The arrow in his hand reminded him of the one that had missed his head a few months ago. He grinned, recalling how cheerful she had been. The word 'foreigner' had sounded so sweet when he had heard it in her voice.
Both Masolon's heart and mind were captivated, although she looked paler and skinnier than before. She was dressed in black, her auburn hair tumbled by the desert wind. An incarnation of beauty and grief.
Her eyes tightened when she noticed his presence. The moment he had been waiting for; when their eyes would meet and she would…
“What are you doing here?”
Her scowl and her unwelcoming tone stabbed him in the heart. That was not quite the start he was hoping for.
“Milady…I…I was…”
“You were what? Didn't you understand the first time?”
“Understand what?”
“My maid told you I didn't want to see you.” Sania raised her voice. “Was that hard to understand?”
“Yes, but…I thought that you did not mean that for…” Masolon didn't dare to say it.
“I didn't mean what?”
“I assumed you did not want to see anybody because you were sad at that time.”
“So you decided that I shouldn't be sad right now?” Sania glared at him. “What if I chose to be alone? Why is it too hard for you to respect my choice?”
Masolon couldn't believe his ears. Was he really talking to Sania? Where had the charming princess with the delightful spirit gone?
“I am so sorry. I never meant to disrespect your choice, milady. I just wanted to tell you that I felt sorry for your loss.”
“Why would you?” Sania folded her arms, nodding toward him. “Even her husband didn't feel so.” She looked down, shaking her head in disapproval. “She was buried under the ground, and he was not there to see her off. He was busy fighting. He chose not to be there.”
She must be talking about her lord father, who fought the Mankols in the north.
“I am quite sure he was obliged to stay at the frontiers, milady.”
“Why do you dare to defend him?” Sania snapped. “But I shouldn't be surprised. This is what loyal and valorous warriors usually do. Nothing is more worthy than the kingdom to fight for. That's what you choose! But what about us? We choose nothing. You choose for us and we are ungrateful if we protest. It's a shame to protest. We should be thankful for our men's dedication toward the Kingdom. But what about their dedication to us? Ah, I forgot. We are nothing but the mothers of your sons.”
Furious and unstoppable, like an autumn sandstorm. Time hadn't healed her wounds as he had hoped. It had nursed her grudge beyond his imagination.
So how could you stop a blowing storm? You couldn't. You should only wait until its end. Masolon didn't do that, and chose to try his luck one more time. “Not all men are the same,” he said.
“Oh, please!” She snorted. “Don't tell me that! Actually, I don’t find so much variety in them. A man wants a woman either to quench his lust, or bear his progeny, or both!”
Sania's maidservant hurried out of the house. “Commander! What did I tell you before? You can't break in like this!” she chided him, making the scene more ridiculous.
“I am truly sorry.” Masolon ignored the servant and addressed Sania. “I did not come here to revive your pain.”
“You did,” replied Sania, her eyes welled up with tears. “That man, who I used to call 'Father', didn't bother to grant my mother a farewell look.”
Masolon felt as if he was trapped in quicksand. The more he resisted, the more he sunk.
“She was getting well before you came!” the maidservant screeched at Masolon, holding her mistress's hands. “Leave her be!”
That really hurt. He had thought of the worst possibilities for his conversation with Sania. Being dismissed in such a manner hadn't been one of them.
With hollow eyes, Masolon watched the maidservant take her mistress gently by her hands, escorting her inside the house. Sania disappeared behind that oak door and he could do nothing about it. He had been able to save her once from the hands of barbarian nomads, but today he couldn't get closer to her because of one maidservant.
He felt so heartsick.
Dragging his legs, he went to his horse and mounted it. He didn't notice that he was still gripping the arrow in his hand until he leaned forward to hold the horse's reins. “This is where your tale, as well as mine, ends,” he muttered, staring at the arrow for a while. He broke it into two pieces and let it fall to the ground next to his horse's hooves.
CHAPTER
FORTY-EIGHT
MASOLON
The remnants of the Ghosts had chosen the wrong time to restore their lost reputation.
When the news of a raided caravan on the Northern Road reached Masolon, he amassed half the men under his command to hunt those bastards down, and all he found was fifty desperate nomads. Masolon granted most of them the mercy of quick death in battle, only sparing the lives of seven nomads. To each of Kahora and the neighboring towns and villages, he sent one nomad for the commoners to determine the fate of their desert dog.
The good, peaceful people of Murase didn't disappoint him, Masolon must say. All of them displayed how the Ghosts' savagery had inspired them along endless decades of barbarity and bloodshed. Those desert maggots should have known that the day to reap what they had sown would come sooner or later.
After spending two weeks wandering the desert areas around the roads to track any lurking nomadic bands, Masolon allowed himself and his men a two-day rest in Kahora. Leading his mounted soldiers into the city, he waved to all the people who gathered in the streets and opened their windows to cheer for their guardian and his horde of heroes. The whole western region of the realm had become a safer place to its dwellers and travelers since the appointment of the new commander.
“If I were Lord Feras, I might feel jealous.” Ziyad winked, his horse next to Masolon's.
“Why should you?”
“That's a reception for the ruler of Kahora.” Ziyad grinned wickedly.
“We represent the ruler of Kahora, my brother.”
“Ah! I see! Someone here doesn't want to involve himself in politics!” Ziyad teased him.
“Shut up,” Frankil snapped. “Nothing worries me like your mouth.”
“I didn't say anything wrong,” Ziyad protested.
“We are warriors, Ziyad,” said Masolon. “Politics are only for lords. Is that clear?”
“Speaking of warriors, I wish I could see those lands that raise warriors like you, Masolon,” Blanich said from behind him.
“You wish you could see my lands? A noble like you does not really mean that.” Masolon chuckled.
“I was a noble, my friend,” said Blanich. “For the time being, I follow whoever pays me well.”
“Great,” Frankil said darkly, “now we have two nobles in the gang.”
“Blanich looks like a real noble to me,” Ziyad teased Antram.
Antram frowned. “What do you mean, you worthless bard?”
“We are not going to argue in front of this crowd, fellows.” Masolon turned his head, looking at all of them. “Can you just wave to them and postpone your quarrel until a bit later?”
“Good idea,” said Antram, inclining his head toward Ziyad. “I suggest we start the next sparring session by a duel between me and him.”
“That sounds interesting,” said Frankil.
Masolon grinned. “I see your mood is improving, Captain.”
“You're reviving the good old days, Masolon.” Frankil gazed at the throng with a slight smile on his face.
“Stay alert, brothers.” Ziyad nodded toward five approaching horse riders. “I presume those men are not here to greet us.”
Masolon warily watched the five riders stop, their mouths covered with turbans. They were not Murasens, he could tell from their blond hair. The only lady among them advanced on horseback toward him. Antram drew his sword, but Masolon gestured to his friend to s
tand down.
“Masolon?” she asked.
“You are speaking to him,” replied Masolon.
“I was desperate to find you, but when you returned to the city, it wasn’t that difficult. I just followed the noise.” She smiled. “Can we talk somewhere else without too much audience? Bumar's house, for instance?”
She had his attention in no time. “You did put some effort to find me. How can I help you?” he asked.
“I bear a message for you.”
“From whom?”
The lady moved her horse a few steps forward until it became side by side to Masolon's black stallion. Now he could see her blue eyes and her fine brown eyebrows. Her fair-skinned face was molded in the lands of ice, no doubt. “It's a message from my mistress,” she replied. “Lady Halin.”
The gorgeous girl from the feast of Durberg? When had they met? Six months ago? They had bandied just a few words during that feast, and still, she remembered him?
You had the chance to charm a lovely princess. Do you not remember that? His mind was back after weeks of silence.
Do you want me to believe the folly I heard from a bastard like Ramel?
Why do you always challenge me? We are one, you fool!
I have to challenge my thoughts until I make sure of them.
“Commander?” The Rusakian girl tilted her head. “You know Lady Halin, correct?”
“Yes.” Masolon nodded. “You said she is your mistress?”
“Yes, I'm her prime maid. My name is Holga.”
Too pretty for a maid, Masolon wanted to say. Ziyad had a point about his fondness of Rusakian girls.
“Who are those fellows?” Masolon nodded toward the four horsemen behind her.
“A woman needs protection to travel safely in these lands.”
“For certain,” Masolon said. “May I know what Bumar has to do with this?”
“When I arrived, I was told that no one in this city knows where one can find Commander Masolon except Bumar the healer.” Holga looked at the people passing by. “Can you meet me at his house?”
“You go. I will catch up with you,” said Masolon, returning to his three brothers waiting behind him. “I will be at Bumar's house. Wait for me at the tavern.”
“A message she said?” Antram asked.
“Keep it down.” Masolon glanced at her, but Holga was already gone, having left with her guards.
“I wonder from whom.” Ziyad gave him a sly smile.
“You, in particular, must stay quiet.” Masolon pointed his finger at Ziyad, grinning.
“If that was the messenger, I wonder what the sender looks like,” Ziyad went on.
“I wonder if she is a messenger in the first place.” Frankil's lips made a firm line. “Why would anyone send a woman?”
“Brothers, brothers.” Masolon gestured to them with both hands to calm down. “Just wait for me at the tavern, and I will join you there.”
“Why are you going on your own while she takes four men with her?” Antram asked.
“Because she is the one who should worry, not me.”
“Who said Masolon is going to be alone?” Ziyad scoffed. “Bumar will interfere if anything happens.”
“I don't find it funny,” Frankil barked. “That wench is trouble. I can feel it.”
***
The four Rusakian guards were waiting outside Bumar's house when Masolon arrived. He felt their eyes on him as he dismounted and knocked on the door.
“Your guest is here.” Bumar grinned when he let him in. “Isn't it about time to buy your own house?”
A house was not something for a wanderer like Masolon. “I was told you met before,” Masolon said so only Bumar could hear. “What did she tell you?”
“Nothing. She insisted that she will only speak to you.” Bumar glanced at Holga, who waited in the hall, leaning back in her seat. “I like how you recover so fast.”
“Shut up,” Masolon teased him. “Now if you do not mind, we need a moment to talk on our own.”
“You can go to the tavern if you need a bedchamber. But not in my house.” Bumar grinned wickedly and turned to Holga. “Make yourself at home, milady.” He bowed slightly to her, clasping his hands behind his back. Silently, Holga followed Bumar with her eyes until he went to his room. The Rusakian coldness; Masolon remembered what Ramel had told him once about that.
“We are alone now.” Masolon seated himself opposite to her. “What is your message?”
“To be more accurate, it is a request. Lady Halin asks for your presence in the castle of Sabirev. She needs your help.”
“What for?”
“She didn't tell me anything else. She wants to discuss something private with you.”
“Did you travel hundreds of miles to find me and ask to have a discreet word just to tell me that?”
“Trust me, Commander. There is nothing I love about these hellish lands. I begged Lady Halin to spare me from this dusty journey, but she insisted that nobody else would undertake this mission to make sure her message was delivered to the right person.”
What kind of help would a princess ask from a warrior? And why him? Why not a Rusakian warrior?
She did not ask for a warrior's help. The princess asked for your help.
“What about her and Lord Gerviny?” Masolon's tongue was heavy when he uttered the Rusakian lord's name.
“What about them?” Holga looked confused.
“Their marriage. Were they not supposed to be married?”
“Yes, but not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I have no idea. And I would never dare to ask about that.”
Masolon didn't believe that. What sort of a maid was she?
“Either you know too little or you hide too much,” said Masolon suspiciously.
“I am going to say this for the last time, Commander.” Holga looked irked. “Lady Halin sent me all this long way to take you to her because she wants your help in something she didn't tell me about. That's all I'm going to tell you because that is all I know.”
Masolon weighed her words in his mind. Still, they were hard to believe.
“Is this an order from a princess?” he asked.
“No, Commander. She asks as a lady who needs help. I believe a chivalrous man like you won't ignore the call of help, especially from a woman.”
“When does she expect my arrival?”
“She hopes you return with me.” Holga stared at him with her ice-cold blue eyes. Maid or not, her look didn't make him feel comfortable.
“I will meet you after one hour at the northern gate of Kahora,” Masolon promised.
“Please don't be late, Commander. We are not used to the Murasen sun.” Holga rose to her feet and left him in the hall.
The moment she shut the door behind her, Bumar came out of his chamber. “You're not traveling to Rusakia with her, are you?”
“Were you eavesdropping on our conversation?”
“Not really. It was your voices that were too loud.” Bumar shrugged. “I like her voice, I must admit. But the story she tells is a bit strange.”
“I will be fine. Do not worry about me,” Masolon told him, thinking of his brothers' reactions when they heard. He shared Bumar's doubts about her story, but the temptation of meeting Halin—by her own request—wasn't easy to ignore.
Masolon rode to the tavern. The brothers were there as they had agreed, their eyes betraying their anticipation the moment he stepped into the place.
“No!” Antram frowned after Masolon had told them about his decision to leave for a short period. “Not again, Masolon!”
“Sabirev?” Ziyad exclaimed. “That's another long journey, brother. It's even farther than Durberg.”
“Why now?” Antram scowled. “I can't understand this! Wasn't this your dream, Masolon? The Gang? The path! Remember? The tavern? The amphitheater? Look how far we came! Now after you have reached beyond the end of your dreams, you just want to leave.”
�
�I am not leaving the gang or the path,” Masolon clarified. “What was the path in the first place? Was it not about helping the helpless? This is why I am leaving.”
“There is something you should bear in mind, Masolon,” said Frankil. “You can't leave on your own like this. You are now a commander who follows a Murasen lord. What if Feras returns and finds out that you have left without informing him?”
“That is why I am gathering you now.” Masolon turned his eyes between the three captains. “As I do not wish for any sort of turbulence in the gangs' duties, I want one of you to lead the men in my absence. Does anyone here have any problems about Frankil being my deputy?” He studied the faces of both Ziyad and Antram.
“It doesn't matter who leads as long as this is for the good of the gang,” said Ziyad. Sometimes he sounded wise when he spoke seriously.
“It doesn't matter who leads as long as it is not Ziyad,” Antram teased the Murasen fellow.
“Good.” That had gone smoother than Masolon expected. “Frankil,” he said, “who would you put in my place in the east?”
Frankil suggested Bergum. Masolon explained the way he spread his troops in the eastern part of Kahora, stressing the need to guard that small town called Burdi because of one noble lady residing there.
While Masolon was filling his horse’s saddlebag before his long journey to Rusakia, Blanich passed by him at the market. “The brothers in the tavern say you are heading home. My home I mean.” Blanich smiled.
“True. Do you want to join me?”
“Not yet. I just wanted to remind you to take heavy clothes for the journey. What you saw in the Contest was summer, and you saw it in Durberg, not Sabirev. Autumn will be too cold for a foreigner like you. And of course, I don't need to warn you not to stay there until winter comes. Rusakian winter is only for Rusakians.”
“I will remember that. Are you sure you do not want to join me?”
“Not yet,” Blanich mused. “But I will appreciate it if you pass by old Anna in Durberg. She lives by the Frozen Lake. Tell her I'm fine. Tell her I'll be back when I'm ready.”
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