The Temple of Heart and Bone (22 page)

“Trarg gave me these, worse to
some of the others. You, um, well, you sort of finished that. We, uh, we just
wanted to thank you is all.”

“I killed him,” Troseth said in a
neutral voice. Were they actually thanking him for killing Trarg?

“Yeah,” the boy said in an
excited tone of voice, “what was it like?” Troseth’s face flushed red as he
looked at the eagerness in the boy’s eyes. The other boys in the hallway were
also staring at him, nodding their heads and hungry to hear his story. They
really want to hear, he thought to himself. He turned to the side and extended
his arm, inviting the boys into his room. They filed in past him as he reached
to close his door. Just before the door shut, he saw his master walking down
the hall. He thought he caught an approving look and a nod, then turned to tell
his tale.

He had killed many people since
Trarg. He knew that some of the very corpses shuffling themselves eastward had
been delivered up by his own hand. It had seemed so unnatural at first. Now,
however, it all seemed to fit. Death had not actually been his companion in
youth. Death was not his companion now. Death was a tool used to obtain a goal.
His new Master would turn Death into an army that would feed itself on its own
victories.

Troseth hoped that Death could
provide him with something he had lost, something he had lost unjustly. He had
never had the chance to face her openly in life, though he had loved her from
the time he had first seen her. She had stood with her family as her father
accepted Troseth into service.

Until that time, Troseth had
never considered any life other than that of the soldier. He was struck by her
beauty. He almost forgot to offer the ritual response which sealed his service
to the family. He had hoped to speak with her at the dinner afterward, but
seating for the meal had been arranged by rank. He watched her from across the
room and began to understand the gulf that could exist between a master and a
servant.

As a student, he had been close
to his masters. They taught the students as a class, but his efforts had always
earned him a personal attention. Even the killing of Trarg had solidified his
position with his master. Staring at the distance between his place at dinner
and the position of this radiant girl, he realized he would have to truly shine
to be brought closer to his goal.

Other women found Troseth
attractive, even others of noble birth. Years of training and exercise had
given him a powerful body. His features were distinctive, as if chiseled from
some ancient stock of humanity. The image his face presented was one of
strength and courage. His eyes were bright blue, highlighted, it had been said,
by glory and conviction. Black hair hung just over his shoulders, thickly
covering his head and contrasting against the pale skin of his unblemished
face.

Young ladies-in-waiting and the
ladies they served whispered and giggled as they eyed him surreptitiously. He
never paid any attention to such occurrences, his mind and his desire always
centered on the one girl, the girl who had awoken his heart. Some of the less
than noble ladies of the court had forgone the proprieties of the time and
offered him whatever he could imagine or desire. He was always taken aback by
such offers, surprised that they came at all. He could not understand how some
women found him so seemingly desirable while one individual hardly noticed his
existence. How, he wondered, how could it be?

He never spoke of his silent
love. He prided himself on his ability to keep his feelings to himself. He had
heard the pining of other soldiers as they lamented their lost or faraway
loves. He listened as they groaned and watched as they wrung their hands. He
would never be that way, he had decided. What would come would come.

Yet when he saw
her
, he
felt a powerful connection, as if their lives had been bonded. He could
recognize her instantly, even at a distance, He could sort her voice out of a
crowd or choir. When he focused on her features, he felt as if his chest were
filling, expanding, as if he might burst with affection and emotion. At such
times, he would force himself to look slowly away to make certain that no one
would discover his hidden passion. When there was no possibility of discovery,
however, he would drink her in like a man dying of thirst.

The young women of the court
whispered to each other about “Troseth’s lost love.” They made up stories of a
woman far away that held his devotion. In some of the stories she was a peasant
of unearthly grace and beauty. In other tales, there was a woman of high birth
who had devoted herself to a life of chastity and religion. The stories were so
wide spread that they had reached the very master Troseth served.

Troseth was known throughout the
entire command to be a man of extremes. His skill as a commander was almost
legendary. His loyalty had been beyond any possibility of question. He
presented the perfect picture of a soldier. A picture matched only by the
temperance of his life.

Soldiers were known far and wide
for their capacity to drink alcohol and bed women. The young men who offered
their own lives in service of others lived, themselves, as if each day would be
their last. If blood and rations were the soldier’s fare in the field, spirits
and sex were their home cooked meals.

Troseth, however, had been known
for neither. From the time of his studies, throughout his military service in
the west, he had never taken a drop of alcohol. Soldiers who had never served
with him were fearful of their chances under such a leader. They believed that
a man who couldn’t hold his liquor could not fend off Death. Older soldiers
tried to explain the impossible to the new men, but none could believe until
they had fought alongside him. Returning to their barracks safely, they would
shake their heads, amazed by their own victories.

That he took no drink was one
matter; that he did not chase after the women constantly presenting themselves
was beyond explanation. Young men slapped their heads in wonder that so many
good looking women slavered after their commander while he cared not a whit.
How could this be, they wondered. They each speculated on what they would do
had they been given the same gifts the Maker had presented to their leader.

One drunken corporal snidely
suggested that the commander might have “other” preferences, looking pointedly
at a goat. Suggesting that their commander was anything less than the paragon
of manhood, however, was not the right thing to do. The corporal woke several
days later and regained the use of his legs within the year.

The soldiers eventually came to
look at their commander as something of an eccentric. Some went so far as to
speculate that his abstinence was the cause of his success in battle. Over
time, many of his men tried, at least once, to emulate their impossible
commander. Even the most intemperate among them stopped drinking and wenching a
day or two before battle. The wives of the married men under his command
praised him and bragged to the wives of other soldiers. The fidelity and
sobriety of his men became something of a legend in itself. The unmarried soldiers
of his troop commanded the attention of wealthy merchants and even minor
nobles.

The noble who commissioned
Troseth had kept abreast of these stories, judging the young commander to be
the perfect man to lead his household lifeguards. The richly dressed and
equipped cavalry regiment was quartered in the palace grounds and accompanied
members of the family on ceremonial occasions. Troseth had seen his elevation
to this position as a sign that Providence approved of his pure love for the
young woman named Li. He had become so convinced of that approval that he began
to expose his attention to the girl.

He would speak to her in his
room, alone, practicing as he had with his weapons. He would feint and parry,
thrust when appropriate, let her attack when was necessary. He had been
brilliant in his practices.

The reality, however, had been
elusive. The girl never initiated the duel. She was courteous and kind, but
she, herself, had never developed any kind of personal curiosity about him. He
was a servant, an honored solider, and nothing more.

On one or two occasions, he had
tried to draw the girl into a conversation, but she avoided the engagements
skillfully and tactfully. She had never offended him in any fashion, yet she
remained aloof, unapproachable. Troseth became convinced that she simply didn’t
know enough about him.

He engaged in elaborate plans to
discuss his martial skill and victories when he knew she would be able to
overhear and appreciate. He often placed himself at the head of her personal
guard, dressed in his finest uniform, or, if the occasion called for it, his
gleaming armor. He strutted and bragged, trying to impress his quarry.
Unfortunately, he recalled, something altogether different had happened.

Although she had not taken a
personal interest in his glory, his actions had not gone unnoticed. Her father,
the Duke, called one day for a private audience. Troseth responded crisply,
secure in his master’s appreciation. He approached the ducal throne in the
audience chamber. Two personal guards stood at attention by the door, two
others stood watchful in the far corners of the room. Troseth wondered at their
presence during a private audience, but not seriously.

The Duke looked at him as he
approached. A stern look hardened the noble’s features. It was a look Troseth
had seen aimed at others. He began to wonder why, exactly, he had been
summoned.

The Duke Ythel spoke to him in a
firm but quiet voice. He told Troseth that he was aware the soldier had taken a
far too personal interest in his daughter. In no uncertain terms, Troseth was
told to focus his attentions elsewhere. To aid him in refocusing, the Duke
informed Troseth that he would be immediately transferred to a light horse
regiment that was on loan to the Crown. His master presented him with a
ceremonial, but serviceable, dagger. The blade was a symbol of his rank and his
new cavalry command. The light horse regiment would be used to patrol the
eastern border and was a chance for service and advancement, he was told. He
could even be noticed by ministers of the Crown. Troseth was dismissed with his
dagger and orders to leave by nightfall.

Troseth left the audience chamber
covered in amazement and shame. He had worked so hard to close the gap between
his service and his master. All of his service, however, his months—no—years of
moving closer to his goal had been in vain. With one stroke, the Duke had
widened the gap to a chasm. Troseth reeled as the reality of what had happened
flooded his mind. Numbly, he packed his gear, requisitioned a horse, and
followed his orders.

As he traveled to his new
command, his mind began to work. Certainly, he had been struck a mighty blow,
but he hadn’t been beaten. Unwittingly, perhaps, his master had provided him
with command under the auspices of the Crown. There was no more certain path to
glory, rank and a patent of nobility.

A new thought occurred to him.
Perhaps the Duke had
not
, actually, rebuked him. Perhaps Ythel had
simply acknowledged the gulf between Troseth and his daughter, offering the
young man a chance at real advancement. In service to the Crown, promotion
could come swiftly enough—and high enough—to eliminate the gulf between master
and servant. Then, he thought, having distinguished himself in service to the
Crown, having earned rank and nobility, he could approach the girl as an equal.
This had to be the case, he thought to himself. Duke Ythel had given him a
gift, he was certain, and it was up to him to use it to his full advantage.

What a fool he had been.

The transfer to the border regiment
did provide Troseth with greater exposure to the Crown and greater chances for
merit and glory. Troseth had served with honor and distinction, becoming even
more focused and chaste than he had been before. His constant sobriety, his
serious nature, and his success in the field pushed him higher and higher in
the eyes of the Crown. Within two years of his transfer, he had been rewarded
with a patent of nobility. He was to return to Arlethord to stand before the
King and receive his patent and title.

The Duke Ythel welcomed him back,
praising Troseth for the glory he had won both for himself and his master.
Troseth was pleased by the reception, certain that his elevation would finally
give him the chance to open his heart to Li and to her father. He asked the
Duke about the girl and was amazed at the rapid change in the older man’s eyes.
Ythel’s face had grown pale and his brow furrowed deeply. Troseth felt as if
winter had expelled its last breath in the room.

“Li is gone,” the Duke told him.

“Gone?” Troseth asked, his heart
withering in his chest.

“She is… married now, she is
gone.”

Troseth staggered as if the older
man had struck him with a blacksmith’s hammer. His mind went immediately blank
and his eyes widened as if he saw his own death approaching on wings. His head
began to jerk spasmodically on his neck and his hand shook uncontrollably.

The Duke looked at Troseth in
surprise, his own dark thoughts banished by the sight before him. Troseth had
always been firmly in control of his feelings. Even during setbacks, Ythel
thought, the young man had been as steady as the noonday sun. The older man
stopped himself, revising his thought. Troseth had suffered no setbacks. He had
never reported a loss or failure that his master could remember. What, then,
had so shaken the boy now?