Good Company

by Dale Lucas

  Leading the way, Dedrik mounted the stone stairs and had to duck a little to keep from knocking his forehead on the low ceiling of the black passage beyond. The torch he carried illuminated what lay within: a long, rambling throat of stone with sturdy makeshift cages set into the stone itself on either side. When Dedrik reached a point just beyond the first two facing cages, he turned and stood, watching as the prisoners were ushered forward. He had sad, introspective eyes, the eyes of a very old man, though by his appearance, Tzimena placed him at just past forty. He might have been older, but if so, he was well-preserved. But those eyes—they were positively weary.

  “What the lads are trying to say, Korin,” Dedrik said as Orhund undid the locking mechanisms on the first cage, “is that you’ve got a cunny problem.”

  “Oi,” Zayber said, shaking Tzimena in his grip. The brothers were on either side of her. “Lady present!”

  “Apologies, miss,” Lyme whispered to her. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” Tzimena muttered.

  Orhund shoved Korin into his cage then, closed it, and locked it. He shuffled past Tzimena and began the process of opening her cell.

  “What are you talking about?” Korin asked from behind his hand-hewn bars. “You’ve heard me talk about Tzimena a hundred times, Dedrik!”

  “More like a thousand,” Dedrik said passively.

  “She’s the only one I’ve ever wanted,” Korin said pleadingly, and Tzimena almost believed him. Almost. “The only one I’ve ever loved!”

  Dedrik shook his head, his largely implacable face still imparting a deep, earnest sadness. “That may be,” Dedrik said, “but I think the other men are tired of the way you make use of their women to assuage your broken heart.”

  Korin’s mouth worked, as if seeking a response. “Make use . . . ,” he said weakly.

  “But that’s the least of our concerns,” Dedrik carried on. “Presently—and most pointedly—the issue before us is the wisdom of your continued leadership. Ever since waylaying that caravan and finding that dispatch about the royal wedding, you’ve been unreliable and distracted. And running off to Yenara—”

  “For love,” Korin said.

  Dedrik shrugged a little. “We’re your family, lad. Where’s your love for us? Going after this young lady”—he indicated Tzimena, now locked in her cage—“put us all in danger.”

  Orhund looked over his handiwork, studying the prisoners in their separate cages, then rubbed his hands together as if wiping off something foul. “Enough. Let’s go. Zayber, Lyme—you’re on first watch. Go out to the passage entrance so you won’t be tempted to chatter with these two.”

  “First watch?” Zayber brayed.

  “And who’s to relieve us?” Lyme asked.

  “And when?” Zayber added.

  Orhund turned and glared at them both. His bushy eyebrows turned down. “I don’t know who and I don’t know when. Get your arses out there and keep your eyes and ears open. I find either of you sleeping, I’ll snap you over my knees.”

  The two young men nodded and scurried back to the passage entrance. Orhund left without looking at Korin or Tzimena. Dedrik backed toward the entrance, still bearing the torch, but didn’t say anything for a long time.

  “Dedrik, please,” Korin said. “I know I’ve made mistakes . . . but this?”

  Dedrik cocked his head a little, like a parent scolding a child. “Let it play out,” he said quietly. Before leaving, he turned to Tzimena. “There are a couple blankets in there, milady. I gave you his.”

  With that, the one called Firebow was gone, and Tzimena and Korin had been left alone in that nearly pitch-black tributary passage in their separate cages, the only illumination being the faint, secondhand glow of candle-and torchlight from the main cavern beyond the mouth of their own. Tzimena heard the sigh and moan of winds snaking through the caves, allowed ingress by small, naturally occurring vents and chimneys in the hillside. She also heard the placid burble of the spring water that filled the cistern in the main chamber. Closer, more immediate, were the sounds of Zayber and Lyme’s hissed chatter, an argument about something she couldn’t discern. Where they sat in the passage was very nearly black as a moonless night. She could only make out the faintest suggestion of Korin’s cage bars opposite her own, and see Korin’s movements, but no details of his form.

  “I’m sorry,” Korin had said. His voice sounded tired and very far away, even though the two of them could probably touch if they stretched their arms toward one another through the bars.

  “As am I,” Tzimena said glumly.

  Still foolish, she’d thought at some point before sleep took her. Here we are, trapped and facing an unknown fate, and I’m still more worried for Korin than I am for myself. The worst betrayals are from friends, after all, or loved ones. If these people were truly his family for the last five years . . .

  She knew no more until golden torchlight crept into the cave and woke her. The night had passed. It was early morning and the two of them were being fed—water and some sort of acorn paste that Korin assured Tzimena was nutritious, if not precisely tasty. After breaking their fast, they’d been left alone again for hours. Though the passage was still dark, secondhand daylight from the world outside the caves filtered in sufficiently to provide a slight extra measure of illumination. Their passage was no longer nearly black as pitch, but more of a slate gray, with forms and movement more readily visible. Through those hours, Tzimena and Korin talked from time to time, but their conversations were separated by long gulfs of awkward silence. The subjects ranged far and wide.

  “Is it true?” Tzimena asked at one point. “The women?”

  “Don’t sound so sanctimonious,” Korin had said.

  “I’m just asking a question,” Tzimena countered.

  He took a long time to answer. “I didn’t force anyone,” he said, as if that explained everything and made it better.

  “And a few men, no doubt,” Tzimena said sardonically. Korin didn’t bother to argue with that last comment. She didn’t really give a damn if he liked to lie with boys as well as girls—it was the greed of it that upset her. The sense of entitlement in him that told him it was all right to use those who looked up to and respected him, to betray those who trusted and supported and protected him. Clearly his hunger knew no bounds.

  “Will they kill us?” she asked.

  “They might,” Korin said, not looking at her. He was playing with some stray gravel between his folded legs. “Though you’re probably valuable, so I’d guess they’ll try to ransom you.”

  There hadn’t been much to say in response to that.

  After another interminable silence, so long that Tzimena had started to daydream, it was Korin who restarted the conversation.

  “I meant it, you know,” he said sheepishly. “I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

  Tzimena raised her eyes. He was looking at her now through the bars of his cage. She could be wrong, but she thought the sad look in his eyes and the set of his mouth suggested earnest intent—a true statement, with no adornment.

  “You could’ve come for me at any time,” Tzimena said. “Handed the mantle of the Red Raven to someone else, then struck out on the road south until you’d made it to Toriel. If you’d come to me sooner and told me your tale and shown me—shown me with your journey—that you truly loved me, I would’ve run away with you. I don’t give a damn about inheriting my mother’s lands and titles, Korin—at least I wouldn’t if I thought I had an honest chance to seize true love.

  “But you didn’t do that, did you?” she continued. “You waited five gods-damned years, until you found out I was betrothed to your brother—”

  “I couldn’t let you marry him!” Korin hissed.

  “You mean you couldn’t stand to let him have me!” Tzimena answered. “Only then—seeing your brother once more get the best of you in something—did you tear yourself away from your little woodland kingdom and come to find me.”

  Korin had
lowered his eyes then. Shrugged. “It must be nice, being so sure in all things.”

  “I’m not sure of anything,” Tzimena said. “But I do know that if you really want something, you go after it—whether someone else is threatening to take it away or not.”

  He had nothing to say to that.

  “I defer to our judges,” old Holgur concluded. “Tymon called Longstride, Dedrik called Firebow, and Orhund, called the Lesser.” With that Holgur withdrew, found a bit of empty ground, and sat himself upon it, legs crossed beneath him.

  Korin let his blue eyes sweep over all assembled. “Ingrates,” he said quietly. “After all I’ve done for you—”

  A series of murmurs ran through the crowd. Tzimena heard none of their whispered words, but the looks on some faces told her all she needed to know: many of these people, despite being wronged, were yet uneasy about punishing their leader.

  “You’ll have your opportunity to speak,” Tymon said loudly, clearly intending her voice to move not only Korin to silence, but everyone else, as well. “First we offer the charges. You, Korin Lyr, called the Red Raven, and hitherto our leader and first bow, are accused of endangering the lives of your companions and peers for the sake of your own pleasure and satisfaction; of abandonment of your post and duties upon the occasion of your journey to the city of Yenara in order to treat with the Lady Tzimena of Toriel, who is present; and of responsibility for the deaths of eleven of your companions in the prosecution of your intentions. Those who went to Yenara with you have not returned, and more lives were spent when you were freed from captivity yesterday on the Ethkeraldi Forest Road.”

  “I didn’t ask you to rescue me,” Korin said.

  “But you expected it,” Dedrik offered. “Did you not?”

  Korin said nothing.

  “Likewise,” Tymon continued, “you are charged with the misuse of your power and privilege as first bow in your wanton seduction of no less than five women and two men in this company, who are, themselves, pledged openly to men or women who serve you. Let it be noted that there is not a single claim suggesting that our leader forced himself upon these lovers of his—yet the fact remains that he is our leader, and that few would—until recently—have refused him anything he asked of them.”

  “Is that what we stand for now?” Korin asked. “Outdated marriage laws and notions of propriety? A free person as a piece of property?”

  “You know well that no such laws exist among us,” Orhund interjected. “But we do have rules regarding the misuse of the trust of companions. That’s why we still hold to the ritual of pledging when people so decide—so that no one pledged may be arbitrarily seduced or taken advantage of by another.”

  “Then why are the men and women who indulged me not up here on trial, as well?” Korin asked.

  “Because they are not in the position of power that you have been,” Dedrik said quietly. “Their transgressions are personal—against the partners they were pledged to. Your transgression is public, for it affects everyone in this company.”

  “A leader who will take from his or her companions is a tyrant,” Tymon said. “The Devils of the Weald do not countenance tyrants.”

  “Fine,” Korin said. “Get on with it.”

  Tymon studied him. For the first time, Tzimena saw something in her eyes that betrayed real feeling—a deep well of competing, roiling emotions that her anger and resentment had masked until now. Slowly the tall woman sat forward in her chair, planting her hands upon her knees.

  “Do you not understand, Korin? Are all these charges falling on deaf ears?”

  “You speak of betrayal,” Korin said quietly. “I am the one betrayed. I left here secure in the knowledge that all of you, my people, would be safe and protected by my chosen lieutenants—namely you, Longstride—in my absence. I return now to charges of dereliction of my duties. Who’s been whispering in all your grubby little ears, eh? Was it Tymon? Has she been angling to take my place all along? Or maybe Dedrik? He’s the subtle one, after all . . . the smart one. Certainly not Orhund—he wouldn’t have the stomach or the brains for this.”

  Tzimena watched as Korin ranted. The three judges winced perceptibly as their names were invoked. Their faces betrayed mixtures of anger and loss and pain—as if they were watching someone they’d once loved dearly make a fool of himself. When Korin pronounced Orhund both cowardly and stupid, the big man looked like he might bound out of his chair and tear his onetime captain limb from limb.

  But nothing happened. Korin brayed. They listened. The people exchanged fell glances and whispers.

  “Clearly,” Tymon said at last, her voice quiet and measured, “you have not entirely forgotten what it meant to be highborn, for only someone highborn could so easily mock his comrades when faced with honest grievances. Tell me, Korin—were we always so base in your eyes? So contemptible and worthy of disrespect? If so, why did you work so hard to prove yourself among us? To become a good leader for us?”

  “Because I could,” Korin said bitterly. “Clearly, if any of you could have challenged and ejected my predecessor before my coming, you would have.”

  “So you are a man of many talents,” Dedrik said. “A man of great capability and means. Does that entitle you to berate us? To sleep with our wives or husbands? To run off without a by-your-leave to snatch some prize of your own”—he indicated Tzimena—“no matter what your absence—or your possible capture—might mean for your people?”

  “I am the Red Raven, Scourge of the Ethkeraldi,” Korin said slowly. “I go where I will. I do as I like.”

  “You are only the Red Raven because we allowed you to be,” Tymon answered coldly. “And that which we have given you can be taken away. In an instant.”

  “I’m your leader!” Korin shouted.

  “You are first among equals,” Orhund said. “You said so in your oath when you took the mantle, did you not?”

  Korin gave no reply.

  Orhund stood and roared like a bear. “Did you not?”

  Korin actually shuddered where he stood when the big man’s voice boomed through the ravine. He stood in awe, in shock, at how Orhund’s towering frame shook with rage, not a stone’s throw from him. Finally Korin managed to square his shoulders, raise his eyes, and look at his onetime friend directly.

  “That was my pledge,” he said. “First among equals. First to give, last to take.”

  “Tell us, then,” Tymon said, now standing herself and moving closer, “how your actions reflect that position. Should a first among equals betray the trust of their companions?”

  Korin shook his head. “No.”

  “Should a first among equals abandon their office for the sake of fetching a trophy wife? Especially when doing so endangers everyone associated with them?”

  Korin lowered his eyes. He could no longer tolerate Tymon’s level, accusing gaze. “No,” he said quietly.

  “And when lives are spent rescuing that person—that reckless, selfish, self-indulgent person—from his captors, should that person yet be allowed to lead? To exercise the power they so clearly do not respect or wield responsibly?”

  Tzimena admired this woman, this Tymon Longstride. Though she might yet prove Tzimena’s undoing, her sense of honor and her ability to articulate the problems at hand were rare faculties even at court, let alone in the woodland hideout of a band of outlaws. What had brought her here, to banditry and a life on the margins? she wondered. What might she have been if the world hadn’t chased her to its frayed and ragged edges?

  Korin, meanwhile, said nothing, did nothing. He waited, hands tied, eyes down.

  Tymon stood before him now. She glared, daring him to raise his eyes and meet her gaze.

  “We loved you,” she said quietly. “All of us. That’s what makes this betrayal—this failure—all the more hurtful.”

  Korin raised his eyes to her. Though Tzimena’s view was poor, she could still see the glint of tears in Korin’s eyes. When he spoke, his voice was rough and strangled.


  “Give me another chance,” he said. “I swear to you, Tymon—to all of you—I swear I shall make you proud again!”

  “Too late for that,” Orhund said from his seat.

  “No!” Korin begged. “No, come now—it’s never too late.”

  Tymon nodded. Tzimena could see the sadness apparent on her face now. “It is, Korin.”

  “One last time, before we deliberate,” Dedrik chimed in. He stood and addressed Korin directly. “How do you answer the charges, brother?”

  Korin looked as if he was trying to find the right words, some means of rescuing his dignity, his authority—even just his life. Watching his mouth move while no words presented themselves made Tzimena terribly sad. She had always believed—even after she thought him dead—that Korin Lyr was one of the smartest, cleverest, bravest young men she’d ever known, with a quip to answer every insult, an insult to answer every challenge, a challenge to answer every slight or sign of disrespect. And there he stood, accused of crimes by the people who’d been his family for the last five years . . . speechless.

  “He has no answer,” Tymon said dismissively.

  “Guilty,” Korin said.

  Tymon, who’d been on the way back to her chair, stopped midstride. Everyone watching the proceedings drew breath or gasped. Orhund settled back into his seat, as if happy to finally be done with an unpleasant task. Dedrik leaned forward and stared off into space, indicating to Tzimena that, as far as he was concerned, he wasn’t done with anything. In fact, he looked like a man whose unpleasant tasks were only beginning.

  “Say it again,” Tymon commanded, rounding on Korin and returning to him. “Reckless endangerment?”

  “Guilty,” Korin said flatly.

  “Exploitation of your power? Betrayal of your vows?”

  “Guilty.”

  “The wrongful deaths of our comrades?”

  “Guilty,” Korin said with finality. “Happy now?”

  Tymon almost answered, then stopped herself. Once again, Tzimena could see emotion on the woman’s face. There was a trembling—ever so slight, barely perceptible—in her lower lip, and her eyes had grown dewy. This task, no matter how aggressively she attacked it, clearly gave her no pleasure.