Every day since that departure, Jak had prayed that his friend and master achieved not only the success he desired, but the contentment that was his just reward. As far as Jak was concerned, if anyone deserved serenity of mind, it was Kevik the Kind, the boy who never had a bad word for anyone.
Therefore today was doubly exciting. Not only was it the first day of Harvest Festival, the annual celebration during which even servants like Jak feasted like kings, it also marked his friend’s first homecoming since leaving for Varborg. Jak looked forward to devouring the innumerable sweettreats handed out morn to dusk, to exchanging the stories that propelled the revelry from one brew to another, and most especially to learning at last that Kevik had dispatched those old worries as he had every other challenge in life.
Festivities started at daybreak, but Jak’s duties would delay his own participation for at least another hour. He did not mind, for he was just as determined as anyone that the manor look its best on this day. Besides, he enjoyed the anticipation nearly as much as the payoff, and in his mind could already taste the first bite of sugary pastry and sip of honeyed mead.
He was in the inner parlor polishing every surface in sight when Calla surprised him with a gift. “There you are, Jak,” came her familiar voice from the kitchen doorway. “I thought perhaps you were already out.”
“Nay, but I will be shortly.” He stopped working to stand and smile at her. Any interruption meant a delay, but Calla made delays worthwhile.
She and Kevik were the same age, and had become constant companions since the day he had decided girls were as welcome a distraction as swords. Jak had no doubt Kevik’s parents expected Calla to marry their son, so she had come to be treated as an extra member of the household. At one time, it had seemed inevitable that Jak and Calla would become rivals for Kevik’s time, but that surprisingly never happened. Jak found her warm disposition impossible to dislike, and could see the beneficial effect she had on his friend. He had no idea what she saw in return, but it was clear that she did not resent his close familiarity and frequent company with her prospective betrothed. Indeed, she often went out of her way to make Jak feel included. This morn was one such occasion.
“Uh, huh. I was afraid you might get delayed, so I brought you something.” She held out a pair of small bloodberry tarts on a napkin of linen. “Only one is for you,” she smiled. “The other’s for me.”
“Calla, how sweet of you to join us this morn,” came a familiar voice. Calla turned to face the newcomer, but Jak did not. As Kleo descended from a spiral staircase leading up to the bedrooms, sipping from a brass goblet that might have been gold for all the delicacy with which she held it, he resumed rubbing the ornate legs of the large table in the center of the room.
There was no rivalry between him and Calla, but there certainly was between the two girls. Kleo might have been two years younger, but she was the social superior, and this fact shone through in her every word and act.
“Oh, you brought treats. How generous.” She approached Calla with a purposeful grace. Kleo stood perhaps six inches shorter than the older girl, yet her posture was an attempt to be menacing. “I’m not hungry enough for two,” she said as she stretched out her free hand. “But I’ll keep the other for later.” She plucked them both from the napkin and tossed one into her mouth. Then she giggled, and the carefully crafted image of the imperious matron was replaced by that of infantile brat.
“You’re welcome, Kleo,” Calla said politely, as if a thank you had been implied. Jak was relieved that she had decided to return snobbery with humility. “Though you might want to wash the other one off before you eat it. I accidentally dropped them in pigshit on the way over.”
Jak turned his choke into a cough. He glanced at the two of them, trying not to be obvious. He feared Kleo’s reaction, and the look on her face told him he had every right to.
The younger girl stopped chewing, swallowed, and stared daggers at the other. Then she turned and walked back toward the staircase. Stepping past Jak, she paused to tip her goblet. Purplish liquid spilled out, staining a colorful Linizan rug. “Oh, look what I did,” she exclaimed with no attempt at sincerity. “Jak, be sure to clean that right away.”
He watched her ascend the stairway before clenching and unclenching his fists three times, the only display of frustration he ever allowed. Then he began rolling up the rug, which needed to be soaked and scrubbed outside.
Calla touched his shoulder. “Jak, I’m so sorry. Let me clean it,” she said, trying to take the rug from him.
“Nay, you’ve done enough,” he said, looking into her eyes. Immediately regretting the words, which sounded far harsher than intended, he attempted to soften them. “It’s all right. The stain won’t take long if I clean it before the wine soaks in.” But he could see the hurt in her eyes and knew the attempt had failed. He was disappointed in himself.
“Well, I’m sorry anyway,” she repeated. “That girl brings out the worst in me.”
He nodded. Her reaction was understandable. Calla desperately wanted to fit in with this family, but she was so clearly unsuited for them. At least all of them but Kevik.
“Don’t worry, Calla,” he said. He suddenly wanted to reach out and reassure her, but it was not his place to make that sort of gesture. “I do need to hurry, though,” he said apologetically.
She nodded, and he began to run toward the rear exit.
A small stream flowed behind the manor house, almost hidden behind a wall of shrubs and evergreens. It was so quiet he could barely hear the current even as he kneeled at its edge, dousing the rug between vigorous scrubs with a horsehair brush.
Here, at least he knew Kleo would not bother him. A few tendays earlier she had seen a mountain iguana basking in the sun on a flat rock beside the stream. Comically terrified of lizards, she had conspicuously avoided the back garden since.
“Devil’s breath!” came a familiar voice from behind him. “What are you doing out here while everyone else is celebrating?”
The spontaneous smile on Jak’s face washed away any lingering dejection about the delay getting to the festival. As far as he was concerned, the revelry had just come to him.
“Kevik!” He dropped the rug and stood to face the prodigy returned.
If anything, his friend seemed even more larger than life than Jak remembered. A year of hard training had replaced lingering childish fat with hard muscle, a fact that was reinforced when Kevik pulled him into his chest for a powerful hug. Jak had no doubt this man could squeeze the life out of him if he chose to. Thankfully, Kevik released him with a laugh and a quick inspection.
“You’re taller,” he announced. “I think you’re going to be taller than I, soon.”
Jak laughed at the absurdity, but appreciated the attention. Kevik the Kind had that rare ability to make everyone feel special.
“Come on, let’s go join the celebration.”
“I can’t. I have some more cleaning to finish.”
“Not anymore, you don’t. I hereby absolve you of all other chores.” Kevik made a series of exaggerated gesticulations in a farcical facsimile of the ceremonial gestures Disciple Bashir used to perform. “For the rest of today, your duty is to eat and drink with me. And carry me home if I should happen to pass out…which I fully intend to do.”
Jak grinned. The humor was contagious, even in jest. The two of them had downed their share of spirits in the past, but Kevik had never been one to overdo it. And that was a good thing, because Jak doubted he could carry the other boy more than a few steps.
He still had some reservations, however. “Your sister—”
“Is she still torturing you? I swear, I thought the two of you would have coupled by now.”
Jak gasped. This was far bawdier than he had ever heard his friend speak before. It was also more personally embarrassing, especially considering Jak’s menial status relative to the family he served. He could be severely punished for taking part in talk such as this. “Please don�
��t joke about that,” he meekly requested.
“I’m sorry, old friend.” Kevik put a hand to Jak’s shoulder. “I’m just so pleased to see everyone again, I already feel a little drunk. It’s an odd sensation.”
“Perhaps some mead will help,” Jak offered.
“Now you’re talking.”
“The academy is amazing. They push me harder than I’ve ever been pushed before…no offense to my old sparring partner.” Kevik chuckled as he elbowed Jak in the side.
“Have any of the other students beaten you?” asked Kurtis, a farmer’s son who once had joined Jak and Kevik on their adventures. He and Riff—one of the other housethralls and a year younger than Jak—had happily shared their table and their bottles of mead.
Kevik leaned back and stroked his smooth chin. “Not that I recall…although most of our bouts focus on particular sequences, and there isn’t really a winner and a loser.”
“But you’ve dueled a little, right?”
“Aye.”
“And you always win?”
Kevik grinned. “Well, I don’t want to brag.” Then he joined in the laughter of his admirers.
“What’s it like being with all the other students?” asked Jak. “The nobles, I mean.”
Kevik stopped laughing in order to take a long pull of his tankard—a large, wooden, handled cup that held a third of a bottle. He was on his second cupful, while the others still worked on their first. “Well, it took some getting used to. I was worried that they might look down on me, being from a small village like this.” He glanced around, re-familiarizing himself with his home, or seeing it in a new light. “But with swords drawn, every man earns his own respect. That’s what they teach us. So I earned my respect in the circle. I think they admire me now.”
Jak was pleased to hear it.
“Has anyone been killed in the training?” asked Riff. A gruesome question to ask, but Kevik did not seem to mind.
He shook his head. “Nay. But there have been a few injuries. One boy was scarred…down there.” He motioned, and the other three cringed.
Then Kevik chuckled. “I make it sound worse than it is. It’s mostly just a lot of drudgery. It’s nice being back, having this break.”
“We’re glad you’re here,” Riff said.
Kurtis lifted his tankard. “Kron’s blessing,” he said.
The others joined him. “Kron’s blessing.”
Kron was the god of the earth and nature. Supposedly providing everything from the food the villagers consumed every day to the stone and wood used in their homes, his name was most commonly invoked in appreciation for all manner of beer, wine, and spirits. Like most imperials, Jak was only casually reverential of the gods. But he supposed if he ever needed to turn to them in earnestness, Kron would be the place to start.
Kevik took two swigs to the others’ one. He set down his tankard. “Hey, Jak, remember the ‘castle over the sea?’”
“You mean that old dead tree by the pond? I haven’t been back there in years. What about it?”
“I always liked that spot. Peaceful. I used to go there to think. I wonder if it’s still there.”
Jak felt a little embarrassed when he encountered Kleo and her friend Tila behind the cider tent. He had been looking for Calla, hoping to make sure all was well between them. Beside him walked Riff, rambling on in slightly slurred speech about the latest responsibilities his master—the village magistrate—had bestowed on him. Jak could remember the time, not long ago, when he also looked at new duties as a source of pride. He no longer felt that way, but said nothing to his companion about that. Better to let the lad relish the satisfaction as long as possible.
The two of them circled the festival perimeter. Jak kept his eyes open while listening to the bustle with one ear. As soon as he saw Kleo, he reflexively thought of Kevik’s lewd joke and felt the flush in his cheeks. She and her companion were engaged in conversation with a pair of older boys, and Jak had no desire to interrupt. Then he noticed that she appeared annoyed. That alone was nothing out of the ordinary, and he would have moved on, steering Riff away to avoid notice—until one of the boys grabbed her arm.
She pulled back, but the boy did not let go. “What’s your hurry?” he asked.
“None of your business,” she replied indignantly, again trying to pull away. He still did not release her…until Jak shoved him, hard enough to send him staggering clumsily into a tree. The crown of his head bounced off the bark with a hollow sound. More from his empty head than the bark, Jak thought.
“Devil’s ass,” the boy bellowed, rubbing his head. “What was that for?”
“She’s my mistress,” Jak answered. “And we’ve got no use for a nitwit who bullies a girl half his size.” He clenched his fists. He did not want to fight, but he was not afraid to, either.
“Is that so?” said the second boy.
“That’s right,” slurred Riff. Jak was appreciative for the support, though he wondered how much help the young thrall was likely to provide.
“Jak, it’s all right,” Kleo said. “I don’t want you to—”
“What is this, now?” came Kevik’s voice. “Did these cretins hurt you, Sister?”
“Nay, Kevik. They were just—”
“Go home, Kleo.” He waited for a second, and when she did not respond, he commanded, “Now.” She grabbed Tila by the hand and the two girls left the scene to the five bickering boys.
“Come on, Gallo,” the second boy said. “Let’s get going.”
“Shut it, Hinch,” the first replied. He stopped rubbing his head and stepped closer to Kevik. They were roughly the same size. “Three against two?” he said. “I guess that’s fair.”
Kevik sneered. It was not an expression Jak had ever seen his friend use before. “Not three,” he said. “Just me, against the two of you sods. And when I beat you, I’m going to cut your pricks off.”
Jak put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “That’s enough, Kevik.”
Gallo had visibly flinched at the threat. He did his best to look tough for another few seconds, then looked over at Hinch. He nodded his head toward the crowd in the distance, and the two of them wordlessly set off.
Jak was relieved to see the twisted expression disappear from Kevik’s face. “That was a bit much, don’t you think?”
It was replaced by a smile. “Aye. But it worked, didn’t it? Come on, let’s try some cider.”
At the hour of sunset, there was an official meal for all present at the festival, complete with a blessing administered by the current acolyte of the Shrine of Tempus. In former years this blessing had always come from Disciple Bashir, the venerable old man who was a frequent, somewhat-pitiable sight on the earthen streets of Everdawn, and who had passed into eternity without fanfare the previous summer. Responsibilities therefore passed onto Disciple Lukas, an awkward youth with a stop-and-go manner of speaking that doubled the duration of each sentence.
Everdawn was the most famous village in the isolated mountain valley known as Shady Glen. Popular legend held that Tempus, the god of fire, was the protective deity for the region—and that as his manifestation on earth, the shrine and its acolyte were responsible for the village’s survival. The very notion was ludicrous now, given the neglect of the shrine itself—nothing more than a colorless statue in a small, plain, unkempt square structure—the unimpressive quality of its most recent attendants, and its infrequent visitation by the very inhabitants who were meant to be its beneficiaries. Everyone agreed that Lukas was a polite young man, but no one dared to find out what one of his sermons might be like. The stuttering, monotonous festival blessings were enough to demonstrate the wisdom of that forbearance. At times Lukas seemed so confused that Jak wondered if the acolyte knew any of the names of the townspeople he was supposedly there to serve and protect. And they knew little of him in return. The youth never spoke of homeland or parentage, nor of events that led him to this remote northern village. He had simply appeared one day, as if bubbled
up straight from the earth itself.
That might have been the truth, for all the inhabitants of Everdawn cared. For Jak and everyone he knew, the only significant interaction with the shrine was upon the death of a friend or loved one. Local customs required the burning of all dead on a pyre of wood and incense as symbolic tribute to Tempus, and the acolyte invariably conducted the proceedings.
Ten long tables, each accommodating forty patrons, lined the wide central thoroughfare of the village and quickly filled to maximum. The population of Everdawn was only about three hundred, including the farms that lay outside the village proper. During festivals, however, the number grew substantially larger.
Most of the faces Jak recognized, but there were also plenty of strangers. He did not see the bullies, Gallo and Hinch, so assumed Kevik’s threats had encouraged them to make an early departure from the festival. But there were several other persons unknown at the table where he sat with Calla, Riff, and Kurtis. One was a mysterious tall, silver-haired man who looked middle-aged but for the significant lines in his cheeks. Either he was robust for his advanced years, or some experience had caused his hair and face to age prematurely. He wore a finely crafted mail hauberk beneath a loose cotton tunic. An abundance of whispers guessed at his origins before the man finally set the record straight in his own words.
One of the traditions of the festival was storytelling. Its purpose was to get strangers talking in an effort to break down the barrier of suspicion that afflicted small communities. During the meal, the stranger had resisted all efforts to steer him into conversation. But now that beer and wine were distributed—and a pretty young maiden was the one doing the asking—he seemed willing to open up.
Jak listened in as Calla, seated to the stranger’s left, requested that he tell them his story. The man seemed to consider, then set down his goblet, and spoke in a strikingly compelling voice.
Three of Swords (Empire Asunder Book 1) Page 6
