by Ulff Lehmann
From behind the door the other one hissed something Jesgar did not understand.
“I need to take a piss, hurry up, will ya?”
The portal opened and the other’s head poked out. “I got some dried apples, mate, let’s go!” Lord Duasonh certainly wouldn’t mind a few filched apples, Jesgar thought as he watched the pair close the door and head right.
The pantry!
When they were gone, he headed for the door. It indeed was the pantry, although he didn’t remember this entrance; no wonder, really, considering how big the room was. It had awed him the first time he’d been here. So much space would have housed a big family. The only thing he now needed was the door to the kitchen. Finding his way from there was much easier.
It was dawn when he finally entered the Baron’s study. The guards had certainly improved without Jathain’s misguiding hand, and it had taken him until now to get up the stairs. Now, as he eased open the door, Jesgar discovered the room was occupied.
She sat in the Baron’s chair, feet propped up on the bare desktop. Her face was still hidden in the shadows, and it remained thus as she straightened to greet him.
“Took you long enough, boyo,” she whispered. He entered, feeling more humbled than ever before. The door shut behind him, and she spoke on, addressing someone else. “There’s more work to be done, milord. I apologize for his clumsiness.”
He felt his eyes widen as he stared at her. Then, slowly, he turned and found Baron Duasonh standing behind him. Astonished, he almost forgot to bow, thankfully his instinct took over and he greeted his ruler as was proper. “My lord.”
“Easy, son.” To the woman thief the Baron said, “At least he didn’t raise any alarm.”
“Aye, he did not do that.”
“Can he do it?” the Baron asked. He felt like hiding somewhere dark as Duasonh regarded him. “Can you do it?”
Jesgar looked at the thief. The sun had barely banished the gloom of predawn, but the light was enough to illuminate her face. Had the scar around her neck not marred her, she would have been perfect. Still, even with the scrunched-up skin, burned and maimed by the hangman’s noose, she was striking. No wonder her voice was hoarse all the time. How she had survived the hanging was something he would have to ask her later. For now, he could just stare.
She showed no shame, no embarrassment, didn’t even move to hide the scar. “Well?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“Uh. What?”
The Baron smacked his head. “Stop playing dumb, son!”
“I need to learn more.”
Her smile put the sun to shame, lighting up the room. “No sleep for you, not much anyway. Unless you can sleep on your feet, that is.”
Jesgar groaned. This winter would indeed be long.
CHAPTER 25
Despite Sir Úistan’s assurance that everything was all right, Drangar knew it was time to leave Cahill Manor. He could feel the suspicious stares from people who had, until Ondalan, liked him. The whispers had spread quickly through the household, and even Neena seemed afraid of him, though she put on a brave face. She had argued his case to her father, despite him asking her not to, but the conversation had lasted merely as long as it had taken for Drangar to realize that nothing here was his to pack.
All through this Gwen had stayed with him. Why she stood by him, he didn’t understand, but was glad for her presence all the same. Aside from Kildanor, she was the only person among the returnees who had no prejudice against him. He didn’t comprehend her reasons, or the Chosen’s for that matter, had he been in their place he probably would have kept a safe distance as well.
The nightmares had returned. They were different now. Scenes from Ondalan mixed with those of Little Creek and Cherkont Street. One night he had roused the entire camp with his screams. To his surprise they had abated after Gwen had sat down next to him. She had said she would make sure the dreams were kept at bay. They had been, but now she looked weary, and he wanted to tell her it wasn’t her duty to ensure that he slept well. He had broached the subject a day ago, only to have her scowl, and then smile at him and tell him what she did was none of his concern. That smile of hers could have started wars, and ended them, and he found himself unable to fight her determination.
The slush on Trade Road wasn’t bad; he imagined there were other, worse places where the hard-packed dirt turned into so much mud. Was Cherkont Street paved? He couldn’t remember. For now, the two of them led their horses by the reins, silent. Drangar had known little of small talk to begin with, even before Hesmera, and he didn’t want to burden Gwen with his troubles. She accepted his silence.
The glances they traded roused something inside him he had considered dead and gone for more than two years now. Was it love? He sure couldn’t tell. “It’s nicer in summer,” he said, feeling foolish. Her smile stopped him from saying more. Was this for real? Could she really like him for himself, and not consider what he had done?
When they entered Beggar’s Alley, Gwen broke the quiet. “Tell me about her.”
Stiffening, he stopped, looked at her and saw only interest in her eyes. “She died. I killed her.”
Eyebrows knit together, she said, “I wanted to know who she was, not how and why she died.”
He stood there searching her face for any hint of pity, and saw none. What was there to tell? He had tried so long and hard to forget the past, and the only thing he had managed to put aside was the person, not what he had seen when waking from the stupor. Little things, like the twinkle of her eyes, were always overshadowed by the image of her remains lying on the floor like puzzle pieces scattered by an angry child. “I…” he began, and then swallowed the lump building in his throat. How could he describe her?
Gwen’s look hadn’t changed; her brows were still knitted as if in deep thought, now her lips pursed. So unlike Hesmera. She had always been so… “Carefree,” he said. “Lived each day to its fullest. Fought that way also. Cunning, clever, even vicious at times. Strong anchor in a shield wall; I was never much of a team player. She could have been a leader; she never told me why she preferred the ranks, but I guess she enjoyed making fools out of the warleaders far too much to give that up and become a figure of ridicule herself. Flowers, not the tamed kind people have in gardens, no, she liked them wild, just as she was. But I think there was a part of her that wanted to be a lady. I didn’t even know she was a friend to Neena and Leonore. Of course she was no courtier material; when she was angry she cursed like the worst lout you can imagine.” He paused, looked down to his free arm, and saw Gwen’s hand on his elbow.
“Come,” she said, “Let’s visit her.” Then, “Best you lead, since I’d likely end up in a tavern or worse.” Her apologetic grin was infectious, and he couldn’t help but smile back. “There, that wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”
She was right. He felt lighter, somehow. Not like what he had felt when seeing her grave. No, this was different. As if the sun had finally broken the cloud cover and shone onto the wet grass. “All right,” Drangar said, and they turned back the way they had just come.
Despite the cold, the cemetery was busy. It appeared as if Dunthiochagh’s nobility had also lost some members. Or maybe it was just one House honoring a singular death. He couldn’t tell. Leaving the horses tied to one of the poles at the front, they passed the gate and some of the mourners, thankfully ignored by the peacocks milling about the yard in front of the small chapel. Most of them, like everywhere else, were…
“Pretentious buggers,” Gwen interrupted, completing his thought. “And take that hood off, you aren’t disfigured. Why hide your face?”
He looked at her as he pulled the cloth back. The cold was tolerable, and a slight breeze tickled what little hair had already grown back. His face must have displayed his surprise and wonder, for Gwen smiled at him. “If a ship’s done for, you sink it. If it’s still serviceable, you fix it.”
“Um” was the only thing he could think of.
“Don’t worry
about what they think,” she said, poking a thumb at the people dressed in mourning white. “As for me, if I were disgusted by the state of your scalp, don’t you think I would have told you by now?” Gwen had her hand in the crook of his arm, her grip light yet firm. She squeezed, his concern lessened. “Men,” he heard her hiss “can be so godsdamned dense!” He regarded her, speechless. What was happening here? “So, are you gonna take us to her or should I fetch some shovel and dirt so you can grow roots?”
Her cockiness made him feel elated and foolish at the same time. Even with Hesmera he hadn’t felt like this.
They walked on.
Reaching the mound, Gwen held him back as she regarded the snow-covered hill and sarcophagus. “Damn,” she said.
“House Cahill had that built,” he explained, the shame of having fled rising once more.
It must have reflected in his voice, for Gwen pulled him to face her, and said, “Who wouldn’t have?”
“What?” Drangar asked dumbly, not quite understanding what she was talking about.
“Who would have stayed? Oh, don’t look at me like that. Her death was talked about, and Sir Úistan’s retainers heard more than most, what with her being friend to the two ladies. They also spoke about your confession, how you told them you don’t remember anything.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but she put a gloved hand to his lips. “Shhh, I talk, you listen, all right?” He could only nod. “You’re cute when you have that look,” she said, grinning. Then, more seriously, she continued. “What would anyone in your situation have done? I pieced it together from the bits Lord Cahill’s men told me, and waking up without knowing what one did and seeing this horrible picture, who wouldn’t have run? That’s something everyone can relate to. When I broke my ma’s favorite vase I hid as well.”
He wanted to say that breaking a piece of pottery and chopping a person to thumb sized bits were two completely different things, but she pressed her hand even stronger to his mouth, as if she knew he was going to argue. “I talk, remember?” she said, her voice now stern. “What you did was natural, running that is. Forgive yourself; I’m sure she has.”
Her glove smelled of horse and a touch of lavender. Drangar waited, expected her to say more, and the more moments passed, the stronger he felt the truth in her words. “Why do you do this?” he finally managed to say.
She gave him a look of pure astonishment. Then the mischievous twinkle returned to her eyes. “Because somebody has to,” she said. He felt she wanted to say more, but was somewhat relieved when she remained silent. His gaze was transfixed, caught by her blue eyes that wouldn’t leave him. “And because I like you,” she finally whispered.
How much he had longed for her to speak those words, Drangar realized when his breath caught in his throat. He wanted to reply, tell her the same kind words, but how could she love him when he was nothing but turmoil and bloodshed?
His concern must have shown, for she frowned, the radiance gone from her eyes. “You don’t get it, do you?”
Crestfallen, his mind awash in a mix of feelings, Drangar looked at her, terrified she would turn from him, and afraid to stand alone. He needed her. How and why, those were things he couldn’t explain, didn’t want to explain. He looked at Gwen, saw her anguish—was that a vague hint of rejection?—and took her hands into his. “I… please…” It seemed her eyes were pleading along with his words, as if she urged him to open up. “How…”
She yanked her right from his left and delivered a stinging blow to his cheek. “Gods, you are so fucked up it’s a wonder you manage to dress yourself in the morning. You swore her you’d avenge her.” She pointed at the mound. “Yet you crawl back into your uncertainty whenever some shit or other happens!”
He couldn’t hold back any longer. “I tore your countrymen apart! These hands were buried in a woman’s belly, gripping her spine and ripping her in two!”
Her look was unchanged, maybe even a little more resolved. “Was that you? Because, frankly, I cannot imagine that the man standing here before me would do any of these things.” A triumphant smirk lit up her face as he struggled for a reply.
“Well?” Gwen said. She was right, and knew it; Drangar bowed his head in defeat. “I did not spend my nights by your side to see you bumble around. So those responsible are not in your sight right now. Who gives a shit? If faced with no wind, you get the godsdamned oars out and row. Understand?” Fury was plain on her face. “I have seen your looks—well, everyone has seen them—so just say it. You already know I like you. And I am old enough to make my own choices, so bugger the rest of them if they think I’m crazy. I like you, you idiot!”
“I like you, too,” he blurted out before any other thought had formed. The doubts and worries were drowned in feelings of happiness enveloping him.
“There,” Gwen said, triumphantly. “That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”
Now they were holding hands, and he looked into eyes full of conviction and hope. “No.”
Her smile broadened. “Tell me of her.”
The dusk-gong rang across Dunthiochagh as they left the cemetery. Their cloaks had stopped keeping the cold at bay a long time ago, so Drangar had suggested they retire to some tavern. Gwen had refused, saying he needed to get this memory out in the open next to Hesmera’s grave. She had been right, and he was glad they had stayed. Now, though, he yearned for a steaming mug of tea and a roaring fire to drive the chill from his bones. Gwen simply nodded at his stammered suggestion; she was too busy keeping her teeth from shattering each other. He looked at her, envied how robust this young woman truly was, and tried to smile. The pain stopped him from trying too hard.
A nearby tavern, a place too shabby for this noble neighborhood, really, drew them in. Once inside he understood why this business had survived in the noble’s district, although for the moment it hardly mattered. They hunkered down on a pillowed bench near the fire, and for a long while they remained silent, unmoving, their feet propped up on the fireplace’s lip. Someone came, asked a question neither he nor Gwen heard. A blanket was put around their shoulders.
When a lass fed more logs to the flame, he realized how close together the two of them sat. Had they started out this way? He couldn’t recall. Now her head lay on his shoulder, one hand draped on his lap. Her breathing was even, relaxed, she was so calm he dared not move, afraid to wake her. Inside his boots he wiggled his toes; thankfully the cold had done no harm other than freeze them half to death.
“Think the publican will mind if I get out of these boots?” Gwen asked, surprising him. She hadn’t been asleep after all. “My feet are killing me.”
He turned his head, scanning the taproom. There were a few guests with socked feet propped on their tables. By the look of them, he guessed they were nobles who used this place to escape the tediousness of home. Now that his senses were once more alert, he realized that the shoddy exterior was just a smokescreen. The interior could have served as an example of how a well lived in and loved home should look like. In a way it spoke of comfort without being either loud or oppressive. The oak furniture, its wide chairs sporting comfortable pillows on everything but the armrests, was almost black with patina, aged and maintained so well that it shone like polished obsidian. Even the bar, which certainly had seen years if not decades of use, kept up the appearance. This wasn’t the Tankard, although from the notches in some of the tables he could tell that the place had seen its share of brawls. “No,” he finally said, as Gwen wriggled around in an attempt to snuggle closer. “They won’t mind.”
“Good,” she said and let go of him. As she bent forward to untie her boots, he noticed her absence immediately. It felt strange, being attracted to Gwen; it was unlike anything he had ever felt before. No, he told himself, not unlike anything he had felt before. But she couldn’t and didn’t want to be compared to Hesmera. Yet, whereas his mind had always been in turmoil, even when Hesmera was alive, he felt at peace now.
“Gods, this is glorious,” sh
e said and looked at him. “What are you smiling about like a mooncalf?”
“This,” Drangar said. “You.”
“You hardly know me,” she replied, though he could tell by the tone of her voice she was holding back. Could it really be love? Could love really be that simple? “But, aye, I feel the same. Dunno what I looked like, snuggled against you, but I guess my smile was as wide as yours.”
He was about to caress her hair when he saw his gloves still bore the bloodstains of Ondalan. No, he thought grimly, pulling them off and tossing them into the fire, he would not sully this moment by running bloodied gloves through her hair.
Gwen must have caught what he was doing and chuckled. “Hair’s already red, aye?” She tried to maintain an air of seriousness as he gaped at her, struggling with his own mirth.
“Are you for real?” Drangar asked. She grimaced, and then pinched him. “Guess so,” he said, still feeling young and more foolish than he ever had before.
“I’m sorry, milady,” a voice interrupted.
They both turned to the publican. “Aye?” Gwen asked.
“Please be so kind and put on a pair of fresh socks.” Drangar saw she was about to snap a reply, when the middle-aged man added, “We’ll provide them for you and your companion. They’ve been washed, handmade by my wife.”
“Certainly,” Gwen said.
“Companion, eh?” Drangar said when the man had left. Did he look like someone’s companion?
Gwen giggled. “Better than slave, I’d say.”
“Aye. What about…” The publican’s return silenced him. Drangar removed his boots and socks and wiggled his toes once more. Satisfied that they were all unharmed, he was about to pull on the socks when he realized just how long they had been on the road. The smell was unbearable and he tossed his socks after the gloves, taking Gwen’s off her and sent them burning as well. “Better wash them now,” he hissed, “before they kick us out.” He waved over the serving girl. “Is there some place we can wash our feet?” he asked when the lass stood near them, wrinkling her nose.
