17. RONA
Knowing that Masolon was right behind that door, Rona could not enjoy her bath without worrying about that wicked southerner. Even after he offered her warm water and a clean dry dress instead of her soiled gown, she could not simply forget what he had done to her and her men. There was something behind his feigned kindness, she knew. Before stripping off her gown and stepping into the bathing tub, she checked the locked door three times. She sat in the tub, her eyes fixed on the door, her ears listening intently for Masolon’s footsteps outside. Once she was done, she hurriedly covered herself with a dry piece of cloth he had given her, and after water stopped dripping from her body she wore the purple dress. There was no looking glass in the bathing chamber, but surely, she looked like some baker’s daughter in that dress. It was in a good condition though—no pores or loose threads, no smell as well, as if it had never been worn before. Maybe she should…well, thank him? He killed Rikaard. A dress and a bath are not enough to make me forget that.
He was sitting by the table when she exited the bathing chamber. His eyes followed her, as if he wanted to say something or was expecting her to say something—probably a thank you—but she ignored him and strode toward her bedchamber. She slammed the door shut and barred it behind her. The first thing her eyes sought was the window, and to her surprise, it was so small it would not let a rabbit out. Did Masolon give her his bedchamber or his cell?
Rona had never thought that a bed would make her so happy. After too many days of sleeping on wet grass and cold stone, Masolon’s bed felt like heaven to her. Though her bath had passed without accidents, she could not help worrying about that southerner with whom she was under one common roof. Despite her exhaustion, her eyelids refused to fall shut until she heard no sound coming from outside. The bastard was asleep at last.
The faint light before sunrise was creeping into the room when she woke up, the sight of the locked door relieving her. Her back and legs cried for more rest, but her growling stomach did not allow her to go back to sleep. The last proper meal she had eaten was that wheel of cheese which that woman from the neighboring village had given her.
Slowly she opened the creaking door of her chamber. Bare-chested, Masolon lay asleep on the floor, his bastard sword next to his hand. At the corner rested his steel shield and strange black armor, no trace of his greatsword though. He must have hidden it from me, she guessed, together with my dagger. Despite the southerner's hospitality, she knew she was his captive in his own house. The way to the door was clear, but she would not risk running out of this walled village under the clear sunlight, unarmed. . . and hungry.
A loaf of dry bread sat alone on the table. It had not spoiled yet, but she hoped her luck would get better as she searched the wooden cupboard. The square of cheese she found smelled better than the one she had devoured a few days ago. With the three eggs and the two more loaves of bread and the half-full jar of honey she plundered, she might have a decent breakfast that would calm her raging stomach. Gently, she dragged a chair and sat by the table. When she glanced at Masolon, she found he was awake already, his open eyes fixed on her while still lying on the floor. She did not greet her host, and strangely enough, he said nothing either. Rona avoided meeting his gaze and kept her attention on her meal, still no sound coming from him. After she broke two eggs, she thought of saving the third, and probably, the last one, for him. "Can you get more of this?" She held the egg in her hand without looking at him, but she did not receive a reply. Did he fall asleep again or are his eyes still on me? When she slowly turned to him, she found the bastard staring indeed, at her legs. Or maybe that part of her thighs revealed by the short dress he had generously given her.
"Do you mind?" Rona glowered at him.
"Forgive me, Your Grace." The southerner grinned, lifting his odious gaze from her at last. "They were not worth looking at before you removed the dirt."
Not sure if he was taunting her for her miserable condition yesterday or making a frail attempt at flirting, she decided to take the discussion away from her legs. "How can you live with this meager amount of food?" Leaning her elbow on the table, she waved a dry loaf of bread. "I thought I would find thirty eggs, not three." Otherwise, how would you keep your muscles toned? She allowed her eyes to scan his broad chest.
"I get my food fresh." Masolon stretched his muscular arms as he yawned and sat on his haunches. "Besides, I was not expecting any guests these days."
"You were not?" She gripped her purple dress. "So, this belongs to you?"
He chuckled. "That is my wife's wedding dress."
"Your wife? Where is she then?"
"She left and took all her things." His face was flat when he continued, "She only left that dress because she did not want anything that might remind her of the day she was wed to me."
I cannot blame her. A sudden hush descended on the house for a moment.
"Did she happen to forget taking her slippers?" Rona was sick of walking bare-footed.
"No, she did not. And even if she did, hers would not fit your feet. Not saying yours are big, but she was shorter and smaller than you, so, you know. . ."
"I get it." Rona could tell from the length and size of the purple dress. "So, what happens now?"
"With the news I got after you went to sleep?" Masolon rose to his feet. "Just hope Maat's folks do not ask for your head."
Just the mention of that pig's name aggravated her. "He attacked me! He was going to rape me if I had not stopped him!"
"Kill him, you mean."
"Oh really? Was I supposed to pinch him in the cheek to deter him?"
"Calm down, Your Grace." He gestured to her before he seated himself opposite to her. "Now," he sighed, "I want to hear from you what happened last night. I need to know what made you think he wanted to rape you."
"Think? Should I have waited for him until he. . . ?" The words got stuck in her throat. "You know what? Bugger you and your damned pig! May you both burn in hell!"
"You still do not understand." Masolon's tone was tight now. "You must give me, and more importantly, the Herlogan folks a solid reason to believe you. Otherwise, they will have no choice but to execute you."
Executed by those worthless peasants? That could not be happening for real. "Why don't you just believe what I say?"
"Why should I or anybody in Herlog believe you?" Masolon shrugged. "You were imprisoned in that mill. You might have been trying to escape, and you killed Maat because he tried to stop you."
Those Herlogans would not believe her no matter what. "This talk is nonsense. You know I'm more valuable alive. That's why you imprisoned me. And that's why you took me out of the mill. You wanted to keep me safe, if I remember right."
Masolon seemed really menacing when he leaned forward. "Do not count on that. I will not hesitate to execute you if I believe you deserve it."
Rona hoped he was just bluffing. "You wouldn't do that. You are smart enough to consider the consequences."
"Do you think I paid heed to consequences when I executed your soldier?"
No, he didn't. Well, she had to take Masolon more seriously now. But what should she tell him? The moment that bastard had pinned her against the wall, she plunged her dagger into his belly without a second thought. Intimidating her might have been his only intention, but no one would ever know, right? "He was drunk." She remembered. "When he lunged at me, he was so close that I could smell the stink of wine on his breath." Rona studied Masolon's face, but she could not get an impression from his stern look. "He was raving about that dead girl from your village. He told me that my death wouldn't be enough. The only just way to punish me was to make me suffer, like she did before dying."
Without saying a word, Masolon gazed at the table.
"You believe me, don't you?" she asked him.
"It will not matter if they do not believe you."
"But they listen to you, I presume. You are their leader, right?"
Masolon suddenly chortled.
&nb
sp; "I know you are not their appointed mayor—I could tell from your southern accent—but I'm quite sure you can—"
"Southern?" He put in, a crooked smile on his face. "Which part in the south you think I come from?"
Damn it! Now he is going to discover that I know just a little about my kingdom. "Augarin?" Rona had never been to the southernmost Bermanian region nor met anybody from there, but she could guess from his heavy accent. “It must be Daval who has sent you for some reason I don't understand."
"No one has sent me to do anything, and I do not even know who Daval is. I am just a man who tries to do the right thing."
"You say that while you actually fight for the wrong side."
"What makes you so sure you are not on the wrong side yourself?"
"Tell me: what will you do if wake up one day and you find yourself kicked out of your house?"
"Is Bermania your house?"
"They killed my family! My father, my mother, my brother, my uncle and his wife and sons as well. They left nobody."
Masolon's eyebrows rose when he listened to this part. “This is all about revenge, then.” He peered at her as he went on, “But not the throne?”
"This is about everything."
A smile slipped over Masolon's face, and she had to admit it provoked her.
"What is so amusing?" She did not hide her irritation.
"Nothing.”
“I know what is on your sick mind. Men!” She allowed a nervous chuckle. “You don’t think I can really win this war because I’m a woman.”
“A girl, you mean. But no, that is not what I am thinking.”
“Then what? Ah! I get it. You wonder how I can defeat Wilander’s army while I can’t capture some worthless village.”
“I am laughing at the odds that I might be breaking bread with the future queen of Bermania.” His smile was thick with scorn. “And what a queen you will be!” He rose to his feet and ambled toward the bathing chamber. “Just another Goranian ruler.”
“Goranian ruler?” The phrase sounded queer to her. “What are you hinting at?” When he disappeared inside the bedchamber, she raised her voice. “Wilander is not a true king if you are referring to him. My father was, and I will be a great ruler like he was.”
Masolon came out of the room, wearing a black cloak over his sleeveless tunic. “I met a few great kings, lords, and ladies myself. But it seems that your notion of greatness here is different from mine.” He went into the bathing chamber and returned shortly, carrying his greatsword over his shoulder. “My father had no throne, and yet he would fight and spill blood to protect his clan. He saw nothing glorious in ruling; only a burden, a cumbersome duty he would die for. He was the greatest. . . and I watched the greatest fall and turn into a tyrant, just like any other ruler would.”
His clan? Rona contemplated Masolon’s confusing face, whose skin tone was neither too fair nor too dark. Sometimes it reminded her of the Byzont merchants she had seen once in the port of Kalensi. But that burly frame of his made him look rather like a Skandivian, if it were not for his black, silky hair. Maybe he has Skandivian origins like Gramus. “Where are you from exactly?”
He grinned without answering her as he headed to the door of the house. “I did not tell anybody where I took you. For your safety, stay here until I come back.”
Rona pushed to her feet. “What is the point of my safety if you are going to execute me anyway?”
“Executing you is not something I am after.”
I knew he was bluffing. “So, you do understand that alive I’m more valuable.”
"Of course, you are." Masolon held the doorknob, giving her a lopsided smile. "It will be a shame if you force me to kill a pretty girl like you."
18. MASOLON
The village had lost a few men during Gramus's latest attack, but no funeral had the crowd Masolon found at Maat's. While the thought itself might sound harsh, Masolon would not deny he believed that not so many would miss the young drunkard. They do not miss him. They are showing their grief and offering condolences to the family that already lost a young girl a few days ago, Masolon reflected as he eyed the murdered girl's sister among the throng surrounding the grave.
Smit was intoning his incomprehensible prayers when the rain started falling. The crowd voiced their approval to the extent that a few men patted Maat's father on the shoulder with a wide smile as if they were congratulating him. Standing next to Masolon was Ben, and the lad wore the same smile as he murmured, his head facing the sky with closed eyes.
"What is this all about?" Masolon whispered to Ben, scratching his itchy bandaged shoulder. His cloak would not shield his wound from getting wet if that rain grew heavier.
"Rain is an omen of mercy from the Lord of Sky and Earth," Ben explained. "All our prayers of redemption are answered."
Masolon wished redemption had been that simple—just a bunch of men praying for him after his death. That would have spared him all the trouble he had gone through since he plunged that sword in his father's abdomen. Rain after prayers, Masolon would mock the notion if it were not for the remnants of respect to the dead inside his soul. My clansmen were not that lucky then. It was hard to recall the number of his clan's warriors who had fallen in battle without receiving those prayers of mercy. Usually the corpses were piled up after battle before setting them all on fire. The only instant Masolon had witnessed a monk reciting prayers was when his little sister was born. "To ask for the blessing of the Light," his mother had told him when he inquired about that gray-haired man who was whispering in his baby sister's ears. In Ogono, there was the Light, in Gorania the Lord of Sky and Earth. Masolon had no doubt they were the same divine entity.
The Light had been just when He sent His wrath upon Masolon's savage people, letting the blazing doom devour their lands. He was merciful enough to give them a chance to repent. But Masolon's father, the great Golson, had refused to make the best of the Light's mercy and insisted on kicking all the other clans out from his world. He deserved his fate, yet it was hard for Masolon to swallow the notion that Maat, the drunkard who was almost a rapist as well, had earned the Light's mercy, while the great Golson had not.
Maat's mother was wailing over her son's grave, a bunch of women embracing her and patting her on her shoulders. Shortly after, the wailing turned into a contest of cursing the "whore" who had killed the "sweet" boy. The women surrounding Maat's mother were not helping at all, a few of them calling for justice; Rona's head in other words.
Masolon believed he should return to his house as fast as he could. While he was walking away, pretending he did not listen to the raving women, Ben followed him. "Where did you take her, Masolon?"
"Why do you want to know where she is?" Masolon did not stop while he answered. Last night Ben had tried to know when he passed by his house to inform him of the time of the burial, but Masolon had not given him any clue.
"I understand why you want to keep her alive." Ben's voice was low enough so as not to be heard by anybody else except Masolon. "But I'm afraid those furious folks won't listen to reason and will—"
"Tell me," Masolon cut in as he turned to face the good-hearted lad. "When did the people of this village become so vengeful?"
"Only you to blame for that." Ben shrugged. "You made us all believe that we could fight and win."
Masolon would not argue with Ben about that. But whatever he did to embolden those sheep, he did not do that to encourage them to defy him.
The burial was turning into a demonstration demanding the head of the rebels' queen. "Let them unleash their fury," Smit's voice came from behind Masolon, who warily watched the angry mob growing. Even a few Brave Lads joined the raving sheep. "They will be fine in a while." The old man held Masolon by the arm, urging him to walk away. "Come on. Let's get out of here."
A few boisterous men called out to Masolon while he was leaving. "Where is the bitch, Masolon? Justice needs to be served!"
"She must be impaled, just like her dog
!"
What Masolon was worried about was happening. Those fools had no idea that if he granted them their wish, and the news reached Rona's camp, her general would deploy his entire army to wipe Herlog off the map.
"Don't mind them," said Ben, walking alongside Masolon.
"Masolon, where is she?"
"We are talking to you!"
Smit looked over his shoulder, gesturing to the yelling sheep to calm down. "We must settle this matter soon, Masolon. If you really intend to use the captured queen as a guarantee for our safety, then we need to find a way to inform her general Gramus that we have his queen in our custody."
"We do not know if he is still besieging the castle of Subrel, or if he has captured it already." Masolon really missed Frankil's knights who were experts in scouting.
"He could have been defeated as well," Ben pointed out. "That would make her useless."
And hence, easy to be executed, Masolon reflected. "Even in that case, she would be worth a lot." He peered at Ben. "I am sure King Wilander will reward us for helping him capture the rebels' queen."
Ben curled his lips while weighing Masolon's words.
"That's too early to say anyway." Smit did not seem to be convinced at all. "I say we first get some news before we figure out how to communicate with either General Gramus or Lord Di Galio."
The sheep's noise was getting louder as they hurried after Masolon, Smit, and Ben. "Will you be able to handle those folks?" Masolon asked Smit. "I am not in the right mood to bandy words with them."
Smit's glance at the greatsword strapped to Masolon's back betrayed the old man's understanding of Masolon's not-right mood. "Leave them to me." Smit nodded.
"Tell them you are the only one allowed to discuss this topic with me." Masolon wagged a firm finger. "Be clear that I will not hear a single word from any of them."
The old man nodded again before he went to meet the furious mob. Masolon left them behind and strode away. "You are not going back home now, are you?" Ben asked.
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