Trysmoon Book 1: Ascension (The Trysmoon Saga)

by Brian Fuller

  “Broke the Fidelium? That would be absurd!” Gen couldn’t fathom it.

  “It would, but I can think of nothing else that would precipitate a war this close to the marriage.”

  Gen’s mind spun. He barely paid attention to Bernard’s red-faced complaints. Every leader of all three nations signed the Fidelium upon the inception of their rule, promising to relinquish their thrones to the Ha’Ulrich upon his marriage to the Chalaine so that the nations would be united against the threat of Mikkik. While the finding of the Ha’Ulrich in the nation of Aughmere was distasteful to Tolnorians and Rhugothians alike, as far as anyone knew, neither the King of Tolnor nor the First Mother of Rhugoth ever conceived of not honoring the holy contract first signed under Pontiff Ethelion the Fourth over two-hundred years before.

  Bernard’s nettling left Gen little time to consider the import of Rafael’s conjecture, and the day passed slowly as they played song after song. Watching everyone have fun while the Magistrate pinned him to the stage soured Gen’s mood more. He missed the wrestling contest between Orbrin, a woodsman, and Geoff the Huntsman. He only heard about the footrace won by his friend Gant and was upset—Gen’s height and quickness had earned him the footrace crown of Tell for four years running. He missed the apple bobbing, pole climbing, chicken chasing, and the rousing games of White Sticks. Worst of all, he missed the food.

  The Magistrate rarely gave them a few moments between songs before he planted his feet on his front porch, put his hands on his hips, and screamed for them to keep at it. Even the good-natured Rafael showed signs of an eroding patience near mid-afternoon. Madlena eventually took pity on them, emerging from her inn with a basket of hot rolls and two mugs of cider. They had to take turns playing to let the other eat, and, while Gen was grateful that the plump Innkeeper had the kindness to bring them a little bread, his stomach pined at the smell of roasting meats—cow, pheasant, and pig—wafting through the square.

  He thought of asking Gant to get him a slice of pheasant, but his friend spent his time in the company of Yeurile, Master Owen’s bossy daughter. Yeurile and Gant had been very close of late. Since Owen liked Gant almost as much as Rafael liked Gen, Gen had no doubt that Yeurile and Gant would be betrothed come spring and married the next fall.

  “Gen,” Rafael whispered after a song. “There’s Regina. Go to her. Now’s your chance. I’ll hold up for a song or two without you.”

  Chapter 3 - A Hero’s Return

  Regina had somehow escaped from the other young men and was leaning against the Church wall, thoughtfully drinking from a wooden mug. She looked a little worn, though beautiful, in her light blue dress. Gen was almost upon her before she noticed him. He bowed and she smiled.

  “My master has given me generous license to dance for two songs, if you will,” he said. “I hope Thad and Keegan haven’t worn you completely out.”

  “I believe my legs have enough strength in them for another dance. I’m glad you could get free. Magistrate Showles has thoroughly abused the kindness of you and your master today.”

  Gen extended his hand, and as if that were the cue, Rafael started into his song. It was a lively tune, and Gen and Regina were all smiles as they twisted, clapped, kicked, and spun. By the end, their faces were flushed, their breath coming quickly.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to sit for a moment after that,” Regina gasped. Gen offered his arm and led her to the steps of her home, enjoying her nearness. They sat side by side, watching the children running amok playing tag or fleeing in terror from those twice their size who carried snakes, bugs, or cold water from the well. Gen stared at her for a while and she smiled back, blushing.

  “I can’t imagine the Chalaine being more beautiful than you,” he said at last.

  Regina laughed. “Why Gen, that was most unoriginal. In fact, I think I’ve heard it once today already. I expect a bit more effort from you, of course.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint, but sometimes the truth is unoriginal. I was trying to be honest, not creative.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gen thought he saw a flash of affection on her face but couldn’t tell for sure. The door banging open behind them ruined the moment. Regina’s dad stood behind them, feet apart and face strangely downcast. Jeorge had thinning black hair, a thick strand of it combed over his balding pate. His face was long, oval, and kind, though his brow, scrunched up like a walnut shell, indicated something amiss

  “Regina,” he said, not meeting her eye, “I—well, your mother and I—need to talk to you for a moment.”

  His hat was in his hands, and he twisted it absentmindedly in his fingers. Regina’s brow matched his.

  “I’ll be in shortly, Father. I was just talking to Gen since he was finally able to rest after playing all the day long.”

  “You’d better come in now,” Jeorge said. “It’s important.”

  Regina glanced at Gen apologetically and with a little concern. Gen hoped the Morewolds didn’t dislike him so much that they objected to him just talking to their daughter.

  “It’s all right,” Gen soothed her. “I’d best be getting back anyway. Rafael’s starting to sound like a broken bellows up there.” Regina went indoors, and Gen wondered at Jeorge’s strange behavior. He had little time to think about it. Rafael had finished his song and was searching for him.

  By sundown, a brisk autumn wind blew in clouds from the sea over the sighing trees of the Alewine Forest. The wind brought with it a chill and the smell of the autumn’s decay, and it whipped leaves and dust in the square, souring the event considerably. Bernard, now with a black cloak over his horrific red garb, came out briefly to scowl at the weather, though even he had the good sense not yell at the wind. Gen donned his brown cloak and wondered if the Magistrate would force the town to wait if it rained.

  “He’s coming! He’s coming!”

  A group of boys ran into the square bearing the news. Bernard walked out of his home in a stately fashion, and, for the first time, so did his wife Katrina. In contrast to her husband, Katrina was skinny with a sharp face. She piled her hair on top of her head as Gen imagined noblewomen wore it, and she besmeared her face with paints to make her eyes and lips stand out. The most striking thing about Katrina, however, was her ever-present smile and cheery—mostly faked—disposition. The townspeople often joked that Katrina Showles would look the same before and after being trampled by a herd of cattle.

  But anyone who spent time with her, and few did, knew that the calm, cheery voice and clenched-teeth smile was like a coating of honey on a moldy piece of bread, a sweet covering for a rotten mass of rage. Of all the Showleses, Gen pitied her the most. He imagined that once she had been a fairly happy young lady and that the sunny facade she put on now was an attempt the hold on to that good part of herself ravaged by years of living with Bernard.

  Bernard removed his cloak. Katrina wore a bright yellow dress that contrasted badly with Bernard’s red clothes. Gen thought perhaps they purposefully chose bright clothing to help their stupid son remember who his parents were as he returned. Jakes and Howen stood sullenly behind their parents, Jakes rubbing his still-discolored lips. The town fell silent as Hubert, at long last, rode into the square. Katrina clasped her hands together and smiled in almost maniacal glee. Bernard stood, feet planted apart and arms extended in a proud welcome.

  Hubert surveyed the gathering with a questioning expression, his face registering an unpleasant surprise. He was a stocky young man with the start of a belly that he would doubtless cultivate to rival his father’s one day. His grease-stained tabard held the symbol of a black hawk on a field of white, the device of Duke Norshwal in whose army he had served, and from his belt hung a broadsword.

  The horse upon which Hubert rode Gen recognized as old Billy, a brown gelding plow horse looking for a place to die. Hubert’s neglect had brought it closer to the end of its proverbial road. The poor beast’s bones poked out and moved under the skin, giving full suggestion of the skeleton underneat
h. Katrina ran forward and pulled a wreath fashioned of Erstleberry Vine from a pouch in her dress and draped it around the horse’s neck. The white flowers of the poisonous, late-blooming vine drooped and fell, only adding to the sickening appearance of the horse.

  Gen noticed two things—no one was clapping, and Regina was missing. Bernard noticed the former. With a stern look and loud example, he goaded the townspeople into a hearty applause as his son dismounted to awkwardly receive hugs from his overly enthusiastic parents.

  Despite a mounting wind, the rough-hewn table used for such occasions was brought out of the Church and placed on the stand where Gen and Rafael performed. A host of women and men set out the feast. Thanks to Bernard’s preoccupation with his son and the food (and it was difficult to tell which he cared for the most), Gen was able to gather a platter of food for himself and quickly get out of sight behind the Church before Bernard could see him and think of music.

  And there he found Regina, standing with her hands grasping the stones of the Church well and casting her eyes down into its depths. Yellow leaves from a nearby stand of maple fell about her as the wind stripped them from the branches. She seemed unaware of people or the wind that blew her blonde hair about, the strands catching the weak and uneven lantern light from the square. Oddly, none of her entourage accompanied her, and Gen half-thought of leaving her be, so odd was the scene. His heart prodded him onward anyway.

  “Not thinking of jumping in, are you?” he quipped. The look she returned told him she might just be. She regarded him wistfully, face pale and drawn.

  “I’m sorry,” Gen stammered, understanding that it was not the time for their customary joking or verbal sparring. He watched as she tried to assume an air of happiness and confidence, but she failed, leaving naked sadness on her face. “I’ll leave you be. . .”

  “Please stay, won’t you, Gen?”

  “Of course, Regina.” Gen stood at her side, setting his platter on the precarious edge. Now that night had nearly fallen, the well was a dark yawning hole of nothingness, unfathomable and frightening. Gen struggled to find words to offer comfort or question her about her distress, but in the silence, Regina found them:

  A well can deep waters hold.

  A well knows a thousand secrets

  No one has told.

  A well can run shallow and dry

  When dark rivers fail

  And rain passes it by.

  But a well, whether dry or deep,

  Will mute in blackness

  All secrets keep.

  One of many perhaps may tell,

  From faint taste of salt

  What tears there fell.

  Darkest well, silent soul,

  My sorrow keeps,

  And none will know.

  “The Silent Soul, by Sir Mephael,” Gen said. “I know it well.”

  Regina laughed bitterly. “And you are the only one who would know it in this horrible town.”

  The tears came freely now, and Gen reflexively put his arm around her and drew her near. “Well, Rafael would know it, too.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of old men,” Regina sobbed. Gen let her cry until she finally gathered herself.

  “What is wrong, Regina?” he asked tenderly, hoping that for the first time she would talk to him plainly about how she felt. “What did your parents tell you? Are they sending you west for the winter again?”

  With a sad smile, she lifted her hand and touched Gen’s face. Her touch was soft and exhilarating. For a moment it seemed as if she would kiss him, but instead she wiped her eyes dry with the sleeves of her cloak and straightened her hair as best she could in the swirling wind. When she faced Gen again, her face was composed and severe.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. What ails me, you will soon know.”

  “Regina. . .” Gen called after her, but she was already rounding the corner of the Church on her way to the square where Rafael was playing. Turning to go, he knocked his plate into the well but was too lost in thought to care.

  The feast was well underway when Gen returned to take his place by Rafael on the platform. He watched as Regina threaded through the crowd to stand by her mother, both with sad eyes but resolute expressions. Her father joined her, putting his hands on her shoulders and whispering in her ear. Regina noticed Gen watching her and stared back, face unreadable. Bernard asked for a couple more songs while the feast lasted, Gen painfully aware of Regina’s eyes upon him.

  “News!” Rafael yelled after finishing his song. “How about a bit of news from the border?”

  The crowd joined in the supplication, and Hubert, like a steer with a mouthful of cud, turned to his mom and dad as if to ask if he really had to. They nodded their encouragement, pleased to see their son becoming the center of attention.

  “Whaddaya want to know?” he asked.

  “Was there any fighting?” someone from the crowd blurted out.

  “Well, I saw some people fight over a wench. And another time these guys were drunk and one said, ‘You smell like an old potato sack,’ and the other said—”

  “No!” the man interrupted. Gen could now see that it was Woodsman Hurley, short and thick-chested. “I mean between Aughmere and Tolnor.”

  “Oh,” Hubert replied. “I don’t think so.”

  “Were there a lot of them?” Owen, Gant’s master, inserted quickly.

  “A lot of what?”

  “Aughmerian soldiers. Were there many of them?”

  “How much would you think is many?” Hubert asked.

  “Never mind!” There was some snickering in the crowd, quickly put down by a bulging stare from Bernard.

  “Do you think Aughmere will attack?” Jeorge asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you see any Rhugothian soldiers?” Jeorge pressed.

  “Not as far as I know.”

  Rafael piped in. “Did you find out why Aughmere wants to fight us? Has the King broken the Fidelium?”

  The crowd gasped at the suggestion and shot Rafael dark looks. Hubert shrugged his shoulders.

  “Thought I heard of that Fidelium a couple times. I think.”

  “Were there any good taverns in Elin Fort?” Gen asked.

  Despite the grins from the townspeople, Hubert was visibly pleased with the question, face brightening.

  “Yep! There’s the Duam’s Shed, kinda dirty, but with good ale. We went to Hogs Wallop, too. But the best had to be the Ice and Hammer. Good brew, good dice, and the serving wenches were—”

  “Well,” Bernard interrupted, Hubert obviously put out, “that’ll be enough questions this evening. Everyone finish the meal, for I’ve an important announcement to make soon.”

  After some dissatisfied grumbling and derisive laughter, the townsfolk went back to their plates and their conversation. Gen felt pleased he could make Hubert both happy and a fool at the same time.

  “That was disappointing,” Rafael complained, taking a drink of ale. “I’m not sure if I’m more informed or less after Hubert’s detailed answers.”

  “I certainly didn’t know about those taverns. Sounds like the Ice and Hammer is the place to go,” Gen joked.

  Rafael snorted. “I know every one of those ‘fine’ establishments. Filthy places! I played them all in my younger days and barely made a pittance. What was earned was usually stolen before I could cross the street afterward! If Hubert thinks the Ice and Hammer has good brew, then he doesn’t know the difference between river water and horse water!”

  “Speaking of horses,” Gen laughed, “it appears our best bet for information will come from Old Billy. He at least can tell us that there was a shortage of food.”

  “Shortage of care, you mean. Who knows what that horse was forced to eat just to survive. Ever since the poor beast dragged itself into town, I’ve had a clear vision of it being staked up at the refuse pile by the soldiers’ commons. If Bernard hadn’t stopped the questioning, I would have asked Hubert about it.”

  “And Hub
ert would have said, ‘I don’t know.’”

  Rafael chuckled, and Gen smiled at his own joke. A tug at his cloak directed his eyes downward and his mirth died. Regina stood below him on the ground, face ashen.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “People of Tell,” Bernard shouted, cutting off whatever reply Regina meant to offer.

  “I must go,” she said, leaving a bewildered Gen behind.

  The crowd did not quiet immediately, and Bernard was forced to yell several more times before complete silence fell. “People of Tell, I know you are thankful for the honorable service my son rendered in the armies of Duke Norshwal where he proudly stood against the forces of that tyrant Torbrand Khairn. Now I wish to make an announcement. It is with great joy that Katrina and I wish to announce the betrothal of our son Hubert Showles to the lovely Regina Morewold.”

  Gen felt his knees buckle and would have fallen had Rafael not steadied him. Hubert grinned piggishly at the prize his parents had won for him, and Regina stared back at her fiancé, face pale and wearing a paltry smile no one who knew her would believe. Gen’s hands clenched, breaking one of the strings of his lute.

  “Steady boy,” Rafael whispered. “It is the way of things.”

  Gen barely heard him, torn somewhere between rage and inexpressible horror. The townspeople took several seconds to work up a polite applause. Gen felt as if he should spring down from the platform and shout for everyone to stop. He turned to Rafael, seeing that despite his master’s call for calmness, his face also wrenched in disgust and pity.

  “They are to be betrothed tonight and married in the spring!” Bernard continued happily.

  Betrothals happened in the spring, marriages in the fall, and Gen wondered at the haste and break from tradition. He turned to Regina’s father, who would not meet his eye. Jeorge knew what he had done just for the sake of lifting his family a half-rung up the social ladder, and the full weight of it pressed upon him. Gen did not doubt that Bernard had done other things to force the deal. As Regina walked to the platform to stand by her husband-to-be, Gen could not look at her, though he felt her eyes upon him.