She awoke at dawn, lying on the sand, with the sea whispering at her ear. She was deliciously tired. Her muscles seemed to hum in remembrance of a tune. The rising sun cast light in a dramatic flourish against the bellies of clouds gray with rain, born onshore by a mistral wind. A smile lay on her lips, as lazy as a cat.
“Up. Up. We leave directly.” Jehan’s deep voice broke the morning into shards. “A storm is coming. Two storms.”
She frowned. She glanced seaward.
Two storms?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Joana and Bernat
“What has happened, Jehan? You must tell us.”
Talysse accepted the crust of bread proffered by Gonsallo. The trovador glanced at Jehan.
He must answer now, Talysse thought. He’s pretty much trapped here.
The four of them were in the convidat with Talysse and Detta on one side, Gonsallo and the elf across on the other bench. Neus was up top, driving the two bay horses along at a good clip, which meant Brasc was driving the whole karwan at not quite a trot.
Jehan had ignored all her requests for explanation after he had roused her from her pleasant slumber on the beach. He told her nothing—neither where they were going nor why. The looks on the faces of the other elves—routier and fisher alike—were so serious she left off pestering and got herself ready. She and Detta were first in the convidat. She felt a little smug about being faster than Gonsallo or Jehan, but mostly she worried. She feared she was the reason for the anxious haste.
But she had him now. He was in the wagon and Neus would not stop for a grumpy elf. Not even an elf chevalier.
“So, tell us.”
“He did not put you off without reason.” Gonsallo, not Jehan, spoke. “We had to leave as soon as possible. We would have left before sunrise, but that the roads are unsafe at night for wagons.”
Talysse kept quiet. She was willing to let him wander a bit, so long as he came to the point soon.
“We heard the news last night, coming in pieces, a little from this man, a little from that. The fisher elves, knowing a karwan might stop, had send finders to Béziers and even as far as the Little Rhône. Some found stories that took time to verify, which is why they came back late.”
The trovador paused. Talysse squirmed. “What did they find?” she asked. Her voice squirmed along with her body.
“We are still pursued,” Jehan said. “Men in the livery of the Syndicat, plus some wearing the Arelat lion, are seen along the main road. Rumor has them from Montpellier to Narbonne.”
“You can think how many men this would be,” Gonsallo said.
“Aye,” Jehan agreed. “Somehow this business keeps getting bigger.” He gave Talysse an assessing look she didn’t much like.
“But never mind that,” Jehan said, “because we are leaving the coast. We will pass around Béziers and go up the Aude River to Carcassonne. Another karwan goes to Toulouse by way of Castres, which will draw attention should anyone look westward.” He nodded and folded his arms over his chest. “Brasc is a good wagonmaster.”
The rush of names and news left her hardly any wiser than before, for they were all strange to her. One thing was clear enough: Saveric still hunted her, and he was using more than a handful of hired gens d’armes to capture her. And Brasc was still willing to risk much on her behalf. She wanted to ask about that, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer. More than ever she felt like a hounded fox, and more than ever she was grateful not to be all alone. Once more, she shut her questions away in a box.
Gonsallo kept glancing at her and sighing. When she asked him about it, he gave a forced laugh.
“It is nothing, demoiselle. I am a singer and so I have moods.”
The elf, too, was in a strange mood. Though, Talysse thought, that man is always in one mood or another, few of them good.
That evening she asked Detta what she thought of their new companions. The gnome was full of comments about how handsome and noble was Jehan, how friendly the trovador was and how well he sang. “That Neus fellow seems an honest, sturdy sort.”
But she had nothing to explain the dark looks or mysterious moods. Talysse was ready to suppose it was only her own imagination, which was tending to run wide and far now that it had been cut free from its roots. After the karwan had stopped, though, and everyone was busy with this or that task, she was sure the same tone was settled over the men. They kept looking at her when they thought she would not notice.
She kept to herself all through supper. Gonsallo entertained them with loud, brash songs of mountain bandits and wayward demoiselles. He drank more than he should have, Talysse thought, for eventually he shifted to slower songs about lost love and wandering heroes. It reminded her uncomfortably of the story about her father.
She and Detta sat close together by the fire, with Jehan opposite and Gonsallo a little further back in the shadows. Neus went away to bed the horses down, then sat leaning against one wheel. The spiced wine, the music, and the murmur of a hundred voices mingled with a thousand frogs, together with the shifting moonlight, combined to put Talysse into a dreamlike state.
The trovador began another song, this one slower, sweet and sad. He sang a verse, then played the cittern for a long time before offering up another verse. The effect was akin to the moon passing between dark clouds.
“Talysse, you have spoken before of the other wizard, the one called Remigius,” Jehan said. “So this man took you, gave you to the cenobites. He pays the rent, does he?”
“He does more than that,” Talysse said. “He protects me, guides me. He doesn’t come around often, but he talks to the Prevôt and me when he does. I get in trouble sometimes, and he helps me out.”
“A mentor, then.”
Talysse shrugged. “I suppose so. He doesn’t teach me, but he says what I am to learn. He is my patron.”
Jehan made a sound of skepticism. “What about your parents, then? What can you say about them?”
“I know only what my patron told me. I was too little to remember them.” She trailed off, staring into the campfire. The troubador had fallen silent, only sloppily strumming a few chords now and again. Talysse took a breath and spoke without looking up.
“My mother was a noblewoman who fell in love with an elf. She was young and very beautiful. He was an elf chevalier, like you, Jehan.”
“Not much like me, I think,” Jehan interjected. Talysse ignored that.
“Her father was a hard, cruel man, who would never allow his daughter to marry an elf.” She looked up abruptly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean….”
Jehan waved it away.
“Joana and Bernat.” Gonsallo slurred the words. He had moved closer to the group.
“What?”
“It is a legend, demoiselle,” he said.
“A legend? No. I told about my parents. There are many songs about men and women and love. You have confused them.”
“With respect,” Gonsallo said, as indignant as he could manage, “I do not confuse songs.”
“Then you see something that isn’t there. Sing the song, and I’ll prove it.”
His eyes regarded her with such sadness, she was almost sorry she had dared him.
“Why would anyone tell her such a lie?” He said it to himself, his voice grieving.
“Sing it,” Talysse snapped. She felt suddenly cornered by dark forces, as when Saveric had appeared at the inn. “Please,” she added in a whisper.
“Lyssie,” Detta said, taking her hand. “It is late. Perhaps the singer is tired.”
“I cannot sing it,” Gonsallo said, “for my fingers have had too much wine.”
“There,” Talysse said, glimpsing an escape, “he admits he cannot. Who ever heard of a troubador too drunk to sing?”
“No one!” Gonsallo said, suddenly loud. “I’ll tell it instead.” He glared at the others.
“Talysse?” Jehan said.
She hesitated, then nodded. Something inside her was frightened, but
she scoffed at herself. It was a legend, told by a drunkard.
Gonsallo’s head drooped and his eyes closed. He remained that way for so long, Talysse thought he had fallen asleep, but then he straightened and began to speak.
“An elf chevalier passed by a glen. There he saw a group of ladies. Beguiled by their voices, he approached them courteously. All the ladies were beautiful, but one was the most beautiful by far, the lady Joana. Tall, graceful as a doe, with golden hair, alabaster skin, and a voice like honey.”
His voice became stronger, almost musical. She could almost hear the notes of the cittern beneath the words.
“Suddenly the ladies were attacked by a terrible giant. The warrior stepped forward and defended them. The two fought for most of the day until at last, the warrior struck so great a blow that the giant was felled.
“Joana cried out in admiration, ‘Ben fet!’ which means well done. At the sound, the warrior, who had placed one foot atop the giant’s chest and was about to cut off the beast’s beard, turned and removed his helm.
“The woman gasped. Before her stood the most beautiful man she had ever seen, clad in armor that sparkled in the sunlight, with strong arms and silver hair and three eyes, for he was an elf.
“They fell in love at once, of course.”
She shot him a look to see if he was mocking her, but could not read his face.
“These two fell in love, a human noblewoman and an elf, who carried the name of Bernat. She saw in him a grave courage, a gentle heart, and a merry humor that ran through him like a stream in sunlight. He saw in her wisdom and compassion, a love of truth, and the promise of eternal happiness.
“They met in secret for many months, as there was no possibility of marriage between a human and an elf, not with her being noble. The elf, moreover, was no ordinary warrior. He was an elf chevalier who had felled the giant as one of his twelve labors. So neither could he marry, until he had completed his quest. All that long summer they were together and were happy. In the autumn of the year, Joana showed with child.”
“Knowing the child could only be an outcast, they conspired with a wizard to get the child to safety in a secluded place. This much they managed, but Joana’s father forced the lovers apart.”
A terrible coldness had settled in the pit of Talysse’s stomach. Her face felt pale and cool even before the fire. “What happened to them?” she asked.
“Here the story varies. In one, Joana was married to an older man, a drunkard Dane living in a lonely castle on a distant coast, or perhaps she was married to a fat merchant who brought money to her impecunious father. However it happened, she lived a life of wretched isolation. Bernat was banished from the land, taken to the Troll Empire, or to Samarkand, from whence he spent long years fighting his way back to his beloved. He underwent wrenching trials and overcame great obstacles, only to have cruel fate deal him undeserved reverses. He perhaps lies dead in a distant forest, a black arrow through his heart, felled by some assassin.”
“Here, now,” Detta exclaimed, putting one arm protectively across Talysse.
“Are these the things your patron told you?”
“No,” Talysse said. “Or, not in exactly those words,” Talysse said. She squirmed as she sat, daring him to question her.
“Joana and Bernat’s story,” the man said. He studied her face. “You do not know the names?”
Talysse shook her head.
“Who told you your story?”
“My patron, Remigius.”
Gonsallo looked sharply at her. “Remigio? The wizard?”
“Remigi-us,” Talysse corrected. “Yes, he is a wizard. Do you know him?” Getting information from the trovador was like drinking water from a leaf.
“I may,” Gonsallo said. “Does your Remigio—Remigius—belong to the loyal and ancient order of Syndics?” He asked this with heavy irony.
“He does,” Talysse said, her voice pitching upward with excitement. This was too much of a coincidence. At last, someone who knew something!
“And he lives in the mighty castle known as the Redoubt?”
Talysse cocked her head.
“Built by Carleman?” Gonsallo slurred the words badly. The final cup was proving one too many.
“I do not know the Redoubt,” Talysse said.
“Where… whoa, no spinning.” Gonsallo leaned far to one side, then righted himself. “Where does your Remy… Remo… your wizard. Where does he live?”
“I don’t know,” Talysse admitted. She pursed her lips. Why did she know so little of her own patron? She had never wondered about him; lately, she was too angry with him. Now this felt like a foolish oversight. If she knew where he lived, she could have gone straight to him. “Do you know where the Redoubt is?” she asked.
“Hm?”
She wanted to shake him. The wine was taking him away, and his answers with him.
“The Redoubt! Where is it? Can you take me there?”
“Talysse,” Jehan said gently, “the wagoneers have given you welcome. They can protect you, but this minstrel cannot.”
“I’ll protect myself,” Talysse said. “Gonsallo, can you go there?”
“Sí. Oui. Oc,” the trovador said, stumbling among his languages. “But tonight I go elsewhere.”
“Where?”
“Dormir,” he said. He grinned, leaned over, and fell off the stool. Jehan stood and prodded the man with the toe of his boot. “Schlafen,” the trovador slurred. “Sleep.”
“Disgusting,” Jehan said.
“He drank too much. Did you mercenaries never do so?”
Jehan snorted. “It is time for all of us to go to sleep. You will sleep in the convidat. I’ll stay here and keep an eye on this scoundrel.”
A few minutes later, Talysse and Detta lay on the floor of the wagon, two blankets under them and one over. Despite being tired, Talysse was full of talk and speculation. The gnome silently traced the patterns in the wood grain of the floor.
“What’s wrong, tante?” Talysse asked, finally realizing Detta was not listening.
“Nothing at all, my dove,” Detta said, but her voice strained at the reply.
“Yes, there is. I can see it. Please tell me.” She hated to see Detta pained.
The gnome looked at Talysse. Her amber eyes glistened like wet stone and her body gave a shudder. In a choked voice she said, “Can we not go home, Lyssie?”
Talysse held back her first words. Then she said, as gently as she could, “We can’t. You know that.”
Detta nodded. “I do. Truly I do. And that is what’s wrong. It’s wrong not to be able to go home, don’t you think?” Her voice pleaded, though her words did not.
Talysse started to agree, then considered silently. Go home? Something in the phrase tugged at her, but not in the direction of Saldemer. She had lived her life at the cenobitum, but the place did not feel like home. Her spirit fretted as she realized that she did not know what home felt like. She’d never had one.
“Maybe,” she said slowly, feeling her way along the words, “we are heading home after all. I don’t know where that is yet, so it feels like being lost, but somewhere out there is a place, and when we come to it, we’ll be home.”
“It will be your home,” Detta said. She stared into the darkness. “Perhaps I shall have two homes.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Flight and Fight
Talysse awoke before dawn, with snakes churning in her head. Every snake was a fear.
She knew this feeling and knew she would not be able to go back to sleep. She dressed quietly, but of course Detta woke up as well.
“I’m just going out to exercise,” she told the gnome. Detta disliked the quarterstaff training, so Talysse called it exercise rather than training.
“I cannot come,” Detta said.
“I know. I’ll try hard not to get hurt.” But that was a lie. All she wanted was to get hurt and to hurt something else. Something to pound the snakes out of her head.
The e
astern sky hinted at dawn, but daybreak was an hour away. She padded to where Jehan lay sleeping and knelt to nudge him awake, but his eyes were already open. Barely.
“Teach me more,” she whispered. The snakes writhed.
“Go away,” he rumbled.
“Training.”
“No.”
“Spar, then.” She pushed at his shoulder. “Before the karwan leaves.”
His eyes cleared and he looked at her steadily, then nodded.
Ten minutes later, the two stood under a huge sycamore in a glade of lesser trees. Jehan had not spoken, nor had Talysse. He took up a defensive stance.
“Begin.”
That surprised her, but she did not hesitate. She took the one offensive stance she had learned and advanced on him. She intended to go through a series of moves—a jab, defense, overhand strike, defense, swipe left, defense—but with the first jab her blood went to an instant boil. Jehan became the target for all her rage and fear. She swung wildly; he parried easily. She spun in a sweep, leaped in a jab, a false jab, another jab. She spun the staff in a whirlwind. She struck down, up, and from either side, high and low.
He parried it all. After a few minutes of this, she stopped, panting hard.
“You’re indulging me,” she accused him.
He shrugged.
“Fight!” she yelled, and returned to the attack.
She was no more effective, but finally Jehan spoke as they fought.
“I never indulge,” he said. “You are learning. You are undisciplined, but you show promise.”
She redoubled her attacks at hearing that familiar phrase. She knew she should try to be clever, to feint, but all she could do was throw wave after wave of direct assaults. She was unleashing, not fighting. Her skin became slick with sweat and she had to wipe off each hand. Both times, Jehan took the instant to rap her on the shoulder.
“You are too fierce,” he told her. “You waste effort and breath. Never waste breath when each one may be your last.” He fetched a blow to her head that made her ears ring.
A Child of Great Promise: An Altearth Tale Page 19
