The Weight of Honor

by Morgan Rice

  Dierdre surveyed the fort’s familiar walls, its thick, ancient oak doors, studded with iron, saw her father’s men standing guard outside, dressed in the chain mail of Escalon warriors, and she felt at home. As she neared with her girls, they all stopped and looked over at her in shock. She stared back, cold and hard, realizing she was no longer the young, innocent girl who had left here. She was a woman now—a woman who had seen too much, who had been to hell and back. She was no longer willing to bow to the rights of men.

  “Dierdre?” a soldier called out in surprise, rushing forward. “Why have you returned? Did your father not marry you off?”

  “Marry,” she spat back with disgust, anger rising in her voice. “A convenient word.”

  The soldier studied the girls with her, clearly amazed.

  “And who are these girls?” he asked.

  Dierdre dismounted, gestured to the girls, and they dismounted, too, as more of her father’s men gathered around in amazement.

  “These are the liberated women of Escalon,” Dierdre replied. “They are under my protection.”

  “Protection?” the guard asked with a smirk.

  Dierdre’s face darkened.

  “I shall see my father at once. Open those doors,” she commanded.

  The men looked at each other in wonder, more, she could see, due to the newfound authority in her voice than anything else.

  “Is he expecting you?” a soldier asked.

  Dierdre glared back with steely eyes.

  “I am not asking you to open the doors,” she replied. “I am telling you.”

  The men hesitated, looking to each other, then finally one nodded and the others stepped back and opened the doors wide. They creaked as they slowly gave way.

  “Let your father deal with you, then,” one of the guards said sternly, dismissing her as she walked past.

  Dierdre paid him no mind. She walked proudly, leading the girls through the doors.

  The ancient, musty smell of the place hit her as she walked in, that smell she recalled so well, the smell of a true fort. It was dim in here, as she remembered, lit only by sporadic tapered windows that let in narrow shafts of light.

  They walked through the stone corridors, empty, and she looked up and saw the marks on the wall, the empty spots where her father’s trophies used to hang, his finest weapons, shields, suits of armor, banners from clans he had defeated in battle. Yet these, too, were gone now, vestiges of what once was, another insult from Pandesia.

  Dierdre continued down a long corridor until she spotted the familiar set of arched doors that led to the Great Hall. Muffled sounds arose from the other side and a soldier stood guard before it—but when he saw the look of determination on her face, he did not hesitate—he stepped aside and opened the doors for her. As he did, a wave of sound and noise hit her like a wall.

  Kyra steeled herself as she entered, the girls behind her.

  Dozens of her father’s men lounged about the hall, furnished only with a long, square wooden table, open in the center, men passing in and out. A large fire burned on either side, dogs resting before it, fighting over scraps. Men were drinking, eating, clearly discussing matters of war. It was a group of warriors without a war, without a cause, idle, weaponless, stripped to the shell of what they once were.

  At the head sat her father, seated before the huge square table which served as a place to feast, to meet, or alternately as a council table for matters of importance, matters of war. Matters they had not discussed in too many years.

  As Dierdre and her girls entered, the men soon noticed, and a silence fell over the room. She had never thought to see such an amazed look on their faces, as one at a time they turned and watched her enter. They looked as if they were staring at a ghost.

  Dierdre marched right up to the center of the table, to her father. He stopped talking to the warrior beside him and looked over at her, his jaw dropping in astonishment. He stood, rising to his full height.

  “Dierdre,” he said weakly, shock in his voice. “What are you doing here?”

  She noticed his face flush with concern, and she was reassured to see that, at least, he seemed to care. She had been forged by suffering, was no longer the same person, and her father clearly realized, even if these men with him could not. His face filled with concern and guilt as he hurried from his seat and stepped forward to embrace her.

  Yet as he reached for her, she held out a palm and stopped him.

  He looked at her questioningly, his face filled with pain.

  “You do not deserve a daughter’s embrace,” she said coldly, her voice deep, filled with an authority which surprised even her. “Not a daughter you gave away.”

  His face darkened with guilt, yet it also became set, as it sometimes did, with stubbornness.

  “I had no choice,” he countered, defensive. “I was obliged by law.”

  “Whose law?” she asked.

  He furrowed his brow, clearly not appreciating being questioned. He was not used to her standing up to him like this.

  “The law thrust upon all of us, all of Escalon,” he replied.

  “The law you allowed to be thrust upon you,” she countered, unwilling to back down.

  His face flushed red with anger and shame.

  “Dierdre, my daughter,” he said, his voice broken. “Why have you returned? How did you leave? How did you cross Escalon alone? What has happened to you? I don’t know the voice of this woman who is speaking to me.”

  She stared back, feeling a mix of sorrow and defiance, recalling how much she had once loved this man and how badly he had betrayed her.

  “That is right, Father. You don’t know me anymore. I am not the same girl who left you. Not since you gave me away like a piece of property. Not after what I have suffered. I am a woman now. Tell me, Father, would you have given away one of your sons as easily as I? Or would you have fought to the death if they had come to take them?”

  He stared at her, and she stared back. As she did, she felt, for the first time, rooted in place, no longer feeling a need to be quiet, to back down, as she always had. For the first time, she realized she had equal strength, equal fierceness, to her father. She no longer needed to recoil from his steely brown eyes, eyes which she herself had.

  And then, slowly, the most amazing thing happened. For the first time since she had known him, her father’s look of defiance morphed to one of guilt, of sorrow, as his eyes welled with tears.

  “I am sorry,” he said, his voice broken. “For whatever has happened to you. I never meant for anything bad to come of it.”

  She felt like crying, but she would not give in; instead, she turned and faced all the other warriors in the room as she spoke.

  “Do you know the daily beatings I suffered? How they tortured me? How they locked me in a cell? How they passed me from one lord to the next? I was left for dead. And how I wish I had died. If it had not been for a dear friend, I would be dead right now. She saved me. A girl, a woman, who had more strength and courage than all of you men. No one else came for me—not one of you. Every day I woke and I was sure you would come—I was sure that there was not one of you who wouldn’t risk his life to save a girl from torture.”

  She sighed.

  “And yet, not one of you came. You, brave warriors, who pretend to be the bearers of chivalry.”

  She looked at all of the faces, and one at a time, she could see them all look away or look down, all shamed, all with nothing they could say.

  Her father’s face fell, pained, as he stepped forward.

  “Who hurt you?” he demanded. “I did not give you over to be tortured; I gave you to be nobly wed to a Pandesian lord.”

  Dierdre threw a glance of hatred back at him.

  “Nobly wed?” she seethed. “Is that what you call it? A fancy term to justify your spinelessness.”

  His face reddened with shame, he unable to respond, and as she surveyed all the other men in the room, they hung their heads low, none able to s
ay a word.

  “Pandesia has done what they have done not just to me,” she called out, her voice stronger, “but to all of you. You should know this. You should know that when you hand off your daughters, you hand them off not to be wed, but to be beaten, tortured. They torture them even now, as we speak, in all corners of Escalon, in the name of their great law. And you all sit here and allow it to happen. Tell me: when did you all stop becoming men? When did you stop standing up for what was right?”

  She looked at all their faces and could see them begin to transform with indignation.

  “You all, great warriors, men whom I respected more than any in the world, have become weak, cowardly men. Tell me, when did you forget your oaths? Was it the day you laid down your weapons? How long do you think it will be until Pandesia comes not just for your women, but for you, too? Is that when it will mean something to you? When the sword is at your throat?”

  She stared them all down, and not one of these men was able to say a word in response. The room hung thick with a heavy silence, as she could see their minds turning.

  “You all disgust me,” she said, indignation coursing through her veins. “It is not Pandesia I blame, but you—you who allowed this to happen. You don’t deserve the right to be called warriors. Not even men.”

  She stood there, waiting for her father’s response. But for the first time in his life he stood there, speechless.

  Finally, when he spoke, they were the words of a broken man, a man who looked much aged since she had strode into the room, a man who looked filled with regret.

  “You are right,” he said, his voice subdued, broken. She was surprised; never in her life had he admitted he was wrong. “We don’t deserve to be called warriors. And I didn’t realize that until this day.”

  He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, and this time she allowed it.

  “Forgive me,” he said, his eyes welling with tears. “I never knew how wrong I was. It is the greatest shame of my life, and I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you allow me to.”

  Dierdre felt her own eyes well at his words, all of her pent-up emotion rising to the surface, remembering how much she had once loved him, trusted him. But she fought it back, unwilling to show these men any emotion, still unsure if she would be able to truly forgive.

  Her father turned to all his men.

  “On this day,” he boomed, “my daughter has taught us all a lesson we have forgotten. She has reminded us what it means to be a warrior. Of the warriors we once were. And of what we have become. She is the bravest and best of us all.”

  The men grunted in affirmative response, banging the table with their cups.

  Her father stood to his full height, welling with pride once again, a gleam returning to his eyes that she had not seen in years.

  “On this day,” he called out, “we shall take up arms once again, even at the risk of our lives, as our women have so bravely done!”

  The men cheered, their faces brightening.

  “We shall learn what it means to become warriors once again. The enemy lies before us. We may die confronting him—but we shall die, once again, as men!”

  The men cheered loudly, rising to their feet.

  “Bring me that scroll.” He gestured to a squire.

  The boy rushed across the room and removed from the wall a scroll with Pandesian writing, several feet long. Her father held it out for all to see.

  “The Pandesians declare that their laws must be hung in our meeting halls. Removal is upon pain of death,” he reminded.

  He held the scroll out before them and then slowly tore it in half, the sound filling the air.

  The men let out a great cheer, and Dierdre felt her heart warming as her father threw the scraps to the floor.

  “We shall fight Pandesia,” he said, turning to Dierdre, “and you shall point the way.”

  Her father reached for her, and this time she embraced him back, as the men cheered.

  Life, she felt, maybe, just maybe, could begin again.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Aidan held on as the wagon jolted him on the bumpy roads. White was finally asleep, resting his head in his lap, Motley across from him, and he took in the country scene in wonder. The caravan of wagons, with its jugglers, acrobats, actors, musicians, and all manner of entertainers, was full of life, everyone telling jokes, laughing, playing instruments, singing songs and jostling with each other—some even managed to dance. Aidan had never seen a group of people so carefree, so unlike the grim warriors he had grown up with in his father’s fort. Where he was from, men stayed silent unless they had something to say. He barely knew what to make of these people.

  Seeing all of this was like a veil being pulled back on the lighter side of life, a side that had never been revealed to him. He had no idea that life could be this carefree, that one could be allowed to be this carefree, that it was okay to be this happy and foolish. It was something he was sure his father, a serious man with little time to waste, would frown upon. Aidan had a hard time grasping it himself.

  They had been riding for days through the countryside, twisting and turning their way through deep and dark woods, their destination never in sight. As they went, Aidan marveled at the foreign landscape, snow giving way to grass, twisted black trees giving way to perfectly straight glowing green trees that lined the road. The air was different this far south in Escalon, too, balmy, heavy with moisture; even the sky seemed to take on a different tint. Aidan felt a mixture of excitement and apprehension the further they went, eager to see his father, yet realizing he was further from Volis than he had ever been. What if, after this huge journey, his father was not there?

  Aidan felt a twitching in his lap and he looked down at White’s paw as Motley came over, knelt beside him, and checked his dressing. This time, White didn’t whine as Motley wrapped it up again. Instead, he licked Motley’s hand.

  Aidan reached over and gave White some water in a bowl and a small treat—a piece of dried meat that Motley had given him. White snatched it hungrily, then licked Aidan’s face, and Aidan could already see his dog’s spirits returning. He knew he had a friend for life.

  There came another burst of laughter and a shout from the wagon beside them, as a group finished a song and drank from sacks of wine. Aidan frowned, not understanding.

  “Why are you all so happy?” he asked.

  Motley looked back at him, puzzled.

  “And why wouldn’t we be?” he countered.

  “Life is a serious business,” Aidan said, echoing something his father had drilled into him many times.

  “Is it?” Motley countered, a smile forming at the corner of his mouth. “It doesn’t seem so serious to me.”

  “That is because you are not a warrior,” Aidan said.

  “Is being a warrior all one can do in life?” Motley asked.

  “Of course,” Aidan countered. “What else is there?”

  “What else?” Motley asked, surprised. “There’s a whole world out there outside of killing people.”

  Aidan frowned.

  “Killing people is not all that we warriors do.”

  “We?” Motley smiled. “Are you a warrior then?”

  Aidan puffed out his chest proudly and used his most mature voice.

  “I most certainly am.”

  Motley laughed, and Aidan reddened.

  “I have no doubt that you will be, young Aidan.”

  “Warriors do not just kill people,” Aidan persisted. “We protect. We defend. We live for honor and pride.”

  Motley raised his sack and drank.

  “And I live for drink, women, and joy! Cheers to that!”

  Aidan stared back, frustrated that he was unable to get through to him.

  “How can you be so joyful?” he asked. “There is a war to fight.”

  Motley shrugged, unimpressed.

  “There is always a war to fight. This war, or that war. A war that you warriors begin. Not my wa
r.”

  Aidan frowned.

  “You lack honor,” Aidan said. “And pride.”

  Motley laughed.

  “And I have lived very joyously without either!” he countered.

  Several musicians rode up beside them, laughing and singing. Aidan wracked his brain, trying to figure how to make him understand.

  “Honor is all there is,” Aidan finally said, recalling a saying from the ancient warriors he had read.

  Motley shook his head.

  “I require a lot more than that,” Motley replied. “Honor has never gotten me a thing. Besides, there’s honor in other things besides fighting.”

  “Like what?” Aidan asked.

  Motley leaned back and looked up at the sky as he seemed to think.

  “Well,” he began, “there is honor in making someone laugh. There is honor in entertaining someone, in telling a story, in taking them away from their woes and troubles and fears, even if just for an afternoon. Transporting someone away to another world holds greater honor than all of your swords combined.”

  Motley took another swig.

  “There’s honor in being humble, in not being so puffed up with pride like most of your warriors,” he added. “There’s even honor in laughter. Your problem,” he concluded, “is that you’ve been around warriors too long, growing up in that fort. Your vision is single-minded.”

  Aidan had never considered any of this before. For him, he wanted nothing more in life than to be around his father’s warriors, to hear stories of battle and honor recounted again and again by his father’s hearth. For him, honor meant nothing else. He had never heard words spoken such as this, and he marveled at this man and his words and his brightly colored clothes, at all of his friends, all these people who seemed so foolish to him, who seemed to trivialize life.

  And yet, as Aidan pondered the man’s words, he wondered if perhaps there could also be other side of life, another type of man out there, different ways to live. After all, he had to admit there was some truth to the man’s words: Aidan himself had never experienced any greater feeling than being carried away by a story, getting lost in the fantasy of ancient worlds and battles. They were what inspired him, what sustained him. And if this man could recount such stories, then maybe, perhaps, there was honor in him after all.