by Brian Fuller
Gen nodded, and they both knelt.
In Eldaloth’s name and for his sake,
We to his servants oblations make.
To the Ha’Ulrich, our loyalty and our might,
To the Chalaine, our reverence and our life.
The world broken due to sin,
They twain will make whole again.
The moons our witness in the sky,
The soul, the body, the blinded eye.
After finishing, Gen helped Rafael to his feet and they left the house to take the short walk north to the town square. Their breath steamed from their mouths and nostrils, and they pulled the cowls of their cloaks up over their heads. Due to the absence of traffic on the road, Gen thought they might just be the first to arrive, but as they came to the square, he saw that several of the townsfolk had arrived earlier, setting up booths and games. Gen doubted the balance of the populace would arrive until it warmed considerably.
After waving a greeting to several familiar faces, Gen and his master crossed to the permanent platform set on the east side of the Church. Gen sat on a three-legged stool and started tuning his lute absentmindedly, his thoughts again turning to the reason for their early morning performance. Why Eldaloth in his supposedly benevolent wisdom had chosen to curse their small town with a family that could torment a city several times Tell’s size escaped the most careful of his reasoning. No matter what Pureman Millershim said about not judging others, Gen knew, as did everyone else, that Eldaloth would never let the Showles family set one foot into the paradise of Erelinda. And if he wouldn’t let them into Erelinda, why did he send them to Tell save to make the townspeople suffer?
Bernard Showles lorded the fact that he was Magistrate over everyone with every effort he could muster. He’d managed to get the position some twenty years ago, a favor from his distant cousin, Duke Norshwal. The relationship was so distant, in fact, that if it were a town, Gen calculated it would take a good three months to get there on a fast horse. Magistrates weren’t even within sniffing distance of real nobility, but they were above serfs, freemen, and merchants, and Bernard Showles exaggerated the minuscule status gap as much as possible. Despite Tell’s glaring insignificance, Bernard acted like he was the Magistrate of the Khyrum itself.
Gen imagined, however, that even Magistrates of more important towns and cities had the good sense to behave civilly toward those they governed, but Bernard treated anyone below his rank with palpable disdain. Every look, every frilly outfit, every word was meant to put the puny people in their place and to remind everyone of his own elevation. Why the man would want to live with and rule over a town full of people he despised puzzled Gen until his studies in history led him to understand the extreme pains men would endure to garner themselves the smallest bud of power, no matter how insignificant it might be in terms of the larger tree.
“My boy,” Rafael said, “that look on your face is positively black. I can only hope I’m not the target of whatever darkness you’ve got swimming around in that head of yours.”
Gen broke out of his reverie and smiled at his master. Most had expected the old man to die years ago, though he had proved tougher and more resilient than folks half his age in a town where winters killed the weak.
“Fear not, Master De’Bellamain,” Gen replied formally. “None of my ire is for you. I think you know the throat my black thoughts are squeezing.”
“I think so, but don’t tell me anything about it. I’d like to answer—and truthfully— ‘I know nothing,’ when the time comes. But I beg you not to be too extravagant in any plots you might be hatching. You can be expelled from this town, you know, and forced to face the Baron. I’ve got a wonderful house and the biggest collection of books in this Dukedom. They’re yours when I die, if you can manage a bit of restraint.”
Rafael told Gen this often as a deterrent against any rascality his young pupil might engage in. Rafael had no children of his own, none that he knew of, anyway. The old man made it widely known that he had chosen Gen as his heir.
Gen was very thankful. Gen knew the books Rafael collected over a lifetime were worth a fortune in most places, though no one in the town seemed to value them more than a barrel of beans. Since apprenticing with Rafael, Gen had read most of those books. At first it had been a struggle for Rafael to harness the young boy’s youthful energy to the task of reading, but eventually Gen had come to love reading so much that Rafael had to try doubly hard to pry him away from books long enough to learn music.
“Well, if I can’t manage restraint,” Gen said, “I’ll do my best to be discreet. But trust me when I say that the victims will be most deserving.”
“Please!” Rafael pleaded. “No more! I enjoy a good outhouse prank as much as anyone, but I’m an old man and want no trouble till the snow gets me and I sneak my way into Erelinda. Besides, what need is there of such dark thoughts when fair creatures like that one are about?”
Gen followed Rafael’s gaze out into the square. Few people had arrived, but Regina had just left her house to greet a group of young men who had been loitering around her porch. Without reservation, Gen and every other young man in town proclaimed Regina Morewold, daughter of the merchant Jeorge Morewold, the most beautiful creature—besides the Chalaine, of course—to grace Ki’Hal, or at least the towns near Tell. All the young men wanted her, and she knew it.
Unlike most other girls in town, Regina was tall and not huskily built. Her mother was the third daughter of a baron, and Regina had inherited her finer features from that lineage. While the Chalaine was beauty beyond comprehension and far out of reach, Regina’s face was there to be doted upon and dreamed about. She was the closest to what the boys imagined a noblewoman looked like. Everywhere she went, tossing her blonde locks about and flashing her big blue eyes, a hopeful entourage of suitors accompanied her.
Gen was no exception to this worship, finding any excuse he could to be near her, though to find her alone was about as likely as hearing an intelligent word come out of a Showles’s mouth. In addition to her many fine qualities, she was also the only young lady in town who had learned to read and write, her mother sending her off each spring to be tutored in Green Wall. Thus, Gen felt his claim upon the girl was better than most, for when he did manage to talk to her, there was a connection of the mind that he doubted she found with any of his competition who could talk of little more than trees, hunting, and livestock.
Though most marriages were arranged, the town boys still bragged, fought, and showed off for her as if it would make any difference. But smart young men, young men such as Gen thought himself to be, knew that one secured the hand of a young woman by acquiring the good opinion of her parents. Some parents—though rare—actually took into account the affections of their children; most, however, looked to pair their offspring with someone that was “good” for them or who would raise the family’s social station.
To those in love, however, all this parental bargaining meant less than a tin piece in a gold pile, leaving the countryside strewn with heartbroken, forlorn lovers when it came time for marriages—at least that’s what many of the songs were about. Gen hoped he could find a happy ending to the song he sang in his heart every time Regina smiled at him. He’d certainly tried to win her, though she would never speak of anything she felt for any man. She kept her feelings away from scrutiny, and all Gen could ever do was guess and hope.
“It’s a pity, though,” Rafael continued, “that Regina gathers so much attention when there are an abundance of other eligible young ladies about. Take Laraen Fairweather, for instance. There’s nothing wrong with that young lady. Kind, sweet, good cook. . .” Gen put his lute down and blew on his hands to warm them. The Fairweathers had invited him and Rafael to their house a fortnight ago for a dinner prepared by Laraen to impress Gen.
While Gen appreciated the fact that one family in town thought him good enough for their daughter—double-bastard and bard-apprentice notwithstanding—the way her parents looked at him,
like one would look at a cart horse before buying it, set Gen’s skin to crawling. Remembering the dinner—a rather tasty honey basted ham, sweet bread, and potatoes—prompted a rumble in Gen’s stomach despite his breakfast. Marrying Laraen would not make him happy, but it would make him fat.
“All I can say,” Gen said, “is that it’s hard to think the moons are bright when the sun is in the sky. I’m sure Laraen will garner her fair share of attention once someone puts the sun out of reach, so to speak.”
“You have the right of it there,” Rafael agreed. “The mystery is, who will drag the sun off into the sunset? How about you, Gen? I’ve seen her smile at you in that particular way from time to time, and you have gift for words that no other young man within fifty leagues of this place has. I know you’ve been thinking of her.”
Gen smiled weakly. The chance that Regina’s parents would let her marry an orphan was slim, though Gen had done his best to get in their good graces. He paid for his goods in a timely fashion. He watched and cleaned the store when they were away. He’d even performed free of charge for a small gathering they had when Jeorge’s brother had come to visit from Sipton.
“I think the Morewolds like me well,” Gen said, “but Regina? I don’t know. She smiles at me, yes. She talks to me. But she does much the same with every young man in the town, near as I can tell.”
“A generous, happy heart is a wonderful thing to find in a woman, Gen.”
“Yes, but such a heart complicates discerning where a man stands in relation to others. I feel like there is something between us and have told her as much, but she says nothing. It may not end up mattering, anyway. I doubt the Morewolds would let their daughter marry an orphan, much less one who is a bard and a serf, no matter how much they may like me. What sane parent would let their daughter marry a bard after all?”
“Hey!” Rafael protested, taking Gen’s bait. “There’s plenty for a woman to like about living with a bard! While I never quite found the right wo—”
“Why Gen,” a soft voice broke through Rafael’s retort, “I’m sure a bard would have a lot to offer a young lady.”
Gen spun to find that Regina had approached unnoticed while he was conversing with Rafael. She stood wrapped in a light gray woolen cloak, looking up at him on the platform. As always, her eyes were full of confidence and playfulness, and her mouth was turned up in a lovely smirk, the kind of smirk that rendered Gen weak-kneed and almost speechless. Almost.
“Why Regina,” Gen greeted her grandly, hoping to deflect the conversation, “welcome to our little festival in honor of mighty Hubert Showles, the greatest slouch ever to play dice on the Tolnorian frontier. And I bid welcome to you, too, Cale, Keegan, and Thad. I see you’ve wasted no time in finding and following the most lovely young lady in town.” Gen took Regina’s hand and kissed it dramatically. The three young men scowled when they saw Regina’s smile. Rafael nodded in approval.
Regina’s eyes brightened. “Why thank you, Gen.”
“Uh, Regina?” Cale popped in quickly, trying to recapture Regina’s attention. “Wanna come see the pheasant I tracked down and killed? It’s real big. My pa hung it up over there and we’ll cook it later.”
“Quiet, Cale,” Regina remonstrated. “I was talking to Gen and it is not polite to interrupt. I’m sure I’ll have more than enough time later to hear all about the big birdie you caught.”
Gen loved how Regina’s tone of voice made it impossible to tell whether she was mocking you or not. Gen couldn’t figure out if she did it on purpose and suspected that part of her tutoring involved learning to be devious. While it was frustrating, Gen loved it.
“So Gen,” Regina continued, “you sounded ever so rude when you referred to our young hero of the day. I certainly hope those comments don’t make it back to our town Magistrate.”
By the knowing glances of the three young men behind her, Gen knew they would tattle on him, not that Bernard really cared about anyone else’s opinion. If he did, he would certainly have killed himself years ago.
“Well, I’m sure the Magistrate knows that I think just as highly of Hubert as everyone else does.”
Regina grinned knowingly and was about to reply when a voice, shrill and grating, broke across the square.
“Hey! Rafael,” Bernard yelled, “you and your lay-about apprentice should be playing! The second watch has passed and the sun is up. Now let’s hear some music!”
Bernard wore an unbelievable bright red coat and breeches, both trimmed with white rabbit fur. The coat bulged over his belly, though recent expansion of his midsection brought the bottom of the coat up short of the belt. The color of it clashed with what little red hair the man had left. Set against the muted browns, greens, and grays of the town, the Magistrate’s outfit involuntarily drew everyone’s eye toward him, which Gen supposed was the point.
Gen raised his eyebrows and sighed. “Alas, my lady,” he apologized. “I must ply my trade.”
Regina pouted in mock disappointment. Or maybe it wasn’t. “Then do ply it. I apparently have a date with a deceased fowl. If you can manage it, find me for a dance or two. I believe Master Rafael is more than skilled enough to hold the stage without you.”
Rafael bowed and swept the stage with his hat in a gesture of gratitude for her compliment, groaning slightly as his spine cracked and popped while reversing the effort.
“I will make a point of it!” Gen replied. “I wouldn’t want you to forget about me, since you find yourself in the company of so many excellent young men this morning.”
Regina winked at him and turned to go.
“Where’s the music?!” Showles bellowed as Regina walked off, young men in tow. Rafael began a quick beat on the drum and Gen joined in with the lute.
As if lured by the music, people emerged from road and path to fill the empty square. While many of the men and women, especially those who had to set up booths, were obviously angry about being there, the children enjoyed every minute with each other. After greeting friends and family, the adults soon overcame their annoyance, and before mid-day the festival lurched into full swing.
The Showleses only condescended to occasional appearances in the square as the day went on, not wanting to mingle with the common folk too much, save to watch for their son coming down the road and to yell at Gen and Rafael if the music stopped.
Gen wished he could step down and enjoy himself with the townsfolk, though he liked the applause he received after he sang a song. Gen had taken over most of the singing duties of late since Rafael’s voice tired quickly and had a scratchy quality. Still, the old man could ring out a good chorus now and again, and the people always applauded, having great affection for the old performer. Few towns could lay claim to such talent.
“Gen,” Rafael whispered after concluding a song, “I must say your voice is sounding more and more impressive every time I hear it. I had my doubts about you a few summers ago, but you’ve come along nicely. And, by the way, there’s a certain young lady that’s been watching you.”
Gen searched the crowd, expecting to see Regina’s blue eyes and instead finding the brown ones of Laraen Fairweather. Unlike Regina’s looks, Laraen’s were a sledgehammer of meaning.
“Gotcha!” Rafael said, cackling as only an old man can. Gen rolled his eyes up into his head.
“Don’t you torture my poor heart, old man.” Gen tried to be mad but couldn’t. “When do you suppose Hubert will drag himself into town?”
“I’d reckon around sundown,” Rafael replied. “He was supposed to ride out this morning, provided he didn’t stay up late engaging in what little debauchery can be found in Sipton. While I share about as much enthusiasm for the boy as you do, it will be nice to hear what news he has. Aughmere is obviously planning to attack the northern border sometime soon. That is clear. It appears it won’t happen until next year, since the snows will be here before long.”
Gen shook his head. “I still don’t see why they would want to attack us at all. The
Ha’Ulrich is going to be the ruler of all nations in two years. Even if Aughmere were to win, they would essentially be taking what is already to be theirs.”
“Indeed,” Rafael agreed. “But you forget that Torbrand Khairn is still the Shadan of Aughmere, not his son. The Ha’Ulrich is only your age. The Shadan is a lusty man, the most feared warrior of our times. He wanted to unite the three kingdoms when he first took the throne, arguing that the united rule should begin as soon as possible.
“If Aughmere’s way of life were not so divergent from our kingdom’s or from Rhugoth’s, it might have happened. He half considered attacking Tolnor then, but our alliance with Rhugoth kept him from it. If he could gain control of the Portal to Rhugoth, he would have probably attacked. The Portal Guild made sure that wouldn’t happen, however.”
The tales of Torbrand Khairn were indeed awe inspiring and frightening. It was said that no man could so much as tire the Aughmerian leader in single combat, much less lay a mark upon him. The last three Shadans of Aughmere were of the Khairn family, and in a nation where all positions were determined by challenges and deadly combat, having three Shadans of the same family in succession was a rarity.
Gen tried to digest Rafael’s information. “So you’re saying he’s going to get thousands killed because he wants to fight something and our nation just happens to be on the same shard?”
“Not exactly, Gen,” his master replied. “No doubt there was some insult or provocation we don’t know about. Shadan Khairn and his Blessed Son met with all the nobles from the three human nations this spring to arrange for the transfer of power after the Ha’Ulrich’s marriage to the Chalaine. It was after that meeting that rumor of Khairn marshaling his forces first trickled into our little town. Honestly, I suspect that our young King has broken the Fidelium, for that is the only circumstance I could imagine where Rhugoth would not come rushing to our defense, and we have heard nothing of it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Gen noticed the Magistrate coming out the door of his two-story house and knew the conversation was almost over.
