by K. C. May
“You acted rashly and against my direct order.”
Daia gaped at her across the backs of the draft horses between them. “Rashly? What do you call what you did, then? Screaming like a madwoman and going after the first beyonder without even discussing our plan first?”
“Talk, talk, talk,” Cirang said, wagging her head side to side. “I’m about action. While you stood around wanting to talk, I was trying to kill the thing.”
“And when you failed,” Daia said, “I took the initiative and finished the job while you sat there, talking.” She couldn’t contain her anger or her contempt any longer. If the merchant and his daughter hadn’t been there, Daia would have pulled Cirang off her horse and pounded some sense into her.
“My actions didn’t result in the loss of a horse and the possible loss of human lives--”
“Stop, please,” Yardof broke in with an embarrassed laugh. “We did not get hurt, we lost none of our goods. Our journey was merely delayed a short while. I don’t see any fault in Miss Daia’s actions, and she did return in time to save Miss JiNese.”
“Shut up. This is none of your business,” Cirang said.
“Cirang,” Daia warned.
“Enough. The matter’s closed.”
Chapter 12
While Brodas sat at his desk, writing in his journal, Warrick fidgeted in the chair beside him. Brodas wrote, The guild mistress suffered an unfortunate accident, which left the Viragon Sisterhood in the capable hands of the former captain, Lilalian. Thankfully, Lilalian and I have mutual respect for one another and see eye-to-eye on the most important matters. The amulet she wears close to her heart proves her devotion to me.
Warrick tapped on the desk, drawing a crease between Brodas’s lowering brows.
I am eager to learn how the women of the Sisterhood took the news of Aminda’s death. Their reactions could well divide them as a group and
“Brodas.”
“What is it?” he replied, unable to hide the irritation in his voice. He’d wanted to finish his journal entry before their guest arrived.
Warrick cleared his throat. “I’m not in the habit of asking you for anything I can get myself,” he said. “But if you would use your, ah, influence to--”
“You want the captain? Pardon me -- the guild mistress?” Brodas asked. He blotted the quill and set it on an oblong wooden plate before looking up, his index fingers tip to tip against his mouth to hide a slight grin. The man was so predictable.
“That is, if you don’t want her for yourself.”
Brodas put his hands up. “No, no. Not that one. I prefer a more refined lady, one who doesn’t stomp around like a man. A lady who was well-brought up and knows how to curtsey in the presence of her lord.” Warrick’s relieved smile was not lost on Brodas. “Give it time, Warrick,” he said. “She has a lot to cope with right now after what has happened, not to mention what I am about to ask of her.”
“I know, but... Brodas have you truly looked upon her? She’s beautiful beyond comparison. Her eyes are brown like fertile dirt, her mouth looks like fruit ripe enough to pluck; her hair’s like the color of... of... fresh straw, and her bosom. So firm and round -- the perfect size for each of my hands. I hunger for her like no man has ever hungered for a woman.”
Brodas chuckled. He hoped Warrick did not consider his description poetic enough to share with the lady. “And you shall have her. Right now, we need her for our larger plans, and when all is settled and in place, you may bed her or wed her or anything you like. Too soon and people who are close to her might suspect something’s amiss. I urge you to find patience, and she will be my gift to you. Now, what’s the time?”
Warrick stood. “The tenth hour’s near. She will be here soon. How’s my hair?”
Brodas laughed as he stood and clapped Warrick’s arm. “Your hair looks fine.”
“What about her resistance?”
“Resistance to what?” Brodas asked, cocking his head.
“You did murder her guild mistress in front of her.”
Brodas chuckled and raised his ring to his mouth, then huffed a warm breath onto the stone and buffed it with the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m guessing she won’t remember it quite that way.”
When Lilalian arrived at the manor a short time later, Brodas welcomed her as he would an old friend, with a quick embrace and light kiss on her cheek. Her smile seemed genuine, and her eyes twinkled with her laugh. Warrick likewise greeted her, and she gifted him with a kiss of her own on the corner of his mouth. Warrick winked at Brodas, but he would be pleased to know Brodas had done nothing to encourage her.
“Come into the sitting room and let us talk about our plans,” Brodas said. He gestured to the left and followed her in, then signaled to the manservant to bring refreshments.
“How have you been?” Warrick asked. He sat on the sofa beside her, draping his arm across its back. “How did the women of the Sisterhood take the tragic news about Aminda?”
Lilalian bowed her head. “Of course, everyone was saddened to learn she’d choked on her food. We held a memorial, and many of the women made offerings to Yrys to guide her to the next plane, in the Afterlife.”
“Yrys, yes,” Brodas said. “I had heard many of the Sisters revere the Farthan god. I’d like to know more of that someday, but we’ll leave that conversation for another time. Did anyone challenge your story?”
Lilalian cocked her head. “No, why would they?”
“Well, because you both were wearing different clothes when you returned than when you had left earlier in the evening,” Brodas said. Admittedly, he’d been eager to test her, to test the amulet. Make sure his control was solid.
“It’s the truth,” she insisted. “You were here -- you tried to save her.”
Brodas smiled and shot Warrick a look that said ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ “It occurred to me some might think it was a story you concocted to usurp Aminda’s position.”
One corner of Lilalian’s mouth went up. “If some think that, they wouldn’t be foolish enough to suggest it aloud. It was an unfortunate way for such an excellent warrior to meet her end. We all hope for a glorious death in battle, but these things happen.”
“Indeed,” Brodas said. “I am certain your women are all strong and capable, and receive excellent instruction in swordplay. But perhaps you can clarify something I have been wondering about.”
“Certainly.”
“I heard rumor the eldest daughter of the Lordover Tern is a member of your guild. Is that true?”
Lilalian nodded. “She was formerly known as Dashielle Celònd. Her battler name’s Daia Saberheart.”
“Is she the lovely lady with the magnificent gift?”
Lilalian cocked her head. “Gift? She’s a gifted battler, if that’s what you mean.”
“No, I mean her gift of channeling...” Perhaps Lilalian did not know about the woman’s unique talent. He let a smile turn his lips. “Never mind. I must have been mistaken. I have no doubt that, as a Viragon Sister, she’s a woman of strength, courage and integrity, but as a noble, I expect she also has the grace of a lady - an intriguing combination. I would like to meet her.” As Dashielle Celònd, she would be an ideal candidate for his queen. As Daia Saberheart, she would undoubtedly be resistant to the demands of her master and would need a heavy hand to keep her in line. Yes. Brodas would like very much to meet her.
Lilalian raised an eyebrow. “She’s away on a mission, but once she returns I could arrange an introduction.”
“Thank you. Now that you are guild mistress,” Brodas said, “I hope you can help me with my own plans. As I mentioned last time you were here, I will become Thendylath’s next king, and I’d like to take the throne with you standing strong by my side. You and the Viragon Sisterhood. Will you aid me in my pursuit?”
As Brodas had instructed, the manservant entered then with three glasses of wine on a silver tray. Lilalian took one of them and raised it toward her host. “It would give me great pleasure
to do so. The collective swords of the Sisterhood are at your beck and call.”
“Wonderful.” Brodas held up his own wine glass and waited while Warrick took his. “To our new alliance.”
While Brodas and Warrick sipped the toast, Lilalian tossed her entire glassful back and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “You always have the best wine,” she said, holding out her glass to the manservant.
“I shall fetch the bottle,” the servant replied as he bowed out of the room.
Brodas pasted a smile onto his face. She was utterly without refinement, but that mattered little. Being head of the largest battler’s guild in the country gave her as much charm as she needed.
“Now then,” he said. “The first thing I’d ask of you and your lady battlers is to put a watch on the Rune Cave. Position a few of your battlers near the entrance at all times and keep a constant vigil.”
“You don’t want anyone to enter? How will the rune solver get the King’s Blood-stone then?”
“Oh, I don’t want you to keep him out of the cave. I simply want you to watch it from a safe - and hidden - distance. Once he solves the fourth rune, apprehend him and bring him to me. When he deciphers the final rune and reveals its secrets to me, I will go myself to the cave and claim the King’s Blood-stone.”
Lilalian nodded. “I see. But what if he won’t talk?”
“He’ll talk,” Warrick said.
Brodas smiled. “I can be very persuasive. Just find him and bring him to me, unharmed, and I’ll do the rest.”
Chapter 13
Through the trees, Gavin strained to see the pair of boys in the clearing ahead. They appeared to be engaged in a bizarre dance – first stretching, then jumping, ducking and turning. As Gavin and his mount drew closer, he saw that the boys, Jaesh and Asiawyth, were tossing a ball back and forth while trying to keep one foot anchored in place on the ground.
They were so wrapped up in their game that Gavin’s approach went unnoticed. He climbed down from the saddle and looped the reins of Golam’s bridle around a branch. Slowly, so as not to make a sound – and hoping Golam wouldn’t give him away with a snort or whinny – Gavin crept toward them. He sneaked from tree to tree until he was about twenty feet behind Asiawyth. Jaesh saw him then, and threw the ball high over Asiawyth’s head to his new target. The younger boy turned with surprise.
“Uncle Gavin! It’s Uncle Gavin!”
The boys broke into a run toward him. Gavin opened his arms to brace for the impact. When they rammed him with a rough embrace, he let out a hearty “Ooof!” to give his nephews a giggle.
While ten-year-old Asiawyth fired questions about where he’d been and what killers and monsters he’d slain and how gruesome their deaths had been, his elder brother, Jaesh, led Golam by the reins, stroking the thick neck as they walked to the house.
Rogan and Gavin, with the boys’ help, had built it three years ago when Rogan claimed and cleared this land and moved his family from Lalorian. Living in a heavily forested rural community, Rogan had ready access to all the wood he needed, and his reputation as a fletcher followed. They’d built the home of stacked logs, like one his wife had fallen in love with near Paradise City, and large enough to have separate kitchen and greatroom, a private-room for bathing, and three bedrooms. All along, Rogan and Liera had intended the third bedroom for Gavin to sleep in, hoping to persuade him to stay permanently. They didn’t understand Gavin’s life was helping others. His refusal had left them hurt and disappointed, but he visited more often now than when they’d lived in Lalorian, a city that reminded him too well of his loss.
Asiawyth burst through the door to announce Gavin’s arrival. Gavin followed and breathed in the delicious scent of roasting mutton. Rogan’s log home, with its wood-beamed sloping ceilings and stone fireplace that yawned and stretched to the roof, and the frayed blue and gold rug on the wood floor, felt like the warm arms of a mother embracing her children.
“Uncle Gavin,” a small voice cried.
On the sofa lay Rogan’s youngest son. His right leg, splinted and bandaged, rested on pillows.
Gavin went to one knee beside the couch and returned his nephew’s fierce hug. “GJ, what’d you do to yourself?”
“I fell out o’the loft. Me and Asiawyth were playing, and I lost my balance. It hurts terrible, Uncle Gavin.”
“I don’t doubt it. But you’ve always been tough. You’ll get through this. Have you seen a healer?”
GJ nodded. “She couldn’t fix the bone, though, just the in-fleck-shin.”
Gavin leaned forward and kissed the eight-year-old’s head. “Infection? You’ll be awright then. Drink plenty o’pain tea.” GJ made a sour face, and Gavin laughed. “Yeh, I know.”
Rogan’s wife, Liera, came in through the back door and set a bucket of water on the floor. A kerchief held back her curly brown hair to reveal a freckled forehead and blue eyes. “Gavin, you’re home,” she said, her arms extended. He lifted her from her feet and gave her a twirl and a kiss on the cheek. She made her usual comments about his being too lean, his clothes too threadbare, and his face unshaven. “But your timing’s perfect,” she said. “I was just about to call Rogan in for supper.” She beckoned him to follow her to the kitchen.
Gavin rubbed his palms together. “I have an instinct for arriving at meal time.” He set his sword and cuirass in a corner of the great room before joining her in the kitchen. His two older nephews trailed behind. “Where’s the old man?”
Jaesh pointed toward the back window. “Out back, working. We aren’t allowed back there.” His voice cracked on the edge of an early manhood.
Gavin squeezed the back of Jaesh’s neck. The soft fuzz on his lip grew in dark. It wasn’t so long ago Liera was puking every ten minutes, and now the babe in her womb was becoming a man. Gavin could hardly believe thirteen years had passed. “Are you shaving yet?”
Jaesh giggled. “No,” he said shyly.
“Won’t be long.” Gavin bent down and peered out the tiny back window. He did not see his brother, only a hill of dirt. Rogan’s head bobbed up from the ground and a spray of dirt shot up toward the growing mound. “What’s the hole for?”
Liera took some tomatoes from a basket and began slicing them. “You know Rogan. Always working on this or that. Why don’t you go out and tell him supper’s ready.”
Gavin walked across the backyard toward the treeline where Rogan worked. One of the three hogs, its sparse, wiry hair crusted with mud, approached the fencing as he neared, snuffling and snorting for food. Two chickens fluttered out of his path and squawked indignantly. The hole was roughly six feet deep and about as wide. Gavin squatted at the edge and looked down at his brother, dirty, shirtless and sweaty, wrestling to dislodge a big rock from the bottom. “You need a hand with that?”
Rogan snapped his head up, his dark curly locks flinging sweat. His wide mouth, framed by a neatly trimmed beard, opened into a smile to reveal straight white teeth. “Little Brother,” he said, standing. “You’ve been gone too damned long this time. Help me out o’this hole, will you?”
Gavin gripped his hand and helped Rogan clamber out of the hole, then pulled him into a tight embrace with much back-pounding and laughter. He patted Rogan’s belly. “Getting an early start on winter?”
Rogan grabbed him and made as though to punch him, but Gavin anticipated the move and twisted out of his grasp, tapping the side of Rogan’s head as he danced out of reach. “You’re slowing down, old man.”
“Not too old to take you over my knee, boy,” Rogan said with a wry smile.
Gavin grinned at his brother’s jest, reminded of a time long ago when Rogan had tried to discipline the twelve-year-old Gavin for his mischief. With Cuttor Kinshield only three months in his grave, Gavin had frequently acted up out of frustration, guilt, and the pain of missing his papa. Rogan, five years older and newly married, had tried at first to act as a father to his young brother. They’d fought that day, not as boys in rough play, but as men. Roga
n had learned he would never replace Cuttor as Gavin’s father, and Gavin learned he had to grow up a little earlier than he’d have liked.
Rogan wiped the sweat from his brow and clapped Gavin’s arm. “So how the hell’ve you been?” The brothers spent a few minutes catching up on the recent events of their lives. Rogan’s life was nine parts hard work and one part play, but he had what Gavin missed most: a close-knit family that warmed the heart even on the coldest winter nights.
“So what’s this... hole you’re digging?” Gavin asked.
“I need to move the out-building. Old one’s about full.”
“So what’re we standing around for, gabbing like old ladies?” Gavin asked, stripping off his shirt. “You got another shovel?”
Liera stuck her head out from the open back door. “Don’t you get in that hole, Gavin Kinshield,” she hollered. “It’s time for supper. Come in now and wash up.”
During supper, Gavin entertained the family with stories of his adventures. Afterward, he helped Liera wash and dry the dishes while Rogan ushered the boys to their baths. After his two older nephews had gone to bed, Gavin sat on the couch with GJ.
“Tell me a story, Uncle Gavin?” GJ asked. His little voice shook. His leg must have hurt terribly. Liera handed her son a cup of warm gray water. It looked horrible and smelled worse, but the herbs in it were well-known for their pain-relieving properties. “I don’t want to drink it, Mama. It tastes awful.”
“Do I need to get the drenching horn?” Liera asked, eyeing him sideways.
GJ downed the liquid without further complaint, handed the cup back to his mother, and laid his head on Gavin’s thigh. Liera and Rogan bid them goodnight and ambled toward their bedroom. Gavin blew out the lamp and stroked GJ’s soft hair, disturbed at how warm his forehead felt. He whispered the stories he used to tell his daughter of bards in colorful costumes and ladies in long flowing gowns; of lordovers and men-at-arms and challenges of honor. Gradually, his nephew drifted to sleep.
