The Golden Queen (36 page)

Orick frowned. “All right, you talked me into it.” Orick hung around a bit, promised to come back soon for Gallen and Maggie’s wedding, then left with the she-bear.

The next morning, Gallen sold an oxygen exchanger to a sailor and used the money to buy a brace of horses. He and Maggie began to ride home in style.

But that night, they were almost in County Morgan when a bad storm tore up the sky. They took refuge at an inn, and Gallen and Maggie sat discussing their wedding plans. With Father Heany dead, no one would block their marriage. Gallen would have his cousin in An Cochan perform the ceremony. As they talked of their plans, one of the locals at another table said, “Och, what a nasty storm we have a blowing outside—and it not even yet mid-September!”

Maggie turned to Gallen and whispered, “What day was it when we left here?”

“September fifteenth,” Gallen said.

Maggie turned to the stranger. “What’s the date today?”

“Why, the fourteenth,” the man answered.

And Gallen sat there, stunned. That trickster Everynne had sent them back in time again. He suddenly recalled that later on tonight, he would meet several robbers and a sidhe on the road to An Cochan, some twelve miles distant.

“Maggie, my love,” Gallen said, “would you excuse me for a few hours, darling? There’s something I have to do. I promise, I’ll be back for you early in the morning.”

“I suppose—if it’s important,” she said.

“It’s not a big job,” Gallen said. “But I think I need to save a man’s life.”

He went up to his room and dug through his clothes, put on his mantle. In one corner of his pack, he found the mask of lavender starlight he had picked up on Fale. In Veriasse’s pack, he found the wavy-bladed dagger the sidhe had been carrying.

Gallen dressed himself all in black, like the Lord Protector he was, then strapped on his sword and rode out in the rain and darkness to meet his destiny.

Copyright © by Dave Farland, 2011

Beyond the Gate, Book 2 of the Golden Queen Series: Chapter 1

After his recent adventures with Gallen and Maggie, risking his hide on half a dozen planets, Orick felt that his life was somehow charmed. A few weeks ago, he couldn’t have imagined sitting here, a hairsbreadth from winning the title of Primal Bear.

Along the banks of Obhiann Fiain the bears had gathered by the hundreds for the annual Salmon Fest. The icy waters of Obhiann Fiain thundered through a gorge, and many a cub was perched on the large rocks, waiting to swipe at any salmon that tried to leap past.

The older bears had gathered near the dark pines that morning. Fires burned low along the hillside, and salmon skewered on stakes were cooking slowly so that smoke crept along the ground.

But Orick the bear did not have his mind on fish. After over a week of athletic competitions and feasting, Orick felt as sated as he’d been in his life—or at least as far as his gustatory appetites were concerned.

But now came the final athletic event of the Salmon Fest—the much anticipated pig toss. After all the contests—the tree-climbing, the wrestling matches, the log pull, and the salmon-catch—Orick lacked only five points to take the lead in the competitions. The pig toss would make or break him.

Orick’s nerves were frayed. He watched dozens of younger bears toss the “pigs”—burlap bags filled with forty pounds of rock. Legend said that in the old days, bears had actually tossed live piglets, but Orick couldn’t imagine his ancestors engaging in such brutish activities.

Anxiously Orick waited for the toss of old Mangan, an aging bear with an especially large snout and a blaze of white on his chest. For five years—since before Orick was even born—Mangan had held the title of Primal Bear for the twin counties, an honor which allowed him the privilege of selecting ten or twelve mates a year. Orick had matched him in nearly every competition.

The competitions proceeded. Each bear snagged a pig and then took it to the tossing ring—a small circle of stones. The bears in the crowd would cheer and jeer in their deep voices.

Orick watched the first few throws, his heart pounding. He wanted to win, could taste victory. He looked out over the crowd, scanning for the females he’d most admired during the past weeks. He particularly liked one big she-bear, one with a thick, glossy coat, long, shiny claws, and large teeth. Certainly there were some fine specimens in estrus, and their scent left Orick dizzy, reeling. He met the eyes of one young she-bear but the undisguised lust in her glances left him feeling empty, hollow.
Am I nothing more to her than a breeder?
he wondered.
The boar that might sire her cubs?

And he knew it was true. She-bears did not form strong attachments. God had so fashioned them that they desired but one thing from a male, and after their sexual appetites were sated, they would become irritable,

chase him away.

Even now, many females huddled around Mangan, the favorite to win the games. They tempted him with their scent, gazed imploringly with their deep brown eyes.

And Orick, watching those she-bears, suddenly felt empty, desolate.

If he won this contest, what would he win? A few nights of frolicking with she-bears who would hold him in contempt a week later? It seemed an empty prize. For months now, Orick had considered entering the priesthood, giving himself into the service of God and mankind. It seemed a noble thing to his mind, yet here he had let his gonads bring him to this Salmon Fest to engage in these bestial contests.

If he bred widely, he would perhaps gain some form of immortality through his offspring.
But if I give myself into the service of God
, he told himself,
wouldn’t I gain a more sure form of immortality?

And so Orick was at war with himself, disconsolate. Before he knew it, old Mangan marched up to the circle with a burlap “pig” in his teeth. The she-bears in the audience called out, “Hurl that pig! Make it fly, Mangan!” Many she-bears cast him demure glances. Some stood on all fours and arched their backs, raising their tails seductively.

Old Mangan turned to Orick, a calculated gleam of malice in his eyes. “Looks like you’ll be taking second pick this year,” he shouted.

Mangan stood on his hind legs. He was tall, over six and a half feet at the shoulders. This gave him a real advantage in the toss, for he could swing with a long arc. And he had a great deal of muscle in those shoulders.

The old bear reached down with a contemptuous swipe and snagged the pig. Then he stood majestically, a sudden gust of wind rippling through his fur. He swayed back and forth, swinging the pig in long arcs, then with a snort that was almost a roar he swung one last arc and tossed the pig high. It sailed over the playing field, far past the longest mark from the younger bears, and slammed into the gray trunk of a pine tree. The burlap bag split on impact, spilling red clay dirt down the side of the tree.

Around Orick, bears hooted and cheered, shouting Mangan’s name. But Mangan looked at where his bag had landed, and his upper lip curled into a snarl. Obviously, he had not counted on hitting the tree.

The other real contenders for the tide of Primal Bear hung back, waiting to see who they would have to best. But Orick was suddenly tired of the games.

He rushed forward, looked at the “pigs” in their pile. He doubted that he could toss a burlap pig as far as Mangan had. Throwing was never his strong point.

So he would have to gamble. He found a bag that was halfway torn open, giving it a little more length so that it could be swung in a wider arc and would come free without snagging into his claws. Still, the bag could also rip halfway through the toss, losing mass so that ultimately Orick might not get as long a throw as he hoped.

Orick bit the thing in a fit of frustration and carried it up to the circle in his teeth. He was dimly aware of the cheers from the females in the camp behind him, and he looked out over the field. He needed five points. He would have to beat Mangan’s toss by more than five feet in order to win the tide, and even then Orick would have to wait to see if the other contenders would best his own mark.

He had never tried throwing a bag underhand the way that Mangan had just done. The only advantage Orick might really have was that he was younger and stronger than Mangan. But Mangan, having a long reach, had thrown his pig in a long arc that Orick could not march. Which meant that he would need to hurl that pig with a sidewise toss.

Orick took his well-ripped bag back to its pile, found one that was still new. He carried it to the circle, closed his eyes, twisted a three-quarter turn, and roared in frustration as he threw with his might.

The pig sailed toward the same tree Mangan had hit, and for one moment Orick thought he would repeat the older bear’s performance, but the bag missed the tree trunk, lofted past it a few feet and tangled in the branches, then fell to the deeper grass beyond. Orick could not tell how far the pig had gone.

A dozen cubs rushed up with the measuring rods in their teeth, and a moment later they announced that Orick had beat Mangan’s mark by twelve feet. For the moment, Orick was leader in the race for Primal Bear, and roars of delight came up from all around, from males and she-bears alike, for now it marked the end of Mangan’s reign. This year, there would be a new Primal Bear.

Still, at least two other bears could possibly beat Orick, and as he walked back to the crowd, he listened to the deep cheers, and for one moment, just one moment, he wished that Gallen and Maggie could be here to see what he’d accomplished. But they were off in Clere, planning their wedding.

He looked over the crowd at old Mangan, who scowled at the ground, defeated, and Orick suddenly felt no victory.

He sniffed the delicious scent of the females in estrus, looked at their lustrous fur and the shining eyes that watched, and suddenly he knew what he had to do.

Orick turned his back on them all and walked away.

Perhaps he would win the title of Primal Bear and perhaps he wouldn’t. In either case, he wasn’t going to stick around the Salmon Fest to find out.

He marched past the crowd, into the woods. Perhaps the others thought he went into the woods only to relieve himself, but Orick trekked on up a trail through the sheltering pines where the salmon sat cooking on their skewers.

Ahead, at the top of the hill, the trail forked. One branch led north to Freeman, the other led southeast to An Cochan and beyond that to Clere where Orick’.s best friend, Gallen, would soon wed. All through this past week, Orick had imagined that after the contests he would sate his lust upon at least one female before heading home.

But suddenly he thought of Gallen’s wedding, and a longing came over him that was too painful to name. If he dirtied himself by breaking his vows of chastity—for he had taken those vows in his heart, though he never had spoken them to God or man—he wouldn’t return home with any sense of real victory.

So Orick went to the fire pits, stood in the blue-gray wood smoke, and began pulling salmon off their skewers, swallowing them hot from the fire. A full stomach was all he would take from these contests, he decided.

Farther up the hill, a feminine voice called to him. “Are you leaving already? Aren’t you going to wait to see if you’ve won?”

Orick looked up. A young she-bear lay sprawled under a tree, and before her was a large, leather-bound book. Orick realized with a start that she’d been sitting here reading while all of the others watched the game. This in itself marked her as an unusual kind of bear. Furthermore, she did not ask the question with the batting of eyes and coyness he would have expected. Instead, she asked with a tone of apathy, as if she were intrigued by his answer, but it wasn’t especially important to her.

“No, I’m not waiting. I’ve done my best, and that is all I wanted to do.” Orick studied the young thing. Her eyes looked bright, alert. He guessed that she was perhaps four years old, but rather small for her age. He hadn’t met her before, didn’t know her name.

“What about the she-bears in heat?” she asked. “They’re all drooling for you. I’ve seen the looks they give you. And ‘a she-bear in heat is the best kind to meet,’ or so I hear.”

“I’m not interested,” Orick said. He pulled another bit of salmon from a stick and swallowed, savoring its smoky flavor with bits of ash on it.

The she-bear pricked up her ears, sniffed the air as if testing for his scent. Orick sniffed back, wondering if she was in estrus. She wasn’t. So perhaps her questions were not the byproduct of some sexually induced intrigue, but were rather guided by a sense of curiosity. The she-bear was not particularly attractive. She had a dull coat of black hair with brownish tips. Her nose was petite, her paws rather overly large. Finally, she asked, “I don’t get it. You could mate with any she-bear down there. Why don’t you?”

Out of curiosity Orick sauntered over to the she-bear. She was reading from a book on how to rig sailing ships—perhaps the most useless topic a bear could study.

“I don’t know,” Orick answered honestly. “I guess I want more from she-bears than they’re willing to offer.”

She studied his eyes. “You’re that bear that runs with Gallen O’Day, aren’t you? So what is it you are after—fidelity?”

Orick hesitated to answer afraid that she would laugh at him, but something about her demeanor said that she wouldn’t. “Yes.”

She nodded. “I’ve heard of some males who want things like that,” she said. “It’s the cub in you. You still want someone to care for you, even after your mother chases you off. You’ll grow out of it.”

“Perhaps I want someone to care for—as much as I want someone to take care of me,” Orick said. “Perhaps I have something to offer.”

“Perhaps.” She nodded. “So where are you going?”

“To Clere. My human friends, Gallen and Maggie, are getting married.”

“Hmmm …” she said. “I was heading that way myself. Do you mind if I come along?”

“Only under one condition.”

“What?”

“If you tell me your name …”

“Grits,” she answered.

Orick wrinkled his nose in distaste. “That’s not much of a name,” he said, perhaps too honestly.

“I’m not much of a bear,” she answered. She flipped her book shut with her paw, then gingerly picked it up in her teeth and carried it to a red leather pack under the tree. She nuzzled the book into the pack, then stood and slipped the pack straps over her head. Within moments the pack was on, two leather containers dangling at her side when she walked on all fours, as if she were some pack mule carrying its burden.

Then they padded off up the worn trail. By late afternoon they reached Reilly Road, which led south along the coast to Clere. As they flitted beneath trees, the sun shone warmly on them, almost as if summer had returned. And each time the road crossed a stream, Orick was obliged to stop and slake his thirst. His mouth was made dry by more than the constant exercise, for he talked long with Grits about many things—about his interest in religion and her interest in the ways that ships were constructed. They talked of far lands, and of the strange rumors they’d heard of heavenly and hellish creatures walking alive and in the daylight down in County Morgan.

Orick didn’t tell Grits about his part in such matters, how he’d just returned from a journey with Gallen O’Day and learned of the vast universe beyond their small world. Although all the rumors said that Gallen O’Day was up to his neck in affairs with creatures from another world, and though Orick was Gallen’s best friend, Orick preferred to feign complete ignorance of the matter, hoping that Grits wouldn’t press him with questions. The poor she-bear just wouldn’t be able to comprehend such talk, and, if it frightened her, he feared that she might blather the news about willy-nilly.

So it was that they climbed down out of the tall hills and into the green rounded hills of the drumlins. By dusk they reached the village of Mack’s Landing, beside a long gray lake where geese and swans gathered out on the flat waters. Jagged clouds hung on the horizon, curtains of rain falling from them. The town itself was nothing more than a grove of old oak house-trees that sprawled at the bottom of the green slope of a long hill. The house-trees’ rust-colored leaves flapped in a small wind.