Light from Aphelion 2 - Tears of Winter

by Martine Carlsson

  “Me too,” Lissandro said, though he was getting a terrible headache from all this, and his teeth hurt.

  The stables were silent. At least, Louis did not sob his brains out. Lissandro stepped towards the corner where his friend lay. Louis faced the wall but seemed to have heard him come as he shrugged.

  “Go away,” Louis muttered.

  “Oh, I will. I hate losing my time,” Lissandro said, irritated. “But I need to say…”

  “Leave.”

  “That I am on your side here.”

  “Out!”

  “He loves you, a lot. But he is messed up. Give him time,” Lissandro hurried to say before he stepped back outside. He had no wish to wait until Louis ran out of synonyms. He passed in front of Folc again. “There will be frost tonight. Take him to your room before you both turn to ice. I will sleep with Kilda.”

  Lissandro returned to the tavern, absent-mindedly tiptoed through the main room as if to avoid unnecessary attention from the rest of the customers, and once upstairs, knocked on Kilda’s door.

  “Come in.”

  Thank you. Lissandro entered. Kilda had a nightgown on and washed her face over a bowl. “There have been some complications…” he said.

  “Hmm.” She recapped a small flask, put it in her bag, and slipped under the bed’s blankets. “I figured that out. Want to sleep here?” She patted on the other side of the bed.

  “With pleasure.” Lissandro was exhausted. He removed his tunic and slipped under the covers. After such an exhausting day, the crude straw mattress and the sheep-stinking furs were a blessing. He sighed with pleasure and took his marks under the sheets. A delicate perfume of rose exuded from his friend when she wiggled closer.

  “What was all that about?” Kilda whispered.

  “A baby,” Lissandro mumbled.

  He heard Kilda sob. Me and my loud mouth. He patted her shoulder. “There, there.” In his mouth, the pain grew more and more uncomfortable.

  15

  Folc went down the stairs to the inn’s main room. Two travelers with their bags and staffs sat near the fire sharing a pitcher and slices of a dry sausage, while behind the bar, Mahault scoured rows of mugs with a rag. It smelled of bacon, chicken, bread, eggs, and warm, small ale. A blend of unusual odors so early during the day. Lissandro, Askjell, and Eliot sat already at a table, chatting with each other.

  “Good morning, Folc,” Lissandro said with a smile. “I was just explaining to our companions about your exploits in this place two years ago.”

  Folc shrugged. “I did not do much. I only led Louis and the party through the tunnels. Are you eating dinner already?”

  “Dear Folc, you should know that there is nothing better to start the day than to enjoy a real breakfast, and this includes all you see on this table. I would not have minded a cup of tea, but well, this is countryside.” Lissandro waved him to the bench in front of him. “But please, join us while our friends prepare themselves.”

  Folc sat down on the bench, poured himself a mug of small ale, and scraped some bacon and egg onto a slice of bread. In the palace, breakfast, when there was one, would barely include a fruit or a bowl of broth. This was a feast. His stomach approved it, and he ate with delectation.

  “Did you sleep well?” Askjell asked him.

  Folc stopped eating and looked at the boy askance, his lips crooked. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Forgive my squire, Folc. I am sure it was intended to be a courtesy,” Lissandro said and gave him a compassionate glance.

  “Are there many cities between here and Embermire?” Eliot asked. The monk had chosen a soup instead of the bacon and was busy buttering his slice of bread.

  “There are villages, but the orders are to follow the shortest road to reach our destination as soon as possible,” Folc answered. “I gave myself the task to keep a balance between following the orders and sparing the horses.” His function was not only to protect the king but to sit on the fence to avoid any disaster. Whatever his initiatives, he would never get reprimanded. He knew he had the trust and affection of the royal couple. His men not only knew it, but they knew it was justified. Never had they failed on their oath or lacked respect towards him.

  “Oh,” Lissandro said and took a sip of his ale.

  Folc noticed that his friend’s features had tensed. He glanced back over his shoulder. Louis came down the stairs to join them. His face was pallid and emotionless. He had his cloak on and his bag in his hand. Folc assumed that the breakfast would soon be over. Once he arrived at the table, Louis stopped dead.

  “Where is he?” Louis asked. Folc noted a hint of worry in his voice.

  “I don’t know. Probably asleep,” Lissandro answered, distant and impassive. He took a mouthful of eggs. A leaden atmosphere had fallen over the table. Askjell and Eliot grew a sudden interest in the bowl of apples. Folc stared at the wear marks on his mug.

  “Are you saying that none of you watched over him, and that he spent the whole night alone in his room?” Louis asked sharply.

  Lissandro jumped up and faced Louis with anger. “Listen now,” he hissed. “I’m more than fed up of your petty quarrel. We have a task far more important to accomplish. You want to know how he is? You stay in his room. I’m not here to babysit your wif—”

  The slap resounded in the whole tavern. Everyone fell silent. In the distance, something metallic fell on a table. Out of the corner of his eye, Folc watched Lissandro. His friend’s face hung low, and his eyes were riveted on the floor. Slowly, Lissandro put one hand on his reddened cheek.

  “Go check on him and pray he is fine,” Louis hissed nastily. Folc had heard that tone once before, in Millhaven a long time ago, and had hoped he would never have to hear it again.

  Lissandro still looked down. His eyes were filled with rage and sorrow. He strode away. Folc heard him go up the stairs. As Louis bent over him, Folc moved aside with a start. Louis grabbed a chicken breast and a chunk of bread from the table.

  “I’ll prepare the horses,” Louis whispered. Though his voice had softened, Folc still had gooseflesh. Louis strode out of the tavern.

  Askjell and Eliot gazed at Folc with wide eyes. The tension in the air loosened.

  “Is that usual?” Eliot asked, worried.

  Folc sighed. “No, but I would recommend to you that for the next days, we only talk to each other. Unless we are talked to,” Folc said.

  While they finished their breakfast, Folc heard doors open and close. Yet, no one joined them at the table. Once he had chewed up his last piece of bread, he rose. “Pack your things if it’s not already done. We leave in a few minutes.”

  Folc fastened his cloak over his cuirass and mail and put his gloves on. He went out. It was drizzling and cold. The soldiers had returned from the town and stood with their mounts in the yard. Chickens strolled around the horses’ legs. In the distance, near the road, Louis, Kilda, Lissandro, and Selen were already waiting. All of them had their hoods on, but Folc knew the color of their cloaks. Folc headed towards the stable. Only three horses were left. He picked up his saddle and bridle and stepped towards his mount which stood in a corner. While he buckled the straps, something hit his ankle. Thinking of a tool, Folc pushed it casually with his foot. It fell back against him again. “Damn it.” He turned around and looked down. His heart stopped.

  A hand appeared from under a heap of straw. Folc knelt and took the pulse. Nothing. He glanced around him but saw no one. Carefully, he brushed the straw where the head should be. His hands uncovered the face of the lad who had taken their horses the day before. In a hurry, Folc uncovered the rest of the body. He turned it around and up again in search of a wound, but there was no blood to be seen. Had the lad been strangled? How did he die? Another question, more frightening, popped in his mind. Was it one of them who had done that? Folc thought instantly about Louis. No, it was impossible. Louis was not a murderer. Folc pondered a few seconds. Well, at least not of innocent farm lads. Besides, everyone could access the
stables, and they were not the only persons to have stayed for the night, let alone the probability of the owners themselves.

  Folc took handfuls of straw and covered the body again. Whatever had happened, they had no time to lose with it. Still, from now on, he would keep an eye open. He finished preparing his horse and harnessed Askjell’s and Eliot’s mounts. The sooner they were away, the better. As he walked into the yard holding the horses’ bridles, his two companions exited the inn.

  “Oh. Thank you, Folc. You shouldn’t have,” Askjell said.

  “We have lost enough time already,” Folc said. He got up on his horse and trotted towards the road.

  On narrow, mud-beaten tracks, they rode through the forests and fallow fields covered with frost, alternating quick walk and gallop. Their halts were timed according to the horses’ needs. No consideration was taken for the riders themselves. As everyone avoided the other, no one complained. Surprisingly, the soldiers followed willingly. By what Folc had understood, the men had interpreted their hastiness by the king’s strong wish to accomplish their mission in a record time. In a way, it was totally right.

  Despite the vicinity of villages, they didn’t look for taverns and bivouacked under the stars, their blankets damp with dew and their noses bothered by the stench of a too large retinue’s latrines. On the second day, they halted in a glade in the forest. With long ropes, the soldiers fixed a corral among the trees. Though they had nothing to fear, Folc organized a watch by security. While Lissandro and Kilda built a large campfire, Askjell and Eliot took out provisions. Folc approached the fire and sat next to Selen. Shrunk on himself, his dark-rimmed eyes downcast, his friend looked miserable. It made Folc feel sad.

  “Can I do something for you?” Folc whispered.

  Selen only shook his head. Folc searched in his bag. He took out a piece of bread that he broke and a dry sausage. He took half for himself and handed the rest to Selen. “You should eat at least.”

  “Thank you,” Selen murmured. He took the food and gnawed lazily on the bread.

  Folc knew he was too old now to hug Selen in his arms, but the will was there. If only he could fix the conflict between his friends, there would be nothing he wouldn’t do. He would cross the Frozen Mountains in the midst of winter or finish this quest himself and bring back the cure. He didn’t want to see them that way. It couldn’t be. You love each other; I know you do.

  “Folc, who is in charge in Embermire right now?” Kilda asked. She fidgeted nervously with her robes while she stoked the fire. The lower hem was smeared with dirt. It was obvious she felt uncomfortable in her clothes. Folc had to admit that she had looked more natural in the days of the Rebellion when in her armour.

  “If I am right, it’s a council of barons Pembroke entrusted with different responsibilities,” Folc answered. “With his function at the court, the Count has not been in his city for a while.”

  “Are there still bandits around?” Lissandro asked, unstopping the wineskin.

  “There will always be bandits everywhere,” Folc said. “The country is too vast to control every road.” He got up. “I need to check on the horses and the men. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “We’re in the middle of a forest during the night. Don’t say things like I’ll be back,” Lissandro snickered.

  Folc did not understand but smiled back. He strolled to the corral. After such a long day, the mounts were asleep. Folc heard their breathing and puffing. One horse neighed and came to him. Folc patted his muzzle. “You should sleep. He won’t give you a break tomorrow either,” he muttered. Folc took a few steps away and unlaced his pants. While he peed, he heard a noise in the distance, a kind of whisper. He laced up his pants again and stepped forward carefully. It was too dark to see anything, but a branch broke a few yards in front of him. Could it be bandits? He heard a horse’s hooves gallop away. Whoever it was, it was spying on them. Folc retraced his steps and proceeded towards his men. They sat near another campfire, sharing ale and biscuits.

  “Keep your eyes open. We may have a surprise during the night,” Folc said.

  The men nodded, and some stood up to pick up their weapons. Folc returned towards his group. He hesitated a while then walked to Louis who stood aside crouched against a tree, his blanket over his shoulders, his gaze staring into emptiness.

  “There are people in the woods,” Folc whispered.

  “There are always people in the woods, as well as a lot of charming creatures lurking for you. Don’t worry. We are over fifty and armed. It’s too much for bandits,” Louis muttered.

  “Unless…”

  “Unless they are here for us?” Louis sighed. “Since we passed the gates, we have lost all credibility. I am worthless. It won’t be long before the people realize it, but I intend to use my status to the limit for the success of our mission. Our men believe in it.”

  “You are too hard on yourself. You didn’t lose your power. Any king would leave a city struck with pestilence—and not to help the people but to save his ass. Your only mistake was to show yours to the population.”

  “Are you insinuating I lost my honor?” Louis’s cold eyes stared at him, waiting for an answer.

  This was a slippery slope, and Folc did not want to end like Lissandro. Yet, he owed Louis the truth. He looked at their group sitting around the fire. “Knights and honorable men considered your act with respect and admiration. But not every citizen understands your devotion to egalitarianism. Some would probably feel more at peace with an ostentatious, selfish monarch. It’s in the nature of things. All they want is food.”

  Folc dropped his gaze, which fell on Louis’s hands. His knuckles had turned white. Folc took advantage of the silence to walk away. He regretted his words already. So much for fixing things.

  16

  Josselin sat at the table in his parlour. The poached eggs in custard sauce on his plate were turning cold. He poked them with his spoon. He knew by the smell that Alis had abused ginger again. Their cook should be sent to work in the royal kitchen to learn how to use reasonable proportions of spices. The palace was probably empty of life by now. Louis, Selen…Kilda, where were they? Would he ever see his wife again? He had let her go to protect her, but in his heart, he knew she would have left with or without his consent. It was the second time Kilda had lost a child. To return to her position of Lady had not been easy for her. She had been a warrior for years. She even looked like one. Her behavior was harsh and clumsy, but Josselin loved her nonetheless. Kilda had the nobleness of knights, and she had never judged her crippled husband, despite the difficult time he had been through after the loss of his arm. Maternity had awoken her lost femininity. Their life had been fulfilled for a while, before the fatal loss turned her into a lost soul again. Those last days, they had barely spoken to each other. Two strangers living under the same roof. Josselin knew she was in good hands with their friends, but would she ever come back?

  A knock on the door drew him out of his thoughts. “Come in.” The wooden door squeaked open. The flames of the candles on the table waved under the draft.

  Pierce, his steward, entered the room and halted, his hands joined. “A guard of the watch came to the door, my lord. Commander Urian wishes to see you as soon as possible.”

  “Did he mention why?”

  “No, my lord. Only that he was waiting for you near the main gatehouse.”

  “All right,” Josselin sighed. He looked at the cold bread pudding soaked in wine under his eggs and noticed he wasn’t hungry, after all.

  Josselin rose and made for the door. He went through the red and green hall and down the broad, oaken stairs. As Lady Hegora’s nephew, Josselin had taken up residence in Khorkina House, one of the most prestigious townhouses of the capital. Cyril, his Master of the Wardrobe, handed him his cloak when he stepped on the threshold.

  His saddled horse waited for him in the courtyard. He tugged at his fur collar and sniffled. The perfume of freshly ground barley from the brewery in the tenement on his
left tickled his nose. Josselin got on his mount and rode under the porch towards the street. The ground floor of the street front was used for shops. Two were stores. The rest were workshops specializing in manufacturing the gold from Millhaven. When the epidemic had burst, Josselin had written to his aunt to inform her of the situation and to cut the procurement in gold. No one would buy jewelry when his life at stake, and it was useless to stir up covetousness by storing a high quantity of gold in their warehouses. Once on the main street, Josselin headed east.

  The guards’ presence around the gatehouse had been reinforced so that no one would slip through the net of the sanitary controls. Despite the quarantine on the people, a line of carts waited their turn to cross the gate. The city needed to eat, and no peasant would take the risk to enter the city. The food had to be collected on the field outside the battlements. The two portcullises were closed and opened as a lock for each cart under the sergeant’s orders. Josselin approached the towers flanking the gate. He dismounted and entered the one on the right.

  In the narrow, dim halls, he came across guards in armors. Barks of dogs resounded on his left. The ice-cold sounds chilled the air. The whole atmosphere was as tense as the stones were damp. At the tables, no one sat idle, polishing a shield or fletching arrows. The acrid smoke emanating from the braziers against the walls made him cough. In one of the crowded rooms, in front of a rack with helmets, Urian stood by a desk, signing papers. His features were twisted with worry and anger. He raised his head and saw Josselin.

  “Leave us.” The soldiers around complied and left the room.

  “Is something wrong?” Josselin asked. He hoped it didn’t concern the king’s party.

  “Twenty-four,” Urian growled. “Twenty-four nobles, men and women, passed through these gates last night.” He hammered the board with his fist.

  Josselin only saw one possibility. “Did they kill the guards?”

  “It would have been preferable. They corrupted the sergeant.”