“Till the end of my days,” Allystaire replied, jaw tensing at the memory of feeling his will to live, not sapped, but crushed so thoroughly that he nearly died, of the world going grey.
“It is somewhat like that, but it does not have a name, so far as I know. It planted an urge to live free of mortal constraint, to become a being of pure intention. The seed fell on fertile soil. At the same time, it pulled me loose from my body. And it made me forget everything that tied me to this place, to the world itself, to the people around me. I forgot about you, Mol, Idgen Marte, Torvul, and all the people under our protection, about the battle itself. I was pure Will without limit, but that meant I was also without definition, without cause, without any reason to enact my Will upon the world. Without such anchors, I was powerless. This is actually a bit of a breakthrough in magical theory,” he added, almost apologetically.
“Torvul would be interested to hear some of this, I expect,” Allystaire said. “How did you remember?”
“I don’t think I would have if your voice hadn’t reached me.”
“Mol said she had been calling for you, that she could no longer feel you.”
“I don’t know Mol as well as I do you. I am not as connected to her. It wasn’t just that your mind reached for me,” Gideon added, choosing his words slowly and carefully. “It was what you said.” He paused and pursed his lips tightly for a moment. “You called me son.”
Silence fell again, with neither Allystaire nor Gideon looking directly at each other.
Finally, after chewing for a moment on his bottom lip, Allystaire said quietly, “I have no natural children, Gideon. I had charge of Audreyn for some time, it is true. But it seems likely that you are the closest I will come to a son. I was dying, and that was my honest thought at the time.”
“What does it mean, to be a father and son? I have no memory of my parents, only sorcerous masters. Bhimanzir was not paternal.”
“A father teaches his son the things he believes a man needs to know.”
“That is what you’ve done since the moment we escaped the dungeons of the Dunes,” Gideon said. “Isn’t it? The lessons, from knives to horses to the problems you’d set me to solve, all the discussions.”
“It is what I have tried to do,” Allystaire said. Finally he looked down at the boy by his side, instead of the frozen grass and mud beneath his boots. “It is what I will try to do so long as we are together.”
“And yet I think they are not always the things you were taught by your father,” Gideon said.
“Much of what I know, I learned from Gerard Oyrwyn. More than from my father. Some I learned on my own. Mostly in the past six months.” He paused. “Some of it, from you. If I have taught you anything, so much the better. But I know I have learned. I could not be more proud of you if you were my own flesh, Gideon.”
Uncharacteristically, Gideon stepped forward and flung his arms around Allystaire. He responded in kind and the pair of them embraced for a moment.
“I am still sorry that I was gone for so much of the battle,” Gideon mumbled into Allystaire’s side. “It was a mistake, whatever you say.”
“You are allowed them, Gideon. Mistakes make a man. No, forget that. Overcoming them makes a man.”
The boy stepped back and looked up at Allystaire, smiling, an unusual expression on his typically reserved features. “Even now you don’t stop trying to teach.”
“And I will not,” Allystaire said, “until I know that you know everything I can teach you.” He paused. “Except the lance, I suppose.”
Gideon laughed and the two resumed their walk. “Do you promise? To both.”
“I promise.”
Allystaire clapped the boy on the shoulder. Instead of shrugging his hand away, Gideon leaned into his arm for a moment. Then they walked on, till the Green and the Inn were before them.
“What is your plan for Landen and Chaddin?” the boy asked as he hopped a few quick steps ahead to pull the door open. Once inside, he hastened to the hearth and the fire burning inside it.
“I would rather explain it the once,” Allystaire said. “Let us wait for the rest of them.” He glanced behind the bar, where Timmar was busy cleaning. For a moment, Allystaire considered, then he pointed to a jar on a shelf behind the counter that he knew held the best brandy the village had, and held up two fingers.
Timmar glanced to the boy at the hearth, tilting his head questioningly.
Allystaire smiled faintly and nodded.
Timmar reached for the bottle.
CHAPTER 7
Graves
Sweating and flushed, having removed cloak, hat, gloves, and pulled open his jacket, Allystaire finally allowed himself the luxury of sitting upon an old stump-seat, one with a patina of long use. His muscles protested as he set the mattock, still grimy with clay, down beside him. Gideon did the same, practically falling to the floor, shovel at his side.
“The cool feels good for now, lad,” Allystaire said, “but we cannot go too long in it. Dangerous.”
“I know,” Gideon puffed out. Neither of them wanted to look at the occupants that shared the cowshed with them, the sheet-wrapped bodies, deadly wounds taken from Battle-Wight or mortal soldier mercifully covered with homespun, the shrouds secured with links of hempen cord.
“How many more do we have?” Gideon said.
“Too many,” Allystaire replied. “I will see about getting help after we rest.” He forced himself to look at the rows of bodies. With the anonymity of the shrouds, he was able to avoid putting names to them. He saw that slips of parchment were stuck into the cordage, and couldn’t quite summon the will to get up and look at them.
Gideon stood up and murmured to him. “Look straight at a thing, Allystaire. Whatever it is.”
Allystaire nodded and stood, looking over the first row. Among the first three, he saw the strip of parchment that read “Renard,” and hung his head and closed his eyes. Gideon stood awkwardly at his side; even with his eyes tightly shut, Allystaire could feel that the boy was searching for something to say.
“You need not speak, Gideon. Sometimes there is nothing to say.”
The boy sighed in relief.
“The last I spoke to him that was not an order or a request,” Allystaire said. “I told him that of all the knights I had known, with all their glorious armor and weapons made to their own hands, steeds with lineages prouder than any Baron, there were none I would rather have at my side than him.”
“He was not a knight,” Gideon pointed out quietly.
Allystaire was silent a moment, then bent to pick up his mattock and his winter gear. Laying the mattock against his legs, he began pulling his warmer clothes back into place.
“Where are we going?”
“To ask Torvul an important favor,” Allystaire said.
Gideon sighed and picked up his shovel, levering it onto his shoulder with a grunt of effort. “He is stretching himself very thin. He’ll grumble about another task.”
“The day he does not grumble about a task is the day I will begin worrying about him,” Allystaire said.
* * *
“Another job, another task for the master alchemist, smith, stonecutter, armorer, gemmarer, scribe, horticulturalist, priest, necrobane.” Torvul paused in his rant, rolling his eyes towards the sky. “Did I miss anything?” He paused, snapped his fingers. “Cook! Of course.” The dwarf wore a thick leather apron over his jerkin, standing over the small forge Thornhurst boasted. It wasn’t a proper smithy, mostly used for shoeing horses, but Torvul had managed to get a hot enough fire blazing in it. Several cloth-wrapped bundles waited on a table nearby with a pile of tools.
“I am not sure what a few of those words mean,” Allystaire said. “And I would not ask if it was not important,” he added.
“Necrobane might not be entirely warranted,” Gideon offered
quietly.
Torvul glared at him. “Well, when you get to my age, you can start tellin’ folk what titles they may or may not append to themselves.” Then he sighed, and said to Allystaire, “I know it is. But are you sure you need it tomorrow? I may finally have what I need for your hammer after putting some finishing touches on Idgen Marte’s blade.”
“This needs to be done. They have waited long enough, need to move on. First the mourning, then a celebration.”
“How do you mean to get all the graves dug?”
“Ask for help,” Allystaire said. “The Delondeur prisoners might be willing to lend a hand. I know if I had spent a week stuck in a barely heated tent, I would be glad of the chance to get out of doors and do some physical work.”
“Well, not all of them were too happy to talk to the lass in the past couple of turns,” Torvul said.
“Any in particular I should speak with?” Allystaire’s voice was calm, but subtle shifts in his stance, in the way his right hand started to curl up, caught the dwarf’s attention.
“Stones Above, boy, the last thing you need to do is go in there swinging that rock-cracking fist of yours,” he said. “They just weren’t sure what it was all about. A few of them took to it. I think one or two were trying to have us on, but Mol was having none of it. I couldn’t hear the words she was saying, but I knew, once or twice, it just felt different.”
“I trust her to know what she is doing. Stop trying to change the subject,” Allystaire said. “I do need it, if you can manage it.”
The dwarf looked to the fire he’d stoked, and plucked at the apron he was wearing. “How big do you need it?”
“Just big enough to be legible.”
Torvul grumbled, let out a harsh Dwarfish curse. “You’ll need to bring me the stone. There is a pile out behind the temple from when they raised it up.”
“Have you a rope?”
“So that you can what, drag it here like an ox dragging a plow? There’s a sledge, too. Stones, but you’re dense.” Torvul paused. “Well you might be developing a certain political savvy, but otherwise you’ll go straight through the walls if you have to.”
“Is that a yes?”
Torvul breathed another guttural Dwarfish curse. “Aye. But hurry.”
Allystaire turned to leave, then stopped. “Torvul, a question.”
The dwarf turned a baleful eye upwards at him.
“What became of Delondeur’s arms? Those that the sorcerers constructed for him.”
“I said I had a project of my own,” Torvul replied flatly.
“Torvul.” Allystaire’s eyes widened, as did Gideon’s.
“I unmade them,” Torvul said, raising his hands, palms out, conciliating. “Figured if I could learn to do that, I might come up with better ideas how to fight the things.”
“Did you?”
The dwarf shrugged, tapped the side of his bald head. “Still letting it rattle around. I think so.”
“Promise me you will use caution, Torvul.”
“I,” the dwarf said, laying one long-fingered hand on his chest, “am the very soul of prudence, caution, wisdom, and careful planning, Allystaire.”
“You should have let me destroy them,” Gideon said. “They were dangerous, even to you.”
“We may face Wights again. What he learned now may save lives then.”
“Fair enough,” Gideon said. “If you do any more work with the material, please ask me for help.”
“I will. Now go fetch a stone before I change my mind. And you,” he said, pointing a finger at Gideon, “if you would be so kind, head to my wagon and fetch chisels one through four, my three smallest hammers, and a good handful of acid vials. Please?”
It was only then that Allystaire noticed the dwarf was leaning rather heavily on the anvil.
“Go on, Gideon,” Allystaire said, “I can manage a bit of stone and a sledge myself.”
The boy nodded, and he and Allystaire moved off in separate directions.
* * *
The stone proved heavy, but manageable, but Allystaire appreciated the opportunity to work up another good sweat. His muscles yearned for exertion after a week in bed.
When he thought of that week, some muscles yearned a little more forcefully than others. He had to stop, pause, lower his head and search for his breath. It was the first time since he’d woken that he’d thought of it.
Of Her.
Her hands. The many and varied and indescribable tastes of Her lips and Her mouth.
Allystaire felt his knees going weak and his breath becoming harder and harder to find. He fell to one knee, felt the cold seep up through his trousers and then the wool of his pants, and was able to center himself. He resettled the rope upon his shoulders and began pulling again.
The sledge didn’t quite fly over the frozen ground, but he made good time.
What ought the stone say, he thought to himself, as he pulled the sledge up the slight incline to the smithy, where he saw Torvul and Gideon bustling about with handfuls of tools.
Must ask Leah, he told himself. A hard cold pit opened in his stomach when he thought of speaking to her. He forced it aside. Look straight at it. Go speak to her after you drop off the stone.
When he finally let the rope drop from his shoulders, he found Torvul waiting with a stack of parchment and a handful of charcoal sticks.
“What is it that you want the stone to say, exactly? And how do you want the lettering to look?”
“Torvul, do as you think best with the lettering. I need to speak to Leah, so leave some room,” Allystaire said. “As for what I want?” He held out a hand for a stick and a piece of parchment, which Torvul reluctantly gave over.
Allystaire hastily scratched out a few words, and handed the sheet over. Torvul eyed it warily.
“Doesn’t even make sense to me,” Torvul said. “Order of the—”
“Faith, Torvul. It will make sense tomorrow,” Allystaire replied.
“Fine,” the dwarf muttered. “Off you go. I’ve got work to do.”
“We all do,” Allystaire said, taking a deep and steadying breath as he started working his way towards the Temple.
It wasn’t a long walk, and Allystaire found himself wishing for more time as he pushed open the doors of the Temple and entered into its surprising warmth. He found himself shedding gloves and hat and cloak almost immediately as he swept his eyes about the building. Hardly any residue of the battle remained within the walls.
The Temple was well populated, with folk moving around, sweeping, speaking quietly in small groups, and some waiting to pray at the Pillars of the Will and the Voice. He smiled when he saw an old, lean hound, her muzzle grey, sleeping just behind the Pillar of the Voice. The dog didn’t even open her eyes as one of the supplicants leaned forward to stroke her side, but she did shift and make a soft contented-dog sound.
There was one woman sitting on a bench about halfway between entrance and altar, shoulders slumped, a palpable air of loneliness about her.
Allystaire didn’t even really need to see her honey-blonde hair to know it must be Leah. He could feel it like a wound in his chest.
He took yet another steadying breath, and more carefully peeled away his outer garments. Tables had been set on either side of the entrance, and they held various hats, mittens, scarves and the like. He added his to the pile, and then, walking quickly, made his way to her side.
Leah sat on the edge of the bench. Rather than ask her to move or slide around her, Allystaire knelt at her side.
Her hands curled around her belly; she was more obviously with child now. Her head was downcast, and he expected to see the signs of tears or red around her eyes, and was surprised when he did not.
For a moment, he could only lower his head. Part of him hoped she would speak the first word, but he cursed himself for a
coward.
“Leah,” he said, and though he had aimed for quiet, in the relative silence around them his voice sounded as loud to his ears as a mace hitting a shield.
She looked to him, but said nothing. Her face was not empty, but worn with sorrow. Tired, too tired from grief to weep or yell or, he suspected, even to speak. Lines were wearing into her skin, which had lost much of the farm girl glow he had remembered.
“Leah,” he tried again. “I cannot say…” He stopped again. “I am sorry it took me so long to come speak to you.”
“What words of yours’ll matter, Allystaire,” she said faintly. “What d’ya have t’tell me that I couldna waited for?”
Allystaire winced, shut his eyes. “There are no words that can matter, really,” he admitted. “Yet I should have come to you as soon as I was able.”
“Ya’ve great matters t’attend to,” she muttered.
“No matter is greater than my duties to you and your child. Nor greater than the debt I owe Renard.”
“Dead men can’t collect.”
“I know. But I…these things need to be said, Leah. If you do not want to listen, I cannot blame you. In the morning, I hope we can gather and say the final words, give him to his rest.”
“He’s gone to it days ago. The rest is just words and nonsense.”
“No,” Allystaire said. “There you are wrong. This village, all who inhabit it, as long as it stands, will know that your husband died a hero in its defense. He deserves that. Your child deserves to see it, and to grow up knowing it. I am going to see to it.”
She was silent, had turned her face towards the altar, so he pressed on. “Since this all started, since Bend, Renard was my right hand. Half of what got done around here did because he made it get done. And in the end, before the end, his courage and his determination shamed me.”
“Shamed ya? How?” Leah turned her face back to him, her hazel eyes narrowing and focusing more clearly.
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