by Bruce Blake
She pushed through a shrub and slumped down on a log as though her legs refused to bear the weight of his news. Khirro moved toward her but stopped at the sight of tears gleaming on her cheek. A woman’s tears were foreign things to him; his mother never shed a tear where he could see, perhaps never did at all. Not until the day with Emeline had he seen, and been the cause of, a woman’s tears. Only once, on the day Emeline told what had happened that night.
“Why does a harlot care so much for a king?”
Ghaul’s tone held no tenderness or understanding. Khirro shook thoughts of Emeline from his mind and followed his companion to Elyea’s side. The woman didn’t answer at first, instead drawing a shuddering breath and wiping her eyes on her arm, composing herself. She looked up, green eyes rimmed red, gazing into the sun-dappled forest.
“I owe Braymon my life.” Her voice trembled. “I’d seen eight summers when he took the throne. His first act was to release those forced into servitude. His ascension meant I no longer had to serve as concubine to a tyrant.”
Khirro’s breath stopped half-drawn. “Eight years old?”
“I’d been there three years when Braymon rescued me. I owe him everything.” She bowed her head.
A child of five. Khirro saw the horrible memories on her face, could only imagine what she must have endured. How terrible it must have been for her.
“He rescued you from a life as concubine to the king so you could be courtesan to the common man?”
The lack of empathy in Ghaul’s voice turned Khirro’s head; Elyea’s reaction was similar, but more extreme. She stood abruptly, face to face with the soldier, her expression hard.
“He did terrible things to me,” she snarled. “Don’t you see the difference between being forced into something and choosing it? Are you a soldier because you chose it, or because you were told to be one?”
Ghaul stood straighter. “I was born a soldier.”
His words further enraged her. “And what of you?” she snapped at Khirro.
“I’m no warrior,” he responded quietly, not knowing how to calm her.
“Do you enjoy being forced to be one?”
“No. I’ve already seen things no man should have to see in his lifetime. I’d rather be home with Emeline, tending my farm. But it’s my duty to be here.”
“At six years I was fucked by the king and told it was my duty.”
Khirro stared. He had no answer to such atrocity. The inhumanity of it didn’t enervate Ghaul.
“And now?” the soldier asked.
For a moment Khirro thought she’d strike Ghaul, but the anger drained from her limbs. Perhaps the burden of her memories wore her down. How could they not?
“Now I make a living I enjoy with customers of my own choosing.”
Ghaul’s mouth curled into a smirk. “You didn’t choose so well last time.”
“That’s what I get for offering my services to wanderers.”
A look passed between them that Khirro didn’t understand and the last of her fury fell away. Ghaul opened his mouth to say something else, but this time it was Khirro’s turn to cut him short.
“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” he said, knowing it could never be enough. “But we must be going. There are men following us.”
Elyea’s eyes met his, thanked him for the sentiment.
“Of course. It does us no good to tarry. Let’s get to the village for supplies, take some rest, then we’ll make for the Vendarian border at first light.”
Ghaul caught her by the elbow as she went to leave. “What do you mean we? The only we is Khirro and I.”
“You’ll need my help.”
Ghaul snorted. “We need no help.”
“The journey will be dangerous,” Khirro added. “No place for a woman.”
He regretted his words the second they left his mouth.
“I’m no mere woman.” She scowled and pulled her arm from Ghaul’s grasp. “And I’m not giving you a choice. You’ll need all the help you can get. And I know someone else who would be interested in your journey.”
She looked at them defiantly, daring them to contradict her. Neither did. She picked her way nimbly through the brush as Ghaul shot Khirro a derisive look. They said nothing. Khirro purposely didn’t look at his companion as they followed the woman, knowing he should feel that telling her of their journey was a mistake, but he didn’t. Surprise, fear and exhilaration mixed into a muddle in his mind, but no regret. It felt right, but only time would tell. Amongst all the confusion, one question declared itself in his mind above all others:
Who did she intend to tell?
Chapter Eleven
Therrador rested his chin on his fist, elbows propped on the marble table; veins of red ran through the white surface of the table’s twenty foot length. In the centuries it had sat in the council room at the palace of Achtindel, much had been discussed and decided at this table: wars declared, lives forfeit and spared, plots plotted and taxes declared. Stroking his braided beard, Therrador wondered if the ancient marble had ever seen a conversation as was about to take place. Had it seen the kingdom betrayed? History suggested not.
Only hours earlier, a rider reached the capital bearing the tale of a dead Shaman, empty armor and a missing king. Concern bordering on panic had shown on the messenger’s face and in his words, so Therrador sent him to a cell rather than risk his knowledge spilled over too many pints of ale. The king’s discarded armor suggested Braymon’s fall. Bale’s body, along with Rudric and Gendred’s, found outside the fortress walls told him they collected the king’s blood, as Braymon planned. Such information made public would lead to panic, and panic would hinder everything.
But what of the Kanosee who was supposed to see to Braymon’s death? What became of him?
They’d found dead Kanosee soldiers with Rudric and the others, but he couldn’t know if any of them were the man-he didn’t know who he was. Those arrangements had been left to others.
Therrador sighed. He’d miss Rudric; they’d spent much time together over the years and Therrador found him a pleasing conversation. The world would be a better place without that bastard Gendred.
“What happened?” he whispered aloud. “Where is the vial?”
“Did you say somethin’ Da?”
Therrador looked up at the five-year-old boy peering from behind the tapestry hung to hide his private antechamber. His expression softened and a sad smile nearly won its way onto his lips.
He looks so much like his mother.
“Dada was talking to himself, Graymon.” He spread his arms and the boy ran into his embrace. “I thought I told you to wait in the other room for me.”
The boy waved his carved wooden dragon near his father’s head, acting as though he didn’t hear him, pretending the toy flew like a real dragon.
“Graymon?”
“I bored, Da.” The toy dragon attacked his father’s arm; a wooden tooth dug into Therrador’s skin. “Play with me.”
Therrador grasped the boy’s shoulders, held him at arm’s length and spoke gently. “Da is busy, we can play when I’m done. Can you go back into the other room for me?”
“Rrraaarrr.”
The toy dragon flew out of his hands in the direction of the tapestry. Therrador spun him around, sending him on his way with a tap on the bum.
“That’s my boy.”
As the boy disappeared behind the velvet arras, Therrador’s smile disappeared, too. All that had been put in motion brought the taste of bile to the back of his throat, but it must be done. Erechania would always remember Braymon the Brave and one day they would exult Graymon the Great; he only hoped they would eventually forgive or forget Therrador the Traitor. He lowered his eyes back to the marble table top shot with red, lost in his thoughts until a sound made him look up.
The fifteen-foot high cedar doors swung inward with a belabored creak and a guard in shining silver chain mail and green-and-gold cape entered, ornamental pole axe in hand. He opened
his mouth to pardon the interruption but the man he led in pushed past him, sending him off balance and interrupting the act. The guard recovered, grasped his weapon with both hands and advanced on the intruder but Therrador rose, stopping him with a gesture.
“Leave us.”
He waved his hand and the guardsman bowed at the waist, eyes steady on the other man, and backed out, closing the door with a soft thud. The intruder stopped a yard shy of Therrador, removed his helm and nodded instead of bowing. He didn’t speak. His close-cropped gray hair couldn’t hide the scars criss-crossing his scalp, spilling down his face over the deep wrinkles earned through decades spent fighting in the name of whoever paid him the most. His lone granite-colored eye stared unwavering while the other socket sat empty for all to see. Plain gray armor, as pitted and worn as his face, but fitting him as comfortably as if he’d been born in it, completed his drab yet menacing appearance. Everything about him spoke of business, and his business was death.
“Suath,” Therrador said forcing a welcoming smile. “How long has it been?”
The man didn’t answer. No surprise-Therrador expected no reply. More than a man of few words, the mercenary only spoke when absolutely necessary.
“Too long, I guess, but I need of your services.”
Suath nodded, remained silent.
“Someone has something which belongs to me. I want it back.”
The man’s presence brought a sheen of sweat to Therrador’s palms. He wanted to look away, to turn his gaze on anything but the uncaring gray eye and the pink, puckered flesh of the mercenary’s empty socket. Legend said he’d lost the eye while being tortured and, when he won his freedom, Suath took both the torturer’s eyes before killing him. People whispered that he carried all three eyes-his one and the torturer’s two-as good luck charms. Therrador suppressed a shudder.
“I have good men on the trail already, but this task is of the utmost importance. I need you to retrieve this item and bring it back. No questions asked.”
“At what cost?” the mercenary asked, his voice deep, grating-a voice that made Therrador wish he didn’t speak at all.
“Whatever it takes.”
“What is it?”
“A vial.”
Therrador waited for the next, obvious question, but Suath didn’t seem to care what the vial contained.
“How much?”
“This is why I sent for you: you only care about the money.”
Therrador nodded with satisfaction and used the opportunity to break from Suath’s gaze. He cast a glance toward the tapestry hiding the ante-room’s entrance. It hadn’t moved. Good boy.
“And the killing. How much?”
“Thirty gold now.” He pulled a leather pouch from his belt and tossed it onto the marble table with a clink. Two gold coins rolled out onto the white and red surface. “Fifty more when the vial is in my hands.”
Suath nodded. His head moved so slightly, Therrador didn’t know he’d agreed until he retrieved the pouch and stray coins from the table. The mercenary tucked it into his jerkin without counting the coins then waited for Therrador to say more.
“You can pick up their trail in Inehsul.”
The man answered with a blink, then turned and strode toward the carven doors. Therrador felt a vice release from his head when their gazes finally parted.
“Another ten coins if you bring me the head of the thief.”
Suath stopped halfway to the door and replied without turning: “Heads are poor company.”
“Twenty coins, then,” Therrador said annoyed to be speaking to the man’s back. Would he treat the king thus? Probably. “But no one can know of your task.”
The mercenary slid his helm on, hiding scars and hair and wrinkles, and continued toward the door. The room seemed to sigh its relief at his leaving, along with Therrador.
“Don’t fail me, Suath.”
The mercenary stopped, hand on the door handle, and pivoted toward Therrador, his one eye blazing. He stared a moment before his laughter boomed down the hall, deep and echoing, a chilling sound Therrador hadn’t thought the man capable of creating.
“I won’t fail you. Your killing will be done,” he growled and then nodded past Therrador. “And I see the child hidden behind the curtain, so don’t you be failing me, neither.”
Therrador’s heart jumped in his chest and he spun to look at the tapestry. The edge swung ever so slightly, like someone had just left. He faced the mercenary, a threat ready on his lips, but by then Suath was gone, the door left open behind him. The guard peered in.
“Let them know I’m ready to break my fast,” Therrador snapped. The soldier saluted and hurriedly pulled the door closed.
“What did the man mean, Da?”
Graymon’s head peered from behind the tapestry, blond locks tussled. Therrador slumped into the chair and gestured for his son to sit with him. When the boy climbed onto his lap, the nearness of him quashed a chill threatening to creep up his spine.
“Nothing, son. A jest, nothing more.”
It would be hours before the vision of Suath’s naked eye socket left his mind. Part of him wished never to see it again, but there would be at least once more. If anyone in the land could return the vial to him, Suath could.
The thought did little to make him feel better.
Chapter Twelve
The scent of cloves and garlic mingled with the smell of fresh baked bread. Tomatoes, melons, carrots and peppers arranged in colorful patterns occupied bins sitting on the ground and atop makeshift tables. The marketplace at Inehsul was larger than in Khirro’s village, with more variety of wares and many more people. Men called out from stalls, beckoning passers-by to peruse their selection of cloths and perfumes. Other booths offered trinkets and beads, clothing, and housewares. One displayed charms and amulets promising health, wealth, or love-a long line of desperation led to that one.
Khirro adjusted the tunic Elyea had acquired for him. It hung too long on him, didn’t fit in the shoulders, and he found himself missing the reassuring weight of armor. Funny how quickly one gets used to something after a few days and a little danger. Elyea had suggested that wandering Inehsul dressed as soldiers would attract unwanted attention, so they’d left their arms and armor hidden amongst a stand of pines.
“Where did you get these?” Khirro asked pushing up the sleeves of the tunic.
A sly smile crept across her face. “It’s my job to talk men out of their clothes.”
As they wandered the market purchasing food to fill the packs Elyea had brought, Khirro still wondered if telling her had been the right decision. Beyond Ghaul, he didn’t know how to tell who to trust. The effort she put in-acquiring clothes and packs, paying for much of the food-eased his concern a bit.
Only time will tell.
A canvas tent, larger than all the others, blocked the road at the far end of the marketplace. A pitchman standing on a crate shouted above the din of people milling about the tent’s entrance, hollering about the juggler, the jester, the troubadour and the story spinner, and a man called Athryn who would perform wonders to leave the crowd astounded and amazed. Elyea weaved her way through the marketplace crowd toward the tent while Khirro and Ghaul hurried to follow.
“Where are we going?” She didn’t answer Khirro’s question, though he was sure she heard.
“What are you doing?” Ghaul demanded, as anxious as Khirro to leave the village and its possibility of discovery. “We have no time for foolishness.”
“There’s always time for entertainment.”
She grabbed Ghaul by the wrist, pulling him along until they stood beside the pitchman. Khirro followed, forcing his way through the crowd, apologizing as he passed.
“Child,” the man roared, abandoning his pitch to favor her with a broad smile. “We haven’t seen you in so long.”
“Too long.”
He bent down to speak into her ear and whatever he said made her smile. She whispered in response, the man nodded, and
Elyea kissed his cheek. Waving her in with a sweep of his arm, he pulled aside the tent flap and she pulled Ghaul through while beckoning Khirro to follow. Some of the people waiting to gain entrance noticed them bypassing the queue.
“Whore,” one woman muttered.
“Slut,” called out another.
“Who do we have to fuck to get into the show?” a man said.
Their comments made Khirro’s cheeks burn, but Elyea either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Either way, she appeared to be well known in Inehsul.
They entered into air thick and hot, rank with the smell of canvas and the stink of sweat. People sat on rows of creaking benches, fanning themselves with anything they could find: hats, skirt hems, work gloves. Elyea guided her companions to a spot in the last row where they squeezed into a space meant for two. The man beside them grumbled about his lack of room. Elyea smiled sweetly and he said no more.
Khirro shifted in his seat attempting to keep his knees from pressing into the back of the woman seated in front of him; the rows of benches were packed so tightly the front row’s knees pressed against the low stage erected there. Atop the platform, a child clad in bright colors and odd patterns cantered about.
Someone should get him down before the performance begins. He glanced around and saw there were no other children in the tent. I won’t let my child act like that.
As Khirro watched, he realized the person in piebald clothing and shoes with bells on the turned up toes was no child, but the smallest man he’d ever seen. All his parts were proportionate, nothing misshapen or stunted, the jester was simply a small man. He wore a constant look of surprise as he ran about the stage, tripping over one unlikely object after another, or sometimes nothing at all. The audience cheered each pratfall, hooting and hollering and calling the jester names. Khirro smiled at the little man’s antics. It felt good to smile.
He overheard Ghaul ask Elyea: “How did you get us in?”
“The doorman is a friend of mine. I traveled with the troupe a few times.”
Khirro wondered what she meant by ‘traveled with’. Ghaul put words to his thought.
