Chapter Text
It was the Festival of the Two Sisters when the man who called himself Reynard Mulberry received a summons from the Prince.
Reynard Mulberry lived on the island of Wuld. This was unusual, because most men on Hedd- the archipelago that perched to the north of the great continent called Corse- lived on Marroway or Freyn. However, Reynard had come to Wuld to win a war, and after he had done so, he had stayed there, because he had fallen in love.
On that crisp autumn morning Reynard woke next to his love. He woke a good hour before she would; Melan slept heavy as a log, while Reynard sometimes scarcely slept at all. His dreams were strange and torturous, because he had seen and done evil things. However, the funny bit was that Reynard never dreamt about the evils he’d seen and done- he dreamt about the evils he might yet see and do. In his dreams, he didn’t see men and women and children he had killed; he saw his evils done to his men and women and children.
Reynard never mentioned his dreams to anyone, because he accepted them as a natural consequence of the life he had led. He would, most likely, have been sorrier had he never dreamt anything at all- if he’d rested easy, he would have loathed himself. He sat up on the bed, careful not to disturb Melan. He eased off the sheet and heavy quilt, and sat, quite naked, looking admiringly at his sleeping wife.
Melan was not a human; she was a Burlock. Wuld was populated mostly by Burlocks- the people of the trees- and Delfows- the people of the seas. It was not hard to distinguish between them, because Burlocks were very tall, and Delfows were very small. Humans were mostly in the middle. On the islands of Hedd, they said humans were the people of the stones, and often people expected Reynard to be good at mining and masonry and smithing because of it. That he was not was a great disappointment to all.
Melan was beautiful. Her skin was a rich, warm brown, and etched with delicate grooves along her face and limbs. Her eyes were black as midnight, as was her raven hair, though in warm autumn sunshine it burned raven-red. Her ears were long and tapered to a point. She snuffled in her sleep and mumbled into the pillow, drooling. Reynard watched her fondly for a moment, then stood up with a groan and shuffled across the cold bedroom floor.
After pulling on his clothes, Reynard climbed down the wooden ladder from the loft, ducked through a patchwork curtain, and nudged his firstborn awake with his foot.
“Get up,” he said.
Jem grumbled piteously.
“Up, boy,” said Reynard. His tone was curt and firm.
Reynard had never had a father, and because he had been a fatherless boy, he had found fathers wherever he could. Most of them had treated him very badly, but they had taught him how to survive.
He loved Jem so intensely that he felt like his chest was being crushed when he looked at his son, but he did not know how to speak to Jem, how to treat Jem, other than with sharp words and the occasional blow. It was easier with his daughters because he did not see himself in them, and he knew nothing about little girls; he’d never met one until he was a grown-up man.
Jem, muttering curses and pleas, finally rolled off his mat and got up. He was a halfbreed; not the only halfbreed on Wuld, but one of the only half-humans on Wuld.
He looked the most human, of Reynard’s three children. His skin was much softer and smoother than his sisters’ and his ears were rounded, not pointed. His eyes were a human’s eyes, with whites, not the cat eyes of a Burlock. The only Burlish thing about him were his six fingers and toes, and his height. He was so tall and skinny- six-foot-five at the tender age of fifteen- that he looked like he’d been stretched out on a rack until his bones turned to paste.
He was much taller than Reynard, to be sure, but not yet stronger. Reynard and his son wrestled around the yard every few weeks; Reynard thought it only fair to let Jem get some blows in, so the son did not resent his father so much. But he could still beat Jem, every time. He figured that when his son was strong enough to pin him down and make him beg for mercy, that would be when Jem was a man and Reynard would give up on trying to discipline the boy.
They went to the stable where the ponies and the cow and the two goats were kept. Reynard fed them while Jem did the milking. They worked in tense silence, as usual, until Reynard decided he should make an effort, as his wife was always encouraging, and said, “Are you and the gents going down to the docks tonight? Catch some shooting stars?”
Catching shooting stars was a game the young people played on the water, where they jumped from boat to boot with a net and a bucket, attempting to ‘catch’ the reflections of the stars that roared across the sky every Festival of the Two Sisters. It was a nonsense game that no one could win; when it was over the boys would present their water-logged but starless buckets, and whichever one had tried the hardest would be announced the victor and could beg a kiss.
“No,” said Jem, mulish. “That’s for children.”
“Then what are you going to do?” Reynard asked. He patted the grey pony’s nose and let her take a lick of his hand.
Jem shrugged in the manner of a boy who knew exactly what he intended to do tonight, none of which included informing his parents beforehand.
“Well,” said Reynard. “Keep your pants on, whatever you do.”
“Da,” said Jem, disgusted. He hunched his shoulders, perched on the tiny milking stool, scowling as he rested his cold face against the warm side of the cow.
“Don’t shame your mother and me,” said Reynard. “I mean it. Pants on. Cock away. Hear me?”
“Da, leave me alone,” Jem said sharply, so Reynard left him alone in the stable and crossed the yard to go split firewood.
By the time he was done, the women were up and breakfast was on. He enjoyed the sensation of the frostbitten grass crunching under his boots as he brought a load of wood in; it smelled sweet compared to the musty scent of the alehouse. The alehouse was how Reynard had gotten his name: it was called The Fox & the Mulberry.
Long ago, when Reynard had come to this island as a hired soldier, in his company they called him the Fox, because he had red-brown hair and the devil in his eye. And at that time, when Melan was still a Princess of Wuld, they called her the Mulberry.
Melan was stirring porridge; Reynard put the firewood down by the hearth, and came up behind his wife and wrapped his cold arms around her. She shivered violently and stepped on his feet, but patted his hands where they caressed her stomach. Melan was the same height as her son Jem; short for a Burlock, but taller than the vast majority of human women.
“Keep your cold hands to yourself,” she told Reynard. “You feel like a wraith.”
He let her go and sat down at the table, grabbing a hunk of bread from the basket and dipping it in a small bowl of oil. His youngest child, Dara, clambered up onto the bench beside him and wormed under his arm. Dara was five feet tall at six years of age; her hair was russet, like her fathers, restrained in two braids. Her skin was a creamy tan, her eyes as black as her mother’s, no light in them, her ears long and pointed.
“Good morning,” he said. Dara smelled like dog; he suspected she had taken one of the puppies into bed with her again.
“Morning,” Dara mumbled into his shirt, and ate some bread from his hand.
Carey, his eldest daughter, was waiting impatiently at the door for Jem to return with the milk. Carey’s short mop of curly hair was a dark red-brown, like her siblings, but her skin was browner than Dara’s, closer to her mother’s shade, and her eyes were golden yellow, not black or brown. She was very small for a half-Burl; she was five-foot-nine, two inches shorter than her father.
Jem arrived, slopping milk from the pail. Everyone grumbled at him for rushing, then sat down to eat.
“Beam and Sol are not back from Tangleweed yet,” said Melan. “I think those boys got drunk and stayed the night.”
“Ah,” said Reynard, “Well, it is a holiday.”
“Yesterday was not,” she said sharply. She was harder than him on the servants. Reynard did not consider himself a lackadaisical taskmaster, but Beam and Sol were Burls, not men, so he was cautious about being highhanded or harsh with them. Melan had no such compunctions. She had been raised in a palace and while she had not lived the life of a pampered noblewoman for fifteen years now, she still expected people to jump at her commands.
“I hope they’re not still drunk,” said Dara. “Beam promised to take me out with his fisher friends. Me and Carey.”
Carey shrugged, suddenly flustered and mute. She was the most timid of Reynard’s children, the typical reserved middle child. She didn’t sulk and scowl like Jem, or pout and charm like Dara; she ducked her head and got on with things, which was why she was Reynard’s favorite.
Melan was watching Carey intently; when the children stayed in the drafty kitchen to clear up the dishes, she followed Reynard out into the yard, headed towards the well. “Carey likes Beam,” she said. “He is too old for her. She’s only twelve.”
“He’s only Jem’s age,” said Reynard. “And the boy is an innocent. He would never touch her. He doesn’t see her as a woman.”
“He will soon,” said Melan. “We should send him back to the Thicket.”
“To your brother?” Reynard shook his head. “The boy is a bastard and an embarrassment there. Sallow would simply ship him off somewhere else.”
Beam was the illegitimate son of Lady Corenna, Prince Sallow’s wife. Reynard could not imagine how he would react, had he discovered Melan had a child from well before she’d met him, one she’d kept secret.
But that was what Corenna had done- concealed the fact the page in her household was her own son, the product of an affair with a musician- until Sallow had discovered the truth. He had divorced Corenna quietly, though officially it was because she had been unable to give him children. But those who knew the truth wondered if it were not Sallow who was the problem, since Corenna was clearly capable of producing sons.
Reynard found it best not to dwell on such matters. It was no business of his what intrigues went on under the eaves of the Golden Thicket. Melan was a princess, yes, but she was the youngest of Sallow’s siblings, and had given up her position in the royal line to wed Reynard. His children would never be in contention for the throne; nor would he have wanted them to be.
Melan shook her head, hauling water from the well, her hands clenched tight around the rope. “They’re growing up too fast. First Jem making eyes at the pearl diver-,”
“The pearl diver?” This was the first Reynard had heard of this. “Is she a Delfow?” Most of the divers and fishermen in Tangleweed were.
“Senna Something,” said Melan dismissively. “I’ve seen her. She will never give him the time of day.” She sounded secretly pleased; it was no secret that Jem was her favorite child, her only son. She would mourn long and hard when he married.
“And here I was lecturing him about keeping his cock to himself,” said Reynard. “Look at that: a father’s intuition!”
Melan did not appreciate his jesting.
“She’s not interested,” she said. “We have nothing to worry about there.”
“Girls can change their minds quickly on days like this,” Reynard said, his breath misting in the cold air. “Today is a maiden’s holiday, isn’t it?”
While the Heddans followed the same faith as the people of Corse- the Divine Body- they honored some minor gods that most Corsians didn’t think twice about, such as Regine and Una, the Maiden Sisters. The Festival of the Two Sisters celebrated the meeting of autumn - Regine - and winter - Una.
On the eleventh day of the eleventh month they met and put aside their bitter grudges to celebrate the changing of the seasons. Una often resented Regine for her brilliant glory and warmer weather, while Regina despised how Una stole her life and beauty and ushered in the killing days of winter. But on this day, old wounds were mended and the sisters joined hands and danced through the heavens; on a cold, clear night, you could see their red and green skirts rippling through the night sky, which caused the stars themselves to dance and leap for joy.
It was a time to end bitter feuds and reunite with family and friends. Reynard had no family save the one he had made here, but he felt guilt for taking Melan from her kin. But Sallow had always been more of a father than an elder brother to her, one she had resented terribly by the time she was grown, and her other siblings followed the Prince’s lead in such matters. Melan had not visited them nor seen any of them since Jem’s birth.
“We need four casks to bring into town tonight,” said Melan. “And Hazel says we can stay in the inn for free in exchange.”
“She should pay us for the ale,” said Reynard stubbornly. “A free night in that mouse and louse-ridden shack she calls an inn is hardly fair.”
“Hazel is a friend. We can’t fuss with her over money,” Melan sighed.
Melan often spoke of ‘fuss’ over money because she’d been raised with a good deal of it on hand. Reynard had no such compunctions. He’d been a mercenary for twelve years before he’d met her. He expected to be paid for his services; when he and his comrades weren’t, they took the money anyways, or something equally valuable.
“I’ll talk to Gran about it,” said Reynard. “He’s town alderman, not his wife.”
“Don’t go poking your nose into it, Reynard,” Melan said, but he waved her off irritably and went to bring up some casks from the cellars.
He was bringing up the second cask when he heard Dara yelling for him; her yell crackled with genuine alarm, not her usual excited energy.
Reynard dropped the cask at the top of the dusty cellar steps and ran into the house, though Dara was shouting from the yard. He wanted his sword, which he kept in a trunk at the foot of his bed. He took the ladder two at a time, wrestled the trunk open, then jumped back down from the loft. His bones regretted that leap immediately; he could have vaulted six feet down to the ground and charged on recklessly as a boy of twenty, but he was thirty-seven now, and he felt every impact.
Reynard kicked open the door and came out into the yard. His children were standing in a clump by the well, their eyes huge in their frightened faces. Carey had wrapped her arms around Dara protectively. Jem was clutching a rake like it was a polearm.
Melan was standing at the gate, speaking to two Burlock riders. They rode large chestnut ponies big enough to accommodate their long legs, and wore mottled ceremonial armor of thin strips of wood, bone, and hide, connected with reeds and sinews and painted green and black and gold.
Melan did not seem frightened; she sounded angry. She spoke to them quickly and coldly, her voice clipped and crisp, enunciating each word precisely, but one of the riders, seeing Reynard, raised his voice over hers.
“Hail, Reynard the Fox, consort of the Lady Melan Wuldenrood,” said the taller of the two guards, his voice twisted with sarcasm. “We come with an invitation from the Prince. He entreats your family to join his underneath the hallowed eaves of the Golden Thicket tomorrow.”
Reynard was silent for a moment, cognizant of the fact that they were blatantly ignoring Melan in order to humiliate both husband and wife, and then said, “Does the Prince’s invitation extend to me?”
The shorter guard chortled, and then said, “Alas, it does not. It is for your own safety, Fox. There are many within his court who remember Prince Larch well, and greatly mourn his loss.”
“Prince Sallow and Prince Alder, you mean,” said Reynard. “The latter has vowed to kill me if presented with the opportunity.”
“We would never allow such savagery,” the taller guard assured him, his voice dripping with amusement. “We are well aware of your Mannish fragility. Alder is the strongest Burl on Wuld. It would not take much… effort.”
Reynard knew exactly how much effort it required for Burls and men to kill one another. He had put the very sword in his hand through Larch’s neck, fifteen years ago. Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck. What did Sallow want with Melan and the children now? After all these years? Why invite them to the palace the day after a festival? Was he hosting a private celebration?
“You do great dishonor to Prince Larch,” Reynard said, sharply. “He fought nobly against me. To suggest that I am so weak that his death was a fluke- it does his memory shame. Perhaps I should alert your captain of how blithely you speak of the dead.”
“Hold your tongue, little Man,” the shorter guard said- he was still several inches taller and broader than Reynard. He had abandoned all pretense of good manners. “It’s not been so long since I was ripping those out.”
“Peace,” the taller guard said, laughing. “Peace, Burr. Don’t let the little lichen rile you. He is past his prime. Men- they are done before they reach forty years.” He stepped up to Reynard, and said, “When you are eighty you will be dying in your bed. I turn eighty next month. And I have a century of killing left.”
“Ai!” Melan snarled, shoving between them, a fist pressed to her own chest.
The guard fell back; the taller bowed, the shorter, pressed a fist to his chestplate.
“Have you delivered your message?” she hissed.
“Yes, Princess.”
“Then you are dismissed,” she said. “You should not have crossed onto our lands without permission.”
“Prince Sallow owns these lands,” the shorter, Burr, began to protest. “He graciously allows you to lease them-,”
“How dare you speak to me so plainly!” she shouted. “Am I not Melan Wuldenrood? Was I not born of Prince Ulm, same as Sallow? Was I not mothered by the Lady Ash of Lynnock, of the royal House of Lyn? I am a child of the Golden Thicket! I am the last of Ulm’s seed, as Sallow is the first! Leave! I will not ask again!”
She stood in her apron-strings with her hands on her hips, but for a moment, Reynard could see the crown on her head, twisted from roots and antlers, dripping with pearls and citrine.
The guards mounted their ponies and trotted away, breaking into a canter as they crossed the small bridge leading over the stream. Reynard did not lower the sword in his hand until he saw the cloud of dust rise up behind them.
“What does this mean?” he asked Melan. “Why have they come for you now?”
“I do not know,” she said. “Perhaps Sallow is ill. Or losing his mind. I can’t see why else he would summon me.”
“Perhaps he misses you,” said Reynard, but his chest felt tight and hollow at the same time. Sallow did not make impulsive decisions based on fits of love, or even anger, or fear. He was as implacable as the roots that his palace sat atop. He must have some cause. And whatever it was, Reynard suspected he would not like to learn it.