The little girl had stretched her arm and held Louis’s earlobe in her hand. “Is it an earring?” she asked.
“Yes,” Louis answered, paralyzed under the child’s touch.
“Can I have it?” the little girl asked candidly.
Louis smiled and turned to her. “I’m sorry. It’s the queen’s gift. But your parents will offer you some once you are a maiden like your sister.” As the girl looked sad, Louis patted her head as if she were a puppy.
Lissandro grinned and decided he wouldn’t save his friend from the stares this time. Kilda did. She rose and helped the housewife clear away the table. Since Kilda’s character was a match to the one of the housewife, the latter didn’t complain.
The white bread was wrapped with care in cloths and put in the bread bin. Selen bore the little girl to her siblings on the wooden-framed bed and entertained them with tales of gods and titans. The old woman came with straw and furs.
“We don’t have much, but we will spread straw and make a bed for your companions,” Walter said to Louis. “Your Majesties can have our bed, of course.”
“No, please,” Louis objected. “We will gladly sleep on the furs with our companions. We won’t make your children sleep on the ground. I insist.”
While Folc and Eliot made the bed, Askjell sat by the fire with his notebook and wrote. Still sitting at the table, Walter repaired his tools under the attentive eyes of Ahanu and Louis. Lissandro sat down with them.
“Do you speak our language?” Walter asked the Child. He took the handle of a pitchfork and polished it with a kind of sandpaper.
“I do,” Ahanu said. “I am from this land. You have a good family. I too live with my parents and brothers. What do you have in this jar?”
“Linseed oil. You need to apply several layers to smooth the handle. It’s important to hydrate the fibers. You also need to check the tines. They can’t be loose, and the collar here must be sealed so that moisture can’t go under the metal. Are you a peasant? You do not look much like a lord,” Walter said.
“I don’t have animals as you do, but I cultivate the village garden and hunt. Our ways of life are very similar. You are not sick like the men at the tavern. Those men do not take care of their own people.” Ahanu shook his head with disapproval.
Walter looked at Louis with incomprehension.
“We passed by Briarthorpe and stayed at the tavern,” Louis said.
“Not everyone could find the strength to rebuild after what happened these last years. Many lost their families, their home. I still have all my children. I won’t judge,” Walter said.
“Are they many groups of bandits around here?” Lissandro asked. “A group of over twenty men?”
“There were bandits before. Now, with the war victims finding their homes burned to ashes, there are even more of them. I think we should all go to sleep. You have a long road tomorrow, and we peasants need to get up early,” Walter said.
He moved his tools to a trunk and placed the pitchfork back on its hook. Lissandro, Louis, and Ahanu rose from the benches. Louis walked to the bed and placed his hand against the side of Selen’s head. Their friend had fallen asleep with one of the children leaning against him. Selen opened his eyes slowly.
“Come, love,” Louis whispered.
Selen rose and followed his friend to their improvised bed. Sheep furs had been layered on a mattress of straw. The surface to sleep was a bit larger than Walter’s family bed, yet they had to place eight adults on it. With such a promiscuity, they decided to keep their tunics on. Three of his companions would have to sleep head to foot. Lissandro thought that the only way for them to sleep even closer would be to pack them in a sardine can. Thank God we bathed.
“It smells like my old bed in the Frozen Mountains. I like it,” Selen said as he lay down and curled on the furs.
“Be careful what you wish for, Selen, or you may find that litter in the solar,” Lissandro said.
“And send these people a huge, oaken bed with silk and linen sheets? You know I would do it with pleasure,” Louis said to Selen, who gazed at him with his appealing eyes. He lay down next to Selen. “I won’t build you a trianon, but if you don’t mind giving all the useless luxuries of the royal apartments to the poor, I promise you will sleep on a bed of furs for the rest of your life,” Lissandro heard Louis whisper.
“Good Lord, Louis. At least put all those wonderful pieces of art in a national museum so that the commoners may appreciate the valor of what your eyes bleed to see,” Lissandro grumbled to his friend.
“I’ll keep your idea in mind, Lilo,” Louis said. “You know I like art, just not in my home.”
Lissandro lay down between Askjell and Eliot. From the other side, Folc’s legs pushed against his. With the proximity of the fire, it was warm. He felt sweat pool under his arms. A little spider popped from under two furs, passed over his hand, and crept down his leg.
“And me who hates camping,” Lissandro grumbled between his aching teeth.
“The fire will die out during the night, but the warmth should hold until morning,” Walter said above them. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to wake us up.” Lissandro heard the man step away.
Lissandro shut his eyes and waited. Long. Yet, sleep never came. He stared at the timber work above him with the tools and garlic braids tied on their hooks. He listened to the noises around him; the crackles of the fire, the different breathings of his companions, and the occasional bleating of a sheep. He closed his eyes again and forced himself to count the damn animals. Once he reached seventy-two, he felt Askjell get up, as discreetly as the boy could on a litter of moving straw. With the open space on his right, Lissandro breathed better and stretched his arms. One of his hands closed on a lock of hair. It was soft like silk. He caressed it until he wondered who it belonged to. He opened his eyes and realized his mistake. Selen lay on the other side, curled away. If someone saw me, I’d be as good as dead, Lissandro thought. To make it sure, he took the risk to concentrate his senses. He knew he shouldn’t wake up such capacities. He had done it a few times already, and it had turned out pretty bad. Still, he needed to know.
Lissandro closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, reducing his intakes of breath. His heart slowed down until he entered a state close to torpor. The sounds around him were deafening. One after the other, he separated his friends’ breathings. Each came from a different direction and had its particularities. All were long and deep, the signs of sleep. He could also smell his companions. Cut grass, fern, clove, oak, citrus, violet, each skin had its own perfume. Carefully, Lissandro brought Selen’s hair to his face. Honeysuckle. The scent was so intense that he felt like drowning in it. He opened his eyes. His senses were still enhanced. Under the spell of his friend’s scent, he gazed at his body. His back stretched on the furs, slightly curved at the waist. Louis’s hand rested loosely over his hip. I have to shift my gaze; I must. If the Cerberus sees me… Lissandro forced himself to think. Yet, his eyes kept staring at his friend’s bottom. He still heard their breathings. He would know if there was a risk. He stretched out his hand. Stop it at once. It’s your friend. But Lissandro refused to listen to his conscience. The darkness crawled inside him again. He cupped one of Selen’s cheeks. Firm, round, perfect. His heart throbbed slowly, one beat at a time. He felt the tension in his mouth and the sweet nausea. His loins stirred. A hand touched his own body. Lissandro froze with panic and removed his hand. The feeling on his butt disappeared. The monk was behind him. Was that possible? His head spun. He had left the state of torpor too fast. He felt dizzy, and he needed air. Lissandro got up without looking behind him. Ashamed and upset, he made for the door.
Lissandro rolled and fell facedown on the hard-earth ground. He mumbled with pain and irritation.
“Packing time,” Folc’s voice said behind him with a sneer.
He had slept so deeply that he hadn’t noticed his companions get up. Around him, his friends were busy getting dressed, grooming t
he horses, shaving, or other morning routines. The housewife sat on a stool and spun wool while her elder daughter carded it. The younger children played with the tufts scattered around. Walter and his son were nowhere to be seen. Lissandro rose and walked to the table.
“Good morning. Do you want some small beer?” Selen asked as he poured himself a mug. With his usual smile on his face, it didn’t seem that his friend had noticed something last night.
“Thank you, yes.” Lissandro cut himself a slice of bread and spread some cheese on it. “When do we leave?”
“As soon as Walter comes back from feeding the pigs. You should pack your things if you haven’t. No one has had time for breakfast now.”
“Except you,” Lissandro said while eating. He drank his beer. He had always wondered how the people here could survive their days with only alcohol from dawn till dusk, as light as it could be. At least, in the palace in Nysa Serin, he could hope for tea, milk, or orange juice.
“I don’t have a beard to shave, and I packed yesterday. What happened to your nails?”
Lissandro looked down at his hands. The part under his nails and the sides were crusted with blood. He didn’t remember having touched blood after his bath. “I probably chewed on it in my sleep,” he stuttered.
“All of them?” Selen asked, dubious. Lissandro gazed at him with confusion. “It’s not my business, but be careful what you do with your hands.” Selen smiled again, got up, and walked away.
Louis walked in with Walter and Sylvain. The two peasants had a sour face while his friend looked confused and strode towards Selen. Lissandro couldn’t hear their conversation, but he saw Selen glance furtively at him. Lissandro felt uneasy. He rose and went to wash his hands in the bucket of water near the fire. While he cleaned his nails, he noticed Askjell’s notebook on a stool. This would have been a real loss considering how much energy Askjell put in his chronicle. After he had dried his hands, he took the book and decided to return it to his squire.
Askjell was done preparing the horses and was leaving the fold when Lissandro approached him.
“You left your book by the hearth,” Lissandro said, handing over the notebook. “It would be sad if you forgot it here.”
“My book! I thought I had it in my bag. Thank you a lot,” Askjell exclaimed.
As the boy took the upper corners of the book, Lissandro noticed small blood drops on his white shirt at his wrists. There was no way he could have hurt himself by brushing and saddling the horses. Moreover, the shirt was too clean to have been worn longer than since the evening before.
“We’re leaving!” Louis shouted behind him.
Each of his companions came for his horse. Lissandro took his and walked it through the door. He was surprised to see that the sun had not even set. Only a pale light reflected on the snow. Behind the edge of the wood, a golden ray appeared. Attracted by its beauty, Lissandro walked towards it. Something hard and cold hit the back of his head. Brushing the snow from his hair, he turned around.
“Seriously?” Lissandro grinned with a strong desire for revenge.
In front of him, Kilda and Louis checked their saddles’ straps, trying hard to pretend they had nothing to do with the incident. Lissandro bent over and grumbled. As he formed a ball with his hands, another projectile hit him in the face, thus making him drop his snowball.
“Vengeance!” Lissandro shouted.
Choosing the lightest of his two friends, he rushed into Louis, who stumbled backwards. Laughing, they struggled in the deep snow under Kilda’s encouragements. Lissandro was enjoying his brief superiority when he heard someone clear his throat. He looked up.
“Walter?” Louis whispered from under him.
Lissandro grinned to confirm his friend’s fears. He pushed himself up and stretched out his hand to help Louis to his feet. Brushing the snow from their coats, they tried to look casual and grim again.
“Unfortunately, I have no horse and can’t accompany you,” Walter said. “But I explained the way to the village to your friend, Ahanu. You should be there in a few hours.”
The rest of their companions joined them outside. Walter’s family stepped out to bid their farewell. Louis gave a purse to the peasant, who thanked him warmly. The little girl named Maud trotted near Selen, who was busy adjusting his saddle. When she tugged at his coat, his friend crouched next to her.
“Can I be a queen when I get older?” the child asked.
Behind her, Sylvain shrugged. “You live on a farm, Maud. How could you become a queen?”
The words fell hard on the little girl. Her smile faded, and her eyes swelled with tears.
“I’m a man, and I lived with sheep,” Selen said to cheer her up. “Nothing is impossible. But don’t aim for the crown, aim for love.” He patted her head and get on his saddle.
“Thank you for everything,” Lissandro said to the family. He mounted and helped Folc swing himself up behind him.
They all waved and departed northeast, towards the road.
25
Mauger climbed the stairs to the top of the library tower. He had asked to be informed of any bird’s arrival. He opened the door of the aviary, causing a few caws around him, and tugged on his furs. The draughts and the stench made the room the most inhospitable place of the whole palace, except perhaps for the birds themselves. The animals displayed shiny feathers and round bellies. A boy with a woolen cap hurried towards him.
“How can I help you, my lord?” the boy wheezed, already short of breath.
“I’ve heard a crow just arrived,” Mauger said.
“I was on my way to report it to Lord Pemb—”
“Give me the message.”
“At once, my lord.”
The boy headed to a desk and searched through the layers of papers littering it. Mauger grumbled with impatience, thus making the kid’s sausage fingers more unsteady. The office of caretaker of the crows was as wearisome and time craving as the one of a lighthouse keeper. No one jostled to get the task. This oaf had probably received his function thanks to the queen and his love for the animals. Yet, his lack of organization and wits made him an accident-prone, inept element. The boy came back holding high a folded paper that he shoved under Mauger’s face. Mauger grabbed it, turned, and opened the message. Elegant, straight letters. The queen’s writing. Yet, he recognized the king’s hand behind it. It was clever. They know. Still, Mauger had been informed of what had happened in Embermire, and he knew how to use it.
Mauger left the aviary and returned to his chambers in the south aisle. His dogs lay near the fire and barely twitched an ear when they heard him enter. Despite his injunctions, the servants kept a fire burning in every occupied chamber, including his. Mauger tossed his furs on a chest, opened the window, and sat at his desk, the paper in front of him.
A crystalline ewer stood on the board. Mauger filled himself a goblet of his favorite vermillion nectar. From out of a drawer, he took a small bottle, poured it over the goblet and counted four drops. Though the wine was rich and fruity, it hardly softened the bitter taste of the medicine. Watching the pricey painting of his mastiffs hanging on the wall above the hearth, he mused on the situation. It was all going too slowly. Summer would have been a better time. Or maybe they should also have hired assassins to get rid of the officials. No. He would handle the events himself. Despite the orders—that he still saw as recommendations—all would happen in good time, and each one would face his deserved fate. Once his goblet was empty, rings of a rust-like color tainted the bottom. He sighed. Never would he get the metallic glow back. His attention returned to the paper.
The letter had surprised him. He had expected the cursive, whimsical scrawls of the king. To falsify the queen’s hand would be more delicate. Moreover, the words wouldn’t have the same weight. Yet, he would not let pass his chance. Mauger took a quill, dipped it in ink, and wrote.
The letter in his hand, Mauger walked through the hall. Behind him, a group of guards followed at a distance. It was u
nnecessary to alarm the rest of the palace. It would have to be quick and with as few witnesses as possible. Arrived in front of Pembroke’s door, he knocked. A grumble answered him. Mauger opened the door on an unusually messy room. Piles of papers and registers lay in disarray. Plates with remains of food could be found even on the fauteuils. Condensed frost stuck on the windows. No fire burned in the chimney, thus leaving a single lantern lighting the room. Mauger closed the door behind him.
“You didn’t light a fire?” Mauger asked, slightly annoyed that someone had pushed asceticism to further extremes.
“In a minute. I will do it when I’m done with this,” Pembroke answered from under his fur collar without raising his gaze. Mauger wondered for how many minutes the minister had already postponed this. “I forbade the servants to enter my chambers. I need to know where every document lies.”
Mauger stepped towards a cabinet and gazed at the voluminous books of account. “Why this organized mess? You see well that nothing runs anymore in the capital.”
“Some activities, like the road maintenance and the cleaning department or the construction sites, are shamefully neglected. I know that well,” Pembroke said with a puff of condensation. “Yet, we still receive provisions, the city watch stands, and we need to keep as many shops open as possible, should we threaten to confiscate their license. I need to make sure that the people receive food from the schools to the hospital, that the State officials get their wages, and that the laws are still respected.”
Mauger gave him a glance. “That the laws are respected? I heard you take liberties with the laws.”
Slowly, Pembroke put down the quill on the desk. “What are you insinuating?”
“The departure of rich nobles…” Mauger mused. With a finger, he trailed the shape of the bronze statue of a knight. “Admirable artwork.”
“This was a fraud. I never gave my consent,” Pembroke replied with anger. Out of the corner of his eye, Mauger observed the minister’s fingers contract on the paper he was holding.
Light from Aphelion 2 - Tears of Winter Page 23
