Duty (Book 2) (18 page)

“Is it so hard,” Gen said, “to believe I could make a woman feel . . . relaxed?”

“Yes.”

“Why? I have ample evidence to the contrary. Fenna, Mirelle, Marna, streets full of crazed, ravenous young women. Maybe it’s just you.”

“We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.”

“Actually, we were talking about your mother. Don’t worry. Mirelle doesn’t often get the opportunity for levity or idle conversation. I sense the burden of leadership leads to a great deal of loneliness, and I provide her with a bit of entertainment from time to time. That is all. Though, if she were seriously flirting with me, I could certainly do worse.”

“I will have to tell Fenna that.”

Gen winced. “Please don’t.”

“And speaking of our mutual friend,” the Chalaine said, “have we moved beyond friendship yet?”

“You and I or you and Fenna?”

Her grip on the bars tightened, blood draining from her fingers. “So help me, Gen. . .”

“All right, all right. I would say yes, but we have agreed not to pursue things too aggressively while your marriage and the birth of God stand before us. We will both be busy and in more than a little danger. It is best not to get too attached in such times.”

“That’s what she said,” the Chalaine said, “though it is terribly wrongheaded.”

“So why did you ask me?”

“To see if you would say the same thing as she did. You must be the one who came up with the idea.”

Gen was about to counter when he noticed Chertanne approaching. “Oh blessed day. Here comes your fiancé.”

Chertanne, obviously saddle sore, waddled awkwardly toward the wagon. The sun had burned his face a deep red, and dirt covered the white outfit he had worn for the ceremonious parade out of Mikmir. A contingent of his guard, Captain Drockley in command, encircled him.

“Let me see her,” Chertanne growled, exasperated.

“Yes, Milord,” Gen said cheerily, unlocking the door for him. Drockley and another guard moved to help as Chertanne’s girth prevented him from taking the high step up easily. Gen followed him inside and shut the door.

“What are you doing in here?” Chertanne barked. “We’re to be married for pity’s sake! Give us a little privacy!”

“No unbranded man is to be allowed alone with the Chalaine. We could arrange for Ethris to. . .”

“It’s all right, Gen,” the Chalaine said. “He and I should talk.”

“Very, well. I will be outside.”

Gen jumped down, drawing his sword at the same time. Most of Chertanne’s guards stumbled backward in surprise, two actually falling over themselves. To his credit, Drockley didn’t move but instead carefully examined the exposed blade. Gen held it at the ready.

“Forgive me,” Gen apologized. “I must be poised for action with so many armed men around the wagon.”

The conversation within was shorter than Gen expected, almost brief enough to be considered instantaneous. Chertanne rapped on the door to be let out and left as quickly as his soreness would permit.

“So what was that about?” Gen asked after Chertanne left earshot.

“Brace yourself,” the Chalaine answered from behind the bars. “He came to express his concern and give comfort about the recent attempt on my mother’s life.”

“I’m stunned. Kaimas is doing a capital job.”

The Chalaine laughed. “For the record, Gen, that was very cynical. Maybe Kaimas would offer you some lessons on social etiquette, too, since you still treat your Savior like an incompetent stable boy. He’s the Ha’Ulrich, Gen!”

“I know, but I see his gut and I just forget.”

“That’s my future husband you’re talking about,” the Chalaine said, stifling her laughter as best she could.

“I’m sorry,” Gen apologized. “I, of course, wish you every happiness.”

“Thank you. As for his gut, I am counting on the meager fare of our journey to whittle it down to a more acceptable size. Once its rotundity is no longer blinding your vision, perhaps then you will remember your manners.”

“Maybe,” Gen replied noncommittally.

Mirelle approached carrying a small basin of water and a towel draped over her arm. Cadaen followed, asking her to let him carry the items. She refused, and the sight of the First Mother of Rhugoth in the attitude of a servant humbled Gen. She smiled sincerely at him as she came near and set the basin on a ledge at the rear of the wagon. The odd sight drew the attention of those nearby.

“Sit down, please,” she said. Gen complied, sitting on the ledge of the wagon. “I see you haven’t asked my daughter to heal you. Chalaine, can you reach Gen and heal him?”

“I did not know he was hurt!” the Chalaine exclaimed, pulling open a slot in the door that allowed meals and other items to be passed to her. “Why didn’t you say anything, Gen?”

“It is a trifle,” he replied.

After an exasperated sigh, the Chalaine reached through the slot and touched his arm, and a few moments later, the wound had healed completely, leaving only dried blood and dust on the side of Gen’s face. Mirelle dipped the towel in the water and washed his face, his arms, and his hands tenderly. When done, she kissed him.

“Thank you again,” Mirelle said.

“Thank you, Mirelle.” For several moments she locked her eyes on his, Gen ignoring the interested expressions all around them and trying to see what he could find in the woman before him.

“I would like to talk with my daughter,” she finally said.

“Certainly, your Grace.”

Gen unlocked the door and helped her in, closing it behind her. Cadaen stood at his side, and Gen resumed his stance, thoughts of the First Mother running confused through his mind.

“Look, Gen, I. . .” Cadaen started, his voice quiet and subdued.

“Cadaen,” Gen interrupted, “please. There is no need to say anything. I tire of people being in my debt. I care for the First Mother as much as you care for the Chalaine. We are brothers in our devotion to them. We watch out for each other and for each other’s charges. I was in the right place to help today, and I did my duty as you would have done in my place.”

“I thank you all the same,” Cadaen said. “I have not honored you with the trust you are due. You have more than earned it, but I am stubborn. I have watched over her for nearly twenty years, and I have made . . . mistakes. If she were hurt because I was not ready or able, or because I was forgetful or not alert, I would take my own life, I swear it.”

“No one doubts your devotion or your ability, Cadaen. Your careful service does you credit,” Gen answered.

Cadaen seemed to want to tell him something, but he decided against it, and they passed the time in silence.

Nearly an hour went by before servants brought meals for the First Mother and First Daughter. Mother and daughter talked in low voices, and Gen did not try to pry into their conversation.

Peeking around the wagon, he glimpsed the Pearl Bridge for the first time. His eyes required several seconds to take in the structure. The bridge defied comfort or comprehension, spanning an impossible distance between two shard fragments. Its length and the yawning gap between the shards gave it a fragile feeling, and Gen could understand why some people in Rhugoth dared not to cross some of the longer bridges; Pearl Bridge emanated vertigo, even at a distance.

The First Mother stayed with her daughter for her meal, and, as she descended from the wagon when finished, she handed the empty plates and mugs to Cadaen.

“Take care of these,” she ordered. “I need to speak with Gen briefly.”
  “Yes, your Grace,” Cadaen said, retrieving the items without complaint. The First Mother waited until he was out of sight before turning back to Gen and, embracing him again, whispered in his ear.

“Keep talking to my daughter. You lighten her spirit, and she will need more of that every step we get closer to Elde Luri Mora. She tries to be brave, but she is frightened.”

“I will,” Gen said as Mirelle pulled away and straightened his hair with her fingers. Her nearness was exhilarating.

“I think the wind will win that battle, Mirelle,” he said. “Perhaps I should wear a hat like Geoff, though I doubt I would find more than a crow’s feather out here to garnish it with.”

“No,” Mirelle said. “A crown for that head or nothing. Good night. Talk to me soon. There are several measures I want put in place for my daughter’s safety.”

“As you wish, your Grace.”

Cadaen arrived, and the First Mother left for her tents. Night descended on the camp. Regent Ogbith—motivated by the attack earlier that day—ordered double the active patrols they had planned for their journey. Gen caught Shadan Khairn wandering about, face reflecting a childlike glee, though Gen had to believe he was disappointed about not getting to kill anyone that afternoon.

“So, Chalaine,” Gen said, “what did your mother say to you?” He waited, hearing the Chalaine walk to the front of the wagon before sitting by the slot.

“Just the standard things mothers say to comfort their daughters,” the Chalaine replied. Gen smiled.

“Humor me.”

The trip through the heart of Rhugoth took the caravan past the Royal Mountains, towering, stark and gray. The tips of the four peaks that comprised the principal mass of the range thrust upward, sharp and edgy like rough stone spearheads jammed up through the crust of the ground and into the blue body of the sky. The caravan camped within view of the peaks the second night of the trek, in the verdant tree-covered hills at their base the third night, and then pushed hard the next day to arrive at the small farming village of Kitmere, a pleasant town happily situated on a bend of the Buckwater River.

Gen thrilled at the country air, the sights and smells of the outdoors, and the considerably improved mood of both the Chalaine and the First Mother. The Chalaine stood nearly all day, hands clamped around the bars, staring at the world around her with wonderment and an infectious joy. When Gen would arrive on duty at sundown, she filled his ears with all the things she had seen that day that surprised, awed, or inspired her, and there were many. On the first night the Chalaine had declared the stars and shards—seen unobscured by city lights or smoke for the first time in her life—the most regal of Eldaloth’s creations and hassled Gen endlessly about their names and formations when she discovered he knew somewhat about the order of the skies.

Gen enjoyed chatting with her until late into the night. She asked him to teach her words in the old tongue and tell her what he knew of the places they would see along the trail. For the first time in many months her mind was clear and her spirit light, and she was determined to learn all she could. Despite the expansive knowledge Gen had gained from his contact with Samian, Elberen, and Telmerran, Gen thought that given a few weeks at the Chalaine’s blistering pace of interrogation, he would have nothing left to say.

After leaving Kitmere they passed over another shard-spanning bridge into Odred, though the bridge was considerably shorter and far less magnificent than the Pearl Bridge they had traversed four days before. From Odred, they skirted the edge of the Willow Wood and rode into the lumbering town of Three Willow late that night. All were anxious to take advantage of the last civilization they would see for at least two months.

As with Kitmere and Odred, Three Willow brimmed to overflowing with the curious and festive, and even the lateness of the caravan’s arrival did little to trim the numbers or the ebullience. Gen cautioned the Chalaine to stay away from the bars, and he kept his senses sharp. As a result of the attempt on the First Mother’s life, the Dark Guard brooked no attempt to approach the wagon in which the Chalaine rode; Regent Ogbith had sent messengers ahead to warn the people beforehand to prevent unnecessary violence. After some concentrated persuasion by Ethris and Gen, Mirelle finally relented and agreed to ride in the wagon with her daughter when they entered into the towns along the way.

As they passed the rural throngs and the raw log buildings of Three Willow, memories of Tell flooded Gen’s mind; woodsmen, it seemed, dressed and talked the same wherever they were found. The rough speech and rough homes, weathered faces, and loud brawny boys turned Three Willow into a surrogate home for the one he had lost. He half expected to see Bernard Showles turn the corner and shout some insult at him, or to see Gant lazing about on the steps of the Church with a set of White Sticks on the ground at his feet.

Revelers from every town nearby set up tents and lit fires in any space they could find on the edge of road and forest, and the wood smoke thickened to near fog-like consistency the deeper they went into the town. Gen wished for a wind to clear some of the smoke away and improve visibility, but calm air, unusual for the season, let the smoke settle and hang, clinging to tree boles and buildings.  The Willow Wood was an old forest, thick trees with giant trunks thrusting into the night above them, branches weaving together to form a dark canopy thick enough to cloak the sky.

Despite its familiarity of spirit, Gen calculated that Three Willow was nearly three times the size of Tell, though the dark probably obscured even more buildings back in the wood itself. As with the small towns before, the principal inn, rather unoriginally dubbed Three Willow Inn, had benefited from some remodeling and fortification. Besides metal-banded wooden walls that encircled the inn and the addition of a heavy wooden gate, the high sloping roof, wooden walls, and unkempt grounds showed the improvements of craftsmen sent from Mikmir to repair and renew them. Glass windows accented new slotted shutters, the slightly slanted porch had been righted to exactly level, and crisp thick grass grew softly underfoot.

The fighting elements of Aughmere encamped outside the walls, while Rhugothian soldiers walked or rode inside. Ulney drove the wagon around the circle drive where Gen suspected that cobblestone had recently replaced rutted dirt. In the center of the circle stood the namesake of the town. Three immense willows, thickly leaved—limp branches nearly touching the ground—formed a dome underneath that the officers started claiming for their tent sites.

As they rounded the corner toward the door, Gen spotted two men standing by the stairs, undoubtedly the town Magistrate and the Innkeeper, the only two allowed inside the walls during the Chalaine’s stay, and then only for a quick greeting. Cookmaster Broulin and accompanying servants would commandeer the building shortly after their arrival.

Ulney stopped the wagon near the steps, and Gen climbed down and opened the door for Mirelle and her daughter, Cadaen helping them out. They waited by the wagon until Regent Ogbith and Ethris arrived with the party. As one, they ascended the steps to the nervous smiles of Magistrate Polemark and Innkeeper Cheswick. Both were awkwardly clean, new clothes and a fresh trimming of hair setting them apart from the townspeople heard reveling outside. Both men went to their knees as the First Mother and the Chalaine approached.

“Please rise,” Mirelle instructed.

“Thank you, your Grace,” the Magistrate said. He was a stout man with thick, graying hair. Muscles had gone to fat, but a lot of strength was left in his frame. Cheswick, much the same in appearance, was terrified and said nothing. The Magistrate continued. “Welcome to Three Willow. We are thankful you chose to stay with us. I am Magistrate Polemark, and this is Innkeeper Cheswick. Will the Blessed One be staying with us?”

“I am here!” Chertanne, eyes watery and itching from the smoke, strode into the light of a lamp secured to a support beam of the inn’s porch. Kaimas and Captain Drockley came after, and the Pontiff and Padra Athan followed only a few steps behind. Polemark and Cheswick again went to their knees.

“Blessed One!” the Magistrate intoned reverently. “We welcome you to our unworthy establishment. We hope everything is to your satisfaction.”

“My satisfaction?” Chertanne laughed. “I have seen better. . .”

“What his Grace wishes to say,” Kaimas interrupted, “is that we could expect no better inn anywhere and that it is no doubt more than adequate.”

“Yes, yes,” Chertanne reversed. “A fine establishment, indeed. Please stand.”

“We should go inside,” Gen interjected in the silence that followed. “I do not want the Chalaine out-of-doors, especially in the darkness and smoke.”

“Of course,” the Magistrate agreed, getting to his feet. “By all means, Lord Blackshire. It is thrill to see you, as well. Tales of your deeds have. . .”

“Been greatly exaggerated,” Gen finished for him to general laughter. Gen signaled toward the door. “Please, if we may?”

The Magistrate turned toward Innkeeper Cheswick, who took several seconds to realize he was to do something. Frantically pulling the keys from his belt, he unlocked the front door and the assembly went in. The main room was comfortable, clean, and cheery. A bright fire warmed the room from an ample fireplace. As everyone settled into chairs and trunks from the wagons were brought in, Innkeeper Cheswick unlocked the rear door for Cookmaster Broulin and his cadre of servants.

The exhausted Pontiff, helped by Athan, went directly to his rooms, asking that a servant be sent with his food when ready. Kaimas and Ethris followed suit, both claiming fatigue. Everyone else chatted idly as the clanging pots, staccato of hurried chopping, and the eventual smell of meat roasting set mouths to watering. Dinner arrived late tonight.

“Geoff!” Chertanne piped up after a lull. “Favor us with something to make the slow march toward dinner more tolerable!”

In a few short days, Geoff had become a favorite of Chertanne’s, and—Gen noted glumly—Fenna had become a favorite with Geoff. As a consequence, Fenna, Geoff, and Chertanne were often in company together. Geoff rose and bowed, but as he started toward the fireplace, he noticed Gen behind the Chalaine and remembered something.

“Ah, yes!” Geoff said enthusiastically. “I just remembered that Lord Blackshire promised the Chalaine that he would sing for her!”

“I promised nothing of the sort,” Gen contradicted.

“Oh come, now,” Geoff entreated. “The Most Holy Chalaine said she would like to hear you sing. You cannot deny her request! What say you, Holiness?”

The Chalaine turned toward Gen. “Of course I would like to hear him. But I would not force him. He may do as he chooses without causing me any offense.”

“Do sing for us, Gen!” Fenna joined in. “You sound wonderful!”

“I am on duty,” Gen said. “Perhaps. . .”

“I’ll take over for you . . . for a wee bit,” Jaron offered, stepping forward.

Gen threw him a dirty look. “Traitor.”

More encouragement came from the rest of the Dark Guard and their apprentices, who had entered a short time before. Seeing the battle won, Geoff clapped and handed Gen his lute, sitting close to the front with Fenna, both smiling grandly. Gen sat, stretching his fingers. Mirelle grinned nearby while the Dark Guard seemed disposed to break out laughing at any minute. Chertanne folded his arms and tried to appear as disinterested as possible. Only Regent Ogbith and Shadan Khairn, deep in some conversation, seemed uninterested.

“I will play the Lay of Pelewen and Nerena,” Gen announced.

Geoff’s countenance darkened and he appeared about to comment, but Gen started playing before he could protest.

Pelewen still wanders the night

Under the canopy of long-dead days,

A knight sword-sworn to duty and might,

A knight faith-sealed with truth and right.

Nerena still wanders the misty eve,

Under the canopy of long-dead days,

A witch evil-sworn to lies believe,

A witch dark-sealed to darkness wreathe.

What brought you, knight, to wander that wood?

What brought the thieves who cut you down?

Where, dark witch, did you find the good,

To succor he who for goodness stood?

With secrets whispered in secluded shade,

She healed you, knight, your life returned,

With kisses, witch, the first he gave,

Your soul was healed and holy made.

Love, you too we see this night

Under the canopy of long-dead days;

A blessing sworn to the good and right,

A love that sealed a witch and knight.

What partings made upon the morn,

Under wind and sun and forest song:

One body whole and one soul born,

Four eyes wet and two hearts torn.

What drove you, Knight, to the distant glade?

What drove you to confess, dear maid?

Why, Knight, did heart turn horse ‘round again?

And why, Pureman, could you not forgive her stain?

One maid burned at morning’s light.

One horse rides through ash at night.

One soul to tell the Knight the tale.

One Knight upon his sword impaled.

Death, you too we see this eve,

Under the canopy of long-dead days;

A death dark-sworn to love bereave,

A death dark-sealed to sadness wreathe.

“Well, that was depressing,” Chertanne derided just before Gen strummed the last gentle strain of the song. “We’ll stick with Geoff on the journey, Gen. No offense, of course.”