Banshee’s Honor
Part Four
by
Days
grew shorter and snow flurried lightly around the two women as they
worked feverishly to restore the cottage. Azhani
kept the pace hard and exhausting, assuring Kyrian that they worked so
hard because the first true winter storm was right around the corner.
Working
together, they first repaired the broken thatching on the roofs of the
cabin and shed. Azhani would
weave bundles of the thick grasses and Kyrian would climb up into the
rafters and tie them down. Slowly,
the warrior’s leg regained its strength, and every day, she used the
crutch a little less. In the
mornings, the women would exercise together, stretching tired muscles
and staying limber.
Woven
reed mats soon covered the floors and sturdy rope beds had replaced
their hastily made pallets. All
the rusted hinges and nails on the doors and shutters were stripped and
exchanged for new and Arun now had a thick layer of hay in the
converted shed.
A
table and two chairs sat near the hearth and shelves were built into
the walls of the storeroom, making food storage much easier. Brackets were nailed to the walls
and small, slow burning oil lanterns installed.
At night, instead of being dark and dank, the cottage now
glowed cheerfully.
Azhani
cut cords of wood and stacked them near the back door while Kyrian made
heavy wool curtains, further insulating the home.
Feeling inventive, the warrior designed a covered walkway
between the house, shed and privy.
When it was
finally done, she grinned and said, “Now, no more getting soaked while
answering the call of the wild.”
Kyrian
laughed, enjoying the unbound nature of Azhani’s spirit.
They
could do nothing to shore up the upper floors – there had not been
enough gold to cover the cost of the heavy timbers that it would take
to restore the floor, so they had strung a rope across the stairs,
closing it off for the winter. As
they worked, they talked, speaking of the small things that made each
of them who they were.
Kyrian
told of her years in Y’len and as a traveling stardancer while Azhani
spoke of battles she had fought in and of the men and women with whom
she had served. Neither
talked of Banner Lake or the events that occurred there.
Azhani’s
nightmares returned several more times and each time, Kyrian held the
warrior, humming soft, wordless lullabies until the warrior drifted
back into sleep. Neither
woman spoke of these moments, unable to find the words that could
define what was happening. It
was clear to Azhani that trying to push away the stardancer’s freely
offered affection was an exercise in self-denial, and her will power
was not that strong.
The
warrior rebuilt the gate while the stardancer repaired breaks in the
fence line. When the first
heavy snows came, blanketing the forest in a thick white coat in less
than a candlemark, Kyrian stood outside, just under the eaves and
watched it fall in wonder.
To
supplement the dried meats they had purchased in Barton, Azhani spent
many early morning candlemarks by the stream, chopping holes in the ice
and searching for fish. It
was a clear morning after the first big snow and she had been lucky
enough to catch several of the heavy, sweet trout that the stardancer
adored.
Whistling
a merry tune, she loped toward the cabin, enjoying the freedom of being
able to walk unencumbered for the first time.
Kyrian had pronounced her “fit as a hunting cat with all
the attendant reflexes” and had told her to burn the crutch. As she rounded the path, she stopped
to admire the snow-covered warmth of her home.
Smoke curled up from the chimney, Arun’s head hung out the
window in the shed and there was a crimson colored spot on the –
Splat! A handful of cold, wet snow smacked
the warrior in the face and dribbled down the front of her sweater. Anger erupted, scorching through her
veins like lava, and then she heard the bright, infectious laughter of
her friend.
Kyrian
was on the roof of the cottage, tying the last of the thatch patches in
place. Near her right foot, a
large chunk of snow was conspicuously missing from the drift blanketing
the roof. Azhani’s eyes
narrowed as she put down her fish and scooped up a large handful of
snow. Gauging the distance,
the warrior drew back her arm and aimed, then let the snowball loose
and calmly watched as it caught the stardancer square in the backside,
sending her sprawling into the slope of the roof.
“Oof!”
Kyrian grabbed for a support brace and kept herself from falling
through the rushes by the barest of inches.
Her foot slipped though and for one, terrifying moment,
she felt her body angling inward. This
is going to hurt,
she thought as she tried to get a stronger hold on the beam.
Azhani
watched the stardancer struggle and felt her heart slam down to the
ground. Now
you’ve done it, you big idiot! You
could have killed her! “Hang on, Kyrian!” she called out,
running over to the ladder and flinging herself up, two rungs at a time.
Then
she was on the roof and reaching for her friend, who was trying to push
away from the beam, but her foot kept slipping on a patch of snow. Without pausing to think, Azhani
grabbed hold of Kyrian’s belt with both hands, pulling the stardancer
close and dropping away from the roof. Tucking
the smaller woman’s body against hers, Azhani forced her body around,
hitting the ground with a heavy thump.
When
the warrior had grabbed her, Kyrian had frozen, but as she was pulled
against a warm, strong body, she relaxed, going limp and allowing
Azhani’s actions to dictate her movements. When
the warrior’s body curled a certain way as they fell, Kyrian molded
herself as close as possible to the warrior and closed her eyes,
trusting that no harm would come to her.
Now
on solid ground, the warrior released her friend, who laughed giddily. “That was fun.
Can we do it again?” Kyrian asked impishly.
Azhani
blinked several times rapidly, her mouth falling open in shock. “Again? I
almost get you killed and you want to do it again?”
The
stardancer laughed cheerily. “Oh
come on, I wasn’t in any danger. I
trust you. You wouldn’t hurt
me.” Kyrian put her hands on
her hips and looked up at the warrior. Azhani’s
face was turning several different colors while her jaw worked
soundlessly. Rolling her
eyes, she turned away from Azhani, scooped up some snow then turned
back and pelted the warrior.
Azhani
spluttered as the cold, wet snow hit her in the face again. She looked at Kyrian, who slowly and
precisely, stuck her tongue out at her. The
warrior made a face and spit again then let a slow, wicked smile shape
her lips. She
wants to play, warrior, so play with her. A dark, persuasive thought
percolated up, sparking the warrior to action.
Reaching
for a handful of snow, Azhani leapt for the stardancer, grabbing her by
the waist and bearing her down, rubbing the snow into Kyrian’s face
with near vicious intent. Just
as she was about to add more force to her hand though, she stopped,
realizing that Kyrian had wormed icily cold fingers under her sweater
and had started to twitch them. The
light tickle felt strangely good. She
could feel a laugh building inside of her and as much as she fought it,
she wanted to let it go and just accept the playfulness of the woman
beneath her.
Kyrian
wiggled her fingers again, grinning maniacally as she felt the warrior
flinch unconsciously. C’mon
warrior, let it out. Relax,
live a little, laugh, come on, she coaxed silently. Wrinkling her nose up in a goofy
smile, she tickled Azhani again. It
worked. A tiny chuckle
escaped the warrior’s lips. Laughing,
Kyrian wiggled her fingers.
Azhani
couldn’t help it – a full-throated laugh ripped free, echoing across
the yard. She grabbed for the
stardancer’s squirming fingers but the young woman was quick and
managed to get away, jumping up and easily dancing across the
snow-covered ground. Giving a
clear, “Come and get me” look, Kyrian grinned wickedly and then dashed
away.
The warrior
gave chase and soon, the two women were racing around the yard, pelting
each other with snowballs and laughing merrily.
They ended up collapsing in the storage shed on a pile of
Arun’s hay, breathing heavily and still sharing muffled giggles
whenever they looked at one another. Arun
looked on, bemused by his mistresses, but willing to trust that one of
them would remember to refill his oat bucket.
“Oh
goddess, I haven’t played like that since I was a child,” Kyrian
exclaimed, her voice cracking from exertion.
“Here.”
Azhani unhitched a wineskin, took a quick swig and tossed it to the
stardancer. “I can’t remember
ever playing like that, Kyrian. Not
even as a child.” The warrior
took several long breaths and wondered if Ylera would have enjoyed the
snow. She thought perhaps not. Her elven lover had found her
delights in cleaner pursuits. Not
that Azhani had minded the plays, or the candlemarks spent listening to
some bard or another coax beautiful music from an array of instruments. She had even enjoyed the magic
shows, though most of the illusions were tomfoolery and sleight of
hand, rather than true magic.
Yet
being here, with Kyrian, both of them liberally dusted with snow and
dirt, lying in a pile of hay, was somehow just as right as dining by a
moonlit lake, listening to the ethereal strains of elven harps.
“Ugh,
I need a bath,” Kyrian muttered, wrinkling her nose as she caught a
whiff of herself.
“If
you start the fire, I’ll drag the tub into the storeroom,” Azhani
offered softly.
“Done. And, I think tonight I’ll try to
work through that bird’s nest you’re wearing – unless it’s some form of
obscure warrior penance?” Kyrian teased mildly, pushing up from the
ground and then offering a hand out to the warrior.
Azhani
twisted her lips wryly and rolled her eyes.
“If you consider this a penance, I’d hate to hear what you
thought of my clothes when we first met.”
Kyrian
blinked innocently. “Clothes? You mean that wasn’t sackcloth and
ashes? I’m stunned.” I can’t
believe we’re standing here, joking with each other after playing in
the snow all day!
Azhani
raised both of her dark eyebrows and then stuck her tongue out,
mimicking the stardancer’s earlier gesture.
Kyrian’s
eyes went wide and she shook her head slowly.
“You have utterly amazed me, warrior.
I think I like you.”
Clear
blue eyes searched a dirt covered face briefly before the warrior
softly replied, “I think I like you too, healer.”
“Are
we friends now?” Kyrian offered her hand and was gratified when the
warrior took it and clasped it gently.
“Yes,
we are,” said Azhani, inclining her head in agreement.
The warrior’s voice was soft and held a note of
disbelieving amazement in it. Smiling
brightly, Kyrian squeezed Azhani’s hand tightly, releasing it only when
the warrior hesitantly returned the gesture.
Arun
looked over at his people and whuffed lightly, reminding them that he
had not yet been fed for the evening. Chuckling
at the horse’s impatience, Kyrian poured some oats into his feed bucket. Taking it over to him, she gave his
ears and mane a good scratch before leaving the shed to go begin
heating water for their bath.
%%%
“Ouch,”
Azhani griped softly as Kyrian tugged on another matt of hair.
“Oh
hush. I can’t believe you let
it get this bad, Azhani. This
is worse than anything I’ve ever seen,” Kyrian said, carefully working
the comb through the now tangle free section.
“Maybe
I should just shave it all off and start over again,” she groused,
sighing heavily and reaching for her mug of tea.
The
warrior was seated on the floor in front of the fire while the
stardancer sat on the edge of a bed behind her, patiently combing and
braiding Azhani’s midnight black hair. Kyrian
finished off another small braid and wound a bit of waxed cord around
the end and then separated out another hunk of matted hair.
“We’re
almost a quarter of the way through, Azhani.
Don’t give up so fast. If
we get tired tonight, we’ll work on it tomorrow, too.”
Azhani
tilted her head to look up at her friend. “I
just don’t want to take you away from something more important.”
Raising
an eyebrow, Kyrian asked curiously, “What could be more important than
making sure you don’t frighten Arun?”
“Funny,
healer, very funny,” the warrior growled, tipping her head forward a
bit so that Kyrian could get to a particularly nasty bit of snarling.
“So,”
Kyrian asked after a while of silent combing, “who took care of your
hair as a child? Or did you
run around like a wild thing when you were young?”
Azhani
looked up and stared at the fire in the hearth, thinking back to when
her father had been alive and it had been his patient hands that had
carefully combed out her snarls, gently brushing away her tears when
the pulling became too much.
The
warrior felt her eyes sting and she rubbed at her face to make the
feeling go away. “My Dad
helped for a while. Then I
cut it all off when I went to Y’Syr to study with Master Delaye.”
A
low, appreciative whistle ghosted past Azhani’s ear.
“I once saw the Master give a performance in Y’len,”
Kyrian said, her voice touched with awe. Master
Delaye Kelani was one of Y’Syr’s finest swordsmen and only took the
best and the brightest to teach the skill of sword mastery. He was a cousin to the royal family,
though not part of the line of succession. Having
the master as her teacher explained many things about Azhani’s style. “No wonder you’re so good.”
Accepting
the stardancer’s honest praise, the warrior inclined her head and
allowed the ghost of a smile to play about the corners of her mouth. She was good; Master Delaye would
have expected no less of her. The
question remained – was she good enough? I
will see you bleed rivers, Arris, she promised herself silently.
Kyrian
yawned and reached for her mug of tea, now grown cold.
“So, will it get any colder now that the snow is well and
truly flying? I don’t think
I’ve seen it so thick before.”
“It
will get colder, yes. That’s
what all those furs are for,” Azhani murmured as Kyrian took up another
chunk of hair. Feeling
decadent as Kyrian’s fingers gently massaged her tender scalp, Azhani
closed her eyes, sighing as the stardancer skillfully wove a hank of
freshly combed hair into a delicate braid.
In Barton,
Azhani had insisted upon buying two large fur blankets as well as
several thick felt covers to go on their beds.
Amazed by all of the heavy winter gear that the warrior
had purchased, Kyrian had stood in momentary awe at the amount of fur
and felt that Azhani loaded onto their cart.
“Okay,
so, I guess I should get busy on the rest of those curtains, hmm?”
teased Kyrian as she nodded toward a pile of heavy wool and canvas that
had been another one of the warrior’s buys.
“Yes,
actually, now that we’re finished with the roof, we can move on to
making the inside a bit more comfortable. Arun’s
shed should be fine, and if we notice any leaks, he can be moved into
the storeroom. I also want to
do some hunting for fresh meat – perhaps I can catch an older buck or a
couple of pheasants.”
“Oo,
yeah, I wouldn’t mind making some venison steaks instead of the usual
stew, tomorrow,” Kyrian said dreamily, licking her lips thoughtfully. “Oh, and you should check by the
river for some of that little purple flower I showed you – should
either of us need it, the roots will make a good febrifuge.”
Setting the
comb aside, Kyrian stood and stretched, squeaking in pleasure when the
bones in her spine shifted and popped.
“You’re
louder than a raw recruit on his first scouting mission,” Azhani
commented wryly.
Kyrian
chuckled and said,” I shouldn’t sit in one place for so long.” Walking to the hearth, she refilled
her mug and added a healthy dollop of honey.
Azhani lifted an eyebrow at the sweetener and the
stardancer shrugged. “It’s
not medicine, it doesn’t have to taste icky.”
Azhani
laughed and stretched out her legs, gratified when the muscles only
gave a mild protest at being pulled. Rising
in one fluid motion, the warrior bounced on the balls of her feet,
elated to feel some of her old flexibility return.
She looked down at her leg and shook it, laughing joyously
when the muscles didn’t wobble, but held steady.
“You
know, I think it’s finally healed,” she sighed happily.
“There’s hardly any pain. Just
a bit of an ache is all I feel these days.”
After
a few sips of tea, Kyrian set her cup down and nodded at the bed. “Sit down and let me take a look,”
she said.
Smiling,
Azhani sat on the bed and waited for the stardancer to grab a chair. Gently, she settled her leg in her
friend’s lap, chuckling when light fingers tickled the back of her knee. Deftly, Kyrian lifted the leg to
Azhani’s breeches, quickly scanning what she saw underneath.
Smooth,
dark brown skin slightly marred by thin dark lines of scarring, and
muscles that were slightly less developed than those of the left leg,
were what she discovered. Laying
her hand on the section of bone that had been damaged the worst, Kyrian
began to chant the notes that would open her mind to her patient’s
energy flows.
Slowly,
the image of healthy tissue and bone filled her inner vision. A healthy, brilliantly yellow aura
rimmed the warrior’s body. Empathically,
the stardancer could sense the dark, harsh gray storms of emotion that
haunted Azhani’s nightmares roiling beneath the surface. Sadly, Astariu’s Fire could only
heal the hurts of the body. Time
and love were the only curatives that could heal the hurts of the soul.
Pushing
deeper into the image, Kyrian felt her own aura, the gentle, fuzzy blue
energy that limned her entire body, merge with Azhani’s. It was like swimming in feathers, or
flying through rain. Then,
the sensation was gone, replaced by a clear picture of the stressed
areas in the bones and muscle, showing that the warrior had pushed the
newly healed tissues to their limits. The
hurts were minor though, and would vanish by morning.
The leg truly was healed.
A
smile brightened Kyrian’s face as she opened her eyes and ran her
fingers down Azhani’s leg lightly, singing the closing notes to a
healing prayer. The tiny bit
of extra energy would chase away the final bits of hurt, allowing the
warrior to sleep well.
Looking up
into sparkling blue eyes and a smile that caused her heart to stutter
briefly, Kyrian licked her lips, whispering hoarsely, “All better now,”
and patted Azhani’s leg gently.
“Thank
you, healer. You honor me
with your gift. May Astariu
bless you,” Azhani said formally and then, shyly, added, “I really
appreciate all your help, Kyrian. Not
many would risk exile to help a traitor such as I.”
“I
would be a poor representative of Astariu to not see the person you
are, Azhani Rhu’len. Regardless
of what the bards say, you are both honorable and trustworthy. Will you please tell me your side of
the story? Grant me the gift
of your tale and let me be the one to sift the strands of truth from
the fabric of lies I have heard.” Kyrian
stood and motioned for the warrior to move back to the floor so that
she could continue brushing her hair.
Briefly
touching the neat cluster of braids that brushed against her left
shoulder, Azhani stared at her friend for a long moment. Finally, her hand fell away and she
nodded. “You’ve got a gift
for untangling things, healer. Perhaps
you do deserve the tale.”
Kyrian
settled onto the bed, sipping her tea slowly.
It was late, and she was tired, but if Azhani were going
to finally open up, then she would gladly lose a little sleep to hear
the warrior’s story.
“I
will tell you some of what I can, healer. It
is not an easy tale to hear, and harder to tell,” Azhani finally
decided, sitting down on the ground again.
“I
will listen to whatever you’re willing to say,” promised Kyrian
solemnly as she reached for a thick hank of tangled black hair.
“As
all stories should, I start with the beginning, or, at least as much of
a beginning as I have been able to piece together. “
Azhani closed her eyes and tipped her head forward,
speaking softly, but clearly.
“Two
winters ago, I returned to Y’dannyv after leading the Armies to victory
over the spawning demons. That
much is a part of our history. What
has not been as popularized is the fact that the demons were harder
than ever to drive back. We
were decimated and yet, we prevailed.
Pleased
by our victory, King Theodan soon turned his attention back to his
first love – peace between Y’dan and Y’Syr.
High King Ysradan visited, and the two friends talked long
into the night, planning a legacy that would end the squabbling between
our kingdoms once and for all.
By
order of my king, I attended those discussions, but his son, Prince
Arris, did not. Without
breaking the confidences of kings, I can tell you that Ysradan’s and
Theodan’s greatest wish was peace, both between our kingdoms and for
the entirety of the Land. Y’mar
has prospered so well under the hand of the High King that he wanted to
spread that prosperity to all lands, bringing about an age the likes of
which have not been seen on these shores since the Brothers first
landed at Y’Syn all those years ago.
Another,
deeper reason for peace was the demons. Rising
from the bowels of Amyra’s crest, they would come down into the
kingdoms and feed, and racial differences did not matter to their
bellies. All were prey for
the hunting. Our last tangle
with the beasts had shown us that we could not stand alone against the
monsters – our kingdoms had to be one united front.
If we could manage that, perhaps then could we discover
where the creatures originated.
My
father had long been a visitor to Y’Syr’s towns and cities. Even Theodan had once visited the
exotic delights of the elven city of trees, Y’Syria.
I went to visit Queen Lyssera, and begged for peace. Lyssera Kelani has sat on the Oaken
Throne for over three hundred years. Her
wisdom is as great as her heart. Putting
aside the centuries of death between our lands, she sent her sister,
Ylera, to act as ambassador.
My
king and The Ambassador liked each other immediately.
Theodan knew Ylera’s half sister, Alynna, and he spoke of
her with great affection. Writing
the peace treaty did not take long, but getting the nobles on both
sides of the border to agree to it, took many months.
During that time, Theodan grew desperately ill.
Healers
and stardancers came from around Y’myran, but none could track down the
source of my king’s malady. Still,
he went before the council each day and argued for peace. On the first day of autumn, he got
what he had given his life to – the council ratified the treaty. In Y’Syr, Lyssera’s nobles did the
same, and as sudden as that, the strife between our lands was over.
Of
course, it was not that easy. Both
Ylera and I traveled extensively, visiting the lords of our kingdoms to
encourage them to meet and get to know one and other.
While we were gone, Theodan grew even sicker, and I rushed
home to Y’dannyv to be by his side as the goddess called him on. Before he died, he sent for me.
It
was late, and I was engaged in,” here, Azhani’s shoulders tensed and
she let out a heavy, pained sigh. “The
ambassador and I were engaged in a romantic liaison, when Theodan’s
page summoned me. That night,
Theodan made me his heir, by writ and under the blessings of Starseeker
Meryth Windwalker.”
Kyrian
gasped, and drew breath to speak. Goddess...
lovers... they were lovers! I
have to tell her... I should tell her that Ylera was my friend... oh
gods, I can’t... she’ll think I hate her...
“Meryth
died in a hunting accident two days after I was made heir. With what has happened since then, I
have come to suspect that there was nothing accidental about his death.” She drew in a shuddering breath and
surreptitiously brushed away the tears that freely slid down her cheeks.
“Go
on.” A warm hand was laid
across Azhani’s bare neck. “I’m
listening my friend,” Kyrian said softly. Whenever
the warrior spoke of the elven ambassador, Kyrian’s heart ached over
the pure anguish in Azhani’s words. There
was no way that the relationship between Azhani and Ylera was as simple
as a “liaison” as the warrior titled it. The
love that Azhani felt for Ylera glowed like the sun in every breath the
warrior took.
Ylera,
my friend, I am so glad you knew this woman.
Thank Astariu that you had this love, Kyrian thought, sparing a
thought for the woman who had always dreamed of finding love that
looked beyond the surface.
Kyrian’s
simple declaration of friendship caused fresh tears to well in Azhani’s
eyes. Not since Theodan’s
last night, when he had held her hand and looked from this world to the
next had anyone used those words to describe her.
Drawing
in a shuddering breath, Azhani continued. “After
Theodan died, I approached the council with the burden of inheritance
that had been forced on me. I
trusted them to understand and support me, but they did not. Prince Arris, who I had always seen
as a rather weak-minded boy, sprouted poisonous fangs.
Somehow,
even before his father’s death, he gained the trust of the council and
when I came, protesting my claim, he used that trust against me. I-I had gone to visit the lake, to
say good-bye to Theodan one last time and while I was gone, Arris had
Ylera arrested.” Azhani
turned and buried her face into Kyrian’s thigh, sobbing horribly.
The
stardancer slid down the edge of the bed and onto the floor, drawing
her friend close, rocking her and comforting her.
In
between sobs, Azhani said, “She was tortured, oh goddess, Kyrian...
what he did to her... I will never in my life forget what he did...”
Her lover’s beautiful face... bloodied beyond recognition swam in her
vision.
“You
loved her,” Kyrian whispered gently. “And
she loved you, remember that Azhani. Remember
that she died loving you.”
Ylera, you better have loved her back, or I’m going to come to the havens and tickle you silly... Relieved that Azhani had not killed her friend, Kyrian allowed the anger and shock she had felt when she first heard of Ylera’s death to wash over her once more. Originally, she had thought that the princess was one of Azhani’s accusers and to learn differently... well, now she too wanted Arris’ blood. I’m with you now, Azhani. I’m with you until the end of this, and we’ll send Arris to hell together.
Light
had begun to peek in through the shuttered windows before Azhani spoke
again. “He tortured her and
forced her to sign a confession that she and I had been working in
secret to overthrow the throne of Y’dan,” Azhani said in a voice devoid
of emotion. Abruptly, she
pulled away from her friend’s embrace. Knowing
that Azhani needed to gather her emotional armor before relating the
rest of the tale, Kyrian quietly let her go.
The
stardancer stood and began stirring the fire.
When a good blaze was going, she wandered over to their
stores of food and removed some things, bringing back a bowl full of
items to mix while she listened to the warrior speak.
“The
story is pretty much what the bards say, after that.
I was arrested and confined to the dungeons.” She left out the part where Arris
came to gloat, and how she spent the night sobbing over the body of her
lover. “On the morning of his
coronation, I asked for and was granted the Rite of the Gauntlet,
thinking that maybe those that had served with me would see through the
king’s lies and support me. Arris
was more clever than I gave him credit for, though.
After sending my men away, he filled the ranks with new
recruits. Men and women who
had never eaten or bled with me stood on the field that day, waiting to
watch me die. To them, I was
nothing more than the painted hero from some ale-soaked glory hound’s
ramblings.”
Bleakly,
Azhani lifted her head and looked into Kyrian’s face, which was screwed
up in concentration as she slowly mixed the ingredients for Azhani’s
favorite breakfast.
“It was a
slaughter. I lost count after
twenty,” her head fell again and a tiny fragment of a sob bubbled out. “I just wanted to get away, to come
home, here, where I could be safe and think and...”
In Barton,
Azhani had finally heard the toll her defiance of Arris had cost. One hundred and six men and women
had fallen beneath her blades, dead or maimed beyond repair. If Kyrian had not been with her, if
the warrior had not felt as though she owed a debt of gratitude to the
stardancer, she would have opened a vein, giving her life to the
goddess, rather than live with that stain of disgrace on her soul one
minute longer.
However,
Azhani’s honor would never allow her to waste the precious gift that
Kyrian had given her. So,
now, she would use that gift to exact the cost of those lives from
those who had driven her to take them. Arris,
and whoever else stood in her way, would fall.
Kyrian
looked up from her mixing and shivered at the coldness in Azhani’s
demeanor. The warrior had
changed again – yet another facet surfacing as her body healed and her
mind began to think beyond surviving another day.
“You
are safe now,” the stardancer said slowly, getting up to make breakfast. Hanging the pot over the fire, she
knelt to stir the cereal slowly, mixing the honey and jelly in with the
oats and grains. “And your
story makes a whole lot more sense than those I heard from ‘official’
sources, given what I already know of your deeds, Azhani. So, what are you going to do,
Warleader?” She turned and
fastened dark green eyes on the warrior, pitching her voice sharply and
just loud enough to hit Azhani like a verbal slap.
“Do?”
Azhani repeated dumbly. “I-“
Did she want to trust the stardancer? Lay
out her plans for revenge like so many counters on the war table? No. She
could not afford to trust anyone, no matter how innocuous they seemed. “I’m going to go to Y’Syr, and offer
my services there. If they
don’t want me, I will travel to Y’mar. High
King Ysradan knows me and perhaps he will allow me to serve him.”
“But
not until winter ends,” Kyrian said, flashing a smile at the warrior. “I will go with you to Y’Syr, to
Y’mar, or where ever your quest takes you, I will be at your side.”
“No,
I can’t let you do that, Kyrian,” Azhani said in a deathly calm voice. “I can’t let you tie your life to
mine like that.”
“Whether
you will or you won’t, makes no difference, Azhani.
Arris is evil, and he must be stopped.
I cannot be a servant to the goddess and stand by while he
poisons everything around him. Beyond
that, my oath of friendship would be meaningless if I let you stand
alone against him. You will
never face the storm alone again - not while I am here.” Kyrian banged the spoon against the
pot resoundingly, causing Azhani to jump. “So
you can take your noble self-sacrificing self and go jump in the snow!”
Absolutely
dumbfounded at the fury and furor in her friend’s attitude, Azhani
could only stare, mouth hanging open as Kyrian dished up their
breakfast.
“Here,
stick something in that mouth before a fly decides it looks like a good
cave,” Kyrian said, handing her a bowl of the thick, sweet cereal.
“I...
but... Damn it Kyrian, am I ever going to win an argument with you?”
Azhani finally sputtered out.
Grinning
hugely, the stardancer said, “Sure. You
will always win the argument that says it’s your turn to clean out the
shed. I’ll be glad to let you
win then. Otherwise... you’ve
got your work cut out for you, warrior.”
Shaking
her head, “Oh no you don’t, healer, you aren’t getting out of your
chores this time. It’s your
turn to muck out the shed. I
did it yesterday. As for
coming with me...” She closed her eyes and sighed.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I need you, Kyrian. You’re
the only friend I’ve got.”
“Well,
I’m not going anywhere, warrior, so don’t you worry.
I’ll be right here, always,” Kyrian promised.
After
eating their breakfast, they decided to get some sleep and then do
their chores. Crawling into
their beds, they reached out and joined hands, falling asleep with
their fingers loosely laced together.
~Chapter Eight~
Arris
Theodan, King of Y’dan, was throwing a temper tantrum.
“But
I don’t want to bed that ghost-faced witch Elisira, Thyro... I want
Azhani!” he shouted petulantly, throwing his mug across the room and
smiling in wicked satisfaction as the scholar ducked to avoid being hit. The clay cup shattered as it hit the
hearth, sending shards flying in every direction.
“Your
majesty, the Lady Elisira is a truly beautiful woman, and she is very
well known for her ability to make men... happy,” Porthyros Omal,
Arris’ long time friend and companion, said calmly.
He scurried to retrieve a new mug from a cupboard and
filled it with more of the king’s tea. The
lady was no light skirt, but it wouldn’t hurt to appeal to the boy’s
sexual appetites. In the
months since gaining the throne, Arris had not been lax about spreading
his “favors” among those who would have him, and none denied him. None but one, and that one, that
hated, awful one, was long since gone. Hopefully
the bitch had fattened the wolves. Stirring
the tea, the scholar surreptitiously added a special ingredient, one
that would make Arris much more tractable.
“She
is?” Immediately he was interested. “Has
she... been with another man?” he asked indelicately.
“No,
my lord, but I have it on good authority that she is yours for the
asking.” Oh yes, Councilor
Glinholt had all but thrown his daughter at him when he gently inquired
as to her availability. The
foolish man saw nothing but the power that having his daughter in the
king’s bed would bring him, and Porthyros used that to his advantage.
“Well
then, perhaps the lady isn’t so distasteful after all.
It is so hard to find someone who truly understands what I
want,” Arris said as he accepted his mug of tea.
“Thank you, good Thyro, for once again teaching me the
error of my ways.”
“Anytime,
your majesty. I am yours to
command,” the scholar said, his watery blue eyes shining zealously.
%%%
“Good
evening, Porthyros. How goes
our little project?” the resonantly deep voice asked.
Porthyros
Omal, a small, undistinguished human of middling height and weight, and
thinning sandy blond hair, knelt before an ornately carved chair and
shuddered delicately. Above
him, the man seated in the chair was messily enjoying a dish of bloody,
uncooked chicken hearts.
“It goes
well, My Lord Kesryn. As you
ordered, the Hated One is now friendless and maimed.
She will trouble you no more.”
Bowing his head deeply, the scholar waited for his
master’s reply.
Lord Kesryn
Oswyne, dealer in antiquities and rare gems, smiled.
The scholar had been a wonderful find.
Lord Kesryn Oswyne was an upright man and true pillar of
the community, but before he had worn the rich robes and chains of a
successful merchant, he had been something else.
Once,
he had worn the name of another, and then, he had been a man of the
Cabal, an assassin paid by others to steal the lives of their enemies. Kesryn Oswyne had worn other names
and other faces, but it was in his guise as Keskyn Nightblade that he
had met the toadying little man kneeling before him.
He must remember to send a token of his appreciation to
the jailor in Y’Tol, thanking him for incarcerating the two men
together.
Porthyros
Omal had been easy to bend to his will. Bright,
but lazy, the plain-faced man had only one goal – to be filthy rich. By preying on this desire, Kesryn
had encouraged the man to seek status as a scholar of Astarus. When King Theodan had sent word to
the library in Y’mar that he required a tutor for his eight-year-old
son, Kesryn acted.
Using
his newly developed guise of the Lord Kesryn Oswyne, he convinced the
college of academicians to send his candidate, the highly trained
Porthyros Omal. The college
was grateful to do his bidding, especially after he donated a large sum
of gold to their coffers.
Giving
the man special instructions, Kesryn paid his scholar with the first of
what would become many bags of gold. Porthyros
gladly traveled to Y’dan and took up residence in the castle, adapting
to the life of nobility with ease.
As
soon as he had Arris’ trust, he began instructing him, not just in the
lessons that his father, King Theodan, expected, but in other, less
savory subjects. As an added
insurance of the prince’s cooperation, he began drugging him with
krill, a powerful narcotic that was highly addictive.
Soon, Arris grew to love his new mentor, and without
realizing it, he relied on the man for his nightly cup of “sleeping
tea”.
Now
that he was king, Arris kept Porthyros close to his side, relying on
the amazing network of “spies” that the scholar had built up over the
years. Though no such spies
existed, Porthyros and Kesryn had worked hard to make it appear so. It was their plans that brought
Arris to the granite throne.
“Excellent,
my servant. And how is my
favorite Kinglet?” The
merchant stroked the gemstone tattoo that was the mark of his rank
within the merchant’s guild. Scooping
up another bite of his favorite snack, he gazed down at the kneeling
man, considering whether to reward the sniveling bastard with gold or
pain. It had taken Porthyros
quite a bit of time to convince the spoiled Arris to give up his dreams
of bedding that bitch, Azhani Rhu’len, and Kesryn was displeased.
“Arris
is well, my lord. He
flourishes and has all but forgotten his affection for the Hated One. His eye, does, as you ordered, turn
to the Lady Elisira Glinholt,” Porthyros declared happily.
“Excellent. And the council, how are my favorite
group of bickering old men and women?” he asked, taking a sip of a rich
Y’Tolan wine.
“As
you have commanded, Valdyss Cathemon no longer holds the left chair. His access to the king has been cut
off. The honor to sit at the
king’s side now rests with Councilor Glinholt.
Arris was pleased by the councilor’s initiative in calling
his daughter, Elisira, to Y’dannyv. Because
Valdyss’ only daughter is still in swaddling, he cannot offer the same
price for Arris’ attention,” Porthyros reported, when his master smiled
encouragingly.
The
lord laughed wickedly. “Poor,
pathetic Cathe. Nothing he
does now will succeed in ripping away what is mine!”
Lord Oswyne and Lord Cathemon were in a deep battle over
mining rights. A tiny coal
mine in Y’oro suddenly began producing diamonds, right after Cathemon
had sold the property to Kesryn. Since
he had paid far less than it was now worth, the councilor had tried to
use his position with Theodan to have the sale declared invalid. That would not happen now that he no
longer held the place as favored advisor.
Nodding
happily, he tossed the pouch of gold at the groveling man’s side. “Excellent my servant. I am pleased with your work. You may go.”
Waving his hand, he dismissed the scholar, savoring his
triumph.
When
Porthyros left, Kesryn rose from his chair and paced the room, staring
at the luxuriant finery that he had surrounded himself with over the
years. Treasures of Y’myran
glittered in every corner. He
fingered a tapestry woven by the desert nomads and smiled, recalling
the long journey that had brought him so much prestige and honor when
he was just a young man. The
smile turned vicious as the memories hazed over with blood. The small band of nomads had thought
to stop him. His gaze went to
the corner, where he could still see the rust red stains where the last
man had fallen, clutching at his throat feebly.
Those
days were long past, though. When
he spilled blood now, it was for a purpose.
A dark, evil grin spread across his saturnine face. His Master had shown him the true
way. Blood was power and as
Kesryn well knew, power was everything.
“You
thought you had destroyed me, Rhu’len DaCoure, but you freed me
instead,” he whispered, turning to grasp a broken piece of a sword
blade. Dried blood still
decorated the shard and Kesryn could almost taste the pain that had
accompanied the strike that had shattered the blade.
It
was nearing time - time to begin the rites that would bring him and his
Master, the dreams of the ages. For
him, he would have the mantle of Cabal Master, taking it from the
wizened ancient who styled himself the, “Old Man”.
Then he would be the one to control the secrets of the
kingdoms; he would decide who lived and who died.
For
his master – the reward would be freedom. The
freedom to take whatever he wanted, the Twins be damned. Cold, black eyes narrowed as
delightful visions of the future danced in his mind.
One glaring
problem jumped out and, as a memory of Y’dan’s former warleader
inserted itself into his dreams, Kesryn growled, “All I have to do is
make sure Azhani Rhu’len is no longer a threat.”
%%%
A
cool breeze from Banner Lake chilled the lakeside city of Y’dannyv,
forcing the castle woodsmen to work harder to provide enough logs for
the king’s fires. Arris
Theodan, lord of the realm and master of all he surveyed, leisurely
strolled up the blood red carpet that led to the Granite Throne.
“Good
morning, Your Highness.” Lady
Elisira Glinholt smiled vapidly as King Arris took his place on his
throne. He smiled over at
her, causing the dark haired girl to blush daintily.
Fleetingly, his gaze drifted downward, greedily surveying
the creamy white skin exposed by her décolletage.
“Morning,
my lady.” He inclined his
head politely and then turned to face her father, the Lord High
Councilor Derkus Glinholt; his chief advisor.
“Ahh, Councilor, a good morning to you, my lord. Tell me, what wonderful news have
you to share with me today?”
Behind
the throne, Porthyros Omal sat and listened avidly.
The king had asked him to keep a low profile, using his
well-developed hearing to collect the whispers of the couriers.
Today’s
gossip included the rumors of four different cases of adultery, two of
suspected graft and one wonderfully shocking tale of murder. None of the speakers or their
subjects had anything to do with his master’s objectives, so he quickly
forgot them, concentrating on the Lady Elisira and her maidservants.
Strangely,
the lady had yet to react to her newly exalted place as Arris’
favorite, but Porthyros had high hopes that she would get over her
skittishness soon. The lady’s
servants were all agog, however, and quite willing to take his casual
references to the king’s attributes.
Smiling
nastily, he caught the attention of one of the cow’s flightier
maidservants. One day,
Elisira would thank him for this, he was certain of it.
He would make a queen of her.
The
girl flounced up, bending down low so that he could whisper in her ear. She nodded excitedly, easily
manipulated by the scholar’s pretty blandishments.
When he was finished, she nearly ran back to her mistress,
eager to impart the latest gossip about Arris’ supposed affections.
It
had been too easy to plant little rumors here and there about the young
king’s desire to find a wife. Coupled
with the well-known fact of Arris’ preference for dark haired women,
and a few words of encouragement from Porthyros, and the Lady Elisira
went from being the court wallflower to the center of everyone’s
attention.
Now,
if only the girl would cooperate and bed the king.
“Of
course I’m ready to greet my royal cousin from Y’Nor!
Please, show him in!” Arris declared loudly.
Porthyros
sneered in distaste. Y’Noran
herdsmen stunk worse than a cesspool at high noon in summer. Thank God it was winter! The diminutive man peered around
Arris’ throne to watch the self-styled “King” of Y’Nor enter.
Padreg
Keelan was a huge bear of a man, with long, braided hair that was the
dark brown of rich earth and agate green eyes.
His face, like all of his countrymen, was clean-shaven and
tanned by long days spent under the sun. The
Y’Noran’s clothing was typical of the region – finely cut and tailored
leathers that clung to the man’s huge body like a second skin. Each piece was dyed a different
shade of green and brown so that when he moved, he appeared to resemble
grass waving in the wind. Fantastic
designs picked out in careful embroidery rimmed the neck and cuffs of
his tunic.
“Hail
to thee, King Arris of Y’dan,” the tall man boomed out, his thickly
accented voice sounding strangely musical to the ears of the Y’dani
courtiers.
“And
hail to thee, my Cousin, King Padreg of Y’Nor.”
Arris returned the greeting just as heartily, rising from
his throne and waiting for the man to draw even with him.
Padreg
inclined his head to honor Arris and then the two men clasped arms. “I have brought you a gift, my
Cousin. Come, you shall see
what it means to be Chief of all the Y’Noran clans!”
Puzzled,
but intrigued, Arris glibly followed the herdsman out of the main hall
and into the courtyard. Porthyros
scurried to follow his king, eager to see what riches the Y’Noran had
added to the coffers. Standing
on the cobbles, caparisoned in the finest tack, was a beautiful
stallion. A black mane and
tail highlighted the ochre red of his coat and he was unusually marked
by a white star that his forelock just barely covered.
Arris’
jaw dropped. “Cousin! This is a horse truly fit for a
king!” Inside, he seethed,
for if this horse was the one that Padreg offered, then surely, the
Y’noran king’s own mount would be even more spectacular.
The young man decided right then that he would have Thyro
keep a close eye on the visiting king. Perhaps
he too, would fall under the laws of Y’dan, and then Arris could claim
the man’s mount for his own.
“He’s
a handsome lad, isn’t he?” Padreg crowed, patting the horse’s flank
lovingly. “Come, saddle up,
Cousin. Let us wander your
fine countryside.”
Lord
High Councilor Glinholt, who had accompanied his king to the courtyard,
clapped his hands imperiously, and quickly, a unit of guards rushed off
to the stables. In minutes,
the two kings were mounted.
I was right. His
mount is far finer! Arris thought jealously as he
surreptitiously stole glances at Padreg’s horse, a butternut yellow
mare with a pale beige mane and tail. She
had a sweet gait that kept her positioned right next to Arris’ new
stallion, who he had privately decided to call Tyr.
Joining
them were the scholar Porthyros and Councilor Glinholt’s daughter,
Elisira. The horses gamely
trotted through the wooded area that bordered Y’dannyv, and Padreg
seemed to delight in examining the icicle covered trees and the piles
of snow that bordered the roadside.
Guardsmen
fanned out on either side of the noble party, creating a protective
barrier between the king and whatever dangers lurked in the tame forest. Porthyros rode toward the back of
the group, cocking his head and listening to the scuttling of the small
woodland creatures whose rest had been disturbed.
The
sky was clear today, lacking the heavy gray clouds that had unleashed
several inches of snow on the countryside for the last week. Out in the harbor, the scholar could
see the Y’Noran king’s ships with their gray and black pennants
snapping gaily in the breeze.
There
was a harsh chill in the air that felt startling against the skins of
the nobles, who were not used to being in the open.
However, the Y’Noran seemed to be quite at ease, laughing
and pointing at a startled jackrabbit loping down the road.
The
Lady Elisira kept the scholar entertained with brainless comments about
the countryside, their beloved king and the obnoxiously loud visiting
monarch. Porthyros looked to
their escort and shared a secret smile with the pretty young woman
shadowing his horse. Elisira
continued to prattle on while his mind provided the intoxicating memory
of his previous evening.
“I’ve
not seen so many trees as you share with fair Y’Syr,” Padreg said
excitedly, gesturing to the massive oaks they rode under. “It is a marvel of the Twins’
creation, is it not?”
Arris
smiled tightly. “It is,” he
agreed. Theology was not one
of the king’s stronger subjects. His
eyes flicked around to his escort, landing on the Lady Elisira. “Ah, my lady, it is good of you to
join us, but the cold has chafed you. Perhaps
we should be returning to warm halls and fine mead?”
Elisira
tittered vapidly. “Oh Your
Highness, only if you wish,” she demurred, blushing and batting her
eyelashes coyly.
Arris
preened, enjoying the fawning prattle. He
would enjoy bedding her – she entertained him.
Lady
Elisira Glinholt looked around the drab woods and sighed. It was cold, her butt was sore and
the bottom of her right foot itched badly. She
wondered if she could get away with kicking Porthyros, who had attached
himself to her like a leech. The
sandy-haired scholar’s watery blue gaze had always made her shiver. It was as though he had decided that
she was a particularly tasty looking dessert.
Now that Arris was king, the scholar was insufferable,
finding every excuse to insinuate himself into her life.
However,
her dear, dear father held the intellectual in great regard and so
kicking him in a fit of pique would not do.
She considered kicking the king, but she dismissed that
thought almost as soon as it came, not wishing to end up being the
entertainment of the afternoon court. Elisira
wished that Azhani was still here. The
bright warleader and her beautiful lover, Ylera Kelani had at least
kept life from being duller than a soldier’s boots around the castle.
Unfortunately,
Azhani was now exiled, declared an Oathbreaker and forbidden from
entering the kingdom again, and Ylera, the beautiful elven ambassador,
was dead. The official word,
of course, was that Azhani had slain the ambassador when she had
revealed the warleader’s plot to overthrow Arris’ throne, but Elisira
knew better. She knew the
evil that lurked in the heart of Y’dan’s king, and it chilled her to
the bone.
A
tiny sigh escaped her lips as she rubbed her icy cheeks. The one rather nice side benefit to
parading along in this little charade of a “pleasure ride” was that she
got to spend time with that most intriguing man from Y’Nor. Elisira was no fool – she knew that
maybe a total of six people within Y’dannyv recognized her true
personality, and fortunately, they were all good friends, sworn to
keeping her secret. Only one
other knew of her intense dislike for her family and the masks she had
to wear every day to survive, and that person was long gone, possibly
even dead.
My friend, I pray to Astariu for your safety. May whatever road you travel be
smooth and clear. Elisira spared a prayer for
Azhani’s safety and then added one of her own.
And may
I soon follow that road! Sweet
goddess, what I wouldn’t give for a man such as Padreg and to be swept
off my feet! His eyes... so
intelligent... I bet he would love talking about the patterns of the
stars and arguing the reasons behind the Twins’ teachings.
She studied
the plainsman covertly and sighed, turning her gaze toward Y’dannyv. I
hate this city, I hate this kingdom and I most assuredly hate that
man! Clear blue eyes slid sideways to
glare briefly at the scholar, who was nattering about the virtues of a
certain plant that only grew in the region around Y’dannyv.
Clanleader
Padreg, the otherwise titled King of Y’Nor, listened to the
weasel-faced man with half an ear. His
true interest lay in the direction of the sweet-faced young woman who
had chosen to forsake the warmth of the castle for the chill of the
winter’s day.
Tall, well
featured, with a strong face and body, she acted as though she was
nothing more than a piece of baggage, but Padreg was a horseman, and he
knew another excellent rider when he saw one.
Lady Elisira Glinholt sat a horse like a woman born and
bred to the plains, and that intrigued him.
For a delicate flower of Arris’ court, the lady had the
strength to easily control a rather nervous dapple-gray stallion. He was surprised, intrigued and
spurred to investigate the lady further.
Padreg
Keelan enjoyed a good puzzle, and if it included the covert inspection
of a beautiful woman, well then, who was he to refuse Astarus’ gift? He looked over at the lady in
question and was pleasantly surprised to see her glance his way. Their eyes met for a bare instant,
but in that breath, Padreg felt his heart expand to fill his chest. Wind on the plains! She’s
the one!
The
Y’Noran’s thought vanished as soon as it came, but the feeling stayed
with him, confusing him with its astonishing intensity.
Ancient shamans, wise in the ways of the animal totems
that guided his people, often spoke of korethku,
the soul’s
perfect mate, but he had never given credence to the tales before. Glancing again toward the lady, and
feeling the way his lungs fought to breathe, he began to believe.
Lady
Elisira flashed a brief smile at Padreg and then turned her eyes
forward. Her heart was
pounding and her breath came in slight gasps, as though she had just
spent the morning trying to break every practice pell in the
guardsmen’s barracks. It was
very odd and she wasn’t quite ready to look again into Padreg’s eyes. It was far too easy to see forever
written in the solid green depths.
King
Arris was totally ignorant of the goings on around him, having spent
the last several minutes planning out exactly how he would seduce and
ravish Elisira, claiming her maidenhood for his own.
He didn’t really wish to marry the useless cow, but it
would be high sport to spoil her for anyone but the oldest codger’s
pleasure.
The
group had finished their circuit and was returning to the front gates
of Castle Y’dan when both Padreg and Arris spoke at once.
“My
lady Elisira –“ Arris turned and crooned smoothly.
“My
lady –“ Padreg boomed.
Elisira
didn’t know whether to laugh or be annoyed.
She focused on each man in turn and waited.
“Please,
my Cousin, you are the visitor, you should go first,” Arris said
through clenched teeth, his voice betraying no hint of his annoyance.
“Nay,
Cousin, it is you who should take precedence, as this is your home,”
Padreg countered just as smoothly.
Ah, so the bumpkin understands courtly
politics better than we had assumed, Porthyros thought as he watched
the two men silently duel over which would speak to the lady first. His bet was on Arris, who never let
things like propriety and social niceties stand in the way of what he
wanted, and the teacher, who had known Arris for a long time,
recognized the look of acquisitive glee that had washed over the young
king’s face as he stole looks at the daughter of his favorite advisor.
Excellent. Porthyros’ smile of satisfaction
trickled across his thin lips. Master
will be so pleased. The smile grew as he envisioned many
more of the small bags filled with gold joining the one he had received
just a few days prior to the Y’Noran king’s arrival.
“My
lady, would you do me the kind pleasure of joining me for lunch?” Arris
leaned toward the young woman, who was fluttering her eyelashes
appealingly. She’s
mine, he
thought, in triumph.
“Oh,
Your Highness! I should be so
very honored to sup with you! Of
course, I will join you.” She
turned and flashed a sweet smile at the visiting monarch. “Will our friend from the East be
joining us? I should think
that he would be delighted to partake of your excellent chef’s midday
cuisine.” Corner
me alone in a room with you? Not
hardly, King Loose-breeches! The
servant girls do
talk to me, you know!
Arris
barely kept himself from snarling. Invite
that oafish churl to eat with me?
The
king felt his ears redden with impatience. This
was not the way he had envisioned it. He
would tender the most generous offer and Elisira, of course pleased at
his attention, would nearly swoon at the honor of dining with her
handsome king.
“My
lady, I’m certain that King Padreg has matters of his own that he must
attend to,” Porthyros interrupted smoothly, drawing even with Arris’
mount to forestall the youth from making any grievous mistakes.
Padreg,
who was about to answer the veiled invitation, closed his mouth and
sighed. “Aye, Master
Porthyros, you remind me of my duties. You
are truly a dedicated scholar and manservant.
I’ve an instructor at home who would like you, I think.” He looked at the stable boy who had
rushed up to assist him as he dismounted. “Go
easy on her lad, she’s taken a stone, I reckon.”
The burly man
knelt by his mare’s front leg and coaxed her to lift it, poking at the
shoe with the tip of a small knife. “As
I thought. She’s packed
tight.” He rose and stroked
his horse’s nose. The
beautiful mare gently lipped his fingers, causing the man to laugh. “I’m sure they have some carrots for
you, you big baby!” He gave
her one last pat and watched as the boy carefully led her away to the
stable.
Turning to
face Arris and Elisira, he said, “My lord, my lady, I would gladly join
you for supper, but my duty to my people calls me away.
It is my hope that I will be able to join you for the
evening meal instead. The
gods be with you.” He gave a
little bow and jogged off in the direction of the stables.
Arris’
face twisted into a facsimile of a pleasant grin.
“My lady, would you allow me?”
He leapt nimbly from his horse and ambled over to her,
holding up his hand solicitously.
Elisira’s
clear blue eyes watched Padreg briefly as he vanished into the stables
then flicked to Arris’ waiting hand. Sighing
softly, she allowed her king to assist her and then tucked her arm into
his.
“I
believe I should be truly honored to dine with you, Your Highness,” she
murmured blandly as Arris’ grip tightened around her arm.
%%%
The
garden was silent, stripped bare of its usual brilliance by winter’s
chill. Elisira was still
drawn to its sheltered spaces though, for it lay within the center of
Y’dannoch castle and was the one place where no one would expect her to
be.
Dressed
warmly in a heavy fur cloak, the young noblewoman sat, picking leaves
from the cool marble surface of the empty fountain.
King Arris’ efforts at bedding her had not ceased and she
had spent nearly every night for the past week avoiding his thinly
veiled hints.
The
time would come when his hints would be commands, and Elisira knew her
father well enough to know that he would not deny his king what he
wanted, even if the object desired was his only daughter. She sighed unhappily. Why couldn’t Arris be more like
Padreg? Then she would have
no trouble at all opening her heart to him.
Padreg
Keelan, chief of the clans of Y’Nor... he was a man worth loving. Was there ever a time when she did
not long to laugh at his wryly-clever jokes?
Did there ever dawn a day when she did not seek his gentle
company?
That
was why she was here, now, in the empty garden.
He was to meet her, to share a picnic lunch away from the
prying eyes of the court and its gossips. Elisira
sighed, damning the loose-lipped bunch of toadies to the lowest of
hells. They had noticed
Padreg’s eyes following her, and had not been silent about it.
Oh,
the talking to she had received from her father, warning her about the
dangers of barbarians! Elisira
snorted in disgust. The
barbarian in this castle wore a crown all right, but it was not one
made of braided leather.
The
slight clunk of a closing door made her look up and peer across the
garden. Stepping out of the
shadows, cloaked in a heavy leather tunic, was Padreg.
He carried a basket and a thick, beautifully patterned
blanket, and as he approached Elisira, his gaze roamed the garden,
seeking hidden ears.
“Good
day to you, my lady,” he called out softly as he took long strides to
reach her.
“And
to you, my lord,” Elisira replied, smiling brightly.
She
rose and went to him, brushing a light kiss across his clean-shaven
cheek. Yet
another reason to like this man, she thought, lingering a bit
longer than was proper. He
shaves. Arris, like his father before
him, had taken to wearing a beard, thinking it made him look manly. Elisira thought it made him look
unkempt.
Padreg
joyfully accepted Elisira’s embrace and then spread out the blanket,
covering the cold marble bench she had been seated on.
“I
hope you are hungry, my lady, for the bounty of your city is endless!”
he said, opening the basket and removing covered dishes.
Quietly,
they ate. Afterward, they put
their heads together and spent the rest of their time arguing over the
duty of a noble to his people.