by J. L. Doty
BlakeDown dozed for a time, and she lay there patiently while he snored and breathed heavily. She thought of the young stable boy with the broad shoulders. It had been easy to seduce the young fellow, and she longed to feel again the straw beneath her back as he lay on top of her, sweetly making love to her. With his experience limited to climbing on top of peasant girls, he knew nothing of pleasuring a woman, and had turned out to be a most eager and apt pupil. The stable master had learned of their liaison, which might have been a problem, but she pleasured the stable master as well, so he dare not be indiscreet. BlakeDown would execute them both.
“This Vodah,” BlakeDown grunted, surprising her. She’d not realized he’d awakened. “This kinsman of yours that arrived two days ago.”
Chrisainne lifted herself off the man, threw a leg over him and straddled him. She wanted him to see her breasts clearly, and she was careful to straddle his limp manhood, both distractions she knew how to use well. She said, “A distant kinsman, my lord.”
“And what does this distant kinsman want?”
She felt his manhood coming to life, knew there was no need to encourage him in his distraction. “To meet with you, my lord. Beyond that, I know nothing.”
“But you know of the man.”
A messenger from King Valso, he was here to propose a face-to-face meeting between the two clan leaders. She would be foolish to display too much knowledge of such matters. Valso wanted her to ensure that the messenger got a private audience with BlakeDown. Beyond that, it was up to the messenger to make the meeting happen. She said, “I believe he has the king’s favor, and is a trusted confidant.”
“He has the king’s ear?”
“I know little of these matters, my lord.” She turned on her blush. “I am merely a woman, after all. But I do recall my father speaking of him, said he spent quite a bit of time in the king’s presence.”
BlakeDown considered that carefully, then nodded and said, “Then I’ll have him summoned before me.”
Valso wanted it to be a private meeting. “Would that be wise, my lord? A public summons.”
BlakeDown’s eyes narrowed in thought for several heartbeats. “You’re a smart, little one. Yes, a public meeting between The Penda and a messenger of The Decouix, word of that would spread quickly. We’ll make it a private meeting, just this messenger and me. And you’ll arrange it.”
“Yes, my lord.”
His manhood had grown fully erect. He lifted her hips and shoved it into her, jammed it into her painfully. Oh well, she’d try to pretend he was the stable boy.
~~~
After the battle in the circle with Jerst, Morgin staggered down to the lake and washed off the sweat and blood and dirt, stripped down completely and washed his clothing as well. Truly exhausted, he staggered back to his tent, lay down on his blanket and slept for a couple of hours.
He awoke to the smells of fire roasted meat, found Yim and Branaugh waiting outside his tent in the fading light of dusk with a hearty meal and bandages for his wounds. Yim fed him while Branaugh salved the cuts and slashes on his arms and legs; he winced and grunted as she stitched up a particularly nasty one in his side. But both young women remained completely silent, Yim without her usual girlish chatter, and Branaugh without her usual probing and challenging questions. They kept their heads bowed, wouldn’t meet his eyes, refused to respond to his comments, and answered a direct question with little more than a grunt. So he ate mostly in silence, trying to think through his new situation, occasionally thinking out loud and talking to himself. When he finished the meal and Branaugh finished her ministrations, she and Yim scurried away almost fearfully. He went back to his blanket.
He awoke well after sunrise and crawled out of his tent. Carefully placed just outside the tent flap he found a bow stave wrapped in oiled cloth. Since joining the whitefaces he’d felt naked without a good Benesh’ere longbow at hand, really a remnant of Morddon’s memories more than his own. And he vaguely remembered mumbling during the meal the previous evening that he’d have to get a good bow stave and make one. Branaugh must have paid more attention to the off-hand comment than he had.
He examined the stave carefully. It was the highest quality of yew, fine-grained, and properly dried. He’d heard that the townsfolk of Norlakton cut such staves to Benesh’ere specifications, then dried them carefully and traded with the whitefaces for good steel. He ate a light breakfast of jerky and journeycake and water, then sat down in front of his tent to work on the bow.
Making a bow took great care and careful concentration. He began shaping it with his knife, cautiously removing only a tiny sliver with each stroke. Any mistake that removed too much wood would render the stave useless, or result in a bow of inferior quality. So he always removed less than he thought necessary and cautiously edged his way slowly toward the finished product. He’d long ago learned to be patient with such work. Centuries of making such bows had taught him patience. Centuries of—
That thought wasn’t his, so he cut it off abruptly and shouted, “No.”
Every whiteface within earshot paused and looked his way. Yim, waiting patiently nearby, jumped to her feet, crossed the distance between them at a running shuffle, stopped in front of him, bowed and said breathlessly, “Does the SteelMaster wish for something?”
He almost snarled sarcastically, No, the SteelMaster does not wish for something. But he shouldn’t take his frustration out on the poor girl, so he merely said, “Yes. I want you to call me Morgin, and please stop referring to me in the third person like I’m not here.” It had come out more harshly than he’d intended.
She blushed and lowered her eyes. “Master Chagarin might think that a sign of disrespect. He might not like—”
“Tell Master Chagarin I ordered you to. The SteelMaster ordered you to call him Morgin. And tell all the other girls they’re to do the same. Tell everyone they’re to do the same.” Again, his frustration had made it come out harsh.
She bowed. “Yes, SteelMaster—uh, Morgin.” She scurried away fearfully
Oddly enough, while the camp had come fully awake, no whiteface came near him. There were more than seven thousand of them going about their daily business, and yet they gave him and his tent a very wide berth. Near midmorning Yim and Branaugh approached him, stopped a few paces away and bowed their heads. Branaugh said, “If the SteelMaster will permit, we’ll—”
Morgin interrupted her. “Did Yim tell you what I said, that I wish to be simply called Morgin.”
Yim blurted out, “I did tell them, but they don’t believe me.”
“Believe her,” Morgin said to Branaugh, and he thought he caught a hint of a smile on her lips. But it disappeared quickly.
“Very well,” she said. “If Morgin will permit—”
“And please stop addressing me in the third person.”
“Very well . . . Morgin. We’ve come to pack up your belongings.”
“Why?”
“We have a tent more appropriate to your station.”
“But I like this tent just fine.”
“But it’s not—”
“No,” Morgin snapped.
She described his new tent, a pavilion even grander than that she and Harriok shared. He liked his little tent, and a streak of frustrated stubbornness crawled up from his gut, so he shook his head and said, “I’m not moving. I’m staying right here.”
Branaugh turned to Yim, though when she spoke to the young girl her words were clearly meant for Morgin. “Did I not tell you all he would be stubborn about this.”
Morgin spent the morning sitting in front of his tent, working on the bow, and slowly, little by little, the whitefaces stopped taking a wide detour about him. It started with one of the young girls rushing past him on some errand. She stopped abruptly, looked at him fearfully, realizing she’d unintentionally breached whatever sacred space they’d all decided to adopt about the SteelMaster. Morgin laughed, shook his head and said, “I won’t bite.”
Sh
e giggled and hurried on.
By noon the movement of whitefaces around his tent was that of a normal, large Benesh’ere camp, though he did notice the Benesh’ere women now gave him odd looks in passing, the same coy looks barmaids used when they wanted to make a little coin on their backs. A young girl passing by gave him that look now, then turned and walked away, a little extra sway to her hips. He watched her recede into the middle of the camp, couldn’t help but find her attractive.
“She’s a looker, ain’t she?”
Morgin turned his head and looked up to find Delaga, Fantose, Baldrak and Jack the Lesser standing over him. They’d approached from behind his tent and he hadn’t seen them coming. Fantose nudged Delaga in the ribs and said, “She’s wondering what kind of steel the SteelMaster has between his legs.”
Delaga answered him with, “Blasted SteelMaster! Every woman in camp’s wondering the same thing.”
Baldrak shook his head sadly and sat down as Fantose said, “Me own wife’s wondering at it.” Fantose plopped down beside Baldrak and continued. “Sad day when a man can’t count on his wife pleasuring him because she’s all atwitter about some SteelMaster.”
For the first time since the fight with Jerst Morgin relaxed. “You’re not going to treat me like some god?” he asked.
Baldrak considered that for a moment. “We never had a SteelMaster before. We don’t know how to treat you.”
“Well, how about like you always did?”
Fantose’s eyes narrowed in careful thought. “So I should come over and spit on you and kick you a few times like I did when you first come to us?”
They all got a good laugh out of that. When the laughter died, Jack asked, “What will you do now?”
Morgin didn’t understand. “What do you mean by that?”
“You’re now free to do as you wish,” Jack said. “To go where you will. No one will hinder a SteelMaster.”
Morgin considered that and shook his head. “I’m a wanted man in the clans, with a price on my head. Any clansman can kill me without penalty.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed and he said, “Oh, I wouldn’t be too certain of that.”
Whether that was a statement of confidence in his ability to defend himself—after all, he had defended himself against the warmaster—or an implicit declaration that the whitefaces would seek retribution if someone killed a SteelMaster, Morgin could not be sure. Morgin said, “In any case, I’d prefer it not be known outside the tribe that a plainface is among you, and especially that a SteelMaster is among you.”
All four of them nodded thoughtfully at that, and Jack said, “We’ll spread the word. But what do we do about the twoname?”
Val! Morgin had completely forgotten about him. “What does he know?”
“Nothing,” Jack said. “We’ve kept him in a tent under guard.”
Morgin considered that carefully. Deep inside he knew he could not spend the rest of his days with these whitefaces, these friends of his, though they probably hadn’t yet realized that. “He’s a friend,” Morgin said. “Tell him Jerst killed me in the circle of stones. Keep him under guard in a tent as far away from the Forge Hall as possible. Then, when we go back out onto the sands in the fall, let him go.”
Delaga said, “And plainfaces come among us quite regularly, so we need to make sure you always look like one of us. Yer taller than most plainfaces, tall enough to pass for a short whiteface.”
Fantose added, “Just keep yer hood up, don’t let no one see yer face.”
Baldrak chimed in, “And wear gloves or gauntlets. Don’t let them see yer hands.”
Fantose leaned toward him conspiratorially. “And you know, you might do me a favor. Pleasure me wife, but do a really bad job of it.”
Delaga thought that was the funniest thing, but Jack asked again, “So what will you do?”
Morgin looked pointedly at Baldrak. “I think I’d like to work with some smiths on some steel, see what I can really do.” He looked at the bow stave in his hands. “But first I think I’ll finish this bow.”
Fantose eyed the stave and gave him a sour look.
“What’s bothering you?” Morgin asked.
Fantose grumbled, “Waste of a good stave.”
Jack put a fatherly hand on Morgin’s shoulder and said, “He means that while you may be a SteelMaster, when it comes to making a bow, and using a bow . . .”
Delaga finished for him. “You ain’t no whiteface.”
“So only a whiteface can make and shoot a bow.”
Jack shrugged uncomfortably. “It takes a lot of knowledge to make a proper longbow. And a lot of strength to pull one. Don’t be disappointed.”
“I’m strong enough,” Morgin said. “And I’m going to make the bow of a proper size for me, not a whiteface. And I’ve made bows before. I have the knowledge.”
Fantose’s eyes narrowed. “When did you learn to make a proper whiteface longbow?”
Morgin almost answered, but held his tongue as he realized it was an answer from a dream. But in that moment he realized that hiding from his dreams had never served him well, so maybe it was time to embrace them, especially if he was going to use them to find the Unnamed King. He said, “I learned about twelve centuries ago, before the Great Clan Wars.”
The four whitefaces went silent as they pondered that, uneasy looks on their faces.
Morgin continued. “In any case, I’m tired of goat.” He held up the stave. “I’m going to finish this bow, then do a little hunting. Anyone care to join me?”
Chapter 15: A Journey Remembered
Tulellcoe’s horse crested a small rise southwest of Lake Savin. Built centuries ago on the peak of a distant hill, Castle SavinCourt commanded the countryside. Even larger than Elhiyne, its parapets, ramparts and bulwarks lent it a decidedly formidable air.
Tulellcoe and Cort let their horses walk at a leisurely pace. They followed a road little more than a cart path, deep ruts forcing them to keep to the edge of the road where they found much better footing.
“What do you think?” he asked Cort, gauging the distance to SavinCourt. “Mid-afternoon?”
She stood up in her stirrups and arched her back, stretching the kinks of a long ride out of her muscles. “Yes, mid-afternoon, or even earlier.”
At noon they were close enough that they decided to continue on without stopping for lunch. They found the gates of the castle open, a continuous stream of carts, people on foot and mounted riders coming and going. The sergeant at the gate recognized Cort. “Why, it’s the Balenda!” He bowed his head. “Lady Cortien, are you expected?”
“No,” she said. “We were just riding by, and are a bit tired of trail rations.”
The sergeant eyed Tulellcoe, obviously not recognizing him, so Cort said, “This is Tulellcoe et Elhiyne. Lord Eglahan knows him well.”
The sergeant’s back stiffened, and he bowed from the waist. “Lord Tulellcoe. I’ll send a runner to let Lord Eglahan know you’re here. Do you need a guide?”
Cort answered him. “No, I know the way well.”
SavinCourt occupied the better part of the hill, with the inner keep at its crest, and while much of it sprawled outside the outer bulwarks, the interior contained what amounted to a small city. This wasn’t the first time Tulellcoe had come to SavinCourt, but without Cort’s greater knowledge of the place, he might have had to search a bit to find the inner keep.
Eglahan awaited them there. “Tulellcoe, Cort,” he said as he descended the steps from the main entrance. “What brings you to SavinCourt?”
Tulellcoe said, “Just passing through, and we’re hoping you can provide us with a soft bed and a decent meal.”
“Of course,” Eglahan said. “Have you eaten anything today?”
“Just some jerky and journeycake this morning.”
Eglahan ordered up a hearty lunch from the kitchen and they talked while they ate. Tulellcoe asked Eglahan, “We’ve been away from Elhiyne for more than a year, but I’ve been hearing rumors
of disunity in the Lesser Clans.”
Eglahan’s eyes narrowed warily. “There is some disagreement, perhaps a bit more than usual.”
He had clearly chosen his words carefully, spoken as one diplomat to another. Tulellcoe speared a piece of cheese with a knife, and said, “Come now. Speak freely. We’ve known each other far too long for you to fear I’ll be carrying tales to Olivia.”
Eglahan rubbed the top of his bald skull. “There is a fearful schism growing between Penda and Elhiyne, and both Olivia and BlakeDown seem bent on provoking one another.”
Cort asked, “How so?”
Eglahan hesitated and glanced at Tulellcoe, clearly reluctant to say the wrong thing in the presence of a member of the ruling family of Elhiyne. He spoke carefully. “At the meeting of the Lesser Council Olivia proposed Brandon as warmaster of all the Lesser Tribes.”
Tulellcoe couldn’t believe what he’d heard. Cort groaned and said, “That is poking the beehive with a stick.”
But something didn’t add up, so Tulellcoe said, “But that is such a blatant provocation, and my aunt is not that blind.”
Cort raised a questioning eyebrow, so Tulellcoe added, “Yes, she’s a scheming old woman who’ll use any of us to gain even the slightest advantage, but she’s neither foolish nor stupid, especially not when it comes to BlakeDown. She’s always known exactly what levers to push with him.”
Eglahan rubbed his beard and his eyes narrowed in thought. “You do have a point there. But she is provoking him. There is no doubt of that. So the question is: why? What does she hope to accomplish?”
~~~
At the knock on the door of her hut, Rhianne looked up from the herbs she was preparing. She stood, crossed the small room and opened the door. Fat John stood there, his hand raised, ready to knock again. “Ah, Mistress Syllith, good day to you. Lady Jinella wants to see you.”
Rhianne asked, “The Elhiyne witch?” She tried to hide the fear in her voice, but failed.
The innkeeper simply said, “Aye, but you’ve nothing to fear from her.”
Rhianne shook her head. “For simple people such as you and me, gaining the attention of a noblewoman is never wise.”
