by Brian Fuller
“Did the Chalaine manage to send any personal correspondence?”
“Alas, no. I think she realizes that no correspondence between us will be personal. Athan would read every word. Soon we shall see her. At least we are spared a month-long trek across the Shroud Lake shard. I don’t think I could bear to pass that miserable copse of trees where I sincerely thought I would freeze or starve to death. As it is, we can leave comfortably in a few weeks.”
Mirelle put the letter down and returned to her roast pork and strawberries. Gen admired her. Surely the world held no other woman like her. Just as with the Chalaine during their journey through the canyon, the days of close association with the First Mother had instilled a comfortable enjoyment, trust, and happiness with her that he now identified as the best parts of love. She and her daughter shared some traits, but in many ways differed from each other to such a degree that Gen wondered how he could love them both.
Mirelle met his eye, and a smile bloomed on her face that set his heart to pounding. “Cadaen, please go ask the door warden if Torbrand has arrived,” she commanded. He complied, and moments later she sent the servant away. Once they were alone, she leaned forward and kissed Gen lightly. “I have waited a long time to see that look on your face.”
Gen swallowed as she stared at him invitingly. Since his comment about pulling back her hair making her look severe, she always wore it down. A breeze teased it about her face as they sat together.
“I wasn’t aware I was making any sort of look,” Gen responded.
“I know. That’s the best part.” She kissed him again with more fervor. Gen’s mind spun. How could a woman who has never had a suitor do this so well? he thought after the capability to think grudgingly returned.
“Gen, I know you love the Chalaine, but she is a married woman. I am not. While you may not love me in the same way or to the same degree, I think those feelings live inside you, though you have never said it. My feelings for you I have made abundantly plain in word and deed. Pledge yourself to me, and I promise you will not regret it. Whether Mikkik or Eldaloth rules at the end of the summer, if I am yours you will never lack for love, or companionship, or pleasure.
“Some time before we march, Gerand and Mena will wed after the Tolnorian fashion within these walls. I will invite a single Pureman here to perform the ritual. He can do the same for us, in secret, with only Ethris as witness. When the drama of the Apocraphon has run its course for good or ill, you and I can announce our love to the world.”
Gen opened his mouth to speak, emotions and thoughts a tumult, but Mirelle put a finger to his lips and shushed him. “Think first, Gen, about what I have said. Sort your feelings out and then do what you think is best. Whatever you decide, I will always love you and be as close to you as you will let me be.” Gen smiled and rubbed a strand of her hair between his fingers. “Think first, Gen,” she admonished. “I know I can be a bit heavy-handed with my flirtations. Make sure you know where your heart and your head are. I know how difficult that can be.”
“First Mother,” Cadaen announced himself, startling them both. “Torbrand has arrived.”
When did Cadaen become so stealthy? Gen wondered.
Mirelle held Gen’s eyes a moment longer. “Excellent. Please bring him here and have the servants send up some refreshment for him.”
“The news is not all good,” Torbrand informed them, travel stained but chipper. “I’m afraid that Chertanne, by which I mean Athan, has increased the number of Aughmerian troops in Tolnor above what I had left there since you announced your split from the Fidelium. Apparently Chertanne—or rather Athan—is keen not to have another defection on his hands.”
“And no sign of King Filingrail?”
“I contacted Lord Kildan as you suggested. As you can imagine, he has no kind feelings for me. Even after I firmly . . . suggested . . . his servant deliver your letter explaining the situation, Duke Kildan refused to see me until the Church issued its revision of the events surrounding the death of the Ilch.”
“We just heard of it today,” Mirelle told him.
“It hit Tolnor two weeks ago. After that, his Lordship tracked me down, and we met in secret. He flat out refused to give up Filingrail’s hiding place, stating it was a matter of that detestable Tolnorian honor. Given the disposition of Aughmerian troops, he also felt an uprising would do more harm than good.”
“You said the news was not all good. It appears there is no good at all,” Mirelle commented.
“To the good part, then,” said Torbrand. “While Duke Kildan has not staged an uprising, he did manage to leave the country with around five hundred of his best soldiers and his Duchess, Missa. There was a tiny bit of bloodshed to which I was able to render my service.”
“Where did they go?” Mirelle asked, astonished.
“That’s the good news. To Rhugoth! They crossed into Tenswater but had to leave quickly before the Church got wind of what we were doing. We convinced the Portal Mage in Tolnor that we were on our way to Aughmere, and the then told the Portal Mage in Tenswater that the troops were Rhugothian. Word of your excommunication hadn’t circulated too widely yet, so we slipped them through before the Church isolated your little shard cluster here.”
Mirelle grinned. “Excellent. I wish to see Lord Kildan as soon as it can be arranged. We have some planning to do.”
Torbrand leaned back and folded his arms. “I thought you might, and he will arrive in a few days. We need to have some arrangement for quartering his men, and you might be receiving some complaints from various of your subjects, both low and high, upon whom I have called for aid or otherwise inconvenienced . . . or offended.”
“Very well. Will you take some refreshment?”
“No. I would like to see Mena.”
“She is likely wandering the grounds somewhere with her husband.”
“Then I shall look for them. I have some instructions to pass onto him concerning how my daughter is to be treated. Good day.”
Mirelle though for a moment. “What do you make of Lord Kildan’s move, Gen?”
“Chertanne, by which I mean Athan, will turn purple with fury. All the good generals outside of Aughmere—Torbrand, Torunne, Kildan, and Harband—are now on your side of the fence.”
“And let’s not forget to put you on the list,” Mirelle said. “But what motivated Lord Kildan to act as he did?”
“Honor is the key. I can only guess, but the only way Duke Kildan could stomach Aughmerian occupation was by believing he would, in the end, serve the prophecy through complying with the commands of the Ha’Ulrich. Your dispatch no doubt opened his eyes to Athan’s duplicitous—and thus dishonorable—machinations. For him, your cause is the only purely honorable one left.”
She wiped her mouth and stood. “An interesting assessment. I am quite pleased he has come, whatever the reason.”
Gen, High Protector of Rhugoth, sat alone in the library. Two weeks had passed since Torbrand’s return, and the time had come at last to march. The Church had sent detailed instructions about where and when the armies of Rhugoth would be permitted to cross into Tenswater and through the Portal—long after the main bodies of Tolnorians and Aughmerians. They had a week long march around the Kingsblood Lake ahead of them, and the steady stream of arrangements and details and complaints had kept a good night’s sleep just out of reach for the better part of the week. The title of Lord Protector held a heavy price, and Gen wondered where Regent Ogbith had ever found the time to go for a drink at the Quickblade Inn.
Luckily, he learned to rely on the experience of Telmerran. Lesson one was to delegate everything possible. Lesson two, the people you delegate to will most likely do it wrong. Lesson three, when they do mess up, get angry but be sure not to dismiss your best people over trivial matters. As for squabbling and complaints, a good leader must know that there is rarely a satisfactory answer for a whining soldier, so find a way to reward all complaints with extra work for the aggrieved. So far, it had worked
fairly well, though he admitted that much of his success he could attribute to his mystique and the general knowledge that Mirelle favored him excessively.
An hour before Gerand’s wedding, Gen had escaped all his duties and fled to the confines of the library, hoping to find some way to settle his mind and come up with a response to Mirelle’s proposal. His love for the Chalaine filled every thought of acceptance with guilt; his love for Mirelle and his general awe of her intelligence and beauty made every argument to decline seem idiotic. All the broken pieces of shattered arguments bobbed and floated on a confused sea of emotion and reason.
I am the Ilch. The Chalaine is married. There is a war brewing. I love the Chalaine. I love Mirelle. We might all be dead in a month. I don’t deserve either one. They would be happier with someone else. I would be miserable without them.
Nothing stuck. One thought could not claw its way to preeminence over the others. Mirelle, politely, had not pressed him further for an answer, though she certainly had not retired her affectionate attentions from him. While he knew she did this out of love and a need for companionship, he doubted she realized how addicted he had become to stolen kisses and warm embraces. The need for them ran through him like a sickly sweet drink that he hadn’t quite identified as a poison or an elixir. Perhaps it was both, but he knew the difference between love of the heart and pleasures of passion, and he would not let the pleasures have a voice in his decision.
Frustrated, he went in search of a book that held a poem that had teased his memory all day with the ending stanza. At length he found it in a collection of writings preserved from the Second Mikkikian War, author unknown.
A black tower rises into the night,
And there sit I, gazing down on your dance,
The torches, like flowers of flickering light,
Unveil to my mind the tombs of the past.
I see the smiles of those who danced before
And lost in lovers’ arms laughed to cheer
Who but for looking in eyes they adore
Would have seen the darkness circling near.
But blind to the threat, cares smothered by lips,
They dance in the torchlight, by distraction brave.
From behind comes death; from the dance they trip,
Ears for the music stopped up by the grave.
So decide to dance, but choose not to love,
For the torches burn out, and the shadows come.
He snapped the book shut and leaned back. Choose not to love. If love was a choice, he could not remember consciously making it. Vainly he willed the sun to halt in the sky to give him more time, but time skipped along, heedless of his wishes.
A servant entered the room. “Milord, it is time. Mirelle awaits you outside her apartments.”
“Thank you. I will come shortly.”
The servant left and Gen rose. From this day forward he would live with regret, and all of his supposed wisdom only stared back at him with a silly grin and shrugged its shoulders. Replacing the book, he put on the coat of his dress uniform and left.
Mirelle waited patiently for him, dressed, as always, to erase any thoughts but those of her. She smiled, but noting the gravity in Gen’s countenance, tempered her affectionate greeting. Gen extended his arm to her and she took it.
“Cadaen, would you mind walking ahead?” Gen requested. “I wish to speak to the First Mother privately.”
Cadaen said, “If she wills it.”
“I do, Cadaen. We shall be along by and by.”
Cadaen bowed and left, and Gen walked forward slowly, breathing in Mirelle’s inebriating scent. They crossed from the antechamber of the Chalaine and into the hallways beneath the Great Hall.
“Is all in order for the march tomorrow?” Mirelle asked tentatively.
“Hmm? Oh yes. Yes, it is. Will you please demote me?”
Mirelle laughed, breaking the tension. “Of course not! You have done too well, as I knew you would. The generals are astonished at how expertly you have handled your new position. I think Tern Kildan would claim you for a son if he could.”
“He has been very helpful.” Gen pulled her to a halt. “Listen to me. When you split with General Torunne at Echo Road, please take Kildan’s counsel over Harband’s. Harband is a capable commander, I’m sure, but he enjoys the killing a little too much. Also, do not ride at the front of your army or dress in a remarkable way. Uyumaak archers are trained to search out leadership and strike there first. Keep close to Cadaen, and keep capable soldiers with you at all times. If you’re forced to run, do not wait for cover of night. Dark is more of a disadvantage to you than to Uyumaak. I should have taken time to teach you the knife. . .”
She smiled and put her hand on his cheek. “Gen, I will be fine. You’re the one taking the most risk. Does that mind of yours ever stop turning? You looked so preoccupied and severe just now.” Gen smoothed his features. “Oh, no you don’t!” Mirelle objected. “None of Torbrand Khairn’s soul-smothering training today, Lord Gen.”
Gen grinned and kissed her.
“That was nice,” she complimented him, smiling. “At last you kiss me. Things have been feeling a bit one-sided.”
“I am sorry,” Gen apologized.
“For the kiss?”
“Of course not. How could I regret that? How could anyone? I apologize for the seeming one-sided nature of things. I do love you, Mirelle.”
Before he could say more, she put her arms around him and buried her head in his shoulder. He pulled her close as she trembled, tears sliding down her cheeks. “You have no idea how long I have waited to be loved, and how long I have hoped you would love me. While any man’s sincere love would be a blessing, to have yours, the best man that I know, is a joy beyond any dream or hope I could ever have.”
“Surely you must see that loving me is utter recklessness.”
“No more than loving me,” she returned, pulling herself away and wiping her eyes. “You must know that you will never get your way.”
“Please, Mirelle. Be serious. You know what I am. You know what we face.”
Mirelle ignored him, pulling him around and resuming their course down the hall.
“You know, I have called you ‘Lord Gen’ for weeks now, and it simply does not seem right. It has no weight.”
“I need one of those impressive last names all those aristocrats seem to have. Alas, I have no family line I wish to claim, and, tragically, I am no longer Lord of Blackshire.”
“What a coincidence. I need a last name, too! This whole First Mother business is nearly at an end, and Queen Mirelle won’t do. What do you say we invent a last name together, and we can share it?”
“That was a clever segue,” he chuckled.
“And you fell for it. I’ve always thought names that end in ‘dor’ carried a certain weight, like Erindor or Fillindor. What do you think?”
“You can’t be serious. ‘Mirelle Fillindor’? Ridiculous.”
“Come up with a better one, then!”
“Short names carry more power, like ‘Black’, or ‘Stone’ or ‘Loris’.”
“Black and Stone?” she mocked. “How unoriginal. And really, would you want to be called Lord Loris for the rest of your life? Lord Fillindor is clearly better, whatever you may say.”
“Come now. Who would ever cross a Lord and Lady Black?”
Mirelle’s laugh mingled with the happy sounds of celebration that crescendoed as they neared the Great Hall. “I do look forward to watching Torbrand Khairn lead his daughter to the marriage altar. The dead collection of Shadans may just rise up from the grave to prevent it. This will be a spectacle.”
As they neared the doors, the Chamberlain bowed and turned to announce them, but Mirelle held him back. “Not tonight, Hurney.”
They slipped in unannounced, but not unnoticed, and in moments they enjoyed the warmth and cheer of friends, old and new. Leaving Mirelle with Lord Kildan, Gen crossed to Mena and Gerand, who were all smiles. Gen hugged them
both warmly.
“I see that Volney’s surprise has not arrived yet,” Gen commented to his Tolnorian friend upon noticing their young companion sitting quietly in a corner.
Gerand glanced at their mutual friend. “I believe the steward is busy finding some piece of finery for Lena to wear that is fit for a company such as this. I hope Volney doesn’t kill us. He will be mightily embarrassed.”
“Probably,” Gen said, “but he’ll get over it rather quickly, I think. Look, there she is.”
“Ahh!” Gerand exclaimed. “Yes, he will get over it. He might actually thank us before the year is out.”
“She’s adorable,” Mena agreed. “But we’re all rather plain compared to the First Mother. Perhaps, Gen, you could tell her she is quite beautiful enough and need not outshine us all so thoroughly. But I mean no disrespect, of course. I was only jesting. Please don’t tell her I said anything. Why did my father let me grow up so outspoken? I suppose it is time she could look for a suitor.”
“I think the search is over,” Gerand smirked, nudging Gen.
“Really?” Mena said.
“Oh, yes. But watch. Lena is nearly upon him.”
Lena, clearly nervous, had wound her way toward the unsuspecting Volney, touching him lightly on the arm. At first he didn’t seem to recognize the young woman, but after a few moments he shot to his feet, face turning several shades of red before settling on sanguine. They chuckled as he desperately searched for some proper way to show his delight, resolving at last to kiss her hand.
Mirelle arrived at Gen’s side. “I see all went according to plan. Gerand, Mena, are you ready to begin?”
Both bowed. Gerand said, “Yes, First Mother. Again we thank you. . .”
“None of that, Gerand. Go speak with your respective fathers, and all of you meet with the Chamberlain. I’ll find the Pureman and send him over so he can dispense with his wisdom and final instructions.”
