by J. M. Frey
And so, we begin the day with another of Bevel’s stunning culinary masterpieces. For all that I am annoyed by their closeness, I am inordinately pleased that Bevel has chosen to take over the preparation of our meals. While Pip and I had done our best, Bevel’s cuisine is extremely delicious, and makes use of the abundance of wild vegetation en route. I haven’t had as much time as Bevel to study which plants are edible, and which are poisonous; which have tuber roots that can be cooked; which have berries, and how to prepare them; and which nuts are easy to harvest and consume on horseback.
Morning ablutions are done swiftly in the stream. Pip takes the first turn, alone, and I desperately do not want to her to go, but Kintyre holds me back with one meaty paw on my shoulder and a sad, slow headshake. “Give her some breathing room,” he suggests.
Loathe as I am to follow any advice given to me by my brother, Bevel backs him up, and so I stay. I sit stiffly on the steps of the portico, one hand on Smoke’s hilt, one ear turned toward the water, honed to the distant splashes and the soft, sharp gasps and cusses the chill of the stream wrings from Pip. Bevel laughs at me, dark eyes dancing, but the laughter is, for once, not cruel.
Is it that Bevel has ceased teasing? Or is it that my perception of Bevel has shifted?
Pip comes back from the stream with dripping hair, wringing it out over her shoulder as she walks, her teeth chattering. Her lips are vaguely blue, and if I were still her lover, I would go over and wrap her in my arms, chafe them to get the blood flowing, and kiss the life back into her mouth. Instead, I stand, sweep my pack into my arms, tighten my sword belt buckle, and make my silent way past her and toward the stream, head held high for fear of meeting her eyes and sending her a pleading look that becomes neither the Lordling of a Chipping nor the Shadow Hand.
Kin says something about my sword as I go, but I don’t care to hear it. It is probably lewd, at any rate. I wash perfunctorily, especially since I decided I didn’t need a shave yesterday, and I am barely on my way back to camp when the two naked forms of Kintyre and Bevel go whizzing by, laughing uproariously and splashing affectionately.
The jealousy of yesterday curdles into a loathing that resembles the hatred I’d felt toward Kintyre and Bevel’s past visits to Turn Hall. How dare they play, and feel joy, and be in love when I—the good son, the wise son—suffer in misery!
Pip preoccupies herself with packing up her back and coddling Karl.
When I am dressed—and wrapped once again in my scarf and the spare cloak, leaving the Shadow Cloak for Pip—I make my way over to the horses to similarly spoil Dauntless. He is a very grateful recipient of my attentions and currycomb, his mane damp from the perpetual mist and his skin bunching and shivering, communicating quite clearly how ready he is to be clear of here. Kintyre and Bevel rode no horses, but the ghost of Stormbearer, Kintyre’s lost steed, seems to linger around the camp. I never got the full story of the horse’s glorious last hours, but I remember very keenly the way Kintyre and I had climbed the paddock fence as children to watch Stormbearer’s late mother grunt, and pace, and squat, and finally push the shaky dark foal out. Dauntless had come of the same dam several years later, though of a more pedestrian breed of stud.
A sharp sadness breaks against my ribs like a cresting wave, and I swallow hard. Poor, loyal Stormbearer.
I turn to Pip to share this anecdote with her, to expand her understanding of the world of the Writer. “Pip—” I begin, but she raises a hand without turning her face to me.
“Not yet,” is all she says. Then she presses her forehead against Karl’s wide cheek, and I am struck, for the first time, with jealousy for a horse.
Between Pip’s reluctance to speak and the delighted laughter of my brother and his lover, I am left grinding my teeth and swallowing back both a sour expression and a sour taste. I spend the remainder of the time packing Bevel and Kintyre’s gear, leaving out the garments that smell the least offensive. I don’t even know if they brought towels or anything to cover their modesty to the riverbank, and have to clamp down on the reflexive urge to yell down to the water and reprimand my brother for his lack of forethought, again.
I disassemble the fire circle, close up the tomb, and then sit on the steps investigating a block of wood that I found amid the jumble of my brother’s things. After a cursory glance, I realize that it is the beginnings of a wood carving stamp. Bevel’s scrolls are adorned with such illustrations, and it occurs for me that, for the first time, they are the product of Kintyre Turn, and not, as I’d thought, the Bynnbakker scribe-house that manufactures copies of Bevel’s stories.
When Kintyre and Bevel return, flushed with the cold and laughter, wrapped only in their cloaks and leaving very little to my imagination, Kintyre makes an annoyed sound. “Oh look, Forssy’s packed for us. Just like him to be so boss—”
Bevel grabs Kintyre by the ponytail and stops his insult with a kiss, which I, not that anyone asks me, think savors too much of a reward and too little of a reproach. All the same, Bevel dons the clothing I left out for him. Kintyre accepts all but the shirt and goes back into his pack for one that is visibly no different to me than the one I laid out. This is Kintyre being contrary just to be contrary, and I open my mouth to harangue him about it, but Pip clears her throat pointedly and looks at me. I’ve become quite intimate with that look these last few weeks and snap my mouth shut. It is more reflex than conscious choice, and I reflect with only the slightest resentment that I have been well trained.
Pip obviously wants me to consider my words before I speak, and I cast my mind back to decipher what it is that I was about to say that would have caused strife. It would have been nothing that I have not said to Kintyre before, and—oh. Yes. Last night’s eavesdropped conversation. Kintyre resents my “bossy” ways, and I was just about to . . . well. That’s uncomfortable.
Rather than saying anything at all, I shoot Pip a return look which I hope conveys my gratitude and hoist my pack up to buckle it onto Dauntless’s saddle. Kintyre and Bevel, with many years of practice, are ready to go before Pip and I, despite their later start. With Kintyre and Bevel on foot, we tie their packs to Karl and Dauntless and take to walking with them.
We emerge from the Valley around noon, the mist behind us and the sun burning away the lingering dampness from our hair and clothing. The horses perk up, heads high and steps dancing, and it seems that they are as pleased to be away from the depressive atmosphere of the tombs as we are.
A quick stop to consult the Excel and my map, and for Bevel to distribute venison jerky with a thoughtless ease that makes me think this is his “we’re taking a rest” habit, and we are headed down the road to the narrow strip of Stoat Forest that marches up to meet the foothills of the Cinch Mountains.
The conversation between us as we ride remains stilted and mostly absent. Pip spends much of the time chewing her bottom lip, thinking. What I wouldn’t give for a Deal-Maker spirit of my own, so I could bargain to know her thoughts. Though, knowing Deal-Makers, the price would be something so high, something so precious, that someone such as I could never hope to pay it. Pip’s lip itself has grown chapped, red with sores and last night’s scab, and I want to kiss them away, kiss her to keep her from harming herself further. But every time I touch her, even accidentally, she flinches so violently that Karl snorts and dances away.
We pass into the cool darkness of the trees a few hours before sunset. There is a debate between Kintyre and Bevel about whether it is better to turn back and camp on the forest’s edge, where the sightlines are clearer, or whether it is better to do so in the shelter of the forest. Normally, I would be angry with Kintyre for presuming to speak for me, to make decisions for me, but right now, I do not have the capacity to care. I am tired, footsore, and heart-weary. Or maybe just plain weary.
All I want right now is some wine, my bedroll, and Pip to curl and cuddle against me. As we’re out of wine, and the latter is out of the question, I will have to content myself with just the bedroll. If only
our companions could decide where it should go.
The forest path is narrow, and the sunlight slants amber and gold through the leaves. We walk in single file with me at the head and Kintyre at the tail, Pip and Bevel between us. Which, in retrospect, was a foolish thing to do.
When the rogue steps out from between the trees and blocks my way, I can only stop in my tracks, sigh, and pinch the bridge of my nose. His sword is up, the blade pocked with rust, and he has the hood of his dagged-hem leather cowl pulled theatrically low over his brow. There seems to be an overabundance of buckles on his high boots and a tangle of belts slung across his narrow hips, and I wonder how he stalks through the forest without getting caught in the brambles with every step. Obviously, he’s learned how to walk softly enough that all the metal on his clothing doesn’t click and give him away.
All in all, he’s the most clichéd portrait of a bandit I have ever had the misfortune to meet.
Usually, King Carvel’s rangers deal with such brigands, keeping the roads clear for travelers. Whoever is meant to be patrolling Stoat Forest just earned himself a very severe demotion.
The rogue says nothing, just stands there looking threatening, and, from the back of the line, I hear Kintyre and Bevel’s nattering cut off and the soft, unmistakable metallic hiss of Foesmiter being unsheathed.
“Forssy?” Kin asks from behind me.
“A thief, I assume,” I answer back.
The man before me twitches, his sword wavering.
A sort of choked howl breaks across the still air of the forest, and I realize that it is Bevel laughing, and trying not to. “A thief!” he chortles. “Really? Let me see!”
He crashes through the underbrush to stand beside me, and now the rogue’s posture goes tense. He takes a step back, sword tip flicking between me and Bevel.
“Your money, or your lives,” the rogue intones, and his voice is low, deliberately low and gravelly, and he sounds like a boy playacting at being a man.
This sends Bevel into another fit of poorly contained hysterics, and he has his hand clapped over his mouth, his face going red behind it. “Come on, boy!” he giggles. “This is something you want to do, here? Now?”
The rogue wavers.
“I must point out something very pertinent,” I say, flicking back the edge of my cloak so the unmistakable hilt of Smoke—the Shadow Hand’s sword—is visible. The rogue makes a choking noise that, unlike Bevel’s, has nothing to do with him laughing. “And, of course, this man beside me is Sir Bevel Dom.”
The rogue actually stumbles backward this time, his hood sliding back to reveal a face dark with scruff and dirt, and pale with realization.
“I—I . . .” he says.
“Let us pass, young man, and we will all completely forget that this ever happened,” I say, voice carefully modulated to remain soft and calm. Behind me, Dauntless whickers and noses my shoulder, bored.
Instead of taking me up on the offer, the idiot raises his sword at Bevel.
“No,” I say. “That is not the wise choice.”
“Your money, or your lives,” the rogue demands again.
“Listen,” Pip pipes up, and I turn my head slightly to see that she’s got herself half up a tree beside the path in order to see what’s going on, Karl’s reins wrapped loosely around a nearby limb. “Whatever you’re stealing for—to feed your family, or to buy medicine for your ailing mother, or to pay off ruffians threatening to burn your village’s crops—trust me when I say that this is not a fight you want to have. You will not win it. Why not let us help you instead?”
“Miss Piper,” Kintyre says. “A side-quest?”
“We have seventeen days,” Pip replies. “Surely there’s time to roust some ruffians, right?”
The rogue draws himself up, insulted. “There aren’t any—” he begins indignantly, voice squeaking. “I mean, my life is none of your concern! You should be more worried about yours!”
“Oh, by the Great Writer,” Kintyre groans, and the slam of Foesmiter back into its sheath rings out. The unnatural hush of the forest has begun to give way to the joyfully noisy business of birds calling out to their offspring and mates, the musical avian equivalent of: “time to come in and wash behind your ears, now!”
The rogue, evidently done waiting for us to cut the strings of our coin purses for him, makes a move toward Bevel. Almost faster than I can see, Bevel’s got the lad on his back in the underbrush, the tip of his sword gently dimpling the soft underside of the rogue’s chin.
“Now we have a problem,” Bevel says, and his voice is low, dark, and filled with the kind of steel that I’ve only ever glimpsed in him once or twice before. Pip’s earlier assessment of Bevel Dom as an unreliable narrator sparks in my memory, and I can see where, perhaps, Bevel is of far greater help and a much bigger threat to their enemies than he chooses to share in his tales. I wonder if this is modesty, or a deliberate ploy on the part of Bevel to make those foes who might read his words underestimate him when they meet.
Contrary to what I would expect, the boy-rogue just grins up at the grim granite of Bevel’s glower, his mouth spreading wide and eyes crinkling in cattish amusement. “I’ll say!” he crows, and there is a crash in the underbrush.
“The bags!” Pip shouts, leaning down from the tree, knuckles white around her stabilizing branch.
Karl, startled by the way his burden suddenly drops to the ground with a whump and a crunch, rears and stomps the path.
“Peace, beast!” Kintyre bellows, startling Karl even more. The horse backs into him, and Kintyre has a job of keeping Karl from trampling him, trying to calm him from behind.
“Forsyth!” Pip shouts. “There’s a . . . thief? Oh my god! It’s a—hey! Oof!” Pip goes flying back into the trunk of a tree, and I duck under Dauntless—who is finding all the excitement only minorly irritating, if the twitch of his ears is anything to tell by—and rush to her side.
“I’m fine!” she snaps. “The bags!”
A flash of red, bright and sharp, catches my eye. Scales glint in the shards of sunlight that pierce the veil of the trees, a low, sibilant hiss filling the air. Another rending tear, and the crash and crunch of our gear being scattered along the path, and then a triumphant roar that sounds like a hundred eggs being cracked into a hundred spitting frying pans.
Dragon!
There is the whip crack of leather wings, and then Pip is down the tree and off like a shot, after the creature.
“Pip! Are you mad?” I howl after her, reaching out to try to pull her to a halt. My fingers brush her back, but I can gain no grip.
“The Chalice!” Kintyre shouts from somewhere behind us. “Bev, the blasted creature took the Chalice!”
And now, looking ahead, I can see the vitally important cup clenched in one of the dragon’s forepaws. The denseness of the forest and it’s awkward three-legged gait have slowed the creature down enough for me to see that it is small still—no taller than Dauntless, no longer than fifteen lengths at most. It is still quite young, probably not even out of its first century yet.
I reach for Pip again, fearful that the dragonet will spit fire back over its shoulder at us, but Pip is faster than me. Pip’s jogs have conditioned her to running, and she speeds, now, after the horrible little lizard, as she once did after Lordling Gyre.
There is a crash and a howl behind me, the frightened whinny of Karl, and then Kintyre is shouting: “To one side, Brother!” I flatten myself against the brush, and Kintyre speeds past me, Foesmiter flashing. I follow at his heels.
“How fortuitous to meet you in my forest!” the drakeling hisses, rounding suddenly in the middle of what appears to be a close clearing. “I’ve waited an age to have you between my claws, Kintyre Turn! Murderer!”
A trap! We’ve been led solidly and stupidly right into a trap. Now, the drakeling has room to maneuver, and it rears back and slashes at Kintyre. Pip skids to a halt on the edge of the clearing, and I fetch up behind her. She grabs my hand, but I do not k
now if it is out of fear, or awe, or to keep me from charging into the area with Kintyre.
I am swift with Smoke, but my sword does not have the heft and strength of Foesmiter. To go in there would mean a broken blade for me, and potentially my death or that of my brother if he is distracted in defending me. No, I am smart enough to know when I am outmatched.
Pip strains forward, shouting. “Stop! Both of you, please, stop!”
“Murderer, murderer!” the drakeling snarls, as each of its strikes are turned back.
“Forsyth!” Bevel shouts from behind me, and it is just enough warning for me to shove Pip and I to the side to avoid the wide arc of the rogue lad’s sword. There is blood on his chin and fury in his face as he slashes at us, clumsy in his anger.
“You leave her be!” he snarls. “You’ve done enough!”
“You’re the one hacking at me,” I snarl back. “Stand down or I shall—”
I needn’t finish telling him what I shall do because, in an instant, Bevel has the boy flat on his face in the dirt, the tip of his sword pressing into the soft flesh at the back of his neck. He is sitting on the boy’s waist, his hands pinned to his sides at the wrist by Bevel’s knees.
“Let’s try this again,” Bevel says.
The drakeling makes a moaning hiss, like a geyser, at the sight of the boy-rogue so pinned, and brings its paw down hard on Kintyre’s shoulder. It is enough to knock Foesmiter from his grip and flatten my brother under it.
“Kintyre!” I shout, knowing it’s ridiculous to do so but unable to refrain all the same.
“Stop! Stop! Everyone stop!” Pip bellows.
I don’t know if it is the power of a thrice-given command or just the volume of her voice that makes everyone freeze in place, but it works. Beneath the dragon’s hand, Kintyre coughs, and the drakeling arches it’s paw just enough to keep him pinned in place beneath its claws but allowing him to breathe. Bevel makes the same courtesy for the rogue, leaning up enough for the boy to get his face out of the dirt and hack up dust.
