"Chapter I-A Cold Hearth" by James P-W

Chapter I

A Cold Hearth

The
interlocking mesh of soft pine needles spread protectively above and around
Tristan Aegir, like a hen’s wings around a chick, protecting him from the rest
of the world. A quiet rain fell rhythmically about him, yet only a few drops of
water found their way down through the tangle of needles and twigs to the
lowest branches, where they hung quivering before falling to the soft carpet of
pine needles. Tristan loved the rain; the sound soothed him. To him the
raindrops were like tears dropped from the vast sky above, the whispers they
made when they pattered softly in the foliage or forest floor little murmurs of
encouragement.

            The fir was Tristan’s name-tree. In accordance with the
beliefs of the people of Bregon, it had been planted in the Charn Woods on the
day of his birth, with his navel-rope buried beneath it. It had thrived in the
loam of Bregon until in less than two decades it had nearly matured. To spur
its growth, Tristan had carried water to it most days that it didn’t rain until
his uncle had died a few weeks ago. Then it seemed as though his tears would be
enough to nourish it.

            His sorrow was compounded by the guilt that being left
alone in the world on the threshold of manhood distressed him more than the
fact that his uncle had died. Tristan and his uncle had never been close, and
even his death couldn’t make Tristan completely forgive his bitterness. From
the very day of his birth, his uncle seemed to regard being burdened with his
nephew as punishment for some past deed he had unwittingly committed against
the good spirits.

            Tristan's father had been killed in the Rift Wars just a
few months before he had been born, and his mother-Bran's sister-had died in
childbirth. Sometimes Tristan wondered if that was why his uncle had disliked
him so. He never got the chance to ask him, however, because his uncle had
suddenly caught a mysterious sickness and died within a week. Tristam had
inherited his uncle's house and all his livestock, but had been left with a
feeling of emptiness inside of him, as though a part of his soul had been taken
away. For with no living family members left, he had been left deserted in the
world.

Sometimes
he thought about leaving the sheep fields of Bregon for good, packing up
everything he owned in a horse-cart and just walking away. He longed to find
out more about his past, find somewhere he belonged. Good common sense kept him
grounded, however, and he never left.

Tristan
remembered the day his uncle had died. He had come into the house after tending
for the sheep. It was very, very, quiet, except for
Bran’s labored breathing. He had dropped his bow to floor with a noisy clatter
that seemed to violate the silence, and stood in the doorway, a sickening
feeling of unease boiling in his gut.

His
uncle was in bed, a sheen of sweat glistening on his
broad face and thick shoulders. His breath rattled in his dry throat, and his
stark-wide white eyes rolled madly, staring into nothingness. All color had
drained from his face, leaving a mask of deathly pallor and thin pale lips. The
Cunning One of the village, Dryfan, was removing a leech that he had been using
the bleed Bran. The fat red creature, gorged with blood, had wriggled in the
man’s wrinkled palm before he had dropped it into its jar with a faint
plop.  

            Wiping his hands on his robes, Dryfan had turned to him
with a sad empathic smile on his wind-burnt face. “I am sorry, my boy, but
there is nothing more to be done. His hold is fading. I have tried herb teas,
bleeding, and every art and talent I possess, but for all the good it is doing
Bran I might as well-”. He was interrupted as Bran erupted into a fit of
hacking. Dryfan immediately turned around and made soothing noises, placing a
linen cloth over his uncle’s mouth. When the coughing subsided Dryfan pulled it
away, and it was stained red with bloody phlegm. The Cunning One tossed it into
a wooden pail at his feet, a faint grimace on his face. Tristan saw it was not
the only one in there. 

            At that point the realization that Bran was going to die
hit him with the force of one of the heaviest hammers wielded by the massive
village blacksmith. His eyes had filled with warm salty tears that dripped onto
his tunic and onto the floor. Instead of rushing to his uncle’s side, he had
backed away slowly, shaking, and then started running. He didn’t stop until he
reached his name-tree, and had sobbed into the rough scaly bark until Dryfan
had squatted by his side and put a hand lightly on his shoulder. “I am sorry,
my boy.” He had said, very, very, gently. Tristan didn’t want to talk.

As
Cunning One Dryfan’s duties included treating medical conditions, regulating
trade, settling disputes, deciding legal matters such as wills and inheritance,
and in general maintaining law and order. Centuries ago, Cunning Ones also were
whispered to have been endowed with some sort of power that allowed them to
root out witches and warlocks in the midst of their villages and condemn them
to hang. Despite all these duties and powers, Dryfan had little sense of human
emotion, and had stayed by Tristan’s side for a while, trying to coax words out
of him. Finally he realized Tristan didn’t want to talk, and left him brooding
under the branches of his name-tree. Tristan had remained in the Charn Woods
long after the light of day faded, long after he ran out of tears and his head
pounded.

            Dryfan had ordered the body cremated, and the bed and
sheets were burned as well. “I have never seen any sickness like this.” He had
said, perplexed. He seemed to be the type of person that didn’t like not
knowing things. “I hope the fire shall destroy anything that contains it.”

            Tristan had cut the wood for the pyre himself, and
stacked up the bundles of branches around the body of Bran, who was wrapped in
a shroud made of his bed sheets. Tristan had doused everything in oil before
tossing a torch onto Bran’s body, where the fire greedily began licking and
consuming. Soon flames were leaping five paces into the sky, sparks swirling
amidst the oily smoke that billowed from the intense inferno. Tristan remained
close to the pyre even after the fire erupted, close enough that the radiating
waves of heat singed his hair and eyebrows and made his eyes water, but we
would not retreat. I am a man now, he
told himself. Alone to face the fires of
the world.

            Amongst the dancing flames Tristan could still make out
body of his uncle, his last kin on earth. By tradition in Bregon the deceased
were entombed in ancestral burial mounds, where the body could become one with
the earth from whence it sprung, but the wishes of a Cunning One were not to be
disregarded, and Bran had been robbed of the honor of following that tradition.
Long into the night Tristan had kept his fiery vigil, until the flames died
down and the gleaming embers at last extinguished themselves. Flakes of grey
ash, floating from the pyre like snow, had coated him along the course of the
night, and he dusted them off distastefully. Farewell, uncle. Farewell, the heart that never melted.span
style='mso-spacerun:yes'>  

span
style='mso-spacerun:yes'>            That
day Tristan sold Bran’s entire flock of sheep-which had been subject to envy
for years in Bregon-to Gwyn Aneirien, though he did
keep his sheep dog, Gelert, for company. Then he went to the house of Master
Aysmere, sometimes snickered about as Eryc the Fibber, who was the bowyer of
their village Annwyn and the father of Tristan’s friend Gaerith, and asked if
he could become a second apprentice. 

            “I’m sorry about your uncle, lad, I truly am, but I can’t
use you. Gaerith’s learning the trade, and we have no need for an extra pair of
hands,” the ruddy-faced man had said apologetically.span
style='mso-spacerun:yes'> 

            “Please,” said Tristan desperately. “If you make enough
bows, I could take them south, through the mountains, and sell them in the
cities of Gueltron.” The longbows from Bregon were rumored to be the best in
the Known World, and the fact that Bregon was the smallest of the Kingdoms, and
locked away in the northern mountains, made them very expensive indeed.

            Eryc shook his head sadly. “Traders come up here every
spring to buy bows, you know that.” He had avoided looking into Tristan’s eyes,
greener by far than malachite or the needles on his name-tree, as he stroked
his stubble-covered chin. He had remained silent for several long moments.
“I’ve got six children to feed, lad, and I can’t afford any charity…but, seeing
as Bran was a friend of mine…I could use you around the workshop. You’d be
sweeping up shavings and the like, and I can’t guarantee you more’n two square
meals a day, but it’s the best I can do. What d’you say,
lad?” Tristan had accepted it and thanked Master Aysmere profusely for his
kindness. Eryc had grunted. “I’m not doing you any favors, lad. It’s going to
be downright hard work, and I need the help. It’s
common sense, is all.”

            Call it what he would, Tristan knew that Eryc and Gaerith
could manage the workshop without his help, and was very grateful for his
generosity. He could not disregard the fact that he needed to find his own
work, nor could he ignore the worried look on Mistress Aysmere’s face when she
prepared meals with an extra mouth in mind. For these reasons, and for the sake
of his own dependence, Tristan had resolved to find steady work by the
beginning of winter.

            Being only a single boy, shepherding and farming were not
possibilities, and working as a day laborer was unreliable. So as the summer
faded into autumn, Tristan grew more and more anxious.

            This day Tristan had repaired the stacked-slate fence of
bed-ridden Alen Culhwch the swine-herder in exchange for a haunch of pork,
before going off to help Gaerith make bowstrings from hemp. On the way back to
his house, which was a little away from the rest of the village, Tristan had
stopped for a while at his name-tree, when the rain had started. When Gaerith
had asked him once what he always did at his name-tree, he had replied that he
was meditating. But he knew that wasn’t the truth. Brooding was more like it,
though couldn’t say for fear of Gaerith thinking him to be a whiny child.

            And there he remained until the rain ceased. Tristan
opened his eyes and raised himself to squatting position under the low canopy
of branches. It was too dark in the Wood to see how close nightfall was, but
Tristan knew he would need to make haste if he wished to make it home before
the last rays of light fled.

            He parted the tree branches that enclosed his sanctum,
and stepped back out into the world, onto the forest floor. Occasionally a fat
water drop would fall from the glistening needles and leaves above him, or the
wind would stir their branches and make it seem almost like it was raining
again. 

            As he made his way down the trail, Tristan noticed that
several flowers that marked the beginning of autumn were out. The red clusters
of goatsbeard were fully mature, and he even saw watery stems and broad leaves
of the herb moonshadow poking from the soil amongst the undergrowth, even
though they didn’t flower until the snows of winter covered the ground. Above
him, the leaves of rowan, alder, and mountain ash were showing tinges of autumn
as well, though the leaves of the few oak were still entirely green.span
style='mso-spacerun:yes'> 

            Within a few minutes Tristan had left behind the small
Charn Wood. Forests were rather uncommon in Bregon; most of the landscape was
rolling green hills of heath-land, with thickets of heather, gorse, and bracken
fern, and hillsides of loose scree. The altitude and wind limited the number of
trees, but a shallow vale nestled in the hills had provided enough shelter for
many trees to take root and form the Charn Wood.

            Glancing towards the darkening sky, Tristan realized that
the day’s rain was just a frail herald of a storm to coming. Ink-black, angry
clouds boiled and trashed as they floating menacingly and silently from the st1:place
w:st="on">Arianrhod st1:PlaceType
w:st="on">Mountains to the north like a mute,
inexorable army, covered the sky in a dark screen. The air grew stiller and
more silent with very moment that passed, and he stopped briefly to unstring
his bow; not wishing the wet to ruin it, then quickened his pace.

            It was then that he saw them.

            Three men, dressed in dark robes, were walking purposely
down the path in his direction. Strangers other than the peddlers and merchants
who came in spring were extremely uncommon; men without pack animals could not
be either. The hairs on the back of Tristan’s neck stood up. There was no
distrust between the people of Bregon-few even barred their doors at night-but
that was because nobody from outside ever bothered to take the dangerous and
long Caldrin’s Pass through the mountains to get there, except those who wished
to exchange a handful of books and spices for a cartload of rare and costly span
class=SpellE>Bregonian longbows.

            Tristan’s unease deepened rather than lessened as they approached.
All three wore plain brown robes with a simple hempen rope around the middle,
and had completely shaved heads. He tried to avoid notice as the group neared,
keeping his eyes on the rocky path rather than on them.

            Their feet stopped. He hesitantly and warily raised his
eyes. All three were looking at him. “You there! State
your name and business,” said the middle, apparently the leader. He had the
accent of a well-educated person. 

This
was quite impolite, considering they were the newcomers, yet the rules of
courtesy and hospitality stated that he must pay the strangers every respect,
and even take them under his roof and feed them if need be, before even asking
their names. “I am Tristam Aegir, my good sirs. I am merely returning home
after a day at work.”

The
two flanking the middle one had impassive, unblinking faces, and swords slung
over their backs, Tristan noticed with unease. The middle one, the leader, was
unarmed, and had tattoos of a raven clutching lightning bolts on either side of
his shaved scalp. His left eye was as icy blue as Tristan’s were piercingly
green, and the right one was completely white. “I am Brother Almaric, and these
are Kinsmen Stefan and Gregor,” he said, nodding his head in turn to the
taciturn men. These titles tightened the knot of disquiet that had wrapped up
Tristan’s belly. Brothers and Kinsmen were part of the order of sorcerers, the
Kindred of the Flame. They were especially powerful far down in the South, in
the lands of Dravnor, and from the bits and pieces of news gleaned from the
traders who had come in the spring, they were not good news. Popular rumor
placed them firmly in the midst of the turmoil that had erupted recently. “We
are here to spread the Light to this far-flung corner of the world. Who is your
lord?”

            “Begging your pardons, good sirs, but we have no lord.”

            The man frowned. “Who rules you?”

            “Nobody, sir. We live in peace
by our own ruling. Master Dryfan Esarli is the
village Cunning One,” he replied quickly. “He lives over there, in the village.
Good day to you all, and may your search be fruitful.” He tried to walk away,
but one of the silent swordsmen grabbed his arm in a vise-like grip. Tristan
tried to twist out of it, but the iron hand was unyielding. His opened his
mouth in protest.

            The leader thrust his face close; his mismatched eyes
making Tristan feel even more uncomfortable. “These are dark times, Tristan
Aegir. Walk in the light, or else you will answer to the Holy Kindred.” He
released Tristan’s arm and pressed a silver coin into his palm. “Take this as a
token of the mercy and kindness of the Kindred. May you walk in the span
class=GramE>light.” 

            Tristan returned the formality, then resumed walking,
trying hard not to run. He was too unnerved even to pry open his palm and
examine the silver piece, which was as much money as he had ever held in his
hand. He reached his low-eaved house just a few
minutes after the encounter. It looked out over rolling hills enclosed in a
paddock, with several score sheep, a few of whom baaed irritably as the rain
started to fall again, much harder this time.

            He was only twenty pace from his house when a flash of
lightning erupted, for a split-second bathing everything in an eerie white
light as bright as day. The clouds, as though they had
been holding up a salt-less ocean, suddenly broke and poured out veritable
buckets of rain, the innumerable pings and plashes of rain drops sounding like
an army of drummers. A rumbling peal of thunder followed the lightning a few
seconds later; the main strength of the storm was far away yet. It would worsen
in the night.

            He dashed towards his door, little rivers of water
trickling from his sodden mop of wavy dark auburn hair to run down his face. In
the few seconds it took for him to reach his house, he was soaked through to
the bone.

             Tristan hurriedly
opened the door and stumbled inside, and did what he had never done before. He
barred the door.

It
was quite dark inside, midnight blue shadows stretching across the smooth wood
floor from the dim light coming in through the cracks around the door. He could
hear the muffled rainfall through his thatched roof, and occasionally wind
whistled unhappily in the cold stone chimney.

Tristan
left his muddy boots at the door and stripped down to his underclothes, leaving
his wet breeches and tunic in a heap by his boots, before walking cautiously
over to the cold hearth, careful not to run into anything. He opened a tin box
that had a live coal set in a bed of sand to sustain it, and touched it with
the end of a wood splinter. Soon the few fat tallow candles he had had been lit
with the smoldering twig, giving him enough light to form a small mound of wood
and bark shavings in the chilled, ashy stone hearth, sooty with several weeks’
worth of smoke and charcoal.

Within
a few minutes, he had a small but merry fire going. Soon it would be strong
enough to add split logs so he could start cooking his dinner, but for the time
being it was hot enough to dry his clothes, so he spread them out carefully by
the flames, and left them there steaming as he fetched his thick forest green
fleece cloak and wrapped it around himself.

It
was a sturdy, warm house, built for purpose and not comfort. Bran had cut and
set the pine trunks himself to form the inner walls, and from the river mud dug
up the huge smooth stones that made the chimney, each with a different shade of
slate-grey, silt-brown, or weed-green. He had also made the outer walls from
the abundant scree in the hillsides of Bregon, and chinked them with mud and
moss. Bran had liked to brag about how the only help he had needed was from
Alen the thatcher.

The
inside was plain: two unstained ladder-backed chairs around a square table of
solid oak and a single shelf that held half a dozen worn but expensive books
from Gueltor and Saerid. A straw pallet and two thick woolen blankets in the
loft served as Tristan’s bed.

span
style='font-family:Arial'>The house never been inviting even when Bran was
alive, and now it seemed colder and emptier than ever.span
style='font-family:Arial'> Tristan had done little to improve that; he tried to
spend as little time as possible in the house. The fire was consuming the logs
now, and three candles were burning, yet the light seemed weak and the house
seemed full of dark shadows.

Out
from the dark shadows under the table trotted Gelert, Tristan’s sheep dog. He
stopped at Tristan’s feet, his tongue lolling out and his tail wagging as he
looked up at his master with warm trusting eyes. Tristan fancied he was smiling
up at him as he scratched him between the ears.

span
style='mso-spacerun:yes'> He straightened up, and Gelert trotted off to
curl up on the hearth, bathing in the warmth. In an iron pot he put goat’s
milk, some mushrooms he’d found in the Charn a few days past, a pinch of herbs,
and a handful of nuts, before placing it over the fire to cook. While waiting,
he whittled an oak branch with his knife, thin wood shavings curling up and
falling gently to the ground like snowflakes. He was trying to carve a small
sword out of it, to put on the mantel, but the wood was too hard and didn’t
conform to his blade. He tossed it in the fire, angered, and decided he’d try
again on the morrow with pine. The shavings he pushed together with cupped
hands to use as kindling.

His
inspiration was the sword that he kept in the large leather trunk up in the
attic. Ever since he was a little boy, he had remembered the trunk sitting in
the corner of the small loft, gathering dust. Bran had specifically warned him
never to open him, but one day when Bran had been out in the fields, tending
for the sheep, Tristan had snuck inside and opened it.
His heart beating inside his chest, he had discovered an ancient calf’s-skin
map of the Known World rolled up into a scroll, the forest green fleece cloak
he had taken to wearing of late, an empty leather purse, a silver brooch in the
shape of a stag, an arrow-head shaped pendant of a shiny black stone Dryfan
called dragonstone on a leather cord thong, and lying
flat and diagonally across the bottom of the large chest, a sheathed sword.

Tristan
had had trouble lifting it out of the trunk, and it had been nearly as tall as
him. The scabbard was cured leather, supple and well-made, and the silver
shimmering steel inside had been as smooth and unblemished as a flower petal.
The feeling of the hilt in his palm had made him shiver in delight. Somehow he
felt power in the sword, a feeling he
couldn’t explain.

Bran
had come inside in time to see Tristan hastily stuffing everything back into
the trunk and had tied him up to the oak outside their house and whipped him
with a cord of braided leather.

He
had lashed him hard enough to raise welts, but hadn’t drawn any blood. The next
time, he vowed, would be much worse.

Tristan
never approached the trunk again, as though it was poisonous. What he had found
inside, however, had been enough to keep his mind whirling with questions for
the next several years. One day, feeling particularly brave, he had asked who
the trunk belonged to. “Your father’s.” Bran had
snarled. “It’s his bloody trunk.” 

That
answer only fueled Tristan’s burning curiosity. There were so many questions to
be answered, but nobody to answer them. How did his father come by a sword? Why
did he have a silver pendant? A
thousand more questions like those were always in his thoughts.span
style='mso-spacerun:yes'> 

The
only other person in Bregon with a sword was Gaerith's father, who, as anybody
with a grain of sense could tell, was a dreadful liar. Eryc Aysmere spent most
of his time telling anybody who'd listen about his adventuring in distant lands
when he had been a lad. Supposedly he had seen a High Lord in Saerid, defeated
a band of heavily armed brigands with naught but his trusty longbow, and done
all a manner of other far-fetched things...the tales got taller as he got
drunker. As nobody had gone with him, nobody could prove otherwise-he had left
Bregon for a year and a half and come back with a great deal of stories and a
sword. Tristam sometimes pitied Gaerith, for Eryc expected his only son to be a
great adventurer as well. He had even named him for a famous adventurer of
legend-Gaerith the Stout, who had voyaged with Pryderi the Brave to the ends of
the world.

span
style='font-family:Arial'>The creamy mushroom stew was ready, so Tristan
carefully took the pot off the fire and placed it on the table. He blew on it
briefly, clouds of swirling steam billowing away into nothingness in the air,
before eating it right out of the pot with a carved wooden spoon and a heel of
crusty bread. What he didn’t finish he left on the floor for Gelert to lap up
happily. Bran would have had a fit at his manners.

Later
he started a small kettle of mint tea, which he drank with fresh clover honey.
As rain poured outside and the clouds grumbled thunderously to the night,
Tristam blew out the candles and by the glow of his dying fire found his way to
the lumpy straw mattress in the loft. 

Sleep
took a long time in coming that night, even though his thick blankets thwarted
the chill of the damp night and for once Gelert didn’t try to nuzzle his way
under Tristan’s blankets.

When
sleep finally did settle upon him, it was troubled by dark dreams.

He
was faceless as he walked around Annwyn, wearing his father’s sword. Everybody
whispered as he passed them, even Gaerith, as if they didn’t know who he was.
Then lightning flashed and rain started to fall, and suddenly Brother Almaric
was leering at him, his mismatched blue and white eyes glittering with malice.
“You will answer to the Holy Kindred,” he hissed. “The Holy
Kindred. The Holy Kindred. The Holy Kindred…”