by Lee Bezotte
Dulnear wrapped his arm around the woman’s shoulder and the two of them wept together until they ran out of tears and just laid there quietly. Eventually, Faymia asked, “It’s getting late. Would you like me to cook the squirrel?”
“No,” the man answered. “I am just fine as I am.”
The woman stayed where she was and closed her red, swollen eyes.
Soon, the day faded completely and they both fell asleep. It was a sound sleep, the best the man from the north had enjoyed since leaving Laor.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HOME NO MORE
Days later, Dulnear and Faymia made their way out of the gradually fading woods that opened up to lush, rolling country. The gray, cool, late afternoon sky stretched over fields of grass and grain, and large homes and barns could be seen in the far distance.
As they stood and gazed out over the new landscape, the woman whispered, “It’s beautiful here.”
“This is Tuas-arum,” the warrior said with sentimentality in his voice. “And why are you whispering?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ve just never seen a view so peaceful-looking.” She paused, then added, “I guess I was just expecting something else.”
“Did you think men would be running about, chasing each other with torches and swords?” he asked in jest.
Faymia gave an embarrassed smile and said, “Maybe a little.”
“The beauty of this place is what made it so difficult for me to leave,” the man from the north explained. “You cannot see them yet, but beyond these rolling hills are the Petraig Mountains, the most majestic mountains in Aun. I have spent much time climbing and exploring them. It is where I learned to forage, and camp.”
The runaway slave looked over the landscape with a puzzled expression, then asked, “Are there no roads?”
Amused by her question, Dulnear explained, “Yes, we have roads, and cities, too. However, we are staying far from them. If I were to be seen, word that I am here would travel to Tromdel’s family faster than I would like it to, and I would very much like to visit my estate first.”
“I understand,” the woman said. “At least we’re not traveling through the forest anymore.”
“Yes, but we will need to stay within the edges of it tonight. I would not want anyone to see our campfire. If the owner of this land found us, he would likely assume we are members of a rival clan and assault us before we had a chance to explain why we are here,” he said.
As the two made camp amidst a cluster of trees, Dulnear worked with a nervous energy. Being in his homeland gave him strength, but his purpose for being there filled him with sadness. It was a paradox of feeling that caused him to wish his heart would choose one or the other.
As Faymia used the waning daylight to find berries, the northern warrior stoked the fire and imagined what it was going to be like when he walked on his own land again. He thought about the huge oak tree that he’d persuaded his younger brother to jump from when they were children. He thought about the many hours spent learning from his father; and, when he concentrated hard, he could remember the face of his mother. As he grew older, the memories of her became harder to hold onto. Though she died giving birth to his brother, she forever held a special place in his heart.
Faymia appeared next to him with an armful of berries, pulling the man from his memories. They sat together sharing them quietly, looking into the fire. Eventually, the woman broke the silence. “How far is your house from here?” she asked.
“Not far,” he answered. “We should be there in two nights.” He then pointed to a place on the fading horizon and explained, “We are only a few estates away.”
As she wiped her hands on the grass, she looked at her friend and asked, “Do you miss your home?”
Dulnear inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “There is much to miss. But there is also much that I am happy to leave behind. Home, family, childhood friendships; these things shape a young life profoundly. But for me, these were irreparably broken, so I decided to seek out surroundings that call out better things from me.”
The woman paused for a moment with an understanding expression, then asked, “Was it difficult to leave?”
“Difficult like setting a badly broken bone is difficult,” he explained. “It hurts every day, but I know it was for the best.” Then he added, “If you do not set a broken leg properly, then you risk walking crooked for the rest of your life.”
“I know what you mean,” she said. “My mother was born with a bent foot. She told me that, every day, her father had to twist it in the proper direction. She hated the pain and would protest continually. But, if not for the painful twisting, she never would have been able to walk properly.”
The two sat a while longer, finishing their berries and watching the fire until the sky was completely dark. As they sat together, a question began to stir in Dulnear. “Faymia, if you had not become a slave, what would you have done?”
The question seemed to surprise her. She squinted at the fire, thought, and answered, “When I was a young girl, my mother had a friend that would take me hunting with him. I was terrified at first, but he taught me how to track an animal, how to move about without being heard, and how to skin and prepare it for dinner. That is when I caught my first squirrel. The man and my mother were not friends for very long, but I grew to love hunting in the short time that I knew him, and dreamt of doing it for the rest of my life.”
“I can definitely see you succeeding as a hunter,” the man from the north said with a smile. “You managed to follow me without being heard, and that is not easy.”
Faymia looked at her friend and smiled. “Well, thank you for aiming your knife at a tree instead of me,” she laughed.
With an awkward expression on his face, Dulnear asked, “Who said I was aiming at the tree?” and gave a chuckle.
“Do you mean you almost killed me?” Faymia replied, looking shocked.
The man from the north smiled and laughed. “I am making a joke,” he admitted.
The runaway slave exhaled with relief and shook her head. “You almost had me.”
Dulnear looked at Faymia’s face for a moment. “I am glad you ran away, and I am glad you followed me.”
The woman’s smile widened and she moved closer to the warrior. Together, they watched the fire until it was just a flicker in the night.
When Dulnear went to sleep that night, he had dreams of his home. They were not the usual dreams of turmoil or violence but of happy boyhood times and fond memories. They were dreams of peace.
Two days later, the travelers had reached Dulnear’s land. It was overgrown and neglected but situated on lush, rolling hills. Clusters of oak trees stood like giants huddled together for protection against the wind, and a hint of the Petraig Mountains could be seen in the distance.
When they stepped onto the grounds, the man from the north stopped, closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply. The smell of the air, the sound of the breeze, and the feel of the earth beneath his feet seemed to carry greater potency than they ever had before as memories of life there rushed to flood his mind.
“Are you okay?” Faymia asked.
“I suppose,” he answered. “It was over a season ago that I left here. It feels like longer, and it feels like less time. So much pain and happiness, I don’t know which to feel.”
The woman hugged his scarred arm and replied, “I wish there was something I could do to make this easier for you.”
The warrior looked at his friend and said with a wistful smile, “You already have.”
Faymia returned his smile and asked, “Where is your house?”
“Over the next hill,” he answered. “We should be there by dark.”
As the two walked slowly through the fields, Dulnear shared the stories of his life on the estate. He showed her where his family hosted parties, where he would like to hide and read as a boy, and the place where his father and brother died defending themselves from a nearby clan. “I do not even
know what they were fighting about,” he explained. “I had already begun to grow weary of the conflict and wanted to stay out of it. I often wonder how things would be different if I would have chosen to fight alongside them that day.” He had more to say about the matter but noticed that the sky was almost dark, so he suggested that they make their way to the house.
They approached it from the south side. The structure was more akin to a castle than a house. It stood three stories high and was made of stone. The roof was steep and covered in slate tiles, and the four corners of the house were guarded by high, pointed turrets. It was clearly built to withstand the onslaught of time and conflict, and had changed little since Dulnear was a boy. As they walked closer, an excitement rose up inside of him. He began to quicken his pace until something caught his eye that stopped him in his tracks.
“Do not move,” he whispered to Faymia as he held his arm out.
“What is it?” she quietly asked.
“Over there. Look in the second-floor window,” he said.
The woman strained her eyes. “What do you see?”
“Light flickering against the wall of the drawing room,” the man answered. “That should not be. Be very quiet, and we will get a little closer.”
The two crouched and moved silently toward the house. When they reached the thick, wild garden, the light became more visible, and Dulnear pointed it out to Faymia once more.
“I see it now,” she said, squinting. “What are we going to do?”
“We shall enter through the back,” the man from the north said. “I will find out who this intruder is.”
The two made their way to the eastern side of the house, which held the back entrance and an entrance to the kitchen. The large warrior went to go in through the back entrance and discovered that the lock had already been pried open. His nostrils flared, and anger began to grow at the thought of someone violating his home.
He ducked inside the house, with the woman close behind. The door opened to a narrow hallway, and on their left was another door that served as the entrance to a small room. It was pitch-black in the house, but the man from the north moved through it as though it were broad daylight.
On the far side of the room was a window, and under it was a small table holding a lantern and a tinderbox loaded with brimstone matches. Dulnear walked across to the window, felt for the matches, and lit the lantern, revealing a dusty library that looked as if it had not been touched for several seasons.
There was a large desk toward the east side of the room, and four padded leather chairs situated in the middle. There were well-stocked bookshelves covering the surface of all four walls, reaching almost to the ceiling. Resting on the tops of the bookshelves were what seemed to be trophies.
Faymia strained her eyes as she gazed at the objects lining the top of the shelves, then gasped, “Those look like hands!”
“They are hands,” the warrior replied with a measure of shame in his voice. “Here, it is customary to display the right hand of your fallen opponent, like a prize. It is a rather crude form of boasting. I am sorry that you had to see it.”
The woman looked across the tops of all of the bookshelves with eyes wide and mouth agape. “How many are there?” she asked.
The man from the north lowered his eyes and answered, “I do not know. Please do not judge me too harshly, though I will not blame you if you do. It is because of these sorts of things that I fled the north.”
Faymia swallowed and turned her eyes toward her friend. “It’s okay. I’m just not used to seeing such things. I know this isn’t you anymore.”
“Thank you,” the man said with a sigh. “There are many more throughout the house. Please do not be alarmed by them.” He continued, “Up the stairs is my father’s room. I will need to retrieve a few things from there before we confront this intruder. Be as quiet as you can.”
The woman nodded, and the two of them left the library and proceeded further down the narrow hallway. At the end of it was another door. Dulnear opened it slowly, keeping a keen eye out for unwelcome visitors. The door opened up to an expansive, wood-paneled foyer. To their right was a grand staircase, and beyond that was a dining room containing an enormous table and a wide stone fireplace.
The man from the north held out the lantern. Its light danced against the high ceiling, and large paintings and tapestries could be seen along the walls. They made their way to the staircase and slowly climbed it to the second floor. Each creak from the stairs caused his heart to race a little faster.
When they reached the second floor, the staircase opened up to a broad hallway before turning and continuing its ascent to the third floor. Dulnear dimmed the flame on his lantern and pointed to a door in front of them. They stealthily went through it and closed it behind themselves.
“This was my father’s chamber,” the man whispered. He raised the flame on his lantern again and looked around. It was a large room with an equal amount of paintings and weapons adorning the walls. There was a canopy bed in the center of the room and a wide wardrobe along the same wall as the entrance. The room looked mostly undisturbed, but the bed appeared to have been slept in.
Quietly, Dulnear opened the wardrobe and took out a long fur coat and a bag, much like the ones he had lost in the river. He smelled the coat, and memories of his father came over him as if they had happened earlier that day. He put it on and reached back into the wardrobe. He inhaled deeply and withdrew a sword that looked similar to the one he had lost. He examined the weapon, remembering his father’s fondness for the craftsmanship of the blade and the heft of the hilt. Noticing that his companion was watching with raised eyebrows and a focused gaze, he explained, “This is Renaire, my father’s sword. I placed it here when he died, and it hasn’t been touched since.”
“It is a fine sword,” she offered with an expression that said she wasn’t sure what to say.
“It has always been my favorite, besides my own,” the man from the north said as he strapped it around his waist, then covered it with the coat. He also took a couple of smaller swords off of the adjacent wall and concealed them as well. Then he surveyed the wall a bit further and took down a fierce-looking sword and smiled. “This one suits you,” he said as he handed it to his friend. “My mother and father had always hoped to give me a sister, and this was going to be hers.”
“I can’t,” Faymia responded. “It wouldn’t be right to take it.”
“I am the last of my family, and soon all of this will be abandoned,” Dulnear explained. “It would comfort me to know that a friend such as you had this.”
“Thank you,” she accepted humbly. As she strained to examine the weapon under the lantern light, she observed, “Your women must be large, much like the men.”
It dawned on Dulnear that the sword was too large for Faymia. “I am sorry,” he said. “Yes, our women are taller than southern women.” He then took a smaller sword from the wall and handed it to her. “This one looks just right.”
Faymia looked over the new sword and smiled, thanking the man. As she belted the sword around her waist, the northern warrior reached higher up the wall and took down a beautifully ornate wooden bow and a quiver stocked with arrows. “And no hunter would be properly equipped without a bow,” he said as he handed it to her.
Faymia’s eyes grew big as she took it and ran her fingers over the bow’s carvings. “I don’t know what to say,” she said gratefully.
“Just say that you will use it,” he said. It made the man feel good to show generosity, even in the midst of a trying situation.
“I will,” she said as she slung the quiver and bow over her shoulder. Just then, she noticed that Dulnear had an amused grin smeared across his face. “What’s so funny?” she asked.
“It is just that those child’s weapons are the perfect size for you,” he said.
Faymia chuckled in a low voice, “Well, we can’t all be overgrown hay burners,” she retorted playfully.
“Excuse me,” the
man said. “I may look like a horse, but, most days, I smell much better.”
Faymia covered her mouth to silence another giggle, and Dulnear enjoyed watching her try to hold it back. Just then, the sound of glass breaking could be heard from the drawing room down the hall.
They both froze for a moment, then the man from the north instinctively reached for the handle of Renaire while placing himself between the woman and the door. In the silence, he waited for the sound of footsteps to come, but none came.
“I am going to look in the drawing room,” he told his friend softly. “You wait here.”
Faymia reached out and squeezed the man’s arm. “I want to come too,” she said in a brave whisper.
“No. Please wait here,” he instructed, before handing off the lantern to her and reentering the hall.
Dulnear withdrew his father’s sword and held it ready as he made his way toward the flickering light that was coming from the drawing room. His palms became sweaty and he took a deep breath. He didn’t know who he was going to find, but he was determined to make them understand the lack of wisdom associated with forcing an entry into his house.
The warrior silently opened the drawing room door. He was moved by many more memories, and had to remind himself to remain focused. The room was lit by an oil lamp and a few mostly burned candles that flickered against the high walls. There were also glowing embers in the fireplace from a fire that had gone out earlier. There were large portraits covering the walls, several of which had been ruined by gashes across their faces. There were also bottles strewn about and an absurd amount of dirty dishes. The wall opposite the door held a large window that was bordered by a stuffed sofa and chair. Sleeping on the furniture were Thorndel and Brunnlyn, Tromdel’s brother and cousin.
CHAPTER NINE
A FUTILE GESTURE
’Tis an answer to my dilemma, Dulnear thought to himself. Those who would seek to harm me are asleep before me. I need only to slay them in their slumber and never return.
