As he washed himself, he realized he’d never formally met her, yet she seemed to have known him. Wondering if she treated all the people she didn’t know that way, the dark-haired youth climbed out of the white and black marble bathtub and toweled himself dry with one of the many thick red towels at his disposal, glad to finally get rid of the dampness in his skin.
He looked into the full-length, gold-worked mirror opposite him and was struck by the change in his appearance. He’d gained a little weight since beginning the journey, fleshing out his form with the addition of more muscle. He’d never had much body fat, having always been thin, but now he could call himself mildly stocky. He flexed a little and admired the muscles that had grown out of formerly smoother flesh. Then, feeling foolish, he relaxed and surveyed the rest of himself.
His hair had grown considerably, falling now into his eyes in front. Remembering how often he had to brush it out of his face, he decided to find something to tie it back. A haircut was probably out of the question, what with all that was going on.
He also saw the three scars the Chattul had left on him. He’d never really noticed them before and realized he would have to keep them covered or find a good excuse for them when he returned home. They ran deeply from the middle of his stomach to just behind his ribs on his left side. He touched them lightly and admired their rough, puckered feel.
He remembered the bizarre itching that had begun when he’d neared the princess’s rooms, realizing only now that it seemed to originate at this injury. He’d ignored it in his efforts to save the princess and only noticed it again when the assassins were defeated and the itch was gone. Thinking back, he recalled how that itch had nearly distracted him from killing the Jaga. Again, at the time he’d paid it little mind and had planned to ponder it after the beast was dead. But it had died with the Jaga, so he hadn’t bothered to think about it. He even remembered the first time he’d felt it, when that guard, Reska, had nearly decapitated him during their spar. It was as if it had tried to warn him of danger, allowing him to act to save himself. Scratching it did no good, as he’d discovered while fighting the Jaga, but having his sword in his hand did seem to lessen its strength.
Looking down, he saw the marks on his shins, recalling how painful the Jaga’s claws had felt. Fortunately, they hadn’t dug too deep, and left little more than red slashes on his skin. Almost liking his battle-scarred appearance, he walked into the next room to dress in the comfortable, loose clothing that had been provided for him.
The shirt was a deep red with gold trimming the arms and cuffs. He liked the softer feel of this wool after the coarse thickness of his other clothes. His trousers were a solid, dark blue, and the shoes soft, ankle-high dark leather. Strapping on his sword and belting his daggers into place, he glanced again at himself in a mirror even larger than the one in the bathroom and was startled. The mature, serious face staring back at him, not to mention the entire form, looked much different than he remembered. He usually saw a relatively thin young man who spent most of his time hunched over some book. But the figure reflected seemed much older, his head fully involved in what happened around him. Now Vaun knew he didn’t belong anywhere else but where he was, for this world had given him what he’d always sought: sense of self.
Not only did his body look different, but his entire demeanor had changed. He no longer stood with his shoulders slightly hunched and his eyes toward the ground. This new person held his back straight, with his pale blue eyes easily meeting those of others. He had confidence in himself, much unlike the former self Vaun remembered, and he also seemed to know just what he was doing.
The questions of whether or not he was doing the right or sensible thing did not bother him as they had before. He seemed to have confidence now in his ability to choose the best path, rather than rely on the guidance of others or simply not act. Vaun smirked when he noticed that, despite how changed he appeared and felt, he still needed to comb and tie back his hair. He looked like a ruffian with it hanging down in front of his face.
The thought of a ruffian brought to mind the attack at the start of their journey and his reaction to it. The reaction he never seemed able to reconcile with himself. The youth had always pictured himself as an invincible warrior, but he’d also known that was merely his imagination. He’d been honest with himself enough to admit that if the situation arose, he’d probably panic. But he’d reacted to that attack as if it happened on a regular basis, just as he’d imagined he would. He was glad he did, but it disturbed him, too, because it meant he was no longer the same person he used to be. Or maybe he never had been in the first place.
He still liked the change, only it seemed at times he didn’t know himself. One particular incident stuck in his mind—the thoughts that had plagued him after that initial assault. That voice in his head had seemed completely different from his own, yet at the same time it hadn’t. Vaun had always talked to himself, and still did, but it never seemed like he talked to a completely separate mind, as it did then.
But now that other voice was a part of him, and Vaun guessed it was his Swordsman’s nature that hadn’t been fully part of him at that time. Ever since his Bonding, that other mind had joined his, and they had created Vaun Tarsus. The young man wondered if past Swordsmen had experienced the same thing, guessing they probably had, considering the stories Thorne had told him of how many Swordsmen seemed to go insane and chased away all their friends right before they Bonded. The Song, too, had helped solidify his new identity, blending his old self with the new so well that it seemed they had always been that way. And maybe they had.
The young Swordsman’s eyes refocused on his reflection. Whoever Vaun Tarsus really was, if indeed he was any different from the person looking at himself, the one from a different world and with a different name, he definitely needed more rest and a bite to eat. The tension of the last few days had kept his stomach perpetually empty and his nerves taut.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t rest just yet, and so the man who was Vaun Tarsus the Swordsman, as well as Sean Matthews the reader, left the room in search of his companions. No amount of self-realization would be an excuse to be late for the meeting with King Dobry, whom he now wholeheartedly considered his liege lord, even without oaths.
After eating a quick meal in the huge palace kitchen, he stopped on the way to the king’s rooms to get a leather thong for his hair. Upon tying it, he decided he liked his new ponytail. It wasn’t as long as Merdel’s, but at least it didn’t have any grey in it. As he walked, he munched on his dessert apple and drank from a cup of water, figuring the king would be in his private audience chamber.
He approached the heavy, rebuilt doors to the room and nodded to the two men now guarding it, taking another bite of his apple as they opened the carved yet still unfinished oak doors.
King Dobry leaned forward in his chair toward the two elves seated before him, listening intently to all they said. Merdel and Thorne sat in their usual place, and Captain Stolar again occupied the blue chair. After bowing to the king, Vaun sat next to Drath on the red couch and turned his attention to the elves’ report.
“After we listened to their conversation,” Dart said, “we decided to leave a message for King Celos. We figured it would be good for him to know, and he might be able to catch one or both of those men. We left descriptions of them, and told him what had happened here and what else we’d found out. We also asked him to wait to hear from you before acting further on his own. That’s pretty much everything.”
Rush nodded his agreement.
The king sat deep in thought, idly scratching his chin. He now wore clothing similar to Vaun’s, only it was lighter and the colors of his shirt and trousers were reversed. He also had a golden falcon embroidered on the left side of his shirt, its regally upright posture and prominent eyes declaring a watchful intensity and readiness to act, much like the Overlord whose house it represented. Vaun had noticed that the monarch changed often and seemed to have a fondness for red, tho
ugh it wasn’t among his royal colors.
Vaun surveyed his companions, wondering what they’d decide. As he did, it struck him that they would probably ask his opinion, and that thought reaffirmed his feeling that he belonged here with them.
Merdel turned to Dart. “What did you say the name of that fellow was those men mentioned?”
Dart looked back at him. “Liskin.”
“Liskin. That sounds familiar.” The mage’s eyes narrowed.
“Me, too.” King Dobry nodded.
Drath raised his eyebrows. “One of your old friends, perhaps?”
Both men shrugged, saying nothing.
Drath looked over at the elves. “You said they know Vaun killed the Jaga, right?”
Rush nodded. “Yes. They know he’s from Ramen, too.” Vaun noticed how the elf said it as if it were true, not merely a cover, and discovered he liked it. “They mentioned rumors of people who might be you or Merdel, but didn’t seem convinced or even concerned about them. Although if they find out the truth, I’d watch your back.”
Drath’s eyes widened. “Me?”
Dart nodded. “They did mention ‘the Celene prince.’”
Vaun choked on the last of his apple. “Prince?” He turned astonished eyes over to Drath. “You’re a prince?”
Drath actually looked bashful. “Yes. I didn’t think it important enough to tell you.”
“Not important! You being a prince isn’t important?”
“Not for what I came to you for, no.” He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “I didn’t want it to affect how you reacted to me. Besides, if I’d told you at first I was a prince, you’d have laughed and walked off.”
Vaun paused. “You’re probably right. But why not tell me later?”
“When? Just blurt it out one night over the campfire? ‘Oh, by the way, Vaun, my father’s the king of Celene, and I’m his only heir.’” He grunted. “How exactly do you work that kind of thing into normal conversation?”
“I don’t know, but you could have thought of something. Should have, I should say.” Vaun shook his head. “You people sure do keep a lot of secrets.”
Drath clenched his lips on further comment, appearing suitably chastised by Vaun’s statement. Vaun let him feel guilty for a bit, then patted him on the shoulder. “It’s okay, my friend, I do understand.” He grinned wryly. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Highness.”
Drath muttered about that being just the sort of thing he’d wanted to avoid, as Vaun turned back to the elves.
“How’d they find out I killed the Jaga? The attack hasn’t even been acknowledged. Where’d they get their information?”
The others glanced nervously around the room, and Dart moved his hands in small, discreet gestures. Vaun regarded him curiously, wondering what the elf was doing.
Drath coughed and leaned close to the youth. “We have a spy in the castle.” Vaun stiffened and immediately searched the room for hiding places.
His eyes passed over the many tapestries and drapes, for once not wondering what battles were depicted on some or who was in the hunting scenes on others. Instead, he thought how easy it would be to hide behind one and listen to all that was said. He studied each one, trying to detect anything unusual. One of the tapestries on the opposite wall to his right, hanging between two bookcases, moved slightly, but the Swordsman passed it off as a draft. As he turned away from it, however, he remembered that the room had no windows and that all the doors were shut tight.
King Dobry came out of his thoughts enough to notice the youth’s search. “This room’s clean.” Vaun raised a silencing hand, however, and rose. The others looked at him, then turned toward where his eyes were locked on a tapestry not ten paces away.
The Swordsman moved quietly toward the hanging cloth, glad for the thick rug and soft shoes masking his approach, and motioned for everyone else to remain seated. They all watched him intently, wondering what held his attention.
Vaun stepped before the tapestry and studied it, though he barely noticed the scene it depicted. His side didn’t itch, making him wonder both if he’d imagined it and if whoever or whatever was behind the tapestry represented no danger to him. He caught King Dobry’s signal that he wanted another prisoner and assumed he also wanted as little damage to his possessions as possible. Instead of sticking his sword through it, he ripped the tapestry aside, his weapon coming into his hand almost before he’d thought to draw it. He halted it in mid-swing, the Song cut short before it even really began, when he saw who crouched against the wall.
* * *
Princess Tara yelped when her concealment broke. She tried to fade into the wall behind her, with no success, at sight of Vaun and his upraised Vaulka. Visibly wincing when her father called her name, she glanced up at Vaun’s grin as he sheathed his sword, and clenched her jaw angrily.
She thrust aside his offer of aid and rose on her own. Her anger only seemed to mount as her face passed mere inches from his own. She then sniffed and turned up her nose at him, whirling and walking briskly to where her displeased father sat.
Vaun returned to his own seat. He noticed that Dart stared wide-eyed at the princess, perhaps trying to figure out why he hadn’t heard or smelled her. Vaun assumed that either she was in the room before them, or Dart had been concentrating so much on his report he hadn’t sensed her sneak in.
King Dobry sighed with the patience only a parent had. “Tara, what in all the blazing Fires of Tarquon were you doing spying on me?”
Tara winced again, her father’s wrath evident by his swearing, something he rarely did when she was present. Too scared to say anything, she stood in silence twisting her fingers in her green and black dress, its falcon half the size of her father’s, and looked as if she held back tears.
“Answer me, young lady.” The king seemed more hurt than angry, as well as somewhat relieved, and appeared to dislike scaring his daughter so. When he saw she wasn’t going to say anything, he reached out and took her hand, pulling her to him. “I’m sorry, honey.” His voice was softer now as she sat in his lap. “With all that’s been going on, I’m a little short-tempered. But that does not excuse you for spying on me.”
“I wasn’t spying.” Tara definitely struggled not to cry. “I only wanted to see what was happening. You never let me hear anything important, and no one tells me what’s going on. This is my house, too.”
King Dobry laughed. “You’re just like your mother. I guess this has been made as much your business as everyone else’s. Since you seem to know so much about us, I guess you can stay.” He hugged her tightly, and she sank against him. “How did you sneak in here?”
Tara smiled broadly. “I used the sliding panel behind that bookcase.” She pointed to the one to the left of the tapestry. “It’s very handy, but I don’t think anyone uses it anymore.”
Captain Stolar shifted in his seat. “I should hope not. No one’s supposed to know it’s there.”
“I think I’m the only one who does. The door was so rusted I had to oil it the first time I used it. And mine are the only footprints I’ve ever seen in the passage.” She winced, realizing she’d just given herself away.
“The first time?” King Dobry’s brows rose. “Just how many times have you used it?”
His daughter shrugged. “I don’t know. I found it a few years ago.”
“A few years ago?” The king laughed. “Stolar, remind me to enlist Tara as a spy when she’s completed her other studies. I think she’d do a fiery good job.”
Everyone laughed as Stolar bowed, grinning, from his seated position. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
“Who do you think the spy is?” Tara eyed the group expectantly. The others flinched, and she grinned apologetically. It was never a good idea to let a spy know he’d been found out before making use of him.
“That’s all right.” Her father chuckled. “Like I told Vaun, this room’s clean, at least now it is. But I don’t know. Any thoughts, gentlemen?”
“It would have to be someone fairly high up, Your Majesty.” Merdel’s voice had that calm, addressing-royalty tone again. “In order for him to find out what he knows. Someone from one of the noble families, or a servant who’d be overlooked.”
“Do you think Elak’s involved with this?” King Dobry didn’t hesitate mentioning the Dark Wizard in front of his daughter, even though parents used his name to frighten their children away from disobedience, because he suspected she’d spied on that discussion, too. “He did, after all, send those men after Tara.”
“Not likely.” The bearded mage shook his head. “From what Dart told us, Liskin probably works with someone else, or by himself. Whoever it is wants to take over the south. Elak wants to do that, but he wants to conquer every kingdom, not just yours. It’s probably someone else who doesn’t like you.
“Elak most likely doesn’t even know you were attacked by the Jaga. He sent those two men because he probably discovered you were helping us, or at least suspected it. Again, I’m not sure how he found out, though I’m sorry to say I haven’t found anything useful. Elak has only recently been added to the list of people trying to kill you.”
“Fire and ice.” The king glanced at Tara, apparently feeling guilty about swearing in front of his daughter. “Now I have to think of someone else who told me my debts’d be paid in blood. Don’t remember this Liskin well enough to know if it was him. I remember now that Celos meant the blood of other people, not my own, when he told me that. And I think that debt was paid during the Veldanese Uprising before Tara was born.” He growled. “I have enemies everywhere, and they’re even trying to make me suspect my friends. Not to mention, my own daughter is spying on me, too.”
Tara harrumphed and poked him, and he tickled her in retaliation. She jumped, and as she twisted she noticed Vaun looking at her. She stiffened abruptly and turned away from him. Vaun’s eyebrows came together in exasperated curiosity.
The Overlord noticed her movement and smiled. “That reminds me. Vaun and Tara haven’t been introduced, at least formally. Vaun Tarsus,” the young man stood, “this is my daughter, Tara. Tara, this is Vaun Tarsus, our visitor from Ramen.”
The Bonding (The Song and the Rhythm) Page 25
