by Cat Bruno
No tears had been shed, not even when they had departed from the farmhouse. Caryss had seen the way Nicoline’s face caught the early morning light, reflecting water there, yet neither mother nor son had cried. The group left much as they had arrived, only with an extra horse and the boy. Each morning before the others rose, Otieno and Jarek would be at the sword. If he practiced his sky calls, Caryss did not know, for the skies had been clear over them.
On the morrow, they would enter Dallian, where Sharron had once called home. Just across the border into Eirrannia, on the eastern half, the town was a small one, Sharron had stated. Yet it was Eirrannia still.
Around her, the trees reached high to the speckled, clouded sky and the air smelled of flower and pine, unlike Tretoria which always had the scent of the sea and unlike the King’s City which often smelled of sweat and mud. The babe moved more each day, as if she too knew that they were nearly home.
Home.
Looking about her, Caryss wondered how the people of the North could be so feared and hated throughout the rest of Cordisia. The trees soared and the rivers glimmered, while the still-distant hills remained calm, as if observing those who visited.
Calling out to Sharron, she asked, “Is it always so peaceful here?”
“To a Northerner, yes, it is nearly always so,” Sharron told her, riding near. “But make no mistake, there are warriors here, too.”
“Will they answer her call, Sharron?”
The two women rode ahead of the rest, although Jarek was near enough to hear. He still could not understand their Eirrannian words, although it would not be long before he could.
With a quick glance to the boy, who was staring ahead, lost in the daze of a day filled with riding, Sharron answered, “If she speaks in truth, they will hear her.”
Caryss laughed, saying, “I see the diauxie is not the only one with riddles.”
Sharron laughed too, for they were all much lighter so near the North. “I have been nearly as long away from here as you and was but a child when I left. Many here are blessed with mage-skill, and most accept those who are so blessed as well. The girl will not be out of place, even with her dark hair and shadowed eyes. But she will have to prove herself as well.”
“I forget that you have seen her when I have not.”
“It is something I hope to never forget. Her eyes are Eirrannian eyes, even with the shadows.”
“What will her heart be, though? Is that not the question we all fear?”
After a silent pause, Sharron replied, “I have no fear of the girl. I would not have followed you if I had. Your fears are the same as any mother’s, Caryss.”
“Will she break her vows as I have broken mine?”
Again Sharron laughed, and Caryss looked to her, creasing her forehead in annoyance, until the other woman said, “You broke no vows. You acted as any Northern woman would to a man who dared to speak to you as if you were a child. You may think us all calm, but we are descendants of the first Gods. Our tongues are sharp, but our claws are sharper, when needed.”
“I have never seen you speak out to anyone, Sharron. Indeed, nearly all comment on how quiet you are.”
“But I am home now. And I no longer have to wear a mask.”
Much had changed, and, now, even Sharron seemed altered.
With her forehead still wrinkled in thought, Caryss sighed, “I was right to come here.”
“I would have let the girl be born nowhere else,” Sharron told her, suddenly serious.
Caryss said nothing in reply, but a strange smile curled across her fair face as she looked in the direction of the Northern healer once again.
Both women continued to ride, as serene as the scene around them.
*****
“It has been over a moon, brother, and still you have no answer for me as to where this woman has taken father. Does he even still live?”
Tired of having the same argument with his brother, Crispin groaned, “She is a healer and is oath-bound to give aid. Delwin, I have explained to you her reasons for leaving. You must admit that there is truth in what she said. It makes little sense that he lived yet never improved while under the care of both healer and mage. He was alive, yes, but unfit to rule. Do you know who it was that kept him asleep? I was with him every day, yet still do not the answer.”
With reddened cheeks, Delwin barked, “He was ill, Crispin, and little could be done for him. His healers, all Masters might I remind you, merely tried to keep him free from pain. If he slept, it was for the best.”
“If he slept, he could not abdicate. And in his death, I would be king. His life was placed on hold, I believe, and with just that intention.”
The two brothers were alone, without guard or friend, seated across a small table from one another in a room at the end of Delwin’s quarters. Had any other been around, Crispin would have chosen his words more carefully, but little sleep and too much worry had caused him to abandon politeness.
Delwin jumped from the table and leaned in to his brother, spitting on him as he screamed, “You accuse me of poisoning our father? You go too far!”
Of a like size, neither had a physical advantage and when Crispin rose to his feet, the two men stared at one another, angry and ready to strike.
“All in Rexterra know that I am heir,” Crispin countered, letting the heat in him rise.
Slamming his fist onto the table, Delwin replied in a near whisper, “And who better to dispose of the King than his heir?”
Continuing in a louder voice, he said, “Only you know where he has gone, and only you know this woman who has taken him! A moon later, and we know nothing. It is time that others know, brother. You must answer for what you have allowed to occur.”
“As must you,” Crispin spit, pushing his chair away from the table.
As he walked to the door, his brother’s parting words followed him.
“We will let the King’s Court decide, Crispin.”
Fleeing from his brother’s wing of the palace, Crispin sprinted through the palace hallways, caring little for who saw him. Delwin’s words had stung, sharp and painful, especially since, in truth, he had no knowledge as to where Caryss had taken his father. His search in the Southern Cove Islands had proven that she had been there, yet little else. Even those who recalled seeing her did not know where she traveled next.
Further angering him was that the Islander from the Lower Streets had disappeared as well, taking her information regarding his father with her. His guards still searched for her, yet none had found any new information.
Tocca, whom he had sent to the Healer’s Academy on the other side of Cordisia, had been ordered to send word once he found Willem. For a half-moon, his letters to his cousin had gone unanswered, causing more concern.
“Damn it all to hells!” he screamed, looking up to find himself near one of the back entrances.
It mattered little to him where the exit led, as long as he was free from the palace and free of his brother. Moon years had led to the confrontation, although it had not been their first, nor would it be their final one, he knew. Never before had Crispin voiced the accusation that it was Delwin who had kept their father ill. With no proof and his brother controlling the Rexterran Army, Crispin had few options.
Before long, he found himself in the Lower Streets, outside of a tavern with a faded sign and a wooden door that was nearly split down the middle. Few would know him there, he guessed, especially with his cheek still scarred. His clothes were well made, but free of ornament or crest, and it was dark enough that none would be able to see his gold-rimmed eyes. Yet, it mattered little to him, and Crispin pushed open the door, surprised when no eyes turned toward him.
Without hesitation, he seated himself on an uneven stool near the end of the bar. Throwing a copper coin on the bar, he waited with downcast eyes for the barkeep to fetch him ale. After the first, he had another, barely minding the sour taste.
By his third ale, he was no longer King’s Heir, but
still he sat silent as he cupped the large mug with his hands. As he drank, Crispin thought of the healer.
He knew it to be much his own fault that she had taken the King. His words had been harsh, and, he could now admit, intentional. Despite his promises to Delwin, he was uncertain if their father lived. Without the Arvumian guards, he could not implicate the healer without admitting to his own actions with her the night they disappeared.
His plan had come undone.
Setting the nearly empty mug on the long wooden counter, Crispin rubbed at his face, letting his fingers trail across the area where Caryss’s dagger had struck. Beside him, a man brushed up against his shoulder, calling out in a heavily accented voice that sounded of years spent at sea, salty and brusque. As the man brought his heavy mug near, the contents spilled over, falling onto Crispin’s arm, dampening the sleeves of his tunic where they poked out of his cape.
“Apologies, my good man,” the newcomer said, smiling broadly.
In a tone that he had perfected as a young man, Crispin replied, “Nothing to worry about, my friend,” pleased that he had not forgotten how to erase the palace from his words.
“Have I ruined your shirt? Allow me to buy your next drink in repayment.”
“My shirt is not yet ruined, but after another ale, it might certainly be!” laughed Crispin, half-drunk.
The sailor, for Crispin knew the kind, howled heartily and motioned to the barkeep. Even though he knew that he had had enough, Crispin reached for the offered mug.
“What brings you out tonight?” he asked, lifting the ale to his lips.
After a loud gulp, the man answered, “Last night in the fair King’s City. We sail east on the morrow.”
“I’ve just returned from the Southern Cove Islands,” Crispin told him, his words lilting high.
“For hire or for pleasure?”
“For a woman,” he answered, finishing half of his ale after the words spilled from his loose lips.
The man nodded, and Crispin could see laughter at the edges of his eyes. “Yet here you are, my good man, with me at your side instead of this woman. An unsuccessful trip, I fear.”
With his rimmed eyes looking at the nearly empty mug, Crispin only nodded, unable to argue with the man’s words.
Their conversation was interrupted when a thin man in a dirtied tunic and unlaced boots pushed up to the bar, forcing himself between them. Crispin looked away, burying his nose in his elbow and grimacing at the smell that accompanied the man. He finished his ale in a large swallow, wiping at his chin where drink had dribbled. When he pushed his stool from the bar, he looked to his side, to see the filthy man reaching for a sword that hung at his hip. The sword was plain, yet it was clean and constructed of steel.
Crispin called out, “There’s no need for weapons. Take my seat as I’ve had enough ale for tonight.”
His words had not been heard, or if they had, were ignored. Faster than he would have suspected, the man, who was smaller than both Crispin and the sailor by far, had his sword in his hand.
Before Crispin could act, the man shouted, “So I am no longer welcome on your ship because of my like for ale, but here you are with a mug in your hand! It was not me who stole the coin, Captain Azzaro! I am no thief, just as I am no drunk!”
As if unbothered, the captain laughed, “You are a thief, and a drunk. Now put that sword away before you become a dead man, Rahn.”
The captain did not move from where he stood, even though Crispin noticed that he wore no sword. The man he had called Rahn still did not sheathe his sword, Crispin noticed.
With spittle flying from his mouth, Rahn pleaded, “Let me aboard the ship. I will drink no more. I am a decent seaman, Captain, and I am far from home.”
Again, Azzaro showed little emotion as he told the man, “You cost me too much and work too little. I have no need for the likes of you. There are other ships that will hire you, but I will not. Be gone now.”
The last word that the captain had spoken was clipped and harsh, yet still the other man had not moved.
In the silence that followed, which was no more than a long breath, Crispin reached for the dagger that was tucked inside of a small scabbard that hung from his belt. When the leather hilt was in his hand, he stepped forward, behind the drunken man.
“Be gone from here, like he said,” Crispin warned hotly.
In response, Rahn raised his sword and lunged for Azzaro, who fell to his left, into a trio of bar patrons. They all turned to look at the captain, red-faced and angry as their ales spilled. The largest of the men, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, pushed Azzaro back toward Rahn. The captain was himself a large man, but he had not regained his balance and spun on his heel, exposing his back to Rahn, who, flushed and spitting, swung the sword that still was in his hand.
Crispin watched as the tip of the blade sliced at the captain, causing a streak of red to spread across his back, near his shoulder. Without thinking, Crispin pressed forward, the dagger light in his well-practiced hand. When Crispin grabbed the smaller Rahn, the man turned and faced him, unsteady on his feet. Before Rahn could swing, Crispin stepped into him further and thrust the dagger into the stinking man’s stomach, twisting it until his blood-tinged sword dropped to the ground.
When the sword clanged onto the floor, Crispin twisted his dagger free, wiping it on his pants before placing it back into the scabbard, again hidden. As he looked toward Azzaro, he watched as the captain bent toward the sword, grabbing it hurriedly and, with no hesitation, opening Rahn’s midsection, from chest to navel, in one forceful strike.
Blood bubbled on the small man’s lips as he collapsed to the planked floor.
The captain dropped the sword and nodded toward Crispin. “We should go.”
With a nod, the King’s Heir pushed past the other bar patrons, fleeing the tavern before Rahn’s body had stopped twitching. Behind him, he heard the captain’s heavy footfalls following. When they were a fair distance away, at least five blocks Crispin figured, he slowed.
“I owe you a favor, my good man, for surely you saved my life, or at least prevented another scar from adorning my body. The name is Azzaro Logetto, and I own a fleet of ships out of Mezzano. If you are ever in need of a ship or in need of a woman to replace the one you left in the Cove, ask for me. There is not a quarter-moon that goes by that one of my ships is not docked here in the King’s City.”
The sun was low, but the sky was tinged orange, and Crispin kept his glance low as he told the captain, “Perhaps one day I shall be in need of both. But, for now, I require neither.”
“Your name, my good man?”
“Crispin.”
“Just as I thought. Now you best be gone from here before the guards have been notified. My thanks, sir. And the offer stands, as it will until you claim it.”
The two men parted, and, with a spinning head, Crispin made his way back to the palace, vowing once again to avoid the Lower Streets, walking as hurriedly as his unbalanced body would allow, and hoping to avoid encountering the City Guards. More of his brother’s men, he thought, and quickened his pace to a near run.
It was only once he was back at the palace that he realized he had told the captain his name.
*****
After a reunion that had been nearly ten moon years in the making, Sharron listened as her mother talked of some of what she had missed while she had been at the Academy. As her mother described her brother’s newly born son, Caryss moved to the door, silently. She half-expected Aldric to follow her from the house, yet when Otieno rose, Caryss hesitated. Across the room, Aldric caught her glance and shook his head, then dropped his eyes back to the etched goblet he held. His warning understood, Caryss said nothing as the door closed behind her.
Outside, she walked across a tall-grassed field, continuing until she was near the treeline, looking up into the high midday sun as it peaked out from a cloud-filled sky. Despite her attempts, her mind explored the possibility that she herself had once lived in a s
tone and thatch house tucked between grass and tree.
Yet she knew that she would never have all of her memories returned, and, from her time at the clinic, she had learned that sometimes injury or tragedy could erase one’s thoughts entirely. Not even Conri could change that, and she grabbed the nearest tree as the Tribesman’s face crossed through her head.
When she dropped her hand, a voice from behind startled her. Reaching for the dagger that was tied inside her pants, near her right hipbone, Caryss turned.
“You walk as if your boots never touch the ground.”
“Look behind me and you will see the grass trampled from the house to here, a path that proves you wrong.”
“I have been wrong enough,” was her only reply to the diauxie, having learned that his words were never as they seemed.
“Leseda, you should not travel alone, especially where you have never been.”
As they were most times when she spoke to him, Caryss’s comments were edged and sharpened with annoyance. “I am of the North. This is not the King’s City or the Cove. I know well the land here.”
“Then take me to your home,” he called to her, as if in song.
His words, spoken with the wind, soft and delicate, cut her more deeply than had he screamed them in her face, and Caryss growled, “Each day I wonder why I was inclined to find you.”
“Because there are no others like me,” he laughed, the sound twinkling with mockery.
The scowl that covered her face was answer enough, but still, she said, “Men whose words are like water, slippery and never still? Men who make coin in swordplay? Men who have no family or home? There are many like you, Otieno.”
With a twitch of his hair as he threw the braids over his shoulder, he told her, “There are many men like the ones you describe, but tell me, Caryss, have those men battled the skies? Have those men swung steel through lightning and danced in beat with thunder?”
Ignoring his taunt, she asked, “What trick was it that you played to make it look as if your sword shattered that bolt the night at Jarek’s house?”
