It was the sight of her mother’s tears that made Kitry understand the truth. Rena saw the weight of reality suddenly hit six-year-old Kaitryn all in a single moment. The little girl stared at her mother with her large eyes filling up with sorrow: wise, sad eyes that were too old for the youth of her face. Kaitryn had not cried; she had huddled up inside of herself and refused to speak to anyone or eat anything. She withdrew from the rest of the world and retreated with her pain to a place that Rena could not reach.
Rena’s friends watched in sympathy, but there was little they could do for they were all struggling with their own pain and hardships. So many were drowning in their own grief and heartache, and had little to offer in the way of comfort to anyone else. Even as the urgency of their mission weighed upon them, even as they left behind all they had known, they traveled wrapped in private pain, isolated from all the rest and unable to share their shattered hearts.
However, Rena, almost sick with heartache over the loss of her husband and her hurting daughter, had done what no other had been able to find the strength to do. Despite her own pain that pricked her heart afresh whenever she saw something Wessel would have loved or whenever she looked into Kitry’s hollow eyes, she began to reach out to the other people in her own unique way. She sang. Her songs were sometimes bright and joyful, and sometimes they were sad and mournful, but whatever she sang, the music raised the spirits of the people. Often they would stop what they were doing, enchanted by the sound of singing that seemed so out of place in the atmosphere of grief that clung around them. As they journeyed through the mountains, Rena’s beautiful, haunting voice echoed off the rocks above them and served to ease a bit of the pain, a fraction of the weariness. Slowly, ever so slowly, Rena’s songs began to mend the broken hearts and penetrate the misty shadows of sorrow, allowing a breath of joy to once again enter their lives. At night, preparing for rest, the children would gather around Rena and she would sing silly nursery rhymes to them, making them giggle and laugh and forget where they were and why they had been sad. Then she would sing a lullaby, and the children would drift to sleep to the sound of her voice.
It was Rena’s songs that bound up the broken spirits of the Cove People and reminded them how strong they really were. It was Rena’s beautiful voice as she sang nonsense rhymes to the children that reminded them how to laugh again. It was Rena’s selfless heart that taught them how to reach out to one another and comfort each other even through their pain. And, eventually, it was Rena’s songs that drew her own daughter Kaitryn out of her protective shell.
On this morning, Rena was again entertaining the children with her song. It was very silly with words of utter nonsense - the kind that led its listeners to mentally fill in the next word with one that rhymed, but then she would surprise them by inserting a word that didn’t rhyme. It was a fun song to sing and Rena had begun taking any opportunity to laugh or make the children smile. They were too young to bear such heavy burdens on their shoulders, and so she tried with all her might to ease the load they all carried.
Kaitryn, as usual, was sitting a short distance away, hugging her knees to herself and staring back the way they had come. The song was making the other children giggle, and some of them were laughing too hard to sing. Rena even began to laugh at the sight of some of the little children, flopped on the floor and trying to sing between giggles. Their laughter rose up into the fresh new morning air as the Cove People gathered up their things and prepared to leave the shelter of the overhang and continue on their way.
Suddenly, as Rena was singing and the children were laughing, she heard a small noise that began as a whimper and then turned into a full-fledged sob. She spun around and saw Kaitryn, sitting on the ground with tears pouring down her face.
“Mommy!” the little girl cried, standing up and holding out her arms.
Rena ran to her daughter and picked her up, cradling her, sheltering her, and murmuring all the while, “It’s all right, it’s okay, shhh, dear one, darling, I love you so much.”
“I miss Daddy,” the child sobbed.
“I miss him too,” Rena managed to choke out before the tears that she had held back for so long began to slide down her face.
“Why? Why couldn’t he keep his promise?”
Rena had no answer; she simply rocked her child, allowing her to cry. She kissed Kaitryn’s forehead and held her tight, not speaking, not doing anything, just holding her and crying a little with her. Their broken hearts bled openly for the world to see, drawing the others to them, and even as the tears spread, so did the healing. The pain would not go away, it would not heal in an evening of tears, but the healing had begun. Rena knew that one day, in the distant future, the wounds would close, replaced by scars that would only ache every now and then at the unbidden memory of what they had lost. But for now, those wounds were sharp and fresh, and would never fully heal.
chapter
FOURTEEN
Tobias walked slowly to the doors of the audience chamber. Through the crack between the great doors, he could see King Seamas sitting easily on Prince Elroy’s throne. The ruler of Roalthae stood nearby, a glimmer of a frown on his young face. Slightly behind the throne stood Seamas’ uncle, Captain Ramius. Tobias clenched his jaw. On the Council, Ramius was the worst of the three, the most bloodthirsty, the most impulsive, and the greediest. Tobias knew that the man had begun whispering in Seamas’ ear a long time ago, even before King Stiorne died. As such, Ramius held much of the blame for Seamas’ most recent actions, at least in Tobias’ opinion. Taking a deep breath, as though getting ready to swim a long way under water, Tobias pushed the door open and entered the chamber.
“Tobias!” Seamas’ voice resounded through the room. “Approach the throne.”
It was impossible to tell what the King was thinking from his tone. Tobias hesitated for the briefest part of a second, and then he held his head high and approached his king. If he was to die, then so be it. When he reached the edge of the slightly raised dais upon which the throne sat, he knelt and saluted, fist to heart. A moment later, he felt hands pulling him up, and then the King himself was embracing him.
“Have they found him?” Seamas whispered in his ear.
Tobias shook his head. “Not yet, Sire.”
Seamas stepped back and raised his voice, “You have done a great work for us, Tobias. The weapons we ordered are complete. The ships are stocked and stand waiting for us to board them. The warriors we sent ahead are in position. All that is left now is to wait.”
“It may still be a week before we set sail,” Tobias replied cautiously.
“Details,” Seamas waved a hand. “What is one more week when I have waited this long? What I seek will not escape me again. Now, let me see the maps that our scouts have brought back, and let us review our strategy once more. Come, let us retire to the council room and give our good host back his chair.” Seamas smiled at Elroy, and the prince jumped slightly.
They adjourned to a large room near the center of the castle with a huge table and great tapestries on the walls depicting historical battles. Several high ranking aethalons joined them, and they immediately began hammering out the final details of their battle plans. Tobias tried to stay focused on the plans, but his thoughts were still reeling from the reception he had been given. Had he been forgiven? Or, an even more startling thought: did the king not even realize Tobias had once given him false information? Or was Seamas biding his time, waiting for the right moment to punish him? Perhaps Seamas was waiting to see if the reports he had received were accurate, for the King was the only one who would be able to verify them. Or perhaps Seamas would simply place Tobias in a spot where he would be sure to perish during the battle. Tobias felt uneasy, and his skin prickled as if trying to warn him of his danger. A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to look up into the bearded face of Captain Ramius.
“Sir,” Tobias said.
“You’ve done a good job here,” Ramius replied, ste
ering him towards a corner away from the others. “His Majesty is well-pleased with you.”
“I live to serve him.”
“But you do not approve of this bid for conquest.” It was not a question.
“It is not my place to question the will of my King,” Tobias replied.
“Then it is the Council you do not approve of, and you believe this invasion was our doing?”
Uncomfortable with the accuracy of the captain’s inquiry, Tobias shrugged and allowed his lips to twitch in a slight smile. “The Council was appointed by the King, and is therefore safe from my judgment. As I said, I stand for my King.”
“And what of the King’s other agenda, the one he has kept secret from all but his oldest friend?”
“And who might that be?”
“You, of course. You served with him when he was part of the King’s Helm, he appointed you to the leadership position of the Helm when he took the throne. You are the one he turns to most often for advice, in spite of the Council being raised.”
“If the King told me of any secret agenda and I am the only one who knows about it, then why would I betray his confidence and discuss it with you?”
“Because the quest he has set for us all could stain his honor. I may be a member of the Council, but the king is still my nephew. I would not see him brought low simply to further my own political ends. To tell you the truth, I would rather be sailing my ship, but Seamas asked me to join his Council, so...” Ramius shrugged and took a sip of wine, “here I am.”
“How could the King’s agenda hurt him, precisely?” Tobias asked.
Ramius raised an eyebrow. “Shrewd, Captain, very shrewd. But you and I both know that Seamas is keeping something to himself. I thought you might know what it was. I can only guess, and my guesses leave me cold. The others on the Council are not as honorable as I, and I fear they do not have my nephew’s best interests at heart. Ah well, if he has not confided in you...”
Tobias kept his face blank as Ramius glanced at him questioningly. The old ship’s captain, reading nothing in the younger man’s face, shrugged again and continued. “I only hope that when it comes to light it does not mean the ruin of us all.”
As Ramius walked away, Tobias breathed deeply. That was interesting, he thought. I never would have expected him to worry about honor. Or maybe it is only his own skin he is worried about. I wonder how much he knows? If he suspects the truth... would he help Seamas, or would he try to seize power himself? He certainly would not try to talk the king out of this madness. Tobias let his shoulders droop. None of his options were looking good.
❖ ❖ ❖
It was raining again. Yole sat shivering under a bush and pulled his soaking blanket tighter around his shoulders. The blanket was too wet to offer any comfort, and he whimpered, his teeth clacking together as another wave of cold hit him. He thought back to the horrible events of several nights ago. No shadow-lark had called to let him know that it was safe to return to Kamarie; Yole knew that this meant Kamarie had been captured or killed, and he was miserable at the thought of either.
He had pressed on, trying to head east as Kamarie had instructed, but the going had been difficult. He was still traveling through the thicket, and sharp thorns and razor-thin grasses had slashed through his light clothing, covering his arms and legs in numerous tiny cuts that stung. He was sore and his muscles ached. Each morning it was harder to get moving. He had to push his way through the thick brambles, and at times he had been forced to crawl when he could not stand in the thorny thicket. His hands and knees were blood-stained, leaving a trail that anyone could follow.
Yole stood as the rain began to let up and left his meager shelter. Squaring his shoulders, he wiped his nose on his torn and filthy sleeve, and set off once more towards the Harshlands. Kamarie had told him to keep going if the shadow-lark did not call. She had entrusted him with the duty of continuing on alone so that he could tell the others what had happened to her, and this mission he was determined to complete, even if it killed him. He would reach the Harshlands, and he would find Brant and Oraeyn and Dylanna, somehow.
Yole trudged on, weary footstep after weary footstep, until he came to a break in the forest. He found himself standing on a road that wound on in an easterly direction. He stood for a few moments, debating with himself as to what he should do. The open road was dangerous; it meant that he had a better chance of coming in contact with people. But, somehow, that threat did not sound all bad to the boy who had been traveling on his own through the dark, shadow-filled forest for three days. He knew that he should probably stick to the forest, but he was tired of fighting his way through brambles and weeds. As he looked at the quiet path before him, the dark, tangled forest seemed a dreadful and fearsome place to travel alone. He stared at the trees, wondering how he had come through it as far as he had. Then, with a confident nod to himself, Yole followed the dirt road, trusting that it would, by some miracle, lead him to the Harshlands.
A few hours later found him traveling with a much lighter step and whistling a merry tune. The rain had stopped, and the Dragon’s Eye was shining down brightly, warming and drying the youth. He knew that his food supply was running low, and he missed Kamarie’s lessons and her cheerful outlook on their plight, but these were minor trials. Yole was beginning to remember that he had spent most of his life traveling alone. He liked the feel of the dirt road beneath his feet and the wind in his hair once more, and he was even starting to forget all the terror of the past few days.
Quite unexpectedly, Yole heard a familiar sound up ahead of him on the road. It was the unmistakable noise of wooden cart wheels and the jingle of a harness. Yole walked quickly, but still with the caution that his days of journeying with the others had taught him. Shortly, he caught up with the cart and found its owner sitting by the side of the road munching on something that smelled of roasted meat and recently baked bread. The delicious aromas made Yole’s mouth water. Then he caught sight of the cart and almost forgot his hunger. The cart was so brightly colored that it assailed the eyes. It was covered in a hodgepodge of all the colors that Yole had ever seen, and it had windows on each side with little wooden shutters that looked absolutely ridiculous on a traveling cart. And yet, there was a definite appeal, a cheerfulness about it that made Yole smile just to look at it, though he could not have said what it was he was smiling about.
Convinced of his own stealth, Yole was surprised when he heard a cheerful, “Hello there. I’m not as blind as all that.” Yole hesitantly stepped forward, wondering how he had been spotted.
The man jumped up in a flurry of too-long limbs and came over to shake the boy’s hand. “Hello again!” he said with enthusiasm. “I haven’t seen another creature’s face in two day’s time! Come and share my lunch?”
Yole was more than willing to share lunch and said so. The man laughed and clapped him on the back good-naturedly. Then the two sat together on the side of the well-worn path, munching on roast turkey sandwiches and drinking bowls of foaming goat’s milk. As they ate, Yole studied the man sitting across from him.
The owner of the cart was tall and lean. He had a shock of blond hair that stood up in all directions as though it had never been brushed and bright blue eyes that twinkled with laughter when he spoke. Yole could just imagine the man telling tall tales and making people believe them just by the look in his eyes. His face was young and unremarkable and, yet, Yole got the impression that there was a depth and age behind that face. He also got the odd feeling that the man was familiar, but he abandoned that idea as soon as it made its presence known; such a notion was ridiculous. The owner of the cart had long hands with slender fingers, which had calluses on the tips as though he played some sort of stringed instrument. He was dressed in practical clothes for traveling, but the cloth was a patchwork of as many different colors as could be found on his cart, some bright and some dark. In all, the man looked rather gawky and ungainly. He was even somewhat funny looking, Yole
thought, though he never would have said something so rude out loud.
“And who are you?” the funny looking man asked. “Perhaps I could write a song about it: the youngling who wandered alone the open roads of the southern realm. Ah! But that would make a magnificent tale!”
As he spoke, his hands moved quickly, bringing out four brightly colored round objects. Throwing them up in the air, he tossed them back and forth in intricate patterns that took Yole’s breath away. Yole laughed delightedly and clapped his hands.
The young man smiled and stood up to take a bow. “You like my juggling?”
Yole nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, I do!”
The strange man smiled again at the delight of his young audience, but then his shoulders drooped and his smile faltered. “It is truly a pity that no one else seems to,” he sighed dramatically.
Yole looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”
“I am completely unappreciated by many of my audiences,” the man sighed again and put a hand to his forehead, his voice was plaintive but uncomplaining. “I tried to get an audience at the castle, but they have too many minstrels already, or so they told me. Then I tried to juggle and sing for the rich merchants, but they are all more interested in the newer stories and the fancier tricks, bah! Fancier tricks! Why, when I juggle I make their heads spin, but that’s the way of the rich, they’re alright until you want to be paid, then they get stingy on you and hem and haw about how little talent you really have. Hah! They wouldn’t know talent if it reached out and pinched their noses, now there would be a sight! Ha ha!” The man’s voice changed with each turn of his story, as if he were weaving the words into an intricate pattern on some unseen loom.
Yole laughed at the antics of the minstrel. The minstrel did not notice, but continued talking, almost as though to himself.
“No siree, there is no greater talent beneath the Dragon’s Eye than that of the Great Kiernan Kane! No, the Magnificent… oh, hello there,” the Great Kiernan Kane abruptly halted his flow of words as he suddenly seemed to remember that he had an audience, small though it was. “What is your name? I completely forgot to ask you.”
King's Warrior (The Minstrel's Song Book 1) Page 28
