Arontis came to his father’s bedside and knelt, even as Hamadrian struggled to push himself upright. “You needn’t go so far as to ride out to meet them,” Arontis said, but his father reached out and struck him a glancing blow on a shoulder, and forced his feet out of his cot with a grimace. He hunched over his thin legs, breathing in a rasp, and slowly pushed himself up. Arontis rose with him, supporting him with a hand on his arm, despite his father’s weak protests.
“I will meet them dressed, armed, and mounted like a Baron,” Hamadrian insisted, ripping his arm free of his son’s grasp. “Though as much as I would like the Archioness’s help in getting dressed,” he muttered, “it is probably best that my son stay to help and you await us outside, Cerisia.”
She stood, crossed to Baron and son, kissed the former and the cheek and squeezed the arm of the latter, then stepped out into the brightness of the day. While the spring of Barony Innadan was worlds away from the winter at Thornhurst, Cerisia was glad of the breeze that tugged at her dress after the stifling heat of the Baron’s tent. She thought of retreating to her own tent to check her dress or dab perspiration from her face, but she changed her mind when a servant approached her with a jug of wine and a tray of cups. Cerisia gladly took one, felt the carvings of vines upon it as the wine poured, gleaming yellow in the sunlight.
An Archioness does not sweat in front of Barons, she thought, but then, that is why we have masks. Her free hand went to the mask that hung from her belt, and she took a bigger swallow of her wine than she might typically have done. It had a clean and powerfully floral taste. It reminded her of the scents she favored wearing, but was not as sweet as she might have preferred.
By the time she’d finished it regardless, found a servant to take the empty cup, and begun tying her mask around her head, father and son emerged from the tent. Hamadrian looked a Baron once again, if frail. There was no hiding his age, the milky eye, but his back was straight and his hands were steady enough. There was a sword at his side but the weight of it seemed, to her eyes, like it might drag him down. His cap of maintenance had been traded for a silver circlet worked, of course, in the shape of a vine, set with round-cut rubies hanging as heavy grapes against the spotted skin of his scalp, and he wore a heavy fur mantle over fine robes of red and green silk. He walked upright, but slowly and carefully, as if every step might bring him to ruin. There was still that sense of concentrated determination about him, but it was no longer packed into a compact frame that hummed with energy.
Hamadrian Innadan, Cerisia decided in that moment, was all but spent. It would be a miracle if he were to make it to Standing Guard Pass, she thought. Yet even as she did, she saw him force a deep breath into what was left of his lungs and stride more determinedly forward.
“We can probably dispense with the horse,” he rasped to Arontis. “Let Ruprecht and Loaisa come to me mounted if they will.” Knights materialized around Arontis and Hamadrian, and the son sent them scurrying for a suitable chair of station. In fact, as they walked, the Baron seemed to concentrate on each step, while his son gave orders. Arontis’s demands were never snapped or yelled, Cerisia noted. He looked at every person he addressed, man or woman, noble or common, asked for what he wanted, and offered dazzling smiles when his requests were met.
He could be a wonder, she thought as she watched the knights, soldiers, and servants of the camp hurry to meet Arontis Innadan’s orders not simply because they were orders, but because something about the man who gave them inspired cheerful service. But will he be ready to negotiate a peace on his own?
Soon, an open meadow just outside their camp was rearranged into a reception parlor. Hamadrian was seated in a massive leaf-carved chair, and two chairs of similar size were set nearby. Innadan knights formed a semi-circle behind their Baron, with Arontis standing at his right hand. Cerisia looked behind her, and could see the towers of the Vineyards looming behind them, the massive banner with the Vined Helm rolling with the spring wind. As Innadan’s knights gathered around, one held a smaller version of the same banner, rich silk on a silver-capped pole, positioned directly behind the Baron’s seat.
Cerisia heard the Baron calling out her name, and, smoothing her white silk with one hand, she glided through the ring of knights and stood at his left. She thought briefly of asking for someone to fetch her own banner, but thought better of it when the Machoryn and Damarind advance parties rode into view. Woven with thread of gold and silver and with gems worked into it or not, Fortune’s banner would disappear when the Vined Helm, the Mailed Fist, and the Manticore all stood together. As it was, Baron Machoryn and Baroness Damarind rode side by side, their banners advancing behind them. Ruprecht Machoryn was a thickset man with a face once handsomely aquiline, gone now to jowls. Loaisa Damarind was tall and thin, with long grey-dusted black hair, braided and then pulled into a thick queue down her back. She wore a dress, but with the skirts divided to ride straight, rather than sidesaddle, and wore a slim-bladed, deadly-looking axe stuck through her belt. Both had trains of knights following them, though not many, with the Machoryn knights matching their Baron in dull armor with blue surcoats, and the Damarind wearing black touched with red over lighter mail.
Loaisa Damarind dismounted nimbly and simply dropped the reins of her black courser to the ground; the animal stayed, nosing at the grass. Her bannerman and another figure hurried after her, while Ruprecht Machoryn was slower, needing the help of a quicker knight to find his feet upon the ground.
Loaisa was a handsome woman, Cerisia decided, which had as much to do with her bearing as her form or her lined but high-cheekboned face. She kept her back straight, her chin up, and her wide hazel eyes met everything in front of her with frank aplomb.
“Is all this pomp truly necessary, Hamadrian? Hadn’t we best be off on our way to your mountain pass to see this wonder you’ve promised us?”
“There are forms to these things, Baroness,” Innadan rasped. He stood slowly, but his face betrayed none of the signs of pain Cerisia had come to know too well. “As for the wonder, well, I’m just as eager to see this paladin as you. Likely more.”
He took a half-step forward. Loaisa extended her hand as if to offer a warrior’s shake, but Hamadrian took her fingers with his own hand and raised it to his lips, his good eye twinkling a bit. “I’m too old to go learning a new way to greet a beautiful woman, Baroness,” he said as he lowered her hand. “Even one who rides and fights like a man.”
“Better than a man,” Loaisa insisted, though Cerisia thought she saw a tiny spot of color in the Baroness’s cheeks. He is a charming old coot, no doubt, she mused.
By then, Ruprecht Machoryn had noisily clomped his way to his fellow rulers. Sweat streamed from his face into bushy side whiskers that had once been deep brown and were now lightly sprinkled with grey and white. “Hamadrian,” the Baron said, his voice surprisingly light and clear for a man of his girth, a mailed hand extended. “The years have been kind to your land. It made for a lovely ride.”
“The part of my lands that you saw, Ruprecht,” Hamadrian said. “Where it touches on Harlach and Delondeur, though?” He shook his head. “Vines untended for months, even whole seasons. Fields laying fallow, herds dead in their fields, and all my young men marching off to their deaths.”
“Cold,” Ruprecht swore after he shook Innadan’s hand delicately. “Your letters were all serious then, and you mean to get right to it.”
“I do,” Hamadrian said. “I know the eastern Baronies have mostly let it go these past few seasons, save for a small raid or a dagger in the night now and then. Time for all of us to make it official, put it on paper.”
“Who’s coming?” That was Loaisa, seeing, Cerisia thought, right to the issue that threatened to sink this congress before it began.
“The three of us, Byron Telmawr, Unseldt Harlach, Landen Delondeur. And the paladin who set all this in motion.”
“Tales are only just tr
ickling our way,” Ruprecht said. “And I don’t credit tales. You believe this paladin is the true thing?”
“I do,” Hamadrian said, “and I’ve an eyewitness,” he said, extending a hand towards Cerisia.
“Whether you believe in the paladin or not,” Loaisa said, “I know I believe in Gilrayan Oyrwyn. And I didn’t hear you list his name in the Congress.”
“He’ll come,” Hamadrian said, “if nothing else, he’ll come to look the paladin in the eye.”
“You sound damn sure of that,” Ruprecht said.
“How do we know he won’t come with an army at his back? Six Barons lightly guarded in one place may prove too tempting to a grasping bastard like him,” Loaisa said.
Hamadrian breathed in with a visible effort, but was suddenly caught with a cough, though not as terrible as many Cerisia had seen. The chirurgeon was at his side, holding a rag damp with some tincture to his mouth. Ruprecht and Machoryn stepped back, until Arontis stepped forward from his father’s side.
“Baron, Baroness, if I may speak for the Baron Innadan, we are of one mind on this; there is a risk, but if we can risk our lives to buy peace for our people, instead of asking them to buy land for us with their lives, is that not worth it?”
“And who are you?” Machoryn considered the taller, younger man with a narrowed eye.
“Arontis Innadan,” he said, gracefully bowing low enough to be respectful without showing deference. “Heir to my father, and Castellan of the Vineyards.”
“Your words are near as pretty as your eyes, boy,” Loaisa said. “But I’d rather buy a peace I can enjoy in my old age.”
“Then surely we have many years yet to secure it, Baroness Damarind,” Arontis said with a light smile.
“You are your father’s son, Arontis Innadan,” Loaisa said, smiling faintly.
“Surely the both of you are thirsty, and your entourages as well,” Arontis said. “Refresh yourselves. Make camp. I’m afraid there is only cold food at the moment, but the carts are even now trundling from the Vineyards to furnish a board appropriate to your stations and your formal arrival in Barony Innadan. In the morning we’ll start our progress west.”
Ruprecht nodded sharply and turned to plod away, looking like a man who wanted quit of his armor.
Cerisia had moved to Hamadrian’s side and saw a smile on his face, hidden though it was by the rag and by his downturned head. The coughing had long since subsided, and Cerisia smiled beneath the cold metal of her mask. The chirurgeon took the rag and led Hamadrian back to his seat, but Cerisia saw the Baron’s eyes follow Arontis as servants moved forward, bearing trays of cups of wine and plates of cheese and pastries.
The Innadan heir had been led towards the Damarind entourage by Baroness Loaisa, who was introducing him to a young woman who bore more than a passing resemblance to the Baroness herself. Though her hair was a honeyed blonde, her bearing and figure—and the slim axe at her belt—were all akin to her mother’s.
“The boy did just fine,” Hamadrian murmured, and Cerisia knew it was for her benefit. She laid a hand on the old Baron’s shoulder and he reached up to clasp it for a moment, a ghost of old strength in his fingers for that moment. His hand slipped away, and he craned his neck to turn his good eye up at her. “Promise me, Archioness, that if he has to see this through without me, that he’ll have your honest help and counsel.”
Her voice somewhat muffled by her mask, Cerisia said, “He shan’t need it, my lord. You heard the Baroness Damarind. He is his father’s son.”
* * *
Allystaire’s entire body ached with the fatigue of the work he’d already done that day, the running, the stones, the riding.
Going to do more than ache if you let him get his hands on you, you old fool. The thought was no less true for being unwanted, Allystaire would have to admit. The rest of the Order, gathered together in a circle, watched as he and Johonn circled each other, feet shuffling carefully in the dirt. Allystaire had his hands curled into fists, and his elbows drawn tightly against his body, but the larger man had his hands open, flung out wider, a wrestler’s stance opposed to Allystaire’s pugilist.
Johonn lunged forward, leading with his right foot, hoping to gather Allystaire into his newly healed and frighteningly strong left arm. The hulking footman was slow enough that Allystaire had time to snap two quick, short punches, with his left hand, into Johonn’s face.
He might as well have punched a bull in the snout for all the effect it had. Johonn plowed into him and Allystaire was nearly carried off his feet. A better wrestler would, Allystaire realized too late, have used the bigger man’s momentum to toss him over an outthrust leg and onto the ground. Instead, Allystaire planted his toes into the ground and clung on for dear life with his left arm, and pumped his right fist into the other man’s lower ribs.
The Order shouted encouragement. Allystaire tried not to dwell on the fact that the only voices he heard yelling his name were likely from Harrys and Norbert.
“Put ‘im on ‘is back, Johonn!” Allystaire heard, even as Johonn was grunting under the repeated thuds of Allystaire’s fist. It was like hitting rock. The question was whether Allystaire’s fist or Johonn’s ribs would give first.
In fact it was Allystaire’s toes dug into the ground that gave. Johonn found new traction and Allystaire felt his knees buckling. He stopped pumping his fist ineffectually into Johonn’s rock-like side and let the wrestler’s weight bear down on him. Gritting his teeth and dropping to a squat so low that his thighs nearly brushed the ground, Allystaire then sprung upwards, pushing off the grass and trying to throw Johonn, who was so surprised that it nearly worked.
As it was, instead of tumbling to the ground, the former footman only stumbled backwards a few paces. Allystaire felt himself breathing heavily, and they continued to shuffle around one another, more slowly. The circle around them had gone quiet. Allystaire felt his right hand beginning to throb; he saw heavy weals raising on Johonn’s ribs. They locked eyes, nodded, and relaxed their stances at once.
There were a few jeers but they turned to cheers when Allystaire and Johonn walked towards each other, hands extended. They clasped arms, and Allystaire placed his left hand over Johonn’s right and let the Goddess’s Gift trickle through the both of them.
Somehow it was easier healing a man he already knew. The bruises and scrapes that faded had been delivered by Allystaire’s own hand, and not in anger; they vanished almost instantly.
I missed the companionship of knights, he thought to himself, even though he knew from drawing on his shared experiences that Johonn didn’t think of himself that way. He was a footman, used to carrying a longaxe, rushing walls and formations of spearmen or bowmen.
Doesn’t matter, he thought. He’ll be a knight now.
For his part, Johonn didn’t bother putting on a shirt, simply walked back to the line of squires, and crossed his arms over his chest, nodding and silently accepting the backslaps and words of encouragement and congratulation.
Allystaire gathered his shirt and vest, using the time to gather his breath as well. He turned to face them while putting his arms through the vest and tugging it on, studied them for a moment. “Norbert. Teague. Three falls.”
The former reaver nodded, and extended a hand towards Teague, who still wore a half mask across her face, long sleeves, and gloves. They shook, and Norbert shed his shirt and walked to the unmarked but respected boundaries of the wrestling green.
Grinning beneath her half mask, Teague said, “I’ll spare ya the sight of my back.” She did remove the mask, though, tossing it casually towards the men, where it was caught by one of Mattar’s surprisingly quick hands. The skin beneath it was still twisted and scarred, much of the flesh having peeled away from her right eye and her mouth. Allystaire had found that, while he could drive Teague’s pain away, nothing could bring back the flesh that was so long gone.
&
nbsp; Norbert was swinging his arms, limbering up; the months of exercise under Allystaire and Harrys’s instruction had changed him from a bean pole to a wiry whipcord.
Allystaire was just about to shout for them to begin when Gideon’s voice sounded in his head.
Allystaire, Mol says she must speak to you in the Temple.
The paladin raised a hand. The squires of the Order stopped, all eyes turning to him. He concentrated a moment, felt Gideon’s presence rushing past him overhead, though vaguely. Suddenly then he was in the Temple, vivid and present in the world once more.
“Harrys,” he said. “Take over. I have business. Try not to hurt each other badly enough to need healing.”
“Aye.” The old horseman stepped out of the line, thumbs hooked into his swordbelt, spat to the side, and eyed Norbert and Teague. “What’re ya waitin’ for then? Someone t’wave a flag and sound a horn? To it!”
Allystaire had already begun to stride off, the thudding sound sparring quickly fading.
Gideon was waiting for him on the stairs of the Temple, hands held behind his back, frowning. “Been playing in the dirt, have you?”
The dismissal in the boy’s tone, the casual flippancy of it, brought Allystaire up short. He fixed Gideon with a stare and held it till the boy looked to the ground.
“That was unworthy of me,” Gideon muttered. “I’m sorry.”
Allystaire slowly mounted the stairs and, without saying a word, slipped his arm around the boy’s shoulders, for just a moment. “I need to spend more time with you Gideon. I know,” he muttered. “Yet I also have to try to make them ready.”
“They’ll never be ready,” Gideon said, “because they aren’t you.”
“Someone will have to come after me, Gideon. Other men and women will have to do the work.”
“And it will be up to the Mother to choose them, or not,” the boy replied. “I know you believe in the the Order. I know they are good soldiers and will be faithful to you and to the Mother. But if you mean them to face the same threats you face, in the same way, they are doomed.”
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