That night, after completing his pair of exercises as Drexil had suggested, Randall’s forearms felt like they were going to split apart like dry kindling beneath an axe. His legs burned, but not so terribly that he was unable to walk, and it was with more than a little gratitude that he made his way to the campfire to partake of the evening meal of vegetable stew and fresh corn which had been freshly roasted.
He watched as Drexil and Eckol took the bundle of canvas and poles from beneath the wagon and set it out on the ground several paces from the wagon and horses. When they failed to erect the structure and instead returned to the campfire for their own meal, Randall saw Ravilich put his own, empty bowl down on the ground and walk toward the tent.
While Randall watched, the other man stopped and turned with an expectant look on his face. “If thou thought I would erect this tent alone, thou art sorely mistaken,” he said coldly.
Taking that as his cue, Randall hastily finished his corn and made to help the man with the task of setting up the tent. After much less time than Randall had suspected it would take, the five-paces-wide, rectangular structure was erected and Ravilich turned to him with an even look on his face. “Thou shalt perform this task by thyself from now on; I shall demonstrate its proper stowing in the morn.”
The other man then turned his back and left Randall alone, wondering what he had ever done to upset the man so greatly. The Squire’s temperament had seemed jovial and upbeat when Randall had first come into their company, but ever since they had left Jacob’s Plow there was a degree of tension between them that Randall had never understood.
Shaking his head in bewilderment, he looked up to a nearby outcropping of rock—the only such outcropping to appear for several hours. On seeing it, the White Knight had oddly declared this to be the location of the night’s camp even though there had been at least another hour of sunlight remaining in the day.
Ser Cavulus knelt atop the large rock outcropping, with his sword driven what looked to be several inches into the stone while he gripped the White Blade’s pommel as though in prayer. Randall watched as the White Knight held that pose until well after the sun had gone dark, when he suddenly stood and withdrew the sword as easily as though it had been stuck in nothing but wet dirt.
Ser Cavulus descended the hill and came to the entry flap of the tent, tilting his head to Randall as he did so. “Didst thou bring thy belongings?”
Randall nodded, and the White Knight knelt beside the tent flap and gathered up a small, metal, box-shaped lantern which had been concealed within the flap itself and gestured for Randall to enter the tent. He did as he was bidden and Ser Cavulus followed. They stood together inside the dark tent for several tense moments until Randall heard the sound of flint striking iron. He turned just in time to see the small lantern’s flame spring to life, illuminating the inside of the tent.
Randall turned in awe as he saw absolutely exquisite depictions of dozens of battles woven like tapestries into the canvas of the tent. He marveled at the way they seemed so lifelike, and leaned closer to get a better look.
“Wow,” he breathed, seeing the image of what could only be Ser Cavulus doing battle with a fire-breathing, multi-headed dragon. Another scene showed the White Knight wielding Rimidalv, standing alone in what seemed to be an ocean of small, furry creatures with red eyes beneath what looked for all intents and purposes to be a black sun.
“What dost thou see?” Ser Cavulus asked, stepping closer to the tapestry and shedding clearer light on the images depicted there.
Randall looked closer and saw even more images of heroic battles. “I see victories which should be hailed far and wide…but I’ve never heard of any of these battles.”
The White Knight stood there regarding the tapestry for several moments before moving to the center of the tent where he sat on the canvas floor. “Please join me.”
Randall did as the White Knight had asked and sat down, setting his ruined rucksack on the ground beside himself.
“Thy tale of how thou came to flee Three Rivers is not uncommon to me,” Ser Cavulus began, pausing briefly before continuing, “but much as I empathize with thy plight, the White Knights must remain pure of heart. Such transgressions as those thou hast committed, understandable as they may be given thy circumstances, would normally preclude thee from my company. However, Rimidalv has expressed a…desire for me to assist thee—nay,” he shook his head as he corrected himself, “the White Blade doth not wish me to assist thee; Rimidalv considers his debt to thy weapon to be an extenuating circumstance. He therefore wishes me to begin thy training, after which he shall accept my…penance for whatever stain my soul might bear for it.”
Randall winced at being described as something which might cause a stain on someone’s soul, but he stuck his chin out defiantly at the thought of what the knight was saying. If Ser Cavulus looked down his nose at Randall for protecting his friends in the only way available to him, then to the pits with him!
“Firstly,” Ser Cavulus began, sitting nearly cross-legged in an improbable display of his armor’s incredibly fine design, “thou art of Ghaevlian descent, art thou not?” Randall nodded stiffly, and the White Knight continued, “Doth thou know how many generations separate thee from thy last Pure Ghaevlian mother?”
Randall opened his mouth to reply as he had ever since the Federation had come to Three Rivers by saying he was a seventh generation Ghaevlian mix, but he stopped himself before the words passed his lips. Ser Cavulus had asked for honesty, and Randall owed him at least that much after the help he had already provided—let alone for what he was about to provide.
“I’m a third generation Ghaevlian/human hybrid,” he said stiffly.
Ser Cavulus shook his head sadly. “Tis such a crass, inaccurate term for what thou art,” the White Knight said with what Randall thought was a note of anger in his voice, “thee and thy kind are not ‘hybrids;’ thou art the physical manifestation of a union between two peoples who desired nothing so much as peace and unity between their cultures—”
Randall snorted derisively, despite his intention to remain stoic throughout Cavulus’ speech. At the White Knight’s silence, Randall shook his head apologetically. “I’m sorry, but the way the humans treat my kind makes such a desire seem…unlikely, to put it politely.”
The White Knight nodded slowly. “I can understand how thou might feel thus,” he admitted, “but thou must understand; the iniquities of which thee speaks do not lie solely at the feet of humanity.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Randall snapped, “but life looks just a little bit different from the muddy streets than it does from your high and mighty saddle!”
Ser Cavulus held his gaze for several seconds and for an instant Randall thought he saw the lantern’s light reflected by an eye behind the dark, impenetrable helmet which the knight constantly wore. “Our senses can often deceive us,” the White Knight said in a low voice, “but those failings pose a mere fraction of the danger which our preconceptions create. Never forget that.”
Randall felt his scalp go numb and decided to swallow the angry retort he had nearly spat. He took a deep breath and, after the proscribed period of time had passed without dire incident, he relaxed.
“So,” the White Knight interjected into the growing silence, “thy great grandmother was a Pure Ghaevlian, is that correct?”
Randall nodded his assent. “I’ve never met her, but my mother taught me everything I know of Ghaevlian culture before she died.”
“I would offer a measure of solace for thy loss, but I fear thou art of no humor to accept such,” Ser Cavulus said evenly.
Shaking his head, Randall tried to clear his mind. “It’s ok,” he said after regaining a measure of control of his temper.
“Thou art not alone in experiencing such loss at a young age; thou has my sympathies,” the White Knight said before continuing. “Dost thou have a thing of thy grandmother’s?”
Randall’s eyebrow arched. “What do you m
ean?”
Ser Cavulus splayed his hands wide, “Tis a common tradition for a Pure Ghaevlian to gift her daughters with a token of some kind; perhaps a ring or necklace?”
He couldn’t think of anything like that until he remembered the wooden box with the medallion. “I might have something like that, but I’m honestly not sure.”
“May I see it?” Ser Cavulus asked with an outstretched hand.
Reaching into his ruined rucksack, Randall took out the heavy, wooden box and lifted the lid, revealing the triangular pendant with the image of the serpentine tree standing atop a mountain’s peak. He handed it to the White Knight, who turned it over in his hands before nodding. “Good,” he said approvingly in his metallic voice, “it is in fine condition as well.”
“What is it?” Randall asked, leaning forward.
“Tis thy line’s sigil,” Cavulus explained, “carved upon the dark stone for which Ghaevlian sculptures are renowned. In thy ancestors’ native tongue, it is called Flylrylioulen or, in the low tongues, ‘Heart of The People’.”
Randall’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. “How do you know so much about them?”
Ser Cavulus seemed to look at him for a moment before continuing, “They are generally handed down along the line of mothers, but it is not unheard of for one to come into the possession of a favored son. Hast thou yet worn it?”
Randall shook his head. “I didn’t want anyone to recognize it…” he said meekly.
“An understandable concern,” the White Knight agreed, “but now that thou hast come into my company, such concerns are unwarranted. Thou would do well to wear it at all times directly against the skin over thy heart; it is the traditional way of thy people.”
Ser Cavulus handed it back to him, and Randall accepted the strange amulet. The White Knight gestured for him to wear it and Randall did so hesitantly. He had been afraid it would be heavy or cumbersome, but it was strangely not so. In fact, when he placed the unusually warm stone against the skin of his chest he found that he barely even noticed its presence.
“I would advise thee to sleep with it,” the knight continued, “they are reputed to provide various boons to the wearer but thou must discover its particular benefits on thy own, as each is unique.”
“Thank you,” Randall said awkwardly, feeling the skin of his scalp go numb once again.
“I shall leave thee for the night,” Ser Cavulus said, standing to his feet, “as thou hast much to…discuss. We shall speak again on the morrow.”
“Wait,” Randall protested, but the White Knight ignored him as he made his way through the tent flap and out into the cool, dark night.
His scalp tingled again and Randall looked around apprehensively. When nothing happened, he cursed himself for a fool as he reached up for the hilt of the sword strapped to his back.
As soon as he gripped it, a voice boomed in his ears,—must speak, now!
Releasing his grip on the leather-wrapped hilt—which, strangely, had begun to unravel—Randall covered his ears reflexively. When there were no further outbursts, he gingerly reached up to the sword’s hilt and muttered under his breath, “Not so loud, please.”
When his fingers once again gripped the hilt, there was only silence for several seconds. But eventually the voice returned in its hollow, deadened tone, Is this more acceptable?
“Yes,” he whispered, “thank you, that’s much better.”
Very well, the voice replied, and it sounded far fuller than it had previously but it still lacked inflection or any emotional cues which Randall could key off. Never have I been so constrained during a Ritual of Union, so I apologize for any concerns I may have caused you during the past weeks.
“Ritual of Union?” Randall asked warily. “What does that mean?”
We shall discuss that later, Randall of Three Rivers, the voice replied. For now we must be properly introduced: my name is Dan’Moread, and from what little I have learned of you I can see that ours would be a most…unusual partnership.
“Dan’Moread?” Randall repeated under his breath. He actually thought to pinch himself in case all of this had been a dream, but he dismissed the thought quickly. The sword had communicated with him several times already and Ser Cavulus certainly seemed convinced that his own sword somehow possessed intelligence, so rather than refuse to accept what appeared to be reality he decided to roll with the whole turn of events. “I guess I should be thanking you, Dan’Moread,” Randall said after the awkward silence.
Thanking me for what? the sword asked.
“For rescuing my friends back in Three Rivers…and for killing that rat in the swamp, and for dealing with those Fleshmongering marauders,” he explained. “I’ve only survived every terrifying thing that’s happened to me lately because of your help.”
Not true, the sword replied quickly, I played almost no part in the death of the swamp-rat.
“What do you mean?” Randall asked with an arched eyebrow. “You cut almost completely through that thing, and I would have died in that foul bog if it hadn’t been for you helping me dig out.”
There was a brief pause before Dan’Moread replied. I confess to being…unwell during that particular exchange. It is true that my edge is what parted the creature’s flesh, but I had no part in directing your…attack, such as it was.
Randall felt himself flush at the sword’s open disdain for his technique—or lack thereof—in dealing with the unusually-sized rodent. “Anyway,” he said quickly, “I wouldn’t be here without you, and I suspect neither would my friends.”
I am happy to be of service, the sword replied. I am a weapon, after all; my very existence would be superfluous without the opportunities to defeat those who would destroy all that I hold precious.
Shaking his head in amazement, Randall actually felt a burst of excitement well up inside his body. I can’t believe this…I’m actually talking with a magical sword! he thought giddily. Then he caught himself as he replayed the sword’s last words in his mind.
“What exactly is it that you hold precious, Dan’Moread?” he asked evenly, torn between trepidation and excitement at conversing with such a unique creature…or creation.
There was a long silence before the sword replied, and when it did Randall noticed that its voice was significantly more distant than it had been moments earlier. I must apologize, Randall of Three Rivers, Dan’Moread said in what was little more than a whisper, I fear I am still too weakened by our…unusual bonding.
“What can I do to help?” Randall asked, fighting to keep the desperation from his voice. This sword, Dan’Moread, had helped him survive what were literally unwinnable fights for him on two separate occasions and he knew that he owed it a debt of gratitude.
Please do not discard me, the sword replied, or set me down for longer than a few dozen heartbeats; I must remain on your person at all times. I will understand if you do not wish to complete our Union when the time comes, but I must plead with you to carry me on your person at least until my wounds can be healed—each separation during this bonding period causes me great duress and in my current condition I will not survive a prolonged period of such.
“Of course,” Randall replied hastily, his guts twisting at the desperation in the sword’s words.
I promise that the bonding ritual will cause you no harm, and as I said it would be of great benefit to me if you would allow the process to continue. I would also ask that you practice with me in hand and keep me out of that accursed scabbard as long as you can manage, the sword added as its voice faded almost beyond Randall’s ability to hear it. The light of the sun and the moons will provide some temporary relief to my current condition until we can find one who might assist in making me whole.
“Ok,” Randall replied slowly, “but I think you should know that I’m really not a warrior.”
With time and training, the sword’s voice echoed in the furthest corners of Randall’s mind, you will be.
At that, Dan’Moread spoke no more and Ra
ndall sat in stunned silence for several minutes before he noticed a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as his eyes flitted between the scenes depicted on the tent’s flaps.
For the first time in a very, very long while, Randall felt like things might have just taken a decisive turn in his favor.
Chapter XX: The Second Lesson
Dawn, 6-13-5-659
Randall awoke to the first sliver of dawn’s light streaming down from overhead and he stretched, feeling his cramped and sore back and legs protest as he did so.
His chest tingled slightly and he looked down to see the Flylrylioulen set over the tingling section of skin. He lifted it slightly, seeing that the skin beneath the triangular pendant was slightly pink but otherwise appeared unharmed.
Remembering what Ser Cavulus had said about keeping the pendant over his heart—and unwilling to distrust the word of a White Knight—he kept the pendant where it had been and stood gingerly to his feet.
“It’s late,” he heard Drexil bark from the other side of the wagon, where he was apparently fixing their gear for travel, “and ye’ve not yet done yer exercises.”
Remembering that he also had to take down the tent, he looked over and saw Ravilich waiting with an expectant look on his face by the knight’s light blue, rectangular pavilion. Standing quickly, he made his way to the tent and the Squire wordlessly began to undo the stakes and wards which had held it in place throughout the night.
Taking the stakes, wards and poles down was easy. But folding the expensive, surprisingly heavy material into its stowed form was a different matter entirely. Randall had a hard time keeping up with Ravilich’s movements as he folded corners across each other before counter-folding back across other sections in an elaborate, complex fashion until the tent was once again tightly bound and stowed beneath the wagon.
Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1) Page 24
