Where the Rivers Meet - 2

Days later, the lords were making their own departures. They had a treaty in their pockets – half of it each, cut jagged down the middle so that the pieces must meet up to prove its authenticity. And as they went, they left us the gifts – beasts, cheeses, silver coins, leather, steel tools. It was a pretty fine haul, folks in the village agreed, and it was split up amongst all the families, so that we were all the richer for having hosted the peace talks.

“Do you think it’ll last?” my father mused to my mother, “or do you think they’ll be back here ten years from now forging another?”

“It’s unbreakable,” my mother sniffed.

“Oh, now?”

“If they believe it is then it is.”

“The wonders of our magic, eh?”

“Magic is what works. Two Rivers is steeped in it.”

“Aye, and with all that bathing in the meeting pool, I daresay the Grey Knight will have a cock that’s nearly twelve inches long.”

She withered him with her eyes. “You’ve swum there often enough; it doesn’t seem that’ll be the case.”

#

And they declare it high time for my marriage.

“After the last harvest.”

“I said no.”

“And I said you will do as you’re bid.” There was to be no arguing with that tone.

So I temporized, “I’d prefer it to be in spring, amongst the blossoms.”

“Oh, would you now?”

“It seems fitting.” And Firenight would come well before it.

“You’ll agree then, with no more fuss, if we do the thing in springtime?”

“I promise,” I said. I gambled. But I believed in what I’d been told. He was going to come for me. He was.

#

Poor Petrod.

He prepared himself for his wedding day. He prepared himself to be a husband. He had a little house all built up and ready for us. We were going to be allocated some strips to farm. Presented with a few sheep, maybe a goat. Some chickens. He had the house all set up for us, a bed of hay-bales softened with woollen blankets, a sunken house with a thatched roof. A rectangular firepit and a long pole to hang the pots and pans from. He dug a little path leading up to the door, and planted marigolds for me.

And I, the expectant bride, sat up in the night and embroidered a shirt for him, as tradition dictates, and a cover for the bed. I worked hard, eagerly; but I kept to myself the fact that this work wasn’t for Petrod, this shirt, this cover, these were for Anastrin, and before poor Petrod even got to see them they would be given to another man.

Poor Petrod. I tried to warn him. I tried to tell him not to get his hopes up too high. “Marriages don’t always go ahead. A betrothal can be broken if one side or the other thinks there might be a better offer.”

“A don’t see anyone better than you,” was all he had to say.

“It might still happen, or I…”

“You? What do you mean?”

“There’s plenty of time for things to happen, that’s all. And it’s not as if we’re lords and ladies, no kingdoms rest on this. If you found yourself taken with another girl, I wouldn’t stand in your way, I’d want you to be happy.”

His hand found its way onto my thigh. “I want you to be happy too. By my side.”

“This is a secret,” I told him, “But I don’t even know if I’ll be in Two Rivers by spring.”

“Where would you go?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t decided that much.”

“I’ll go with you. Of course.”

“No. no.”

“You can’t go alone. You ‘d be in danger. I’d have to go with you.” It seemed so simple to him.

I wouldn’t be alone, though. But I couldn’t quite say that final part, the part that he needed to hear, that would convince him. I couldn’t tell my betrothed about my fey lover, about how it’d felt to be with him, to be in and part of him. I couldn’t warn him that there was no way he’d ever be able to compete.

“I’ll love you,” he told me. “That’s all that’ll matter.”

#

That winter was the same hard season that the Red Summer predicted. The harvest was light, and the snow came heavy. There were days when we were effectively trapped inside the little house, me and my parents, along with my three brothers, and the two cousins who lived with us. We were not rich. It was close and crowded. But my mother reminded me about the spring wedding. She worked with me on my wedding dress, and reminded me that Petrod would bring with him a new house, a little flock of sheep, strips of land, some geese, a pig. His family were peasants too, but they had more and better land than we did, they’d done better, and I would be moving up amongst our neighbours, bettering myself.

She had plenty of advice for me too, on the art of being a wife. On the wedding. On the wedding night. On the months and years to follow.

I did my best to listen. But in my own heart I’d already experienced my wedding night. I was bound and promised elsewhere. Firenight was approaching. On that night he was coming for me, and all was going to change.

#

On the night, I scurried away, returned to the house when the rest of the household were still out in the fields, dancing and drinking. I opened the chest and took out my wedding dress, slipped it on, watching furtively for any of my family to return. And when they didn’t, I gathered up my skirts and crept out into the dark. I figured Anastrin would be waiting at the place where we’d made love. I went there, but found it empty.

I called his name.

I searched the ridge. I crept down into the fields, to the river, to the well, to the meadow, the woods. Wedding skirts in hand, in a tight, balled fist, I searched all over for a sign of him. I fought to keep the tears away, to keep that burgeoning despair from welling up inside my chest and overwhelming me. It was a fight I lost by the second. Still, it was nearly dawn before I knew he wasn’t coming.

#

But I’d wanted this so badly.

What if he’d been delayed? But how would I get a message to him?

And what was I supposed to do with Petrod?

The wedding was getting closer and closer. I spent my days roaming the woods, going further and further, reaching into other villages, trying to find some trace of my Anastrin. I would come back crying as often as not, but my mother put it down to girlish whimsy, the excitement of a looming marriage.

But I dreaded that day.

I walked down to the meeting pool, where the rivers intermingle. I was not well-taught in my letters, but I could read and write up to a point. It was more education than I needed, but it was enough that I could take a scrap of sheep skin and write on it: Let Anastrin come. I gave that scrap to the river, and I hoped with all my heart.

#

That’s how I know that the rivers are liars. That the Mad Grey Knight and Sir Side-eyes will not have to honour that treaty one word more than they feel like.

On that spring morning I stood beside the pool, wearing my dress while Petrod wore the matching shirt. His eyes were bright with eagerness. He held my hands tight and made his vows with manifest sincerity. I can’t remember what mine sounded like, only that they tasted like ash on my tongue. I looked Petrod in the eyes and wished and wished that he could become Anastrin. I begged him to become that other man.

For his part, Petrod just smiled, and told me, “We’ll be all right. I’ll love you for always. That’s all that matters.”

 

END

 

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work