Protector of the Flight

by Robin D. Owens

  “Lucky dog.” Luc finished his drink and belched. “Damn lucky, to get that woman.” His stare fixed on Marrec as he lowered his voice. “Strange-looking woman.”

  “But in a fascinating sort of way.” Gentry lounged back, arm across the top rung of his chair. “They say that she has fascinating ways in bed, too.”

  “Calli?” Marrec stiffened, grabbed the wooden handle of his mug and downed a gulp, the rawness of the brew lay on his tongue.

  Zhardon chuckled, drank, too. “All the Exotiques. Beautifully strange or strangely beautiful. That Circlet…” He shook his head. “Hair with colors of deep fire.”

  The pretty lady who was now watching over Marrec’s child, whose eyes had gone soft with pleasure at the thought of being a parentie to his daughter.

  “Is it true?” Gentry’s smile sharpened.

  Almost, Marrec wished that he’d taken Jaquar up on his offer. And why was he now wanting to be bored out of his skull with the Circlet and his sorcerous colleague? No, that wasn’t where he wanted to be either. Home, with Calli and Diaminta. Simply, home.

  He looked at these faces around the table, men he’d spent hours with, men who’d mirrored his own station and beliefs…once. “A woman’s a woman.”

  “’Cept you’re bonded with this one. Just think, loving every night.” Zhardon sighed, saw his new mug of ale and his expression lightened.

  “A plum estate,” Gentry said.

  “Zhiv,” Luc said at the same time. He riffled the grimy deck of cards with his thumbnail. “Care to play?”

  “No, thanks,” Marrec said. “I was lucky Calli chose me.”

  “Very true, and a good thing you bonded with her,” Gentry said, gesturing Luc to deal.

  A note in his voice sent Marrec on alert. “Ayes?”

  Luc finished laying out the cards. “Heard you planned on taking four-day rotation, lucky bastard to be able to do that, I’m on two.” He fanned his cards. “We all are, to make more zhiv. But you’re leaving your lady at camp.” He shook his head, at the cards or Marrec’s foolishness.

  “Some of my zhiv will have to go to a better tent,” Gentry grumbled, his gaze flashed up to Marrec. “So I can entertain. Camp’s good that way, keeping the women on-site. They get bored, too.”

  Looking up from his cards, Zhardon met Marrec’s eyes with a warning in his. “Saw that Raoul guy, that local Chevalier who didn’t never come to the Castle and fly with us, move in on your lady, better watch out for that.”

  Marrec stood, put a few coins on the table. “I’ll leave you to your game.”

  “Ayes, strut right out of here the way you came, my lord noble rich landowner. Don’t think we’ll be seeing much of you again,” Luc said. He didn’t even look up from his hand.

  He didn’t sleep well. The bed was lumpy and had a funny scent, though no fleas or lice or bedbugs. The sign outside the inn creaked in rising wind. Sometime in the early morning a light rain came—with frinks. The sound of the metallic worms skittering against the roof made Marrec’s hair rise. He’d gotten accustomed to living in areas where no frinks sent by the Dark fell with the rain. If any Exotique had visited Troque, none of them had been near this section.

  His mind nagged at what the Chevaliers had implied about Calli and other men and jealousy gnawed. But nothing had changed. Calli and he were bonded. She wouldn’t, couldn’t betray him with another man. Could she?

  But she wouldn’t be disloyal. No. One of the qualities that rose from every Exotique like perfume from their skin was their absolute loyalty.

  That was the knot between Calli and himself, her loyalty to Lladrana, his loyalty to their child and their home.

  Finally he dozed near dawn and didn’t wake until bright sunlight bore in through the window. He swore. He’d wanted to be gone by now. No doubt Jaquar had left at dawn as they’d agreed.

  After a tasteless but filling meal, he paid his shot and walked toward the stables, looking around the courtyard one last time. He wouldn’t stay here again. Or at the inn where he’d met Zhardon, Luc and Gentry. He could afford better.

  He grunted and stretched. Good morning, Dark Lance.

  The volaran shifted in his stall. Good morning, Marrec. We are late. I should have awakened you earlier.

  Probably.

  But you needed the sleep. Been an eventful week. His tone dropped to a lower note. The volaran, of course, disapproved of Marrec’s decision.

  Your feed was good? He’d paid for the best the inn could offer. Dark Lance deserved better.

  The volaran snorted. Adequate. I am the only volaran here. All the rest are horses. You must find better lodgings next time.

  Marrec gritted his teeth. Understood. We’ll leave as soon as possible.

  Perhaps.

  I didn’t think you wanted to stay here any longer. Outside the stables, warm, volaran-scented air wafted to him, comfortingly usual, so he allowed himself to consider that last ego-pricking remark of Luc’s. Had he been filled with hubris at becoming a landowner, strutting around as accused? He winced.

  “P-p-please, L-l-lord G-g-g-gard-d-p-p-p-pont,” a whispery, young voice said.

  Marrec was so stunned by the title applied to him, and not sarcastically, that he stopped before entering the stables. A small, thin boy of about eight dressed in worn clothes too big for him watched tensely from the dimness inside. He’d placed himself so that there were several avenues of escape. Marrec stopped the impatient words he was ready to snap because his brooding had been disturbed.

  “Yes?”

  The boy swallowed, licked his lips, said something so fast and brokenly that Marrec didn’t understand. “Can you repeat that?”

  “I-I-I h-heard you and the Ex-exot-exotique w-w-were l-l-l-looking f-for ch-children t-t-to ad-d-d-dopt. T-t-take m-m-me!” He shut his mouth, looking deeply disappointed at himself. Pitiful. His body trembled. He clenched his fists and stood straight as if to deny the shivers of fright or excitement.

  Marrec stared. This had probably cost the boy all his courage, guts Marrec could only admire. There was something about the aspect of the boy…“Come out in the light so I can see you.”

  “I-I-I m-m-must d-d-d-d—”

  “Spit it out, lad!”

  “D-d-duties!”

  Marrec nodded, stepped inside and glanced around the stable. It was painstakingly clean. The horses looked well cared for. “I’ll help you with whatever needs to be done.”

  The boy’s mouth fell open and he stared.

  Marrec raised a hand to draw the boy out into the sunlit courtyard and the child flinched. A low burn began in Marrec’s belly. The situation of this boy, alone when everyone else was eating, no doubt living in an empty stall when there was one available, echoed Marrec’s own memories. But Marrec thought that he, himself, might have had it better than this youngster.

  With his hand open and flat, Marrec walked out to the courtyard, gestured to the boy for him to come. Phrasing questions to keep the boy’s responses short to avoid his terrible stutter would be a challenge. Marrec inclined his head, touched fingers to his heart. “I promise to help you. There’s a bench right here, in the warm sunlight. Come on out.” Marrec sat and waited.

  The youngster’s face set in lines of resigned despair. He sidled to the edge of the threshold, standing in the sunlight, but still looked as if he might bolt. Across the yard and into the inn or into the town. Back into the stables to a hidey-hole Marrec was sure the boy had, or scrambling up a ladder to the loft.

  Again Marrec stared. The lad’s skin was paler than a true Lladranan. His face was shaped more like northeastern Lladranans, more like the folk that Marrec grew up with than the people here in central Lladrana. Something else was different. He had dark hair, but not quite the black of a Lladranan. More like a dark brown. His eyes were a lighter brown, too.

  “What are you?” Marrec said, and grimaced at the rudeness.

  The boy swallowed, as if he’d heard such a question all too often in his brief life. He
curved in on himself, ducking his head and hunching his shoulders as if he expected a blow—or more than one, a beating.

  “I-I-I’m a b-b-bastard. M-m-mother was f-f-from S-s-sill Est-t-tate, c-c-came h-here t-t-to w-work, s-s-said s-s-sire f-f-from B-b-biod-d-dono.”

  Biodono was one of the City States to the east of Lladrana. It was easy to understand what had happened. A merchant guest visiting the inn lay with a woman, got her pregnant, then returned to his home, unknowing or uncaring that he’d left a child.

  Lladranans weren’t often kind to children of mixed blood. Not even Exotique children—unless the blood was noble and several generations had passed to make the family acceptable.

  “Where are your parents?”

  “M-m-mother’s d-d-dead. F-f-f—”

  “Wait.” Marrec raised a hand to halt him. “Why don’t you nod or shake your head.”

  Looking sad, again as if this was an all too common request, the child nodded.

  Best get the brutal questions done first. “Did you ever know your father?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Do you know his name, station or direction?”

  A hunch of the shoulder and a shake of the head.

  “Your mother never told you anything?”

  His mouth twisted. “S-s-she l-left a p-p-paper.”

  Marrec sighed. “What kind of paper…wait, an official paper?”

  A head shake. “F-f-father’s n-name and c-city.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “J-j-jet-t-t-y-yer D-d-d-e-s-s-sill-p-p.”

  “Jetyer Desillp.”

  Jetyer nodded.

  Desillp must have been the name his mother had used, coming from the Sill Estate where she’d been a peasant. At least Marrec had the name of his town. His lost town. “And you’d rather be Jetyer Gardpont?” Marrec asked softly.

  A strong nod now.

  “I see.” A couple of moments passed as he gazed at the boy, his lighter skin, hair and eyes. A notion bloomed inside Marrec. This is what a child born of himself and Calli might look like. Maybe. His heart clenched. Here was a youngster who could be a son.

  A boy with the guts to approach a complete stranger with a huge request. A request, not a plea. A boy with the determination to get ahead in life. A boy quick enough to dodge the odd blow, smart enough to have escape routes and hidey-holes.

  And perhaps Marrec was doing too much looking and not enough anything else. “Can you take my hand, please, to see how our Songs merge? I promise I won’t hurt you.”

  30

  Fear and hope warred in Jetyer’s eyes. Marrec vowed that he’d see the boy well set whatever happened.

  Jetyer threw back his shoulders, stepped out of the stables and into the bright light. His hair showed an even lighter reddish tint. He had a few little spots of brown on his nose and cheeks. Squinting, Marrec saw that there were even a few hairs of silver at each temple. From what he knew of the City States, their Power wasn’t so openly shown on their head as in Lladrana. The strength of the boy’s Power wouldn’t be obvious.

  Once again Marrec held out his hand, leaned out on the bench until he was slightly off balance and no threat to the boy. Jetyer set his grubby fingers in Marrec’s palm. At his touch, Marrec closed his eyes and listened to the youngster’s Song.

  It was subtle, as if tightly reined in. Jetyer’s shields—mental and emotional—were strong enough that Marrec would alert and hurt the child if he pushed past them. Shields Marrec was all too familiar with himself. Had he been closing himself off from Calli, trying to ignore the too-intimate Pairbond? Maybe, but this wasn’t the time to think of that.

  He sank into himself, stretched with his own Power to hear the beat and tune of Jetyer’s Song. The melody lilted, deeper, darker than Marrec expected, and more complex. The clipping rhythm of horses wound in, the soul-yearning to experience wingbeats—volarans. Marrec smiled. It was a rare Lladranan child that didn’t want to fly. But this was more, almost a need to fly, and that Marrec recognized as being much like himself, like Calli, like all the best Chevaliers.

  Marrec listened and heard a faint lilting twist, the Song of the blood. Foreign blood. Calli had some counterpoints in her Song. Could Jetyer’s fit with hers? With theirs?

  The boy started to slide his fingers away. Marrec squeezed with his thumb. “One moment, please,” he murmured. “Try to relax.”

  “W-we’r-re b-being w-w-w-watched!”

  No doubt they looked strange, but any person with Power would realize what was going on—Marrec gauging a boy’s Song. Still…Dark Lance, here! That should give busybodies something to think about.

  I heard you! A high-toned, nonstuttering mental exclamation from Jetyer!

  Good. Try to relax.

  But the child couldn’t. Dark Lance had exited the volaran stall and stable and come to stand near them. Jetyer’s pulse skittered, his Song pulsed with awe, excitement, shattered into individual strident notes. Marrec released the youngster’s fingers, observing Dark Lance lowering his head to a frozen Jetyer and whuffling his hair. They’d drawn a small crowd in the courtyard, which would increase when word got round that a volaran was there to be admired.

  Dark Lance stretched out a wing and there were “oohs.” The volaran smirked.

  Marrec sighed. He should have gone somewhere more upscale, more used to Chevalier and volarans—and nobles. He didn’t have to watch his coins now, and he—and Jetyer—could have done without all the attention.

  But since Dark Lance was here, checking out the boy, Marrec might as well consider the volaran’s opinion. He looked into one large, dark eye. What do you think of the boy as an addition to our family? He really wasn’t ready for more children, didn’t think it wise, but he couldn’t reject Jetyer, especially if the child’s Song matched well with Calli’s.

  Dark Lance seemed to hear that last bit of Marrec’s thought. The boy would be good with Calli. Please her. You need to please her more.

  Marrec grunted, watched Jetyer raise a tentative hand to stroke Dark Lance’s nose. The kid had guts and smarts and determination—and a well of more Power than Marrec would have thought. Like Marrec himself, the youngster could develop more, and perhaps his silver marks would widen. A lot about this boy reminded Marrec of himself. And would that mean that Calli would love the child? How much did she really “love” Marrec, and how much of her feeling of him was because of the Pairbond? His jaw clenched. Distracted again by thoughts of his Pairling.

  Looking around the courtyard, Marrec started to rise, to lead Jetyer someplace private where they could discuss the matter further, when he saw one of the tavern wenches wiping her hands on her stained apron and watching him with an eagle-eyed stare.

  That made him think of something else. Sinafinal, Tuckerinal! he called with his mind, wondering if either being would answer him, where they might be—at the Castle, the Circlet Island Alf, or the camp….

  We are here. The phrase echoed in his mind. Two hawks circled around the inn yard then settled on Dark Lance’s back. The volaran sidestepped and grumbled.

  With a half bow of his torso, Marrec mentally sent, Salutations, feycoocus. This child has asked to become a son to Calli and me. Should I accept him?

  Sinafinal lifted a foot and used her beak to clean her claws. Why do you ask us a question you already know the answer to? But Tuckerinal flew down to land at the boy’s feet and circle him, walking under Dark Lance’s belly, causing another rumble of irritation from the volaran.

  Jetyer had gone pale, eyeing the birds warily. Turning to meet Marrec’s eyes, he said. “Wh-what are th-they?”

  Feycoocus, Marrec replied in a loud mental voice.

  The youngster jumped.

  He will do well, Tuckerinal said.

  He has acceptable Power for the child of an Exotique. You will teach him and raise him right.

  I suppose, Marrec said.

  Dark Lance snorted.

  Turning her head to pin him with a narrowed gaze, S
inafinal said, You will raise him to be a fine man. Was that a prophecy? Or an order?

  He didn’t much like the latter, but these were magical beings and he’d called them. Thank you.

  Sinafinal swept a look around the yard, stepped close to Tuckerinal when he flew from the ground to alight beside her. Dark Lance’s back rippled. We will stay to witness the adoption.

  By the Song, Marrec wasn’t quite ready to move so quickly. Too late now. He gestured Jetyer to stand in front of him.

  Lips pressed together, but with a long, sure stride, the boy did so.

  Keeping his voice low, Marrec said, “The most important thing a son of mine must do is love his mother, Callista Mae Torcher Gardpont, the Volaran Exotique. Can you do that?” He hoped to the Song that this child wasn’t one of those unfortunates that instinctively loathed Exotiques. Surely Dark Lance and the feycoocus wouldn’t have approved the boy if he had been.

  The child’s breathing went ragged, he blinked rapidly and his lips trembled. “Ay-y-yes.”

  Marrec considered him, the rising Song. “We’ll have to consult the medicas about your stammer.”

  Jetyer flinched.

  The adoption, prompted Sinafinal.

  After a deep breath, Marrec projected his voice. “It is my intention to adopt this boy, Jetyer Desillp as the son of myself, Marrec Gardpont and my wife, Callista Mae Torcher Gardpont. To show my good faith and assure you all, I will seal my oath with blood.” He took out his new knife and made a slight cut in a vein of his right arm, flicked a few drops on the cobblestones near his feet where they dried quickly and remained bright red.

  “Do you agree to be our son, to take the name Jetyer Gardpont?” he asked Jetyer.

  “I ag-g-g-gree!”

  Jetyer’s eyes were wide, the rim of iris looking lighter than ever.

  Marrec said, “I am willing to participate in a surface bloodbond with Jetyer, to bind him to myself and my Pairling, my Shield.” With a touch of his mind, he searched for Calli, found her with Alexa in their tent. Good enough.