XLVII
As Ormana’s belly grew, so too did the interest with which her pregnancy was discussed. Everyone wanted to know who the father was.
‘But whoever could it be?’ a man said. ‘Ormana is not the sort to talk about politics, or not that I have heard. I daresay it has never rained in those woods.’
To which his wife said, ‘Well, it must have done, or else she has a terrible case of something-or-other. Every drought will eventually end with a storm.’
Then the man, recalling years gone by, said, ‘Say, there was that Thalo man. She liked to grin beside him, did she not?’
‘She did,’ the woman replied, ‘but grinning was surely the end of it. He was a most thwartful fellow.’
In the end, their curiosity only grew until it became too much to bear, until there was nothing for it but to put their shame aside and ask outright.
‘How did this come about, then?’
‘Who watered the flowers?’
‘Just what have you been up to?’
And every time, Ormana said the same—the father was a man called Oro, whom she had known briefly at Samnew before he moved along, and there was nothing more to be said about it. That was convincing enough to satisfy her inquisitors more often than not, but there could be no like satisfaction for her. It was a rotten thing to suffer such meddling, and to each time end it with a lie. But she bore it, and as time passed, the gossips all turned their tongues to other matters.
Some three months after returning to Pearmol, Ormana finally gave birth to a pair of identical twin boys. She named them Rendeo and Eyveno. It had been a long and difficult birth, but with Yondea holding her hand, she saw it through. And the moment Ormana saw her sons’ faces, the moment she held them in her arms, all the doubt in her heart was dispelled.
‘How remarkable it is,’ she said, ‘that such love should be borne from such pain. Fate is ever unforgiving.’
Thalo was not present for the birth of his sons, nor had he meant to be. Indeed, he knew nothing about it until a month or so later, when Essero arrived one afternoon ahead of a meeting to be convened at Pearmol. Since they had not been reunited for some time, they had much to tell one another. After the initial pleasantries, Essero said he had recently been home, only to discover Ormana mothering a pair of twin boys.
‘Twins?’ said Thalo, standing nearby.
‘Twins!’ said Essero. ‘And birthed from her very own loins, no less.’
‘How queer,’ said Awldano. ‘I do not mean to slight her, but this is quite unexpected. Say, who is the father?’
‘Someone or no one or so. A vagrant, or some other sort of crook. She said his name, but as paltry as it was, it now escapes me, as he escapes his paternal obligations.’
Essero was by that time a father himself. His daughter, Ewffoa, was born at Ennaslad early in the previous year, and he took great pride in his fatherhood.
‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘I should like to meet the man who coaxed the huntress into bed. What manner of man must he be? Or what witchcraft must he have wrought to have his way with her?’
Thereupon a great shame arose in Thalo’s heart. He went outside, and in the darkness of the night, with none but the stars for company, Thalo said to himself, ‘Who will remember the nameless vagabond, hiding in the shadows of history? Who will weep for him? Someone? No one? What manner of man must he be?’
When Thalo came back inside, Awldano was already abed and asleep. He lay himself down and closed his eyes, but no weariness at all could have stilled the tumult of his mind that night, or none but death itself. No, it was not quelled until the birds let up their dawnsong, until Awldano stirred himself awake, and until the time for sleeping had passed without any.
‘Time,’ said Thalo, ‘is a formidable foe.’
Later that morning, Awldano asked Thalo to join him on his trip to Pearmol. Thalo refused, unwilling to see what had come of his misdeed, but he was just as unwilling to say so.
‘I will not walk behind Essero,’ he said, ‘nor will I have him behind me.’
Awldano said, ‘Then you shall walk beside one another.’
‘I will not walk beside him.’
‘Then we shall walk three abreast, and I will walk between you.’
‘We cannot walk abreast, whoever is between us.’
‘Then we shall go ahead, and he can arrive later.’
‘I will not let him hold that against me.’
‘Then he shall go ahead, and we can arrive later.’
‘I will hold that against him.’
Then Awldano decided to force the matter. ‘As the lord of this domain, as the holder of this house, and as the keeper of your bed, I bid you come, however we must walk. Do it not for my sake, Thalo, nor your own. Ormana has recently given birth. She will be right chuffed to see her dearest friend again.’
Thalo feared otherwise, but he agreed to go.
So did Thalo, Awldano, and Essero stride three abreast into Karvalo’s hall that evening. They came down the aisle and stood together before the firepit to await their host. Karvalo came into the hall, sat in his chair, and arose once more with lordly grace.
‘My sons,’ he said, ‘welcome. As you honour me, you honour all your kin.’
He bowed his head to Essero, and then to Awldano. Then, as his eyes fell finally upon Thalo at the end, his gaze stiffened, and his neck was slower to bend, though bend it did. Essero and Awldano bowed their heads likewise, but Thalo did not. He kept his head high, his gaze held unwavering upon his host.
Karvalo only grimaced and said, ‘My twofold sons, I bid you join me in my bedroom to speak of private matters.’
Then he left the room.
Essero went behind him, but Awldano chose to wait a moment. He turned to Thalo and said, ‘What was that about?’
‘What is given is gotten,’ said Thalo. ‘I will honour him no more than he does me.’
‘And yet you honoured him less than that.’
‘We have known one another for many years. It will be many more before his debt is paid in full.’
‘Here, reckon a full account, and when the day is done, I will honour you on his behalf. Until then, Thalo, say nothing more of debts.’
Then Awldano left to speak with his father, while Thalo took himself out of the hall to look for Ormana. He first went to the bedroom she had formerly shared with her family, but there he found five or six large men undressing each other. They told him which room he should go to, and there he found Ormana alone, but for a pair of baby boys on her bed.
After a few terse words of greeting, Thalo said, ‘It is as they say: a pair of twins.’
‘So it is,’ said Ormana.
‘And each one my son?’
‘And each one mine alike.’
Though time had not yet drawn out their features, Thalo could see in the boys’ faces nothing but his own, his own eyes staring back at him, scorning him twice over. Born of his blood, what manner of men would they be?
‘Tell me,’ said Ormana, ‘have you told Awldano?’
Thalo shook his head. ‘They are some other man’s sons. There is no need to say otherwise.’
‘Then you had best leave us here.’
‘Not yet.’
Thalo sat beside Ormana, but as he came down, she stood up and stepped away.
‘What sort of father will they find in you? If you cannot acknowledge your sons, you need not be here.’
‘But you are here, Ormana. I am here for you.’
Ormana said again, ‘You need not be here.’
She turned away, and Thalo returned to the room in which he was put up.
That evening, Karvalo accompanied Awldano there to find Thalo sulking on the bed, though he straightened himself the very moment they appeared in the doorway.
‘Thalo,’ said Karvalo. ‘I hope you have found my hospitality satisfactory.’
Thalo made no reply, but a subtle nod from Awldano prompted him to nod likewise.
‘Good. I wish to speak with you, and secretly.’
‘Then I will leave you to it,’ said Awldano, but Karvalo rooted him in place with a palm upon his shoulder.
‘No. We will leave you.’
Karvalo bade Thalo arise, and though he was slow, he came along—he had little choice in the matter. Together they went through the town, out of Pearmol, and along to the cemetery, where Karvalo knelt before Yorlayvo’s grave. He invited Thalo to join him, but he refused. Standing behind Karvalo, alone in the twilight, his hand found its way to his beltknife. He clutched its hilt, held it tight, but made no movement. He let it go.
‘Kneel,’ said Karvalo.
As Thalo knelt beside him, Karvalo closed his eyes and said, ‘Tell me, what has happened at Samnew?’
‘Much,’ said Thalo, ‘though much of little. What is this about?’
‘Something is amiss. Ormana came home full of sorrow, and she gave birth a while thereafter. She claims it was this Oro man, whoever he was, but I have known her for as long as she has known the sun. She is a poor liar. I have also heard about your squabbles with Awldano, your bickering. He has told me all about it, and though he thinks little of it, I do not. Whatever has been unfolding in your hall, it must stop. The harmony of the house must be upheld. I will not let your petty strifes imperial Awldano’s lordship.’
Thalo said only, ‘Nothing is amiss.’
Karvalo turned to him, his eyes bright and cold, and withdrew from beneath his lordly cloak a certain axe, wrought from blue steel. That was Fedhewve. He lay it between them, atop Yorlayvo’s grave, and said, ‘Do you recall the widow, Thalo, the Meola woman?’
Thalo did, of course. He nodded.
‘I could have yielded you to her to be dealt a shameful death, but I chose otherwise. I could have yielded you to the pair who came thereafter, but I chose otherwise. I could have sent you northwards to die with the king, but I chose otherwise. I could have killed you myself, but I chose otherwise. I alone am the arbiter. I alone am in control. Now look upon Fedhewve, Thalo, and understand that although Awldano holds it, Samnew is mine. Hold it with honour, or I may choose otherwise.’
Thalo took a moment to consider these words, then said, ‘Nothing is amiss. You need not fear for Awldano’s lordship.’
‘Swear it.’ Karvalo picked up Fedhewve and pointed it at Thalo. ‘Swear upon this axe, the chiefest relic of your house, and my kin.’
Thalo took hold of the blade, kissed it, and said, ‘I swear it.’
‘One fate alone awaits the oath-breaker.’
Then Karvalo arose and went home, and Thalo followed him.
Upon Thalo’s return, Awldano asked him what he and Karvalo had spoken about.
‘You were gone a fair spell,’ he said. ‘He must have had much to say.’
‘No less than usual,’ said Thalo, ‘and I will say nothing more.’ But then he paused, considered the day behind him, and said, ‘No. There is something I must say.’
Awldano awaited Thalo’s words, but none came forth.
‘Say it quickly,’ said Awldano, ‘and have no fear. There is nothing you can say that will diminish my love for you.’
Thalo hesitated a moment longer, all clammy and tight, and then he said, ‘Ormana’s sons are mine.’
‘Oh dear.’ Awldano sat down, keeping his eyes on Thalo, his face solid, inscrutable, but he did not say anything more just yet.
Thalo continued, ‘We grew rather unsettled one evening, and there was a short happening between us—very short, but long enough, it seems, to have come to this.’
‘When was this?’
‘Some time ago now. Seven months, or so. We agreed not to say anything at the time, for it would not happen again—nor has it—but once Ormana knew where it had led, she said I should tell you. And I should have, but I could not bring myself to do it.’
‘Until now.’ Awldano’s eyes remained unflinching. Whatever wrath or hurt tore through him, he let none of it show.
‘Until now. Time is a formidable foe.’
‘And one you need not have faced. There is nothing you can say, Thalo, that will diminish my love for you. I swore that much.’
‘Even now?’
‘Even now.’ Awldano shook his head and arose with a smile. ‘Do you not see? You are not to blame, and neither is Ormana. This is your elf’s doing. He must have bewiled you both, meaning to tear us asunder, but he must do better. Fate will ever ward us, Thalo. We two are as one.’
That was not the case, but Thalo could not reject Awldano’s absolution. He lowered his head, thanked him, and they fastened his innocence with a kiss.
‘Now,’ said Awldano, ‘I suppose this is why Ormana left us?’
Thalo said it was.
‘Then we shall put this right!’
Awldano came before Ormana the next morning, Thalo behind him. He said Thalo had told him everything he needed to know, and that he bore no grudge against either of them.
‘There is no need for feuding,’ he said, ‘and so I wish to invite you, Ormana, to return to Samnew with us, where you can both be together with your sons.’
That was the last thing Ormana wanted. With a sigh, she said, ‘I thank you, Awldano, but I would rather stay here. This is my home.’
‘Are you quite sure? Thalo has told me you left to hide your holding, but the need for that has passed, not that there was ever such need to begin with.’
‘That was not my cause for leaving.’
‘Was it not?’
Ormana’s eyes turned to Thalo by the door, though his fell heavy upon the floor. ‘Not entirely.’
‘I see. Should you change your mind, the offer yet stands.’
Then Awldano turned to leave, but Ormana held him a moment longer.
‘Awldano,’ she said, ‘please keep this matter between us three.’
‘Of course,’ said Awldano, and he left the room.
After a short but severe silence, Ormana said, ‘You told him I left to hide?’
‘Did you not?’ said Thalo.
‘No.’
‘Then why?’
Ormana paused for a moment, considering what she might say, how Thalo might respond, then said, ‘To be rid of you. I needed you, Thalo, but you would not stand beside me. When I fell ill, when I needed you more than ever, you only seemed further away. I still feel it now and then, your hand upon my arm, your grip. I feared what you might have done that day.’
‘And what might I have done?’
Ormana looked away from him.
‘Not you.’
‘Truly? Consider it. Consider all you have done—consider who you are—and then tell me you could not hurt me.’
Thalo meant to refute her, but at once, all the blood came back to him, the ease with which it was spilt, and the joy, and his words failed him. What might he have done? Surely nothing so violent. He was a hero, after all, a worthy warrior, a man of battle and a man of fame, no petty murderer. His foes got only what they deserved, condemned by fate itself. He had merely effected the sentence. There was no blood upon his hands, or none that ought not have been there.
‘I cannot go back to Samnew,’ said Ormana, ‘and neither can I have you here. I wish it were not so, that none of this had come to pass, but I cannot abide this doubt, this fear.’
‘And what of my sons?’ said Thalo. ‘They are no less mine than yours. Would you deny me my right to fatherhood?’
‘You cannot claim what you have already forsaken. They are some other man’s sons. There is no need to say otherwise.’
Thalo took a step forward. ‘Is there nothing I can do to remedy this?’
But Ormana took a step away. ‘You can leave.’
And he did. Thalo sighed and bowed his head, and she bowed hers, and then he left the room.
Thalo and Awldano left Pearmol early the next morning (Essero stayed a few days longer), and though Awldano returned quite often, summoned by his father, Thalo never did. It was better, he thought, to let days gone by fall behind him.
‘All things must come to an end,’ he said. ‘The river has run its course.’