hand. Oyre was a year younger than Laintal Ay, and waved enthusiastically to him, as he and Loilanun stuck their heads out of the window.
‘Come up and see my toy dog, Oyre. It’s a real fighter, like your father.’
But his mother bundled him back into the room and said sharply to Loil Bry, ‘It’s Aoz Roon, wishing to escort us to the burial. Can I tell him yes?’
Rocking herself slightly, not turning, the old woman said, ‘Don’t trust anyone. Don’t trust Aoz Roon — he has too much effrontery. He and his friends hope to gain the succession.’
‘We’ve got to trust someone. You’ll have to rule now, Mother.’
When Loil Bry laughed bitterly, Loilanun looked down at her son, who stood smiling and clutching the horn dog. ‘Then I shall, till Laintal Ay becomes a man. Then he’ll be Lord of Embruddock.’
‘You’re a fool if you think his uncle Nahkri will permit that,’ the old woman responded.
Loilanun said no more, drawing her mouth up in a bitter line, letting her regard sink down from her son’s expectant face to the skins which covered the floor. She knew that women did not rule. Already, even before her father was put under, her mother’s power over the tribe was going, flowing away as the river Voral flowed, none knew where. Turning on her heel, she shouted out of the window, without more ado, ‘Come up.’
So abashed was Laintal Ay by this look of his mother’s, as if she perceived he would never be a match for his grandfather — never mind the more ancient bearer of the name of Yuli — that he hung back, too wounded to greet Oyre when she marched into the chamber with her father.
Aoz Roon was fourteen years of age, a handsome, swaggering, young hunter who, after a sympathetic smile at Loilanun and a rumple of Laintal Ay’s hair, went over to pay his respects to the widow. This was Year 19 After Union, and already Laintal Ay had a sense of history. It lurked in the dull-smelling corners of this old room, with its damps and lichens and cobwebs. The very word history reminded him of wolves howling between the towers, the snow at their rumps, while some old boney hero breathed his last.