The Guardian

by Angus Wells

  Her hands rested on the sill and I saw her shoulders tense, her body shudder. I saw then what a terrible thing her talent was. To foresee somewhat of the future and know what it likely holds, but still be bound by humankind’s desires and ambitions, unable to divert that juggernaut. I was glad I had no such talent. I said, “I am sorry.”

  She turned from the window then and faced me again, smiling. It was such a smile as folk show when they’d hold back tears. “I felt his death,” she said, and the tears came. The goblet fell from her hand and shattered to spill wine across the marbled floor. Her tears were brighter: they shone on her tanned cheeks like sparkling jewels. I did not think then, but crossed the distance between us and took her hands.

  “I loved him, too,” I said. “I’d have stayed with him, had he not commanded I return to you.”

  She said, “I know,” and, all unqueenly, dragged the sleeve of her gown across her face and blew her nose into the cuff. Then she made a sound midway betwixt a sigh and a laugh and said, “And that shall be no easy duty, do you agree to it.”

  Briefly, I thought of Ellyn. But I said, “Command me,” and began to kneel.

  “Gailard, no!” She took my shoulders and halted my descent. “The gods know, but you’ve been hurt, so I’ve only one command for now—that you do not kneel to me. Do you agree?”

  I ducked my head. I was grateful for that alleviance.

  “But I shall ask more painful duties,” she said.

  “Name them.”

  She smiled wanly and glanced at the remnants of the shattered goblet, then found another. She took it and mine and refilled them both, then motioned that we sit.

  “You need a bath,” she said. And when I flushed and began to mouth apologies, waved a dismissive hand and said, “Later, eh? I grew up in the Highlands, like you. I was not always a queen, and I’m used to the smell of honest men.” She shook her head, her expression that of someone who recalls easier times. Then: “Andur charged you with a duty, no?”

  “Yes.”

  “Chorym’s defense shall not be easy. Talan’s sorcerer shall bring magic against us, and so many of our men are slain …”

  I dared to interrupt. “Even so, the walls are strong, and you’ve brave men behind them. And you’ve the gift of magic.”

  “Not like the Vachyn,” she replied. “Theirs is all bellicose—the gods know, you’ve seen it!—whilst mine is for the scrying, the foretelling. And I’ve seen …”

  She paused, her eyes a moment haunted. I quoted her a saying of the Devyn: “When all you can do is die, then die as well as you can.”

  “I shall; I’ve scryed that, too.” She smiled and I saw the skull beneath her skin, the ghost that inhabits all our flesh. She raised a hand, stilling my protest. “No, do not seek to dissuade me, Gailard. What’s written is written, and it’s the only course I can take—save to give Talan what he wants, which I’ll never do.”

  “Surely,” I asked, “there’s another way?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Not for me. But for Ellyn—and for Chaldor—yes. Andur told you what we’d ask, no?”

  “He spoke only of a duty that he said you’d explain.” I rubbed absently at my hurting knee. “He feared the Vachyn might somehow learn his intent.”

  “Andur was ever cautious,” she murmured sadly, then squared her shoulders and set her goblet aside, her hands entwined as she faced me. “Ellyn must not fall into Talan’s clutches, lest he gain some supposedly legitimate claim to the throne. She must go away from Chorym—to some haven where he’ll not find her—and live safe until she comes into her own power.”

  I frowned at that. “What power?”

  “She’s magic in her, my daughter,” Ryadne said. “Not recognized yet, for it’s not developed. But when she comes into her own, I suspect her power shall be great—perhaps enough, even, to challenge the Vachyn. But until then, she’s vulnerable and needs protection.”

  “Then take her away,” I said. “You and she flee Chorym under the protection of the Palace Guard.”

  “I cannot.” Ryadne shook her head. “I am Andur’s queen, and I’ve a duty to Chaldor—I must stay.”

  I understood that; she was an honorable woman. I drained my wine, staring at her. “What do you ask of me?”

  “That you guard Ellyn. That you take her away and see her safe until her day comes. That you be her champion and her guardian, for Chaldor’s sake. Hide her in the Highlands— wherever—and see her safe until she gains her power. She’ll know what to do then.”

  I swallowed, scratching at an itch. “Why me? The gods know, Ellyn has little enough liking for me.”

  “Or you for her, eh?” Ryadne essayed a wan smile. “But you were Andur’s choice, and mine, for we trust none so much as you. Shall you accept, Gailard?”

  I felt fate settle on me then, heavier than any armor, heavier than any sword’s blow. I felt wary and reluctant, but I could not say her nay; I had given Andur my word. I said, “As you command, my lady.”

  That day I was tended by the palace healers and bathed in such a tub as I’d not seen before, all marble and gold, with attendants who’d have soaped me and scrubbed me like a pampered child had I not shouted them away, and even then lurked with towels like fowlers ready to cast their nets. I was, like it or not, perfumed, my wet hair dried and combed and oiled. I felt clumsy and embarrassed, and was thankful when the ritual ended and I was at last allowed to dress. Not in my own familiar clothes, but garments sent by Ryadne—a shirt of fine linen, breeches of soft leather, boots that fit like gloves, a surcoat such as courtiers wear. I slapped away the hands that would have fastened my belt and demanded my sword. I was told it had gone to the palace armories to be polished and edged, and was then escorted to the chamber where Ryadne awaited me with her daughter.

  I did not look forward to this audience. Ryadne had explained to me what she’d have me do, and somewhat of it to Ellyn. But Ellyn was a willful and headstrong child, given to tempers and accustomed to the granting of her wishes. Her realm was one of soft beds and servants; granted whims. I doubted she’d take easily to life on the road.

  I found them, mother and daughter, seated at a table on which stood food and wine. I had not eaten since that morning, and at sight of the sumptuous fare my stomach rumbled. Ellyn frowned disapprovingly; Ryadne laughed and gestured that I sit.

  “Your knee’s mended?” she asked.

  “It heals apace, thank you.”

  There were no servants present, and the queen asked that her daughter pour the wine, inviting me to avail myself of the food. I did, the while studying Ellyn. She was a coltish version of her mother, and I saw that one day she would be a great beauty. Her hair was that same shade of coppery brown, her eyes—for all their indignance—large and lustrous. Her mouth—despite its sullen set—was generous and better suited to a smile than the scowl she wore. She was tall, gangly, and a little clumsy—when wine spilled on the damask cloth covering the table, I saw her lips shape a curse—but in a few years she’d come into her own and, I thought, find her mother’s grace. For now, however, she was all disgruntlement and angry curiosity, as if she wondered why so lowly a creature as I was invited to dine with royalty.

  I knew that Ryadne had explained the outline of our future relationship, but I had forgotten the rumors I’d heard—until she spoke.

  She set a goblet that sparkled in the candlelight before me and looked me in the eye and said, “They say you deserted my father.”

  “Ellyn.” Ryadne’s voice was sharp.

  “That you left him to die.”

  “Ellyn!”

  “That you fled Antium, leaving the town to Talan.”

  “Enough!”

  Even I started at that tone. Ellyn’s mouth, readied to continue the diatribe, snapped shut. She glanced at her mother, glared at me, then set her angry gaze firmly on her plate.

  “Gailard did not desert Andur,” Ryadne said. “He was wounded, and your father charged him with a duty that he d
ispensed with honor.”

  Ellyn shook her head, tendrils of long hair falling from the coiffure she wore. “They say he’s a coward,” she muttered.

  “Never to my face,” I said, my own anger growing now. “Nor would I have left Andur, had he not commanded me.”

  Ryadne made a slight gesture with her right hand, indicating that I hold silent, and looked at her daughter. “Think you I’d welcome a man who left your father to die? Think you I’d entertain him?”

  The girl had the grace to look at me then, albeit briefly, and mumble, “My apologies.”

  I nodded my acceptance. I could not like her, nor believe that she would agree to what her mother planned. And did she, I thought, it should be an arduous journey.

  Which seemed to be one thing we had in common, for Ellyn set to arguing with her mother, disputing the need for her departure and my guardianship as if she pleaded for her life. I suppose that in a way she did, for what Ryadne proposed must take this brat from all she knew into unknown dangers. Almost, I felt sorry for her, even as my irritation mounted. I was entrusted with her life—yet as she argued, it was Ryadne she addressed, as if I were beneath notice. I watched her pretty face grow red, a pout forming.

  “You’d have me flee,” she said sullenly. “Go away with this hire-sword. But to where? Shall we flee to the clans, and they hand me back to Talan? Naban and Serian shall not risk war with Danant by taking me in, so where shall I be safe? Shall we go south to the Great Sea, to find the Sea Kings? Or perhaps run to the Styge and live as hermits?”

  Ryadne sighed, rising to stand behind her daughter, hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Child, when you come into your power, you’ll understand this better—but I cannot say where you should go, I only know that you must.”

  “So you ask me to creep away like some night-come thief? You’d ask me to sneak off like some … some Devyn horse-stealer?”

  That was enough. Heir or no, I had listened long enough to this irritating child. I said: “The gods know, girl, I’d sooner face Talan’s sorcerer than ride away with you—I think that should be an easier task.”

  Ellyn gasped, her face expressing outrage. I think Ryadne smiled, but I could not be sure, for the night aged and the candles burned down and shadows clouded all our faces.

  Then Ellyn said, “How dare you?”

  “Easily,” I replied. “I’ve listened long enough to your carping, and were you my child I’d set you across my knee and teach you a sound-earned lesson.”

  I thought she might fling her wine at me for that, and wondered a moment how I might react, but Ryadne intervened. She moved from behind Ellyn’s chair to stand between us, like an adjur settling disputes at the Moot. She put a hand on my shoulder and one on Ellyn’s.

  “Hear me,” she said, “both of you,” and waited until we each nodded our agreement. “This shall not be easy for either of you. But I’ve scryed this—and thus I know it is the only way. Easy or hard, can you understand that it must be so? Else Chaldor and all Andur looked to build is lost to Talan.”

  Ellyn said, “You ask too much of me, Mother.”

  I did not like to agree with her, but I could only nod.

  Ryadne said, “The gods ask much of us all. Understand that were it otherwise—had the gods allowed—I’d see it different. But it cannot be so. Do you fail in this, then Chaldor’s lost and Danant shall hold sway, and perhaps all our world fall down. You do not like one another, but I ask you this as queen and mother and seer.”

  I had not known a woman with fingers so strong: they dug into my shoulder with such force as made me wince. I ducked my head and said, “I’ve given you my promise already, no?”

  Ryadne said, “Yes; and I thank you for that, Gailard.”

  I wondered if she drove her hand so hard against Ellyn, but the child nodded and grunted irritable acceptance.

  The pressure eased and Ryadne loosed her grip. “Then go sleep. Gailard, you’ll pass the night here. Take your ease for a day, and then leave at the next dawning. Tell me only what you’ll need for the journey, and I’ll see it readied. Do not tell me where you go! Only you shall know that, and Ellyn in time.”

  I felt a terrible dread at that, and a great admiration for this brave woman who would defend her husband’s city even to her own death. I wondered if Ellyn understood as I watched her rise and quit the room, not meeting my eyes.

  “She’s qualities,” Ryadne told me, “for all her temper.”

  “Perhaps I’ll see them,” I said. “Someday.”

  The queen took my hands again. “I told you it was hard duty.”

  Her smile made it worthwhile.

  That night I spent in a bed so soft I could not sleep. I was accustomed to hard barracks’ beds, or the ground, or to sleeping in the saddle. I tossed and turned on that downy, perfumed mattress and listened to the complaints of cocks brought into the city, and the lowing of troubled cattle, the bleating of wondering sheep. I watched the sun rise from a window that looked out over the old town and saw the streets below all filled with frightened folk come to Chorym in search of refuge I knew they’d not find. They’d know fear, and deprivation; they’d know the magicks of the Vachyn sorcerer, and the terror of catapults hurling balefire. The song of arrows and the clatter of javelins.

  I felt sorry for them. It was easier for me: I was a soldier. I had sworn my blade to Andur, and therefore to Ryadne—and through them to Ellyn—so I could accept the duty that the king and queen had set upon me. I might not like it—certainly I did not look forward with any joy to that journey I must take with the grumbling Ellyn—but these folk had no sworn duty. They were only citizens and farmers, traders and merchants: plain, honest folk who looked only to till their fields or tend their flocks or sell their wares. Not fight and starve and suffer the bolts of a Vachyn sorcerer and the terrors of siege.

  I dressed and went to find my breakfast, which I ate alone. I assumed Ryadne was with Ellyn, likely locked in further dispute, and melancholy settled on me. I had lost my sworn liege and now must desert his queen while she faced the horrors of siege, and most likely her own death. I was unsure where I should take Ellyn. I knew nothing of the coastal lands, and wondered if the Sea Kings would welcome us or take us prisoner. I could not go to my own clan, nor be certain of the Dur’s welcome. Naban and Serian would likely seize Ellyn as a pawn to hold against either Chaldor or Danant, and to reach the Styge we must traverse the Barrens. Worse, Ryadne had spoken of Ellyn’s talent burgeoning, and whilst I’d accept that magic if it were used on Chaldor’s behalf, I could not imagine the child using it well. It seemed to me that we must become outlaws, and when—as I was sure he eventually would—Talan learned of Ellyn’s flight, he’d send hunters after us. I wondered what hunters a Vachyn sorcerer might create with his conjuries.

  By the time I finished eating I was in dour mood, so I went to find the armories.

  My sword was cleaned of old blood and polished and given such an edge as it had not known since the war began. I was offered a splendid scabbard that I rejected in favor of my own old, worn sheath. We should be traveling incognito, I thought, and I’d not draw attention to us with any overly fine trappings.

  I said as much to Ryadne when she found me, and she agreed, kitting me in plain but sturdy gear—a shirt or two of stout linen; good leathern breeches and durable boots; a tunic of cloth and metal sewn together and lined with silk so that arrows might be easier withdrawn; undergarments; and a good, warm cloak. She offered me the pick of the palace stables, and I selected a bay mare. She was deep of chest and long in the leg, and she’d the look of a runner—speed and stamina combined.

  “Ellyn will want her favorite” Ryadne advised me, indicating a second mare whose coat was so white as to shine.

  The horse was sound, but also very noticeable; I recognized her immediately. I shook my head and told the queen, “Favorite or no, she must ride another—this beauty’s too well known.”

  “She’ll argue,” Ryadne said.

 
I looked at her. She smiled and said, “Choose her another then, Gailard.”

  I picked out a dark chestnut mare the same size as my own.

  “What else shall you need?” Ryadne asked.

  “A horse bow,” I told her, “and a stock of arrows; provisions; coin; bedrolls.” I thought of the season. The summer aged and likely by the time we got to wherever we were going the nights would grow cold. “A tent. No! Two tents.” I could not imagine sharing a single bivouac with Ellyn.

  “You’ll want a packhorse?” Ryadne asked.

  I shook my head. “We’ll travel light. What we can’t carry between us we’ll forage, or buy.” I began to feel better. This was akin to planning a campaign and I felt on firmer ground. “And Ellyn must dress plain. No fancy trappings; no jewels or finery. She must not be recognized as your daughter.”

  “No,” Ryadne agreed, and set a hand on my forearm. “Thank you for this, Gailard. I know it is not easy for you, and you’ve my everlasting gratitude.”

  I sought fine words in response and could fine none, so I only shrugged and smiled and said, “You’re my sworn liege now, my queen.”

  There was a sadness in her eyes as she answered, “Yet Ellyn’s mother still. Guard her well, eh?”

  “My word on it,” I said. “And my life”

  So it was that we quit Chorym in that hour before the sun’s rising, when the air hangs still and grey, seemingly undecided between the relinquishment of night and acceptance of the new day. Ellyn rode the chestnut I’d chosen, dressed in boots and breeches, shirt and tunic, her cloak wrapped about her. Her hair was shorn as I’d advised, tucked beneath a peaked leather cap into which she’d set a defiant feather.

  This last indignity she’d protested fiercer even than the rest. “I give up my home,” she’d cried, “and leave my mother to her fate. I must dress like some … some vagabond. I am told I cannot ride my own horse—and now you’d have me shorn. It’s too much!”

  She had turned to Ryadne for support—and found none, for we had agreed this final measure. She’d not easily pass for a boy, surely not on close inspection, but she looked less like a princess than what our masquerade demanded—a wandering hire-sword’s surly offspring.