Through the Darkness

“We may do as well in the park as we would anywhere else,” Ealstan said. “We don’t know the good hunting spots here, the way we did around Gromheort and Oyngestun.”

“Maybe.” Vanai didn’t sound convinced. But then she brightened. “Look. There’s a little grove of oaks.” When she smiled that particular smile, she didn’t really look like Conberge, either; no smile from his sister had ever made Ealstan’s blood heat so. With a small sigh, Vanai went on, “In the middle of the city, it would probably be too crowded.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Ealstan said, and the regret in his voice made Vanai laugh. When he thought about it, he laughed, too. They could always go back to the flat, where they would be sure of privacy, and where the bed was far more comfortable than grass and fallen leaves. Even so, looking toward the scrubby trees, he had the feeling of a chance wasted.

“Well, even if we can’t find a chance for that here, let’s see what we can find,” Vanai said. She scuffed through the grass, head down, eyes intent: the pose of a mushroom hunter on the prowl. Ealstan had the same posture. So did a good many other people going through the park by ones and twos and in small groups.

They’re all Forthwegians, Ealstan realized. Every year before this, he’d noticed occasional blond heads among the dark ones: Kaunians in Forthweg loved mushrooms as much as Forthwegians did. But now the Kaunians in Eoforwic remained shut up in the district into which the Algarvians had forced them. They were easier to round up that way, whenever the redheads needed to steal some life energy to power their sorceries aimed at the Unkerlanters.

Vanai stooped, almost as if she were pouncing, and came up with a couple of mushrooms. “Meadow mushrooms?” Ealstan asked--almost as common as grass, they were better than no mushrooms, but that was all he’d say for them. Vanai shook her head and held up the basket so he could get a better look. “Oh,” he said. “Horse mushrooms.” They were near kin to meadow mushrooms, but tastier, with a flavor that put him in mind of crushed anise seeds.

“I’ll sauté them in olive oil tonight,” Vanai said, and Ealstan smiled in anticipation. Someone else, not too far away, bent and tossed mushrooms into his basket, as Vanai had tossed the horse mushrooms into hers. Nodding toward the man, she murmured, “He could be a Kaunian, you know.”

The fellow didn’t look like a Kaunian. He looked like a Forthwegian about halfway between Ealstan’s age and his father’s, but further down on his luck than they’d ever been. But Vanai was right. Quietly, Ealstan said, “You did something wonderful when you passed that on through the apothecary.” He wouldn’t mention the spell where anyone else might hear, either.

“I hope I did,” Vanai answered. “I can’t know, not for certain. Maybe he didn’t do what he said he would. But oh, I hope!”

Perhaps buoyed by that hope, they did wander into the oak grove. Ealstan kissed Vanai there, but that was all. He found some oyster mushrooms on the trunk of an oak, and cut them off with the little knife he wore on his belt. Kicking at the tree’s gnarled roots, he said, “There might be truffles growing down there.”

“Aye, and there might be a hundred goldpieces buried there, too,” Vanai said. “Do you think it’s worthwhile digging?”

“No,” he admitted. “But if there were some big truffles along that root, they’d be worth a lot more than a hundred goldpieces.”

When they came out on the far side of the oak grove, they walked toward a marble equestrian statue, twice life size, of a warrior king facing west, toward Unkerlant. “That’s Plegmund, isn’t it?” Vanai asked.

“No one else.” Ealstan’s mouth tightened. His opinion of the great Forthwegian ruler had plummeted when the Algarvians named their puppet brigade after him, and then again when Sidroc joined it. “There should be a plaque on the base telling what a hero he was.”

But there was no patinated bronze plaque, only an unweathered rectangle on the stone to show where one had been. And a couple of stone bases that had supported bronzes now stood alone, supporting nothing. Vanai figured out why before Ealstan did. “The Algarvians must have taken the metal, to use it in their weapons,” she said.

“Miserable thieves,” Ealstan growled. After three years of war, he hadn’t imagined Mezentio’s men could give him new reasons to despise them, but they’d done it.

And then, from beyond the statue of King Plegmund, someone called his name. He jumped a little; few people in Eoforwic knew him well enough to recognize him. But there was Ethelhelm, coming out of a group of mushroom hunters. A couple of them started to come with him, but he waved them back. “Hello,” he said with a broad, friendly smile, and clasped Ealstan’s hand. His gaze swung toward Vanai. “And who’s your pretty friend?”