Hero's Lot, The (The Staff and the Sword Book #2)

by Patrick W. Carr

  “Morning prayers.”

  The lieutenant gave a deep sigh. “Can you do it without looking like a priest?”

  Martin nodded. “Is there something about Refuge that you neglected to tell me?”

  Shal gave a brief shake of his head. “You’re an outsider. Whatever the council deems necessary to tell you about Haven, they will tell you. Until then, draw no attention to yourself.”

  Shal loaded a pack he’d dropped into the boat and followed it. He cupped a handful of red berries and popped them into his mouth.

  “Do you have any more?” Martin asked. The groaning of his stomach made him less courteous than usual.

  The lieutenant laughed. “Yes, but I don’t think you want any. These are chara berries. We use them to help fight off sleep—effective, but bitter.” He pointed to the pack. There’s cheese, bread, and water in the pack. It should last us the three days to the capital city.”

  After Martin ate, a process that took a considerable time, the boat’s gentle movements lulled him back to sleep. One day, he hoped to sleep in a bed again.

  30

  BLOOD ROSE

  LIGHTS FESTOONED the rolling hills of Count Rula’s estate. In honor of his daughter’s wedding, the count produced barrels of the finest wines his vineyards produced, and a steady stream of the area’s nobles rolled onto the estate by carriage. Men in tight-fitting hose and doublets with boots polished to a high sheen accompanied radiant women in the traditional dress of the region. Each man wore his sword, the thin dueling type, strapped to his waist. Every woman wore a chain of coins around her neck, a white blouse surmounted by a heavily embroidered vest, and a skirt belted with another chain of gold coins. Though each woman’s dress strongly resembled the rest, disparities remained that allowed Errol to perceive differences in wealth or status.

  Rokha and her father emerged from their self-imposed exile to attend. Errol breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed Naaman Ru kept his distance from the count. Rale stepped beside him, resplendent in an all-black outfit Rula provided for the occasion. Each member of the watch in Errol’s company was similarly attired.

  Except for Errol. Rula’s chamberlain had taken charge of Errol’s appearance, showing an attention to detail that Oliver Turing would have admired. Errol strove to keep himself from fidgeting in the finery; he was Rula’s guest, after all. As his host introduced him to each new arrival, he bowed politely. Men squinted at him, tomcats eyeing a rival, while women gave him speculative glances as they smiled and checked his hands.

  A raven-haired beauty with large brown eyes and olive skin, the daughter of a minor noble, gave him a smoldering look that made his ears burn. Errol stammered his greeting, then found himself being pulled aside by Rale.

  “How much do you know about Basquon weddings?” Rale asked.

  Errol shook his head.

  The captain winced. “Take care, lad. These people are as hot-tempered as they are hot-blooded. A wrong word and you’ll find yourself dueling or betrothed.”

  Errol swallowed with difficulty. “Did I do anything bad just now?”

  Rale laughed. “No, but be careful. Basquon weddings often flow red with more than just wine.”

  Errol gulped and kept his greetings perfunctory after that. His hands hung at his sides, empty, and for the first time in his life he wished he owned a sword. At least then he could rest one hand on the pommel as the other men did. Not for the first time, he reflected that the world would be a better place if more men used a staff. His two spans of ash would have been totally out of place at a wedding—even he realized that—but he missed it all the same.

  “Honored guests,” Rula said from atop a balcony overlooking the courtyard, “be welcome to the wedding of the flower of my life, my daughter, Elaia. Once you have refreshed yourself, we will begin our celebration in earnest.”

  Errol looked around trying to determine what he should do next, but Rale was nowhere to be found. He spotted Rokha surrounded by a cluster of women who all seemed intent on getting to know her. Of course. She would be a long-lost cousin to many of them.

  With a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and headed her way. She turned as he neared, warned by the glances her companions sent his way. Rokha dropped a perfect curtsy, her skirt flaring. “Earl Stone, how may I serve you?” The rest of the ladies mimicked Ru’s daughter. For a moment Errol felt sure they were making sport of him.

  “Uh, I was hoping you might spare a moment to advise me.” He stopped, unsure of how to address her. “Lady Ru.”

  Rokha’s full lips pursed in amusement as she rose, taking his arm. “Certainly, Earl Stone. Shall we walk?” Without waiting for an answer, she led Errol away.

  “I’m surprised you sought me out, Errol,” Rokha said once they were beyond earshot of the other guests. “I’m sure your princess looks ravishing tonight. That golden hair of hers will make her stand out like a peacock among ravens.”

  Errol scratched his head. “I can’t tell from one moment to the next what she’s thinking. Ever since we left Erinon, it’s like she’s a different person.”

  Rokha nodded. “She’s the same person, Errol, but she’s in a completely different environment. I have to admit, I was surprised she wanted to learn the sword.” She gave him a sidelong glance and a smirk. “I think you’re going to have your hands full with her. Are you sure she’s the one for you?”

  “Can we talk about something else?”

  Rokha’s deep-throated laugh brought a touch of heat to his cheeks. She lifted a wine glass from a passing tray, took a deep pull. For a moment Errol wished he could join her, but his stomach roiled at the thought.

  “If you didn’t want to talk about the princess, why did you seek me out?” Rokha asked.

  Errol swung his arm in an arc. “This. I don’t know what to do. I thought you might be able to tell me.”

  She smiled. “Just enjoy yourself, Errol. It’s a wedding, not a fight.” She paused. “Although Basquon celebrations include those on occasion. We’re a passionate people.” She patted his arm. “Just watch what the other men do and do the same.”

  Errol nodded, but the constant attention he received as the highest-ranking noble present and his unwanted fame made him very ill at ease. He wanted nothing more than to find a secluded place and work with his staff or the twin swords.

  A plump woman—the count’s cousin, he thought—approached and linked her arm through his. He groped for her name. Lady Pelela. “Come, Earl Stone. The bride is about to dance the desposorios.”

  Helpless, Errol accompanied the woman to a large tent where Rula’s daughter and several striking young women about his age formed a line on a wooden floor that had been installed for the occasion. Errol joined the throng at the edge as a drummer began a slow, rhythmic beat. An instant later a stringed instrument joined in, its high, clear notes enforcing and accentuating the strike of the drum.

  The women on the floor linked their hands in a weave pattern, swaying side to side with the music. Rula’s daughter, similarly dressed but adorned with a crown of white roses, stood in the center. Then, as the pace of the music increased, the line of girls advanced in a challenging swagger, their eyes flashing.

  A girl close to the end locked gazes with Errol as she came forward. He felt his face redden. As the line came to the end of the platform, the girls stomped in unison and retreated back to the far end, where they resumed their rhythmic sway.

  A line of men stepped forward onto the platform, their hands joined as the girls had, and began stepping toward the line of women. The heels of their boots tapped a counterpoint to the music as they approached the women, almost stalking them. Step. Step. Step-step-step.

  The women danced forward, their feet pounding the floor, and the men retreated. Once again the girls stomped and returned to their starting place, except for the girls on the end, who took the hands of the men opposite and departed the floor. The process repeated, the crowd clapping in time to the music.

  “Have y
ou ever seen the desposorios, Lord Stone?” Lady Pelela asked.

  Errol shook his head. “It’s beautiful.”

  The countess laughed. “Oh, that was only the prelude. Now you will see why the women of Basquon are counted the most beautiful in the world.”

  All of the girls danced their way off the stage accompanied by men, until only the prospective bride remained. Four young men, nobles who appeared to range in age from twenty to forty, stood at the corners of the floor. Each held a rose of a different color. Elaia, raven-haired and dark-eyed, moved forward from the center of the floor, her feet pounding a staccato challenge in time to the music.

  “She dances well,” the count’s cousin said. “But in my day I was accounted the best in Basquon.”

  The idea that this plump, simpering woman on his arm could have made men’s faces heat the way Rula’s daughter did startled him. “Truly?”

  Her eyes flashed beneath lowered brows. “Believe it, Earl Stone. I could have turned your knees to water.” She turned back to the dance. “Elaia will dance with each man, taking his rose at the end. Then she will present all four to the man of her choice. If he accepts them, the priest will bless them and they will be married.”

  Errol looked at the four men on the floor. Each looked upon Rula’s daughter with single-minded intensity. “Who will she choose?” Errol asked.

  Lady Pelela sighed. “Back in my mother’s day, or even in mine, you wouldn’t know until the end, but too many duels spoiled the tradition. We’ve become much like the northern provinces.” She shrugged her ample shoulders. “The dance is mostly for show. Elaia is betrothed to Count Maren.” She pointed. “That’s him in the red shirt.”

  Errol had to admit Elaia’s choice looked impressive. Maren stood a good four inches taller than the other men, and his face filled with adoration when he looked upon Rula’s daughter. Errol wondered if he looked like that when Adora was near.

  The count’s daughter danced with each man, her steps fluid and her skirt accenting her flirtation. One by one she collected each of the roses. Spinning in time to the music, she curtsied low at Maren’s feet, holding the roses in offering.

  Maren knelt on both knees to accept them.

  “That was unexpected,” the count’s cousin said.

  “What?”

  A tinge of pink decorated the woman’s cheeks, and she wiped away a tear. “A bridegroom usually kneels on one knee to show that he will honor his wife and his duty equally. Maren’s gesture says he will place his wife above all.” She sniffled. “Forgive me. I’m a sentimental old woman.”

  “Oh,” Errol said. He didn’t quite keep the note of disappointment from his voice. From the lady’s reaction, he’d expected something more.

  “We are a passionate people, Earl Stone. Once done, such a gesture cannot be undone. For the rest of his life, Maren will be judged by how he lives his vow.”

  A priest, robed in gleaming white, came forward to perform the rite of marriage. A few sentences later, it was done.

  Errol turned to leave, but Lady Pelela restrained him. “Oh, you can’t leave yet, Earl Stone. The maidens will expect you to dance the eskaintza.”

  Something in her manner warned him. Perhaps it was the hint of a smile he feared was at his expense or the way her eyes fluttered, but his first instinct was to get as far away as possible.

  “I don’t know how to dance, my lady. I’m afraid I would dishonor the count’s hospitality by my clumsiness.”

  “Nonsense, my lord. The count would only be dishonored if you refused. Just do what seems right to you.” She clenched his arm and guided him toward the floor. Errol floundered, helpless to escape. He either allowed himself to be herded or risked making a scene by fending off the count’s cousin in front of Rula’s guests.

  Lady Pelela deposited him on the dance floor and returned to her place on the perimeter. At the far end of the floor a group of young women jabbered excitedly. They each rushed to a table next to the musicians to grab a pink rose and then formed a line.

  As the music played they came forward. The laughter of the crowd, raucous and focused on him, reminded him too much of his days as the drunken buffoon. He looked about, panicked, searching for an escape. The first woman came forward, lithe, athletic.

  Rokha.

  With a saucy glance she spun around him, brushing his shoulders with hers, holding the rose out for him to accept. Without thinking, he reached for it. She spun, keeping the bloom beyond his grasp, and then leaned in.

  “Whatever you do, don’t take the rose,” she said through her smile.

  He rubbed his nose. “Why not?”

  “It’s a betrothal dance, you idiot. You’re an unmarried earl at a wedding filled with mothers who are trying to set up an advantageous marriage for their daughters.”

  He stared.

  Rokha brushed his cheek with the petal of the rose. He cringed as if it were the sharpest steel. “You’re the biggest prize here, Earl Stone.”

  He clenched his hands into fists at his sides, afraid to move or even breathe.

  Rokha put on a show of being chagrined and twirled away. Moans of disappointment and cheers came to him on the edge of his consciousness. The next dancer came forward—a slender, willowy girl whose direct glance and pout made Errol sweat. He wanted nothing more than to run away. He caught Rula’s eye on the edge of the floor, clapping and cheering him on.

  The girl swayed and bent like a sapling in a gale, her long hair flying. Fingers caressed his cheek, his brow, his neck. The crowd roared its approval. Sweat ran from Errol’s palms. At last she moved on, only to be replaced by another.

  Errol retreated into his mind. One by one, he recalled every attack on him since he left Callowford. He reveled in the fear and the pain, seeing through the dancer of the moment to each stroke, blow, and injury. By increments, his breathing slowed and his pulse returned to normal. The noise of the crowd faded and the blood left his face.

  Then the last dancer stepped forward, her feet light, barely touching the floor as she glided toward him. His protective shell crumbled when her eyes flashed with challenge, with passion. He swallowed, his throat tight.

  She swept toward him, the rose in her hand less an ornament than a partner in her dance. Her blond hair, thick and lustrous, caught the light, amplified it and reflected it. His breathing stopped.

  Adora.

  His hands unclenched as she brought the rose forward to caress his lips with the petals. The music swelled to a crescendo, and the crowd, as if sensing his state, hushed, waiting. Unshed tears filled Adora’s eyes as she spun and then came face-to-face with him, extending the rose for his acceptance.

  Or his denial.

  Errol went to both knees, reached for the bloom.

  Adora pulled it away, out of his reach.

  The crowd gasped.

  A hole, black and bottomless, opened in his chest where his heart had been.

  Adora held the rose over her head for everyone to see and then closed her hands over the long stem, over the thorns. She held them there, squeezing tighter and tighter until Errol could see trickles of blood between her fingers. Adora lowered her arms, cupped the blossom in her hands, and let the blood from her palms run over the pink petals. Absolute silence fell across the courtyard as she knelt and presented the stained flower to him.

  Powerless to refuse, Errol took it. Driven by instinct and drowning in the startling green of her eyes, he squeezed the bloody thorns into the center of his palms. Then he covered her blood with his own. Thundering applause cascaded over him in peal after peal, but nothing except Adora filled his vision.

  31

  DEXTRA AND SINISTRA

  NOT A CLOUD marred the blue of the sky overhead when the next morning Errol rode out from Count Rula’s estate accompanied by his own caravan and a score of Rula’s men. The count insisted on sending the escort with Errol as far as the boundary of his territory, and no amount of arguing could dissuade him. The parting looks from Rula and his c
ousin Lady Pelela had been embarrassing. If his caravan didn’t leave this land and its people with their infectious passions, there was no telling what trouble he might get himself into.

  Adora rode close beside him. Errol shifted in his saddle. Despite the amount of time he’d spent riding, he couldn’t seem to find a comfortable place to put his hands. As they rode, the princess’s expression moved from shock to adoration to smoldering and back again. Several times she seemed on the verge of speaking, her mouth open to draw breath, but each time she simply wet her lips and continued her mute regard.

  A hawk cried, fierce and defiant, overhead. Errol shielded his eyes against the yellow glare. Red bands marked the wings and a suspicion sprouted in Errol’s chest. He turned to Adora to beg her leave to talk to Rale, but the passion in her gaze seared him.

  The air seemed too thick. He fought for breath. “Would you pardon me, Princess? I need to speak to Captain Elar for a moment.”

  She regarded him beneath lowered lashes. “Certainly, my Earl Stone.” The stress she placed on the word my combined with the heat of her glance made it even more difficult to breathe. He nodded and kicked Midnight forward to the front of the caravan.

  Rale—the kingdom’s second-best tactician—rode at the vanguard, his eyes sweeping the landscape ahead for threats. He acknowledged Errol’s presence with a nod, his manner stiff, almost formal. Errol sensed an undercurrent of disapproval in the captain’s manner.

  Not knowing how to broach the subject, he pointed overhead, but the hawk no longer floated above them. “It’s gone.”

  Rale caught his gesture. “You mean the hawk?”

  Errol nodded. “It has red bands on the wings. I’ve seen it or one just like it since Gascony. How common are they?”

  The former watchman nodded. “Hawks as a rule are fairly prevalent, but the large ones, like the red-banded one you’ve noticed, are rare. It’s surprising to see one so often.”